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Full text of "The Catholic world [microform]"

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THE 



CATHOLIC WORLD. 






MONTHLY MAGAZINE 



OF 



General Literature and Science. 



VOL. XXV. 
APRIL, 1877. TO SEPTEMBER, 1877. 



NEW YORK : 
THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION SOCIETY 

Company, 

9 Barclay Street. 
I877. 



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Copyrighted by 

THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION SOCIETY 

Co., 

1877. 



^iJe Nation tress, 27 ROiK street, new yori^i 



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CONTENTS. 



Alba*s Dream, 443, 6ai, 735 

Along the Foot of the Pyrenees, . . 65X 
Among the Translaton, .791 
Aodent Music, Prose and Poetry of, . 395 
Angticaniwm in 1877, 131 

Catacombs, Testimooy of the, ... 905 

Christendom, The Iron Age of, . . 459 

Cluny, The Congregation of, ... 691 

College Education, 814 

Colonization and Future Eroigtmtion, 677 

Congregation of Cluny, The 691 

Copemican Theory, Evolution and the, . 90 

Count Frederidc Leopold Stolberg, . 535 

Destiny of Man, Doubts of a Contemporary on 

the, 494 

De Vere's ** Mary Tudor," . . .261 

'Divorce and Divwce Laws, .... 340 
Doubts of a Contemporary on the Destiny of 

Man, 494 

Echiemadi, The Dancing Procession of, . 8s6 

£m^:ntion, Colonization and Future, . . 677 

English RttJe in Ireland, Z03 

Erc», The Uoknown, 703 

European Exodus, The, ..... 433 

Evolutioa and the Copemican Theory, . 90 

France, The Political Crisis in, and its Bear- 

>ng*« 577 

French Clergy during the late War in France, 
The, 847 

GothicRevivalfTheStory of the, . •639 

How Percy Bingham Caught his Trout, . 77 

Ireland, English Rule m, .... X03 

Irish Revolution, The True, . . . .551 
Iron Age of Christendom, The, . .459 

f 

Jane*s Vocation, 595 

Job and Egypt, 764 

Judaism in America, The Present Si ate of, . 365 
Juhette, 667 

Lavedan, The Seven Valleys of the, . . 748 
l^epersof Tracadie, The, . .191 
l.«tter$ of a Young Irishwoman to her -Sis- 
ter, 56,218,377 



Madonna-and-Child, The, a Test-Symbol, . 804 
Marshal MacMahon and the French Revolu- 
tionists 558 

"Mary Tudor," DeVcre*s 261 

Millicent, 777 

Nagualism, Voodooism, etc., in the United 

States, X 

Nanette, 970 

Natalie Narischkin, 33 

Nile, Up the, 45i aj6 

Pan-Presbyterians, The, 843 

Phil Redmond of Ballymacreedy, . . .591 
Political Crisis in France and its Bearings, 

The 5;7 

Pope Pius the Ninth 291 

Pope's Temporal Principality, The Bqpnning 

of the, 609 

Presbyterian Infidelity in S^cotland, . 69 

Present State of Judaism in America, The, . 365 - 
Prose and Poetry of Ancient Music, . . 195 
Prussian Chancellor, The, . , . .14s 
Pyrenees, Along the Foot of the, • . .651 

Revolutionists, Marsha] MacMahon and the 

French, 5^8 

Romance of a Portmanteau, The, . . > 40J 

Sannazzaro, 51 x 

Scotland, Presbyterian Infidelity in, . .69 
Seven Valleys of the Lavedan, The, . . 748 
Shakspere, from an American Point of View, 493 
Six Sunny Months, . . • i5» t75t 354i 47^ 
Stolbetg, Count Frederick Leopold, . . 535 
Story ofthe Gothic Revival, The, . . 639 

Tennyson as a Dramatist, . . x<8 

Testimony of the Catacombs 305 

The Beginning of the Pope's Temporal Prin- 
cipality, .609 

The Dancing Procession of Echtemach, : 8s6 

The Doom of the Bell 324 

The European Exodus 433 

The Romance of a Portmanteau, . . , '. 403 
The True Irish Revolution, . . . .551 
The Unknown Eros, ..... 70a 

Tracadie, The Lepers of, . . . . . 191 

Up the Nile 45* 936 

Veronica, . . 161 

Voodooism, Nagualism, etc , in the United 

States, 1 X 



POETRY. 



A T hrtish*s fong, 689 

A Vision of the Colosseum 318 

A Waif from the Great Exhibition, . lox 

Ashes ofthe Palms, The, . . X43 

Aubrey deVere, To, 676 

Birthday Song, A 5^3 

Brides of Christ, The, . 420iSi6,7oi 



Cathedral Wood*. . 
Colosseum, A Vision ofthe, 



66s 
318 



Dante's Purgatorio, ...... 171 



From the Hecuba of Euripides, 
From the Medea of Euripides, 



353' "J-^o 
. 6j8 



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IV 



Contents. 



Higher, 456 

^^ 745 

Magdalen at the Tomb, 637 

May a^6 

May Caroh, Two, ai7 

May Flowers 189 

Papal Jubilee, The, aSg Wild Roms by the Sea, 



Pcpe Pius IX., To, . 
Puigatorio, Dante*s, . 

St. Francis of Assist, 



The Ashes of the Palms, . 
To Aubrey de Vere, 
Translation from Horace, , 



363 

171 



Z4a 
676 
854 

338 



NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



A Question of Honor, 716 

An Old World as seen through Young Eyes, . 143 



Beside the Western Sea, 

Bessy, 

Biographical Sketches, 

Biognphical Sketches of Distinguished Mary- 
landers, 



Known Too Late, 



576 



7x8 
790 
717 

573 



Carte EccMsiastique des Etats-Unis de 

rAm^rique, a88 

Childhood of the English Nation, The, . . 384 

Christ, The Cradle of the, . . . s8x 

Christopher Columbus, The Life of, . . 579 

Classic Literature, 380 

Code Poetical Reader, The, . . . .87 

Complete Office of Holy Week, The, . . 144 

Comprehensive Geography, The, . . >44 

Consolation of the Devout Soul, The, . . 386 

Cradle of the Christ, The, . . . . aSx 

Discipline of Drink, The, . . .575 

Dora, Bessie, Silvia, 730 

Dr. Joseph Salsmann*s Leben und Wiricen, . 985 



Ecclesiastical Law, Elementoof, 
Edmondo, • * * . 

English Nation, Childhood of the. 
Essays and Reviews, 



860 
720 



4«9 



Geometry, EiemenU of, 860 

God the Teacher of Mankind, ... 730 
Golden Sands, 430 

Heroic Women of the Bible and the Church, 288 
Hofbauer, Yen. Clement Mary, Life of, 431, 57a 



Lady cfNeville Court, The, . ■43a 

Legends of the B. Sacrament, . •574 

Libraries, Public, in the United States of 

America, 855 

Life of the Yen. Clement Mary Hof bauer, 43s, 573 

Magister Choralis, 430 

BCarylanders, Distinguished, Biographical 

Sketches of, 573 

Musica Eccles i astica, 144 

Paradise of the Christian Soul, The, . 576 

Philip Nolan^s Friends, 7x9 

Priesthood in the Light of the New Testa- 
ment, 713 

Problem of Problems, The, . . sSa 



Reply to the Hon. R. W. Thompson, 
Report of the Board of Education of the City 
and County of New York, .... 
Roinan Legends, 



7x9 

• 7«5 
. . . 7*8 

Salmann*s Leben und Wiriun, . 385 

Sidonie, 574 

Songs of the Land and Sea, .... 790 

Spirit .Invocations, 576 

Summa Summm, aS8 

The Catholic Keepsake, 730 

The Little Pearls 718 

The Pearl among the Yirtues, . .730 

The Story of Felice, 730 

The Wonders of Prayer, 718 

Why are We Roman Cathoi;c8 ? ... 388 



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THE 



CATHOLIC WORLD. 



VOL. XXV., No. 145.— APRIL, 1877. 



NAGUALISM, VOODOOISM, AND OTHER FORMS OF CRYPTO- 
PAGANISM IN THE UNITED STATES. 



When the Almighty introduced 
the children of Israel into the 
Promised Land he enjoined the 
utter extirpation of the heathen 
races, and the destruction of all be- 
longing to them. But the tribes 
grew weary of war; they spared, 
and their subsequent history shows 
us the result. The Chanaanites be- 
came in time the conquerors and 
made the Hebrews their subjects 
politically and in religion. The 
paganism learned on the banks of 
the Nile had become but a faint 
reminiscence in the minds of the 
descendants of those who marched 
out under Moses and Aaron; but 
the worship of Baal and of Moloch 
and of Astaroth overran the land. 
A long series of disasters ending 
with the overthrow of their national 
existence, and a seventy years* cap- 
tivity, were required to purge the 
Hebrew mind of the poison im- 
bibed from the heathen remnant. 
Then all the power of the Alexan- 
drian sovereigns failed to compel 
them to worship the gods of Greece. 
Omfics dii gentium dmmonia is a 
statement, clear, plain> and definite, 



that we Catholics cannot refuse 
to accept. Modern indifferentism 
may regard all the pagan worships 
as expressions of truth, and the 
worship of their deities as some- 
thing merely symbolical of the op- 
erations of nature, not the actual 
rendering of divine honors. But to- 
us there can be no such theory. The 
worship was real and the objects 
were demons, blinding and mislead- 
ing men through their passions and 
ignorance. The very vitality of pa- 
ganism in regaining lost ground, 
and in rising against the truth, 
shows its Satanic character. 

The experience of the Jewish; 
people is reproduced elsewhere. 
When Christianity, beginning the 
conquest of Europe with Greece 
and Italy, closed its victorious ca- 
reer by reducing to the cross the 
Scandinavians and the German 
tribes of Prussia, later even tlian the 
conversion of the Tartaric Rus- 
sians, there was left in all lands a 
pagan element, on which the arch- 
enemy based his new schemes of re- 
volt and war upon the truth. We 
of the Gentiles, whether from the 



Cppfright : Rev. I. T. Hbckss. 1877. 



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sunny south or the colder north, 
bear to this day, in our terms for the 
divisions of the week and year, the 
names of the deities whom our hea- 
then ancestors worshipped — the de- 
mons who blinded them to the 
truth. The Italian, Frenchman, 
and Spaniard thus keep alive the 
memory of Jupiter, Mercury, Mars, 
Venus, and Saturn ; the German 
and Scandinavian tribes of Tuisco, 
Woden, Thor, Freya, and Sator. 
Janus opens the j'ear, followed by 
Februata Juno, and Mars; Maia 
claims a month we dedicate to 
Mary, and which the Irish in his 
own language still calls the Fire of 
Baal — Baal-tinne. 

Earth and time even seem not 
enough ; we go, so to speak, to the 
very footstool of God, and name 
the glorious orbs that move in ce- 
lestial harmony through the realms 
of space, from the very demons who 
for ages received from men the 
honors due to God — from Jupiter 
and Saturn, Venus and Mars, Juno 
and Ceres, Castor and Pollux, and 
the whole array of gods and demi- 
gods. 

And it is a strange fact that the 
only attempt made to do away 
wit^i these pagan relics was that of 
the infidel and bloodthirsty Revo- 
lutionists of France, pagan in all 
but this. 

We bear, as it were, badges of our 
heathen origin — tokens, perhaps, 
of the general apostasy which, as 
some interpreters hold, will one 
day behold the Gentile nations re- 
nounce Christianity, when the num- 
ber of the elect is to be completed 
from the remnant of the Jews. 

In the heresies, schisms, and re- 
volts against the church the pagan 
clement appears as an uprising, an 
attempt to retrieve a defeat by 
causing an overthrow of the victo- 
rious church even where a restora- 



tion of the old demonic gods .seems 
in itself hoi:)eless. The German 
tribes and those of Scandinavia, re- 
ceiving the faith later than the La- 
tin and Celtic races, revolted from 
the church while the remembrance 
of pagan rites and license was still 
fresh. The so-called Reformation 
was essentially gross and sensual, 
and none the less so because the 
Christian influence made the abso- 
lute rejection of God for a time im- 
possible, and compelled it to bor- 
row tone, and expression, and the 
outer garb of Christianity. Vice, 
in its open and undisguised form, 
would have shocked communities 
that had tasted of Christian truth. 
The arch-enemy was subtle enough 
to meet the wants of the case, and 
to present what would appear to 
the sixteenth century as true, as 
shrewdly as he presented the gross- 
er forms to earlier minds gross 
enough to accept them. But, it 
may be said, it is going too far to 
make all heresies diabolical; yet the 
church so speaks. If, in the prayer 
for the Jews on Good Friday, it asks 
that God would remove the veil 
from their hearts, that light might 
shine in upon the darkness, we can- 
not but observe that when the pe- 
titions arise for those misled by 
heresy, the church speaks of lliem 
as souls deceived by the fraud of 
the devil. The New Testament is 
full of allusions to this war of the 
arch-enemy: he is held up as one 
who will come to some as a roaring 
lion, terrifying and alarming ; while 
to others he comes as an angel of 
light, plausible and Heaven-sent, as 
it were, raising up false teachers 
whose reasonings would, were that 
possible, deceive even the elect. 
And St. Paul tells us that our 
struggle is not with flesh and blood — 
not with the men who are but in- 
struments — but with the spirits of 



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Nagualism^ Vuodooismy etc., in (he Unite A States, 



darkness who are the prime mov- 
ers. 

The war waged took different 
forms. In the north sensualism 
and the grosser forms of self-indul- 
gence were the revolt against the 
spirit of mortification, of self-con- 
quest and control. It required and 
had no aid from the imagination, 
art, poetry, music. But at the 
south the old pagan classics, im- 
bued with the religion of Greece 
and Rome, became the literature of 
the new Christian world and exer- 
cised a steadily- increasing pagan 
influence. In the French Revolu- 
tion, and in the modern less bloody 
but asdeadly Masonic war, we see the 
old pagan ideas and thoughts come 
as if spontaneously to the surface. 
From the reverence for all connect- 
ed with the old pagan worship down 
to pagan cremation we see the re- 
vival, less gross, less sensual than 
in the north, idealized by the con- 
ception of beauty in form and color, 
with all the allurement of symmetry 
to win the eye, the ear, the imagi- 
nation. That ancient art and the 
ancient classics have been a potent 
instrument in weakening the Chris- 
tian spirit, and in paganizing the 
learned and the young whom they 
train, is admitted, and attempts are 
made to counteract the influence. 

Our country was settled by com- 
munities more or less imbued with 
all the Old- World paganisms, some 
of which shot out into new and 
strange forms, generally of the 
northern type, hiding sensualism 
under a cloak of religion, as in the 
Oneida community and the Mor- 
mons, the latter going directly into 
the ancient pagan channel in their an- 
thropomorphic conception of God. 
But besides this pagan element — 
the more insidious because scarce- 
ly suspected by most, and which 
many even now would treat as 



absolutely null for evil — the coun- 
try was, in its aboriginal inhabitants, 
utterly pagan ; and within our limits 
the remnant of those nations and 
tribes which now represent the 
original occupants are to a very 
great extent as pagan as they were 
three centuries ago. Even where 
tribes have been converted to Chris- 
tianity, and been for a long series 
of years under Christian teachers, 
a pagan element often remains, 
nurtured in secret, and heathen rites 
are practised with the utmost fidel- 
ity by many who keep up the sem- 
blance of being faithful worship- 
pers of the true God. This crypto- 
paganism is termed by the Spanish 
writers in Mexico nagualism, and, 
from its secret character, formed 
one of the greatest afflictions of 
the missionaries, eating out the 
very heart of the apparently flour- 
ishing tree planted by the toil and 
watered by the blood of the earlier 
heralds of the Gospel. 

Another pagan element came 
with the negro slaves — barbarous 
men torn from Africa, without cul- 
ture, imbued with the most degrad- 
ing superstitions of fetichism, and 
believers in the power of inter- 
course with the evil spirits whom 
they dreaded and invoked. In the 
utter disregard of their moral wel- 
fare which prevailed in the English 
colonies, no attempt was made in 
colonial days to eradicate their pa- 
gan ideas and to instil Christian 
principles ; on the contrary, efforts 
were actually made to prevent their 
instruction and baptism, from an 
idea that Christianity was incom- 
patible with a condition of slavery. 

In time the negro slaves and their 
descendants imitated externally the 
religious manner of their white mas- 
ters, but their old fetichism was 
maintained, with the invocation of 
evil spirits and attempted inter- 



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NaguaMsm^ Voodooism, etc, in the United States. 



course with them. The more Chris- 
tianity in any form penetrated among 
these people, the more this pagan 
element assumed a secret charac- 
ter, until it became, as it is in our 
day in the West Indies and the 
South, under the name of vau- 
doux or voodoo worship, the secret 
pagan religion of the negro and 
mixed races. 

Another pagan element — which 
cannot be called cryptic, because 
it meets the full meridian blaze of 
day, as though it were a thing en- 
titled to existence and protection 
without limit or check — is the Bud- 
dhic worship of the Chinese, with 
perhaps the less debasing ancient 
])aganism of that nation. Temples 
arise and pagan worship is carried 
on before hundreds of altars, chief- 
ly on the Pacific slope. This, with 
tl)e degraded morals of the hea- 
thenism it represents, forms a ques- 
tion difficult to solve, and exciting 
grave attention not only in Califor- 
nia, but in other parts of the coun- 
try. 

The fiicility with which Mormon- 
ism has gained hundreds of thou- 
sands of votaries to its monstrous 
doctrines, and the difficulty under 
our system of laws of counteract- 
ing its influence, leaving its sup- 
|)ression simply to the general con- 
demnation it receives from the pub- 
lic opinion of the country, convince 
all thinking men that it is a great 
and serious danger to the well-being 
of our country in the future. It 
lies between the unchecked, uncen- 
sured paganism of the Chinese in 
California and the heathenism of 
the wild Indian tribes, the nagual- 
ism of the New Mexican Pueblos, 
and, still further east, the voodooism 
of the negro. Who can foresee the 
fearful creation of evil that the 
Prince of Darkness may form out 
of this material ready to his hand ? 



Buddhism overran nations of vari- 
ous origin, civilization, and mode of 
life — the letteredChinese, the nobler 
Japanese, the wild Tartar; it has 
adaptability, as seen in its assuming 
external Christian dress and ideas, 
taken from early envoys of the faith. 
Mormonism shows a vitality and a 
power of extension that none who 
remember its origin could, at the 
time it arose, have believed within 
the limits of possibility. The voo- 
doo mysteries permeate through a 
population numbered by millions. 
If nagualism and Indian paganism 
exist only among tribes rapidly 
hurrying to extinction, these tribes 
have shown in some cases recu- 
perative power, and, fostered by tlie 
stronger heathen elements, may re- 
vive sufficiently to be a source of 
mischief. It may be said that, ex- 
cept in the case of the Mormons, 
this element is confined to inferior 
races — the Mongolian, negro, and 
Indian — and cannot affect the mass 
of the American people; but this 
is really not the fact, as in almost 
every case whites living near the 
inferior races do actually imbibe 
some of these pagan superstitions 
and become believers in them and 
in their power, while the spread of 
the so-called spiritualism through 
all classes in this country shows at 
once a vehicle for the propagation 
of any form of diabolism that may 
rise up with dazzling powers of 
attraction. 

The influence of crypto-paganism 
on the whites can be seen in our 
history. The New England set- 
tlers made comparatively short work 
of the native tribes, who were in 
their eyes Chanaanites not to be 
spared. But though they slaugh- 
tered the men, women were saved, 
and not always from motives that 
will stand too close a scrutiny. In- 
dian women became slaves in the 



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Nagualismy Voodooism^ etc.^ in the United States. 



houses of the New England colo- 
nists. If there was any outward 
conformity to Christian usage, most 
of them remained at heart as hea- 
then as ever. The Indians of al- 
most every known tribe avowed- 
ly worshipped the Spirit of Evil. 
North and South missionaries found 
the natives acknowledge and jus- 
tify this practice. As a rule they 
admitted a Spirit of Good, but, 
as they argued, being inherently 
good, he could do only good to 
them, and need not be propitiated ; 
whereas the Spirit of Evil contin- 
ually sought to injure men, and must 
necessarily be propitiated to ward 
off the intended scourge. This 
adoration of the Evil One, and the 
attempt to propitiate him, win his 
favor, and do his will, the Indian 
slaves bore with them in their bond- 
age. What New England witch- 
craft really was — diabolic, delusion, 
or imposture — has never been set- 
tled. No sound Catholic divine 
versed in mystic theology has ever, 
to our knowledge, marshalled and 
sifted the facts, and the evidence 
cited to support them, in order to 
come to any reasonable theory in 
the matter. New England of the 
seventeenth century firmly believed 
it diabolical ; New England of the 
nineteenth century as dogmatically 
decides that it was delusion or im- 
posture ; but, unfortunately, neither 
seventeenth-century nor nineteenth- 
century New Englandism can be 
deemed a very safe guide, and each 
is condemned by the other and 
admits its liability to err, although 
both had the same energy for forc- 
ing their opinions for the time 
being on all mankind. 

But, whatever the real character 
of New England witchcraft was, 
one thing is certain : Indian crypto- 
paganism was at the root of it. 
Tituba, the Indian servant of Sam- 



uel Parris, the minister of Salem, 
practised wild incantations and im- 
bued the daughter and niece of her 
master with her whole system of 
diabolism. The strange actions of 
the children excited alarm. Tituba 
was arraigned as a witch and con- 
fessed her incantations; but the 
devil protects his own. Witchcraft 
trials began, and Tituba and her 
fellow Indian slaves, who must have 
quaked for the moment, saw them- 
selves, not punished, but used as 
witnesses, until more than a hun- 
dred women were apprehended and 
most of them committed to prison. 
It did not end there. The gallows 
was to play its part. Nineteen 
were hanged, and one Giles Corey 
was pressed to death. If Tituba 
invoked her demon to avenge his 
fallen votaries in her tribe, she was 
gratified by beholding the victo- 
rious whites murder each other at 
her instance. Neither Tituba nor 
any other of the Indians, though 
they avowed their intercourse with 
the fallen spirits, was tried or con- 
demned for witchcraft. What took 
place in the Parris household took 
place in hundreds of others where 
Indian slaves were kept, as in our 
time in the South. Thousands of 
children have there been imbued 
by their 'negro nurses with the 
pagan obeah and voodoo super- 
stitions, as doubtless on the Pacific 
slope many a mother is horrified to 
find her child's mind filled with the 
grossest heathenism by the Chinese 
servant, and fondly hopes she has 
disabused her little one, when, in 
reality, the faith and the terror then 
implanted in the child's suscepti- 
ble mind will last through life, 
burned into the very soul by the 
vivid impression produced. 

A Catholic may say that the 
grace of baptisni will protect many 
from this evil; but, alas! to how 



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Nagualisniy Voodooism^ etc.^ in the United States. 



many thousands of families in this 
land is baptism a stranger ! In them 
there is nothing to check the in- 
sidious progress of evil. 

The Huron nation was converted 
to Christianity by the early Catholic 
missionaries, and the Iroquois were 
induced by them to abandon the 
worship of their evil spirit Tharonhy- 
awagon,or Agreskoue, whose name 
even seems to be unknown to the 
present so-called pagan bands, who 
worship the God of the Christians, 
but with strange heathenish rites. 
The vices prevalent among the 
Hurons of Ohio, nominal Catholics 
in the last century, show that secret 
worship of evil spirits still prevail- 
ed. All know how the medicine- 
men have maintained their ground 
among the Chippewas, Ottawas, and 
other Algonquin tribes on the bor- 
ders of the great lakes, although 
Catholic missionaries began their 
labors among them two centuries 
ago. Whenever for a time Catho- 
licity has seemed to gain a tribe, 
any interruption of the mission for 
a brief period seems to revive the 
old diabolism. There are medi- 
cine-men now with votaries as ear- 
nest as any whom Dablon, Mar- 
quette, and Allouez tried to convert 
in the seventeenth century. But 
data are wanting for a full conside- 
ation of the subject as to these and 
other northern tribes. 

Of the nagualism in the Texas 
tribes after their conversion by the 
Franciscan missionaries we have evi- 
dence in the life of Father Margil, 
a holy and illustrious laborer in that 
field. The tribes among wliom he 
and his compeers labored have van- 
ished, but the Pueblo Indians of 
New Mexico still remain. The 
succession of missionaries became 
irregular ; no bishop visited those 
parts to confirm the converts ; the 
revolutions following that which 



separated Mexico from Spain almost 
utterly destroyed the Indian mis- 
sions of New Mexico. Then the 
nagualism which had been evident- 
ly maintained from the first by a few 
adepts and in great secrecy became 
bolder ; and these tribes, whoSe con- 
version dates back nearly three cen- 
turies, revived the old paganism of 
their ancestry, mingled with dreams 
of Montezuma's future coming, 
taught them by the Mexican In- 
dians who accompanied the first 
Spanish settlers. 

Father Margil once asked some 
Indians : " How is it that you are so 
heathenish after having been Chris- 
tians so long .^" The answer was: 
*' What would you do, father, if ene- 
mies of your faith entered your land } 
Would you not take all your books 
and vestments and signs of religion, 
and retire to the most secret caves 
and mountains } This is just what 
our priests, and prophets, and sooth- 
sayers, and nagualists have done to 
this time and are still doing." Ex- 
perience showed, too, that this wor- 
ship of the evil spirit assumed the 
form of various sects, some imi- 
tating the Catholic Church in having 
bishops, priests, and sacraments, 
which they secretly administered to 
consecrate their victims to Satan 
before they received the real ones 
from the hands of the missiona- 
ries. 

All those who have studied at all 
the pueblos of New Mexico de- 
scribe to some extent the nagual 
rites, some of which are indeed 
hidden under the veil of secrecy in 
their estufas, but others are more 
open and avowed. 

Colonel Meline, after noting the 
execution of two men accused of 
witchcraft and sacrificing children, 
says of the Pueblos generally " that 
they are more th m suspected of 
clinging to and practising many of 



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t'i.eir ancient heathen rites. The 
estufa is frequently spoken of as 
their heathen temple." * 

A report addressed to the Corles 
in Spain by Don Pedro Eautista 
Pino in 1812 says : " All the pueblos 
have their estufas — so the natives call 
subterranean rooms with only a 
single door, where they assemble to 
perform their dances, to celebrate 
feasts, and hold meetings ; these are 
impenetrable temples where they 
gather to discuss mysteriously their 
good or evil fortunes, and the doors 
are always closed on the Spaniards. 

" All these pueblos, in spite of the 
sway which religion has had over 
them, cannot forget a part of the 
beliefs which have been transmitted 
to them, and which they are careful 
to transmit to their descendants. 
Hence come the adoration they 
render the sun and nioon, and other 
heavenly bodies, the respect they 
entertain for fire, etc." \ 

" The Pueblo chiefs seem to be 
at the same time priests; they per- 
form various simple rites by which 
the power of the sun and of Monte- 
zuma is recognized, as well as tiie 
power (according to some accounts) 
of the Great Snake, to whom, by 
order of Montezuma, they are to 
look for life. They also officiate in 
certain ceremonies with which they 
pray for rain. There are painted 
representations of the Great Snake, 
together with that of a misshapen, 
red-haired man declared to stand 
for Montezuma. Of this last there 
was also in the year 1845, in the 
pueblo of Laguna, a rude effigy or 
idol, intended, apparently, to repre- 
sent only the head of the deity." % 

Others portray their setting up of 
idols or mementos of their national 
deities, and surrounding them with 

• McKm, Two Thousand MH*s on M rseback^ 
pp. 92S-aa6. 
\ Noticiax. pp. 15, 16. 
^BaDciift. Nativ* Races^ ill 173, 174. 



circles of stones, repairing to the 
spot regularly to pray. 

The Pueblos thus show, after near- 
ly three centuries of Catholic instruc- 
tion, almost ineradicable elements 
of heathenism. 

Of the real interior life of other 
tribes we know comparatively little; 
but by the example of so-called 
prophets who arise from time to 
time in one part or another, giving 
new life to the old heathenism, 
borrowing some idea from Chris- 
tianity, and using their new creed as 
a means to excite a great national 
feeling, we see clearly that in the 
Indian mind the old worship, though 
dormant and concealed, has still a 
power and mastery. 

To this deep-rooted feeling the 
Mormons have appealed, and suc- 
ceeded in drawing large numbers 
within the circle of their influence. 
Almost all the Indian wars are 
stimulated by some prophet promis- 
ing victory and the triumph of the 
old Indian beliefs. 

The Cherokees have embraced 
many usages of civilization, and 
the Choctaws approach them. The 
Chickasaws, the other great tribe 
in Indian Territory, retain more of 
their old manners. In all these 
tribes Protestantism has gained a 
hearing and has a few cluirch mem- 
bers ; but there are strong pagan 
parties, and even among the Chris- 
tian part there is undoubtedly a 
strong old heathen element beneath 
an outward conformity to Chris- 
tianity. It was strongly urged on 
Congress a few years since to erect 
this tract into a recognized territory 
of Oklahoma, with a government 
like that of other Territories, pre- 
paratory to its admission as a State. 
The outbursts of savage fury be- 
tween factions in the tribes, how- 
ever, made men hesitate to give 
autonomv to them. 



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Nagualism, Voodooism, etc, in the United States. 



Investigation will, we think, show 
that crypto-paganism largely con- 
trols this mass of native Indians, 
and is the great obstacle to their 
improvement. It is, however, con- 
fined to themselves, arid we do not 
find that even in New Mexico the 
whites of Spanish origin have, dur- 
ing their long residence near the 
pueblos, adopted to any extent the 
heathenish usages of those tribes. 
The isolation of the nations in In- 
dian Territory has also prevent- 
ed any great external influence. 
Thus this Indian crypto-paganism, 
though wide-spread and unbro- 
ken, seems doomed, unless taken 
in hand by some master-spirit. 

The voodoo worship of the ne- 
groes shows greater vitality and 
diffusiveness. The slaves taken in 
early times to St. Domingo came 
from all parts of Africa, some from 
the fiercest tribes addicted to hu- 
man sacrifices and cannibalism. 
They brought over their demonic 
worship, and by their force of char- 
acter propagated it among the ne- 
groes generally. It became the 
great religion of the slaves, was 
secretly practised, and exercised a 
very powerful influence. As a se- 
cret society, with terrible forms of 
initiation and bloody rites, it be- 
came a power in Hayti, and has 
caused more than one revolution. 
Cases of the offering up of infants 
in sacrifice, and devouring the vic- 
tims, were exposed a few years since, 
and numbers were arrested. Some 
were put to death, but the power 
of the organization was unbroken, 
and Soulouque, if we are not mis- 
taken, was said to have owed his 
l)Ower to the voudoux. 

St. Domingo was part French 
and part Spanish, and in time voo- 
doo ism spread from the French 
l)ortion of the island, where it 
seems to have originated, to tlie 



Spanish division, and thence to 
Cuba. 

In this latter island it exists to 
this day, and has found votaries 
among the whites. A recent French 
traveller — Piron — describes a fear- 
ful scene which he witnessed in the 
house of a lady whom he never 
would have suspected of any con- 
nection with so monstrous a sect. 
A naked white girl acted as a voo- 
doo priestess, wrought up to frenzy 
by dances and incantations that 
fdl lowed the sacrifice of a white 
and a black hen. A serpent, train- 
ed to its part, and acted on by the 
music, coiled round the limbs of the 
girl, its motions studied by the vo- 
taries dancing around or standing 
to watch its contortions. The spec- 
tator fled at last in horror when the 
poor girl fell writhing in an epilep- 
tic fit.* 

While France held St. Domingo 
and Louisiana the intercourse be- 
tween the two colonies was con- 
stant, and voodooism took root on 
the banks of the Mississippi soon af- 
ter its settlement. The early his- 
torian of Louisiana, Le Page du 
Pratz, says : ** The negroes are very 
superstitious and attached to their 
prejudices and to charms which 
they call grisgris. These should 
not be taken from them or spoken 
about ; for they wwild ihink them- 
selves ruined, were they deprived of 
til em. The old negro slaves soon 
disabuse them."t These old ne- 
groes were scarcely, it will be con- 
fessed, apostles to convert idolaters. 
In fact, their influence extended 
only to inducing the new-comers 
to practise their rites and use the 
symbols in secrecy. 

Le Page du Pratz himself, in de- 
feating a negro plot to massacre the 
colonists at New Orleans as the In- 

• Piron, Vile d* Cnb^^ pp. 48-s«* 
t Hist, d* la LoHhianty i. p. 33s. 



k 



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NagualisfHj Voodooistn, etc., in the United States. 



dians had done at Natchez, found 
that they attributed their defeat to 
his being a devil — that is, possessing 
ODC more powerful than their own. 
'I'he voodoo rites have been kept 
up in Louisiana from the com- 
mencement, and the power exercis- 
ed by the priests and priestesses of 
this horrible creed is very great. 
Working in secret, with all the ter- 
rors of mystery and threats of bodi- 
ly harm, it is just suited to the ne- 
gro mind, and has spread over 
much of the South. As in Cuba 
and St. Domingo, the white children 
in many cases learn of it from their 
negro nurses, and the weak, as they 
grow up, never shake off its hold 
on their imagination. Human sac- 
rifices are certainly offered in their 
infiimous rites, and the escape of 
an old negro doomed to the sacri- 
ficial altar drew down upon the 
voodoos the police of New Orleans 
only a few years ago. 

The Abb^ Domenech * — whom we 
should hesitate to cite, were not his 
accounts here in conformity with 
numerous others — represents voo- 
dooism as having not only spread 
through Texas, but into Mexico 
where, in a depraved border com- 
munity, its horrid rites and secret 
]K>isonings are carried on. His 
details as to the mode of worship in 
New Orleans — the nudity, tlie use 
of serpents, the dances — correspond 
with the accounts given from Cuba. 
Reports from Mobile attest its ex- 
istence there with similar features. 

Where voodoo ism prevails it has 
not only its adepts and votaries, 
but a large class who, full of terror, 
buy at exorbitant prices from voo- 
doo priests channs against its 
spells. 

The lute war has given the ne- 
groes opportunities for education 

* MUsionary AdvMmturt* in Texas and Afex- 
ic0. 



and a future, but the new prosperi- 
ty has not broken the power of 
voodooism. Of a thing kept secret 
and hidden, which many will deny 
and more be ashamed of, it is not 
easy to get precise data or details. 
Yet from time to time revelations 
are made attesting its vitality. A 
negro member of tlie Louisiana 
Legislature, and a minister in one of 
the Protestant denominations, was 
reported within a few years as un- 
dergoing certain rites to free him- 
self from the spell of a voodoo 
priestess. We may therefore easily 
infer that the negroes, being not 
only self-governing, but governing 
the whites in many parts by force 
of numbers, are not likely to be in- 
fluenced so much by whites as by 
the crafty and aspiring among them- 
selves, 'i'hey will concentrate, and 
in their concentration this voodoo 
power cannot but increase and all 
vestiges of Christianity disappear. 
The field upon which it can work 
— the vast colored population of 
the South — is ready for it. Some 
may think the whole matter a shal- 
low imposture that will soon die 
out before the effulgence of news- 
papers ; but it really shows no signs 
of decline, and, if no cases have 
been unearthed which show such 
frightful enormities as those in 
Hayti, it is certainly attended with 
ceremonies which, for their very 
indecency and pampering of the 
worst vices, should cause it to be 
rooted out, even by those who 
would regard the direct worship of 
the devil as something with which 
the state cannot interfere. 

Open the map of the United 
States, and see how a band of 
country from the Atlantic to the 
Pacific is thus permeated by hea- 
thenism. In the Southern States 
the voodoo worship ; New Mexico 
and Indian Territory with nagual- 



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10 



Nagualism, Voodooism^ etc., in the United States. 



ism ; Utah with Mormonism ; Cali- 
fornia with Buddhism. Through- 
out this tract the church planted 
there from one to three centuries 
is slill weak, and, except in Cali- 
fornia, is not gaining ground with 
any rapidity. Everywhere Catho- 
lic influence is less potent than 
others. The very climate, ener- 
vating and disposing to ease and 
indulgence, seems to lend power to 
systems that gratify the passions 
which the church teaches her 
children to mortify and control. 

It looks as thougli the Prince of 
Evil were seeking to form a king- 
dom for himself, combining all the 
elements for his evil spirits to car- 
ry on the war of conquest. St. 
Jude represents Satan as endeavor- 
ing to secure the body of Moses, 
doubtless to lead the Jews into 
idolatry and make them worship 
him. If he tried to induce even our 
Lord to fiill down and worship him, 
we cannot wonder that he should 
try to induce weak men to do. so. 
St. Paul constantly represents to 
us our struggle in life as a war 
against the evil spirits. St. Igna- 
tius, in the " Exercise of the Two 
Standards,'* pictures Satan as array- 
ed against our Lord with all his 
hosts. The battle seems to take 
actual form, and we should be pre- 
pared for it. In this battle we have 
powerful auxiliaries placed at our 
command, in the persons of the 
angelic powers, and though the 
church, tiirough her whole liturgy 
and offices; reminds us of their min- 
istry and invokes their aid,* we 

• Thus in the Mass she asks that the offerings be 
carried on high by the angels ; in the Aspei^es, 
and Complin she begs God to send down his an- 
gels to cl.iri-ih, guard, and protect all within the 
building ; in the Itinerary she calls St. Raphael es- 
pecially to protect all who travel ; in the baptis- 
mal service she asks God to send an angel to guard 
the catechumen and lead him to the grace of bap- 
tism ; in Extreme Unction, to give all dwelling, in 
the house a good angel gitardian ; the Commenda- 
tioo of the Departing Soul is a constant appeal to 



seem to be forgetful of their exist- 
ence, and go into the fight unaided 
by forces at our command — force > 
never defeated, and ready to meet 
our call. What wonder that we 
are often worsted } Qur books of 
devotion give a single prayer to 
our guardian angel. Few think 
beyond this. The angel guardians 
of the country, of our city, of our 
church, our home, of our family, of 
those committed to our charge, are 
all fighting for us, earnestly if we 
seek their aid. St. Michael, tiie 
guardian angel of the Jewish na- 
tion, defeated Satan's attempt to 
use the body of Moses for his wick- 
ed designs. So in our day the 
greater manifestation of diabolical 
agencies should lead us to a.sk God 
to send his angels to our aid. The 
parents, in training and protecting 
from evil the children given to 
them, have mighty coadjutors in 
the angels of these very children, 
the teacher in those of his schol- 
ars, the pastor in those of his flock. 
There may be saints to whom we 
have a special devotion ; but in 
the angels we have powerful spirits 
directly deputed by God to aid us, 
and whose duty it is, as it were, to 
combat by our side against the ene- 
mies of salvation. 

But we are not giving a devo- 
tional treatise : or attempting to 
propose any new form. Our coun- 
try is dear to us, and, although it 
were too sanguine to hope that in 
the days of any now living the 
true faith will reach such a point 
that its influence will be marked 
on the public mind and heart, wc 
cannot be insensible to the appar- 
ently formidable gathering of heath- 
en elements in a section of country 

the holy angels ; and the prayer after death asks 
that the departed soul may be received by the ho- 
ly angels and brought to Paradiie, her real coun- 
try. She even asks that an angel be deputed to 
guari the grave. 



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St. Francis of Assisi. 



II 



where the very climate seems to 
lend them new force in building up 
A gr^'al empire of paganism. 

A new impulse has been given to 
our Indian missions, which, owing, 
doubtless, to causes easy of explana- 
tion, have never received from the 
(.'alholic body at large in the United 
Slates the moral and temporal aid 
they so richly deserved. In fact, the 
missionaries labored on, ahnost ig- 
nored and forgotten, so that an at- 
Icmi^t was made through the in- 
strumentality of the federal govern- 
ment to crush them out altogether. 
'i'his has roused Catholics to an in- 
terest in them, and this interest 
should be kepi up. By prayer, by 
alms, by direct aid, we must help 
the missionaries and their coadju- 
tors, tl»e devoted religious women 
in the missions, to fight the good 
fight, and root out, so far as lies in 
us, tiie paganism of the Indian 
tribes, where still avowed or cloak- 
ed under an external sliow of Chris- 
tianity. 

On another paganism, that of 



the Chinese^ and on that of ilie 
Mormons, we cannot apparently 
act yet directly, but we can meet 
I hem by prayer, and in the regions 
infected Catholics should exercise 
the utmost vigilance that this pagan 
influence should never enter their 
households, lest their children, if 
not themselves, may at last imitate 
the wisest of kings, not in his wis- 
dom, but in his idolatry. 

The great and festering sore of 
voodooism afflicting the negroes 
calls for all our zeal, as Catholics, 
to help the bishops and clergy in 
the South, and the English society 
which has entered this field, by 
prayer, by material aid, by earnest 
and sustained efforts to j)reservo 
the purity of faith among colored 
Catholics. The Church in the 
Southern States, crippled by the 
disasters of the late war, is entirely 
iinable to cope single-handed with 
the new duty imposed upon it by 
the altered condition of affiiirs. 
She appeals to us, and as Catholics 
we cannot remain deaf to her call. 



ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI. 



O LOVE ! you lay the volume by 

That held you like a holy chime — 
Life of St. Francis — with a sigh 

AVhich says : " That was a pleasant time 
In old Perugia's mountain-town 
On the Umbrian vjilley looking down — 

Flushed like an Eden in sublime 
Environment of mountains vast ; 

And do not you, as I, recall 
What, morn and even, and first and last, 
Attracted most of all ? 



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12 St. Francis of Assisu 

" The peaks of Apennine we kne.v 

By heart — the man y-ci lied land 
Where-through the infant Tiber drew 

A thousand streams in silver band. 
Filled with the murmur of the pines 
That told the olives and the vines 

They heard the sea on either hand. 
But, kindled on its lofty cape, 

A light-tower to that inland coast 
O'er waves of greenwood, corn, and grape. 
What object charmed us most ? 



" Assisi seated in the sun ! 

All round from Monte Sole's height 
The insistent fascination 

Of its white walls enthralled our sight. 
And moon and starlight on its slope 
Showed but a dimmer heliotrope. 

We watched it many a mellow night: 
Once when a warrior comet came, 

And flaslied, in high heaven opposite, 
A sheathless sword of pallid flame. 
Drawn from out the infinite 



"To sweet St. Francis' native town, 
Alas ! we made no pilgrimage ; 
Nor to St. Mary's, lower down. 

His Portiuncula hermitage. 
We knew but by its star-like shine 
The splendors of Assisi's slirine, 
In mystic triple stage on stage. 
It only asked one summer's day — 

. How strange it seems in you and me !— 
'J'hiit narrow vale of Umbria 

Made severance like the sea." 



O gentle wife! 1 cannot tell 

To wistful eyes of retrospect 
What dolce far niente's spell, 

In that midsummer, caused neglect ; 
What imp, procrastination hight, 
Seduced us when we meant no slight. 

In life, all paradox and defecf, 
Easy is difficult — the friend 

Next door to visit — duties small, 
To be done any day, that end 
In not being done at all. 



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5/. Francis of Assist. 13 

* How can this trite philosophy 

Console me in my great regret ?" 
Nay, love, look not so tearfully, 

And we will find some comfort yet. 
What figure, think you, in those streets 
The gentle, loving youth repeats. 

Singing his gay French canzonet ? 
Doth either temple's sumptuous pride 

Suit stone and crust for bed and board, 
And bridegroom joyful in his bride — 
The poverty of our Lord ? 



O brown serge holier than the cope ! 

Was mystery veiled in long-sleeved gown ? 
And awful was his girdle-rope? 

Were skirts that swept his ankles brown ? 
Bore he, in hands and feet and side. 
The five wounds of the Crucified ? 

Did high God send his seraph down, 
On the lone mount, to imprint such sign ? 

His brethren wondered, overawed ; 
Yet not even this made more divine 
That sweet-souled man of God ! 



O happy swallows ! circling skim 

And twitter o er the gray church-towers. 
He called you sisters; ye with him 

Chirped sweetly when he sang the Hours. 
And ye, his brothers innocent. 
With whom he talked where'er he went, 

Play, lamb and leveret, in the flowers ! 
Wise foolishness and melting ruth — 

That move deep chords, O love ! in you — 
Born of child-instincts, or a truth 
He and the angels knew! 



** O Sun, my brother above all ! 

Stars, Sister Moon, in praise accord. 
Chaste, humble, useful, precious, full, 

O Sister Water, freely poured ! 
Kobust and jocund, strong and bright, 
O Brother Fire ! illume the night. 

Live tongues of beauty, praise the Lord! 
O Brother Wind ! thy wonders weave 

In clouds and the blue sky above, 
Wherefrom all creatures life receive, 
And weave them all of love. 



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14 St. Francis of Assist. 

•• Confess the Lord, O Mother Earth J 

Through whom so beautiful thou art. 
To herb, fruit, flower, he giveth birth 

And color from Love's eyes and heart. 
Serve God !" he sang. His sermons good, 
Dear to shy creatures of the wood, 

Could even to bole and branch impart 
Their glowing sense : a conscious soul 

Kin to his own in all things moved. 
His monument is grand — ^the whole 
Creation that he loved. 



O Life, that sought to imitate 

The one pure type, its perfect Chief, 
By its own purity separate 

As is the dew-drop on a leaf, 
Which yet doth from its luminous veil 
A glory to the flower exhale ! 

Close sympathy with no touch of grief! 
Let fair Assisi on its slope. 

An unremote yet reachless star, 
Lend to our hearts another trope, 
So near and yet so far. 



O Poet, who in faltering rhyme 

First wove the Tuscan into song ! 
O poem and miracle sublime, 

Thyself, in Dante sweet and strong! 
To his fourth circle of Paradise, 
To the King-splendor of the skies, 

Dost thou, the elder seer, belong. 
Thee ** Sister Death " hath glorified; 

And what an image we have won : 
Through kindled mists of mountain-side, 
Assisi in the sun ! 



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Six Sunny Months. 



15 



SIX SUNNY MONTHS. 

' THs Arr:f3a of "thx hdusz op ydrk:«/' **GR.ipa3 amj tidsns, " etc. 

CHAPTER XI. 

A HORNING WITH ST. PETER. 



As the day approached for their 
visit to the crypt of St. Peter, Mr. 
Vane absented himself very much 
from the house, and the last day 
was spent entirely away, from early 
in the morning till late in the even- 
ing. They understood that he was 
to make his First Communion with 
them, but asked no questions, leav- 
ing him entirely free, and he gave 
no explanation. The Signora and 
the two daughters made a Triduum 
for him in the mornings ; and so 
deeply did they feel the event for 
hira that they looked forward to 
their own Communion almost as if 
it were to be their first, and lived 
as though in retreat for two or three 
days. 

"I feel," Bianca said, " as if I 
had been having clandestine inter- 
views with some one outside the 
house, and that now papa were go- 
ing to invite him home, and make 
a feast in his honor. Dear papa ! 
how very good he is ; how much 
better than his daugliters !" 

She would have been quite shock- 
ed and alarmed had any one told 
her that she entertained such a sen- 
timent, but there was, in fact, in 
her heart an undercurrent of pride 
in her father's piety, and a feeling 
that the Lord would certainly be 
particularly pleased with him. 

At length the day dawned, the 
sweet bells of Santa Maria Mag- 
giore, the slipshod bells of Sant* 
Antonino, all the bells in hearing, 
ri'iging their three, four, ^\t^ and 



one out of the white silence of the 
aurora. 

The Signora smiled to hear, 
through the open doors, Isabel start 
awake at the sound, and exclaim in 
her clear voice: "The angel of the 
Lord declared unto Mary." 

" I really must not have such a 
preference for Bianca," she said to 
herself, " especially now when Bi- 
anca has a lover. Isabel is very 
honest and earnest." 

The Alba turned to a rosy silver, 
the silver deepened to gold, the north 
and west were Tyrian purple, and 
the sun v/as on the eastern horizon, 
painting the long lines of the aque- 
ducts, and the billows of the Cani- 
pagna, and the towers, high roofs, 
and cupolas of the city with a fiery 
pencil. A flock of goats pattered 
by in the street, to be milked at 
the doors; hand-carts piled with 
fruit were dragged slowly in from 
some garden near the walls ; three 
men walked slowly past, in single 
file, with large baskets on their 
heads piled with rich flowers. The 
perfume of them came up to the 
window as the Signora leaned out. 
A wine-cart came slowly down from 
the Esquiline piazza, laden high 
with small barrels and half and 
quarter barrels, brought in by night 
to the Roman shops from cool grot- 
toes in the Castelli Romani, set 
here or there on the beautiful moun- 
tains that were now a velvety blue 
under the eastern sky. At the back 
of this cart was perched high the 



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lit lie white dog, with liis nose on 
Iiis paws, and his eyes half shut, 
but all ready to start up with a 
sharp bark if any one but looked 
hard at his precious load. In front, 
under the side awning, slept the 
driver. The horse dreamed along 
through the morning, and the little 
bunch of bells slung to the cart 
jingled softly as they went. 

"It is certainly earth, but a most 
beautifalearth," the Signora thought, 
sighing with content, as she went 
out to fasten the girls* veils on for 
them. 

" There is no need of putting on 
gloves," she said, seeing Isabel 
drawing hers on. " Didn't you 
know, child, tliat one should not 
wear gloves when going to Com- 
munion V* 

" Live and learn," said Isabel, 
and took her gloves off again. " I 
have had a doubt on the subject, 
but I never knew." 

" Another little item you may not 
know," the Signora said. "The 
canonico being a bishop, you have 
to kiss his ring before receiving. 
He will himself touch it to your 
lips after he has taken the Host in 
his finger and thumb to give you. 
When I first came here, I was em- 
barrassed by many of these cus- 
toms, which everybody here takes 
for granted, you know." 

Nothing could be pleasanter than 
Mr. Vane's manner that morning — 
serious and quiet, but less grave, 
even, than usual. Seeing Isabel's 
eyes fixed anxiously on him while 
the Signora spoke, he smiled and 
said : " I am glad your education is 
nnt quite finished, my dear. I am 
st II more ignorant, and you must 
all teach me. I wish, Signora, that 
you would be so good as to stay 
by me this morning, so that, if I 
should be in doubt, I may look at 
you. I think you would be more 



correct and prompt than the chil- 
dren here." 

" Certainly," she said, " I will be 
near you." 

The porter had sprinkled and 
swept the stairs just before they 
went down, and the place was 
shaded, fresh, and cool. Carlin 
was whistling to his baby while his 
wife prepared breakfast — a whistling 
as soft and clear as the song of a 
bobolink. The other birds adopted 
him, and answered him back from 
the garden, a little surprised, it may 
be, at the length and smoothness 
of his carol. The air was' so richly 
scented with orange-flowers that 
one might almost have thought 
worth while to bottle it, and there 
was a rustling sound, exquisitely 
cool and pervading, of falling water. 
In a shady corner near the door of 
the porter's room was a tiny bra- 
zier with a handful of glowing coals 
in it, and over this Augusto was 
making his early cup of coffee. Out 
doors everything shone with a gol- 
den color — the light, the houses, the 
streets — and in that frame the sky 
was set like a gem, so blue that it 
could be compared to nothing, and 
nothing could approacli it. 

They did not look about as they 
drove slowly through the city, but, 
leaning back silent, had a min- 
gled sense of Rome and heaven. 
It was impossible for any of them 
to imagine anything more per- 
fect, or to ask for any addition to 
their happiness. Earth and hea- 
ven had united to bless them, and 
every gift of earth worth the taking 
was theirs. To have been sover- 
eigns would have oppressed them ; 
to have had millions at their dis- 
posal would have been a care and 
annoyance. They had enough^ 
and their cup was running over. 

The narrow streets were begin- 
ning to stir as they passed, and 



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some were diiD» and all were ia 
sliade. Not a ray of sunshine 
touched them, except in the piazzas, 
till they reached the bridge of Sant' 
Angelo. Then all was light, for 
the sun shot straight on through the 
Horgo, and ail the piazza of St. 
Peter's was in a blaze. They were 
almost faint with the heat as they 
walked up the ascent ; but in a few 
minutes they were inside the sa- 
cred door, where, before entering, 
summer and winter meet to give the 
kiss of peace on the threshold, and 
the one quenches her fiery arrows, 
and the other warms his frosty 
breath. 

Not a person was in sight as they 
went in, but they heard, faintly and 
far away, the mingled voices of the 
choir coming and going. The cir- 
cle of ever-burning lamps twinkled 
like a constellation before them, 
and invited their steps. Half way 
up they paused before the chapel 
of the Blessed Sacrament, which is 
an exception to the cheerful grand- 
eur of St. Peter's. For this dim 
chapel gives a sense of remoteness 
and mystery, and the inner chamber, 
from which the eyes can see no out- 
let, seems to lead to some edifice 
still more vast ; as though St. 
Peter's were life and day, but here 
was the way to death and night, yet 
a way not gloomy and dreadful, but 
only solemn and mysterious. The 
Baptistery is merely dark, and pro- 
duces no such impression. 

When they reached the bronze 
statue, the ladies kissed the foot 
and passed on, but Mr. Vane stood 
thoughtfully there for some time 
before following. And even then 
he did not pay the accustomed 
homage to the venerable image. 
His soul had saluted it, may be; but 
he was of a different sort from 
those who have the act of rever- 
ence always ready, whether the 

VOI^ XXV — 9 



heart move or not ; who will kiss 
the relic between the kisses of the 
shameless, and touch what is holy 
with lips that have just lied, and 
which are prompt to lie again. 
This man's outward devotion was 
ever the blossom of a plant that 
grew in his heart, and filled it so 
that the act was an overflowing. 

Marion was already waiting for 
them at the grand altar. They 
recognized each other silently, and 
seated themselves on the steps to 
wait, being early. The Signora 
placed herself beside Mr. Vane, 
and, noticing that he drew a deep 
breath, and looked about with u 
glance that took in their position 
there in the centre of that im- 
mense cross, she pointed upward 
where the dome, glorious with light 
and color, rested on the legend 
that had turned the face of the 
world : ** Thou art Peter^ and on 
this rock I will build my church. And 
I will give thee the keys of the king- 
dom of heaven.'* The legend ran in 
a circle of gigantic letters rimmed 
with gold, and the circle and the 
dome were as the ring and mitre of 
the church let down from heaven, 
and hovering in air over the ashes 
of the first pontiff. 

A Mass was being said at the 
altar directly before them, at the 
end of the south transept, but not a 
sound of it reached them. They saw 
indistinctly the priest, and the mosaic 
crucifixion of St. Peter over the al- 
tar. They heard the coro, now swell- 
ing loudly in a brave, manly chant 
as the whole chapter joined, now 
sinking in a cadence, now fine with 
a boy's clear treble. The bronze 
canopy above them glittered in 
every gilded point, the twisted col- 
umns that supported it soaring like 
flame and smoke entwined. The 
wreath of lamps about the confes- 
sion was as bright as the ever-bum- 



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ing flames within them, and the 
polished marble answered them 
back, blaze for blaze. Below — a 
frozen prayer — knelt the guardian 
statue, its face turned to the screen 
behind which rest the relics of St. 
Peter. Two or three persons, en- 
tering the church, looked small as 
mice down the nave, and intensi- 
fied the sense of magnificent soli- 
tude about them. All this light 
and splendor seemed so indepen- 
dent of, so superior to, human pres- 
ence that human beings appeared 
to be only permitted, not invited, to 
come. It was a temple for the in- 
visible God. 

"There is no outward differ- 
ence," the Signora said to Mr. 
Vane, "between Catholicity and 
Protestantism which strikes me 
more than our ways of going to 
church, and the reasons for going. 
Protestants go to hear a man talk, 
and the man goes to talk to them. 
The aflCair is a failure if either is 
missing; for the minister needs the 
people, and the people need him. 
On the contrary, one person alone 
in a Catholic church may accom- 
plish a perfect act of worship. 
When the priest has offered up a 
Mass, though no one assist, the 
world is better for it ; and when a 
worshipper has prayed all alone in 
the presence of the Blessed Sacra- 
ment, he has performed a supreme 
act of piety. There is all the dif- 
ference between the dwelling-house 
of God and the house where peo- 
ple go to talk about God." 

"I always felt as if there were 
too much wind in Protestantism," 
Mr. Vane said. 

Presently a little company ap- 
peared coming out of the sacristy — 
two boys in white cotte^ the canonicals 
chaplain and another priest, also 
in cotte^ and, lastly, monsignor the 
canonico himself, in a purple silk 



soutane of a color so bright that it 
was almost red. They passed across 
the basilica toward the pier of Ver- 
onica, and paused there at the altar- 
rail till the Signora and her friends 
joined them. A pleasant salutation 
was exchanged, and the Signora 
managed to whisper to the canonico 
that Mr. Vane was to make his 
First Communion that morning. 
The beautiful face of the prelate 
brightened with a pleased surprise, 
and he turned again and cordially 
offered his hand to the new convert, 
who, to the delight of the ladies, 
bent and kissed the ring on it. 

Then the boys lighted their wax 
tapers, and the party went in be- 
hind the altar, down the narrow 
stair, and through the circling cor- 
ridor, and found themselves in the 
heart of St. Peter's. 

This chapel is a tiny place in 
comparison to the church above, 
but capable of accommodating 
many more than the five who are 
permitted to visit it at a time. Two 
persons could kneel abreast at each 
side of the central passage, and four 
or five ranks, may be, might find room. 
The end next the screen, visible in 
the confession from above, is open, 
the altar being at the upper end, and 
the whole has not a ray of daylight. 
From this chapel one can look back 
and see through the screen Canova's 
marble pontiff, and the ring of gold- 
en lamps on the railing of the con- 
fession, and, perhaps, some worship- 
pers kneeling outside the sanctuary 
which one has had the privilege of 
entering. Directly overhead are 
the grand altar and the dome. 

The Signora took a prie-dieu near 
the altar, motioning Mr. Vane to a 
place beside her ; the sisters knelt 
behind them at either side the cha- 
pel ; and Marion, quite apart, and 
behind the rest, leaned in a chair 
and hid his face in his hands. He 



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had been surprised into the situa- 
tion, and, though he had tried sin- 
cerely to do his best, was still a 
little alarmed by it. Shaken out 
of his usual artistic mood, which 
regarded first what appeared, and 
then peeped inside from without, he 
found himself suddenly whirled into 
the centre, where, either from dark- 
ness or from too much light — he 
knew not which — lie could not see. 
It was one of those moments of fear 
in persons who communicate sel- 
dom but sincerely, which presently 
give place to the most perfect reas- 
surance and peace. 

The Mass was over. Monsignor 
laid aside his vestments, and knelt 
at a prie-dieu reserved for him ; his 
chaplain placed a book on the desk 
before him, and withdrew, and there 
was silence. 

The church could do no more 
for them. She had brought them 
to St. Peter's tomb, and given them 
the Bread of angels. 

It was impossible that the mind 
should not shake off the present 
and go back to the time when the 
dust in the shrine before them 
hved, and moved, and spoke, and 
when the invisible Lord in their 
breasts was the visible Lord in the 
flesh, teaching, persuading, and suf- 
fering. T'he Lord in their hearts 
said to the apostle in the shrine : 
" Wilt thou also go away V* And 
the apostle answered him : " Lord, 
to whom shall we go .?" And again 
Peter said : " Lord, thou shalt never 
Rash my feet." And Jesus answer- 
ed him : " If I wash thee not, thou 
hast no part with me." The Lord 
in their liearts was he who stood 
in the palace of the high-priest; 
bound and smitten upon the cheek, 
and Peter, standing by, denied that 
he knew him. The pallid lamps 
shone on the face of the Master 
turned for one reproachful look. 



and the red light of the coals burn- 
ed up, as if the very fire blushed, in 
the face of the cowardly follower. 
They saw the seaside, where the 
risen Lord stood and called, and 
Peter, no longer a coward, but on 
fire with love and joy, flung himself 
into the sea to go to him. And 
yet again, in this memory which 
had become a presence and a voice, 
the Lord spoke to Peter : " Lovest 
thou me .?" And Peter answered 
him once, and again, and, grieving, 
yet again : " Thou knowest that I 
love thee." And Jesus said to him : 
" Feed my lambs. Feed my sheep." 

O perfection of power and of 
obedience ; for within this hour, 
which memory, unrolling again her 
shrunken scroll, showed to be eigh- 
teen centuries distant — within this 
hour both the sheep and the lambs 
had been fed ! 

" I feel as though I had a garden 
in my heart," Marion said to the 
canonico as they went up into the 
church again. 

The two were walking slowly 
and last, and in speaking Marion 
bent and kis.sed the prelate's hand. 

The hand l>eld his a moment 
closely, and the canonico replied : 
"Where the Tree of Life is, there 
is always a garden." 

This conversation they had 
listened to between the Master 
and Peter followed them down 
the church, whose splendors seem- 
ed rather like virtues made visible 
than like any work of the hands of 
man. If they should ever be so 
lost and ungrateful as to leave 
this fold, to whom, indeed, should 
they go.^ And unless the Lord 
washed them from their sins, surely 
they could have no part with him. 
They still saw the lessening vision 
of the high-priest's dim and .solemn 
house as they passed down the 
church and out through the first 



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Six Sunny Months. 



portal ; then the second fell behind 
them, and an Italian summer day 
caught them to its glowing breast. 

** It seems to me," the Signora 
said, " as if we had just been or- 
dained, and were being sent out as 
missionaries. Of course you go 
home to breakfast with us, Marion," 
she added. 

'* I was thinking of Fra Egidio 
this morning," said Bianca softly, 
as they drove home tli rough the 
hot sunshine. " He used to say, 
instead of *I believe in God/ *I 
/Cv/^f/God.'" 

'^That blessed Fra Egidio!" 
struck in Isabel, who had lately 
been reading about him. "He 
used to go into ecstasies, papa, 
whenever he heard the names of 
Ciod or of heaven. And when he 
went into the street, sometimes peo- 
ple would call out, * Fra Egidio, 
paradiso ! paradiso !* and instantly 
he would be rapt into an ecstasy, 
and perhaps be lifted up into the 
air. Why doesn't some one go into 
ecstasies now at the thought of 
heaven ?" 

** Nobody prevents you, my dear," 
her father said. " If you will be so 
lost to the world and so given to 
God that the mere hearing his 
name will lift you from the earth, 
so much the better." 

" You are quite right, papa," she 
answered gently. " I had better look 
to myself." 

He smiled and laid his hand 
tenderly on hers. 

" I was particularly pleased with 
the account of the interview be- 
tween Fra Egidio and St, Louis," 
the Signora said. " The king came 
incognito to visit the ecstatic, and 
went to the convent in Perugia 
where he was living. Fra Egidio, 
knowing supernaturally that he was 
there, and who he was, went out to 
meet him. They fell on their knees 



on the threshold, and embraced each 
other, and, after remaining for some 
time in that silent embrace, rose and 
separated, without having uttered a 
word. That was truly a heavenly 
meeting." 

Their attention was here attract- 
ed to a clergyman who walked slow- 
ly along the shady side of their 
street, accompanied by his chap- 
lain. This prelate, the patriarch 
of Antioch, was of a venerable 
age, and wore a long beard. He 
alone, perhaps, of all the prelates 
in Rome, appeared in the street 
with the distinguishing marks of 
his rank — the chain and cross, the 
red-purple stockings, sash, and but- 
tons, and the green tassel on his hat. 

A little boy on the sidewalk 
caught sight of him, afld instantly 
snatched his cap off and ran to 
kiss the patriarch's hand. The 
action was perfectly natural and 
simple, and performed with a charm- 
ing mixture of reverence and con- 
fidence. 

" How pretty it is !" exclaimed 
Isabel. '* And there is another." 

A little girl had left her mother's 
side, and run also to kiss the patri- 
arch's hand as he passed. No idea 
seemed to have entered her curly 
head that she was approaching too 
nearly a grand personage, or that 
he would be annoyed or interrupted 
by her homage, any more than a 
crucifix or a picture of Maria San- 
tissima would have been. 

" The Roman clergy have the 
sweetest manners with the poor," 
the Signora said ; " and the highest 
dignitaries, when they are in public, 
are approached with a facility which 
I found, at first, astonishing. I re- 
collect going to St. Agatha's, the 
church of the Irish College, to the 
Forty Hours, shortly after I came 
here. It is in a populous neighbor- 
hood, as you know, and the streets 



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swarm with children. A clergyman 
came into the church and knelt at 
a prie-dieu just in front of me. 
'J'here were a dozen or so children 
wandering about, and presently they 
collected at this prie-dieUy and, sit- 
ting on the step or standing at the 
desk, almost leaning on the priest's 
shoulder, they stared at the people 
and whispered to each other. I 
expected to see him send them 
away or go away himself; but he 
only put his hands over his face 
and remained immovable. I had 
almost a mind, for a minute, to go 
and speak to the children, but, for- 
tunately, did not. After a while, 
nervous, impatient Yankee though 
I am, with a passion for an orderli- 
ness which strikes the eyes, I began 
to see the beauty and true piety of 
this gentle behavior, and to find 
something more edifying in that 
priest who suffered the little ones 
to come near him, and near the 
Lord, than I should have found if 
he had gone into an ecstasy before 
the Blessed Sacrament. It was the 
sweetest charity. Indeed, much of 
that which seems to us to be cow- 
ardice in the Romans is nothing 
but a spirit of gentleness fostered 
by religion. They are non-com- 
batants. The church found them 
a fiery and warlike people, con- 
stantly committing deeds of vio- 
lence, fond of conquest, and impa- 
lientof control, and she has subdued 
them to children. If they are too 
submissive to usurpation, that is 
better than the other extreme. 
The lion has become the lamb, 
and the lamb is ever the victim. 
And now here we are at home." 

Annunciata and Adriano had con- 
spired to make the breakfast as fes- 
tal as possible, and had succeeded 
perfectly. But for the light west 
wind that fluttered in at the still 
open windows, the air of the rooms 



would have been too fragrant ; and 
but for the long morning fast and 
drive, the breakfast would have 
been too profuse. It was, in fact, 
both breakfast and dinner, it being 
nearly noon when they sat down; 
and they sat two hours talking be- 
fore they separated. Just before 
they rose from the table Annunci- 
ata came in, bearing a large dish 
covered with green leaves, a smile 
of triumph on her face. She placed 
the dish in the centre of the table, 
and looked at her mistress. 

'^JBraval" exclaimed the Signo- 
ra. " Now, children, do you recog- 
nize that leaf?" lifting one from 
the dish, and holding it up between 
a thumb and finger. " Do you 
know what tree grows a hand for 
a leaf .^ Do you see the shape ?" 

"*In the name of the prophet, 
figs !* " quoted Isabel. 

** Yes, the first figs of the season, 
and perfect; just soft enough to 
flatten on the plate and against 
each other, yet firm; and, withal, 
sweeter than honey. You should 
see the woman who brings them to 
me — a rosy, russet creature, with 
eyes as black as sloes, and pounds of 
gold on her neck and hands. That 
gold she wears aKvays. It is their 
way. She has four gold chains, 
one hanging below the other, and 
each bearing a medallion. Through 
these shines a large gold brooch. 
Her earrings are immense hoops, 
and she wears gold rings on every 
finger, piled up to the joints. She 
was once so ill that they thought best 
to give her Extreme Unction, and, 
when the priest came to administer 
the sacrament, he found her lying, 
pale and speechless, but with all 
her rings and lockets on. These 
people do not value stones, but 
they glory in pure, solid gold." 

" Might it not be their dowry V* 
Mr. Vane asked. 



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"Very likely; sometimes it cer- 
tainly is. Sometimes the dowry is 
in pearls, and a contadina will have 
strings and strings of them. I am 
lold, however, that the common 
people in Rome have a saying that 
pearls are for butchers' wives. I 
don't know why, and one has been 
pointed out to me as owning half 
a dozen strings of them. They are 
not a good investment, however, 
for they are easy to spoil and 
easy to steal. A very safe and 
sensible way for providing a girl's 
dowry exists in one of the towns 
near Rome. All along the river- 
bank is level land divided into 
small lots. When a girl is born, 
the father buys one of these, if he 
is able, and plants it full of a sort 
of tree tiiat grows rapidly, and is 
much used for certain kinds of 
wood-work. While the girl grows 
her dowry grows ; and when slie 
marries, the trees are cut down and 
sold. I have often wished that 
American fathers of families would 
make some provision for their 
children when they are born, set- 
ting aside a sum, if it should be 
ever so small, to increase with their 
years, and be a help in giving them 
a start in the world. It seems a sin 
that parents should bring a family 
of children into the world, all de- 
pendent on one life, and, if that 
life be cut off, be thrown out help- 
less and unprovided for. How of- 
ten we see, by the death of a father 
wiiose labor or salary maintained 
his family in comfort, the whole 
family plunged in distress and left 
homeless ! How would Bianca, 
here, like to have her dowry in 
pearls V^ 

"She has a mouth full of them," 
said Marion hastily. He could 
not bear that his lady should be 
thought in want of a dowry, when 
she was a fortune in herself. 



" And those are not her only jew- 
els." He reached, and, taking 
her hand, gathered together the 
little pink finger-tips like a bunch 
of rosebuds. " Slie has ten rubies 
fit for a crown," he said, and touch- 
ed his lips to the clustered fingers, 
while the girl laughed and blush- 
ed. 

Mr. Vane seemed to be struck 
with a sudden recollection. He 
put his hand to his forehead and 
considered, then rose from his 
chair. " Wait a minute," he said, 
and went into his own room, where 
they heard him opening his trunk, 
and searching about in it. Present- 
ly he returned with a tiny morocco 
case. " It is the merest chance in 
the world that I did net leave this 
in America," he said. " I did not 
dream of bringing it. Bianca's mo- 
ther left a pair of ear-rings for the 
girl who should marry first." 

He opened the case and took 
them out — two large, pear-shaped 
pearls, of exquisite lustre, hanging 
from a gold leaf, on which a small, 
pure diamond glistened like a speck 
of water. 

"And you could have such a 
treasure with you, and never say 
anything about it !" the Signora 
exclaimed. " O the insensibility 
of men I And these girls never saw 
the pearls before !" 

She fastened the jewels in the 
pretty ears they were destined for. 
" These are two gems you forgot 
in your enumeration, Marion," she 
said. " And, by the way, how fit- 
ting it is that, when the ears are 
shells, there should be pearls hung 
in them !" 

"I'm glad you think them so 
pretty," Mr. Vane said with com- 
punction. " I really never did 
think of them before. Perhaps it 
was very stupid of me." 

"On the contrary, it was very 



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wise of you, papa," Isabel said. 
" They are a great pleasure to us 
all now; but if we had known of 
them, I should now feel as if they 
had been taken away from me." 

"When you are engaged, you 
shall have a pair as pretty, if they 
are to be found," her father said. 

They drank Bianca's health ; 
and, the talk still running on gems, 
Marion told an incident of a ring 
which a friend of his had lost in the 
snow, in some part of Germany, as 
he stood looking down pn the town 
from a hill outside. Several months 
afterward, going to the same spot, 
he saw the ring at the top of a little 
plant. The first sprout had come 
up inside it as it lay on the ground, 
and, growing, had lifted it, till it 
stood almost a foot high, glistening 
round the green stem. 

" What a disappointed little plant 
it must have been when its gold 
crown >vas taken off!" the Signo- 
ra said regretfully. 

" It no doubt grew better with- 
out it," Mr. Vane replied. " Be- 
sides, the ring did not belong to it." 

It was the tiniest little intima- 
tion of a correction, and the Sig- 
nora was highly pleased. He saw 
the smile with which she received 
it, and was content. Nothing can 
express more kindness than a gen- 
tle reproof, and nothing can show 
more affection than to take pleasure 
in such a reproof. 

When they had separated, the 
Signora went into the kitchen to 
give a private and special commen- 
dation to Annunciata for her well- 
doing that morning, and to glance 
at that part of her domain. She 
never omitted this word of praise, 
and the faithful servant counted 
herself well paid for any pains 
she could take when she had been 
assured that what she had done had 
given pleasure. 



This Roman kitchen was as little 
as possible like the New England 
kitchen. Closets and pantries there 
were none ; the single stone >valls 
did not admit of them. Two large 
cases of covered shelves took their 
place. Instead of the trim range 
with its one fire-place, was a row 
of five little furnaces, over each of 
which a dish could be set. A sheet- 
iron screen extended out over these, 
like the hood of a chaise. All the 
side of the chimney, where it ex- 
tended into the room, shone with 
bright copper and tin cooking ves- 
sels, hanging in rows. Underneath 
were two baskets, one with char- 
coal, another with carbondla — the 
charred little twigs from the baker's 
furnaces, that can be kindled at a 
lamp. One of the furnaces still 
had a glow of coals within it, and 
near by was the feather fan tliat had 
been used to kindle and keep it \ 
bright. The brick floor was as clean 
as sprinkling and swe!^ping could 
make it. They never wash a floor 
in Rome, and only the fine marbles 
and mosaics ever get anything bet- 
ter than that sprinkling and sweep- 
ing. The one window looked across 
the court to the Agostinian con- 
vent attached to Sant' Antonino, 
and to the little belfry with the two 
bells that never could be made to 
strike the right number of times, 
and into the garden of the fraii, 
where rows of well-kept vegetables 
were drinking in the sun as if it 
were wine. 

This kitchen was quite deserted, 
except for the cat, who was stand- 
ing, with a very mild and innocent 
expression of countenance, close to 
the closed door of a cupboard 
where meat was kept. She glanced 
calmly at the Signora, and walked 
away slowly and with dignity. 

**Wliere is Annunciata, Signer 
Abate .^" inquired the Signora. 



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The cat turned and mewed with 
great politeness, but in an interro- 
gative tone, as who should say, " I 
beg your pardon ?'* 

And then a splashing and bub- 
bling of water from without remind- 
ed ihQpadrona that her handmaid- 
en was washing that day — was "at 
the fountain,'* as they express it. 

" Why should I not go down for 
once and see how it seems there ?" 
she thought. " After all, this girl 
is dependent on me, lives with me, 
serves me in everything, is at my 
call night and day, and I do not 
touch her life except at certain 
points — the table, the cleanliness 
and order of the house, and the er- 
rands she does for me outside. I 
don't know much about her, after 
all." 

She opened a door that she had 
never passed in the years she had 
lived in that apartment, and de- 
scended a narrow stone stair that 
wound in a steep spiral, lighted at 
each turn by a small hole pierced in 
the outer wall. Down and down — 
it seemed interminable, but was, in 
leality, two stories and a half. The 
landing was in a dim store-room a 
little below the ground level, and 
used as a cellar. From this a pas- 
sage and door led into a small court 
enclosed between an angle of the 
house and a high wall, like a room 
with the ceiling taken off. Here a 
spout of water flowed into a double 
fountain-basin, where the girl stood 
washing and beating linen on the 
stone border. As she worked, 
steadily, and too much absorbed to 
see her mistress standing near her, 
tears rolled down her face, and 
dropped one by one on the clothes 
in' her hands. 

The Signora looked a moment, 
astonished and shocked. Was this 
the girl who had come and gone 
from early morning cheerfully at 



her bidding, and who had smiled 
as she served the table within half 
an hour.? She stood awhile look- 
ing at her, then quietly withdrew, 
and, going up-stairs again, rang a 
hand-bell from the window. An- 
nunciata came up immediately, quite 
as usual, with no sign of tears in 
her face, except a sliglit flush of the 
eyelids, and made her usual inquiry : 
" Che vuole V — What does she wish 
for } 

"I have several things to say," 
her mistress replied. " I came out 
first to thank you for having given 
us such a beautiful breakfast. 
Everything was well done. I for- 
got you were at the fountain." 

The smile came readily, and with 
it the ready word : " It pleased her?" 
— always the ceremonious third per- 
son. 

"And now I want to ask you 
something," the Signora went on 
kindly. " Sit down. If you do 
not like to tell me, you need not. 
But I should be very sorry if you 
had any trouble, especially anything 
in which I could help you, and did 
not let me know. You have been 
crying. Are you willing to tell me 
what is the matter .?" 

The girl looked as startled as if 
she had been caught in a crime, and 
began to stammer. 

"If it is something you do not 
want to tell me, I will not say any 
more about it," her mistress went 
on. " You have a right to your 
privacy, as I have to mine. But 
if there is anything 1 can do for 
you, tell me freely." 

There was a momentary struggle, 
then the tears started again, and 
all the story came out. Annunciata 
had received, three days before, 
news of the death of her only 
brother, who had died of fever in 
some little town a day's journey 
from Rome, and was already buried 



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Six Sunny Mantlts. 



25 



when she learned first that he was 
sick. 

The Signora listened with aston- 
ishment and compunction. For 
three days this girl had gone about 
with a bitter grief hidden in her 
heart, missing no duty, submitting, 
perhaps, to a little fault-finding now 
and then, and weeping only when 
she believed herself unobserved, 
and all the time, while she suffered, 
ministering to and witnessing the 
pleasures of others. 

" My poor girl, why did you not 
tell me at first?" she asked gently. 

"Oh! why should IV* was the 
reply. "You were all so happy 
and you could not bring the dead 
back." 

" I could have sympathized with 
you, and given you a few days* 
rest," the Signora said. " I would 
not have allowed you to work." 

" It was better for me to work," 
the girl replied, wiping her eyes. 
" I should only have cried and 
worried the more, if I had been 
idle." 

There seemed nothing that could 
be done. That class of poor do 
not adorn the resting-places of their 
dead, or the Signora would have 
paid the cost; they do not wear 
mourning, or, again, she would have 
paid for it; and this girl had no 
family to visit and mourn with. In 
her brother she had lost all. The 
only service possible — and that slie 
accepted gratefully — was to have 
Masses said for the dead. That 
settled, the Signora dismissed her 
to h^r work again, and shut herself 
into her chamber, but not to sleep. 

" O the unconscious, pathetic 
heroism of the suffering poor !" she 
thought. "Where in the world 
have I a friend who would cover 
such a grief with smiles rather than 
disturb my pleasure.? Where in 
the world does one see such patience 



under pain and hardship as is shown 
by the poor.? Tl>ey sigh, but they 
seldom cry out in rebellion. They 
accept the cross as their birthright, 
and both they and we grow to think 
that it does not hurt them as it 
would hurt us. How clearly it 
comes upon me now and then, wliy 
our Lord lived and sympathized 
with the poor, and why he said it 
would be so hard for the rich to 
enter heaven !" 

She was looking so serious and 
unrefreshed when the family gather- 
ed again that they at once inquir- 
ed the cause, and she told them. 

" I feel as though I must have 
been lacking in some way," she 
concluded, "or a servant who has 
been with me so long, and who has 
no nearer friend in the world than 
I am, would have corne to me at 
once with her troubles. If the re- 
lations between servants and em- 
ployers are what they should be, 
the servants should go to tlie master 
or mistress with all their joys and 
sorrows, just as children go to their 
parents. I have been thinking that 
there is one reason why, tlie world 
over, people are complaining of 
their servants. They have con- 
tented themselves with simply pay- 
ing their wages and exacting their 
labor. There has been no sympa- 
thy. The association has been sim- 
ply like that of fish and fowl, in- 
stead of that of the same creatures 
in different circumstances." 

" I have always thought that in 
America," Mr. Vane said. " There 
is not a country in the world, pro- 
bably, where families have been, as 
a rule, more disagreeable toward 
their servants, and servants so 
troublesome, in consequence, to 
their employers. But I believe it is 
very seldom that a good mistress or 
master does not make a good ser- 
vant, so far as the will goes." 



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Six Sunny Months. 



Seeing her still look downcast and 
troubled, he added : " You should 
not reproach yourself. It is rather 
your kindness toward this girl which 
has won such a devotion from her. 
if you had lacked in kindness and 
sympathy toward her, she would 
have been far more likely to have 
shown her trouble, and made it an 
excuse for not attending to her 
work as usual." 

**Do you think so?" she asked, 
brightening; and thought in her 
own mind, " How very pleasant it 
is to be reassured when one is dis- 
tressed about things!'* 

And then later, when they lieard 
Annunciata in the kitchen, the sis- 
ters went out and spoke each a 
kind and pitying word to her, 
touching her hard hand softly with 
thtir delicate ones; and when she 
came in later to perform some ser- 
vice, Mr. Vane had also a word of 
sympathy. But, greatest comfort 
of all, the Signora and Bianca went 
up to the Basilica and arranged 
that a Mass should be said the next 
morning for the dead, and Annun- 
ciata was told that she should go 
with them to hear it. 

That evening the servants were 
instructed to deny the family, to 
every one but Marion, and, when 
the sun was low, they all went out 
on the loggia to see the night 
come in, and breathe the sweet 
freshness that still came with it. 
For it is only in dog-days that the 
Italian nights are too warm for com- 
fort, and not always then. The great 
heat comes and goes with the sun. 

As they went into the loggia, 
there was a rustling noise in the 
garden underneath, and out from 
the trees leaning against the wall 
flew clouds of sparrows, and dis- 
persed themselves in every direc- 
tion: It would appear that every 
twig must have held a bird. 



" I am sorry we have disturbed 
tlicir nap," Mr. Vane remarked. 
" How disgusted they must be with 
our curious nocturnal habits !" 

They did not wish to talk, but 
only to think and see, and speak a 
word as the mood took them. The 
miraculous shadow of St. Peter still 
hovered above their spirits. They 
sat in silence, receiving any impres- 
sion that the scene might make. 

Flocks of birds flew in from the 
seaward, all hastening to some 
nest or tree-home, their bodies 
clear and dark, their swift wings 
twinkling against the topaz sky. 
The evening star, at first softly 
visible, like a diamond against an- 
other gem, began to grow splendid, 
while the glowing west changed by 
inperceptible degrees to a silvery 
whiteness, and took on an exqursite 
hint of violet, as if it thought, 
rather than was, the color. The 
flowers disappeared in masses of 
dark green, the gray towers and 
roofs deepened to black, the pure 
air was delicious and beaded with 
coolness, like a summer drift 
sprinkled with snow. The Ave 
Maria began to sound here and 
there, echoed from one church to 
another. Now and then some bell, 
besides the Angelus, rang out with 
a festal clangor for five minutes, 
a musical chorus coming in from 
the southward. 

" What a grand procession of 
saints walk for ever through the Ro- 
man days !" the Signora exclaim- 
ed. *' It would be something daz- 
zling to the mind, if one could live 
on a central height, and hear the 
bells announce the different festas 
as they come, singly or in groups, 
and know who and what each saint is. 
For example, this evening we hear 
from the Aventine the rejoicing an- 
nouncement that to-morrow is the 
festa of St. Alexis in his church, and 



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Six Sunny Months. 



27 



from another church is called out 
tiie name of St. Leo IV., and from 
another St. Marcellina, the sister 
of St. Ambrose, and twelve martyrs 
will be celebrated in another church. 
If we should go to-morrow to either 
of those, we should find them adorn- 
ed, sprinkled with green out into 
the very street, High Mass or Ves- 
l>ers going on, and the relics expos- 
ed on the altars. To-morrow night 
other bells will ring in other saints 
and martyrs. Tlie night after, from 
a church in Monte Citorio will 
come the call, Ecco St. Vincent 
of Paul ! and the secular missions 
and the Sisters of Charity will be 
doing their best in his honor, 
and there will be cardinals, and 
pontifical vespers, and a panegyric. 
Four or ^wq churches will celebrate 
their special saints the next day, and 
the next will be St. Praxides, on 
the Esquiline here ; and the da/ after 
we shall be invited to pay our 
respects to St. Mary Magdalen. 
And then on to St. James the Great, 
which will be a great day; and the 
day after comes St. Anna, the mo- 
ther of the Blessed Virgin ; and, a 
little later, St. Ignatius marches b/. 
What it would be to set the world 
aside, sit aloft on some tower there, 
listen to the announcements rung 
out from belfry after belfry, medi- 
tate, and look with the eyes of faith 
on what comes ! What faces of 
young maidens, delicate spouses of 
Christ, bent like clusters of living 
flowers to listen to the voices that 
praise them, turned again heaven- 
ward to ask for blessings on their 
clients ! What queenly women in- 
cline their crowned heads, when 
the Sacrifice goes up in their name, 
to see wlio of those who offer it is 
worthy and sincere ! What glorious 
men, strong and shining, gaze down 
into the battle-field where their tri- 
umph was won, to read in the upturn- 



ed faces of the combatants how the 
fight goes, and who needs their aid ! 
I sometimes think that the saints 
look only when they are called by 
name, but that the Blessed Mother 
looks always. It is the mother who 
goes after the child who forgets, 
and watches over it while it sleeps." 

The flocks of sparrows that had 
fled at their approach, weary of 
waiting for them to go away, after 
peeping and reconnoitring the sit- 
uation, began to come back and 
flutter in under the foliage again. 
For a few minutes the trees stirred 
all through with them, as if with a 
breeze ; then the little heads were 
tucked under the tired wings, and 
they all went to sleep, and, perhaps, 
dreamed. 

The family smiled and hushed 
themselves, not to disturb their rest. 
Each heart was softly touched by 
the nearness of so many tiny 
sleepers. Peace seemed to float 
silently out from under the throng- 
ed branches and laden twigs of 
those motionless trees, in which no 
passer-by would have detected a 
sign of life. 

" I think," the Signora said soft- 
ly after a while, **that when the 
priest comes next Holy Saturday 
to bless my house, I would like to 
have him bless these trees too, that 
no net or trap may be thrown over 
them by night, and no rifle be fired 
into thern by day. The trees and 
their tenants belong to my house- 
hold." 

" Your house is blessed every 
year V* Mr. Vane a.sked. 

"Yes. On Holy Saturday the 
priest goes round througli every 
parish, a little boy with him bear- 
ing holy water, and blesses all the 
houses, if the people desire it. The 
custom is, too, to have ready on a 
table a dish of boiled eggs, an or- 
namented loaf of cake, and a plate 



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Six Sunny Months. 



of sausages. Tiiese are blessed, to 
l>c eaten Easter Sunday. I am not 
sure, but I fancy that the custom is 
a remnant of times when the Lenten 
fast was, perhaps, more strictly and 
universally observed than now. 
Now, whether from a deterioration 
of health or of faith, very few per- 
sons consider themselves strong 
enough to observe the regulations 
perfectly. Modern civilization seems 
to be very weakening in every 
way." 

**I am inclined to think that 
good comes, or will come, out of 
all these changes and seeming fail- 
ures," Mr. Vane observed. "If the 
races have become weaker physical- 
ly, their passions have also become 
weaker ; and it may be that, in or- 
der to tame them, it was necessary 
to reduce their physical strength. 
We do so sometimes with wild ani- 
mals. Perhaps when we shall have 
learned better how to live, and, after 
running the circle of follies, growrt 
soberer and wiser, the increasing 
vitality will go more in the intellec- 
tual and spiritual ways than it did 
before. I am hopeful of the human 
race, from the very fact that it is so 
uneasy about itself. The audacious 
boldness of some nations seems to 
me to spring from desperation ra- 
ther than confidence. There is no 
confidence anywhere. Fear rules 
the world. Everywhere strong, or 
even desperate, remedies are pro- 
posed, and philanthropic doctors 
abound. 



** Malgre les tyrans. 
Tout reussira,'* 



sing the communists ; and I believe 
that things will come out right in 
spite of every difficulty, and be 
more secure because of the difficul- 
ties past. When we shall have 
looked about in vain in every other 
direction, we shall at last learn to 



look upward for the solution. But 
excuse me for talking so long in this 
beautiful silence. Your Easter 
eggs were not meant to hatch such 
a sermon, Signora." 

They rose, presently, to go into 
the house, and, as they loitered slow- 
ly along the passages, Mr. Vane re- 
marked to the Signora : ** I observe 
that the natural direction of your 
eyes is upward." 

** Is it ?•' she asked. " Come to 
think of it, I believe you are right. 
It is always cramping for me to 
look down. I recollect that, when 
I was a child, if I dropped my eyes 
on being a little embarrassed, it 
was almost an impossibility for me 
to raise them again." 

Going in past the kitchen, they 
found Adriano in chase of a cock- 
roach that had dared to show itself 
there, and they stopped to learn 
the result, feeling that it interested 
them. It was not successful, and 
the man rose from his knees very 
much vexed. 

" These bagarozzi don't know 
what Ascension day is nowadays, 
or they would hide themselves," he 
said.' 

Mr. Vane asked what connection 
there was between bagarozzi and 
Ascension day, and the servant-man, 
albeit a little ashamed of having 
committed himself to tell a story, ex- 
plained : 

" When I was young, it was a 
custom among the Roman boys, on 
the vigil of the Ascension, to go 
down into our cellars, or those of 
our neighbors, and catch as many 
bagarozzi as we could. When even- 
ing came, we fixed to the back of 
each one a bit of wax taper,, melt- 
ing the end to make it stick. Half 
an hour or so after Ave Maria we 
marshalled our bugs, lighted the ta- 
pers on their backs, and sent them 
off in a procession. While they 



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Six Sunny Montfis. 



29 



went we sang a song we had. It 
was a pretty sight to see the little 
tapers scampering off through the 
dark." 

" Why ! I should think it would 
have scorched them !" Bianca ex- 
claimed with surprise. 

The man laughed at her simpli- 
city. ** Who knows.?" he said, with 
a shrug. " They never came back 
to tell us." 

Isabel inquired what the song 
was to which this novel procession 
marched. 

The man laughed again and re- 
peated the doggerel : 

** * Corn, corn, bagaronc ; 
Che dimane h 1' Ascensione ; 
L' Ascensioa delle pagnocte : 
Corn, corri, bagaroszi.' " 

Wliich might be rendered : " Run, 
run, my noble roach; for to-mor- 
row rs Ascension day — Ascension 
day of the little loaves. Run, 
roach, run." 

" What demons of cruelty chil- 
dren can be !" remarked Isabel as 
the family went on. 

Adriano laughed as he looked 
after them. ** How queer these 
forestieri are !" he said. " They 
want to see everything and know 
the name of everything. The sig- 
norine here ask me the name of 
every tree and flower in the garden, 
and every bird and bug that moves 
How should I know.' My niece, 
Giovannina, says there's an English- 
woman going about getting the 
poor old women to tell her fables, 
and ghost-stories, and all sorts of 
nonsense; and they say that she 
prints it in a book. They must be 
in great need of books to read. 
Then the padrona will stand and 
look at the moon as if she never 
saw nor heard of it before, and ex- 
pected it to drop down into the 
garden and break into golden scudi, 
I saw her one day this spring, on 



Monte CavattOy stand half an hour 
and stare at the sky, just because 
it was red where the sun went 
down. The sky is always red when 
the sun sets in clouds. Two or 
three «^^//<7ri thought she was stop- 
ping to be noticed, and they walk- 
ed about her, and one of them 
leaned on the railing close to her, 
staring at her all the time, and by 
and by spoke to her. I went up 
behind her, but she didn't know I 
was there. She hadn't seen any 
one till she heard the man say good- 
evening to her. You should have 
seen the way slie looked at him. 
Then she caught sight of me. * Ad- 
riano,' she said, *ril give you a 
hundred lire to fling that fellow 
over the terrace head first.' I told 
her that it would cost me more 
than a hundred lire to do it. She 
put out her lips — I suppose she 
thought I was a coward — and mut- 
tered a word in English. Then 
she said to me, as she turned her 
back on the man, loud enough for 
him to hear : * How dare such 
rascals come up wlien the sun 
shines!* But she wouldn't let me 
walk beside her, but made me fol- 
low her all the way home. And 
she was so mad that, when I start- 
ed to say something as we reached 
the door, she stopped me. * When I 
want you to speak, I shall ask you 
a question,' she said." 

" The Signora is very kind," An- 
nunciata said. 

"I didn't say she wasn't," the 
man replied dogmatically. "But 
it doesn't become ladies to go into 
the street alone, nor to stop to look 
at anything, nor to glance about 
them." 

The girl did not reply. She had 
been trained in the same opinions, 
and did not know how to combat 
them. But sometimes it seemed 
to her that the streets and the pub* 



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Six Sunny Months. 



lie places were for women as well 
as for men to see, and that a wom- 
an should not be a prisoner because 
she had not a carriage or a servant 
to attend her. Moreover, she sym- 
pathized, in her simple way, with 
many of the Signora's tastes. To her 
the song of the birds they fed with 
crumbs from the windows was a 
sort of thanks, and she regarded 
them as little Christians ; and now 
and then, when she looked at the 
sky, something stirred in her for 
which she had not words — a plea- 
sure and a pain, and a sense of be- 
ing cramped into a place too small 
for her. She could not express it 
all, and did not quite understand 
it. But there was just enough 
consciousness to make Adriano's 
pronunciamiento rankle a little. The 
inner ferment lasted while she pol- 
ished the knives and her compan- 
ion blacked carefully a pair of 
boots; then she burst forth with 
an expression of opinion which as- 
tonished even herself, for it sprang 
into speech before she had well 
seen its meaning — an involuntary 
assertion of nature. " I believe 
that women should settle their own 
business, and men settle theirs," 
she said. " I haven't seen the man 
yet that knows enough to teach the 
Signora how she ought to behave 
nor what she ought to do; and 
many's the man she could teach. 
Men are poor creatures. Women 
can't do anything with them with- 
out lying to *em. That's what 
gives them such a great opinion of 
themselves, because most women 
flatter them when they want to get 
anytlung out of them." 

*'y]/£7, che ! — well, to be sure !" ex- 
claimed Adriano. It wasn't worth 
arguing about. He merely laughed. 

Meantime, gathered in the sala^ 
the family made plans for the com- 
ing days while they waited for sup- 



per. Bianca, seated at the piano, 
was trying to recall a fragment of 
melody she had heard a soprano of 
the papal choir sing at a festa not 
long before. " The cadence was so 
sweet," she said. " It was common 
— a slow falling from five and sharp 
four to four natural — but the singer 
put in two grace-notes that I never 
heard there before. He touched 
the four natural lightly, then sharp- 
ed it, then touched the third and 
slid to the fourth. It was exquisite, 
and very gracefully done. His 
voice was pure and true, and the 
intervals quite distinct." 

" I asked his name," Isabel said, 
" and was disgusted to hear a very 
common one, which I have forgot- 
ten. A beautiful singer ought to 
have a beautiful, • birdy-sounding 
name." 

** He can make his own name 
sound * birdy,' if you give him time," 
Mr. Vane said. " Take Longfellow 
as an example. There couldn't be 
a more absurd name. Yet the 
poetry and fame of the man have 
flowed around it so tliat to pro- 
nounce the name, Longfellow, now 
is as though yoru should say hexa- 
meter." 

And then what were they to do. 
and where were they to go to-mor- 
row, and the day after, and the day 
after.? They ran over their life 
like a picture-book which was so 
full of beauties they knew not whicli 
to look at first. All felt that they 
were laying up sunny memories for 
the years to come — memories to be 
talked over by winter evening fires 
in their country across the sea; 
memories to amuse and instruct 
young and old, and to enrich their 
own minds. And not only were 
they furnishing for themselves and 
their friends this immense picture- 
gallery and library of interesting 
facts and experiences, but they were 



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Six Sunny Montlis. 



31 



expanding and vivifying their faith. 
They were making the personal ac- 
quaintance, as it were, of the saints, 
and seeing as live human beings 
those of whom they had read in 
stories so dry as to make them seem 
rather skeletons than men and wo- 
men. To enter the chamber where 
a saint had prayed, had slept, had 
eaten, had yielded up his last breath ; 
to stand in some spot and think : 
" Here he stood, on these very stones, 
and saw faces of heaven lean over 
him, and heard mouths of heaven 
speak to him ; or here, when such 
temptations came as we weakly 
yield to or weakly resist, he fought 
with prayer, and lash, and fasting "; 
to look at a hedge of rose-bushes, 
and be told : " Here, when he was 
tempted, a man, weak as other men, 
flung himself headlong among the 
thorns'* — this was to waken faith and 
courage, and make their religion, 
not an affair of holidays and spec- 
tacles, and communions of once a 
year, but of every day, and of pri- 
vate hours as well as of public. 

"Half our Roman holiday is 
gone," Mr. Vane said, "and for at 
least four weeks of the other half 
the heat will allow us to do little or 
nothing. I recommend you girls 
to treasure all your little pleasures, 
and keep an exact account of them. 
The more fully you write every- 
thing out, the better. These diaries 
of yours will probably be the most 
interesting books you could have 
after a few years." 

" I am trying to forget all about 
America," Isabel said, "to fancy 
that I have always lived here, and 
always shall live here, and to steep 
myself as much as possible in Ital- 
ian life, so that, when I go back, I 
may see my own country as others 
sec it, but more wisely. It seems 
to me that a country could be best 



judged so by one who knows it 
well, yet has been so long with- 
drawn from it, and so familiar 
with other modes of life, as to see 
its outlines and features clearly." 

"You are right," Marion said. 
" I never knew how beautiful, how 
more than beautiful, American na- 
ture is till I had seen the famous 
scenes of Europe, One-half the 
superiority is association, and half 
the other half is because atten- 
tion has been called to them by 
voices to which people listened. 
Our very climate is richer. Here 
nobody knows how beautiful the 
skies can be. They like sunshine, 
and rainy weather is for them 
always brutto tempo. The grandeur 
of a storm, the exquisite beauty of 
showery summer weather and of 
falling and fallen snow, they know 
nothing about. They endure the 
rainy season for the sake of the 
crops, scolding and shivering all the 
time. To watch with pleasure a 
direct, pelting, powerful rain would 
never enter their minds ; and if 
they see you gazing at the most glo- 
rious clouds imaginable, it would 
be to them nothing but curioso. 
We do not need to go abroad for 
natural beauty." 

It was getting late and time 
to say good-night. A silence fell 
on them, and a sense of waiting. 
Then Mr. Vane said : " We have 
made a Novena together for the 
communion of this morning. May 
we not once more say our prayers 
together in thanksgiving?" 

No one replied in words; but 
the Signora brought a prayer-book 
and arranged the lamp beside Mr. 
Vane. He obeyed her mute re- 
quest, and for the first time, as head 
of the family, led the family devo- 
tions. Then they took a silent 
leave of each other. 



TO BS COKmrUEO. 



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Natalie Narischkin. 



NATALIE NARISCHKIN * 



The name of Narischkin is in 
Russia like the name of Bourbon in 
France, Plantagenet or Stuart in 
(ireat Britain. The mother of 
Peter the Great was a Narischkin, 
and her baptisinal nam5 was Nata- 
lie. The family hav^ always es- 
teemed themselves too noble to ac- 
cept even the highest titles, regard- 
ing their patronymic as a desig- 
nation more honorable than that of 
prince. Madame Craven has just 
added to the list of her charming 
and extremely popular works a new 
one, wluch is a companion to the 
Sister s Story y by writing the bio- 
graphy of a lady of the Narischkin 
family who was a Catholic and a 
Sister of Charity. Natalie was a 
friend of Alexandrine and Olga de 
la Ferronays. The narrative of her 
early life retraces the ground, fami- 
liar to so many, over which we have 
delightfully wandered in company 
with the fascinating group of elect 
souls, whose passage over the drear 
desert of our age has been like the 
waving of angels' wings in a trou- 
bled atmospliere. 

It seems scarcely correct to call 
Natalie Narischkin a convert. Her 
parents belonged to the Russian 
Church, and of course she was taught 
to regard herself as a member of 
the same. They resided, however, 
always in Italy, and Natalie was 
accustomed, in her childhood and 
youth, to associate freely with Catho- 
lic children and young people, and 
to accompany them to the churches 
and convents where they were wont 

*La Sofur Natalie Narischkin^ FiUe dt la Cha- 
riU de S. VincetU d* Paul. Par Mme. Augustus 
Craven. Paris : Didisr et Cie., 3s Quai des Augus- 
tins. 



to resort. Russian children receive 
infant commilnfon, beginning with 
the day of their baptism, several 
times a year until they attain a pro- 
per age for confession, when there 
is a careful preparation and a solemn 
ceremony for the first adult com- 
munion, as with us. They are con- 
firmed immediately after baptism. 
We are not told anything about 
Natalie's receiving either infant or 
adult communion, but it is to be 
presumed that she was made to fol- 
low the usual practice, since there 
are Greek churches in Venice and 
other Italian cities. Her early as- 
sociations were much more numer- 
ous, strong, and tender with the 
church of Italy and France than 
with the estranged church of her 
own nation. There was no differ- 
ence in faith between herself and her 
Italian and French companions to 
make her sensible that the religion 
in which she was bred was different 
from the one in whose sacred rites 
she was continually taking part, at 
whose altars and shrines she fre- 
quently and devoutly worshipped. 
Even the peculiar ceremonies and 
forms of the Sclavonic and Greek 
rites were less familiar to her than 
those of the Latin rite. The only 
barrier between herself and her 
Catholic companions which could 
make Natalie sensibly feel a sepa- 
ration between them was her exclu- 
sion from participating in the sacra- 
ments administered by Catholic 
priests. This separation between 
priests and people professing the 
same faith, offering the same Sacri- 
fice, administering and receiving 
the same sacraments, could only 



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Natalie Narischkin. 



33 



puzzle and surprise the mind of a 
diild; but it requires a more ma- 
ture understanding and complete 
knowledge to appreciate the obliga- 
lioD of renouncing all communion 
with a schismatical sect, however 
similar it may be to the true church. 
While Natalie was a child some of 
the little boys and girls with whom 
she played, particularly one little 
hoy who became afterwards a mar- 
tyr in China, used to assail her vvith 
controversy. Her older friends 
were more judicious, and waited 
patiently until her ripening intelli- 
gence and expanding spiritual life 
should prepare her for a more com- 
plete work of grace and a more per- 
fect understanding of Catholic doc- 
trine. In the instance of Madame 
Sft-etchine we see how much 
study and thought are necessary 
to produce in the mind of one 
who has grown up to maturity un- 
der the influences of the Russian 
Church a firm intellectual convic- 
tion that organic unity under the 
supremacy of the Roman See is 
essential to the being of the Catho- 
lic Church, and not merely the con- 
dition of its well-being and perfec- 
tion. In Madame Elizabeth Gallit- 
zin we discern how, in another 
way, national prejudice, and tradi- 
tional hostility to what is regarded 
as anti-Russian, caused in her bosom 
a violent struggle against reason 
and conscience, even though the 
Catholic religion was that of her 
own mother. The case was wholly 
different with Natalie Narischkin. 
She did not think about the ques- 
tion of controversy at all, and was 
free from the national prejudices of 
a Russian. Her mother took no 
pains to instil them into her mind, 
or to place any obstacle in the way 
of the Catholic influences around 
her. She grew up, therefore, a 
Catholic, with only an external 

VOL. XXV, — 3 ^ 



barrier between her inward senti- 
ments and their full outward pro- 
fession. The interior cravings of 
her spiritual life were the chief and 
real motive prompting her to pass 
over this barrier and find in the 
true church that which the broken, 
withered branch could not give. 
The requisite tlieological instruc- 
tion in the grounds of the sentence 
of excision by which the Russian 
hierarchy is cut off from Catholic 
communion was a subsequent matter, 
and not at all difl[icult to one who 
was, like Natalie, intelligent, candid, 
and full of the spirit of the purest 
Catholic piety. There was really 
nothing in the way except the au- 
thority of her mother, whose chief 
motive of opposition was the fear 
of the emperor's displeasure. When, 
this obstacle was removed, Natalie- 
easily and without an effort leaped 
over what was left of the externab 
barrier. 

We have anticipated, however,, 
what belongs to a later period of 
her history. And going back tO' 
the time of her childhood, we will 
let Madame Craven herself describe 
the situation in which she was 
placed while she was growing up 
into womanhood. It will be notic- 
ed that Madame Craven speaks in; 
the plural number, indicating that 
Natalie is not the only young Rus- 
sian to whom her remarks apply. 
This will be understood when we 
explain that her sister Catharine 
sympathized with her in all her re- 
ligious feelings, though she delayed', 
on account of her dread to encoun- 
ter the opposition of her family, 
until a much later period her own 
formal abjuration. 

** The entire childhood of these young 
girls had been passed at Naples, and 
they had been there environed by im. 
pressions which nothing in their Greek 
faith, no matter how lively it might have 



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34 



Natalie Narischkin, 



been, could counteract. The adoration 
of Jesus Christ, the Teneration of the 
Holy Virgin and the saints, faith in the 
power of absolution and the real pres- 
ence in the Blessed Sacrament, were the 
grand and fundamental doctrines which 
5iey had imbibed with their mother's 
milk. Brought up at a distance from 
their own country, they might almost 
have believed themselves to be in the 
centre of their own religion, living as 
they were within the bounds of that great 
church which possesses all the gifts 
claimed by Uieir own, with fne added 
power of distributing and communicat- 
ing them to all, without distinction of 
place, language, nation, or race. It is 
difficult to comprehend how any Russian 
whose soul is imbued with piet}% on re- 
turning to his own country after having 
been brought up abroad, can find him- 
self at ease in the bosom of Greek or- 
thodoxy. In truth, it appears to us 
that the limits of a national church must 
seem very suflfocating to any one who 
has felt, even for aa instant, the pulsa- 
tion of that universal life in the heart of 
the Catholic Church which is unconfin- 
ed by mountains, rivers, or seas, which 
is contained within no barriers of any 
kind whatever, and bears the name of 
no particular nation, because it is the 
mother of all nations collectively. 
Therefore no one ever has been or ever 
will be able to fasten any denomination 
of this sort upon the only church who 
dares affirm that she alone possesses the 
truth in all its completeness. At the 
first view one would say that every 
church ought to make this claim under 
the penalty of being deprived of any 
reason for its existence. It is neverthe- 
less true that only one loudly proclaims 
h ; and those who hate as well as those 
who love the Catholic Church alike de- 
clare that she is a church in this respect 
singular among all others. Thus has she 
preserved through all ages a designation 
expressive of the idea realized in her- 
self, and will preserve the same for all 
coming time ! A multitude of her chil- 
dren have separated themselves from 
her, yet none of them have succeeded in 
despoiling her of the glorious title which 
suffices to make her recognized evcrv- 
where and by all. As for other churches 
or sects, when it is not the name of 
some man or nation which they substi- 
tute for her name, it is som-i kind of 
term or epithet which, even when it 



aims at giving a semblance of antiqaity, 
betrays novelty in the veiry fast that it is 
necessary to employ it in order to be 
understood ; and this is true in our own 
day just as much as it was in the time 
of St. Augustine. The overwhelming 
force of good sense and ail the laws of 
human language determine that '.vords 
express what they designate / At thi* day, 
as well as at that earlier period, neither 
friends nor enemies will ever give this 
grand name of CATHOLICS to any ex- 
cept those to whom it really belongs, 
and the same good sense proclaims as 
an indubitable fact which is that church 
whose children these are. 

" Natalie had remained a long time 
without paying any attention to this con- 
troversy. She belonged all the while to 
the Catholic Church by all her pious 
habitudes, by all her childlike afifeciions, 
finally and chiefly by the bond of the 
true sacraments which the Greek Church 
has had the infinite privilege of preserv- 
ing, and which form a tie between our- 
selves and the Greeks whose value can- 
not be too highly estimated — a tie so 
powerful that even in one case where it 
is only imagined to have a real exis- 
tence {i.e.y with those Anglicans who per- 
suade themselves that a chain wanting a 
multitude of links has not been broken) 
it has served in our days more than 
ever before to awaken in their hearts a 
sentiment inclining them to a nearer 
sympathy with our own. Belief in the 
truth of the words of Jesus Christ and 
in his real presence on the altar, the 
adoration and love of our Lord, the 
search after those who have possessed 
in the highest degree this faith and love, 
have opened the way by which a great 
number of souls have come to prostrate 
themselves before the tabernacles of the 
Catholic- Church who had been previous- 
ly outside of her visible fold, and had be- 
longed to her only by virtue of their 
good faith and love of truth. 

" With how much greater reason must 
one who belonged to tho Greek Church 
have felt herself closely united to those 
whose faith was professed and whose 
practices were approved in respect to 
such a great number of points by her 
own church, which has even ventured to 
adopt the counsels of perfection and to 
speak of the * spiritual life* and of 
* Christian perfection* after the manner 
of Catholics! 

" But it is just here that she-,b«Crays 



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Natalie Narischkin. 



35 



her weakness ; for when it is a practical 
question of undertaking and nourishing 
this spiritual life, where can she go to 
seek the living words, the sermons, the 
books, the apostolic men whom she re- 
quires ? Where and from what source 
can one draw the vital force of this true 
and daily life, of ihis living Wit, if I may 
hazard the expression, always similar to 
itself, yet unceasingly renovated like the 
seasons of the year? Where can this 
vivifying influence be found, except in 
that same Catholic Church which, al- 
though it makes the mind bend under 
the necessary and salutary yoke of au- 
thority, never permits uniformity to en- 
gender tediousness. and possesses in its 
completeness that deposit a part of which 
the Greek Church suffered to escape on 
the day when it broke the bond of unity? 
Since then, although apparently rich, she 
has remained empty-handed ; and while 
the Basils, the Athanasiuses, the Grego- 
ries, the Chrysostoms, and the numerous 
other holy and immortal doctors have had 
immortal successors in the Occident, the 
church of the Orient, once queen of elo- 
quence and science, has become mute ; 
and her children know not to-day whether 
she can speak or even write, since it is not 
given to them to hear her anymore break 
silence; and, if they would warm up their 
piety by holy reading, and give their 
minds the sustenance they require, they 
are forced to have recourse to the Catho- 
lic Church, since it is there alone they 
can find their necessary aliment. Truly, 
we cannot help thinking that if the bar- 
rier which separates Greeks from Catho- 
lics were not upheld by hatred, it must 
fall down in an instant. This hatred is 
something which has no argument what- 
ever in its justification, and which ac- 
cepts, in behalf of the church which it 
covers as a shield of defence, the very 
conditions of death, immobility and si- 
lence, in lieu of a living existence. 

** However this may be, and whatever 
more might be said on this vast and in- 
teresting subject, it cannot in any case 
be disputed that the divergences existing 
between us and the great Greek Church 
have nothing in common with those which 
separate us from Protestantism. Pro- 
testantism has tampered with and altered 
all our articles of faith, demolished the 
Christian mysteries most sacred to belief 
and dear to afleotion. It has retained 
neither the intercession of the saints, the 
«rorship of the Blessed Virgin, the s-ic- 



raments of penance and the Holy £u* 
charist, nor the veneration of holy images. 
In fine, apart from the belief in the mer- 
its of our Saviour, of which every mani- 
festation is severely restrained, there is 
nothing in common between Protestants 
and ourselves.* On the contrary, we may 
say, in respect lo the Greeks, that for the 
simple faithful the difference between 
them and ourselves is invisible, because 
they have retained so many things which 
assimilate their religion to ours, as af- 
fecting the mind, the heart, and even the 
senses. Therefore, for many among them, 
the barrier docs not become sensible un- 
til they find themselves disposed to pass 
over it in order to satisfy the inward need 
which they experience of participating 
in the riches of that other church, which 
seems so like their own, )'et differs from 
it in possessing really what the other of- 
fers in a vain semblance. 

" What, then, must be the sentiments 
of a sincere, fervent, simple, and upright 
soul, already bathed in the light which 
radiates from the great mysteries of the 
faith, and touched by the infinite love 
of Jesus Christ revealed in them, when 
it discovers the nature of the obstacles 
which lie in her path ? 

" She finds all the articles of her faith 
more solemnly affirmed ; all the practices 
which her piety demands more numer- 
ous and accessible ; confession, absolu- 
tion, communion —all is there ; and must 
she refrain from satisfying her thirst for 
them? 

" Is it credible that a soul thus thirsty 
for truth, faith, and love should be much 
disposed to recoil from the difficulty of 
accepting one word more in the confes- 
sion of faith.f or of recognizing the head 
of the universal c)\\xxc\i as the head of the 
church in the East as well as of that in the 
West ? Again, is it credible that she will 
shrink back from the political obstacle, 
the greatest and most formidable of all — 
the only one, in fact, which she will find 
pain in overcoming and need courage to 
surmount ? 

'* Such were the thoughts which im- 
portuned the mind of Natalie when she 
left Brussels, at the end of February, iS.{3, 



♦Our Proiv-stant reader* will excuse, w* trust, a 
want of precise accuracy in some of these expre*- 
sions, very easily accounted for by the fact that 
Madame Craven is a Catholic Frenchwoman, to 
whom all the various phases of Protest an tism ate 
confii^d in one vag^e and indistinct form. 

t Filioque. 



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Natalie Narischkin. 



in order to return with he* sisters to Paris, 
having resolved to ask the consent of her 
mother to her becoming a Catholic, and 
fully expecting that this permission 
would not be withheld." 

Natalie's father died when she 
was fifteen years old. Evidently 
he had not felt any hostility to the 
(Catholic Church, for he was a great 
admirer of the Jesuits. Madame 
Narischkin was not prejudiced, as is 
shown by the fact that she never at 
any time was averse to the perpetu- 
al intercourse kept up by her fami- 
ly, and especially by Natalie, with 
the most cultivated and devoted 
Catholics of Europe, such as the 
La Ferronays family, and never 
hindered her daughters from attend- 
ing all kinds of services in Catholic 
ch-urches. She undoubtedly look- 
ed on the Greek and Catholic 
cluirches as essentially identical 
with each other, and therefore 
could not see any reason for pass- 
ing from the communion of the one 
to that of the other. She supposed 
that her daughter's reasons were 
rather sentimental than conscien- 
tious. She naturally felt unwilling 
to have her take a step which would 
prevent her from ever again receiv- 
ing communion at the same altar 
with the other members of the fami- 
ly. And she was, moreover, decid- 
edly opposed to any act which 
would expose the family to the em- 
peror's displeasure. It is not to be 
wondered at, then, that she posi- 
tively refused permission to Natalie 
to be received into the Catholic 
Church. Natalie was at this time 
twenty- three years of age, perfectly 
well educated, and fully instructed 
in the grounds of the distinctive, 
exclusive claim which is made by 
the Roman Church upon the obedi- 
ence and submission of all baptized 
Christians. She was competent to 
decide for herself, and in possession 



of a complete right to act according 
to her conscience. It was thought 
proper, therefore, by tiie priest who 
was her spiritual director, and by 
her friends of the La Ferronays 
family, that she should be privately 
received into the church at Paris. 
An accident frustrated their plan, 
and Natalie was obliged to leave 
Paris with her mother without hav- 
ing accomplished her intention. 
The nuncio and other priests of 
high position at Paris, when they 
were informed about the matter, 
disapproved of the course which M. 
Aladel had advised, and reproved 
severely the ladies who had been 
concerned in the unsuccessful at- 
tempt to put it in execution. 

Natalie accompanied her mother 
and sisters to Stuttgart, and a few 
months afterward to Venice. At 
her mother's desire she had several 
conferences with a Greek priest, 
which served only to strengthen 
her in her well-formed and solid 
convictions. Nevertheless, she de- 
layed her formal reception into the 
Catholic Church, waiting for a more 
favorable opportunity to accom- 
plish this great desire of her heart. 
This opportunity came very soon, 
but in a way which was unexpected 
and, to her affectionate heart, most 
painful. During the summer of 
1844 her mother was suddenly tak- 
en ill and died. The marriage of 
hertwosisters, Mary and Elizabeth — 
both of whom had been some time 
before betrothed, the first to M. de 
Valois, the second to the Baron de 
Petz — was delayed for a year on ac- 
count of this sad event, and the 
whole family was invited by M. 
Narischkin's elder brother Alexis 
to return to Moscow and reside 
during the year of mourning in his 
house. Under these circumstances, 
Natalie resolved to act for herself, 
and she was accordingly received in- 



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Natalie Narischkin. 



37 



to ihe Catholic Church on the 15th of 
August, although none of her family 
were made acquainted with the fact. 
She accompanied her brother and 
sisters to Moscow, where they met 
with the most affectionate reception 
from their uncle and their other re- 
latives. Nothing occurred to make 
any disclosure on her part necessa- 
ry, until the time came for all the 
members of the family to make 
their Easter communion. In Rus- 
sia this religious act, and all the 
preparations for it, are performed 
with so much publicity that it was 
impossible for Natalie to escape 
from it without observation. All 
the members of the family receiv- 
ed the communion together at the 
same Mass, with the single excep- 
tion of Natalie, who was neverthe- 
less, as usual, present with the oth- 
ers, and observed the sad and seri- 
ous look with which her uncle re- 
garded her, as she remained in her 
place while all the rest of his family 
approached the altar to receive the 
sacrament. She now felt that the 
time had come when concealment 
was no longer possible, and natu- 
rally feared that a severe trial 
awaited her. It turned out, how- 
ever, quite differently from what 
she had expected. 

After their return from Mass her 
uncle sent for her, and in a most 
kind and paternal manner remon- 
strated witii her on her omission of 
so grave and sacred a duty as the 
fulfilment of the precept of Paschal 
communion, which he attributed 
to indifference and tepidity, de- 
manding of her, in a most affection- 
ate manner, the reasons which had 
induced her to abstain frOm com- 
munion. He added, at the same 
time, that he would much rather 
see her a Roman Catholic than in- 
different to the obligations of reli- 
gion. Natalie had listened to him 



with downcast e/es, in silence and 
trepidation. At these last words — 
prompted, perhaps, by some secret 
suspicion that her residence abroad 
had actually been the occasion of a 
change in her religion, and spoken 
with evident emotion and sadness — 
she opened her heart, and gave her 
venerable uncle a full and unre- 
served account of her conversion 
and of all the motives which led 
her to leave the communion of the 
Greek Church. When she looked 
up timidly, at the close of her reci- 
tal to await her uncle's answer, 
she saw his eyes filled with tears 
and fixed upon her with an expres- 
sion of tenderness which banished 
all fear from her heart, and left up- 
on it an indelible impression of 
love and gratitude. He opened 
his arms to embrace her affection- 
ately, and assured her of his pro- 
tection and unalterable kindness. 
Her maternal uncle, Count Strogon- 
off, a man whose religious character 
was both ardent and severe, and 
who was a thorough Russian of the 
old type in all his principles and 
sentiments, when he was informed 
of the truth, acted towards her in 
precisely the same manner, and 
even took pains to distinguish her 
from her sisters by special marks 
of affection. All her nearest rela- 
tives were informed of what had 
occurred, but the strictest secrecy 
was enjoined in respect to all oth- 
ers, for reasons which are obvious 
without any explanation. The on- 
ly great trial which Natalie had to 
encounter, now that she was reliev- 
ed of the pain and anxiety of keep- 
ing her secret from her nearest re- 
latives, was the privation of all 
opportunity of going to Catholic 
churches and receiving the sacra- 
ments. Under the circumstances 
this was a privation she was com- 
pelled to endure patiently, and dur- 



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38 



Natalie Narischkin. 



ing the year she passed at Moscow 
she was only able to make one 
short visit, in company with some 
young friends, to the French cha- 
pel, on Holy Thursday, which was 
three days after the memorable in- 
terview with her uncle. 

At the expiration of the year of 
mourning the young Narischkins 
returned to Italy for the nuptials 
of Mary and Elizabeth, and Nata- 
lie's uncle arranged for her perma- 
nent residence with the latter, in 
order that she might be free to 
practise her religion without any em* 
barrassment to herself or her family. 
She accordingly bade a final fare- 
well to Russia, and with her tem- 
porary sojourn in her native country 
the great trial of her life was also 
terminated. We can easily imagine 
with what joy she again revisited 
Italy, which had been the home of 
her childhood ; and on the occasion 
of this return Madame Craven's 
genius has inspired her to write 
one of her happiest and most beau- 
tiful passages, which we cannot re- 
frain from translating, although with- 
out any hope of preserving the de- 
licate aroma of the original. 

" We do not believe there is a person 
in the v/orld who has once lived in Italy 
who does not cherish in his inmost soul 
the desire of returning there once more, 
or feel, when he again looks upon its 
beautiful sky, that wherever his native 
land may be, he has really come back to 
his own true country. For its beauty be- 
longs to us as much as to those whose 
eyes behold it from the day when they 
nre first opened to the light in infancy. 
It is no more their peculiar possession 
than it is our own ; for to both alike it is 
only an irradiation from that supreme 
and essential beauty which is our common 
heritage and assured patrimony. This is 
doubtless the reason why we can never 
see the faintest rellection of this splendor 
of the eternal beauty without experiencing 
a sensation which causes the heart to di- 
late with joy and at the same time to re- 
pose in tlic tranquil security ot posses- 



sion. It seems to us that attentive reflec- 
tion on what passes within us will show 
that, whatever degree of admiration any 
object of this world may awaken in our 
minds, even if it approaches to ecstasy^ it 
is very rarely the case that we feel a posi- 
tive surprise. Even if ope who had never 
seen the glorious light and splendor of a 
happy clime were suddenly transported 
from the icy regions of the polar circle to 
the charming shores of the Bay of Naples, 
there is a latent image in the depths of 
the human heart, the original of which 
external things are the copy, whose pre- 
sence makes one feel, even at the first 
glance on the sublime spectacle of the 
outward world, that all belongs to him 
and exists within his soul. 

"This reflection suggests another. 
We shall doubtless experience something 
similar to this when we escape from this 
sphere of shadows and images and emerge 
into the region of eternal reality. Cer- 
tainly our hearts will then be opened to re- 
ceive those unknown enjoyments * which 
eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, nor 
hath it entered into the heart of man to 
conceive/ Nevertheless, I think it is al- 
lowable to suppose that, as we shall see 
the poor human form clothed in Jesus 
Christ with all the glory of the divinity, 
so we shall also find the reality of ail 
those shadows which in this lower world 
charm our eyes and fascinate our hearts. 
Happy will it then be for those who have 
not suffered themselves to be captivated 
by these shadows, when they are able to 
exclaim in a transport of ineffiaible hap- 
piness : * Behold at last those objects 
too beautiful and too transitory to be 
loved on the earth by our souls, because 
they must either suffer the loss of these 
or be lost themselves ! Here they are ! 
—real, substantial, enduring, transfigur- 
ed, unfading ! We have found all those 
things which we desired and sought for, 
and amid all these possessions is our 
eternal abode ! ' " 

Natalie found a very pleasant 
home with her brother-in-law, the 
Baron de Petz, during the next 
three years. It does not appear 
from the narrative whether he was 
a Catholic or a Greek in religion. 
He was certainly a most kind and 
affectionate brother, and her sisters 
were always loving and considerate, 



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Natalie Nartschkin. 



39 



so that no alienation ever separated 
the hearts of her near relatives from 
her own so long as they lived. We 
shall see presently how noble and 
tender was tlie conduct of her bro- 
ther Alexander. And we anticipate 
the regular order of events in order 
to mention in this connection an- 
other near relative, Prince Demi- 
doff, whose affection for Natalie 
was extraordinary, and who acted 
with singular and admirable gener- 
osity not only toward herself, after 
she had become a Sister of Charity, 
but also to other members of the 
same congregation. While he was 
residing in Italy he established a 
spacious hospital at his own ex- 
pense, which he confided to the 
care of these religious. At Paris 
he authorized Sister Natalie to 
draw on him without limit, at her 
own discretion, for charitable pur- 
poses. It is extremely delightful 
to witness and record actions of 
this kind, so honorable to human 
nature, and showing what a high 
degree of intellectual and moral 
refinement, as well as how much 
of a truly Christian and Catholic 
spirit, is to be found among a cer- 
tain class of the ancient Russian 
nobility. And what a contrast do 
they present to the ignoble perse- 
cutions, the mean and petty defa- 
mations, to which so many even of 
those who attempt to assume the 
guise of Catholics have descended 
in respect to converts in England 
and the United States. We do not 
forget, however, that there are many 
instances among ourselves of a simi- 
lar conduct to that of the Narisch- 
kins, as there are doubtless others 
of an opposite kind in Russian 
families under similar circumstan- 
ces. 

Natalie Narischkin, in the midst 
of the splendors, gayelies, and most 
refined enjoyments of the world, 



during the period of her peaceful, 
happy youth, ere the severe trials 
of life had cast their shadow upon 
her spirit, had been pious, reserved, 
pearl-like in her purity of charac- 
ter, always aspiring after Christian 
perfection. After she had begun to 
participate in all the spiritual ad- 
vantages thrown open to her by 
her Catholic profession, her distaste 
for the world and attraction for the 
spiritual life increased rapidly, and 
an inclination toward the religious 
state gradually matured into a cer- 
tain and settled vocation. Her 
friends made some opposition for 
a time, though not so much as is 
frequently encountered in the bo- 
som of pious Catholic families. 
Her brother Alexander examined 
carefully her reasons and motives, 
and, being convinced that she was 
acting with prudence and deliber- 
ation, gave his free consent and the 
promise of his assistance in carry- 
ing out her intention, accompanied 
by the singular request that she 
would leave the choice of an order 
to his decision. She had made no 
choice herself, and when her bro- 
ther selected the Congregation of 
the Daughters of Charity of St. Vin- 
cent de Paul, she was quite saticfied. 
In fact, she had a predilection for the 
Convent of the Rue de Bac in Paris, 
which had been one of her places 
of favorite resort in former years. 
Her brother discussed the whole 
matter with M. Aladel, a Lazarist 
priest of Paris, and Natalie confer- 
red not only with him but with 
several other experienced directors, 
who concurred in approving her 
vocation as. a Sister of Charity. 
Here, accordingly, she entered, m 
her twenty»eighth year, and here she 
worked and suffered, as one saint 
among a thoiKand others, in ;in 
institute where heroism is as com- 
mon as the ordinary virtues are else- 



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40 



Natalie Narischkin. 



\yhere, and sanctity is the universal 
rule. During her religious life, which 
had twenty-six years of duration, she 
was first the secretary of the supe- 
rior-general, and afterwards the su- 
perior of a small community in the 
Faubourg St. Germain. She died 
in 1874. 

The narrative of Natalie's re- 
ligious life, enriched as it is with 
copious extracts from her let- 
ters and numerous personal anec- 
dotes, is interesting and edifying 
a? it is presented in the pages of 
Madame Craven's biography. No 
doubt an English translation will 
soon place it within the reach of 
all our readers ; and as it is precise- 
ly just one of those histories which 
is spoiled by condensation, we will 
not attempt to give it in an abridg- 
ed form. Leaving aside, therefore, 
all further personal details, we shall 
confine our attention to that one 
aspect of our subject which has the 
most general interest and import- 
ance — viz., the position and attitude 
of the members of the national 
church of Russia in reference to 
the Catholic Church. As an illus- 
tration of this topic we have pre- 
sented the history of the conver- 
sion of a Russian lady of high 
birth and education — one specimen 
of a number of equally choice 
souls whom the Russian Church 
has produced but has not been 
able to retain, and who are, we 
trust, the precursors of all the peo- 
ple of their nation in returning to 
the bosom of Catholic unity. Al- 
though Natalie Narischkin had liv- 
ed so very little in her own country, 
she was nevertheless an ardent and 
patriotic Russian in her sentiments, 
and of course, as a well-instructed 
and devout Catholic, had very much 
at heart the religious welfare of 
her own nation. Among all the 
illustrious Russian converts, Count 



Schouvaloff, who became a Barna- 
bite monk, was the most zealous in 
promoting the great work of the 
reconciliation of the Russian Church 
to the Holy See. Madame Craven 
tells us how enthusiastic Natalie 
was in her interest in the cause 
which this good man consecrated 
by the oblation of his own life as a 
sacrifice for its success — a sacrifice 
which he offered in obedience to 
the counsel of Pius IX., and which 
was accepted by God. 

"When Father Schouvaloff— who, like 
herself, was a Russian, a convert, and de- 
voted to the religious life — had driven a 
definite form to this desire, and had foun- 
ded an association of prayers in aid of 
this object which all Catholics were invit- 
ed to join, there was not a single person in 
the world who responded more fervent- 
ly to this appeal than Sister Natalie. 
The desire of propagating the truth, nat- 
ural in the case of all who have embraced 
it, is particularly strong in those who 
have come from the Greek Church. To 
see the fatal barrier which separates the 
Eastern from the Western Church fall 
down, and to bear henceforth these two 
communions designated only by one 
common name : The Church ! — no one 
else can comprehend the ardor of this 
desire in the hearts of those Russians 
who are animated both by the love of the 
truth and tlie love of their country. 

** While we are on this topic we can 
not help remarking how surprising are 
the tentative advances toward union be- 
tween the Greek Church and Protestant- 
ism which we have recently witnessed. 
Such an alliance the clear mind of Nata- 
lie, even before her conversion, rejected 
with repugnance as impossible and ab- 
surd. Does not, in fact, the most sim- 
ple reflection suffice to demonstrate that 
by uniting herself to the Catholic Church 
the Greek Church would preserve the 
traditions of her venerable antiquity to- 
gether with the august dogmas which she 
holds, and would, at the same time, in 
ceasing to be local and becoming univer- 
sal, recover the power of expansion and 
evangelization which she has lost by her 
schismatical isolation ? In this case she 
might be compared to a princess of high 
lineage regaining, by a return to the bo 



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Natalie Narischkin, 



41 



som of the family to which she belonged, 
the royal rank from which she had fallen. 
But, in truth, to make a union with Prot- 
estantism would be for her the worst of 
misalliances, for she would then resem- 
ble a princess marrjnng a parvenu and 
with the utmost levity renouncing all 
the rights of her high birth and illustri- 
ous descent." \ 

Some of our readers may find it 
difficult to understand the anoma- 
lous position in which the Russian 
Church stands, so completely dif- 
ferent from that of any of our West- 
em sects, and requiring only the 
one act necessary for its corporate 
reunion to the Catholic body for its 
rectification, and yet so complete- 
ly severed from the true church in 
its actual state that it is not a 
branch, a limb, or any kind of part 
or member of the same, but only 
a sect, completely outside of the 
universal church. Some Catliolics 
may suppose the Russian Church in 
a worse condition than it is in re- 
ality. They may not understand 
that its priesthood and sacraments 
are any better than those of the 
English or Scandinavian churches, 
which have an outward form of 
episcopal constitution. Or, if bet- 
ter informed on this head, they may 
ascribe to it heresy, and regard 
some of its differences of rite and 
discipline as vitiating essentially 
the Catholic order. On the other 
hand, these misapprehensions being 
set aside, and the likeness of the 
Russian Church to the Catholic 
Church clearly understood, they 
might find it difficult to perceive 
that essential difference which, as 
Madame Craven remarks with truth, 
is to most of the Russian laity in- 
visible. Still more will a Protes- 
tant having a tincture of Catholic 
opinions and sentiments fail to see 
why a member of the Russian 
Church should be convinced of 
the imperative obligation of abjur- 



ing the Greek schism and passing 
over to the communion of the Ro- 
man Church. 

The question of heresy is easily 
settled by the way of authority. 
We have only to inquire, therefore, 
whether the Holy See has ever con- 
demned the adherents of the schism 
begun by Photius^and renewed by 
Michael Cerularius, of heresy as well 
as schism, and whether the standard 
authors in tlieology consider them 
as heretics in view of their eccle- 
siastical position and in virtue 
of general principles, although no 
formal judgment has been pro- 
nounced by the Holy See. It is 
certain that no such formal sen- 
tence has ever been pronounced by 
the Holy See. The Nestorfan and 
Monophysite sects of the East have 
been formally condemned as here- 
tical. But the soi'disant Orthodox 
Church likewise condemns these 
and all other heretical sects con- 
demned by the Roman Church be- 
fore the time of the schism. At 
the Council of Florence the Greeks 
were not judged to have professed 
any heresy, the Council of Trent 
was specially careful to abstain 
from any such condemnation, and 
the Council of the Vatican equally 
refrained from it. The same is 
true of all the official pronounce- 
ments of the popes. In the exer- 
cise of practical discipline, when it 
is question of reconciling Greeks, 
whether they are in holy orders or 
laymen, they are treated as schis- 
matics, but not as heretics. Theo- 
logians also, in treating of the 
doctrine of the several national 
churches in communion with the 
schismatical patriarchate of Con- 
stantinople, which they hold in 
common as their profession of faith, 
regard it as orthodox, conformed 
to the doctrine of tiie Catholic 
Church, and conseq«:enlly free 



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42 



Natalie NarUchkin. 



from any mixture of heresy. The 
only doctrines in regard to which 
any one could suppose the Greek 
Church to be heretical are the pro- 
cession of the Holy Spirit from the 
Son, and the supreme, infallible 
authority of the Pope. The Greek 
Church has never, by any solemn, 
synodical act, depied the procession 
of the Holy Spirit from the Son. 
The omission of the Filio-que from 
the Creed is not in itself equivalent 
to such a denial, and the Roman 
Church has never required the 
Orientals to insert it as a condi- 
tion of communion. Neither has 
the Greek Church ever by any 
solemn act denied the supremacy 
and infallibility of the Pope. The 
liturgi(!al books, and specifically 
those of the Russian Church, con- 
tain abundant testimonies to the 
Catholic doctrine on this head. 
'J'he heretical doctrines of individ- 
uals, whether prelates, priests, or 
laymen, are therefore their own 
personal heresies, and not the doc- 
trine of tlie public formularies of 
faith, which remain just what they 
were at the time of the separation. 
The only conciliar decrees of a 
dogmatic character which have 
been enacted since that time by a 
synod which could be regarded as 
representing the so-called Orthodox 
Cliurch are those of the Synod of 
Bethlehem, in which the principal 
heresies of Protestantism are con- 
demned. There is onlfy one essen- 
tial vice, therefore, in the constitu- 
tion of the Russo-Greek Church 
which needs to be healed, and that 
is its state of rebellion against the 
See of Peter. The one act of ab- 
juring the schism implies and in- 
volves in it the recognition of all 
the decrees of the Holy See and 
of oecumenical councils during the 
period whiclr has elapsed since the 
rebellion of Photius, by virtue of 



the doctrine of the infallibility of 
the Catholic Church which the 
Greek Church professes. 

Any Catholic can understand 
from this explanation how com- 
pletely different is the position of 
the people of Russia who belong 
to their national church from that 
of the Protestants of Western Eu- 
rope and the United States. They 
have the Catholic faith explicit- 
ly taught to them, and believed as 
firmly as it is by ourselves in all 
those things which relate to the 
great mysteries of religion and its 
practical duties and devotions. 
They hold implicitly^ so long as 
they are in good faith, all that 
the Catholic Church believes and 
teaches, although they are ignorant 
of the full and complete doctrine 
of the centre of unity and chief 
source of authority in the church. 
They have bishops and priests 
whose ordination is valid, the sac- 
rifice of the Mass, the seven sacra- 
ments, the fasts, feasts, ceremonies, 
and outward forms of worship 
which they had before the schism. 
In fact, as Mrs. Craven remarks, 
the difference between their church 
and the Catholic is invisible to the 
eyes of the majority, and, if they 
were to-day to be restored to their 
ancient union with the universal 
church, there would be no percepti- 
ble change in their customs. There 
are differences in discipline and 
ritual between the Latin and the 
various Oriental rites, but it is a 
fixed maxim of the Roman Church 
not to require the Eastern Chris- 
tians to adopt the discipline and rit- 
ual of the Western church in mat- 
ters which are not essential, when 
they are received into her com- 
munion. 

These things being as they are, 
it becomes naturally somewhat 
difficult to those who have not 



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Natalie Narischkin^ 



4j 



carefully studied the question to 
understand why it is a strict obli- 
gation, and necessary to salvation, 
for a member of the Greek Church 
who discovers that it is in a state 
of schism to abjure its commun- 
ion. We can see, in the case of 
Anglicans believing in nearly all 
Catholic doctrine so far as even to 
acknowledge the primacy of the 
pope and desire a corporate re- 
union with the Catholic Church, 
that, so long as they believe in the 
validity of their own orders and 
other sacraments, it is very hard for 
them to realize that they are not 
in the communion of the true 
church. They generally find their 
ground of security give way under 
their feet by their loss of confi- 
dence in the validity of their ordi- 
nations. But it is not easy to con- 
vince them that, apaft from this 
essential defect in their church, 
and apart even from the question 
of its heretical doctrine, the mere 
fact of schism makes an ecclesias- 
tical society, no matter how much 
it resembles a church in outward 
appearance, as really a mere sect 
as amputation makes the most 
perfect and beautiful hand a mere 
piece of dead matter. A mere col- 
lection 6f bishops, priests, and bap- 
tized persons, professing the true 
faith, administering and receiving 
the true sacraments, is not a por- 
tion of the Catholic Church, if the 
organic, constitutive principle of 
lawful mission and jurisdiction is 
wanting, which gives pastoral au- 
thority to the persons who possess 
the episcopal and sacerdotal char- 
acter, and thus makes the collection 
of people under their rule a lawful 
society, under lawful pastors, and 
under the supreme rule of the Chief 
Pastor, who is the Vicar oC Christ. 
It is not enough, therefore, for a 
person to profess the faith and re- 



ceive the sacraments in order to 
keep fully the law of Christ. It is 
necessary to profess the faith in 
the external communion of the 
lawful pastors, and to receive from 
them, or priests whom they have 
authorized to minister within their 
jurisdiction, the sacraments. Bish- 
ops and priests wlio exercise their 
functions in a manner contrary to 
the law sin by doing so, and those 
who communicate in their unlaw- 
ful acts also sin, and thus both 
parties profane the sacraments and 
incur the censures of the church. 
Ne^'ertheless, if they act in invinci- 
ble ignorance and good faith, they 
are excused from sin and escape 
the censure. And, in case of ne- 
cessity, the church even dispenses 
from her ordinary laws. Any 
priest is authorized to administer 
sacraments in any place, to any 
person not manifestly unworthy, 
in case of necessity. So, also, 
one may receive the sacraments 
in a similar case from any priest, 
if there is nothing in the act 
which implies ^a direct or tacit 
participation in heresy, schism, 
or manifest profanation of sacred 
things. 

The Russian clergy and people, 
we must suppose, are generally in 
good failh, and therefore innocent 
of any sin in respect to the schism 
of the national church. There is, 
therefore, no reason why they 
should not administer and receive 
the sacraments worthily, so as to 
receive their full spiritual benefit, 
and thus sustain and increase the 
living communion with the soul of 
the church and with Christ which 
was begun in them by baptisnj. 
The external irregularity of their 
ecclesiastical position cannot injure 
them spiritually when there is no 
sin in the inward disposition or in- 
tention. Moreover, it is morally 



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44 



Natalie Narisckkin. 



and physically impossible for the 
Russian clergy and people, gener- 
ally, to alter their position. They 
are, therefore, really placed in a 
necessity of administering and re- 
ceiving the sacraments without any 
further and more direct authority 
from the Holy See than that which 
is virtually conceded to them on 
account of the necessities of their 
position. Since the church always 
exercises her power, even in inflict- 
ing censures and punishments, for 
edification and not for destruction, 
we may suppose that she tolerates 
the irregular and disorderly state 
into which they have been brought 
by the fault of their chief rulers, 
so long as it is out of their power 
to escape from it, and are not 
even aware that the irregularity 
exists. 

It is plain, however, that every 
one who knows that the Russian 
hierarchy is destitute of ordinary 
and legitimate authority, and has 
the opportunity of' resorting to the 
ministry of lawful Catholic pastors, 
is bound,"under pain of incurring 
mortal sin and excommunication, to 
comply with this obligation. The 
excuse of ignorance and good faith 
is no more available after the law 
is made known. The reason of 
necessity ceases as soon as'recourse 
is open to the authority which has 
a claim on obedience. The cen- 
sures pronounced on the authors 
and wilful adherents of schism take 
effect as soon as one knowingly 
and wilfully participates in and 
sustains or countenances rebellion 



against the supreme authoiity oi 
the Catholic Church. 

The position of the Russian 
Church is utterly self-contradictory 
and untenable. By a special mercy 
of divine Providence it has been 
kept from coming to a general and 
clear consciousness of the funda- 
mental heresy, which lies latent in 
the Byzantine pretence of equality 
to the Roman Church, from which 
the schism took its rise. The im- 
mobility which has characterized it, 
and to which the privation of all 
authority independent of the state 
has greatly contributed, has kept it 
from committing itself to any for- 
mal heresy. It has broken its con- 
nection, but it has not run off the 
track or fallen through a bridge. 
We cannot suppose that it will long 
remain stationary on the great road 
along which the march of events, 
the progress of history, is proceed- 
ing. It seems to be awaiting the 
propitious moment when, reunited 
to the source of spiritual power, it 
shall again move on in the line of 
true progress. When this event 
takes place, we may safely predict 
that the name of Natalie Narisch- 
kin will be honored in Russia to- 
gether with that of Alexander 
Newski, the special patron of the 
imperial family; and that the em- 
pire will be filled with convents of 
the Daughters of Charity, the coun- 
trywomen and imitators of her 
who, more illustrious by her virtue 
than by her descent, was appro- 
priately named " The Pearl of the 
Order." 



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Up the NUe. 



45 



UP THE NILE. 



III. 



We had a letter of introduction 
to the Governor of Assouan from a 
person we had never seen. It came 
about in this way ; AH Murad, our 
consul at Thebes, sent by Ahmud 
a letter to his friend, the governor of 
Edfoo, asking him to give us a letter 
to his excellency at Assouan. This 
letter, worded in the usual extrava- 
gant style of the Orient, stated that 
the dahal/eeah Sitta Mariam con- 
tained a party of distinguished tra- 
rellers wlio were in high favor at 
Cairo, and should everywhere be 
received with the greatest kindness 
and attention. His excellency was 
a fine-looking negro, well dressed 
in European style, patent-leather 
boots, fancy cane. I looked at 
first for eye-glasses, but on second 
thought concluded that this was 
too much to expect from him. He 
came on board to visit us, accompa- 
nied by his secretaries and servants, 
very pompous and haughty in his 
bearing towards the crew, polite 
— nay, almost obsequious — to us. 
Head sheik of the cataracts is on 
board ; a deal of talking by every 
one at the same time ; no one lis- 
tening; a lull; governor lights a 
fresh cigar; secretaries, servants, 
and crew roll cigarettes ; Reis Mo- 
hammed appears with the certificate 
of tonnage. There is no fear of 
obliteration or erasure in this ; no 
danger of wearing out or the char- 
acters fading by lapse of time. It 
might have belonged to the plea- 
sure barge of antiquity-hidden Me- 
nes or one of the corn-boats of 
the Hyksos. It was a bar of solid 
iron three inches wide, four long. 



and half an inch in thickness. 
Deeply-cut figures showed the boat 
to be of 380 ardebs burden. An 
agreement was finally entered into : 
Ahmud was to pay the sheik nine 
pounds and ten shillings to take the 
boat up and down the cataracts, ex- 
clusive of backsheesh. Out of this 
the governor received two pounds 
and ten shillings as his commission. 
This making arrangements for as- 
cending the cataracts is the most 
serious drawback to the pleasure of 
a Nile voyage. True, the dragoman 
undertakes this, but the howadjii are 
present and witnesses of the alterca- 
tions, the loud talking, and the great 
noise and confusion attendant upon 
it. We being such distinguished tra- 
vellerson paper, and the governorbe- 
ing impressed with that fact, our con- 
tract was entered into with less con- 
fusion than is usually incident to fliis 
arrangement. Four sheiks or chiefs 
of tlie cataract control the proceed- 
ings. This office is hereditary, 
and formerly they were despotic in 
the exercise of their power. Twenty 
English or American sailors could 
take a boat up the cataract in one- 
third the time it took nearly two 
hundred natives to perform that 
office for us. But no dragoman 
would dare incur the enmity of 
these powerful sheiks by attempting 
the ascent without their permission. 
Their power is somewhat curtailed 
now by orders from the viceroy, so 
that instead of, as heretofore, ex- 
torting as much as possible from 
the frightened dragoman, their prices 
are regulated by a fixed tariff— so 
much for every hundred ardebs. 



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Up thi NiU. 



We are now fairly started on the 
ascent ; it is early in the morning, 
and a light breeze is blowing from 
the north. The head sheik is on 
board. What an appropriate name 
he has ! Surely his father was a pro- 
phet and foresaw the future life of his 
son — Mohammed Nogood ! Not the 
slightest particle of good did he do. 
He squatted on a mat, smoked his 
pipe, and took no heed of what 
passed around him. Old Nogood, 
as we called him, was with us for 
three days, and during that time he 
never opened his mouth unless to 
grumble, and never raised his hand 
except to remove the pipe from his 
mouth, being too lazy even to light 
it ; a sailor performed that onerous 
duty for him. 

We sailed through narrow, tor- 
tuous channels against a rapid stream 
10 the island of Sheydl at the foot of 
the first bab or gate. The first cat- 
aract, as it is termed, is a series of 
five short rapids on the eastern 
shore, where tiie ascent is made, and 
one long and one short one on the 
western shore. These rapids are 
catled gates. We stopped at the foot 
of the first. Three finely-built Nu- 
bians, in pur is naturalibuSy save tur- 
bans on their heads, came sailing 
down the turbulent and surging 
waters astride of logs. Borne on 
with great velocity, they seize hold 
of our boat as they reach it, in a 
moment are on deck, their heads 
bare, the turbans girded around 
their loins. " Backsheesh, howad- 
jii !" They deserve it for this feat. 
It made the howadjii shudder to see 
them in these raging waters. An 
impromptu row now springs up be- 
tween our pilot and old Nogood. 
The boat is aground, and more help 
is needed to push it off. Here is 
the dialogue, as translated by 
Ahmud : 

Pilot (old lAan with gray whiskers. 



costume soiled and tattered coffee- 
bag) : "O Mohammed Nogood! 
send some of your people to move 
the boat." 

Old Nogood : " O pilot, you jack- 
ass ! why do you not attend to the 
helm and mind your business ?" 

Intense excitement on board, dur- 
ing which the pilot swears by Allah 
and the Prophet that he will not 
stay on the boat after such an in- 
sult, and goes off in high dudgeon. 
The howadjii, Jiaving locked up 
everything portable below stairs, 
are seated on the quarter-deck en- 
joying the scene in a mild manner, 
and waiting to see what will come 
next. The prospects of being kept 
here for an indefinite time are de- 
lightful. The head sheik is angry 
and the pilot has disappeared. But 
the silver lining of the dark cloud 
soon shines out. The second sheik 
takes command, and Nogood's son 
comes aboard as pilot — very unlike 
his father, a hard worker and a quiet 
sort of man. We are ready to start 
now, but where are the men to pull us 
up } None can be seen. The river 
is here filled with broken and dis- 
jointed rocks — small islets. A great 
fall was here once, no doubt ; hence 
the rapids now. The sheik throws 
two handfuls of sand* in the air. 
Immediately from all sides, like the 
warriors of Roderick Dhu, rise the 
Shellallee. From behind every rock 
come forth a score or more. Three 
long ropes are made fast to the 
boat. A hundred men take hold 
of two; the third is turned two 
or three times around a rock, the 
end being held by a dozen men. 
This rope is gradually tightened as 
the boat moves up, to hold it in 
case the others should break. By 
the united help of the wind and this 
struggling mass of naked humanity 
we move slowly up the iirst gate, not 
ten yards long. In the same man • 



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up the Nile. 



47 



ner we pass the second and third 
gates. Our friends the log-riders 
are useful to us now. Plunging in- 
to the boiling, seething waters, that 
rusli with such force it seems im- 
possible for man to struggle against 
them, they make ropes fast to this 
rock ; now they detach them, and, 
taking the end between their teeth, 
swim to another and make fast 
again. Picture to yourself such 
a scene, if you can. I cannot de- 
scribe it satisfactprily to myself. 
Hear, if you can, nearly two hun4red 
men all shouting at the same time, 
giving orders, suggesting means, no 
one listening, no one obeying, each 
acting for himself — Old Nogood 
alone seated quietly on the deck 
smoking his pipe; our boat possess- 
ed by four score of these black 
Shellallee, half-naked, running to 
and fro, shouting and yelling, but 
doing nothing to help us. Pande- 
monium itself could scarce furnish 
such a scene of confusion. Babel 
was a tower of silence compared 
with this discord. After passing 
the third gate we sailed into a quiet 
haven and moored there for the 
night. It was only three p.m. But 
they are five-hour men here, com- 
mencing work at ten and stopping 
at three. We were kept waiting all 
the next day, as two other boats 
were ahead of us, and they took 
them up first. On the third morn- 
ing we left our moorings and sailed 
under a fresh breeze about one 
hundred yards up the stream to the 
fourth gate. The fourth and fifth 
are in reality but one continuous 
rapid; but as a stoppage is made 
when half-way up to readjust the 
ropes, the natives divide it into two 
gates. The water rushes here with 
great rapidity — ^more so than in the 
other gates, as these are narrower. 
A stout rope was made fast to the 
cross-beams of the deck on the 



starboard bow, and the other end 
carried around a rock some dis- 
tance off. Owing to some mistake 
there was no rope on the port side. 
The men were pulling on a rope car- 
ried directly ahead, when it sudden- 
ly parted ; the boat swung around to 
starboard and struck a rock with 
great force, knocking off several 
planks six inches thick and seven 
feet long. They were picked up 
by the felluka, which floated around 
promiscuously, manned by five 
small boys. These planks were 
carved in scroll-work, and painted 
in bright colors. Reis Mohammed 
had carefully bound straw around 
them before starting, so that they 
might not even be- scratched. He 
clenched his teeth and swore like a 
trooper; the only words intelligible 
to us were "Allah," " Merkeb," 
" Mohammed." Reis Mohammed 
Hassan, Nogood's successor, was 
standing on the awning piled up 
on the front of the quarter-deck. 
Every one else began to shout, gesti- 
culate, and run around to no pur- 
pose ; but he, shouting while he un- 
dressed, threw off his gown and 
turban, and, with his drawers on, 
jumped overboard, swam to a rock 
on the port side, and made fast a 
rope. A Nubian, attired in a gir- 
dle, now waded out into the rapid 
as far as he was able, and a rope 
was thrown him from the rock 
against which the boat rested. 
After three attempts he caught it 
and made it fast some distance 
ahead. A fourth rope was carried 
ashore and seized hold of by sixty 
men. We were then pulled into a 
narrow pass, through which the 
water dashed like a mill-race, and 
so narrow that the boat grazed the 
rocks on either side. For a mo- 
ment we remained stationary; the 
next the strong wind and the 
efforts of the men overcame the 



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48 



Up the Nik. 



force of the current, and we moved 
sloivly on. Shortly after we reach- 
ed the head of the rapids, the ropes 
were withdrawn, the Nubians left 
us, and we sailed gallantly up to 
Philae the beautiful. 

We are now in Nubia, among a 
different race of people. AVe have 
passed the cataract. Hear the con- 
cise account given by the father of 
travellers concerning this ascent : 
*'I went as far as Elephantine," 
he says, "and beyond that obtain- 
ed information from hearsay. As 
one ascends the river above the 
city of Elephantine the country is 
steep ; here, therefore, it is necessary 
to attach a rope on both sides of a 
boat as one does with an ox in a 
plough, and so proceed ; but if the 
rope shauld happen to break, the 
boat is carried away by the force 
of the stream." This land of Cosh 
is very different in appearance from 
the one we have just left. Tlie 
hills are mostly of granite and sand- 
stone, and they approach nearer 
the river. In some parts the mere 
sloping bank, not more than ten 
feet, can be cultivated in a per- 
fectly straight line ; on its top the 
golden sands meet the growing 
crops. The river is filled with sun- 
ken rocks. Had we struck here, it 
might have been serious, unlike 
running on the sand-banks in the 
lower country. Reis Dab, our new 
pilot, knew the river well and kept 
a sharp lookout; so on we sailed 
day after day without stopping. 
There are no printed newspapers 
along the Nile, but the natives have 
a cheap, primitive method of jour- 
nalism. They need no expensive 
press, no reporters to search far and 
wide for news. As soon as another 
boat appears in sight all is excite- 
ment on board. When we come 
within hailing distance the journals 
i re exchanged as follows : Far 



away over the waters comes a voice 
from the approaching boat : " How 
are you all } Who are you } All 
well.?" 

" We are dahabeeah SittaMariam^ 

Father H and party on board. 

Who are you .?" 

" How is Mohammed } Fatima 
has a sore foot. Ali has gone up 
the river on a corn-boat." And thus 
they go on telling all the news. 
*' How many boats up the river 1 
What is going on furtlier down V 
The shouting is kept up until the 
boat passes out of hearing. WJien 
we reached Syria, in April, our dra- 
goman there, who had never been 
in Egypt, knew all about our move- 
ments on the Nile. They were 
communicated from one to another 
simply by word of mouth, and finally 
reached his ears. 

It is a bright, beautiful moonlight 
evening. The glittering constella- 
tions are reflected deep down in 
the calm waters beneath us, so dis- 
tinctly that they seem to have fall- 
en there. Not a ripple disturbs 
the surface of the water, scarce a 
breath the stillness of the air. It 
is a gala night. Ahmud has dis- 
tributed candles and hasheesh to 
the crew. They have illuminated 
the deck and are playing, singing, 
andydancing. Reis Ahmud, with a 
sober face, beats the drum, his 
whole soul seemingly concerned in 
his occupation. Abiad has the 
tamborine, a pretty one, inlaid with 
mother-of-pearl. He has been 
smoking hasheesh — ^his favorite pas- 
time. His eyes are closed, his head 
sways backwards and forwards as 
he sings ; he seems to pour out his 
very life's spirit in the song. The 
rest of the crew group around, 
squatted on the deck, joining in the 
chorus. Reis Mohammed sits 
apart; he is fishing. Ahmud, Ali, 
Ibrahim, and the Nubian pilot look 



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49 



on. Now they become excited ; 
the hasheesh is working on them. 
Louder, still louder the singing. 
Abiad surely will not live long; he 
must be in Paradise now. His soul 
is going out piece by piece from 
his lips. The funny little old cook 
jumps up, puts a wooden spoon in 
liis belt for a pistol, some sugar- 
cane stalks for swords and daggers. 
He is a Bedouin. More uproarious 
tlie shouting, intermingled with cat- 
calls. He dances the war-dance 
of the nomadic sons of the desert. 
The howadjii have come out now ; 
they are interested in this strange, 
picturesque scene. The excite- 
ment is at its height. A lighted 
candle is placed upon a small stick 
nnd put in the river ; the current 
carries it down still burning. 
There is not wind enough to blow 
out the flame, and as it floats on- 
ward it looks like some will-o'-the- 
wisp or fairy spirit of tlie waters 
reposing serenely on their bosom. 
The second stage of the hasheesh 
now comes on ; one by one they 
quiet down. Soon Abiad falls 
asleep ; some of the others follow ; 
a strange stillness succeeds this hi- 
larious uproar. To-morrow will 
come the reaction, and for a few 
days they will do but little work. 

We have had great trouble to 
keep onr birds. We have now pre- 
served some seventy specimens, 
from the small black chat to the 
large crane. The rats will carry 
them ofl". So now we suspend 
them from the centre of the ceiling. 
I'he same rat never carries away 
two birds. I cannot identify each 
particular rat, and yet I am moral- 
ly certain of the truth of the above 
proposition. The skin, when taken 
off the bird, is covered on the inside 
with a heavy coating of arsenical 
^oap containing a large amount of 
arsenic, enough to cut short the 

VOL. XXV. — 4 



career of at least one rat. So if 
they did carry ofl" our birds, we had 
the satisfaction of knowing that t!ie 
birds carried them off in turn. We 
have been very anxious to kill a 
crocodile ; they are very scarce be- 
low the first cataract, but as soon 
as we passed Philse we promulgat* 
ed the following general offer : To 
the first man who points out a croco- 
dile to any of the howadjii we will 
give a half-sovereign. If the pilot, 
or any one in his stead, brings us 
within reasonable shooting distance, 
we will present him with one pound ; 
if we kill and secure the crocodile, 
we will make presents all around. 
This offer kept them on the alert.' 
Every eye was strained to see the 
first crocodile — and it takes a prac- 
tised eye to discern one ; for to the 
uninitiated they appear to be logs 
of wood lying on the sand. Early 
on the morning of January 15 the 
pilot came to us with eyes aglow 
and pointed out a timsah (croco- 
dile). We were tied up on the 
west bank, and the reptile was ly- 
ing on a sand-bank near the east- 
ern shore. There was considera- 
ble difference of opinion among the 
crew, many of them insisting that 
it was not a timsah. " But," asks 
the pilot, " what is it, then .? There 
are no rocks on the sand-banks ; it 
can scarcely be a log, for these are 
rarely met with in this part of the 
river." A council of war was held,, 
and a plan of attack was determin- 
ed on. Mr. S and I, with Ali, the 

pilot, and four sailors, crossed the riv- 
er to the sand-bank about half a mile 
below the spot where slept the tim- 
sah in blissful unconsciousness of 
the fate awaiting him. Bent almost 
to the ground, we crawled cautious- 
ly along. When we had proceeded 
about a quarter of a mile we found,, 
to our disgust, that the bank upoa 
which we were was separated fronv 



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Up the Nile. 



the bank on which lay the timsah 
by twenty yards of water of some 
depth. The pilot now asked us to 
fire, but the distance was too great, 
and we began to be suspicious. 
The timsah did not move ; it was 
almost too quiet to be real. Mr. 

S and I placed ourselves in tlie 

bow of the boat, covered the ob- 
ject with our double-barrelled guns, 
and ordered the sailors to pull di- 
rectly towards it. For a few mo- 
ments the excitement was intense. 
At the first movement of the timsah 
four bullets would have shot forth 
on their death-errand. Nearer and 
nearer we came. A moment 
.more, and Abiad jumps from the 
boat, and with a loud shout rushes 
up the bank and catches hold of 
the supposed timsah. " Come here, 
O Reis Dab !" cried he, "and skin 
your timsah. Stop, I will do it for 
you." And he holds up to our as- 
tonished eyes a sheepskin. How 
-crestfallen was the pilot, and how 
the others joked him ! It was a 
chicken-coo[) covered with a sheep- 
skin, containing three putrid chick- 
'Cns, which had fallen from some 
• dahabeeah, and, carried by tlie cur- 
rent on the bank, became embed- 
ded there, and was left high and 
dry when the waters receded. 

We have a number of pets on 
.board: a live turtle, a soft-shelled 
i fellow, in color like the mud of its 
. own Nile ; a hawk who does not 
reciprocate our friendship, and 
snaps at us when we go near him ; 
six chameleons — what strange crea- 
tures these are ! We have had 
some twenty of them at different 
times. As far as we could observe, 
they ate nothing, and yet throve 
well as long as we were in their 
. own latitude?. As we returned to- 
wards the north they died one after 
. the other. The chameleon is form- 
id somewhat like a lizard, about 



eight inches in length. Their feet 
look like a mittened hand — that is 
to say, a large toe corresponds to 
the thumb, and the rest of the foot, 
being solid, appears like the hand 
enclosed in a mitten. They have 
very large heads compared with 
their bodies, and eyes like a frog. 
They change their color, and, un- 
der my own observation, made the 
changes from light green to yellow, 
black, brown, blue, and dark green. 
We would tease them sometimes, 
and, when irritated, yellow spots 
would appear over their bodies, and 
they would try to bite us as we 
placed our fingers in their large 
mouths. Their favorite pastime 
was to climb to the top of a palm 
branch fastened in the deck; here 
the first one would remain. The 
second would hang from the tail of 
the first, and the third support him- 
self from the second in the same 
manner. In this position they 
would remain for hours. If anoth- 
er one wanted to reach the top of 
the branch, he would crawl delib- 
erately up the backs of the others, 
who regarded this conversion of 
thems3lves into public highways 
with perfect indifference. Some- 
times one of them would roam 
away and be lost for a day or two, 
and then be accidentally found in 
the centre of a basket of toma- 
toes or on the summit of the main- 
yard. 

On January 17 I strolled into 
a small village. The houses con- 
sisted of four walls of sun-dried 
clay with a small opening for a 
doorway; some few had i)alm 
branches stretched from wall to 
wall — apologies for roqfs. As I 
walked on I met a group of young 
girls; one was reclining on the 
ground, while the others were dress- 
ing her hair. This operation is a 
very tedious one, and is not repeated 



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51 



oftener than once a month. The 
hair, whicfe falls to the shoulders, 
is twisted into numerous braids, the 
ends of which are fastened with 
small balls of mud ; and to complete 
the toilet oil is poured over the 
head. The hair being black and 
coarse, and the oil giving it a glossy 
appearance, it presents the effect 
of braided black tape. Although 
many of these girls had beautiful 
eyes and handsome features, yet 
the howadjii never cared to ap- 
proach too near them; for the oil 
runs down in little streams from 
the crown of their heads to their 
feet, and their faces appear as if 
polished with the best French var- 
nish. Our young Nubian cook left 
us here. This is his home, and he 
will remain here until we return. 
He is only twenty years of age, and 
has not seen his wife for three years. 
So he takes out of the hold some 
bracelets, a dozen or two made of 
buffalo horn, all for his wife, and 
she will wear them all at the same 
time, half on each arm. How her 
eyes will brighten when she sees 
those bright tin pots and those 
robes, green, yellow, blue ! Surely 
Suleymdn must love his dark-eyed, 
oily-faced wife. From Assouan to 
Wady Sabooa, about one hundred 
miles, no Arabic is spoken. Thence 
to Wady Haifa it is spoken in many 
towns. When we pass through a 
town the whole population turn out 
en masse^ preceded by a leader, who 
carries on his shoulder the town 
gun, an old flint-lock musket, gen- 
erally marked Dublin Castle, car- 
ried, mayhap, at Yorktown or Bran- 
dy wine. A barrel of great length 
is secured to the stock by six or 
seven brass bands. Powder is 
scarce, and the first demand — the 
gun being put forward to show the 
need — is always the 3ame: " Barood 
ta howadjii " (Powder, O howadjii I) 



We used cartridges altogether, and 
sometimes, when they were parti- 
cularly green, we imposed upon 
them in this way : 

Scene, the river-bank. Howadjii 
has just fired and brought down a 
bird. Large numbers of Nubians 
surround him. Gunman comes 
forward: "Barood ta howadjii." 
"Mafish barood ta Wallud" (I 
have no powder, O boy ! ) " See these 
green boxes " (showing cartridges). 
Wallud looks attentively at them. 
" Inside each is an afreet [spirit or 
devil] ; we put this in the end of 
the gun, point it at the bird, * Im- 
shee y afreet * (Go, O spirit !), then 
off he flies and kills the bird." This 
ruse was successful two or three 
times ; they looked with awe upon 
the green boxes, and made no fur- 
ther demands. Often, however, a 
shout of derision followed this re- 
cital. They knew what cartridges 
were as well as we did. Reis Ah- 
mud pointed out the first real tini- 
sah, and received the promised half- 
sovereign. 

On January 19, 1874, at three p.m., 
we made fast beneath the ever-open 
eyes of the giant guardians of rock- 
hewn Ipsamboul. To my mind Ip- 
samboul, or Aboo-Simbel, is the 
most interesting temple on the Nile, 
not even excepting majestic Kar- 
nak; for most of the other temples 
are built in the same manner in 
which the edifices of the world have 
been constructed from the earliest 
ages down to the present time, by 
stones cut and squared, placed one 
upon another and held together by 
clamps, cement, or other means. 
True, the style and shape in which 
these stones are cut and arranged 
differ very much in Egypt and in 
Greece, in ancient and in modern 
times; but the taking of numbers 
of small pieces, and, by joining them 
together, forming a whole, is com- 



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up the Nile. 



mon 10 them all. Aboo-Simbel is 
not constructed in this way. The 
side of the mountain facing the 
river was cut to form a right angle 
with the surface of the plain, and 
made smooth and even as a wall, 
save some projections purposely 
left at regular distances, and which 
afterwards were shaped into gigan- 
tic figures of victorious Rameses ; 
a small hole was pierced into this 
surface a few feet above the ground; 
it was made larger, and carried in 
further and further full two hun- 
dred feet, its roof seemingly upheld 
by Osiride columns. A similar gal- 
lery was cut on either side of this 
main one. Transverse galleries 
crossed these, leading to rooms ten 
in ntnnber, and all this cut out 
of the solid rock, no cement, no 
clamps, not a joint anywhere — a 
huge monolithic temple. The in- 
side of the roof is perfectly regular 
in its lines, with a smooth, even 
surface ; the outside is the rugged 
mountain top. Surely this was the 
way to build for immortality. 

This style of building, although 
rare, is not confined to Egypt alone, 
but was most probably copied from 
it. I have since seen it in the 
Brahmin caves of Elephanta in 
Bombay harbor, and on a small 
scale in the tombs of the Valley 
of Josaphat. The temple faces the 
river and stands close to the bank. 
As we approach we are struck by 
the magnitude of the four colossal 
figures of Rameses II. They are 
seated on thrones, and the faces 
that remain are quite expressive. 
The height without the pedestal is 
sixty-six feet; the forefinger is three 
feet in length. Father H , Ma- 
dam, and I seated ourselves comfor- 
tably on the big toe, and, as I looked 
upwards into that gigantic face, I 
thought of the myriads of events, 
marking epochs of time, that had 



happened in the great world out 
side since first the sculptor's hand 
had changed the rugged mountain 
side into these semblances of their 
warrior-king. The overturner of 
his dynasty, the illustrious Sesac, 
had led the victorious Egyptians 
into the very heart of the Holy 
City, and carried off from the Tem- 
ple the golden shields which Solo- 
mon had there hung up. Cam- 
byses had marched with thunder- 
ing tread, laying waste on every 
hand with fire and sword from 
Pelusium to Tiiebes, making this 
once mighty kingdom a province 
of far-off Persia. Greece rose from 
a handful of half-savage shepherds 
to be the focus of intellect, art, and 
science, around which clustered 
the shining lights of the world. Al- 
exander overran the whole of Wes- 
tern Asia, and established in the 
Delta his mighty race of Macedo- 
nian emperors. Rome was found- 
ed, sat on her seven hills the 
proud mistress of the world, fell, 
and was swallowed up in the rush 
of succeeding generations. Chris- 
tianity, starting from its humble 
Judean home, spread from sea to 
sea, from the peasant's hut to the 
royal palace, revolutionized the 
world, civilized nations, and, encir- 
cling the globe, led back its pro- 
selytes to unfold its sacred truths 
to the descendants of its apos- 
tles. Mohammedanism carried its 
bloody and relentless arms over 
the vast plains of Asia, through the 
fruitful valley of the Nile, to the 
centre of Continental Europe, and 
was driven back, tottering and 
gradually receding, to its Eastern 
cradle. The great republics of 
the middle ages lived their short 
span of power, and were lost in 
the mighty empires that absorbed 
them. A new world was discover- 
ed, and new governments founded 



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53 



therein. And during all this, un- 
shai en by war or tempest, unmoved 
by change or revolution, these giant 
figures gazed with never-closing 
eye upon the swift-flowing river at 
their feet. Those who give them- 
selves the trouble to inform the 
world that a perfectly unknown 
])erson has visited a monument, and 
that that unknown person has mu- 
tilated it by inscribing his name 
thereon — ^a reprehensible practice 
unfortunately so common in Egypt — 
may study here the earliest known 
inscription of this kind. On the 
leg of one of the figures is cut in rude 
characters the following inscription 
in Greek: "King Psamatichus 
having come to Elephantine, those 
that were with Psamatichus, the 
son of Theocles, wrote this. They 
sailed and came to above Kerkis, to 
where the river rises . . . the Egyp- 
tian Amasis. The writer was Dam- 
carchon, the son of Amoebichus, 
and Pelephus, the son of Udamus." 
This was written at least six hun- 
dred and fifty years before Christ, 
and the scribblers, desirous of 
cheap notoriety, are as unknown as 
their numerous followers who now 
disfigure the monuments of the 
world. 

Over the entrance is a statue of 
the god Ra (Sun), to whom Rame- 
ses offers a figure of truth. We 
enter a grand hall supported by 
eight Osiride pillars, pass through 
it to a second of four square pillars 
which leads to the adytum. A 
number of small chambers are 
found on both sides of the main 
hall, and the interior of the walls is 
covered with intaglio figures and 
hieroglyphics. At the end of the 
adytum are four figures in high re- 
lief. There is but one opening to 
the temple — the entrance door — 
through which alone light can en- 
ter. As the first ravs of the morn- 



ing sun were peeping over the Ara- 
bian hills, we climbed the steep 
bank and entered the temple. A 
flood of golden light poured in, 
searching every corner, lighting up 
the figures at the end of the adytum 
full two hundred feet from the en- 
trance. It seemed as though mighty 
Ra, as each morn he rose to shower 
his beneficence upon the world, 
looked first with soul-melting ten- 
derness upon the home where he 
would love to linger; slowly lie 
moves on, and with a last fond, 
longing look he leaves it in dark- 
ness till he return next morn. 
Bats swarm now in its gloomy 
chambers, and dispute the right of 
entrance with the howadjii. Along- 
side the large temple is a smaller 
one of the same description. A 
night or two after this we had an 
altercation on board wherein Reis 
Mohammed met his match. It 
was about nine o'clock on a beauti- 
ful moonlight night. We were sail- 
ing before a light breeze, when sud- 
denly the boat struck a rock. Reis 
Mohammed winced as though it 
were himself grating on the rock, 
and, rushing up to the Nubian pilot 
who was at the helm, swore by Allah 
that he would beat him with a stick. 
The pilot was not at all intimidated. 
He said in a quiet way that he was 
sorry, but reminded the irate cap- 
tain that he was now in his — the pi- 
lot's — country, and that if he struck 
him he would call out to his peo- 
ple on the bank, who would come 
aboard and kill the captain. This 
ended the affair. On January 22 
Ahmud brought a beautiful little 
gazelle on board, for Madam to 
play with, as he said. She named 
it Saiida, and it soon became a 
great favorite with us all. At four 
P.M. of the same day we reached 
our destination and tied up at Wa- 
dy Haifa, a long-strctched-out line 



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of mud-built houses on the east 
bank. We had travelled seven 
hundred and ninety-eight miles in 
forty- one days, including stoppages. 
A two hours* donkey-ride over the 
sands of the desert, and we reached 
the Ultima Thule of Nile travellers — 
the rock of Abooseer, overlooking 
the second cataract. This is much 
more wild, rapid, and turbulent than 
the first, and, excepting when the 
Nile is at its greatest height, is im- 
passable. Almost every traveller 
who has been here has left his mark 
upon this rock — a custom which is 
to be approved here ; for no beauty 
is defaced, but a register of travel- 
lers is kept which possesses interest 
to their friends who may subse- 
quently visit this place. There 
were six dahabeedhs there on our 
arrival, four of them flying the 
United States flag. We made our 
presents to the men. They brought 
us in safety up the Nile ; will they 
do the same going down ? So we 
gave Reis Mohammed one pound, 
Reis Ahmud ten shillings, one 
pound each to AH, Ibrahim, and 
the cook; and two pounds and 
ten shillings to be divided among 
the crew. While we were lying at 
Wady Haifa the crew prepared the 
boat for the downward voyage. 
They took down the trinkeet or large 
yard from the foremast, and placed 
in its stead the smaller one from 
the stern. There are three modes 
of progression in descending. If 
there be no wind at all, the men 
row, five oars on each side ; but 
when the surface of the stream is 
ruffled by" the slightest breath of 
wind, the men immediat-ely stop row- 
ing, and the boat drifts down with the 
current. If the wind blow from the 
south — which is very unusual during 
the winter— we sail, using, however, 
only the small balakoom, swung, 
as I have said, from the mainmast. 



Some of the planks of the deck are 
taken up, and an inclined planemade 
by resting one end of a plank against 
the cross-beams on a level with the 
floor of the deck, and the other 
touching the bottom of the hold. 
In rowing the men start from the 
top of this inclined plane, and, walk- 
ing backwards down it, make five 
distinct movements in each stroke. 
As their feet touch the hold they 
sit down and pull out the stroke. 

On January 25, at one in the 
morning, we left Wady Haifa on 
the homeward voyage. Ahmud re- 
quested us to permit him to bring 
a slave on tlie boat. . He told us 
that.he had no children, and that 
he had seen a very fine little boy 
of nine years whom he could pur- 
chase for-'seNsenty dollars. His re- 
quest was refused. We spent an 
hour or more one beautiful moon- 
light night seated on the sand be- 
neath the colossi of Aboo-Simbel. 
We engaged a celebrated hunter 
to assist us in crocodile-hunting — 
Abd-el-Kerim, slave of the god, a 
Nubian with a huge flat nose. The 
dress of tiiis man of prowess was 
not elaborate, consisting of a .skull- 
cap and a pair of drawers. He car- 
ried the flint-lock musket which I 
have before described. The lock 
was carefully bound up in a piece 
of cloth. We moored the daha- 
beeaii on the west bank about four 
miles below Aboo-Simbel. We 
then rowed about a mile up the 
river in the small boat, and land- 
ed on a sand-bank. Abd-el-Kerim 
constructed a crocodile of sand — 
head, tail, legs, and all. We had 
laid a systematic plan of attack. 
At sunrise the next morning we 
were to conceal ourselves behind 
the sand timsah and wait the com- 
ing of the natural ones, thinking 
that they would take our sand-con* 
structed reptile for one of the fam- 



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ily, and go quietly asleep alongside 
of it. I rose before the sun the 
next morning, but Kerim did not 
make his appearance until eight 
o'clock — he called it sunrise — when 
the sun was pretty well up in the 
heavens, and the day began to grow 
warm. As I stood on the forecas- 
tle waiting for him, two Polish da- 
habeedhs hove in sight. I knew 
the party on board ; they were dis- 
tinguished naturalists who were 
collecting specimens for the mu- 
seum at Warsaw. They hunted 
in the most thoroughly systema- 
tic manner. The young count, 
who was not as deeply engaged 
in the study of natural history 
as the others, spent an evening 
with ns a week or two afterward, 
and told us a very amusing story 
about the rest of the party. They 
were anxious to secure a certain 
species of bird. After consulting 
their books and putting together 
the general knowledge they possess- 
ed concerning the habits of this 
bird, they established as a positive 
fact that the said bird would appear 
on the banks of the Nile at ten 
o'clock to perform his morning ab- 
lutions. So at half^past nine they 
went out to meet him, but, to their 
intense astonishment, he did not ap- 
pear until half-past eleven — over- 
slept himself, no doubt, not being 
a ware of the distinguished company 
awaiting him. They have been in 
a great state of excitement ever 
since, said our young friend, en- 
deavoring to study out the cause 
of this strange proceeding, as they 
termed it, of the bird being one 
hour and a half behind time. As I 
watched the boats came on, and 
our sand timsah caught the eye 
of their dragoman. He rushed 
down-stairs, woke up the howadjii, 
who soon appeared on deck. Tele- 
scopes were levelled, and, having 



satisfied themselves that it was a 
crocodile, they jumped into the 
small boat and made straight for it. 
Two of them were in the bow with 
their rifles cocked covering the tim- 
sah. The greatest care and cau- 
tion were observed. Only a small 
portion of the heads of the men 
were visible above the gunwale, and 
occasionally I could see the drago- 
man wave his hand as a signal of 
caution. Finally they stepped on 
the bank, cautiously approached, 
saw the deception, and in quick 
haste retired in evident disgust. I 
enjoyed this scene all the more as 
it partially recompensed me for the 
failure of my first attempt at shoot- 
ing a crocodile. 

About half-past eight Kerim and 
I concealed ourselves behind the 
sand timsah, lying flat on our backs. 
Besides his old flint-lock, which 
would do good service, we had two 
double-barrelled guns loaded with 
heavy balls, and a six-barrelled re- 
volver. • I lay in this position for 
two hours, not even daring to in- 
dulge in a cough, which I was sore- 
ly tried to repress, and even breath- 
ing as quietly as possible. Kerim 
touched me and told me to peep 
over the back of the timsah ; I did 
so, and saw ten crocodiles, some 
swimming in the water and others 
on the banks, but none near enough 
to shoot at. I then turned on my 
face and lay down again. Almost 
immediately an enormous crocodile 
stepped out of the water on the 
bank where we were, within ten feet 
of us, but seemed to be frighten- 
ed at something and immediately 
plunged in again. About two. 
o'clock Kerim turned over, and in 
so doing spied a flask protruding 
from my pocket. He took it out, 
ofiered it to me, and said, " Take a 
drink!" — a delicate hint that he 
wanted some himself. He did not. 



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Letters of a Young Irislnvaman to her Sister. 



refuse when I offered it, but, filling 
the cup with twice as much as an or- 
dinary drink, he swallowed it down, 
rolled his eyes, and ejaculated, 
" Taib" (good). We found it would 
be of no avail to wait longer here, 
so we called the felluka and rowed 
very quietly a short distance down 
the stream to a bank upon which 
two timsahs were lying asleep ; at 
the other end were some rocks. 
We crept over the rocks until we 
reached the one nearest the reptiles. 
At. least one hundred yards still 
separated us from them. Resting 
my gun on a rock, I took careful 
aim, fired, and saw the ball strike 
the side of one of tl^e crocodiles ; 
but its only effect was to hurry him 
into the river, otherwise he paid no 
attention to it. We concluded to 



give up crocodile-hunting now, so 
we sailed on. At one point a little 
below this I counted thirty-eight 
sawagi in sight at one time. These 
sawagi (singular saggar) are to 
Nubia what the shawadeefs are to 
Egypt. They are of Persian origin, 
and consist of an endless chain, to 
which are attached buckets made 
of burnt clay. The chain passes 
over a wheel at the top, which 
is made to revolve by another 
wheel driven around by buffaloes. 
These wheels are of wood and 
never greased. Their creaking 
and straining are music to tl>e 
owner's ears, who in some in- 
stances will travel many thousand 
miles riding the buffaloes round 
the well-worn circle of their owii 
loved saggar. 



LETTERS OF A YOUNG IRISHWOMAN TO HER SISTER. 



PROM THB FKSNCH. 



July 28, 1869. 

Lord WiLUA\f is in England, 
and baby Emmanuel in vain asks 
for " papa." What a beautiful 
child he is ! My Guy is very hand- 
some also, and I am proud of him. 
Johanna yields up to me all her 
prerogatives, and, were it not that 
he resembles Paul, I could persuade 
myself that he is quite my own, my 
dear godson. 

Berthe intends to go to Lourdes, 
to obtain from Mary Immaculate 
the cure of her daughter. Poor 
mother! she deceives herself; the 
child cannot remain in this world, 
and the day approaches when we 
shall say. Yesterday the bird was in 
the cage, but is now flown hence ! 
Tin's morning Anna and the sick 
•jjirl were leaning over my balconv, 



looking at the blue sky, over which 
light clouds were flying. '* How 
beautiful the sky is!" said Anna. 
"Very sweet, very beautiful, very 
good," answered Picciola, joining 
her hands. " The beauties of na- 
ture are admirable, but — " '''Kiss 
me, dear, and don't look up to 
heaven in that way; one would 
think you were going there !" " The 
truth is that I shall go soon ; dear 
Anna, pray God to comfort my 
mother!" Anna flew into the 
room: "Madame, O madame! is 
this true that Madeleine is telling 
me V* And she was sobbing. Picci- 
ola covered her with kisses, saying: 
"Why will no one listen when I 
speak of my happiness.^" When 
Anna was more calm I sent her to 
her mother; and said to my darling : 



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Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister. 



57 



"Then let us talk about heaven to- 
gether." " But, aunt, it grieves you 
also. Yet I, although the pain of 
those I love goes to my heart — I 
feel in myself an indescribable glad- 
ness. Oh ! if you knew how I 
thirst for heaven." " And who 
idls you that you are going to leave 
us, dear child.' Our Lady of 
Lourdes will cure you." ** If you 
love me, do not ask me this ; I must 
not be cured," she murmured, with 
a sort of prayerful expression. What 
do you think about this child, dear 
Kate? 

Our thoughts are much taken up, 
as you may imagine, with the Coun- 
cil and with Ireland. Adrien has 
read to us from a goodly folio, 
come from the Thebaid of our 
w/>f/, the most sinister predictions 
with reference to the present time. 

Good-by for a little while ; I 
slip this note into Margaret's en- 
velope. 

August i, 1869. 

St. Francis of Sales used to 
say: "People ask for secrets that 
ihey may advance in perfection; 
for my own part, I know of only 
one : to love God above all things, 
and my neighbor as myself." And 
Bossuet, that other great master of 
ihe spiritual life, said : ** Give all to 
God, search to the very depths, 
empty your heart for God ; he will 
know very well how to employ and 
to fill it." This is what Gertrude 
has done, who just now quoted 
these two thoughts to console me. 
Alas ! yes, I cannot resign my- 
self to see her depart, this en- 
chanting soul, so worthy of love. 
*' Remember," Gertrude said to me, 
** that God undertakes to give back 
everything to those who have given 
him all. I perceive many sacrifices 
for you, dear Georgina ; be worthy 
of God's favors, for suffering is one 
of these." And she quitted me. 



She lives so near to God that every 
word she utters seems to me an 
oracle, and now I am afraid. O 
poor soul ! — a reed bending to 
every wind. 

"Turn thee to Him who com- 
forts and who heals." Help me, 
dear Kate ! Rene, Margaret, and 
Marcella agree in diverting my at- 
tention, but the blow has been given ! 

my God ! If a whole family might 
but enter heaven all at the same time ! 
if there were no tears of departure ! 

1 communicated this morning, and 
promised our adorable Jesus in the 
Blessed Eucharist to sacrifice my 
heart to him. 

Berthe, Raoul, and Picciola set 
out to-morrow for Lourdes ; we 
have not ventured to dissuade the 
poor mother from this idea. I had 
a foolish longing to follow them, 
but I saw in this a first sacrifice, 
and offered it to obtain courage. 
If, however, Mary would be pleased 
to cure her ! They will make a 
novena there, and not return until 
the 16th. What a long time with- 
out seeing her ! 

Our country neighbor has install- 
ed himself, and yesterday paid us 
his first visit. My mother gave 
him a more than amiable reception. 
We all thanked him for the care 
with which he had attended Anna, 
who threw her arms round his neck 
with the greatest simplicity. Mar- 
cella replied gracefully to the civi- 
lities of the good doctor, who ac- 
cepted an invitation to dinner. 
My mother finds him very well bred. 
He is fifty Vfears of age, very tall, 
with an open and expressive coun- 
tenance, most extensive learning, 
skill, wit, fortune, and above all 
faith ; he is thus in every way 
worthy of my friend. Ren6 has 
explained this to me, and has end- 
ed by requesting me to favor this 
marriage. 



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Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister. 



Margaret, on leaving me this 
evening, whispered in my ear ; 
** Dear, will our fair Roman be in- 
sensible ? The aspirant belongs to 
the very first quality of nature* s noble- 
men y 

Good-by, dear Kate ; pray much ! 

August 6, 1869. 
Picciola is at this moment at the 
miraculous Grotto. Impossible to 
turn my thoughts away from this 
child ; I see her everywhere. Never- 
theless, I cannot complain of any 
want of distractions; we are out 
continually. Tbree days ago M. 
de Verlhiac (the doctor) gave us a 
princely reception in his divor. 
What life! what gayety ! Marcella 
is very pensive and seeks to be 
alone. Margaret raves about the 
doctor, and will have him at all our 
parties ; Anna can no longer do 
without him, my mother likes his 
conversation, the gentlemen seize 
upon the slightest pretext for going 
to the Blue Nest — the name given 
by Margaret to the dismantled 
manor of M. de V. You see, dear 
Kate, all is for the best. Your ad- 
vice is not, however, useless to me. 
Oh ! how well you have realized 
what Marcella is to me. But I am 
not so selfish as to place my affec- 
tion in the way of her happiness, 
and I shall know how to make the 
sacrifice. M. de V. requested 
an Interview with me yesterday. 
I had remained alone with my 
mother, who feared to take so long 
a drive, and it was in her presence 
that I received our new neighbor. 
He appeared greatly embarrassed 
— he, who is so fearless ! At last, 
after a great deal of circumlocu- 
tion, he related how he had be- 
come acquainted with our dear 
Italians ; how much he felt interest- 
ed in the pretty invalid, whom he 
had attended with truly paternal 



solicitude ; how the desire had 
arisen in his heart to become the 
father of this attractive young crea- 
ture; and how we had unknowing- 
ly destroyed the fragile edifice 
of his dreams by carrying away 
from him Mme. de Clissey and her 
daughter. Their sojourn of last 
winter had convinced him that with- 
out this union he could not be hap- 
py. Marcella had answered his 
proposal by a refusal, which he 
does not know how to explain. 

My mother looked at me, and M. 
de V. continued : " I know not, ma- 
dame, whether I am mistaken, but I 
am persuaded that you have some in- 
fluence on this determination which 
crushes my life. Madame de C. does 
not wish to separate from you.** 
I was much moved by this confi- 
dence, and so much the more be- 
cause my mother, who had formerly 
been acquainted with the mother 
of the good doctor, had told me 
that morning that she looked for- 
ward to this union with pleasure. 
I promised to do my duty. This 
conversation lasted tliree hours. 
M. de V. is really a remarka- 
ble man, and I cannot understand 
Marcella's singular behavior. Mar- 
garet advises me to speak to her 
about it; but I think it more pru- 
. dent to wait. The pretty little 
Anna unconsciously enlightened 
me somewhat. Tliis morning, in 
my room, she was. caressing her 
mother and saying : " Why, then, are 
you so cold to this good doctor, who 
likes you so much and who is so 
like papa } If you knew how affec- 
tionately he kisses me !" Marcella 
blushed and spoke of something 
else. 

Dear Kate, my heart is full; M. 
de V. has only one dream after 
that of marrying my friend, which 
is to settle at Naples. It would 
then be a permanent separation ! 



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Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister. 



59 



**You are in your spring-time, my 
daughter," my mother said to me ; 
" beware of the autumn ! The light- 
est breath then carries away by de- 
grees our happiness and our hopes." 
God guard you, dearest ! 

August 9, 1869. 

The doctor has become our ha- 
bitual companion. He loves poet- 
ry, '' this choice language, dear to 
youth and to those whose hearts 
have remained young" — another 
connecting link with Marcella. 
" But they are made for each other," 
says Margaret. This southerner 
shivers at the most delicate breeze 
of the north. "Good friend, what 
will you do in winter.^" exclaims 
Anna on seeing him hermetically 
enfolded in a mantle lined with fur 
when he arrives of an evening. 
•' Dear, I shall do as the swal- 
lows do." " Bah ! you will not go 
to Athens." "And why not, if 
you will go with me V* " Oh ! I do 
not travel without ray mother." 

This fragment of conversation 
shows you that M. de V. is 
always driving at the same point. 
Every one rivals the other in ex- 
tolling the loyalty, the learning, the 
distinction of the doctor. He must 
be immensely rich, for he throws gold 
with open hands among our poor, 
builds up cottages, gives work to 
all. Gertrude says: "There is in 
this man an apostle and a Sister of 
Charity." Marcella never utters a 
word about our dear neighbor, but 
appears to suffer when others speak 
of him. Yesterday Margaret want- 
ed to get my mother to promise 
that we should spend the summer 
of 1870 in England. "Will you 
not come also, monsieur?" The 
handsome countenance of the doc- 
tor darkened, and he answered brief- 
ly : " Who can promise r " Oh ! do 
promise, good friend," exclaimed 



Anna; "you told me you wished 
not to leave me!" "Anna, will 
you water my verbenas V tranquil- 
ly asked Marcella. The child 
bounded into the garden. 

Berthe writes to me every day. 
The horizon is dark there; the 
poor mother perceives the full 
truth. 

. A Dieu^ Kate ; may he alone be 
all to us ! 

August 16, 1869. 

Ren^ has written to you, dear 
sister; thus you know how my time 
has been occupied. Ohl what a 
beautiful procession. What sing- 
ing ! What decorations ! A cor- 
ner of Italy in Brittany, to believe 
the good doctor, who has valiantly 
paid with his person. 

Picciola is here. I have just 
been to kiss her under her curtains. 
This pilgrimage has produced a 
double benefit : it gave the poor 
parents a few days of hope, and the 
Immaculate Virgin has caused them 
to understand all. " She belongs 
to God before she belongs to us." 
Are not these truly Christian words 
the acceptance of the sacrifice ? 
And Picciola : " How sweet it would 
have been to die there, dear aunt ! 
But I am very happy to see you 
again." O my God ! 

Marjjaret is expecting Lord Wil- 
liam. Can you picture to yourself 
the aspect of our colony — our 
numbers, the noise and movement, 
the joyous voices calling and an- 
swering each other, the animation, 
the eagerness, of this human hive } 
Our Bretons say they wish we were 
here always. 

Edith writes often. Lizzy is 
somewhat silent ; the saintly Isa is 
too much detached from earth to 
think of us in any way except in 
her prayers. My letters to Betsy 
have produced an unexpected ef- 
fect, thanks to your prayers; this 



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Letters of a Young Irishwoman to 'her Sister, 



good and charming friend assures 
me that going to holy Mass and 
visiting tlie poor help her marvel- 
lously, and that now the days ap- 
pear too short. 

Yesterday we were talking on 
the terrace — talking about all sorts 
of things. The word ideal was pro- 
nounced. "Who, then, can attain 
his ideal V exclaimed M. de Verl- 
hiac. " Life almost always passes 
away in its pursuit ; an intangible 
phantom, it escapes us precisely at 
the moment when it seems within 
our grasp.*' " It is, perhaps, be- 
cause the ideal does not in reality 
exist on earth," said Gertrude. "The 
Christian's ideal is in heaven !" 
Whereupon the meditative Anna 
cried out : " Oh ! if only the good 
God would make haste to put us 
into his beautiful heaven all to- 
gether, the south and the north! 
You would not feel cold up there, 
good friend !" " Then will the an- 
gels place us thus by families.?" 
asked Alix timidly. " Hem ! hem ! 
the house is large," said the doc- 
tor ; ** and, for my part, I see no 
inconvenience that this * corner of 
Italy in Brittany * would suffer by 
arranging itself commodiously there 
on high." 

At this moment Adrien took up 
a newspaper and read us a fulmi- 
nation in verse against the cente- 
nary of Napoleon, by a writer whose 
independent pen " is unequalled in 
freedom and boldness," according 
to the ideas of some. M. de V. 
disapproves strongly : " Cannot a 
man be of one party without throw- 
ing mud at the other 1 May not the 
sufferings on St. Helena, the tor- 
ture more terrible than that of the 
Prometheus of antiquity, have been 
accepted by God as an expiation ? 
How far preferable would a little 
Christian moderation be to all this 
gall so uselessly poured out into 



the public prints ! And what do 
th.ey attain, republicans or royal- 
ists, after so many words and so 
much trouble } Great social revo- 
lutions arrive only at the hour 
marked by Providence." "At all 
events," said Johanna, " it is this 
much-boasted printing which ena- 
bles us to read so much that is 
good and so much that is hurtful." 
•* O madame ! Writing, printing ! 
"What favors granted to man ! What 
feasts for the understanding and 
the heart ! The genius of evil h.as 
known how to draw from these ad- 
mirable sources the means of per- 
dition ; what is it that man has not 
turned against God ? But the di- 
vine mercy is greater than our of- 
fences, and the Christian's life ought 
to be a perpetual Te Deum. Pro- 
vidence pours out in floods before 
us joys, favors, enjoyments without 
number, as he scatters flowers in 
the meadows, birds in the air, an- 
gels in space ; he has given us poe- 
try, this eternal charm of the earth : 

** * Langue qui vient du Ciel, toute limpide et belle, 
£t que le monde entend, mais qu'il ne parle 
pas.'"* 

You perceive, dear Kate, that I 
want to make you acquainted with 
the doctor. But good-night. 

August 22, 1869. ] 
Well, dearest, the marriage is ar- 
ranged. Let me, however, first 
speak to you about Picciola. She 
is an angel ! She invariably forgets 
herself, and thinks only of the hap- 
piness of others. It is she who or- 
ganizes our festivities. Dear, de- 
licious child! Th6rese and Anna 
know not how to show her tender- 
ness enough. I forget what day it 
was that Marcella said to me : " I 

* Language which comes from heaven, limpid anJ 

beautiful, 
And which the world understands, but does not 
speak. 



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think that now I need not be any 
longer uneasy about my child's 
health ; there has been no change 
since that beneficial winter.** Pic- 
cicla was by me. I looked at her ; 
her eyes shone with a singular 
brightness, and she said ahnost in- 
voluntarily, and so low that I alone 
heard her : " Oh ! she will be no long- 
er ill." Marianne was right : there 
is a mystery in this, and I want to 
know what it is. I shall question 
Mad; she will not resist me. I 
have entreated the doctor to cure 
her, and his answer was : " Who can 
arrest the flight of the bird V* Thus 
all is in vain ; and yet, in spite of 
myself, I have moments of wild 
hope. What a large place this child 
has taken possession of in my 
heart ! 

M. de V. had placed his inter- 
ests in my hands; it was there- 
fore your Georgina herself who re- 
newed his proposal. At the first 
word Marcella, much moved, for- 
mally refused, begging me to speak to 
her of something else. Then we had 
a long explanation. This dear and 
tjxcellcnt friend did not want to 
separate herself from us, out of 
gratitude ! And she was sacrificing 
her heart ; for the devotedness and 
high character of M. de V. in- 
spire her with as much sympathy 
as respect. It needed all my elo- 
quence to convince her. In ac- 
cepting she secures her daughter a 
protector ; the increase of her for- 
tune will allow her still more lati- 
tude for the exercise of her benevo- 
lence. I know that she loves Italy, 
and dreams of seeing it again, which 
would be impossible were she to 
remain with us ; by refusing she 
crushes out the life of M. de V., 
etc., etc. 

By way of conclusion I drew her 
into my mother's room, where we 
ilso found Ren^ and Edouard, and 



all four of us together succeeded in 
obtaining her consents All, then, is 
well as regards this matter. Anna 
is in a state of incomparable joy, as 
the old books say. We are all hap- 
py at the turn affairs have taken, but 
each in our different degrees. And 
you, dear Kate ? Ah ! news of Ire- 
land and again of Edith : Mary is 
not well. Poor Edith ! Good-by, 
dearest ; Ren^ calls me, and I must 
send to the post. 

August 25, 1869. 

Yesterday's fete was admirable, 
according to the doctor, who is a 
good judge. How impatient he is 
to carry off Marcella from us ! The 
wedding is fixed for the 20th of 
September, and the same day th< 
happy couple are to start for Italy. 
Thus I have not even a month in 
which to enjoy the society of this 
delightful friend, so truly the sistei 
of my soul, whom God gave me al- 
most on the grav2 of Ellen. I busy 
myself with her about the prepara- 
tions. Gertrude, tiie austere Ger- 
trude, sets out to-morrow for Paris 
with Adrien and M. de V., whom 
she will direct in the choice 
of the eorbeille. Don't you admire 
that } Marcella is calm, serious, 
but also, she owns to me, profoundly 
happy. 

There will be no more meeting 
again, I foresee plainly ; they will 
cast anchor down there, but our 
spirits will be always united before 
God. Margaret greatly rejoices in 
the happiness of our dear Roman. 
Lord William arrived yesterday, 
and joyous parties are going on. 
The little angel of the good God is 
always on the point of taking her 
flight. 

Ah I mon dmt voudrait se auspendre d stt a He* 
Ei la gardtr encor /• 

* Ah ! my loul would £un ding to her w!r.js, and 
keep her still I 



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Reni procures me the most agree- 
able surprises. There has never 
yet been the least shadow of a 
cloud between us. You say well, 
dearest, that with him I shall have 
happiness everywhere ; why, then, 
should I have hesitated to procure 
a like happiness for Marcella ? I 
did not tell you that about a year 
ago this dear friend lost nearly the 
whole of her fortune, which was in 
the hands of a banker ? Happily, 
we were the first to hear of it, and 
have concealed the disaster. Ger- 
trude desired to join us in this 
hidden good work, and I have with 
all my heart paid the half of the 
amount. 1 am still more glad now 
to have done so. Hitherto the in- 
terest has been sufficient, but, lest 
the secret should be discovered, 
Gertrude undertook to arrange the 
matter with her banker. As it is a 
considerable sum, we are selling 
our carriages and one of Rene's 
farms, lest it should make too much 
difference to our poor ; my mother 
is surprised, but asks no questions. 
We shall try to live without carri- 
ages — so many people live happily, 
and yet always go on foot ! I am 
certain that you will approve of 
this, dear Kate. Marcella is too 
proud to consent to marry M. de V. 
without any fortune of her own. 
Ren6 is delighted with this arrange- 
ment; I believe that he also is in 
love with the poverty of St. Francis. 
Oh ! how good God is to us ! All 
my kisses to you. 

August 28, 1869. 
Read yesterday some pretty 
things on Montaigne. The author 
of the Essays loved "with a particu- 
lar affection" poetry, "in which it is 
not allowable to play the simple- 
ton." Marcella presented me with 
a charming poem on Friendship. 
Oh ! I know very well that her warm 



affection is mine. Listen to this 
passage taken from a dramatic 
story which has come into Brittany : 
" There are redeeming souls, born 
for salvation. In the path of the 
divine Crucified One walk silent 
groups whose mission is to suffer 
for those who enjoy all the good 
things of life, to weep for those who 
sing at feasts, to pray for those who 
never open their lips in prayer. A 
large number of these mysterious 
flowers which perfume the King's 
House are even unconscious of their 
destiny. They follow it, without 
asking what end is answered by 
their solitude, and to what purpose 
are their tears." 

You write to me too deliciously, 
dear Kate ! It is very kind of you 
to ask after the two adopted little 
girls. They have been claimed 
by a relation, and left us after hav- 
ing remained a week. This fresh 
eclogue could not have had a bet- 
ter ending. The dear children 
write to Picciola. They are happy ; 
their relative gave us a most favor- 
able impression. 

Yesterday a long walk with Mar- 
garet, who loves our heaths, our 
fields of broom, our reedy places, 
our customs, and who is always 
ready when there is a good work to 
be done. My mother is not well — 
" The effect of old age," she says. 
Would that I could keep away all 
pain from that dear head ! Mme. 
Swetchine says : " All the joys of 
earth would not assuage our thirst 
for happiness, and one single sor- 
row suffices to fold life in a sombre 
veil, to strike it throughout with 
nothingness." How true this is I 

St. Augustine is one of Rene's 
patrons ; you may imagine whether 
we have not prayed to him very 
much. Gertrude writes to me : 
" Here are some lines which I com- 
mend to vour meditations : * All 



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Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister. 



63 



passes, all vanishes away, all is car- 
ried away by the river of Eternity. 
The most sacred and sweet affec- 
tions we see broken, some by absence 
— that sleep of the heart — others by 
a culpable inconstancy ; many, alas ! 
by death. The days of our child* 
hood, the years of our youth, the 
friendships begun in the cradle, the 
more serious attachments of riper 
age, the affections of home, the 
bonds formed at the altar — all are 
touched, withered, annihilated by 
the inexorable hand of time.' Dear 
Georgina," continues Gertrude, 
" all lives again, all arises from its 
tomb, all becomes again resplendent 
with God ! Hope, then! Excelsior.*' 

Lord William has brought us a 
most interesting book — Our Life in 
the Highlands^ by Queen Victoria. 
What soul ! What heart ! Why is 
she not a Catholic ? My poor Ire- 
land, when wilt thou recover thy 
freedom ? O Ireland ! patria mia ! 

Therese regrets Anna's approach- 
ing departure, but she is coura- 
geous. The babies do not take it 
in the same way, and Marguerite 
told Anna plainly : " All that you 
may say to me is of no use. I 
know Italian, mademoiselle : Chi 
sta bene^ non si muovey^ I had to 
preach for an hour before I could 
persuade Marguerite to consent to 
apologize to the dear little Italian, 
who cried so much at being accus- 
ed of inconstancy. These little 
people ! 

Good-by, dear Kate; Picciola 
sends you a kiss. 

August 30, 1869. 
I have just been telling the chil- 
dren the beautiful story of St. 
Felix and St. Adauctus, as the 
charming imagination of Margaret 
had arranged it at the convent. 

• ^ He who b wdl off stays where he is.*' 



How they listened to me. On 
turning round I was taken by uir- 
prise : Ren^ was there ! You know 
that I like to be alone when fulfill- 
ing the functions oi professor — a title 
which I usurp from the good abbd^ 
whose charity frequently takes him 
from home. " Are you displeased ?** 
2is\it(l my brot/ier. Displeased/ But 
he and I are altogether one — one 
and the same soul. Picciola makes 
profound observations thereupon. 
Margaret tells me tfiat she said to 
her : " The soul ought in this world 
to be with God as Uncle Rene is 
with Aunt Georgina, and as you 
and Lord William." Margaret was 
delighted with this comparison. 

Letter from the saintly Isa ; one 
might call it a song of heaven. 
"O charming felicities which I 
find in this paradise of intelligence 
and friendship, incomparable joys 
of the rehgious affections, delights 
of the sensible presence of Him who 
is my all, how dear are you to me !" 

Picciola is sleeping in an easy- 
chair two steps from me. She 
seems to have scarcely a breath of 
life left. I questioned her as dis- 
creetly as possible ; she understood 
immediately : " Later, aunt, I will 
tell you." 

What ! have I not told you 
about my six children ? The eldest 
has been taken as femme de chambre 
by Margaret, the second occu|)ies 
the same post for Anna, and The- 
rese claims the third. The young- 
est go to school. Johanna wished 
to take charge of them, but I said« 
" No, thank you "; she has a family 
and I am free. Ren^ wants to talk 
business to you. I give up my 
sheet of paper to him. May (iod 
be with us ! 

Septe.mber 5. 

Only a fortnight more to enjoy 
the presence of Marcella ! The 
travellers are home again. The 



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Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister. 



corbeilk is splendid ; but the pious 
projects of M. de V. are still 
more so. Did I tell you tliat lie 
had been connected with M. de 
Clissey, in a journey the latter took 
to Naples? M. de C loved 
Marcella then, and spoke only of 
her. He was on the eve of a dan- 
gerous expedition. " Promise me," 
he said to M. de V., " that in case 
of my deatH you will marry her!** 
M. de V. promised. This is 
like the tales of knight-errantry. 
M. de Verlhiac was unable to be 
present at his friend's marriage, 
and, as he was at tiiat time of an 
adventurous turn of mind, he went 
away to New York and had no 
news of the De Clisseys. It was 
only on Marcella*s account that 
he settled temporarily at Hyeres. 
You see, this is altogether a ro- 
mance, but in the best taste pos- 
sible. M. de V. told us all this 
after his proposal had been ac- 
cepted. 

All France is interested in the 
Council; we are praying for this 
intention. What times we live in, 
dear Kate ! The church is on 
the eve of terrible trials, say the 
seers, 

Picciola wishes to write to you ; 
but will her poor little hand have 
the strength to do so } Oh ! how 
touching she is in her serenity. 
She communicates with great fer- 
vor twice a week. 

Lizzy, the happy Lizzy! has a 
son ! Gaudete et latare I I rejoice 
in her joy! Edith is ill; Mistress 
Annah says seriously so. Always 
a shadow ! 

Farewell, dearest. I have quanti- 
ties of things to attend to. A thou- 
sand kisses. 

September to, 1869. 
M. de Verlhiac overwhelms us 
with presents — no means of refus- 



ing them. Marcella appears very 
happy, although as the time of de- 
parture approaches there is an oc- 
casional shade upon her brow. 
The health of M. de V. cannot ac- 
commodate itself to Brittany, and 
the Blue Nest was only a pretext. 
My mother is purchasing this well- 
named habitation, to sell it when 
an opportunity offers. Since we 
have launched out so strongly in 
good works, no one allows super- 
fluities. 

Gertrude saw Karl, who sighs 
for the day when he shall offer up 
at the altar the true and spotless 
Victim. I love what you tell me of 
your thoughts on seeing our sister. 
Ah ! dearest, all that God does he 
does well ; great sacrifices suit 
great souls. 

My mother gives fetes — to us, 
you understand. But what fetes! 
What a large share is left for the 
poor ! What a still larger part 
given to God ! Lucy, the amiable 
Lucy, gives herself unheard-of 
trouble for our pleasures. Ger- 
trude gracefully lends herself to 
our passing follies, to which her 
dark toilet makes a contrast. I 
asked her two days ago if she did 
not sometimes regret the luxuries 
to which she was accustomed. " Re- 
gret, Georgina ! Listen to Ludolph 
the Chartreux : * The Christian is 
happy, for, whatever may be his 
poverty, he has always in himself 
wherewith to buy the pearl and the 
treasure ; no other price is asked 
but himself." 

Sarah is in Spain, whence she 
sends me magnificent descrip- 
tions of the Pyrenees. " When 
will you come and gather roses on 
the banks of the Mancanares .^" 
asks my lively friend. 

Picciola is asking for me. You 
would be uneasy. May God have 
you in his keeping ! 



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Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister. 



(>i 



September i8, 1869. 

Ren6 has replaced me in my as- 
siduous correspondence — I have so 
much to do ! Will these words 
make you smile ? Nothing, how- 
ever, is more true ; in our hive every 
b^e has its share of work. M. de 
V. can no longer keep himself 
quiet ; Marcella weeps at the 
thought of going away for ever. 
Ren^ mentions tlie possibility of 
our again visiting Hy^res, and I 
want to persuade the future couple 
to giv5 their solemn promise to go 
thither. It seems as if a part of 
my heart were going to leave me. 

The Bishop of will bless 

the marriage. Oh ! would that I 
could put off this date. It is so 
sweet to have them here, these dear 
friends and the charming little 
Anna ! Good-by, Homer ! Good- 
by, our studious hours, our intimate 
conversations, our so perfect friend- 
ship ! Her room will remain fur- 
nished just as it now is; I shall 
make it a museum of souvenirs. 
You know that I have taken the 
portraits of all three. They wished 
for copies ; so you see why I was 
too busy to write to you. Only 
two days more — two days : what is 
that? 

My mother is very thoughtful on 
my account. For my sake she 
dreads this departure, this great 
void ; but Ren6 is at hand, so in- 
geniously good and devoted, so at- 
tentive, so fraternal ! Dearest, 
pray that they may be happy ! 

September 21, 1869. 
She is gone! These two days 
have passed away like a dream. I 
cannot bring myself to realize this 
idea. Oh ! what difference there is 
between the apprehension and the 
reality, from the expectation of sor- 
row to sorrow itself ! But she will 
be happy I How beautiful she was ; 

VOL. XXV. — 5 



Anna so graceful, and all three so 
affectionate ! I am now counting 
the hours until I receive a letter. 
I am going to occupy myself — study 
with Ren^, pray with Picciola, 
meditate with Gertrude. And Mar- 
garet — oh ! I must make up to her all 
the time given to Marcella, whom 
she regrets almost as much as I do. 

Picciola occupies me, and very 
much. She has felt this separation 
exceedingly, being very fond of 
Anna. Good-by till to-morrow, 
dear Kate ; I feel myself incapable 
of writing. 

22d.-*A word from Mme. de Verl- 
hiac — a greeting written yesterday 
morning in the carriage. They go 
farther and farther away. How 
could I flatter myself that I should 
be able to keep for myself alone 
these two Italian flowers ? Ger- 
trude has asked me to aid her in a 
singular operation: the accounts 
of all her farmers have to be clear- 
ly arranged. Adrien does not like 
these commonplace details. He 
found yesterday in the woods a 
little fellow of six years old, roguish 
as an elf, his hair a tangled bush, 
his face, hands, and feet alarmingly 
dirty. " Will you take charge of 
this child for an hour?" Ren^ 
asked me, as he had letters to write 
to his brother. What trouble I 
had to make the little savage clean ! 
Margaret acted as currier ; I was 
quite alone, dreamii^g of the past. 
This awoke me, I can assure you. 
When he was white^ I went to find 
Johaiina, who gave me a whole suit 
of clothes. This little wilding was 
the torment of his mother ; we are 
going to tame him. As a beginning 
I have put him to school. He is 
enchanted to see himself so fincy 
and looks at himself as if he were a 
relic. At the same time he is 
greedy, untruthful, obstinate, lazy 
— ^all vices in miniature. 



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Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister, 



We are going to-morrow to the 
town ; this always amuses the babies, 
Happy age, when every little change 
is a festivity ! If you knew what 
a strange sensation I experienced 
this morning on entering the draw- 
ing-room and not finding the two 
dear faces so long visible there ! 
I thought I should have wept or 
cried out — it would have done me 
good — but Gertrude began to con- 
verse with me, and the feeling pass- 
ed away. 

I never talk to you now either 
about my godson or the beautiful 
Emmanuel ; it is very remiss. Both 
are charming and do not make 
much noise. Dear little beings ! 
And the day will come when they 
will be our protectors, these two lit- 
tle nestlings whose warblings are so 
charming a harmony to our ears. 
I wish you could hear Margaret 
say, " My son !" This word has in 
her mouth such a penetrating sweet- 
ness ! 

Dear Kate, may God be with 
us! 

September 28, 1869. 

Can it possibly be true.? P^re 
Hyacinthe quits his convent and in 
some sort separates himself from 
the Roman Catholic Church. The 
bad newspapers vie with each other 
in their applauses, while the good 
ones groan. Louis Veuillot ener- 
getically blames. Pride has much 
to do with this great fall. Let us 
pray that he may come back, this 
apostle who has lost his way ! An- 
other star fallen ! 

Picciola daily grows weaker, and 
I now know, alas ! why she is dy- 
ing. I would fain give the account 
with her touching simplicity, but 
this charm belongs to her alone. 

ThTs morning I was in her room; 
she has not got up since the 22d. 
"Are you alone, aunt.?" "Yes, 
dearest." "Because I have some- 



thing to say to you. I have to ask 
your pardon." Poor angel ! " My 
life was my own, was it not, aunt } 
I could give it away V* " And why, 
then, did you give it away, my 
child .?" " Aunt, do not be so dis- 
tressed. You love Mme. Marcella 
very much, and Anna also. Well ! 
last year, at Orleans, during the 
winter, Anna had the fever. The 
doctor came; he examined her a 
long time, and it was I who con- 
ducted him to the door. I asked 
him if my little friend was very ill. 
* She is consumptive, this beautiful 
child, and will not be cured ♦with- 
out a miracle.' I was very much 
struck, but did not show it in any 
way, and from that day I offered 
all my prayers for her recovery. 
The day of my First Communion, 

aunt ! I was so happy. The 
good God had given me everything. 

1 tried to find a sacrifice to offer to 
him, and I had nothing but my 
life; so I asked him to take this 
in exchange for that of Anna. I 
felt at the same moment that I was 
heard, that my prayer would be 
fully granted. Oh ! how happy I 
was. But, my poor dear aunt, I see 
you so sad that I am almost sorry ; 
but then you have other nieces, and 
Mme. Marcella has only one daugh- 
ter. Do you forgive me .?" 

My God ! my God ! Can you 
understand, Kate, what I felt.? 
" My mother must not know of 
this," continued the gentle victim, 
after a long effort. " You will com- 
fort her, dear aunt ! Oh ! it is so 
consoling to die for others. I have 
a confidence that I shall go to 
heaven. Monsieur le Cur^ has 
told me not to be afraid. I have 
always suffered ever since my First 
Communion ; but my cross was not 
heavy like that of our Lord ! Oh ! 
I long so for heaven. On earth 
it is so difficult to keep one's self 



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iMiers of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister. 



67 



always in the presence of God ; we 
shall see him on high. Aunt, what 
joy it is to die !" 

Berthe came into the room, from 
which I hastened precipitately to 
hide my tears. I felt thoroughly 
overcome. What self-devotion ! 
What angelic desires ! I told all 
to Ren^, who had already his sus- 
picions : Anna had so delicate a 
chest, while our Mad's constitution 
was so strong. God has accepted 
the exchange. Poor Berthe ! VVhen 
she received Marcella with so sis- 
terly a welcome, how little she im- 
agined that with her death entered 
our dwelling ! I am proud of Pic- 
ciola — but I weep ! 

Ah ! dear Kate, let us bless God 
for aU. 

September 30, 1869. 

I live as in another world since 
this revelation. "The holy angels 
will come and take me," said Pic- 
ciola. Margaret, Berthe, Ther^se, 
Gertrude, and I succeed each other 
in watching by her. " All my body 
is broken !" she exclaimed in her 
delirium ; otherwise, never a com- 
plaint. She prays, and likes to hear 
singing; she is full of tenderness. 
I have no news of Edith. Anna 
has written from Lyons. 

Pray for those who remain, dear 
Kate! 

October i, 1869. 

She has received the last sacra- 
ments; her room exhales the per- 
fume of incense. We are all there, 
whispering prayers. 

2// October. — She is in heaven ! 
*' Dear angels, thanks, I come !" 
And her soul fled away. Oh! 
bow I suffer. I loved her too 
much! I write to you near to 
ker — ^near to her who is no longer 
there. I could have wished to fol- 
low her when the abb/ said : " Go 
forth from this world, Christian 
soul!' 



Did you know her well, this flower 
of heaven whose fragrance was so 
sweet ; this soul, open to every no- 
ble sentiment; this exceptional un- 
derstanding, which assimilated eve- 
rything and was ever advancing } 

My mother is well-nigh broken 
down ; Berthe is kneeling, and still 
kissing this brow so pure, these 
eyes whose gaze we shall behold 
no more. 

Raoul and Th^r^se weep togeth- 
er; Gertrude occupies herself in 
attending to the sad details ; and 
as for me, I would pour upon this 
paper all the desolation of my heart. 

Shall I have the courage to paint 
her thus — inanimate — dead.*^ O 
my God ! it is, then, true ? That 
caressing arm will never again pass 
itself round my neck. That be- 
loved voice will no longer resound 
in my ears. That aerial footstep will 
no more reveal her presence. She 
is gone ! She was full of life, and 
freely, voluntarily she has accepted 
death and has left us alone. 

Kate, how shall I pray, how shall 
I bless God? If you knew how I 
loved her ! 

October 12, 1869. 

I am beginning to rise up. For 
ten days I have been in a state 
of delirium. I saw Madeleine con- 
stantly by me, spoke to her, told 
her to wait for me — that I did not 
wish to live without her. Rend 
was in despair ; but his prayers and 
yours have been heard. A strange 
calm has succeeded to the disorder 
of my thoughts; I have the cer- 
tainty that Picciola and Edith have 
entered into everlasting rest. Yes, 
Edith ! How did I learn that she 
was dead } I do not know, but 
Rene saw that I knew it and no 
longer sought to hide it from me. 
Adrien leaves us to-day to go and 
bring hither Mary and Ellen, and 
also Mistress Annah, who is wanted 



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Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister, 



by Margaret. They compel me to 
stop. I love you. 

October 20, 1869. 

I am still weak,' dear Kate, but 
my soul is strengthened. Let us 
love God, let us love God ! I went 
at noon to the cemetery, to the be- 
loved grave. Rend accompanied 
me. Oh ! how he alsolovedher. How 
sweet she was when she spoke of 
him ! Raoul has taken Bert he and 
Thdr^se into Normandy for a fort- 
night ; their intense grief made him 
anxious. It is all like a dream ; but, 
alas ! she is no longer here. Let us 
so live that we may rejoin her ! 

A friend of Rent's gave Edith 
the comfort of embracing her son ; 
our dear friend's wilt is addressed 
to me. Rend is utterly opposed to 
the young girls' being brought up 
with us, and we shall no doubt place 
them at the Sacred Heart. Rend 
is right : no one could ever take the 
place of Picciola in my heart. 

Margaret and Gertrude have 
been angels of consolation to me. 
How shall I ever repay their ten- 
derness ! Ah ! it is good to be so 
loved. Let us always love each oth- 
er in Jesus, dear Kate ! 

October 25. 

The orphans are come, very 
touching in their mourning gar- 
ments. The good Mistress Annah 
has grown ten years older. Edith 
died the death of a saint ! How 
painfully this word death sounds 
in my heart ! 

My mother does not wish that 
Berthe should see them here; the 
generous Adrien offers to accom- 
pany them, but Margaret solicits 



this privilege, with the secret inten- 
tion, we believe, of paying the 
first year's expenses. Kind Mar- 
garet * I should like to have 
kept these children, but in every 
point of view it is impossible. 
Rend fears that I may love them 
too much — and you also, dear 
Kate. Thus it is decided that they 
are to leave us on the 5th. 

I send you the Journal of the 
last days of Edith ; Mistress Annah 
wished to give me this consolation, 
sweet and bitter at the same time. 
Dear old friend ! what good care 
we are going to take of her. I 
should like to ha/e her here. Karl 
will be made a priest on Christmas 
Eve ; we shall therefore be in Paris 
towards the loth of December. 
For how long ? I do not yet know. 
My mother has changed very much 
since our angel is no longer here. 
O Christ ! O Saviour ! O Sovereign 
Friend of our souls ! take compas- 
sion on our sorrows. 

Johanna is here, by me, with my 
beautiful godson on her knees, 
smiling and playing with him in a 
thousand ways. Oh ! how sweet was 
Piccioia in this same place. Alix 
and Margudrite come every minute 
to talk to me, to amuse me. Mar- 
garet occupies herself in reading to 
me serious and absorbing things; 
but — I constantly see her, my little 
dove that is flown away. 

Marcella is at Naples ; the letter 
of mourning reached her there. She 
does not know what her daughter's 
life has cost us, nor will she ever 
know it. Ah my God ! who would 
have believed that.i* 

Send me your good angel, dear, 
beloved sister ! 



TO BB CONTINUBD. 



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Presbyterian Infidelity in Scotland. 



69 



PRESBYTERIAN INFIDELITY IN SCOTLAND. 



The people of England, as his 
Eminence Cardinal Manning is fond 
of saying, never abandoned the 
Catlwlic faith; it was torn from 
them by violence. The people of 
Ireland M'ere made of sterner stuff; 
they clung to the faith, successfully 
resisting the pitiless persecutions to 
which they were subjected. But 
the people of Scotland joyfully re- 
ceived the new gospel and took it 
into their hearts with zealous ardor. 
In England the sovereign imposed 
the new religion upon the people, 
and they submitted to it; in Ire- 
land the whole authority of the 
civil power, exercised in the 
most cruel forms, was exhausted in 
vain attempts to compel the apos- 
tasy of the people. In Scotland 
the people apostatized by their own 
{notion and the Reformation there 
was essentially a popular movement. 
The late Archbishop Spalding, in 
his History of the Protestant Refor- 
mation, says that the Reformation 
in Scotland spread from low to high ; 
that it "worked its way up from 
the people, through the aid of the 
nobles, through political combina- 
tions and civil commotions, to 
the foot of the throne itself, and, 
after having gained the supreme 
civil power and deposed first the 
queen-regent and then the queen, 
it dictated its own terms to the new 
regent and the new sovereign ; and 
thus, by the strong arm, it firmly 
established itself on the ruins of the 
old religion of the country." The 
true explanation of the fact that the 
Reformation in Scotland was a 
popular movement is to be found in 



the words of a Protestant writer • 
quoted by Archbishop Spalding: 
" Scotland, from her local situation, 
had been less exposed to disturb- 
ance from the encroaching ambition, 
vexatious exactions, and fulmi- 
nating anathemas of the Vatican 
court " than other countries ; that is 
to say, the authority of the Holy See 
for a long time prior to the Reforma- 
tion had been scarcely felt in Scot- 
land; the wise and wholesome pro- 
visions of the canon law had fal* 
len into disuse ; the civil power 
had thrust its own creatures into 
benefices and bishoprics; and the 
people had become disgusted by 
** the scandalous lives, ostentatious 
pomp, and occasional exactions of 
the unworthy men who had been 
thus unlawfully foisted into the 
bishoprics and abbeys." 

In England and Ireland the in- 
fluence and authority of the popes 
had not been thus disregarded ; the 
church there had been kept tolera- 
bly pure, and the affection of the 
people had not been alienated by 
the faults and crimes of prelates 
and priests. In Ireland to-day, 
after three hundred and thirty-six 
years of Protestant assaults upon 
the faith, Catholic truth remains as 
firmly as ever rooted in the hearts 
and exemplified in the lives of the 
people. In England the effects of 
the retention of Catholic tradition 
are still to be seen : some of the 
great fasts ana festivals of the 
church are observed as legal holi- 
days; marriages are not solemniz- 

* Thomas McCrie, minister of the Gospel, Edin- 
burgh. 



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Presbyterian Infidelity in Scotland. 



cd at a later hour than that which 
formerly was fixed for the celebra- 
tion of the nuptial Mass; and re- 
spectable Protestants, belonging to 
the Nonconfonnist societies as well 
as to the Established Church, ab- 
stain from marrying or giving in mar- 
riage during Lent.* But in Scotland 
the " blessed Reformation " swept 
away all these " rags of Popery "; it 
had full course to run and be glori- 
fied ; and it made such thorough 
work that, for example, only within 
the past few years has even the most 
modest recognition of Christmas day 
as a festival been permitted. The 
Scottish Reformers, having burned 
the religious houses, stripped and 
disfigured the churches, and driven 
the priests from the land, set up the 
Bible as their fetich, and ordained 
that it should be worshipped in 
conformity with the precepts em- 
bodied in certain creeds and con- 
fessions of faith which they framed 
to suit themselves. For three hun- 
dred years the Scottish Presbyte- 
rians have been the most ardent 
Protestants in the world, and have 
boasted most loudly of their devo- 
tion to, and their implicit faith in, 
the written Word of God. This, 
and this alone, contained in itself 
all that was necessary for salvation; 
and it were better that a man should 
never have been born rather than 
that he should take away from, or 
add one word to, what was written 
in this book. God had not on the 
day of Pentecost called into being, 
by the power of the Holy Spirit, a 
body commissioned " to teach all 
whatsoever he had commanded un- 
til the consummation of the world " ; 
he had simply caused a book to 



* Moreover, the favor with which that parody of 
Catholic ceremony and Catholic truths known as 
litualism has been received in England, especially 
among the common people, b an evidence of the 
imperfect manner in which the Reformation there 
lias done its work. 



be written. " In the books of the 
Old and New Testaments,** they 
declared in their " Standards,** 
" the revelation of God and the de- 
claration of his will are commit- 
ted wholly unto writing . . . and 
they are all given by inspiration of 
God to be the only rule of faith and 
life.*' 'fhis has been the nominal 
faith of the Scotch Presbyterians 
ever since the dawn of the Refor- 
mation, and it is their nominal faith 
to-day. It has long been difficult, 
however, for the admirers of Scotch 
Presbyterianism to reconcile the fact 
that they were at once " the most 
Bible-loving and whiskey-lovingj 
people on the face of the earth*' . 
that their sexual immorality waji 
threefold that of the English, 
and tenfold that of the Catholic 
Irish ; and that marriage among 
them had become divested of 
every form of religious sanction. 
Close observers of what was go- 
ing on in Scotland had, indeed, 
from time to time perceived evi- 
dences of the existence and exten- 
sion of a curious phase of scepti- 
cism among the people — a hypo- 
critical and speculative scepticism. 
The leading journal of the country 
had for many years, with great skill 
and with the evident approbation 
of its constantly-increasing circle 
of readers, devoted itself to the 
stealthy inculcation of rationalism 
and of secularism in education. In 
private, and sometimes in public, 
leading members of the various 
branches of the Presbyterian Church 
had indulged in covert sneers at this 
or that article of faith, and every 
attempt to reprove or punish these 
heresies by the discipline of the 
church resulted in failure. Events 
have now occurred which reveal in 
a startling manner the extent to 
which infidelity has made conquest 
of the Scotch Presbyterian minis- 



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ters, and which show that those 
among them who still care to pro- 
fess their adherence to their stand- 
ards of faith are unwilling or afraid 
to attempt either the correction or 
the expulsion of their atheistic breth- 
ren. 

A new edition of the Encyclopedia 
Britannica has lately been publish- 
ed, the article " Angels " and the 
article " Bible " in which work were 
written by Professor W. R. Smith, 
of the Free Church College of 
Aberdeen. Both these articles con- 
tained statements which, in the mo- 
derate language of the official re- 
port before us, and from which we 
shall quote, " awakened anxiety in 
the minds of ministers and mem- 
bers of the church." The affairs 
of this college are managed by a 
committee, who are authorized to 
** originate and prosecute before the 
church courts processes against any 
of the professors for heresy or im- 
morality, according to the present 
laws of the church." On the 17th 
of May last this committee " had 
their attention called " to these 
writings of Professor Smith ; on the 
19th of September they appointed 
seven of their number — Mr. Laugh- 
ton, Principal Rainy, Principal 
Douglas, Sir Henry Moncreiff, Pro- 
fessor Smeaton, Dr. Gould, and 
Professor Candlish — to consider 
the two articles, and to report to 
the committee what action, if any, 
should be taken upon them. On 
the 17th of October the sub-com- 
mittee, two members dissenting, re- 
ported that they did not find it 
necessary to say anything about 
Professor Smith's views concerning 
" angels/' but that it would be ad- 
visable in the first instance to ask 
the professor if he had any expla- 
nation or apology to offer respect- 
ing his article upon the Bible. On 
the 14th of November the commit- 



tee received a communication from 
Professor Smith not at all in the 
nature of an apology ; and on the 
1 7th of January — eight months hav- 
ing been taken for consideration of 
the matter from the commencement 
— the committee made their report, 
which is addressed to the General 
Assembly of the church. They state 
that " after carefully examining the 
article * Bible,' and considering with 
attention the explanations which 
Professor Smith has been good 
enough to furnish," they have not 
found in the article sufficient ground 
" to support a process for heresy" — 
a conclusion from which one mem- 
ber of the committee, Dr. Smeaton, 
dissents, as will appear, with good 
reason. It is true, the committee 
go on to say, that Professor Smith's 
statements relating to "the date, 
authorship, and literary history " 
of certain books and portions of 
books in the Bible not only " differ 
from the opinions which have been 
most usually maintained in our 
churches," but are " such as have 
been maintained by writers who 
treat the Scriptures as merely hu- 
man compositions." But the com- 
mittee magnanimously decline to 
"assume that this circumstance is 
of itself a ground either of suspi- 
cion or complaint," inasmuch as 
" much liberty of judgment should 
be maintained." They confess, 
again, that they " have observed 
with regret that the article does 
not adequately indicate that the 
professor holds the divine inspira- 
tion " of the Bible, and that he does 
not " adequately state the view of 
the Bible taken by the Christian 
church as a whole." " A clear note 
on this point " was much needed, ^ 
but the professor wpuld not give it, 
and " the committee are compelled 
to regard this feature of the case 
with disapprobation," since it would 



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Presbyterian Infidelity in Scotland, 



have been so easy for the professor, 
by " a single sentence or clause of 
a sentence, at successive stages of 
his argument," to have "prevented 
the injurious effect which the com- 
mittee deprecate." The professor 
gave "decided opinions in favor 
of some of the critical positions 
maintained by theologians of the 
destructive school," and he con- 
sistently refrained from blowing hot 
and cold, as the committee wished 
him to do, " by showing decisively 
that he did not agree with their de- 
structive inferences." But since, 
in his communication to the com- 
mittee, Professor Smith " admits 
direct prediction of the Messias in 
the Old Testament," and receives 
three of the four gospels as " au- 
thentic and inspired," the com- 
mittee — Professor Smeaton again 
dissenting — did not think it wise to 
prosecute him for heresy on these 
points* They stumbled sadly, how- 
ever, in their attempts to explain 
why they resolved to acquit him 
of flagrant heresy in the expressions 
of his views " with respect to por- 
tions of the Pentateuch, and more 
particularly to the Book of Deute- 
ronomy." It would be bad enough, 
they say, had Professor Smith con- 
tented himself with maintaining 
that the Book of Deuteronomy in 
its present form could not have 
been written, for philological rea- 
sons, until eight huYidred years after 
the death of Moses. But this 
would not necessarily prove that 
the author of the book was not in- 
spired and did not faithfully record 
the history as it occurred. Profes- 
sor Smith did worse than this ; for 
he affirmed " that instructions and 
laws which, in the Book of Deu- 
teronomy, appear as uttered by 
Moses, are certainly post-Mosaic, 
and so could not, as a matter of 
fact, have been uttered by him." 



Professor Smith, say the committee, 
holds : 

** I. That various portions of the Levi- 
tical institutions, to which a Mosaic au- 
thorship is assigned in the Pentateuch, 
are of later date, having come into the 
form ill which they are exhibited only by 
degrees, and in days long subsequent to 
the age of Moses. This is held to be es- 
tablished by discrepancies between dif- 
ferent parts of Scripture, which are held 
to arise when the Mosaic origin is as- 
sumed. 

"2. In particular, the Book of Deute- 
ronomy, in portions of it which, ex fcLcie^ 
bear to be the record of utterances by 
Moses, makes reference to institutions 
and arrangements much later than his 
time. 

" 3. This is to be accounted for by as- 
suming that some prophetic person, in 
later times, threw into this form a series 
of oracles, embracing at once Mosaic 
revelations, and modifications, or adapta- 
tions which were of later development ; 
all together being thrown into the form 
of a declaration and testimony of Moses. 

"4. That, viewed especially with re- 
ference to the literary conceptions and 
habits of that time and people, the method 
thus employed was legitimate, and was 
such as the divine Spirit might sanction 
and employ. It was designed to teach 
that the whole body of laws delivered 
were the fruit of the same seed, had re- 
ceived the same sanction, and were alike 
inspire«l by the Spirit which spake by 
Moses. 

** 5. The sub-committee do not under- 
stand the professor to mean that this in- 
volved any fraud upon those to whom 
the book was delivered. It was given 
and taken for what it was ; however, it 
may subsequently have been misunder- 
stood, in the professor's view, in so far 
as it came to be believed to be an ordi- 
nary historical record of actual Mosaic 
utterances." 

The committee found themselves 
"obliged to regard this position 
with grave concern." They did 
not feel willing to admit the force 
of the evidence which Professor 
Smith relied upon as establishing 
the non-Mosaic character of some 
of the Deuteronomic laws ; and 



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Presbyterian Infidelity in Scotland, 



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" the hypothesis of inspired perso- 
nation applied to such a book as 
Deuteronomy " appeared to them 
"highly questionable in itself and 
in its consequences." This is stat- 
ing the case very mildly, especially 
as they go on to say that the so- 
called "explanations produced by 
Professor Smith in his statement 
have not relieved the apprehen- 
sions of the committee," but, on 
the contrary, have rather served 
" to make more evident the stum- 
bling-block for readers of the Bible 
arising from a theory which repre- 
sents a book of Scripture as putting 
into the mouth of Moses regulations 
that are at variance with institu- 
tions which the same theory sup- 
poses him to have actually sanc- 
tioned." This theory is "liable to 
objection and is fitted to create 
apprehension." It ascribes to the 
author of the book " the use of a de- 
vice which appears unworthy and 
inadmissible in connection with the 
divine inspiration and divine au- 
tJiority of such a book as Deute- 
ronomy.". . . "The admissions that 
the statements of the book regard- 
ing Moses are not true in the obvi- 
ous Sf-nse will operate in the way 
of unsettling belief." The com- 
miltee are compelled to admit that 
the article is " of a dangerous and 
unsettling tendency." Nevertheless, 
they declare that they cannot and 
will not exercise the rights and dis- 
charge the duties of their office by 
instituting a process against Pro- 
fessor Smith for heresy. He has 
written a most heretical, dangerous, 
and really blasphemous article, and 
has caused it to be published in a 
book of the highest character and 
of the most extensive circulation. 
But they have " a cordial sense of 
his great learning," and he has been 
good enough to say that although 
he has proved that the Holy Spirit 



lied in certain portions of Deute- 
ronomy, and lent himself to the 
perpetration of a fraud in other 
portions, still he can accept the 
book " as part of the inspired record 
of revelation, on the witness of our 
Lord and the testimonium Spiritus 
Sancti " — the testimony of the same 
Holy Spirit to whom he has imput- 
ed the crimes of falsehood and of 
fraud ! Therefore they declare that 
they find no fault in Professor 
Smith other than that of being a 
little too free in the utterance of 
his opinions, and, accordingly, they 
decide to let him go. 

From this free and easy deliver- 
ance four members of the committee 
dissented, but on different grounds. 
One of them thought that Profes- 
sor Smith's views respecting angels 
were as "destructive" and as full 
of " negations" as were his state- 
ments concerning the Bible, and 
that he should have been arraign- 
ed for heresy on this ground. An- 
other — Professor Candlish — was of 
the opinion that there was no 
" ground in the articles for concern 
about Professor Smith's views"; 
and a third — Mr. Whyte — insisted 
that, instead of indulging in " timid 
and cautious" blame, the commit- 
tee should have expressed their real 
feelings of approbation, and given 
utterance to " a hearty and grateful 
acknowledgment of the goodness of 
God to their church in the succes- 
sion of eminent theologians and 
teachers he was raising up among 
them," and of whom Professor 
Smith was the chief!* The fourth 
dissentient was Dr. Smeaton, of 
whom we have already spoken, and 
who, save the member who was dis- 
tressed about Professor Smith's 
opinions respecting angels, seems 
to have been the only orthodox per- 
son upon the committee. An ap- 
pendix to the report sets forth the 



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Presbyterian Infidelity in Scotland. 



reasons for his dissent at great 
length, but their purport may be 
given in a few words. The finding 
of the committee was " wholly in- 
adequate to the gravity of the of- 
fence" ; Professor Smith had offer- 
ed no retractation of his heresies, 
and he should have been arraigned 
at the bar of the church. It is ab- 
surd for the committee to avow 
" regret and grave concern" at the 
expression of heresy by a luminary 
of the church, and then to ** accept 
a mere profession of loyalty as a 
sufiicient reason for abstaining from 
further action." He exposes the 
inconsistency of the committee's 
statement that the professor's views, 
while ** injurious," " destructive," 
and " naturalistic," are still compa- 
tible with the belief that the book 
which he declares to be a forgery 
was inspired by the Holy Ghost. 

"I hold," says Dr. Smeaton, *'that 
the doctrine of inspiration and Profes- 
sor Smith's views are irreconcilable, and 
that this will be evident if, for example, 
we take account of his theory of Deute- 
ronomy or of his conception of the Song 
of Solomon. The view which he pro- 
pounds as to the origin of Deuteronomy 
is that- it is a fictitious personation of 
Moses by another man, in the unspeak- 
ably solema position of professing to re- 
ceive and communicate a divine revela- 
tion, and that the book was not compos- 
ed until many centuries after Moses' 
death. The point at issue is not alone 
the age and Mosaic authorship of Deute- 
ronomy, but whether this book of Scrip- 
ture is supposititious, and whether it was 
after a great interval of time composed 
and put into the mouth of Moses by an- 
other. This fra^udulent personation- the- 
ory is the lowest depth of criticism ; for, 
as has often been said, the mythical 
criticism had still this redeeming point, 
that it did not impute to the writers con- 
scious fabrication. The supposititious 
or personation-theory, on the contrary, 
is not in keeping with the character of an 
honest man, and wholly inconsistent 
with that of an ambassador from God ; 
and the attempt to exculpate the writer 



who is said to have put bis words into the 
mouth of Moses, on the supposition that 
it was well known at the time, only 
widens the sphere of the fraudulent de- 
ception, and makes the receivers of the 
book act in collusion with the writer in 
his crime. This tjieoiy, which I never 
expected to encounter in Scotland, over- 
looks the important fact that, in the very 
book to which such an origin is ascribed, 
we find the repeated condemnation of 
false prophets, of false testimony, and of 
adding to, or diminishing from, the Word 
of God ; and we must therefore suppose 
the writer practising deception while ex- 
posing falsehood in every form. Profes- 
sor Smith must make his choice between 
the reception of the book as an inspired 
revelation, with all that it purports to be, 
as written in the time of Moses, and as 
the work of Moses, or reject it altogeth- 
er as a fraud and entitled to no respect. 
There is no middle way. He cannot 
maintain its fictitious origin, and yet as- 
sert its inspiration. However conveni- 
ent it may be for a speculative theologian 
to oscillate between the two ideas, as 
the necessities of a daring criticism may 
suggest, the notion of a fabricated pro- 
phetic programme or of an inspired forge- 
ry will be regarded by the general commu- 
nity, as it has always been regarded by 
me, as no better than the very quintes- 
sence of absurdity. The robust com- 
mon sense of mankind scouts the possi- 
bility of the combination. For my 
part, I could not stultify myself before 
the church and the world by allowing 
such an incoherent and self-contradicto- 
ry juxtaposition of terms. But such a 
theory, if it could be endured for a^ mo- 
ment, would, it is evident, render inspi- 
ration incapable of vindication or de- 
fence. And the enemies of revelation, I 
believ©, could desire no more effective 
weapon in their warfare than the power 
to proclaim that a Christian church per- 
mitted a theological teacher to represent 
any one book of Scripture as an in- 
spired fabrication. But the question 
forces itself on our minds : If one book 
may be so described, what is to be the 
limit of this license, and how far is the 
concession to be extended in the way of 
giving a chartered right to similar carica- 
tures of the sacred oracles? I am oblig- 
ed to add that, in my judgment, Profes- 
sor Smith's treatment of the Book of 
Deuteronomy is tantamount to dropping 
it from the inspired canon. And the 



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Presbyterian Infidelity in Scotland. 



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same thing may be said of his mode of 
representing the scope and purport of 
the Song of Solomon, to which he denies 
the spiritual sense, and all that allusion 
to the communion between the Bride- 
groom and the Bride which the church 
of all ages — notwithstanding the way- 
ward tendencies of a few individual 
writers — has always regarded as imme- 
diately connected with its divine origin ; 
for no reason can be shown for its inspir- 
ation and canonical rank if it is to be in- 
terpreted on the low exegetical concep- 
tion that it is an earthly love-poem. It 
will not do to say that this is a dispute 
about the authorship of a book, and that 
die authorship of a book is of small mo- 
ment I have already stated how much 
more is involved. But the references to 
the Mosaic authorship of Deuteronomy, 
not only by Peter and Paul (Acts iii. 22 ; 
Rom. X. 6 ; x. 19), but by the Lord Jesus 
Christ himself (Matt. xix. 8), are so ex- 
press and definite that the denial of that 
one accredited fact tends to shake the 
inspiration of many other books of Scrip- 
ture which explicitly assert or imply it. 
In conclusion, I regret that the commit- 
tee, fettered by the interpretation which 
they have put upon their functions, have 
oot sent up with their report a strong 
recommendation to the Assembly to deal 
effectually with the negative and destruc- 
tive opinions brought to light in Profes- 
sor Smith's articles as wholly inconsis- 
tent with our recognized doctrines, and 
contrary to the genius of every Reformed 
Presbyterian church. This is the first 
instance that has occurred in any Scot- 
tish church of an attack on the genuine- 
ness of any book of Scripture on the 
part of an office-bearer within the church. 
And the question now raised, and which 
must be decided one way or other, is 
whether the negative criticism, with the 
rationalistic theology which uniformly 
goes along with it, is to claim a legiti- 
mate position within the pale of the Free 
Church of Scotland ? To that I cannot 
consent. The Continental churches, 
having neither our spiritual independ- 
ence nor our Scriptural discipline, can be 
no guide to us in this matter. Under the 
control of the state, they are obliged to 
allow all manner of latitudinarian opin- 
ions, and have ceased to put forth any ec- 
clesiastical testimony on great questions. 
We have what they want, and are bound 
to call the spiritual independence and 
Scriptural discipline, which are our dis- 



tinctive privilege, into active exercise or 
the side of the divine authority of Scrip 
ture. Unfaithfulness or weak conces-. 
sion at this juncture would allow two 
classes of professors, students, and 
preachers antagonistic to each other, and 
end in the long run, as all such false al- 
liances must end, in an ultimate separa- 
tion between the rationalistic and evan- 
gelical elements, as incapable of existing 
together. Any man of long views, or 
who has looked into the history of the 
church, must see this ; and, therefore, in 
the exercise of that inherent authority 
which we possess, the church must at 
once nip these opinions in the bud, and 
do so effectually. On one point I have 
not the shadow of a doubt. An attack 
on the genuineness and authority of 
Scripture, whether dignified by the title 
of the higher criticism or prompted by 
the lower scepticism, ought never to be 
permitted within the church on the part 
of any office-bearer. We can keep criti- 
cism within its proper limits, and this 
occasion may have been permitted to oc- 
cur that we may show to other chuiches 
how we can act in the exercise of our in- 
dependent jurisdiction." 

These bold and true words of Dr. 
Smeaton had no effect upon the de- 
cision of the committee ; and, so far 
as that decision goes, it must now be 
taken for granted that it is not here- 
sy for a minister of the Presbyterian 
Church to teach that portions of 
the Holy Scriptures are fictitious^ 
supposititious, fraudulent, and de- 
ceptive. By the same decision the 
Free Church of Scotland has " ren- 
dered inspiration incapable of vindi- 
cation or defence," and has placed 
it within the power of the enemies 
of revelation to say that a Chris- 
tian church permits a theological 
teacher to represent Scripture as 
an inspired fabrication. It might 
have been expected, however, that 
this decision would have been re- 
ceived with horror and consterna- 
tion by the Bible-loving laity of 
Scotland. The very contrary has 
proved to be the case, and the only 
reproof which the committee seems 



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Presbyterian Infidelity in Scotland. 



to have received is in the nature 
of a reproach for their weak affec- 
tation of disapproval of Professor 
Smith's heresies while really sym- 
pathizing with them. The minis- 
ters of the Free Church of Scot- 
land are wholly dependent upon 
the laity for their support, and the 
control of the laity over them is 
far-reaching, if it be not absolute. 
The decision in the case of Profes- 
sor Smith would have been differ- 
ent had not the laity of the church 
long since ceased, in a great mea- 
sure, to cherish that reverence for 
the written Word which distinguish- 
ed their ancestors. The Edinburgh 
Scotsman expresses its belief that 
there will be ** very extensive sat- 
isfaction" at the decision of the 
committee, and confidently assumes 
that " it will ultimately become the 
collective judgment of the Free 
Church." Dr. Smeatou, it says, is 
the one member of the committee 
belonging to the old orthodox par- 
ty in the church — " a party whose 
diminishing numbers entirely pre- 
clude the possibility of any view 
springing out of their turn of 
mind successfully asserting itself 
against the influence of the major- 
ity that has enjoyed so long and 
mollifying an experience in turning 
closed into open questions." Open 
questions ! The inspiration and 
authenticity of the Bible have be- 
come an open question among the 
Scotch Presbyterians, with the pro- 
bability that it will soon be decid- 
ed by a verdict against the book. 
The Scotsman ridicules the commit- 
tee for pretending to regard Profes- 
sor Smith's position with " grave 
concern" while they themselves 
" substantially sympathize with 
him," or else know that so many 
of the people agree with him that 
to prosecute him for heresy would 
be dangerous. 



Nor is it the Free Church of 
Scotland alone which has thus, to 
all appearance, lost its faith in the 
Scriptures and in the "Standards." 
The Rev. David Macrae, of Gou- 
rock, one of the most talented and 
popular ministers of the United 
Presbyterian Church of Scotland, 
declared recently in the presbytery 
of that body that he and very 
many — almost all — of his fellow- 
ministers had ceased to believe, and 
in some cases to preach, the tradi- 
tional creed of the church. He, 
for one, was henceforth resolved to 
be honest, and was determined no 
longer to profess what he had ceas- 
ed to believe, but the majority of 
his brethren, he thought, would 
continue for some time to be hypo- 
crites. " The relation of the cler- 
gy to the Standards was not an 
honest one," he said ; " the pro- 
fessed was not the actual creed of 
the church ; our church is profess- 
ing one creed while holding, and 
to a large extent preaching, anoth- 
er. I am determined to strike a 
blow, even though it should be my 
last, to liberate the church I love 
from the tyranny of a narrow creed 
and the hypocrisy of a professed 
adherence to it." 

The lapse of the Scotch Presby- 
terians into infidelity may seem to 
be a startling event, but it was in- 
evitable. If the Bible could have 
saved them, they would have been 
safe; but the Bible in itself never yet 
saved any one, for God did not or- 
dain that it should 'be written and 
preserved for that purpose. The 
Bible, indeed, points out the way to 
salvation ; it is a finger-post direct- 
ing men to the gate of heaven, but 
it is not that gate itself, nor even 
the key which opens it. All non- 
Catholic sects are certain, sooner 
or later, to lead their adherents to 
that pit of perdition on the brink 



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How Percy Bingham caught his Trout. 



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of which the Scotch Presbyterians 
now seem to be standing — the blind 
lead the blind, and both fall into 
the ditch. The Catholic Church 
in Scotland is small and weak; it 
is only within a very few years that 
her growth there has been at all 
perceptible, and the hierarchy has 
not been re-established there since 
it was swept away by the Refor- 
mation. But the rapid decline of 
Scotch Protestantism into practi- 



cal infidelity may have a favorable 
effect upon the interests of the 
church. The really pious of the 
people — and there are many such — 
may now begin to turn their eyes 
towards the living Teacher of 
God's word, and listen to her unerr- 
ing voice ; and when they enter her 
fold they can say that they have 
abandoned the church of their fa- 
thers in order to return to the 
church of their forefathers. 



HOW PERCY BINGHAM CAUGHT HIS TROUT. 



One lovely evening towards the 
end of the month of June, 187-, an 
outside car jingled into the pictu- 
resque little village of Ballynacush- 
la. The sun had set in a Hood of 
golden glory ; purple shadows wooed 
midsummer-night dreams on crested 
hill and in hooded hollow ; a per- 
fumed stillness slept upon the tran- 
quil waters of the Killeries, that wild 
but beauteous child of the Atlantic, 
broken only by the shrill note of 
the curlew seeking its billow-rocked 
nest, or the tinkle of the sheep-bell 
on the heather-clad heights of Car- 
rignagolliogue. Lights like truant 
stars commenced to twinkle in 
lonely dwellings perched like eyries 
in the mountain clefts, and night 
prepared to don her lightest mourn- 
ing in lAemory of the departed 
day. 

The rickety vehicle which broke 
vpon the stillness was occupied by 
two persons — a handsome, aristocra- 
tic-looking young man attired in 
fashionable tourist costume, and the 
driver, whose general " get-up " 
would have won the heart of Mr. 
Boucicault at a single glance. 

" That's a nate finish, yer honner,'* 
he exclaimed, as, bringing a wheel 



into collision with a huge boulder 
which lay in the roadway, he de- 
canted the traveller upon the steps 
of the " Bodkin Arms " at the im- 
minent risk of breaking his neck. 

The " Bodkin Arms," conscious 
of its whitewash and glowing amber 
thatch, stood proudly isolated. Its 
proprietor had been ** own man " to 
Lord Clanricarde, and scandal whis- 
pered that a portion of the contents 
of " the lord's " cellar was to be 
found in Tom Burke's snuggery be- 
hind the bottle-bristling bar. 

The occupant of the car was 
flung into the arras of an expectant 
waiter, who, true to the instincts of 
that remarkable race, had scented 
his prey from afar, and calmly 
awaited its approach. This Gany- 
mede was attired in a cast-off even- 
ing dress-coat frescoed in grease ; a 
shirt bearing traces of the despairing 
grasp of a frantic washerwoman ; a 
necktie of the dimensions of a win- 
dow-curtain, of faded brocade ; and 
waistcoat with continuations of new 
corduroy, which wheezed and chir- 
ruped with every motion of his lanky 
frame. His nose and hair vied in 
richness of ruby, and his eyes 
mutely implored every object upon 



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How Percy Bingham caught his Trout. 



which they rested for a sleep— or a 
drink. 

" You got my note ?" said the 
traveller interrogatively. 

" Yes, sir, of course, sir." Of 
course they had it. The post in the 
west of Ireland is an eccentric in- 
stitution, which disgorges letters 
just as it suits itself, and without 
any particular scruple as to dates. 

" Have you a table (fhdte here ?" 

This was a strange sound, but 
the waiter was a bold man. 

** Yes, sir, of course, sir ! Would 
you like it hot, sir V 

** Hot ! Certainly." 

*' Yes, sir, of course, sir ! With a 
taste of lemon in it?" 

" I said — Pshaw ! Is dinner 
ready ?" said the traveller impa- 
tiently. 

" Yes, sir, ^course, sir ; it's on the 
fire, sir," joyously responded the re- 
lieved servitor, although the fowls 
which were to furnish it were en- 
gaged in picking up a precarious 
subsistence at his very feet, and the 
cabbage to " poultice " the bacon 
tiabbily flourishing in the adjoining 
garden. 

** Get in my traps and rods " — the 
car was laden with fishing-tackle 
of the most elaborate description. 
" Have you good fishing here.?" 

"Yes, sir, of course, sir — the 
finest in Ireland. Trouts lepping 
into the fryin*-pan out of the lake 
foreninst ye. The marquis took 
twoscore between where yer stand- 
ing and Fin Ma Coole's Rock last 
Thursday ; and Mr. Blake, of Town 
Hill — more power to him ! — hook- 
ed six elegant salmon in the pool 
•ver, under Kilgobbin Head." 

" I want change of a sovereign." 

" Yes, sir, of course, sir — change 
for a hundred pound, sir. This way, 
sir. Mind yer head in regard of 
that flitch of bacon. It gave Cap- 
tain Burke a black eye on Friday, 



and the county inspector got a wal- 
lop in the jaw that made his teeth 
ring like* the bell in the middle 
o' Mass." And he led the way in- 
to the hotel. 

The charioteer, after a prolonged 
and exciting" chase through several 
interstices in his outer garment, suc- 
ceeded in fishing up a weather-bea- 
ten black pipe, which he proceeded 
to " ready" with a care and gravity 
befitting the operation. 

" Have ye got a taste o' fire, 
Lanty Kerrigan?" addressing a 
diminutive personage, the remains 
of whose swallow-tailed frieze coat 
were connected with his frame 
through the medium of a hay-rope, 
and whose general appearance bore 
a stronger resemblance to that of a 
scarecrow than a man and a broth- 
er. " I'm lost intirely for a shough. 
The forriner [the stranger] wudn't 
stand smokin-, as he sed the tobac- 
cy was infayrior, but never an offer 
he raed me av betther." 

" Howld a minnit, an' I'll get ye 
a hot sod.*' And in less than the 
time specified Lanty returned with 
a glowing sod of tuif snatched from 
a neighboring fire. 

" More power, Lanty !" exclaimed 
the car-driver, proceeding to utilize 
the burning brand. " Don't stan* 
too nigh the baste, avic^ or she'll be 
afther aiting yer waistband and 
lavin' ye in yer buff." 

"What soart av a fare have ye, 
Misther Malone ?" asked Lanty, 
now at a respectful distance from 
the mare. 

"Wan av th* army — curse o' 
Crummle an thim ! — from the bar- 
rack beyant at Westpoort." 

" Is it a good tack ?" 

"I've me doubts," shaking his 
head gravely and taking several 
wicked whiffs of his dhudheen. 
" He's afther axin' for change, an' 
that luks like a naygur." 



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" Thrue for ye, Misther Malone ! 
Did ye rouse him at all ?" asked 
the other in an anxious tone. He 
expected the return of the "forri- 
ner'* and was taking soundings. 

" Rouse him ! Begorra, ye might 
as well be endayvorin* to rouse a 
griddle. I'm heart scalded wud 
him. I soothered him wud stories 
av the good people, leprechauns, 
an' banshees until I was as dhry as 
a cuckoo." 

** Musha, thin, he must be only fit 
for wakin* whin you cudn't rouse 
him, Mickey Malone." 

** I'd as lieve have a sack o' pita- 
ties on me car as — " He stopped 
short and plunged the pipe into his 
pocket, as the object of the discus- 
sion suddenly appeared upon the 
steps. 

" Here is a sovereign for the car 
and half a sovereign for yourself," 
exclaimed the young officer, tossing 
the coins to the expectant Malone. 
" Shure you won't forget the little 
mare. Captain?" 

" Forget her } Not likely, or you 
either, Patsey." 

** Ye'll throw her a half a crown 
for to dhrink yer helth. Major ?" 

"Drink my health.? What do 
you mean ?" 

" Begorra, she'd take a glass o' 
sperrits wud a gauger, Curnil ; an' 
if she wudn't I wud. Me an' her is 
wan, an' I've dacent manners on my 
side, so I'll drink yer honner's helth 
an' that ye may never die till yer 
fit." 

"That sentiment is worth the 
money," laughed the traveller, 
tossing the half-crown in the air 
and disappearing into the hotel. 

*' Well, be the mortial frost, Mis- 
ther Malone," cried Lanty Kerri- 
gan in an enthusiastic burst of ad- 
miration, " but yer the shupayrior- 
cst man in Connemara." 

Percy Bingham, of the — th Regi- 



ment of the Line, found Westport 
even more dreary than the Curragh 
of Kildare. From the latter he 
could run up to Dublin in the eve- 
ning, and return next morning for 
parade, even if he had to turn into 
bed afterwards ; from Westport there 
was nothing to be done but the sum- 
mit of Croagh Patrick or a risky 
cruise amongst the three hundred 
little islands dotting Clew Bay. 
^^ Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch^en- 
trate* was written upon the en- 
trance to the town. All was dreari- 
ness, dulness, and desolation, emp- 
ty quays, ruined warehouses, and 
squalid misery. The gentry, with 
few exceptions, were absentees, and 
those whom interest or necessity 
detained in the country spent 
"the season" in London or Dub 
lin, returning, with weary hearts 
and empty pockets, to the exile of 
their homes^ there to vegetate until 
spring and the March rents, wrung 
from an oppressed tenantry, would 
enable them to flit citywards once 
more. To Bingham, to whom Lon- 
don was the capital of the world, 
and the United Service Club the 
capital of London, this phase in 
his military career was a horrid 
nightmare. Born and bred an En- 
glishman, he had been educated to 
regard Ireland as little better than 
a Fiji island, and considerably worse 
than a West African station; and, 
filled to the brim with Saxon pre- 
judice, he took up his Irish quar- 
ters with mingled feelings of dis- 
gust and despair. An ardent dis- 
ciple of Izaak Walton, he clung to 
the safety-valve of rod and reel, 
avenging his exclusion from May 
Fair and Belgravia by a wicked 
raid upon every trout-stream with- 
in a ten-mile radius of the bar- 
racks, and, having obtained a few 
days' leave of absence, arrived at 
Bailynacushla for the purpose of 



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How Percy Bingham caught his Trout. 



"wetting his line" in the saucy lit- 
tle rivers that joyously leap into 
the placid bosom of the land-lock- 
ed Killeries. 

** So my dinner is ready at last^** 
exclaimed Bingham pettishly. A 
good digestion had waited two 
mortal hours on appetite. 

** Yes, sir, of course, sir !" replied 
the waiter. " A little derangement 
of the cabbage, sir, lost a few min- 
utes, but" cheerily " we're safe and 
snug now anyway. There's darling 
chickens, sir ! Look at the lovely 
bacon, sir ! Survey the proportions 
of the cabbage, sir !" And rubbing 
his napkin across his perspiring 
brow, he gazed at the viands, and 
from the viands to the guest, in al- 
ternate glances of admiration and 
respect. 

" Have you a carte ?" 

" Yes, sir, 0/ course, sir — two of 
them ; likewise a shay and a cover- 
ed car." 

" A wine carte, I mean." 

" No, sir ; we get the wine from 
Dublin in hampers." 

Percy Bingham forgot that he 
was not in an English inn where 
the waiters discuss vintages ar)d 
prescribe peculiar brands of dry 
champagne. 

" What wines have you ?" 

" We've port wine, sir, and sherry 
wine, sir, and claret wine, sir, and 
Mayderial wine, sir," was the reply, 
run off with the utmost rapidity. 

" Get me a bottle of sherry !" 

" Yes, sir, 0/ course, sir." 

In a few minutes the gory-head- 
ed factotum returned with the wine, 
and, uncorking it with a tremendous 
flourish of arm, napkin, head, and 
hair, deliberately poured out an 
overflowing glassful of the amber- 
colored fluid, and drained it off. 

" What the mischief do you mean ?** 
demanded the young officer angrily. 

"I wanted for to make certain 



that your honner was getting the 
right wine." And placing the bottle 
at Percy Bingham's elbow, he some- 
what hastily withdrew. 

The gallant warrior enjoyed his 
chicken and bacon and " wisp of 
cabbage." The waiter had made 
his peace by concocting with cun- 
ning hand a tumbler of whiskey- 
punch, hot, strong, and sweet, which 
Bingham proceeded to sip between 
the whiffs of a Sabean-odored Lopez. 
Who fails to build castles upon the 
creamy smoke, as it fades impercep- 
tibly into space, wafting upwards 
aspirations, wishes, hopes, dreams — 
rare and roseate shadows, begot- 
ten of bright-eyed fancy ? Not 
Percy Bingham, surely, seated* by 
the open casement, lulled by the 
murmuring plash of the toying 
tide, gazing forth into the silent 
sadness of the gray-hooded sum- 
mer night. He had lived a butter- 
fly life, and his thoughts were of 
gay parterres and brilliant flowers. 
" Of hair-breadth 'scapes i* the im- 
minent deadly breach" he knew 
nothing. His game of war was 
played in the boudoir and draw- 
ing-room ; his castle was built in 
May Fair, his chatelaine an ideal. 
The chain of his meditation was 
somewhat rudely snapped asunder 
by an animated dialogue which had 
commenced in some remote region 
of the hotel, and which was now 
being continued beneath the win- 
dow whereat he reclined. The 
waiter had evidently been engaged 
in expostulating with Lanty Kerri- 
gan. 

" Don't run yer head against a 
stone wall, Lanty ainc. Be off to 
Knockshin, and don't let the grass 
grow under yer feet I" 

" Faix, it's little ould Joyce wud 
think av me feet ; it's me back he'd 
be lukkin for, an* a slip av a stick. 
Sorra a step I'll go." 



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How Percy Bingham caught his Trout. 



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" Miss Mary must get her parcel 
anyhow." 

" Let her sind for it, thin, av she's 
in sich a hurry." 

" An' so she did. Get a lind av 
a horse, Lanty." 

"Sorra a horse there's in the 
place, barrin* an ass." 

"Wirra! wirra! She'll take the 
tatch off the roof; the blood of 
the Joyces is cruel hot." 

" Hot or cowld, I'm not goin' three 
mile acrass tlie bogs — " 

" You could coax it into two be 
manes av a sup, Lanty." 

" Sorra a coax, thin. Coax it yer- 
Jelf, sence yer so onaisy." 

"What's the row.?" asked Percy 
Bingham from the window. 

"It's in regard to a parcel for 
Miss Joyce, yer honner," replied 
Lanty, stepping forward. 

" And who is Miss Joyce ?" said 
Percy, intensely amused. 

" O mother o* Moses ! he doesn't 
know the beautifullest craythur in 
the intire cunthry," exclaimed Lan- 
ty, hastily adding : " She's the fay- 
inaledaughther av ould Miles Joyce, 
of Knockshin bey ant, wan av the 
rale owld anshient families that kep' 
up Connemara sence the times av 
Julius Saysar." 

" And you have a parcel for her .'" 

" Troth, thin, I have, bad cess to 
it ! It kem up Lough Corrib, an' 
round be Cong, insted of takin' the 
car to Clifden, all the ways from 
Dublin, in a box as big as a turf 
creel. It's a gownd — no less — for a 
f^ate party to-night; an', begorra, 
while if 5 lyin* here they're goin' to 
Hay at Frinchpark." 

" It's too bad," thought Bingham, 
" to have the poor girl sold on ac- 
count of the laziness of this idle 
rascal. Her heart may be set upon 
this dress. A new ball-dress is an 
epoch in a young girl's existence, 
and a ball dress in this out-of-the 
VOL. xxv.^-6 



way place is a fairy gift. Hinc il- 
ia lachrymtE! How many hopes 
cruelly blasted, how many antici- 
pated victories turned into humiliat- 
ing defeat. If it were not so late — 
By Jove ! it shall not be." And 
yielding to a sudden impulse, Percy 
Bingham ordered Kerrigan to start 
for Knockshin. 

" It's five mile, yer honner, an' — " 

"There is sixpence a mile for 
you. Go!" And in another instant 
the parcel-laden Lanty had taken 
to the bog like a snipe. 

Percy Bingham attacked his 
breakfast upon the following morn- 
ing with a gusto hitherto unknown 
to him. " I wonder did that girl" 
— he had forgotten her name — " get 
the dress in time ? I hope so. How 
fresh these eggs are ! I wonder if 
she's as pretty as that ragamuffin 
described her } These salmon cut- 
lets are perfection. I must have a 
look at her, at all events. 'Pon my 
life ! those kidneys are devilled to 
a grain of pepper. This ought to 
be a good trout day. One more 
rasher. By George ! if the colonel 
saw me perform this breakfast, he'd 
make me exchange into the heav- 
ies." 

Lighting a cigar and seating him- 
self upon a granite boulder by the 
edge of the inlet, the purple moun- 
tains shutting him in from the world, 
he proceeded to assort his Hies and 
to " put up " his casts. 

" Musha, but yer honor has the 
hoighthav decoys!" observed Lanty 
Kerrigan, touching the dilapidated 
brim of his caubeen, and seating 
himself beside him. There is a 
masonry amongst the gentle craft 
which levels rank, and "a big fish" 
will bring peer and peasant cheek 
by jowl on terms of the most fami- 
liar intercourse. 

" Yes, that's a good book," said 
Percy, with a justifiable pride in his 



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How Percy Bingham caught his Trout. 



tone. The colors of the rainbow, 
the ornithology of- the habitable 
globe, were represented within its 
parchment folds. "This ought to 
be a good day, Lanty." 

"Shure enough," looking up at 
the sky. " More betoken, I seen 
Finnegan's throut as I come acrass 
the steppin'-stones there below." 

"Finnegan's trout! What sort 
of a trout is that.>" asked the 
officer. 

"Pether Finnegan was a great 
fisher in these parts, yer honor. 
Nothin* cud bate him. He'd ketch a 
fish as shure as he wetted aline, an' 
no matther how cute or cunnin', he'd 
hav thim out av the wather before 
they cud cry murther. But there 
was wan ould throut of shupayrior 
knowledge that was well fed on the 
hoighth av wurrums an* flies, an* he 
knew Pether Finnegan, an', begor- 
ra, Pether knew him. They used 
for to stand foreninst wan an- 
other for days an' days, Pether flap- 
pin' the wather, an' th* ould throut 
flappin' his tail. * I'll hav ye, me 
man,' sez Pether. 'I'll have ye, av 
I was to ketch ye in me arms like 
a new born babe, sez he. * I never 
was bet be a man yet,* sez he, *an' 
be the mortial I'm not goin' for to be 
bet be a fish.' So he ups, yer honor, 
an', puttin' a cupple o' quarts o' 
whiskey in his pockets for to keep 
up his heart, he ups an* begins for 
to fish in airnest an* for the bare 
life. First he thried flies, an* thin 
he thried wurrums, an' thin he 
thried all soarts av combusticles ; 
but th' ould throut turned up his 
nose at the entirety, an' Pether seen 
him colloguerin' wud the other 
throuts, an' puttin' his comether on 
thim for to take it aisy an' lave 
Pelht^r's decoys alone. Well, sir, 
Pether Finnegan was a hot man an* 
aisy riz — the heavens be his bed! — 
an' whin he seen the conspiracy for to 



defraud him, an* the young throuts 
laffin* at him, he boiled over like a 
kittle, an.' shoutin', * I'll spile yer 
divarshin,* med a dart into the river. 
His body was got, the bottles was 
safe in his pockets, but, be the mor- 
tial frost, th' ould throut got at 
the whiskey an* dhrank it every 
dhrop.*' 

" I must endeavor to catch him," 
laughed Percy Bingham. 

" Ketch him I" exclaimed Lanty 
indignantly. " Wisha, you wudn't 
ketch him, nor all the fusileers an' 
bombardiers in th* army wudn't 
ketch him, nor th' ould boy him- 
self — the Lord be betune us an' 
harm ! — wudn't ketch him. He's as 
cute as the say-sarpint or the whale 
that swallied Juno." 

"What do the trout take best 
here?" asked Bingham, whose pre- 
parations were nearly completed, his 
rod being set up and festoons of 
casiing-lines encircling his white 
felt hat. 

" Wurrums is choice afther a 
flood; dough is shupayrior whin 
they're leppin' lively; but av all the 
baits that ever consaled a hook 
there's non aiquail to corbait — it's 
the choicest decoy goin*. A throut 
wud make a grab at a corbait av 
the rattles was in his troath an* a 
pike grippin' him be the tail." 

Lanty Kerrigan was told off" as 
cicerone, guide, philosopher, and 
friend. 

" I suppose I am safe in fishing 
these rivers. No bailiff" or hinder- 
ance ?" asked Percy Bingham of 
the landlord of the "Bodkin 
Arms." 

" There's no wan to hinder you, 
sir ; so a good take to you," was the 
reply. "I hope ye won't come 
across old Miles Joyce, for if ye do 
there'll be wigs on the green," he 
added under his breath as he turn- 
ed into the bar. 



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How Percy Bingham caught his TrouL 



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A cook it was her station, 
The first in the Irish nation. 
Wnd caivin* blade she'd slash away to the company'i 
admiratioii, 

sang Lanty Kerrigan, prolonging 
the last syllable — a custom with his 
class — into a kind of wail, as he 
merrily led the way through a nar- 
row mountain pass, inaccessible save 
to pedestrians, in the direction of 
the fishing-ground. It was a som- 
bre morning. Nature was in a medi- 
tative mood, and forbade the prying 
glances of the sun. The white 
mists hung like bridal veils over hill 
and dale, mellowing the dark green 
of the pine-trees and the blue of 
the distant Atlantic, occasionally 
visible as they pursued their zigzag, 
upward course. A light breeze — " the 
angler's luck" — gently fanned the 
cheek, and the sprouting gorse and 
tender ferns were telling their rosa- 
ries on glittering beads of diamond 
dew. 

" This is Lough Cruagh, yer 
honor, an' there's the boat ; av ye 
don't ketch the full av her, it's a quare 
thing." The lake, a pool of dark- 
brown water, lay in the lap of an 
amphitheatre of verdureless, grim, 
gaunt-looking mountains. It was a 
desolate place. No living thing 
broke upon the solitude, and the si- 
lence was as complete as if the bar- 
ren crags had whispered the sin- 
gle word " hush " and awaited the 
awful approach of thunder. A road 
ran by the edge of the lake, but it 
was grass-grown and showed no 
sign of traffic, not even the imprint 
of a horse's foot. 

** Now she's aff," cried Lanty, seiz- 
ing the oars. " Out wud yer flies, an' 
more power to yer elbow." 

The sport was splendid. No 
sooner had his tail-fly touched the 
▼ater than an enormous trout 
plunged at it with a splash like that 
of a small boy taking a header, and 
away went the line off" the reel as 



though it were being uncoiled by ma- 
chinery — up the lake, down the lake, 
across the lake ; now winding in, 
now giving the rod until it bent like 
a whip; now catching a glimpse of 
the fish, now fearing for the line on 
the bottom rocks. 

" If the gut howlds ye'll bate him, 
brave as he is," exclaimed Lanty 
Kerrigan in an ecstasy of appre- 
hension. 

The fish was taking it quietly — 
il faut reculer pour mieux sauter — 
preparing for another effort. Percy 
Bingham wiped the perspiration 
from his brow ; his work was cut 
out for him. 

"Now's the time for a dart o' 
sperrits," said Kerrigan, dexterously 
shipping his oars and unfastening 
the lid of the hamper. '* Ye won't, 
yer honner .?" — Bingham had ex- 
pressed dissent. '* Well, begorra, 
here's luck, an' that it may be good," 
pouring out a dropsied glassful and 
tossing it off". " That's shupayrior," 
with a smack; "its warmin' me 
stomick like a bonfire ! Whisht !" he 
added in an alarmed whisper, " who 
the dickens is this is comin* along 
the road .?" 

A mail phaeton, attached to a 
pair of spanking grays, came swift- 
ly and silently along the grass- 
grown causeway. An elderly, aris- 
tocratic-looking man was driving, 
and beside him sat a young and 
beautiful girl. ** Be the hokey ! 
we're bet; it's ould Miles Joyce 
himself," cried Lanty Kerrigan. 

" Is that Miss Joyce, the young 
lady to whom you took the box 
last night .^" asked Percy somewhat 
eagerly. 

" Och wirra! wirra ! to be shure 
it is, an' that same box is our only 
chance now." 

" Pull nearer shore, Lanty," said 
the young officer, who was very 
anxious for a stare. " Good style," 



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How Percy Bingham caught his Trout. 



he muttered. "Tight head, deli- 
cious plaits, Regent Street hat — 
ma foi I yf\io would think of meet- 
ing anything like this in a devil's 
punchbowl ? Pull into shore, man," 
he testily cried. 

" Shure I'm puUin* me level 
best." 

" Not Mtf/ shore, you idiot. Pull 
for the carriage *" Lanty was strain- 
ing in the opposite direction. 

"Are ye mad, sir.^" whispered 
Kerrigan. " I wudn't face ould 
Joyce this blessed minit for a crock 
o' goold." 

The carriage drew up, and the 
driver in an authoritative voice 
shouted : " Bring that boat here." 

" We're bet ; I tould you so," 
gasped Lanty, reluctantly heading 
the boat in the direction of the 
carriage. A few strokes brought 
them to the beach. 

Percy Bingham raked up his eye- 
glass and gazed ardently at Mary 
Joyce, who returned the stare with 
compound interest. Irish gray 
eyes with black, sweeping lashes, 
hawthorn-blossoms on her brow, 
apple-blossoms on her cheeks, rose- 
buds on her lips, purple blood i» 
her veins, youth and grace and 
modesty hovering about her like a 
delicious perfume. 

** May I ask by whose authority 
you are fishing here?" Mr. Joyce 
was pale, and suppressed anger scin- 
tillated in his eyes. There are a 
great many things to be done with 
impunity in Connemara, but poach- 
ing is the seven deadly sins rolled in- 
to one. " Thou shalt not fish" is the 
eleventh commandment. Bingham 
felt the awkwardness of his position 
. at a glance, and met it like a gentle- 
man. 

" I cannot say that I am here by 
any person's authority. I am stop- 
ping at the * Bodkin Arms ' — " 

" Och murther ! murther ! howld 



your whisht," interposed Lanty in » 
hoarse whisper. 

" Silence, fellow !" cried Bingham. 
" I am stopping at the * Bodkin 
Arms,' and, upon asking the pro- 
prietor if there was any hinderance 
to my fishing, he replied that there 
was none. lought, perhaps, to have 
been more explicit with him." 

" Av coorse ye shud," interrupt- 
ed Lanty. 

"And I can only say " — here he 
stared very hard at Mary Joyce — 
"that it mortifies me more than I 
can possibly express to you to be 
placed in this extremely painful po- 
sition." 

" Do not say one word about it,'* 
said Mr. Joyce in a courteous tone. 
"With the proprietor of the 'Bod- 
kin Arms' I know how to deal, and 
with you too, Lanty Kerrigan." 
Lanty wriggled in the boat till it 
rocked again. " But as for you, sir, 
all I can say is that I regret to have 
disturbed your fishing, and I wish 
you very good sport.** And he bow- 
ed with haughty politeness. 

" I thank you very much for your 
courtesy," bowed Bingham, who had 
by this time landed from the boat, 
" but I shall no longer continue an 
intruder." And seizing his rod, he 
snapped it thrice across his knee 
and flung it into the lake. 

It was Mary Joyce's bright eyes 
that led him to this folly — he want- 
ed to be set right with her. 

" Oh ! how stupid," she exclaim- 
ed, starting to her feet. 

"Thrue for ye, miss," added 
Lanty — " two-])ound tin gone like a 
dhrink, an' an illigant throut into 
the bargain." 

" A wilful man must have his 
way," said Mr. Joyce ; " but 1 hope, 
sir, that you will afford me an op- 
portunity of enabling you to enjoy 
a day's sport in better waters than 
these." And lifting his hat, he waved 



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How Percy Bingham caught his Trout. 



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an adieu as the fiery grays plunged 
onwards and out of sight. 

And Mary Joyce! Yes, that charm- 
ing little head bent to him, those 
sweeping lashes lifted themselves 
that the glory of her gray eyes 
might be revealed to him, the rose- 
bud lips had dropped three perfum- 
ed petals, three insignificant little 
words, " Oh ! how stupid " ; and 
these were the first words in the 
first chapter of Percy Bingham's 
first love. 

He found the following note 
awaiting him at the hotel : 

" Knockshin, June 28. 

" Mr. Joyce will be happy if Mr. 
Bingham will take a day on Shau- 
raunthurga — Monday, if possible — 
as Mr. J. intends fisliing upon that 
day. A salmon rod and fiies are at 
Mr. Bingham's disposal. 

** Bingham, Esq." 

Percy Bingham sent a polite ac- 
knowledgment and acceptance, and 
wished for the Monday. It was 
very late that night when the war- 
rior returned to his quarters. He 
had been mooning around Mary 
Joyce's bower at Knockshin. 

"What Masses have you here, 
Foxey?" asked Bingham of the 
waiter, whose real name was Red- 
mond, but to whom this appellation 
was given on account of the color 
of his hair. 

" The last Mass is first Mass now, 
sir. Father James is sick, an d Father 
Luke, a missioner, is doing duty for 
the whole barony." 

** Is Mr. Joyce, of Knockshin, a 
Catholic?" This in some trepida- 
tion. 

'* Yes, sir, of course, sir — wan of 
the ould stock, sir ; and Miss Mary, 
his daughter, sir, plays the harmon- 
acum, sir, elegant/' 

"What hour does Mass com- 
mence ?" 



" That's the first bell, sir, but 
they ring two first bells always." 

Percy Bingham belonged to a 
family that had held to the faith 
when the tide of the Reformation 
was sweeping lands, titles, and 
honors before it. He fought for the 
Catholic cause when it became 
necessary to strike a blow ; and as 
he was the only " popish " officer in 
the regiment, his good example de- 
veloped into a duty. 

Just as he arrived at the church 
door the Joyce carriage drew up. 
Mr. Joyce handed out his daughter. 
The gray eyes encountered those 
of the young officer, who lifted his 
hat. Such a smile ! — a sunbeam on 
the first primrose of spring. 

" I was glad to get your note, 
Mr. Bingham. Could you manage 
to come over to breakfast ? Mili- 
tary men don't mind a short 
march." And Mr. Joyce shook 
hands with him. 

'* Am I to have the pleasure of 
hearing Miss Joyce's harmonium 
to-day V* asked Percy. 

" No ; Miss Joyce '§ harmonium 
has a sore throat." 

Poor Bingham struggled hard to 
say his prayers, to collect his wan- 
dering thoughts. He was badly 
hit ; the ruddy archer had sent his 
arrow home to the very feathers. 
He humbly waited for a glance 
as Miss Joyce drove away after 
Mass^and he got it. He was su- 
premely happy and supremely mis- 
erable. 

The " missioner," a young Domi- 
nican, very tall and very distin- 
guished-looking, crossed the cha- 
pel yard, followed by exclamations 
of praise and admiration from vo- 
teens who still knelt about in pic- 
turesque attitudes : " God be good 
to him!'* "The heavens open to 
him !" ** May the saints warm him 
to glory !" while one old woman^ 



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86 



How Percy Bingham caught his Trout. 



who succeeded in catching the 
hem of his robe, exclaimed enthu- 
siastically : 

" Och, thin, but it's yerself that 
knows how to spake the word o' 
God ; it's yerself that's the darlint 
fine man. Shure we never knew 
what sin was till ye come amongst 
us." 

Percy Bingham found Knock- 
shin a square-built, stone man- 
sion, with a "disinheriting coun- 
tenance " of many windows, sur- 
rounded by huge elms containing 
an unusually uproarious rookery. 
A huge " free classic " porch sur- 
mounted a set of massive steps, 
supported by granite griffins grasp- 
ing shields with the Joyce arms 
quartered thereon. A lily-laden 
pond, encircled by closely-shaven 
grass sacred to croquet, stood op- 
posite tlie house, and a pretentious 
conservatory of modern construc- 
tion ran along the greater portion 
of one wing. 

The gallant warrior, regretting 
certain London-built garments re- 
posing at Westport, arrayed him- 
self in his " Sunday best," and, be- 
ing somewhat vain of his calves, 
appeared in all the woollen bravery 
of Knickerbockers and Highland 
stockings. 

Miss Joyce did the honors of the 
breakfast-table in white muslin 
and sunny smiles. Possessing the 
air of a high-born dame, there was 
an Irish softness, like the mist on 
the mountains, that imparted an in- 
describable charm to all her move- 
ments, whilst a slight touch of the 
brogue only added to the music of. 
a voice ever soft, gentle, and low. 

Percy, who could have talked "like 
a sewing-machine to Lady Clara 
Vere deVere, found his ideas dry up, 
and, when violently spurred, merely 
develop themselves in monosylla- 
bles. He had rehearsed several 



bright little nothings which were to 
have been laid like bonbons at her 
feet. Where were they now ? 

She knew some men in the ser- 
vice — Mr. Poynter in the Rifles. Did 
he know Mr. Poynter, who danced 
so well, talked so charmingly, and 
was so handsome ? Yes, he knew 
Poynter, and hated him from that 
moment. Did he know Captain 
Wyberts of the Bays, the Victoria 
Cross man whom she had met at 
the Galway Hunt Ball ? He knew 
Wyberts, and cursed the luck that 
placed no decoration upon his tunic 
but a silken sash. 

"By the way, you must be the 
gentleman who interested himself 
in my toilet on Friday night. 
Lanty Kerrigan spoke burning 
words in your favor, if you are the 
preux chevalier. Are you V 

" I assure you. Miss Joyce, I 
didn't know who you were at the 
time, when the blackguards seemed 
lazy about your parcel." 

"If you had known me, would 
that have made any difference, Mr. 
Bingham ?" she asked laughingly. 

"It would." 

** In what way ?" 

" I would have thrashed Lanty 
Kerrigan and have brought the 
parcel myself." He threw so much 
earnestness into this that the red 
blood flushed up to the roots of 
Mary Joyce's rich brown hair. " I 
must see to my tackle," she said in 
a confused way. 

" Are you an angler, Miss Joyce .?" 

" Look at my boots " — a pair of 
dainty, dumpy little things such as 
Cinderella must have worn on 
sloppy days when walking with the 
prince, with roguish little nails all 
over the soles crying, "Stamp on us; 
we like it," and creamy laces fit for 
tying up bride-cake. 

"By Jove!" exclaimed Percy 
Bingham, and that was all he was 



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How Percy Bingham caught his Trout. 



87 



able to reach at that particular mo- 
ment. He thought afterwards of 
all he could have said and — didn't. 

A walk of half a mile brought 
them to the Shaurauntliurga, or 
" Boiling Caldron," whose seething 
waters dashed from rock to rock, 
and boiled in many whirlpools as it 
rushed madly onwards to the wild 
Atlantic. 

What did Bingham care about the 
fishing 1 Not a dump. He stood 
by her side, set up her cast, sorted 
her flies, spliced the top joint of her 
rod, and watched with feverish anx- 
iety the eccentric movement of 
her gorgeous decoy, as it whirled 
hither and thither, now on the peat- 
brown waters, now in the soap-suds- 
like foam. 

" Bravissima\ Splendidly struck !" 
he cried with enthusiastic delight 
— he felt inclined to pat her on the 
back — as the young Galway girl, 
with "sweet and cunning" hand, 
hooked her fish with the aplomb 
and dexterity of a Highland gillie. 
*' Give him line, plenty of rope, and 
mind your footing !" 

"A long hour by Shrewsbury 
clock" did Mary Joyce play that 
salmon. Her gloves were torn to 
shreds, her hat became a victim 
to the Shauraunthurga, her sheeny 
hair fell down her shoulders long 
below her waist, her boasted boots 
indicated eruptive tendencies, but 
the plucky girl still held on. " Let 
roe alone, please," she would cry 
as her father or Bingham tendered 
their services ;"rm not half-tired 
yet." The color in her cheeks, the 
fire in her eye, the delicate nostril 
expanded, the undulating form — 
the British subaltern saw all this, 
and almost envied the fish, inas- 
much as it was her centre point of 
interest. 

*• The landing-net ! Quickly ! I 
have him now!" 



Percy Bingham darted forward, 
caught his foot in the gnarled root 
of a tree, and plunged headforemost 
into the boiling waters. An expert 
swimmer, he soon reappeared and 
swam towards the bank, still grasp- 
ing the net. Finding his righi arm 
powerless, and having succeeded in 
gaining footing, he placed the net 
beneath the fish, which with a 
bound sprang clear, and, breaking 
the line that Miss Joyce had slack- 
ened in her anxiety for the safety 
of her guest, was, in an exhausted 
condition, floundering down the 
stream, when Percy, by a supreme 
effort, clasped it fiercely in his left 
arm and flung "himself on to the 
bank. 

" Your fish after all. But you 
look ill, Mr. Bingham — dreadfully 
ill,' cried the agitated girl. ** Your 
arm — " 

" Is broken," he said. 

Assisted by Mr. Joyce and his 
daughter, and with the fractured 
limb in a sling constructed of \ 
handkerchiefs and fishing-line, poor 
Bingham returned to the house. 
He fought bravely against the 
pain, and attempted one or two 
mournful jokes upon the subject 
of his mishap ; but every step was 
mortal anguish, and he expected to 
feel the serrated edges of the bones 
sawing out through his coat-sleeve. 

" I must insist upon being permit- 
ted to return to my hotel, Mr. 
Joyce," said Percy Bingham when 
they had arrived. 

" If you want every bone in your 
body broken, you'll repeat that again, 
Bingham. Here is a roorii ready 
for you, and here, in the nick of 
time, is Doctor Fogarty." 

" I cotch him at the crass-roads," 
panted the breathless messenger 
whom Mr. Joyce had despatched 
in quest of the bone-setter. 

" A broken arm, pooh hoo ! And 



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Haw Percy Bingham caught his Trout, 



so it is — an elegant fracture, pooh 
hoo ! You did it well when you 
went about it. Lend me your 
scissors, Miss Mary, and tear up a 
sheet into bandages. I'll soon set 
it for him, pooh hoo ! Ay, wince 
away, ma bouchal ; roar murdher, 
and it will do you good, pooh hoo ! 
Some splints now. Fell into the 
river, pooh ho ! After a salmon. 
You landed him like a child in 
arms. I forgive you, pooh hoo ! 
I've room for the fish in me gig, 
and broiled salmon is — pooh hoo ! 
That's it ; the arm this way, as if ye 
were goin* to hit me. Well done, 
pooh hoo ! Ars longa est ; so is your 
arm — an elegant biceps, pooh hoo ! 
Now, sir, tell me if there's a surgeon- 
major in the whole British army, 
horse, foot, and dragoon, that could 
set your arm in less time, pooh 
hoo y and the doctor regarded the 
swathed and bandaged limb with 
looks of the profoundest admira- 
tion. 

"I shall want to get to barracks — " 
" Ne'er a barracks will ye see this 
side of Lady Day; so make your 
mind easy on that score, pooh hoo ! 
Keep in bed till I see you again, 
pooh hoo! 1*11 order you some- 
thing to take about bed-time, but 
it wont be whiskey-punch, pooh 
hoo ! " And the genial practi- 
tioner pooh-hoo'd out of the apart- 
ment. 

How delightful is convalescence — 
that dreamy condition in which the 
thoughts float upwards and the 
earthly tenement is all but ethereal- 
ized ! Percy Bingham, as he re- 
clined upon a sofa at an open win- 
dow, through which the perfume of 
flowers, the hum of summer, with the 
murmur of the rolling Shauraun- 
thurga, stole like strains of melody, 
lay like one entranced, languidly 
sipping the intoxicating sweets of 
the hour, forgetful of the past, 



unmindful of the future. The 
events of the last few days seemed 
like a vision. Could it be possible 
that he would suddenly awake and 
find himself in the dismal walls of 
his quarters at Westport, far, far 
away from chintz and lace and 
from her ? No ; this was her book 
which lay upon his lap ; that bouquet 
was culled by her fair hands; the 
spirited sketch of a man taking a 
header spread-eagle fashion was 
from her pencil and must be sent 
to Punch, She was in everything, 
everywhere, and, most of all, in the 
inner sanctuary of his heart. 

He had not seen much of her — a 
visit in the morning like a gleam 
of sunlight; a chat in the gloaming, 
sweet as vesper-bell; occasional 
badinage from the garden to his 
window, and that was all. How 
could he hope to win her, this 
peerless girl, this heiress of the 
" Joyce country," whose gray eyes 
rested upon mead and mountain, 
lake and valley, her rightful dower ? 
He sickened at the thought. Had 
she been poor, he would woo, and 
perhaps — It was not to be. He 
had tarried till it was too late ; he 
had cut down the bridge behind him, 
burned his boats, and he must now 
ford the river of his lost peace of 
mind as best he might. 

Days flew by, and still the young 
officer lingered at Knockshin 
Like the fairy prince in the en- 
chanted wood, he could discover no 
exit. Croquet had developed into 
short strolls, short strolls into long 
walks, long walks into excursions. 
His arm was getting strong again. 
Mr. Joyce talked " soldier " with 
him. He had been in the Connaught 
Rangers, and went through pipe-clay 
and the orderly book with the fresh- 
ness of a " sub " of six weeks' 
standing. Mary — what did she 
speak about? Anything, every- 



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How Percy Bingham caught his Trout. 



89 



thing, nothing. Latterly she had 
been eloquently silent, while Percy 
Bingham, if he did not actually, 
might have fairly, counted the beat- 
ings of his heart as it bumped 
against his ribs. They spoke more 
at than to each other, and when 
their eyes met the glance was with- 
drawn by both with electrical rapid- 
ity. It was the old, old story. 
Why repeat it here ? 

" Mary, Jack Bodkin, your old 
sweetheart, is coming over for a few 
days' fishing," exclaimed Mr. Joyce 
one morning upon the arrival of 
the letter-bag. 

Miss Joyce blushed scarlet — a 
blush that will not be put off; a 
blush that plunges into the hair, 
comes out on the eyelids, and sets 
the ears upon fire — and Percy Bing- 
ham, as she grew red, became dead- 
ly white. The knell had rung, the 
hour had come. 

"This is from the colonel," ex- 
tending a letter as he spoke, the 
words choking him, " and — and I 
must say good-by." 

" Sorry for it, Bingham, but duty 
is duty. No chance of an exten- 
sion ?" asked Joyce. 

•' None, sir." 

And she said not a word. There 
was crushing bitterness in this. Mr. 
Bodkin's arrival blotted out his de- 
parture. Would that he had never 
seen Knockshin or Mary ! No, he 
could not think that, and, now that 
he was about to leave her, he felt 
what that severance would cost 
him. 

The car was waiting with his impe- 
dimenta^ and he sough t her to say fare- 
well. She was not in the conserva- 
tory or drawing-room, and as a last 
chance he tried the library. Enter- 



ing noiselessly, he found Mary Joyce 
leaning her head upon her hands, 
her hands upon the mantel-piece 
and sobbing as if her heart would 
break. 

" I beg your pardon !" he stam- 
mered. " Is — is — anything the — " 

" A bad toothache," she burst in 
passionately, without looking up. 

What could he do ? What could 
he say ? 

" I — I — do not know how to apolo- 
gize for — for — intruding upon your 
anguish" — the words came very slow- 
ly, swelling, too, in his throat — " but 
I cannot, cannot leave without wish- 
ing you good-by and thanking 
you for the sunniest hours of my 
life." 

"You — you are g-going, then?" 
without looking round. 

" I go to — to make room for 
Mr. Bodkin." 

She faced him. Her eyes were red 
and swollen, but down, down in 
their liquid depths he beheld — 
something that young men find 
once in a lifetime. He never re- 
membered what he did, he never 
recollected what he said, but the 
truth came out as such truths will 
come out. 

" And to think that you first 
learned of my existence through 
the medium of a pitiful ball-dress !" 
she said, glowing with beautiful hap- 
piness. 

" I shall not require the car," 
said Percy Bingham an hour later, 
throwing Lanty Kerrigan a sover- 
eign. 

" Bedady ye needn't have tould 
me," exclaimed Lanty with a broad 
grin. " I seen yez coortin' through 
the windy." 



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Prof. Youmans v. Dr. W. M. Taylor on 



PROF. YOUMANS v. DR. W. M. TAYLOR ON 
AND THE COPERNICAN THEORY. 



EVOLUTION 



The Popular Science Monthly^ con- 
ducted by Mr. E. L. Youmans, la- 
bors hard (December, 1876) to sup- 
port the assertion made by Profes- 
sor Huxley that evolution is already 
as well demonstrated as the Coper- 
nican theory. This assertion had 
been refuted by the Rev. Dr. Wil- 
liam M. Taylor in a letter to the 
New York Tribune^ and it is against 
a portion of this letter that Mr. 
Youmans strives to defend Mr. 
Huxley's evolutionary views. We 
ourselves have given a short refuta- 
tion of Professor Huxley's lectures 
on evolution,* and we had no in- 
tention to revert to the same sub- 
iect ; but since opposite writers are 
unwilling to acknowledge defeat, 
but pretend, on the contrary, that 
their opponents do not make a 
right use of logic, it may be both 
instructive and interesting to in- 
quire what kind of logic is actually 
used in this controversy by the evo- 
lutionists themselves. 

" It is significant," says Mr. You- 
mans, " that nearly all the divines 
who have spoken in reply to 
Prof. Huxley commit themselves 
to some form of the doctrine of 
evolution." This statement is not 
correct. Divines admit, as they 
have ever admitted, the develop- 
ment of varieties within the same 
species ; but the pretended evolution 
of one species from another they 
have never admitted, and they do 
not look upon it as admissible, even 
now. There may be some excep- 



* See Thb Cathouc World for February, 18771 
page 616 



tion, for divines are still human 
and may be imposed upon by false 
science ; but the truth is that those 
among them who have replied to 
Prof. Huxley never meant to " com- 
mit themselves" to any form of the 
doctrine of evolution as presented by 
him. They admit, as Mr. Youmans 
remarks, " that there is some truth 
in it" — which is by no means 
strange, as false theories have often 
been evolved from undeniable 
facts ; but they raise '* a common 
protest against the idea that it con- 
tains tnuch truth," which shows 
that these divines were quite unwill- 
ing to commit themselves to the 
doctrine. Hence it is plain that, 
if the conduct of these divines is 
"significant," it does not signify 
a yielding disposition, but the con- 
trary. 

Prof. Huxley had said that the 
evidence for the theory of evolu- 
tion is demonstrative, and that it is 
as well based in its proofs as the 
Copernican theory of astronomy. 
" This," says Mr. Youmans, " is 
thought to be quite absurd. It is 
said that Huxley may know a great 
deal about animals and fossils, but 
that obviously he knows very lit- 
tle about logic. His facts being 
admitted, a great deal of effort has 
been expended to show that he does 
not understand how to reason from 
them." We agree with the critics 
here alluded to, that Prof. Huxley's 
assertion concerning the demonstra- 
tive character of his proofs is " quite 
absurd." As to his knowledge of 
logic, there might perhaps be two 
opinions ; for a man may know lo- 



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Evolution and the Copernican Theory. 



9' 



gic, and make a wilful abuse of it ; 
but it is more charitable to assume 
that his illogical conclusions pro- 
ceed from ignorance rather than 
malice. After all, we are not con- 
cerned with the person of the pro- 
fessor, but with his lectures; and, 
whatever logic he may know, his 
lectures are certainly not a model 
of logical reasoning. The passage 
which Mr. Youmans extracts from 
Dr. Taylor's letter, and which he 
vainly endeavors to refute, is as fol- 
lows: 

*' Indeed, to affirm, as he [Prof. Hux- 
ley] dld» that evolirtion stands exactly 
on the same basis as the Copernican 
theory of the motions of the heavenly 
bodies, is an assertion so astounding 
that we can only *stand by and admire' the 
marvellous effrontery with which it was 
made. That theory rests on facts pres- 
ently occurring-before our eyes, and treat- 
ed in the manner of mathematical pre- 
cision. It is not an inference made by 
somebody from a record of facts existing 
in iar-off and prehistoric, possibly also 
pre-human, ages. It is verified every 
day by occurrences which happen accord- 
ing to its laws. But where do we see 
evolution going on to-day? If evolution 
rests upon a basis as sure as astronomy, 
why do we not see one species passing 
into another now, even as we see the 
motions of ihe planets through the heav- 
ens ? . . . We know that astronomy is 
true, because we are verifying its conclu- 
sions every day of our lives on land and 
on sea. We set our clocks according to 
its conclusions, and navigate our ships 
in accordance with its predictions ; but 
where have we anjrthing approaching 
even infinitesimally to this, with evolu- 
tion?" 

Mr. Youmans remarks that the 
author of this passage is said to 
be a man of eminence and ability. 
"That may be," he adds, "but he 
certainly has not won his distinction 
either in the fields of logic, astron- 
omy, or biology." To prove this, 
he makes the following argument : 

" When a man undertakes to state the 



evidence of a theory, and gives us proofs 
that equally sustain an opposite theory, 
we naturally conclude that he does uot 
know what he is talking about. This is 
very much Dr. Taylor's predicament. In 
trying to contrast the evidence for evolu- 
tion with the demonstrative proofs of the 
Copernican theory, he cites facts that 
are not only as good, but far better, to 
prove the truth of its antagonist, the 
Ptolemaic theory." 

Our readers will probably ask 
how it is possible to prove that a 
thing is black by the very facts 
which prove, even better, that the 
thing is white .^ That certain facts 
may be insufficient to prove either 
the one or the other of two oppo- 
site theories every one will admit ; 
but that facts which are good to 
prove the movement of the earth, 
are even better to prove its immo- 
bility, is what Mr. Youmans alone 
has the privilege of understanding. 

Dr. Taylor, in his argument 
against Prof. Huxley, assumed the 
truth of the modern astronomical 
theory, and said that this theory 
was proved by facts presently oc- 
curring before our eyes ; which is 
not the case with the hypothesis of 
evolution. But, as he did not men- 
tion in particular those facts which 
are considered to constitute the 
most irrefragable proof of the the- 
ory, his silence about them is in- 
terpreted bji Mr. Youmans as an 
effect of ignorance. It is not our 
affair to defend Dr. Taylor; but 
we think that this interpretation is 
unfair. The reverend doctor was 
not writing a treatise of astronomy ; 
he was simply stating a known doc- 
trine, of which it was not his duty 
to make the demonstration. On 
the other hand, even if we admit- 
ted that the reverend doctor knows 
but little of astronomy, we do not 
see that this would weaken his ar- 
gument ; for, whether he knows 
much or nothing in this branch 



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Prof. Youmans v. Dr. IV, M. Taylor on 



of science, it remains true that the 
Copernican theory is proved " by 
facts presently occurring before our 
eyes" — which is not the case with 
the hypothesis of evolution. It is 
to this truth that Mr. Youmans 
should have given his attention, if 
be desired " to win any distinction 
in the field of logic" ; but his pe- 
culiar logic shrank from this duty, 
and prompted him to prefer a gratui- 
tous denunciation of his opponent. 

Mr. Youmans pretends that Dr. 
Taylor " talks as if the Copernican 
theory is something that anybody 
can see by looking up in the sky." 
Dr. Taylor's words do not admit 
of such a nonsensical construc- 
tion. The Copernican theory, he 
says, " rests on facts presently oc- 
curring before our eyes, and treat- 
ed in the manner of mathematical 
precision." This obviously means 
that the Copernican theory is based 
on both observation and calcula- 
tion. Now, surely Mr. Youmans 
will not maintain that we can find 
mathematical formulas and make 
astronomical calculations by sim- 
ply " looking up in the sky." 

He goes on to say that the Ptole- 
maic theory was the fundamental 
conception of astronomy; that it 
guided its scientific development 
for two thousand years; that it 
was based on extensive, prolong- 
ed, and accurate (Observations ; 
that it was elucidated and con- 
firmed by mathematics ; that it was 
verified by confirming the pow- 
er of astronomical prevision ; and 
that the planetary motions were 
traced and resolved on this theory 
with great skill and correctness, 
elaborate tables being constructed, 
which represented iheir irregulari- 
ties and inequalities, so that their 
future positions could be foretold, 
and conjunctions, oppositions, and 
eclipses predicted. 



These and similar remarks of the 
scientific editor would tend to 
prove that the Congregation of the 
Holy Office had very good and 
substantial grounds for condemn- 
ing the heliocentric theory, and 
that Galileo was a visionary; for 
the theory which he impugned was 
" confirmed by mathematics," and 
" verified by confirming the power 
of astronomical prevision." We 
are quite sure, however, that this is 
not what Mr. Youmans intended to 
prove ; and yet it does not appear 
why he should fill a column of his 
magazine with such a panegyric of 
a defunct theory. We concede — 
and the fact has never been disput- 
ed — that astronomy owes an im- 
mense debt to the ante-Coperni- 
can investigators for their careful 
observations and laborious calcula- 
tions ; but we do not see how this 
has anything to do with Dr. Tay- 
lor's criticism. Had the reverend 
doctor denied that there was any 
real knowledge of astronomy before 
Copernicus, his critic might have 
been justified in trying to enlight- 
en him about the merits of the Pto- 
lemaic astronomers ; but Dr. Tay- 
lor had not committed himself on 
this point, and therefore had no ap- 
parent need of being enlightened 
on the subject. The information, 
consequently, which Mr. Youmans 
volunteers to offer him is superfluous, 
not to say impertinent, and, inas- 
much as it professes to be an argu- 
ment, is a complete failure; for it 
aims at proving what no one has 
ever denied. 

But the scientific editor in giv- 
ing his needless information com- 
mits another blunder, which we 
could hardly expect from a man of 
science, by affirming that the Ptole- 
maic theory "was elucidated and 
confirmed by mathematics." Math- 
ematics confirmed nothing but the 



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Evolution and the Copernican Theory, 



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order and quality of the phenome- 
na, and the law of their succession. 
Before Kepler and Newton no 
mathematics could decide whether 
the sun revolved around the earth 
or the earth around the sun. As- 
tronomical phenomena were known, 
but this knowledge was a know- 
ledge of facts, not of their expla- 
nation. The Ptolemaic hypothesis 
was not inconsistent with the facts 
then observed, but it was assumed^ 
not verified. If such a theory had 
been verified, its truth would be 
still recognized, and the Coperni- 
can theory would have had no 
chance of admission. But evident- 
ly it is not the theory that has 
been verified, but only the appa- 
rent movements of celestial bodies. 
Thus **the elaborate tables" by 
which the future positions of the 
planets could be foretold prove 
indeed the accuracy of ancient as- 
tronomical observations and calcu- 
lations, but they are no evidence 
that the geocentric theory was cor- 
rect. 

Mr. Youmans informs us, also, 
that "Copernicus did not abolish, 
but rather revised, the old astrono- 
my." If the words " old astrono- 
my" are taken to express merely 
the knowledge of celestial phenome- 
na, we have nothing to reply ; but 
if those words be understood to 
mean the Ptolemaic theory, the as- 
sertion is ridiculous. Indeed, Co- 
pernicus, as Mr. Youmans says, 
"simply recentred the solar sys- 
tem "; that iS) he simply put the 
sun, instead of the earth, in the 
centre of the planetary orbits. No- 
thing but that. But who does not 
see that to give a new centre to the 
solar system was to suppress the 
old centre, and therefore to abolish 
the geocentric theorv .^ Why Mr. 
Youmans should labor to insinuate 
the contrary we cannot really un- 



derstand. Dr. Taylor, against 
whom he writes, had said nothing 
concerning either the personal 
views of Copernicus or the old sys- 
tem of astronomy, but had simply 
maintained that the so-called Co* 
pernican theory, as mentioned by 
Prof. Huxley, and as understood 
by all — that is, as perfected by Kep- 
ler, Newton, and others — stands 
to-day on such a basis of undeni- 
able facts that we can no longer 
hesitate about its truth. This 
statement might have been contra- 
dicted two centuries ago ; but we 
fancy that it ought not to give rise 
to the least controversy on the 
part of a modern cultivator of sci- 
ence, however much determined ta 
find fault with his opponent. 

Dr. Taylor had said, as we have 
noticed, that the Copernican theory 
" rests on facts presently occurring 
before our eyes." Mr. Youmans 
answers: "So does the Ptolemaic 
theory; and not only that, but, if 
the test is what occurs before our 
eyes, then the Ptolemaic theory is 
a thousand times stronger than the 
Copernican." If this answer ex- 
presses the real opinion of Mr. You- 
mans, we must conclude that he 
alone, among physicists, is ignorant 
of the fact that terrestrial gravita- 
tion is modified by the centrifugal 
force due to the rotation of the 
earth, and that this fact is estab- 
lished by experiments which " oc- 
cur before our eyes " when we 
make use of the pendulum in differ- 
ent latitudes. What shall we say 
of the aberration of light ? Is not 
this phenomenon a proof of the 
movement of the earth ? Or does it 
not " occur before our eyes " ? Mr. 
Youmans may say that these facts 
do not occur before all eyes, but 
only before the eyes of scientific 
men. But Dr. Taylor had not 
maintained that all the facts con* 



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Prof, Youmans v. Dr. W. M. Taylor on 



nected with the Copernican theory 
occur before all eyes ; and, on the 
other hand, Foucault's pendulum, 
even though oscillating before un- 
scientific eyes, makes visible to the 
dullest observer the shifting of the 
horizontal plane from its position 
at a rate proportional to the sine 
of the latitude of the place, thus 
showing to the eye the actual 
movement of our planet. It is 
true, therefore, that the Copernican 
theory " rests on facts presently 
occurring before our eyes/' 

But, if the Copernican theory is 
so obvious, " why,'* asks Mr. You- 
mans, **did the astronomers of 
twenty centuries fail to discern it? 
Why could not the divines of Co- 
pernicus* time see it when it was 
pointed out to them? And why 
could not Lord Bacon admit it a 
hundred years after Copernicus ?" 
The why is well known. The Co- 
pernican theory was at first nothing 
more than a hypothesis ; and its 
truth, even after Kepler and Newton, 
was still in need of experimental 
confirmation. Had Lord Bacon or 
the divines of Copernicus' time 
seen what we see with our eyes in 
Foucault's experiment, there is little 
doubt that they would have recog- 
nized at last the truth of the new 
theory. But let this suffice about 
the certitude of the Copernican 
theory. 

The second part of Mr. Youmans' 
article regards the theory of evolu- 
tion. This theory assumes that the 
immense diversity of living forms 
now scattered over the earth has 
arisen from gelatinous matter 
through a long process of gradual 
unfolding and derivation within the 
order of nature (that is, without 
supernatural interference) and by 
the operation of natural laws. Mr. 
Youmans says that this theory " is 
built upon a series of demonstrated 



truths." This assertion would have 
some weight, if such a building had 
not been raised in defiance of logic ; 
but we have already shown that 
Prof. Huxley's Three Lectures on 
Evolution teem with fallacies most 
fatal to the cause he desired to up- 
hold. Hence, while we admit that 
" demonstrated truth ** is a very solid 
ground to build upon, we maintain 
that not a single demonstrated truth 
can be logically alleged in support 
of the theory of evolution. But let 
Mr. Youmans speak for himself : 

** It is a fact accordant with all ob- 
servation, and to which there never 
has been known a solitary exception, 
that the succession of generations 
of living things upon earth is by repro- 
duction and genetic connection in the 
regular order of nature. The stream 
of generations flows on by this process, 
which is as much a part of the settled, 
continuous economy of the world as the 
steady action of gravity or heat. It is 
demonstrated that living forms are liable 
to variations which accumulate through 
inheritance ; that the ratio of multi/>lica- 
tion in the living world is out of all pro- 
portion to the means of subsistence, so 
that only comparatively few germs mar 
ture, while myriads are destroyed ; that, 
in the struggles of life, the fittest to the 
conditions survive, and those least adapt- 
ed perish. It is a demonstrated fact 
that life has existed on the globe during 
periods of time so vast as to be incalcula- 
ble ; that there has been an order in its 
succession by which the lowest appeared 
first, and the highest have come last, 
while the intermediate forms dis- 
close a rising gradation. It is a demon- 
strated truth of nature that matter is 
indestructible, and that, therefore, all 
the material changes and transformations 
of the world consist in using over and 
over the same stock of materials, new 
forms being perpetually derived from old 
ones ; and it is a fact now also held to 
be established that force obeys the same 
laws. All these great truths harmonize 
with each other ; they agree with all we 
know of the constitution of nature ; and 
they demonstrate evolution as a fact, and 
go far toward opening to us the second- 
ary question of its method." 



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Evolution and the Coperntcan Theory. 



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These are, according to Mr. You- 
nians, the " demonstrated truths " 
on which the theory of evolution 
has been built, and which, accord- 
ing to the same writer, "demon- 
strate evolution as a fact." We 
think, on the contrary, that the only 
fact demonstrated by this passage 
is the blindness (voluntary or not) 
of a certain class of scientists. A 
cursory examination of it will suffice 
to convince all unprejudiced men 
that such is the case. 

That the stream of generations 
flows on " by reproduction and ge- 
netic connection in the regular or- 
der of nature" is indeed a fact ac- 
cordant with all observation, and 
to which there never has been 
known a solitary exception ; but all 
observation proves that the regular 
order of nature in generation is 
confined within the limits of the 
species to which parents belong. 
Tliis precludes the possibility of 
drawing from this fact any conclu- 
sion in favor of evolution. 

That living forms " are liable 
to variations, which accumulate 
through inheritance," is not a de- 
monstrated fact. We see, on the 
contrary, that all such accidental 
variations, instead of accumulating, 
tend to disappear within a few gen- 
erations, whenever they cease to be 
under the influence of the agencies 
to which they owe their origin. But 
let us admit, for the sake of argu- 
ment, that all living forms are lia- 
ble to variations which accumulate 
through inheritance; then we ask 
whetlier all such variations are con- 
fined within the limit of each spe- 
cies, or some of them overstep that 
limit. If they are confined within 
that limit, the fact proves nothing 
in favor of the evolution of species. 
If, on the contrary, any one says 
that they overstep that limit, then 
the fact itself needs demonstration ; 



for it has never been observed. 
Therefore to argue from this fact 
in favor of evolution is to beg the 
question. We have no need of 
dwelling on Mr. Youmans' state- 
ment that the ratio of multiplica- 
tion in the living world is out of all 
proportion to the means of subsis- 
tence, so that only comparatively 
few germs mature, while myriads 
are destroyed. The statement is 
true; but it has nothing to do with 
the theory of evolution. That, in 
the struggles of life, the fittest to 
the conditions survive, is another 
fact which does not in the least 
bear out the theory. For the fit- 
test among animals are those which 
enjoy the plenitude of their speci- 
fic properties, and which, therefore, 
are best apt to transfuse them into 
their offspring whole, unmixed, and 
unimpaired. 

We are told, also, that life has ex- 
isted during periods of time so vast 
as to be incalculable. This we ad- 
mit. But then, in the succession 
of life, there has been an order, " by 
which the lowest appeared first, and 
the highest have come last, while 
intermediate forms disclose a rising 
gradation." This, too, we may ad- 
mit, though not without reserva- 
tions ; for Prof. Huxley himself 
confesses that numerous interme- 
diate forms do not occur in the or- 
der in which they ought to occur 
if they really had formed steps in 
the progression from one species to 
another; for we find these interme- 
diate forms mixed up with the high- 
er and the lower ones " in conteii)- 
poraneous deposits." But, even 
supposing that the lowest forms 
precede the highest, what evidence 
would this be in favor of evolution } 
The order of succession may in- 
deed prove that the lower forms 
existed before the higher forms 
were created; but it does not show 



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Prof. Youtnans v. Dr. W. M. Taylor on 



that the lower forms are the parents 
of the higher. This is merely as- 
sumed by the evolutionists as a 
convenient substitute for proof; 
I that is, they first assume that evo- 
'lution is a fact, and then conclude 
that the fact of evolution is estab- 
lished. 

Lastly, that matter is indestructi- 
ble, and that therefore all the mate- 
rial changes and transformations 
of the world consist in using over 
and over the same stock of mate- 
rials, is a doctrine which has no 
special bearing on the question. 
When a new individual of any 
living species is generated, its or- 
ganism is indeed formed out of old 
matter; but this had no need of 
demonstration. What our evolu- 
tionists ought to show is that new 
individuals of a certain species 
have been generated by individuals 
of some other species; and this 
surely cannot be shown by a re- 
course to the indestructibility of 
matter. That matter is indestruc- 
tible is, however, a groundless as- 
sertion. For though natural forces 
cannot destroy it, God, who has 
created it, and who keeps it in ex- 
istence, can always withdraw his 
action, and let it fall into its primi- 
tive nothingness. And as to the 
so-called " fact " now also held to 
be established, that "force obeys 
the same laws " — that is, that force 
is indestructible, and that new forms 
of force are perpetually derived 
from old ones — we need only re- 
mark that the theory of transforma- 
tion of forces, as held and explain- 
ed by our advanced scientists, is 
but a travesty of truth, and an im- 
potent effort to upset the principle 
of causality. Neither statical nor 
dynamical forces are ever trans- 
formed. Indeed, they have no form 
attached to them. What our mo- 
dern physicists call "transforma- 



tion of force " is nothing but the 
change of one kinetic phenomenon 
into another — that is, a succession 
of modes of movement of various 
kinds. Now, modes of movement 
are modes of being, not of force, 
though they are the measure of the 
dynamical forces by which they 
have been produced. The force 
with which any element of matter 
is endowed is constantly the same, 
both as to quality and as to quan- 
tity. Its exertion alone, owing to 
a difference of conditions, admits 
of a higher and a lower degree of 
intensity. As we do not intend at 
present to write a treatise on forces, 
we will only add that the forces of 
matter are exercised on other mat- 
ter by transient action, but cannot 
perform immanent acts calculated 
to modify their own matter. If 
they could do this, matter would 
not be inert. Hence animal life, 
which requires immanent acts, can- 
not be accounted for by the forces 
of matter. And therefore, whatever 
our scientists may say about the 
conservation of energy and the 
transformation of forces, they have 
no right to infer that animal life 
can be evolved out of matter alone ; 
and they have still less right to pre- 
tend that such is " the fact." 

What shall we say, then, of Mr. 
Youmans* assertion that the alleged 
reasons " demonstrate evolution as 
a fact " .^ We must say, applying 
Dr. Taylor's words to the case, that 
the assertion is "so astounding 
that we can only * stand by and ad- 
mire' the marvellous effrontery with 
which it has been made." A man 
of Mr. Youmans* ability can scarce- 
ly be so ignorant of logic as not to 
seo that his reasons demonstrate 
evolution neither as a fact nor as a 
probability, and not even as a pos- 
sibility; but when a man succeeds 
in blinding himself to the existence 



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Evolution and the Copernkan Theory. 



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of a personal God, and substitutes 
nature in the place of her Creator, 
we need not be surprised if his 
logic turns out to be a clumsy at- 
tempt at imposition 

Dr. Taylor had asked why we 
do not see one species passing into 
another, even as we see the motions 
of the planets through the heavens. 
The question was pertinent ; for 
Prof. Huxley had maintained that 
" evolution rests on a basis as sure 
as astronomy." Mr. Youmans an- 
swers : "To this foolish question, 
which has nevertheless been asked 
a dozen times by clerical critics of 
Huxley, the obvious answer is that 
what requires a very long time to 
produce cannot be seen in a very 
short time." We think that the 
question was not foolish^ and that 
the answer of Mr. Youmans is a 
mere evasion. For, if evolution is 
a fact, we must find numerous 
traces ^of it not only in the fossil 
remains, but also in the actual eco- 
nomy of nature. If the bird is 
evolved from the lizard, there must 
be actually among living creatures 
a numerous class of intermediate 
forra.s, some more, others less de- 
veloped, exhibiting all the stages 
of transformation through which 
the lizard is gradually developed 
into a bird. Thus, because the 
acorn develops into the stately oak, 
we find in nature oaks of all the 
intermediate sizes ; and because ba- 
byhood develops into manhood, we 
find in nature individuals of all in- 
termediate ages. In like manner, 
if the evolution of one species from 
another is not a fable, we must find 
in nature specimens of all the in- 
termediate forms. Dr. Taylor's 
question was, tlierefore, most judi- 
cious. That Mr. Youmans' reply 
to it is a mere evasion a little re- 
flection will show ; for the length 
of time required for the process of 
WL. XXV. — 7 



transformation would only prove 
that the intermediate forms must 
remain longer in existence ; vvlulst 
the fact is that such forms do not 
exist at all. 

'* There has been much com- 
plaint," says Mr. Youmans, " that 
Prof. Huxley undertook to put the 
demonstrative evidence of evolu- 
tion on so narrow a basis as the 
establishment of the genealogy of 
the horse ; but this rather enhances 
than detracts from his merit as a 
scientific thinker." Here the case 
is misstated. Had Prof. Huxley 
really demonstrated evolution by 
the genealogy of the horse, no one 
would have complained that the 
basis was too narrow ; but as it be- 
came manifest that the basis was 
not only narrow but questionable, 
and that it afforded no evidence 
whateverof evolution, it was thought 
that it required a " marvellous ef- 
frontery " on the part of Prof. Hux- 
ley to maintain before the Ameri- 
can public that the genealogy of 
the horse gave " demonstrative evi- 
dence " of evolution. This is the 
reason why there has been so much 
complaint. Prof. Huxley simply 
insulted his audience when he ask- 
ed them to believe that evolution 
was a demonstrated fact. 

Mr. Youmans tells us that the 
vital point between Prof. Huxley 
and his antagonists is the question 
of the validity of the conception 
of order and uniformity in nature. 
" Prof. Huxley holds to it as a first 
principle, a truth demonstrated by 
all science, and just as fixed in 
biology as in astronomy. His an- 
tagonists hold that the inflexible 
order of nature may be asserted 
perhaps in astronomy, but they de- 
ny it in biology. They here invoke 
supernatural intervention." This 
statement is utterly false. There is 
no question about the order and 



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Ptof, Youmans v. Dr, IV. M. Taylor an 



uniformity of nature ; and it is not 
to Prof. Huxley or to modern sci- 
ence that we are indebted for the 
knowledge of this uniformity either 
in . astronomy or in biology ; the 
world has ever been in possession 
of this indisputable truth. The 
real question between Prof. Huxley 
and his antagonists is that nature, 
according to the professor, is inde- 
pendent in its being and in its 
working, and has an inherent power 
of fostering into existence a series 
of beings of higher and higher spe- 
cific perfection, from the speck of 
gelatinous matter even to man; 
whereas nature, according to the 
professor's antagonists, and accord- 
ing to science, revelation, and com- 
mon sense, is not independent eith- 
er in its being or in its working, 
and has no inherent power of form- 
ing either a plant without a seed 
or an animal without an ovum of 
the same species. If Prof. Huxley 
had had any knowledge of that part 
of philosophy which we call meta- 
l)hysics, and which our advanced 
scientists affect so much to despise 
because they cannot cope with it, 
he would have seen the absurdity 
of his assumption ; and if Mr. You- 
mans had consulted the rules of 
logic, he would not have said that 
the " uniformity of nature ** was 
with Prof. Huxley a "first princi- 
ple "; it being evident that unifor- 
mity clashes with evolution, which 
is a change of forms. 

The last argument of the editor 
of the Popular Science Monthly in 
behalf of evolution is as follows : 



" Obviously there are but two hypo- 
(heses upon the subject— that of genetic 
derivation of existing species through 
the operation of natural law, and that of 
creation by miraculous interference with 
the course of nature. If we assume the 
orderly course of nature, development is 
inevitable : it is evolution or nothing. 



If the order of nature is put aside and 
special creation appealed to, we have a 
right to ask, On what evidence ? . . . 
There is no evidence. There is not a 
scintilla of proof that can have a feather's 
weight with any scientific mind. . . . 
Has anybody ever seen a special crea- 
tion ?" 

We answer, first, that even \i it 
were true that " there is no evi- 
dence " in support of the creation, 
it would not follow that there is 
any evidence, either scientific or 
of any other kind, in support of the 
evolution of one species from an- 
other. Indeed, in spite of all the 
efforts of ** advanced " thinkers, we 
have not yet been furnished with 
** a scintilla of proof that can have 
a feather's weight " with a philoso- 
phical mind ; on the contrary, we 
have been informed by no less an 
authority than Mr. Huxley that 
*'no connecting link between the 
crocodile and the lizard, or between 
the lizard and the snake, or between 
the snake and the crocodile, or be- 
tween any two of these groups," has 
yet been found — a fact which, if 
not destroyed by further discoveries, 
is " a strong and weighty argument 
against evolution," as the professor 
confesses. Hence it is evident that 
the existing palaeontological speci- 
mens, far from proving the theory, 
form a strong and weighty objec- 
tion against it. The consequence 
is that, even if we had no evidence 
of the creation of species, it would 
yet be more reasonable to accept 
creation, against which no objec- 
tion can be found, than to accept 
evolution. 

But we are far from conceding 
that the creation of species is un- 
supported by evidence of a proper 
kind. Mr. Youmans may laugh at 
the Bible ; but we maintain that the 
Biblical record constitutes histori- 
cal evidence. He may also laugh 
at philosophical reasoning, for his 



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Evolution and the Copernican Tluory. 



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mind is too "scientific" to care for 
philosophy; but we believe that 
]>hilosophical evidence is as good, 
at least, as any which can be met 
with in the Popular Scicfue Monthly, 
Animals have a soul, which elicits 
immanent acts; they know, they 
feel, they have passions ; and, if we 
listen to some modern thinkers, 
ihey have even intelligence and rea- 
son. Now, matter is essentially in- 
ert, and therefore cannot elicit im- 
manent acts. Hence animals are 
not mere organized matter; and 
accordingly they cannot be evolved 
from matter alone. Their soul 
must come from a higher source; 
it must be created. Science has 
nothing to say against this ; it can 
only state its ignorance by asking : 
'" Has anybody ever seen a special 
creation V* Of course nobody has ; 
but there are 'things which are seen 
by reason with as great a clearness 
as anything visible to the eye; and 
this is just the case with creation. 
On the other hand, why should 
Mr. Youmans pretend that creation 
must be seen to be admitted, when 
he admits evolution, though he has 
never seen it ? If seeing is a con- 
dition for believing, why did he 
treat as foolish Dr. Taylor's ques- 
tion concerning the passing of one 
species into another ? Why did he 
ask : " Has the writer ever seen the 
jjroduction of a geological forma- 
tion ?" Surely, if evolution were 
proved to be a fact, Ave would admit 
it, without having seen it ; but, since 
it is creation, not evolution, that 
has been shown to be a fact, we 
are compelled to admit it, even 
though nobody has had the privi- 
lege of seeing the event. 

When Mr. Youmans declares that 
"there is not a scintilla of proof" 
(in favor of special creations) *' thnt 
can have a feather's weight with 
any scientific mind," lie evidently 



assumes that no scientific mind has 
existed before our time ; which is 
more than even Huxley or Darwin 
would maintain. But infidel sci- 
ence is equally blind to the scien- 
tific merit of its antagonists, and to 
the blunders which it is itself daily 
committing. Thus Mr. Youmans, 
no doubt to show that he has a 
"scientific mind," speaks of the de- 
rivation of species "through the 
operation of natural law" — a phrase 
which has no meaning; for law is 
an abstraction, and abstractions do 
not operate. Nor is it more " sci- 
entific " to assume that the creatiom 
of species was " a miraculous inter- 
ference with the course of nature" ;: 
for the course of nature required 
the creation of species, just as it 
now requires the creation of human- 
souls for the continuance of hu- 
manity; and God cannot be said 
to have interfered with the course- 
of nature by doing what nature re- 
quired but could not do. Is it any 
more " scientific " to write Nature 
with a capital letter.? Of course-,, 
if there is no God, nature is all,, 
and atheists may write it Nature. 
Mr. Youmans does not tell us- 
clearly that there is no God ; but 
he shows clearly enough that to his- 
mind Nature is everything; which 
is, in fact, a virtual denial of a per- 
sonal God. If we were to inform 
him that nature is only a servant 
of God, he would perhaps ask, " On 
what evidence .?" And because we 
would be unable to point out a 
chemical residuum or a geologic 
formation wherein God could be 
made visible to him, he would con- 
clude that " there is no scintilla 
of proof that can have a feather's - 
weight with a scientific mind.'"' 
He then assumes that in the orderly 
course of nature the evolution of 
species is "inevitable." It did not 
occur to his scientific mind that* 



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Evolution and the Copernican Theory, 



before making such an assertion, it 
was necessary to examine how far 
the powers of nature extend ; for 
he might have discovered that mat- 
ter is inert, and that it was a great 
blunder to assume that inert matter 
produced animal life. 

He further supposes that when 
■special creations are appealed to, 
"** the order of nature is put aside." 
He therefore pretends that the or- 
•der of nature would not allow of 
the creation of plants and animals, 
evidently because it was nature's 
duty to perform without extrinsic 
intervention all those wonderful 
works which we attribute to the 
wisdom and omnipotence of the 
' Creator. We may be unscientific ; 
.but we defy Mr. Youmans to show, 
either scientifically or otherwise, 
the truth of his assumption. To 
'tell us that the evolution of life 
from dead matter was within the 
order of nature, without even at- 
tempting to prove that nature had 
a power adequate to the task, is 
just as plausible as to tell us that 
Prof. Huxley has created the Nia- 
gara Falls or that Mr. Darwin has 
painted the moon. And yet the 
author of such loose statements 
airs his scientific pretensions and 
speaks of " scientific minds" ! 

We have no need to follow Mr. 
Youmans any further ; for what he 
adds consists of assumptions cog- 
jiate to those we have already re- 
futed. "Genetic derivation," he 
says, "is in the field as a real and 
undeniable cause" — which is an 
•open untruth. ** Has anybody seen 



a special creation .>" This is ir- 
relevant. " Do those who believe 
in a special creation represent to 
themselves any possibility of how 
it could have occurred?" Proba- 
bly they do, if they have read the 
first chapter of Genesis. " Milton 
attempted to form an image of the 
way the thing was done, and says 
that the animals burst up full-form- 
ed and perfect like plants out of 
the ground — * the grassy clods now 
calved.' But clods can only calve 
miraculously." Quite so ; but we 
must not be afraid of miracles, 
when we cannot deny them with- 
out falling into absurdities. " Na- 
ture does not bring animals into 
the world now by this method, and 
science certainly can know nothing 
of it." Yes; but there are many 
other things of which i;ifidel science 
is ignorant. And yet we fancy that, 
when animals have been once cre- 
ated, even infidel science might 
have discerned that their procrea- 
tion no longer required " the grassy 
clods to calve." 

But enough. We conclude that, 
so far from being possible, so far 
from being probable, so far from 
being proved, the hypothesis of 
the origin of animal forms by evo- 
lution is simply unthinkable; it is 
a violation not only of the order 
of nature, but of the very con- 
dition of thought and of the first 
principle of science, which is the 
principle of causality. When will 
our scientific men understand that 
there is no science without philoso- 
phy? 



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A Waif from the Great Exhibition, Philadelphia, 1876. loi 



A WAIF FROM THE GREAT . EXHIBITION, PHILADEL- 

PHIA, 1876 

^* Their store-houses full, flowing out of this into that. 

^ They have caUed the people happy that hath these things: but happy » that people whose God is 
the lionL"— Ps. czlui. 



AViTH face storm-lined and bronzed, no longer young, 
That seemed as if its soul's dim life had grown 
On lonely farm, in rugged inland town 
Lying, a narrow world, bleak hills among, 
A stranger gazed amid the wealth and glare 
Of all the nations' gathered industry 
Where rose the light, symmetric tracery 
Of Munich's altars worked in colors fair ; 
Where good St. Joseph with the lilies stood ; 
And soft-eyed martyr with her branch of palm, 
And full, sweet lips smiling with happy calm. 
Seemed beaming witness 'mid the multitude 
Of glittering toys and earth's huge, unworked store, 
Of nobler purpose man's life resting o'er. 



n. 

Here stretched its naked arms the blessfed Rood, 
Whose desolation eloquent below 
God's Mother sat in soundless deeps of woe, . 
Her sad knees holding all her earthly good. 
Here stood the stranger with a look intent 
Wherein no light of recognition woke. 
As if he read in some strange-lettered book. 
Then, asking what these unguessed figures meant. 
An answer came : " Our Lord, dead 'neath the Cross." 
" Ah ! yes, and that is Mary, I suppose — 
The Mother." Ah I what wondering thoughts uprose 
To die in silence, winning so some loss. 
Perchance, unto two lives. Sweet Mother, pray 
That soul accuse not mine on judgment day ! 



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102 A Waif from the Great Exhibition, Philadelphia, \Z^6. 

in. 

So strange and sad the simple question seemed ; 
As if on those far hills God's voice had built, 
Upon those souls for whom his blood was spilt 
Some shadow rested, amid wliich scarce gleamed 
The mournful splendor by his dark Cross thrown : ' 
As if stern life grew but more hard and bare, 
Missing the presence of the Maiden rare 
Whose God made her unstained flesh his own ; 
Who held him on her arms a helpless child. 
With love no mother ever knew before ; 
Holding, when Calvary's dread hours were o'er, 
The Man of Sorrows where her Babe had smiled — 
Her arms the cradle of the Almighty One, 
Her arms His spotless shroud, life's labor done. 



IV. 

Alas ! such faith to men denied who grope 
Half in a fear begotten not of love, 
Half in cold doubt, seeking all things to prove, 
To none hold fast, with whom divinest hope 
Holds naught more excellent than earth's to-days ; 
For whom in vain doth Israel's lily bloom. 
With its white sunshine lighting hours of gloom, 
Shining 'mid thorns that seek to crush its grace — 
So dimming the broad rays of love divine 
With earthly shadow cast on earthly things 
That folded keep their gift of heavenly wings, 
Lest, soaring, they lose sight of lesser shrine 
Lest, heart so kindling with the Spirit's fire, 
Feet lowly tread that eyes be lifted higher. 



V. 

Slow turning through the glimmering aisles to range, 
Amid the hum the loitering footsteps wrought 
I lost the questioning face, but not the thought 
Of that dim life, to which the night seemed strange 
Of Calvary's God, to whom all life is owed — 
That clouded life wherein Faith's pure sunshine 
Casts faintest gleam of its strong light divine 
That strengthens soul, makes fair the daily load. 
Far down the hall full notes of organ poured, 
And broke in song strong voices manifold ; 
Glad alleluias all exultant rolled, 
As if proclaiming on each soaring chord : 
" Happy the people of this wealth possessed !" 
Nay, Happy they whom God the Lord hath blessed. 



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103 



ENGLISH RULE IN IRELAND. 



The present condition of a peo- 
ple is the latest phase of a life that 
has run through centuries, in all 
the events of which there may be 
traced the relation of cause and 
effect, and whose continuity has 
never been interrupted, tliough at 
times tlie current may seem to 
leave its channel, or even to dis- 
appear. The past never dies, but 
with each succeeding moment re- 
ceives a fuller existence, survives 
as a curse 'Or a blessing. The pas- 
sion which urges the human mind 
back to ages more and more 
remote, until the gathering dark- 
ness shuts out even the faintest 
glimmer of light, is not mere curi- 
osity, nor even the inborn craving 
for knowledge ; rather is it the 
consciousness that those ancient 
limes and far-off deeds still live in 
us, mould us, and shape our ends. 
We were with Adam when he 
plucked and ate the forbidden 
fruit, and tliat his act should work 
in us yet, like a taint in the blood, 
seems to be a postulate of reason 
not less than a truth of tradition 
or revelation. The cherishing of 
great n«imes, the clinging to noble 
memories, the use of poetry, music, 
sculpture, painting, architecture, or 
any art, to give form and vividness 
to glories, heroisms, martyrdoms, 
are but the expression of this 
consciousness that the present is 
only the fuller and more living 
past. No vanity, much less scorn 
or hate, should prompt any one to 
lift into the light the glory or the 
shame of a people's history. As 



we tread reverently on the ground 
where human passions have con- 
tended for the mastery, we should 
approach with religious awe the 
facts which have made the world 
what it is. 

There are many persons, who 
certainly have no prejudices against 
the Irish people, many true and 
loyal Irishmen even, who strongly 
object to the prominence given to 
the sorrows and sufferings of Ire- 
land. They would have us forget 
the past and turn, with a counte- 
nance fresh and hopeful as that 
of youth, to the future. Sydney 
Srailh,fullof English prepossessions 
but an honest lover of liberty, who 
labored as earnestly and fearlessly 
as any man of his generation in be- 
half of the wronged and defence- 
less, could not restrain his impa- 
tience when he thought of the 
fondness with which Irishmen cling 
to old memories and sacred asso- 
ciations. In his opinion the ob- 
ject of all government is roast 
mutton, potatoes, claret, a stout 
constable, an honest justice, a clear 
highway, and a free chapel. *' What 
trash," he exclaimed, " to be bawl- 
ing in the streets about the Green 
Isle, the Isle of the Ocean, the 
bold anthem of Erin go bragh J A. 
far better anthem would be, Erin 
go bread and cheese, Erin go cab- 
ins that will keep out the rain, 
Erin go pantaloons without holes 
in them." 

This may be very well, but wo 
are persuaded that there is not an 
abuse or an evil in Ireland to-ciay 



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English Rule in Ireland. 



which has not ils roots in the re- 
mote past, or which can be under- 
stood or remedied without a know- 
ledge of Irish history. 

The bold anthem of Erin go 
bragh^ which so provoked Sidney 
Smith, is the thread that leads us 
through the labyrinth. It is because 
the Irish are not English that 
England is neither able nor willing 
to treat them justly; and if she 
has rendered herself guilty of the 
greatest social crime in all history, 
it is because she Has clung for cen- 
turies with terrible obstinacy to a 
policy which left the people of 
Ireland no alternative between de- 
nationalization and extermination. 
When in England the national spir- 
it dominated and absorbed the re- 
ligious spirit, the Irish, who had 
so long maintained their separate 
nationality, adhered with invinci- 
ble firmness to the old faith. Tiiis 
was imputed to them as a crime, 
and became the pretext for still 
more grievous persecutions. If 
they were resolved to be Irish and 
Catholic, England was not less re- 
solved that they should be outla\vs 
and beggars. • They were to have 
no bread or potatoes, or cabins that 
would keep out the rain, so long as 
ihey persisted in singing the bold 
anthem and acknowledging the su- 
premacy of the pope. The history 
of Ireland is in great part the his- 
tory of her wrongs ; for a long time 
to come, doubtless, it will be a his- 
tory of suffering; and if those who 
write of her find that they are plac- 
ing before their readers pictures 
of death, exile, persecution, beggary, 
famine, desolation, violence, op- 
pression, and of every form of hu- 
man misery, they are but describ- 
ing the state to which her conquer- 
ors have reduced her. 

But there are special reasons for 
dwelling upon the wrongs of Ire- 



land. For three hundred years the 
Irish people themselves and their 
faith have been held responsible, 
wherever the English language is 
spoken, for the crimes of England. 
The backwardness of Irish industry, 
and the seeming want of energy of 
the people in improving their con- 
dition, are habitually imputed by 
statesmen and public instructors to 
a peculiar indolence and reckless- 
ness in the Celtic race, fostered and 
encouraged by what is supposed to 
be the necessary influence of the 
Catholic religion. 

'I'he Irish are probably not more 
Celtic than the French, who assured- 
ly are not excelled in thrift and indus- 
try by any other people. There is no 
country more Catholic than Belgium, 
nor is there anywhere a more pros- 
perous or laborious people. Irishmen 
themselves, it is universally admit- 
ted, are hard workers in England, 
in the United States, in Canada, .in 
Australia — wherever, in a word, the 
motives which incite men to labor 
are not taken from them ; and yet 
the popular prejudice on this sub- 
ject is so flattering to Anglo-Saxon 
and Protestant pride that it re- 
mains in the public mind like a 
superstition, which no amount of 
evidence can affect. In a former 
article we have attempted to trace 
some of the causes to which the 
poverty and misery of Ireland must 
be attributed, and we shall now 
continue the investigation. During 
the three centuries immediately fol- 
lowing the Conquest the country 
was wasted by wars, massacres, and 
feuds, carried on by the two armed 
nations, which fiercely contended 
for the possession of the soil. The 
Anglo-Norman colony, entrenched 
within the Pale, and receiving con- 
stant supplies of men and money 
from the mother-country, formed a 
kind of standing army, ever ready 



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to invade and lay waste tlie terri- 
tories still held by the native popu- 
lation. The Irish people, in self- 
defence, and also with the hope 
of driving the invader from their 
shores, turned their whole attention 
to war. All the pursuits of peace 
were forgotten, and the island be- 
came a camp of soldiers, who, when 
not battling with the common enemy, 
turned their swords against one an- 
other. In such a state of society 
no progress was possible. Then 
came three centuries of religious 
wars to add more savage fierceness to 
the war of races. Under Elizabeth, 
James I., Cromwell, and William of 
Orange the whole country was con- 
fiscated. The Catholics were driv- 
en from their lands, hunted down, 
their churches and monasteries 
were burned or turned over to 
Protestants, their priests were mar- 
tyred or exiled, their schools closed, 
their teachers banished, their nobles 
impoverished; and to make this 
state of things perpetual the Penal 
Code was enacted. To this point 
there was complete harmony be- 
tween the home government and 
the English colony in Ireland. But 
England has rarely poured out her 
treasure or her blood for other 
than selfish and mercenary motives. 
She therefore demanded, as the 
price of her assistance in crushing 
the Irish Catholics, that the com- 
merce and industry of Ireland 
should be sacrificed to her own in- 
terests. The House of Commons 
declared the importation of Irish 
cattle a public nuisance. They 
were then slaughtered and salted, but 
the government refused to permit 
the sale of the 'meat. The hides 
were tanned. The importation of 
leather was forbidden. The Irish 
Protestants began to export their 
wool ; England refused to buy it. 
They began to manufacture it ; an ex- 



port duty, equivalent to prohibition, 
was put on all Irish woollen goods. 
They grew flax and made linens; 
England put a bounty on Scotch 
and English linens, and levied a 
duty on Irish linens. Ireland was 
not allowed to build or own a ship — 
her forests were felled and the tim- 
ber sent to England. The English 
colonies were forbidden to trade 
with her; even the fisheries were 
carried on with English boats man- 
ned by Englishmen. By these and 
similar measures Irish commerce 
and industry were destroyed. No- 
thing remained for the people to do 
but to till the soil. In this lay tlie 
only hope of escaping starvation. 
But they no longer owned the land ; 
it was in the hands of an alien aris- 
tocracy, English in origin and sym- 
pathy, Protestant in religion. The 
CathoHc people, without civil exis- 
tence, were at the mercy of an oli- 
garchy by whom they were both 
hated and despised. These nobles 
owed their titles, wealth, and power 
to the violence of conquest, and, in- 
stead of seeking to heal the wounds, 
they were resolved to keep them 
open. In France and in England 
the Northmen were gradually fused 
with the original population. They 
lost their language, customs, almost 
the memory of their cradle-land. 
Even in Ireland a considerable por- 
tion of the Norman conquerors be- 
came Irish — Hibernis hibcrniores. 
But this partial assimilation of the 
two races was effected in spite of 
England, who made use of strong 
measures both to prevent and punish 
this degeneracy, as it was termed. 
Had the union between the Irish 
and the Normans not been prevent- 
ed by this violent and interested 
policy, a homogeneous people would 
have been formed in Ireland as in 
England, and the frightful wrongs 
and crimes of the last seven hun« 



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English Rule in Ireland. 



dred years would not have been 
committed. 

But the interests of England de- 
manded that Ireland should be kept 
weak and helpless by internal dis- 
cord ; and she therefore used every 
means to prevent the fusion of the 
two races. The " Irish enemy," 
ever ready to break in upon the 
settlements of the Pale, was the 
surest warrant of the loyalty of the 
English colony to the mother-coun- 
try, whose assistance might at 
any moment become essential to its 
very existence. The native popu- 
lation, on the other hand, was held 
in check by the foreigner encamped 
in the land. Had the Irish and 
the English in Ireland united, they 
would have had little trouble in 
throwing off the yoke of England. 
It was all-important, therefore, that 
they should remain distinct and in- 
imical races. All intercourse be- 
tween them was forbidden. Their 
inter-marriage was made high trea- 
son. It was a crime for an English- 
man to speak Irish, or for an Irish- 
man to speak English. The ancient 
laws and customs of the Irish were 
destroyed, and they were denied 
the benefits of English law. As 
yet the English and the Irish pro- 
fessed the same religious faith ; but 
now even this powerful bond of 
union was broken. Enemies on 
earth, they looked to no common 
hope beyond this life. Three cen- 
turies of persecution and outrage 
followed, during which the Catho- 
lic Irish were reduced to such a 
state of misery and beggary that 
the only thing which remained in 
common between ihem and their 
tyrants was hate. 

Here we have come upon the 
well-spring of all the bitter waters 
that have deluged Ireland. The 
country is owned and governed by 
a few men who have never loved 



the country and have always hated 
the people. Throughout the rest 
of Europe, even in the worst times, 
the interests of the lords and the 
peasants were to some extent iden- 
tical. They were one in race and 
religion, rendered mutual services, 
gloried in a common country, and 
shared their miseries. The noble 
spent at least a part of the year on 
his estates, surrounded by liis de- 
pendants. Kind offices were inter- 
changed. The great lady visited 
tiie peasant woman in her sickness, 
and the humanities of life were not 
ignored. Elsewhere in Europe the 
great land-owners, whether lay or 
ecclesiastical, were, with rare excep- 
tions, kind to the poor, indulgent to 
their debtors, willing to encourage 
industry, to advance capital for the 
improvement of the land, and thus 
to promote their own interests by 
promoting those of their tenants. 
The privileged classes were not 
wholly independent of the people. 
If they were not restrained from 
wrong-doing by love, they were of- 
ten held in check by a salutary 
fear. 

But nothing of all this was found 
in Ireland, where the landlords 
were in the unfortunate position of 
having nothing to fear and nothing 
to hope from the people. They 
lacked all the essential conditions 
of a native aristocracy. Their ti- 
tles were Irish, but all their inter- 
ests and sympathies were English. 
They were the hired servants of 
England, and they were not paid 
to work for the good of Ireland. 
They drew their revenues from a 
country to which they rendered no 
service ; they werfe supported by 
the labors of the people whom they 
oppressed and hated ; and they 
rarely saw the land from which 
they derived their wealth and titles, 
but lived in England, where they 



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English Rule in IrelamL 



107 



found a more congenial society, 
and were not afflicted by the sight 
of sufferings and miseries of which 
they knew themselves to be the 
authors. If the people, maddened 
by oppression or hunger, revolted, 
the Irish landlords were not dis- 
turbed ; for an English army was at 
hand to crush the rebellion, which 
was never attributed to its true 
cause, but to the supposed insubor- 
dination and lawlessness of the 
Irish character. In England there 
existed a middle class, which 
bridged over the chasm that sepa- 
rated the nobles from the peasants, 
and which rendered the aristocracy 
liberal and progressive by opening 
its ranks to superior merit wherever 
found; but in Ireland there were 
only two classes of society, divided 
the one from the other as by a wall 
of brass. The authority of the 
Protestant oligarchy over the Cath- 
olic population was absolute, and 
they contracted the vices by which 
the exercise of uncontrolled power 
is always punished. Tq the narrow- 
ness and ignorance of a rural gen- 
try were added the brutality and 
coarseness of tyrants. The social 
organization prevented the infusion 
of new blood which had saved the 
English aristocracy from decay and 
impotence, and the general stagna- 
tion of political and commercial life 
in Ireland had the effect of helping 
on the degeneracy of the ruling 
caste. Everything, in a word, 
tended to make the Irish landlords 
the worst aristocracy with which 
a nation was ever cursed ; and, by 
the most cruel of fates, this worst 
of all aristocracies was made the 
sole arbiter of the' destinies of the 
Irish people, of whose pitiable 
condition under this rule we have 
already ^iven some account. 

We turn now to consider the 
causes which have brought a cer- 



tain measure of relief to tlie people 
of Ireland ; and we must seek for 
them, not in the good- will or sense 
of justice of Irish or English Prot- 
estants, but in circumstances which 
took from them the power of continu- 
ing without some mitigation a pol- 
icy which, if ruinous to the Irish 
people, was also full of peril to 
England. 

It is pleasant to us, as Americans, 
to know that the voice which pro- 
claimed our freedom and independ- 
ence was heard in Ireland, as it has 
since been heard throughout the 
earth, rousing the nations to high 
thoughts of liberty, ringing as the 
loud battle-cry of wronged and op- 
pressed peoples. The great discus- 
sions which the struggle of the Amer- 
ican colonies awoke in the British 
Parliament, and in which the very 
spirit of liberty spoke from the lips 
of the sublimest orators, sent a tiirill 
of hope through Irish hearts, while 
the Declaration of Independence 
filled their oppressors with dismay. 
In 1776 we declared our separate ex- 
istence, and in 1778 already some of 
the most odious features of the Penal 
Code were abolished. "A voice from 
America," said Flood, " shouted to 
Liberty." Henceforward Catholics 
were permitted to take long leases, 
though not to possess in fee simple ; 
the son, by turning Protestant, was 
no longer permitted to rob his father, 
and the laws of inheritance which 
prevented the accumulation of prop- 
erty in the hands of Catholics were 
abrogated. This was little enough, 
indeed, but it was of inestimable 
value, for it marked the turning- 
point in the history of Ireland. A 
beginning had been made, a breach 
had been opened in the enemy's 
citadel. But this was not all tliat 
the American Revolution did for 
Ireland. 

The sympathies of the Presbyte- 



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rians of the North went out to their 
brethren who were struggling on 
the other side of the Atlantic. 
They also had grievances compar- 
ed with wliich those of the colonies 
were slight ; their cause was iden- 
tical, and the success of the Ameri- 
cans would be a victory for Ireland ; 
if England triumphed beyond the 
seas, there would be no hope for 
those who, being nearer, were held 
with a more certain grasp. Hence, 
in spite of the bitter hate which in 
Ireland separated the Protestants 
from the Catholics, they were drawn 
together by a common interest and 
sympathy in the cause of American 
independence. England's wars, both 
in Europe and in her transatlan- 
tic colonies, were a constant drain 
upon her resources, and it became 
necessary to supply the armies in 
America with the troops which were 
kept in Ireland to hold that country 
in subjection. General Howe ask- 
ed that Irish papists should not be 
sent as recruits to him, for they 
would desert to the enemy. The 
best men were therefore picked 
fjoin the English regiments and 
sent to America; Ireland was de- 
nuded of troops; the defences of 
her harbors were in ruins ; and she 
was exposed to the attacks of pri- 
vateers. Something had to be done, 
and Parliament agreed to allow the 
Irish militia to be called out. As 
an inducement to Catholics to enlist, 
they were promised indulgences in 
the exercise of their religion, but 
this promise aroused Protestant 
bigotry, ever ready to break forth. 
The plan was abandoned, and the 
defence of the country was com- 
mitted to the Volunteers. 

In the meanwhile Burgoyne had, 
surrendered to the Americans at Sa- 
ratoga, France had entered into 
alliance with the colonies, and 
French and American privateers 



began to swarm in the Irish Chan- 
nel. The English Parliament, now 
thoroughly alarmed, and eager to 
make peace with the rebels, passed 
an act renouncing the right of tax- 
ing the colonies, and even offered 
seats in the House of Commons to 
their representatives. These con- 
cessions, which came too late to 
propitiate the Americans, served 
only to embolden the Irish in their 
demands for the redress of their 
grievances. The Americans were 
rebels, and were treated with the 
greatest indulgence ; the Irish were 
loyal, and were still held in the 
vilest bondage. This was intolera- 
ble. To add to the distress, one 
of the periodical visitations of fam- 
ine which have marked English 
rule in Ireland fell upon the coun- 
try, and the highways were filled 
with crowds of half-naked and starv- 
ing people. 

Thirty thousand merchants and 
mechanics in Dublin were living on 
alms; the taxes could not be col- 
lected, and in the general collapse 
of trade the customs yielded almost 
nothing. The country was unpro- 
tected, and there was no money in 
the treasury with which to raise an 
army. Nothing remained in this 
extremity but to allow the Volun- 
teers to assemble; for the summer 
was at hand, and every day the pri- 
vateers might be expected to ap- 
pear in the Channel. Company af- 
ter company was organized, and in 
a very short time large bodies of 
men were in arms. The Catholics 
also took advantage of the general 
excitement. If the Protestants 
were in arms, why should they re- 
main defenceless.' 

Never before had there been such 
an opportunity of extorting from 
England the measures of relief 
which she would never willingly 
consent to grant. The threatening 



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danger, however, had no effect upon 
the British Parliament. 

The Irish Parliament met in 
1779, and the patriots, strong in 
the support of the Volunteers who 
lined the streets of Dublin, de- 
manded free trade. The city was 
\t\ an uproar ; a mob paraded be- 
fore the Parliament House, and 
with threats called upon the mem- 
bers to redress the wrongs of Ire- 
land. Cannon were trailed round 
the statue of King William, with 
the inscription, " Free trade or this/* 
and on the flags were emblazoned 
menacing mottoes — " The Volun- 
teers of Ireland," "Fifty thousand 
of us ready to die for our country." 

" Talk not to me of peace," ex- 
claimed Hussey Burgh, one of the 
leading patriots. " Ireland is not 
at peace ; it is smothered war. 
England has sown her laws as dra- 
gon's teeth, and they have sprung 
up as armed men." All Ireland 
was aroused. The Irish, said 
Burke in the English House of 
Commons, had learned that justice 
was to be had from England only 
when demanded at the point of the 
sword. They were now in arms ; 
iheir cause was just; and they 
would have redress or end the con- 
nection between the two countries. 
The obnoxious laws restricting 
trade were repealed and in the 
greatest haste sent over to Ireland 
to calm the tempest that was brew- 
ing there. 

The effect went even beyond ex- 
pectation. Dublin was illuminated, 
congratulatory addresses were sent 
over to England, and people ima- 
gined that Ireland's millennium had 
arrived. But the consequences of 
centuries of crime and oppression 
do not disappear as by the enchant- 
er's wand ; and one of the evils of 
tyranny is the curse it leaves after 
it has ceased to exist. In the wild- 



Ajfess of their joy the people exag- 
gerated the boon whicli they had 
wrenched from England ; the sober 
second thought turned their atten- 
tion to what still remained to be 
done. 

In 1780 Grattan brought for- 
ward the famous resolution which 
declared that "the king, with the 
consent of the Parliament of Ire- 
land, was alone competent to enact 
laws to bind Ireland." The time 
could not have been more oppor- 
tune. The American colonies were 
in full revolt; Spain and France 
were assisting them ; England had 
been forced into war with Hol- 
land, and her Indian Empire was 
threatening to take advantage of 
her distress to rebel. In the 
midst of so many wars and dan- 
gers it would have been madness 
to have provoked Ireland to armed 
resistance, and Grattan felt that 
the hour had come when the Irish 
people should stand forth as one 
of the nations of the earth ; when 
all differences of race and creed 
might be merged into a common 
patriotism, and Celt and Saxon, 
Catholic and Protestant, present 
an unbroken front to the English 
tyrant. "The Penal Code," he 
said, "is the shell in whicli the 
Protestant power has been hatched. 
It has become a bird. It must 
burst the shell or perish in it. In- 
dulgence to Catholics cannot injure 
the Protestant religion." 

The Volunteers were, with few 
exceptions, Protestants, and their 
attitude of defiance made the Eng- 
lish government willing to place 
the Catholics against them as a 
counterpoise ; and it therefore of- 
fered no opposition to measures 
tending to relieve them of their 
disabilities. But, under Grattan 's 
influence, the Volunteers them- 
selves pronounced in favor of the 



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Catholics by j^assing the famous 
Dungannon resolution : "That we, 
[the Volunteers] hold the right of 
private judgment in matters of reli- 
gion to be equally sacred in others 
as in ourselves ; that we rejoice 
in the relaxation of the penal laws 
against our Roman Catholic fel- 
low-subjects ; and that we con- 
ceive these measures to be fraught 
with the happiest consequences to 
the union and prosperity of the in- 
habitants of Ireland." 

In February, 1782, Grattan again 
brought forward a motion to de- 
clare the independence of the Irish 
Legislature, and again it was 
thrown out. The Dungannon reso- 
lution was then introduced, and it 
was proposed to abolish all dis- 
tinctions between Protestants and 
Catholics. But to tliis the most 
serious objections were raised, and 
it was found necessary to make 
concessions to Protestant bigotry. 
The Catholics were permitted to 
acquire freehold property, to buy 
and sell, bequeath and inherit ; but 
the penal laws which bore upon 
tlieir religion, and their right to 
educate their children at home or 
abroad, as well as those which ex- 
cluded them from political life, 
were left on the statute-book. Fa- 
naticism was stronger than patriot- 
ism, and the enthusiastic love of 
liberty was again found to be com- 
l)atible with the love of persecution 
and oppression. But this injustice 
in no way dampened the ardor of 
the Catholics for the national inde- 
pendence ; and when, on the i6th 
of April, 1782, Grattan moved a 
Declaration of Rights, inspired pro- 
bably by our own Declaration of 
Independence, he was greeted with 
as wild a tumult of applause by 
the Catholics as by his Protestant 
countrymen. " I found Ireland," 
he said, " on her knees. I watched 



over her with an etornal solicitude. 
I have traced her progress from in- 
juries to arms, and from arms to 
liberty. Spirit of Swift, spirit of 
Molyneux, your genius has pre- 
vailed. Ireland is now a nation. 
In tliat new character I hail her, 
and, bowing to her august presence, 
I say, Esto Perpetual " 

The overwhelming popular en- 
thusiasm bore everything with it, 
and opposition was useless. " It is 
no longer," wrote the Duke of Port- 
land, the viceroy, " the Parliament 
of Ireland that is to be managed or 
attended to; it is the whole of tliis 
country." 

In England the Whigs, who were 
in power, felt how hopeless would 
be any efforts to stem the torrent, 
and they therefore yielded with 
grace. Fox admitted that Ireland 
had a right to distrust British legis- 
lation "because it had hitherto 
been employed only to oppress and 
distress her." Ireland had been 
wronged, and it was but just that 
concessions should now be made to 
her. 'i'he day of deliverance had 
come, and, amidst an outburst of 
universal enthusiasm, Ireland's in- 
dependence was proclaimed. 

The Catholics were the first to 
feel the benefits of this victory. 
The two Relief Bills, introduced 
into Parliament in their favor, were 
carried. They were permitted to 
open schools and educate their own 
children ; their stables were no lon- 
ger subject to inspection, or their 
horses above the value of five 
pounds liable to be seized by the 
government or taken from them by 
Protestant informers; and their 
right to freedom of religious wor- 
ship was fully recognized. They 
recovered, in a word, their civil 
rights; but the law still excluded 
them from any participation in the 
political life of the country, and 



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English Rule in Ireland, 



III 



they were still forbidden to possess 
amis. Nevertheless, another step 
towards Catltolic emancipation had 
been taken. Two other laws, bene- 
ficial to all classes of citizens, but 
especially favorable to the poor and 
oppressed Catholics, date from this 
lime : the Habeas Corpus Act 
was granted to Ireland, and the 
tenure of judges was placed on the 
English level. 

Unfortunately, the social condi- 
tion of the country was so deplora- 
ble that this improvement in the 
•iws conferred few or no benefits 
i|)on the impoverished and down- 
trodden people. But at least there 
vas some gain ; for if good laws do 
lot necessarily make a people pros- 
perous, bad laws necessarily keep 
'hem in misery. The landed gen- 
•ry and Protestant clergy continued 
vithout shame to neglect all the 
iuties which they owed to their 
ienants, whose wretchedness in- 
creased as the fortunes of Ireland 
Neemed to rise. To maintain the 
Volunteers the rents were raised, 
and the poor peasants, already 
sinking beneath an intolerable bur- 
den, were yet more heavily laden. 
The proprietors of the soil spent 
their time in riot and debauch while 
the people were starving. They 
were the magistrates and at the 
:»ame time the most notorious vio- 
lators of the law. " The justices 
of the peace,** says Arthur Young, 
"are the very worst class in the 
kingdom." 

The clergy of the Established 
Church were little better. Like 
the landlords, they were generally 
absentees, and employed agents to 
raise their tithes, in the North from 
ilie Presbyterians, and in other parts 
<'f the island from the Catholics. 
"As the absentee landlord,** says 
Froude, *' had his middleman, the 
absentee incumbent had his tithe 



farmer and tithe proctor — perhaps 
of all the carrion who were preying 
on the carcase of the Irish peasan- 
try the vilest and most accursed. 
As the century waned and life grew 
more extravagant, the tithe proctor, 
like his neighbors, grew more grasp- 
ing and avaricious. He exacted 
from the peasants the full pound of 
flesh. His trade was dangerous, 
and therefore he required to be 
highly paid. He handed to his em- 
ployer perhaps half what he collect- 
ed. He fleeced the flock and he 
fleeced their shepherd.** " The use 
of the tithe farmer,** said Grat- 
tan, " is to get from the parishion- 
ers what the clergyman would be 
ashamed to demand, and to enable 
the clergyman to absent himself 
from duty. His livelihood is ex- 
tortion. He is a wolf left by the 
shepherd to take care of the flock 
in his absence." * 

In the midst of the general ex- 
citement the Catholic peasants grew 
restless under this horrible system 
of organized plunder and extortion. 
They banded together and took 
an oath to pay only a specified 
sum to the clergyman or his 
agent. The movement spread, and 
occasional acts of violence were 
committed. All Munster was or- 
ganized, and a regular war with the 
tithe proctors was begun. In the 
popular fury crimes were perpetrat- 
ed and the innocent were often 
made to suffer with the guilty. Yet 
so glaring were the wrongs and so 
frightful the abuses from which the 
peasants were suffering that they 
everywhere met with sympathy. 
The true cause of these disorders 
was social and not political. Mis- 
ery, and not partisan zeal, had 
driven the Catholics to take up 
arms. The cry of hungry women 

« The Bt^lisk im frtlamd^ irol. it p . 4 53 



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English Rule in Irela^id. 



and children for bread resounded 
louder in their ears than the shouts 
of the patriots. They were without 
food or raiment, and in despair they 
sowght to wreak vengeance upon 
the inliuman tyrants who had re- 
duced them to starvation. Even 
Fitzgibbon, afterwards Lord Clare, 
was forced to admit that the Miln- 
ster peasants were in a state of 
oppression, abject poverty, and mis- 
ery not to be equalled in the world, 
and that the landlords and their 
agents were responsible for the de- 
gradation of these unfortunate be- 
ings. 

Ireland was still a ])rey to agita- 
tions, hopes, and sufferings when 
the French Revolution of 1789 
burst upon Europe. The cry of 
Liberty, equality, fraternity sounded 
as revelation to the struggling pa- 
triots. Hitherto they had contend- 
ed for freedom, in the English and 
feudal sense, as a privilege and a 
concession ; they now demanded it 
as an imprescriptible right of man. 
The American Declaration had in- 
deed proclaimed that all men were 
free and equal, or of right ought to 
be; but this was merely a pretty 
])hrase, a graceful preamble, in a 
charter which consecrated slavery 
and inequality. In America there 
were no privileged classes, and the 
people had not groaned beneath the 
tyranny of heartless and effete aris- 
tocracies ; the evils of which their 
leaders complained, compared with 
those which weighed down the Eu- 
ropean populations, were slight, al- 
most imaginary. But in France Li- 
berty and Equality was the fierce 
and savage yell of men who hated 
the whole social order as it existed 
around them, and who, indeed, had 
no reason to love it. The spirit of 
feudalism was dead, and its lifeless 
form remained to impest the earth 
The nobles, sunk in debauch and 



sloth, continued their exactions, 
upheld their privileges, and yet ren- 
dered no service to the state. Cor- 
ruption, extravagance, maladminis- 
tration, infidelity, and licentious- 
ness pervaded the whole social sys- 
tem. France was prostrate with 
the foot of a harlot on her neck, 
and the people were starving. Lit- 
tle wonder, wlfen the torch was ap- 
plied, that the lurid glare of burn- 
ing thrones and altars, the crash of 
falling palaces and cathedrals, should 
affright and strike dumb the nations 
of the earth — for God's judgment 
was there ; little wonder that Ire- 
land, sitting by the melancholy sea, 
chained and weeping, should lift her 
head when fhe God of the patient 
and the humble was shattering the 
whitened sepulchres which enshrin- 
ed the world's rottenness. 

In Belfast the taking of the Bas- 
tile was celebrated by processions 
and banquets amid the wildest en- 
thusiasm, and the name of Mira- 
beau called forth the most deafen- 
ing applause. The eyes of Ireland 
were fastened on France ; the cause 
of the Revolution was believed to 
be that of all oppressed peoples 
who seek to break the bonds of 
slavery. " Right or wrong," wrote 
an Irish patriot, ** success to the 
French ! They are fighting our 
battles, and, if they fail, adieu to 
liberty in Ireland for one century."* 
Even the manners and phraseology 
of the Revolution became popular 
in Ireland. The Dublin Volunteers 
were called the National Guard, the 
liberty-cap was substituted for the 
harp, and Irishmen saluted one an- 
other with the title of citizen. 

Out of this French enthusiasm 
grew the Society of " United Irish- 
men," which soon superseded the 
Volunteers. The United Irishmen 

• Tone** Memoirs^ vol. i. p ac5. 



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"3 



made no concealment of their revo- 
lutionary principles. They demand- 
ed a radical reform in the adminis- 
iralion of Ireland, and threatened, 
if this was denied, to break the bond 
which held them united with Eng- 
land. They openly proclaimed their 
intention of stamping out " the vile 
and odious aristocracy," which was 
an insuperable obstacle to the pro- 
gress of the Irish people; and to 
accomplish this they invited the 
French to invade Ireland. The 
landlords, they said, show no 
mercy; they deserve to receive 
none. 

However little sympathy the Ca- 
tholics might feel with men who 
entertained such violent opinions, 
they were their natural allies ; and 
tl»c English government, following 
its old policy of doing what is right 
only under compulsion, hastened 
to make concessions. From June, 
1792, Catholics were admitted as 
barristers; they were al>owed to 
keep more than two apprentices ; 
and the prohibition of their mar- 
riage with Protestants was with- 
drawn. In 1 795, when France had 
declared war against England, still 
further concessions were made. 
Tiie penalties for non-attendance 
at Protestant worship were abolish- 
ed. "On the eve of a desperate 
war." said Sir Lawrence Parsons 
in the House of Commons, " it was 
unsafe to maintain any longer the 
prniciples of entire exclusion." 
The Catholics were admitted to 
the franchise, but were not made 
eligible to Parliament; they were 
.It the same time declared capable 
of holding offices, civil and mili- 
tary, and places of trust, without 
taking the oath or receiving the 
sacrament. This is tiie third 
emancipation of the Catholics of 
Ireland. The American Revolu- 
tion brought about the first, and 

VOL. XXV. — 8 



the independence of the Irish Par- 
liament the second. 

In the meantime the crimes and 
excesses of the French Republi- 
cans had cooled the zeal of the 
Irish patriots. The Catholics grew 
suspicious of leaders who applaud- 
ed the assassins of priests and the 
profaners of all sacred things. A 
reaction had set in, and the English 
government seized the opportunity 
to order the people to lay down 
their arms; and this order was 
intentionally executed with such 
cruelty as to provoke insurrec- 
tions, which, in the lack of leaders- 
and of any plan of action, were, 
easily suppressed. The agents of 
the United Irishmen had, however,, 
succeeded in interesting the French 
Republic in the cause of Ireland, . 
and in December, 1796, General. 
Hoche set sail for Bantry Bay with 
fifteen thousand men ; but the fleet,, 
scattered by a storm, was unable to 
effect a landing. In August, 1798,. 
General Humbert disembarked in 
Killala Bay at the head of fifteen, 
hundred men who had been drawn 
from the armies of Italy and the. 
Rhine, but he found the Irish peo- 
ple completely disarmed, and the. 
country in the possession of a pow- 
erful English army. He neverthe- 
less pushed forward into the interi-- 
or of the island, routed an army of 
four thousand men, and finally, when 
his force had been reduced to eight 
hundred, capitulated to Lord Corn- 
wallis at the head of thirty thou- 
sand. A third expedition, sent ouL 
in the month of September of the 
same year, met with no beticr suc- 
cess. The Rebellion of '98 had' 
blazed fortli and had been quench- 
ed in blood. That it was not un- 
provoked even Mr. Froude con.- 
fesses. 

" The long era of niisgovern- 
ment," he says, "had ripened at 



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English Rule in Ireland. 



last for the harvest. Rarely since 
the inhabitants of the earth have 
formed themselves into civilized 
communities had any country suf- 
fered from such a complication of 
neglect and ill-usage. The Irish 
people clamored against Govern- 
ment, and their real wrong, from 
first to last, had been that there 
was no government over them ; 
that, under changing forms, the uni- 
versal rule among them for four 
centuries had been the tyranny of 
the strong over the weak ; that from 
the catalogue of virtues demanded 
of those who exercised authority 
over their fellow-men the word 
justice had been blotted out. An- 
archy had borne its fruits."* 

During the violence of the con- 

. flict, and in the heat of passion, both 
the rebels and the British soldiers 
committed crimes for which no 
excuse can be offered; but. the 
horrible and deliberate brutality of 
the English after the suppression 
of the outbreak has never been 
surpassed by them even in Ireland. 
When at length the appetite for tor- 
ture, mutilation, and hanging pall- 
ed, the British ministry resolved 
to suppress the Irish Parliament. 
Nothing was to be feared from the 
people, for their spirit had been 

. crushed; the lavish expenditure of 
money in open and shameless bri- 
bery overcame the scruples of their 
Protestant representatives; and 

' thus, after a struggle of six hundred 
and thirty- one years (1x69-1800), 
corruption triumphed where every 

• other means had failed. The 
Union was declared to exist ; but 
Ireland was permitted to retain its 

• name, its institutions, laws, and cus- 
toms, subject, however, to the plea- 

^sure of the imperial Parliament. 
The Rebellion of 1803, which ac- 

• Tht EMgiith in. Irtland^ vol. iii. p, 1^48. 



complished nothing, and that of 
1848, which met with no better fate, 
close the fateful list of Ireland's 
wars. 

Men have never fought in a juster 
cause, and, had they triumphed, their 
names would live for ever in the scroll 
of the world's heroes. They have 
not bled in vain, if Irishmen will 
but learn the lesson which their 
failures teach. Not by arms, but 
by the force of the holiest of causes, 
is Ireland to obtain the full redress 
of her wrongs. They only who are 
her enemies or who are ignorant 
of her history would wish to ex- 
cite her people to rebellion. That 
England will grant nothing which 
she thinks herself able to withhold 
we know ; but these periodical okW- 
breaks have invariably given her 
an opportunity of strengthening 
the grasp which political agitation 
had forced her to relax. Wars 
which lead only to butcheries are 
criminal, and they destroy the faith 
of patriots in their country's tri- 
umph ; while defeat brings divi- 
sions and feuds among those who 
had stood shoulder to shoulder on 
the field of battle. 

After the Union Ireland relapsed 
into a period of lethargic indiffer- 
ence which might have been mista- 
ken for healthful repose. The Pro- 
testant ascendency entered again 
upon the beaten paths of tyranny 
and oppression, and the Catholics 
suffered in silence. 

The obstinate bigotry of George 
III. had prevented Pitt from fulfil- 
ling the promise, made at the time 
of tlie union of the two kingdoms, 
to relieve them of their civil dis- 
abilities, and the prime minister, 
whose intentions were honest, with- 
drew from the cabinet. But this 
step, however it might exonerate 
him from further responsibility in 
the matter, brought no relief to 



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the Catholics; and as the sad ex- 
j)erience of the past had taught 
•(hem the hopelessness of resorting 
lo violent measures, they entered 
upon the course of peaceful agita- 
tion which, under the wise and 
skilful direction of 0*Connell, 
compelled the British Parliament, 
in April, 1829, to concede to them 
the rights which had been so long 
and so cruelly withheld. 

" The Duke of Wellington,'* said 
Lord Palmerston, "found that he 
could not carry on the government 
of the country without yielding the 
Catholic question, and he immedi- 
ately surrendered that point "; and 
(ieorge IV. signed the act of Cath- 
olic Emancipation with a shudder. 

This great victory, important in 
itself and its immediate results, was 
yet more important as an evidence 
of a radical change in the policy 
henceforward to be followed in 
seeking redress of Irish grievances. 

For seven hundred years England 
had been busy in efforts to form a 
government for Ireland, and the re- 
sult was the most disgraceful failure 
known in history. For seven hun- 
dred years Ireland had rebelled, 
plotted, invoked foreign aid, in the 
hope of throwing off the galling 
yoke ; and after centuries of blood- 
shed she found herself more strong- 
ly bound to England. In the pres- 
ence of this great historical teach- 
ing both nations seemed prepared 
to pause and deliberately to examine 
their mutual relations, and both 
seemed to feel that the special ob- 
jects at which each had been aiming 
ivere unattainable. The geograph- 
ical position of the two countries 
renders their union inevitable so 
long as either is able to subjugate 
and hold the other in the bonds of 
a common government. Had Ire- 
land been in condition to maintain 
her independence, England, sur- 



rounded by enemies, could never 
have risen to the position which she 
has held for centuries. The nation- 
al aspirations for power and domin- 
ion could not be realized while Ire- 
land was permitted to retain her 
separate existence, and her con- 
quest was therefore inevitable the 
moment England felt herself strong 
enough to undertake it ; nor can 
the wildest visionary seriously be- 
lieve that there is the faintest hope 
that the connection between them 
will ever be dissolved except in their 
common ruin. So long as England^* 
power remains, so long will she 
hold Ireland with the unerring in- 
stinct with which a vigorous people 
clings to its national life; and should 
England's downfall come, there is 
no good reason for thinking that it 
would not be the knell of Ireland's 
doom. They have the same lan- 
guage, the same fundamental prin- 
ciples of government, the same com- 
mercial and political interests ; and 
under these common influences the 
differences and antagonisms wliich 
still exist are likely to become 
more and more inactive. The Eng- 
lish people are not without their own 
grievances, which, in some respects, 
are more serious than those of the 
Irish — the consequences of feudal- 
ism, which in England has been 
able to resist more successfully^than 
elsewhere the social movements of 
modern times. Henceforward Ire- 
land is the natural and necessary 
ally of the more liberal and fair- 
minded portion of the English peo- 
ple, and she will co-operate most 
efficiently in helping them to bring 
about the reforms which are so 
much needed. 

For the perfect religious liberty 
which can exist only after the dis- 
establishment of the Anglican 
Church England will be indebted 
to Ireland, whose people have al- 



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English Rule in Ireland. 



ready compelled the British Parlia- 
ment to admit principles and adopt 
measures which will inevitably lead 
to the dissolution of the union be- 
tween church and state throughout 
the whole extent of the empire. 
The Irish land system must be sac- 
rificed as the Irish Church has 
been sacrificed; and this will be 
the first step towards a complete 
revolution in the system of land 
tenure throughout Great Britain. 
The growing influence and increas- 
ing number of English Catholics 
will help greatly to create a more 
cordial and genuine religious sym- 
l)athy between the two races of 
these sister islands ; and this sym- 
pathy will be still further strength- 
ened when the church in England, 
til rough the disestablishment and 
disintegration of Anglicanism, shall 
liave gained a position and power 
which will give to her special 
weight in forming public opinion. 
As the community of interests of 
ihe two countries becomes more 
manifest, political parties will cease 
lo be influenced by national or re- 
ligious prejudice, and will be con- 
stituted upon principles which re- 
late to the social interests of the 
people. England has already con- 
fessed the radical error of her Irish 
l)olicy, and her leading statesmen 
have admitted that the cause of its 
failure lay in its viciousness — in the 
fact that it wantonly violated the 
rights and interests of the people 
because they belonged to a difi'er- 
ent race and held a different reli- 
gious faith. Her legislation was 
unjust because it w^as narrow and 
exclusive — favored a class and a 
creed, and, in order to favor these, 
repressed and crushed the national 
energies. The government believ- 
oil, wliether truly or falsely, that it 
( ould rule Ireland only by fostering 
divisions and feuds among her peo- 



ple ; and to do this it sought by 
every means to intensify and em- 
bitter the prejudice which separat- 
ed the English from the Irish, the 
Protestant from the Catholic. With 
this view Scotch and English colo- 
nies of Protestants were planted in 
Ireland, and, lest the intercourse 
and amenities of life should soften 
the asperity of religious bigotry, the 
government took special care to 
encourage the hatred which kept 
them aloof from the natives, first 
by local separations, and afterwards 
by the social distinctions which 
arose from the enforced poverty 
and ignorance of the Catholic pop- 
ulation. The American Revolution 
taught England, if not the iniquity, 
the folly of this conduct ; and from 
1778 to the present day she has been 
slowly receding from a course in 
which she had grown old. She has 
receded unwillingly, too, and with 
hesitation, and has thus often in- 
creased the discontent which she 
sought to allay. Nations, like indi- 
viduals, find that it is hard to recover 
from inveterate habits of wrong-do- 
ing. The wages of sin must be paid ; 
repentance can save from death, but 
not from humiliation and punish- 
ment. Nor has England repented, 
but she has entered in the way of 
penitence ; she has made some re- 
paration, but has not by any means 
done all that must be done before 
Ireland can be content. For nearly 
half a century now — that is, since 
1829 — there has been, we believe, a 
sincere desire to govern Ireland 
fairly, chiefly, no doubt, because 
English statesmen had come to see 
that it was not possible to govern 
her in any other way; but these 
good intentions have been thwarted 
by the constitutional repugnance of 
the English people to apply strong 
and efficacious remedies to social 
disorders. Nowhere else among civ- 



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English Rule in Ireland, 



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ilized nations are ancient abuses 
guarded and protected with such 
superstitious veneration. Hence 
liie government thought to satisfy 
Ireland by half-measures of redress, 
end these it took so ungraciously 
that they seemed to be wrung from 
it, and not conceded with good- 
will. Men are not grateful for 
favors which are granted be- 
cause they can no longer be with- 
held. 

Englishmen still forget that Ire- 
land has the right to be treated by 
them not merely with justice, but 
with generous indulgence. So long 
as the root of the evil is left un- 
touched little will be accomplished 
by pruning the branches. Ireland's 
curse is the system of land tenure, 
founded on confiscation and organ- 
ized to perpetuate a fatal antago- 
nism between the proprietors and 
the tillers of the soil. Irishmen 
will be disaffected and rebellious so 
long as the national prosperity is 
blighted by a state of things which 
leaves their country in the hands 
of men who are happy only when 
they are away from it. 

Parliament has passed several 
land acts, but it would seem that 
they had been purposely so fram- 
ed as to produce no good results. 
That it is possible to change the 
land system of Ireland radically, 
without doing injustice to any one, 
is admitted, and various projects 



by which this might be done have 
been laid before Parliament. Th»«i 
is not a question of tenant-rights ; 
it lies far deeper. Nor is there any 
parity in this respect between Eng- 
land and Ireland. In England the 
land is owned by the people's nat- 
ural leaders ; in Ireland it is own- 
ed by the people's natural enemies. 
This land question is far more im- 
portant than any question of Home 
Rule ; and if Parliament will but 
give a proper solution to this prob- 
lem. Home Rule will no longer be 
seriously thought of. 

When landlordism vanishes from 
Ireland, the day of -final reconcilia- 
tion will be at hand. With it will 
disappear the filibusters, revolution- 
ists, and Fenians, whose disturbing 
influence in Irish politics is made 
possible by the wrongs which the 
English government has not the 
will or the courage to redress. 
There are other grievances ihnn 
the land system, but it will not be 
difficult to do away with them 
when the country shall have been 
given back to the people. With a 
free press, free speech, and an or- 
ganized public agitation sustained 
and increased by the sympathies 
and interests of the masses, of the 
people of England, it will be found 
impossible to withhold much longer 
from Ireland full and complete jus- 
tice; and nothing less will satisfy 
her people. 



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Il8 I Tennyson as a Dramatisi. 



;/ 



TENNYSON AS A DRAMATIST * 



Alfred Tennyson is to-day one 
of the household gods of English- 
speaking peoples. He has a place 
in every library, a niche in every 
memory, an echo in every heart. 
He has unquestionably added a 
new and brilliant page to the great 
book of English literature. He has 
set there something that was not 
there before, and that is not likely 
to fade away with time. Doubtless 
there are men who would deny this. 
There are literary Gorgons who 
would, if they could, stare every 
man into stone. There are critics 
whose nature seems to distil venom, 
and who find no sweetness save in 
their own gall. To men of this 
class the very fact of a man being 
])raised is in itself sufficient cause 
for condemnation. Over and above 
these there are probably some who 
honestly dislike or do not care for 
Tennyson. For such we do not 
speak, but for the great mass of 
English readers in whose estiraa- 
occupies a very 
somewhat undefi- 
By them he is 
better than any 



tion Tennyson 
conspicuous, if 
nable, position, 
liked, and liked 



living poet ; and, indeed, he has 
given excellent reasons for being 
so liked. 

That there have been greater 
English poets, even his most en- 
thusiastic admirers must allow; 
that there have been few sweeter, 
all who have read him and others 
will admit. Indeed, sweetness, with 



* Harold : A Drama. By Alfred Teonyson. 
Boston : James R Osgood & Co. 1877. 

Qnft^n Mnry : A Drama. By Alfred Tennyson. 
Bofeion : James R. Osgood & Co 1875. 



its twin-sister purity, is one of the 
marked characteristics of Tenny- 
son's verse. No man ever mistook 
Tennyson for a Pythoness, a Cas- 
sandra, a Jeremiah. He is not 
heroic like Homer. Much of the 
idyllic grace, but little of the real 
massiveness, of Virgil he has. He 
cannot scoff like Horace, or Byron, 
or Shelley. He cannot scourge like 
Dante, observe with the luminous 
philosophy, the high inspiration of 
Shakspere, or build up a mighty 
edifice like Milton. He can do 
none of these things. In some re- 
spects he is perhaps less than the 
least of these poets. He is a sweet 
singer, made for sunshine and peace 
and harmony ; the poet of the hap- 
py household over whose threshold 
passes from time to time the sad 
shadow of a quiet sorrow ; not the 
poet of despair, of wrath, of agony, 
of the fiercer passions or tumultu- 
ous joys, whose very excess is pam. 
True it is that, as he sang in his 
earlier days, 

^* The poet in a golden clime was bom. 

With golden stars above ; 
Dower'd with the hate of hate, the aooxn of scorn. 
The love of love." 

But he is not such a poet. 
Never has he given voice to the 
hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, 
or to that of which both of these 
are born — the love of love. When- 
ever he has attempted it he has 
failed. He is too retiring, too do- 
mestic. *' With an inner voice" his 
river runs, and we have to listen 
witli ears nicely attuned to catch its 
whisper and its meaning. So inner 
is it, indeed, that it is often obscure 



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Tennyson as a Dramatist. 



119 



and quite escapes the dull hearing 
of ordinary men. His first vol- 
ume, published in 1830, is almost 
fulsomely dedicated to Queen Vic- 
toria, who is certainly not a heroic 
figure, whatever else she may be. 
It is a picture gallery filled with 
Claribels and Lilians, and Isabels 
and Madelines, and Marianas and 
Adelines — ^all very sweet and deli- 
cate and dainty, but not inspiring. 
He sings to ** the owl," he dedi- 
cates odes **to memory," he lin- 
gers by " the deserted house." 
chants the dirge of "the dying 
swan," and so on. In 1832 he en- 
larges his gallery by the addition 
of ihc lovely " Lady of Shalott," 
** Mariana in the South," " Elea- 
nore," and we come nearer to the 
poet's heart in " The Miller's Daugh- 
ter," whom he evidently prefers to 
the haughty and much-abused 
"Lady Clara Vere de Vere." 
Something, too, of his more mark- 
ed peculiarities show here in the 
*• Palace of Art" and that dreamy, 
delicious poem, "The Lotos-Eat- 
ers." He is intensely English — an 
admirable quality, be it remarked 
sotto tw^y in an English poet laure- 
ate. He closes the volume with 
iiome strong verses : 

**• Yoa ask me, why, tlio' ill at ease. 
Within this r^on I subsist, 
Whose spirits falter in the mist. 
And languish for the purple seas ? 

*' It is the land that freemen till. 

That sober-suited Freedom chose. 
The land, where girt with friends or foes 
▲ man may speak the thing he will ; 

" A land of settled goremment, 
A land of ju&t and old renown. 
Where Freedom broadens slowly down 
Fnm precedent to precedent. . . ." 

The intense difference between 
tlic spirit here expressed and that 
of his more immediate and brilliant 
predecessors and countrymen, Byron 
and Shelley and Keats, may possi- 
bly account in some degree for the 



hold which Tennyson has taken on. 
the English heart. He was a man, 
too, who felt the throbbings of the 
age and touched with skilful fin- 
gers the pulse of Time. Though 
anxious for the future, he was 
troubled with no " Dreams of Dark- 
ness," or hollow-eyed despair, or 
morbid imaginings. He realizes 
change; he has hopes for a world 
over which he sees a God ruling. 
He sings boldly of " immortal 
souls," and knows no "first dark 
day of nothingness." He warns 
the intelligence of his countrymen 
to — 



^ . . , pamper not a hastj' time. 

Nor feed with crude imaginings 
' The herd, wild hearts and feeble wings. 
That every sophister can lime. 

*' Deliver not the tasks of might 

To weakness, neither hide the ray 
From those, not olind, who wait for day 
Tho' sitting girt with doubtful light. 

*' Make knowledge circle with the winds ; 
But let her herald. Reverence, fly 
Before her to whatever sky 
Bear seed of men and growth of minds.* 

These lines are noble, true, and 
Christian ; and again : 

*" Meet is it changes should control 
Our being, lest we rust in ease. 
We all are changed by still degrees, 
A/i^mt tk* basis s/tAs s0ut. 

" So let the change which comes be free 
To ingroove itself with that which flies. 
And woik, a joint of state, that plies 
Its offioe, moved with sympathy. 

** A saying, hard to shape in act : 

For ali tktpxst 0/ Time rtvsnis 
A bridal dAwm 0/ tkundsr^ptahy 
Wherever TkeugAtkatk wedded Fact, 

*^ Ev'n now we hear with inward strife 
A motion toiling in the giocm — 
The spirit of the years to come 
Yearning t0 mix himself with Life. 

** A slow-develop'd strenj^th awaits 
Completion in a painful school ; 
Phantoms of other forms of rule. 
New Majesties of mighty States— 

** The warden of the growing hour. 
But vague in vapor, hard to mark ; 
And round them sea and a»r are dark 
With great contrivances of Power." 

This was published in 1832, a 



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Tennyson as a Dramaitst, 



period when agitations about the 
suffrage, and the Corn Laws, and 
Catholic Emancipation — questions 
that shook England to its founda- 
tions, only to ^yi them deeper than 
before — were rife or looming up 
like awful spectres in the dim mist 
of the future. Tennyson did not 
dread them, though he realized 
their vastness and importance. 
Most certainly the verses just quoted 
stamp him as a close observer of 
events in those days and a man of 
right moral balance, to whom might 
with some measure of truth be ap- 
plied his own words : 

'' He taw thro* life and death, thro* good and iU, 
He saw thro* his own soul. 
The marvel of the everlasting willf 
An open scroll. 

Before him lay. . . .** 

Still, these nobler passages are 
only fragments. He prefers his 
quiet mood. In 1842 appeared the 
first of. his idyls, the ** Morte d'Ar- 
thur." Here again the better na- 
ture of the poet — a nature that we 
are grieved to see apparently soured 
and crossed, not softened and made 
more venerable, by the haijd of 
Time — breaks forth in the grand 
prayer of tht: dying king : 

" If thou shouldst never see my face again, 
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by 

prayer 
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy 

voice 
Rise like a fountain for me night and day. 
For what are men better than sheep or goats 
That nourish a blind life within the brain, 
If. knowing God. they lift not hands of prayer. 
Both for themselves and those who call them 

friend ? 
For so the whole round earth is every way 
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.'* 

It was the Catholic instinct 
l)reaking througli the wall of preju- 
dice and false teaching which, in 
centuries of separation from the 
truth, have grown up around the 
English heart, that gave voice to 
this beautiful conception. Many 



are the instances wnere non-Catho- 
lic poets have leaped up to truths 
of this kind which the whole force 
of their training and education ran 
counter to. It is, as it were, the 
flash of inspiration coming on them 
in spite of themselves and issuing 
in music. The divinity of their art 
has lifted them above all prejudice 
into the sun-bright heaven. Thus 
Byron sings to the Blessed Virgin 
in strains that a saint might envy. 
Unfortunately, the instances are 
many also where men lifted up on 
the heights of inspiration, or by the 
deep yearnings of their own soul, 
have, as it were, glanced into heaven 
and seen the face of Truth, only to 
fall back again to their lower level, 
dazed and blinded by the very 
glimpse that was revealed to them. 
And we find them deny with their 
own lips and actions what their 
greater selves had announced. 

It is not our purpose to enter in- 
to an elaborate criticism of Tenny- 
son. Tliat task has been done time 
and again, and by pens infinitely 
better fitted for it than ours. Wt: 
are only taking touches here and 
there to bring out the poet in his 
truest colors, in his best and his 
worst lights, in order to add point 
to the main purport of this article, 
which is to show that Tennyson 
has mistaken himself and his pow- 
ers in the rdle which he has thought 
fit to assume in his later years, in 
his. earlier dreams he is full of hTgh 
thoughts and large aspirations. 
"My faith is large in Time, and 
that which shapes it to some per- 
fect end," he tells us. He looks 
forward longingly to " the golden 
year." He is possessed with the 
spirit of Christian purity, and gives 
constant expression to it, notably in 
"St. Agnes" and "Sir Galahad." 
In " The Two Voices " he argues 
down atheism. He lays bare the 



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grinning savagery of a wasted in- 
tellect and debauched life, only to 
punish it with the power of a man 
who knows what virtue is and feels 
it in his soul. He sometimes 
catches those inarticulate murmurs 
of the heart which breathe in feel- 
ings rather than in words, where 
feeling is too deep for words, and 
they well out in song, as in the 

*« Break, break, break. 

On thy cold gray s(ones, O sea I" 

while in the " In Memoriam " 
the poet, stricken to the heart, has 
given voice to that sorrow, and the 
effect it has on our life, which most 
of us have felt when some bright 
intelligence has been taken from 
our side, whose young years were 
blossoming fair with promise of a 
great and good future. 

In all this he is excellent, perhaps 
unsurpassed ; in all that is sad, or 
s%veet, or picturesque, or naively 
joyous our hearts are with him. 
He stands alone in his dainty pic- 
tures of scenery, of w^onien, of cer- 
tain men. He touches the common- 
places of the time with a magic 
pencil. He beguiled the hard and 
stubborn Saxon, which yielded re- 
luctantly even to the greatest mas- 
ters of English verse, into a music 
it had never known before. He 
built up fairy castles, and galleries 
and cities of old time, and peopled 
them wiih a fair array of Arthurs 
and Launcelots, of Guineveres and 
Elaines, of Merlins and Gawains, 
whose very names were music, and 
whose deeds were just such as be- 
fitted scenes of witchery. He is, 
moreover, a man of marked person- 
;ility and nationality in his writings. 
He is an Englishman and nothing 
else. He does not care to be any- 
thing else or more ; for he can see 
nothing greater. All his scenery is 
English ; his characters are English ; 



his thoughts, feelings, and aspira- 
tions Enghsh. Byron's corsairs 
and giaours and Childe Harolds 
would fight as fiercely, ft-own as 
darkly, sin as deeply, in any civi- 
lized language as in English — in 
warmer languages even better, per- 
haps; Shakspere's profound obser- 
vations and reading of character 
would have reached the world 
through any other channel as sure- 
ly as, perhaps more readily than, 
through the English ; some would 
doubt whether Milton ever wrote 
English at all. But all Tenny- 
son is English or nothing. His 
dawns, his gloamings, his sunrises, 
his sunsets, his landscapes, his 
fens, his fogs, his smoke, his 
moonlight and moonlight effects, 
his winds, his birds, his flowers, his 
reeds and ruslies, his trees, his 
brooklets, his seas, his cliffs, his 
coloring, his ruins, his graveyards, 
his walks and rides, his love of good 
cheer, his hums of great cities, his 
profound respect for the respectable, 
are all English. He has the sturdy 
Enghsh common sense and no small 
share, as will be seen, of English 
prejudice; and, though he feels 
sometiiing of the movements of the 
outer world, he has all the English 
narrowness of vision. So that, while 
his works will probably never be- 
come a part of any other literature 
than the English — for they would not 
be understood elsewhere — they have 
won their way into the English heart 
for their very homeliness^ if for no 
higher reason. So long as this 
English poet was content to sing to 
us, we were content to listen, were 
his lay sad or gay. He had been 
singing all our life, and we were not 
weary of his music, even thougli the 
music was all pitched in much the 
same key. We never tire of a fami- 
liar voice that we love. But when 
we would be roused and wrought 



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Tennyson as a Dramaiist. 



up by some martial strain, by 
some great event, by one of those 
movements that catch the heart of 
a peo))le and sway it and hold it 
captive, by the " thoughts that 
breathe and words that burn," 
Tennyson fails. Surely, for such an 
Englishman as he, the death of the 
Duke of Wellington ought to have 
proved an inspiring theme. It is 
true that as the years went on, and 
the memory of Waterloo faded, and 
the hero of Waterloo moved about 
and took his part in civic affairs, 
people (and people are ever 
ready to weary of their gods, if their 
gods are too near them and live too 
long) began to clip and cut down 
the gigantic proportions of the Iron 
Duke's colossal figure. Indeed, be- 
fore he died it is safe to say that 
half England regarded England's 
hero as rather an ordinary sort of 
person and a worthy but extremely 
fortunate soldier. Still, death gene- 
rally brings back the liveliest memo- 
ries of deeds that are, or are thought 
to be, great and good, and a true 
poet's song who believed all of Wel- 
lington that Tennyson's poem ex- 
presses might well have been tipped 
with fire when Wellington died. 
Yet Tennyson's funeral ode is poor, 
tame ; where not tame, forced ; and, 
like all such compositions, indefi- 
nitely strung out. All his readers 
know the opening : 

'• Bury the Great Duke 

With an empire's lamentation. 
Let us buiy the Great Duke* 
To the noise of the mourning of a mighty na- 
tion, 
Mourning when their leaders fall. 
Warriors cany the warrior's pall 
And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall I*^ 

U is plain from the start that 
he is writing for a public. This 
great duke needs a capital G and a 
capital D to impress duly that ])ub- 
lic, the British (which is always 
ready to be awed by capitals at- 



tached to titles), with the great 
duke's immensity. There is some- 
thing o{ the heavy English under- 
taker about this — a dibulay, a forc- 
ed solemnity, a measured tread, a 
sense of sham. The great duke is 
lost sight of in the funereal trap- 
pings, the crowd, and accompani- 
ment. See how Byron seizes on 
the very heart of an event, and in a 
few lines pictures for us the whole, 
the before and after. He is de- 
scribing the greater man by whose 
fall the great duke rose to fame : 

^^ Tis done— but yesterday a king ! 

And arm'd with kings to strive— 
And now thou art a nameless thing : 

So abject — yet alive ! 
Is this the man of thousand thrones. 
Who strewM our earth with hostile bones. 

And can he thus survive ? 
Since he, miscall'd the Morning Star, 
Nor man nor fiend has fallen so far." 

This indeed is " the scorn of 
scorn," and the entire ode is re 
plete with it. Byron, who had 
been a great admirer of Napoleon, 
could not consent to his idol low- 
ering himself so far as to receive 
his life from England. He could 
not forgive himself for yielding to 

'* That spell upon the minds of men 



That led them to adore 
Those Pagod things of sabre-sway, 
With fronts of brass, and feet of clay." 

" O civic muse," cries Tennyson, 

** To such a name. 
To such a name for ages long. 
To such a name 

Preserve a broad approach of fame. 
And ever-ringing avenues of song.*' 

Here lies the whole secret of the 
ode's comparative poverty. Ten- 
nyson is by position, if not by pro- 
fession, " a civic inuse," and the 
civic muse is never heroic or great. 
It is more apt, like Tyrveydrop, to 
be " a model of deportment," espe- 
cially when it follows the advice of 
Mrs. Chick and "makes an effort." 



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This, for instance, is eminently 
civic : 

^ Wliere shaD we lay the man whom we deplore ? 
Here, in streaming London*8 central roar. 
Let the sound of thcne he wrought for, 
And the feet of those he fought for. 
Echo round his bones for evermore. 

'* Lead out the pafc^ant : sad and slow, 
As fits an universal woe, 
Let the long procession go, 
And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow. 
And let the mournful martial music blow ; 
The last great Englishman is low." 

We hope that Wellington was not 
"the last gfeat Englisliman." If 
so, English greatness must indeed 
be "low." But the thought is irre- 
sistible : Is not the undertaker's 
hand again visible in alUthis } How 
different is it from the sad, simple, 
manly beauty of the lament of a 
poet, whose'^name scarcely stands 
ill tlie list of English authors, for 
one of those soldiers who gloriously 
failed ! Here is how Wolfe sings 
of the burial of Sir John Moore : 

^* Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note. 
As his corse to the rampart wc hurried ; 
Not a soldier dischaiged his iarewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we buiied. 

*^ IVs buried him darkly at dead of night, 
The sods with our bayonets turning. 
By the glimmering moonbesun's fitful light 
And the camp-fires dimly burning." 

Again, is this a worthy echo of 
** a people's voice " ? 

** And thro' the centuries let a peop]e*8 voice 
In full acclaim, 
A people's voice, 

'J he proof and echo of all human fame, 
A people's voice, when they rejoice 
At civic revel and pomp and game. 
Attest their great commander's claim 
With honor, honor, honor to him, 
Eternal honor to his name." 

What wearisome and forced repe- 
tition, what commonplace allusions! 
This is not Tennyson. The very 
verse is burdened with its vulgar 
prose, and halts and stumbles in 
clumsy confusion meant for art. 
And here is his description in the 
hame poem of the battle of Water- 
ioo : 



** Dash*d on every rocky square 
Their surging chargers foamM themselves away ; 
Last, the J-'ruasian trumpet blew ; 
Thro' the long- tormented air 
Heaven flashM a sudden jubilant ray. 
And down we swept and charged and overthrew. 
So great a soldier taught us there. 
What long-enduring hearts could do 
In that world's earthquake, Waterloo !" 

The best expression in it, the last, 
is borrowed from Byron's wonder- 
ful description of the same battle : 

" Stop ! for thy tread is on an Empire's <lust ! 
A « £artkq$Mke*s s^il is sepulchred below T* 

Again in Byron these two lines 
tell the whole story, as does that 
other, 

" The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo !" 

So with Tennyson's '* War Songs" 
and " National Songs," published in 
the edition of 1830 and wisely 
omitted in later editions. They 
are not much above the level of 
many fledglings' performances in a 
like strain. They fall dull on the 
heart : 

^* There standeth our ancient enemy, 

Hark ! he shouteth — the andent enemy I 
On the ridge of the hill his banners rise ; 

They stream like fire in the skies ; 
Hold up the Lion of England on high 
Till it dazzle and blind his eyes. 
Chorus : Shout for England ! 
Ho ! for England I 
Georfi^e for England ! 
Merry England ! 
ling^nd for aye !" 

Here are the chorus and full 
clA)rus of his " National Song" : 

" For the French, the Pope may shrive *cm. 
For the devil a whit we heed 'em : 
As for the French, God speed 'em 

Unto their heart's desire, 
And the merry devil drive 'em 
Through the water and fire. 

Our glory is our freedom. 
We lord it o'er the sea ; 
We are the sons of freedom. 
We are free. 

As Mr. Tennyson has been wise 
enough — for shame's sake, presum- 
ably — to omit these and similar sor- 
ry pieces from his later editions, it 
may seem unfair to quote them 
against him now. We quote them, 



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Tennyson as a Dramatist. 



however, intentionally, to show that 
there is a strong streak of English 
narrowness and Protestant bigotry 
in his nature which we were hap- 
py to think dead, until within the last 
few years it has cropped out again. 
In 1852 there were probabilities of 
war between England and France, 
then under Louis Napoleon. Ten- 
nyson thought to rouse his country- 
men, and the strongest appeal he 
can make is to religious bigotry : 

**Rase, Britons, rise, if msnhood be not deid ; 
The world's last tempest darkens orerhead ; 

The Pope has bless'd him ; 

The Church caressed him ; 
He triumphs ; may be we shall stand alone. 

Britons, guard your own. 

** His ruthless host is bought with pIunderM gold, 
i3y lying priests the peasanu* votes controU'd. 
AH freedom vanish'd. 
The true men banbhM, etc. 

*' Rome's dearest daughter now is captive France, 
The Jesuit laughs, and reclconing on his chance, 

IP'ouid HHrettnting^ 

Kill all dissenting^ 
Till we were left to fight for truth alone. 

Hrltons, guard your own.*' 

And this is the gentle Tennyson ! 
But we forbear from comment oth- 
er than the verses themselves sug- 
gest, and turn at last to our more 
immediate object. 

Whatever fault may be found 
here and there with Tennyson, one 
thing is certain : his renown was 
great and his fame established 
chiefly by his earlier and better 
works and by the peculiar charac- 
teristics which we have attempted 
to point out. The poet, however, 
seems not to have been satisfied. 
He v.-as weary of the graceful path 
by which he ambled gently up to 
fame, and would seek by a new and 
rugged road a higher place than 
he already occupied in that tem- 
ple where are gathered the mighty 
men who have wrought with the 
pen monuments more enduring 
than marble. In an evil hour he 
tempted fate, and fate gave him a 
severe warning. Weary of the min- 



strel's lute which had charmed the 
world, he would be what the poets 
of old were thought to be — ^a vates. 
an inspired prophet — and his va- 
ticination was Queen Mary, 

As that drama has been dealt 
with in these pages by another pen, 
we shall not touch on it here more 
than to say that never were the 
minds of Tennyson's countrymen 
better prepared to receive and ap- 
plaud a work intended, as this 
plainly was, to be an oiitcry against 
Rome and a picture of one of the 
fierce struggles between England 
and Rome. Mr. Gladstone had 
prepared the way and set all the 
world warring on " Vaticanism." 
Tennyson could not have chosen a 
better time for the puHlication of 
his drama, and, were it a work of 
power and passion, it could not 
have failed to catch the heart of 
the people. Never, on the other 
hand, could he have chosen a better 
time for a higher duty : that of, in 
the words of his great master, still 
in his right hand carrying gentle 
peace ** to silence envious tongues." 
If the drama failed, it failed in the 
face of every incentive to success. 

Fail it did. It was plain, even 
to friendly critics, that the author 
of Queen Mary was not a dramatist, 
and so it was hinted generally in 
the mildest possible terms. What 
was the reason of the failure } 

We have shown, we believe suf- 
ficiently, that Tennyson failed 
wherever he attempted to yoke the 
passions. His hand was too weak 
to curb them. His genius is reflec- 
tive, introspective, descriptive. It 
has not the flash, the white heat of 
inspiration. It is always Tennyson 
who is singing, talking to, arguing 
with us, describing for us. He is a 
person, not a voice — ^a very pleas- 
ing, scholarly, refined, and in the 
main right-minded person — but he 



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is for ever giving utterance to his 
own peculiar thoughts in his own 
peculiar style. The highest form of 
poetry, as of oratory, is not this. It 
is that undefinable and truest ex- 
l)ression of feeling, of hope, of ag- 
ony, of despair, of wrath, of cour- 
age, of any of the passions that lie 
dormant in the human breast, 
which at once elicits a responsive 
echo from the heart of humanity, so 
that we do not say. How sweet, how 
tender, how strong is this man, but, 
How true to nature is this thought ! 
Thus it is that the greatest poets 
are the voices of all the world ; 
their works the inheritance of all 
the world. In their highest heights 
ihey belong to humanity, and to no 
nation. ». 

The dramatic we believe to be 
the highest form of poetry, because 
it alone attempts to portray life it- 
self, life in action ; it is not a de- 
scription, however magnificently 
done, of life. There lies between 
it- and all other forms of poetry the 
difference that exists between the 
])ainting of a hero and the hero 
himself. The one is the man, 
thinking, living, moving, breathing, 
speaking his thoughts, doing his 
deeds ; the other after all is only 
an image, more or less vivid, of him 
on canvas. It may catch the col- 
or of the eye, the expression of the 
countenance, the texture of the 
dress, the shape, the form ; but at 
the very best it is a picture, no more, 
infinitely removed from the reality. 

If this be a right conception of 
the difference between dramatic 
and all other kinds of poetry — and 
it seems to us to be, although it 
might need more elaboration to 
impress it upon the reader's mind — 
it will be plain that the dramatic 
))Oet needs nothing short of the 
highest inspiration in order to 
make him catch the very breathings 



of men's souls and throw them in- 
to living forms, as truly as the mas- 
ter actor loses his own personality 
and lets it sink or become absorbed 
utterly in the various characters he 
portrays. No mere change of cos- 
tume will effect the metamorphosis 
needed to impress the spectator 
with the reality of the change in 
character. In the same way no 
clipping of a poem into acts and 
scenes, and no allotting of certain 
lines to certain different names, will 
convert a descriptive poem into a 
drama. All the world will at once 
detect the fraud or the inherent de- 
fect. 

A not uncommon phase of an 
exasperated mind is to refuse to 
recognize failure. Tennyson tried 
again, rather hastily, and in the 
same direction, with the satisfactory 
result of making a more disastrous 
failure than before. The blunder 
of Queen Mafj has been empha- 
sized in Harold. The first named 
may have left some minds in doubt 
whether or not its author could 
construct a drama ; the production 
of the second has effectually set all 
such doubts at rest. The critics 
who in the first instance were kind 
are in the second cruel. We have 
rarely seen a more general and re- 
solutely contemptuous dealing with 
the pretensions of any writer at all 
than in the treatment which Harold 
has received at the hands of critics 
of every shade of opinion, English 
as well as American. 

Harold is simply narrative 
throughout — spoken narrative, in- 
deed. A drama must be act. 
Scenes prior to and leading up to 
the Norman Conquest of England 
are depicted with more or less 
beauty of limning, but they are 
loose, shifting, independent of each 
other. There is no secret thread 
to link the whole and give it a 



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Tennyson as a Dramatist. 



unity of purpose and of plan, with- 
out which there is no drama. 
There are ^sii acts. There might 
have been fifty, or only two, or on- 
ly one, so far as the slow working of 
the whole up to the catastrophe at 
the conclusion goes. The first act 
opens in London at King Edward's 
palace. Almost the first twen- 
ty pages are occupied by various 
characters in discussing the appear- 
ance, meaning, and portent of a 
comet. This is, of course, the old 
stage trick used to knit the coming 
horror with troubles in the air. 
Shakspere uses it often, notably 
in Julius Ccesar^ but with him the 
troubled elements obey the magic 
wand of Prospero and minister to 
man, and are but the accompani- 
ment of great events. Tennyson's 
comet is too much for his charac- 
ters. They puzzle themselves 
about it until we grow tired of it 
and its three tails. 

After the comet has run its 
course, the characters being brought 
together to discuss it, Harold inti- 
mates to the king his intention to 
go to Normandy ; the king warns 
him not to go ; then follows a live- 
ly discussion on personal matters 
between the queen, Harold, and 
his brothers, which almost ends in a 
fight ; the comet or " grisly star " 
is introduced again, and the scene 
ends apropos of nothing in particu- 
lar, unless a hint of a coming plot 
on the part of Aldwyth. The se- 
cond scene, the best in the drama, 
is a very sweet piece of love-mak- 
ing between Harold and Edith, 
upon which Aldwyth again throws 
her shadow, and the act ends. The 
second act wrecks Harold at Pon- 
thieu, whence his transition to the 
power of Count William of Nor- 
mandy — or Duke William, as we are 
more in the habit of calling him — is 
easy. Indeed, to a dramatist there 



was no reason whatever for the first 
scene of this act, as the story of 
Harold's capture might, if it were 
necessary, have been told in a line 
or two while Harold was actually 
in the power of William. The rest 
of this long act is taken up with 
William's compelling Harold to 
swear, on the relics of the saints, 
to help him to the crown of Eng- 
land. The third act presents the 
death of King Edward, who wills 
the crown to Harold. The second 
scene gives another piece of love- 
making between Harold and Edith, 
not so happy as the first, and an- 
nounces the invasion of Northum- 
bria by Tostig and Harold Hard- 
rada. The fourth act opens in 
Northumbria. In the first scene 
of it the factions of the rival chief- 
tains are put an end to by the mar- 
riage of Harold with Aldwyth, and 
thus the only attempt at a shadow 
even of a plot is summarily dispos- 
ed of. The other scenes are before 
and after the battle of Stamford 
Bridge, and the act closes with 
news of the landing of the Nor- 
mans. The fifth act opens on the 
field of Senlac. Harold has a 
dream in his tent, too like that of 
Richard III. in conception. Sti- 
gand describes the battle of Has- 
tings to Edith, and the death of 
Harold. Here the drama should 
have closed. Anything after it on 
the stage would certainly conie 
tamely. But Tennyson cannot re- 
sist the temptation to search for 
the body of Harold, and with the 
finding of it, the death of Edith on 
it, and what in ordinary parlance 
would be called William's direc- 
tions for the funeral arrangements, 
the play closes. 

Such is Harold — narrative, nar- 
rative, narrative throughout; very 
excellent narrative some of it, but 
no drama, no centre of interest 



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Tennyson as a Dramatist. 



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around which the whole is made to 
turn. The misfortune about all his- 
torical plays is that the reader be- 
gins with a full knowledge of all 
the circumstances, and to make 
them dramatically interesting 
needs a most skilful adaptation of 
plot and counterplot, a slow unfold- 
ing of events from some necessary 
cause, a development of character, 
a silent Fate, so to say, moving in 
and out, and, in spite of all things, 
shaping events to one great end, so 
that, while we feel the consumma- 
tion impending, we yet know not 
how, or when, or where, or by 
what instrumentality it will come. 
There is nothing of this in Harold, 
It has been seen that Tennyson 
has no great love for the Pope. 
Indeed, if some of the lines quoted 
represent the man, he has, of late 
years at least, the heartiest hatred 
for the Catholic Church. We can- 
not help that, however much we 
may regret it. We must take men 
as they are, and, if Tennyson hates 
the Pope, why let him hate him 
and be happy. The Pope can ex- 
ist and rule the Catholic Church, 
and be obeyed, revered, loved, and 
honored by intellects as bright at 
least as Mr. I^enny son's, for all that 
gentleman's hate. A true drama- 
tist, however, sinks, or at least dis- 
guises, all his private personal feel- 
ings in depicting known characters 
or types of character. This is only 
to be true to nature, to art, and to 
history. Where there is question 
regarding the right reading of a 
character or a period, a writer is of 
course at liberty, after having con- 
sulted respectable authorities, to 
form his own estimate. Men who 
lived in the eleventh century must 
be true to their time. To make 
such men think, argue, reflect, 
question, doubt on most matters, 
particularly on matters of faith. 



just as do men of the nineteenth 
century, is a gross solecism. It is 
absurd and self-(;ondemnatory on 
the face of it. To make eleventh- 
century Catholics speak of the 
Catholic faith, and Rome, and the 
pope after the fashion of the aver- 
age Protestant or infidel journal- 
ist in these days, is absurd, not 
to characterize such practice by a 
harsher expression. This is what 
Tennyson has gone out of his way 
to do in Harold ; and tlie only im- 
pression with which we rise from 
its perusal is that the writer de- 
tests Normans and Catholics. Be- 
tween the Vere de Veres and the 
Pope Tennyson has lost his tem- 
per and his right hand has forgot- 
ten its cunning. 

The drama presents no character 
of any special interest. Harold, 
Edward the Confessor, and William 
of Normandy, the three principal 
personages, are much the same first 
as last. In stage terms, William 
may be set down as the "heavy 
villain *' of the piece, and a very 
heavy villain he is ; Edward the 
Confessor as the "first old man '*; 
and Harold as the " walking gentle- 
man." Edward is made— uninten- 
tionally too, it would seem — one of 
the silliest old men that ever walk- 
ed the boards. As for his sanctity, 
imagine a saint speaking of himself 
in this style : 



*' And I say it 
For the last time, perchance, before I go 
To find the sweet refreshment of the Saints." 



Saints, in the Catholic Church at 
least, are not, as a rule, quite so 
sure about finding " the sweet re- 
freshment of the saints." Indeed, 
they have far graver doubts on this 
point often than sinners. But lest 
some of his courtiers might fed 
tempted to doubt the ra])id transit 
to heaven of a man so thoroughly 



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Tennyson as a Dramatist. 



sure of his place beforehand, the 
king informs them : 

" I have lived a life of utter purity : 
I have builded the great church of holy Peter : 
I have wrought miracles." 

True, every word of it. But it 
might have occurred to Mr. Tenny- 
son that Edward the Confessor was 
mindful, at least, of that admonition : 
*' Let not thine own mouth, but an- 
other's, praise thee." There never 
was a saint, to our knowledge, so 
fond of talking about himself, his 
miracles, his good deeds, his place 
here and hereafter. Listen to this 
again : 

^' And miracles will in my name be wrought 
Hereafter. 1 have fought the fight and go— 
I see the flashing of the gates ol pearl— 
And it is well with me, tho' some of you 
Have scorn'd me— ay— but after 1 am gone 
Woe, woe to England ! I have had a vision : 
The seven sleepers in the cave at Ephesus 
Have tum'd from right to left." 

The whole thing is incongruous. 
It smacks rather of a converted 
*' brother " giving his " experiences " 
and how he " got religion " before 
a highly- wrought meeting of " Chris- 
tian workers." Had the " devil's 
advocate " only caught scent of any 
such expressions in the life of the 
real Edward, it is to be feared he 
would never have been canonized. 
Saints are not in the habit of can- 
onizing themselves. The only thing 
that occurs to us as on a par with Mr. 
Tennyson's picture of a saint is one 
by Mr. William Cullen Bryant in a 
short and remarkably silly poem re- 
cently published by him. It is en- 
titled **A Legend of St. Martin," 
and the saint, while still in the flesh, 
speaks as follows : 

" Thus spake the saint : * We part to-night ; 
/ am St. Martin^ and I give you here 
The means to make your fortunes.' " 

The author's favorite churchman 
is Stigand, who, whether Catholic or 
heretic, no man who had read the 
history of the time carefully and 



honestly could by any possibility 
hold up for admiration. Mr. Tenn\'- 
son, however, may consider himself 
excused on points of historical accu- 
racy, inasmuch as he informs us in 
his dedication that *' after Old-VVorld 
records — such as the Bayeux tapes- 
try and the Roman de Rou — Ed- 
ward Freeman's History of the Nor- 
man Conquest^'' and Bulwer Lytton *s 
historical romance treating of the 
same times, " have been maihly help- 
ful" to him " in writing this drama." 
But he cannot be excused for such 
culpable negligence in searching 
out authorities when attempting to 
depict in a truthful manner a most 
important historical epoch. Had 
he taken the easy pains of going a 
little deeper into history and au- 
thorities, it would probably have 
been better for himself and his 
drama, or perhaps, with his evident 
bias, he would not have written it at 
all. He loves Stigand, a thorough- 
ly bad prelate, simply because 
Stigand was against the pope. If 
Tennyson selects his Catholic heroes 
from all men wlio have been against 
the pope, he will find his hands full 
of very queer characters, some of 
them worse than Stigand. Imagine 
even Stigand saying, in the exact 
tone of a modern unbeliever : 

"... In our windy world 
What's up is £aith, what's down is heresy/* 

Certain modem Anglican prelates 
and ministers, or any man who ac- 
knowledges no unchangeable de- 
posit of divine truth, might speak in 
just such a strain. The words, if 
they mean anything, mean simply 
that there is no such thing at all 
as real faith or doctrine. Stigand 
knew better than that. His i>ecii- 
liar vice was a very English one — an 
overdue and unscrupulous regard 
for this world's goods. This Catho- 
lic prelate tells Harold of a sum of 



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Tennyson as a Dramatist. 



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money which he keeps concealed at 
tlie other's service, to be asked for 
at his " most need,*' in the follow- 
ing eloquent style : 

*' Red gold— a hundred punes— yea, and more ! 
I f thou canst make a wholesome u«e of these 
To chink against the Norman, I do believe 
My old crooked spin* vtould bud out twc young 

voimgt 
Tojtj U heavtn straight wit A.** 

Tennyson doubtless considers this 
very English and spirited. Sti- 
gand many have disliked the Nor- 
mans, and doubtless did. With all 
our hearts ! But this mode of ex- 
pressing his dislike is, in the mouth 
of a Catholic and a prelate, surely 
not in character. 
Again he asks : 

**. . . Be there no aaiati of England 
To help us from their brtthren yonder ?'* 

As though a Catholic or Christian 
could dream of the saints warring in 
heaven or of affixing nationality to 
sanctity ! Tennyson's Edward, with 
a solitary gleam of intelligence, re- 
bukes him thus : 



The Saints aae one, . . .*' 

yet immediately falls^into the ab- 
surd blunder he rebukes by add- 
ing : 

** But those (Saints) of Nonnanland 
Are mightier than our own.** 

While witnessing the battle of 
Hastings Stigand cries out in an 
ecstasy of admiration at Harold's 
prowess: " War- woodman of old 
Woden !" Could any Christian man, 
Catholic or non-Catholic, couple 
a Christian warrior's name with 
the detestable deity of the pagan 
North ? 

The character of Harold, too, is 
incongruous. He is represented as 
a most brave, wise, and honorable 
man, incapable of fear or false* 
hood : '* broad and honest, breath- 

VOl- XXV. — 9 



ing an easy gladness." He weakens 
in many places. We cannot here 
go into a historical inquiry re- 
specting the alleged oath of Harold 
on the relics of saints to help Wil- 
liam to the crown of England. 
Much is made of it by Tennyson ; 
so let us take all the facts for grant- 
ed. A man such as Harold is here 
represented to be would rather have 
died than taken the oath, if he never 
meant to keep it. On the other 
hand, once taken, and knowing it to 
be false, we doubt whether the re- 
solute Saxon soldier would have 
troubled himself much about the 
matter. He acts as a coward 
throughout while in William's pow- 
er, A strong man would not rail in 
secret at William for forcing him to 
take an oath which the swearer knew 
to be a lie. He would take it or not 
take it with the best grace possible. 
" Horrible !" exclaims Harold when 
the relics on which he has sworn 
are exposed. Harold was sufficient- 
ly man of the world — a man who 
had passed his life in camp and 
court — to have uttered no such weak 
cry. In the first place, if he swore 
falsely, such an exclamation show- 
ed at once that he never intend- 
ed to keep his promise. In the 
second place, it would have been 
perfectly plain to William that he 
could place no reliance on the oath 
of such a poltroon. The same failure 
to apprehend the character of the 
man is apparent in the womanish 
tirade into which Harold breaks 
after William has left him : " Jug- 
gler and bastard — bastard : he hates 
that most — William the tanner's 
bastard ! Would he heard me !" 
A moment before he might have 
heard him, but Harold dared not 
speak his thoughts. Certainly the 
miin who never lost a battle save the 
one in which he lost all — the man 
who conquered Wales, crushed the 



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terrible invasion of Harold Hard- 
rada and Tqstig, braved his own 
sovereign, seized on the English 
throne with u grasp that only death 
could shake off/and died so glorious- 
ly on Hastings — never ** played the 
woman with his eyes and the brag- 
gart with his tongue *' in this poor 
fashion. Here again speaks the 
reader of modern infidel literature in 
the mouth of the unspeculative sol- 
dier of the eleventh century ; 

'* I cannot help it, but at times 
They seem to me too narrow, ail tht faiths 
Of this grown world of oun, whose baby eye 
Saw them sufficient.^' 

''AH the faiths !" We wonder how 
many "faiths " Harold knew of or 
contemplated. Indeed, it seems to 
us that Mr. Tennyson here speaks 
for himself, and in a manner that 
causes some suspicion of his having 
lost something of his own earlier 
and more robust belief. Harold 
continues : 

" But a little light !— 
And on it falls the shadow of the priest ; 
Heaven yield us mofe I for Mter iVoden^ all 
. Our xancglCd warrior-godSy our grim Wal- 

kallay 
Eternal war, than that thg Saints at ptact : 
The Hplisst of our Holiest one should be 
This IVilliatH'f/ellow^ricksters; better die 
Than credit this, for death is death, or else 
Lilts us beyond the lie." 

Which is heathenism and atheism 
beautifully combined. He goes on, 
still in his atheistic vein, when 
Edith bids him listen to the night- 
ingales : 

" Their anthems of no church, how sweet they arc I 
Nor kingly priest, nor priestly king to cross 
Their billings ere they ncstV' 

And a^ain, when Gurth brings 
news of the pope's favoring Wil- 
liam's cause, Harold laughs and 
says of it : 

'* This was old human laughter in old Rome 
Before a Pope was bom, when that which reignM 
Caird itself God- a kingly rendering 
Of * Render unto Csesar.* '* 

Harold must have lately risen 



Tennyson as a Drainatist. 



from a perusal of Mr. Gladstone*^ 
pamphlet on Vaticanism when 
he spoke thus, so we pardon his 
aberration. That pamphlet is too 
strong for weak intellects. 

" The Lord was God and came as man— the Pope 
Is man and comes as God," 

he continues, still in the Glad- 
stonian vein. He reminds Edith 
that love " remains beyond all 
chances and all churches" — a dic- 
tum and doctrine that would be 
strange even in a Protestant Har- 
old. "I ever hated monk.s," he 
says in another place, which may 
account for his having founded 
Waltham Abbey. He grows more 
and more Protestant towards the 
end, and the saintly relics over 
which he was so terrified at having 
sworn a false oath he terms the 
" gilded ark of mummy-saints." 
And here is his final legacy to Eng- 
land : 

**. . . And this to England, 
My legacy of war against the Pope 
From child to child, from Pope to Pope, from age to 

age* 
Till the sea wash her level with her shores. 
Or tiU the Pope be Christ's." 

This is Tennyson's legacy, not 
Harold's. It seems strange that it 
should have fallen into careless 
hands; not ours, but those of the 
poet's coreligionists. The fact is 
that the world is growing weary 
of little anti-papal tooters. Great 
enemies of the papacy it applauds 
and tries to excuse ; but at the 
mouthings of the little people it 
yawns. If Tennyson has shown 
anything in this as in his other anti- 
Catholic effusions, it is that when 
moved by rancor he can descend 
to all the small bitterness of a com- 
mon and weak order of mind. We 
cannot go further into an examina- 
tion of Harold^ and, indeed, the 
task is not worth while. He has 
failed in the one character which, 



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to a true dramatic genius, offer- 
ed magnificent opportunities — ^Wil- 
liam of Normandy, who was per- 
haps the greatest and the wisest 
sovereign that England has as yet 
known. A gallant soldier ; a wary 
yet bold and successful general ; an 
astute statesman ; a lover of learn- 
ing; a resolute if severe ruler; a 
man who could bide his opportunity, 
then move on it with the flash and 
fatality of the lightning, yet with- 
al a man of almost ungovernable 
passions, with the old taint run- 
ning in his blood and through 
all his successful life — this was a 
character that it is as great a pity 
Shakspere did not draw as that 
Tennyson should have been rash 
enough to attempt to draw. In 
what ought to be the chief scene 
of the play, the battle of Hastings, 
there is no battle at all. The weak 
device is resorted to of setting a 
description of it as it proceeds in 
the mouth of Stigand, who watches 
the field from "a tent on a mound." 
Norman and Saxon, Harold and 
William, are not brought together 
for the final death-grip. Shaks- 



pere's battle-scenes are more vivid 
than those of any painter. They 
illuminate history and print them- 
selves indelibly on the mind. Cut 
the battle-scenes out of King John, 
Henry IV,, Henry V., Macbeth, Ju- 
lius Ccesar^ Henry VI,, and you 
mutilate the plays. Stigand's de- 
scription of the battle of Hastings 
might be dropped from Harold ^n^ 
not missed. Why should not Har- 
old die as Hotspur dies, or as Mac- 
beth, or Brutus, or any of the oth- 
ers — his face to the victorious foe, 
the fitting ending of the tragedy ? 
Mr. Tennyson was not equal to the 
task, either in this scene or at 
Stamford Bridge. The last clash 
and conflict of human passion he 
can only look at from afar off and 
reflect upon when it is over. He 
cannot take it in hand and present 
it. He would do well to retire from 
the field where empires, and men 
and events that make or unmake 
empires, are the subjects of song, 
and go back to the pretty scenery, 
the calm truth, and the graceful 
verse that have made his name 
dearly loved and justly honored. 



ANGLICANISM IN 1877, 



AS AFFECTED BY THE PUBLIC WORSHIP REGULATION ACT. 



We should feel inclined to apolo- 
gize to our readers for again intro- 
ducing the English Establishment 
to their notice, were it not that 
since, a year ago, we considered 
Anglicanism in connection with the 
" Old Catholic" conference at Bonn, 
the increasing agitation within the 
state church cannot but have con- 
tinued to attract the thoughtful at- 
tention of those who, from the bark 



of Peter, watch the weary toss- 
ing of the Anglican craft and the 
mutinous condition of a portion of 
her crew. 

Since the period to which we al- 
lude, the fact that the whole tend- 
ency of the Alt-Catholic movement 
is rationalistic and anti-Christian is 
beginning to be understood by all 
really religious Protestants, and we 
now see the better part of them 



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Anglicanism in 1877. 



holding aloof from the movement, 
and even the Ritualist journals 
condemning whatever advances 
were made towards it. The cause 
is now advocated only by the Broad- 
Church party, which distinguished 
itself by its emphatic encourage- 
ment of the apostate Loyson, one 
of the apostles of the new sect, 
who went last summer to London 
to enlighten the English public on 
ecclesiastical questions. On the 
other hand, the High-Church move- 
ment is, if anything, in the direction 
of the CathoHc Church, while Alt- 
Catholicism is a distinct counter- 
agitation, and thus anything like a 
cordial fraternization between the 
two is impossible. The attempts of 
the Higli-Church party to obtain at 
least as much as a recognition of 
the validity of their orders from the 
Orientals — attempts which were re- 
newed at the Bonn conference — ^liave 
again signally failed. One of the 
" Unionist" leaders himself laments 
that " the Oriental Church stands 
entirely aloof from the Church of 
England, sweepingly and roundly 
condemns all its members, denies the 
validity of therr baptisms and ordi- 
nations, and practically refuses to 
aid them in any shape or form." 

There is no doubt that at the 
present moment a tremendous 
struggle has arisen in the Establish- 
ment between the would-be Catho- 
lic and the Protestant elements; 
the latter not only pleading its 
three centuries* possession, but also, 
and truly, declaring itself to be 
the very basis and raison (TSfre of 
the schism. This claim is urged 
at the present time with a vehemence 
and jealous irritation aimed ostensi- 
bly at the "Romanizing practices" 
of their brethren, but the venom of 
which betrays itself to be especially 
called forth by the ceaseless, active, 
Stclf-denyiqg energy of these incor- 



rigible early risers — an irritation not 
difficult to comprehend on the part 
of those who, with all their profes- 
sions of Evangelical piety, have, 
generally speaking, an exceeding 
shyness of hard work, detest the 
Counsels of Perfection in general 
and the practice of self-denial in 
particular, take up the pen much 
more readily than the cross, and 
prefer bridling their neighbor's 
tongue rather than their own. 
Nevertheless, with regard to a cer- 
tain class among the Evangelicals, 
and these the more earnest, it is 
only just to say that their condem- 
nation of Ritualists and their practi- 
ces is sincerely a matter of princi- 
ple. They regard the one as the 
guides and the other as the direct 
means to " idolatry" — a term which 
they have all their lives been taught 
to consider as synonymous with 
the Catholic religion. 

When St. Edward the Confessor 
lay on his death-bed in the palace 
of Westminster, he foretold to his 
queen, St. Edith, and to Stigand that, 
in punishment for the sins of the 
land, God would permit the enemy of 
mankind to send a mission of wicked 
spirits into it, who should sever the 
Green Tree of Old England from its 
root, and lay it apart for the space 
of three furlongs ; but that the tree 
should after a due time return to 
its root and revive, without the 
help of any man's hand. The 
traditional interpretation of this 
prophecy has been that the Eng- 
lish Church would be cut off for 
the space of three centuries from 
its parent stem, but that, after that 
time, the severed church should re- 
turn to its ancient allegiance. 

And what do we now see ? Move- 
ment, awakening, and life where for 
three centuries have reigned the 
gloom and chillness of the tomb. 

From the time of Elizabeth 



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downnrards not only the teaching 
but the general aspect of what is 
called the Church of England was 
intensely anti-Catholic. A brighter 
day first dawned for England when 
she hospitably received and succor- 
ed the exiled priests of France. 
The precious leaven of their holy 
teaching and example never has 
been lost. Later, in 1829, the em- 
ancipation of the Catholics of the 
British Empire, under George IV., 
marked a fresh epoch in the history 
of the Catholic Church in England. 
The discussions which attended the 
passing of this act helped to in- 
crease a knowledge of her tenets, 
and prepared the way for their bet- 
ter appreciation ; besides which, 
the restoration of some of the most 
illustrious families of the realm to 
their ancient and hereditary seats 
in the House of Lords, together 
with the admission of Catholics 
into the Lower House, tended fur- 
ther to the removal of many preju- 
dices. Since Newman and Pusey, 
in 1833, recalled their brethren to 
the study of the Fathers of the 
church, many steps have been ta- 
ken in the Establishment in the di- 
rection of the ancient paths — steps 
which Catholics have noted with 
interest and hope, though they per- 
ceive that but too often men who 
have been attracted towards the 
truth rest apparently contented 
with a bad imitation of its external 
manifestations and a garbled or 
** adapted " representation of its 
doctrines, forgetting that truth dis- 
torted ceases to be truth, and often 
is a lie. They marvel also that the 
invariable opposition of the pseu- 
do-episcopate does not help these 
men, who are the present life of 
their system, to see that their ima- 
ginary " Catholicity " is wholly un- 
authorized and unrecognized by 
their ecclesiastical superiors, and 



that the hierarchy of their church 
is as consistently and persistently 
anti-Catholic as the constitution of 
that body itself. They are resisted 
and condemned by their bishops, 
and from their bishops they have 
no appeal except to a lay tribunal 
whose interference in sacris they 
repudiate. 

By the terms of a new Appellate 
Jurisdiction Act, recently passed in 
both Houses of Parliament, the ju- 
risdiction of the Privy Council has 
been transferred to a new Court of 
Appeal. It was then provided that 
episcopal .assessors should in future 
sit on the bench with the lay judges ; 
and though it is by the latter tliat the 
judgment is pronounced, the bish- 
ops are allowed to make remarks 
on what is passing. They are to 
sit in rotation in the new court. 
The two archbishops and the 
Bishop of London are also to sit in 
turn, ex officio^ and the rest in quar- 
ternions, beginning with the junior 
four (Chichester, St. Asaph, Ely, 
and St. David's). It is impossible 
to say what may be the results of 
this eqiw vocal assessorship, with re- 
gard to which the London Morning 
Post disrespectfully observes tiiat 
" the plan offers no security what- 
ever that the assessors shall be fit for 
their office beyond the fact that 
they are bishops"; calmly adding 
that " since the purpose for which 
their presence is required is the 
imparting to the judges of a certain 
kind and quality of information 
when desired, it is a serious defect 
to the scheme that it provides no 
guarantee that the prelates who sit 
shall possess any proper aptitude 
for their position." * 



* The following from the London Wakly Reg" 
ister may tend to show whether this doubt is 
leasonahle or otherwise : *' The vicar of St. Barna- 
bas, Leeds, is fatigued with parochial work and 
wishes to take a little rest. He asks his Lord- 
ship of Ripon to let him name a clergyman who 



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Anglicanism in 1877. 



Upon this another journal asks : 
If it be true that Anglican bishops 
are corporate!/ incompetent as ad- 
visers of lay judges, even on the 
doctrines of their own particular 
communion, of what use are they 
at all ? If they cannot, without the 
aid of civilians, interpret the Arti- 
cles, why not make bishops of the 
lay judges, instead of paying thou- 
sands a year to each of these gen- 
tlemen, who do not apparently know 
their own business ? In any case, 
how Ritualists can remain, with sat- 
isfaction to their consciences, in a 
communion whose highest arbiter 
is not even a sub-deacon, is per- 
plexing to any one who regards the 
church as a divinely-instituted sys- 
tem. We have been reminded by 
Presbyter Anglicanus that it is a 
necessary ingredient in any system 
of discipline that the superior 
should not be judged by the infe- 
rior, the teacher by the taught ; and 
that the twelfth canon of the African 
Code ordains that, " if a bishop fall 
under the imputation of any crime, 
he shall have a second hearing be- 
fore twelve bishops, if more cannot 

shall take his duties for a few weeks or months. 
His lordship replies that he cannot do so, because 
—but the language is too episcopal to be misquoted : 
*If there is truth in the reports which, from 
time to time, appear in the public papers, you are 
in the habit of breaking what you must know to be 
the law.' His Lordship of Ripon reads the papers, 
and, finding it inconvenient to leave his palace at 
Ripon and make a call upon a clergyman in Leeds, 
he refuses leave of absence to that deigyman, on 
account of newspaper reports." The church-war- 
dens take op their vicar's cause, and, in a very pro- 
per " memorial,*' represent the needs of his case to 
his paternal diocesan. But all is useless. ** The 
law, the law,'* says the bishop, and remains com- 
fortably in his palace, while he forbids his hard- 
working vicar to take a holiday, though he does 
not even condescend to specify his offence. And 
yet the Anglican bishops do not apparently object 
to a due amount of repose for themselves, if we may 
judge from the fact that at the very time we write 
there are no fewer than fifteen of the ** missionary 
bishops" of the Establishment who, after a few 
years of absence, and even these yean agreeably 
diversified with visns to their friends in England, 
have returned thither ^ for good," and ace now set* 
tied with their wives and families in comfortable 
rectories at home — an arrangement more convenient 
tor croquet>partiea than ** conversions." 



be had; a priest before six, with 
Jiis own bishop ; a deacon before 
three — according to the statutes of the 
ancient canons.* Again : " It was 
a recognized principle in the primi- 
tive church that the deposition of 
an ecclesiastic required the inter- 
vention of more bishops than were 
needed for his ordination. The 
Anglican bishops notwithstanding 
their professions of regard for the 
primitive church, are content that 
a presbyter, ordained and instituted 
by a ' bishop,' should be deprived 
by a layman. And they talk of 
apostolic order!" 

The writer just quoted, who is 
now safe in the Catholic Church, 
described, just before his conver- 
sion, the present condition of ec- 
clesiastical discipline in the Angli- 
can Church as follows : " The ec- 
clesiastical courts which survived 
the Reformation and the great re- 
bellion have been . . . abolished ; 
the bishop of each diocese has 
ceased to be the ordinary of that 
diocese, and the whole clergy of 
the Church of England are render- 
ed amenable to, and are even di- 
rected in their conduct of public 
worship by, a layman, whose office 
has been created in the year of 
grace 1874 by the imperial Par- 
liament, and who, besides playing 
the part of a pseudo-dean of the 
Arches and principal of the Pro- 
vincial Court of York, is also to 
be the national ordinary, the Par- 
liamentary vicar-general of the Es- 
tablishment, exercising jurisdiction 
in every parish from Berwick-on- 
Tweed to the Channel Islands." 
And this is the system to which 
unquestioning, unrepining, absolute 
submission is required of the clergy 
by the bishops of the Anglican 
communion. 

Nor is this all ; not only is it 
now the case that secular law 



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courts decide what may or may 
not be taught and practised in the 
Anglican Church, but they also claim 
to decide who shall and who shall 
not be admitted to its rites and sac- 
raments. Lawyers are thus not only 
the doctors and ceremouiarii of An- 
glicanism, suspending or depriving 
ecclesiastics at pleasure, but they 
are also to be, in the last resort, 
the stewards of Anglican sacra- 
ments. 

A case was lately pending before 
the Judicial Committee m which 
the action of a " priest" in refus- 
ing communion was reviewed and 
judged by the court. A parishion- 
er of a Ritualist pastor having de- 
clared that he did not find in the 
Bible sufficient evidence for the ex- 
istence of evil spirits to incHne him 
to believe in the devil, the clergy- 
man prohibited his coming for com- 
munion until he did believe in the 
devil. The parishioner wrote a 
complaint to the bishop, and the 
latter took his part against his par- 
ish " priest" and for the devil. The 
matter being referred to the Judi- 
cial Committee, the bishop's ver- 
dict was confirmed in favor of the 
sceptical parishioner and of his In- 
fernal Majesty. 

Nor can any individual cases of 
this kind be matter of surprise 
when we reflect to what the doc- 
trinal decisions of the supreme 
courts of the Anglican Establish- 
ment have, with the consent of her 
entire episcopate, as expressed in 
their famous " allocution" on the 
Public Worship Act, pledged her 
clergy. According to the final and 
irreversible authority acknowledg- 
ed by that episcopate, the Church 
of England holds, i, that the doc- 
trine of baptismal regeneration is 
an open question; 2, that it is an 
open question whether every part 
of every book of Scripture is in- 



spired; 3, that there is no " dis 
tinct declaration" in the formula- 
ries of that church on the subject 
of everlasting punishment, and that 
the words " everlasting death" in 
the exposition of the Lord's Prayer 
given in the catechism " cannot be 
taken as necessarily declaring any- 
thing touching the eternity of pun- 
ishment after the resurrection " ; 
4, that Anglican bishops are the 
creatures of English law and de 
pendent on that law for their exis- 
tence, rights, and attributes. * 

" The Church of England," said 
Dr. Stanley, the Protestant Dean of 
Westminster, in a sermon recently 
preached at Battersea, " is what 
she is by the goodness of Almighty 
God and of his servant Queen 
Elizabeth." If he had said, "of 
Henry VIII. and his daughter, 
Queen Elizabeth," we could have 
agreed with him, particularly as the 
riper years of the Establishment 
continue so suitably to fulfil the 
promise of such parentage ; but to 
Catholics there is a revolting pro- 
fanity in classing together the good- 
ness of God with that of one of the 
most implacable persecutors of his 
church — a persecutor, not from 
conviction of the justice, but the 
iniquity, of her cause, and from a 
persistent determination to extin- 
guish in her realm the ancient faith, 
whose very existence was a con- 
demnation of the state religion ar- 
ranged by her father and Cranmer, 
improved by her brother and his 
Genevese assistants, and re-fashion- 
ed to her own liking by herself. 
The sentence pronounced by the 
Protestant historian Chalmers upon 
this powerful and unprincipled 
queen is that "she was a woman 
without chastity, a princess without 
honor, and a sovereign without 

•See Ch^isiianily im EvastianUm. A letter 
toCanUnal Manning, ^y Frtsbyter Anglicanux, 



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Angticojiism in 1S77, 



faith "; and, as if by way of a satanic 
parody on the vision of the Imma- 
culate Virgin in the Book of Revela- 
tions, we see Elizabeth, the offspring 
of an adulterous union, trampling 
under her despocic foot the Bride 
of Christ. 

"The Church of England," con- 
tinued the dean, " was, it is true, 
a compromise,'* and " he was not a 
true son thereof who used it as a 
weapon for promoting this or that 
doctrine^ but, a/Ur thi example of 
Elizabeth^ and for the interests of 
the nation, used it as a broad shield 
under which he might work for 
good," * etc., etc. The sense of 
which, in plain English, appears to 
be that the said church prefers 
general indifference to doctrinal 
truth, the '* interests of the nation" 
to the glory of God, and the " ex- 
ample of Elizabeth" to purity of 
faith and life. 

But Dean Stanley rei>resents one 
only of the four principal sections 
into which the Church of England 
has divided itself; and however 
complacently tlie " Broad " and 
even '* Moderate High" Churchmen 
may regard the marshy nature of 
the ground in which the founda- 
tions of their faiths if faith it can be 
called, are laid, and congratulate 
themselves on the fact that it is 
neither land nor water, but some- 
thing of botl\ there are earnest 
men who have no fancy for being 
amphibious, and who spare no 
.pains and toil to drain away tlie 
stagnant waters from their morass, 
jn the sincere conviction that be- 

* Hentzner funushes a»v ^Y tH& way, with a sin- 
gular testimony to Elizabeths ^* goodness'* when, 
among other things of the same nature, he tells us 
that, in the latter years of her reign, executions for 
high treason (this bemg the term applied to de- 
ntal of the royal supremacy in the church fully ais 
much as in the state) were so frequent that he 
counted at one time on London Bridge no fewer 
than 300 heads. She nerself on one occa*ion point- 
ed out to the French ambassador the same ghastly 
■trophies adorning the gales of bcc Qwn palace.. 



neath the miasma-breeding mosses 
there lies, for those who dig deep 
enough to find it, the imperishable 
rock. 

Of this number seems to be tlic 
Rev. Arthur Too*h, vicar of St. 
James', Hatch am^ who is now in 
prison because he chooses taact ui^ 
on the principle of " no compromr 
ise." We honor a man who is will- 
ing to suffer for conscience' sake, 
and to uphold the right of the 
church to decide in ecclesiastical 
causes, but at the same time we 
cannot but feel that Mr. Tooth is 
more conscientious than logical, 
and that by his present opposition 
he is breaking the solemn promise 
and oath which, as a clergyman of 
the state church, he took, at liis or- 
dination, to a state-church bishop. 

Mr. Tooth, on account of cer- 
tain ritualistic practices — i,e,^ the use 
of ** Catholic " vestments, conduct- 
ing the communion service so as to 
make it resemble as much as pos- 
sible Holy Mass, having " a cru- 
cifix in the chancel, little winged 
figures on the communion-table, 
lighted candles on a ledge where he 
had been ordered not to place them, 
etc., etc.^-was, by order of Lord 
Penzance and with the approval 
of his own bishop, Dr. Claughton 
of Rodi ester, interdicted from offi- 
ciating again in the diocese. The 
writ of inhibition was served hina 
on a Sunday morning before the 
commencement of the service ; he 
ivot only took no notice of the writ, 
but also on the following (Christmas) 
day publicly resisted his substitute. 
Canon Gee had been appointed by 
the bishop to read the service in 
the place of Mr. Tooth, but, on his 
arriving at the church, the latter 
gentleman, backed by about forty 
of his male parishioners, met him 
at the door and refused to allow him 
to enter, upon which Canon Gee^ 



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after protesting against this insubor- 
dinate proceeding on the part of 
his refractory brother, was forced 
to retire. Having thus disposed of 
the episcopal delegate, the vicar 
l>roceeded to display an unusual 
pomp in the ceremonial. Six splen- 
did banners were carried in proces- 
sion, on one of which was embroi- 
dered the monogram of Our Blessed 
I>ady, surrounded by the words, 
Sancta Dei Genitrixy The church 
was crowded to suffocation, partly 
with worshippers, and also very 
largely by people who had come 
from curiosity, as was evident by 
their behavior no less than by their 
murmured expressions of ridicule 
or indignation ; a crowd, not only 
of " roughs," but numbering many 
well-dressed people, had assembled 
outside. On one occasion, the 
14th of January, in particular, the 
scenes both within and without 
were disgraceful. " Inside," we are 
told, "there was a good deal of 
fighting and scuffling, especially at 
the lower end," while outside the 
crowd, besides breaking down the 
fences, shouting " No popery," yell- 
ing, and in various ways demon- 
strating their inclination to break 
the laws as well as the parson did, 
had they not been ke[^ in some 
abeyance by a strong body of three 
hundred police, joined in singing 
loudly the national anthem, vocifer- 
ating with especial emphasis and 
vigor the line " Confound their 
knavish tricks " — improved by some 
to " {X)pish tricks " in honor of the 
occasion. Some time after the ser- 
vice was over, so as to give the mob 
time to thin, the sight of Mr. Tooth 
issuing from the church under the 
protection of " twenty stout police- 
men of the F Division " had in it 
something almost ludicrous to those 
who reflected that all this commo- 
tion arose from the fact of his 



having spurned the " secular 
arm." 

When, on the 20th of January, 
the Rev. R. Chambers, who has 
been appointed curate in charge of 
the parish of Hatcham by the Bi- 
shop of Rochester, went, accompa- 
nied by the bishop's apparitor, and, 
producing his license, requested 
Mr. Tooth to hand over to him 
through the church-wardens the pos- 
session of the church, the vicar re- 
plied that he refused to take any 
notice of the document or the ap- 
plication. He was therefore com- 
mitted for contempt of court, and 
is now lodged in Horsemonger Lane 
jail. 

It is not necessary to give more 
than two portions of the very tem- 
perate explanations with which Lord 
Penzance has accompanied his judg- 
ment — namely, those portions which 
are aimed at the delusions suppos- 
ed to be most important in the con- 
troversy. These delusions are, in 
brief, ist, that the new Public 
Worship Act was an innovation 
upon Anglican custom, and an in- 
vasion of its rights; 2d, that 
obedience should be rendered to 
an ecclesiastical and not to a lay 
superior. The answers of Lord 
Penzance to these assumptions are, 
substantially, as follows: 

** I. It would be well if those 
who maintain these propositions 
were to read the statutes by which 
the ritual of the Church of England 
at the time of the Reformation was 
enforced — I mean the statutes es- 
tablishing the two successive pray- 
er-books of King Edward VI. and 
the prayer-book of Queen Eliza- 
beth, Avhich regulated the ritual of 
the reformed church for the first 
hundred years after its establish*, 
ment. They would there find that 
a clergyman departing in the per- 
formance of divine service from the 



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Anglicanism in 1877. 



ritual prescribed in the prayer- 
book was liable to be tried at tJie 
assizes by a judge and jury (the bi- 
shop, if he pleased^ assisting the 
judges), and, if convicted three 
times, was liable to be imprisoned 
for life. The intervention, there- 
lore, of a temporal court to enforce 
obedience in matters of ritual is at 
least no novelty ; the novelty, as 
far as the Church of England is 
concerned, is rather in the claim to 
be exempt from it. 

*'2. But suppose this claim, for 
the sake of argument, to be admit- 
ted ; what, then, are the ecclesiasti- 
cal courts to whose judgment the Rit- 
ualists would be willing to defer ? 
Unless every clergyman is to settle 
the form of worship for himself, and 
there are to be as many forms of 
worship as there are parishes in 
the land, who is it that, in his 
opinion, is to determine what the 
rubrics of the prayer-book enjoin ? 
— for we suppose him to consider 
himself bound by the directions 
of the prayer-book. What is the 
court to which he is willing to ren- 
der obedience ? Is it the court of 
his bishop? If so, he must surely 
be aware that by the ecclesiastical 
law of this country, as well before 
the Reformation as since, an appeal 
from the bishop's court lies, and 
has always lain, to the court of the 
archbishop, this Court of Arches, 
whose jurisdiction he now denies. 
What question, therefore, is there 
of a secular court, or an invasion 
of tiie rights of the Church of Eng- 
land ?*" And the judgment passed 

* A writer in the London Times gives the follc^^- 
ing answer to the ecclesiastical assumptions of Mr. 
Tooth : *' I will enumerate some of the acts on 
ecclesiastical matters which have become law with- 
out the consent of the priesthood, and which there- 
fore the present agitatore bind themselves to disal- 
low and disobey : The act of Edward VI. on the 
Sacrament, on Chantries, on Images, on Fasting ; 
the Acts of Uniformity, both of hdward VI. and 
Ehzabeth ; the Act of Toleration ; the act abol- 
ishing the burning of heretics, under William III.; 



by Lord Penzance was contained in 
the following words : " Applying 
these powers as I am bound to do, 
I have no hesitation in pronounc- 
ing Mr. Tooth to be contumacious, 
and in contempt for disobeying 
the inhibition pronounced by this 
court, and I direct the same to be 
signified to the queen in chan- 
cery, with a view to his imprison- 
ment." 

And now the strife of tongues 
which preceded this climax was 
comparative calm to that which at 
present rages. All the winds of 
-^olus, each trying which can blow 
the hardest, seem let loose at once 
in the distracted Establishment. 
By the Ritualist party the confessor 
for disobedience in Horsemonger 
Lane jail is already dubbed " the 
martyr, Tooth "; while another party 
rejoices that, by the contumacy of 
this " parson in revolt," the state 
church is " forced into a clear, 
practical assertion of her old and 
hitherto unquestioned right to re- 
strain and punish disobedient and 
delinquent * clerks.' " Further, the 
London TimeSy dilating after its 
own infallible fashion upon Mr. 
Tooth and " his pranks," dares to 
aver that "to parade a banner call- 
ing the Vitgin Mary the * Mother of 
God* is little less than sheer blas- 
phemy." 



the acts, both of Charles II. and William III., 
for the observance of Sunday; the various Marriase 
Acts of William III , George II., and Queen Vic- 
toria; the various acu both for the repression 
and the relief of Roman Catholics during the same 
range of time; the acts during the late and pres- 
ent reigns against pluralities and against non-resi- 
dence ; the acts suppressing the Insh bishoprics, 
suppressing half the cathedral dignitaries in Eng- 
land, and, finally, revolutioniring the Irish Church ; 
the act for abolishing the services drawn up by 
Convocation for the political anniversaries of the 
seventeenth century. These and many other laws, 
many of them of unquestioned beneficence, most of 
them of unquestioned obligatiou, all of them passed 
by Parliament, and by it alone, must be set aside by 
those who make it a point of conscience to disobey 
any law which has been imposed ou the church by 
secular authority." 



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Anglicanism in 1877. 



139 



At a large meeting of the " Eng- 
lish Church Union " it became evi- 
dent that the changes in law proce- 
dure produced by the Public Wor- 
ship Regulation Act are producing a 
murmur in favor of " disestablish- 
ment" within the Church of Eng- 
land herself. One of the reverend 
speakers at this meeting said that 
"the issue had now merged from 
one about the color of a stole to a 
question of church and state," and 
the honorable chairman agreed that 
" establishment might cost too 
dear." Archdeacon Denison de- 
clared that this case of "dear 
Arthur Tooth " would prove to be 
*' a life-and-death struggle with Pro- 
testantism," thus making the old 
mistake of putting mere ritualism 
in the place of the Catholic Church. 
Canon Carter moved that "the 
Church Union denies that the secu- 
lar power has authority in matters 
]>urely spiritual," upon which a 
journal reminds him that, from the 
days of the Reformation, it has been 
one of the conditions on which the 
state church enjoyed the emolu- 
ments and privileges of establish- 
ment that her clergy should perform 
certain duties in a way laid down 
by law. Whether, as in the case of 
Mr. Tooth, they have or have not 
done so is a matter which the law 
leaves a particular court to decide. 
If Mr. Tooth does not relish the 
action of these tribunals, two 
courses are open to him, and only 
two. • Either he may give up those 
practices which they declare obnox- 
ious within the pale of the Estab- 
lished Church, or he may leave the 
Establishment and continue them 
elsewhere. The latter step would 
entail the sacrifice of the endow- 
ment, or, as the Ritualists would say, 
it would involve the guilt of schism ; 
in which case the whole matter re- 
solves itself into a choice of sins : the 



clergyman must either commit the 
sin of obeying Lord Penzance, and 
so retain the endowment, or he must 
commit the sin of " schism " and 
fling the endowment away. Thus 
the Church Unionists are by no 
means logical in comparing their 
present position to that of Chal- 
mers, Buchanan, Guthrie, Cunning- 
ham, and other leaders of the Free 
Kirk of Scotland previously to 
1843; for these men gave up all 
thought of state endowment, or 
even of ministering in buildings de- 
pendent on the state, and purchas- 
ed the independence of their minis- 
trations at the cost of all state tem- 
poralities. This is a very different 
matter from attempting to have the 
temporalities and the independence 
together.* 

Another observation made by 
Canon Carter was, though not in it- 
self more true, yet, for him, much 
more to the point — namely, that " the 
only persecution now carried on in 
England is against the High-Church 
party." It is on this fact that the 
Ritualists stand triumphant. They 
can honestly plead that they, the 
High-Church party, have done more 
than all the other parties put togeth- 
er for the revival of faith and devo- 
tion in England. They can also 
plead that they are men of educa- 
tion, of courage and energy and 
self-denying zeal, and that to them 
is due whatever residuum is left of 
Catholic sentiment and tradition 
in the Establishment. The marvel 
is that any of these really earnest 
men should continue so blind to 
their anomalous position. 

* Certain eWcted Ritualists, however, do not ap- 
pear to be much affected by the measures taken to re - 
press them, if it be true that the Rev. R. P. Dale, 
who has been suspended for three year^, and his for- 
mer parish merged into another, takes the matter 
very philosophi«dlyf and, in default of hb own parish , 
finds every Sunday in one place or another a complai- 
sant brother-clergyman, who lends him his church 
and his pulpit, from which he braves the pveudo- 
episoopai thunders. 



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Anglicanism in 1877. 



On the same day that the Eng- 
lish Church Union held its assem- 
bly a meeting of the ultra- Protes- 
tant school took place at the Wel- 
lington Hall, Islington, where about 
one hundred and twenty clergymen 
and la)Tnen partook of breakfast, 
after which they proceeded to de- 
liver themselves of a large amount 
of the peculiar and incoherent insi- 
pidities with which the readers of 
the Rock must be painfully familiar. 
One specimen will suffice, which, as 
our readers will perceive, is not 
lacking in the unctuous accusations 
in which the ** Evangelicals " are 
apt to excel: "As in Germany," 
they said, ** the Jesuits devoted all 
their self-denying energies to op- 
posing the spread of the true doc- 
trines, so here in England there 
was an able and resolute body of 
men who opposed themselves to 
the true principles of religion, and 
who, by services rendered attractive 
to the eye and ear, appealed by the 
senses to the understanding. Many 
of these men were no doubt sincere, 
and were thus unconsciously doing 
the work of Satan. This was the 
powerful opposing force with which 
the Evangelical body of the Churcli 
of England had to contend." 

Now, we must beg leave to ob- 
serve that for these ** Evangelical " 
gentlemen to talk of Ritualists as 
unconsciously doing the work of 
Satan is simply absurd. Did not 
the *.* beam in their own eye " blind 
them, we would ask them to take a 
glance backward and think of forty 
years ago, when, through the length 
and breadth of the land, they lock- 
ed up their churches from Sun- 
day afternoon to the following Sun- 
day morning, and sometimes even 
longer; for the writer can recall 
three villages (there may or may 
not have been many more) in Lei- 
cestershire alone where, less than 



forty years ago, there was only one 
service on the Sunday, and that al- 
ternately in the morning and after- 
noon. We have heard of the wag 
who chalked on the church door 
of an Evangelical rector, " Le Bon 
Dieu est sorii : II ne rroiendra que 
dimanche proc/iain" And truly, if 
the good God did come back, it 
would not be, in many instances, to 
find his house "swept and gar- 
nished." 

Forty years ago ! Sitting in the 
old family pew in the chancel of 
A . . . stone church, through the 
long, monotonous sermons of the 
worthy rector, whose favorite sub- 
jects were " saving faith " and 
abuse of popery, what a help it 
was to patient endurance to watch 
the merry, loud-voiced sparrows 
fluttering in and out of the broken 
diamond panes of the chancel win- 
dows, through which long sprays of 
ivy crept and clung lovingly up the 
poor old walls, bare of everything 
but whitewash, of the once Catho- 
lic church — walls that the damp 
of many an autumn and winter had 
dyed with streaks of green, deeper 
and brighter in hue than the faded, 
ink-stained rag of moth-eaten green 
baize that covered the rickety 
wooden table standing where, in 
old days, the most holy Sacrifice 
had been offered upon a Catholic 
altar. Childhood, before opportu- 
nities for comparison have been af- 
forded, is not hard to please, and 
we used to think that that verdant 
chancel might have been in the' 
mind of the sweet Psalmist of Israel 
when he sang, "The sparrow hath 
found her a ho.use, and the swallow 
a nest, where she may lay her 
young : even thine altars, O Lord 
of Hosts!" And yet our worthy 
rector (a rich pluralist with a 
large family) was a kind-hearted, 
easy, amiable man, and not in any 



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Anglicanism in 1877. 



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way addicted to the hunting and 
drinking practices of certain of his 
clerical neighbors; his house was 
the perfection of refined not over- 
loaded luxury, and the well-kept 
gardens cf that most pleasant of 
rectories were a paradise of smooth 
lawns, gay parterres, and shady 
shrubberies sloping down to the 
banks of the winding Soar. The 
rector led a mildly studious life 
when in the country (for half his 
year was spent in London), visited 
much among the " county families," 
and shyly and rarely entered the 
cottages of the village; but reli- 
gion in that village was well-nigh 
dead. If amiable clergymen of 
this stamp are not ** unconsciously 
doing the work of Satan " them- 
selves, they at any rate give Satan 
plenty of time and opportunity to 
do his own work himself among 
their flock, and to do it very ef- 
fectually, too. 

Yet it is the descendants of men 
like these who are foremost in 
groaning down and persecuting the 
self-denying, hard-working clergy 
who are always at their posts! 
The preachers of sentiment are fu- 
rious against the upholders of the 
necessity of dogmatic truth. The 
idlers in family and social circles 
are desperate against enthusiasts 
who at least try to hear confessions 
and to be priests. We cannot ad- 
mire the consistency of the Ritual- 
ists — for unhappily it does not ex- 
ist — ^but the inconsistency of their 
" Evangelical ** accusers is simply 
"the impeachment of energy by 
twaddle." 

A correspondent of the London 
Times calls attention to the fact 
that while Mr. Tooth, who is per- 
fectly orthodox as regards the 
creeds of the church, is prosecuted 
for extremes in ritual, a brother 
clergyman is allowed to preach 



open infidelity from the pulpit un- 
molested. "The Public Worship 
Bill," he writes, * has been passed 
to repress crimes so grave as over- 
magnificence in the services, but 
does not deign to meddle in so 
small a matter as that of vindicat- 
ing the Divinity of our Saviour, 
which is fearlessly impugned in a 
pulpit which the Bishop of London 
himself has condescended to occu- 

py." 

It is much to be doubted wheth- 
er the Anglican bishops, when they 
obtained from Parliament the Pub- 
lic Worship Regulation Act, had 
the remotest idea of the tempest 
which, Prospero- like, they were 
summoning around them, but 
which, unlike Shakspere's magician, 
they would be powerless to allay. 
And if this is the result obtained 
by the act just mentioned, a still 
more recent one, the " Scotch 
Church Patronage Act," another 
measure intended by Lord Beacons- 
field as an additional buttress to 
ecclesiastical establishments, has 
produced similar storms in the 
North. It has led to proceedings 
in connection with the " settlement" 
of a parish clergyman at New Deer 
in Aberdeenshire which recall the 
furious battles between the " intru- 
sion" and non-intrusion parties that 
split the Established Church of Scot- 
land into fragments thirty-four years 
ago, and has besides almost succeed- 
ed in uniting three-fourths of Scot- 
land into a solid disestablishment 
phalanx. The Presbyterian Kirk, 
moreover, in addition to subjects of 
contention presented from without, 
has certain characteristic squabbles 
of its own. A question having re- 
cently arisen on the subject of un- 
fermented wines in the celebration 
of what is called communion, the 
session has maintained that it " has 
a right to change the elements of 



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142 



The Ashes of tin Palms, 



communion, and in so doing is dis- 
charging its proper functions." 
Why not ? If local churches can 
make their own doctrines, what, we 
should like to know, is to hinder 
them from making their own sacra- 
ments as well ? 

Our object in this article has 
been merely to sketch the present 
condition of affairs in the English 
Establishment; but as we have in 
concluding taken a momentary 
glance at Scotland also, we cannot 
leave unnamed the Green Isle of 
the West, whose centuries of suffer- 
ing and oppression have at last, we 
earnestly trust, given place to times 
of peace and long prosperity. 

Should the reviving hopes of 



many hearts be realized, and the 
Green Tree of England's ancient 
church again spread its vigorous 
branches over the land that was 
once "Our Lady's Dowry"; and 
should the grand old northern ab- 
beys, Melrose, Jedburgh, Paisley, 
and even, it may be, lona, receive 
again as in past ages their cowl- 
ed and consecrated sons, still En- 
gland and Scotland will have but 
returned to the faith which Ireland 
has never lost, and which no human 
or Satanic power has been able to 
wrench from her. No ! For, 
rather than let the cross be torn 
from her bleeding embrace, she 
suffered herself to be nailed upon 
it. 



THE ASHES OF THE PALMS. 

The Disciple. 

" Are ashes scarce that palms must burn. 
Those sweet memorials of the only day 
Of triumph that thou hadst, my Prince, 
Upon this woeful earth ?" 

The Master. 

" All glory unto ashes, child, must turn. 
Of which this deathly world can make display. 
These ashes on proud heads convince 
Proud hearts of glory's worth." 

The Disciple. 

" If palms to ashes must, 
So be 't. / still will live to praise, 
Though glory's gage should burn." 

The Master. 

** E'en thou art naught but dust. 
The mark thy forehead bears betrays 
To what thou shalt return." 



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An Old World as Seen through 
Young Eyes ; or, Travels Around 
THE World. By Ellen H. Walworth. 
New York : Sadlier & Co. 1877. 
Every school -girl who reads this book 
will wish that she had an uncle who 
would send for her one day, while she is 
dreaming over her lesson -book, and in- 
vite her to accompany him around the 
world. This is what happened to Miss 
Ellen Walworth in June, 1873, and the 
volume before us is composed of the let- 
ters which she wrote home during her 
tour, and which were published as they 
were received in an Albany newspaper, 
attracting at the time considerable atten- 
tion. They are the production of a 
school -girl of fifteen, but slightly altered 
from their original form, and this makes 
their peculiarity and their special in- 
terest. The course of her travels was 
through Scotland, Ireland, England, Bel- 
gium, the country of the Rhine, Switzer- 
land, luly, Egypt, China, Japan, and 
home by way of San Francisco. The let- 
ters are just what they should be — na- 
tural, lively, juvenile descriptions of the 
little incidents of travel and the scenes 
witnessed, with the freshness and vivid- 
ness of letters written at the time and on 
the spot to which each one successively 
belongs. Two extremely interesting let- 
ters of Father Walwonh, written with 
his well-known charm of style and mi- 
nute accuracy of statement, are included 
in the collection. One of these contains 
a description of the Coptic rite, the other 
an account of the present state of the 
mission in Japan, with many interesting 
historical particulars. Our young folk 
will find this a ve'ry entertaining volume, 
and older people may read it with plea- 
sure. It is a book very creditable to 
the young author, and also an evidence 
of the kind of culture which is given to 
young girls by tie accomplished ladies 
at Kenwood. We subjoin one specimen 
of the style in which the letters are writ- 
ten, not at all childish, although sufiused 
with a childlike gayety : 

'* I remember what ^ dispute arose 
among the passengers the day we went 



down Lake Zutich. There were moun- 
tains all around us, but from the end of 
the lake towards which we were steer- 
ing rose quite a high range. Over their 
summits the clouds extended up some 
distance, and, strange to say, a succes- 
sion of peaks were to be seen above the 
clouds, suspended, as it were, in the sky, 
and having no connection with the peaks 
below, except a close resemblance in 
form. Their outlines were distinctly 
marked against the clear blue sky, but 
they had a strange, chalky, light appear- 
ance, as if ihey could be blown away by 
a breath. Some of the passengers said 
they were merely unusual forms taken by 
the clouds ; others insisted that they 
were a reflection of the peaks below — a 
species of FaUi Mor^na, A few old Alp 
frequenters, among them our friend of 
the gravel acquaintance, ventured to as- 
sert that they were real mountains, but 
their idea was laughed down as ridicu- 
lous. While the dispute was the hot- 
test, the wind, by a strange freak, dis- 
persed the clouds almost in an instant, 
and we had before us one of the mighty 
ranges of Switzerland, beside which our 
mountains of the lake shore were mere 
hillocks. 

" From the foot of Lake Zurich we 
took the railroad carriages for Ragatz 
and Chur. This journey is among my 
most vivid recollections of Switzerland ' 
for we were following the courses of the 
valleys and streams through that won- 
derful range of mountains that wc had 
seen from the lake. We twisted our- 
selves into every possible position to 
see the snow-capped ^mmits directly 
above us, and our fellow-travellers — 
English, French, and Germans — became 
so excited over the scenery that thev 
would call out to each other — ^for, though 
the language might not be understood, 
the gestures were unmistakable — and 
they would rush from one side of the 
cars to the other, even dropping down 
on the floor, to get a sight from the car- 
windows of the very tip-top of the moun- 
tains. The enthusiasm seemed conta- 
gious ; there were haughty Englishmen, 
stolid Germans, fashionable young la- 



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fJies, and confirmed dandies equally 
forgetful of appearances. Indeed, as we 
passed peak after peak, now clustered 
together, now opening and showing 
beautiful valleys between, or dark, shad- 
«^d chasms, the jagged rocks taking new 
shapes and hues every instant, it was 
like watching a grand- and ever-varying 
kaleidoscope/' 

MusiCA EccLESiASTicA. A Collection of 
Masses, Vespers, Flymns, Motets, etc., 
for the service of the Catholic Church. 
New York : J. Fischer & Bro. 
Of this publication the Part i6 
sent us, containing motets for singing 
at the Benediction of the Blessed Sacra- 
ment, is a collection well suited for use 
at that function. But we must object 
to the title of the general work, as neither 
this nor any figured music can be sung 
by ecclesiastics, as such, officiating in any 
service of the Catholic Church. The 
only melody properly styled musica 
eccUsiastica is the Gregorian chant. De- 
finitions are always of grave moment. 
Suppose that some one of our enterpris- 
ing publishers should present the public 
with a manual of prayers such as the St, 
yohfCs Manual, the Kry of Heaven, or the 
Missicn Book under the title of *' Manual 
for the Clergy, consisting of prayers, 
litanies, hymns, and other devotions 
for the service of the Catholic Church "; 
it is plain that it would not receive 
the imprimatur of a Catholic school- 
boy. 

Under a proper title we give our hearty 
encouragement to the work which our 
German Catholic brethren abroad and 
here in the United States have within the 
last few years pursued with such praise- 
worthy zeal in the composition of music 
for the use of our choirs, which, if we do 
not think it to be the most suitable and 
most consistent in tone with the letter and 
spirit of the Catholic ritual, is decidedly 
a vast improvement upon the sensual, 
operatic style of music whose melodies 
and harmonies have emasculated the de- 
votion and vitiated the taste of, we re- 
gret to say, almost the majority of Catho- 
Hcs in modem times 



The Comprehensive Geography. Nos. 

I, 2, and 3. New York : P. O'Shea, 

37 Barclay St. 1876. 

We are inclined to think that this 
series is the best of the many which have 
of late years been presented to the public, 
and certainly do not know of any which 
are superior to it in any respect except 
in the department of physical geography ; 
and it is as complete even in this as it 
could well be without an additional vol- 
ume specially devoted to that subject. 

The feature which should particularly 
recommend it to Catholics is the promi- 
nence which it gives to facts connected 
with religion. There is no branch of 
study for the young in which it is so im- 
portant that religion should be promi- 
nent as geography, with the exception, of 
course, of history. Even the best text- 
books hitherto published are perhaps a 
little too reticent in this respect. The 
desire to accomplish this object has in 
the present work led to the introduction 
of some rather unnecessary details ; but 
this is a fault on the right side. 

We hope that this series will become 
popular, as it deserves to be, in Catholic 
schools. 

The Complete Office of Holy Week 
according to the Roman Missal 
and Breviary. In Latin and Eng- 
lish. New edition. Revised and en- 
larged. i8mo, pp. 563. New York : 
The Catholic Publication Society. 

1877. 

This edition of Holy Week is a new 
and corrected one ; it is printed from 
large type on good paper, and is well 
and substantially bound. Moreover, it 
is complete, containing all the offices of 
the church from Palm Sunday tQ Easter 
Tuesday, inclusive. This edition is ihe 
only correct one now published in this 
country. It has been carefully read by 
persons competent to guarantee against 
the gross blunders that are apt to 
disfigure Catholic works of the great- 
est importance. The price is so low 
that the book is within the reach of 
every one, thus enabling them to follow 
easily the services of the church during 
Holy Week. 



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Vol.. XXV. 



No. 146. 




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MONTHLY MAGAZINE 

OF 

General Literature and Science. 

MAY, 1877. 



Contents. 



PAGE 

I. The Prussian Chancellor, . 145 
II. Veronica, .... 161 

III. Dante's Purgatorio( Poetry), 171 

IV. Six Sunny Months, . . 175 
V. May Flowers (Poetiy), . 1S9 

VI. The Lepers of Tracadie, . 191 

VII. Testiraonyof the Catacombs, 205 

VIII. Two May Carols (Poetry), . 217 
IX. Letters of a Young Irish- 
woman to her Sister, . 218 

X. Up the Nile, . . .236 
XI. May (Poetry), . . . 246 
XII, The French Clergy during 

the late War in France, . 247 



XIII. De Vere's J/^rv Tudor ^ . 2f»i 
XIV. Nanette, . ' . . .270 
XV. New Publications, . . 2S0 

Cl.issic Literature— The Cradle of the 
Christ — '1 he Problem of Problems— I he 
Childhood of the English Nation- I )r. 
Joseph Salzmann's I.ebcn und \N irkr-n 
dargestellt von Joseph RaJner— The 
Consolation of the Devout Soul — The 
Code Poetical Reader — Summa Sum ma; 
— Why are we Roman Catholics? — 
Carte Ecclesi.\.stique des Etats-Uuis <Ic 
PAmerique — Heroic Women of the 
Bible and the Church. 



New York: 
THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION HOUSE, 

(P. O. Box 5396,) No. 9 Barclay Street. ^ 

terms: $5 per year, in advance. 




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CATHOLIC WORLD. 



VOL. XXV., No. 146.— MAY, 1877. 



THE PRUSSIAN CHANCELLOR.* 



M. Julian Klaczko is by birth 
a Polish Jew and is a convert to 
the Catholic Christian faith, -'^ie 
was for a time employed in the 
office of the Austrian Ministry of 
Foreign Affairs, and was afterwards 
a member of the imperial parliament. 
He has, however, generally been a 
resident in France, where his nume- 
rous essays on political topics have 
been published, all of which have 
attracted much attention and won 
for their author a high reputation. 
We have already, in our number for 
last March, made some observations 
on the career and policy of one of 
the two chancellors, whose lives 
and public actions, so far as they 
had progressed at the time of its pub- 
lication, were sketched in the work 
whose title is given below. This 
work is one of the most interesting 
political brochures of our time, and 
we propose to continue in the pre- 
sent article the review of it com- 
menced in our previous one, con- 

^ Tw9 Chafueliors, tic. By Julian Klaczko. 
Translated by Frank P. Ward. New York : Kurd 
A Houg^hton. 

Pro NikiU and other pamphlets on the Amim 
qaestion. 



lining our attention chiefly to the 
chancellor of the German Empire. 

Prince Bismarck has been charac- 
terized by M. Thiers as " a savage 
full of genius.'' He is one of 
Carlyle's " heroes " — an expression 
synonymous with that of the clever 
French statesman, and denoting a 
giant in whom is embodied intel- 
lectual and physical force, irrespec- 
tive of any moral direction. To 
this native strength, which has 
remained through life to a great 
extent rude and uncultivated, and 
not in any way to a regular and 
careful education. Otto von Bis- 
marck is indebted for the success 
he has achieved. His studies were 
finished on his entrance at the uni- 
versity, and never resumed. It is 
doubtful whether he ever passed 
the legal examination required be- 
fore entering the civil service in 
Prussia. Nevertheless, such a 
man is always a sort of extraordi- 
nary professor to himself. He has 
read literature and studied men and 
events. It is absurd to call such a 
man uneducated; and, although he 
does not possess the art of speaking 



Copyright : Rev. I. T. Hbckkx. 1877. 



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146 



Tlie Prussian Chancellor. 



or writing according to rule, he is 
able to use both his tongue and pen 
with an original power which some- 
times rises to the highest level of 
eloquence, and to coin expressions 
which, once uttered, can never be 
forgotten. We have quoted one in 
our former article, about the " iron 
dice of destiny," and we will give one 
more, which we think is unsurpassed 
in the annals of modern speech : 

** One of his most happy, most memor- 
able inspirations he suddenly drew one 
day from the libretto of the FreischUtt. 

**In this opera of Weber, Max, the 
good and unfortunate hunter, borrows a 
cartridge from Robin, the evil spirit, and 
immediately kills an eagle, one of whose 
feathers he proudly sticks in his cap. 
He then asks for some more cartridges, 
but Robin tells him that they are * en- 
chanted balls,' and that, in order to ob- 
tain them, he must surrender himself to 
the infernal spirits and deliver his soul 
to them. Max draws back, and then Ro- 
bin, sneering, tells him that he hesitates 
in vain, that the bargain is made, and 
that he has already committed himself 
by the ball he made use of: 'Do you 
think, then, that this eagle was a free 
gift?' Well! when in 1849 the young 
orator of the Mark of Brandenburg had 
to implore the Prussian chamber not to 
accept for the King of Prussia the im- 
perial crown which the parliament of 
Frankfort offered him, he ended by cry- 
ing out : * It is radicalism which offers 
this gift to the king. Sooner or later this 
radicalism will stand upright before the 
king, will demand of him its recompense, 
and, pointing to the emblem of the eagle 
on that new imperial flag, it will say : 
Did you thinky theriy that this eagle was a 
free gift r^' 

The suggestion will doubtless 
present itself immediately to the 
minds of many of our readers that 
the poetic mytli of the Freischutz is 
likely to be fulfilled in sober, actual 
reality when the German imperial 
drama is played out, and that Bis- 
marck will prove to have been the 
Robin of William I, But this is an 
anticipation, and we return to our 



sheep and our young wolf. An 
equally marked and welUknown 
trait of Bismarck's style in speech 
and writing is a cold, biting, iron- 
ical humor, which often assumes the 
outward guise of frankness, some- 
times ferocious, sometimes farcical, 
but always dangerous and often 
deadly when the master of the weap- 
on is wielding it in a real fight. The 
general tone of his disposition is 
contemptuous and misanthropical, 
as of one who alternately sneers and 
laughs at mankind in general, on 
the whole despising the game of life, 
yet going in for deep play with all 
his soul when the chance presents 
itself, for mere occupation and 
amusement ; just as he plunged into 
the Burschen-life in his youth and 
hunted bears at a later period in 
Russia. There is no trace of phi- 
lanthropy in his character ; as an 
enemy he is relentless, and no gen- 
tle or noble sentiments hamper his 
progress in the way of his policy of 
"blood and iron." Yet there is a 
most tender and devoted affection 
manifested in his letters to his sis- 
ter, Malvina von Arnim — " Malde- 
winchen "; so far as we know he has 
been a kind husband and father ; 
there seems really to be something 
genuine in his long friendship for 
Prince Gortchakoff ; and all the 
world knows that he risked his life 
to rescue a servant from drowning. 
The impression we have received 
from all we have ever read or heard 
about him is, that his natural dispo- 
sition, like that of Napoleon, is gen- 
erous and noble, but, like his, has 
been perverted by ambition. 

His early life did not promise 
any great achievements. He went 
by the name of " Mad Bismarck," 
and was always restless, unsettled, 
without steady application to any 
definite aim. What his real inward 
convictions are or have been, in re- 



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Tlu Prussian Chancellor. 



147 



ligion, philosophy, and the higher 
sphere of political ethics, is very dif- 
ficult to determine, at least for us 
who are at a distance ; or even to 
decide how far he has ever formed 
and cherished any deep and settled 
convictions at all. Practically, he 
has been a Pyrrhonist and Epicu- 
rean, a heathen and a materialist, 
using all things and all ideas as so 
many counters of no value except 
for his own game. The opinions 
which he professed at the outset of 
his political career were those of 
" the party of the cross," that old- 
Prussian, religious, monarchical, 
conservative party represented by 
the illustrious Baron von Gerlach, 
which has been in opposition to the 
administration of the chancellor, and 
is now in a quasi-alliance with the 
Catholic party. 

**'I belong — ' 8ucb was the defiant 
declaration of Herr von Bismarck in 
one of his first speeches in the cham- 
ber — * I belong to an opinion which 
glories in the reproaches of obscuran- 
tism and of tendencies of the middle 
age; I belong to that great multitude 
which is compared with disdain to the 
most intelligent party of the nation.' He 
wanted a Christian state, * Without a re- 
ligious basis/ said he, ' a state is nothing 
but a fortuitous aggregation of interests y a 
sort of hoLstion in a war of all against 
all; without this religious basisy all legisla- 
tioHy instead of regenerating itself at the 
Utfifig sources of eternal truths is only tossed 
about by human ideas as vague as change- 
able."* 

What can be finer or truer than 
this statement, in which the whole 
of his own policy as chancellor of 
the German Empire is condemned 
in advance out of his own mouth .^ 
In every important respect his avow- 
ed opinions and political action 
were diametrically opposite to those 
of a later date. In fact, his bold 
and even extravagant advocacy of 
the cause of the house of Hapsburg, 
at a moment when (1850) the atti- 



tude of Prussia towards Austria was 
most humiliating, was the first oc- 
casion of launching him into the 
career of foreign affairs. He was 
sent, with much misgiving on the 
part of the king and his minister, as 
Prussian plenipotentiary to the Diet 
of Frankfort ; and here he began to 
go to school to Prince Gortchakoff, 
now commenced that world-renown- 
ed friendship between these two 
statesmen which has altered the 
course of history and for whose tl/- 
naUement we are at this moment in- 
tently watching. 

It would be idle to suppose that 
these two men traced out before- 
hand the common policy which 
they have since pursued in concert. 
It was impossible for any human 
sagacity to foresee the conjunctures 
which have since arisen, and have 
furnished to Bismarck the oppor- 
tunities of which his genius has 
availed itself to destroy and to up- 
build great political fabrics. They 
could only plan, in general, the ag- 
grandizement of Russia and Prus- 
sia, by the breaking down of the 
traditional policy of coalition and 
balance among the European pow- 
ers. All that we can see clearly 
respecting the incipient working of 
Bismarck's mind at this period is, 
that he contracted an aversion for 
Austria, a contempt for the Ger- 
man confederation, and a mean 
opinion in general of the diplomats 
who had the management of the 
European state-craft. The idea of 
a new era of absolutism in a few 
great, conquering nations — an abso- 
lutism " tinged with popular pas- 
sions," or, according to his favorite 
expression, " spotted with red " — 
dawned on his mind and became 
gradually more distinct. Some ex- 
travagant projects were at times 
bubbling in his restless brain, and 
he often threatened to abandon the 



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148 



The Prussian Chancellor. 



career of regular diplomatic service 
and go into politics " in his swim- 
ming-drawers." But when the 
Prussian administration proposed 
to him to go to Russia as resident 
ambassador, with a view, as he 
expressed it, of " putting him on 
ice " to cool him down, he con- 
sented to don a " bear-skin " in- 
stead of the aforesaid habiliments 
of a sans'culottes. 

On the ist of April, his birth-day^ 
1859, Herr von Bismarck arrived in 
the capital of the Russian Empire, 
of which his former colleague at 
Frankfort was already the chancel- 
lor. Among the Russians he was 
extremely popular ; for he took ex- 
traordinary pains to make himself 
agreeable to them, and seemed to 
have turned himself into a Russian, 
for the time being, in donning the 
bear-skin. Notwithstanding his 
outward hilariousness, he was in- 
wardly morosfe, dissatisfied with the 
course which Prussian and Euro- 
pean politics were following, and 
feeling himself condemned to hon- 
orable exile and inaction. He 
was once so severely ill through 
chagrin that his life was in danger. 
He said on his recovery that he 
had gone "half-way to a better 
world," and expressed regret that 
he had not completed the journey. 
He thought of abandoning politics 
altogether, and with difficulty over- 
came his impatience sufficiently to 
bide his time a little longer. Gort- 
chakoff said that Russia " did not 
sulk, but meditated." Bismarck 
sulked and meditated. But mean- 
while the course of events was pre- 
paring for him his opportunity. 
The strange and mixed drama in 
which Napoleon III., destined to 
be its principal victim, was the 
chief actor — whose critical mo- 
ments were Sebastopol, Solferino, 
Sadowa, Sedan — was going on. 



This great actor, once regarded as 
a sphinx of political wisdom, but 
now designated by no more hon- 
orable title than the " dreamer of 
Ham," holds a conspicuous place 
in the group of those apparently 
and temporarily great men to 
whom belongs the epitaph sadly 
composed for himself by the ex- 
piring Joseph H., Emperor of Aus- 
tria : "Here lies the man who 
failed in all his undertakings." 
More than this, he is a. signal in- 
stance of that blind fatuity by 
which those men who set them- 
selves to counteract the order of 
divine Providence are seduced, as 
the King of Israel was by the " ly- 
ing spirit " in the mouth of his 
prophets, to ruin themselves and 
become the executioners of divine 
vengeance on their own persons. 

If Louis Napoleon had had good 
sense and moral principle enough 
to imitate Charlemagne, he might 
have confirmed his dynasty, estab- 
lished France in solid power and 
prosperity, and earned true glory as 
a benefactor of Christendom. But 
he was not " of the seed of those 
men by whom salvation was brought 
to Israel." He aspired to imitate 
Caesar and Napoleon without pos- 
sessing their genius. He imitated 
the profligacy of Caesar in his 
youtli, the perfidy of Napoleon in 
his old age. His early vices aveng- 
ed themselves in the pain and dis- 
ease which unmanned and incapa- 
citated him for action in the last 
eventful crisis of his career. His 
criminal alliance with Carbonari 
and conspirators in his youth en- 
tangled him afterwards in a mesh 
which he had not courage, even if 
he had the wish, to break. By his 
alliance with the Turk he prepared 
an enemy in Russia, who became 
one principal cause of his final 
downfall and the humiliation of 



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The Prussian Chancellor. 



149 



France, while he gained nothing 
beyond a momentary prestige of 
glory for his army. By his Italian 
campaign, and his subsequent sup- 
port of Prussia against Austria, he 
weakened the power which would 
otherwise have befriended France 
in her dire distress ; and he built 
up a kingdom which abandoned 
and betrayed him, at the cost of in- 
curring the malediction which falls 
on all betrayers and oppressors of 
the Holy See. 

By his greed of territory in an- 
nexing Savoy he alienated for ever 
his former ally, England. By the 
war above alluded to and his mis- 
erable Mexican fiasco he used up 
the splendid army of France, and 
was found minus habens when the 
day of destiny came on him unpre- 
pared. He deliberately fostered 
the military and political increase 
of Prussia, and then madly dragged 
down upon France that terrible 
power which, having first outwitted, 
in the second place crushed him. 

We have read of some one who 
drew an enigmatical figure, in 
which a crowned serpent is repre- 
sented twining from his tail up- 
ward through a combination of four 
letters S, and strangled by the up- 
per crook of the topmost letter. In 
this figure is strikingly symbolized 
the course of events in Europe from 
the Crimean war to the Prussian 
conquest. During Bismarck's resi- 
dence in Russia, which followed 
Sebastopol, came the day of Solferi- 
no. The immediate effect of this 
battle was an attempt to mobilize 
the Prussian army, which disclosed 
to the crown-prince, now Emperor 
of Germany, its miserable condition, 
and suggested to him the plan of 
its entire reformation. This plan 
he afterwards carried out, accom- 
plishing it with unprecedented ra- 
pidity and skill by the aid of Von 



Moltke and Von Roon, against the 
violent opposition of the parliament 
and the whole people. Thus was 
Bismarck's great instrument of mak- 
ing force bring right under subjec- 
tion prepared for him ih advance, 
without his concurrence. The con- 
nivance and concurrence of Russia 
were already secured, most cordial- 
ly so far as further designs on Aus- 
tria were concerned, and at least 
conditionally and passively in re- 
spect to ulterior projects of improv- 
ing Prussia's position. 

The " Iron Count" is now about 
to try the strength of his Thor's 
hammer on the head of the sphinx. 
Bismarck is about to become the head 
of the Prussian state, and try his 
craft and strength in a contest for 
supremacy with Louis Napoleon. 
He was called home toward the end 
of 1 86 1 for consultation and to as- 
sist at the coronation of King Wil- 
liam, and returned to St. Petersburg 
only to close up the affairs of his 
mission and take farewell. In May, 
1862, he was at Berlin, and evident- 
ly destined for the post of Chief 
Minister. He was, however, «///«- 
terim sent on the mission to Paris, 
to take the measure of Louis Napoleon 
and study more nearly the position 
of European affairs, which all cen- 
tred at that time in the Tuileries. 
We should rather say that he went 
to Paris to complete these studies and 
observations. Already, in 1858, he 
had sounded the French emperor 
in respect to his sentiments towards 
Prussia, and found them most en- 
couraging. During the same year 
Louis Napoleon had sent this singu- 
lar message by Count Pepoli to the 
court of Berlin : " In Germany 
Austria represents the past, Prussia 
represents the future; in linking 
itself to Austria Prussia condemns 
itself to immobility ; it cannot be 
thu'j contented; it is called to a 



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higher fortune ; // should acceifiplish 
in Germany the great destinies which 
await ity and which Germany awaits 
from it" Consider this language, 
and then think of the prison of 
Willi elmshohe and of the reflections 
which must have passed through 
the mind of the unfortunate dream- 
er so rudely awakened by the thun- 
der of Von MoUke's guns ! King 
William had had an interview with 
Louis Napoleon at Compiegne, for 
which Bismarck had aided him in 
preparing, and it was partly the 
result of this interview which had 
determined him to call the bold 
cavalier of the Mark to his side. 
The dreamer's vague and scheming 
mind revolved vast projects of Pan- 
Latin, Pan-German, Pan-Sclavonian 
combinations, uniting the three 
great races and the three great 
churches, with their respective cen- 
tres at Paris, Berlin, and St. Peters- 
burg, in a triple alliance of univer- 
sal monarchies, to dominate the 
world, to inaugurate a new era, to 
bring on the millennium of civili- 
zation, and to place the name of 
Louis Napoleon at least on a par 
with those of Moses, Alexander, 
Julius Csesar, Constant ine, and 
Charlemagne. 

We have read in the autobiogra- 
phy of some German philosopher 
that in his youth he was ravished 
with ecstasy in thinking of ^^ the 
wheels of the eternal essences'*-/ The 
visionary projects of this unfortun- 
ate imperial seer remind us forcibly 
of this boyish philosopher. While 
he was letting France drift on to- 
wards the OU allons nous f of Mgr. 
Dupanloup, he was driving his im- 
aginary chariot, on the " wheels of 
the eternal essences," through airy 
regions, casting an occasional unde- 
cided glance on Belgium and the 
frontiers of the Rhine. Bismarck 
was not long in taking his measure, 



and it appears that Prince Gortcha- 
kofl* had long since learned the 
passes by which he could magnet- 
ize him at pleasure. With his own 
peculiar, knavish frankness, Bis- 
marck avowed his own objective 
aim — the rectification of the Prussian 
frontiers — and found it easy to 
amuse the decaying emperor with 
vague hints of compensation to 
France by allowing the annexation 
of Belgium and the territory on the 
left bank of the Rhine. As for the 
opinion which was formed respect- 
ing Bismarck himself, at this time 
and during the first period of his 
administration, by the emperor and 
the diplomats, it appears now 
strangely comical. They could not 
bring themselves to regard him as 
serious, and were thrown completely 
off their guard by his consummate 
acting. As late as 1865, when he 
visited the French emperor at Biar- 
ritz, the latter, while listening to his 
harangues during the promenades 
which they took together on the 
beach, would slyly press the arm of 
Prosper Merim^e, and even whis- 
pered once in his ear : " He is cra- 
zy." M. Benedetti in the follow- 
ing year told General Govone that he 
considered Bismarck to be " a ma- 
niacal diplomat," adding that he 
had long known his man^ and had 
followed him up for fifteen years. 
There is something grimly amusing 
in this play of the cat and the mice, 
notwithstanding its tragical results 
and the pity we must feel for the 
victims who thought themselves so 
extremely astute, but were lured on 
by one deeper in craft than they 
were, as easily as the meditative, 
solemn bruin was enticed by Rey- 
nard the fox to go after honey. 

Bismarck left Paris, convinced of 
three things as the result of his 
studies : First, that Louis Napole- 
on was a " great unrecognized inca- 



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pacttyJ'* Second, that "liberalism 
is only nonsense which it is easy to 
bring to reason; but revolution is a 
force which it is necessary to know 
how to use." Third, " that England 
need not enter into his calcula- 
tions." He returned to Berlin to 
assume the office of Minister of For- 
eign Affairs and commence the work 
of rounding off Prussia. Austria 
was the one decided antagonist 
whom he had to meet in the critical 
struggle for supremacy in Germany. 
He was not afraid of her single 
power unaided by allies, but he was 
anxious to make doubly sure of the 
neutrality of France and Russia. 
Circumstances favored him most 
remarkably in producing an alien- 
ation between these two powers, 
which was an efficacious preventive 
of any amicable concord between 
the two to check his plans, and in 
persuading each one more deci- 
sively to connive at them. The 
Polish insurrection, encouraged by 
France and Austria, embroiled Al- 
exander II. with Louis Napoleon, 
and renewed all the former rancor 
of St. Petersburg against Vienna. 
Bismarck was cunning enough to 
make secret preparations for taking 
advantage of the insurrection, if it 
proved too strong for Russia to 
quell, by occupying Poland with 
Prussian troops, and securing the 
final disposition of the whole Po- 
lish question for himself At the 
same time he so managed as to 
strengthen the bond between him- 
self and Gortchakoff, and, in the 
actual event, to bind Russia and 
Prussia closely together by an open 
common policy in respect to Po- 
land. Favored by fortunate cir- 
cumstances, by the co-operation of 
military chiefs who showed a genius 
in organizing and leading the Prus- 
sian army which astonished the 
world, by a fatuity in Louis Napo- 



leon and a complaisance in the 
Russian chancellor beyond his 
most sanguine expectations, he 
played during the next four years, 
like a Paul Morphy of politics, 
four or five games at once with 
masterly skill. King William of 
Prussia and all the other rulers 
and statesmen of Europe were but 
pieces or pawns to be played with, 
taken, or checkmated ; and on the 
day after the battle of Sadovva. he 
was really master of the situation. 

The objective point at which 
Bismarck aimed in the year 1862 
was to make Prussia the most pow- 
erful state in Europe and complete- 
ly independent of every other state 
or coalition of states. For this 
end it was necessary to destroy the 
German Bund, to deprive Austria 
of all power in Germany, to in- 
crease the Prussian territory, and 
to establish its hegemony in Ger- 
many. All this was accomplish- 
ed, before the close of the year 
1866, by means of the imbroglio ol 
the Schleswig-Holstein succession. 
When Christian IX. succeeded to 
the throne of Denmark, his right 
to the succession in the duchies 
was disputed, because it came 
through a female line debarred 
from inheriting by the ancient law 
of Schleswig and Holstein. The 
designs of Prussia upon these duch- 
ies were, however, of a much earlier 
origin,- and had their birth from 
the liberal party and its revolu- 
tionary movements in 1848. In a 
speech delivered in the Prussian 
chambers, April 21, 1849, Herr 
von Bismarck declared that the 
war provoked in the duchies of 
the Elbe was " an undertaking 
eminently iniquitous, frivolous, 
disastrous, and revolutionary." 
We will not pretend to determine 
the question of the validity of 
King Christian's title, as between 



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himself and the people of the duch- 
ies. It is evident enough, however, 
that the matter was one which in- 
terested all Europe, and ought to 
have been calmly, justly determin- 
ed, in a manner consonant with the 
interests of the kingdom of Den- 
mark, of the people of the duchies, of 
the confederated states of the Ger- 
man Bund^ and of Europe. In fact, 
the doubt respecting Christian's title 
was seized upon by Bismarck as a 
mere pretext for absorbing the dis- 
puted territory, with its fine Baltic 
sect-port of Kiel, into Prussia. The 
Prince of Augustenberg, the chief 
claimant against Christian, had 
been induced, a short time before 
the accession of the latter to the 
Danish throne, by the influence of 
Bismarck himself, to sell his claim 
on Holstein to the government of 
Copenhagen. No sooner was the 
old king dead than Bismarck de- 
clared that this same prince was 
the rightful duke. At a later pe- 
riod he brought forward several 
other claimants, that these rival 
claims might neutralize each other. 
How he cheated Lord John Rus- 
sell; how he used the German Bund 
as a tool for his own purposes and 
then scornfully pushed it aside ; 
how he drew Austria into a war 
against Denmark, followed by a 
joint occupation of the duchies, 
and then commenced a quarrel 
against her for their sole possession ; 
and how England, the declared 
protector of Denmark, looked tame- 
ly on while it was despoiled and 
maimed, we have not time to relate 
in detail. It was a great blunder 
in France, England, and Russia to 
permit what they could easily have 
prevented. On the part of Aus- 
tria it was a stupendous and sui- 
cidal folly to make itself an accom- 
plice in a conspiracy for destroying 
the bulwarks of its own power. 



This was soon made manifest, but 
too late to escape the consequences 
of a fatal blunder. Prussia being 
ready for action, the Bund and the 
claimants of the duchies were sum- 
marily shoved aside. The ques- 
tion of the right of succession in 
the duchies was referred to a high 
Prussian court for adjudication. It 
was decided that the King of Den- 
mark alone had possessed the right 
of sovereignty in Schleswig and 
Holstein, and that, by the cession 
which he had been forced to make 
after being conquered in war, this 
right was now vested in Prussia 
and Austria. Austria was politely 
requested to sell her share to Prus- 
sia, which she declined to do, and 
the next step was to wrest it from 
her by force. 

The dark intrigues — at the time 
so hidden from sight and so almost 
desperate, even in the view of the 
"maniacal diplomat" who held their 
threads in his hand and wove them 
into a mesh around his victim — by 
which Bismarck planned the ruin of 
Austria, h^ve since been fully dis- 
closed. With the government of 
Victor Emanuel a strict and se- 
cret treaty was contracted. At the 
same time, and for several years af- 
ter, a correspondence was kept up 
with Mazzini, looking to the over- 
throw of Victor Emanuel in case 
of any action on his part unfavor- 
able to the schemes of the arch- 
conspirators. Arrangements were 
made for fomenting an insurrec- 
tion in Hungary under the leader- 
ship* of Garibaldi. The neutrality 
and connivance of Louis Napoleon 
were secured by playing upon his 
Italian sympathies and holding be- 
fore him vague expectations of com- 
pensation for France. 

Prince Gortchakoff lent an un- 
derhand but most valuable help to 
his friend all through, beginning 



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with the attack on Denmark. It 
was Louis Napoleon, whose inca- 
pacity and weakness were not yet 
fully revealed even to Bismarck's 
keen eye, who was most feared and 
distrusted. Enfeebled as he was 
in respect to whatever capacity he 
had really possessed in his prime, 
and weakened as was the power 
of France, yet, with the help of the 
statesmen and soldiers who were at 
his disposal, he still retained the 
power of determining the main is- 
sue in the politics of Europe, and 
Bismarck knew it. He would not 
stir in any decisive action until 
well assured that he had mastered 
the French emperor by his supe- 
rior craft. He had less difficulty 
in tliis than he anticipated. Louis 
Napoleon, like most other Euro- 
pean observers, overrated the mili- 
tary strength of Austria, and under- 
rated the new Prussian army with 
its almost untried leaders. Von 
Roon and Von Moltke ; which even 
Bismarck himself somewhat dis- 
trusted up to the last moment. The 
French emperor desired and hoped 
for the liberation of Venetia. But 
he expected the defeat of the Prus- 
sian army in Germany, and for him- 
self the r6le of a mediator, an um- 
pire, a general referee for settling 
all things on the basis of a new 
treaty of peace. He let Bismarck 
play his ganfe out, with what result 
is known to the world. Although 
victorious in Italy, Austria never- 
theless ceded Venetia to Louis Na- 
poleon, who handed it over to Vic- 
tor Emanuel. The victory of Sa- 
dowa agreeably surprised the vic- 
tor, brought despair to the van- 
quished, and astonished the world. 
If all the other great powers had 
not been alienated from each other, 
and under a fatal spell of the arch- 
fiend, Robin's master, whose en- 
chanted balls had brought down the 



Austrian eagle, they might have in- 
tervened to prevent the grave ulte- 
rior consequences of this fatal day 
of Sadowa. If Louis Napoleon had 
not been paralyzed and demoralized 
to the extent of utter imbecility, he 
might have interfered alone, and 
successfully, in this his last oppor- 
tunity for saving his dynasty and 
saving France. Nobody interfered. 
There was a weak show of nego- 
tiations, but Bismarck had his own 
way in everything. Before the end 
of the year 1866 his spoils were 
all gathered in and safely garnered, 
and the centre was shifted from 
Paris to Berlin. 

The area df Prussia had been in- 
creased, by the annexation of Han- 
over, Hesse-Cassel, Nassau, Frank- 
vfort, and the duchies of the Elbe, 
from 108,000 to 135,000 English 
square miles, and its population 
from 19,000,000 to 23,000,000. It 
was, moreover, the head of a North 
German Confederation, and practi- 
cally had control of the South Ger- 
man States, with the certainty of 
having all Germany outside of Aus- 
tria to co-operate with it and follow 
its lead in case of hostilities with 
France. These were the " moral 
conquests of Prussia in Germany " 
which the king, as prince-regent, 
had announced to the nation when 
he assumed the reins of govern- 
ment. This was the fulfilment of 
" the federal obligations toward the 
Emperor Francis Joseph," so much 
talked of at Potsdam, while the fu- 
ture chancellor was hunting bears in 
Russia. Such was the sequel of 
the protest of Berlin against the 
Piedmontese annexation. The pro- 
phecy of Cavour was fulfilled : that 
"Prussia would one day, thanks to 
Piedmont, profit by the example 
which had been given to it." 

The " Piedmontese mission of 
Prussia," vaunted by the French 



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democratic press, was well inaugu- 
rated and pretty near fulfilment. 
Louis Napoleon's oracular sayings 
about the " great destinies of Prus- 
sia " proved to have something else 
in them than " the stuff which 
dreams are made of." He had no 
longer to utter the philanthropic 
complaint : " The geographical posi- 
tion of Prussia is badly defined*' It 
was perhaps not quite perfect in 
the opinion of Bismarck, but it was 
certainly vastly improved, and des- 
tined to a still further rectification 
which had probably not been re- 
vealed to the imperial dreamer. 

Having disposed of his first ac- 
complice in the great scheme, grad- 
ually matured during his sulky 
meditations at Frankfort and St. 
Petersburg under the tuition of his 
. master in diplomacy. Prince Gort- 
chakoff — namely, having put down 
Austria — Bismarck proceeded with 
his next plot : against his accomplice 
in the one just successfully carried 
into execution. Austria had been 
lured on by the expectation of 
sharing in the spoliation of Den- 
mark, defrauded of her portion of 
the spoils, and stripped of a great 
part of her original possessions, to 
the advantage of Prussia. In like 
manner Louis Napoleon was dis- 
appointed of the acquisitions he 
hoped to receive as a reward for 
conniving at the spoliation of Aus- 
tria ; he and his dynasty were over- 
thrown completely, and we trust 
finally ; France was humiliated to 
the dust and compelled to ransom 
herself from captivity by the price 
of her treasure and her territory. 
The disruption of the European 
bond left France, as Austria had 
been left, at the mercy of her per- 
fidious ally, converted into an open 
and relentless enemy. 

During the preliminaries of peace 
at Nikolsburg, afterwards ratified 



by the. treaty of Prague, by which 
tlie German hegemony of Prussia 
was established, Bismarck persuad- 
ed the French emperor through his 
envoy, the unfortunate M. Benedetti 
— the same one who knew his man 
and followed him up so skilfully — 
that " the reverses of Austria allow- 
ed France and Prussia to modify 
their territoricU situation'' Hints 
were thrown out about the Rhine 
provinces and Belgium. After 
Prussia had completed her own 
modification of her territorial situa- 
tion for the time being, Bismarck 
continued, while Prussia was taking 
a rest and making all her political 
and military arrangements perfect, 
what he called his "dilatory ne- 
gotiations " with Louis Napoleon. 
The latter was asking for compen- 
sations, for which he had not stipu- 
lated when he placed his services 
at the disposal of his employer. 
Mephistopheles qualified this de- 
mand as a "policy oi pour boire.'* 
You engage a fiacre in Paris, you 
pay the stipulated price to the 
driver, and he presents his hand 
again, unless you anticipate him by 
a voluntary gratuity, with the fami- 
liar phrase : " Pour boire, monsieur, 
s'il vous plait !" If you are a good- 
humored gentleman, you hand over 
a few sous and he departs con- 
tented. If you are gruff and parsi- 
monious, and show unwillingness to 
comply with his polite request, he 
will reiterate it with less deference 
and civility. Whereupon, if you 
are violent and profane, and have 
sufficient command of the French 
language to speak after the manner 
of the gamins de Paris^ you refer 
him to a person beyond tlie ''^ Porte de 
VEnfer^ The history of the secret 
treaty of offensive and defensive alli- 
ance between France and Prussia, 
giving the aid of France to carry out 
the further programme of Prussian 



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ascendency in Germany, and the 
aid of Prussia to secure Luxembourg 
and Belgium to France, signed by 
France, though not signed, only laid 
up in her archives^ by Prussia, is well 
known. A previous project of a 
treaty ceding the Rhine provinces to 
France was shown to the South 
German plenipotentiaries and drove 
them into a secret and strict alliance 
with Prussia. The work of Nikols- 
burg and Prague was completed, 
the whole military force of North 
and South Germany wus at the 
disposal of King William, and no- 
thing was wanting but a war with 
France to make him emperor of 
Germany, with Alsace and Lorraine 
as additional provinces of his king- 
dom, and all expenses paid by the 
French treasury. Bismarck could 
now drop the mask whenever he 
pleased, and bully the unfortunate 
emperor into the folly of trying to 
expiate his past misconduct by 
baptizing himself in the fire of Prus- 
sian artillery and mitraille. This 
dark and tragic act in the drama 
of the Downfall of Europe is sum- 
med up with consummate truth and 
terseness in that little masterpiece 
entitled The Fight in Dame Eu- 
ropas School : showing how the Ger- 
man bay thrashed the French boy^ and 
how the English boy looked on : 

** Only one boy — ^bis favorite fag — did 
William take into his confidence in the 
matter. This was a sharp, shrewd lad 
named Mark, not overscrupulous in 
what he did, full of deep tricks and 
dodges, and so cunning that the old 
dame herself, though she had the eyes 
of a hawk, could never catch him out 
in anything absolutely wrong. To this 
smart youth William one day whispered 
his desires [of annexing part of Louis' 
garden] as they sat together in the sum- 
mer house smoking and drinking beer. 
* i here is only one way to do it/ said 
Mark. ' If you want the flower-beds, you 
must fight Louis for them, and I believe 
yott will lick him all to smash. You 



see, old fellow, yon have grown so much 
lately, and filled out so wonderfully. that 
you are really getting quite formidable. 
Why, I recollect the time when you were 
quite a little chap !' * Yes,' said William, 
turning up his eyes devoudy, ' it has 
pleased Providence that I should be 
stout. Then, my dear Mark, what do 
you advise me to do ?* * Ah ! that is not 
so easy to say. Give me time to think, 
and when I have an idea I will let you 
know. Only, whatever you do, take care 
to put Master Louis in the wrong. 
Don't pick a quarrel with Aim. but force 
him, by quietly provoking him, to pick a 
quarrel with you. Give out that you are 
still peaceably disposed, and carry your 
Testament about as usual. That will 
put old Dame Europa off her guard, 
> and she will believe in you as much as 
ever. The rest you may leave to me.' 
An opportunity of putting their little 
plot into execution soon occurred. A 
garden became vacant on the other side 
of Louis' little territory [Spain], which 
none of the boys seemed much inclined 
to accept. It was a troublesome piece 
of ground, exposed to constant attacks 
from the town-cads, who used to over- 
run it in the night and pull up the new- 
ly-planted flowers. * Don't you think,' 
said Mark one day to his friend and 
patron, * that your little cousin, the new 
boy [Prince Hohenzollem], might as well 
have that garden 7* ' I don't see why he 
should not, if he wants it,* replied Wil- 
liam, by no means deep enough to un- 
derstand what his faithful fag was driving 
at. * It will be so nice for Louis, don't 
you see, to have William to keep him in 
check on one side, and William's little 
cousin to watch him on the other side,* 
observed Mark innocently. ' Ah ! to he 
sure,' exclaimed William, beginning to 
wake up, ' so it will ; very nice indeed. 
Mark, you are a sly dog.' * I should say, 
if you paid Louis the compliment to 
propose it, that it is such a delicate lit- 
tle, attention as he would never forget — 
even if you withdrew the proposal after- 
wards.' ^Just so. my boy; and then 
we shall have to fight.' * But look here, 
won't the other chaps say that I provoked 
the quarrel?' ' Not if we manage prop- 
erly,' was the reply. * They are sure to 
fix the cause of dispute on Louis rather 
than on you. You are such a peaceable 
boy, you know ; and he has always been 
fond of a shindy.' So Dame Europa 
was asked to assign the vacant garden to 



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The Prussian Chancellor, 



Williafli*s little cousin. * Well/ said she, 
*if Louis does not object, who will be 
his nearest neighbor, he may. have it/ 
'But I do object, ma'am/ cried Louis. 
' I very particularly object. 1 don't want 
to be hemmed in on all sides by William 
and his cousins. They will be walking 
through my garden to pay each other 
visits, and perhaps throwing balls to 
one another right across my lawn.' *■ Oh ! 
but you might be sure that I should do 
nothing unfair,' said William reproach- 
fully. * I have never attacked anybody.' 

* That's all my eye,' said Louis. * I 
don't believe in your piety. Come, take 
your dear little relation off, and give him 
one of the snug corners that you bag- 
ged the other day from poor Chris- 
tian/ ' Come, come,' interposed the 
Dame, * I can't listen to such angry 
words. You nve monitors must settle 
the matter quietly among yourselves ; 
but no fighting, mind. The day for that 
sort of thing is quite gone by.* And the 
old lady toddled off and left the boys 
alone. * I wouldn't press it, Bill, if I were 
you,' said John, in his deep, gruff voice, 
looking out of his shop-window on the 
other side of the water.. * I think it's 
rather hard lines for Louis— I do indeed.' 
' Always ready to oblige you. my dear 
John/ said William ; and so the new 
boy's claim to the garden was withdrawn. 
'What shall I do now, Mark?' asked 
William, turning to his friend. * It 
seems to me that there is an end of it all.' 
*Not a bit,' was the reply. 'Louis is 
still as savage as a bear. He'll break out 
directly ; you see if he don't.' ' I have 
been grossly insulted,' began Louis at 
last, in a toweiHng passion, ' and I shall 
not be satisfied unless William promises 
me never to make any such underhand 
attempts to get the better of me again.' 
' Tell him to be hanged,' whispered 
Mark. ' You be — no/ said William, re- 
collecting himself, ' I never use bad lan- 
guage. My friend,' he continued, ' I 
cannot promise you anything of the kind.' 
'Then I shall lick you till you do, you 
psalm-singing humbug !* shouted Louis. 

* Come on !* said William, lifting up his 
hand as if to commend his cause to Hea- 
ven, and looking sanctimoniously out of 
the whites of his eyes. ' Come on ! ' 
shouted William, thirsting for more 
blood. * Vive la guerre!^ cried poor 
Louis,* rushing blindly at his foe. Well 
and nobly he fought, but he could not 
stand his ground. Foot by foot and yard 



by yard he gave way, till at last he was 
forced to take refuge in his arbor, from 
the window of which he threw stones at his 
enemy to keep him back from following. 
And when William, who talked so big 
about his peaceable disposition, and de- 
clared that he only wanted to defend his 
'fatherland,' chased him right across the 
garden, trampled over beds and borders 
on his way, and then swore that he would 
break down his beautiful summer-house 
and bring Louis on his knees, everybody 
felt that the other monitors ought to in- 
terfere. But not a foot would they stfr. 
Aleck looked on from a safe distance, 
wondering which of the combatants 
would be tired first. Joseph stood shak- 
ing in his shoes, not daring to say a 
word for fear William should turn round 
upon him and punch his head agrain ; and 
John sat in his shop, grinding away at a 
new rudder and a pair of oars. 'Comer 
and help a fellow, John,' cried Louis in 
despair from his arbor. * 1 don't ask yon 
to remember the days we have spent in 
here together when you have been sick 
of your own shop. But you might do 
something for me, now that I am in snob 
a desperate fix and don't know which 
way to turn.* ' I am very sony, Louis/ 
said John, ' but what can I do ? It is no 
pleasure to me to see you thrashed. On 
the contrary, it would pay me much bet- 
ter to have a near neighbor well off and 
cheerful than crushed and miserable. 
Why don't you give in, Louis ? It is of 
no mortal use to go on. He will make 
friends directly, if you will give back the 
two little strips of garden ; and if you 
don't, he will only smash your arbor to 
pieces, or keep you shut up there all din- 
ner-time and starve you out. Give in, 
old fellow ; there's no disgrace in it. 
Everybody says how pluckily you have 
fought/ " 

The ingenious author has made 
a mistake about Aleck and Joseph. 
Aleck was in league with William, 
and his threats alarmed Joseph and 
kept him from interfering. Bis- 
marck had succeeded in reconcil- 
ing Gortchakoff to the sacrifice of 
all the old friends and family con- 
nections of Russia in Germany. 
Moreover, he had in some way con- 
vinced him so completely that it 
was for the interest and future ad- 



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vantage of Russia to ally itself 
ciosely with Prussia, that he turn- 
ed a deaf ear to the advances of 
France and Austria in reference to 
the Oriental question, and gave a 
strong moral support, which in case 
of need he was ready to transform 
into active military co-operation, to 
his most iniquitous and oppressive 
measures against France. M. Thiers 
was convinced of this when Prince 
Bismarck handed to him his Rus- 
sian portfolio and allowed him to 
redd at leisure thirty letters which 
it contained, while he sat by quiet- 
ly smoking a cigar and enjoying the 
chagrin and discomfiture of the 
aged statesman. Besides this, we 
must consider that England had a 
reason for coolness towards France 
in the unprincipled negotiations of 
the French government respecting 
England's froieg/e^ Belgium. And 
at last, when England did wish to 
interfere to obtain for France more 
favorable conditions of peace, and 
made propositions for concerted ac- 
tion to St. Petersburg, it was Rus- 
sia which threw cold water upon 
the plan and kept all Europe back 
while William was finishing up his 
quarrel with Louis. It cannot be 
doubted that Bismarck had given 
Gortchakoff to 'understand that, 
when the proper time came, Prus- 
sia would secure for Russia a fair 
field and no interference for a de- 
cisive and final effort to destroy 
the European empire of the Turk. 
Fuad-Pasha, said to have been one 
of the greatest statesmen of Turkey, 
while lying on his death-bed at 
Nice dictated a political testament, 
which was sent, after his mortal ca- 
reer had closed, to his sovereign, 
the sultan. In this document he 
had said: "When this writing is 
placed before the eyes of your ma- 
jesty, I will no longer be in this 
world. You can, therefore, listen 



to me without distrust, and you 
should imbue yourself with this 
great and grievous truth: that the 
empire of the Osmanlis is in danger. 
An intestine dissension in Europe, 
and a Bisntarck in Russia^ and the 
face of the world will be changed." 
The date of this document is Jan- 
uary 3, 1869. 

The conflict between Prince Bis- 
marck and the Catholic Church has 
been treated of repeatedly in former 
articles in this magazine. We will, 
therefore, abstain from going over 
that ground again. It has been 
surmised that the policy of the Prus- 
sian chancellor in respect to the 
church has been dictated to him 
by the necessity of satisfying the 
demands of the radical-liberal par- 
ty. We cannot think that it is to 
be accounted for simply on this 
ground. The general idea and fun- 
damental principle of Bismarck has 
been to destroy the community of 
nations which was the remnant of 
ancient Christendom, and raise up 
an independent, self-subsisting, ab- 
solute, and dominating German Em- 
pire. It is an essential part of this 
plan to destroy the principle of 
unity and community centred in 
the Holy See, and to make the em- 
peror absolute head of all churches 
within the boundaries of his state. 
The idea is wholly pagan and des- 
potic, and includes the subversion 
of all right except that which is a 
conceded privilege derived from the 
sovereign will of the state. Not 
only, therefore, is all international 
right ignored by it, but every right 
of municipalities, of orders, of le- 
gislative and judicial bodies, of sub- 
ordinate members of the govern- 
ment, of associations and indivi- 
duals, is suppressed and merged in 
one paramount right of force, of 
physical power — in a word, of ty- 
ranny, the worst, as Plato long ago 



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The Prussian Chancellor. 



taught, of all possible political or- 
ganisms. 

In perfect harmony with the 
oppressive, persecuting policy of 
Prince Bismarck toward the church 
has been his conduct toward the 
Prussian nobility, the legislative 
chambers, and all those who have 
in any way asserted their rights 
against his despotic might. This is 
illustrated in the case of the Count 
Harry von Amim. 

We had intended to go more 
deeply into the merits of this affair 
than we now find our remaining 
space will permit. Catholics have 
little reason for cherishing amica- 
ble sentiments toward this unfortu- 
nate victim of a relentless persecu- 
tion under the forms of law. He 
has been one of the most artful and 
persistent enemies of the Holy See 
among the statesmen of Europe. 
The pamphlet Pro Nihilo^ on ac- 
count of which, in great part, he 
was condemned of treason by a 
Prussian court, is sufficient, by it- 
self, to show that if he had been in 
power he would 'have been more 
dangerous than even Bismarck. 
His cold contempt is more offen- 
sive to Catholic feelings than the 
violence of his successful rival. 
Nevertheless, there is in him more 
of honor, probity, veracity, and the 
courtesy of a gentleman than is at 
this day very common among di- 
plomatists of the "new era." Be- 
sides, he has been tricked, insulted, 
ill-used, and all but crushed in 
pieces by a cruel enemy, and there- 
fore we cannot help sympathizing 
with him. There is something 
deeply tragic in his story. The 
gist of it lies in this : that he would 
not be a blind, subservient tool in 
the hands of the chief of the ad- 
ministration, that he dared to think 
for himself, and that the old Prus- 
sian nobility had fixed their hopes 



on him as a desirable successor to 
the chancellorship, in case anything 
happened to Prince Bismarck. 
Hence the long, perfidious, and 
in the end brutal warfare waged 
against him by his unscrupulous 
and relentless enemy, who has for 
the time being triumphed, accord- 
ing to his own maxim, La force 
prime le droit. The Count von 
Amim is still, however, a formida- 
ble antagonist. With the pen, on 
the field of legal argument, in the 
subtle tactics of diplomatic writing, 
he is superior to his persecutor, 
and master of a force dangerous 
even to the man who can command 
armies. He has a host of friends 
and sympathizers in Prussia, of al- 
lies throughout Europe. M. Bene- 
detti was not mistaken when he ap- 
plied the epithet "maniacal " to the 
man who was called " mad " by the 
friends and boon companions of 
his youth. His madness is not 
without method, and, like that of 
Charles XII. of Sweden, has given 
him a certain prestige of heroism 
and success. On the day of Sol- 
ferino that prestige sat on the hel- 
met of Napoleon III. Sedan, Wil- 
helmshohe, and Chiselhurst were 
still invisible in the future. The 
career of Bismarck' is not yet finish- 
ed, nor can the destiny which awaits 
the empire he created be foretold. 
It is reported that he has recently re- 
plied to those who asked him whether 
there would be war in Europe over 
the Eastern question : " The devil 
only knoivs /" He appears to re- 
gard his Satanic Majesty as the 
god of modern Europe and the su- 
preme controlling power in modem 
politics. Formerly the name of 
God was frequently on his lips, and 
his thoughts spontaneously referred 
all things to him. It was God who 
decided battles and controlled the 
destinies of nations. Men of great 



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genius cannot escape from their 
clear and vivid intuitions of the 
supersensibU. One who has had 
the insight and the sentiment of 
the meanness of the world, and the 
sole grandeur of eternal principles 
of truth and morality, belonging to 
a mind naturally great, cannot be a 
complete dupe of the illusions by 
which he deceives and subdues the 
multitude. We can see this deep 
melancholy of a mind which cannot 
be satisfied with the trivialities of 
life, and is restlessly yearning after 
something greater, in all the wild 
conviviality, restless scheming, au- 
dacious enterprise, ironical sport- 
ing in word and deed with all per- 
sons and things held in awe and 
regarded as sacred in the common 
sentiments of humanity, in the 
whole career of this Carlylean hero. 
Satan, we have no doubt, has had 
a great control over the rulers and 
the politics of modern Europe. 
Bismarck can see this, and has as- 
suredly not forgotten his own proph- 
ecy of the results of the policy of 
adorning one's self with the feathers 
of eagles which have been brought 
down by the devil's bullets. When 
he says that "the devil only knows 
whether there will be war in Eu- 
rope," we hear Robin telling Max 
that he has concluded an infernal 
compact and must stand by it. 
We know, however, that although 
the devil knows his own plans, and 
tries to guess at those of God, he 
cannot fathom or thwart these plans 
of one who is infinitely stronger and 
wiser than he is, and has often be- 
fore made him catch himself in his 
own mouse-trap. Bismarck is like 
the legendary giant Christopher, 
while he was in the service of the 
demon, thinking him to be the 
strongest master he could serve. 
He has acted as if he supposed 
that God had given up Europe to 



the devil's dominion, yet he be- 
trays his conviction in a hundred 
ways that there is a stronger power 
than the revolution or the anti- 
Christian despotism "spotted with 
red," which is only biding its time. 
He despises and sneers at his own 
master, because he sees him wince 
at the crucifix on the cross-road. 
We think it quite probable that in 
his secret soul he venerates Pius 
IX., as did Mazzini, and is con- 
vinced that if anything on earth is 
great, true, and as enduring in the 
future as it has been in the past, it 
is the Catholic Church. His fear 
of it, and his war h Voutrance against 
it, show an estimate of its power 
which can have no rational founda- 
tion except in an unwilling, hostile 
apprehension of its divine origin. 
The shallow, clever Count von Ar- 
nim is a cool, quiet sceptic. So, 
we conjecture, is Prince Gortcha- 
koff. Bismarck is too deep for that 
sort of smooth, placid incredulity. 
He fears an ultramontane as chil- 
dren are afraid of a bear under the 
bed. He is afraid of Jesuits, afraid 
of nuns, afraid of children singing 
hymns in honor of the Sacred 
Heart. 

We think he has some reason 
to be afraid. The waters are 
rising around him, and it is likely 
that he will yet have to plunge into 
them "in his swimming-drawers." 
"Sooner or later radicalism will 
stand upright before the king, will 
demand of him its recompense, and, 
poiniififr to the emblem of the eagle on 
that new imperial flag, it will say : 
Did you think, then, that this eagU 
was a free gift /" 

" Without a religious basis a 
state is nothing but a fortuitous 
aggregation of interests, a sort of 
bastion in a war of all against all ; 
without this religious basis all 
legislation, instead of regenerating 



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Tlie Prussian Chancellor. 



itself at tlie livings sources of eternal 
truths is only tossed about by hu- 
man ideas as vague as changeable/' 
This is the great case of Bismarck 
versus Bismarck. His renunciation 
of his own principles, and maniacal 
following of passion against reason, 
is but a type of the conduct of Eu- 
rope. The modern Germany has 
renounced and made war upon the 
principles which were the founda- 
tion of its old imperial greatness. 
France has done the same ; Italy has 
done the same, with a worse and 
more parricidal impiety. Europe has 
done it, and the natural conse- 
quence is " war of all against all." 
" La force," says Lacordaire, " tot 
ou tard, rencontre la force." " -«4 
house divided against itself cannot 
stand "; and such a house is the one 
which Bismarck has built. The 
Napoleonic fabric was overwhelmed 
by the volcanic fires of Sedan. We 
believe that there will be a Sedan 
for the similar fabrics of Cavour 
and Bismarck, for the whole struc- 
ture of modern European politics. 
And where can be found these 
" living sources of eternal truth " 
at which "legislation can regene- 
rate itself"? Let us remind our 
readers that the Encyclical and 
Syllabus of Pius IX. were proclaim- 
ed in 1864, between the epochs of 
Solferino and Sadowa. We think 
they will easily understand why the 
Holy See condemned the principles 
of " accomplished facts " and " non- 
intervention," and perceive to what 
an abyss these principles have con- 
ducted Europe. They will remem- 
ber that the date of the Council of 
the Vatican is 1870, between Sa- 



dowa and Sedan, and perceive the 
import and reason of our conclu- 
sion, that the source of regeneration 
for Europe is the same source from 
which European Christendom re- 
ceived its birth and the life of its 
youth and manhood. To quote 
again from Lacordaire : " On n'em- 
prissonne pas la raison, on ne 
brdle pas les faits, on ne d^shonore 
pas la vertu, on n'assassine pas la 
logique." That policy of which 
Prince Bismarck is the great master 
is the policy of fraudulence, per- 
fidy, violence, and tyranny. The 
whole European apostasy and con- 
spiracy against the Holy See — the 
centre of religious unity and poli- 
tical equilibrium for Europe and 
the world — is a revolt against reason, 
history, morality, and the logic by 
which the sequences of principles 
and events are demonstrated and 
applied to the concrete matter of 
human destiny. These are inde- 
structible powers, and no artillery 
can overthrow them or fraud per- 
vert their decisions. " There is no 
kingdom of hell upon earth" but 
only a continuous resistance of the 
infernal powers to the kingdom of 
Jesus Christ, which from time to 
time breaks out into a revolution. 
And the same calm, historic re- 
cord, in which past Catholic histo- 
rians have narrated the successive 
defeats of these revolutionary enter- 
prises will, in each new chapter 
added by succeeding centuries, 
continue the chronicle of similar 
failures ; placing the impartial mark 
of indelible dishonor against the 
names of all those who have sought 
for greatness by fraud and violence. 



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Veronica. 



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VERONICA 

A LEGEND OF MtDOC 



In fin^s ierrtg 
Vtrba tertim. 



Descending the river frora Bor- 
deaux amid verdant isles, and be- 
tween shores that produce some of 
the choicest wines of France, we 
soon come, on the right, to Blaye, 
wiih its chivalric memories of Or- 
lando and the fortress that makes 
it the Key of Aquitaine, as it was 
in tiic days of Ausonius, who says : 

** Aut iteratarum qua glarea trita vianun 
Fert militarem ad Blariam." 

At the left we pass Pauillac, the an- 
cient villa of St. Paulinus of Nola. 
The Gironde soon becomes a sea. 
The shore lowers and is on a level 
with the waves. The poor hills of 
Saintonge escape to the north,* and 
the white houses of Royan become 
visible on the far-off shore. The 
sea-gull flies over our head, tireless 
as the ceaseless waves that feed 
him. We see the white tower of 
Cordouan at a distance framed in 
a dazzling sea of blue and gold, 
out of which it rises two hundred 
feet above low tide, full of grace 
and majesty, like an enchanted 
castle. It is said to stand on the 
remains of the ancient isle of An- 
tros, which Pomponius Mela, in the 
first century, places at the mouth 
of the Gironde. We cannot resist 
the temptation to climb its three 
hundred steps for the sake of the 
wonderful view over fell and flood. 
The foundation of this tower is lost 
in obscurity. Even its very name 
is a mystery. Some think it of 
Moorish derivation, and that the 

VOL. XXV.— II, 



first light-house here was built by 
the Saracens — 3. most ridiculous 
supposition ; for the Moors, though 
they destroyed a great deal in 
Aquitaine, certainly had no time 
for building, whatever their taste 
for architecture. Others say it was 
due to Louis le D^bonnaire, and that 
he appointed a keeper to light a 
beacon-fire and sound a cor, or 
horn, night and day, to warn the 
sailor of the perils of the coast ; 
but any one who ever heard the 
noise of the tumultuous waves 
breaking high against the clifl* of 
Cordouan can imagine the ineffi- 
ciency of the most vigorous lungs 
in such violent storms as are pro- 
verbial on the Bay of Biscay. The 
poor keeper would have needed the 
Horn of Thunder of the Armorican 
legend, given St. Florentius by k 
Norman chief to summon aid when 
attacked by his piratical horde, or 
the magic oliphant of Orlando, then 
kept hard by at Blaye, wherewith its 
owner once blew so terrible a blast 
that all the birds dropped dead in 
the forests of Roncesvalles and it 
w^as heard for twenty miles around. 
The earliest historical knowledge 
we have of a light-house here is 
from a charter of the fourteenth 
century, by which we learn that the 
Black Prince built a tower on the 
cliff" of Cordouan, with a chapel 
dedicated to the Blessed Virgin,' 
kept by a hermit. In 1409 the 
hermit's name was Geoffroy de Le* 
spar re, who subsisted by levying 



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Veronica. 



two grosses sterlingorum on every 
vessel from Bordeaux laden with 
wine — a toll that Henry IV. of Eng- 
land authorized liini to double. 

As for the modern tower of Cor- 
douan, Louis de Foix was 

" Le genttl ing&ueur de oe luperbe ouyrage." 

He was one of the architects em- 
ployed by Philip II. of Spain in 
building the Escorial, and the in* 
ventor of the mechanism by which 
the waters of the Tagus were car- 
ried to the highest part of the city 
of Toledo. Some curious things 
are related of this ingenious archi- 
tect while in Philip's service. The 
ill-conditioned prince, Don Carlos, 
seems to have placed confidence in 
him ; for he commissioned De Foix 
to furnish him with a book heavy 
enough to kill a man with a single 
blow. The architect made one of 
twelve tablets of stonie, six inches 
long and four broad, bound in steel 
covers embossed with gold, which 
weighed over fourteen pounds, and 
might have had for its motto the 
excellent mot of Callimachus on 
the danger of weighty books. De 
Thou relates the account of this 
momentous tome, which is also re- 
ferred to in the list of Don Carlos' 
expenses, and says De Foix told 
him the idea was by no means an 
original one of the prince's, but 
suggested by a similar volume im- 
provised in his grandfather's time 
by Don Antonio de Acufta, Bishop 
of Zamora, who, confined in the 
castle of Simancas for taking part 
in the rebellion of the Comuneros, 
covered a brick of the size of his 
breviary with leather, and with this 
volume of decisive theology killed 
hi'j keeper and made his escape. 
Perhaps Don Carlos overlooked 
the fate of the bishop, who was 
overtaken by the keeper's son and 
hanged on the battlements of the 



castle of Simancas. All who have 
visited the Armeria Real at Madrid 
will remember the armor of this bel- 
ligerent prelate. 

De Foix also invented several 
curious clocks for Don Carlos, who 
seems to have inherited Charles 
V.'s taste for chronometrical in- 
struments. Every one knows the 
anecdote of the servant who, sud- 
denly entering the emperor's room 
one day, overthrew the table and 
broke to pieces the thirty watches 
on it. The emperor laughed and 
said: "You are more successful 
than I, for you have discovered the 
only means of making them all go 
alike." Among these clocks of 
complicated mechanism made for 
the prince by De Foix was one in 
the shape of an antique temple 
adorned with columns, that indicat- 
ed the hours, days, months, and 
other things. 

Don Carlos, as if conscious of 
the insecurity of his life, also order- 
ed De Foix to construct a machine 
with 'pulleys, and weights by which 
he could himself open and shut his 
chamber door while in bed, and 
yet no one could enter the room 
against his will. De Foix seems to 
have been faithless to the prince; 
for on the i8th of January, 1568 
— by the king's order, to be sure 
— he stopped the movement of the 
pulleys, unknown to Don Carlos, 
whose chamber was thus opened 
and he conveyed to prison. De 
Thou's account of this is confirmed 
by the letter of an Italian at Mad- 
rid written eight days after, in which 
the door with its pulleys is men- 
tioned. 

Louis de Foix (or sans J<n) is 
said to lie beneath the tower he 
erected; so wc could not say: 
"Light be the turf above thee!" 
even had we been disposed. 

Six or eight miles south of Cor- 



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Verontca. 



163 



douan we came to Soulac, amid the 
sand-dunes and salt marshes, with 
its antique church of Notre Dame 
de la Fin des Terres, held in great 
veneration by the sailors of the 
middle ages, and recently dug out 
of the sands in which it had been 
buried for one hundred and twenty 
years. In fact, it had been partly 
buried since the fourteenth cen- 
tury. Few churches have so 
strange a history as this. Tradition 
attributes its original foundation to 
the pious Veronica, on whose linen 
veil the weary Saviour, on his way 
to Calvary, left the impress of his 
sacred face. It was strange to 
come upon her traces on this dis- 
tant shore, and we took great inter- 
est in hunting up all the local tra- 
ditions respecting her. Lady East- 
lake considers her de trop^ both mor- 
ally and pictorially, and regards her 
very existence as problematical; 
but we who have so often met her 
in the sorrowful Via Cruets^ and 
pondered on the touching lesson 
she has left us, feel how utterly that 
somewhat stringent author is mista- 
ken. Seraphia, Bernice, Beronica, 
or Veronica — no matter by what 
name she is called — is a being full 
of reality to us. As to her identity 
with the Syro-Phoenician woman of 
the Gospel, we are disposed to say 
with Padre Ventura: "It is not 
certain the h^mbrroisse was the same 
as Veronica, but it is probable that 
she who had the wonderful favor 
of wiping the sweat and blood from 
the divine face of our Saviour was 
the same matron who touched the 
hem of his garment with so much 
courage and faith, and gave such a 
testimony to his divinity." Even 
if the contrary were proved, this 
would not affect the ancient tradi- 
tion respecting her apostolate in 
France, which modern research is 
far from shaking. Holy chroniclers 



of the middle ages assert that Ve- 
ronica was not only an intimate 
friend of the Blessed Virgin, but 
one of the women whom Jesus 
healed of their infirmities and who 
consecrated themselves to his ser- 
vice, following him in his round of 
mercy, and aiding him with their 
substance. The learned Lucas of 
Bruges declares her positively the 
Syro-Phoenician woman healed by 
.our Saviour, who, says Julian in 
his chronicles, lived part of the 
time at Jerusalem and part at Cae- 
sarea of Philippi. Eusebius says he 
saw with his own eyes the monu- 
ment she erected at Caesarea in 
memory of her cure, on which she 
was represented at the feet of her 
divine Benefactor — a memorial de- 
stroyed by Julian the Apostate. 

A Polish poet, Bohdan Zaleski, 
thus alludes to the traditional inti- 
macy of Veronica with the Holy 
Family in lines full of graceful sim- 
plicity in the original : ^ 

" Joseph and Mary have lost the 
child Jesus at Jerusalem. Eliza- 
beth comes to tell them he has been 
found. 'It must be either in the 
Temple, then, or at Veronica's,' re- 
plies Mary. 

" The Holy Family go to visit 
Elizabeth. Jesus, afar off, joyfully 
hails the aged matron, as well as 
Veronica, Martha, and Salome. 

"Joseph makes the accustomed 
prayer to thank God for his gifts. 
Jesus breaks the bread and blesses 
it. Veronica passes around the 
basket and distributes the bread 
among the guests." 

Pilgrims for centuries have men- 
tioned Veronica's house as at the 
corner of a street near the spot 
where Jesus fell for the second 
time under the weight of his cross. 
She is said to have been the wife 
of St. Amadour — the Zaccheus of 
the Scriptures, who in early life, 



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says the legend, was in the service 
of the Blessed Virgin. He had 
watclied over the childhood of 
Jesus, and this was why he was so 
joyful to receive him in his house. 
After the Crucifixion he and Ve- 
ronica attached themselves anew 
to the service of Mary, with whom 
they remained till her glorious As- 
sumption. According to a lesson 
in the breviary of Cahors — founded 
on an old MS. of the tenth century 
by Hugo, Bishop of Angoul6me, 
which P^re Odo de Gissey, who 
collected all the traditions respect- 
ing St. Amadour, declares he had 
seen — Saul, the persecutor of the 
church, wished to force Amadour 
and Veronica to return to the old 
law. They were condemned to die 
of hunger, but an angel of the Lord 
mercifully delivered them from the 
power of their persecutors and con- 
ducted them to a bark, ordering 
them to abandon themselves to the 
mq(lcy of the waves and land wher- 
ever their boat should come to 
shore, there faithfully to serve 
Christ and his holy Mother. 

One old chronicle says the demon 
invoked the winds, swelled the 
waves, and unchained the very 
furies against the frail bark. Death 
at every moment seemed at hand in 
its most frightful form. But the 
venerable matron, in the height of 
danger, seized the sacred relics she 
brought with her, and, raising them 
to heaven, invoked the assistance 
of God. Wonderful to relate, the 
storm at once ceased, a favorable 
breeze sprang up and brought the 
boat safely to the western coast of 
France to a place called Solac, in 
face of the setting sun. Here she 
built, as best she could, a church in 
honor of the blessed and glorious 
Virgin Mary, and deposited therein 
with due honor the holy relics of 
Our Lady she brought with her. 



Bernard dc la Guionie, Or Domini- 
can of the thirteenth century, says 
that, by a particular providence of 
God, they brought with them many 
precious relics of the Blessed Vir- 
gin, such as her hair and shoes, and 
even some of the Sanctum Lac that 
nourished the divine Word. It is 
generally believed this relic gave 
the name of Solac, or Soulac, to the 
place — Solum LaCj because the 
other relics of the Virgin were dis- 
tributed among various churches, 
'I'his relic was not once considered 
so extraordinary. It was not only 
venerated in many parts of Chris- 
tendom as the symbol of the divine 
Motherhood, but it became a sym- 
bol of the supernatural eloquence 
and sweet doctrine of several doc- 
tors of the church. Every one who 
has visited the magnificent gallery 
at Madrid will remember Murillo's 
beautiful painting representing St. 
Bernard deriving the food that lent 
to his lips such sweet, persuasive 
eloquence from the pure breast of 
the g*entle Deipara. The dignity 
and grace of the Virgin in this 
painting are something marvellous, 
and take away everything that 
might seem human from the sub- 
ject. 

We have all heard of the Grotto 
of Milk at Bethlehem, with its rock 
of offence to so many scoffing tour- 
ists. It is only those who have a 
profound faith in the Incarnation 
that venerate everything associated 
with the divine Infancy. St. Louis 
of France built the beautiful Cha- 
pelle du Saint Lait in the Cathe- 
dral of Rheims to receive the relic 
that gave it its name. A like relic 
was venerated in the church of 
Mans in the time of Clovis. And 
a vial was borne before the army 
at the battle of Askalon, in 1224, 
which reminds one of Rubens's paint- 
ing at Brussels in which the Ma- 



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donna bares her breast before the 
atrful Judge, as if he could refuse 
nothing at the sight of the bosom 
on which he had so often been 
pillowed, and where he had been 
nourished. There is an old legend 
of a similar vial of this sacred iatct 
being brought from the Holy Land 
by a pilgrim, who, weary, stopped 
one day to repose by a fountain 
near Evron, and hung the reliquary 
on the hawthorn bush that over- 
shadowed him, and went to sleep. 
When he awoke, the bush had 
grown into a tree and the relic was 
far beyond his reach. He tried to 
cut the tree down with a hatchet, 
but could make no impression on 
the wood. Feeling an inward as- 
surance this was the spot where 
Providence wished tiie relic to be 
honored, he gave it to the bishop, 
who built thereon a church, which 
became known as Notre Dame de 
I'Epine Sainte. The high altar en- 
closed the hawthorn tree. Franpois 
de Chateaubriand, abbot of Evron 
in the sixteenth century, gave this 
church a beautiful reliquary of sil- 
ver gilt, in the form of a church, be- 
neath the dome of which was a 
tubd for the relic. Devotion to 
this relic still exists at Evron. 

But to return to Soulac. It fs 
not surprising the Syro-Phoenician 
woman should come to this distant 
shore. We know by Strabo that 
the ancient Phoenicians and Cai*tha- 
ginians came to traffic on 'this 
coast, and evert went to Great Bri- 
tain. Soulac was probably thfe an- 
cient Noviomagos spoken of by 
Ptolemy. The old legend of C!^ne- 
brun speaks of Veronica as ia i)ame 
MarU la Phinicienne^ who came 
from the East under marvellous cir- 
cumstances, learned the language 
of M^doc, and built a church be- 
side which God caused a fountain 
of fresh, soft water to spring up out 



of the salt shore for the cure of 
tertian fevers so common in this 
region. Moreover, it appears she 
was in such constant relations with 
the governor of Bordeaux, appoint- 
ed by Vespasian, that, to facilitate 
the intercourse between Soulac and 
the capital, a Roman road was con- 
structed, "very level and as straight 
as a line — rectissimum sicut cor da.*'' 
If Vespasian had anything to do 
with it, we may be sure it was 
straight ; for we know how, to rec- 
tify a bend in the Flaminian Way, 
he bored a tunnel through a rock a 
thousand feet long. 

It was at Bordeaux that Veronica 
converted Benedicta, a woman of 
distinguished birth, and the wife of 
Sigebert, a priest of the false gods, 
who, attacked by a crUel malady, 
and hearing of the marvels wrought 
by St. Martial, said to Benedicta : 
"Go and bring the man of God; 
perhaps he will take pity on me." 
St. Martial gave her the miraculous 
staff of St. Peter, at the touch of 
which Sigebert recovered the use 
of his limbs. He at once proceed- 
ed to Mortagne, accompanied by a 
great number of soldiers and other 
followers, all of whom were bap- 
tized by St. Martial. At his return 
to Bordeaux he overthrew all the 
pagan altars, with the exception of 
one, which St. Martial purified as a 
memorial of the triumph of the true 
faith. The inscription graven there^ 
on is still to be seen in the museum 
at Bordeaux : yovi Augusio Arula 
donavit SS, Marf talis cum templo ct 
ostio sacravit — Arula gave this altar 
to Jupiter Augustus. Martial con- 
secrated it with the temple and ves- 
tibule. 

Benedicta continued to work mi- 
racles with St. Peter's staff, and 
greatly contributed to the propa- 
tion of the faith ih the province. 
She died in the odor of sanctity. 



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Veronica. 



and was buried in the oratory of 
St. Seurin at Bordeaux, where her 
remains are still honored on the 
8th of June. 

Sigebert, whose name signifies 
the powerful or courageous, became 
the first bishop of Bordeaux, where 
he is honored as a martyr under 
the name of St. Fort. To his sane- 
turn feretrum at St. Seurin's people 
formerly went to take solemn oaths. 

The foregoing reference of the 
old chronicler to Vespasian reminds 
us of the part Veronica is said to 
have had in the destruction of 
Jerusalem. A curious old play of 
the middle ages tells us Vespasian 
was afflicted with the extraordinary 
inconvenience of a wasp's nest in 
his nose, and, after trying every 
known means of dislodging it, sent 
for the great Physician of the Jews. 
Finding he had been put to death 
by his own nation, he demanded 
some of his followers, whereupon 
Nicodemus, Joseph of Arimathea, 
and Veronica are said to have gone 
to Rome. The emperor expressing 
a desire to see a portrait of Christ, 
Veronica held up the Volto Santo 
before him, at the sight of which 
he was instantaneously healed. In 
his gratitude he vowed to take ven- 
geance on the murderers of Jesus, 
which led to the destruction of 
Jerusalem. The connection be- 
tween this legend and the traditional 
respect in which Veronica was held 
by Vespasian's representative at 
Bordeaux is curious. 

Some say it was Tiberius who 
was cured of the leprosy by the 
holy veil, which accounts for his 
leniency to the Christians and his 
placing a statue of Christ among 
the gods. These legends, confused 
by time, may be regarded as traces 
left by Veronica at Rome, where a 
constant tradition asserts she her- 
self brought the Voito Santo. 



This precious relic must have 
been in great repute to have beea 
placed at St. Peter's in 707 by Pope 
John VII. When removed to the 
Santo Spirito, it was confided to 
six Roman noblemen, each of whom 
had one of the keys that gave access 
to it. For this service they annu- 
ally received two cows at Whitsun- 
tide, which were eaten with great 
festivities. In 1440 it was restored 
to St. Peter's, where it is preserved 
in a chamber within one of the im- 
mense piers that sustain the won- 
drous dome. None but a canon 
of the church can enter this cham- 
ber, but the Vera Iconica is annu- 
ally exposed from the balcony. It 
seems to have all the solemn gravity 
traditional in the Greek represen- 
tations of our Saviour. Petrarch 
respectfully speaks of it as the ve- 
rendam populis Saivatoris Imaginem. 

Veronica's statue is beneath — one 
of the guardians that stand around 
the tomb of the apostles. Perhaps 
she came to Rome with St. Martial ; 
for there are traces of her wherever 
he announced the Gospel. Else 
remembers their visit, and says, 
when they left its walls, they di- 
rected their course towards Gaul. 
Mende and Cahors carefully trea- 
sure the shoes of the Virgin she 
brought, and Puy has some of her 
hair. St. Antoninus, Archbishop 
of Florence, says that, according to 
the anc.ient traditions of the church- 
es of Italy and France, Amadour 
and his wife Veronica accompanied 
St. Martial to Gaul. And St. 
Bonaventure, the great Franciscan, 
in the thirteenth century, in one of 
his homilies, represents St. Veroni- 
ca in a humble cabin at Pas-de- 
Grave visited by St. Martial. 

St. Amadour embraced the soli- 
tary life, and is believed to have 
been the first hermit of Aquitaine. 
His whole life is painted on the 



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167 



walls of the subterranean chapel at 
Roc Amadoiir, where he died. The 
inscriptions attached to these fres- 
coes thus sum up the legend re- 
specting him: 

1. Zaccheus, because he is small 
and unable to see Jesus in the 
crowd, climbs up into a sycamore- 
tree. Jesus, perceiving him, says : 
Zaccheus, make haste and come 
down ; for to-day I must abide at 
thy house. 

2. Zaccheus is Jesus' disciple. 
Veronica, his wife, becomes one of 
Mary's attendants. They are per- 
secuted for the faith, but an angel 
comes to deliver them from the 
prison in which they are confined. 

3. An angel orders Zaccheus and 
Veronica to put to sea and land at 
whatever port the vessel shall enter, 
there to serve Christ, and Mary his 
holy Mother. 

4. The vessel arrives on the 
coast of Medoc at a place called 
Soulac, where they live in fasting 
and prayer. St. Martial visits them 
and blesses an oratory they have 
erected in honor of St. Stephen. 

5. Zaccheus, at the order of St. 
Martial, goes to Rome to see St. 
Peter. St. Veronica remains in 
the Bordelais country, where she 
dies. Zaccheus returns to Soulac, 
where he erects two monasteries 
and retires from the world. 

6. St. Amadour, in the year of 
our Lord 70, chooses as his hermit- 
age and place of retreat a cliff in- 
habited by wild beasts, since known 
as Roc Amadour. 

7. The inhabitants of the country 
are almost savages. St. Amadour 
catechises them and makes known 
the religion of our Lord Jesus 
Christ. 

8. St. Amadour erects an altar 
on the cliff in honor of Mary. This 
humble altar, now so glorious, is 
consecrated by the blessed apostle 



Martial, who visits our saint several 
times in his retreat. 

9. St. Amadour, at the approach 
of death, is transported before the 
altar of Mary, where he expires. 

Veronica herself is said to have 
carried in her apron the turf or 
clay which served to build the chap- 
el of Soulac. It was a mere cabin, 
which, with the spring, was enclos- 
ed in the church built at a later 
period. This was probably destroy- 
ed by the Normans when they rav- 
aged the coast of France to the ter- 
ror of the people, who doubtless 
joined heartily in the verse then 
added to the liturgy, beginning: 

Auferte gentem perfidam 
Credentium de hnibus, etc. 

According to the traditions of 
Aquitain^, Veronica lived to a great 
age, and, if already in the Temple 
at the Presentation of the Virgin, 
she must have been about a cen- 
tury old at her death. She is be- 
lieved to have died about the year 
70. She was at first buried with 
great honor at Soulac in the ora- 
tory she had so signally endowed. 
It was Sigebert, or St. Fort, who, 
says tradition, went to Soulac to 
pay her the last honors. It was 
long the custom of the bishops of 
the diocese, before taking posses- 
sion of their see, to visit Jier tomb, 
and render homage to the venerable 
traditions of the place. Her re- 
mains were afterwards carried for 
safety to Bordeaux, where her tomb, 
of the Roman style, is still to be 
seen in the crypt of St. Seurin. 
She is said to have been of uncom- 
mon stature, and this has been con- 
firmed by the recent examination of 
her remains, so wonderfully preserv- 
ed amid the storms of so many ages. 
Placed under the seal of the arch- 
bishops of Bordeaux, and watched 
over with religious care, a source 



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Vironica, 



of miraculous grace, and the object 
of popular veneration, they have 
escaped the perils of wars and civil 
commotions. Cardinal de Sourdis, 
who opened her tomb in 1616, said 
her festival had been celebrated in 
his diocese from time immemorial 
on the 4th of February. 

Her remains were carefully ex- 
amined a few years since by a learn- 
ed anatomist, who not only declar- 
ed them of great antiquity, but said 
the articulation of certain bones 
showed the advanced age at which 
she died. Thus science comes to 
the aid of tradition. The popular 
belief as to her majestic stature was 
likewise confirmed by this examina- 
tion. 

Veronica's oratory, probably de- 
stroyed by the Normans, as we have 
said, was afterwards rebuilt by the 
Benedictines, but at wha£ precise 
time is doubtful. We only know 
there was a monastery at Soulac in 
1022, which became dependent on 
that of Sainte Croix at Bordeaux. 
In 1043 A ma, Countess of P^rigord, 
gave the lands of Medrin to the 
monastery of Sancta Maria dc Fini» 
bus Terra^ ob remedium anima sua 
iiecnon parentum suorutUy to relieve 
the poverty of the monks who there 
served God and worthily fulfilled 
their duty. An old Benedictine 
chronicle says the devotion of the 
faithful towards this holy spot in- 
creased to sucli a degree that the 
monks were soon enabled to build a 
larger church, which they enriched 
with much silver and many relics. 
This was in the twelfth century. 
This church, of the Roman style, 
to which the Benedictines were par- 
tial, enclosed the miraculous foun- 
tain of St. Veronica, which had 
always been in great repute, and 
had an altar to her memory where 
solemn oaths were administered as 
at the tomb of St. Fort. Her statue 



stood over the fountain, and, before 
leaving the church, the devout, after 
drinking of the water and bathing 
their eyes, used to cross themselves 
and make a reverence to " Madame 
Saincte V^ronique." 

This church was no sooner com- 
pleted than it began to be invaded 
by the sands, which every year grew 
higher and higher. The lateral 
doors had to be walled up, and the 
pavement raised three times to be 
on a level with the sands without. 
Veronica's fountain was kept open, 
but soon became a well. The mon- 
astery and town finally disappeared 
under the dunes in the latter part 
of the thirteenth century. 'l*he 
monks returned when the sands 
were stayed. They found the 
church filled to the chancel arch 
and the capitals of the pillared 
nave. They removed part of the 
roof, raised the walls, and so ar- 
ranged the church that it contin- 
ued to be used till devastated by 
the Calvinists of the sixteenth cen- 
tury. It was hardly repaired be- 
fore the sands besieged it anew and 
soon buried it utterly, with the ex- 
ception of the top of the belfry, 
which a boy could easily scale, pre- 
senting a curious and picturesque 
appearance on the lone shore. 
Under Louis XV. the open arches 
of this steeple became a kind of 
light-house, and the pines sown by 
Br^montier soon took root among 
the arches of the church totally 
hidden in the sands. 

Tradition says Soulac was once 
important as a port, and alive with 
commercial activity. Henry III. 
of England embarked at old Sou- 
lac for Portsmouth about the mid- 
dle of the thirteenth century, which 
shows how extensive have been the 
sand deposits since. Once the 
chun h was so near the water that 
in i^rcai storms the foundations 



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were washed by the waves, though 
built on a slight acclivity. It ap- 
pears by documents still preserved 
at Bordeaux that the sands in 1748 
covered the greater part of Sou- 
lac, causing the loss of many salt 
marshes and other sources of reve- 
nue- Many other parishes on the 
shores of M^doc have wholly disap- 
peared. The church of La Canau 
was rebuilt three times before the 
moving sands. Sainte H^l^ne has 
transported hers ten kilometres, 
leaving behind what is now an islet 
with a few trees to mark the spot 
where it once stood, still called by 
the people Senta L^notte, or Ste. 
H^lenotte-^that is, little St. Helen. 

St. Pierre de Lignan, or, as call- 
ed in old titles, Sanctus Petrus in 
Ligno — St. Peter on the Wood, or 
Cross — said to have been originally 
built by Zaccheus, or St, Amadour, 
in memory of the martyrdom of the 
apostle, which he had witnessed 
at Rome, has been abandoned two 
hundred years, and now lies under 
the waves of the ocean. 

Pauillac, sung by Ausonius in his 
epistle to Th^on : 

'* PmuliacHs tnnti nam mi At' viOn foret^'* 

is likewise half-buried in the sands. 
But to return to Soulac. The 
thirteenth century was the most 
glorious era in the history of Notre 
Dame de la Fin des Terres. Its 
popularity was at that time increas- 
ed by a terrible pestilence that vis- 
ited Medoc. The people had re- 
course to prayer, and went in crowds 
to the sanctuary of Soulac, vowing 
to renew their pilgrimage annually. 
The most noted of these pilgrim- 
ages was that of Lesparre, a small 
town which excited our interest by 
its reminiscences of the English oc- 
cupation of the country. Its ruin- 
ed fortifications ; the square tower, 
sole remnant of the ancient castle, 



and the church with its Saxon arch- 
es and coarse sculpture — all bespeak 
great antiquity. In the twelfth 
century the castle and village 
around it were held by Baron Ey- 
quem, a contentious lord, who liked 
nothing better than a brush with 
his neighbors. Perhaps it was this 
quarrelsome turn of mind that re- 
commended the lords of Lesparre 
.so strongly to the favor of the Eng- 
lish sovereigns. Henry LII. of 
England summoned Baron Ey- 
quem to his aid at Paris. The 
baron's son also served the same 
king with all the forces he could 
muster, and Henry so counted on 
his devotedness that, in 1244, after 
promising to reward his services, 
he commissioned him to aid by his 
sword and counsel in repelling the 
King of Navarre, who had invaded 
Guienne. During the entire con- 
test between England and France 
the Sires of Lesparre remained 
faithful to the English ; and when 
the last hour of English rule in the 
country sounded, the Baron de 
Lesparre took the lead in an effort 
to replace Guienne under its do- 
minion. He went secretly to Eng- 
land with the lord of Candale and 
several notable citizens of Bor- 
deaux to assure the king that the 
whole country would rise in his fa- 
vor as soon as the banner of St. 
George should be once more seen 
on the Gironde. The English 
eagerly responded by sending the 
valiant Earl of Shrewsbury, 

" The Frencbman's only sooaige, 
Thar kingdom's terror, and black Nemesis,'* 

to Bordeaux, but their last chance 
was lost by the defeat at Castillon in 
1453, in which the gallant old earl, 
immortalized by Shakspere — 4oub- 
ly immortalized — was slain. The 
Baron de Lesparre was banished, 
and the following year beheaded 



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Veronica, 



at Poitiers for breaking his bounds. 
Charles VII. of France then gave 
the Seigneurie de Lesparre to the 
Sire d'Albret, to whom in part he 
owed the triumph of his arms. 

Lesparre having lost two-thirds 
of its inhabitants by a pestilence, 
the remainder, in their terror, went 
to prostrate themselves before the 
altar of Notre Dame de la Fin des 
Terres, and made a solemn vow to 
return every year, if spared. The 
account of this annual pilgrimage 
reminds one of the caravans of the 
desert. The pilgrims were divid- 
ed into two bands. A part were 
mounted on horseback, preceded 
by the cross-bearer and the cur/ ; 
the rest followed on foot with bas- 
kets and sacks of provisions. The 
four bells of Notre Dame de Le- 
sparre pealed joyfully out over the 
marshes to announce their depar- 
ture. They stopped at every 
chapel they came to, to salute its 
tutelar saint by some hymn in his 
honor, and then kept on their way, 
chanting the litanies. Most of 
these chapels were dedicated to 
saints specially invoked in time of 
pestilence ; for every grief of the 
middle ages left its record in the 
churches. There was St. Catharine, 
always popular in this region. Then 
came St. Sebastian, now destroyed, 
but which gave the name of La 
Capere (the chapel) to a little vil- 
lage we passed, and St. Roch still 
Stan ding at Escarpon. As soon as 
the caravan came in sight of the 
belfry of Sou lac, on a height be- 
tween St. Vivian and Talais, the pil- 
grims descended from their horses 
to salute the Virgin on their knees. 
Arrived at the holy sanctuary, each 
one offered his candle streaming 
with ribbons — a necessary adjunct 
in all religious offerings in M^doc. 
An enormous mass of these old 
ribbons have been preserved at new 



Soulac. After their devotions the 
pilgrims went out on the seashore 
to take their lunch. The next day 
they returned to Lesparre in the 
same order. This annual pilgri- 
mage was continued for five cen- 
turies, which accounts for the vivid 
recollections of it among the peo- 
ple. Near the manor-house of the 
Baron d'Ares, now buried in an im- 
mense dune, flowed a fountain as 
late as 1830, but since filled up, 
where the pilgrims stopped to 
quench their thirst, with the pious 
belief that St. Veronica had brought 
here a vein of the sacred spring 
that flowed for the healing of the 
people in her sanctuary. 

Lesparre, once the capital of 
M^doc, has now only about a thou- 
sand inhabitants. From the tower 
tliere is an extensive view over the 
broad moor with its patches of yel- 
low sand, here and there an oasis 
with a few vegetables, and perhaps 
an acre or two of oats, barley, or 
maize, which grow as tliey can. In 
winter this vast heath becomes a 
marsh. The water stands in pools 
among the sand-hills. The peasant 
shuts himself up with his beasts, 
and warms himself by the peat-fire, 
while the pools freeze and the 
sands grow wliite under the icy 
breath of the sea-winds. 

St. Veronica's Church, so vener- 
ated in the middle ages, has within 
a few years been dug out of the 
sands and repaired. The miracu- 
lous statue of Notre Dame de la 
Fin des Terres has been restored 
to its place on her altar, and, after 
a silence of one hundred and twenty 
years, the bell once more awakens 
the echoes of the sand-hills, thanks 
to the interest taken by Cardinal 
Donnet in reviving a devotion to 
this ancient place of pilgrimage. 
Veronica is once more honored in 
the place where she died — a devo- 



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lion that seems significant in these 
times. Perhaps she comes to hold 
up anew the bleeding face of 
Christ for the healing of the na- 
tions. The Volfo Santo is said to 
have turned pale a few years since 
when exhibited at Rome. We may 
well believe it, in view of all the 
wounds since inflicted on Christ's 
Bride — thecluirch. "O Veronica!" 
cries Padre Verruchino, a Capuchin 
friar, " suffer us, we pray thee, to 
gaze awhile at thy holy veil for the 
healing of our sin-sick souls !*' 

An old MS. of the thirteenth or 
fourteenth century at Auch con- 
tains the following sequence : De 
Sancta Veronica Memoria^ showing 
how well our fathers in the faith, 
even in those dark ages, knew how 
to rise above every type and shadow 
to the substance of things hoped 
for. It is good to echo the prayers 
of those earnest times. 

Salre« sancU fades 

Nostri Redemptora 
In qua nitet spcdes 

Divini si^cndoris, 
Impresaa pannicalo 

Nivd colons, 
Dataque VeronicaB 

Signum ob a 



Salve, decus sec ali, 

Speculum sanctorum 
Quod Tidcre cupiunt 

Spiritus cccloruBL 
Not ab omni macula 

Purga vitiorum, 
Inque nos consortium 

Junge Beatorum. 

Ave, nostra gloria. 

In hac vita dura, 
Labili et fngiti, 

Cito tran&itura. 
Nos perdue ad patiiam, 

O felix iigura. 
Ad videndam fadem 

Christi, mente pura. 

Esto nobis, Domine, 

Tutum adjuvameo, 
Dulce refrigerium, 

Atque consolamen, 
Ut nobis non noceat 

Hostile conamen, 
Sed fruamur requie. 

Nosdicamus: Amen.* 



*Hail, holy face of our Redeemer, in whicn 
shines the image of the divine Splendor, imprinted 
on a veil white as snow, and given to Vemnxca in 
token of his love I 

Hail, glory of the world, mirror of the saints, 
whom the celestial sptriu long to behold. Purify us 
from the stain of every vice and bring us to the 
society of the Blessed ! 

Hail, our fflory, in this rough, uncertain life, so 
soon to pass away ! Lead us to our true country, 
O blrssed symbol ! that with a pure heart we may 
behold the face of Christ. 

Be to us, O Lord \ a sure help, the sweet refresh- 
ment and conaolation of otir woes, that the efforts 
of the enemy may not injure us, but that we may 
«mter into the fruition of true rest. Let us say : 



DANTE'S PURGATORIO. • 

CANTO FIFTEENTH, 
TRANSLATED liY T. W. PARSONS. 

Between the third hour's close and dawn of day, 

Much as appears of the celestial sphere 
Ever in motion, like a child at play, 

So much appeared now of the sun's career 
To be remaining towards his western way. 

There it was evening ; here the middle night ; 
And on our front, the rays directly beat, 

For we had circled so the hill that right 
On towards the sunset we inclined our feet ; 

When on my brows I felt a load of light, 



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172 Dante's Purgatorio. 

Greater in splendor than before had been, 
And o*er my sense, as 'twere from things unknown, 

A stupor stole ; and of my palms a screen 
I made against the excess of light that shone. 

As when from water or a mirror's face 

The ray leaps upward to the opponent side, 
Mounting in like mode as through equal space 

The ray descendeth, and with line as wide 
From the direct line of a falling stone 

(As science shows, and art hath verified), 
So did I seem, by some reflected light 

Before me there, to be so struck that fain 
I would have suddenly withdrawn my sight. 

' What is it, gentle Father, that in vain 

I shield my visage from, and still towards us 
Seems as in motion ?" He made this reply : 

" Marvel not if, as yet, the splendor tluis 
Of heaven's bright household overpowers thine eye. 

This one is sent to ask men up the heigiit ; 
Soon it shall be that to behold these things 

Will cause thee no dismay, but bring delight. 
Even as thy soul due disposition brings." 

Soon as we reached the blessed angel's side 
He said, with glad voice : " Here you enter in 

By steps more easy than you yet have tried." 
We thence departed, and, ascending now, 

Heard Beati Misericordes chanted 
Below, behind us, and, " Be joyful thou 

To whom to conquer in this pass is granted!" 

My Master and myself in lonely mood 

Still mounting, I considered as I went 
How I might gather from his word some good) 

And turjied to him inquiringly: "What meant 
That spirit of Romagna speaking so 

01 partnership forbid V He made reply : 
" Of his own worst defect he now doth know 

The torment; therefore, do not wonder why 
Others he chides to make their penance less. 

Because you point your wishes at a prize 
Where i)art is lost if it permit largesse. 

Envy's bad bellows move your selfish sighs. 
But if the love of the supernal sphere 

Heavenward exalted every wish of yours, 
Your bosom would not harbor that low fear ; 

For so much more as there they speak of Ours, 
More love in that celestial cloister glows. 

And so much more of good each soul secures." 



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Dani/s Ptirgatoria, 173 

' Now to be satisfied my hunger grows," 

I aoswered, '^ and my mind is more In doubt 
Than if no question I had asked of thee. 

How comes it, that a blessing parcelled out 
More rich its many owners makes to be 

Than if a few possessed it ?" He replied : 
** Because thy mind its reasoning cannot stretch 

Beyond those things of earth to which 'tis tied; 
Thou from true light dost only darkness fetch. 

That Good ineffable and infinite 
Who dwells above there, runs to love as fleet 

As to a lucid body a ray of light. 
And so much giveth as it finds of heat. 

Broad as the flame of charity may burn. 
The eternal flame above it grows more great : 

And more their number is who heavenward yearn 
More for his love there are, and they love more. 

Like mirrors that each other's light return. 
Now, if thou hunger stiil, despite my lore, 

Thou shall see Beatris, and sure, she will 
Give unto this and every wish repose ; 

Only may those five wounds remaining still, 
That heal in aching, like the twain soon close." 

Whiles I was musing, and would fain have said, 

" Thou hast contented me," I looked, and, lo ! 
To the next cornice we had come ; here fled 

All power of speech, mine eyes were ravished so ! 
For, seized with ecstasy, I seemed to be 

Rapt in a sudden vision of a crowd 
Met in a temple. I could also see 

That entering, 'mid those men, a woman stood 
With sweet mien of a mother, saying : " Why 

Hast thou so dealt with us, my darling son } 
Behold, in every place thy sire and I 

Have sought thee sorrowing." Soon^s she had done 
This vision vanished, and I next beheld 

Another lady, with such drops besprent 
As down the cheeks flow from a bosom swelled 

With scorn of some one and by anguish rent ; 
Saying : . ** If thou be ruler of the town. 

About whose name the gods had such a strife 
And whence all knowledge gleams to give renown, 

Pisistratus! avenge thee on his life 
Whose bold embrace hath brought our daughter down !" 

And her lord seemed to me benign and mild. 
Answering with aspect that her fury stemmed : 

" What should we do to one that harmed our child, 
If one caressing her be so condemned ?" 

Next I saw people raging hot in ire. 



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174 Dantis Purgatorio. 

Slaying a youtli with stones, and shouting loud : 

" Martyr him ! martyr him !" in tumult dire ; 
And I saw him drop down before the crowd 

Dying, but lifting, ere he did expire, 
Looks that might win compassion for his foes ; 

And with such eyes, — they seemed the doors of heaven ! 
Praying the most high Father that, for those 

Who wrought such wrong, their sin might be forgiven. 

Soon as my mind that from itself had swerved 

Came back to true things that outside it lie, 
I knew my dreams false, but their truth observed. 

My leader then, who could perceive that I 
Walked like a man by somnolence unnerved, 

Said : ** Come ! what ails thee that thou canst not keep 
Thy footing straight, but more than half a league 

Hast moved, with faltering steps, as if by sleep 
Or wine o'ercorae, and eyes that show fatigue ?" 

I answered : ** O sweet Father ! I will tell, 
If thou wilt hear me, all that I have seen. 

While my limbs failed me and my strength so fell." 
And he replied : ** Shouldst thou thy visage screen 

Beneath an hundred masks, I still could spell 
Each slightest thought of thine, and read thy dreams. 

This vision came lest thou be self-excused 
Thy heart from opening to the peace that streams 

From love*s eternal fount o'er all diffused. 
I did not ask * what ails thee,' as men speak, 

Who look with mortal eye that cannot see 
The soul without its body. Thou wast weak. 

And I, to strengthen, reprehended thee. 
So men are wont dull servants to reprove 

That when their watch comes round are slow to stir." 

During these words we did not cease to move 

On through the evening, and attentive were 
To look beyond us, far as vision might. 

Against the level sun's overpowering rays ; 
And towards us, lo ! a vapor, dun as night, 

Little by little growing on our gaze. 
Deprived us of pure air and dimmed our sight, 

Nor was there shelter from the blinding haze. 



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Six Suimy Months. 



175 



SIX SUNNY MONTHS. 

BT THB ADTHOB Or ^ TMB HOUSB Or YOBKB," ** GBATSS AND THOBNS, '* BTC. 

CHAPTER XII. 



'to be, or not to be. 



The Signoni's life in these days 
was disturbed by a doubt that was 
all the more troublesome because 
she was obliged to solve it unaid- 
ed, and that without delay. Wliat 
should she do with Mr. Vane.^ 

Advice could be of no use, even 
if she had been willing to ask it. 
He satisfied perfectly all the condi- 
tions concerning which outward in- 
fluence could have weight with a 
woman of character and refinement. 
It is always possible to tell a wo- 
man that she should not marry a 
man, the reasons given being good 
ones; but it is never possible to 
tell her that she should marry him, 
if she docs not wisli, however ex- 
cellent he may be. The question 
with the Signora was, Should she 
marry at all .^ She certainly did not 
wish to marry. Was she willhig.> 
Here came up a host of arguments 
for and against, till she was as tor- 
mented and uncertain, as Hamlet. 
If Mr. Vane would have consented 
to spend Ilis life in Rome and re- 
main her friend, without asking for 
more, she would have been satis- 
fied, and have thought that her life 
had gained by him a sweetness she 
had never known, nor even thought 
of. For She had not been con- 
scious of anything wanting, till his 
companionship had taught her that 
one niche in her house was vacant. 
She contemplated the possibility 
of marrying him only in order to 
keep him near her, not because 
*ne wished to change their rela- 



tions. But the choice was forced 
upon her to lose him or to marry 
him. 

It was a choice between two 
evils. Her life had been so exqui- 
site, so nearer perfect than any one 
but herself could know, that' to in- 
troduce new and important inter- 
ests there was a dangerous experi- 
ment. How much more likely they 
would be to disturb than to com- 
plete the harmony ! And yet, how 
pleasant was that masculine pre- 
sence, like a shady tree in the 
midst of a sunny garden of flow- 
ers ! How pleasant the sense of 
a superior physical strength and 
manly sympathy ever near! How 
pleasant the consciousness of con- 
stantly pleasing one worth pleasing 
by the thousand little feminine 
ways and words, and by the rery 
being what she was, like a fragrant 
rose set in a chamber, silent and 
gracious. How ma^y little plea- 
sures he gave her which a man 
gives only to the woman he prefers 
to all others! It seemed to her 
she had never been well listened to 
before. Then to see her do a fa- 
vor to any one, perform some grace- 
ful little act that might pass unre- 
garded by others, even go about 
her ordinary duties, gave him a 
vivid pleasure. He appreciated 
the very rose in her hair, the rib- 
bon at her throat, the bow on her 
slipper. Little things: but it is 
the little pleasures which make life 
sweet, as the little displeasures may 



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do more than afflictions can to make 
it bitter. 

She watched to see what danger 
there might be of certain small an- 
noyances which she had seen fretting 
the course of many a married life, 
and he came out triumphantly from 
the ordeal. He did not hang for 
ever about the house till the women 
grew tired of him, any more than he 
went to the opposite extreme of stay- 
ing away too much. He preserved 
a respectful ignorance of household 
affairs, in which he held that wo- 
men should be autocrats, and at 
the same time listened with inte- 
rest to- any details that might be 
vouchsafed him, as to curious par- 
ticulars of a country he had never 
visited, but which sent him impor- 
t:int supplies. He was habitually 
polite to women, but never gallant, 
and he would have given a civil re- 
ply to a civil question proffered him 
even by an infamous pejson ; and 
in tlie most private life, he dropped 
only ceremony, never respect. As 
{i\x as personal habits went, he was 
a man who might have been a hero, 
even to his valet-dd-chambre. 

Point by point the Signora tried 
him, and still found no defect which 
could seem to indicate a disagree- 
able habit or an intolerable opinion. 
She could but laugh — a little ner- 
vously, indeed — at her own perplex- 
ity. 

" You dear soul !" she thought, 
** why will you not do something 
hateful and set my mind at rest ?" 

He would not. He was not even 
guilty of the one fault that might 
naturally have been expected of 
him under the circumstances : he 
had no appearance of hanging 
upon her words and looks, as if 
for some indication of a change of 
intentions regarding him. She was 
free to act herself perfectly, with- 
out fear of misinterpretation. And 



yet, in spite of his forbearance, she 
felt that time was committing her, 
and that she must soon either de- 
cidedly prevent or decidedly re- 
ceive a renewal of his offer. 

The Signora might easily be ac- 
cused by persons of little refine- 
ment of being one who did not 
know her own mind. On the con- 
trary, she was rather exceptionally 
prompt and clear as to her require- 
ments. But she was past tiie age 
when women usually marry in haste 
to repent afterward at leisure ; and 
was, moreover, one of the compara- 
tively few women who are fitted by 
their character to be friends to 
men without marrying them. The 
insidious sisterhood which ends in 
wifehood or in mischief she saw 
through and reprobated. " No man 
can have a sister,'* she was wont 
to say, "other than the daughters 
of his mother. But he may have a 
friend. And no man has a right to 
expect sisterly service and familiar- 
ity from a woman not born his sis- 
ter. It MS a snare." As a friend, 
she would never have charged her- 
self with the care of Mr. Vanes 
collars and cravats, advised him re- 
garding the most becoming cut of 
his beard, nor performed the senti- 
mental service of ** bathing his fe- 
vered brow" when he had a head- 
ache, though she might have done 
all these things as a sister or a wife. 

It was, altogether, a perplexing 
and even painful situation, and the 
Signora found all her pleasure dis- 
turbed by that ever-presei>t fear 
of either throwing away a good 
which she might afterward regret, 
or committing herself to a state 
of life which she might regret still 
more. The weather added to her 
annoyance. Summer had reached 
its meridian heat rather premature- 
ly, the sun poured his rays down in 
a torrent, and at noon the city was 



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like a mart}T at the stake. The 
nights began to lose their freshness 
and be scorched about the edges ; 
the early stars, instead of shed- 
ding dews, were like the coals left 
in a half-swept oven ; and the morn- 
ings languished on the horizon. 
It was a time for not only dolce 
far ntenie, but doUe pensar ntente. 
Besides, people, being at this season 
so shut up together, need to be at 
ease with each other. There was 
very little to call them out, few 
friends left in town, and but few 
ffstas. 

On one of these days came the 
festa of the Nativity of St. John 
the Baptist, the vigil of which is 
unique in Rome, being a real 
witch's holiday, according to popu- 
lar superstition. It is an ancient 
behef among the people that on this 
vigil the witches have liberty to go 
about where they will ; and, since 
the world all goes to St. John La- 
teran, the witches go there too. In 
order to detect them it was the 
custom to procure a stick with a 
natural fork at the end. This fork 
was placed under the chin, the two 
prongs coming up over the jaws. 
Looking at a person over it in this 
wise, it could be known if he or she 
were a witch. Moreover, since it 
was believed that the witches would 
take advantage of the absence of 
the heads of the family to enter the 
houses and do harm to the chil- 
dren, the little ones being their 
favorite prey, a new broom was 
bought, and set, broom-end up- 
ward, outside, the door. Before 
entering, the witch was obliged to 
count every spill of the broom. As 
a further precaution, some salt was 
sprinkled on the threshold, and, in 
case that should not prevent their 
entering, these words were repeat- 
ed while sprinkling it : " Come to- 
morrow to borrow salt of me." The 
VOL. XXV. — 12 



witch who entered was constrained 
to come and knock at the door the 
next day, and ask the loan of a lit- 
tle salt. For the further safe-keep- 
ing of the children during the night, 
the mothers hang some object of 
devotion about their necks or bind 
it around their bodies, and, when 
they are about going to sleep, whis- 
per the Cr^do in their ear, repeating 
every word twice, thus : " I believe, 
I believe, in God, in God," etc. 

" What do they think a witch 
would do to the children, if she 
should enter.?" we asked our Ro- 
man informant. 

" Take off the object of devotion 
and touch them, or do something 
to them so that they would die," 
was the reply. "A child that has 
been touched by a witch pines 
away to a skeleton, and dies, with- 
out any one being able to find out 
what ails it. I believe, and 1 do 
not believe," she said with a slirug. 
" Who knows } The Scripiurrs tell 
of evil spirits having power. Who 
knows how it may be } My sister, 
however, lived and died persuaded 
that her only child was touched 
by a witch, though it wns not on 
St John's eve. She had been get- 
ting her baby to sleep one day, when 
a neighbor came and called her to 
the door for some reason. She 
went out, leaving the door open 
and the baby in its cradle. When 
she returned, there was an old wo- 
man bending over the cradle and 
talking to the child — an ugly, dirty 
old creature, that she had never 
seen before. My sister took fright 
at once, and called out to her to go 
away. * I saw the door op w und 
heard the baby crying, and I came 
in to soothe it,' the old wonun said. 
My sister told her she had no right 
to come in, and chased her away. 
On the threshold the woman lurn- 
ed and shook her finger. * You 



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will repent this/ she said. In fact, 
the babe, which had been healthy, ^ 
and was just dropping peacefully 
asleep, began to moan and cry, and 
nothing could pacify it. My sister 
examined and found that the little 
devotion it wore had been taken 
away. From that day the child 
jjined. She got nurses for it, she 
tried everything possible, but noth- 
ing helped it. Finally, she carried 
it to the church of St. Theodore, in 
the Roman Forum, where all the 
mothers carry their sick babies. 
The priest blessed it, but told her 
that it was too late : the child would 
die. And it did die. She tried 
then one proof more. She took all 
its clothes that it died in, and that 
it had on when the witch touched 
it, put them in a grate, and kindled 
a fire under them. They burned 
as if there had been gunpowder 
among them. That was a sure 
proof, they said. But for me," con- 
tinued the story-teller, with another 
shrug, " I believe, and I don't be- 
lieve. Chi lo sa ? " 

It is curious to find how this 
witch-idea is embodied in every na- 
tion, and always with very nearly 
the same features : old, ugly, child- 
hating, powerful for petty malice, 
but a slave to the most trivial spells, 
repelling, disgusting — a fair repre- 
sentation of the utter despicable- 
ness and feebleness of evil. 

At the first soft fall of twilight 
the family of Casa OttanfOtto step- 
ped into a carriage and drove out 
to the Lateran by the roundabout 
way of the Roman Forum. From 
the Colosseum up to the church, all 
about the church and palace, in a 
part of the piazza, and the ends of 
the streets leading to it, every nook 
and door- way and every rod of 
ground had its table or booth, some 
lighted by a soft olive-oil lamp, 
others clear and bright with petro- 



leum, others flaring with the red 
light of a torch. Piles of cakes of 
every shape and size, wine in bottles, 
flasks, and jars, cones of the deli- 
cious Roman lemons, that are so 
juicy and fragrant, trinkets, scarfs, 
knick-knacks of various sorts, cov- 
ered the tables and counters. Here 
and there a more ambitious sales- 
man, probably a Jew, had erected a 
little shop. Everywhere were pinks 
and lavender. Each table and 
counter held sprigs and bunches, 
and men, women, and children went 
about with their arms full of it. A 
little crowd of these noisy venders 
surrounded the carriage the moment 
it stopped, and the ladies supplied 
themselves with lavender for their 
drawers, and bought large bunches 
of red pinks, and each of them a 
St. John's bouquet. This bouquet 
consists of a little white flower sur- 
rounded by pinks, and outside four 
sprigs of lavender. The lavender 
for drawers is ingeniously done up. 
A bunch is gathered with long 
stems to the sweet gray seeds and 
blue flowers, and a string is tied 
close under their little chins. The 
stems are then turned back to make 
a cage for the cluster, and tied again 
at the other end ; and yet again 
turned back and tied a third time, 
so that only glimpses can be had of 
the caged bloom ; and all is laven- 
der. 

"We should have come to first 
Vespers, if we wished to think of the 
austere St. John," the Signora said. 
"The scene is simply picturesque 
and beautiful at this hour, and will 
be bacchanalian later. The world 
doesn't begin to come till twelve 
o'clock, and at that time it will be 
almost impossible to move for the 
crowd, which does not disappear en» 
tirely till daylight." 

They drove off toward Santa 
Croce, and, turning there, stayed 



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Six Sunny Months 



179 



awhile under the soft dusk of the 
trees, looking back on tlie twinkling 
lights and crowding figures, and talk- 
ing a little. The fiery half-ring of the 
three days' moon touched the tip of 
a pine-tree in the west and kindled 
it ; the stars overhead seemed to be 
melting out of their orbits in a glow- 
ing rain ; the air was full of a sweet 
fragrance and delicately fresh. 
Sounds of laughter and mingled 
voices reached them now and then. 
But all — the wafts of air, the sounds, 
the radiating lights, the motions — 
were so soft that the whole might 
be a great picture which they half 
imagined to be alive. 

The Signora leaned back in her 
seat and gave herself up to the 
scene, mingling with it the ever-pre- 
sent thought : What should she do 
with this man who sat opposite her? 
His face was turned to look back, so 
that she saw the profile, a fine one. 
She felt very feminine and weak 
just then — ^not at all like taking care 
of herself all her life long, being both 
mistress and master of her house, 
and her own adviser and support. 
The spirit of strength, of an enthu- 
siastic liberty of effort and labor, 
faded and fainted within her. They 
could not live in such a scene. She 
wanted to be taken care of. All the 
insidious arguments of the sluggard 
began to whisper themselves to her. 
Of what use was this constant toil 
and strain, which was but a daily 
rolling up hill of a burden that every 
night rolled down again 1 Of what 
use the study, the thought, the self- 
denial? All had seemed pleasant; 
but, come to think of it, where had 
been the repose? Had she ever 
looked at a flower without, after the 
first glance, studying how she should 
present its beauties in words to 
other eyes ? Had she ever drunk 
a sunset with all its color down into 
her own soul, and left its glory there. 



but speedily her pen must dip the 
light of it up to shine on a page for 
others to see? Whither had fled 
the long, tranquil sleep," the calm 
folding of the hands, the deep and 
steady thought for thouglit's sake ? 
There was no one in the world, it 
seemed to her, who thought so 
much of others as she did. She 
analyzed her pains, her religious 
emotions, her very temptations, for 
them, and studied her own breath- 
ing that she should be able to tell 
them how they breathed. And 
what was the return ? Bread, and 
not too much of that. She had 
studied her art as the painter, the 
sculptor, and the mujsician study, 
making a science of it, and not one 
in a hundred looked on it as any 
more than an idle and facile play. 
She had felt her way, by a natural 
gift and an acquired power, into 
the depths of souls, and had led them 
oiit alive into the light ; yet how 
many an ignorant critic and shallow 
moralist had set up his wooden or 
card-paper model for her to follow ! 
How odd she had not known be- 
fore how tiresome it was ! She had 
at times felt tired, but to know that 
all was tiresome, and vanity of vani- 
ties — that had but just broken on 
her. This soft and joyous scene, 
usurping the hours of sleep, making 
the work of the day to follow an 
impossible thing to be done, and 
finding its playground under the 
stars — this was what had opened her 
eyes. A careless laugh had done 
it. She looked at Mr. Vane and 
thought I " I hope he won't ask me 
to-night, for if be should I shall 
certainly promise to marry him; 
and I do not like cutting Gordian 
knots with sudden resolutions. I 
would rather untie this a little more 
leisurely," she considered, still look- 
ing at him. " If I want honors and 
favors, I could win more by giving 



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good dinners than by writing good 
books. A dinner is more powerful 
than an epic ; for anybody can take 
in a dinner, but everybody cannot 
take in an epic. If I want friends 
and the reputation of being amia- 
ble, the good-natured complacency 
of prosperous ease will go a great 
deal further than the somewhat 
over-earnestness of a serious life." 

She snatched her eyes and her 
thoughts quickly away from the sub- 
jects that occupied both, and began 
to talk; for Mr. Vane turned, as if 
aware of being observed, and look- 
ed at her. 

" I must have a little longer to 
think," she said to herself, with a 
fluttering heart. " It will never do 
to decide to-night." 

"If we are going to keep up our 
character of a sober and orderly 
household, we must soon be on our 
way home," she said. ** The witch- 
es are certainly abroad — I almost 
see them — and we have no spell to 
prevent their getting into our car- 
riage." 

Mr. Vane had been holding his 
breath for the last few moments. 
He knew, without looking, what 
eyes were on him, and almost knew 
what thoughts were passing in the 
Signora's mind. He felt that his 
fate was in the balance. Tlie prize 
seemed to be within his grasp ; for 
to hesitate, even, seemed to give 
consent. At the first word he felt 
that hope grow dim. Consent would 
have lingered in that enchanted 
scene, would have given itself up 
to some ideal dream, forgetting the 
flight of time. She was evidently 
resisting, if not refusing. 

" Let us take one turn round by 
the wall and Santa Croce," he said. 
"Then we will go. I don't think I 
shall ever have another drive just 
like this, and I would like to pro- 
long it a little." 



"Prolong it as much as you 
please !" the Signora exclaimed, 
with quick compunction. " I only 
made a suggestion, which came 
from habit. If you like to stay, I 
shall be pleased." 

His voice, a little quickened and 
a little deepened, had seemed to 
have a touch of reproach in it, as 
though he should say : " Think, at 
least, a little of me !" But his an- 
swer to her was quite friendly : 
"You were right. We had better 
not stay long. One turn will be 
enough." 

They went on, the Signora fight- 
ing now two forces instead of one — 
for pity for him was added to pity 
for herself. What a beautiful and 
noble patience his life had shown^ 
and with what a sweet dignity he 
had covered that painful thought 
that he had never been first to any- 
body ! 

As they passed round near the 
wall, approaching Santa Croce, the 
trees hid all the lights from them. 
The two daughters, one at either 
hand of the father, leaned on his 
arm. and sighed with delight; Mar- 
ion, seated beside the Signora, lean- 
ed forward to touch Bianca's band, 
unable in that sliadow to see her. 
The darkness touched their faces 
like a down, so thick and moist wits 
it, and so full of fragrance. 

They came out before Santa 
Croce, and, turning, went back as 
they had come. More than one of 
the company would have liked to 
propose walking back along the 
avenue, but did not venture to do 
so. 'A few minutes brought them 
to the piazza of St. John's again, 
and into the midst of a crowd of 
eager buyers and sellers. Here and 
there out of some dim corner a face 
shone red in the flare of a half- 
shaded torch, small figures ran and 
danced across the lights, black as 



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silhouettes J the whole coloring was 
Rembrandt. 

Then home through the quiet 
streets, where occasionally they met 
a couple or a party, all going to- 
ward St. John's. 

'* It seems to me a kind of Santa 
Claus time, except that it is hot 
wciither,** Bianca said when they 
reached home. "I feel as though 
somebody ought to come down the 
chimney to-night." 

" By the way," the Signora ex- 
claimed, '* I have never introduced 
you to my Santa Claus. How un- 
grateful I am ! I am going to tell 
you my liule story; for I am almost 
sure that you four good people are 
as ignorant of the genealogy of the 
Santa Claus of Christmas fame as I 
was when I came to Rome. If you 
are wiser, then you can at least 
hear how I was enlightened. When 
I had been in Rome but a little 
while, I made the acquaintance of 
an elderly prelate, who was so kind 
as to do fur me many of those lit- 
tle services which a stranger needs, 
and was of the greatest use to me 
in many ways. I seldom, almost 
never, asked anything of him, but 
it was constantly happening that he 
offered some kindness at the very 
moment it was needed. I never 
weni to visit a city new to me but 
he introduced me to some influen- 
tial friend there, and I never heard 
of a new old sight to see but he 
could tell me how to gain the best 
view of it. His kindness was so 
pleasant and opportune that after a 
while, without the least intention 
of being disrespectful however, I 
came to call him in my own mind 
Santa Claus. His Christian name 
is Nicholas. One day, while talk- 
ing with me, he asked if I had any 
01' the manna of St. Nicholas of 
Bari. I replied that I djd not even 
know what it was. He looked at 



me in astonishment, and explained 
that it was a limpid substance like 
water which had oozed from the 
bones of St. Nicholas the Great, 
without ceasing, for more than 
fifteen hundred years, the saint hav- 
ing been born somewhere late in 
the third century; that every morn- 
ing the sacristan gathers it with a 
sponge and preserves it in bottles; 
and that the people of Bari and all 
that region have so great a faith in 
the saint and his miraculous ' man- 
na * that they use it for every ma- 
lady. He ended by promising to 
send to his brother, an archbishop 
somewhere in the south of Italy, to 
procure a bottle of this precious 
liquor for me. In a few days he 
brought it. Here it is!" The 
Signora brought from a little shrine 
that closed with a door in the wall, 
and displayed, a bottle filled with 
what appeared to be the brightest 
and most limpid water. " Monsig- 
nor showed me a similar bottle that 
he has had forty years," she con- 
tinued, "and it was as pure and 
bright as this — perfectly unchanged. 
He had opened it, now and then, 
to take out a few drops. Some 
years ago he gave a bottle also to 
the Holy Father, who keeps it be- 
side his bed on a little shelf. Here 
is the picture of my saint." 

It was a quaint old print, copied, 
doubtless, from a picture in the 
church of St. Nicholas, in Bari, and 
represented the sainted archbishop 
standing on the shore, with the sea 
and ships behind him. At his right 
knelt a youth on the sands ; at his 
left three infants were rising out 
of a tub, commemorative of two of 
his miracles. 

"After having given me this relic 
of his great patron, Monsignor, full 
of zeal for his honor and of pity 
for my ignorance, began to tell me 
something of his life, and how. 



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knowing of an impoverished noble 
family, driven to desperation by 
need, and almost deciding to sell 
the daughters to a life of vice, since 
they had no money to marry them, 
this young saint went slily by night, 
and dropped a bag of gold in at the 
window sufficient for a (iot for the 
eldest; and, after a while, in the 
same manner, provided for the 
others, the family rejoicing over 
their escape and repenting of their 
evil resolution. When Monsignor 
had got so far with his story, I 
broke out, * Why, it is Santa Claus V 
And, sure enough, it was. The 
great saint was no longer a stranger 
to me. I had known, without 
knowing, him all my life, from the 
time when I had first read the won- 
derful illustrated story-books of 
Christmas, and seen my mother 
hang my stocking in the chimney- 
corner before taking me off to bed 
on Christmas eve." 

The Signora was very glad to 
have this little story to tell by way 
of making an inclined plane to the 
saying of good-night. Under cover 
of it she escaped to her own room 
without being entrapped into a 
private interview, which she almost 
suspected Mr. Vane of plotting. 

Then they had a little expedition 
for the morning to see the making 
of tapestry in the great hospice of 
St. Michael. 

" If the weather and the time of 
day were not so hot,** the Signora 
said, " we would go a little further 
on, to the scene of a miracle of 
Santa Francesca Romana; but I 
don't believe we shall be able to do 
so. A little way from the hospital 
is the Porta Portese, and outside that 
is the vineyard where that beloved 
saint and her companions worked 
one January day from dawn till noon, 
without having anything to eat or 
drink. They had forgotten to bring 



provisions; and Francesca, when 
she saw her companions suffering 
from thirst, accused herself of hav- 
ing neglected to provide for them. 
She was then, you know, a mother- 
superior, and these were her ob- 
lates. Well, the youngest of them, 
almost crying with thirst, begged to 
be allowed to go to a fountain out 
on the public road. The saint told 
her to be patient, and, withdrawing 
herself, began to pray : ' Lord Jesus, 
help us in our need ; for I have been 
thoughtless in neglecting to pro- 
vide food for my sisters,' * She'd 
much better take us home at once, 
said the poor little nun to herself. 
And then Francesca, rising from 
her knees, pointed to a tree around 
which twined a vine loaded with 
large clusters of grapes — ^just as 
many clusters as there were poor 
nuns to eat them. They had pass- 
ed this very tree again and again, 
and seen the vine dead and with- 
ered that very day. That same 
Santa Francesca is one of the dear- 
est saints in the calender," the Sig- 
nora said. " Though, to be sure,*' 
she added, " when we think over 
their lives, each one seems to be the 
dearest." 

" My idea of saintliness is always 
associated with asceticism," sai.d 
Isabel. 

"If only the asceticism be not 
sour, as it never is with the saints," 
responded the Signora with a sigh. 
"About the most uncomfortable 
company one can have is that of 
a person who, we cannot doubt, is 
virtuous in many ways, but who 
looks upon one with an expression 
full of suspicion and condemnation, 
without seeming aware that in so 
doing he has committed a sin 
against charity which, according to 
St. Paul, renders his other virtues 
nothing. To my mind, one of the 
first requisites of a Christian char- 



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183 



acter is to mind one's own busi- 
ness." 

" Oh ! I don't mean asceticism 
that goes only far enough to stir up 
the Wle," Isabel said, "but that 
which clears the heart, so that the 
light of charity shines quite through 
it and brightens every object it 
looks upon.'* 

They were already on their way 
to the asylum of St. Michael — that 
immense establishment, which con- 
tains a little world within itself, 
where beauty and charity dwell 
together; where the young find pro- 
tection and instruction, and the old 
a refuge, under the same roof; where 
music, sculpture, painting, and kin- 
dred arts have made their home. 
Here the poor, instead of being 
swept away like dead leaves from 
a garden, to decay in obscure dis- 
grace, slip, consoled and unasham- 
ed, into the grave, like fallen leaves 
that die in peace between the em- 
bracing roots of the green tree they 
once helped to adorn. The long, 
arched corridors were fresh and 
cool, the brilliant day entering only 
in a tender light, or, here and there, 
in some splash of gold that burned 
only the spot it fell upon. Foun- 
tains murmured in the courts, and 
all the business of the place moved 
with a subdued and leisurely action 
which made work seem a pleasure. 
It was not toil, but occupation — 
that wise and healthy degree of 
work which makes work possible 
for many years, instead of crowding 
the force of a whole life into a few 
feverish days. There was not a 
face which showed anxious and 
nervous hurry. All were calm and 
cheerful. 

Our friends did not attempt to 
see anything more than the tapes- 
try-making and mending, the first 
in the men's department, the last 
done entirely by women and girls. 



The two immense halls devoted to 
these works, with the ante-cham- 
bers, were completely hung with 
old tapestries, making a softly 
and richly-colored picture-gallery 
of the whole place. In the manu- 
facturing hall upright frames held 
the great squares of the warp, with 
the design drawn or stamped care- 
fully on the closely-stretched 
threads. Behind these sat the 
weaver, working in the figures with 
long spools of colored wools, press- 
ing down closely each stitch with 
a little instrument he held in the 
left hand. A score or more of 
these bobbins hung at the back of 
the tapestry, each to be caught up 
and woven in in its turn. Across 
the lower part of the carpet al- 
ready a yard was splendidly woven 
of solid and brilliant color. In an- 
other part of the hall hung a large 
picture for a future weaving — a 
balcony with a vine and figures-^ 
and on a table under it were ar- 
ranged the myriad selected shades 
and colors that composed it. Here 
all in the work was brightly color- 
ed; but when they went to the oth- 
er part of the building, where the 
women were occupied in restoring, 
it was like passing from dazzling 
midsummer to a late October 
day. The very light and atmos- 
phere of the place seemed differ- 
ent. Stretched on large frames 
laid out like country quiltinft-frames 
were dim old tapestries with fig- 
ures of gods and goddesses, of 
mythical heroes and heroines, or 
of historical persons and events, 
the fabrics all more or less ragged, 
but inestimably precious. Girls 
were grouped around the^e, mend- 
ing, directed by an artist. Hang- 
ing on the walls were other tapes- 
tries that had been repaired, and 
so perfectly that it was impossible 
to distinguish what part had been 



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restored without looking at the 
wrong side of the work. Lying in 
bunches and snarls on the work, 
or hanging in long rows of varied 
hues on the wall, were skeins of 
wool, of every shade and color, 
dim, dark, soft, or pallid, like col- 
ors seen by night, by the stars, or 
by the moon, or colors guessed at 
by eyes half-blind or by eyes that 
are dying. There was a sugges- 
tion of tragedy in those old new 
colors, as in sad or blighted faces 
of children. And how much more 
of interest and tragedy in the old 
tapestries for which they had lost 
all their brightness ! Nothing else 
is so interwoven with romantic pos- 
sibilities as old tapestry. Lux- 
ury, which may have been regal, 
clings to it, but it is the luxury of 
olden times, when the beggar touch- 
ed the prince. Mystery and terror 
are its companions ; for who knows 
who or what may sometimes have 
been hidden behind that splendid 
curtain ? Lifting its fold on some 
day of an age gone by, what white, 
cold face miglit have been found 
there between it and the wall, what 
sliding figure of a hiding spy, what 
twinkle of a dagger-point in the 
dusky corner ! And then what 
pageants does it not suggest of the 
times when life was a picture ! 

" It really takes one out of the 
nineteenth century," Mr. Vane said. 

"The weaving of this tapestry," 
the Signora told her friends, " was 
first taught here by a monk — I have 
forgotten in the time of what pope. 
This monk was a backslider and 
ran away from his convent; after 
being absent ten years he repent- 
ed, and came back to throw him- 
self at the feet of the Holy Father. 
* Give me any penance, Holy Fa- 
ther,* he said, *and I will do it 
gladly.* The pope, rejoiced to 
receive this prodigal, asked him 



where and how he had passed the 
ten years of his absence, and was 
told that they had been spent in 
the tapestry-works of Coblentz, 
where he had learned all the art of 
tapestry-making. * Go, then, to St. 
Michael's,' said the pope, *and 
teach them to make tapestry. That 
shall be your penance.* And so it 
was done ; and that is the origin of 
the work in Rome. The story was 
told me by a prelate who was for- 
merly director of St. Michael's." 

It was too near noon when the 
inspection was over for them to 
go to Santa Francesca's vineyard. 
They could only hide themselves 
in the large covered carriage, and 
drive slowly home through the al- 
most, silent streets. They sighed 
with contentment when they reach- 
ed the doorway, where, through 
the half-open valves, the floor 
showed freshly sprinkled and all 
the place cool and softly lighted. 

Isabel glanced back into the 
street. A sick beggar, who was at 
his post on a doorstep of the oppo- 
site convent so constantly that one 
might well believe he had no other 
home, leaned back and seemed to 
sleep, his pallid face whiter than 
the white stone it lay against. A 
poor man slept in the shadow of 
the garden wall above, lying flat on 
his face on the pavement. Further 
up, a woman, with two little chil- 
dren clinging to her, sat on the 
ground in the shadow, and ate her 
dinner of a piece of bread. 

**It seems to me," the girl said 
thoughtfully, as she followed the 
others up-stairs, " that there should 
be a perpetual thanksgiving society 
which every one who has a home 
or a roof to cover them should join." 

The Signora touched Isabel's 
arm affectionately and smiled in 
her pretty, sober face. Sh<» found 
this girl changing, or, rathei, devel- 



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185 



oping into something nobler and 
more serious than she had expect- 
ed. 

"There is a Perpetual Thanks- 
giving Society in Rome, my dear," 
she said. " I am so glad you have 
had the thought without having 
heard of it. It is one of the most 
beautiful societies in the world. 
It has its meetings the third Thurs- 
day of every month, at the Caravita, 
a little church that used to belong 
to the Jesuits. There is an in- 
struction, Benediction of the Bless- 
ed Sacrament, and afterward the 
Afagntjicat is sung. The special 
objects of the association are to 
thank God constantly for the good 
we receive through the Blessed 
Sacrament of the altar, the Sacred 
Heart, and by the intercession of 
the Virgin Mary; and the special 
festas of the society are Epiphany, 
Pentecost, Corpus Domini, Sacred 
Heart, Annunciation, Visitation, 
Seven Dolors of the Blessed Vir- 
gin, St. John the Evangelist, St. 
Gertrude, St* Felix de Cantalice, 
and Our Lady of Grace. The 
loveliest thing of all is the prac- 
tice enjoined on the members of 
making constantly the aspiration, 
* Thanks be to God.' I wish this 
society were in every town in the 
world. We beg, we are always 
begging, and the showers are al- 
ways coming down. How beauti- 
ful is the idea of a society which asks 
nothing, but sends up a perpetual 
I?ea gratiaSy as the earth sends up 
mists in return for the rain !" 

" I shall join that society at once," 
Isabel said with decision. 

The Signora laughed. " You 
had better take off your bonnet and 
have some dinner now," she said. 

" Your society pleases me very 
much," Mr. Vane remarked. " But 
the most perfect act of thanksgiv- 
ing 1 know is that in the Gloria: 



* We give thee thanks for thy great 
glory.' " 

There was a little moonlight re- 
ception and tea-party that evening 
out on the loggia. Clive Bailey 
came to take leave before going 
away for a few weeks into the coun- 
try. Mr. Coleman also had been 
unexpectedly called to England on 
business, and was so afflicted about 
going that the Signora was vexed. 

" I cannot bear to have a man 
about who cannot get along without 
me," she said privately to Isabel, 
" especially when I can get along 
perfectly well without him. When 
a man falls into that dependent and 
moony state, he loses all his char- 
acter and becomes despicable. It 
disgusts me the more, besides, be- 
cause it is usually the strong-willed, 
driving women who have such mas- 
culine'appendages. I do hope I'm 
not getting into that way. For 
pity's sake, tell me if I show 
signs of it. I have seen ladies — I 
recollect at this moment a lady, 
clever, pretty, prompt, and circum- 
scribed in character, who makes 
all her familiar gentlemen acquaint- 
ances either hate her or serve her 
like dogs. I've seen her take a 
man whom I thought a very respect- 
able sort of person, with a mind 
of his own, and, by dint of smil- 
ing and scolding, rewarding him 
promptly when he was good, and 
punishing him promptly when he 
didn't obey, end by making a per- 
fect ninny of him. He couldn't 
brush his boots or tie his cravat 
except just as she directed him ; if 
she was vexed with a person, he 
didn't dare be civil to them ; if she 
was reconciled to the same, he im- 
mediately beamed upon them with 
the most unconscious and imbecile 
servility. Yet the two were not 
lovers, and never dreamed of being 
so, I presume, and both of them 



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would have been astonished, or 
would have pretended to be aston- 
ished and indignant, if one had 
hinted that his firmness had been 
nothing but starch, and she had 
washed that out of him. I wouldn't 
be such a woman for the world. I 
wouldn't be a driving, positive wo- 
man for anything. I wouldn't be 
a woman persistent in small things 
for my eyes. Mr. COleman makes 
me feel as if I were growing so." 

" Nonsense !" Isabel laughed. 
"It isn't in you to be so. Mr. Cole- 
man needs change of scene, that is 
all. He has been circling round you 
so long that he has got dizzy." 

** Well, I'm glad he's going off at 
a tangent," the Signora replied, 
only half- reassured. " He certain- 
ly would provoke me dreadfully, if 
he were to go on in this way under 
my eyes. Don't let him comfe near 
me this evening, and don t give 
him a chance to say good-by to 
me. Take him quite off my hands 
— that's a dear girl." 

Isabel promised, and kept her 
promise so well as to make of the 
poor bewildered gentleman as near- 
ly an enemy as he was capable of 
being to any one. He had another 
source of disquiet, too, and that 
was the exceeding politeness and 
cordiality with which the Signora 
treated the very cruel relative who 
had come to take him away, and 
whom he had brought up with him 
that evening in the vain hope that 
she would help him to escape. On 
the contrary, she merely sealed the 
compact. 

" You are quite right, sir," she 
said. *• These affairs of property 
can so much better be attended to 
in person than by proxy." 

" Besides," replied the cousin, " a 
man who has property in the coun- 
try has really some duties there. 
He should spend a little of his mon- 



ey for the benefit of the state, his 
neighbors, and the church." 

He privately despised this city 
of Rome, which he now visited for 
the first time. Its dinginess, its 
dirt, and its religion disgusted him. 

" Church !" echoed the Signora 
with calm inquiry. " I was not 
aware that Mr. Coleman belonged 
to any church." 

" He has certainly deteriorated 
very much since he left England," 
was the rather sharp response, 
"but our family are all Catholic." 

"Indeed!" she exclaimed, in 
real surprise. " I have always un- 
derstood from Mr. Coleman that 
his family belonged to the English 
Episcopal Church." 

" We claim that to be the Catho- 
lic Church, madam," the gentleman 
responded proudly. " Or, rather, 
we claim the title for that older 
branch of it which now restores the 
ceremonies and beliefs it laid aside 
for a while." 

" Oh ! the family are Ritualists," 
said the Signora. 

The gentleman drew himself up. 
" The term does not describe us," lie 
said. " We have a ritual, of course ; 
but that is not all. I consider the 
title trivial and disrespectful." 

" I did not intend the least disre- 
spect in the world," the Signora 
made haste to say. " I merely re- 
peat the name I have heard. I 
have always considered Ritualism 
very — refined — and " — she seemed 
to be laboriously seeking some words 
of suitable praise — " and — delicate. 
It has many beauties — and — in 
short, is, it seems to me, an — 
eminently — lady-like religion." 

Mr. Vane took pity on the Eng- 
lishman, who looked confound- 
ed, as if not knowing whether to 
believe his ears, which had heard, 
or his eyes, which beheld, the per- 
fectly simple and courteous ex- 



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Six Sunny Months. 



187 



pression of his entertainer. Mr. 
Vane, without seeming to have 
heard a word, introduced the sub- 
ject of property, on which men can 
always talk unflaggingly for any 
length of time. 

The Signora gave her attention 
to an enthusiastic Catholic lady, wlio 
was making a pilgrimage of her 
visit to Italy. This lady was one 
of those charming Christians who 
sometimes puzzle us a little. Her 
whole life was given up to what 
may be called religious pursuits. 
She attended functions unceasingly, 
and on every day was to be found in 
the church dedicated to the saint 
whose day it was. She visited rel- 
ics, shrines, and scenes of relig- 
ious events, and she did all with an 
enthusiasm which expressed itself 
in the most gushing manner. In 
short, she luxuriated in religion. 
She knew all about the lives of the 
saints, and spoke of them with the 
ease and familiarity of an intimate 
friend. One could perceive by her 
conversation that she believed them 
to be particularly watchful over 
her, and rather more ready to do* 
her favors than to attend to the 
wishes of most others. She exhort- 
ed people a little now and then, 
gently, with the air of one who 
knows. The whole manner of the 
woman, in things religious, was that 
of a favorite daughter in her own 
father's house, to which the world 
at large was welcomed with a smil- 
ing charity and hospitality. But 
that others were there also in their 
own father's house, and equally be- 
loved by him, did not seem to occur 
to her. The clergy and all reli- 
gious she admitted and gave pre- 
cedence to, seeking and admiring 
them almost as she did the saints. 
But, after them, she seemed to walk 
alone ; or rather, she entered with 
them, and others waited a permis- 



sion. People in the laity, like her- 
self, were, in some mysterious man- 
ner, assumed to be unlike her. 
The silence of deep religious feeling 
in others she treated as indiffer- 
ence, and sometimes strove, with 
seeming good intention, to stir up 
the souls of those already more 
deeply moved than herself. She 
abounded in little devotions, little 
pictures, little lamps and candles, a 
multiplicity of pious knick-knacks« 
enough to bewilder a person of 
simpler tastes. She wore every 
scapular, and all the medals she 
could get, and her girdle was laden 
with rosaries. By most people she 
was called a very pious woman ; by 
many she was believed to be a 
saintly woman. She certainly^was 
a fairly good woman and a nice lady 
of religious tastes. But, looked at 
by clear eyes, she was a little puz- 
zling, like some others of her kind. 
One missed there a central virtue, 
the sweet humility that makes little 
of its own goodness, and the chari- 
ty which rejoices to see others be- 
loved and preferred. With such as- 
sumption, one would have expected 
these virtues. Looking so, more- 
over, one suspected the existence of 
a deep and pernicious pride. How 
did she receive a word of exhorta- 
tion from an equal ? Not as she 
expected her own exhortations to 
be received, certainly, but with an 
expression of astonishment, mor- 
tification, and even displeasure. 
When did she sacrifice herself for 
others, and say nothing about it ? 
when did she do an act of charity, 
and conceal that she had done it ? 
when did she hesitate to obtain for 
herself an advantage because it was 
to be at the cost of another, unless 
that other were a person in orders 
or in religion ? 

The Signora looked at this lady, 
and liked her, and admired her in 



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many ways, but she could not help 
wishing that there were a little less 
self-complacency in spiritual mat- 
ters, and a little more willingness to 
sacrifice her own wishes and aims 
at times. The thought would in- 
trude itself into her mind that it 
was less a real, working Christian 
that she beheld than a religious 
sybarite. She could not say of her, 
as a famous author has said of some 
characters rather similar, that " their 
celestial intimacies did not seem to 
have improved their earthly man- 
ners, and their high motives were 
not needed to account for their 
conduct" ; but she was frequently 
pained to perceive a striking dis- 
crepancy between the profession 
and the practice. 

" I have been to-day for the first 
time to see Santa Maria degli 
Angeli," the lady said, in the gay 
and pleasant way habitual to her. 
" There seems to be no one left 
there but a few old, old men. They 
were in choir when I went to the 
church, but I should never have 
suspected it. I asked the sacristan 
if there would be a Mass soon. 
' After coroy* he said. I asked when 
coro would be, and he replied, look- 
ing at me with some surprise, that 
it was going on then. I had heard 
a sound like a little company of 
bumble-bees among the clover, but 
that it had anything in common 
with the great, ringing chorus of St. 
Peter's or the other great churches 
I never dreamed. By and by choir 
and Mass were over, and they all 
came out. Such a group of dear 
old Rip Van Winkles ! They were 
all tall, had long hair and long 
beards of white, or streaked black 
and white ; they drooped in walking, 
and their black and white robes, 
not very fresh, gave me a strange 
impression of antiquity and decay. 
It must have been the color and 



oldness of their clothes that made 
me think of Rip Van Winkle. I 
was quite ashamed of the thought. 
More than one head among them 
would have answered for a St. Je- 
rome. That dear St. Jerome !" 
she added, drooping into pensive- 
ness, as if, in uttering the name, she 
had been rapt away. 

She recovered herself after an in- 
stant, and came back smilingly to 
the present. " You have no idea 
what a devotion I have for St, Je- 
rome," she said. 

" I can quite understand it," the 
Signora replied. " His character 
is one to inspire a great admiration 
and reverence. Here in Rome one 
becomes more familiar, in a certain 
way, with the saints. One is so 
much nearer their earthly lives, 
their relics and their festas abound 
so, and one comes so constantly 
upon places which they have inhab- 
ited or visited, that one has a sense 
of shame and humiliation at coming 
no nearer their virtues." 

The lady smiled. "I had not 
thought of that," she said. " I ap- 
proach the saints with all confi- 
dence and simplicity." 

" That is a very pleasant feeling," 
the Signora said calmly, ** and, to an 
extent, may be a virtue. But do 
you not think that we should have 
also a feeling of awe in view of that 
splendid faith of theirs, and of that 
sublime constancy and ardent chari 
ty, which led them to face torments 
and death without flinching, while 
our lives seem but a series of com- 
promises, and dispensations from 
everything that does not agree with 
our delicate and pampered natures } 
It seems to me that, if we remember 
the difference between our lives and 
theirs, we shall almost expect that 
when we approach their shrines 
they will perform one miracle more, 
and speak an audible reproof to us." 



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'' May-Flojvers.'* 189 

The lady looked disconcerted " He writes that we can stay a 

and a little displeased. But, some few days on the mountain and see 

one interrupting them, the subject everything there at our leisure," 

was dropped. Mr. Vane said. " There is a house 

After they were gone Mr. Vane outside the gate where you ladies 
displayed a letter he had received can stop, and I can have a bed in- 
that day from the prior of Monte side. What do you say to it.^" 
Cassino, inviting him and his fami- The invitation was accepted by 
ly to visit their monastery. This acclamation. Monte Cassino was 
clergyman had been on very friend- one of the places to see in Italy — a 
ly terms with Mr. Vane in America, gem of nature, religion, and art. Be- 
where he had spent a good many fore sleeping that night their plans 
years, and now, hearing of his con- were made. They would put off 
version, was anxious to renew a the visit a little, hoping for cooler 
friendship which would have a days, as the journey was one of five 
charm it had not before possessed, or six hours. Meantime they had 
and to welcome to a brotherhood a little trip to Genzano in view, to 
of faith one who had always been see the festa of the Santissimo Sal- 
kin to him by a community of gen- vatore. And close upon them wa3 
erous nature. Santa Maria delle Neve. 

TO BB CONTINUBO. 



" May-flowers." 

Dear Mother, on our country's breast — 

Our country that is thine — 
Our poets place as scutcheon flowei 

Small argent stars that shine 
With pallid light when scarcely wake 

The leaf-buds from their sleep, 
When, nursing summer's waiting bloom, 

The storm-stained leaves lie deep. 

Fair, little stars that faintly gleam 

Like planets sunset^dimmed, 
The dearer for their glory scant 

On barren heavens limned. 
Pale May-flowers, whose stainless cheek 

Seems bom of winter snow — 
One rosy drop of living blood 

Flushing the veins below. 

Whose faint-breathed perfume seems to rise 

Like prayer of anchorite. 
The heart that pours its incense forth 

Low hidden from our sight ; 



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igo ^^ May-Flowersy , 

Whose sweetness seems like nimbus pale 

Crowning some saintly head, 
The light of self-forgotten life 

In holy odor shed. 

Kind Mother, see, these little flowers 

Our land is given to wear, 
When still the forest arches stand 

Of leafy tracery bare ; 
When still the heavens* softened blue 

Grows dim with wind-swept snow, 
And lonely-seeming Phoebe chants 

Disconsolate and low. 

This precious bloom bears thy dear name — 

Though given unaware — 
And in its gentle life we trace 

The gleam of thine more fair. 
In France's thoughtful land they give 

Bright flowers to be thine eyes, 
Within their blue forget-me-nots 

Thy glance's calmness lies. 

Upon our matin blossom rests 

No depth of peaceful blue, 
Yet breaks the rosy dawn of love 

Its cheek's pure whiteness through. 
Amid the darkened leaves it lies 

In blest humility, 
A lowly handmaid of the Lord, 

Unstained of earth, like thee — 

A hidden life e'er pouring forth 

An offering pure of prayer ; 
The sweet unconsciousness of grace 

Soft'ning the rude, bleak air. 
The blood-stained heart the sword hath pierced 

The spotless breast within, 
The quiet shining on a world 

Bitter and drear with sin. 

A crown of stars that perfects all 

With heaven-won aureole — 
Let France's blossom claim thine eyes, 

Claim ours thy spotless soul ; 
Whose gracious blessing ever rest 

On this broad land of ours, 
That not in vain her poets' shield 

Be quartered with May-flowers. 



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THE LEPERS OF TRACADIE * 



**Ah! little think the gay, licentious crowd. 
Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround— 
Ah I little think they, while they dance along, 
How many pine ! how many drink the cup 
Of halefttl grief ! how many shake 
With all the fiercer tortures of the mind ' 

—Thomson's Statotu. 

** In a rage, I returned to my dweUing-place, crying aloud : ** Woe unto thee, leper ! Wor unto thee !" And 
« if the whoje world united against me, I heard the echo through the ruins of the Ch&teau de Bramafan 
repeat distinctly : *"* Woe unto thee !'* I stood motionless with horror on the threshold of the tower 
Uscening t« the faint tones again and again repeated from the overhax^png mountains : '* Woe unto thee !" 

— Xavibr db Maistrb. 



On the low and miry land 
forming the borders of the county 
of Gloucester in New Brunswick, 
fifty miles from Miramichi and 
twenty-five south of Caraquet, be- 
tween a narrow river and the waters 
of the Gulf of St. Lawrence, stands 
a little village. The situation it oc- 
cupies is dreary and sad to a de- 
gree. On one side moans the gray 
sea, on whose dull and turbid wa- 
ters rarely is seen a sail. On the 
other stretches a long, low line of 
coast, dotted at intervals by the 
huts of the fishermen. The whole 
landscape is painfully mono- 
tonous, desolate, and mournful. 
The cottages are mean in the ex- 
treme, while the simple church is 
without architectural merit. Afar 
off frowns forbiddingly a large 
building shut in by high walls. 
In this melancholy spot the passing 
traveller says to himself : " Is this 
place accursed alike by God and 
man ?" 

Accursed, alas ! it has indeed 
been by despairing lips and hearts ; 
for the building is the lazaretto of 
Tracadie. Before the year 1798 no 
register was kept of baptisms, mar- 



•This article is condensed firom one which ap- 
peared in the Revmg Canaditntu^ hy M. de Belle- 
fcttiUe. 



riages, or burials in the parish. 
Since that date, however, and up to 
1842, Tracadie was under the care 
of the cur^s of Caraquet, a neighbor- 
ing parish. 

On the 24th of October, 1842, ar- 
rived the first resident priest, M. 
Fran9ois Xavier Stanislas Lafrance, 
who remained there until January, 
1852. M. Lafrance has since died. 
At Tracadie he was succeeded 
by the present cur^^ M. I'Abb^ 
Ferdinand Gauvreau,t with whose 
name the history of these poor lep- 
ers must always be interwoven. 

Probably the most terrible chas- 
tisement inflicted on a guilty people 
is that known as leprosy. In an- 
cient times it was only too well 
known, for it was then more frequent 
than in our day. It made such 
fearful ravages in certain parts of 
the world that its very name was 
whispered in accents of horror and 
dread. 

From time immemorial has this 
scourge been looked upon as utter- 
ly distinct from all other diseases ; 
more virulent in its effects ; more 
insidious in its approaches, and 

t The author writes : From this excellent and 
faithful priest I have obtained the greater part of 
my infonnation on this subject. In addition, M. 
Gauvreau has allowed me free use of his notes and 
documents. 



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above all by reason of the frightful 
manner in which it distorts and 
disfigures its victims. 

Leprosy has probably been known 
from the creation of the world. No- 
thing in history leads us to reject 
this idea, and, indeed, many inter- 
preters who have exercised their 
talent on certain obscure passages 
of Holy Writ have found no better 
way of defining the terrible sign 
with which God marked the fratri- 
cide Cain than by supposing it to be 
leprosy. The alarm that has always 
been felt in regard to this most 
loathsome disease arises not alone 
from its hideous results, but also 
from the conviction that has always 
existed as to the absolute hopeless- 
ness of cure. 

Before the time of Moses lep- 
rosy was well known. The first 
mention made of it in Holy Writ is 
in the fourth chapter of Exodus. 
God, having chosen Moses to deliv- 
er the Hebrews from the tyranny 
of the Egyptians, orders him to 
present himself before his afflicted 
people and to announce himself to 
them as their deliverer. Moses ob- 
jected, saying : " They will not be- 
lieve me, nor hearken unto my 
voice ; for they will say. The Lord 
hath not appeared unto thee !" 
Then the Lord, to convince Moses 
of his divine mission, said unto him, 
" Put now thine hand into thy 
bosom," and he put his hand into 
his bosom ; and when he took it 
out, behold his hand full of lep- 
rosy, white as snow — ^^ instarfievis,*' 

Here, then, was leprosy easy to 
recognize, since it had the white- 
ness of snow. Let us not forget 
this )>eculiar feature, for we shall 
see it again later. 

From this incident we see clear- 
ly that the disease was by no means 
unknown to Moses, because on see- 
ing his hand he said : " Leprosam in- 



star nevis" Therefore we have a 
right to believe that the disease ex- 
isted before Moses. To the support 
of this opinion Dom Calmet, in his 
Biblical Dictionary^ cites Manetho 
the Egyptian, Lysimarchus, Ap- 
pian, Tacitus, and Justin, who have 
advanced the idea that the Jews 
went out from Egypt on account 
of the leprosy. Each one of these 
historians narrates the events in his 
own fashion, but all agree that the 
Hebrews who left Egypt were at- 
tacked by leprosy. 

Not only does leprosy fasten on 
mankind, but it clings to clothing 
and to the stone walls of houses. 
It is to be presumed, however, that 
the leprosy brought by the Israelites 
out of Egypt was not of this malig- 
nant type ; for Moses, by the order 
of God, takes pains to mention an- 
other and more virulent kind known 
in the land of Chanaan, the promised 
land of the Israelites. 

In Leviticus, chapter xiii., we find 
the following : " If there be a spot, 
greenish or reddish, in the garment, 
of wool or of skin, the garment 
must be shown to the priest; and 
the priest shall look on the plague, 
and shut it up for seven days ; and 
if at the end of the time the spots 
have spread, the priest will burn 
the garment, for it is a fretting lep- 
rosy. If the priest find, however, 
that the spots have not spread, he 
shall order the garment to be 
washed ; and, behold, if the plague 
have not changed his color, and be 
not spread, it is unclean : thou 
shalt bum it in the fire." 

As to the suspected taint of lep- 
rosy in their houses, let us see 
their method of proceeding: " When 
you be come into the land of Cha- 
naan, if you think there be leprosy 
in the house, he that owneth the 
house shall go to the priest, who 
shall order the house to be emptied. 



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If the priest finds in the walls hol- 
low streaks, greenish or reddish, he 
hhall shut the house for seven days. 
The priest shall come again the 
seventh day, and shall look ; and 
if the plague be spread, the stones 
shall be taken away, and cast into 
an unclean place without tlie city. 
Then the rest of the bouse shall be 
scraped within and without, and 
they shall pour the dust witliout 
ihe city, and thsy shall take other 
stones and put them in tlie place 
of these, and other mortar to plas- 
ter the house. 

**And if the plague come again, 
and break out in the liouse, it is a 
fretting leprosy, and the house is 
unclean and shall be destroyed." 

Thus it is seen that the leprosy 
known to the ancients — this lament- 
able scourge, "this eldest daughter 
of death*' — ^attacked in its fury not 
man alone, but his clothing and the 
very w^alls of liis house. The pri- 
mary cause of an evil so malignant 
and so wide-spread must for ever 
remain a mystery. The learned 
Dom Calmet, as commentator of 
the Bible rather than as a physician, 
offers a theory in his notes on Levi- 
ticus. He maintains that the dis- 
ease is caused by a multitude of 
minute worms. These parasites 
glide between skin and flesh, gnaw- 
ing the epidermis and the cuticle, 
and then the nerves, producing, in 
short, all the symptoms that are re- 
marked in the beginning, the pro- 
gress, and the end of leprosy. 
Dom Calmet concludes by saying 
that "venereal diseases are but 
forms of leprosy which were only 
too well known to the ancients." In 
this century leprosy still exists in 
some portions of Italy and in Nor- 
way to a very considerable extent, 
according to the reports of Drs. 
Danielson and Boek. It is still to 
be met with in Turkey in the vil- 
VOL. XXV. — 13 



lage of Looschori — the ancient Myti- 
lene of the ^gean Sea — in the In- 
dian Archipelago, on the coast of 
Africa, and in the West Indies. 1 
myself have seen it in Jerusalem 
and at Naplouse, ancient Samaria ; 
at Damascus also, where there is a 
lazaretto very poorly supported by 
public charity. To Mr. Charles 
A. Dana, one of the editors of the 
Neiv American Cychpadia, tlie mala- 
die de Tracadie is not unknown ; for 
he says that leprosy exists in Cana- 
da and in other portions of Ame- 
rica. 

But to return to the Scriptures; 
Moses is not the only one of the 
inspired writers who speaks of lep- 
rosy, and more than once our bless- 
ed Lord, on his journeys through 
Judea, exercised his charity and 
showed his goodness by curing lep- 
ers who threw themselves at his 
feet, entreating mercy. Job was 
struck by the hand of God with 
this scourge, and has described it 
with marvellous beauty and pathos. 
He was forsaken by his wife and 
his friends in his .humiliation and 
suffering; they shrank from him, 
saying that he must have commit- 
ted some fearful crime to have 
drawn upon himself so heavy a 
chastisement. A similar horror of 
this disease existed among all na- 
tions. In Persia no citizen infect- 
ed by it could enter a village or 
have any intercourse with his fel- 
low-creatures, while a stranger was 
driven pitilessly forth into the des- 
ert (Herod., Clio), 

.^schines, giving an account of 
his sea voyage, states that, the ship 
putting into Delos, they found the 
inhabitants suffering from leprosy, 
and the travellers hurried away in 
fear and trembling, lest they them- 
selves should fall victims. 

In Egypt Pliny * says that when 

^ Hist. Nat,f 1. xzvi. c. u 



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this evil attacked kings, it was 
raost unfortunate for their people ; 
for to cure them baths of warm 
human blood were believed to be 
efficacious. 

In later days we find that lepers 
have been the victims of most unjust 
and cruel laws among almost all na- 
tions. Thus, among the Lombards, 
in 643, one law ordered not only that 
lepers should be confined to isolat- 
ed localities, but declared them al- 
so civilly dead, deprived them of 
their property, and confided them 
to the charity of the public. Sev- 
eral provinces in France adopted 
this law with some qualifications. 
In certain localities even the pos- 
terity of lepers were excluded — as at 
Calais — from all righ ts of citizensh ip, 
and m 757 an ordinance of Pepin 
le Bref permitted divorce between 
a healthy wife and leprous husband, 
or a healthy husband and leprous 
wife. Charlemagne augmented the 
severity of laws already so hard. 
He ordered lepers to live apart, 
permitted them no social inter- 
course Avhatever, and finally, as 
their crowning misery, these unfor- 
tunates saw themselves thrust on 
one side by the church itself from 
communion with the faithful. 

At the time of the separation of 
the lepers from family, home, and 
friends, the church pronounced 
over them the prayers for the dead. 
Masses were said for the repose 
of their souls, and, to complete 
the mournful illusion, a h<indful 
of earth was thrown upon their 
bodies. They were forbidden to 
enter any church or any place 
where food was prepared, nor could 
they dip -their hands in a running 
stream, nor accept food or anything 
handed them, save with a fork or 
the end of a stick. They were 
compelled, moreover, to wear a 
particular costume that could be 



seen and recogoized from afar off, 
and, under threats of severe penal- 
ties for disobedience, were ordered 
to ring a little bell to announce 
their coming. More recently, in 
France, lepers herded together, in 
secluded places, which were called 
Uproseries, In the year 1244 there 
were throughout all Christendom 
19,000 of these leproseries, and in 
France alone 2,000. 

There these poor wretched crea- 
tures passed their desolate lives, 
separated from the outside world, 
without occupation or interest, save 
that of watching the slow but sure 
progress of their companions to- 
ward the inevitable and horrible 
death that was impending. 

In the eleventh, twelfth, and thir- 
teenth centuries, says Mgr. Gaume, 
leprosy extended its ravages over a 
large part of the world. The pes- 
tilence attacked suddenly all parts 
of the body at once, drying it up, 
as it were ; and, like the plague, lep- 
rosy was unquestionably most con- 
tagious. To receive the infection 
it was but necessary to touch the 
clothes or the furniture, or even to 
breathe the tainted air ; consequent- 
ly, every one fled in dismay at the 
sight of a leper. They were driven 
from the vicinity of towns, and they 
were seen from afar wandering over 
the fields and hillsides like living 
corpses, while at a distance they 
were compelled to signal their ap- 
proach by a rattle or bell. Aban- 
doned by the whole world, and a 
prey to horrible sufferings, they 
called on death to deliver them. 

The King of France, anxious to 
protect his subjects from exposure 
to this disease, formed a complete 
code of laws for lepers. " Every 
person," said M. Deseimeris in his 
Medical Dictionary ^ " who is sus- 
pected of leprosy must submit to a 
thorough examination by a surgeon. 



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The suspicion confirmed, 1 magis- 
trate takes possession of the indi- 
vidual to dispose of him according 
to law. If he be a stranger, he must 
be sent at once to the place of his 
birth, bestowing first upon him, 
])owever, the poor gifts of a hat, a 
gray mantle, a beggar's wallet, and 
a small keg. The poor creature, on 
arriving at his native village, must 
carefulfy avoid all contact with his 
fellow-creatures." Even the church 
rejects him. Each town or village 
was compelled to build for his re- 
ception a small wooden house on 
four piles, and, after the deatli of its 
inmate, the house, with all that was 
in it, was consigned to the flames. 

As the number of lepers was con- 
stantly increasing, the erection of 
so many of these small tenements 
became a source of great expense. 
It was therefore finally decided to 
unite them under one roof, and give 
them the name of a l^proserie. In 
this way their support became less 
onerous, while their seclusion was 
far greater, and their diet and med- 
ical treatment was easier of regula- 
tion. 

Louis VIII. published in 1226 a 
code of special laws for the govern- 
ment of l^proseries. These laws 
were intolerably severe. A leper 
once incarcerated within the walls 
of a lazaretto incurred the penalty 
of death if he passed over the 
threshold again ; scaffolds were 
erected where they could be seen 
from the hospital, thus keeping this 
fact ever in the remembrance and 
before the eyes of the miserable in- 
mates. 

1 have recounted these details to 
demonstrate the utter horror with 
which leprosy was regarded. It 
must not be supposed that only the 
ignorant and superstitious were 
overwhelmed by foolish dread, or 
that it was an idle prejudice, a 



relic of barbarism ; for in the nine- 
teenth century we witness the same 
horror, and here on our own shores 
encounter the same rigorous legis- 
lation. We should also find the 
lepers as uncared for, as shunned 
and neglected, as they were of old, 
were it not for the Catholic Church, 
which, with its customary zeal in all 
labors of charity and mercy, aroused 
in the hearts of a humble priest 
and a few weak nuns the wish and 
determination to consecrate their 
lives to the service of this most 
miserable class of their fellow-crea- 
tures. 

The first settlements on the Mi- 
ramichi River were made after the 
treaty of Utrecht in 17 18 by the 
subjects of France — Basques, Bre- 
tons, and Normans. Under the ad- 
ministration of Cardinal Fleury 
stringent measures were taken to 
encourage and protect these colo- 
nies. After a time, when their 
prosperity seemed secure, a certain 
Pierre Beauhair was sent from 
France as intendant to rule and 
arrange matters for the .French 
government. He erected a small 
villa on a point of land that since 
his death bears his name, at the 
mouth of the northwestern branch 
of the Miramichi River. The isl- 
and opposite rile Beauhair was 
strongly defended, and tradition 
states that the intendant built with- 
in the walls of the fort a foundry 
for cannon, and other buildings for 
the manufacture of munitions of 
war. 

During the summer of 1757 the 
colony on the Miramichi suffered 
much from the war between France 
and England, which sadly interrupt- 
ed their traffio in fish and furs. 
Consequently, the following winter 
was one of great suffering, and many 
of the colonists died of hunger. 
Two transport ships, laden with pro- 



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Tlie Lepers of Tracadie. 



visions and supplies of all kinds, 
were sent out by the French gov- 
ernment in 1758, but both vessels 
were captured by the English fleet 
then assisting at the siege of Louis- 
burg. 

While these colonies were endur- 
ing suspense and starvation a 
French vessel, called the Indienne^ 
from Morlaix, was wrecked at the 
mouth of the Miramrchi near the 
" Bale des Vents '* — a name now cor- 
rupted into **Baie da Vin." Tra- 
dition states that this ship, bdbre 
coming to America, had traded in 
the Levant, and that a large number 
of bales of old clothes had been 
taken on board at Smyrna. The 
clothes were strewn upon the beach 
after the vessel went to pieces, were 
seized by the inhabitants, dried, 
and afterwards worn. However 
this may be, it is certain that from 
that date arose a most terrible pes- 
tilence among the Canadians, wlio 
were already decimated by famine. 
The first victim of this malady was 
M. de Beauhair, and he, with eight 
hundred others, it is said, were bu- 
ried at Point Beauhair. The sur- 
vivors abandoned Miramichi and 
fled, some to ITle Saint- Jean — now 
Prince Edward's Island — and the 
greater number settled along the 
western coast of the Gulf of St. 
Lawrence, where they formed scat- 
tered hamlets under the names of 
Niguaweck, Tracadie, and Poke- 
mouche, combined in one parish — 
that of Caraquet. 

For eighty years, although it 
was known that isolated instances 
of leprosy existed in the diff'erent 
colonies, they attracted little or no 
])ublic attention up to 181 7, when 
a woman named 'Ursule Laudry 
died of the disease. 

An account written by one of the 
nuns of THdtel Dieu attributes a 
somewhat different origin to this 



scourge. This good sister writes 
that the disease was carried to New 
Brunswick in 1758 by a ship from 
the Levant ; the vessel having made 
the port late in the autumn^ the 
crew were paid off and dispersed, 
many seeking a temporary home in 
Caraquet. Unfortunately, this crew 
was affiicted by a malady that was 
unsuspected by any oi>e. The coh 
onists were kind to the sailors ; 
the women washed their clothes 
and in this way contracted the dis- 
ease, which was transmitted from 
one to another and from father to 
son, and in time acquired its pecu- 
liar features. Hamilton Gordon, 
the Lieutenant-Governor of New 
Brunswick in 1862, has assigned a 
shnilar origin to the malady in an 
interesting pamphlet entitled Wii* 
derness Journeys in New Brunswick 
in 1862-3. 

'• A vague and uncertain tradition ex- 
ists," he says, "that somewhere about 
a hundred years ago a French vessel was 
wrecked on the coast of Gloucester or 
Northumberlaod, and that among the 
crew were some sailors from Marseilles, 
who in the Levant had contracted the 
hideous leprosy of the East, the verita- 
ble elephantiasis Graecorum ; however 
this may be, it is beyond all question 
that for many years a part of the French 
population of these two counties has 
been sorely afflicted by this mysterious 
disease, or by one that closely resembles 
it, and which may be, indeed, the form ot 
leprosy so well known on the coast of 
Norway." 

** It is difficult," says in his turn M. 
Gauvreau, cure of Tracadie and chap- 
lain of the lazaretto, in a letter publish- 
ed in the Journal de Montreal^ November 
30, 1859 — " 't is difficult to persuade 
one's self that this malady could be the 
spontaneous generation of the locality 
where it now exists. The geographical 
position of Tracadie is on the sea-coast, 
with the fresh currents of a river close 
at hand, the waters of which are salt for 
eight or nine miles above the mouth. 
The soil in some portions is sandy, in 
others clayey ; in the vicinity are no 
marshes, no stagnant water, consequent- 



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ly BO iBJurious malaria. These tacts 
seem to justify the opinion which I have 
long held, and which as yet I see no 
reason to change, that the poisonous 
virus was not the growth of this spot, 
box. was brought here hy some traveller.** 

These traditions are, in the 
main, jirobably correct as to the 
origin of the scourge in this Cana- 
dian viilage. The inhabitants of 
other villages than Tracadie sub- 
sist almost entirely on fish, are 
equally poor, equally ill-fed and 
insufficiently clotlied, living in 
the sam-e damp and foggy atmos- 
phere; but it is only in Tracadie 
or its vicinity that a leper is to be 
seen. The inhabitants ol Labrador 
and Newfoundland eat fish almost 
exclusively, and live amid similar 
climatic conditions, paying no 
more enlightened attention to hy- 
gienic laws, and yet the " maladie 
de Tracadie " does not attack or 
decimate them. 

From the date of the introduc- 
tion of this disease into the village 
it increased slowly but steadily un- 
til 1817, when certain precautions 
began to be taken; but not until 
1844. did the authorities try any 
active precautions. In that year a 
medical board was organized, who 
inade a report of their investiga- 
tions to the government, and latei 
in the same year an act of the Pro- 
vincial Legislature was passed, re- 
newed and amended in 1850. It 
authorized the lieutenant-gover- 
nor to establish a health commit- 
tee. This committee recommended 
the erection of a lazaretto on Tile 
de Sheldrake, an isolated spot in 
the middle of the Miramichi River 
eig^iteen miles above Chatham. 
" Whoever was found to be unques- 
tionably tainted by the disease," 
says the article, "must be torn 
frorii his family, using force if need- 
ful The husband must be taken 



from his wife, the mother from her 
children, the child from its parents, 
whenever the first symptom of 
leprosy declares itself. An eternal 
farewell to all they hold most dear 
must be said, and the poor creature 
is sent to the lazaretto. It often 
happens that a leper refuses to go 
quietly ; he is then dragged by ropes 
like a beast to the shambles — for 
none is willing to lay a finger upon 
him. Often the unhappy beings are 
driven with blows to the very door 
of the lazaretto. " Things, of course, 
could not long remain in this brutal 
condition. The lepers, driven to 
desperation by (heir physical and 
mental sufierings, by a wild longing 
for the liberty denied them, and 
for the sight of their loved ones, 
sometimes effected their escape. 

An attempt was finally made to 
ameliorate their condition, and in 
1847 the lazaretto was removed to 
the spot where it now stands, about 
half a mile from the parish church 
of Tracadie. A large tract q{ land 
was here purchased by the govern- 
ment, and the present building 
was erected, surrounded by a wood- 
en wall twenty feet high, set thick 
with nails to hinder the escape of 
the lepers. The windows of the 
lazaretto were barred heavily with 
iron, and thus added to the melan- 
choly aspect of the building. The 
lepers, weary of the revolting resem- 
blance to a prison, themselves tore 
most of the bars away, and, when 
the nuns arrived there they at once 
ordered the remainder to be re- 
moved. 

In 1868 the nuns from the Hotel 
Dieu of Montreal took possession 
of the lazaretto of Tracadie. For 
some few years a strong necessity 
had been felt for the reorganization 
of this institution. A wish was ex- 
pressed that it could be placed un- 
der the care of the Hospital Nuns. 



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I have now before me a letter from 
the Rt. Rev. James Rogers, Bishop 
of Chatham, in which is given an 
account, for the Conseil Central de la 
Propagation de la Foi at Paris, of 
the steps that liad been taken up to 
December, 1866: 

"Since my first visit to the establish- 
ment/' says the bishop, " I have always 
thought that it would be most desirable 
to place it under the care of^he Sisters 
of the H6tel Dieu» who would watch over 
the souls and the bodies of these suffer- 
ers, whose number varies from twenty to 
thirty. But so many great and pressing 
needs claimed my attention — while my 
resources were insufficient even for the 
alleviation of physical suflFering, and 
also, perhaps, for the spiritual wants of 
certain souls — I was compelled to post- 
pone my plans in regard to the lazaretto, 
until my diocese could satisfy the reli- 
gious needs of its inhabitants by an in- 
crease of the number of priests, and by 
the ereclion of chapels in places where 
they had long and earnestly been demand- 
ed, and also by the establishment of 
schools for the Christian education of 
youth. Another obstacle to the imme- 
diate execution of my intention was the 
lukewarm approbation and co-operation 
of the government. The total lack of 
suitable lodging for the nuns, as well 
as the uncertainty whether the Protestant 
element which pervades our gfovemment 
and our legislature would be willing to 
grant us funds or permit us to make 
needful preparations for the sisters to 
take charge of the lazaretto — all conspir- 
ed as hindrances to my desires. 

** Last spring I petitioned the govern- 
ment, but political changes interfered, 
and no steps were taken until now. 
This is the reason why the worthy curi of 
Tracadie continues to be the only priest 
who administers the consolations of re- 
ligion to that portion of his flock so bit- 
terly afflicted." 

The steps taken by Bishop Ro- 
gers seem to have been singularly 
felicitous. He obtained from Bi- 
shop Bourget the assistance of the 
nuns of the Hdtel Dieu of Mon- 
treal, and the government appears 
to have regarded with favorable 



eyes this regeneration of the laza- 
retto, which produced in a very 
brief period of time the best possi- 
ble results upon the patients. Abb6 
Gauvreau draws a sad picture of 
the state in which these poor crea- 
tures lived before the nuns went 
to their assistance. In a^ letter 
dated April 28, 1869, addressed to 
the mother-superior of the Hotel 
Dieu of Montreal, he says : 

" I am absolutely incapable of describ- 
ing the state of abject misery in which 
our poor lepers passed their lives before 
the coming of the sisters. I can only say 
that from the hour of their transfer froRk 
Vile aux Bec-scies (Sheldrake) at the 
entrance of the river Miramichi,. discord, 
revolt, and insubordination toward the 
government, divisions and quarrels 
among themselves, made the history of 
their daily lives. The walls rang with 
horrible blasphemies^ and the hospital 
seemed like a den of thieves.*' 

The Board of Health spared 
nothing to make the lepers comfort- 
able. Good food, and abundance 
of it, appropriate clothing, and care- 
ful medical attendance were liberal- 
ly provided; but, in spite of these 
efforts, the hearts of these poor crea- 
tures were as diseased as their bod- 
ies. Some of them revolted against 
the summons of death, notwith- 
standing the constant exiiortations 
of the chaplain, and even after their 
last communion clung strongly to the 
futile hope of life. Of this number 
was one who had been warned by 
the physician that his hours were 
numbered and that a priest should 
be summoned. His friends, and 
those of his relatives who were 
within the walls of the lazaretto, 
implored him to prepare for deaths 
*' Let me be V* he cried. " I know 
what I am about !" 

About nine o'clock in the even- 
ing he begged his companions \x\ 
misery not to watch at his bedside^ 
and, believing himself able to drive 



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away Death, who was hurrying 
toward him with rapid strides, in- 
sisted on playing a game of cards. 
The game had hardly begun, liow- 
ever, when the cards dropped from 
his hands and he fell back on his 
bed. Before assistance could reach 
him all was over. 

With the arrival of the nuns a 
new order of things began. With- 
out entering into a detailed account 
of all the labors performed by the 
sisters since tlieir arrival, it is 
enough to state that cleanliness and 
order prevail and true charity shows 
itself everywhere. The poor crea- 
tures, who formerly revelled in filth 
and disorder, now see about them 
decency and cleanliness. They are 
induced to be submissive and obe- 
dient by the hourly example of tlie 
sisters; their modesty and reserve, 
their virtue and careful speech, 
their watchful care and devotion, 
their tender attention to the sick, 
teach the inmates of the hospital 
the best of lessons. It is easy to 
imagine with what joy the poor lep- 
ers welcomed the nuns who came 
to consecrate their lives to tliis ser- 
vice, and also to understand with 
what affection and respect these 
holy women are regarded. 

" The enclosed grounds of the laza- 
retto/' says Governor Gordon in his 
IVikiemess Journeys, *' consist of a green 
meadow three or four acres in ex- 
tent. Within these limits the lepers are 
permitted to wander at their will. Until 
recently they were confined to the nar- 
rowest limits^a mere yard about the la- 
zaretto. I entered these dreary walls, 
accompanied by the Roman Catholic 
Bishop of Chatham, by the secretary of 
the Board of Health, by the resident 
ph}*sician, and by the Catholic priest of 
the village, who is also the chaplain of 
the institution. 

** Within the enclosure are several 
small wooden buildings, separated from 
each 'Other, consisting of the kitchen, 
laundry, etc. A bath-house has recently 
been added to these, which will be a 



source of infinite comfort to the patients. 
The hospital contains two larger halls — 
one devoted to the men, the other to the 
women. Each room has a stove and a 
table with chairs about it, while the beds 
are ranged against the wall. These halls 
are both well lighted and ventilated, and 
at the time of my inspection were per- 
fectly clean and fresh. At the end of 
these halls is a small chapel arranged in 
such a way that the patients of both 
sexes are able to hear Mass without 
meeting each other. Through certain 
openings they also confess to the priest 
and receive the holy communion." 

Many clianges in the interior ar- 
rangements of the lazaretto follow- 
ed the arrival of the sisters. The 
patients and the nuns now hear 
Mass at the same time. The male 
patients occupy two rooms twenty- 
five feet square, while similar apart- 
ments above are reserved for the 
females. The grounds of the la- 
zaretto have also been enlarged. 

** Before giving the characteristics of 
this appalling disease," says Mr. Gor- 
don. *' I wish to reply to a question 
which you undoubtedly wish to ask : 
How is this malady propagated ? No 
one knows. It seems not to be heredi- 
tary, since in one family the father or 
mother may be attacked, while the chil- 
dren entirely escape. In others the chil- 
dren are leprous and the.parents healthy. 
In 1856 or '57 a woman named Domi- 
tile Brideau, wife of Fran9ois Robichaud, 
was so covered with leprosy that her 
body was one mass of corruption. While 
in this state she gave birth to a daughter, 
whom she nursed — the mother shortly 
afterward dying in the hospital. Mean- 
while, the child was absolutely healthy, 
and remained until she was three years 
of age in the hospital without any un- 
favorable symptoms being developed. 
The girl grew to womanhood and mar- 
ried, and to-day she and her children 
are perfectly healthy. Many similar ex- 
amples might be cited." 

This malady, then, can hardly be 
diontagious, since in one family hus- 
band or wife may be attacked, 
while the other goes unscathed. 
There is now at Tracadie a man. 



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Francois Robichaiid by name, who 
has had three wives ; the two first 
perished of leprosy, the third is 
now under treatment at the laza- 
retto — the husband in the mean- 
while enjoying perfect health. In 
one family two or more children 
are lepers, while the others are un- 
tainted. One servant-woman re- 
sided for eight years in the hospi- 
tal, ate and drank with the patients, 
yefc has never shown any symptoms 
of the disease. Tlie laundress of 
the institution lives under its roof, 
and has done so for two years ; she 
is a widow, her husband having 
died of the scourge, she being his 
sole nurse during his illness. She 
is in perfect health. It has also 
happened more than once that per- 
sons suspected of leprosy, and 
placed in the hospital, after remain- 
ing there several years and devel- 
oping no further symptoms, are dis- 
charged as " whole." 

All the patients now in the hos- 
pital agree that the disease is com- 
municated by touch, and each has 
his own theory as to where he was 
exposed to it — either by sleeping 
with some one wiio had it, or by 
eating and drinking with such. 

I am strongly persuaded that this 
disease, whatever may be its origin, 
is greatly aggravated by the kind 
of life led by the natives of Traca- 
die, who are all fishermen or sailors. 
Their food is fish, generally herring, 
and their only vegetables turnips 
and potatoes. Such is their ex- 
treme poverty that there are not 
ten families in Tracadie who ever 
touch bread. 

Let us follow Governor Gordon 
into the lazaretto. 

*'At the time of my visit," he says, " there 
were twenty-three patients, thirteen men* 
and ten womsn. They were all French 
and all Catholics, belonging to the lower 
class. They were of all ages, and had 



reached various stages of the disease. 
One old man, whose features were distort- 
ed out of all semblance to humanity, and 
who had apparently entered his sreco>d 
childhood, could hardly be sufficiently 
aroused from his apathy to receive the 
benediction of the bishop, before whom 
all the others sank on their knees. 

" There were also young people who, 
to a casual observer, seemed vigorous 
and in health; while, saddest of all sights 
was that of the young children con- 
demned to spend their lives in this terri- 
ble place. Above all was I touched by 
the sight of three small boys from eleven 
to fifteen years of age. To an inexperi- 
enced observer they had much the look 
of other children of their own age and 
class. Their eyes were bright and intel- 
ligent, but the fatal symptoms that had 
sufficed to separate them from home and 
kindred were written on their persons, 
and they were immured for life in the 
lazaretto. 

•* The greatest sympathy must natural- 
ly be felt for these younger victims when 
one thinks of the possible length of years 
that stretches before them, hopeless and 
cheerless ; to grow to manhood with 
the capacities, passions, and desires of 
manhood, and condemned to live from 
youth to middle age, from middle age to 
decrepitude possibly, with no other soci- 
ety than that of their companions in mis- 
ery. Utterly without occupations, amuse- 
ments, or interests, shut off from all out- 
side resources, their only excitement is 
found in the arrival of a new disease- 
stricken patient, their only occupation 
that of watching their companions dying 
before their eyes by inches ! 

** But few of the patients could read, 
and those who could were without books. 
There was evident need of some organ- 
ization that might furnish the patients 
with employment. Both mind and body 
required occupation. Under these cir- 
cumstances I was by no means surprised to 
learn that in the last stages of the disease 
the mind was generally much weakened. 

** The suflfering of the majority of the 
patients was by no means severe, and I 
was informed that one of the characteris- 
tic features of the malady was profound 
insensibility to pain. One individual 
was pointed out to me, who by mistake 
had laid his arm and open hand on a red* 
hot ssove, and who knew nothing of it 
until the odor of burning flesh aroused 
his attention." 



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After Governor Gordon's visit the 
condition of the lepers was much 
improved. The sisters taught the 
young to read and employed them 
in making shoes and other articles. 

The investigations of Governor 
Oordon, although made during a 
brief inspection of the lazaretto, are 
correct as far as they go, but are 
far from complete. The Abbe 
(iauvreau has been for eighteen 
years chaplaint of the hospital. 
He has watched keenly the progress 
, of the disease in over a hundred ca- 
ses. He has noted every symptom 
of its slow and fatal march. He 
has been present at the death-beds 
of many of the lepers, and he re- 
counts witli horror the terrible 
scenes he has witnessed. 

" Without wishing to impose my opin- 
ions on you," he says, *' I cannot resist 
the conviction that, apart from divine 
vrill. this scourge of fallen man is a most 
subtle poison introduced into the human 
body by transmission or by direct con- 
tact, or even, perhaps, by prolonged co- 
habitation. 

*' But whichever of these suppositions 
is the more nearly correct, when once the 
poison is fairly within the system its ac- 
tion is so latent and insidious that for 
some years - two, four, or even more — the 
unfortunate Naaman orGiezi perceives in 
himself no change either in constitu- 
tion or sensations. His sleep is as re- 
freshing and his respiration as free as 
before. In a word, the vital organs per- 
form all their functions and the various 
members are unshorn of their vigor and 
energy. 

*• At this period of the disease the skin 
loses its natural color, its healthy appear- 
ance, and is replaced by a deadly white- 
ness from head to foot. This whiteness 
looks as if the malady had taken posses- 
sion of the mucous membrane and had 
displaced the fluids necessary to its 
functions. Without knowing if the 
leper of the Orient possesses other ex- 
ternal indications, it is certain that in 
this stage the malady of Tracadie is pre- 
cisely similar to the leprosy of the an- 
cients — I mean in the whiteness of the 
skin. In the second stage the skin be- 



comes yellow. In the third and last it 
turns to a deep red ; it is often purple, 
and sometimes greenish, in hue. In fact, 
the people of Tracadie, like myself, are so 
familiar with the early S3inptoms of the 
disease that they rarely fall into a mistake. 

" Only one death has ever occurred in 
the first stage — that of Cyrille Austin. 
All the other cases have passed on to 
the second or third stages before death ; 
and, strangely enough, it has been re- 
marked by the patients themselves that 
the treatment of Dr. La Bellois had 
always a much better chance of success 
during the third period than during the 
second. 

'*At first the victim feels devouring 
thirst, great feverish action, and a sin- 
gular trembling in every limb ; stiffness 
and a certain weakness in the joints ; a 
great weight on the chest like that caus- 
ed by sorrow; a rush of blood to the 
brain ; fatigue and drowsiness, and 
other disagreeable symptoms which now 
escape my memory. The entire nervous 
system is then struck, as it were, with 
insensibility to such a degree that a 
sharp instrument or a needle, or even 
the blade of a knife, buried in the fleshy 
parts or thrust through the tendons and 
cartilage, causes the leper little or no 
pain. Some poor creature, with calm in- 
difference, will place his arm or leg on a 
mass of burning wood and tar, and let it 
remain there until the entire limb, bones 
and all, is consumed ; yet the leper feels 
no pain, and may sleep through it all as 
quietly as if in his bed." 

In another letter the abbe gives 
the following example of this aston- 
ishing insensibility : 

"One of these afflicted beings who 
died at the lazaretto, and to whom I ad- 
ministered the last sacraments, lay down 
to sleep near a hot fire ; in his si umbers he 
thrust one arm and hand into the flames, 
but continued to sleep. The overpowering 
smell of burning flesh awakened one of 
his companions, who succeeded in saving 
his life." 

One of the nuns says : " Since we 
reached Tracadie two of the pa- 
tients have burned their hands 
severely, and were totally uncon- 
scious of having done so until I 
dressed the wounds myself.** In re- 



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The Lepers of Tracadic. 



gard to this torpidity of the sys- 
tem, M. Giiuvreau remarks that it 
is but temporary, but he knows not 
its duration ; and the nun adds that 
the torpidity is not invariable with 
all the patients, and with some only 
in a portion of tlie body. In cer- 
tain individuals it is only in the 
legs; in others, in the hands 
alone ; but all complain of numb- 
ness like that of paralysis. 

** By degrees/' says M. Gauvreau, ** the 
unnatural whiteness of the skin disap- 
pears, and spots of a light yellow are to 
be seen. These spots in some cases are 
small and about the size of a dollar-piece. 
When of this character, they appear at 
first with a ceitain regularity of arrange- 
ment, and in places corresponding with 
each other, as on the two arms and 
shoulders— more generally, however, on 
the breast. They are distinct, but by 
degrees the poison makes its Way through- 
out the vitals ; the spots enlarge, approach 
each other, and, when at last united, the 
body of the sick man becomes a mass 6f 
corruption. Then the limbs swell, after- 
ward portions of the body, the hands, 
and the feet ; and when the skin can bear 
no further tension it breaks, and run- 
ning sores cover the patient, who is re- 
pulsive and disgusting to the last degree. 

** The entire skin of the body becomes 
extremely tender, and is covered with an 
oily substance that exudes from the pores 
and looks like varnish. The skin and 
flesh between the thumb and forefinger 
dry away, the ends of the fingers, the feet, 
and hands dwindle to nothingness, and 
sometimes the joints separate, and the 
members drop off without pain and often 
without the knowledge of the patient. 

"The most noble part of the being 
created in the image of God — the face- 
is marred as much as the body by this 
fell disease. It is generally excessive- 
ly swollen. The chin, cheeks, and ears 
are usually covered by tubercles the size 
of peas. The eyes seem to start from 
their socke'.s,and are glazed by a sort of 
cataract that often produces complete 
blindness. The skin of the forehead 
thickens and swells, acquiring a leaden 
hue, which sometimes extends over the 
entire countenance, while in other cases 
the whole face is suilused with scarlet. 
The explanation of these different symp- 



toms may be found, of course, in the va- 
riety of temperaments — sanguine, bil- 
ious, or lymphatic. This face, once so 
smooth and fair, has become seamed and 
furrowed. The lips are two appalling 
ulcers — the upper lip much swollen and 
raised to the base of the nose, which has 
entirely disappeared ; while the under lip 
hangs over the chin, which shines from 
the tension of the skin. Can a more 
frightful sight be imagined? In some 
cases the lips are parched and drawn up 
like a purse puckered on strings. This 
deformity is the more to be regretted ia 
it precludes the afflicted ftom participa- 
tion in the holy communion. Leprosy — 
that of Tracadie, at least — completes its 
ravag^es on the internal organs of its 
victims. It attacks now the larynx and 
all the bronchial ramifications ; they be- 
come obstructed and filled with tuber- 
cles, so that the unhappy patient can 
find no relief in any position. His re- 
spiraiion becomes gradually more and 
more impeded, until he is threatened with 
suffocation. I have been present at the 
last struggles of most of these afflicted 
mortals. I hope that I may never be 
called upon to witness similar scenes. 
Excuse me from the details. If I under- 
took them my courage would give out ; 
for I assure you that many of you would 
have fainted. Let me simply add that 
these lepers generally die in convulsions, 
panting for air ; frequently rushing to 
the door to breathe ; and, returning, they 
fling themselves on their pallets in de- 
spair. The thought of their sighs and 
sobs, the remembrance of their tears, al- 
most breaks my heart, and their prayers 
for succor ring constantly in my ears : 
* O my God ! have mercy on me ! have 
mercy on me !' 

** At last comes the supreme moment of 
this lingering torture, and the patient 
dies of exhaustion and suffocation. All 
is over, and another Lazarus lies in Abra- 
ham's bosom ! 

After the above vivid picture of 
this loathsome disease we naturally 
ask if the evil be such that no medi- 
cal skill can combat it with success. 
The Hospital Nun in the infirmary 
of the lazaretto tells us all that she 
has yet learned upon this point. 

In 1849 ^"^ ^^5^ ^^* ^-^ Bellois, a 
celebrated French physician resi- 



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The Lepers of Tracadie. 



203 



ding at Dalhousie, treated the lepers 
for six months and claimed to have 
cured ten of them : T. Goutheau, 
Charles Comeaii, T. Brideau, A. 
Benoit, L. Sonier, Ed. Vienneau, 
Mme. A. Sonier, M. Sonier, Mme. 
Ferguson, Melina Lavoie. "All tjie 
above cases are now quite well, and 
the treatment I adopted was entire- 
ly for syphilitic disease, thus es- 
tablishing without any doubt the 
nature of the disease " (extract from 
La Bellois' report, Feb. 12, 1850). 

Meanwhile, from the report of the 
secretary of the Board of Health — 
Mr. James Davidson — we gather that 
all the sick above mentioned re- 
turned after a time to the hospital; 
that they died tliere, with the ex- 
ception of three, of whom two died 
in their own houses and the third 
still lives. Of this one Dr. Gordon, 
of Bathurst, says : " The disease is 
slow in its progress, but it is sure, 
and the fatal termination cannot be 
far off." 

Dr. Nicholson undertook the 
treatment at the lazaretto. By a 
certain course of medicine, the de- 
tails of which he kept a profound 
secret, and with the aid of vapors, 
he wonderfully improved tlie physi- 
cal condition of the lepers, who in 
many instances indulged sanguine 
hopes of recovery. Unfortunately, 
however, this physician suddenly 
abandoned his profession, and, to 
the sorrow of his former patients, 
died three years later. The lepers 
soon relapsed into their former 
hopeless state, and since then no 
change has taken place. 

" On our arrival at Tracadie," said 
the sister, '* we found twenty inmates of 
the hospital, and since three more have 
been admitted. These poor creatures, 
being firmly persuaded that we could 
cure them, besieged us with entreaties 
for medicine, and were satisfied with 
whatever we ^s^mq. At first I selected 
three who had undergone no medical 



treatment ; these three were al.so tha 
only ones who suffered from contractior 
of the extremities. The first, twenty- 
two years of age, had been at- the hospi- 
tal four years, and as yet showed the 
disease only in the contraction above 
mentioned, and in a certain insensibility 
of the feet and hands. The second , fifteen 
years old, had been in the hospital for 
two years, his hands and feet were drawn 
up, and he suffered from a large swelling; 
on the left foot. This young fellow is 
very delicate, and suffers intensely at times 
from spasms of the stomach. The third 
case is a lad of eleven, who for two years 
has suffered from the disease. His hands 
are twisted out of shape, and his body is 
covered with spots, red and white ; these 
spots are totally without sensibility. I 
have administered to these patients the 
remedies as prescribed by Mr. ?owle — 
Fowl^s Humor Cure, an American pat- 
ent medicine. The first and second pa- 
tient experienced no other benefit from 
this remedy than a certain vigor pre- 
viously unfelt. To the third the sensi- 
bility of the cuticle returned, but the 
spots remained the same. This in itself is 
very remarkable, because in no previous 
case have these benumbed or paralyzed 
parts regained their sensation. To an- 
other, a patient of twenty-two, I gave the 
same remedy. For eight years he had 
been a martyr to the virulence of the dis- 
ease. When we arrived at the lazaretto, 
we found his case to be one of the worst 
there. His nose had fallen in ; the lips 
were enormously puffed and swollen ; 
his hands equally so, and looked more 
like the paws of a bear than like the 
hands of a human being. The saliva was 
profuse, but the effort of swallowing al- 
most futile. Soon after taking this same 
medicine the salivfi ceased to flow and 
he swallowed with comparative ease. 

"On the 23d of January he was, by the 
mercy of God, able to partake of the holy 
communion, of which he had been de- 
prived for four years. His lips are now 
of their natural size, and he is stronger 
than he has been for years. But the 
pains in hisjimbs are far worse than they 
have ever before been. I have also given 
Fowle's cure to all the patients who had 
been under no previous medical treat- 
ment, and invariably with beneficial re- 
fiilts. In some the tint of the skin is 
more natural ; in others the swelling of 
the extremities is much abated ; but the 
remedy seems always to occasion an in* 



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The Lepers of Tracadie. 



crease of pains in the limbs, although it 
unquestionably acts as a tonic upon the 
poor creatures. In all of them the 
mouth and throat improve with the use of 
Fowle's cure. And here let rae say that 
this disease throughout bears a strong 
resemblance to syphilis. In both dis- 
eases ihe throat, the tongue, and the 
whole inside of the mouth are ulcerated. 
In both diseases the voice is affected to 
such a degree that it can hardly make 
itself heard. They cough frightfully, and 
some time after our coming a leper pre- 
sented himself for admission at our hos- 
pital doors. The poor creature was cov- 
ered with ulcers and every night was 
bathed in a cold perspiration. After he 
had rested for a few days, I gave him a 
powerful dose of la liqueur arsenicale^ 
which has since been repeated. The night- 
sweais have disappeared, and the ulcers 
are healed, with the exception of one on 
the foot. His lips are still unhealthy, 
but he is much stronger, and the spots 
on his person are gradually disappearing. 
** Two others, later arrivals, have taken 
la liqueur arsenicale and have improved un- 
der its use. Suspecting that the origin 
of this malady may be traced to another 
source, and remembering the opinion of 
Dr. La Bcllois, I gave the bichloride 
of mercury, in doses of the thirty-second 
part of a grain, to the worst case in 
the hospital. It is too soon, however, 
to judge of its effects. The improve- 
ment in no one of these cases is rapid, 
but wc trust that it is certain. We look 
lo God alone for the success for which 
we venture to hope. I can find no sta- 
tistics which will enable me to give you 
the number of victims that have fallen 
under this dread malady of Tracadie. 1 
find, however, a letter from M.Gauvreau, 
bearing the date of November 30, 1859, 
thai sixty persons perished from its rava- 
ges in the previous fifteen years, and 
that twenty-five of both sexes, and of all 
ages, were then inmates of the lazaretto, 
awaiting there the end of their torments." 

In 1862 Mr. Gordon said that he 
saw twenty-three patients at the hos- 
pital, and the Sisters of the Hotel 
Dieu found twenty there when 
they reached the lazaretto, and 
have since admitted tluee in ad- 
dition; it does not seem, therefore, 
as if the "eldest sister of Death" 



had relaxed her hold on thisunhai>- 
py village. Yet if the disease can 
but be confined to this locality, won- 
ders will be achieved. Good care, 
regular medical attendance, inces- 
sant vigilance, with intelligent ad- 
herence to hygienic laws,^ may even- 
tually cause its entire disappear- 
ance from our soil. Let us Jiope 
that the faithful sisters will succeed 
in their good work ; for we ourselves, 
every one of us, have a personal 
interest in it. Unfortunately, this 
good result is far from certain, a., 
the Abb^ Gauvreau desires us to 
understand, 

*' One or more of these unfortunates.** 
he says, ^'feeling the insid ions approaches 
of the disease, and shrinking from the 
idea of the lazaretto, have at times secret- 
ly escaped from Tracadie. They leave 
Miramichi on the steamer, intending to 
land at Riviere -du-Loup, at Kamouraska, 
perhaps at Quebec or at Montreal. As 
yet no ulcers are visible, nor, indeed, anr 
external symptoms which could excite 
the smallest suspicion. On landing at 
some one of the places mentioned ihey 
procure situations in different houses, 
and remain in them for a month or two, 
perhaps, saying nothing all this time of 
their symptoms to any one, not even to 
a physician. They eat with their master's 
family, and, even if they take the greatest 
precaution, they convey this poisonous 
virus to their masters. When they have 
reason to fear that suspicion is about be- 
ing aroused, they depart, but it is too late, 
and they go to scatter the contagion still 
further. 

" The following instance came under 
my own observation : A youth suffering 
from this disease, and dreading the la- 
zaretto, went to Boston, where he secured 
a position on a fishing vessel, hoping 
that the sea air, with the medicines tliat he 
would take, would effect his cure. He 
soon found that these hopes were 
groundless, and was obliged to enter 
the hospital in Boston, where, in spite 
of the care and attention bestowed upon 
him by the physicians of the medical 
school at Cambridge, he died, far from 
friends and home." 

One naturally asks, with a thrill 



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of horror, whether, before the ad- 
mission of tliis poor creature to the 
hospital, he did not transmit to his 
shipmates the poisonous virus that 
filled his own blood. 

The total disappearance of this 
disease — if such disappearance may 
be hoped for — will be due exclu- 
sively to the noble and untiring ex- 
ertions of the sisters. Tracadie 
and its afflicted population would 
not alone owe a debt of eternal 
gratitude to these Hospital Nuns. 



America itself would sliare this 
feeling. With an example like this 
of charity and self-abnegation before 
us, we cannot cease to wonder at, 
and to deplore, the narrow minds 
of those persons who condemn the 
monastic institutions of the church. 
Let us compassionate all such ; for 
to them light is lacking, and they 
have yet to learn the great truth 
that the duty most inculcated by 
the church, after the love of God, 
is the love of our neighbors. 



TESTIMONY OF 



THE CATACOMBS 
SACRAMENTS. 



TO SOME OF THE 



In a former article,* whilst fol- 
lowing Mr. Withrow and other Pro- 
testant controversialists through 
their evasions and misinterpreta- 
tions ofithe evidence to be found 
in the Catacombs on behalf of cer- 
tain points of Catholic doctrine 
and practice, we pointed out that 
prayers either for the dead or to 
liiem were the only two articles on 
which it would be reasonable to 
look for information from the in- 
scriptions on the gravestones. We 
saidjthat these prayers were likely 
to find expression, if anywhere, by 
the side of the grave. As they 
look their last look on the loved 
remains of their deceased friend or 
relative, the affectionate devotion 
of the survivors would naturally give 
utterance either to a hearty prayer 
for the everlasting happiness of him 
they had lost, or to a piteous cry for 
help, an earnest petition that he 
would continue to exercise, in what- 
ever way might be possible under 
the conditions of his new mode of 

♦The Cathouc World, Dec., X876, p. 371 
Jan., 1877, p. 593. 



existence, that same loving care and 
protection which had been their 
joy and support during his life ; or 
sometimes both these prayers might 
be poured forth together, according 
as the strictness of God's justice, 
or the Christian faith and virtues 
of the deceased, happened to occu- 
py the foremost place in the peti- 
tioner's thoughts. 

When, therefore, we proceeded in 
a second paper to question the same 
subterranean sanctuaries on an- 
other subject of Christian doctrine 
— the supremacy of St. Peter — we 
called into court another set of 
witnesses altogether : to wit, the 
paintings of their tombs and cha- 
pels. Exception has been taken 
against the competency of these 
witnesses, on the plea that they are 
not old enough ; they were not con- 
temporary, it is said, with those first 
ages of the church whose faith is 
called in question. To this we 
answer that the objection is entirely 
out of date ; it might have been rais- 
ed twenty or thirty years ago, and 
it might have been difficult at that 



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time satisfactorily to dispose of it. 
Those were days in which writers 
like M. Perrot in France could af- 
fect to pronounce dogmatically on 
the age of this or that painting, 
solely on the evidence of its style, 
without having first established any 
standard by which that style could 
be securely judged. There are 
still a few writers of the same 
school even at the present day, 
such as Mr. Parker in England, 
who assigns precise years as the dates 
of these subterranean monuments 
with as much confidence as if he 
had been personally present when 
they were excuted, and (we may 
add) with as wide a departure from 
the truth as if he had never seen 
the pictures at all. Such writers, 
'however, have but few disciples 
nowadays. Their foolish presump- 
tion is only laughed at ; and it is not 
thought worth while seriously to 
refute their assertions. Men of in- 
telligence and critical habits of 
thought are slow to accept the ipse 
dixit of a professor, however emin- 
ent, upon any subject ; and all who 
have studied this particular subject 
— the paintings in the Catacombs — 
are well aware that the question of 
their antiquity has now been car- 
ried beyond the range of mere con- 
jecture and assumption ; it has 
been placed on a solid basis of fact 
through the indefatigable labors 
of De Rossi. Those labors have 
been directed in a very special way 
towards the establishing the true 
chronology of the several parts of 
the Catacombs ; and when this had 
been done, it was manifest to all 
that the most ancient artcz were 
also those which were most abun- 
dantly decorated with painting, 
whilst the arem that had been used 
more recently — />., in the latter half 
of the fourth or beginning of the fifth 
century — were hardly decorated at 



all. This gradual decline of the use 
of pictorial decoration has been trac- 
ed with the utmost exactness through 
the successive area pf a single Cata- 
comb; six or seven tombs being 
found thus decorated in the first 
area^ two in the second, one in the 
third, none at all in the fourth ; and 
the same thing has been seen, with 
more or less distinctness, throughout 
the whole range of subterranean 
Rome. Then, again, every casual 
visitor to them can see for him- 
self that before the abandonment 
of burial here — />., before the year 
410 — many of the paintings were 
already considered old enough to 
be sacrificed without scruple to the 
wishes of those who would fain ex- 
cavate new tombs in desirable sites. 
Men do not usually destroy to-day 
the paintings which they executed 
yesterday; certainly they do not 
allow the ornamentation which 
they have just lavished on the 
tombs of their fathers to be soon 
effaced with impunity. We may be 
sure, then, that those innumerable 
paintings which we see broken 
through in order to make more mo- 
dern graves must have been of 
considerable antiquity at the time 
of their destruction. Then, again, 
it must not be forgotten that some 
of these paintings were actually ap- 
pealed to as ancient testimony in 
the days of St. Jerome, on occasion 
of a dispute between that doctor 
and St. Augustine as to the correct 
rendering of a particular word in 
his Latin translation of the Scrip- 
tures. Finally, it is notorious 
that the fine arts had rapidly de- 
cayed and the number of their 
professors diminished before the 
days of Constantine — in fact, before 
the end of the third century. 

We cannot, however, pretend to 
give in these pages even a brief 
summary of De Rossi's arguments 



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and observations whereby he estab- 
lishes the primitive antiquity of 
Christian art in the Catacombs. 
We can only mention a few of the 
more popular and palpable proofs 
which can be appreciated by all 
without difficulty ; and we will only 
add that it is now possible, under 
the sure chronological guidance of 
De Rossi, to distinguish three suc- 
cessive stages in the development 
of painting in the Christian cemete- 
ries, the latest of which was com- 
plete when the Constantinian era 
began, and the first falls hardly, if 
at alK short of even apostolic times. 
This is no longer denied by the 
best instructed even among Protes- 
tant controversialists ; they acknow- 
ledge that painting was used by the 
earliest Christians for the ornament- 
ing of their places of burial; only 
they contend that it was done " not 
because it. was congenial to the 
mind of Christianity so to illustrate 
the faith, but because it was the 
Ilea then custom so to honor the 
dead." 'J'he author of this remark, 
however, has omitted to explain 
whence it comes to pass that the 
great majority of the paintings 
which survive in the cemeteries 
are more engaged in illustrating 
the mysteries of the faith than in 
doing honor to the dead. 

But we must not pursue this sub- 
ject any further. We have said 
enough, we think, to establish the 
competency of these paintings as 
witnesses to the ancient faith, and 
we will now proceed to question 
them concerning one or two prin- 
cipal mysteries of the faith — those 
that are called its mysteries par 
exceUetue : its sacraments. We do 
not doubt that, if duly interrogated, 
they will have some evidence to 
gite. We say, if duly interrogated, 
because it is the characteristic of 
ancient Christian art to be eminent- 



ly symbolical; it suggested rather 
than declared religious doctrines 
and ideas, and it suggested them by 
means of artistic symbols or histor- 
ical types, which must be inquired 
into and meditated upon before 
they can be made fully to express 
their meaning. This is of the very 
essence of a symbol : that it should 
partly veil and partly manifest the 
truth. It does not manifest the 
truth with the fulness and accuracy 
of a written historical description, 
or it would cease to be a symbol ; 
on the other' hand, it must not be 
so obscure as to demand a sibyl for 
its interpretation ; it must have a 
tendency to produce in the mind 
of the beholder some leading fea- 
ture of the object it is intended to 
represent. And where should sym- 
bols of this kind be more abundant- 
ly found for the Christian preacher 
or artist than in the histories of the 
Old Testament ? Ancient Christian 
art, says Lord Lindsay, " veiled the 
faith and hope of the church under 
the parallel and typical events of 
the patriarchal and the Jewish dis- 
pensations." 

We need not remind our readers 
that the principle of this method of 
interpreting Holy Scripture has ex- 
press apostolic sanction; but few 
who have not studied the subject 
closely will have any adequate idea 
of the extent to which it was follow- 
ed in the ancient church. We will 
give a single example, selected be- 
cause it closely concerns the first 
mystery of which we propose to 
speak — the Sacrament of Baptism. 

Tertullian, who lived at the end 
of the second and beginning of the 
third century, wrote a short treatise 
on this sacrament. This treatise 
he begins by bringing together all 
that Holy Scripture contains about 
water, with such minuteness of de- 
tail that he is presently obliged to 



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Testimony of the Catacombs. 



check himself, saying that, if he 
were to pursue the subject through 
all Holy Scripture with the same 
fulness with which he had begun, 
men would say he was writing a 
treatise in praise of water rather 
.than of baptism. P'rom the first 
chapter of the Book of Genesis "to 
the last of the Evangelists, and even 
of the Apocalypse, he finds contin- 
ual testimony to the high dignity 
and sacramental life-giving power 
of this element. The Spirit of God, 
he says, moved over it at the first ; 
whilst as yet the earth was void 
and empty, and darkness was upon 
the face of the deep, and the heaven 
was as yet unformed, water alone, 
already pure, simple, and perfect, 
supplied a worthy resting-place on 
which God could be borne. The 
division of the waters was the reg- 
ulating power by which the world 
was constituted ; and when at 
length the world was set in order, 
ready to receive inhabitants, the 
waters were the first to hear and 
obey the command and to bring 
forth creatures having life. Then, 
again, man was not made out of the 
dry earth, but out of slime, after a 
spring had risen out of the earth, 
v.'atering all its surface. All this is 
out of the first two chapters of Gen- 
esis ; and here he makes a pause, 
breaking into that apology which 
has been already mentioned. Then 
he resumes the thread of his dis- 
course, but passing much more brief- 
ly over the remainder of the Old 
Testament. He notes how the wick- 
edness of the old world was purged 
by the waters of the Deluge, which 
was the world's baptism; how the 
waters of the Red Sea drowned the 
enemies of God's people and deliv- 
ered them from a cruel bondage; 
and how the children of Israel were 
refreshed during their wanderings 
through the wilderness by the wa- 



ter which flowed continuously from 
th*e rock which followed them, 
" which rock was Christ." Then he 
comes to the New Testament, and 
briefly but eloquently exclaims : No- 
where is Christ found without water. 
He is himself baptized with it ; he 
inaugurates in it the first manifesta- 
tion of his divine power at the wed- 
ding-feast in Cana ; when he preach- 
es the Gospel, on the last and great 
day of the feast, he stands and cries, 
saying, " If any man thirst, let him 
come to me and drink." He sums 
up his whole gift to man under ihe 
image of a fountain of water, telling 
the Samaritan woman that he has 
living water to give, which shall be- 
come in him that receives it a foim- 
tain of water springing up unto life 
everlasting. When he gives in- 
struction upon charity, he instanf es 
a cup of cold water given to a disci- 
l^le ; he sits down weary at a well 
and asks for water to refresh him- 
self; he walks on the waves of the 
sea, and washes his disciples' feet ; 
finally (Tertullian concludes), " this 
testimony of Jesus to the Sacra- 
ment of Baptism continues even to 
the end, to his very Passion ; for, 
when he is condemned to the cross, 
water is not absent — witness the 
hands of Pilate ; nay, when wound- 
ed after death upon the cross, water 
bursts forth from his side — witness 
the soldier's spear." 

There may be something in this 
symbolism that sounds strange to 
modern ears ; but we are not here 
criticising it ; we have nothing to 
do with its merits or demerits, but 
only with the fact of its general use — 
so general that it was the one prin- 
ciple of exegesis which every com* 
mentator on Holy Scripture in those 
days followed, and we have every 
right to suppose that Christian hr- 
tists would have followed it also. 
When, therefore, we find in the Ro- 



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man Catacombs (as, for example, 
the other day in the cemetery of 
San Callisto) a glass vessel, very 
artistically wrought, with fishes in 
alto rilievo swimming round it in 
Mich a way that, when full of water, 
it would have represented a minia- 
ture image, as it were, of the sea, is 
it a^mere fanciful imagination which 
bids us recognize in such ornamen- 
tation a reference to holy baptism, 
and conjectures that the vessel was 
perhaps even made for the adminis- 
tration of that sacrament ? It may 
be so; but we cannot ourselves 
think so ; we cannot at once reject 
the explanation as fanciful ; the 
work of the artist corresponds too 
exactly with the words of the theo- 
logian to allow us to treat the coin- 
cidence as altogether undesigned. 
" We little fish are born," says Ter- 
tiillian, "after the likeness of our 
great Fish in water, and we cannot 
otherwise be safe than by remaining 
in the water.** And we seem to our- 
selves to read these same words, writ- 
ten in another language, in the beau- 
tiful vessel before us. We read it also 
in another similar vessel, which 
looks as though it had come out of 
the same workshop, yet was found 
in an ancient cemetery at Cologne ; 
and in another of bronze, dug up in 
the vineyard over the cemetery of 
Pretextatus, that used to be shown 
by Father March i in the Kircherian 
Museum at the Roman College. In 
all these instances we believe that 
this is the best account that can be 
given, both of the original design 
of the vessel and also of its preser- 
vation in Christian subterranean 
cemeteries. However, if any one 
thinks otherwise, we do not care to 
insist upon our explanation as in- 
fallibly certain. We will descend 
into the Catacombs themselves, and 
look about upon the paintings on 
their walls or the carving on Iheir 

VOL. XXV. — 14 



gravestones, and see whether bap- 
tism finds any place there also. 

And, first, we come across the 
baptism of our Lord himself. We are 
not now thinking of the stibterra- 
nean baptistery in the cemetery of 
Ponziano, with the highly-decorated 
cross standing up out of the middle 
of it, and Christ's baptism painted 
at the side. For this is one of the la- 
test artistic productions in the Cata- 
combs — a work of the eighth or ninth 
century possibly. We are thinking,. 
on the contrary, of one of the earliest 
paintings in a most ancient part of 
the excavations, in the crypt of Lu- 
cina, near the cemetery of Callixtus, 
with which, in fact, it is now united. 
We shall have occasion to return to 
this same chamber presently for the 
sake of other paintings on its walls 
having reference to the Holy Eu- 
charist ; just here we only call atten- 
tion to the baptism of our Lord, 
which is represented in the space 
over the doorway. We do not 
know of any other instance of this 
subject having been painted in the 
Catacombs besides the two that we 
have mentioned, but it is quite pos- 
sible that others may be hereafter 
discovered; but of baptism as a 
Christian rite, veiled, however, un- 
der its types and symbols, we have 
innumerable examples. 

Few figures recur more frequent- 
ly among the paintings in the Cata- 
combs, and none are more ancient,, 
than that of a man standing in an 
open box or chest, often with a 
dove, bearing an olive-branch in its 
mouth, flying towards him. When 
this was first seen after the redis- 
covery of the Catacombs in the six- 
teenth century, men set it down to 
be the picture of some ancient bi- 
shop preaching in aj pulpit, and the 
Holy Ghost, under the form of a 
dove, inspiring him as to what he 
should say, according to the legend 



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Testimony of the Catacombs. 



told of St. Gregory the Great and 
i5ome others. Nobody now doubts 
that it was intended for Noe in 
the ark ; not, however, the histori- 
cal Noe and tlie historical ark — for 
nothing could be more ludicrously 
false to the original — but those whom 
that history foi^eshadowed : Chris- 
tians saved by the waters of bap- 
tism and securely housed in the ark 
of the church. Some persons, who 
seem to take a perverse delight in 
:assigning a pagan rather than a 
KThristian origin to everything in 
:the early church, account. for the 
.difference between the Biblical and 
»the artistic representation of the 
.ark by saying that the Christian 
.artist did but copy a pagan coin 
•or medal which he found ready to 
his hands. It is quite true that 
»certain coins which were struck at 
Apamea in Phrygia during the 
I reigns of Septimius Severus, Macri- 
nus, and Philip the elder — />., at dif- 
ferent periods in the first half of 
the third century — exhibit on one 
■side of them a chest, with a man 
and a woman standing within it, 
and the letters M2, or N£1E^ writ- 
. ten on the outside ; and that these 
.figures were intended to be a sou- 
venir of the Deluge, which held a 
[prominent place in the legends of 
Phrygia., It is said that the town 
rof Apamea claimed to derive its 
• secondary name of Hificoro^y or ark, 
from the fact that it was here that 
the ark rested ; and it is quite pos- 
!sible that the spread of Christian 
; ideas, gradually penetrating the Ro- 
;man world, and filtering into the 
•spirit even of those who remained 
.attached to paganism, may have 
suggested the making of the coins 
we have described; but it is cer- 
tain, on the other hand, that we can 
claim priority in point of time for 
the work of the Christian artists 
in the Catacombs. The coins were 



struck, as we have said, in the be- 
ginning of the third century ; the 
earliest Christian painting of the 
same subject is assigned to the be- 
ginning of the second. 

But whatever may be the history 
of the forms under which Noe and 
the ark are represented, there can 
be no question as to their meaning. 
We have the authority of St. Peter 
himself (i iii. 20, 21) to instruct 
us upon this point ; and Tertullian 
does but unfold what is virtually 
contained in the apostle's words 
when he says that the ark prefig- 
ures the church, and that the dove 
sent out of the ark and returning 
with an olive-branch was a figure 
of the dove of the Holy Spirit, 
sent forth from heaven to our flesh, 
as it emerges from the bath of re- 
generation. And if we quote Ter- 
tullian again as our authority, this 
is not because he differs in these 
matters from other Christian writ- 
ers who preceded or followed him, 
but because he has written at great- 
er length and specially on that par- 
ticular subject with which we are 
now engaged. St. Augustine, writ- 
ing two hundred years later, gives 
the same explanation, and says that 
"no Catholic doubts it ; but that it 
might perhaps have seemed to be a 
merely human imagination, had not 
the Apostle Peter expressly declared 
it." It is, then, from no private fan- 
cy of our own, but simply in con- 
formity with the teaching of all the 
ancient doctors of the church, that 
we interpret this scene of a man 
standing in an ark, and receiving 
an olive-branch from the mouth ot" 
a dove, as expressing this Cliristian 
doctrine : that the faithful obtain re- 
mission of their sins through bap- 
tism, receive from the Holy Spirit 
the gift of divine peace — that peace 
which, being given by faith in this 
world, is the gage of everlasting 



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peace and happiness in the ilext — 
and are saved in the mystical ark 
of the church from the destruction 
which awaits the world. And if 
the same scene be rudely scratched 
on a single tomb, as it often was, 
and sometimes with the name of 
ibe deceased inscribed upon the 
ch^st, we can only understand it 
as d«Qoting a sure and certain hope 
on the part of the survivors that 
their departed friend, having been 
a faithful member of the church, 
had died in the peace of God and 
had now entered iato his rest. 

We pass on to another of the 
Biblical stories mentioned by sev- 
eral of the Fathers as typical of 
baptism ; and we will select as our 
specimen of it a painting that was 
executed about the very time that 
TertuUian was writing his treatise 
on that sacrament. It is to be seen 
more than once on the walls of a 
series of chambers which open out 
of a gallery in the Catacomb of 
San Callisto, not far from the papal 
crypt. The first figure that greets 
us from the wall on the left-hand 
side as we enter these chambers 
is Moses striking the rock and the 
water gushing forth. Are we to 
look upon this as a mere historic 
souvenir of the Jewish legislator, 
or are we to see in it a reference 
to Christian baptism? The artist 
in the present instance does not 
allow us to doubt. Side by side 
with it he has painted a fisherman, 
and we need not be reminded who 
it was that compared the work of 
the Christian apostle to that of 
fishermen ; and immediately he adds, 
with still greater plainness of speech, 
a youth standing in the water, 
whilst a man pours water over his 
head. Finally, he fills the very little 
space that remains on the wall with 
the picture of a paralytic carrying 
lis bed, and it would be easy to 



show that the Fathers recognized in 
the pool of Bethsaida, to which 
place this history belongs, a type 
of the healing waters of baptism. 
Was it possible for the Christian 
artist to set forth the sacrament 
more unequivocally? There is no 
legend to interpret the painting, 
but surely this is not needed. The 
mystery is veiled, indeed, from all 
who were uninstructed ; but it was 
perfectly intelligible to all the bap- 
tized ; it was veiled under types and 
symbols taken partly from the Old 
Law and partly from common life. 

We need hardly say that this 
same figure of Moses striking the 
rock occurs in scores of other 
places throughout the Catacombs ; 
but we have selected this particular 
specimen, both because it appears 
with a more copious entourage of 
other symbols determining its sense 
beyond all dispute, and also be- 
cause it is here brought, as we 
shall presently see, into immediate 
proximity with the other sacrament, 
to which it is a necessary gate of 
introduction — the Sacrament of the 
Holy Eucharist. But before we 
pass on to examine the symbols of 
the Holy Eucharist, let us first in- 
quire whether there is anything fur- 
ther about baptism to be gleaned 
from the Catacombs — not now from 
their paintings, but from their in- 
scriptions. 

We must remember that the 
most ancient inscriptions were very 
brief — very often the mere name of 
the deceased and nothing more, or 
a short ejaculatory prayer was add- 
ed for his everlasting happiness. 
It is clear that we should search 
here in vain for any mention of the 
sacraments. By and by, when it be- 
came usual to say something more 
about the deceased, to mention his 
age and the date of his death or 
burial, or other similar particulars, 



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perhaps room might be found also 
for saying something about his bap- 
tism. Accordingly, there are not 
wanting monuments of the fourth or 
fifth centuries which tell us that 
. the deceased was a neophyte, or 
■ ncAvly illuminated — which means the 
same thing: viz., that he had been 
lately, baptized — or that he had 
lived so many months or years 
after he had received the initiatory 
sacrament of the Christian cove- 
nant. Occasionally, also, a faint 
reference may be found to another 
sacrament — the Sacrament of Con- 
firmation. This was often, or even 
generally, administered in olden 
limes immediately after baptism, of 
which it was considered the com- 
I)lement and perfection. ** From 
time immemorial," says TertuUian 
(ab immemorabili)^ " as soon as we 
have emerged from the bath [of 
regeneration] we are anointed with 
the holy unction." Hence it is 
sometimes doubtful which sacra- 
ment is intended, or rather it is 
probable that it was intended to 
include both under the words in- 
scribed on the epitaphs — the verbs 
accept ty percepity consecutus est (the 
same as we find in the fathers of 
the same or an earlier age), used for 
the most part absolutely, without 
any object whatever following them ; 
but in one or two cases fidem or 
^ratiam sanctam are used. An epi- 
taph of a child three years old adds : 
Consecuia est D. vi. Deposita viii. 
Kal, Aug, Another says simply : 
Pascasius percept t xi. Kal, Maias ; 
and a third : Crescentia q, v. a, xxxiii, 
Accepit Hi. Kal. Jul. A fourth re- 
cords of a lady that she died at the 
age of thirty-five : Ex die acceptionis 
suce vixit dies Ivii. ; to which we 
append another ; Consecutus est ii. 
Non» Decemb. ex die consecutionis 
in saculo fuit ad usque vii. Idas 
Decemb, This last inscription is 



taken from a Christian cemetery in 
Africa, not in Rome; but it was 
worth quoting for its exact conformi- 
ty with the one which precedes it. 
In both alike there is the same 
distinction between the natural 
and the spiritual age of the deceas- 
ed — i.e.y between his first and his 
second birth. After stating the 
number of years he had lived in the 
world, his age is computed afresh 
from the day of his regeneration, 
thus marking off the length of 
his spiritual from that of his merely 
animal life. 

A Greek inscription was found a 
few years since on the Via Lalina, 
recording of a lady who had be- 
longed to one of the Gnostic sects 
in the third century, that she had 
been " anointed in the baths of 
Christ with his pure and incor- 
ruptible ointment" — an inscription 
which probably refers to two sepa- 
rate rites in use among the Gnos- 
tics, in imitation of the two Chris- 
tian sacraments. Of a Christian 
lady buried in Spoleto, her epitaph 
records that she had been confirm- 
ed {consignata) by Pope Liberius ; 
this, of course, belongs to the mid- 
dle of the fourth century. And we 
read of a boy who died when he 
was a little more than five years 
old : Bimus triinus consecutus est — 
words which were a veritable enig- 
ma to all antiquarians, until the 
learned Marini compared with them 
the phrases of Roman law, bima tri- 
ma die dos reddita, bima trima die le- 
gatum solutum, and pointed out that 
as these phrases undoubtedly signi- 
fied that such a portion of the dow- 
ry or legacy was paid in the second 
year, and such another portion in 
the third, so the corresponding 
words in the Christian epitaph could 
only mean that the deceased had 
received something when he was 
two years old, and something else 



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TisttfHony of the Catacowbs. 



313 



when he was three ; and although 
the particnlar gifts received are not 
mentioned because of the disciplina 
arcaniy we can have no difficulty in 
supplying baptism and confirma- 
tion. De Rossi adopts this inter- 
pretation ; indeed, it does not seem 
possible to suggest any other. 

It seems, then, that there is not 
much evidence to be derived from 
the Catacombs as to the Sacrament 
of ConBrmation ; that, on the con- 
trary, which has reference to the 
Holy Eucharist is most precious 
and abundant, and it is generally 
to be found in juxtaposition with 
monuments which bear testimony 
to the Sacrament of Baptism. The 
chamber in the crypt of Lucina 
which gives us the oldest painting 
of the baptism of our Lord gives us 
also what are probably the oldest 
symbolical representations of the 
Holy Eucharist ; and certainly the 
chambers in .the cemetery of San 
Callisto, in which we have just seen 
so many and such clear manifesta* 
tions of the Sacrament of Baptism, 
contain also the most numerous 
and the most perfect specimens of 
the symbolic representations of the 
Holy Eucharist carried to their 
highest degree of development, yet 
still combined with mysterious se- 
crecy. Before enumerating these 
in detail it will be best to miike 
two or three preliminary remarks 
helping to clear the way before us. 
First, then, we may assume as 
known to all our readers, both that 
the doctrine about the Blessed Sa* 
crament belonged in a very special 
way to the discipline of the secret, 
and also that from the very earliest 
times one of the most common 
names under which our Blessed 
Lord was spoken of was the fish^ 
because the letters which go to 
make up- that word in Greek were 
tlso the initials of the words Jesus 



Christ, Son of God, Saviour. And, 
secondly, we must say a few words 
about the different circumstances 
under which a fish appears in the 
artistic decorations of tlie Cata- 
combs; at least, of the different 
kinds of feasts or entertainments 
in which it seems to be presented 
as an article of food. These feasts 
may be divided into three classes : 
First, the fish merely lies upon a table 
— z, sacred table or tripod — with 
one or more*\oaven of bread by its 
side, and not unfrequently with 
several baskets full of bread on the 
ground around it ; secondly, bread 
and fish are seen on a table, at which 
seven men are seated partaking of 
a meal ; and, thirdly, they are seen, 
perhaps with other viands also, at 
a feast of which men and women 
are partaking indiscriminately, and 
perhaps attendants also are there, 
waiting on the guests, pouring out 
wine and water, hot or cold. Paint- 
ings of this latter class have not un- 
commonly been taken as represent- 
ing the agapa^ or love-feasts, of the 
early church. But this seems to 
be too literal an interpretation, too 
much out of harmony with the sym- 
bolical character of early Christian 
art. More probably it was meant 
as a representation of that wedding- 
feast under which image the joys 
of heaven are so often set forth in 
Holy Scripture; and in this case 
it is not necessary to suppose that 
there was any special meaning in 
the choice of fish as part of the food 
provided, unless, indeed (which is 
not at all improbable), it was desir- 
ed to direct attention to that mys- 
tical food a participation in which 
was the surest pledge of admission 
to that heavenly banquet, accord- 
ing to our lord's own words : ** He 
that eateth this bread shall live for 
ever." However, it is not neces- 
sary, as we have said, to suppose 



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Testimony of the Catacombs, 



this; it is quite possible that in 
these instances the fish may have 
been used accidentally, as it were, 
and indifferently, or for the same 
reason as it sometimes appears on 
pagan monuments — viz., to denote 
tlie abundance and exceUence of 
the entertainment. 

Paintings of the first class, how* 
ever, are much too peculiar to be 
thus explained, neither is there any- 
thing resembling them in the works 
of pagan artists which could have 
suggested them ; and those of the 
second class, we hope presently to 
sliow, can only have been intended 
to represent a particular scene in 
the Gospel history. It is only with 
paintings belonging to one or other 
of these two classes that we need 
concern ourselves to-day. And, 
first, of the bread and Ash when 
placed alone, without any guests at 
all. In the crypt of Lucina it ap- 
j>ears twice on the wall opposite 
our Lord's baptism, and in a very 
remarkable form indeed. The fish 
is alive and apparently swimming, 
and he carries on his back a basket 
full of loaves, in the middle of 
which is a vessel of glass contain- 
ing some red liquid. What can 
this mean 7 Nobody ever saw any- 
thing like it in nature. We know 
of .notliing in pagan art or mytho- 
logy which could have suggested it. 
Yet here it finds a place in the 
chamber of a Christian cemetery, 
and as part of a system of decora- 
tion, other parts of which were un- 
doubtedly of a sacred character. 
Is this alone profane or meaning- 
less, or does not rather its hidden 
sense shine forth distinctly as soon 
as we call to mind the use of the 
fisii as a Christian symbol on the 
one hand, and the Christian doc- 
trine about the Holy Eucharist on 
the other? The fish was Christ. 
And he once took bread and broke 
it, and said. This is my body; and 



he took wine and blessed it, saying, 
This is my blood ; and he appoint* 
ed this to be an everlasting ordi- 
nance in his church, and promised 
that whosoever should eat of that 
bread and drink of that chalice 
should inherit everlasting life. Here 
are the bread and the wine and the 
mystical fish. And was it possible 
for Christian eyes to attach any 
other meaning to the combination 
than that it was intended to bring 
before them the remembrance of 
the Christian mysteries, whereby 
death and the grave were robbed 
of all their gloom, being only the ap- 
pointed means of entrance to a 
never-ending life.^ If anybody is 
tempted to object that, the vessels 
here represented as containing the 
bread and wine are too mean ever 
to have been used for such a pur- 
pose, we must remind him that it 
had already been put on record by 
archaeologists, before the discovery 
of this monument, that the early 
Christians in the days of poverty 
and persecution continued to use 
vessels of the same humble mate- 
rials as had been used in the sacri- 
ficial rites of Jews and Gentiles be- 
fore them, and that these were pre- 
cisely such as are here represented. 
Nay, further still, that even when 
vessels of gold and silver had come 
into use in the church, still there 
were exceptional times and circum- 
stances when it was lawful, and 
even praiseworthy, to return to the 
more simple and ancient practice. 
St, Jerome praises St. Exuperius, 
Bishop of Toulouse in his day, be- 
cause, having sold the di u re h- plate 
to relieve the pressing necessities 
of the poor, he was content to car- 
ry the body of Christ in a basket 
made of wicker-work, and the blood 
of Christ in a chalice of glass. Most 
assuredly St. Jerome would have 
been at no loss to interpret th^ 
painting before us. 



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Testimony of the Catacombs. 



^15 



But let us now pass on into the 
cemetery of San Callisto, and enter 
again the chamber in which we saw 
MoseSy and the fishermen, and the 
ministration of baptism, and the 
paralytic* Let us pursue our walk 
round the chamber, and immedi- 
ately after the paralytic, on the wail 
facing the doorway, we come to the 
painting of a three-legged table with 
bread and fish upon it, a woman 
standing on one side in the ancient 
attitude of Christian prayer, and a 
man on the other stretching out his 
hands over the fish and the bread, 
as though he were blessing them. 
Can it be that we liave here the 
act of consecration of the Holy 
Eucharist, as in the adjacent wall 
we had the act of baptizing, only 
in a somewhat more hidden man^ 
ner, as became the surpassing dig- 
nity of the greater mystery ? No- 
body, we think, would ever have 
disputed it, had the dress of the 
cunsecrator been somewhat more 
suited^ to such an action. But his 
breast and arm and one side of his 
body are considerably exposed, as 
he stretches out his arm from un- 
derneath his cloak; and modern 
taste ta^es exception to the expo- 
sure as unseemly in such a time 
and place. We have no wish to 
put a weapon into the hands of the 
anti-ritualistic party. Nevertheless, 
we believe that it is pretty well as- 
certained that at first no vestment 
was exclusively appropriated to>he 
celebration of Mass. We are n^ot 
sure that Dean Stanley was in error 
when he wrote the other day that 
St. Martin, the Aposile of Gaul and 
first Bishop of Tours, wore a sheep- 
skin wlien he ofliciated, and that 
'* he consecrated the Eucharistic 
elements with his bare arms com- 
ing; through the sheepskin." And 
at any rate, it is certain that in the 
d&ys of Tertullian, to which the pic- 
lure before us belongs, many minis- 



ters of Christ's word and sacraments 
used the pallium as the dress most 
suitable to their own profession. 
The writer we have named pub- 
lished a short treatise on the sub- 
ject, in which, with his usual wit 
and subtlety, he commends its use, 
and he concludes with these words : 
"Rejoice, O Pallium! and exult; 
a better philosophy claims thee 
now, since thou hast become the 
vestment of a Christian." Forty 
years later a fellow-countryman of 
this writer, St. Cyprian, expressed 
a strong objection to the dress, both 
as immodest in itself and vainglo- 
ripus in its signification. Thus 
everything conspires to support the 
interpretation which the picture it- 
self suggests and the age to which 
it has been assigned ; and we con- 
clude with confidence that those 
who first saw it never doubted that 
it was meant to set before them the 
most solemn mystery of their reli- 
gion. 

They would have recognized the 
same mystery again without hesita- 
tion, under another form, in the 
painting which follows immediately 
afterwards, in which seven men are 
seen seated at a table, partaking of 
bread and fish. Our own thoughts, 
as we look at it, fly naturally to the 
last chapter of the Gospel accord- 
ing to St. John, where such an in- 
cident as this is minutely described 
after the miraculous draught of 
fishes which was the occasion of it. 
But qnless we are very familiar with 
the writings of the Fathers, our 
thoughts would probably go no fur- 
ther; they would rest in the mere 
letter of the narrative ; we should 
not penetrate beneath the surface, 
and see (as all the Fathers saw), in 
every circumstance related, a pro- 
phetic figure of the whole history 
of the church : first, the immense 
number of souls caught in her net, 
then the union of those souls with. 



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2l6 



Testimony of the Catacombs. 



Christ, "the fish that was already 
laid on the hot coals " {Piscis assus, 
Christus passus\ their incorporation 
with him through partaking of that 
living Bread which came down from 
heaven, and consequently their sure 
hope of abiding with him for ever 
in the world to come. This is no 
private or modern interpretation ; 
it is drawn out at greatest length 
by St. Augustine; but it is to be 
found also in all other patristic 
commentaries on Holy Scripture; 
and the marvellous unity, not only 
in dogmatic teaching, but even in 
the use of allegories and artistic 
symbols, which reached from east 
to west in the ancient church, war- 
rants us in assuming that it was not 
unknown to him who selected this 
scene as the central piece of decora* 
tion for the principal wall of this 
chamber. 

Next after it he painted Abra- 
ham with his son Isaac, the ram, 
and the faggot for the sacrifice — a 
type both of the sacrifice on Mount 
Calvary and (in a yet more lively 
manner) of the unbloody sacrifice 
still perpetually renewed on Chris- 
tian altars. 

Thus there is the most exact 
similitude between the illustrations 
used to set forth the Holy Eucha- 
rist on the one wall and those of 
holy baptism on the other. Both 
sacraments are at the same time 
veiled from unbelievers, yet indicat- 
ed to the faithful, by types taken 
from the history of the Old Law, by 
incidents belonging to the life of 
Christ, and by representations, suffi- 
ciently simple yet obscure, of the 
actual manner of their administra- 
tion. And then the last wall was 
reserved for the setting forth of our 
resurrection, in the example of 
Lazarus, which was, in truth, the 
natural end and completion of all 
that the sacraments led to. 

We have not left ourselves space 



to speak at length of the miracles 
of changing water into wine, or the 
multiplication of the loaves and 
fishes, as other figures of the Holy 
Eucharist often to be seen in the 
Catacombs. That they were paint- 
ed there in this sense we cannot 
doubt, when we consider how they 
were connected with that sacra- 
ment in the sermons and catecheti- 
cal instructions of the early church. 
In the first miracle the substance 
of water was changed into the sub- 
stance of wine ; in the second a 
limited substance was, by Christ's 
power, so multiplied as to be made 
present in a thousand places at 
once, capable of feeding a thousand 
persons, whereas a minute before 
it had been only present in one 
place and was sufficient only to 
satisfy the appetite of one. The 
analogy is obvious ; but these mira- 
cles do not seem to have entered 
so early into the system of decora- 
tion of the Catacombs (except in a 
very fragmentary and indirect man- 
ner), neither do they anywhere en- 
ter into so long and beautiful a 
Series of mystical figures, as those 
others which we have been just now 
examining. Those form a series 
of rare and very special interest. 
They are repeated, as we have al- 
ready said, in several successive 
chambers, whose date can be deter- 
mined, by a number of concurrent 
indications, as not later than the 
first quarter of the third century. 
In these chambers the same his- 
tories and the same symbols are 
repeated in the same style, freely 
changed in their arrangement and 
in some accessories of the composi- 
tion, yet constant in their hidden 
meaning and theological sense ; and 
that sense is briefly this : the idea 
of a new life imparted to the Chris- 
tian soul by baptism, fed by the 
Holy Eucharist, and continued un- 
interruptedly throughout eternity. 



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Tivo May Carols. 217 



TWO MAY CAROLS. 

BY AUBREY DE VER& 
DARKNESS. 

The authentic Thought of God at last 
Wanes, dimly seen, through Error's mist : 

Upon that mist, man's image cast 
Becomes the new God-Mechanist. 

The vast Idea shrivels up : 

Truth narrows with the narrowing soul : 
Men sip it from the acorn's cup : 

Their fathers drained the golden bowl. 

Shrink, spelled and dwarfed, their eartli, their skies ; 

Shrinks in their hand their measuring-rod; 
With dim, yet microscopic eyes 

They chase a daily-dwindling God. 

His temple thus to crypt reduced. 

For ancient faith is space no more, 
Or her, its Queen.* To hearts abused 

By sense, prime truths are true no more. 



UGHT. 

The spirit intricately wise 

That bends above his ciphered scroll 
Only to probe, and analyze, 

The 8elf*involved and sunless soul. 

Has not the truth he holds — though plain ; 

For truth divine is gift, not debt : — 
Her living waters wouldst thou drain ? 

Let down the pitcher, not the net ! 

But they, the spirits frank and meek, 

Nor housed in self, nor science-blind, 
\Vho welcome truths they did not seek ; — 

Truth comes to them in every wind. 

* Father Newnwii has, I Uiink, remarked that in the Protestant scheme there is noi room for Mary. 

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2 1 8 Letters of a Young Irishwoman to ker Sister. 

Beside his tent's still open door, 
With open heart, and open eye, 

The patriarch sat, when they who wore 
That triad type of God drew nigh. 

The world of faith around us lies 

Like nature's world of life and growth : 

Seeing, to see it needeth eyes 
And heart, profound and simple both. 



LETTERS OF A YOUNG IRISHWOMAN TO HER SISTER. 



FItOM THB PKKNCH. 



November i6, 1869. 

TH^RfesE has followed her sister. 
... At the last moment reason 
returned; she looked at her mo- 
ther and said: "Here is Mad; 
i;ive me your blessing!" O my 
God ! it is, then, true — the nest is 
empty. 

Kate, how are Berthe and Raoul 
to be consoled ? 

November 22, 1869. 
Margaret is here again — a ray of 
sunshine after the storm, in this 
dwelling, twice visited by death. 
Oil I how we wept in embracing her. 
And with what affection she has- 
tened to Berthe, this devastated, 
disinherited, wounded, and bleed- 
ing heart ! " How shall we leave 
this cemetery now ?" said my moth- 
er to Gertrude, Oh! I would wish to 
remain here with her. To return 
to Orleans, to find their traces 
everywhere, would be too much 
grief. What a crushing blow ! What 
incredible, unforeseen suddenness ! 
It is enough to ta)ce away one's rea- 
son. Raoul speaks no more, hears 
no more, sees no 'more ; Berthe is in 
tears : we have to console and sup- 
port them. Help.us with your pray- 



ers, happy Kale, who witness no 
death ! In the middle of the park 
are two trees which Raoul planted 
on the day his daughters were born. 
They are to be transplanted to their 
tombs. Dear children, so united, 
so beautiful, and inseparable, even 
in death! O the mother! what 
sorrow is hers. Ought children to 
die before their mother } 

Mme. de T is heroic in self- 
denial, and yet these deaths revive 
all her troubles. Ah! who could 
have foretold that my happiness 
would so soon have declined, and 
that God would so quickly have 
claimed his portion of our treasure ! 
See, here are Gertrude and Berthe 
— two mothers without children : 
Ellen and Edith in eternity; Mar- 
cella at Naples. I now experience 
an indescribable apprehension, and 
count the beloved heads by which 
I am still surrounded. ... I re- 
member the L family, carried 

off in one year. 

A radiant letter from Marcella, 
who does not yet know of our 
mou rn i n g. Beaii qui lu<reni / Let 
us love God, let us love God ! 

It is in him that I cherish you, 
my Kate. 



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Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister. 



Zig 



November 28, 1869. 

All our Ireland in letters of fra- 
ternal condolence. The saintly 
Isa speaks to me sweetly of the 
happiness of the souls thus called 
away, and exhorts me to perfect 
love. Lizzy invites me to cross 
the Channel to receive the consola* 
tions of those whom I consoled 
formerly. Sarah and the others 
comfort me in our bdoved* tongue. 
O Kate ! it was so beautiful, our 
peaceful home, with its assembly of 
children and grandchildren, form* 
ingy as it were, a glorious crown 
around my venerated mother ; and 
now a void has been made, the 
birds have spread their wings, and, 
like the dove from the ark, re- 
turn no more. 

O charming towers, silent wit- 
nesses of our happiness ! O vast 
sea, coming to murmur at our feet ! 
O flowers they loved ! O thickets 
where their voices, fresh and pure, 
resounded I O lawn whereon they 
tried their earliest steps; dear 
abode which witnessed their 
growth! O forests through which 
they sped along, lively and swift of 
foot, in chase of butterflies or of 
their favorite dog! O solitary 
paths which they so often traversed 
to go and lavish on the poor their 
gold and their lovel^^peak to us 
of fhemy and of them always. 

Dear Kate, pray for the desolate 
parents. *^ All my future has van- 
ished,*' siys Bert he. May God be 
with her \ Everytliing else is very 
small in trials so great as these. 
My motlier begs you to ask for 
fifty Masses at Fourvieres ; we have 
not the strength to write. 

Life, the sunshine^and blue sky — 
ail have disappeared. Adieu, dear 
sister. 

DbceUBer 5, 1S69. 

Adrien is reading to us Herminie 
dcla BasscmoiHturiey a true narrative 



of a life of suflering and humilia- 
tion, borne with a courage so heroic 
and supernatural that one's heart 
kindles at it. Margaret is going 
away, i>erhaps to-morrow. On the 
30th Heaven sent Lucy a dear little 
daughter, who was baptized yester- 
day without any pomp. Gertrude 
was godmother, and the godfather 
is a brother of my pretty sister's. 
They have called this little daugh- 
ter of Brittany Anne — a good name, 

Dec, 6, — I have just returned 
from accompanying our friends as 
far as to D . Emmanuel con- 
tinued to send me kisses while the 
carriage went slowly away. . . . 
Dear Margaret ! how much I re- 
gret her. Everybody loves her, 
wherever she goes. Now we are 
alone. . . . Johanna, Paul, and their 
children leave us this evening to 
spend some months at Paris. 1 
never tell you about Arthur and 
Edward, whose vacation is over, 
and who are very good friends to- 
gether. The a^^ remains with 
us, that we may not be deprived 
of daily Mass. From henceforth 
follow me in thought into the great 
drawing-room, once so bright with 
the dear young creatures whom I 
so loved, and there you will see, in 
her large easy-chair, my mother, 
whom grief has aged, with your 
Georgina on a low chair at lier 
feet. Gertrude, with needlework in 
her hands, occupies the other side 
of the fire-place, Berthe is near her, 
then Adrien, Ren6, Raoul, Edouard, 
and the a^^/ round the table, near 
which is seated also the charming 
Lucy* 

But a ray from on high pierces 
the sombre veils: our dear 
ones see God; they contemplate 
him in eternal ecstasy. I had 
bought Hi Orleana a poetic little 
picture — a lily broken on earth, 
which flowered again in heaven. — 



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Letters of a Y&ung Iriskwoman ta her Sister. 



and underneath it a verse of the 
beautiful lines by Mile. Fleuriot on 
the death of Aiix. How this lily 
recalls Picciola to my mind ! Ren6 
is working at a miniature which he 
intends to give to Berthe : in the 
foreground the twins are embracing 
a poor old man; in the distance 
Are two lilies on a tomb and two 
doves taking flight. I am continu- 
ing the History of the P-opes ; it 
will be for Marguerite and Alix. 

How I wish you were here ! My 
heart aches for Berthe, formerly 
so happy, and so lonely now. Ah ! 
what burning tears are those that 
spring from the hearts of mothers 
when God takes back from them 
the precious ones lent them for a 
day. O remediless grief, deep void, 
unfathomable abyss ! • . 

Yes, we shall remain in Brittany. 
The noise of the festivities of this 
world would be to us a martyrdom ; 
but I am athirst for my Kate, and 
it seems as if I shall be stronger 
when her gentle hand has laid balm 
upon my wounds. Ren6 and I will 
be 'n Paris on the 23d for a few days. 

Mistress Annah shed many tears 
at the moment of leave-taking. 
Margaret was pale and greatly 
moved; why should there be any 
separations, sister ? Ah! doubtless 
because earth would be too delight- 
ful. May God be always with 
you! 

DECEM9ER 12, 1869. 

Do you know that Overbeck is 
dead.^ Edith MacMoor sends me 
long and interesting details from 
Rome. Edith has taken up her 
abode in the city which is the fa- 
therland of Catholics, and her old 
sympathy with me, she says, has 
reawakened before the Sibyls, Dear, 
ardent soul, always so amiable! 
O our artist, so beloved, so ad- 
mired ! The world is no more 
anything to me but a Campo Santo^ 



Have you heard of the Pearl oj 
Antioch t I am reaiding this Chris- 
tian romance with Ren^ 

On the 8th we observed as a 
special festival the opening of the 
great sittings of this Council which 
will crown with a new glory the 
reign of Pius IX. Our life is quite 
monastic : no more joyous Laughter 
rings along the corridors ; silence — 
the "first power in the world," as 
the P^re Lacordaire called it — 
dwells with us;. We are in mourning 
for our beloved children, and these 
dark dresses are of a solemn sad- 
ness which strikes our visitors. 
Every day, no matter what the 
weather may be, Ren6 accompanies 
me to the cemetery. In spite of 
the cold, there are flowers, and this 
marble is aXmo^t joyous. The Revjic 
gives an interesting story — "Lau- 
rence," an account of a young girl 
who wished to die because her sis- 
ter, on whom she lavished all her 
love, had departed to heaven. .1 
do not think that Th^rese wished 
for death, but think rather that 
Picciola asked of God that she 
might share her felicity. 

Lucy is well, and thanks yoa for 
your sisterly prayers. We are ex- 
pecting news from Margaret and 
Marcella. Mary and Ellen write 
regularly to Berthe. and to me. 
Good and kind hearts, full of gen* 
tleness and affection ! 

Kate dearest, what do you say to 
my idea ? — the adoption* of these 
children would console my sister. 
Would it be well to propose it to 
her? 

I find Ren 6 changed. Pray for 
us. 

December 15, 1869. 

Margaret sends me her Journal 
since the departure, every line of 
which is redolent of poetry and 
affeclion. Emmanuel is hourly 
asking for us. Marcella sends. me 



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JLeUets of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister, 



22^ 



pages bathed with tears: *^Wh7 
did you allow^ me to go away, dear 
and generous friend ? I fee! that 
your soul would have taken refuge 
with mine in these sad days." 

Kate, what, then, is happines^y 
since it lasts so short a time ? 

Marcella is going to spend the 
winter at Rome; Anna continues 
to grow both taller and stronger, 
" but the departure of her friends 
makes her wish for heaven, and 
everything gives me the presenti- 
ment that in a few years my belov- 
ed one will enter a convent. You 
will scold me for thinking this so 
long beforehand, but you will agree 
with me that her piety is beyond 
what is ordinary. I have so un- 
learnt happiness that I live always 
in uncertainty." A friend of Ad- 
rien's tells him of tlie reception 
given at Naples to the happy family 

party : Mnie. de V is allied to 

the Princess of X . How fair 

a future has opened before my 
friend ! " To return to Rome, where 
so many of my memories linger, 
was my earnest desire; blessed 
be God, who permits it lo be 
realized !*' 

Ren6 is writing to you. Good*by 
for to-day, dearest sister 1 

DlECEMBER i8, 1869 
Read an admirable pastoral let- 
ter by Mgr. Berth aud. " It ' is a 
fountain of living water, a springing 
fountain," writes Louis Veuillot, 
who has the happiness to be in 
Rome. 

Berthe yields to the entreaties of 
her mother, who begs her to go lo 
her in her old castle on the banks 
of the Rhine. Lucy is going away 
at the same time to show her sisters 
the beaut! fullit tie Anna, her rose- 
bud. I look forward with fear to 
the feeling of solitude which will 
seize upon us after they arc gone. 



O my God I these will all return, but 
thou keepest thine angels. 

The happy Karl sends the most 
fraternal letters that he has ever 
yet addressed to me. He is now 
in retreat, almost ready to mount 
the steps of the altar and accom- 
plish Ellen's last desire. ** I am 
never lonely," he writes- What ar- 
dor consumes him I How he burns 
to shed his blood for Christ ! " My 
whole soul springs forth towards 
those disinherited souls who know 
not God 1 If you still take an interest 
in your unworthy brother, wish for 
him crosses, trials, sorrows, and 
persecutions. But I am not wor- 
thy to participiite in the Passion of 
my Redeemer, and it may be that 
my cross may be the burden of a 
useless life." Saintly friend 1 no- 
ble heart I His director, who is a 
relative of our good adlf/, never 
wearies in his praises of Karl. -Re- 
cording to all probability, he will 
set out for Marseilles the day after 
his ordination, where tiie first ship 
that sails will take him on board. 
What am I, my God, by the side of 
|:his brother left me by Ellen ? 

I am coming to see you, dear 
Kate, to refresh myself with you — 
a too rapid apparition, too fleeting 
a happiness, and one in which I 
scarcely can believe. 

December 22, 1869. 
Dear Kate, tins sacrifice must al- 
so be made. Yesterday a frightful 
accident threw us all into the great- 
est agitation. My mother's horses 
ran away. The footman, losing all 
presence of mind with terror, leaped 
down and was killed by the fall. 
He was taken up quite mutilated. 
. . . Horrible ! horrible ! My mo- 
ther has fever; we remain. The 
unfortunate Antoine will be buried 
to-morrow morning. He leaves 
three children. He was an excel- 



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lent Christian, and was preparing to 
make his Christmas . communion. 
... I am writing to Karl, antl at 
the same time to the venerable su- 
perior to obtain permission for our 
friend to give us one or two days 
previous to quitting France and 
Europe. 

My mother was coming back 
from the town, whither we had all 
gone to take those of our party who 
were leaving. Ren6 and I were to 
have taken our departure this even- 
ing. All in this world is nothing- 
ness, except the pure and holy love 
of God. I had so set my mind on 
this journey that I can only give it 
up by doing violence to my heart. 
But if the shock my mother has un- 
dergone should bring on an illness, 
I sliould never forgive myself for 
having gone away. 

Pray, dear Kate ! 

December 25, 1869. 
My mother is better, dear sister, 
although the doctor condemns her 
still to repose. The good cur^ is 
very unwell, and, since my mother 
would not have been able to attend 
the midnight Mass, the abd^ offer- 
ed to say it at the parish church. 
Ah ! if the twins had been here. 
We left the house at ten. What a 
night ! What impressions ! In a 
clear and calm night, with the sky 
spangled with thousands of stars, 
to go through hedge-bordered paths 
to this old Breton church, so vast 
and so full ; the singing, the sounds 
of the organ played by Ren^, the 
Gloria in Excelsis, so sweet and 
grand, tlie numerous communions, 
the dimly- lighted sanctuary — all 
these things had about them an 
indescribable old-world poetry, a 
certain interior and heavenlychann, 
which made me ask if we were not 
at Bethlehem, and if we were not 
suddenly about to behold with our 



bodily eyes, like the shepherds, the 
adorable new-born Saviour in the 
manger. " The Cedar of Lebanon 
is gone forth from the hyssop in 
our valley." Lord Jesus, grant thy 
blessing upon France ! 

It is two years to-day since Ellen 
entered into glory. With what ec- 
stasy she must behold Karl at the 
altar ! Dear Kate, I know not what 
atmosphere is surrounding me, but 
it seems to me that every sorrow 
brings me nearer to God. 

My mother was visibly affected on 
reading your kind lines; how she 
loves us ! Gertrude is more saint- 
ly than ever ; her self-denial is in- 
creasing. She has owned to me 
that she never loses the presence 
of God. We five form a severe 
group, in which the highest ques- 
tions are discussed. Gertrude is 
on fire when she speaks of charity. 
There is no sort of mortification in 
which she does not take delight ; 
how I startled her yesterday by 
coming suddenly upon her as she 
was exchanging her shoes for those 
of a beggar ! She fasted on bread 
and water the three last days of 
Advent, and has asked me if I 
would go with her barefoot to the 
crucifix on the mountain, the path 
to which is covered with brambles. 
You see she is a worthy imitator of 
the Acta Sanctorum. 
A DieUy best beloved ! 

December 28, 1S69. 
Karl arrives on the 31st. Dear 
Kate, his letter showed me heaven. 
•Good news of everybody, and my 
mother is in tlie drawing-room. So 
the year is about to end — this year, 
so eventful, and so plentiful in 
tears ! O my God I how many lov- 
ing looks follow me no more. In 
my meditation this morning I ask- 
ed myself whether I am yet sub- 
missive and resigned. Alas! I truly 



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wish whatever God wills, but I am 
weak. 

Just now two little birds came 
and perched on my window, flut- 
tering as if wanting to come in. I 
opened it gently and crumbled a 
cake for them, and the pretty little 
hungry creatures pecked up tlie 
crumbs gladly. Then they flew 
away, and I began to think of the 
two sweet birds which, almost be- 
fore we were aware, have flown 
away also. I was so proud of this 
beautiful family, so happy to be- 
long to it! Oh! you know well, 
Kate, that it is above all for the 
sake of the poor father, the sor- 
rowing mother, that I regret these 
two attractive creatures ! Raoul 
writes that Berthe is more calm, 
and he thinks she will remain 
some time where she is. What an 
image of death is this silence and 
the solitude that now surrounds us I 
I work hard, take long walks, teach 
two little boys their catechism, and 
yet, in spite of everything, as soon 
as Rcn6 is no longer there, as soon 
as I recall the past, my heart is 
ready to break. 

" Take care, my dear daughter," 
my mother says to me. " Strengthen 
your soul ; throw yourself upon 
God." And Gertrude: "The 
thought of God softens everything. 
He has permitted it — let us submit ; 
let us live in heaven." 

Would that we could go thither 
together, dear sister ! 

Accept all my best wishes for the- 
New Year — wishes for every day and 
every hour, for your earthly and 
eternal happiness. 

January 5, 1870. 
Dear Kate, liow good God is ! 
This is the cry of my heart, crushed 
beneath the weight of its gratitude. 
Karl has been our Good Samari- 
tan. If Berthe and Raoul could 



only hear him ! What unction in 
his words ! 

He made his appearance like the 
angel of Providence amongst us. It 
was in the evening. Ren6 had gone 
to wait for him ; we had heard no 
noise, when the door opened ... It 
was he ! There was a moment of 
emotion and tears, and when he con- 
sented to bless us, and I saw him in 
the light, I understood the words of 
Gertrude : " He has found true hap- 
piness." Tl>en his Mass the next 
day, the Communion, and Thanks- 
giving said aloud, 'the chanting of 
the Magnificat diXid. of the Latatus — 
it tvas heaven. This impression still 
remains ; thanks to a concurrence of 
circumstances in which I perceive 
the intervention of our good angels, 
the newly elect of- the priesthood 
remains with us until the 20th — an 
unhoped-for and most precious fa- 
vor. Alas ! shall we see him again ? 

He has given me a little book 
which he had kept by permis- 
sion of his superior; you are aware 
that this generous Karl despoiled 
himself of everything before giving 
himself dXso to God. This Basket 
of Eucharistic Flowers is full of 
sweetness to my heart. I find in it 
some verses on Picciola — not mine, 
but the flower — and the heavenly 
utterances of the pious Marie Jenna, 
my favorite poetess. Listen to 
this : 



^ Qui, cetts vie en larmes est ffeonde ; 
J'ai psu vtfcu, j'oi dtfjil bien souffert. 
Mon Dieu J ai soif, et Ics routes du mondc 
Ne me sont rien qu'une aride d^rt. 
Mais k tes pieds mon Ame se repose. 
O tendre Ami, Divin Consolateur, 
Qu'importe k moi de perdre toute chose. 
Si je te garde, amour de mon Sauveur T'* 



* Yes, this our life is plentiful in tears. 
Though I am young, still I have suffered much . 
My God. I thirst ! and this world's weary ways 
Arc but an arid desert unto me. 
But at thy feet my soul finds her repose, 
O tender Friend and Comforter Divine ! 
What matters it to me if I lose all. 
But still keep thee, my dearest Saviour's love \ 



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And this cry of the soul : 



' Jesus, pour seul bonheur, ah I danoex-mcN des 
larmes 

Que vous consolem. " * 



January io, 1870. 

Karl has spoken to me much of 
you, dear sister. He wishes that his 
last sculpture in Europe should be 
for our chapel : Ren^ and his bro- 
thers have for some time past been 
working at a pulpit ; the principal 
figure will be our missionary's work. 
He has consented to let me prepare 
his baggage. Kate, I was complain- 
ing of our solitude, and now it has 
become sweet to me, because I love 
God more. Oh ! what a blessing to 
the soul it is to love. 

I am slipping these few words in 
with Rent's, apd send you a thou- 
sand loving messages. 

January 14, 1870. 

Impossible not to give you the 
history of our day, although it is 
very late. I wished to go to Auray 
with Karl, and my mother felt 
strong enough to go with us. On 
tlie way we met with a German, poor 
as Job, a true disciple of Luther, 
his Bible in his hand. His gentle 
and melancholy air interested us. 
We entered into conversation with 
him, Karl preached to him, he came 
with us to Auray, and when we 
came out of the church he told us 
that his mother was a Catholic, 
that the sight of our fervor had 
touched him, etc., etc. In short, we 
brought him back with us to the 
chateau, and Karl is going to cate- 
chise him and finish his conversion. 
You see the good Saint Anne has 
indeed had a hand in this. Is it 
not a charming episode ? 

15th. — Letters: ist, Margaret, 
wlio sends you her heartful of 

♦ Jesus, for my sole hapoiness, oh ! give me tears 
Which thou wilt wipe away. 



good wishes; 2d, Marcella, witli the 
chronicle of the Council and the 
account of an audience with the 
Holy Father ; 3d, Lizzy, who wants 
to make me admire her Daniel ; 4th, 
Lucy, who is impatient to come 
back, because her pretty Anne can- 
not be happy without us, says our 
amiable sister; 5th, my Kate. I 
mention all in chronological order ; 
you know very well that you are 
first in order of affection. But how 
short it is, dearest ! Tell me soon 
the reason of this brevity; yoii 
must have so much to say ! 

A Dicu^ my dearest Kate. All and 
each of the happy inhabitants of 
my Brittany offer you their homage 
and respect. 

January 19, 1870. 

Well, dearest, he leaves us to- 
morrow — this friend, this good bro- 
ther and generous priest. Our Ger- 
man is converted, but for reasons 
of prudence the baptism is deferred. 
The worthy man does not wish to 
quit us, and does his utmost to ren- 
der himself useful. He is passion- 
ately fond of music, and teaclies it 
to our pastors, who in return 
strengt/ien him (as he says) in the 
catechism. How sadly we shall 
miss Karl ! But then, souls, souls ! 
Ah ! I would not keep him back, 
even if I could. 

I have had a strange dream. I 
was with you in your cell. You 
seemed to be asleep; I spoke to 
you, but you did not answer me. I 
weat to kiss you, and in this kiss I 
felt so strange a thrill, as if your 
beautiful face had been of marble, 
that I woke, crying out in a manner 
Avhich alarmed Ren6. It is in vain 
that I say to myself again and 
again that it is but a dream ; the 
impression remains — a profound 
terror, and an anguish which op- 
presses my heart. Write to me; 



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22; 



reassure me, dear Kate. I have lost 
faith in happiness. What am I say- 
ing } So long as I belong to God, 
and noihing can separate me from 
him, shall I not have the only hap- 
piness worthy of the name } 

Karl promises to write to us. 
He is going to Cliina, that literary 
country, where barbarism and civi- 
lization are so strangely mingled. 
My mother, the Adriens, and we are 
putting together our savings to 
give them to the dear missionary, 
that with them he may have more 
facilities in his work of gaining 
souls. How I bless fortune on 
these occasions I 

A thousand lovingnesses, dear 
sister — the dearest of sisters. 

January 26, 1870. 

We accompanied Karl to his 
ship, which I visited, and which we 
saw start on her voyage. Thus he 
is- now between sea and sky, expos- 
ed to tempests. Oli ! " how beau- 
tiful are the feet of those " who 
have left all — family, friends, coun- 
try, repose, comforts, enjoyments — 
to go in search of the lost sheep. 
It seems to me that the angels of 
faith and love must spread their 
wings over the vessel and keep far 
away all contrary winds. . . . We 
seem as if impregnated with sanctity. 
Cirief is a powerful lever to raise 
one to God and to transform souls ! 

Youdonot write. Rend is uneasy 
and tries in vain to conceal his 
anxiety from me. Did you receive 
his letter of the 24th } Dear Kate, 
if you are ill, send one word and 
we w^ill hasten to you. O my God ! 
111! You! Could it be possible.? 
That terrible dream is always be- 
fore my eyes. You Avill scold me, 
dearest. . . . Remember that for 
some months past I have suffered 
so much that even the thought of a 
misfortune overwhelms me. 
VOL, XXV. — 15 



Oh! may God guard you, dar- 
ling Kate, my sister, my soul. 
Take care of yourself for the love 
of me. 

My mother entreats you to write ; 
she suffers on account of my anx- 
iety. My God ! grant that that 
may have been only a dream. 

January 29, 1870. 

Still nothing; perhaps your let- 
ter is lost. . . . May God protect 
you! The Univers pleases me. Mgr. 
Bertiiaud has had a triumph at 
Sant' Andrea della Valle — the dear 
church where we have prayed. 
" His imagery is rich and abun- 
dant," writes Louis Veuillot, " be^ 
cause his faith keeps alive in him a 
perpetual enthusiasm for the works, 
the mercies, and the love of God. 
His thoughts are an endless song* 
What he says he sees; what he 
sees l\e admires and adores. Ex- 
ternal things, enveloped and, as it 
were, transpierced by the rays 
of the divine Sun, appear to him 
as magnificent as he describes 
them to be. Things are the works 
of God; men are the children of 
God, divinities in flower, called by 
their adoption to the ineffable glory 
of the divine union. As .soon as 
they are in their way, their voca- 
tion, their order, their accidental 
defects are effaced ; there is no 
more ugliness, there are no more 
rags, no more miseries — all is al- 
ready transfigured, already at the 
attainment of its end, and the lyre, 
vibrating to the touch of a sacred 
enthusiasm, gives forth .sounds at 
once vehement and sublime." 

What eulogy ! What style ! 

Mgr. Mermillod made a magnifi- 
cent discourse at Saint Louis des 
Fran^ais, on the perpetuation in 
the church of the Gospel scene 
of the Magi. " The action of God 
in the world, the redemption of 



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souls, the perpetuity and definition 
of the truth, all repose upon tliese 
three great weaknesses : a Child at 
Bethlehem, a Host in the tabernacle, 
an aged man at the Vatican." 

Kate dearest, I admire, but noth- 
ing dispels my preoccupation, the 
dominant note of my thoughts — you! 
yourself! Why this silence? I must 
know it ! Write to me ; I am suffer- 
ing. . . . 

January 31, 1870. 

It is here, on my writing-table, 
this white page on which you have 
traced but one word. ..." It was 
not a dream!" We start at once; 
this note will precede us by a few 
hours. Oh ! live for me, my belov- 
ed sister; ask God to cure you. 

My God, I have so often prayed 
thee to preserve her to me — to let 
her live as long as I ! 



JOURNAL OF GEORaiNA AFTER HER 

sister's death. 

February 15, 1870. 

O amare ! O perire tibi ! 
O advenire ad Deum ! 

Still would I write to you, belov- 
ed sister who have left me ! Oh ! 
can this be possible? You, ray 
Guardian Angel I It is in heaven 
that I now look for you, that I now 
behold you — in heaven, your true 
home — in heaven, where you have 
found again our mother. O my 
God ! my God ! Always shall I re- 
member this last journey, of which 
you were the object; the anguish 
on the way, the haste to arrive, the 
chill that fell on my heart at the 
gate of the convent. Oh ! you 
knew that I could not bear to see 
you suffer ; and then, perhaps, you 
might think you would recover, for 
I cannot believe that you desired 
to di«. . . Ah ! to see you dying ; 
to embrace you, watch by you. 



hear the last effusions of that tender- 
ness to which my mother had be- 
queathed me ; to see this flame, 
which was my life, die out, and yet 
not die myself — Kate, Kate, I can 
think only, speak only, of you ! 

I have been very ill. I feel weak, 
very weak — almost discouraged to 
live. Tell me that you are not 
gone away ; soul of my sister, speak 
to my soul ! Oh ! how it seems to 
me as if I had lost everything. You 
it was who gave so great an inter- 
est to my life, animating everything 
with your affection. And now . . . 

February 28. 

Dear Kate, obtain strength for 
me. I desire to live for Rene . 
Why did you not stay with us, my 
beloved? I have bitter regrets. ... I 
should have wished to nurse you, 
to keep you here. O foolishness 
of love ! what right have I to wish 
to keep you from your own country ? 
Dear sister, the correspondence 
which was my daily delight must 
not end : I will write my journal 
iox you, God, who is so good, even 
when he separates two hearts 
which were one, could not refuse 
anything to his elect. Ask him, 
then, my sister, that you may every 
day come to me, if even only for an 
instant. Oh ! would that I could see 
you. It seems to me that with you 
all died; that nothing more wilt 
ever in this world smile on me, 
that the eternal mourning of my 
soul can never more be comforted. 
Our friends write to me. Margaret 
and Marcel la weep with me. My 
mother, Adrien, Gertrude, and 
Ren^ are full of unspeakable ten- 
derness and solicitude towards me ; 
and yet I have scarcely any response 
to make them but my tears. Ail 
is night around me : the Sun has 
set. 

Oh ! speak to me, Kate— -only 



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one word, one vibration of your 
dear voice, one of your smiles. Is 
it irae, my God, that for twenty-five 
days past this face so dearly loved 
has been covered with a shroud ? 

Is it true? Has death indeed 
come between us? Had we not 
enough of absence and of separa- 
tion, that other mourning of the 
soul ? I still hear her last word. 
. . . Oh! who will give me back 
my past joys, fled away, and the 
affection which enfolded all ? 

Adrien is reading me the Beati- 
tudes^ by Mgr. Landriot. There are 
some admirable conferences on the 
divine words, BetUi qui lugent. 
•* There are," says the P^re La- 
cordaire, "'tears in all the uni- 
verse ; and they are so natural to 
us that even if they had no cause, 
they would flow without cause, sole- 
ly from the charm of that ineffable 
sadness of which our soul is the 
deep and mysterious well." Again : 
** Melancholy is the great queen of 
highly sensitive souls ; she touches 
them without their knowing how 
or why, in a secret and unexpect- 
ed moment. The ray of light which 
gladdens others brings veils to them ; 
the festive rejoicing which moves 
and delights others pierces them 
with an arrow. It is with much 
difficulty that God and our Lord 
can scatter from the heart which 
loves them these vain and chilling 
clouds; the suffering is so much 
the more difficult to vanquish from 
having a less real cause." 

Oh ! the cause of my sorrow, can 
I forget it ? Kate, obtain strength 
for me. How truly I feel you pre- 
sent! 

March 5. 

We arc come back to Brittany. 
They say that I have become a 
mere shadow. Kate dearest, I wish 
to be courageous, but my poor hu- 
man nature gives way on this Cal- 



vary. O my memories ! They are 
a golden book in which I read every 
hour, in which every leaflet recalls 
my other self, her devotedness and 
love. Your papers have been given 
to me — the private pages which God 
alone has read with me. How you 
have loved me ! Dearest, I weep 
no more, except over myself. You 
were hungering for heaven, as were 
Mad and Th^rese, Ellen and Edith. 
Oh ! gone — you also, you my guar- 
dian angel ! 

I wanted to write, to relieve my- 
self a little ; my heart swelled, and 
I could do nothing but sob. I have 
fearful moments. Oh ! speak tome, 
Kate. Last night I seemed to wit- 
ness your death again. Oh ! those 
eyes, those eyes which I almost wor- 
sh i p ped — I h ad to close th em . Kate, 
what is happiness } Mine has fled 
away like a cloud, and I seek after 
it in vain. 

I know that you are happy, and 
yet my selflshness grieves. Pray for 
your Georgina ! 

March 8. 

Strange blindness of heart ! You 
were to me so sweet, so infinitely 
precious, that the thought of an 
auiieu without ever meeting here 
again had never occurred to me. 

You were six years old Avhen you 
in^printed your first kiss on the brow 
of your Georgina. Our most dis- 
tant memories show me your be- 
loved image. You never left me ; 
the sight of you was a talisman 
that stopped my tears ; your voice 
taught me my first baby-words. 
Oh ! this union of ours from the 
very cradle was my mother's pride — 
this mother, so beloved and so beau- 
tiful, who saw herself over again in 
you. You did not know that you 
were fair ; you early disdained earth- 
ly frivolities ; and how much it must 
have cost you, later, to remain in the 
world for me ! 



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Everywhere you were surrounded 
by sympathy and respect ; your sis- 
terly devotion made you an aureole. 
Kate, who was like you ? 

Tell me that you hear me, that 
you see me every day. How shall 
I live without you ? A great void 
has been made in me ; my heart is 
like a desert. Ah ! I loved you too 
well, and our God is a jealous God. 

I adore his will, and, in spite of 
my inexpressible desolation, I kiss 
his divine hand beneath the blow 
which overwhelms me. 1 desire to 
become truly your sister by sacri* 
fice and love. 

Help me ! I know not how to 
climb up Calvary ! 

March id. 

No, I cannot believe that it is at 
an end; that I have no more a 
sister. At times I believe myself 
to be under the influence of a 
nightmare. My black dress — this 
sombre vestment which made me 
afraid — is become dear to me since 
I wear it for you; but . . . what 
faintings of heart ! In what an 
ocean of grief my soul is plunged ! 

To-day I wished' to go out and 
visit my poor ; my strength failed. 
Kate, sorrow is killing me. 

March 12. 
An unexpected consolation — a 

visit from the Pere de G . His 

touching, penetrating words roused 
me. Pardon me, Kate 1 I was 
cowardly. God forbids not tears, 
but he forbids despair. Alas ! 
formerly I comforted others, and 
now I am unwilling to accept any 
solace in my trouble ; I wish for no 
truce to ray regret. Oil ! be happy, 
soul of my sister. Obtain for me 
grace to love much, more than 
ever, all who suffer, all the elect of 
misfortune. The gentle Abb^ Per- 
rey ve used to say : " The greater 



part of souls would remain closed 
to other souls, if they had not suf- 
fered ; trial bruises them, and com- 
pels them to shed around them 
floods of love." 

I loved them already— these dear 
poor of the good God ! But I feel 
that my time belongs to them, that 
I owe myself also to those who love 
me, and that it remains to me to 
pray and suffer while I love. 

Help me, dear Kate, help me \ 

March 15. 

How kind Ren^ is, dear Kate, 
and how fraternal ! He under- 
stands my wish to write to you still, 
to continue ray life so violently cut 
in twain, and unceasingly to speak 
to you. I am stronger, but not yet 
resigned. Can one be resigned to 
such a loss } 

I saw yesterday a young girl 
whom Gertrude knows, and who 
has opened her heart to me as to a 
friend. Witli what ardor of desire 
she dreams of the religious life ! 
God permits her to be cruelly tried : 
her mother is utterly opposed to her 
departure. There are several other 
sisters, one of whom shares the as- 
pirations of my new acquaintance. 
How they both suffer ! Would 
that a heavenly light might illumi- 
nate the heart of their mother, who 
little comprehends the martyrdom 
of her children ! How everything 
is at cross-purposes in this poor 
world ! People are saddened by 
things at which they ought to re- 
joice, and vice versd. Mothers, who 
have had experience of the cares 
and pains of marriage and the 
world — mothers, who know too 
well the sum of happiness that may 
be expected from even the best- 
assorted unions — make themselves 
miserable at the mere thought of 
their daughters' union with God, as 
if he were not the Supreme Good» 



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the Spouse par excellence^ the faith- 
ful Friend, the plenitude of every vir- 
tue and of love ! Ah ! it is because 
everything in this world has its 
shades and its defects, and because 
few souls know truly how to love. 

Thus is it that there is a mixture 
and alloy in my affection for you 
when I weep for you so bitteily, 
dear sister of my life ! 

Nothing can separate our souls. 
I am yours in life and death ! 

March 18. 

Berthe's brother has just sunk 
under a malignant fever. The 
poor widow is ill of grief Three 
such beautiful children, whom he 
loved so much — so many powerful 
bonds which bound him to this 
world so suddenly broken — all this 
makes the grief immense. Gertrude 
said to me : " Why, then, are those 
mourned for who enter the port — 
those who go hence to rest in God } 
They only who remain behind are 
really to be pitied." Ah ! what 
deadly affliction must not our 
friend feel, widowed of her happi- 
oess, which nothing can restore to 
her — nothing, until that hour when, 
delivered in her turn from this life 
sown with crosses, she too sliall see 
God, and, with God, him whom she 
weeps { 

Kate, would that I could see you 
and embrace you again as in that 
last hour! Everywhere death, 
everywhere mourning! 

March 21. 
Count de Montalembert died on 
the 13th of March. It is a great 
funereal date- May God receive 
him into his glory! I was just 
notv hearing some beautiful pnges 
by Alfred Nettement, dead also 
the 14th of November — dead in the 
breach, in those combats of pen and 
thought so worthy of admiration 



and of enthusiasm when their ob- 
ject is the defence of the church. 
Our dear M. de Riancey is also 
dead, faithful, to his last moment, 
to this proscribed monarchy, which 
sees its best defenders falling one 
by one. O my God ! what losses. 
Kate, if I could forget you for a 
single instant, would not these 
deaths lead me back to the thought 
of you } 

Adrien has given me The Book 
of All who Suffer y by M. Gautier; 
How well this good brother was in- 
spired ! 

Marcella, Margaret, Lizzy, Isa, 
and so many other kind hearts write 
to me frequently, but nothing can 
replace my Kate ! 

April i. 

Dear sister, I have suffered fear- 
ful pains for ten days past. My 
good Ren6 has been to me like, a 
Sister of Charity. I am like Th6- 
rese, I cannot live without my other 
self Oh ! to see you, to hear you, 
to kneel by you, and kiss your be- 
loved hands. 

Until now I did not know what 
separation meant. I remember with 
a sort of remorse how joyous my 
first letters were after that first 
farewell which was to be so soon 
followed by a farewell that seems 
eternal. I saw you as having at- 
tained the object of your dreams. I 
entered with glad heart into this new 
life where all was golden. Kate, I 
am ungrateful ! God has permitted 
me to know no other troubles than 
those which should not be such to 
the Christian — death, the beginning 
of true life for those who love God. 
Help me, that I may be strong ; my 
sadness clouds so many brows ! 

April 8. 
Nelly, who flattered herself that 
she would recover, has bid adieu to 
this poor world, in which she suffer- 



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Letters of a Young Irish%vonuxn to her Sister. 



ed so terribly, although possessing 
numerous certainties of happiness, 
if it be true that anything can be 
certain here below, even when one 
is only twenty years old. 

My new young friend visits me 
often ; her fervent piety and the 
ardor of her desires find an echo 
in my heart. You were thus, O 
sister of my soul ! at her age, in 
that spring-time of life thrice happy 
and thrice blessed when one I5e- 
longs to God. 

April 15. 

The Duchess de Berry died on 
the ioth,at her castle in Upper Sty- 
ria, far from Naples, far from France, 
far from her son. Yet another grand 
figure disappeared ! Kate, do you 
remember our presentation to this 
heroine } But she is now with you, 
in the true fatherland of souls, far 
from agitations and sufferings. Call 
us, call us, all together — ^all our cor- 
ner of Brittany ; I, too, am at hirst 
for heaven. 

What a day was this Good Fri- 
day ! Made four times the Way 
of the Cross for the souls in purga- 
tory. Is there any possibility that 
you are in that place of expiation, 
dear Kate .^ Oh ! tell me, or rather 
assure me, that you are in heaven. 
Gaston yesterday asked his mother 
to show him Mme. Kate up in the 
sky ; he believes that you have be- 
come a star. Charmihg belief! 

April 16. 
A year ago, and I was full of joy 
and hope. O my happy days with 
my sister ! you have for ever fled 
away. 

April 17. 
God be praised ! I saw you this 
morning. . . . Oh ! do not let me 
be told that it is a dream. I saw 
you, dear Kate ; your beautiful hair 
falling over your shoulders, and you 



were smiling. Happiness enough 
for one whole day ! 

Christ is risen ! The weather is 
splendid ; we are in the full bloom 
of spring; bright sunshine, songs ot 
birds, verdure everywhere; joy in 
our souls. Kate, I weep no more ; 
you are in heaven ! 

April 19. 

Walk with Amelie, the future re^ 
ligieuse of whom I spoke to you. 
She relieves herself a little to me 
of sonle of the desolation that fills 
her heart. She is not allowed to 
depart, and yet the delay requested 
is expired, fler grief makes my 
heart ache, and I would that it 
were given me to smooth for her 
the way to the cloister. For that I 
should be obliged to go out, to visit 
the mother; and as soon as I see 
any one I burst into tears. l>o you 
blame me for the fidelity of my re- 
grets.^ In listening to Amelie I 
understand what you must have 
undergone when once the Lord's 
choice was clearly manifested. Par- 
don me for having, wished still to 
hold you back ! 

Gertrude, our saint /ar cxcelle/ue^ 
speaks admirably of heaven. Lucy 
weeps with me, and makes her pret- 
ty Anne wipe away my tears. Kate» 
will you read this? 

April 26. 

Minds are much occupied re- 
specting the plSiscite, My politics 
are not of this world ; I hear what 
others say, and that is alL Sister,, 
what is earth .> I fear and pity it. 

Berthe is at Paris, somewhat pre- 
occupied by present agitations. My 
poor soul passes through the most 
varying states: nameless anguish, 
indescribable discouragement, sweet 
and pure joys ; one thing comes as 
a repose to the other, and life slips 
away. . . . Amelie came to me yes- 
terday ; she talked long oi her crosses y. 
glad to be understood, compassion- 



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231 



atcd, and lorcd ; she would willing- 
ly have remained with us for the 
night. Her home, wliere she was 
furmerly so happy, appears to her 
now an insupportable place of 
abode, and her life, with all its 
struggles and contradictions, is a 
real martyrdom. 

1 read her, from the Pilgrimages 
of Switzerland^ a beautiful page on 
Christian resignation. Oh ! how I 
would wisli to console others — I, 
who cannot be consoled, alas I 

April 30. 

Kate, I have been dreaming of 
you. Why did you go away so soon, 
sweet sister, so beloved 1 

A cousin of Amelie's died the 
day before yesterday, after two 
years of marriage. See how short a 
time human felicity lasts! Every 
terrestrial happiness reunited on 
this charming head for so short a 
time ! Her poor mother had buried 
all her other treasures one by one, 
and concentrated her affections 
and her hopes on this idolized 
daughter, the only one spared to 
her, and who was to be stricken 
down after two years of so happy a 
union ! Were these two souls truly 
religious ? I know not. Ah ! who 
will comfort the mother, if God is 
not her comforter ? Alas ! these ra- 
pid destinies, these human fragilities, 
these futures broken, these deaths, 
this mourning — will they not. open 
the eyes of those who persist in not 
seeing ? Am^lie is always breath- 
lessly eager to attain her object, and 
distressed at the hindrances which 
hold her back. How pitiful that 
difficulties so contemptible and vul- 
gar should be raised in order to 
turn aside the flight of this poor soul 
from the heavenly Bridegroom ! I 
can only conceive a mother with an 
absolute devotion, a complete self- 
forge tfulness, a perpetual sufsum 



corda. But these miserable obsta- 
cles, these calculated delays, to en- 
chain this dear Ameiie in spite of 
her tears and ardent longings — how 
they make me suffer! It appears 
that for three years she has been 
soliciting her mother's consent. 
My God, where are the hearts which 
see but thee in all things ? Mme. 
de Vals * is overwhelmed by this 
catastrophe. All the family is in a 
state that breaks one's heart. Oh I 
if these distressing scenes had only 
shown Mme. de Vals the vanity of 
earthly illusions ; if she had only 
understood that we must cling to 
God above all ! 

Kate, my sister m heaven, pray 
for this friend of your Georgina, 
and pray also for me, who cannot 
live without my sister ! 

May 5. 

The month of flowers, the month 
of songs, the month of the ever- 
blessed Virgin, comes to me with 
bright memories. My own Ireland, 
mother, sister, where are you ? 
What cowardice is mine ! 

Brittany is smiling, rosy under 
a beautiful sun ; the sea is calm 
and magnificent. I have just been 
leaning over my balcony and look- 
ing long at this grand spectacle : 
the blue sky, the green sea, in the 
grand and majestic silence of im- 
mensity. Was there not a Chris-, 
tian meaning in the words of the 
philosopher of antiquity wlio said : 
" God does all in silence " 7 How 
fine is this expression ! 

Dear Kate, bless me ! I go out, 
move about, wish to be useful ; I 
work with Gertrude, with my mo- 
ther, with Rene. But I drag heav- 
ily the cross of your absence. I 
complain to God without ceasing. 
Love makes everything sweet and 
light : I have, tlien, no love .' 

* The nocher of the young wife who died. 



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Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister. 



From this month of May will 
date for your Georgina the adop- 
tion of a prayer, sweet among all 
others — the Office of the Blessed 
Virgin. Oh ! these psalms, these 
hymns, these harmonious supplica- 
tions — how sweet they are to my 
])oor soul 1 I love especially the 
Lcdtattis, Lucy and Rene sing it 
with an expression which charms 
me. You, dearest Kate, have en- 
tered there, into the house of the 
Lord! 

May 12. 

I am reading the Interior of fe- 
sus and Mar}\ by the P^re Grou, 
the Conferences of P^re de Ravig- 
nan, and our dear J^etnew. The 
letters on the Council interest me 
particularly. I try to imagine that 
I am reading them with you ; that 
your dear head is resting on my 
shoulder. . . Oh ! the fair and hap- 
py times which return to my mem- 
ory. We so loved the Chansons de 
GesteSy those pretty French ballads 
which my mother translated with 
so peculiar a charm ! M. L^on 
Gautier has published a thought- 
ful and exquisite study on France 
under Philip Augustus; he brings 
on the scene the fair Aude^thejf««- 
C(fe of Roland, who died on hear- 
ing of the death of her Paladin — I 
can understand loVe like this ! — 
and the charming little Aelis, and 
Sibylle de Lusignan, and the Duch- 
ess Parise, and Aye d'Avignon, and 
the courageous Ameline, and 
Berthe, the wife of Duke Girart, 
and Guiboure, that magnificent 
type of the Christian woman ! Do 
you remember, sister, Count Rob- 
ert of Flanders refusing a crown 
because he was in haste to see his 
son again } the little Garnier nurs- 
ing his father, stricken with leprosy } 
the mother of the sons of Aimon — 
B jlissende and Heustace ? How we 
had learnt to love those middle ages! 



Pray for Amelie, dear Kate ; she 
is so unhappy ! O inestimable fii- 
vor, priceless benefit, incomparable 
fidelity of the religious vocation ! 
how little are you understood in 
this world. 

It seems as if I heard you saying 
to me: Speranza! JPazienza J Co^ 
raggio I 

May i6. 

My soul is fallen again into an 
abyss of desolation. It is strange, 
and at the same time painful, these 
struggles between myself and my- 
self; between nature which revolts 
and grace which submits. On this 
day four years ago where were we ? 
Kate, help me ! 

May 28. 

I have been travelling a little, 
and my moments have ail been em- 
ployed. Rene wants to give me 
change and distraction ; but I can- 
not drag my thoughts away from 
these images of death. Hel^ne has 
written me a letter, saintly and 
sweet. Alas ! who does not suffer 
here below } 

June 5. 

I have just quitted Amelie, who 
is keeping her room from indisposi- 
tion. Her mother is kind, I be- 
lieve, but how severe in aspect ! 
Berthe and Raoul arrived yesterday. 
Kate, I dreaded tliis meeting again, 
our hearts were all so sad ! Berthe 
is more tranquil than I had expect- 
ed; she has seen Mary and Ellen, 
the dear exiles ! who showed her 
that they greatly desire to see us. 
Inspire me, dear Kate. Lucy is go- 
ing away again ; the house without 
children is like a heaven without 
angels. Johanna will not return 
foF two months. 

June 12. 

Ren6 would like to bring the two 
orphans himself. My mother ap- 
proves. They will occupy the 



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233 



apartments of the twins. Kate, 
who will replace you ? 

More funereal letters : two friends 
of our dear ones who have flown 
away have also been summoned to 
their Father's house. Happy souls ! 
if they were prepared; but poor 
mothers whose joy they were ! 

June 17. 

Dear Kate, I thought I saw you 
yesterday evening. ... A young 
and amiable religious, collecting for 
her poor, caused me a thrill. I 
calmed myself and conversed with 
her. Her life is admirable. But 
what emotion afterwards, and poig- 
nant grief ! 

Sister dearest, let me hope that 
you read these lines; that there 
exists a means of communication 
between heaven and earth ; that 
you have not wholly quitted me ! 
It was so sweet to write to you, to 
confide everything to you. I should 
Uke to write your life ; to relate to 
myself the story of our childhood — 
that golden morn when so many 
smiles and joys surrounded us ; but 
these souvenirs are so distressing ! 

June 24. 

Mary and Ellen are sleeping be- 
neath those curtains of gauze which 
I have so often parted. 

They are grown, and prettier 
than ever. With what grace they 
presented themselves yesterday ! 
.\nd already 1 am anxious; have 
they not been taken sufficient care 
of .^ I know not, but their almost 
constant cough oppresses me like a 
remorse; and to replace their mo- 
ther. . . . 

June 29. 

Berthe loves our orphans, who 
rarely quit her. Gertrude draws 
me with her in her walks, in her 
life of devotedness and labor, and 
I let it be so. I am no more myself; 



my better part is wanting. Oh ! 
you were my strength, my counsel, 
my happiness. 

Feast of SS. Peter and Paul— a 
glad festival for the Christian. 
Louis Veuillot, who has the happi- 
ness of being at Rome, writes there 
charming, sublime incomparable 
pages; he counted on the desired 
dogma being proclaimed to-day, 
but all is not so easy, even in the 
things of God. Anniversary of the 
death of Albert. 

July i. 

Mary and Ellen are very attrac- 
tive. Decidedly we shall keep 
them with us. Berthe sees ih 
them a resemblance to her doves ; 
my mother likes their smiles for tlie 
poor, for flowers, for every living 
thing, their precocious reason, and 
their already remarkable piety. 
Lucy is gone. What voids! and 
how different to '67, the happy year, 
at least during its first months! 
Trial, you used to tell me, is a 
grace ; that those favored with the 
good things of this world ought to 
expiate their enjoyments. Kate, I 
submit ! 

July 4. 
The letters of Marcella and Mar- 
garet are frequent. My friend be- 
yond seas speaks of returning soon ; 
she knows what a balm the sight, 
the beloved sight, of her brings. 
Marcella quits Naples and its blue 
sky no more ; Anna writes to me of 
her joys, without suspecting what a 
price the health of which she is so 
proud cost us. 

The obM takes in the Univers^ 
rendered so attractive by the truly 
magic pen of the autiior of the 
Parfum de Rome, Finished Lti 
Marquise de Montagu^ an interest- 
ing book, the style of a great lady 
of the seventeenth century. Read- 
ing is worth less than prayer, but 
both ameliorate exile. 



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Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister, 



Rend is carving an altar for the 
[)arish church. He and Adrien 
.ire making curious studies in the 
precious lYISS. of the Saint of the 
Seashore. What splendid gifts 
God has bestowed upon this friend 
jf ray soul ! 

July 8. 

The pious and learned editor of 
Euginie de GuMrty who also reveal- 
ed to the world the treasures of 
Cayla — M. Trebutien — is just dead. 
Rend assures us that Eugenie must 
have opened to him the gate of 
Eden. Oh ! I love to believe this. 
Amdlie is at the height of her wish- 
es : her mother has suffered herself 
to be vanquished by our united en- 
treaties, and her entry into Carmel 
is fixed for the 6th of August. An- 
other separation. God wills it thus. 

July 14. 

Marie Jenna, the sweet poetess, 
has written some noble pages on 
the regretted M. Trebutien. ** It 
is the hand of a friend still trembling 
with emotion that has written this"; 
it is the first cry of affection and of 
grief, but of pure and holy affection, 
and of grief resigned and Christian 
in the highest acceptation of the 
word. "If this were a learned man, 
an antiquary, an artist, above all he 
was a soul — a soul, that master- 
piece of God, that thing so fair that 
he himself delights in it, that he 
has profoundly loved, even when, 
having lost the attraction of inno- 
cence, she had no other attraction 
than misfortune. He was an ar- 
dent Catholic, he prayed, he loved 
God. He, who so hungered after 
justice, love, and beauty, could not 
but love God ! The gifts of the un- 
derstanding exercised over lum an 
irresistible magic; but if he lived by 
intelligence, he lived still more by 
the heart. His friendship was full 



of strength and tenderness ; he gave 
himself without measure." 

Ah! dearest Kate, I forget that 
you are no longer here. Ellen is 
extremely sympathetic towards rae ; 
she listens to me, speaking of you, 
for hours together. This morning, 
after a long account, in which her 
mother's name and yours recurred 
a hundred times, she said to me 
with feeling : " I am going to pray 
God to put me soon where they 
are." 

O Blessed Virgin ! may she stay 
with us. 

July 18. 

Arthur is ill. Johanna writes 
agitated and sorrowful pages. My 
saintly Kate, pray for us ! 

The rumors of war which have 
for some days been circulating are 
taking consistency. What is about 
to become of this poor country '> 
Will the hour of vengeance strike, 
or will mercy again carry the day } 
Epidemic maladies and drought 
have already spread desolation 
everywhere. 

Kate, I would fain penetrate into 
the future. O folly ! What would 
it be, when I cannot even support 
my present grief .^ 

Ren6 has had three attacks of 
fever. O this dear invalid, this 
son of liberty and space, restless as 
a lion ! in repose. Dear, good 
friend ! Come, then, and see him, 
dear Kate, when three times a day 
he attends to an unfortunate child 
whose wounds horrify everybody. 
**The hand of M. Ren^ passes 
over my sores like the wing of an 
angel!** What charming praise, 
and especially in Breton, in the 
mouth of this frightful little lad, 
who is distressed at his own ugli- 
ness ! Gertrude is teaching him 
the catechism ; Mary and Ellen 
prepare his meals with their little 



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Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister. 



235 



white hands. Ellen has lovely eyes 
of sea-blue, very dark. 

July 24. 

Tlie Univers of Wednesday, the 
20th, is splendid: "The Infalli- 
bility is proclaimed ! Ubi Petrus^ 
ibi Ecclesia! The times are hard ; 
war, pestilence, famine ; but the 
year 1870 will be none the less im- 
mortal. This will be called the 
Century of Pius IX., the Pope of 
tiie Immaculate Conception and of 
the Infallibility." Grea*^ joy in the 
Catholic world. 

Here is war with Prussia — that 
j)0\ver which, whatever may be 
said, is truly redoubtable. Happy 
the people whose history is weari- 
some ! Misfortune to those who 
depart from the path traced for 
them by Providence ! What a mag- 
nificent page might France have 
added to her history had she so 
willed ! " Archimedes asked but a 
lover and a fulcrum to move the 
world," said the P^re Lacordaire at 
Notre Dame ; ** but in his time this 
lever and this fulcrum were un- 
known. They are known now : 
faith is the lever ; and the point of 
support, the Breast of the Lord 
Jesus." 

Who, then, will lift this lever .> 
My God ! may they who seek 
ihee find gladness and joy in thee.. 
Tristis es, anima mea I 

Arthur is better ; our dear Pari- 
sians are returning to us ; the hori- 
zon is so dark to those who see 



things rightly! Berthe is gone to 
the town for the funeral of a friend 
of her childhood who pacsed through 
the greatest trials in the world. 
She made a most edifying death, 
preserving the fulness of her facul- 
ties to the last, blessing her chil- 
dren, and putting all her soul into 
her last directions. And when she 
had said all, and was asked if she 
desired nothing, she answered with 
her failing voice : " I desire nothing 
but God !" The long agony of her 
heart, the suffering which has killed 
her, this painful martyrdom — all is 
over, and the Blessed Virgin, whom 
she so loved, must have welcomed 
her into glory. Amen! The two 
little children, alarmingly pale, fol- 
lowed the coffin. How one would 
pity tliem, if God were not the Fa- 
ther of orphans ! 

Spain in a state of revolution. 
Queen Isabella has abdicated in 
favor of Prince Alphonso. Poor 
Spain ! Where is Isabella the Great, 
the Catholic } 

Adrien js reading to us the tenth 
volume, of the Histoire du Mondey 
by De Riancey. The illustrious and 
lamented autiior wrote from Rome, 
after receiving from the Pope and 
the Comte de Chambord precious 
tokens of affection : •* Now I am 
almost ready to sXvxgmy Nune Dim- 
ittiSy and there remain only the joys 
of heaven to be added." Dearest 
Kate, I said something like this 
when I still possessed you. . . • 



(to BS COKCLUDBO .NSaCT MOKTH.J 



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236 



up the Nile. 



UP THE NILE. 



CONCLUSION. 



The dignity of some of these half- 
clad Nubians is almost beyond con- 
ception. As we walked through the 
town of Korosko we saw numbers 
of elephants* tusks, ostrich feathers 
and eggs, and great piles of gum- 
arabic. We told AH to pick up a 
handful of the gum, and then de- 
manded the price. With a shrug 
of the shoulders, the owner answer- 
ed in the most indifferent manner: 
** Whatever you please." Ali offer- 
ed him one piastre. 'I'he merchant 
took out his purse and coolly 
handed a piece of the same value, 
saying : ** If you cannot pay more 
than that for tlie gum, you must be 
very poor; take this for backsheesh." 

** Well," broke in Mr. S , unable 

to restrain his indignation, "would 
you like us to give you two pounds 
for that handful of gum?" "Oh ! no," 
he replied quietly ; " whatever you 
please." He was finally satisfied 
with the amount first offered. 

This Korosko is an important 
town ; for from here the direct road 
lies across the desert to Aboo- 
Hamed, Shendy, Sennaar, and 
Khartoom. The bend in the river 
between this place and Derr is so 
great that the river flows south-* 
southeast. Going up, we were de- 
tained some lime. The north wind, 
which carried us up thus far, was 
now almost dead ahead, and we 
were obliged to wait till it died out. 
The temple at Wady Sabooah a few 
miles below is of the time of Rame- 
ses 11. His favorite amusement, to 
judge from the figures on the tem- 
ple walls, was to catch hold of a 
few score of his enemies by the 



hair of the head, all at once, and 
in one hand too, while with the 
other he knocked them about with 
a club. The old temple was after- 
wards used as a Christian church. 
In the time of the great temple- 
builder a figure of some god stood 
in the adytum ; the Christians cov- 
ered it with plaster (it was a bas- 
relief), and then painted on it a 
picture of St. Peter. The other 
figures are not altered, and the re- 
sult is that the great Rameses is 
now making offerings to a Christian 
saint. 

I was anxious to obtain a dress — 
a full dress — of a Nubian young lady. 
I did not propose to introduce this 
style at home — it would scarcely be 
suited to our winters, although it 
might answer in summer — but it 
would be a pleasant thing to show 
it, and, when some fair one should 
ask what it was, to reply : " Oh ! that 
is a dress that belonged to a lady 
friend of mine in Nubia ; she gave 
it to me to remember her by." 
Just think how jealous all the men 
would be! Frank carefully trea- 
sures up a ribbon, and Charley con- 
.siders priceless a lock of hair which 
his fair one has worn — small trink- 
ets compared with mine, even if 
I cannot put mine in a locket. So 
I am bound to have one by fair 
means or foul. 

The reader will probably be anx- 
ious to know what this dress is. 
Well, he must not be shocked ; he 
must remember the climate is 
warm, and the immediate descen- 
dants of Eve set the fashion here. 
The full costume consists of a lea- 



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237 



ther girdle, from which hangs 
fringe of the same material, about 
six inches long, ornamented with 
shells. I have one. It belonged 
to a very pretty, dark-eyed young 
lady of thirteen, from whom I 
purchased it as a curiosity The 
girl's wardrobe being unusually 
well stocked, she sold me her 
best for the small sum of six 
piastres. 

The people are very much afraid 
of the evil eye, more dangerous on 
this account : that no one can tell 
wIjo possesses it. Even some of 
the innocent howadjii may have it ; 
if they look at any one who is near, 
he or she is instantly possessed by 
some spirit and becomes sick. But 
they have medicine ; for tliey imme- 
diately send to some priest and in- 
form him in what way the sufferer 
is afflicted. For a small fee he 
writes out a portion of the Koran 
whicli will cure the disease. This is 
enclosed in a leather bag and worn 
on the arm or around the neck. The 
disease is not only cured, if the ex- 
tract be the right one, but all fu- 
ture danger from the evil eye is 
averted 

We have been visiting temples 
and tombs almost every day for 
the past week, and have been very 
much annoyed by the crowds that 
followed us and in many cases pre- 
vented us from properly inspecting. 
On Feb. 6 we visited the little tem- 
ple of Baybel Welly. I put into 
operation a plan I had thought out 
last night. I wanted to try the ef- 
fect of sarcasm on these half-civil- 
ized Nubians. The temple was 
very small and the crowd pushed 
in after us. We withdrew, and I 
then spoke in a quiet, dignified 
manner to the one who appeared 
to be the leader. " This temple is 
not large enough for both of us to 
visit at the same time. We will wait 



outside until you and your friends 
finish your examination, and then 
we will look at it. If you find any- 
thing particularly interesting, you 
will be kind enough to inform us." 
At first he did not take the point ; 
after a time a light broke upon him, 
and he replied : *' You go in ; I 
will keep these walluds out." And 
he did so. 

I have told of the presents we 
gave the crew. They made a com- 
mon pool, a sort of joint-stock com- 
pany on tlie mutual-benefit plan. 
Reis Mohammed was treasurer. 
They held a meeting and resolved 
to declare a dividend, after the 
manner of many modern railway 
dividends — for it was paid out of 
the capital. A very noisy confab 
prevailed for an hour or more; 
then votes were cast, and it was re- 
solved "that the treasurer be in- 
structed and empowered to purchase 
a calf at a price not exceeding sev- 
en dollars, said calf to be served 
up immediately for the use of the 
stockholders." This should fur- 
nish a hint to antiquarians ; perhaps 
they may be able to trace back the 
origin of our modern corporations 
to the old Egyptians. The simi- 
larity of management should afford 
some clue. 

On the loth of February we 
reached Philae. On the mainland 
opposite is the small town of Belal. 
Here is an old mosque; from its 
minaret the first Moslem call to 
prayer in Nubia was made. It 
is February 12, and we are still 
lying at Mahatta, waiting for the 
Shellallee, to take us down the cata- 
ract. They will not come to-day, 
so we go to visit the quarries of 
syenite granite from which the 
obelisks were taken. Two of the 
party mount the diminutive don- 
keys ; I want to oversee them, so I 
climb on a camel. He kneels for 



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nie to mount, and then rises at 
command. The camel rises with 
three distinct motions. I have said 
that he kneels for oi«e to mount ; 
this will hardly convey the proper 
idea. His legs are doubled under- 
neath and his belly touches the 
ground. With the first motion he 
raises himself on his fore-knees, 
then straightens up his hind-legs, 
and then his fore-legs. The effect 
of this motion upon the rider is 
very curious. He is first pitched 
violently backwards, but before he 
has time to fall off is thrown for- 
wards again; and just as he feels 
certain that he is about to dive into 
the sand, he regains his equilibrium, 
and off goes the camel. When he 
walks, the rider sways back and 
forth ; his run is not unlike the trot 
of a horse. 

An unfinished obelisk — one that 
has never been entirely detached 
from the rock — shows us the means 
employed by the Pharaos for cut- 
ting out these immense masses. 
Holes were cut along the whole 
line of the block a few feet apart. 
Into these wooden wedges, saturat- 
ed with water, were firmly driven. 
The swelling of the wood, causing 
an equal pressure, split the rock in 
a straight line. Just above where 
we are moored is the body of a 
man lying in the water. His hands 
are tied behind his back — probably 
a slave from away up country, beat- 
en to insensibility and then thrown 
into the river. Perhaps he stole a 
few piastres, or was not sufficiently 
quick in obeying his master's com- 
mands. It is a sickening sight, this 
putrid, bloated corpse, so we ask 
Ahmud to have it taken out and 
buried. It was carried by the cur- 
rent into this little cove some four 
days ago; hundreds of people pass 
it daily, yet no one will remove it. 
Ahmud says it is the duty of the 



governor to bury it, and, unless he 
does so, the natives will let it re- 
main until the fish and vultures eat 
it up. " If I see the governor," 
continues Ahmud in the most un- 
concerned way, " I will speak to 
him about it." 

Early next morning the Shellallee 
assembled and preparations were 
begun. To make the descent it is 
requisite that the water should be 
smooth and not a breath of wind 
stir the air. The day was all that 
could be desired ; so at six a.m. be- 
gan the charge of the black bri- 
gade. On they come from every 
quarter; every rock sends forth two 
or three. We have sixty or seven- 
ty on board. AH says that most of 
them come to get a place to sit 
down and smoke their chibouks. 
There is the usual amount of talk- 
ing, and at a quarter to seven wc 
cast loose from our moorings and 
stood out into the stream. God's 
flag was tied to a post on the port 
side of the quarter-deck — a red flag 
with two yellow stars and a dia- 
mond, the latter representing the 
sword of Mohammed, and over all 
the sacred name " Allah." This was 
placing the dahabeeah under the 
divine protection to ensure a pros- 
perous descent. Our old friend No- 
good was with us, seated by the flag, 
.smoking a long pipe and reading 
the Koran. Another sheik was 
seated on the opposite side telling 
his beads. Four men stood at the 
helm, and two at each oar. To 
judge from the noise and excite- 
ment, you would be led to think 
that no boat had ever descended 
the cataracts before. Ahmud was 
so nervous that tears came into his 
eyes. The balance of the Shellal- 
lee squatted on the deck, lit their 
cliibouks, and never moved until 
we hustled them off at Assouan. 
The current carried us swiftly on to 



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the west bank, and we neared the 
great gate. A piece of wood was 
thrown overboard ; it was a guide 
to the steersmen. Now all" was 
quiet ; not a word was uttered on 
board. The rowers stopped, the 
howadjii held their breath ; a mo- 
ment more we rounded the corner 
almost at a ri^^ht angle, and shot 
into the great rapid. The boat 
grazed the rocks on the port side. 
The waves dashed over the bow. 
Directly ahead the rocks rise per- 
pendicularly to the height of 
twenty feet. The howadjii shud- 
der; surely we will be dashed to 
))ieces. Before we have scarce 
time to think, before we are at the 
bottom of the rapid, the rudder is 
jammed hard to starboard, the boat 
swings round at a right angle ; 
we are in smooth water — we have 
descended tiie cataract in safety. 
This rapid is two hundred feet long 
between the rocks, about seventy 
feet broad, and falls from six to 
seven feet. Old Nogood springs 
up now with astonishing activity, 
and snatches the turban from Reis 
Mohammed's head. This is his 
perquisite. It is the custom for 
the head sheik to take both tar- 
bosh and turban from the captain's 
head when the descent is safely ac- 
complished. This was all very 
well when these descents were first 
made, there being then some doubt 
as to their safe accomplishment. 
Now numbers of boats are taken 
down every year and an accident 
raiely happens. This custom should 
be done away with — at least, so 
thought Reis Mohammed ; for he put 
on the oldest tarbosh he had, and it 
was so bad that Nogood would not 
take it. Every one shook hands 
all around. One of the Shellallee 
cut his foot very badly ; I put court- 
plaster upon it^ and then bound 
it up with my own handkerchief 



He smiled and asked for back- 
sheesh. 

About nine we reached Assouan. 
Every one wanted backsheesli, 
even those I told about who sat on 
the decks smoking chiboukS, and 
Ifad never raised a finger to help 
us. Finally we got rid of them all. 
What a relief it was to be alone 
again with our little family ! — for we 
are coming to love our sailors ; 
they have been with us so long, and, 
in spite of their few faults, they are 
a good set and we have had no seri- 
ous trouble with them. There is a 
modern temple at Kom Ombos, 
about thirty miles below Assouan, 
built by one of the Ptolemies 
about one hundred and fifty years 
before Christ. It is interesting, and, 
notwithstanding its recent construc- 
tion, we examined it with care. 
There is another of these Ptole- 
maic temples at Edfoo, one of the 
most interesting temples on the 
Nile. True, it is far younger than 
Karnak, but then it is tlie best-pre- 
served temple in Egypt. As a per- 
fect specimen of an Egyptian tem- 
ple, complete in ail its parts, it 
stands unrivalled. Let me go into 
details here and describe this temple. 
It will give an idea of all the others ; 
for the temples of ancient Egypt were 
all constructed on the same plan, ex- 
cept rock-hewn Ipsamboul, which 
has been described before. The 
Egyptian temple was not a place 
of public worship, like a Greek 
or Roman temple, or a Christian 
church. It was an edifice erected 
by a king in honor of some triad of 
divinities to whom he wished to 
pay special homage in return for 
benefits conferred or in hope of 
future favors. A rude brick wall 
surrounded the whole enclosure 
and shut out from the vulgar gaze all 
that took place inside. This wall 
is almost entire at EdfoO) but a 



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small portion of it having been de- 
stroyed. A gateway admits us into 
the enclosure, and we pass through 
an avenue of sphinxes to a second 
gateway with its i)ropyla, or im- 
inense pyramidal tower, on either 
side. Over the gateway is a wing- 
ed scarabeeus in high relief. The 
pyramidal towers are covered with 
intaglio sculptures representing the 
king holding a brace of his enemies 
by the hair, and about to knock off 
their heads with a club. Flag- 
staffs were attached to the outside 
of these towers, rising many feet 
above their summit. Entering a 
large hypaethral hall through this 
second gateway, we see before us 
the portico of the temple itself. 
We enter this between two columns ; 
from these to the side walls are 
screens reaching about half-way to 
the roof. A little further on we 
reach the sanctum sanctorum — a 
magnificent monolithic chamber of 
polished gray granite, in which was 
kept the hawk, the emblem of the god 
Horhat, who was the principal divi- 
nity of this temple. The rest of 
the naos, or portion of the temple 
behind the portico, and m wiiich 
this sanctuary was placed, was cut 
up into a number of small cham- 
bers used for religious purposes. 
Within the enclosure was the te- 
menos, or grove, thickly planted 
with trees, and near at hand was a 
lake. The whole length of this tem- 
ple, including the gateway and wall 
of circuit, is four hundred and fifty 
feet. The breadth of the propylon — 
the inner gateway with its pyrami- 
dal towers — is two hundred and 
fifty feet and its height one hundred 
and fifteen feet. The sculptures 
all over the walls are extremely in- 
teresting. Some give the names of 
the several chambers of the temple, 
and their dimensions in cubits and 
parts of cubits, so that the modern 



measurements can be compared 
with the ancient ones. Others give 
valuable information respecting the 
ancient geography of Egypt. 

During the reign of Psammeni- 
tus, son of Amasis, a most remark 
able prodigy befell the Egyptians, 
says Herodotus; for rain fell at 
Egyptian Thebes, which had never 
happened before nor since, to my 
time, as the Thebans themselves 
affirm. For no rain ever falls 
in the upper regions of Egypt, 
but at that time rain fell in drops 
at Thebes. In the year of grace 
one thousand eight hundred and 
seventy- four the same remarkable 
prodigy befell the Egyptians, say I ; 
for rain fell at Egyptian Thebes. 
If we did not know the dignity and 
sober character of that ancient 
traveller, we might suppose a sar- 
castic witticism lay hid in the clos- 
ing part of the above story. See 
how cautious he is : the rain fell in 
drops. Well, that is precisely the 
way it fell when we were there. 
And the drops could be counted. 
There was no shower. The dust 
was not even laid. But it rained. 
I saw it — perhaps the first time in 
three tliousand years. It is no smal I 
affair for a man to be able to say to 
his grandchildren in years to come : 
" It rained when I was at Egyptian 
Thebes — in drops, you know." 

Ten days tied up at Luxor, mea- 
suring the columns of Karnak, 
looking at the endless procession 
of gods and warriors, and going 
far into the mountain-side to search 
for the sarcophagi of Egypt s long- 
departed rulers. The ruins of 
Thebes are familiar — at least to 
every one who has read any of the 
numerous works on Egypt; so I 
will not describe them. There is 
one place, however, not mentioned 
in the guide-books about which I ' 
will say something. Behind the 



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temple of Dayr el Medeeneh, on tiie 
western shore, there are several 
mummy-pits. Mr. S and I de- 
termined to visit them. We de- 
scended a well about ten feet deep, 
at the bottom of which we found 
a narrow passage, so low that we 
were obliged to crawl. This led 
into a large chamber filled with 
bodies. Ali begged to accompany 
us, but, when he caught sight of the 
first body, he beat a hasty retreat 
to the upper air. Truly, it was a 
solemn, ghastly sight. The mum- 
mies were piled up to what depth 
no one knows ; as they then were they 
had filled up the room to a level 
with the narrow passage, forming a 
floor over which we walked. The 
Arabs had been there hunting for 
scarabaei and other antiques to sell 
to travellers, and in so doing liad 
handled the corpses without care 
or ceremony. Here was a man 
standing on his head with his feet 
resting against the wall ; there a wo- 
man broken in two, the legs placed 
astride the neck ; corpses all around 
in every conceivable position — grin- 
ning, staring corpses, enough to 
give one the nightmare for weeks 
to come. Beneath this t()p row 
they were placed in layers. I found 
the body of a young woman well 
preserved, and with hair banged 
across the forehead, like the French 
style of a few years ago. I carried 
the body out to show it to the rest 
of the party, thinking somewhat of 
bringing it home. " Desecrating 
graves," " robbing sepulchres,*^* and 
words of like import met my ears, 
and, feeling somewhat abashed, I 
took the body back, but detached 
the hair and brought it with me. 
In this pit we found numbers of the 
small clay figures of Osiris. They 
were rudely made — for these were 
the fellaheen, or lower class, who 
were thrown into a common pit. 
VOL. XXV. — 16 



They were embalmed in the cheap- 
est way, which was done, according 
to Herodotus, by thoroughly rins- 
ing the abdomen in syrmaea, and 
then steeping it with natron for 
seventy days. 

The boy wlio owned my donkey 
was sick, so Fatma, his little black- 
eyed sister, attended for him. She 
was a pretty, bewitching little crea- 
ture, yet of a marriageable age — thir- 
teen, I think. Day after day she 
ran behind my donkey, urging it on,, 
and occasionally coming up along- 
side to make some pleasant remark, 
and disclose teeth like Oriental 
pearls. When we were parting I 
gave her a small present and asked 
her if she would go with me to 
America. "Certainly." And the 
little one jumped and clapped her 
hands with joy. " Do you know 
where America is situated.^" I 
asked. " Not exactly, but down 
the river, somewhere near Alexan- 
dria, is it not.^" 

Here we are at Keneh, and when 
we see a fine large house, in appear- 
ance not unlike a provincial theatre,, 
we naturally ask who inhabits it. 
The consuls of France and Prussia— 
the lion and the lamb lying down 
together. Here they live together 
in the same house on the best of 
terms, just as if King William had 
never marched into Paris or Na- 
poleon HI. had not surrendered at 
Sedan. We did not meet them, 
but very probably they were like 
Ali Murad — natives, with a faint 
idea that there had been some mis- 
understanding between France and 
Prussia; but then they were not 
concerned with that, so they smoke 
their pipes together and let the 
outside world take care of itself. 
Passing Sheik Selim's place on 
March 9, we stopped and sent 
some of the sailors with presents. 
We arrived at Bellianeh, whence we 



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proposed to visit the interesting tem- 
ple of Abydos. We rode for six 
miles through rich fields of grain, 
principally wheat, and reached the 
modern village of Arabat, called by 
the Arabs Madfun^ (the buried), 
from the ancient buildings that un- 
til recently lay all around covered 
with desert sand. On entering the 
town we saw a gang of men work- 
ing at excavations under the charge 
of an overseer, who quickened their 
movements with a bamboo. We 
jww pictures of this on the tombs 
four thousand years old. A fine- 
ilooking man, with an immense red 
! turban on his head, broke from the 
gang, rushed up to us, threw him- 
self on the ground, embraced our 
feet, and piteously implored us to 
take him away. He was a sheik 
of a neighboring village, he said, and* 
had been torn from his family and 
pressed into service. In proof of 
this he produced a long document, 
about as intelligible to us as the 
hieroglyphics on the temple wall. 
It was done by order of the vice- 
roy, so wfi could not interfere, and 
he went reluctantly back to his 
work. His appeal to us angered 
the overseer, who struck him a fear- 
ful blow with the bamboo that fell- 
ed. him to the ground. Said — good- 
hearted Said — took the man's part, 
and for a time it looked as though 
we were going to have a lively row. 
But it all evaporated in talk ; the 
overseer promised not to beat him 
any more, and tlien he and Said 
became the best of friends. 

These workmen are not paid very 
much — five cents a day; but their 
work is not very heavy — at least, as 
they do it. One man fills a small 
basket with earth, then sits down 
and smokes a cigarette. The bas- 
ket is dragged about twenty feet, 
emptied out, then he has a little 
talk with some of his friends. We 



were looking foi the celebrated 
tablet of Abydos, but the passage- 
way was so filled up with sand tliai 
we could not approach it. Tins 
tablet is called the new one, al- 
though M. Mariette supposes it to 
be the original of the fragmentary 
one found in the temple of Ramese.s 
II. at this place an<]h now in the 
British Museum. It contains fig- 
ures of Sethi and Rameses offering 
homage to seventy-six kings, their 
predecessors, beginning with Menes 
and ending with Sethi I., and has 
been of incalculable benefit to the 
historian. Rut we are going farther 
back than Menes, for there is the 
K6m es Sultan, the Holy Sepulchre 
of the ancient Egyptians — the tomb 
of Osiris. It is not a natural tumu- 
lus, but is formed by the heaping 
up of tombs during many ages one 
upon another. Are they not the 
tombs of those rich Egyptians that 
Plutarch tells of who came from 
all parts of the country to Abydos 
to be buried near Osiris ? 

A i^^N days after we were strol- 
ling along the east bank when we 
came upon a Coptic church. En- 
tering, we saw a novel rendering of 
the legend of St. George and tlie 
dragon. I have said before that 
St. George is the patron saint of the 
Copts, and here they turn the dra- 
gon into a Turk, substituting a real 
enemy for a mythical one. St. 
George, on a spirited steed, is fran- 
tically endeavoring to pin a Turk 
to the earth. He has his lance run 
through the neck, but the Turk is a 
tough fellow and is fighting so hard, 
while the horse is balancing himself 
in the most incredible manner on 
one leg, that it is a question whicli 
will get the upper hand. 

As we run close to the bank 
scores of urchins salute us with that 
now familiar cry, " Backsheesh, how- 
adji" — " Alms, O shopkeeper*' — 



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not that they took us for shopkeep- 
ers, but then these were the first to 
travel for purposes of trade ; and 
when others, travelling for pleasure 
alone, came after them, no distinc- 
tion was made by the natives, but all 
were classed in the same category. 
Everywhere in the East, from the 
poorest beggar to the sultan him- 
self, is heard the same demand, 
" Backsheesh, howadji" — from the 
great ones couched in hidden terms 
and well-set phrases, but as well un- 
derstood as the outspoken clamor 
of the rabble. After careful study 
and deliberation I have classified 
the different uses of tliis phrase. 
I have divided them into eleven dif- 
ferent demands, expressing the fol- 
lowing ideas: First, the distant 
or dubious demand. This is made 
by small urchins from the bank as 
we sail by. The tone of voice in- 
dicates that they doubt very much 
whether they will receive anything, 
but deem it worth while to make 
the attempt, although sometimes a 
quarter of a mile of water separates 
us from them. Second, the salu- 
talive demand from older ones. 
As we ride or walk through the 
country we meet an Arab. " Na- 
harak Saiid" (May the day be good 
to you), say we. " Backsheesh, 
howadji," he replies in the same sa- 
lutative tone, and moves on. Sure- 
ly he cannot expect anything; he 
does not even stop. Third, the 
imperative demand, growled out in 
a fierce tone by half-grown boys — 
your-money-or-your-life demand of 
highwaymen. This is always un- 
successful. Fourth, the curtailed 
demand from over-lazy ones, as 
this : " Backshee, howadj " — a very 
indifferent one. Fifth, the plaintive 
demand — the fourteen-children and 
seven-year-widow story listened to 
by tender-hearted people. Sixth, 
the non-expective demand, a mere 



matter of form, and surprise exlii- 
bited if complied with. Seventh, 
the interrogative demand — to wit : 
** Did it ever occur to you, O how- 
adji ! that a small present would 
be acceptable to your petitioner ?'' 
An idea similar to this frequent- 
ly crossed the howadj i*s mind. 
Eighth, the confidential demand 
from the donkey- boy when near the 
end of a trip. In a low whisper, 
and with a knowing look : " How- 
adjiand I understand one another; 
it is all right ; about two piastres 
will do." Ninth, the future de- 
mand : the praises of the donkey 
are sounded when starting out ; 
professions of fidelity and attach- 
ment on the part of the attendant 
are loud and constant ; he will show 
you everything, and — " Backsheesh 
kabe^r dahabeedh" (Much back- 
sheesh on the return to boat), in a 
matter-of-course tone. Tenth, the 
infantile demand, from imps scarce 
able to talk : " Backtheeth, howath" 
— most successful of any. Eleventh, 
the fraudulent demand, practised 
principally in Nubia. A mother 
holding an infant in her arms : 
" Backsheesh for the baby, O how- 
adjil" and when the kind-hearted 
traveller places a coin in the little 
dimpled hand held out to receive 
it, the mother takes possession of 
it for her own use. When the trav- 
eller approaches a town, every child 
is snatched up into some one's 
arms — it is immaterial whether the 
mother gets her own child or some 
one belonging to another — and pre- 
sented to him. 

Little Saida, our gazelle, broke 
her leg at Thebes; we sent for the 
barber, who is doctor also, to bind 
it up. He performed the operation 
in a bungling way, and mortifica- 
tion set in a few days after. She 
had become a great pet, and was 
beginning to know us and eat from 



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our bands. So we concluded it 
was best to kill lier, as she was suf- 
fering very much. Wishing to pre- 
serve the skin, she was hit on the 
head with an axe, so as not to in- 
jure it. After the skin had been 
removed we offered the body to the 
crew for a meal. Reis Mohammed 
threw it overboard, saying that it 
was not killed in the proper way 
for them to eat : it should have 
been shot, or else the throat cut, 
after repeating certain passages 
from the Koran. It is strange to 
see how obedient these Arabs are 
to the sacred writ. They are fond 
of meat, but do not have it very 
often. On one occasion we were 
lunching in a temple. When we 
had finished, some fine slices of ham 
were left. I gave them to AH for 
himself and the two sailors who 
were with us, and whose lunch had 
consisted of dry bread. Without a 
moment's hesitation he threw them 
to a dog who was near us, saying 
that it was good food for dogs and 
Christians, but not for Arabs. 

On the summit of the rocks of 
Gebel Aboofayda, near their south- 
ern end, are the caverns of Moab- 
deh, commonly called the crocodile 
mummy pits. We stopped and 
procured some fine specimens — 
small crocodiles which had been 
treated as gods ^\^ thousand years 
ago. Every one in this country 
seems to know every one else. It 
seemed to me that, when our crew 
wanted to see any one, they simply 
called out the name — Ali, Moham- 
med, or whatever it was — and he 
soon appeared. When purchasing 
goods it makes no difference whom 
you pay, whether owner or not, pro- 
vided you pay some one. Many 
l)eople marvel how the old P2gyp- 
tians transported their obelisks and 
colossi from the quarries at Syene to 
their destination several hundred 



miles down the river. Back of the 
Christian village called Ed Dayr 
en Nakhl, on the east bank nearly 
opposite Rhoda, are a number of 
grottoes cut into the mountain-side. 
In one of them is one of the most 
interesting paintings found in any 
of the Egyptian tombs, which will 
enable us to understand how these 
immense masses of stone were con- 
veyed from one place to another. 
We had great difficulty in finding 
this grotto ; for, although it is men- 
tioned in the guide-book, the na- 
tives seemed unaware of its exis- 
tence. At last we found it, away 
up on the mountain-top, the en- 
trance so filled up with debris that 
we were obliged to crawl in. But 
we were well paid ; for we saw the 
famous painting of " A Colossus on 
a Sledge," which, as far as I am 
informed, is the only one of the 
kind in Egypt. The person repre- 
sented by the colossus was called 
Thoth-6tp, and was of high distinc- 
tion in the military caste. He is 
styled the king's friend, and one of 
his children was named Ositarsens, 
after the king. This grotto was his 
tomb. The figure is seated and 
placed upon a sledge, being firmly 
secured to it by ropes. One hun- 
dred and seventy-two men, in four 
rows of forty-three each, pull the 
ropes, attached to a ring in front of 
the sledge, and a liquid — most prob- 
ably oil — is poured from a vase by a 
person standing on the pedestal of 
the statue, in order to facilitate its 
progress as it slides on the ground — 
or more probably on a tramway 
made for the occasion, though that 
is not indicated in the picture. 
Some of the persons engaged in 
this laborious duty appear to be 
Egyptians ; others are foreign slaves 
who are clad in the costume of 
their country. Behind the statue 
are four rows of men, three in a 



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row, representing either the archi- 
tects and masons or those who had 
employment about the place where 
the statue was to be conveyed. Be- 
low are others carrying vases filled 
with water, and some rude machi- 
nery connected with the transpor- 
tation of the colossi, followed by 
taskmasters with their wands of 
office. On the knee of» the figure 
stands a man, who claps his hands 
to the measured cadence of a song 
to mark the time, and to ensure a 
long pull, a strong pull, and a pull 
all together. Before the statue a 
priest is presenting incense in hon- 
or of the person it represents. At 
the top are seven companies of men 
— a guard of honor, or perhaps re- 
liefs for dragging the sledge. Be- 
yond are men slaying an ox and 
bringing the joints of meat to the 
door of the building to which the 
statue was to be transported. From 
this we may judge with tolerable 
certainty how the great obelisks 
were conveyed to the temples be- 
fore which they were set up, and 
how the great stones of the Pyra- 
mids were transported from their 
mountain-beds. 

We are now rapidly sailing down 
stream and n«aring civilization. 
In a few days we reached the lofty 
cliffs of Gebel et Tayr, which rise 
abruptly from the river to a height 
of several hundred feet. On its 
summit stands the Coptic convent 
of Sitta Mariani el Adra (Our Lady 
Mary the Virgin). As we approach- 
ed several of the monks jumped 
into the stream — not from the top 
of the cliff, however — and swam out 
towards us. They seized hold, 
jumped aboard, entirely naked, and 
saluted us with " Ana Christian, ya 
howadjii" (I am a Christian, O 
howadjii !) Of course we could not 
resist* this appeal, but a few paras 
satisfied them, and, putting the coins 



in their mouths, they swam back to 
shore, to sit like birds of prey 
waiting for their next victims — for 
they never miss a dahabeedh 
that passes. This Gebel et Tayr — 
" The Mountain of the Bird" — has a 
strange legend attached to it. It 
is said that all the birds of the 
country assemble annually on this 
mountain, and, having selected one 
of their number to remain there till 
the following year, they fly away 
into Africa, and only return the 
next year to release their comrade 
and substitute another in his place. 
A funny accident happened to 
Reis Ahmud. We had grounded 
on a sand-bank, where we remain- 
ed sixteen hours, and the usual 
means were being employed to 
pull the boat off. An anchor was 
thrown out some seventy feet ahead 
in the direction of the channel. A 
rope was attached to this, and the 
other end carried through a pulley 
on the deck. The entire crew pull- 
ed upon this rope, when it became 
entangled in a block on the star- 
board side. Reis Ahmud went 
forward to release it, and, without 
slackening the rope, he began to pry 
it with a long pole. The strain on 
the rope was of course very severe. 
He succeeded in raising it over 
the block, but it acted like the 
string of a bow, and Ahmud, being 
in the place where the arrow usual- 
ly is, was struck by it. He was 
shot directly over the top of the 
kitchen, and plunged headlong into 
the water on the other side of the 
boat as though he had been shot 
out of a catapult. The expression 
of fear, terror, and uncertainty as to 
what struck him, shown plainly in 
his face as he went flying over 
tJhe boat, pole in hand, was most 
ludicrous. Fortunately, he was not 
hurt. A bad fright and thorough 
ducking will teach him to avoid 



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246 



May. 



strained ropes in future. Some 
statues, a few fragments of granite, 
and some substructions are all 
that can be seen of the ruins of a 
city which, if there is any truth in 
the descriptions given of it, must 
liave exceeded any modern city as 
much as the Pyramids exceed any 
mausoleum which has been erected 
since those days (Curzon). So one 
day was enough at Memphis, and 
still on to the south we sailed. 
Now the great Pyramids loom up 
in the distance, and at ten of the 
morning of March 30 we reach the 
iron bridge at Cairo, our long Nile 
journey over. That night we left 
our dahabeeah, and bade farewell 
to our crew. I have travelled far 
and wide throughout this world of 
ours, but I know of no trip that 
has afforded me more real satisfac- 
tion and pleasure than these four 



months on the Nile. The expense 
is not very great; a party of four 
can contract with a good dragoman 
to supply boat, crew, provisions, 
and everything necessary for the 
voyage for frolh five to six pounds 
sterling a day. The winter of 
1 873-74 was cold for Egypt. The 
superintendent of the viceroy's su- 
gar-works at Rhoda informed us 
that it was the coldest winter known 
in Egypt for seventeen years. See 
what a cold winter is in the Orient— 
for these observations I took myself: 
Average thermometer from Decem- 
ber 20, 1873, to March 28, 1874, 
sixty-nine degrees. Highest ther- 
mometer during same period, eighty- 
two degrees on February 21, 1874; 
lowest, February 8, 1874, sixty 
degrees. The observations were 
taken in the cabin — in the shade, 
of course — at noon of each day. 



MAY. 

The month of Maia — Cybele's Roman name* — 
Ere Rome was Christ's. And 'twas for Vulcan's priest 

To kindle at her shrine the rosy flame 

On sweet May-day. Worab'd in the fruitful East, 
Not vainly Westward, as the myths increased, 

This purer rite, nor unprophecic, came : 
A flower that should be gather'd for the feast 

Of Truth — with more that erst deck'd Pagan shame. 

Not now the mother of vain gods f we pray, 
But Her, the God-Man's Mother, ever a maid : 

And still to her this fairest month of May 
Assign — our hearts upon her altar laid. 

That her chaste love, descending with its fire. 

May purge them from the dross of base desire 

B. D. H. 

* Maia, or Maje^ta r not to be confounded with Maia, the mother of Hercules, 
t Cybele was the *"• Mater Deflm" of th« Creeks and Romans. 



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The French Clergy during the late War tn France^ 247 



THE FRENCH CLERGY DURING 

FRANCE. 



THE LATE WAR IN 



The war of 1870 between France 
and Germany has taken the place, 
in the minds of the French, of those 
other, not more glorious, but more 
successful, wars with which the very 
word " war " was formerly associat- 
ed. They were used to think of 
nothing but triumphs; individual 
losses were swallowed up in national 
exultation ; and they connected with 
the memories of the two Napoleons 
the peculiarly French axiom that 
there existed no such word in their 
language as " impossible." That is 
still true to-day, notwithstanding 
the reverses through which they 
have passed; for moral heroism 
stands upright on a lost battle-iield 
as well as on a triumphant one, and 
the nation can say with its chival- 
rous monarch of old : '* All is lost, 
save honor." If the discipline was 
faulty, if the management was in- 
discreet, if the government was 
weak, if circumstances were con-* 
trary, there was still individual 
courage, and not only among the 
soldiers, but among all classes. 
The very misfortunes of the coun- 
try roused the spirit of women, 
priests, students, exiles, of the weak 
and the poor, the secluded and the 
helpless; never was there • such 
spontaneous truce to all differences, 
such generous sacrifice of personal 
comforts and, what is more, of per- 
sonal antipathies ; all good men and 
true shook hands across the bar- 
riers of politics, religion, and caste, 
and, with one mind and heart, did 
each his best in his own way for his 
sufiTefing country. Of course there 
were cowards, time-servers, and 



place-seeker's, making profit out of 
their fatherland's necessities, get- 
ting into safe, so*called official, 
berths, and generally skulking ; but 
they were not the majority, and it 
is superfluous to ask here if every 
nation has not its scum. 

The part which the French clergy 
took in the war of 1870 exceeds 
that taken by them in any previous 
war, when some few members of 
their body acted as salaried chap- 
lains to the troops. Even during 
the " wars of religion " under Henry 
IV. of France few priests accom- 
panied the troops; the abb/s of 
Turenne and Conde's 'times were 
ofHcers and gentlemen rather than 
pastors and nurses ; during the wars 
of the great Napoleon public opin- 
ion would have frowned down their 
services ; and the successful wars of 
the Crimea and of Italy under the 
late emperor, though they stirred 
the clergy more, were yet too suc- 
cessful to vie as a field of action 
with the ever-present needs of city 
and country parishes. But the last 
disastrous conflict was emphatically 
a home war ; each family in the 
quiet hamlet where his cure of souls 
lay came to the parish priest, asking 
blessings for its departing members 
and prayers for its dead ones ; each 
wife and mother claimed his com- 
forting words and poured her sor- 
rows and fears into his ears ; sol- 
diers on the march made his pres- 
bytery their natural home, slept and 
ate there, asked him for common 
little necessaries, and made sure of 
getting no denial had they asked 
for anything he possessed; boys 



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248 The French Clergy during the late War in France, 



whom he had christened came home 
to die, and it was he who gave them 
the last sacraments and read the 
burial service over their graves ; in 
a word, he lived on the battle-field 
even while still cooped up in his 
village. It was not strange, then, 
that he should easily lake one step 
further, and go himself to share 
abroad the same danger whose face 
was so familiar to him at home. A 
German historian, writing of the late 
war, says that there was more patri- 
otism found among the French 
clergy as a class than in any other 
class in the whole nation. General 
Ambert, a soldier and a civil ser- 
vant, has gathered together* many 
interesting episodes of the war re- 
lating to the heroic behavior of the 
priests, who from the beginning 
came eagerly to ask leave to act as 
chaplains for the love of God and 
their neighbor only; for when war 
was declared there were but forty- 
six accredited chaplains in the 
whole army. Not only parish 
priests presented themselves, but 
also hundreds of monks, brothers, 
and confraternity-men ; every order 
was represented — Jesuits, Gapu- 
chins, Dominicans, Benedictines, 
Carmelites (the most distinguished of 
whom was P^re Hermann, who died 
atSpandau),Trappists (of whom one 
convent alone furnished thirty-five), 
Cistercians, Oratorians, Lazarists, 
Redemptorists, Christian Brothers 
(of whom nineteen died during the 
war, besides those who were the 
victims of the Commune), and other 
brotherhoods, old orders and new, 
their members drawn from all 
•classes, from the Legitimist nobler- 
man to the peasant and the artisan, 
from the doctor of law5 or of the- 
ology to the brother-scullerer or 
porter. One day in mid-winter, 

^VHifolwme en Soutan*. By Geaenl Am- 
iert. *P«ra: £. Denta, Pahdi Royal. 1876. 



during the armistice, the Christian 
Brothers had been for more than 
twelve hours unceasingly at work 
digging in the snow for the bodies 
of the French dead of Petit-Bry, 
Champigny, and Croisy. Two Prus- 
sian officers, at the head of a de- 
tachment of their men, were doing 
the same for the bodies of the Ger- 
mans. It was a bitterly cold night, 
the wind blew the flames of the 
torches about, and nothing was 
heard but short, business-like sen- 
tences, the sound of pickaxes break- 
ing the ice, and that of the carriers' 
feet as they bore the dead away on 
rough litters. The Prussian officers 
looked admiringly at the silent 
brothers, and one said to the other : 
" We have seen nothing so fine as 
this in France." " Except the Sis- 
ters of Charity," answered the otl>er. 

One day Brother Nethelmus, of 
St. Nicholas' School, Paris, was 
wounded by a ball, which proved 
his death-blow two days later, and 
hardly was he buried before a 
young man asked to see the supe- 
rior, and said to him very simply : 
" I am the younger brother of 
Nethelmus, and have come to take 
his place." " Have you your pa- 
rents' consent?" asked the supe- 
rior. " My father and mother bless- 
ed me before I left, and bade me 
come," said the youth, as if no- 
thing was more commonplace. 

The service of the wounded was 
the priests' favorite field of work, 
and it was in this that they most fre- 
quently met death themselves. The 
Abb6 G^raud, after the defeat of 
Mans, being chaplain of the Ven- 
dean francs-tireurs^ was seeking ou i 
the most dangerously placed among 
the wounded. The latter had in 
many cases been abandoned by the 
drivers of their ambulances, who, in 
the general rout and panic, had un- 
harnessed the horses and run away. 



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The French Clergy during the late War in France. 



249 



On one of these carts were two sol- 
diers and two officers of ** Mobiles" 
— one of whom tells the story — all 
badly wounded and trembling with 
cold and ague. Many a man ran 
past them, intent on his own safety 
and heedless of their piteous ap- 
peals, and the men despaired of 
help, when they saw a priest run- 
ning quickly towards them with 
cheery looks and words, telling 
them he was looking for them. 
The first thing he did was to take 
off all his available clothing to co* 
ver the men and warm them a lit- 
tle ; then, stopping some of the run- 
aways, he begged, promised, and 
reproached so effectually as to in- 
duce several to help him. "Push 
the wheels, my fine fellows," he 
cried, as he harnessed himself to 
the shafts, and from the battle-field 
he drew the cart to a village, where 
he never rested till he had begged 
for his cliarges food, coverings, and 
straw, and at last a horse, with which 
he drove them to the nearest hos- 
pital. He continued his labors 
throughout the war. The Abb^ de 
Beuvron, who has lived with the 
soldiers for fifteen years in various 
times and climates, tells us of 
the priests at Froschwiller, who, 
after confessing and anointing the 
dying placed in the village church, 
saved the wounded while the build- 
ing was in flames, and persuaded the 
Prussians who guarded the wells to 
let them have a few drops of water 
for the sick; this blockade lasted 
for four days, after which fifteen 
Alsatian peasants were condemned 
to be shot for having mutilated the 
bodies of some Prussian soldiers. 
This system of shooting the first- 
comer for a crime committed by an 
unknown person was one of the 
most cruel features of the late war. 
These poor wretches, taken at ran- 
dom — some mere boys, some old, in- 



firm men — were tied with their hands 
behind their backs to one thick rope 
which kept them all on a level. The 
Protestant clergyman, who had him- 
self gone to the general and asked 
the lives of these men, came to 
beg M. de Beuvron to intercede 
for them; he was equally unsuc- 
cessful, and, when he begged as a 
Catholic priest to be allowed to see 
the condemned, the general smiled 
and said : " You are welcome ; I will 
give you an escort." But on ad- 
dressing the poor men the priest 
found that they understood no 
French, and he could not speak 
German. He pointed to heaven, 
and spread his hands while he 
gave them absolution, and they, 
with one accord, fell on their 
knees, sobbed and prayed, and 
bowed their heads. This solemn, 
silent service seems to us as no- 
ble as the most magnificent of tri- 
umphant processions, with chants 
and rejoicings, and imperial cor- 
Uge following — this, the last mo- 
ment between time and eternity, 
between faith and vision. 

It is M. de Beuvron who has said 
with truth : " It is the country pa- 
rish priest who makes Catholic 
France." And Prince Frederick 
Charles of Prussia echoed this 
sentiment when he said at ari offi- 
cial dinner in 1872, at the table of 
the Bavarian ambassador : " There 
is in France but one class that is 
noble and patriotic, earnest, coura- 
geous, worthy of respect, and really 
influential, and that is the clergy. 
Impossible not to admire it as it 
appeared on the recent battle-fields." 
Some of these heroic men preserv- 
ed their incognito ; one is mention- 
ed by the London Times' corre- 
spondent who followed the Saxon 
regiments. "There is a man," he 
writes, " whom I have noticed, since 
Sedan until the struggles before the 



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250 The French Clergy during the late War in France. 



walls of Paris, constantly following 
the wounded. He has neither horse 
nor conveyance, but, stick in hand, 
he follows the track of the army, 
and, with the consummate finish of 
the man of the world and the ten- 
derness of a woman, he attends 
and comforts the dying. He is a 
French priest, a Benedictine. . . . 
The other day I met him suddenly 
on a field of battle, and he asked me 
to direct him to where the wound- 
ed were. He had walked twenty 
miles that day. No government 
pays him; he is a volunteer in the 
best sense of the word. . . . He is 
in the prime of manhood, of hand- 
some build, distinguished-looking, 
and with no less than courtly man- 
ners." Another unknown volun- 
teer, but a layman, was found dead 
at Forbach. No one had seen him 
till the day of the battle, and he 
wore a dark dress and cap and a 
fancy rifle. At the moment when 
the battle began he suddenly join- 
ed a brigade and fought like a hero. 
His purse held a large sum of money 
in gold, and his linen, unmarked, 
was remarkably fine, while round 
his neck was a medal hanging by 
a silken ribbon. There was nothing 
to identify him. 

But to return to our parish 
priests, of whom many refused rich 
rewards and promotion after the war, 
as M. du Marhallach, who, though he 
accepted the Legion of Honor, de- 
clined the bishopric of Quimper, 
and, when his townsmen forced him 
to represent them in the National 
Assembly, managed to resign before 
long and return to humbler scenes 
of usefulness in his country parish. 
If a book were to be filled with in- 
cidents of the devotedness of the 
country priests, there would yet be 
ten times as many unknown and 
unrecorded. As the Prussians en- 
tered the village of Verrey, sla)'ing 



all in their way — ^men, women, and 
children — the cure\ M. Fr^rot, was 
almost ubiquitous among the dy- 
ing. He was wounded twice with 
bayonets, and, as he retreated into 
his garden, the soldiers fired and 
wounded him twice more. He 
dragged himself to the doctor's, 
where some wounded were being 
attended to, and got his wounds 
dressed, when the doctor, taking the 
flag of the Geneva Association with 
him, undertook to get him safe into 
his own (the doctor's) house, where 
some of the wounded had been 
carried for safety. The enemy, 
heedless of the flag, fell upon him 
again with ball, bayonet, and gun- 
stocks till he fell down insensible. 
He died a few days after, glad, as 
he said, if his death could be in any 
way useful to his country. 'Use- 
ful ! Yes, as an example ; but how 
many precious lives are lost thus, 
while vile, worthless ones preserve 
themselves ! One can only compare 
the pouring out of such blood to 
the " waste" of the precious oint- 
ment which our Lord so highly 
commended. 

The Abb^ Miroy, of Cuchery, 
near Rheims, died another kind of 
death : he was judicially murdered 
for having allowed arms to be hid- 
den in the barn of his house. When 
asked for this permission, he was 
in the first agony of grief at the 
news of the death of his parents at 
a hamlet burnt by the Prussians, 
However, whether responsible or 
not — and probably as a Frenchman 
he saw no harm in passively help- 
ing in the defence of his country — 
he was shot at Rheims, at daybreak, 
on a bleak February morning and 
a Sunday. It was during the armis- 
tice. His people put this inscription 
on his tomb-cross : " Here lies .the 
Abb6 Charles Miroy, who died a 
victim to his love of country." 



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The French Clergy during the late War in France. 251 



M. Muller, parish priest of Sar- 
reguemines, when asked for the 
keys of his church, flatly refused to 
give them up, and, on being threat- 
ened, answered : 

" How many shots do you fire on 
a condemned man ?" 

"Eight and the ' coup-de-grAce: " 

"Very well, then, before you 
cross the threshold of my church 
to desecrate it fire these eight shots 
and the coup-dt-grAce at me; for 
you shall only step in over my dead 
body." There were many like in- 
stances ; for the priests knew well 
that the enemy delighted in wanton- 
ly outraging the most sacred feel- 
ings of the people by profaning and 
robbing their churches. A barbar- 
ous story is told (General Am- 
bert vouches for it) of the treat- 
ment undergone by the aged Abb^ 
Cor, of Ncuville in the Ardennes, 
who had considerably delayed the 
march of the Prussians by certain 
information given to the French, 
and who, notwithstanding his age 
(he was more than eighty), was tied 
to a horse's tail and dragged along 
for a good distance, with another 
rope tied to his leg, with \f%icb a 
soldier pulled him up whenever he 
fell. At last the soldiers got tired, 
and threw him into a ditch, and, 
marvellous to relate, he recovered. 
One of his parishioners cried out in 
pity: "O father! what a state you 
are in." 

"Oh!" he answered cheerfully, 
with a twinkle in his eye, " it is 
only my <?/// cassock !" 

The parish priest of Gunstatt was 
brought before an improvised coun- 
cil of war just after the battle of 
Forbach ; what was requested of him 
the book does not say, but his an- 
swer just before he was shot points 
to something evidently against his 
country's interests : '* I prefer death 
to the crime of betraying France." 



If these facts, which speak for 
themselves, allow us to make any 
commentary, we can think of none 
so appropriate as this : how does 
this France contrast with the fever- 
ish, theatrical, rationalistic, immo- 
ral France presented to us by a 
certain wide-spread form of French 
literature ? No country is so libel- 
led by its own writers as France. 
Granted that many novels repre- 
sent "life as it is," yet it is not the 
undercurrent of life, not the life of 
the majority. It is the artificial, 
sensational, exceptional life of large 
cities and of reckless cliques ; and, 
besides this, novels have a trick of 
magnifying this diseased life into 
illusive dimensions. It fills the 
eye of the foreigner, it shapes his 
judgment, it draws his curiosity, 
till the sober, prosaic, quiet, re- 
spectable, and* vital life of the coun- 
try fades out of his memory. He 
forgets the vie de province^ the im- 
poverished gentlemen living in dig- 
nified retirement, like Lamartine 
and his mother at Milly, like the 
family in one part of a Sister* s Story y 
like £ug^nie de Gu6rin with her 
homely, housekeeping cares; the 
cosey homes of the middle classes, 
their precise, thrifty, cheerful ways ; 
the family bond that enables differ- 
ent families to live patriarchally in 
a fellowship which few Anglo-Saxons 
would or could imitate ; the peasant- 
proprietors with their gardens and 
little farms ; the healthy rural, natu- 
ral life that is everywhere, and even 
in cities; the kindliness, the sim- 
plicity, and the innate refine- 
ment which ought to make many a 
traveller of the Anglo-Saxon race 
blush for his surliness and brutal, 
superficial, haughty way of setting 
down every foreigner as a monkey 
or a barbarian. 

Among the country priests there 
were not only heroes, but strategists. 



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252 The French Clergy during the late War in France. 



Towards the beginning of the war 
a French column was on its way to 
join the main body, and had to re- 
treat through a hilly, wooded, and 
unknown tract to avoid being sur- 
prised by the enemy. No one knew 
just what to do or advise, and the 
little maps were very unsatisfactory. 
The general stopped at a Lorraine 
village and sent for the authorities. 
The mayor and most of the inhabi- 
tants had fied in anticipation of dan- 
ger; only the cur^ was left, with a 
few sick and old people. He was 
over seventy himself, tall and large, 
his hands and face swollen and his 
feet protected by huge wooden 
shoes. The general did not hope 
for much advice from him, but the 
old man sat down and explained 
that he was gouty and unable to 
get about, but knew the country. 
When the general had jokfed about 
this impromptu council of war, and 
the priest in return had reminded 
him how often the church had had 
occasion to help the army before, 
they examined the map together, 
and the curi took a pencil and 
quickly drew certain lines in a most 
business-like manner, calculating 
how long such a road would take 
to traverse, how much headway 
would be gained over the enemy, 
what points would be a safe resting- 
place for a few hours for the tired 
troops, the route which, believing 
the bridge to be destroyed, the 
Prussians would probably follow, 
the houses where the general would 
find willing and able contributors 
to the necessities of his men — in a 
• word, every chance and every de- 
tail that an accomplished com- 
mander would have thought of. 
Then he asked for four soldiers, two 
to be placed in the steeple to look 
out for the Prussians and toll the 
bell the moment they came in sight, 
and thus give the understood signal 



to the column at its masked resting- 
place ; and two to watch with him 
at the entrance of the village. 

" Monsieur le cur/!" cried the gen- 
eral, "you are a hero!" 

The old man sneezed violently — 
he took snuff — and laughed as well, 
as he said : ^^Mon g^niraly the semi- 
naries are full of such heroes as / 
am. It is no heroism to love one*s 
country. Now, when you have 
given your orders, I shall carry you 
off to the presbytery and give you a 
roast chicken and some good omelet; 
and I think Turenne would have 
been glad sometimes to barter a few 
of his laurel branches for an oraeleL" 

The priest and the two soldiers 
had a long and cold watch through 
the night. At three o'clock in the 
morning the latter were getting tired, 
but the old man said : " Hist I do 
you see something over there Y* 
The men peered through the dark 
and saw nothing ; there was a wide 
circle of old trees and a road across 
— a well-known spot, the Fontaine 
wood. But the priest both saw 
and heard, or else he guessed by 
instinct. "See, they are creeping 
nearly* on all fours behind the 
trees ; now they stop to listen, they 
are gathering together. There is 
an officer speaking to them in 
whispers. It is time to ring the 
bell. Go now, children." 

"But how can we leave you 
alone ?" said the soldiers. 

" Never mind me ; God will take 
care of me. Your general's orders 
were to leave the moment the bell 
rang." And as his companions 
withdrew he rang his little bell and 
the church tocsin immediately an- 
swered. Its sound was nearly 
drowned by the discharge of the 
Prussian rifles. The old man knelt 
down and began the Lord's Prayer ; 
he had not said the second line be- 
fore a ball hit him and he fell. The 



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The French Clergy during the late War in France. 253 



Vrencli column esca|>ed without 
the loss of one man ; and when the 
general reported to his superior in 
command, the latter, lighting a ci- 
gar, said : *' That priest was a brave 
fellow." But the general was to meet 
him once more- The cur^ was not 
killed, but was afterwards con- 
demned to be shot, which sentence 
was commuted to exile on account 
of his great age ; and when he met 
I) is old friend, who believed him 
dead, he greeted him with the 
cheerful question : " Well, how did 
you like my omelet?'* The other 
caught him in his arms and repeat- 
ed with as much tenderness as ad- 
miration : " You are a hero !" 

The next story we choose from 
the many related by Amber t is one 
of pure Christian self-sacrifice, and 
one that has its daily counterpart 
in hospitals and plague-stricken 
cities, even in peaceful times. 
Small-pox in an aggravated form 
had broken out among the French 
troops, and, on the approach of an 
infected battalion of Mobiles to a 
village not far from Beaune, a gen- 
darme was sent on to bid the inha- 
bitants lock their doors and keep 
out of the way, while the sick 
were taken through to an isolated 
cam]>-hospital at some distance. 
'l*here were hardly any able-bodied 
men left in the village, as they 
were off harassing the Prussians 
and watching their movements, and 
the women, in their loneliness, felt 
a double fear. The patients came. 
A death-like silence prevailed ; no 
face was seen at door or window. 
The sick men dragged themselves 
slowly and painfully along, asking 
for nothing, touchingly resigned 
to their lot of lepers and outcasts, 
though many of them were raw re- 
cruits of a few weeks only, whose 
homes were in just such villages 
as the familiar-looking one they 



were crossing now. They had 
passed the last houses, but at the 
door of one a little apart from the 
rest one soldier fell, and, seeing 
how hopeless it was to urge him 
further, a sergeant placed him on 
the doorstep and knocked at the 
door for help. No answer; and 
the battalion resumed its march, 
while the sergeant went back to tell 
the mayor. When he was out of 
sight a man and two women came 
hastily and furtively out of the 
house, carried the unconscious sol- 
dier some distance to the foot of 
a tree, and there left him. The 
sergeant had found the parish 
priest on his way back from a sick- 
call, andasked him to tell the mayor, 
as he was in a hurry to join his 
regiment. They came to the house, 
and, not finding the sick man, asked 
the owner where he was ; the man 
half opened the shutter and point- 
ed in silence to the tree. Without 
even seeking help, the priest, find- 
ing the soldier still alive, carried 
him home in his arms and laid him 
on his own bed. The hubbub was 
great in the parish ; the old house- 
keeper indignantly remonstrated, 
but the priest gave her a few clear 
and severe orders as to her own lib- 
erty of staying away, and the sub- 
stitute whom he had the means 
of sending for to replace him in 
church, also the manner of bringing 
him his food once a day, and then 
went out to speak to his excited 
parishioners. " There," he said, 
pointing to a placard on the wall 
of the mayoralty, " you read * Liber- 
ty, fraternity, equality,' Am / to 
be deprived of the liberty of helping 
ray neighbor ? Is he not our equaly 
and doQS not fraieryiity require that 
we should give him every chance for 
his life ? I cannot forget that the 
good shepherd lays down his life 
for his sheep." 



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3Sit ^^ French Clergy during the late War in France. 



" But he does not even belong to 
the parish !" murmured tiie crowd. 

" In such times as these," said M, 
Cloti with enthusiasm, *' all France 
is ray parish, and every brave fel- 
low who dies for you is my parish- 
ioner." 

And for sixty-five days and 
nights he watched the stranger, 
Jean Dauphin, made his bed every 
night, cooked his food, mixed his 
medicines, swept the rooms, and 
scarcely slept or ate himself. The 
doctor had insisted on the utmost 
cleanliness, but said that, with all 
precautions possiblie, only a miracle 
could save the soldier's life. Char- 
ity wrought the miracle, and by the 
fortieth day the patient was sitting 
up listening to the priest reading to 
him. Only one person in the vil- 
lage caught the disease — ^the daugh- 
ter of the man who had spurned 
the soldier from his door; and, 
though she did not die of it, she 
lost her beauty for ever. Some 
months after the doctor asked the 
priest if he knew at the time that 
he was risking his life, and that 
there was but the barest chance of 
escape for him. " Yes," said M. 
Cloti simply, "I knew it." 

A terrible barbarity was the oc- 
casional punishment of the basion- 
node — a kind of " running the gaunt- 
let." This occurred once at the 
village of Saint-Calais, where the 
enemy found some guns bidder in 
the belfry, and one hundred and 
forty-five male inhabitants, includ- 
ing the mayor. Baron Jaubert, and 
the priest, were seized. They were 
compelled to walk slowly between 
a double row of Prussian soldiers 
armed with clubs and sticks, and 
received merciless blows on their 
bare heads, their shoulders, back, 
arms, and legs. The number being 
odd, the priest was placed last 
and alone, so that both rows were 



able to reach and torture him.^ 
He fainted, and was given a glass 
of water, after which the torture be- 
gan again; and when he fell the 
second time, his head was found to 
be split in five places, and his body 
was thrown aside for dead. He re- 
covered, however, after a long and 
severe illness, but the baron died 
of his wounds. One priest, at Ar- 
denay, was maltreated and impris- 
oned and finally carried away to 
Germany for having kept on his 
steeple a tricolor flag which had 
been there since 1830. Some 
priests whom one can forgive for 
their patriotism, but who were per- 
haps too forward, as ministers of 
peace, to foment war, used to go 
on the battle-fields and search the 
bodies of the dead for cartridges 
for the living ; but these instances 
of enthusiasm were exceptional, 
and it should be remembered thai 
some among the clergy were old 
soldiers. 

Among the prisoners of war the 
priests found ample room for their 
ministry. Some of the clergy were 
themselves prisoners, while some 
left their country and volunteered 
for this special service. There was 
much to do. Besides saying Mass 
and administering the sacraments, 
there were the ignorant to instruct, 
the scoffers to convert, the young 
to protect, and the intemperate to 
reclaim. In that forced idleness 
many gave themselves up to drunk- 
enness and grew reckless and des- 
perate. This sin, which in our 
time seems to have sprung into 
new life and strength, showed itself 
lamentably strong among the cap- 
tives, and the priests, to counteract 
it, had to attend not only to the 
spiritual needs of their charges, but 
to invent amusements and occupa- 
tions to wean the soldiers from 
t?ross self-indulgence. Father Jo- 



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Tlu French Clergy during the late War in France. 



255 



sepli, a missionary and military^ 
chaplain, published an interesting 
work on the prisoners, their beha- 
vior, pastimes, etc., the statistics of 
their captivity, their treatment, and 
such little things. During the war, 
more than 400,000 were taken pri- 
soners. Letters with contributions 
came constantly through and from 
the country curis. Father Joseph, 
who was stationed at Ulm, quotes 
many of these letters, of which the 
following is a specimen : " I ven-r 
ture to recommend to your care 
one of my parishioners, made pris- 
oner at Strasbourg. I recommend 
his soul to you — for it is his most 
precious possession — but also his 
bodily wants ; I am afraid he is in 
need of clothes. If your circum- 
stances allow it, be kind enough to 
give him what is needful ; if not, set 
ihe whole to my account, and I will 
reimburse you. Our country will 
bless you for your charity. . . . 
May our soldiers, whom so many 
have labored to demoralize, be led 
to understand these truths ; for then 
only will they be worthy of victory." 
This dignified attitude of resig- 
nation to the hard lesson God al- 
lowed the unsuccessful war to teach 
France specially characterized the 
clergy of all ranks, but it did not 
take one jot from their eager and hot 
patriotism. Another country priest, 
over eighty years of age and nearly 
blind, begins by excusing himself 
on that score for his bad hand- 
writing, and, mentioning one of his 
flock among the prisoners, says : 
*• The poor boy must suffer terribly. 
Help him and comfort him ; I shall 
look upon all that you do to him as ' 
done to me. It is long ago since 
it has been dinned into the peo- 
ple's ears that we are their foes, 
while in truth they have no better 
friends ; we are accused of not lov- 
ing our country, while, on the con- 



trary, we are her most devoted sons. 
... I fear that my age will pre- 
vent me seeing the end of her 
troubles, but it will be a comfort to 
me in death that to my latest breatii 
I shall have labored in her service." 
Charitable committees abroad and 
at home, mostly under church 
superintendence, sent food, money, 
and clothing, books, papers, games, 
etc., to the prisoners. Mgr. Mer- 
millod's committee at Geneva, and 
those of Lausanne and Bordeaux, 
chiefly distinguished themselves ; 
but in this work religious fellow- 
ship overcame national prejudice, 
and the clergy and sisters of the 
Catholic Rhineland cordially help- 
ed their so-called enemies. 'J'hey 
vied with the French in ministering 
to the prisoners in the several cities 
where the latter were confined; but 
not only they, for there were num- 
berless Germans, both civil and 
military, who behaved generously, 
kindly, and delicately towards the 
prisoners. 

AVe have already mentioned the 
terrible custom of choosing at ran- 
dom hostages or victims in reprisal 
for the acts of some unknown men. 
This took place once at Les Hor- 
ties, a village where, despite the 
Prussian sentries, two hot-headed 
youths succeeded in picking off 
three German soldiers. The shots 
were returned, but the agile youths 
got away unscathed. A detach- 
ment was sent forthwith into the 
village, with orders to seize the 
first six men they happened to 
meet. This was done, the hostages 
guarded by the Prussians, and the 
mayor given till eleven o'clock the 
next morning to give up the real 
offenders, under penalty, if it prov- 
ed impossible, of seeing the six 
men shot. Those who had fired on 
the Prussians were strangers, who 
hovered constantly on the outskirts 



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256 The French Clergy during the late War tn France. 



of the enemy, accomplishing, most 
likely, some vow of vengeance for 
a wrong done by soldiers to some 
near and dear to them. There were 
many such. Heaven forgive them ! 
for they brought untold sorrow on 
the heads of families like their own, 
whose death they were so blindly 
trying to revenge. It was out of 
the mayor's power to give up the 
culprits, and no prayers or tears 
made any impression on the Prus- 
sian officer in command. The wo- 
men's lamentations were terrible ; 
the men's despair appalling. One 
of them, a widower of forty with 
five children, was all but out of his 
mind, blaspheming horribly and 
crying out: "Yes, yes, it was my 
three-year-old Bernard who fired 
on the wretches. Let them take 
me and my five boys, and let 
the rest go !" The priest, M. Gerd, 
was unable to comfort him, and 
slowly left the school-room where 
the poor victims waited their fate. 
Going to the headquarters of the 
German captain, he said : " I be- 
lieve you only wish to shoot these 
men as an example ; therefore the 
more prominent the victim, the 
greater the lesson. It cannot mat- 
ter to you individually w/io is shot ; 
therefore I have come to beg of you 
as a favor to be allowed to take the 
place of one of these men, whose 
death will leave five young children 
fatherless and homeless. Both 
he and I are innocent, but my 
death will be more profitable to you 
than even his." " Very well," said 
the officer, and the cur/wsLs bound 
with the rest of the men, and the 
man he had saved left him in tears. 
The night passed, and, like the mar- 
tyrs of Sebaste, whose fortitude was 
strengthened by the young heathen 
who joined them in the stead of 
one of themselves who had falter- 
ed, these unhappy men were trans- 



formed by tlie priest's words and 
examples into unflinching heroes. 
The hour came, and he walked at 
their head, saying aloud the Office 
of the Dead, the people kneeling 
and sobbing as he passed, when the 
condemned met a Prussian major 
who was passing by chance with 
some orders from the general. He 
was struck by the sight of the 
priest — an unusual one, even during 
this " feast of horrors " — and inquir- 
ed into the matter, which seem- 
ed less a thing of course to him 
than it had to the captain. He 
countermanded the order and re- 
ferred the whole thing to the gene- 
ral, who called the cur/ before him. 
It ended in the former saying that 
he was unable to make an exception 
in any one's favor, but that for Ais 
sake he would pardon every one 
of the hostages, and, when the 
priest had left, he turned to his of- 
ficers and said energetically : " If 
all Frenchmen were like that plain 
parish priest, we should not have 
long to stay on this side of the 
Rhine." 

But here is another story, very 
like this one and more tragic, which 
has not come within Ambert's 
knowledge, and to which we are 
indebted to an English novelist, 
who, vouching for its truth, has 
worked it into a recent tale. 
Neither name nor place is given, 
but it runs thus : The same thing 
happened as at Les Horties, and 
a certain number — I forget how 
many — male inhabitants were con- 
demned, all fathers of families. 
After vain appeals for mercy from 
the priest, the mayor, the old men, 
and the women, the former called 
all his people into the church, 
which had been pillaged and half 
burnt some time before. He w^ent 
into the pulpit and held up a com- 
mon black cross ; it was the only 



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The French Clergy during the late War in France. 257 



ornament or symbol left of the sim- 
ple village church treasury. 

** My children," he said in a 
/oice trembling with sobs, "you 
know what has happened, and how 
many hearths are going to be left 
desolate. Here, in God, in Christ, 
is our only comfort and our only 
strength. I have no ties but such 
as bind me to each one of you 
equally. I have but one life to 
give, but I will gladly take the 
place of one of these fathers of 
families, and trust to God to pro- 
tect you when I am gone. Now, 
if any of you feel that God will 
give you grace to die in the stead 
of any other of your brethren, say 
so, and God bless you !" He knelt 
and bent his head on his clasped 
hands in prayer ; silence, only bro- 
ken by suppressed sobbing, filled 
the cluirch. The women were in 
agonies .of weeping ; the men's 
faces worked as if in some migh- 
ty struggle. Presently one young 
man rose up and said : '* Father, I 
will follow you; I have neither 
wife nor children. I will take such 
a one's place." And then rose an- 
other youth, giving up all his hopes 
of the future for the sake of another 
of the victims; and the women 
crowded round them, blessing 
them, crying over them, pressing 
their hands, and calling tbem 
heroes and deliverers. Those for 
whom no substitutes had appeared 
caught the high spirit of the occa- 
sion, and bore their fate like Chris- 
tians and men. No Providence 
interposed in this case, and the 
priest was allowed to consummate 
his sacrifice. Such courage was 
more than human. 

The part taken by the sisters 
of various orders in the scenes of 
the war and the Commune was one 
which neither France nor Germany 
will ever forget. They shared every 
VOL. XXV. — 17 



danger to which the soldiers them- 
selves were liable, eVen that of 
being shot in cold blood, which 
was the fate of four sisters at 
Soultz, near Colmar, on the Rhine. 
They were found nursing the 
wounded, and the Prussians accus- 
ed them of advising and encou- 
raging the inhabitimts to resist. 
There was no inquiry, no form, but 
a few of the scum of the invading 
army dragged the women away at 
once, set them against a wall, and 
shot them. During the retreat 
after the battle of Reischoffen a 
Sister of Charity made her way 
among the disorganized troops, seek- 
ing some one to help. Balls and 
shells were whizzing past, and fright- 
ened horses wildly galloping by. A 
cry was heard as a man fell mortal- 
ly wounded, and the sister stopped, 
knelt down, and began her work ; but 
hardly a minute after a ball struck 
her and carried off both her legs. She 
fell in a swoon by the soldier's side. 
M. Blandeau, who tells the story, 
did not know her name; he only 
says pointedly : " She was a Sister 
of Charity." An officer of the 
French Army of the Rhine gives 
an account of a Trinitarian nun, 
Sister Clara, who the night of the 
i6thof August, 1870, after a bloody 
battle, was tending the wounded in 
a barn ; they were in such pain as 
not to be able to bear being carried 
to a safer place, and all they cried 
for was ** Water, water!" Every 
five minutes the nun went quiet- 
ly in and out, under the fire of the 
enemy, to fetch as much water 
as her scanty number of vessels 
would hold ; you would have thought 
she was armor-plated, to judge by 
her calm and smiling demeanor. 
The next day began the dreary re- 
treat towards Metz; the wounded 
were heaped on carts and wagons, 
and there again was Sister Clara, 



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258 The French Clergy during the late War in France. 



comforting, helping, encouraging 
the men, giving water to one, 
changing the position of another. 
She left on the last cart, holding 
against her breast the head of the 
nearest wounded man ; but not half 
a mile further the column was 
made prisoner by a detachment of 
Uhlans, the ambulances cut off, and 
in the milee a shot struck and kill- 
ed the sister, who was probably 
buried by and among strangers. 
At Forbach the superior of the 
Sisters of Providence, whose house 
was a hospital and asylum at a^l 
times, was killed by a shell, and at 
Metzno less than twenty-two Sisters 
of Charity died either from wounds*, 
disease, or exhaustion in the ser- 
vice of" the soldiers. At Bic^tre, 
during the siege of Paris, eleven 
died of small-pox in one day, and a 
request having been made for the 
same number to supply their place, 
thirty-two presented themselves at 
once. At Pau, at Orleans, at 
Mans, at Nevers, and in numberless 
other cities, as well as in impromp- 
tu hospitals, canvas towns, villages, 
and battle-fields, the Little Sisters 
of the Poor, the Sisters of Charity, 
the Visitation Nuns, and other or- 
ders too many to mention distinguish- 
ed themselves. Many sisters were 
forced later on to accept the Legion 
of Honor, but a far greater number 
of those who deserved it did not live 
to have it offered. At the siege 
of Paris their courage seemed ab- 
solutely superhuman. An officer 
once met near Chilons, on th€ road 
to Paris, a blind and wounded sol- 
dier led by a • Sister of Charity. 
He was an old veteran from Africa, 
without relations, of a terrible tem- 
per, and with not much religion. The 
Prussians had left him on the road, 
finding him an encumbrance among 
the prisoners. The sister found 
him and undertook to lead him to 



the Invalides, where, she said, he had 
every right to claim a home. In 
all weathers this strange couple 
plodded along. She begged food 
and shelter for him, and always 
gave him the best; but he was frac- 
tious and not very grateful. One 
day the weather was a little finer, 
and he heard a lark sing; he seemed 
quite touched and happy. The 
sister asked him to kneel down and 
repeat the "Our Father "after iier, 
and he did not refuse. This was 
the beginning of his conversion. But 
the Sister now grew ambitious, and 
^Vanted to restore his physical sight 
to him as well as his spiritual; so 
she said : " We will not go to the 
Tnvalides after all, but I will take 
you to the best surgeons and the 
most famous oculists in Paris, and 
beg them, for the love of God and 
their country, to do their utmost to 
cure you ; and if God sees fit to let 
them succeed, you will promise me 
to be a good Christian as long as 
you live, will you not V Three 
months later the soldier was as 
hearty as ever and had recovered 
his sight, while the sister had long 
been at work in a country school ; 
but at Notre Dame des Victoires 
may be often seen a veteran pray- 
ing on his knees before the grat- 
ed door of tire shrine — praying for 
his deliverer. 

The Pontifical Zouaves formed a 
volunteer regiment of their own dur- 
ing the war, and fought like lions; 
most of their members were the de- 
scendants of old French families 
whose sympathies are with the last 
of the exiled Bourbons, and who, 
while they reject the empire and 
the republic equally, and keep out 
of the way of office or active em- 
ployment of any kind, even to the 
prejudice of their career and to the 
point that many of their young men 
are forced to make a life for th era- 



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The Frefuh Clergy during the late War m France, 259 



selves in foreign service or by emi- 
gration, yet are full of real love of 
their country. The virtues of such 
enthusiasts always come out in ad- 
versity, while in prosperity their 
attitude of aloofness may seem ra- 
ther childish. In the last war they 
fought nobly. Plenty of Breton 
peasants joined them; they have 
nearly the same traditions and Ailly 
the same faith ; in fact, they have 
long been natural allies. 

The incidents of the Commune — 
a period so much more terrible 
and shameful than that of the war — 
have been so often and fully de- 
scribed that we will not add much 
to this sketch by going over the 
fearfully familiar subject. Every 
one knows the phase of rabid feel- 
ing which came uppermost among 
the Communists : the hatred of God, 
religion, and priests — even a more 
rabid feeling than that entertained 
towards owners of property. The 
clergy were thus forced to be prom- 
inent in that national delirium : the 
chief victims were ecclesiastics. In 
Paris and other places it has been 
noticed that a certain class of lazy, 
good-for-nothing men live from 
hand to mouth around the barracks 
and the churches, living on the 
alms of soldiers and priests, invent- 
ing excuses to account for their 
indolence, cheating and lying and 
taking ravenously all they can get. 
When a revolution comes, these men 
become denunciators, assassins, and 
leaders. It is they who cry the loud- 
est against the army and the priest- 
hood — the " butchers" of Versailles 
and the "hypocrites" in cassocks. 
Raoul Rigault spoke their senti- 
ments when he said to the porter 
of M. Duguerry's house (the fa- 
mous parish priest of La Madeleine, 
shot with Archbishop Darboy at La 
Roquette) : " God ! you fool !" (the 
man had exclaimed, as is the custom, 



innocently meant, in France, * Omon 
Dieu r) " Hold your tongue ; how 
dare you speak of God ! Our rev- 
olution is against your God, your 
religion, and your priests. We will 
sweep all that rubbish away !" And, 
by way of contrast to this plain 
confession of faith, here are the 
words of M. Duguerry in prison 
to his biographer, the Baron de 
Saint-Amand : " My dear friend, if I 
knew that my death would be Of 
any use to the cause of religion, I 
should kneel down and beg them 
to shoot me." But it is not neces- 
sary to multiply quotations to show 
the intense hatred of the Commune 
towards religion and its ministers. 
Holy Week in 1871 was indeed 
the Passion Week of many of the 
latter. The devilish conduct of 
many women recalled the worst ex- 
cesses of the Reign of Terror. A 
woman with a military cap on rode 
at the head of the escort of the hos- 
tages, three of them Jesuit Fathers, 
who were taken from La Roquette 
to Belleville to be sliot. She swore 
and yelled and gave orders, insult- 
ing the priests especially. On the 
Boulevards, as the condemned pass- 
ed, riots took place, and disorderly 
crowds nearly killed the prisoners 
in their impatience. Women again 
were prominent, brandishing guns, 
knives, and pistols, throwing bloody 
mud on the priests, and blasphem- 
ing as badly as any man ; it would 
have been safer to run the gauntlet 
of a crowd of maniacs let loose 
from the asylum. Mgr. Surat was 
killed in the streets on another oc- 
casion by a young girl of sixteen, 
who deliberately put a pistol to his 
forehead. " Mercy, mademoiselle !" 
cried the priest quickly; but with 
an untranslatable slang play on his 
words* — equivalent, say, to "You 

* Tu f auras nuuire et tisa /m gra* {grasses 



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26o The French Clergy during the late War in Fratice. 



shall have it hot and peppery," or 
some such phrase — she drew the 
trigger and stretched him dead at 
her feet. The Abb6 Perny, in his 
evidence before the council of war, 
says : " I have lived among the sava- 
ges for twenty-five years, but I never 
saw among them anything to equal 
the hatred on those faces of men 
and women as we passed them on 
our way from Mazas to La Ro- 
quette." * Father Anatole de 
Bengy, a Jesuit, was a remarkable 
man who had been military chap- 
lain in the Crimea, and was volun- 
teer chaplain of the troops during 
the last war till the siege, when he 
attached himself to the Eighth Am- 
bulance. He had a singular power 
of commanding the love, obedience, 
and confidence of others; he was 
brave and good-tempered, and such 
a thorough soldier that Marshal 
Bosquet said of him : " Upon my 
word, if there are many Jesuits of 
that kind, /say hurrah for the Je- 
suits !" His letters are full of 
pleasantry and life. He tells his 
friends how he helps "our poor 
soldiers," and jokes about his 
tramps with "his bundle on his 
back," which phrase, he says, " al- 
ways rouses a certain pity in the 
listener ; but indeed, my dear Ay- 
mard, the bundle {le sac) does not 
deserve its bad name : it urges the 
body forward, and its inconvenien- 
ces are fully made up for by the 
advantages it gives rise to. Some 
thinker should undertake the Praise 



* At M6nilmontant a woman named L«fhrre 
proposed, amid cheers and bravos, to undennine the 
Cathedral of Notre Dame, fill it as full as it would 
hold with priests and nuns, and blow it up. At a club- 
meeting another woman— Leblanc— cried : "We 
must flay the priests alive and make barricades with 
their carcasses '*; and at Trinity Church a woman 
axgued thus on the existence of God : *^ Religion is 
a force got up by men, and there is no God ; . . . 
if there were, he would not let me speak so. There- 
fore he is a coward, and no God. ..." And there 
were other and even more revolting things said and 
done. 



of the Bundle, and rehabilitate it 
in the eyes of pilgrims." The 
words of this manly and brave 
priest at the funeral of Commander 
de Dampierre would serve as his 
own eulogy: "The founlain-head 
of duty is in the three world-fa- 
mous words, God wills it,** When 
his name was called at La Ro- 
quetle, on the list of condemned, 
the Communist official stumbled 
over it, and Pere de Bengy stepped 
briskly forward, saying : " I know 
my name is on the list — Bengy ; 
here I am." M. Crepin, a shoe- 
maker, who was condemned, but 
saved by the entrance of the 
troops, saw the butchery of Belle- 
ville, and in his evidence said : 
" Let no one speak ill of the clergy 
before me again ! I have seen them 
at home now ; I know them by ex- 
perience; I have witnessed their 
courage and been comforted by 
their words." 

The Dominicans of Arcueil 
transformed their school into an 
ambulance during the siege, and 
P^re Bengy happened to be chosen 
chaplain. But the Commune was 
to elicit greater sacrifices. The 
monks might have left, but did not, 
and reopened their hospital for 
the wounded wild beasts, whose 
curses sounded upon their watchers 
even from their sick-beds. The 
Geneva flag was hoisted, and the 
Sisters of St. Martha acted as do- 
mestic servants, besides many other 
women and girls. There were 
twenty wounded in the hospital on 
the 19th of May, 187 1, when the 
Commune arrested the inmates of 
the house, thirty-eight persons — 
priests, lay brothers, tradesmen and 
servants in their employment, some 
of them foreigners, nuns, married 
women and widows, two young 
girls, and a child of eight years old, 
daughter of the tailor, who v/as 



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De Vert's ''Mary Tudor: 



261 



afterwards shot with the priests. 
The latter were, with a devilish 
show of mercy, offered their liberty 
if they would take arms against the 
Versailles troops, and, when they 
refused, they were condemned. 
Their death took place a few days 
later, and the shooting was not done 
with military precision, but bung- 
lingly, so that the victims were ra- 
ther butchered than shot. After 
the bodies had ceased to breathe 
they were savagely mutilated, the 
heads and larger bones hacked with 
axes, and the flesh pierced with 
bayonets. Some of the priests 
managed to escape in the crowd 



and smoke, all of them wounded, 
however; and one was saved by a 
woman who hurriedly threw her 
husband's clothes to him. Accord- 
ing to the saying of a National 
Guard who escorted the Belleville 
victims to their death, and who, on 
being asked by a passer-by, " Where 
are they taking those men to?" 
answered gravely, " To heaven," 
the road these priests walked was 
truly the " narrow road that leadeth 
to salvation." 

Surely, if any class of French 
citizens did their duty in troublous 
times and deserve well of their 
country, it is the clergy. 



DE VERB'S " MARY TUDOR.* 



PART II. 



We said, in our last article,* that 
the Catholic reader would find this 
second play much more painful 
than the first. We are sure, too, 
that the non-Catholic reader will 
deem it inferior in point of interest. 
Yet we do not agree with the Lon- 
don Spectator that there is an " artis- 
tic chasm " between the two plays. 
At any rate, whatever constructive 
defects are to be found in the pre- 
sent performance, there is no fall- 
ing off in dramatic power. 

The play is preluded by an " In- 
troductory Scene," in which Mary 
is discovered prostrate on the tomb 
of Jane Grey. 'J'his does not at all 
surprise us after the remorse we 
have witnessed in the last scene of 
the preceding play. Holding her- 
self criminally responsible for the 
execution of her cousin, it was nat- 



• Tbb Catholic World, March, 1877, p. 777. 
We regret to be informed by the publisher that 
this redly great drama is now out of print. 



ural for her to perform " penances 
severer than the Church prescribes." 
The gentle Fakenham — now Abbot 
of Westminster — may well express 
anxiety for his penitent. 

" Pray God 
Her mind giTe way not : sorely is it shaken. 
These tearful macerations of the spirit, 
These fasts that chain all natural appetites, 
Nor mortify the sinful flesh alone, 
Must be restrained: or death will close the scene." 

While he is soliloquizing Gardi- 
ner enters with Elizabeth. Faken- 
ham has requested the latter's pre- 
sence. 

" Whate'erhath passed. 
Be sure her Grace hath ever truly lored you. 
Therefore we trust your coming may dispel 
The baleful visions that enthrall her spirit ; 
Dispersed, as fiends before rebuking' Saints.'* 

Elizabeth answers : 

** You hope tno much. Awakened jealousy 
Preu on her, like the Egyptian's asp." 

But she is mistaken ; for present- 
ly the queen, on recognizing the 
** veiled mourner," says tenderly : 



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**Ip«rt 
The trrsses on thy brow ; aud gaxe upon thee 
With the strongytArningo/a blighted Icve* 
I know thee, sister ! Take me to thine arms— 
And let me weep." 

The weeping revives Mary's en- 
ergy, but that energy takes a shape 
in which we see the old despair 
combined with a new fanaticism. 

*^ Elizabbth. These nungling tears wash out 
All venom from past sorrow— 

Queen. Not from mine ! 

Immedicable evil hath infected 
The fount of life within me. I shall die 
In premature decay ; and fall aside 
As withered fruit falls from a blasted branch. 
I, like a mother by her dying babe, 
Have closed the eyes of hope ; and o'er my heart 
Torpid despair fans with his vampire wings." 

Then, suddenly apostrophizing 
the " Eternal Majesty," she appeals, 
as one " hemmed in by dark conspi- 
racies" and "baited by schisma- 
tics," for " prescience to detect " 
and " strength to control them " ; 
deeming herself, once more, " the 
Lord's Vicegerent," to execute his 
judgments. 

'* Fly, brood of darkness ! for my prayer hath risen : 
And God will hear, and smite, as once he smote 
The sin of Korah : and the earth shall ope 
And swallow blasphemy ; and plagues leap forth 
Consuming impious men : even //// the Churchy 
Swinging her holy censer in the midst ^ 
Shall stay thepestilenee^ God's wrath appeased !'* 

This is a fine allusion to the de- 
struction of the three schismatical 
upstarts in the wilderness; and it 
is surprising to see a Protestant au- 
thor attribute to Catholics so much 
knowledge of the Bible. Never- 
theless, poor sinful mortals never 
make a greater mistake than when 
they fancy themselves ministers of 
what they call the "justice" of 
Him "whose thoughts are not as 
our thoughts." 

Perhaps Fakenham was about to 
make some such reply; for this 
poet-created Mary Tudor — after 
pausing, we suppose, to take breath 
— continues : # 

^ Answer me not. I rise from this cold grave. 
My penitential couch, with heart as frozen 
As the dead limbs beneath, and will unbending 
As thu hard stone that shuts her from the world." 



Thus we are fully prepared for 
anything she may do; yet, in fact, 
she proves singularly innocuous. 

The play opens with a discussion 
between Gardiner and Fakenham 
on the subject of the queen's mar- 
riage. Both are agreed that she 
ought to marry, for the good of 
State and Church; but either has 
his eye on a very different candi- 
date for her hand. The abbot's 
candidate is Reginald Cardinal 
Pole — a character to whom our 
author does full justice as among 
the loftiest of his time. Fakenham 
thus describes him as a " student at 
Padua " : 

" A nobler presence 
Never embodied a more gracious soul : 
Ardent, yet thoughtful ; in the search of know- 
ledge 
Unwearied, yet most temperate in its use. 
Whatever he learned he wore with such an easr^ 
It seenud incorporated with his substance: 
A nd beamed forth like the lig/it that emanates 
From a saint* s brow^* 

And again : 

** Oft have I watched him sitting I 

For hours, on some rude prcmontory's edge. 
Wrapt in his mantle, his broad brow, sustained 
With outspread palm, o'ershadowing his eyes. 
And there, as one of Titan birth, he lingered 
In strange community with nature ; mingling 
With all aroun J— the boundless sky, the ocean. 
The rock, the forest — looking back defiance 
Unto the elements : as some lone column 
Beneath the shadow of a thunder-cloud.''^ 

For the thought in these last six 
lines Sir Aubrey seems indebted to 
Lord Byron, that poet " of Titan 
birth " — who, indeed, would have 
sat for the picture far better, we 
imagine, than Pole ; except that, 
instead of " looking defiance at the 
elements " (an attitude for which 
we see no reason in* Pole's case 
either), his face would have shown 
ecstatic joy at " mingling with all 
around." 

" Ye elements, in whose ennobling stir 
I feel myself exalted !" 

iChilde Haroldy canto iv.) 

The way Gardiner sneers at Fa- 
kenham 's candidate, and then in- 
troduces his own, affords us an op- 



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portunity of correcting the author's 
misconceptions of this prelate. 
First, then, there is no proof what- 
ever that Gardiner wasblood-thirsty, 
or even severe. Had he been the 
relentless persecutor he is popular- 
ly represented, his own diocese of 
Winchester would have become the 
scene of numerous executions for 
heresy; whereas, in fact, not one 
such execution can be shown to 
have taken place there. Neither, 
again, is there any more evidence 
that lie egged on Mary to acts of 
cruelty. If he did make the at- 
tempt, he failed signally ; for the 
real Mary Tudor was personally 
guiltless of a single act of intoler- 
ance even. The only authentic 
instance in which Gardiner played 
the part of evil genius to the queen 
was when he urged her- to retain 
the Royal Supremacy established 
by her father — lier title and author- 
ity as head of the English Church — 
a counsel which elicited the witty 
reply: "Women, I have read in 
Scripture, are forbidden to speak in 
the church. Is it, then, fitting that 
your church should have a dumb 
head ?" At the time of giving this 
bad advice Gardiner belonged to 
the anti-papal party — which, of 
course, was therefore schismatical, 
though nominally Catholic. And 
this time-serving adhesion was the 
one great sin of his life. He re- 
pented of it some time before his 
death, and publicly lamented it in 
a sermon at St. Paul's Cross, 
preached on occasion of the recon- 
ciliation of the kingdom with the 
Holy See ; nevertheless, the memory 
of it so weighed upon his conscience 
when he lay on his death -bed that 
lie asked to have the Passion of 
Our Saviour read to him, and, when 
liie reader came to the denial of 
Peter, said : ** Stop ! I, too, have de- 
nied my Lord with Peter; but I 



have not learned to weep bitterly 
with Peter." 

We may here remark that, had 
our author been acquainted with 
the above facts of Gardiner's his- 
tory, he would not have sacrificed 
truth to poetic effect by making 
him die suddenly after the burning 
of Cranmer; nor, again, have put 
into his mouth such an un-English 
argument as this against Pole's fit- 
ness to share the throne with 
Mary : 

" He is but an Enfliskitian : 
And *tu an adage older than the hills 
That prophets are not honored in their laad." 

One so anxious, as Gardiner 
must have been at that lime, to 
\itt^ foreign domination out of En- 
gland could never have advocated 
the marriage of his sovereign with 
" Spanish Philip," nor, indeed, 
have been likely to call the latter's 
father 

** That wisest monarch, most devout of Christians, 
Potent of captains, fortunate of men.'* 

But, of course, the poet stands 
to his colors. Having selected 
Gardiner for the villain par excel- 
lence^ he makes him welcome even 
foreign domination in the person 
of a bigoted prince, who, he knows, 
will imbrue his hands in the blood 
of heretics. 

Philip does not come upon the 
scene till the third Act ; but the in- 
tervening scenes form a prelude 
to his advent. 

First we have the queen in coun- 
cil on the question of her marriage, 
and particularly of the Spanish 
prince's suit. While asking Gardi-* 
ner's advice she betrays her love 
for Reginald, and is quickly crushed 
into abandoning that hope by the 
chancellor's daring assurance that 
her cousin is certainly Pope. Ac- 
cordingly, she yields reluctant as- 
sent to the prayer of Philip's ambas- 
sador. Then, in the same scene, 



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follows a " patient hearing" of Rid- 
ley and Latimer, whose contuma- 
cious spirit is well shown by the 
dramatist. Mary treats them with 
great forbearance, and leaves them 
to ponder what she has said. The 
closing passage of this scene is 
noteworthy. Latimer boasts : 

'* O queen ! that day is past 
\Vhen spiritual knowledge was confined to priests. 
Our very babes drink knowledge as they suck. 
Each stripling, as he runs, plucks from each bough 
The fruit of luowledge." 

Mary's reply is of surprising force 
and beauty : 

*' Ah, sirs, have a care ! 
The tree of knowledge was an evil thing, 
With root in ffU^ and fruitage unto death. 
But in the self<-sanie garden likewise grew 
Another mystery, the tree of life. 
This too bore fruit, unseen till after-time : 
And this was Christ. Children of Adam, we, 
Condemned to cultivate what first we stole^ 
Must tend the second tree with watchful love^ 
Orftrish by the poison of the firsts 

The remaining scene of this Act 
and the opening scene of the next 
are taken up chiefly with the dis- 
turbance occasioned by the ap- 
proaching nuptials. Underbill, the 
" Hot-Gospeller," is introduced, to- 
gether with riotous citizens and the 
antagonists Sandys and Weston. 
Underhill is an honest fellow, and 
loyal to his queen, whose panegyr- 
ist he becomes at the play's close. 
Though the rioters are in the minor- 
ity, the rebellion becomes strong 
enough to attack Whitehall Palace, 
where Mary is seen at the opening 
of the second Act. Her masculine 
valor is here displayed. First she 
leans from the window to encour- 
age her soldiers, then actually sallies 
Yorth to head them in person, and 
wins the day by thus risking her 
life. In the second scene Under- 
hill excites the indignation of San- 
dys by his chivalrous defence of 
the queen not only as the one 

" Whom the Lord gives to rule o'er Israel,** 

but for her clemency. 



** Umdbrkill. The queen is not well served. 
You heard yourself 
How, leaning from the Holbein gallery. 
Where she so long stood target to your shafts. 
She bade her furious knights to spare, and spake 
Peace to the suppliant throng. 

Sandys. Yet your fierce captamb 

Do ramp along the streets with bloody staves, 
Hunting the white-faced citizens like rats ; 
Or at their own doors summarily hang them." 

*' U.VDBRHiix. Not fifty thus have died : a sor- 
rowful sum 
If measured by domestic pangs, yet small 
If balanced by the evil of their plots : 
Small if contrasted with the precedents 
Of former feuds. In Henry*s time, they say, 
Full seventy thousand their viaticum 
Had from the hangman.*' 

But our author does more thnn 
make Underhill her apologist. He 
seems anxious, every now and then, 
to remind us that he privately 
thinks much better of his heroine 
than the history he has read allows 
him to represent. He sets off the 
gentler side of her nature in strong 
contrast to the vindictive, and, in- 
deed, attributes the latter to in- 
herited qualities for which she is not 
responsible. Accordingly, in the 
third and fourth scenes of the second 
Act Mary's generous forgivingness, 
and especially to Elizabeth, shines 
out gloriously. 

Count Egmont, Philip's envoy, 
has placed upon her finger his mas- 
ter's betrothal ring, when Renaud, 
the Spanish ambassador, strikes in 
with : 

" Permit me 
To be so bold as to suggest 'twere prudent 
His Grace delayed till treason be put down. 
Too many prisoners your Grace releases. 

QuBBN. It was the custom of my foreiathers 
To pardon criminals upon Good Friday. 
. . • • • • 

Rbnaud. Pardon me : there may be 

Some guiltier. Our prince must be kept back 
Should your Grace yield to mistimed clemency. 

Forgive my plainness. Can King Philip come 
While criminals remain unjustified ? 
Your sister waits her triaL 

Gardiner. Let me speak. 

While she, the princess, lives, there is no safety 
For England, for the Church." 



Here Bridges, Lieutenant of the 
Tower, enters with a sealed war- 
rant. 



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^ Briogbs. Yoar Gnce will pardon, if, in a case 
tike this. 
Your lervant feels misgiving. This sealed war- 
rant 
Commands me yield the princess— to be dealt with 
As sentence shall direct. 

QuBSN. O thou good servant I 

Thy queen, on her hearths knees, thanks and re- 
wards thee. 
Whose is this deed? By God*s death, answer 

me! 
Ay. Gardiner, thou shait answer for this thing, 
If thou hast done it. 

Gaxdinbr. Let me see the paper. 

A sorry trick to fright the princess ! Trust me, 
I had no hand in it. [He tears the warrant, 

QuBBN. Jnhumn n kou mis t 

Thai worry ycur Poor victim ere you slay it. 
I'ut I shall balk your malice. Silence, Gardiner ! 
Too much already hath been said : your tongues 
A re deadlier than poison. Bridges, through you. 
Who pitied poor Jane Grey, I shall henceforth . 
Secure my sister. You have known and loved her. 
You are my servant now. Receive your knight- 
hood.' 

Thus foiled in their design, Re- 
naud and Gardiner pretend, of 
course, that they did not for a mo- 
ment mean the death of the prin- 
cess, but only her removal ; and the 
Spaniard goes on to explain that 
this " removal " was to be effected 
" by a bridegroom's sweet compul- 
sion " — mentioning Philibert of Sa- 
voy as a suitor — and then, finding 
that offer contemptuously rejected, 
suggests " the kind keeping of the 
Hungarian queen." 

^ QiTBXiff. Be content, sir. 

Afy sitter hath but one friend in this council^ 
Mysel/t companion of her youth. // way b* 
She hath compassed itl against me : ye} will 

noil, 
IVko fostered her lone childhood, now destroy 

her 
By death or exile. You are malcontent. 
Cooform ye to my will : I shall not swerve." 

In the following scene, where 
Mary and Elizabeth have it all to 
themselves, the generosity of the 
former is the. more touching by 
reason of her reproaches, which 
Elizabeth can only answer by act- 
ing a part which such a dissembler 
could very easily feign. Mary 
shows strong grounds for suspect- 
ing her loyalty, but nobly acquits 
her and replaces on her finger the 
ring which was the pledge of love 
between them, saying : 



"Or 



or guilty, I foigive you.' 



We regret that space does not al- 
low us to transcribe this scene in 
full. V 

We pass to the third Act, which 
introduces the two best-drawn 
characters of the play — Philip and 
Reginald Pole. 

In these two men the author has 
illustrated — perhaps unconsciously 
— the antipodal extremes of the mo- 
ral results of the Catliolic religion. 
In Pole we see a character perfect- 
ly Christlike in its mixture of ma- 
jesty with gentleness ; in Philip 
one who has degraded faith into 
superstition, and made doctrines 
and means of grace the instru- 
ments of selfishness and passion. 
The greater the good in a system, 
the greater the evil into "which it 
may be perverted. The amiable 
Fakenham tells Gardiner, in the 
previous scene, his mind about the 
Spaniard's portrait : 

** A moody man, 
AVhose countenance is ghastly, bearing dismal : 
For ever wrangling, rude. His glance is sinister. 
Stealthy : his laughter a sardonic sneer. 
/ would rather face a vulture o^er a cor^se^ 
Than such a man, whose hell is in himself. 
He is a tree of death." 

Gardiner may well wince as he 
replies : 

" You have a caustic brush : 
The canvas bums beneath it." 

Yet poor Queen Mary fondly 
looks forward to the coming of her 
affianced as (to borrow Byron's ex- 
quisite metaphor) 

*' the rainbow of her future year*— 
Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disap- 
pears." 

Neither does shebetray any fore- 
boding in consequence of the storm 
that ushers in her wedding-day. 
The bridegroom, on the contrary, 
peevishly exclaims : 

" A sorry day for our solemnities ! 
I kiss this crucifix. Avert the omen. 
Most holy James of Compostella 1'* 



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He does not see in this conjugal 
union 

'* The cloud-compeUing harbix^r of love." 

The ** omen " is not unfdt, 
though, by some of the spectators, 
particuKarly when Doctor Sandys 
gives tongue about it. The wed- 
ding-scene is simple enough. The 
queen says, very prettily, when 
Philip offers a diamond ring : 

" Nay, my lord : 
I would be wedf like any other maiden. 
With the plain hoop of gold." 

It is the remaining half of the play 
which makes the whole so inferior 
to the first play. Not that, as we 
have said, there is any deficiency 
of dramatic power. Philip and the 
cardinal are masterfully handled. 
Full justice, too, is done^rom the 
author's stand-point — to the char- 
acters of Gardiner, Cranmer, and 
the rest. But a thick gloom over- 
hangs the entire picture; and the 
glaring historical untruth of much 
of it is no relief to Catholic eyes. 

Philip and Pole clash instantly. 
The Spaniard has a presentiment 
of this at the moment when Sir 
John Gage announces 

**The cardinal legate's boat hath touched the 
beach. 

QuBBN. The cardinal arrived ! My dear, dear 
cousin ! 
Go, my lord chamberlain— go, Sir John Gage, 
And bear our greetings to his Eminence. 
I^t his Icgantine cross be borne before him ; 
And all appliances of holy state 
Attend his blessed footsteps. This our king, 
And we, shall welcome him on Whitehall stairs. 

Philip. You are right gracious to the cardinal. 
In ^pain we condescend less. 

Quern. Ah ! youMI love him. 

As I do, when familiarly you know hi.'n. 

Phiup. I somewhat doubt it." 

In the next scene, when the car- 
dinal has congratulated the queen 
on the return of England to the 
faith — telling the nation : 

" Be sure 
The light devolving from great Gre^ry 
Still shines from Peter's chair. Who turns from 

it 
Renounces hope. Peace ripens in its beams " — 

and Mary has joyfully responded : 



* * Here stand we without question, king and queen; 
And, with our Pariiamect, implore the pope 
For reconciliation, lake thb missive : 
It is sincere. Kneeling we crave your blessing !*' — 

Philip interjects ; 

** Your Eminence shall pardon my stiff knees- 
Stiff, Spanish manners. Ha ! I cannot kneeL" 

No wonder the queen faints as 
the cardinal blesses her. 

Philip, having thus early begun 
with insolence, loses no time in 
showing the mixture of brute and 
devil that he is. He threatens to 
leave England because his sanguin- 
ary counsels are not taken ; where- 
upon we are rejoiced to see the au- 
thor make M^iry as well as Pole 
defend the policy of " free discus- 
sion." Of course Gardiner sup- 
ports Philip eagerly. Presently — so 
outrageous is Philip's conduct to 
his wife — the cardinal's indignation 
can contain itself no longer, and 
his dignified remonstrance stings 
the king into exclaiming : 

'* Were I a basilisk, I'd look thee dead !" 

Gardiner urges Pole to retire ; 
but the hero answers : 

" Not so. My heart is strcmg : 
And like some stalwart wrestler, who hath need 
Of exercise, and doubts nor heart nor limb, 
I shrink not from the combat. Ht who carries 
His cross^a daily burden^ wsil may stand 
In front of any giant of the ring 
Who boasts he can move s^heres.'^ 

And again he warns the monster : 

*' Ay ; you are great 
Above us by your station, as the vulture 
Upon his mountain pinnacle. V\'hat then ? 
The arrow makes a pathway in the air : 
The peasants hands can reach the /eatkered ty-* 

raniy 
A ndfrom the vale quench his despotic eyt,"^ 

— " Vulture," mark :.not eagle. 

We find a profound study in 
Mary's love for Philip, and par- 
ticularly in its persistence. How 
she could feel toward such a man 
anything Deyond wife-like duty — 
she, too, who had loved Reginald 
Pole from her childhood — is mys- 
terious indeed. It will doubtless 
be said that the poet intends this 



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new love for a part of her madness 
— like her passion for the worthless 
Courtenaye: her craving for love 
being such as to invest any spouse 
with "Cytherea's zone." Then, 
again, the treatment Pole receives 
at Philip's hands, and his sublime 
bearing under it, ought to have the 
result of alienating her affections 
from the Spaniard even more than 
the latter*s behavior- to herself. 
Hear her cry, one moment : 

" Poor heart I 
Thou wilt not break ! Insult uamitigated ! 
Witnessed— by him !— by Pole ! O Reginald ! 
Avenged !** 

And the next, see her so over- 
joyed by an usher announcing " the 
king " that she springs up from the 
suppliant posture in which she has 
just been praying 

** that even aa the thief 
On the third cross I may have peace in heaven"— 

springs up, and exclaims wildly : 

'* The king ! King Philip ! 

speed him hither ! Stay : here's for thy news — 
A jewel from my finger. Haste thee, friend.'* 

And again, though his Majesty 
enters " moodily," she can actually 
greet him thus : 

"'' O Philip« Philip 1 art thou come to me ? 

A nd shtiU there n**t now b* an end 0/ weeping f 

1 was thinking of thee—whom else think I of? 
I calked of thee— of whoih is all my talking ? 
Kut thou art here again : and my fioor hearty 
Like a ca^d bird, is beating at its bars. 
To ^y forth to the cotn/ort of thy bosoM. 
Sp«k— speak— ///^ soul/ and give me peace." 

Verily, this is madness ! Who 
has ever seen so extraordinary a 
picture of woman before.^ Has 
not the poet drawn something im- 
possible } Not at all. He simply 
displays, we think, an unusual 
knowledge of the feminine heart. 
A much less acquaintance with that 
organ should prevent surprise at 
any phenomena it may exhibit — 
particularly in the shape of unde- 
served love or unreasoning con- 
stancy. 



Of course the poor woman's 
fondness only irritates her lord, in- 
stead of appeasing him ; so he tells 
her bluntly what he has come for — 
to deliver his ultimatum ; which is, 
first, the removal of the legate ; 
and, secondly, the death of the 
heretical prelates. Of his feeling 
towards the cardinal he says : 

^ Call it not hatred, but antipathy : 
Such as the callow chicken feels for hawks. 
Or wOd horse for the wolf. Avenion call it : 
That wraps me in a cokl and clammy horror 
When we approach. I know he cannot harm me ; 
A nd have small doubt he would not if he could. 
But still, my flesh creeps if I do but touch him, < 
As when ooe strokes a cat's haur 'gainst the grain. 

Odious is his garb 
Of ostentatious purple ; jewelled hands ; 
That beard down-streaming like the chiseCd 

locks 
Of Moses from the hand of Angola:* 

Like a gleam of sunshine, for a 
moment, comes a happy description 
of a visit from Elizabeth to the 
queen. Underhill is the narrator. 
It is in the ninth scene of this too 
long third Act. 

•* Her royal barge 
Was garlanded with flowers, festooned around 
An awning of green satin, richly broidered 
With eglantine and buds of gold. 'I he bright one 
Beneath this canopy reclined in state, 
Fairer than Cleopatra with Ler Roman. 
Her royal sister on the bowery shore 
Of Richmond met her, kissing her 'tween whiles ; 
Her wan cheek flushing to a healthier glow. 
With hospitable care, and love, she led 
Elisabeth to where, shrined in green leaves 
And flowcra, a tent, curtained with cloth of gold 
And purple samite, stood ; whose folds were wrought 
With silver fleur-de-lys and gold pomegranates. 
The miisic they so love breathed in their ears 
Like amorous blandishment : and when the morn 
Rippled along the wave with soberer ray. 
The princess slept onrc more into her bat|^. 
And floated down the current tike a swan." 

Yet one more quotation from this. 
Act; for we shall have but little to 
cite from Acts fourth and fifth. 
The cardinal, after arguing with 
Gardiner against the severe meas- 
ures that are being taken under his 
and Bonner's supervision, and de- 
fending the queen from the charge 
of approval — her consent having 
been forced, and tilings of which 
she was ignorant done in her name 



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De Veres ''''Mary Tudor. 



— finds relief in conversing with 
Fakenham, whose virtues he thor- 
oughly appreciates. The latter 
speaks of his friend's failing 
strength ; and Pole, at a loss to ac- 
count for it, says he has "heard 
of vampire poisons," but instantly 
suppresses the suspicion. They 
have been up all night, apparently. 

** Cardinal. A sudden sunbiirst 1 — Lo ! 

God*s Image in our heart is as yon orb 
Unto the universe ; tht tye of nature^ 
Dtt^ersing rays more eittquent than tonguts : 
Beams that give life as well as light; whose absence 
Wraps in cold shadow all that moves and breathes. 
At times that Image wallcs through spheres remote ; 
Unobvious to the largely wandering eye : 
Then nightmare darkness sits upon the soul : 
Then, by its own shade mantled, waits the soul, 
Like some dark mourner, lonely tihhis house. 
But the harmamous hours /uifil themseltfts : 
And sunrise comes uulooked/or^ peak to Peak 
A nswering in spirittusl radiance. This is in- 
deed 
So pmipably to meet Divinity^ 
That keuee the Pagan erredy not knowing God.*^ 

In the fourth Act we have, first, 
tlie recall of Pole to Rome, con- 
trived by Philip and Gardiner. 
The queen refuses to let him go ; 
but while, in obedience to her, he 
remains in England, he resigns his 
iegateship in submission to the in- 
terdict. Then comes the picture- 
scene, which is admirably contriv- 
ed. The poor queen stops before 
Philip's picture and talks to it as if 
it were a shrine. The original en- 
ters and brutally disenchants his 
worshipper. After a bitter inter- 
view, in which Mary accuses him 
of conjugal infidelity, the Spaniard 
takes his departure, answering her 
** Begone!" with a sudden "For 



ever 



" QacBM {aione\ I submit to God*s decree. 

Was it for this my maiden liberty 
Was yielded ?~to be spumed, despised, and stitl 
Bear on without redress ? O grief ! O shame ! 

[She approaches the picture of Philip, 
Back, silken folds, that hide what was my joy. 
And is my torture ! Back !— See. I have rent you, 
False, senseless idol, from thy tinselled frame ! 
I wrench thee forth— I look on thee no more ! 
And thus—and thus- \shs tears up th* picture] 

I scatter thee from out 
The desecrated temple of my heart ! [^4 pause. 
My brain u hot— this swoln heart chokes my 

throat. 



Yet I am better thus than aclf-deceived. 

Die, wretched queen ! O die, dishonored wife ! 

I pant /or the cold blessing of the grave /" 

Next follows the trial of Ridley 
and Latimer. Cranmer, too, is pre- 
sent, and disputes, but is not on 
trial. The contrast between Gar- 
diner and Pole is admirable. Mary, 
too, is represented as sedulously 
just. Ridley and Latimer speak, 
of course, as if perfectly conscien- 
tious and woirthy of martyrdom, but 
make no attempt to disprove the 
principle of submission to authori- 
ty, insisting solely on their own in- 
fallibility. The cardinal is at last 
compelled to say of them : 

** This 18 very grievous ! 
Madam, so please you, these be heated men, 
Who may not be convinced, and will not bend.'* 

He has better hopes of Cranmer; 
but his gentle earnestness is lost 
upon him no less. 

Here be it remembered that it 
was the secular, and not the eccle- 
siastical, arm which inflicted the 
death-penalty for obdurate heresy. 
'J'his penalty was the law in those 
days — days when every kind of fel- 
ony was more severely punished 
than now. Whatever we moderns 
may think of this law, we must not 
forget that heresy is the greatest 
and most pernicious of crimes ; and, 
again, that it was only formal and 
aggressive heresy that got itself 
arraigned and condemned. More- 
over, what made the civil power so 
severe upon it was the fact that it 
was always coupled with sedition 
and treason. 

But before we close our remarks 
upon the executions in Mary's 
reign, let us look for a moment on 
the beautiful scene which intervenes 
between the one we have been ex- 
amining and the prison-scene at 
Oxford — the last of the fourth Act. 

Mary and Reginald are closeted 
together. The holy priest seeks to 
comfort his cousin. 



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»' Poor soul I 
3e to yoaxuX mott charitable. Think 
That One there is who answers for your iaulti 
And multiplies your merits. 

QuBBN. Hope resu there : 

O I were mad. 

Cau>inal. All men are bom to suffer. 
What are the consolations of the Scripture, 
The fruit of exhortation and of prayer. 
If now you quail ? No, you shall quail no more. 

QuBBN. Mj web 0/ life was wav*» with th e 
ntttte. 
My very triumphs were bedswed with tears. 
What now is left ? 

• Casdinau ReHgion. Astkesutibow 

SkiMts in the xkowery gioom and makes iAe 

chud 
A ska^0/ ginry^ in thy path she stands 
A herald of high promise. Blessed emblem ! 
Religion bids thee hope. This gloomy life 
Must be amended. We must draw thee hence. 

QuBSN. Thanks be to God ! time works while 
we grieve on. 
Derive nvtsirrew o/the shade she needsy 
The sad quiescence 0/ desp<mding thought. 
Job also raised his voice, and wailed aloud, 
And so was comforted. Remember, also, 
In weeping I can pray. Should I not ? 

Cardinal. Yea. 

Pray with thanksgiving; *tis the sum of duty.'* 

The sublimity of this passage 
needs no comment. The rest of 
the scene is equally touching. 
Mary speaks for an instant of 
Philip. She is still obliged to say : 

** Whenever I turn my thoughts to God, one 



Stands between me amd heaven. Instead of prayer 
A sigh for Philip trembles on my lips. 
Cakdinal. To pine thus for the absent, as men 



The dead, is sinful. 

QuKBN. Speak no more of him. 

Thoughu holier be my guide." 

Then Reginald teaches her what it is 

** To stablish thrones on bounty ; TfxgBk. through 
love." 

The chief 0/ greatneu is surpassing goodneu : 
And that outaoars the ken of mortal eyes — 
Hidden with God." 

She offers him the archbishopric 
of Canterbury. He answers mus- 
ingly : 

"He who halh stood 
Upon the first step of the papal throne. 
And vacant left the Vatican, may look 
With eye uodassled on the chair of Lambeth.*' 

Then he accepts, and presently 
the queen observes : 

* I have kmg thought it strange that you refused 
The greater honor though the heavier burden : 
The proffered crown of Rome. 
Cardinal \a/ter much agitaii0n\. Look not 
akurmed. \A paum. 



Yon touch the mind's immedicaUe woand. 
O God ! that I had died before I knew thee ! 
Pardon me— pardon me ! 

QuBSN. We both need pardon. 

Let us forget the past. God strengthen us ! 

CAKmNAL. Fearnot. Hence/erth we gate upen 
each other. 
As the two Cherubim upon the Ark-- 
The living God between. 

QuBBN. Then take my hand. 

It will be coldsr soon. May God be with you 1" 

This ** immedicable wound " is the 
poet's Protestant fancy, yet the pa- 
thos of the scene is exquisite. 

The prison-scene at Oxford gives 
us, first, Masters Ridley and Lati- 
mer taking leave of Cranmer ; then 
Cranmer watching their execution 
from the window, and Gardiner, 
unobserved, watching him. The 
famous recantation number one 
takes place ; and the subsequent 
despair of the wretch closes tiie 
fourth Act. 

The fifth Act we do not care to 
analyze minutely, so much of it is 
sicken ingly untrue. Mary has be- 
come fanatical again. Pole tells 
her that " the poor, by thousands, 
perish in the flames." This is ut- 
terly false. All * the executions 
under Mary's government did not 
amount to more than two hundred 
and seventy-seven, and " from this 
list of *martyrs for the Gospel' must 
t>e excluded," says a learned *vriter, 
"the names of tliose who suffer- 
ed for political offences or other 
crimes." Dr. Maitland, the cele- 
brated librarian of Lambeth, in his 
Essays on Subjects connected with the 
Reformation in England^ speaks of 
" the bitter and provoking spirit of 
some of those who were very active 
and forward in promoting the pro- 
gress of the Reformation ; the poli- 
tical opinions which they held, and 
the language in which they dissemi- 
nated them ; the fierce personal at- 
tacks which they made on those 
whom they considered as enemies ; 
and, to say the least, the little care 
which was taken by those who were 



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really actuated by religious motives, 
and seeking a true reformation of 
the Church, to shake off tf lewd^ un- 
godly^ profane rabble^ who joined in 
the cause of Protestantism, thinking 
it, in their depraved imaginations, or 
hoping to make it by their wicked 
devices, the cause of liberty against 
law, of the poor against the rich, of 
the laity against the clergy, of the 
people against their rulers." From 
this rabble, then, came the " poor " 
who "perished in the flames." 

As to Oxford's pretended " mar- 
tyrs," Ridley and Latimer were in- 
citers of sedition and brouglit upon 
themselves the vengeance of the 
law ; while Thomas Cranmer was, 
without exception, the most unmiti- 
gated miscreant in the whole dis- 
graceful business of what is called 
the Reformation. Who will ques- 
tion that he richly deserved the 
stake after bringing to it so many 
victims, in Henry's reign, for deny- 
ing doctrines which he himself was 
secretly denying at the time ? 
There are living Anglican writers 
who rejoice in calling all these 



boasted reformers a set of " unre- 
deemed villains." 

Of course, as we said in our re- 
view of the first play, we acquit tiie 
author of all conscious prejudice. 
The last words he p\its into his 
heroine's mouth — " Time unveils 
Truth" — are an appeal to " the 
avenger," who will not fail to do 
her justice yet. It was a noble 
thought to make Underbill, the 
Hot-Gospeller, her panegyrist. 
Oxford vaticinates : 



*' Awful queen ! 
Hardly of thee Posterity shall judge : 
For they shall measure thee— 

Undbrhill. Let me speak, sir : 

For I have known, and been protected by her, 
When fierce men thirsted for my blood. I say not 
That she was innocent of grave offence ; 
Nor aught done in her name extenuate. 
But I insist upon her maiden mercies, 
In proof that cruelty was not ktr nature. 
She abrogated the tyrannic lavrs 
Made by her father. She restored her subjects 
To pergonal liberty ; to judge and jury ; 
Inculcating impartiality. 
Good laws, made or revived, attest her fitness 
Like Deborah to judge. She loved the poor : 
And fed the destitute : and they loved her. 
A worthy queen she ht^d been if as tittle 
Of cruilty had been done under her 
As by her. To equivocate she hated : 
And was just what she seemed. In fine, shexvas 
In all things excellent while she pursued 
Her own free inclination without fear ^^ 



NANETTE. 



A LEGEND OF THE DA YS OF LOUIS XV. 



A POLICE report is scarcely the 
place where one would look to find 
an idyl — least of all a French po- 
lice report. But just as one comes 
at times upon a shy violet nestling 
in the dusty city ways, even in such 
an unpromising quarter, and in the 
records of a still more unpromising 
time, did the present writer stum- 
ble upon a veritable romance — 

"Silly sooth 
That dallies with the innocence of love 
Like the old age.** 



Let the reader judge if it be not 
a genuine violet. 

Of the many strange functions of 
the Parisian police in the days 
of the well-beloved Louis XV. — 
and altogether most worthless of 
his name — one of the strangest ap- 
pears to have been that of furnish- 
ing for the amusement of the royal 
circle regular reports, or rather 
novelettes, of all episodes, striking 
or romantic, that came under their 
notice. The French have always 
had a taste for the dramatic a.spect 



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of the law, and to this day sl proems- 
verbal reads often like a feuilleton 
of Ponson du Terrail. It may be 
supposed that, in the narratives 
which thus tickled the Imguid lei- 
sure of Louis, a rigid adherence 
to truth was not deemed essential 
where a slight embellishment en- 
hanced the interest. But all had 
probably a basis in fact, which one 
is fain to hope was more than usual- 
ly broad in so innocent and touch- 
ing a history as that of Nanette 
LoUier, the Flower-Girl of the Pal- 
ais Royal. 

In the year 1740 there dwelt in 
the parish of St. Leu, at Paris, an 
honest, hard-working couple named 
Andr^ LoUier and Marie Jeanne 
Ladure, his wife; the former of 
whom held a subordinate position 
in the Bureau of Markets, while 
the latter attended to their fish- 
stand. Between them they earned 
ample to keep the pot boiling com- 
fortably, had it not been for the 
prodigious number of small mouths 
that daily watered around that 
savory and capacious vessel ; and 
when there came a sixteenth, it is 
to be feared that honest Andr6 re- 
ceived it rather ruefully and alto- 
gether as a discord in the harmony 
of existence — ^a blessing very much 
in disguise. So despite the new-com- 
er's beauty and precocity and count- 
less pretty baby ways, her aggrieved 
parents were only too glad to accept 
her godmother's offer to take her 
off their hands and to bring her up. 
By that good lady — who seems to 
have been really a most kind-heart- 
ed person, although she was a bea- 
dle's widow — the little Nanette (so 
the child had been named) was 
carefully instructed in such branch- 
es of learning as a young person of 
her station was at that time expect- 
ed to know, and which, in truth, 



were not very many. There is 
little doubt that one young lady of 
Vassar would have put the entire 
faculty of St. Cyr to rout. 

But Nanette was soon found to 
possess a fine voice, and pains were 
taken to cultivate it — so success- 
fully that when, at the mature age 
of twelve, the youthful chorister 
made her d^biit in a Christmas an- 
them at the parish church, every- 
body was delighted. And when 
during the following Holy Week 
she sang a Stabat better than many 
persons four times her age, every- 
body said at once she was a pro- 
digy. 

Now, we all know what comes to 
prodigies. The praises, pettings, 
and presents this prodigy received 
turned her small and not very wise 
head. Good M^re LoUier wished 
to make a fish-mongress of her ; 
madenioiselle spurned the propo- 
sal. What ! she, a genius, a beauty, 
a divine voice, waste her life on 
horrid, ill-smeUing fish } (She made 
no objection, you will observe, to 
dining on them when her mother 
cooked them for her, but that was 
quite a different matter.) She soil 
her pretty fingers with scales, hag- 
gle over herrings, or dicker about 
dace 1 Perish the thought ! Her 
mother did it, to be sure, but then — 
her mother wfls not a genius. (Do 
young ladies nowadays ever rea- 
son thus .^) No ; she would be a 
flower-girl and sing her nosegays 
into every buttonhole — or wherever 
else they then wore their nosegays — 
in Paris. The manners of the fish- 
market even then lacked some- 
thing of the repose of Vere de Vere, 
and M^re LoUier's only answer to 
this astounding proposal was a slap 
and — we regret to say — a kick. She 
was not aware that genius is not 
to be kicked with impunity. She 



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soon discovered it to her sorrow ; 
for in her way she loved Nanette, 
and kicked her, we may be sure, 
only in kindness. 

Shortly after this affront Nanette 
disappeared, and from that moment 
all trace of her was lost. Word 
came to her parents from time to 
time that she was well, but of her 
whereabouts their most persistent 
efforts could gain no tidings. Her 
absence lasted three years ; how or 
where passed no one — we sniff the 
touch of the embellisher here — 
could ever discover, nor would she 
herself divulge. At last one fine 
morning comes a message to M^re 
Lollier that her daughter is at the 
convent of the Carmelites, and will 
be handed over to them in person, 
or to any priest who comes with an 
order from them. 

Beside herself with joy, Mfere 
LoIlier,"with just a hasty touch to 
her cap — even a Dame de la Halle 
is, outside of business, a woman — 
rushes off to M. le Cur^ with the 
great news. In those days M. le 
Cur^ was the first applied to in 
every emergency of joy or grief: 
perhaps it would have been better 
for Paris if the custom had not 
been survived by others less whole- 
some. The good priest lent a sym- 
pathetic ear ; for the piety and indus- 
try of the LoUiers had made them 
prime favorites with him, and he 
had, besides, taken a lively interest in 
the fate of his little chorister. A 
fiacre is called at once, and the 
curd and Mere Lollier, with her 
eldest son, a strapping sergeant in 
the French guards — not then such 
pigmies as absinthe has left them 
now — fly to the convent at such a 
pace as only the promise of a fabu- 
lous potirboire can extract from a 
Parisian cab-horse. The lady-su- 
perior greets them in the convent 
parlor and presently ushers in a 



lovely young girl — what ! a girl 1 — 
— a princess, to who .a M^re Lollier 
with difficulty represses an inclina- 
tion to courtesy, while M. le Cure 
wipes his spectacles and the gaping 
sergeant at once conies to a salute. 
But the princess speedily puts an 
end to their doubts by embracing 
them all in turn with the liveliest 
emotion. It is indeed Nanette, but 
Nanette developed into such beau- 
ty and grace and sprightliness as 
many a princess might envy. Nor 
is her moral nature less improved. 
She is now as modest and docile as 
before she was vain and headstrong ; 
only — she will still be a flower-girl. 
And yet women are sometimes call- 
ed weak ! 

Before the young lady's appear- 
ance in the parlor the superior had 
explained to her wondering audi- 
tors how a strange lady the evening 
before had brought Nanette to the 
convent — " Hum 1" says M. le Cure 
dubiously, taking snuff — and on 
leaving her had left at the same 
time 2o,ooo francs for her dowry, if 
she wished to become a religious — 
"Ha!" says M. le Cur6 thought- 
fully, brushing away the snuff that 
has fallen on his band. Then he 
beams upon Nanette, rubbing his 
hands encouragingly, while Mere 
Lollier nods acquiescence and the 
sergeant shifts to the other leg and 
gapes. But Nanette, in spite of these 
diverse blandishments, respectfully 
but firmly declined to be a religious. 
Her vocation was to be a flower-girl, 
and a flower-girl she would be. 

" Tis the devil's trade," cries 
the curiy quite out of patience. 

" All roads lead to heaven, my 
father," answers Nanette mildly. 

So a flower-girl she becomes; 
and it must be confessed that, in 
spite of Undine, beauty seems more 
at home with the flowers than with 
the fishes. 



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One bright morning in the sum- 
mer of 1756 the loungers under 
the chestnuts which then adorned 
the garden of the Palais Royal — 
that forehanded and long-headed 
(though, long as his head was, he 
could not keep it long) personage, 
Philippe Egalit^, thought shops 
would be more ornamental as well 
as more useful, so he put the chest- 
nuts in his pocket and built that 
splendid colonnade which is the. 
wonder and delight of the wander- 
ing American — the loungers in the 
shade of the Palais Royal chestnuts 
were conscious of a new sensation. 
Not that sensations were just then 
going begging. By no means. One 
or two royal gentlemen, by laying 
their crowned heads together, had 
already contrived that famous mis- 
understanding which was to turn a 
large part of three continents into 
a shambles for the next seven years ; 
to cost the " well-beloved," in Can- 
ada and India, the brightest jewels 
of his crown, and to make of Mont- 
<alm, for losing one and his life with 
it, a hero, and of Lally-Tollendal, 
for having the bad taste to survive 
the loss of the other, a traitor or a 
martyr as you were for him or 
against him. So often is it that for 
precisely the same services a grate- 
ful and discriminating country de- 
<rees to one of her sons a monu- 
ment, to another a halter. Perhaps 
there is not so much difference be- 
tween the two — to the dead men, at 
least — as some folks imagine. 

But the heroes we are to deal 
with are by no means of the stuff 
of martyrs, and fighting, beyond an 
ornamental pass or two in the Bois 
de Boulogne, they vote vulgar and 
bourgeois. Here under the chest- 
nut blossoms is a sensation much 
more to their taste. It is a new 
VOL. XXV. — 18 



flower-girl. But what a flower-girl » 
Figure to yourself, then, Mme. la 
Duchesse, a flower-girl arrayed in 
silks and laces and jewels a mar- 
chioness would give her head for 
(marchionesses* heads were rated 
higher then than they came to be 
before the century was over), with 
a golden shell for her flower-basket, 
lined with blue satin and suspend- 
ed by an embroidered scarf from 
the daintiest waist in the world — a 
flower-girl with the face of a seraph 
and the figure of a sylph, with eyes 
of liquid light and hair of woven 
sunshine, with the foot of Cinder- 
ella and a hand — a hand only IcsSk 
perfect than that of Madame, which 
your humble servant most respect- 
fully salutes. 

News so important must be sent 
post-haste to Versailles. A score 
of noblemen sprang to the saddle 
and rushed to lay their hearts and • 
their diamonds at the feet of this ' 
strange paragon. But Nanette, 
young as she was, could tell base 
metal from good. The jewels she 
took from her adorers with smiling 
impartiality ; the other sort of trin- 
kets — sadly battered by use, it must 
be confessed, and not worth much 
at any time — she rejected with equal- 
ly smiling disdain. Always gra- 
cious, gay, and self-possessed, spark- 
ling with raillery and wit, she yet 
maintained a maidenly reserve that 
abashed the boldest license, and 
her reputation grew even faster than 
her fortune. 

And the latter grew apace. She 
became the rage. Her appearance 
on the Palais Royal, followed at a 
little distance by footmen in livery . 
and her maid, gathered about her 
straightway all the gallants and wits 
in Paris. Her basket was emptied 
in a trice, and emptied again as 
often as refilled by her servants. 
It was deemed an honor to receive 



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a nosegciy from her pretty fingers, 
and more louis than half-franc 
pieces repaid them. 

Great ladies came to her la't^es — 
for such they really were — and even 
deigned to accept from the beauti- 
ful flower-girl the gift of a rose or 
a violet — gifts always sure to be re- 
compensed in noble fashion with 
jewels or costly laces, rich silks or 
pieces of plate. Within two years 
Nanette had thus accumulated in 
houses, lands, and rents an annual 
income of forty thousand francs, be- 
dsides loading her kindred with pre- 
-sents. 

Naturally, this circumstance did 
»not cool the ardor of the followers 
whom her beauty had attracted. 
'One of these was particularly no- 
ticeable for his assiduity. He was a 
young man about twenty-two years 
old, of distinguished air and hand- 
some features, tinged with that sha- 
dow of melancholy thought to be 
so irresistible to the feminine ima- 
gination. His clothes, too, were in 
liis favor; for though irreproachably 
neat and faultlessly cut, they had 
plainly seen their best days. We 
all know what a sly rogue Pity is, 
and how untiringly he panders for 
a certain nameless kinsman. Eve- 
ry afternoon found the melancholy 
young man at the garden awaiting 
tiie flower-girl's coming. On her 
arrival he would advance, select a 
flower, pay a dozen sous, exchange 
a word, perhaps, and disappear till 
the following day. Once he was 
. dbsent, and the fair florist's brow 
j was clouded. In other words, Na- 

• nette was extremely cross, and 

• many an unlucky petit- mattre was 
that day unmercifully snubbed for 
presuming on previous condescen- 
sion. The garden trembled and 
was immersed in gloom. But pre- 
sently the laggard made his ap- 
pearance, Nanette's lovely face was 



again wreathed in smiles, the gar- 
den breathed freely once more, and 
the petit-maitres were astonished to 
find their vapid pleasantries receiv- 
ed more graciously than ever. From 
this remarkable circumstance the 
sagacious reader will doubtless form 
his own conclusion ; and we do not 
say that the sagacious reader will 
be wrong. 

In point of fact, we may as well 
admit at once that Nanette, with- 
out knowing it, was already in love 
with this handsome, melancholy 
stranger, of whom she knew nothing, 
except that he was noble, since he 
wore a sword. She would have 
given half she was worth to know 
even his name, but she dared not 
ask it. As often as the question 
trembled on her tongue she felt 
herself blushing violently and una- 
ble, for the life of her, to open her 
lips. Her modesty had not been 
educated away by a season in the 
civilizing atmosphere of the court. 

Chance at last befriended her. 
One evening the brilliant Marquis 
de Louvois, after talking awhile 
with the unknown, came up to the 
Count de la Chdtre, who was seated 
beside her, and said to him : 

" This ass of a De Courtenaye puts 
me out of all patience. The king 
has asked why lie does not come to 
Versailles. I repeat to him his 
majesty's flattering question. Well ! 
it goes in one ear and out the 
other. Can one so bury one's self 
in Paris V 

Think of that, good Americans, 
before you die ! In the year of 
grace 1756 Paris was only a bury- 
ing place for Versailles! So that 
1870 had a precedent. 

"What else is he to do.?" asks 
the count. " It takes money to live 
as we do, and his father, poor fellow, 
left him nothing but a name, which, 
although one of the first in France. 



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is rather a drawback than otherwise, 
since it won't permit him even to 
many for money anything less than 
a princess ; and rich princesses 
like to get as well as to give." 

** True, true," murmurs the com- 
passionate marquis. " I had for- 
gotten. More's the pity; such a 
good-looking fellow as he is — " 

" And a connection of the royal 
family." 

" Faith, the king is not over and 
above kind to his cousins." And 
the gentlemen dismiss the royal 
poor relation from their noble 
minds as they would brush a grain 
of snuff from their ruffles, and stroll 
off, humming an aria from the latest 
opera of the famous Favart, the 
little Offenbach of his little day. 
Forgotten art thou now, O famous 
Favart ! and thy immortal airs are 
as dead as Julius Caesar. 

But not so easily did M. de 
Courtenaye's tribulations pass from 
the mind of Nanette, who had lost 
not a word of this conversation. 
She thought of him all through a 
wakeful night ; she was still think- 
ing of him the next morning — hav- 
ing arisen for that fond purpose 
long before the household was stir- 
ring — when she was startled by feel- 
ing a kiss upon her arm. She 
sprang up with a little cry of anger 
and alarm ; but her frown changed 
to a smile when she recognized 
the offender. It was Marcel, the 
handsome Marcel, her favorite 
brother, a year her senior, but so 
like her they were often mistaken 
for twins. 

"O Marcel!" she cried, "how 
you frightened me. How was one 
10 look for such gallantry from one's 
brother?" 

" But if one is the brother of 
Nanette ?" says Marcel still more 
gallantly. 

Marcel has been in good com- 



pany and flatters himself he has 
quite the belair. As an apprentice 
to M. Panckoucke to learn the 
bookseller's trade, wherein his sis- 
ter, when he got old enough, was to 
set him up for himself, he had 
many opportunities of seeing and 
hearing the wits of the capital, not 
without profit to mind and manners. 
Indeed, he fairly considered himself 
one of them already. 

"Yes, my dear little sister," he 
added with a patronizing air, "you 
are positively the talk of the town. 
Go where I will — and you know I 
go into the best circles," he says 
pompously, adjusting his ruffles as 
he has seen the dandies do — " I hear 
of nothing but the beautiful, the 
witty Nanette. Why, it was only 
the other day I was at M. de Mar- 
montel's " — the ingenuous youth 
did not deem it essential to state 
that he had been sent in the honor- 
able though humble capacity of 
" printer's devil " with a bundle of 
proofs for correction (the proofs, in- 
deed, of the Contes Moraux : the 
dullest, surely — always excepting the 
delightful, interminable romances 
of the incomparable Mile, de Scu- 
d^ry — ever penned in the tongue 
of Montaigne and Moli^re,) but his 
sister understood his harmless vani- 
ty and did not so much as smile — 
"at M. de Marmontel's with the 
Duke Jb Nivernais, the Count de 
Lauraguais, M. de Voltaire, and the 
Prince de Courtenaye." 

Nanette started slightly, but her 
brother did not perceive it. It is 
theway of brothers, and this brother, 
besides, was for the moment rapt in 
contemplation of the greatness re- 
flected upon him by association 
with these great names. He fairly 
grew an inch in stature as he rolled 
them out, dwelling fondly on the 
titles. It is something to have a 
king speak to you, if only to ask you 



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Nanette, 



to get out of the way. Marcel con- 
tinued : 

" The talk was all of you.' M. 
de Lauraguais, not knowing me to 
he your near relation, presumed to 
deny your wit and to question your 
virtue." 

Nanette's beautiful eyes flashed 
in a way that would have made the 
slanderer uncomfortable had he 
seen it. 

" Insolent !'* she murmured, 
clenching her little fists. 

" You may imagine how my blood 
boiled," went on Marcel. " I was 
on the point of doing something 
rash when M. de Courtenaye took 
up the cudgels in your behalf. M. de 
Lauraguais,' he said with grave se- 
verity, * is it possible that you, a gen- 
tleman, can give currency to the lies 
set afloat by baffled libertines or 
malicious fools against the reputa- 
tion of a defenceless girl } My life 
upon it, Nanette is as pure as she 
is lovely ; and were proof of her in^ 
nocence needed, I should ask none 
better than these stories of lovers 
whom no one has seen, or can even 
name. Why, had Nanette a lover, 
all Paris would ring with it in an 
hour.' The impassioned earnest- 
ness of the prince made the com- 
pany smile ; but M. Diderot, siding 
with him, said he was sure you were 
better than the best that was said 
of you." f 

Nanette's eyes filled with tears. 
Had the youthful pedant been less 
intent on showing his familiarity 
with fashionable life, he must have 
had his suspicions aroused by her 
agitation. As it was, he was not 
even enlightened when Nanette, 
suddenly flinging her arms about 
ins neck in a tender fury, kissed 
him twice or thrice passionately. 
He took the kisses complacently as 
a guerdon for his story. Fraternal 
obtuseness in such cases is simply 



limitless. " By the way, Nanette,' 
he added, " why wouldn't it be a 
good idea to thank the prince by 
sending him some of your prettiest 
flowers } I can take them to-mor- 
row with some books I am to con- 
vey to him." 

" Nonsense !" says Nanette in- 
credulously. " I don't believe you 
even know where he lives." 

"Don't know where he lives .^" 
cries Marcel indignantly. "Per- 
haps you will tell me next I don't 
know where the Hdtel Carnavalet 
i.s, or how to find the Rue Culture 
Ste. Catherine .? Don't know where 
he lives, indeed !" And Marcel flings 
out of the room in a state of high 
dudgeon that his acquaintance with 
a great man should be doubted, 
and, worst of all, by Nanette. We 
are sorry to say he slammed the 
door after him. The best of bro- 
thers will do such things under 
strong provocation. But Nanette 
only smiled — the wily Nanette ! 

III. 

The next morning, at his frugal 
breakfast in a rather lofty apart- 
ment of the Hdtel Carnavalet, the 
Prince de Courtenaye read with 
much amazement the following let- 
ter: 

*' My Dear Cousin : I am an old woman 
and your near relation. I have long ob- 
served with pain the poverty which keeps 
you from assuming your proper station. 
I have wealth, and not many years to 
keep it. What is a burden to me will 
be a help to you. Suffer me, then, from 
my superfluity to relieve your necessity 
— I claim it as the twofold privilege of 
age and love — and accept as frankly as I 
tender it the 25,000 francs which I en- 
close to procure you an establishment 
suited to your rank. On the first of 
every month 4,000 francs will be forward- 
ed to you in addition." 

Some commonplaces of civility 
ended this remarkable but not un- 



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pleasant epistle — would that such a 
one some celestial postman might 
leave at tlie door of the present 
writer, to whom documents of a far 
different nature — but this is a pain- 
ful and unnecessary digression. Let 
us continue. The prince read the 
queer communication with con- 
tlicting emotions, in which wonder 
predominated. He was not aware 
of any wealthy aunt or female rela- 
tive particularly prone to this sort 
of furtive benevolence ; but his con- 
nections were legion, and women 
were odd fish. Still, his honor seem- 
ed to him to forbid his accepting a 
fortune so acquired. But older and 
wiser heads stifled, or at least si- 
lenced, his scruples ; and secretly re- 
solving to leave no stone unturned 
to discover his mysterious benefac- 
tress, and to return to her or to her 
heirs every sou of the money, which 
in his heart he accepted only as a 
loan, he resigned himself to his 
good-luck with tolerable cheerful- 
ness. Henceforth no more elegant 
equipage was to be seen than the 
Prince de Courtenaye's. He be- 
came the fashion ; he was the life 
and talk of every salon — as we 
should say, the success of the sea- 
son. Nevertheless, lie failed not to 
go every afternoon to the garden of 
the Palais Royal for his nosegay, 
with this difference only : that he 
now paid francs instead of sous. 

A year sped away, spent by the 
j>rince in buying nosegays and in 
sharing the gayeties, though not the 
dissipations, of the court ; by Nanette 
in continuing to perfect herself 
secretly in all the feminine accom- 
plishments of her time, so that now, at 
the age of nineteen, she was not only 
peerless in beauty, but as cultivated 
as Mme. de S^vign^ and as learned 
as Mme. Dacier — no, not as Mme. 
Dacier — no mere mortal was ever 
so learned as Mme. Dacier ; but let 



us say as Mme. de La Fayette, who 
could set Father Rapin right in his 
Latin and silence Manage. Was 
it for herself she underwent these 
prodigious labors .^ It is not known 
that she ever mentioned. But she 
still sold nosegays and still reaped 
a golden harvest. 

One evening the Count de la 
Chatre was again sitting beside her 
when the Marquis de Louvois once 
more accosted him. 

" My dear fellow," said he, " what 
the mischief ails Pierre.?" (he spoke 
of De Courtenaye). " He must be 
going mad. Have you heard his 
latest freak.? Mile, de Craon, one 
of our wealthiest heiresses, with a 
royal dowry and a princely income, 
is proposed to him, and what do you 
think } He refuses her — positively 
refuses. What bee is in his bonnet ?" 

"Love." 

" Love ! Is it one of the Royal 
Princesses, then .?" 

** I imagine not." 

" Who then ? Some divinity of 
the coulisses^ 1*11 wager." 

" Louvois," said the count grave- 
ly, "you wrong our friend. De 
Courtenaye, as you know, abhors 
vice, and I am much mistaken if 
she whom he loves is not a virtuous 
woman." 

Louvois shrugged his shoulders 
as only a certain kind of French- 
man can. Virtue was a word not 
in his dictionary. 

The next day the prince received 
this note, the second from his un-* 
known relative : 

'* My Nephew : Why do you decline 
to marry Mile, de Craon, who unites all 
that is illustrious in birth and splendid 
in fortune ? I will provide you with the 
capital of the incume I now allow you. 
Accept also as a wedding-gift ^or your 
intended the jewels I send herewith. 

•* If you consent, wear for eight days in 
your buttonhole a carnation ; if you refuse, 
a rose." 



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Nanette. 



With the letter came a handsome 
jewel-case containing a million of 
francs in bills — it is well for the ro- 
mancer to be liberal in these mat- 
ters — and a magnificent ])arure of 
diamonds of the purest water, valued 
by the Tiffany of the time at loo,- 
ooo more. 

That afternoon it was noticed in 
the garden that Nanette was un- 
usually pale and silent. The Prince 
de Courtenaye entered at his usual 
hour ; the nosegay in his buttonhole 
bore neither pink nor rose. He 
drew near the flower-girl, who offer- 
ed him a posy with a hand she 
vainly tried to make steady. Like 
his own, it had neither pink nor 
rose. 

The prince examined Nanette's 
offering attentively, smiled sadly, 
stood for an instant in a musing at- 
titude twirling the bouquet in his 
fmgers, and then suddenly, as one 
whose mind is made up: 

" My child," he said, " will you 
make me the present of a rose.^" 

Nanette fainted. 

IV. 

When the flower-girl recovered 

* she found herself in her own room, 
her family around her. But her 
eyes sought in vain the one face 
slie most wished to see. Her mo- 
ther and sisters told her with pro- 
digious clamor and excitement, all 
talking at once at the tops of their 
voices, how she had fainted — " from 

• the heat," the gentleman said. 
*' Yes, from the heat," murmured 
Nanette softly, closing her eyes — 
how a great nobleman, the Prince 
tie Courtenaye, had raised her, and 
iunv, without waiting for a carriage, 
and rejecting all aid, he had borne 
her in his arms to her house near 
by. 

Nanette listened with closed eyes 
and a happy smile. All this was 



balm to her poor, sorely-tried heart. 
She even ventured to ask what had 
become of the kind gentleman. He 
had waited, they told her, to hecir 
the doctor's report giving assur- 
ance of her safety, and had then 
gone away, invoking for her their 
most zealous care. Presently the 
prince's valet came to inquire after 
her health ; but he himself did not 
come. Nanette was wounded, but 
she said nothing. Even pain in 
such a cause was too sacred a thing 
to be shared with another. Wo- 
man-like, she hugged her grief as 
though it were a treasure, and 
smiled, without knowing why, at 
the empty compliments of a crowd 
of petits-mattreSy who, after the 
fashion of the time, had rushed to 
pay her their condolences, and who 
ransacked Dorat for their vapid 
homage. Each took the smile to 
himself and redoubled his insipid 
gallantries. But Nanette was too 
much in love, if she had not been 
too clever, to heed them. So she 
contented herself and them by 
smiling. 

At heart she was happy, in spite 
of the prince's neglect. At least 
he would not marry ; so much was 
secure. But the future : might he 
not have surprised her secret — she 
blushed as she thouglit it — and 
would he seek to abuse his power .^ 
No, she felt he was too noble for 
that, and, come what might, she 
would enjoy the present hour, the 
happiest she had known. So in 
vague, delicious hopes, and doubts 
not less delicious ; in fluttering fears 
and half-formed, undefined resolves; 
in pain that seemed to be pleasure 
and pleasure whose sweetest ele- 
ment was pain — all the exquisite 
mdlange of confused and dreamy 
emotions which take possession of 
a young and innocent heart so soon 
as it has fiiirly admitted to itself ii 



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Nanette, 



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loves — Nanette awaited her prince. 
She knew he would come; her 
heart told her so. And she was 
not deceived. 

Early the next day he was an- 
nounced. She essayed to rise as 
he entered, but sank back into her 
chair, half from weakness, half from 
agitation, murmuring incoherent ex- 
cuses for her awkwardness. In an 
instant the prince was at her feet. 

"Ah!" he cried, "I have found 
you out at last, my good cousin. 
But I am not come to return you 
your benefactions; only to beseech 
you to make it possible for me to 
keep them by adding to them a still 
more precious boon." 
" And that is—?" 
** This fair, kind hand. Ah dar- 
ling! you cannot refuse it me when 
vou have already given me youV 
iieart." 

In sacrificing his name to this ob- 
scure young girl the prince was no 
doubt conscious of doing a noble 
and magnanimous act. And so it 
was — how noble, can only be real- 
ized by those who know the meas- 
ureless distance which, in the days 
of Louis XV., divided the nobility 
from the people, or the insolent dis- 
dain with which the former looked 
down on the latter — a disdain com- 
memorated to this day in the use 
of the word /^i(^/f to indicate a vul- 
gar fellow. But if he thought to 
conquer Nanette in generosity, he 
was mistaken. The flower-girl, af- 
ter a moment's reflection, begged 
her lover to give her till to-morrow 
to answer. He consented reluc- 
fnntly, but not doubting the result. 
Who could have looked in the 
eighteenth century to see a fish- 
nrtonger's daughter refuse the hand 
of a French prince ? 

De Courtenaye arose the next 
morning satisfied with himself and 
with the world, and more in love 



than ever. He longed impatiently for 
the message which should summon 
him to the feet of his adored mis- 
tress to receive the seal of his 
happiness. At last, after, it seem^ 
ed to his eagerness, an age of wait- 
ing, his servant brought him a let- 
ter. He glanced at the superscrip- 
tion ; it was in the well-known 
hand. He pressed the dear char- 
acters to his lips and tore the missive 
open with trembling fingers. This 
is what he read: 

"Love blinds you. A marriage with 
me would dishonor you. You love me 
too well for me to refuse you the most 
convincing proof of my love. I give you 
up, and I give up life for you. When 
you read this the flower-girl Nanette 
will have quitted the world for ever. 
Do not scruple to keep the money you 
have received, in your aunt's name ; it is 
yours by right. A kinsman, who accom- 
plished your father's ruin, simply made 
me the instrument of his tardy atone- 
ment. I leave to my family a fortune 
ample for their wants. Adieu I Think of 
me sometimes in the cloister, wherein I 
take refuge from my heart, and where I 
shall never cease to pray for you." 

So ends the history of Nanette 
Lollier. The Archbishop of Paris 
in person, it is said, conducted her to 
the convent of her choice, and the 
Palais Royal went into maurning. 
The prince was almost wild with 
grief; but his prayers, his suppli- 
cations, his almost frenzied entreat- 
ies, could not shake Nanette's re- 
solve. He never married. The allu- 
sion in the flower-girl's letter recall- 
ed to him certain rumors current 
at the lime of his father's death ; 
but, as our chronicler shrewdly sur- 
mises, the story of the kinsman was 
simply a device of Nanette's affec- 
tion to disarm her lover's pride. 

This is the romance of Nanette, 
the flower-girl of the Palais Royal, 
as it is recorded in a chronicle of 
the time. In the foul and fetid. 



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annals of that most polluted reign, 
barren alike of manly honor and 
womanly virtue, it comes to us 
like a jewel we lift from the mire, 
or a fresh-blown rose we rescue 
from the kennel. Let us not ask if 
it be true. Stories of disinterested 
love, of magnanimity and devotion, 
let us rather accept as always true. 



saving our incredulity for nar- 
ratives of anotlier sort. For our 
own part we had rather believe Ti- 
berius to be a myth than that 
Cordelia is a fiction: that Nero 
never fiddled in his lire than that 
Henry Esmond never put his birth- 
right in the fire to spare his 
benefactress pain. 



NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



Classic Literature, principally San- 
skrit, Greek, "AND Roman. With some 
account of the Persian, Chinese, and 
Japanese in the Form of Sketches of 
the Authors and Specimens from Trans- 
lations of their Works. By C. A. 
White, author of The Studenfs My^ 
thology. New York : Henry Holt & 
Co. 1877. 
. We find on p. 12 of. this n^vr Hand- 
book of Classic Literature^ as it is en- 
titled on the back, among the '* most 
commendable maxims" of the Pancha- 
Trantra—^ work on morals composed by 
Hindoo sages — the following : " As long 
as a person remains silent he is honor- 
ed ; but as soon as he opens his mouth 
men sit in judgment upon his capacity." 
The young people who will make use of 
this book, which is principally intended 
for their benefit and pleasure, must be 
the final judges of the capacity of its 
author to make classic literature intelli- 
gible and interesting to their minds. The 
■author appears to understand them, and 
to have acquired that experience and 
skill in adapting instruction to the juve- 
nile mind, by practical familiarity with 
young students in the class-room, which 
is almost necessary to ensure success in 
preparing a good text-book. The Hand- 
book of Ciasiic Literature is not intended 
as a manual for lessons and recitations. 
It is not exclusively intended for those 
who study Latin or Greek ; and we are 
not aware of any considerable number 
of young people who are studying San- 
skrit, Persian, or Chinese, so that evi- 
dently no such class of pupils could 



have been in the eye of the author. In 
fact, the aim of the author is to give 
some general notion of the ancient au- 
thors and their principal works, and 
iome fine specimens of the best transla- 
tions which have been made into Eng- 
lish, to those who do not study the 
ancient languages at all, or at most 
learn only the rudiments of one or two 
of them. Three-fourths of the volume 
are devoted to the Greek and Latin clas- 
sics. The remaining eighty pages arc 
divided between the Sanskrit, Persian, 
and Chinese, with a brief notice of the 
Japanese. The most elaborate and 
valuable portion of the work is that 
devoted to Greek literature. The au- 
thor has made use of the best critical 
works and selected a large number of 
the most excellent translations. So 
much learning, pains, skill in faithful 
and idiomatic rendering, and even po- 
etic genius, have been expended by 
English scholars in translating the 
Greek classics that any reader of in- 
telligence and taste may understand 
and enjoy to a very great extent these 
ancient masterpieces without learning a 
word of Greek. We notice as particu- 
larly discriminating and just the criti- 
cismS of the author on the three great 
tragedians. Specimens of several dif- 
ferent authors who have translated 
Homer are presented, and a num- 
ber of extracts from Aristophanes 
and others of the generally less known 
poets. There must be many whose 
curiosity will be excited by these 
choice morsels to read the entire trans- 



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lated works themselves. Next in inte- 
rest to the sketches and translations 
from the Greek are those from the San- 
skrit and Persian, on account both of the 
novelty of the subject-matter to the 
generality of readers, and also the in- 
trinsic be.Tuty of the selected passages. 
The author writes enthusiastically about 
Zoroaster, and we think with great jus- 
tice. The song of the tea-pickers, from 
the Chinese, pleases us extremely, and 
is one of the piettiest and most touching 
of the minor pieces in the volume. The 
author has shown remarkable judgment 
and good taste in making this compila- 
tion, and writes in all that part of it 
which is of original composition in a 
style of peculiar accuracy and felicity of 
diction. The strict and conscientious 
regard in which the old saying Maxima 
reverentia debetur pueris has been kept 
throughout is an example for all those 
who write for the young. There is no- 
thing which can endanger the faith or 
damage the moral delicacy of the young 
Christian pupil in all this volume filled 
dp with the literature of heathen nations. 
On the contrary, its effect is salutary, 
and shows beautifully not only the great 
obscurity in which those gifted pagans 
lay from the want of a clear revelation 
of truth, but also that the human mind 
cverj'where, in all times, naturally Chris- 
tian, longs for the light. 

The mechanical execution of the Clas- 
sical Ilanti'hopk is remarkable for beauty 
and accuracy. We have noticed only 
two or three typographical faults in the 
whole volume. It is a most attractive 
book to take up and read. We have 
' said that it is not properly a class-book. 
It is a reading- book for higher pupils, 
and a companion for lectures, suitable 
for reference or use in class-readings. 
We recommend it most cordially to all 
higher schools, especially academies for 
young ladies, and others where classical 
studies are not made one of the chief 
branches of instruction. The great num- 
ber of choice and elegant extracts from 
the best writers, many of which sire un- 
familiar, as well as the historical notices 
and criticisms, make this book equally 
suitable for ufe in families and literary 
circles, especially for reading aloud, as 
Cor schools. We wish for the author the 
best reward which can be bestowed on 
one who is devoted to the culture of 
young pupils — the love and gratitude of 
their generous, affectionate hearts. 



The Cradle of the Christ: a Study 
in Primitive Christianity. By Octa- 
vius Brooks Frothingham. New York : 
G. P. Putnam's Sons. 1877. 
The author of this volume is one of 
the representative men of the left sec- 
tion of Unitarianism in this country. He 
is distinguished by a cleai style, a finely 
cultivated imagination, and his writings 
are characterized by a pervading placi- 
dity which is only occasionally ruffled 
by a mocking scepticism that suggests 
the too close proximity of Dr. Faust's 
intimate friend* 

The volume aoounds in sweeping as- 
sertions, slovenly-expressed ideas, and 
lacks throughout the cement of a sound 
logic. It fosters on Cardinal Wiseman 
and Dr. Newman opinions which can 
only be accounted for on the supposi- 
tion of the author's inaccurate scholar- 
ship or his contempt for the intelligence 
of his readers. (See preface, page 5.) 
Among other things, he informs his rea- 
ders that *' it has been customary with 
Christians to widen as much as possible 
the gulf between the Old and the New 
Testaments, in order that Christianity 
might appear in the light of a fresh and 
transcendent revelation, supplementing 
the ancient, but supplanting it" (page 
ro). The custom of St. Augustine, St. 
Thomas, and Catholic theologians gene- 
rally is precisely the contrary. There is 
a remarkable book by a Catholic on this 
very point, published in our own day, 
entitled De tHaimonie entre P Eglise el 
la Synagogue y par Le Chevalier P. L B. 
Drach, a converted rabbi. The rabbi, in 
his two volumes, aims at showing that a 
Jew, in becoming a Catholic, does not 
deny or change his religion, but follows 
out, completes, and perfects it. The 
Jewish Church and the Catholic Church 
are identically one, and the former is to 
the latter as the bud to the full-blown 
flower. 

With a criticism that kills beforehand 
the life it would dissect, Mr. O. B. 
Frothingham ends by coolly telling his 
readers that Christianity is extinct. And 
with a self-satisfied air he naively ex- 
horts them, by the efforts of their imagi- 
nation, to build up a new and superior 
religion to Christianity. His readers 
will, we opine, politely decline this task, 
and leave to him who had the genius to 
conceive the idea its accomplishment. 
What a pity he did not tell them what 
he means by the imaginative faculty ) 



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For if in this, as in other things, he fol- 
lows his foreign masters, we have no 
reason to expect, as the result of its ex- 
crcise in this direction, other than an 
additional illusion to the long list of 
religious vagaries given to the world, 
from Simon Magus down to Joe Smith 
and the Foz girls. 

A scholar who has read the volume 
describes its contents as "theological, 
philosophical, and speculative old shreds 
picked up in German and French tailor- 
shops and cunningly sewed together in 
the shape of a cloak by a * cute' Yankee . 
apprentice, in order to cover the nudity 
of the latest form of the unbelief of New 
England." 

The book before us shows no mean 
literary skill, but contains nothing ori- 
ginal in the way of thought or erudition, 
not even an original error, though its 
errors are many more than the number 
of its pages. 

The Problem of Problems, and its 
Various Solutions ; or, Atheism, 
Darwinism, and Theism. By Clark 
Braden, President of Abingdon Col- 
lege, 111. 8vo. pp. 480. Cincinnati ; 
Chase & Hall. 1877. 
Recent scientific research has at last 
put the orthodox world on its mettle 
and elicited expressions of opinion from 
all shades of believers. Coquetting with 
dangerous premises, even in the guise 
of science, toleration of views implicit- 
ly or indirectly in6del, and a general 
disposition to compromise, are not indi- 
cative of a healthy tone in any organiza- 
tion avowedly Christian. Yet such ten- 
dencies have for a long time character- 
ized the relation of the various Protestant 
sects towards scientism, and one of the 
greatest outcries raised against the Syl- 
labus proceeded from its alleged intol- 
erance of, and general hostility to, un- 
hampered scientific inquiry. But coax- 
ing and cajoling, and a concurrent cry 
against the stupidity of Catholics, had no 
weight with Messrs. Spencer, Huxley, 
Tyndall, and Draper, who went on just 
as ever dealing their blows against reve- 
lation and all positive forms of belief, as 
thoughhis Lordship of Canterbury were 
a myth and his faith a sham. 

At length consistency compelled the 
representative men of the various de- 
nominations to resist the further en- 
croachments of an irreligious philoso- 
phy, and they are beginning to do so 



with the- bitter consciousness that they 
were the very ones who most ridiculed 
thei sagacity of the Holy Father when 
he censured the tone and tendency of 
modern scientism. But it is better late 
than never ; and if the gentlemen who, 
from Princeton to Abingdon, feel them- 
selves called upon to do the work will 
only graciously allow that they arc 
eleventh-hour workers, we will find no 
fault with their intention, but confine 
ourselves to a criticism of its execution. 
The Problem of Problems is the latest 
addition to the religio-scicniific contro- 
versy, and it is entitled to serious con- 
sideration because of the earnestness 
of the author and the elaborate charac- 
ter of the work. This elaborateness is. 
however, more apparent than real, and 
consists in a measure of diluted thought 
and diffuse expression. Whether it is 
unfortunately a peculiarity of Western 
authors to strip a thought entirely bare 
and leave nothing to suggestion, as the 
charge is made, we are not prepared to 
say, but certain it is that Mr. Clark 
Braden has gone far towards justifying 
such a suspicion. He is not satisfied 
with a placid presentment of his own 
views, nor with a brief arraignment 
of what he deems to be the errors of 
others, but he must reiterate, emphasize, 
and in general lash himself into a state 
of incandescence not at all needful for 
his purpose. Dignified opposition , even 
if a little tame, is somewhat more 
congenial to the frigid tastes of persons 
living east of the Alleghenies than those 
fervid utterances which mistake sound 
for sense. This, however, is an error of 
form which does not necessarily mill- . 
tate against the intrinsic value of the 
work, nor do we think that an allusion 
to it is likely to discompose the learned 
author ; for in a little prologue, address- 
ed to *■ Reviewers and Critics," he courts 
and solicits dispassionate and impartial 
criticism. In addition he requests that 
all publishers send him a copy of what 
their imprimatur has allowed critics to 
say concerning his book. We presume 
this is right ; but when the request comes 
coupled with the condition that every 
one undertaking to comment on his 
work must not do so before having read 
it from cover to cover, we fear that it 
will not always be faithfully complied 
with, or that he will have to read some 
pages in which gall and wormwood 
abound more than the milk of human 



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kindness. The reason of this we have 
hinted at. The book is prolix and 
repents to a fault. Many excellent 
thoughts are covered up in a mass of 
verbiage which emasculates and obscures 
them. Wc wish the author had the 
academic fitness to cope with his anta- 
gonists — whose culture has made their 
productions marvels of composition and 
tciribly enhanced their influence for 
evil. We are sorry that this charge 
should be the main one to prefer against 
a book which was prompted by the best 
ol motives and v/hich really exhibits , 
rare evidences of argumentative power. 
Take even the opening sentence, and we 
find ourselves face to face with a flagrant 
grammatical inaccuracy : *' One of the 
wise utterances of one whom his con- 
temporaries declared spoke as never 
man spoke was, that no wise man, etc." 
Here, apart from the slovenly repetition 
of " one." we find no subject for the first 
*' spoke," unless it be " whom, * and that 
is in the objective case. Similar mis- 
takes occur throughout, and give painful 
evidence that Mr. Braden began his 
scientific investigations before he had 
made himself familiar with Blair or Lord 
Karnes. We would, in connection with 
this same matter of style, suggest that the 
too frequent use of intcrrogacion not only 
mars the beauty of a page, but has an in- 
evitable tendency to wearisome diffuse- 
ness. Lest, however, we may be suspected 
of harshness towards the author, we select 
a passage at random, that the reader may 
judge for himself how little Mr. Braden 
is acquainted with the quality of a good 
style. On page 171 he says : ** We have no 
horses on the pampas of the New World, 
altfiough they existed as the most adapted to 
horses of any portion of the globe for af^es^ 
and there -were equine types in the A'ew 
lyorlii for several geolog>c epochs. M ul ti - 
tudes of cases might be given where 
man has carried animals into places 
where they did not exist, and they flour- 
ished, and even improved, thus showing 
that the conditions were especially fitted 
for them, yet had not produced them, al- 
though they had existed for vast ages. 
Hence conditions have failed to evolve 
what was especially fitted to them, and 
just what they would produce, did they 
produce anything." We submit that 
these sentences are not only clumsy in 
construction, but are positively 11 ngram- 
matical, and no one who undertakes the 
guidance of others along the thorny 



paths of scientific research has a right to 
.tax the general patience with slipshoa 
composition of this kind. Such exam- 
ples as those given are not isolated, but 
disfigure nearly every page. On page 
87 we find the following : " There was at 
first use of bodily organs in appropriat- 
ing food and slaying for food animals, 
and the use of spontaneous productions 
of the earth, like animals." 

So much for the form of the book. The 
matter is indeed better, though necessarily 
much impaired by the many faults of style. 
In consideration of fair play towards the 
author we will not accept his own stand- 
ard of judgment while passing an opin- 
ion on his book ; for we would then have 
either to mistrust our own Intelligence 
entirely or to utter unqualified censure 
of all that he has written. In his appeal 
to ** Reviewers and Critics" he says: 
** If there is censure or condemnation of 
what is written, let it be only after the 
critic understands what he condemns, 
and hecause he understands it." Now, we 
do not propose to condemn any portion 
of the book because we understand it ; for 
we freely confess that there is much val- 
uable thought to be found in its pages, 
and the author gives proof of having a 
good logical mind, not hampered, indeed, 
by the subtleties of Port Royal or the 
Grammar of Assent^ but sturdy and vig- 
orous, with a Western breadth and free- 
dom. We have not space to give even 
an outline of the plan Mr. Braden has 
mapped out for himself. Method is an 
important feature of a scientific and argu- 
mentative work, and, when judiciously 
adopted, goes far to promote the purpose 
of the author. 

Clearness, natural development, logical 
sequence of thought, and ready convic- 
tion are the results of a suitable method, 
while confusion, weariness, and dissatis- 
faction follow from a neglect thereof. Mr. 
Braden's lack of method will do much 
in the way of injuriously interfering with 
the effect of his book. Divisions ana 
subdivisions without number, irrespec- 
tive of reason, may swell the dimensions 
of a work, but do not certainly contribute 
to the satisfaction of the reader. 

If all Mr. Braden has written in the 
present volume were presented in a 
more orderly and attractive manner his 
book would be a valuable contribution 
to polemics, but the faults we have indi- 
cated will constantly militate against its 
usefulness. 



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In the Appendix both Draper and 
Huxley come in for a share of censure, 
but while the author utterly fails to make 
a point against Draper, he so overloads 
with irrelevant matter his review of Hux- 
ley's three lectures, delivered in this city, 
that the reader rises from the perusal of 
it with a tired memory and a dissatisfied 
mind. 

The Childhood of the English Na- 
tion ; or, The Beginnings of English 
History. By Ella S. Armitage. New 
York : G. P. Putnam's Sons. 1877. 

The authoress of this "little" book 
tells us, in her preface, that when she be- 
gan to write it " no short and simple his- 
tory of England had appeared which 
made any attempt to give unlearned people 
an insight below the surface of bare facts" 
but that " since then numerous works of 
the kind have appeared." Yes, indeed, 
too numerous ; yet, as far as we know, 
not one of them so pretentious as this. 
With a very readable style and a great 
show of erudition (an appalling 'Mist of 
authorities" is appended to her volume) 
she sets up for " an interpreter to those 
who have no knowledge of history," 
taking for her theme what she is pleased 
to call the '* childhood of ihe English 
nation" — by which she means the history 
of England " till the end of the twelfth 
century." Of course, therefore, she has 
to deal largely with the work and influ- 
ence of the Catholic Church. Now, 
when those who are not Catholic under- 
take to expound a philosophy to which 
they have not the key — to wit, the phi- 
losophy of any part of history with which 
Catholic faith has been concerned — we 
can pardon their mistakes, provided they 
evince that humility which is the mark 
of fair-mindedness. But, if this condi- 
tion be wanting, we can only regard their 
attempt as a piece of insufTerable imper- 
tinence ; their very concessions to our 
cause — a trick quite fashionable of late — 
but making them the less excusable. 

Here, then, lies our quarrel with the 
writer of this book. She goes out of her 
way to theorize on matters she does not 
understand, instead of confining her- 
self to " bare facts." For example, after 
acknowledging (p. 19) that ** there is no 
saying how long the English might not 
have remained heathen if Pope Gregory 
I . in the year 597, had not sent mission- 
aries to bring them to the faith of Christ/' 



she must needs endeavor to account for 
the Papacy as follows : 

** Gregory was Pope or Bishop ol 
Rome from 590 to 604. In his time the 
popes of Rome had not yet risen to the 
position of universal bishops and su- 
preme heads of the church, though they 
were tending towards it. All men were 
agreed that there must be one, and only 
one, visible, united church, but all had 
not yet made up their minds that the 
Bishop of Rome w.-is to be the head of 
that church. The church of the Welsh. 
« for example, and that of Ireland (!), owed 
no obedience to Rome. The pope him- 
self did not dare to call himself univer- 
sal bishop : * Whosoever calls himself so 
is Antichrist/ said Gregory I. Still, it 
was natural that Rome, which had been 
the ruling city of the one universal em- 
pire, the queen of the West, should be 
the chief centre of the one universal 
church, and that the Bishop of Rome 
should become the head of the church, 
and all other bishops should bow to 
his authority. This was what did come 
to pass in time, but at the time of which 
I am now speaking it seemed very un- 
certain ; for things had sadly changed 
with Rome. She had no emperor now ; 
the emperorwas at Constantinople ; Italy 
was invaded by barbarians, Rome her- 
self was scourged by plague and famine. 
The Bishop of Constantinople tried to 
set himsolf up as Universal Bishop and 
Head of the Church ; and that the popes 
afterwards won the day in this struggle 
was largely due to the great influence 
which Pope Gregory I. gained by his 
wisdom and his powerful character." 

The cluster of absurdities contained in 
this passage would be " matter for a fly- 
ing smile," were it not that the ignorance 
displayed looks too much like perverted 
knowledge. Can the lady have really 
failed to perceive the transparent non- 
sense of supposing that such a power as 
the Papacy originated in people making 
up their minds that the church ought to 
have a visible head, and that the Bishop 
of Rome was the right man because, for- 
sooth, Rome had been the seat of empire ? 
If, again, she knows what St. Gregory said 
to the ambitious John of Constantinople, 
why does she not quote a few more of 
his remarks? " The care of ihe whole 
church" said he, ** was committed to Pe- 
ter ; yet he is not called * Universal ApoS' 
tie,* " '* Who does not know that his set 
\p{ Constantinople) is subject to the Apoi- 



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folic Sfe (of Rome) ?" St. Gregory, like his 
predecessor St. Pelagius, refused the title 
of (Ecumenical Patriarch, or Universal 
Bishop, for himself out of humility ; how» 
ihen^ could he tolerate the assumption of 
it by a bishop who did not sit in Peter's 
chair? 

But we need not cite this book further 
to show that it is valueless in Catholic 
eyes. 

Dr. Joseph Salzmann's Leben und 
wirken dargestellt von joseph 
Rainer, Priester der £rzdi5cese • 
Milwaukee. Professor am Pries- 

TERSEMINAR SaLESIANUM. St. LouiS 1 

Herder. 

The Salesianum is an ecclesiastical 
seminary near Milwaukee which enjoys 
a very high reputation for the learning 
of its professors, the solidity of its course 
of studies, and the strictness of its disci- 
pline. Near it there is a Normal College 
for the training of school-teachers, and 
another college for the intermediate edu- 
cation of boys. The man who was the 
principal founder of these excellent in- 
stitutions was the Very Rev. Joseph Salz- 
inann, D.D., an Austrian priest, who 
came to Wisconsin as a missionary 
ihirty years ago and finished his earthly 
course in January, 1874, honored and re- 
gretted throughout the United States. 
The venerable Archbishop of Milwaukee 
first conceived the idea of founding a 
seminary to educate priests for the 
Northwest more than thirty years ago, 
while praying at the tomb of St. Francis 
do Sales, and this is the reason of the 
name Salesianum by which the seminary 
was christened. The first rector was 
the present learned Bishop of La Crosse, 
Dr. Heiss. Dr. Salzmann succeeded 
him in office in 1868. The Rev. Pro- 
fessor Rainer, in the little volume before 
us, gives an interesting account of the 
whole life of Dr. Salzmann, but especial- 
ly of his great and arduous work of 
founding and establishing the Salesia- 
num. which we may truly call a heroic 
achievement. He was a thoroughly 
learned and accomplished scholar, a 
man of sacerdotal dignity and personal 
attractiveness, an eloquent preacher, 
with fair and seductive prospects before 
him in his own beautiful Catholic land. 
He was well fitted to adorn those posi- 
tions in the church which are surround- 
ed ifrith the most outward eclat, and give 
the opportunity of enjoying all the ease. 



comfort, and pleasure in literary pursuits 
and quiet seclusion which are lawful and 
honorable in the priesthood. Neverthe- 
less, he chose the life of a Western mis- 
sionary, and devoted the greater part of 
his time and energies, not to the intel- 
lectual and attractive employments of 
preaching and instruction in the sciences, 
but to that most repugnant and arduous 
work of collecting money and looking 
after the drudgery' of building, providing, 
caring for the material wants of new, 
poor, struggling institutions. It is not 
possible for any who have not been 
brought up in some one of the old Catho- 
lic countries of Europe to estimate the 
sacrifice made by young men of refined 
character and education, and strong love 
of home and country, when they devote 
themselves to missionary labor in a new 
country, and to its hardest, most repul- 
sive departments. There are special 
difficulties and hardships to be en- 
countered by those who work among our 
German population. When they are 
bad or indifferent Catholics, they are 
the most obstinate and unmanageable 
people with whom a priest can have to 
deal, and very difficult to reclaim. Apos- 
tate and infidel Germans have a brutal- 
ity in their hatred to the Catholic Church 
and all religion which is extremely cdi- 
ous and cannot be fully appreciated by 
one who has not come into personal con- 
tact with that class, whose only god is 
beer and whose church is the lager-beer 
saloon. Zur Holle is the appropriate 
motto we have seen over one of these 
dens in New York. When thoroughly 
imbued with the Catholic spirit, the Ger- 
man people are admirable. The won- 
derful work of Christian civilization 
wrought out among them in past ages is 
known to all readers of true history. Dr. 
Salzmann, and others like him, are wor- 
thy successors of the apostolic men whose 
names are recorded in the history of the 
church. They are the men who carry 
on the true Cultur-Kampf in the vast 
realms of our Western territory. Their 
acts are worthy to be classed with those 
so charmingly related in Thi Monks 
of the West and Chnstian Schools and 
Scholars, A keen Western speculator 
said that " a bishop was worth as much 
as a railroad to a Western town." 
All that is wanted to repeat in the im- 
mense regions of our new States and 
Territories the creation and development 
of great civilized and Christian comma- 



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nities is the virile force, the manhood, of 
those early times. Land and material 
resources exist in prodigal abundance. 
It is men ihat arc wanted — masses of 
people with strength and spirit to aban- 
don our crowded cities and old States 
and colonize new domains, and men 
with the ability and virtue of leaders, 
guides, founders, instructors, legislators, 
rulers, and benefactors. We trust that 
the modest recital of the life of one gen- 
erous young priest who left his charming 
Austrian home to engage in this work 
may find its way among the educated 
young men and young ecclesiastics of 
Germany. There is work here for some 
among the hundreds of such young men, 
full of vigorous health, full of intellec- 
tual vigor, full of sound learning, who are 
at a loss to find a sufficient sphere for 
their activity in their own country. 

The greatest and noblest project of Dr. 
Salzmann was one which he could not 
even begin to carry into execution — that 
of founding a university, a new Fulda, 
for the Germans of America. We do 
not think that such an institution could 
or should remain permanently an exclu- 
sively German university. We desire, 
nevertheless, to see this grand idea car- 
ried out, as a special work of our Catho- 
lics of German origin and language, un- 
der the direction of a cot^s of learned 
German ptofessors, and with special ref- 
erence to the education of youth who 
are of the same descent or who wish to 
study the language and literature of Ger- 
many. Time and the course of nature 
will eventually blend all our heteroge- 
neous elements together, but we do not 
believe in violent efforts to hurry on the 
process. All that we can borrow from 
any European language or literature, 
all the recruits we can gain from the 
nurseries of scholars or population in the 
Old World, is so much added to our in- 
tellectual, social, and political strength 
and breadth. Of course the English lan- 
guage and literature, American history 
and institutions, ought to be assiduously 
studied by the learned foreigners who 
are domesticated among us, and taught 
to their pupils of a different mother- 
tongue. This may be done without ab- 
dicating the advantage which they pos- 
sess, and which others must acquire at 
the cost of great labor, by being born 
heirs to the inheritance of their own im- 
mediate ancestors. 

The great practical question of the 



moment is that of Catholic education. 
The advocates of compulsory secular 
education are the enemies of religion, ol 
their country, and of true culture. Tlic 
seminaries, colleges, and schools where 
Catholic priests, youths, and children Ti.c 
trained in sound religious knowied;ji.\ 
morality, and science are the fortresses 
and the centres of real civilizalior.. 
Whoever does a great work in ihc -» 
cause of Catholic education is a bene- 
factor to the church and the country. 
Such a noble and meritorious man was 
Dr. Salzmann, a priest powerful in word 
and work, a model for the young eccle- 
siastics of the Salesianum to imitate, an 
encouraging example for all who arc 
laboring to found and perfect similar in- 
stitutions. The diocese of Milwaukee 
was a poor and feeble little bishopric 
when the venerable Dr. Henni was con- 
secrated in 1844. Now it is a metropoli- 
tan see, with above 190,000 Catholics in 
its diocesan limits, above 180 priests, 
several flourishing institutions for the 
higher education of both sexes, and 
schools in almost every parish. The 
Salesianum, where the first rector. Dr. 
Heiss, was professor of Greek, mathe- 
matics, physics, philosophy, and moral 
theology, numbers thirteen professors 
and two hundred and fifty students. 
Surely, the prayers and labors of a good 
bishop, seconded by those of able and 
zealous priests, can work wonders now 
as well as in the best ages of the past. 
Indeed, works which a St. Francis of 
Sales was unable to accomplish are now 
successfully performed within a short 
time and with comparatively little diffi- 
culty. Assuredly, we cannot fail to rec- 
ognize a special benediction of God upon 
the church of the United States. 

The Consolation of the Devout Soul. 
By the Very Rev. Joseph Frassinetti, 
Prior of Santa Sabina, in Genoa. Trans- 
lated by Georgiana Lady Chatterton. 
London : Burns & Oatcs. 1876. (For 
sale by The Catholic Publication So- 
ciety.) 

The worth of a book ought to be esti- 
mated chiefly from its intrinsic merits, 
yet, even without being acquainted with 
these, we may often obtain afairideaof its 
character by knowing something about 
tiie author. 

Father Frassinetti w.is an extraordi- 
nary man. lie was born in the city of 
Genoa on Dec. 15, 1803, and died there 



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on the 3d of January, 1868. Thirty- nine 
years of his life were spent in the priest- 
hood, with an unsullied reputation for 
piety and zeal, and a wide-spread fame 
as a preacher, director of consciences, 
and writer on spiritual matters. A uni- 
form edition of his works, which are all in 
Italian, was published shortly before his 
death in ten volumes, and dedicated to 
the late Cardinal Patrizi, Vicar of Rome. 

The first volume of his collected works 
contains // conforto delV Anima Divota, 
of which we have the excellent transla- 
tion before us. Its author was not only 
a remarkably learned man, but also a 
singularly pious man— one whom our 
Holy Father Pope Pius IX. called, in a 
certain brief, a priest spectaUc doctritue 
et rdrtutis — and distinguished by the 
rare faculty of being able to communi- 
cate his knowledge to others, and of 
knowing how to lead others on to per- 
sonal holiness. Nearly forty years of his 
life were passed in teaching his fellow- 
men by word and example how to love, 
serve, and honor God and save their 
souls. That such a one should have 
written this little book on The Consolation 
of the Devout Soul is a sufficient guaran- 
tee of its usefulness and doctrine. The 
work is divided into five chapters and 
an appendix, in which the author suc- 
cessively defines what is meant by Chris- 
tian perfection, shows that it is not a 
thing too difficult to be acquired, solves 
certain objections against facility of sane- 
tification, explains the beauty and utility 
of Christian perfection, points out the 
means of arriving at this much-desired 
end, and concludes with a short treatise 
on the holy fear of God. Several notes 
are added. 

This translation bears the imprimatur 
of the devout and learned Bishop of 
Birmingham. We earnestly recommend 
it to the members of religious orders, 
and to people who serve God in the 
world. 

The Code Poetical Reader, for school 
and home use. With marginal notes, 
and biographical notices of authors. 
By a Teacher. London : Bums & 
Oates. 1877. (For sale by The Cath- 
olic Publication Society.) 
This Reader is made up of eighty 
short poems from British and American 
authors. Each selection is accompanied 
by marginal notes and is headed by a 
short biographical notice. The plan is 



excellent, the publishers' work is well 
done, but the biographical notices are so 
brief as to be of little value, and the mar- 
ginal notes are nothing more than com- 
monplace definitions of difficult words. 
Perhaps it is hardly just to call the 
words referred to difficult, since the ma- 
jority of the poems are as simple in dic- 
tion as Lord Ullin*s Daughter. The 
fault may be attributed partly to the 
marginal-note plan, since an absence of 
notes would leave an unsightly page. 
Still, this is no excuse for careless defi- 
nitions : unff tended is a poor substitute 
for forlorn; California is not a moun- 
tainous country of North America on the 
Pacific coast; Indian is a name given to 
the aboriginal inhabitants of America, 
not to the a/irtVn/ inhabitants y/^//////t>M 
does not mean to corrupt ; concealing 
can hardly mean at once hiding and to keep 
secret. In the lines from The Village 
Blacksmith^ 

** Each morning sees some usk begun, 
Each evening sees its close,'* 

the word close is defined yf»«V//^//. These 
are a few inaccuracies out of many. 
The selections comprise some of the 
most exquisite short poems in the lan- 
guage, there being few extracts and but 
one translation. Were it not for the ab- 
sence of selections from Catholic sour- 
ces, this would be a desirable class- 
book. Why Adelaide Procter, Aubrey 
de Vere, Gerald Griffin, Davis, McGec, 
are excluded, and Bret Harte honored 
in two places, is a mystery. Nor do 
other poets fare better. Caswall is not 
mentioned ; in truth, there is not one 
poem from a Catholic author. Catholics 
are not the only persons who suflferfrom 
the editor's discrimination. Tennyson 
is excluded, while Rev. Charles Kings 
ley contributes two pieces. Six selec- 
tions come from Longfellow. These 
facts show that it was not for want of 
space that Catholic poems find no room 
in a text-book published by a Catholic 
firm. Nor was it merit alone that 
prompted the editor in his selection. 
The book seems to have been prepared 
for schools in which neither the name 
nor the sentiment of a Catholic writer 
might enter. The system that excludes 
the grace and purity of Adelaide Proc- 
ter, the sweetness and vigor of De Vere, 
and the perfect rhythm of Tennyson will 
bring forth bitter fruit, and those who 
assist the projectors in their plans may 



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expect to reap the usual harvest of in- 
gratitude, together with the unpleasant 
memory of having closed their eyes to 
Ihc merits of Catholic poets because of 
ihe hostiliiy of some so-called non secta- 
rian school-board. 

SuMMA SuMMiE. Pars Prima — De Deo. 
Confecit ac edidit T. J. O'Mahony, 
S.T.D., Philos. in CoUegio OO.SS., 
Dublinii, Professor. Dublinii : apud 
M. H. Gill et Fil. ; Lond. : Bums et 
Oates ; Paris : J. Lecoffre et Soc. 1877. 
This summary of the Sumtna TheolcgU 
ca of St. Thomas is chiefly intended as 
.in aid to ecclesiastical students in the 
study of the great work of the Angelic 
Doctor. The first part only is yet pub- 
lished. Dr. O'Mahony, of All-Hallow's 
College, its author, with great skill and 
painstaking, has endeavored to make 
the order and arrangement of topics and 
divisions in ihe Stimma more intelligible 
by means of a convenient type-arrange- 
ment and distinctive headings, and to 
facilitate the understanding of the text 
by an analytical abstract which contains 
many literal quotations, followed by a 
synthetic synopsis of subjects. The work 
seems to have been done intelligently 
and well, and its utility is obvious to 
every student who has attempted to read 
even one page of the Summa, It is 
neatly printed, and we trust may soon 
be completed. 

Why are we Roman Catholics ? Be- 
cause WE ARE Reasonable Men. By 
Hermann Joseph Graf Fugger G16tt, 
Priest of the Society of Jesus. From 
the German. London : Burns & Oates. 
1877. (For sale by The Catholic Publi- 
cation Society.) 

A clear, solid, and short exposition 
of the Catholic faith, in view of actual 
objections against its reasonableness. It 
would be well if there were more works 
of this kind. The rational side of re- 
vealed truth needs a various develop- 
ment to meet the many intellectual de- 
mands of our age. Besides, there are 
many sincere persons in Protestant com- 
munities who are disposed to be Chris- 
tians, but arc in suspense because of the 
inconsistency of Protestantism with rea- 
son. These need only the obstacles 
to faith to be removed for them to be- 



come Catholics. For such this short 
treatise will be of special service. It 
should be also read by Catholics, as 
they ought to be prepared when asked 
to know how ** to give a reason for the 
hope that is in them." The author shows 
a familiar knowledge of the anti-Chris- 
tian writers of our day, is free from all 
bitterness, and we hope to hear from his 
pen in this field again. The transla- 
tion reads as if written in English. 

Carte Ecclesiastique des Etats- 
Unis de l'Amerique. Lyons. 1877. 

A few copies of this chart have been 
sent to this country, and we have received 
one through the courtesy of Father Per- 
ron, of Woodstock College. It is a hand- 
some, well-exec J ted, and, so far as we 
havo discovered, correct map of the pro- 
vinces and bishoprics of the United 
States. Such a map is convenient and 
valuable. We think it would be im- 
proved by making each of the provinces 
of one distinct color, and marking the 
dioceses by broad colored lines, and the 
States by similar black lines. The 
titles of the provinces and dioceses 
might also be printed in large letters, 
and the sees receive more conspicuous 
signs. The chart is published by the So- 
ciety of Catholic Missions, 6 Rue d*Au- 
vergne, k Lyon. Directeur, M. TAbbe 
Stanislas Laverri^re. All the profits arc 
given to the missions. We suggest to 
our Catholic publishers to send for 
copies and keep them on hand for sale. 

Heroic Women of the Bible and the 
Church. By the Rev. Bernard O'Reil- 
ly, D.D. With art illustrations. New 
York : J. B. Ford & Co. 1877. 
We can do no more now than call the 
attention of our readers to this most 
beautiful work — beautiful in every sense 
— of which we have received advance 
sheets. The author's name needs no in- 
troduction to Catholic readers. We re- 
serve for a future date a fuller aotice of 
a well-conceived and admirably executed 
work, one too of great practical utility. 
Father 0'Reilly*s statement in the pre- 
face, that **the publishers have spared 
neither labor nor expense to make this 
book most beautiful in form," is obvi- 
ously true at the first glance. 



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Cassocks A Other Clerical Clothing 

From Patterns and Colors which have the approval of the Bishops and Clergy of the Church. 

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AND PAN-HANDLE ROUTE. 

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ST. LOUIS, CHICAGO, AND ALL PARTS OF THE 

West, Northwest, and Southwest. 

Through Tickets for sale hi New York at No. 526 Broadway; No. 485 Broadwmj ; 
N>. 271 Broadway ; No. 1 Astor House ; No. 8 Battery Place ; Depot, foot of Cortlandt 
S reet ; Depot, foot of Desbrosses Street. Ticket Offices in Principal Hotels. 

A. J. CASSATT, SAMUEL CARPENTER, D. M. BOYD, Jr., 

Qen. Manager. Gen. Eastern Pass. Agent. Qen. Pass. Agent. 

Baltimore and Ohio Railroad. 

I^eave New York from foot of Desbrosses and Cortlandt Streets. 

8.85 A. v., for Washinjjion and the Wrpt. Pullman parlor cars from New York to Biltimore and 
Wanliinirton. Pullman fleeperj* and day caret from Baltimore to Pltf^burph, Chicago, Cincinnati, 
[yiuiisviile, etc. Thin train in&kea close cuuneciious for Colarabua, Indianapolis, and New 
Orleanc. 

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mac boat at oh»?pherd at 4.15 p.m. for Richmond, arriving at ilichraond at H.18 p.m. 

2.55 P.M., for Wa^bii.irron and the *on h, S.Hvannhh. Finrida, and New Orlt-ann. Tbron<rh cars from 
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ton, aiid Irom Briltinion- t(» Cmcinnjiti, Sr. LcuiB, etc , ni:ikiri},' c lose rcinnt-c Icuif* for I.onifvilU', 
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New Orleans. 
For th'ou;;h ticket*, ploipe call at Comp-uiy'^ offlcrB, .'J!.") and 1.23S Br-indway, New York, and tt 

ticket oflicei foot of Cortlandt and Dcsbroaf*ei* Strcetj', and depot, Jersey Lily. 

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THE CATHOLIC WORLD, 

A MONTHLY MAGA;?:iNE OF 

GENERAL LITERATURE AND SCIENCE. 




[he catholic world contains original articles from the best 
Catholic English writers at home and abroad, as well as transla- 
tions from the reviews and magazines of France, Germany, Bel- 
gium, Italy, and Spain. Its readers are thus put in possession of the 
choicest productions of European periodical literature in a cheap and con- 
venient form. 

Extract from Letter of Pope Plus IX. to F. Heeker. 

Rome, Dec. 30, x8<f«. 
Wc liearlily congratulate you upon the esteem which your periodical, " The Catholic World," has, 
through its erudition and perspicuity, acquired even among those who differ from us, etc. 

Letter fro'm His Eminence Cardinai McCiosliey 

Dear Father Hbcker : New York, Mafch 9, 1876. 

Eleven years ago I expressed to you my approval of the design of *' The Catholic World" and my 
expectation of its success as an exponent of CatnoHc truth. It gives me great pleasure to assure you. on the 
completion of its twenty -second volume, of the satisfaction I have felt at the manner in which it has fulfilled 
its original design. The Holy Father has frequently and strongly stated the nted of an intelligent and con- 
sciciutous press, and earnestly encouraged those whose efibrts have been directed to advance by this means 
the spread of religion and morality. 

At no time has an able and sound exponent of Catholic principles and opinion been more needed than 
at the present ; for at no period, perhaps, have important questions touching Catholic interests occupied so 
large a share in the public mi d of cur country'. A careful observance of the course of "The Catholic 
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renew and confirm Ine words of approval which 1 addressed to you at the beginning of your enterprise. 

" Thk Catholic World" h-is not only drawn around it a larg« number of alreadv distinguished and 
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may be justly proud, and trust that they will contribute their share to make '*The Catholic World 
still more useful to themselves and to the Church at large. 

I remain, dear Father Meeker, vcr>' sincerely, your servant in Christ, 

4. JOHN, CARDINAL McCLOSKEY, Archbishop 0/ New York, 

Copy of Letter from Cardinai Barnabo. 

Rev. Father: Rome, September 3, 1865. 

I have heartl of the publication of '* The Catholic World " with great satisfaction. 1 anticipate fcr 
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ALEXANDER, CARDINAL BARNABO, 

Fre/ect o/the Propu^anda. 
Rev. I. T. Hecker, Superior o/the Congreg^aiion 0/ St. Pauly New York» 



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THE 



CATHOLIC WORLD. 



VOL. XXV., No. I47-— JUNE, 1877- 



THE PAPAL JUBILEE. 

SONNETS BY AUBREY DE VERB. 

I. 
THE GREAT PILGRIMAGE. 



What beam is that, guiding once more from far 

Earth's Elders Rome-ward over sea and land ? 

What Sanctity, serene as Bethlehem's star, 

From East and West leads on each pilgrim band ? 

God s light it is — on an unsceptred Hand ! 

God's promise, shining without let or bar, 

O'er sleeping realms that yet may wake in war, 

Forth from that Brow Discrowned whose high command 

Freshens in splendor with the advancing night 

Missioned to blot all godless crowns with gloom : — 

Like fruits untimely from a tree in blight 

Such crowns sliall fall. Even now they know their doom ! 

Advance, pure hearts ! Your instinct guides you right * 

The Bethlehem Crib, this day, is by Saint Peter's tomb. 

Copyright : Rer. I. T. HsCKsa. 1877. 



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290 The Papal Jubilee. 

11. 

THE JERUSALEM OF THE NEW LAW. 

•* The Tribes ascend." Ten centuries and nine 

Have well-nigh passed since first the earth's green breast 

Confessed, deep-graved, those feet that Christ confessed,— 

Those feet which, then when earth was Palestine, 

Circled her Salem new. Mankind was thine, 

O Rome, that time. All nations sent their best 

To waft thee offerings, and their faith attest : — 

They love thee most who love thee in decline. 

The noble seek thy courts. What gibbering crew 

Snarls at their heels? The brood that fears and hates;— 

Prescient Defeat in bonds, that jeers the brave : 

Ascend, true hearts ! Such tribute is your due ! 

In Rome's old triumphs thus the car-bound slave 

Scoffed, as he passed, of Fortune's spite, and Fate's.* 

III. 

THE CONFESSOR PONTIFF. 

Full fifty years are past since first that weight 
Descended on his head which made more strong 
His heart, his hands more swift to war with wrong— 
His martyred Master's dread Episcopate : 
Full thirty years beside the Apostles' Gate 
He reigned, and reigns : he roamed, an exile, long; 
Restored, he faced once more the apostate throng, 
Unbowed in woes, in greatness unelate. • 
New Hierarchies he sped to realms remote : 
Central, by Peter's Tomb he raised his hands 
Blessing his thousand bishops from all lands ; 
Confirmed iheir great decree. False kings he smote :— 
How long, just God, shall Treason's banner float 
O'er faith's chief shrine profaned by rebel bands } 

* In the Roman triumphs a captive slave was bound to the car of the conqiicror, into whose ear bis 
office was to whisper of fortune's intta hiUty. 



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P<^€ Pius the Ninth. 



291 



POPE PIUS THE NINTH .♦ 



The whole Catholic world pre- 
pares to celebrate on the 3d of 
June of this year the fiftieth anni* 
versary of an episcopate which has 
no parallel in the history of the 
church. Our Holy Father Pius 
IX. has surpassed most of his pre- 
decessors in the importance of his 
labors, and has far exceeded tliem 
ail in the length of his pontificate. 
He was young when he reached the 
dignity of bishop, but Leo XII., to 
whom he owed his promotion, had 
already discerned the beauty of 
his character. Sinigaglia, where he 
was born, on the 13th of May, £792 ; 
Volterra, where he passed six years 
at college ; Rome, where he studied 
theology, abound with stories of the 
sweet and sunny disposition, the 
fervent piety, and the burning zeal 
which illustrated even his tenderest 
years. He was six years of age 
when the venerable Pius VI. was 
dragged away into captivity, and 
the biographers of Pius IX. speak 
of the excitement which stirred his 
boyish heart, and the prayers which 
he poured out night and morning at 
his mother's knee for the outraged 
church. His earliest recollections 
of the Papacy were a fit preparation 
for what he was to undergo in after- 
life. The Holy Father appear- 
ed to his young eyes, not as the 
crowned pontiff, but as the suffer-- 
ing and heroic confessor. He saw 
Pius VII. following Pius VI. into 

• Pie IX.: ta riV, ton Hisloin^ sen Siicli, Par 
J.M.VOkfnuich« Lyons. 1876. 

R^me : its RuUr and its Institutictu. By John 
Fraocts Maguire, M.P. New York. 1858. 

JUUy in 1848. Ky U MaoottL Londoa. tSsx. 

Tk€ Secret Societies 0/ the European Revotm- 
tUm^ S776>i876. By Thomas Frost, a vob. 8vo. 
i8?A 



banishment. He saw the last inch 
of territory taken from the Holy 
See. One of his uncles, a can en 
of St. Peter's, was driven from Rome 
on account of his fidelity to the 
pope ; and another uncle, who was 
Bishop of Pesaro, was thrown into 
prison for the same cause. He had 
finished his course at college and 
was living at home when Pius VII. 
returned from exile, and he was 
presented to the pontiff as he pass- 
ed through Sinigaglia on the road 
to Rome. The Mastai family were 
distantly related to Pius VII., and 
the pope took an interest in his 
kinsman. But there was an obsta- 
cle which seemed likely to defeat 
the young Mastai's desire to enter 
holy orders. He was subject to fits 
of epilepsy. The physicians gave 
him no hope of a cure. About the' 
time of the pope's return, however, 
the violence of the disorder began to 
abate, and his health was soon so far 
restored that he was encouraged to 
continue his studies for the church. 
He always ascribed his relief to the 
protection of the Blessed Virgin. 
In 1 8 19 he was ordained priest by 
special dispensation, and appointed 
to the humble duty of serving the 
asylum for poor childrea establish* 
ed in the Via Giulia in Rome by a 
pious mason named Giovanni Borgi. 
It was called the Asylum Tata Gio- 
vanni, because " Tata Giovanni " — or 
Papa John — was the name which the 
lads used to give their protector. 
The Abbate Mastai had been a 
good friend and helper of Papa 
John, and was glad of the privilege 
of continuing his work now that the 
benevolent old man had gone td« 



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Pope Pius the Ninth. 



his reward. He occupied a little 
chamber in the asylum. He ate afe> 
the table with the boys. He spent 
all his income in their service. He 
kept Iiis regard for them long after 
they had grown up, and even as 
Pope he remembered the names of 
his pupils and followed their for- 
tunes with a tender interest. It 
has often been said that Pius IX. 
never forgot anybody. 

The first employment which 
brought him into public notice was 
a mi.<;sion to the New World. Some 
of the clergy of the South Ameri- 
can states had petitioned the Holy 
See to fill their long-vacant bish- 
oprics. Many years had passed 
since the close of their war of 
independence with Spain, but the 
mother-country still asserted the 
authority which she no longer at- 
tempted to enforce, and claimed 
the right of presentation to sees 
^ng withdrawn from her jurisdic- 
tion. The church in South Ameri- 
ca remained, consequently, in la- 
mentable confusion until the Sover- 
eign Pontiff resolved to re-establish 
order by the exercise of his prero- 
gative, without government inter- 
ference from either side; and the 
embassy of which we speak was 
despatched in consequence. Mon- 
signore Muzi, with the title of vicar- 
apostolic, was at the head of it, and 
the Abbate Mastai was appointed 
adjunct.* Before the expedition 
sailed Pope Pius VII. died, but 
Leo XII. confirmed the selections 
made by his predecessor ; and, in- 
deed, the choice of the Abbate 
Mastai had been made originally 
by his advice. On the voyage the 
ship was driven by stress of weath- 
er into the Spanish port of Palma, 
in the island of Majorca. The gov- 
ernor threw the embassy into prison 

* For a full account of thb miidon see Thb Ca- 
VMOLic Would for Jaatiaxy, tiyt. 



and kept them for some days in se- 
clusion, on the ground that the 
country to which they were bound 
was in rebellion against the Spanish 
crown. " Then," said the Pope, in 
telling this cdventure nearly half 
a century afterward, " I realized 
the necessity of the papal indepen- 
dence. They sent me a ration of 
food every day from the ship, but 
I was allowed neither letters nor 
papers. I was initiated on this oc- 
casion, however, into the little strat- 
agems of solitary prisoners ; for we 
hid our correspondence in loaves 
of bread." The embassy got away 
at last and spent two years of fa- 
tigue and danger in South America, 
visiting the missions of Chili, Peru, 
and Colombia, traversing the awful 
passes of the Cordilleras, and cross- 
ing the continent in bullock-carts — 
a journey which took them nearly 
two months. Once, in going by sea 
from Valparaiso to Callao, their 
vessel, caught near the coast in a 
gale, was driving upon the rocks 
when a fisherman put off in his 
boat, boarded them in the midst 
of the storm, and brought them 
through intricate passages into the 
harbor of Arica. The next day 
the Abbate Mastai visited the hut 
of this daring pilot, and left with 
him a purse containing about four 
hundred dollars. After becoming 
Pope he sent the man a second 
purse of equal value and his picture. 
The fisherman was overwhelmed 
with gratitude. The first four 
hundred dollars had proved the 
making of his fortune. He gave 
the second to the poor, and placed 
the picture of the Pope in a little 
chapel which he had built on a 
spot overlooking the sea. 

The embassy returned to Rome 
in 1825, and the Abbate Mastai 
was appointed canon of Santa Ma- 
ria in Via Lata, a little church on 



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Pope Pius ike Ninth. 



293 



the CorsOy with an oratory in which 
pious tradition relates that St. Paul 
and St. Luke used to teach the 
faith to the first Christians of Rome. 
He was also promoted to the pre- 
lacy and placed at the head of the 
great Hospital of St. Michael. " The 
Hospital of St. Michael/' says one of 
the latest of the biographers of Pius 
IX., '* is a city in itself, and its ad- 
ministration is a real government." 
Founded two centuries ago by In- 
nocent X., it grew, by the additions 
of later pontiffs,- to be one of the 
greatest and grandest asylums in 
existence — a house of refuge for the 
young, a retreat for the aged and 
infirm, a hospital for the sick, a re- 
formatory for Magdalens, a home 
for virtuous girls, and, besides all 
that, a school of arts and industries. 
When Monsignore Mastai assum- 
ed the presidency of this vast and 
complicated institution, every de- 
partment of it was in a deplorable 
state of disorganization. Nearly 
all the earnings of the boys and 
girls in tlie industrial schools went 
towards the support of the estab« 
lishment, and yet there was an 
enormous deficit in the revenues. 
Bankruptcy seemed at hand. The 
new president took up his task with 
magnificent ardor and equally mag- 
nificent discretion^ with the enthu- 
siasm of a reformer and the practi- 
cal sagacity of a man of business. 
In two years the disorder was at an 
end. The expenses of the institu- 
tion were brought within its in- 
come, yet its charity was enlarged 
rather than restricted, and a large 
share of the earnings of the boys 
was paid into a savings* fund, to be 
returned to them when they went 
out into the world. Monsignore 
Mastai had obtained this remarka- 
ble result in part by his talent for 
business; but not wholly by that, 
for when the work was done hit 



own patrimony had disappeared. 
" Of what use is money to a priest," 
said he, *' except to be spent in the 
cause of charity ?'* So it happened 
that when Leo XIL called liim to 
the archbishopric of Spoleto in 1837 
he had not money enough to pay 
for his bulls. The last acre of his 
estate was sold for the customary 
fees, and he entered Spoleto as 
penniless as the apostle whom our 
Lord commanded to take the tax- 
money from the mouth of a fish. 

The first years of his episcopate 
were passed as any one who had 
watched the labors of his priest- 
hood might have predicted that 
they would be. He was rarely 
seen by the courtiers of the papal 
palace, but his people knew him as 
the friend and father of the poor, 
and loved him for a tenderness 
and generosity almost without 
bounds. He filled his diocese 
with good works, founding semi- 
naries and asylums, introducing 
charitable orders, always setting a 
practical example of beneficence by 
attending personally to the wants 
of* the unfortunate. He spent in 
alms the last copper in his purse, 
and sold the ornaments from his 
parlor for the poor when his purse 
was empty. It was the golden time 
of his life — a time of peace and con- 
solation. The church in Italy just 
then was at rest. A long period of 
political disturbance had been fol- 
lowed by comparative quiet. Con- 
vents and pious schools were mul- 
tiplied, and the saintly Archbishop 
of Spoleto found himself in the 
midst of a devout clergy and a 
grateful people. There was a short 
outbreak in the Romagna in 1S31, 
premature and easily suppressed, 
and it was then that the archbishop 
was brought for the first time into 
contact with the spirit of revolution 
destined to make such a bitter and 



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Pope Pius ike Ninih. 



memorable war upon him in later 
years. Among the adventurers 
implicated in the movement were 
two scions of the Bonaparte family. 
The elder brother died during the 
enterprise ; the younger lived to be- 
come emperor. There is a story 
that when Louis Napoleon fled 
from the ruin of the revolt in the 
Romagna, he knocked one night at 
the door of the Archbisliop of 
Spoleto, and owed his safety to the 
charity of that most charitable of 
men. It is a story which rests up- 
on no very firm authority, and yet, 
tliough often published, it stands 
uncontradicted. It is certain, how- 
ever, that in the last days of the 
insurrection the archbishop did 
show his tenderness for the unfor- 
tunate in a signal manner. Four 
thousand revolutionists, pursued by 
Austrian troops, presented them- 
selves before Spoleto. The arch- 
bishop went out to meet them. 
Me persuaded them, since their 
cause was lost, to lay down their 
arms. He gave them several thou- 
sand crowns for their immediate 
needs. He pledged iiis word that 
they should not be molested. 
Then he performed the still move 
difficult task of inducing the Aus- 
trian commander to ratify the pro- 
mise. The pursuit was abandon- 
ed ; the insurgents retired quietly 
to their homes. Pope Gregory 
XVI., however, was not pleased with 
this transaction, and the archbishop 
was called to Rome to defend him- 
self. We must presume that his 
explanation was satisfactory; for 
the next year he was advanced to 
the see of Imola. This is only a 
suffragan see, but it is more impor- 
tant in itself than the archbishopric 
of Spoleto, and is, moreover, what is 
called a cardinalitial post — under 
ordinary circumstances a step to- 
wards the higher dignity of the 



scarlet hat. It was held by Pius 
VII. when he was Cardinal Chiara- 
monti. The promotion of Bishop 
Mastai came in due course. His 
creation as cardinal was announc- 
ed in December, 1840, having been 
reserved in petto since the previous 
year, and he took his title from the 
church of SS. Peter and Marcelli- 
nus. With his new dignity he 
adopted no new mode of life. 
Works of charity and devotion 
still filled his days. The love and 
respect of all classes of men still 
encompassed him. It is the best 
proof of the tranquil and happy 
course of his episcopate that of the 
nineteen years which he passed at 
Spoleto and Imola there is hardly 
an incident to be related. 

His whole life thus far seems to 
have been a providential prepara- 
tion for the two great works for 
which he was destined by Al- 
mighty God. On the spiritual side 
of the church he was to bring 
about the consolidation of Catho- 
lic dogma and the complete defini- 
tion and development oi the au- 
thority of the church over the 
minds and hearts of her children. 
On the secular side, after showing 
the perfect compatibility o\ the 
temporal power with the needs of 
modern society^ he was to guide 
the church with fortitude and pru- 
dence, and give the Christian world 
a shining example of constancy dur- 
ing the trying days that were to see 
that power destroyed. Wiiat better 
training could he have had for this 
double destiny than so many years 
of charitable labor and close inter- 
course with God? He issued at 
last from his pious retirement with 
a character enriched by the daily 
practice of virtue, a disposition 
sweetened by the habit of self-sac- 
rifice, a resolution strengthened by 
reliance upon God, and a heavenly 



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Pope Pius the NitUk. 



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courage that was proof against the 
threats and buffets of the world. 



We have spoken of the brief sea- 
son of repose in Italian politics 
about the time of our Holy Fa- 
ther's elevation to the episcopate. 
It was, indeed, only a transient 
gleam of sunlight in the midst of 
a tempestuous era. We come now 
to a period of universal disturb- 
ance. This is not the place to dis* 
cuss the causes of the great revul- 
sions of i?48. Probably they were 
more complex and reached further 
back than the world generally sup* 
poses. But whatever may have 
been the local provocations for re- 
volt in particular states, it is clear 
that, for more than a quarter of a 
century before the date with which 
we are now occupied, the revolu- 
tionary tendencies of all Europe 
had shown a unity of direction 
which implied a single guiding im- 
pulse. It is not credible that a 
few clubs of political enthusiasts, 
visionary young students, hare- 
brained apothecaries, and meta- 
physical breeches-makers should 
be able by the fire of their own 
genius to set a continent in flames. 
The revolutionary propaganda of 
1 830- 1848 found in every country 
of Europe a combustible popula- 
tion only waiting for the spark. 
Some states were rotten with so- 
cial and moral disorders of long 
standing ; some, like Poland, were 
writhing under an oppression which 
moved the sympathies of the whole 
world ; some fretted under the re- 
strictions of antiquated forms of 
government, unsuited to the wants 
of an expanding society. Thus 
the generous and patriotic were 
easily hurried into enterprises 
whose true purpose they were far 



from suspecting. The central in- 
fluence which vitalized and direct- 
ed all the scattered tendencies to- 
wards revolt was the conspiracy of 
the secret societies. "In the at- 
tempt to conduct the government 
of the world," said the British 
prime minister last autumn, in his 
address at Aylesbury, "there are 
new elements to be considered 
which our predecessors had not to 
deal with. We have not only to 
deal with emperors, princes, and 
ministers, but there are tlie secret 
societies — an element which we 
must take into consideration, which 
at the last moment may bafHe all 
our arrangements, whicli have their 
agents everywhere, which counte- 
nance assassination, and which, if 
necessary, could produce a mas- 
sacre." Lord Beaconsfield*s state- 
ment was a very mild one. The 
secret societies had become, at the 
time of which we write, the most 
formidable force in European po- 
litics. There was not a corner 
of the Continent in which their 
power was not felt. Intimately al- 
lied with Freemasonry, their origin 
dates back to a remote, unknown 
time. They were afready strong in 
the eighteenth century, and their 
share in the great French Revolu- 
tion is well understood. They be- 
came formidable in the I II urn in ism 
of Weishaupt in Germany a hun- 
dred years ago. They appeared 
in the Tugendbund, which had so 
large a share in the overthrow 
of the governments imposed upon 
the German states by Napoleon 
I. They were busy in Russia, in 
Greece, in Ireland, in Spain, and 
even in the Swiss Republic ; in 
Italy they have never been idle 
since the first appearance of the 
Carbonari at the beginning of the 
century; in France they are the 
only power which seems to be per- 



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Pope Pius the Ninth. 



manent. As early as 1821 the Ital- 
ian revolutionist, Pepe, gave Car- 
bonarism an international character 
by establishing in Spain a secret as- 
sociation of the "advanced polit- 
ical reformers of all the European 
states " ; and in 1834 Mazzini made 
a much more effective union of the 
revolutionary elements when, with 
the aid of Italian, Polish, and Ger- 
man refugees, he founded at Berne 
the society of Young Europe. The 
organization of Young Germany, 
Young Poland, and Young Switzer- 
land dates from the same time and 
place, and Switzerland became the 
centre of all the agitations of the 
Continent. Young Italy had been 
grafted upon Carbonarisra by Maz- 
zini as early as 1831. 

Many of these associations, as 
we have already . intimated, pro- 
fessed an excellent object. They 
would have been comparatively 
harmless, if they had not attracted 
and deceived the good. The Tu- 
gendbund, for instance, originally 
aimed at the deliverance of Ger- 
many from a foreign yoke; Young 
Poland captivated the noble and 
the ardent; even the Carbonari had 
an alluring watchword in the Unity 
and Independence of Italy. But 
there was always an ulterior pur- 
pose, revealed only to the initiated. 
That purpose was one and un- 
changing, and it was the bond which 
united all the leaders of the vast 
conspiracy from the Irish Sea to 
the Grecian Archipelago, from Gib- 
raltar to Nova Zembla. It was the 
establishment everywhere of an 
atheistic democracy ; or rather the 
destruction simultaneously of all 
religion, 51II government, and all 
social bonds. Kings and priests 
were equally hateful to the " Illu- 
minated." There was to be no 
recognition of God in their repub- 
lic. It was hostile not only to the 



Catholic Churcn as an organization, 
but to Christianity as a moral influ- 
ence. The Illuminati were found- 
ed in the midst of the Masonic 
lodges of Bavaria; they passed 
thefjce into Austria, Saxony, Hol- 
land, Italy, and Switzerland; they 
were carried to Paris by Mirabeau, 
who was initiated in Germany; 
they were united with the Free- 
masons all over France. Recog- 
nized as the parents of the later 
societies, they sounded as early as 
1777 the key-note of the whole 
complex movement. Findel, the 
Masonic historian of Freemasonry, 
declares that " the most decisive 
agent " in giving the order a po- 
litical and anti-religious character 
was " that intellectual movement 
known under the name of English 
deism, which boldly rejected all 
revelation and all religious dogmas, 
and under the victorious banner 
of reason and criticism broke down 
all barriers in its path." But Weis- 
haupt found still too much " poli- 
tical and religious prejudice " re- 
maining in the Freemasons, and 
consequently devised a system 
which, as he expressed it, would 
"attract Christians of every com- 
munion and gradually free them 
from all religious prejudices." The 
"illumination " of the brethren was 
to be accomplished by a course of 
gradual education in which Chris- 
tianity was carefully ignored. It 
was only in the higher degrees that 
the initiated were taught that the 
fall of man meant nothing but the 
subjection of the individual to 
civil society; that '* illumination " 
consisted in getting rid of all gov- 
ernments ; and that " the secret as- 
sociations were gradually and si- 
lently to possess themselves of the 
government of the states, making 
use for this purpose of the means 
which the wicked use for attaining 



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their base ends/' We quote this 
from the discourse read at initiation 
into one of the higher degrees, and 
discovered when the papers of the 
fraternity were seized by the Elec- 
tor of Bavaria in 1785. The same 
document continues : ** Princes and 
priests are in particular the wicked 
whose hands we must tie up by 
means of these associations, if we 
cannot wipe them out altogether." 
Patriotism was defined as a narrow- 
minded prejudice; and, finally, the 
illuminated man was taught that 
everything is material, that religion 
has no foundation, that all nations 
must be brought back, either by 
peaceable means or by force, to 
their pristine condition of unre- 
stricted liberty, for " all subordina- 
tion must vanish from the face of 
the earth." The ceremonies of 
initiation into the lodges of the 
Carbonari remind us so strongly of 
this explanation of the principles 
of Illuminism that it is impossible 
to resist the conclusion that the 
two associations are closely con- 
nected. The neophyte was taught 
the same doctrine in both : that man 
had everywhere fallen into the 
hands of oppressors, whose author- 
ity it was the mission of the en- 
lightened to cast off. Here, how- 
ever, as in the earlier society, the 
pagan character of the proposed 
new life was only revealed by de- 
grees to those who were prepared 
for it. The conspirators seem to 
have accommodated their system 
of education to the peculiarities of 
national training and disposition. 
For example, they humored the 
religious tendencies of the Italians 
by retaining the name of God and 
the image of the crucifix in the 
ceremonial of the lower degrees, 
and even published a forged bull, 
in the name of Pope Pius VII., ap- 
proving the Carbonari; while in 



the training of Young Germany 
just a contrary course was adopted. 
** We are obliged to treat new-com- 
ers very cautiously," says a report 
from a propagandist committee es- 
tablished among the Germans in 
Switzerland, " to bring them step 
by step into the right road, and the 
principal thing in this respect is to 
show them that religion is nothing 
but a pile of rubbish." Indeed, the 
rampant atheism of the secret so- 
cieties of Germany, and also of 
France, has always been notorious. 
Of the still more horrible manifes- 
tations of impiety to which they 
were carried in Italy we hesitate 
to speak, lest we be suspected of 
sensational exaggerations. All that 
we have said tluis far of the princi- 
ples and practices of the Masons, 
Illuminati, and Carbonari is quoted 
from their own books and papers, 
and may be found in the work of 
their admirer and apologist, Tho- 
mas Frost, the title of which we 
have placed at the head of this ar- 
ticle. For a more startling pic- 
ture of their inner mysteries we 
refer the reader to Father Bres- 
ciani,* who lived in Rome in 1848 
and had direct testimony of hor- 
rors which almost defy belief. Mr. 
Frost, however, gives a glimpse of 
the worse than pagan spirit of Car- 
bonarism when he describes the 
initiation into the second degree — 
a ceremony wherein the candidate, 
crowned with thorns and bearing a 
cross, personated our divine Lord, 
and knelt to ask pardon of Pilate, 
Caiphas, and Herod, represented 
by the grand master and two as- 
sistants, the pardon being granted 
at the intercession of the assembled 
Carbonari ! In all the societies an 
abstract morality was taught which 
was not the morality of Jesus 

* Tkt 7#w 0/ KrrMM. EogUih tninriarion. • 
vols, xaino. Bakimora. 1854. 



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Christ, and laws were laid down at 
variance with the laws of the state. 
Assassination was one of the chief 
duties which the fraternity enjoined 
upon its votaries. The initiated 
fancied that they emancipated them- 
selves from all subordination; but 
they bound themselves by the most 
awful penalties to murder any one, 
even friend or brother, who might 
be pointed out for death by some 
unseen, unknown, and shadowy 
authority. 

When Pope Gregory XVI. came 
to the throne the conspiracies of ten 
years were just ripening. He was 
assailed in the very first month of 
his pontificate by the rising in the 
Romagna, and he spent the fifteen 
years of his reign in a struggle to 
keep down the evil spirit whose ap- 
parition then alarmed him. All 
Europe during these fifteen years 
was a volcano sending forth the 
deep mutterings and sulphurous 
vapors which presage an eruption. 
France was never at peace from the 
overthrow of Charles X. in 1830 till 
after the re-establishment of the em- 
pire — if even she is at peace yet. 
Every capital in Germany was in 
nightly danger of the dagger, the 
torch, and the barricade. Switzer- 
land, though a free republic, was no 
less severely tormented by conspira- 
cies than the monarchical countries, 
and after several years of contention 
her secret societies took arms in 1844 
to compel the Catholic cantons, 
against the constitution of the con- 
federation, to expel the Jesuits. In 
Poland, at the very moment when 
the nobles were preparing a revolt 
against the Austrian yoke, a social- 
istic and agrarian rising of the 
peasants against the nobles filled 
Galicia with massacres of incredi- 
ble barbarity. In Italy the Car- 
bonari negotiated for a while with 
the Duke of Modena, by whose aid 



they proposed to expel the Aus- 
trians from Lombardy and Venicei 
and unite the states of the north 
and centre under one sovereign — of 
course with the further object, held 
in reserve, of getting rid of the 
Duke of Modena as soon as they 
had no further use for him: a 
schtme almost exactly like that 
which Young Italy tried a few 
years later with Charles Albert of 
Sardinia. Defeated in this project 
and crushed in attempts at insur- 
rection, they worked for some time 
in secret, but they worked with fu- 
rious energy. The doctrines of 
Illumination were carried into every 
corner of the peninsula. A score 
of local secret as.sociations came 
into existence, adding to the wick- 
edness of the parent society some 
peculiar brutality of their own. 
Anconahad its " Society of Death," 
Sinigaglia its " Infernal Associa- 
tion," Leghorn its " Society of 
Slayersi," Faenza its ** Band of 
Stabbers." 

Between 1831 and 1840, however, 
the policy of the Italian revolution- 
ists was greatly modified. Mazzini 
established Young Italy under the 
conviction that the old methods of 
conspiracy must fail. Instead of 
wasting their strength in vain efforts 
to overturn the Italian princes 
singly, he urged the brethren to 
concentrate their energies upon a 
movement for the expulsion of the 
Austrians and a consolidation of 
all the Italian states. The fate of 
pope, and kings, and princes could 
be settled afterwards. " AH ques- 
tions as to forms of internal policy," 
he wrote, " can be put off till the 
close of the war of independence." 
Italy and independence ! This was 
a programme, not for the secret 
societies alone, but for the whole 
peninsula. It captivated the gen- 
erous, the impulsive, the ardent. 



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the ambitious. It brought to the 
$ame work poetry^ patriotism, and 
religion, the pistol, the dagger, and 
the poisoned cup. What was to be 
done with Italy, when it was united 
and rid of the Austrians, was one of 
the secrets of the initiated never 
explained to the common people; 
but remarkable illustrations of the 
inner character of this movement 
were found in 1844 among cer- 
tain papers seized by the police 
in Rome. "Our watchword," 
• wrote one of the leaders, "must 
be Religion, Union, Independence. 
As for the King of Sardinia, we 
should seek some favorable op- 
t>orlunity to poignard him. I re- 
commend the same course to be 
pursued in regard to the King of 
Naples. The Lombards may se- 
cond our efforts by poison, or by 
insurrection, under the form of lit- 
tle * Sicilian Vespers,' against the 
Germans. Functionaries or private 
citizens who show a hostile spirit 
must be put to death. Let them 
l>e arrested quietly during the 
night, and the report be circulated 
that they have been exiled or sent 
to prison, or have absconded." 
Mazzini himself a little later, in an 
address to Young Italy, gave a sig- 
nificant explanation of his idea. 
" In your country," said he, " re- 
generation must come through the 
princes. Get them on your side. 
Attack their vanity. Let them 
march at the head, if they will, so 
long as they march your way. Few 
will go to the end. If they make 
concessions, praise them and insist 
upon something further. The es- 
sential thing is not to let them know 
what the goal of the revolution is. 
They must never see more than 
one step at a time." And he urged 
also the importance of ** managing " 
the clergy. "Its habits and hier- 
archy make it the imp of authority*-* 



that is to say, of despotism " ; but 
the people believe in it, and we 
must make its influence of use 
With the Jesuits, however, he pro ■ 
claimed war to the knife. None of 
the socialists and infidels were will* 
ing to make any terms with thi.* 
sons of St. Ignatius. 

In the prosecution of this new 
scheme of revolution the conspira- 
tors obtained invaluable help from 
a most unexpected ally. The err- 
ing genius of the unfortunate Ab- 
bate Gioberti did more for them 
than the machinations of the lodges. 
Carried away by visions of a new 
Italy and a new Catholicism, he for- 
got the divine mission of the church 
in speculations as to what she might 
accomplish in purely secular enter- 
prises. His great error was in 
thinking of religion as an agent of 
civilization rather than an instru- 
mentality for saving souls, and thus 
he was led into the blunder of at- 
tempting to unite God and the 
world in an equal partnership. He 
conceived the idea of an Italian 
federation with the King of Sardinia 
as military head and the Pope as 
spiritual president — ^a sort of dual 
empire like that of Japan, with a 
tycoon at Turin, a mikado at tiie 
Vatican. But the clergy were to 
abdicate their dominion over the 
minds of men, and bend their ener- 
gies to effecting an alliance of reli* 
gion with a material progress that 
in his theory had outstripped the 
church and become for ever incom- 
patible with ecclesiastical tutelage. 
He wished the priests to put them- 
selves at the head of the new social 
movements, and, hand in hand with 
the political agitators, to lead Italy 
to a material glory such as no na- 
tion on earth had ever seen. His 
book, Del Primato, was welcomed 
with unparalleled enthusiasm. The 
charm of a brilliant style, the force 



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of an original, cultivated, and poetic 
mind, tne glamour of a philosophy 
which seemed to meet all the wants 
of an exciting and uneasy time, 
turned the heads of the whole na- 
tion. Gioberti, Cesare Balbo, Mas- 
simo d'Azeglio, were the creators 
of a new literature, and all Italy 
read them with flashing eyes and 
quickening pulse. Theirs was a 
reform which seized upon the fancy 
of good and bad alike, and hurried 
into a common delusion the heed- 
less Christian and the veteran Car- 
bonaro, the young, the imaginative, 
the adventurous, and the artful. 
Mazzini, who afterwards became 
one of Gioberti*s bitterest enemies, 
was too shrewd to undervalue this 
influence. He sought an interview 
with Gioberti in Paris; he offered 
terms of co-operation; he even 
went through the form of renounc- 
ing what he styled his own *' more 
narrow views," and proposed a Na- 
tional Association which, adjourn- 
ing all questions of forms and spirit 
of government, faith or scepticism, 
God or the devil, should unite Italy 
in the single purpose of creating an 
Italian nation. Different as the 
aims of the two men were — for 
Gioberti included even the Austria^ 
government of Lombardy and Ve- 
nice in his union — they embraced 
each other for the moment. To- 
gether they swept the peninsula. 
Every city from Palermo to Milan 
was aflame with the new ideas. 
The soberest patriots lost their com- 
posure, and many of the clergy be- 
gan to dream wild dreams of politi- 
cal change, and to see visions of re- 
formed conspirators kneeling at the 
feet of a democratic pope. We 
look back upon those days from 
the vantage-ground of experience, 
and we wonder that men should 
have been so deceived. But 1848 
had not then given the lie to the 



professions of 1846. Devout Ital- 
ians at that time did not see, as 
we do, that the secret societies 
which assailed the church on one 
side of the Alps with fire and sword 
could not be sincere in offering to 
place it in a new position of power 
and glory on the other, nor did 
they realize the extent of the con- 
spiracy to overwhelm religion, gov- 
ernment, and social order through- 
out Europe in one general ruin. 

That conspiracy was more for- 
midable in Italy than anywhere 
else, and it was more formidable 
not only because it was better or- 
ganized, but because it involved so 
many men of blameless character 
and offered to satisfy a lofty na- 
tional aspiration. During the last 
years of Pope Gregory XVI. an 
explosion seemed inevitable. Pro- 
bably nothing kept it back except 
the age and infirmities of the ven- 
erable pontiff; the leaders preferred 
to wait for his death. He died on 
the ist of June, 1846. The whole 
peninsula was instantly in commo- 
tion, and the symptoms of violence 
in Rome were so alarming that peo- 
ple doubted the possibility of an 
election. Austria, as the power 
most directly interested in the se- 
cular politics of the Holy See, was 
understood to demand a continu- 
ance of the restrictive policy of 
Gregory ; France, on the contrary, 
was said to desire a moderately 
liberal pope. To avoid pressure 
upon the conclave, as well as to 
forestall an outbreak, the Italian 
cardinals resolved to begin their 
deliberations at once and finish 
\them quickly. Without waiting for 
their distant colleagues, they en- 
tered the Qtiirinal on the 14th, the 
doors were closed, the guards were 
set, and the balloting began. Two 
ballots are taken in the conclave 
every day. The persons whom pub- 



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lie opinion selected as most likely 
to command the necessary thirty- 
four votes were Cardinals Gizzi 
and Lambruschini. The modest 
and retiring Cardinal Mastai seems 
to have been little known by the 
outside world, though his merit was 
no secret to the Sacred College. He 
was appointed scrutator, to open 
and read the ballots. At the ^rst 
session of the conclave his name 
was proposed by Cardinal Altieri, 
Prince-Bishop of Aib^no, and the 
first scrutiny showed that he united 
a large party of the cardinals. On 
the second ballot he gained a little. 
On the third his vote was twenty- 
seven — only seven less than a ma- 
jority. He retired to his ceU and 
spent the whole time in prayer till 
the evening meeting. He came to 
the performance of his functions 
pale and agitated. When the bal- 
lots were taken from the chalice in 
which they had been collected, he 
read his own name on the iirst, on 
the second, on the third, on every 
paper up to the eighteenth. He 
could not go on ; he begged the 
conclave to commit the rest of the 
task to another. But to change the 
scrutator in the midst of the vote 
would invalidate the election. The 
cardinals gathered around him ; ^r 
some time he sat terrified and al- 
most insensible, while streams of 
tears flowed down his cheeks. On 
the completion of the count it was 
found that he had the suffrages of 
thirty-six out of the fifty-four car- 
dinals present. As the whole as- 
sembly rose to confirm the choice 
by unanimous acclamation, the 
Pope-elect fell upon his knees, and 
profound silence reigned in the 
Pauline Chapel while he commun- 
ed with Almighty God. 

It was on the following day, June 
18, that, according to custom, the 
bricked-up window in the front of 



the Quirinal Palace was broken 
open, and the cardinals came out 
upon the balcony to announce to 
the waiting multitude the choice 
of a new pope. It is said that men 
turned to one another in surprise 
when they heard the name, and 
asked who this Cardinal Mastai 
could be. But when his beautiful 
and l>enignant face appeared among 
the throng, and his hand was rais- 
ed in that gesture of benediction 
which all who have seen him will 
for ever associate with his memory, 
he won the love and admiration of 
the Roman people ; and the true 
Romans have loved him ever since. 
The story of his first days in the 
pontificate reads like a cliarming 
romance. He called the steward 
of the palace and said to him: 
"When I was bishop I spent for 
my personal expenses a crown a 
day ; when I was cardinal I spent 
a crown and a half; and now that I 
am Pope you must not go beyond 
two crowns." He went about the 
city alone to search out abuses and 
to look into the condition of the 
poor. He presented himself with- 
out warning at public institutions. 
He knocked at the doors of reli- 
gious houses at night. He startled 
the congregation at St. Andrea del 
Valle by appearing unannounced 
in the pulpit to preach against blas- 
phemy. He delighted children by 
visiting the schools. He talked free- 
ly with the humble whom he met 
in the streets and on the coun- 
try roads. He gave lavishly to the 
needy. A poor market- gardener 
lost his horse and walked boldly 
into the palace to ask the Pope if 
he could not spare an old one from 
the Quirinal stables. A secretary 
found the man on the stairs and 
took his message to the Holy Fa- 
ther. ** Yes," was the Pope's re- 
ply ; ** and give him this money, too. 



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He must be very poor, or he never 
would come to the Quirinal to get 
a liorse.*' 

But Pius IX. was not ignorant 
of the dangers which surrounded 
his throne. He chose his course 
promptly. It may be doubted 
whether stern measures of repres- 
sion could have accomplished any 
good in the excitement of that 
time, but at any rate he had no 
taste for them. He favored the 
idea of a national confederation 
under the presidency of the Pope, 
wishing to accomplish it by a friend- 
ly alliance of the existing govern- 
ments, not by war and revolution. 
For the rest, he looked forward to 
a reform in the administration of 
his states, and the introduction of 
liberal and popular institutions as 
fast as the old forms could be safe- 
ly changed, and he purposed to 
rule by kindness, generosity, and 
confidence. Yet, as we shall see, 
he did not lack firmness when firm- 
ness was needed. One of his first 
acts was to declare an amnesty for 
political ofienceS) and a character* 
istic anecdote is told of him in 
connection with it. He called a 
council of his principal advisers 
and asked their votes upon the 
proposed measure of mercy. To 
his chagrin, a majority of the balls 
voted were black. He took off his 
white cap and placed it over them ; 
" Now,'* said he, ** they are all white." 
The prisons were opened. The ex- 
iles returned. One thousand six 
hundred persons were restored to 
freedom and friends. Rome was 
in a tumult of joy. The populace 
thronged about the pontiff when- 
ever he went abroad, and waited 
long hours before the palace win- 
dows to get his blessing. On the 
feaat of St. Peter's Chains a great 
number of the pardoned received 
communion from the Holy Fa- 



ther's hands, and the occasion was 
celebrated with lively demonstra- 
tions. Nor was the Pope satisfied 
with an easy act of clemency. He 
made a close personal study of the 
administration. A multitude of 
petty abuses were swept away. 
The taxes were reduced. The 
liberty of the press was enlarged. 
Industries were fostered ; railways 
were planned. The Jews were re- 
lieved of burdensome and humili- 
ating restrictions. Then the old 
municipal privileges of Rome were 
restored, and a long stride ahead 
was made by the formation of a 
lay consul ta of state and the popu- 
lar representation of the provinces 
in the central government. 

Nothing could surpass the enthu- 
siasm of the people at this dawn 
of a new political era. It was al- 
most a continuous holiday in Rome, 
with gay processions by day and 
torch-light parades by night, public 
banquets in the vineyards and gar- 
dens, triumphal arches spanning 
the streets, the papal colors flutter- 
ing from every window and deco- 
rating every breast. Because those 
colors were white and yellow, it 
became a point of honor with de^ 
lighted Romans to breakfast every 
morning on boiled eggs. Nor was 
it only Italy which raised the chorus 
of applause. All over tlie world 
the Papacy shone with a glory 
which it had hardly displayed since 
Leo XII. The Protestants of New 
York held a monster meeting of 
felicitation at the Broadway Taber- 
nacle, where cordial letters were 
read from ex-President Van Buren 
and Vice-President Dallas, and an 
enthusiastic address to the Pope, 
prepared by Horace Greeley, was 
adopted by acclamation. The Bri- 
tish government offered its con- 
gratulations. The French minis- 
try, led by M. Guizot, rivalled the 



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French opposition, led by M. Thiers, 
in resolutions and speeches of en- 
couragment. Mazzini, true to the 
policy already explained, addressed 
to the Holy Father a letter of os- 
tensible sympathy and praise. Such 
halcyon days might well have filled 
the most wary with a dangerous 
confidence. 

The Pope was not deceived. 
He knew that under this outward 
show of peace the conspiracy was ac- 
tive. The first attempt of the revo- 
lutionary party was to separate him 
from the cardinals. Three weeks 
after the amnesty, as he drove 
under one of the arches erected 
in his honor, the mob stopped 
some of the prelates of his suite 
and refused to let them pass. 
Certain demonstrations at the pop- 
ular out-of-door repasts became so 
significant that the gatherings had 
to be forbidden. Before the end 
of the year the cry of " Viva Pio 
Nono!" changed to "Viva Pio 
Nono Solo!" and mingled with 
shouts of " Down with the Jesuits!" 
and " Death to the retrograders I" 
The next summer Rome was 
thrown into a fever of rage by an 
invention so outrageous and yet 
so ridiculous that one reads of it 
with amazement. It was alleged 
that Cardinal Lambruschini, the 
Austrian government, and tlie 
General of t lie Jesuits had organiz- 
ed a plot to fall upon the populace 
on the anniversary of the amnesty, 
and in the midst of the massacre to 
get possession of the Pope and put 
a stop to his liberalism. The fite 
appointed for the anniversary was 
given up, and the excitement en* 
abled the revolutionists to depose 
the old police and throw the city 
into the arras of the civic guard, of 
which they were really the direct- 
ing force. On New Year's day, 
1^48, the Pope was molested in the 



street by a disorderly mob, shout- 
ing menaces against "reactionists" 
and '* Jesuits." The violence of 
the radical faction increased^ th^ 
demeanor became more and more* 
insulting; the danger of riot grew 
imminent; the civil guard showed 
plain symptoms of disloyalty. Yet 
all this while the Holy Father per- 
severed in his reforms. He took 
no step backward. He withdrew 
no concession. The measure of 
popular liberty was constantly en- 
larging, the administration becom- 
ing more thoroughly representative. 
If it was "progress" that the agita- 
tors wanted, what was this 1 

We cannot understand the his- 
tory of this strange time without 
bearing in mind that the danger 
arose, not from anything the Pope 
had done or failed to do, but from 
the steady and stealthy advance of 
the pagan conspiracy. Rome, un- 
der the mild rule of Pius IX., be- 
came the resort of all the chief revo- 
lutionists of the Continent, and it is 
hardly too much to say that the parti- 
cular house in Rome where they met 
and plotted with the most comfort 
was the British embassy. Palmers- 
ton's policy was always to encour- 
age radical movements on the Con- 
tinent. When he sent Lord Minto, 
therefore, as a special envoy to Italy, 
the parlors of that nobleman were in- 
stantly thronged by the Carbonari. 
In this diplomatic sanctuary gather- 
ed a strange company of princes and 
demagogues — Ciceruacchio, the ora- 
tor of the rabble ; Prince Charles Bo- 
naparte, the radical in purple ; Ster- 
bini, the poet, physician, and jour- 
nalist; Tofanelli, the tavern-keep- 
er; Materazzi, patriot and piner; 
Galetti, the grocer, who became 
Minister of Police in one of the la- 
ter democratic cabinets. 

A letter of Mazzini's, written in 
1847, taught Young Italy that the 



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Pope Pius the Ninth. 



time for action was close at hand ; 
it was useless to count upon the 
Pope ; their best policy was to in- 
flame the popular hatred of Aus- 
tria ; then provoke Austria to at- 
tack them ; and in the heat of war 
to accomplish the rest. But at this 
critical time Austria herself com- 
mitted an act which hastened the 
explosion. Alarmed at the aspect 
of affairs in Central Italy, she march- 
ed a body of troops into the papal 
territory. The treaty of 1815 gave 
her the right to place a garrison in 
the citadel of Ferrara ; she went 
further and occupied the town ; 
and although the spirited protest 
of the Pope caused her to with- 
draw after some delay, the occasion 
which the secret societies desired 
had been given, and a cry for war 
and independence resounded from 
the Gulf of Genoa to the Bay of Na- 
ples. We know but imperfectly the 
hidden springs of action of that 
year of revolutions ; but, as if by 
concert, the insurrection flashed up 
almost simultaneously all over the 
Continent. The Milanese flew to 
arms. The revolt broke out in Vi- 
enna. Barricades arose at Berlin. 
The Republic was proclaimed in 
Paris. Naples and Tuscany were 
menaced. The municipality of 
Rome waited upon the Pope and 
demanded a constitution. He con- 
sented to give it. ** I would have 
preferred," said he, " to watch for 
a while the result of the reforms al- 
ready instituted ; but other Italian 
princes have granted constitutions, 
and I will not show less confidence 
in my subjects than they have had 
in theirs.*' At the same time the 
ministry was changed. Cardinal 
Antonelli, whose management of 
the finances had made him very 
popular, became Secretary of State, 
and three of the most moderate of 
the liberals — Minghetti, Galetti, and 



Sturbinetti — entered the cabinet. 
It is characteristic of the spirit of 
the revolution that the first effect of 
these concessions was to stimulate 
a fresh attack upon the church, 
disorders in Rome, and an assault up- 
on the Gesd. The Jesuits were forc- 
ed to close their establishment, 
some taking flight, others finding 
shelter in private houses. The 
constitution was proclaimed in 
March. It provided for a Senate 
and a House of Deputies — the sen- 
ators to be appointed for life, the 
deputies to be elected by the tax- 
payers of Rome and the provinces. 
This parliament was not to meddle 
with ecclesiastical affairs, but in 
other matters it had the usual pow- 
ers of legislation. 

Meantime, the war of indepen- 
dence in the north of Italy was in 
the full tide of success. Young 
Italy believed it had found a leader 
in Charles Albert of Sardinia. The 
Austrians were driven from Milan. 
The republic lived again in Venice. 
The Pope sent 17,000 men to pro- 
tect his frontiers, with strict orders 
not to cross them. At once the 
conspirators spread the report that 
he had declared war against Aus- 
tria. They called the people to- 
gether in the Colosseum to ratify the 
new crusade, and there the Barna- 
bite monk, Gavazzi, masquerading 
in the character of a new Peter 
the Hermit and brandishing a trico- 
lored cross, made his first bid for 
notoriety. There were only 7,000 
regular troops in the papal expedi- 
tion; the rest were motley volun- 
teers — the flower of the nobility and 
the dregs of the wine-shop, the most 
gallant lads of Rome and the scum 
of all the political clubs of the Con- 
tinent. 'l*hey hurried through the 
Romagna, gutting taverns and hunt- 
ing Jesuits by the way, and when 
they reached Bologna their general 



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(the Piedmontese, Durando) an- 
nounced that the Austrians were 
making war upon our Lord, and 
that the soldiers of the Pope would 
give them battle with the cry, " God 
wills it ! '* It was afterwards dis- 
covered that this direct defiance of 
the Pope's commands, this open 
act of hostility against a power with 
which the states of the church were 
at peace, was in accordance with 
secret instructions from the Pope's 
radical Minister of War. While 
the sovereign ordered his troops to 
remain strictly on the defensive 
within their own boundaries, the 
ministers told Durando to cross 
over into Lombardy and place him- 
self at the disposal of Charles Al- 
bert ; and Durando prepared to 
obey them. It was impossible for 
the Holy Father to remain silent 
under such an outrage. He repu- 
diated Durando's order of the day 
in the official press, and he spoke 
more fully in an allocution : " We 
shall not make war upon Austria ; 
we embrace all countries, all na- 
tions, with an equal paternal love." 
And he took occasion at the same 
time to denounce the project of 
destroying all the governments of 
the peninsula in order to build out 
of their ruins one Italian republic 
with the Pope at the head of it. 
He was no doubt prepared for the 
explosion of wrath which followed. 
But the revolution was not to be 
ignored any longer. For some 
time ministers had been in the 
habit of counterfeiting his assent to 
measures of which he disapproved ; 
if the army was to make war with- 
out his consent, his reign was at an 
€^nd. Rome was in a tempest. 
The cry of " Treason !" rang 
through the streets. Ciceruacchio 
proposed to kill all the priests. 
The civic guards flew to arms, post* 
ed soldiers at the doors of the car- 
voL. XXV. — ao 



dinals, and refused to recognize 
the Pope's orders. A new and 
more radical ministry, led by Count 
Mamiani, came into office on the 3d 
of May, and on the same day the 
Holy Father wrote a touching letter 
to the Emperor of Austria — a plea 
for peace and Italian independence : 
" We exhort your majesty with the 
most paternal affection to withdraw 
from a contest which cannot recon- 
quer for the empire the hearts of the 
Lombards and Venetians. There 
is no grandeur in a domination 
which rests only on the sword." 

The new ministry insisted at 
once upon wax, but here it found 
the determination of the Pope un- 
alterable. There seems to have 
been an attempt, of which the min* 
isters themselves were possibly in- 
nocent, to precipitate hostilities by 
rousing an uncontrollable popular 
impulse. One day a courier, 
breathless and dusty, rode through 
the Corso announcing a great vic- 
tory of Charles Albert over the 
Austrians. The city was illumin- 
ated ; there was talk of forcing the 
clergy to chant Te Deum in the 
churches. fiut the next day it 
was discovered that the messenger, 
who entered Rome as if from Lom- 
bardy by the Porta del Popolo, had 
left the city only an hour before by 
the Porta Angelica, gathering all 
the stains of travel in an easy ride 
along the walls, and had been paid 
three dollars for the performance. 
Charles Albert had been signally 
defeated. 

Whatever fitness for self-govern- 
ment might be latent in the Ro- 
man people, it was certain that, in 
the existing condition of the Ponti- 
fical States, a government by the 
people was out of the question. 
Every attempt to satisfy the popu- 
lar aspirations, every scheme for 
the introduction of parliamentary 



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Pcipe Pius the Ninth. 



and representative institutions, was 
baffled by the Mazzinian clubs, 
whose rule, supported by conspiracy 
and assassination, was the most 
cruel and absolute of despotisms, 
yet destitute of that stability and 
force which make some despotisms 
respectable. 'Ihey threatened the 
church with spoliation, the clergy 
with death, the young with atheism. 
They undermined the authority of 
all government, not merely of this 
or that particular form, but of all 
forms. Italy appeared to be rush- 
ing towards anarchy. It was time 
to cry, Halt ! Pius resolved to yield 
not another inch, but, without with- 
drawing any reasonable concession, 
to put what remained of his authori- 
ty upon a firm basis. He invited 
Count Pellegrino Rossi to form a 
cabinet. 

Count Rossi was an Italian by 
birth, a Swiss by adoption, a 
Frenchman by subsequent choice, 
an old Carbonaro, an old conspira- 
tor, an old political exile. He was 
an ardent partisan of Italian unity, 
but he had seen the emptiness of 
some of his early illusions, and he 
had abandoned the secret societies. 
He had come to Rome in the time 
of Gregory XVI. as ambassador of 
Louis Philippe, charged with a ne- 
gotiation for the removal of the 
Jesuits from France ; in his diplo- 
matic capacity he had been one of 
the most moderate advisers of Pius 
IX. ; and after the fall of Louis 
Philippe he had remained in Rome 
as a private citizen. He accepted 
the task of restoring order ; he re- 
organized the administration, ne- 
gotiated with Naples, Turin, and 
Florence for the formation of an 
Italian confederation under the 
presidency of the Pope, arrested 
Gavazzi, wlio was preaching rebel- 
lion, and brought back some of the 
troops which his predecessors had 
sent away from Rome. The radi- 



cal press speedily opened an attack 
upon him. The clubs began to 
prepare for his downfall. The 15th 
of November, two months after his 
accession to power, was the date 
fixed for the opening of the Cham- 
bers. He received more than one 
warning that the same day had 
been appointed for his death. The 
wife of the Minister of War wrote 
him that his life was to be attempt- 
ed as he entered the Chamber. A 
Frenchman sent him a note to the 
same effect. A priest stopped him 
at the Quirinal and repeated the 
warning. The Pope had also 
learned of the plans of the conspi- 
rators and begged Rossi to beware. 
"They are cowards," replied the 
count ; " they will not dare to 
strike." " The cause of the Pope," 
said the intrepid minister to one of 
his colleagues, "is the cause of 
God. I must go where my duty 
calls me." On the night before the 
opening of the parliament a corpse 
was taken from one of the hospitals 
and carried secretly to the little 
Capranica theatre. There a select 
band of conspirators rtihearsed the 
assassination, and the chosen in- 
strument of the vengeance of the 
societies, a young sculptor named 
Costantini, learned by repeated 
practice where to strike. They 
were waiting for the count at the 
entrance to the hall of Deputies. 
As he placed his foot upon the 
steps they gathered around him. 
One struck him on the side. He 
turned his head, and Costantini 
plunged a dagger into the carotid 
artery. The nearest priest was 
called, and Rossi lived just long 
enough to receive absolution. He 
had yielded to the fears of his 
friends so far as to post extra 
guards about the court and stair- 
case; sed guts custoeUet custddest 
The assassin and his accomplices 
walked away unmolested and pass 



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Pop€ Pius the Ninth. 



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ed the night promenading the city 
with songs of triumph. The streets 
were hung with flags. The bloody 
dagger, decked with flowers, was 
exposed to the veneration of their 
party on the top of a tricolored 
standard, and held up before the 
windows of the weeping family of 
the victim. When the news of the 
awful crime committed on the 
stairs was carried into the Chamber, 
the deputies manifested no con- 
cern. ** It is nothing, gentlemen," 
said'Sterbini ; "let us to business." 
When it was made known to the 
Pope he fell upon his knees and 
remained some time in silent pray- 
er. '* Count Rossi h^is died a mar- 
tyr," said he ; " God will receive 
his sou( in peace." 

The next day the Quirinal was 
surrounded by a menacing crowd 
demanding an immediate declara- 
tion of war against Austria, the con- 
vocation of a Constituent Assembly 
to devise a new form of govern- 
ment, and the surrender of all pow- 
er in the meantime to a ministry 
headed by Sterbini. The Pope 
would not listen to them. Then 
they tried to burn the palace. A 
single volley from the Swiss Guard, 
fired over the heads of the mob, 
drove them back. But they re- 
lumed in force, with an ultimatum, 
backed by cannon and the whole 
civic guard. Sharp-shooters oc- 
cupied the house-tops or shelter- 
ed themselves behind the famous 
equestrian groups in the centre of 
the piazza, and poured a shower 
of balls into the palace windows. 
One of the papal secretaries was 
killed. A bullet entered the Pope's 
chamber. The Holy Father called 
the diplomatic corps together and 
told them that he must yield. 
"But let Europe know that I am a 
prisoner here ; I have no part in the 
government; they shall rule in 
tbdr own name, not mine." 



His chief thougnt now was flight. 
But he was closely watched and the 
guards invaded even his private 
apartments. On the 2 2d of Novem- 
ber, six days after the attack upon 
the Quirinal, he received from the 
Bishop of Valence in France a sil- 
ver pyx in which Pope Pius VI. 
used to carry the Blessed Sacra- 
ment suspended from his neck dur- 
ing his painful exile. " Heir to the 
name, the see, the virtues, the cour- 
age, and many of the tribulations 
of this great pontiff," wrote the 
bishop, "you will perhaps attach 
some value to this interesting little 
relic, which I trust may not serve 
the same destiny in your Holiness's 
hands as in those of its former pos- 
sessor." The Pope looked upon 
this as a providential provision for 
his journey. The ingenuity of the 
Duke d'Harcourt, ambassador of 
France, and the boldness of the 
Bavarian minister, Count Spaur, 
aided by the quick wit of his pious 
French wife, finally arranged the 
escape. The Pope's faithful gen- 
tleman-in-waiting, Filippani, col- 
lected the little articles absolutely 
needed on the route, and at night 
carried them under his cloak, one 
by one, to the residence of Count 
Spaur. Meanwhile, it was announc- 
ed in Rome that the count, accom- 
panied by his family, was going 
to Naples on a diplomatic errand. 
The countess started first in her 
travelling carriage with her son and 
his tutor, giving out that her hus- 
band, detained a few hours in Rome 
by important business, would over- 
take her at Alb ano. Towards eve- 
ning on the same day (Novem- 
ber 24, 1848) the Duke d'Harcourt 
visited the Quirinal in state, and, be- 
ing admitted to a private official in- 
terview with the Holy Father, began 
to read to him a series of long de- 
spatches. He read in a loud tone, 
so that his voice could be heard by * 



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Pope Pius the Ninth. 



the guards in the ante-room. If 
they could have seen what passed 
as well as they heard, they would 
have been very much astonished. 
For no sooner had the duke begun 
than the Pope retired to an inner 
chamber and transformed himself in« 
to a simple priest. He put on a 
black robe, an ample cloak, and a 
low, round hat, and, accompanied 
by Filippani, he reached the grand 
staircase by a private door, passed 
the guards unsuspected, and found 
himself in tlie street. Filippani had 
a carriage in readiness, and drove 
with his august master to the 
church of SS. Peter and Marcellinus, 
beyond the Colosseum, where Count 
Spaur was waiting with another 
conveyance. The Pope entered it; 
the count took the reins; they 
passed out by the gate of St. Gio- 
vanni, near the I^ateran, the sen- 
tries being satisfied with the count's 
declaration of his name and quality ; 
and late in the night they reached 
a certain fountain on the Appian 
Way, where the countess was to 
meet them with the coach and four. 
When she drove up a few minutes 
later she was terrified at finding the 
fugitive surrounded by an armed pa- 
trol. Count Spaur was answering the 
questions of the soldiers, and the 
Pope and a trooper stood side by side 
against the fence. The countess 
did not lose her presence of mind. 
" Come, doctor," she exclaimed, 
"jump in; you have kept us wait- 
ing"; and bidding good-night to the 
patrol, the party drove off at full 
speed. The Pope was the first to 
speak. "Courage!" said he; "I 
carry the Blessed Sacrament in the 
same pyx in which it was borne by 
Pius VI." They crossed the Nea- 
politan frontier at daylight, and as 
soon as they were safe beyond the 
Pontifical States they all recited the 
Te Deum. They reached Gaeta in 
the afternoon. There Cardinal An- 



tonelli joined them in disguise, and 
Count Spaur, posting on to Naples, 
with a letter from the Pope to King 
Ferdinand, resigned the care of 
the Holy Father to the secretary 
of the Spanish embassy. Refused 
admission to the bishop's palace 
because the bishop was absent, the 
Pope and his companions took up 
their quarters at a poor inn, and 
there they were placed under sur- 
veillance by the military comman- 
der, Gen. Gross, who suspected 
them as spies. The general was 
questioning the countess and the 
cardinal aext day, when he was 
astounded by the arrival of the king 
and queen with three vessels of 
war and a guard of honor. Count 
Spaur had reached Naples and de- 
livered his letter to the king in per- 
son about midnight, and his ma- 
jesty, after spending the rest of 
the night in preparations, embarked 
in the early morning to do honor 
to his illustrious guest. And dur- 
ing tlie year and a half spent by 
the Pope in the Neapolitan domin- 
ions, either at Gaeta or Portici, 
there was no possible mark of re- 
spect which King Ferdinand failed 
to show him. His purpose had 
been to embark in a Spanish frigate 
for the Balearic Islands, the scene 
of his brief and absurd imprison- 
ment in 1823, but Ferdinand per- 
suaded him to remain in Gaeta, 
where the royal palace was pre- 
pared for his occupation. There 
the diplomatic body gathered around 
him, and the cardinals assembled 
after escaping from Rome by va- 
rious stratagems and disguises. 

And how was it in Rome .^ The 
ministry of Sterbini, the parliament, 
and the authorities left by the Pope 
disappeared with equal suddenness, 
and the government passed into the 
hands, not by any means of the 
Roman people, but of Mazzini with 
the secret clubs^ and of Garibaldi 



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with two or three thousand sol- 
diers of fortune, brought into the 
city from other parts of Italy. They 
pronounced the deposition of the 
Pope, and declared a republic with 
an executive triumvirate. Nominal- 
ly the triumvirs were Mazzini, Ar- 
metlini, and Saffi; in reality the 
head of the administration was 
Mazzini alone. Wherever the pa- 
gan democracy triumphed, even for 
a few days, the result was the same. 
Religion, the rights of property, and 
common morality suffered together 
and personal liberty vanished. Pri- 
vate estates in Rome were confis- 
cated to the uses of the triumvirate 
under the guise of forced loans. 
The goods of the church were 
seized. The shrines and altars 
were stripped bare. Confessionals 
were burned in the Piazza del Po- 
polo. The houses of the cardinals 
were sacked, convents were assault- 
ed. Profane rites were celebrated 
in St. Peter's at Easter and Corpus 
Christi ; the papal benediction urbi 
et orhi was travestied by a suspend- 
ed priest ; the canons of St. Peter's 
were fined for refusing to take part 
in the impious ceremonies ; the pro- 
vost of the cathedral of Sinigaglia 
was put to death for a similar cause. 
The clergy were hunted like ver- 
min, cut down in the public roads, 
dragged from hiding-places. The 
convent of St. Callisto was turned 
into a slaughter-house, where one 
of the Roman priest-catchers used 
to shut up his victims, and kill 
them at pleasure without the for- 
mality of trial or sentence. He 
killed fourteen there in one day. 
Two vine-dressers, accused of be- 
ing Jesuits in disguise, were torn to 
pieces on the bridge of St. Angelo. 
Murder and pillage stalked hand in 
hand through the city. There soon 
ceased to be any real government 
at all in Rome, until on the 2d of 
July, 1849, the French army re- 



stored the papal authority after the 
horrors of a severe siege, in which 
foreigners, not Romans, manned the 
defences. Anywhere else in the 
world the quelling of such a revolt 
would have been followed by whole- 
sale condemnations to the galleys 
and the scaffold. But nothing could 
conquer the kindness of Pius IX. 
His restoration, like his accession, 
was followed by an act of amnesty. 
It left in exile the guiltiest of the 
leaders ; and care was taken to give 
the re-established government as 
much strength as the situation de- 
manded. Some restrictions were 
certainly necessary ; several priests 
had been assassinated since the 
surrender of the city ; two attempts 
had been made to bum the Quiri- 
nal ; and placards menaced with 
the vengeance of the societies all 
Romans who should welcome the 
Pope on his return. 

Nevertheless, the Holy Father's 
journey home in April was a con- 
tinuous triumph, and his entrance 
into Rome was celebrated with 
frantic demonstrations of delight. 
He confirmed many of the most 
valuable of his political reforms, 
and resumed his old life of charity 
and devotion. The next ten years 
of his reign are commonly describ- 
ed as a period of severe reaction. 
Nothing could be further from the 
truth. Pius IX. haa never been an 
absolutist, never ceased to favor all 
true liberty, never believed that na- 
tions can be governed in the nine- 
teenth century by the methods 
which prevailed in the ninth. 
From his accession down to the 
present day he has not only been 
the kindest ruler known to history, 
but he has invariably granted his 
people the most liberal institutions 
and the fullest measure of personal 
freedom which the incessant activi- 
ty of the secret conspirators would 
alloir. The enemies of Italian lib« 



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Pt>pe Pius the Ninth. 



crty are the dagger and the bayo- 
net. It is mere cant and bigotry 
to assume that everything calling 
itself a republic, whatever its true 
character, is entitled to the sympa* 
thy of a free people. 

When Charles Albert was de- 
feated by the Austrians, Mazzini 
declared that the war of the kings 
had ended and the war of the peo- 
ples was about to begin. The war 
of the peoples had failed in its turn, 
and now the secret societies went 
back to a conspiracy of the kings. 
They found Victor Emanuel a more 
useful instrument than his father, 
and with him they made a compact 
whose terms we can gather plainly 
enough from the event. As the 
destruction of Christianity was the 
avowed purpose of the secret socie- 
ties from the very beginning, so the 
first service which Sardinia must 
render them in payment for the 
crown of Italy wis a systematic at- 
tack upon the church in the Sar- 
dinian territory. The method of 
these attacks is always the same. 
They begin by silencing the clergy, 
dispersing the religious orders, and 
giving an anti-religious character to 
public education. In Sardinia the 
government went so far as to found a 
state school of heretical theology, 
and to impose it upon the episco- 
pate by force. In the university 
of Turin it was taught that the 
state is omnipotent over the church, 
that the temporal power of the 
Pope is incompatible with the spiri- 
tual, that marriage cannot be proved 
a sacrament; and the government 
prohibited the appointment of any 
clergyman to a benefice who had 
not followed the condemned theo- 
logical course at this university. 
For warning their clergy against 
such heresies the bishops were im- 
prisoned and their revenues were 
seized. Priests were arrested 
for preaching "insubordination." 



Convents were suppressed without 
warning, and even without law. 
Nuns were turned into the streets 
in the middle of the night. Clerics 
were pressed into the army. Re- 
ligious communities' engaged in 
teaching were treated with especial 
rigor. Church property was con- 
fiscated and priests were reduced 
to beggary. Thus so early as 1849 
did the Sardinian government join 
the pagan conspiracy, and lend it- 
self for a price to the work of 
emancipating the people from all 
religious belief. 

It was not until 1859 that the 
plot was ripe, and then, to the dis- 
may of the great Catholic party in 
France, an accomplice of Victor 
Emanuel presented himself in the 
person of Napoleon III. There 
was no reason to wonder at such 
an unnatural alliance. Napoleon, 
whose empire was built upon revo- 
lution, and who held despotic pow- 
er by the double and doubly false 
titles of massacre and counterfeit 
suffrage, was always treacherous to 
the Pope. After the fall of the 
Mazzinian republic in 1848 he at- 
tempted to impose upon the Holy 
Father a policy in the interest of 
the revolutionists, and that was the 
cause of the Pope s long delay at 
Portici; Pius IX. would not re- 
turn to Rome until he could re- 
turn without conditions. He de- 
clared that he " would sooner go to 
America; he knew the way thither 
already; or he would take refuge in 
Austria." * Napoleon was compell 
ed to yield. Then came the demon- 
stration of Count Cavour at the 
Congress of 1856, made, undoubt- 
edly, with Napoleon's connivance. 
Cavour hurled "the Roman ques- 
tion " into the midst of European 
politics by his proposal for the 
separation of the Legations from 



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Pope Pius the Ninth. 



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the Pontifical States, and their 
government by a lay vicar; and 
although the subject was posti>on- 
sd, the mere discussion of it served 
a practical purpose. "It is the 
first spark," said Count Cavour's 
own newspaper, "of an irresisti- 
ble conflagration." Count Rayne- 
/al, the French representative at 
Rome, refuted the charges brought 
by Cavour against the papal ad- 
ministration, but his able report 
to the Minister of Foreign Affairs 
was suppressed in Paris, and only 
saw the light through the pages of 
a London daily paper. Two years 
later (January 14, 1858) Orsini 
made his attempt upon Napoleon's 
life, and from his prison he warned 
the emperor that the Carbonari 
held him to his ancient engage- 
ments. "So long as Italy sliall 
not be independent the tranquillity 
of Europe and t/iai of your majesty 
will be but a chimera." From 
this time there was no more mys- 
tery about Napoleon's purposes. 
He had a long private conference 
with Cavour at Plombi^res, and on 
the I St of January, 1859, he made 
the famous unfriendly remark to 
the Austrian ambassador at the 
Tuileries which proved the signal 
for the Franco-Italian war. A 
month later appeared his pamphlet, 
Napoleon III. and Italy ^ in which 
he denounced the civil government 
of the Pope as incompatible with 
modern civilization, and proposed 
anew the double-headed confede- 
ration of Giobjrti, with the King 
of Sardinia as military chief and 
the Sovereign Pontiff as honorary 
president. And Piedmont, in the 
meantime, played her part astutely. 
For a long time her agents had 
been busy among the Italian 
states. A circular signed by Gari- 
baldi, who was now a general in 
the Piedmontese service, gave in- 
structions to the conspirators: 



" I. Before hostilities have com- 
menced between Piedmont and 
Austria you are to rise with the cry 
of ' Italy for ever ! Victor Emanuel 
for ever !' 2. Wherever the insur- 
rection triumphs, he among you 
who enjoys most public esteem and 
confidence is to take the military 
and civil command, with the title 
of provisional commissioner, acting 
for King Victor Emanuel, and to re- 
tain it until the arrival of a com- 
missioner sent by the Sardinian 
government." But it is unnecessary 
to quote proofs of the plot; Maz- 
zini himself laid it bare when he at- 
tacked the government on account 
of its prosecution of the authors 
of the abortive revolt at Genoa, in 
1857 : " Monarchico-Piedraontcse 
committees exist at Rome, Bologna, 
Florence, and several cities of the 
Lombardo- Venetian kingdom ; and 
there are secondary centres in sev- 
eral other towns. I could name 
to you the persons, several of them 
deputies, who are the agents be- 
tween the poor dupes and the per- 
sonages of the government." In 
Florence the plot against the Grand 
Duke of Tuscany, which resulted in 
his abdication after his troops had 
been bribed to desert him, was ma- 
tured in the very house of the Sar- 
dinian ambassador. In Parma the 
Sardinian agents instigated the ex- 
pulsion of the Duchess Regent, who 
was yet so popular that her subjects 
spontaneously recalled her, and 
Victor Emanuel had to drive her 
out a second time. In the Papal 
States the Sardinians stood upon 
no ceremony, but, when the insur- 
rection took place, they boldly 
marched in troops to sustain it. 

Before the peace of Villafranca 
all Central Italy was in the hands 
of the Piednr.ontese commissioners. 
By the terms of that treaty these 
commissioners were to be with- 
drawn. The amazement of Europe 



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Pofe Pius the Ninth. 



therefore, was profound when, even 
before the signatures to the con- 
vention were dry, Victor Emanuel 
was found to be setting up provi- 
sional governments in Parma, Mo- 
dena, Tuscany, and the Roraagna, 
and getting ready to play the favor- 
ite French farce of the plebiscitum. 
As it was managed in one state it 
was managed in all. The Romagna 
has a million of inhabitants. The 
Sardinian agents prepared voting 
lists, restricted to the large towns 
where the revolutionary party was 
strong and bold, and put on these 
lists only eighteen thousand names. 
Of these not more than a third vot- 
ed. The total vote for and against 
annexation represented, therefore, 
only three-fifths of one per cent, of 
the population. And this is called 
a plebiscitum ! Nevertheless, on 
the 1 8th of March, i860, the Lega- 
tions Parma, Modena, and Tuscany 
were declared annexed, like Lom- 
bardy, to the Sardinian monarchy, 
and the king, assured of the coun- 
tenance of the emperor, made pre- 
parations for the invasion of Umbria 
and the Marches.* It was a com- 
paratively simple process ; in this 
case Sardinia frankly took the cov- 
eted provinces by force of arms. 
The expedition was concerted at 
Chambery between Napoleon and 
the Piedmontese general Cialdini, 
and in closing the interview the 
emperor is reported to have said, 
FaiteSy mais faites vite J — almost the 
very words which our Lord spoke 
to Judas: "What thou doest, do 
quickly." On the tenth anniversary 
of this interview Napoleon, a prison- 
er in the power of the great German 



* When the Pope launched a boll of excommu- 
nication against the spoliators of his territory. Na- 
poleon forbade its publication in France. He al* 
lowed the official and radical journals, however, to 
publish a forged bull, and to ridicule and denounce 
•t pleasure the extravagant language which it im- 
puted to the Holy Father. 1 he bishops tried to 
expose the forgery, but the press was closed to 



Empire which he had done more 
than any other one man to create, 
ceased to reign. 

We are near the end. A fort- 
night after Sedan the Piedmontese 
army, 60,000 strong, appeared be- 
fore the walls of Rome to seize the 
last of the temporal possessions of 
the Holy See. Defence was im- 
possible. The pontiff instructed 
his little army to resist only until a 
breach had been made in the walls, 
'J'hen he went to pray in the vener- 
able Lateran basilica, the mother- 
church of Christendom. He visit- 
ed the neighboring chapel of the 
Scala Santa, and made on his knees 
the painful ascent of the twenty- 
eight marble steps from the judg- 
ment-ljall of Pilate which our Sa- 
viour's blessed feet had pressed. 
In the little cliapel at tlie top he 
implored the pity and protection 
of Almighty God for the afflicted 
church. Then, followed by the 
acclamations of a crowd of affec- 
tionate subjects, and blessing them 
as he went, he entered the Vatican, 
and Rome has never seen him 
since. 

The troops of Victor Emanuel 
made themselves masters of Rome 
the next day, September 20, 1870. 
The king followed them in time 
and established his court in the 
Quirinal. And since tlien, in Rome 
as in the rest of Italy, the pagan 
revolution has gone steadily for- 
ward to the suppression of Chris- 
tian education, of monastic and 
charitable orders, and, as far as 
possible, of all divine worship. 
When Garibaldi rode on horseback 
into the church of Monte Rotondo 
and ordered his prisoners to cover 
their heads, which they had bared 
out of respect to the sacred place, 
he only gave emphasis to the sen- 
timent wiiich pervades the whole 
movement. The convents are emp- 
ty ; the cnurches are desolate ; li- 



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Pope Pius the Ninth. 



313 



braries are scattered; great semi- 
naries of theology are broken up ; 
Christian education has been dri- 
ven from the school-room; there 
are hundreds of priests who go 
hungry and in rags ; there are nuns 
in Rome whose whole income is 
three cents a day ; the bishops have 
been robbed of everything and live 
on the charity of the Pope ; pious 
processions are prohibited; mem- 
bers of religious orders who sur- 
vive the suppression of their houses 
are forbidden to receive novices; 
the father-general of the Jesuits is 
an exile from Rome, and his near- 
est representative lives as a private 
lay person in hired lodgings. To- 
day a bill is pending in the Italian 
parliament, and has already passed 
one branch of it, to punish bishops, 
priests, religious writers, and journal- 
ists for what is styled '* disturbing the 
public conscience" and the "peace 
of families." The Italian govern- 
ment has pretended to guarantee the 
freedom and independence of the 
Sovereign Pontiff in the exercise 
of all his spiritual functions, but 
now it proposes to prevent the pub- 
lication of his encyclicals and alio* 
cutions ; to condemn him not only 
to perpetual imprisonment, but to 
perpetual silence ; to prosecute the 
bishops if they transmit his instruc- 
tions to the faithful, and the priests 
if they preach against any heresy 
sanctioned by the state. To cen- 
sure, by speech or writing, any law 
or institution approved by the civil 
authority is to be treated as a fe* 
lony calculated to "disturb con- 
sciences." Our divine Lord passed 
the whole period of his ministry on 
earth in disturbing consciences; 
the history of Christianity, the la- 
bors of missionaries and reformers, 
are nothing else than a record of 
the disturbance pf consciences. But 
the pagan revolution has no tolera- 
tion for Christianity. Close the. 



confessionals, tear down the pulp its, 
burn the Bibles, break the tables 
of the law ; the sleeping conscience 
of Italy must not be disturbed. 

Thus the conspiracy of the kings 
has moved on towards the subjuga- 
tion of the church. The secret 
societies are only using the king* 
dom of Italy and the despotic em- 
pire of Germany for the accom- 
plishment of their anti-religious 
purpose, and when that is done the 
kings, in their turn, will be the vic- 
tims of the deep-laid and long-cher- 
ished plot for the abolition of " sub- 
ordination" and worship. Let no- 
body imagine that they are inactive 
or that they are satisfied with na- 
tional unity. Mazzini never pre- 
tended that their work was done 
when a king was set up in the 
Pope's palace. He died conspir- 
ing against Victor Emanuel and 
urging Italy to press on to " the 
goal of the revolution." Nor did 
his projects die with him. The 
anniversary of his death was cele- 
brated last March by democratic 
demonstrations all over Italy which 
the government was helpless to 
suppress. " A funeral march, a na- 
tional hymn, and a few short, earn- 
est words from some well-known 
and esteemed local republicans and 
capi'Popolo^^ says an English liberal 
journal, " declaring the commemo- 
rative ceremony to be not merely a 
token of remembrance, but * di prom- 
ise^ was all that took place ; but the 
fact that these things did take place 
on the same day throughout the 
whole of Italy is one of great sig- 
nificance. In many instances the 
authorities did their best previous- 
ly, by warnings and even by threats, 
to prevent these demonstrations, 
but we have heard of no case 
in which they ventured upon any 
attempt to put them down by 
force." * The flags which the as- 

^Tht Mxmmintr (JLoudoa), Match 31, 1877. 



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Pope Pius the Ninth. 



sociations carried were " free from 
the stain,'* to use the popular 
phrase — that is to say, they did not 
show the arms of Savoy ; and the 
letters read and addresses delivered 
spoke openly of a '* time for action" 
which was yet to come. And while 
the clubs were thus parading and 
declaiming the following circular 
was distributed among the rank 
and file of the Italian army : 

" Free citizens ! Brother Carbonari ! 
Every sect, every family, every individ- 
ual is free to investigate, as best he may, 
the road which leads to heaven ; but it 
belongs to Che Carboneriato indicate and 
open up the way to the kingdom of lib- 
erty, to the triumph of justice, to social 
amelioration upon earth. The Carbon- 
eria, in its principles, i^ its develop- 
ment, and in the means which it pro- 
poses to employ for its purpose — i.^., for 
the amelioration, economic and moral, 
of mankind, for the diffusion of liberty, 
and for the perfect equalization of soci- 
ety — is the one association which can 
boast of the right of nature and the most 
perfect justice. All other associations, 
because based on privilege and ambi« 
tion, either miss their aim or become use- 
less. Persuaded of this, the apostles of 
our principle have devoted themselves 
to propagating and defending it with ar- 
dor, defying dangers, condemnations, 
and calumnies of the most deadly kind. 
Many were the acquisitions which our 
association made in a short time in every 
branch of social science, in the arts, and 
in commerce, and now all our aspirations 
are turned towards you who compose 
the army — the material force of nations. 
Soldiers! remember that you are sons 
of the people, free citizens, and at the 
same time the obstacle to the common 
weal and the hope of ail. Do you wish to 
serve tyranny, privilege— in a word, the 
oppressors? Remember that you are 
sons of the people ; that force alone 
dragged you from the bosom of your 
desolated families ; that, slaves of a stern 
discipline, you are forced to shoot down 
the oppressed, to protect the oppres- 
sors ; and do not forget that to-morrow, 
wounded and crippled, you will return to 
the ranks of the people whom you charg- 
ed with the bayonet, and that in your turn 
you will then be charged and oppress- 
ed. Remember that before being slaves 



yott were free, and that before serving 
the despot you were citizens. The Car- 
boneria expects you among its ranks ; 
come and range yourselves by the side 
of thousands of other brave ones, officers 
and graduates, who do not disdain to 
stake everything to preserve themselves 
true sons of the people, generous citi- 
zens of our common country.*' 

n. 

We have endeavored to follow 
thus far the progress of that gene- 
ral revolt of the world against the 
divine authority which has marked 
the pontificate of Pius IX. and 
embraces the Holy Father's heroic 
life of constancy and sufTering. 
But simultaneously there has gone 
on a contrary movement — a clear- 
er development and consolidation 
of the authority of God's church 
over the minds of the faithful ; and 
herein we trace his glorious life of 
triumphant action. For his atti- 
tude towards the revolution has 
not been one of mere passive re- 
sistance. He has fought a stout 
fight for the imperilled truth. It 
is a time of corruption and unbe- 
lief, when the world is lifted up 
with Satanic pride to defy Heaven, 
and society is sacrificing all the 
guarantees of order, and even the 
elect are sorely tempted. History 
will record that the great mission 
of Pope Pius IX. was to expose the 
fallacies and illusions of these evil 
days, to stamp every error as it 
arose with the reprobation of the 
infallible judge, and, after empires, 
and kingdoms, and republics have 
been racked by a century of the 
pagan revolt, to prepare again the 
foundations of Christian civiliza- 
tion. " God has laid on me," said 
he to the great assembly of bishops 
in 1867, " the duty to declare the 
truths on which Christian society 
is based, and to condemn the er- 
rors which undermine its foimda- 
tions. And I have not been silent. 



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Pope Pius the Ninth. 



315 



In the Encyclical of 1864, and in 
that which is called the Syllabus, 
I declared to the world the dan- 
gers which threaten society and I 
condemned the falsehoods which 
assail its life. To you, venerable 
brethren, I now appeal to assist roe 
in this conflict with error. On you 
I rely for support. I am aged and 
alone, praying on the mountain, 
and you, the bishops of the church, 
are come to hold up my arms." 
" There is perhaps hardly any pon- 
tiff," says Cardinal Manning, " who 
has governed the church with more 
frequent exercises of supreme au- 
thority than Pius IX."; and surely 
there is something magnificent in 
the courage with which he has met 
every attack of the world by a new 
and bolder assertion of the ever- 
lasting truths against which the 
world is in arms. . There is not a 
characteristic heresy of the time 
for which we Catholics cannot find 
in the utterances of this great pon- 
tiff a complete antidote ; there is 
not a loss inflicted upon the church 
by her enemies for which we can- 
not trace a compensation in some 
clearer recognition of her spiritual 
power, some sublime restatement of 
her sovereign authority. Our Holy 
Father has healed divisions, abol- 
ished national and doctrinal par- 
ties within the pale of the church, 
and displayed to the universe the 
household of Christ one not only in 
the bonds of faith, but in unity of 
sympathies. Four times he has 
summoned the bishops to meet him 
at the tomb of the apostle, in 
1854 more than two hundred bishops 
and cardinals assembled for the defi- 
nition of the dogma of the Immacu- 
late Conception — an act which, be- 
sides its importance in a doctrinal 
sense, had a special significance as 
illustrating the supreme authority 
of the see of Peter. In 1862, just 
after the first spoliation of the tem- 



poralities of the Papacy by Victor 
Emanuel, two hundred and sixty- 
five bishops assembled in Rome for 
the canonization of the martyrs of 
Japan, and their meeting, both for 
the circumstances under which it 
was summoned and the strong tenns 
in which the prelates expressed their 
union with the Holy See and their 
absolute submission to its teachings, 
madeaprofound impression through- 
out Christendom. Five years later 
the revolution had made immense 
progress ; yet in the midst of political 
disturbance the world not only saw 
five hundred bishops gather at Rome 
to celebrate the centenary of St. 
Peter's martyrdom, and again to 
testify their devotion to Peter's suc- 
cessor, but it heard the announce- 
ment of a general council, the first in 
three hundred years, called at a time 
when to the unaided human eye 
the papal throne seemed tottering 
to its fall. Here was an inspiring 
example of faith and Christian 
courage ! 

Cardinal Manning's admirable 
sketch of the history of the Vati- 
can Council,* now in course of 
publication, shows the reasons for 
calling that grand assembly, and the 
reasons especially for the definition 
of^ infallibility, its supreme and 
most glorious achievement ; and it 
brings out in clear light the fact 
that it was with Pius himself that 
the idea of the council originated. 
If it could ever be said that a 
general council was the work of 
one man, the Council of the Vati- 
can might be called the crowning 
work of the long life of Pius IX. — 
one which alone would place him 
among the most illustrious of all 
the Roman pontiffs, and make his 
reign a remarkable era in the his* 
tory of the Catholic Church. The 
circumstances of the time which 

< Tkt NimtiMttih Ctnimry (London), Mardi 
and April, 2877. 



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Pope Pius the Ninth. 



give such immense importance to 
the convocation of this council are 
summarized in the opinions of the 
cardinals to whom the Pope sub- 
mitted the question as early as 
1864, and we find an excellent 
synopsis of them in the papers by 
Cardinal Manning already cited. 
" The special character of the age," 
say their eminences, "is the ten- 
dency of a dominant party of men 
to destroy all the ancient Christian 
institutions, the life of which con- 
sists in a supernatural principle, 
and to erect upon their ruins and 
with their remains a new order 
founded on natural reason alone. 
. . . From these principles follows 
the exclusion of the church and of 
revelation from the sphere of civil 
society and of science; and, fur- 
ther, from this withdrawal of civil 
society and of science from the 
authority of revelation spring the 
naturalism, rationalism, panthe- 
ism, socialism, communism of these 
times. From these speculative 
errors flows in practice the mod- 
ern revolutionary liberalism which 
consists in the supremacy of the 
state over the spiritual jurisdiction 
of the church, over education, mar- 
riage, consecrated property, and 
the temporal power of the head of 
the church." These and a multi* 
tude of other prevalent errors 
Pius IX. had condemned in the 
Syllabus and Encyclical which 
Cardinal Manning elsewhere re- 
fers to as " among the greatest 
acts of this pontificate," summing 
up the declarations of many years, 
and giving them " a new promul- 
gation and a sensible accession of 
power over the minds not only of the 
faithful, but even of opponents, by 
the concentrated force and weight 
of their application."* But it was 
expedient that the declaration 

* Ptiri PriviitgiuM, London. xSjx. 



should be published aRain with the 
united voice of the whole episco- 
pate joined to its head. Thus tlie 
council was almost unanimously ap- 
proved as a sovereign remedy for 
the disorders of the time, an en- 
couragement for the faithful, a care 
for dissensions, an antidote for 
evil tendencies within the church, 
an impulse to \\\t new and nobler 
life which even amid the political 
and social confusion had already 
begun to spring up among the 
Catholic peoples. And so, even 
while the pagan revolution was 
preparing its last assault upon the 
pontifical throne, an astonished 
world witnessed this most majestic 
demonstration of the authority, the 
unity, and the power of the church, 
and the wliole body of the faithful 
were filled with courage and fresh 
enthusiasm. Diiven from his capi- 
tal, robbed, and insulted, the cap- 
tive of the Vatican, whose voice 
rings out clear and firm above the 
din of the century, whose strong 
arm sustains, whose saintly exam- 
ple inspires, is yet victor over the 
world in the council and the Sylla- 
bus. 

It would be pleasant, if space al- 
lowed, to follow the course of his 
beautiful private life. It is a mod- 
el of devotion and simplicity. In 
his great palace he occupies only a 
plain bed-chamber with a bare stone 
floor, and a working-cabinet with 
little furniture except a table and 
two chairs. He rises, summer and 
winter, at half-past five. He says 
Mass, and hears a second Mass of 
thanksgiving; or if sickness pre- 
vents him from celebrating the 
Holy Sacrifice, he does not fail to re- 
ceive communion. His hours of work 
are long and regular. His fare is 
plain, even to meagreness. Every 
day he takes exercise in the Vatican 
gardens, and one of his favorite re- 
sorts is a beautiful alley of orange- 



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Pope Pius the Ninth. 



317 



trees, where the pigeons come to 
feed from his hand. One day he 
was discovered with three cardinals, 
playing " hide and seek " in the 
gardens with a little boy. Yet with 
all his gentleness he has a keen and 
caustic wit. The author of a pious 
biography sent his book to the 
Pope for approval. The pontiff read 
till he came to these words: "Our 
saint triumphed over all tempta- 
tions, but there was one snare which 
he could not escape : he married " ; 
and then he threw the book from 
him. 'MVhat!" said he, "shall 
it be written that the church has 
six sacraments and one snare .^" 
Of a Catholic diplomatist whose 
conduct and professions were at 
variance he said : " I do not like 
these accommodating consciences. 
If that man's master should order 
him to put me in jail, he would 
come on his knees to tell me I 
must go, and his wife would work 
me a pair of slippers." During the 
French occupation of Rome a cer- 
tain French colonel was guilty of 
so gross an offence to the Pope's 
authority that the Holy Father 
demanded his recall. Before his 
departure he had the effrontery to 
present himself at the Vatican and 
ask for a number of small fa- 
vors, ending with a request for the 
Pope's autograph. The Pontiff 
wrote on a card the words which 
our Lord addressed to Judas in the 
garden, ^^ Amice ^ ad quid venisti?" 
(" Friend, wherefore hast thou come 
hither?"), and the colonel, who did 
not understand Latin, showed it to 
all his friends as a testimonial of 
the Pope's regard, until somebody 



unkindly supplied him with the 
translation. It is the etiquette of 
the Vatican that carriages with only 
one horse must not enter the inner 
court. This rule was enforced one 
day in 1867 against the Prussian 
ambassador. Count von Arnim, and 
Bismarck, for purposes of his own, 
endeavored to make a diplomatic 
scandal of the transaction, instruct- 
ing the ambassador to close the 
legation and quit Rome instantly 
unless he was allowed to drive with 
one horse to the very foot of the 
papal staircase. But Bismarck was 
no match for Pius IX. The Pope 
caused Cardinal Antonelli to write 
that " His Holiness, taking compas- 
sion on the difficulties of the diplo- 
matic body, would in future allow 
the representatives of the great 
powers to approach his presence 
with one quadruped of any sort " — 
avec un quadruple quelconque. It 
is believed that the Prussian minis- 
ter never availed himself of this per- 
mission in its full extent. 

The newspapers bring us bad 
news from time to time of the 
Pope's health. Let us not be 
alarmed. He comes of a long- 
lived family. His grandfather died 
at ninety-three, his father at eighty- 
three, his mother at eighty-eight, 
his eldest brother at ninety. " I 
am in the hands of God," he said 
to an English gentleman ; " I shall 
bless my hour when it comes. But, 
my son, when I take up certain 
newspapers nowadays, and do not 
find in them an account of my last 
illness and my end, it always seems 
to me as if the editors had forgot- 
ten something." 



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3i8 A Vision of the Colosseum, A J). 1873. 



A VISION OF THE COLOSSEUM, A.D. 1873 

O God, the hotthens Are come into thy inheritance, they htfve defiled thy holy temple: they hnvt 
mnde Jeraaalem a» a place to keep fruit.— iV. Ixzyiii. 

I HAD been idly reading, through the quiet afternoon, 

A poet's passionate verses, falling softly into tune 

Of even, measured rhythm, and of fine, melodious words. 

Rippling along with easy grace like careless song of birds ; 

Now warblings, half unconscious, like the happy songster's trill 

Poured from some wind-swayed bough when all the woods are still ; 

Now shriller notes that rose aboye harsh, grating sounds of war, 

Loud clarion-notes, above the drums, proclaiming peace afar — 

Loud paean sounds triumphant that Italy was free, 

United, and one mighty realm from smiling sea to sea ; 

From Sicily's smoke-crowned peak to Savoy's Alpine chain 

One flag met every rambling breeze that breathed o'er hill and 

plain ; 
And haughty Rome, in truth, the Caesar's city now once more, 
The perilous reign of Peter passed for ever safely o'er. 
'* lo I triumpfu ! onward ! AH ye guarding eagles, come ! 
And with its ancient glory fill your old imperial home." 



I, sighing, closed the volume. Ah ! for me how sadly dim 

The poet's glowing setting of pale Freedom's Roman hymn, 

Whose music, as I heard it, only direst discord made. 

The martial beat of rattling drum, the trumpet's mellowing shade, 

Hid all the sweeter utterance of a happy people's voice 

Or sound of pealing church-bells bidding kindly skies rejoice. 

I heard above the loudest note the dull, persistent sound 

Of forging iron fetters — even riveted while crowned, 

Sweet Freedom saw, indignant, built her frail and crumbling throne 

Of consecrated marble newly stolen, stone by stone. 



"/<;.' triumphe! onward ! But the shouting could not drown 

The psalm of homeless friars, weary exiles, marching down, 

Chapel and cell denied them ; for of these the state has need. 

And from the cross's folly must St. Francis' sons be freed ! 

I heard in plaintive chorus nuns sad Miserere sing. 

As ceased for thfem for ever their old convent's sheltering — 

Let them seek aid from Him on high whose faithful sheep they 

are ; 
The horses of the hero-king seek not their help so far! 



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A Vision of the Colosseum^ A.D^ 1873. 319 

I heard, above th' exultant fife, the loud-voiced auctioneer 

Strike down the church's garment 'mid the idle jest and jeer 

Of souls that trembled not to see the sacred chalice borne 

By hands that would have helped of old to press the twisted thorn, 

Who would for thirty pieces once their loving Lord have sold — 

Why not his spouse's raiment for twice that, glittering gold ? 

I heard the heavy rustle of quaint, figured tapestry 

By pious fingers cunning wrought in days of chivalry. 

Loud chimed the strangers' clanking coin that paid the moneyed worthy 

But faint the modem anthem's notes proclaiming Freedom's birth ! 



Of wandering peoples, too, I heard the tired and restless tread. 

Their little harvest grown too scant for even daily bread, 

Fair Freedom's added burden grown too heavy to be borne ; 

While Italy, sad-hearted, watched her children sail forlorn 

To seek across the western sea the life she could not give ; 

For her cannon must be cast, and a nation she must live. 

A nation crowned ! Ah ! royal state is very heavy dole ; 

All too quick the world's pulse beats to heed plaint of weary soul. 

Still with triumphant paeans did the poet's verses ring : 

** Shout, Italy, our Italy ! all-joyous anthems sing I 

Clang out, sad-voiced Roman bells ! hail Piedmont's Victor, — ^king !" 

" Miserere^ miserere^'* 

Sounded church and convent steeple ; 
" In thy mercy spare us. Saviour, 

Leading back thy erring people." 



And as the clanging belfries trembled strangely with the sound, 

The Miserere drifting to the peoples gathered round, 

Methought the quiet afternoon had faded from my sight, 

And I, beneath a Roman sky, alone with deepening night, 

Stood in the Colosseum's shade, with many a wondering thought, 

No touch of moonlight falling on the walls the Romans wrought ; 

The calm stars, gazing earthward, seemed to give nor light nor shade ; 

No torches* fitful splendor through the lonely arches played ; 

And, even as the shade was deep, so deep the silence fell. 

So calm the night it scarce could wake the wind-harp's sighing swell ; 

No beaded aves drifted from cowled pilgrims of the cross, 

No murmur of atoning prayers pleading the nations' loss; 

No tourists' idle laughter broke the silence of the scene. 

While the shrouding arches sheltered my thoughts of what had been. 



Years, centuries had vanished as my winged thoughts flew fast 

To days when Rome imperial o'er the world her robe had cast ; 

O'er the wild, barbarian legions I saw her eagles shine. 

While her nobles quaffed Greek learning in draughts of Grecian wine- 



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320 A Vision of the Colosseum, A,D. i873« 

Expounding, too, with easy art, the Christians* foolish faith : 
How traitorous to Caesar's stale was every Christian breath. 
And then I saw the glitter of their perfumed robes no more. 
As gleaming wings of seraphs stroked my eyelids softly o'er. 



Then I heard the sweet intoning of the Christians* matin psalm. 

And I saw them lowly kneeling before the mystic Lamb : 

Maid patrician bent in prayer with the dark slave of the East, 

Egypt's sage, Juda's captive, meeting at the angels' feast. 

Before that holy altar all one sacred likeness wear — 

His who, on the cross outstretclied, all our sin and weakness bare : 

Subtle Greek before the cross laying down his pride of art; 

Falling meekly peace divine on some savage Scythian heart ; 

Hapless Jew, haughty Northman, Roman proud, and cowering slave, 

Bound together by the blood of Him who died all men to save ; 

One by the bond of suffering, one in the voice of prayer 

That rose with solemn sweetness through the catacombs' dull air : 

" Miserere^ miserere,** 

Rose the sad and earnest pleading; 
" In thy mercy spare us, Saviour, 

Unto thee the nations leading.'* 



Lo ! as entranced I listened, there mingled with the song 

A sound as if of many steps passing the streets along. 

And the ancient Roman arches 'neath which I dreaming stood 

Grew peopled with the city's fierce and restless multitude. 

What noble game should fitly while the idle hours away, 

What gracious pastime fill with joy the Roman holiday ? 

Should some strong-limbed barbarian lay his life down in its strength, 

That the day for Roman matrons should have less of weary length ? 

Nay, daintier sight the maiden tells, binding her mistress' zone : 

To-day, by Caesar's lions, Christian maid shall be o'erthrown ! 



Within the dread arena pale and firm the martyr stood— 

A strange and dazzling sight she seemed amid the soldiers rude ; 

So slight the little, childish form, so young the radiant face, 

Whence streams of holy glory flooded all the pagan place ; 

The happy lips half-parted with a love that fain would speak, 

And the eyes to heaven uplifted beneath the forehead meek — 

The eyes whence earth had vanished, heaven's shadow resting there. 

The glimmer of its shining falling softly on her hair. 

Ah ! happy maid, that, listening, heard above the tumult wild 

The loved voice of the Father calling home his little child ; 

The voice of the Belovfed bidding sweet his loved one come : 

** Arise, my Dove, my Beautiful " — it sounded o'er the hum 



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A Vision of the Colosseum^ A.D. 1873. 321 

Of wondering crowds who could not guess whence came the martyr's 

strength, 
Her heart with joy nigh breaking that it should rest at length 
On His whose love had bought it with a price exceeding far 
The spoils of all the nations gracing Csesar's triumph-car. 
One little grain of incense still might save the martyr's life. 
But one little breath for Caesar still win release from strife — 
Unto Casar what is Caesar's, to God the life he gave ; 
Less duty could she offer Him who died that life to save ? 
And then the vision faded, and once more I stood alone 
Where thought of sainted martyrs seemed to consecrate each stone, 
And stars as calmly watching o'er as once in days bygone 
When Caesar's dearest pastime won his slaves a deathless crown. 

^^ Miserere^ miserere^* 

Seemed the night-wind lowly sighing ; 
"Call thy erring sheep, O Saviour, 

Dearest Lord of love undying !" 



Soft then I saw advancing through the darkness* mighty shade 
A tall and stately figure in wide, trailing robes arrayed, 
The fair, white arms in longing stretched, as if in woe to seek 
The comfort of the broken heart, the strength of all the weak- 
Christ's blessM cross with arms outspread, as if to mutely plead 
For mercy for the sinner, from tender hearts love's meed ; 
Of mightiest love the symbol true, the link 'twixt heaven and earth. 
The sign by which earth's frailest one is cleansed for heavenly birth. 
In vain ! No craving hand can touch that sacred symbol now, 
Its holy vision bring no rest to world-tossed, aching brow ; 
The modern Caesar has no need to mark where martyrs fell : 
** Unto Caesar what is Caesar's " — that word they kept too well. 
And murmuring monks but echo, their chaplets telling o'er, 
The words these stones repeated in the Roman days of yore ; 
To earthly science dearer far the walls the pagans built 
Than the precious blood of martyrs for love of Jesus spilt. 
Perchance beneath these stones might lie rare treasures of old Rome- 
The cross in Christian kingdom must not wander from its home ! 

" Miserere^ miserere y* 

Seemed the very stones outcrying; 
" In thy mercy spare the nations. 

Heed, O God ! the prisoners' sighing." 



A sound of low lamenting then filled all the silent place. 
Whose darkness won unearthly light from out the stranger's face^ 
A face so fair not Paphos' queen could claim a grace so rare ; 
Ah ! only she, the much-desired, such peerless mien could wear. 
And low I heard her murmuring : " Ah ! me, woe, woe is me ! 
So weary are my ears with sound of shouts that speak me free. 
VOL. XXV. — 21 



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322 A Vision of the Colosseum, A.D. 1873. 

Free ! Am I free ? Upon my head rests weight of royal crown. 
And Piedmont's soldiers guard me, fearing lest I lay it down. 
Italy ! Am I Italy ? That name indeed I bear; 
And among the nations standing a nation's crown I wear— 
Proud empires that salute me fair, green lands beyond the sea, 
Crying aloud : * Shout, Italy ! Thank Victor thou art free ; 
Thy peoples shall no longer 'neath the tyrant's scourge bend low, 
And, too, thy seemly garment no unseemly rent shall show ; 
Among thy peers come thou once more to take thy place and name, 
Fair Southern queen. King Victor has ta'en away thy shame.' 



" O gold-haired northern peoples ! know ye not the sound of chains ? 

Ne'er heard ye clink of German spur along my Lombard plains? 

O rosy-cheeked barbarians ! do ye deem that I am free 

Because my rulers speed you when ye prate of liberty !' 

When ye the wide arms shorten of the world-redeeming cross 

Since too far its shadow falls, and ye deem that shade your loss ! 

Far, far across the western seas I hear their poets sing, 

While Freedom's joy-bells pealing, loud, exulting anthems ring : 

*Rise up, dear Italy unchained; thank Victor thou art free. 

And bend, oppressed, at Peter's throne no more thy trembling knee. 

Thy sons shall waste in convent cell no more their manhood's strength ; 

See ! open wide, their prison-doors : free men they are at length ! 

Dark tyranny and priestcraft prostrate fall before thy king ; 

Thy children freemen rise once more beneath his sheltering.* 



" O strong-armed western people ! in your home beyond the sea, 

Bearing even as your birthright the grace of liberty. 

List not the songs such poets sing : they know not me or mine ; 

Studded with cruel thorns for me each laurel wreath they twine. 

A mournful queen I am, alas ! crowned in another's place — 

The mighty One from whom my face hath won its look of grace. 

I sit as a usurper where I fain would kneel and pray. 

Crowned with Rome's earthly circlet from her forehead stolen away! 

The world's imperial mistress once, now queen of love and peace, 

Holds she her life and liberty but as earth's monarchs please ? 

Fain would they on her gracious brow my coronet have set. 

Its lustre dimmed with Savoy's loss, with Naples* tears all wet I 

The handmaid of her Maker, fair with lustre not of earth, 

Should she to Piedmont's Victor bend her brow of heavenly birth? 

The mother of all peoples where the cross's light is shed, 

Was my dull, narrow diadem fit crown to grace her head ? 

In her old palace I sit throned, crowned with her earthly crown, 

With jealous care watched ever, lest I cast the honor down. 

I see my children wander wide in exile from their own, 

And, when they ask for living bread, my masters give them stone. 

I sit beside St. Peter's chair ; like his, my hands are bound ; 

My eyes weep bitter sorrow at your paeans' wild, glad sound ; 



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A Vision of the Colosseum, A,D. 1873. 323 

Beneath the heavy cuirass that is girded on my breast 
I bear the wreath mysterious St. Peter's hand hath blessed. 
Upon the cannon rests my hand craving to lift the cross, 
And 'neath Sardinian colors I bewail the blind world's loss. 

^*Jfiserere, miserere,*' 

Seemed the weary voice outcrying, 
" Spare thy heritage, O Saviour ! 

Hearken thou the prisoners' sighing. 



** O credulous Western people ! cease shouting I am free. 

My masters have no knowledge of the truth of liberty, 

Who murmur with ignoble lips my old and honored name, 

And seek to rebaptize me with unholy rites of shame. 

Are ye drunk with Freedom's dregs that ye have forgot her face, 

And bend before th' unworthy thing men show you in her place ? 

Stretch not your hands, God-fearing race, to welcome such as these : 

God, who your shepherd is, and judge, gives not to such his peace. 

" Miserere, miserere. 

Mighty Lord of all the living. 

In thy mercy spare the erring. 

Sacred Heart of love forgiving!" 



The great arched walls sent echoing back the sad, indignant plaint, 

The light from that fair, mournful face grew evermore more faint. 

Till,, fading in the darkness, light and shadow both were gone, 

And I sat where crimson sunset with southern splendor shone. 

Lighting the western city with a flood of harmless fire, 

With a glory, quickly fading, enwreathing mast and spire ; 

Whence no mellow bells pealed earthward, sounding the angel's call. 

Nor Miserere drifted from roof and tower tall ; 

The busy craft went sailing up and down the crowded stream — 

Upon my lap the poet's book, the conjurer of my dream. 

Vision and sound had vanished, only still dim echoes fell 

Of pleading voices rising on the night-wind's scarce-felt swell : 

^^ Miserere, miserere, 

Hear, O God ! the prisoners' sighing ; 
Spare thy heritage, O Saviour ! 
Dearest Lord of love undying." 



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324 



The Doom of the Bell. 



THE DOOM OF THE BELL. 



Two men were sitting in a garret 
at the very top of one of the crazi- 
est old houses in Bruges — not a house 
dating from the fifteenth century, 
such as those we admire to this day, 
but a house that was already two 
hundred years old when those were 
built. It stood on the brink of the 
canal beyond which are now the 
public gardens that have displaced 
the ramparts of the once turbulent 
and independent city. Then the 
houses crowded into the wide fosse 
of not too fragrant water, and lean- 
ed their balconied gables over it. 
This \va§ not in the busy or the 
splendid quarter ; it was far from the 
cathedral and the Guildhall. And 
in those prosperous times of the 
Hanseatic League, of the Venetian 
and Genoese merchant-princes vis- 
iting and marrying among their full 
peers of the city of Bruges — the 
times of the grand palaces built by 
those royal and learned traders — 
these two men I speak of were poor, 
obscure, and with little prospect of 
ever being anything else. Yet one 
of them had it in him to do as 
great things as the Van Eycks, 
and to take the art-loving city by 
storm, if he could only get "a 
chance." It was the same in the 
year 1425 as it is now, and men in 
picturesque short-hose and fiat caps 
were marvellously like those we see 
in ugly chimney-pots and tight trou- 
sers. The rivalry of other artists — 
none very eminent — and the unget- 
able patronage of rich men stood in 
this young painter's way, and he got 
disheartened and disgusted. This 
garret was his studio, his bedroom, 
and his kitchen. It was cheap, and 
the light could be managed easily 



and properly to suit his painting; 
but it was not one of those elabo- 
rately artistic studios, a picture in 
itself, which we associate with the 
idea of the "old masters." The 
things that were there had evidently 
drifted there and got heaped up by 
accident — homely things most of 
them, and disposed with the care- 
lessness natural to a man who had 
little belief or hope in his future. 
There was an air about the whole 
place as well as its owner that seem- 
ed to say as plainly as any words^ 
" What is the use ?" But the other 
man was a contrast to him. He 
was much older ; a wiry form, and 
eager, small eyes, and an air of re 
sistance to outward circumstances, 
"as if he could not help it," but 
not in the sense of what is popular- 
ly called an "iron will," were his 
chief distinguishing marks. He 
was neither artist nor merchant, 
and he lived " by his wits." In 
those days, just the same as now» 
that meant something bordering od 
dishonesty ; and such men were 
known as useful, but scarcely repu- 
table. This individual was seated 
on a low trunk or chest of polished 
wood, but not carved, nor even 
adrfrned with curious hinges or 
iron-work; the other stood oppo- 
site, leaning on the high sill of a 
window in the gable, looking down 
into the canal. 

"Peter," said the latter after a 
pause, " have you heard of any one 
dying lately in the great houses, or, 
for that matter, in the rookeries.?" 

" No, not dying — at least, not 
lately," said the other slowly. 

" Not dying /" said the first, laying 
the same emphasis on the word as 



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The Doom of the Bell, 



325 



his friend had done, and not show- 
ing any lack of understanding or 
sign of surprise. 

" Well, I mean she recovered ; but 
she was pretty near death, and of 
course will be again as soon as it is 
safe. It put some of his lordship's 
plans out a little when he heard how 
badly Simon had done his work. 
But you know it was not at his • 
house, but in a kind of prison, and 
she was put there on a charge of 
stealing her mistress* Genoese pearl- 
embroidered robe, and // was said 
the lady begged as a favor she 
might not be publicly executed 
for the attempt, but allowed some 
time to repent and prepare; and 
when she was ready, she was to be 
told that one day, within the week, 
she would be poisoned by some- 
thing in her food, which she could 
not taste and which would give her 
no pain, but put her to sleep— /c?r 
fver. But no one believed that this 
was her mistress' request, nor that 
she ever stole anything, of course. 
Every one knows that poor Dame 
Margaret is a cipher in her hus- 
band's house — ^a worse victim of my 
Lord Conrad's than any one there, 
many as they are; and he is just 
now out of reach of punishment, 
being, by the Count of Flanders' in- 
fluence, a member df the govern- 
ment, a councillor, and I know not 
what besides. But it seems Simon 
did not do his work aright, and 
the poor girl is still there, and no 
^oubt, in a week or two, the ex- 
periment will be quietly tried again 
<and with success. Jan, are you 
listening V* 

" Yes," said the artist as he turn- 
ed round with absent look and a 
gesture, as if he had unconsciously 
been picking off some buttons from 
his sleeve and dropping them in 
the canal below. 

" Well, what do you think of it ?" 



"Peter," said the other abruptly, 
" is Simon your friend ?" 

** Well, we have had dealings to- 
gether sometimes. He sells me 
clothes now and then ; you know 
he has a good deal of such stuff on 
his hands." 

" If I could pay him," said the 
artist bitterly, " I should not need 
any go-between ; but I have nothing. 
I want something he could give me, 
and, if I had it, I should not need 
any patron, and would take none, 
short of the Count of Flanders him- 
self" 

" Riddles again," said Peter quiet- 
ly ; " poverty makes you mysteri- 
ous." 

" I'll tell you plainly what the 
riddle is, if you'll help me." 

"For friendship's sake.?" 

" Oh ! no, indeed. Is there one in 
all Bruges would do it, or I expect 
it of him r 

" Well, well, do not croak ; but 
you know by experience that it is 
hard to live." 

" If you will get me what I want 
of Simon, you shall have one-fourth 
of my future reward and Simon one- 
fourth." 

"Too mean terms, those, Jan," 
said Peter quietly, but intently 
watching his friend's face. 

" Very well, each a third, then ; I 
knew you would want no less. But, 
look you," he added, brightening 
up, "no one can share the fame, 
and I shall be known all over Flan- 
ders and Brabant, and France — ay, 
even Italy and Germany ; and who 
knows if the Greek merchants will 
not carry my name to the court 
of Constantinople itself? — ^and yon 
two poor wretches will have no- 
thing but a pitiful handful of gold." 

" Quite enough for me, at any 
rate," said Peter composedly; "it 
will be more than I ever had be- 
fore. But do not let us *' count our 



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326 



The Doom of the Bell. 



chickens before they are hatched.* 
What is it, though, that you want 
to work this miracle with ?" 

"Only a vial of her blood after 
the girl has been dead four hours." 

Peter betrayed no emotion. 

" Rather an unusual request," he 
said meditatively, "and one that 
savors strongly of witchcraft, which 
you know is scarcely less danger- • 
ous than heresy. You remember 
what happened at Constance scarce- 
ly more than ten years ago ?" 

" Nonsense ! What has heresy to 
do with the mixing of my colors ? 
And who but a leech will find out 
the mixture? And after all, if a 
fool were to use this potion just 
mixed as I shall mix it, and paint a 
picture with it, his picture would be 
only fit for a tavern-sign, and no 
one could tell the difference. If 
you need the ingredients, you need 
the skill more." 

"Why, Jan, you are getting en- 
thusiastic — a miracle, that, in itself. 
I thought you had made up your 
mind that you would never do 
anything that would get known." 

"Well, I have a feeling, since 
you mentioned this case, that I 
shall be known before I die, and 
known by this means too. Can you 
get me what I want ?" 

" I dare say I can. But shall I 
tell the old sinner Simon that I 
want it for you, or say it is for a 
leech ?" 

"Why lie about it?" said the 
young man fiercely. 

" Prudence, you know," said the 
other, perfectly unabashed. 

"No; tell him the bare truth, but 
swear him to secrecy. If he tells 
it, he shall forfeit his share." 

" He could get twice as much for 
denouncing you." 

" Let him ! Where is his interest 
to denounce me ? He is not a fiend, 
and he knows it is hard to live." 



" He did^ but may be he has for- 
gotten it in his present position. 
All the grandees know him now." 

" But you forget, Peter, that his 
own business is more dangerous 
than my undertaking could be, 
even taking it for granted I should * 
be suspected of witchcraft, and he 
would scarcely like to draw atten- 
tion on his own delicate doings." 

" So far true," said Peter. " I re- 
spect your shrewdness ; you can 
talk sense sometimes. I will get 
that vial for you some time this 
week or next." 

" Do not forget the exact time 
after death — four hours. The per- 
fection of the mixture would be 
gone if you did not attend to that. 
I shall come with you to the door^ 
and wait for you and the vial, any 
night and any hour you mention." 

" Very well," said Peter, as he got 
up and stretched himself. " I sup- 
pose your larder is empty ?" 

" Oh ! I forgot. You can have 
what there is — cheese three days 
old, and some fresh brown breads 
and two eggs, new-laid yesterday 
morning, which my friend the wash- 
erwoman gave me for sitting up at 
night with her sick boy. She would 
make me take them, and I am glad 
now / need not eat them myself. I 
should feel m^n, if I did ; and yet^ 
if they stayed there till to-morrow> 
hunger would drive me to it. You 
^re welcome to them." 

Meanwhile, Peter had silently 
helped himself to all the articles 
mentioned except one " hunch" of 
bread, and left the garret with a 
cool "Thank you." Jan turned 
back to the window, and stayed 
nearly an hour looking down into 
the drowsy canal with its fringe of 
dark, huddled houses, each, as he 
thought, a frame for a picture full 
of the same agony of hopeless as- 
pirations and submission to grim 



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The Doom of the Bell. 



327 



and sordid circumstances as his 
own. But he saw through glasses 
of his own staining; for many of 
those wretched, crazy, but beauti- 
ful houses held pictures of a bright 
home life and love that looked no 
higher or farther for happiness, and 
was, in truth, the outcome of a mind 
more philosophical than the future 
glory of Flemish art, staring into 
the flood from his garret window, 
could boast of possessing. 

Three months went by, and no one 
saw the young artist, save the man 
who sold him his meagre provisions, 
Peter, and his friend of the eggs. 
Five days after the conversation we 
have recorded Peter and he were 
walking home at two O'clock in the 
morning through the streets, where 
no one but the watchman had leave 
and license to be, calling out the 
hour when the chimes struck it. 
It was bright moonlight, and the 
two men would gladly have dis- 
pensed with the beauty of the 
night, much as it enhanced the 
charm of the great mansions they 
passed, the carved doorways, the 
delicate balconies, the ponderous, 
magnificent iron bell-pulls, the lions' 
and griffins' heads on the many 
bridges over the narrow canals. 
Even Jan passed hurriedly by, stand- 
ing nervously back in a doorway if 
he heard the clear cry of a watch- 
man, starting as a loose stone rat- 
tled under his feet in the pavement, 
and even when his companion ill- 
naturedly put his hand in a foun- 
tain and noisily disturbed the wa* 
ter with a " swish" that made the 
other turn pale and look around in 
horror of being pursued. 

As the weeks went by and the 
young man worked on alone, fever- 
ishly and battling with his own su- 
perstitions as well as the fear of 
being denounced by his two asso- 
ciates, an odd change came over 



him. Peter noticed it about one 
month after the day they had pro- 
cured the vial of blood. Jan was 
taken with a pious fit that day, and 
insisted on spending some misera- 
ble pence he had on candles offer- 
ed for the soul of the poisoned girl, 
and which he, with genuine devout- 
ness, put on the iron spikes provid- 
ed for the purpose in the church 
of Notre Dame. That day, having 
spent all in this way, he fasted alto- 
gether and nearly fainted at his 
easel ; but when he left off work 
Peter saw that a startled, expectant 
look was in his eyes, which he di- 
rected furtively every now and then 
to one particular corner of his room. 
When questioned he hurriedly turn- 
ed the conversation ; but the scared ' 
look grew more and more intense a$ 
time went on. At last, one night, 
the young man asked Peter seri- 
ously and with great trepidation to 
stay and sleep with him. 

" I believe I am getting nervous," 
he said, with a laugh that was any- 
thing but genuine. Peter made no 
objection, but in the middle of the 
night he was awakened by Jan. 
The poor fellow was in a violent 
cold perspiration, and, pointing ex- 
citedly to the same corner, cried : 

" There she is ; and she never 
says a word, but only looks at me 
reproachfully ! She has been there 
every night since the first Month's 
Mind !" 

"Pshaw !" said Peter," I see noth- 
ing there, Jan ; you should be bled — 
that is all. You have been over- 
working yourself." 

But nothing would persuade the 
artist that the ghost of the poison- 
ed girl was not there, silent and re- 
proachful ; and there, day after day 
and night after night, he saw her, 
and, though he longed to speak to 
her, he never dared. 

Three months were over and his 



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328 



The Doom of the Bell. 



picture was done; but he was only 
the skeleton of his former self, and 
he looked, as Peter said, like what 
the Florentine woman had said of 
Dante — "the man who had gone 
down to hell and come back again." 
His bitterness was gone, so was his 
hopelessness, but there was no 
healthy joy or youthful enthusiasm 
in their place; he seemed to have 
grown old all at. once, except for 
the feverish, eager haste to show 
bis picture and win the name that 
should darken that of the nation- 
al pets and the popular favorites. 
Where to show it ? was a question 
Peter put more than once, but Jan 
waived it as not worth any anxiety. 
He should write a notice, and post 
it on the church doors and those of 
the Guildhall and the Exchange, 
to the effect that a new and unknown 
painter had a picture for sale and 
exhibition at such and such a place \ 
and if the public did not care to 
come there to see it, they might see 
it once on next market-day in the 
Grande Place, where the artist 
would show it himself, free to all. 

The subject was " Judith and 
Holofernes " — a common subject 
enough in those days, but the ar- 
tist thought that no one had ever 
treated it in the same way before. 
When we see it in the market-place 
and hear the comments of the peo- 
ple, we shall understand in what 
lay the difference. 

The day appointed by the artist 
came. AH the rich and learned 
men had noticed the placard on 
the church doors, and the connois- 
seurs and critics were on the alert. 
This unpatroned and self-confident 
painter stung their curiosity, and 
the merchants, native and foreign, 
were also eager to see and, if they 
liked it, " buy up " the new sensa- 
tion. The people, too, had heard 
of the exhibition, and many crowd- 



ed earlier than usual to the market- 
place to get a glimpse of the myste- 
rious picture being set up by the 
artist. 

No one did see it, however. A 
good many stalls, booths, and awn- 
ings were up long before daylight, 
and no one noticed the stand of the 
new-comer, put up in a corner, and 
screened all round with the com- 
monest tent-cloth. As soon as 
dawn made it possible to see things 
a little, the stand was found to be 
open, and a picture, unframed, was 
seen set up on trestles, and some 
coarse crimson drapery skilfully 
arranged round it, so as to take the 
place of the frame which the artist 
was too poor to buy. A few loun- 
gers came up, and, fancying this was 
the screen to some mystery-play to 
be acted later in the day, sauntered 
away again, like uncritical creatures 
as they were. Presently a priest 
and a merchant came up, evidently 
searching for some particular booth, 
and soon stopped before the pic- 
ture. 

" Here it is," shortly said one of 
them. 

" So tJu%t is the picture ?" said 
the other; and for a while they both 
stood in silence, examining it in 
detail. 

" Wonderful !" said the merchant 
presently. "It beats the hospital 
*St. John.*" 

" There is a strange power about 
the drawing," said the other. 

" But the coloring !" retorted the 
merchant. " See the depth, the 
life-likeness, the intensity ; and yet 
there is nothing violent or merely 
sense-appealing. It is horror, but 
rather mental than physical hor- 
ror." 

" True," said the priest. " I won- 
der if he had a model." 

" Most likely, but there is more 
than he ever saw in any common 



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Ttu Doom of the Bell. 



329 



model; the merit rests with him- 
self alone, I should judge." 

" Well, do you think of buying 
it?" 

'' I am inclined to do so, but 
want to examine it more closely 
first. Besides, I see no one here to 
represent the painter, or even guard 
the picture." 

" Oh ! I have no doubt there is 
some one hovering about — perhaps 
that countryman who looks so va- 
cant. You know the professional 
tricks of our worthy artists !" 

And with this he called the' per- 
son in question, who surely looked 
vacant enough to be in disguise. 

** Can you tell me what you 
think of this picture, friend.?" he 
asked. 

"Very fine, messire." 

" You do not think it like one 
of Hendrick Corlaens, do you ?" 

"1 never saw that, messire," 
bashfully said the countryman. 

" But you think this is fine ?" 

*' Very, very." 

"Why do you like it ?" 

" It seems like life." 

"Like death too.?" 

" Yes, messire." 

" How far did you come this 
morning.?" asked the merchant, 
fancying his companion's shrewd- 
ness had overshot the mark this 
time. 

" Forty-three miles. I started be- 
fore midnight from Stundsen." 

" I think," said the merchant to 
his brother-critic, " we shall make 
nothing of this man. He must be 
one of my brother-in-law's men at 
Stundsen. He is quite genuine in 
his stupidity." 

And the pair moved nearer the 
picture, while others came up and 
stopped, till there was soon a little 
knot of admirers talking in whis* 
pers. The crowd grew as the day 
went on. In the side street lead- 



ing into the Place the doors of 
Notre Dame opened to let out the 
flood of worshippers that had flow- 
ed in since dawn from the country, 
and who now rushed from their 
devotions to their business. Noise 
was uppermost, trade was brisk ; 
the sun got hot and men got 
thirsty. It was soon a riotous as 
well as a picturesque scene, and a 
spectator on tha* balcony of the 
curiously-carved corner window on 
the same side of , the Place as 
the Guildhall could scarcely have 
told which stalls the hurrying 
masses most besieged* so tangled 
was the web of human beings jostling 
and jolting each other along the un- 
even pavement. A good many had 
stared and gazed at the picture. It 
was the subject of many comments 
and disputes that day ; men quarrel- 
led over its merits as they drank 
their sour wine, and women talked 
of it in whispers over their bargains. 
Some children had screamed and 
kicked at first sight of it ; altogether 
it had not failed to be known, seen, 
and talked about. Our two friends 
of early morning had hung about it 
all day and overheard most of the 
remarks of the crowd. Some people 
had been disappointed in finding 
that it was not the sign of a play 
representing the slaying of Holo- 
fernes, but only a picture ; a 
Venetian and a Greek, daintily 
dressed and speaking some soft, 
foreign tongue — a wonder to the 
sturdy Ffemish peasants from the 
dykes and canals by the sea — loung- 
ed near the unpainted railing that 
protected the picture from the 
crowd. No one could see behind 
the picture, but many thought the 
artist was hidden within the closely 
sewn curtains, that never flapped in 
the breeze like the rest of the mar- 
ket awnings. These two and the 
first critics listened in eager silence 



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to the judgment of the crowd, put 
forth in short sentences at long in- 
tervals. Un coming up one wo- 
man said to her companion : 

" Why, I thought they always 
painted Judith with black hair; 
this one has hair the color of 
mine." 

" Perhaps it was his betrothed he 
painted," said the other, '* and in 
compliment to her he made it a 
portrait." 

" Then I should not like to be 
he. A ghostly bride he would 
have." 

"But look at her eyes ; they seem 
like a corpse's just come back to 
life." 

" Pshaw ! how could a corpse come 
back to life 1 You mean a ghost." 

" No — Lazarus, you know. I can 
fancy how frightened and reproach- 
ful he might have looked when he 
woke up and found himself in his 
shroud." 

" / think he would look glad and 
thankful. But come away. It seems 
as if I should dream of that face." 

" Yes ; it makes me feel very 
strange the more I look at it." 

And the two women moved off. 

Presently another voice was heard 
in a muffled tone. 

"See the blood in Holofernes' 
throat. It looks as if it were mov- 
ing." 

" Judith looks too weak and small 
to kill him," said another. 

" So she does," said a third, and 
he added, in a lower tone f " I once 
had a cousin very like that pic- 
ture." 

" Is she dead V* asked a woman, 
a stranger to the speaker. 

** Yes," said the man, with some 
surprise. 

" I thought no live person could 
remind you of this face," answered 
the woman, as if in explanation. 

The two couples of critics glanced 



appreciatively and with a smile at 
each other, and the Greek said to 
his friend : 

" Your boors are no bad critics, 
after all. I think the barbarians 
rather beat us in painting." 

"Beat j^^«/" laughed the Vene- 
tian. "Speak for yourself. But it 
is your religion that has fossilized 
your art ; otherwise you would have 
been—" 

"No," said the other thought- 
fully, " I think you mistake ; I 
doubt if we have the gift you, and 
the Flemings also, have for paint- 
ing. Our literature is as far above 
\}^dX of this northern people as hea- 
ven is above the earth, and our 
sculpture, of course, is unrivalled ; 
but they have the gift of music, and 
of architecture, and of painting — 
the two last marvellously devel- 
oped. And in the first I think your 
people — I do not mean Venetians, 
but some of your other Italian 
neighbors — have just now reached 
a good climax. At Milan I heard 
some chanting that would put us to 
shame, and even here I have heard 
something not unlike it. Yes, I 
cede the palm to the barbarians ia 
the arts of Euterpe and — " 

" But in architecture yours is the 
peer of any northern style," said 
the Venetian. 

"I doubt it," said the Greek. 
" There is a strange impression 
comes over me in these vast, sky- 
high, delicately-carved cathedrals, 
dim and resonant, that comes no- 
where else — not in our gold-color- 
ed, mosaic-paved, dome-crowned 
churches, nor your St. Mark, the 
daughter of our St. Sophia." 

" Every one knows how liberal 
are your views," said the other, with 
a smile. 

"Yes?" asked the Greek, evi- 
dently in innocence. "But I am 
only fair to others. I would rather 



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be a Greek than a barbarian, as the 
adage of one of our old heathen 
philosophers has it; but I can see 
that God has not rained every bless- 
ing on one spot, and that my native 
land, as he did on the Garden of 
Eden before Adam fell." 

"Hush I" said the Venetian, in- 
terrupting him. "Some girl has 
fainted." 

Some little stir was taking place 
in the crowd ; it wcls a girl who had 
fainted, and an old woman, strong 
and powerful, was holding her. 

Among the many questions toss- 
ed to and fro and never answered, 
our four friends all managed to 
hear the words of the old woman 
to her nearest neighbors. 

" Yes, that is the portrait of her 
sister and my granddaughter, just 
as if the poor lost girl had sat for it 
herself. But then this must have 
been painted since she lost her rosy 
color. And I believe the painter 
knows what became of her, and 
where she is, if she is alive; and, 
God forgive me ! I always accused 
the Lord Conrad of Schdn of her 
ruin and disappearance. I will 
know, too, if this painter is to be 
found anywhere in Flanders. Oh ! 
yes, Agnes is very well ; she will be 
herself again directly, nervous little 
thing!" And the old woman, with 
a kind of savage tenderness, shield- 
ed the face of her granddaughter 
in her bosom, while the girl slowly 
revived. 

Some people hinted that the paint- 
er was hidden in the closed tent 
behind the picture, and others 
brought out shears to cut the cur- 
tains; but the priest here inter- 
posed. 

** I think, my friends," he said in 
a clear, authoritative voice, "that 
you had better leave this matter 
to the proper authorities. Messire 
Van Simler and I will see that this 



good woman is heard, and, if need 
be, helped to find her granddaugh- 
ter, or any news of her death and 
fate. It would be an unwarrantable 
act to cut these curtains open : if 
there is no one there, you will feel 
like fools, the dupes of the childish 
trick of an unknown painter ; if you 
find the person you are looking for^ 
you may do him a mischief and 
come yourselves under the eye of 
the law. I advise you to let the 
matter rest. And you, my good 
friend, here is an address you may 
find useful whenever you wish ta 
make further inquiries. It would 
be best to take your charge home." 

The manner rather than the 
words of the speaker took effect at 
once, and the group dissolved ta 
make room for other sight-seers, 
all gaping, all admiring, and all end- 
ing by feelipg uncomfortable and 
leaving the stand with muttered 
words of equal wonder and fear. ^ 
But it is impossible to follow each 
comment, and we have yet other 
scenes to look at before we close 
the history of this picture. 

Among the crowd that day had 
been Peter and Simon, and the for- 
mer, familiar as he was with the 
painting, had ceased to feel impress- 
ed by the weird, indescribable 
beauty and awe that were its very 
essence. But he had been, in a 
business-like way, alive to every- 
thing connected with what was to 
him the instrument of future suc- 
cess, and the fainting scene and 
its close were especially observed. 
He noticed the drift of all the re- 
marks made on the picture ; he had 
foretold it himself — for he was no- 
thing if not worldly-wise — and he 
carefully scanned the faces of the 
four critics who had so pertinacious- 
ly lingered round the stand all day. 
He knew them all for enlightened 
men, above the nonsense of the 



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age, good art-critics, and men born 
to be masters of their kind. Even 
the young Venetian had the making 
of a statesman in him ; the Greek 
was as simple-minded as he was 
generous, and, though his country- 
men had a bad name at Bruges for 
conventional sins of which not half 
of them were really guilty, he was, 
even with the most ignorant, a sig- 
nal exception. The other two were 
trusted native citizens, bosom 
friends, patrons of all that was good, 
learned, and improving, and, what 
was more, powerful in the council 
and civic government. The first, 
by the way, was a canon of the ca- 
thedral, by private inheritance a 
rich man, and, by dint of charity to 
the starving and liberality to men 
of Jetters, raised above the scandal 
that attended on rich ecclesiastics. 
These four were representative 
men, and though each a represen- 
tative of the best type of his own 
class and nation, still no less entitl- 
ed to be called representative men. 
Peter noted the way Messire Van 
Siraler went that evening ; the can- 
on he knew well by reputation. Then 
he came back to the Place and help- 
ed a young peasant to lift and pack 
the picture, leaving on the planks in 
front of the booth the address of the 
artist and a notice that purchasers 
were asked to meet the painter at 
his own studio any time each day 
before dark. The peasant seemed 
slim and tall for a Flemish country- 
man, but his cap concealed his face, 
and his loose vest was well calcu- 
lated to increase his seeming bulk ; 
still, when he got to the studio in 
the old garret over the canal, and 
threw ofP his cap, he proved to be 
the person you must have suspect- 
ed — the painter himself. He said 
nothing, and Peter did not offer to 
'speak ; but the former, as soon as he 
came in, glanced hurriedly into one 



corner and then back at the pic- 
ture. Over their scanty supper the 
two exchanged a few monosyllables 
as to the result of the show, but 
each was uneasy and spoke as if 
compelled by the suspicion of the 
suspicion of the other. Next morn- 
ing Peter went to Van Siml^r's 
house before the latter was out of 
bed, and was received during the 
merchant's ample breakfast. No 
one came to Jan*s garret the first 
day, and he stayed at home alone 
with his work, now and then re- 
touching it, as if drawn to it by a 
spell he could not master; but 
each time he worked at it he seem- 
ed more ill and nervous. Towards * 
dusk he heard a footstep on the 
stair, and opened the door to let in 
some light on the break-neck place, 
full of corners and broken steps, 
where some stranger was evidently 
groping his way. It was the Greek. 
He greeted the painter with grave 
earnestness and more interest than 
is usual with a purchaser. 

"I have come," he said after the 
first civilities, "to buy both your 
pictures sxidyou, and pack both at 
once, as my ships will be in port by 
the night after to-morrow night, and 
it needs time to meet them. They 
cannot wait — at least, that one can- 
not which happens to be most con- 
venient for you to go in. Have 
you any objection to go with me 
to Greece ? — any tie to detain you 
here?" 

Jan looked into the corner before 
he answered, and shuddered. " I 
fear I have," he said unwillingly. 
The Greek looked fixedly at him. 

" I will not keep you any longer 
than you like, and you probably 
like travelling? There are scenes 
in Greece and the East that will 
delight you, if you have a liking for 
Scriptural. subjects; and the jour- 
ney need not be longer than the 



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interval between this cargo from 
here and the next cargo back." 

Jan said nothing. 

" You see I am bent on having 
you as well as your picture," the 
merchant went on; "but if you in- 
sist on refusing me your company, 
I will take the picture at once. I 
have men below ready to carry it 
away, and I will give you your own 
price at once, in gold coin." 

And Jan still gazed into the 
furthest — and empty — corner. 

" I have reasons for my haste," 
said the Greek, slowly, at last. 
Jan turned inquiringly. 

** Good reasons," said his visitor 
gravely and gently, " which I will 
tell you when we are at sea, if you 
will trust me till then; if not, I 
will even tell you now, though 
the proverb says that * walls have 
ears. 

Jan seemed to need no immedi- 
ate explanation, but said : 

** Take the picture, and welcome, 
and believe in my gratitude, though 
1 cannot put it into words; but I 
can take no gold for the picture." 

" Why, you invited purchasers 
to come here to you !" 

"I have learned to-day that I 
cannot sell it." 

" Well," said the Greek, with a 
look of intelligence, " I think you 
and I understand each other, then, 
and I may as well take you and the 
picture too." 

" No," said Jan, " you do not un- 
derstand me^ but I understand you 
and am grateful. If I am in dan- 
ger, it matters little; I prefer meet- 
ing such a danger as you fear for me 
to seeing what I should see always, 
on the ship, in the East, as well 
as here — or at the stake." 

" Your mind is — preoccupied, my 
young friend," said the merchant. 
*• But let me take the picture ; at 
least, it is better to have the evi- 



dence put out of the way in time. 
Let me call to my men." 

" Yes, but no gold for it," said 
Jan without emotion, as he push- 
ed away the purse on the table. 
'* Take the picture ; there will be 
only one face then, and I shall not 
be torturing myself as to whether 
the likeness is. faithful enough or 
not." 

The Greek bent out of the win- 
dow and whistled to two men sit- 
ting on the narrow stone-work of the 
canal ; one of them struck a flinty 
lit a pine torch, and, beckoning the 
other to follow him, came up the 
winding stairs. Jan said not a word, 
and the picture was packed and 
carried away, while the merchant 
lingered yet, pressing gold, protec- 
tion, and future patronage upon the 
benumbed artist. Even the hint 
of fame could not stir the young 
man. 

" I have done my life's work," he 
said gloomily. " I shall never paint 
the equal of that picture again, and 
I do not wish to," he added with a 
shudder ; " and for the sake of my 
reputation I must not paint any- 
thing below that standard." 

"But why should not you do 
even better V said the Greek. 

" I thought you knew,'* said the 
young man, in puzzled uncertainty. 

" I know nothing, and my suspi- 
cions are too vague to shape my 
judgment on the merits of this par- 
ticular work of yours. I gathered 
all I do know, or even suspect, from 
the remarks of the people to-day. 
I am used to watching indications 
of men's fancies, prejudices, pas- 
sions, say even superstitions, and I 
thought it a pity that such people 
as we heard to-day should have it 
in their power to end or mar the 
career of an artist of your genius. 
We want some young, rising paint- 
er — one who can rival the Itsdians ; 



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one who can show that there is a 
future for art, that it is progressive 
and improvable ; one especially 
who will defy conventionalities — for 
I own that your independent treat- 
ment of a * Judith' fascinated me. 
But if I cannot prevail upon you to 
accept my services at present, you 
will not refuse to take this address ; 
it will find me, no matter where I 
may be,, and it will be even a per- 
sonal safeguard for you in my ab- 
sence and during the interval that 
may elapse before I hear of your 
appeal." 

"Thank you a thousand times 
for your unprovoked and generous 
interest!" said Jan more warmly 
than he had spoken before. "I 
shall never forget it. God grant 
my life or death may be guided and 
determined by the highest Power ! 
I sfiould not trust myself to de- 
cide wisely, if I had the choice of- 
fered me ; but if it is ordained that 
I should live long, I prefer your be- 
ing the instrument of my salvation." 

The merchant left, and Jan stay- 
ed alone all night; he was stonily 
calm, watching, thinking, waiting as 
if for an expected event, and never 
breaking his fast through the long, 
dark hours. When early morning 
came, two men in gray cloaks open- 
ed his door and respectfully ordered 
him to come with them to Van Sim- 
ler's house, which he did without 
surprise and without remonstrance. 
Here he found the canon, who with 
Van Simler told him briefly that 
they thought it for his good to be 
taken into the country to the castle 
of Stundsen, belonging to the mer- 
chant's brother-in-law. They did 
not tell him why, and it did not 
even occur to him to ask. As he 
passed from the large dining-hall 
where this short interview took 
place to a room furnished with 
Spanish leather and carved oak — 



his room, he was told, for a few 
hours — he thought he recognized 
the Greek anxiously and quickly 
open a door that led to the passage, 
as if to assure himself of the pre- 
sence of some expected person. 

Van Simler and his friend, mean- 
while, had a short and significant 
talk, a few words of which are here 
set down to explain facts that may 
look to the undiscerning reader 
like the conventional tricks of mod- 
ern mediaevalists, to whom plots 
and kidnapping are " daily br^d." 
" Now," said the merchant, " if that 
scoundrel Peter goes no further, 
there is every hope of getting this 
obstinate young genius out of the 
city in safety; but he may try to 
get two prices and hint the mat- 
ter to Conrad Schdn." 

The canon shrugged his shoul- 
ders. "Of course, in that case," 
he said, " all would be in vain, for 
Count Conrad has the sovereign's 
ear ; and you know the hobby the 
Count of Flanders has lately be- 
stridden." 

" The youth ought to have gone 
with the Greek; but the latter says 
he believes him half-mad, which 
accounts for his staying in the jaws 
of the lion." 

" I have heard of Jan the painter 
before," said the priest, "and, had 
he been a different person, I should 
have gone to him myself; but, from 
my general knowledge of his char- 
acter, any one would do better than 
one of us, and I am glad the Greek 
forestalled me. Why did not you 
keep Peter under lock and key 
when he came here V 

" It was a mistake, I own," said 
the other ; " but still, if I had, there 
was Simon in the secret." 

" Simon is a fool, and nothing of 
this would have occurred to him." 

" I doubt about his being a fool ; 
at any rate, he is a dangerous one. 



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" He is a fool in such matters as 
these, though dangerous enough in 
his way, as you say. Now, our 
Greek friend has just left the 
house, I see, and there is nothing 
to detain me here just now. You 
take the transport business in your 
hands .^ Well and good; while I at- 
tend to any foolish charge made in 
the city. I expect I shall see old 
Mother Colette before dark to- 
night." 

There is no need to go through 
the details of the few days that fol- 
lowed. In one word, Peter was 
more powerful than Jan's four pro- 
tectors put together, but only be- 
cause he had Conrad Schdn at his 
back, and behind him a greater 
''presence" yet — no less a person 
than the Count of Flanders, who 
had lately taken a mania about 
witchcraft. It was easy to play 
upon his vanity and tickle his sup- 
posed superior sense of discovery, 
and Conrad had reasons for divert- 
ing to the young artist the oppro- 
brium which even he, with all his 
power, could not fail to have 
brought upon himself in such an in- 
dependent and proud burgher-city 
as Bruges for the wrong done to 
the orphan daughter of one of her 
citizens and an attendant of his 
wife : for there was still a lingering 
in Flanders of the old knightly 
feeling of the earlier days of chi- 
valry, wiiich made it the duty of 
a knight to consider every house- 
maiden within his walls as his own 
daughter or sister, and protect, and 
even defend, her as such. 

The dark accusations of Conrad 
and his informant against the 
defenceless painter were but too 
readily listened to, and, before his 
friends could conceal him, the sove- 
reign had already sent to demand 
his person. We will pass over the 
mock examination which the count 



held, more with a view to satisfy his 
own curiosity than to assure him- 
self of the prisoner's guilt; over 
the honest but bitter malignity with 
which old Mother Colette, an un- 
conscious tool sought out by Jan's 
enemies, testified against the man 
who, to make such a startling and 
mysterious likeness of her lost 
granddaughter, must have been 
intimately acquainted with her ; 
and, lastly, over Jan's strange apa- 
thy and silence, his refusal to deny 
the charges brought against him, 
and his seeming relief at being 
condemned to die. 

He never told any one the reason 
of all this, and the secret would 
have died with him, if Peter, years 
afterwards, when the picture again 
came to light and became famous, 
had not made known the halluci- 
nation of the painter, to which was 
really due the success others had 
stupidly attributed to forbidden 
practices. The last thing that con- 
cerns us is the strange sentence and 
fanciful doom pronounced by the 
Count of Flanders, the carrying out 
of which will take us up into the 
belfry of the Guildhall, just above 
the market-place where the un- 
lucky picture had first roused the 
ignorant suspicions of the mob. 

Here, where swings the largest 
bell of the famous carillon, we find 
the artist once more. The great dark 
mass hangs dumb beside him; very 
little light is here, but enough to see 
by cLimly, and make out some of 
the maze of beams and iron-brac- 
ed stays that uphold the old bell. 
Even some of the inscription is visi- 
ble ; its gilt letters in relief gleam 
out of the dimness and naturally 
fix the eye in that kind of magnet- 
ic gaze which some say is favora- 
ble to sleep. Jan was half crouch- 
ed in one corner, wondering why 
he was there and how long it was 



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intended he should stay; the two 
men who had brought him had 
simply told him that the count had 
sent him up there to see if he could 
rival the penance of St. Simeon 
Stylites, for a few hours at least 
Presently the bell began to stir and 
sway softly, slowly ; one dull, muffled 
tone came out as the tongue touch- 
ed the outbent lips of the mighty 
bell ; the next stroke came louder, 
the next swing was wider, and Jan's 
head already throbbed with the 
unwelcome noise. Now the mon- 
ster was alive in earnest. Warming 
to its work, it swung further and 
further ; it tossed its base upwards, 
till the beams groaned and creaked, 
and all kinds of hideous minor 
noises seemed to be embroidered 
on the constant dull echo between 
each stroke. A strange wind blew 
in Jan's face ; it was the breath of 
the bell, whose relentless beat grew 
more and more regular, more and 
more monotonous, as it went on. 
The artist dared not move; one 
hair's breadth nearer the terrific en- 
gine would be his death, one blow of 
it? lips would be more effectual than 
any stroke of axe or pile of faggots. 
He shrank close to the wall, but, 
as his body' just cleared the bell in 
its mad flingings and tossings, his 
mind seemed to be struck by it at 
every toll, almost absorbed in it, 
drawn to it with fatal curiosity. 
Was that the bell whose sound had 
been so majestic, so solemn, so beau- 
tiful in his ears as a child, so grand 
when it rang out above the others — 
eighty of them — that chimed on the 
great church holidays and welcom- 
ed the victorious sovereign when 
he came back from war ? Was this 
the heart of the great angel that 
poetry and popular belief had en- 
dowed the belfry with — this ter- 
rible, maddening, brazen- tongued, 



relentless engine? It only just 
missed touching him each time it 
flung itself on his side of the beam- 
chamber ; if it were to swing only a 
little more fiercely, as it seemed 
easy for it to do, one blow would 
crush him. Already the air seemed 
to suck him in under the bell, into 
some dark vault, no doubt — some 
bottomless pit ; had his conductors 
known, when they put him there> 
that it was time for the bell to toll, 
or had they forgotten him ? How 
long would this go on ? His brain 
could not stand it much longer, he 
felt, but to scream was useless ; the 
great, dread voice hushed all other 
sound. It seemed presently as if 
the gilt lettering got brighter ; it 
took the shape of a glaring yellow 
eye; now redder, like fire, now alive, 
now like the eyes in his " Judith," 
that the woman had said were the 
**eyes of a corpse just come back 
to life." But had bells eyes as 
well as tongues? he asked himself 
helplessly. He remembered learn- 
ing about the Cyclops and their 
single eyes in the middle of their 
foreheads; now he really saw a 
worse monster, with an eye of flame 
set in its huge, black, bulging lip. 
Was that the gold the Greek had 
offered him? Surely it was that, 
and no eye. Of course his fancy 
had betrayed him. But how could 
the gold have got there and got 
stuck to the rim of the accursed 
bell ? How long had he been there, 
and when were they coming to 
fetch him ? But they could not get 
in while that fiend was tossing and 
bellowing in these narrow walls. 
What was that other noise now 1 — a 
whirring of a thousand wheels ! 
Where ? It seemed all round ; and 
now the bell appeared to him in a 
network of wheels, all going round 
faster than the eye could follow — a 



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mass of moving air formed of many 
hazy circles intertwined ; he Jkneiv 
they were wheels, but could not 
actually see them. He dared not 
hold his ears and head with his 
hands, for between each fling of 
the bell there was not time to lift 
his hands; and if they were caught — 
Some one was there now — come 
to bring him away. How did he 
get in ? But it was not a man ; it 
had long, fair hair and a misty sort 
of covering. He knew the face Was 
there an angel of the bell, after all, 
who was going to stop the great 
tongue and deliver him ? No ; that 
face was a dead face — Judith just as 
he had painted her, just as he saw 
her in the corner of his room ; and 
Ms was his room, and he had been 
dreaming of the bell. Scarcely — he 
could not dream of such a noise ; 
then the devil must have got into 
his room and changed everything. 
But the clangor never stopped, and 
never spoke either louder or softer — 
one eternal, dreary, vexing, mad- 
dening ring. He would go mad, 
no doubt, if he stayed there an- 
other quarter of an hour ; how long 
had he been there ? Now he was 
fascinated by the unerring accuracy 
of the strokes, and, in a trance, 
expected feverishly the next dull 
boom, and mechanically counted on 
his fingers till the next was due 
again, and so on for five minutes. 
Suppose he should hang on to the 
tongue; would it make a feather's 
weight of difference in the time or 
the sound of the stroke ? He won- 
dered how the bell sounded to those 
in the Place ; they did not heed it 
at all, most likely, or some thouglit 
it must be getting near their time 
for dinner, while pious women 
were reminded to say a prayer, 
and some gleeful child would clap 
its hands and count the strokes. He 

VOL. XXV. — 22 



could count the beats of his heart 
and the throbs in his head. He was 
not mad yet, he hoped, and his 
thoughts came regularly, and he saw 
pictures burned into the air one 
minute and gone the next ; if he 
could have put them on canvas, 
they would have made his name 
and fortune. He was sure he could 
catch their shading ; they looked 
as if fire had been made liquid and 
colored. It was betttr than any of 
the windows in the cathedral, fa- 
mous as they were through the art- 
world for their undiscoverable secret 
of vivid, jewel-like coloring. But 
one picture followed the other so 
soon that, had he painted them all, 
it would have taken him twice the 
threescore years and ten of an or- 
dinary life, and they would have 
filled every church in Flanders full- 
er than twenty chapels in each 
could require. What was the color- 
ing of "Judith," with the pitiful 
chemical combination for which he 
had risked so much, to these rich, 
mellow, miraculous tones, with a 
thousand new, unnamable shades, 
and shadows that looked more like 
the depths of a dark-blue Italian 
lake than the darkness of common 
air.^ But through all these medi- 
tations of a second's length, though 
they seemed like the reveries of 
hours, the boom of the pitiless bell 
went on, crashing through the brain 
of the prisoner, shattering each 
new picture which the last interval 
had stamped on his fancy, sound- 
ing to him now like a roaring fall 
of v\ater, now a ploughing avalanche, 
now a thunder-clap, now the fall 
of a burning house, now the thud 
of earth upon a coffin, now the 
blow of a massive cudgel on his 
own head. Instinctively he cower- 
ed lower, and a beam struck him on 
the back with a sudden violent 



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Wi/d Roses by the Sea. 



blow that made him stand upright 
and remember that the bell was 
there, but no cudgel; \y\xt as he 
rose he had stretched out his hand, 
blindly feeling for support, and 
touched the great rocking monster. 
A thrill went through his frame ; he 
looked upward and vaguely won- 
dered if this was the end, and he 
saw his " Judith ** again, a shadowy 
form among the rafters. The next' 
feeling of consciousness was that 
of lying flat on his back and a 
strong, cold wind wafting across his 
feet ; he put up his hand to lift his 
head a little and press his left tem- 
ple, and then — The bell had 
only tolled for a quarter of an hour. 
As soon as it stopped the same 
men who had taken Jan up came 
again and found him dead, lying in 
a cramped position on his side, and 



one leg still stretched out beneath 
the now silent bell.* 

* If any one cares to knofir what became of the 
picture, he may be interested to hear that it hangs 
now over the altar of a private oratory in the same 
dty where it was painted. The Greek merchant 
look it to Constantinople, where it remained in his 
family till the siege, twenty-eight yean later. It 
was then given by him for safe keeping to his Ve- 
netian friend and transferred to Venice, whence the 
Greek himself, having become a resident of that 
place, took it back to Bruges and offered it to the 
canon, on condition of no further mention beii^ 
made of the circumstances connected with it. The 
offer was gratefully accepted, and it remained dll 
the priest's death in his private collection, the 
Greek having declared that, what with having paid 
no price for it and its being a Scriptural subject, he 
preferred that it should in some way belong to the 
church rather than to the work!. At the canoik's- 
death it was sold to a dealer, who sokl it again for 
a high price to an Italian collector, whose descend- 
ants, in *'hard times," parted with it to a rkh. 
Englishman. It happened, strangely enough, that 
it returned to the nadve city of its unlucky author 
by an intermarriage between the family of the 
English cooQoisseur and that of a passionate lover 
of art in Bruges, and this time it was transferred 
as a li/t. It has been freely shown to any and 
every one who asked to see it. and the story attach- 
ed to it made it one of the " sights '* of the old city. 



WILD ROSES BY THE SEA. 

Untrimmed, uncared for, filling all the ways 
That stretch between the shadow of the pine 
And sea-washed rock where in the soft sunshine 

The sea breaks white through all the long June days^ 

The fair wild roses, flushed like Eastern skies 
When sinks the sun to rest in radiance calm. 
Their pink bloom lift amid the sweet-bay*s balm 

And shine a welcome true to loving eyes. 

Sweet June's rich gladness in the rosy flush, 
As if rejoicing with our human souls. 
While solemn melody from wave-beat rolls,. 

Whose endless anthem knows not any hush : 

And ever answering from the pines sweep down 

The wailing chords the wandering wind doth wake — 
Sad undertones that through June's singing break. 

But cannot dim her roses* radiant crown. 

Beyond whose jewelled zone spreads on and on 

The long, low level of the endless sea, 

Blue with the shadow of infinity 
From cloudless skies, in sparkling light, dropped down ; 



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Wi/d Roses by the Sea. 339 

With here and there a sail, in shade and light, 
Wind-seeking, bearing careless o'er the crest 
Of summer waves the whiteness of its breast — 

A moment's dazzling vision on our sight : 

Earth, air, and sea, with mirth unsullied filled, 
With happy sunshine from June's roses flushed. 
We hold our rose-leaves all to-day uncrushed, 

Our cup of spring-time joyousness unspilled. 

But spring-time passes, rosy petals all 

Drop down and mingle with earth's earlier dead, 
Though faithful sweet-bay still breathes balm o'erhead. 

And ocean's anthem e'er doth rise and fall. 

Almost unfelt the summer hours die. 

Green leaves grow russet on the salty shore. 

The crimson vines droop rocky crevice o'er, 
And wild ducks' marshalled columns southward fly. 

Low asters gleam with delicate light amid 

The massive sunshine of the golden-rod; 

A stray Houstonia shines above the sod 
And lifts to gold-spun skies its pale blue lid. 

The autumn's glory lavishly is spread, 

But summer dieth, loving sung to sleep 

By western wind and murmur of the deep, 
The softened sunshine on her gently shed. 

Where are our roses ? — that rare gift of June 
That filled to perfectness our human life. 
That hushed with silent touch all earthly strife, 

That voiceless sang to keep our hearts in tune. 

Lo ! crowning each rich, sun-browned stem 
Where once its rose the summer's sunrise flushed^ 
Where shone our coronal of joy, now crushed. 

Stands, round and firm, a deeper-tinted gem. 

Rich summer faileth, and true-hearted June, 
For whom birds sang, and perfect blessedness 
Filled every grass-blade with a sense of bliss. 

Tells o'er her beads for one to die so soon. 

Her rosary strung around the rose-crowned shore. 
Our pure June gladness, gathered into prayers^ 
The sweet-hay's incense ever upward bears, 

While we, 'mid loss, seem richer than before \ 



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340 



Divorce^ and Divorce Laws. 



DIVORCE, AND DIVORCE LAWS. 



Or the many evils now arrayed 
against society, none is greater than 
that threatened by the frequency 
and facility with which divorces are 
obtained. This bane of our day, if 
not plucked up by the roots, will 
inevitably bring on the country 
disasters tenfold greater than the 
bitterest political strifes. Already 
its incursions into our midst have 
cast a blight on our morals, have 
infected all classes of society, have 
rudely shaken our best institutions, 
and, if not checked, will prove a 
greater scourge than in our apathy 
we dream of. Yet it continues to 
grow among us day by day ; it rears 
its head higher and higher each 
moment ; it strikes deeper root on 
all sides; its hideous mien is ever 
becoming more familiar to us ; some 
even smile over its attendant dis- 
closures of depravity as pleasant 
tidbits of scandal with which the 
morning papers agreeably enliven 
the breakfast-table, while few re- 
flect over the awful magnitude of 
the danger with which it is fraught. 
So dulled, indeed, has become the 
public conscience in this respect, 
so slow its apprehension of the 
mighty evil pressing on us, that 
scarcely has a warning voice been 
lifted against this social hydra, 
which goes on tightening its coils 
more closely around us every mo- 
ment. It is not alone our crowd- 
ed cities that are poisoned by its 
breath, but it has invaded the still- 
ness of hillside and hamlet, and no 
part of the land is a stranger to its 
presence. 

In olden times a special act of 
Parliament was required in Eng- 
land to legalize a remarriage during 



the life-time of husbands and wives, 
but so tedious and expensive was 
the proceeding that few cared to 
avail themselves of the privilege; 
whereas of late days and in our 
land so simple and easy has become 
the severance of the marriage-knot 
that the mechanic as well as the 
millionaire figures before courts 
and referees, and multitudes now 
throng this new high-road to social 
ruin. 

Chief among the evils resulting 
from the laxity of our divorce 
laws is their active warfare against 
society. The family, as known 
among us, is a creation of the 
church wrought out through the 
indissolubility and sacredness of 
marriage. It is the nursery of so- 
ciety, the hope of the state, and the 
cradle of its destinies. While it re- 
mains pure and intact, so long will 
our sound social institutions flour- 
ish, so long will a healthy public 
sentiment live among us, ready 
to rebuke the shortcomings of 
the powerful and to lighten the 
burdens of the poor, to frown up- 
on official corruption and to en- 
courage disinterested public ac- 
tion. Indeed, this is a point we 
need scarcely insist upon. All 
morarists and sociologists allow 
that the family is the parent of 
society, as the seed is of the crop 
and the acorn of the oak. They 
agree that with its extinction we 
are at once driven on the breakers 
of socijflism, communism, and free- 
love — in a word, that society ceases 
to exist. Now, divorce is the en- 
tering-wedge which the law supplies 
for the ruin of the family; it is 
as the priming to a loaded gun. 



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34^ 



Once give the world to understand 
that marriage is but a simple com- 
pact by which two persons of op- 
posite sexes agree to live together 
conditionally for a time, and the 
permanency of the family is de- 
stroyed; the sacredness of conju- 
gal love is degraded before the 
law into mere sexual desire ; that 
institution which Christ blessed 
and declared to symbolize his own 
union with the church becomes at 
the best a system of stirpiculture, 
and nuptial altars are converted 
into shambles of licentiousness. 
Let the cause be what it may be- 
stowing on either party to the mar- 
riage contract the right to annul it, 
and the cohesion of family ties is 
fatally weakened. This fact our 
court records ominously demon- 
strate every day. Applications for 
divorce, based on the special enact- 
ments of each Slate, are constantly 
filed, in which release from mar- 
riage is sought in accordance with 
the provisions of the law. In Indi- 
ana, for instance, mere incompati- 
bility of temper is made the ground 
of petition ; and in only very few 
cases do wc find adultery or gross- 
ly cruel treatment alleged as a 
reason. The easier conditions of 
the State law are naturally enough 
invoked, whatever may be the true 
inner grounds of disagreement. 
The law of the State offers a means 
of escape from an onerous condition, 
and, either through the perverse 
temper of the litigants or the legal 
skill of counsel, the circumstances 
of the case are readily adapted to 
the requirements of the law. Thus 
the law in reality supplies to those 
who are weary of wedlock the 
means of escaping from it, while 
apparently striving to hedge in its 
interests. This fact will for ever 
and essentially stultify divorce laws. 
No matter how ingeniously framed 



they may be, how buttressed with 
conditions and exactions of proof, 
such are the peculiar relations of 
married life that, given on the side 
of the law the possibility, and on 
the side of the husband or wife the 
desire of escaping from a yoke that 
has become galling, and mere legal 
restrictions melt as wax before the 
sun. 

As has just been said, the court 
records constantly prove this. Let 
us examine the facts in New York 
State, where adultery is the only re- 
cognized ground on which absolute 
divorce can be procured. A hus- 
band desires to free himself from 
married thraldom. He consults a 
convenient friend or an accommo- 
dating lawyer. (Happily, there are 
not many such, but we all know- 
that one can work an infinity of 
mischief.) A conspiracy is entered 
into against the wife ; detectives are 
set on her track ; her incomings and 
outgoings are narrowly watched ; 
her innocent visits are painted over 
with the color of criminality ; her 
letters are intercepted ; she is lured 
into the paths of temptation; and 
such proof, devised with devilish 
cunning, is soon obtained as brands 
that woman with the most infamous 
of crimes. The picture is not of 
the imagination ; the revelations of 
the law attest its terrible reality 
every day, and so defiant of pub- 
lic opinion have some discreditable 
practitioners become that they lake 
no pains to cover up the tracks of 
their infamy. Indeed, it was with 
something like surprise that a short 
lime ago a lawyer in New York 
City listened to the scathing words 
which debarred him from future 
practice in our courts, because of 
his participation in a conspiracy to 
prove an innocent woman an adul- 
teress. 

Circumstantial evidence is all 



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Divorce f and Divorce Laws. 



that the law requires in these cases. 
As a rule, indeed, none other can be 
furnished. Now, this evidence, pro- 
posing to establish what is after all 
but the semblance of crime, since the 
facts necessarily elude ocular proof, 
is such that by asking for it the 
law seems to invite those who are 
desirous of so doing to weave around 
innocence itself a web of circum- 
stances calculated to immesh it in 
the appearance of guilt. Thus the 
law defeats its own intent and 
places a premium on sin. It aggra- 
vates the evil it endeavors to estop. 
Like the smitten eagle, it is forced 
to— 

'* View its own feathen oo the fittal dart 
Which winged the shaft that quiven in its heart 
Keen are its pangs, but keener fiir to feel 
// nurstd th* pinion that imptlitd M# stttl** 

Two hundred divorces a vinculo^ 
obtained in the State of New York 
in the course of a single year, give 
point to these remarks. And in most 
of these cases, it must be remember- 
ed, the defendants denied the charge 
and were convicted only by such evi- 
dence as, though necessarily deem- 
ed sufficient by the court or referee, 
is essentially and of its nature such 
that it might have been manufactur- 
ed. But if these attempts on the 
part of husbands to take advantage 
of the laxity of our divorce laws by 
blasting the character of their wives 
excite our honest indignation and 
disgust, infinitely more heinous must 
appear the conduct of some wives 
in their efforts to procure evidence 
against their husbands. Our read- 
ers must here pardon a few details 
which the cause of truth compels 
us to set down, but which we will 
couch in as few and modest words 
as possible. What we are about to 
state proves the truth of the holy 
proverb that when woman falls 
** her feet go down into death, and 
her steps go in as far as hell " 



(Prov. v. s). There is a fashion- 
able physiology which denies the 
physical possibility of absolute con- 
tinence without serious impairment 
of health. The easy votaries of 
sensuality do not hesitate to uphold 
this odious doctrine in so-called 
scientific treatises, and to proclaim 
with Dr. Draper that " public celi- 
bacy is private wickedness." We 
call this fashionable physiology ; for 
the mass of intelligent non-Catho- 
lics make open avowal of it. In- 
deed, the doctrine is essentially non- 
Catholic, and has been acted upon 
by all rebels against the church 
from Luther to Loyson. Sweden- 
borg condemns celibacy as a crime 
against nature. From being a pure- 
ly religious doctrine, however, it 
has recently come to be regarded as 
a scientific tenet. Pseudo-science 
now shelters it under its degis, and 
it is as much the vogue to believe 
in it as it is to accept the other views 
of so-called advanced modern scien- 
tists. It is this very notion which 
supplies to many a recalcitrant 
wife the weapon with which she has 
succeeded in breaking down the law 
and bringing irretrievable ruin on her 
family. If, as the writer has taken 
pains to assure himself, the inner 
history of our most notorious and 
disgraceful divorce cases could be 
read in the light of broad day, the 
facts would appears as follows : 

A faithless wife, impressed with 
the doctrine just stated, takes such 
steps as will, in her belief, compel 
her husband to compromise him- 
self. He then is watched, snares 
are set about his feet, he is encom- 
passed by enemies, and, alas ! shar- 
ing as he does the views entertain- 
ed by his wife, he soon furnishes 
such evidences of wrong-doing as 
justify a recourse to legal proceed- 
ings. We have stated the case briefly, 
but at sufficient length to indicate 



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the lowness of the depths to which 
human nature, deprived of grace, 
can sink, and how ingeniously the 
law has constructed a pitfall for it- 
self. One author says that "such 
stratagems are of frequent occur- 
rence," and the mournful testimony 
of our tribunals is overwhelming in 
proof of the appalling frequency 
with which this repulsive drama is 
enacted. But to wade through the 
putrescent mass of evidence were to 
make the cheek grow crimson and 
burn, so that a scant allusion to it 
is all that decency can permit. 
What we especially desire to im- 
press upon our readers is the fact 
that the imagination is here power- 
less to compete with the reality, and 
that human ingenuity has exhaust- 
ed itself in the contrivance of the 
most abominable devices in its suc- 
cessful efforts to overreach a stupid 
law. But it is not alone in thus invit- 
ing infraction of its provisions that 
the law of New York State is weak 
and faulty ; it is, in addition, guilty 
of contradicting itself in a matter 
of vital importance. Marriage is 
either a contract for life or can be 
limited by previous mutual consent. 
Now, the law denounces such limi- 
tation as immoral and strictly for- 
bids it. But does it therefore rec- 
ognize marriage as in reality a con- 
tract for life.^ We emphatically 
answer in the negative, and for the 
following reason : It is of the na- 
ture of a contract that all its essen- 
tial terms and conditions be such 
as to come within the jurisdiction 
of the authority appointed for the 
purpose of directing its fulfilment. 
But if the authority be so crippled as 
not to be able to take cognizance of 
conditions admitted to be essential 
to the proper fulfilment of the con- 
tract, the latter must be regarded as 
null and void, or binding only in 
foro inUmo, All outside authority. 



all outside jurisdiction over it, is 
at an end. This is precisely what 
happens in civil marriage. Osten- 
sibly the law recognizes it as a con- 
tract for life; indeed, openly pro- 
claims it to be so ; even provides a 
penalty for its violation as such; 
and yet, by admitting its dissolubili- 
ty on certain conditions, leaves it 
in reality as much the subject-mat- 
ter of temporary stipulation as % 
lease or a business copartnership, 
and, in addition, baits it with the 
temptation to commit an enormous 
crime. What is there to prevent 
two persons from entering into a 
civil marriage with the understand- 
ing that they should live together 
for a certain time, be as other mar- 
ried persons before the law, shar- 
ing its protection and enjoying 
its privileges, and then separate by 
complying with the conditions on 
which the law allows a separation ? 
The case is entirely possible — has, 
indeed, occurred time and again— 
so that we are forced to admit that 
among us the law virtually treats 
marriage as a temporary partner 
ship, however much it may insist 
upon its being regarded as a life* 
long contract, and is thus guilty of 
the inconsistency of declaring a 
certain thing to be what it in reali- 
ty treats as quite another. 

Nor can it be contended, as 
against this argument, that the law 
will not grant a divorce where con- 
nivance is attempted ; for the case, 
typical of thousands, supposes that 
neither party desires to reveal such 
connivance. Nor is it of any avail 
to afKrm that the party proved to 
be guilty is debarred the right of 
contracting a new marriage. Tech- 
nically the law so reads, but prac- 
tically it is powerless to enforce its 
provision. In such a case, indeed, 
it may be said that love laughs law 
to scorn. Its hope to punish a 



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transgressor of tl\e sort is as futile 
as the 

** Denre of the moth for the star." 

It is proper to assume that the 
purpose of the law is to punish the 
criminal partner and to restore to 
the injured one privileges which 
ought not to be forfeited because 
of another's guilt. These two ob- 
jects represent the policy and ex- 
pediency of the law ; and in view of 
its entire failure to work them out 
wisely and effectually, we will show 
that the law is neither politic nor 
expedient. We will grant, indeed, 
that the law is competent, in all 
cases coming under its notice, both 
to punish the wrong-doer and par- 
tially to redress the wrong ; but 
what is the use, if, instead of effec- 
tually repressing the wrong, it tends 
rather to encourage its commission } 
And such is indeed the anomalous 
condiiion of the law, both as it reads 
and as it works. The easier and 
more numerous the terms on which 
the marriage contract can be dis- 
solved, the greater, of course, will be 
the number of divorces sought ; but 
whether it be for one reason or 
many, once given a gateway from 
marriage bonds, and none who are 
desirous of escape will find much 
trouble in passing through the por- 
tals which the law has flung open. 
The facts, as attested by the courts 
of Connecticut and Indiana, prove 
the truth of the first part of this 
proposition ; for nowhere are cases 
looking to the absolute severance 
of the marriage tie more frequently 
argued, and in no other States are 
so many divorces granted. The 
reason obviously is because the 
conditions for obtaining such con- 
cessions are there easiest of all. 
Where the conditions for procuring 
divorce are more onerous fewer ap- 
plications are made ; and the facts. 



as occurring in New York State^ 
verify this sum in proportion and 
thus prove the second part of our 
proposition. 

In the State of New York adultery 
is the sole condition of divorce, and 
just in proportion as such a crime 
is less frequent than mere family 
jars and broils, so are divorces less 
frequently sought. The proposi- 
tion is therefore true that the per- 
mission to dissolve marriage begets 
a demand to that effect in propor- 
tion to the ease with which it may 
be obtained. The corollary of this 
proposition is that, the more easily 
divorce may be obtained, the less 
regard is had to the obstacles which 
may stand in the way of its coming 
. at our beck. Should marriage be 
'• declared to be absolutely indissolu- 
ble, and come to be viewed as such 
by the masses, few would dream of 
assuming its responsibilities in the 
hope that, should time render it 
irksome, they could slip the noose 
and again soar " in maiden medita- 
tion fancy free." On the other 
hand, they would be disposed rather 
to approach the matter with delib- 
eration, to take to heart the condi- 
tions of the contract, and seriously 
to study the surroundings of a state 
which is to endure till death. It is 
for this reason that the church ad- 
vises her children to ponder long 
and deeply the consequences of the 
step they are about to take when 
proposing to cross this moral Rubi- 
con. If Caesar felt that, the tradi- 
tionary river once crossed, fate had 
marked him for her own, or Cortez 
that, his ships ablaze, alt hope of 
return was gone, more still does 
the church insist that sacramental 
marriage is a step that cannot 
be retraced. Divorce laws ignore 
these considerations, and make 
light thereby of that social institu- 
tion on which all others depend 



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345 



for their perpetuity. They forget 
that— 

** Marriage is a matter of m "ire worth 
Than to be dealt in by attomeyahip." 

With siren voice they lure the un- 
wary and unreflecting to a fate 
fraught with untold possibilities of 
unhappiness. The result is that 
persons take less account of the sol- 
emn nature of the contract. It 
suits their humor at the moment to 
get married, and little they reck of 
the future. Carpe diem. The rosy 
present bounds the view, and there 
is no thought of to-morrow. Time 
enough for the disillusioned groom 
to wail : 

Mueri quibut inttniata nitt» — 

when "marriage vows have proved 
as false as dicers* oaths," and bit- 
ter hate succeeded the short-lived 
joys of the honeymoon. And why 
should it be otherwise ? Is not the 
potent panacea of matrimonial ills 
ever within ken and reach .> What 
need is there to cloud the golden 
prospect with thoughts of possible 
future wrangles and rancor, and in 
advance study to avert or mitigate 
them, since, should they come along, 
a benign«int law is at hand to end 
them } We are convinced on the 
best of grounds that the frequency 
of divorce suits has its root in tlie 
neglect of duly considering the con- 
ditions essential to the happiness 
of married life. Were Dante's 
words written over marriage por- 
tals: 

Ltuciate •^ni sptranza voich'intraity 

a deal of curious prying, at least, 
would precede the decisive steps 
and few would raslily fly to a " bourn 
whence no traveller returns.** 
But when the law points to an easy 
escape from the consequences of a 
heedless step, what necessity can 
there be for heeding? Plenty of 



prior deliberation and a close scru- 
tiny of its obligations would not 
have failed to render marriage tol- 
erable, at least, for many who now 
fret and fume 'neath its galling 
yoke because they had flown to it 
in a wanton hour as to a flower to 
gather sweets from. Festitia Unte — 
or, as Sir Thomas Browne quaintly 
translates it, "Celerity should be 
contempered with cunctation" — 
would be a valuable maxim to hold 
up to the giddy gaze of our modern 
youth who woo and wed with more 
sentimental sighs than sober sense \ 
better, by all means, than the cyni- 
cal " Don't" of Douglas Jerrold^ 
The knowledge that what God hath 
joined together no human autho- 
rity must put asunder, alone can 
stop those unhallowed unions which 
curse society by the filthy disclo- 
sures they occasion, and blast the 
happiness, both temporal and eter- 
nal, of so many. 

At the time when this question 
was widely discussed in England, 
and so many eminent authorities op- 
posed the project of law which now 
rules in the British realms, and which 
is in the main identical with our 
own State law, Lord Stowell held 
the following language, which goes 
at once to the kernel of the matter 
and shows a keen appreciation of 
the worst results of easy divorce. 
He says : " The general happiness of * 
the married life is secured by its in- \ 
dissolubility. When people under- 
stand that they must live together, 
except for a very few reasons 
known to the law, they learn to 
soften, by mutual accommodation, 
that yoke which they know they 
cannot shake off"; they become 
good husbands and good wives ; 
for necessity is a powerful master 
in teaching the duties it imposes." 
The church in surrounding mar- 
riage with that solemnity which 



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it possesses in the eyes of Ca- 
tholics, and thus giving greater 
prominence to its indissoluble 
character, has thereby supplied to 
her children the means of softening 
a union so binding, and from the 
crucible of suffering offers to both 
husband and wife a purer gold. 
In th^ schedule of conditions essen- 
tial to the procurement of the best 
results from marriage she holds 
to our gaze a larger and deeper 
culture than current philosophy 
dreams of — z. culture that appeals 
to the intellect through moral sense, 
unlike that modern culture which 
is addressed to the intellect alone. 
It has almost passed into an axiom 
in political economy that self must 
sink out of sight where the interests 
of many are concerned ; and so the 
church teaches that men and wo- 
men, having reached that period 
when the duties of married life 
ought to be assumed, should thence- 
forth devote to the service of socie- 
ty those labors they had hitherto 
bestowed on the prosecution of 
their individual aims. The culture 
proceeds from this. Tolerance of 
each other's shortcomings on the 
part of husband and wife is strongly 
inculcated. A gentle forbearance 
of mutual peculiarities is enjoined, 
whereby the noble disposition to 
forgive the countless trifles of man- 
ner, thought, and action which 
might offend a morbid or fastidious 
idiosyncrasy is fostered. Thus 
the Catholic wife or husband, in 
view of the indissoluble nature of 
marriage, is taught to round off an- 
gularities, to tolerate oddities, to 
adapt individual views and feelings 
to special requirements, and to 
hold all subject to that higher and 
holier law which tells us that self 
should not be consulted where 
duty is concerned. 

How many bickerings and mis- 



understandings, how many of the 
heart-burnings, how much of all 
the unhappiness that now mars 
and disfigures married life, might 
be avoided if these large and lib- 
eral views more generally prevailed ! 
Petty jealousies, the offspring of 
our baser nature ; furtive suspicions, 
exaggeration of faults, imputation 
of wrong motives, misinterpretation 
of harmless actions — in a word, the 
hundred-and-one incentives to dis- 
agreement which beset each day's 
path — could find no room in a house- 
hold harboring this pure and en- 
lightened conception of marriage. 
We know that the will is as much 
the subject of discipline as the in- 
tellect, and we likewise know that 
as it is tried, as temptations beset 
it and are repelled, as suffering is 
endured without repining, as petty 
torments, numerous in proportion 
to their smallness, are patiently 
borne, the whole character comes 
forth from the ordeal smoother, 
sweeter, more spiritual, and strong- 
er, with a life that is not likely to 
die. Marriage, rightly conceived, is 
a training-school where many salu- 
tary lessons are taught. Its ten- 
dency is to strengthen the will, to 
soften the heart, to remove asperi- 
ties of character, to evoke the ten- 
der and gentle in our nature, and 
to beget a happiness all its own. 
Wrongly understood and blindly 
sought, it is full of perils, not, in- 
deed, imaginary, but real with that 
terrible reality which court calen- 
dars daily reveal in sickening col- 
ors. 

Thus the standard by which the 
Catholic Church measures marriage 
makes it yield a higher culture, 
more generous, large, and abiding, 
than can flow from the gross con- 
ception which represents it as a 
contract to be rescinded at will. 
The Catholic view promotes among 



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the married that freedom of action 
which loves to borrow the con- 
sciousness of doing right from the 
conviction that the right is freely 
courted and the wrong freely spurn- 
ed, and thus paves the way for a 
nobler plane of conduct. That ir- 
ritability which inheres so deeply 
in our nature is what unfits most 
of us for companionship. It seeks 
to fasten on otliers the blame which 
is our own, or holds them responsi- 
ble for grievances which are the 
necessary outcome of human life. 
If not controlled, it either causes 
entire estrangement and forfeiture 
of affection, or leads those towards 
whom it is manifested to decep- 
tiveness and the employment of 
crooked ways to reach legitimate 
ends. A narrow and illiberal life 
is the result. Darkness and trick- 
ery prevail where all should be light 
and freedom. Evil accumulates on 
evil, till both parties seek through 
divorce to free themselves from a 
yoke that has become intolerable. 
The shrew will nag and the tyrant 
husband domineer because a nar- 
row selfishness, bred of this unre- 
strained irritability, has usurped the 
place of a large-hearted and gentle 
forbearance. The knowledge of 
these possibilities is the most effec- 
tive armor against their actual oc- 
currence ; for it demonstrates in ad- 
vance the necessity of patience and 
a tolerant spirit; it hints at a deli- 
cate regard for the feelings of 
others ; it leads to a vivid intro- 
spection of self, and inclines to a 
mezzotint view of actions not our 
own ; it discriminates between true 
love, which is self sacrificing, gentle, 
and forgiving, and the counterfeit 
presentment of love, which is lurid 
passion, fire without light. And 
this knowledge is best guaranteed 
by tlie conviction that marriage is 
indissoluble. Urging this view of 



marriage and the study o£^ these 
things, the church implicitly holds 
that a liberal toleration of indivi- 
dual action is essential to the hap- 
piness of married life, and that the 
ignorance which accompanies .in- 
tolerance must be dispelled ere the 
ideal picture of married bliss can 
m^et the gaze. Thus Christian 
freedom goes by the golden mean, 
on one side of which is domestic 
tyranny and on the other the ram- 
pant license of immorality. Unlike 
the generality of guides, however 
the church possesses the means of 
enforcing her enlightened views, of 
imparting wise counsel, and offering 
helpful advice in concrete cases 
through the Sacrament of Penance. 
Those who have derived their no- 
tion of the confessional from the 
scurrilous writings of Michelet, the 
senseless diatribes of Gavazzi, or 
the eminently vulgar flings of some 
sensational preachers will be a lit- 
tle startled by this proposition. But 
let those whose knowledge of the 
tribunal of penance has been fash- 
ioned in the school of bigotry and 
ignorance consult any intelligent 
Catholic, husband or wife, and they 
will find that the web of falsehood 
in which they have been caught is 
such that they should blush at their 
own simplicity for having become 
entangled in it and held ** faster 
than gnats in cobwebs." They will 
find that all those virtues which, 
even to the commonest understand- 
ing, shine clearly forth as the basis 
of contentment in married life, are 
here inculcated; that here on the 
heat and flame of distemper cool 
patience is sprinkled ; that chafes 
are healed and rankling barbs pluck- 
ed out; and that magnanimity, self- 
sacrifice, and love brighten afresh 
at the latticed crate of the confes- 
sional. 

But notwithstanding that the 



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church has exhausted prudence 
and employed every means which 
common sense could suggest in 
compassing the integrity of mar- 
riage, she seeks not in these the 
ultima ratio of her action. To her 
marriage is a sacrament, bestowing 
grace on those who approach it 
worthily, and sealing married life 
with a supernatural impress. This 
sacramental notion of marriage it is 
which elevates, purifies, and sancti- 
fies the relation, enables the church 
to mitigate the evils with which hu- 
pian perversity leavens it, and gives 
her control where the most restless 
plotters for the regeneration of 
society have acknowledged their 
utter powerlessness to act. 

During the controversy which 
marked the adoption of the Divorce 
Bill in England its opponents, when 
twitted with their inconsistency in 
rejecting the Catholic notion of 
marriage as a sacrament and still 
insisting upon its inherent indisso- 
lubility, fell, through their reply, 
into an error which, in proportion 
to its prevalence, has led to a wide- 
spread misconception of the grounds 
on which the Catholic Church 
claims marriage to be indissoluble. 
A prominent writer at the time said : 
** The opinion of the Roman Church 
itself does not found the indissolu- 
bility of marriage on its character 
as a sacrament, but only conceives 
the obligation to be enhanced by 
that circumstance *' ; and in con- 
firmation of the assertion he quotes 
the words of the Council of Trent, 
which are to this effect : Alatrimo- 
nium^ ut naturae officium consideratur 
et viaxime tit sacrafnentum^ dissolvi 
fwn potest. Now, if the words ut 
maxime be allowed to bear their 
proper meaning, they certainly 
prove that tlie Tridentine fathers 
intended that the indissolubility of 
marriage should, before all and 



above all, rest upon and grow out 
of the sacramental character of 
the contract. Ut maxime^ if mean- 
ing anything, means as far as it is 
possible^ pre-eminently ; and so the 
church regards marriage as natu- 
rally indissoluble, but especially so 
when viewed as a sacrament. The 
fact proves that the opponents of 
the bill had little else to fall back 
on than the falsely-advanced state- 
ment that the Catholic Church, the 
most strenuous advocate of indis- 
solubility, sought the reason of her 
opinion in the nature of the con- 
tract rather than in the character 
of the sacrament. 

But, apart from the declaration 
of the Council of Trent, the whole 
history of the church exhibits be- 
yond peradventure her higher esti- 
mate of marriage as a sacrament 
rather than as a contract. She 
holds it to be, in a mystical sense, 
the symbol of our Lord's union 
with the church, and surely no 
higher character could attach to it. 
But this symbolic meaning of mar- 
riage rests altogether on its sacra- 
mental phase, so that the church 
views it as a sacrament supernatural- 
ly, as a contract naturally, herhigher 
regard for it being in the former 
sense. The English indissolubilists, 
therefore, could in no manner ob- 
ject to the proposed Divorce Bill ; 
for, denying marriage to be a sacra- 
ment, they surrendered the strong- 
est reason for proclaiming it to be 
indissoluble. If, as even Gibbon 
admits, the church has lifted woman 
from the lowest degradation into 
which she could be plunged, in 
which she was the mere slave of 
man and the toy of his passions, to 
her present position of respect and 
independence by investing matri- 
mony with the holiness of a sacra- 
ment ; and if the church has by the 
same means purified home-life and 



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cemented its affections, is there not 
danger that, by dragging down mar- 
riage from its high estate, woman 
may again come to be regarded 
"not as a/errx^«," as Gibbon says, 
" but as a thingy so that, if the origi- 
nal title were deficient, she miglitbe 
claimed, like other valuables, by the 
use and possession of an entire 
year " ? Such was the law in pagan 
times, and such it may be again 
if we list too readily to those mod- 
ern renovators of society who call 
marriage tyranny and a '* system 
of legalized prostitution." Not in 
vain did St. Simon, Fourier, Le 
Roux, Fanny Wright, and their co- 
workers inveigh against Christian 
marriage. We are now reaping the 
fruits of their unholy crusade against 
it. Their labors are to-day blos- 
soming in Oneida County as well 
as in Utah, in the general rush all 
round to snap uncongenial ties, and 
in ihe woful spread of an evil too 
base to be mentioned. These form 
the goal to which such pestilent 
agitations tend ; and if some well- 
meaning advocates of innovation 
ha\e not kept step with the leaders, 
it is not because their principles re- 
strained them, but rather because 
they have not quite broken away 
from the influence of early teach- 
ings. Marriage, once stripped of its 
supernatural character, and reduc- 
ed to the level of a contract, be- 
comes as much the subject-matter 
of speculation as political systems. 
Reformers object to this feature of 
it or to that, and suggest endless 
modifications. Plato contended 
that there should be no such thing 
as marriage proper, and that all 
children should be surrendered to 
the state. To-day, in the light 
which the Gospel has shed on the 
question, civilized states tolerate 
a condition akin to that which the 
Athenian philosopher advocated. 



And just as Plato, by the sheer 
force of his commanding intellect, 
imposed his views on many both in 
his own time and subsequently, so, 
it is to be regretted, the skill and 
eloquence of some modern oppo- 
nents of marriage are such that 
they have succeeded in winning 
hundreds to their standard. 

It is a law of our nature that great 
intellectual force is never unpro- 
ductive ; that it triumphs over many 
obstacles; and, no matter what may 
be the cause on the side of which 
its influence is cast, it is always at- 
tended with at least partial success 
in the achievement of its ai ms. Now, 
we have witnessed the most strenu- 
ous eff*orts of powerful minds enlist- 
ed in the attempt to abolish mar? 
riage. We have had eloquent pleas 
for socialism, phalansterianism, etc., 
and it could not but be that these 
labors were destined to bear issue 
of some sort. That issue we are 
contemplating at the present mo- 
ment ; for these assaults on marriage 
have lowered the general concep- 
tion of its obligations, its sanctity, 
and its importance to society. They 
have lured to a mere mockery hun- 
dreds who, when scarce the marriage- 
kiss has impressed their lips, be- 
siege ourcourts with petitions for di- 
vorce. The influence of pernicious 
doctrines is deeper and wider than 
their authors imagine. It does not 
consist alone in the fact that they 
draw disciples and beget neophytes ; 
but they weaken faith in what they 
assail, and thus engender the most 
pitiful lot of man — scepticism. This 
is precisely what we now complain 
of. Our neighbors round about us 
emphatically eschew the doctrines 
of the illuminatiy of Heine and of 
Prudhomme, yet they more or less 
admit that there is some reason in 
what has been so well said, so for- 
cibly and so eloquently urged. The 



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consequence is that their faith in 
the true order of things is shaken ; 
they are dissatisfied ; they declare 
the doctrine of indissolubility to be 
rigoristic; and, provocation given, 
qualms are brushed aside and they 
hesitate not to fly to the ready re- 
medy of the law. We may thus set 
down to the erratic speculations of 
a few self-appointed social recon- 
structionists many of the matrimo- 
nial miseries and scandals we now 
deplore. And the leaven is work- 
ing not alone in the United Slates, 
but in every country where the 
same low estimate of marriage pre- 
vails, and where the law is the ready 
tool of those who desire escape 
from shackles of their own forging. 
In England, where law machinery 
is more cumbersome than among 
us and its processes more tedious, 
not quite so many divorces are ob- 
tained, but still the number is on 
the increase. The English law is 
much the same as that which rules 
in New York State, and it is interest- 
ing to inquire what reason there 
can be for the greater percentage of 
divorces in New York than in Eng- 
land. We hinted that the adminis- 
tration of English law is slower, but 
that fact is not sufficient to account 
for a difference so marked. All the 
influences already enumerated as 
tending to favor the multiplicity of 
divorces are as actively at work over 
there as among ourselves, and hence 
we must strive to find the explana- 
tion of the difference in the differ- 
ent character of the social systems 
of the two countries. In England 
society is stratified with such ex- 
treme nicety that seldom, if ever, a 
waif is borne from one stratum to 
another. Lines are sharply drawn 
between classes, and the fact is well 
recognized ; for the lowly do not 
seek to soar, nor do the higher ever 
entirely lose their social grade. 



Hence marriages are contracted 
only between those whose tastes by 
birth and education agree, whose 
general views are more apt to har- 
monize, and whose sympathies main- 
ly run in the same channels. They 
come to the altar (we employ the 
word in its current sense) with a 
better understanding of what each 
expects from the other, with fewer 
doubts to frighten them and strong- 
er hopes to sustain them, and hence 
subsequent collisions and estrange- 
ments are less frequent. In our 
country society has not quite passed 
out of its formative stage, the ele- 
ments have not settled into their al- 
lotted planes. It still is like an estu- 
ary in which the conflict of oppos- 
ing tides brings to the surface what 
had just lain at the bottom, and 
drives to the bottom the bead that 
had glistened for a moment on the 
brimming top ; in a word, social 
stratiflcation is not yet complete 
among us. The result is a tendency 
to the intermingling of incongruous 
forces. In the social ferment which 
is going on some rise suddenly 
from a lower depth and crystallize 
in their new plane by marriage, 
some fall and remain below on the 
same condition. Here wealth is a 
potent escort to lead its possessors 
higher up than they could hope to 
reach without the aid of this 
glittering talisman. A little veneer 
and a resolute lack of shamefaced- 
ness often enable those whom sud- 
denly-acquired riches have lifted 
above their former level to hold 
their new station till marriage has 
assured it to them and given them 
a title to their position. But rapid- 
ly as wealth lifts in the social scale, 
more rapidly still does poverty drag 
down, and we have not yet fully de- 
veloped, though happily we are fast 
coming to it, that public sentiment 
which refuses to behold loss of caste 



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in loss of 'wealth. Till then a lower 
social level is the certain bourn of 
those who have fallen from opulence, 
jusc as a niche higher up in the so- 
cial temple awaits the lumveau riche. 
We are not sticklers for the so- 
cial classification of aristocratic 
countries, but simply for that which 
is founded on cultivated taste, re- 
finement, and general intelligence; 
and we contend that where the so- 
cial condition is such as to permit 
the barriers between vulgarity and 
refinement to be broken down, no 
matter though the former may vie 
with Croesus or the latter appear 
in the tattered garb of Lazarus, 
matrimonial misalliances will be 
the result. December and May 
are no more fitly mated than plati- 
num and lead — ^i>., sixteen and 
fifty make no more suitable alliance 
than refinement and its opposite. 

" For in oompanioot 
That do convene and waste the time together, 
Whose tives do bear an eqoal yoke of love. 
There miut be needs a Hke proportion 
Of lineaments, of manners and of spirit." 

—Mtrekani 0/ Vtnict, 

Till, therefore, this social ferment 
has settled and all the elements 
have reached their allotted planes, 
there to remain, misalliances will 
continue to occur, and misalliances, 
we know, are a fruitful source of 
separation. There may be more 
satisfactory and truthful explana- 
tions of the fact we are endeavor- 
ing to account for, but of this 
we are convinced: that, for what- 
ever cause, antagonistic social 
conditions operate more frequently 
against happiness in married life in 
this country than in Europe. 

Space will not allow us to pur- 
sue the discussion of this question 
much farther, so we will devote the 
few remaining lines to the consid- 
eration of the leading objection 
which is constantly urged against 
absolute indissolubility, and which 



may consequently be taken as a 
strong argument in favor of di- 
vorce. Divorce, it is contended,, 
favors morality ; for, whether law in- 
tervenes or not, passion will assert 
its supremacy, and it is better to- 
let those depart in peace and with 
the sanction of the law who cannot 
live together than have them burst 
their bbnds illegally and contract 
new relations in despite of the law. 
By so permitting, the advocates of 
divorce hope to stem the torrent 
of evil which they say deluges 
some European continental nations- 
where the proportion of illegitimate 
births is wofuUy excessive. The 
same thing, they maintain, is espe- 
cially true of Spain, Italy, and, in 
a word, of all Catholic countries. 
Wherever divorce is not sanctioned 
by law dissoluteness, they affirm, is 
far greater than where divorces are 
granted. So the statistics seem to- 
prove ; and, in a spasm of virtue, be- 
lievers in mere statistical figures de- 
nounce indissolubility as a stepping- 
stone to lust. We will grant the 
reliability of statistical reports for 
the nonce, and prove by them that^ 
so far from immorality abounding 
in those countries where divorces 
are prohibited, a greater amount of 
immorality really exists in divorce 
countries, with the added immoral- 
ity of a law which cloaks it. We 
know that passion, blind and impet- 
uous, is the reigning force which 
orders the actions of those who 
contemplate emancipation from 
marriage bonds. Certainly they do 
not act under the inspiration of 
grace. When, therefore, they break 
loose from their unsuiting partners, 
it matters little to them whether 
the law approves or disapproves 
of their action, provided they cao 
act with impunity. This impunity 
is guaranteed in most cases in^ 
countries where divorce is permit* 



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ted, and new marriages, having all 
the seemingness of virtue, are con- 
tracted with the sanction of the 
law. In Catholic countries this is 
not permitted ; new post-marital 
relations are branded as adulterous 
and their issue illegitimate. Is it 
any wonder, then, that illegitimacy 
is more prevalent in those countries 
where divorce is unknown than 
where caprice or crime can sever 
old bonds and weld new ones, all 
with the countenance of the law ? 

The only difference is that adul- 
tery and its consequences are call- 
ed by their proper names in the 
former case, whereas in the latter an 
anti-Scriptural law retrieves them 
from^ stigma. And as there is in 
the humna heart a disposition to 
do more frequently and more ex- 
tensively what the law allows than 
what it prohibits, we may be sure 
that there are many more pseudo- 
marriages contracted in countries 
where divorce is permitted than 
there are adulteries where it is pro- 
hibited. Were, then, the mask of 
the law removed, we should find in 
the former more infamy and crime 
than even in those Catholic coun- 
tries where the record of morality 
is lowest. There is one Catholic 
country in which divorce is a 
thing known only in name, and yet 
where even the illegitimacy which 
affects not to seek shelter behind 
the law is very much less than in 
the adjoining country, where di- 
vorces are frequently obtained. 
In Ireland the courts are most 
rarely troubled with such applica- 
tions, and yet illicit relations on the 
part of married persons are fewer 
than in any country of Europe. 
Does not this fact evidently dis- 
prove the claim that absolute in- 
dissolubility is unfavorable to mo- 
rality ? While the Catholic Church 
holds to view on the one hand the 



indissolubility of marriage, and on 
the other the precept of conjugal 
chastity, and while even in one 
country she has established a high- 
er rate of morality under those ri- 
gid conditions, it is evident her 
wisdom in this trying matter has 
been attested by the facts. 

But the attempt to bolster up 
divorce morality by an appeal to 
statistics is radically wrong. It is 
based on the supposition that the 
end justifies the means; that it is 
better, for the sake of avoiding the 
scandals incident to adulterous co- 
habitation, to legalize it, and thus 
exhibit to the eyes of society a 
whitenecf sepulchre rather than 
hold to view the rottenness of ** an 
enseamed bed " It i^ the duly of 
moralists and teachers of religion 
rather to stem the torrent of vice 
and pluck the brand from the 
burning than attempt to cloak over 
and extenuate by legal devices 
what is essentially and for ever 
wrong. There are times, indeed, 
when separation is the only hope 
for two unfortunates whom an un- 
lucky fate had thrown in each 
other's way ; but separation does 
not imply remarriage, and theirs it 
is, while reaping the fruits of an 
enforced singleness, to reflect that 
they are answerable for the con- 
sequences of their own deliberate 
action, while their case may serve 
as an example to others. Let the 
beautiful conception of Christian 
marriage more abound; let men 
and women learn to view marriage 
as something holy, in which the 
husband is the protector, the wife 
the comforter, and we may meet 
with more marriages in which, 
while the husband faithfully per- 
forms his allotted rdle^ the wife 
embodies the beautiful picture of 
her drawn by Washington Irving : 
** As the vine which has long twin- 



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Front the Hecuba of Euripides. 353 

ed its graceful foliage about the the mere dependant and ornament 

oak, and has been lifted by it in of man in his happier hours, should 

sunshine, will, when the hardy be his stay and solace when smit- 

plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, ten with sudden calamity ; winding 

cling round it with its caressing herself into the rugged recesses of 

tendrils and bind up its shattered his nature, tenderly supporting the 

boughs, so it is beautifully ordered drooping head, and binding up the 

by Providence that woman, who is broken heart." 



FROM THE HEGUBA OF EURIPIDES. 

A fru translation, 
BY AUBREY DE VERE. 

\The Chorus laments the Judgment of Paris.l 

' STROPHE. 

My doom was sealed, my lot decided. 
Not now, not now, but long ago, 
When first the all-beauteous Dardan boy, 
By that pernicious goddess guided, 
Laid Ida's stateliest pinewood low, 

And built his ships, and sailed from Troy, 
To seek her gift — the richest, rarest— 
That wife most fatal; yet the fairest. 

ANTISTROPHE. 

A netted deer our country lies : 

One sinned ; and all partook his ruin ! 
O fatal, fatal was the hour, 
Fatal the contest and the prize 
How ill adjudged for my undoing, 
When in green Ida's mountain bower 
That awful Three — my bane— contended : 
Even then our golden reign was ended. 

EPODE. 

And haply some Achaian bride 
Even now, by far Eurotas' wave, 

Widowed like me, like me is mourning ! 
Perhaps some mother by her side 
Laments for those she could not save, 
The early lost, and unreturning ; 
Raising her withered hand to tear 
Her last thin locks of whitening hair. 
VOL, XXV. — 23 

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354 



Six Sunny Months. 



SIX SUNNY MONTHS. 

BY THB AUTHOR Ot *^THS HOUSE OP YORKB," ** GRAPHS Ain> THORNS, " BTC. 

CHAPTER XIII. 



• OUR LADY OF SNOW/ 



" To-morrow comes the flower of 
the festivals," the Signora said on 
the morning of the 4th of August. 
" It is our beautiful basilica's birth- 
day, and the loveliest of birthdays, 
too — just a sweet little poem." 

" Let us give ourselves up to it 
entirely," Isabel proposed, " and 
see if we cannot imagine ourselves 
back in the middle of the fourth 
century. I really do not like to look 
at all these things as an outsider." 

" We must, then, shut the world 
out for two days," the Signora re- 
plied. " I would like it, if you are 
agreed. I have found, indeed, that 
it is impossible to enter into the 
spirit of these beautiful beliefs of 
the old time while one is having 
much social intercourse with peo- 
ple about, even goodish people. 
It reminds me of seed scattered on 
good but shallow ground, which 
the fowls come and pick up. You 
think, you meditate, you pray, you 
begin to find yourself impressed ; 
glimmers of light steal in, and your 
soul is on the point of being enrich- 
ed; when in comes some friend, 
who means no harm, who has, per- 
haps, a faith like a dry branch with 
one green leaf at the end, and im- 
mediately all is discord. If you 
utter what is in your mind, it is 
like pearls before swine ; if you lis- 
ten in silence, and with sufficient at- 
tention to enable you to answer in- 
telligently, it is more than likely 
that the religious impression you 
have received will be much weak- 



ened, if not entirely effaced. One 
understands, in such a case, the pro- 
found wisdom of the philosophy 
of silence, which even the pagans 
knew, and recollects the admoni- 
tion of our Lord : " Let your speech 
be yea, yea; no, no." 

"Still, I should think," Bianca 
observed dreamily, " that one might 
be so settled in that way of feeling 
and thinking as to influence others, 
instead of being influenced by 
them." 

" Very true, you dear little vision- 
ary!" replied the Signora, pinch- 
ing the pretty ear so near her, from 
which hung a pink coral fuchsia. ** If 
one were a great saint, and never 
touched eartiily things except with 
conspicuous recollection ; or a great 
egotist, constantly impressing on 
everybody that one is a very excep- 
tional being and cannot possibly 
be approached in the ordinary man- 
ner; or some one, like a clergyman 
or a nun, who by their very profes- 
sion impress those who approach 
them with the consciousness of dif- 
ferent and loftier interests. But 
we common mortals are overrun 
by the many. You have seen the 
breakwater of a bridge, have you 
not, built of stone, and thrusting a 
sharp point up the stream to part 
the waters, that they may not rush 
against the broad side of the piers 
and sweep them away } Well, for 
one person to keep a firm stand 
against the influence of many, it is 
necessary to put forward, and keep 



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forward, a very hard angle of the 
character. However, I will not 
preach any more about it, my dear 
friends. I will simply say that till the 
day after to-morrow we are in re- 
treat. We will go up now to the 
church, and refresh our minds in 
relation to the legend, and look at 
some of the treasures there, if you 
like. Then we can read the whole 
over here at our leisure. I have a 
kind friend there — my patron with 
St. Nicholas — who has a superb il- 
lustrated description of the church, 
which he has offered me any time I 
may wish for it. I will ask for it 
to-day. By this means we shall be 
ready to assist intelligently to-mor- 
row at the festa of Our Lady of 
Snow. And, by the way, what a 
charmingly fresh thought for the 
season is that of snow ! I call for 
the yeas and nays." 

An unanimous yea was the reply, 
and they prepared themselves im- 
mediately to go to the church. 

They had, of course, seen already 
all its more evident beauties; but 
such a temple can be studied for 
years without exhausting its attrac- 
tions, and there were several of its 
more celebrated gems which they 
had quite passed over. After hav- 
ing heard Mass, then, they went 
first into the Sistine Chapel to see 
the Tamar. This beautiful figure 
is painted in one of the pendentives 
of the cupola — ^a space shaped like 
an inverted pear. She sits with her 
twin boys standing on the seat at 
either side of her, their lovely heads 
filling the rounded-out space. The 
most exquisite charm of the figure 
is the transparent veil which floats 
about the head and shoulders, and 
through which her face, with its 
large, drooping eyelids, is perfectly 
visible. 

From there they visited the grand 
hggia to look once more at the mo- 



saic story of the miraculous snow. 
This grand mosaic, made in the 
fourteenth century by the order of 
two Colonna cardinals, was once on 
the open fa9ade of the church ; but 
Benedict XIV., in the eighteenth 
century, building the new fapade, 
enclosed them in the grand loggia 
from which the popes gave bene- 
diction, and of which they form 
the lower side. In the centre of 
the upper half of the picture the 
Saviour sits enthroned, the right 
hand giving benediction, the left 
holding a book open at the words, 
"I am the light of the world." 
At either hand above an angel 
swings a censer, at either side be- 
low an angel adores. Four figures 
— the Blessed Virgin and saints — 
stand at right and left, the symbols 
of the four evangelists over their 
heads. The lower half, separated 
by the large, round window that 
lights the eastern end of the church, 
has, on the left, two pictures — one 
the sleeping Pope Liberius, the 
other the sleeping Giovanni — over 
both of whom hovers the same vis- 
ion of the Madonna directing them 
to build her a church where the 
snow shall fall the next day. On 
the right side is Giovanni telling 
his dream to the pope in one pic- 
ture, and beside it the pope, in 
grand procession, coming to the 
hill-top where, from above, the Sa- 
viour and Virgin send down the 
snow. So quaint, so full of faith, 
so exquisite in meaning, this visible 
story is one of the most eloquent 
sermons ever preached. 

Opposite the mosaic picture, and 
seen through the graceful arches of 
the portico, was that living picture 
of St. John Lateran looking down 
the long street, the blue mountains 
melting far away, the nearer palm- 
tree, and the piazza with its beau- 
tiful column and statue. 



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" I have a little special treat for 
you this morning," the Signora said 
as they went down into the church 
again. " It has no special connec- 
tion with the Madonna delle Neve, 
but it will not disturb your visions 
of her. Here, however," pointing to 
an altar near the sacristy door, " is 
the story again, and here is buried 
that Giovanni Patrizio who was 
found buried under, or in front of, 
the grand altar." 

It was the chapel of Santa Maria 
delle Neve, with a painting over 
the altar wliere the Virgin appears 
to Giovanni and his wife, and points 
them to a snow-capped hill. 

Then they went into the sacristy, 
where one of the canons joined 
them, and had some precious vest- 
ments brought out for them to see J 
among them a cope of stuff such as 
one does not find any more, thick, 
rich, and dim, and threaded with 
gold, with the short fringe of min- 
gled crimson and gold so thick as 
to round up almost like a cord — 
the cope given and worn by St, 
Pius V. Almost more precious, if 
one could choose, was the chasu- 
ble given and worn by St. Charles 
Borromeo — long, and with a slight, 
graceful point in the back. It had 
been proposed, the sacristan told 
them, to have this made a model 
for chasubles now on account of 
its graceful form, but no change had 
yet been made. 

" This is worn on the/fj/^ of San 
Carlo, though it is crimson," he 
added, " because it was his. Some- 
times strangers exclaim, when they 
see it, that San Carlo was not a mar- 
tyr." 

They touched reverently the sa- 
cred relics, and kissed the fasten- 
ings that those saintly hands had 
touched; then, with a more human 
admiration, examined a marvellous 
flounce of lace given the church 



three hundred years ago by the 
Prince Colonna of that time — a web 
of such fineness that the spiders 
might have woven the thread, and 
of such beauty of design that only 
an artist could have imagined it.. 

Before leaving the church they 
paused in front of the closed cancella 
of the Borghese Chapel to look at 
the bas-relief over the altar, where- 
in Our Lady of Snow again repeats 
her story. All was still in the 
church. Choir and High Mass were 
over, and only here and there linger- 
ed some cusiodcy or assistant, putting 
the finishing touches to the prepara- 
tions for lYit festa which would be- 
gin with first Vespers that afteinoon. 
The pavements shone newly pol- 
ished, the candlesticks were like 
gold, the gilt bronze angels that 
hold the great painted candles stood 
on the marble rail of the confession, 
the draperies were all up. In the 
chapel itself the benches of the 
choir were prepared, the altar glit- 
tering with its most precious orna- 
ments, the two great hanging lamps 
at either side swinging faintly, as if 
impatient for the music to begin. 
All was peaceful ; and a tender 
shade and coolness in the air veiled 
the glittering richness of the place. 

" I cannot tell you how myste- 
rious that picture seems to me," 
Bianca whispered, pointing to the 
square veiled case bordered with 
jewels, and supported by gilt angels 
in the middle space over the altar. 
" The two veils that are to be re- 
moved in order to see it, and then 
the depth at which it is set, and the 
mere dark outline that is all one 
can see inside the golden border — 
it all impresses me with a sense of 
mystery and awfulness. I wonder 
what the face really looks like, and 
if any one has seen it." 

"Why, you have seen my en- 
graving of it, my dear," the Signo- 



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ra said ; '* and I presume that is a 
faithful copy, taken when tlie fea- 
tures were more distinguishable. 
That has a noble, serious look 
which impresses me. And no won- 
der you look with awe at this. If 
it were not painted by St. Luke 
even, it is embalmed by memories 
not less sacred. Twelve hundred 
years ago St. Gregory the Great 
carried this very picture in proces- 
sion through the city, in a time of 
terrible pestilence, and set it on 
the altar of St. Peter's. It was on 
the open fa9ade of this church till 
Paul V. built this chapel to con- 
tain it. Ampere says that angels 
have been heard chanting litanies 
about it. It is held by all here 
in the most tender veneration. I 
have never heard any one describe 
it, . and do not know who has 
seen it near. I have heard some- 
where that only the chapter of the 
basilica and the Borghese family 
have the privilege of going up to 
it. Madonna mia^ what a privi- 
lege it would be !" she sighed, 
looking up at the closed jasper 
gates. 

They stayed a little longer, then 
started to go home; but as they 
were going out a boy came to tell 

the Signora that Monsignore M 

begged to speak with her. The 
others went on, but she turned 
back, well content ; for a call from 
Monsignore M always meant 

something pleasant. This prelate 
was no less distinguished for posi- 
tion than for his virtues ; and, find- 
ing the Signora a stranger and some- 
what lonely when she first came to 
Rome, he had done her many kind- 
nesses — was, in fact, her Santa 
Glaus. 

" Do you guess what little devo- 
tion I want you to make on the 
eve of our festa 9" he asked, meet- 
ing her with the confident smile of 



one who knows he is going to con- 
fer a great pleasure. 

" I know it is something delight- 
ful, Monsignore mio" she replied, 
" but I cannot say just what." 

" Well, I want you to visit the 
antique Madonna," he said. 

She looked at him, uncompre- 
hending. 

He pointed to the veiled shrine 
in the Borghese Chapel, near which 
they stood. " Don Francesco* will 
be here in a moment with a can- 
dle," he said. " I prepared all, 
because I knew you would want to 
go. I could not invite a party, you 
know ; but you belong to the 
church and have a special devo- 
tion lo our Madonna." 

The Signora could not reply. 
Such a swift fulfilment of her wish 
moved her too deeply for words. 
She kissed the hand of her kind 
friend, and looked across the 
church to the tabernacle of the 
Blessed Sacrament with the almost 
spoken thought : '^ I am going to 
see your Mother." To visit that 
sacred shrine was to her as near to 
seeing the Mother of God face to 
face as one could come oit earth, 
without a miracle. 

Presently appeared the custodian, 
bearing a lighted candle and a 
bunch of keys ; he opened a small 
door beside the chapel. They as- 
cended a narrow, winding stair, 
without any light except the one 
they carried, and passed a long, 
arched corridor where the walls aU 
most touched their elbows at either 
side, and the vault just cleared their 
heads above- This corridor was 
between the side wall of the chapel 
and the wall of the adjoining sac- 
risty. Another door opened, and 
they entered a cross corridor lead- 
ing to one of the balconies of the 
chapel — one of those beautiful gild- 
ed balconies the Signora had so 



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many times wished to get into. 
She stepped into this now, and 
looked down through the chapel, 
out into the church, and across 
to the Si&tine Chapel, the columns, 
pictures, and gilded arches of the 
basilica set like a picture in the 
great arched entrance of the Bor- 
ghese. 

Going on then, Don Francesco 
opened a strong, locked door, that 
showed another door immediately 
within, closing the same wall. 
These led into another of those 
narrow white corridors running be- 
tween the walls of the chapel be- 
hind the altar. Turning then in- 
to a third short corridor leading to- 
ward the chapel, they faced still an- 
other door, over which were paint- 
ed the arms and tiara of Pope Paul 
v., who built the chapel. 

' This door unlocked, they found 
themselves in a little chamber di- 
rectly behind the grand altar, with 
the miraculous picture, set in a box 
cased in metal, right before them. 
It stands a little back from the 
screens that cover it in the cha- 
pel, and there is space enough at 
either side for a person to slip in 
in front and see the picture face to 
fjLce. Two iron hooks that barred 
the passage were taken down, and 
the Signora went in and found her- 
self in front of this most venerable 
image. 

The picture is painted on panel, 
and, though dim, is still distinct on 
so near a view, the rich, soft colors 
coming out as one gazes — a long, 
oval face full of serious majesty, 
with large eyes, and a mantle drop- 
ping over the forehead. But this 
mantle is now almost hid ; for the 
head of the Mother, and of the 
Babe that looks up into her face, 
and the outline of their shoulders, 
are closely filled in with gold and 
gems. But for this nothing but a 



dark square would be distinguish- 
able from the chapel. The outline 
is so clearly made, however, as to 
give a perfect idea, when looked at 
from below, of a crowned woman 
with a crowned child in her arms. 

If, in the presence of the picture, 
one can think of jewels, these are 
worth looking at. They are the 
gems of a cardinal and of a pope — 
stones of immense value set in pure 
gold. Besides rubies and ame- 
thysts, in the centre of the Virgin's 
crown is a large emerald surround- 
ed by diamonds, and from the jewel- 
led chain at her neck hangs a cross 
made entirely of large sapphires. 

The Signora took the candle in 
her hand and held it before those 
faces, and the clergymen with her 
knelt, one at either side of her. 

After a little while they rose, the 
Signora kissed the floor before the 
picture, and the case that held it, 
and they turned away. On leaving 
she observed that this little cham- 
ber behind the altar was quite cov- 
ered with frescoes. Then came 
the low corridors again, and the 
narrow stairs ; one more peep from 
the gilded balcony, and at length 
she stepped out into the church 
again, bewildered and enchanted. 

" I will tell them nothing about 
it," was her conclusion as she went 
home. "They might feel hurt at 
being left out. It shall be a little 
secret of my own." 

They went to first Vespers and 
to the High Mass next morning, but 
the finest part was the Vespers of 
the day, to which they went early, 
and were so fortunate as to have 
chairs in the chapel near the altar. 
The chapter came in in proces- 
sion from the basilica, singing as 
they came, and the place was soon 
crowded. 

Nothing was wanting to make 
the scene perfect ; the magnificent 



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chapel, the beautiful dress of the 
canons, who all wore purple silk 
soutanes, with rich lace on those 
picturesque little Ci?//e of theirs, and 
the music — each was in harmony 
with all the rest. Then, as the 
music went up, down through the 
cupola, glowing with the colors of 
Cavaliere d'Arpino, and faintly veH- 
ing the frescoes of Guido Reni, 
came the soft and loitering snow of 
blossoms, flowery flake by flake. 
They were lost one instant against 
the white band of Carrara marble — 
cornice, capitals, figures, and flowers 
— under the arches, then green of 
verd-antique, and red of jasper, or 
the colored mantle of one of Guido's 
saints threw them into relief again. 
Little by little the mosaic of the 
pavement gprew dim under that ex- 
quisite snow-fall, which seemed, as 
it came down, to toss on the music 
in mid-air. • 

The light up in the cupola grew 
red with sunset, and the chapel be- 
low began to show softest shades 
and pale gold lights from the can- 
dles, and the pageant slowly dissolv- 
ed like a bouquet that parts into 
flowers, each flower showing more 
beautiful separated than when 
massed together. 

Going out into the basilica, where 
it seemed almost evening, so strong- 
ly contrasted were the lights and 
shades, the Signora silently pointed 
out to her friends the long, red-gold 
bar of sunshine that came in at a 
window of the tribune and lay the 
whole length of the nave, looking so 
solid one felt like stepping over 
or stooping to go under it, as if it 
were an obstacle. It was her very 
idea of the bars of the tabernacle 
which the Jews bore with them. 

"If only the church should be 
lifted and borne to Paradise now, 
when it is all bathed in flowers and 
full of incense and music !" 



They lingered yet, unwilling lo 

go. Monsignore M came out 

of the sacristy and brought them all 
some of the blessed blossom-snow. 
People were gathering it up from 
the floor of the chapel, and, it hav- 
ing fallen also in the tribune, little 
boys were slyly vaulting over the 
railings, snatching it up unseen by 
the custo{it\ and scampering out again. 
The lights went out, the cancelU 
were closed, and finally our friends 
were forced to go home. 

They stood a moment outside the 
church door before descending 
the steps, the two girls expressing 
their delight with feminine enthusi- 
asm. Mr. Vane had but one word : 
"There is a certain Protestant 
hymn that used to make me feel, 
when I was a boy, very loath to go 
to heaven," he said. " But, re- 
membering it now by the light of 
this festa^ I think heaven couldn't 
be better described th«an as a 
place — 

" ' Where congngatioiis M*er break op. 
And Sabfaatlu bare no end.* '* 

A few days later they made their 
little visit to Genzano, stopping 
one day in Albano on the way. It 
was the feast of the Holy Saviour, 
in which again an antique and 
venerated picture had a prominent 
part. They reached the town just 
in time to see the procession go 
from the Duomo bearing the pic- 
ture up to the little church of San- 
tissimo Salvatore on the hill. 

" What are those military bands 
playing for?" Mr. Vane asked, as 
they sat in the loggia of their apart- 
ment, after having rested a half- 
hour. 

" They are playing for the Lord," 
said the Signora. 

He stared a little, but, finding 
her perfectly serious, said after a 
moment : " Well, I don't know why 



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they shouldn't ; only I am not used, 
you know, to hearing fifes and drums 
on any but military and civil occa- 
sions.'* 

"This is a military occasion," the 
Signora replied gravely. " It cele- 
brates Him who is the God of bat- 
tles and the Lord of hosts. It is 
a civil occasion, too, in honor of 
the King of kings, the Lawgiver 
of the universe, the Prince of 
peace." 

"You are right!" he said em- 
phatically; "and I need not ask 
now why they are firing cannon." 

They went out just at sunset and 
took their places on the steps of 
the little church to which the pro- 
cession was to come, catching 
glimpses of it in the distance as it 
appeared in some turn of the as- 
cending way. 

The slope of the street just in 
front of them had been swept, and 
two men were sprinkling it in a 
very primitive fashion. One trun- 
dled along a cart with a little bar- 
rel of water on it, and the other 
dipped in a small wooden bucket 
and scattered the water from side 
to side. He did it very dexterously, 
however, showing practice. Near- 
er the steps the street was paved 
with a mosaic of flowers, and all 
the houses by which the procession 
was to pass were decorated in some 
way, with flowers, pictures, and 
lamps to light later, some already 
lighted and showing faintly tlirough 
the gloaming. All the windows 
and little balconies and elevated 
door-steps nfear the church were 
filled with women and children, 
every face turned toward the wind- 
ing street up which a cross was 
glittering and a sound of music 
coming. A banner came in sight 
after the cross, and then a crucifix 
with its canopy, and then banner af- 
ter banner, and crucifix after cruci- 



fix, showing in air over the wall that 
wound with the street. At one 
turn were visible the tops of the 
tallest heads; then, a little farther 
on, the whole heads of men, and 
the flowing locks of the boys of the 
choirs ; and, lastly, they came in- 
to full sight near by, the inferior 
J)ersons marching in lines at each 
side of the street, leaving hollow 
spaces where there was no banner 
or crucifix to be carried, the cler- 
gy walking in the centre. As the 
picture of the Holy Redeemer came 
along, borne on the shoulders of 
four men, all the crowd about sank 
on their knees. The picture was 
carried up the steps and placed on 
a table set there to receive it, and 
there were prayers and hymns be- 
fore dropping the curtain over it 
and taking it into the church. 

The sun went down and one 
large star burned in the west. It 
was easy to imagine an angel hand 
and wings above, and golden chains 
dropping down to a lamp of which 
that star was the flame. All the 
lamps, many-colored as the rain- 
bow, were lighted in the windows, 
throwing their light, as the twilight 
deepened, in a strong splash, here 
and there, on a leaning face intent 
and praying, on a mantle of vines, 
on a bit of carving, a rough stone 
balcony, or a stair climbing up into 
the dark. One little arched win- 
dow, with a vine over it, held a 
single beautiful face of a young 
woman, and a single lamp that 
shone on her black hair and eyes 
and perfect features, motionless 
there in prayer, till she looked like 
a cameo cut in pink carnelian. 

The prayers ended, and some one 
drew the curtain before the lovely 
face of the picture. As he did so 
a chorus of exclamatiohs burst from 
the kneeling crowd, and several wo- 
men burst into tears. 



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" What do they say ?" Mr. Vane 
asked in surprise. "What is the 
matter V* 

**They say, ^ Grazie^ Saniissimo 
Salvatore f — Thanks, most holy Sa- 
viour," she replied. 

He smiled faintly and repeated 
after them, " Grazie^ Saniissimo Sal- 
vatore .'" and it seemed that his eyes 
glistened in the candle-light. 

•* I am glad it touches you," the 
Signora said as they went to their 
lodgings. "Some, even Catholics, 
think it superstitious ; but it is no 
more so than it is a superstition for 
us to kiss and weep over the pic- 
tures of our friends." 

The next morning they went up 
to early Mass in the pretty Capu- 
chin church, at the head of its long 
avenue of overarching trees, loiter- 
ing slowly home again when the 
Mass was over. 

" Now," said the Signora sudden- 
ly, spying a man with a large bas- 
ket — " now I will show you what 
figs are. You have not known be- 
fore." 

She beckoned the man and ask- 
ed how many he would sell for a 
soldo. He replied, " Twelve." 

" You may give me eight dozen," 
she said. " Each of you dear peo- 
ple are to have two dozen and to 
carry them yourselves. Out with 
your handkerchiefs ! That is the 
fashion. Don't be scrupulous." 

" They don't look as if I should 
wish to eat two dozen," Bianca re- 
marked doubtfully. '*They look 
to me like little bits of green ap- 
ples." 

** Please to defer your judgment," 
remarked her friend ; "and what you 
do not wish to eat I will take." 

When they had reached home 
and were seated at the breakfast- 
table, the Signora took one of the 
little figs, with some ceremony and 
much anticipated triumph, and,lack- 



ing a fruit-knife, peeled its green 
skin off with the handle of a lea- 
spoon. All their eyes were watch- 
ing the process ; and when it was 
ended, and she pushed out the little 
teaspoonful of delicious fruit for 
Mr. Vane to have the first, the 
others were convinced by only see- 
ing. It was a rich, deep red, of 
the consistency of solid old pre- 
served strawberries, but with the 
fig flavor. 

After breakfast was over they 
went out to visit the gardens of the 
Cesarini palace, for which they had 
a permit. These are laid out and 
kept by a Swiss gardener, and are a 
wilderness of flowers and trees and 
fountains on the level apd down 
the hill-side. After wandering about 
the upper part for a while tliey de- 
scended a slowly-winding path, bor- 
dered by hydrangeas in full flower, 
that stood shoulder-high and drop- 
ped their great balls of amethyst 
bloom toward the earth, and came 
out into a little terrace where the 
trees and shrubs left an open front. 
A long bench at the back, and a 
richly-carved antique capital of a 
column near the wild-vine parapet, 
gave them seats, and before them 
was the whole verdant amphithea- 
tre, with Lake Nemi at the bottom, 
and the town of Nemi half up the 
opposite bank, like a little white 
flower painted half way up the in- 
side of a green cup. And down 
from the flower, like its white stem, 
dropped a white stream, cascade 
after cascade, to the lake, its mo- 
tion petrified in the distance. 

Tall white cloud-shapes marched 
round the hill-tops and looked over 
— shining shapes that seemed to hold 
Olympian deities within their folds, 
" impenetrable to every ray but that 
of fancy." The amphitheatre slop- 
ed steeply in a green cone rich with 
orchards and vineyards, and press- 



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ed in a waving line around the wa- 
ter. Opposite the little terrace in 
which they sat, as in a box at the 
opera, the shore made a green heart 
in the water, and from behind one 
curve of it a boat, tiny in the dis- 
tance as a black swan, slipped out 
and moved across the view. The 
lake lay like an emerald half-fused, 
its shaded greens touched in places 
with a soft purple bloom or a sil- 
very lustre, and catching now and 
then a melting image of some cloud- 
cap higher than the rest. There 
was a sound of mellow thunder 
from some direction — Jupiter To- 
nans driving through those driving 
clouds. 

They sat there silently drinking 
in the beauty of the scene, speak- 
ing only a word or two now and 
then, waiting till it should be noon 
and they should hear the Angelus 
from Nemi. When it came, a dream 



of a sound, touching with the out- 
ermost wave of its song the party 
of strangers across the lake, they 
stood up and said the prayers to- 
gether. Then, bidding adieu to 
Nemi and its lake and the beauti- 
ful garden, they went slowly away. 
That afternoon they went back 
to Albano, and the next evening 
returned to Rome. They had only 
one other excursion to make— that 
to Monte Cassino. Certain affairs 
were calling Mr. Vane to America, 
either for a longer or shorter stay, 
to go with only his daughters, or to 
have a nearer companion yet, and 
the end of their visit was approach- 
ing. It would soon be September, 
and in October they must start. 
Besides, it was found that, subject 
to her father's approval, Bianca 
had promised to marry early in 
the spring, and some preparations 
must be made for the wedding. 



TO BB COMCLUDBD MBZT MONTH. 



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To Pope Pius IX. 363 



TO POPE PIUS IX. 

▲ JUBILEE OFFERING, JUNE 3, 1 87 7. 
I. 

To-day the scattered peoples of the earth — 
Haply the raonarchs may not all forget — 
Pay unto thee, great Pope, their willing debt 
Of love sincere — blest debt of heavenly birth ! 
We kneel afar, a people of to-day, 
Whose life but doubles in its hundred years 
Thy long episcopate of many tears ; 
But none the less we love, nor ceaseless pray 
That He who leadeth Joseph like a sheep 
May bless thee with fair length of glorious days, 
May give thee yet triumphant voice to raise 
When menr; with happy tears, shall vigil keep 
Of that great feast when Christian Rome no more 
In chains shall stand a world's awed gaze before. 



Eudoxia's church — where Michael Angelo 
Hath Moses wrought in terrible array — 
With faith's most loving rites keeps holiday 

In holy thought of those long years ago 

When, 'neath its roof, the throng devout drew near 
To see thee made a shepherd of the sheep, 
Thy crook receive, that thou shouldst bravely keep, 

Thy flock e'er leading by the waters clear. 

" St. Peter of the Chains " — prophetic name ! 
Beneath this title was thy charge begun ; 
Pl^ Peter's self thy hands his chains have won, 

With these, his years. When shall God's angel claim 

Thy liberty, the prison gates fling wide ? 

Christ in his vicar no more crucified ! 



ni. 



O happy senses of the Virgin Blessed 
Standing the cross of Calvary beneath — 
So winning martyrdom without its death — 

Queen of all martyrs evermore confessed ! 



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364 To Pope Pius IX. 

O happy Pontiff! wear'st thou not to-day 

Beneath the triple crown one wrought of thorn ? 

So crowned for love thou hast unfailing borne 
To thy pure spouse the faithless would betray ? 
Art thou not martyr, too, by that deep woe 

Thou sharest with our Queen Immaculate ? 

About thee rise the cries of blinded hate, 
Thou seest afresh the wounds of Jesus flow; 
His cross thy palm, his words sublime thine too— 
"Father, forgive; they know not what they do." 



IV. 

As said Lacordaire, of the rosary. 

That love must ever its own speech repeat 
That, ever murmured, groweth e'er more sweet, 

So, seeking long some gift to bring to thee 

On this high day that keeps thy years of gold — 

Some thought that shall heart's dearest service prove- 
Find I but one e'er-echoing word of love 

That doth all else I seek most fair enfold. 

Too great thy deeds for my poor verse to tell 
That need the Tuscan's speech of Paradise ; 
Even to think them, tears are in my eyes 

And sorrow stifles the Te Deum*s swell — 

Tears for so dear a feast seem gift unkind, 

But love in every falling bead is shrined. 



Y. 



As, when our Lord doth rest in solemn state 
On altar for his worship set apart, 
And from the fulness of each faithful heart 
The fairest flowers to him are consecrate — 
Pure lilies, that with fragrant breath pour forth 
The speechless worship human love must give ; 
Red roses, in whose flush love seems to live — 
As, 'mid this wealth, some gift of little worth. 
Some penance-hued, frail-blooming violet. 
Is brought by humble soul with love as great 
As lies within the lilies' lordlier state — 
Each cancelling so little of love's debt — 
So I, my father, 'mid thy lilies place 
My rue, thy blessing shall make herb-of-grace. 



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The Present State of Judaism in America. 



365 



THE PRESENT STATE OF JUDAISM IN AMERICA. 



Judaism, in its purity, is not a 
false religion. It was revealed and 
established by God, and nothing 
which comes from him can be un- 
true. Judaism, as it now exists 
here and in Europe and Asia, is, on 
the one hand, overladen and almost 
smothered by the inventions and 
additions of men, until the original 
deposit of the truth is with difficul- 
ty discerned ; on the other hand, it 
is refined and explained away until 
it has become little better than a 
system of worldly morals. To-day, 
in Europe, Jews, and the descend- 
ants of Jews who have lost their 
ancestral faith without becoming 
Christians, are powerful in the cab- 
inets of kings, in parliaments, in 
the money exchanges, and in the 
world of journalism. In America, 
while they have as yet, perhaps 
with a single exception, taken no 
leading part in the political affairs 
of the country, they have become 
a power in finance, and are begin- 
ning in a quiet way to influence, 
and to some extent to control, 
journalism. The ability of the 
race is unquestionable, and their 
virtues, as a race, are many. They 
are prudent and thrifty; they are 
charitable to each other, and their 
charities are not always confined to 
their own people; they are seldom 
guilty of crime, although when a 
Jew does become a criminal his 
offences are apt to leave little to be 
desired in the matter of complete- 
ness, audacity, and cruelty; they 
are excellent parents, and the do- 
mestic virtues among them are cul- 
tivated to a high degree; their 



women are for the most part chaste ; 
their men are seldom cruel credi- 
tors, even when their defaulting 
debtors are Gentiles. They have 
their faults and objectionable pecu- 
liarities; among certain classes of 
them these imperfections are es- 
pecially noticeable; but, as we shall 
show, the rising generation of Jews 
in America will probably become 
tolerably well Americanized, and 
will, to some extent at least, cease 
to be an unpleasantly peculiar 
people. 

To Catholics the study of the 
changes which have taken place 
and are now occurring among the 
Jews should be invested with pe- 
culiar interest. We cannot forget 
that the Holy Scriptures of the 
Jews are a portion of our Holy 
Scriptures ; that Our Blessed Lady 
was a Jewess, and that our Divine 
Lord willed to be bom a Jew ac- 
cording to the flesh ; that he made 
himself subject to the ceremonies 
and rites of the Jewish law, which 
was then the divine law, and con- 
sequently his own law; that the 
first drops of his precious blood 
were shed in the Jewish rite of 
circumcision; that his chosen apos- 
tles, and among them the first pope, 
were all Jews; that the Catholic 
Church at its first organization was 
wholly composed of Jews ; and that 
the first Christian martyr was a 
Jew. 

When Jesus Christ had finished 
his work on earth and had ascended 
into heaven, the Jewish law was 
fulfilled but not destroyed; it re- 
mained in full force and effect, 



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366 



The Present State of Judaism in America. 



subject only to such modifications 
as God himself, speaking through 
the infallible mouth of the church 
which he had established, should 
ordain in matters of ritual, sacrifice, 
and outward observances. The 
code of laws given by God to Mo- 
ses on Mount Sinai, and engrav- 
ed by the divine hand upon tables 
of stone, is as binding to-day upon 
all of us as it was binding upon the 
Jews on the day when Moses came 
down from the mount bearing the 
sacred tablets in his hands. The 
devout Jew who to-day, with rev- 
erently covered head and contrite 
heart, stands in his synagogue and 
listens to the reading of the law, 
hears the same words that Jesus of 
Nazareth read when, as was his 
custom, " he went into the syna- 
gogue and stood up for to read." 
True, hearing, he does not hear the 
full meaning of the divine words ; 
seeing, he does not see how they 
have been fulfilled ; his understand- 
ing has not been opened to know 
that the Messias for whom he still 
yearns was the Jesus whom his an- 
cestors crucified on Calvary, and 
that, on the altar of the church 
which, perhaps, stands next door 
to his synagogue, tliis same Jesus, 
risen, glorified, and descended again 
from heaven, stands ready to re- 
ceive and bless him 

But the Jew, ignorant of this and 
still clinging fast to the faith of his 
fathers, has an infinite advantage 
over all the other non-Catholics in 
the world. His religion^ as we 
have said, was revealed by God, and 
therefore is not false in its essence, 
however much it may be overlaid 
and hidden by the innumerable su- 
perstitions and additions with which 
successive generations of rabbis 
and doctors have encumbered it. 
It is not a revolt against the Catho- 



lic faith nor a contradiction of it; 
for not only did it exist before the 
Catholic Church was established, 
but it was revealed by God, and 
he cannot contradict himself. The 
Jew errs only because he cannot 
or will not see that the Catholic 
Church is the lineal heir and right- 
ful possessor of the church of which 
Adam was the first, and Caiphas 
the last, high-priest ; and as for his 
sin in this hardness of heart and 
blindness of eye, God will judge 
him. Outside of this, and outside 
of the human additions which have 
been made to his creed, he believes 
what God spake unto Abraham, 
Moses, and the prophets, and his re- 
ligion is entitled to respect because 
it is of divine origin. But the origin 
of all the other non-Catholic reli- 
gions in the world is human or diabo- 
lical. They are revolts against the 
authority and teaching of the church 
which Jesus Christ established in 
the world ; to the earthly and visi- 
ble head of which he gave the keys 
of the kingdom of heaven ; to the 
words of which he enjoined all 
men to render obedience ; on 
which he has bestowed the inesti- 
mable grace of perfect unity ; and 
which the Holy Spirit keeps ever 
in the truth. The Jew can say 
with truth, "God founded my 
church " ; but the Protestant can 
only say, " Martin Luther, or King 
Henry VHI., or Queen Elizabeth, 
or John Knox, or John Wesley, or 
Alexander Campbell, or Jo Smith, 
or the devil founded my church." 

Judaism, however, although di- 
vine in its origin, ceased to possess 
the divine sanction from the mo- 
ment when our Lord had complet- 
ed his work on earth and ascended 
into heaven, and the Holy Ghost 
descended to preside over the or- 
ganization of the church from 



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The Present State of Judaism in America. 



367 



which he has never since depart- 
ed. The Jewish religion, thus de- 
prived for ever of the divine sanc- 
tion, was at once deprived of its 
divine authority and became a 
merely human organization, sub- 
ject, like all other human things, 
to corruption, change, decay, and 
disintegration. These processes 
have been going on within it for 
eighteen hundred years, and they 
have now reached a most advanced 
stage. 

Prior to the crucifixion and as- 
cension of our Lord the essential 
unity in faith of the Jewish people 
had been preserved. The lawyers, 
the doctors, and the Pharisees had 
added much to the law of Moses in 
the way of laying heavy burdens on 
the people ; they took tithes of an- 
nise and cummin ; they made broad 
the edges of their phylacteries, and 
they were famous for making long 
extempore prayers, in which latter 
respect they resembled too closely 
some of our esteemed Protestant 
brethren. But the essential and 
divinely-given articles of the Jew- 
ish faith remained unimpaired, and 
in these essentials the unity of the 
people was complete. The process 
of change and disintegration com- 
menced immediately after the es- 
tablishment of the Christian Church 
and what may be called the formal 
transfer to her of the guiding and 
enlightening influence of the Holy 
Spirit. But for many centuries 
this process was slow and its pro- 
gress excited little or no attention. 
The Jews, until a very recent pe- 
riod in their history, were a per- 
secuted people; and persecution 
tends to make men cling closer to 
that which is the cause of the 
persecution. There were times in 
the history of the Jews when their 
only city of refuge was Rome ; 



when the popes,, alone of all the 
sovereigns of the earth, stretched 
forth over them a protecting arm 
and permitted them to dwell in 
peace and security. Within the 
last century, or less, all this has 
been changed: nowhere in all 
Europe now, save in Bulgaria and 
one or two other provinces, are the 
Jews persecuted ; they have obtain- 
ed equal political and social rights ; 
they are cabinet ministers, premiers, 
niembers of parliament, eminent 
journalists, and autocratic bankers. 
With this prosperity have come 
the marked evidences of that dis- 
integration in matters of faith to 
which allusion has been made. 
And here in America, where the 
Jews have been always free, these 
changes have now become more 
signal and wide-spread than in any 
other country. 

To show how this has come 
about, it will be necessary, in the 
first place, to explain briefly the 
nature of the additions which have 
been made by the Jewish doctors 
to the divine law; the effect of 
these human edicts and precepts 
upon the minds of those Jews who 
retain their faith ; and their con- 
trary effect, upon other minds, in 
promoting and disseminating the 
spirit of infidelity which is now so 
widely prevalent among the He- 
brews. The strictly "orthodox" 
Jew to-day is more burdened than 
were ever any of his ancestors by 
practically endless rules, observan- 
ces, rites, and ceremonies, while his 
" reformed " or " ultra-reformed " 
brother has not only shaken him- 
self free from all, or nearly all, of 
these human inventions, but has 
emancipated himself also from the 
letter and spirit of the law of Moses 
and from the bonds of the faith. 

The books of the Jewish law as 



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368 



The Present State of Judaism in America. 



they now exist are the Old Testa- 
ment, as we call it ; the " Mishna," 
or Second Law ; and the ** Geraa- 
ra," or supplement to the " Mish- 
na." These two latter books, taken 
together, form the " Talmud." But 
the " Mishna " is the explanation 
of the Old Testament; the "Ge- 
mara" is the explanation of the 
" Mishna " ; and there remains be- 
hind or above all these the mys- 
tical and mysterious " Cabala," 
which contains within itself the 
sum and essence of all human wis- 
dom, and of such portions of divine 
wisdom as men are permitted to 
know. The "Cabala," properly 
speaking, is not a book, and has 
never been wholly committed to 
writing. The " Cabala " — and the 
meaning of the word is the " tra- 
dition " — is a divine, sublime, se- 
cret, and infinite science, treating 
of the creation of the universe, of 
the esoteric meaning and signifi- 
cance of the Mosaic laws, and of 
the secrets of God. No trace of 
its origin is to be found. Moses, 
David, Solomon, and the prophets 
are said to have been masters of 
it. It was taught to successive 
generations, but with the utmost 
secrecy and only to a select few, 
who were deemed worthy to re- 
ceive this priceless knowledge. 
Those portions of it which are 
written are brief, obscure, and full 
of abbreviations and initials, to be 
understood only by the initiated. 
They resemble the manuals of Free- 
masonry — pregnant with meaning 
to the members of the craft, but 
unintelligible to all who have not 
the key of the cipher. He who is 
a perfect master of the " Cabala *' 
is so wise and potent that he not 
only can work wonders, but may 
exercise almost creative powers. 
Nay, even an imperfect and sur- 



reptitiously-obtained knowledge of 
its mysteries enables one to per- 
form miracles. He who can place 
certain letters in a certain way, and 
pronounce them in a certain man- 
ner, may suspend the operation of 
the laws of nature and command 
the angels of God to do his will. 
The Cabalists, however, claim that 
seldom, if ever, has their divine 
science been used by unworthy 
men or prostituted to selfish pur- 
poses. The penalty for such a sin 
is eternal death ; it is written in 
one of their books that "he who 
abuses the crown perisheth," and 
this is understood to refer to those 
who possess themselves of this 
knowledge and then use it for sel- 
fish purposes. The true Cabalists 
study their science not for gain, but 
for the sake of obtaining profound 
knowledge. They apply their rules 
to the letters land words of the 
Mosaic law, and ascertain thereby 
its hidden significance, drawing 
from every word or. sentence an 
esoteric meaning, often full of sub- 
lime intelligence, and as often preg- 
nant only with absurdity. 

Emanuel Swedenborg seems to 
have been an unfiedged Cabalist; 
it is probable that he became in 
some manner acquainted with a few 
of the outward formulas of the Cab- 
ala, and that he based on these 
his wearisome treatises upon the 
secret meaning of the Scriptures. 
Certain it is that nothing which 
Swedenborg imagined is not to 
be found in the Cabala. Fortu- 
nately, a knowledge of the Cabala 
is not necessary for salvation; on 
the contrary, knowledge of it is a 
special perfection which every one 
is not able to attain, and for the 
want of which no one is to be 
blamed. 

The " Mishna '' contains the oral 



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Tlie Present State of Judaism in America. 



369 



or traditional laws transmitted from 
Moses, through a line of which the 
personality of every member is 
known, to the Rabbi Jochanan, who 
lived at Jerusalem at the time of 
the destruction of the second Tem- 
ple. It was compiled by Rabbi 
Jehuda Hawisi in the latter half 
of the second century. The " Ge- 
niara," or supplement to the " Mish- 
na, ' is a wonderful book, contain- 
ing thirty-six treatises upon history, 
biography, astronomy, medicine, and 
ethics, interspersed with legends, 
aphorisms, parables, sermons, and 
rules of practical wisdom. The 
oral or traditional laws in the 
" Mishna " are claimed to be of 
divine authority ; and the passages 
in both these books which seem to 
be absurd in the letter have a se- 
cret meaning understood best, if 
not exclusively, by the Cabalists. 
The morality taught in these writ- 
ings is not to be despised. For 
example, it is laid down that men 
should not use flattery or deceit in 
business affairs ; they should not be 
boisterous in their mirth nor per- 
mit themselves to sink into abject 
melancholy, but should be reason- 
ably and gratefully cheerful; they 
should be neither greedy of gain, nor 
slothful in business, nor over-right- 
eous in fasting and penance; all 
that they do they should do for the 
glory of God; they should love 
every Israelite as themselves, and 
they should be kind and charitable 
to the stranger ; they must abstain 
from inward and silent hate, and if 
aggrieved by a neighbor they should 
make it known to him, affectionate- 
ly asking him to redress the wrong ; 
they should be especially solicitous 
to comfort, aid, and protect the 
widow and the orphan, not merely 
if these be poor, but because they 
have suffered and their hearts are 
VOL. XXV. — 24 



laden with grief. There are three ' 
mortal sins — idolatry, fornication, 
and bloodshed; but calumny is 
equal to all three. Every one who 
professes the true faith must be- 
lieve that there is a Being whose 
existence is inherent, absolute, and 
unconditional within himself; who 
has no cause or origin, and like 
whom there is no other ; who is the 
first producer of all things; in whom 
all creatures find the support of 
their existence, while he derives 
no support from them ; and that 
** this Being is by men called God 
— blessed be he!" There are six 
fundamental principles of the faith 
— the creation of all things by God 
out of nothing ; the pre-eminence of 
Moses as a prophet and lawgiver — ^ 
a pre-eminence so great that there 
never lias been and never can be 
another equal to him ; the unalter- 
ableness of the law wliich he gave ; 
the dogma that the proper obser- 
vance of any one of the command- 
ments of the law will lead to per- 
fection ; the resurrection of the 
dead ; and the coming of the Mes- 
sias. But upon this excellent 
foundation has bee\ built up that 
structure of ceremony, ritual, ob- 
servance, and false and narrow 
philosophy which has become un- 
bearable to so many of the Jews in 
this country and in Europe, and 
from the yoke of which too many 
have escaped by throwing aside all 
faith, wh'.le others have contented 
themselves with taking refuge in 
the half-way houses of "reform." 

It is difficult to estimate with ac- 
curacy the number of Jews in the 
United States. But the census of 
1870 affords us some valuable datii 
upon which a calculation may be 
based. In 1850 there were 5|5 
Jewish synagogues in the United 
States, with sittings for 18,371 per- 



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370 



The Present State of Judaisni in America. 



sons, and having a value of $418,- 
600. In i860 there were 77 syna- 
gogues, with sittings for 34,412 per- 
sons and a value of $1,135,300. 
In 1870 no less than 189 Jewish 
"organizations'* were reported; 
there were 152 synagogues, seating 
73,265 persons and valued at J5,- 
155,234. Now in the city of New 
York there are 26 synagogues, and 
the Jewish population of the me- 
tropolis is not less than 75,000. 
This would give an average of 
some three thousand souls to each 
synagogue ; and if we took this 
average as a basis of calculation, 
we should have a Jewish popula- 
tion in the whole of the United 
States amounting to 456,000 souls. 
But we have reason to believe that 
this is much less than the actual 
number. We have received from 
two high authorities estimates of 
the Jewish population in the re- 
public ; both are avowedly only es- 
timates, but they have been made 
with care. One of them places the 
number of Jews in the United 
States at "one in thirty of the 
whole population," which would 
give a total of 1,600,000 souls ; the 
other reports the number to be 
" almost exactly 1,000,000 souls." 

According to the census of 1870, 
there were no Jewish synagogues 
or other Hebrew organizations in 
Arizona, Dakota, Delaware, Flori- 
da, Idaho, Minnesota, Mississippi, 
Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, New 
Hampshire, New Mexico, Oregon, 
Utah, Vermont, Washington Terri- 
tory, or Wyoming. But, in point 
of fact, there are many Jews in all, 
or nearly all, these States and Terri- 
tories. The following table will 
show the number of Jewish organi- 
zations in the United States, the 
number of their synagogues, with 
their sittings and their value, ac- 
cording to the census of 1870 : 





i^ 




i 


1 


AlaUma 

ArkanMU 


zo 
a3 

47 
15 


«3 

33 
»4 


i,6so 
3»6oj 

800 

Z.400 
3 950 
2,900 
«50 
300 
«.50o 
a,9oo 
7.315 
«.750 
1.500 

x»3«> 
3,100 

300 
91,400 

900 
4,000 
7»750 

900 
x,<oo 

':? 

750 


ffO^OQO 

3»4.6oo 


California 


Colorado 


Connecticut 

Dist. of Columbia... 
Georaia 


105000 
x8,ooo 
53,700 

•7*»5«> 

z 13,000 
z,900 
»i50o 

Z34,ooo 
75.000 
^6.400 

%ovooo 

33.000 

51,000 

817,100 

8,000 

i,83»»9So 

500 

160.584 

681,000 

91 .900 


lUinots 


Tn^iaqfl ,,..,.,..... 


Iowa 

KanMii. 


Kentucky. ... ..... 


Louisiana 

Maine 


Maryland 

Massachusetts 

Michisan 


Missouri 


New Jersey 

New York. 

North Carolina..... 

Ohio 

Pennsylvania 

Rhode Island 

South Carolina 


Tftxas 


6yOOO 

35,300 
8,50c 


Vermont ........... 


West Virginia 

WisGOOsw 




T<?tal» 


15a 


73i(i6s 


S5,X55,a34 





A careful examination of this 
table discloses some remarkable 
contrasts which are not without 
their significance. While the syn- 
agogues in North Carolina, Iowa, 
Kansas, Wisconsin, and some other 
States are small and cheap struc- 
tures, costing only from J500 to 
$2,800 or $3,000 each, those in 
Georgia have cost, or are valued 
at, an average of $10,500 ; in Ala- 
bama and Maine, $15,000 ; in Illi- 
nois, $30,000; in Connecticut, $35,- 
000; in California, $45,000; in Penn- 
sylvania, $49,000 ; in Oliio, $51,500 ; 
in Missouri, $54,000 ; in New York, 
$60,000; and in Maryland, $162,000. 
These instances exemplify to some 
extent the comparative wealth and 
religious zeal of the children of 
Israel in the different States named, 
and many of our readers, we sup- 
pose, will learn with surprise that 
there are far more Jews in Maine 
than in all the other New England 
States put together; and that the 



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The Present State of Judaism in America. 



371 



Jews of Maryland are apparently 
very much more wealthy and zea- 
lous than their co-religionists in 
any other part of the republic. But 
we must now trace the history of 
the settlement and progress of the 
Jews in this country, and set forth 
the outer as well as inner causes 
which have tended to work changes 
in them : to Americanize them to a 
great extent; to remove or soften 
the prejudices formerly cherished 
against them ; and to weaken, mo- 
dify, or destroy, in a degree which 
cannot yet be accurately determin- 
ed, their own religious faith. 

Jewish emigration to this coun- 
try began at a very early period in 
its history, but only within the last 
thirty years has this emigration as- 
sumed perceptible dimensions. The 
Jews who came to the United States 
prior to 1848 were for the most 
part members of a low class ; they 
were chiefly of Polish, Russian, Por- 
tuguese, or Spanish birth ; they 
were either poor or pretended to 
be poor ; they were peddlers, deal- 
ers in old clothes, pawnbrokers, 
money-changers in a small way, and 
petty merchants. From all social 
intercourse with the rest of the 
community they were cut off"; they 
did not seek that which probably 
would have been denied them had 
they asked for it; the traditional 
prejudice against the Jews which 
exists so generally among the Gen- 
tiles was not diminished by the ap- 
pearance, the actions, and the gen- 
eral reputation of these children of 
Israel. They were supposed to be 
exclusively devoted to trade and to 
money-making, and to be quite de- 
void of any scruples as to the means 
by which they might get the better 
of the person to whom they sold or 
of whom they bought. A Hebrew 
writer of some note many years ago 
remarked that the Jews, as a race of 



people, were more widely and gener- 
ally known and less generally appre- 
ciated than any other class upon the 
earth; that the peculiarities which 
have marked them as objects of dis- 
like were by no means original in 
their character, but were the fruits 
of centuries of oppression and degra- 
dation ; and that they needed olnly 
a few years of existence in a free 
country, where equal rights would 
be accorded to them, and where 
they might in peace and security 
manifest the virtues which were in 
them, in order to win for them- 
selves not only the toleration but 
the active esteem and respect of 
their fellow-citizens. The truth of 
this remark has been' amply sub- 
stantiated by what has occurred in 
England, France, Germany, and 
Other portions of Europe ; while in 
this country the Jews have succeed- 
ed in Americanizing themselves to 
a very great extent, and in obliter- 
ating in a marked degree the pecu- 
liarities which formerly served to 
point them out as a wholly separate 
and foreign people. That this pro- 
cess has been accompanied by the 
partial loss of their religious faith 
is unquestionably true, but it is not 
clear whether they have become 
Americanized because they have to 
this extent lost their faith, or wheth- 
er they have lost their faith because 
they have become Americanized. 

The Jews in America at the pre- 
sent moment are divided into five 
classes — the "Radical Orthodox," 
the "Orthodox," the "Conserva- 
tive Reformed," the "Reformed," 
and the " Radical Reformed." 
There is a wide gulf between the 
first and the last of these classes ; 
but the shades of difference be- 
tween a Radical Orthodox Jew and 
an Orthodox Jew, or between a 
Conservative Reformed Jew and a 
Reformed Jew, are somewhat diffi- 



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The Present State of Judaism in America. 



cult to define. The Radical Or- 
thodox Jews are few in number, 
and are said by their co-religionists 
to be daily growing less. They 
are chiefly of Polish, Austrian, or 
Hungarian birth ; they for the most 
part are in humble and obscure 
walks of life ; they form no associa- 
tions with Gentiles ; they accept as 
the rule of their life the Mosaic law 
interpreted by the " Talmud " and 
the " Cabala "; they do not welcome 
Gentiles, or even Jews of later views, 
to their synagogues. We believe 
there is but one synagogue in New 
York belonging to this school of 
Jews, and in which one may wit- 
ness Jewish worship as it was per- 
formed a thousand years ago. The 
children of the Radical Orthodox 
Jews — especially the male children 
— do not adliere closely to the faith 
and ritual of their fathers; and 
some of the fathers themselves, as 
they become rich in this world's 
goods, manifest a disposition to 
affiliate themselves with one or 
other of the less rigorous sects. 
Some of them are content to join 
the ranks of the Orthodox Jews, 
who hold most firmly to all matters 
of dogma, and to all the essential 
rules of life laid down by the law 
of Moses, but who at the same time 
dispense themselves from the strict 
observance of a certain number of 
the more onerous observances and 
regulations enjoined by the rab- 
bjnical writers. 

The line of demarcation between 
the Orthodox Jews and the Con- 
servative Reformed Jews is vague 
and undetermined ; but the Re- 
formed Jews are very much advanc- 
ed. They hold themselves bound 
no longer to obey the ceremonial 
and dietary laws laid down by 
Moses and his successors, and 
their faith in the predictions of the 
prophets has almost wholly faded 



away. The higher class of the He- 
brew community for the most part 
belong to the Reformed sect; but 
these congregations are also largely 
composed of the well-to-do middle- 
class Jews. Nearly all of the Jews 
of American birth are found in the 
ranks of this sect or in the one of 
which we have yet to speak ; and 
very many of the German and 
English Jews resident here are 
also members of the Reformed syn- 
agogues. They openly avow their 
desire and ambition to become 
thoroughly Americanized, and to 
cease in all respects to be regarded 
as an alien and foreign people. 
They still retain their belief in 
God, but this belief is in too many 
cases vague and ill-defined. The 
expectation of the coming of the 
Messias in any literal sense has, 
with rare exceptions, ceased to be 
entertained among them. They 
will not confess that the prophecies 
of his coming were fulfilled in 
Jesus Christ, and their philosophy 
has led them to the conclusion that 
tliese prophecies do not now remain 
to be fulfilled, save in a metaphori- 
cal sense. The Messias is indeed 
to come — but not as an individual. 
Humanity as a race, elevated, hap- 
py, prosperous, blessed with long 
life, health, and earthly comfort, is 
the Messias ; the prophets saw him 
and were glad, but it was reserved 
for the children of this generation 
to discover what was the hidden 
and real meaning of their predic- 
tions concerning him. 

A learned Jewish scholar has 
thus expressed this phase of Jewish 
thought: "The majority of intelli- 
gent Israelites have long since aban- 
doned the wish of building up an 
independent national existence of 
their own. The achievement of 
higher conditions of human life 
they are disposed to regard as the 



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Tlie Present State of Judaism in America. 



373 



fulfilment of Messianic prophecy, 
and the furthering of this end, in 
intimate union with their fellow- 
men, as the highest dictate of their 
religion." These are weighty 
words ; and there is abundant rea- 
son to believe that they truthfully 
represent the dominant tone of 
thought among the American Jews. 
The latest sect among them — the 
Radical Reformed Jews — go to the 
root of the matter and have the 
full courage of their opinions. They 
have the goodness to admit that 
there is, or may be, a God, but 
they deny that he has ever revealed 
himself to man save by the law of 
nature, and that God is himself na- 
ture. In other words, these Jews 
have become Pantheists. Benedict 
de Spinoza was excommunicated 
and denounced by the forefathers 
of those who now revere and extol 
him. The most eloquent and gift- 
ed, if not the most learned, of the 
Jewish rabbis in America has be- 
come the leader of this sect, and 
has left the magnificent synagogue 
which was built for him, only to 
draw after him into new paths a 
large proportion of his former con- 
gregation. They are extremely 
wise in their own conceit ; they 
prate of the necessity of doubting 
all things; they deride the rites 
and practices of external religion ; 
they say they worship God, but in- 
asmuch as God, as they insist, is 
only nature, and nature is part of 
themselves, in worshipping God 
they worship themselves. We are 
told that many of those Jews who 
still maintain their connection with 
the Conservative Reformed or Re- 
formed congregations are by con- 
viction in full sympathy with the 
Radical Reformers. The laity are 
far in advance of the rabbis of 
each sect. The rabbis are for the 
most part men of foreign birth and 



foreign education ; there are, we 
believe, not a dozen rabbis of Ame- 
rican birth in the whole Union. 
The almost universal tendency of 
thought and practice among the 
younger Jews is in the direction of 
that phase of infidelity of which we 
have spoken ; and the elder mem- 
bers of the race take little care to 
counteract in any effectual manner 
this apostasy. The education of 
Jewish children in this country is 
left pretty much to take care of 
itself. There are few, if any, Jew- 
ish schools, and none at all of a 
high character. The Jewish chil- 
dren for the most part attend the 
public schools, where they either 
are taught no religion at all or 
listen to such vague and disjointed 
utterances concerning the truths of 
Christianity as the caprice or the 
prejudices of the teacher may lead 
him to pronounce. In some in- 
stances the children of well-to-do 
Hebrews among us are sent to re- 
ceive their education in Unitarian 
academies ; in others the sons of 
wealthy American Jews are educat- 
ed in the German universities, from 
whence they return full-blown infi- 
dels. Interftiarriages between Jews 
and nominal Christians are not rare; 
and the children of these unions 
are, as a rule, educated in the reli- 
gion of the mother — if she happens 
to possess any. 

We have said that the Jewish 
laity is in advance of the rabbis in 
the matter of what is called " re- 
form," but which is too generally 
nothing but destruction. The po- 
sition of the rabbis is a peculiar 
one. They are not priests, for they 
no longer offer sacrifice. They 
are not even the sons of priests; 
the hereditary character of their 
office has long since been lost; 
they are rabbis, or, in other phrase, 
teachers, not by hereditary descent 



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Ttie Present State of Judaism in America. 



nor by divine selection or conse- 
cration^ but merely by their own 
choice and the good-will of their 
neighbors or friends. The last 
high-priest of the Jewish Church 
who had any divine sanction for 
the title which he bore was Cai- 
phas, and his office was taken away 
from him, in the sight of God and 
in truth, on the day of Pentecost, 
when the Holy Ghost descended to 
dwell until the end of time with 
the Christian Church. Since that 
day there have been no priests of 
God upon the earth, save the priests 
of the Catholic Church ; and con- 
sequently since that day there have 
been no true Jewish priests. The 
altars of the Jews have crumbled 
away ; their sacrifices have ceased ; 
the sons of the tribes of Aaron and 
Levi have abandoned even the 
pretence of belonging to a priestly 
order. In the place of tlie priests 
have come the rabbis, who are mere 
ministers or teachers. They are to 
the Jews what the Baptist, Metho- 
dist, Presbyterian, and other Pro- 
testant ministers are to the respec- 
tive Protestant sects. They are a 
little less than some of the Protes- 
tant ministers claim to be ; for some 
of these do set up in art uncertain 
way a vague and altogether falla- 
cious pretence to the possession of 
" orders " and to having been em- 
powered to perform priestly func- 
tions. The rabbis make no such 
pretence, and their position, such 
as it is, is confessedly invested with 
only purely human sanction. They 
are teachers, but do not claim that 
they have a divine authority to 
teach. They are subject to the 
will and caprice of the congrega- 
tion to which they are attached ; 
they are like school-teachers, whose 
tenure of office depends upon the 
pleasure of the school commission- 
ers* Some of them have sought to 



put themselves at the head of the 
reform movement, and have suc- 
ceeded, but only on the condition 
that they should keep pace with 
the advance of the lai ty . The youn- 
ger German rabbis have been most 
prominent in this respect. They 
have effected an organization among 
themselves, as well here as in Ger- 
many, and have managed to act 
together with something approach- 
ing to unanimity. Destitute, how- 
ever, of any rule of faith and prac- 
tice higher than their own will and 
whim, and having no central or su- 
preme authority to which they can 
appeal, they lack the essential bond 
of unity, and some of them are con- 
stantly wandering off in one direc- 
tion or the other. They began their 
work of reform by modernizing the 
ritual of the synagogue, and elimi- 
nating from it, little by little, those 
portions of it which, directly or in- 
directly, assert the dogmas that are 
inconveniently opposed to the new 
ideas whereof they are enamored. 
Among the regular prayers of the 
synagogue, for instance, were sup- 
plications for the bringing back of 
the chosen people to the land of 
their fathers, the restoration of the 
throne of David, and the coming 
of the Messias. The new philoso- 
phy, as we have shown, teaches 
that the Messias is not to come in 
any literal sense; that inasmuch as 
modern progress is best subserved 
by democratic or republican insti- 
tutions, the establishment of a mo- 
narchy of any kind is not to be de- 
sired or prayed for; and that the 
return of the Jews as a nation to 
Palestine is not to be wished, even 
if it were feasible. 

It became advisable, therefore, to 
reconcile theory with practice, and 
to cease pretending to pray for that 
which was either impossible or un- 
desirable. If it were absurd to be- 



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lieve any longer that the Messias 
was to come as a personal king 
and redeemer, to lead back his peo- 
ple to the Promised Land, and to 
elevate them as the rulers and 
princes of the earth, then it was 
something worse than absurd to 
continue the repetition of the pray- 
ers imploring the hastening of his 
coming. If the Books of the Law 
and of the Prophets are not the 
veritable word of God ; if they con- 
tain merely ingenious and beautiful 
myths, symbolical poetry, and a 
code of moral and dietary rules 
which, in some respects at least, 
are no longer either necessary or 
advisable to be obeyed, it is dis- 
honest to pretend to regard these 
writings with devout reverence, and 
to insist upon any one governing 
himself by them. By this course 
of reasoning the German rabbis, 
often pushed further than they 
cared to go by the laity who were 
behind them, sapped the founda- 
tions of faith among the common 
people of the Jews, and prepared 
them for the downward path which 
so many of them are now treading. 
Having thus reviewed the pre- 
sent state of Judaism in America, 
we may ask ourselves what is likely 
to be the future of what was once 
the church of God, but has now 
fallen to the level of a mere sect. 
It is clear that the Jews, here as 
in the Old World, and more rapidly 
here than in the Old World, are 
losing the faith of their fathers. 
Judaism, divine in its origin, but 
no longer invested with the divine 
sanction nor inspired or guided by 
the Holy Ghost, is undergoing the 
same process of disintegration and 
decay which the Protestant sects 
are suffering. Judaism, now wholly 
human, like Protestantism, is lead- 
ing its adherents to infidelity. Eve- 
ry day, as Protestants see this, the 



devout and pious among them turn 
to the one church which Jesus 
Christ established in the world, and 
in her bosom find refuge, peace, 
and salvation. The number of 
conversions from Protestantism to 
the holy Roman Catholic Church, 
here and in Great Britain, is con- 
tinually on the increase. But no- 
thing is more rare than the conver- 
sion of a Jew. They are rapidly 
parting with their own faith, but 
very seldom do they embrace any 
form of Christianity in its stead. 
In a few years the great majority 
of Jews in the United States will 
probably have ceased to be Jews, 
save only in name. But how many 
of them will become Catholics.? 
All roads lead to Rome ; but very 
few Jews have made that journey. 
A Jew who becomes a Catholic is 
a most excellent Catholic ; he seems 
to desire, by the fervor of his faith 
and the burning zeal of his charity, 
to make some reparation for the 
sins of his people. Jews should be 
the best Catholics in the world ; 
and God has told us, through the 
mouths of Jewish prophets, that 
the time will come when they will 
be all that they should be. The 
word of God is sure and cannot 
fail. He has told us that the day 
is coming when the Jews shall ask 
him, " What are those wounds in 
the midst of thy hands?" and when 
he shall reply, ** With these was I 
wounded in the house of them that 
I love." In that day he "will pour 
out upon the house of David the 
spirit of grace and the spirit of 
prayers ; and they shall look upon 
him whom they have pierced, and 
they shall mourn for him a.s one 
mourneth for an only son, and 
shall grieve over him as the man- 
ner is to grieve for the death of 
the first-born." In that glorious 
day God has promised that he will 



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destroy the names of idols out of 
the earth, so that they shall be re- 
membered no more; and that he 
will take away the false prophets 
and the unclean spirit out of the 
earth. He will bring back the cap- 
tivity of Juda and the captivity 
of Jerusalem, and " will build them 
as from the beginning " ; he will 
cleanse them from all their ini- 
quities, whereby they have sinned 
against him and despised him ; and 
he will so crown them with bless- 
ings that all the world shall be 
amazed thereby. " It shall be to 
me a name, and a joy, and a praise, 
and a gladness before all the na- 
tions of the earth that shall hear 
of all the good things which I will 
do to them." "Behold, the days 
come, saith the Lord, that I will 
perform the good word that I have 
spoken to the house of Israel and 
to the house of Juda." When the 
Jews become Catholic Christians, 
Jerusalem shall "be called by a 
new name, which the mouth of 
the Lord shall name," and the 
Jews shall become "a crown of 
glory in the hand of the Lord and 
a royal diadem in the hand of 
God." Then they shall no more 
be called forsaken, and their land 
shall be no more called desolate ; 
"but thou shalt be called *my 
pleasure in her,* and thy land in- 
habited." Then shall the Holy 
Sacrifice of the Mass be celebrated 
by Jewish hands in the Holy City 
where Jesus Christ first offered up 
the ever-living Sacrifice, and then 
shall the Jews eat the heavenly 
Bread and drink the sacred Blood 
which have so long been given to 
us Gentiles and rejected by them. 
" The Lord has sworn by his right 
hand and by the arm of his strength : 
Surely I will no longer give thy 
corn to be meat for thy enemies, 
and the sons of the stranger shall 
not drink thy wine for which thou 



hast labored ; for they that gather 
it shall eat it, and they that have 
brought it together shall drink it in 
my holy courts." Wonderful are 
these words; full are they of a 
meaning at once mystical and clear. 
The Jews, in God's own time, will 
become Catholic Christians, and, 
united with the whole body of the 
faithful on earth, they shall eat the 
divine Bread which is the life of 
the world. The abandonment of 
their traditional faith will continue 
to lead them more and more to the 
abandonment of all their distinctive 
national peculiarities and practices, 
and they will become merged in 
the great body of the children of 
men. Then such of them as God 
may choose will have given to them 
the grace of faith, and as individu- 
als, and not as a nation, will they 
become Catholic Christians. We 
know that in the vision of St. John 
the Apostle he saw one hundred and 
forty-four thousand of the children 
of Israel, of every tribe twelve thou- 
sand, who had come out of great 
tribulation, and washed their robes 
and made them white in the biood 
of the Lamb. We are certain, then, 
that before the end of the world at 
least this number of Jews will have 
been converted. It may be that 
the number represents only those 
who belonged to the church while 
it was yet mainly composed of 
Jews. If so, let us hope that those 
of the once chosen people who yet 
remain may be found, or at least 
many of them, in that great multi- 
tude which no man can number, of 
all nations, and tribes, and peoples, 
and tongues, which St. John also 
saw, standing before the throne and 
in the sight of the Lamb, clothed 
with white robes and palms in their 
hands, crying with a loud voice • 
"Salvation to our God who sit- 
teth upon the throne, and to the 
Lamb." 



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Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister. 



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LETTERS OF A YOUNG IRISHWOMAN TO HER SISTER. 



FSOll THB nWNCK. 



CONCLUSION. 



July 30. 

This morning I was in a sort 
of mortal sadness. I opened the 
"Book of those who suffer" at these 
words : " You have willed, O my 
God ! to separate me from her to 
whom I have so often said that I 
should wish to die the same day as 
she. This desire has not been 
granted, and thou hast condemned 
me to survive. 

" She is at rest ; and never have 
I more fully realized than in this 
my exceeding grief the meaning 
of that beautiful Christian word, 
quies — rest." 

I said this with all my heart, and 
I have comprehended. . . . O Kate ! 
I loved you too much for this 
world. Bless me from on high, and 
visit me with Picciola. It seems 
to me that the divine Goodness 
must permit that. 

August 2. 
" The present war is the natural 
and necessary consequence of the 
great apostasy of the sixteenth cen- 
tury and the principles of the 
Revolution !" O my God ! if this 
might be a holy war! But I fear; 
for France is so guilty ! Prayers 
are being offered in all the dioce- 
ses ; the emperor has put himself 
at the head of the army. May 
God save us ! We needed a St. 
Louis, if we were to deserve vic- 
tory. Do you remember, Kate, 
how much we admired these words 
of Bossuet ? ** War is often a salu- 
tary bath, in which nations bathe 



and are regenerated." Oh ! how 
you must pray, all our kind friends 
in heaven. 

August 4. 

Am^lie has bidden us adieu ; 
she is a charming creature. Her 
mother will not accompany her. 
She fears her own weakness; and 
she is a veritable Spartan. 

On the 2d of August took 
place a first engagement at Saar- 
brttck ; our troops were victorious. 
May this success augur well ! Tliey 
say that there is a terrible efferves- 
cence in minds. Our Bretonnes are 
praying that their sons may soon 
return. 

Arrival of our Parisians ! Alix 
and Margaret have all the grace of 
the twins ; my godson is magnifi- 
cent. I like to feel that we are 
together in these troubled times. 
How I pity mothers ! 

August 7. 
Terror, anguish, defeat — these 
are the synonyms of this date. 
Two days ago we were beaten at 
Wissembourg; yesterday at For- 
bach. We are waiting for news. 
Our reverses are a chastisement ; 
the French government is with- 
drawing its troops from Rome. Is 
it, then, to secure success that 
France abandons the Pope } Oh ! 
it is not France which acts thus; 
she is too profoundly Catholic for 
that ; but she will be none the less 
certain to undergo the penalty for 
this cowardice. Kate, pray for 



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Letters of a Young Iriskwoman to her Sister. 



France! The Prussians are upon 
our soil, and civ'iX war is also feared. 

August 13. 

Horrible details are received of 
the battle of ReichshofTen. Marshal 
MacMahon behaved with admirable 
heroism. He would not quit the 
field of battle after witnessing this 
odious butchery — ^40,000 against 
150,000 ! Lord, O Lord ! have pity. 
There must have been some trea- 
son there. The cuirassiers and 
chasseurs of MacMahon sacrificed 
themselves to facilitate the retreat. 
The newspapers make one weep. 
Kate, what is said in heaven ? 

My Guy is charmingly beautiful ; 
and when he is twenty years old 
an enemy's cannon-ball will have 
the right to carry him off! 

August 21. 

Dear Kate, I bless God for hav- 
ing placed you in the peace of 
eternity before these murderous 
struggles, in which your heart 
would so often have been wound- 
ed ! Ah ! it seems to me that it is 
a great favor to be taken from this 
earth before the calamities which 
are impending. 

A subscription has been set on 
foot, in order that all France shall 
offer a sword of honor to MacMa- 
hon. Marshal Leboeuf, General- 
in-Chief, is replaced by Marshal 
fiazaine ; the army is falling back 
on Chalons. There wiere brilliant 
affairs on the 14th, 15th, and i6th. 
But what agitation in the country ! 
The republicans consider the mo- 
ment favorabte for their triumph, 
and Ren6 declares that the Prus- 
sians of France are still more to be 
dreaded tlian the Prussians of Ger- 
many. Montaigne said : " There 
are triumphant defeats which equal 
the finest victories." Our troops 
are sublime. »esh levies are be- 



ing made, companies of frants-ti- 
reurs are organized; will France 
be saved ? Catliolic La Vendue is 
rising en masse, 

August 24. 

The Prussians are at Silint-Dizier. 
It is said that in the partial engage- 
ments the losses are considerable on 
both sides. The enemy is bom- 
barding Strasbourg. Read heart- 
rending details. Pavera Francia ! 
They say that two sons of Count 
Bismarck are dead; it is the jus- 
tice of God passing by ! Oh ! 
when we think of so many families 
who are suffering from the disasters 
of invasion, who see their homes 
invaded and their days in peril, 
how ardent are our prayers ! 

That which I dreaded is come 
upon us. Ren^ and his brothers 
are going! O my God! guard them 
from danger. I love France too 
well to hinder Ren^ from defending 
her. The fear of afflicting me 
held him back. God aid us and 
have at the English ! as our Breton 
ancestors used to say. The Eng- 
lish of to-day are the Prussians. 

They leave us, five brothers, all 
valiant and strong, courageous as 
lions. Ah ! if they should not re- 
turn. I believe in presentiments, 
and something tells me that all 
hope of happiness is at an end for 
me. " Give all to God," a saintly 
priest wrote to me. Fiat! Take all, 
my God, but leave me thy love ! 

Do you remember, Kate, my mo- 
ther's stories of the heroism of our 
grandfather? Do you remember 
that Georgina whose name I receiv- 
ed, who said to her brother, "Go 
and fight without thinking of 
me. God and his angels will 
guard me ; think of your coun- 
try !" 

Could I be less courageous than 
she } Pray for me, holy soul in hea- 
ven ! What shall I do without him ? 



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LetUrs of a Yming Irishwotnan to her Sister. 



379 



August 26. 

Levies are being raised en masse. 
Men will not be wanting, but sol- 
diers cannot be made at a moment's 
notice, especially in our days. It 
is said that Bazaine is blockaded in 
Metz with 70,000 men, and that he 
has before him 200,000 Prussians. 
MacMahon is going to his relief 
with an equal number of heroes. 
The French have burnt the camp 
at Chalons. What will be the is- 
sue of this frightful struggle ? The 
ministry which has caused all our 
misfortunes has resigned ; a clear 
understanding is most important, 
and time passes away in useless 
<liscussions. General Trochu, a 
Breton, is Governor of Paris. 

To-day we shall be left alone. . . . 

August 29. 

It is over. Ren^ has taken with 
him all my heart, and I feel a 
strange sense of suffering. My 
mother has been sublime. O these 
adieux, these last embraces ! Who 
would have said that we should come 
to this ? 

Protect them, ye holy angels ! 
Bring them back to us soon with 
the return of peace ! There are 
wounded everywhere ; my mother 
has asked for ten, to whom we shall 
attend ourselves. It is terrible to 
see these mutilations. O war ! how 
I hate it. 

The army of Prince Frederick 
Charles is marching upon Paris; 
there are no official tidings of our 
soldiers. Phalsbourg, Toul, Metz, 
Strasbourg are all undergoing the 
horrors of bombardment. Where 
shall we go? Prayer alone will 
rave us. There is much patriotic 
eagerness in the populations; the 
loan of 750,000,000 has been cov- 
ered with astonishing rapidity. 
What will become of the capital? 
What chastisement will visit it for 



having erected a statue to Vol- 
taire? 

A visit — ^the Comtesse de G 

and her two daughters, friends of 
Lucy. What a difference between 
the two sisters ! The younger 
calm, gentle, and placid, like a 
beautiful lake, seraphic and ten- 
der; the elder ardent and enthu- 
siastic to exaggeration, impassion- 
ed for the cause of good, peace, 
and right, but like a volcano. 

Kate, tell me that you pray for 
us, and that God will have pity 
upon his people ! 

August 31. 

A letter from Rene ! Alas ! his 
presence was so sweet to me. Ger- 
trude and I do not quit the chapel, 
except for the wounded. Mary 
and Ellen, Marguerite and Alix, 
multiply their prayers. Arthur has 
made his mother give him a Zou- 
ave's uniform; thus equipped, he 
drills the children at the school. 
You should hear him say how he 
wants to join his father and iight 
with him. Our savage eneinies 
commit revolting atrocities. How 
truly are they the sons of the Teu- 
tons ! 

Berthe's family is in Switzerland. 

September 4. 

Lord, save us ; we perish ! 

The public journals speak in an 
ambiguous manner of triumphs with 
respect to which a terrible silence 
had been observed in official quar- 
ters; a great battle was imminent. 
.*. . The day is come, and its 
events are brought to light. Pove- 
ra Franciaf The emperor and 
40,000 French prisoners, MacMa- 
hon grievously wounded, and a 
capitulation — it is horrible ! My 
God ! hast thou abandoned France } 
The public consternation cannot be 
described. It was said yesterday 
that, owing to a crypt whose cxia* 



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Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister, 



tence was generally unknown, the 
women and children had been able 
to quit Strasbourg, so valiantly de- 
fended by General Uhrich. The 
enemy aims his murderous projec- 
tiles especially at the cathedral — 
that unequalled marvel in stone. 
Horrible ! horrible ! It seems as 
if hell had vomited innumerable 
legions of monsters upon France. 
There were 550,000 in this last 
three days' battle. How will all 
this end ? " Arise, O Lord ! and 
deliver thy people, for the time to 
show mercy is come !" * 

September 6. 
The republic is proclaimed. Pa- 
ris is in a state of delirium. Did 
not Joseph de Maistre say : " The 
French Revolution has been Satan- 
ic ; if the counter-revolution is not 
divine, it will be a nullity '? Read 
the Univers yesterday — so Chris- 
tian, so right-thinking. Louis 
Veuillot calls Prussia the Sin of 
Europe, Will the republic save 
us? The enemy is at Soissons. 
We see now the result of twenty 
years of despotism. ..." MacMa- 
hon is dead !" said a workman on 
the boulevards with a journal in 
his hand. At these words arose a 
general cry : " Honor to MacMa- 
hon !" This report is contradicted, 
and Mme. la Mar^chale set out 
yesterday to join her husband. O 
this wound ! What Frenchman 
would not give his life to heal it.? 
No army left! Bazaine is still 
blockaded in Metz, bombarded by 
the Prussians. MacMahon had 
done wonders, but was unable to 
effect his junction witft Bazaine. 
He was thrown back by the enemy 
upon Sedan, and a bridge not hav- 
ing been destroyed, notwithstand- 
ing his orders, he was surrounded 
by a network of the enemy ; griev- 

•Pt. d. 



ously wounded, he placed the com- 
mand in the hands of General Wim- 
pffen, who capitulated. MacMahon 
would never have done this — never ! 
Without a miracle, France is lost. 
It seems as if one were suffering a 
bad dream in reading that, owing 
to our woods, the enemy slaughter 
us without mercy, whilst our blows 
fall on emptiness, and that on the 
fatal day which annihilated our 
army our artillery was for a quar- 
ter of an hour playing upon a regi- 
ment of French cuirassiers. . . . The 
Angelas is ringing. O Angelic Salu- 
tation ! with what anguish Chris- 
tian hearts yesterday repeated you, 
on this beginning of a new era of 
which no one can tell the form or 
the duration. 

September 7. 
A line from Adrien to reassure 
us all. Alas ! who does not trem- 
ble at this hour.? Kate, protect 
us ! Some members of the Left 
have, themselves alone, made the 
republic and seized the reins of 
government. Can the enemies of 
God regenerate a people.? "The 
Keeper of Israel neither slumbers 
nor sleeps." Napoleon I. (Louis 
Veuillot, the valiant heart, tells us) 
used to say that the general who dar- 
ed speak of capitulation ought to be 
shot ; what, then, would be the de- 
serts of him who surrenders ? Poor 
France, humiliated, vanquished, de- 
prived of her noblest children ! 

September 8. 
On this festival of your nativity, 
O Our Lady of Victories ! succor 
us. No courier from Paris, which 
must be invested. The Garde Na- 
tionale is being organized; the 
scheme is to oppose the whole of 
France to these Vandals of the nine- 
teenth century — barbarous hordes 
who seem to be impelled by some 
irresistible force into the heart of 



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381 



our unhappy country. How French 
I feel myself in these days of sor- 
row ! Dear Kate, is it true, as we 
believe, that all our saints of France, 
headed by St. Remi, Charlemagne, 
St. Louis, and Joan of Arc, are pros- 
trate at the fee^ of the Eternal to 
obtain the pardon which would 
save us .^ 

September 11. 

In the frightful catastrophe of 
Sedan our soldiers were in want of 
munitions and had not eaten for 
four days. 

I send daily along bulletin of news 
to my devoted Margaret. Has not 
Marcella also something to fenr ? 
Poor Italy ! Poor France ! We 
can but have either a shameful 
peace or a pitiless war. . . . Laon 
is threatened with the fat& of 
Strasbourg. Alas ! these poor cit- 
ies, besieged and heroic. " Coun- 
try of my brethren and of my 
friends, may the words of God for 
thee be words of peace : ' May peace 
be within thy walls, and plenteous- 
ness within thy towers ! * O ray 
God! save thy servants who put 
their trust in thee ! " * 

Every man under arms, every 
woman at prayer I This decree 
makes me bless the republic. And 
Renti — where is he ? 

September 13. 
Laon must have ceased to exist ; 
the commander has had the citadel 
blown up. They say that Gari- 
baldi, the insulter of Pius IX. and 
the king of vagabonds and bandits, 
is coming to succor France ; is not 
this the depth of humiliation ? 
" How long, O Lord ! wilt thou de- 
lay to succor us } O God ! be thou 
our judge, and defend our cause 
against this pitiless nation ; deliver 

*Pi.czjd. 



us from these men, who are full of 
injustice and deceit !" 

The enemy is six leagues from 
Paris. M. Thiers has set out for 
Vienna, St. Petersburg, and Lon- 
don. The United States have offer- 
ed their mediation. We are assured 
that the foreign powers desire peace, 
but what proofs do they give 1 
Russia is preparing formidable ar- 
maments, doubtless finding the pre^ 
sent moment opportune for taking 
possession of Constantinople. The 
excommunicated king is adding to 
his crjmes in annexing to his own the 
last remaining States of the church. 

We are told that the republican 
world boasts greatly of the circular 
of Jules Favre and the letter of 
Victor Hugo. 

I do not know fnom whence there 
comes to us a copy of a revelation 
announcing that from the 20th to 
the 29th all will be over, and that 
France will be delivered by a 
stranger. O feast of St. Michael the 
Archangel ! be to us a day of salva- 
tion. But, Lord, does France de- 
serve it } Ah ! she is no longer 
the eldest daughter of the church, 
since she consents to the odious 
spoliation of Italy, and since every 
sort; of hatred is let loose against 
religion. Do they not say that at 
Lyons the Visitandines have been 
driven from their convent.? We 
deserve every misfortune and dis- 
grace. Louis Veuillot, calm in the 
midst of so many storms, gave yes- 
terday a beautiful article, in which 
he predicted the near approach of 
the triumph of the church ; and to- 
day, the splendid history of Judas 
Machabeus. Save us, O Lord ! we 
who are thy people. "God gives 
to his church the flotsam of every 
wreck, as he gives her, sooner or 
later, the laurel of every triumph/' 

It is said that Paris will be de- 
stroyed. " Unless the Lord keep 



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the city, lie tliat kecpeth it watcheth 
in vain !" * Hope ! hope ! Prayer 
will save us ! 

I knew yesterday that Ren^ was 
alive. O Kate ! pray for us. 

September 17. 

O surprise ! O joy ! — if I dared 
to say so. . . . Margaret here! 
Kind, dear, and perfect friend ! she 
could not remain away from us 
during these troubles. I-ord Wil- 
liam and Emmanuel have come with 
her. What an exquisite proof of 
affection ! How we have wept to- 
gether I O dear Kate, dear flower 
transplanted to heaven ! your na- 
tive soil, how much we have spoken 
of you. How Ren^ will be touch- 
ed at hearing of this arrival ! My 
mother and sisters give a festive 
welcome to my bdie Anglaise^ ^\iO is 
English only in name, being as Ca- 
tholic, as Irish, and as French as 
we are. 

Communications are interrupted, 
or are on the point of being so. 
The line of Orleans is cut. The 
Paris Journal is here, however, 
with frightful accounts of the bar- 
barity of the Prussians. Save us, my 
God ; have pity on those who are 
fighting/r^? aris et focis I 

Margaret has brought me a bit 
of the soil of Ireland, and some 
flowers gathered fiom our mother's 
grave. 

September 19. 

What is happening to-day, twen- 
ty-four years after the Apparition 
of La Salette.? We are melting 
away in prayers. My mother has 
obtained from the bishop the most 
liberal permissions for benedictions. 
Our good curS is dying ... of 
old age and grief. The love of 
their country is a robust plant 
among the Bretons. 

Dear Kate, we speak of you with 

• P». caocvl 



Margaret. I told her that I con« 
tinue to write to you ; she was 
touched at hearing it. How kind 
it is of her to have quitted her 
home to share our anguish and our 
dangers ! The province will be in- 
vaded — that is certain. No news 
of Rene; but who does not feel 
courageous at this time } Ah I as- 
suredly, in face of the extent of our 
disasters, selflsh anxieties disappear, 
and the soul grows, in her prodi- 
gious faculty of suflering, to com- 
passionate all the present miseries, 
all the crushing misfortunes, all the 
deaths. How long, O Lord! will 
thy hand be heavy upon us ? O 
mysterious depths of the designs 
of God ! O militant church ! C^ 
venerated Pontiff", the purest glory 
of our age 1 O Rome, invaded like 
France! I have just read an ad- 
mirable pastoral letter of Mgr. 
Freppel, the illustrious successor 
of Mgr. Angebault in the see of 
Angers. He sees a reason for hope 
in this community of sorrows be- 
tween the mother and the eldest 
daughter, O Pontiff"! — ^is not this 
title become a bitter derision } The 
gates of hell shall not prevail against 
the church, and we are surely not 
far distant from her signal triumph ; 
but how many tears, it may be, and 
how many martyrdoms, before that 
hour ! Italy, France, Ireland — ^the 
three countries of my heart, lands 
that are mingled in one in my en- 
thusiasm and love, daughters of 
God, and the privileged ones of his 
heart — you cannot perish ; God will 
flght for you, and we shall bless 
him for ever ! 

Kate, beloved sister, tell me that 
you hear me, that your soul touches 
mine. Be Ren6*s guardian angel ! 

September 21. 
Our life is strange. Beneath all 
it has a wonderful serenity, a con- 



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fidence in God which defies every- 
thing; on the surface it is a sort 
of fever, passing from the wildest 
hope to the most complete discour- 
agement. Gertrude has appointed 
us her aides-de-camp— Ul^xgdiTtX. and 
myself. There is much to«^o 
around us. Our Bretonnes have 
need to be consoled, and there are 
sick and dying. The good abb/ 
multiplies himself with admirable 
self-forgetfulness ; our pastor is dy- 
ing, happy to be called away at the 
present crisis. 

I have a letter from Ren^ — a kind, 
long, sweet letter, from which I can- 
not take away my eyes. He only 
speaks to me vaguely of the war, 
so as not to increase my alarm. 
Every ring of the bell makes us 
start; the gallop of a horse makes 
us run to the windows. My mo- 
ther never quits her psalter and 
rosary; Mistress Annah faithfully 
keeps her company when we are 
not there; Mary and Ellen, with 
the other dear young ones in the 
house, arc our sunshine. The cour- 
ageous Margaret talks politics with 
Lucy, the abb/y and the doctor, or- 
ganizes plans of defence, creates 
fortresses, and finally expels the 
enemy. Lord William was just 
now reading to us in the Paris 
Journal of the i8th details of deep 
interest relating to the affair of 
Sedan—" the Waterloo of the Se- 
cond Empire, and the greatest dis- 
aster of modern times." 

September 25. 
Jules Favre has made an appeal 
to William and Bismarck. France 
is very low. The result has been 
the affirmation of the exorbitant 
demands of the conquerors. The 
struggle is to be pushed to extrem- 
ities. Regiments are to be form- 
ed of National Guards. Here 
none are left but old men. No 



official news. It is said that the 
enemy has been repulsed at Ver- 
sailles, that Nantes is burnt, that 
headquarters are at Meaux; they 
said yesterday at Rheims : " O 
Clovis ! why are you not there with 
your Franks ?" The Prussians are 
burning Rouen. When, then, will 
the terrible work of these execu- 
tioners of Heaven be ended } Wil- 
liam wants Alsace and Lorraine, 
Metz, Strasbourg, Toul, Verdun, and 
Mont Val^rien. Ah ! we also, we 
shall say with the Bishop of Orleans 
that which was said by Louisa of 
Prussia — a magnanimous soul, to 
whom the life of her four sons was 
less dear than the honor of her 
country ; a believing and valiant 
woman, who beheld so violent and 
devastating a storm pass over her 
kingdom that Prussia was on the 
point of being erased from the ma[) 
of nations : ** I believe in God ; I do 
not believe in force. Justice alone 
is stable. God prunes the spoiled 
tree. We shall see better times, if 
only each day find us better and 
more prepared." The son has not 
inherited the sentiments of the 
mother. It is said that it was 
Prince Albert who commanded the 
burning of Bazeilles ; this fearful 
barbarity would suffice for his re- 
probation in the memory of men. 
" The Hebrew people saw Deborah 
and Judith arise in the day of its 
affliction ; Gaul, St. Genevieve ; 
and France of the middle ages, 
Joan of Arc."* Who shall save 
modern France } Whose arm shall 
God raise up to avenge her } " But 
now thou hast cast us off, and put 
us to shame : and thou, O God ! 
wilt not go out with our armies. 
. . . Arise, O Lord ! Why sleepest 
thou r t 

Rome is invaded by the repub- 



*Gabouxd. 



tPs. zliii. 



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lican troops ; they leave the Pope 
the castle of Sant' Angelo and the 
Leonine city, with magnificent as- 
surances of security. O the time 
of deliverance, the hour of salva- 
tion ! — soon, doubtless, soon. The 
church cannot perish. Gentle Pon- 
tiff, Pius IX., Vicar of Christ and 
his representative, like him cruci- 
fied in heart, given gall to drink, 
overwhelmed with insults, your 
powerless children join their sup- 
plications to your own, and God 
will arise, mighty and terrible, to 
confound your enemies — you who 
have loved justice and hated ini- 
quity ! 

Letter from Rene, hastily written 
in a cottage. Our Blessed Lady 
l)roiect his devotion ! " Our help 
is in the name of the Lord !" O 
church of Jesus Christ ! how happy 
are thy children in the midst of their 
distress. What ineffable conso- 
lations in thy sacred prayers ! I 
live in the Psalms, I nourish my 
soul with them ; every feeling of 
the heart is there so marvellously 
expressed, and in incomparable 
language. 

September 27. 

Louis Veuillot, the intrepid de- 
fender of the Catholic faith, a few 
weeks ago wrote as follows : " God 
will have pity on us. Justice will 
not exceed mercy. We shall not be 
scourged beyond the needs of our 
future well-being; we shall find in 
the cup of chastisement a healthful 
beverage. The love of their coun- 
try raises hearts above vulgar vexa- 
tions. They are willing to be ruin- 
ed ; they are willing to die. But 
these abject and senseless things 
mingled with our' tragedies, these 
intoxicating songs when the earth 
is being watered with generous 
blood, these statesmen who ask for 
l)r:iyers and authorize blasphemy, 
these blasphemies beneath the falling 



thunderbolt, these assassins of the 
pavement and these orators in the 
tribune — all this revelation of the 
stupid crowd which will not be sav- 
ed — it is these things which keep 
souls under the millstone, which 
suffocate and grind them down." 
How well this great mind describes 
the deepest sufferings of all that is 
still Christian in this nation of cru- 
saders and martyrs ! The admira- 
ble demonstrations of the Bretons 
and Vend^ans console one for the 
irreligion of the greater number. 
Why has not all Europe risen to 
defend in the Pope the cause of 
outraged sovereignty "> The sacji- 
lege of Victor Emanuel has met 
with no resistance. 

" Be to us, Lord, a place of defence 
against the enemy !" We are on a 
volcano — the volcano of popular pas- 
sions ; if the hand of God does not 
arrest them, what will become of us.? 
Confidence ! confidence ! " Infidel 
France is abased and humiliated, 
and is not yet willing to repent; 
eucharistic France will pray, will 
arise, and increase in greatness !"* 

O beloved soul gone hence before 
me^ and who art myself ! offer to 
God our prayers. 

OCTOBKR 2. 

Toul has surrendered, after a 
splendid resistance worthy of a 
better fate. The 29th — the looked- 
for 29th, the feast of the glorious 
Pro*^sctor of France — has brought 
us another sorrow more : the capitu- 
lation of Strasbourg ! O dear and 
beautiful cathedral, which I loved 
so well! "There is nothing left 
but ruins," writes one of Berthe's 
cousins. Why does the Lord delay 
to help us.? Will not our other 
fortresses be also forced to give 
themselves up into the enemy's 
hands.? What will become of 

« Louis Veuillot. 



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France ? William is at Versailles ; 
he lay down, booted and spurred, 
in the bed of the great king who 
so imperiously dictated laws to all 
Europe. Who will redeem us from 
all our humiliations ? 

Margaret and Lord William 
have apprehensions which will 
only too soon, alas! be verified. 
La Vendue is rising at the call of 
Cathelineau and of Stofflet — ^two 
illustrious names. Ah ! who will 
merit for us that we shall be saved, 
when the public papers lavish out- 
rage and abuse against everything 
that is holiest in the world — against 
the church of God, his priests, his 
pontiff, the glorious Pius IX. ? Who 
shall restrain thine arm, O Lord ! 
when scarcely a voice is raised to 
recall to conquered France that 
thou art the Salvation of the na- 
tions? 

October 7. 
The gentle Bishop of Geneva 
used to say : " Alas ! we shall soon 
be in eternity, and then shall we 
see of how small account were the 
affairs of this world, and how little 
it mattered whether they were ac- 
complished or not." Adrien sends 
us long details. My soul is in an- 
guish. O Kate I pray for us. I 
went yesterday with Margaret to the 
cemetery; we stayed there long. A 
splendid moonlight illumined the 
golden crosses surmounting the 
marble columns beneath which our 
doves repose. A feeling of pro- 
found peace took possession of my 
soul in the midst of this striking 
contrast — the calm and tranquillity 
of this field of death with the tu- 
mult and agitation of actual life in 
our poor France. 

October 8. 
The journals give accounts, only 
too faithful in their details, of the 
battle of Sedan, the catastrophe of 
VOL. XXV. — 25 



Laon and of Strasbourg. It. is hor- 
rible — this destruction, these savage 
attacks ! Of how many valiant de- 
fenders are we not deprived, whiJe 
the enemy's forces are going to 
strengthen the army now besieging 
Paris ! William is at St. Germain ; 
he desires to be present at the 
bombardment of the brilliant capi- 
tal which gave him so splendid a 
reception three years ago. To th* 
shame of humanity, Europe remains 
unmoved in presence of our mis- 
fortunes. America sends an insig- 
nificant number of volunteers. O 
divine Justice! wilt thou not avenge 
us.? Who shall tell the story of 
this sanguinary epic } Who shall 
recount this unheard-of intermin- 
gling of shameful cowardice and 
prodigies of courage, of base trea- 
son and sublime devotion, of re- 
verses and successes equally im- 
possible ? Who shall tell posterity 
that the most loyal and generous 
of nations, the people which has 
been eager in its succors to every 
misfortune, has found no defender 
in the day of its calamities ? And 
who shall make known to France 
that her success is a consequence 
of her repentance, that there is 
something greater than victory, 
more decisive and more powerful 
than the most formidable engines 
of war — the protection of Him who 
holds in his hands the destinies of 
nations .? Deus^ Deus, quid reliquisti 
nos? 

October 10. 
Two melancholy, dark, and rainy 
days, such as always depress my 
soul. Garibaldi has arrived at Mar- 
seilles with a thousand volunteers — 
doubtless the scum of ftaly. Mgr. 
de Saint-Brieuc summons all Bre- 
tons to the defence of their coun- 
try. " No, France will not die ! 
This cry from the heart of forty 
millions will pierce heaven and 



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awaken all the echoes of the earth !" 
Paris has provisions for two months; 
but after? Surely all France will 
rise, and, as soon as she feels her- 
self strong enough, she will meet 
these barbarians, to whom all has 
been successful hitherto! What 
bloodshed! What ruins! What 
opprobrium ! Will not God raise 
up some hero from this soil which 
has given so much to the world? 
Anna Maria Taigi predicted that 
the Council would last eighteen 
months, that Pius IX. would die 
towards its close, and the gentle 
and venerated Pontiff would see 
the dawn of a new time. Does 
not this mean that soon the trials 
of the Papacy will cease ? ** The 
church cannot perish ; but God has 
not made to nations the same pro- 
mises of immortality." 

Kate and Mad, my two idols ! 
I think of you. To-morrow we go 
to Auray, all together ; the abbtf will 
say Mass for us there, if we can ar- 
rive before noon. 

October 14. 

1 have prayed much, thought 
much, suffered much, hoped much, 
loved much, during these four 
days ! 

A prediction, said to be from 
Blois, assures us of definitive suc- 
cess. Alas ! we were in need of 
saints; this republic of lawyers 
makes me afraid. My mother quot- 
ed to us yesterday an old prophecy 
from tiie works of Hugues de Saint- 
Cher, Cardinal-Dominican of the 
thirteenth century: "There will be 
four sorts of persecutions in the 
church of God : the first, tyrants 
against the martyrs ; the second, 
heretics against the doctors ; the 
third, lawyers against simple peo- 
ple ; and, lastly, Antichrist against 
all." We are in the third. There 
is no unity ; there is impotence, and 
therefore nothing succeeds. 



A terrible rumor which will only 
too soon be confirmed — Orleans is 
invaded. M. de Bismarck's plan 
is to ruin France in detail, in order 
that it may for a long time be impos- 
sible to her to avenge herself. But 
vengeance belongs to God, and he 
will take it ! The journals gave us 
so much hope ! What a spectacle — 
two nations slaughtering each oth- 
er, and a land which God created 
so fair covered with blood and 
ruins ! Send us, O Lord ! legions 
of angels ; fight for the cause of 
civilization and rigiit ; save France, 
and may there no longer be amongst 
us a single soul which does not by 
its worship glorify thee ! 

The news from Metz is reassuring 
in that direction — Metz, which has 
been our ruin! The inhabitants 
are admirable in their patriotism, 
and engage to defend the city if 
Bazaine and the one hundred thou- 
sand men can make themselves an 
opening. Without a miracle, how- 
ever, can the aspect of events un- 
dergo a change? Bitche continues 
to resist. O my France ! must thou, 
like Ireland, also be crucified ? 

Evening, — An enigmatic despatch, 
in negro language^ announces that 
the army of the Loire has been 
compelled to retire before superior 
forces, and that St. Quentin has re- 
pulsed fifteen thousand of the ene- 
my. Garibaldi declares that fifteen 
thousand Italians will march at the 
first signal. The six thousand Pon- 
tifical Zouaves will form a splendid 
regiment, under the leadership of a 
hero, M. de Charette. Oh ! how 
these words rend my soul : Gari- 
baldi^ Pontifical Zouaves. What 
an assemblage ! May God pardon 
France ! How will all this end ? 
Phalsbourg holds out, and other 
towns; but to see the enemy always 
in imposing numbers, to know that 
everywhere they make crushing 



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requisitions, that each day brings 
fresh mourning, is a deadly sorrow ! 
What part of our soil will remain 
unpolluted by the passage of these 
emissaries of death ? 

Orleans is in the enemy's power — 
Orleans, the key and the heart of 
France — Orleans, the Queen of the 
Loire, the faithful city, the town 
saved from Attila by St. Aignan, 
from the English by Joan of Arc ! 
A great battle is imminent. 

Our venerated pastor suffers no 
more. This morning, at three 
o'clock, one of our farmers, who, 
with Mistress Annah, was sitting 
up with him, came to let us know 
that he was sinking, and we reached 
him in time to receive his last bless- 
ing. O Kate! draw us also. The 
words of the divine Office for to- 
day are admirably suitable to our 
distress : " I am the Salvation of my 
people, saith the Lord ; in whatso- 
ever affliction they shall be, I will 
hear them when they shall call 
upon me, and I will be their God 
for ever." "If I am in trouble, 
thou, O iord: shalt preserve my 
life ; thou shalt stretch forth thy 
hand against the fury of mine ene- 
mies, and thy right hand shall save 
me!" 

October 20. 

O my God ! if it were declared 
that these avenging hordes are to 
carry fire and sword through the 
whole of France, if our sanctua- 
ries and our relics protected us not, 
still would we hope in thee, wliose 
love is greater than our misdeeds, 
and we would bless thee for ever. 

No news from Rheims. 

October 22. 
Twenty thousand Prussians have 
invaded Cliartres, the city of Mary, 
famous for its pilgrimage and for 
its splendid* memories. Will they 
not defile its cathedral.? Horror! 



The churches of Nancy are chang- 
ed into stables. O my God ! so 
many profanations, and still always 
triumph. 

October 26. 

Read the circular of M. Jules 
Favre to the French diplomatic 
agents. O statesman ! your eyes, 
then, are not opened, and you per- 
ceive not that, chastised for our 
crimes, we cannot be saved but by 
the help of God. 

They write to us from Orleans : 
it is lamentable ! Poor, dear city ! 
who shall restore it to us } O mis- 
guided France! what firm and 
Christian hand shall take thy helm 
and steer thee into port } At the 
beginning of this century, and up 
to the close of its first half, what 
noble characters, what ardent Cath- 
olics defended the cause of liberty ! 
And now, alas ! how this oracle of 
the Holy Scriptures makes me fear : 
" A kingdom is given over from 
one people to another, because of 
its injustice, violence, and crimes. " 

Kate, what is said in heaven .' 
O dearest sister, my other mother • 
protect Ren6 and pray for France. 

October 30. 

Bazaine has surrendered; 120,- 
000 troops, 20,000 wounded, can- 
non, flags, and Metz, the strongest 
of our citadels, the heroic city — all 
is Prussian ! It is, then, finished. 
It seemed as if all French hearts 
had there their hope — not the last, 
which can be only God. The 
circular of Gambetta begins by 
a sttrsttm cor da : " Lift up your 
hearts ! lift up your souls !" It is 
well, but whither? You say not, 
" Up to God," nor do you pro- 
noimce that saving name. 

Ah ! France has deserved this 
shame of being again vanquished, 
of seeing all her citadels fall one 
after another, until the day when, 



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repentant and humbled, she will 
implore the divine aid. Sch^lestadt 
has also capitulated. . . . Gertrude 
is ill and keeps her room. The 
blade has worn out the scabbard, 
the body has been broken down 
by the soul. O my God ! wilt 
thou take from me also this elder 
sister — this admirable saint, my 
model and consolation } ** Weep 
for France, dear sister," she said, 
" not for me. I have given all to 
God; I do not fear. I offer for 
my country my last sorrow — that of 
not seeing Adrien once more. ..." 
This unexpected blow crushes 
me. Pray for us, Kate ! 

November i. 

" Heaven is opening. O Jesus ! 
have pity upon France." And 
thus she died. ... It is, then, true ! 
Henceforth I must seek her in hea- 
ven with you, dear Kate, and all 
our dear ones who have taken 
wing from hence. 

What an example she leaves us ! 
Not a complaint : she owned to me 
that she had long been suffering. 
What austerity of life! What re- 
nunciation of her own tastes ! What 
love of poverty ! " She was too near 
heaven to remain below," my mo- 
ther says. Margaret is very un- 
well, because of so many emo- 
tions. this life and this death ; 
these adieux, this generosity of 
heart, these last lines traced for 
Adrien, for her brothers ! A few 
minutes before her departure she 
said to me : " You will come soon'' 

I scarcely know where I am ; my 
soul is in a chaos of sorrows, but 
the love of God prevails over all. I 
am writing this by her funeral couch. 
Three days ago she went out with 
us. She fatigued herself too un- 
sparingly; she never shrank from 
trouble. Kate, welcome her and 
bless your sister ! Gain strength 



for me, and, if I must die without 
once more seeing Ren6, obtain that 
I may know how to say. Fiat ! 

Mourning in the family, mourn- 
ing for the country — for everything, 
mourning! 

NoVEltfBER 7. 

I feel ill. . . . Anxiety is killing 
me. O Kate! O Gertrude! re- 
member us on high. The day be- 
fore her death Gertrude said: 
" Prayers, prayers I Oh ! the Lee- 
tatus of the angels must be so beau- 
tiful . ... I hear it ! . . ." Mary 
and Ellen at her request sang her 
an Irish melody on the love of 
one's country. "Georgina, to pray, 
to suffer— this is everything !" 

What words! And how well .1 
understood her at that moment, 
when all was passing away from 
this valiant and strong soul who 
had fought the good fight ! Poor 
Adrien ! 

Troops have been levied en masse^ 
from twenty to forty years pf age. 
The Lamentations of Jeremias ap- 
ply to us in our calamities ! Who 
shall number the widows^and the 
orphans ? May God protect us ! 
The sadnesses of the present life 
complete my detachment from this 
world by discovering to me its 
nothingness. The details respect- 
ing Metz throw me into stupefac- 
tion. My mother has heroically 
borne the great trial ; she herself 
closed the eyes, so bright, so beau- 
tiful, of her eldest daughter. She 
insists that Lord William shall take 
Margaret away, because the enemy 
is certain to come upon us also. 
" Well, then," says my friend, " we 
will defend you !" 

November 10. 

The Univers is here, edited at 

Nantes. Yesterday it contained a 

magnificent page, vibrating with 

Catholic faith, addressed by Louis 



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Letters of a Young Irishwoman to her Sister. 389 



Veuillot to General Trochu. The 
illustrious convert of Rome has, then, 
quitted the country of his heart and 
is present at the agony of that Paris 
whose corruptions he has so ener- 
getically denounced. I have been 
glad (if one may use the word) to 
find, in this believing journal, an 
expression of the indignation of my 
soul against those who have dared 
to give to that gouty fetich, Gari- 
baldi, the rank of a French general 
at the moment when Piedmont was 
con/^ummating its sacrilegious at- 
tacks against Pius IX. There is 
fighting at Orleans. O Joan of 
Arc! 

Kate dearest, we all suffer. 
What has become of all our hopes } 
No, they are not destroyed; they 
had heaven for their object. 

November 13. 

I dare not make a complete nar- 
rative of our disasters, and I know 
not how to speak of anything else. 
''Revolutionary France is no lon- 
ger the France of Clirist. She has 
kept the name, but repudiated the 
heart. O France, France ! nation 
of so many centuries, of such men, 
and of so much glory, crouched 
beneath* the boot of Flourens, be- 
fore the sword of the Prussian." 
These are the "Words of Louis 
Veuillot. Paris is wrought upon by 
rioters, the dregs of the Revolu- 
tion. Bismarck is said to have ut- 
tered tlie pride-inflated words that 
'' there is nothing but Prussia in 
the world : tliere is no more Eu- 
ope!" 

** Let us," cries Louis Veuillot — 
" let us examine the inexorable 
logic which rolls us in the mire, 
and see by what hands it has httti 
possible to lay prostrate a nation 
which is proud of having no more 
thought of God ! O mockery ! O 
derision ! And this is France !" 



We know nothing of the absent. 
. . . Uncertainty — the cross of 
crosses ! 

November 16. 

Cileans s delivered. Catheli- 
neau, the morningof his solemn en- 
try, went with his Vend^ans to hear 
a Mass of thanksgiving. In hoc Sigfw 
vinces, Marseilles and Lyons, the 
Queen of the Mediterranean and 
the city of Notre Dame de Fourvi- 
^res, are agitated by violent intes- 
tine struggles. Pazienza! Speran- 
za ! Oh ! what need has my soul 
of these two sources of strength to 
bear up beneath this hour of unut- 
terable anguish ! Ren^ and Adrien 
are wounded ! " Remember, my 
daughter, the sacrifice is short 
and the crown eternal," my poor 
mother says to me, wounded to the 
heart like myself. Where are they } 
The date is torn off the letter, which 
has been brought us by an unfor- 
tunate soldier with an amputated 
limb, who has faced a thousand 
dangers to come and die in his own 
part of the country. I wish to go 
— but whither .> Kate, inspire me! 
November 22. 

My anxiety has brought on fever. 
. . . Yesterday was a great day in 
the religious history of France. 
Mgr. de la Tour d'Auvergne con- 
voked the whole church of France 
to a solemn act of faith. At one 
tnd the same hour, in ail the sanc- 
tuaries of this nation, bent beneath 
the strokes of the divine Justice, 
Mass was said to obtain pardon. 
O Lord ! if only so many prayers 
and tears might obtain peace. 
*' All for God and our country !" 
cried Cathelineau, before that al- 
tar * where joys so pure were grant- 
ed me. " Let official France make 
her act of penitence !" says the 
Univers. Alas ! it does not appear 
that this thought occurs to her 

• I« the cathedral of OfleaM. 



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O these dates, these memories, 
my whole life in my remembrance ! 
I examined myself this morning 
and had to acknowledge my own 
weakness. My God ! wilt thou re- 
quire of me this sacrifice ? I would 
desire to submit, but my heart ! . . . 
Dear and sweet friend, chosen for 
me by the best-beloved and most 
devoted of sisters, return, return ! 
O fatal war ! I comprehend the 
words of Rousseau : " The man 
who has lived longest is not he 
who can reckon up the greatest 
number of years, but he who has 
felt most what is life." 

There are presentiments .... My 
soul is crushed. Ah ! these hours, 
these days which are passing by— 
what are they for France ? 

The Duke of Aosta, son of Vic- 
tor Kmanuel, is named King of 
Spain by the Cortes. Into what 
hands is Europe yet to fall } The 
diadem of Charles V. and of St. 
Ferdinand in the famify of the ex- 
communicated King of Italy ; these 
two countries of noble memories 
thus fallen, and France defended 
by Garibaldi; the insulter of 
sanctity, the blasphemer of Jesus 
Christ, made a French general ! O 
blindness, O impiety of a govern- 
ment which pretends to be a regen- 
erator ! And this, too, in the age in 
which we live, in the century of 
Pius IX. and of the Immaculate 
Conception! . . . Deluges of rain 
for weeks past. Our unfortunate 
youth of France decimated by mis- 
eiy and cold ! 

Wrote to Marcella and Lizzy — two 
lovely, beloved, and poetic souls.* 

November 26. 
The Lord gave him to me; the 
Lord hath taken him away ! 

* A few houn after tracinir these lines Georgina 
learnt of the death of Renb. Of the five brothen, 
two had given their lives for France. Adrien and 
Gertrude rqoined each other in heaven. 



Thou hast willed it, my God; 
thou hast taken back this life which 
was so dear to me. I adore thy 
will ! 

November 29. 

Is this dying life deserving of a 
single regret } And yet I weep ! 
My God! thou pardonest these 
tears — thou who didst weep over 
us. Oh ! if I had at least had his 
last look. 

It is a week ago this evening 
since I knew of my misfortune. O 
my God ! that unusual stir, those 
sinister noises, and the entrance of 
Raoul, Edouard, and Paul. Dead — 
both dead I I would see that dear 
face once again, to try and restore 
its warmth by my kisses ! 

December i. 

Kate, I can write no more. ... A 
widow! Can you comprehend this 
word and the desolation which 
freezes my heart } All my soul was 
devoted to him, placed in him. 
Miserere mei, Deus! Friend so 
dear, so loving, so heroic, so kind, 
obtain for me that I may follow 
you to the home where separation 
is no more. O you who stood on 
Calvary, Our Blessed Lady! priry 
for us. Have pity upon my dis- 
tress 1 

He is dead ! The heart Which 
loved me has ceased to beat ! And 
if only France were saved, and my 
mourning might win her salva- 
tion ! 

And still I must live, move about, 
spend myself in attendance on the 
sick, when I feel as if the heavy 
stone which hides him from me 
were weighing down my soul. O 
the destruction wrought by death ! 
Thus one single year has taken all 
from me ! 

Prayed for two hours yesterday 
by this newly-closed tomb. O 
Lord ! I spoke to him, I understood 



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him, I comprehended that thou 
requirest holy victims to disarm 
thy justice. 

France ! which I loved so 
much. 

December 25. 
Margaret leaves us suddenly. 
Her father-in-law is dying. God 
be praised for having left her with 
us during these days of trouble! 

1 am still weak in the inferior 
part of my soul, feeling every hour 
an increase of bitterness and de- 
pression. "You will come soon !" 
This farewell of Gertrude's resounds 
continually in my ears. Neverthe- 
less, if ti)e pain of a long life should 
be in store for me, if her words 
were symbolic only, if I must grow 
old, I pray the Author of all good 
to permit that the unending mourn- 
ing of my heart may overflow in 
tenderness towards all who suffer, 
that I may wipe away or comfort 
tears — I, who henceforth can only 
live in tears. 

Christmas, feast of gladness, of 
the birth of Jesus, and of love ; the 
anniversary of Edith's death ! 

January i, 1871. 

Spent this day in the church and 
cemetery. O Ren^ ! how I hear you 
still. I seek you now in heaven. 
Pray for France, and also for me, 
who cannot accustom myself to 
widowhood. 

O ye almost infinite delights en- 
joyed in the intimacy of that noble 
heart! can I think upon you and 
not die } 

Dear Ren^, dear Kate, it is be- 
fore God that I weep ; it is on these 
pages concealed from all that I write 
ray regrets. Does God permit this, 
or is it cowardice ? 

January 4. 
Edouard has this morning put 
Rene's pocket-book into my hands. 



My name is on every page. Observ- 
ed these words, which I' have read a 
hundred times over : " If I die, 
comfort her, ye good angels who 
guided me to her!". . . Oh! it is 
more than I can bear — emotion and . 
regrets so deep. 

January 6. 
Ife is at rest. Eternal felicity of 
rest in God, thou art become his 
inheritance. I loved him so much, 
and, alas ! I could not secure his 
happiness ! Just now I opened 
my book of Hours at this Psalm : 
" Cantate Domino canticum novum^ 
quia mirahilia fecit.** I seemed to 
obtain a glance into heaven, and 
this friend, so ardently and faithful- 
ly loved, was smiling upon me. . . . 
Rapid flashes of light, after which 
the darkness thickens and the 
loneliness grows more oppressive ! 

January 13 
May God console the mothers, 
the widows, and the orphans ! 

If I had time to think of self in 
this chaos of nameless events, I 
should feel myself unfortunate be- 
yond all expression. O Lord ! the 
happiness of loving thee, of possess* 
ing thee in heaven, is well worth 
some years of Calvary; and al- 
though mine appears to me at 
times so difficult to climb, thou 
knowest that it is no more for my- 
self that I weep, but that the suf- 
ferings of Renin's country alone 
fill my heart My poor France, so 
glorious whilst she still served thee, 
wilt thou efface her for ever from 
the book of nations, or wilt thou 
restore her power .^ Fiat voluntas 
tua! Turn us to thee, O Christ! 
who didst die to save the world, 
and, for the sake of so many hearts 
that turn to thee, shorten our 
woes! 



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January i8. 

Heard for the first time the com- 
plete account of his death, . . . 
My brothers are on the point of 
setting out again; they are of a 
race in which self-devotion is here- 
ditary. 

O Rene! how proud I am of 
you — dead on the field of honor, 
after receiving your God that morn- 
ing ; and dying in defence of 
France ! Ah ! I would fain be a 
Sister of Charity, to have a right to 
receive the last sigh of our cour- 
ageous defenders. 

Often had you said to me: "It 
seems to me that I should have 
strength to love God even to suffer- 
ing martyrdom !" And the hour 
came when it would have been per- 
mitted you to remain quietly at 
home; but your country was in 
mourning, and you went forth, a 
soldier for right, a soldier of God ! 
Ah ! then I felt indeed something 
which broke within me. . . . 

Do you, on high, remember her 
who loved you better than herself ? 
Do you call to mind those delight- 
ful days when heavenly love shed 
a ray from on high upon our love ? 
Do you remember our conversa- 
tions, in which the thought of eter- 
nity was always present } Ah ! we 
both knew well that our happiness 
was not of this world. 

Yesterday I dressed the wounds 
of an unhappy victim of this war, 
which posterity will call inexplica- 
ble. What a horrible wound ! The 
man was a Vendean and a Catholic. 
He saw tears in my eyes, and 
thanked me with a hearty and naive 
simplicity. He regrets his wife, 
whom he wants to see. Poor wo- 
man ! — or rather, happy woman ; for 
she will see him ! 

January 25. 

A letter from Karl, addressed to 
Kend. O my God ! 



The enemy is approaching; 
France is agonizing. Ren^, Kate, 
Mad, pray for us ! 

February 2. 

Miserere nostril Doming ! 

I return to these pages on a day 
of cruel disappointment. Paris has 
capitulated ! The Prussians occu- 
py the forts ; the army has been 
made prisoners of war. There is an 
armisticeof twenty-two days. There 
were elections on the 8th for a con- 
stituency. How many sorrowful 
events have taken place ! — the 
bombardment of Paris, the defeat 
of Chanzy at Mans, the civil dis- 
cords. . . . One must despair, were 
it not that God overrules all, and 
that if he punishes he is ready to 
pardon. The question is whether 
France is to be or not to be ! 

Edouard writes. He hopes that 
the Prussians will not advance so 
far as to the sea. Margaret and Mar- 
cella — ^what do they think at this 
time, at this Gethsemani of France } 

" O my God ! I am as thou wert, 
falling prostrate from weakness, 
when another had to carry thy 
cross!"* 

Si vous pouvies compiendie et le peu qtt*est la vie, 
£t de quelle douceur cette morte est suivie 1 1 

February 12. 
Prayer and charity fill up our 
time. Alas ! there is still room for 
regrets. Everything revives them ; 
to-day it is a passage from Mon- 
taigne : "We were seeking one an- 
other, and our names were inter- 
mingled before we had made ac- 
quaintance. It was a festival when 
I saw him for the first time; we 
found each other all at once so 
bound together, so united, so well- 
known, so obliged, that nothing 
was so dear to each of us as the 



« The AbM Perreyve. 

t *^ Could you but knnw how small a thing is life, 
and ahoby what sweetnesa diath is followed T' 



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393 



other. And when I ask myself 
whence comes this joy, this ease, 
this repose that I feel when I see 
him, it is because it is ^^^ and be- 
cause it is I J this is all I can 
say." 

Ren6 ! it was thus that we 
loved, and thus our love will be 
eternal. 

February i8. 
The fatherland of our soul is 
God ! Trial is not sent only as an 
expiation to purify us, but also to 
detach us from earth and raise us 
near to God. " Jubilate Domino^ 
omnis terra ; sennte Domifio in lati- 
tia r O my soul ! do thou serve the 
Lord with gladness. Lift the veil; 
behind your troubles and sorrows 
God is there, who counts them 
all, and whose love will change 
ihem into an unknown weight of 
glory ! Beati qui lugent I Heaven ! 
heaven ! 

1 was thinking this evening of 
the motto of Valentine of Milan : 
Pius ne m'est rien, Rien ne m'est 
plus?' Is this sufficiently Chris- 
tian ? From this world's point of 
view, from the frivolities of life and 
of all that charms the senses, oh ! 
nothing is anything to me. But 
one's country, the church, the poor, 
one's family ! 

O Jesus, who seest my tears ! re- 
member that thou hast said : " All 
that you shall ask the Father in my 
name, he will give you." May thy 
adorable will be don«! He who 
believes, hopes, and loves — has he 
the right to complain? Can the 
soul whom thou dost protect call 
herself abandoned t Will the heart 
that is rich in thy love feel de- 
spoiled and desolate } Draw me 
to loftier heights, O Christ, my 
King! 

* More is naught to me ; naught is aught to me 



February 21. 

Belfort has capitulated ! Trisiisest 
anima mea usque ad mortem. Must 
we say with Dante : Lasciate ogni 
speranza ? How empty and deso- 
late earth appears to me ! My God, 
show thyself; let thy power shine 
forth in our behalf! I will hope 
in thee against all hope. " Every 
soul is the vicar of Jesus Christ, to 
labor, by the sacrifice of himself, 
at the redemption of humanity. Jn 
the plan of this great work each 
one has a place marked out from 
eternity, which he is free to accept 
or to refuse." Ren^, Kate, Ger- 
trude, you all understood this! O 
my God ! have pity upon France. 
I offer myself as a holocaust to thee. 
I accept every sacrifice ; I give my- 
self up ; take with me all who have 
in like manner devoted them.selves : 
let not France undergo the fate of 
Ireland ; let her not be crushed by 
Protestantism, but leave her her 
faith and love. 

March i. 

Peace is declared, but at what 
a price ! — five milliards, Alsace, 
and Metz; the occupation of 
Champagne until the payment of 
the indemnity, the entry into Paris 
of thirty thousand men on this 
very day. O the Alsatians ! To 
think that henceforth they belong 
to the Vandals who have ruined 
their territory, made a desert eve- 
rywhere, brought mourning into 
every home — what infinite grief! 
No ! the Prussian will not be their 
master ; the heart of Alsace is too 
French ; the yoke of the enemy 
may weigh down bodies but not 
souls. We have here a friend of 
Berthe's, a young wife and mother, 
who ever since this morning has 
been in the chapel, weeping in de- 
spair. Poor Alsace ! Terrible al- 
ternative — the mother-country sac- 
rificing her more unfortunate sons 



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to purchase the others ! . . . Where 
is Joan of. Arc? Where are even 
the women of Carthage I Lord, save 



us I 



MADAME DE T TO LADY MAR- 
GARET. 

March 20, 1871. 

God be with us ! 

Dear Lady Margaret, our so dear, 
beautiful, and perfect Georgina has 
departed from us for ever ! 

I cannot leave to any one else 
the sorrow of acquainting you with 
this fresh bereavement. . . . Shall I 
have strength for it ? I feel as if my 
heart were enclosed in the tomb 
where my children rest. 

A pernicious fever has carried 
from us this most lovable creature, 
who has been amongst us like an ap- 
parition from heaven. She is now 
reunited to him whom she so loved 
and mourned, and she who had 
'* unlearnt happiness " is happy now ! 
This thought is necessary to sus- 
tain those who remain. You know 
what she was to me — the most lov- 
ing, devoted, and piously amiable 
of daughters; you know what she 
was to all — an adviser, a comforter, 
and a light. And all this in a few 
hours has vanished from us. Who 
shall console us for the loss of this 
angelic child, the very sight of 
whom was a consolation ? 

Dear friend, she thought of you; 
she murmured your name in her 
last prayer. God, the church, 
France, Ireland, and all those who 
loved her, by turns were on her 
lips; the voluntary victim of chari- 
ty, she accepted death with glad 
ness. You who were her sister, 
kind Lady Margaret, would that 
you had been with us at that time 
which was at once both sweet and 
cruel ! Ah ! tears are not permit- 



ted to me ; the place of angels is in 
heaven. 

Do not think of returning to us 
until peace is definitely established 
Alas ! only a few days since we 
were forming a project to go and 
take you by surprise. Henceforth 
I quit Brittany no more — my Cam- 
po Santo ^ as my beloved daughter 
called it. 

Oh ! how she must pray for our 
sorrows on high. 

On the morning of the last day 
she twice repeated to me these 
beautiful words of the P^re Lacor- 
daire : " However hard may be the 
separations of this world, there al- 
ways remains to us Him who is its 
author, who has given and who 
removes us, who never fails, in 
whom we shall all be one day re- 
united by the faith and charity 
which he has given us." 

And a few minutes before breath- 
ing the last sigh she said : *' Mo- 
ther, I asked that I might die for 
France ; it was a sacrifice, because 
of leaving you. Now all regret has 
disappeared from my heart ; I am 
going to see Mad, Gertrude, Kate, 
Ren^— and God!" 

May she call me soon also ! 

Dear and kind friend, I would 
comfort you, but I am powerless. 
Let us love and pray. 

My remembrances to Lord W^il- 
liam ; kisses to Emmanuel, the trea- 
sure whom she so much loved, and 
to yourself, the expression of the 
maternal affection of my desolate 
heart. 

COMTESSE DE T , 



Madame ae T survived this 

last affliction only a few months, 
and the Campo Santo received yet 
another tomb. May these delinea- 
tions of love so pure and Christian^ 



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395 



and of resignation so sublime, bene- 
fit at least some souls ! This is the 
editor's sole aim. 

The premature end of Lady Mai- 
garet has unfortunately only too 
soon facilitated the sorrowful task 
of the friend who has been desi- 



rous of revealing to loving hearts 
the private life of her dear Geor* 
gina, this poetic flower of Ireland, 
transplanted to the soil of this our 
France, which became the second 
country of her heart, and which she 
loved even to death. 



PROSE AND POETRY OF ANCIENT MUSIC. 

The man that hath no music in himself, 
Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds 
Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils : 
The motions of his spirit are dull as night, 
And his affections dark as Erebus. 
Let no such man be trusted. 

— Merchant of Vtmiet, 



Music, in its most general sense, 
is the art of producing melodious 
sounds, and, from its power over 
the passions, it is called the senti- 
mental art. In the mythology of 
Greece it was cultivated chiefly by 
the Muses, from whom the term 
music is derived ; but, although 
dear to all of them, it was presided 
over by Euterpe, who is always rep- 
resented with a flute in her hand. 
The great divinity of song and 
instrumental music, however, was 
Apollo, who is mentioned in the 
Iliad as delighting the immor- 
tal gods with the sweetness of his 
notes ; for he was the inventor of 
the lyre and leader of the Pierian 
nine, whence he is called some- 
times Cit/tarctdus and sometimes 
Musagetes, in both which charac- 
ters very fine statues of him have 
come down to us from antiquity. 
The worship of the Muses began 
early in Greece, and the favorite 
resort of these divinities of intellec- 
tual pleasure was the flowery bor- 
der of the rills that murmured down 
the sides of Mount Parnassus, 
while their chaste grove and .sacred 
fountain of Castalia was on that 



part of the Parnassan range called 
Helicon. Here their statues were 
seen and described by Pausanias, 
and afterwards removed by Con- 
stantine to his new capital on the 
Bosporus. 

Pagan authors ascribed tlie ori- 
gin of music to fanciful occur- 
rences, or, at best, to chance and 
natural operations. Thus, accord- 
ing to some, it was a gift to man of 
this one or that of their national 
divinities; but, according to others, 
the babble of running waters, the 
warbling notes of birds, mountains 
that echoed, winds that sighed 
through the forest trees and 

Fill the shade with a religious awe, — 

in a word, the general song of 
nature inspired Apollo and the 
Muses, who were no more than 
shepherds of Arcadia, to please the 
world with music ; for 

The birds instructed man. 
And taught him songs before his art befptn ; 
And while soft evening gales blew o*er the plains. 
And shook the sounding reeds, they taught the 

swains; 
And thus the pipe was framed and tnneful reed. 
^Lucretius, 

But Christian writers believe that 
Adam, the first man, being endowed 



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by the Creator with every sort 
of knowledge, excelled in music as 
well ds in the other arts and 
sciences. With his fall this know- 
ledge was weakened, while in his 
descendants many things were lost 
and all things became obscured. 
That music haS in some way a 
heavenly origin all are agreed — 
even the Hindoos, who say that its 
effects are produced in us by re- 
calling to memory the airs of Para- 
dise, which we heard in our state 
of pre-existence ; even the Greeks, 
whose fables are founded on the 
corruption of primeval traditions, 
and whose invocation to music is : 

O art divine ! exalted blessing ! 
Each cele»tial charm expressing I 
Kindest gift the gods bestow ! 
Sweetest good that mortals know t 

But the writer in the English 
ur, perhaps, in any other language 
who has most poetically stated the 
case of music, and given us a 
Christian view of it, is Newman, 
in the last of his Oxford Uni- 
versity sermons. " Can it be," he 
asks, '^ that those mysterious stir- 
rings of heart, and keen emo- 
tions, and strange yearnings after 
we know not what, and awful im- 
pressions from we know not whence, 
should be wrought in us by what is 
unsubstantial, and comes and goes, 
and begins and ends, in itself? It 
is not so ; it cannot be. No ; they 
have escaped from some higher 
sphere; tliey are the outpourings 
of eternal harmony in the medium 
of created sound ; they are echoes 
from our Home ; they are the voice 
of angels, or the Magnificat of 
saintr>, or the living laws of divine 
Governance, or the divine Attri- 
butes; something are they besides 
themselves which we cannot com- 
pass, which we cannot utter, though 
mortal man — and he, perhaps, not 
otherwise distinguished above his 



tellows — has the gift of eliciting 
them.** 

The ancients urged in favor of 
music three principal benefits to 
mankind: its effects in softening 
the manners of men, thereby pro- 
moting civilization and raising; a 
people out of the barbarous and 
savage state ; its effects in exciting 
or repressing the passions ; and its 
effects as a medicinal power to 
cure diseases. Thus Polybius as- 
cribes to the cultivation of this art 
tlie refinement of the inhabitants 
of Arcadia, and to the absence of 
such a discipline tlie roughness 
which characterized the citizens of 
Cynaethae; thus Homer places a 
musician near the person of Cly- 
temnestra as a guard upon her 
chastity, and, until he was away, 
-/i?]gistus, who then wronged her, 
had no power over her affections. 
Tiie subduing influence of music 
was again tried with success many 
ages after by the Jesuit missiona- 
ries in Paraguay, who used to i)lay 
upon guitars and flutes to attract 
the melody-loving Indians from 
their forest haunts towards the 
village communities which they 
had established on the banks of 
the Parana.* Lycurgus regulated 
the music of Sparta, and his laws 
were set to measure by the cele- 
brated musician Terpander ; while 
Plato not only attributed an in- 
structive virtue to music, but main- 
tained that a people's music could 
not be interfered with without al- 
tering their form of government. 
This civilizing influence of music 
is beautifully illustrated by the old 
legend of the Greeks, that when 
the workmen toiled on the walls 



* After reli((ion there is certainly no greater 
means of dvilixation than commerce ; and com- 
merce in the middle ages began with fairs, at 
which merchants employed the seductions of min- 
streby and music to draw numbers togethei, and 
thus be able to display aad sell »aeir goods. 



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of Thebes, Araphion played so 
sweetly on a lyre borrowed from 
Mercury that the stones did move 
of themselves. This, of course, is 
an allegory, to signify that by his 
musical talents, poetical numbers, 
and the wisdom of his counsel 
Amphion prevailed with a rude 
jieople to submit to law, live in 
society, and raise a defence against 
their neighbors. 

Since two things greatly contri- 
bute to the effects of music, its 
powers of imitation and of associa- 
tion, the ancients gave it a large 
measure of influence over the pas- 
sions. Thus Plutarch relates that 
Terpander appeased a violent sedi- 
tion among the Lacedaemonians by 
the aid of his lyre, and that Empe- 
docles prevented a murder by the 
soothing sound of his flute ; and 
the painter Theon, having brought 
one of his works, which represented 
a soldier attacking an enemy, to be 
exhibited on the public square, 
would allow the veil to be with- 
drawn only after his attendant mu- 
sicians had wrought up with mili- 
tary airs the crowds that gathered 
before it. Hence Plato wrote that 
a warlike air inspires courage, be- 
cause it imitates the sounds and 
accents of a brave man, and that a 
calm air produces tranquillity in 
the soul on the same principle ; or, 
as Burke says, ** The passions may 
be considerably oi>erated upon, 
without presenting any image at 
all, by certain sounds adapted to 
that purpose, of which we have a 
sufficient proof in the acknowledged 
and powerful effects of instrumental 
music "; for it counterfeits by sound 
some quality or state of the mind. 
'I'hus, rage is loud, anger harsh, but 
love and pity are gentle ; conse- 
(juently, loud and clangorous music 
stirs up the stronger passions, while 
a smooth measuje imitates the gen- 



tler emotions of the mind. The 
wonderful influence of martial 
music on the ardor of soldiers in 
battle has been remarked by many 
writers on military * aff*airs, and 
opera-goers must confess the bad 
tendency of sensuous music. Shak- 
spere knew it well when he wrote of 
the fellow 

Wliocftpen nimbly in a Iady*s chamber 
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute. 

The effects of music on the heads 
and hearts of men were so strongly 
perceived by Plato that he banish- 
ed from his model republic the 
Lydian and Ionian modes, because 
they excited tlie lower instincts, 
but retained the severe Doric and 
Phrygian jneasures on account of 
their manliness and decency; and 
some of our best English poets 
have recorded their testimony lo 
these same effects. We subjoin a 
few examples, taken almost at ran- 
dom : 



And ever against eating cares. 
Lap mc in soft Lydian airs. 



—MilioM. 



Music alone with sudden charms can bind 

The wandVing sense, and calm the troubled mind. 

Chiron with pleasing harp Achilles tamed, 
And his rough manners with soft music framed. 

— Kinr. 

Timotheus to his breathing Ante and sounding lyre 
Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. 

— DrydtM, 

Now wild with fierce desire, 
My breast i& all on fire ! 
In soften'd raptures now I die ! 
Can empty sound such joys impart ? 
Can music thus transport the heart 
With melting ecstasy \ 

— CunniMgham, \ 

Music ! the greatest good th^t mortals know, 

And all of heav'n we have below. 

Music can noble hints impart. 

Engender fury, kindle love, 

With unsuspected eloquence can move. 

And manage all the man with secret art. 

— Addison, 

VVhei Music, heavenly maid, was ycung, 
While yet in early Greece she sung. 
The Passions oft, to hear her spell, 
Thronged around her magic cell, 



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Prose and Poetry of Ancient Music. 



Exulting, trembling, raging, faintinjCt 
Possessed beyond the Mustf*s painting: 
By turns they felt the g'owing mind 
Disturbed, delighted, raiised, refined, 



—Coll ins. 



Music the fiercest gnef can charm, 
And Fate^s severest rage disarm ; 
Music can soften pain to ease, 
And make despair and madness please ; 
Our joys below it can improve. 
And antedate the bliss above. 



— /V'- 



Association of ideas, which has 
so large a share in the operations 
of the human mind, often contri- 
butes much to the effects of music ; 
for, as Shakspere says : 

How many things by season seasoned are 
To their right praise, and true perfection ! 

Thus, music that has been heard in 
an agreeable place or that was 
played by some one near and dear 
to us, or music that is connected 
with the trials and triumphs of our 
native land, will awakfen sentiments 
of love or melancholy, or sympathy 
or ardor, on the principle of asso- 
ciated ideas. This is feelingly ex- 
pressed in the 136th Psalm in the 
persons of the captive Hebrews, in 
whom the sound of music which 
they had listened to in happy days 
would have awakened too keen an 
anguish.* In more modern times we 
have had public illustrations of the 
same principle in those simple melo- 
dies called ranz des vaches^ which are 
such favorites with the mountaineers 
of Switzerland, and are played upon 
a long . trumpet or Alpine horn. 
The sound of these tunes, and the 
rude words set to them, which are 
expressive of scenes of pastoral life — 
the shingled cottage, the dashing 
waterfall, the bleating of sheep, the 
lowing of herds, and the tinkling 
cow-bells — sometimes recalled so 
vividly to the native in a foreign 



• This plaintive Psalm was turned into most musi- 
cal English verse by Donn ', who makes it touch- 
ingly suggestive ; and later, and better still, by Au- 
brey de Vere in his beautiful drama, Alexander the 
Gnat. 



clime the memories of his own 
land as to produce a disease called 
nostalgia^ that often showed itself 
among the Swiss soldiers in the 
Neapolitan service ; * for 

There is in souls a sympathy with sounds ; 
And as the mind is pitched, the ear is pleased 
With melting airs, or martial, brisk, or grave ; 
Some chord in unison with what we hear 
Is touched within us, and the heart replies. 

The belief of the ancients that 
.music was auxiliary to medicine is 
attested by a great number of writ- 
ers. Chiron the Centaur, who edu- 
cated Achilles, was careful to unite* 
instructions in the healing art to 
those which he gave on music. Plu- 
tarch tells us that Thales of Crete 
delivered the Spartans from a plague 
by the aid of his lyre; Athenaeus 
quotes Theophrastus as authority 
that the Thebans cured epilepsy by 
the notes of a flute ; Aulus Gellius 
says that music will rid a man of 
the gout ; Xenocrates employed 
music in the cure of maniacs; while 
the judicious Galen gravely speaks 
of playing the flute over the suffer- 
ing parts of the body ; and the idea 
that music is the sovereign and only 
remedy for the bite of the taran- 
tula still lingers in Southern Italy. 
The Tyrrhenes always hired a flute- 
player to perform while they flog- 
ged their slaves, to give them some 
relief under the lash ; and there was 
usually an arch-musician on board 
of the triremes — in which the rowers* 
strength and endurance were more 
severely taxed than in smaller ves- 
sels — not only to mark the time or 
cadence for each stroke of the oar, 
but principally to cheer the men 
by the sweetness of the melody ; 
whence Quintilian takes occasion 

* A person who was present has feelingly de- 
scribed the deep effect produced on some of our 
poor wounded soldiers who had been brought to a 
church in Fredericksburg on their way North, after 
one of the battles in the Wilderness, when some 
person sat down at the organ and played *^ Home, 
sweet Home.*' 



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Prose and Poetry of Ancient Music. 



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to remark that music is a gift of 
nature, to make us the more pa- 
tiently to support labor and fa- 
tigue.* 

Among the nations of antiquity 
Egypt was long thought to be the 
mother of ancient civilization ; and 
the Egyptians were well acquainted 
with music, for representations of 
musical instruments have been dis- 
covered on some of their oldest 
monuments, such as obelisks and 
tombs. But they never popularized 
music, because they thought that it 
had the effect of making youth ef- 
feminate ; yet Strabo says that their 
children were instructed in one, and 
only one, special kind of music, of 
which the government approved. 
Like every other profession, tliat of 
musician was hereditary. Egyp- 
tian music was originally grave and 
in solemn accord with the stiffness 
of the kindred arts, which were 
hampered by strict hieratic rules, 
and almost exclusively devoted to 
the service of religion. When the 
country fell under the sway of the 
Greeks, music became of a gayer 
and less moral sort, being as much 
or more employed at banquets and 
on other profane occasions as in 
the temples and beside the bier. 
The Ptolemies encouraged Greek 
music, and the musical contests in- 
troduced into Egypt by this race 
of splendid princes were all of Hel- 
lenic origin. Athenaeus relates that 
at a grand Bacchic entertainment 
given by Ptolemy Philadelphus over 
six hundred musicians formed tlie 
orchestra. Musical talent was he- 
reditary in the Ptolemaic dynasty, 
and the father of Cleopatra was 



surnamed Anletes^ or the flute- play- 
er, from his excessive attachment 
to this instrument. 

We have little knowledge of mu- 
sic as a science among the He- 
brews, but there is abundant proof 
of its practice. They had music 
on their festival days, whether do- 
mestic, civil, or religious, and pro- 
fessional musicians were attached 
to the royal court ; but the art was 
systematically studied in the schools 
of the prophets, and received its 
highest application in the Temple, 
where it entered largely into divine 
worship. 

The music of the Greeks has en- 
gaged the attention of many learned 
men, but is so difficult a subject that 
>^o one understands it; and it is as 
easy to imagine how the Pyramids 
were rai.sed as to conceive what 
Greek music was like. 

Music enters largely into the my- 
thology of Greece, and strange le- 
gends — some of which are pure 
myths, others the exaggeration of 
facts — have been made up about it. 
The Muses were extremely jealous 
of their musical talents, and who- 
ever ventured to compete with them 
was punished. Thus the impudent 
Sirens or sea-nymphs lost their 
wings, and the lovely daughters of 
King Pierus were changed into 
birds.* Two of Apollo's contests 
are famous for their mournful end- 
ing. One was with Marsyas, a ran- 
ger of the woods, who, having found 
the flute which Minerva threw aw.ay 
because it distorted her handsome 
features, rashly challenged the di- 



* Bl«ned Peter Claver, Apostle of the Negroes, 
uaed Co contrive that the sufferers in the hospitals 
at Cartagena, in South America, should be solaced 
with music ; and for centuries it has been a custom 
at .Santo Spirito, in Rome, to have the magnificent 
organ which is set up in the main ward play three 
time» a week for the patients. 



* The adventure of Ulysses and the melodious 
Sirens was a subject early seized upon by Christian 
art within the Discipline of the Secret to convey an 
idea of the cro5s (Ulysses attached to the mast of 
his vessel), the church (under the figure of a ship). 
and the seductions of the world (of the flesh particu- 
larly) in this voyage of life. See De Rossi s Bui' 
let in of CitristiaK Archtrology /or 1863, page 
35, in which a curious monument bearing on this 
strange rapprochtmtni is described. 



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Prose and Poetry of Ancient Music. 



vine Apollo to a contest between 
this instrument and the lyre, the 
condition of which was that the 
victor might do what he wished 
with the vanquished. The Muses 
decided in favor of their leader, 
and the miserable mortal was tied 
to a tree and flayed alive. A sta- 
tue of Marsyas, bound and suffer- 
ing, was generally placed by the 
(1 reeks, and afterwards by the Ro- 
mans also, in the vestibule of their 
halls of justice, as a warning not to 
go into litigation hastily, and, above 
all, not to dispute with the gods — 
/>., bring religion into court.* 

Another triumph of Apollo was 
over Pan, a dilettante of music and 
inventor of the reed-pipes, which he 
called syrinx after the beautiful 
Arcadian nymph whose adventure 
with her tuneful lover is well known 
from Ovid. Midas, King of Phry- 
gia, was chosen umpire, and, decid- 
ing in favor of Pan, was disgraced 
by having his ears changed into 
those of a donkey. Poor Midas 
contrived for a time to conceal his 
mishap by wearing day and night a 
cap of a peculiar form ; f but as no 
man is long a hero to his valet, his 
body-servant, while trimming his 
hair one day, pushed up the bonnet 
a little and discovered the deform- 
ity. The secret so embarrassed 
him that, fearing he might unwit- 



* One of these old statues having come to light 
in good condition while the palace of Monte Ci- 
torio, designed by Pope Innocent XII. for the 
seat of the higher tribunals of law at Rome, was be- 
ing built, it was appropriately placed on the landing 
at the head of the great stairway The Italian De- 
puties have doubtless removed it, as too significant 
of divine vevgt ance, 

tWe find in this story the origin of the Pkry- 
jiitiH cap^ which came to be a symbol of slavery and 
degradation among the Romans, by whom the 
Phrygians were considered a stupid people— whose 
mien even had asinine qualities ; and it never quite 
lost this character, but was used in France up to 
the time of t^c Revolution by galley-prisoners, 
and it is well known that an irruption of escaped 
convicts into Paris during the Reign of Terror, 
carrying oric of their c.ips at the end of a pole and 
singing the Marseillaise^ gave rise to the absurd 
custom of the liberty-pole and cap now so common. 



tingly divulge it, he dug a hole in 
the ground beside a meandering 
brook and whispered therein : " Mi- 
das has ass's ears !" He then filled 
it up and thought himself secure 
against himself; but, alas! on the 
very spot a tell-tale reed grew up, 
which, as the breezes rocked it to 
and fro, murmured the fatal secret, 
" Midas has ass's ears." While this 
fable may signify one of the ways 
by which the ancients believed na- 
ture to have drawn man's attention 
to instrumental music — for trav- 
ellers tell us that in some parts of 
the world there are plants called 
vocal or singing reeds, which emit a 
sweet strain when moved by the 
wind — it may also be a myth to in- 
sinuate that music is a sort of lan- 
guage ; and as such, says Metastasio, 
it has the advantage over poetry 
which a universal language would 
have over a particular one, for mu- 
sic can touch all hearts in every 
age and country, but poetry speaks 
only to the people of its own age 
and country. One of the Greek 
stories of sublimest significance, 
and which mysteriously enters into 
early Christian art under the disci- 
pline of the secret, is the Orphic 
legend. Orpheus, presented by 
Apollo with a lyre and instructed 
in its use by the Muses, was able 
to tame with his sweet notes the 
wild beasts that gathered around 
him, and to enchant even the trees 
and rocks of Olympus, which start- 
ed from their places and followed 
the sounds that charmed them : 

Since naught so stockish, hard, and full of rage 
But music fur the time doth change his nature, 

as Shakspere remarks. That some 
animals are amenable to the influ- 
ence of harmony is certain — hence 
the success of the Hindoos with 
their deadly cobras ; and some re- 
cent botanists are of opinion that 



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the growth of flowers, and espe- 
cially roses, is stimulated by music. 
But whatever slight foundation of 
fact there may be in the wonders 
of the historical Orpheus, it fades 
into obscurity beside the noble con- 
ception of the mythical Orpheus, 
whose history seems based on a 
traditional knowledge of the happy 
state of man in Paradise when all 
things of earth were subject to 
him : 

Till disproportioncd Sin 
Jarred against Nature's clime, and with hanh din 
Broke the fair music that all creatures made 
To their great Lord, whose love their motion 

swayed 
In perfect diapason, whilst they stood 
la fiist obedience, and their state of good. 

—Milton, 

Music is mentioned with a de- 
gree of rapture in more than fifty 
places of the Ilictd and the Odyssey, 
The Lacedaemonians had a flute 
blazoned on their standards, and 
the military airs composed by Tyr- 
taeus continued to be played in the 
Spartan army until the end of the 
republic. 

The Pythagoreans and Platonists 
not only supposed the soul of man 
to be a substance very like a dis- 
embodied musical instrument of 
some sort, but believed the uni- 
verse itself and all its parts to be 
formed on the principles of harmo- 
ny ; hence their not altogether im- 
aginary music of the spheres which 
enters into their systems of phi- 
losophy : , 

Look how the floor of heaven 
Is thick inlaid with patines of bruht gold : 
Tktre^s net tkt smalUst orb which thou btholetst 
But in his motion like an anjyi sings ^ 
Still qniring to tho yonng-tyed chornbino : 
Such harmony is in immortal souls ; 
But whilst this muddy vesture of decay 
Doth gnMsly dose it in, we cannot hear it, 

—Merchant of Venice, 

And this idea of a close connec- 
tion between music and the heaven- 
ly bodies was still lingering in the 
minds of some philosophers as late 
as the eleventh century of our era, 
VOL. XXV. — 26 



when Psellus the younger, treating 
of music and astronomy, describes 
the former as symmetry and pro- 
portion itself, which reminds one 
of Hegel's profound and intelligible 
definition that "music is architec- 
ture in time " ! Pythagoras espe- 
cially is said to have regarded music 
as something celestial and profound, 
and to have had such an opinion 
of its powers over the human affec- 
tions that he ordered his disciples 
to be waked every morning, and 
lulled to sleep at night, by the dul- 
cet notes of the lyre or the flute.* 

The love and cultivation of music 
formed so much a part of the disci- 
pline of the illustrious men who 
sprang from the school of Pytha- 
goras that almost every one of them 
left behind him a treatise on the 
subject. Plato, in the seventh book 
of his work on laws, says that 
children in a well-ordered com- 
monwealth should be instructed 
for three years in music, which re- 
minds us of the commendable ef- 
forts made of late years in Great 
Britain and the United States to 
make music a necessary part of 
popular education, in which con- 
nection the late Cardinal Wiseman 
wrote an interesting letter to the 
Catholic Poor- School Committee of 
London in 1849 about "the im- 
portance of introducing music more 
effectually into our system of edu- 
cation." 

In the third book of Plato's Re- 
public music is treated of at con- 

• Dr. Burney, History of Musie^ vol. L p. 436, . 
has a note which bears too quaintly on this part of 
the subject not to be reproduced. Me says : '* Mas— 
t|r Thomas Mace, author of a most delectablei* 
book called- MusicVs Monument^ would have 
been an excellent Pythagorean^ for he maintains.* 
that the mystery of the Trinity is perspicuously- 
made plain by the connection of the three harmoni- • 
cal concords i^* 5 « ^^^ music and divinity are 
neariy allied ; and that the contemplation of con^- 
cord and discord, of the nature of the ocUve and 
unison, will so strengthen a man''s faith *that he* 
shall never after degenerate into that gross subbes- 
tiacalsin of Atheism.'" 



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Prose and Poetry of Ancient Music. 



siderable length with reference to 
education ; ** for whatever is con- 
cerned with the art of music ought 
somehow to terminate with the love 
of the beautiful." But to seize the 
full meaning of this passage we 
must remember that, in the doctrine 
of the Academy, the Good^ the True^ 
and the Beautiful are reciprocal 
terms, and consequently that music 
should elevate to the contempla- 
tion of the great Godhead — Good- 
ness itself. Truth itself, Beauty it- 
self. 

Eloquence was thought by the 
ancients to be so intimately con- 
nected with music that the orators 
of Greece and Rome had a flute- 
player standing at a proper dis- 
tance behind them while they 
spoke, who kept up an undertone 
of musical sound, now swelling as 
the speaker rose with his theme, 
now gently falling when, as in pane- 
gyrics on the dead or in pleadings 
for mercy, he sought the chords of 
sorrow or sympathy in the human 
heart. Musical contests of flutes, 
trumpets, and other instruments 
were among the attractions at 
the public g'\mes of Greece ; and 
the professijn of music was so 
highly honored, and often so remu- 
nerative, that many musicians lived 
in splendor. There was Dorion 
the flute-player, who lived like a 
Sybarite and was a frequent guest 
at the table of King Philip of 
Macedon ; there was Ismenias of 
Thebes, who was sent on an embassy 
to Persia, and (like the late Duke 
of Brunswick) had a passion for 
collecting jewels which his enor- 
mous wealth enabled him to gratify 
to 'the utmost. He once reproved 
a smart agent for not having paid 
as much for a pearl as it was worth, 
saying that it belittled him in the 
jeweller's eyes not to have given, 
and the gem in h\s own eyes not to 



have cost, its full value, and sent 
him back with the surplus money. 
The flute which he bought at Cor- 
inth for three talents (about $4,000) 
must have been encrusted with pre- 
cious stones. Amoebeus, the har- 
per, received an Attic talent (about 
$1,000) for every appearance on 
the stage. But although proficients 
in music were highly honored and 
rewarded, the mere makers of mu- 
sical instruments enjoyed no great- 
er esteem than did other artisans, 
and we know that the comic poets 
of the time often ridiculed the cele- 
brated orator Isocrates because 
his father had been able to give 
him a liberal education with money 
made by manufacturing flutes. 
Not only men but women also pub- 
licly exhibited their musical accom- 
plishments; they belonged, however, 
mos.tly, if not exclusively, to the 
class of Hetairai. Such was the 
famous Lamia, whose skill as a 
flute- player, hardly less than her 
personal charms, won the heart of 
King Demetrius. 

Passing over to Italy, we can 
only mention the Sabines and 
Etruscans, who early cultivated 
music, and from whom the Romans 
derived their knowledge of the art ; 
the former giving them their pro- 
fane, and the latter their sacred, 
music. At a later period the ge- 
nius of Greece banished her ruder 
rivals and monopolized the art in 
Rome. It was a general custom 
among people of rank, towards the 
end of the republic and under , the 
empire, to keep a private band of 
musicians; but in the earlier days 
of Rome music, being almost ex- 
clusively devoted to religion, either 
in the temples or at burial rites, 
was under government control; 
hence it was forbidden in the 
Twelve Tables to have more than 
ten flute-players at funerals, and 



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the Salii^ who were priests of Mars, 
were obliged, in their annual pro- 
cession through the city, to accom- 
pany their stately tread by a sort 
of music made by striking their 
rods of gold on the metal shields 
which they carried in the hand. 
The most important body of musi- 
cians at Rome, and the recognized 
officials of the art, were the tibicinesy 
or pipers, who formed a college, and 
on one occasion brought the reli- 



gious affairs of the city to a stand- 
still by seceding in a body, after 
some real or fancied grievance, to 
the neighboring town of Tibur (Ti- 
voli). 

The " ambubajarum collegia" of 
Horace, and the Syrian musicians 
satirized by Juvenal, were Iield in 
contempt by the Romans as not de- 
lighting the soul with exalted har- 
mony, so much as exciting the in- 
stincts to sensual gratification. 



THE ROMANCE OF A PORTMANTEAU. 



" We shall be happy to see you 
at Rathdangan Castle, sir," said Sir 
Geoffry Didcote. ** If — aw — you 
come down on Saturday and — aw — 
stop till Monday, we shall — aw — ^be 
pleased "; stroking his finely-shaven 
chin at each **aw." 

I accepted with a gratified alacri- 
ty. We had won the rubber trick 
by trick, and, although the honors 
were against us, I had somehow or 
other managed to establish a long 
suit commencing with the king, and 
had ended by lugging in all the 
poor relations, including a miserable 
deuce of diamonds, for which I con- 
trived to secure as good a berth as 
that held by any member of its illus- 
trious family. Flushed with victory, 
Sir Geoffry's hospitality spread forth 
its arms and enfolded me within its 
embrace. This was a chance for a 
briefless barrister during the long 
vacation. Briefless ! Why, I could 
not even command a nod from an 
attorney, much less that magic roll 
of paper whose cabalistic inscrip- 
tions are so readily deciphered by — 
the pocket. The Hall of the Four 
Courts was a most delightful club- 
room, where all the news of the day 



was freely discussed, from Mr. Jus- 
tice Keogh's latest witticism to the 
new street-ballad by Doctor Huttle ; 
from Baron Dowse's joke to Ser- 
geant Armstrong's wig. And as for 
Circuit, it was nothing more or less 
than a charming country excursion, 
where the wit and wine of the bar 
mess amply compensated for any 
little ennui the hours occupied in do- 
ing nothing during the day might 
have reasonably engendered. In 
vain I strutted across " The Hall " 
with a bagful of old French novels, 
endeavoring to appear as though ab- 
sorbed in some pending case in 
which my dormant talent would be 
strained to the utmost limits of its ca- 
pacity ; in vain I caused myself to be 
called forth from the library as often 
as It pleased the porter to summon 
me for the sum of five shillings, with 
which I had retained his eminent 
services; in vain I buttonholed 
country friends. But why continue? 
The word " briefless " speaks for it- 
self ; and were it not for sundry re- 
mittances from a maiden aunt, my 
sole surviving relative, I should, 
bon^r/ma/gr/, have been compelled 
to take the queen's shilling or to 



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The Romance of a Portmanteau. 



seek employment from tlie Corpora- 
tion of Dublin in the capacity of a 
street scavenger. 

As yet I had made but little way 
in society. I could not talk Wagner 
or fall foul of Tennyson. I had 
not brass enough for a ballad or 
talent for a scena. Too nervous for 
anecdote, my modesty muffled me 
even, in conversation. I was not a 
man's man, nor yet a cavaliere ser- 
vante. I did not hunt, fish, or shoot. 
In a word, I was somewhat of a 
dreary drug in Vanity Fair. 

Why Sergeant Frizwig asked me 
to dinner I cannot determine ; and 
why Sir Geoffry Didcote, after that 
excellent repast, took it into his 
head to invite me to Rathdangan 
Castle is a mystery unto this present 
hour. 

The vulgar question of ways and 
means stared me in the face and al- 
most out of countenance as I walk- 
ed homewards. Rathdangan was 
distant from Dublin at least thirty- 
five miles, thirty of which could be 
traversed by rail. The cost of a con- 
veyance from the station might or 
might not be a "crusher "; and then 
the tips to the retainers ! Luckily, 
my aunt had forwarded a remit- 
tance of five pounds upon that very 
morning, sixty shillings of which still 
remained firm and true ; and as she 
invariably impressed upon me, in ad- 
dition to the necessity of obtaining 
briefs, the advisability of mixing in 
the best society oniy^ I naturally cal- 
culated on. a "tenner " upon receipt 
of the intelligenceof my arrival at the 
Castle, inscribed upon the Didcote 
paper. My wardrobe was the next 
consideration, and this was of the 
scantiest description. The evening 
suit might pass muster in candle- 
light, but once turn a jet of gas up- 
on it, and the whole fabric tumbled 
to pieces. The grease of countless 
cUnners, the patches beneath the 



arms, the seams artfully blackened 
with ink, the frayed linings, would 
jointly and severally step into the 
witness-box and turn evidence 
against me. My shirts were singu- 
larly blue, and worn away from con- 
stant friction with the horny palms 
of the washerwoman, whilst the 
collars resembled those " sierras," or 
saw-edged mountains, which the 
observant traveller recognizes up- 
on entering the dominions of his 
most Catholic Majesty Alfonso the 
Twelfth of Spain. My walking-suit 
was presentable enough, consisting 
as it did of Thomastown frieze, and 
my boots, altliough machine-made, 
possessed the redeeming influence 
of novelty. 

"I '11 risk it," thought I. " The in- 
vestment is a safe one, and the re- 
turn will amply repay the outlay." 
A new and unforeseen difficulty pre- 
sented itself. The battered port- 
manteau which usually bore my 
" fixins," whilst quite good enough 
for "the boots " of provincial hotels, 
was utterly unfit to be handled by 
the genteel retainers at Rathdangan 
Castle ; and as nothing bespeaks a 
certain ton more than smart-looking 
luggage, I found myself under the 
necessity of investing in a new 
valise. 

" There's wan fit for Roosia, or 
Pinsylvania — no less," exclaimed the 
proprietor of a description of open- 
air bazaar situated behind the Bank 
of Ireland, with whom I was in treaty 
for the desired article. " Its locks 
is as sthrong as Newgate, an' ye 
might dhrop it from Nelson's pillar 
an' ye wudn't shake a nail in it." 

This was a large black box strong- 
ly resembling a coffin, both in size 
and shape. 

" Mebbe it's a hair thrunk yer 
looking for } Here's wan. There's 
brass nails for ye ! There's hair I 
Begorra, there's many a man in Mer- 



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rion Square that hasn't half as 
much." 

Informing him that I had no in- 
tention of emigrating just at that 
particular moment, and that I re- 
quired a small, solid leather port- 
manteau, Mr. Flynn proved himself 
equal to the emergency. 

** That's solid enough, anyhow^ 
Shure, ye'd think it was Roman ci- 
mint — sorra a less," he cried, as he 
administered several resounding 
whacks to the article in question. 

" What are you asking for this?" 
I demanded. 

" What am I axin' for it ?" Here 
he fixed me with his eye, as the 
Ancient Mariner fixed the wedding- 
guest. " It's worth thirty shillin's." 

" Say twenty," said I. 

"I couldn't if ye wor to make 
me a lord-mayor." 

" I cannot give more." 

" Well, here now : we'll shplit the 
differ — say twinty-five." And he 
spat upon what he elegantly term- 
ed " the heel of his fist." 

" Twenty," said I. 

** Begorra, yer a hard man! I 
suppose ye must have it." 

My preparations being now com- 
pleted, five o'clock on the Satur- 
day evening found me on the plat- 
form of the Amiens Street termi- 
nus. 

" Hillo, Dawkins !" exclaimed 
Mr. Dudley Fribscombe, a brother 
barrister, whose father (in the bacon 
trade)Na11owed him five hundred a 
yean ''Going as special, eh? A 
hundred guineas — you're coining, 
by Jove !" 

" No," I replied with assumed 
nonchalance^ " just running down to 
Rathdangan Castle to spend a few 
days with the Didcotes." I never 
felt better pleased in my life. This 
fellow was always sneering at the 
poverty of his briefless brothers, and 
as his people happened to reside 



near Rathdangan, but were of 
course »;zvisited, my red-hot shot 
told with withering effect. 

"Oh! indeed," he muttered. 
" What an awful swell ! Going se- 
cond ?" 

" First," was my sententious re- 
ply. 

" Let us travel together." 

"All right." 

Now, my intention was to have 
taken a second-class ticket, but the 
tone of Fribscombe altered my 
mind. What a crisis in my destiny 
as I walked to the booking of- 
fice ! What a pivot in my fate ! 

Had I travelled second — but I 
will not anticipate. 

" The smoking-carriage is full. 
Let's get in here ; FW tip the guard 
to let nobody else pass," said Fribs- 
combe, carrying his idea into execu- 
tion. 

We ensconced ourselves snugly in 
the pet comers, and made a great 
display of luggage all over the com- 
partment. My companion offered 
me a cigar, but I preferred my ebon 
Meerschaum, bought of Hans Larsen 
himself at Lillehammer, and which I 
had colored with possibly as much 
delicate assiduity as Mr. Millais, 
R.A., bestows upon his delightful 
masterpieces. 

We were about to " scratch," as 
the last bell had rung, when the door 
was suddenly unlocked, thrown 
open, and a bundle of rugs bristling 
with umbrella- handles, a portman- 
teau, and a lady attired in the newest 
and presumably most correct thing 
in widow's weeds were flung violent- 
ly into the compartment. The whis- 
tle sounded, the door was banged 
to, and the train glided out of the 
station ere we could make any move 
in the direction of a change of 
seats. 

" What an infernal sell !" mutter- 
ed Fribscombe. 



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" Too bad I" I growled. 

" That guard is a ' do/ Half a 
cro^m thrown into the Liffy !" 

"Would she stand it, Fribs- 
combe ?" 

** Not she. If the dear departed 
smoked, it would remind her too 
forcibly of him ; and if he didn't 
smoke, she'd scream and call the 
guard." 

In the meantime the object of 
our solicitude had shaken out her 
draperies and snugly wrapped her- 
self in a wolf-skin rug, the head and 
glass eyes of which reposed in her 
lap like the sporran of a Highland- 
er. Her figure appeared to very 
little advantage in the heavy folds of 
her ribbed-silk, crape-laden cloak ; 
nevertheless, it betrayed a youthful 
grace and symmetry. She kept her 
veil down, and from the posture she 
assumed — lier head pressed back 
against the cushion — it became 
pretty evident that, if she were not 
en route to dreamland, she wished 
to indulge in a profound medita- 
tion. 

"This train won't stop till we 
get to Skerries," said Fribscombe. 
"I think," he added sotto voce^ 
" that she is asleep, and a whiflf or 
two of real Havana will not awa- 
ken her." 

" It's much better to ask her con- 
sent, and I'll do it," I whispered. 

She sat directly opposite to me, 
facing the engine, I leaned a little 
forward. 

" I beg your pardon, madam ; but 
may I ask if you have any objec- 
tion to our smoking } If you have 
the slightest feeling on the sub- 
ject, I beg to assure you that it will 
be no deprivation to us to wait un- 
til we reach Skerries." 

She raised her veil. 

"I have no objection whatever," 
she said in a low, sympathetic mur- 
mur. " I like the perfume of to- 



bacco." And, as if smitten by some 
sorrowful remembrance, she sighed 
and sank back, but did not lower 
her veil. 

I mumbled some incoherent ex- 
pression of thanks, scarcely know- 
ing what I said; for my whole soul 
was focussed in my eyes as I gazed 
into one of the loveliest faces that 
I had ever beheld. 

"You are not availing yourself 
of my permission, sir," she observ- 
ed, almost laughingly. 

" *Pon my conscience ! I forgot 
all about it," was my reply. 

Woman-like she felt the compli- 
ment, and woman-like she was grate- 
ful for it; she knew it to be genuine. 

Somehow or other we drifted in- 
to conversation. There are some 
women who can trot a man's ideas 
out for him, walk them gently up 
and down, canter, and, lastly, gallop 
them. Any little defects are con- 
cealed by the excellent hand which 
is over him ; and were he to come 
to auction at that particular mo- 
ment, he would be knocked down 
to the very highest bidder, be he 
ever so modest — namely, himself. 
This young girl — for she could 
scarcely have passed her teens — 
possessed this marvellous gift, and, 
as she deftly passed from subject 
to subject, I found myself, usually 
so dull, so reticent, so uninformed, 
discussing topic after topic — tra- 
vel, music, the drama, literature, 
anything, everything — with a fever- 
ish facility, and offering decided 
opinions upon subjects even to ap- 
proach which would have ordina- 
rily been a matter of no little en- 
terprise, doubt, and difficulty. 

So deeply had I become absorb- 
ed that when Fribscombe, whose ex- 
istence I had totally forgotten, sud- 
denly awakening from a cosey slum- 
ber, shouted in a very excited tone : 
"I say> Dawkins, jump out, man! 



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407 



This 13 your station. We're moving 
off/* I could scarcely realize the 
fact of its proximity, and that two 
hours had rolled by, compressed in- 
to so many minutes. 

"My first thought was to journey 
onwards with my fair vis-d-vis — I 
cared not whither ; my second, that 
Fribscombe would laugh me to death 
at the " Hall." With a sense of sor- 
row — I might almost say of agony — 
in my heart at the idea of parting 
from her, I seized upon my portman- 
teau, and just succeeded in alight- 
ing without accident as the train 
moved rapidly away. 

I stood upon the platform like a 
person just aroused from a deep 
slumber. I was purposeless. The 
tide had receded, and the bleak 
.barrenness of my shore life con- 
fronted me. The fair enchantress 
whose wand had conjured up a 
new order of being within me had 
departed. 

"Ye'U have for to come inside 
the station, sir. I'm goin' for to 
lock the doore," observed a porter, 
as he significantly pointed in the di- 
rection of the exit. 

'* Can I get a car over to Rath- 
dangan Castle.^" 

•* Sorra a wan, sir. Billy Heffer- 
nan dhrew two gintlemin over there 
that come be this thrain." 

"Will he return here?" 

"Sorra a fear av him. Ketch 
him lavin' a Iiouse where there's 
such lashins as at the Castle ! Ow ! 
ow ! sez the fox." 

" How am I to get across V* I 
asked in some trepidation. 

" Shure, it's only a nice little taste 
av a walk — nothin* less." 

"How far is it.?" 

" Well, now, you might coclx it in- 
to four mile, but, be the powers 1 
it'll fight hard for five." 

I could not refrain from laugh- 
ing at this peculiar form of expres- 



sion, although there was anything 
but mirth in my present position. 
To be late for dinner would be a 
h igh crime and misdemeanor, and no- 
thing short of lisemajest^y even were 
I to accept the porter's ultimatum 
and walk. I could scarcely reach 
the Castle in anything like time. 

"Did they expect you, sir?" 

"Yes." 

"Troth, thin, they might have 
sint a yoke for ye. They always 
does for the quoUity." 

This was not complimentary, but, 
like many a speech of a similar na- 
ture, it contained a great deal of 
truth in it. Could Sir Geoffry have 
forgotten all about his invitation ? 
It had been given hurriedly as 
the whist- table was breaking- up. 
He had had his share of wine, if 
revoking twice might be taken as 
an index. Yes, the following morn- 
ing had erased me from the tab- 
lets of his memory. What an ass 
to come all this way to be in- 
structed by a common fellow in 
a corduroy suit. Served me right I 
I ought to have known better. 

" What time does the next train 
go up to Dublin, my man ?" I ask- 
ed. 

" What time ?" he ejaculated. 

" Yes, yes, what time ?" 

" In forty minits, if she's not 
late ; but she's shure to be in time 
if /'w not here, bad cess to her!" 

I sat down in the cheerless waiting- 
room, disgusted with Sir Geoffry Did- 
cote, disgusted with myself, boil- 
ing with anger, and writhing with 
mortification, till the recollection 
of my fair travelling companion de- 
scended like oil upon the troubled 
waters of my mind, and the desire 
to discover who she might be be- 
came overwhelming. Fool that I 
was not to have gained even a soli- 
tary clue ! She might be travelling 
to Belfast en route for Scotland, or 



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The Rofptance of a Portmanteau. 



she might have alighted at the 
next station. The last thought in- 
duced me to question the porter. 

" Did you see a handsome lady in 
weeds in the train that I travelled 
by ?" I asked. 

'* Is it a widdy woman ye mane ?" 

"Yes." 

"Young.?" 

"Yes— very." 

"Purty.V* 

"Beautiful!" I exclaimed. 

Here he winked facetiously. "I 
seen her. Me an' her is acquainted." 

"Who is she?" I eagerly asked. 

" She's the widdy av a dacent, 
sober man be the name av O'Hool- 
ahan, that died av the horrors av 
dhrink." 

"Poor thing!" I muttered half- 
aloud. 

" Poor ? Begorra, it's him that 
left her warm an' snug, wud three 
av the clegantest childer." 

"Three children!" I interposed, 
somewhat disconcerted. The name 
O'Hoolahan was bad enough, but 
three little O'Hoolahans ! 

" She left this parcel wud me." 

" When ?" 

".A few minits ago, whin she got 
out." 

"Got out.? Where!" 

" Out av the third class, foreninst 
the doore there." 

Pshaw ! We had been talking 
of the wrong woman, and somehow 
I felt intensely pleased to think 
that my fair incognita was not the 
relict of the defunct O'Hoolahan 
and the mother of three little 
O'Hoolahans. 

"Whisht!" suddenly exclaimed 
my communicative friend. " I hear 
a horse's feet. He's tearin' along 
like murther — a rale stepper" ; then 
turning to me : " Yer not forgotten. 
It's from Rathdangan. Yer sint 
for. It's Highflier, an' Jim Falvey's 
dhrivin' him." 



These surmises proved to be cor- 
rect. 

" I've to beg your pardon, sir, for 
being late," said Falvey, touching 
his hat ; " but we cast a shoe at 
Ballinacor, and I done my best to 
pull up the lost time. Any luggage, 
sir?" 

" This portmanteau." 

" All right, sir. Will you be pleas- 
ed to jump in ? You'll only get 
over at the first dinner bell, if you 
do that same." 

Having tipped the loquacious 
porter, I sprang into the tax*cart, 
and the next minute Highflier was 
dashing at a liand gallop on the 
road to Rathdangan. 

Mr. Falvey informed me that 
there was the " hoigth" of company 
at the Castle ; that every room was 
full ; Lord Dundrum and Captain 
Buckdash had arrived by the morn- 
ing train, and the Bishop of Bal- 
linahoo and his lady had just en- 
tered the avenue as he was leaving 
it ; the partridge were plenty, and 
a covey might be found within " a 
few perch" of the west wing ; Mas- 
ter James (the Didcote heir) was 
expected with two of his brother 
officers of the King's Dragoon 
Guards; Miss Patricia's collar- 
bone was now as good as new, etc. 
We then talked horses, and he was 
still hammering away at the pedi- 
gree of Highflier when we reached 
the entrance gate. This was cas- 
tellated and partly covered with 
ivy. A stout old lady unlocked 
the ponderous portals, and, as she 
admitted us, dropped a courtesy 
whilst she uttered the cheery words, 
"Yerwelkim, sir." 

Why do people keep gloomy- 
looking servants, dismal phantoms 
who reply to your ring with a sigh, 
answer your query with a sob, and 
wait upon you with a groan ? 
Their depression is infectious, and 



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although you may, with a ivatu rally 
lively constitution, baffle the disease 
for a time, sooner or later you are 
laid low by it. 

According to a time-honored max* 
im of the road, we kept a trot for 
the avenue, and just as we whirled 
up to the grand entrance the sound 
of a gong reached us. 

** Jump out, sir. YouVe only ten 
minutes; that's the second bell. 
There's some of them in the drawing- 
room already," cried Falvey, as he 
flung my portmanteau to a solemn- 
looking domestic, who gazed at me 
as though he were engaged in a deep 
mental calculation as to the length 
of my coffin and the exact quanti- 
ty of linen necessary for the for- 
mation of a shroud. Following 
this grim apparition across a low- 
ceiled, wainscoted hall, in which a 
billiard-table of the present contrast- 
ed strangely with oaken furniture 
of the sixteenth century, and up 
an old oak staircase decorated with 
battered corselets, deeply-dented 
morions, halberds, matchlocks, steel 
gloves, and broadswords, along a 
wainscoted passage as dark as £re- 
bu!i, and up a spiral stone staircase 
the ascent of which took all the 
breath out of my body, I was 
finally deposited in a little stone 
chamber in one of the towers of 
the Castle. 

" Your keys, please, sir," demand- 
ed my janitor. 

"Oh! never mind; thanks ; ril get 
out my things myself." I feared the 
penetrating gaze of this man. I 
shuddered as I thought of the fray- 
ed linings and the inked seams. 

"Very good, sir," uttered like a 
parting benediction ; and with a bow 
which plainly said, ** Wc shall never 
meet at this side of the grave again," 
the dread apparition vanislied. The 
old saying," More haste, less speed," 
never exemplified itself more uii« 



happily than in my case. With the 
thoughts of the last gong ringing 
through my brain, I vainly endea- 
vored to open my portmanteau. 
My keys had got mixed up, and, as 
they were nearly all of a size, I 
had to travel round the entire ring 
before I could manage to induce 
one to enter the keyhole. Then, 
when I came to turn it, it got block- 
ed and wouldn't move either back- 
wards or forwards. I withdrew it, 
whistled it, probed it with my breast- 
pin, tugged and strained until u./ 
backbone ached again, but with- 
out effect. What was T to do? 
Break it open. But how ? I pos- 
sessed no implements. Perceiving 
a bronze figure poised upon one 
leg on the chimney-piece, I resolv- 
ed upon utilizing the outstretched 
limb of the harlequin, and, hav- 
ing inserted it in the ring of the 
key, I finally, to my unspeakable 
delight, succeeded in detaching the 
bolt. 

Throwing open the portmanteau, 
I plunged my hand into the corner 
where I had deposited my brushes, 
but found that they must have shift- 
ed during the jouroey. I tried the 
other comer, with similar success. 
I then probed and groped in the 
lower compartment. Here was a 
pretty go. I must have forgotten 
to pack them, although I could 
have sworn not only to their hav- 
ing been packed, but as to the pre- 
cise spot in which I had deposited 
them. Mechanically I drew forth 
my linen and laid it on the bed, in 
order to mount my studs. 

I was somewhat astonished to 
find that the breast w^as most elab- 
orately adorned with floriated nee- 
dlework. 

Some mistake of the laundress. 
I detest worked shirt-fronts, which 
are only worn by cads and shoddy 
lords, so I picked out another. If 



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number one was embroidered, num- 
ber two Wcis done in fresco, and, in 
addition to the vast tumuli oi birds, 
beasts, fishes, and flowers, an edging 
of lace played a prominent part. 
What could this mean ? Surely I 
put up my own time-honored linen 
myself, and here were bosom decor- 
ations fit for a fop of the year 1815. 
Hastily turning out the contents of 
the portmanteau upon the floor, in 
order to realize my own property, 
what Avere my sensations in discov- 
ering that this pile of snowy dra- 
pery did not contain one single arti- 
cle of male apparel ! 

The truth flashed across me now 
in all its appalling reality: Heav- 
ens and earth ! / had taken the 
young widouf's portmanteau for my 
o7vn. 

I do not know what the exact 
sensation of fainting comes to, but 
this I do know: that if I did not 
faint, I went within a pip of it. 
A cold perspiration burst out all 
over me, and I felt as if I was on 
board the Doverand Calais boat and 
about to call the steward. How 
could I appear to the assembled 
company ? With what ridicule would 
I be overwhelmed when the true 
state of the case came to light ! 
And then what would she think.? 
S/ie would write me down an ass — 
a donkey unfit to be allowed to wan- 
der from a thistle-grove. Her key 
would open my leathern **conve- 
niency," and the ghastly condition 
of my wardrobe would be laid bare, 
whilst I had profaned the sanctity 
of — but it was too dreadful to con- 
template. How could I meet her? 
How could I look into that beauti- 
ful face again ? How was I to re- 
cover my wandering wardrobe ? My 
whole stock of clothes, save those I 
wore, were now in the possession of 
another, whilst in exchange I had 
received a commodity of no value 



to me whatever. On the contrary, 
my prize was worse than valueless — 
it was contraband. 

Bang-ang- ang - ang- oong - ang! 
went the gong. 

Let it go ! What were its sounds 
to me ? If I were starving, I could 
not descend in my present cos- 
tume. 

" Sir Geoff'ry Didcote begs me to 
say, sir, that he waits on you in or- 
der to enter the dining-room," 
mournfully announced the dismal 
servitor. 

•* Please say to Sir Geoff'ry that I 
don't feel quite well — that I will go 
down by and by." 

" Thank j^«, sir." This was ut- 
tered as if he wished to say : " I am 
glad that you are dying. / knew 
how it would be — you couldn't de- 
ceive me,** 

The man had scarcely time to 
deliver my message ere Sir Geoff'ry 
himself panted and puffed into my 
apartment. 

** My dear sir — aw — I hope — ^aw 
—that you are not — aw — ill. It 
would — aw — grieve me very much" 
— here he availed himself of my 
mirror to adjust his spotless white 
choker — " if — aw — upon your — aw 
— first visit you — aw — became in- 
disposed." 

Honesty, thought I, is the best poli- 
cy, and it saves a lot of trouble ; so 
I made a clean breast of it to the 
pompous baronet. 

" How very unfortunate — aw — 
for the lady ! We will dispense — aw 
— with ceremony under — aw — the 
peculiar, not to say delicate — ^aw — 
circumstances of the case, and Lady 
Didcote will — aw — receive you in 
your — aw — present attire. You can 
telegraph — aw — for reinforcements, 
which — aw — will arrive on — aw — 
Monday morning." 

I could not see the force of this. 
I might easily telegraph for rein- 



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411 



forcenients, but would they come ? 
Secondly, as ray visit was to ter- 
minate upon Monday, reinforce- 
ments were not necessary, unless 
they could be brought up at 'once. 
I begged to be excused from at- 
tending table; but this he would 
not listen to, and, as he informed 
me that I was keeping dinner wait- 
ing, there was nothing for it but to 
descend with him. 

I have, when a boy, been lugged 
into the school- room to suffer con- 
dign punishment ; at a later .peri- 
od I have been forced into the 
presence of a young lady of whom 
I was deeply enamored; I have 
had to march up to the pulpit in 
Trinity College dining-hall to re- 
peat the long Latin grace amid the 
mufHed gibes of my peers ; I have 
been placed in positions where ray 
bashfulness has been ruthlessly tor- 
tured and my retiring modesty 
tried by fire and water ; but never 
did I experience the pangs of the 
rack until the full blaze of that 
drawing-room burst upon my vision. 
The apartment appeared to swim 
round, carrying with it the form of 
a liooked-nosed dowager in a tur- 
ban, who screwed an eye-glass intp 
the corner of a wicked old eye, to 
have a good stare at the strange 
figure her husband had introduced 
into her salon, 

A confused murmur of many 
voices, in which "Who is he.^'* "What 
is he?'* "Stole a portmanteau," 
" Highway robber," " Police" smote 
upon my ear, whilst a general cran- 
ing of necks in my direction an- 
nounced the curiosity which my ap- 
pearance had naturally excited. 

I am aware that I bowed to 
something in blue drapery sur- 
mounted by a head, that it placed 
the tips of its fingers on my arm, 
that I mechanically followed a 
crowd of people towards an aper^ 



ture in the wall winch proved to be 
a door, that I plunged downwards 
upon a chair, and that then I came 
slowly to ray senses. Having gulp- 
ed down three glasses of sherry in 
rapid succession, I found myself 
seated beside a gaunt young lady 
of about fi ve-and -thirty, so covered 
with pearl powder that she was 
only partially visible to the naked 
eye. On my right hand sat a port- 
ly dowager, who viewed with some 
alarm my inroads upon the sherry, 
and she appeared so interested in my 
movements that I fully expected to 
receive a temperance tract before 
the evening was half over. There 
were about twenty at table, all stiff, 
. solemn, and ceremonious. 

" So you have been robbed ?" 
snappislily remarked the young lady 
in blue. 

" Oh ! dear, no ; merely an ex- 
change of portmanteaus." 

"How stupid!" 

Now, whether this applied to me 
or to the fact, I was not in the posi- 
tion to say, so I merely rejoined : 

" Very stupid of me and for 
me." 

"How so?" 

" Why, I was the offending party." 
And I endeavored to make myself 
agreeable by narrating the circum- 
stances exactly as they had oc- 
curred. 

"And do you mean to say that 
you opened the lady's trunk, sir?" 
demanded my companion with great 
asperity. 

"In mistake, madam, I assure 
you.V 

The waspish lady waited until a 
portion of the ice which she was 
engaged in despatching had cleared 
two very shaky-looking teeth bound 
in gold. 

" There are some mistakes, sir, 
which no gentleman should make." 

This was quite enough for me. 



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To endeavor to make terms with 
this foe were worse than folly, ex- 
planation weakness, and concession 
cowardice. She gained nothing, 
however, by her viciousness ; whilst 
I remained upon the field and pre- 
pared to bivouac, surrounded by 
sturdy sentinels in the shape of 
port, claret, and Madeira. 

" The — aw — guard insisted upon 
his taking the old lady's — aw — 
portmanteau." And Sir Geoffry 
was proceeding to retail his version 
of the story when Lord Dundrum 
gaily exclaimed : 

'* Oh ! by Jove, we'd better put 
the witness into the box. Let us 
cross-examine the lawyer." 

" With all my heart," said I ; " the 
absurdity of the sensation will re- 
deem itself by its novelty." 

My story flowed joyously along, 
and peal upon peal of laughter 
greeted me as I described my sen- 
sations upon discovering tlie strange 
garments. 

" So — aw — the widow was — aw — 
young?" 

*' About eighteen, Sir Geoffry." 

" And pretty ?" added his lordship. 

I devoutly kissed my second fin- 
ger and thumb, and flung them in 
the direction of the ceiling. 

"I'll lay five to two he never 
hears of his portmanteau/' lisped 
Captain Buckdash. 

" Shall I be at liberty to hunt it 
up V* said Lord Dundrum. 

** Certainly. Are you on }" 

" In tens ?" asked his lordship. 

" Ponies, if you but limit the pe- 
riod to one week." 

"Done, Buckdash! I'll book it." 
And the peer, producing a pocket- 
book, entered the bet, the terms of 
which he read aloud, and which the 
gallant captain pronounced emi- 
nently satisfactory. 

" I'm afraid, my lord, that you'll 
lose your money," I observed to 



Juord Dundrum as we ascended to 
the drawing-room. 

"I'll give you the same bet, and 
that I'll get your portmanteau, with- 
out any interference o( yours, in less 
than a week — say five days," 

"You know the lady.?" 

"No." 

"You suspect who she is ?" 

" I 'have no more idea of who she 
is, where she came from, or where 
she is going to, than the man in the 
moon. Will you evince your sin- 
cerity by betting now ?" 

" The fact is, my lord, I cannot 
afford to bet." 

"Quite right," slapping me on 
the shoulder. " Never do. It's a 
doosid bad, pleasant habit." 

"** And might I venture to ask 
how you purpose proceeding towards 
winning your money.?" 

" I'll tell you. I have just or- 
dered round a trap. I'll drive to 
Ballynamuckle Station and tele- 
grapii along the whole line. If 
she's local or a county swell, we'll 
have her name and address to- 
night. If, on the contrary, she is 
not known along the line, she will 
have gone on to Belfast. I'll set 
the police to work there, and put 
advertisements in all the papers 
on Monday morning. If Tuesday 
tells me nothing, I'll put the wires 
in motion north of Belfast, and on 
Wednesday we'll have a touch at 
Scotland. I feel certain, however, 
that we'll find her this side of 
Newry." And his lordship retir* 
ed for the purpose of equipping 
himself for the road. 

This bet was a lucky chance for 
me. Not that I cared much wheth- 
er my wardrobe ever turned up 
again or not, but I longed to dis- 
cover the identity of my fair ac- 
quaintance. I would at least enjo^ 
the satisfaction of learning her 
name, and gain some knowledge of 



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413 



her surroundings, and then — ^pshaw ! 
bow over my restored baggage and 
utter VcUe^ Vale, Vale to my three- 
hour dream. 

In the billiard-room the menkind 
were assembled for pool. By a se- 
ries of ghastly flukes I managed to 
clear the table and divided every 
pool. Captain Buckdash muttered 
something in reference to Dawson 
Lane, and one young fellow, whose 
lives were sacrificed to my ruthless 
cue with startling rapidity, offered 
to back me against some formidable 
player in the Guards, laying the 
odds. For the second time in this 
eventful day did I feel myself fit 
for the front rank. Lord Dundrum 
lounged into the room about eleven 
o'clock. He indicated by a look 
that he wished to speak to me, and, 
under cover of " splitting a bottle," 
exclaimed in a low tone : 
" It's all right." 
My heart gave a bound. 
" The portmanteau is found." 
"Where?" 

" At Nobberstown, the next sta- 
tion but one. She evidently dis- 
covered j'^wr mistake ; for she tum- 
bled it out. It's coming on." 
** And where is she V 
" Oh ! hang me if I know or care. 
My ponies are safe. You can look 
her up." 

" Did she leave no message, no 
directions .5^" I asked eagerly. - 

** Don't know," said his lordship, 
as he chalked the top of his cue 
preparatory to joining in the pool. 
Lord Dundrum was correct in 
saying that / should take up the 
running now. It was my business 
to make restitution and to deliver 
the white elephant left on my hands 
to its rightful owner. This task 
should be undertaken at once. I 
scarcely closed my eyes all night, 
thinking of the modus operandi ; and 
when I came down to breakfast 



next morning I had resolved upon 
nothing more definite than a 
searching cross-examination of the 
employes at Nobberstown Station. 

** 1*11 thank you for a check, 
Buckdash," said Lord Dundrum, as 
the gallant warrior entered the 
breakfast-room. 

" For what T^ asked tlie captain. 

"For Mr. Dawkins' portman- 
teau." 

" Wait till you get it." 

"I have it here." And as he 
spoke he lugged my valise from 
beneath the table, accompanied by 
a roar of laughter from all assem- 
bled. 

"A capital joke," grinned the 
captain. 

" A capital joke, indeed ! Hand 
over the coin." 

Captain Buckdash turned to me. 

" Mr. Dawkins, is this your port- 
manteau ?" 

" It is indeed," I replied. 

" The one which you left in the 
railway carriage?" 

"Yes." 

" I am quite satisfied. Lord Dun- 
drum. You shall have a check 
after breakfast; in the meantime 
will you kindly inform us how you 
managed to lay hold of it?" And 
he cracked an egg with a violence 
that almost crushed in the china 
cup. 

I searched for some note or mark 
by which to obtain a clue to her 
identity, but in vain ; my leathern 
" conveniency " was as bald as when 
I purchased it behind the Bank of 
Ireland. No message had been for- 
warded, not a line of instruction. This 
course appeared singular, inasmuch 
as it was unlikely that she would 
make no effort to regain her pro- 
perty ; and why lose this most legiti- 
mate opportunity ? Had she no de- 
sire to place herself in communica- 
tion with me f Ah I there was that in 



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The Rotnance of a Portmanteau. 



her glance which gave this thought 
the lie. Heigh-ho ! I was in love 
up to my eyebrows and badly hit. 
I was obliged to come face to face 
with myself, to place ray hand upon 
my heart, and to plead guilty. I 
thought of the elder Mr. Wcller, 
and of his opinion respecting wid- 
ows, and voted him vulgar. My 
preconceived ideas upon the sub- 
ject of relicts underwent a total 
change, and now a bashful maiden 
seemed but an insipid nonentity. 
I longed to quit Rathdangan, and, 
excusing myself under the plea of 
an important professional engage- 
men!, started for Nobberstown at 
cockcrow. 

This station consisted of simply 
a "porter and a platform," one 
equally intelligent as the other, and 
of the two the platform was " the 
better man." 

**Sorra a know I know," was the 
invariable reply to almost every 
query. 

" Did the lady alight here .'" 

"Sorra a know I know." 

" Did she give you no message ?" 

" Sorra a know I know.'' 

"No card .5^" 

"Sorra a wan." 

" Who handed you the portman- 
teau ?" 

" Sorra a know I know." 

A thought now flashed across my 
brain ; Fribscombe ! He was not 
the man to lose a chance of talking 
to a pretty woman. He would 
have told her who I was, and it was 
through him that she had commu- 
nicated. How asinine not to have 
thought of this before ! 

Chartering a jarvey, I started 
across the country to the family 
mansion of the Fribscombes, ac- 
companied by the two portman- 
teaus. 

"I never opened my lips to her. 
She dried up after you left, and 



pulled down the shutters." This 
gave me a pang of the keenest de- 
light. "I got out at Killoughter, 
the next station, and she went on." 

On my return to Dublin I caused 
advertisements to be inserted in 
several of the leading Irish papers; 
I also tried the second column of 
the Times and the Glasgow Herald, 
but, alas ! with no effect. 

Six months had glided away, dur- 
ing which she made no sign. The 
portmanteau maintained possession 
of a corner of my solitary apart- 
ment, and the image of its whilome 
proprietor defiantly held more than 
one corner of my heart ; indeed, I 
may as well candidly confess that 
it was strongly entrenched in all 
four. 

The summer assizes were over, 
and the briefless ones flitted hither 
and thither for the long vacation : 
some to Switzerland, with Mont 
Blanc in the distance — very much 
in the distance-mothers the passes 
of the Tyrol, sunny Spain, byways 
in Brittany, or the Highlands of 
Scotland. Connemara found its 
true believers, and Killarney its 
pious pilgrims. As for myself, I 
was perforce compelled to substi- 
tute the Dodder for the Rhine, the 
Dublin mountains for the Alps, and 
Sackville Street for the Boulevard 
des Italiens. My aunt had contri- 
buted the ten-pound note upon 
which I had hung in fond anticipa- 
tion towards the building of Father 
Donnelly's new churcii at Shinan- 
shone, and the letter which convey- 
ed this intelligence concluded with 
the following: "I don't see your 
name figuring in any of the trials, 
good, bad, or indifferent. It's all 
Macdonogh and Armstrong. What 
are you about, at all at all } At this 
rate of going you'll never see a silk 
gown, let alone the bench. You 
might as well be on the Hill of 



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The Romance of a Portmanteau. 



415 



Howth as in the Four Courts, if 
you don't stir yourself. Let me 
see you cheek by jowl with Mac- 
donogh and Armstrong during the 
coming winter, or 1*11 know the rea- 
son why, and make my financial ar- 
rangements accordingly." 

I was seated one lovely morning 
in autumn gazing gloomily into 
the street, which was as empty as 
my own exchequer. Dreamy vis- 
ions of the golden glory of ripening 
com, of blood-red poppies, of fern- 
shaded dells, of limpid pools and 
purple-clad nxpun tains mocked my 
aching heart. I sighed the sigh of 
impecuniosity, and railed at the 
inconsistency of a fortune which 
gave little Bangs, who hadn't one 
idea to rub against another, a 
thousand per annum, a vulgar cad 
like Hopkins a bagful of briefs, 
and which left me higli and dry 
in a front garret in Eccles Street, 
without a red cent to come into col- 
lision with a battered sixpence in 
my somewhat cavernous pockets. 
Heigh-ho ! 

An outside car, driven at a frosty 
pace, smote upon the drowsy still- 
ness of the street, and my gloom 
was somewhat speedily dispelled 
by the sight of my friend Tom 
Whiffler's honest and beaming face, 
and his expressive and expansive 
signals while yet a considerable 
distance from the house. Tom is 
always full of money, full of health, 
and full of the most boisterous and 
explosive spirits. 

** Aha ! you old cat on the tiles," 
he shouted, " come down from your 
coign of vantage. I was afraid 
you were out of town. Somebody 
said you were on Circuit." And 
standing upon the foot-board of the 
car, he burst forth with — 

** Hail to our barmter back from the Circuit ! 
Honor and wealth to the curls of his wig I 
Long may he live o'er his forehead to jerk it. 
Long at a witness look burly and big !" 



"Come up, for gracious sake !" I 
cried, as I perceived heads peep- 
ing from beliifid the partly-closed 
shutters of an opposite house, in- 
habited by a genteel family, who 
wished their little world to ima- 
gine them in Italy, France, Spain — 
anywhere but in Dublin — during 
the dog-days. 

In a few seconds Tom bounded 
into the apartment. ** This is a 
slice of luck to get you, old man. 
Come, now, pack up your traps, 
and we'll have four days in the 
County WicMow. I shall have the 
car in any case, and our hotel bills 
will be mere bagatelles which we'll 
square up at Tib's Eve. Lend me 
a couple of shirts and things ; you 
can bring the baggage — a cliange 
for two — and I'll do the rest. We've 
twenty-five minutes to catch the 
train." 

Five minutes found Tom upon 
one side of the car, myself upon tlie 
other, and, calmly reposing in the 
well between us, the neat little 
portmanteau of the fair unknown. 
I was compelled to make use of it, 
as Whiffler had no " leathern conve- 
niency," and ' my travelling-valise 
had been lent to one of " ours," 
and was possibly at that particular 
moment strapped upon the murder- 
ous mound of luggage which en- 
cumbers the groaning roof of the 
Alpine diligence, or snugly en- 
sconced on the grape-strewn deck 
of a Rhine or a Moselle steamer. It 
gave me more than a pang to re- 
move it from its well-known cor- 
ner. A chord had been touched 
which set all my memories vibrat- 
ing, and I handled it with as much 
care and anxiety as though it were 
a new-born infant or a rickety case 
containing rack-rent or nitro-gly- 
cerine. 

A glorious moonlight found us 
driving through the Vale of Clara 



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en route to Glendalough — the sad, 
stricken valley of the Seven Church- 
es. The hills, quietly entranced, 
lay gazing upwards at the gentle 
moon, who enfolded them in her 
pellucid beams as with a soft, sheeny 
mantle of light. The Avonmore 
far, far down in the valley musi- 
cally murmured while she glided 
onwards to join the Avonbeg, who 
joyously awaited her coming in the 
sweet Vale of Avoca. The honest 
watch-dog's bark bayed up the val- 
ley, and the perfume-laden air in 
its holy cahn was as sweet as an 
angel's whisper. 

After " a square meal " of rasher 
and eggs which would have put 
the most elaborate chef-ifasuvre of 
the cuisine out of count, we strutted 
forth from the hostelry in the direc- 
tion of St. Kevin's Bed, and heard 
the oft-repeated legend of poor 
Kathleen's fate from the lips of a 
very ragged but very amusing 
guide, whose services we w^ere 
desirous of engaging for the mor- 
row. 

" Troth, thin, but it's me father's 
son that's sorry not to be wud yez ; 
but shure " — and here he lowered 
his voice — "it's in regard to me 
bein' in a hobble that I'm out in 
tlie moonlight." 

" What scrape have you got your- 
self into?" asked Tom Whiffler. 
"Whiskey?" 

"Musha, thin, it wasn't a dhrop 
o' sperrits that done it this offer." 

" A colleen r 

" Sorra a fear av all the colleens 
from this to Wicklow Head." 

" Mistaking another man's sheep 
for your own ?" laughed Tom. 

"If ye wor spaikin' airnest I'd 
make ye sorry for them words," 
said the man in an angry tone ; but 
brightening up, he added : ** Av yez 
wor guessin' from this to Candle- 
mas ye'd be out every offer. I got 



into thrubble be raison av a saint, 
an' I'll tell yez how : A lot av igno- 
raamusses av English comes here 
in the summer saison, an' nothin's 
too holy but they'll make a joke on 
it ; but the divvle will have his own 
wan av these days. Well, sir, last 
Monday I was engaged for to di- 
vart a cupple of English, as bowld 
as brass, an' that vulgar that the 
very cows turned their tails to thim 
as we thravelled through the fields 
— sorra a lie in it. I done me best 
for to earn an honest shillin*, but, 
on my word, wan av .thim, a stout 
lump av a man, gev me all soarts 
av impidince, an' whin I come 
for to narrate about St. Kavin he 
up's an' insults the holy saint to me 
very face. 

" * There never was no sich man,' 
sez he. 

" * There was, sir,' sez I. 

"*It's all humbug,' sez he; * an' 
as for Kathleen,' sez he, * she was 
no bctther nor — ' 

"*Ye'd betther stop, sir,* sez I, 
intherruptin' him; *for St. Kavin 
was a holy man, an' never done no- 
thin* but what was good an* saintly.* 
Well, sir, he up's an' calls the bless- 
ed saint a bad name, so I hot him 
betune th* eyes an' rowled him on 
the grass, an' I planted his comrade 
beside him. An' now I'm the worst 
in the world below at the hotel for 
bating two blackguards that done 
nothin' but insult me an' me holy 
religion ; an' that's why I can't go 
wud yez to-morrow." 

It was far into the " wee sma* 
hours " when we parted with Myles 
O'Byrne and gained sanctuary in 
the double-bedded room which had 
been told off to us. The pale and 
gentle Luna was surrendering her 
charge to the pink and rosy Aurora, 
and we sought our couches in beau- 
tiful budding daylight. 

" Where's your portmanteau. 



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Tht Romance of a Portmanteau. , 



417 



Dawkins?" asked Tom Whiffler. 
" I want to get at my things." 

To my utter dismay, the port- 
manteau was not in the apartment. 
To ring the bell at this unseemly 
hour was but to alarm the entire 
hotel; so, slipping off my shoes, I 
descended to tlie hall in the hope 
of discovering it in a heap of lug- 
gage which lay piled in graceful 
profusion near the entrance. My 
search was vain, and, with secret 
forebodings of another mischance in 
connection with this unhappy va- 
lise, I returned to the room and 
retired to bed. 

" I seen it in yer hand, sir,'* ob- ' 
served the waiter the next morning 
whom I interrogated about the miss- 
ing article — **a thick lump of a 
solid leather portmantle. I can take 
the buke on it, if necessary, sir. 
Here's the boots; mebbehe can tell 
us something. Jim, did ye see a 
thick lump av a solid leather port- 
mantle lyin' about V^ 

" I did," replied the boots, who 
was a man of much physique and 
very few words. 

" Ye did .?" 

" Yis." 

" Where is it, thin ?" 

"Where it ought to be." 

"Where's that.>" 

"Wudth'owjier." 

" It was not left in my room," I 
exclaimed. 

" It was left in number five." 

" Shu re, number five's gone," 
cried the waiter. 

"It's news yer tellin* us," ob- 
served the boots with a surly grin. 

" An' is the portmantle tuk be 
number ^st V 

" Yis." 

"Phew!" whistled the waiter. 
" Be the mortial the fat's in the 
fire now, anyhow." 

Here was a situation ! My mis- 
VOL. XXV. — 26 



givings realized. My portmanteau 
gone, perhaps never to return. How 
could I face the owner? I never 
gave up the hope of meeting her 
and of restoring the property. 

" Who slept in number five V* I 
asked. 

" Number ^se, is two faymales." 

" When did they leave r 

" They left for Father Rooney's 
first Mass beyant at Annamoe." 

" Where were they going to ?" 

" To Lake Dan and Luggelaw." 

I proceeded to hold a council of 
war — consisting of the landlord, the 
waiter, the boots, two or three 
stable-boys, and the surplus popu- 
lation of the village — ^when it was 
determined to send a boy on a fast- 
trotting pony in pursuit of the fugi- 
tive luggage. 

I was two inches on a mild Ha- 
vana after such a breakfast as the 
tourist alone can dispose of, when 
the waiter burst into the summer- 
house situated over the lake, whith- 
er we had repaired to enjoy the 
"witching weed." 

" The portmantle is safe, sir, an' 
number five is here with it an* 
wants for to see ye, sir." 

^ Well, I do not want to see num- 
ber five, waiter, so just say — *' 

" I dar*n't say nothin*, sir ; she 
slipped a half a crown into the heel 
of me fist an' towld me to hurry you 
up," burst in the waiter, now in a 
white perspiration. 

" I'll not stir till I finish this ci- 
gar, at nil events, and there is a 
good hour's pull in it yet." 

" Och ! murther, an' she's in such 
a hurry — such a dainty little cray- 
thur ; an* it was so dacent of her for 
to journey back the road with it." 

This last thrust failed to pierce my 
armor. The waiter was conscien- 
tiously working out his half-crown. 

"She's quite convaynient in the 



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coffee-room, sir. Til show ye a 
short cut across the bog." 

I listened and puffed, puffed and 
listened. 

'* I must get back, sir. May I tell 
her ye*ll be over in five minutes, 

sir r 

"Tell her anything ^<7ii like, my 
friend, but out of this till I finish my 
cigar ril not stir.** 

Why I acted in this manner I was 
at a loss to determine. My anxiety 
for the valise almost amounted to 
pain; and yet here was the cause 
for worry removed, and I would not 
even trouble myself to walk a few 
hundred yards to the hotel to thank 
the lady for returning with it, which, 
as a gentleman, I was bound to do at 
any cost as to personal discomfort. 

'* Some frouzy old maid," sug- 
gested Whiffle*. 

" Probably ; or a strong-minded 
female doing Wicklow on a geolo- 
gical survey,*' I added. 

When I got back to the hotel, 
which might have been an hour or so 
subsequently, I found my portman- 
teau safely deposited in my room. 

" Where is this lady, until I — " 

" She*s gone, sir,** interrupted the 
waiter in a reproachful tone, " but 
she towld me for to give you this 
bit av' a note,** handing me a piece 
of paper folded cocked-hat fashion. 

I opened it. 

** I have two regrets," it said — the 
geologist's handwriting was exqui- 
sitely feminine — **one, that I was 
inadvertently the cause of incon- 
venience ; and the other, that I was 
denied the opportunity of claiming 
the portmanteau, as 1 imagine that 
I recognize in it one which I lost 
about eight months ago during a 
railway journey to the north." 

1 was literally stunned. I gazed 
from the letter to the now astonish- 
ed waiter, and back from his va- 
cant countenance to the three- 



cornered billet, which, alas ! told so 
much and yet so little. It bore no 
name, no initial, no monogram, no 
clue. 

** Describe this lady's appear- 
ance I" I shouted, clutching the 
waiter by his greasy collar, and im- 
parting to him no very delicate 
shake. 

" I never seen her ; her veil was 
foreninst her nose the whole time 
she was spakin' to me. The boy 
that attindid her is gone to the 
fair at Knockatemple." 

"Who saw her.?" 

"Barrin* the masther, dickins a 
wan ; for Mary, the chainbermaid, 
started this mornin' for Fogarty's, 
of Glinmaloure. She an* the mis- 
thress had a few %vords in regard 
to — but here's the masther.'* 

The burly host presented him- 
self; he had not encountered my 
enslaver, for the bill had been paid 
by the other lady. 

" The red wan," interposed the 
waiter. 

" Just so, Mick," said his master 
approvingly, and turning to me : 
" They have gone on to Luggelaw, 
sir, and intend to sleep at Ennis- 
kerry to-night." 

I unbosomed myself to Tom 
Whiffler, who immediately entered 
into the affair con amore. " We'll 
hunt them," he said ; " we must 
catch them at Latouche's Cottage. 
There is no exit from Luggelaw 
except the one." 

Tnc road from the Seven Churches 
to Luggelaw is exquisitely pictur- 
esque. Behind lies that lake whose 
gloomy shore skylark never warbles 
o'er, with Lugnacullagh frowning 
sternly over its gloomy waters, and 
the round tower standing like a 
grim sentinel ready to challenge 
the approach alike of friend and foe 
In front is the little village of Lara, 
with Castle Kevin perched upon a 



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The Romance of a Portmanteau. 



419 



ledge of rock like an aerie's nest, 
and stretching away in the distance 
the silvern beech-woods of Anna- 
raoe, while to the left the purple- 
crowned crags of Slonaveena seem 
almost to topple into the placid 
bosom of Lough Dan. It was a 
lovely summer day — one of those 
days that recall past joys, and in 
which the present is but a volup- 
tuous dream. 

At Roundwood we gained intelli- 
gence of the objects of our pursuit. 
The car had passed through about 
half an hour previously; the ladies 
had stopped at the hotel while the 
horse was being baited, and had in- 
dulged in that inevitable cup of tea 
which is at once the dissipation and 
the solace of the sex. The road to 
the first gate at Luggelaw is an as- 
cent of three miles, which must of 
necessity be traversed upon "shanks* 
mare," and it is a blisterer. Not a 
vestige of tree, and with scarcely as 
much pasture as will satisfy the crav- 
ings of a few stunted sheep, the sun 
smiles grimly upon the entire road- 
way and scorches the luckless 
traveller whom destiny leads to the 
little lodge perched on the summit of 
the mountain. We were not spared, 
and coats, waistcoats, and neckties 
were cast upon the car, while we re- 
tained our pocket-handkerchiefs to 
mop our glowing faces, which resem- 
bled two very full and exceedingly 
dissipated-looking rosy moons. 

Puffing, panting, blowing, mop- 
ping, by one supreme effort we 
gained the table-land which crowns 
the ascent, and, plunging towards an 
adjacent thicket of pines, took tre- 
mendous headers into the middle of 
it, where we lay gasping like a pair 
of stranded fish. 

" Blow ;//^," exclaimed TomWhif- 
fler, " if ril ever climb Luggelaw Hill 
widow-hunting in July again. I 



wish you and your portmanteau and 
widow at Timbuctdo!'* 

A low, musical laugh quite near 
us; a rustle of female garments — 
my heart gave one mighty throb ; 
for right in front of us, not two 
yards distant, with her large, lus- 
trous gray eyes bent searchingly up- 
on me, stood the owner of the peri- 
patetic portmanteau. 

To spring to my feet, to apologize 
for our dishabille — the car was 
as yet half a mile down the hill — to 
mumble some horrible incoherencies, 
was the impulse and action of half 
a minute. 

She seemed puzzled to know how 
to act, but her friend, the ** red 
wan," cut the Gordian knot of the 
present embarrassment by a fit of 
loud, hearty, ringing laughter, which, 
maelstrom-like, sucked us one after 
another into it, and whirled us into 
an ocean of mirth before we knew 
where we were exactly, or what it 
was all about. There are some 
contagious laughs in the world, and 
she of the ruby locks was the for- 
tunate possessor of one. 

Two things establish instantaneous 
and easy communication with stran- 
gers — with women a baby, with men 
a cigar. Throw in a laugh, and, if the 
situation be a comical one, the 
laugh beats infant and tobacco. In 
this case it proved a talisman, and 
a very few words found us at our 
ease while I unfolded my tale. 

I was i' the vein and told my sto- 
ry well. 

"Why did you not send it after 
me.'" she asked. 

" I had no clue," I replied. 

*• I flung my card to the porter 
at the station." 

"It must have gone down the 
line; for the only reply I could 
awake in that self-same porter was, 
*Sorra a know I know.'" And I 



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420 



The Brides of Christ. 



devoutly dwelt upon all the bitter 
anxiety the hopeless efforts at resto- 
ration had cost me, to all of which 
I found a deeply-interested lis- 
tener. 

Before the sun had set on Lug- 
gelaw's deep-wooded vale I learn- 
ed much that satisfied me as to the 
past, and a something — inferentially 
only — that caused the white wings 
of Hope to flutter against my heart. 
Lucy Donaldson had been married 
to Captain George Middlecomb, 
of the Sixth Dragoon Guards, if not 
against her will, at least under the 
pressure of being talked into it. 



Captain Middlecomb had died 
within a year of their marriage of 
delirium tremens. 

Need I say tliat we travelled up 
to Dublin as a party ; that I became 
a constant visitor at Mrs. Middle- 
comb's beautiful residence — Arca- 
chon Villa at Killiney ; that — 

I suppose I should not divulge 
it, but, as I have written so far, I 
may as well finish the chapter. Af- 
ter all, I won't. Those who have 
been interested, however, in the 
portmanteau may be pleased to 
know that it is now the common 
property of Lucy and the writer. 



THE BRIDES OF CHRIST. 



ST. DOROTHEA. 

The little martyr-maid of Caesarea — 

I do not a more lovely legend know. 

Said young Theophilus, mocking: " Dost thou go 
To join thy Spouse ? If more than fond idea, 
Send me, I pray thee, piietty Dorothea, 

Of flowers and fruits that in his garden grow !'* 

The maiden meekly bowed her head ; and so 
She passed to death along the Roman Via. 



A blooming boy, with hair like odorous flame, 

Out-dazed the sword that slew her; the next morn 

A blooming boy to young TlieophiUis came, 
With three fresh roses and three apples : scorn 

Melted in bliss. By crown and palm ! we claim 
To guess that fragrance, and are less forlorn \ 



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The Brides af Christ. 421 

IT. 

ST. CECILIA. 

• 

Two visions of divine Cecilia, 

Bom of Italian art, possess my mind. 

One in the marble, at her tomb enshrined, 
Reveals her as in catacomb she lay. 
The budding maiden in her chaste array — 

Ah ! closely let that awful necklace bind 

Clipt flower to stem ! — to that cold sleep declined, 
Was in warm marriage-bed a bud alway. 

Her heart's dear love starved for a Mystic Spouse ; 

She was not chary of sweet music's gift 
1 see the listening rapture of her brows : 

I hear her organ yearn, exult, and lift 
Humanity to God ! The heavens arouse , 

And storms and seraphs o'er the white keys drift. 



m. 

ST. AGNES. 

I was God's maid, less woman than a child ; 

And yet they threw me in the common stews 

Naked as I was born, for men to use. 
The dear Lord saved his vessel, though reviled. 
From outrage of a look : the Mother smiled — 

Over my hot shame all my hair shook loose; 

And, lo ! it swept my feet in lengths profuse, 
A bower of blinding awe to ruffians wild ! 

My life's green branch they lopped with cruel sword ; 

But He hath kissed my hurts, and they are well; 

And, walking in the meads of asphodel, 
I kiss the scarred feet of my gracious Lord : 

I lead his lambkins by my lily bell, 
Where the pomegranates shade the softest sward. 



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423 



SJiaksperij from an American Point of View. 



SHAKSPERE, FROM AN AMERICAN POINT OF VIEW * 



This elegantly-printed volume, 
published in England, though by 
an American author, has for its sub- 
ject four distinct lines of inquiry; 
two of these — the validity of a 
theory which originated in this 
country a few years ago, that 
Bacon, Lord Verulara, really wrote 
the plays known as Shakspere's; 
and, secondly, the extent of Shak- 
spere*s legal knowledge — though 
carried through the work, are sub- 
ordinate to the other two — the 
anti-democratic tone of the dram- 
atist and the fact that he was a 
Catholic. These are the real 
issues of the book. Mr. Wilkes 
holds that Shakspere should not 
exert the influence in this country 
that he does in England, and he ar- 
raigns him at the bar of American 
public opinion to answer the indict- 
ment that he is always a strenuous 
upholder of royal authority, an advo- 
cate of the privileges of the nobil- 
ity* regarding them as far removed 
above the ignobile vulgusy for whom 
on all occasions the poet manifests 
the utmost contempt. That a 
work teeming with constant lessons 
of this character is no fit guide for 
Americans he makes the real ar- 
gument of his book. The second 
count is apparently intended to be 
no less damaging. Shakspere was 
a Catholic, and as such sliould ex- 
ercise no influence on a Protestant 
community. His influence in Eng- 
land for three hundred years has 



* Shakspere^ fr^m an Amtriean Point of 
View : including' an Inquiry at to hit Rtli^iout 
Faith and hit Knowledge of Law : with the Ba- 
conian Theory considered. By Geoige Wilkcft. 
London : Sampson, Low, Manton, Searle &. Riving- 
tOB. 1877* S^O) PP« uc* 47X. 



not apparently won that country 
back to Catholicity, and the United 
States are probably as safe. Still, 
it may serve for a new agitation to 
get up a cry: "No Shakspere in 
the public schools!" 

That Mr. Wilkes considers it a 
danger is seen by the fact that he 
uses toward Catholics every vile 
nickname drawn from the slums 
by religious hate to degrade us in 
the eyes of our fellow-men. Yet 
surely a Shaksperean scholar 
should not need reminding that to 
rob one of his good name is worse 
than stealing his purse, oft-times as 
bad as taking his life. Not only 
this, but he more than once repre- 
sents the Catholic Church as actu- 
ated by a hatred of intense fury 
against the Jews, as an earnest up* 
holder of the unlawful claims of 
aristocracy, as an enemy of popular 
rights, and as an excuser of per- 
jury. While thus under a strong 
anti-Catholic bias or prejudice — 
stronger even than he at all con- 
ceives — ^lie has attempted to under- 
stand Catholic terms and usages, 
and to enter into that world which 
to Protestants seems so strange and 
inconceivable — the world of Catho- 
lic thought. 

The question as to the religious 
cotivictions of Shakspere is not a 
new one. No Catholic has ever 
read the great dramatist without 
feeling that he was strangely lacking 
in the usual anti-Catholic element, 
even if he did not impress him as 
often Catholic in thought. 

Catholic writers in English pe- 
riodicals, such as the Rambler and 
others, had already claimed Shak- 



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Shakspcrey from an American Point of View. 



423 



spere as a Catholic. All evidence, 
extrinsic and intrinsic, seems to 
sustain the position. His family 
belonged to tlit gentry on the fa- 
ther's and mother's side, and on 
botli sides had adhered to Catho- 
licity after the change of religion in 
England. The will of his maternal 
grandfather, Robert Arden, who 
died in 1556, is distinctly Catho* 
He : " I bequeath my soul to Al- 
mighty God, and to our Blessed 
Lady St. Mary, and to all the holy 
company of heaven." Of his fa- 
ther there is still extant a Testa- 
ment of the Soul — not, as Mr. Wilkes 
supposes, a form drawn up by some 
chaplain of the family, but that Tes- 
tamentum Anima Christiana which, 
in Latin and the vernacular, has 
for centuries been found in Catho- 
lic devotional manuals, and the 
copying of which, as a kind of 
formal act, has been maintained 
in many families — certainly was 
in the family of the present writer 
down to the nineteenth century. 
Shakspere's father, too, was fined 
for non-attendance at the establish- 
ed church. So far as the families 
of his parents were concerned, he 
was evidently Catholic, and must 
in childhood have been familiar 
with the thoughts and language 
of English Catholics. How far in 
mature age he retained the im- 
pressions of youth, or how faith- 
ful he may have been to the teach- 
ings of his religion, we have no 
means of judging. The lightness 
with which moral obligations lay on 
him, his career as a wild but gifted 
man, give little ground for suppos- 
ing him to have practised the reli- 
gion he may still have professed. 

In his dramas Shakspere con* 
stantly uses Catholic terms, speaks 
of Catholic clergy, religious of both 
sexes, rites and ceremonies with 
respect, and in many cases turns 



his ridicule upon the new order 
of clergy in England. The Shak- 
speres and Ardens had both held 
office under the Tudor kings, and 
the dramatist shows the utmost 
zeal for royal power as against 
the Pope. To a Catholic, now, this 
gives his position at once. His 
life was not a regular one ; and he 
could scarcely, in those days of 
persecution, have been a firm, con- 
sistent, practical Catholic, although 
he clung to the faith, never abjured 
it, and had no liking for any of the 
new forms. His Bible reading was 
in the Protestant versions of the 
day, not in the Rheims and Douay, 
of which no influence has ever 
been detected in his plays. That 
he died a good Catltolic needs 
proof; but Mr. Wilkes* ideas of 
the meaning of the term are vague, 
since he tells us that Henry VIII. 
died a good Catholic. 

The fact that Shakspere makes 
his characters — most of whom are 
Catholics in time or country — speak 
as Catholics is really no proof of 
his own Catholicity, any more than 
Longfellow's almost constant cor- 
rectness in his use of Catholic 
terms and familiarity wTtTi Catho- 
lic thought is proof that he is a Ca- 
tholic. The fact is, we admit, sus- 
picious; for during centuries Pro- 
testant writers seem to have made 
it a point to display tiie most intense 
ignorance of Catholic terms, usages, 
rites, and ceremonies, and equal- 
ly a point to insist on talking about 
what they vaunt their ignorance of. 
But, going back to Shakspere's time, 
we must bear in mind that the new 
religion had not yet taken any hold 
on the people at large ; that the 
only religious terms and expressions 
that conveyed any definite ideas to 
their minds were those of the old 
faith sanctioned by the usage of 
centuries, and that the terms intro- 



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424 



ShaksperCy from an American Point of View. 



duced by the various classes of re- 
formers were diverse, new, strange, 
and, to the people, a mere ridicu- 
lous jargon. The coinage of a 
new religious vocabulary took time 
and skill. It was no easy task to 
shape Bible translation so as to 
avoid old ideas and thouglits. This 
new jargon rose to be a language 
when the King James Bible was 
imposed on the people after the Re- 
storation. Though long vaunted 
as a welbof English undefiled, phi- 
lologists now admit that it is the 
language of no period of English 
history, of no district of English 
soil ; it was a hash made to meet 
the pressing want, with obsolete 
words, terms drawn from every 
county of England, and new-coined 
expressions, all forced into the ser- 
vice so as to supi^ly the English 
people with a new vocabulary of 
religious thought. 

To convey religious ideas in 
Shakspere*s time, the readiest 
words were those familiar to the 
people. The dramatist employs 
them with no regard to the coun- 
try or time. The pagan Hamlet 
refers to the Blessed Sacrament, 
Extreme Unction, the Mass, and 
Office for the Dead; they talk of 
confession and beads in the Comedy 
of Errors; of indulgences in the 
Tempest y and even in Troilus and 
Cressida ; of fasting days in Peri- 
cles and Coriolanus j and christen- 
ing is spoken of in Titus Androni^ 
ens. The anachronisms were ap- 
parently not noticed in his time, 
nor taken into account. 

The system had not been adopt- 
ed of entirely ignoring Catholic 
terms ; there were no others, and 
Shakspere used what he had. One 
word seems to be avoided. The 
Mass is introduced only like 
Moore's "neat little Testament, 
just kept to swear by." It occurs 



only in the form of an oath,. except 
in oii^ instance, to which Mr. 
Wilkes devotes a chapter. Juliet, 
going to her confessor, asks : 

**• Arc you at leisure, holy &ther, now, 
Or shall I come to you at evening Mass ?** 

Mr. Wilkes goes into a lengthen- 
ed argument to show that it was 
the custom at that time in Eng- 
land to celebrate Mass at night. 
He says : " I have found many il- 
lustrations from Catholic reviews 
and other reliable authorities of 
the practices of the hedge-priests, 
as they were called, in times of 
Catholic persecution, whose busi- 
ness it was to go in the darkness of 
the evening to the houses of the 
faithful to celebrate a nocturnal 
Mass." We should be much pleas- 
ed to see any such authorities. 
He cites only an article in the 
Manhattan Monthly last year, where 
a writer speaks of priests in Ireland 
" who often at dead of night fled 
to the mountain cave, the wooded 
glen, and wild rath to celebrate 
Mass for the faithful"; but trav- 
elling by night is one thing, and 
saying Mass at night is another. 
Again, there were no priests in En- 
gland answering to the Irish hedge- 
priests. The priests in England 
found .shelter in the houses of Ca- 
tliolic gentry ; they had not a mass 
of poor and oppressed faithful 
among whom they lived. But 
neither in Ireland nor in England 
is there a single example that the 
writer has ever found of a Mass 
said in what may be called the even- 
ing — that is, between sunset and 
midnight — much less of its being so 
frequent an occurrence as to make 
Shakspere refer to evening Mass 
as an ordinary matter. Dodd's 
History of the Churchy Challoner's 
Missionary Priests^ the works of 
Father Parsons, Campion, and other 



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ShaksperCy from an American Point of View, 



4^5 



Catholic writers of the lime, nev- 
er allude to any single case where 
such a Mass was said. Nor is 
there in any liturgical work refer- 
ence to any such custom ever iiav- 
ing obtained in England. 

Mr. Wilkes seems to feel that 
the theory is not very solid. He 
next refers to the custom in some 
parts of saying a Low Mass immedi* 
ately after the Sunday High Mass. 
"Shakspere may have considered 
the last or one o'clock Mass an 
evening Mass." The play itself 
makes this untenable. It was late 
in the afternoon when Juliet went 
to the friar. When she comes 
back the nurse says : 

*^See where she comes from shrift with merry 

not half as charmingly as Longfel- 
low describes Evangeline as most 
beautiful 

* *■ When, after confession. 
Homeward serenely she walks with God^s benedic- 
tion upon her." 

Then, a few lines lower down, Lady 
Capulet, in the same scene, says : 

' " 'Tis now near night/* 

This fixes the time too clearly to 
allow that any reference is made to 
a Mass about mid-day. ** Evening 
Mass " is simply nonsense ; but the 
phrase has charmed later writers, 
and several poets introduce the 
expression, just as poets ^nd 
prose writers have all copied the 
Protestant Bible misprint, " Strain 
at a gnat," instead of '* Strain out a 
gnat." 

But the word Mass here is against 
all Catholic custom and reason. 
Juliet wishes to go to confession. 
She politely asks her confessor 
whether he is at leisure or whether 
she shall come again at a later 
hour. Would any one, under the 
same circumstances^ propose to 

\ 



come to confession to the priest 
when he was saying Mass? It 
would be just the time when he 
could not possibly hear confessions. 
If he expected to say Mass soon, 
he would hear her then, and neither 
he nor she would think of putting 
it off till he had begun his Mass. 
Shakspere critics have boggled 
and blundered over this without 
seeing this incongruity, which to a 
Catholic is as patent as the day. 
What, then, does it mean ? Juliet 
can ask only whether he will hear 
her then or whether she shall come 
later. Now, if we consider Shak- 
spere to have written : 

** Are you at Ictture, holy father, now, 
Or shall 1 come to you as evening wanes ?" 

the whole thing is as natural, con- 
sistent, and usual to Catholic ideas 
as can be. Then there is no such 
absurdity as evening Mass, or go- 
ing to confession to a priest who is 
saying Mass. The dense ignorance 
of later times on every Catholic 
matter will easily account for the 
neglect to correct the palpable 
error in the actual text. 

The fact that, while Shakspere 
speaks of religion as the monastic 
state, religious, monks, nuns, con- 
vents, monasteries, beads, penance, 
month's mind, dii^e, requiem, pur- 
gatory, indulgences, relics, shrines, 
the housel (Eucharist), christening 
or baptism, aneling (anointing), the 
cross, altar, holy-water, he nowhere 
in any of his plays speaks of the 
Mass (except in the oath ^^By the 
Mass "), is a strong argument against 
its use here. Convents, and mon- 
asteries were abolished ; relics and 
shrines were gone ; no dirges or re- 
quiems resounded in the old church 
walls ; allusions to them were sim- 
ply allusions to something deemed 
past and gone; but there were 
nearly a thousand Mass-priests ia 



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426 



S/iakspere, from aft Atncrican Point of View. 



England — men who carried their 
lives in their hands, over whom the 
severest edicts of the law were 
hanging like the sword of Damo- 
cles. To talk of tl)e Mass as a 
service with respect was verging on 
high treason. Having avo4ded it 
everywhere else, he would scarcely 
introduce it here absurdly — no less 
absurdly to him than to us. 

At that time, though the govern- 
ment was anti-Catholic, the state 
church was a mere matter of office. 
There was little zeal in its members 
— little more -than conformity to law. 
The Puritans were active and zeal- 
ous in spreading their doctrines; 
but the people were to a great ex- 
tent still Catholic, and, with many 
nobles and gentlemen as leaders, 
and a greater number of priests 
than during the next two centuries, 
formed a power which was finally 
crushed by the Civil War. With 
this body Shakspere sympathized. 
He was not of the stuff to make a 
martyr. Ben Jonson and Massin- 
ger were, we know. Catholics, but 
not a single act of Shakspere 's is 
recorded that^ stamps him as a 
Catholic. He was not fined as a 
recusant, had no intercourse with 
known Catholics, in all arrests un- 
der the penal laws there is no aliu- 
sioii to him, even as using his un- 
doubted influence witli the great to 
shield some poor victim. With 
the mass of the people, at court 
and not at court, he ridiculed the 
new Gospellers, as we do Millerites 
or any other oddities. Against 
royal supremacy or the religion 
established by law, the Common 
Prayer, or the bishops who had 
been intruded into the old Catholic 
sees, Shakspere says nothing. His 
ridicule is never launched at them. 
His wit is turned, as was that of the 
court circle, at the Puritan element. 
The state church was respectablci 



but lacked earnestness, piety, and 
zeal: it was simply a state aifair. 
Those whose minds and imagina- 
tions tended to effusive piety found 
themselves repulsed. Gradually 
they camped apart and formed new 
organizations. In Shakspere's time 
the government and the govern- 
ment church laughed at them, when 
they should have used them to 
build up the Church of England. 
Just so in the following century 
they repulsed Wesley. Shakspere 
takes not a Catholic but the court- 
prelatic side; and there were no 
prophets on that side to see that 
James' son was to die on the block 
and the Church of England be abol- 
ished by these very Puritans. That 
he had any direct idea of attacking 
Protestantism as a system, or mak- 
ing his dramas — with their coarse 
and often impure speech, such as 
then* found favor with Elizabeth 
and her court — an arm against the 
Reformation, is absurd, and Mr. 
Wilkes, in going through play after 
play to note every praise of con- 
vents or religious practices as done 
with a direct view to elevate the 
Catholic Church, is extravagant. 
We have but to remember that 
Protestantism had then no institu- 
tions, no religious rites or practices, 
nothing absolutely for a ])oet or 
dramatist to employ as illustra- 
tions. Protestant poets and artists 
feel, the poverty to this day, and 
in despair turn from cold, set for- 
malism to Catholic themes, where 
poetry finds so many a subject. 

Our American critic has en- 
deavored to follow out Catholic 
thoughts, but not always success- 
fully. Thus, in Richard III, Eliza- 
beth addressing her murdered chil- 
dren : 

" If yet your gentle touls fly is the air/* 

and Buckingham: 



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S/iaksperc, from an American Point of View. 



427 



*' If that your moody discontented louls 

Do through the clouds heboid this present hour/* 

are gravely put down as evidences 
of Shakspere's recognition of the 
doctrine of purgatory, as though 
every believer in ghosts must be a 
believer in purgatory. There are 
some comical remarks about Shak- 
spere's familiarity with '* the in- 
tricacies of the Roman Catholic 
faith," because in Henry VI, we 
find: 

*^ Although by ^ght his sio be multiplied/' 

when surely the Scriptural injunc- 
tion to pluck out an eye that leads 
one to sin might explain it without 
his getting tangled in intricacies. 
His knowledge of the marriage ser- 
vice also seems peculiar ; the ritu- 
als we know are hardly the origin 
of Shakspere's marriage form. 

Mr. Wilkes is evidently led away 
by his theory in his forced Catho- 
lic interpretation of many passages 
of the dramatist ; and his desire to 
show that the whole series of dra- 
mas was a device of the Catholic 
Church to attack Protestantism in 
England induces him to strain 
much to support his view, and of- 
ten 10 jump at unwarranted conclu- 
sions, as in making Hartley, in the 
strange Girachy case, to have been 
a priest. A man might be hanged 
as a Catholic priest — as Ury was 
a century ago within sight of the 
spot where Mr. Wilkes* office now 
stands — and yet not have been even 
a Catholic. There is no Catholic 
record of priest or layman suffering 
in connection with this affair. 

Hence, while we admit Mr. 
Wilkes* diligence and ability in 
studying Shakspere, we must regret 
that his judgment, like that of too 
many, has been warped by the old 
anti-Catholic feeling, to the extent of 
giving the plays a character which 
neither friend nor foe of Catholicity 



at the time dreamed of ascribing to 
them. 

In treating the question of Shak- 
spere's legal knowledge, he is free 
from bias, and hence easily per- 
ceives and often exposes the ex- 
aggeration which induces learned 
men of the law to interpret much 
that any attendant at courts, wheth- 
er as witness or juror, might easily 
acquire as proof of serious legal 
study. The length to which the le- 
gal argument has been pushed has 
led to similar claims by other pro- 
fessions ; but a young man of such 
Catholic stock as Shakspere un- 
doubtedly was could scarcely have 
attempted to obtain admission to 
the bar in those (Jays. 

Certainly, as Mr. Wilkes well 
maintains, the amount of legal 
knowledge and the use of legal terms 
manifested in the plays are not of 
the character that we should expect 
from one who had held such emi- 
nent legal and judicial positions as 
Lord Bacon. Nor is this, as he 
shows, the only difficulty. The 
style of the dramas and that of Ba- 
con's acknowledged writings are ut- 
terly different ; the conception of 
thoughts and their clothing in lan- 
guage are both distinct. The ear 
attuned to Shakspere finds in Ba- 
con a measure, an adaptation of 
words, a symmetry of his own, ut- 
terly at variance with the drama- 
tist. Wilk*es' euphonic test has great 
weight ; and he well and aptly cites 
Bacon to show that the chancellor 
made style a test of disputed au- 
thorship. If the Baconian theory 
is but "a bubble which has nev- 
er floated among the public with 
any amount of success," it has 
doubtless found some advocates, 
and Mr. Wilkes has strengthened 
the arguments against it. 

His argument against Shakspere 
as one who worships a lord and 



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Shakspere^ from an American Point of View. 



despises the middle and lower 
classes has but the one fault : that 
it takes our modern American theo- 
ries as the test — our theories, and 
not our practice; for after all per- 
sonal liberty has, in a certain 
sense, steadily declined in Ame- 
rica during the last century, and 
many of the rights possessed by 
individuals in Shakspere's time, and 
enjoyed by our ancestors down to 
the Revolution, have been swept 
away in the name of liberty, while 
general and local taxation has 
reached a point that often amounts 
))ractically to confiscation of all re- 
venue, and sometimes of the whole 
estate. In point of fact, the lower 
classes among us are more oppress- 
ed in person and property by offi- 
cial power, and less able to ob- 
tain legal redress, than they were 
in England in Shakspere's time. 
The distinction of rank was then 
as absolute almost as that of the 
Hindoo castes, and the contemptu- 
ous style of the day in which the 
aristocratic portion treated their in- 
feriors was caught up too readily 
by Shakspere. Mr. Wilkes devel- 
ops this element steadily through 
the work, and makes it, as we have 
seen, the basis of one of his heavi- 
est charges against the dramatist. 
He treats the point skilfully, and 
the subject affords a fine scope for 
discussion. For our own part, we 
think that he carries his theory too 
far, and that Shakspere may find 



an advocate who will relieve him 
from much of the obloquy and se- 
cure his claim to respect in Amer- 
ica. 

Shakspere literature is now a 
field so vast, and has won contribu- 
tions from so many able minds and 
eloquent pens, that it requires some 
courage to produce a new work on 
the topic at large ; yet Mr. Wilkes 
has certainly produced a volume 
that will take a prominent place 
among the Shaksperiana. It gives 
utterance to many new views ; the 
whole treatment, being thoroughly 
American, is fresh and free fronr. 
much of the conventional bias that 
is almost inevitable in England ; 
while solid German learning, by its 
very seriousness and profundity, 
seems often to miss the point and 
finesse of the dramatist. 

The Catholic part is so promi- 
nent that we could not but treat it 
plainly and frankly, addressing as 
we do more exclusively a circle of 
Catholic readers. We do so with 
no wish to be merely censorious, 
and with our recognition of the 
author's evidently careful study and 
desire to treat the question fairly. 

"He presents the volume," he 
avows, " rather as a series of inqui- 
ries than as dogmatic doctrine, and 
strives," he says, ** to support theni 
only by such an amount of contro- 
versy as is legitimately due from 
one who invites the public to a 
new discussion." 



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NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



Essays and Reviews By Rt. Rev. J. L. 

Spalding, D.D. i vol. i2mo, pp. 355. 

New York : The Catholic Publica- 

lion Society. 1877. 

The author of these essays has been 
recently raised to the dignity of the epis- 
copate and appointed lo the newly-cre- 
ated see of Peoria, III. His name and 
fame as an author, preacher, and orator 
are already widely known in this coun- 
try-. His Lf'/t^ of Archbishop Spalding ^ 
his illustrious uncle, will remain one 
of the landmarks of Catholic history and 
biography in the United States. By this 
important and valuable work the name 
of the learned and distinguished author 
is at present best known outside of the 
immediate circle with whom friendship 
and the round of daily life connect him. 
He has done, however, much more than 
this. He has used his grer.t gifts inces- 
santly and in whatever way they could 
prove of service to the cause which every 
word he utters and every line he writes 
proclaim he has alone at heart — the 
growth and strengthening of Christ's 
church, the defence of Catholic faith 
and doctrine, and the spread of Christ's 
kingdom on earth. With this view he 
has even gone down to that lowly, much 
neglected, yet most important tield of 
editing a series of Catholic school-books 
— that issued by the Catholic Publica- 
tion Society. 

He has been a constant and most val- 
ued contributor to the pages of this maga- 
zine, and a selection of his articles — 
which, had he chosen, might have been 
much larger — goes to form the present 
volume of ^.fjai-j- and Reviews. As they 
come before us now in book-form we 
are glad to have this opportunity of say- 
ing publicly what we have always felt, 
not only in regard to these but also all 
other contributions from the same pen : 
that Jthey are of the very best kind of that 
peculiarly modern, peculiarly favorite, 
and peculiarly difliculf form of literature 
— the magazine article. Dr. Brownson 
us^d to say that there were not half a 
dozen men in this country who could 
write a really good review article. 
Whether that be so or not, we are sure 
that the veteran reviewer would not 



have excluded these essays from his 
category. And what we here state re- 
garding them is only an echo of the 
general opinion, so far as it reaches us 
through the medium of the public press 
and the piivate verdict of excellent 
judges. The style is fascinating, glow- 
ing, brilliant. There are here and there 
passages of extreme beauty and elo- 
quence. There is nothing like mere 
verbiage or redundance. There is a 
man behind it all— a man of knowledge, 
of wide yet careful culture, writing in 
dead earnest, observing the march of 
events while the history of the past is 
ever present to him, with power and 
courage to say what he means in a man- 
ner that all will understand. Not one 
of these articles fell dead. The leading 
one, " The Catholic Church in the Unit- 
ed States, 1 776-1876," excited universal 
interest and attention not alone in this 
country but abroad, and a distinguished 
writer in the Correspondant made it the 
chief text of an important article on the 
United States. No history or historical 
sketch that we have seen gives so com- 
plete and profound a view of the history, 
the trials, and struggles of the Catholic 
Church in this country within the cen- 
tury as that article. The other essays 
are of a piece with it. Their very titles 
speak their timeliness: '*The Persecu- 
tion of the Church in the German Em- 
pire," "Prussia and the Church" (three 
essays), *' German Journalism," etc. Per- 
haps the most valuable of all, however, 
are the three essays on the " Compara- 
tive Influence of Catholicism and Pro- 
testantism on National Prosperity," for 
which M. dc Laveleye's well-known 
pamphlet furnished a text. They arc 
eminently characteristic of the writer. 
He faces everything, shirks nothing. 
He takes up the subjects of "Wealth,*' 
" Education," and "Morality" — ^just the 
very points on which Protestant writers 
are in the habit of claiming superiority 
for Protestant over Catholic nations— and 
how he treats them we leave to the read- 
er's enjoyment. 

We are often asked the kind of article 
needed for The Catholic World. We 
can recommend ho better text-book to 



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430 



Nerv Publications* 



such applicants than this volume of 
Kssays and Revietvs ; nor can we recom- 
mend anything fresher, better, or more 
interesting to Catholics generally who 
are anxious to defend their faith on 
points where it is often believed to be 
roost assailable. 

M AGISTER Choralis : a Theoretical and 
Practical Manual of Gregorian Chant 
for the use of the clergy, seminarists, 
organists, choir-masters, choristers, 
etc. By Rev. Francis Xavier Haberl, 
cathedral choir-master, Ratisbon. 
Translated and enlarged (from the 
fourth German edition) by Rev, N. 
Donnelly, Cathedral Church of the 
Immaculate Conception, Dublin. 
Ratisbon, New York, and Cincin- 
nati : Frederick Pustet- 
This excellent and most timely work 
is one we have long desired to see. 
Many pastors of churches and their 
off^anists have been willing to do some- 
thing towards the introduction of the 
holy chant in the divine offices, but the 
means of instruction have been almost 
wholly wanting. Very few organists 
and choir-directors in the United States 
have made any study whatever of the 
chant, and the greater number are not 
nble to read even its notation. We have 
felt and lamented the difficulties in the 
w»y of those who, convinced of the 
claims of Gregorian chant, and wearied 
and disgusted witii the wretched cheap* 
concert performances they have been 
forced to endure at Holy Mass and Ves- 
pers, have longed to rid themselves of 
the *' church music " nuisance and again 
near the true song of the church resound- 
ing in the sanctuary. Even with ample 
pecuniary resources it would not have 
been enough to issue an order to the 
choir-director to organize a Gregorian 
choir, or even to sing some portions of 
the chant from the organ gallery. The 
work before us solves almost all these 
difficulties. Of course the organist will 
need to study the character of the chant 
in other works, that he may be able to 
appreciate its tonality and style, and to 
give ft its true accompaniment, without 
which he would be more likely to pro- 
duce poor music than good chanty or a 
detestable mixture of both, such as one 
commonly finds published in various 
Cafholic "choir-books" and books of 
sn-called 'Services of the Catholic 
Church." 



We recommend to Gregorian organ- 
ists the careful study of the harmonies 
of John Lambert in his harmonized Grad- 
ual and Vesperal, the Organum Comi- 
tans by Dr. Witt, and the Accompagnment 
(TOrguepour U Graduel et Antiphonarium 
deRheims et Cambrai^ by Messrs. Dietsch 
and Tessier. 

The only faults we have to find with 
Father HaberVs work are, first, the rules 
as given for the Italian pronunciation of 
Latin, especially for tiie pronunciation of 
the word excelsis^ which is directed to be 
pronounced egg-shell-sis ! and, second, 
the rule on page 66 directing the elision 
of the 4ast vowel of a word when fol- 
lowed by another vowel in the next 
word, in the verses of hymns ; and we re- 
gret to see this rule carried out in the new 
Vesperal as published by Mr. Pustet. 
This rule may do for reading classic poet- 
ry, but, if we mistake not, such elision 
is absolutely forbidden in the recitation of 
the divine Office, 'whether read or sung. 
In all former editions of the Vesperal 
we have found an extra note provided 
for the superfluous syllable. 

We cannot bring ourselves to sing ox 
say 

Sit laus Patr-ac Paraclito, 
or 

Quaenam lingua tib-o Lancea, debicas 

Grates pro merit-est apta rependere ? 

Christ! vivificum namqu-aperis latus 

Und-Ecclesia naacitur. 

How is one to sing ttamqu-aperit t 
and what are we to think oi clavor-aditus 
for cliwrrum adituSt 'and iil^hic for ille^ 
hie? We would like to be referred to 
some authority on this subject. That 
this work has already reached the fourth 
edition in Ratisbon is a very encourag- 
ing sign of the restoration of Gregorian 
chant among our German brethren. 
May it find a wide-spread sale in our 
own country 1 

Golden Sands : A Collection of little 
Counsels for the Sanctification and 
Happiness of Daily Life. Translated 
from the French. New York : Sad- 
lier & Co. 1877. 

We have not seen for a long time a 
more charming little hand-book of daily 
piety than the modest volume of which 
a young lady, who is too modest to put 
her name' on the title-page, has here 
given us an excellent translation. Miss 
Ella J. McMahon, to whom we are in- 
debted for the publication of this version 



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of Pailieties tfOr^ has turned (he simple 
and unaffected original into equally 
simple and attractive English. First 
published periodically in the form of 
tracts, these short chapters of practical 
counsels were afterwards collected in 
pocket volumes, and the book now be- 
fore us, though it could be read through 
in a morning, contains the series for 
several years. It is addressed to people 
in the world, and It embraces rules for the 
sanctification of all the actions of life, 
for malcing home happy and the domes- 
tic hearth an altar of blessing and sacri- 
fice. No one can read a few of its pages 
without feeling, " Here is something 
that just suits my case ; the circumstan- 
ces described here are just my own ; the 
temptations are mine ; the little trials 
are mine ; nothing can be easier than to 
make the virtues mine, too/' Several 
chapters of the book, for instance, are 
devoted to what the author styles '* The 
Angels of the Hearth," and here is a 
description of " The Angel of Little Sac- 
rifices " ; 

*^Have you never seen her at work ? 

*■ Have you never at least felt her in- 
fluence? 

*' In eveiy Christian family and in all 
pious communities, as the image of his 
providence in the household, God has 
placed the angel of little sacrifices, trying 
to remove all the thorns, to lighten all 
the burdens, to share all the fatigues. 

*' She has for her motto these gracious 
words of an amiable saint : Good makes 
no noise, and noise effects no good. 

'*Thus she is like a ray of sunlight, 
lighting, warming, giving life to all, but 
inconveniencing no one. 

'• We feel that she is with us, because 
wc no longer experience those misun- 
derstandings of heretofore, those rancor- 
ous thoughts, those deliberate coolnesses 
which spoil family life ; because we no 
longer hear those sharp, rude words 
which wound so deeply ; because a^cc- 
tionate sentiments mount readily from 
the henrt to the lips, and life is sweeter. 

"Who, then, has absorbed that self- 
love which would not yield ; that ego- 
tism which mingled with the most sincere 
friendship; that self-indulgence, in fine, 
which always si*ught ease ? 

" The angel of little sacrifices has re- 
ceived from heaven the mission of those 
angels of whom the prophet speaks, who 
removed the stones from the road, lest 
they should bruise the feet Of travellers. 



** And that of the angels who, accord- 
ing to the simple legend of the first 
Christians, scattered rose-leaves 'neath 
the feet of Jesus and Mary in their flight 
into Egypt. . . . 

*• But, like them, she is oftener invis- 
ible ; she does her work in secret. 

** There is a place less commodious 
than another ; she chooses it, saying with 
a sweet smile, How comfortable I am 
here ! 

" There is some work to be done, and 
she presents herself for it simply with the 
joyous manner of one who finds her hap- 
piness in so doing. 

"It is an object of trifling value, of 
which she deprives herself to give to her 
who the evening before has manifested a 
desire to possess one like it. 

" How many oversights repaired by 
this unknown hand ! 

•• How many neglected things put in 
their places, wthout our ever seeing how 
they came there ! 

" How many little joys procured for 
another without his ever having mention- 
ed to any one the happiness which they 
would give him ! 

" Who has known thus how to do good 
in secret ? Who has known how to di- 
vine the secrets of thte heart? 

** Does a dispute arise ? She knows 
how to settle it by a pleasant word which 
wounds no one, and falls upon the slight 
disturbance like a ray of sunlight upon 
a cloud. 

" Should shehearof two hearts estrang- 
ed, she has always new means of reunit- 
ing them without their being able to show 
her any gratitude, so sweet, simple, and 
natural is what she does. 

"But who will tell the thorns which 
have torn her hands, the pain her heart 
has endured, the humiliations her charity 
has borne ? 

*' And yet she is always smiling. 

" Does sacrifice give her joy? 

** Have you never seen her at work, 
the angel of little sacrifices? 

" On earth she is called a mother, a 
friend, a sister, a wife. 

" In heaven she is called a saint." 

Here is another example of the fami- 
liar and easy spirit, the clearness, the 
practicality of this admirable little coun- 
sellor : 

" What is my Cross of To-day ? — It 
is tliat person whom Providence has 
placed near me, and whom I dislike ; 
who humiliates me constantly by her 



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disdainful manner ; who wearies me by 
her slowness in the work which I share 
with her ; who excites my jealousy be- 
cause she is loved more than I and be- 
cause she succeeds better than I ; who 
irritates me by her chatter, her frivolity, 
or even by her attentions to me. 

** It is that person who, for some vague 
reason, I believe to be inimical to me ; 
who, according to ray excited imagina- 
tion, watches me, criticises me, ridicules 
me. 

" She is there, always there. . . . My 
efforts to avoid her are of no avail. 

" A mysterious power seems to multi- 
ply these appearances before me. . . . 

*• This is my most painful cross ; the 
others are very small compared to this. 

" Circumstances change, temptations 
diminish, positions improve, misfortune 
becomes endurable by habit, but persons 
who are disagreeable to us always irri- 
tate us more and more. 

*• How I Must Brar my Cross of To- 
DAY.— By not showing in any way either 
the weariness, the dislike, or the invo- 
luntary repulsion which her presence 
causes me. By obliging myself to ren- 
der her some service, it matters little 
whether she knows it— it is a secret be- 
tween God and me. 

•*To say nearly every day something 
good of her talents, of her virtues, her 
tact. . . . Something, certainly, I will 
find to praise. 

" To pray seriously for her soul, and 
even to go so far as to ask God to love 
her and leave her with me. 

" Denr companion, blessed messenger 
of God's mercy, you have unconsciously 
the mission of sanctifying me, and I will 
not be ungrateful. 

" Angel of a rude and appalling exte- 
rior, were it not for ihee I would fall 
into humiliating faults. My nature dis- 
dains and repulses thee, but, oh ! how 
my heart loves thee." 

There is an abundance of good advice 
which will touch directly upon a multi- 
tude of the commonest faults of good 
people — those apparently trivial sins 
and imperfections which cause so much 
unhappiness at home, which make 
family life so hard and bitter, and place 
so many obstacles in the path of perfec- 
tion. 

The book cannot fail to do good. It 



will be a favorite companion of the pious 
soul, an affectionate and never unwel- 
come monitor to the cold and careless. 

Life of the Venerable Clement Mary 
HoFBAUER, Priest of the Congrega- 
tion OF THE Most Holy Redeemer. 
By a Member of the Order of Mercy, 
authoress of the Life of Catharine Ale- 
Auley, Life of St. Alpkonsus^ Glimpses 
cf Pleasant IlomeSy etc. New York : 
The Catholic Publication Society. 
1877. 

We have received advance sheets of 
this beautiful and most interesting life 
by the gifted author of the Life of Catha- 
rine Mc Auley. Father Holbauer was one 
of God's heroes, and the story of his life 
will be found full of interest and profit. 
He is fortunate in his biographer, whose 
clever pen seems particularly adapted to 
a style of literary work than which there 
is none more pleasing and useful. An 
extended notice will appear later. 

The Lady of Neville Court. A Tale 
of the Times. By the author of Mari- 
on Hoivard^ etc., etc. London : Burns 
& Oates. 1877. (F'or sale by The Ca- 
tholic Publication Society.) 
It is really refreshing to come across a 
simple, unaffected, yet most interesting 
story such as this. Its only fault is that 
happiest of faults — brevity. The char- 
acters arc few, natural, well contrasted, 
and well developed ; the situations well 
wrought up, yet by the most natural of 
means. The pathetic portions are inde- 
scribably touching, but constantly and 
happily relieved by bright dialogue or 
playfully humorous narrative. Richard 
O'Meara is a genuine Catholic hero, al- 
beit a modern one ; and Maud Neville 
as sweet and noble a woman as we have 
ever met with in fiction. The real art 
of the book lies in its genuine artless- 
ness, and we trust the author may give 
us many such. 



In the July number of The Catholic 
World will appear the first instalment 
of a new story, entitled AlbtCs Dream, by 
the author oi Aie You My Wife ? A Salon 
in Paris before the JVar, Number Thir- 
teen. M. CombariVs Mistake^ etc., etc. The 
story will be completed in three parts. 



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THE 



CATHOLIC WORLD. 



VOL. XXV., No. 148.— JULY, 1877. 



THE EUROPEAN EXODUS. 



We propose in the following 
pages to speak of the past history, 
the present condition, and the fu- 
ture prospects of European emigra- 
tion to this country. We shall 
have to present many dry figures 
and prosaic statistics; but the in- 
vestigation will lead us to regard 
the wonderful manner in which 
the wisdom and the love of God 
have been manifested in the con- 
trol which he, as the ruler of all 
things, has exercised over this 
European exodus. Even out of 
those details of its course and pro- 
gress which have seemed most de- 
plorable, and have caused to many 
of God's enlightened servants the 
greatest anxiety and grief, benefi- 
cent and grand results now begin 
to be discerned which are likely to 
secure the permanent establishment 
of the church in this land, and to 
prepare her for the magnificent 
task which, as we believe, she is 
destined to accomplish here — the 
salvation of the republic and of so- 
ciety from the utter ruin into which 
the arch-enemy of mankind would 
otherwise soon engulf them. The 
foolishness of men is sometimes 



the wisdom of God ; and God, who 
governs all things sweetly, has 
chosen to turn the apparent folly 
of a large portion of the emigrants 
from Europe to the United States 
during the last twenty-five years 
into channels through which ines- 
timable blessings have already flow- 
eel, and others, still more glorious, 
are yet to pass. 

The great wave of emigration 
began to rise in 1840, reached its 
highest point in 1869-72, and, not- 
withstanding some fluctuations, 
continued to bring to our shores 
a colony every day until 1875. In 
that year it experienced a sudden 
and serious check, and has ever 
since steadily subsided, until now it 
has not only sunk to low-water mark, 
but has even seemed to be about to 
flow the other way. The official 
reports of the Commissioners of 
Emigration of the State of New 
York classify the passengers who 
arrive at this port from foreign 
countries as " aliens " and as ** citi- 
zens or persons who had before 
landed in the United States "; and 
the " aliens " are subdivided into 
steerage and cabin passengers. \t 



Copyright: Rev. I. T. Hbcicbb. 1877. 



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The European Exodus. 



is safe to take the " alien steerage ' 
passengers" as persons who have 
come to this country for the first 
lime with the purpose of residing 
here — in fine, 2iS bond fide emigrants. 
The alien cabin passengers in most 
*:ases are tourists or visitors, al- 
though among them also are some 
emigrants.. Now, the whole num- 
ber of alien steerage passengers who 
arrived at the port of New York 
during the year 1876 was only 60,- 
308, of whom 17,974 were from 
Germany, 12,728 from Ireland, 5,429 
from England, 1,479 ^^ova Scot- 
land, and 428 from Wales. The 
whole number of steerage emigrants 
from the United Kingdom of Great 
Britain and Ireland who landed at 
New York during this year was 
only 20,064 — a much smaller num- 
ber than arrived in any previous 
year since 1840. Indeed, in no pre- 
vious year until 1875, when- it was 
34,636, had the number failed to be 
twice as great ; in many years it was 
more than ten times as large. The 
following table will show the emi- 
gration of all classes from the Unit- 
ed Kingdom into the United States 
at all our ports during the last thir- 
ty-six years : 



1840 40,64a 

»84«-... 45.017 

>>4« 63,83a 

«843 a8,335 

'M 41,66o 

««45 58,538 

1846 8a,a39 

«847 I4a,i54 

»848 »88,a33 

»840 919,450 

1830 933,078 

'Sjt 967,357 

1859 944,961 

•853 930,885 

'854 «93,o65 

'855 103414 

1856 11Z.837 

'857 "6,905 

1858 W,7i6 



1859 70,303 

z86o 87,500 

i86x 4a,764 

186a '58,706 

1863 MM13 

1864 147,049 

»86s 147,958 

1866 x6i,ooo 

1867 150,975 

1868 Z55,53a 

1869 a03,ooi 

'870 196,075 

X871 X98.843 

"879 933,747 

1873 933,073 

1874 i48,«6i 

1875 99*489 

««76 ^54*554 



1'Jie 54,554 persons who, not be- 
ing citizens of the United States, 

^ or whom a4,45a landed at New York. 



arrived in this country from the 
United Kingdom in 1^76, embrace 
all those who came either for plea* 
sure, or for business, or to remain. 
But during the same year 54,697 
persons of Irish and British origin 
arrived in the United Kingdom 
from the United States; so that 
the emigration from this country to 
the United Kingdom exceeded the 
immigration into the United States 
from the United Kingdom by 
143 souls. The English Board of 
Trade, in publishing these returns, 
says that " as regards North Ameri- 
ca, in fact, the records of 1876 arc 
the records of a movement of pas- 
sengers to and fro, and the so-call- 
ed emigration is not really emigra- 
tion." We digress here, for a mo- 
ment, to speak of one or two facts 
disclosed by the emigration returns 
of the British Board of Trade for 
1876, which cast a side light upon 
a portion of our subject. 

The total emigration from the 
United Kingdom to places out of 
Europe in 1876 was 138,222 per- 
sons; the total immigration into 
the Kingdom was 91,647 persons, 
showing an apparent loss of popu- 
lation of 46,575. But after deduct- 
ing from both sides the persons of 
other than British birth, the net 
loss of population to the United 
Kingdom by emigration is reduced 
to 38,000 persons — a percentage 
scarcely worth mention when com- 
pared with the annual increase by 
births. As regards the emigration 
from that Kingdom to the United 
States, it is noted not only that it 
has become very small, but that its 
character has materially changed. 
Only 73 agricultural laborers sailed 
from England for the United States, 
but no less than 3,191 of this class 
sailed for Australia; while, on the 
other hand, " 4,535 gentlemen, pro- 
fessional men, merchants, etc., and 



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435 



10,874 persons of no occupation, 
have gone to the States, and only 
i,To6 of the first-named class and 
2»753 of the second migrated to 
Australia." The returns go on to 
point out that emigration from Ire- 
land, and of Irishmen living in 
England and Scotland, has almost 
entirely ceased. '* Tlie total num- 
ber of persons of Irish origin who 
emigrated from the United King- 
dom in 1876 to places out of Eu- 
rope was 25,976." Of these 16,432 
came to the United States ; some 
of these were only visitors ; but 
counting them all as emigrants, they 
would not number as many as ar- 
rived here in a single month in 
former years. 

The gradual but steady decrease 
of Irish emigration to the United 
States is pointed out in these re- 
turns in a forcible and apparently 
exultant manner. From 1853 to 
i860 the annual average of Irish 
emigration to this country was 
71,856; during the ten years fol- 
lowing it was 69,084; in 187 1 it 
fell to 65,591; in 1874 it was 48,- 
136; in 1875 it was 31,433; and 
last year it sank to 16,432.* ** The 
Irish people," says the Board of 
Trade with evident satisfaction, 
"do not at present migrate from 
the United Kingdom in any appre- 
ciable numbers, although they may 
emigrate from one part of the Unit- 
ed Kingdom to another." We can- 
not call the correctness of this 
statement into question ; it is no 
doubt quite correct ; and it is safe 
to conclude that, for the present at 
least, and probably for many years 
to come, Irish emigration to this 
country will be limited to very 
small proportions. Nay, there is 
some reason to fear that, unless a 
marked improvement soon occurs 

• Of whom 13,314 landed at New York. 



in the industrial affairs of our 
country, we shall be in danger of 
seeing too many of our Irish and 
Irish-American citizens leaving us 
to seek homes in Australia. The 
year 1877 is scarcely six months old, 
but it has seen tiiree vessels sail 
from this port with American, Irish, 
and German emigrants for Austral 
lia. This movement is probably a 
wholly sporadic one, and too much 
importance should not be attached 
to it. But we are not yet in a con- 
dition to encourage emigration 
from this country nor to desire to 
see it under any circumstances. 
We wish still to receive many mil- 
lions of people from the Old World, 
and, as we shall show, tiiere is a 
strong probability that we siiall ob- 
tain them. 

Emigration from the Continent of 
Europe, while showing a decrease, 
has not diminished in such a mark- 
ed degree as that from the United 
Kingdom. The whole number of 
alien emigrants who arrived at the 
port of New York during the thirty 
years ending December 31, 1876, 
was 5,604,073. Of these 2,920,397 
were natives of Great Britain and 
Ireland ; 2,665,774 v;ere natives of 
the Continent; and the remaining 
17,902 came from all the other 
countries of the earth. The fol- 
lowing table will show the exact 
number of emigrants from each 
country arriving at the port of New 
York during the last thirty years : 



FROM CRKAT BRITAIN. 

Ireland 9,001,727 

England 733,933 

Scotland 157.578 

Wales 28,170 

PROM AMERICA. 

South America 3,066 

West Indies 7,^97 

Nova Scotia i,6ti 

Canada i,397 

Mexico X o jo 

Central America 289 



»»9».397 



>5.'90 



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436 The European Exodus. 

FROM coNTiKENTAL EUROPE. thc casc of Germany, almost wholly 

9«'"*">' a,Mi,oao to the effects of the financial disas- 

siJitKriind.. ....^^...^.^.. "^,799 ters wj;iich had occurred in the 

^^ ' ' »'^ United States, and which had then 

Sweden^.......'.'.'.'... ".....! "6*655 bcgun to be heavily felt. TheGer- 

[5*fy **'^ mans are a prudent people; they 

Spain 7,706 are exceedmgly well informed con- 

pS^*.'*!'..".'!."'.'!;.*!!.'.'.*' «!?9t cerning the condition of affairs here, 

Sardinia..'....'.*....'!.'...!.'!.' 8)306 and they were well advised not to 

RwSa*!!!!!!! !!!...!!!! !.!! mIwI come to a new country at a moment 

Sicily 339 wlien industry and trade were pros- 

TurEy!!!"'.!!!!!!. !!!!!!!!!'. 2 trated, when labor was superabun- 

Austria ai,677 dant and poorly paid, and when 

LuxembouiK x<oT^ 9,665,774 Confidence and enterprise were so 

paralyzed that capital could find 

PROM THE ORIENT. no productive or safe employment. 

China.... i/>57 The restrictive measures against 

East Indict 304 ....,,?, 

Arabia 14 emigration instigated and enforced 

Aultiia'.'!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! «] ^y Prince Bismarck, and the finan- 

Japan 175 cial distress which prevailed, and 

Unknown 646 ^^^^ which Still prevails, in Germany, 

-7-- — had also their influence in discou- 

5,604.07? J.J- • .- 

raging and retarding emigration ; 

We may remark that fourteen of but the principal cause of its decline 

the countries in this list are Ro- in the case of Germany was the 

man Catholic countries, and that one we have mentioned. When 

the emigrants from these number that cause shall have ceased to act, 

2,212,963 souls. The proportion of as there is reason to believe it soon 

Catholics among the emigrants from will do, we can expect with confi- 

the other twenty-one countries would dence a revival of emigration from 

probably be, taking them altogether, Germany and the other Continental 

not less than one-fourth of the whole countries of Europe. Should the 

number — 597,772. This would give present war in the East become 

a Catholic emigration at the port of general and involve all Europe, the 

New York alone, during these thir- anxiety of the people to escape its 

ty years, of about 2,800,000 souls, horrors and burdens will increase 

But we shall return to this part of the desire for emigration, but their 

our subject later on. facilities for seeking a new home 

The emigration from Germany will probably be lessened by the 

at the port of New York during same causes. We must, in all likeli- 

the year 1876 was 21,035 persons, hood, wait for the return of pros- 

of whom 17,974 were steerage pas- perity here and of peace in Europe 

sengers; in 1875 the number was before the great wave of emigration 

25,559 ; during the twenty-eight again rises to its former level, 

years from 1847 to 1875 the aver- There is no reason to doubt that 

age number of emigrants arriving in due time it will again attain its 

from Germany at this port had former proportions ; but the princi- 

been 75,000 annually. Tiie severe pal countries from whence we must 

and sudden check which emigration hereafter look for our emigrants 

received in 1875 must be traced, in are Germany, Austria, Sweden, 



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Norway, Denmark, Switzerland, 
Holland, and perhaps England. 
The emigration of the future, most 
probably, will to a large extent be 
composed of people possessed of 
some capital, and prepared to be- 
gin their new life under far more 
favorable conditions than those 
which surrounded the Irish and 
German emigrants of past years 
upon their arrival here. The lat- 
ter, landing here too often with no 
capital but their muscles, their hon- 
est hearts, and strong but often un- 
cultivated intellects, have accom- 
plished the work to which they were 
ordained. Their successors will 
find much prepared for them, but 
they also will have their mission to 
fulfil. 

Let us now endeavor to ascer- 
tain with as much accuracy as pos- 
sible in what manner our foreign- 
born citizens have disposed of 
themselves, and what it is that they 
have done and are doing for us, 
for themselves, and for God. It 
appears that, according to the 
census of 1870, the whole number 
of foreign-born persons then in the 
United States was 5,567,229, of 
whom 62,736 were Chinese, 9,654 
were negroes, and 1,136 were In- 
dians. There were also 9,734,845 
persons who had been born in this 
country, but whose parents were all 
of foreign birth, and 1,157,170 others 
the father or mother of each of whom 
had been of foreign birth. These 
16,459,244 persons constituted, in 
1870, the whole of that portion of 
our population which could in any 
way be classed as foreign or as be- 
ing under the immediate domestic 
influence of foreigners. There re- 
mained 22,099,132 persons who 
were not only native-born, but 
whose parents on both sides were 
natives. Let us deal, first, with 
the persons of foreign birth. In 



1850 there were but 2,244,602 per- 
sons of this class ; in i860 they had 
increased to 4,138,697, and in 1870 
to 5,567,229 souls. The following 
table will show their nationalities : 



Ireland ',855,897 

England 550,688 

Scodaad i40>8o9 

Wales 74.530 

Great Britain*.. 4,117 

Gennany 1,690,410 

France 1x6,240 

Denmark 30,098 

Holland 46,801 

Hungary 3,649 

I«*ly i7»M7 

Belgium ia«553 

Luxcmbouig. . . . 5,802 

Austria 90,506 

Bohemia 40,967 

Norway ii4«943 

Poland 14*435 

Portugal 4,4Q5 

Russia 4,638 

Spain 3,701 

Sweden 97t3a7 



Switxerland 

Turkey 

Malu 

China 

Greece 

Greenland .... 

India 

Japan 

Africa 

Asia 

Australia 

Pacific Isles. . . . 
Sandwich Isles. 
South America. 
West Indies ... 

Mexico 

Cuba 

Atlantic Isles. . . 
British America 

At sea 

Unknown 



75 145 

3ot 

5* 

63,04a 

390 

3 

55« 

73 

673 

8i4 

3.*ix 

305 

539 

3.378 

4,897 

41,3' 8 

4.81X 

4fa«9 

489*344 

8,61a 

a.«3S 



We have omitted from the above 
table 9,654 negroes and 1,136 In- 
dians, born outside of the United 
States. 

Where now do we find these 
five and a half millions of foreign- 
born citizens.? The greater part 
of them — ^4,193,971 — were congre- 
gated in ten States, as shown by 
the following table : 

TABLB OP TEN 8TATBS HAVING 900,C0O OR MORS 
OP POKBIGN-BOXN POPULATION. 



STATES. 


1870. 


i860. 


X850. 


California 


ao9,83« 
5«5i599 
304693 

aai,a67 
Xit38,353 
379 493 
545i3«P 
364,499 


146,518 
394,643 
Z06.077 
960,106 
>49t093 
«6o,54i 
1,031,280 
328,249 
430.505 
«76.9a7 


91,80a 


niinoLs 


111,893 
ao.969 
164,014 
54,703 
76,59a 
655,929 
018,193 
303.417 
«»o,477 


Iowa .. 


Massachusetts 

Michigan 


Missouri 

New York. 


Ohio 

Pennsylvania 

Wisconsin 






4,»93,97i 


3,«83,939 


1,737,998 



There were fourteen States each 
of which had an Irish-born popu- 
lation of less than 10,000 souls — to 
wit, Alabama, Arkansas, Delaware, 
Florida, Mississippi, Nebraska, Ne- 

^ What pan not suted. 



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438 



The European Exodus. 



vada, North Carolina, Oregon, South 
Carol ina,Tennessee,Texas,West Vir- 
ginia, and Virginia; nineteen States 
each of which had an Irish-born 
population of less than 100,000 — to 
wit, California, Connecticut, Geor- 
gia, Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Ken- 
tucky, Louisiana, Maine, Maryland, 
Michigan, Minnesota, Missouri, 
New Hampshire, New Jersey, Ohio, 
Rhode Island, Vermont, and Wis- 
consin ; while Illinois had 120,000, 
Massachusetts 216,000, Pennsylva- 
nia 235,000, and New York 528,000 
Irish-born citizens. Eighteen States 
had each a Oerraan-born popula- 
tion of less than 10,000 — namely, 
Alabama, Arkansas, Connecticut, 
Delaware, Florida, Georgia, Maine, 
Mississippi, Nevada, New Hamp- 
shire, North Carolina, Oregon, 
Rhode Island, South Carolina, Ten- 
nessee, Vermont, Virginia, and West 
Virginia. Thirteen States had each 
a (ierman-born population of less 
than 100,000 — namely, California, 
Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, 
Louisiana, Maryland, Massachu- 
setts, Michigan, Minnesota, Ne- 
braska, New Jersey, and Texas; 
while Missouri had 113,618, Penn- 
sylvania 160,146, Wisconsin 162,- 
314, Ohio 182,889, Illinois 203,- 
750, and New York 316,882. The 
following table will show the exact 
number of persons of Austrian, Ger- 
man, French, and Irish birth resid- 
ing in each State in 1870 : 



STATES. 


Aus- 
trian. 




Irish. 


Alabama. 

Arkansas 

California 

Connecticut.. .. 

] >elaware 

Florida 

( f eoreia 

Illinois 


99 

41 

1,078 

■1 

«7 

34 

3,099 

443 
2,691 

\% 


587 
8,^3 

830 

127 

is6 

3i 
zo,9o3 

6,36a 
3.«3o 
«,a74 
3,053 

13,388 

640 


a,479 

i,56» 

"9,699 

1,141 

595 
8,760 

903.'50 

13.774 

3'>i3i<i 

18,913 

508 

47,'M5 


?5l 

W,43« 

70,630 

5f^07 

737 

5,093 

120, x63 


Indiana 

1 ««wa. 


33,698 
40,134 
10,940 
31,643 
17,068 

15745 
33630 


Kansas 

Kentucky 

1 .oulsiana 

Maine 


Maryland 



STATES. 


^^ French| German. 


Irish. 


MassaclMuetts.. 

MichigaTT 

Minnesota 

Ssr>r:;.::: 

Nebntska 

Nevada 

New Hampshire 

New Jersey 

Newtofk?:.... 
North Carolina . 
Ohio 


255 
795 

M93 
399 

»57 

661 

3.9»8 

3,699 
53 

1,556 

»9 

10 

112 

1,748 


1,637 
3,120 

6,291 
340 

4M 
3.»1 

33,373 

23,778 
308 

8,683 
167 
143 
562 

3,336 

all 

223 
2.704 


13,070 
64.143 
41.364 

iZ3,6i8 

,fl1S 

1.875 
160,146 

1.200 
3.74a 

4,525 

33,970 

370 

4.050 

6,331 

162,314 


SZ6,X30 

42,013 

31,746 

3.359 

54,983 

4,999 

5,«35 

13,190 

86,784 

533,806 

a Sr 

82,674 

1,967 

23s 798 

8,048 
4,031 
14.080 
5 191 
6.812 
48479 


Oregon 


Pennsylvania.... 
Khode Island... 
South Caiotina.. 

Tennessee 

Texas 


Vermont 

Vifginia 

West Vii^inia.. 
Wisconsin 




30.104 


1 16,240! 1,690,410 


1,855,837 



These four nationalities, then, ac- 
count for 3,692,581 of the foreign- 
born population in 1870 ; and the 
remaining 1,874,648 had their birth 
in the other thirty-five different 
countries named in one of our pre- 
ceding tables. A glance over the 
table just given will show still more 
plainly within what limits the great 
bulk of the Irish and German born 
population is found ; and the reader 
will remember that we have shown 
that all but 1,373,258 of the entire 
foreign-born population were resid- 
ing in the ten States of California, 
Illinois, Iowa, Massachusetts, Mi- 
chigan, Missouri, New York, Ohio, 
Pennsylvania, and Wisconsin. In 
twenty of the States the persons of 
Irish birth exceeded those of Ger- 
man birth ; in the remaining seven- 
teen States the latter outnumbered 
the former. The excess of persons 
of Irish birth over those of German 
birth, however, was only 165,417. 
This was seven years ago. During 
these seven years the emigration 
from Germany has almost equalled 
that from Ireland, and for the thirty 
years last past, taken as a whole, 
the arrivals from Germany have 
exceeded those from Ireland bv 



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439 



119,293 souls. We shall probably 
not be far out of the way if we 
assume that the entire foreign-born 
population of the United States is 
at present about seven millions, of 
whom two and a half millions are 
of German, and nearly an equal 
number of Irish, birth. Let us, 
however, continue to confine our- 
selves for the present to the official 
facts in our possession, and proceed 
to follow up the 5,567,229 persons 
of foreign birth whom we know 
were among us in 1870. 

One of the remarks most fre- 
quently made concerning the for- 
eign-born population of this coun- 
try is that it has a general dispo- 
sition to congregate in our large 
c:ities, from which have come con- 
sequences highly prejudicial both 
to itself and to the community at 
large. These two assertions have 
l>een made so persistently and in 
such good faith ; they have seemed 
to be so susceptible of proof and 
so apparently true ; and they have 
chimed in so well with the some- 
times latent and sometimes ac- 
tive prejudice against " foreigners" 
which is so often found in the 
breasts of the natives of every 
country, that tliey have passed 
current almost without challenge 
and have come to be regarded as 
axioms. Nay, not a few of our for- 
eign-born citizens themselves, and 
even of the Catholic bishops and 
clergy, have often accepted these 
two assertions as true, and have 
not ceased to deplore the crowding 
of the foreign population into the 
large cities, regarding it as an al- 
most unmixed evil, and pointing to 
it as the source of direful woe. 
No doubt they have had some rea- 
son on their side. A large propor- 
tion of the crime and misery of 
our cities is perpetrated and suffer- 
ed by foreign-born citizens or by 



their children in the first genera- 
tion. Had these citizens not been 
gathered together in the cities, 
but scattered at remote distances 
throughout the country, they might 
have been criminal and miserable, 
but their crime and misery would 
not have been so obtrusive and 
apparent to every observer. But, 
leaving this point for a moment to 
return to it in the light of the facts 
we are about to adduce, let us see 
what amount of truth there is in 
these two assertions. We may re- 
mark, in passing, that the truth of 
the first does not necessarily imply 
the truth of the second : it may be 
true that the foreign- born popula- 
tion has congregated to an appa- 
rently undue and unwise extent in 
our cities, but it may not be true 
that this has been by any means an 
unmixed evil either to the foreigners 
themselves or to the native-born. 

POPULATION, NAtlVK AND POKnGN, OP THE LASGB . 
CITIKS, 1870. 



CITIES 

New York...:... 

Philadelphia 

Brooklyn. 

St. Louis 

Chicago. , 

Baltimcae 

Boston 

Cincinnati 

New Orleans 

San Francisco.... 

Buffak>. 

Washington 

Newark. 

Ix»uisriUe 

ClevekuMl 

Pitubnigh 

Jersey City 

l>etroit 

Milwaukee 

Albany. 

Provioence 

Rochester , 

Allegheny 

Richmond 

New Ha^en. 

Charleston 

Indianapolis..... 

Troy 

Syncuse. 

Worcester 

Lowell 

Memphis. 

Camoridke 

Hartford 

Scranton 

Reading 



Scotch 


French 


Aus- 
trian. 


7>559 


M40 


•.737 


4.17s 


a,«7i 


5'9 


4,o9« 


X.8Q3 

«»7«8 


3SI 


i,9oa 


75* 


4»»95 


x.4»7 


704 


525 


4a8 


915 


».794 


6i5 


124 


7*7 


a.oQo 


554 


568 


8,806 


«53 


1,687 


3.543 


470 


996 


a»13a 


Z35 


9q8 


191 


a6 


870 


q 


a6< 


s; 


69 


668 


339 


3ii55 


Stt4 


34< 


"7 


i»J73 


976 


69 


«»637 


"^ 


x6i 


433 


189 


''^ 


437 


M9 


575 


72 


5 


428 


475 
619 


39 


570 


X09 


146 


»44 


■9 


347 


«33 


54 


"§ 


97 


39 


t 


•11 


14 
14 


1 

469 


*fi 


47 


"% 


IS 

3 


ijl 


907 
100 


»4 
9 


359 


11 


ao 


366 
35 


4 



Bel- 
gian.. 



3^5 
116 
14a 
a54 

39B 
99 
3« 
46 
«34 
>39' 
37 
8 
45 
31 
16 

9' 

43 

»J3 

79 

«7 



4 
5 

r 



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The European Exodus. 



CITIES. 

Patenon 

Kansas City. . . 

MoWe 

Toledo 

Portland 

Columbus 

Wilmington 

Dayton 

Lawrence 

Uiica , 

Charlestown...., 

Savannah 

Lynn , 

Fall River 

Tot^ 






i66 

XXQ 

17s 
«33 



7a 
7* 
38a 



43tOS5 



Fr'nch 



«37 
xio 

906 



Aus- 
trian. 



1 


a 


ao 


•4a 


98 


4 


9 


«87 


as 


99 


z 


99 


5 


5 


X 


3 


4 



49^30 ZI,9l8 



Bel- 
gian. 



?,93a 



In fifty of the largest cities of 
the United States there was in 



l^\ iv^ Aii^ l^t^rrrf^f^ 



• I 



1870 a total native population of 
3,808,770 souls; 826,398 persons 
of Irish birth ; 564,967 of German 
birth ; 165,024 of English birth ; 
80,728 natives of British America; 
43>oS5 natives of Scotland ; 42,430 
natives of France; 11,218 natives 
of Austria; and 2,232 natives of 
Belgium — in all, 1,736,052 persons 
born in foreign countries. 

The foregoing tables give the 
native population of each of these 
fifty cities, with the foreign popula- 
tion belonging to each of these 
eight nationalities. 

The persons of foreign birth of 
other nationalities in the above 
cities would raise the whole num- 
ber to about 1,800,000 souls. 

It is to be noticed from this table, 
in the first place, that in these 
fifty cities, in 1870, the proportion 
of foreign-bom to native inhabi- 
tants was almost exactly as 18 is to 
38 — 1,800,000 to 3,808,770 — while 
the proportion of foreign-born to 
native inhabitants in the entire 
Union was almost exactly as 5 is 
to 3»— 5»567,229 to 38»SS8,37i. It 
must be confessed that on this show- 
ing there was an apparently or a 
really undue proportion of our for- 
eign-bom citizens congregated in 
the large cities. But it should be 
remembered that among the native- 
born population were the 10,892,- 
015 persons who had been born 
here of parents, on one or both 
sides, of foreign birth, and who, to 
this extent, were quasi-ioxeign. If 
these be taken into account, the 
proportion of foreign-born and the 
immediate descendants of foreign- 
born persons to the rest of the 
population throughout the country 
in 1870 would have been as 16 to 
38— 16,459,239 to 38,558,371.^ This 
is really the more correct basis up- 
on which to make the comparison ; 
for without doubt a large propor- 



■r 



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441 



tion of the ten millions of persons 
born here of foreign parents were 
the children of the five millions of 
foreign-born persons ; and it is per- 
fectly natural that the parents and 
the children should be found living 
in the same localities. After giving 
to this consideration, however, all 
the weight to which it is entitled, 
the fact still remains that an appa- 
rently excessive proportion of our 
foreign-born citizens are to be 
found in the large cities. 

Let us look still closer into the 
subject. The whole number of 
persons of Irish birth in the Unit- 
ed States in 1870 was 1,855,827, 
and of these 826,398, or 44.4 per 
cent, were living in these fifty ci- 
ties. There were 1,690,410 Ger- 
mans, and 564,967 of them, or 
33.4 per cent., were in the cities; 
550,688 English, of whom 165,024, 
or nearly 30 per cent., were in the 
cities ; 489,344 British Americans, 
of whom 80,728, or only 16.5 per 
cent., were in the cities j while 30 
per cent, of the Scotch, 36.5 per 
cent, of the French, 36.7 per cent. 
of the Austrians, and 17.7 per 
cent, of the Belgians were in the 
same category. Our Irish fellow- 
citilens are the greatest sinners — 
if any are sinners in this respect — 
and after them, in a declining ratio, 
come the Austrians, French, Ger- 
mans, Scotch, English, Belgians, and 
British Americans. The Irish, Aus- 
trians, French, and Germans are the 
Roman Catholic emigrants, and in 
the wisdom of God it has been or- 
dained that they should be the ones 
most crowded into the cities. How 
have they performed there the work 
which he sent them to do ? 

Our cities are the centres of the 
intelligence, the culture, and the 
wealth of our country. They con- 
tain to a very large extent the 
brains of the republic. From 



them issue influences which sway, 
if they do not absolutely control, 
the thoughts and actions of the peo- 
ple. These influences are not, by 
any means, always altogether whole- 
some, but they are unquestionably 
potent. The newspapers, magazines, 
and other periodicals published in 
New York, Philadelphia, Boston, 
St. Louis, Chicago, Baltimore, Cin- 
cinnati, New Orleans, San Francis- 
co, and Milwaukee have a circula- 
tion exceeding that of the similar 
publications of all the rest of the 
country combined. The serial pub- 
lications of one firm in New York 
alone reach into the millions ; the 
aggregate annual circulation of the 
New York daily and weekly jour- 
nals is so large that mere figures 
expressing it convey but a faint 
idea of its extent. The publisher 
of a magazine in New York told 
the writer the other day that if the 
copies of his publication issued 
each year were stacked together, 
the column would be three times 
as high as Trinity Church stee- 
ple. 

The social influences of the cities 
upon the rural districts are also 
powerful. The cities not only set 
the fashions in dress, but in politi- 
cal, moral, and religious thought and 
custom. The sturdy independence 
of the bucolic mind may yet boast 
of its existence, but it very often 
yields to the sway of urban ideas. 
A lady who had lived all her life in 
a small village, in which the only 
Catholic population consisted of a 
handful of poor Irish people, desti- 
tute of a church, and visited only 
at long intervals by a humble 
priest who celebrated the divine 
Mysteries in an attic over a liquor- 
store, not long ago came to New 
York, and was taken by her friends 
into one of our magnificent Catho- 
lic churches. The grandeur and 



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beauty of the Mass were for the 
first time revealed to her; for the 
first time she obtained an idea of 
what the Catholic Church was 
and what it taught. By the grace 
of God her conversion followed, 
and, mainly through her exertions 
and her influence after her return 
home, her village is now blessed 
with a church, a resident priest, and 
a Catholic population composed 
largely of converts. In very many 
of our rural localities all over the 
Union the Catholics are few and 
poor; in too many of them the 
idea of a Roman Catholic in the 
minds of the natives is still associ- 
ated only with the idea of an igno- 
rant fanatic, who worships images, 
pays half a dollar to a priest to par- 
don him for a crime, and believes 
that the Pope is God. But when 
the country merchant of such a lo- 
cality comes to New York to make 
his purchases, and sees the splen- 
did Catholic churches here, and 
fmds, perhaps, that the great im- 
porter with whom he deals, or the 
wealthy banker, or the renowned 
lawyer to whom he is introduced, is 
a Roman Catholic, and not unsel- 
dom an Irishman or a German, his 
eyes are opened and his mind is 
prepared for the reception of the 
truth. In a word, the congregation 
of foreign-born emigrants, the most 
of whom are Catholics, in our large 
cities, has had the effect of making 
the Catholic church in these cities 
a noticeable and a respectable fact, 
and of thereby accomplishing one 
of the preliminaries in the work 
which it has yet to perform in the 
republic. The influence of this 
fact is to be perceived, also, in the 
changed tone of the secular press 
with regard to the church. Re- 
spectable journalists, with few and 
decreasing exceptions, have become 
ashamed to repeat the vulgar and 



senseless slanders and the worn- 
out calumnies concerning the 
church, her ministers, her dogmas, 
and her sacraments which were so 
current twenty years ago. In com- 
munities consisting in an appreci- 
able and often in a large proportion 
of intelligent, wealthy, and influen- 
tial Catholics, the able editors do 
not venture any longer to amuse 
their readers with arguments based 
on the assumption that the church is 
the foe of knowledge and of educa- 
tion, and that her mission is to de- 
grade, enslave, and pauperize man- 
kind. In cities where the spires 
of dozens and scores of Catholic 
churches, tipped with the emblem 
of our salvation, point towards 
heaven; where Catholic hospitals, 
asylums, schools, and academies 
abound ; where many of the most 
enterprising and wealthy merchants, 
manufacturers, and bankers are 
Catholics ; where in the front rank 
of all the professions Catholics are 
found — in these communities it is 
no longer a social disgrace or a 
mark of singularity to be a Catho- 
lic, and a convert to the faith is no 
longer looked upon as a person of 
weak intellect or a slave to a be- 
numbing and degrading supersti- 
tion. We shall show, in the subse- 
quent pages of our article, that for 
all this, to a very great extent, and 
under what seems to have been the 
direct guidance of God, we are 
indebted to the foreign-born popu- 
lation of the country, and that its 
accomplishment was made possible, 
humanly speaking, by their congre- 
gating themselves in the cities in- 
stead of dispersing in small bodies 
throughout the agricultural regions 
of the country. But we shall show, 
also, that, the work of God having 
thus far been accomplished, the 
time has now arrived when the fu- 
ture emigration to the United States 



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Albas Dream. 



443 



should be directed towards the 
rural districts, under conditions 
which, until now, were practically 
impossible ; and we shall seek to 
point out in what manner this new 



colonization may be best directed 
in order to promote the welfare of 
the emigrants themselves, the pros- 
perity of our country, and the great- 
er glory of God. 



ALBA'S DREAM. 

n THB AUTHOK OF *' A8B YOU MY WIFB ?" " A SALON IN PARIS BBFOKX THB WAX," BTC. 



PART I. 



Once upon a time, some sixty 
years ago« on one of the bleakest 
points of the coast of Picardy, high 
percheA like a light-house over- 
hanging the sea, there was a build- 
ing called the Fortress. You may 
see the ruins of it yet. It had been 
an abbey in olden times, and credi- 
ble tales were told of a bearded ab- 
bot who "walked" at high water on 
the western parapet when the moon 
was full. One wing of the For- 
tress was a ruin at the time this 
story opens ; the other had braved 
the stress of time and tempest, and 
looked out over the sea defiant as 
the rock on winch it stood. The 
Caboffs lived in it. Jean Caboff 
was a wiry, lithe old man of seven- 
ty — a seafaring man every inch of 
him. His wealth was boundless, 
people said, and they also said 
that he had gained it as a pirate 
on the high- seas. There was no 
proof that this was true ; but 
every one believed it, and the 
belief invested Jean Caboff with a 
sort of wicked prestige which was 
not without its fascination in the 
eyes of the peaceful, unadventurous 
population of Gondriac. Caboff 
had a wife and three sons ; the two 
eldest were away fighting with Bo- 
naparte on the Rhine; Marcel, the 
youngest, was at home. A shy, 
awkward lad, he kept aloof from 



the village boys, never went bird's- 
nesting or fishing with them, but 
moped like an owl up in his weath- 
er-beaten home. They were unso- 
cial people, the Caboffs ; they nev- 
er asked any one inside their door ; 
but the few who accidentally pene- 
trated within the Fortress told 
wonderful stories of what they saw 
there; they talked of silken hang- 
ings and Persian carpets, and mir- 
rors and pictures in golden frames, 
and marble men and maidens 
writhing and dancing in fantastic 
attitudes; of costly cabinets and 
jewelled vases, until the old cor- 
sair's abode was believed to be 
a sort of enchanted castle. The 
stray visitors were too dazzled to 
notice certain things that jarred on 
this profuse magnificence. They 
did not notice that the damp had 
eaten away the gilded cornices, and 
the rats nibbled freely at the rich 
carpets, or that Jean Caboff smok- 
ed his pipe in a high-backed wood- 
en chair, while Mme. CabofT cut out 
her home-spun linen on a stout 
deal table, the two forming a quaint 
and not unpicturesque contrast to 
the silken splendor of their sur- 
roundings. 

Some five miles inland, beyond a 
wide stretch of gorse-grown moor, 
rose a wood, chiefly of pine-trees, 
and within the wood, a castle — a 



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fine old Gothic castle where the De 
Gondriacs had dwelt for centuries. 
The castle and its owners, their 
grandeur and state and power, were 
tlie pride of the country, every peas- 
ant along the coast for fifty miles 
knew the history of the lords of 
Gondriac as well as, mayhap some> 
times better than, he knew his cate- 
chism. The family at present con- 
sisted of Rudolf, Marquis de Gondri- 
ac, and his son Hermann. The Mar- 
quis was a hale man of sixty ; Her- 
mann a handsome lad of eighteen, 
who was at college now in Paris, so 
that M. le Marquis had no com- 
pany but his books and his gun in 
the long autumn days. He was a 
silent, haughty man, who lived much 
alone and seldom had friends to 
stay with him. When Hermann 
was at home the aspect of the 
place changed ; the chiteau opened 
its doors with ancient hospitality, 
and laughter and music woke up 
the echoes of the old halls, and the 
village was astir as if a royal pro- 
gress had halted on the plain ; but 
when Hermann departed things fell 
back into tiie stagnant life he had 
stirred for a moment. It was natu- 
ral that the young man's holidays 
were eagerly looked forward to at 
Gondriac. But one August came, 
and, instead of returning home, 
Hermann joined a regiment that 
was on its way to the frontier. He 
went off in high-hearted courage 
as to the fulfilment of his boyish 
dreams. M. le Marquis, who had 
himself served in the guards of the 
Comte d'Artois, was proud of his 
son, of his soldier-like bearing and 
manly spirit, and kept the anguish 
of his own heart well out of sight 
as he bade the boy farewell. '* I 
will come back a marshal of 
France, father," was Hermann's 
good-by. 

Not long after his departure 



tidings were received of the death 
of Hugues Caboff, the old pirate's 
eldest son. He had fallen glorious- 
ly on the field of battle ; but glory 
is a sorry salve for broken hearts, 
and there was weeping in the For- 
tress that day — z, mother weeping 
and refusing to be comforted. Old 
Jean Caboff bore his grief with an 
attempt at stoicism that went far 
to soften men's hearts towards 
him — farther than his gold, which 
they said was ill-got, and his char- 
ity, which they called ostentation. 

"Who may tell what will come 
next.?*' said Pcltran, the host of 
the village inn. 

" They say that M. le Alarquis 
has been over to see the Caboffs," 
said a customer, who dropped in to 
discuss the event. People felt for 
the Caboffs, but, there was no deny- 
ing it, this sad news was a break in 
the dull monotony of Gondriac life. 

" I saw his carriage at the foot 
of the cliff," said Peltran ; *' he 
stayed full fifteen minutes up at the 
Fortress. P^re Caboff conducted 
him down to his carriage, and 
Marcel stood watching them till it 
was out of sight." 

"It must have consoled them 
mightily to have M. le Marquis 
come in and sit talking to them in 
that neighborly fashion," remarked 
lame Pierre, a hero who had lost a 
leg and an eye at Aboukir ; " that, 
and poor Hugues being killed by 
a cannon-ball under the emperor's 
own eye, ought to cheer up the Ca- 
boffs wonderfully." 

" Ay, ay," said Peltran ; " God 
tempers the wind to the shorn 
lamb." 

" M. le Marquis looked as down- 
hearted as if he had lost a child of 
his own," observed Pierre ; " may 
be he was thinking whose turn it 
might be next." 

** There goes M^re Virginie with 



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445 



the little one!" said Peltran; and 
all present turned their heads to- 
wards the window and looked out 
with an expression of interest, as 
if the objects in view were a rare 
and pleasant sight. And yet it 
was one that met them in their 
daily walks by the roadside and 
on the cliff— the little old lady in 
her nun-like dress, with her keen 
gray eyes and sweet smile, and the 
dark-eyed, elfin-looking child whose 
name was Alba. Alba was always 
singing. 

" Is not your little throat tired, 
my child ?" said Virginie, as the 
bl><he voice kept on soaring and 
trilling by her side. 

" I am never tired singing, pe- 
tite m^re! Do the angels tire of 
it sometimes, I wonder V 

" Nay, the angels cannot tire ; 
they are perfectly happy." 

"And I, petite m^re — am I not 
perfectly happy V* 

" Is there nothing you long for, 
nothing you would be the happier 
for having.?" 

" Oh ! many things," cried Alba : 
** I wish I were grown up ; I wish 
I were as beautiful as the flowers ; 
I wish I had a voice like the night- 
ingale — like a whole woodful of 
nightingales; I wish I lived in a 
castle ; I wish I were so rich that 
I might make all the poor people 
happy in Gondriac ; I wish every- 
body loved me as you do. Oh ! I 
should like them all to adore me, 
petite m^re," cried the child, clasp- 
ing her little hands with energy. 

" Nay, my child, we must adore 
none but God; woe to us if we 
do!" said Virginie, and her face 
contracted as with a sudden pain. 
*' But it seems to me, with so many 
wishes unfulfilled, you are a long 
way off from perfect happiness 
yet ?" 

" But I am always dreaming 



that they are fulfilled, and that 
does as well, you know." 

Yes, perhaps it did, Virginie 
thought, as she bent a wistful smile 
on the young dreamer's face. Al- 
ba *s face was full of dreams — beau- 
tiful and passionate, changeful as 
the sunbeams, tender and strong, 
pleading and imperious by turns. 
How would the dreams evolve 
themselves from out that yearning, 
untamed spirit that shone with a 
dangerous light through the dark 
eyes ? Would they prove a mirage, 
luring her on to some delusive 
goal, and leaving her to perish 
amidst the golden waste of sands, 
or would they be a loadstar beck- 
oning faithfully to a safe and hap- 
py destiny.? 

The child gave promise of rich 
fruit; her instincts were pure and 
true, her heart was tender ; but 
there was a wild element in her 
nature that might easily overrule 
the rest, and work destruction to 
herself and others, unless it were 
reduced in time to serviceable 
bondage. Who could tell how this 
would be — whether the flower would 
keep its promise and prove loyal to 
the bud, or whether the fair blos- 
som would perish in its bloom, and 
the tree bring forth a harvest of 
bitter fruit.? 

" It will be as you will it," a wise 
man had said to Virginie ; " the des- 
tiny of the child is in the hands of 
the mother, as the course of the 
ship is in the hands of the pilot." 

"Then Alba's will be a happy 
one!" Virginie replied; "if love be 
omnipotent here below, my treasure 
is safe." 

Hermann de Gondriac had won 
his epaulets. Every post brought 
letters to the castle full of battles 
and victories ; and though the young 
soldier was modest in his warlike 



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narrative, it was clear to M. le 
Marquis that Hermann shone like 
a bright, particular star even in the 
galaxy of the grande arm/e^ and 
that now, as in olden times, France 
had reason to be proud of the De 
Gondriacs. If the boy would but 
calm his rhapsodies about Bona- 
parte ! M. le Marquis' patrician 
soul heaved at the sight of this en- 
thusiasm for the upstart who had 
muzzled his country and usurped 
the crown of her lawful princes. 
But he was a great captain, and it 
was natural, perhaps, that his sol- 
diers should only think of this when 
he led them in triumph from field 
to field. 

So far Hermann bore a charmed 
life. Not so the Caboffs. One day, 
some eight months after the death 
of the eldest son, the second bro- 
ther followed him — " killed glori- 
ously on the immortal field of Wa- 
gram," the official letter announc- 
ed in its most soothing style. M. 
le Marquis' carriage was again seen 
standing at the foot of the cliff, 
and Peltran informed the popula- 
tion that he had remained over 
twenty minutes this time at the 
Fortress. 

" M. le Marquis is a true grand 
seigneur^ and never begrudges any 
condescension for the good of his 
inferiors," observed the old tory 
host. ** This time it was only Mar- 
cel who accompanied him down 
the cliff. Old Caboff, they say, was 
more cut up by this last blow ; still, 
grief ought not to make a man sel- 
fish and unthankful." 

" Just so," said lame Pierre, who 
sat puffing in the bar ; " and it's 
only what those two poor lads had 
to expect; moreover, since a man 
must die, better be killed in battle 
than die of the small-pox." 

" All the same, it's hard on the 
folks up yonder," remarked a by- 



stander, " and it isn't their money- 
bags — no, nor even M. le Marquis' 
good words — that can comfort them 
to-day." 

Soon after this M. le Marquis 
left Gondriac rather suddenly one 
morning. After reading his letters 
he ordered his valise to be got 
ready, and in an hour he was post- 
ing to X . There he dismissed 

the postchaise, and no one knew 
whither or how he had continued 
his route. Gondriac busied itself 
in endless conjectures as to the 
purport and destination of this mys- 
terious journey. Had M. le Mar- 
quis been summoned to Paris to 
assist the government in some po- 
litical crisis.^ Had he gone over 
to England to pour oil on the angry 
waters there 1 For the king of Eng- 
land was full of wrath and jealousy 
against the great emperor, and it 
was well known at Gondriac that 
he was plotting foul play of some 
sort against France. Or, again, 
could M. le Marquis' hasty depar- 
ture have had any reference to M. 
le Comte ? Perhaps M. le Comte 
was wounded or a prisoner; who 
could tell 1 So the wiseacres gos- 
siped, adopting first one theory, 
then another. 

A month went by without throw- 
ing any light on the mystery. Then 
the cold set in suddenly, and the 
gossips had something else to talk 
about. The cruel winter was down 
upon them, catching them unpre- 
pared, so how were they to face it } 
They were only in October, and 
the wind blew from the northeast 
as if it were March, keeping up its 
shrill, hard whistle day and night, 
and the sea, as if it were exasper- 
ated by the sound, roared and foam- 
ed and thundered, till it seemed like 
a battle between them which should 
make most noise. And it was hard 
to say who carried the day. 



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Alba's Dream. 



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One night, when ti\e battle was 
at its fiercest, the wind shrieking its 
loudest, and the searollingup itsbig- 
gest waves, Alba sat at her window 
watching the tempest with thrills 
of sympathetic terror. Virginie 
thought the child was in bed and 
asleep hours ago, and she was glad 
of it; for the storm drove right 
against the cottage, and burst upon 
it every now and then with a 
violence that shook her in her 
chair and made the walls rock. 
She was knitting away, but between 
the stitches many a prayer went up 
for those who were out breasting the 
fury of the hurricane. Sudden- 
ly a sound came up from the sea 
that made her start to her feet with 
a cry. Boom ! boom ! boom ! it 
came in quick succession, leaping 
over the rocks with a sharp, dull 
crash. The door of the little sitting- 
room was thrown open, and Alba 
stood on the threshold, white as a 
ghost, her dark eyes gleaming. " It 
is the signal-gun, mother!" she 
cried. "There is a ship in dis- 
tress !" 

** How came you up and dressed, 
child ?** exclaimed Virginie. 

"Mother, I could not sleep; I 
have been watching the storm. 
Hark! there it is again. Why 
don't they answer it.? Let us hur- 
ry down to the beach. " 

** Of what use would we be there, 
my child ?** said Virginie. " Let us 
rather kneel down and pray that 
help may come." 

"I cannot pray; I cannot stay 
here safe and quiet while that gun 
is firing! Hark! there it is again. 
Oh! why don't they make haste? 
Mother, I must go ! If you won't 
come I will go by myself." Alba, 
as she spoke, threw back her head 
with the wild, free movement that 
Virginie knew, and knew that she 
could no more control than she 



could check the flight of a bird on 
the wing. 

**^I will go with you," she cried, 
and, wrapping a cloak round Alba, 
she flung another round herself, 
and then lighted her lantern, and 
the two sallied forth into the storm, 
clinging fast to one anotlier for sup- 
port until they got under the shel- 
ter of the overhanging cliff. Lights 
were glancing here and there, hur- 
rying down from tlie cottages, and 
a few fishermen were already on 
the beach watching the distressed 
ship, helpless and hopeless. Pre- 
sently old Caboff appeared, hold- 
ing his lantern high above his 
head — an aged, shrivelled man, 
likely to be of little use in this des- 
perate strait ; but such was the 
prestige which his supposed ante- 
cedents lent him in the eyes of the 
panic-stricken group that of one 
accord they turned to him as to 
the only one who might give help 
or counsel. The night was pitch 
dark, and the blinding rain and 
deafening roar of the breakers seem- 
ed to make the darkness thicker. 
It was impossible to see the ship, 
except when the flash of the gun 
lighted up the scene for a second. 
In the lull of the billows — that is, be- 
tween the heavy sweep of their rise 
and fall — the cries of the crew and 
the whistle of the captain issuing 
his commands were faintly audible. 
How was it with the ship? Had 
she struck upon a rock, or was she 
simply going down before the storm ? 
It was impossible to say. On 
finding that her signals were heard 
and her position seen from land, 
she slackened fire, and the gun only 
spoke every three minutes or so. 
In the interval of unbroken dark- 
ness all conjecture as to the imme- 
diate cause of the peril was at a 
stand-still. Caboff" said she had 
struck upon a rock; the others 



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thought she was simply disabled 
and rolling in the trough of the sea. 

" Can we put out a boat ? Wlio 
is for risking it?'* said Caboff, 
pitching his voice to a whistle that 
was heard distinctly above the roar 
of the black breakers clamoring for 
the moon. There was no answer, 
but heads were shaken and hands 
gesticulated in strong dissent. 

Alba pushed her way into the 
midst of the group. "What does 
it matter what the danger is } Go 
and help them!" she cried. "If 
you don't help them they will all 
perish !" 

"We cannot help them, little 
one," said an old fisherman. " No 
boat could live in such a sea. See 
how the waves run up in mountains 
to our very feet, and think what it 
must be out yonder! See, now 
the signal-gun lights it up ! Look ! 
again it flashes." 

It was an appalling siglit while 
the flashes lasted. The waves, 
rushing back, left the side of the 
ship visible, and then, returning 
with a tremendous sweep, broke 
over her and buried her out of 
sight in foam. The stoutest heart 
might well recoil from venturing 
to put out in such a sea. 

" Naught but a miracle could do 
it," said one of the oldest and 
hardiest of the fishermen ; " and 
We none of us can work miracles." 

" God can !" cried Alba, and she 
looked like the spirit of the storm, 
her dark hair streaming, the light of 
courage and scorn and beseeching 
hope illuminating her face with an 
unearthly beauty — "God can, and 
he does for brave men ; but ye are 
cowards !" 

" Gently, little one ; men will risk 
their lives to do some good, but it 
is suicide to rush on death where 
there is not a chance of saving any 
one. 



It was Caboff" who spoke, and his 
words were followed by strong ap- 
proval from the rest. 

" Ye are cowards !" repeated 
Alba passionately. " God would 
work the miracle, if ye had courage 
and trusted him. See, there is the 
light now !" She pointed to the sky, 
where, as if to justify her promise, 
the moon came forth, and, scattering 
the darkness, shed her full blue radi- 
ance over sea and shore. The storm 
was now at its height. The guns 
had ceased to give tongue, and the 
crowd stood watching the scene in 
mute horror, while the reverberat- 
ing shore shook under their feet 
at every shock of the furious bil- 
lows. 

Caboff was right. The ship had 
struck upon the Scissors, and, caught 
between the two blade-like rocks, 
was rapidly falling to pieces. The 
deck was deserted. The crew had 
either gone down into the cabin to 
meet their fate or they had been 
swept away by the devouring wa- 
ters. One man alone was descried 
by Caboff^s keen eyes clinging to 
the broken mast. " I will risk it !" 
cried the old pirate, after watching 
the wreck for some minutes intent- 
ly. " I will risk it ; my old life may 
as well go out in saving his. Come, 
boys, help me to push down a boat. 
I must have three pairs of hands. 
Who is to the fore ?" 

A dozen men rushed forward ; tlie 
boat was at the water's edge in a 
moment, and after a short scuffle — 
for now all were fighting for prece- 
dence — three men got into it, and 
the others, putting their hands to 
tiie stern, launched it with their 
might. A cheer rang out from the 
shore ; but close upon it came a cry, 
piercing and full of terror. It was 
Marcel Caboff", who was flying down 
the cliff*, and reached the scene just 
as the boat put off*. 



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449 



"Father! father!" cried the lad, 
and he fell on his knees sobbing. 

" Don't be afraid, Marcel/* said 
Alba, falling on her knees beside 
him ; " he is a brave man, and God 
will protect him !" 

Something in the tone of the 
cinld's voice made him turn and 
look at her; and as he caught sight of 
the beam of confidence, almost of 
exultation, on her face, he felt his 
courage rise and despair was silenc- 
ed. But what meant that shout P 

The boat was no sooner borne 
out on the receding wave than it 
went down into the sea as if never 
to rise again ; there was a moment 
of breathless suspense, and then the 
wave rose and tossed it violently to 
and fro, and flung it back upon the 
shore. The men who had launch- 
ed it were still upon the spot, and 
rushed forward to seize the boat 
and help the brave fellows out 
again. One was so stunned by the 
force of the shock that he became 
insensible and had to be lifted out. 
Old Caboff refused to stir. 

'^ It is madness to try it again," 
said his companions. "A cork 
could not live in such a sea !" 

*' I will risk no man's life," said 
CabofT. " I will go alone. Here, my 
men, lend a hand once more !" 

There was a clamor of expostula- 
tion from all present ; but the old 
man was not to be moved. 

'' I will go with you, father," said 
Marcel, stepping in and seizing an 
oar. 

** You here, lad ! And your mo- 
ther ?" 

*' She sent me to look after you. 
AHons I mes amis ; push us out and 
say God speed us !" 

But there was now a third figure 
iu the boat. "Now we are thfee, 
and God will make a fourth !" cried 
Alba; then, turning to the men, 
'* Push us out," she said, " and then 

VOL. XXV. — 29 



go home, lest ye take cold here in 
the rain!" 

" Good God ! the child is mad," 
cried Virginie, rushing forward to 
snatch her away. But it was too 
late; a heavy wave rolled in and 
made the boat heave suddenly, 
which the men seeing, with one im- 
pulse put their hands to it, till the 
breaker washed under it and swept 
it out to sea once more. Virginie 
stood there like one turned to 
stone, watching in dumb horror the 
boat drifting away on to the seeth- 
ing waters. Alba was on her knees,, 
her arms outstretched, her face up- 
lifted in the moonlight, transfigur- 
ed into an apparition of celestial 
beauty — 2l heaven-sent messenger 
from Him who can unchain the- 
storm and bid tlie winds and waves 
be still. The rough men, subdued 
by the sublimity of the scene, knelt 
down like little children and began 
to pray. 

Gallantly the little boat rode on,, 
now drowned out of sight, now 
rising lightly on the crest of the 
wave, while the sea, as if enraged at 
so much daring, redoubled in fury 
and pitched it to and fro like a ball 
Old Cabofi^ grown young again, 
worked away like a sea-horse. 
Many a time had he and Death 
looked into each other's faces, but 
never closer than now ; and it was- 
not the old seaman who quailed^ 
Marcel, feeble Marcel, seemed en- 
dowed with the energy and strength 
of an athlete. They were now close 
upon the sinking ship ; but the peril 
grew as they approached it. There 
was a lull for one moment, as if in 
very weariness the hurricane drew, 
a breath ; then a huge wave rose 
up like a mighty water-tower, osciW 
lated for a moment like a house 
about to fall, and, dashing against 
the boat, swallowed it up in an 
avalanche of foam. Five seconds-oC 



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mortal suspense followed; not a 
gasp broke the horrible silence on 
the beach. But the boat reap- 
peared and rode bravely on to 
within a stone's throw of the ship. 
The solitary man on deck was sig- 
nalling to them with one hand, 
while with the other he clung to 
the mast. At last the little skiff 
was close under the bows. Old 
Caboff threw up a rope-ladder; it 
missed its aim, once, twice, three 
times. *' How the old fellow is 
swearing ! I can see it by his fury," 
cried one of the fishermen, stamp- 
ing in sympathetic rage. '* Ha ! the 
poor devil has caught it. Bravo! 
Hurrah ! He is in the boat !" 

Then there was a cheer, as if 
the very rocks had found a voice 
to applaud the brave ones who had 
conquered the storm. Wind and 
tide were with them as they return- 
ed, the waves pitching the boat be- 
fore them like an angry boy kicking a 
stone, until one final plunge sent it 
flying on the beach. 

'*Vive Caboff! Vive Marcel! 
Vive la petite Alba!" And every 
hand was stretched out in welcome. 
Then there was a pause, a sudden 
hush, as when some strong emotion 
is checked by another. 

" Monsieur le Marquis !" 

*' Yes, my friends, thanks to these 
brave hearts I am amongst you and 
alive." 

He was the first to step from the 
boat; then he took Alba in his 
arms and lifted her ashore into 
Virgin ie's. Marcel alighted next, 
and was turning to assist his father 
when M. le Marquis pushed him 
gently aside and held out both 
hands to his deliverer. But the 
old man still grasped his oar and 
made no sign. 

" Mon p^re !" cried Marcel, lay- 
ing a Jiand on his arm, *^mon 
p^re !- 



But old Caboff did not answer 
him. He was dead. 

The grande amUe was still win- 
ning famous victories, ploughing 
up sunny harvest-fields with can- 
non-balls, and making homes and 
hearts desolate. 

*^ There is one comfort," said old 
Peltran, sitting moodily in his de- 
serted bar : " when things come to 
the worst they must get better." 

" They've not come to the worst 
yet," observed a neighbor. ** There's 
lots of things that might happen, 
that haven't happened yet ; the 
plague might come, or the blight, 
or the grande amUe might get beat- 
en. We've not come to the worst 
yet, believe you me." 

" There's one thing anyhow that 
can't happen," said Peltran : 
"there can't be another recruit- 
ment in Gondriac, for there isn't a 
man left amongst us fit to shoulder 
a musket ; we are all either too old, 
or lame, or blind of ap eye." 

" There's young Caboff is neither 
one nor the other. To be sure, he's 
not the stuff to make a soldier out 
of; but when they've used up all 
the men they must make the best 
of the milk-sops." 

" Marcel is a widow's only son ; 
he's safe," said Peltran. 

" From one day to another the host 
reserves may be called out," observ- 
ed the neighbor ; " it will be hard on 
the mother, after two of her sons go- 
ing for cannon's meat. It was a 
plucky thing of the old father put- 
ting out that night. I wonder if 
he knew for certain who was on 
the deck of the ship." 

*' If he didn't he wouldn't have 
been such an ass as to put out," 
said Peltran. "Why should he fling 
away his bit of life for a stranger 
that he owed nothing to ?" 

" For the matter of that, he owed 



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nothing to M. le Marquis; the 
Caboffs, they say, are rich enough 
to buy up every inch of land in 
Gondriac." 

" Folks may owe more than mo* 
iiey can pay," retorted Peltran. 
" M. le Marquis was very kind to 
the old man when his sons were 
killed, and, whatever CabofiTs sins 
may have been, he had a fine sense 
of his natural obligations. It didn't 
surprise me much when I saw how 
handsomely he paid off his debt to 
M. le Marquis.'* 

** They say that monseigneur swore 
to Mme. CabofT that if ever she ask- 
ed him a favor, whatever it was, he 
would grant it," said the neighbor. 

"Very likely," remarked the 
host. " M. le Marquis has a grand- 
seigneur way of doing everything. 
I hope the Caboifs will have the 
delicacy never to abuse it. " 

Not many days after this conver- 
sation Mme. Caboff was to be seen 
walking across the moor on her 
way to the castle. She looked an 
older woman than she was; sor- 
row had broken her down, and it 
would take little now to destroy the 
frail tenure of life that remained to 
her. 

This was the first time she had 
ever entered the castle. Under 
other circumstances the visit would 
have thrown the widow into some 
trepidation. She would have been 
pleasantly fluttered at the prospect 
of an interview with the great lord 
in his own halls, and would have 
been much exercised on her way 
thither as to what she should say to 
him ; but her mind was full of 
other cares to-day. 

M. le Marquis was at home. He 
had spent the morning over a letter 
from Captain Hermann de Gondriac, 
which contained a graphic personal 
narrative of the retreat from Mos- 
cow of that disastrous expedition 



from which, out of the fifty thousand 
cavalry who went forth, only one 
hundred and twenty-five ofiicers 
returned. A pang of anguish and 
patriotic indignation wrung the old 
nobleman's heart as he read and re- 
read the terrible story, but tears of 
deep thankfulness fell from the fa- 
ther's eyes at the thought that his 
son was spared and was returning 
safe and unhurt with that decimat- 
ed army of starved, exasperated 
spectres. The marquis was perus-; 
ing the letter for the tenth time 
when Mme. Caboff was announced. 
He rose to receive her with a 
warmth of welcome that boded well 
for her petition. 

"M. le Marquis, you made me 
give you a promise once — that night ; 
do you remember it?" she said, 
holding his white hand lightly be- 
tween her two black-kidded ones, and 
looking up into his face with the 
meek and hungry look of a dog 
begging for a bone which may be 
refused and a kick given instead. 

"Remember it? Yes," replied 
the Marquis, returning the timid 
pressure with a cordial grasp. " You 
are in trouble; sit down, madame, 
and tell me what there is that I can 
do to make it lighter for you." 

" My son, my last and only son. 
Marcel, is called out, M. le Mar- 
quis]" 

" And you want to find a substi- 
tute for him. It shall be done. I 
will set about it without an hour's 
delay." 

" M. le Marquis, it cannot be 
done; there are no more substitutes 
to be had. I would give every penny 
I possess to get one, but there are 
none left. The widows' only sons 
were the last spared, and now they 
must go. Marcel has been to the 
prefecture, and they told him there 
was no help for it : he must join 
the new levy to-morrow at X 



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M. le Marquis, have pity on me ! 
It will kill me to let him go ; and, 
oh ! it is so dreadful to see the 
boy." 

"He is frightened at the pros- 
pect of going to battle?** There 
was an imperceptible ring of scorn 
under the courteous tone of the aris- 
tocrat as he put the question. 

"He is mad with delight, M. le 
Marquis ; he has always been wild 
to follow his brothers and be killed 
as they were." 

"Brave lad! But he shall not 
have his wish ; he shall not be made 
food for Bonaparte's cannon," said 
the Marquis. " Go home in peace, 
madame, and break the bad news 
to him as tenderly as you can." 

"Thank God! God bless you, 
M. le Maiquis !'* said the widow fer- 
vently. " But is it indeed possible ? 
I can hardly believe in so great a 
joy." 

M. le Marquis was silent for a 
moment, as if making a calculation ; 
then he said musingly : 

"The emperor is in Paris to-day; 
I will start in an hour from this and 
see him to-night. He owes me 
something. I never thought to have 
asked a favor at his hands ; but I will 
stoop to ask him that your son be 
exempted from the service." 

"O M. le Marquis!" Mme. 
Caboif began to cry with joy ; but 
remembering suddenly that this 
great emperor was conquering the 
whole world and turning kings in 
and out like valets — for Gondriac 
heard of his fine doings and was very 
proud of them — it occurred ta her 
that he might by possibility refuse 
a request proffered even by so 
great a man as M. le Marquis. 
" You think his majesty is sure not 
to refuse you, monsieur.?" she add- 
ed timidly. 

M. de Gondriac was too well 
cxsed in his armor of pride to be 



touched by the poor woman's uncon- 
scious insult ; he smiled and replied 
with a quiet irony that escaped his 
visitor : " I think that is very unlike- 
ly, Mme. Caboff. Be at rest," he 
continued kindly. "I pledge you 
my word that your son shall not be 
taken from you. Instead of going 

to-morrow to X ^ he had better 

start off at once with a letter which 
I will give him to the prefect" 

He wrote the letter and handed 
it to Mme. Caboff. 

It was late that evening when M. 
de Gondriac arrived in Paris. He 
drove straight to the Tuileries. 
Time was precious, and he had 
travelled in court dress, so as not to 
lose an hour at the end of tlie jour- 
ney. It did not occur to him that 
there could be any delay in reach- 
ing the presence of the emperor. 
Petitioners of his class were not so 
common at the great man's door 
that it should close upon them be- 
cause of some informal haste in 
their demand for admittance. He 
handed in his card and asked to 
see the lord chamberlain. After 
some delay he was shown into the 
presence of that higli functionary, to 
whom he stated his desire for an 
immediate audience of his majesty. 
The lord chamberlain smilingly 
informed him that this was impos- 
sible; mortals were not admitted 
into the august presence in this 
abrupt manner; but he — the lord 
chamberlain — would present the re- 
quest at his earliest opportunity to- 
morrow, and communicate in due 
time with M. le Marquis. 

" Things do not proceed so sum- 
marily at court," he added graci- 
ously. The marquis felt his blood 
boil. This mushroom duke telling 
a De Gondriac how things were done 
at court ! 

" I know enough of courts to be 



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aware that on occasions etiquette 
must yield to weightier reasons," 
he replied. ** Oblige me, M. le Due, 
by taking my message at once to 
the emperor." 

There was something in his tone 
which compelled the obsequious 
courtier to obey. He withdrew, 
and returned presently with a face 
full of amased admiration to an- 
nounce to the visitor that his majes- 
ty was willing to receive him. 

The emperor was standing with 
his bands behind his back in the 
embrasure of a window when M. 
de Gondriac entered. He did not 
turn round at once, but waited un- 
til the door closed, and then, walk- 
ing up to M. de Gondriac, he said 
brusquely: "I have invited you 
many times, marquis, and you have 
never come. What brings you here 
to-night ?" The speech was curt, 
but not insolent ; it did not even 
sound uncivil. 

''Sire, I am an old man, and it 
is so long since I have been at 
court that I have forgotten how to 
behave myself. My lord chamber- 
lain was deeply shocked, I could 
perceive, at my breach of ceremony 
in coming to the palace in this 
.abrupt way without going through 
the usual observances. My motive 
will, I hope, excuse me to your 
majesty." 

" Yes, yes, I will let you off easi- 
er than Bassano," said the emperor. 
"But what do you want of me?" 
He had his hands still behind his 
back, and, without desiring his visi- 
tor to be seated, he turned to pace 
up and down the room. 

** I have come to ask a favor of 
your majesty." 

"Ha! that is well. I am glad 
of that. Do you know, that boy of 
yours has behaved admirably," he 
said, facing round and looking at 
the marquis. 



** We are accustomed to fight, 
sire," replied M. de Gondriac. " It 
came naturally to my son ; he had^ 
moreover, the advantage of drawing 
his maiden sword under a great 
captain." 

*' I mean to keep him by me. I 
have appointed him on my , own 
staff. We are not done with war. 
I am raising troops for a campaign 
in the spring," 

'* Sire, I am aware of it ; it is 
precisely about that that I have 
come to speak to your majesty. 
There is in my village a widow 
whose two sons have fallen in the 
service of the country ; there re- 
mains to her one more son, a lad 
of nineteen ..." 

'* And she is ambitious that he 
should share the glorious fate of 
his brothers ; that is natural," broke 
in the emperor. 

'' Sire, she is a widow, and this 
boy is all she has in the world. It 
is no longer possible to procure a 
substitute; therefore I come to 
crave at your hands his exemption 
from the service." 

'* What ! you would rob France 
of a soldier, when they are so scarce 
that gold cannot buy one 1 Is this 
your notion of duty to your coun- 
try, M. de Gondriac P Is it thus 
you aristocrats understand patriot- 
ism V* The emperor confronted 
htm with a flashing eye. 

"My son has answered that 
question, sire." 

"Tut! And because, forsooth, 
your son has done his duty, you 
would have other men's sons be- 
tray theirs ! A peasant makes as 
good a soldier as a peer, let me tell 
you. Because your son conde- 
scended to share the glory of the 
grande artn/e you expect me to 
make you a present of a strong 
young soldier! I do not under- 
stand such sentimental logic." 



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Albas Dream* 



•* Neither do I, sire. I was not 
putting forward the services of my 
son as a claim for this poor lad, 
but those of his two brothers who 
lost their lives, one at Wagram, 
the other at Friedland." 

" What better could have befal- 
len ibem ?" 

*' Nothing, in my estimation ; but 
their mother . . ." 

** France is their mother; she 
claims their allegiance and their 
life before any one. The man who 
puts his mother before his country 
is a fool or a coward !" 

*' This young man has not asked 
to be exempted ; his mother came 
and besought me to have him spared 
to her, and, counting on your grati- 
tude and generosity, sire, I have 
come to lay her petition at your 
feet. The boy himself is frantic 
to be off and die like his brothers." 

" Then he shall have his wish 
and France shall count one more 
hero. Tell his mother she shall 
have a pension. Give me her 
name, and it shall be done at 
once." 

" She is not in want of it, sire ; 
she has wealth enough to buy a 
score of men, if they were to be 
had." 

"But they are not, and so her 
son must go." 

" This is your last word, sire Y* 

"Yes, marquis, my last." 

" Then I have only to crave 
your majesty's forgiveness for my 
intrusion." M. de Gondriac bowed 
and was moving towards the door, 
when the emperor called out : 

" Stay a moment. What motive 
have you in pleading this widow's 
cause so strongly?" 

The marquis in a few words 
told the story of that memorable 
night when Caboff saved him at 
the cost of his own life. The em- 
peror listened to the end without 



interrupting him ; then he resumed 
his walk, and, speaking from the 
other end of the room, " You are 
naturally anxious to pay back so 
heavy a debt," he said. "Would 
this feeling carry you the length of 
making some sacrifice?" 

How could Bonaparte ask the 
question ? Did not M. de Gondri- 
ac's presence here to-night answer 
it exhaustively ? 

"I think I have proved that, 
sire," he answered coldly. 

The emperor was silent for a 
while ; then, turning round, he look- 
ed fixedly at the marquis and said : 

" I withdraw my unconditional 
refusal. I will let you know to- 
morrow on what terms I consent 
to exempt the son of your deliverer 
from dying on the field of battle." 

M. de Gondriac bowed low. " I 
have the honor to salute your ma- 
jesty." 

" Au rcooir^ marquis." 

What did he mean, and what 
was this condition so mysteriously 
hinted at, and only to be declared 
after the night's preparation ? 

M. de Gondriac was sitting over 
his breakfast next morning when an 
estafette rode up to his old hdtel, 
bearing a large official envelope 
stamped with the imperial arms* 
and the talisman ic words, " Maison 
de I'Empereur." M. le Marquis 
broke the seal and ran his eye 
down the large sheet, and then 
tossed it from him with an exclama- 
tion of anger and contempt. 

" Enter his service ! Play lackey 
at the court of an upstart who is 
drenching my country in blood 
from sheer vanity and ambition — a 
usurper who is keeping my liege sov- 
ereign in exile, and the best part 
of my kindred in idleness, or else 
in a servitude more humiliating 
than the dreariest inactivity ! A 
De Gondriac tricked out in the 



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livery of a mountebank king like 
him! Ha! ha! M. de Bonaparte, 
when you give that spectacle to 
the gods, . . . /> vous en fais mon 
compliment r 

M. ie Marquis laughed a low, 
musical laugh as he muttered these 
reflections to himself. But pre- 
sently he ceased laughing and his 
face took a dark and troubled look. 
The emperor made his acceptance 
of this offer the price of Marcel 
CabofTs exemption. If he reject- 
ed it, the lad must join. " Would 
gratitude carry you the length 
of a sacrifice?" When the ques- 
tion had been put to him, it 
seemed to M. de Gondriac that 
he had forestalled it ; but the em- 
peror evidently did not think so, 
and now he was putting him to the 
test. It was the severest he could 
have chosen. When Hermann de 
Gondriac took service under Bona- 
parte, the old nobleman considered 
his son was making a fine sacrifice 
of personal pride to patriotism ; 
but the service here, at least, was a 
noble one, and rendered to France 
rather than to the upstart who had 
captured her. But this other was 
of a totally different order. Even 
in the bygone days, when France 
had a legitimate king and real 
court, the De Gondriacs had been 
shy of taking office in the royal 
household, preferring the service 
of the camp, diplomacy abroad, or 
statesmanship at home; to stoop 
now to be a courtier to Bonaparte 
was a degradation not to be calmly 
contemplated. If the tyrant had 
asked any sacrifice but this, M. le 
Marquis said to himself, he would 
have made it gladly ; but this was 
impossible. It meant the surrender 
of his self-respect, of those princi- 
ples whose integrity he had hither- 
to proudly maintained at no small 
personal risk and cost. Before he 



had finished his coffee, the question 
was settled, and he rose to write 
his answer. 

Trifles sometimes affect us with 
the force of great repellant causes. 
The act of taking the pen in his 
hand brought before him vividly 
the last time he had held it : it was 
in his library at Gondriac ; the wid- 
ow sat watching him with a swell- 
ing heart, made glad by his pro- 
mise solemnly given: '*I pledge 
you my word that your son shall 
not be taken from you." M. le 
Marquis laid down his pen and fell 
to thinking. " No, I can't do it," 
he said after a long pause. " I can't 
belie the traditions of my race ; I 
can't stain the old name and turn 
saltimbanque in my old age." He 
took up the pen and wrote to the 
emperor, declining his offer. 

The next day the town of X 

was full of excitement. The new 
recruits were pouring in, sometimes 
in boisterous crowds, singing and 
hurrahing, sometimes in sober knots 
of twos and threes, sometimes sin- 
gly, accompanied by weeping rela- 
tives, mostly women. There had 
been an official attempt to get up 
a show of warlike enthusiasm, but 
it had failed ; people were growing 
sick of the glories of war, sick of 
sending sons and brothers and hus- 
bands to be massacred for Bona- 
parte's good pleasure. The re- 
cruits were called out by name, and 
answered sullenly as they passed 
through the Mairie out to the mar- 
ket-place, where the sergeant was 
waiting to give them their first les- 
son in drill, showing them how to 
stand straight and get into posi- 
tion. 

" Marcel Caboff I" called out the 
recruiting agent. 

" Remplac^r 

"By whom?" 

" Rudolf, Marquis de Gondriac !" 



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HIGHER. 



1 have lifted np «y cy«t onto die aooiitaiM, wbeaoe help shall come to n/t.^Pt. aau 
Too bite have I knoim thee, O lafinite Beauty ! too late hare I lored thee, O Beanty ever 
•ew X-^i, AnguMtine, 



'Mid wide ^reen meadows, made more fair with flowers — 
Tall, golden lilies, swaying in the sun, 
Slight, clustering rue that web of silver spun — 

I lingered dreaming through the day's first hours. 

About me men in work-day toil were bent, 
Swift levelling the daisies' drift of snow, 
The clover's purple sweetness laying low. 

And ripened grain whose summer life was spent. 

I sat where leafy trees a shadow wrought 
Amid the broad, warm sunshine of the plain, 
Where, undisturbed, poured forth the wood-birds' strain 

And fancy's magic played with every thought : 

A whole life centred in each daisy-round, 

And work-day toil seemed but a slumbrous sound 



II. 

Low rippling at my feet a loitering stream 
Slipt, murmuring music to each listening stone. 
Or flung its silver laughter where soft shone 

The slant sunbeam breaking the shadows' dream ; 

Betwixt the robins' song the swift blue-bird 

Flashed like a heavenly message through the shade 
Where with the sunshine gentlest breezes played. 

And quiet shadows to soft motion stirred. 

Between me and the meadow's smitten flow'rs 

The fresh June roses wreathed the rude fence bars, 
Frail elder trailed its galaxy of stars. 

While butterflies sped by in golden show'rs — 

Far, far beyond, the earth-haze shining through. 
Rose the great mountains' dim and misty blue. 



III. 

So far and strange those misty hills ! so near 
And intimate the little, shady nook, 
The skies reflected in the merry brook — 

Those distant heights so lonely and austere ! 



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HighiT. 457 

Scarce e'en the busy mowers of the field 
Lifted their eyes to those dim gates of bhie 
Where ail their gathered harvest must pass through. 

Its grass and stubble be one day revealed. 

As grew the day, more clear the summits grew ; 
Springing from shadow, radiant waterfalls 
Flung trails of sunshine o'er the stern rock-walls — 

Such sunshine as the valley never knew ! 

Paled the June roses, fading in my hand, 
Tarnished the lowland river's golden sand ! 

IV. 

Then seemed to stir the trembling leaves amid, 

To mingle with the robins' cheerful call, 

A low, sad voice, as if the hills let fall 
Faint, wandering echoes of sweet music hid 
In dark ravine, on solitary height. 

I dropped my roses, gone their ravishment ; 

I passed the mowers o'er their harvest bent ; 
I sought those distant mountain-lands of light. 
Wild, thorny brambles stretched across my way, 

Sharp rocks were weary pathways for my feet, 

Yet ever lured me on those accents sweet 
Whose very sadness was my weakness' stay, 
With every step more intimate and near — 
" Take heart, poor child ! 'tis I ; have, thou no fear. 

V. 

' Take heart, and I thy faltering steps will lead 

Above the earth-mists and the brier-strewn road 

To my far mountain-tops, the pure abode 
Of heaven-born stream, and fair enamelled mead 
\\hose flow'rs immortal fells not any scythe. 

Long have I sought thee 'mid the withering (lowers 

Wherewith thou smiling crown 'dst the fading hours. 
Weaving fine fancies 'mid the murmuring blithe 
Of lowland stream, and birds, and pattering leaves ; 

Long have I called thee, waiting for thy voice, 

So faint it rose above the troublous noise 
Of earthly harvesters among their sheaves ; 
Long have I waited thy dear heart to win. 

So long desired to reign with thee therein.'* 

VI, 

O sorrow-stricken Voice, so piercing sweet ! 
Blinding my eyes with tears, smiting my heart 
Like some fire-pointed, swift-descending dart, 

And giving strength unto my climbing feet 



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458 Hi^ur. 

Seeking those dim and misty hiils of blue. 

Lo ! the great mountains at thy music thrilledt 
And all their deep recesses echoes filled— 
Near and more near the sunlit summits grew ! 
The little birds that gathered, unafraid, 
On berry-laden boughs beside my way 
Mingled thy cadence with their roundelays- 
Its joyousness grown sweeter through thy shade* 
O Voice of love and grief, sad for my sin, 
What ways were thine so poor a thing to win ! 

Vll. 

O thou Almighty Lord of life and death, 
Thou that hast led me out the wilderness 
And shown me thy great hills' pure strength to bless, 

Guard in my soul, lest still it perisheth ! 

The cross thou gavest still I strive to bear- 
So light it grows that half, at times, I fear 
My trust is lost, sign of thy service dear — 

Dost thou bear all, dear Lord, for me no share ? 

So in thy steps to follow still I seek, 

The wearing way thy patient feet have pressed, 

The blood-stained way thy heavy cross hath blessed — 

Dost thou hold me to suffer aught too weak ? 

E'en when I strive one little thorn to grasp 

It turns to tender roses in my clasp. 

VIII. 

The very stones win smoothness from thy feet, 
Beneath whose tread immortal flowers spring, ^ 
Holding within their snowy hearts no sting, 

And breathing spices for love's incense meet. 

The lark, swift rising thy approach to greet, 
The fulness of his heavenly song to pour 
No higher than thy breast divine need soar, 

There hiding life and song in joy complete ! 

Though sheltering trees o'ershadow not my way 
To ward the sultry glow of noonday sun, 
Yet 'neath thy cross the coolest shade is won 

That dims no ray of that eternal day 

That from yon unstained hills of peace doth shine, 

Whereto thou leadest me, O I^ove Divine ! 

IX. 

Yet many bitter tears I ne^ds must weep. 
Remembering the glimmer of the plain 
Where nodding lilies and the bending grain 

Seemed rarest treasure in their gold to keep ; 



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Those thoughtiess hours ere I learned to look 
Beyond my roses to the misty hills — • 
The far-off pastures only God's hand tiUs ; 
Where lost I in the laughter of the brook 
And song of earthly birds that loving Voice, 
That patient call, alas ! too long denied. 
Still in my heart in weeping woe must bide. 
E'en in His breast who bids my soul rejoice, 
The mem'ry of that day's ingratitude 
When God in vain for love his creature sued. 



THE IRON AGE OF CHRISTENDOM. 



Our period is emphatically one 
of historical studies, as we have 
had occasion to remark in a former 
article on the Life and Works of 
M. Ozanam. Among other illu- 
sions swept away by the light of 
truth which these laborious re- 
searches have let in upon the ob- 
scurity of the past, there is one 
great illusion about golden and 
iron ages. In respect to the Chris- 
tian period, specifically, it is mani- 
fest that it is vain to look, in the 
apostolic, arite-Nicene, mediaeval, or 
modem ages, for that ideal perfec- 
tion in real, concrete existence 
which may have been in our im- 
agination as a pleasing picture. 
There has never been an age of 
gold unmixed with baser metal for 
the church any more than for hu- 
manity in general. The analogy 
of the past, which is the only sure 
criterion we can apply to the fu- 
ture, forbids us to expect that there 
ever will be such a purely golden 
age on the earth. Moreover, those 
iron ages or dark ages, of Chris- 
tian or pre-Christian, historic or 
pre-historic times, which have been 
imagined to precede or to interrupt 
the epochs of splendor and light, 
are seen on inspection not to have 
been all iron or all darkness. The 



progress of mankind towards its 
destination has been continuous 
from the beginning, although, in 
larger or smaller local extensions 
or numerical portions of humanity, 
there has been in various periods a 
stoppage or retrogradation of the 
movement, in appearance, and in 
respect to individual progress. 
The earth keeps its regular course, 
though men walk on its surface in 
an opposite direction, and they are 
carried with it unconsciously. The 
ship goes on and carries with it the 
passenger, while he is walking from 
the bow to the stern. Clouds, nigh t, 
and eclipses are not a destruction 
or suspension of the irradiation of 
light from the sun on the earth, but 
its partial and temporary impedi- 
ments. The ship which makes a 
long, dangerous, but successful voy- 
age is making headway while plung- 
ing into the trough of the sea as 
well as while riding the crest of 
the waves ; often is less delayed by 
beating against adverse winds than 
by calm weather and light breezes. 
The bark of Peter, freighted with 
the treasures of human hope and 
destiny, is steadily proceeding, un^ 
der the guidance of her heavenly 
Pilot, over the waves of time, 
through calm and stormy seas, to- 



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ward the port of eternity. Seldom 
does she seem to be in safety, and 
shotv the speed of her motion, to the 
im instructed eyes of those who do 
not possess the sublime science of the 
stars and charts by which her ce- 
lestial course is directed. ** Never,** 
says Lacordaire, ^' is the triumph of 
the church visible at a given mo- 
ment. If you look at any one point 
in the expanse of the ages, the bark 
of Peter appears to be about to be 
engulfed, and the faithful are al- 
ways prompt to cry out : Lord^ save 
us^ we perish ! But if you look at 
the whole series of times, the church 
manifests her strength, and you un< 
derstand what Jesus Christ said in 
the tempest : Man of little faiihy 
where/ore didst thou doubt t" * 

There is nevertheless a difference 
in the character of epochs. The ep- 
ochs of Constantine, Charlemagne, 
Gregory VII., of the thirteenth and 
seventeenth centuries, are seen in 
the retrospect to have a special 
light of glory about them. The 
seventh, tenth, sixteenth, and eigh- 
teenth centuries present a dark as- 
pect The tenth century particu- 
larly, which we are at present bring- 
ing under review, is generally call- 
ed " the iron age" even by our mo- 
dern Catholic historians, and not 
without considerable reason, more 
especially in respect to the state 
and condition of the Roman Church 
and the sovereign pontificate. Ne- 
vertheless, the common notion, de- 
rived from compendious histories 
and the generalized statements which 
form the commonplaces of popular 
literature, respecting the tenth age 
of Christendom is not correct and 
is extremely confused. It was not 
an age of complete barbarism and 
universal ignorance. Ozanam says : 
** Indeed, letters did not, at any 

* Con/, dt Ifotr* Damr^ tome L eonf. ir. at the 



time, perish. The truth is that the 
period of complete barbarism, sup- 
posed at first to extend over a space 
of a thousand years, from the fall 
of the Roman Empire to the cap- 
ture of Constantinople, then gra- 
dually reduced to narrower limits, 
until it remained finally restricted 
to the seventh and tenth centuries, 
vanishes away under a more severe 
scrutiny.*'* Cantti remarks : "This 
epoch is justly called the iron nge, 
because of the cruel sufferings en- 
dured by individuals and nations ; 
but humanity made a sensible pro- 
gress in the face of these trials. 
We cannot, therefore, concur in 
the judgment of those who con- 
sider it the most unhappy period 
of the human race.** f We cannot 
make logical divisions of history 
into epochs exactly corresponding 
with the numerical notation of 
years and centuries. It would be 
absurd to suppose that at 12 a.u. 
of January i, a.d. 900, to borrow 
Carlyle*s expression, " the clock 
of Time struck and an era passed 
away" ; and that the same venera- 
ble old timepiece, from its corner 
in the parlor of the universe, struck 
again in just a hundred years, an- 
nouncing the end of the iron age 
and the beginning of another of 
some different metal. The boun- 
daries of epochs are not quite so 
determinate, and centuries, periods, 
epochs, run into one another, mix, 
blend, elude precise delineation. 
Cantti's tenth epoch is not the 
tenth century, but the period be- 
ginning A.D. 800 and ending a.d. 
1096. This period, between Char- 
lemagne and the Crusades,/ar from 
presenting the aspect of a desolate 
waste to the eye, is crowded and 
variegated with events and persons 
of the most important and inter- 

• Dante, Disc. Prelim. ^ttc, r. 

iHist. l/miv,t ep. x. epilogue, tome is. p. 47!. 



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esting eliaracter, and their history 
is one grextt act in the European 
drama, advancing it sensibly to- 
ward the consummation which we 
are still, in our own age, hastening 
forward and awaiting in the near 
or distant future. Within this great 
period are other and lesser cycles, 
embracing epochs, phases, tempo- 
rary states of ecclesiastical and 
civil prosperity or adversity, alter- 
nations of various kinds, in Chris- 
tendom, in Europe, or in portions 
of the Christian commonwealth, 
each having its distinctive notes. 
That part of it which is in the 
centre presents the characteristics 
of an iron age more distinctly 
marked than the preceding or fol- 
lowing periods. The latter half of 
the ninth and the earlier half of 
the tenth century, taken together, 
really constitute the period which 
can with strict propriety be called 
the iron age. And within this cen- 
tury a period of about forty years, 
including the end of the ninth and 
the first years of the tenth century, 
was a sort of crisis in which Chris- 
tian Europe seemed to have reach- 
ed the dead-point in her progress, 
and, having passed it, went on again 
under the attraction of a new force. 
This statement must not be ta- 
ken as rigorously and uniformly ap- 
plicable to all Europe and Chris- 
tendom. The Greek Empire and 
the degenerate Eastern Church 
were in a state of hopeless deca- 
dence, verging toward a permanent 
downfall. England and Spain, on 
the other hand, passed through 
their worst times, earlier, and were 
going upward and onward, led by 
great men and heroes — Alfred and 
the forerunners of Ferdinand and 
the Cid — ^just at the time when the 
rest of Europe was in the most dis- 
ordered and disastrous condition. 
The crisis of the iron age affected 



chiefly the countries which had con- 
stituted the great domain of Char- 
lemagne — France, Germany, and 
Italy. Its phases were various, in 
respect to time and other conditions, 
in these very countries. The whole 
panorama, as presented to our 
view in the pages of historic?.! nar- 
rative, is as shifting, varied, appar- 
ently capricious, as mountain scen- 
ery in the changing aspects of light 
and shade, produced by sunshine, 
clouds, and moonlight, by trans- 
forming mists and sombre night* 
It is only when we rise to the logi- 
cal order and sequence of events, 
trace effects to their causes, en- 
large our scope of vision, ascend 
into the upper regions of a true 
philosophy of history whose atmo- 
sphere is the Christian idea and 
whose light is celestial faith, that a 
real order, harmony, and progres- 
sion toward an intelligible and 
grand result are clearly discern- 
ible. 

Some few general statements bor- 
rowed from this higher branch of 
historical science roust be premis- 
ed before we can come at a satis- 
factory view of our particular and 
immediate topic and set its details 
in systematic order. 

The actual evils and miseries 
which afflicted the Christian peo- 
ple of Europe during the iron age 
were invasions of Saracens, Scandi- 
navians, and Hungarians, incessant 
wars among greater and lesser 
princes, terrible famines and pesti- 
lences, and, in general, a state of 
turbulence, insecurity, social and 
moral confusion. This whole state of 
things was a relapse into the condi- 
tion brought about by the fall of the 
Roman Empire and the barbarian 
irruption in the seventh century. 
The great reason why it occurred 
is found in the fact that Charle- 
magne's great empire and power 



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passed away and that no unifying, 
organic power succeeded it until 
Europe had passed through a period 
of transition. The Roman Empire 
had to pass away to make room 
for Christendom, and for a time 
its debris and the new material ly- 
ing on the ground for a reconstruc- 
tion made a state of confusion. 
Charlemagne's fundamental work 
was solid and lastinjic> but he had 
to make some temporary structures 
which were showy but not substan- 
tial, and therefore fell down or 
were torn down ; causing more 
disorder for a time, until they were 
cleared away to make room for the 
permanent and splendid walls to be 
built up according to the idea of the 
divine Architect. The European, 
Christian Idea is not that of one, uni- 
form political western empire, ruled 
by an autocracy which continues 
or succeeds to the old, imperial 
Roman power. It is that of a 
community of nations, bound to- 
gether by a common faith, common 
principles, international law, mu- 
tual alliance and amity, and pre- 
serving full scope for distinct and 
beautifully various forms of free, 
spontaneous growth and culture. 
Its regenerating, vivifying, and con- 
trolling spirit is Christianity in the 
Catholic organization. Its centre of 
unity and force is Rome and the 
spiritual supremacy of the pope. 
The political supremacy of an em- 
peror — understanding by an empe- 
ror a universal monarch ruling sub- 
ordinate kings set over dependent 
kingdoms — is incompatible with this 
true idea of a Christendom. Even, 
supposing this universal political 
sovereignty united with the sover- 
eign pontificate of the Pope, it is 
incompatible with that true idea, 
partly for the same reasons, partly for 
different reasons from those which 
militate against it, supposing the 



two distinct powers to exist sepa- 
rately. It was necessary that the 
pope should possess his own sepa- 
rate sovereignty in a kingdom of 
moderate size. It was also neces- 
sary that some one powerful king 
sliould be endowed by the pope with 
a special, sacred pre-eminence among 
other sovereigns, as the protector- 
of his civil princedom and of his 
spiritual supremacy. This was the 
meaning of Charles the Great's im-. 
perial coronation. He was, in fact, 
really the king of almost all Europe. 
But this was temporary. His king- 
dom was divided. The imperial 
dignity was conferred on different 
sovereigns of France, Italy, and 
Germany from time to time, and 
for above thirty years remained in 
abeyance for want of a proper sub- 
ject to receive it, until it rested 
at last on the head uf the first of 
the Saxon line, passing thence to the 
Franconian house, and afterwards 
to the Hohenstaufen. The Ger- 
man emperors were, however, by 
election kings of Germany, and 
as such governed their states; 
whereas they were made emperors 
by papal consecration, and in that 
capacity were protectors of the Holy 
See and the church. The authority 
which they lawfully exercised as 
emperors in the city and principal- 
ity of Rome was the authority of a 
civil magistrate who was not the 
head but the right arm of the pope, 
the real political sovereign in his 
own state. 

The European crisis of the tenth 
century was a period in which the 
Carlovingian dynasty was going into 
decadence, and the new dynasties 
of France and Germany had not yet 
arisen. There was a great want ot 
able sovereigns, and especially of 
men who were strong enough to 
fulfil the functions of the imperial 
office. To turn now especially to- 



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waxds Italy and Rome, it was the 
lack of a strong hand to preserve 
peace and order among the pet- 
ty princes and states of Italy, 
and to protect the pope and the 
Holy See from the rebellions and 
intrigues of powerful nobles and 
contending factions within and 
around the Roman principality, 
which was the chief cause of the 
long obnubilation of the sun of 
Christendom — the Roman Church — 
during the tenth epoch. We pro* 
pose to enter now more minutely 
into the exposition of the historical 
truth respecting this period, so far 
as it relates to the popes and the 
Roman Church directly and imme* 
diately. 

The ordinary accounts of this 
epoch in Roman and Italian his* 
tory produce a singular impression 
on the mind of the reader. It 
seems as if the gas had been sud- 
denly turned off and all had be- 
come dark, or as if an express-train 
filled with passengers had all at 
once been stopped by an impedi- 
ment in the middle of the night at 
an obscure way-station, to the sur* 
prise and chagrin of all on board 
when they awoke in the morning. 
One is puzzled and disgusted by a 
confused, disconnected story which 
reads like the record of crimes and 
disasters in a modern newspaper. 
The persons mentioned seem to 
have no reality or distinct charac- 
ter — to be like the spectres of 
dreams or the personified abstrac* 
tions in parables. The very names 
of the popes, such as Formosus, 
Marinus, Lando, Romanus, have a 
strange, unpapal sound. They ap- 
pear and vanish with marvellous 
rapidity, leaving no trace behind. 
When we read that the world was 
generally expected to explode in 
the year 1000, we are not surprised, 
but rather wonder why it did not, 



and are quite relieved to fin<l 
ourselves safe and sound in tlie 
eleventh century, and hear those 
''whom the Lord hath sent to walk 
through the earth answer the angel 
of the Lord, and say : We have 
walked through the earth ; and be- 
hold, all the earth is inhabited, and 
is at rest." * 

One great difficulty in picking 
the thread of history out of this 
snarl is the paucity of contempo- 
rary documents. Another cause of 
misunderstanding and misrepresen- 
tation has been the flippant and 
mendacious character of the most 
extensive and minute of the chro- 
nicles of the period, that of Luii- 
prand. The same kind of gos- 
siping, scandal-mongering centres 
which exist among us may not have 
existed in the tenth century. There 
were no newspapers filled with li- 
bels and calumnies, falsifications of 
news, reports of the army of de- 
tectives of the press. But there 
were the same violent factions, par- 
ty animosities, intrigues, mutual 
denunciations, raising a cloud of 
smoke and dust like that which 
overhangs a battle-field, in even 
more virulent activity then than 
we now behold them in our modern 
political miUes. All the condensed 
scandal, partisan vituperation, in- 
decent gossip, and malicious ca- 
lumny of the time in which he 
lived are collected in the memoirs 
of Lu\tprand, and from these have 
been infiltrated through succeeding 
times, leaving great stains which 
only the acid of criticism has been 
able to efface. Even Fleury says 
of him that he is extremely pas- 
sionate, excessive both in his abuse 
and his flattery, and given to buf- 
foonery to a degree which trans- 
gresses the bounds of decency. He 
« 

* Zachailas i. io» it. 



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was originally a subdeacon of the 
church of Toledo in Spain, after- 
wards a deacon of the church of 
Pavia, during which time he was 
sent by Berenger, King of Italy, 
on a diplomatic mission to Con- 
stantinople. Later he became Bi- 
shop of Cremona, but was a dis- 
grace to the episcopate. He was a 
courtier of Otho the German em- 
peror, who sent iiim on another 
mission to Constantinople, a vio* 
lent adherent of the Gerihan party, 
bitterly hostile to the Italian party 
and all the popes who favored it, 
and a participator in the schisma- 
tical proceedings of Otho's anti- 
pope. His credit is now entirely 
lost. But at the time of the revolt 
of Luther all the incriminations of 
the popes and the Roman clergy, 
whether true, false, or doubtful, 
were gathered up and made the 
most of to sustain the bill of in- 
dictment against the Holy See. The 
same stories, repeated by numbers 
of writers, produced the effect of 
concurrent testimony on the gene- 
ral mind of the readers of history. 
Baronius and other Catholic his- 
torians, not having sufficient mate- 
rials for testing and correcting all 
these accusations, let a number of 
them pass uncontradicted or ad- 
mitted their truth. Fleury and 
some others of the lowest Gallican 
school, who always write like ad- 
vocates who have taken out a brief 
against the Holy See, have in their 
historical works neglected and per- 
verted facts in a manner which is 
equally shallow and perfidious, and 
as contrary to sound criticism as it 
is to orthodox doctrine. It is only 
since the discovery of Flodoard's 
Lives of the Popes, the critical and 
learned researches of Muratori, and 
the great modern advance of genu- 
ine historical science, that the tis- 
sue of lies depending solely on the 



worthless testimony of Luitprand 
has been swept away. A better ap- 
preciation of the great 'course of 
events and the essential facts of 
history is now possible, and even 
easy. Men of genius, learning, and 
conscientious devotion to truth 
have lighted up these dark, buried 
crypts of the substructure of Chris- 
tendom, as the zealous archaeolo- 
gists of York have done in the old 
minster, whose foundations were 
laid in the very period we are de- 
scribing.* 

In regard to many particular 
events and certain individuals 
whose names figure in connection 
with the transactions of an obscure 
epoch we cannot expect to ac- 
quire a perfect certainty. Nor is 
there anything of moment depend- 
ing on the discovery of the truth 
in such cases. We have to be con- 
tent with a probability or with a 
doubt in thousands of matters 
of detail. There are a considera- 
ble number of popes of whom we 
know next to nothing. In certain 
instances it is not easy to deter- 
mine whether an election of a giv- 
en individual was valid or inva- 
lid. Of the truth or falsehood 
of the accusations made against 
several popes and other persons 
of high ecclesiastical or civil rank, 
and of the reports of assassinations 
and other great crimes, which are so 
frequent in this period of disorder, 
we cannot always form a certain 
judgment. There is enough, how- 
ever, of that which is certain or 
fairly probable to show the con- 
nection, the continuity, and the 
identity of principles both with 
the foregoing and the following 
epochs, and to furnish ample ma- 
terial for the vindication of the 
cause of the Holy See and the Pa- 

• See Mt. Tidcnor^s Li/t, toL i. p. 4A 



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;>acy. There is a sequence in the 
progress through the struggles of 
transition ; there are great and 
good men, noble and heroic achieve- 
ments, interesting and curious epi- 
sodes — in fine, there is a hujnan 
and a Christian character show- 
ing its lineaments in place of the 
cloudy spectre with distorted fea- 
tures which has heretofore scared 
the imagination.* 

We begin our historical sketch 
with Pope Formosus, who was 
elected a.d. 891. This is one of 
the popes of whom we have said 
above that they seem in our com- 
mon histories like a mere shadow 
of a great name without a personal 
reality. Besides, there is a certain 
cloud on his memory, arising from 
the fact that he was deprived of 
his see of Porto by Johyi VIII., and 
that he was the subject of a great 
outrage from his successor, Stephen 
V^I. A careful examination of his 
history shows, however, that he was 
no common man and was both a 
good and an able pope. As Bishop of 
Porto he was one of the most con- 
spicuous among the Italian prelates. 
He left his see to become a mis- 
sionary among the Bulgarians, where 
he labored zealously and success- 
fully in the work of their conver- 
sion. There is nothing to show 
that his censure by Pope John VIII., 
which seems to have been chiefly 
occasioned by his taking an active 
part in a political opposition to the 
Emperor Charles the Bald, involv- 
ed in it any moral dishonor. He 
was restored by Pope Marinus, and 
the indignities inflicted on his 
memory by his successor were a 
wanton and causeless outrage, which 
was condemned and repaired by a 

* We make here our acknowledgment of indebu 
cdnea to the aeries of articles io the CiviliJk Cat- 
i0iicm entiUed '* I Destini di Roma," which was 
begun Aug. 19, 1871, for a great part of what is to 
follow in this article. 

VOL. XXV. — 30 



subsequent pope with the approba- 
tion of the Roman people. 

Europe was just then in the 
depths of the disorders and miser- 
ies caused by the decay of the im- 
perial authority and the degen- 
eracy oi Charlemagne's successors. 
Berenger was king in Northern 
Italy, but Guido, Duke of Spoleto, 
and his son Lambert had been 
crowned emperors in opposition to 
him and to all the French and Ger- 
man claimants. Toward the end 
of tlie short reign of Formosus, 
which lasted less than five years, 
and after the death of Guido, the 
dissatisfaction of the pope with the 
conduct of Lambert and his mo- 
ther, Ermengarda, induced him to* 
summon Arnuiph, King of Ger- 
many, to come to the relief of the 
Holy See and of Italy. He obey- 
ed the summons, made a forcible 
entry into Rome, where the Lam- 
bertine faction had gained the up- 
per hand and thrown Formosus into 
prison, and was by him crowned 
emperor. This was the beginning 
of the appeals of the popes to Ger- 
many for intervention in Italian af- 
fairs, and of the never-ending con- 
flicts between the Italian and Ger- 
man parties in Italy, whose finale 
we have but just witnessed in our 
own day in the exclusion of Austria 
from her dominion in Venetia. 
We have no doubt that it was ne- 
cessary, and on the whole produc- 
tive of good results, that the impe- 
rial crown should be transferred 
to the German sovereigns. But,, 
without delaying to con.sider this- 
point, we simply take note of the 
fact that this was one of the great 
questions of violent dispute and^ 
contention which disturbed the Ro- 
man Church and the papal elec- 
tions so long as there were Italian 
princes who disputed the imperial 
dignity with the Germans. Ar- 



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nulph returned almost immediately 
to Germany. Formosus died and 
was followed to the tomb a few 
weeks after by his immediate suc- 
cessor, Boniface VI. The party 
of Lambert succeeded in obtaining 
the election of Stephen VI., the 
first of the popes who grievously 
dishonored the tiara. His violent 
and shameful conduct caused a 
temporary reaction in favor of the 
opposite party, by whom he was 
imprisoned and strangled. Lam- 
bert was, nevertheless, acknow- 
ledged by the th ree succeedingpopes, 
Romanus, Theodore II., and John 
IX., and by two successive coun- 
cils, and the pact between the 
church and the empire was solemn- 
ly renewed. These three pontifi- 
cates filled only a space of three 
years and closed the century. The 
year 901 saw a new competitor for 
the imperial crown, which death 
had taken from Lambert's head, in 
the person of Louis of Provence, 
who was actually crowned by Bene- 
dict IV., but very soon driven 
away by Berenger, who was still 
reigning in the north of Italy. 
Berenger was an able and warlike 
sovereign, in many respects worthy 
of admiration, and capable of fill- 
ing the imperial office with honor 
to himself and advantage to Ita- 
ly. Circumstances were, however, 
extremely adverse. He main- 
tained himself in possession of a 
certain pre-eminence among the pet- 
ty sovereigns of Italy, and carried 
on vigorously wars against the Sa- 
racen and Hungarian invaders. 
He was even ci owned emperor in 
915, but was never able to establish 
his authority on a solid and perma- 
nent basis, and at last, in 924, he 
was assassinated by a conspiracy of 
Italian nobles. With him the im- 
perial office became extinct, and re- 
mained so until it was resuscitated. 



thirty-eight years afterward, in the 
person of Otho the Great. 

The failure of the imperial power 
which had been instituted in the 
person of Charlemagne left the Holy 
See and all Italy a prey to contend- 
ing, petty sovereigns, to powerful 
and mutually hostile nobles and fac- 
tions, and to fierce heathen invad- 
ers. The Roman pontiffs maintain- 
ed with difficulty a restricted, often 
merely nominal, civil sovereignty in 
the city and principality of Rome. 
Between the years 900 and 914 
six popes succeeded each other : 
Benedict IV., Leo V., Christopher, 
Sergius III., Anastasius III., and 
Landb. Of the nine popes who 
came between Stephen VI. and 
John X., it is certain that nearly 
all were worthy of their exalted 
position, and the grave accusations 
made against two of the number, 
Christopher and Sergius, rest on 
uncertain testimony. The average 
length of their reigns being less 
than two years, and that of the 
longest among them only seven, 
most of the number had no time to 
make a conspicuous figure in histo- 
ry, and their annals are so scanty 
that very little is known of the acts 
of their administration. 

The reign of John X., which 
lasted fourteen years, from 914 to 
928, was of a different character. 
He was one of the great popes, and 
proved himself fully equal to the 
emergencies of the time and the 
difficulties of his position. For 
nine years previously to his elec- 
tion to the Roman See he had 
been Archbishop of Ravenna, and 
the extraordinary ability which he 
had exhibited in his government 
of that important church had 
pointed him out as one capable of 
making head, in conjunction with 
Berenger, against the perils with 
which Rome and Italy were beset 



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at this most dangerous crisis in 
their destinies. In fact, he was 
obliged to do the work alone ; for 
Berenger was unable to help him, 
having his hands full in fighting 
Saracens and Hungarians in North- 
ern Italy. There was no hope to 
be placed either in Germany or 
France. The only resource for the 
pope was to place himself at the 
head of his own barons and in al- 
liance with the neighboring princes, 
and to lead the war against the 
Saracens in person. For this pur- 
pose he formed a league among 
the princes of Southern Italy, and, 
obtaining also auxiliaries from the 
Greek emperor, conducted a short 
and brilliantly successful campaign 
against the Saracens, by which they 
were completely discomfited and 
finally expelled from that part of 
Italy. The entire reign of John X. 
was in conformity with its glorious 
beginning; but soon after the vio- 
lent and tragical overthrow of the 
noble Emperor Berenger by the 
turbulent Italian nobles, a similar 
catastrophe ended the career of 
the great pope, his friend and com- 
peer. Alberic, Count of Tusculum, 
and Theophylact, senator of Rome, 
had been the two most powerful 
supporters, and the former had 
been the chief subordinate leader, 
of the great military operations of 
John X. The almost exclusive 
glory and credit which the popu- 
lar voice ascribed to John for the 
liberation of the country from the 
Saracens, and the great increase 
and concentration of the sovereign 
authority under his vigorous ad- 
n.inistration, stirred up the jeal- 
ousy and discontent of these great 
nobles. The wife of Theophylact 
was the famous Theodora, the 
younger Theodora was their daugh- 
ter, and another daughter, Mariuc- 
cia, commonly called Marozia, was 



the wife of Alberic. These wo- 
men, but especially the last men- 
tioned, were remarkable for their 
beauty, talents, and ambition. The 
stream of filthy tradition which has 
come down through the sewer of 
Luitprand and the popular ro- 
mances of the period has transmit- 
ted to posterity the names of these 
women, stained with every kind of 
foulness and cruelty. How much 
of calumny and exaggeration there 
may be in these scandalous stories 
we cannot determine. It is certain 
that the family exercised a great 
sway in Rome for many years both 
before and after the great coup 
d'etat in which the intrigues of Ma- 
rozia culminated and collapsed, as 
we are about to relate. One year 
after the murder of Berenger, Al- 
beric was killed in an unsuccessful 
assault on Rome, and Marozia mar- 
ried Guido, Marquis of Tuscany. 
The sister of Guido, Ermengarda, 
Marchioness of Ivrea, was another 
of the group of Italian princesses 
of that period, remarkable in all 
respects, except in the special vir- 
tues of Christian women. In 926 
Marozia set on foot, with these two 
accomplices, a revolution in Italy, 
by which Rodolph of Burgundy, 
the successful rival and successor 
of Berenger in the kingdom of Italy, 
was chased out to make room for 
Hugo of Provence, the half-brother 
of Guido. After the coronation 
of Hugo at Pavia, Guido and Ma- 
rozia took possession of Rome by 
force of arms and imprisoned Pope 
John X., who died a few months 
afterward, it is suspected by vio- 
lence. Guido also died within a 
year from his usurpation, and Ma- 
rozia governed the city alone with 
the titles of senator and patrician. 
After the two short, and perhaps 
abbreviated, pontificates of Leo VI. 
and Stephen VIII., she caused the 



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younger of her two sons by Alberic 
to be elected pope under the name 
of John XI. Still unsatisfied, she 
aspired to become queen of Italy, 
and empress, and for this purpose 
contracted a marriage — which by 
the ecclesiastical law was null and 
void * — with her brother-in-law, 
Hugo, the King of Italy. The mar- 
riage was celebrated in 932, and 
the imperial coronation was expect- 
ed to follow in due time. But the 
violent and imperious temper of 
the Burgundian Hugo ruined all 
these plans. Alberic, eldest son of 
Marozia by her first husband, Al- 
beric of Tusculum, was a youth 
who inherited all the brilliant quali- 
ties of both his parents, and whose 
cliaracter was certainly not de- 
rived from his mother or due to 
her influence. One day at dinner 
the princely youth was acting as 
l)age to the king, and by accident 
or design poured too much water 
on his hands, for which he received 
a buffet on the cheek from his rude 
step-father. He immediately left 
the room in a towering passion, 
and, running out upon the piazza, 
summoned the people, with words 
of burning eloquence, to vengeance 
and rescue. The Castle of St. An- 
gelo was very speedily taken by as- 
sault, Hugo was forced to save his 
life by flight, and Marozia, banish- 
ed from Rome, repudiated by her 
husband, thwarted in her wicked 
schemes, disappeared from view, 
and, it is to be hoped, passed the 
rest of her days until her death, 
which did not occur later than 945, 
in doing penance for her sins. 

Now followed one of the most 
curious and interesting of episodes 
in the history of Christian Rome. 
^Mberic reigned during his whole 

* A dispensation may have been granted, but 
Hugo afterwards disavowed the marriage on the 
pica of the ecclesiastical impediment. 



life-time — a period of twenty-two 
years — as absolute sovereign of 
Rome, with ability, justice, and 
popularity. He was in harmony 
with the popes, a protector of his 
kingdom and of the Holy See, a 
munificent patron of religious orders, 
a benefactor to the church and re- 
ligion. The period of his reign is 
like an oasis in the desert of the 
tenth century. It is true that he 
kept his brother, John XI., in an 
honorable yet strict imprisonment 
during his life-time. Yet, although 
there is nothing recorded to the 
discredit of this pope, Alberic's 
conduct toward the succeeding 
pontiffs shows that he must have 
had strong reasons for his treat- 
ment of his brother. The elections 
of popes during his reign were free 
and peaceful, and the best men 
among the Roman clergy were 
chosen. By degrees the legal form 
of the administration was so regu- 
lated that the sovereign rights and 
titles of the pope were preserved ; 
and although the actual civil gov- 
ernment was entirely in the hands 
of Prince Alberic, it was adminis- 
tered by him as the pope's tempo- 
ral vicar, without discord between 
the two powers. As a provisional 
arrangement it worked well, but 
Alberic was too wise and far-seeing 
to think its permanent continuance 
possible or desirable. By a singu- 
lar stroke of policy he prepared 
for the restoration of the real sover- 
eignty to the one who had not 
ceased to retain the title and the 
right. His son Octavian was edu- 
cated as an ecclesiastic, and the 
chiefs of the clergy and nobility 
were induced to make a solemn en- 
gagement before Alberic's death to 
elect Octavian pope on the first va- 
cancy of the Holy See. He was 
accordingly elected pope soon after 
the death of his father, although he 



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was but eighteen years of age, and 
assumed the name of John XII. 

Of the personal and private char- 
acter of this youthful pontiff, who 
died at the age of twenty-six after 
a reign of eight years, it is very 
difficult, if not impossible, to form 
an exact and certain estimate. 
The accusations made against him 
during his life-time are atrocious, 
and they are still repeated by mod- 
ern writers, although the most judi- 
cious and moderate historians soft- 
en them down considerably. The 
learned writer in the Civilth gives 
his judgment that as a pontiff all 
his acts were laudable, and, as a 
king, worthy of one who was the 
son of Alberic. In respect to his 
private morals, he considers that 
the accusations of his political ene- 
mies and of writers attached to the 
German, imperial party — the almost 
sole remaining source of informa- 
tion respecting that period — are to 
be distrusted ; but that it is diffi- 
cult to exculpate him altogether 
from the reproach of having lived 
more as secular princes are wont 
to do than as became the holy 
state of a bishop. The salient 
point of his administration was the 
calling in of the King of Germany, 
Otho the Great, and the subsequent 
imbroglio between the pope and 
the emperor. Otho, who well de- 
serves the name of Great, notwith- 
standing grievous errors and wrongs 
in his conduct toward the Holy See, 
had been reigning twenty years 
when he was summoned to Rome 
and crowned emperor. The return 
of the old disorders in Italy made 
his intervention necessary, but he 
carried it too far, and John XII., 
probably with good reason, and 
certainly acting in a way which was 
natural in a high-spirited and 
youthful sovereign trained in the 
maxims and sentiments of an Ital- 



ian prince, joined with the other 
princes of Italy in opposition to the 
German domination. A struggle 
between John and Otho was the 
consequence. The emperor, mis- 
led by the bad advice. of Luitprand 
and other bishops, attempted to de- 
pose the pope and substitute an 
anti-pope, who called himself Leo 
VIII., in his place. John XII. 
died suddenly before this conflict 
had any decisive issue, and Bene- 
dict V. was elected in his place, but 
was soon after carried away into 
Germany by Otho and kept in cap- 
tivity at Hamburg. On the death 
of the anti-pope, which occurred in 
March, 965, a few months after the 
death of John, the Romans request- 
ed the restoration of Benedict V., 
which was granted by Otho. The 
pope, however, died on his journey 
to Rome, venerated and regretted 
even by the emperor and by all 
with whom he had come into per- 
sonal contact, as well as by the Ro- 
mans. 

The emperor and all the various 
parties by which Rome was divid- 
ed agreed together and concurred' 
in the election of John XIII., who 
favored the German party in poli- 
tics, and had, on the whole, a peace- 
ful and prosperous reign of six 
years, sustained by the imperial 
power, although it was interrupted 
by one violent sedition, which was 
repressed and punished in the se- 
verest manner. 

The close of the reigns of the 
Pope John XIII. and the Empe- 
ror Otho the Great was marked by 
one extraordinary and most inter- 
esting event — the marriage of the 
young Emperor Otho II. with The- 
ophania, a Greek princess of dis- 
tinguished beauty, intellectual ac- 
complishments, and personal virtues. 
She brought with her as dowry all 
the Greek possessions in Italy, and 



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was regarded as an angel of peace 
between the two empires. 

The death of Otho I. in 973 was 
the signal for new outbreaks and 
disturbances in Italy. In Rome a 
struggle began between two power- 
ful families: the Crescenzi, who 
were tlic great lords of the Sabine 
territory, and the Conti — tliat is, 
the Tusculan counts — ^who were the 
principal barons of Latium. Tlie 
latter favored, while the former op- 
posed, the imperial power in Italy. 
Crescenzio, or Cencio, the first lead- 
er of the Italian faction, is suppos- 
ed by many writers to have been 
a grand-nephew of Marozia. He 
attempted an imitation of Alberic, 
though not by the same honorable 
means, and endeavored to gain pos- 
session for himself of the Roman 
principality. Tlie pope, Benedict 
VI., who had succeeded John XIII. 
a few months before the death 
of Otho I., was assaulted and de- 
throned by armed force, imprisoned 
in the Castle of St. Angelo, and at 
last strangled. An infamous eccle- 
siastic, a partisan and accomplice 
with Crescenzio in his crimes, was 
intruded into the chair of St. Peter 
while he was still, in the language 
of Pope Sylvester II., dripping with 
the blood of his predecessor. This 
so-called Pope Boniface VII., who 
is commonly regarded as an anti- 
pope, was dispossessed, after one 
month, together with his patron, 
Crescenzio, by a counter-revolution 
under the counts of Tusculum, and 
fled to Constantinople. At a later 
period he returned and succeeded 
in seizing on the government for a 
brief period, but came at length to 
a most tragical and ignominious 
end. Crescenzio ended his days 
in a monastery. It is uncertain 
whether there was or was not a 
pope named Donus II. who reigned 
for a few months after the death of 



Benedict VI. Benedict VII., a 
nephew of Alberic, Count of Tuscu- 
lum, and Bishop of Sutri, was en- 
throned, according to Mansi, on 
the 28th of December, 974, and 
governed the Roman Church dur- 
ing his pontificate of nine years in 
such a manner as to leave no stain 
upon his reputation. One of his 
first acts was to excommunicate, in 
a council of bishops, Cardinal Fran- 
co, the anti-pope. In 980 he was 
obliged to call upon the young em- 
peror, Otho II., to come to his assist- 
ance in Rome. He came, in fact, 
during the following year, but, after 
an unsuccessful campaign against 
the allied Greeks and Saracens, 
died in his imperial palace at Rome, 
Dec. 9, 983, in the twenty-eighth 
year of his age — a prince whose 
character made him worthy of hib 
father, but who was less fortunate 
in his destiny. His premature 
death and the infancy of Otho III. 
seemed to threaten both Germany 
and Italy with great disasters. 
Germany was preserved from these 
menacing evils by the sanctity and 
ability of two noble and heroic 
women — St. Adelaide, the widow of 
Otho the Great, and Theophania, 
widow of Otho II., and imperial 
regent in the name of her son, who 
was but three years old, yet uni- 
versally recognized as King of Ger- 
many and emperor-elect. Rome, 
however, had still to suffer, and re- 
mained for another half-century to 
come the foot-ball of rival factions. 
The son of Crescenzio, called Cres- 
cenzio Nomentano, obtained the up- 
per hand in Rome, recalled the 
anti-pope, Boniface VI I., imprisoned 
and put to death John XIV., the 
successor of Benedict VI., and 
made himself patrician and gov- 
ernor of Rome. The sudden death 
of Boniface, however, and the 
universal hatred in which his mem- 



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ory was held, enabled the clergy 
And people of Rome to elect a wor- 
thy pope in the person of John 
XV. (April, 986), who held the see 
ten years, governing with great 
prudence and success, notwith- 
standing the great difficulties of 
his position. In 989 the empress- 
mother, Theophania,canie to Rome 
and held an imperial court. It was 
expected that she would put an 
end to the tyranny of Crescenzio 
Nomentano, but she was deceived 
by his extreme cunning and hypo- 
critical promises so far that she 
confirmed him in his office as patri- 
cian. After her departure he be- 
came so much worse that the pope 
was obliged to leave Rome and 
take refuge with Hugo, Marquis of 
Tuscany, through whose interven- 
tion a pressing request was sent to 
the emperor-elect, Otho III., now 
seventeen years of age, to come in 
person to Italy. So great was now 
the fear of the imperial power that 
Crescenzio hastened to reconcile 
himself to the pope, who returned 
and was reconducted with great 
manifestations of honor to the Lat* 
eran palace. 

On his arrival in Rome at the 
head of a large army, early in 996, 
Otho III., who, with precocious 
vigor of mind and character, had 
assumed the reins of government, 
found the Roman See vacant by 
the death of John XV., and his 
first care was the election of his 
successor. The one whom he pro- 
posed, and who was accepted by 
the electors, was a young ecclesi- 
astic but twenty-four years of age, 
the son of the Duke of Franconia 
and his own cousin-german. His 
name was Bruno, and his accom- 
plished education, joined with a 
mature virtue, made him worthy to 
fill the see of Peter. He assumed 
the name of Gregory V., and gave 



great promise of adorning the Holy 
See during a long pontificate, as 
Otho did of becoming an illustrious 
emperorof Germany. The hopes of 
tlie church and the empire were, 
however, frustrated by the early 
death of both. Crescenzio had 
been condemned to banishment, 
but, at the request of Gregory, his 
sentence was remitted. Tlie gen- 
erosity of the two youthful and con- 
fiding sovereigns was requited by 
Crescenzio, as soon as Otho's back 
was turned, by an uprising against 
the German pope and the imperial 
officers, the expulsion of Gregory, 
and the creation of an anti-pope, 
wlio was John Philagathos, a Greek 
monk, Bishop of Piacenza, and 
lately ambassador of the emperor 
at the court of Constantinople. 
The bold plan of these two con- 
spirators was nothing less than 
the restoration of the sovereignty 
of the West to the Greek emperor, 
under whose auspices each one 
hoped to be confirmed in his usurp- 
ed authority at Rome. In 998 
Gregory and Otlio re-entered Rome 
together, and this time showed no 
clemency either to Crescenzio or 
Philagathos, both of whom were 
victims of a terrible vengeance. 

Pope Gregory died in 999, in the 
twenty-seventh year of his age and 
the third of his pontificate. He 
was succeeded by the celebrated 
Gerbert, a French monk, formerly 
abbot of the famous monastery of 
Bobbio, and at this present time 
Archbishop of Ravenna, who took 
the name of Sylvester II. He had 
been the guide, tlie tutor, and the 
friend of Otho during his boyhood. 
In his earlier career he iiad been 
somewhat hot-headed, and had sus- 
tained a sharp and obstinate con- 
test with Pope John XV. in respect 
to the see of Rouen. Now, how- 
ever, he was an old man and a 



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wise. No pope so truly great, in 
the sense of the word most appro- 
priate to a bishop and an ecclesias- 
tical ruler, had ascended the papal 
throne since the time of St. Nicho- 
las the Great, in the middle of the 
ninth century. Otho remained al- 
ways in Rome and Italy, for which 
he had a special predilection. 
Nothing can be more beautiful 
than the picture of this venerable 
and learned old man, with his gift- 
ed and loving pupil by his side, 
" pulchri Casarispulcherrima proles^ ' ' 
filling together the throne of an- 
cient, eternal Rome with their 
pontifical and imperial majesty. 
What a subject for a painter or a 
poet ! Otho is one of the most win- 
ning characters to b« found in all 
history. His mother, the Greek 
princess, had given him an exquisite 
mental culture, and his grandmoth- 
er, St. Adelaide, a most pious edu- 
cation. There was something vi- 
sionary and romantic in his nature 
which only adds to his personal at- 
tractiveness. He dreamed of great 
things for Rome and the empire, 
such as the Florentine seer who 
had the vision of the unseen world 
dreamed of, but which were not in 
accordance with the plans of divine 
Providence, and probably not with 
the views of Sylvester II. He died 
at a castle near Civita Castellana, 
in the twenty-third year of his age, 
in the arms of Sylvester, who fol- 
lowed him to the tomb in a little 
more than a year after, on the i2ih 
of May, 1003. 

The dreaded year 1000 had been 
passed and the eleventh century 
was begun. It was really one of 
the most fortunate of all the centu- 
ries for Rome and the popes, yet 
it began under dark and menacing 
auspices. The Crescenzi regain- 
ed the predominance in Rome and 
kept it for twelve years during 



three pontificates— viz., those of 
John XVII., which lasted only 
five months, of John XVIII. and 
Sergius IV., both of whom ruled the 
church in peace and with honor to 
tliemselves, yet were obliged to tol- 
erate the usurpation of the patrician 
Giovanni Crescenzio, who seems to 
have governed with more mildness 
than his father, Nomentano, had 
done. In 1012, after his death, 
the dominion of this family came 
finally to an end, being supplanted 
by that of the Conti Tusculani, who 
retained it for thirty years. Count 
Gregory, a descendant of Alberic 
and Marozia, whose later years 
were rendered illustrious by piety 
and good works of a splendid mu- 
nificence, left at his death three 
sons, Alberic, Theophylact, and 
Roman us. The second of these 
became pope under the name of 
Benedict VIII., and governed the 
church as well as the Roman princi- 
pality during twelve years with con- 
summate ability, aided in his civil 
administration by his two brothers, 
and in perfect amity with the empe- 
ror, St. Henry II., who had succeed- 
ed his cousin, Otho III., but had 
always been prevented by wars and 
other pressing employments else- 
where from interfering in Italian 
afiairs. In 1014 Sl Henry was 
able to come to Rome with his 
queen, St. Cunegunda, to receive 
the imperial coronation from the 
pope. A rival king of Ilaly, Arduin, 
the last of the Italian kings who 
aspired to the iron crown of Lom- 
bardy until Victor £manuel appear- 
ed, had been conquered, and, retir- 
ing to a monastery, passed the rest 
of his days in penance. Henry and 
Benedict together made successful 
war upon the Greeks and Saracens, 
putting an end to the troubles of 
Italy from both these enemies. 
The pope and the emperor both 



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died at about the same time in 1024, 
and with Henry II. was ended the 
Saxon line of emperors, which was 
succeeded by the Franconian, call- 
ed also the Ghibelline from the 
family castle of Waiblingen, and the 
Salic, from the tribal name Salii — 
/.^., dwellers by the river Sala. 
Benedict's brother Roman us suc- 
ceeded him on the pontifical throne 
under the name of John XIX., and 
united more strictly in his own 
person the functions of ecclesiasti- 
cal and civil sovereignty than had 
been the case during the reign of 
his predecessor. His pontificate of 
eight years was a laudable admin- 
istration, without any event of note 
which has been recorded, except 
the coronation of the first Franco- 
nian emperor, Conrad II. This 
coronation was marked by the 
presence of an unusually numerous 
and splendid assemblage of princes 
and prelates from all parts of Eu- 
rope, among whom were Rudolph, 
Duke of Burgundy, and Canute the 
Great, King of Denmark and En- 
gland. This grand ceremony was 
performed in the spring of 1027, 
but, notwithstanding the new splen- 
dor which seemed at that time to en- 
viron the Holy See, the greatest 
disgrace and scandal with which it 
was ever afflicted was close at hand 
and came upon it in the next pon- 
tificate. On the death of John XIX., 
in 1032, there was no one of the 
family of the Conti upon whose head 
the tiara could be placed with any 
sort of fitness and propriety. So 
great and so strongly fixed was the 
power of that family that they suc- 
ceeded in securing the election and 
coronation of a young boy, Theo- 
phylact, nephew of the two pre- 
ceding popes, and the son of Count 
Alberic, their elder brother. He is 
said by some historians to have been 
twelve years old, by others to have 



been perhaps seventeen. Under the 
name of Benedict IX. he continu- 
ed during the thirteen years of his 
reign, under the protection of the 
emperor and supported by the 
power of his family, to harass his 
subjects by his capricious tyranny, 
and to afflict and desolate the church 
by the unrestrained license of his 
moral conduct. His scandalous 
life and maladministration of the 
government brought on a schism 
headed by an anti-pope calling 
himself Sylvester III., caused fre- 
quent and violent popular tumults, 
and excited universal contempt and 
odium against his own person. At 
last the discontent reached such an 
extreme that of his own free-will 
Benedict abdicated his office, that 
he might have greater freedom to 
live without any restraint upon his 
conduct. The most distinguished 
and the most respected priest of 
the Roman Church at this time 
was John Gratian, arch-priest of 
the church of St. John at the Latin 
Gate, the preceptor of St. Hilde- 
brand, who was afterwards Pope 
Gregory VII. Desiring to put an 
end to the calamities of every kind 
which were the consequence of a 
sacrilegious pontificate, Gratian took 
the extraordinary course of offering 
a large subsidy in money to Bene- 
dict IX. on condition of a com- 
plete renunciation of all his rights 
to the Roman See. He was then 
himself canonically elected Pope 
under the name of Gregory VI., 
and began with zeal the work of 
reformation in both church and 
state. Nevertheless, the circum- 
stance that he had given a sum 
of money to induce Benedict to 
resign gave occasion to such a 
plausible outcry of simony and 
personal ambition against Gregory, 
and the resistance of the anti-pope 
Sylvester as well as that of Bene- 



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diet, who reclaimed his former of- 
fice, was so violent, that it was ne- 
cessary to call in the aid of the 
new emperor Henry III., and to 
summon a numerous council, that 
the rival claims might be adjudi- 
cated and sufficient measures be 
adopted for restoring peace and 
order. The council, which met at 
Sutri, set aside entirely both Syl- 
vester and Benedict. The deci- 
sion of his own case was referred 
to Gregory with great respect, but 
with a manifest wish that he should 
resign. The pope disclaimed in the 
most solemn manner all mercenary 
and selfish motives for what he had 
done, yet nevertheless, on account 
of the scandal which had been oc- 
casioned, he judged himself to be 
unworthy of the papal dignity, and 
abdicated it with many tears and 
expressions of humility. The coun- 
cil confirmed his resignation, which 
St. Hildebrand and many others re- 
gretted, but which the greater num- 
ber, with St. Peter Damian, highly 
approved, notwithstanding their es- 
teem for Gregory, who retired into 
a monastery, where he lived a se- 
cluded and holy life. Even Bene- 
dict at last repented, and spent the 
few remaining years of his life in 
prayer and penance in the monas- 
tery of Grotta-Ferrata, which his 
grandfather, Count Gregory, had 
founded. 

On Christmas eve, 1046, Suidger, 
Bishop of Bamberg, was proposed 
by the emperor to the Roman cler- 
gy and people, and by them elected 
pope, taking the name of Clement 
II. He was enthroned on Christ- 
mas day, and on the same day 
crowned the emperor and empress, 
and, as a safeguard against the abuse 
of the power of the Roman patri- 
cian by the Italian barons, it was 
transferred to the emperor, who was 
thus made the recognized head of 



the Roman aristocracy, with a spe- 
cial right of superintending the 
election of the sovereign pontiffs. 
From this moment commenced the 
dawn of better and brighter days 
for Rome. The great work of re- 
formation was begun by Clement; 
and, although his reign lasted but 
one year, and his successor, an- 
other German prelate of high 
character — Poppo, Bishop of Brix- 
en, who became Damasus II. — sur- 
vived his enthronization but twenty- 
three days, a saint was waiting to 
inaugurate the. glorious series of 
the Hildebrandine popes. 

Bruno, Bishop of Toul, who was 
St. Leo IX., having after long re- 
sistance been persuaded by the 
emperor and the most eminent pre- 
lates to consent to assume the tiara, 
stopped at Cluny to see Hilde- 
brand, a young monk, who became 
St. Gregory VII. With difficulty 
he induced him to accompany him 
to Rome, on the condition that he 
would make the journey in pil- 
grim's garb, and submit the impe- 
rial nomination without reserve to 
the free election of the clergy and 
people of the Roman Church. He 
was enthroned on the 12th of Feb- 
ruary, which was the first Sunday 
of Lent, 1049. The eleventh cen- 
tury was at its zenith, and the 
bright sun of a new era shed its 
rays upon Christendom, as a new 
St. Leo sat upon the throne of St. 
Peter, St. Leo the Great, St. Gre- 
gory, and St. Nicholas, chasing 
away the darkness and the clouds 
of the tenth century, and putting 
an end to the period of the obnu- 
bilation of the Roman Church. 

We have confined our attention 
almost entirely to the local history 
of the popes, without noticing their 
administration of the universal 
church. The general ecclesiasti- 
cal history of the whole period be- 



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tween St. Nicholas I. and St. Gre- 
gory VII. furnishes abundant proof 
of the universal recognition and 
continuous exercise of the papal 
supremacy in the East as well as 
in the West. Adrian II. celebrat- 
ed the eighth oecumenical council 
at Constantinople in 870. John 
VIII., John X., and John XV. ex- 
ercised throughout Europe the 
same spiritual authority which 
was exercised by Nicholas the 
Great. The local difficulties of the 
])opes, and even the scandals which 
disturbed the Roman Church, had 
no effect throughout Christendom 
to diminish the authority of the 
Roman See. During the general 
anarchy and chaos caused by the 
new irruption of barbarians the 
imity and common life of Christen- 
dom was oppressed and enfeebled, 
and the corporate, organic action of 
the universal church could not 
manifest itself so vigorously as it 
had done before and did after- 
w^ards. When all the evils which 
had attacked the church and 
Christendom at the very centre of 
life in Rome readied their crisis in 
the pontificate of Benedict IX., it 
was certainly felt by all good and 
honest men that the very existence 
of the Papacy and the Catholic 
Church, of the whole European so- 
ciety, and of all civilization, morali- 
ty, and order on the earth, was in 
imminent danger. The spectacle 
of a youth who was no better in 
morals, and no stronger in intellec- 
tual or princely qualities, than the 
weakest and most dissolute of the 
Carlovingian monarchs, seated on 
the throne of St. Peter, shocked and 
scandalized Christendom to such 
an extent that the loud outcry has 
not yet ceased to resound in our 
ears. Yet we perceive in the 
action of the Council of Sutri, and 
of the emperor, Henry III., in re- 



spect to Gregory VI., one of the 
most signal and splendid testimo- 
nies to the undoubting and unsha- 
ken faith of that age in t))e supre- 
macy of the pope. Sylvester was 
judged and condemned to perpet- 
ual imprisonment as an intruder 
and a pseudo-pope. Benedict was 
set aside, not because the council 
pretended to judge him for his con- 
duct while pope, but because he 
had executed a legal and valid ab- 
dication of his office. In respect 
to Gregory, the council examined 
and judged of nothing except the 
validity of his election, and, this be- 
ing ascertained, left the judgment 
of his own case to his own supreme 
authority, to his conscience, and to 
Almighty God. 

Just one rapid and parting glance 
we must cast over Christendom, to 
take in by a general view its 
movement through this segment of 
the great cycle of time, and the 
state into which it had grown in 
the middle of the eleventh century. 
The great barbarian and heathen 
irruption into Christian Europe 
was like the casting of an immense 
mass of fresh coals upon a glowing 
but gradually-expiring fire in a 
great foundry furnace. The gene- 
ral aspect was black and dead, and 
the momentary efiect ^yas a sus- 
pension of the great works com- 
menced, but the result was a rapid 
kindling from the burning bed be- 
neath, a stronger and hotter fire, 
and a more vigorous resumption of 
operations. The threatened Mo- 
hammedan conquest of Europe was 
averted, the Hungarian invasion 
completely and finally repelled, the 
Scandinavian eruptions changed 
into a most beneficial colonization 
and infusion of a new element of 
strength. Many other most re- 
markable and salutary political and 
social transformations were effected. 



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The Scandinavians, Hungarians, 
Russians, and other Sclavonian na- 
tions were converted and added 
to the church. A beginning was 
made with the Prussians, even, by 
the martyrdom of their first apos- 
tle, St. Adalbert, although the 
work was not completed until near 
the close of the thirteenth centu- 
ry and proved to be short-lived. 
Since they have resumed the per- 
secution of bishops, there may be, 
perhaps, a hope of their reconver- 
sion. 

The calendars of the two centu- 
ries from 850 to 1050 are crowded 
with the names of great saints and 
other illustrious men and women. 
Among the popes flourished St. 
Leo IV., founder of the Leonine 
City, St. Nicholas L, John X., 
Benedict VIIL, and Sylvester IL 
Among the emperors and kings 
we may single out Berenger, Henry 
the Fowler, Otho the Great, St. 
Henry IL, Hugh Capet, Robert, 
Alfred, Canute, Edward the Con- 
fessor; Edward and Edmund, 
martyrs; Brian Boroihme, Ferdi- 
nand, St. Stephen, St. Olaf, Rollo, 
and Wladimir. In the brilliant 
group of Christian empresses and 
queens shine with special lustre 
Theodora, St. Adelaide, St. Cune- 
gunda, St. Matilda, Theophania, 
and Olga. As illustrious speci- 
mens of the great number of bish- 
ops and abbots of high virtue and 
merit, we mention St. Anschartus, 
St. Methodius, St. Ignatius of Con- 
stantinople, St. Dunstan, St. Odo 
of Cluny, and St. Romuald. These 
two centuries contributed but lit- 
tle to the treasury of literature. 
There is, nevertheless, a considera- 
rable list of authors, among wliom 
are worthy of mention Nithart, 
Flodoard, Suidas, Pascharius Rad- 
bert, Wuthikind the German anna- 
list, and John Scotus Erigena. 



One of the most gifted and clever 
of the Latins, Luitprand, and the 
most intelligent and erudite of the 
Greeks, Photius, were unhappily 
both so morally despicable that 
they reflect disgrace rather than 
honor upon their age. 

The epoch we are considering 
was more remarkable "for action 
than for writing. The vast and 
strong foundations were laid for 
the future superstructure. Einpires 
and kingdoms, smaller states, cities, 
towns, universities, monasteries, and 
great churches, rose in majesty dur- 
ing the latter part of this epoch 
upon the ruins made dui'ing its 
earlier period, or upon heretofore 
waste and desert land. The glori- 
ous orders of Cluny and Camaldoli, 
the universities of Oxford, Cam- 
bridge, Cordova, several of the 
great minsters, and the first ef- 
forts of the new school of Chris- 
tian art date from this period. It 
made scanty records of its own his- 
tory, but it is crowded with the rich- 
est materials for the student and the 
literary artist. M. Ozanam project- 
ed a course of lectures at the Sor- 
bonne covering the whole space 
from the fifth to the fourteenth 
centuries, but executed only the 
first and last part of his pro- 
gramme. The middle portion still 
lies open to any one worthy to com- 
plete his work. The Iron Age is 
worthy of more study than has 
been given to it, and, when it is 
carefully examined, there are many 
great discoveries to be made con- 
cerning the ages which preceded as 
well as those which have followed 
this hard era. When will intelli- 
gent Englishmen and Americans 
begin to read history and find out 
how they have been duped } When 
will the wretched little manuals such 
as Mrs. Markham's History of Eng- 
land be driven out of our schools 



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and%hildren's libraries and replaced 
by books which tell the truth ? Let 
us lay bare history and search for 
the hard foundations of society 
and civilization, and we shall see 
with ocular evidence that the con- 
verging and diverging lines of all 
the centuries have but two centres, 
Jerusalem and Rome. The rocky 
height of Jebus, which David car- 
ried by craft and valor ; the Capito- 
line Hill, where Romulus and Nu- 
nia laid the foundations of Rome, 
are in the cycle of history what 
the two foci are in an ellipse. 
When the fortunes of Juda are 
at their lowest point, the super- 
natural providence of God over 
that royal tribe and the house of 
David is most signally manifested. 
It is impossible to read intelligent- 
ly the history of the Roman See 
and the popes without perceiving 
a providence of a higher order, 
working on a more sublime plane, 
in the disasters as well as in the 
glories and triumphs of the New 
Jerusalem and its line of priestly 
kings, the vicegerents of David's 
royal Son and Lord. The super- 
natural providence manifest in the 
destinies of Rome and its depen- 
dent Christendom makes also the 
supernatural end toward which 
God is conducting mankind equal- 
ly manifest. The search after na- 
tural causes without regard to the 
first cause being proved absurd, 
the search for natural effects with- 
out respect to the final cause is 
equally absurd. The ideal king- 
dom on earth is not to be found. 
Not only are we unable to find it 
realized, we cannot even find a ten- 
dency toward a future realization. 
Royal power, national greatness, 
the achievements of art and sci- 
ence, the external order and splen- 
dor of the church, are all, mani- 
festly, only means, and the end is 



in the spiritual order, in the souls 
of individual men. Everything ex- 
ternal and temporal is built on the 
shifting, unstable sand of human 
free-will, and is therefore evanes- 
cent and changeable. The only 
permanent and eternal result is in 
the great, unknown mass of human 
beings who have found the gate 
and the way to the kingdom of 
heaven, and in the //ife of the hu- 
man race who have found the way 
to its highest places and wear its 
brightest crowns. The earth is 
only a palctstra^ a school, an inge- 
nious contrivance of divine art for 
the acquisition and exercise of vir- 
tue, for gaining merit, for nurturing 
the childhood of the destined citi- 
zens of the true and eternal city 
of God — Cxlestis UrbSy Jerusalem. 
The whole order of divine Provi- 
dence in the church and the world, 
and its chief intention, must be 
changed, if any ideal and stable 
state of perfection is establislied on 
the earth; for this would require 
that no longer free scope should be 
given to the liberty of the human 
will. We conclude, therefore, that 
future ages will not differ essential- 
ly from those which are past. As 
the fourth and the seventh centu- 
ries differ, as the tenth and thir- 
teenth, the fifteenth, seventeenth, 
and eighteenth centuries mutually 
differ, so there are possible cycles 
of change from worse to better, or 
the reverse, so long as the world 
continues. There is a perpetual 
progress toward that consummation 
which God has in view. But there 
is no change in the militant state 
of the Catholic Church. We arc 
informed by divine revelation that 
the earthly sovereignty of Jesus 
Christ will continue only so long as 
he has enemies to conquer, and that 
when his conquest is completed he 
will give up this kingdom to the 



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Father, that God may be all in all. 
His eternal reign, in which all the 
elect will sliare. consists in the 
glory won by merit. All the rest 
is only scaffolding to be torn down 
and thrown away for fire-wood ; it 
is scenery and stage-costume, of no 
use when the play is over. The 
lessons of history teach us to dis- 
cern all the illusions which have de- 
ceived past ages ; if we are wise we 



shall learn also not to make new 
illusions for the future. We shall 
fear nothing for the eternal cause 
of truth and right, and we shall 
have no fanciful hopes of a coming 
millennium. We shall learn the 
one needful and useful maxim that 
all effort is a waste of time, except 
the one effort to make ourselves 
and others better and more vir- 
tuous. 



SIX SUNNY MONTHS. 

BY THE AUTHOR OP ** THE HOUSE OP YORKB," ^* GKAPBS AND TKORMS,'' \ 

CHAPTER XIV. 
THE RAVEN AND THE DOVE. 
CONCLUSION. 



The morning they started for 
Monte Cassino the Signora had a 
Mass said for her intention, and 
the intention was that she might 
be enabled to decide speedily on 
her state of life, and to decide so 
clearly and wisely as never again to 
have a doubt about it. Never had 
she been nearer to accepting Mr. 
Vane, and never had she been more 
tremblingly afraid of doing so. The 
suspense and trouble were becom- 
ing intolerable. She felt that it 
must be settled within these three 
days. 

But no sooner was the journey 
begun than all else was lost sight 
of. It was impossible to pass with 
a preoccupied mind amid all that 
beauty; impossible not to feel one's 
individual life dwindle in view of 
the life of centuries there made 
visible. The Campagna slipped 
past like an old monotonous song 
that has been sung over one's cra- 
dle, and heard in quiet intervals all 
up the years, till every note has 
grown to be something more than 



a simple sound, and is rather a 
long series of octaves caught along 
the heart-strings. Then 

*' The old miraculous mountains heaved in sight/ 

pressing near the track, and look- 
ing over each other's heads at the 
train as it went, as if wondering 
what new Jason was ploughing 
with fiery-snorting monsters down 
through the green fields of the 
south. Dim, gray cities stood pet- 
rified on their heights, without a 
sign of life; and the torrent-beds 
on their sides were like silvery 
paths up which the souls of all the 
dead had climbed, and so faded 
off into space. What fancies went 
up those converging paths, and 
spread their wings in the shining 
clouds that moored themselves on 
crest after crest ! Or, fair as any 
fancy, what brooks and torrents 
came rushing down in the rainy 
October and petulant April, catch- 
ing the sunshine as they ran, and 
bringing flowers and harvests and 
fountains for the thirsty plains ' 



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On they went through the smiling, 
luxuriant paradise waving with 
solid green and bloom in the val- 
leys. Dark forests hung suspend- 
ed in gorges, cities lifted tdiem- 
selvcs between the mountains to 
look, here and there a castle sat on 
its rock like a king on his throne. 
They could no more have pointed 
out the rapidly-succeeding beauties 
to each other than they could have 
indicated the swift flashes of a tem- 
pest. 

At length, and before they had 
begun to think they were tired, the 
cars stopped at the station of San 
Germano, and here a very tall old 
man, bent into the shape of a new 
moon, recognized them as the 
party he was on the watch for, and 
informed them that the donkeys 
were waiting for them outside, and 
that they were expected to dine at 
Monte Cassino. 

They recollected that they were 
a little tired and a little hungry, 
and, very opportunely, a pretty 
young contadina presented herself 
with a basket of bread, fruit, boiled^ 
<^ggs, and wine. So they seated 
themselves in the waiting-room, a 
circle of admiring ^^;»/<(i^/>i standing 
about and watching every mouthful 
they ate, as a dog watches. 

*' Are we expected to take more 
than we want and give them what 
remains?" Isabel asked. 

The Signora glanced over the 
company, and demanded to know 
which men had charge of the don- 
keys. 

Five stout young fellows stood 
forward, and a sixth made haste to 
explain that four of them would at- 
tend to the party, and a fifth would 
carry their baggage up on another 
donkey. 

" And have you anything to do 
with us ?" she inquired politely of 
this informant. 



** I belong to the hotel of San 
Germano," he replied, and then 
went on to explain the situation 
still further. 

" Oh ! thanks ; but don't trouble 
yourself," the Signora interrupted 
quite coolly. " You need not wait 
for us. Five men are quite enough 
to do all we want done." 

He withdrew a little, but did not 
go away. There was not the. slight- 
est sign of resentment or mortifi- 
cation. He was actuated by a 
simple and unadulterated desire 
for money, and meant to stay by 
tin the last minute, in the hope 
that he might snatch at the chance 
of some small service which would 
give him a claim. 

" Now, girls," the Signora said, 
"don't you give a penny to any 
one, unless I tell you. Here are 
twenty people on the watch for 
money. Don't let any one do the 
smallest thing for you, except these 
five men. We will give them some 
bread and wine. That is all they 
will want. The Italian poor live 
on bread. What does that old 
man want of us ?" she inquired of 
one of the donkey-men. 

The old man, who had been con- 
stantly hovering near, came forward 
at once. He was the letter-carrier 
for the monastery. 

" Oh ! I did not know but you 
had something to do with the don- 
keys," she remarked. 

He came a step nearer. "I do 
not go up till evening," he said 
with an insinuating smile. 

" Go whenever you like," she an- 
swered obligingly. " If you should 
bring us up any letters, however, 
we will give you a soldo for each 
one." 

He glanced longingly at the 
bread and wine, but she rose with- 
out taking any further notice of 
him. 



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Six Sunny MontJts, 



" How much is your wine a bot- 
tle?" she asked of the pretty 
young vender. 

" Fifteen soldi^ Signora/* was the 
innocent reply. 

" Nonsense ! I will give you 

Exclamations, deprecation, griev- 
ed reproach on the part of the 
young woman. The wine was too 
good for that, she protested. It 
was the best dry wine of the coun- 
try, and sincere, as the Signora 
could see. 

The Signora was not so new 
as they had supposed. She had 
bought better wine in larger bottles, 
in Genzano, close to Rome, for sev- 
en cents a bottle, and this was high 
at six. It was not, however, worth 
while to multiply words about it, 
and they made a compromise by 
])aying seven soldi a bottle, with 
which the young woman seemed to 
be perfectly well satisfied. 

Then they went out and mount- 
ed their donkeys, followed by the 
reproachful eyes and extended 
hands of fourteen men and chil- 
dren, and closely attended, by the 
young hotel servant, who attached 
himself to Bianca. Marion, having 
visited Monte Cassino thoroughly 
not long before, had not accompa- 
nied them, being a little delicate, 
100, about joining himself to a 
party without an invitation from 
the monastery, though he would cer- 
tainly have been included had his 
connection with the family been 
known. 

Bianca dropped her pocket-hand- 
kerchief, and the young volunteer 
esquire rushed to pick it up and 
present it to her with a gallant 
touch of the cap and a smile that 
displayed a fine set of teeth. She 
accepted it with blushing thanks. 

''My dear, he counts on half a 
lira for that," the Signora remarked. 



** Don't get any romantic ideas into 
your head. He would be as gal- 
lant as that to a witch, if he thought 
she would pay liini. You must 
really put on a more severe expres- 
sion. You have precisely the look at 
this moment of some young princess 
of fairyland who goes about giving 
bags of gold to everybody. If you 
keep on that sweet face, you will 
be as surrounded by beggars as a 
lump of sugar with flies." 

" You are a terribly forbidding and 
obdurate woman," Mr. Vane said, 
looking into the Signora's laughing 
face. 

** I am sometimes," she protested. 
" I pity one beggar, or two beggars, 
or sometimes three beggars; but 
when I see a score of healthy cor- 
morants surround i>oor travellers, 
and ready for any pretence or any 
servility to get money out of them, 
I lose patience. I've been victim- 
ized too much in days that are gone 
to be very long-suffering now. Be- 
sides, I work for my money and 
have a feeling of indignation when 
^I see a strong, healthy person 
stretch out a hand that has done 
me no service. Aren't these don- 
keys little darlings.^ I do think 
they are the most useful, faithful 
creatures in the world." 

"If I could only, know just 
where the backbone of mine is 
situated," Isabel said pathetically ; 
for her saddle had been constantly 
slipping either backward or forward 
ever since she mounted. " It real- 
ly seems to me that I could ride a 
rail more securely. There I go! 
Oh!" • 

The hotel- servant rushed enthu- 
siastically to catch the back of her 
saddle, and lift the rider from her 
nearly horizontal position, and 
help her off while they tightened 
the girths. 

'* It's a sort of knack which ymi 



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will soon learn," the Signora said 
consolingly. " The poor little ani- 
mals are as thin as a rail, but the 
saddles are like a chair. Just let 
yourself go, huinor the motion of 
the donkey, and in a little while you 
will sit like — like Bianca there. 
Look at that child ! All she wants 
is an infant in her arms !" 

They had passed the narrow and 
stony loops of the path out of the 
town, and reached the mountain- 
side, and, as the Signora spoke, Bi- 
anca, leading the procession, went 
round a turn before them and came 
back higher up. She sat in the 
saddle as easily as if in a chair, up*« 
right, her hands folded in her lap, 
and her fair face uplifted as she 
gazed at the great pile of the raon* 
ostery on the peak above them. 

She needed, indeed, but an in- 
fant in her arms to be a ready pic- 
ture of the Holy Mother and Child 
in the Flight into Egypt. She had 
taken off her hat and laid a large 
veil over her head. A blue mantle 
hung over her shoulders and came 
close to her white neck. The beast 
she rode, the saddle, the rocky 
path — all were perfect. She passed 
under a cypress-tree that pressed 
her eyes down with its black shad* 
nw, and, in that downward glance, 
caught their looks directed to her. 
She smiled, clasped her hands, and 
glanced around in mute rapture. 

To and fro, to and fro they 
wound up the height, every turn 
tm win ding and enlarging the scene 
below. The low hills of the plain 
diss4>peared, leaving only a vast 
level laid out in an exquisite mo- 
saic of varied greens, with houses 
here and there, single or in clus- 
ters, forests that had dwindled to 
groves, and groves that looked like 
bouquets. The shining turns of a 
river lay amid that verdure, like a 
silver chain dropped and half-hid- 
/OL XXV. — 31 



den in the grass. All round the 
mountains circled close and jeal- 
ous, guarding this little paradise. 
Now they were skirted with trees ; 
now they rose in harsh masses of 
stone that looked as if not even a 
blade of grass could find a foot- 
hold. A picturesque castle stood 
on a spur sent off from the moun- 
tain they were ascending. 

Above them the vast square of 
the monastery, with its many win- 
dows and balconies, grew every 
moment nearer. After an hour's 
ride trees shut them into an ave- 
nue, and they found themselves 
close under the grand walls of the 
building. They alighted at the 
lofty open archway and saw be- 
fore them a long, ascending pas- 
sage that looked strong enough to 
support even that pile on its solid 
arches. The first half was dim^ 
and part way up, at the right,, 
was a shrine in the wall, with its 
floating flame burning before some 
saintly face only half- visible be- 
hind the wire screen. The upper 
half was lighted by arched windows 
at the left, showing a double wall 
there, with some sort of room 
or passage between, arched open- 
ings in the inner wall answering 
to the windows. At the upper 
end of this avenue of stone shut 
the great black valves of a double 
iron door, studded thickly with' 
nails, pierced with a little cluster 
of holes to peep through at one 
side, and showing the outline of a 
smaller door in the right valve. 

The massive walls and doors, the- 
long, sloping ascent, the light and. 
shade, the one little golden flame,., 
were like nothing of the nineteenik- 
century. The action and business 
of such a place were not the ac- 
tion and business peculiar and 
suitable to our times. Ecclesiasti- 
cal processions might gp up there ;; 



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the scarlet fire of a cardinal's robe 
in the midst of a group of attend- 
ants would well befit that dim and 
echoing passage; a cavalcade of 
knights and ladies, with horn and 
hound and nodding plumes ; a com* 
pany of soldiers with shield and 
helmet — these were the figures to 
animate such a scene. Or, most 
perfect picture of all, one might 
imagine there that sublime com- 
pany, the very thought of which 
brings tears to the eyes — that long 
procession of ecclesiastics and peo- 
ple, with their banners and cruci- 
fixes and candles, chanting funeral 
hymns as they ascended, bearing 
up to the mountain-top for burial 
the twin saint of the glorious 
founder and father of the monas- 
tery — Santa Scholastica. It is but 
yesterday, it seems, that the bro« 
t'her and sister parted, having their 
last conference together under a 
little roof down the mountain-side, 
while the tempest stormed about 
them. . It is but this morn- 
ing that St. Benedict has sent 
liis monks down to bring the 
holy relics up and lay them 
in his own tomb under the grand 
altar, where soon he will join 
her. So the colossal saints of all 
time know how to recognize the 
grandeur of a true woman. These 
men are so near the most sublime 
and regal of creatures — ^the awful, 
immaculate Virgin— and the very 
type of penitents — the thrice-puri- 
fied Magdalen — that the shining 
veil of the one and the sacred 
tears of the other flow about 
their sisters, and woman is hon- 
ored in whatever work her Creator 
calls her to do. It was in the 
times, still illuminated by the twi- 
light of the scarcely-departed pre- 
sence of the Morning Star and the 
Son, that St. Gregory the Great 
ordered iiis mother's portrait paint- 



ed with the mitre of a doctor on 
her head, and one hand raised in 
benediction, while with the other 
she taught her son from the sacred 
Book on her knees — the queenly 
St. Sylvia! It was in such days 
that St. Chrysostom proclaimed 
that women may participate, as 
well as men, in combats for the 
cause of God and the church ; 
that St. Melania, the younger, 
disputed so eloquently with the 
Nestorians that she converted 
many and frightened the rest, 
showing herself so powerful that 
Pelagius, who drew away priests 
•and bishops, strove, but in vain, 
to convert her into an assist- 
ant; the same Melania who con- 
verted the persecutor, Volusianus, 
whom all the eloquence of St. 
Augustine could not convert. It 
was in such days that saintly wo- 
men inspired the Fathers of the 
church to write, and that St. Gre- 
gory conceived his Treatise on the 
Soul and on Resurrection while sit- 
ting at his dying sister*s bedside 
and listening to her discourse on 
death, as she consoled him for the 
death of St. Basil. 

And not only such thoughts and 
recollections, dear to women, flow- 
ed in as they went up the path that 
St. Scholastica had passed before 
them, but other recollections, dear 
to scholars and precious to the 
church and to civilization. Here 
was one of the citadels of learning 
in times when barbarous invasions 
overran the land and threatened 
to extinguish every spark of intel- 
lectual and spiritual wealth that 
the race of man had accumulated. 
Here the monks, with a zeal kin- 
dled to passion, hoarded and pre- 
served the remains of their devastat- 
ed treasures, and spent unwearied 
days and nights in multiplying 
copies of writings that must not 



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die. Here, with the devotion of 

the bridegroom who brings the 
most precious gems he can procure 
to deck his bride, or of parents 
who shower upon their only child 
every gift in their power to bestow, 
genius the most exquisite consecrat- 
ed itself to the work of adorning 
the page of the text of praise and 
prayer with such marvellous niinia* 
ture beauty of form and color as 
only the fairy pencil of Nature can 
rival. 

Wrapt and exalted in such recol* 
lections, the Signora moved as one 
in a dream, forgetting her compan- 
ions entirely. It was only when 
the great iron doors swung open 
before her, and she saw a tall gen- 
tleman in a black robe hurrying 
forward, with his hand extended in 
cordial welcome to Mr. Vane, that 
she came back to the nineteenth 
century, and made an effort to 
sahite in a sufficiently-composed 
manner the prior of Monte Cassino, 
Father Boniface. 

But it was a very beautiful nine- 
teenth century that she recalled her- 
self to. They were within the mon- 
astery buildings, which completely 
surrounded them in a massive 
square, broken in the middle at 
the left by a long portico of white 
travertine supporting a superb ter- 
race called the Loggia del Paradiso^ 
and at the right, in the centre, al- 
so, by the grand stairs that go up 
to the higher level of the mountain 
peak, around which the monastery 
is built. This loggia and the grand 
stairs are at the opposite sides of 
a court with a picturesque well in 
the centre, and colossal statues of 
St. Benedict and St. Scholastica. 
The paved court is between two 
others, which are turned into gar- 
dens, the three separated by double 
colonnades and surrounded by por- 
ticos. At the head of the stairs, 



which are the whole width of the 
court, another portico opens into the 
upper court — that of the church — 
and has a door at either side lead- 
ing back to the Loggia del Paradise^ 
The church court, also surrounded 
by porticos and adorned with sta- 
tues, is closed on one side by the 
church. This is built on the very 
mountain-top, the confession being 
hewn out of the solid rock. 

This plan they caught at first, 
though but in a glance ; for, after 
welcoming them all, the prior con- 
ducted them through two or three 
dimly-lighted rooms, all of stone, 
unfurnished and unadorned, into a 
bright parlor, where a balcony win- 
dow gave them a view of all the 
beautiful valley with its surround- 
ing mountains. In a few minutes 
dinner was announced as prepared 
in thc^next chamber, and here they 
found a table laid out with the 
freshest of linen, old silver as white 
almost as the cloth, and a well- 
cooked and well-served dinner. 

Weakening their wine before 
drinking it, they all observed the 
quality of the water, limpid and 
light as some third element half- 
water and half-air, and the prior 
explained to them that the monas- 
tery used rain-water filtered. 

"We have a great cistern, ninety 
feet square, hollowed out in the 
mountain under the central court. 
The well you saw there is in the 
centre of it. The water is tho- 
roughly filtered. Moreover, the 
conduits that admit it to the cis- 
tern are closed during the four hot 
months, so that only cold water en- 
ters." 

This prior, the "urbane librari- 
an " of Longfellow's recollections 
of Monte Cassino, wns not only a 
kind and generous host and an in- 
telligent cicerone^ but a most agree- 
able and interesting man. He had 



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a noble figure and a handsome, 
bright face, and combined in his 
cl»aracter qualities which might have 
been thought to be inharmonious ; 
for he was at the same time an en- 
thusiastic monk, proud of his ven- 
erable order, and devoted heart 
and soul to his monastery, and a 
man quite up to the times in all 
that the times have of praise-wor- 
thy. 

After dinner he led them up to 
see the church, pointing out the 
statues as they went. Here were 
the father and mother of St. Bene- 
dict, and with them popes, royal 
dukes, kings, and emperors. Before 
entering they paused to look at the 
great door of bronze, cast in Con- 
stantinople, in which is written in 
silver letters the list of the posses- 
sions of the abbey at the time the 
door was made, in 1066. At this 
time, more than eight hundred years 
later, nothing was left of these 
riches. 

Entering the church, they stood 
astonished. If it had been built of 
simple marble, moderately varied 
and ornamented, there would still 
have been enough to praise warmly 
in the beautiful form and propor- 
tions of the three naves, the grand 
altar by Michael Angelo, the raised 
tribune, and the beautiful paintings 
of the dome, roof, and eight chap- 
els. But these were only the 
frame-work of a mosaic the most 
splendid covering every part of 
the edifice to the dimmest corner 
or the smallest nook behind a 
column. And this mosaic is not 
that comparatively simpler kind, 
made of small bits, but each fiower 
and figure is cut from a single 
piece of marble or precious stone, 
and so perfectly fitted into the 
groundwork that the point of a pin 
could not be introduced between 
them. It was hard at first to be- 



lieve that the whole was not ex- 
quisitely painted in every possible 
color and shade, and it needed a 
touch or a near sight of that fine, in- 
imitable gloss of marble to con- 
vince one of the incalculable riches 
of the whole. The very floor was 
superb enough for the walls of a 
splendid church ; the very steps of 
the tribune were set with mosaics. 

The Signora took pencil and pa- 
per, and attempted to make a memor- 
andum of only one chapel, to enume- 
rate its alabaster columns, its flowers 
of mother-of-pearl, amethyst, agate, 
and lapis-lazuli, its infinitely-varied 
marbles and precious stones and its 
infinitely varied designs, and, after 
ten minutes* rapid work, gave up the 
task. A week would have been 
necessary for that one chapel ; and 
there were seven more, besides the 
altar, the confession, and the tri- 
bune. 

"You like carved wood?" the 
prior asked, with a smile of antici- 
pated triumph, as they went up the 
tribune steps. 

"Who does not?" the Signora 
exclaimed. " Carved wood and 
lace are two of my passions. I 
have never stolen any lace, and I 
hope I never shall. Wood-carving 
is fortunately usually in too heavy- 
pieces to suggest .the possibility 
of being carried away ift one's 
pocket." 

"We must, however, first visit 
St. Benedict and Santa Scholas- 
tica," said their guide, too charit- 
able, as well as too enthusiastic for 
beautiful things, to be shocked at 
this little escapade. 

Thirteen silver lamps burned be- 
fore the screen at the back of the 
grand altar, and under that screen 
reposed the bodies of tlie twin 
saints. Above them, written in 
golden letters, was the inscrip- 
tion • 



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^* Benedictum et Scholasttcam 
Uno in terns partu editos, 
Una in Deum pietate coelo Redetos, 
Unis Hie Excipit Tumulus, 
Martalis depouti pro Aetemitate custos." 

Rising from their knees, they 
turned and faced the choir — a 
double row of stalls forming three 
sides of a large square open to the 
altar. Looked at from a little dis- 
tance, these stalls had the appearance 
of having been closely overgrown 
at some past time with the finest of 
vines, which had turned black and 
petrified there, preserving perfectly 
every little leaf and tendril, and 
still covering entirely the plain 
wood beneath. Looking longer, 
one saw little figures and faces, and 
birds and animals. Going nearer 
scarcely dispelled the illusion, so 
finely was every particle carved — the 
vines and leaves in some places 
quite separated from the ground, so 
that one slipped the finger-tip behind 
them. Every stall was different, 
every one provoked a new exclama- 
tion of admiring wonder. 

Then they went into the sacristy, 
a long hall with the sides complete- 
ly lined with presses of dark wood 
with gilded metal ornaments. 
These presses also were carved 
finely, each department, in front of 
which a priest would vest himself 
for Mass, having a bas-relief of a 
subject suggesting some particular 
virtue, as that of the Pharisee and 
the publican in the Temple, sug- 
gesting humility. 

Sack of the sacristy was the relic- 
chamber, where, in addition to the 
more sacred treasures, the ladies 
admired especially two little antique 
caskets, one of smalt, bright as a 
jewel, the other of carved ivory of 
the most delicious tint of creamy 
white — that tint so soft that it seems 
as if the material itself must yield 
like down to the touch. They gave 
one glance at a crosier by Benvenu- 



to Cellini, on the inner curve of 
which stood a tiny group, then 
tore themselves away. The after- 
noon was waning, and there was 
left them but a day and a half 
more, with 

" Such rooms to explore, 
Such alcoves to importune." 

The air of this place was an 
ideal atmosphere ; one breathed it 
like a fine wine that exhilarates 
delicately, but does not inebriate. 
It was soft but not warm, fresh 
but not chilly, and as pure as pure 
can be. The fresh, rosy faces of 
the troop of young students they 
met going out showed how this 
mountain air agreed with them. 

"What a place to send boys to !" 
Mr. Vane exclaimed. " It is a little 
world in itself, where they can 
have every amusement and com- 
panionship, as well as instruction ; 
and one has but to look at them to 
see that they are as happy as they 
are healthy." 

The boys were coming in from 
their afternoon walk down the 
mountain-side, and all glowing with 
]ust-subsiding fun. Each one, pass- 
ing the prior, caught at his hand to 
kiss it ; but as he would not per- 
mit himself to receive such an 
homage, they resorted to the amus- 
ing substitute of kissing their own 
hands after they had touched his. 

" What beautiful recollections of 
their school-days those boys will 
carry with them through their 
lives !" Mr. Vane remarked, as 
they went out over the colonnade to 
the Loggia del Paradiso. "In no 
way, it seems to me, except by 
being educated here, unless one 
spend one's life here, could one be- 
come perfectly familiar with the 
riches, visible and invisible, of the 
place ; and such a familiarity would 
be of itself an education, especially 



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for the impressible minds of the 
young." 

The front of the Paradise fills the 
gap in the middle of one side of 
the monastery — that part opposite 
the church — and is on a level with 
the church, or the second story of 
the monastery. It is probably 
the same width as the church. 
Leaning on the parapet there, one 
looks off on a view which may well 
give the place its name — the beau- 
tiful plain and the beautiful cir- 
chng mountains, with the still, blue 
splendor of the southern sky gaz- 
ing down upon them as if enamored 
of their beauty. There was no 
need of imagination in such a 
place. Simple, literal eyes were 
enough to flood the soul with 
beauty. 

Familiar as he was with the scene, 
the prior was sympathetic enough 
to say but little; and even Isabel, 
whose impressions, being more su- 
perficial, ran a good deal into words, 
hushed herself out of respect for 
the others. 

" Until we reach Rome again,*' 
the Signora remarked to her friends 
as they went down the stairs to the 
great court, " I should like to be 
excused from all social intercourse, 
except the mere being with you 
bodily. I don't want to speak or 
be spoken to, except to learn of 
this place. We have no right to 
talk ; we are ghosts. We have come 
here in a dream or a vision. Fa- 
ther Boniface talks, of course, be- 
cause he is a part of the place." 

They laughed and agreed. 

" But I hope," the prior said, 
"that you are not too ghostly to 
taste the water they are just draw- 
ing up now. See how it sparkles !" 

Two columns support a cross- 
piece over this beautiful well, and 
from the centre drops an iron chain 
with a copper bucket at each end. 



When one goes down the other 
comes up, dripping full of airy wa- 
ter. 

They all drank silently — each, 
probably, to some friend, absent or 
present. Bianca blushed as she 
drank, and her pretty mouth seemed 
to kiss the water. Then, standing 
on the upi>er step of the well, they 
leaned over the stone curb and 
looked down to where, far below, 
the surface of the water shone like 
a huge black diamond set in a gray 
border. 

Tired out with travel and witli 
pleasure, the ladies were not sorry 
when the prior proposed that they 
should go down to the house where 
they were to sleep. 

This house is the only building 
on the mountain except the monas- 
tery, and is under the control of the 
monastery. It was built merely to 
accommodate lady relatives of the 
students who might wish to see 
their sons, or brothers, or nephews 
without the fatigue of coming up 
and going down the mountain the 
same day, and without suffering the 
embarrassment of spending the whole 
day in a house inhabited and served 
only by men. Now and then some 
benefactress or a friend of the su- 
periors of the monastery has the 
privilege of stopping there. The 
house is small and plain, and kept 
by a contadine and his wife. The 
ladies stopping there have their cof- 
fee in the house, but they dine al- 
ways in a private dining-room at 
the monastery, from whence, also, 
their supper is sent down to them 
in the evening — supper being after 
Ave Maria, when the gates are 
closed. 

Mr. Vane stayed with the prior, 
and the three ladies followed their 
guide. Their way led them a five 
minutes* walk back as they had 
come up, then turned through an 



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open gate in the stone wall at the 
right, where they found their lodg- 
ings. A contadina with dark cloth 
draperies pinned smoothly about 
her, and a huge white edifice of 
starched linen on her head, over- 
shadowing a pair of bright eyes, 
met them at the gate and welcom- 
ed them with a pleasant voice, but 
in a tongue where the soft Roman 
consonants seemed to have each 
and every one turned itself into 
the hardest kind of a Z. 

The windows looked out on a 
long terrace with a parapet, and 
outside the parapet the mountain 
dropped steeply to the plain. 

A stair, which belonged entirely 
to the strangers' house, led up to the 
second floor, and here they found 
three pleasant bed-chambers await- 
ing them. An hour later, as they 
sat at their windows looking out in- 
to the twilight, they saw \\it\xdonna^ 
Catarina, come into the terrace with 
a huge basket on her arm. Her 
head-dress and sleeves shone white 
in the light of the rising moon, and 
there was a soft richness where the 
scarlet stripe ran round her petti- 
coat, and where the rainbow colors 
of the apron-like upper mantle 
bound her without a fold. Her 
solid step sounded on the stair the 
next minute, there was the spurt of 
a match in the outer room of the 
suite, and« looking through the open 
doors, they saw the woman, more 
like a picture than any picture they 
recollected to have seen, standing 
with a curious brass lamp in her 
hand, carefully lighting its wick, 
the basket she had brought sitting 
on the floor at her feet. 

She came into the Signora's room 
with that red light all over her from 
the lamp she carried in her h^d, 
smiled so as to sliow two rows of 
snowy- white teeth, and, witli a 
"J?»^XMSJ^ra,'* announced that their 



supper had come and would be on 
the table in a few minutes. 

The three went out into the din- 
ing-room to witness the preparations 
and listen to the woman's pleasant 
voice as she half-talked, half-sang 
an account of her life and adven- 
tures there, her manner of speech 
being that so common among the 
lower classes of Italy, especially at 
the south — ^almost a sort of chant, in- 
expressibly soft and touching. The 
peculiarity of this manner of speak- 
ing consists more, perhaps, in the 
ending of the sentences than in 
their progress ; for they never cooie 
down to the definite tone that ends 
a period, but stop on some swing- 
ing note a little higher up, it may 
be only half a tone above. It is 
the voice of weeping, which never 
has a positive tone, as if the whole 
gamut were washed over and blur- 
red by tears. 

Talking so, the woman brought 
out from her basket a linen cloth 
for the table, next a pair of cruets 
with vinegar and oil, next a decan- 
ter of white-wine, next an omelette 
made with herbs, after that a salad 
that looked like sliced cucumbers, 
but was something else. Bread fol- 
lowed, then the necessary dishes. 

"I'm ashamed to confess that I 
am hungry," Isabel said. '* It is a 
miserable coming down, but we 
won't say anything about it." 

"My dear," responded the Sig- 
nora, ** you are very ungrateful to say 
so. Let us be just. Our bodies 
have brought our souls up to this 
beautiful place, and carried them 
about from point to point of it, and 
kept as quiet as possible about their 
own affairs. Now, if they are hun- 
gry, let us feed them. Poor bodies ! 
they have the worst of it. They 
are extremely useful, and we sub- 
lime creatures are always turning 
up our noses at them ; they suffer, 



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and we protest that we want to get 
rid of them, when, in nine cases 
out of ten, we have wantonly caus- 
ed their suffering. Can a body 
take care of itself, or even know 
how it should be done ? No ; the 
soul has to do it, and ought to do 
it in gratitude for house-rent, or 
body-rent. Then, at last, the poor 
things have got to corrupt, and 
be devoured by worms, and go 
to dust. Fortunately, these suffer- 
ings will not be felt. It is also 
a satisfaction to know that this ar- 
rogant spirit, which is for ever crow- 
ing over its poof companion, will 
have to suffer consciously for it all 
and pay the uttermost farthing. 
You will please to recollect, Miss 
Isabel Vane, that if ever yon should 
have the happiness of going to 
heaven, your body will go there 
too. Sometimes," she said, holding 
her hand up before the light, which 
shone through and made a ruby of 
it, — " sometimes 1 think that my poor 
flesh has a glimmering, a presenti- 
ment of the possibility of being one 
day glorified." 

** Most worshipful body," said 
Isabel to herself with great respect, 
"would you like a piece of that 
omelette — a large piece, a half of it, 
say, leaving the other half to those 
two.^ Yes? Well, you shall have 
it." And she proceeded with all 
possible dignity to help herself to a 
hundred and eighty degrees of the 
circle of herbs and eggs before her. 

The donna^ who, of course, had 
not understood a word, looked with 
astonishment at this shocking piece 
of voracity ; and when Bianca, in 
protection of her client, clasped 
her arms around the wine, and the 
Signora, with an air of determina- 
tion, took possession of the salad, 
the poor creature evidently thought 
that she was waiting on a company 
of maniacs. 



" Do let's laugh," said the Sig- 
nora, and at once set the example. 
" We are frightening the poor soul 
to death." 

Their supper and their nonsense 
finished, the three took possession 
of their rooms. 

A full moonlight was filling all 
the valley, or plain, which looked 
like the bottom of an emerald chal- 
ice full of golden wine. A pure 
and sacred silence reigned over all 
— the silence of peace and lofty con- 
templation. Had it been some 
such silence that suggested to 
Charlemagne, when, almost eleven 
hundred years before, he came to 
venerate the relics of St. Benedict, 
the beautiful thought of bestowing 
on the abbot, with all the other 
singular privileges he gave him, 
that of being the sole mediator be- 
tween the emperor and the rebel- 
lious barons — the only person by 
whose means they could make their 
peace } It was doubtless by virtue 
of this ancient title that the prior 
had written " Pax" at the head of 
his letter to Mr. Vane. 

Yes, Charlemagne came up here 
ages ago, and popes, and princes, 
and kings came, and the Saracens 
swarmed up with fire and sword, 
and the Lombards and the Nor- 
mans ; and the Crusaders came to 
pray at the shrine before going to 
the East. They had seen on the 
pilasters of the church the different 
crosses in precious mosaic of the 
orders of knights which had been 
formed under the Benedictine rule, 
among them the familiar names of 
Calatrava, Alcantara, St. Stephen, 
St. James of the Sword, and Tem- 
plars. Ignatius of Loyola came up 
and stayed fifty days. 

" But, signora mia^** said the lady 
who was going over all this part, as 
she gazed out into the night, *' since 
you are not going to stay here fifty 



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days, you will be so good as to 
shut your mind and your eyes and 
go to sleep/* 

The next morning they went to 
see the monastery proper, for 
which they had a special permis- 
sion from the Pope, and spent 
hours in the library, archives, print- 
ing and lithograph rooms. It 
would be vain to tell what old 
books — worth their weight in gold, 
printed on creamy vellum in char- 
acters that modern type has never 
excelled, if it has equalled — ^what 
drawers filled with scrolls, what 
autographs, what illuminations, 
they saw. It were vain to fancy 
with what feelings one sees for the 
first time the writing of Charle- 
magne, of Hildebrand, of Gregory 
the Great, of Frederick II., of 
Countess Matilda. Then there was 
the long, long dormitory of the 
boys, witli a row of snowy beds at 
either side, and the immense arch- 
ed window at the end framing a su- 
perb outside picture, with Monte 
Cairo in the centre, and long, long 
corridors that dwindled people 
seen from opposite ends, with 
cracks made by earthquakes in 
their walls, and solid groined arch- 
es that only an earthquake could 
shake down. Then the nooks, 
courts, and passages, which they 
came upon without guessing in the 
least in what part of the building 
they were; the round window in 
the wall — {fcchioy or eye, they call it 
— through wliich they looked as 
through a lens, and saw the three 
courts and the colonnades. Final- 
ly, coming down a stair with a 
wall at either side and a door at 
the foot, they were told: "When 
you have crossed that threshold 
you cannot return. The cloister 
ends there." 

** What !" exclaimed Isabel, " if I 
should run out a minute, couldn't I 



come back on to the stairs again for 
another minute V* 

The prior shook his head, "it 
would be excommunication. That 
seems unreasonable ; but listen : 
This is a cloister which women 
can enter only by special permis- 
sion of the Pope. That permission 
is not lightly granted, and is for 
but once. Your running back a 
minute would do no harm in itself, 
but would do harm to the princi- 
ple. If you can return in one 
minute, you could come back in 
five, or ten, or half an hour, or an 
hour, or a day, and so on ; and so 
one visit might be made to cover 
an indefinite time. The only way, 
you see, is to be strictly literal in 
excluding from a second entrance." 

That ailemoon they were pre- 
sented to the Abbot — ^•^ Abbot of 
Abbots" he was called in the 
palmy days of Monte Cassino— and 
received, not only his benediction, 
but each a little souvenir of the 
place: a tiny photograph of the 
tomb of St. Benedict and St. Scho- 
lastica, with a wreath of flowers 
pressed round it that had been on 
the tomb, and at the back his own 
name written, with the date, and 
under it "Ora pro me.'* 

They stood in the church speak- 
ing with him a few minutes, then 
went out to the Paradiso, 

A storm was coming up from the 
east, and round the angle of the 
building they could just see that 
the mountains in that direction 
were obliterated and mists fast fill- 
ing the plain. Standing up against 
these mists, as if to impede their 
progress, was the lower end of a 
rainbow, set straight and solid on 
the green like a jewelled column. 
The cloud advanced and pushed 
the column before them. 

" It is like the pillar of light lead- 
ing the Israelites," Isabel said. 



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The cloud unrolled itself above, 
and down through the rainbow ran 
a crinkling line of white fire. 

"How plainly lightning asserts 
its own force !" Mr. Vane remark- 
ed. "Seeing it for the first time, 
without knowing what it was, one 
would know at once that it is an 
irresistible power. What an expe- 
rience it would be to stand just 
near enough to a passing Hash to 
perhaps hear it hiss through the 
air, to be between it and its thun- 
der, and yet not so near nor so in 
its track as to be smitten !" 

Little by little the sun was van- 
quished, and the rainbow grew dim, 
faltered, blushed along the line of 
the advancing shadows, and disap^ 
peared. There was an odd mur- 
mur growing up, fine and pervad- 
ing — the sound of rain in the plain 
below. All the tiny noises of each 
falling drop joined in a multitude, 
countless nothings making them- 
selves heard in pauses of the thun- 
der. It was to solid sound as fine 
carving is to plain wood, as em- 
broidery is to a fine web — a con- 
tinued succession of millions of 
infinitesimal watery strokes sepa- 
rated by millions of infinitesimal 
silences. 

The others went into the house 
at the first drop that splashed on 
the Paradiso^ but the Signora went 
back to the portico and seated her- 
self under its shelter. Behind her 
the court of the church looked 
weird and strange. The pillars of 
the porticos appeared to move as 
the lightnings came and went, the 
statues and busts behind them 
seemed to lean forward and re- 
treat, and the one window in the 
church front looked blue, as if 
there were light inside it. 

She took herself out of the draught, 
and went to lean on the wall be- 
tween the doors. In front of her 



the grand stairs went down to the 
central court, and the gardens shone 
green and wet through the colon- 
nades at either side. On a level 
with her, across the space, stretch- 
ed the FaradisOy and under the 
portico that supported it a large, 
arched door led from the court out 
on to a beautiful hggia. Two or 
three monks, who had been stand- 
ing in this loggia watching the 
storm, were driven in by the rain, 
and in a minute the whole place 
seemed to be deserted. The rain 
and the lightning had it to them- 
selves and were washing and puri-r 
fying all " so as by fire." 

This one visible witness felt her 
soul expand as she gazed. If only 
she also might be purified and en- 
lightened in that time and place I 
If the littlenesses of life might be 
washed away from her, and only 
the realities remain ! 

"Come, Holy Spirit!" she said, 
and blessed herself. 

Then, content and confident, 
without saying another word, she 
waited with her two inarticulate 
but eloquent companions — Art, 
consecrated to God, and Nature, 
informed by God — and felt above 
and about the illuminating Pre- 
sence. For faith is the rod that 
calls the divine Lightning down, 
whether it came as a dove, or a 
tongue of fire, or a pointing finger, 
or a whispering voice. 

The landscape of the plain, seen 
through the arched door under the 
ParadisOy was dim and gray with 
rain, or glittering and red with 
lightning ; the mountain-tops abpve 
it, and the sky, were a changing 
tumult of shadows veined with 
threads of fire, and rolled hither 
and thither in visible thunders. 
The white pavement of the court 
below changed every instant into 
jaspers, the beautiful columns and 



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Six Sunny Months. 



491 



curb and steps of the well became 
jewels, and one of the copper buck- 
ets that stood on the brink was 
like a vessel of red gold brimming 
over with red wine. 

St. Benedict with his crosier, and 
St. Scholastica with her dove, stood 
immovable but living, and their 
calmness in that tumult was like 
a song of triumph. Did he sing 
with Moses?—" Thou shall bring 
them in J and plant them in the maur^ 
tain of thy inheritancey in thy most 
firm habitation which thou hast mad€j 
OLord; thy sanctuary ^ O Lor d^ which 
thy hands have established.** And did 
she reply, like Miriam with her tim- 
brel ? — " Let us sing to the Lord^ for 
he is gloriously magnified^ the horse 
and his rider he hath thrown into 
the sea" Such silence in a tumult 
seems ever a singing. 

When the Signora went down, 
slipping from colonnade to colon- 
nade, dry-shod, the storm was 
s|>eDt« From the little balcony of 
the parlor, where she found her 
companions, she saw a grand arch 
of rainbow trembling out over the 
east, as if astonished at its own 
glory, trembling as it grew, but as 
strong and bold as light. 

Flocks of birds were swinging by 
in a great circle, screaming impu- 
dently as they passed the balcony, 
as if to say, " Catch us, if you can !'* 
There was a little parallelogram of 
garden under the window, with a 
rough pole frame-work supporting 
a dripping vine, and, below the 
dropping fields, a crest of land and 
rock, curling over like a pointed 
wave, rose boldly in the fore- 
ground; then, the plain. 

Mr. Vane came to stand beside 
her, looking at her keenly one in- 
stant, then averting his eyes. 

" Well," he said, " what has the 
storm been saying to you up 
there .?" 



" It has washed the drift-wood 
ont of my path, and made it as 
clear and white as one of those 
torrent-l>eds up the mountain-side,'' 
she answered. " I think 1 ought 
to work a little harder for the fu- 
ture. Life is short, and I have, 
perhaps, sometimes played with my 
talents. They were given me foi 
serious use. When you shall have 
left me alone, instead of sitting 
weakly down and thinking t^at it 
is rather lonely, I shall begin to 
carve a new book out of the next 
year. Do you know that year to 
come looks to me as the block of 
marble looked to Michael Angelo 
when he said, ' I will make an an- 
gel of it.' I am not a Michael 
Angelo," she added, smiling ; '* but 
1 am something, and, firmly and 
intelligently set to work, I may do 
what need not be despised. My 
mind is clear." 

He was answered. 

If a shade passed over his face, 
it was slight. If his lips were com- 
pressed a moment, she did not look 
to see. He stood and watched the 
rainbow grow and fade, and, as its 
colors went out, so faded out of his 
life a sweet hope. But he reflect- 
ed : " Denials make strong. And 
the light that made the rainbow 
is not dead." 

" Yes, life is short," he said pre- 
sently, and half-turned away. 
"God bless you 1" he added and 
hastily left her. 

The next morning they made 
their last visit to the monastery, 
and the prior, after showing them 
the tower of St. Benedict and the 
fine collection of pictures there, had 
some of the choir-books brought 
into the ])arlor for them to see. 
There are fifty-seven in all of these 
great volumes, bound in leather, with 
metal corners and knobs. These 
are all in manuscript, beautiful 



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492 



Six Sunny MontJis, 



black scores and lettering on white 
parchment. Every capital letter 
is painted, every one different and 
every one beautiful, and occasion- 
ally the page has a border, and in 
some cases a picture in the corner, 
so exquisitely beautiful that one 
could never tire of examining it — 
such leaves and flowers, and birds 
and figures and arabesques, fine as 
the finest pencil and most delicate 
imagmation could make them, and 
so executed that one had to touch 
them to be sure they are not in re- 
lief. One long, silver leaf slightly 
curled over to show a golden lin- 
ing; Bianca stretched her finger to 
touch, and drew it back immediate* 
ly, fearing to break. 

Not a tint was faded of them all, 
though they had been in constant 
use three hundred years. They 
are not used every day now, how- 
ever. 

One page was especially rich — the 
first page of the Christmas service. 
The whole ground of this inside 
the border is a deep velvety crim- 
son, the score and text being of 
gold. On the border imagination 
had exhausted itself, and in the left 
upper corner is a picture of the Na- 
tivity, delicate and pure, with its 
cool, pale mountains of Syria, and 
the heavenly faces of the Mother 
and Child. 

"You should see that at the 
Midnight Mass of Christmas," the 
prior said, "with the light of all 
the candles shining on it as it lies 
open on the desk. It is splendid 
then. I copied that picture in the 
corner of the page to send the Pope 
on his great anniversary," he add- 
ed, "and it took me a year." 

For the prior was an artist as 
well, and not only made exquisite 
copies from these old manuscripts, 
but played the organ, and had the 
evening before done the honors 



of their grand instrument for his 
visitors, displaying its orchestra 
stops. 

The hours slipped away, and re- 
gretfully at length they took leave 
of this beautiful and sacred place, 
and the kind host who had made it 
so pleasant for them. The donkeys 
stood ready at the gate, and they 
mounted and went down into the 
world again. In the valley, before 
going to the station, they stopped 
a minute and gazed back with a 
mute farewell to Monte Cassino. ^ 
The Signora thought, but did not 
say aloud : " I will lift mine eyes un- 
to the hills, whence cometh help." 

The road they took through the 
plain to the station ran along the 
river-side. This river — the Rapido 
—narrowed to a swift, yellow sluice 
that one could toss a penny across, 
to be caught by the beggar at the 
other side, did not look very impos- 
ing to American eyes, accustomed 
to the grand crystalline floods of 
the New World ; but every drop of 
it moved to the tune of a memory, 
and farther on it meets the Car- 
nello, and the two, the ancient Vi- 
nius and Liri, join to make the 
Garigliano, the river made famous 
by Bayard. 

Then back to Rome, through 
crowding mountains at first. But, 
by dark, the mountains began to 
draw back, the level widened, they 
passed the city wall by the stars, 
and rolled into the Cittd vecchia, 

" Now we roust begin to look re- 
spectfully at the guide-book," Mr. 
Vane said the next morning. " We 
have been sipping the foam of the 
wine as it came. We must drain 
the cup, if we can." 

There was nothing more to be 
said. Their story was finished, and 
the remaining few weeks were but 
a study of what all travellers &tudy 
in Rome. 



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Six Sunny Months. 



493 



"I am laying up riches for ray 
life," Mr. Vane said to the Signora. 
"I have learned of you to work, 
and I hope that the last of my life 
will be more useful than the first 
has been. These memories that I 
am preparing now will be the only 
recreation of my future and my 
only dream." 

He did not trouble her with sad- 
ness or importunities, but took 
his life up with manly cheerfulness, 
and she honored him for it and 
liked him better than ever. But 
never for an instant did she waver 
in her decision. Her mind, once 
cleared, was cleared for ever. She 
would not have married him, nor 
any other roan, to have possessed 
the world. 

One bright October day they 
left her. There was sadness and 
tears, but no heart-break for any 
one. Marion's tender sympathy 
threw a rainbow on Bianca's gentle 
sorrow, and Isabel clung to her fa* 
tiler's arm and dropped her head on 
his shoulder, soothing and soothed. 

**I shall never leave you, papa," 
she whispered. 

Did she suspect what he had 
missed ? 

The Signora watched the train 
roll away, then went back to her si- 
lent house, wiping her eyes as she 
entered. 

'* What a pity it is that you will 
have to be alone now !" said Annun- 
ciata. 

"Alone!" the Signora's eyes 



flashed out through the tears. " I 
am not alone. I never was alone 
in my life !" 

She smiled as she shut herself in- 
to her room. " Alone ? How little 
they know !" 

What, indeed^ did they, who can- 
not live a day without their gossip, 
without trying to fill their emptiness 
with the husks which make up by 
far the greater part of the world's 
talk; of the life of one whose mind 
was as a fountain for ever overflow- 
ing, who had eyes in her finger-tips, 
and who listened with every pore 
of her body ? What knew the read- 
ers of daily newspapers of the 
hoarded treasures of literature, ever 
ready with eloquent voices ? What 
knew the Christians of one commu- 
nion in the year, and one Mass 
when there was obligation, of long, 
delicious hours in churches when 
there was no function to stare at, 
nor music to talk through } The 
world has no such society as the 
cultivated mind can fill its house 
with; and there are no receptions 
so splendid as those given by the 
imagination. Bores never come, 
tattlers and enemies never are ad* 
mitted, late hours never weary, and 
the wine never inebriates. And, 
better yet, those who are invited 
are always present and ready to 
stay. How the possessors of such 
a society laugh at the " societies " 
of the outer world, and how truly 
they can exclaim, " Alone ? I never 
was alone in my life !" 



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494 Doubts of a Contempm'ary on the Destiny of Man. 



DOUBTS OF A CONTEMPORARY ON THE DESTINY OF MAN. 



The New York Sun gave us 
(March 25, 1877) a short but 
thoughtful and substantial review 
of a little work lately published by 
Rev. Dr. Nisbet, of Rock Island, 
III., on The Resurrection of the Body. 
The reviewer very justly affirms that 
the author's conclusions are anti- 
Scriptural, and that his method of in- 
terpretation lays the way open to a 
general disregard of dogmatic truth ; 
for if the Bible, as the doctor con- 
tends, does not really teach what 
the whole world has hitherto be- 
lieved it to teach concerning the 
resurrection of the flesh, it is plain 
that we can never be sure that we 
understand the doctrine of the 
Bible, even when it seems perfectly 
clear; and, if this be so, we can 
have no definite knowledge of 
/ revealed truth. The critic makes 
some very pertinent remarks on the 
baneful effects that such works as 
the one he criticises are apt to 
produce; and, although he does 
not point out explicitly the root of 
the evil, yet he gives us a clue to it 
by averring that any interpretation 
of Scripture which conflicts with 
the universal and traditional inter- 
pretation received in the church is 
calculated to shake the very foun- 
dations of faith, and exposes every 
dogma to the attacks and sneers of 
unbelievers. This is to say that 
the Protestant principle of freely 
interpreting the Bible without re- 
gard to ecclesiastical tradition leads 
to infidelity — a truth which is pain- 
fully confirmed by daily experience, 
and which accounts for the sym- 
pathy of all the anti-Christian sects 
with Protestantism; but which the 



writer in the Sun — ^an excellent 
Protestant, we presume — could not 
very consistently insist upon. Yet 
the whole tone of his article shows 
his sincerity. He is evidently an 
intelligent scholar ; and though he 
finds himself somewhat entangled 
in the solution of some important 
questions, yet he does not imitate 
the folly of such flippant scribblers 
as blaspheme what they do not un- 
derstand, but he shows forbearance 
and circumspection, a wholesome 
reverence for religion, and an ar- 
dent love of truth, and expresses 
an earnest desire to be taught how 
the resurrection of the fiesh and 
the immortality of the soul can be 
successfully established and vindi- 
cated against the allegations of 
modern sceptics. 

As we anticipate that Protestant 
divines will probably not take the 
trouble to investigate the objec- 
tions of the infidel school with 
which they too often sympathize 
and of which they are the uncon- 
scious props and promoters, we 
will consider the honest appeal of 
the writer as addressed to Catholic 
thinkers; and we intend to do 
briefly what we x:an, from our doc- 
trinal point of view, to solve his 
difliculties and to set at rest his 
doubts. The more so because, as 
he remarks, whoever can furnish a 
way out of such difliculties will 
confer, by so doing, an immense 
benefit upon a whole world of 
anxious but sincere doubters on 
the sul)ject of immortality. 

" It cannot be denied," says he, ** that 
while the Christians generally believe in 
some kind of continuance of human ex- 



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Doubts of a Contemporary on the Destiny of Man^ 495 



istence after death, there is a great diver- 
sity of opinions among them in regard 
to its nature and characteristics. The 
men of the primitive church were not 
perplexed about the matter, as they were 
not about many others which are active* 
ly debated among us." 

This introductory remark is ex- 
ceedingly important. The primi- 
tive church "was not perplexed" 
about the matter. Why ? Appa- 
rently because the faithful were in 
the habit of accepting the Gospel 
with humility and simplicity as it 
was given to them by the apostles 
and by their successors; because 
the Protestant method of interpret- 
ing Scripture according to every 
one's individual bias was not 
thought to be consistent with the 
profession of Christianity ; because 
the teachers of the faith did not 
contradict one another, as our 
modern Protestant preachers and 
writers are wont to do to the scan- 
dal and ruin of their bewildered 
(locks. When we see that our 
Lord's words, " This is my body," 
can be construed by Protestant 
divines as meaning "This is not 
my body," we may form an idea 
of what must be the result of the 
Protestant system of Scriptural in- 
terpretation. No one can be sur- 
prised that such a system creates 
perplexity, fosters debate, and ends 
in discord and ultimately in unbe- 
lief. But if there is "a great di- 
versity of opinions" among Protes- 
tants, such is not the case with us 
Catholics. We members of the 
universal church are not perplex- 
ed about such matters. We still 
believe with perfect unanimity as 
the primitive Christians believed; 
our teachers teach all the same 
Gospel — the Gospel of Jesus Christ 
as transmitted to us by legitimate 
channels, not the contradictory 
gospels and the doctrinal crotchets 



of free-thinking divines. That is 
what makes the difference. 

The critic whose words suggest- 
ed to us these passing remarks 
will not fail to see that it is mainly 
to the rebellious spirit and pre- 
sumption of the Protestant reform- 
ers that the present age owes its 
theological perplexities and tlie 
loss of religious unity. Would it 
not be better, therefore, to give up 
at last the gospels of men, and re- 
turn to the Gospel of the primitive 
Christians ? 

** They believed," as our critic points 
out, *' that at the last day the bodies of 
the dead would be raised to life, and that 
the faithful would once more, in flesli 
and blood, inhabit their former abodes. 
The most ancient versions of the Apos- 
tles' Creed teach explicitly the resurrec- 
tion of the flesh, and the earliest Christian 
apologist, Justin Martyr, writing only a 
hundred years after the death of Christ, 
defends the doctrine by asking whether 
it be any more difficult for God to create 
a body anew from its dust than for him 
to create it the first time in its mother's 
womb. And Mr. Nisbet concedes that 
all the succeeding Fathers of the church 
maintain the same view. TertiiUian de- 
clares : * The flesh shall rise again wholly 
in every man, in its own identity, in its 
absolute integrity.' Irenseus agrees with 
him, and so do Jerome and Augustine." 

It would appear that these au- 
thorities, to which many more of 
the same kind might be added, 
should leave no doubt in the mind 
of a Christian about the legitimate 
interpretation of the dogma of 
resurrection. For, when an article 
of faith is clearly expressed in the 
Gospel and has been uniformly un- 
derstood in all ages by the doctors 
of the universal- church, it is diffi- 
cult to see how a man who makes 
profession of Christianity caii 
think himself authorized to twist it 
according to his individual bias 
Yet this is what Dr. Nisbet has 
had the courage to do. 



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496 Doubts of a Contemporary on the Destiny of Man. 



** It is remarkable/* says the reviewer, 
** with what confidence Dr. Nisbct over- 
rides this primitive interpretation of 
Scripture and declares it to be incorrect. 
He allows no weight whatever to the ob- 
vious fact that men living so much near* 
er than he does to the days when the 
New Testament was written* and with 
whom its very language was still in col- 
loquial use, would be more likely than 
he to perceive its true meaning. He 
lays great stress upon the famous pas- 
sage in Paul's Epistle to the Corinthians 
(I Con XV. 35-53). which, he thinks, 
asseris the resurrection-body not to be 
of flesh and blood. But he fails to per- 
ceivethat all that Paul is contending for 
is a finer and more glorious form of flesh 
and blood. Paul's language is: *The 
trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall 
be raised incorruptible, and we shall be 
changed * (v. 52). This he further ex- 
plains in writing to the Thessalonians : 
* We which are alive and remain unto the 
coming of the Lord shall not prevent 
them which are as!eep. For the Lord 
himself shall descend from heaven with 
a shout, with the voice of the archangel, 
and with the trump of God : and the dead 
in Christ shall rise first. Then we 
which are alive and remain shall be 
caught up together with them in the 
clouds, to meet the Lord in the air : and 
SQ shall we ever be with the Lord' (i 
Thess. iv. 15-17). It was the expectation 
of the apostolic church that the Lord 
would come again in their time, agree- 
ably to his prediction in Matthew xxiv. : 
*This generation shall not pass, till 
all these things be fulfilled ' ; and in 
John V. : 'The hour is coming, and now 
is, when the dead shall hear the voice of 
the Son of God, and they that hear shall 
live.' They know that the Lord had 
raised Lazarus and many others in their 
own flesh and blood, and had himself, 
after his resurrection, offered his body 
to the touch of Thomas ; and they would 
have had to do violence to their own 
reasoning faculties had they conceived 
of any different fulfilment of his promises. 
When, therefore. Dr. Nisbet denounc- 
es, as he does, Mr. Tal mage's picture 
of the final resurrection, with its general 
scramble of souls for their old bodies, 
the flying of scattered limbs through the 
air. and their reconstruction in their 
pristine integrity, he discredits what has 
been for eighteen centuries the accept- 
ctl faith of the Christian Church." 



One would scarcely expect that 
the writer, after so judicious a criti- 
cism, should hesitate to condemn 
Dr. Nisbet's view; and yet he 
seems afraid of passing too severe 
a judgment on it, as he immediate* % 
ly adds : " Not that this proves him 
to be in the wrong, but only that, 
if he is in the right, no dogma, 
however venerable, is safe from at* 
tacl^." 

>^he conception that a man who 
professes Christianity may not be 
in the wrong while he throws dis- 
credit on the most venerable dog- 
mas of Christianity is a monstrosi- 
ty not only in a religious but also 
in a logical point of view./ Unless 
the expressions of our critic can be 
construed as a figure of speech 
conveying under a mild and civil 
form the merited censure, every 
Christian reader will say that the 
critic himself is in the wrong. 
A pagan, or a man absolutely igno- 
rant of the divine origin and glori- 
ous history of Christianity, might 
hesitate about the right or wrong 
^ of tampering with our revealed dog- 
mas, for he would have to learn 
first how the fact of divine revela- 
tion has been ascertained; but a 
man who has read the New Testa- 
ment, who lives in a Christian at- 
mosphere, who knows the life, the 
miracles, the death, and the resur- 
rection of Christ, and who conse- 
quently cannot conceal from himself 
the great fact of revelation — such a 
man, we say, astonishes us when 
he assumes that a Christian doctor 
may not be in the wrong, though he 
deal with revealed truth in such a 
loose manner as to expose every 
dogma, however venerable, to the 
attacks of our modern pagans. 
But let us proceed. To show 
how suicidal is Dr. Nisbet's 
method of interpretation the re- 
viewer says : 



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Doubts of a Contemporary on the Destiny of Man. 497 



** In fact, men more daring and less 
respectful than Dr. Nisbet have employ- 
ed his method of reasoning against the 
resurrection of what he calls the grave- 
flesh to controvert the idea of any resur- 
rection at all. He assumes as unques- 
tioned the proposition that human beings 
must in some way survive the death of 
the body, and is only solicitous to de- 
termine what that way is. But just as 
he shows the irrationality of expecting 
that the cast-oif flesh and blood which 
served the soul for a tabernacle during 
life shall be taken up again, so do 
sceptics undertake to show the irration- 
ality of expecting any kind of future ex- 
istence whatever." 

The reviewer is perfectly right.' 
If the teachers of Christianity are 
to be free to twist the word of God 
as they please, why shall their fol- 
lowers and other raen be denied 
the same privilege ? And what can\ 
be the ultimate result of such a 
reckless meddling with truth but 
universal unbelief? Faith must 
rest on unquestionable authority; 
when this latter is shaken, faith 
is replaced by doubt, opinion, per- 
plexity, despondency, and all the 
vagaries of a weak, distracted rea- 
son. The present growth of unbe- 
lief is therefore nothing but the 
logical development of the Protes- 
tant method of free interpretation, 
which has engendered a thousand 
conflicting opinions and thwarted 
all honest efforts of its followers in 
the search after truth. The Catho- 
lic Church alone has a remedy for 
this plague of religious scepticism, 
for she alone has the power to 
teach with authority, as she alone 
has faithfully preserved in its primi- 
tive entirety the sacred deposit of 
revealed truths. 

And now the reviewer comes to 
the most important part of his arti- 
cle, which consists of the objections 
urged by the modern unbelievers 
against both resurrection and im- 
mortality. He says : 
VOL. XXV. — 32 



**, Let us briefly state some of the vari- 
ous reasons which they adduce, in the 
hope that Dr. Nisbet, or some other 
writer of ability, may be led to meet and 
overthrow these reasons, and to furnish 
the world at last with a solid and impreg- 
nable philosophical demonstration of 
the doctrine of immortality." 

It was after reading this passage 
that we resolved to write the present 
article. Not that we consider our- 
selves "a man of ability " ; but we 
are in possession of truth, and are 
confident that we can vindicate it 
successfully, though we may lack 
the ability of our opponents. Let 
us proceed, therefore, without fur- 
ther observations, to the reviewer's 
arguments. 

'* In the first place," he says, *' those 
who deny that there is any immortality 
of the individual human soul say it is 
contrary to all the analogies of nature to 
suppose that the death of the body does 
not end its individual being. Through- 
out creation, whenever any organization 
is destroyed, it is destroyed forever. A 
new organization may arise similar to the 
old one, but it is not that one. A crystal 
crushed into powder ceases to be a crys- 
tal. Its particles may be dissolved and 
be crystal liaed anew; but they will form 
another and not the same crystal. Every 
vegetable runs its career from the seed to 
the matureplant, and, when resolved into 
its elements, perishes as a plant. If those 
elements be made to constitute a new 
plant, that plant begins its round as a 
new plant, and not as the old one. In 
like manner, when animals die and their - 
bodies decay, they never reappear as the- 
same animals. They may furnish mate-- 
rials for new forms of mineral, vegetable, 
and animal organisms, but these organ- 
isms are essentially new, and not the old 
ones under the new forms. And, in the 

me way, these sceptics contend, so far 
as our observation goes, human beings 
die once and finally, other men are born, 
and succeed them, but they are other men 
and not the men who have died. Wheth- 
er their dissolution took place yesterdays 
or thousands of years ago, it is alike, so 
far as our ordinary experience goes, com. 
plete and irreparable." 



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498 Doubts of a Contemporary on the Destiny of Man. 



To answer this argument it suffi- 
ces to point out that the resurrec- 
tion of the flesh and the immortal- 
ity of the soul are two distinct 
truths, of which the first is known 
to us by divine revelation only, the 
second by revelation and by reason. 
To say that "throughout creation 
whenever any organization is de- 
stroyed it is destroyed for ever," is 
to say that we find nothing in the 
order of nature that authorizes us 
to infer the resurrection of our 
bodies. This, of course, is true ; but 
what of it ? No one pretends that the 
future resurrection will be brought 
about by natural causes acting in 
their natural manner and obeying 
natural laws. Resurrection will be 
the work of the Omnipotent. We 
believe it, not because it agrees 
with the analogies of nature, but 
because God himself, infallible 
truth, has informed us that he will 
raise us from death against all the 
analogies of nature. We concede, 
then, that whenever an organization 
is destroyed, it is, in the natural 
course of things, destroyed for ever ; 
and consequently we concede that 
the course of nature affords no 
proof of our resurrection. But the 
ccmrse of nature is not the standard 
by which we have to judge of 
things supernatural. The analogies 
of nature did not prevent the resur- 
ractkm of Lazarus, of the son of 
.the widow, and of others of which 
we read in the Gospel and in other 
Scriptural books; nor did Christ re- 
spect the analogies of nature when 
the rose glorious from the tomb» as 
he had promised. Hence the ar- 
,gument from the analogies of na- 
-ture lias no strength whatever 
against the dogma of the resurrec- 
tion. 

Has it at least any weight against 
the immortality of the soul? On 
the contrary^ it proves that the 



soul is naturally immortal. For, 
though nature can destroy the 
organic form, it has no power to de- 
stroy the substances of which the 
organism consists. The organic 
compound is destroyed, but all the 
components remain. If, then, no 
substance is ever destroyed by na- 
ture, how can we fail to see that 
the human soul, which is a sub- 
stance, cannot naturally perish 
when the organism of the body is 
destroyed ? We may be told that 
the sceptic does not concede that 
our soul is a substance ; he rather 
believes that what we call the sotii 
is a mere result of organic move- 
ments which must cease altogether 
when the organs are destroyed. 
But we answer that, if the sceptic 
honestly desires to be enlightened 
on this subject, he must not rely on 
the assertions of ignorant or per- 
verse scientists who profess to 
know nothing but matter and force ; 
he must read and meditate what 
has been written on the subject by 
competent men. If he has sufficient 
ability to understand their philo- 
sophical reasonings, he will come to 
the conclusion that the substantial- 
ity of the human soul is a demon- 
strated truth ; if, on the contrary, 
he has too little stock of philosophy 
to be able to follow such reasonings, 
then he has no right to be a sceptic, 
and it becomes his duty humbly to 
recognize his incompetency, and to 
accept without demonstration what 
more cultivated minds consider a 
demonstrated truth. This last re- 
mark is very important. Scepticism 
and unbelief are the offspring of 
pride. Men pretend to see the why 
and the howoi everything ; but they 
often forget that they are born in 
ignorance, and that, as their know- 
ledge of material things is the fruit 
of long and varied experience so, 
the knowledge of supersensible 



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Doubts of a Contemporary on t/u Destiny cf Man. 



499 



things is the fruit of long and me- 
thodic study. He who has not 
studied astronomy, may say very 
honestly that he does not know how 
to determine the mass of the sun 
or the distance of the moon ; but 
he cannot honestly deny what 
astronomy teaches on the subject. 
To do this, to declare himself 
sceptic, would be accounted folly. 
How, then, can those be justified 
who, without having applied to 
philosophical studies, refuse to ac- 
cept the soundest conclusions of 
philosophy about the nature of the 
soul ? If they are at all anxious to 
know how to prove the substantial- 
ity of the soul, let them apply to 
philosophy; and they will learn 
that matter, owing to its inertia, 
cannot think, and that the organic 
movements cannot be the thinking 
principle. 

The writer in the Sun answers 
the preceding objection in the fol- 
lowing manner : 

'*In answer to this it is usually alleged 
that, though the body of a man dies and 
decays, his soul survives, and either, as 
Dr. Nisbet maintains, continues its ex- 
istence in a purer or more ethereal world, 
or, as the Christian Church believes, re- 
taining its potentiality of life, will clothe 
itself again, at some future time, with a 
bodily form and enter upon a new ca- 
reer.'' 

Let the writer take notice that, 
according to the doctrine of the 
Christian Church, the soul, when 
separated from the body, retains 
not a mere " potentiality of life," 
but actual life and the exercise 
thereof. The life of the soul does 
not depend on the organism of the 
body; its spiritual operation has no 
need of organs ; for reason and will 
are not organic faculties, though in 
the present life they are associated 
with the sensitive faculties which 
work through the organs. Th^ 



potentiality of life, in the language 
of philosophy, means the capability 
of receiving life ; and it is the or- 
ganism, not the soul, thut has such 
a potentiality. 

The writer continues : 

''This idea of the distinction between 
soul and body is as old as the history of 
the world. The ancient Greeks illus- 
trated it by the example of the butterfly 
emerging from the hard chrysalis and 
winging its flight through the air. Like 
the butterfly, the soul of man, they said, 
when it casts off its material envelope, 
soars aloft in the enjojrment of a purer 
atmosphere. The symbol, and the argu- 
ment drawn from it. have been adopted 
by moderns, and they represent the com- 
mon opinion on the subject. The asser- 
tion is that the soul exists within the 
body as a separate entity, and that when 
the body dies the soul Is merely set free." 

We wonder if any " argument " 
has ever been drawn from the ex- 
ample of the butterfly to prove that 
the soul survives the collapse of the 
body. Similitudes are simple illus- 
trations of things, and they serve to 
help the imagination, not to con- 
vince the intellect. Yet the author 
seems to believe that the common 
opinion which holds the soul to be 
a substance distinct from the body 
owes its demonstration partially to 
an " argument " drawn from the 
butterfly; and he undertakes to 
show that such an "argument " has 
no weight. He says : 

"But those who maintain this view 
fail to note that the butterfly, like the 
worm, is visible to the eye and subject 
to the laws of matter ; and, moreover, that 
the butterfly, when it has fulfilled its 
function in the economy of creation, per- 
ishes and is never seen or heard of more. 
If the soul is enveloped in the body as 
the butterfly is in the worm, it should 
appear to sight when its covering is re- 
moved. This notoriously does not hap- 
pen, and therefore the argument is un- 
satisfactory." 

Of course the " argument *' would 
be unsatisfactory ; and therefore it 



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500 Doubts of a Contevtparary on t/u Destiny of Man 



is that philosophers do not use it. 
But the critic should not condemn 
the similitude as wrong on the 
ground that " the butterfly is visi- 
ble to the eye and subject to the 
laws of matter/' whilst such is not 
the case with the soul. Similitudes 
are used for illustrating something 
different from them ; hence they 
cannot agree in all points with the 
things illustrated. When the visi- 
ble is used as a symbol of the in- 
visible, it is by no means pretend- 
ed that we can see the one as we 
see the other, or that there is in 
the one every property of the other. 
A genius may be compared to an 
eagle; but the eagle has feathers, a 
beak, and a tail, which the genius 
has not. So the butterfly is visible 
to the eye, subject to the laws of 
matter, and perishable ; and in all 
this it diflers vastly from the human 
soul. But it is not on these points 
that the comparison is based. 
Hence it is idle to argue from these 
points against the use of the com- 
parison. 

The. writer concludes the preced- 
ing^ in these words : 

"The argument from analogy, there- 
fore, does but little towards supporting 
a belief in the future existence of the 
soul either separately or in connection 
wiih a restored body." 

We admit that the analogies of 
nature, as alleged by the writer, do 
very little indeed towards proving 
a future resurrection ; but we have 
seen that the same analogies afford 
an irresistible proof of the natural 
immortality of the human soul : 
No power in nature can deprive a 
substance of its being ; the human 
soul is a substance ; therefore no na- 
tural p02tfer can deprive it of its be- 
ing. We have, then, in this argu- 
ment, a first demonstration of the 
natural immortality of the soul. 
But let us follow the reviewer. He 



mentions four proofs adduced by 
philosophers and divines in favor 
of the immortality of the soul — 
namely, the reasonableness of im- 
mortality, the promises of Scrip- 
ture, the legendary stories of ap- 
paritions, and, in our time, the 
phenomena of what is called spirit- 
ualism. 

** Without in any way admitting the 
sceptic's proposition," he says, " we must 
yet recognize the striking fact that in the 
construction of the argument from rea- 
sonableness, or the ^ priori demonstra- 
tion of the survival of the soul, our phi- 
losophers have not, so far, got one step 
beyond the point arrived at by the old 
Greeks two thousand years ago. No one 
has written more convincingly on the 
subject than Plato in his Phado^ nor is 
there any more thorough and exhaustive 
presentment of it extant than the one 
given by that diligent student of Greek 
literature, Cicero, in his Tusculan IHs- 
putadons, Plato begins by appealing to 
the general belief of men in their immor- 
tality, which is like appealing to the 
general belief in fairies and witches as a 
proof of their existence. He then argues, 
from the soul's readiness in acquiring 
knowledge, that it must have learned 
the same things in a previous state of 
existence ; and hence, as it existed be- 
fore the body, it will exist after the body 
ceases to be, which nowadays is not 
worth refuting. Next he says that the 
soul, being uncompounded and invisible, 
is indissoluble, and therefore immortal ; 
but this is begging the question. Fi- 
nally, he argues that the soul is in itself 
life and the opposite of death, and there- 
fore cannot die ; which is another petitio 
pHncipii, In a similar manner Cicero 
enumerates in favor of the soul's immor- 
tality the wide-spread conviction that it 
is immortal ; the thirst for fame which 
inspires heroic deeds, and which would 
be absurd if death were the end of all 
existence ; the volatile nature of the soul, 
which preserves it from destruction ; and 
its superior powers over those of the 
body." 

We beg to remark that this pas- 
sage is full of gratuitous assertions. 
What the writer calls " a striking 
fact ** is not a fact. Our philoso- 



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Doubts of a Contemporary on the Destiny of Man. 501 



phers, as he himself proceeds to 
show, have added much to the rea- 
sonings of the old Greek philoso- 
phers. How can it be true, then, 
that they have gone " not one step 
beyond the point arrived at two 
thousand years ago "? And if this 
were true, how could the writer 
disclaim any intention of admitting 
'* the sceptic's proposition," consid- 
ering that the old proofs of im- 
mortality are, in his opinion, quite 
unsatisfactory ? 

A second gratuitous and unwise 
assertion is that to appeal to the 
general belief in immortality is 
" like appealing to the general be- 
lief in fairies and witches as a proof 
of their existence." To say noth- 
ing of witches (for we need not 
enter into this controversy), it is 
not true that belief in fairies is, or 
has been, general, except perhaps 
among nursery children. But let 
this pass. There is a difference be- 
tween belief and belief. The be- 
lief of men in the immortality of 
the soul does not originate in nur- 
sery tales, but in natural reason; 
nor is it a belief extorted by impo- 
sition, but a conclusion of which 
thinking men find sufficient evi- 
dence in their own nature. It is 
because the nature is common that 
the belief in immortality is com- 
mon. To question it is to ignore 
the sensus natum communis^ and to 
forfeit all claim to a fair philosoph- 
ical reputation. 

A third assertion, equally gratui- 
tous and manifestly false, is that 
we cannot, without begging the 
question, infer the soul's immor- 
tality fronf its simplicity. It is not 
easy to understand how the writer 
could fall into such a tangible er- 
ror. The simplicity of the soul 
and its spirituality are demonstrat- 
ed independently of the question 
of immortality. This being the 



case, it is plain that no begging of 
the question is possible in arguing 
from the known spiritual simplicity 
of the soul to its immortality. The 
writer might probably object that 
to assume the simplicity and spirit- 
uality of the soul is to assume its 
immortality. This is to say that 
to assume the premises is to as- 
sume the conclusion. But, if the 
premises are only assumed after de- 
monstration, the conclusion which 
they involve will be based on de- 
monstration and will be demon- 
strated. And this is the case with 
the soul's immortality. If the sim- 
plicity and spirituality of the soul 
were assumed without proof, the 
argument would be worthless; but, 
since both are established by inde- 
pendent considerations, the con- 
clusion is unquestionably valid. 

The fourth gratuitous assertion 
consists in denouncing as a petitio 
principii the argument which says 
that the soul cannot die, "because 
it is life in itself." The words 
"the soul is life in itself" mean 
that the life of the soul is not, like 
that of the body, borrowed from a 
distinct vital principle, but consti- 
tutes the very being of the soul and 
is involved in its essence. Hence, 
if the substance of the soul cannot 
be blotted out of existence by na- 
tural agencies, the soul is naturally 
immortal ; for its very existence is 
life. And, since it is known and 
admitted that natural agencies are 
wholly incompetent to cause any 
created substance to vanish out of 
existence, the consequence is tiiat 
the soul, as Plato very justly re- 
marks, cannot naturally lose its life. 

To complete the demonstration, 
however, something more is need- 
ed. For, although the preceding 
arguments show that the soul can- 
not be destroyed by natural agen- 
cies, they do not prove that the 



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502 Doubts of a Contemporary on the Destiny of Man. 



Author of nature, who has created 
it, will keep it in existence after its 
separation from the body. In 
other terms, it is necessary to show 
that the soul is no less extrinsi- 
cally than intrinsically immortal. 
'ITiis the Greek philosophers, ow- 
ing to their pagan notion of Di- 
vinity, have been unable to do ; 
but it has been done by Christian 
philosophers, as our writer himself 
recognizes. He says : 

'' One argument, indeed, is employed 
by Christians which the heathens do not 
seem to have thought of— namely, the 
necessity of a future existence to com- 
pensate men for Iheir sufferings, and to 
punish them for their misdeeds, in this 
world, and thus vindicate God's mercy 
and justice. Virtuous human beings, it 
is said, are more or less unhappy in this 
life, while the wicked are happy ; and 
therefore *we must suppose that so just 
and benevolent a beifig as God will re- 
ward the one class and punish the other 
in a life to come." 

To this argument nothing can be 
objected. God cannot be more 
partial to the wicked than to the 
good. Such a course would evi- 
dently conflict with his sanctity, 
which necessarily loves all that is 
right, and necessarily hates all that 
is wrong. Hence the prosperity of 
the wicked and the trials of the 
good, though permitted by God for 
our present probation, are not final, 
but must be reversed when the 
time of probation is over^that is, 
at the end of the present life. A 
final triumph of virtue and a final 
punishment of vice are therefore 
as certain to come after this life as 
it is certain that God cannot forfeit 
his sanctity. Nevertheless, the 
writer in the Sun thinks that he 
can get rid of the argument by re- 
marking that, if it proved anything, 
it would prove too much. 

"As if God*8 goodness/' he says, 
*'does not much more require him to 



reward the virtuous here, if it requires 
him to reward them at all, and as if an 
uncertain future punishment, in a pro- 
blematical state of existence, would off- 
set a present sin." 

But this reply is extremely fu- 
tile ; for how can it be proved that 
God's goodness requires him to re- 
ward the virtuous here ? The as* 
sertion is quite arbitrary, not to say 
absurd ; for if God's goodness does 
not actually reward the virtuous 
here, it is evident that God's good- 
ness does not require that they 
should have their reward here. 
Then the writer seems to question 
the very necessity of reward and 
punishment; but he gives no rea- 
son for his doubt, as in fact no rea- 
son could be found for assuming 
that the moral law can be either 
observed without profit or violat- 
ed with impunity. If there be no 
retribution, right and wrong are 
empty names, virtue becomes vice, 
and vice virtue. If no happiness is 
to be expected after death, he is 
most reasonable and virtuous who 
strives to satisfy all his passions, 
and he is most vicious and unrea- 
sonable who renounces his present 
gratification for the sake of moral- 
ity. The sceptic, therefore, who 
denies a future life is constrained 
logically to admit that all virtue is 
foolishness, and all wisdom con- 
sists in self-indulgence and plea- 
sure. The evident absurdity of 
this conclusion shows the falsity 
of the opinion from which it pro- 
ceeds. 

The writer imagines also that 
the future punishment is " uncer- 
tain," and that after de^th there is 
only a " problematical " state of 
existence. To this we need not 
make a new answer, as we have 
seen that a future retribution is 
absolutely certain and not at all 
problematic. 



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Doubts of a Contemporary on the Destiny of Man. 503 



" It may still further be said," adds 
our writer, " that when we turn to the 
Scriptures, we do not find them by any 
means so clear and positive in regard to 
the survival of the soul as people gener- 
ally suppose. The five books of Moses 
are absolutely destitute of all allusion to 
the subject. The Jews were told by the 
great lawgiver nothing whatever con- 
cerning a life beyond the grave. They 
were promised rewards in this world if 
they behaved well, and threatened with 
punishments in this world if they be- 
haved ill. Their whole subsequent his- 
tory illustrates this fundamental princi* 
pie. When they rebelled against Jeho- 
vah and worshipped other gods, they 
were smitten with war, pestilence, famine, 
and captivity. When they were obe- 
dient to him, they were blessed with 
peace and plenty, and victory was grant- 
ed them over their foes. In die prophet- 
ical writings, full as they are of rebukes 
and warnings, there is no more explicit 
teaching of a future life than in the Pen- 
Uteuch; and, down to the advent of 
Christ, the sect of Sadducees, who prid- 
ed themselves of their adherence to the 
£edth of their fathers, stoutly denied it." 

Let us make a few remarks on 
this argument. First, were we to 
concede that Moses is absolutely 
silent about a future life, it would 
make no difference as to the ques- 
tion of the soul's immortality. For 
if we argue with Christians, Moses' 
silence is abundantly compensated 
for by other inspired writers; and 
if we argue with unbelievers, we 
know that Moses with them is no 
authority whether he speaks or re- 
mains silent. 

Secondly, it is not true that ** the 
five books of Moses are absolutely 
destitute of all allusion to the sub- 
ject." We are not going to write a 
dissertation on this Biblical ques- 
tion ; it will suffice to point out a 
few passages which would have no 
meaning apart from a belief in a 
future life. We read in Genesis 
(xv. i) that the Lord said to Abra- 
ham : " I am thy protector, and thy 
reward exceedingly great." Can 



these words have any other mean- 
ing than " protector in the troubles 
of thy present life, and reward ex- 
ceedingly great after the end of the 
struggle".^ Again we read that 
Jacob at the approach of his death, 
while blessing his children, exclaim- 
ed : "I will look for thy salvation, 
O Lord" {id. xlix. 18)— that is, 
''though I shall soon die, yet my 
soul will not cease to rejoice in 
the earnest expectation of the Re- 
deemer who is to come " — Salutare 
tuum expectaboy Domine, And the 
same patriarch, when mourning for 
his son (Joseph), ''would not re- 
ceive comfort, but said : I will go 
down to my son into hell, mourn- 
ing " {ib, xxxvii. 35). He therefore 
believed that his soul would sur- 
vive its separation from the body. 
It is not true, d|en, that the books 
of Moses are alSolutely destitute of 
all allusion to a future life. Nor is 
it lawful to argue that, because the 
great lawgiver promised rewards 
and threatened punishments of a 
temporal order, the eternal re- 
wards and the eternal punish- 
ments must have been unknown to 
the children of Israel ; for we must 
reflect that Moses' menaces and 
promises were made to the nation 
or the political body, not to in- 
dividual persons, and that the po- 
litical body was not destined to last 
for ever; whence it follows that 
all the promises and all the mena- 
ces addressed to the nation ought 
to refer exclusively to the temporal 
order. 

Thirdly, it is not true that the 
prophetical writings do not teach a 
future life. We read in Daniel 
(xii. 2) that "many of those that 
sleep in the dust of the earth shall 
awake, come unto liie everlasting, 
and others unto reproach." These 
words are decisive. Death is but 
a sleep; we shall awake to a new 



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504 Doubts of a Contemporary on the Destiny of Man. 



life, and this future life will last 
for ever. ** On the last day," says 
Job, " I shall rise out of the earth, 
and I shall be clothed again with my 
skin, and in my flesh I shall see my 
God" (c. xix.) David says : " The 
wicked shall be turned into hell, 
^11 the nations that forget God. 
For the poor man shall not be for- 
gotten to the end : the patience of 
the poor shall not perish for ever" 
(Psalm ix.) " Thy dead men," says 
Isaias, '* shall live, my slain shall 
rise again : awake, and give praise, 
ye that dwell in the dust" (c. xxvi.) 
Ezechiel (c. xviii.) intimates to the 
wicked that they shall die, while 
the just shall live; where living 
and dying cannot refer to the 
course of natural events, but must 
be interpreted as meaning salva* 
tion and damnati^. David says 
again : " But God^ill redeem my 
soul from the hand of hell, when 
he shall receive me" (Psalm xlviii.) 
These passages, to which many 
others might be added, suffice to 
show that our writer is not more 
accurate in speaking of the pro- 
phetical writings than he is ia 
speaking of the Pentateuch. 

Fourthly, he does not seem to 
know that the Sadducees, notwith- 
standing their ** priding themselves 
of their adherence to the faith of 
their fathers," were nothing but a 
heretical sect ; they denied the re- 
surrection of the flesh, just as mo- 
dern Protestants deny transubstan- 
tiation ; and it is as absurd to ap- 
peal to the Sadducees for the right 
understanding of the Jewish faith 
as it would be to appeal to our mo- 
dern heretics for the interpretation 
of the Catholic doctrine. 

The writer adds : 

**The historical books, indeed, show 
that in later days the doctrine gained 
admission into some Jewish minds, hay- 
ing most probably been communicated 



to them from their Assyrian, Persian, 
and Babylonian captors ; but the form 
it took on was that of the resurrection 
of the flesh, which, Dr. Nisbet says, was 
erroneously adopted by the Christian 
Church. If, therefore, the Old Testament 
be silent on the topic, and the New Tes- 
tament, as interpreted by contemporary 
critics, teaches a doctrine which reason 
cannot accept, what is there in the Bible 
to require a belief in any resurrection 
whatever ?" 

We have shown that the immor- 
tality of the soul was known to the 
Jews from the time of the patri- 
archs. The Assyrians, the Persians, 
the Babylonians, and the Egyptians 
were also acquainted with the same 
truth, but they seem to have been 
altogether ignorant of a future re- 
surrection, and many of them 
thought that their souls were des- 
tined to transmigrate from one 
body to another. These errors 
may have been communicated to 
some Jews by their captors ; as we 
know that the Sadducees denied the 
resurrection, and most of the Phari- 
sees believed in metempsychosis, ac- 
cording to Joscphus (Antiquit, 1. 
xviii. c. 2). But if the captivity of 
the Jews may have been the source 
of these errors, it has certainly not 
been the origin of the belief in im- 
mortality and resurrection, which 
pre-existed among the Jews long 
before their captivity. 

As to the argument which the au- 
thor draws from Dr. Nisbet's view 
of resurrection, we need hardly say 
that, if it may have some weight 
against Dr. Nisbet, it can have none 
against the Christian doctrine. The 
New Testament, " as interpreted by 
contemporary critics " — that is, by 
Dr. Nisbet — "teaches a doctrine 
which reason cannot accept." What 
then ? Then, concludes the writer, 
" there is nothing in the Bible to 
require a belief in any resurrection 
whatever." We are at a loss to un- 



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Doubts of a Contemporary on the Destiny of Man. 505 



derstand the logical connection of 
the consequence with the antece- 
dent. Can we not suppose that 
there is something in the Bible 
which requires a belief in the resur- 
rection of the flesh, and that Dr. 
Nisl)et, whose infallibiUty is far 
from being demonstrated, has failed 
to understand it ? When a man is 
bold enough to say that the Chris- 
tian Church has" erroneously adopt- 
ed " a doctrine which has been 
preached by the apostles and be- 
lieved in without interruption for 
eighteen centuries by the Christian 
world, there is little doubt that such 
a man is himself in error, and that 
his assertions cannot be made the 
ground of any argumentation. On 
the other hand, if Dr. Nisbet " con- 
tends for a resurrection in a form 
composed of finer substances than 
flesh and blood," he may indeed 
err theologically, but we fail to see 
how he thereby " teaches a doctrine 
which reason cannot accept." In. 
fact, reason is incompetent to de- 
cide what mode of resurrection 
should be accepted and what re- 
jected ; it being evident that in 
a question of this sort the province 
of reason is to submit to revelation, 
and to accept the doctrine univer- 
sally received by the members of 
the church. If therefore the Old 
or the New Testament, or both, 
as interpreted by the Fathers 
of the church, teach a doctrine 
against which reason has noth- 
ing whatever to object, it is the 
duty of every wise and reasonable 
man to accept the doctrine without 
the least regard to the vagaries of 
"contemporary Protestant critics." 
Now, this is the case with the doc- 
trine of immortality and resurrec- 
tion. 

But our writer has more to say : 

*' Moreover, it is urged, if the sur- 
vival of the soul is a fact at all, it is a 



fact to-day as much as it ever was, and, 
like other facts, susceptible of proof. 
There are departed souls eaough now, if 
there ever were any, to make it e;isy to 
demonstrate their existence. If it be 
true, as so many multitudes believe, 
that when the body dies the soul of the 
man, the woman, or the child who in- 
habited it survives as a real man, wo- 
man^ or child, with all that is requisite to 
personal identity, why, ask the doubters, 
does it not in some way manifest itself? 
From every home on this planet there 
go up daily and hourly passionate de- 
mands for the return of loved ones 
whom death has snatched away. Were 
they still in the flesh, no obstacle would 
prevent their hurrying to join the objects 
of their affection ; and the sceptic finds 
it inconceivable that if, as is said, they 
hover about us in spirit form, they 
should not make their presence felt in 
some undeniable way." 

It is perfectly true that the sur- 
vival of the soul is, like other facts, 
susceptible of proof. Yet not all 
facts are proved by the same kind 
of proofs. There are, even in the 
natural sciences, facts which must 
be proved by reasoning, owing to 
the impossibility of ascertaining 
them directly by the experimental 
method. We must not expect, 
therefore, that souls, which are 
spiritual and invisible, should, after 
departing from their bodies, give 
sensible signs of their survival in a 
different state. Nor do we need 
any such sensible proof of their 
survival ; for we have proofs of a 
higher order, by which we show 
that the human soul cannot die. 
We -therefore establish not only the 
fact of its survival, but also the ne- 
cessity of the fact. On the other 
hand, if a soul were to appear be- 
fore us, we might suspect the ob- 
jective reality of the apparition ; at 
best we might simply conclude that 
such a soul has been kept in exist- 
ence; but we would have no 
ground for concluding that all 
other human souls are likewise kept 



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5o6 Doubts of a Contemporary on the Destiny of Man. 



in existence, and that they must 
remain in existence for ever. In 
fact, could not that soul be annihi- 
lated some time after its apparition ? 
Or could we logically maintain that 
the survival of one soul suffices to 
prove the survival of all other 
souls? It is therefore impossible 
to prove the immortality of all hu- 
man souls by means of individual 
apparitions ; to establish it a gene- 
ral principle is indispensable, and 
this principle is drawn from the 
very essence of the soul and from 
the sanctity and justice of its Crea- 
tor. 

But "why does not the soul in 
some way manifest itself"? This 
question is very easily answered. 
The departed souls are either in 
heaven, or in hell, or in purgatory. 
If in hell or in purgatory, they are 
there like prisoners, and cannot free- 
ly roam about. If, on the contrary, 
they are in heaven, they have 
none other than spiritual relations 
with this world, except by special 
dispensation of divine Providence. 
And again, why should departed 
souls manifest themselves in a sen- 
sible manner ? To convince us that 
the Scriptural doctrine of immor- 
tality is true ? As if our faith in 
the word of God were based on the 
testimony of our senses, not on the 
authority and truthfulness of God 
himself. '* Because thou hast seen 
me, Thomas, thou hast believed," 
said our Lord to his sceptical disci- 
ple : ** blessed are they that have not 
seen and have believed." Miracles, 
in the present order of Providence, 
are not the rule, but the exception : 
hence the sensible manifestation of 
departed souls, as being above the 
requirements of nature, is not to be 
made the test of their survival. 

" Were they still in the flesh," we 
are told, " no obstacle would prevent 
their hurrying to join the objects of 



their affection." Certainly ; for if 
they were still in the flesh they 
would belong to this world ; but, 
since they are no more in the flesh, 
they now belong to the world of 
spirits, which is invisible to our eyes 
of flesh, and from which they can- 
not communicate with us in sensi- 
ble forms without a special com- 
mand or permission of God. It is 
not true that they " hover about us 
in spirit form"; this is a pagan con- 
ception. Nor is it true that the soul 
survives " as a real man, woman, or 
child." Souls have no sex, and man 
cannot be without a body ; hence no 
departed soul is either man, woman, 
or child : it is a soul simply, and its 
"personal identity " consists in its 
being the same soul which was in 
the body. 

To the question, "Why do not 
souls manifest themselves in a sensi- 
ble way ?" a second answer can be 
given by replying that many souls 
have thus manifested themselves. 
This answer, good and legitimate 
as it is, is ridiculed by sceptical 
critics, who, while constantly ap- 
pealing to facts, are invariably de- 
termined to spurn all facts contra- 
ry to their theories. Our writer 
says: 

'* Equally inconclusive is the lictle we 
have of positive testimony on the sub- 
ject. It is true that in all ages there 
have been some who have asserted the 
power of actually seeing and speaking 
with departed souls, and the whole tribe 
of spirit- mediums pretend to it now. As 
to what has happened in bygone times 
it is, of course, impossible now to base 
any conclusion upon it. The circum- 
stances cannot be inquired into, and, 
moreover, one single witness coming be- 
fore us and submitting his testimony to 
our scrutiny is worth more than a thou- 
sand who are out of our reach. The 
question is : Does anybody at this day 
really have intercourse with the spirits 
of the dead? The spirit-rappers and 
their followers say Yes, but the great in 



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credalous world, after hearing all they 
have to present in confirmation of their 
assertions, still says No. There is so 
much fraud and nonsense connected 
with the business that the scientific mind 
rejects it contemptuously. The very phe- 
nomena themselves are clouded with a 
suspicion of jugglery and deceit, while 
there is a wide divergence of opinion as 
to their interpretation, even granting 
them to be honestly produced." 

AVc agree with the author that 
spiritists have no intercourse with 
the spirits of the dead, and we add 
that no mortal has the power to 
call back to this world a departed 
soul. This, we think, is certain 
both by authority and philosophy. 
Hence, if any spirits are really 
made to appear and to answer 
questions — which we know to be a 
fact, though not so frequent as sim- 
pletons are apt to believe — those 
spirits are not the souls of the de- 
parted, but tiie lying spirits of hell, 
who volunteer to play nonsensical 
tricks for the amusement and the 
perversion of their foolish consul- 
tors. But that departed souls 
have now and then appeared 
to men in visible form is a 
fact established on indisputable 
historical evidence* Do we not 
read in the Bible that the ghost of 
Samuel appeared to Saul, rebuked 
his recklessness, and intimated to 
him the impending defeat of his 
army and his own death? Nor 
can it be objected that the ghost 
was a devil, for devils do not know 
the future actions of men ; nor can 
it be said that the apparition was a 
delusion, for the ghost was seen 
by the witch before it was seen by 
Saul; and the whole narrative of 
the sacred writer is so worded as to 
exclude the possibility of explain- 
ing away the fact by such a loose 
interpretation. It will be said, 
however, that " the scientific mind *' 
rejects all such facts with absolute 



contempt. To which we may re- 
ply that " the scientific mind " has 
no right whatever to reject histori- 
cal facts. Science is based on 
facts; its duty is to account for 
them by a sufficient reason, not to 
deny them when they transcend our 
comprehension. We know that 
there is a class of modern scien- 
tists who contend that everything 
must be explained by the proper- 
ties of matter, and that no exception 
can be admitted in favor of super- 
natural facts. But we do not see 
how this mental disposition can be 
called '^scientific." If physicists 
refuse to acknowledge all the facts 
which transcend the limits of their 
sphere, why could not the musician 
reject all the phenomena which 
transcend his musical knowledge, 
or the chemist ridicule all the as- 
tronomical calcul at ions? it is evi- 
dent that every science must dwell 
within its proper limits, and there- 
fore no weight can be attached to 
the opinions of mere physicists 
when they presume to decide ques- 
tions entirely extraneous to their 
profession. Thus the facts remain, 
and all attempts at discrediting 
them roust be accounted idle and 
unscientific talk. Lazarus, dead 
and buried, at the voice of Christ 
revived. The fact was public and 
recognized by Christ's enemies. 
'^ The scientific mind " will not de- 
ny it But then, we ask, how could 
the soul of Lazarus retake posses- 
sion of his body, if it had ceased to 
exist ? and what else was the rising 
of the body from its tomb than a 
sensible manifestation of the soul 
returned to its primitive office? 
We read in the Gospels, in the 
Acts of the Apostles, and in ec- 
clesiastical history of many dead 
recalled to life either by Christ or 
by his disciples and followers. In 
all such facts souls have manifested 



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5o8 Doubts of a Contemporary on the Destiny of Man. 



themselves. We might mention a 
great number of genuine apparitions 
well known to all readers of the 
lives of saints; but as we have 
neither time nor intention to enter 
into a critical discussion of the evi- 
dence by which they are supported, 
we shall content ourselves with cit- 
ing the glorious apparitions of 
Lourdes, of La Salette, and of 
Marpingen, which, as all the world 
knows, are unquestionable facts, 
accompanied and followed by a 
continuous series of public miracles, 
to which " the scientific mind " of 
modern thinkers has found nothing 
to object, though it has been for- 
mally and repeatedly challenged to 
disprove them by its pretended su- 
perior knowledge. Our Catholic 
readers know most of the facts to 
which we allude ; but it is probable 
that the writer to whom we reply 
is not acquainted with them, and 
we would suggest to him to read 
M. Lasserre's book on the appari- 
tion of Lourdes, where he will find, 
we trust, sufficient evidence con- 
cerning the reality and nature of the 
facts just mentioned. But we re- 
peat that a Christian and a philoso- 
pher has no need of sensible mani- 
festations to believe in the immor- 
tality of the human soul. Reason 
and the Gospel afford such a strong 
evidence of this truth that all 
further evidence may seem super- 
fluous. When unbelievers ask for 
apparitions or sensible manifesta- 
tions, we may answer them as Abra- 
ham answered the rich man : " If 
they hear not Moses and the pro- 
phets, neither will they believe if 
one rise again from the dead " 
(Luke xvi. 31). 

Our writer sums up his argu- 
ments as follows : 

" The fact, then, seems to be^and we 
would earnestly press it upon the atten- 
tion of religious thinkers of every kind, 



and especially upon theologians and 
clergymen, whose peculiar duty it is to 
deal with such subjects — the fact seems 
to be that analogy, reason, revelation, 
and human testimony alike fail to es- 
tablish the doctrine that man can exist 
as a man without a material body. Books 
such as that of Dr. Nisbet rather add to 
than remove the philosophical difficul- 
ties of the subject so long as they leave 
the main question untouched. More- 
over, in explaining away the popular in- 
terpretation of the Scriptures in regard 
to it, they tend to produce very much 
the same results as have been produced 
by the efforts to reconcile Genesis. with 
geology. The conclusion that the Bible 
does not teach science correctly has been 
followed by the conclusion that it does 
not teach science at all ; and so, if we 
agree with Dr. Nisbet that what it says 
about the resurrection is not to be taken 
literally, we shall be in great danger of 
rejecting its testimony altogether." 

This is to say that the Scriptures, 
in the Protestant system of free in- 
terpretation, lose all authority, in- 
asmuch as the word of man is 
thereby substituted for the word of 
God. Thus far we agree with the 
writer. But that religious thinkers, 
theologians, and clergymen should 
undertake a new demonstration of 
the soul's immortality and of the 
resurrection of the flesh, we consid- 
er unnecessary. Theologians and 
clergymen have done their duty on 
this point with such completeness 
as to make all sceptics inexcusable. 
All that is wanted is that the scep- 
tics themselves undertake to study 
the works of such theologians and 
philosophers as have answered the 
objections of the materialists of the 
last century. Scepticism is igno- 
rance. There is no remedy for it 
but study — the study of that spe- 
cial branch of knowledge on which 
the solution of any given question 
depends. 

Our writer imagines that some 
" efforts " have been made " to re- 
concile Genesis with geology." 



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This, however, is not the case. 
The truth is that a class of scien- 
tists have made some " efforts " to 
turn geology against Genesis, and 
tliat those efforts have been unsuc- 
cessful. A science which denies 
to-day what it considered yesterday 
as demonstrated, and which is apt 
to deny to-morrow what it teaches 
to-day, needs none of our ** efforts " 
to be reconciled with Genesis. 
^Vllen the facts of geology shall be 
well known, and when the theories 
built on those facts shall be logi- 
cally correct, then we shall have 
no need of " reconciling " geology 
with Genesis ; for geology will teach 
us nothing in opposition to the re- 
vealed origin of things. 

As to the conclusion *' that the 
Bible does not teach science cor- 
rectly," or " that it teaches no sci- 
ence at all," we will only remark 
that the Biblical record of creation 
is a history of facts^ not a treatise 
of science. Hence the proposition 
that the Bible does not teach sci- 
ence correctly has no meaning, 
whilst the proposition that the Bi- 
ble teaches no science at all is per- 
fectly true, although the facts them- 
selves which it relates must be 
looked upon as the groundwork of 
geological science. 

But our writer seems to take a 
different view of the subject. He 
says : 

" Many believers in Christianity deny 
that the world was made in six day^, al- 
though the Bible says it was made in six 
days ; deny thit a flood ever covered the 
tops of the mountains, that there ever 
were witches and magicians, and that 
Joshua made the sun and the moon 
stand still, although the Bible asserts 
all these things ; why may they not like- 
wise safely deny as unscientific the dog- 
ma of a future existence of all individual 
human beings? This is the dilemma 
into which speculations like those of Dr. 
Nisbet bring us ; and if he and his school 
can furnish a way out of ii, they will 



confer an immense benefit upon the 
whole world of anxious but sincere 
doubters upon this great subject." 

Such is the end of the article we 
have been examining. We would 
tell the writer that if there are be- 
lievers in Christianity who deny 
anything revealed by God in the 
Bible, such believers are not con- 
sistent with themselves; for why 
should they believe in Christianity 
if they disbelieve the Bible .^ If 
the word of God in the Old Testa- 
ment does not command their as- 
sent, why should the same word of 
God in the New Testament cause 
them to believe ? It is clear that, 
if they believed on God's authority, 
they could not reject anything bas- 
ed on that authority. A belief of 
this sort is not divine faith, but 
human opinion ; it is not submission 
to God's authority, but a denial of 
God's authority in all things which 
man chooses to disbelieve ; and 
consequently such a belief is not 
that faith '* without which it is im- 
possible to please God." It is, 
however, the faith of many advanc- 
ed Protestants; and thus we arc 
not surprised that the writer con- 
siders such an irrational form of 
belief as consistent with the muti- 
lated form of " Christianity " with 
which he is familiar. But we Ca- 
tholics — we heirs of the apostolic 
doctrine transmitted to us in an 
uninterrupted manner by the uni- 
versal church — we believe every- 
thing that has been revealed either 
in the Old or in the New Testa- 
ment. We do not question the fact 
that there have been witches and 
magicians, nor do we see any rea- 
son for questioning it ; we believe 
in like manner what the Bible says 
about the Flood, the six days of 
creation, Joshua's great miracle, 
and everything else ; by which we 
mean that those facts which we 



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5 1 o Doubts of a Contemporary on the Destiny of Man. 



read in the Bible, whether we have 
a true appreciation of them or not, 
are all true, and that the difficul- 
ties we may find in their explana- 
tion arise from our ignorance, which 
the modern progress of science has 
done very little to dispel. Thus, 
while we are free to choose among 
the various explanations of Biblical 
facts, we all agree in believing the 
facts themselves. But, if this is 
true of those passages of Scripture 
whose meaning is obscure, and 
whose interpretation has not been 
settled by the authority of the 
church or by the consensus of the 
doctors, it is not true of those other 
passages whose meaning is obvious 
and unmistakable, or whose inter- 
pretation has been sanctioned by 
the unanimous decision of the uni- 
versal church. Hence, while we 
may freely discuss the six days of 
creation and the astronomical re- 
sult of Joshua's dealings with the 
sun, we have no reasonable ground 
for discussing or doubting " the 
dogma of a future existence of all 
individual human souls." To say 
that this dogma is '' unscientific " 
is to assume what neither has been 
nor can be proved ; unless, indeed, 
we call " unscientific " every truth 
which ranges above the compass 
of experimental science ; in which 
case even logic itself would be ut- 
terly unscientific. 

Whether Dr. Nisbet or his 
school can furnish a way out of the 
difficulties complained of by our 
writer we do not know. It is pro- 
bable, however, that neither Dr. 
Nisbet nor any other doctor of the 
same school can successfully com- 
bat the invading spirit of infidelity 
so long as they do not give up 
their Protestant method of reason- 
ing and their Protestant profession. 
Protestantism is itself one kind of 
infidelity; it cannot contribute in 



any way towards the restoratiaa of 
sound philosophical or theological 
ideas ; it can only sow doubt, dis- 
cord, and inconsistency, thus pav- 
ing the way for religious scepticism 
and its concomitant evils. The histo- 
ry of Protestantism is sufficient evi- 
dence of the fact. It is vain, there- 
fore, to hope that Dr. Nisbet or his 
school will *' confer any benefit 
upon the whole world of anxious 
but sincere doubters " by establish- 
ing either the immortality of the 
soul or the resurrection of the 
flesh on impregnable proofs. Let, 
then, all anxious but sincere doubt- 
ers turn to Catholic doctors and 
Catholic books; let them hear 
the church — the old, calumniated 
church, the column of truth, the heir 
of the apostles, of the prophets, of 
the patriarchs, and the spouse of 
Christ. She will teach them how 
to reconcile reason with faith and 
religion with science, so as to be- 
lieve rationally and consistently 
whatever God has revealed, while 
preserving the fullest liberty of 
judgment in regard to all other 
things. Yet we must warn these 
"anxious but sincere doubters" 
that no benefit will accrue to them, 
if they approach our divines or 
read our books with that spirit of 
contention which is so common 
among all the Protestant sects. If 
they are "anxious" to know the 
truth, they must not rely exclusive- 
ly on the strength of their reason- 
ing powers, but must be ready to 
yield to authority in all things con- 
nected with Christian faith. If 
they are " sincere," humility must 
be a part of their sincerity. 

To conclude : We have met and 
answered the reasons alleged by 
the writer in the Sun against the 
immortality of the soul <ind the 
resurrection of the flesh; and al- 
though we have scarcely developed 



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the reflections suggested by those 
reasons, yet we confidently believe 
that our brief remarks will be found 
sufficient to set at rest the argu- 
ments of the sceptic. As to the 
doctrine of immortality in parti- 
cular, of which the same writer 
desired '^a solid and impregnable 
philosophical demonstration," we 
have shown that the human soul 
neither can be destroyed by any 
created cause nor will be de- 



stroyed by God ; accordingly, the 
human soul is intrinsically and ex- 
trinsically immortal.* Our proofs 
have been few, but simple and in- 
telligible; and we trust that the 
writer who gave us occasion to 
speak of this subject, if he chances 
to read these pages, will soon ac- 
quire the conviction that the doc- 
trine of immortality was really in 
no need of a new philosophical 
demonstration. 



SANNAZZARO. 



One Sunday morning, while at 
Naples, we went to hear our Mass 
of obligation in the church of the 
Servites, erected by the poet San- 
nazzaro in honor of the divine Ma- 
ternity of Mary, and called after 
his famous poem, De Partu Virgi- 
nis. It stands on the Mergellina, 
yXi^Xpezzo di cielo caduto in terra^ as 
the Neapolitans say — "a fragment 
of heaven to earth vouchsafed** — 
and certainly the most beautiful 
shore on which the sun shines. It 
was this shore that inspired the ar- 
dent Stazio. Not far off is the tomb 
of Virgil, and the place where Pol- 
lio lived, and the grove where Sili- 
us Italicus conceived the idea of 
his Punica. Here, too, Sannazzaro 
had a charming villa which tempt* 
ed the very Muses to descend from 
the mountain to dwell on the sandy 
shore, as Ariosto says : 

*' Alle CamoM 
Lasdar fa i mooti e abitar le arene.'* 

Here he wrote most of his poems 
and gathered around him all the 
wit and talent of Naples on those 
Dus geniaUSj which were as famous 
at that time as the Nodes Ambrosi- 



ana of Christopher North at Edin- 
burgh in our younger days, though 
not quite so convivial, perhaps. 
This villa had about it a certain 
perfume of antiquity of which we 
know nothing in these times, and 
which we affect to despise. It was 
the natural atmosphere of this Vir- 
gilian region, and it had an inspira- 
tion of its own which must be taken 
into account in reading the works 
of Sannazzaro. He has celebrated 
his villa in an ode worthy of Ho- 
race. He did not, however, not- 
withstanding his classical tastes, 
dedicate his household altar to 
Apollo, or even to Venus — ^he was 
too genuine a Christian for that — 
but to the tutelar care of San Naz- 
zaro, whom he reckoned among his 
ancestors. When nearly done with 
life, he built a church on the spot, 
in memory of that divine Birth 
which he had so sweetly sung, and 
attached thereto a convent of Ser- 
vite monks, to whom he gave the 
income of eight thousand florins 
for the solemn celebration of Christ- 
mas and certain expiatory services 
for*himself, his ancestors, and King 
Frederick III. of Naples. Here 



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Sannctzzaro. 



he also set up an altar to San Naz- 
zaro, and ordered his own tomb to 
be built. 

We had repeatedly passed the 
Church del Parto without being 
able to find it, so embedded is it 
among houses on the side of the 
cliff. And the entrance is from a 
side terrace, to which you ascend 
by a fiiglit of steps, as to the court 
of a private dwelling. This ter- 
race commands a view that sur- 
passes all the most vivid imagina- 
tion could conceive. The Castel 
del Ovo advances directly before 
you into the incomparable bay, the 
waters of which, generally blue as 
tlie heavens, were at this early hour 
all crimson and gold and amethyst, 
with great floods of silver coming 
in from the sea. Behind them were 
islands, such as we see in dreams, 
rising out of the magic waves: 
Capri, with its marvellous grottos, 
clouded with the memory of Tibe- 
rius; Procida, with its fort on the 
volcanic rocks ; and Ischia, where 
the beautiful Vittoria Colonna, be- 
loved of Michael Angelo, retired 
to mourn her husband's loss, and 
beneatli which the giant Typhoeus, 
transfixed by a thunderbolt from 
Jupiter, lies ilnprisoned, at long 
intervals groaning with pain, and 
sending forth in his rage fearful 
eruptions of burning lava. On the 
inner curve of the bay sits Naples 
like a queen, with her palaces, her 
citadels, her white villas gleaming 
like jewels — her glance all flame, 
and her heart all fire. Beyond 
rises Mount Vesuvius, with its cone 
of perfect symmetry, full of mystery 
and terror, its summit now flecked 
with patches of snow, looking like 
great white flowers that bloom 

^' Around the crater's bumiog lips. 
Sweetening the very edge of doom." 

A light vapor, rather than smoke, 
issued from the top, no longer 



dark and foreboding like the evil 
genius whose vase was unsealed, 
but of soft, dove-like hues, as if 
some pacific herald. At its foot 
sleep fair villages among peaceful 
olive-trees, wreathed with vines, 
and lulled into forgetfulness by the 
gentle waves that caress the shore. 
Harmonious tints blend earth and 
sky and sea, but they are constant- 
ly varying with the rolling hours. 
There is nothing monotonous here, 
except the languid air which weari- 
ly plays among the odorous trees 
without the force to agitate their 
branches. Nature is here a gen- 
uine siren, half-earth, half-sea, 
whose magic voice wooes many a 
wanderer still to forget his native 
shore. We feel its charm as we 
survey the matchless landscape. 
An electric fire comes over the 
soul — admiration, wonder, emotions 
no words can express. Poetry is 
in the golden air, the bright waves, 
the enchanting shores, the intense 
hues that color everything — yes, 
even in the awful scars and lava 
streams that furnished the ancients 
with their ideas of Tartarus, and 
made Virgil place his descent 
thereto near the tenebrosa palus — 
the gloomy lake of Avernus, form- 
ed from the overflowing of the 
Acheron — 

** Sad Acheron of sorrow, black and deep.*' 

The church bell awoke us from 
this delightful vision, and we en- 
tered the open doon It is a small 
building whose walls within are 
tinged a delicate sea-green, and 
have white mouldings, as if to 
harmonize with the foam-crested 
waves of the bay without. The 
windows are mere lunettes, high 
up in the arches, and below are 
five or six deep recesses with altars 
and paintings. The white marble 
basin at the entrance, for holy- 



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water, looks like a flower on its tall, 
slender stem. On it is graven a 
shield like a chess-board — ^perhaps 
the arms of some noble of this/ar- 
nient€ land to whom life was a mere 
game. We were at once struck by 
a singular crucifix on a kind of a 
tripod, under a canopy like a pent- 
house. Near by stood the Addolo^ 
rata — the Madonna of Many Sor- 
rows — in black like a nun, with 
wimple and veil, a stole embroider- 
ed with gold, and a wheel of gilt 
arrows piercing the silver heart on 
her breast. One poor dim lamp 
was burning before her. Opposite 
was a more cheerful altar with the 
Virgin del Parto^ the titular of the 
church, gaily dressed after the 
Italian taste, and surrounded with 
lights and flowers. These two Ma- 
donnas seemed to personify Beth- 
lehem and Calvary — the Alpha 
and Omega of the Christian mys- 
teries — and between them we knelt 
to hear Mass. 

The church was nearly full of 
people in bright holiday attire, 
quite absorbed in their devotions, 
and, though mostly of the lower 
classes, so-called, they all respond- 
ed in Latin to the litany at the 
close of the service. Near by us, 
in the pavement, was a tomb- stone 
with the bas-relief of a boy with a 
book under his head, another in 
his hand, and one at his feet. 
This was a promising youth named 
Fabrizio Manlio, who so loved the 
Mergellina that, when ill, he wish- 
ed to be brought here to die, and 
here be buried, as his touching 
epitaph relates. But that was 
three hundred years ago, and the 
father who here records the tears 
he shed long since rejoined his 
son, and now there is not a smile 
the less at sunny Naples. Why 
lay aught too much tp heart } 

In a recess at the right is a noted 
VOL. XXV. — 33 



painting, generally known at Naples 
as the Diavolo di Mergellina. This 
is no new fiend, but the old out- 
cast from heaven vanquished by St. 
Michael, the great captain of the 
heavenly host, a picture by Leon- 
ardo da Pistoja, a Tuscan painter of 
the Da Vinci school. The arch- 
angel, " severe in youthful beauty," 
is girded with a vest of heavenly 
azure, and from his shoulders spring 
broad wings of many hues — green, 
yellow, and purple — with rays like 
long arrows of gold. His right hand 
seemingly disdains to use its sword 
— " Satan's dire dread " — ^but holds 
it behind him, while with the left he 
thrusts his long spear through the 
demon's neck and nails him to the 
ground. His face is perfectly pas- 
sionless, as if not even so terrible 
a combat could ruffle the serenity 
of his angelic nature. The Diavoia 
is one of those strange demons that 
entice souls down to the gulf of per- 
dition, common in the middle ages, 
with two faces, not Janus-wise, but 
with the second face on the bowels, 
of most startling character. The 
fiend before us has the beautiful 
face and bust of a woman, said to 
be the genuine portrait of a lady 
who became passionately enamor- 
ed of Diomedes Carafa, Bishop of 
Ariano, who lies buried at the foot 
of the altar beneath, with the trium- 
phant inscription : Et fecit victorianiy^ 
halleluja ! which may be applied 
both to the bishop and the arch- 
angel. The round arms of this fair 
demon are drawn up under her 
head. Her long, golden locks 

** In mases bright 
Fall like floating rays of light " 

around her shoulders and half-veil 
her bosom. Her youthful face is 
deadly pale, but not contracted', 
and her eyes are cold and vigilant. 
The lower face, on the contrary, is 



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Sannaasaro. 



old and convulsed, as if crying with 
pain. The hair is grizzled and witch* 
like. The legs are like two scaly 
serpents, twisted and writhing, 
and the bat-like wings shade ofT to 
a lurid brown • and yellow. The 
contrast in these two faces is very 
striking and has a deep moral. It 
is a common proverb at Naples to 
compare too tempting a project, or 
too seducing a beauty, to the Dia- 
volo di Mergellina. 

The high altar of the church is of 
inlaid marble. At the sides are 
niches containing statues of SS. Ja- 
cobo and Nazzaro, the patrons of 
the founder. On what is called the 
arch of triumph over the head of the 
nave is an old painting of the An- 
nunciation, the Virgin in one span- 
drel with the dove on her hand, and 
the angel in the other with the lily 
stem. Along the connecting arch 
is the distich from Sannazzaro: 

** Vir]pmtas Partus diacordes tempore longo, 
Virginis in gremio fcedeim pacts habent.*** 

In a neighboring recess is an Ado- 
ration of the Magi, which contends 
with that of the Castello Nuovo as 
being the one given Sannazzaro by 
Frederick of Aragon, painted by 
Van Eyck, and said by Vasari to 
be the first oil-painting ever brought 
.to Italy. 

We searched a long time in vain 
for the tomb of Sannazzaro. Cha- 
pels, flagstones, and mural inscrip- 
tions, all underwent a severe scru- 
^tiny ; and, supposing it must have 
been destroyed in some political 
convulsion, when even death itself 
is not respected, we were on the 
point of leaving the church when it 
occurred to us to go behind the 
high altar. We found there a door 
which we made bold to enter, re- 
membering how often we had been 

* Virgioity and Maternity^ long at variance, have 
made peace in the womb of Use Virgin. 



repaid for exploring sacristies and 
odd nooks. There was the tomb 
directly before us, in the smallest 
of choirs in which ever monk lost 
his voice " with singing of anthems." 
It is the most quiet, secluded spot 
in the world — dim, frescoed, and 
crowded with a dozen stalls, oA 
which cherubs' heads are carved. 
It is more like a little chantry than 
a choir, and nothing ever breaks 
the silence but the voice of holy 
psalmody. The poet's tomb is of 
white marble, chiefly sculptured by 
Fra Giovanni da Montorsoli. It 
is surmounted by his bust crowned 
with laurel. The face is somewhat 
haggard, but the features are noble. 
He wears a cap like that we see 
in pictures of Dante. Beside him 
are two/«/tf, one^ith a book and 
the other bearing a helmet, in allu- 
sion to the different ways in which 
Sannazzaro distinguished himself. 
The sarcophagus beneath rests on 
an entablature, below which, in 
delicate relief, are Neptune and his 
trident — doubtless in allusion to the 
Fiscatoria — and Pan with his reeds, 
accompanied by fauns and satyrs, 
with jovial faces and shaggy sides, 
as if to sing the praises of the au- 
thor of the Arcadia, Along the 
base of the monument is an inscrip- 
tion by Bembo, which shows he be- 
lieved Virgil to have been buried 
at Naples : 

** Da sacro cineri floies : hie ille Maroni 
Synoerus musa prozimus ut tumalo.'^ * 

At the sides are fine statues of 
Apollo and Minerva by Santa- 
croce. 

lacopo Sannazzaro, tlie inspired 
poet of the Virgin, was born at Na- 
ples in 1458. He sprang from an il- 
lustrious family of Spanish origin 
that had fallen from its foniier gran- 

* Strew this sacred tomb with flowers. Here, 
near Virgil, lies Syncerus, his brother in the Mo- 



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deur, but was left not without con- 
siderable means. His mother, on 
becoming a widow, withdrew into 
the country in order to bring him 
up in retirement, uncontaminated 
by the world ; but he soon displayed 
such uncommon abilities that she 
was persuaded to return to Naples 
and there watch over his education. 
It is said he showed a talent for poet- 
ry at eight years of age ; but it 
must be remembered he belonged to 
a land where poesy is like the flow- 
ers that spring up spontaneously 
from the soil. at every season. Of 
course his education was chiefly 
classical ; for he belonged to an age 
when Greek and Latin literature 
was regarded as the standard of ex- 
cellence, and the very mysteries of 
religion were sung in the measure 
of Homer and Virgil. When of 
sufficient age he chose as his mas- 
ter Giovanni Pontano, called " the 
Trojan Horse " on account of the 
great number of illustrious poets, 
orators, and warriors that sprang 
from his school. Pontano was then 
director of the celebrated Accade- 
mia Napolitana, in wliich he figur- 
ed as grammarian, philosopher, his- 
torian, orator, and poet. He was 
the literary autocrat of Naples, 

** Whose sm3e was transport, and whose fxx>wn 
was fate." 

He was regarded as the favorite 
of Apollo and the Aonides, and 
from his lips was said to flow a 
river of gold : 

" Quel bcl tesoro 
D' Apollo e delle Aotiide sorelle, 
Che con la lingua sparge un fitime d'oro." 

His astronomical discoveries were 
announced in Latin verse. It is 
said he was the first in modern 
times to revive the idea of Demo- 
critus that the Milky Way is com- 
posed of myriads of stars. 

Sannazzaro succeeded his master 



at the Academy of Naples, which at 
that time held its meetings at Pon- 
tano's residence, near which was 
the Cappella Pontaniana — a gem of 
art, erected by Pontano in honor of 
the Virgin and the two St. Johns. 
Here were set up the wise maxims 
of the founder, graven on stone, 
which we translate from the origi- 
nal Latin : 

"It is noble but difficult to re- 
strain one's self in opulence. 

" He who never forgets injuries 
forgets that he is man. 

" Whatever thy fortune, be mind- 
ful of Fortune herself. 

"Integrity promotes confidence, 
and confidence friendship. 

" He who decides too hastily on 
doubtful occasions repents too late, 
though he repent quickly. 

"It is in^ain the law cannot 
reach him whose conscience ab- 
solves him not. . 

"The sky is not always serene, 
nor does prudence always ensure 
safety. 

" In every condition of life the 
chief thing is to know thyself. 

" It belongs to the upright to de- 
spise the injuries of the wicked, 
whose praises even are a disgrace. 

" Let us bear the penalty of our 
faults rather than the state should 
expiate them to its injury. 

" Content not thyself with being 
upright, but find otheft who resem- 
ble thee to serve thy country. 

" It is by boldness and conquest 
a kingdom is enlarged, and not by 
those counsels that seem to the timid 
full of wisdom and prudence." 

Such were the maxims instilled 
into Sannazzaro's youthful mind. 
They have a flavor of antiquity. The 
Academy of Naples still exists, but 
holds its meetings in the cell of St. 
Thomas Aquinas at San Domenico's, 
where royalty itself used to attend 
the lectures of the Angelic Doctor. 



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In the church of Monte Oliveto 
at Naples — where Tasso found shel- 
ter — there is a striking group of fig- 
ures in the chapel of the Holy 
Sepulchre, gathered in sorrowful 
attitudes around the dead Christ — 
all life-size likenesses of celebrities 
in the time of the artist, Modanin 
of Modena. Sannazzaro is repre- 
sented as Joseph of Arimathea; 
Pontano as Nicodemus ; Alfonso 
II. as St. John, with his son Ferdi- 
nand beside him. 

Sannazzaro has celebrated a 
young Neapolitan girl in classical 
^ measure, under the Greek names 
of Amarante, Phyllis, and Charmo- 
syne, which signify joy, love, and 
the immortal ; but he veiled his pas- 
sion, if it was one, under mytholo- 
gical allusions. He took as his 
device an urn of bkck pebbles, 
among which was a single white 
one with the motto, ./Equabit ni- 
gras Candida sola dies^ as if in time 
he hoped to please his lady. But 
she died young, and he* bewailed 
her in suitable elegies. In spite of 
this somewhat fantastic attachment 
— ^perhaps only a poetic fancy — it is 
sure Sannazzaro was all his life 
rather a votary of Diana than of 
Venus, as became one destined to 
sing the praises of the Purissima. 

Admitted to familiarity with Fre- 
derick of Aragon, son of King Fer- 
dinand of Naples,' Sannazzaro was 
appointed director of the royal festi- 
vities, and in this capacity compos- 
ed dramas in the language of the 
lazzaroni for the amusement of the 
court. These soon became as po- 
pular in the streets as in the pa- 
lace, and were the germs of the 
modem Italian comedy, which finds 
its broadest expression in Pulci- 
nella's farces at San Carlino. One 
of these plays is spoken of with 
particular admiration, composed in 
1492 to celebrate the conquest of 



Granada, and acted at the Castello 
Capuano in presence of Alfonso, 
Duke of Calabria. 

Sannazzaro became so attached 
to his royal patron that he accom- 
panied him in an expedition against 
the Turks, where he acquired the 
reputation of a courageous soldier. 
And when the prince was deprived 
of the throne to which he had suc- 
ceeded, and retired to France, the 
poet, more faithful in misfortune 
than Pontano to Frederick I., gen- 
erously sold two paternal estates to 
provide for his sovereign's wants, 
and accompanied him into exile. 
It was in the following lines he 
bade adieu to Naples, which to 
leave is a kind of death : 

*^ Parthenope, mihi culta ; vale, blandisBima siren, 
Atque horti valeant, Hesperidesque tiue ; 

Mergellini, vale, nostri znmnor ; et mea. fiends 
Serta cape, heu doouDi numera avara tui ; 

Maternae salveto umbne, salvete pateros.'* * 

Sannazzaro remained with Fre- 
derick III. till his death at Tours, 
and then returned to Naples, where 
he devoted himself wholly to lite- 
rature. The -<4rrfl///dr, which he fin- 
ished in France, was published in 
1504. This is a romance of min- 
gled prose and verse after the 
manner of Boccaccio's Ameto, It 
caused a great sensation in Italy, 
and is still regarded as one of the 
happiest inspirations of the Italian 
muse. His pleasant villa on the 
Mergellina had been respected dur- 
ing his exile, and here he establish- 
ed himself at his return. It be- 
came a rendezvous for all the lite- 
rary men of the city. On Thurs- 
days in particular, when the scho- 
lars and barristers had a holiday, 
all that was brilliant at Naples as- 
sembled here for a frugal repast, at 

♦ Farewell, adored Part]ienope ; sweet siren, 
farewell ! Farewell , enchanted gardens of the Hes* 
pcrides ! Farewell, Met]KeUina, be mindful kA me; 
accept these tears of regret from the master who 
has naught else to oifer thee I Farewell, shade of 
my mother ; my father^s shade, farewell ! 



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which poems and epigrams were re- 
cited. Sannazzaro was very popu- 
lar, and to be his friend was re- 
garded as a brevet of immortality. 

*' Dipinto 10 sta neII*opre eterne e belle 
Del mio bel Sannaszaro, Tero Suicero, 
Ch'ailora io giugnero fino alle stelle," * 

wrote Cariteo. Sannazzaro, it should 
be remarked, had, after the fashion 
of the time, taken the more classi- 
cal name of Actius Syncerus, to 
which allusion is made on his tomb. 
But the greatest festival of the 
year on the Mergellina was the 
birthday of Virgil, for whom San- 
nazzaro had a kind of passion. He 
celebrated this anniversary — per- 
haps in imitation of Silius Italicus, 
who offered an annual sacrifice to 
the manes of the bard of Mantua — 
by a banquet, to which he invited 
his most intimate friends, such as 
"Alessandro, the jurisconsult, whose 
works, so long popular, furnish cu- 
rious details respecting the public 
and private life of the Romans ; Ca- 
riteo, who sang in his heterodox 
style the human soul formed by the 
Creator, from which nothing is con- 
cealed in heaven before it assumes 
its earthly veil, but which, coming 
below, as if fallen from some star 
into a human body, no longer re- 
tains any memory of the past ; An- 
drea Acquaviva, who dismounted 
from his war-horse to take the lyre 
and drink from the fount of Hippo- 
crene ; Girolamo Carbone, who pre- 
ferred the Tuscan language to the 
Latin, then so popular, and whose 
rhythm is a kind of music to the 
ear; and, finally, Pontano, the mas- 
ter of Sannazzaro, the restorer of 
the Neapolitan academy founded 
by Panormita."t These repasts 
were served by Hiempsal, a young 

* Let me be depicted in tbe immortal works of 
my glorious Sannaczaxo, so worthy of the name of 
Sincertis, and I shall be exalted to the very stazs. 

t Audln. 



African slave whom Sannazzaro 
had freed and taught to sing the 
elegies of Tibullus to an air he him- 
self had composed. It was after 
one of these Virgilian feasts the 
poet went to hear Egidio. an Au- 
gustinian monk, preach. He was 
as celebrated for his eloquence as 
his learning, and was a favorite of 
two popes, one of whom (Leo X.) 
afterwards made him cardinal. Egi- 
dio, in declaiming with his usual 
animation ag^nst the vices of the 
time, made* a happy citation from 
Virgil, which delighted his hearer 
and led to a friendship between 
them. It was this or some other 
sermon of his that suggested to 
Sannazzaro the idea of his great 
poem, De Partu Virginisy to which 
he devoted twenty years of his life 
— a poem of which Mr. Hallam 
says *' it would be difficult to find 
its equal for purity, elegance, and 
harmony of versification." Pope 
Leo, X., who appreciated genius in 
whatever way it found expression, 
whether by pen, chisel, or pencil, 
sent the poet a brief in 152 1 to en- 
courage him in singing the mys- 
teries of the Christian faith, and to 
express his satisfaction that, at a 
time when the voice of a monk was 
troubling the peace of the church, 
the Catholic faith should find a 
defender among the laity— Another 
David, as it were, to smite the new 
Goliath and appease with his lyre 
another Saul ; and he declared the 
poem an honor to religion and to 
his pontificate. Clement VII, also 
wrote him a brief, accepting the de- 
dication, which alone, he said, was 
enough to immortalize the pontiff 
thus honored. 

The D€ Partu Virginis is the 
most remarkable poem of the Re- 
naissance, and its publication was 
an event in the literary world. It 
was everywhere eulogized, and the 



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author was styled the Christian 
Virgil. Egidio of Viterbo, after 
reading it, thus t^rote to the au- 
thor : " When I received your di- 
vine poem, I eagerly hastened to 
make myself familiar with its con- 
tents. God alone, whose inspira- 
tion suggested so wonderful a crea- 
tion, can reward you suitably — not 
by admitting you to the Elysian 
Fields, the fabulous abode of Linus 
and Orpheus, but to a blessed eter- 
nity." This poem itill merits at- 
tention, if for no other* reason, at 
least because of its effect on reli- 
gious art in the sixteenth century — 
an influence which has been com- 
pared to Dante's. Mrs. Jameson 
says she can trace it in all the con- 
temporary productions of Italian 
art of all schools from Milan to Na- 
ples. Slie regards this influence, 
liowever, as perverse. But let us 
take a brief glance at a poem which 
has excited so much admiration and 
criticism down to the present day. 

The Z?^ Partu Virginis is an epic 
poem, in which the birth of Christ 
is sung with the harmonious flow, 
the variety of imagery, and the ele- 
vated tone of Virgil. But, strange 
to say, none of the sacred charac- 
ters introduced are called by their 
real names — ^perhaps because un- 
known to the Latin muse. Even 
the n^es of Jesus and Mary are 
expressed by Virgilian paraphrases. 
The former is called Divus Fuer 
and Numen sanctum^ the latter 
Alma parens^ Dia^ and Rfgina, St. 
Joseph is the Senior* Custos ; St. 
Elizabeth the Matrona defessa cevo ; 
and the Supreme Being is styled 
the Regnator^ Genitor superum^ etc. 
The author calls upon the inhabi- 
tants of heaven {ccelicolai) to reveal 
to his limited vision the profound 
secrets of the mystery he is about 
to sing, and invokes the sacred 
Aonides as the natural protectresses 



of virginal purity. " Dear delight 
of poets," says he, ** ye sacred Muses 
who have never refused me your 
favor, allow me once more to take 
a long draught at your clear fount. 
Ye who derive your glorious origin 
from leaven, and have so singular 
a regard for what is pure, aid me in 
singing of heavenly themes and 
celebrating the glory of a Virgin. 
Drive away the darkness of my 
mind and show me the way by 
which to rise to the highest summit 
of your celestial mount. These 
lofty mysteries were not unknown 
to you. You must have beheld the 
sacred grotto of the Nativity. You 
must have heard the sweet music 
of the angels that surrounded it. 
And it is hardly credible you did 
not admire the splendor of the star 
that led from the extremity of the 
Orient three powerful princes to 
render homage to the new-born 
Child. 

" I have not herein the less need 
of thy aid, thou constant Hope of 
men and gods, at once Maid and 
Mother! If I have taken delight 
every year in adorning the walls of 
thy temple with festoons and gar- 
lands of flowers; if, on this deli- 
cious cliff of the Mergellina, that 
seems from its proud height to dis- 
dain the waves of the sea and pro- 
mise safety to the boatmen who 
hail it from afar, I have hewn out 
for thee altars of eternal duration ; 
if, following the footsteps of tny 
ancestors, I have taken pleasure in 
singing thy praises and celebrating 
thy honor with the immense crowds 
of devout people who, with lively 
joy, hallow the for ever memorable 
day of thy happy deliverance, guide 
my steps in these unfrequented 
paths, give me the courage to ac- 
complish what I have undertaken, 
and abandon me not in a task at 
once so glorious and so difficult.'* 



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The poet goes on to relate how 
the Regnator Superum^ seeing the 
human race in danger of falling 
into Tartarus, a prey to the fury of 
T)rsiphone, wishes, as all this evil 
has been brought about by woman, 
that by woman it should be repair- 
ed. He therefore despatches one 
of his ministering spirits to an- 
nounce to the purest of virgins the 
sublime destiny that awaits her. 
The messenger finds her plunged in 
meditation with the prophetic page 
of the Sibyl open before her, and, sa- 
luting her with reverence, he makes 
known the advent of the Nutnen 
sanctum who would deliver mankind 
from the horrors of the Styx. Fame 
everywhere publishes the tidings of 
this mysterious event. Hell itself 
is told of it. The Eumenides trem- 
ble. Alecto, Cerberus, and all the 
monsters of paganism shudder with 
fear. The souls of the Fathers — 
those genuine heroes, as Sannaz- 
zaro, after St. Jerome, calls them— 
rejoice. David himself repeats his 
prophetic Psalms, and sings the life 
of Christ, his Passion, Death, and 
Descent into Limbo. 

But it is the great Governor of the 
universe himself who reveals to the 
inhabitants of heaven his designs 
of mercy towards mankind. And 
when the time of the Nativity 
comes, he summons Joy {Latitia) to 
his presence, whose privilege it is to 
appease the anger of the Thun- 
derer and diffuse serenity over his 
face : 

" Hac magni motusque uunosque Tooantis 
Temperat et vultum discuss! nube serenat,*' 

and sends her to announce the glad 
tidings of the divine Birth. Put- 
ting wings to her feet, she leaves 
heaven, guarded by the Hours, and 
proceeds to earth, where she re- 
veals the great event to the shep- 
herds. Two of them, Lycidas and 



Egon, recite a part of the fourth 
Eclogue of Virgil, applying it to 
the new-born Child. The birth of 
Christ is related with delicacy and 
poetic grace. There is a sublime 
energy worthy of Dante in the lines 
that speak of the Incarnation, and 
the astonishment of nature in view 
of the prodigy. Angels in the air 
celebrate it by sports and combats 
in the style of Homer's heroes, with 
the instruments of the' Passion for 
arms. Other angels, like Demodo- 
cus, sing the creation, renovation 
of nature, the seasons, etc. The 
Jordan, leaning on its urn, is mov- 
ed to its depths, and relates to the 
Naiads gathered about him the 
wonderful event on its shores. 
An angel comes to bathe the Child 
in its waters. A dove hovers 
above. The water-nymphs bend 
around in veneration. The Jor- 
dan, amazed, stays its current with 
respect, and recalls the prophecy 
of old Proteus, that the time would 
come for it to be visited by One who 
would raise the glory of the Jordan 
above the Ganges, the Nile, or the 
Tiber. After which the river, 
wrapped in its mantle, wonderfully 
wrought by the Naiads, returns ma- 
jestically to its bed. 

This is too brief an outline of 
the splendid crown Sannazzaro has 
woven for the Blessed Vir^n, set 
with so many antique gems. * Many 
have been shocked by the min- 
gling of paganism and Christianity 
in this poem, but to us it is as if 
the waters of the Permessus had 
been turned into the Jordan. All 
these pagan deities and profane al- 
lusions that sprinkle its pages seem 
to sing the triumph of Christianity. 
They are in harmony, too, with the 
Virgilian region in which the poem 
was written, as well as with the 
spirit of the age. Tliere was such 
a passion for antiquity and for 



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Greek and Latin authors in the six- 
teenth century that even religion 
and art put on a classic air. Nor 
was Leo X., to whom it has been 
made a subject of reproach, the 
only dignitary of the church that 
has felt this fascination. St. Jerome 
himself was called by the accusing 
spirit, Non Christianus^ sed Cicero- 
nianuSy and he used to fast before 
reading the works of the great ora- 
tor, so much did he fear their as- 
cendency. 

Virgil was especially dear to the 
middle ages on account of the ten- 
derness and melancholy of his no- 
ble nature and his strange presen- 
timent of the future. We all re- 
member the famous passage : " The 
last age of the Cumaean song now 
approaches ; the great series of ages 
begins again ; now returns the Vir- 
gin (Astrea), now return the Sat- 
urnian kingdoms; now a new pro-> 
geny is sent from high heaven. 
Be propitious, chaste Lucina, to 
the boy at his birth, through whom 
the iron age will first cease, and 
the golden age dawn on the world." 

The learned at that time regard- 
ed Virgil as a prophet ; and the peo- 
ple, as a magician. It was com- 
mon to have recourse to his writ- 
ings, as well as Homer's and other 
authors, to obtain prognostics. But 
this was not exclusively a mediae- 
val superstition. It was in use be- 
fore the Christian era, and has not 
in these days wholly disappeared. 
The author of Margaret Fuller's 
life says : " She tried the scries 
biblica^ and her hits were memora* 
ble. I think each new book which 
interested her she was disposed to 
put to this test and know if it had 
somewhat personal to say to her." 
The church has condemned this 
practice, even by a similar use of 
the Holy Scriptures. 

Dante shared in the general pas- 



sion for Virgil. He makes him his 
guide — "My guide and master, 
thou " — through the lower realms ; 
not in Paradise, whence he is ex- 
cluded, 

^ For no siii except for lack of faith.*' 

Petrarch, too, loved Virgil and 
planted a laurel — "the meed of 
poets sage" — at his tomb, but it 
was long since done to death by 
the cruel hands of tourists. 

A touching sequence was long 
sung in the church of Mantua, in 
which St. Paul is represented visit- 
ing the tomb of Virgil at Naples, 
and weeping because he had come 
too late for him. 

In the time of Sannazzaro, Plato 
was also in great repute. Every 
one remembers the festival institut- 
ed in his honor by Lorenzo de' Me- 
dici at his villa on the side of 
Fiesole, in which Ficino, Politian, 
and all that was brilliant in the in- 
tellectual world of Florence took 
part. The bust of the divine Plato, 
presented by Jerome Roscio of 
Pistoja, was set up at the end of a 
shady avenue and crowned with 
laurel, and, after a grand repast, 
they all gathered around it and 
sang cantos in his honor. Ficino 
even pretended to find in Plato's 
writings the doctrines of the Tri- 
nity, Incarnation, Eucharist, etc. 
He used to address his audience as 
" My brethren in Plato," and he 
makes Christ, in his descent into 
Limbo, snatch Plato from the jaws 
of hell to place him among the 
blessed in Paradise. This reminds 
us of the great Erasmus, who says : 
" There are many in the society of 
the saints who are not in the cJalen- 
dar. I am every instant tempted 
to exclaim : Sancte Socrates^ era 
pro nobisy and to recommend my- 
self to the Blessed Flaccus and 
Maro." 



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Another of these academies that 
sought to revive the antique spirit 
was that of Pomponio Leto at 
Rome, which has brought so many 
unmerited reproaches on Pope Paul 
II. because it was for a time sup- 
pressed by him for carrying its 
passion for antiquity to a perni- 
cious degree. One historian after 
another has declared him an ene- 
my of the sciences on the princi- 
ple of their tending to heresy ! 
Hallam, Roscoe, and Henri Martin 
all echo the calumnies of Platina 
against this pope. M. de TEpinois 
has proved the falseness of this 
accusation. As if a pope, as he 
says, who was all his life ' an ama- 
teur of ancient manuscripts, a 
numismatist of the first class, and 
an able judge of painting and 
sculpture, who took pleasure in do- 
ing himself the honors of his collec- 
tions, and provided liberally for the 
education of poor children that 
showed an aptitude for study, was 
an enemy of science ! Francesco 
Filelfo did not think so when he 
thus wrote to Leonardo Dati : 
"What do not I and all learned 
men owe to the great and immor- 
tal wisdom of Paul II. ?" 

As for the Academy of Pompo- 
nio Leto, there was a general con- 
viction that it was pagan and licen- 
tious in its tendency, if not in ac- 
tual practice. Canensius, in his 
life of Paul II., says explicitly: 
" The pope dissolved a society of 
young men of corrupt morals, who 
affirmed that our orthodox faith 
was not so much founded on the 
genuine basis of facts as on the 
jugglery of the saints, and main- 
tained that it was permissible for 
every one to indulge in whatever 
pleasure he liked." And the Che- 
valier de Rossi, in the J^ama Sot" 
teranea^ quotes the following pas- 
sage from a letter of Battista de 



Judicibus, Bishop of Ventimiglia, 
written to Platina a short time after 
the affair in question : " Some call 
you more pagan than Christian, 
and affirm that you follow pagan 
morals rather than ours. Others 
circulate the report that Hercules 
is your deity. Another says it is 
Mercury, a third that it is Jupiter, 
a fourth that it is Apollo, Venus, or 
Diana. They say you are in the 
habit of calling these gods and god- 
desses to witness, especially when 
in the company of those who give 
themselves up to like superstitions 
— people whom you associate more 
willingly with than others." M. de 
Rossi has also found several in- 
scriptions which prove that a se- 
cret hierarchy was established by 
this society, of which it is reason- 
able to suppose Pope Paul II. was 
as aware as of their other anti- 
Christian practices. Additional sus- 
picion was excited by their secret 
meetings from the report at this 
very time that a conspiracy was 
formed against the life of the Sov- 
ereign Pontiff — the more readily 
credited because only nine years 
previously the streets of Rome had 
been deljiged with blood by an in- 
surrection. However, the pope, so 
far from being the farouche and 
sanguinary ruler M. Martin styles 
him, let off the academicians with 
a short confinement, and in 1475 
Pomponio and his companions were 
once more quietly pursuing their 
studies, having profited by so bene- 
ficial a lesson. The academy be- 
came more flourishing than ever, 
and counted among its members a 
great number of bishops and pre- 
lates of the church.* Pope Leo X. 
himself, before his elevation to the 
papacy, was in the habit of attend- 
ing its reunions. Archaeology, po- 

* See eetay of M. de TEpmois. 



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522 



Sannaszara. 



etry, and music all had a part in 
thera, as well as other sciences, 
and all these Leo X. sincerely 
loved. " I have always loved let- 
ters," wrote he to Henry VIII. 
" This love, innate in me, age has 
only served to increase ; for I have 
observed that those who cultivate 
them are heartily attached to the 
dogmas of the faith, and are the 
ornaments of the church." Not- 
withstanding this love of litera- 
ture, especially ancient, Leo X. 
himself realized that too excessive 
an application to such pursuits 
might be prejudicial to the spiritual 
life. Though at Florence he parti- 
cipated in the general admiration 
for Plato, after his elevation to the 
Papacy he recommended to the pu- 
pils of the Roman College to give 
themselves up to serious studies, 
and renounce Platonic philosophy 
and pagan poetry as tending to in- 
jure the soul. So also St. Odo, 
Abbot of Cluny, was so fond of Vir- 
gil that it finally became injurious to 
his spiritual interests, and, falling 
asleep one day while reading one 
of his Eclogues, he saw in a dream 



a beautiful antique vase full of ser- 
pents. He understood the allusion 
and gave up profane reading. 

Sannazzaro's poem, therefore, is 
only an expression of the tastes of 
his age. It may also be considered 
in harmony with those of the pri- 
mitive church, which adorned the 
very walls of the Catacombs with 
pagan symbols, and blazoned them 
in the mosaics of their churches. 
There we find Theseus vanquishing 
the Minotaur, beside David slaying 
Goliath. The Jordan is represented 
as a river-god leaning on an an- 
tique urn, his head crowned with 
aquatic plants and his beard drip- 
ping with moisture ; Cupids flutter 
among the vines around the form of 
the Good Shepherd ; and Orpheus 
is made the emblem of our Saviour. 

The De Partu Virginis is like one 
of those beautiful Madonnas so of- 
ten met with in Italy, not seated in 
a humble chair at Nazareth, but 
robed like a queen, occupying a 
throne covered with mythological 
subjects and antique devices — an 
emblem of the church enthroned on 
the ruins of paganism. 



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A Birth-Day Song. 553 



A BIRTH-DAY SONG. 

TWENTY-ONE. 

Bright summer sun, to-day 
Mount with thy glancing spears, a cohort proud, 
O'er cliff and peak, and chase each threatening cloud. 

Each gathering mist, away. 

Fair, fragrant summer flowers, 
Lily and heliotrope and spicy fern, 
Exhale your sweets from leaf and petaled urn 

Through all the golden hours. 

Thou deep- voiced western wind, 
The stately arches of the forest fill, 
Till oak and elm to thy andante thrill 

As mind replies to mind. 

Take up the song and sing, 
O summer birds ! until the joyous strains 
Ring through the hills, chant in the blooming plains, 

Gurgle in brook and spring. 

And thou, O river deep ! 
Send from the shore thy message calm and plain. 
As, bearing ship and shallop to the main, 

Thy mighty currents sweep. 

Sing, while the golden gate 
Swings open, and reveals the thronging hopes, 
Winged and crowned, that crowd the flowery slopes 

Of Manhood's first estate. 



Yet soft and low ? The door 
Is closing, as ye sing, on Childhood's meads ; 
The garrulous trump of Youth's heroic deeds 

Is hushed for evermore ; 

And shining shapes, that blaze 
Like loadstars, with occasion wait to lure 
The dazzled soul o'er crag and fell and moor 

From Wisdom's peaceful ways. 



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524 A Birtli-Day Song. 

Tell him, O sunshine bright ! 
How clouds of lust and mists of evil thought 
By Chastity's wliite beams are brought to naught 

Through Virtue's silent might. 



Tell him, ye blossoms sweet, 
How Charity divine her perfume rare 
Exhales alike in pure or noxious air. 

With holy love replete. 

O brook and bird and spring ! 
Babble your simple sermon ; say, Behold 
Contentment, better far than gems or gold, 

Or crown of sceptred king. 

Tell him, thou deep-voiced wind. 
How a brave, earnest spirit may awake 
Responsive thought, till distant cycles take 

Their orbits from his mind ; 

And thou, O river wide ! 
Tell how a steady purpose gathers strength 
From singleness of aim, until at length 

On its resistless tide 

It bears both great and small 
With equal, silent, comprehensive love 
To that great sea whose calm no storm can move, 

God's grace o'er-arching all. 

So may his spirit clear, ' 
Untroubled by the scoff, the sneer, the sting 
Of clashing creeds, find heaven a real things 

And walk with seraphs here. 

Thou great Triune ! thy sign 
Is on his forehead. May he, manful, fight 
Under thy banner, till upon his sight 

Fair Paradise shall shine ; 

Till, crown and palm -branch won. 
He shall before thee stand without a fear, 
Wearing the bright and morning star, and hear 
The Master say. Well done. 



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Janes Vocatunu 



525 



JANE'S VOCATION. 

^* amare I O tre ! O sibi perire ! O ad Deam pervenirs.**— St. Aucusttne. 



She sat upon an enormous sea- 
washed cliff of granite, in a flood 
of golden light from the stooping 
western sun behind her. Beneath 
her the sea- waves rippled lightly 
against the cliff. Far out before 
her the broad expanse of sea ex- 
tended till it met the sky. But on 
neither sea nor sky were the girl's 
eyes fastened. She was looking 
steadily across the narrow gulf that 
separated the higii promontory 
where her home was from the fish- 
ing town on the mainland. Be- 
hind her was a farm-house with its 
prosaic surroundings, and a few 
iiuts for drying fish were close at 
liand. Not far beyond these the 
stage-road ran, and coming over 
the brow of the promontory was 
the lumbering stage. 

She did not hear the wheels as 
they went rumbling by, and did 
not know how closely she was scan- 
ned. Next the driver a youth was 
sitting, whose face bespoke the ar- 
tistic temperament as plainly as did 
the portfolio and hastily-traced 
sketch upon his knee. Like a flash 
he caught the loveliness of the pic- 
ture — its glorious framework of 
nature's beauties, its central point 
of that girlish figure in its graceful 
po$€ : the upraised head, the hands 
clasped round the knee as she sat 
bending slightly forward, the sense 
conveyed of absorbed, pathetic 
yearning for something more and 
higher than the farm life of her 
home. 

"Who lives there .>" asked the 
young man of the driver; and the 
driver made answer, glancing for 



very pleasure at the boyish, hand- 
some face, stamped, in spite of its 
vanity, with the impress of a singu- 
larly clean and happy heart : 

"Nobody much, mister: old 
Jake Escott and Marm Escott and 
Jane. That's Jane sitting there. 
She's their niece, and the best o' 
the lot." 

"Jane!" repeated the youth to 
himself; but to the driver he said : 
" Do they take boarders there V* 

The man chuckled, as if the very 
idea was absurd. 

" Much as they can do to board 
themselves, / guess. Shiftless set. 
'Tan't so much lack of money, 
though, as of go-aheadativeness. 
*T would be too much trouble." 

"Think I'd be a trouble .>" 

The man laughed again. " Don't 
know 'bout that. You're as clever 
a chap and as taking a chap to talk 
with as I've seen this many a day. 
You're a real true, good-hearted 
gentleman, you be, sir ; but you're 
city-bred for all that. Reckon 
you'd want white napkins every 
meal, and all sorts of Unified stuff. 
Marm Escott couldn't give you 
such. 'Cause why.^ She's no idea 
what they are." 

"I'll try it," the traveller said, 
shutting his portfolio decisively and 
speaking like one who always had 
his way. "^Can't you stop at the 
turn — there's a good fellow — and 
let me and my traps down V* 

" Well, well ! You never meant 
to come here ; that's certain. Where 
ye bound ?" 

"Nowhere." Then, seeing the 
driver's puzzled look, " Anywhere," 



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Jane's Vocation, 



the youth added merrily. "I'm 
come to do what I please, and stop 
where I please, and stay as long as 
I please. This is the loveliest place 
I have seen yet, and I must sketch 
it. Why, surely you have carried 
passengers before who had no set- 
tled destination, but liked to stop 
where it suited them." 

"Ye-es," was the doubtful re- 
sponse. " Yes, mister. But never 
one quite like you. You're a wide- 
awake chap and a merry, but you 
look as dainty as any city lady I 
ever met." 

The words were evidently taken 
as a compliment, in whatever way 
they might have been meant. The 
youth slung his knapsack over his 
shoulder, concealing the long name 
which had puzzled the driver for 
the whole journey — Van Stuyvesant 
Van Doprm — leaped lightly down 
from the coach almost before it 
stopped, doffed his cap courteously, 
and with a gay farewell was on his 
way along a narrow path to the 
house. 

A woman, remarkable for noth- 
ing except her curiously total lack 
of anything noticeable, opened the 
door, but into that duU face an ac- 
tual sunny gleam of pleasure came 
as soon as she saw the blithe young 
face before her. The descendant 
of all the Vans doffed his cap cour- 
teously again, with an answering 
gleam in his very brilliant eyes. 
He had been used all his life to 
know that people admired him, but 
it is to be acknowledged that this 
oft-repeated fact had never lost its 
charm. 

" Is this Mrs. Escott ?" he asked. 

" I be," was the succinct reply. 

No faintest shadow of a smile 
betrayed her hearer's amusement. 
He knew himself master already 
of the field. " If you please, Mrs. 
Escott," he said audaciously, in his 



most captivating tone and with his 
most pleading, obstinate look, " Tm 
come to board with you." 

Mrs. Escott stared as one taken 
by storm and unable to collect her 
scattered forces. " But — but," she 
stammered, " we never take board- 
ers, we don't." 

" This exception will prove the 
rule, then," quoth Van. " Oh ! for 
shame, Mrs. Escott. You never 
would have the heart to turn me 
away from such a view as this. I 
want to sketch it, and I will give 
you a sketch of it, and pay you the 
highest board into the bargain." 

" But we an't got nothing fit to 
board ye on." 

" Ah } No eggs, then, I suppose," 
suggested Van mildly, pointing at 
the hens cackling in the yard. 
" No milk, either," he added as the 
lowing of a cow sounded near by. 
** No berries to be had for love or 
money, eh ? And of course there 
are no fish to be found in the sea." 

The woman actually laughed. 
" I'll speak to Jake," she said, then 
disappeared, and Van seated him- 
self on the doorstep and waited 
her return without fear of disap- 
pointment. 

"Jane and I can pick berries," 
he said to himself; and then he 
trilled forth gaily, in a voice that 
was the envy and admiration of 
city circles : 

" In the days when we went gipsytng, 
Long time ago." 

The melody pleased him ; it 
chimed in well with the birds' 
blithe song in the trees and the 
faint dash of the waves along the 
shore. He began the song and 
went through it all as blithely and 
carelessly as they. 

" That's handsome, now," an un- 
couth voice behind him said when 
he stopped at last with a sense of 



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Jane's Vocation. 



$27 



buoyant delight in his own power. 
** That's handsome, stranger. Sing 
like that, and you're welcome here, 
and no mistake." 

This was " Jake," then, shuffling, 
imtidy, uncouth as his voice. A 
misgiving arose in Vj?h*s mind. 
Would the house, the table, his 
room, be like Jake and Marm £s« 
cott ? But he need stay no longer 
than he chose — no longer than one 
night; and it was now nearly six 
o'clock in the afternoon. So, all 
necessary arrangements being con- 
cluded, Jake trundled a dilapidated 
wheel-barrow, in some vague, slip- 
shod fashion, to the road to " fetch 
the stranger's traps," and Mrs. Es- 
cott, going to the gate, called loudly, 
"Jane ! Jane ! I want ye, child." 

Van, waiting in the parlor for her 
coming, looked attentively about 
him. There was almost nothing in 
the room to show that any one ever 
came there who cared a whit more 
for beauty than Jacob Escott him- 
self did. Rag mats of discordant 
hues covered squares and ovals 
and rectangular parallelograms of 
the pine floor ; the walls were deco- 
rated with coarse prints of Gene- 
ral Washington and of the prize ox 
of twenty years ago; on the table 
was a big family Bible and a Farm- 
er's Almanac illuminating the som- 
bre cover with its sickly yellow, 
and on this was a half-knitted blue 
yam stocking. 

There was a cheap piano in one 
corner, but it looked as though it 
was never opened. The windows 
were not uncurtained, but, of all 
other things there, they set Van's 
teeth on edge with their execrable 
attempts at some sort of a painted 
landscape; he seized the tassels 
vindictively, and pulled the cur- 
tains out of sight, thus letting in 
the superb view beyond. 

Some one, he discovered then, 



had had taste enough to put flow- 
ers in the room. A great handful 
of daisies and clovers and delicate 
grasses stood on the sill of the win- 
dow that looked out to where the 
narrow gulf separated the promon- 
tory from the mainland. 

"Jane's work," said Van to him- 
self; and as he thought it, he heard 
a slow, calm step coming through 
the entry, arid Jane herself stood in 
the doorway. 

Involuntarily he bent his head 
with such a reverence as he had 
never paid to woman before. He 
was the cynosure at home among 
all ladies, but none yet had %von 
from him the reverent greeting of 
an utter self-forgetful absorption in 
another's presence. The girl who 
stood there was not beautiful, 
though there was nothing in her 
features to displease the artist's 
eye; indeed, the absence of mere 
material beauty made more marked 
the impression conveyed in move- 
ment and feature and face. Of all 
colors in the world — and Van was 
passionately fond of color — he loved 
best the gold that is sometimes seen 
in the western sky near where the 
sun is setting : a clear, fair hue that 
does not dazzle but rests th* eyes 
that gaze upon it. Van thought 
of that color when he saw Jane's 
face with its look of unclouded 
peace. 

She lifted her eyes and glanced 
at him, at flrst with a tranquil, un- 
moved expression, as though it was 
quite indifferent to her who it was 
that she was meeting; then she gave 
a quicker, keener glance that 
thrilled Van with an uneasy sense 
that she was reading him througli 
and through. What was it that 
she read ? he wondered. 

He tried to talk with her as she 
moved about the room, engaged in 
the very ordinary task of setting 



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Janis Vocation. 



the supper-table. Her language 
showed some culture and refine- 
ment. He hazarded the question, 
"Are there good schools about 
here?" 

" I do not know," she said medi- 
tatively. " There is the district 
school." 

" Why does she not say, * I went 
there'.i^" thought Van. "That 
would tell me something about 
herself." 

But more and more he found, 
as his talk went on, that Jane ig- 
nored herself. It did not appear 
to enter her mind that she was any- 
body to be thought of or talked 
about. He had at first to make 
conversation at the supper-table — 
the farm, the fisheries, the crops — 
but presently Jacob Escott made 
bold to ask: "What maybe your 
occupation, sir.'^" 

And, nothing loath, Van launch- 
ed upon one of his pet topics — art 
and artists. Even the plain farmer 
and his wife enjoyed it. How 
could they resist the fascination of 
the merry stories, the musical voice, 
the face that spoke as clearly as 
the words ? But Jane hardly lis- 
tened, and suddenly a thought 
struck Van: "This is mere sur- 
face-talk after all. Can it be that 
this farmer's girl cares for anything 
deeper, or is it only that she has 
not depth enough to care ?" 

They rose from the table, and 
Van followed Jane to the door. 
She did not see or heed him. The 
tide was at the full; wave upon 
wave came heaving gently onward 
toward the land as a child, tired 
out with play, comes home to its 
mother's arms to rest ; through the 
twilight the dark, restless mass of 
water and its ceaseless murmuring 
alike woke a sense of mystery and 
awe ; above, in the darkening skies, 
a pale half-moon was shining and a 



few great throbbing stars. And in 
the dim light Van saw Jane's face, 
and it seemed to him as beautiful 
and as full of mystery as sea and 
sky. Such a look of hunger mark- 
ed it ! He thought of Niobe, and 
of Cassan4ra, and of Mariana in the 
moated grange, but she differed in 
some inexplicable fashion from them 
all, and then he heard her say be- 
low her breath : " My God ! My 
God! My God!" 

Over and over again — not what 
Van had ever fancied a "prayer 
could be, and yet to his ear more 
full of intense personal pleading 
than any prayer he had ever heard. 
Faith, hope, love, expectation, keen 
desire, and suffering were all sum- 
med up in two words ; and though 
he knew nothing of her trouble, 
yet when the aunt's call for her 
came from the room within. Van 
started as if he had been struck. 
He could not bear to have her 
harried back into the dull life of 
her home. 

" Just mend this, Janey, will you?" 
Mrs. Escott said, exhibiting a coarse 
blue shirt. " Your uncle wants it 
for to-morrow." 

The girl's face was tranquil and 
happy again by some sudden trans- 
formation. She took the rough 
work — it was not clean work, either ; 
it had evidently been worn once or 
twice, Van saw with mingled disgust 
and pity — and, sitting down content- 
edly in the dingy room, she began 
her mending. She puzzled Van 
greatly, she interested him intense- 
ly. As he talked to her uncle he 
watched with his artistically-train- 
ed eye each expression of her face. 
It varied now and then, though the 
strange, yearning look did not re- 
turn to it. The peace was there, 
and an exquisite happiness. 

"She is like a dove," thought 
Van. " She is like an innocent 



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Jane's Vocation. 



529 



baby. Oh ! if one could take her 
away from this.*' 

But one clue to her character he 
was certain that he had found. He 
rose up before she finished her work, 
and he flung open the old piano and 
sat down before it. It was not so 
unfit for use as he had feared it would 
be, and he knew how to glide skilful- 
ly over the worst notes. And then 
he began to try Jane. First he sang 
ballads, " Robin Adair," " John An- 
derson my 30, John," " Oh ! wert 
thou in the cauld blast." 

" That's fine, Phoebe," said Jacob, 
and Phoebe said " Yes" with an un- 
wonted enthusiasm. But Jane work- 
ed steadily on, and if she heard or 
cared Van C9uld not tell, though he 
fancied the sweet, dove-like look 
deepened upon her face. 

*^ The brightest jewel in my crown 
Wtd be my queen, wad be my queen.** 

The last tender notes of the song 
lingered under Van's fingers, as a 
knock was heard at the kitchen 
door, and Jacob went to answer it, 
followed soon by Phcebe, who evi- 
dently recognized the voice of the 
new-comer. There was a scraping 
of chairs on the kitchen floor — the 
plain indication that somebody 
had come to stay awhile. Van 
leaned his head forward against 
the music-rack, and once again 
before his eyes was the scene he 
had witnessed in the twilight one 
hour before. Could the same per- 
son who sat quietly at her rough 
work now be she whom he had 
seen and heard then in that pas- 
sion of prayer? And while he 
mused there rang through his 
brain echoes that always thrilled 
his music-loving, art-loving nature 
with an especial power, and that 
seemed now like fit mates for the 
darkly-heaving sea, the star-lit sky, 
the girl's yearning face ; and from 
VOL. XXV. — 34 



the old ivory keys, that grew strange- 
ly full of power and sweetness be- 
neath his magical touch, rang out 
Chopin's grand funeral march. 

The work dropped from Jane's 
hands. He could not watch her 
face, for she turned it straight to- 
ward that eastern flower-decked 
window that looked out to gulf 
and sea ; but he saw her Angers 
lock tightly into one another and 
her form become rigidly still. 
When he ended she rose quietly 
and went away, and he did not 
see her again that night. 

But long that night he studied 
her, while an unwonted shame of 
himself and a keen admiration for 
her grew steadily in him, and what 
he inferred .of her then was con- 
firmed each day more and mo^. 

" She does not know one-half the 
things that I know," he said, " but 
she has it in her to care for the 
highest art and beauty. And she 
is so noble by nature that she 
couldn't spend her thoughts on a 
thousand trifling things that I waste 
mine upon. Such a glorious crea- 
ture imprisoned here ! I'll do my 
best for her." 

Never used to early rising, he 
came down stairs the next day to 
find his breakfast waiting for him 
and the morning of the family half 
over. 

"Yes, we be early risers," said 
Mrs. Escott. "Leastways, Jake 
and Jane be. I'm a poor hand at 
it myself. Why, Jane here, she's 
across the gulf and home again 
afore six every day." 

"Across the gulf! Before six!" 
exclaimed Van. 

" Certain sure, Mr. Van. These 
Catholics are queer creatures. 
Jane's a Catholic, you know." 

Habitual courtesy quelled the 
words of surprise and of pain that 
rose to Van's lips — surprise at find- 



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Jam's Vocation. 



ing a Catholic in this notedly Pro- 
testant fishing settlement, pain at 
hearing Jane's deepest feelings thus 
lightly exposed to view. But Jane 
showed not the slightest shade of 
annoyance. 

Now he thought he understood 
her better. One of the many mar- 
vellous spells of Catholicism had 
been woven about her — some vi- 
sion of beauty had thus come into 
her hitherto blank life ; he would 
strive the more now to teach her 
of what he blandly deemed the 
freer, nobler lights of art and 
science, but never should word or 
look from him throw scorn or jest 
or trifling speech of any kind on 
that which was dear to her. 

Love at first sight — Van had al- 
ways^ maintained that he believed 
in it ; he was always falling in love 
with any pretty face that struck his 
fancy, and then just as easily fall- 
ing out of love with an unwounded 
heart. But here love and pity and 
real reverence all awoke together 
and made of him their willing slave. ^ 
"I'll go with her to Mass to-mor-f 
row," he said, and on the morrow 
he stood in the early sunrise on the 
beach. 

So early was it that Jane herself 
was not yet there. He watched 
her coming towards her boat, her 
eyes cast down, and that hungry, 
longing look stamped plainly on 
her. 

" May I go too ?" he said, the 
gay, trifling manner gone, and that 
peculiarly distinct imprint of a 
clean heart shining in his eyes. 
Lifting her own sweet eyes, once 
again he felt that she read him 
through ; then, saying nothing, she 
bowed assent and stepped into the 
boat. And still urithout a word 
she let him take the oars from her, 
and, drawing her rosary from her 
pockety she began to tell her beads. 



Van thought she never would stop, 
and she did not till they reached 
the town. Still silent, she led the 
way from the shore through some 
dull, shell-paved paths to a small 
chapel, and) entering, forgot Van 
altogether and went with eager 
footsteps up the aisle. Van sta* 
tioned himself where he could see 
her; she sank on her knees before 
the altar, and crossed herself, and 
lifted up her face. The lips were 
parted in a smile of ecstasy, the 
eyes were shining bright as though 
they saw unearthly loveliness. 

What Van saw was this : a square, 
low-studded, dingy room, poor 
prints of religious subjects, mean 
tallow dips for candles, tawdry gild- 
ing and hangings, artificial tawdry 
flowers, a plain, small altar, a few 
squalid worshippers ; presently an 
aged priest, who said Mass in a 
cracked and feeble voice. 

" What spell is over her?" thought 
Van, marvelling. " Oh ! if I could 
once take her out of it all, home to 
wealth and beauty and tenderness, 
and to our churches. No need to 
tell her that Catholics have beauti- 
ful ones somewhere." 

But on their way back to the 
farm she did not speak, and he 
could not venture to break the in- 
tense calm in which she was wrap- 
ped. Every evening he read or 
sang and played, or talked his best, 
in the parlor where the household 
gathered, but she never again was 
there alone with him, and in the 
daytime she was always busy just 
when he wanted her society most. 
Often he was conscious that what 
he said or read or did failed to 
make any impression at all upon 
her ; often while he tried to interest 
her he found her gazing toward 
that eastern window, and knew that 
she did not heed him. He longed 
to say : " I cannot see what you 



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June's Vocation. 



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find in that dull church to give your 
eyes and thoughts to/' but he could 
not say it. 

Sometimes when he read, far of- 
tener when he played grand music 
— )ften, too, when they watched the 
sky and sea and listened to the 
wiives, the noble nature woke re- 
sponsive to his call. But it stung 
him to the quick to feel his general 
powerlessness to move her except 
when he roused his best and high- 
est powers ; it stung him to see how 
little she cared for the comforts 
and luxuries and prettinesses, for 
knowledge even and the art, that 
were part of his daily existence, 
and which he deemed necessary to 
him ; it stung him to find that the 
meanest occupation never made 
her discontented, but glad and 
bright instead ; while what he con- 
sidered suited to her condition or 
her needs was as nothing to her, and 
the yearning which he could not fa- 
thom seldom came into her face 
when at her daily labor, but often 
when he told himself she ought to 
be content and glad with him. 

She talked very little to him ; she 
never seemed to care whether he 
came or went, and he — all his 
thoughts became engrossed in her. 

One afternoon, near the close of 
a sultry day, as the first mutterings 
of thunder and the first far-off flash- 
es of lightning shone and sounded 
from the dark depths of low-lying 
clouds above the sea — ^when the 
winds were rising, and the poplars 
showed their leaves* white faces, 
and the white-crested waves broke 
in ominously upon the shore ; when 
Jane's sensitive nature was awake 
and quivering in sympathy with the 
gathering storm — Jacob Escott came 
hurrying his cattle home to shelter, 
bringing with him a letter which 
the stage-driver had flung down to 
him as he raced his horses by to 



town. " For you, Mr. Van," he 
said. 

Van opened it carelessly, read it 
carefully, then came straight to 
where Jane stood, watching with 
keen delight the seething sea and 
storm-tossed sky. 

"Jane," he said, "listen to me. 
They have sent for me to go home 
at once. My father is very ill. 
Jane, I love you. Will you be my 
wife ?" 

She turned with great displeasure 
in her eyes. "You jest, sir," she 
said. " Such jesting pains me much. 
Even my uncle understands that 
now." 

" I am not jesting," he cried ve* 
hemently. " I speak the truth. I 
love you. None but you can ever 
be my wife. Give me your promise, 
Jane. I love you so." 

At first her look of rebuke wax- 
ed sterner ; then for a moment her 
eyes met the pleading bright eyes 
fastened on her with the look pecu- 
liar to them, that bespoke a singu- 
larly clean heart. She smiled as 
one smiles at a child. 

** It is impossible," she said. 

Tumultuously he hurried on : 
" No, no, not impossible. If I will 
promise to read, to study, to be a 
Catholic if I can — ^will you think 
of it then 1 Will you try me .?" 

" It is impossible," she repeated. 
"You pain me." And then, with 
an effort, as though she spoke of 
things too sacred for the common 
ear, "By the grace of God," she 
said slowly, "when he makes the 
way plain before me, I am to be a 
nun." 

" No, no !" Van cried again. " No, 
no! Think— listen. Think it all 
over again. You do not under- 
stand. Your life has been cramp- 
ed here in this poor, mean place. 
That is why you want to be a nun. 
Come away with me to a life that 



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yanis Vocation. 



suits a soul like yours. I have seen 
your craving for higher things." 

The sudden, jagged lightning 
cleft the skies. By its glare he saw 
her face distinctly, and a noble 
scorn was on it, and a righteous in- 
dignation. 

" Come away with you — from 
God/ " she said, and in the pause 
that followed Van felt himself more 
mean than the dust from whence he 
came. 

" Forgive me," she said gently. 
"I forget. It is you who do not 
understand. I do not mind that 
this house is poor and mean; my 
Lord was born in a stable, and he 
died upon a cross. And if I suffer 
here and crave for higher things, it 
is a suffering which even the clois- 
ter can never cure — far less, then, 
you — for I crave to see the face 
of God ! To love my God, to cease 
from sin, to come to my God and 
be for ever one with him in his 
high heaven — I hunger for it by 
night and by day." 

" And if this life suits you so well, 
and you must suffer anyhow," Van 
said curiously, " why not stay here 
always? or why not come with 
me.?" 

" Mr. Van," Jane answered, " to 
be a nun is my vocation. God 
himself calls me. I must do his 
will. Forgive me again, but I can- 
not talk any more to you about it. 
If you did not seem so young to 
me — so like a little innocent child, 
in spite of all your knowledge — I 
could not h ave said so much. " And 
the next minute she was gone, leav- 
ing Van abashed and utterly igno- 
rant of the high meed of true 
praise which she had bestowed up- 
on him. 

He went home to watch for two 
long days and nights beside a couch 
of foolish delirium and lingering 
death ; to see a mind of uncommon 



intellect and far-famed, exquisite 
taste reduced to folly; to see the 
eyes stare vacantly at picture and 
statue and familiar face alike ; and 
then to follow the lifeless body to 
the grave, and hide it there, clay to 
its kindred clay. The young heir 
of enormous wealth and princely 
possessions paced alone in his fa- 
ther's halls that night, and found 
no pleasure in the beauty that once 
had satisfied him. Even the mem- 
ory of Jane's face was a burden to 
him. 

"She would have to die too," 
Van muttered. " And, after all, one 
could as soon love a St. Catherine 
borne by angels as love her. I do 
not believe I ever did. And yet if 
I did not, I never really loved any 
woman." 

Wherein he spoke the truth. 

Yet one look of hers haunted him 
— that look of settled, tranquil 
peace, like the undazzling gold of 
the western sky; and while it shone 
before him the steady, tranquil 
voice echoed through his memory, 
" To be a nun is my vocation. God 
himself calls me. I must do his 
will." 

"I wonder," queried Van wist- 
fully — " I wonder what my vocation 
is. I'm sure it has never made any 
difference to me. I have sketched, 
and played, and read, just as I fan- 
cied." 

And, with that great grace vouch- 
safed him, of which he was so igno- 
rant, he said like a child : " O God ! 
what shall I do.>" 

The answer did not come at 
once. He fretted and puzzled ; by 
and by he began to wonder wheth- 
er Jane's religion had anything to 
do with her choice. Besides, if it 
was worth a man's while to think 
of changing his religion because lie 
fancied himself in love with a crea- 
ture that some time must die, had 



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yane's Vocation, 



533 



he not reason to think seriously 
about it anyhow? What did she 
mean when she said she craved to 
see God's face? What caused that 
woman of so few words to speak 
with such power when she spoke of 
that ? 

Van read and thought, but it was 
not the books that enlightened him. 
He went one evening wliere he sel- 
dom went by day, when curious eyes 
could watch him — to his father's 
grave. It was a warm evening late 
in September. As he passed the 
rectory adjoining the church, which 
his father, and his father's father, 
and all the Van Doorms of the re- 
gion had religiously attended, gay 
voices and snatches of music caught 
his ear, and he looked up involun- 
tarily. 

It was a pretty sight. The gas 
had just been lighted, the curtains 
were still up. Lonely, sorrowful 
Van, forgetful of his wonted cour- 
tesy, stood still where he was and 
took in the whole picture with an 
added heartache. 

In the pleasant parlor, not luxu- 
rious, but a home-room^ the mother 
sat with her baby on her knee. 
Van remembered her when she 
came a bride to the parish, and he 
was only a child of five years old. 
It was one of his earliest mem- 
ories — that being taken to church 
with the promise of seeing the new 
young minister's new young wife, 
if he would be very good. That 
was twenty years ago, and there 
were lines of gray in Mrs. Charles' 
hair, but her face wore the same 
kindly smile that had marked it 
then in the freshness of her nine- 
teen years, and at the piano a girl 
of nineteen might have been taken 
for the bride brought back again in 
her youthful bloom. She was play- 
ing some familiar melody ; five or 
six brothers and sisters clustered 



about her, sang blithely with her; 
a toddling child at the mother's 
knee beat time with its chubby fin- 
gers on the younger baby's chubby 
hand. Presently an inner door 
opened, and the pastor entered. 
There was a cry of "Father! fa- 
ther!" a general rush to meet him, 
frantic, merry embraces from the 
children, while the mother smiled 
contented, and the father stood 
tender and strong in the midst of 
his happy flock. 

The picture lasted for a brief 
space only; with a pretty gesture 
of horror the eldest daughter 
sprang toward the window and 
drew down the shades, lest some- 
body should see, and Van stood 
alone outside in the gathering 
niglit. 

He plodded on dreamily to the 
church-yard, and sat down near the 
new grave among many, many old- 
er graves where the men and wom- 
en of his race lay buried. 

" Wife and child," said Van, with 
a long, hard, envious sigh, " father 
and mother, and happy home. 
And I—" f 

" Wife and child — ^father and mo- 
ther." The words repeated them- 
selves in that curious, echo-like 
fashion which words have when 
they come to the mind as a part of 
a familiar saying, whose whole can- 
not be at once recalled, and which 
for a time we vainly strive to place. 

"Wife and child — father and mo- 
ther." Ah ! something else comes : 
" Houses and lands." What is 
it ? What is Van striving to get ? 

" Houses and lands." 

He has it. 

" No man who hath left house, or 
brethren, or sisters, or father, or 
mother, or children, or lands for 
my sake and for the Gospel, who 
shall not receive an hundred times 
as much, now in this time : and in 



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the world to come life everlast- 
ing" 
He does not see with his bodily 

eyes at all now, but the eyes of his 
soul are wide awake, and they see 
clear and true. 

In which * church — Catholic or 
Protestant — were the naen who, not 
by tens or by hundreds, but by thou- 
sands upon thousands, and through 
centuries upon centuries, had car- 
ried out to the very letter the 
words of Christ, the Bible words ? 
Which, except through some ex- 
ceptions that only served to prove 
the rule, had by loud-voiced decla- 
mation, and an action that spoke 
more loudly still, set at naught the 
teaching of the Master — set at 
naught the example of Him who 
left all for them ? 

Van seemed to hear it once 
again — the missionary letters read 
from the pulpit and published in 
Protestant magazines ; the plead- 
ings for clothes for the missionary's 
wife and children ; the appeals for 
money, or a missionary must leave 
his important field because his 
family could not be supported 
there; the vaunted heroism of 
missionaries who endured to see 
their children suffer rather than 
desert their post. Where were the 
men whose heroism was such that 
they had no home, no family, no 
earthly tie, but stood ready like the 
angels — true messengers — to go or 
to stay, undeterred by any human 
consideration, where God and his 
church asked or needed them ? 

And so it came to pass that Van 
understood the mystery of Jane's 
vocation; comprehended that men 
and women, young and old, rich 
and poor, ignorant and lettered, 
heard, as the wedded Peter and 
the un wedded John heard once the 
voice of Christ call to them, and 
literally, like them, left all and fol- 



lowed him. It came to pass also 
that he understood Jane's suffer- 
ing; knew that that call of God 
and the accompanying love of God 
were a hundred-fold more in this 
life than the earthly "joys renounc- 
ed, and yet that the promise of the 
everlasting life spoke of such in- 
effable bliss that the longing awak- 
ened for it could only be appeased 
in heaven. 

Van found his vocation too. He 
threw himself, heart and soul, into 
true Christian art. His pictures 
were seldom seen on the walls of 
rich men's houses, but churches 
and convents owned them free of 
price. That part of his work, how- 
ever, was the smallest part. Mon- 
ey and time and strength were lav- 
ished nobly with and in aid of 
those who are successfully laboring 
in our day to show, by research in 
catacombs and ruined sacred build- 
ings and among old missals and 
breviaries and parchments, that the 
Catholic Church of to-day is the 
church of the early Christians and 
martyrs. 

In Italy he met and married 
some one very different from Jane 
— a very lovely and good and noble 
woman — and Jane to him became 
more and more a St. Catherine 
borne by angels, and more and 
more he wondered that he ever had 
presumed to think of offering her 
an earthly love. 

" Had I been a Catholic then, I 
never could have done it," he told 
his wife. " God had called her for 
himself, and set his seal upon her." 

And the happy wife said hum- 
bly : "Hers was the higher call- 
ing, dear." 

So when, one day, their only 
daughter came to them — a strong, 
high-spirited, brilliant girl, the sun- 
shine of their home — ^and told them 
that God's call had come to her to 



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Count Frederick Leopold Stolberg. 



535 



leave her home for Christ's pov- 
erty, and all human love for his 
love alone, she found no weak re- 
sistance 

"Thank God," they said, "for 
the honor he has done us! For 
him we gladly bid thee forget thine 
own people and thy father's 
house/' 



But of Jane they never heard, 
except that, when God's time came, 
she left the farm beside the sea. 
What need to know more of her, 
who was where she longed to be — 
one of the great number who lose 
all to find All, and, having Him 
whom their soul loveth, need no- 
thing more ? 



COUNT FREDERICK LEOPOLD STOLBERG * 



Count Stolberg, a well-known 
statesman and writer, a minister of 
the Duke of Oldenburg, the friend 
of Goethe, Schlegel, Klopstock, 
Lavater, Stein, John and Adam 
Mtiller, La Motte Fouqu^, KSrner, 
and others as distinguished, the 
correspondent of most of the Ger- 
man historians, philosophers, and 
savants of his day, became a Catho- 
lic, after seven years' anxious seek- 
ing for truth, on the ist of June, 
1800, at Mttnster, in Westphalia, in 
the fifty-first year of his age. He 
immediately retired from public 
life, although circumstances af- 
terwards brought him before Ger- 
many as a representative man ; and 
his writings spread through all 
classes of his countrymen as a 
worthy and dignified exposition 
of a religion at that time much re- 
viled, misunderstood, and in some 
cases persecuted. His example in 
home-life was as powerful in a 
smaller circle as his writings were 
in a wider one ; and his relations 
with his wife and children (he had 
eighteen children by his two mar- 
riages) were such as to make it true 
of him that he was a model for all 



* Frederick Leopold, Count Stolbcig, since hisra- 
tam to the Catholic Church, i8oo-t8i9. From 
hitherto unpublbh'ed family documents. By John 
Janasea. Fidburg in Bieissau : Herder & Co. 



Christian heads of families. His 
own tastes were simple and domes- 
tic ; he was fond of the country, and 
was a childlike companion even to 
his youngest children, while to all, as 
they grew up, he was a wise friend 
and teacher. All his children, ex- 
cept Mariagnes, his eldest daughter 
by his first marriage, became Catho- 
lics with him; those born after his 
conversion were of course brought 
up in the church. His second wife, 
Sophie, Countess von Redern, had 
shared his doubts and his experi- 
ences during those seven years of 
eager search after religious certain- 
ty, and became a Catholic also ; but 
while he remained in intimate and 
sympathetic relations with his bro- 
thers and sisters, he never influenc- 
ed any of them far enough to make 
them follow his footsteps. His bro- 
ther Christian and his wife Luise 
were his most constant and intimate 
corres]X)ndents ; with the former 
religion seemed to make no differ- 
ence, as his admiration for, and 
sympathy with, Stolberg was proof 
against anything — indeed, Stolberg 
often called him his "other self "; 
and the latter, to judge by her let- 
ters, was a woman of more than 
common understanding, a student 
of science, an observer of tlie times, 
whose mind was open to receive 



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Count Frederick Leopold Stolberg. 



any new impression that had the 
semblance of truth or real pro- 
gress in it ; an investigating and 
impartial searcher, better versed 
than most women in classic learning, 
and eager for knowledge in any 
shape. To give up constant inter- 
course with his own family and re- 
move to a Catholic city was the 
hardest sacrifice Stolberg had to 
make on leaving the Lutheran 
communion ; but he considered the 
change imperative for the proper 
education of his children. In a 
letter to Luise announcing this re- 
solve he says : " There is no dilem- 
ma, but, even if there were, you 
will agree with me that a tender 
conscience, in a doubtful case, must 
always choose against its wishes 
— I mean its natural wishes, which 
are always suspicious to upright 
morals, let alone to Christianity." 
To his friend Princess Gallitzin, 
the mother of the zealous mission- 
ary in America, Demetrius Gallit- 
zin, he says : " It is an unspeakable 
joy to me that my brother and* sis- 
ter-in-law remain bound to me in 
the fullest and most unreserved 
love, and that not even the shadow 
of a misunderstanding has come be- 
tween them and me, however pain- 
ful to them is the separation from 
me, from Sophie, and from the chil- 
dren." 

He took a house in Miinster and 
made it his home for thirteen years, 
living there througli the winter and 
spending his summers at a coun- 
try-house a few miles out of the 
city, at Llitjenbeck. His children's 
studies were his first care. Greek 
being his favorite study, he made 
each of his sons a good Greek 
scholar, and kept up hi^ own stud- 
ies by a repeated round of all the 
great authors, read successively 
with each of his many boys. Er- 
nest and Andrew, the sons of his first 



marriage, were his first pupils, and 
his own teaching was supplemented 
in languages and history by a Freiich 
emigr^y the Abbe Pierrard, and in 
philosophy by some professors re- 
sident in Mttnster. Stolberg did 
not neglect the physical education 
of his boys, and would no more 
dispense with the daily walk, ride, 
or swim than he would with the 
studies. His sons were good shots, 
too, and in the summer he and they 
spent most of their time in the open 
air. Their mother writes of them 
that they are " truthful, generous, 
and good-hearted," and " that their 
tender respect for their great father 
increases day by day." She was 
herself a patient and judicious 
teacher, and fully recognized how 
much harm is done to children, 
and the " quiet workings of God's 
influence disturbed in them, by the 
expectation of hurried development 
and individuality." Stolberg was al- 
ready beginning his literary work in 
the interests of religion and educa- 
tion, and in 1801 was translating 
St. Augustine's De Vera Religione* 
The early Fathers were his favorite 
spiritual reading ; also the Greek 
Testament and the Hebrew ver- 
sion of the Old Testament. He 
wisely resolved to lead a retired 
life, and not enter into what is call- 
ed society ; but he gathered round 
him a circle of real friends, in in- 
tercourse with whom he spent many 
hours, especially in the evenings. 
Among these were Princess Gallit- 
zin, to whom we owe the sugges- 
tion that produced Stolberg's great 
work. The History of the Religion 
of Jesus Christ ; Prince FUrst en- 
berg, an old man of very exem- 
plary life; Kellermann, his friend 
and pupil, and the tutor of his 
younger sons for sixteen years — a 
priest who was the model of his 
order; some of the cathedral 



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Count Frederick Leopold Siolberg. 



537 



chapter, learned and enlightened 
men; and many young people, 
friends of his children, among 
whom the latter afterwards found 
wives and husbands, in all cases 
happily acceptable to their parents. 
Whoever has read the real-life idyl 
of A Sisters Story will see some 
likeness between the home of the 
La Ferronays and Stolberg's happy 
home. Indeed, his friends were part 
of his family, and admission to his 
intimacy became the ambition of 
all such in Miinster as had minds 
beyond the common run, and aspi- 
rations beyond those of fashion, 
politics, and frivolity. Stolberg's 
dislike to the loss of time involv- 
ed in ordinary visits and the inani- 
ties of society is thus described by 
himself in 1810 : 

" I am growing more unfit from year to 
year for large gatherings. Intercourse 
with friends, like the leaves of the Si- 
bylline books, is more precious the less 
time it occupies and the less often it re- 
curf To hear social chatter for more 
than an hour affects me so that I feel 
much like a dead donkey. . . . How true 
are Lavater's words : * Even the circle 
of good souls seldom gives me a new 
impulse, and a thousand trivial pleasures 
rob me of true enjoyment. Only soli- 
tude can shadow and cool my spirit, 
thirsty and weary from the company even 
Qf loved ones ; only solitude can give 
what no friend can offer — a new con- 
sciousness and new life, and a feeling 
that God loves me.' " 

This country life which was such 
a relief and yearly joy to the whole 
family is charmingly described in 
Stolberg's letters. His garden, his 
hay-field, his children's play; his 
walks in the beech, oak, and maple 
woods; the squirrels in the trees, 
the favorite kid of his little girls, 
the nightingales, the blossoming 
fruit-trees that suggested to him 
the saying that the "apple-tree 
did not eat of the apple " ; the grot- 



tos, rocks, valleys, castles, torrents 
of the neighborhood of Stolberg; 
the old family house which he had 
not seen for twenty-eight years, 
and upon which he prided himself 
as a possession that had been in 
the family for a thousand years ; 
the beauties of the Erzgebirg, and 
the Bohemian hills that lean against 
it; the Scotch or Norwegian-like 
scenery, wild and grand, of these 
mountains with their narrow, fruit- 
ful valleys and green meadows, 
fringed with dark pine woods — are 
all described with that heartiness 
and enthusiasm which real lovers 
of the country know, but which, as 
Stolberg says, so many others pre- 
tend to, while in reality they see 
in nature nothing but a cold show, 
a theatre decoration. " They look 
complacently as into a peep-show 
at the sunrise and the heavens, but 
their heart does not swell witliin 
them nor their eyes grow dim." 
He was as fond of childish games, 
especially of blowing soap-bub- 
bles, as he was of beautiful scenery, 
and counted it a sign of soul-health 
when he was in the frame of mind 
to enjoy such games. And now 
that we have before us the picture 
of the man in his domestic life, who 
in his public, political, literary, and 
social life was of so much impor- 
tance and had so wide an influence, 
we will keep mostly to his own let- 
ters, which give full vent to his 
opinions on the important events 
of the time, and show him forth as 
emphatically of the old school, a 
model Christian, a thorough gen- 
tleman, but a man of his own gen- 
eration; impatient of novelty, a 
great admirer of the English con- 
stitution, but a scornful contemner 
of the mushroom constitutions of 
the Continent; a hot Ugitimisie^ 
but a patriotic German ; an uncom* 
promising and somewhat irrational 



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Count Frederick Leopold Stolberg. 



foe of Napoleon, over and above 
his mere national antagonism 
against the great and successful 
warrior — for instance, he believed 
that "Napoleon's greatness was 
kneaded out of the abjectness of 
Europe," forgetting that a man's 
greatness may lie precisely in the 
art of taking advantage of a weak- 
ness inherent in an adversary, and 
seizing the right moment to over- 
whelm small minds with his strong- 
er one; a firm believer in the ne- 
cessity of his own order, but an 
" aristocrat " with lofty and beau- 
tiful theories of what aristocracy 
consists in; in a word, a great 
Christian and a thorough man. 

Besides his Greek and Hebrew 
studies, he was fond of English 
history and literature, and knew 
French and Italian well; Milton 
and Young were his favorite Eng- 
lish poets, though he often quotes 
Shakspere too, and one of his works, 
second only to the History of Reli- 
gion, was the Life of Alfred — a man 
whom he looked upon as a heroic 
model, and whose example he wish- 
ed to dwell upon as a guide to his 
sons through life. He also trans- 
lated the whole of Ossian. His let- 
ters relating to his home-life, his 
losses and those of his relations, 
the death of his sons and son-in- 
law, and of many dear friends, full 
as they are of Christian manliness 
and resignation, and of moral ax- 
ioms that might be taken as mot- 
toes, we will pass by, as they have 
less of individuality than his letters 
containing opinions on religion, pol- 
itics, and literature, as well as ex- 
positions of theories of his own, all 
strongly and conscientiously held. 
He firmly contradicted a current 
misconception in his time — and, in- 
deed, a not unfrequent one now — 
of the intolerance of tlie Catholic 
Church. 



*' Only for those who confess Catholic 
truth/' he writes, " and yet consciously 
keep aloof from the Catholic commu- 
nion, is there no hope of salvation. Of 
others who err in all good faith, my 
church teaches me to believe that they 
are her members, though unknowingly. 
God allows many honest Protestanu to 
remain in error, and to fancy that the 
Catholic Church, that truly merciful mo- 
ther, is intolerant against those outside 
her pale. It is not the true spirit of 
that church to persecute, curse, or bum 
the erring. Infallible in her doctrine, as 
were also the teachers who sat in Moses* 
seat, she still cannot preserve all her 
members free from imperfections in their 
acts — not even the pope, nor, in the old 
dispensation, the high-priest." 

In another letter he says : 

** Far be it from me, as it is from every 
Catholic who knows the spirit of his 
church, to doubt that among Protestants 
also there are and have been holy souls — 
holy in the sense in which all true chil- 
dren of God are holy ; . . . but my church 
teaches me to look upon these as uncon- 
scious members of the true, though to 
them unknowD, church." 

" Overberg, of whose rarely beautiful 
catechism thirty thousand copies have 
been sold, especially for schools and 
children, expresses himself very pleas- 
ingly on this subject. No well-instructed 
Catholic has any objection to make to 
tliis, but even no half- taught Catholic 
can, on the other hand, mistake other 
altars for that altar of sacrifice which 
Malachi prophesied of, and will hold 
all other altars only for such as they 
really are. . . • Among unlearned Pro- 
testants (and, as I said before, among a 
few learned ones) there are very many 
whom the spirit of Protestantism as such 
has not touched, who have never been 
disturbed, because they have found in 
Holy Scripture a full rest and content- 
ment, and lean with heartfelt love on 
Jesus Christ, doing for love of him all 
they do, in fullest confidence, and what 
liesh and blood would never teach them 
to do. Plants that bear such fruit as 
this I can only hold to come from roots 
watered by the Heavenly Father him- 
self. You believe [he is addressing Sul- 
zer, of Constance] that the number of 
such souls is small ; and such a belief 
grieves me, for I think that it drives 



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Count Frederick Leopold Stolberg* 



539 



many away and discourages them. And, 
indeed, such hard suppositions as jrou 
make and insist upon having categori- 
cally answered lead to embittering re- 
sults. I speak from experience. For 
seven years did I seek for truth with an 
upright heart, after God first put it into 
my heart to seek. After seven years' 
search was I led, through circumstances 
that God overruled, to know and con- 
fess the truth. Others have sought lon- 
ger and more anxiously, and have not 
found what I did, but they serve God in 
the simplicity of their hearts better than 
I do, and will assuredly find the truth 
in the kingdom of light and truth. . . ." 
" You see," he says to his brother, " that 
I am not intolerant. But I hope to God 
that I shall never be tolerant in the 
newest sense of the word — that is, indiffer- 
ent, lukewarm, fit to be spat out of the 
mouth of Jesus Christ." ..." Do not 
let," he saj'S to his son Caius at G5ttin- 
gen Universit)', " yourself be led away 
from the rock-founded church by the 
many good and worthy Protestants you 
meet. Among all in error are many who 
are indi\ndually children of God, but 
they have no church, no sacrifice, no 
priesthood, no Eucharist. The helter< 
skelter union of both Protestant bodies 
(the Lutheran and the Calvinist) must 
give serious scandal to the earnest souls 
in both, and will, I hope, lead many into 
our church." 

Of the difference between feeling 
and truth he says : 

" Certain sensations may be real to 
one person and unreal to another. Not 
so with facts and doctrine. It is the pecu- 
liar character of the true religion that as 
it must be the same in all ages, so must 
every man be equally able to understand 
and embrace it. ... I could not believe 
in a true religion which it would not be 
possible for every human being to be- 
lieve in. ... He leads some through 
rough paths, others through smooth ones; 
some towards truth, some through error. 
The way of error, as suchy is not His way, 
although he is always ready to unfold 
the truth, to be beforehand with, and to 
meet half way, the upright soul who in 
all simplicity holds an erring belief." 

Indeed, in Stolberg's experience, 
the difference between lukewarm 
and conscientious Protestants was 



fully shown ; for the former reviled 
him for his change of religion, while 
the latter approved of his follow- 
ing what he looked upon as truth. 
Other misconceptions of Catholic 
doctrine he also combated, and 
greatly enlightened many of his 
friends on the Catholic belief in the 
justifying merits of Christ. Holy 
Scripture was a source from which 
he considered spiritual light to 
come, but, as he observed, " the 
learned have not yet been able 
to see that the healthy eye, like 
the concave mirror, gathers into 
one point all the scattered rays, 
while they split and split until the 
last particle of light is lost in sha- 
dow." Elsewhere he says : 

"He who is careless of Holy Writ is 
careless of the life of the soul, and he is 
happy if he becomes conscious, were it 
only now and then, of the fact that the 
world, whether with its pleasures or its 
wisdom, offers him nothing but what is 
poisonous to the immortal spirit." 

His advice to his son Ernest, who 
left home in 1803 to join the Aus- 
trian army, is full of the true Chris- 
tian spirit. He recommends him to 
practise every virtue that would 
make a man perfect, and goes into 
many details which, of course, we 
cannot follow here, but this sen- 
tence is almost a compendium of 
the whole : 

*'A true Christian cannot find true 
freedom nor true unsolicitude but in 
the possession of a good conscience. 
Where the conscience is tender and 
watchful it watches alike over every act ; 
and the more we pay attention to it, so 
much the more docs it become, notwith- 
standing the violence it at first does to 
nature, a principle of our life which puts 
us in harmony with ourselves, and there- 
fore makes us truly free." 

Elsewhere he says, speaking to an- 
other youth, a friend of his sons : 

" Lassitude and a want of courage in- 
crease the strength of the enemy ; and 



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Count Fredtrick Leopold Stolberg. 



discontent concerning the post to which 
Go(f has appointed us is unseemly in 
any brave man, much^ore in a foremost 
fighter. Not the wish that 'everything 
were otherwise,' but the resolve always to 
act well and bravely^H>r, as Holy Writ 
says, * to walk before God and be perfect ' 
—can make men of us. That wish un- 
nerves us ; this resolve strengthens us 
and gives us a might which remains with 
the weapons of the fighter even on the 
other side of the grave. He who has 
done and suffered much does not dream 
of soiling his crown with tears, while he 
who has as yet found no opportunity of 
doing or suflfering has still less a right 
to weep." 

The melancholy which the 
French have aptly called " la mala- 
die du sihcle " * was abhorrent to 
Stolberg — that un manliness and 
cowardice of mind which became 
fashionable through the writings of 
atheists, and which in many phases 
has spread itself into our present 
literature as well as our practice. 
He also writes concerning the 
same thing : 

" Every human being has his own his- 
tory to work out, and that this should be 
thoroughly done does not depend upon 
the amount of talent he has, but upon 
the will which few bring to it uncon- 
ditionally and in a cheerful spirit." 

Stolberg was of a healthier school 
and generation ; he did not see the 
beauty and sentiment and romance 
of passion running riot, misun- 
derstood natures, morbid hearts, 
vain strivings, and all the parapher- 
nalia of a moral sick-bed. For in- 
stance, the baneful and unreal ex- 
citements of the theatre were very 
dangerous in his eyes, and the evil 
custom which even good and well- 
meaning people fell into of coun- 
tenancing private theatricals, and 
letting even their young children 
take part in them, was a great sor- 
row to him. • One of the evils he 
§ 

* Tb« difleue of the age. 



deprecated was the rousing of a 
false sympathy with imaginary 
woes, which ended by undermining 
true sympathy with our neighbor's 
actual troubles ; another, the vanity 
which play-acting fostered in young 
people, and the excitement which 
rendered them unfit for serious 
study and work. It also destroys 
the simplicity of the soul and that 
modesty which is the chief adorn- 
ment of young souls, especially of a 
girfs soul. 

** Young girls," he says, " when they 
have once overcome their shyness, long 
after the same excitement, and are al- 
ways wishing to be playing a part. The 
truthfulness of their nature is soon lost ; 
seeming overcomes being, every acted 
feeling destroys real feeling ; the heart 
becomes cold for reality, and is only to 
be aroused by supposed passion." 

Public theatricals he looked up- 
on as equally dangerous, and even 
wrote against them, praising Ge- 
neva for having, until it became 
French, refused to allow the erec- 
tion of a theatre within the limits 
of its territory. "The special 
charm of the stage," lie says, " lies 
in its flattery of our lusts, our vani- 
ty, and our laziness." We have 
often heard fine theories advanced 
as to the mission and morality of 
the drama, but as long as practice 
belies these theories it is impossi- 
ble to look upon them otherwise 
than as a well-meaning Utopia. 
Stolberg saw the real harm done, 
and not the imaginary good which 
some high-minded and exceptional 
artists would fain do. 

The atheistical and deist philoso- 
phy of the eighteenth century and 
early part of the nineteenth were 
naturally repugnant to such an up- 
right mind as Stolberg. He hated 
the wilful groping in the dark after 
a truth which the ** philosophers " 
might have found in the Gospels, 



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Count Frederick Leopold Stolberg. 



541 



had they had the fairness to admit 
these on an equality, at least, with 
other so-called " proofs." He call- 
ed Steflen and Schleiermacher at 
Halle the " new Gnostics," and 
compared their systems to the vain 
effort of the fabled Danaides to 
pour the ocean through a sieve. 

" The name of Gnostics sounds omi- 
nous," he says, "and brings to mind the 
Gnostics of the first centuries, with many 
of whose beliefs, indeed, the wisdom of 
our newest sages astonishingly coin- 
cides. Under their treatment even reali- 
ties dissolve themselves in shadow, while 
they give to shadows the form and ap- 
pearance of realities." 

Jacobi was at that time a very 
prominent leader of philosophy in 
Germany, and Stolberg mentions 
him many times in his correspon- 
dence with various persons, evi- 
dently as a representative man. 
At one time this teacher, the friend 
of Goethe, a sort of Medici among 
his disciples near Dusseldorf, where 
he liad a beautiful house, and still 
more beautiful garden — now the 
property of the town and the ap- 
propriate scene of artists* banquets 
and popular fites — confessed him- 
self, in the midst of his philosophy, 
*' a very beggar" in the true learn- 
ing of the Spirit. Stolberg often 
alluded to this, and, when the 
master's pride had long distanced 
the frame of mind in which this 
acknowledgment had been made, 
wrote of him : " Poor Jacobi ! he 
was richer indeed when he called 
himself poor as ' a beggar.' " In 
181 2 he writes : 

" I have just read Jacobi's last pam- 
phlet The one before the last On a 
Wist Saying of Lichienhtrg, seems to 
me in the highest degree satisfactory. 
That on The Recension (Jacobi cannot 
help putting odd and often trivial titles 
to his works) has also excellent points, 
but the whole seems to me loose, and 
a windy toying with views which he 



borrows from Christianity, the whole 
system of which, however, he, as far as 
in him, the puny mortal, lies, seelcs 
to weaken and annihilate. While he 
praises the god-like Plato, he seems 
to forget that this philosopher, or rath- 
er Socrates in his platonic Pheedrus^ 
evidently longs, as a hart after the foun- 
tains of waters, for a god -given revela- 
tion whose very possibility itself Jacobi, 
on the contraiy, strives to reason awav." 

Schelling's answer to Jacobi, 
however, equally displeased Stol- 
berg, and he accuses him of mak- 
ing Jacobi appear, ** through cer- 
tain wiles of speech, now an atheist, 
now a fanatical dreamer," and of 
taking credit to himself for 

** Having been the first clearly to prove 
the existence of God. His God has 
been from all eternity the greatest 
Force, which contained within itself, in 
potentia^ but not in actu, that goodness 
and wisdom which it developed in later 
ages. He falls thus into Count Schmet- 
tau's error, of a god who has raised him- 
self from a lower state to the highest, 
which theory one might compare with 
the career of a field-marshal who has 
risen by degrees from the ranks. . . . 
Evidently Schelling is a man of much 
mind, but of overweening vanity. He 
speaks of Christianity with respect, and 
probably believes in the divine mission 
of Christ, whose system, however, it was 
reserved for him — ScheHing — ^fully to ex- 
plain. He sent this paper of his to Per- 
thes (Stolberg*s publisher), and told him 
he wished me to read it, and that I should 
then have quite another idea of what 
his philosophy was, and discover that 
he did not hold the views I attributed to 
him." 

At another time he writes : 

**The deplorable frivolity of these 
times is one of their worst signs. I find 
it the saddest of all. Would that one 
could hope, 

** When the hurly-burly*i done. 
When the night is past and gone,*' 

that things would come right again. 
But moral nights are not as physical 
ones. The latter bring us dreams which 
the dawn of day dispels. The moral 



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543 



Count Frederick Leopold Stolberg 



nights are full of the feverish dreams of 
mankind, and they have no certain limit 
as to time. They go crescendo from error 
to folly, until the awakening at the end 
of a completed, comet-like course of 
misery." 

We have mentioned Stolberg's 
warm love of his country. Prince 
Francis FUrstenberg said of him 
during the time of the humbling of 
Germany under the yoke of Napo- 
leon : ** I know, and have known 
in my long life, many of the noblest 
men in the nation, but I saw none 
surpass Stolberg in genuine love for 
the Fatherland. His German and 
imperial heart is pure as gold and 
shines like a diamond." The epi- 
thet imperial sounds odd to our 
ears ; it is an allusion to his belief 
that the Empire of Germany, such 
as it existed just before the Con- 
gress of Vienna, was the proper 
representative and bulwark of the 
nation. He blamed the Emperor 
Francis very strongly for laying 
down his time-honored dignity 
later on, and contenting himself 
with a local title which severed his 
interests materially from those of 
Germany at large. He also saw in 
this withdrawal of imperial authori- 
ty and protection over non-Aus- 
trian countries a danger to the 
Catholic faith, and a possible inter- 
ference of Protestant powers in the 
communications between Catholic 
German states and the Holy See. 
But concerning the ever- vexed ques- 
tion of the Rhine frontier his pa- 
triotism was quick and hot ; he 
wished that in the new partition at 
the Congress Alsace and Lorraine 
should be given back to Germany, 
and lamented the injudicious beha- 
vior by which some of the German 
troops had spoilt the evidently fa- 
vorable state of mind of the Alsa- 
tians during part of the disturban- 
ces on the frontier 



'* Eighteen months ago," he writes in 
1815, " the Alsatians were very well dis- 
posed, came to meet our troops with 
flags and received them with ringing of 
joy-bells ; then came the Bavarians, the 
Badeners, and so on, and behaved so as 
to make them hate us. We all talk of 
our wish to reunite our once torn-away 
brethren with Germany, but we have 
angered them instead and are burning 
their towns and villages. My hair stands 
on end and I cculd weep tears of blood 
at the thought." 

Early in the century, a few weeks 
after his conversion, Stolberg wrote 
thus to Princess GalUtzin : 

'*True patriotism embraces the high- 
est good of the people in all things : the 
blessings of faith, those of law, of freedom, 
and of morals. It can never follow the 
path of forcible overthrows and of revo- 
lution, nor covenant with« an outside 
enemy, nor lend itself to the service of 
injustice, even when a seeming and mo- 
mentary advantage is to be gained by 
such service. What a disgrace for us 
Germans is the Franco-mania that reigns 
among us — the cap-in-hand alliance with 
the Corsican adventurer, who is spread- 
ing horror and desolation among us and 
knows no right but that of the sword. 
What undermines all our strength, and 
will sink us even lower and lower, is not 
only, the jealousy and spirit of aggran- 
dizement current among the German 
states against the empire and the em- 
peror, the fawning on the French with 
the hope of getting their help to win new 
slices of territory, but far more the weak- 
ened character of the whole people, and 
their want of moral energy and good 
feeling— the result of the unbelieving 
philosophy and immoral literature that 
have unnerved the nation." 

Just as impartially he condemn- 
ed in afcer-years, when German pa- 
triotism had spread with a sudden 
rush from the field into literature, 
the " coarse Teutonism " which re- 
jected every refinement of foreign 
origin, maligned every foreign cus- 
tom, and made patriotism ridicu- 
lous by enjoining upon it to be no 
less than rabid. He then defended 
all that was reasonable and appli- 



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Count Fredrick Leopold Stolbitg. 



543 



cable to German li(ie, all the praise- 
worthy customs, books, and im- 
provements that fashion had turn- 
ed suddenly against. He had earn- 
ed a good right to be independent ; 
for four of his sons fought in the 
different German armies that over- 
whelmed Napoleon after the retreat 
from Moscow, and one, his son 
Christian, a brave boy of eighteen, 
died at the battle of Ligny. His 
two sons-in-law also, fathers of 
large families of young children, 
were in the national army, and the 
greatest enthusiasm was felt by all 
the members of the family, old and 
young, for the cause which Stol- 
berg called " ours, God's, Europe's, 
mankind's, and the right's." 

In 1815 he wrote: "True Ger- 
man feeling it is to welcome all that 
is noble and good, out of all ages 
and nations, as our own. Every 
one now, with narrow minds, is 
Nibelungen-mad, barbaric-mad " ; 
and concerning his Life 0/ Alfred 
he says : 

*' Alfred belongs to us, and therefore 
do I wish to hold him up to the venera- 
tioa and imitation, and for the teaching, 
of my children. But not only do Alfred 
and his people belong to us ; we should 
also make our own all that is great and 
noble in the life of all nations, yet with- 
out losing thereby our own individual- 
ity." 

In 1805 the decree freeing the 
serfs in the Duchy of Holstein went 
into effect, and Stolberg congratu- 
lates his brother Christian on this 
happy event ; naturally, the great- 
er event of the abolition of negro 
slavery in the British West Indies 
was a great joy to him, and he re- 
joiced the more that the Illumina^ 
ti, his special aversion, lost thereby 
their best weapon as^ainst England, 
and that the French Declaration of 
the Rights of Man could be unfa- 
vorably compared with the English 



constitution, on account of a con- 
tradictory law, at that time still ip. 
force, forbidding the liberation of 
the negroes in French colonies to 
be even mentioned before the leg- 
islature. The alliances, dictated by 
fear or by interest, of German sove- 
reigns with Napoleon were a sub- 
ject of great grief and indignation 
to him, and he looked upon Eng- 
land with almost exaggerated admi- 
ration because she withstood the 
conqueror. He said " Pitt would 
save England against Europe's 
will," and his confidence in the 
general policy of the English 
statesman was unbounded. He 
had, too, a kind of historical admi- 
ration, if we may so call it, for the 
English form of government, which 
alone he thought proper for free- 
dom, but which he did not believe 
fit for the wants of every nation, 
indiscriminately, on the Continent, 
It strikes us, however, that the fact 
of the English constitution, in its 
then state, being nearly a hundred 
and fifty years old had somewhat 
blinded his mind to the facts — ac- 
cording to his theory, rather sus- 
picious, to say the least — of the 
change of dynasty in i638 ; for the 
Stuarts in England were surely as 
legitimate sovereigns, from his 
point of view, as the Bourbons in 
France, whose least advances, in 
the person of Louis XVI U., to- 
wards the modem spirit so in- 
censed and disgusted Stolberg; 
and when he said that '^ England 
alone stood in the breach " against 
Napoleon, he forgot that she con- 
sidered it her interest to withstand 
him, and that a deeply-rooted pre- 
judice egged on the nation against 
him. If he had seen anything of 
the unreasoning panic which the 
threatened invasion caused among 
the English, he would have been 
less ready to jest at the falling 



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544 



Count Frederick Leopold Stolberg. 



through of the scheme, which he 
called " an exp^ition to gather mus- 
sels along the British shores." It 
has often been so, we think, among 
Continental statesmen and think- 
ers : they look upon England with 
exceptionally favorable eyes and 
weigh her doings in special balan- 
ces, forgetting the lawless and riotous 
disturbances that she experienced 
earHer than other countries, after 
which she settled into the solid, 
steady, conservative, law-abiding, 
slow-to-be-raoved nation which she 
had been for over a hundred years 
when the French Revolution sud- 
denly broke out. Stolberg, much as 
he praised England, almost refused 
to see any good in the chaos of new 
ideas that were seething pell-mell 
together; he saw nothing but the 
evident godlessness, selfishness, 
pride, and cruelty which marked 
that era; and, indeed, he, the man 
of another age, the lover of a lofty 
ideal which we shall mention pres- 
ently — the man who said that " all 
politics hinged on the Fourth Com- 
mandment " — could hardly be ex- 
pected to allow that out of such 
confusion God could glean any- 
thing worthy of being offered to 
himself. 

Stolberg often called Germany 
the " heart of Europe," and wrote 
an ode with that title ; but he would 
not allow with the innovators that 
the "philosophy" of the age was 
the true source of the influence his 
country should have on the Conti- 
nent. Allied to this false idea of 
many Germans was the affected 
custom, in the early part of the cen- 
tury, of using the French language 
instead of the mother-tongue, even 
in the nearest domestic intercourse 
— a fault which the Russians also fell 
into, but which at present they 
have seen the folly of and have 
nearly successfully remedied. Stol- 



berg heartily hated and despised 
this foreign intrusion into German 
home-life. 

" Even in my younger days," he says 
with scorn, " I can remember hearing of 
a gifted German girl being reproached by 
German women with being 'affected' 
enough to write ' German' letters. . . . Ger- 
mans now write to each other, brother to 
brother, husband to wife, in French. . . . 
Is that not to estrange one's self from one's 
nearest and dearest? nay, even from 
one's self?" 

His relations and correspondence 
with well-known people of his day 
furnish us with his opinions on 
many of the writers, savants^ states- 
men, and philosophers, the reigning 
and rising public men. Of the his- 
torian Johann MUller he says : 

'* No one ever seized the true spirit of 
history so early in life as he did. . . . 
His life is very interesting ; it is true he 
showed a good deal of vanity, but also 
so much cheerful good-humor that one 
does not feel inclined to be hard upon 
him for the former. His plan of study, 
as he arranged it for himself, and the 
scrupulous way in which he followed 
it out, seem to me truly noteworthy. 
. . . What a comprehensive spirit, what 
feeling and sympathy for the true, the 
good, and the beautiful ! H()w early, too, 
he broke loose from the unwisdom of the 
philosophy of the tiroes, and how deep 
a religious spirit remained firm in him 
in the midst of many disturbances, since 
he so clearly understood the history of 
the world by the light of that Provi- 
dence whose finger he was always trac- 
ing in it ! He once said very beautifully 
that Christ was the key to the world s 
history." 

In 1807 he gives the following 
opinion of Alexander von Hum- 
boldt : 

" I know Humboldt personally. He 
has much understanding, much liveli- 
ness, much industry. But is he not in-* 
dined to be too much enslaved by the 
German it priori tendency and by a love 
of the scientific form? Is he strong 
enough not to let himself be carried 
away by the method of modern criticism, 
which tends to violent disruption from 



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Count Frederuk Leopold Stolberg. 



545 



all that has gone before, instead of trac- 
ing oat the great analogies on the path 
of simple observation ? Is he quite free 
from a delicate and imperceptible char- 
latanism? Years may have matured 
him, but such maturing seldom takes 
place when the quick strides of science 
make it di£Scult for wisdom to keep up 
with her." 

Of Frederick Schlegel's poetry, 
and that of others in the Dichter- 
garten (or " Poet's Garden," a col- 
lection of fugitive songs by various 
poets), he writes : 

" The rarer and the more beautiful is 
the noble, religious spirit that breathes 
through the Pottos Garden, the more do I 
wish that its authors might put forth all 
their strength. And so it would be, if it 
were not for a particular theory which 
lies at the bottom of the poetry — a theory 
whose foundation I do not know, but 
whose evident peculiarity strikes the 
eye, bewilders the reader, forces the Muse, 
and in its purposed negligence of lan- 
guage goes so far as even to disfigure it. 
The Muse craves freedom above all 
things, if she is to express what comes 
from the innermost of our heart or our 
mind. Every trace of art lames poetry, 
and theory often misleads, because it is 
bom of human philosophy, while poetry 
is something divine. Therefore poets 
always succeed best in rhythm where the 
inspiration is great and noble, and the 
quickly-passing images, thoughts, sensa- 
tions only group themselves well and 
naturally when they are conjured up by 
an infallible, all-subduing inspiration, 
without the pcet knowing how it hap- 
pens." 

Of Niebuhr's Roman history he 
writes, in 1812 — not, perhaps, in the 
sense. that most of the readers of 
that work will endorse : 

" I marvel at the deep learning, and 
often at the penetration, of our friend ; 
but who will read him ? What a b ul wark 
of tedious researches, the result of which 
is often nothing more than a learned, 
outwork 1 It is strange that, with this 
fault of historical pedantry, he could 
not avoid the contrary one of reasoning 
i priori, so common to the German pro- 
fessors. There is much understanding 
in the book, and in a few places one is 
VOL. XXV. — 35 



pleasantly surprised at its spirit ; but 
this spirit is neither a joyful nor a certain 
one. He fails in simplicity. From this 
springs his heavy style, despite his 
choice use of words. He is too forward 
in making hypotheses and foregone 
conclusions ; for instance, his open par- 
tisanship with the plebeians leads him 
to make false and hasty judgments. 
His pragmatical tendency makes him 
unjust even to Livy, and he has no ap- 
preciation of the noble amiability of 
Plutarch. Yet, with all these faults, 
he must ever remain a valuable histo- 
rian — not a star of the first magnitude, 
but still too good to be a mere fatJiu- 
/us* to gather material for great his- 
torians. Among other things, he lacks 
the art of managing his style so as to ap- 
pear to be led by it and yet to make it 
convey exactly what the writer pleases. 
But concerning his principles, some of 
which, however, I do not endorse, his 
conscience always appears as it is, noble 
and tender, while his love of truth fol- 
lows him even on his hobby— hypothe- 
sis." 

It may be interesting to give the 
opinion of some of the same men 
on Stolberg himself as a historian 
and writer. The History of Reli- 
gion^ which was his great work, 
and which he mainly attributed to 
the suggestion, encouragement, and 
interest of Princess Gallitzin, be- 
came a topic of discussion and in- 
terest all through Germany. Many 
were brought by it to the Catholic 
Church, and of these most wrote to 
him first, asking advice and making 
confidences, before they read fur- 
ther or asked instructions from a 
priest. It was a source of deep 
thankfulness to him that he had 
thus been the means of making 
others share in the same blessings 
and peace which he had won 
through the grace and leading of 
God. But his History was no 
controversial work; it was very 
comprehensive, and embraced the 
whole subject of true religion from 
the beginning of the world, tracing 

* Servant ; meaniog here a second-rate ckronicler 



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546 



Count Frederick Leopold Stolberg. 



the connection between Judaism 
and Christianity; the fulfilment of 
the prophecies in Christ ; the spirit 
of aloofness from the world, first 
symbolized in the national exclu- 
siveness of the Hebrews, and then 
proved in the persecutions under 
the Roman emperors in the strug- 
gle between Christianity and hea- 
thendom ; and, lastly, the gradual, 
onward sway which the truth at 
last won over error, and which, 
speaking in a certain sense, culmi- 
nated in the conversion of Constan- 
tine. Here Stolberg ended his 
history, feeling that his life would 
not be spared much longer, and 
that he had done his work, so far 
as he felt called upon by God to 
witness to the truth that was in 
him. The unhappy struggles, rents, 
and abuses of later church histo- 
ry he left untouched ; surely there 
were counterparts to them in earlier 
days, but no such embittering 
could come from a relation of the 
old heresies and divisions as would 
have sprung from even the most 
impartial discussion of recent and 
more local ones. Schlegel took 
the greatest interest in this work, 
and of the least important part he 
spoke thus admiringly : 

" I am especially delighted at the 
strength and simple beauty of your 
style ; whoso compares it with what is 
called nowadays the art of representing 
things will easily discover where is to 
be found the true source of even this 
beauty." 

Again, of the second part of the 
history (it was divided into fifteen 
parts) he says : 

" I found myself much steadied and 
strengthened by the whole, and particu- 
larly enlightened by the exposition on 
the Hebrew belief in the immortality of 
the soul and on the Mosaic code. May 
you in the future of your work, as often 
as opportunity allows, return to and 
dwell upon the immortality of the soul. 



It seems to me the path by which man 
kind at present can best be led towards 
truth, better than by any other teaching 
regarding the Godhead." 

He then says that pantheism and 
a vague sentimentality had pervert- 
ed everything distinctly Christian 
into an empty shadow-form, but 
that few were so absolutely dead to 
all higher feeling as not to distin- 
guish between the "real personal 
immortality, and the mere meta- 
physical image of it, without a here- 
after, and without a continuance, 
of the memory." 

"Bring vividly before them the true per- 
sonal immortality, and you will often find 
those whom you had thought most spir- 
itually dead and careless to be palpably 
roused. To me the doctrine of the Trin- 
ity is the central point of Christianity, 
and therefore the foundation and source 
of all my convictions, views, and aspira- 
tions. . . . The unfolding and repre- 
sentation of this secret of love (the Trin- 
ity) I have found to permeate every doc- 
trine, principle, and even custom or 
rubric of the Catholic Church ; although 
even in her pale many good individuals 
are less impressed with the divine spirit 
of the whole than with some one or 
other literal regulation." 

Johann von Mtiller wrote thus 
of Stolberg's work : 

*' It is not a lukewarm, sham impar- 
tial church history, in which one is un- 
certain what relation it bears to Jesus 
of Nazareth, but the work of a man who 
knows what he believes, and would fain 
move all men to believe as he does. 
Not a church history critically weighing 
the Messiahship of Jesus from the Old 
Testament against his Godhead from the 
New, but the work of a man who sees 
everywhere and at all times Him who 
was and is, and is tocome, and to whom 
all power is given in heaven ^nd on 
earth. Lastly, it is not a worldly repre- 
sentation of the deceits and time-serv- 
ing devices through which Christianity 
crept into the world, and is still able to 
maintain herself, the humble handmaid 
of statecraft, in these our enlightened 
times, but the confession and outpour- 



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Count Frederick Leopold Stolberg, 



547 



ing of soul of a man to whom the whole 
world is nothing in comparison with the 
Saviour of the world. Of the latter he 
speaks so that whoever loves him must 
love this book, and he who knows no- 
thing of him will learn from this book 
what Christians possess in him. There- 
fore, reader, if thou art a reed, driven 
before the learned wind of our modem 
writings, look to this rock, and see if it 
has not a foundation in the needs of 
mankind and the love of the Godhead ; 
and thou who knowest not Christianity, 
come and see what it is, as thy forefa- 
thers felt it, as it is yet, mighty in every 
childlike heart ; and thou who believest, 
come hear, and enjoy, and rejoice thy 
heart with the word of life." 

Claudius spoke of the book be- 
ing read by thousands, and of its 
** undoubted influence in strength- 
ening the Christian faith among the 
German people." A person in 
comparatively private life, Major 
Btilow, a stanch Bible man, said 
that Stolberg's History of Religion 
had been a "welcome surprise to 
him, although the style was not al- 
ways clear to his understanding, 
and he was only fearful lest the 
author should not live long enough 
to finish it." 

Joseph de Maistre spoke thus of 
the work in his Recueil de LettreSy 
p. 23 : 

** New researches and discoveries, and 
the progress of the art of tracing all up 
to the first sources, may correct or sup- 
plement much in his history, may bring a 
"new light to bear on many of his opin- 
ions — for the work, in spite of its founda- 
tion on, and buttressing by, much study 
of a high order, is not meant to be an 
exhaustive scientific work ; but I doubt 
if any, in our century at least, will sur- 
pass the author of this history in pure 
love of God and mankind, love to Christ 
and his church, and in pure and truly 
creative spirit. How striking also are 
his observations on the circumstances of 
our time, his opinion on the persecution 
of the church by the spirit of this world, 
on false teachers, on the marriage tie, 
and the sanctity of oaths, and many like 
things '" 



Stolberg was rejoiced by these 
commendations, but more encour- 
aged than rejoiced. Mere vanity 
was far from him ; he thanked God 
that he had been able to supply 
" what these oft-repeated praises of 
good and single-minded men prov- 
ed to him to have been really a 
want." 

The ideal which we have alluded 
to, and which was a great charac- 
teristic of Stolberg's mind, was that 
of the mission and duties of an 
aristocracy. He believed that, in 
the abstract, the existence and al- 
lowed influence of such a class 
was an instinct inborn in man, and 
that it was only when the aristo- 
cracy was false to its own princi- 
ples that the people could grow an- 
tagonistic to it. His theories on 
the subject were beautiful, noble, 
poetic, but in his time there had 
been so much evil practice that 
such theories were nearly swamped 
under it. It was natural to his 
character, however, to lean more 
on the theory than the practice, 
and to consider the latter an ex- 
crescence and abuse which might 
be done away with, and the ideal 
thereby reinstated in its first dig- 
nity. At first sight his theory seems 
simply a feudal, mediaeval, romantic 
one, the dream of a man proud of 
his own order, and nursed in pre- 
judices such as no change in politi 
cal relations de facto could uproot 
but if we look closer into it, it be- 
comes a very difierent and far more 
worthy thing — namely, a belief in 
the essence of chivalry, a standard 
of conduct such as King Arthur's, 
a translation into altered forms and 
circumstances of the Gospel rules 
of charity, courtesy, and patience. 
Here are some of his own sayings 
on the subject, on which he rea- 
soned in a way so far removed from 
either fanaticism or vanity that we 



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548 



Count Frederick Leopold Stolberg. 



place his explanations here as some- 
thing wholly special to himself, and 
quite different from the ordinary 
rhapsodies about the necessity of 
various grades of classes : 

" The ideal of the aristocracy * is not 
weakeaed through the unworthiness of 
many who are of noble birth. On the 
contrary, the just scorn which follows 
these men redounds to the honor of 
their class, of which one cannot become 
unworthy without being despised by all. 
Nature gives the aristocracy neither more 
undersUnding nor more physical strength 
than she does to other classes ; it takes 
its worth wholly from an ideal, but not a 
mistaken ideal. This, like all that is 
great in mankind, is founded upon the 
sacrifice of all that is lower for the sake 
of attaining the highest. 

•• The aristocracy must give up every 
mercantile and lower traffic. Three 
things were entrusted to its keeping- 
agriculture, of which kings have not 
been ashamed, statesmanship, and the 
defence of the Fatherland. 

" As an ennobled countryman the aris- 
tocrat can pursue the most necessary, the 
oldest, and the most innocent work with 
better results than the peasant, because 
he has more means, more insight, and can 
better afford the danger of an occasional 
failure. His experience and example 
teach and encourage the common coun- 
tryman, whom it is the beautiful and 
holy duty of the nobleman to enlighten 
and to protect, and whose well-being, 
morals, and temporal and eternal good 
it is his duty to further by every means 
in bis power. This business is one 
•vhich, if he wishes to be respected as a 
lobleman, he has no right to evade or 
neglect; except temporarily, if he is 
chosen as a representative of his pro- 
vince—a business to which he has also a 
special call as a citizen of the state. He 
must and ought, however, to take part 
in the government, even if he be not 
chosen by his province ; and either as a 
magistrate or only as a land-owner he 
can take a prominent part in it. The de- 

• Adel^ nobility, from ecUl^ noble, our Saxon 
Rihel and A tJuling, The word b here translated 
by aristocracy rather than nobility— the former be- 
ing a word of wider signification, and embracing 
the ^i?*« of untitled gentlemen (which of course 
Stolberg included), as well as that of strictly so- 
called noblemen. 



fenct of hii country devolves upon no 
one so strongly as upon the nobleman. 
This is a worthy and beautiful duty of 
knighthood. It is well for that state where 
the aristocracy, as such, is called to the de- 
fence of the Fatherland as leaders of their 
own country people, whose patrons they 
•are in times of peace, whose heads, judges, 
mediators, example, and benefactors they 
should be at all times. The old, fair re- 
lations have been rent by false represen- 
tations, but they are not effaced. . . . 
The aristocracy has an inner worth, no 
matter how unworthy are many of its 
members. Neither royal nor priestly 
anointing can preserve from moral cor- 
ruption! Of how much less avail are 
mere human, outward means to preserve 
the spiritual existence ! Indeed, they of- 
ten soil it. Let every one who is of 
knightly standing strive to prove by his 
actions that the ideal of knighthood lives 
in him, in noble simplicity, in courteous 
behavior, in quick willingness to give 
blood and lands for the Fatherland. H is 
example will not remain without fruit. 
He will be far from looking upon certain 
virtues as virtues of his condition, and 
neglecting to practise others or super- 
ciliously leave them to other classes. If 
we hold fast to our knightly calling, the 
essence of knighthood will remain to us. 
The shell of the thing renews itself from 
time to time. . . . Whatever is worthy 
of respect in knighthood has come from 
self-sacrifice. ... In order to keep pace 
with the century, the nobleman must be 
the equal of the citizen in knowledge, 
whenever the two meet in the same field. 
If he neglects this, he will see the burgh- 
er reigning as a cabinet minister and 
himself reduced to the honor of wait- 
ing in the king's ante-chamber by virtue 
of his birth. And even in war, the 
knight's proper field, how can the noble- 
man boast of his superiority to one who 
knows more than he does of the science 
of war? If the knight covets intellec- 
tual superiority, he must not seek it in 
emulation so much as in brave and si- 
lent self-sacrifice. The life of his fa- 
thers must teach his heart this lesson : 
Be worthy of thy fathers^ whether the 
loorld acknowledge thy worth or no,* A 
thirst after approbation does not be- 
hove a knight, but steady reliance on 
his strength and his intentions. . . . The 
present hatred of the aristocracy is a fe- 

« The itafics are ours. 



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Count Frederick Leopold Stolberg. 



549 



ver which will soon be spent. ... It 
remains for us, each in his own circle, 
to maintain a lofty ideal and to spread 
it abroad — that Is, a true spirit of religion 
and that spirit of brave self-denial, of 
earnest courage, and discreet worth which 
should mark the aristocracy — and at the 
same time to encourage among ourselves 
a desire not to be behindhand in such 
knowledge and in such strivings as ele- 
vate the heart, adorn the mind, and 
make us fitter for the callings that spe- 
cially beseem us." 

It will be readily understood 
from the foregoing quotations that 
Stolberg had not much sympathy 
with a scheme which some Ger- 
man noblemen had started — that 
of a new knight-union or society. 
He deprecated the publicity such 
a step would necessarily bring up- 
on them, and saw in it only a hol- 
low, childish plan of defiance, a 
foolish revival of old customs as 
powerless in practice as a return 
to the weapons of the ancient 
knights, a protest against * fire- 
arms andf the altered arts of 
warfare. His enthusiasm was al- 
ways dignified and reasonable; it 
had no touch of sentimentality 
and "playing at" things. To 
the last his character remained 
the same. Forgiving and tempe- 
rate as regarded any wrong done 
personally to him, he could not 
brook the distortion of truth, and 
was in the act of replying to a 
libellous pamphlet of Voss, of 
Heidelberg, destined to spread 
among the public distrust of Stol- 
berg's sincerity in his conversion, 



when his last sickness overtook 
him. He had just finished the 
Li^e of SU Vincent of Paul^ which 
he had written instead of the auto- 
biography that his friends strongly 
urged him to write. He had ob- 
jected that he felt no call from 
God to do so, and that, unless one 
wrote with the view of God's call, 
vanity and self were too apt to be- 
come the leading motive in the 
work. He commended St. Augus- 
tine's Confessions because they were 
evidently inspired by love of God's 
honor only, and a monument of 
thankfulness to the One who called 
such a sinner to repentance. In St. 
Vincent he saw a man of modern 
times whom one could hold up as a 
model not too exalted and extraor- 
dinary, yet thoroughly humble, per- 
fect, and holy, to men of his and fu- 
ture generations. 

Stolberg died December 5, 1819, 
at the age of seventy, at Sonder- 
mtlhlen, a country-house for which 
he had, four years before, exchang- 
ed his favorite Ltltjenbeck, when 
French domination was in the as- 
cendant and he had become an 
object of suspicion to the French 
spies in Mttnster. 

What his death was to his family 
can be easily imagined; it was 
hardly less to a large circle of 
friends, acquaintances, and even 
strangers who knew him only by 
name and by his works, but whose 
reliance on his advice, example, 
and opinion had long been then 
best and surest standard of duty. 



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550 From the Hecuba of Euripides. 



FROM THE HECUBA OF EURIPIDES. 

A frtt iratuiation* 
BY AUBREY DE VERE. 

[The Chorus of Trojan Women lament their Captivity, "] 

STROPHE I. 

Breeze of the ocean, fresh and free I 

Whither, O whither wilt thou bear 

The Exile, and her great despair ? 
Thou speed'st, and I must speed with thee ! 
Say, must some Dorian haven be 

The home of Troy's uftappy daughters? 

O unbelov^d home ! — or where 

The father of. most lovely waters, 

Apidanus, goes winding by 

The fruitful meads of Thessaly ? 

ANTISTROPHE I. 

Or 'mid those isles of old renown, 
Haply bright Delos' sea-born glades, 

Where deathless palms and laurels spread 
Above their own Latona's head 
Green boughs (commemoration holy 

Of that twin-birth that lit their gloom) : — 
There must I weep a captive's doom ? 
There sing, with gladsome native maids, 
Extorted song and melancholy 
To Dian's silver bow and crown ? 

STROPHE II. 

Perchance, a slave in Athens pining, 

On tap'stried walls these hands must trace 

Minerva's awful steeds and car 

Still radiant from the Ten Years* war ; 
Or blazon there the Titan race 

Beneath the Thunderer's wrath oppressed, 
And every godlike head declining 

Upon the thunder-blasted breast. 



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The True Irish Revolution. 



551 



ANTISTROPHE H. 

Alas my people, and alas 

• My fathers, and my country's shore ! 

And thou, O Troy — *tis Fate's decree — 

Farewell ! I see thy face no more ! 
Alas for thee, alas for me ! 

Above thy head the plough shall pass :- 
Worse fate is mine, o'er ocean's wave, 
The conqueror's plaything, and his slave. 



THE TRUE IRISH REVOLUTION. 



The Irish people, albeit much 
given to intermittent spasms of in- 
surrection, are at present as peace- 
able, and apparently as contented, 
as the contending passions of local 
politicians and the intrigues of im- 
perial statesmen will allow them to 
be. The constabulary, in their rifle- 
green and burnished accoutrements, 
continue to be the envy and terror 
of the unsophisticated peasant ; the 
queen's writ runs unobstructed in 
the remotest parts- of the island ; 
" the castle still stands, though the 
senate's no more "; and, save the 
sharp crack of a rifle at Dolly- 
mount or the more death-dealing 
fowling-piece of the sportsman, no 
warlike sound disturbs the quiet 
slumbers of the weary sentinel or 
the superserviceable stipendiary 
magistrate. 

And yet a revolution has been in 
progress>in Ireland and in Irish af- 
fairs elsewhere for the last three- 
quarters of a century as beneficent 
in its effects and as tangible in its 
benefits as if blood had flowed in 
torrents and the pure atmosphere 
from shore to centre of the land 
had been polluted by fumes of vil- 
ianous saltpetre. We mean that 
within the memory of men now 
living a radical though gradual 



change has taken place in the man- 
ners, habits, and tastes of the Irish 
people, but more particularly in 
their literature, which after all is 
the best evidence of a nation's abil- 
ity to think correctly and express 
accurately what theii> minds are ca- 
pable of conceiving. 

Looking back to the condition 
of Ireland at the beginning of the 
century — her domestic legislature 
annihilated and seven-eighths of her 
people unrepresented in the impe- 
rial Parliament — beyond broken 
relics and dim memories of a glori- 
ous past, it can be said truthfully 
that she had no literature what- 
ever, or rather no literature save 
what was alien and hostile in tone 
and spirit. There were no native 
authors except those who had earn- 
ed pelf and unenviable notoriety by 
decrying Ireland's nationality, ma- 
ligning her faith, and holding up to 
the contempt and ridicule of the 
world the faults and foibles of her 
unlettered peasantry. But, even 
had there been men of a different 
character, they could not have 
found either encouragement or 
patronage ; for the mass of the pop- 
ulation, thanks to the Penal Laws, 
could not read English, and one-half 
at least could not even speak it. 



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TJie Trui Irish Revolution. 



The consequence, therefore, was 
that every young Irishman who 
felt the spirit of literary ambition 
stir within him, as soon as he had 
attained manhood, hastened to 
pack up his scanty wardrobe and 
turn his face toward London — then 
as now the great intellectual focus 
of the United Kingdom. The pio- 
neers of this movement were gen- 
erally men little fitted to represent 
their country. They were merely 
adventurers, without principle or 
honor, facile and versatile, and in 
some instances even educated, but, 
from previous training and associa- 
tion, just such tools as Grubb Street 
publishers loved to handle and the 
lowest class of Britons delighted to 
patronize. They were the origi- 
nators of the "Denis Bulgrud- 
dery" and " Paddiana" school, of 
so-called comic literature, and were 
useless if they did not carica- 
ture in the grossest manner, on the 
stage and in the newspapers and 
periodicals, their Catholic fellow- 
countrymen. With them a priest 
was an ignorant and low-bred ty- 
rant; the peasant his abject, super- 
stitious slave. This worthless class, 
while it did much to destroy the mo- 
ral effect produced by men of a pre- 
ceding generation, like Goldsmith, 
Coleman, O'Keefe, Sheridan, 
Burke, Barry, and other distinguish- 
ed Irishmen, did more to instil into 
the popular mind of England that 
utter misconception of Irish char- 
acter and insensate hostility to the 
Catholic religion of which we find 
at the present day such marked 
traces even among fairly intelligent 
men. 

Those mercenaries were followed 
by others of a higher order of in- 
tellect and of greater pretensions, 
of whom Crofton Croker and She- 
ridan Knowles may be considered 
to have been the representatives. 



The drama, poetry, and prose fic- 
tion of every description employed 
their attention alternately, and in 
each they proved true to the baser 
instincts of their nature and the 
traditions of the faction whence 
they had sprung. They were 
stanch no-popery men of the 
Orange stripe, and, having a Pro- 
testant, English audience to gra- 
tify, they were consistently and 
virulently anti-Catholic and anti- 
Irish, When they wished to delin- 
eate their co-patriots, whether be- 
fore the foot-lights or in the pages 
of cheap novels, they invariably di- 
vided them into two classes : the 
high-spirited, accomplished Protes- 
tant gentleman, and the low, gro- 
velling, ignorant papist. Thus for 
many years did they thrive on big- 
otry and fatten upon treason to 
the land that was unfortunate 
enough to have given them birth. 
It was only natural that England 
should have viewed with compla- 
cency the caricatures of a faith she 
had so long and so strenuously pro- 
scribed, and a people whom she 
had robbed of the last vestige of 
independence; but it is humiliat- 
ing to reflect that the works of 
such libellers were up to a recent 
period popular in Ireland, and that 
their comedies and farces "have 
kept the stage " even to our own 
day. 

There were yet other candidates 
for fame, who, tired of the provin- 
cialism of Irish towns, or impatient 
of the restraints which their pecu- 
liar calling in life had placed upon 
them, sought an English market 
for their intellectual wares — spoiled 
children of genius, men like Ma- 
ginn and Mahony, of much learn- 
ing and fascinating accomplish- 
ments, fitted to have conferred last- 
ing honor on their country, but 
who, lacking the true spirit of na- 



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The True Irish Revolution. 



553 



tional dignity and personal respect, 
easily fell a prey to one or other of 
the contending English parties, and 
sank to the level of those who disgrace 
the noble profession of letters by 
making it subservient to the base 
purposes of political factions. This 
class contributed much of what is 
still to be found brilliant and en- 
tertaining in English literature, but 
little that reflects credit on their 
character as Irishmen. 

Following or contemporaneous 
with them came another and a dif- 
ferent school of Irish writers, such 
as Lever, Lover, Maxwell, and even 
Carletoti ; for, though the latter in 
many of his later works showed a 
just appreciation of the vast im- 
provement taking place in public 
taste, his earlier and more popular 
productions, apart from their occa- 
sional touches of true pathos and 
.♦ flashes of genuine wit, were devot- 
ed mostly to caricature and exag- 
geration. Charles Lever, who has 
written so many books, and who is 
yet the most read of all the Irish 
^ novelists of this century, has been 
called the best recruiting sergeant 
the British government ever em- 
ployed ; while Lover may be styled 
a gifted and versatile buffoon in all 
save his lyrics. The first's highest 
conception of an Irish gentleman 
was one who broke his arm over a 
Galway fence, was commissioned 
in the British army, blundered into 
all sorts of scrapes and out of them, 
hated Napoleon, worshipped "Sir 
Arthur," charged wildly at Ciudad 
Rodrigo or Waterloo, and finally 
— married an heiress. His best 
Irish peasant does not rise above 
the grade of Mickey Free or Darby 
the Blast, while he seemed utterly 
unconscious of the existence of a 
very important social element in 
all agricultural countries — the farm- 
ing or middle class, always remark- 



able for their sturdy common sense 
and practical views of life. It was 
from this portion of his countrymen 
and from the hardy mechanics of the 
towns that Scott drew his best and 
most enduring portraits of Scotch 
manliness, shrewdness, and humor. 

Lover, though tender and natu- 
ral in verse, was singularly unfor- 
tunate in his choice of subjects and 
altogether false in his attempts to 
develop them. He also ignored 
the " middle classes," and substitut- 
ed for gentlemen sentimental non- 
entities, and for the free-spoken, 
light-hearted, and withal poetical 
plebeian, blundering boobies full of 
chicane and deception. We can 
scarcely believe that the man wh6 
wrote Treasure Trove and Handy 
Andy could have conceived such 
pathetic songs as **The Angels* 
Whisper " and " the Fairy Boy." 

Still, the works of these authors, 
though exhibiting many glaring de- 
fects, were a great improvement on 
those of their predecessors, and 
consequently they have not yet 
been consigned to the oblivion 
which has enshrouded the produc* 
tions of the bigots of the previous 
era. 

But the revolution in Irish liter- 
ature had commenced long before 
their advent, and the credit of ini- 
tiating it belongs to one who was 
not only universally admired and 
applauded during his life, but whose 
fame continues to augment as time 
rolls along, and the memory of his 
extraordinary efforts in behalf of 
his faith and country becomes 
brighter and more enduring. That 
man was Thomas Moore, the son 
of humble Catholic parents, who, on 
account of his religious belief, was 
refused a fellowshio in the only 
university of which his native 
country could then boast. Natur- 
ally disgusted at such ostracism, 



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The True Irish Revolution. 



Moore, at the age of twenty-three, 
went to London, and entered upon 
that brilliant career in poetry and 
prose which has indelibly stamped 
his name on the history of the lit- 
erature of the nineteenth century. 
Never was the force of genius bet- 
ter exemplified than in the life of 
Moore. A plebeian, a Catholic, and 
an Irishman in. the strongest sense 
of those terms ; without conde- 
scending to apologise for, or at- 
tempting to palliate, the facts of his 
station and belief; with scarcely a 
friend or acquaintance in the great 
metropolis, and no recognition in 
the world of letters, the poet 
rose amid an aristocratic, Protes- 
tant, and anti-Irish community to a 
position equal to the most gifted 
of Scotland's and England's men 
of genius, and in his Melodies far 
surpassed any lyrics that have been 
written in our language since or 
before his time. In 1808 the first 
part of that unequalled collection 
of songs appeared, and each suc- 
cessive instalment but added to 
the popularity of the preceding. 
From the first they became fashion- 
able, and consequently popular. 
They were sung in the drawing- 
rooms of princes and in the cot- 
tage parlors of the shop-keeper 
and tradesman. Persons of every 
rank in life who knew little of Ire- 
land, and that little not to her 
credit, listened entranced to " Re- 
member the Glories of Brian the 
Brave" or "Oh! blame not the 
Bard," and began to think that a 
country that could produce such 
airs and so sweet a poet could not 
after all be considered very barbar- 
ous. It was but a poor concession, 
yet under the circumstances a most 
valuable one. It was the first blow 
struck against the solid wall of pre- 
judice with which English society 
had surrounded itself. 



Next to Moore we place John 
Banim, the principal author of the 
Tales of the O'Hara Family. Ba- 
nim, like Moore, sprang from the 
ranks of the humbler classes and 
sought in London a field for his rare 
genius which was denied him at 
home. Though a dramatist of no 
mean order, his reputation rests 
principally on his novels, many of 
which, like the Boyne Water^ Cro- 
hoore of the Bill-Hook, The Priest- 
Hunter, and The Fetches, are works 
of real power, interspersed here 
and there with pleasantry and hu- 
mor, but always moral, dignified, 
and true to nature. The sale of 
Banim 's tales and shorter stories 
from their intrinsic merit, and per- 
haps somewhat on account of their 
novelty, was very extensive in Eng- 
land, and helped to increase the 
good feeling towards the Irish peo- 
ple which the lyre of Moore had 
first called into being. 

In Gerald Griffin, afterward the 
humble Christian Brother, Banim 
found not only a friend but a pow- 
erful auxiliary. Griffin, of all the 
writers of fiction in the English lan- 
guage, was the purest and most 
actively moral. If we search all his 
works — and tliey fill nine or ten vol- 
umes — we will not find an expres- 
sion or an innuendo to offend 
the most sensitive. The writings 
of the great English novelists of 
this century, like those of Scott, 
Thackeray, and Dickens, cannot be 
said to be positively immoral, 
though the author of the justly- 
celebrated Waverley Novels often 
exhibited marked prejudice, and 
sometimes downright bigotry ; while 
his later rivals, when not satirical or 
trifling, can at best claim but a 
negative morality for their teachings 
and tendencies. But the genius 
of Griffin sprang from a pure Cath- 
olic heart filled with love for all 



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The True Irish Revolution. 



555 



his kind, and consequently he wrote 
with a sense of religious responsi- 
bility, and in a spirit of justice and 
rectitude rarely to be found so 
thoroughly developed in a writer 
of fiction in our days. His works 
have had a great influence on the 
popular mind of both countries. 
But, though he first wrote in Eng- 
land, his sole and absorbing object 
was to benefit his countrymen. 
When satisfied that the germ of 
his laurels had begun to fructify in 
a foreign soil, he returned to his 
home, where, amid domestic plea- 
sures, and in daily communion with 
the characters he so admirably por- 
trayed and the scenes of natural 
beauty he so loved to describe, he 
composed his more important and 
finished works. 

Meanwhile, another and not less 
important impetus had been given 
to the rapid change taking place in 
popular sentiment regarding Irish 
character and literature, and this 
was in Ireland itself. * The letters of 
" J. K. L."— the learned Dr. Doyle— 
on Catholic Emancipation and the 
Tithe Question, and those of the 
present venerable Archbishop of 
Tuam on similar topics, had thrill- 
ed the Irish heart and evoked in 
it a feeling of national dignity and 
self-reliance that had long lain dor- 
mant; and even the great O'Con- 
ncU, amid all his professional and 
political labors, found time to con- 
tribute his aid to the new move- 
ment. But it was not till after 
1840 that the various rivulets com- 
bined and assumed the proportions 
of a mighty flood, which, bursting 
through the barriers of ignorance 
and prejudice, overspread the en- 
tire land. Then began to appear 
the theologians and ecclesiastical 
historians of Maynooth and the an- 
tiquarian writers of old Trinity; 
the fiery ballads of the Nation and 



the graceful and learned essays of 
the Dublin Review and University 
Magazine, Archaeological and Cel- 
tic societies were formed, the hith- 
erto neglected Transactions of 
the Royal Irish Academy were 
brought into public notice, and the 
musty tomes that were crumbling 
to dust and decay on the shelves 
of Trinity College library, after their 
sleep of centuries, were explored, 
collated, and vivified. The names 
of Murray, O'Reilly, Petrie, Todd, 
O'Donovan, O'Curry, Graves, Wilde, 
Meehan, McCarthy, Mangan, and a 
host of other lesser lights, became 
familiar to the intellectual world 
by their profound, subtle, or bril- 
liant contributions to the litera- 
ture of the age. One thing alone 
was wanting to complete this grand 
national revival: a Catholic uni- 
versity — and even that soon came, 
not as a subordinate worker in the 
common cause, but as the leader of 
the movement. 

Yet, though general education 
and popular instruction, in their 
own sphere, kept pace with the 
mental awakening in the higher 
departments of learning, strange 
to say, the stage, generally consid- 
ered the first to yield to popular 
impulse, was the slowest and last 
to acknowledge the improved spirit 
of the times, and even to this day 
clings to many of the antiquated 
and bigoted so-called Irish dramas 
and comedies with insensate te- 
nacity. Theatrical managers still 
persist in presenting for the amuse- 
ment of patrons, a large portion of 
whom are Irish, the farces and low 
interludes which fifty years ago were 
written to gratify the anti-Irish and 
anti-Catholic feelings of the lowest 
class of London society, A par- 
tially successful effort has been made 
recently to redeem this gross and 
fatal error; better, or rather less 



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556 



The Brides of Christ. 



bad, Irish dramas have of late 
made their appearance, and let us 
hope the reformation, once set on 
foot, will be carried out. There is 
no reason why we should not have 
Irish dramas as good as Irish po- 
ems, tales, and other works of fic- 
tion. If people will go to theatres, 
they ought not be compelled to be- 
come interested spectators of out- 
rages on faith and morals, and pa- 
trons an<] supporters of those who 
commit the outrages. 

Still, casting our memory back 
over the history of Irish intellec- 
tual life for more than half a cen- 
tury, it would be scarcely an exag- 
geration to say that since the J^e- 
naissance epoch no country has 
given such evidence, in so short a 
time, of mental fertility and activity 
as that island which was once al- 
most as famous throughout Europe 
for her learning as for the piety of 
her children. Ireland has at last a 



literature which is not only rich in 
ideas and information, but which is 
both national and Catholic. Her 
history, once so obscure and misun- 
derstood, can now be studied, with 
as much ease and satisfaction as 
any in Christendom; her antiqui- 
ties, formerly the spoil of the ig- 
norant or the jest of the sceptic, 
have been collected, arranged, and 
scientifically explained in a hun- 
dred ways ; while the lives and ac- 
tions of her great and holy men, 
from the earliest ages, have receiv- 
ed full, critical, and impartial jus- 
tice. And as yet we have only 
seen the beginning ! If that be 
so fair and full of promise, what 
may not be hoped for from the 
intellectual future of a keen 
yet imaginative, brilliant yet con- 
scienti6u9^ witty yet harmless in 
their wit, passionate in the wid- 
er sense, yet profoundly religious, 
people ? 



THE BRIDES OF CHRIST. 



IV. 



ST. CATHERINE. 



" Whom I shall wed," said Alexandria's princess, " rare 

Of beauty must be, past imagining ; 

So great I shall not think I have made him king ; 
More rich, sweet-hearted more, than summer air !" 
In dreams she came where courts such state declare 

Of Mother and Son enthroned, that worshipping 

She knelt, though royal : the Child placed a ring 
Upon her finger, and she woke— 'twas there ! 

So Catherine became Christ's. Again she kneels : 
With rose and lily, in white and purple clothed. 
No shining host now hails the heaven-betrothed. 

But God's bolt shatters the sharp torture-wheels. 

Then Night and angels her pall-bearers are — 

The Bridegroom waits on Sinai lone and far. 



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The Brides of Christ. 557 



ST. MARGARET. 

Of all the virgins pure that bear the palm, 
There is not any one more meek and mild 
Than sweet maid Margaret. Tending while a child 

The flocks, she drew near, in the mountain's calm, 

To the Good Shepherd, like a trustful lamb ; 
She felt that God with man was reconciled ; 
She saw diurnal victory undefiled 

Of light o*er darkness hoist the oriflamme 

Of Morning. So flashed she, in dungeon drear, 
The Cross uplifted, till the Dragon foul 
Crouched at her feet, in fear of that white soul. 

O Pearl of Antioch, so soft and clear ! 

O Daisy, with the chaste dew on thy lips ! 

Thou touchest Christ with stainless flnger-tips. 



VI. 
ST. BARBARA. 

Dioscorus of Heliopolis 

Shut his wise daughter in a lofty tower, 
Jealous of lovers ; therein, for her bower. 

She caused three windows to be made, in this 

Her father disobeying, but said : " It is 
Through three clear windows that the Almighty Power, 
The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, shower 

Light on the soul — with light immortal bliss !" 

Scourged, by the gold hair dragged, slain by thy sire — 

A turbaned heathen ! — soft as rosy May, 
Yet resolute, and avenged by instant fire. 

Christian Bellona ! sweet-browed Barbara ! 
With the Red Mantle of thy fortitude, 
Thy Tower and Cannon, be my soul endued ! 



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558 Marshal MacMahon and tin French Revolutionists. 



MARSHAL MacMAHON AND THE FRENCH REVOLU- 
TIONISTS. 



The inconveniences resulting 
from the present system of trans- 
mitting political intelligence from 
Europe to this country for the use 
of our daily journals are serious. 
An event of importance occurs to- 
day in London, Paris, Constantino- 
ple, or Rome ; the same afternoon 
we read what purports to be an 
account of the event in our even- 
ing journals, and the next morning 
we are furnished with a few more 
details, accompanied often by a 
leading article hurriedly written 
and based, as a rule, upon no other 
information than that contained in 
the despatches. In twenty-four 
hours afterwards the event is al- 
most forgotten; and by the time 
that the letters of correspondents 
on the spot, or the journals of the 
locality, can reach us, the incident 
has become an old story and the 
interest excited by it in the first 
place has faded away. This man- 
ner of dealing with matters of great 
importance would be lamentable, 
even if the information contained 
in the cable despatches were al- 
ways correct, full, and uncolored 
by prejudice; but too often the 
despatches are models of what they 
should not be — that is, they are in- 
correct in matters of fact; marked 
by omissions of the truth and by 
suggestions of falsehood ; and dis- 
figured, in the majority of cases 
when the events reported have, or 
are supposed to have, some rela- 
tion to the interests of the Papal 
See, by an ingenious perversion of 
the real and natural meaning of the 
incidents which they purport to de- 



scribe. A heavy responsibility rests 
upon the conductors of our daily 
journals in this matter — a responsi- 
bility to which we should be glad 
to see them more sensitive than 
they now appear to be. They know 
well enough how it happens that 
the bulk of their cable despatches 
from the Continent of Europe is 
continually affected by an evident 
animus against the Holy See when- 
ever there is an opportunity to dis- 
play this feeling ; they know well 
enough why it is that, whenever 
possible, a coloring hostile to the 
church, and calculated to excite 
Protestant or non-Catholic preju- 
dice against her, is given to events. 
The greater part of the Euro- 
pean despatches of the New York 
journals iis transmitted from Lon- 
don, being made up there chiefly 
from the despatches of the Reuter 
Agency, supplemented by the spe- 
cial despatches received by the lead- 
ing London journals. The Reuter 
News Agency, which has its ramifica- 
tions throughout all Europe, and is 
conducted with admirable skill and 
good management as a business en- 
terprise, is in the hands of Jews; 
its agents have peculiar relations 
with the governments which stand 
in need of their services, and a sys- 
tem of mutual benefit is kept up 
between them; in return for the 
monopoly of official news and other 
similar favors on the part of the 
governments, the agents of the 
Reuter company transmit only such 
intelligence as is agreeable to the 
governments, and with such color- 
ing as the governments wish. The 



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Marshal MacMahon and the French Revolutionists. 



559 



relations existing between the Ita- 
lian government and the Reuter 
Agency are understood to be espe- 
cially intimate; and certain it is 
that from no capital in the world 
has more false and distorted news 
been sent forth than that which all 
the world has received from Rome 
since the Italian occupation of that 
city. As for the Continental de- 
spatches taken from the London 
journals and sent to New York, it 
should be remembered that not one 
of the London daily papers is in 
the Catholic interest, and that those 
whose despatches are most frequent- 
ly sent to us — namely, the Times^ 
the Daily News, and the Pall Mall 
Gazette — are inspired by a very live- 
ly hatred and fear of the church. We 
believe that the conductors of our 
own daily journals are for the most 
part actuated by honest motives. 
Their heads are sometimes deplo- 
rably at fault, but their hearts are 
generally right ; and, with rare ex- 
ceptions, they are free from the 
guilt of wilfully misrepresenting 
facts and designedly deceiving their 
readers. But too frequently they do 
permit themselves to be deceived 
or misled, in the manner we have 
explained, with respect to the true 
meaning and co- relation of political 
events on the continent of Europe. 
The facts mentioned are, or 
should be, perfectly well known in 
the editorial rooms of all our jour- 
nals; and it is certainly to be de- 
sired that our editors should cease 
to take their opinions at second- 
hand, and should begin to exercise 
their own good and honest judg- 
ment upon events as they occur 
abroad. If they were in the habit 
of doing this, and if they were fur- 
nished with cable information of a 
correct and uncolored character, 
4 they would not, we are certain, 
have fallen into the error of regard- 



ing the recent change of govern- 
ment in France as a wicked, base, 
and unprovoked conspiracy to de- 
stroy the republican institutions of 
that country, but would have re- 
cognized in Marshal MacMahon's 
action the wise, absolutely necessa- 
ry, and not too rapid determination 
of that ruler to save the republic, 
if possible, while it is still worth 
saving, and at all events to save 
France and society generally 
throughout Europe from the con- 
vulsion, anarchy, and destruction 
into which the revolutionists were 
so rapidly and surely dragging 
them. It is by no means certain 
that Marshal MacMahon will now 
succeed in the task before him^^; he 
may have waited too long. Noi 
are we concerned to prove that the 
motives of the Marshal-President in 
his dismissal of M. Jules Simon, 
and in his selection of his present 
advisers, were unmixed; but we 
are anxious to show to our readers 
that his action was necessary, and 
that the good wishes of Americans 
who reverence law and order, who 
detest Jed-republicanism and com- 
munism, who cherish religious lib- 
erty, and who dread and abhor 
tyranny, whether exercised in the 
name of many or of one, should be 
on his side. " I am conscious," 
said Marshal MacMahon nine days 
after the dismissal of M. Simon — " I 
am conscious of having fulfilled a 
great duty. I have remained, and 
shall remain, absolutely within the 
bounds of legality. It is because 
I am the guardian of the constitu- 
tion that I acted as I have acted. 
To attribute to me an intention of 
assailing the constitution is a mis- 
construction of my character. The 
country will soon comprehend that 
my sole aim is the salvation of 
France and of the government 
which she has given herself." 



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560 Marshal MacMahon and ifie French Revolutionists. 



We believe that these are sincere 
and honest words; and we shall 
have no difficulty at least in show- 
ing that Marshal MacMahon could 
not have acted otherwise than he 
did, unless he had been prepared to 
surrender the virtual government 
of the republic into the hands of 
men who are leagued together to 
destroy the rights of property ; to 
degrade marriage ; to enslave, if not 
wholly to overturn, the church ; to 
cut her oflf from her connection 
with her earthly head; to reduce 
her prelates, if they were permitted 
to exist at all, to the condition of 
servants of the civil power ; to ex- 
ile her contemplative and teaching 
orders ; to take from her the right 
of educating her children ; and to 
drag France, ere long, into an alli- 
ance with the revolutionary associa- 
tions in Germany, Italy, Belgium, 
Spain, and Russia, which dream of 
establishing on the ruins of religion 
and of society a new confederation 
from which God shall be banished, 
and over which Satan shall rule su- 
preme. Comparatively few of the 
constituenfts of the Gambetta party 
in the French Assembly are aware 
of the designs of the leaders of this 
faction ; but enough light has within 
the past few weeks been thrown 
upon their machinations fully to 
justify the President in making a 
firm stand against their further pro- 
gress. 

M. Jules Simon refused to aid 
the President in executing this de- 
termination; and M. Simon was 
removed to give place to a minis- 
ter who would co-operate with his 
chief. So powerful had the Gam- 
betta faction become in the Assem- 
bly that the whole of the cabinet 
followed M. Simon in his enforced 
retirement from office, and the Pre- 
sident was for the moment left 
alone. The men whom he called 



to his aid, however, and who, in- 
deed, had encouraged him to dis- 
miss M. Simon, were prompt in 
taking up the fallen reins of office, 
and the government, without a 
day's delay, began its work of pre- 
serving France from her worst foes. 
The task before them is a most ar- 
duous one, and it has been begun 
none too soon. Let us show how 
it became necessary that it should 
be undertaken at all. 

The French Assembly was re- 
convened at Versailles on the ist of 
May after the usual Easter recess. 
During the vacation events had 
occurred which made it probable 
that the long- threatened rupture 
between the Gambetta faction, or 
Extreme Left of the Chamber, and 
the conservative elements in the 
executive department of the gov- 
ernment, could not be delayed 
much longer. The administration 
had indeed gone to the very fur- 
thest point of concession in endea- 
voring to satisfy the demands of the 
Left. The consent of Marshal 
MacMahon had been given to these 
concessions, but it was known that 
this assent had been extorted 
from him with difficulty, and that 
he was personally of the opinion 
that the more was given to the 
Gambettists the more would they 
ask, and that the true and safe 
course was that of steady and un- 
compromising resistance to their 
unconstitutional and revolutionary 
demands. The Left, by skilful | 
management of the press in its in- 
terest ; by the manipulations of the 
local public functionaries who had 
from time to time been appointed 
at its request, or whom it had been 
able to purchase ; by adroit mis- 
representations and exaggerations 
of the policy of the conservative 
members of the Assembly ; and by 
the not infrequent maladroit utter- 



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Marshal MacMahon and the French Revolutionists. 561 



ances and acts of certain of the 
imperialist and monarchical mem- 
bers, had contrived to make an im- 
posing show of their strength in the 
country as well as in the Assembly. 
It is no doubt true that, all other 
things being equal, a large majority 
of the French people would prefer 
a republic to any other form of 
government. But the republic 
which would satisfy them is not at 
all the republic which would satis- 
fy M. Gambetta and his friends. 
The republic which the. majority 
of the French people desire is a 
republic in which property would 
be safe ; in which law and order 
would reign ; in which God would 
be respected ; and in which the 
church would be free. The re- 
public of Gambetta would possess 
none of these characteristics ; but 
Gambetta and his lieutenants had 
been allowed to assume the attitude 
of the especial friends and defend- 
ers of republican institutions, and 
many of their members in the As- 
sembly owed their election to the 
votes of good Catholics and sober 
citizens. They now felt them- 
selves strong enough to advance 
further, and to wrest from the ad- 
ministration a still greater share of 
power. 

Marshal MacM.ihon was himself 
irremovable for three years longer, 
only four years of his Septennate 
having expired. But it might be 
possible, in the opinion of the Gam- 
bet tists, to force him to accept a 
cabinet which should be dictated 
by themselves, and which would 
hand over to them the virtual con- 
trol of the government. One of 
the members of the then cabinet, 
they believed, would be useful to 
them, and their plans involved his 
retention. What was the nature 
of the communications which are 
said to have taken place in secret 
VOL. XXV. — 36 



between MM. Gambetta and Simon 
cannot at present be known. Nor 
can we unveiL the mysteries of the 
correspondence which has been 
kept up during the last few years 
between the controlling members 
of the French Extreme Left and the 
revolutionary leaders in England 
and throughout the Continent of 
Europe. The operations of the se- 
cret societies are seldom brought to 
light until after their work has been 
accomplished — and not always even 
then. The once famous ** Interna- 
tional Society of Working-men " has 
ceased to exist for all practical 
purposes; but it, at the best, was 
only an engine invented and put in 
motion by men who still are labor- 
ing in the secrecy of Masonic 
lodge-rooms and in the caucus- 
chambers of hidden political or- 
ganizations to accomplish the de- 
struction of Christian society and 
Christian government. It cannot 
be doubted that a certain solidar- 
ity unites the socialists of France, 
Germany, Switzerland, Belgium, 
Greece, Hungary, Italy, Russia, 
Spain, and Portugal, and that they 
have the means of acting together. 
The Gambetta faction in France by 
no means stood alone in their recent 
attempt to gain the upper hand in 
the administration of the repub- 
lic ; they had the active sympathy 
and the moral support of their con- 
frlres throughout Europe. 

Now, the great bulwark of the 
conservative republic in France is 
the Roman Catholic Church, the 
Roman Catholic faith, the Roman 
Catholic people. So long as the 
church is free and undisturbed in 
France — free to pursue her work 
of educating her children, preserv- 
ing morality, and saving soiils — the 
French people, of whom all but a 
small fraction belong to her, will 
remain tranquil and happy, and 



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562 Marshal MacMahon and the French Revolutionists. 



they would make short work of 
men who proposed to set up in 
France a communistic and atheistic 
republic. 'J'hey are quite well 
contented with the republic as it 
at present exists, and are hopeful of 
its future ; under it the church for 
the first time has been allowed full 
right of teaching ; and the avidity 
with which Catholics availed them- 
selves of the privileges conferred 
by the new university law sufficient- 
ly attests at once their intelligence 
and their zeal. Still, the Catho- 
lics in France, like .the Catholics 
throughout the rest of the world, 
have a sorrow and a grievance ; and 
French Catholics, like all other 
Catholics, claim the right to ex- 
press ihis sorrow and to do what is 
in their ppwer to redress this griev- 
ance. The earthly head of their 
church is a prisoner in his own 
city; he has been despoiled of his 
patrimony and plundered of his 
crown ; his jailers threaten from 
lime to time to deprive him of the 
little that is left to him; there is 
positive danger that the freedom 
of the election of his successor will 
be assailed, and that the church 
throughout the world may be sub- 
jected, through the malice of her 
foes at Rome, to the gravest perils. 
The French Catholics conceive that 
it is their right and their duty to 
protest unceasingly against this 
state of things, and to inspire their 
government to speak in their name 
— and, if occasion arises, to act in 
their name — for the purpose of pro- 
tecting the Holy Father from fur- 
ther insults and oppression, and of 
seeking to bring about the peace- 
able restoration of his independence. 
In all this they are strictly within 
the limits of their constitutional 
rights as citizens of the French Re- 
public. 

Let us bring the matter home to 



ourselves. Suppose that a petition 
should be drawn up praying Presi- 
dent Hayes to instruct our minis- 
ter at Rome to represent to the 
government of Italy that nine mil- 
lions of American Roman Catholics 
felt themselves deeply aggrieved 
and injured by certain acts of the 
Italian government towards the 
Pope, and that they considered 
these acts all the more unjustifiable 
because they were one and all in 
open and undisguised violation of 
the promises made by the Italian 
government to the whole Catholic 
world; suppose that this petition 
should be signed by every Catholic 
man and woman in the United 
States and sent to the President ; 
would it be said, then, that we were 
exceeding our rights as citizens, 
and that we should be punished 
for our temerity? The President 
might do as he pleased with the pe- 
tition ; he might act upon it or cast 
it aside — that would be for him to 
decide ; but could we, as citizens, 
be blamed and punished for exer- 
cising the right of petition in or- 
der to make known our feelings up- 
on a matter which touches us so 
closely.? Yet this is all that the 
French Catholics have done; and 
it is because of the solidarity of in- 
terests and of purpose, of hope and 
of fear, which exists between the 
revolutionists and socialists of Italy 
and of the other Continental nations 
that the Gambettists in France were 
spurred up to make this perfectly 
legitimate action of the French Ca- 
tholics the pretext for a new and 
desperate assault upon the liberties 
of the church in France — an as- 
sault under cover of which, and 
aided by what seems to us very 
much like treachery on the part of 
M. Jules Simon, they hoped to 
compel Marshal MacMahon to ca- 
pitulate to them. 



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Marshal MacMahon and the French Revolutionists, 563 



The allocution of the Pope issu- 
ed on the 1 2th of last March had 
moved to the very depths the 
hearts of Catholics in France, as it 
had moved the hearts of the Catho- 
lics of every other land. They felt 
that it was impossible for them to 
remain silent after hearing that 
most pathetic and powerful appeal ; 
they wished that their reply should 
be as emphatic as possible, and that 
it should consist of acts as well as 
of words. They resolved to draw 
up addresses to the Holy Father * 
to organize pilgrimages to convey 
these addresses, with their gifts, to 
Rome ; and to devise means where- 
by they could express to their own 
government their anxious wish that 
it would use its influence with the 
government of Italy in behalf of 
the restoration of the independence 
and freedom of the Pope. Each 
of these projects was entered into 
with commendable zeal ; and early 
in April the Bishop of Nevers ad- 
dressed a letter to Marshal MacMa- 
hon, asking him, in the name of his 
flock, to use the influence of France 
at the court of King Victor Eman- 
uel and at other courts for the pro- 
tection of the Pope and for the re- 
storation of his rights. The mar- 
shal's cabinet at this moment were 
greatly under the influence of M. 
Jules Simon, the President of the 
Council ; they were imbued with 
the idea that it would not be safe 
for them to exasperate the Gam- 
betta faction ; and they persuaded 
the marshal to approve a letter ad- 
dressed by the Minister of Public 
Worship to the bishop, in which en- 
tire disapproval of his appeal was 
expressed, with the remark that 
" the marshal, as a sincere friend 
of religion, saw with pain the cler- 
gy intervening in internal, and still 
more in foreign, politics." The 
Gambettists were encouraged by 



this mark of weakness on the part 
of the government, and prepared 
to push their advantage. But the 
Catholics did not choose to take 
their views of duty from the dic- 
tates of a Council whereof M. Si- 
mon was the chief ; and they con- 
tinued to organize their pilgrimages 
and to draw up and circulate their 
addresses to the Pope. On the 
19th of April the Bishop of Nev- 
ers, not at all disconcerted by the 
rebuke which he had received from 
the Cabinet, addressed a letter to 
the Mayor of the Ni^vre, in which 
he explained to that official what, 
in his opinion, was the duty of all 
good Catholics occupying influen- 
tial positions. 

"The Pope being no longer free in 
Rome," wrote the bishop to the mayor, 
'* the result is that we ourselves are no 
longer free in our consciences, and we 
consequently should use all our influence 
to obtain a change in such an abnormal 
state of things, and the restoration to the 
sovereign of our souls of the independ- 
ence which he absolutely requires in 
order to guide us. We must first instil 
these views in the minds of the popula- 
tion whose interests are confided to us. 
We must then concert together to cause 
similar convictions to prevail in the va- 
rious councils of the country." 

On the 2oth, at a cabinet coun- 
cil, the general petitions of the 
Catholics addressed to the govern- 
ment were taken into consideration, 
and it was proposed that, in order 
to silence the complaints of the 
Gambettists, who were declaiming 
violently that the circulation and 
presentation of such memorials 
would embroil France in a difficul- 
ty with Italy, the bishops should be 
ordered to forbid the further ex- 
posure of these petitions in their- 
churches for signature. But the 
marshal on this occasion displayed 
a little more flrmness and the mat- 
ter was passed over without action 



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564 Marshal MacMaJion and the French Revolutionists. 



A few days before this an event 
had occurred in Italy that served 
to increase the distrust with which 
Marshal MacMahon already regard- 
ed the secret intentions of the lead- 
ers of the Left. In Benevento, near 
Letino, and again near Rome, the 
government had arrested a number 
of socialists who, it appears, were 
engaged in a conspiracy for the 
establishment of a Red Republic. 
The papers found on the persons 
of the arrested men were of the 
usual inflammatory character, and 
set forth, among other things, that 
" man ought not to be subjected to 
any tyranny, human or divine ; 
that the principle of private prop- 
erty is the climax of infamy, be- 
cause it creates inequality between 
men ; that the union between men 
and women ought to be free ; and 
that the state is the denial of the 
most sacred principles." The chief 
leader of the band, who was arrest- 
ed with about fifty of his adherents, 
was a young Milanese named Caf- 
fiero, a man of wealth and posi- 
tion ; and an examination of his 
papers disclosed the fact that his 
association was only one of a large 
number of others spread through- 
out Europe, and that the names of 
some of the leading radical re- 
publicans of France appeared upon 
a list which was believed to enume- 
rate the advisers and real leaders 
of the conspirators. On the 28th 
of April, however, the cabinet again 
induced the marshal to make an- 
other effort to conciliate the Gam- 
bettists, who had redoubled their 
agitation against the Catholic move- 
ment, which had by this time be- 
come very general throughout the 
whole country. On that day the 
Minister of the Interior issued a 
circular to all prefects, directing 
them to discourage the signature of 
the Catholic protests and petitions 



by not allowing them to be public- 
ly circulated within their respec- 
tive jurisdictions. The circular — 
to which Marshal MacMahon as- 
sented after much pressure — in- 
structed the prefects to regard 
these petitions and protests as '^ an 
unjustifiable and illegal interference 
in the legislative and domestic af- 
fairs of a friendly foreign state," 
and to do all in their power to sup- 
press them. Gambetta himself 
could scarcely have said more ; but 
the marshal was quite correct in his 
opinion that Gambetta would still 
ask for more. Meanwhile, the tnot 
ifordre to the Gambettists had 
gone forth to strike terror into the 
hearts of their opponents by public 
manifestations. The students of the 
Sorbonne were instigated into mak- 
ing violent assaults upon the Catho- 
lic universities ; on the ist of May 
five hundred students assembled in 
front of the Catholic university in 
the Rue de Vaugirard, where they 
insulted the Catholic students and 
professors by indecent harangues 
and by singing blasphemous paro- 
dies of a hymn to the Sacred Heart ; 
dispersed by the police, they sepa- 
rated only to assemble again before 
the Jesuit school in the Rue de Sho- 
mond, where the same disorderly 
and disgraceful scenes were repeat- 
ed until the police arrived and ar- 
rested the ringleaders of the mob. 
In all the cities where the Gambet- 
tists were sufficiently numerous 
manifestations against the church 
and her liberties were organized ; 
and in some cases the zeal of the 
disciples so far outran the direc- 
tions of the leaders that it was with 
difficulty the latter prevented the 
former from outrages which would 
have alarmed and disgusted the 
whole country. 

Affairs were in this condition 
when the Chambers reassembled on 



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Marshal MacMahon and the French Revolutionists, 



5^5 



the ist of May. The Left lost no 
time in bringing forward their guns 
and forcing the fighting. M. Le- 
blond was put up by them in the 
Chamber of Deputies to give no- 
tice of a question addressed to the 
government *' as to the measures 
which it proposed to take to re- 
press Ultramontane intrigues." M. 
Jules Simon, hastening to comply 
with the demands of the men with 
whom, as it now appears, he was 
secretly in accord, at once replied 
that tlie debate on the proposed 
question could take place on the 
next day. The Catholic members 
of the Chamber seem to have al- 
ready distrusted the sincerity of 
M. Simon. One of them — the elo- 
quent and fearless Count de Mun — 
announced that he and those who 
acted with him insisted upon a 
clear understanding of the position 
of the government. 

*' We shall insist upon knowing," said 
be, " whether the government accept the 
responsibility for the campaign that is 
being waged by means of impure calum- 
nies against the Catholics of France. 
The patriotism of French Catholics can- 
not be called in question ; it is above 
suspicion. In what we are doing — in 
what we wish to do— we are claiming 
but our rights. We demand, however, 
that the government, to which we give 
our support, should free itself from the 
responsibility for the attacks made upon 
us, which render our position intoler- 
able." 

M. Simon seems to have perceiv- 
ed that matters were growing se- 
rious, and that he could not much 
longer continue to pretend to serve 
two masters; but he resolved to 
struggle siill to maintain his posi- 
tion. On the following day, after 
M. T«eblond had put his question 
and supported it by a harangue in 
which he urged that the govern- 
ment should at once proceed to re- 
press by the most stringent means 



** the Ultramontane intrigues,*' M. 
Simon addressed the Chamber in a 
speech highly disingenuous and full 
of double meanings. It was vir- 
tually an appeal to the Gambetta 
faction to permit him to remain in 
power in order that he might do 
their work ; while at the same time 
it was an attempt to throw dust in 
the eyes of the Catholics by hypo- 
critical professions of respect for 
religion and its rights. The gov- 
ernment had been blamed, he said, 
for permitting Catholic newspapers 
to assail Italy ; but the government 
could not prevent this ; the law 
would punish the writers, if what 
they wrote was punishable under 
the law. On the other hand, the 
government would not tolerate any 
attack upon the Catholic religion — 
" which it sincerely respected " — 
and would protect the rights and 
liberties of Catholics. In fact, the 
church in France enjoyed to-day 
more freedom than at any previous 
time. But it was necessary to limit 
this freedom. For instance, the 
government " tolerates *' the exis- 
tence of Catholic societies so long 
as they are used only for the pur- 
poses set forth in their statutes, but 
it had interdicted the Catholic com- 
mittees which were employed in 
political undertakings and which 
had "formidable ramifications.** 
Having gone thus far, M. Simon 
thought he might as well go ^ little 
further, and he proceeded to make 
a statement which was a direct in- 
sult to the intelligence of the whole 
Catholic world. "The Catholic 
petitions and the demonstration 
made by the Bishop of Nevers," 
said he, " were based upon a fiction — 
namely^ t/iat the Pope is a prisoner in 
the Vatican'' \ "the law of guaran- 
tees has taken every care of the 
spiritual independence of tlie Holy 
Father ** ! And he then went on to 



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S66 Marslial MacMahon and the French Revolutionists. 



condemn the petitions as "an in- 
terference in the internal affairs of 
a neighboring country,'* and to re- 
mind the Chamber that the govern- 
ment had done all in its power to 
suppress these lawful manifestations 
of Catholic feeling. The govern- 
ment, he added, would continue to 
protect the clergy as long as they 
confined themselves to their spiri- 
tual duties, but would in the future 
punish them severely " if they en- 
croached upon the civil power *' — 
that is, if they continued to exer- 
cise their freedom and to discharge 
their duty by protesting against the 
acts of the Sardinian robbers, and 
by seeking to enlighten the public 
mind and conscience as to the real 
condition of the head of the uni- 
versal church. 

This speech of the President of 
the Council was a virtual surrender 
to the Extreme Left ; but M. Gam- 
betta was determined to force a 
more formal and complete capitu- 
lation. On the following day, May 
4, he resumed the debate in a speech 
which he had carefully prepared, 
and which he delivered with great 
eloquence and animation. Its spir- 
it is expressed in the sentence which 
was received with the loudest ap- 
plause by the Extreme Left : " It is 
time that lay society should drive 
back the church to that subordinate 
rank which belongs to her in the 
state." M. Gambetta, our readers 
will perceive, is very far in ad- 
vance of M. Cavour. The Ita- 
lian statesman dreamed of ** a 
free church in a free state"; the 
French revolutionist demands an 
enslaved church in an atheistic 
and communistic state. Listen to 
him : 

*' The church has set citizens by the 
ears, alarmed France, and troubled Eu- 
rope. It is always thus: the monarchy 
was often compelled to resist the en- 



croachments of the church, but the re- 
public must do more, for now the state 
is assaulted on all sides in the name of 
religion and her very existence is threat- 
ened. The Catholic leaders — ex-minis- 
ters, senators, ,and members of this 
Chamber — have exalted the Pope as the 
supreme ruler of France and of the world; 
when the Pope has issued an order they 
exclaim : * Rome has spoken and must 
be obeyed.' The Pope on the 12th of 
March commanded that an agitation in 
his favor should be everywhere set on 
foot ; immediately we behold deputations 
of Catholic royalists calling upon tbeMin- 
istcr of Foreign Affairs, convocations 
being held, and petitions circulated in 
spite of the feeble pretences of the gov- 
ernment to suppress them. It will not 
do to say that the church in France must 
have the liberty which she enjoys else- 
where ; she shall not have it, for the rea- 
son, among others, that here the church 
is bound to the state, and the state is re- 
sponsible for the language and the acts 
of the bishops. No longer must it be 
permitted that the Pope may address 
himself directly to France, without hav- 
ing first obtained the sanction of the civ- 
il power, and without first submitting to 
it his bulls, briefs, and allocutions. No 
longer must the bishops be allowed to 
address themselves to mayors and pre- 
fects, conveying to the civil functiona- 
ries of the republic orders received from 
Rome. It is useless to say that only a 
few of the bishops have done these things; 
for these bishops represent the whole hi- 
erarchy, the church is unanimous, and 
its submission to Rome is complete. 
There is no such thing as resistance ot 
opposition in the church ; the old Galil- 
ean liberties have been swept away by 
the Syllabus and by the Vatican Council. 
The Pope must not be permitted ngain 
to usurp the rights of the state, as he has 
recently done in appointing one of his 
bishops chancellor of a French universi- 
ty and giving him the right of conferring: 
degrees. I cannot understand how it 
happened that the papal instrument mak- 
ing this appointment was ever permit- 
ted to enter France ! We must no long- 
er endure these things ; we must drive 
back the church to the place where she 
belongs. We need not fear that the peo- 
ple will not be on our side ; if there is 
one thing more than another that is re- 
pugnant to France, it is the yoke of 
clericalism ; and it cannot be too strong- 



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Marshal MacMahon and the French Revolutionists. 



567 



ly said that clericalism is the enemy of 
the country." 

To this bitter harangue M. Jules 
Simon had no reply ; he contented 
himself with declaring that he and 
the cabinet were not subject to the 
dictation of any power behind the 
throne, and that perfect harmony 
existed between the marshal and 
himself. He hastened to add that 
he would accept, in the name of 
the government, the order of the 
day proposed by M. Leblond, which 
was in these words : 

" The Chamber of Deputies, consider- 
ing that the recrudescence of Ultramon* 
tane manifestations constitutes a danger 
to the domestic and foreign peace of the 
country, calls upon the government to 
make use of the lawful means which it 
has at its disposal." 

This was adopted by a vote of 
361 against 121 ; thus M. Gambetta 
won his victory, and, so far as M. 
Simon could pledge it, the govern- 
ment was pledged to carry out the 
demands of the foes of the church. 
This was on the 4th of May. Mar- 
shal MacMahon, it appears, hesitat- 
ed as to his future course ; but it ap- 
pears also that he was conscious he 
had been betrayed into an intolera- 
ble position. He seems to have de- 
termined, from that moment, to dis- 
miss M. Simon, and to appeal to the 
country to sustain him in his refusal 
to comply with the unconstitutional 
and tyrannical demands of the re- 
volutionists ; but, with what may 
seem to some an unwise timidity, 
he resolved to wait for some other 
act on the part of M. Simon which 
might be made the immediate ground 
for his dismissal. 

He had not long to wait. Dur- 
ing the next few days the sittings 
of the Chamber were characterized 
by great excitement and tumult. 
M. Simon was made the target of 



continual attacks ; he was accused 
of having formerly belonged to the 
International Society, and of hav- 
ing been morally in league with the 
Communists who assassinated the 
Archbis-hop of Paris. He defended 
himself with vehemence, but his af- 
filiation with the Gambetta faction 
became daily more apparent. He 
promised to draw up and send to 
the bishops a stringent circular, 
warning them that they would be 
held to a strict responsibility for all 
their future acts. The Committee of 
the Budget, on the 12th of May, re- 
ported in favor of according the 
sum annually paid for the support 
of the church, $10,626,199 ; but it 
accompanied this recommendation 
with the remark that it was now the 
duty of the government to revive 
and enforce a number of obsolete 
and almost forgotten laws which 
had been enacted, from time to 
time, by various governments which 
had desired to enslave the church. 
If these obsolete enactments should 
now be enforced, no French bishop 
could visit Rome without the con- 
sent of the government; no sub- 
scriptions for the Pope could be 
raised in France ; no papal brief 
or bull could enter France, and no 
council or diocesan synod could 
assemble, without the consent of 
the government; and the ecclesi- 
astical seminaries would be com- 
pelled to teach that the civil gov- 
ernment is supreme in all things. 
M. Simon, it was understood, was 
about to enforce these unjust and 
virtually abrogated restrictions, and 
the Gambettists were in high fea- 
ther. But their exultation was soon 
to be changed into disappointment 
and rage. 

The Chamber of Deputies had 
before it a bill modifying the or- 
ganization of municipalities, and 
another measure for the repeal of 



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$68 Marshal MacMalion and the French Revolutionists. 



the law on the restrictions of the 
press which had been passed, two 
years ago to secure social order. 
The cabinet had consulted upon 
these measures and had agreed 
upon the line which the ministers 
should take in opposing them. To 
this agreement M. Simon was a 
consenting party; it was well un- 
derstood between him and the mar- 
shal that when these measures 
came up for decision M. Simon 
.should explain that the government 
could not consent to them. But 
the new masters of M. Simon held 
him to the engagement he had 
made with them; and when these 
measures were brought forward M. 
Simon found it convenient to be 
absent from the Chamber, and the 
government was again betrayed. 
The patience of Marshal MacMahon 
was now exhausted ; he was per- 
haps glad that M. Simon had so 
soon furnished him with a sufficient 
reason for his dismissal. Early on 
the morning of May i6 the mar- 
shal, haviftig, it is said, passed a 
sleepless night, addressed the fol- 
lowing note to M. Simon, and sent 
it to him without consulting with 
any of the other members of the 
government : 

" I have read in the Journal Officiel the 
report of last night's proceedings in the 
Chamber of Deputies. I observed with 
surprise that neither you nor the Keeper 
of the Seals put forward from the tribune 
the reasons which might have prevented 
the repeal of a press law, passed less 
than two years ago on the motion of M. 
Dufaure, and which you yourself quite 
recently wished to see applied in the 
courts of law. And yet it bad been de- 
cided in several meetings of the cabinet, 
and indeed in the council held yesterday 
morning, that you and the Keeper of the 
Seals should undertake to oppose the 
motion for the repeal of the law. ... In 
view of such an attitude on the part of 
the chief of the cabinet, the question na- 
turally arises whether he retains suffi- 
cient influence to assert bis views suc- 



cessfully. An explanation on this point 
is indispensable ; for I myself, although 
not, like you, answerable to Parliament, 
have a responsibility towards France 
which to-day more than ever must en- 
gross my attention." 

M. Simon, upon receiving this 
note, saw that between his two 
stools he had fallen to the ground ; 
but he made one more effort to 
again deceive the marshal. He 
repaired to the Elys^e with a letter 
of resignation in his pocket; but 
before presenting it he asked the 
marshal if it were not possible that 
they should continue to act togeth- 
er. " No," was the reply. " I have * 
gone as far as I can possibly go in 
the wake of you and your allies ; I 
shall go no further." M. Simon 
then presented his letter of resig- 
nation, which was composed mainly 
of rather lame excuses for his ab- 
sence from the Chamber on the two 
occasions complained of by the 
marshal. Immediately afterwards 
the other members of the cabinet 
resigned, in order to leave the mar- 
shal full liberty of action ; and by 
the time the Gambettists had eaten 
their breakfasts they learned that 
they had overshot the mark, and 
that, instead of forcing Marshal 
MacMahon to accept their revolu- 
tionary programme, they had driven 
him to dismiss from his councils 
the man on whom they most relied, 
and in all probability to surround 
himself with men whom they could 
neither frighten nor purchase. 

The excitement among all the 
members of the Assembly was great 
as the news spread ; and a meeting 
of the Gambettists was called for 
the same evening, at which a line 
of action was laid down. One of 
the first things to be done, it was 
agreed, was to use the machinery 
at their disposal ** in order properly 
to inspire foreign public opinion," 



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Marshal MacMahon and the French Revolutionists. 569 



so that it might react upon France ; 
and during the night " the repub- 
lican leaders sent to foreign jour- 
nals instructions to insert opinions 
upon the crisis " which would have 
the effect of alarming the marshal 
by holding up before him the threat 
of the displeasure of Germany and 
Italy. The London journals were 
especially inspired in this sense; 
and it was thus that our own jour- 
nals, re-echoing this echo of the 
Gambetta caucus, gave their read- 
ers the idea that Marshal MacMa- 
hon had dismissed his cabinet in 
order to destroy the republic and 
to engage at once in a war against 
Italy for the restoration of the tem- 
poral sovereignty of the Pope. The 
session of the Chamber of Deputies 
on the 17th was excited; and M. 
Gambetta once more demonstrated 
the foolishness of those who, de- 
ceived by his affected moderation 
and calmness during the last two 
years, had believed that this fou 
furieux had become a decent and 
practical statesman. He moved 
the resolution which had been 
adopted at the caucus the preced- 
ing night, and supported it in a 
speech full of fire and venom. The 
resolution, which the Chamber ac- 
cepted by a vote of 355 against 154, 
simply declared that '* the confi- 
dence of the majority can only be 
enjoyed by a cabinet which is free 
in its action and resolved to gov- 
ern in accordance with republican 
principles, which can alone secure 
order and prosperity at home and 
abroad " — words with which no one 
can find fault. But M. Gambetta, 
giving full vent to his rage at finding 
himself foiled at the very moment 
when he was dreaming of victory, 
declared that the dismissal of M. 
Simon had been brought about-by 
the intrigues of " a secret influence 
with which no ministry could cope." 



" It is not true," he cried, " that thi 
President of the republic bears a re- 
sponsibility over and above that of the 
ministry. We must recall him to an 
exact observance of the constitution, and 
deliver him from perfidious counsels. 
The country wishes to be rid of the 
nightmare of those men of reaction who 
show their livid faces at all moments of 
uncertainty. If the Chambers are dis- 
solved we have no fear of the result, 
but the country may see in it a prelude 
to war. Criminals are those who would 
provoke it." 

No one thinks of provoking war 
save M. Gambetta and his friends, 
and they are the only criminals. 
Marshal MacMahon was not at all 
dismayed by this loud talk ; on the 
same evening the new cabinet was 
announced. The Duke Decazes 
and General Berthaut, Ministers 
of Foreign Affairs and of War in the 
former cabinet, retained their port- 
folios; the Duke de Broglie was 
made President of the Council and 
Minister of Justice; M. de Four- 
tou, Minister of the Interior; M. 
Caillaux, Minister of Finance; M. 
Paris, Minister of Public Works; 
M. de Meaux, Minister of Agricul- 
ture ; and M. Brunet, Minister of 
Public Instruction. The cabinet 
is a homogeneous and a respect- 
able one; as long as it remains in 
office the country may be certain, 
at least, that order will be main- 
tained and that the plots of the 
Reds will be frustrated. During 
the morning of the i8th the Gam- 
bettists were very busy in preparing 
to give battle to the new cabinet. 
But they found themselves again 
disconcerted by the firmness of 
the President, who, exercising his 
constitutional right, sent a message 
to both houses, adjourning their 
session until the i6th of June. In 
this message Marshal MacMahon 
explains that he has scrupulously 
conformed to the constitution. 
He appointed the cabinets of M. 



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570 Marslial MacMahon and t/ie French Revolutionists. 



Diifaiire and of M. Simon with the 
object of placing himself in accord 
with the majority in the Chamber ; 
but neither of these cabinets were 
able to unite in the Chamber a 
majority capable of causing consti- 
tutional and proper ideas to pre- 
vail, 

*' I could not," the marshal went on to 
say, *'take a further step on the same 
path without making an appeal to the 
republican fraction which desires a ra- 
dical modification of all our institutions. 
My conscience and my patriotism do not 
permit me to associate myself even dis- 
tantly with the triumph of these ideas, 
which can only engender disorder and 
the humiliation of France ; and so long as 
I hold power I shall use it within legal 
limits to prevent that consummation, for 
it would be the ruin of the country. But I 
am convinced the country thinks as I do. 
It was not the triumph of these theories 
which the country desired at the last elec- 
tions, when all the candidates availed 
themselves of my name. If it were to be 
again interrogated it would repudiate 
such a confusion of ideas. I am firmly 
resolved to respect and maintain the ex- 
isting institutions of the country. Until 
iSdo I can propose no modification, and 
contemplate nothing of the kind. In 
order to allow the excitement to calm 
down, I invite you to suspend your sit- 
tings for one month. You will then be 
able to discuss the Budget. In the 
meantime we will watch over the main- 
tenance of public peace. We will suffer 
nothing at home tending to compromise 
it ; and it will be maintained abroad, I 
am confident, notwithstanding the agita- 
tions which disturb a portion of Europe, 
thanks to our good relations with all the 
powers and our policy of neutrality and 
abstention. On this point all parties are 
agreed, and the new cabinet holds the 
same views as the old. If any impru- 
dence in the language of the press com- 
promises the concord which we all 
desire, I shall repress it C)y legal means. 
To prevent this I appeal to that patriot- 
ism which is wanting in no class in 
France." 

Violent were the scenes in both 
Chambers when this message was 
read, but they were cut short by 



the firmness of the new ministers 
M. Gambetta attempted to speak; 
his voice was drowned by shouts 
of " Down with the Dictator !" In 
the Senate M. Simon essayed to de- 
liver an oration, but the Duke de 
Broj^lie announced that no one 
could speak, as the President had 
adjourned the session. The houses 
separated in confusion, and the 
Gambettists occupied themselves 
during the next few days in issuing 
inflammatory appeals to the coun- 
try. The new government began 
without delay the t:uk of strength- 
ening itself by the removal of dis- 
affected prefects, sub-prefects, and 
other department officials, and this 
work has been carried out with the 
same thoroughness that is display- 
ed in our own country after a radi- 
cal administrative change. 

All this is the prelude to an ap- 
peal to the country in the shape 
of a general election for a new 
Assembly. The people will be sum- 
moned to decide, not whether they 
wish a republic or a monarchy, but 
whether the republic shall be en- 
trusted to the extreme radical par- 
ty or to those who can and will 
save France from the ruin into 
which Gambetta and his crew would 
engulf it. The decision will be 
waited for with anxiety, but with- 
out fear on our part. The French 
people, we believe, are sound at 
heart, and have no wish to resign 
themselves into the hands of men 
who fear not God nor regard man 
save as a convenient tool for their 
own ends. Meanwhile, however, 
the utmost circumspection should 
be exercised by the new govern- 
ment. Prince Bismarck is enraged 
when he sees France strengthening 
herself; he is delighted when he 
beholds her weakening herself by 
internal dissensions. Thus growls 
of displeasure at the check given 



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MarsJial MacMahon and i/te French Revolutionists. 571 



to the Gam bet ta party have already 
been heard from Berh'n, and the 
German press has been instructed 
to represent that the new French 
administration intends *'to restore 
the Papacy through the humiliation 
of Germany." The Italian govern- 
ment, troubled with a bad con- 
science, indulges in similar antici- 
pations ; and the first duty of the 
Duke Decazes has been to reassure 
these cabinets and to point out that 
the French government wishes sim- 
ply to devote itself to the domestic 
interests and safety of France. We 
believe that this is the plain truth. 
If Marshal MacMahon and his pre- 
sent advisers are sustained, France 
will be saved from domestic ruin, 
and her salvation will go far to- 
wards checking the revolution in 
other countries. 

The time will come, no doubt, 
when France will again assert her- 
self in European affairs, but with a 
wisdom gathered from her terrible 
reverses and humiliation. For 
those reverses she had no one but 
herself to blame. They were the 
bitter fruit of an overweening pride, 
and of the desertion of those eter- 
nal principles of justice and right, 
and of the faith that embodies 
them, close adherence to which 
alone makes nations truly great. 
France is coming back to her faith, 
and with her faith will return her 



greatness, her nationality, her life. 
Before, however, she can make her 
voice heard in Europe she must 
speak in clear, calm, and not dis- 
cordant tones. She must be united 
in herself, one nation, one people, 
with one heart and one soul. It is 
this that Germany dreads of all 
things, and consequently the threats 
and intrigues of Germany and Italy 
will be exerted to the utmost in aid 
of Gambetta and his faction, who, 
indeed, have much strength of their 
own. While we are far from think- 
ing that the contest will be an easy 
one, we have little doubt as to the 
final issue. The republic of order 
in France is the Catholic republic. 
The French nation is Catholic. All 
the real glories of France are in- 
dissolubly linked with the Catholic 
name. Her greatest disasters are 
as fatally linked with the party of 
which Gambetta is to-day the os- 
tensible leader. It is time for Ca- 
tholic France to gather herself to- 
gether and arise in a strength that 
she never before had the opportu- 
nity of possessing. The way is 
open. She stands now quite un- 
trammelled from alliances with any 
dynasty or n<ime. Her fate lies in 
her own hands, and the honest sol- 
dier who has guarded so well her 
truest interests will not betray the 
trust placed in him by his country- 
men. 



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572 



New Publications. 



NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



Life of the Ven. Clement Mary Hof- 
BAUER, C. SS.R. By the Author of the 
Life of Catharine McAuley. etc. Newr 
York : The Catholic Publication So- 
ciety. 1877. 

Father Hofbauer was a second St. Al- 
phonsus in the Congregation of the Rc- 
demptorist fathers, and the founder of 
the institute as existing outside of Italy. 
He will probably be canonized ; and it 
would not be a matter of surprise if the 
veneration for his memory in Austria and 
the neighboring countries, in case this 
solemn recognition is accorded to his 
sanctity by the Holy See, should equal 
that for St. Vincent de Paul in France. 
He was a plain, simple man, of humble 
origin, moderate parts and learning, but 
truly angelic purity and miraculous sane- 
tit}'. The influence he obtained and the 
good he accomplished are simply won- 
derful. The history of his life is graphi- 
cally portrayed by the religious lady who 
has written his biography. We could 
wish that every priest and every eccle- 
siastical student in the United States 
might read it. The scandal and mis- 
chief wrought by perverse men of bril- 
liant intellectual gifts, like Gioberti and 
DSllingcr. by apostate princes, faithless 
prelates, and unworthy or careless priests, 
are best repaired by such worthy succes- 
sors of the apostles as the Venerable 
Father Hofbauer. The study of their 
characters and actions is better than the 
most thorough course of polemics, as an 
antidote to every kind of pseudo-Catho- 
lic liberalism. 

The Life of Christopher Columbus. 
By Arthur George Knight, of the So- 
ciety of Jesus. New York : The Ca- 
tholic Publication Society. 1877. 

Christopher Columbus is, and always 
will remain, one of the greatest figures 
in history and one of the grandest of 
Catholic heroes. He may be said to 
have passed through all human expe- 
rience. He was born in poverty and 
schooled in poverty. His days were 
cast in one of those eventful periods in 



the world's history when '* the old order 
changeth, yielding to the new." With 
ideas in his mind just beyond his time, 
and convinced himself of their truth 
and power, he had to struggle hopeless- 
ly for years under the most adverse cir- 
cumstances before he could imbue other 
minds with the ideas that possessed him. 
He could only think and talk and plan. 
He was powerless to act, for lack of 
means. He had the satisfaction of be- 
ing regarded as a dreamer by the en- 
lightened men of his time. At last his 
ideas prevailed, and resulted in the dis- 
covery of a new world. 

Then came his hour of triumph — a tri- 
umph unparalleled in history ; and after 
it, more bitter than his early struggles up- 
wards, ingratitude, contempt, chains, and 
misery. There is nothing more romantic 
than this story, nothing fraught with more 
solemn lessons. Through all, through 
triumph as through adversity, through 
poverty as through greatness, stands out 
the true Catholic, who cherished his 
faith above all things, who in all things 
looked first to the greater glory of God, 
and who from first to last lived the life 
of a practical Catholic. Indeed he was 
truly a holy man. and strong efforts are 
now being made for his canonization. 

It seems strange that this great Catho- 
lic figure should have fallen so complete- 
ly into Protestant hands. There are 
admirable histories of him in English, 
works that h^ve won deserved fame for 
their authors, but they are all written by 
Protestants, who, however well disposed 
they maybe, must in the nature of things 
make mistakes when treating of Catho- 
lic subjects. Grave mistakes have been 
made, not by Protestants alone, but by 
Catholics also, in the story of Columbus' 
life. It is with a view to rectify these 
mistakes, and to present to the Catholic 
reader the true story of a most impor- 
tant, edifying, and interesting life that 
Father Knight has written the present 
volume. He has done his work thor- 
oughly well, and we have no doubt that 
the book will become a favorite with all 
classes of Catholic readers. 



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Biographical Sketches of Distinguish- 
ed Marylanders* By Esmeralda 
Boyle, author of Tkistledoivn^ Felice^ 
etc. Baltimore: Kelly, Piet & Co. 
iS77. 

This little volume is replete with in- 
terest. It recalls in graceful language 
the memory of men who have honored 
by their upright lives and heroic actions 
tlie gallant State that gave them birth. 
It is no small boast ibr Maryland that 
no State in the Union has produced more 
men distinguished for their ability, pa- 
triotism, and, above all, a high-toned chi- 
valry which could never stoop to aught 
having the flavor of dishonor about it. 
These were the men who first won for our 
country the recognition of European 
scholars and statesmen. Their lofty 
principles, their graceful accomplish- 
ments, their scholarly attainments, and 
their dauntless courage drew on then 
the eyes of the world, and earned for 
their mother State the proud reputation 
she now enjoys. From the time that 
Lord Baltimore landed on her shores to 
the present day no public man has dis- 
graced the fair record or blurred a page 
of the history of Maryland. And, indeed, 
the beginning of her civilized days was 
an eminently fit prelude to her whole 
subsequent career. From out of the first 
colony established on the banks of the 
Chesapeake flowed the doctrines of re- 
ligious toleration and equal religious 
rights to all men irrespective of clime 
and color, at a moment when witch- 
burning fire.«; lighted up the settlements 
of Massachusetts. The Indians of those 
times for once felt that Christianity and 
civilization were blessings and not a 
cloak to avarice and tyranny. "From 
the records left to us," says Miss Boyle, 
**it is evident that these teachers endea- 
vored by all mild and lawful means to 
elevate the hearts of the Indians to a 
knowledge of the true God. The In- 
dian of the present day, dwelling on the 
border-lands of civilization, deems the 
white man a traitor to hi? word, an ene- 
my to the Indian race, and a breaker of 
compacts, whose perfidy must be retali- 
ated upon the innocent by fire and ioma- 
ftawks* This is rather a sad commentary 
upon the savage or the Christian of our 
times. Which is it?" 

Miss Boyle appropriately begins her 
series of biographical sketches with a 
notice of that truly grand historic figure, 
Daniel Dulany, the Nestor of the Maiy- 



land bar. The unflinching advocate of 
probity and truth, and a strong friend of 
freedom, he distinguished himself fitly 
for the first time by counselling opposi- 
•tion to the famous Stamp Act. His elo- 
quence and fearlessness greatly helped 
the cause of the Revolution ; for although 
he opposed immediate separation from 
England, his burning words kindled the 
fires of opposition to British rule. The 
nzxReparce (fetortum is the same as De- 
lany and indicates the Irish stock whence 
he sprang. 

The paper on Charles Carroll of Car- 
roliton is extremely interesting. It pre- 
sents a very life-like picture of that 
great patriot, statesman, and devout Ca- 
tholic. We behold the courtly and pol- 
ished gentleman, tinged with the airs and 
manners of an education acquired in the 
gay capital of France. And though fash- 
ionable Paris was at that time the hot- 
bed of infidelity, and Voltaire ruled su- 
preme, young Carroll never became so 
imbued with the madness of the hour as 
to abandon the strong Catholic princi- 
ples and spirit pious parents and teach- 
ers had early implanted in his heart. 
His name will ever remain an honor to 
his native State, and his virtues and lofti- 
ness of character an incentive to her 
children to cling to the highest standard 
of a true gentleman's life. 

It is evident that Miss Boyle had 
abundant materials at hand, for she is 
constrained at times to sacrifice method 
to condensation ; and this, perhaps, is the 
worst that can be said of her interest- 
ing volume. The sketch of the Most 
Reverend John Carroll, first Archbishop 
of Baltimore, is illustrative of this defect. 
The writer labored under an emhafras tie 
richtsses, and passes too brusquely from 
one incident to another. 

It is not generally known, nor does 
Miss Boyle make mention of the fact, 
which has been already announced in 
this magazine, that at the time when 
John Wesley, the founder of Metho- 
dism, was supplicating George III. to 
send more troops to America for the pur- 
pose of suppressing the unholy rebellion 
against his majesty's benign sway, Fa- 
ther John Carroll, the Jesuit priest, was 
on a mission to Canada, seeking the non- 
intervention of that colony in the eflbrts 
of the States to free themselves from the 
yoke of British tyranny. And yet it is 
almost a Methodist article of faith that 
the Jesuits have ever been the enemies 



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of the republic, and the sons of John 
Wesley its wannest friends. 

William Pinkney, one of Maryland's 
most gifted sons, whose eloquence ranks 
him with Pitt, Fox, and Burke, receives a 
most fitting tribute from the pen of Miss 
Boyle. The history of this wonderful 
man should be known and closely stu- 
died by the young men of our time ; for 
few lives exhibit a more perfect pattern 
of true manliness. His struggles against 
early poverty and the numerous difficul- 
ties attending the efforts to acquire 
knowledge in those times gave earnest 
of his future success in life. The late 
venerable Chief-Justice Taney spoke of 
him in these words : " I have heard al- 
most all the great advocates of the United 
States, both of the past and present gene- 
ration, but I have seen none equal to 
Pinkney." Rufus King, having once lis- 
tened to him. exclaimed in a burst of 
enthusiasm *' that the speech of Pinkney 
had enlarged his admiration of the ca- 
pacity of the human mind." Of such 
men is Maryland justly proud, and Miss 
Boyle has performed a timely and praise- 
worthy task in having brought us face to 
face with the heroes of a past generation, 
whose memory their native State should 
ever delight to honor. 

SiDONiE. (Fromont Jeune et Risler 
Ain6.) From the French of Alphonse 
Daudet. Boston : Estes & Lauriat. 
1877. 

We understand that this story has had 
an enormous circulation in France. This 
circulation we are inclined to attribute 
rather to the author's name than to any 
special excellence in the book itself. 
Alphonse Daudet is one of the pet French 
novelists of the day, and it takes much 
to destroy a well-earned reputation. 
Sidonie is a repulsive story, told with 
gr^at skill, and embellished throughout 
by those thousand and one delicate art- 
istic touches, lights and shades, of which 
French writers alone seem to possess 
the secret. M. Daudet is actuated by 
the very laudable design of punishing 
vice, and showing in a very strong and 
real light the awful, the tragic misery it 
brings upon the vicious and the good 
alike. All very well. Novelists, how- 
ever, who take up this kind of theme — 
and many are very fond of it — have an 
unpleasant and untrue habit of making 
their good people fools or simpletons. 
It seems to us that, as a rule, good peo- 



ple, particularly good women, are remark- 
ably keen in detecting falsehood and 
scenting rascalit}'. In Sidonie it is all the 
other way. One detestable little wretch 
of a woman, who has not half an ounce 
of good in her whole system, sets all ihc 
good people by the ears, destroys the 
peace of happy families, ruins a great 
business-house, causes the suicide of 
several excellent and very charming 
characters, and ends by retiring to that 
kingdom from which she should never 
have been called — Bohemia. 

It seems to us a pity that an author 
of such real power and skill in delinea- 
tion of character and plot as M. Daudet 
should waste himself on the unutterably 
mean. We are not of the opinion that 
this world is given over to the dominion 
of the devil and his servants. It is not 
heaven to any of us ; yet as between the 
good and the bad, all things considered, 
we believe that the good have the best 
of the battle even in this life. Of course 
novel-readers must have their villain, 
male or female ; and the female villain 
must, of course, be very, very bad. 
Their viciousness, however, could be 
shown sufficiently, and the lesson it en- 
tails inculcated, without making them 
the pivots on which the world turns. 
It is the noble, not the ignoble, who real- 
ly move the world ; and until the race 
of the noble is exhausted, novelists may 
as well draw their heroes and heroines 
from that class. At least we object to 
their being for ever depicted as fools. 

The translation of Sidonie is admira- 
ble. It is from the graceful and cultivat- 
ed pen of Mrs. Mary Neale Sherwood. 

Legends of the Blessed Sacrament. 
Gathered from the History of the 
Church and the Lives of the Saints. 
By Emily Mary Shapcote. Londor : 
Burns & Oates. 1877. (For sale by 
The Catholic Publication Society.) 
This is in every sense a most beautiful 
and attractive volume. The author has 
collected a large number of legends 
connected with the Blessed Sacrament. 
These are abundantly and very hand- 
somely illustrated, and the letter-press 
itself is admirable. There is much 
more, however, than legends in the 
volume. The devotion of the church 
to the Blessed Sacrament is traced down 
to the very days of the apostles, verified 
by ample quotations, and illustrated by 
pictures taken from the Catacombs and 



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the earlier moiuments of Christian an. 
This is indeea an excellent and most 
valuable feature of the work. The whole 
is in keeping. The devotion is brought 
up to our own days, and its wonderful 
growth and development brought out in 
a clear and most interesting manner. 
The author has done her work skilfully, 
gracefully, and reverently. The admira- 
ble preface shows how much she is in- 
spired by real love for and devotion to 
the Blessed Sacrament. The last picture 
ill the volume is a large and admirably- 
executed portrait of our Holy Father 
Pope Pius IX. 

The Discipline of Drink: An Histori- 
cal Inquiry into the principles and 
practice of the Catholic Church re- 
garding the use, abuse, and disuse 
of alcoholic liquors, especially in 
England, Ireland, and Scotland, from 
the sixth to the sixteenth century. 
By the Rev. T. E. Bridgett, of the 
Congregation of the Most Holy Re- 
deemer. With an introductory letter 
to the author by His Eminence Car- 
dinal Manning, Archbishop of West- 
minster. London : Burns & Oates. 
1877. 

The best notice we can give of this 
\aluable work will be to make a few ex- 
tracts from Cardinal Manning's letter. 
His Eminence says it is ** the first at- 
tempt to collect the counsels and judg- 
ments of Catholic pastors and writers on 
the use of wine and on the sin of drunk- 
enness." . He believes the book will be 
'* of signal use in clearing away a multi- 
tude of prejudices, and perhaps some 
more reasonable censures, which have 
impeded the efforts we are making to 
check the spread of intoxication." 
These ** more reasonable censures " have 
been called forth by the words and acts 
of associations not in the unity of the 
Catholic Church, and particularly by 
Catholics having joined such societies 
and adopted their *' wild talk, worthy of 
the Manichecs." Father Bridgctt's book, 
then, "will show how broadly the 
Catholic Church has always taught the 
lawfulness of using all things that God 
has made, in all their manifold connbina- 
tions, so long as we use them in con- 
formity to the law of God. Drunken- 
ness is not the sin of drink, but of the 
drunkard." On the other hand, "in 
every utterance of the church, and in 
every page of Holy Scripture, wine is 



surrounded with warnings," says his 
Eminence, and adds that our author has 
" done well to point out that a now and 
more formidable agent of intoxication 
even than wine has in the last three cen- 
turies confirmed its grasp, chiefly upon 
the Teutonic and Anglo Saxon races." 
So that "no exact precedents can be 
found in the past action of the church as 
to the way of dealing with an evil new 
in its kind, and so far more formidable 
both in its spread and in its intensity" ; 
while at t]ie same time ^' the principles 
of the church are always the same, and, 
in bringing forth things new and old, 
forms may vary, but the mind and action 
are immutable." The cardinal then 
proceeds to give his own views of what 
should b(3 done. He is in favor of "a 
widely-extended organization," and ad- 
vocates total abstinence as the only hope 
for multitudes, and a specially merito- 
rious act of self-denial in those who do not x^ 
need it themselves, but embrace it for 
the sake of others. But — and to this we 
would call particular attention — the 
** widely-extended organization " should 
comprise, in his opinion, those who arc 
not total abstainers. He expresses sat- 
isfaction at Father Bridgett having quot- 
ed in the appendix some words of his 
own. We quote them, too, because we 
most heartily agree with them : " Now, 
my dear friends, listen I I will go to my 
grave without tasting intoxicating li- 
quors ; but I repeat distinctly that any 
man who should say that the use of wine 
or any other like thing is sinful when it 
does not lead to drunkenness, that man 
is a heretic condemned by the Catholic 
Church. With that man I will never 
work. Now, I desire to promote total 
abstinence in every way that I can. I 
will encourage all societies of total ab- 
stainers. But the moment I see men 
not charitable attempting to trample 
down those who do not belong to the 
total abstainers, from that moment I will 
not work with those men. I would have 
two kinds of pledge : one for the mortified 
who never taste drink, and the other foi 
the temperate who never abuse it. If I 
can make these two classes work together, 
I will work in the midst of them. If I 
cannot get them to work together, I will 
work with both of them separately." 

Father Bridgett has given in his appen- 
dix ** a summary of the principal Catho- 
lic organizations which have lately been 
set on foot in these countries " (England, 



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Ireland, and Scotland). Some of these 
organizations include/ar//a/abstinence in 
their rules. Another society is mention- 
ed as existing in some parts of Germany, 
and approved by His Holiness Pius IX. 
and enriched with indulgences. The 
members of this last promise total ab- 
stinence from t/iV/«/^^ liquors, and sobrie- 
ty in the use o( /ermenttrcf drinks. 

We hope this labor of love from the 
pen of Father Bridgett will have the cir- 
culation it deserves. 

Spirit Invocations ; or. Prayers and 
Praises publicly offered at the Bantter 
of Light circle-room free meetings by 
more than one hundred different 
spirits, of various nationalities and re- 
ligions, through the vocal organs of 
the late Mrs. J. H. Conant. Compiled 
by Allen Putnam, A.M., author of 
BibU Matvel- Workers, Natty : a Spirit^ 
etc. Boston : Colby & Rich. 1876. 
Qitos Dens vult petdere prius dement.it 
would be an appropriate motto for this 
hodge-podge of nonsense and lunacy. 
Imagine a sane man being called on to 
believe that he is listening to prayers 
offered by the spirits of Tom Paine and 
Cardinal Cheverus through the same set 
of •' vocal organs " ! It is evident that 
the '• prayers " were all ground from one 
mill, as there is the utmost sameness 
pervading them. Tom Paine conde- 
scending to come down from the pedes- 
tal of his celestial greatness, and pray- 
ing with unctuous fervor to the God he 
blasphemed on earth, is a spectacle high- 
ly refreshing ; but more astonishing still 
is it to find him surpass Father de Smet 
and Cardinal Cheverus in the ecstatic 
intensity of a mystical devotion. '* We 
pray not for more blessings," exclaims' 
the pious Thomas ; *' we only pray that 
we may appreciate those already receiv- 
ed ; and when we lift up our souls in 
prayer, asking that thy kingdom may 
come on the earth, we do but ask that 
thy children in mortal may know them- 
selves and their relations to thee." 

It is evident that the author of the 
Age of Reason has materially changed 
his •* spirit " since he exuviated his mor- 



tal coil, or perhaps he ha| deftly suDsti- 
tuted that of Mr. Putnam, A.M., for his 
own. This, we rather suspect, is th'. case. 
Theodore Parker, too, has been to camp- 
meeting up above ; for a great change 
has come over the •* spirit " of the frigid 
founder of New England transcenden- 
talism. He prays with a vim that no 
leader of a revival at Sea Cliff or Sing 
Sing could ever hope to emulate, and 
appears shamefully unlike the Rev. O. 
B. Frothingham's ideal of a hero. Some 
of the prayers are quite touching, and 
sound as if they had been pilfered from 
Catholic books of devotion. 

Known too Late. By the author o( 
Tyborne^ Irish Homes and Irish I/ear/s, 
etc., etc. Baltimore: Kelly, Piet & 
Co. 1877. 

This little volume bears the impress 
of patient and painstaking care. The 
author is the happy possessor of a pure 
and pleasant style, and yet throws off 
nothing carelessly, as too many with fa- 
cile pens are disposed to do. The nar- 
rative is done in subdued colors, and no- 
where is good taste shocked by the ut- 
terance of extravagant or whimsical sen- 
timents. 

The plot of the story unfolds itself 
quite naturally, and. though the dknosU 
ment is a hard one to bring about, it is 
done so ingeniously as not to appear at 
all violent. We can conscientiously say 
of this little book that it is a shade in 
advance of Catholic stories generally 
and is well deserving a perusal. 

The Paradise of the Christian Soul. 
By James Merlo Herstius, of the 
Church of the B. Virgin Mary in Pas- 
culo Pastoris, at Cologne. A new and 
complete translation. By lawful au- 
thority. London : Burns & Oates. 
(For sale by The Catholic Publication 
Society.) 

A most complete manual of prayer foi 
ordinary use. One cannot tire of it. 
The present edition is illustrated ; but 
the illustrations might easily have been 
improved. 



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The Life of Christopher Columbus. 



BY 



REV. A. G. KNIGHT, S.J. 

1 Vol. 16nio, 75 cts. 



Book I. Preparation. Chap. i. Early Training. 2. The Great Idea. 3. Hope 
Deferred. 4. Permission Granted. Book II. First Expedition. Chap. i. The Three 
Caravels. 2. Mare Tenebrosum. 3. Land in the Far West. 4. The Return. Book 
III. Second Expedition. Chap. i. Equipment of the Fleet. 2. A Sad Story. 3. Dis- 
content in the Colony. 4. Warfare Extraordinary. 5. Making Mischief. 6. Trials of 
Patience. Book IV. Third Expedition. Chap. i. The Mainland. 2. Dire Confusion. 
3. Sent Home in Chains. 4- Panegyric. Book V. Fourth Expedition. Chap. i. Perils 
by Land and Sea. 2. The Land of Exile. 3. The Wicked Cease from Troubling. 

Notes — I. Second Marriage of Columbus. II. Papal Interference. HI. Father 
Boll. IV. St. Christopher.' V. Improved Notions of Natural History. VI. Miracu- 
lous Cross. « 



ESSAYS AND REVIEWS. 



BY 



RT. REV. J. L. SPALDING, D.D., BISHOP OF PEORIA. 

1 Vol. 12mo, $1 50. 

The Catholic Church in the United States, 1776- 
1876. I 

The Persecution of the Church in the German ! 
Empire. 

Comparative Influence of Catholicism and Pro- 
testantism on National Prosperity. 

I. Wealth. II. Education. III. Morality. 

Prussia and the Church. 
German Journalism. 
Religion and Art. . 



A liberal discount to the trade. Address 

The Catholic Publication Socletyp 

Lawrenxe Kehoe, Gex. Agent, 

9 Barclay Street^ IXew Tork. 



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Vol. XXV. 



No, 149. 




^'^' -^:t-0jj 



/ 



THE 




MONTHLY MAGAZINE 

OF 

General Literature and Science. 

AUGUST, 1877. 
Contents. 



J. The Political Crisis in • 

France and its Bearings, 577 
. II. Phil Redmond of Ballyma I 

crcedy, . . . • 591 1 

III. The Beginning of the Pope's 

Temporal Principality. . 609 

IV. Alba's Dream, . 621 
V. Magdalen at the Tomb (Son- 
net), 637 

VI. From the Medea of Euripi- 
des (Translation), . . 638 
VII. The Stoiy of the Gothic Re- 
vival, . . • . . 639 
VIII. Along the Foot of the Pyre- 
nees, . . . .651 
IX. Cathedral Woods (A Poem), 665 
^' Juliette : A Norman Story, 667 
► Aubrey de Vere (Sonnet), 676 



XII. Colonization and Future, 

Emigration, . . 677 

XIII. A Thrush's Song (A Poenj^ 689 

XIV. The Congregation of Clufty, 691 
XV. The Brides of Christ (Sonnets) 701 

XVI. The Unknown Eros, . . 702 
XVII. New Publications, . . 713 

Priesthood in the Light of the New 
Testament— Thirty -fifth AnnxuU Re- 
port of the Board of Education of the 
City of New York — A Question of 
Honor— Biographical Sketchea^The 
Wonders of Prayer— The Little JPearls 
—Beside the Western Si 
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CATHOLIC WORLD. 



VOL. XXV., No. 149.— AUGUST, 1877. 



THE POLITICAL CRISIS IN FRANCE AND ITS BEARINGS. 



I. — QUESTION STATED. 

The attention of the world at 
large is at present fastened on two 
important movements — the war be- 
tween Russia and Turkey and the 
recent political changes in France. 
Both of these have the same origin, 
but the aspect of each is different. 
No one will dispute that both are 
fraught with most momentous inter- 
ests, that their development will be 
watched with great concern, and 
that it is not impossible that their 
final issue may change the religious 
features no less than the territorial 
limits of Europe. 

Our purpose in this article is t^ 
confine the attention of our read- 
ers to the affairs of France ; not 
with the design of narrating the 
successive events which brought 
about the present crisis,* but with 
a view to the principles involved in 
the struggle and their bearing on 
the great interests of Europe, ac- 
tual and prospective. 

What agitates France at this mo- 



•See Th« Catholic World, July, 1877: 
"Manhal MacMahon and the French kevolu- 
tionuts." 



ment is not an " ultramontane" and 
" clerical intrigue" to restore " the 
temporal princedom of the Pope," 
or an "anti-republican" plot of le- 
gitimists to place Henry V, on the 
throne of his ancestors, as our daily 
newspapers of all political parties 
and the weekly Protestant journals 
of every sect would have the pub- 
lic believe. The real political lead- 
ers in France to day are representa- 
tive of none of these parties, nor 
are they champions of their dis- 
tinctive principles or advocates of 
their cherished measures. They 
have other fish to fry. Some of 
the newspaper writers and corre- 
spondents would persuade their 
readers that the change of front 
in France by the government is. 
owing to the influence exerted by 
Madame MacMahon over the Presi- 
dent of the Republic, her husband. 
Drowning men catch at straws, and 
men who lack common sense clutch 
at any flimsy pretext to bolster up a 
foolish project. 

The day of the supremacy of 
such influence in great state affairs 
is gone by ; and, even were it not, . 
the character of the men engaged 



Copyright : Rer. I. T. Hbcku. 1877. 



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578 The ^Politual Crisis in France and its Bearings. 



in this weighty piece of political 
strategy is not made of stuff that 
would incline them to be led by 
the nose by a woman, whatever may 
be her reputation for piety or her 
supposed or declared inclinations 
for legitimacy. We venture the 
opinion that the most estimable 
Christian wife of the Marshal- 
President of the Republic of France 
is not wasting her time in fruitless 
political intrigues, but employs it 
ibetter in telling her beads, in tak- 
ing care of her children, and in 
works of charity to her neighbor. 
-All these are random shots. 

The raising of such false issues, 
ihowever, serves the purpose of 
their inventors in throwing the pub- 
lic attention off the true scent, and 
thereby prolonging the opportunity 
for them to invent new schemes 
•against public order and society 
'under the restored leadership of 
the octogenarian, M. Thiers. This 
was their manoeuvre in 1871, and 
*** PrincQ Bismarck regretted the fall 
of M. Thiers, because he would 
have infallibly thrown France into 
the arms of M. Gambetta and 
anarchy.*'* They also afford them 
additional chances of escape from 
the due and certain punishment 
which is impending over them. 

These pretexts show also the 
•craft of those who make them and 
the simplicity of their dupes. P'or 
they are well aware that there is a 
large class of persons, especially in 
Protestant communities, whose pre- 
possessions are stronger than their 
attachment to Christianity, and 
there are no absurdities too great for 
them to swallow, provided only you 
bait them with the cry of " Popery !" 
" Vaticanism ! " " Clericalism ! " As 
for those who are caught by the cry 
of "anti-republicanism," they ap- 

* See Count von Arnim^s pamphlet, Pr0 Nihila, 



pear not to understand that a king 
without the popular instincts of a 
people in his favor is a mere ci- 
pher, and that the age is past and 
never again to return, at least in 
Europe, when, as an Eastern despot, 
the king dare say : " rEtat, c'est 
ffioi'' 

The transformation that has ta- 
ken place in the nations of Europe, 
the expansion of their narrow lines 
of policy into broader political 
principles, has been so rapid and 
powerful that its force in our day 
has passed beyond all possible 
human control. These principles 
have become profound convictions, 
and for not heeding them the peo- 
ple of France dethroned Charles 
X. and Louis Philippe ; and were 
Henry V. placed to-day upon the 
throne of France with the inten- 
tion of attempting to restore the 
ancient regime, it would be as vain, 
even though he should have Mar- 
shal MacMahon and the army at 
his command to back him, as an 
effort to stem and throw back the 
mighty torrents that pour their wa- 
ters over the precipice of Niagara. 

The tendency of modern society 
to a political equality, without dis- 
tinction of the privileges of birth 
or rank, has its root in the spirit of 
Christianity. The Catholic Church, 
in this sense, is the most democra- 
tic institution that has ever existed 
upon this earth. There is no bar- 
rier in the path for its humblest 
member to become its chief in 
power and dignity. It is not sel- 
dom, too, that those who have risen 
from the lowest walk in life have 
been elected to this high position. 
The spirit of an age, rightly inter- 
preted, is the breath of the Almighty 
stirring within men's souls, which 
finds its utterance in their voices, 
even in spite of themselves. No- 
where has the Catholic Church 



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The Political Crisis in France and iis Bearings. 579 



been given such fair play, though 
this is yet imperfect, as in the 
democratic republic of the United 
States. This fact has been recog- 
nized by the supreme pastor of the 
faithful, Pius IX., and again and 
again he has called the attention of 
the world to it. 

France has the opportunity under 
the presidency of Marshal MacMa- 
hon, if she only knew how to profit 
by it, of forming a political govern- 
ment adapted to the genius and char* 
acter of her people and in harmony 
with her present wants and future 
greatness ; to govern herself, if she 
wishes it, independently of an em- 
peror or a hereditary monarch ; and 
this task will be accomplished, unless 
hindered by that enemy of all ra- 
tional liberty — a destructive radi- 
calism. . If the young Napoleon, 
or the Count of Paris, or Henry 
V. ascends the throne of France, 
it will be due to the Thierses, the Si- 
mons, and the Gambettas and their 
abettors. 



II. — TWO MOVEMENTS IN 
WORLD. 



THE 



There have been from the be- 
ginning only two fundamental 
movements in this world, and these 
are becoming in Europe more and 
more distinct, powerful, and an- 
tagonistic. The one has its source 
in the Catholic Church, which is 
the concrete form of the direct ac- 
tion of God on society in view of 
man's true destination. The other 
consists in rebellion against this 
divine action, and finds on earth 
its headquarters and expression in 
heresies, in despotisms, and, more 
particularly in recent days, in or- 
ganized secret societies. 

III. — FIRST MOVEMENT. 

The order and stability of mo- 
dern society and civilization are 



based upon the truths which find 
their root and support in the doc- 
trines unswervingly taught and un- 
compromisingly upheld by the Ca- 
tholic Church. Among these great 
truths are the divinity of Christ 
and the divine establishment and 
perpetuity of his church upon 
earth; the unquestionable respon- 
sibility of both kings and peoples to 
the law of God ; the indissolubility 
of the marriage tie and the sacred- 
ness of the family ; the reign of the 
law of justice between man and 
man, and, when violated, the strict 
obligation of restitution ; the sa- 
cred ness of oaths and the equality 
of all men, without distinction of 
rank, color, or race, before God. By 
the undeviating application of these 
and other great first truths of di- 
vine revelation and of human rea- 
son, at the cost of the lives of mil- 
lions of her children ; by withstand- 
ing the fierce attacks of the barba- 
rians of the northern forests of Eu- 
rope ; by her contest with Mahomet 
and his followers ; and by her resis- 
tance to the errors and vices of her 
inconsistent and disobedient chil- 
dren, the Catholic Church formed 
the conscience of modem society, 
founded the nations of Europe, 
united them in a universal com- 
monwealth called Christendom, in 
view and as the means of establish- 
ing the reign of God in men's souls 
and upon earth, as preliminary to 
the kingdom of heaven hereafter, 
issuing finally into the Christian 
cosmos* 

Such has been the work of the 
first movement. 

IV. — SECOND MOVEMENT. 

All heresies, all despotisms, all 
secret societies have this postulate 
in common : that the overthrow of 
the Catholic Church is a sine qua 
nan to their attaining ultimate sue- 



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58o The Political Crisis in France and its Bearings, 



cess. Hence there is an instinc- 
tive and unanimous sympathy 
among their adherents whenever 
there is an attack aimed against the 
Catholic Church — an unmistakable 
sign of their common origin and an 
unquestionable proof of their pa- 
rentage. Peoples of countries dis- 
tinguished for their profession of 
universal toleration and champion- 
ship of the right of every individ- 
ual to the enjoyment of his own 
religious convictions will applaud 
to the skies the violation of these 
principles, provided the persecuted 
be only Catholics ! Every right 
guaranteed by constitutional law, 
every principle of divine and hu- 
man justice, may be trampled under 
foot — yea, with sympathy and ap- 
plause — provided those who do so 
are animated with hatred for the 
Catholic Church ! Witness the 
public sympathy, both in England 
and the United States, with the war 
of imprisonments, fines, and ban- 
ishments waged against Catholics, 
with murderous intent against their 
church, by the "iron and blood" 
chancellor of the Hohenzollem 
Empire; witness the confiscations 
and sacrilegious spoliations by the 
crew of inMels of Italy, led by a 
Mancini, against the church; wit- 
^ ness the banishment of all the 
Catholic priests without exception 
from its district, in violation of the 
federal constitution, by the canton 
of Berne, and the robbery of the 
churches built by the sacrifices of 
loyal Catholics, which are given 
over to the use of a rebellious and 
insignificant faction by the authori- 
ties of the Swiss so-called republic ; 
witness, to come nearer home, the 
assassination, by the agents of secret 
societies, of the President of Equa- 
dor, and, within a few weeks, the 
poisoning of the Archbishop of 
Quito at the altar ! There are none 



to raise a voice, not to say a cry of 
horror or indignation, among these 
sticklers for liberty and justice, in 
condemnation of this wholesale ty- 
ranny, these cruel persecutions, and 
this secret and deadly violence. 
This is well known by the atheists, 
who aim at the ruin of all Christian 
institutions : that to delude a large 
class in these so-called liberty-lov- 
ing countries, and gain their sym- 
pathy, material aid, and the use and 
support of their press, all that is re- 
quired to make them run like an 
enraged bull at a red rag is to shout 
lustily, " Ultramontanism !" "Vati- 
canism!" "Popery!" 

Herein lies also the interpreta- 
tion of the assertion of the govern- 
ments actuated by an anti-Christian 
spirit and under the influence of 
members of secret societies, to 
whom they are bound to trim, that 
the present attitude of France 
is dangerous to the peace of Eu- 
rope. That is, the secret designs 
of radicalism are detected, and 
their plots are in danger of being 
checkmated. " Let the galled jades 
wince." At the same time it gives 
the explanation of the motives 
of Marshal MacMahon, which is 
nothing else than to head off the 
efforts of these anti-Christian con- 
spirators, and prevent France from 
falling into their hands and the civ- 
ilized world from witnessing the rep- 
etition of the atrocities of the Com- 
mune of the petroleuse notoriety of 
1871. A large portion of the peo- 
ple, and with them the press, of 
England and the United States, is 
duped by cunning and designing 
men ; and probably, if all were 
known, a portion of Bismarck's 
Reptile Fund has found its way to 
their shores and done some ser- 
vice. 

The present crisis in France is 
fraught with her deliverance as well 



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The Political Crisis in France and its Bearings. 581 



as that of Europe from the most 
desperate and widespread organ- 
ized conspiracy that has ever exist- 
ed in the world. They fail to inter- 
pret rightly public events and to 
discern the signs of the times who 
take it to mean anything less than 
the saving of Christianity and mo- 
dern civilization in Europe. 

^* Let order diet 

Let one spirit of the first-born Cain 
Reign in all bosoms, that, each hesurt being set 
On bloody courses, the rude scene may end 
And darkness be the burier of the dead.** 

Such is their aim, and it is also 
their undisguised and outspoken 
word ; for these men " know not 
how to blush." * 

And these are the chief charac- 
teristics of the second move- 
ment. 

V. — THE LINES OF BATTLE. 

The explosion of the first mine 
laid by secret societies has been 
heard in the outbreak of the war 
between Russia and Turkey, if we 
are to credit Disraeli, than whom 
no man is in a position to be bet- 
ter informed of the decisions gone 
forth from their secret revolution- 
ary headquarters. Unless thwart- 
ed by a counter movement, prompt- 
ed by the instincts of self-preserva- 
tion on the part of all the Chris- 
tian and conservative elements of 
European society, we may expect 
to hear, as in 1848, the successive 
explosions of revolution in Paris, 
Vienna, Rome, Madrid, and Berlin ; 
and being more skilfully planned, 
and more extensively spread, and 
more powerful, a revolutionary up- 
heaving of the populations in St. 
Petersburg and London as well as 

* If any of our readen wish authentic informa- 
tioB on this point, they will find it abundantly in 
a book entitled Lts LiUrmux Ptints far E»x^ 
Mimes, Par G. Lebrocquex. Pans: Victor 
FUoiA. 1876. 



in the lesser centres of Europe, is 
not improbable. 

Men who read in consequences 
their causes will not fail to see the 
significance of the position taken 
by the President of the Republic of 
France ; for, whatever may be his 
reputation as a politician, his mili- 
tary sagacity and strategical ge- 
nius are unquestioned. President 
MacMahon's change of cabinet is 
the first declared, earnest, and de- 
cided step taken to avert from 
France and all Europe this great 
and threatening catastrophe. For 
Jules Simon surreptitiously attempt- 
ed to insert the edge of the radical 
wedge, whose butt end is made up 
of socialism, communism, and an- 
archy, into the Republic of France, 
which M. Gambetta, his aspiring 
and designated successor, would 
have energetically and logically 
driven home and riven her asun- 
der, to the delight of her enemies 
and to the advantage of her foes. 
Let us hope that the President of 
France has taken time by the fore- 
lock. 

The die is cast; there can no 
longer be any neutrality or secon- 
dary motives to divide one's alle- 
giance between these two distinctly- 
drawn camps. He is a traitor to 
Christ and a renegade Christian 
who stands aloof or hesitates which 
side to take when a battle is fair- 
ly drawn between Christianity and 
atheism. Every Christian, what- 
ever may be his peculiar tenets, will 
make common cause when the pri- 
mary truths of divine revelation 
and the first principles of morality 
are at stake. All political party 
designatioivs will be sunk into ob^ 
livion by men who intelligently and 
disinterestedly love their country 
and their race, when both society 
and civilization are endangered. 

The present crisis in France is a 



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582 Thi Political Crisis in France and its Bearings. 



call to both religion and patriotism, 
in their best and widest sense, to 
unite in a common defence of their 
truest and highest interests. 

There is no alternative, and he 
who does not see this battle immi- 
nent in Europe is like an officer 
on board of a ship, lulled in a dream 
of false peace or disputing about 
the rigging of his vessel when the 
enemy is fastening a torpedo to 
its bow that will in a few seconds 
blow them all into atoms and send 
their vessel to the bottom of the 
ocean. 

The conservative elements, if not 
from higher motives, will be forced 
to unite from the instinct of self- 
preservation to save their property 
from the petroleurs and their necks 
from the guillotine. 

VI. — THE ISSUE OF THE BATTLE. 

This movement in its weak be- 
ginnings in France, regarding only 
impending dangers to the state, 
will not exhaust itself until it has 
restored the Catholic Church to 
her normal position in Europe. 
This final result is no more intend- 
ed by the leaders of the movement 
than it was the design of the Allied 
Powers to restore the Papacy at the 
downfall of the first Napoleon. It 
is a divine law that man acts, but 
God directs. 

" There's a divinity that shapes oar ends, • 
Rou^-hew them how we will.*' 

There is, then, this increasing pur- 
pose running through the history 
of God's dealings with the human 
race : to bring into clearer light the 
divine cliaracter of his church, his 
spouse, rendering it less and less 
possible for men to recognize his 
existence and not be Christians, 
and, being Christians, not to be 
Catholics. This is the key of uni- 
versal history. 



There is not an ^ ultramontane,'' 
a " clerical," or a " papist," in the 
sense in which these words are 
used by those hostile to the actual 
movement in France; and if its 
final outcome be favorable to the 
Catholic Church, it is because this 
is the nature of things. ^ 

VII. — ERRORS OF MODERN PHILO- 
SOPHY. 

Europe for the past century has 
been in the state of transition to a 
new epoch — a renewal of Catholi- 
city. This statement is in fiat con- 
tradiction with the assertions of 
some modern thinkers who claim 
the title of philosophers. They 
would have us believe that reli- 
gious motives — or, as they term it, 
" theological motives," which is the 
same thing; for theology is nothing 
else than the scientific statement of 
religion — are exhausted. This is 
equivalent to saying that human 
nature is exhausted ; for religion is 
what lies deepest in human nature, 
and consequently all other motives 
will be exhausted before those of 
religion. 

Religion is the very essence of 
man's nature; for it springs from 
the intellectual sense of his entire 
dependence for existence on an ab- 
solute cause. Religion is, in its 
last analysis, reason's recognition 
of God and man's fulfilment of his 
relations to God. Religion and 
reason are, therefore, correlative- 
Men who pretend that religious 
motives have ceased to have a 
strong hold upon human nature 
labor under a complete hallucina- 
tion. First they fancy that those 
faculties through which God acts 
on the soul, and which bring the 
soul in contact with God, have by 
some strange freak suddenly be- 
come defunct. That religious mo- 
tives to an almost incredible extent 



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The Political Crisis in France and its Bearings. 



583 



have become extinct in some men's 
souls we, with pain and pity, admit ; 
that this is the case with the bulk 
of mankind is an egregious mistake. 
There has seldom been an age when 
religious questions occupied so large 
a share of intellectual attention as 
our own ; and religious motives still 
influence the bulk of mankind in 
their conduct. 

It is too true, however, that a 
class of men have fatally succeeded, 
by a false education and an erro- 
neous philosophy, in paralyzing the 
action of the noblest faculties of 
the soul ; but this disease is con- 
fined to a small class. Deluded 
men ! they would have the rest of 
mankind to esteem their descent as 
a privilege and count their defect 
an honor. 

The second form in which the 
symptoms of this malady manifest 
themselves is the eschewing of the 
first principles of sound logic. As 
"God is a provisionary idea," or 
" man's intuition of himself project- 
ed into space," or " the creation of 
a wish " — so runs their premise ; 
and the religious faculties of the 
soul having become extinct, they 
jump to the most absurd of all con- 
clusions : " God is extinct," " the 
soul's immortality is a fable," and 
'* religion is a worn-out supersti- 
tion"! The inspired Psalmist 
wrote in his day that none but 
" the fool said in his heart, There 
is no God." Were he now to 
come upon earth, he would be sur- 
prised to see the fools of his time 
dressed in the garb of philosophers 
and proclaiming from the house- 
tops as the highest wisdom, " God 
is extinct !" These delirious minds 
are like the ostrich, which, when 
on the point of being captured, 
blinds its eyes by thrusting its head 
under the sand, and foolishly fan- 
cies, because of its incapacity to see, 



it has destroyed its pursuers and 
escaped all danger. 

" Le nid n*a pu cxhi Toiseau.*' 

" I tell thee, friend, a speculating churl 
Is like a beast some eril spirit chaises 
Along a banen heath in one perpetual whtrU 
While round about liefair, green pasturing places.'* 

The eternal God is, and in him 
is all that lives, moves, and exists, 
and his providence directs all things 
to the end for which he called them 
into existence. 

The world is not out of joint, 
nor is the responsibility of setting it 
right placed upon the unsteady and 
feeble shoulders of inventors of 
absurd religions, the cogitators of 
false philosophies, or the dreamers 
of sterile Utopias. 

God is not ousted from his crea- 
tion as easily as these ambitious 
philosophers, who are so ready to 
occupy his place in the universe, 
would have the world believe. 

VIII. — MISTAKE OF MODERN PHI- 
LOSOPHERS. 

The mistake of a class of specu- 
lative thinkers consists in regard- 
ing the state of transition of society 
from one epoch to another — in in- 
terpreting a phase of religion — as 
the change and vanishing of the 
indestructible elements of all reli- 
gion. 

A certain class of truths suits one 
age, awakens the greatest enthusi- 
asm and profoundest devotion, and. 
in another epoch falls dead almost 
upon the ears of men and hardly 
calls forth an audible response. 
Epochs differ from epochs in their 
aspirations and instincts, like those 
of individuals ; and this is a law 
of the providential education and. 
growth of the human race. One 
race of men differs from another in-i 
its capacity to seize hold of, ap-< 
preciate, and give the proper ex- 



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584 



The Political Crisis in France and its Bearings. 



pression to certain truths, and in 
turn is brought to the front ranks 
in the providential march of hu- 
manity. And this is the intention 
of the Author of the human family. 
Men of the same race differ also 
greatly from each other; for in the 
wide universe there are no two 
things in all respects precisely 
alike, and in this is seen displayed 
God's creative power. 

These separate epochs, this vari- 
ety of races, and these differences 
among men afford to Christianity 
the opportunities and means of giv- 
ing expression to the great truths 
contained in all religions of which 
she is the adequate representation. 
For Christianity is the synthesis of 
all the scattered truths of every 
form of religion which has existed 
from the beginning of the world, 
and the Catholic Church is its com- 
plete organic, living form. Christi- 
anity is the abstract expression of 
the Catholic Church, which, in the 
successive centuries of her exist- 
ence, has come in contact with 
every race of men, and has known 
how to Christianize and retain them 
in her fold in harmony with their 
natural instincts. She has met hu- 
manity in every stage of its devel- 
opment, from the intellectual and 
refined Greek to the man-eating 
savage, and, by working on the 
foundations of nature, she has 
captivated them to the easy yoke 
of Christ. The Catholic Church 
alone has known how to supply the 

•defects of human nature and cor- 
rect its vices while giving free play 
to its instincts and retaining the 

•charm of its native originality — 
not by a superior human sagacity 

•or a preternatural craft, as sophists 
would make the world believe, but 
because in her dwells that divine 
Spirit which breathed into man's 
nostrils the breath of life, and made 



him a living, rational, immortal soul, 
and in whom he lives, moves, and 
has his being. 

God is not extinct nor are reli- 
gious motives effete. The mistake 
of these theorizers consists in sup- 
posing that the present is the fin- 
ality of Christianity, whereas the 
hand of God is opening the way 
by purifying his church, by direct- 
ing the movements of nations and 
the issues of the world, in order 
that she may shape the coming future 
beyond all past experience in her 
progressive approach to the per- 
fect realization of her divine Ideal. 

" An age comes on, which came three times of old, 
When the enfeebled nations shall stand still 
To be by Chxistian sdenoe shaped at will." 

IX. — NEW UNITED CHRISTENDOM. 

Are the intelligent Christians of 
our day sufficiently aware of the 
serious character and the extent 
of the dangers which are now im- 
pending? Do they appreciate the 
import of the questions which en- 
gage and agitate the active intel- 
lect of their contemporaries ? Are 
they sensible of the weight of their 
responsibilities, and ready to lift 
their minds and hearts to the gran- 
deur of the mission of the age in 
which their lot is cast ? 

He who can see things as they 
are throughout the world where the 
Christian faith has spread, and ap- 
preciate them rightly, cannot help 
seeing that a fresh unfolding of the 
great design of Christianity in all 
its simplicity, vastness, and splen- 
dor, and a stricter application of its 
principles in the several spheres of 
life, alone are adequate to meet all 
the genuine aspirations and satisfy 
the honest demands of this age. 

The attack is against the prima- 
ry truths of reason no less than the 
essential truths of divine revela- 
tion, and the defence, to be ade* 



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The Political Crisis in France and its Bearings. 585 



quate and victorious, must at least 
be equal to the attack. Thus the 
law of reaction is forcing upon the 
leading Christian minds a reaffir- 
mation of natural and revealed 
truths with a completeness and a 
force which the world has not up 
to this time witnessed. There can be 
no compromise with the false princi- 
ples of atheists in religion, revolu- 
tionists in the state, and anarchists 
in society. Their errors must be re- 
futed and their movements counter- 
acted. The positive side of truth 
must be brought out and clothed in 
all its beauty. Tlve true picture 
must be presented and contrasted 
with the false, so as to captivate 
the intelligence and enlist the en- 
thusiasm of the active minds of the 
youth of the age. This is the great 
work that, in the economy of God, 
is mainly left to the initiative of in- 
dividual minds of the members of 
his church. It is the work of Ca- 
tholic genius illuminated by the 
light and the interior inspirations 
of the working of the Holy Spirit. 
The Church, in every critical or im- 
portant epoch in her history, has al- 
ways given birth to providential 
men; these are her Gregories, 
Augustines, Benedicts, Bernards, 
Francises, Neris, Ignatiuses, Vin- 
cents of Paul. 

As in the past, so in the present, 
a new phase of the church will be 
presented to the world — one that 
will reveal more clearly and com- 
pletely her divine character. " It 
is the divine action of the Holy 
Spirit in and through the church 
which gives to her organization the 
reason for its existence. And it is 
the fuller explanation of the divine 
side of the church, and its relations 
with the human side, giving always 
to the former its due accentuation, 
that will contribute to the increase 
of the interior life of the faithful, 



and aid powerfully to remove the 
blindness of those — whose number 
is much larger than is commonly 
supposed — ^who only see the church 
on her human side."* 

The reintegration into general 
principles of the scattered truths 
contained in the religious, social, 
and political sects and parties of our 
day would reveal to all upright 
souls their own ideal more clearly 
and completely, and at the same 
time present to them the practical 
measures and force necessary to its 
realization. By this process sects 
and parties and antagonisms would 
become as far as possible extinct — 
not by way of antagonism, but by 
the power of assimilation and at- 
traction. Just as the lesser mag- 
net is drawn to the greater by cords 
of attraction identical with its own, 
only more intense, more powerful, 
and all-embracing, so the frag- 
mentary truths contained in error, 
when reintegrated in their gene- 
ral principles, will be drawn to 
them and their division disappear. 
Christianity once more will be per- 
fect in one, and, uniting its forces 
for the conversion of the world, 
will direct humanity as one man to 
its divine destination. 

X. — THE KINGDOM OF GOD ON 
EARTH. 

Is not such a consummation the 
answer to the devout aspiration of 
all sincere Christian souls? Is it 
not also the promise of Christianity, 
and was it not the object of the most 
earnest prayer of its Founder when 
upon earth } The Son of God did 
not pray in vain. 

Underneath all the errors and 
evils found among men of all times 

•An Exp»ntton o/tk* Churchy in view ofr^- 
etnt Dijficuities and Comtrcvertie* and tktprtt-' 
ent Need 0/ the Ag*. London: Pickering. 1875. 
Thb Catholic World, April, 1875, p. 198. 



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586 The Political Crisis in France and' its Bearings. 



is the prime desire 'for the know- 
ledge of the truth and the native 
hunger for the good. Now, the 
absolute truth which contains all 
truth, and the absolute good which 
contains the supreme good, is God. 
God is therefore the ideal of the ra- 
tional soul, the term of all its seek* 
ing, and the end of all its wishes. 
The perfect union of the soul with 
God is bliss. 

Again, Christianity does not con- 
fine itself to the reign of God in 
the soul ; it seeks to establish the 
reign of God upon earth. "Thy 
kingdom come; thy will be done 
on earth as it is in heaven," was 
the petition of Christ to his hea- 
venly Father. His life was not 
confined to contemplation and 
preaching; he "went about doing 
good." 

Genuine contemplation and ac- 
tion are inseparable. He who sees 
truth loves truth, and he who loves 
truth seeks to spread the know- 
ledge and the practice of truth. 
Divine love is inftnitely active, and, 
when it has entered the human 
heart and has set it on fire, it pushes 
man to all outward perfection and 
visible justice. No men have la- 
bored so zealously and so efiiciently 
for their fellow-men, for the estab- 
lishment of God*s kingdom upon 
earth, as the saints of God. 

The love of God and the love of 
man are one. God promises his 
reward not to the ignorant, or to 
the indolent, or to the indifferent, 
but to those who visit the prisoner, 
feed the hungry, give drink to the 
thirsty, clothe the naked, to the 
doing of good works as the evi- 
dence of the true faith. 

The Catholic Church teaches to 
men their true relations to God 
and to their fellow-men, and by 
the practical application of the 
principles which govern these re- 



lations are removed the errors and 
vices which hinder the establish- 
ment of the reign of God in men's 
souls and everywhere upon earth. 
The history of civilization since 
the moment of the church's in- 
stitution on the day of Pente- 
cost is nothing else than a record 
of the several steps of progress of 
society, under the guidance of the 
Catholic Church, in reaching this 
goal. Whatever elements the nine- 
teenth century possesses superior to 
Judaism, paganism, barbarism, and 
Islamism are due to the uninterrupt- 
ed action of Christ upon the world 
through the Catholic Church. Mod- 
ern civilization may be defined as 
the result of nineteen centuries of 
action of the Holy Spirit dwelling 
in the Catholic Church in establish- 
ing the reign of God in men's souls 
and the kingdom of heaven upon 
earth. "God is now taking the 
dross out of the crucible, so as to 
render his people free from all 
alloy, and once more to clothe the 
church for which our Lord deliver- 
ed himself up with beauty resplen- 
dent with glory. And when God 
shall have accomplished this, he 
will remove the rod of his justice 
from the church, and, that his di- 
vine name may no longer be blas- 
phemed, he will give her victory, 
a victory far more brilliant than her 
sufferings have been terrible. May 
this triumph not be delayed ! " * 

XI. — THE CATHOLIC IDEA OF HEA- 
VEN. 

The Catholic Church teaches that 
the road to a blessed hereafter is by 
striving to establish the kingdom of 
heaven upon earth ; it is after a life 
spent in practical good works that 
the soul merits to hear the words, 

•Letter of Pope Pius IX. to Mgr. Laduu, 
April 97, 1876. 



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The Political Crisis in France and its Bearings. 587 



" Well done, good and faithful ser- 
vant : enter thou into the joy of thy 
Lord." But then do all the soul's 
interests cease the moment it has 
left. this world and entered upon 
its future life ? Is it true that the 
only thought of a true Christian is 
to get well out of this world and 
all that belongs to it, and give it 
no further concern? Is this the 
Catholic idea ? 

Not at all. The Catholic idea is 
that as our transformation in God 
is perfected, so do all the faculties 
of the soul increase. The soul 
knows more, loves more, and does 
more infinitely in the blessed land 
than when upon this earth. The 
lives of most of us while here are 
only a little better than a sleep. 
The soul's vision of the divine Es- 
sence, and its participation in the 
divine Nature, render it, like the 
angels, " God's coadjutor " in the 
realization of his ideal in the vast 
universe. So far from the know- 
ledge of this globe, and the affec- 
tion towards its inhabitants or in- 
terests in its concerns, being lessen- 
ed or lost by the citizens of heaven, 
the knowledge acquired and the 
affections formed during their life 
upon earth are essentially retained, 
and are enlarged and intensified; 
and on this truth is based the Ca- 
tholic doctrine of the communion 
and invocation of saints. Hence 
to this knowledge and affection 
and constant interest taken by 
the souls in heaven in the welfare 
of this world, and of those from 
whom they are corporally but not 
really separated, and to their pow- 
er to aid them, is owing the adop- 
tion of angels and saints as patrons 
by Catholic nations, cities, villages, 
towns, and by every individual Ca- 
tholic. He who is ignorant of the 
Catholic doctrine of the commu- 
nion of saints, and who is not with- 



in the Catholic fold, can have no 
conception of the intimate and in- 
tense, uninterrupted spiritual inter- 
course between the soul of a truly 
devout Catholic and the angelical 
and saintly inhabitants of heaven. 
The church militant and Ihe church 
triumphant are substantially one, 
form one communion, and their ac- 
tion is inseparable. The Catholic 
idea, then, is this : that the power 
of the soul, on entering into hea- 
ven, to aid man upon earth in the 
realization of his true destiny is 
redoubled ; and that this power is 
most efficaciously employed in our 
favor by the souls of the eternally 
blessed. The retrospective action 
of the inhabitants of the other 
world on the welfare of this world 
greatly accelerates its progress, and, 
compared with their direct action 
while upon earth, it is immeasurably 
greater and free from all alloy. 

XII. — FALSE ACCUSATIONS OF MOD- 
ERN INFIDELS. 

The Catholic Church places no 
gulf between God and humanity, or 
divorce between heaven and earth, 
or antagonism between revelation 
and reason, or religion and sci- 
ence ; and she repudiates the doc- 
trine which emphasizes faith at the 
expense of good works. Hence 
the accusation of modern infidels 
against Christianity, as confining it- 
self exclusively to man's happiness 
hereafter — " a post-mortem happi* 
ness " — while ignoring his ac- 
tual, present good — ** ante-mortem 
happiness " — may have some show 
of reason as against Protestant sects, 
especially of the Calvinistic sect; 
but it is altogether false, and must 
be set down to defective knowledge, 
when made against the Catholic 
Church. 

It is through the faithful recep- 
tion of the divine action of the 



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588 



The Political Crisis in France and its Bearings. 



Catholic Church by individuals and 
society that the highest good possi- 
ble for man here and hereafter can 
be surely attained ; and this needs 
only clearly to be seen to restore 
to her true and visible fold all the 
descendants of the members sepa- 
rated from the Catholic Church 
by the religious revolution of the 
sixteenth century, who are in good 
faith. 

And it is the bringing out into a 
clearer light the divine side of the 
church, and to the front those 
truths which eliminate the errors 
rife in our day and their stricter 
application to present evils, that, 
by the instinct of the Holy Spirit, 
now preoccupies the active intelli- 
gent mind of Catholics Chroughout 
the world, especially in countries 
where the dangers are roost immi- 
nent, such as France, Germany, and 
Italy. 

XIII. — PROMISES, FALSE AND TRUE. 

There are two controlling forces, 
explain their origin as we may, visi- 
ble in the conflicting movements 
of human affairs in this world. 
The one places man in possession 
of the Supreme Good, and makes 
him a co-worker with his Creator 
in the realization of the ideal for 
which God called this great uni- 
verse into existence. The other is 
instigated by the enemy of God and 
the human race, seeking by false 
promises to lead man astray. 

" You shall be as gods, knowing 
good and evil," was Satan's pro- 
mise to our first parents. This pro- 
mise contained what was desirable 
for man ; God had implanted in the 
human soul the aspiration for its 
fulfilment. But what the enemy 
promised he had not the power to 
perform, and the road that he point- 
ed out as leading to the fulfilment 



of the promise led in a wrong di- 
rection. 

The right answer of our first 
parents to Satan would have been : 
** We know that God has made our 
souls in his own image and likeness, 
and that we shall be made partici- 
pators of his divine Nature, and 
thereby deified ; and as our Creator 
has endowed us with the gift of in- 
telligence, we shall also gain the 
knowledge of good and evil — for this 
is its proper object. And we know 
also with certitude that we shall 
gain these great rewards by follow- 
ing the paths which God has point- 
ed out to us." Had they thus spok- 
en, they would have, in the strength 
of their innocence and conscious 
rectitude, added : " Begone, temp- 
ter ! Thou art a liar ; for what thou 
dost promise it is not thine to give ; 
and instead of wishing our eleva- 
tion, thou seekest to accomplish our 
fall and utter ruin !" 

As in the beginning, so now, Sa- 
tan seizes hold of the noblest aspi- 
rations of the soul, and, by deceiving 
men under the guise of a real good, 
leads them quite astray. For what 
underlies the promises of Protest- 
antism and its innumerable sects; 
and rationalism, so-called, and its 
different phases; and the secular- 
ists, positivists, scientists, atheists, 
radicals, materialists, spiritists, re- 
volutionists, evolutionists, socialists, 
pessimists, fre^e-religionists, com- 
munists, internationalists, optimists, 
theists, nihilists, kulturkdmpfer^ ag- 
nostics, intuitionists, transcenden- 
talists, and other sects and parties 
too numerous to mention — for their 
name is legion, and their confusion 
of tongues is as great as that of 
Babel — what underlies their pro- 
mises is in one aspect true and in 
a sense desirable. The right an- 
swer to all their fine promises is 
this : ^* You affirm undoubted truths 



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The Political Crisis in France and its Bearings. 589 



and you hold out a desirable good ; 
but the way that you point out for 
realizing the one and attaining the 
other is subversive of all truth 
and the supreme good, and it will 
not reach even what you aim at, 
but end in entire disappointment 
and anarchy. Put together the 
fragmentary truths affirmed by each 
of your different religious sects, and 
you will find them all contained in 
Catholicity. Make a list of all the 
honest demands for ameliorations 
and reforms in man's social, indus- 
trial, and political condition — it will 
not be a short one — and you will 
discover that they have their truth 
in the spirit, and are justified by 
the teachings and the practice, of 
the Catholic Church." O sincere 
seeker after truth ! did you but 
know it, the path lies open before 
you to a perennial fountain of truth, 
where you can slake to the full that 
thirst which has so long tormented 
your soul. O sincere lover of your 
fellow-men ! there is a living body 
which you may see and co-operate 
with, whose divine action is realiz- 
ing a heavenly vision for the whole 
human race, brighter and more 
beautiful than the ideal which so 
often haunts your lonely dreams ! 

The divine ideal is a God-given 
aspiration to your soul, but the way 
to realize it is not by building up a 
tower of Babel. 

XIV. — CONCLUSION. 

The evolution of Catholicity 
which is now coming slowly to 
the light will gather up all the rich 
treasures of the past, march in re- 
sponse to every honest demand of 
the interests of the actual present, 
and guide the genuine aspirations 
of the race in the sure way to the 
more perfect future of its hopes. 

This sublime mission is not the 
self-imposed work of any man or 



party of men, but the divinely-im- 
posed task of religion, of the pre- 
sent, visible, living body of Christ, 
the church of God. None other 
has the power to renew the world, 
unite together in one band the 
whole human race, and direct its 
energies to enterprises worthy of 
man's great destiny. Marshal Mac* 
Mahon, Duke de Broglie, or any 
one else, legitimists, imperialists, 
Orleanists, republicans, anti-re- 
publicans, these men and these 
parties in France may contribute 
more or less as instruments to 
the initiation of the new order 
of things in Europe, but that is 
all. They will betray the cause of 
God and the interests of humanity, 
if they should attempt to turn it to 
any individual account or to any 
partisan triumph, whether called 
religious or political. The enemies 
of the church may place hindrances 
in her way, but they cannot stop 
her in reaching her goal. God 
alone rules and reigns. 

God has spoken his " thus far 
shalt thou go, and no further " to 
his enemies and to all the persecu- 
tors of the church of Christ. When 
God arises, his enemies will flee 
and be scattered. Their strength, 
compared with that of his children, 
is as the strength of a rope of sand. 
Their power is gained by secrecy, 
and their influence by threats and 
deeds of violence; for their real 
numbers constitute but a small frac- 
tion of the French, German, Ita- 
lian, and Spanish or any other peo- 
ple. The present struggle will ren- 
der this fact evident to all the world. 

Strange destiny that of France, 
to be the leader of Europe both 
for good and for evil ! France was 
the first nation converted to Chris- 
tianity in western Europe, and the 
first to proclaim herself, as a nation, 
infidel. France will be the first to 



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590 The Political Crisis tn France atid its Bearings. 



recover from her errors and give 
the initial blow that will end in the 
overthrow of the enemies of modern 
civilization and Christianity. 

The Marshal-President of the 
Republic of France, the brave sol- 
dier, the man without fear or re- 
proach, is not the man to betray 
his high trusts through any per- 
sonal ambition, or to any party, 
legitimist, Orleanist, imperialist, 
Gambettist, or whatever may be 
the name which it bears on its 
banner. 

The mission of the President of 
France is to keep ambitious men and 
partisans at bay, and afford the best 
elements and the truest interests of 
all France a fair expression and the 
opportunity of forming a stable and 
suitable political government. The 
Catholic Church has been made to 
suffer too much and too long from 
crowned emperors, royal dynasties, 
and political factions in France and 
elsewhere to identify her great 
cause with theirs. 

France, under the providence of 
God, is slowly being taught to 
stand on her own feet, to assert her 
true manhood, and to practise self- 
government. The political virtues 
the French people have practised, 
and the self-control they have dis- 
played, since the formation of the 
republic, have discomfited their 
enemies, increased the admiration 
of their friends, and won the ap- 
plause of the civilized world. 



France never was so really great 
as she is at this moment. 

The purity of the motives of the 
President of the Republic, the dis- 
interested love of his country, and 
his undaunted valor have never 
been impeached, nor has his es- 
cutcheon ever borne the slightest 
stain, nis sagacity and prudence 
have never been at fault. That he 
has a will Jules Simon has learned 
to his cost. Patrick MacMahon, the 
marshal of the armies of France and 
the first President of her Republic, 
possesses evidently all the distin- 
guishing qualities of the first com- 
mander-in-chief of the American 
army and the first President of the 
Republic of the United States — 
George Washington. The French 
people can safely trust for one term, 
and not unlikely for a second, their 
liberties, their interests, and their 
honor to the keeping of such a man. 

France will find in her president 
a providential man, and his name 
will go down to posterity with the 
title of our own great patriot, the 
noblest of all titles — " MacMahon, 
the Father of his Country." 

The turning point of a new era 
for Europe and of the renewal of 
Catholicity is entrusted by divine 
Providence to the hands of the 
eldest daughter of his church — 
France ! In the answer of France 
to the present issue lies the secret 
of the weal or the woe of the future 
of Europe. 



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Phil Redmond of Balfymacreedy. 



59' 



PHIL REDMOND OF BALLYMACREEDY. 



" Whisht !" exclaimed the blind 
hostler attached to the Derralossory 
Arms. " There's a car rowlin* along 
the Bray Road, an*, from the sperrit 
that's in the baste, it's Luke Fin- 
nigan that's dhrivin' him. Ay, 
faix," he added with a self-satis- 
fied chuckle, "an* that's Luke Finni- 
gan's note. I'd know it. from this 
I'Arklow." 

A wild whoop and a sound of 
wheels in the direction indicated 
announced the approaching vehicle, 
and, ere the sightless hostler could 
grope his way from the snug corner 
in which he had been ensconced by 
the roaring kitchen fire — it was the 
middle of July — an outside car 
dashed up to the principal door of 
the hotel, stopped with a jerk as if 
on the edge of a precipice, and the 
driver, throwing the reins upon the 
neck of the panting horse, cried 
out as he gaily entered the hos- 
telry: 

"Now, thin, Misther Murphy, be 
nimble wud the liquor. There's a 
rale gintleman goin' for to stand, 
an' I'm as dhry as a cuckoo.*' 

Upon the vehicle sat a young 
man whose exquisitely-fitting frock- 
coat, faultless linen, diamond studs, 
soft hat, and square-toed boots be- 
spoke the American. He was fair, 
with soft and expressive eyes, and 
wore a Henri Quatre beard which 
admirably became his long and pen- 
sive face. 

"Yer welkim to the County 
Wicklow, sir," cried the hostler, who 
had approached the car and was 
engaged in giving a drink to the 
jaded animal. " It's an illigant 
place for rocks an' rivers an' threes 



an' scenery. Sorra a forriner that 
cums into it but is loath for to lave it. 
It takes a hoult av thim." 

"It is a very, very beautiful 
place," exclaimed the new-comer 
enthusiastically, as he sprang to 
terra firma, " So green, so fresh, so 
— but you cannot enjoy it, my poor 
fellow !" suddenly perceiving the 
sightless orbs which were turned 
toward him. 

" It's many a day sence I seen it, 
sir," responded the man, with a 
weary moan in his utterance — 
"many an' many a day." 

"Thrue for him," added the 
driver, emerging from the hotel and 
swabbing his mouth with the back 
of a bronzed and blistered hand, 
while bright beads twinkled like 
fallen stars in his merry eyes. 
" He's dark sence he was a gossoon ! 
An' it's a sight for to see him along 
wud the horses in the stable; he'll 
go into stalls, an' the bastes kickin' 
thim to smithereens, but sorra a 
word they'll say to him, though 
they'd be afther knockin' sawdust 
out av any other tin min. He 
th ravels the roads day an' night. To 
be sure it's all wan to him in re- 
gard to his bein' dark, but he'll 
work his way down to Lake Dan 
below — ay, an' to the Sivin Church- 
es, begor." 

" God is good to me, sir," said the 
hostler ; " an' whin it plazed him for 
to take me eyesight, he gev me 
sight in me ears an' hands." 

" Here, my poor fellow." And the 
stranger placed a coin in the other's 
horny palm. 

"A five-shilling bit ! Och, thin, 
may the saints light ye to glory, an' 



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FhU Redmond of Bally macreedy. 



may ye never die till they sind for 
ye ! It's lonely they'll be till ye go 
to thim." 

By this time the car was sur- 
rounded by a motley group of 
tatterdemalions of all ages, sizes, 
and sexes, in every stage of de- 
crepitude and every variety of rag- 
gedness. 

** Throw a few coppers to an ould 
widdy, an* the Lord reward ye !" 
exclaimed one. 

"Ye'U never miss a fourpenny 
bit," added another. 

" A sixpince to an orfin will take 
a bag o' coals from undher ye in 
purgathory," chimed in a third. 

" Give us the price av an ounce 
av tay," droned a fourth. 

" More power to the stars an* 
sthripes ! Three cheers for Ameriky, 
boys I'* roared a leathern-lunged 
dwarf, throwing a rabbit-skin cap 
into the air. This appeal was re- 
sponded to with an enthusiasm that 
brought the fire into the stranger's 
eye. Turning round upon the 
steps of the hotel — a long, thatched, 
whitewashed, two-storied building — 
he made a sign as if desirous of 
addressing the assemblage. 

** Be jabers ! he's going for to 
spake." 

"I riz him wud the stars an* 
sthripes," joyously chuckled the 
dwarf. 

" Faix, it's more nor a speech we 
want," wheezed a little old fellow on 
crutches. 

"The Home-Rulers has stuffed 
us like turkeys." 

"Ordher! Ordher in the coort!" 
yelled the dwarf. "Be aisy, Billy 
McKeon. Lave off scroogin' me, 
Mary Nayle, an' let the cripples in 
front." 

A few additional facetia^ and the 
silence became complete. 

The new-comer had removed his 
hat, and his massive white forehead 



stood out from beneath his soft 
brown, curly hair. 

" I thank you for the cheer which 
you have given for the country of 
my birth." (" That's half a crown 
to me, anyhow," muttered the 
dwarf.) "I hope that cheer was 
an honest one. It was not my 
intention to bestow ten cents among 
you, as I do not encourage mendi- 
cants; and once a beggar, always a 
beggar." 

This was received with very au- 
dible manifestations of dissatisfac- 
tion. 

"Musha, but ye've come far 
enough for to tell us that," growled 
the old man with the crutches. 

" I have come a long way to tell 
it to you," retorted the stranger, 
" and I'll tell you more. It is posi- 
tively sickening to travel through 
this beautiful country, on account 
of you and the like of you. From 
Cork to Killarney, from Killarney 
to Dublin, from Dublin to — " 

" Boys, let's make up a subscrip- 
tion for him," interrupted a little 
fellow whose rags depended for 
support upon a straw rope — techni- 
cally termed a " suggawn " — fasten- 
ed around his waist. 

" Th' hostler '11 hed it wud five 
shillin's," observed a bystander 
with a droll, malicious grin. 

"Begorra, we'll tell the landlord 
for to put it in the bill." 

" Are ye goin* for to give us any- 
thing 1 " demanded the dwarf. This 
query was backed up by a unani- 
mous murmur of approval. 

" I am." 

" Well, that's raysonible, any- 
how." 

"I'm going to give you some 
sound, wholesome advice," said the 
stranger. 

A yell of anger, disappointment, 
dissent, and derision followed this 
announcement. Crutches were 



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Phil Redtnond of Bally macreedy. 



593 



brandished, sticks flourished, fists 
shaken, and general denunciations 
upon this " nagurly " conduct were 
indulged in, in terms as pungent as 
they were personal. 

*'You won't hear me?*' he re- 
sumed during a lull in the storm. 

"Sorraahear." 

" Well, good-afternoon." And 
making them a low bow, he turned 
into the house, whither execrations 
loud, prolonged, and deep rapidly 
followed him. 

The accommodations at the " Der- 
ralossory Arms'* — for so the hostelry 
was named — were somewhat preten- 
tious. Opening a door with the 
word "coffee-room " imprinted there- 
on in brazen letters, the new-comer 
found himself in along, low-ceilinged 
apartment. A cracked mirror, the 
surface of which was scratched 
from frame to frame, like an ice 
rink, by amorous owners of dia- 
mond rings, stood over the mantel- 
piece, and above it a smoke-dried 
card containing the announcement 
of the meets of the Wicklow Har- 
riers of the preceding season. Up- 
on a mahogany sideboard shone a 
brave array of glassware interspersed 
with pickle-jars and some mysteri- 
ous specimens of the ceramic art. 
Facing the sideboard was a huge 
antiquated sofa whose springs re- 
vealed themselves like the ribs of 
a half-starved horse, and opposite 
the sofa an ancient but uncompro- 
misingly upright pianoforte. But 
not upon the mirror, sideboard, 
sofa, or piano did the eyes of the 
stranger continue to rest. The 
window had been lowered, and a 
young girl was leaning her arms 
upon the sash, gazing out upon 
the tatterdemalion crowd beneath. 
Her figure was petite^ but of that 
faultless outline which no amount 
of drapery can conceal. A long 
plait of lustro^is brown hair hung 
VOL. XXV. — 38 



down her back. She was attired in 
black, and a huge Puritan cambric 
collar and cuffs adorned her wrists 
and neck. 

" If her face is as her figure, she 
must be enchanting,'' thought the 
new-comer. 

" He should have given them 
something^* she murmured half 
aloud. "Poor creatures! hoping 
and fearing is weary, weary work." 
And she slowly faced him. 

He gazed at features as regular 
as the classic model, and whose 
paleness almost imparted to them 
the calm, impassive beauty of mar- 
ble. She flushed and was about to 
withdraw when he blurted forth ; 

"I — I beg your pardon, but I 
overheard what you said. I am not 
so mean as you think." And strid- 
ing to the window and attracting the 
attention of the mob, who received 
him with a yell of derisive defiance,, 
he flung a handful of silver among, 
them. 

A scarlet flush mantled over her 
face and throat. " I was but speak- 
ing to myself, thinking aloud — and 
— but nevertheless on the part of 
those poor miserable people, I beg. 
to thank you, sir. / am sorely to 
blame, and your generosity only 
rivets the fetters that bind them to 
beggary," And with a low courtesy,, 
old-fashioned but witching grace 
itself, she swept from the apart- 
ment, leaving the stranger lost in. 
admiration. 

" What is that young lady's name 
who was here just now ?" he asked.. 

" Her name is Miss O'Byrne — wan 
av th' ould anshint O'Byrnes that 
fought hard agin' the Danes an' 
Cruramle — bad cess to thim, body 
an' bones !" replied the waiter. 

" Does she live near this place V* 

" Bey ant four mile, over be the side 
o' Lake Dan. It's an illigant place, 
wid no ind av ruins, an' a darlin" 



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PhU Redmond of Ballymacreedy. 



ghost that walks whinever sorra is 
comin* to tlie race; an '--be me song, 
they've supped lash ins av it." 

"Is Mr. O'Byrne wealthy ?" 

" Well, now " — here the waiter 
scratched a very shock head — " he's 
not rowlin' in goold, but he's warm 
and " — ^brightening up — " as proud 
ai a paycock. But there, I'm forget- 
tin' me message to ye." 

**To«f^?' exclaimed the stranger 
with a start, half hoping it might be 
from Miss O'Byme. 

" Yes, sir. There's two gintlemin 
cum here in regard o' the fishin*, 
though sorra a haporth they ketch ; 
an' they cum regular wud rods an' 
hooks an' nets, an' all soarts av 
cumbusticles. Wan av them is an 
attorney, a gay man, an' th' other 
houlds a situation in the Four Coorts 
beyant in Dublin, an' he's as nice a 
mannered man as there's in the 
four walls o' Wicklow this blessed 
minit." 

"But the message.^" interrupted 
the stranger. 

"That's it. Yer to dine wud 
thim — no less. Misther Minchin 
tould me to prisint his respects an* to 
hope ye'd favor him wud yer com- 
pany ; an* don't be hesitatin*, mind 
ye " — here the waiter winked an in- 
describable wink, such as an augur 
might have indulged in consequent 
upon a successful omen; "there's 
lovely chickens, an' the elegantest 
bacon, wud a filly av cabbage, an' 
a dancing leg o' lamb." 

" But I don't know these gentle- 
men, and — " 

" Permit me to introduce myself, 
sir," exclaimed a small, elderly man 
with a merry eye, a bulbous nose, a 
very stiff, old-fashioned stock, and a 
stiffer rim of shirt-collar which kept 
his head as erect as though he was 
hung up by the chin, entering and 
bowing very courteously. " Min- 
chin — Dominick Minchin. Hearing 



from this shock-headed retainer that 
you were a stranger, and having ex- 
perienced on more occasions than 
one, especially during piscatorial ex* 
cursions, the thrice-accursed loneli- 
ness of an inn, I beg, sic, that you will 
favor us by coming where glory 
waits you and — a bit of dinner." 

This was uttered with a quaint 
cheeriness that bore everything be- 
fore it. 

" Really, sir, I am quite impressed 
by your consideration, and accept 
your invitation most gratefully. My 
name is Philip Redmond." And 
he handed the other his card. 

"Redmond is not an American 
name, sir?" 

" No, sir ; my father was Irish." 

" Anything to the Redmonds of 
Ballymacreedy ?" 

"I am Redmond of Ballyma- 
creedy," 

Mr. Minchin seized him warmly 
by both hands and shook them re- 
peatedly. " By Jupiter, sir ! this is 
positively glorious — sublime, sir ! 
I knew your father well ; and when 
he thought fit to part with his pro- 
perty—" 

" His property parted from him^ 
Mr. Minchin. It is gone, and I am 
now here to try and repurchase it at 
any cost. However, we'll talk of 
that by and by. I feel that dinner 
is not very far off, and that you are 
only half as anxious about it as 
I am." 

Mr. O'Hara, Mr. Minchin's com- 
panion, was a tall, handsome, fiorid- 
faced man of about five-and-thirty, 
with a profusion of sandy hair 
which stood out from his head like 
quills upon the fretful porcupine, and 
a smile like sunlight. In five min- 
utes Redmond was as much at 
home with the two anglers as if he 
had known them all his life, and 
had planned two excursions with 
them. 



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Phil Redmond of BaUymacreedy. 



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" rm afraid you'll have some 
trouble about getting back this pro* 
perty," observed O'Hara. ** It's 
now in the possession of a man who 
doesn't want money, and who 
would call you out if you proposed 
to purchase it." 

'* Every man has his price, has he 
not, Mr. O'Hara?" asked Red- 
mond. 

" True ; but there are exceptional 
circumstances connected with this 
case which hedge it round with an 
impenetrable chevaux de frise^ 

" Of what nature V 

" Family pride, which will never 
consent to confiscate the old acres." 

''But the lands of Kilnagadd 
and Derralossory belonged to our 
family." 

"That may be, Mr. Redmond, 
but they were part and parcel of 
other territory before the Red- 
monds came north of Vinegar Hill. 
I know all about them, as I rented 
a fishing lodge from one of the 
tenants, and, being anxious to pur- 
chase it, inquired into the title." 

" I made my dying father a sol- 
emn promise that I would get back 
the old place. Money is no object, 
Mr. O'Hara, My father operated 
both in real estate and in gold, 
and died wealthy, so that a few 
thousands will not balk me." 

"You can try it," was the re- 
joinder, accompanied by a shake of 
the head. 

It was late when they separated, 
Minchin warbling " The young May 
moon," and insisting upon shaking 
hands with the "young boss," as 
he designated him, over and over 
again. 

The summer's morning was bright 
and balmy, and Redmond, after a 
yeoman's breakfast — consisting of 
trout fried with bacon, fresh eggs, 
and tea in which the cream was 
pre-eminent — started out into the 



glorious sunlight which was irra- 
diating hill and dale, mountain and 
valley. The forget-me-nots told 
their tale to the crystal pools, the 
graceful ferns languidly embraced 
the lichen-covered stones, an occa- 
sional cur basking in the heat and 
glow opened a lazy eye as Phil 
passed along the road, and com- 
promised a bark with a prolonged 
yawn. The hawthorns threw their 
shadows across the path, and the 
" blossoming furze unprofitably 
gay " sent forth that fresh, quaint, 
and delicious perfume that tells us 
with speechless eloquence that we 
are out in the bright green country 
and away from the heat and tur- 
moil and loathsomeness of the over- 
crowded human hive. Having pro- 
mised to join his newly-found 
friends at Lough Dan, Phil took 
the steep and romantic road that 
leads to the lake direct from the 
village of Roundwood. Far away 
to the left in the summer haze lay 
the picturesque village of Anna- 
moe, and farther still the sweet, sad 
valley of Glendalough, guarded by 
the giant Lug na Culliagh, while 
the deep-tinted groves of Castle Ke- 
vin lent a delicious contrast to the 
purple heights of the heather-cov- 
ered Derrybawn ; on his right the 
grim gray crags of Luggelaw, and, 
as he gained the crest of the hill, 
the blue waters of Lough Dan lay 
mirrored beneath him, reflecting 
the giant shadows of Carrig-na- 
Leena. The exquisite loveliness 
of the scene fell upon the young 
American like a dream or a per- 
fume. It was refreshing, yet al- 
most intoxicating. He thought of 
the color glories of the Hudson in 
the fall, of the blood-reds and 
orange-yellows and wine hues of 
the autumn foliage, and they sear- 
ed his mental vision when he came 
to contemplate the soft, cloudy 



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Phil Redmond of Ballymacreedy. 



green, the odor-laden atmosphere, 
pure yet filmy as a bridal veil, and 
the delicious completeness of the 
€0up (Taily so satisfying, so sooth- 
ing, and so enravishing. Somehow 
or other he associated all this per- 
fection with the fair young girl 
whose pale face and mantling blush 
still haunted his imagination like a 
sweet strain of music These scenes 
were a suitable setting for her beau- 
ty. She would comprehend them, 
she would commune with nature in 
this wild, secluded spot, so lonely 
and yet so lovely. As his ideas 
glided in this rosy channel, his re- 
very was suddenly disturbed by 
the sound of wheels, and close upon 
him came a basket-phaeton attach- 
ed to a very diminutive pony. His 
heart gave one violent bound — the 
object of his immediate and gush- 
ing thoughts was the occupant of 
the vehicle. Would she pass with- 
out noticing him ? There had been 
no introduction. He could expect 
no recognition, and yet — 

Chance fills up many a gap in 
life, solves many riddles, and has- 
tens many ddnoi^ments. 

The pony, evidently a wilful, 
over-petted, hand-fed little brute, 
took it into its stubborn head that 
a rest at this particular spot in the 
road would admirably suit his in- 
clinations ; and as he feared no whip, 
and, save a gentle chuck upon the 
reins and a solemn admonishment 
from his fair mistress, his whim 
could be indulged in with compara- 
tive impunity, he proceeded forth- 
with to carry his idea into execu- 
tion, and stopped with a jerk right 
opposite wliete Philip ^Redmond 
stood. 

** Do go on, Poaty !" exclaimed 
Miss O'Byrne, shaking the reins. 
" Do go on, there's a pet. You 
shall have a lump of sugar when we 
get to stable." 



Doaty shook his head and sto- 
lidly gazed at the lake beneath him. 
" Permit me to try and persuade 
him," said Phil, stepping forward 
and lifting his hat, which, by the 
way, doubled up in his hand, clum- 
sily concealing his face and utterly 
destroying his bow. 

"Oh I thanks; I seem destined 
to give you trouble, sir." 

This was a delicate recognition. 
" I have to thank you for making 
me the most popular man in Round- 
wood," retorted Redmond. " I feel 
like the lord lieutenant. I held 
quite a lev^e this morning." 

*' And your courtiers, instead of 
looking for place, were seeking for 
pence." 

" A distinction without much dif- 
ference." 

"Except in the viceroy," she 
laughed. 

Doaty was as good as gold — at 
least so thought one of the party — 
and manifested no intention of 
budging an inch. 

"What a tiresome pony!" ex- 
claimed Miss O'Byrne. "I shall 
have to beat him." 

" Let me try and get him along." 
And Phil, taking hold of the shaggy 
mane, lugged the unwilling Doaty 
along in the direction of the lake. 

" This is really too bad, sir," re- 
monstrated Miss O'Byrne. " I can- 
not tax you in this way." 

" It is no tax, I assure you. I 
have nothing on earth to do but to 
revel in the. especial sunshine of 
this moment." 

This was said with ever so slight 

an emphasis; nevertheless it bore 

a scarlet blossom in the rich blush 

which came whispering all over 

the young girl's charming pallor. 

" You — you are a stranger here V 

" I am, and yet I ought not to be." 

" This savors of a riddle." 

"Very easily solved. My fore- 



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Phil Redmond of Ballymacreedy. 



597 



fathers hunted these hills and fish- 
ed that lake. My father was reck- 
less, extravagant, and new men 
came into possession of the old 
acres. My father emigrated, and 
made a great deal of money in 
New York, and—" 

"I have been in New York," in- 
terposed the young lady. 

Here was a bridge for thought- 
travel. Here was a market for the 
disposal of mutual mental wares. 

" Did you like it ?" he asked. 

" Like it !" she exclaimed enthu- 
siastically. ** Who could dislike it ? 
It is the most charming city, per- 
haps excepting Paris, that I have 
ever lived in. And how are Fifth 
Avenue and Broadway, and the ash- 
boxes V* she added with a ringing 
laugh. 

Doaty made another stop, and 
no earthly inducement would stir 
him until he so willed it himself. 
His fair mistress relinquished the 
idea and the reins, and, stepping 
from the vehicle, clambered, with 
the assistance of Redmond, to a 
moss-grown bank, from which she 
pointed out some objects of special 
interest in the scenery. 

"That is Billy Doyle's cottage 
at Shinnagh, down far in the valley 
by the edge of the lake. See the 
amber thatch glowing in the sun- 
light, and the red flag. That flag 
shows that poor Mr. Fenler is on 
the lake fishing." 

"Who is poor Mr. Fenler?" 
asked Phil. 

** He is a man who was a great 
merchant in Dublin, but who lost 
all his property, and his wife and 
all his children. He saved as 
much from the wreck as enabled 
him to purchase one-half of that 
cottage — the slated half — and to 
support himself. He came here 
seven years ago, having made a 
vow never to leave the valley again," 



"And has he keptit.>" 

" Religiously. He goes nowhere, 
and spends his whole time in fish- 
ing. Do you see that golden strand 
at the head of the lake ?" 

" Yes." 

" Well, there is a legend about 
that which you should hear. Any 
old crone in the valley will do it 
ample justice." 

" I should prefer to hear it from 
a fairy on the hill," said Redmond 
gallantly. 

^^ Pas des compUmentSy although 
yours was nearly French." 

"You beat me at my own wea- 
pons," laughed Redmond. " But 
whose palatial residence is that 
right over in the cleft between 
those two hills .?" 

The fire lighted up in the young 
girl's eye, the delicate nostril ex- 
panded, the rich, ripe lips quivered, 
as she proudly replied : " That is 
my home." 

Her home — the nest in which 
she had been nurtured. What a 
precious flower in that gloomy val- 
ley ! What a world of love and 
joy and beauty in that lone and 
sequestered spot ! 

"I envy you," murmured Phil. 
"The tranquil loveliness of your 
home is — " he was going to send 
the words from his heart to his lips, 
but luckily they encountered Pru- 
dence upon the road, and altered 
themselves to suit that cold, pas- 
sionless, interfering busybody — " is 
— ^just as it ought to be. You have 
made no vow to leave this valley ?" 
he added. 

" No, but I have often thought 
it." 

" Such a determination would be 
a calamity. Miss O'Byrne." 

" How do you know my name ?" 
she quickly demanded. 

"I asked the waiter after you 
had left." 



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Phil Redmond of BaUynuureedy. 



" Now for an exchange," she 
laughed. " Let us trade. What is 
your name?" 

"Philip Redmond, son of Red- 
mond of Ballymacreedy." 

"Why, that is Ballymacreedy," 
exclaimed the young girl, pointing 
to a fir-covered mountain, upon the 
side of which, as though perched 
on a shelf, stood a gaunt, uncom- 
promising-looking, square-built man- 
sion, all roof and windows. 

Phil Redmond's feelings, as he 
gazed on the home which he had 
never known save by hearsay, were 
of a very varied and conflicting 
nature. He had pictured it a feu- 
dal stronghold towering over an 
extensive lake such as America 
boasts of — a diminutive ocean — a 
battlemented castle, with keep and 
moat and drawbridge, ivy-grown in 
the interests of the picturesque, 
and plate-glassed in the interests 
of modem sunlight. 

"Good heaven!" he exclaimed 
involuntarily, " how unlike what I 
conceived it to be. What a cruel 
disappointment !" 

So rudely were his ideas shatter- 
ed, and so bitterly the pride of 
baronial halls mortified, that the 
poor fellow's heart felt quite crush- 
ed. Whether Miss O'Byme saw 
this or whether Doaty saw it is 
not the question here; but cerUSy 
that admirable little brute gave a 
loud neigh as a trumpet-call to 
Redmond's scattered senses, and 
evinced for the first moment dur- 
ing the preceding half-hour a desire 
to proceed upon his homeward 
journey. 

" Papa does not visit, Mr. Red- 
mond," said Miss O 'Byrne as she 
grasped the reins upon resuming 
her seat in the basket upon wheels, 
"but I shall ask him to call upon 
you, when I may hope for some- 
thing like a formal introduction. 



How half an hour flies upon the 
wings of sans cMmonie /" And with 
a delicious inclination of the head, 
half-saucy, half-dignified, and whol- 
ly piquante^ she disappeared at a 
turn of the road leading into the 
valley. 

"Heigh-ho!" sighed Philip Red- 
mond of Ballymacreedy. 

While all this — shall we say non- 
sense? — was going on upon the hill, 
Mr. Minchin and his fidus Achates^ 
O'Hara, were busily occupied upon 
the lake ; and although not a single 
rise greeted their longing vision, 
like true sportsmen they lived in 
hope. 

" That's a very good style of 
man," observed O'Hara. 

"Redmond?" 

"Yes." 

" The son of an Irish king, sir. 
By Jupiter ! a fine fellow. A noble 
fellow !" exclaimed Minchin, whack- 
ing the lake with his line in empha- 
sis. 

" He'll go back to New York with- 
out as much of his father's pro- 
perty as would sod a lark." 

"You are still of opinion that 
the O'Byrne will not sell ?" 

" He'd bum the land first," was 
the sententious rejoinder. 

"Well, sir, the next best thing 
*that Redmond can do is to pur- 
chase Glenasluagh. It adjoins Bal- 
lymacreedy, and he will enjoy the 
right of fishing the Clohogue — ^an 
enjoyment fit for the gods. Yes, 
by George ! fit for the gods." 

"I never thought of that. Are 
, you sure it's for sale ?" 

" A scoundrelly attorney, one of 
those pitiful miscreants with whom 
it is my bane to be officially asso- 
ciated, knowing that I loved the 
gentle sport, endeavored to curry 
favor with me by mentioning this. 
I listened to the scoundrel ami 
made inquiries elsewhere — ^in fact, 



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Phil Redmond of Ballymacreedy. 



599 



I own I felt my way towards the 
Clohogue myself, but the figure 
was too high, sir." 

'' We must put Redmond on to 
it at once." 

"There's our man crossing the 
bridge. George ! how I envy him 
his sensations upon beholding this 
cherished spot, * where all save the 
spirit of man is divine.' " And Min- 
chin glowed again in the summer 
light. 

Redmond instinctively paused 
upon the quaint old lichen-covered 
bridge, in the worn interstices of 
which dainty little ferns of emerald 
green toyed with the pale blue 
loveliness of the forget-me-not, and 
gazed across the sheening waters 
of the tranquil lake. All was sleep- 
ing in sunlight, even the deep, clear 
shadows of the purple-covered 
mountains, while the melodious 
hum of glowing insect-life lent its 
peculiar charm to the peaceful sur- 
roundings. 

The boat, by direction of Mr. 
Minchin, was turned for the bridge, 
and a few lazy strokes from the oar 
of the ragged urchin who acted as 
waterman brought it bump against 
a projecting bowlder which served 
as a landing*place. 

** The top of the morning to you, 
Mr. Redmond!" cried Minchin. 
" You are just in the nick of time. 
Nature abhors a vacuum, and we 
were about to pass the rosy. This, 
sir, is a very dry country." And 
the cheerful old biped laughed 
until the crags of^Shinnagh re- 
echoed his jovial hilarity. At this 
moment a cart attached to a don- 
key appeared upon? the bridge, 
and two formidable-looking hamp- 
ers jostled each other for supre- 
macy. 

"Jump in, Mr. Redmond. We 
shall take our pick on that lovely 
little neck of land just under the 



stronghold of the O'Byrnes yon- 
der." 

" Have you room for two friends 
of mine?" asked Phil. 

"Any friend of yours is my 
friend, sir," exclaimed Minchin with 
the pompous mannerism of the old 
school. 

" ThenMend a hand," to the boat- 
boy, " to get these hampers on 
board." 

" What does all this mean ?" ask- 
ed Minchin as the baskets were 
safely stowed away. 

"A liberty I have taken," said 
Philip. " I want you and Mr. 
O'Hara to lunch with me to-day, 
as I dined with you yesterday." 

"O'Hara," exclaimed Minchin, 
"what shall we do with this dog? 
Pitch him into the lake, hampers 
and all ?" 

" I should say not," laughed the 
other. 

"'Myfootison my native heath,"* 
cried Redmond; and, taking an 
oar, a pull of twenty minutes keel- 
grated them upon a silvery strand 
beneath the shady foliage of a gi- 
gantic horse-chestnut tree. 

" A lobster-salad, George !" cried 
Minchin, unloading the basket. 
" A chicken-pie, Jupiter ! A mag- 
main of salmon ! Why, hang it, man ! 
this never was raised at the Derra- 
lossory Anns." 

" How was it done ?" asked 
O'Hara. 

" I sent a man into Dublin for 
it." 

" Ah !" with a long-drawn breath 
of admiration. "You Americans- 
do things in the right way." 

" By the nine gods ! champagne,"' 
ejaculated Minchin as he extract- 
ed the golden-necked bottles from 
their wicker cradles. "Heidsieck^ 
extra dry. I am extra dry too. 
Per Bacco^ Redmond ! you are the 
son of an Irish king." 



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Phil Redmond of BaUymacreedy. 



Where is the mortal who does 
not enjoy a picnic ? — that picnic 
where the food is laid upon the 
grass, and with the green leaves or 
the sky for a canopy ; where fingers 
do service for forks, and the wild 
flowers for napkins ; where the food 
is ambrosia and the drink nectar. 
Ay de mi^ we have changed all that, 
and now we must have silver and 
cutlery and napery, and servants to 
wait upon us, and hot dishes ad 
nauseam* We must don our best 
and encase our sweltering hands 
in delicate-hued gloves, and icy 
etiquette now reigns where na- 
ture's happy freedom heretofore 
presided. 

They were busily engaged with 
the chicken-bones, and Redmond, 
as host, was uncorking the second 
bottle of champagne, when Min- 
chin exclaimed : ** Jupiter Olym- 
pus! here's the O'Byrne and his 
daughter." 

Now, to be caught, under ordi- 
nary circumstances, in a stooping 
posture, wrestling with an infrangi- 
ble wire, almost black in the face, 
and with the drumstick of a chicken 
stuck saltier-wise in your mouth, 
your hat anywhere, and your hair 
in the wildest and most elfin dis- 
order, is embarrassing enough in 
all conscience ; but, in the condition 
of feeling under which our romantic 
hero labored, to be thus detected 
was simply horrible. As Redmond 
beheld the tall and stately form of 
a man of about fifty, with a pair of 
fierce black eyes beneath still fiercer 
brows, advancing towards him, and 
by his side, gliding with that grace- 
ful undulation which is almost ex- 
clusively confined to the women of 
.Spain, the young girl for whom the 
portals of his heart had been cast 
wide open, his desire to sink be- 
neath the daisies was about the 
only sensation left to him. 



"We have invaded the land of 
the O'Byrnes," said Minchin, rising 
and bowing to the chdtelaine, 

" You seem tolerably well armed," 
observed the O'Byrne, casting a 
comical glance at the champagne 
bottles. 

" Permit me the honor of cross- 
ing swords," cried Minchin. 

At this moment Miss O'Byrne 
interposed by exclaiming : " That 
gentleman is Mr. Redmond of 
Ballymacreedy." 

The O'Bryne took a short, sharp 
survey of Philip from beneath his 
shaggy brows, and, advancing with 
outstretched hand : 

"Mr. Redmond, I am glad to 
meet one of the old stock. You 
resemble your father very strongly." 

" You knew my father, sir ?" ask- 
ed Redmond eagerly. 

" Yes." The monosyllable spoke 
for itself. It shut down on the sub- 
ject like an iron door. 

" The old stock are thinning out, 
like my brown hairs," laughed Min- 
chin. 

^^ Apparent rari nantes in gurgite 
vasto^'' was the rejoinder. 

" Per Bacco J you must taste the 
Falernian. I am Dominick — " 

" Minchin," interposed the 
O'Byrne, " the best angler in Wick- 
low. We disciples of the rod and 
reel scarcely need a formal intro- 
duction." 

Somehow or other, while the 
O'Byrne and Dominick Minchin 
were bandying quaint and courtly 
compliments, Philip managed to 
pull himself together and to en- 
gage in conversation with the 
daughter of the house. 

"You perceive, Mr. Redmond, 
how fate is against our being intro- 
duced — so dead against as to com- 
pel me to make you and my father 
acquainted as if you and I were 
old friends." 



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Phil Ridinond of Balfynuxcreedy. 



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'* I do feel as if I had known you 
for ever so long, and that a void — " 

" Do look at the trout jumping. 
What perfect circles they make in 
the Stillwater!" 

She had interrupted with a wo- 
man's tact. Redmond was unvers-* 
ed in the subtle distinctions which 
form the rungs of the ladder of 
love. Most of the girls whom he 
met in society were as so many 
agreeable nothings — exquisitely-at- 
tired statuettes, whose ideas were 
bounded by silk, satin, feathers, and 
lace. With them he had nothing 
in common save the weather and 
ice-cream ; and being imbued with 
a feeling of aversive contempt for 
the whole sex, the revelation of 
light and love which now burst 
upon him revolutionized his whole 
being and begat an enthusiasm 
that forgot impossibilities. A 
child of nature sounds very well in 
poesy, but the article attired in 
broadcloth is very rapidly put down 
as a bore, if not a nuisance. 

" I drink with you on one condi- 
tion," said the O'Byrne to Minchin, 
who presented a bottle at his head. 

"Condition me no conditions, 
chieftain !" 

" I shall ; and the condition is 
this : that you, with Mr. Redmond 
and Mr. O'Hara" — to whom he had 
been introduced by Minchin — » 
"will help me to punish a cooper 
of claret after a seven o'clock din- 
ner." O'Hara excused himself on 
the plea of being compelled to 
reach Dublin by the night mail 
from Rathdrum. Minchin called 
a number of the Olympian deities 
to witness that so superb an offer 
should not be lightly considered, 
and Redmond thought of his dress 
and hesitated to say yes, when his 
whole soul was in that solitary 
word. ' 

" I want to have a gossip about 



New York, and surely you will not 
refuse me that boon.^" urged 
Miss O'Byme, and this decided the 
question. 

" Are you of the true faith, Mr. 
Redmond.'" she asked, as some 
hours later, in acting as cicerone 
through the old castle, she took him 
to the private chapel. 

"I should be a recreant Red- 
mond if I were not," was his 
proud reply. 

Coolgreny, the stronghold of the 
Clan O'Byme, was as picturesque as 
a round tower, an ivied keep, a bat- 
tlemented outer wall, a dry moat, 
a veritable carpet of bright flowers, 
solemn old yew-trees whose branches 
had supplied many a sturdy bow 
wherewithal to resist the incursions 
of the O'Tooles, and a rookery, 
could make it. As he crossed the 
drawbridge and gazed at the oaken 
door with its rusty iron rivets, at 
the massive archway telling an im- 
perishable tale, at the inner quad- 
rangle, its gray stone lighted up by 
blood-red geraniums and deeply, 
darkly, desperately blue forget-me- 
nots, and from thence to the high- 
bred-looking girl by his side, 
Philip Redmond felt the old blood 
in his veins as the old, old story be- 
gan to whisper itself to his heart. 

They passed into the old ban- 
queting-hall, rich in oaken tracery 
and wainscoted up to the ebon- 
colored ceiling. Portraits of dough- 
ty warriors in the grim panoply of 
battle-axe and shield, suits of Milan 
steel, and buff jerkins of the later 
periods adorned the walls — for- 
midable O'Brinns who stood in 
many a gap, and fought the rocky 
defiles of Auchavana inch by inch ; 
who displayed their prowess on 
many a tented field ; who followed 
the fortunes of the luckless house 
of Stuart even after the unhappy 
disaster at the Boyne; and who. 



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6o2 { PhU Redmond of Ballymacreedy. 



nobly fighting, fell against the hated 
usurpation of the Orange William. 
Here, too, were soft, silken-bearded 
representatives of the house who 
attached themselves to the Irish 
Brigade and covered themselves 
with glory at Lannes and Fontenoy. 

" Now for the ladies, monsieur 1 
exclaimed Miss O'Byme. " I see 
that you are lost in admiration of 
my male ancestors. Prepare now to 
be enchanted by the beauty of their 
wives and daughters." 

*' I need no preparation," said 
Phil with a low bow. " I see all 
their perfections concentrated in 
their charming descendant." 

"Admirably done!" cried the 
young lady, with heightened color ; 
"but *bide a wee.' Look at that 
little dame. There is fire for you. 
She was Countess of Ovoca in her 
own right — sl Geraldine. She de- 
fended this castle against two at- 
tacks of Cromwell's crop-eared curs, 
and when it was intimated to her 
that the defence jeopardized her 
husband's life, she naively replied: 
*I could replace my husband, but 
I could not replace Coolgreny.' 
Wasn't that complimentary to that 
ill-looking fellow opposite leaning 
upon his sword ? Ido believe that 
he steps out of that frame occa- 
sionally for the purpose of upbraid- 
ing her, poor dear !" 

Redmond laughed heartily as he 
replied that he thought the cavalier 
was likely to get the worst of it. 

" Here is a Lely — my great, great, 
great, ever-so-great grandmamma. 
Isn't she lovely ? Look at her cool 
blue pastoral drapery, her bright 
brown hair, her matchless eye, and 
her ivory complexion." 

" I am looking at her," said Red- 
mond, gazing earnestly at Miss 
O'Byme, " and she is lovely." 

It was as if the portrait had been 
painted for herself. 



" Mr. Redmond, you are incorri- 
gible. I absolutely refuse to act as 
cicerone, Tyrconnel was madly in 
love with her." 

"Of course he was; and if he 
wasn't he ought to have been," 
laughed Philip. " Pray who is that 
sparkling brunette, with the color 
glowing beneath her swarthy skin, 
and with the head and hair of 
Cleopatra ?" 

" That is Mistress Lettice 
O'Byrne, who received King James 
in this very hall, as, blood-stained 
and travel-sore, he honored our 
poor house by resting here after the 
disaster of the Boyne. He heard 
Mass in our little chapel before he 
started at daybreak." 

They wandered from portrait to 
portrait, she chatting gaily, bril- 
liantly, until they came directly op- 
posite that of a very young man at- 
tired in a gorgeous hussar uniform. 

"This is a picture of to-day," 
said Redmond. " Who is he .?" 

A bright diamond-drop welled into 
her eyes as she replied : 

"It is my only brother. He 
took service with our kinsman, 
Field-Marshal Nugent, in Austria, 
and fell at Magenta. God be mer- 
ciful to him !" 

" Amen ! " And the response was 
a prayer, so fervently and reveren- 
tially was it uttered. 

"Let us go to the chapel and 
say an Ave Maria for the repose 
of his soul" And, leading through 
a long, dark passage, and thrusting 
aside a scarlet velvet curtain which 
hung over the entrance, she ushered 
Redmond into the church. Pure 
Gothic, the oaken traceries of its 
pulpit and chancel rails were wor- 
thy of the hand of Verbruggen, 
while the altar, of white marble, 
was decorated with constellations 
of the rarest hot-house flowers and 
plants. 



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Phil Redmond of Ballymacreedy, 



603 



As they emerged from the chapel 
the hideous clambr of a gong an- 
nounced that dinner would be serv- 
ed in a quarter of an hour, and Red- 
mond was ushered by his host to 
an apartment to prepare as best he 
might for the all-important cere- 
mony. For after all " the dine" is 
a very serious piece of business, 
and it is only such foolish young 
fellows as Redmond — who spoiled 
his appetite at luncheon— or such 
delicately-nurtured young ladies as 
Miss Eileen O'Byrne, who can af- 
ford to turn up their noses at the 
mention of the word, and wish with a 
sigh that the noble institution yclept 
eating had never been invented. 

When Redmond descended to 
the drawing-room he was formally 
presented to the Rev. Father O'Do- 
herty, the parish priest " of as wild 
a district as lies between this and 
New York," gaily added his rever- 
ence. '' I am proud to meet you, 
sir; and let me tell you that the 
Redmonds of Ballymacreedy have 
left a name behind them respect- 
ed, loved, and honored. Have you 
come to stop with us?" 

"Not — that is, I'm — I'm so en- 
chanted with all that I have seen 
of Ireland, and with M whom I 
have met here" — ^he sought the eye 
of his hostess (it should be men- 
tioned that her mother had died 
in giving birth to Eileen) — " that if 
I do not return to it, it will not be 
my own fault." 

This was doing pretty well — 
much better than he could have hop- 
ed. It was ytxy pronofudy but Phil 
liked to be understood. He was 
straight in everything, and was per- 
fectly prepared to step into the 
O'Byrne's library and explain him- 
self right away. But he was not 
to get the chance. Father O'Do- 
herty took the chdtelaitu into din- 
ner and presided at the foot of the 



table. The dinner was not h la 
Russcy and, although served with 
extreme elegance, the guests were 
allowed the privilege of seeing 
what they were about to partake 
of, and to make a judicious selec- 
tion according to palate. The wine 
was, as Minchin subsequently re- 
marked, " of the rarest and choicest 
vintage." To hear her speak, to lis- 
ten to the music of her laugh, to 
gaze upon her when her looks were 
turned in another direction, was rap- 
ture to poor Philip, who drank his 
wine, eating nothing, being wholly 
and solely absorbed in the radi- 
ance of her presence. It was rack 
and torture to him when she arose 
to leave the room, and, as he open- 
ed the door to permit her egress, 
the words, " Do not remain too long 
over your wine," rang into his senses 
like a peal of sweet bells. 

** Push the claret, Mr. Redmond," 
exclaimed his host ; '^ you may get 
richer but you won't get softer wine 
across the Atlantic." 

''Per Bacco! this is bottled vel- 
vet," said Minchin, smacking his lips 
— '' the odor of the violet, and the 
gentle tartness of the raspberry. 
By the nine gods ! a bottle of this 
makes a man look for his wings to 
fly, sir— to fly like a bird/' 

After some considerable time, 
during which Minchin and the 
O'Byrne had indulged in a very 
serious potation of the Chateau 
Lafitte, " Are you here on a plea- 
sure trip, Mr. Redmond?" asked 
Father O'Doherty. 

"Well, my good fortune has 
made it one of pleasure, but I came 
originally on business. I came to 
endeavor to rescue some of my 
poor father's property," replied 
downright Phil. 

"What do you mean by rescue^ 
Mr. Redmond ?" asked the O'Byrne, 
flushing darkly red. 



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Phil Redmond of Ballymacreedy. 



" I mean, to purchase it from the 
man who now holds it." 

" Oh !" And his host tossed off a 
bumper of the wine. " Do you refer 
to Ballymacreedy ?" 

'* I do, and to the lands of Kil- 
nagadd and Derralossory." 

The beetling brows of the Irish 
chieftain met in a black scowl. 

"And suppose this man who 
holds these lands were unwilling to 
sell r 

" Oh ! every man has his price," 
said the unconscious Philip. 

The O'Byrnerose, and, stretching 
himself to his full height, haughtily 
exclaimed : 

" When I sell one rood of Bally- 
macreedy, Kil nagadd, and Derra- 
lossory, may I be shattered into 
fragments like that wine-glass," 
casting, as he spoke, the crystal gob- 
let upon the oaken floor, where it 
shivered into ten thousand pieces. 

Had a thunderbolt fallen upon 
the /pergne^ and, splitting roof and 
ceiling, descended into their midst, 
the luckless hero of this narrative 
could scarcely have been less scared 
and astonished. The admonitory 
winkings of Minchin, the ankle-rubs 
of the good priest, had been lost 
upon him. He had rushed upon 
his fate and had impaled himself. 
Fool that he was, never to have 
conjectured that the haughty pos- 
sessor of the land of his ancestors 
was the fiery, fierce old chieftain 
who now sat scowling at the ceiling 
and quaffing goblet after goblet of 
the rich red wine! Everything 
pointed to the fact — the conver- 
sation of the previous evening, the 
exclamation of Eileen upon the hill 
overlooking Lough Dan, the refer- 
ences of Father 0*Doherty. He 
was a senseless idiot, and had plant- 
ed the thorn of offence where he 
would have sown the bright seed 
of friendship. Could he apologize ? 



How? Could he explain? He 
must. 

"The fact is — " he commenced, 
when his host pulled him up : 

" A word of advice to you, Mr. 
Redmond. When you enter a 
man's house do not turn appraiser 
and play the amateur auctioneer." 

"But— "burst in Phil. 

"Pardon me. If you consider 
that because you have scraped a 
few greenbacks together — Heaven 
knows how ; / don't want to inquire 
—that you can come over here to dic- 
tate insulting terms to a man with 
reference to his own goods and 
chattels, upon his own hearth, let 
me tell you, sir, that — " 

"Hear «r^," exclaimed Father 
O'Doherty. " I am certain that 
our young friend had no intention 
of giving annoyance when he made 
those observations." 

" On the honor of a man," roar- 
ed Redmond, who was in a white 
heat of mortification, " I meant no 
offence, and furthermore — " 

" Let us drop the subject, sir, and 
go to the drawing-room for coffee," 
said the O 'Byrne, rising. 

" But I will not drop the subject 
until I explain myself." 

" Mr. Redmond, do not press my 
endurance in my own house." And 
the haughty host motioned to the 
door. 

" Not a word," whispered Father 
O'Doherty. " You can make it all 
right by and by, and if you fail / 
will succeed." 

Still, Philip was not satisfied. 
He was the outraged party. He 
demanded redress for a cruel 
wrong. Was he to remain in the 
pillory and be pelted with the mis- 
trust and dislike of the man whom 
of all others he was most desirous 
of conciliating. What would she 
think of him when her father came 
to tell her his version of the affair? 



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Pkil Redmond of BaUymaereedy. 



60s 



Would he not suffer and stand con- 
victed, however innocent he might 
be ? It was maddening, and Red- 
mond, following his host, brusquely 
demanded a few minutes* conversa* 
tion. 

".'Forbid it, Heavtn, the hermit 
cried T " exclaimed Minchin, play- 
fully seizing our hero by the 
shoulders andtwistinghim teetotum- 
fashion, while the priest engaged 
the attention of the 0*Byme in an- 
other direction. 

" Are you mad, Redmond ?" said 
Minchin in a low tone. '" On this 
subject he has a craze. Why, in the 
name of Jupiter Olympus, did you 
introduce it .?'* 

"Am I to lie under the impu- 
tation of being a peddler, an auc- 
tioneer, a blackguard?" asked the 
other excitedly. 

'* The thing will be as dead as 
Queen Anne in five minutes, if you 
will only let it cross the Styx." 

*' But I did not know that Mr. 
O'Byrne was the present proprietor 
of Ballyraacreedy." 

** Then why didn't you say so ?" 

" I would not be listened to. " 

" It's easily explained." 

When Redmond entered the 
drawing-room the host was speaking 
to his daughter, and that it was 
about him he had little doubt from 
the expression of surprise, pain, and 
anger which flitted across her face. 

Determined not to be baffled in 
his purpose this time, he strode 
across the apartment, and, con- 
fronting the O'Byrne, said : 

" If you will kindly permit me a 
word of explanation — " 

^^ Do take a cup of coffee, Mr. 
Redmond," interrupted Miss 
O'Byrne; "and — ^and you will ex- 
cuse me if I — I wish you good- 
night." And courtesying very low, 
she turned from him and swept out 
of the room. 



A choking sensation seized our 
hero. A something in his throat — 
anger, mortification, bitter morti- 
fication — clutched him and held 
him fast. 

" I'll be hanged if I'll stop here 
any longer!" he said; andsoearnest 
was his rage that, without waiting 
to bid his host farewell or to hint 
his intention to Minchin, he strode 
out into the quadrangle, through 
the arched entrance, across the 
drawbridge, and onwards he knew 
not in what direction, reckless, 
hopeless, and hatless. 

Why had he met her 1 His path 
had been calm and peace. Why 
had she treated him in this way ? 
What had he done to her ? He knew 
how her father would vamp up his 
version of the story. Was ever in- 
nocent man so deeply wronged.? 
He would leave Ireland next day, 
and place the broad Atlantic be- 
tween him and this — ^ay, this love- 
ly, bewitching girl. Why was she so 
captivating } Where did the charm 
lie? 

Thoughts all-conflicting, all-con- 
tradictory surged through his brain 
as he marched onward. The sum- 
mer dew failed to soothe his fevered 
mind ; the soft night-wind sighing 
across the Shaughnamore mountain 
did not cool his burning brow. The 
gray dawn of glorious day still 
found him plodding onwards, and 
the sun was high above the horizon 
when he entered the picturesque 
little village of Enniskerry. He 
had left Coolgreny fifteen Irish 
miles behind him across the moun- 
tains. 

When he had succeeded in arous- 
ing the inmates of the Powerscourt 
Arms, he demanded writing mate- 
rials and a messenger. 

" Is it pin an' ink at this time 
o' day, sir?" demanded the sleepy 
handmaiden. 



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6o6 



PkU Redmond of Ballymacreedy. 



"Yes; here's half a crown for 
you. Open your eyes and hurry 
up." 

He wrote the following note to 
the O'Byrne, and despatched it by 
a ragged gossoon, who started on his 
errand, up the hill that leads by the 
Dargle, like a mountain deer. He 
also forwarded an order for his lug- 
gage to the landlord of the Derra- 
lossory Arms. 

Sir : As you would pennit me no ex- 
planation last night, I insist upon mak- 
ing it now. I did not know that you 
were the possessor of the lands of my 
forefathers until you yourself announced 
it In thanking you for your hospitality 
I cannot refrain from saying that I wish 
I had never enjoyed it, as it has been a 
source of intense pleasure and likewise 
of bitter pain. 

I am, sir. 
Your obedient servant, 

Philip Redmond. 

The messenger returned in a few 
hours with his luggage. 

" Did you deliver my letter at 
Coolgreny ?" 

"I gev it to wan av the boys, 
sir." 

" Did you see any of the — fami- 
ly." 

"None o' them, barnn' Miss 
Eileen's pony that does be dhruv 
be her in a sthraw shay, yer hon- 
ner." 

Happy pony ! thought Redmond, 
as he gazed into the past and be- 
held Doaty coming to a stand- 
still despite the musical remon- 
strances of his mistress. 

"They axed me if your honner's 
name was Ridmond, an' I sed I 
didn't know ; an' I was axed if ye 
cum wudout a hat, an' I sed yis. 
* That's him,' sez Luke Byrne, the 
boy. *A low-sized man,' sez he. ' No, * 
sez I, * he's a cupple o' yards high 
anyhow '; an' Luke tould me they 
wor draggin' the lakebeyant at Shin- 
nagh for ye, an' that Miss Eileen 



was roarin' an' bawlin' the whole 
momin'." 

A thrill went through every fibre 
in Redmond *s body as this last 
announcement fell upon his ear; 
and although the idea was coarsely 
expressed, that the tender girl 
might be sorrowing for him caused 
an unutterable sensation of joy. 
She could not believe him capable 
of insulting her father beneath the 
same roof which shut the stars 
from her; and yet — pshaw! he 
would shake the whole thing off as 
a disagreeable yet delightful dream* 

His immediate resolve was to 
proceed to Dublin, and from thence 
to Queenstown and back to his 
native shores ; but second thoughts, 
always so sober, so full of judicious 
counsel, whispered that the long, 
lonely days and nights upon the At- 
lantic would but serve to increase 
his fever, and that his best chance lay 
in the distracting influence of Euro- 
pean travel. Seven o'clock that 
evening found him on board the 
mail steamer for Holyhead ; and as 
he gazed at the soft outlines of the 
Wicklow hills receding from his 
wistful glance, and thought of her 
in that secluded, peaceful valley, he 
would willingly have parted with a 
moiety of his existence to be once 
again in the sunlight of her presence. 

While our hero was on the road 
to Enniskerry Father O'Doherty 
found an opportunity for compar- 
ing notes with Minchin, and, fully 
convinced of the truthfulness of the 
young American's statement, pro- 
ceeded at once to disabuse the dis- 
eased mind of the O'Byrne. This 
he ultimately succeeded in doing, 
but not without a deal of powerful 
and full-flavored argument. " I do 
believe. Father, I took too much 
wine. Where is Mr. Redmond, until 
I make the amende honorable V^ 



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Pkil Redmond of Ballymacreedy. 



607 



'' Strolling about the grounds, I 
believe." 

" Let us go in search of him." 

" You can go, O 'Byrne ; I want to 
have a chat with my fair young 
child," said the clergyman, who had 
witnessed Eileen's stately courtesy 
and exit. 

Minchin and O'Byme strolled 
out into the summer night, making 
sure of finding Redmond on the 
terrace overlooking the moat. 

"We have bail for his appear- 
ance," said Minchin, " as his hat is 
decorating the antlers of a lord- 
ly stag in the entrance hall." 

The two gentlemen smoked their 
cigars as they leisurely went in 
quest of the missing one, and from 
terrace they proceeded to garden, 
from garden to pleasaunce, and from 
pleasaunce to gate-house, but no 
trace of him could be found. ** He 
is in the stables," suggested the 
O'Byrne ; and they returned to the 
enormous quadrangle in which the 
horses were quartered, but none of 
the helpers had seen him, and the 
stables were all locked for the night. 

"He is a romantic, hot-headed 
young dog, and is just taking a 
cooler. He will turn up by and 
by, I warrant me ; or mayhap he 
has hied him to my lady's bower." 
And Minchin laughed at the con- 
ceit. 

"Where is Redmond?" asked 
Father O'Doherty, as they regained 
the drawing-room. 

" We were going to ask you," 
said the O 'Byrne. "Where is Ei- 
leen?" 

" The poor child has a bad head- 
ache and has gone to lie down." 

" Come along, Mr. Minchin, and 
we'll take our cruiskeen lawn. In 
the meantime I shall send some of 
the men to scour the wood in pur- 
suit of this invisible guest. I needn't 
ask you to join us, father ?" 



" No, sir ; a little wine at dinner 
is my quantum^ 

As the night rolled over consid- 
erable uneasiness was felt about 
Philip's non-appearance ; but Min- 
chin 's theory, that he had, in his 
agitation, returned to the Derralos- 
sory Arms minus his hat, was gladly 
accepted, and the O'Byrne insist- 
ed upon driving with Minchin into 
Roundwood in order to set matters 
right. 

It is scarcely necessary to say 
that the worthy proprietor of the 
hostelry had nothing of Redmond's 
but a small nickel-mounted valise, 
which he described as set in solid 
silver. 

This increased the anxiety, and 
as a portion of the lands of Cool- 
greny abutted upon the lake in 
sheer precipices of two and three 
hundred feet, fears began to be en- 
tertained that poor Philip in his 
ignorance of the country might- 
have taken this unf()rtunate path. 
There was nothing for it but to 
await the advent of daylight, and 
then to scour the country, and, if 
necessary, to drag the lake at this 
particular place. 

The morning brought no Red- 
mond, and as traces of recent foot- 
steps were very distinct in the 
neighborhood of the precipice, and 
the heather rudely torn away at 
the edge of the cliff, as though by a 
despairing clutch, the idea that he 
had fallen into the lake grew into 
a certainty. A grapnel was got 
ready, and the melancholy process 
of dragging rapidly commenced. 

The relief which Redmond's let- 
ter brought produced immediate re- 
action. Father O'Doherty at once 
started with his car to Enniskerry, 
with a very courteous note from 
the O'Byrne and a message from 
Eileen, but arrived about an hour 
after our hero had quitted the vil- 



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Phil Redmond of Ballymacreedy. 



lage. Later on, when the good 
priest had returned with this intel- 
ligence, the O'Byrne telegraphed 
to the Shelborne Hotel, Dublin, on 
chance, writing also to that ad- 
dress. Philip was on board the 
steamer when the telegram arrived, 
and in London when the missive 
reached Ireland's capital. Had he 
received either, he would have 
flown back to Coolgreny; but it 
was not to be. 

It was Sunday forenoon, and a 
great human wave surged out of 
the Madeleine Church, Paris. In- 
stinctively one pauses beneath that 
noble portico and gazes across the 
Place de la Concorde, taking in the 
glittering Boulevard and the whole 
brilliancy of the coup d*osil. Phi- 
lip Redmond had been amongst the 
worshippers, and was now on his 
way to the Hdtel du Louvre, so dif- 
ferent in every respect to the white- 
washed, thatch-covered hostelry 
in the heart of the County Wick- 
low, and at the door of which he 
was introduced to the reader. He 
had indulged in a lazy tour, com- 
mencing with the quaint old cities 
of Belgium, whence he proceeded to 
Cologne and up the Rhine to May- 
ence, and after a wandering of two 
months found himself in the gay 
and fascinating capital of the world. 
Philip's wound had been healed; 
his heart ceased to throb at the re- 
collection of the " tender light of a 
day that was dead " ; and if the 
image of Eileen O'Byrne did come 
back to him, he felt inclined to 
place himself in the pillory of his 
own thoughts and pelt himself with 
ridicule. It was a delightful thing 
to be heart-whole. He had played 
with Are and had passed through 
the red-hot furnace, badly burnt, 
no doubt, but cured at once and 
for ever. He used to amuse him- 



£jelf by imagining what the effect of 
his letter upon the haughty chief- 
tain might be, and would not her 
vanity be ruffled by the utter absence 
of the mention of her name ? He 
had done his devoir in stating that 
the day was one of intense enjoy- 
ment ; this she could easily translate 
by the aid of her own dictionary. 
Heigh-ho ! it was a pity the dream 
did not last a little longer, he 
thought, as he prepared to descend 
the steps of the church upon that 
lovely August forenoon. As he 
descended, his foot became entan- 
gled in the skirt of a young girl 
right in front of him. He turned 
to apologize — ^his heart gave one 
fearful bound and his brain reeled 
till he became dizzy. He felt him- 
self grow pale and cold, but, lifting 
his hat with a cold salutation, he 
passed down and onwards. It was 
Eileen O'Byrne ! 

When he reached the hotel — ^and 
he felt as if treading on air — he re- 
paired to his apartment and flung 
himself into a chair in a whirl of 
conflicting emotion. The old wound 
which he had imagined healed 
had broken out afresh beneath 
the sad, reproachful glance of those 
lovely gray Irish eyes. There was 
but one chance left, and that was to 
fly. To be in the same city, country, 
hemisphere with her would be tor- 
ture. He felt as if some great sea 
should divide them, and then that 
the joyous serenity of the last few 
weeks would be restored to him. He 
had very little packing to do, as he 
had not unpacked, and he at once 
proceeded to the bureau to settle his 
bill. As he was passing along a 
corridor in order to reach the ves- 
tiaire^ he became almost rooted to 
the ground. A turn in the passage 
brought him face to face with her 
whom he was doing his uttermost 
to avoid. She was deadly pale, 



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The Beginning of the Pope's Temporal Principality. 609 



and she passed him with a scarcely 
perceptible inclination of the head, 
cold, glacial, haughty. There was 
a cry of anguish in Phil Redmond's 
heart, and, acting upon an uncon- 
querable impulse, he turned after 
her and almost fiercely demanded : 
" What have I done to deserve this ?" 
The same bright rush of crimson 
which flashed across her face like a 
rosy sunset when first he met her 
covered her now as she panted 
forth : 
" You seemed to wish it so." 
"//" And Phil Redmond blurted 
out something with reference to ex- 
planation and unfair treatment in 
his usual brusque way. 

It was chill October, and a huge 
log burned in the cavernous fire- 
place in the banquet-hall at Cool- 
greny. The claret was upon the 
ebon-colored oak table, and round 



it sat no less a party than that 
which was assembled upon the 
memorable night when Phil Red- 
mond so innocently brought the 
wrath of his host upon his devoted 
head. 

" To think,*' said Minchin in a 
state of ecstatic glow, **that we 
should meet here under such 
remarkable circumstances. Ye 
gods!" 

"Yes," said the O'Byrne, rising, 
" I wanted the same party exactly, 
and I have been fortunate. You 
all heard me swear that I would 
never sell a rood of Ballymacreedy, 
Kilnagadd, or Derralossory ; but" — 
with a smile — "that oath does not 
prevent my giving them away, and, 
please God, when you, Father O'Do- 
herty, unite my honest young friend 
Philip Redmond to my only child, 
he shall be restored to the lands of 
his fathers through his wife." 



THE BEGINNING OF THE POPE'S TEMPORAL PRINCI- 
PALITY. 



The Vicar of Jesus Christ is by 
virtue of his office, and by divine 
right, of necessity in his own per- 
son a sovereign. He is exempt 
from all subjection to any temporal 
power, and perfectly free in respect 
to his own person and the full ex- 
ercise of his spiritual supremacy, 
to which kings are as much subject 
as other baptized persons, and na- 
tions as individuals. The right of 
acquiring property and domain, in 
a manner which does not violate 
any other human right, is inherent 
in this personal sovereignty, and 
carries with it all the rights of emi- 
nent domain, so that whatever is 
acquired in this way becomes in- 
alienable except by a voluntary 
VOL. XXV. — 39 



cession. The possession of actual 
sovereign dominion over a suffi- 
cient territory is evidently the logi- 
cal and natural complement of this 
personal sovereignty, yet is not 
acquired except by some legal, hu- 
man act, similar to that which sub- 
jects any given domain in particu- 
lar to any other given individual 
or corporation. The possession of 
spiritual sovereignty united with 
the temporal dignity and power of 
a civil monarch is, manifestly, the 
most dangerous and liable to abuse 
of all the attributions which any 
individual ruler or dynasty of su- 
preme rulers can be supposed to 
have received as a stable and per- 
manent right. The danger is in- 



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6io The Beginning of the Pope's Temporal PrincipalUy. 



creased in proportion to the mag- 
nitude and duration of the spirit- 
ual empire and the political mo- 
narchy united with it. We are 
obliged, therefore, to believe that 
Jesus Christ, as the Sovereign Lord 
of the world, when he founded such 
an institution, provided efficacious- 
ly for the protection of Ciiristian 
society against this danger and 
liability to abuse. This he could 
not do without exercising a special 
and supernatural providence over 
his earthly vicariate, the Papacy. 
Yet, according to the analogy of all 
other departments of the divine 
government, this special provi- 
dence ought to be reduced to a 
minimum and made as little mira- 
culous as possible, by a wise order- 
ing of natural and secondary causes 
in reference to the desired effect. 
In point of fact, we see, from the 
history of the Papacy, that God 
has permitted it to exhibit as much 
of the weakness and imperfection 
of all human things as was consis- 
tent with the fulfilment of the end 
of its institution. His supernatu- 
ral overruling of the natural course 
of events has been limited to this 
result. And the preservation of 
the Holy See from perversion by 
human passions into a merely 
earthly power, an empire of this 
world, has been accomplished in 
great part by the difficulties and 
struggles which have always envi- 
roned the possession of the greatest 
of human dignities and powers — the 
papal sovereignty. 

From Nero to Constantine the 
Popes were obliged to struggle with 
the heathen emperors in order to 
conquer their liberty at the cost of 
martyrdom. From Sylvester to 
Gregory the Great they were oblig- 
ed to struggle with civil and eccle- 
siastical princes for the recognition 
and maintenance of their spiritual 



supremacy. The temporal and 
civil domain necessary for the sta- 
ble possession and exercise of the 
personal, sovereign independence 
of tlie Pope as Supreme Pastor of 
the church was not given until its 
necessity became manifest. It 
came in the natural course of 
events, without violence or miracle. 
Its tenure was precarious and con- 
stantly disputed, and has so re- 
mained until the present day. Our 
present purpose is to sketch the 
history of the struggles by which 
the first Popes who were kings of 
Rome secured the dominion of the 
patrimony of St. Peter as an in- 
alienable right recognized by the 
international law of Christendom. 

The temporal domain of the 
Popes began with the natural and 
gradual acquisition of landed pro- 
perty, which in those times carried 
with it princely authority over the 
tenants and inhabitants of estates. 
Not only the Popes but the princi- 
pal bishops in Italy and other coun- 
tries became in this way dukes and 
counts. The sovereign rights of 
the emperors lapsed through a long- 
continued neglect to fulfil the es- 
sential duties of sovereignty, and 
there was no other royal power in 
Italy which succeeded to them in 
a legitimate manner. The ruling 
power devolved naturally upon the 
local princes. The Roman people 
turned toward the Pope as their 
immediate bishop ; just as the peo- 
ple of Ravenna, Milan, Treves, Co- 
logne, and many other cities did 
to their own bishop, because he 
was the chief of their aristocracy, 
and also the protector of the peo- 
ple, and was the only one who was 
both willing and able to take the 
place vacated by their former rulers. 
The Western Roman Empire ceased 
to exist when the Heruli under 
Odoacer took and sacked Rome, 



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The Beginning of the Pope's Temporal Principality. 6i i 



making themselves masters of Italy. 
Odoacer was in turn conquered 
and killed by the Ostrogoth Theo- 
doric, who was nominally the lieu- 
tenant of the Greek emperor, but 
in reality conquered Italy for him- 
self. When the empire revived 
under the able administration of 
Justinian, the kingdom of the Os- 
trogoths was subdued and over- 
thrown by the great general Belisa- 
rius. A new invasion of Lom- 
bards, or Long-beards, from Ger- 
many put an end once more to the 
imperial dominion in Italy, with 
the exception of a certain part call- 
ed the exarchate, which had its 
capital at Ravenna. The authority 
of the Lombard kings was very 
limited and precarious, and under 
their sway the duchies and mar- 
quisates and independent munici- 
palities of Italy assumed that cha- 
racter of autonomy which made 
Italy ever after incapable of any- 
thing except a federative unity. 
The Lombards were at first Arians, 
but the conversion of their beauti- 
ful and accomplished queen, Theo- 
dolinda, by St. Gregory the Great 
was the beginning of a general re- 
conciliation of the whole people to 
the Catholic Church, and of the 
complete extinction of the Arian 
heresy in Italy. The Popes never 
acknowledged the sovereignty of the 
Lombard kings over the city and 
duchy of Rome. The Greek ex- 
arch at Ravenna, as the representa- 
tive of the emperor, was recognized 
as having lawful jurisdiction, and a 
magistrate delegated by him, called 
a duke, resided in Rome. The ac- 
tual authority of these representa- 
tives of the ancient imperial power 
and of their master at Constantino- 
ple became, however, continually 
more and more a restricted and al- 
most nominal formality, until it was 
altogether extinguished by the fall 



of the Greek exarchate. A few 
passages from the Italian historian 
Cantti will show in a clear and 
brief manner how the temporal sov- 
ereignty of the Popes in Rome re- 
sulted naturally and necessarily out 
of the new order of things which 
issued from the universal disorder 
and confusion that prevailed : 

*'At the time of the descent of the 
Lombards upon Italy the country lack- 
ed a head possessing general authority, 
and the Roman people, as well that por- 
tion of them who had been subjugat- 
ed as those who were still free, had no 
other eminent personage to whom they 
could look except the Pope. He pos- 
sessed immense domains in Sicily, Cala- 
bria, Apulia, the Campagna, the Sabine 
territory, Dalroatia, Illyria, Sardinia, in 
the Cottian Alps, and even in the Gauls. 
These domains being cultivated by farm- 
ers, he exercised over them a legal ju- 
risdiction, appointed officers and gave 
orders ; and, besides, his revenue ena- 
bled him to distribute succors in times 
of dearth, to furnish asylum to refugees^ 
and to pay troops. After the conquest 
had interrupted the communications be;- 
tween Rome and the exarch of Ravenna, 
the Pope remained the cU facto head of 
the city where he resided ; he correspond- 
ed directly with the Byzantine court ; 
made war and peace with the Lombard 
kings ; and, moreover, by putting him- 
self in an attitude of resistance to ihoir 
conquests, he became the representative of 
the national party. The chair of St. Per 
ter awaited only a pontiff who should feel 
all the importance and display all the 
dignity of his high position. Such a 
man was Gregory the Great " (580-603). 

" Italy, at this time, had no more star 
bility in its civil institutions than France. 
The Lombards had occupied a large 
part of it in. the first burst of invasion ; 
but the partition which, they made 
among several dukes, though, it served 
to consolidate their, possession, prevent- 
ed them from completing. their conquest. 
As the king was. elected from among 
these different nobles, without any here- 
ditary right, there was a revolution at 
every vacancy ; moreover, the dukes ob- 
tained continually more considerable 
privileges by favoring one or another 
among the competitors — so much so 



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6 1 2 The Beginning of the Papers Temporal Principality. 



that those of Benevento and Spoleto 
acquired complete independence. The 
only thing they all desired was to re- 
main in tranquil enjoyment of absolute 
authority in their particular domains, or 
to make war for their own personal ag- 
grandizement in power and wealth, and 
not in obedience to the king's command ; 
so that the king could with difficulty 
induce them to follow him in any mili- 
tary enterprise against the Greeks for 
the purpose of expelling these from Italy, 
or against the Franks, who molested 
them unremittingly, either for the sake 
of pillage or at the instigation of the 
Eastern emperors. . . . The Greek ex- 
arch's administration extended over the 
Romagna, the marshy valleys of Ferrara 
and Comacchio, over five maritime towns 
from Rimini to Ancona, and five other 
towns between the shore of the Adriatic 
and the Apennine slope, over Rome, 
Venice, and almost all the cities on the 
sea-coast. Some cities, for instance 
Venice, made themselves Independent, 
while others were constantly menaced 
and often invaded by the Lombards. 
When these latter were involved in for- 
eign or civil wars, the exarchs would 
avail themselves of the chance to repos- 
sess the places they had lost, but were 
always speedily driven back into narrow 
limits, without ever enjoying peace, and 
subject to the necessity of making every 
year short truces, for which they frequent- 
ly had to pay a tribute of three hundred li- 
vres in gold. When the means failed for 
paying tribute and the wages of the sol- 
diers, they ran down to Rome and plun- 
dered the treasury of the church, or pil- 
laged the sanctuary of St. Michael at 
Monte Gargano, which was an object of 
great veneration to the Lombards. . . . 
*• Another power remained in Italy, as 
yet imperceptibly growing up, but des- 
tined to be developed during the course 
of the century and to cast lasting roots 
amid the ruins of the others. The Popes 
had always shown themselves hostile to 
the Lombard domination and desirous 
of preserving the invaded provinces to 
the empire. Gregory the Great had em- 
ployed for this effect his authority, his elo- 
quence, his treasure, and his skill in the 
arts of diplomacy ; his successors follow- 
ed his example, and whenever they were 
menaced by the Lombards they implored 
without delay the aid of Constantinople. 
Preserving toward the emperor the sub- 
mission which they had constantly exhi- 



bited while Rome was the capital of the 
world, they asked his confirmation of 
their election, paid him a fixed tribute, 
and kept at his court an apocrisiarius, 
who treated with him respecting their 
affairs ; but their dependence on distant 
sovereigns and feeble exarchs, upon 
whom the people looked with an evil 
eye, kept on continually diminishing. 
Thus (he authority of the Popes, who 
were at the head of the municipal insti- 
tutions which had been preserved in the 
city, rendered that of the Duke of Rome 
almost a nullity, and approached to a 
species of sovereignty." * 

Alboin, the first Lombard king, 
was murdered soon after his con- 
quest by his own wife, in revenge 
for the death of her father, Cuni- 
mond, chief of the Gepidae. He 
was succeeded by Qefis, who was 
assassinated after reigning eighteen 
months. The Lombard dukes were 
disposed to do without a king, and 
elected no successor to Clefts, until 
the necessity of uniting in war 
against their enemies compelled 
them to elect Autharis, the son of 
Clefts, the prince whose wife was 
the celebrated Queen Theodolinda. 
Autharis died one year after his 
marriage, and Theodolinda was re- 
quested by the dukes to choose a 
new spouse and king from among 
their number. The choice fell up- 
on Agilulph, Duke of Turin. His 
son and successor, Adoloald, was de- 
posed and Ariovald, Duke of Turin, 
elected in his place, to whom suc- 
ceeded Rotharis, Duke of Turin, the 
second husband of Gundeberga, 
widow of Rotharis, and who was fol- 
lowed by his son Rodoald, the last 
of the descendants of Theodolinda. 
The nobles and people were so much 
attached to the memory of this 
pious queen that they sought for a 
new king in her family, although it 
was not Lombard, and elected her 



* Cesar CantCi's Univ, Hist., French tramlation, 
voL vii. p. 418, vol. yiii. p. 814. 



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The Beginning of tlie Pope's Temporal Principality. 613 



nephew, Aribert of Asti, of the 
Agilolphingian tribe settled in Ba- 
varia. At his death the kingdom 
was divided between his two sons, 
from whom it was wrested by Gri- 
raoald, Duke of Benevento. His son 
Garibald was dispossessed by Per- 
thurit, one of the sons of Aribert 
Cunibert, Luitpert, Ragimpert, and 
Aribert II. completed the list of the 
Agilolphingian kings. Ansprand, a 
partisan of Luitpert, who had been 
dethroned by his rival Ragimpert 
and imprisoned by Aribert, con- 
quered Aribert, and after a short 
reign of three montlis was succeeded 
by his son Luitprand, who reigned 
thirty-two years (712 to 744) and 
was the greatest of the Lombard 
kings. 

With the reign of Luitprand be- 
gins the epoch of the decisive events 
which resulted in the final severance 
of all the bonds of political depen- 
dence which united Rome with the 
Greek Empire, in the establishment 
of the formal and legal monarchy 
of the Popes, and the overthrow of 
the Lombard dominion in Italy by 
Charlemagne. 

Luitprand was a sovereign in the 
strict sense of the word, through 
his ability and energy of character 
even more than by the recognized 
title to the royal dignity which was 
vested in his person. He under- 
took and carried out a thorough re- 
formation in the political adminis- 
tration of his kingdom, re-establish- 
ed order, extirpated the germs of 
disunion and civil war, secured the 
obedience of his subordinate dukes, 
and preserved a good intelligence 
with the Popes and the church. 
His ultimate aim was the union of 
all Italy in one kingdom under his 
own laws, including all the remain- 
ing Greek possessions and the city 
and principality of Rome. The first 
great step toward the fulfilment of 



this design must obviously be the 
conquest of the Greek exarchate. 
In this undertaking he had the 
sympathy of the Roman aristocracy 
and people, though not that of the 
Popes. The remnant of the old 
Roman nation existed at this time 
almost entirely in the ancient capi- 
tal and its adjacent territory. The 
Roman Empire really perished from 
no other cause than the general ex- 
tinction of the Roman race. As 
the barbarians swarmed into Italy 
the best part of the old Italians 
took refuge in Rome, where the old 
spirit, the old manners and institu- 
tions — so to speak, the Roman es- 
sence — was concentrated and pre- 
served to effect a new and peaceful 
conquest of the world. This Ro- 
man nation desired to have its own 
autonomy and to be subject neither 
to the Roumanians of the east nor 
the barbarians of the west. They 
had no thought of accepting Lom- 
bard sovereignty over themselves, 
yet they were eager to see the 
Greek domination in Italy termi- 
nated, and therefore desired Luit- 
prand*s success in the enterprise of 
overthrowing the exarchate. For 
Rome they desired independence. 
The Pope, however, would not take 
any measures for making Rome a 
sovereign state, until divine Provi- 
dence directed the course of events 
to this end as a natural and neces- 
sary result, without any positive act 
on their part renouncing civil al- 
legiance to the empire. 

The course of events actually 
favored most opportunely and re- 
markably the designs of Luitprand 
and the wishes of the Roman peo- 
ple. The unutterable folly of the 
Emperor Leo the Isaurian drove 
him to an attack on the religion of 
the Romans and the sacred per- 
son of the pontiff. He ordered the 
exarch Paul to enforce submission 



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6 14 The Beginning of the Pope's Temporal Principality. 



to the heresy of the Iconoclasts by 
military power. Pope Gregory II. 
excommunicated Leo and exhorted 
all the Catholic princes and people 
of Italy to stand firm in defence 
of the faith and discipline of the 
church. They obeyed his voice so 
readily and with so much zeal that 
the absolute and final extinction 
of the Greek dominion in Italy was 
only averted by the mediation of 
the Pope himself. As Luitprand 
and the Lombards, profiting by the 
general uprising against the impe- 
rial authority, became stronger and 
advanced toward a more entire 
subjugation of Italy, they became 
more dangerous to the indepen- 
dence of the Holy See than were the 
feeble dukes and exarchs who rep- 
resented the distant emperor. The 
king even allied himself with the 
exarch for the subjugation of the 
proud republic which disdained to 
be subject to either Greek or Lom- 
bard, and besieged the city of 
Rome. Pope Gregory II. went to 
Luitprand 's camp, and the majesty 
of his presence, together with the 
force of the arguments wiiich he 
addressed to the noble and Catholic 
mind of the king, produced such an 
effect upon him that he cast him- 
self at the feet of the pontiff, im- 
ploring his benediction and promis- 
ing peace. In company with the 
Pope, Luitprand went to St. Peter's 
Church, where he laid upon the 
tomb of the apostle his royal man- 
tle, bracelets, coat of mail, dagger, 
gilded sword, golden crown, and sil- 
ver cross as a gift to St. Peter and 
the church. Nevertheless, he re- 
newed his attempt to make himself 
master of Rome ten years later 
during the pontificate of Gregory 
III., and continued during the 
pontificate of Zach arias his occa- 
sional irruptions into the exarchate 
of Ravenna and the duchv of 



Rome, although in every instance 
he yielded to the voice of his con- 
science and of the Vicar of Christ, 
desisting from his purpose as often 
as he renewed it, and making res- 
titution of the towns which he had 
conquered. His successor, Rachis, 
undertook anew the enterprise of 
subjugating the exarchate, but was 
so much affected by the remon- 
strances of the Pope that he abdi- 
cated his dignity and withdrew 
with his wife and children into a 
monastery. His brother and suc- 
cessor, Astolpho, actually achieved 
the conquest of the exarchate,* and 
put an end to the Greek dominion 
in that part of Italy. Henceforth 
the Byzantine emperors had no 
authority in Italy except in Cala- 
bria and Sicily. Astolpho next 
turned his attention toward Rome 
and made a formal demand of alle- 
giance on the senate and people, 
supported by a large army. The 
city was strongly fortified, and all 
its people were determined to make 
a stubborn defence of their inde- 
pendence. Astolpho would not 
lend his ear to any negotiation, 
help was demanded in vain from 
the Greek emperor, and in these 
sore straits Pope Stephen III. be- 
took himself for aid and succor to 
Pepin, the King of the Franks. 

Gregory III. had once before in- 
voked the help of Charles Martel 
without any result. Since that 
time the Prankish nobles had re- 
ferred to Pope Zacharias the ques- 
tion of their right to set aside the 
effete dynasty of the Merovingians 
and to substitute in its place the 
family of Charles Martel. The 
Pope had answered that the royal 
title ought to be given to the one 
who actually possessed and exer- 
cised the royal authority and func- 

* The term exarchate is here used in its restrict- 



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The Beginning of the Pope's Temporal Principality. 6 1 5 



tions. The new Carlovingian dy- 
nasty was thus formally established 
in France with the sanction and 
benediction of the Pope. And the 
time was now come for these pow- 
erful kings, Pepin and Charlemagne, 
to step forward as the eldest sons 
of the church, to secure the tempo- 
ral sovereignty of the Pope, and to 
inaugurate that close relationship 
which has ever since existed be- 
tween the kingdom of France and 
the Holy See. 

Pope Stephen, although old and 
in extremely feeble health, went to 
France, where he was received with 
a spontaneous and splendid ova- 
tion by all ranks of the people, from 
the highest to the lowest. The 
Pope performed the solemn cere- 
mony of the anointing of the king, 
the queen, and the royal princes, 
and conferred upon Pepin the dig- 
nity of patrician of Rome. A sol- 
emn assembly of the magnates of 
the kingdom was held at Quiercey, 
at which the king and nobles bound 
themselves to place the Pope in 
possession of the sovereign domin- 
ion of Rome and the exarchate. 
Pepin first attempted peaceful ne- 
gotiations with Astolpho, and, these 
being absolutely refused, crossed* 
the Alps with an army, and com- 
pelled him to make a treaty of 
peace witli the Pope, by which he 
renounced all claim upon the Ro- 
man principality and the exarchate. 
Astolpho, however, disavowed and 
violated his engagements as soon 
as Pepin had withdrawn his army. 
Again (755) Pepin crossed the 
Alps and suddenly appeared 
with an overwhelming force be- 
fore Pavia. Severer conditions of 
peace were this time imposed up- 
on Astolpho— a mulct of one-third 
of his treasure, a yearly tribute of 
12,000 gold solidly and hostages for 
the fulfilment of his promises. 



French and Lombard commissaries 
were appointed to visit the whole 
territory assigned to the Pope and 
receive the keys of all the cities. 
Pepin made a solemn and festal en- 
try into Rome amidst universal ju- 
bilation, and laid a formal docu- 
ment of investiture of the pontifical 
domain, together with the keys of 
the towns, upon the tomb of St. 
Peter. 

Astolpho died suddenly from an 
injury received by a fall from his 
horse, very soon after these events 
(756). Rachis came out of his 
cloister with tlie design of regain- 
ing the crown which he had resign- 
ed. The majority of the princes fa- 
vored the election of Didier, Duke 
of Brescia, who secured the influ- 
ence of the Pope and of the envoys 
of Pepin in his favor by a solemn 
promise under oath to execute the 
treaty made by Astolpho and to 
cede some additional territory to 
the Holy See. He was according- 
ly elected King of Lombardy, but 
failed to fulfil his engagements and 
passed the seventeen years of his 
reign in perpetual efforts to secure an 
undivided sovereignty over ail Italy. 
At last, taking advantage of the 
death of Pepin and of Pope Stephen 
III., and of cabals and factions 
among the Romans in reference to a 
new election, he made an open and 
violent effort to seize the dominion 
of Rome and the entire principality. 
He was deterred from actually con- 
summating his intention by an arm- 
ed entry into the city, when there 
was no force which could have pre* 
vented it, simply by the threat of 
excommunication, and withdrew to 
Pavia. The end of the Lombard 
kingdom was now near at hand. 
Pope Adrian, the Italian people, 
Charlemagne, and all except a few 
adherents of Didier were in accord 
on this subject. Charles crossed 



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6 1 6 The Beginning of the Papers Temporal Principality* 



the Alps with a large army, evading 
the troops which guarded the pass- 
es by means of a secret defile, and 
easily took possession of the whole 
territory, Pavia only excepted, which 
held out for a year under Didier 
and his gallant son, Adelchis. Pa- 
via at length surrendered, the Lom- 
bard kingdom was abolished, Di- 
dier was confined in a French mon- 
astery, where he became a monk in 
earnest for the rest of his life, the 
donation of Pepin to the Holy See 
was confirmed, and Charles return- 
ed home to prosecute that brilliant 
career which made him before the 
end of the century the monarch of 
almost the whole of Europe. 

The temporal kingdom of the 
Pope was now established in a de- 
finite and stable manner, with the 
universal recognition of Catholic 
Christendom. Nevertheless, as a 
civil institution it was still exposed 
to the inward and outward vicissi- 
tudes and dangers to which all 
states are liable from the very na- 
ture of things. It was necessary 
that some great political power, 
distinct from the papal sovereign- 
ty, should hold over the See of St. 
Peter the segis of protection. The 
providence of God, therefore, soon 
raised up that power which was 
consecrated by the name of 

" THE HOLY ROMAN EMPIRE." 

During the last year of the eighth 
century Adrian's successor. Pope 
Leo III., was obliged to implore 
the aid of Charlemagne to repress 
the turbulence of Roman factions. 
Leo was received by Charlemagne 
at Paderbom, in the midst of a 
brilliant assemblage of nobles and 
a vast army, with all possible ven- 
eration and honor, and returned to 
Rome escorted by princes and pre- 
lates and a guard of honor, to await 



the promised visit of the king. In 
December, 1799, Charlemagne came 
to Rome, a great council was as- 
sembled, and all the measures which 
were necessary for restoring and 
confirming order in the pontifical 
state were adopted. The Christ- 
mas festivities were celebrated with 
the greatest possible pomp and 
splendor, and while Charlemagne 
was kneeling before the tomb of 
the apostles Leo suddenly and un- 
expectedly approached him and 
placed on his head a golden dia- 
dem. The people burst forth into 
the acclamation : " Life and vic- 
tory to Charles, the great and pa- 
cific Roman emperor!" In the 
bull which Leo published on the 
same day he says : Quern Carolum 
auctore Deo^ in defensionem et pro- 
vectum sancta universalis ecclesiiR 
Augustum hodie sacravimus. 

In a former article* we have 
sketched an outline of the desti- 
nies and vicissitudes of Rome dur- 
ing the period of the decline of the 
Carlovingian dynasty and the rise 
of the German Empire. We have, 
therefore, now presented in a gen- 
eral view the history of the rise 
and consolidation of the temporal 
Sovereignty of the Popes between 
the two great eras of St. Gregory I. 
and St. Gregory VII. From that 
time forward the political history 
of the Papacy relates chiefly to the 
rise and subsequent decline of the 
temporal power of the Pope over 
all Christendom, until at last, in 
the disruption of political unity 
among European states, the Holy 
See is once more subject to the 
same struggle for independence in 
its immediate patrimony which pre- 
ceded the period of its mediaeval 
l)ower. The confederate union of 
the European nations under the 

* *' The Iron Age of Christendom/* Thk Catho- 
uc WoKLO, July, 1877. 



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The Beginning of the Pope's Temporal Principality. 6i 7 



moral presidency of the pope and 
the political primacy of the empe* 
ror was gradually transformed, by 
the waning of the imperial power 
which became restricted to Ger- 
many and at last subsided into a 
mere royal dominion over Austria, 
and the diminution of the spiritual 
power of the Holy See by the 
schism in Christendom, into a 
weaker sort of alliance, held to- 
gether by common interests and 
mutual treaties. So long as this 
continued the Pope retained his 
place among the other sovereigns 
as one of the Italian princes, with 
a personal pre-eminence and a mo-* 
ral influence derived from his spi- 
ritual supremacy over the Catholic 
^nations, and over the Catholic 
population in those nations which 
were not Catholic. Sound policy 
and the necessity of preserving an 
equilibrium in Europe caused the 
powerful monarchs of the great 
states to protect the independence 
of the Pope against one another, 
and to restore it when it was in- 
vaded. The disruption of the last 
bonds of European alliance in our 
own day has left the Holy See and 
the church once more a prey to 
secular tyranny exercised by a new 
German emperor, and a new Lom- 
bard king, without protection or 
defence from any political power. 
As Rome and Christendom went 
up together, so they have gone 
down together. And if a regenera- 
tion or restoration in the actual 
present or the future is destined for 
Europe and the rest of the world, 
it must be accomplished in both 
together; for they are inseparable 
parts of one whole. The history 
of the past is therefore a guide for 
judging the present and forecasting 
the future. The question of the 
temporal sovereignty of the Pope 
in the Roman state is essential and 



pre-eminent in the discussion of 
the principles of a reconstitution of 
the family of civilized and Chris- 
tian nations. The complete inde« 
pendence and liberty of the Pope 
as supreme head of the church, and 
of the church itself, are intrinsi- 
cally the most important of all 
rights and interests; and with these 
the temporal sovereignty of the 
Pope is necessarily connected so 
intimately that it becomes indi- 
rectly and extrinsically of equal 
importance, being, in fact, practi- 
cally identified with them. We 
have, therefore, in our preceding 
historical sketches prepared the way 
for showing how this sovereignty 
of the Pope over Rome and the 
whole territory which he claims as 
subject to his crown is an indubi- 
table and inalienable right, which 
must be restored and secured to 
him as the indispensable condition 
of religious and political order and 
well-being. 

We shall not attempt to reconcile 
this proposition with the doctrine 
of a divine or mutual right of sov- 
ereignty inhering in the multitude 
of every nation or a majority of 
them. At the present time this doc- 
trine is not maintained by sensible 
and moderate advocates of a con- 
stitutional form of government and 
of popular franchises. The sover- 
eignty may lawfully reside in the 
multitude politically organized, as 
it does in our republic, but it is 
not by virtue of divine or natural 
right coalescing from the separate, 
individual rights of the units who 
make up the mass. The right of 
Mr, Tilden to the Presidential chair 
was not asserted on the ground that 
he received a majority of the popu- 
lar vote, which he did receive with- 
out question, but on the ground 
that he received a majority of the 
votes of the electors who were 



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6i 8 The Beginning of the Papers Temporal Principality* 



really competent to vote for the 
appointment of a President, accord- 
ing to the Constitution. We might 
make a plausible argument to show 
that the Roman people have always 
consented to tlie papal sovereignty, 
except during intervals of political 
madness, and actually at the present 
lime would re-establish it, if they 
were free to do so. But the right of 
the Pope cannot be maintained on 
a theory, which would reduce it to 
a popular concession revocable at 
any time by the will of his subjects. 
Some good Catholics may hold the 
doctrine of popular sovereignty as 
above defined, but they do so in- 
consistently ; for, although it is not 
'directly contrary to the Catholic 
faith, it is incompatible with the 
principles and practice of the Holy 
See and the church, and the doc- 
trine of every authority respected 
by sound and loyal Catholics who 
are instructed in the science of 
political ethics. In certain circum- 
stances the will of the people suf- ^ 
fices, alone or in concurrence with 
other causes, to convey or transfer 
lawful dominion. We have shown 
how, in the case of the papal 
sovereignty, the Roman people 
did, voluntarily, withdraw or re- 
fuse allegiance to all other prin* 
ces and eagerly give it to the 
Pope. We have shown, srtso, how 
other causes concurred in establish- 
ing his right as a fact, and placing 
him in actual possession of the sov- 
ereignty, without prejudice to any 
other really existing legitimate 
right. The Pope possessed all 
the rights belonging to his position 
as the chief land-owner and prince 
among the Roman princes. He 
possessed the right, as head of the 
church, to have no temporal prince 
placed over him who could control 
or hinder the exercise of his spirit- 
ual supremacy. Moreover, he pos- 



sessed a great many imperfect rights 
or claims upon the allegiance of the 
Roman people arising from the 
services he had rendered to the 
state in preserving, defending, and 
succoring it in circumstances when 
it was near extinction, from his su- 
perior ability to govern . the state, 
and the fitness of things making it 
expedient, and even necessary, for 
the public good tliat sovereignty 
should be .vested in his person. 
The action of Pepin was that of 
one who defended the Roman peo- 
ple in the right of their indepen- 
dence against tyrants and aggres- 
sors, and defended the general right 
of his own <ind other nations to the 
independence and tranquillity of 
the Roman Church as the centre of 
Christendom. The action of Char- 
lemagne was similar, and his over- 
throw of the Lombard kingdom 
was justifiable by the right of con- 
quest, the consent of the greater 
part of the people of Italy, and the 
necessity of providing for the wel- 
fare not only of Italy but of all 
Europe. His final act of settle- 
ment in the beginning of the year 
800 had still greater force and legi- 
timacy as the act of the king of 
Europe, in which all the great 
estates of his realm concurred, the 
whole people of Western Christen- 
dom applauding, and the Eastern 
empire tacitly consenting. The 
possession of a temporal principali- 
ty by the Pope became thus a fact, 
which was so connected with natu- 
ral and divine rights of various 
kinds that it became a perpetual 
and inviolable right. This is the 
only way in which sovereign rights 
can become vested in any kind of 
lawful possessor or political person. 
There is no such thing as a right to 
civil sovereignty immediately dele- 
gated by God or springing out of 
the constitution of nature directly* 



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The Beginning of the Papers Temporal Principality. 619 



Scarcely any one can be found, even 
among legitimists, who maintains 
any such origin for sovereign rights. 
There is a natural and divine right 
to good government inherent in 
the social and political order. 
There is a divine right, having a 
natural basis, in the Catholic Church 
to good government, which is spe- 
cifically secured by the divine 
appointment of the form of gov- 
ernment, as a hierarchy subordinat- 
ed to a supreme head. This right 
takes precedence of all others. As 
those rights which are more parti- 
cular cede to the more general, all 
rights whatever must give way to 
the universal right of all Christians 
and all mankind, that the Vicar of 
Christ shall be left free and in- 
dependent in the possession and 
exercise of his spiritual supremacy, 
and that all men shall have liberty 
of obeying him as the vicegerent 
of God on earth. The Roman peo- 
ple have a right to good govern- 
ment, the Italian people have a 
right to national well-being, all Eu- 
rope has a right to the advantage 
of a due political equilibrium and 
alliance among nations. All these 
advantages were secured by the es- 
tablishment of the sovereignty of 
the Pope in Rome. It grew up and 
became strengthened, and sustain- 
ed itself for ages, as an essential 
part of the political constitution of 
Europe. Whatever pretence to 
right, legitimacy, stability, or sanc- 
tion of any kind can be made by 
any European institution, the same 
is applicable to the temporal princi- 
pality of the Pope. But, beyond 
all this, it is necessary to the spirit- 
ual independence of the Holy See, 
and therefore protected by the 
sanction of a higher right and a 
higher law. It has been given to 
God and accepted by his vicege- 
rent, and has thus become sacred, 



inviolable, irrevocable. It is like a 
cathedral, an altar, the sepulchre 
of a saint. It is the property of the 
universal church, of Christendom, 
and of God. As such it is under 
the protection of ecclesiastical, in- 
ternational, and divine law; it is 
within the domain of right and of 
morality, and therefore appertains 
to the Catholic religion ; is includ- 
ed in the order which is subject to 
the spiritual supremacy of the Pope. 
In this order he is the supreme 
judge and lawgiver, infallible in 
defining and declaring the law, sov- 
ereign in the judgments and de- 
crees by which he applies it to par- 
ticular questions and concrete mat- 
ters. The Pope is therefore the 
supreme judge, the Catholic episco- 
pate being associated with him in 
the same tribunal, by whom alone 
the right and the necessity of the 
temporal sovereignty of the Holy 
See can be determined. The con- 
sent of the Catholic people adds 
. moral weight to this determination, 
and the political action of states 
gives it the necessary physical force 
for its execution. But there is no 
appeal from the judgment of the 
Pope himself on his own rights as 
sovereign in the Roman principalis 
ty, either to bishops, sovereigns, or 
people. His own judgment has 
settled the right of the Roman ques- 
tion, and it is the duty of all Catho- 
lics to adhere to that judgment. The 
Pope will not cede his sovereignty, 
and the Catholic people will not 
consent to its cession or to its vio- 
lent occupation by any usurper. 

The history of the destinies of 
Rome in the past shows that the 
recent calamities of the Holy See 
do not warrant the expectation that 
its temporal sovereignty has passed 
away to return no more. It has 
proved itself to be indestructible 
amid all the vicissitudes of Europe. 



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620 The Beginning of the Pope's Temporal Principality. 



When Rome is shaken and disturb- 
ed, the civilized world is thrown 
into commotion. As we are writ- 
ing, the Russian army is crossing 
the Pruth, and it cannot be doubt- 
ed that we have reached one of 
the most momentous epochs of his- 
tory. When our readers are perus- 
ing what has been written, another 
fold of the scroll of time will have 
been unrolled, perhaps thickly writ- 
ten over with records of great events. 
We have read this morning the sig- 
nificant utterance of Von Moltke on 
the necessity of arming more Ger- 
man troops for the defence of the 
empire. Some may take Chateau- 
briand's gloomy view of things and 
think that Europe is hastening on 
a funeral march to the tomb. If 
this be so, then there is no refuge 
for the Pope but the catacombs. 
If atheism, despotism, revolution, 
and anarchy are going to hold a 
wild revel amid the ruins and monu- 
ments of a Christendom which was 
but is no more, then Rome will be 
involved in the common ruin. But 
" when Rome falls, the world." 
However, we do not feel obliged, 
as yet, to despair of Europe, Chris- 
tianity, or civilization. If there is 
a resurging movement after a tem- 
porary convulsion, Rome will be 
the centre of it, and the successor 
of Pius IX. will reap the advantage 
of his long watch by the tomb of 
St. Peter. We believe in the tri- 
umph of the Catholic Church over 
infidelity, heresy, schism, revolu- 
tion, and despotism ; over Judaism, 
Mohammedanism, and heathenism. 
The restoration of the Pope's tem- 
poral kingdom is necessary to this 
triumph, and therefore we believe 
it will be restored. We hope for 
a pacification of Europe after the 
war which has now begun is termi- 
nated. Civilized mankind is tired 
of war, and the almost bankruptcy 



which is universally produced by 
the enormous military establish- 
ments of the nations of Europe, it 
would seem, must enforce at length 
disarmament and bring about a pe- 
riod of amicable alliance and devo- 
tion to the arts of peace, the study of 
the welfare of the people as the end 
of government, the moral sway of 
principles which are not only patrio- 
tic but Christian and Catholic. In 
such a state of things the moral influ- 
ence of the Holy See would naturally 
rise to a higher point than it attained 
even under the mediaeval system. 

As for Rome and Italy, their tem- 
poral prosperity, so far from being 
sacrificed, would be promoted, by 
the re-establishment of the pontifi- 
cal state and the overthrow of the 
visionary fabric of Cavour and Maz- 
zini. We certainly desire to see all 
just national aspirations of the Ital- 
ians satisfied. We are glad that 
Austrian domination in Italy has 
ceased. But all history seems to 
show that a confederate unity of 
distinct states is the only order suit- 
ed to Italy, and that a monarchical 
unification is foreign and hostile to 
the genius and conditions of the 
Italian people. But, whatever may 
be done by the Italians and the Eu- 
ropean princes who will be left mas- 
ters of the situation and arbiters of 
national interests after the conflict 
now impending, in respect to the 
rest of Italy, the domain of the 
Pope must be restored to him in 
its integrity and placed under the 
protection of the law of nations. 
This is the indispensable condition 
of the restoration of Europe from 
the condition of decadence into 
which it has fallen, and no doubt 
the providence of God will force 
upon the rulers of the world the re- 
cognition of this truth in due time 
and by the course of events wholly 
beyond their foresight or control. 



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Alba's Dream. 



621 



ALBA'S DREAM. 

BY THB AUTHOR OF " ARX YOU MY WIPE ?" " A SALOK IN PARIS BBPORB TBB WAR," BTC. 



PART II. 



When it was known in the coiini 
try that M. le Marquis had joined 
the army as a common soldier, the 
consternation was great ; but when 
it was known why he had done so, 
surprise gave way to bitter indig- 
nation and regret. The Marquis 
de Gondriac gone to risk his life 
for the son of a low plebeian, gen- 
erally supposed to have been a pi- 
rate ! The marvel was how the 
world stood still while such a scan- 
dal was enacted in its face. As to 
the widow, nobody thought of con- 
gratulating her. If Marcel had gone 
out and been shot, they would have 
pitied her, within reasonable bounds ; 
but now every man's hand was 
against her and her son — even the 
women felt the sweet font of pity 
dried up within them when they 
thought of what might come of 
this. But the people, despite their 
wrath, were loath to take so gloomy 
a view of the future. 

"The bullets have a sense of 
their own," said Peltran ; "they 
know who to hit first and who 
last, and who never to hit. Look 
at M. le Comte, how they respect 
him ! He has seen more fighting 
than ever the Caboffs did, and yet 
the bullets have never touched a 
hair of his head. It's my belief 
the things are alive and know what 
they are about." 

No one contradicted this sapient 
remark ; for Peltran was not a plea- 
sant person to contradict. 

Marcel Caboff had never been 
popular, but from this time forth 
he was branded as a sort of poten- 



tial malefactor; if M. le Marquis 
died. Marcel would be his murder- 
er, and Marcel's life would not be 
worth an old song in Gondriac. 
The only people who did the 
young man justice and had the 
courage to take his part were Vir- 
ginie and Alba. Since the night 
of the storm a friendship had 
sprung up between Marcel and 
Alba which had grown to more 
than friendship on his side. Alba 
was a lovely maiden now; impul- 
sive, untutored as the waves that 
her nature seemed attuned to, wild 
as the sea-birds whose lot she some- 
times envied when they beat their 
wings, rose up from the rocks, and 
took flight across the sea. 

" I wonder you can stay here and 
live this idle, humdrum life when 
you might be away seeing the great 
world," Alba said to him one day, 
as they met upon the cliff and 
walked on together. 

" You wish I were away, do 
you .?" 

"Oh! no; only I wonder you 
don't go. I should, if I were a 
man." 

" It is harder on me than you 
think," said Marcel bitterly. "I 
did my best to get away ; but mo- 
ther went on her knees and said I 
would kill her if I went. It was 
hard to resist that; but it makes 
me feel angry with her when I 
think of what has come of it. I 
know the people hate me and call 
me a coward. Alba," he said, turn- 
ing suddenly round, "you don't 
think me a coward, do you.?" 



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622 



Albas Dream. 



" No, Marcel ; if you had not 
been braver than any man in Gon- 
driac, except your father, you would 
not have come out in the boat that 
night. How dare they call you a 
coward when they remember it !" 

"They don't remember it. Every- 
body has forgotten it but you." 

" M. le Marquis has not forgot- 
ten it." 

"I wish he had. That is what 
has brought all this misery about. 
If he had not remembered, I 
should be away with the grande 
arm/e now, and should either die a 
glorious death like my brothers, or 
come home by and by with the 
cross, and perhaps a wound or two. 
Then everybody would know I was 
a brave man, and mother would 
have had something to be proud 
of." 

" Yes," said Alba dreamily ; she 
was watching a ship that flecked 
the horizon far away like a great 
swan, its white sails flapping against 
the sky, the sea-gulls following in 
its wake, as it cleaved the wave. 

" Would j'^w have been proud of 
me?" asked Marcel. 

"Yes, . . . perhaps." 

" You would not have cared a 
straw, I believe," he said, angry 
and hurt at her indifferent tone. 

"If you had been killed? In- 
deed I should, Marcel. I should 
have been very sorry ; but wliat is 
the good of being sorry now, when 
it is never going to happen ? Look 
at that ship out there ! With what 
a dip she shears the water ! How 
fast she goes ! Her sails are like 
wings. I wish I had wings!" 

" You are always wishing for im- 
possible things," said Marcel, huff- 
ed at this summary dismissal; "you 
were wishing you were a man a lit- 
tle while ago, and now you want to 
be a bird. Why don't you wish for 
something I could give you ?" 



" You give me ! You could not 
give me any one of the things I wish 
for !" Alba flung back the waves 
of swart hair from her low, broad 
brow and laughed derisively. 

" How do you know that ? I 
have plenty of money, and money 
can buy everything — everything rea- 
sonable, that is. Suppose a fairy 
were to come and say she would 
give you whatever you wished ; 
what would you ask for?" 

" I would ask her first to make me 
perfectly beautiful, perfectly good, 
and perfectly happy," began Alba. 

" Why, you are all that already, 
you foolish girl!" 

" You think so ; but you know 
nothing about it. I would ask her 
to make me as rich and power- 
ful as a queen, and to make every- 
body pay me homage — not because 
I was rich and powerful, but be- 
cause they loved me ! Oh ! I should 
like to be loved more than anybody 
ever was in this world before. And 
I should like to live in a beautiful 
castle, like the castle yonder, and I 
should fill it with beautiful things, 
and make it a real fairy palace to 
live in." 

"And who would you like to live 
in it with you ? You would not 
care to live in it all alone?" in- 
quired Marcel, bewildered by these 
ambitious aspirations that left him- 
self and his money-bags altogether 
out of the reckoning. 

" Well, first, I should like to have 
petite mere, of course; then . . . 
then I should ask the fairy for a 
brave and handsome prince, who 
would come and woo me as they 
do in the story-books; he should 
be handsome and clever and good, 
or I should not care for him ; but 
if he was all that, I should love 
him with all my heart and soul, 
and we should be as happy as the 
days are long !" 



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Albds Dream* 



623 



Marcel heard her to the end, and 
then began to consider if there was 
not some one item in the capacious 
list that came within his possibili- 
ties. 

** If another castle would do in- 
stead of this one — ^you know you 
never could have this one — I would 
go and buy it for you, Alba, and 
you might have as many pretty 
gauds to fill it as you liked. We 
have lots of gold and silver things 
and pictures up there** — nodding to- 
wards the Fortress — " and if I asked 
mother she would give them to us 
— to you, I mean." Alba's laugh 
rang like a silver echo all along the 
cliff. 

"And the prince — where would 
you get him?" 

" Must he be a prince ? Would 
not a brave man who loved you 
and was ready to do your bidding 
in everything, who would spend 
his whole life in trying to make you 
happy — would not that do iastead 1 
Must he be a prince, Alba?" 

He took her hand and held it, 
and she did not struggle to release 
it. They were standing at the foot 
of a rock that cast a long, black 
shadow far out upon the sea; the 
west wind blew into their faces ; 
Alba's scarlet hood had fallen back, 
and her hair drifted in a heavy 
stream behind her, as Marcel bent 
over her, waiting to hear his fate. 
He might have read it in her blank, 
scared looks, in her startled, reluc- 
tant attitude. If there had been 
hope for him, would she have 
shrunk away and drawn closer to 
the rock, as if asking it to protect 
her? 

"I have been too hasty," said 
the young man penitently; "I 
should have spoken to M^re Vir- 
ginie first. Forgive me. Alba, and 
say only if I may go to her now 
and ask you for my wife?" He 



still held her hand, and, mistaking 
her silence, made an effort to slip 
his arm around her. The move- 
ment acted on Alba like the sting 
of a snake; she escaped from him 
with a cry, and sped along the cliff 
like a deer flying from the hunters. 

" My child, you have been fool- 
ish, and so has Marcel ; but there 
is no need to cry or be unhappy 
about it," said M^re Virginie when 
Alba had sobbed out the terrible 
story on her breast. , But Alba was 
not to be comforted. She had been 
living in dreamland, and now awoke 
to find the hard ground under her 
feet instead of golden clouds. Of 
course she had dreamt of love and 
lovers, and her heart, or that vague 
yearning which as yet took its place, 
had become enamored of the 
dreams, visions that lay safe beyond 
the disenchanting present, wrapped 
in the golden haze of distance ; and 
now this rude awakening had dis- 
pelled them, and brought home to 
the dreamer that she had reached 
that border-land that lies between 
the mystery of morning and the 
revelation of noon ; the pearly 
mists had rolled away in an instant, 
and the blaze of the mid-day sun 
was upon her, chasing the fairy 
phantoms and making sober reali- 
ties pitilessly clear. She had been 
dreaming of a lover in some remote 
time and place, and, lo ! he was at 
her side ; he had been close to her 
all along — an ugly, common man, 
who seemed made on purpose to 
mock the visions of her fancy. And 
yet this incident, which threw Alba 
into such despair, had been for 
many a day the fond anticipation 
of her mother's heart. 

"Why need it frighten you to 
find that Marcel loves you and 
wants to have you for liis little wife, 
my child ?" said Virginie. ** Don't 
shudder and cling to me as if he 



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624 



Alba's Dream. 



were going to drag you away this 
very moment! You shall never 
leave me, unless you do it of your 
own free will. But remember, dar- 
ling, that I may have to leave you ; 
and then what will become of 
you ?" 

"You leave me, petite m^re?" 
And Alba looked up at her in dis- 
may. 

** It must come to that some day. 
I am old and you are young. I 
have a trouble here that reminds 
me of this often, and then I lie 
awake of nights, thinking of my lit- 
tle one, and praying God to give her 
a friend, the best and truest friend a 
woman can have in this world, to 
take care of her before I am called 
away." 

" Mother, if you go I will go too. 
I could never live without you! 
What should I do here if you were 
gone } Nobody wants me, nobody 
loves me in the whole world but 
you.** 

" Marcel loves you, my child, and 
he will be that good friend, if you 
will let him." 

" Marcel ! Marcel ! As if he could 
replace you ! I don't love him ; I 
don't care if he went to the wars 
and never came back again." 

** If you married him you would 
soon learn to love him ; his good- 
ness would soon win youi love. 
And then remember, Alba, how 
happy he could make you. You 
often long to have beautiful things 
— pearls and jewels and splendid 
dresses — and you sigh to go away in 
the ships that we see setting sail for 
distant lands, and to see fair cities, 
and the great mountains, and the 
countries where it is always sum- 
mer and the flowers never die. 
Marcel would give you all these 
wishes ; and then he would let you 
be so good and generous to the 
poor !" 



" I should not care for pearls and 
pretty things, if I had to marr}' 
Marcel," said Alba. " I should not 
like to go to distant cities with 
him ; and if he loved me like a real 
lover, he would let me be good to 
the poor without making me his 
wife." 

How was the anxious woman to 
argue with this sweet, foolish inno- 
cence ? If she could but teach the 
child to believe in the happiness 
that was at her feet, and persuade 
her to become Marcel's wife, how 
easy it would be to die ! How ter- 
rible it was to have to leave her 
unprotected and alone ! Virginie's 
heart overflowed in tears as she 
thought of it, and the hot drops 
trickled down her face and fell on 
Alba's. 

Alba looked up quickly. " Pe- 
tite m^re!" she said. 

Throwing her arras round Vir- 
ginie and kissing the wet cheeks 
again and again, " I will marry 
him ! I will do anything, only don*t 
be unhappy, don't cry ! O mother, 
mother! what is it ?" she cried, start- 
ing up in terror ; for Virginie had 
fallen back and was gasping for 
breath. She pressed the child's 
arm, and with her eyes bade her be 
still. The spasm of pain passed 
away after a while ; but when she 
tried to speak the words came 
faintly in broken sentences. 

" Petite m^re ! what is it ?" en- 
treated Alba, scarcely reassured. 
" May I call Jeanne ? Shall we 
send for the doctor ?" 

"No, my darling, it is nothing; 
I am well now," said Virginie, with 
a sickly smile that belied her words. 
The sharp pang had, it is true, sub- 
sided, but she was still ashy pale and 
could only speak under her breath. 
Alba watched her intently for some 
minutes, and then, twining her arras 
round Virginie's neck, she laid her 



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head upon her breast, nestling to 
her like a bird. 

" Mother," she whispered, " would 
it really make you happy if I were 
to marry Marcel ?" 

" My darling, it would make me 
happier than anything else in this 
world." 

" Then I will marry him, petite 
m^re." 

"My child!" Virginie's face 
lighted up with a beaming joy. 

" I will marry him to please you. 
There, now, promise me not to be 
unhappy, not to lie awake at night 
fretting, and never to have any 
more pains at your heart !" 

"But, my darling, I would not 
have you do it to make me happy. 
It is your happiness I am thinking 
of, not my own. Don't you think 
you could learn to love Marcel after 
a while ?" 

" Petite m^re ! how can you ask 
me ? Foolish, ugly Marcel, whom 
everybody laughs at and calls a 
coward ! But never mind. I will 
marry him, since he wants me and 
you wish it ; I promise you I will." 

" You are a foolish child to speak 
of Marcel so," said Virginie ; " those 
who laugh at him are the fools, and 
you know he is not a coward. As 
to his ugliness, what does that mat- 
ter, if he is faithful, and fond, and 
good?" 

Alba pondered this philosophy 
for some minutes ; then she said : 
" When will he want to marry me, 
petite m^re ?" 

" Not for a long while yet, my 
darling. You are both very young ; 
there's time to wait." 

" How old am I ?" 

"You were sixteen in Septem- 
ber." 

" And how long will you let me 
wait?" 

" Till your seventeenth birthday 
is passed, at least." 

VOL. XXV. — 40 



" Nearly a whole year ! Then I 
have all that time to be free and 
happy !" 

" And if at the end of that time 
you have not learned to care for 
Marcel, I shall not ask you to 
marry him at all," said Virginie. 
The ecstasy which the reprieve had 
called forth sent a pang through 
her heart, and made her ask her- 
self whether, after all, she was do- 
ing wisely and well in forcing upon 
the child a lot from which her sym- 
pathies recoiled so violently. 

" Not marry him at all !" repeat- 
ed Alba in amazement ; but she 
added quickly, with one of those 
sudden changes, of manner that 
were farfiiliar to her sensitive and 
mobile nature : " I think, petite 
m^re, I had better not wait for the 
year. Instead of growing easier, it 
might grow harder by thinking over 
it all that time. You know you al- 
ways tell me that when one has a 
disagreeable thing to do, it is bet- 
ter to do it at once and be done 
with it; one only makes it worse 
by looking at it. I think it would 
be better if I were to marry Marcel 
at once and get it over." 

Virginie was aghast at the com- 
bination of strength and utter child- 
ish ignorance of the true nature 
and bearings of the sacrifice in con- 
templation which Alba's reasoning 
revealed. In the bottom of her 
heart the mother believed this re- 
pugnance would pass away, and 
there was no cruelty in coercing the 
child's will at the outset, in order 
to bend it to her real happiness; 
but unless it could be so bent, Vir- 
ginie would rather die trusting her 
treasure to God's guardianship than 
force it into any man's keeping. 

" We will say no more about it 
for the present, my child," she 
said ; " we will leave it in the hands 
of God for another year." 



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"And you will be happy now, 
petite m^re ?" 

** Yes. I feel more tranquil about 
my darling's future." 

" And Marcel— must I tell him ?" 

"No, you must not mention to 
him or to any one what we have 
been saying. I will speak to him 
myself." 

So there was no engagement, no 
promise exchanged ; not a word of 
thanks or of rejoicing passed be- 
tween him and Alba; but Marcel 
knew how docile she was to the 
power of love, and she loved her 
mother with a strength and depth 
of feeling that knew no limits and 
measured no sacrifices. He did 
not mean to be accepted as a sac- 
rifice. He had faith enough in his 
love to believe that before the year 
was out it would have conquered 
the coy heart of his lady-love and 
brought her a willing captive to his 
side. Meantime, he would leave 
none of the stratagems and tactics 
of honorable warfare untried. 

Alba was fond of books ; he sent 
for all those he could hear of that 
were likely to interest her, and she 
and Virginie read them together in 
the long evenings, and talked over 
them, until their days were bright- 
ened by the scenes of travel and 
story which the books described. 
He knew she loved jewels and shin- 
ing silks, and he went to Paris him- 
self and selected pretty trinkets of 
every kind — a necklace of pearls, 
and rings of emeralds and rubies, 
and silks of soft and brilliant colors 
— and he would carry them to the 
cottage, and shyly lay them down 
without saying a word. Alba sel- 
dom noticed them till he was gone, 
when she would open the parcel 
and examine its contents; but M^re 
Virginie seemed to take more plea- 
sure in the gauds than she did. 
This went on for three months. 



Then, one morning. Alba, who had 
been out since sunrise, sitting on 
the rocks and watching the tide 
come in and the creamy surf break 
upon the shore, entered the cottage 
and said abruptly : 

" Mother, I won't take any more 
presents from Marcel, and I want 
to give him back all those we have. 
I can't keep them ; I can't indeed." 

" You have made up your mind 
never to marry him ?" 

" I will marry him whenever you 
wish it. It is not that, only I can't 
take his gifts ; they make me mis- 
erable. I hate them!" 

"My darling, I will send them 
back to him, if you wish ; but it will 
hurt him very much, poor fellow ! — 
he took so much trouble to get 
them for you, and you used to 
love pretty things. How often have 
I not heard you long for the rings 
and flowers and shining silks we 
have seen in the fine shops at 

X ? Many a time you have 

wished a fairy or a lover would 
come and give them to you ! Do 
you forget ?" 

" Ah ! that is just it," said Alba, 
with a light laugh that was full of 
pain ; " if a lover gave them to me, 
I dare say I should like them well 
enough." 

" But Marcel is your lover ?" 

" Poor Marcel ! It is so funny 
trying to think of him like that. 
He is so awkward and stupid and 
ugly; a real lover would be quite 
different. But I don't want one 
now; I don't indeed, petite mfere. 
Only please send Marcel back his 
gifts. They make me feel as if he 
were bribing me to be fond of him, 
and I should not care a bit more 
for him if he gave me the loveliest 
jewels in France. I don't care any 
more for jewels. I used to long to 
be happy myself, but now I only 
care to make you happy. You 



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promised me to be very happy when 
I married Marcel?" 

This was dreadful. This was 
not what the mother meant when 
she prayed for the marriage that 
Alba contemplated with such pa- 
thetic resignation, as if it were a 
sacrifice or a torture that every day 
brought nearer to her. There were 
still eight months between her and 
the dreaded fate, and Virginie was 
strongly moved to tell her at once 
that she was released. It seemed 
cruel to poison the child's life all 
that time on the chance, which ap- 
parently grew less as the months 
went on, of her getting to love 
Marcel at the end of the year. 
But, again, this marriage was the 
one prospect of security and happi- 
ness which the future opened out — 
quiet, substantial happiness such as 
the mother longed to see her in 
possession of. If Alba flung it 
away, there was nothing before her 
but a lonely, loveless life of unpro- 
tected poverty. It was best to be 
patient, to keep silence a little lon- 
ger. Virginie, meantime, had faith 
in the power of her own love, and 
she would never cease imploring 
heaven to take the destiny of her 
darling into its safe-keeping. 

Hermann de Gondriac had now 
been five years absent, and those 
years had been an uninterrupted 
series of triumphs for him ; he had 
borne a charmed life on every battle- 
field, and come off unharmed where 
all around him were stricken. But 
the chances of war prevailed at last, 
and the news came to Gondriac 
that M. le Comte had been seri- 
ously wounded and was coming 
home. His left arm had been shat- 
tered, and, though the skill of the 
emperor's surgeon had saved him 
from amputation, he was in great 
suffering and condemned to the 



severest precautions. A few bon- 
fires were lighted on the cliffs to 
bid the home-comer welcome, but 
this was all the people ventured on. 
M. le Marquis, it was said, had been 
in the same engagement with his 
son, but had come out of it unhurt. 

That winter was a fierce one all 
through France, anfl Gondriac suf- 
fered terribly ; the bleak gray sea in 
a perpetual roar, and the winds 
beating on its wild, open coast. 
Food and fuel were scanty, and but 
for the presence of the young lord 
at the castle many amongst the 
fishermen's families must have per- 
ished and starved. No one had 
yet seen him ; the great physician, 
who came from Paris at intervals, 
forbade his going beyond the 
southern side of the park until 
spring came with sunshine and 
blossoms. But Hermann could 
not have been more actively pre- 
sent amongst his people had he 
been walking daily in the midst of 
them. He seemed to know by in- 
spiration what they wanted, and 
food and clothing were dealt out 
from the castle in unlimited sup- 
plies. There were toys for the chil- 
dren, and medicine and strengthen- 
ing wine for the sick, and books for 
those who could enjoy them, until 
the people came to think that the 
bird of the fairy-tale must be true, 
and that their young master had 
the tell-tale messenger at his orders. 

Alba busied her poetic fancy in 
making pictures of what Hermann 
was like. She had not seen him 
since she was a child and he a tall, 
slim lad. Now that he was a man 
and a hero, she longed to behold him 
again. Even to look at a hero from 
a distance would be something — 
life was so tame, and all the people 
she knew were so commonplace. 
Was he proud and stern and 
abrupt in speech, as they said the 



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Albans Dream. 



emperor was? Or was he gentle 
and honey-tongued like the knights 
of old? 

One morning a man rode in from 
X to the castle bearing impor- 
tant news to M. le Comte. Im- 
portant news indeed ; the empe- 
ror was coming the next day to in- 
spect the fortifications of a neigh- 
boring seaport. It was settled at 
once in Gondriac that M. le Comte 
would go to meet his majesty. No 
physician could hinder him in that, 
come what might of it. 

Alba had heard nothing of this 
great event which was stirring the 
country for fifty miles round. She 
and Virginie lived a life apart up 
in their sea-nest, and old Jeanne 
was not given to gossip, but did her 
marketing without waste of words, 
and brought home little news in 
her basket. 

It was a lovely morning ; the 
sun shone brightly on the sea ; the 
breakers were scampering in, not 
loud and angry, but tossing over 
one another in masses of creamy 
foam. Alba loved these laughing 
seas, and would sit for hours on the 
rocks, watching the tide ride in on 
the silver horses. To-day the salt 
breath of the ocean and the mellow 
west wind excited her like wine, 
and carried her off to the old 
dreamland where she seldom ven- 
tured now. She was away on the 
•dancing billows, sailing to the land 
of the sun witii a noble knight by 
her side. Virginie sat there with 
maidens serving her; there was 
music on shore, and crowds wav- 
ing glad farewells. Alba began to 
sing as she walked briskly along 
the cliff, building her castle in 
fairy-land. But the Fortress stand- 
ing out like a spectral prison, with 
the ivy blown inside out on its 
.•grimy walls, sent a sudden chill 
through her and put out the sun- 



light. There was a figure at the 
window watching her. She turned 
hastily back, walking quickly until 
she got down the slope, when she 
almost flew across the moor, on and 
on till she was safe in the shelter of 
the park. O that figure, how it 
pursued her ! How the Fortress 
threatened her ! If she could but 
fly from them for ever, and never 
hear of Marcel Caboff any more ! 
She had fancied latterly that the 
prospect of being his wife and liv- 
ing with old Mme. Caboff in the 
gloomy, rat-haunted place was less 
odious to her than it used to be ; 
but to-day the thought nearly drove 
her mad. She had sped along as if 
some evil fate were behind her, and 
she was tired ; there was a moss- 
grown oak close by, and she sat 
down on the trunk to rest. The 
wind rustled the dead leaves at her 
feet and swept the topmost branches 
of the pines ; then the anthem died 
softly away and all was silent. 
The place was very still; nothing 
stirred but the insects in the grass, 
and the zephyr high up above her 
head, as it rose and fell in swift, 
-^olian breathings. In the dis- 
tance, with a forest of trees be- 
tween, lay the castle, its battle- 
ments and towers and flying but- 
tresses rising majestically against 
the sky — a high romance of chivalry 
and war chronicled in stone ; to 
Alba the door of an enchanted 
realm whose portals she might 
never pass. No wonder men were 
heroes who lived in homes like this ; 
how easy it must be to lead grand 
lives where the very walls are 
heralds and witnesses urging to 
noble and knightly deeds ! The 
present owner of this splendid house 
was worthy in all this of his proud 
ancestors. What a royal act of 
heroism it was of the old Marquis 
to enlist as a common soldier out 



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of gratitude to a dead man and pity 
for his widow ! Then Alba thought 
of Marcel, of the poor, tame crea- 
ture he showed beside this race of 
knightly nobles, and she despised 
him, and fell to wondering how it 
would be when she was his wife. 
Gradually the castle melted away, 
and in its place rose the Fortress, 
dark and frowning, and it lowered 
on her like a doom, and Marcel 
and his grim old mother stood at 
the window beckoning her to ad- 
vance. Alba flung herself down 
upon the trunk and buried her face 
in the moss, and began to cry pas- 
sionately. She cried a long time, 
being full of pity for herself, and 
there was no one within reach that 
she need check her sobs, 

" What has happened ? What is 
the matter with you, child ?" said a 
voice close to her. 

She started up in terror. Yet 
the .speaker was not at all terrible 
to look at — a gentleman in the 
brilliant uniform of the Imperial 
Guard, young and handsome, with 
a most commanding air, and carry- 
ing his left arm in a sling. When 
Alba rose it was his turn to start. 
Lying there in an attitude of child- 
like abandon^ shaken with sobs, her 
scarlet hood thrown back and her 
masses of black hair falling in loose 
coils over her neck and face, he 
had taken her for a little girl; he 
had called her child, and, lo ! she 
was a full-grown maiden, and lovely 
beyond words, despite her tears and 
her dishevelled mien. He bowed 
to her as he might have done to a 
queen. 

"You are M. le Comte !" said 
Alba, pretty much as she might 
have said to a celestial apparition, 
"You are the Archangel Gabriel!" 

"Hermann de Gondriac, your 
humble servant, mademoiselle." 

She stared at him through the 



big tears that hung like dew-drops 
from her lashes, her soft, large 
glance modest, yet unabashed as if 
it were gazing on a picture. The 
knighthood in ^Hermann recogniz- 
ed the maidenhood of that fearless 
gaze and did it reverence, but he 
could not quench the glowing admi- 
ration of his own. How liquid and 
pure they were, those black stars 
with which she stared at him, those 
soul-lit eyes that met his without 
dismay, too innocent to quail be- 
neath their burning light ! Why 
should they quail ? Were they not 
looking at a vision, a dream trans- 
muted into substance ? This was 
the young chief whom she had pic- 
tured to herself so often, whose lin- 
eage and prowess were the pride of 
all the people. Only how much 
grander the reality was than any- 
thing she had fancied! What a 
martial air he wore in his gold- 
embroidered uniform, with his spurs 
and clanging sword and plumed hel- 
met, the stars upon his breast — every 
inch a warrior and a knight ! 

" You have hurt yourself, made- 
moiselle; you are in pain," said 
Hermann. " Can I send to the cas- 
tle for assistance for you V 

" Thank you, monseigneur ; I 
have not hurt myself." 

" Yet you were crying .?" 

" It was not with pain." This 
time Alba dropped her lids £^nd 
blushed. 

" Forgive me ; I did not mean to 
intrude upon you." Alba stood 
looking down like a guilty child, 
her cheeks aflame, her lips quiver- 
ing with the sudden conflict be- 
tween fear and shame, and a strange 
emotion that thrilled her like sweet 
music. "Who is she?" thought 
Hermann. He remembered, years 
ago, a child whom his father raved 
about, wondering how a plebeian 
stem could have put forth so fair a 



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flower. Could this be she? The 
curdhzA told him of the girl's rare 
besLUty as a sad and anxious burden 
on his mind, and of the mother's 
being ill and in need of generous 
wine, and he had ordered the best 
in his cellar to be sent to her. 
Half unconsciously, as when we 
try to catch some forgotten air by 
humming it under our breath, he 
murmured, " Alba . . ." 

She looked up with a start, and 
then they both smiled. 

** How did you guess I was 
Alba?" she said, her shyness gone 
in an instant. 

" I did not guess, I remembered.*' 

" How wonderful ! I should ne- 
ver have remembered you, monsei- 
gneur." 

" That is not surprising. I am 
changed since you saw me." 

" And so am I, am I not ?" 

" Yes, more changed than I could 
have believed." 

"Ah?" Did he mean for the 
better or the worse ? The man read 
the question in her eyes and answer- 
ed it: 

" You are far more beautiful 
than I expected." 

"Beautiful!" she repeated, and 
her face lighted up. 

"I was frightened when I saw 
you; I took you for a fairy prin- 
cess," said Hermann, yielding to 
the irresistible temptation of pleas- 
ing her. 

Alba's face clouded over. " Now 
I know you are laughing at me, 
monseigneur; you don't believe in 
fairies, and you know very well I'm 
not a bit like a princess." 

" I have seen many a one who 
would have given a great deal to 
be like you," said Hermann. 

" Like me ! I thought princesses 
were all so happy !" 

Hermann smiled. " Sometimes 
they have hearts," he said. 



"Sometimes! And does that 
make them unhappy ?" 

He turned to walk under the 
trees, tacitly inviting her to do the 
same. 

" It endows them with the power 
of loving," he answered absently. 

" But I thought . . ." She hesi- 
tated ; it was difficult to put the 
thought into the right words. 

"You thought that love always 
led to happiness?" said Hermann, 
finishing the sentence for her, while 
he looked at her with a curious 
glance. Why had she come to cry 
in this lonely place ? 

" I don't know what it leads to. 
I shall never know," said Alba very 
gravely. 

M. le Comte smiled. " Tell me, 
Alba, why were you crying so bit- 
terly just now ?" 

She turned away her head and 
made no answer. 

" Tell me, sweet Alba," persisted 
the young man; "perhaps I can 
help you if you are in trouble. 
Trust me with your secret. As I 
am a soldier and a gentleman, I will 
defend you if I can. Tell me, is 
there some one you care for who 
does not know it?" 

She shook her head. " It is not 
I who care. ... I wish I could, 
but I have tried my best and I can- 
not love him !" The tears welled up 
again and were flowing freely. 

" Who is forcing you to love him ? 
Tell me his name and I will protect 
you from him. I swear to you I 
will !" And Hermann, with a sol- 
dier's instinctive gesture, put his 
hand to his sword, while his eye 
kindled with chivalrous anger. 
Alba thought him the ideal of a 
noble knight, as she looked at him, 
terrified and enchanted. 

" He is not forcing me, mon- 
seigneur," she said, "and you can 
do nothing to help me. I have pro- 



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631 



mised to marry, and I must keep 
my word." 

" You shall not, by heaven, if it 
makes you wretched ! He is a 
cowardly dog who would hold you 
to your word against your will," 
protested the count hotly. 

" He is not forcing me ; but I 
have promised," repeated Alba. 

" And you cannot love him ?" 

** No 1 and I have tried so hard* 
. . . But mother says that when I 
am his wife it will be different. . . ." 

'' Yes, it will be worse, a thousand 
times worse ! Alba, tell me this 
man's name; trust me with your 
secret,'' said Hermann, changing his 
angry tone to one of soft persua- 
sion. 

" I dare not," said Alba in a 
frightened whisper ; " you would go 
and kill him." The great, swart eyes 
were looking up at him, full of trust 
and admiration. 

" Kill him, child ! Do you think 
me so terribly wicked ? Do I look 
like a murderer?" 

" It would not be murder in you. 
You are a warrior; you don't think 
it wrong to kill men. That is what 
warriors are for; but I should not 
like you to kill poor Marcel." 

** Marcel ! . , . Marcel ! I seem 
to know that name," said the count, 
musing. ** Has he no other ?" 

"Yes, Marcel Caboff," replied 
Alba in a confidential tone ; " but 
you must not hurt him, monsei- 
gneur. Oh I I wish I had not told 
you. " 

Hermann started and muttered 
something between his teeth which 
she did not hear, but his look fright- 
ened her. 

" Marcel Caboff I the fellow whom 
my father ransomed at the risk of 
his own life !" said the count. " And 
he would force you into marrying 
him ! By heaven ! he sha*n't. I 
will foil him there." 



''O monseigneur, monseigneur! 
you will not kill him," plead- 
ed Alba, clasping her hands and 
appealing to the murderer with a 
scared face. " It is not his fault — 
it is not indeed, monseigneur !" 

" I don't mean to kill him ; I 
would not touch a hair of his head," 
said Hermann. " But why do you 
say it is not his fault ? Does he not 
love you ? Does he not want you to 
marry him ?" 

** He does, oh ! so dreadfully. 
But I should not mind that. It is 
mother whom I have promised. It 
is to please her that I must marry 
him," said Alba, and her breast 
heaved with big sobs, and all the 
floods were let loose again. 

Hermann longed to draw her to 
his breast and kiss away the tears — 
she was such a child in spite of her 
sixteen summers and their full- 
blossomed beauty ! But he check* 
ed the impulse. There is no ma- 
jesty so imposing as the majesty of 
childhood. " Alba," he said, " I 
will save you from Marcel Caboff 
without hurting him or any one. 
You shall not marry him, unless you 
come to wish it yourself. Are you 
sure that if he gave you up you 
would not change your mind and 
wish him back again ?" This was 
Hermann's estimate of woman's na- 
ture ; true, his experience had been 
gathered among types as different 
from the one before him as the flow- 
ers of a hot-house are from the 
primrose of the woods. 

"I should never wish him to 
come back; I could never love 
him," said Alba — "never, never, 
never." 

"Then I swear to you on my 
sword you shall not marry him !" 
said the count impetuously. " Now 
tell me. Alba," he resumed, see- 
ing that she did not speak, "is 
there not some one you would like 



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to marry better than this fellow 
Caboflf? Tell me the truth. If 
you had a brother, ydu would not 
mind-telling him. Try and fancy 
I am your brother." 

Fancy him her brother ! Alba's 
fancy had taken many an aerial 
flight, but never such a one as this. 

"Who is he? What is his name?" 
said Hermann in a whisper, bend- 
ing closer to her. 

But she shook her head. " There 
is no one, monseigneur." 

** Oh ! I don't believe that ; you 
are afraid to trust me. There is 
surely some one else who wants to 
marry you ?" 

" No one, monseigneur, but Mar- 
cel." 

"Alba, look at me !" She turned 
and looked at him like a docile 
child. " Have you never seen any 
one whom you could love or whose 
heart you would care to win ?" 
He was gazing deep down into the 
two dark pools of light, as if he 
thought to see into her soul through 
them. She did not shrink from the 
searching glance, but dwelt in it 
for one long moment ; then, as if 
tlie flame in Hermann's eyes leap- 
ed out and flashed upon her with 
too intense a radiance, revealing 
the spring of some sweet mystery 
in her heart and his, the white lids 
quivered and dropped, and a deep 
blush rose to Alba's face. They 
were alone. The voices of the 
wood were hushed ; the dead 
leaves ceased to rustle at their 
feet ; the zephyrs paused in the 
branches overhead; the silence 
grew and deepened, filling the soli- 
tude with an overpowering pre- 
sence, till each seemed to hear the 
beating of the other's heart. Sud- 
denly the sound of a horn, follow- 
ed by a noise of wheels crushing 
the gravel in the distance, broke 
the spell and admonished Hermann 



that he must be gone. He lifted 
Alba's hand to his lips, and without 
a word of farewell turned from her 
and struck across the park towards 
the castle. 

Alba watched him out of sight, 
and then turned and wended home* 
wards. Her heart beat with wild 
throbs of joy ; the spirit that had 
been dead within her all these mis- 
erable months woke up, quickened 
to a new birth, and overflowed in 
song. The flute-like voice trilled 
out over the lonesome moor like 
the carol of a bird let loose ; but 
as she drew near the confines of 
the heath the Fortress came in 
sight and checked her song. Was 
it so certain that Hermann could 
set her free? and how? What 
would her mother think of it ? how 
of this wonderful meeting and mon- 
seigneur's promise? Alba slack- 
ened her steps and took to ponder- 
ing. A moment ago she was impa- 
tient to pour into Virginie's ear the 
story of the interview, to repeat 
every word Hermann had said, to 
convey, as far as it was possible, the 
impression he had made upon her, 
to describe his manly beauty, his 
warlike aspect, his gentle courtesy, 
the incomparable sweetness of 
his voice, the chivalrous kindness 
of his manner, never doubting but 
that Virginie would sympathize in 
this new delight, as she had done 
in every little joy that had gladden- 
ed her child's young life. But 
suddenly a change came over Alba — 
something vague, and undefined; 
a sense of doubt, of warning, of 
intangible fear. She had done 
nothing wrong, and yet the still, 
small voice was whispering inaudi- 
ble reproach as if she had. Could 
Virginie be angry with her for 
speaking to monseigneur? How 
could she have avoided it, how refuse 
to answer his persistent questions, 



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Albans Dream. 



633 



so kindly and so courteously put ? 
He had entreated her to trust him ! 
Alba stood amidst the breezy waves 
of heather, and recalled him as he 
bent near her and lowered his voice 
and bade her look at him. How 
he had seemed to read her through 
and through ! " Have you never 
seen any one whose heart you 
would care to win ?" She murmur- 
ed the words softly to herself, and 
the sound of them was like the 
echo of his voice, and called up the 
hot blush to her cheeks again. 
There was nothing wrong in mon- 
seigneur's asking her the question. 
Why, then, did she feel afraid to tell 
her mother of it ? Musing for a 
moment on this mystery. Alba re- 
membered how he had said : " Try 
and fancy I am your brother. " 
Virginie could not be angry at that, 
surely. " I will tell her that, and 
say nothing about the other," mut- 
tered Alba to herself; and, satisfied 
that this was a safe way out of the 
difficulty, she walked on briskly till 
she was close upon the confines 
of the moor. Then the sound of 
a carriage coming down the road 
made her stop till it should pass. 
It was an open caleche preceded 
by outriders. Alba recognized the 
occupant at once, even before his 
hand was raised in courtly salu- 
tation as he flashed by. Her heart 
beat fast, and sent the blood to her 
cheeks and brow, dying them crim- 
son. 

" Perhaps I had better say noth- 
ing at all to petite m^re," was her 
reflection as she crossed the road 
and began to climb the cliff. " He 
told me to trust him ; perhaps he 
would be angry if I spoke until he 
bade me." And so it was decreed. 
The tyrant had stepped in, and at 
his first whispered prompting the 
discipline of a life gave way. 

It was not many days after this 



wonderful morning when an event 
occurred which threw all the sweet 
romance of life into the shade, and 
made Alba forget her own cares 
and hopes in concern for the great 
sorrow of another. M. le Marquis 
was dead. He had died, not ac- 
tually on the field, but of a wound 
received in battle. The young 
lord's grief was like a madness, they 
said. Those about him said that 
in the first frenzy of despair he had 
called on Marcel Caboff and cursed 
him as the murderer of his father. 
Whether this was true or not, Gon- 
driac believed it, and bitter words 
were spoken against the widow's 
son in all the country round. Bit- 
ter words are like the wind ; they 
fly, and have a faculty for reaching 
those whose aching nerves most 
dread their sting. The widow 
heard what was said of her son and 
filt it keenly ; it was cruel, yet it 
was just ; it was a hard price to pay 
for Marcel's safety, but she could 
not reckon it too high. If only she 
might pay it alone ! They are all 
alike, these mothers. Mme. Caboff 
was a vain, hard woman, but the 
mother in her was all soft and gen- 
erous and beautiful. She came to 
Virginie for sympathy — not for her- 
self, but for Marcel. It was her 
doing, M. le Marquis' death, not 
his. Why would not people visit 
her sin upon herself, and not upon 
her boy? But Virginie and Alba 
would be kind; they had always 
said that Marcel was no coward. 
Virginie gave the poor woman what 
comfort she could; but Alba was 
not there. She could not bear the 
sight of Marcel's mother ; for the 
thought of Marcel was now unen- 
durable to her. It might be unjust, 
and yet it was true to say that he 
was the murderer of M. le Marquis, 
of Hermann's father. The news 
had thrown her into such a par- 



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634 



Alba's Dream. 



oxysm of distress that Virginie was 
terrified, not holding the key to it. 
It was right that she should be sor- 
ry, and natural that she should be 
shocked, but this agony of grief was 
unaccountable. Virginie took her 
in her arras, and soothed her with 
caresses and endearing words, and 
then bade her go and rest awhile. 
But Alba, as if instinct warned her 
of the coming visit, hastened out of 
the house, and fled across the moor 
until she was safe in the shelter 
of the park, and then she flung her- 
self down on the moss-grown trunk 
that had a memory of its own, and 
buried her face in the primroses 
and cried her heart out in pity for 
Hermann. 

After this it was impossible to 
mention Marcel Caboff^s name in 
her presence. " I loathe the very 
thought of him, mother! I would 
rather die than marry him !*' sHe 
said ; and Virginie felt that Provi- 
dence 'was against her, and surren- 
dered. Marcel took back his gifts, 
and quarrelled with his mother, and 
went away from Gondriac. People 
said it was shame and remorse that 
drove him forth; but Alba knew 
this was not true, and, now that he 
had set her free, she pitied him. 

M. le Marquis was borne to the 
grave amidst such honors as the 
proudest Crusader of his name 
might have envied. It was with 
the jubilant pomp of a coronation 
rather than the mournful pageant 
of a burial that they laid him to 
rest. For his people would have it 
that he was a martyr ; he had gone 
out to die of his own free will, 
sacrificing himself out of gratitude 
to the dead and charity to the liv- 
ing. The population flocked in 
from thirty miles round to attend 
the funeral. Five hundred men 
followed the crimson-draped car 



with palms and laurel branches; 
children clad in white bore crimson 
banners that fluttered in the breeze, 
while their voices rose in hymns of 
victory, giving glory to God and 
the Christian soldier; the voices of 
the multitude made response in 
chorus, and the waves, breaking in 
low thunder against the rocks, 
sounded their everlasting amens as 
the procession wound its way by 
the sea-shore to the cemetery. 

And now Hermann de Gondriac 
was alone, the head of an ancient 
house, wealthy and young, but as 
poor in that which makes life rich 
as the poorest of his peasantry. If 
he could but have girded on his 
sword, and, escaping from solitude, 
have drowned his grief in the ex- 
citement of the camp ! Spring 
came, and the fields were carpeted 
with wild flowers, and the woods 
were full of music. But Hermann 
was seldom seen abroad ; he lived 
indoors, amidst his books, the peo- 
ple said ; but, in truth, the young 
lord's chief companions were his 
thoughts, angry, rebellious thoughts, 
that made him chafe most bitterly 
against his forced inaction. The 
park was vast as a forest, and he 
never went beyond it. Often, in 
his moody walks, he strayed to that 
spot close upon the moor where he 
had flrst seen Alba lying upon the 
mossy trunk. The charm of her 
beauty and her daisy-like simplicity 
had wrought upon kis heart more 
deeply than he was aware. For 
days after that meeting she had 
been ever in his thoughts. He said 
that he was thinking only of how 
he might rescue her from a cruel 
fate ; no doubt it was to help him 
to this issue that he returned to the 
spot where she had stood, and con- 
jured up her image, till the nymph- 
like figure with the dark eyes and 
witching smile seemed to float visi- 



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Alba's Dream. 



635 



bly before him, and listened for her 
voice until he thought he heard it 
in the sighing of the wind. 

Then came the thunderbolt of his 
father's death, and Alba and all the 
world were forgotten. But grief can- 
not hold its sway in human souls 
beyond a given time. As the days 
go by they bear away its sting 
upon their wings, that touch the 
bleeding places with a balm. 
Hermann was young, and as the 
weeks passed youth vindicated it- 
self, and rebelled against the stag- 
nant, lonely life, and longed for ac- 
tion and for the sweet companionship 
of kindred youth. If he could not 
fight, he could at least love; but 
who was there at Gondriac to love 1 
The merry comrades of the bivouac 
were out of call, and when he re- 
turned to the midst of them he 
would find his place filled up; 
others would have come and gone 
again, and risen in command and 
won place and distinction, while he 
was out of sight, a prisoner to a 
stiff arm, as good as a dead man. He 
hated himself with bitter vexation. 
One morning he betook himself in 
one of these savage moods to wan- 
der in the park, and, not heeding 
which way he went, strayed to that 
lonely walk under the shadow of 
the old trees near the moor. Some 
one, meanwhile, was watching him, 
crouched timidly behind a furze- 
bush, admiring his quick, military 
stride, thinking how grand and 
lion-like was that angry toss of the 
head which every now and then re- 
lieved his bitter thoughts. 

The air was fresh, and yet warm 
with that delicious warmth of some 
spring days that come like heralds 
of the summer, gathering up all the 
sweets of earth into one fragrant 
breath, wooing us with soft, furry 
zephyrs, and the scent of opening 
blossoms, and the melody of young 



birds learning to sing. Alba had 
been tempted across the heath to 
the park, where the trees had 
put out their bright green foliage 
that looked so lovely sparkling 
in the sunlight. Perhaps, too, 
though she did not own it, there 
was a lurking hope in her heart 
that she might catch a glimpse of 
Hermann in the distance. If so, 
she was not disappointed. There 
he was, walking under the pine- 
trees, but, happily, with his back 
to the heath, so that he did not 
see her ! She dipped quickly be- 
hind a furze-bush, and disappeared 
from view just as he turned, and, 
coming through the trees at an an- 
gle, stepped out on the pathway. 
A nightingale began to sing in the 
distant copse; but Alba, as she 
cowered behind her bush, thought 
the crystal trills and the loud call- 
note less musical than the sound of 
Hermann's foot-fall crushing the 
gravel close to her hiding-place — so 
close she almost feared he would 
note the shadow of her pink skirt 
upon the grass, or mayhap overbear 
the palpitation of her heart. But 
presently the foot-falls died away, 
and the nightingale and the zeph- 
yrs had it all to themselves again. 
She waited some minutes — an hour 
it seemed to her — ^before she ven- 
tured to look up; but at last she 
did, and there, within a few paces, 
straight before her, stood Hermann. 
He had left the pathway and taken 
to the noiseless grass under the trees. 

"Alba!" 

There was a ring of jby in the 
greeting, as the young lord came 
forward, holding out his hand. 

"Why have you never come? 
I have been here again and again 
in hopes of seeing you !** 

He was a true knight and meant 
no harm; but in his joy at seeing 
the sunbeam on his path he forgot 



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636 



Alba's Dream. 



that he had no right to be so glad 
or to let Alba see it. 

" I did not forget my promise/* 
he said, leading her into the park 
and turning to walk by her side; 
"but I learned soon after that 
there was no need for me to inter- 
fere. CabofF left the place, they 
told me." 

" Yes, monseigneur, people said" 
. . . she hesitated. " They were all 
so sorry for you, and Marcel could 
not bear it, because they hated him 
— poor Marcel! It was not his 
fault; he never was a coward." 

"You are sorry now that he is 
gone ! Perhaps he will come back ? 
, No doubt he will, if you ask him," 

" I will never ask him ; but I am 
sorry for him," she replied, and then, 
looking up at Hermann with those 
souMit eyes that had a language of 
their own like music, she added 
timidly: "But I was more sorry for 
you, monseigneur." 

" Alba !" He took her hand and 
kissed it. It was very sweet to be 
so Rear him. Alba thought. They 
walked on together, hand in hand, 
without speaking for a while. The 
grass was soft beneath their feet, 
and the trembling sunbeams stole 
through the trees and touched 
their faces with golden shadows, 
thrilling and pure and full of glad- 
ness, as the touch of nature is when 
it stirs the chords of young vibrat- 
ing hearts. " If I could but comfort 
him!" she was thinking, till the 
thought grew so loud within her 
she feared he would overhear it. 
But we are deaf to those voices 
that lie " upon the other side of si- 
lence." Hermann, as he held the 
warm, soft hand within his own, 
was wondering how it came to pass 
that yonder on the barren cliffs a 
flower so rare and delicate had 
grown, and been trained to so much 
grace and ease by a woman who 



was called Mfere Virginie. Then 
he remembered his father's words 
about the royal flower on the ple- 
beian stem, and, thinking of him, he 
sighed. Alba looked up quickly, of- 
fering all her soul's wealth of sympa- 
thy through her eyes, and Hermann 
bethought to himself how delightful 
it would be to have this sympathet- 
ic creature always at his side. But 
he thought also of the emperor and 
the world, and wondered what these 
potentates would say were he to 
pick up the jewel from the dust 
and set it in his coronet. Bonaparte 
had a way of choosing mates for his 
officers as he chose sites for his 
battles, and ordering them to mar- 
ry as he ordered them to charge ; 
but Hermann felt he was not one 
to be cowed by the imperial match- 
maker, and there was something ra- 
ther inspiriting in the idea of defy- 
ing the despot if he attempted to 
meddle with his life outside the 
camp. Why should he not gather 
this wild flower, if he chose ? Had 
his father lived, it would have been 
different; but now he was free, 
there was no one to whom he need 
sacrifice the promptings of his 
heart, be they wise or foolish. 
The world and the court might 
laugh; it was not from amongst 
them he cared to take a wife; he 
wanted to be loved, to be wed for 
his own sake, and not for the good 
things he had to offer. But did 
Alba love him .^ 

" Alba," he said, " now that Mar- 
cel is gone, who is to be the favor- 
ed suitor.?" 

" No one, monseigneur ; I told 
you so before." 

" But I did not believe you. I 
don't believe you now." 

"Why should I tell you a lie.? 
I never told one in my life." 

She spoke without anger or of- 
fended pride; but Hermann saw that 



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Albans Dream. 



637 



he had pained her, and there was a 
purity of truth about her that rebuk- 
ed his denial, though it was spoken 
in jest. 

*' Forgive me, dearest ! I wanted 
to hear you say it again. I wanted 
to be certain there was no one else 
you cared for." 

He bent toward her caressingly, 
and, looking under her hood, saw 
two big tears slowly trickling down 
her cheeks. 

"Alba . . ." 

What an idle boast seems this 
about the freedom of the human 
will! Our most pregnant words, 
our weightiest actions, spring far 
oftener from impulse than from de- 
liberate resolve; a touch, light as 
the feather floating on the summer 
breeze, will stir the fountain and 
make its waters overflow; a word 
spoken when we had meant to be 
silent will change the current of 
our life, and push us to a step that 
can never be retraced. An hour 
ago Hermann de Gondriac no 
more dreamed of oflering his hand 
to Alba than he did of burying 
himself in the Grande Chartreuse ; 



but those two tears were the drops 
that made the fountain overflow, 
and, in the sudden flood of tender- 
ness, pride, prudence, everything 
but love was swept away. 

"Alba," he whispered, clasping 
her in his arms and gathering her 
to his breast — " Alba, 1 love you. 
Will you come to me and be my 
wife?" 

Was she awake, with the solid 
earth under her feet, or were those 
whispered words the music that 
our fancy makes in dreams? But 
the music did not die away, nor 
did the clasping arm melt from 
her, as do the embraces of those 
loved ones who visit us in sleep. 

" You love me !" she said, looking 
up into his face with her large, 
warm glance, pure and trusting as 
a child's — "you love me!" And 
the sunbeams went on singing it in 
shadow music on the grass, and 
the cuckoo called it through the 
woods, and the trees in their mur- 
murous song repeated it, and the 
clouds, as they sailed over the ze- 
nith, traced it in silver lines upon 
the sky — " You love me !" 



TO BS COMCLUDBD NSXT MONTH. 



MAGDALEN AT THE TOMB. 

Deep sombre clouds roll up to shroud the night, 

For in the silence of a guarded tomb 

Rests the rich promise of a Virgin's womb ; 

And hearts that hoped are shrunk as buds by blight. 

Till, like a soul which gains from Heaven delight. 

The radiant morn dispels the woeful gloom, 

And casts o'er hungry Ejffth a new perfume. 

A white-robed Angel, pinion-fring'd with light, 

Beside the empty grave bade one rejoice, 

Who, coming from the cross, outran the morn, 

In loving haste the body to adorn ; 

But found it gone — and wept. Oh ! hasty choice 

Of tears, for one who was the first to turn 

Her eyes upon her Lord, and hear his voice. 



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638 From the Medea of Euripides. 



FROM THE MEDEA OF EURIPIDES. 

*A free translation^ 
BY AUBREY DE VERE. 

\The Chorus dissuades Medea from slaying her children. \ 

STROPHE I. 

O RACE renowned in ancient story, 

Race from the blest Immortals sprung, 

Athenians, ye who all day long, 
Feeding on wisdom and on glory, 
Walk lightly through that climate fine, 

Where, as the fabling poets say. 

The yellow-tressed Harmonia 
Brought forth the Muses nine ; 
That sage and virgin choir whose shell 
You hear so often, love so well : — 

ANTISTROPHE I. 

To you white Aphrodite sends 

Her Loves, to make you wise and kind ; 
For they are Wisdom's choicest friends ; 
And here they say the goddess wreathed 
Her fragrant locks with rosy twine ; 

And here they sing that, passion -fraught 

And o'er Cephisus* stream reclined, 
Along the flowery vale she breathed 

Sweet airs from that cold current caught 
Upon her balmy lips divine. 

STROPHE II. 

Medea, dream not that the city 
Of sacred founts and streams can e'er 
Give harbor to a wretch like thee : 
Pity them, ruthless mother, pity \ 
See but thy guilt as others see ; 
By all things great and good, forbear ! 
We clasp thy knees, and bid thee spare 
The babes that laughed upon thy knee ! 



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The Story of the Gothic Revival. 

ANTISTROPHE 11. 

They are thy children ! They will call 
Aloud, aloud upon their mother ! 

How can*st thou hear that pleading cry ? 
In vain thou striv'st : — thou can'st not smother 
A mother's love. Thy hand will shake ; 
Thy heart will bend ; thy heart will break, 
Thy frenzy melt away and die, 
When twining round thy feet they fall 
In that despairing agony. 



639 



THE STORY OF THE GOTHIC REVIVAL. 



When, centuries hence, historians 
endeavor to delineate the charac- 
teristics of the present century, it 
is more than probable that the fea- 
tures that will most strike them will 
be those of innovation and change. 
Progress in every science, rapid 
advance in material prosperity, 
sweeping reforms in laws and gov- 
ernments, political and social chan- 
ges not a few, will appear to have 
pretty well filled up the records of 
the busy century that is fast draw- 
ing to its close. To those, how- 
ever, who look more closely into 
the minor though oftentimes im- 
portant details that contribute in a 
great measure to influence the cha- 
racter of an age, it will be evident 
that, if change and revolution have 
to a large extent reigned para- 
mount in this century, neither has 
it been altogether wanting in a 
just recognition of the past, and in 
a serious revival of some of the 
best features of that past. 

These thouglits have been sug- 
gested by the perusal of Sir Charles 
Eastlake's History of the Gothic Re- 
vival in England— 3l work in which 
is displayed a thorough knowledge 



of the subject combined with an 
agreeable style and a high artistic 
taste, which cannot fail to interest 
even those whose predilections are 
for other styles of architecture. 

The revival which it describes 
has not been confined to England ; 
in both France and Germany pro- 
gress in Gothic art has made rapid 
strides during the last thirty years. 
In the production, indeed, on the 
history and theory of the pointed 
style France is perhaps in advance 
of England ; but nowhere else has 
the revival been so universal and 
so practical as in the latter coun- 
try, nowhere else has it reached a 
point which could justify an au- 
thor in attempting its history. So 
many Catholic associations are link- 
ed with Gothic architecture, so 
many fond recollections of a glo- 
rious past are called up by the 
mere name, that it is only natural 
that Catholics should take a special 
interest in its revival, should feel 
justly proud of the large part that 
some of their co-religionists have 
had in that revival, and should re- 
fer with feelings of pleasure to the 
influence brought to bear upon it 



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640 



The Story of the Gothic Revived. 



by the adoption of many Catholic 
doctrines and practices by their 
Protestant brethren. 

American readers cannot be in- 
different to the history and fortunes 
of edifices where their ancestors 
prayed in those happy days when 
unity of faith prevailed; nor can 
they fail to take an interest in the 
history, which we propose to sketch, 
of those years during which a hand- 
ful of earnest men struggled, and 
struggled successfully, to revive the 
glories of a style that had been 
rendered for ever illustrious by 
such names as Cologne and Char- 
tres, Amiens and Salisbury, Notre 
Dame and York Minster. 

Many were the fair buildings that 
graced the broad lands of merry 
England at the commencement of 
the reign of Henry VIII.; stately 
churches and splendid monasteries 
adorned her towns and nestled 
among her wooded hills and val- 
leys ; the one same principle of art 
had presided over their structure — 
happy symbol of the one faith to 
whose service they ministered. Be- 
fore the end of that reign what a 
transformation had come over the 
face of the land ! One of the first 
acts of the Reformation had been 
the suppression of the monasteries 
and confiscation of their property. 
Cromwell and his band of impious 
followers but too faithfully carried 
out the orders of their royal mas- 
ter ; the venerable and beauteous 
piles on which the pious munifi- 
cence of ages had lavished their 
skill and their treasures were soon 
reduced to bare and crumbling 
ruins. Nor did the spoliation end 
here ; the zealous reformers of God's 
church were not slow in condemn- 
ing as idolatrous the rich and bril- 
liant decorations and ornaments 
that filled the cathedrals and 
churches, and thus these sacred 



edifices were shorn of all the costly 
treasures that devotion had accu- 
mulated to honor the abiding pre- 
sence of a heavenly King, in order 
to fill the coffers of a licentious 
monarch. 

It was not, however, the material 
ruin and desecration of its finest 
buildings that struck the severest 
blow at Gothic art; it was rather 
the loss of that faith which had wit- 
nessed its earliest efforts and had 
inspired its grandest works. When 
the cold blast of Protestantism 
swept away one after another each 
Catholic dogma and each Christian 
belief, the sources of Gothic inspi- 
ration were dried up, its very raison 
(Titre ceased to exist. Not that the 
Catholic Church has in any way 
adopted one style of architecture 
as the only fitting one for her use ; 
she has equally sanctified by her 
solemn ritual and her sacred cere- 
monies the colonnades of the Greek 
temple, the dome of the Italian ba- 
silica, and the pointed arch of the 
Gothic cathedral. But this last, if 
we may use a comparison, seems 
somehow more especially her own 
child ; the others are but children 
of adoption — wayward children that 
she has rescued from pagan pa- 
rents. She has not watched over 
them from their birth, nor seen 
them grow up under her fostering 
care to the vigor and strength of 
manhood. 

It naturally took some time be- 
fore the spirit of a form of art 
which was then the only form could 
completely disappear from the 
country; for we must recollect 
that in England at the time of the 
Reformation not only ecclesiastical 
but civil and domestic architecture 
was entirely Gothic. As there 
were for several centuries no new 
churches built — for the usurped edi- 
fices of Catholic days more than 



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The Story of the Gothic Revival, 



641 



sufficed for the needs of Protes- 
tant piety — it was in domestic struc- 
tures that the spirit of the style lin- 
gered longest in a practical form. 

'* Even down to the reign of James I. 
the domestic architecture of England, as 
exemplified in the country-houses of the 
nobility, was Gothic in spirit, and fre- 
quently contained more real elements of 
a mediaeval character than many which 
have been built in modern times by the 
light of archaeological orthodoxy. Ini- 
go Jones himself required a second visit 
to Italy before he could thoroughly 
abandon the use of the pointed arch. 
But its days were numbered when in 
1633 the first stone was laid for a Roman 
portico to one of the finest cathedrals of 
the middle ages, and Gothic architecture 
as a practical art received what was 
then no doubt supposed to be its death- 
blow."* 

From this period the practice of 
Gothic art gradually diad out. 
Classic and Italian architecture, 
which had received a fresh impulse 
from the French Renaissance, rap- 
idly came into fashion. Architects 
studied no other style, for the very 
good reason that the public admir- 
ed no other. It was henceforth 
considered the criterion of good 
taste to abuse as barbarous all 
the productions of mediaeval art, 
and the test of good Protestant- 
ism to look upon them as supersti- 
tious and popish. It is indeed sur* 
prising that so many of the won- 
derful productions of a period no 
longer understood or appreciated 
should have been allowed to come 
down to us unaltered by "clas- 
sical " remodelling. What saved 
them and at the same time preserv- 
ed the spirit of the old art from 
total extinction is thus told by Sir 
C. Eastlake : 

"By a strange and fortunate coinci- 
dence of events, however, it happened at 
this very time, when architects of the 

* Eafttlake, p. 5. 
VOL. XXV. — 41 



period had learned to despise the build" 
ings of their ancestors, a spirit of vene- 
ration for the past was springing up 
among a class of men who may be said 
to have founded our modem school of an- 
tiquaries. Sometimes, indeed, their re- 
searches were not those of a character 
from which much advantage can be ex- 
pected. . . . But, luckily for posterity, 
the attention <# others was drawn in a 
more serviceable direction. Up to this 
time no work of any importance had 
been published on the architectural an- 
tiquities of England. A period had ar- 
rived when it was thought necessary, if 
only en historical grounds, that some 
record of ecclesiastical establishments 
should be compiled. The promoters of 
the scheme were probably little influ- 
enced by the love of Gothic as a style. 
But an old building was necessarily a 
Gothic building, and thus it happened 
that, in spite of the prejudices of the age, 
and probably their own aesthetic predi- 
lections, the antiquaries of the day be- 
came the means of keeping alive some 
interest in a school of architecture which 
had ceased to be practically employ- 
ed."* 

Amongst the earliest names that 
attained to a certain celebrity by 
their researches and writings may 
be mentioned those of Mr. R. Dods- 
worth and Mr. W, Dugdale, joint 
authors of the Monasticon Anglican- 
unin a work first published in 1655, 
and which still retains much inter- 
est for the modern student, as it in- 
cludes many records and views of 
buildings which have long since 
perished. Another writer whose 
name deserves mention was Anto- 
ny ^ Wood, born 1611, whose His- 
tory of the Antiquities of Oxford was 
a book of considerable importance^ 
connected as it was with a univer- 
sity where Gothic architecture was 
so nobly illustrated and where the 
traditions of the style lingered long 
after its true principles were for- 
gotten. 

During the next tw^o hundred 

• History e/tkt Gothic Revivmly p. 6. 



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years the annals of Gothic art are 
indeed meagre ; from time to time 
we have the record of some anti- 
quarian research, and at rare inter- 
vals we hear of some uncouth at* 
tempts at Gothic building remark- 
able only for the egregious mis- 
takes they display. . 

Early in the eighteenth century 
we find the name of a remarkable 
man connected with one of these 
crude attempts at mediaeval art — 
that of the celebrated Horace Wal- 
pole, Earl of Oxford, the author of 
the first work of modern fiction 
whose scene is laid in the middle 
ages. His labors in the fields of 
literature and art were not pro- 
found. Eccentricity seemed the 
most marked feature of his taste ; 
and, as may be well imagined, his 
famous Gothic house, Strawberry 
Hill, which has remained almost 
unaltered to the present day, is a 
strange monument of what debased 
art can achieve. The fact, how- 
ever, that a man of his position, 
and enjoying the reputation he did, 
could patronize a form of architec- 
ture which had fallen into almost 
universal contempt could not have 
been without a powerful effect on 
the public mind — an effect which 
may be traced in the erection dur- 
ing the next fifty years of a certain 
number of mansions throughout the 
■country in that style which Pugin 
loved so much to call "Brumma- 
gem Gothic.*' 

Towards the end of the century 
-some useful books on architectural 
archaeology appeared, such as Car- 
ter's Specimens of Ancient Sculpture 
>and Paintings Hearne's Antiquities of 
Great Britain^ Gough's Sepulchral 
Monuments^ Halfpenny's Gothic Or* 
naments of the Cathedral of York^ 
B. Willis' History of Gothic Archi- 
tecture in England. 

'* It was something at least to draw at- 



tention to the noble works of oar ances- 
tors, which had long been neglected and 
despised ; to record with the pencil or 
with the pen some testimony, however 
inadequate, of their goodly form and 
worthy purpose ; to invest with artistic 
and historical interest the perishing 
monuments of an age when art was pure 
and genuine." * 

When the nineteenth century 
opens, we find these works already- 
producing practical fruits ; for we 
see several architects of note, such 
as Wyat, Nash, and Smirke, attempt- 
ing, and not without some success, 
the erection . of edifices of Gothic 
design. Nearly always, however, 
their efforts were confined to do- 
mestic structures for private indi- 
viduals — ^a proof how completely the 
taste was confined to the upper 
classes and was still unappreciated 
by the general public. If they did 
not often attempt to build new 
churches, unfortunately they did 
not hesitate to restore and im- 
prove the venerable cathedrals 
and churches of the past. Wyat in 
particular has a heavy burden of 
responsibility to bear on this score ; 
for many were the noble buildings 
that long bore the traces of acts of 
vandalism and ignorance associated 
with his name. 

How, indeed, could we expect 
better things in ecclesiastical archi- 
tecture at a time when religion was 
at so low an ebb in England 1 As 
each generation had passed away 
the lingering memories of the old 
faith and the old ritual had vanish- 
ed one by one ; the last remnants of 
Catholic feelings and practices had 
disappeared under the influence of 
the cold formalism of the Puritans 
and the colder indifferentism of 
those who succeeded them. When 
we read the following description, 
given by Sir C. Eastlake, of a Pro- 

* History 0/iht C^kie Rtriwl^ p. 71. 



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testant church and Protestant wor* 
ship as he recollected them during 
the early years of the present cen- 
tury, we cannot feel surprised that 
there was a lack of inspiration 
among charch architects : 

"Who does not remember the air of 
grim respectability which pervaded, and 
in some cases even still pervades, the 
modern town church of a certain type, 
with its big bleak portico and muflEin- 
capped charity-boys ? Enter and notice 
the tall, neatly-grained witness-boxes in 
which the faithfal are empanelled ; the 
'three-decker' palpit placed in the 
centre of the building; the lumbering 
gallery which is carri^ round the three 
sides of the interior on iron columns ; the 
wizen-faced pew-opener eager for stray 
shillings ; the earnest penitent who is 
inspecting the inside of his hat ; the 
hassock which no one kneels on ; the 
poor-box which is always empty. Hear 
how the clerk drones out the responses 
for a congregation too genteel to respond 
for themselves. Listen to the compli* 
cated discord in which the words of the 
Psalmist strike the ear after copious re- 
vision by Tate and Brady. Mark the 
prompt, if misdirected, zeal with which 
old ladies insist on testing the accuracy 
of the preacher's memory by turning out 
the text. Observe the length and unim- 
peachable propriety, the overwhelming 
dulness, of his sermon." 

Alas ! as far as exterior worship 
was concerned, the Catholic cha- 
pels of this period were in an 
equally sad condition; but from 
how different a cause ! Centuries 
of persecution had not been able to 
stamp out the Catholic faith, but 
penal laws still in force, though not 
rigorously carried out, forced it to 
hide away in back streets and lanes, 
always avoiding whatever might 
attract public notice, lest it might 
awaken again the dormant flames 
of bigotry. Add to this the state 
of poverty to which, in many places, 
the Catholic body was reduced, and 
we need not wonder at the deso- 
late aspect of the chapela, if the 



miserable structures that oftentimes 
were used for divine service de- 
served the name* They possessed, 
however, the presence of that God 
who had not disdained the poverty^ 
of a stable nor the humble offerings 
of poor shepherds ; in like manner 
he looked with indulgence on the 
mean and scanty ornaments that in 
these sad times decorated his altars, 
and on the cold and desolate walls 
within which persecution had 
forced him to make his dwelling. 
He was pleased to await the time 
when happier days and gentler laws 
should once again permit his wor- 
ship to be freely celebrated with 
all the glory and' pomp of by-gone 
years. Such days were rapidly ad- 
vancing, and Catholics were not 
slow in availing themselves of each 
relaxation of penal statutes, each 
favorable turn of Protestant bigotry, 
to improve their churches and to 
carry out more fully their sacred 
ceremonies- — a task of no small dif- 
ficulty on the part of a community 
so ill suppljed with the riches of 
this world, and so long, from> cruel 
necessity, fosced to content then^ 
selves with a simplicity almost akin 
to that of iht early Christians. 

The dawn of the revival, which 
was now at hand, was marked by 
some writers of eminence whose 
theoretical works contributed much 
to prepare the way for it. Their 
writings were distinguished from 
tliose of the earlier antiquarians 
by a more practical knowledge of 
building and a more exact delinea^ 
tion of the details of the edifices 
they describe. Mr. J. Britton may 
be looked upon as a link between 
the two schools, as he had some 
of the characteristics of both. He 
was the author of numerous works 
on the English cathedral and other 
Gothic edifices, all illustrated with 
Keally actistic drawings. They 



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were, however, more designed to 
create a taste for ancient art 
among the reading public than to 
Assist the professional architect. 

" While Britton was thus enlisting the 
sympathy of the amateur world two ar- 
chitects were engaged in preparing a 
practical and valuable work for the use 
of professional students. 

'' The examples of Gothic architecture 
which had hitherto been selected for 
publication were chiefly those which 
either served to illustrate a principle in 
the history of the style, or possessed 
sonle picturesque attraction in the way 
of general effect But neither of these 
were of real service to the practical ar- 
chitect, who required geometrical and 
carefully-measured drawings of ancient 
roofs, doors, and windows to guide him 
in his designs and to help him in reviv- 
ing a style the details of which had been 
as yet most imperfectly studied. Pu- 
gin's (father to the celebrated Welby Pu- 
gin) and Wilson's specimens of Gothic 
architecture supplied this want. It was 
a 'happy accident which brought these 
men together, the one eminently quali- 
fied as a draughtsman for the task, the 
other equally fitted to undertake its lite- 
rary labor." ♦ 

« 

The writer whose name next ap- 
pears on the roll of champions of 
Gothic art is one whose memory is 
enshrined in the hearts of all Eng- 
lish Catholics — Dr. Milner, Vicar- 
Apostolic of the Midland district, 
better known to most people for 
his holy life, his ardent zeal, and 
his controversial power than as a 
writer on architecture. In this lat- 
ter capacity, however, he deserves 
a foremost place among those who 
prepared the way for the great re- 
vival which unfortunately he did 
not live t*o sfee accomplished. 

His Survey of the Antiquities of 
fViftchester Ttvealed much erudition 
and a thorough appreciation of an- 
cient art ; but by far the most im- 
portant part of it was the short 

• £astlak«, poffe 88. 



but now famous essay it contained, 
" On the Rise and Progress of the 
Pointed Arch." In it the author 
uses for the first time the appella- 
tion now become so general as ap- 
plied to the architecture of the 
middle ages — viz., the pointed styU. 
His next work was an important 
Treatise on the Ecclesiastical Archi- 
tecture of England during the Middle 
Ages. In this work the author not 
only proves himself an antiquary 
but a man of taste. A work more 
important still, and one productive 
of the most serious results, was a 
short pamphlet entitled A Disserta- 
tion on the Modern Style of Altering 
Ancient Cathedrals, as Exemplified in 
the Cathedral of Salisbury, In it 
he protests in vigorous language 
against the miserable degradation 
of the old churches accomplished 
under the name of restoration ; nor 
does he spare Wyat, the leading 
spirit in these unfortunate improve- 
ments. No one before the days of 
Welby Pugin had so enthusiasti- 
cally entered into the spirit of the 
old art, so thoroughly appreciated 
its beauties, and so ably defended 
its principles, not only against its 
avowed enemies, but against the 
Ignorance of many of its would-be 
admirers. So outspoken, indeed, 
was Dr. Milner's language in this 
pamphlet that it shocked the staid 
members of the Society of Antiqua- 
ries, before whom it was to have 
been read, and was in consequence 
withdrawn — not, however, to lie 
mouldering in its author's desk, but 
soon to appear in print, and to 
work even more important effects 
on the future than its author ever 
contemplated. 

Dr. Milner died in 1826, the very 
year that W. Pugin, then a youth 
of fourteen, was displaying one of 
the earliest proofs of his taste for 
mediaeval art in devoting long hours 



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\o the studying and sketching of 
the old castle of Rochester. 

How little did the gray-haired 
bishop dream of the wonderful rer 
volution this youth, as yet unknown 
to fame, was to accomplish within 
a few years. Little did he think, 
when he saw arising the humble 
walls of his Gothic chapel at Win- 
chester, that the day was not far 
distant when a Catholic architect 
would revive throughout the land 
the glories of that style which Dr. 
Milner had so well defended in 
days when it was neglected and ' 
abused. 

One more name of importance 
must be mentioned before we at- 
tempt to trace the outline of Pu- 
gin's career ; we again quote from 
Sir C. Eastlake : 

"Midway in point of time between 
Milner and Pug^n, and possessing, 
though in a minor degree, the talents of 
both, Thomas Rick roan, as an architect 
and author, plays no unimportant part in 
the history of the reyival. His churches 
are perhaps the first of that period in 
which the details of old work were re- 
produced with accuracy of form. Up to 
this time antiquaries had studied the 
principles of mediaeval architecture, and 
to some extent classified the phases 
through which it had passed, while ar- 
chitects had indirectly profited by their 
labors when endeavoring to imitate in 
practice the work of the middle ages. 
Rickman united both functions in one 
man. ... In the science of his art he 
will not, of course, bear comparison with 
Willis. In the analyzing of its general 
principles he must yield to Whewell. 
In capability of invention he ranks, even 
for his time, far below Pugin ; but it 
may be fairly questioned whether, if we 
consider him in the twofold capacity of 
a theorist and a practitioner, he did not 
do greater service than either his learned 
contemporaries or his enthusiastic dis- 
ciple." * 

Had Rickman done no more 
than write his Attempt to discrimi- 

* Page IS 9. 



Hate the Styles of English Architecture^ 
he would have been worthy of a 
high place among those who con* 
tributed to revive Gothic art. He 
supplied by this book a want long 
felt by architects and by those in- 
terested in architecture. Of learn- 
ed, or rather unlearned, disserta- 
tions on the origin of the pointed 
style there were plenty, but of those 
short and useful volumes to which 
have been aptly given the name of 
hand-books there was a complete 
absence. Rickman 's book gave vol 
asmall compass a very complete his- 
tory of the various phases of Gothic 
architecture in England ; the main 
divisions into periods which he 
adopted being so good that they 
have remained unaltered to the 
present day. The work was illus- 
trated with very fair engravings, 
and no architect who had perused 
it could any longer plead ignorance 
as an excuse for the monstrosities 
that were so often produced in 
those days under the name of 
Gothic. 

His work on French Gothic, the 
fruits of a journey through the 
North of France with his friend 
Whewell, afterwards the famous 
Master of Trinity, is full of interest 
and contains an elaborate and care- 
fully-drawn comparison between 
the mediaeval remains in France 
and England. 

With Rickman ends that gloomy 
night which had so long, with faint 
flashes of light now and again, en- 
veloped the science and art of 
Gothic architecture; a dawn as 
sudden as it is bright foretells a 
day of more than ordinary bril- 
liancy. 

Ignorance and prejudice, which 
had so long reigned supreme in 
England in all matters concerning 
true religion and true art, were fast 
giving way before the researches 



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of conscientious science, and as a 
result we see two great movements 
marking the first quarter of the 
present century — the Tractarian 
movement and the Gothic revival ; 
the one religious, the other artistic. 
Of the first it does not enter into 
our plan to speak here, though it 
would no doubt afford a highly in* 
teresting study to trace out the mu* 
tual influence these two movements 
have exercised on one another; for 
it is impossible not to perceive that, 
on the one hand, the inquiry into 
the principles and form of ancient* 
art led naturally on to an inquiry 
into the ancient formularies and 
practices of the faith which had in- 
spired that art; and that, on the 
other hand, the revival of the long- 
forgotten ritual of the old faith led 
directly to the restoration and re- 
furnishing of those temples that 
were so intimately connected with 
it. Before entering on the life of 
Pugin, which constitutes the culmi- 
nating point in the great artistic 
revival we are attempting to sketch, 
we cannot do better than quote the 
opening words of the chapter in 
which Sir C. Eastlake traces his ca- 
reer, as it clearly proves the impor- 
tance he attaches to the labors of 
this great man : 



** However much we may be indebted 
to those ancient supporters of pointed 
architecture who, faithfully adhering to 
its traditions at a period when the style 
fell into general disuse, strove earnestly, 
in some instances ably, to preserve its 
character ; whatever value in the cause 
we may attach to the crude and isolated 
examples of Gothic work which belong 
to the eighteenth century, or to the e^ 
forts of such men as Nash and Wyat, 
there can be but little doubt that the re- 
vival of mediaeval design received its 
chief impulse from the energy and tal- 
ents of one architect whose name marks 
an epoch in the history of British art. 



which vHiile art exists at all can never 
be forgotten."* 

Augustus Welby Pugin, the archi- 
tect to whom these words apply, 
was born in London on March i, 
1 812. We have already spoken of 
his father, and of the important 
place his illustrated works occupy 
in the history we are tracing; he 
was a French refugee and a Pro- 
testant, and his son was brought up 
a Protestant. Although the elder 
Pugin had little professional prac- 
tice, he seems to have attained to a 
position of ease by the sale of his 
works and the instruction of pupils* 
His son was educated at Christ's 
Hospital, on leaving which he en- 
tered his father's office, having from 
his earliest years shown a great 
taste for drawing. He soon mas- 
tered the first elements of his pro- 
fession and became of much use to 
his father, already showing that 
earnestness in all he undertook that 
was so characteristic of him in la- 
ter years. His taste for mediaeval 
art received/a fresh impulse from a 
professional tour he made in 1827 
with his father through Normandy, 
which gave him the opportunity of 
studying the beauty of Gothic orna- 
ment in some of its most splendid 
productions. 

While still a mere youth his cle- 
verness in designing attracted at-* 
tention, and he received a commis- 
sion from the royal upholsterers to 
prepare designs for the new furni- 
ture for Windsor Castle, which it was 
determined should partake of the 
character of the building. The draw- 
ings he gave were probably better 
than what most architects of the 
day could have produced, yet in 
the writings of his after-years he 
always frankly pointed out their 
faults. 

• P. 145. 



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A love of variety and a strong 
taste for roving interrupted for a 
short period his architectural stu* 
dies. He devoted for a time his 
energies to scene-painting, and with 
much success when the subjects 
were of a mediaeval character. Next 
we find him carried away by an 
extraordinary passion for the sea, 
and he actually for a certain period 
commanded a merchant schooner 
trading between England and Hol- 
land. Having been wrecked, how- 
ever, on the Scotch coast, his sea- 
faring ardor was somewhat cooled, 
and he returned to the labors of 
his original profession. 

His talents were soon rewarded 
by increasing practice, many archi- 
tects being glad to avail themselves 
of his wonderful, one might almost 
say innate, knowledge of Gothic or- 
nament. 

A most serious and important 
event in Pugin's life, and one hav- 
ing much influence on his future 
career, occurred about this time — 
hisr conversion to the Catholic reli- 
gion. There can be no doubt that 
his intense love of the past and his 
enthusiastic admiration of the glo- 
rious monuments of the ages of 
faith strongly biassed his mind to- 
wards this determination, though 
of course it was not these consid- 
erations alone that led him to take 
so important a step. His after-life 
proved how thorough was his faith 
and how sincere his piety. 

This change of religion affected, 
in more ways than one, the profes- 
sional career of Welby Pugin. From 
a pecuniary point of view it proba- 
bly made little difference to him— 
as his talents were such as to in- 
sure for him constant work, and 
he already possessed independent 
means. But by this step he sacri- 
ficed what was far dearer to him, 
his future fame as an architect. 



Never was there a more splendid 
opening for architectural talent 
than that very time when Pugin, in 
the first dawn of his genius, embrac* 
ed the Catholic faith. Everything 
had combined to prepare a revival 
of Gothic art. The materials were 
already collected and awaited but 
the hand of a man of genius to 
make a practical use of them. The 
ritualistic movement had awakened 
the desire to restore the old and to 
build new churches. Rich men 
were ready to give unbounded 
• wealth to further the enterprise. 
Had Pugin remained a Protest- 
ant, had he preferred fame to con- 
science, he might have found an 
easy road to it by availing himself 
of an opportunity so worthy the 
gifts of one eminently fitted to be a 
leader in a movement that combin- 
ed religion and art. He preferred 
to return to the faith that had in- 
spired those mediaeval times h^ so 
fondly loved, and to risk his future 
reputation by offending that feel- 
ing which is so strong in Protestant 
England against converts. The 
Catholic who for centuries has kept 
his faith they can tolerate, nay, ad- 
mire ; but one who was their own 
and deserts them they find it hard 
to forgive. 

Not only did Pugin, in thus af- 
fronting public opinion, bias the 
judgment of his contemporaries and 
of future critics, but he actually, by 
attaching himself to the poorest re- 
ligious body in England, deprived 
himself of the means of adequate- 
ly displaying his power. 

During the next years that com- 
posed the short career of Pugin we 
find him working with an activity 
and enthusiasm that showed how 
all labor connected with his art 
was to him a labor of love. His 
pen and his pencil were alike de- 
voted to its service. In 1836 he 



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published his celebrated Contrasts — 
a work in which he compares with 
keen irony and scathing satire the 
buildings and institutions of the 
past with those of the present ; in 
the sketches which iU list rate it he 
delineates with wonderful humor 
all the weak points of modern ar- 
chitecture. His style of writing 
was flowing and easy, always high- 
ly picturesque and enthusiastic, but 
sometimes slightly inclined to ex- 
aggeration and eccentricity. It 
was this that made it so difficult 
for him to write without giving of- 
fence sometimes even to his own 
friends and co-religionists. 

His next work was his True 
Principles of Pointed Architecture. 
It is but a short volume, consisting 
of two lectures delivered at St. 
Mary's College, Oscott, but it forms 
a most complete elementary treatise 
on Gothic art, founded on the two 
great principles enunciated in its 
first page : " i. That there should be 
no features about a building that 
are not necessary for convenience, 
construction, or propriety ; 2. That 
all ornament should consist of en- 
richment of the essential construc- 
tion of the building." 

It is clearly shown that in these 
principles lies the true secret of all 
correct pointed construction and 
ornament, and that any analysis of 
Gothic work undertaken without 
taking them into consideration 
must inevitably lead to erroneous 
conclusions. 

The truth of these principles is 
now universally admitted in works 
that treat of pointed architecture, 
but to Pugin belongs the honor of 
having first laid them down and 
having shown how important they 
were to the right understanding of 
the lessons handed down to us in 
the wondrous structures of the past. 

His next work was An Apology 



for the Revival of Christian Architec 
ture in England, It is a brilliant 
defence of Gothic art, intended 
specially to prove that it is still 
** the only correct expression of 
the faith, the wants, and climate of 
our country." 

As a specimen of Pugin 's amus- 
ing style when describing tlie in- 
congruous productions of modem 
architecture, we cannot do better 
than quote the description of a 
nineteenth-century cemetery con- 
tained in this book ; we only wish 
we could reproduce the delightful 
picture that accompanies the text : 



"There are a superabundance of in- 
verted torches, cinerary urns, and pagan 
emblems, tastefully disposed by the side 
of neat gravel walks, among cypress- 
trees and weeping willows. 

" The central chapel is generally built 
on such a comprehensive plan as to 
be adapted (in the modern sense) for 
each sect and denomination in tarn as 
they may require its temporary use ; but 
the entrance gate-way is usually selected 
for the grand display of the company's 
enterprise and taste, as being well cal- 
culated from its position to induce per- 
sons to patronize the undertaking by the 
purchase of shares or graves. This is 
generally Egyptian, probably from some 
associations between the word cata- 
combs, which occurs in the prospectus 
of the company, and the discoveries of 
Belzoni on the banks of the Nile ; and 
nearly opposite the Green Man and Dog 
public-house, in the centre of a dead- 
wall (which serves as a cheap medium of 
advertisement for blacking and shaving- 
strop manufacturers), a cement caricature 
of the entrance to an Egyptian temple, 
two and a half inches to the foot, is erect- 
ed, with convenient lodges for the police- 
man and his wife, and a neat pair of cast- 
iron hieroglyphical gates which would 
puzzle the most learned to decipher ; 
while, to prevent any mistake, some 
such words as ' New Economical Com- 
pressed Grave Company's Cemetery ' are 
inscribed in Grecian capitals along the 
frieze, interspersed with hawk-headed 
divinities^ and surmounted by a huge 



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representation of the winged Osiris 
bearing a gas-lamp." * 

In 1844 he published his next 
important work, The Glossary of 
Ecclesiastical Ornament and Cos- 
tume. It is a thoroughly practi- 
cal book, designed to supply cor- 
rect descriptions and patterns for 
the use of those who manufacture 
the various ornaments employed in 
the ritual of the church, which were 
at that time of the most incorrect 
forms and in the worst taste. 

His other literary productions 
were numerous but^of less import- 
ance, being for the most part of a 
controversial character, and we pass 
on to examine, as far as our limited 
space permits, Pugin's career and 
influence as a practical architect. 
Catholic emancipation, in freeing 
tine church from the galling re- 
straints to which she had been so 
long subjected in England and Ire- 
land, opened for her a new era of 
liberty and prosperity in those coun- 
tries. True, she did not regain that 
wealth which had been sacrilegiously 
torn from her at the Reformation ; 
still, she was enabled, through the 
generosity of her children, to expend 
large sums in the construction of 
churches somewhat more worthy 
of the august mysteries she cele- 
brates than those poor edifices she 
had been so long forced to use. 

As a Catholic of undoubted tal- 
ents, Pugin soon found that his ar- 
chitectural capacity was appreciat- 
ed by his co-religionists, who en- 
trusted to him the construction of 
all their principal churches. Few 
among them, indeed, were, by their 
size or importance, calculated to 
give full scope to Pugin's genius; 
nevertheless, to the smallest build- 
ing he always devoted long study 

^An Apology for iht Revival of Christian A f - 
chiUiiure^ p. za. 



and attention and a scrupulous 
fidelity to the principles he had 
laid down in his writings, although 
in many cases it was extremely dif- 
ficult to do so, owing to the small 
amount of money that could be 
expended on the work. Among 
the many churches he designed we 
may mention, as the best specimens 
of his skill, the cathedrals of Bir- 
mingham, Southwark, Nottingham, 
Killarney, and Enniscorthy; the 
churches of St. Wilfrid's, Man- 
chester ; St. Marie's, Liverpool ; St. 
Giles', Cheadle; St. Bernard's Ab- 
bey, Leicestershire; St. Augustine's, 
Ramsgate. 

In all these churches the exterior 
beauty has been more or less sacri- 
ficed to interior ornament and deco- 
ration, Pugin preferring to devote 
all the money possible to beautify- 
ing those parts which were most 
closely connected with the pre- 
sence of his God, when the funds 
did not permit him to adorn fully 
both exterior and interior. This 
has often led his critics to misjudge 
his capacity as an architect ; even 
Sir C. Eastlake falls into this error, 
and, though a sincere admirer of 
Pugin, does not hesitate to assert 
that **of constructive science he 
probably knew but little." That 
his greatest pdwer lay in ornament 
and detail may no doubt be true ; 
still, we are fully convinced that 
had he founds the same opportuni- 
ties of displaying his knowledge as 
a scientific architect, and had he not 
been trammelled by the constant ne- 
cessity to keep down expense, he 
would have amply proved to the 
world how unfounded were these 
accusations. 

In comparing Pugin with the ar- 
chitects who have succeeded him 
people often forget the difficulties 
he had to contend against. He had 
to revive and educate tlie whole 



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series of artisans whose combined 
labors are required to construct the 
smallest Gothic edifice — sculptors, 
carvers, iron-workers, painters, and 
decorators. When he began his 
career as a practical architect he 
had to design every smallest item 
required for his buildings, and, what 
is more, often personally to superin- 
tend their manufacture; a lock, a 
screw, a nail of correct pointed de- 
sign were then things that had no 
existence. 

If we take up now a book of that 
period, we can scarcely believe that 
ignorance and absurdity could go 
so far as to call Gothic the designs 
we see there depicted under that ap- 
pellation. It is solely to Pugin's 
untiring energy, to his conscientious 
love of his art, and to his wonder- 
ful fertility of invention — gifts which 
even his adversaries cannot deny 
him — ^that we owe the change that 
has been wrought in a few years. 

The important progress in metal 
work, which now places at the dis- 
posal of the architect and builder 
material and designs almost equal- 
ling the best products of the mid- 
dle ages, is completely due to him ; 
in this, as in another long-lost branch 
of art — glass-staining — he found in 
Mr. J. Hardman, of Birmingham, 
one thoroughly competent by his 
practical knowledge and refined 
taste to assist him in carrying out his 
reforms. • 

How many other branches of in- 
dustry, connected directly or indi- 
rectly with mediaeval art, could be 
mentioned in which the influence 
of Pugin's labors can be traced ! — 
the production of encaustic tiles, silk 
embroidery, wood-carving, the man- 
ufacture of church plate and furni- 
ture of all kinds, even household 
articles and jewelry. Sir C. East- 
lake truly remarks : " Those estab- 
lishments which are known in Lon- 



don as ecclesiastical warehouses owe 
their existence and their source of 
profit to Pugin's exertions in the 
cause of rubrical propriety. " * He 
might have added with equal truth 
that the many beautiful objects we 
admire in them owe their existence 
to the principles he established by 
his writings and to the endless mo- 
dels which his unrivalled facility of 
invention placed at the disposal of 
the public. 

If a proof were wanting of the 
hold that the revival of which Pu- 
gin was the leading spirit was tak- 
ing on public opinion, it is the fact 
that a Parliamentary committee, in 
drawing up the terms of the com- 
petition for the plans of the new 
Houses of Parliament, stipulated 
that the designs should be Gothic 
or Elizabethan. It has often been 
regretted that Pugin did not take 
part in this competition, and his 
reasons for not doing so have never 
been quite satisfactorily explained. 

Barry, the architect selected for 
the new buildings, showed his ap- 
preciation of Pugin's capabilities and 
his esteem for his talents by apply- 
ing to him for designs for all the 
important interior decorations and 
furniture. The beauty of these 
parts shows how well suited he was 
for the task ; many consider them 
the most perfect parts of the edifice, 
the exterior, notwithstanding its 
real merits, having numerous faults 
— some of them, it is true, inherent 
to the style adopted — Tudor or per- 
pendicular. 

Besides the many churches and 
other religious edifices which Pugin 
designed, he devoted considerable 
attention to domestic arch itecture ; 
and among the best specimens he 
leflt may be mentioned Bilton 
Grange, Adare Manor, and Scaris- 

* HUtery of the Gothic Rtvtvai^ p. 153. 



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brick Hall, Chirk Castle and Al- 
ton Towers ; the last two he only 
restored and altered. But perhaps 
his happiest effort in this style was 
his own house at Ramsgate, which 
is, in every detail, a perfect spe- 
cimen of a mediaeval residence, 
strongly illustrating how deeply 
imbued Pugin was with the spirit 
and traditions of the past. So 
thoroughly Gothic were all his feel- 
ings and tastes that we firmly be* 
lieve it would have been impossible 
for him to design a building in any 
other style. 

With Pugin *s death, which oc- 
curred in 1854, we shall terminate 
this short sketch of one of the most 
wonderful revivals of the " present 
age. We have told how Gothic 
architecture became extinct as a 
practical art, how its theory was 
forgotten and misunderstood for 
centuries, its very name kept in re- 
membrance only by a few rare lov- 
ers of antiquity. We have traced 



the first dawn of a change in pub- 
lic taste, originated by the serious 
works of men versed in the history 
of ancient art, and inspired by a 
love of its grand productions. 

In what a different position we 
leave it now ! The masterspirit that 
had breathed a new life into its 
almost inanimate form has passed 
away ; his mortal remains are sleep- 
ing in the hallowed transept of that 
beautiful church at Ramsgate, the 
designing and decorating of which 
had been to him such a labor of 
love ; but, unlike many reformers, he 
had lived to see his cherished 
dreams realized; he had lived to 
see the mystic steeple and the high 
pitched roof once more ascend to 
heaven from the crowded cities and 
the wooded fields of his country; 
he had lived to see a long array 
of distinguished names consecrate 
their gifts to that one style he had 
loved and for which he had la- 
bored. 



ALONG THE FOOT OF THE PYRENEES. 



We followed the old Roman way 
along the foot of the Pyrenees — a 
delightful route, picturesque on 
one side and fair on the other, and 
everywhere abounding in historic 
and legendary memories. Every 
age has left its impress here, as 
every geological period has left its 
strata in the mountains. Many of 
the cultivated hills are crowned 
with the ruins of feudal times. 
The plains are blooming with a 
thousand traditions and marvellous 
events that have sprung up from 
the contests with the Moors in the 
eighth century. Numerous re- 
mains of ancient art are constantly 
coming to light from the soil to 
prove that, during the Roman oc- 



cupancy of the land, many wealthy 
patricians established themselves 
in this region, at once attractive to 
the eye and favorable to health. 
The Visigoths also, who once held 
possession of the country, have left 
behind them memorials of their 
barbarity in the martyrs who are 
still honored ; and the Huguenots 
and Revolutionists ruined churches 
and cloisters that are still deplored. 
At length we came to Martres- 
Tolosanes — the ancient Callagorris 
— an industrious place on the left 
bank of the Garonne containing 
about two thousand inhabitants. 
Clouds of smoke hover over it by 
day, and flames and sparks stream 
up at night, from the numerous 



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potteries which supply all the 
neighboring region with dishes and 
tiles, and pave all the by-roads with 
broken crockery. The streets are 
narrow, and the begrimed houses 
seem inclined to stray off on the 
road to Spain, as if to breathe the 
pure mountain air. There is an 
interesting old church here that 
was consecrated in the year 1309. 
The baptismal font is an ancient 
sarcophagus, set up on four pillars, 
its sides divided by colonnettes, 
between which are holy emblems 
and other carvings. In one chapel 
there is a sculptured retable over 
the altar, with the shrine of St. Vid- 
ian supported by chained Moors — 
not covered with precious stones, 
or a work of art, like so many of 
the shrines of Italy, but a mere urn 
of gilded wood. On great festivals 
this is taken down and placed be- 
fore the grating of the sanctuary, 
surrounded by lights and flowers. 
The bust of the saint is placed above 
it, the head shaded by nodding white 
plumes to give it a martial charac- 
ter, in view of St. Vidian's achieve- 
ments, the face painted more or less 
after nature, the shoulders covered 
with a gilded mantle of imperial 
fashion, and the neck adorned with 
a collar, or necklace, of blue and 
white crystal — probably the offering 
of some devout peasant. In an- 
other chapel, on such days likewise 
full of flowers and tapers, is St. 
Vidian's ivory comb exposed in a 
kind of monstrance, as if the ob- 
ject of particular veneration. It is 
rudely carved, and the teeth which 
used to disentangle the long blond 
locks of the warrior after battle are 
of portentous size and length, and 
jagged from the conflict. But those 
were not days of gentle measures. 
This comb is of considerable celeb- 
rity in the country, not merely on 
account of its original use, but also 



because of the curious tale that 
hangs around it. 

In the golden ages, when kind 
Heaven directly intervened in hu- 
man afiairs more frequently than is 
thought to be the case now, and 
did not suffer sacrilegious deeds to 
go unpunished, a peasant woman of 
the neighboring canton of Caz^res, 
who had come to Martres to attend 
St. Vidian's fair, went into the 
church to pay her devotions at the 
shrine, and, flnding it empty, was 
induced by some diabolical inspira- 
tion to steal the wondrous comb, 
which was not then kept under glass 
as now. She hid it under her scarlet 
capulet^ and, rejoining her husband at 
the market-place, set out for home. 
The afternoon was drawing to a 
close. Some rays of the declining 
sun still brightened the gray tower 
of Maurah among the mountain 
oaks, but the evening shadows had 
begun to gather in the valley be- 
low. Accordingly, they hurried 
along the road that bordered the 
river, the irons on their shoes clat- 
tering over the stones and giving 
out an occasional spark. The wo- 
man's feet, however, often faltered, 
and, contrary to custom, her tongue 
was mute. But this was no afflic- 
tion to her husband, and he pre- 
tended not to observe it. At 
length, on crossing the boundary 
that separates Martres from Ca- 
z6res, he suddenly found himself 
alone, and, hearing a cry, looked 
around. His wife remained fasten- 
ed on the line, as if by some invisi- 
ble influence, with one foot in the 
parish of Martres and the other in 
that of Caz^res, without the power 
of moving. He hurried back to 
her assistance, but, in spite of her- 
culean efforts, he could not move 
her an inch, more than if she had 
been Lot's wife. Night was now 
coming on fast. Not a ray of the 



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sun was left on St. Michael's tower, 
and they were only half way home. 
A cart from the mountains came 
by, drawn by three cows, and he 
begged the driver's assistance. 
The woman seized hold of the cart. 
The driver goaded the cows. They 
were usually gentle and tractable, 
as becomes the female nature, but 
they now set off as if suddenly gone 
mad, leaving the poor woman be- 
hind, her arms nearly dislocated 
with her efforts, but her feet still 
glued to the ground. Then came 
along some Spaniards with their 
mules covered with gay tassels 
and bells. Neiy efforts were made 
to remove her. She clung despe- 
rately to bridle and harness, but 
the mules so reared and kicked 
that she was obliged to give up the 
attem pt. " Certainly the devil must 
have ^ hand in this," said the hus- 
band. The woman rent the moun- 
tains with her cries, and at length 
was forced to confess the deed she 
had done. It was evidently a case 
in which the spiritual powers alone 
could be of any avail, and, as she 
could no more go back than for- 
ward, her husband sent to Martres 
to make known the case and ask 
the benefit of the clergy. As St. 
Vidian would have it, they were all 
keeping solemn vigil at his shrine, 
and, taking the torches that stood 
around it, they came hastening out 
with cross and banner, and as soon 
as they took possession of the relic 
the woman had stolen, her feet re- 
covered their liberty. After this 
the comb was kept under lock and 
key, and, at a later day, was placed 
in the reliquary where it now is. 
Of course so stupendous an event 
caused a great sensation in the val- 
ley, which had not been so stirred 
up since the Norman invasion, and 
made the comb not only an object 
of universal curiosity but of in- 



creased veneration. The legend is 
related to this day. It is pretend- 
ed that the women of Caz^res are 
a little spiteful about it, and dress 
their shining black hair with much 
more care than their neighbors at , 
Martres, probably to show they 
have no need of the comb of St. 
Vidian. 

St. Vidian figures everywhere in 
this region. Charming legends, 
handed down from fatlier to son 
for ages, have thrown quite a veil 
of poetry over numberless places. 
They are not very clear as to the 
precise place of the saint's birth, but 
they are quite positive that he was 
one of the preux who served under 
Charlemagne, and had even a dash 
of imperial blood in his veins. In 
his youth he became a hostage for 
his father, who had been taken pri- 
soner by the Basques of Luceria, 
then idolaters. They sold the 
young Frank as a slave. An Eng- 
lishman bought and adopted him, 
and as soon as Vidian was sufficient- 
ly inured to the use of arms he or- 
ganized a crusade against Luceria, 
which he pillaged and completely 
destroyed. Of course such a feat 
recommended him to his imperi- 
al kinsman. Charlemagne invited 
him to his court and created him 
duke. About this time the Sara- 
cens crossed the Pyrenees and be- 
gan to ravage the plain of Toulouse. 
Vidian joined the imperial hosts 
who came to the rescue of the land, 
and entrenched himself with his 
followers at Martres, then called 
Angonia. He defended the place 
so bravely against the enemy that 
for a while it was supposed saved, 
but, surprised by an ambuscade 
near a fountain where he had gone 
to stanch his wounds, he was slain 
after a stout resistance, and thq 
town taken and devastated. When 
it rose from its ruins it took the 



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name of Martres in memory of those 
who were martyred in trying to de- 
fend it. 

It is certain that all this part of 
France was once overrun by the 
Moors. They, and the Normans 
after them, probably destroyed not 
only most of the ancient Christian 
churches, but the monuments left 
by the Romans. History has not 
recorded all the efforts made to re- 
pel them, but a confused memory 
of the struggle has been left in the 
minds of the people, and, colored 
by time and the warm southern im- 
agination, these memories have be-> 
come a genuine cycle of poetic tra- 
ditions, not the less founded on fact 
because only written with the sword 
and blood of their ancestors. 

The country around Martres is 
full of character and beauty. The 
Garonne, fresh from its mountain 
sources, winds through the verdant 
plain. To the south are broad ter- 
races and wooded hills, and behind 
is the grand barrier of mountains, 
their summits all crystal in the 
morning light, and at evening all 
rose and amethyst. No wonder the 
Romans thought it rivalled Italy, 
and established themselves here. 
On one of the neighboring plateaus 
have been found the remains of a 
magnificent Roman villa that must 
have belonged to some wealthy 
person of luxurious and cultivat- 
ed tastes, to judge by the objects 
brought to light from time to time. 
In 1826 a vault was found by a la- 
borer, and excavations were sys- 
tematically made which led to the 
discovery of sumptuous apartments 
paved with mosaics and marble, 
with remainsof columns, statues, and 
bas-reliefs, and fine bathing-rooms 
with furnaces and earthen pipes, 
and all the accessories of Roman 
luxury. Among the works of art 
that have been found here are about 



forty busts and medallions of Ro- 
man emperors and empresses from 
Augustus down; a white marble 
statue of a reclining naiad; the 
beautiful head of another statue 
called the Venus de Martres; me- 
dallions of Jupiter, Juno, Minerva, 
Cybele, and Atys ; large bas-reliefs 
of Serapis, the labors of Hercules, 
etc., and several bronzes. These 
fonn quite a gallery of ancient art 
in the museum at Toulouse, where 
we saw them in the old cloister of 
Augustinian friars. 

Beneath one of the plateaus is a 
pretty fountain with a cross near it, 
in the midst of gentle undulations 
of verdure, shaded by a grove. 
Here St. Vidian had his encounter 
with the Moors and was slain. The 
pebbles in the spring are said to be 
still stained with his blood. Every 
year his exploits are celebrated 
here by a mimic battle between the 
Moors and Christians, in which 
nearly all the male population take 
part. It is said the brilliant cos- 
tume of the Saracens is so attrac- 
tive to the younger portion that 
they show a lamentable disposition 
to enter the service of the infidel. 
However, by dint of cautious mea- 
sures, both armies are kept about 
equal. They consist of nearly one 
hundred and twenty-five men each, 
of whom fifty are horsemen. The 
Moorish cavaliers wear red and 
white turbans with silver trimmings ; 
green stomachers adorned with a 
yellow crescent; orange coats 
turned out with red facings ; girdles 
of scarlet silk ; and blue pantaloons 
of Oriental amplitude. It will at 
once be perceived that nothing 
could be more gorgeous. The in- 
fantry are less pretentious. They 
content themselves with the white 
pantaloons of the French hussar, 
but make up for this with bright 
orange vests a Mameluke might 



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envy. The Christian knights wear 
a black pasteboard helmet with a 
silver cross on the front, a blue 
tunic, and a tin cuirass that is quite 
dazzling in the sun. The foot- 
soJdiers are dressed in gray, with 
blue caps, and a silver cross on 
their breasts. Both armies are fur- 
nished with tall lances, and each 
has its standard. That of the 
Moors is green and orange. On 
it gleams the ominous silver cres- 
cent. The Christians' is blue and 
bears the redoubtable figure of St. 
Vidian. 

The battle takes place on St. 
Vidian's day. The relics of the 
saint are exposed in the church. 
High Mass is celebrated with the 
utmost pomp. Even the followers of 
Islam are so unfaithful to their tra- 
ditional intolerance as to attend 
and present arms at the Elevation 
of the Host, in utter disregard of 
the Prophet. Mass over, the clergy 
and people go in procession to the 
miraculous fount, bearing the shrine 
and chanting the hymn of St. Vi- 
dian. There they bathe the bust 
of the saint in memory of his 
wounds. These traditional servi- 
ces concluded, the military ardor 
of the soldiers begins to assert it^ 
self. The two armies draw up on 
the neighboring field. Prodigious 
acoustic performances are made on 
the drum of the commune. Military 
evolutions begin. The banners fly. 
Red, yellow, and blue uniforms 
flash across the green field. The 
cavaliers show themselves true pa- 
ladins. Such curveting and pranc- 
ing have not been seen since the 
days of Charlemagne and Haroun 
al Raschid ; at least, on such 
steeds — mostly farm horses the 
worse for wear. Sometimes the 
contest becomes too warm and real. 
However, their ardor never lasts 
longer than is warranted by tradi- 



tion. The Moorish flag is invaria- 
bly captured by the Christians, and 
the battle-field deserted till the next 
anniversary of St. Vidian's martyr- 
dom. 

Vigilantius, the first heresiarch 
that troubled the peace of Christian 
Gaul, was a native of Callagorris. 
He was of a roving turn and a lov- 
er of novelty. In early life he 
crossed over into Spain and there 
became an inn-keeper. Then we 
hear of him as a priest at Barcelona. 
He made the acquaintance of St. 
Paulinus (afterwards of Nola) in 
Spain, who was induced to give him 
a letter of recommendation to St. 
Jerome. Furnished with this, he 
went to the Holy Land, but there 
he took sides with the enemies of 
St. Jerome and attacked the monas- 
tic life, celibacy of the clergy, the 
veneration of relics, the use of can- 
dles in the daytime, etc, St. Je- 
rome, sarcastically referring to his 
original calling, told him the faculty 
of testing wine and that of expound- 
ing the Scriptures were not quite 
the same, and advised him to ac- 
quire the elements of grammar and 
the other sciences, and then learn 
to be silent. His countrymen do 
not seem to have been influenced 
by his example, however, but have 
always been remarkable for their 
confidence in the saints and vene- 
ration for relics. 

Five or six miles beyond Mar- 
tres we came to St. Martory, sa 
named from a holy monk of the 
East whose beautiful legend is relat- 
ed by St. Gregory. One evening this 
saint, on his way to a neighboring 
monastery, overtook a poor leper 
forced by fatigue and disease to 
rest by the wayside. Filled with 
intense compassion, St. Martyri, as 
he is otherwise called, spread his 
cloak on the ground, placed the 
leper thereon, and, carefully wrap- 



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ping him up, took him on his 
shoulder and proceeded on his way. 
The abbot of the monastery, seeing 
him coming, cried : " Hasten, my 
brethren, to open the gates. Be- 
hold Brother Martyri coming, bear- 
ing the Lord." While they were 
gone to execute his command the 
leper descended from the good 
monk's shoulders, and, taking the 
form under which the Redeemer is 
usually represented, he addressed 
him in these words : " Martyri, 
thou hast had pity on me on earth ; 
I will glorify thee in heaven." 
And, while the monk was gazing at 
him in speechless amazement, he 
ascended to heaven. When St. 
Martyri entered, the abbot asked 
.what he had done with the 
person he was carrying. The saint 
replied : " Oh ! had I known who 
he was, I would have held him by 
the feet !" And he related how light 
he had seemed on the way. The 
body of St. Martory is still revered 
in the church. 

Not long after leaving St. Mar* 
tory we came in sight of the towers 
of St. Gaudens at one end of a 
broad plateau, once the place of 
a Roman encampment. Behind it 
are the mountains that enclose the 
beautiful valleys of Aure and Cam- 
pan, the Pic du Midi, and the whole 
of the mighty chain that binds sea 
<Q sea. Below is a vast plain, fer- 
tile and smiling, supposed to be 
the bed of a lake in which the 
waters of the Neste once mingled 
with those of the Garonne. On 
the other side are to be seen the 
ancient thermal place of Labarthe, 
overlooked by a feudal tower iind a 
village that dates from the fourth 
century, called Valentine, in honor, 
it is said, of Valentinian II., who 
was assassinated in Gaul Narbon- 
naise in 392. Here and there in 
the fields are found remains that 



attest the importance of the place 
under the Romans — fragments of 
tombs, bas-reliefS) and antique va- 
ses. At one corner of the church 
of Valentine is the head of a Roman 
soldier with his helmet on, and ne^r 
it a white marble urn. Inserted 
in the wall of the church is a mar- 
ble slab with a. Latin inscription, 
thought to be of the fourth century, 
which may be thus rudely rendered : 
"Nymphius, whose limbs are 
cold and stiff in eternal sleep, re- 
poses here. His soul is in heaven. 
It contemplates the stars, while his 
body is left to the repose of the 
tomb. His faith dispelled the 
darkness that seemed to envelop 
it. O Nymphius! the renown of 
thy virtues raised thee to the very 
stars and placed thee in the zenith. 
Thou art immortal, and thy glory 
will be perpetuated in ages to come. 
The province honors thee as its 
father. The entire population 
made vows for the preservation of 
thy life. At the celebration of the 
games due to thy munificence the 
spectators on the gradations of the 
arena testified their joy by accla- 
mations. Once thy beloved coun- 
try, at thy command, assembled its 
magistrates and spoke worthily by 
thy lips. Now our cities, deprived 
of thee, are plunged in mourning, 
and the senators, in consternation, 
are incapable of action. They are 
like the human body that, depriv- 
ed of its head, falls lifeless and in- 
ert, or a flock without its shepherd 
that knows not which way to direct, 
its steps. Serena, thy spouse, 
abandoned to grief, erects this 
monument to thee, and finds in this 
pious duty a slight solace for her 
pain. Thy companion for eight 
lustres, she only thought and acted 
by thee. At thy side life seemed 
sweet. Now, abandoned to her 
sorrow, she sighs for the eternal 



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life, hoping that which she now 
possesses may be brief." 

What a tale might be woven out 
of the epitaph of this old Roman, 
who died fourteen hundred years 
ago in this remote valley — made up 
of domestic bliss, political honors, 
the happiness that virtue alone can 
bestow, and an untimely death 
mourned by the public and, above 
all, by the gentle-hearted Serena ! 

The Romans knew how to choose 
their sites. Nothing can exceed 
the charm of this region, especially 
in the month of May, when we vis- 
ited it for the first time. The fresh 
valleys, the clear streams, the un- 
expected views at every turn, the 
harmonious outlines of the land- 
scape, are a perpetual delight to 
the eye. The fertile plain of Val- 
entine especially is so lovely that 
all the mountain-tops seem crowd- 
ing together to gaze at and admire 
it, and they send down their purest 
streams to preserve its freshness 
and beauty. 

On the sides of the plateau that 
overlooks Valentine a young shep- 
herd, named Gaudentius, led his 
flocks to pasture in the latter part 
of the fifth century. His mother, 
a holy woman of the name of Quit- 
terie, had brought him up in the 
practice of the most fervent piet)'. 
The country at that time was in 
possession of the Visigoths. Euric 
had succeeded to the throne by 
slaying his brother, Theodoric II. 
He was a man of great military 
genius, who extended his conquests 
in Gaul from the Loire beyond the 
Rhone, and carried war beyond the 
Pyrenees with so much success that 
he conquered most of the Penin- 
sula. Toulouse was thus made the 
capital of an immense empire that 
extended from Provence to Anda- 
lusia. Euric was a fanatical Arian, 
and, attributing his success to his 
VOL. xxv. — 42 



fidelity to his principles, he began 
a violent persecution of the Catho- 
lics, though they constituted a large 
part of his subjects. Executioners 
were frequently his missionaries, 
and one of these summarily opened 
heaven to the young shepherd Gau- 
dentius, who, refusing to apostatize, 
gave a last look at his mother, who 
encouraged him, and submitted to 
martyrdom. His remains were 
carefully transported to the place 
of his residence, and, after the 
downfall of the Visigoths, an ora- 
tory was erected over his grave. 

Such miracles were now wrought 
through the instrumentality of St. 
Gaudens that his fame extended 
all through the country, people 
came to live around his tomb, and 
a village soon sprang up that took 
his name. More than a thousand 
years passed away without dimin- 
ishing the affluence at St. Gaudens' 
tomb, but in the ^xteenth century 
the town was taken by Montgomery 
the Huguenot, the church stripped 
of its ornaments and greatly injur- 
ed, the statues broken, the tombs 
desecrated, and most of St. Gau- 
dens' relics thrown into the flames. 
But that was a way of reforming 
the Huguenots had. 

*^ N*est ce pas*rtfonner, quand on trouve one 
tfgliae 
Trop riche, lui mrir aes triaon aactens ?" 



says the old Plainte de la Guienne 
of 1577 with a bitterness that is 
quite natural. The bullet-holes 
made in the church are still point- 
ed out. This is a noteworthy 
building of the Romanesque style, 
with round arches, clustered col- 
umns, and carved capitals. Each 
aisle ends in a chapel, and a choir 
is at the apsis. Over the altar is a 
statue of the Virgin that, before 
the Revolution, belonged to the 
neighboring abbey of Bonnefont, 
now completely destroyed. This 



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statue is the production of Pierre 
Lucas, the founder of the academy 
of art at Toulouse. A priory was 
formerly attached to the church 
of St. Gaudens, dependent on the 
abbey of St. Sernin at Toulouse, 
but it has been totally destroyed. 
The old cloister of Pyrenean mar- 
ble, built by Bernard I., Bishop of 
Comminges, and of the race of its 
counts, has also been destroyed. 
Of the tombs that once lined the 
arcades, only one here and there is 
left, with its touching mediaeval in- 
scription, and perchance some con-* 
soling emblem of religion, such as 
a cluster of grapes on a vine branch, 
recalling the Saviour's words, " I 
am the vine and ye are the branch- 
es " ; the monogram of Christ ; the 
Alpha and Omega, etc. — sjrmbols 
of hope graven on the cold marble 
tomb. And there is an ancient 
portal over which used to hang 
the horseshoes • of Abderahman's 
steed, which, according to tradition, 
plunged and reared when his mas- 
ter attempted to pillage the shrine 
of St. Gaudens, and thus lost its 
shoes. The horse of Montgomery 
seems to have been of a coarser 
nature, and as insensible as his 
ferocious owner to the spiritual in- 
^ fluences around the tombs of the 
saints. 

There is a kind of mournful plea- 
sure in sitting down among the 
ruins of such old cloisters, listen- 
ing to the echoes of past times, and 
trying to decipher the pious in- 
scriptions on the tombstones among 
the rank grass, and to divine the 
history of those who lie beneath — 
once centres of fond affection, 
but now forgotten and unknown. 
Through the rifts in the wall is 
seen the peaceful rural valley, with 
the Pyrenees in the distance, re- 
splendent in the light ; and the con- 
trast between all that is graceful 



and sublime in nature, and the de- 
solation of this spot once beautified 
by art and hallowed by religion, is 
exceedingly touching. How peace- 
ful, how religious, this cloister must 
have been, where paced the silent, 
prayerful monk among the tombs ! 
And there is a sacred ness in its 
present desolation that appeals to 
the heart ; if the solemnity of the 
ancient arches is wanting, there is 
no lack of beauty in the lovely vis- 
tas among the picturesque moun- 
tains and delicious valleys. 

St. Gaudens is a place of four or 
five thousand inhabitants, with old 
blackened houses full of industry. 
The country around is densely po- 
pulated, and at certain seasons ma- 
ny go into the neighboring districts 
to add to their slender earnings. 
The young men have a commercial 
taste, and all through the Pyrenees 
you meet peddlers and colporteurs 
from St. Gaudens, hawking their 
small wares with arousing pertina- 
city. The girls, too, in harvest- 
time descend to the neighboring 
valleys to offer their services, and 
there are many pop/ular rondeaux 
that allude to them. 

** Las fillos de Sen Gaoodeai non n'an d*afgent, 
Las qui oou n'an qu'eo boul6pen : 
FaridoundainOi qu^en boul^rea." 

— The girls of St. Gaudens are 
penniless, and those without money 
desire it. Tum-te-tum, yes, desire it. 

** Aou pays bach, aoem ! anem ! 
Coill6 d'argent ! 
En sega blat et dailla ben, 
Faridoundaino, n*en gagnaren." 

— Down to the valleys let us go, 
go! Money to seek, by reaping 
grain and raking hay. Tum-te-tum, 
we shall gain some. 

On the outskirts of St. Gaudens 
is shown the house where St. Ray- 
mond was born — the celebrated 
founder of the order of Calatrava, 
which rendered such glorious ser- 



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659 



vices to Spain, and thereby to all 
Christendom, in the struggle with 
the Moors. It is a humble birth- 
place for one who gathered under 
his banner the haughtiest grandees 
of Spain, His companion, Durand, 
was also a native of St. Gaudens. 
They both became monks at the 
noted abbey of Escale-Dieu, where 
they inured themselves by austeri* 
ties for the mission Providence had 
in reserve for them. There would 
seem to be but little in common 
with the peaceful pursuits of the 
Cistercians and the valiant exploits 
of the knights of Calatrava, to 
those who know nothing of the 
« bracing discipline of monastic life. 

Not far .from St. Gaudens is the 
chapel of Notre Dame du Bout-du- 
Puy — a place of pilgrimage, en- 
riched with indulgences by Pope 
Innocent XI. It is under the con- 
tinual guardianship of a hermit. 
This Madonna is particularly in- 
voked by people in danger of death. 
Among the ex votos on the wall is 
the picture of a child carried away 
by a neighboring torrent, the mo- 
ther kneeling on the bank with 
eyes and arms raised towards hea- 
ven, where Mary appears, com- 
manding the waves to bring back 
her child. 

We have mentioned the tower of 
Labarthe. The viscounts of this 
name were the lords of the Four 
Valleys for several centuries, and 
played an important rdle in the 
history of Bigorre. The fifth Vi- 
comte de Labarthe married the 
grand-daughter of Eudoxia, the 
daughter of Emmanuel Comnenus, 
Emperor of Constantinople, who 
died at Rome in the odor of sanc- 
tity, and was buried at the church 
of the Vatican. Geraud de La- 
barthe, Archbishop of Auch, put on 
the cross and accompanied Richard 
the Lion-hearted to the Holy Land 



as the prefect of his army. One of 
the glories of this race is Marshal 
Paultie Labarthe, Lord of Thermes, 
who lived in the sixteenth century 
and saw six kings succeed each 
other on the throne of France. iHe 
took part in the siege of Naples, 
and, made prisoner by the cor- 
sairs, endured a severe captivity 
for two years. He afterwards dis- 
tinguished himself in the Piedmont 
war and fighting in Scotland against 
the English, and was finally created 
Marshal of France. He was so 
noted for his humanity that the 
Huguenots said he could not hold 
his place as governor of Paris be- 
cause he was " too little inclined, to 
slaughter." Some of his descend- 
ants still live in Bigorre. 

On our way to Bagn^res de Bi- 
gorre we stopped to visit the abbey 
of Escale-Dieu, at the bottom of a 
deep valley enclosed among the 
hills. The name is derived from 
Scala Dei — the ladder of God — a 
ladder to aid man in his ascent to 
heaven ! No name could be more 
appropriate for a nK>nastery where, 
as Wordsworth says, paraphrasing 
the words of St. Bernard : 

^ Man more purely lives ; less oft doth £dl ; 
More prmnptly rises ; walks with nicer tread ; 
More safely rests ; dies happier ; is freed 
Earlier from cleansing fires ; and gains withal 
A blister crown." 

This abbey is on the banks of 
the Arros, a river noted for its im- 
petuous character and sudden over- 
flows. It has its source in the val- 
ley of Oueil, the ancient Vallis 
Oculi — so called from its shape, 
where it is said three barons once 
could breakfast together without 
leaving their own domains. Near 
by is a little hamlet called Mayleu, 
on the edge of a torrent, where on. 
stormy nights pale lights are said 
to wave to and fro on the current, 
which the mountaineers say are. 



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caused by the soul of an old miser 
that agitates t waters — emblem 
of his restless life, spent in grasp- 
ing the goods of others with insa- 
tiable avidity. His influence surely 
extends all along the Arros. 

The valley of Escale-Dieu was 
given to a community of Cistercian 
monks in the twelfth century by 
Beatrix, Countess of Bigorre, in 
order, as she says in her charter, 
that she " might be accounted as a 
sister in Christ by the brethren of 
Escale-Dieu in their watchings, and 
fastings, and prayers, and obtain 
the redemption of her soul, her 
husband's, her father, Centulle's, her 
mother, Amable's, and other rela- 
tives'." The Cistercians were fa- 
mous as agriculturists, and in be- 
stowing on them large tracts of 
land the old lords of the middle 
ages ensured the best means of 
bringing the country under cultiva- 
tion and humanizing the inhabi- 
tants. The monks built a church 
here under the invocation of SS. 
Peter and Paul, which was conse- 
crated October 23, 1142, by the 
Archbishop of Auch, in the pre- 
sence of the Countess Beatrix and 
her husband, many abbots and 
neighboring lords, and an immense 
crowd of people. This church be- 
came the St. Denis of the counts 
of Bigorre, who doubtless thought 
to rest here in peace till the end of 
the world ; for the abbey was at that 
time so remote from the highways 
of travel that its solitude was al- 
most unbroken. The Countess 
Beatrix was one of the first to be 
buried here, but her tomb was 
broken open at the Revolution, and 
the remains, spared by centuries, 
fell into dust at contact with the 
a(ir. 

The first abbot of Escale-Dieu 
was a son of the Vicomte de La- 
barthe, and his successors, over 



forty in number, were mostly from 
the great families of the country. 
The house was immediately de- 
pendent on the Holy See, and the 
Sovereign Pontiff forbade any one 
to rob, bum, make any arrest, com- 
mit murder, or do any violence on 
its domains. 

One peculiarity about its history 
is that, contrary to most great mon- 
asteries, no town or village ever 
sprang up around it. It remained 
solitary in its valley, studying " the 
secret lore of rural things " and 
pruning the wings of Contemplation, 
unconscious that Providence was 
to give it a mission in the world 
seemingly incompatible with the 
spirit of the order. The monks be- % 
came so numerous, however, that 
two colonies were sent across the 
Pyrenees under the charge of St. 
Raymond and Durand, to found 
the abbeys of Yergo and Fitero. 
In 1147 the town of Calatrava, the 
bulwark of Andalusia, was taken 
by Alfonso, King of Castile, and 
entrusted to the care of the Knights 
Templars, who held it for ten years. 
Then the success of the Moors 
made them fear they would not be 
able to defend it any longer, and 
they resigned the place to the king. 
The latter, embarrassed at having 
it thrown on his hands, offered it 
to any one who would undertake 
its defence. St. Raymond, indig- 
nant to see knights, vowed to the 
defence of religion, thus abandon 
the post of danger, asked the honor 
of taking their place. The king 
willingly consented. St. Raymond 
went through the provinces preach- 
ing a kind of crusade, and twenty 
thousand soldiers ranged themselves 
under the Cistercian banner. Their 
success made him conceive the 
idea of cementing the union of the 
knights with his order. The abbot 
of Escale-Dieu did not at first ap- 



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prove of the design. "What an 
idea," said he, "for solitaries by 
profession to convert a monastery 
into a school of war, and flatter 
themselves tumultuous exercises 
can be combined with the silence 
of prayer and the chanting of 
Psalms !" A chapter of the Cister- 
cian order was held, but the Kings 
of France and Castile, and the 
Duke of Burgundy, overcame the 
scruples of tlie abbot, and the pope 
issued a bull authorizing the affili- 
ation of the Knights of Calatrava 
with the Cistercian Order as lay 
brothers. All the houses in Spain 
were subjected to the rule of the 
abbot of Escale-Dieu, who had the 
right of visiting and inspecting 
them till the secularization of the 
knights. 

The most brilliant era in the 
history of Escale-Dieu is the thir- 
teenth century. Two saints had 
sprung from the house (for we 
must not forget St. Bertrand of 
Comminges, one of the most popu- 
lar saints of the Pyrenees, whose 
tomb is still honored in the town 
called by his name) ; it held rule 
over ten monasteries in Spain ; and 
it was greatly enriched by the 
neighboring lords, particularly by 
the counts of Bigorre, who made it 
their burial-place. The Countess 
Petronilla, so famous for her five 
husbands, was a great benefactress 
of the house. Besides endowing it 
during her life, she bequeathed it, 
at her death, all her gold and silver 
vessels and reliquaries, her jewels, 
rings, and precious stones, her 
dresses (probably for vestments), 
sheets, and blankets. Her first 
husband was Gaston, Viscount of 
Beam, who took sides with Count 
Raynoond of Toulouse, but was re- 
conciled to the church before his 
death. The second was Nuflez 
Sancho of Aragon, whom she repu- 



diated under pretext of consangui- 
nity. The third was Guy de Mont--" 
fort, son of the great opponent of 
the Albigenses, who was killed at 
the siege of Castelnaudary. The 
fourth, Aymar de Ran^on, who died 
about the same time as her second 
husband. And finally. Boson de 
Matas, Lord of Cognac. After these 
five chapters she died at the Abbey 
of Escale-Dieu in great need, it is 
thought, of expiatory prayers and 
good works. Henry IH. of Eng- 
land was captivated by the beauty, 
of her daughter Amate, and three 
other princes sought to obtain her 
hand in marriage ; but she married 
Gaston VII. of Beam, and two of 
her daughters, by the intermedia-, 
tion of Abbot Bernard of the house 
of Castelbajac, married princes of 
Aragon. 

One of the viscounts of Lave- 
dan also became a benefactor to 
the abbey, and in his deed of con- 
veyance declares he gives it thd 
soil, the rocks, the vegetation, the 
fruit, leaves, all that rises from the 
land towards heaven, and all it con- 
tains in its depths. 

Rising over the valley of Escale- 
Dieu are the ruins of the old feu-' 
dal castle of Mauvezin, like a vul-' 
ture's nest on the cliff, overlooking 
the whole country. It was once 
considered impregnable, and was, 
after that of Lourdes, the most im- 
portant fortress in Bigorre. From 
this castle went many a valiant 
knight to the Crusades. One of 
them, in making his preparations to 
go beyond the seas with St. Louis, 
gave to " God and Madame St. Mary 
of Escale-Dieu " fifty sols of Mor- 
laas money * from the rents of the 
thermal springs of Capvern. 

In early times the abbey found a 
kind protector in the castle; but 

* A sol Moilau WM worth about a 4>5 fnuioi. 



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Along the Foot of the Pyrenees. 



when, at a later period, it became 
the stronghold of freebooters, who 
only issued forth to pillage the low- 
lands and fat abbeys, the good 
monks of Escale-Dieu had reason 
to call It a Mauvais Voisin — a bad 
neighbor — a name that has ever 
since clung to it. 

. When the English took posses- 
sion of the country after the treaty 
of Br^tigny, the Black Prince es- 
tablished a garrison of soldiers 
here, who rendered themselves as 
famous for their brigandage as for 
their heroic exploits. When the 
Duke of Anjou and Duguesclin 
went to the Pyrenees in 1374 to 
root the English out of the land, 
the castles of Lourdes and Mau- 
vezin long resisted their stoutest 
efforts. The latter was besieged by 
eight thousand men, but the castle 
was so strong that it would have 
held out a long time, had not the 
supply of water been cut off by the 
capture of the outer cistern. The 
garrison now suffered all the horrors 
of thirst under a burning sun. 
Froissart says the weather was ex- 
cessively warm, and not a drop of 
rain had fallen for six weeks. 
There was no choice but to sur- 
render. Captain Raimounet de 
I'Ep^e, the commander of the for- 
tress, like the true Gascon he was, 
made the best of his fate, and offer- 
ed to yield up the castle on condi- 
tions that were the most advan- 
tageous to himself and his soldiers. 
Unwilling to lose any of his plun- 
der, he stipulated that they should 
be allowed to depart in freedom, 
taking with them all they and their 
sumpter-horses could carry. The 
duke consented, saying: "Go 
about your business, every man to 
his own country, without entering 
any fort that holds out against us ; 
for, if you do, and 1 get hold of 
you, I will deliver you up to Josse- 



lin [the executioner], who will 
shave you without a razor." 

Raimounet had fought well for 
the English, but he had an eye to 
the main chance, and he now show- 
ed the nature of his bravery by en- 
tering the service of the Duke of 
Anjou and continuing, under the 
fleurs-de-lis of France, the pillag- 
ing he had so long practised under 
the leopards of England. What he 
had not seized in the name of St. 
George he now took in honor of 
St. Denis, and thus filled both pock- 
ets at once. He died fighting by 
the side of the Duke of Anjou 
under the walls of Naples. 

The sixteenth century, so fatal to 
innumerable churches and monas- 
teries in France, did not spare the 
abbey of Escale-Dieu. The Hu- 
guenots now invaded the peaceful 
valley and proved far worse than 
the old troopers of Raimounet de 
I'Ep^e. The first band came in 
15 18 and burned the stables and 
the abbot's residence. In 1567 a 
more formidable company appear- 
ed that put the monks to flight and 
took possession of the abbey, which 
they made the centre of their op- 
erations, issuing suddenly forth 
from time to time, like birds of 
prey, to plunder some church, or 
monastery, or well-garnished priest's 
house. Blasphemies now resound- 
ed beneath the arches only accus- 
tomed to the voice of prayer and 
psalmody. All religious emblems 
were destroyed. The sanctuary 
angels feared to tread witnessed 
their orgies. At length, by the 
combined efforts of some of the 
lords of Bigorre, they were routed 
from the abbey, but before leaving 
they set fire to it and nearly de- 
stroyed it. In this destruction was 
included the fine old Romanesque 
church of the twelfth century, 
where St. Raymond and St. Ber- 



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663 



trand had so often prayed, and the 
cloister they had so often paced in 
silent meditation. It is a poor 
comfort to know that the leaders of 
this sacrilegious deed were taken 
and executed at Toulouse. The 
monks returned to Escale-Dieu, 
but only to find it in ruins. In the 
course of time, however, it was re- 
built, but in an inferior style, as 
suited their diminished means, and 
the house led a precarious exis- 
tence till the French Revolution, 
when it was once more ravaged, 
the very tombs violated, and the 
monks for ever dispersed. 

The abbey is now owned by a 
layman who is more interested in 
agriculture than archaeology. It 
contains, however, but little that is 
ancient. At the end of a long file 
of poplars you see the dome and 
white walls of the church, a build- 
ing of the seventeenth century, now 
a grange. There is a flower-garden 
on the site of the ancient cloister, 
and in the walls are encrusted a few 
of the old columns with palm-leaves 
sculptured on the capitals, emblem 
of spiritual victory. And the hal- 
lowed name of Escale-Dieu, which 
once gave laws to Spanish knights, 
is now degraded to a mere post 
station. 

Mauvezin itself became the hold 
of the Huguenots under Captain de 
Sus in 1584, and they made the 
castle more than ever worthy of its 
name. They extended their rava- 
ges as far as St. Bertrand of Com- 
minges, and the name of their leader 
became a terror in the land. Now 
the castle is in ruins, which are 
as melancholy as its history. The 
square, massive tower that withstood 
so many attacks is roofless, window- 
less, and dismantled. Beneath is the 
vaulted dungeon where the prisoner 
once groaned in vain — dark and 
hopeless as the tomb. Over one 



of the doors of the tower is an es- 
cutcheon on which the arms of 
Foix are quartered with those of 
Beam, with the inscription F^bus m/ 
//—Phoebus made me ; for here 
lived for a time the famous Gaston 
Phoebus of Beam. The kite and 
the osprey inhabit it now. The 
hoarse notes of birds of prey well 
suit the place where once resound- 
ed the war-cries of Raimounet de 
I'Epee and Captain de Sus. 

Two leagues from Mauvezin is 
Bagn^res de Bigorre, one of the 
most popular watering-places in the 
Py ren ees. He re " Esculapius est sans 
bar be et sans rides y** says the poet 
Lemierre. Long before you arrive 
you see the tower of the Jacobins 
rising into the air light and slender 
as a column. It is a clean, attractive 
town in a circular valley surround- 
ed by hills cultivated to the very 
top, or covered with woods whose 
shady paths are full of mystery. 
The valley is watered by several 
streams, and cooled by mountain 
breezes that are delicious in sum- 
mer. Numerous canals coj^ey the 
waters of the Adour through most 
of the streets of the town, giving a 
certain freshness to the air, and a 
supply of water for domestic pur- 
poses. An old author attributes 
the foundation of the place to 
Venus and Hebe, and says it was 
here the god Mars came to be heal- 
ed when wounded at the siege of 
Troy. It was, at least, frequent- 
ed by the Romans, who gave it 
the name of Vicus Aquensis. Their 
homages to the nymphs who guard 
the springs are still to be seen 
graven on marble, such as : Nymphis 
pro salute sudy Sever. Seranus V. S. 
L. M. 

Like most of the towns of this 
region, Bagnires was formerly held 
by the Visigoths, Saracens, Nor- 
mans, and English one after the 



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other, but seems to have been spar- 
ed by the Huguenots, who perhaps 
were more afraid of offending the 
water-nymphs than the saints. The 
people, it is said, propitiated their 
leaders by sending them occasion- 
ally a tribute of butter and maize. 
The town, notwithstanding its anti- 
quity, has but few ancient remains. 
There is a feudal tower or two that 
formed part of the old fortifications, 
necessary when, as Froissart says, 
it was so often worried and beset 
by the garrison at Mauvezin. The 
old church of the Templars is stand- 
ing, but used for profane purposes. 

There are many agreeable prom- 
enades around Bagn^res. One of 
these is to a green hollow among 
abrupt cliffs, called t\it Eiys/e-Cottin, 
from Madame Cottin, who was very 
fond of this quiet nook. It was 
here she is said to have conceived 
the noble character of Malek Adl\el, 
which so delighted us in our youth, 
and wrote not only MathiliU but 
some of her other works. It is a 
charming retreat with a fountain in 
the bottom of the valley, in her time 
shaded oy fine beeches and ash- 
trees, which have since been cut 
down. 

The All^e Maintenon is so called 
in honor of Mme. de Maintenon, who 
accompanied the Due du Maine 
here for his health. This All^e be- 
gins at the end of the town, and, 
climbing a steep hill, proceeds along 
the plateau of Pouey till it comes 
to a spot where you can see the 
whole plain . of Bigorre, and the 
waters of the Adour dashing down 
the steep sides of the mountains. 
Here, taking the road to Campan^. 



you soon come to the place where 
once stood the Capuchin convent 
of M^doux, founded in the six- 
teenth century by Susanne de 
Grammont, Marchioness of Monpe- 
zat. It was particularly renowned 
for a miraculous statue of the Vir- 
gin, honored under the name of 
Sancta Maria in Melle dulciy cor- 
rupted into Notre Dame de M^- 
doux. The convent was destroyed 
during the Revolutionary period, 
but the Madonna, so dear to popu- 
lar piety, was saved and now adorns 
the high altar of the church of 
Ast^. The people say it was mira- 
culously transported tl^rough the 
air and thus saved. It is of white 
marble, and a genuine work of art, 
by an Italian sculptor. It was the 
gift of one of the viscounts of Ast^, 
who were generous patrons of the 
monastery. The expression and 
pure outline of the face, the dig- 
nity of the attitude, and the grace- 
ful flow of the drapery excite the 
admiration of every visitor. 

A modern villa now occupies the 
place of the convent. It is in the 
midst of a fine park watered by a 
stream that comes pouring out of 
a cool grotto. Nothing could be 
more delightfully rural. Not far oflf 
is an old feudal tower, and beyond 
is Baudeau, the birthplace of Lar- 
rey, the favorite surgeon of Napo- 
leon. The Vicomte de Castelbajac 
has sung the beauties of this spot 
where once stood 

'^ Une chapelle hoopitali^ 
Toi^un ouverte au p^leria. 
Jamais n n^ frappait en vain ; 
£c le malheur «t la mis^re. 
La pauvre veuve et I'orphelin, 
Y trouvaient toujours la pritee 
£t l^aimdne du Capudiu" 



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''Cathedral Woodsr 665 



" CATHEDRAL WOODS," 

MANCHESTER, MASSACHUSETTS. 

Hushed grow our voices as our footsteps fall 

These darksome woods' high fretted roof beneath, 
Whose living arches, sprung from living sheath. 
Are organ-pipes for winds to play withaL 
We leave, without, the meadow's autumn glare — 
Its Tyrian wealth of asters prodigal, 
Its pomp of scarlet-robM cardinal, 
Its gentian that dotli heaven's livery wear. 
So leave we, too, the sparkle of the sea, 
And land-locked beach where waves break lazily. 

Herein we seem among the hills at rest ; 

Their balm by breath of salt wind undefiled ; 

Freshness of streams, and strength of great rocks piled, 
Seem by our souls in this calm shade possessed, 
Where hemlocks stretch their dusky branches o'er 

The scattered rocks, whereto the green moss clings, 

Catching the prisoned sunbeam as it flings 
A miser's portion of its golden store. 
As if it feared to break the shadow deep, 
To mar some vigil these grave giants keep. 

Here only mountain incense seeming fills 
The lofty arches, by sea-wind unbent. 
That rise as if with height still nobler blent : 
Some peak, cloud-piercing, 'raid the sunlit hills 
Whose glamour holds us fast, whose blossoms lie 
The darkness of the broken rocks amid, 
Whose written speech in these lithe ferns is hid. 
Whose forests whisper in the winds' low sigh. 
Should any bird this inland silence break. 
Sure in his song the mountains' soul would wake. 



Hearken ! breaks through the silence soft a sound 
Faint as the thought of half-forgotten dream. 
Not speech so sad is that of mountain stream 

That from all loftiest heights doth reckless bound, 



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666 ''Cathedral Woodsr 

Scattering its broken life in shining drift 
Of constant dew that mocketh at the sun. 
Nor breathes the wind in such low, measured tone 
When doth it lightly leafy branches lift — 
This wakes and dies in mournful monotone : 
The sea's vast life dashed out against a stone ! 

Some law this chant seems ever to obey — 
Advancing, swells, now sinketh in retreat, 
Sad-voiced like life that knoweth but defeat, 
Yet still with patient purpose keeps its way. 
Joy-burdened silence of the hills, farewell ! 
And salt sea-wind, thy carven choir reclaim ! 
Brave sun, set all these dusky trunks aflame ! 
Lost are our mountains in yon ceaseless swell 
That, shoreward rolling, lapsing quietly. 
Holds all the strength of the untiring sea. 

The land grows little, and we crave the blue 
No earthly shade e'er shutteth from the sun. 
The barren sands whereon the light waves run 
But rest not, bidding evermore adieu. 
And evermore returning, bringing gifts 

They give and take, and still give o'er again. 
We crave the vastness of the salty plain ! 
As sea-bird on unbreaking billow drifts 
Our hearts with that soft plashing throb in time — 
Longing, we list our dim cathedral chime. 

One well might paint the hemlock solitude. 
The quiet shadow that the sunshine breaks ; 
Even in color give the song that wakes 

At windy touch amid the peaceful wood. 

Limned all might be, indeed, so cunningly 
That one should hear the babble of glad stream. 
E'en catch the climbing mountains' happy gleam ; 

But — who could paint the murmur of the sea ? 

Who dream, amid these dark boughs closing o'er, 

The song eternal of the broken shore ? 



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Juliette: A Norman Story. 



667 



JULIETTE : 

A NORMAN STORY. 



Marriage is in one respect Jiot 
unlike greatness : some are bom to 
it, some achieve it, some have it 
thrust upon them. And the last- 
named some are apt to find it as 
unprofitable an acquisition as to 
Napoleon the Little it proved to 
be the nephew of his uncle. 

Now, M. de Boisrobert was a 
born bachelor, and, left to himself, 
a bachelor he would have died. 
But who shall gainsay fate? Up- 
on him gayly baccalaureating Fate 
fixed her eagle eye and made up 
her mind that he should marry. 
Not without reason has Fate been 
made a female. When a person of 
that charming but inflexible sex 
makes up her mind that any bache- 
lor of her acquaintance shall marry, 
we know what happens. Married 
M. de Boisrobert accordingly was, 
with what direful consequences to 
the poor gentleman the reader 
shall see. 

Up to his forty-fifth year Messire 
Guillaume Georges de Boisrobert, 
Sieur de Boisrobert and Saintange, 
had lived the happy life of a coun- 
try gentleman upon his estates in 
Normandy, near Evreux, satisfied 
with himself and with the world. 
Indeed, he had every reason to be 
satisfied, possessing as he did a 
fine chateau, a princely income, an 
honorable name, an easy conscience, 
and the respect of all who knew 
him. From the summit of his tow* 
ers, look which way he would (and 
his sight was keen, as so good a 
sportsman's should be), he could 



scarce fix the boundary of his 
domains. Farms, meadow-land, and 
woodland, his broad acres stretch- 
ed for many a mile along the blue 
waters of the Eure ; upon his pas- 
tures fed sheep and cattle by the 
hundred ; in his stables neighed 
scores of gallant steeds. Yet, strange 
to say, with all his wealth, envy 
had no word for him, nor was he 
even decried more than it was fit-* 
ting a rich and handsome bachelor 
should be. Certain maiden ladies 
of uncertain age, to whose charms 
he had, perhaps, been ungallantly 
cold, sometimes, indeed, made light 
among themselves of his pretensions 
to noble birth. That, truly, was 
the simple gentleman's weakness, 
and he loved to style himself after 
the stately fashion written above. 

" He De Boisrobert, forsooth !" 
Mile. Rein^ might say over her tat- 
ting (or is it tattling the ladies call 
it.?). "He was never aught but 
plain " (" plain indeed !" Mile. Gu- 
dule would giggle, pointing the mot 
with her crochet -needle. Ah ! thou 
thoughtest otherwise, fair Gudule, 
of his beauty when the embroider- 
ed slippers, and watch-pockets, and 
what-nots worked by thy own fair 
fingers — or thy maid's — deluged 
the ch&teau and made largesse for 
its kitchen !) — " plain Guillaume Ro- 
bert till his father, the notary, got an 
army contract and left him money 
enough to buy the wood in which 
his dismal old chiteau is buried — > 
the stingy old hunks !" 

Now, this was not entirely true ; 
and these fair Ariadnes were, to 
say the least, uncharitable. But it- 



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Juliet ie: A Nornian Story. 



must be remembered, for the credit 
of the sex, that these events took 
place very long ago — so long ago, 
indeed, as the time of that great 
and glorious monarch, Louis XIV. — 
"le doyen des Rois," as he called 
himself — whose majesty was like 
the sun (which orb, indeed, depicted 
in the act of illuminating the world, 
he modestly took for his device), 
and whose grandeur was indisputa- 
bly shown in the fact that he could 
eat more for dinner than any man 
in his kingdom.* In point of fact, no 
small number of his loving subjects, 
owing to their sovereign's majestic 
and princely appetite, had rarely 
anything to eat at all. But to re- 
turn to our sheep. 

M. de Boisrobert was not 
stingy. On the contrary, his open- 
handed, and even profuse, hospitali- 
ty endeared him to all the men 
about him, who had, no doubt, 
their own private reasons for liking 
him, as some of the women had 
theirs for looking upon him with a 
different feeling. The manner of 
his living was almost lordly; and 
when he was at home, it was noth- 
ing but junketing and merriment 
from month's end to month's end. 
An enthusiastic sportsman himself, 
his stables and his kennels contain- 
ed the best that money could buy ; 
while his huntsmen, his gamekeep- 
ers, and his beaters were a small 
army in themselves. Being so rich 
and so generous, he was naturally 
looked upon with great respect, and 
even liking, through all the country 

* Read the monarch's usual m^iik in the memoifs 
of the Princess Palatine, who seems to look with a 
oertam naive admiration on the trencher prowess of 
her august kinsman : ^^ The king devours with 
ease at a nngle meal four basins of different kinds 
of soup, a pheasant whole, a partridge, a dish of 
salad, two slices of ham, some mutton with gravy, 
a plate of pastry, and for dessert {Odura mntarum 
ilia /) a quantity of hard-boiled eggs and fruits of 
every sort, the whole washed down with abun- 
dance of wines.'* Here, at least, he might justly 
daim tohtnec pluribus im/ar. 



round ; and many a man who had 
little reverence for aught besides 
would doff his hat most humbly to 
the well-furnished larder of that ex- 
cellent M. de Boisrobert. 

It must be said, however, that in 
his case — what is unhappily not al- 
ways true — this respect was rightly 
bis, for better reasons. Amiable, 
simple, and sincere, a scrupulous 
observer of his word, his charity 
was greater than his hospitality, 
and his piety was as unbounded as 
his wealth. Every morning he was 
first at Mass in the little village 
church of Boisrobert, whose excel- 
lent cur/ was his favorite and, it 
may be said, his only intimate as- 
sociate» His best friends, indeed, 
he counted among that admirable 
class, whose sterling and unobtru- 
sive virtues he thoroughly appre- 
ciated. It was strange that so 
worthy a penchant was destined to 
lead him into the great danger of 
his life. Of the great folks our 
friend was a little shy ; and as for 
the small farmers and hohcreauxy or 
" squireens " (to borrow from the 
familiar speech of Ireland a word ^ 
which alone fitly translates it), who 
made the bulk of the neighboring 
landed proprietors, their tastes and 
habits were little congenial to his 
own. So good Father Bernard and 
he were much together; and a 
pleasant sight it was to see the two 
friends placidly angling, side by 
side, for the fish which somehow a 
French angler seems quite as well 
satisfied never to catch ; or, in the 
bright summer evenings, playing 
bowls with all the zest of school- 
boys on the village green. No 
more welcome guest than Father 
Bernard entered the gates of the 
Chateau de Boisrobert; and when 
the November nights grew chilly, 
and the logs were piled high and 
glowing in the wide Norman hearth 



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(its owner always quoted Horace 
at such times, and old M^re Chicon, 
the housekeeper, knew as well as 
any one that dissolve frigus was the 
Latin for " stir up the fire and fetch 
a bottle of Burgundy," and had 
had, indeed, many bouts thereanent 
with the village schoolmaster, in 
which that worthy was not always 
triumphant), our hero liked noth- 
ing better than to engage his friend 
in a contest at chess, or trictrac^ or 
piquet^ or, over a jug of Norman 
cider or the aforesaid Burgundy, to 
discuss the movements of the court, 
with which he professed to be in 
constant communication. 

That was, as we have said, the 
honest gentleman's foible — almost 
his sole one ; he secretly worship- 
ped rank, and often sighed to think 
that he, who might — and, he some- 
times added to himself, should — 
have been a De Rohan was only a 
De Boisrobert, ba^e^^ a gentleman, 
by virtue of the lands his money 
had bought. Yet, if not the rose, 
he had at least lived near the rose. 
The son of a notary himself, he 
was yet distantly connected with 
one of the noblest names in France, 
as he was by no means slow in 
making folks aware. 

" My good cousin, De Beauma- 
noir," he would say in an off-hand 
way, pronouncing the name tout sec y 
like the provincial ladies in the 
Roman Comique^ though to his face 
he never ventured to address him 
otherwise than as M. le Comte — 
"my good cousin De Beaumanoir 
writes me that he is to visit Saint- 
Aignan at his country-seat, and will 
have me to be of the party." 

Or, mysteriously : *' The army — 
but this, you conceive, my friend, is 
between ourselves — a secret, mind 
you, of state — the army moves on 
Flanders this week. I have it di- 
rect from Beaumanoir." 



It was then, as you may read in 
Scarron's sprightly pages, a com- 
mon ambition of provincial gentle- 
men to be thought on familiar 
terms with the great folks of the 
court. Truly, an extraordinary 
time ! 

At these nafve confidences the 
cur^y who knew his friend's failing, 
but respected his virtues, smiled, 
if at all, to himself. 

But M. de Boisrobert's reverence 
for his noble kinsman went further 
than talking of him in season and 
out of season. He gave a more 
substantial proof of his regard in 
making him his sole heir. " The 
money should go with the title," he 
said ; " the family must be kept 
up." It seemed to him a little 
price to pay for the privilege of 
being admitted for a month or two 
in the year to the rather frigid hos- 
pitality of the Hotel Beaumanoir, 
of being nightly snubbed by the 
bluest blood in France, and of 
having down a great man or two 
for a day in the shooting season, to 
convert the Chateau Boisrobert to 
his enamored fancy into a new 
Versailles. His noble cousin he 
would gladly have had stay longer : 
but the count, after yawning through 
forty-eight hours of ennuis invaria- 
bly left. The lands of Boisrobert 
he wanted ; its simple and placid 
life he could not stomach. His 
palate was seasoned to higher fla- 
vors. 

Not to put too fine a point on it, 
M. the Count de Beaumanoir was 
as insolent, imperious, and ungrate- 
ful a scoundrel as was to be found 
in a court where gentry of his pat- 
tern were rather a drug. Had it 
not been that he enjoyed the con- 
fidence and familiarity of a still 
greater rogue than himself — no less 
a one, to wit, than Monsieur, the 
. brother of the Most Christian King 



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Juliette: A Norman Story, 



— he would long since have come to 
grief. He was more than suspect- 
ed of a share in the mysterious 
poisoning of the hapless Henrietta 
of Orleans, and it was only the 
credit of his patron and his own 
well-known courage and skill as a 
swordsman that kept these doubts 
from taking form. 

Such was the heir whom our 
worthy M. de Boisrobert had se- 
lected for the reversion of his vast 
estates ; and his promise once given, 
the count determined that it should 
be kept. 



Daybreak of a pleasant morn- 
ing in October, 1681. In the court- 
yard and stables of the Chilteau 
de Boisrobert, and in the great 
farm-yard near by, all is bustle and 
confusion. Grooms and footmen, 
herdsmen and farm-servants, are 
scurrying to and fro, with lanterns 
and lighted torches, through the 
gray dawn, tumbling over one an- 
other in their haste, shrieking 
out contradictory orders at the top 
of their lungs, clamoring and mak- 
ing all the noise possible, as though 
they had taken a contract for the 
purpose and felt they had but a 
limited time to fulfil it. In the 
farm-yard the heavy Norman 
horses are being harnessed, with 
collars that would be in themselves 
a load for a horse of our degener- 
ate days, to the unwieldy Norman 
carts, already loaded with huge 
sacks of wheat and barley ; further 
on, in the barns, a prodigious lowing 
and bleating and bellowing tell 
where Pierrot and Hugues are 
marshalling their herds; in the 
court-yard, saddled and bridled, 
are stamping and snorting the 
steeds which shall bear M. de Bois- 
robert and his bodyguard of two 



armed domestics to the great fair 
of Moulin-la-For^t. Himself boot- 
ed and spurred for the journey, 
that gentleman stands upon the 
terrace of the chateau, overlooking 
these preparations; chiding here, 
encouraging there, animating all by 
word and gesture. M. de Boisro- 
bert has not been a nobleman long 
enough to forget that he is a farm- 
er, and prefers to be his own stew- 
ard. He finds it saves time and 
temper as well as money. 

By dint of much exhortation and 
shrill volubility of expletives in the 
curious ^oxmaiXi patois all is at last 
in readiness, and they are off, with 
many tender partings and tearful 
embraces between Blaise and Mad- 
elon, and much scolding from M^re 
Chicon the housekeeper, and fer- 
vent adjurations to the Bon Dieu 
to bring them a good market and 
a safe return. The latter prayer 
may seem superfluous, as the dis- 
tance is but thirty miles and they 
are a stout party. But it is the 
day of the famous Mandrin, most 
redoubtable of robbers, and of the 
terrible chauffeurs who extort the 
farmer's hidden hoard by roasting 
his feet at his own fire ; so there 
is some room for trepidation in the 
bosoms of the simple peasant-girls 
whom this animated company soon 
leave behind. 

We have not space to follow the 
great cavalcade as it goes bellow- 
ing and baaing and shrieking and 
sacrrdng over the white roads be- 
tween the hedges and the apple- 
orchards to the great fair. We can- 
not even stop with M. de Boisrobert 
at the tidy little auberge of the 
Pomme d'Or for the welcome dejeu- 
ner of soupe aux croHies^ to be follow- 
ed by ham, and perhaps 2LpouIetyf\i\x 
the freshest of eggs and salad, and 
the most delicious of cheeses, and a 
most refreshing draught of cool 



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Juliette: A Norman Story, 



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cider from the great stone jug. 
Nor can we do more than glance at 
the humors of the fair — much like 
other fairs, for the matter of that — 
with its inevitable jugglers and 
tumblers and charlatans, swallow*- 
ing flames as if they were sausa- 
ges, and pulling endless yards of 
ribbon from their mouths, to the 
delight of gaping rustics; its gip- 
sies and gingerbread hawkers; its 
shrill- voiced peasant women, in 
high Norman caps, selling eggs and 
poultry; its shriller- voiced ballad- 
singers piping out : 

^ SUe roi m*aTait doao6 
Paris M grand* viUe," 

or some other favorite chanson of 
the time. These joys we must pass 
lightly by, to say that, before the 
afternoon was well over, M. de 
Boisrobert had already sold his en- 
tire venture at an excellent profit, 
and it was rumored about the fair 
that he would go home richer by 
20,000 francs (equal to 80,000 now) 
than when he came. The interest 
in the lucky capitalist increased ; 
it extended even to his horses, and 
one or two simple rustics went so 
far as to push their way, during the 
temporary absence of the grooms, 
into the stables, there to gaze in 
open-mouthed admiration upon the 
steeds that had the honor of bear- 
ing — so history renews itself — M. 
Caesar de Boisrobert and his for- 
tune. 

The hour for departure drew 
nigh. As the days were getting 
short and the homeward ride was 
long and lonely, and, as already 
hinted, far from safe — few roads in 
France were safe in those days 
after nightfall — M. de Boisrobert 
commanded an early start. He 
himself was to ride on ahead, at- 
tended only by his two mounted 



valets, leaving the wagoners and 
herdsmen to follow more leisurely 
with the carts. The horses were 
accordingly brought forth and sad- 
dled, and the worthy squire was 
just setting foot in stirrup when 
he was accosted by a curdy who, call- 
ing him by name, politely craved 
leave to ride with him, as their road 
lay in the same direction. M. de 
Boisrobert assented more than 
gladly, for not only was company 
desirable, but a curd the company 
he most desired, and which could be 
accepted, as would not have been the 
case with every comer, without sus- 
picion. So they set forth together. 
The curd turned out a most 
agreeable travelling companion, and 
M. de Boisrobert secretly felicitat- 
ed himself on the chance which had 
thrown them together. So charm- 
ed was he with his new-found friend 
that, when the latter pressed upon 
him the offer of a supper and a bed 
at the vicarage, he wavered, until 
reminded by the sum he had about 
him of the wisdom of pushing on. 
But even while he doubted came 
a most distressing mishap. The 
horse ridden by one of the servants 
stumbled, fell, and, before his rider 
had fairly scrambled to his feet, 
rolled over stone dead. There was 
nothing for it but to mount Blaise 
behind Constant, and so get on 
as best they might. But, lo and 
behold ! scarcely had Constant 
drawn rein for the purpose than, 
with what seemed to the startled 
hearers almost a shriek, the beast 
he bestrode set off at a furious 
gallop, which soon left his luckless 
rider on the ground with a broken 
leg. And, strange to say, the poor 
animal had run but a few yards fur- 
ther when he too stopped, stagger- 
ed, and— ^<w// before one could say 
Jack Robinson, or its equivalent in 
Norman French, he is as dead as 



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Juliette: A Norman Story. 



the very deadest of door-nails or 
herrings. 

Whatever M. de Boisrobert may 
have thought of this odd coinci- 
dence, he had little leisure to dwell 
upon it; for the next instant his 
own steed was in convulsions, and, 
barely giving him time to spring 
from the saddle, like the others roll- 
ed over dead. How account frft 
so singular a fatality ? Had some 
poisonous weed got into their fod- 
der.? had some venomous reptile 
stung them in their stalls 1 or— un- 
easy doubts crept into the good 
gentleman's mind — had they been 
foully dealt with by reptiles in hu- 
man form who meant to waylay and 
rob, if not murder, the travel- 
lers 1 If the latter, it would be in- 
deed most prudent to adcept the 
good curd's hospitality. His house 
was luckily not far off, and the dis- 
abled servant being first made com- 
fortable in a wayside cabin, and 
the sound one despatched to the 
nearest town for a surgeon, M. de 
Boisrobert and the curd took their 
way to the home of the latter. 

Night had fallen when they 
reached it, but enough light still re- 
mained to show that it was a partly- 
ruined chAteau, dating probably 
from the time of the Crusades. 
One wing had been so far recon- 
structed as to be habitable, and the 
ancient chapel, the curd explained, 
had also been put in order to serve 
as the village church. ** My parish," 
he added with a sigh, *' is too poor 
to build a better." A moat, still 
filled with green and stagnant wa- 
ter, surrounded the walls ; a i^^v 
planks served for a pathway across 
it, where once had hung the feudal 
drawbridge ; a dark and snake-like 
ivy crawled up the crumbling walls ; 
dense woods cast about it a funereal 
gloom. Altogether its outward as- 
pect was sombre and forbidding in 



the extreme, and M. de Boisrobert 
could not repress a shudder or 
stifle a sinister presentiment as he 
looked upon his quarters for the 
night. Had his host been anybody 
but a curdy he would have felt like 
drawing back even then. 

A little old man, who filled in the 
modest household by turns the 
comprehensive functions of butler, 
valet, groom, gardener, waiter, cook, 
and general factotum, took their 
horses in silence, but with a curious 
glance at the visitor the latter 
could not help remarking, and the 
curd led the way to the drawing- 
room. This was a lofty, vaulted 
apaKtment almost bare of furniture, 
on the walls of which flapped 
dismally a few tattered pieces 
of tapestry, the relics of old-time 
grandeur. A faggot or two crack- 
led and sputtered feebly on the 
gloomy hearth. Near it, busied 
apparently over woman's work of 
some kind, were seated an old wo- 
man of repulsive aspect and a 
young girl, the latter of whom the 
curd introduced as Juliette, his 
niece, and, briefly requesting her to 
entertain their guest, excused him- 
self to see to the latter's entertain- 
ment for the night. 

And now, as the heroine of this 
exciting history has at last arrived 
— a little tardiness, as you know, 
messieurs, must be forgiven to her 
sex — it seems only becoming that 
she should have a chapter to her- 
self. 

III. 

Lovely } Of course she is lovely. 
What a ridiculous question I Who 
ever heard of a heroine who wasn't 
lovely, still less a heroine who was 
also the niece of a rob — Peste! 
The cat was almost out of the bag 
that time — so nearly out, in fact, 



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673 



that we may as well slip the noose 
and let her go at once. Scat ! And 
now, the author's mind being freed 
of an enormous load, he breathes 
more freely and announces that 
our luckless M. de Boisrobert has 
literally fallen into a den of thieves. 
For what purpose otherwise that 
artful hint about the rustics prying 
into the stables, the horses falling 
dead upon the way, the elaborate 
setting forth of the gloom and deso- 
lation hanging like a pall over the 
ruined chiteau — to what end, do 
you suppose, was all this expen- 
diture of literary artifice, except 
to prepare the reader's mind for 
some blood-curdling and harrowing 
event.? But the cur/? the cur/f 
Why, simply no cur/ at all : a 
wolf in sheep's clothing, as there 
were then but too many in France.* 
Of this, however, as yet M. de 
Boisrobert knew nothing. Filled 
with vague forebodings of evil he 
could neither define nor reason 
down, he felt but little in the humor 
for talk, and still less — being, as you 
remember, in his tenth lustrum — for 
flirtation. So, after one or two 
wise remarks upon the weather, or 
the state of the crops, or the latest 
opera, or whatever other topics 
gentlemen -farmers then chose to 
break the ice of conversation with a 
pretty girl, had been answered more 
virgineo with shy blushes, ox falter- 
ing monosyllables, or embarrassed 
and embarrassing silence, M. de 
Boisrobert betook himself to the 
window to look out upon the sur- 
rounding country. A full moon 
threw upon every object a lustre 
like that of day, and — ha! what 



* It should be said here that the main incident on 
which this tale is founded b true, and that this 
sacrilegious disguise was in those days frequently 
assumed by French robbere the better to disarm 
suspicion. The fact is in itself a striking testimony 
to the implicit confidence which the deigy of France 
have always inspired, and deserved. . _ _ 

VOL. XXV. — 43 



is this he sees in the court-yard.^ 
Can that be his host, the cur/, 
talking so confidentially to those* 
exceedingly sinister-looking chaps 
(one of whom he now remembers to 
have had pointed out to him at the 
fair as a coiner of base money, the 
other as a more than suspected 
thief), and handling those three ex- 
ceedingly long and ugly-looking 
poniards ! — ugh ! how their keen 
edges glitter in the moonlight as 
the rascals run their dirty thumbs 
along to try their temper. 

M. de Boisrobert turned from 
the window with a gesture of af- 
fright and despair, and beheld Juli- 
ette standing before him, no long- 
er a timid child but a lovely and 
courageous woman, one finger upon 
her lip, the other pointing to the 
ill-featured duenna, who had had 
the good manners to go to sleep. 
In a few rapid whispers, and still 
more eloquent gestures, she explain- 
ed the danger and her unalterable 
resolve to save him or perish in 
the attempt. Whether it was her 
words or her beauty, M. de Bois- 
robert felt instantly reassured. In- 
deed, had he known anything of 
the course of such adventures, he- 
must have felt so from the moment 
he laid eyes on her. For what 
other purpose except to save him 
could he suppose so lovely a crea- 
ture was to be found in so vile a 
den > And let it here be said for 
the benefit of scoffers that the pres- 
ent writer is well aware how often 
this incident has been used for pur- 
poses of fiction — ^at least ten thou- 
sand times in the English language 
alone. Yes; but does not the very 
frequency of its use prove it to be 
founded on fact, that some time or 
other it was true } Very well ; this 
is the time it was true. Besides,, 
who has said that Juliette is to suc- 
ceed in her noble but rash endea- 



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yuliette: A Nortnan Story, 



vor ? Suppose — now just suppose — 
she were to fail ; in which of your 
fictions do you find a stroke of 
originality like that ? If the histo- 
rian were revengeful ; if he had a 
mind to distort facts, as historians 
in very remote ages are said some- 
times to have done — well, well, we 
shall see. 

In her hurried warning Juliette 
had made shift to tell M. de Bois- 
robert that it was meant to put a 
sleeping potion in his wine, and 
afterwards to enter his chamber 
and kill him while still under the 
influence of the drug. 

" Do not for your life refuse to 
drink," she added, " bat be careful 
to eat the apple I shall offer you 
after it, and which will contain the 
antidote to the drug." 

Scarcely had she ended when the 
pretended cur/came in with his pre- 
cious comrades, whom he introduced 
as parishioners. ("A fit flock for such 
A shepherd!" thought poor M. de 
Boisrobert.) Supper was served at 
•once, and all went as the young 
■girl had foretold. The wine was 
•drunk and the apple duly present- 
ed and eaten with a confidence that 
must seem truly sublime under the 
circumstances, remembering, too, 
that one of M. de Boisrobert 's re- 
mote ancestors had lost his entire 
patrimony through accepting a simi- 
lar gift from a near female relation. 
Feigning weariness and sleep, the 
•traveller begged to be excused and 
was shown to his room. 

No sooner was he alone than he 
began to examine his means of de- 
fence and offence. The flints, of 
course, were taken from his pistols 
and the bolts removed from the 
door — they would be poor robbers, 
totally unworthy the attention of 
an enlightened reader, who would 
neglect such obvious precautions 
as these. Somewhat disconsolately 



M. de Boisrobert looked under the 
bed and into the wardrobe, but 
found no comfort there. Then lie 
piled all the furniture against the 
door, drew his sword, said his pray- 
ers, set his teeth, thought of Juliette 
(O middle-aged and most forlorn 
of Romeos !), and awaited the con- 
spirators. 

He had not long to wait. Scarce- 
ly had he taken position when a 
stealthy tread outside, a fumbling 
at the latch, and probably a strong 
odor of garlic penetrating through 
the keyhole, announced their arri- 
val. The door was first softly, then 
strongly, pushed, and then, as the 
unlooked-for resistance showed 
their plot was discovered, a furious 
volley of oaths was followed by an 
onset that made the barricade 
tremble. Now should we dearly 
love to entertain the reader with 
the description of a terrific combat <> 
Voutrance — albo h la Dumas — where- 
in M. de Boisrobert, calmly await- 
ing his foes' approach, falls upon 
them wich such ferocity that in a 
twinkling he has one spitted like a 
lark, another cloven to the chine, 
and the third in headlong flight and 
bawling lustily for mercy, but prick- 
ed sorely in tender places by the re- 
lentless sword. But, alas! — such is 
the fatal limitation of your true 
story — nothing of the sort took 
place. On the contrary, our hero 
was in all probability horribly fright- 
ened and thoroughly glad to see a 
secret panel suddenly slide back, 
and a white hand thrust through 
the opening, while the sweetest 
voice he had ever heard begged 
him to make haste. To seize that 
hand — and who shall blame him if 
he pressed it to his lips 1 — to dart 
through the opening — quick I quick ! 
good Jean ! — to close the panel, is 
the work of an instant. Scarcely 
is it shut when cr-rack ! crash ! 



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bang! go door and barricade, 
and the foiled assassins are heard 
stamping and swearing furiously 
about the deserted room. If you 
could but have seen their faces and 
heard — no, it would not have been 
edifying to hear their language. 
But the fugitives are safe. Need it 
be said that the foresight of the 
faithful Jean (who, of course, follows 
his young mistress, having, indeed, 
waited this long time in the rob- 
ber's den only for a chance to be on 
hand in this emergency) had pro- 
vided horses, on which they soon 
reached Evreux, where they lodged 
an information, which, there being 
no police there to speak of, led to 
the prompt arrest of the ruffians. 

Placing the lovely Juliette in a 
convent, M. de Boisrobert returned 
home. But it was observed that 
he hunted less than formerly, that 
he was often closeted with Father 
Bernard and his notary, and that he 
spent much time in settling his affairs. 
Need the result be told } What in 
the world is a middle-aged bache- 
lor to do whose life is saved by a 
lovely maiden of spotless virtue.? 
For, be it known, the fair Juliette, 
left an orphan only a week before, 
had, by her dying father, a rich 
farmer of Br^zolles, been consigned 
to the guardianship of this wicked 
brother, whose evil courses he was 
far from suspecting. All that is as 
plain as a pikestaff; as it is that in 
less than six months after, just long 
enough to get the trousseau ready 
(from the Worth of the day, of 
course) and to see the wicked uncle 
comfortably hanged, the bells of 
Friar Lawrence's — we should say 
of Father Bernard's — little church 
at Boisrobert rang out a merry 
answer to the problem last pro- 
pounded. 

When the distant echoes of these 
wedding chimes reached the ears 



of M. le Comte de Beaumanoir at 
Paris, he was not at all angry, as 
people thought he would be. Oh ! 
dear, no. On the contrary, he 
only smiled, showing a remarkably 
fine set of teeth. So that people 
said he was a brave man, this poor 
M. le Comte, and not by any means 
as black as he was painted. And, in- 
deed, a great many folks began to 
commiserate him and to abuse M. 
de Boisrobert. 

IV. 

Well? 

Well what } 

Why, what came of M. de Beau- 
manoir showing his teeth } 

Oh! that? Nothing — ^just nothing 
at all. That's the trouble, you see, 
of telling a true story : one's imagi- 
nation is hampered at every step. 
It would have been most delightful 
and exciting to have invented a 
frightful tale of the count's ven- 
geance; how he slew his recalci- 
trant kinsman, immured his weep- 
ing bride in a dungeon for life, and 
laid waste the lands of Boisrobert 
with fire and sword, etc., etc. But 
the truth is, he did nothing of the 
kind. Indeed, his teeth were speed- 
ily drawn, and he was glad to get 
away with his worthless life. The 
false cur^ confessed before his 
death that the count had suborned 
him to kill his kinsman as he re- 
turned from the fair, promising him 
a sum equal to that which he 
would be sure to find on M. de 
Boisrobert's person, and even sug. 
gesting the disguise. He little 
thought that the very scheme he 
fondly imagined was to secure him 
his coveted inheritance was des- 
tined really to lose it to him for 
ever. So ever come to grief the 
machinations of the wicked J This 
last escapade was a little too much 
even for courtly morals, and Mon- 



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To Aubrey de Vere. 



sieur was quietly advised to hint 
to his murderous favorite that his 
health would probably be the bet- 
ter for a change of air. 

And the fatal consequences re- 
sulting from this marriage ? 

Yes, yes, of course ; how stupid 
to forget it ! Well, a cynic might 
say that for a bachelor to marry 
at all, especially at forty-five — ^but 
never mind the cynic. Their mar- 
ried life was surely not unhappy? 
Let us hope not. Do Romeo and 
Juliet ever throw teacups at each 
other over the breakfast- table be- 
cause that duck of a spring bonnet 
is not forthcoming } In romances 
certainly not ; but in true stories — 
hem ! Let us trust, however, that 
peace reigned eternal over the do- 
mestic hearthstone at the Chdteau 
de Boisrobert. But his marriage 
had cost its owner an illusion — a 



life-long illusion ; and thai is a pain- 
ful thing at forty-five. EHsenchant- 
ment seems to come harder as one 
gets older and has anything left 
to be disenchanted of. He ceased 
to believe that rank and birth arc 
the same as goodness, or even great- 
ness, and it cost him many a pang, 
and no doubt a great deal of real 
though whimsical unhappiness, to be 
forced thus suddenly and radically 
to readjust his scheme of life. But, 
in spite of the adventure which 
gave him a wife, perhaps because 
of it, he never lost his faith in curii 
or in Juliette ; and the games of 
bowls and of trictrac were all the 
pleasanter for the sweet face that 
thenceforth lit them up, and the 
romping curly-pates that disturbed 
them and in time effaced from their 
fond father's memory his lingerini; 
regret for the loss of a noble heir. 



TO AUBREY DE VERE. 



AFTER READING " POEMS OF PLACES — ITALY, EDITED BY H. 
LONGFELLOW. 

I STOOD in ancient church, ruined and vast, 
Whose crumbling altar of its Lord was bare, 
Whose shattered windows let in all the glare 

Of noonday heat, and noise of crowds that passed 

With careless jest, of malice not assoiled. 
Within, fast-fading angels still lent grace 
Of art, believing, to the holy place 

That cruel hands of its best gift despoiled. 

With weary feet I trod the broken floor, 

With tearless eyes the maimM aisles gazed down. 
When, lo ! afar a waxen taper shone, 

Burning a hidden altar clear before : 

Here hastened I, here knelt — O poet true ! 

Thine was the light that shone my sorrow through. 



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COLONIZATION AND FUTURE EMIGRATION. 



God has apparently chosen the 
United States as the theatre for the 
demonstration of the truth that the 
Catholic Church is the church of the 
people. She has always been the 
church of the people ; many of her 
most severe persecutions have been 
caused by the stand she has taken 
in behalf of popular rights and indi- 
vidual freedom against the tyranny 
oi kings and the exactions of nobles. 
But never before has she been fur- 
nished with so large a field for the 
manifestation and development of 
her popular and democratic char- 
acter as has been prepared for her 
here. It is her destiny, we believe, 
to save the republic from the ruin 
to which the sects and their off- 
spring, the atjieists, would lead her. 
Even tliose of our Catholic readers 
who may not fully share this belief 
will admit that, to all seeming, the 
Catholic Church is destined to play 
an important part in the future his- 
tory of our country — at least that 
she has grown in numbers, materi- 
al wealth, and social influence dur- 
ing the last thirty years to an al- 
most marvellous degree. 

A better or more certain method 
of accomplishing the work of the 
church in the United States could 
scarcely have been devised than 
the congregation of a large share 
of the Catholic emigration in our 
great cities. The Catholic Church 
in the United States is not " a for- 
eign church** in any other sense 
than the Bible, or Shakspere's 
plays, or Homer's poems are " for- 
eign" books ; she is, as they are, 
and far more than they are, the 
common inheritance of all, and she 



is as much at home here, and as 
rightfully at home, as she is or ever 
was in any other land. Indeed, the 
church of God is not and cannot 
be foreign to any of God's creatures. 
But a large proportion of her chil- 
dren in the United States at present 
are either of foreign birth or are 
the descendants of foreign-born 
persons in the first or second gen- 
eration. These people did not 
bring the Catholic Church with 
them to America: they found her 
here ; she had always had an exis- 
tence here since Christopher Co- 
lumbus planted the cross upon San 
Salvador, and since the Jesuit 
priests sailed up the St. Lawrence 
and down the Mississippi rivers. 
If, however, the emigration which 
has poured into this country since 
1840 had not arrived, or had it 
come from non-Catholic countries, 
and had the growth of the church 
here been dependent wholly, or 
even chiefly, upon the natural in- 
crease of American Catholic fami- 
lies and upon converts from Protes- 
tantism or heathenism, the church 
in America to-day would have been 
numerically insignificant ; which 
is only the same as to say that, if 
emigration had ceased after the 
first European exodus, the popula- 
tion of the United States to-day 
would be equally insignificant. 

We may form some idea of what 
the progress of the church under 
these conditions would have been 
here by remembering what it has 
been in England since the cessa- 
tion of the active persecutions 
which followed the Reformation. 
There are about 1,800,000 Catho- 



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lies in England to-day. Of these 
not lesa than 800,000 are Irish, 
French, German, Spanish, and Ital- 
ian emigrants or their children ; 
the remaining 1,000,000 represent 
all the converts of English birth, as 
well as the descendants of the old 
Catholic families who always re- 
tained the faith. Half a century 
has elapsed since the English Ca- 
tholics were emancipated from the 
last remnant of the persecuting and 
restrictive legislation which had op- 
pressed them since the days of 
Elizabeth. During this half-cen- 
tury the church in England has 
been free — free in its own govern- 
ment, free in its work of propagat- 
ing the faith and of bringing back 
the English people to ther religion 
which their fathers had cherished 
for a thousand years. 

Yet, with some advantages that 
Catholics in the United States did 
not and do not yet possess, the 
growth of the church in England 
during the last fifty years has been 
vastly less than the progress she 
has made in this country during 
the same period. In 1830 there 
were more Catholics in England 
than in the United States; since 
then the church in both countries 
has been equally free, with the ad- 
vantages at the start on the side of 
England. But now the Catholics 
in the United States outnumber 
those in England more than four- 
fold. 

In 1830, according to the most 
trustworthy estimates, there were 
600,000 Catholics in England and^ 
475,000 in the United States; now 
they number two millions there and 
from six to seven millions here. In 
England to-day the church has a 
cardinal, twelve suffragan bishops, 
end 2,064 priests; in the United 
States she has a cardinal, 66 arch- 
bishops and bishops, and S>^91 



priests. In England, according 
to the English Catholic Directory 
for last year, there were 997 Catho- 
lic churches, 7 theological semina- 
ries, 312 ecclesiastical students, 15 
colleges, 38 asylums, and 5 hospi- 
tals. In the United States, accord- 
ing to the American Catholic Direc- 
tory for the same year, there were 
5,292 Catholic churches, 34 theo- 
logical seminaries, 1,217 ecclesias- 
tical students, 62 colleges, 219 asy- 
lums, and 95 hospitals.* 

We have drawn out this com- 
parison for the purpose of accen- 
tuating our former remark that the 
marvellous growth of the church in 
the United States during the last 
half-century has been mainly due 
to emigrationi/rom Catholic;, coun- 
tries. Had It not been for these 
accessions, it is doubtful, in our 
opinion, whether the church in the 
United States would to-day equal 
in numbers the church in England. 
But would its growth have been so 
great, so pronounced, so command- 
ing to the attention of all behold- 
ers, had this emigration been di- 
rected away from the cities and dis- 
persed throughout the rural and 
agricultural sections of the coun- 
try } A little reflection will, we 
think, show that this question must 
be answered in the negative. It 
would have availed the church 
nothing had these emigrants been 
placed in their new homes under 
conditions where the preservation 
of their faith in any practical form 
would have been almost impossible ; 
where they would have been de- 
prived of the care and counsel of 

* These figures, as far as they relate to the insti- 
tutions of the church in England, are probably 
not entirely correct. The Rtgisttr from which 
we have quoted contains no tabular statement of 
these institutions, and we have been compelled to 
arrive at the totals by an enumeration of our own. 
the accuracy of which has been rendered doubtful 
by the confused manner in which the statistics of 
each diocese were given. However, our figures 
camot be very greatly at fault. 



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their spiritual guides and of the 
sacraments necessary for salvation ; 
where their children would have 
remained unbaptized, their mar- 
riages have been degraded to civil 
contracts, and their souls starved 
and enfeebled by the absence of 
the Bread of Life. Yet that this 
would have been the fate of the 
greaf majority of them, had they 
not congregated in the cities, can- 
not be doubted, unless, indeed, God 
had chosen to work another mira- 
cle in their behalf and to create, for 
them a miraculous supply of priests 
— a supply so large that every little 
hamlet in the far-off wilds of the 
West and North should have been 
furnished with a spiritual director. 

Some boast of having even nine 
millions of Catholics in the repub- 
lic ; but it can be shown that there 
are perhaps half as many more 
Americans now living who are the 
children of Catholic parents in the 
first or second generation, but who 
have lost their faith and grown up 
as Protestants or without any reli- 
gion at all, chiefly because their 
parents had gone into districts 
where there were no priests, and 
where the exercise of their religion, 
save as a spiritual meditation, was 
impossible.* It was only when the 
Catholic emigrants began to arrive 
here in large numbers, and to dwell 
together by hundreds and thou- 
sands and tens of thousands in the 
great cities, that it became possible, 
humanly, to provide for their reli- 

* A very ingenious statement was published 
some time ago in one of our journals, setting forth 
what was believed to be *' the constituent elements 
of the population of the United Sutes in 1870." 
This statement may be thus summarized : In 1784 
the entire white population of the United States 
was 3,173,000 persons; of these 7,241,990 were of 
Irish birthf 751,380 were of other Celtic races, 841,- 
800 were of Anglo-Saxon extraction, and 497,009 
were of Dutch and Scandinavian birth. The to- 
tal immigration to the United States from 1790 to 
1870 was 8,199,000 persons, of whom 3,948.000 came 
finom Ireland, 796,000 fsora Anglo-Saxon races ; and 
4,155,000 from all other sources. The total popula- 



gious wants and for their Catholic 
education. How nobly they have 
themselves furnished the material 
means for this work the statistics 
given above show. They have 
mainly done it for themselves. In 
England the Irish Catholics, in 
their works of charity and in the 
erection of their churches, have oft- 
en been aided by the contributions 
of their wealthy English fellow- 
Catholics; but in America the for- 
eign-born and the descendants of 
the foreign-born Catholics have for 
the most part built their own 
churches, their own convents, 
seminaries, and schools, and have 
received but little aid from their 
co-religionists of native ancestry. 
Indeed, in some instances within 
our own knowledge it is the latter 
who have been the beneficiaries of 
the former ; and many an Ameri- 
can Catholic to-day is indebted to 
the charity and self-denial of Ger- 
man, French, and Irish Catholics 
for the services of the priest who 
was the means of his conversion, 
and for the erection of the church 
in which he hears Mass. We re- 
peat that all this was made possible 
by the congregation of our Catholic 
emigrants in the cities, and that 



tion in 2870 was 38,5oo/x)o ; and this vast number 

was thus analyzed : 

Joint product in 1870 of Irish colonial ele- 
ments and subsequent Irish immigration, 
including that from Canada 14,325,000 

Joint product in 1870 of Anglo-Saxon 
colonial elements and subsequent Anglo- 
Saxon immigration 4,529,000 

Joint product in 2870 of all other colonial 
elements and all subsequent immigra- 
tion, including the negroes x9«653 000 

38,500,000 
From these figures was drawn the somewhat 
startling deduction that the population of the United 
States in 1870 was composed of 34,ooovooo of Celtic 
burth or origin (Irish, Scotch, French, Spanish, and 
Italian), and that of these 14,395,000 were of Irish 
birth or origin, 4,539,000 of Anglo-Saxon birth or 
origin, and that the remaining 9,978,000 were of 
neither Celtic nor Anglo-Saxon extraction. We are 
not in any way responsible for the accuracy of 
these figures ; but that they express at least an 
approximation to the truth we do not doubt. 



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the most deplorable consequences 
would have followed had not this 
congregation taken place. 

It is not, moreover, in spiritual 
matters only that our emigrants 
have been wise in congregating in 
the cities. One must remember 
the condition in which the great 
majority of them landed here dur- 
ing tlie years when emigration was 
at the flood-tide, and then compare 
with that their present state and the 
future which is before them and 
their children. They were desper- 
ately, or apostolically, poor, because 
they came from lands where it was 
impossible for them to acquire any- 
thing beyond the means of bare 
subsistence. They were uneducat- 
ed, because thejr had been the 
subjects of governments whose 
studied policy it was to keep them 
in ignorance. They had neither 
the capital nor the knowledge ne- 
cessary to render them successful as 
independent agriculturists. Labor 
was most abundant in the cities, 
and in the cities they remained. 
What have they done there? If 
you seek their monument, look 
around you ! Behold not only the 
57 Catholic churches (12 of them* 
built almost or quite exclusively by 
Germans, i by Poles, i by Italians, 
I by Bohemians, i by Frenchmen, 
and 30 by Irishmen), the 17 mon- 
asteries, the 22 convents, the mag- 
nificent Protectory, the theological 
seminary, the 3 colleges, the 22 se- 
lect schools, the 19 asylums, the 4 
homes for aged men and women, 
the 4 hospitals, and the 85 parochi- 
al schools of which the city and 
diocese of New York alone boast ; 
but the great business houses, the 
large manufactories, the number- 
less smaller though important fac- 
tories, stores, and shops belonging 
to the foreign-born and foreign- 
descended population of this me- 



tropolis ; make a similar examina«- 
tion of what this class of our citi- 
zens have done in Brooklyn, Balti- 
more, Boston, Hartford,* Portland, 
Springfield, Cincinnati, Detroit, 
Milwaukee, St. Paul, Albany, Buf- 
falo, Newark, Philadelphia, St. 
Louis, Chicago, San Francisco, 
and twoscore more of our large 
cities; and then compare these 
truly magnificent religious, moral, 
charitable, commercial, and indus- 
trial results with all that the same 
people could have accomplished 
had they been scattered as sheep 
without shepherds throughout our 
Western and Northern wilds, des- 
tined to lose their faith, deprived 
of the support and strength which 
common association and common 
interest afford, and doomed, most 
probably, to lives of hopeless pov- 
erty and unremunerative struggle. 
God has been too good to them, 
and to the country in which they 
have become so important a factor, 
to permit this, and what the arro- 
gance of man has so often stigma- 
tized as folly has proved to be the 
highest and best wisdom both for 
eternal and for temporal ends. 
The whole number of foreign emi- 
grants who have landed in the 
United States during the first 75 
years of this century was 9,526,966. 
We showed in a former article* 
what proportion of these has re- 
mained in the cities ; and we have 
now pointed out some of the re- 
sults of this congregation. 

We must not be understood, how- 
ever, to convey the idea that a very 
considerable proportion of our for- 
eign-born Catholic citizens have 
not made homes for themselves in 
the rural districts of the country, 
under conditions which rendered it 
possible for them to continue the 

•''The European Exodus," Thx Catuouc 
World, July, 1877. 



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active exercise of their religion, 
and that the happiest results have 
not followed. In the New Eng- 
land States, in New York, New Jer- 
sey, and Pennsylvania, in Illinois, 
Indiana, and Ohio, in Wisconsin, 
Iowa, Missouri, and Minnesota, the 
number of Irish and German Ca- 
tholic farmers — well-to-do, pros- 
perous, and faithful — is very large. 
In the New England States thfi in- 
crease of this class has of late been 
marked. The farms throughout 

\ this section are generally small ; 

' their native owners, especially when 
ihey are young men, find it difficult 
to extract from them incomes large 
enough to supply their desire for 
the luxuries of life ; they are often 
anxious to try their fortunes in the 
cities or in the West ; whenever one 
of them offers his little estate for 
sale the purchaser is most likely a 
German or Irishman,whose wants are 
more modest, and who finds it quite 
possible to derive from a farm of 
twenty or thirty acres a comfortable 
subsistence for his family. This 
cliange in the proprietorship of the 
soil in New England has gone on 
to an extent much larger than is 
genejally known ; and one would 
labor under a serious mistake who 
supposed that the foreign-born and 
foreign-descended population of 
New England was altogether, or 
even unduly, congregated in the 
cities. There are in New England, 
according to the last Catholic Di- 
rectory^ 539 Catholic priests, 508 
churches, 167 chapels and stations, 
with a Catholic population of about 
890,000 souls; and it is evident 
from an examination of the list of 
the churches that a large propor- 
tion of them are in the small towns 
and rural districts of these States. 
It may be unwelcome news to our 
Protestant readers, but it is true, 
that nearly 25 per cent, of the pre- 



sent population of New England is 
composed of Roman Catholics. It 
may be still more unpleasant for 
them to learn that nearly 70 per 
cent, of the births in that region 
are those in Roman Catholic fami- 
lies. New England, indeed, pro- 
mises to be the first portion of the 
country which is likely to become 
distinctively Roman Catholic. The 
immigration into New England is 
small, but it is mostly composed of 
Catholics ; the increase of popula- 
tion is very largely Catholic ; the 
emigration is almost entirely non- 
Catholic. From this digression 
from our main subject we return 
with the remark that the rural Ca- 
tholic population in the Middle and 
Western States — a population large- 
ly composed of foreign-born citi- 
zens and their descendants — con- 
stitutes a most important factor in 
the material strength of the Catho- 
lic body, and that, as we shall show, 
the future course of foreign emi- 
gration should, and most probably 
will, tend mainly to increase this 
class. 

The late decline in emigration to 
the United States, and the present 
lull, amounting almost to stagna- 
tion, which has taken place in it, 
together with the fact that there is 
abundant reason to suppose that 
this lull is but temporary and that 
emigration will again ere very long 
pour in upon us, suggest some re- 
flections respecting the changed 
character which that emigration 
will probably assume, the changed 
conditions under which it will be 
carried on, and the changed duty 
of the Catholic body in the United 
States towards it. What was so es- 
sentially necessary in the past will 
be necessary, under these new con- 
ditions, no longer ; what was so oft- 
en impossible in the past will now 
become generally easy of accom- 



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plishment. The Catholic Church 
in the United States has passed 
through the stage of its infancy and 
feebleness, and has entered upon 
the period of its manhood and 
strength. Firmly planted through- 
out the land, it fears nothing and 
can watch over and abundantly 
protect the faith and the education 
of its children. In every State and 
Territory, save Alaska, at least one 
bishop; in %even States two bish- 
ops; in five States three bishops ; in 
one State six, in another State eight 
bishops, and with more than 5,000 
priests — surely with this army of 
shepherds the sheep and the lambs 
of the flock can be fed and guard- 
ed from the wolves of infidelity, sec- 
tarianism, and bigotry. God has 
built up his church in the republic 
in the manner, and chiefly through 
the agencies, which we have point- 
ed out, and has thus fitted her, 
armed her, and made her strong 
for the great work which still lies 
before her. That work is the con- 
version of the non-Catholic portion 
of our fellow-citizens; the nurture 
of Catholic children; and the care, 
the protection, and, if need be, the 
conversion of the emigrants who, 
in the future, are to come to us from 
the Old World. It is only with this 
latter branch of her duty that we 
now deal. Emigrants to the Unit- 
ed States have hitherto arrived 
here chiefly as isolated individ- 
uals, or at best as isolated families. 
There have been some attempts at 
colonization — that is, in bringing in 
one company a large number of in- 
dividuals and of families, destined 
to migrate together to a spot al- 
ready selected for them, and which 
they are to occupy as a community. 
Most frequently these attempts at 
colonization have been successful. 
Where they have failed the failure 
has been due to some incapacity 



or dishonesty on the part of the 
agents who had the matter in 
charge, and not to any vice in the 
system itself. There is evidence 
to show that emigration in future 
will be to a great extent, and may 
be almost wliolly, conducted on the 
colonization principle. We have 
already said that emigration from 
Ireland in the future would most 
protfably be confined within small 
limits ; but if anything could stimu- 
late it, it would be the development 
in Ireland of wise plans for colo- 
nization, carried out by men of pro- 
bity, experience, and practical wis- 
dom. Our chief sources of emi- 
gration, however, for some years to 
come, are likely to be England, 
Scotland, Germany, France, Aus- 
tria, Bohemia, Switzerland, Sweden, 
Denmark, Belgium, Italy, Poland, 
and Russia. There are causes at 
work which even now are stimulat- 
ing emigration from each of tliese 
countries, and these causes may at- 
tain great strength. As an instance 
of the curious manner in which ap- 
parently insignificant causes, origi- 
nating at a distance,' produce large 
effects, we may mention the fact 
that the shipping of fresh meat from 
this country to Great Britain — an 
enterprise only in its infancy — has 
already so seriously unsettled the 
relations existing between landlords 
and farmers in England and Scot- 
land that the latter are declaring 
their inability to make both ends 
meet, and are turning their thoughts 
towards emigration. So general 
and so serious is this feeling that 
the leading journal of Scotland has 
sent to this country a trusted mem- 
ber of its permanent staff (the 
editor of its agricultural department 
for many years), with instructions 
" to make the fullest possible inqui- 
ry into everything connected with 
the stock-raising department of ag- 



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683 



riculture " in the United States, ex- 
tending his researches to Texas, 
"where he proposes to examine 
thoroughly the system of cattle and 
sheep breeding and raising carried 
on in that State on so immense a 
scale, and to obtain all the informa- 
tion that is to be had with respect 
to the breeds of cattle, the methods 
taken to improve the quality of the 
stock, and Texan agricultural me- 
thods and circumstances gener- 
ally." He is then to visit other 
States for the same purpose, and 
*'all along his route he will take 
note of all the phases and condi- 
tions of agriculture, and of the 
suitability of the States for advanc- 
ed farming." The results of hi^ 
investigations, published in Scot- 
land and England, will enable the 
farmers there " to determine the 
full significance of the competition 
of American cattle-growers in the 
British dead-meat market," and in 
all probability determine many of 
them to emigrate to this country, 
with their capital and their skill, to 
engage in this competition on the 
American side. 

Farming in England and Scot- 
land — especially in Scotland — has 
long been a precarious and hazard- 
ous business ; and now the reduc- 
tion of four or six cents a pound in 
the price of beef which has been 
caused by the importation of about 
1,000 tons of American beef and 
mutton every week at Glasgow and 
Liverpool, threatens to be the last 
straw to break the back of at least 
the Scotch farmer. Irish agricul- 
turists likewise depend to a great 
extent for their profits upon the 
money received for their cattle, 
and they, too, will feel as severely 
as their Scottish friends the ruinous 
consequences, to them, of a reduc- 
tion of twenty-five per cent, in the 
market value of their principal com- 



modity. Thus the emigration of 
the well-to-do farmers of the United 
Kingdom is likely to be stimulated, 
and these agriculturists, most pro- 
bably, would need but little persua- 
sion to induce them to emigrate, 
if they emigrated at all, in colonies, 
and not as isolated families or in- 
dividuals. So, also, as respects the 
future emigration from the Conti- 
nent of Europe. Different causes 
are at work in each of the coun- 
tries above named, but they all 
tend to the same result. 

We have already hinted that the 
emigration of the future will be of 
ft different class from the emigra- 
tion of the past. At the present 
moment, and probably for some 
time to come, it would be dishon- 
est, cruel, and unwise to encourage 
the emigration to this country of 
people without capital — those who 
must earn daily wages in order to 
live. Hitherto the great majority 
of our emigrants have been people 
of this class, and most fortunate is 
it that they came in such vast num- 
bers. The time will again arrive, 
no doubt, when this class will be 
once more necessary and welcome 
among us, and when they will 
come, as they have come before, 
in thousands and tens of thousands. 
But at present they are not needed 
here; to bring them hither would 
be cruel to us as well as to them- 
selves. The emigrants whom we 
need, and who are for some time 
most likely to come, are those who 
possess considerable worldly wealth 
at home, but who, like the English, 
Scotch, and Irish farmers of whom 
we have spoken, find it difficult to 
provide sufficiently for their in- 
creasing families, or wish to secure 
for them, in the New World, better 
fortunes than they can hope for in 
the Old. On the European Conti- 
nent, and especially in Germany, 



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other causes are at work which are 
morally certain to promote emigra- 
tion. The war in the East may be 
localized — although all the proba- 
bilities point to a different conclu- 
sion — but even now it has increas- 
ed the burdens which oppress the 
German people, and rendered the 
" blood-tax " that they are com- 
pelled to pay heavier and harder to 
bear. There is probably no intelli- 
gent man in Germany who does 
not look forward to a not distant 
day when that country will be again 
engaged in a desperate conflict ; 
and meanwhile the military service 
exacted from every German citizen, 
and the cost of maintaining the 
army, press with a crushing weight 
upon the country. A thoughtful 
and experienced writer in one of 
our daily journals — a writer who, 
if we mistake not, has himself had 
extensive experience in the organi- 
zation of emigration enterprises — 
thus treats of this subject : 

" But it is in Germany that the fears 
awakened throughout Continental Eu- 
rope will contribute most powerfully to 
a renewal of interest in the subject of 
emigration among classes to whom this 
country even now presents all requisite 
advantages. The stern methods em- 
ployed by Bismarck to repress emigra- 
tion movements — his interference with 
the freedom of American citizens who 
dared to speak of the attractions held 
out by the fertile West, and his suppres- 
sion of whatever seemed likely to facili- 
tate emigration to the United States — 
were all called forth by the anxious de- 
sire of people to escape the liability to 
military service. The military glories of 
the empire had charms for- the cities, 
which acquired delusive appearances of 
prosperity. Among the population of 
rural districts the situation was differ- 
ent. The burdens and penalties of war, 
and of a system which exacts incessant 
preparation for war as a condition of 
national safety, have among these peo- 
ple stimulated the feeling in favor of 
emigration to a degree which the action 
of the Imperial Government has imper- 



fectly controlled. The dread, vague be- 
fore, will now be a reality. What, as a 
mere contingency, has sufficed to foster 
the wish to leave the Fatherland is now 
so near a certainty that the movement in 
favor of emigration needs but a guiding 
hand to assume large proportions. And 
the emigration available is of the de- 
scription which, discreetly operated 
upon, should be attracted rather than 
repelled by the considerations which 
have driven wage-earners back to Eu- 
rope. Those who would gladly get our 
of Germany to save their sons from ser- 
vice in the army look to the land for a 
livelihood, and would form valuable ac- 
cessions to the Western States. As far 
as Germany is concerned, tbe difficulty 
is in reaching this class. Agencies that 
might be freely used in England or Hol- 
land are in Germany unavailable. All 
that seems possible there is to provide 
authentic information through channels 
which would not conflict with local law 
or incur the suspicion which, in view of 
recent experience, interested represen- 
tations are likely to excite. Might not 
our consular agencies be utilized, not as 
emigration bureaux, but as means of 
supplying to those who seek it informa- 
tion in reference to lands and farms in 
the West and South, and to other mat- 
ters connected with the opening or pur- 
chase of farms, and stocking and work- 
ing them? The laborious head of the 
Statistical Bureau some years ago com- 
piled a volume of statistics which to the 
working-men of the Old World was in- 
valuable. The manual at present need- 
ed would deal with the phases of the 
emigration question, and would be much 
more than an accumulation of figures. 
It would be more legitimate than half 
the matter which emanates from the de- 
partment and is printed at the public 
cost ; and it would contribute to a re- 
vival and increase of the only immigra- 
tion which can be honestly encouraged 
in the face of hard times." 

The French have never shown 
much anxiety for emigration; but 
the arrivals of emigrants from that 
country have increased during late 
years, and were slightly larger last 
year than in 1875. In France the 
burdens which are felt in Germany 
are also a cause of suffering, if not 



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685 



of complaint ; and emigration from 
France, if the proper means for 
stimulating and directing it were 
employed, might reach large pro- 
portions. In Holland causes like 
those to which we have alluded as 
potent in Great Britain exist. The 
emigration from Russia has hitherto 
been of a peculiar character ; it has 
consisted mainly of the Mennon- 
ites, whose anti-war principles im- 
pelled them to escape from the mili- 
tary service exacted from all Rus- 
sian subjects, and from which only 
the temporary and partial conces- 
sions of the czar exempted some of 
them. The mission now undertaken 
by Russia isof a character which will 
compel her ruler, ere he has finish- 
ed his task, to press every one of 
his subjects into the military ser- 
vice, directly or indirectly. The 
desire for emigration from Russia 
may be expected to increase, al- 
though some time will probably 
elapse before large results can be 
hoped for from it. The emigration 
from Austria has thus far been 
small. The total arrivals of emi- 
grants from that country at the 
port of New York during the last 
30 years have been only 21,677, of 
whom 1,210 came last year and 
1,088 in 1875. But Austria is a 
country especially fit to emigrate 
from, and the incentives which are 
powerful in Germany will ere long 
be felt in Austria also. From Swit- 
zerland, Norway, Sweden, Belgium, 
Denmark, and Poland emigration 
of the better class may with reason 
be anticipated; and even from Italy, 
which has sent us 42,769 emigrants 
since 1847, considerable accessions 
may be expected.* 

♦During the year ended December 31, 1876, 
157^40 immigrants arrived in the United States, 
of whom io3f9<5o were males and 54,480 females. 
Their ages were : under fifteen years, 26,608 ; fif- 
teen and under forty, 111,764 ; forty yeare and up- 
ward, 19,068. The countries of last - permdnent 



We have before us a collection 
of documents relating to coloniza- 
tion in the West and Northwest. 
One of them describes the adn\ira- 
ble plan of the Coadjutor-Bishop of 
St. Paul for Catholic colonization 
in Minnesota. In a powerful letter 
addressed, on the i6th of Septem- 
ber last, to the President of the 
Board of Colonization of the Irish 
Catliolic Benevolent Union, the bi- 
shop dwells upon the evils which 
have followed the settlement of our 
Irish emigrants in the large cities — 
evils which we have no wish to be- 
little ; but he also confesses that 
the misfortunes of those who went 
into the rural districts were equally 
deplorable. He remarks : 

*' Those who— exceptions to Ae rule — 
did move forward into the country, in 
search of homes on the land, suffered in 

residence or citixenship of the immigrants were : 
Enghuid, 21,051 ; Ireland, 16,506 ; Scotland, 4,383 ; 
Wales, 994 ; Isle of Man, 8 ; Guernsey, x ; Ger- 
many, 31,393; Austria, 6,947; Hungary, 475; 
Svreden, 5,904 ; Norway, 6,031 ; Denmark, 1,694 ; 
Netherlands, 709; Belgium, 454; Switzerland, 
1,579; France, 6,793; Italy, 9,980; Malta, 9; 
Greece, 94 ; Spain, 597 ; Portugal, 8x6 ; Gibraltar, 
x6 ; Russia, 6,787 ; Poland, 854 ; Finland, 99 ; 
Turkey, 59; Arabia, X3 ; India, 99; Burmah, 9; 
China, x6,879 ; Asiatic Russia, 83 ; Japan, 6 ; 
Asia, not specified, X4 ; Egypt, 3 ; Liberia, 14 ; Al- 
geria, 9 ; Africa, not specified, 17 ; Quebec, X5,545 ; 
Nora Scotia, 3,aoo; New Brunswick, 1,494; 
Prince Edward Island, 437 ; Newfoundland, 58 ; 
British Columbia, 484; Mexico, 532: Central 
America, 14; U. S. of Colombia, 90; Venezuela, 
37 ; Guiana, 3 ; Bnuil, 28 ; Argentine Republic, 6 ; 
Chili, 90; Peru, xx ; South America, 10; Cuba, 
880; Porto Rico, 17; Jamaica, 93; Bahamas, 5^9; 
Barbados, 32 ; other West India Islands, 43 ; Cu- 
ra^oa, 14 ; Azores, etc., 960 ; Bermudas, 29 ; Ice- 
land, 30; Mauritius, 3; Sandwich Islands, 90; 
Australasia, x,96x ; East Indies, 16 ; and bom at 
sea, 9^ 

During the month ended April 30, 1877, there 
arrived at the port of New York 7,353 immigrants, 
ofwhom 4,553 were males and 9,800 females. 

The countries or islands of last pennanent resi- 
dence or citizenship of the immignmts were as 
follows : 

England, 1,500 ; Scotland, 191 ; Wales, 46 ; Ire- 
land, 1,364; Germany, 9,184; Austria, 986; Swe- 
den, 4x5 ; Norway, 67 ; Denmark, 17X ; France, 
241 ; Switzerland, 183 ; Spain, 58 ; Italy, 3i;o; Hol- 
land, 60; Belgium, 26; Russia, 35; Poland, 34; 
Hungary, 37 ; Quebec, Ontario, Nova Scotia, and 
Newfoundland, 95 ; Cuba, 19 ; Sicily, x8 ; India, 
14 ; Mexico, 8 ; U. S. of Colombia, 4 ; Venezuela, 
Bermuda, and bom at sea, 3 each ; Greece, China, 
and Pera, 2 each ; Turkey and Iceland, x each. 



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many instances from the absence of 
proper and systematic direction no less 
than their companions in cities. They 
lost their faith. They strayed away from 
church and priest, from Catholic asso- 
ciations, and in certain States to-day 
there are whole districts where you 
hear the purest of Celtic names, and 
where, nevertheless, not one man pro- 
claims himself a Catholic or smiles at 
the mention of the old land." 

And then, after a charming pic- 
ture of a certain little Irish Catho- 
lic colony in the West, of which he 
says that, beginning in poverty and 
hardship twenty years ago, 

*• To-day those families are prosper- 
ous-^rich ; their children are as inno- 
cent and as true as if they had always 
breathed the atmosphere of the most 
Catholic of lands ; the number of fami- 
lies has doubled, through mere natural 
increase ; their district of country is for 
ever secured to the church/' 

Bishop Ireland goes on to say 
that the results of his own colo- 
nization labors in Minnesota may 
be thus described : 

•* We began last February. Our first 
step was to secure the control of 117,000 
acres of land, situated in Swift County, 
belonging to the St. Paul and Pacific 
Railroad. There was at the time in the 
county about as much more vacant gov- 
ernment land open for settlement under 
the pre-emption and homestead acts. The 
price of the railroad land was fixed, so that 
during the time it was to remain under 
our control the company could not ad- 
vance its figures. We at once placed a 
priest in the colony, whose duty it was 
to direct and advise the immigrant as 
well as to minister to his spiritual wants. 
An office was opened in St. Paul, where 
the immigrant would be received on his 
arrival from the East, and where all let- 
ters of inquiry would be answered. Two 
weeks after publication of our plans had 
been made in the Catholic press, immi- 
grants commenced to arrive, and up to 
the date at which I am writing over 
eight hundred entries have been made 
by our people on government land, and 
about 60,000 acres of railroad land have 
been occupied. We permit no specula- 



tion, so that each quarter section general- 
ly represents a family, persons, as a rule, 
being allowed to take more land only 
when they have grown sons, who soon 
will themselves need a home." 

He then gives a letter from the 
register of the Land Office, show- 
ing that the number of land en- 
tries made in Swift County from 
January i to June i, 1876, was 
1,317, and saying that over 800 of 
these were made by *' your people." 
The register adds : 

" In this connection allow me to bear 
testimony to the intelligence, integrity, 
and good order always manifested by 
your colonists in all their business rela- 
tions with this office. I can now call to 
mind no instance in which one under 
the influence of liquor has been in this 
office. Cases of profanity are extremely 
rare ; in no instance have we had trouble 
or contention with any one. They are 
model colonists. I know this opinion 
to be shared by all who come in contact 
with them." 

The bishop adds : 

" We have already in the colony two 
churches; one more will be built in 
spring. Two promising towns have 
sprung up — De Graff and Randall. In 
De Graff there are some forty houses, 
stores or residences, a large brick-yard, 
a grist-mill ; a grain elevator and a con- 
vent school are to be put up during the 
winter. The settlers, whom I had the 
pleasure of visiting a month ago, are 
full of hope and delighted with their 
prospects. Last spring Swift County 
was a wild, untenanted prairie ; to-day 
on every side new houses and freshly- 
broken ground meet the eye. Our ex- 
penses in organizing and directing the 
colony were large ; still, we were able to 
meet them by direct revenue from the 
colony itself. Each settler paid a small 
entrance fee, and we sold town lots. 
We have also reserved from sale some 
choice sections of land, which can at 
any time, if there is need, be disposed 
of at a high advance over the original 
price ; so that we are safe against all 
losses in our enterprise. As soon as a 
settlement is formed the land advances 
at once in value ; one farm bought in Swift 



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6%7 



Count}- last spring at two dollars per acre 
has been sold since at nine dollars per 
acre, and a settlement that embraces three 
or four hundred families always affords 
room for a valuable town-site. The two 
excellences which I deem our Minnesota 
plan possesses are the following: We 
had control of the land ; this is necessa- 
ry to ward off speculation and preserve 
the land for our own colonists. No 
sooner would twenty families be settled 
in a district than the surrounding land 
would be bought up by speculators or 
strangers, if you had not complete con- 
trol over it in some manner. Next, we 
began the colony with a priest on the 
spot ; the presence of a priest does more 
than any other agency to attract immi- 
grants and to encourage them in their 
difficulties. We have been so well satis- 
fied with our work in Swift County that 
our programme for next year includes 
the opening of two new colonies." 

Our space does not permit us to 
summarize even the accounts of the 
other Catholic colonization move- 
ments which have come under our 
notice. These movements are se- 
rious and important, and those en- 
gaged in them should take every 
possible precaution to prevent them 
from falling into the hands of care- 
less, incompetent, or dishonest per- 
sons. The work, it appears, will 
have two chief departments — the 
home and foreign agencies. The 
former will undertake and super- 
vise the task of selecting and se- 
curing proper localities for colonies, 
and of procuring as settlers fami- 
lies and individuals already resi- 
dent here, but whose interests would 
be promoted by their translation to 
these new homes ; the foreign agen- 
cies would be employed in diffusing 
the necessary information among 
the classes in Europe who would 
be most likely to emigrate, and 
who would be the most desirable 
emigrants, and in inducing them to 
join new colonies already establish- 
ed or to form others of their own. 
The Catholic Advocate, of Louisville, 



Ky., in some well-considered re- 
marks on the subject, says : 

*' Now, it is our opinion that a great 
impetus could be given to this good 
work if the directors of the colonization 
project could so manage as to awaken 
the Irish people at home to the value of 
the movement ; if they could have their 
plans placed in all their development 
before that class in Ireland from which 
emigration recruits its numbers. This 
could be best and most efficiently done 
by inducing the formation of correspond- 
ing organizations in the old country. 
There are very many thousands of people 
in Ireland, with farming-stock worth two 
and three and four hundred pounds ster- 
ling, holding their lands by an insecure 
tenure and at a rack-rent, who would 
come out to this country to-morrow, with 
all their valuables converted into gold, if 
they knew or understood the ad\'antages 
of the colonization scheme. As it is 
now, they only hear about it. It comes 
to them by newspapers, as a kind of far- 
off echo. It is not brought forcibly to 
their notice. Its benefits are not urged 
upon them personally. There is no per- 
suasion about it, and it is as a dead in- 
terest to the great majority of the peo- 
ple, who, if they only knew and under- 
stood it thoroughly, would grasp at it. 
The British government was very ear- 
nest la its efforts to colonize Australia 
and New Zealand some years ago, and 
the advantages it had to offer were far 
and far away from those offered by the 
Catholic colonization movement amongst 
us. But how did the British govern- 
ment act? It sent agents amongst the 
Irish and English and Scotch, prepared 
with maps and pamphlets and lectures, 
to impress the value of their project up- 
on the people at home and put it imme- 
diately before their eyes. What was the 
consequence? Numbers of emigrants 
came forward, and of a class which had 
the means to colonize, and they settled 
in Brisbane, Queensland, and New Zea- 
land, where they are to-day prosperous 
and promising. We do not say that 
paid agents should be sent to Ireland 
for the purpose we indicate, but it would 
be very easy to communicate with influ- 
ential persons there to put before them 
the value of forming organizations in 
connection with Bishop Ireland's scheme, 
with the St. Louis scheme, and any others 



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that may be started. What is required 
is emigrants with some capital, and this 
is the way to get them." 

Bishop IreUnd, in the letter from 
which we have already quoted, sets 
forth at some length what such a 
body as the Irish Catholic Benevo- 
lent Union could do in this work. 
It could constantly agitate the sub- 
ject of colonization, and it could 
establish a national bureau of in- 
formation, which would collect in- 
formation, publish pamphlets, secure 
the co-operation of bishops and 
priests, and open colonies of their 
own. But the " crowning stone in 
the work of colonization," in the 
bishop's opinion, would be " the 
formation of joint-stock colo(|i^p- 
tion societies." He says : "^ 

" By no other means can the poor 
among our people — those most in need 
of homes — ^be colonized. However suc- 
cessful our Minnesota plan may seem to 
have been, it does not reach the poor. 
We have received hundreds df letters 
from most deserving persons, to whom 
we were obliged to answer that we had 
no place for them in our colony. How 
many there are who have simply means 
to bring them West, but who can neither 
pay for land nor maintain themselves 
while waiting for the first crop ! A joint- 
stock company would give them land on 
long time, at reasonable rates of interest, 
and would also advance them small 
sums to assist them in opening their 
farms. The plan might be somewhat as 
follows: The executive power of the 
company should be in the hands of most 
reliable business men. Stockholders 
would be promised that their} money 
would be paid back in five yeaffi, with 
interest at six per cent, per annuiffi and, 
in order that men of all classes , might 
take part in the work, shares would be 
put at low figures. The inducement to 
take shares is that good is done to our 
fellow-countrymen without any loss to 
ourselves. The company purchases a 
tract of land ; cash in hand, the land 
would cost but little. Immigrants, in 
purchasing it from the company, would 
give back a mortgage, promising to pay 
the full price in four or five years, with 



interest at eight per cent, per annum. 
An industrious settler could not fail to 
meet such obligations. If he failed to 
do so, the land reverts to the company, 
worth much more than it was when first 
purchased. The company derives its 
expenses from the two per cent., which 
it charges the settlers over what it pays 
its shareholders ; but to protect itself 
the better it could sell the land at a 
slightly increased figure, especially a 
few choice pieces ; it could also lay out 
for its profit a town- site, and sell the 
lots. 

"There should be colonies in every 
State where cheap lands are to be found. 
The movement should be mads general, 
our entire Irish Catholic people entering 
into it : one class coming forward with 
advice and money, the other profiting, for 
their own good and that of their religion, 
of the assistance offered to them. What 
is to be done must be done quickly. 
The time is fast passing when cheap 
lands can be had in America. Already 
the tide ofTmmigration — bearing, alas! 
but a small number of our people — has 
crossed the Missouri, leaving in its wake 
but inconsiderable portions of unoccu- 
pied land, and reaching even now the 
limits of the arable lands of the conti- 
nent. Patriotism and religious zeal are 
two great incentives to action for Irish 
Catholics. Colonization is a work upon 
which both can be most easily brought 
to bear." 

Already one such joint-stock 
company has been formed — on the 
loth of April last — in St. Paul, in 
which the bishop and the coadju- 
tor-bishop of that see have taken 
shares. 

It will henceforth be the duty of 
the church in America to see that 
no Catholic family landing on our 
shores and seeking a new home in 
our Western States and Territories 
shall be permitted to stray beyond 
her control, but shall be conducted 
to localities where her priests are 
already prepared to receive them, 
and where their fellow-citizens will be 
bound to them by the ties of faith. 
Catholics in this land are already 
about as one in six. We receive 



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A Thrush's Song, 689 

accessions every day from the ranks Pope than in any other land *' — grow 

of the Protestant sects; few, if any, in strength and beauty, and thus 

of our own number fall away from will she be prepared, when the hour 

us ; the emigration of the future, to comes, to save the republic for 

a great extent, will be in our hands, which her sons, from the hour of 

Thus will the church in America — her birth until now, have shed their 

where to-day, to use his own words, blood, and given their toil and their 

our Holy Father ** is more truly prayers, in unstinted measure. 



A THRUSH'S SONG. 



Underneath a leafy cover. 
Green with morning- wealth of June, 

Wanting still, like gift of lover 
Craving even greater boon. 
Deeper chords of light to perfect summer's fulness, love's high noon ; 

Just apart from all the glitter 

Of a busy crystal world 
Where, amid quick human twitter, 

Pond'rous engine huge arms hurled, 
Leaping shuttle wrought bright fancies, girded wheels obedient whirled; 

Just a little from the glimmer. 
From the footfalls' tuneless tread — 

With the distance ever dimmer — 

Rose, so calm o'ershadow^d, 

Sound of lusty drum and hautboy, with clear flute voice interlaid, 

Notes exultant loud outpouring 

Chant of nations, lightly bound 
With frail melody, up soaring 
O'er the people gathered round, 
Resting from the glare a little, from the wearing sight and sound. 

Ears of loyal Briton tingling 
Hark'ning there, " God save the Queen "; 

Erin's children's tears commingling 
At " The Wearing of the Green," 
Thinking of a loveless bondage, truer trust that might have been. 

Sounds of wrathful people seeihing 

Storming through the " Marseillaise," 
Stirred a land, nigh dead in dreaming, 
Through Hortense's song of praise. 
Through its wailing sadness tolling bells of old chivalric days. 
VOL. XXV. — 44 



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_j 



6go A Thrush's Song, 

Through sad France's slumber breaking 

Germany's triumphant hymn, 
Arm^d peoples, eager waking, 

Watching Rhine-lights growing dim, 
Hearing clear a weary nation struggling sore with spectres grim. 

In the nations' anthems swelling 

Ever twanged some chord of wrong : 

Broken notes in anguish welling 
Even in our starlit song — 
Shadowy notes from swamp and prairie mingling with the suffering throng. 

Stilled at last the music's clamor, 
Drum and hautboy laid to rest, 
Softly through the silence* glamour 
Stole the light wind of the west, 
Gently parted the green branches, tenderly each leaf caressed. 

And a sudden thrill of sweetness. 

Mellow, careless, glad, and clear. 
Love's noon-song in its completeness, 
Poured in peaceful nature's ear 
From a thrush's throat of silver — happy song without one tear — 

Fell like precious, heav'n-dropped token 

'Mid the elements of strife, 
'Mid the melodies, grief-broken. 

Blare of trumpet, shriek of fife — 
Only with undarkened blessing was the thrush's singing rife. 

Where the ways were broad and ordered 

England's Indian blossoms flamed ; 
Here, where guarding thickets bordered. 
Bloom of May June's sunshine claimed, 
Lifting, 'mid the throngs of people, glance, half-fearing, half-ashamed ; 

Trembling at the cymbals' crashing 

Through the ancient solitude. 
Till the thrush's sweetness flashing, 

With its wild-wood joy imbued. 
Seemed a covenant from heaven, arc of promise, rainbow -hued. 

In the upper silence singing. 
Hidden minstrel, unafraid, 
In the sunlit branches, swinging. 

By the west wind, whispering, swayed. 
All the lower tumult silenced in the clear, blue depths o'erhead ; 



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TJu Cofigregation of Cluny. 691 

Whence the peace of heav*n, descending, 
Filled the bird's song, true and clear, 

Lightsome duty sweetness lending, 
Joy o'erbrimming in its cheer, 
Freedom on his pinions resting, sunshine soft> and heaven near. 

Careless strength and free heart blending 

In each note's melodious mirth, 
Calm within a pure soul bending 

Praising for its heavenly birth, 
For its gift of soaring pinions, lightening so the bonds of earth. 

With that clear and sudden sweetness 

Sober fancies swept along, 
And its wild-wood, perfect meetness 

Seemed our country's truer song — 
Sunshine soft, and heaven near it, and no undertone of wrong. 

So, methought, her clear voice, ringing. 

Should in strength of freedom rise. 
With the sweetness of its singing 

Every evil exorcise ; 
Blessing for her children winning through her nearness to the skies. 

PHILADBLPHIA, June, X876. 



THE CONGREGATION OF CLUNY. 

TSANSLATBD VSOM SCHOBPPMBR*S ** CHARACTSR-BILDBK DBR GBSCHICHTB DBS MITTBLALTBKS." 

At the close of the ninth centu- tion. The pope was too distant; 

ry the great wealth of the Bene- disorder could strike deep root be- 

dictine Order in France had pro- fore any information would reach 

duced a relaxation of discipline him, and even then he was ordina- 

and a departure from regular ob- rily able to employ only indirect 

servance in many of its monaster- methods of remedying the evil, 

ies which brought it into a state of This seems to have been felt by all 

decadence. One principal source those who, from the tenth century 

of this degeneracy lay in the want onwards, endeavored, by various ad- 

of all organic union binding togeth- ditional statutes, explanations, and 

er the distinct monasteries, each stricter applications of the Rule of 

one of which was exclusively sub- St. Benedict, to bring back those 

ject to its own abbot. It is true who were subject to it to a more 

that in earlier times the bishops conscientious fulfilment of the obli- 

exercised a certain jurisdiction gations of their religious profession, 

over them ; but this was seriously At the time when the Carlovingian 

impeded by the fact that the abbot dynasty, represented in the person of 

was frequently equal to the bishop Charles the Simple, was verging to- 

in power and in external considera- ward extinction, William the Pious^ 

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The Congregation of Cluny. 



Duke of Aquitaine and Count of 
Auvergne, in concert with his duch- 
ess, Ingeburga, formed the plan of 
founding a new monastery. He 
took counsel respecting the carry- 
ing out of his design with Hugh, 
Abbot of St. Martin's at Autun. 

In company with the duke and 
duchess Hugh made an explora- 
tion of their domains in search of 
a suitable location, and selected a 
meadow on the banks of the little 
river Grosne, near an agreeable 
cascade, where a chapel in honor 
of the Blessed Virgin and St. Peter 
had been already erected. The 
duke objected that this was his 
favorite hunting-ground, and that 
the noise and tumult of deer-chas- 
ing would frequently disturb the 
quiet of the monastery. "Well, 
then," replied the abbot, "drive 
away the hounds and bring in the 
monks ; you well know which of the 
two will bring you the most favor 
with God." The duke cheerfully 
assented to this proposition, and 
took measures for the erection of a 
monastery in honor of the apostles 
SS. Peter and Paul upon this terri- 
tory, of which he had but recently 
acquired the possession. 

At the recommendation of Hugh, 
Bemo was invited from a neigh- 
boring monastery to become the 
first abbot. He was succeeded by 
Odo, the son of a Frankish knight, 
who had been brought up at the 
•court of Duke William, had after- 
wards devoted himself to the reli- 
gious state, and was at the time of 
his election in the maturity of his 
;manhood. Odo saw that in many 
.monasteries the end of the religious 
vocation had been entirely forgot- 
ten, and, in order that he might re- 
store the primitive discipline of St. 
Benedict, he determined to reform 
the monastic state in accordance 
•with its original spirit and inten- 



tion, and to induce the monaster- 
ies in his own vicinity to adopt his 
reformation. He was a man well 
fitted to undertake such a task, by 
his personal austerity, his self-de- 
votion to the good of others, and 
his extraordinary charity, which 
was so great that he was ready at 
any time to bestow all he had upon 
the poor, without any thought of 
reserving on one day what might be 
necessary for the next. The influ- 
ence of his personal character, and 
the eflFect of his active efforts dur- 
ing a prolonged life, were so 
great that a number of monaster- 
ies became affiliated to the one 
over which he immediately presid- 
ed. He is, therefore, properly 
speaking, the founder of the Clu- 
niac Order. 

His meek and humble successor, 
Aymard, won for himself by his 
amiable virtues the confidence of 
all the brethren of the order, and 
the favor of the great and power- 
ful, who were profuse in conferring 
upon it liberal gifts, charters of 
protection and privilege. His 
successors in office, Majolus, Odilo, 
and Hugh I., were all equally emi- 
nent by their able administration, 
their great influence in all the most 
important ecclesiastical and politi- 
cal movements of their time, and 
their high favor with emperors, 
kings, and princes. Emperors, 
kings, popes, and bishops maintain- 
ed intimate relations with the ab- 
bots of Cluny, and all the great 
and powerful nobles of the coun- 
try sought their advice in matters 
of importance. Three Sovereign 
Pontiffs were taken from Cluny to 
fill the chair of St. Peter. When 
the son of a king was obliged to 
become a fugitive, he sought for a 
refuge at Cluny, and princes who 
were weary of life and disturbed by 
remorse of conscience came there 



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693 



to do penance among the brethren. 
The rulers of foreign countries were 
lavish of their donations to the 
order, the popes were equally mu- 
nificent in conferring marks of 
their high favor, and bishops were 
eager for the afiBliation of the most 
important monasteries in their dio- 
ceses with Cluny. The immense 
revenues which flowed into its cof- 
fers from all countries in the world 
became at last proverbial. 

The internal discipline and ex- 
ternal splendor of Cluny were main- 
tained in an undisturbed perma- 
nence and stability for a period of 
two centuries. At the end of that 
time both were grievously shatter- 
ed by the disastrous administration 
of the unworthy Abbot Pons, a 
man of worldly levity in charac- 
ter and manners, haughty and am- 
bitious in his disposition, whose 
whole course of official conduct 
was such as to threaten the com- 
plete downfall of the order. After 
a length of time he was formally 
impeached and tried at the tribu- 
nal of Rome, by which he was de- 
posed from his office as abbot. 
Disregarding this sentence, he seiz- 
ed anew on the possession of the 
monastery of Cluny by force of 
arms, but was soon after overpow- 
ered and cast into a prison, where 
he was carried off by a sudden 
attack of fever. 

After a short period of only three 
months, during which the abbatial 
chair was occupied by Hugh II., 
Peter the Venerable was placed 
over the Cluniac Order, which he 
ruled for thirty-nine years, precisely 
during the period of St. Bernard, 
who was his intimate friend, and 
whom he survived about three 
years. His activity, prudence, and 
universal reputation, the intellec- 
tual power, deep learning, and ex- 
alted virtue which merited for him 



the appellation of Venerable by 
which he is designated in history, 
sufficed not only to heal Cluny 
from the wounds inflicted on it by 
the Abbot Pons, but to raise the 
whole order to its highest summit 
of importance, and to make the 
monastery which was its centre 
flourish in a state of unexampled 
spiritual and temporal prosperity. 
If we consider the many journeys 
which this great abbot undertook 
on affairs of the utmost importance 
connected with the public interests 
of the day, it would seem that he 
was exclusively a statesman ; his 
vast correspondence seems suffi- 
cient to have employed the time 
of one whose whole attention was 
given to counselling all sorts of 
persons seeking his advice by let- 
ters ; his theological works are like 
the productions of one actively oc- 
cupied in study; the strictness 
with which he observed and enforc- 
ed upon his subjects in the cloister 
the monastic rule indicates a con- 
templative ascetic ; his administra- 
tion of the temporalities of his mon- 
astery presents him in the light of 
an able financier and man of busi- 
ness. The world was filled with 
his fame, and his order attained 
the highest zenith of its glory dur- 
ing his administration, which end- 
ed at his death, during the Christ- 
mas-tide of the year 1156. 

All the special rules of the Clu- 
niac Order were based upon the 
Rule of St. Benedict. The eccle- 
siastical chant and the service of 
the choir employed much more 
time and attention, according to 
the customs of Cluny, than in other 
Benedictine monasteries. As far 
as possible, uniformity was enforc- 
ed in the different houses after the 
model of the mother-house. Be- 
sides the special prayers which 
each one said according to his own 



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The Congregation of Cluny. 



devotion, one hundred and thirty- 
eight psalms were prescribed to be 
recited daily, which was usually 
done while engaged in performing 
the various tasks ; and even in the 
great heats of summer, on the days 
when talking was permitted, there 
was only time for a recreation of 
half an hour. Every negligence or 
mistake in the choir-service receiv- 
ed instantly a reproof. This was 
regarded as a spiritual military ser- 
vice, in which no individual caprice 
or negligence could be tolerated. 
Special care was exacted on the 
greater festivals of the church, and 
their high importance was recog- 
nized by the greater length of the 
choral song, the reading of longer 
lessons, and a more fervent devo- 
tion. During High Mass no Low 
Masses were allowed to be said, so 
that no one could in that way con- 
sult his own convenience and es- 
cape from the public and solemn 
celebration. The moment of the 
departure of one of the brethren 
from this world was treated as a 
specially solemn occasion. As soon 
as he had received Extreme Unc- 
tion a wooden cross was put under 
his head in place of a pillow. All 
who could possibly attend were 
obliged to assist at the last agony 
of the dying man, and, although at 
other times running through the 
corridors was strictly forbidden, it 
was specially ordered whenever 
the passing-bell announced that one 
of the brethren was about to de- 
part this life. Special revenues 
were devoted to all charitable pur- 
poses, and their conscientious ex- 
penditure strictly enjoined. There 
was a particular endowment for 
eighteen poor men who were per- 
petually supported by the mother- 
house. Six brothers were appointed 
for the service of the poor, one of 
whom waited on them, another 



acted as porter of their hospital, 
two others furnished the wood out 
of the forest for their fires, and two 
had charge of ovens for baking 
bread, to be given away in alms 
to the poor. Everything remain- 
ing on the tables of the refectory 
after the meals was taken by the 
almoner for distribution among the 
poor. A cover was laid for each 
one of the most distinguished bene- 
factors at every meal, even though 
they were living at a great distance 
or had been long dead, and all 
their portions were taken for the 
poor. Twelve loaves, each weigh- 
ing three pounds, were prepared 
each day for widows, orphans, fee- 
ble and aged persons. On Holy 
Thursday the ceremony of foot- 
washing was performed for as many 
poor men as there were brothers in 
the community, all of whom were 
afterwards served at dinner. On 
certain special occasions, and on 
all the festivals when the table of 
the brethren was better served than 
usual, more abundant alms were 
distributed. The almoner was 
bound to make a weekly visitation 
of the houses in the village near 
the monastery, that he might find 
out every poor person who was 
sick, and furnish him with food, 
wine, and medicines. The number 
of poor persons who regularly re- 
ceived aid was estimated at seven- 
teen thousand. The Abbot Odilo 
sold the ornaments of the church 
and a crown presented by the Ger- 
man emperor Henry II. in order 
to relieve the wants of the people 
during a famine. The subordinate 
monasteries were required to imi- 
tate in this generous alms-giving 
the example of Cluny, and a simi- 
lar observance of hospitality was 
also exacted. Precise rules were 
laid down for the reception of visi- 
tors of different ranks and condi- 



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lions, who were continually arriving 
at the monastery on foot or on 
horseback. If they were ecclesias- 
tics, they were not only invited to 
partake of the hospitality of the 
monastery, but also to participate 
in its religious exercises. Every 
one who travelled on foot received 
a certain amount of bread and wine 
on his arrival and at his departure. 
If the poverty of the house did not 
permit anything more than a tem- 
porary shelter and a friendly recep- 
tion, this, at least, was to be cheer- 
fully given to every one. The 
prior was not to consider what was 
within his means, but to go beyond 
them in providing for the wants of 
strangers. Frequently, when they 
had consumed all the provisions of 
the larder, the monks had to en- 
dure hunger until new supplies, 
which often came unexpectedly, 
were furnished by royal and noble 
benefactors. 

The life of the monastic brethren 
was austere. Besides the regular 
and very long choir-service, which 
no one was dispensed from attend- 
ing, the fasts were frequent. The 
flesli of quadrupeds was never al- 
lowed, and on the ferial days and 
the entire period from Septuage- 
sima to Easter, not even fat could 
be used in preparing the food. 
The principal article of their daily 
diet was beans, with an occasional 
allowance of eggs and cheese, and 
more rarely of fish. After night 
prayers no one could taste food or 
drink anything without special ne- 
cessity and permission. The vio- 
lation of these rules and of the law 
of strict poverty was considered as 
a grievous transgression, exposing 
the offender to excommunication 
and privation of Christian burial. 

Obedience, the pivot of all the 
virtues of an ecclesiastic, was re- 
garded as having a higher and 



more extended obligation for reli- 
gious. Its disregard was esteemed 
worthy of the severest punishment, 
and the incorrigible were subject 
to expulsion. Priors and other of- 
ficials were twice admonished, and 
afterwards deposed without any hope 
of restitution. The observance of a 
strict rule of silence was regarded 
as a specially efficacious help to 
the acquisition of perfect spiritual 
virtues, and, in the opinion of the 
Abbot Odo, monastic life was ut- 
terly worthless without it. Abso- 
lute silence was invariably observed 
during meal-times, and during all 
times of the day throughout Lent 
and several other penitential sea- 
sons. The Cluniac monks became 
so expert in the use of the sign- 
language through their disuse of 
speech that they might have dis- 
pensed with talking altogether with- 
out the least inconvenience. The 
most perfect silence and stillness, 
undisturbed even by hasty and noisy 
walking through the cloisters, reign- 
ed throughout the monastery. 

Every fault must be expiated by 
penance, or at least an acknow- 
ledgment before the abbot. Those 
who were late must remain stand- 
ing or prostrate until a sign was 
given to them to repair to their 
places. The tardy at table receiv- 
ed also a penance. Public offences 
received public penances, in order 
that every one might have sensible 
evidence that the community was 
vigilant in observing the behavior 
of each individual member. Small- 
er offences were punished by soli- 
tary confinement, making a station 
at the church-door, or exclusion 
from the common exercises. Those 
which were more serious were pun- 
ished by flagellation, and, if the of- 
fence had been public, the penance 
was administered at the door of 
the church while the people were 



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The Congregation of Cluny. 



assembling for Mass, and the cause 
of it announced to them by an 
official of the monastery. For the 
gravest faults the culprit was put 
in irons or imprisoned in a dark, 
underground dungeon. St. Hugh's 
maxim was that a monastery is 
not dishonored by the faults of its 
members, but by their impunity. 
Several brothers were appointed to 
make the rounds of the monastery 
at intervals, and to declare in chap- 
ter every disorder which they ob- 
served, whereupon due penance 
was inflicted on the delinquents. 
This duty devolved on the prior 
for the first hour of the night, and 
at intervals during its progress, with 
a special charge of watching that 
all the doors were properly closed 
and fastened. 

Such a special care was observed 
in regard to cleanliness that the 
most particular housekeeper could 
not be more thorough or exact 
in a well-regulated private family 
than were these monks of Cluny in 
their domestic arrangements. This 
care for cleanliness showed a deep 
psychological insight into the close 
connection between this exterior 
virtue and interior purity, which is 
often endangered and damaged by 
a slovenly disregard of outward 
propriety. Articles of clothing 
and all the bed and table furniture 
were regularly changed according 
to an invariable rule. Careful su- 
pervision was observed towards the 
novices in respect to their personal 
neatness in such minute particulars 
as washing, combing their hair, etc., 
and conveniences for these pur- 
poses were provided in abundance 
for all, that they might easily make 
use of them when they came in 
from work to go to the choir or 
the refectory. 

The clothing was very plain, in 
contrast to the worldly elegance 



and vanity in dress which prevailed 
in many other religious communi- 
ties, but all the different articles of 
dress were provided in abundance, 
with two complete outfits for each 
one. The winter clothing was 
made to suit the season and the 
climate, warm and comfortable ; for 
the men who made the regulations 
of Cluny were not so narrow-mind- 
ed as to adhere scrupulously to 
purely exterior customs which 
were suitable to Italy but utterly 
unfit for the ruder climate of the 
North. 

The sick were cared for with the 
most tender solicitude, six brothers 
were deputed to the service of the 
infirmary, and the best ass in the 
stables was set apart to haul wood 
for the fire. The infirmarian was 
always provided with spices and 
wholesome herbs to make the food 
of the sick more appetizing and 
wholesome. Meat was provided 
for them every day, and even on 
fasting-days. A certain part of the 
presents made to the monastery 
was assigned to the purchase of 
comforts and delicacies for the sick 
and weakly. They were dispensed 
from the rule of silence, and only 
required to refrain from abusing the 
privilege of talking. The abbot 
and grand-prior were required to 
make frequent visits to the sick, 
and the cellarer was bound to see 
each one, in company with the infir- 
marian, every day, and inquire what 
kind of food he wished for and in 
what way it should be prepared. 
As soon as one was released from 
the infirmary he came to the chap- 
ter, and, standing up, said to the 
prior : ** I have been in the infir- 
mary and have not kept the rules 
of the order according to our ob- 
ligation." The prior answered : 
" May God pardon you !" where- 
upon the convalescent brother went 



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to the place of the penitents and 
recited the seven penitential psalms 
or seven Pater Nosters, 

As for the interior legislation and 
administration of the order, a gener- 
al chapter was held at Cluny once a 
year, where all the abbots, priors, 
and deans of the entire congregation 
were bound to appear under pain 
of deposition, those only who lived 
in distant countries being exempted 
from attendance oftener than once 
every two years. Every question 
which related to the rules was sub- 
mitted to this chapter, and to the 
votes of all the brethren of the mon- 
astery of Cluny. Each one was 
obliged to make known in the chap- 
ter, without any regard to personal 
considerations, whatever he had 
noticed in any of the houses or in 
any individual member of the order 
which was worthy of censure, and 
was protected from any unpleasant 
consequences which might possibly 
ensue afterwards to himself from his 
disclosures. All priors whose ad- 
ministration or personal conduct 
was censurable were deposed by the 
chapter; and, finally, they made an 
examination of all the novices of 
the congregation. 

As soon as the chapter was dis- 
solved the supreme power reverted 
to the abbot of Cluny. He ap- 
pointed all the priors and con- 
firmed all the abbots-elect, being 
strictly, forbidden to receive any 
presents or perquisites in connec- 
tion with any such official act. 
He could make such regulations as 
he saw fit in all the houses ; all his 
sentences upon individual delin- 
quents which were in conformity 
with the canons were binding; and 
in the interval between the capi- 
tular assemblies he could depose 
from all ofiices without appeal. He 
was bound to share as much as 
possible in the common life of the 



other monks, to be with them in 
the common dormitory and at the 
common table, and to use the same 
food, the only mark of distinction 
being that he was served with wine 
of a better quality and with two 
loaves at dinner. 

Next in rank and authority came 
the grand-prior, appointed by the 
abbot with the counsel of the elders 
of the monastery and the assent of 
the chapter. Under the abbot's 
supreme direction he presided 
over all the spiritual and temporal 
offices of the monastery, with a 
special oversight of those brothers 
who were charged with out-door 
employments on the cloistral do- 
mains. Every year, after the vin- 
tage, he made an inspection of all 
the farm-lands, examined the stores 
laid up in the barns and cellars, 
and directed the division of the 
fruits of the harvest for the use of 
those who resided in the outlying 
farm-houses, and for the general 
use within the monastery. 

The interior order of the house 
was under the oversight of the 
prior of the community, who had 
several assistants, and in case of 
absence a deputy. The rule pre- 
scribed that no account should 
be taken of birth or other personal 
considerations of human respect in 
the choice of prelates and officers, 
but only of moral virtue, experience, 
and prudence. No abbot or prior, 
not even the abbot-general of the 
congregation, was allowed to travel 
without some of the brethren in his 
company, as witnesses of his con- 
duct and associates in fulfilling the 
devotions prescribed by the rule. 

We can form some estimate of 
the extent of the monastic build- 
ings of Cluny from the circum- 
stance related in history, that in 
the year 1245 Pope Innocent IV., 
with twelve cardinals and his entire 



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The Congregation of Cluny. 



suite; also two patriarchs, three 
archbishops, eleven bishops, with 
their respective suites; further, the 
king of France, with his mother, 
wife, brother, and sister, and the 
whole of their retinue ; the empe- 
ror of Constantinople, the crown- 
princes of Aragon and Castile, 
several dukes and counts, and a 
crowd of knights, ecclesiastics, and 
monks, were accommodated with- 
in the precincts of the monastery 
without encroaching on any part 
of it which was ordinarily occupied 
by the community or incommoding 
any of the brethren. 

The fine arts were made to con- 
tribute to that which is their high- 
est end — the service of religion — in 
the Cluniac Order more than in 
any other contemporary institute. 
They were all employed in harmo- 
ny and unity with each other to 
enhance the splendor of the divine 
service. The candles and lamps 
by which the church was lighted 
were placed in costly hoops be- 
set with precious stones. Instead 
of candelabra, trees artistically 
wrought in bronze stood near the 
altar, having the lighted candles 
prescribed for the solemn ceremo- 
nies blazing among their branches. 
Paintings covered the walls; the 
windows were richly ornamental 
and filled with colored glass. 
Costly tapestry and hangings, beau- 
tifully-carved stalls, a decorated 
pavement, chimes of bells of unusu- 
al size, reliquaries of gold whose 
beauty of workmanship even sur- 
passed their costliness, chalices, 
ciboriums, and monstrances of 
gold, sparkling with jewels, vest- 
ments heavy and stiff with cloth of 
gold, and all else that was magnifi- 
cent in sacred art and decoration, 
made the church of Cluny a theme 
of praise and admiration through- 
out all France. It was probably 



at the date of its erection the largest 
in the worldQ^nd rested upon sixty- 
eight columns, each eight and one 
half feet in diameter. Thirty-two 
of these pillars supported the vast 
dome, and the whole edifice, which 
was built in the peculiar form of an 
archiepiscopal cross, was regarded 
as one of the most splendid monu- 
ments of the Roman style of archi- 
tecture in France'^ Sculpture, carv- 
ing, and painting rivalled each other 
in the decoration of this magnifi- 
cent church,rand there still remain- 
ed at the begmning of the present 
century a representation of the 
Eternal Father on a gold ground in 
the vaulting of the apse, ten feet in 
height, which retained all its origi- 
nal brilliancy of color. The choir- 
stalls, which were of a comparative- 
ly late period, were two hundred 
and twenty-five in number at the 
time of the suppression — showing 
how numerous the community had 
become — and the towers were filled 
with a great many bells, the largest 
of which were melted down to cast 
cannon during the religious wars. 
At present but little remains of this 
grand structure in a state of ruin. 
During the French Revolution the 
whole was sold for building mate- 
rial for the sum of twenty thousand 
dollars, and thus rude force destroy- 
ed this grand work of the spirit of 
Christianity. 

The cultivation of science was 
fostered in the Cluniac Ordec with 
much greater care and zeal than in 
some of the other monastic bodies. 
Its founders were more solicitous 
for the promotion of intellectual 
labor than for material industry. 
The Abbot Peter wrote : " In vir- 
tue of a special privilege, the 
abbots of Cluny from ancient times 
promoted literary occupations with 
zeal and energy. It is not the de- 
sire of winning a high reputation 



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which stimulates them to write 
books, but the feeling that it would 
be shameful to neglect the imitation 
of their predecessors, the holy Fa- 
thers of the church, and thus to 
prove themselves degenerate sons," 
Under such superiors the brethren 
were not deterred by any ill-ground- 
ed scruple from applying tli em- 
selves to the study of the heathen 
classics, and in fact considered this 
study as a valuable auxiliary to the 
investigation of the Sacred Scrip- 
tures. The works of the great 
ecclesiastical writers were fully ap- 
preciated and diligently perused, 
and the valuable manuscripts col- 
lected in the library of Cluny were 
not considered as a mere assort- 
ment of curiosities for the sake of 
show, but as useful implements for 
the cultivation of science, and in a 
generous spirit of liberality were 
freely lent to other monasteries for 
the sake of making copies or re- 
censions. The books used for the 
church service were written out in 
a beautiful, ornamental text, richly 
adorned with initial letters execut- 
ed in the most elaborate style of 
art ; and those who were engaged 
in this kind of work, if it would 
not admit of interruption, were ex- 
cused from choir for the time being. 
The ability and industry of the 
Cluniac monks in collecting manu- 
scripts and preserving precious 
monuments of ancient history 
have been recognized even in later 
times, and abundant documents 
of that zeal for the promotion 
of science which was not damp- 
ed by the earnestness with which 
religious discipline was enforced 
have come down to our own day. 

The confraternity of Cluny, 
which had speedily risen to a high 
consideration throughout France, 
attained to a higher and more sol- 
idly-established reputation during 



the period extending through near* 
ly forty years of the administration 
of Peter the Venerable. The reno- 
vation of the Benedictine Order in 
its original spirit which had been 
effected by the Cluniac reform be- 
came renowned in other countries 
as well as in France, and awoke 
the desire of attempting to accom- 
plish the same happy results else- 
where by the use of similar meth- 
ods. Every founder of a new mon- 
astery in France desired to intro- 
duce the rule and submit to the 
supremacy of Cluny. Kings, prin 
ces, and bishops urged upon the 
already existing monastic commu- 
nities, especially when they had 
fallen into disorder, incorporation 
with the Cluniac congregation. 
During the rule of Peter the Ven- 
erable it was increased by the 
addition of three hundred and 
fourteen monasteries, collegiate 
foundations, and churches, and at 
its most flourishing period it em- 
braced within its limits more than 
two thousand distinct houses. At 
the time of the Crusades it extend- 
ed itself even beyond the sea. Clu- 
niac houses were founded in the val- 
ley of Josaphat and on Mt. Tabor, 
and in the time of Abbot Peter a 
monastery in a suburb of Constan- 
tinople was united to the mother- 
house, over which he presided. 

Men of all conditions who de- 
sired to do penance for their sins, 
to seek a refuge from the dangers 
of the world, or to find spiritual di- 
rection and come under a holy in- 
fluence for their own sanctification, 
sought to make reparation and de- 
serve the grace of God by rich 
gifts to Cluny, to consecrate them- 
selves to God in some house of the 
order by the religious vows, or to 
secure for themselves by becoming 
affiliated to it a share in the sacri- 
fices and prayers perpetually offered 



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The Congregation of Cluny. 



within its sacred enclosures. It 
is related that Count Guy of Ma- 
con, who had been a bitter per- 
secutor of the order, one day pre- 
sented himself at the gates of Cluny 
in company with his son, several 
grandsons, thirty knights, and the 
wives of each one of the noble group 
respectively, all of whom demanded 
permission to take the vows of re- 
ligion. Under the sixth abbot, 
Hugh I., three thousand monks 
were present at one general chap- 
ter. The crowd of applicants for 
admission became so great that 
Hugh VI. was once compelled to 
issue an edict forbidding the recep- 
tion of any new candidates during 
a term of three years. Under Pe- 
ter the Venerable the number of 
monks resident at Cluny increased 
from two hundred to four hundred 
and sixty, some of whom, however, 
led a solitary life as hermits in the 
neighboring forests. 

The popes were lavish in their 
grants of privileges to Cluny and the 
monasteries connected with it. 
Alexander II. decreed that no bi- 
shop or prelate should have the 
right of excommunication in re- 
spect to the Cluniac congregation. 
Urban II. allowed the use of epis- 
copal insignia to the abbot, and 
Csdixtus II. conceded to him the 
special privileges of a cardinal. 
The brethren of the order were 
even permitted to have the celebra- 



tion of Mass continued for their 
own benefit during an interdict. 

There is nothing which shows 
more clearly the high esteem in 
which Cluny was held than the de- 
cree of Pope Innocent IV. in the 
third session of the Council of 
Lyons: that accredited copies of 
all tlie official documents relating 
to the diplomatic intercourse of 
emperors, kings, and other princes 
with the Roman Church should be 
deposited in its archives. This 
important and precious collection 
was still in existence at the out- 
break of the Revolution. 

The history of Cluny has a very 
great importance in connection 
with the general history of the me- 
diaeval period, but especially with 
the great ecclesiastical reformation 
of Gregory VII., which was pre- 
pared by the interior working of 
the order within the church. For 
many prudential reasons the fact 
that the great ecclesiastical move- 
ment of the eleventh century had 
its source in the monastery of Cluny 
was kept out of sight as much as 
possible ; but it is proved by abun- 
dant evidence, and Gregory VII. 
himself, who w^s its prior when St. 
Leo IX. persuaded him to return 
with him to Rome in 1049, speaks 
of the peculiar and intimate rela- 
tions between Cluny and the Holy 
See. 



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THE BRIDES OF CHRIST. 

VII. 
ST. AGATHA. 

" She hath no breasts — is cruelly maimed withal : 
What shall we do for her, when spoken for, 
Our little sister ? Sheathe her, if a door, 
In boards of cedar ; if she be a wall. 
Build up a house of silver,* and instal 

Her worship ** — so the monks. O bleeding core 
Of maidenhood, thy Spouse and King shall pour 
Balm in thy wounds, the lilies* growth recall ! 

When Etna belched forth Phlegethon, and rolled 

Its molten flanks upon Catania, 
The saint's veil they did reverently unfold 
And wave it in the face of fire — Behold ! 

Piled black against the convent's wall to-day, 
That Red Sea curdled by Saint Agatha ! 



VIII. 
ST. LUCIA. 

" What's this } Two human eyes upon a dish ? 

Wretch ! what dost mean ?" " Lucia sends thee these ; 
She greets thee : * Be no longer ill at ease ; 
They are thine ! When mine, a spirit devilish, 
With them, with pink bloom and pale limbs, did fish 
For men's souls.' " Quick ! to her — ere horror freeze. 
Her wan lips smiled beneath the bandages : 
" Thou hast languished for mine eyes — ^have, then, thy wish !" 

She raised the fillet — the youth dropped as dead. 

" Look up !" a sweet voice spake, " and praise the Lord !" 
He obeyed trembling — O illumined head ! 

Low with an altered spirit he adored. 
Thenceforth an angel's eyes, her own insteadj 

Lighted her to her martyrdom's reward. 



*SoDg of Solomon viiil 8, 9. 

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702 



The Unknown Eros. 



IX. 



ST. URSULA. 



A bower of woven palms ! In white arrayed, 

Marshalled beneath that verdant canopy 

By fair-haired Ursula of Brittany, 
Eleven thousand martyrs, each a maid ! 
For England's heir, Etherius, had obeyed 

His bride's will, honoring her virginity. 

To Rome on pilgrimage, by river and sea, 
They sailed, and prettily the bold mariner played. 

Saint, dear to tender years ! thou and thy doves 
Fell pierced with many arrows, and the Rhine 
With blood of innocents ran red as wine — 

Still teach that to the pure Death's kiss is Love's ! 
Still teach it, though thy mortuary shrine 

May moulder, while the stream to ocean moves ! 



THE UNKNOWN EROS.' 



There seems a growing and 
lamentable tendency among Eng- 
lish poets in these days to divide 
themselves up into schools. We 
have the Tennysonian, the Swin- 
burnian, the Rossettian, as a little 
earlier we had the Lake school, 
the Byronic, and so on. In these 
schools of poetry, as in schools of 
painting, there are certain marked 
features peculiar to each and form- 
ing, as it were, the common proper- 
ty of that one. Certain tones and 
colors belong to this : subdued 
grays, royal purples, dim and far- 
away lights on meadow and mere. 
Another is a lustier flesh-and-blood 
school: its men and women are 
decidedly, though musically, im- 
proper. The choice expressions 
and tender care that the other 
lavishes on the beauties of nature 
this one devotes to a maiden's 



* The Unknown Eros, and Othtr Oda, 
don : Geoq^ Bell ft Soot. 1877. 



Lon- 



hair, or her cheek, or her nose, the 
droop of her lashes, or the arch 
of her brow. A third affects the 
mystic in matter and form; the 
more incomprehensible it is, the 
finer the poetry. It is like the 
" vague school " in painting. One 
is sometimes puzzled to know 
whether the picture be a battle- 
piece, a landscape, a portrait, or a 
nightmare on canvas. And so 
they go on. 

This follow-my-Ieader tendency 
is unquestionably a mark of feeble- 
ness. It would be so in any art ; 
it is obviously so in an art that 
springs from inspiration, and is 
thus necessarily original. A poet 
is comprehensible ; a school of po- 
ets is absurd. Imagine a school of 
Homers, of Virgils, of Dantes, of 
Shaksperes, of Miltons, of Byrons ! 
Why, the world could not hold 
them. 

Weak as our days may be in 



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The Unknown Eros. 



703 



original poets, they are strong at 
least in numbers. Probably, un- 
less in the days of good Queen 
Anne, never before did such a 
constant and voluminous stream of 
English verse roll through the 
press. Most of it falls still-bom on 
the market; yet nothing seems to 
discourage the poets. From Tupper 
to Tennyson they publish and pub- 
lish and publish all the time. Yet 
there is not a living English poet 
to-day — unless Aubrey de Vere, 
whose best work has been his lat- 
est — who did not establish whatever 
fame he has almost a quarter of a 
century ago, and whose poems 
since that period have not shown a 
marked and steady decline. 

In the author of The Unknown 
Eros we find a man who has 
certainly something new to say; 
who follows no leader; who has 
thoughts, and a mode of express- 
ing them, all his own; who cares 
less for how than for what ; whose 
work compels attention, and who 
depends in nowise on the jingle 
of words, the tricks of adjective 
and rhyme — the ballet-dancing, so 
to say, of the English language — for 
his attraction. Indeed, in respect 
of form he is far behind the other 
poets of the time. He almost dis- 
regards it. Yet, as will be seen, 
the strange dress that he has chos- 
en for his creation fits it admirably, 
and moulds itself at will to the 
strenuous freedom of the comba- 
tive athlete, the scorn of a man of 
fine feelings and bright intelligence, 
the meditative mood of the stu- 
dent, or the softer movements of a 
lover. His instrument is now a 
clarion call to battle, now a lover's 
lute, now a dirge. It has the 
strength and simplicity of the Gre- 
gorian chant, which in a few notes 
and changes expresses the heights 
of inspiration and exultation, the 



depths of dread, the saddest sor- 
row of the human heart. 

The volume is a collection of 
odes, written at various and long 
intervals apparently, and in a style 
of metre resembling somewhat that 
of the minor poems of Milton. It 
has often the regular irregularity 
of the Greek chorus, with mudli of 
the latter's elasticity, brightness, 
flexibility, and crystalline texture. 
In all this it is novel — markedly 
and successfully so. It is more 
novel, however, in subject-matter. 
It is refreshing to come across a 
man, a poet especially, who can 
drop out of the commonplace, and 
do it without affectation. So ac- 
customed have we grown, however, 
to the commonplace that we fol- 
low him at first with difficulty. 
His " Eros " is indeed an unknown 
god to the run of readers. He is 
no Cupid rosy-red, with flowery 
bow and fire*tipped dart to smite 
and melt the hearts of sweet young 
lovers. He does not slumber in 
summer meads, or rove listlessly 
by laughing streamlets, or roguish- 
ly haunt the bosky dells, or float 
adown the slanting sunbeam to 
flame on the unwary and capture 
their hearts and kindle them into 
passion while they languish in the 
soft arms of Mother Nature. His 
God is not this pagan deity. He 
is remote, obscure, harsh-seeming. 
The poet's song is no pleasing love- 
tune. It is martial, high, far awa)^, 
up on crags remote and to be reach- 
ed only by thorny paths with bleed- 
ing feet and straining eyes, and 
hearts that faint many times on the 
way. True love is banjshed from 
the earth, the poet seems to think ; 
and in place of him, high, pure, 
serene, with his head lifted up and 
bathed in the clear light and re- 
fulgence of heaven, and his feet 
only touching the earth, men have 



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The Unknown Eros. 



set a toy, a plaything, a fair bestial- 
ity, 

"What rumored heavens are 
these," he asks, 

** Which sot a poet unss. 

Of Unknown Erot ? What this breeae 

Of sudden wings 

Speeding at £ar returns of time firom interstellar 

space 
To im my very face, 
And gone as fleet, 
Tkrouih delicatnt eiktr ftatiUring nfi their 

ternary bHit^ 
With ne'er a light plume dropped, nor any trace 
To speak of whence they came, or whither they 

depart? 



O, Unknown Bros, sire of awful bliss. 

What portent and what Delphic word. 

Such as in form of snake forebodes the bird, 

Is this? 

In me life's eren flood 

What eddies thus ? 

What in its ruddy otbit lifb the Uood 

Like a perturbed moon of Uranus 

Reaching to some great world in ungauged daik- 

nesshid; 
And whence 

This rapture of the sense 
Which, by thy whisper bid. 
Reveres with obscure rite and sacramental sign 
A bond I know not of nor dimly can divine ; 
This subject loyalty which longs 
For chains and thongs 
Woven of gossamer and adamant. 
To bind me to my ungucss'd want. 
And so to lie. 
Between those quivering plumes that thio' fine 

ether pant. 
For hopeless, sweet eternity ?" 

The hard questions here put the 
poet answers, to some degree at 
least, in other odes. In the " Le- 
gem Tuam Dilexi*' (p. 43) he 
sings : 

" The * Infinite.' Word horrible ! at feud 

With life, and the braced mood 

Of power and joy and love ; 

Forbidden, by wise heathen ev'n, to be 

Spoken of Deity, 

Whose Name, on popular altars, was * The Un- 
known^ 

Because, or ere It was revealM as One 

Confined in Three, 

Ths people fear*d that it might prove 

Infinity, 

Tkt blazon which th« drvilt dtsired to gain ; 

And God, for their confusion, laugh'd consent ; 

Yet did so far relent. 

That they might seek relief, and not in vain. 

In dashing of thomselve* against tho shore* of 
painr 



they find "in dashing of them- 
selves against the shores of pain " — 
that relief that the demented seek 
in beating their weary brains out 
or letting out the stream of the 
tired and useless life into the dark 
ocean of infinity, severing with 
maddened and sacrilegious hand 
the little knot that separates Time 
from Eternity ? And what stronger 
picture of the prevalence of evil 
and the inherent tendency in the 
fallen world to rebel than this : 

"Nor bides akmeia hell 

The bond-disdaining spirit boiliqg to rebel. 

But for compulsion of strong grace, 

The pebble in the road 

Would straight explode. 

And fill the ghastly honndUssneu o/sfaet. 

The furious power. 

To soft growth twice constraint in leaf and flower. 

Protests, and k>ngB to flash its fiunt self £sr 

Beyond the dinunest star. 

The same 

Seditious flame. 

Beat backward with reduplicated might. 

Struggles alive within its stricter term. 

And is the worm." 

And here follows the response to 
the search after the "Unknown 
Eros " : 

" And the just Man does oo himself affirm 

God*s limits, and is conscious of delight. 

Freedom and right. 

And so His Semblance is. Who, every hour. 

By day and night, 

Buikleth new bulwarks *gainst the Infinite. 

For^ ah^ who can excess 

How full 0/ bonds and simpUnoss 

Is God, 

How narrow is He^ 

And how the wide waste field of possibility 

Is only trod 

Straight to His homestead in the human heart. 

And all His art 

Is as the babe's, that wins his mother to repeat 

Her little song so sweet ! 



Man, 
Darling of God. Whose thoughts but live and move 
Round him ; Who woos his will 
To wedlock with His own, and does distil 
To that drop's span 

The attar o/ ail rose-fields of all love / 
Therefore the soul select assumes the stress 
Of bonds unbid, which God's own style express 
Better than well, 
And aye hath borne, 
To the Clown's scorn, 
The fetters of the three-fold golden chain. . . . *' 



Was there ever a truer picture What "the three-fold golden 
painted by man of the curse of chain" is that binds " the soul se- 
lost souls and the hopeless relief lect" to God no Catholic needs to 



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be told. Free and loyal self-sacri- 
fice, ill a world where self-sacrifice, 
whether we like it or not, is neces- 
sary and must be endured, brings 
us nearest and makes us likest to 
Him, the true Eros who " emptied 
himself for us." These lines will 
help us to read the riddle of the 
** Unknown Eros," " some note*' of 
whose " renown and high behest" 
the poet thinks might thus " in 
enigma be express'd " : 

** There lies die crown 

Which all thy longing cures. 

Refuse it, Mortal, that it may he yours / 

It is a spirit though it aeenui red gdd ; 

And such may no man, but by shunning, hold. 

Refuse it, though refusing be despair ; 

And thou shalt feel the phantom in chy hair." 

This though t^again is more fully 
wrought out in the conclusion of 
the same ode, " Legem Tuam Di- 
lexi": 

** . . . For to have naught 
Is to have all things without caxe or thought ! 

And lastly bartering life's dear bliss for pain ; 

But evermore in vain ; 

For joy (rejoice ye Few that tasted have \) 

Is Lovers obedience 

Against the genial laws of natural sense. 

Whose wide self-dissipating wave, 

PrisonM in artful dikes, 

Trembling returns and strikes 

Thence to its source again, 

In backward billows fleet. 

Crest crossing crest ecstatic as they greet ; 

Thrilling each vein, 

Ezpk>ring every chasm and cove 

Of the full heart with floods of honeyed love. 

And every principal street 

And obscure alley and lane 

Of the intricate brain 

With brimming rivers of light and breezes sweet 

Of the prinKxdial heat ; 

Till, unto view of me and thee, 

Lost the intense life be, 

Or ludicrously displayed, by force 

Of distance, as a soaring eagle^ or a horse 

On (ar-off hillside shown, 

May seem a gust-driv'n rag or a dead stone.'* 

To those who read these lines 
carefully it will not be necessary 
to say that the author is a Catholic. 
His name, though modestly with- 
held from the present volume, is 
not unknown. It is many years 
ago since Coventry Patmore sang 
his sweet love-songs. The Betrothal 
and The Espousals, 

VOL. XXV. — 45 



They were received favorably 
enough by the critics — far more 
favorably, indeed, than have been 
many higher and greater poems on 
their first appearance : Keats* Endy- 
mion^ for instance. Then a strange 
silence struck the poet, and he was 
dumb. 

If the present volume is the 
growth of all these silent years, Mr. 
Patmore has not suffered by his 
solitude. Between his earlier 
work and the present there is no 
comparison. Indeed, it takes a 
very careful reading of the first 
to detect therein the germ of the 
strong growth and most beauliful 
flower that compeb alimiration to- 
day. Those were nothing more 
than the story, told with all the 
fond minuteness of a gentle, ardent, 
intelligent, and chivalrous young 
lover, of his first true love ; of the 
flowery paths and pleasant ways 
that led up to it ; of the gracious 
nothings that make that time so 
sweet and ever memorable to the 
lovers; the lone communings, the 
tremulous doubts, the bitter-sweet 
emotions, the sun and shade, the 
laughing April showers that weave 
Love's many-colored web and 
make a brief paradise for the new 
Adam and Eve, with no serpent 
lurking in the grass — all this is 
told delightfully and with delight. 
The verse is sweet and pleasant 
and flowing as the subject; but it 
is a song to while away a drowsy 
hour, not to cause us to halt and 
listen in the busy march and fierce 
strife of life. We glance over them 
with lazy pleasure as we watch 
the gambols of children in the sun. 

These later poems are of a far 
difierent and more solemn nature. 
The poet has lived much, felt 
much, suffered much, joyed much, 
thought and meditated much in 
this long interval. He has been 



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The Unknown Eros. 



lifted to the heights of heaven ; he 
has been dashed back to the gates 
of hell. He has been tossed on 
the waves of Doubt and felt the 
brotherhood of Despair. He has 
lost her who first taught him to 
sing ; whose gentle glances thrilled 
tlie tender chords of his nature and 
moved them to utter sweet music. 
Here is her picture : 

** But there danced the, who from the leaven 

Of ill preserved my heart aod wit 
All unawares, for the was heaven. 

Others at best but fit foi^t. 
I mark'd her step, with peace elate, 

Her brow more beautiful than morn. 
Her sometime air of girlish state 

Which sweetly waived its right to scorn ; 
The giddy crowd, she grave the while, 

Although, as 'twere ^yond her will. 
About her mouth the baby smile 

That she was bom with lingered still. 
Her ball-dzess seemed a breathing mist, 

From the fair form exhaled and shed. 
Raised in the dance with arm and wnst 

All warmth and light, unbraceleted. 
Her motion, feeling 'twas beloved. 

The pensive soul of tune expressed. 
And, oh, what perfume, as she moved. 

Came from the flowers in her breast !*' * 

Here is she ten years later : 

*' Her sons pursue the butterflies, 

Her baby daughter mocks the doves 
With throbbing coo : in his fond eyes 

She's Venus with her little Loves ; 
Her step's an honor to the earth, 

Her form's the native-land of grace. 
And, lo, his coming lights with mirth 

Beauty's metropolis, her face 1 
Of such a lady proud's the lord,| 

And that her happy bosom knows ; 
She takes his arm without a word, 

In lanes of laurel and of xose." t 

And here at last is her "Depar- 
ture," as told in the latest volutne : 

** It was not like'your great and gracious ways! 

Do you, that have naught other to lament. 

Never, my Love, repent 

Of how, that July afternoon. 

You went. 

With sudden, unintelligible phrase, 

And frightenM eye. 

Upon your journey of so many days, 

Without a single kiss or a good-by ? 

I knew, indeed, that you were parting soon ; 

And so we sate, within the sun's low rays, 

You whispering to me, for your voice was weak. 

Your harrowing praise. 

Well, it was well, my Wife, 

To hear you such things speak. 

And see your love 

^ " The Angel in the Housr,*' 7Ju EtPousaU^ 

t Tht Es/pusal*^ p. rj. 



Make of your eyes a gfowiiig gloon of fife, 

As a warm south wind sombres a March grove. 

And it was like your great and gracrous ways 

To turn your talk on daily things, my Dear, 

IJfting the luminous, pathetic lash 

To let the laughter flash. 

Whilst I drew near, 

Because you spoke so low that I could scarcely 

hear. 
But all at once to leave me at the last. 
More at the wonder than the loss aghast. 
With huddled, unintelligible phrase, 
And frighten'd eye, 
And go your journey of all days 
With not one kiss or a good-by, 
And the only loveless look the look with which you 

pass'd, 
'Twas all unlike your great and gradoos ways.*' ^ 

It goes without saying that such 
a loss must tell with incalculable 
force on a man of intense sensibi- 
lity. Trials of this kind best prove 
a man. Some they crush ; others 
they humiliate only to exalt. If 
we may judge by the silent testi- 
mony of the book before us, his 
great loss made this man greater. 
He felt, if not for the first time, 
more keenly than ever before, how 
uncertain and passing is all merely 
human happiness. The known 
Eros that had charmed his life 
suddenly passed away ** with sud- 
den, unintelligible phrase," and in 
the darkness that fell upon his soul 
his humbled eyes were opened to 
tlie unknown Eros who was near 
him all the while. 

But, beyond and beside this, be- 
tween the publication of his earlier 
poems and the latest his conversion 
to the Catholic faith took place. 
So we judge, at least, from internal 
evidence in the books. Here was 
a new and most powerful agent in- 
troduced to act upon his nature. 
Moreover, the world had moved in 
the interval. Many and mighty 
clianges had taken place in the 
world, and they did not pass unfelt 
or unobserved by the silent poet. 
But before we come to these we 
will give one more response to his 
questioning of the oracle before 

• The Uttkncwn Er^s^ pp. ^-65. 



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whom of all he burns his incense. 
In the " Deliciae Sapient ise dc 
Amore " he sings joyously : 

** Loye, light for me 

Thy ruddiest blazing torch. 

That I, albeit a beggar by the Porch 

Of the glad Palace of Virgiaity, 

May gaze within, and siog the pomp I see. . ^. 

Bring, Love, anear, 

And bid he not afraid 

Young Lover true, and love-foreboding Maid, 

And wedded Spouse, if virginal of thought ; 

For I will sing of naught 

Le«8 sweet to hear 

Than seems 

A music in their half-rememberM dreams. 

• • • • • 

. . . The heavens themselves eternal are with fire 
Of uaapproach'd desire, 

By the aching heart of Love, which cannot rest. 
In blisffttUest pathos so indeed possessed. 
O, spousals high ; 
O, doctrine blest, 

Unutterable in even the happiest sigh ; 
This know ye all 
Who can recall 

With what a welling of indignant tears 
Love*s simpleness first hears 
The meaning of his mortal covenant, 
And from what pride comes down 
To wear the crown 
Of which 'twas very heaven to feel the want. 

Therefore gaze bold. 

That so in you be joyful hope increas'd, 

Thorough the Palace portals, and behold 

The dainty and unsating Marriage* Feast. 

O, hear 

Them singing clear 

* Cor meum et caro mea ' round the M am,* 
The Husband of the Heavens, and the Lamb 
Whom they for ever follow there that kept. 
Or, losing, never slept 

Till they reconquerM had in mortal fight 
The standard white. 

Gaze and he not afraid. 

Young Lover true and love-foreboding Maid. 

The full noon of dcific vision bright 

Abashes nor abates 

No spark minute of Nature's keen delight. 

'Tis there your Hymen waits I 

There where in courts afar all unconfused they 

crowd, 
As fumes the starlight soft 
In gulfs of cloud. 

And each to the other, well-content, 
Sighs oft, 

* 'Twas this we meant !' 
Gaze without blame. 

Ye in whom living Love yet blushes for dead shame. 

There of pure Virgins none 

Is fairer seen, 

Save One, 

Than Mary Magdalene. 

Love makes the life to he 

A fount perpetual of virginity ; 

For, lo, the Elect 

Of generous Love, how named soe'er, affect 

Nothing but God, 

Or mediat* er direct^ 



Nothing hut God, 

The Husband of the Heavens : 

And who Him love, in potence great or small. 

Are, one and all. 

Heirs of the Palace glad 

And only clad 

With the bridal robes of ardor virginal.*' 

The Love that our poet has 
been seeking, has found, and here 
hymns in strains that at times arc 
truly little short of seraphic, will 
now be known to the reader ; and 
we leave this high, ethereal Court 
of Love that is human indeed, yet 
more than human, to glance at 
other and more ordinary, though 
still lofty, subjects which the poet 
has touched. 

In a sense it is really refreshing 
to find that he is not always in the 
skies ; that he is very human and 
made of flesh and blood like our- 
selves. Indeed, so human is he 
that he openly confesses, in a poem 
of matchless beauty and delicacy, 
to having found a substitute for his 
dead wife. Ordinary men, who are 
not poets, yet who nevertheless 
have hearts, will give a rough read- 
ing to the exquisite ode, " Tired 
Memory " (p. 93), wherein the poet, 
lamenting his wife, and confessing 
truthfully, albeit sadly, that 

** In our mortal air 
None thrives for long upon the happiest dream," 

and .seeking round ** for some ex- 
treme of unconceived, interior sa- 
crifice, whereof the smoke might 
rise to God," cries in agony : 

** My Lord, if thy strange will be this. 
That I should crucify my heart. 
Because my love has also been my pride, 
I do submit, if I saw how, to bli^, 
Wherein She has no part." 

" And I was heard," he adds, let 
uafhope untruthfully; for the "cru- 
cifixion of his heart *' took the 
shape apparently of a second wife, 
thus : 

** My heart was dead. 

Dead of devotion and tired memory, # 

When a strange grace of thee 



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In a fair sirnngtr^ as I take it, bred 

To her some tender heed. 

Most innoceat 

Of purpose therewith blent, 

And pure of faith, I think, to thee ; yet such 

That the pale reflex of an alien loye, 

80 vaguely, sadly shown. 

Did her heart touch 

Above 

All that, tin then, had woo'd her for its own. 

And so the fear, which is love's chilly dawn, 

Flush'd faintly upon lids that droop'd like thine. 

And made me weak, 

By thy delusive likeness doubly drawn. 

And Nature's long-suspended breath of (lame. 

Persuading soft, and whispering Duty's name. 

Awhile to smile and speak 

With this thy Sister sweet, and therefore mine. . ."' 

But this is not so much the hu- 
manity to which we referred. We 
think that three characteristics will 
strike the readers of the.se odes : i, 
the high spiritual nature of many ; 
2, the deep pathos and human love 
of others; 3, the lofty scorn and 
fierce sarcasm displayed, mistak- 
enly sometimes, in certain of the 
odes. 

The poet is an Englishman of 
Englishmen, and, only for his Ca- 
tholic faith, it seems to us that he 
would be one among the prophets 
of despair, whose name is legion 
and whose day is the present. 

" O, season atiwige for song T* 

he cries in the Proem ; 

**Is't England^s parting aoul that nerves my 

tongue 
As other kingdoms, nearing their eclipse, 
Have, in their latest bards, uplifted strong 
The voice that was their voice in earlier days ? 
Is it her sudden, loud and piercing cry, 
The note which those that seem too weak to sigh 
Will sometimes utter just before they die t" 

To speak frankly, we do not 
think it is. We do not think Eng- 
land's soul is parting yet. We 
think there is much good left in 
this world for England to do; at 
the very least there is much atone- 
ment to be made for the many Aid 
great evils and national crimes — 
among others that greatest of all, 
apostasy — for which that soul has 
to answer. She can do much, she 
has done something, toward making 



this atonement ; and the time of 
grace was never nearer to her than 
at present. Nevertheless, it is im- 
possible to deny the intense pathos 
and exquisite beauty of the follow- 
ing sad lines : 

** Lo, weary of the greatness of her ways. 
There lies my Land, with hasty palse and haytf, 
Her ancient beauty marr'd. 
And, in her cold and aimless roving Hght, 
Horror t/ light. . . ." 

In the sixth ode, entitled " Peace," 
he returns to this theme : 

*' O Engkuid, bow hast thou/oigot, . 

In duUiuti care for undisturbed incicaae 

Of gold, which profits not. 

The gain which onoe thou knew'st was fot thy 

peace! 
Honor is peace, the peace whidi does accord 
Alone with God's glad word : • 
* My peace I send you, and I send a aword.' 

Beneath the heroic sun 

Is there then none 

Whose sinewy wings by choice do fly 

In the fine mountain-air of public obloquy. 

To tell the sleepy mongers of false ease 

That war*s the ordained way of all alive. 

And therein with good-will to dar« and thrive 

Is profit and heart's peace ? 

Remnant of Honor, brooding in the dark 

Over your bitter caik. 

Staring, as Rispah stared, astonied aeven daya, 

tJpon the corpses of so many sons. 

Who loved her once, 

Dead in the dim and lion-haunted ways* 

Who could have dreamt 

That times should come like these !'* 



We do not altogether go with 
Mr. Patmore in this invective, how- 
ever much we may admire its 
form. England has certainly act- 
ed meanly in many important Eu- 
ropean questions of late years. 
She will probably so act in many 
more in the future, if she finds it 
advisable or profitable. And it 
is a poor excuse to ask what other 
European nation has not acted or 
would not act, had it the chance, 
equally meanly with England. We 
may be very wrathful about the 
matter; we may have some very 
hard things to say against England 
for not drawing the sword in cer- 
tain cases ; yet between the nation 
that is too ready to fight and 



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the nation that guards severely 
what are strictly its own primary 
interests without fighting, we cer- 
tainly prefer the latter. The 
bloody road is a sad road to 
glory, and its end is never seen. 
While, then, we may for the moment 
side with the passionate poet who 
sits down in his studio and hurls 
his wrath in words of flame against 
the ministry for not leading the 
country into war and reviving an- 
cient glories, as tliey are called, 
on second thoughts, while still, 
perhaps, thoroughly disgusted with 
the ministry and the meanness of 
their ways, we become gmdually 
reconciled to the situati^l, and 
thank Heaven, though of course not 
the ministers, that we can sleep 
quietly in our beds. It may be 
an ignoble sense — doubtless it is; 
yet if itprevailed a little more gener- 
ally throughout the world just now, 
the world would not, in the long 
run, be the sufferer from it. 

There is another peace against 
which Mr. Patmore declaims in 
no measured terms in " The Stand- 
ards." This was written soon after 
the launching of Mr. Gladstone's 
first pamphlet, not so much against 
"the English Catholics," as the au- 
thor states in a note — he would do 
well to remember that the world 
is a little larger than England — 
but against Catholics: against the 
Catholic Church and its chief. 



". . . That last, 
Blovn from our Zion of the Seven Hllb, 
Was no uncertain blast ! 
listen : the warning all the champaign fiUt , 
And minatory murmurs, answerinfi;, mar 
The Night, both near and far. 
Perplexing many a drowsy citadel 
Beneath whose ilUwatchM walls the Powers of 

Hell, 
With armed jar 
And angry threat, surcease 
Their long-kept compact of contemptuous peace ! 
Lo, yonder, where our little English band, 
With peace in heart and wrath in hand, 
Have dimly ta*en their stand. 
Sweetly the light 
Shines from t^ solitary peak at Edgbaston, 



Whence, o*er the dawning Land, 
Gleam the gold blaaonries of Love irate 
Gainst the black flag of Hate." 

This call is most spirited and 
trenchant and bold. "We can only 
find space for the strong end : 

** The sanction of the world^s undying hate 

Means more than flaunted flags in windy air. 

Be ye of gathering fate 

Now gladly ware. 

Now from the matrix, by God*s grinding wrought^ 

The brilliant shall be brought ; 

The white stone mystic set between the eyes 

Of (hem that get the prise, 

Yea, part and parcel of that mighty Stone 

Which shall be thrown 

Into the Sea, and Sea shall be no mof«.*' 

" 1867 " is a poem strongly 
written and of marked character, 
but with which we cannot agree. 
It was called out apparently by the 
passage of the bill extending the 
suffrage by the conservative minis- 
try under the leadership of Mr. 
Disraeli. It is — so we read it, and 
we see no possibility of reading it 
otherwise — a direct and bitter at- 
tack on a rational extension of the 
popular liberties, which we take to 
be radically wrong in conception : 

** In the year of the great crime y 

When the fiUse English Nobles and their Jew^ 

By God demented, slew 

The Trust they stood twice pledged to keep from 

wrong. 
One said. Take up thy Song, 
That breathes the mild and almost mythic time 
Of England's prime .' 
But I, Ah, me. 
The freedom of the few 
That, in our free Land, were indeed the free, 
Can song renew ?" 



Let US here say that if a man 
cannot attack Mr. Disraeli, or the 
Earl of Beaconsfield, on higher and 
fairer ground than on that of his 
being " a Jew," he may as well let 
that statesman alone. A man who 
adopts this very small, very cheap, 
and very common mode of attack 
is not worthy the hearing of sensi- 
ble men. Addressing the "out- 
lawed Best " — by the bye, the poet 
is very arbitrary and perplexing in 



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his use of capitals — £ng]and*s ho- 
bles, presumably, Mr. Patmore 
says : 

** Know, 'twas the force of functicahigh. 

In corporate ezerctae, and public awe 

Of Nature^s, Heavcn'Sf and England** Law, 

That Best, though rnixM with Bad, should reign. 

Which lupt you in your sky T' 

Does he mean that the " Best " 
are restricted to the English nobi- 
lity ? If he does mean this, he is 
quite wrong ; if he does not mean it, 
then the lines immediately follow- 
ing are meaningless : 

** But, when the sordid Trader caught 

The loose-held sceptre from your hands distraught. 

And soon, to the Mechanic vain, 

Sold the proud toy for naught, 

Your charm was broke, your task was sped, 

Your beauty, with your honor, dead." 

And so the ode goes on to hope 
that 

'* Prayer perchance may win 
A terai to God's indignant mood 
And the orgies of the multitude, 
Which now begin. . . ." 

We cannot help thinking, if God's 
name must be introduced in the 
matter, that he is not especially 
indignant with Mr. Disraeli and 
the English nobles and people at 
the extension of the suffrage, and 
that for this reason to stigmatize 
1867 as "the year of the great 
Crime " is nonsense. As for " the 
sordid Trader," there has always 
been a considerable admixture of 
the '* Trader " in the composition 
of the English government, noble 
or ignoble. The first Napoleon's 
estimate of the English as " a na- 
tion of shopkeepers ** was not an 
ill-judged one; and never was that 
government, at least since Refor- 
mation times, so pure and its mem- 
bers so honest as to-day, when " the 
sordid Trader " has a large hand 
in the administration. We do all 
honor to the spirit of chivalry ; we 
do not object to class distinctions 



in countries where such distinctions 
are historic and hereditary; but 
we recognize manhood wherever 
we find it, and set it above all ac- 
cidents of time or clime or artifi- 
cial restrictions. At the end of the 
ode, however, the poet rises above 
his smaller self to a strain that is 
noble and true : 



* And now, because the dark comes on apace 
When none can work for fear. 
And Liberty in every Land Ues slain, 
Andiktiwe Tyrannies unckallengtd reign^ 
. And heavy prophecies, suspended long 
At suppUoition of the righteous few 
And so discredited, to fulfilment throng, 
Re5tnin*d no more by fiedthful prayer or tew, 
And the dread baptism of blood seems near 
That brings to the humbled Earth the Tiiae of 

Grace, 
Hush'd be all song, 
And let Christ's own look through 
The darkness, suddenly increased. 
To the gray secret lingering in the East.^ 



We could linger with delight 
over many passages in these odes, 
and dwell with pleasure on the 
peculiar depth, conciseness, and 
expressiveness of the phrases used, 
the mere words often which the 
poet chooses. His power of con- 
densation and deep philosophic com- 
prehension and observation con- 
stantly strikes one. The concealed 
art of the whole is marvellous. But 
this, we have no doubt, will, from 
the copious extracts we have given, 
strike the reader as it has struck us. 
And we hasten on to quote a few 
more passages and take leave of 
the book. 

We have called attention to the 
poet's scorn. It is very bitter, and 
is at its best when it attacks not so 
much persons or matters which are 
at least open to question as when 
it deals with obvious shams and 
pretentious littleness. What could 
be better than this placid treatment 
of the modern scientific school 
which can see nothing more than 
its telescope and its instruments 
disclose to it ? 



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'* Not greatly moved with awe am I 

To learn that we may spy 

Five thousand finnaments beyond our own. 

The best that's known 

Of the heavenly bodies tfo*s them credit small, 

View'd close, the Moon's fair ball 

Is of ill objects worst. 

A cor/se in Nrgfit^s higltwayy naked, fire>4carr*d, 

accurst ; 
And now they tell 

That the Sun is pUunly seen to boil and burst 
Too horribly for hell. 
So, judging from these two, 
As we must do, 

The Universe, outside our living Earth, 
Was all conceiv'd in the Creator's mirth, 
Forecasting at the time Man's spirit deep, 
70 make dirt cheap. 
Put by the Telescope I 
Better without it man ma^' see. 
Stretch* d awful in the h ush'd midnight^ 
The ghost 0/ his eternity. 
Give me the nobler glass that swells to the eye 
The things which near us lie. 
Till Science rapturously hails. 
In the minutest, water-drop, 
A torment of innumerable tails. 
These at least do live. 
But rather give 
A mind not much to pry 
Beyond our royal-fair estate 
Betwixt these deserts blank of small and great. 
Wonder and beauty our own courtiers are, 
Pressing to catch ourgaze. 
And out of obvious ways 
Ne'er wandering far." 

At Other times his strong hu- 
manity seems to die in him, the 
struggle of life seems small and 
profitless, and the many ends that 
move us weak and purposeless as 
children's plans. " Here, in this 
little Bay," he says : 

" Full of tumultuous life and great repose. 

Where, twice a day, 

The purposeless, glad ocean comes and goes. 

Under high cliffs, and far from the huge town, 

I sit me down. 

For want of me the world's course will not fail ; 

When all its work is done, the lie shall rot : 

The truth is great, and shall prevail. 

When none caret whether it prevail or not." 

Of course we need not remind 
the poet that it is just the duty of 
honest men to see that the truth 
prevails and the lie rots, for his 
poems are a very paean of Truth 
and its high offices ; but in this as 
in others of the odes he gives com- 
plete expression to the weariness 
that at times creeps over all who 
are struggling for the right. It is 
like the song of the tired mariners 
in Tennyson's Lotos-Eaters. 



Again he sings : 

*^ Join, then, if thee it please, the bitter jest 
Of mankind's progress ; ail its spectral race 
Mere impotence of rest, 
The heaving vain of life which cannot cease 

from seify 
Crest altering stUl to gulf 
And gulf to crest 
In endless chase 

That leaves the tossing water anchored in its place 1 
Ah, well does he who does but stand aside. 
Sans hope or fear, 
And marks the crest and gulf in station sink and 

rear. 
And prophesies 'gainst trust in such a tide : 
For he sometimes is prophet, heavenly taught. 
Whose message is that he sees only naught ! 
Nathless, discem'd may be. 
By listeners at the doors of destiny^ 
The fly-wheel swift and still 
Of God's incessant willy 

Mighty to keep in bound, tho' powerless to quell. 
The amorous and vehement drift of man* s herd 

toheU:* 



We can quote no further at any 
length, though we find something 
to attract us in every ode; and the 
more we read the odes the more 
we find in them, the more we ad- 
mire them, and the clearer they 
become. Though independent of 
each other, a secret string of pur- 
pose, of aim and aspiration, of a 
yearning after something that the 
poet has not yet quite caught or 
cannot as yet fully express, becomes 
apparent. To this is due much of 
the obscurity and dimness that at 
first offend the eye. Closer study, 
however, reveals a throbbing pas- 
sion, a high ideal, gleams of light 
from heaven, the flashes of a bright 
intelligence warmed by a pure 
heart and looking from and through 
all things earthly heavenwards. 
We have seen no man of late who 
can lash the follies and lay bare 
the falsehoods of the time so thor- 
oughly. A man of intense and 
rooted convictions, he may make 
mistakes sometimes, but at least 
he makes them nobly. He is very 
human, as we have already said. 
Indeed, there are touches here and 
there in some of the odes that are 
strongly sensuous, and the two last 



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poems, ** The Rosy Bosom'd Hours" 
and " The After-Glow/' were better 
omitted from the volume. Their 
littleness offends and breaks with a 
discordant jar on the high and se- 
rene atmosphere through which we 
have been passing. It is almost 
like what the introduction of one 
of Offenbach's airs would be into 
a solemn Mass. From the poet 
whose '* Proem" is pitched in so 
high a key as this : 

*' Therefore no 'pUint be mine 

Of listeners none. 

No hope of render'd use or proud reward. 

In hasty times and hard ; 

But chants as of a lonely thrush's throat 

At latest eve, 

That does in each calm note 

Both joy and grieve ; 

Notes few and strong and fine. 

Gilt with sweet day's decline, 

And sad with promise of a different sun," 

we certainly expected no such stuff 
as the following, addressed to his 
bride : 



** At Dawlish, 'mid the pools of brine, 

You stept from rock to rock, 
One hand quick tightening upon mine, 

One hoklmg up your frock. 

> • • > . 

I thought, indeed, by magic chance, 

A third [day] from Heaven to win. 
But as, at dusk, we reached Penzance, 

A drizzling rain set in," 

There is so much that is high 
and noble and full of great promise 
in this new writer — for such he 
really is — and we have been so 
honest in our admiration of it, that 
we feel all the more at liberty to 
point out some of the blemishes 
that mar a work of rare excellence 
and strange beauty. Here and 
there throughout the volume are 
lines and couplets that linger lov- 
ingly in the memory; as, for in- 
stance : 

*' Pierce, then, with thought's steel probe the trod- 
den ground 
Till passion's buried floods be found. . . ." 

And again : 

*' Till inmost absolution sUrt 

Tke •meiling in the grateful eyet^ 

The heaving in the heart.** 



What could be more tenderly 
and naturally expressive than those 
two last lines } Or than this : 

*' IVinnow with eighty and wash away 
With tears the dust and 6tain of clay." 

Often have we heard aspirations 
of the following kind, but never 
sweeter than this : 

** Ye Clouds that on your endless journey go. 

Ye Winds that westward flow, 

Thou heaving Sea 

That heav'st 'twixt her and me, 

Tell her I come. . . ." 

The poet yokes all Nature to 
the wings of his fancy, and makes 
it the loving slave of his Love. 

How simple, yet how subtly told, 
is this great truth : 

'' Who does not know 

That good and ill 

Are done in secret still. 

And that which shows is verily but show f " 

And this deep reflection contains 
a volume : 

^ How high of hftart b one, and one how sweet of 

mood: 
But not all height is holiness^ 
Nor every sweetness goodP 

Here is a proverb, only too often 
verified : 

** One fool, with histy lungs, 

Does what a hundred wise, who hate and hold their 

tongues. 
Shall ne/er undo." 

In " Victory in Defeat " he says — 
how truly ! — 

" Life is not life at all without delight. 

Nor has it auy might ; 

And better than the insentient heart and brain 

Is sharpest pain : 

And better for the moment seems it to rebd. 

If the great Master, from bis lifted seat. 

Ne'er whisperslto the wearied servant, * Well ! * *' 

We hope to hear again and soon 
from Mr. Patmore. If he can 
avoid a certain obscurity that will 
repel many who would be sincere 
and honest admirers of so noble a 
writer, it will be better for himself 
and those whom he addresses. 
Even as his work now stands we 



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are happy to say of it, in closing seem to me both to ascend higher 

our review, what a true poet whose and descend deeper than almost 

name often adorns these pages has anything we have had for a long 

said ; " Many parts of the book time." 



NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



Priesthood in the Light of the 
New Testament. By E. Mellotp D. D. 
New York : A. S. Barnes & Co. 

The author in the preface of the book 
before us says that his lectures were 
prepared at the request of the Commit- 
tee of the Congregational Union of Eng- 
land and Wales, and though not consid- 
ered as exhausting the subject, yet they 
furnish a contribution toward the settle- 
ment of the question of the priesthood 
and its claims ; which settlement in the 
author's aim means toward doing away 
altogether with the priesthood and its 
claims. After a careful perusal of the 
volume, we must confess that we think 
the contribution exceedingly small, and 
not calculated to settle anything at all in 
the reverend gentleman's sense. For the 
doctor's lectures are a rehash of all the old 
objections brought forward against the 
priesthood, from the time of the Reforma- 
tion downwards ; and which have been 
time and again triumphantly refuted by 
our controversialists ; but of which re- 
futation the author takes no heed, as 
if such men as Bellarmine, Petau, Suarez, 
Thomassin, and a host of others down 
to our day had never existed. If the 
author had wished to bring towards the 
settlement of the subject a ^'^tz/ contribu- 
tion, the proper course for him to pursue 
would have been to state the objections, 
to bring forward the answer to each one 
of them given by our controversialists, 
to show the futility and untenableness 
of their answer, and to conclude that 
the objections yet hold good against the 
subject. His having, therefore, of a set 
purpose, or most innocently, ignored 
those answers leaves the question just 
where it was, and no one the wiser or bet- 
ter by the author's lectures. 

It is not possible for us in the brief 
space of a passing notice to attempt a 
refutation of all the objections he re- 



hashes so carefully. It will suffice to 
remark that all his objections, even if 
nothing at all could be said against them, 
would prove nothing positive against the 
priesthood. For they may be classified 
under two heads. The first are those of 
purely negative character, which, as they 
prove nothing in favor of the priesthood, 
neither do they prove anything against 
it. Under this head we put the old 
objection, drawn from the Epistle of 
St Paul to the Hebrews, which exalts 
the priesthood of Christ above the Jewish 
priesthood, and which says at least 
nothing against the Christian priesthood, 
which is identical with that of Christ. 

The other class of^objections is when 
our author examines the positive proofs 
brought in favor of the Christian priest- 
hood. These proofs, so clear, so satis- 
factory, so weighty, the author dismisses 
very summarily by throwing doubt on 
the meaning of the words, after the fash- 
ion of the Protestant method. One 
example will suffice to prove our asser* 
tion. Examining the text, '* Receive ye 
the Holy Ghost : whose sins you shall for- 
give, they are forgiven them ; and whose 
sins you shall retain, they are retained," 
he disposes of it as follows : ** It is not 
needful to enter into a consideration of 
the meaning of the words [as if the ques- 
tion was not just about the meaning of 
the words ; or as if our Lord was speak- 
ing merely for a joke] which set forth 
the high powers of the apostles ; whether 
the sins they were to remit or retain were 
spiritual sins [are there any corporal 
sins?], or ecclesiastical ones, or both. 
The question before us is, be the func- 
tion here referred to what it may, to 
whom was it accorded and by whom was 
it meant to be exercised ? Almost every 
word in the passage has been a battle- 
field." We would remark on this pas- 
sage that there is no reason for waiving 
the question, be the function here referred 



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to what it may, when our Lord says ex- 
pressly it is to remit or to retain sins ; that 
it is evident from the text, if words or 
language mean anything any more, that 
this function was to be exercised by 
those to whom our Lord spoke, and by 
those whom they preceded, as the apos- 
tles were essentiadly first and represen- 
tative men ; but it is useless. We only 
wish to call the attention of our readers 
to the fact that, if a text clear and palpa- 
ble in itself, proving a truth or a dogma, 
can be disposed of in this manner, no 
Christian truth can stand any longer, and 
we may as well have done with all 
Christian revelation. For suppose we 
want to bring a contribution towards 
the settlement of the question of the Divi- 
nity of Christ, all we have to do is to throw 
doubts on the meaning of the words of 
those texts which assert it, and the con- 
tribution is made, and so on to the end 
of the chapter. 

We think we have made our statement 
good, that our author has proved noth- 
ing in his book against the Christian 
priesthood, as all his objections are of 
a negative character. 

But we will exceed him in liberality, 
and grant for a ^moment that those 
texts by which we assert the nature and 
prerogatives of the priesthood prove 
nothing in its favor, as his negative ob- 
jections prove nothing against it. What 
then? Has he gained anything by our 
concession, or has he made any step for- 
ward towards the settlement of the ques- 
tion ? Not at all. There will always be 
the fact of the existence of the priesthood, 
in the full exercise of all its claims, star- 
ing him in the face. How to account 
for that fact ? Our author sees the diffi- 
culty, and admits that to account for it 
by urging an ambitious conspiracy on 
the part of the presbyters or bishops is 
absurd, that such a conspiracy could not 
have succeeded in establishing itself 
(page 74), and endeavors to account for 
it by a bias of humanity towards the 
priesthood identical with a bias towards 
selfishness and sins. And he goes on 
developing the thought by saying that 
the priesthood was called into being by 
ill-defined terrors of the future, by a fear 
of God not yet cast out by love, by the 
irksomeness of the duties of self-disci- 
pline, by the intolerable oppressiveness 
of the sense of personal responsibility 
seeking relief by its transference to 
others. 



Whether all these reasons can produce 
a bias towards the priesthood in hu- 
manity identical with the bias it has un- 
fortunately towards selfishness and sin, 
we will leave to the author to assert. 
We think that all those reasons, when 
well understood and stated properly, 
dispose humanity towards the priest- 
hood—in fact, create an instinct for it — 
and that that instinct is a legitimate, 
noble, generous craving of the human 
heart ; and to say that they create a bias 
identical with a bias to sin is to show 
the most supine ignorance of human na- 
ture, of the history of mankind, and the 
true philosophy of history. But let that 
pass ; do all these reasons account for 
the existence and claims of the priest- 
hood ? According to the author himself 
they do noL For he says himself all this 
contributed to prepare the way for a 
transformation of that religion which 
knows no earthly mediator (page 75). 

Well, Dr. Mellor, you have accounted 
for the preparation of the way, but not 
for the fact of the existence of the priest- 
hood. When and how did it come into 
existence? Who were the first who 
hatched it? Where was it established 
first? Who were the first Christians 
they imposed it upon? How did they 
succeed in persuading them to accept it? 
Was there any opposition on the part of 
the Christians who first heard of such a 
thing? Must not the imposition on any 
Christian people of a priesthood well 
organized into a compact body, strong 
and valiant, and exceedingly sensitive 
about its rights and claims, have been 
brought about by a conspiracy of some- 
body or other ? And have you not said — 
page 74 — that to account for the existence 
of the priesthood by a conspiracy is ab- 
surd ? 

We wish to advert to another theory 
before closing these remarks. He is not 
satisfied to have proved tnorf siio that the 
priesthood has no place in the New Tes- 
tament; he strives to prove that it was 
congenial with the whole spirit and na- 
ture of it, and the proof, he alleges, is 
drawn from the words to the Samaritan 
woman : God is a spirit, and in spirit 
and truth he must be adored ; that is, by 
having recourse to an invisible church, 
is the sense he attaches to those words. 
Of course, if the church is not a visible 
body, the mountain placed on the top of 
mountains, we must necessarily do away 
with the priesthood and sacraments, etc., 



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for thej can have no scope in an invisi- 
ble, abstract thing. But in that case why 
not abolish Christ the Emmanuel, the 
God-man ? 

We could easily enough prove the 
congeniality of the priesthood with 
Christianity by showing to the reverend 
doctor that all the works of God are 
p<rtnarteut. That the Incarnation is per- 
manent in the church, and that Christ 
the High-Priest is permanent in the 
Catholic priesthood, and discharges all 
the functions necessary to bring all men 
to salvation in all time and space, in it, 
and through it, and so forth. But we 
fear the reverend gentleman has not phi- 
losophy enough to understand us, and 
we forbear. We will not, however, con- 
clude our remarks without thanking the 
reverend lecturer for the polite courtesy 
which he uses towards the Catholic 
priesthood : first, using the 110m de guerre 
popish whenever he has occasion to make 
mention of it ; and, secondly, for asso- 
ciating it with the priesthood of the Eng- 
lish Episcopal Church. In the lecturer's 
mind, perhaps, it was to do honor to 
the Catholic priesthood by confounding 
it with the other. It is a goodly com- 
pany, no doubt, and we ought to be 
highly flattered ; but we respectfully de- 
cline through excess of modesty such 
unmerited honor, and would rather keep 
by ourselves, if it is all the same to the 
reverend doctor. 

Thirty-fifth Annual Report of the 
Board of Education of the City 
AND County of New York, for the 
Year ending December 31, 1876. 

Much has been written on the school 
question within the past few months ; 
not, however, by opponents of the 
public schools as they exist here, but by 
those who pay for them — the taxpayers. 
Fourmillion dollars for the Department of 
Public Schools alone is a great load. This 
tax increases yearly, and no doubt will 
soon reach the fifth million. The strange 
enthusiasm that led sects to trample on 
the religious convictions of their neigh- 
bors also led them to make light of 
the burden that came with the victory. 
But five millions is terrifying. Why not 
six ? Will there be no end to the increase ? 

Perhaps the originators of the present 
school system recognized the moral base- 
ness of severing the instruction which 
may enable the child to act with judg- 



ment from the training which teaches 
him moral responsibility for the judg- 
ment as well as for the action springing 
from it. They certainly desired to ac- 
complish indirectly the chief end of edu- 
cation by placing the school machinery in 
the hands of philanthropists who serve 
without pay or emolument. 

The result has been a gradual compli- 
cation of the common-school system, so 
as to include technical education, and 
even the higher branches of learning. 
Years ago a Free College was successfully 
engrafted. Next came a Normal College 
for young ladies. In order to render 
this latter oflfshoot permanent, it was 
deemed necessary to provide the grs^du- 
ates with positions in the common 
schools. The first step was to raise the 
standard of proficiency for a teacher's 
certificate ; the next, to declare that the 
college diploma was sufficient evidence 
of qualification, without a public exami* 
nation by the city superintendent. The 
report tells us that ** under the by-law by 
which the graduates are licensed to teach 
without a second examination, the city 
superintendent and the president of the 
college have performed their duties in 
perfect harmony." 

When the mode of testing the qualifi- 
cation of applicants who are not Normal 
College graduates is discussed, the re- 
port states, **a system of rigid exami- 
nations in the superintendent's office pre- 
cludes the possibility of incompetent 
persons being foisted upon the system 
through political or social influence." 

Nor is this the only injury to the com- 
mon schools* The favored graduates 
are not to be allowed to work for the 
low salaries received by primary teach- 
ers during the past thirty-five years. 
An adjustment of salaries is demanded. 
These primary teachers must receive as 
large a sum as grammar-school teachers. 
This simply means an increase in the 
cost of the common-school system. 

If that system, as it now exists here, 
answer to the purposes for which it was 
^ intended, it is high time for that fact to 
appear. Yet the gentlemen who have 
charge of the board, from the president 
down, seem strangely to disagree on 
most important matteis. Without com- 
mitting ourselves to one side or the other 
in the discussion, we take a few instances. 
The grammar schools surely form a very 
important branch of the system. Here 
is how the president treats of them in 



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the report : "Our primary-school teach* 
ers have a lower rate of pay than our 
grammar-school teachers, and the pri- 
mary schools have been used as training 
places for the better-paid positions in 
the grammar schools. The plan for uni- 
formity in salaries in these two depait- 
ments has received serious cojisideration 
by a committee of the board, and de- 
serves to be carried out. The majority 
of our pupils receive all the education 
they have in the primary, and never enter 
the grammar schools. ^ This majority de- 
serves the first consideration. Instruc- 
tion and discipline are no more difficult 
in one than in the other, and in neither 
department is the range of knowledge 
required to be mastered extensive." 

The president asserts that the common- 
school system only succeeds in furnish- 
ing primary instruction to a majority of 
pupils, and he would seem to imply 
that the enormous sum of four million 
dollars should be spent on the primary 
schools, reserving, of course, a sufficient 
sum for the Normal College. 

Lest his opinions as to the range of 
knowledge required in a teacher should 
dishearten those who are toiling through 
Normal College, he inserts a few lines for 
their benefit : ** An erroneous idea seems 
to prevail that a primary teacher can 
dispense with the higher studies. The 
truth is that this class of teachers more 
than any other class needs trained fa- 
culties and sound judgment, and these 
are only obtained by the discipline of 
hard and close study. Normal study and 
normal practice, to be effective, must be 
based on the broad foundation of a libe- 
ral education.'* 

Compulsory education the city super- 
intendent pronounces a complete failure, 
while those who are paid to enforce it 
consider it successful. In the discus- 
sion some interesting facts are brought 
to light. The city superintendent states : 
" Many parents, finding that our schools 
are unable to govern their wilful and un- 
ruly children, send them to the parochial 
schools. In connection with this, it is 
proper to call the attention of the board 
to the fact that, while the average attend- 
ance of pupils in the schools immediate- 
ly under its care has, during the past 
year, increased less than two and a half 
per cent., in the corporate schools it has 
increased more than five per cent. It is 
also of interest to observe that, at the 
close of 1875, the number of pupils en- 



rolled in the Catholic parochial schools 
was 30,732, while in 1867 it was only 
16,342, showing an increase, in less than 
ten years, of nearly 90 per cent.; while 
the increase in the attendance of the pu- 
pils in the public schools has, during 
the same time, been only about 13 per 
cent. The increase in attendance at the 
corporate schools, during the same pe- 
riod, has been more than ^7 per cent. 
... The question, therefore, very pro- 
perly suggests itself, why should a sys- 
tem for compelling pupils to attend the 
schools be sustained at great expense to 
the city while there is no effective means 
of controlling and educating those chil- 
dren after ihey have been brought into 
the schools?" 

These are but a few of the spots un- 
covered in this interesting report. Nev- 
er was the want of harmony in the sys- 
tem more manifest. The iniquity of tax- 
ing a people for what it cannot use, and 
turning over the amount collected to the 
keeping of gentlemen who care more 
for pet schemes than for the real object 
for which the tax was levied, becomes 
more and more apparent. Higher edu- 
cation, technical education, and compul- 
sory education are battling vigorously 
for larger shares of the funds ; and the 
battle seems likely to end when the 
funds are made large enough to satisfy 
all demands. In the meantime the 
common-school system is slowly dying 
out. The primary schools are becoming 
departments for the employment of nor- 
mal school graduates, and the grammar 
schools feeders for the colleges. 

A Question of Honor; A Novel. By 
Christian Reid, author of A Daughter 
of Bohemia^ Valerie Aylmer^ Morton 
House^ etc. New York : D. Appleton 
& Co. 1876. 

A well-written novel, thoroughly Amer- 
ican in its tone, its incidents, and its 
characters, and yet availing itself of none 
of the peculiar " isms " which form the 
chief stock in trade of our native novelists 
— shunning alike the •• woman question ** 
and the shallow metaphysics of "free 
thought," depending for no share of its in- 
terest upon suggested immorality or so- 
cial license, and vivacious in its dialogues 
without any reliance upon the slang which 
generally does duty in place of wit — was 
something for which some sad experience 
in recent fiction had forbidden us to 



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hope. That Christian Reid is already 
well known to the novel-reading public 
is evident from the title-page oiA Question 
of Honor ^ but that is the only one of her 
stories which we have read. We find in 
it everything to praise and nothing to 
condemn. It is thoroughly well written, 
to begin with, its descriptions of scenery 
being particularly artistic and well done. 
The author attempts nothing ambitious 
in the way of character-drawing, but her 
men and women live and have a true in- 
dividuality. Their souls are not dissected 
after the manner with which the New Eng- 
land school of fiction has made us too 
familiar for our comfort, but their man- 
ner of life and speech and thought is in- 
dicated with a firm, graceful, and un- 
provincial touch which is extremely 
pleasant. Altogether, the book belongs 
to the best class of light literature. 
There is nothing in it to shock taste or 
to jar prejudice, and everything In the 
way of grace of style and purity of thought 
to recommend it. So much being said 
by way of praise, we may add that the 
author, who is evidently a Catholic, has 
drawn a picture of social life which is. 
no doubt, true to a reality of a better 
kind than the ordinary novel of the day 
aims at, but which is nevertheless un- 
christian. Her characters are neither 
underbred nor vicious ; with two excep- 
tions, they are simply a rather pleasing 
variety of pagans. We do not quarrel 
with that, considered as a faithful tran- 
script of reality. But we shall find it 
a cause for real regret if a writer so 
graceful and possessing so much genuine 
ability does not some day give us some- 
thing better than a mere transcript of 
lives that might have been lived and 
ideals that might have been attained had 
the Creator never stooped to the level of 
his creatures in order to show them the 
oneway in which he would lift them to 
himself. 

Biographical Sketches. By the gradu- 
ating class of St. Joseph's Academy, 
Flushing, L. I. (Translated from the 
French of Mme. Foa.) New York : P. 
O'Shea. 1877. 

Translation from the French is a liter- 
ary exercise which cannot be too highly 
commended to young students. The 
publication in book- form of such stu- 
dents* translations can scarcely be too 
severely condemned. Young ladies and 



young men '' graduate," as it is called, 
at an age ranging from seventeen to 
twenty or twenty-one. They are then 
popularly supposed to have "finished" 
their education, whereas not much more 
has been done than to set them on the 
right road of learning and appreciating 
what real education is. Indeed, if so 
much has been accomplished, both the 
pupils and their teachers may be con- 
gratulated. 

To set these young persons straight- 
way at book making is a grave mistake 
— ^how grave may be gathered from 
the following specimens of translation 
which half a glance at the volnme before 
us reveals. 

The cover informs us that these are 
•* Gems of Biography." The first gem is 
entitled ** Michael Angelo Buonarotti." 
The opening page introduces us to ** an 
old domestic" and "a young man of 
fifteen or sixteen" ** at the door of the 
Castle of Caprese." In page 2 the 
"young man" of fifteen is a "young 
interlocutor:' In the same page " to in- 
tercept the passage*' is used in the 
sense of to block up the passage. In 
page 3» ** to cover his curiosity " is used 
in the sense of to hide or conceal his 
curiosity. In page 4 we have this ele- 
gant sentence : " I don't think that either 
of you does anything wrong in the place 
you go." In page 5 the young man of 
fifteen, who was an Italian of four cen- 
turies back, indulges in this peculiar bit 
of slang : *' One is not perfect at it ri^At 
away" A little lower on the same page 
he says of Michael Angelo: *'He is 
even quicker than I in piecing his man." 
" Mr. Francis Graciana " and *' Mr, 
Michael Angelo Buonarotti *' occur 
quite frequently. ** Canosse " is always 
made to do duty for Canossa, " Politien " 
for Politian or Poliziano, etc. Such 
phrases as ** You are not de trop^ Signer 
Graciana," constantly occur ; but we 
have no patience to examine further. 

Expressions such as these— and they 
characterize the book, with the excep- 
tion of " The Mulatto of Murillo," which 
runs fairly enough — should not have 
been allowed to pass in a written composi- 
tion ; but to embalm them in a printed 
volume is simply an act of cruelty. The 
sketches in tnemse^ves are good for no- 
thing and were not worth the trouble of 
translating, inasmuch as they have been 
far better given in English over and over 
again. •' Flushing Series " is the threat- 



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ening legend on the cover. If this vol- 
ume be a specimen of what is to come, 
we trust sincerely that we have seen the 
last of the " Series." Catholic education 
is too serious a subject for trifling. 

The Wondf.rs of Prayer : A remarkable 
record of well -authenticated answers 
to pniycr. By Henry T. Williams. 
New York : Henry T. Williams, Pub- 
lisher. 

It is not often that an author is his 
own publisher. In the present case this 
may have been a matter of necessity ; 
but it should not have been so, for the 
volume is interesting enough. It is a 
collection of anecdotes, the authenticity 
of which Mr. Williams personally vouch- 
es for, showing that God answers in an 
immediate and direct manner the re- 
quests of those who in faith ask him for 
temporal blessings. "They demon- 
strate," says the author, " to a wonderful 
degree the immediate practical ways of 
the Lord with his children in this world ; 
that he is far nearer and more intimate 
with their plans and pursuits than it is 
possible for them to realize." We have 
no disposition to scoff at the stories re- 
lated by Mr. Williams, although the 
style in which they are told often pro- 
vokes one to mirth. There is but one 
true faith in the world, but there are 
many people who hold more or less of 
this faith without knowing it. " Souf- 
pons touies I s religions^ puisque Difu Us 
souffre^* said F^nelon ; and our Holy 
Father, the Pope, has not unfrequently 
expressed his affection as well as his 
pity for good Protestants. No doubt 
many of the people who are spoken of in 
this book were very good Protestants. 
And we are glad to observe in it this 
passage : " The present is the age of 
miracles as well as the past. Fully as 
wonderful things have been and are con- 
stantly being done this day by our un- 
seen Lord as in the days of old when he 
walked in the sight of his disciples." 

The Little Pearls ; or, Gems of Virtue. 
Translated by Mrs. Kate E. Hughes. 
New York : P. O'Shea. 1877. 

Will be found very entertaining and 
instructive reading for our young folks, 
and we recommend it as suitable for 
a present at the distribution of school 
prizes. We think, however, that the 



name of the writer whose work is trans- 
lated should have appeared on the title- 
page. 

Beside the Western Sea: A Collec- 
tion of Poems. By Harriet M Skid- 
more ("Marie"). New York: P. 
O'Shea. 1877. 

This gifted lady has done well to col- 
lect her scattered poems into a volume. 
They are chiefly of a devotional charac- 
ter, and, though unequal, none of them 
are without merit, some of a very marked 
kind. She has the gift of song, and 
she sings easily and gracefully on almost 
any subject. The following, though one 
of the shortest and least ambitious of the 
collection, strikes us as a very sweet 
poem, and afibrds a fair idea of the au- 
thor's powers. Its title is " The Mist " : 

^ I watched the folding of a soft white wiag 

Above the city^s heart ; 
I saw the mist its silent shadows fling 

O'er thronged and busy mart. 
Softly it glided through the Golden Gate 

And up the shining bay, 
Calmly it lingered on the hills, to wait 

The dying of the day. 
Like the white ashes of the sunset fire, 

It lay within the West, 
Then onward crept above the lofty spire, 

In nimbus-wreaths to rest. 
It spread anon— its fleecy clouds unrolled. 

And floated gently down ; 
And thus I saw that silent wing enfold 

The BabeUthroated town. 
A spell wax laid on restless life and din, 

That bade its tumult cease ; 
A veil was flung o*cr squalor, woe, and sin, 

Of purity and peace. 
And dreaming hearts, so hallowed by the mist. 

So freed from grosser leaven. 
In the soft chime of vesper bells could list 

Sweet, echoed tones of heaven ; 
Could see, enrmptuied, when the starlight came. 

With lustre soft and pale, 
A sacred city crowned with * ring of flame,* 

Beneath her misty veil." 

Roman Legends : A Collection of the 
Fables and Folk-lore of Rome. By 
R. H. Busk, author of Sagas from 
the Far East, etc. Boston: Estes & 
Lauriat. 1S77. 

These are very graceful and interest- 
ing legends. They furnish glimpses 
that could not otherwise be well obtain- 
ed of the peculiar constitution, habits 
of mind and thought, of the common 
people in and about Rome. For the 
most part they are such as have not 
hitherto found their way into literature, 
being taken as they fell from the lips of 
narrators to whom they had been house- 



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hold words, handed down from one gen- 
eration to another. The task of eliciting 
them seems to have been no easy one, 
but its results are pleasant enough to earn 
honest gratitude for the years of labor 
which have been spent in gaining them. 
The tales themselves range under four 
categories, concerning which the author 
notes that the Romans are rigidly exact 
in adhering to, never by any chance 
giving a fairy-tale if asked for a legend, 
or a fairy-tale if inquired of concerning 
ghosts. They comprise legends ; ghost- 
stories and local and family traditions ; 
fairy tales and ciarpe, or gossip. The 
book is particularly rich in stories of St. 
Philip Neri. 

Philip Nolan's Friends : A story of the 
change of Western Empire. By Ed- 
ward E. Hale. New York : Scribner, 
Armstrong & Co. 1877. 

This volume traces the course of a 
journey into the heart of the great South- 
west at the beginning of the present 
century. This tract was still the border- 
land of the Aztec kings. Throughout 
its vast extent Spanish heroes had wast- 
ed their lives in ignis-fatuus searches. 
Rich discoveries of gold did not reward 
their diligence, and they resigned so in- 
hospitable a region to a new order of 
pioneers. Even to this day the names 
of places bear token that the zeal of the 
Spanish missionaries was in no way in- 
ferior to that of the sons of Loyola along 
the St. Lawrence. Such was their in- 
domitable perseverance that twenty- 
seven missions had been established 
in this region previous to 1626, and a 
century later the missionary spirit car- 
ried the Gospel among the Apaches, Mo- 
quis, and Navajoes. 

The heroine's escort through this terra 
incognita to Americans is ample, the 
weather delightful, and we do not care 
to question the adequacy of the motive 
for the expedition. Nor does it matter 
that we are led to believe that Philip 
Nolan possesses a sterling character, 
though what he says or does, or what 
apparent influence he has over the 
course of events, would hardly justify 
this conclusion. 

The novel is readable, but not by any 
means artistic. The author lacks the 
power to create a character that can 
think and act like a human being. He 
wishes us to believe his heroine pos- 



sesses beauty, sensibility, and vivacity; 
but he lacks the subtle power to invent 
actions and conversations which impress 
individuality, and we gather our notions 
of the lady more from his suggestions 
than from the movement of the story. 
This seems to be the author's weakness : 
his figures act and he suggests the mo- 
tives and impulses. 

His male characters miss no opportu- 
nity to abuse the missionaries. They 
regard the ** black-gowns " as the cause 
of Indian rascality and Spanish treach- 
ery. Ill-luck is always traced to them, 
and the torrents of abuse poured on the 
servants of God lend the only touches 
of nature that may be found in the au- 
thor's passive figures. Of course these 
outbursts of hatred reveal the true char- 
acter of the adventurers. They are bor- 
der ruffians. 

The book is partly historical. It treats 
of a transition period. The allegiance 
of the inhabitants had suflfered a violent 
dissolution. A border element existed, 
mainly recruited from the United States. 
This element was of service in manufac- 
turing public opinion, and, in this way, 
might have hastened the transfer of the 
Louisiana tract to its natural owner, the 
United States. We are inclined to the 
opinion that Southern interests would 
have brought about the transfer without 
the assistance of European complications 
or scenes of border treachery. 

Reply to the Hon. R. W. Thompson, 
Secretary of the Navy, addressed 
TO THE American People. By F. X. 
Weninger, D.D., of the Society of 
Jesus. New York : P. O'Shea. 1877. 
In this pamphlet of eighty-six pages 
Father Weninger has undertaken the 
almost unnecessary task of replying to 
Mr. Thompson's book, The Papacy and 
the Civil Power, If there is anything in 
that book to refute, it refutes itself. Mr. 
Thompson, however, over and above the 
rashness of attempting such a book at 
all, was rash enough to quote Father 
Weninger. The natural result is the 
present pamphlet. The pamphlet is ad- 
dressed to ** the American people." If 
the American people take it up, they 
will be rewarded by some lively reading. 
The reverend author says at the conclu- 
sion : " We have handled our adversary 
throughout the whole discourse without 
gloves.** No reader of the pamphlet will 
be inclined to dispute that statement. 



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Thb Pearl among thx Virtues ; or. 
Words of Advice to Christian 
Youth. By P. A. De Doss, S.J, 
Translated from the origioal German 
by a Catholic priest. Baltimore: 
John Murphy & Co. 1877. 

This work, written by one of the Jesuit 
Fathers banished from Germany, is an 
excellent treatise on the angelic virtue, 
which he considers from almost every 
point of view in a solid, instructive, and 
highly interesting manner. No more 
useful book could be placed in the hands 
of the youth of either sex. 

God the Teacher of Mankind: A 
Plain. Comprehensive Explanation 
OF Christian Doctrine. By Michael 
MUller, C.SS.R. New York, Cincin- 
nati, and St. Louis: Benziger Broth- 
ers. 1877. 

We have received advance sheets of 
this new and most interesting work by 
the indefatigable Redemptorist father to 
whom Catholics- in this country are so 
much indebted for works that are really 
useful as well as popular. The book 
is too important in itself and on too Im- 
portant a subject to be dismissed with 
a hasty notice. We shall return to it 
later. 

Edmondo : A Sketch of Roman Manners 
and Customs. By Rev. Fr. Antonio 
Bresciani, S.J., author of The Jew of 
Verona^ etc., etc. Translated from the 
lulian. New York : D. & J. Sadlier& 
Co. 1877. 

This is a powerfully-written story that 
cannot but excite the liveliest interest 
on account of its faithful and beautiful 
description of Roman scenery and vivid 
delineation of Roman life and customs. 

The translation is well rendered, but 
we do not approve of the omission of 
two chapters from the writings of such 
an author as the learned Bresciani. 



Such men do not write anything that can 
be cast aside without loss to their read- 
ers and admirers. 

Dora. By Julia Kavanagb. 

Bessie : 

Silvia. By the same author. D. & J. 
Sadlier & Co. 

We have not read any one of these 
three stories, and can only acknowledge 
their receipt. From others that we have 
read by the same author we think it safe 
to recommend these to persons who are 
fond of novels. Julia kavanagh is, to 
our thinking, one of the purest, most 
graceful, and most interesting story-wri- 
ers of the day. 

The Cathouc Keepsake. A gift-book 
for all seasons. Baltimore : John Mur- 
phy & Co. 1877. 

The best encomium we can bestow on 
this collection is to say that it is worthy 
of its name. The numerous sketches and 
stories are short, entertaining, and 
very agreeably written, even though a 
little ancient. 

Bessy; or, The Fatal Consequence of 
telling Lies. By the author of The 
Rat-Pond; or. The Effects of Disobedi- 
ence, Baltimore: Kelly, Piet & Co. 
1877. 
A plain, simple story for children, 

and, as the title designates, with a moral 

attached. 

The Story of Felice. By Esmeralda 
Boyle. London: Trttbner&Co. 1873. 

Songs of the Land and Sea. By Esme- 
ralda Boyle. New York : E. J. Hale 
& Son. 1875. 

In these poems Miss Boyle displays 
much true poetic feeling and a gift of 
melodious utterance. 



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Notes — I. Second Marriage of Columbus. II. Papal Interference. HI Father; 
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lous Cross. 



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Contents. 



PAGE 

735 ' 
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I. Amon^ the Translators, 
II. Albas Dream, 

III. Italy (A Poem), . 

IV. The Seven Valleys of the 

Lavedan 74S 

V. Job and Egypt, . , . 764 

VI. Millicent 777 

VII. The Madonna-and-Child a 

Test-Suiibol, . . . 804 



fACE 

Vni. College Education, . . 8x4 
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Echternach» . . . 826 

X. The Pan-Presbyterians, . 843 

XL Translation from Horace, S54 

XII. New Publications, . , 855 

Public Libraries in the United States — 
Elemrnf-j of f'.cumetry — Elements of 
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VOL. XXV., No. ISO.— SEPTEMBER, 1877. 



AMONG THE TRANSLATORS. 



VIRGIL AND HORACE. 



The number of versified transla- 
tions of Greek and Latin poets 
which the English presses continu- 
ally put forth must be a never-end- 
ing surprise to the practical Ameri- 
can mind — if, that is to say, the 
practical mind ever thinks of so 
manifestly useless and absurd a 
tiling at all. Authors are suppos- 
ed to write and publishers to print 
for the purpose of making money ; 
that either should work to any other 
end is a proposition which to the 
practical mind is simply bewilder- 
ing. Yet one would think there can 
l>e but little money in laboriously 
turning into English a quantity of 
school-books which no one reads 
except at school, and whose only 
value is in their being in a foreign 
tongue. Original poetry is bad 
enough ; the verdict of the practi- 
«:al mind on that point is pretty apt 
to be one with the view taken by 
Heine's rich uncle, to whom the 
poet, at the height of his fame, was 
but a Dummkopf (may not the 
uncle, alas ! have been right?) ; but 
])oetry at second hand, the " old 



clo* " of the Muses, Apollo's second 
table, the cold victual of Parnassus, 
a disaerated Helicon — the practi- 
cal mind can only gasp at the no- 
tion (which, by the way, strikes it 
in quite another shape than the po- 
etical one we have chosen to give 
it, but just as effectively) and seek 
to renew its faith in human nature 
over the credit column of its ledger. 
Another class of minds, too, not 
quite so practical — a class that has 
been at college, we will say, that 
knows Virgil and Horace by name, 
or even by certain quotations (ar- 
ma virumque^ pallida mors pulsate 
atra cura, etc.), and can read Greek 
letters at sight, but on the whole 
thinks Huxley a greater force in 
the world to-day than Homer — the 
cultured class, in short, about which 
some of our newspapers make so 
much to-do — can understand why 
the great classic poets should be 
turned into English verse (for the 
benefit of those who have not been 
at college), but not at all why such 
versions should be multiplied. If 
you want Virgil in an English dress. 



Copyright : Rev. I. T. Hbckkr. 1877. 



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722 



Ai^ong the Translators. 



there's your Dryden ; or Homer, 
there's Pope — say our person of 
culture is from an extreme northern 
latitude, geographically or men- 
tally, he will perhaps put Chapman 
here, and pooh-pooh Pope with a 
reference to Bentley. Do you de- 
sire Horace in the vulgar, there's 
good old Francis — pray, what bet- 
ter do you ask? What better, in- 
deed, can you expect to get? Just 
look at your Cyclopedia Septentrio- 
nalis and see what it tells you! 
So what is the use or the mean- 
ing, what is the reason of being, of 
your Theodore Martins and your 
Coningtons, your Morrises and 
Cranches? What is there to be 
had of them all but vanity and 
vexation of spirit, and time and 
money mislaid ? 

Somewhat in that way, we take 
it, a good many folks, even of the 
book-buying, nay, of the book- read- 
ing, sort, must feel over every fresh 
announcement of a translation of 
one or other of the favorite classic 
poets. And as the supply of such 
things is in the long run, by a 
beneficent law of nature, tempered 
to the demand, and the mind of the 
book-buying many reacts upon, and 
often rules, the ardor of the book- 
making few — "book" in Lamb's 
sense, be it understood — it is not 
surprising that the list of Ameri- 
can translators should be of the 
scantiest: Mr. Cranch's bold ven- 
ture of last year — a blank-verse 
rendering of the ^neid — had few 
precursors or precedents. There 
is Mumford's blank-verse Homer, 
which Professor Felton praised, and 
Professor Arnold, strange to say, 
seems not to have seen ; and Mr. 
Bryant's blank-verse Homer, which 
everybody praised and a smaller 
number read. Then, some years 
since, a Philadelphian gentleman 
put forth still another version of 



the Iliad in what he said was £ng* 
lish verse, although the precise me- 
tre of such lines as 

^ For Agamemnon insulted Chryses " ; 
** But Agamemnon was much displeased *' ; 
" Wounded is Dtomed, Tydeos' son, 
Ulysses, also, and Agamemnon," 

• 

unless it be hexameter — everything 
you cannot scan in English verse 
is hexameter, just as everything you 
cannot parse in Greek is second 
aorist — ^we have been unable to de- 
termine. We have heard, also, of a 
version of Horace by a professor in 
some Southern university, but this 
we have not seen. Are there any 
others? Mr. E. C. Stedman ten 
years ago printed specimens of a 
projected translation of Theocritus, 
in English hexameters, of consid- 
erable merit; but his reception 
does not seem to have encouraged 
him to go on. And that is all, a 
little Spartan band of four or five 
to oppose to the great host of Brit- 
ish translators from Phaer to Mor- 
ris, The practical mind may feel 
reassured of its country. 

It is true that these English ver- 
sions are often reprinted here ; but 
it is only the chiefs of the army — 
those who shine pre-eminent among 
their fellows, 

** ncut inter ignes 
Luna minores," 

or who are already known to fame 
for triumphs in other fields. Prof. 
Conington made something of a 
critical furor by the bold breaking 
away from rule and precedent in 
his choice of a metre, though Dr. 
Maginn, in his Homeric ballads, 
had given him the hint. In like 
manner our booksellers have re- 
printed and our book-buyers bought 
Mr. Morris* jEneid (we beg his 
pardon — ^neids)^ not because it 
was a new translation of Virgil, but 
because it was a new work of the 



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723 



latent popular poet; just as they 
printed and bought Mr. Bryant's 
Homer because it was the latest 
work of our oldest living poet, as 
they printed and bought Lord 
Derby's Iliad because it was the 
work of a nobleman, and not only 
that, but of a leading European 
statesman, and therefore, in both 
aspects, a very surprising and de- 
sirable thing for our people, who 
have never been used to connect 
that sort of accomplishment with 
the idea they had formed of a no- 
bleman, still less with their notion 
of a statesman. But we did not 
reprint or buy Mr. Worsley's, or 
Prof. Newman's, or Prof. Blackie's, 
or Mr. Wright's Homer ; and even 
if we printed, it is to be feared 
we did not extensively buy, Mr. 
Cranch's jEneid^ although in the 
way of buying English yEneids we 
might have done worse. Why > 
Not, certainly, because any of the 
versions named lacked merit, but 
because they appealed to us on 
their merits simply, without any 
outside helps to popularity, and we 
would none of them. The fact is, 
we do not care in the least for 
Homer or Virgil, and we care a 
great deal for Morris and Bryant — 
that is to say, while they are topics 
of talk ; and it is one of the social 
duties, which persons of culture 
would die almost sooner than fail 
in, to have something, or even noth- 
ing, to say about the ordained sub- 
jects of fashionable gossip. 

But in England it is otherwise. 
There is in that country a large 
class always to be counted on to 
buy any translation of a favorite 
classic which has successfully run 
the gauntlet of the reviews. This 
class is made up of diverse ele- 
ments. First, the translators them- 
selves, who in England form no in- 
considerable percentage of the lite- 



rary public ; for every other gra- 
duate of either university who has 
not been a stroke-oar -1- that is 
honor enough to win or give — 
seems to feel within him a sacred 
void unfilled, a mysterious yearning 
unsatisfied, a clamorous duty un- 
performed, until he has translated 
some classic author in whole or in 
part. Every translator, of course, 
buys the publications of every other 
translator to chuckle over his fail- 
ures or — let us do them justice — 
to applaud heartily and generously 
the happy dexterity which conquers 
a difficult passage. Then, too, even 
scholars who have Homer and Ho- 
race at their fingers* ends, who 
think in Latin and dream in Greek, 
who dare to take liberties with the 
digamma and speak disrespectfully 
of the second aorist — even they to 
whom the best translation of a 
classic is as corked claret or skim- 
milk — may still buy Prof. Coning- 
ton's ^neid or Lord Lytton's Ho- 
race for a better reason than the 
pleasure of finding fault with it. 
They know, none better, that, as 
the former puts it, a translation by 
a competent hand is itself an "em- 
bodied criticism " and commentary; 
and even scholars, after twenty cen- 
turies or so of criticism and com- 
mentary, and even of mutual vitupe- 
ration, have not yet quite made up 
their minds as to the meaning, or at 
least the shades of meaning, straight 
through of any poet of antiquity. 
This is not to say that we have not 
here, too, scholars who might buy 
a translation for the same reason; 
but in neither country, perhaps, are 
there so many as to be much of a 
stand-by in themselves. 

But the mainstay of the English 
translator is that sort of fashionable 
sentiment in favor of classical learn- 
ing necessarily fostered in a coun- 
try where the university is a work- 



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Among the Translators. 



ing element and influence in poli- 
tical, social, and literary life. This 
sentiment is not so powerful or 
wide-spread as it once was; as it 
was, let us say, when a couplet 
made Mr. Addison a secretary of 
state, or a burlesque made Mr. 
Montague a minister and Mr. Prior 
an ambassador — an improvement 
still on the age when Sir Christo- 
pher Hatton danced himself into 
the chancellorship. But it is still 
powerful ; and the university is still 
such a f6rce in English life as it 
never has been, as it probably 
never will be, here. The Oxford 
and Cambridge debating clubs used 
to be regularly looked to, and are 
still, perhaps, now and again beaten 
up, by experienced huntsmen for 
embryo statesmen, much as the 
metropolitan manager will scour 
the provincial stage for an undis- 
covered star. University men edit 
the leading organs of public opin- 
ion ; university men fill the desks 
in Downing Street and the Parlia- 
mentary benches in Westminster 
Hall ; university men yawn day af- 
ter day in the club-windows of Pall 
Mall, and night after night in the 
dancing and supper rooms of Bel- 
gravia — no, not the supper-rooms ; 
that is, perhaps, the one spot of 
the fashionable world where young 
England forgets to yawn. Like 
enough, the learning of many of 
these sages is no deeper than the 
lore of our own pundits from Yale 
and Harvard; and not a few of 
them, no doubt, would be far more 
at home criticising the boat-race 
in the Fifth -^neid (the contestants 
in which they would probably cha- 
racterize, in their delightful idiom, 
as " duffers ") than construing the 
Latin it is told in. Such is the 
proud result of modern university 
education in a free and enlightened 
Anglo-Saxon community. Never- 



theless, though the university may 
not actually give learning, it creates 
a sentiment in favor of learning ; it 
develops almost unconsciously a 
taste for it. One may say that it 
is next to impossible for any man 
to go through college without tak- 
ing in some sense of classical cul- 
ture — through the pores, as it were 
— which shall ever after give him a 
feeling of companionship, a kind 
of Freemasonry, with autiiors he 
could never read. To have lived 
among books, in an atmosphere of 
books, is itself in some sort an edu- 
cation. 

Now, with this feeling for learn- 
ing diffused throughout a great na- 
tion, showing itself in its chief or- 
gans of public opinion, in its selec- 
tion of public officers, and even to 
some extent in its popular elec- 
tions, and centring above all in a 
great city, the headquarters of all 
the social, political, and literary 
activity of the nation — its book- 
making, book-branding, book-buy- 
ing centre — we come to see why 
translations from the classics should 
have more vogue across the water 
than with us. If a cabinet minister 
choose to beguile his leisure by 
turning Aristophanes into English, 
it is but fit that society, before hav- 
ing him in to dinner, should know 
something about it, if only to avoid 
such a slip as is told of Catalani. 
The prima donna was seated, as a 
great compliment, next to Goethe 
at a state dinner, but not knowing 
the divine Wolfgang — or, indeed, 
much of anything but some operatic 
scores — ^gave her mind to the po- 
tage rather than to the poet. A 
friend nudged her : " Why do you 
not talk to M. Goethe ?'* " I don't 
know him, and he's stupid." 
" What ! not know M. Goethe, the 
celebrated author of the Sorroius of 
Werther r " The Sornnvs of Wer- 



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725 



iher ! Ah ! M. Goethe," cried the 
dha with empressement^ turning to 
the great man, "how can I ever 
thank you enough for your charm- 
ing Sorrows of Werther ! I never 
laughed so much at anything in 
my life." She had seen a parody 
of that immortal work in a farce at 
Paris. Here, when our cabinet min- 
ister lets loose his intellectual sur- 
plus on exposures of Popery, so- 
ciety runs no great risk. Every- 
body can talk a little Popery — an 
easier subject, on the whole, to talk 
or write about than Aristophanes ; 
and one knows pretty well what 
our cabinet minister's book is about 
without the fatigue of failing to 
read it. 

Of the feeling we have mention- 
ed the taste for quotation in Par- 
liamentary debate is a good test. 
An apt illustration from Horace or 
Virgil had at one time almost the 
force of an argument. " Pitt," says 
the late Lord Lytton, in the excel- 
lent preface to his unrhymed ver- 
sion of Horace's Odes^ "is said 
never to have more carried away 
the applause of the House of Com- 
mons than when, likening England 
— then engaged in a war tasking all 
her resources — to that image of 
Rome which Horace has placed in 
the mouth of Hannibal, he exclaim- 
ed : 

" * Duris ut ilex toiua bipeimibiu 
Nigne feraci frondis in Algido, 
Per damna, per cosdes, ab ipso 
Ducit opes animumque ferro.' " * 

Pitt, indeed, is famous for such 
felicities. In his speech on resign- 
ing the chancellorship in 1782, af- 
ter claiming " to have used his best 
endeavors to fulfil with integrity 
every official engagement," he con- 

* *' Even as the ilex, lopped by axes rude 

Where, rich with dusky boughs, soars Algidus, 
Tbvoagh loss, through wounds receives 
New gain, new life— yea, from the very steel." 
— Horat. Carm, iv. f, Lord Lytton's Trans. 



tinued : " And with this consolation, 
the loss of power, sir, and the loss of 
fortune, though I affect not to de- 
spise, I trust I shall soon be able 
to forget." 



** Laudo maaenteoi : si celeres quatit 
Pennas, resigno quse dedit . . . 

. . . probamque 
Pauperiem sine dote qusro." * 

Sir Robert Walpole had worse 
luck in attempting a like feat on 
his retirement, made not so grace- 
fully in the shadow of a threatened 
impeachment. 

^' Nil consciie sibi, nuUi palleiceie culps/' t 

he quoted, and was at once taken 
up by his rival, Pulteney, who offer- 
ed to bet him a guinea that the line 
read Nulla pallescere culpa. Wal- 
pole lost, and, tossing the coin to 
Pulteney, the latter, before pocket- 
ing it, held it up to the House with 
the grim remark: "It is the first 
money I have received from the 
treasury for many years, and it 
shall be the last." 

It may well be that there rs less 
of this sort of thing nowadays, when 
Parliamentary illustrations, among 
the younger members at least, seem 
to be drawn more extensively 
from natural history than from an- 
cient poetry. Yet it is but a few 
years since Mr. Gladstone, on going 
out of office, created a sensation in 
his turn by his application of Vir- 
gil's fine line, 

*' Exoriare aliquis nostris ex ossibus ultor." % 



* " Constant I praise her, but resign 
With equal mind her gifts. 
When, swift deserting me and mine. 
Her ready wing she lifts, 
And, wrapped upinntf viriut^ wait 
Fair Poverty's undowered esUte." 

—Horat. Carvi, iii. 39. 
The original of the line italicized Pitt modestly 
omitted. 
t *^ Conscious of no wreng done, no crime to pale 
at remembered." 

—Horat £>. z. i. 

X " Rise £rom our ashes thou unknown, the predes- 
tined avenger.*' 



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We cannot very well imagine a 
leading Congressman summoning 
Horace to enforce his argument, 
say, on the vital necessity to the 
nation of repealing the Seventh 
Commandment until such time as 
his constituents at Podunk can 
get enough of their neighbors* cur- 
rency to make resumption and pa- 
triotism convertible terms. Not 
only would he be doubtful of being 
understood, but he would be awed 
by that practical-minded public 
opinion at home which severely 
discourages in its chosen represen- 
tatives such frivolities as unknown 
tongues. He would sec behind 
the Speaker's desk the grim phan- 
tom of the honest Granger transfix- 
ing him with a spectral finger, and 
asking him in hollow tones if he 
was sent to Congress tro talk gib- 
berish or to get that little appro- 
priation ; he would see the still 
more appalling phantom of the lo- 
cal editor grimly sharpening his 
quill and squaring himself for an- 
other of those savagely sarcastic 
articles about our erudite Congress- 
man, who spends his time — the time 
we pay for, etc. — muddling his 
brains — the few brains, etc. — over 
obsolete rubbish in the Congressional 
Library, while he neglects his con- 
stituents* interests and allows that 
little bill, etc., etc. He sees all 
this, and, instead of Horace, he 
quotes Josh Billings, and everybody 
is satisfied. 

Now, this is not meant to the 
dispraise of either the Congressman 
or his constituents, but only to 
show that here political is divided 
from literary life in a way quite un- 
known in England. The scholar 
in politics is a fond illusion of 
youthful enthusiasm. Our politi- 
cians do not write; our literary 
folks do not go to Congress. A 
stray editor, to be sure, now and 



then gets in, tumbling over, as it 
were, from the Reporters* Gallery, 
or a flourish is made of sending 
Mr. Motley or Prof. Lowell minis- 
ter to some foreign court ; but these 
are spasmodic exceptions, and usu- 
ally result in a way to confirm the 
rule. We have no counterparts to 
Disraeli, or Gladstone, or Mr. Lowe, 
or Sir George Cornewall Lewis, or 
the Duke of Argyle. Perhaps, how- 
ever, a new era is dawning with the 
present Secretary of the Navy, who 
spells his literature with a " P.'* 

We have said enough — the read- 
er may think more than enough — 
to show why translations from the 
classics should flourish better in 
England than here, and also, by im- 
plication at least, why of all classic 
authors, with the one exception of 
Homer, Horace and Virgil should 
most have taken the translators' 
attention. From one or other of 
these are all the Parliamentary 
quotations we have given; and it 
is indeed, we believe, considered 
what our English friends call ^' bad 
form " to quote in debate any 
other Latin or Greek. The cause 
of tins popularity it is easy to see. 
Horace and Virgil, in the usual 
college curriculum, are put into 
the student's hands just as he has 
got over his initial struggles with 
the language, and his mind is a 
little freed to feel some of the 
beauties as well as the difficulties 
of the author — to know that the rose 
has fragrance as well as thorns. 
Homer, on the contrary, from his 
comparative ease, comes much ear- 
lier in the Greek course, and be- 
comes so much the more distasteful 
to the learner as Greek is harder 
than Latin; its very letters are 
aliens to his eyes, its alphabet is a 
place of briers and brambles. It is 
hard to get over these early dis- 
likes. St. Augustine confesses a 



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hatred for Homer thus implanted 
in his school-days which he could 
never overcome, while he declares 
Virgil to be the greatest and most 
glorious of poets — a censure echoed 
by Voltaire, who pronounced the 
^neidy le plus beau monument qui 
nous reste de toute Vantiquit^^ and as- 
serts that if Homer produced Vir- 
gil, it was his finest work. 

Both in Virgil and Horace there 
is much to captivate a youthful 
mind and everything to keep the 
affections won. The story of the 
yEneid is not only full of life and 
color and motion, with plenty of 
Ughting, which all boys love of 
course, but, despite its later-discov- 
ered want of a reasonable hero or 
heroine, its episodes — the Trojan 
horse and the sharp street-fight in 
fallen Ilium, the mysterious jour- 
ney through the shades under a 
spectral moon, the races in the 
Fifth Book, the midnight scout of 
Nisus and Euryalus, the plucky 
young lulus fleshing his maiden 
shafts at the siege in Book Ninth, 
the gallant onset and tragic fate of 
the young champions Lausus and 
Pallas — all are apt to take the boy- 
ish imagination ; and in older 
years the haunting melody of the 
verse, the pensive grace that suf- 
fuses the telling of the story, renew 
and rivet the early charm. 

Horace, too, is full of matter that 
even boyhood can taste and man- 
hood never tires of. The lovely bits 
of rural landscape scattered like so 
many cabinet pictures through the 
odes — the sweltering cattle stand- 
ing knee-deep under the oak- 
boughs in the pool of Bandusia, 
the bickering, pine-arched riyulet 
by whose side Dellius takes his 
nooning; the sunny slopes of Lu- 
cretilis dotted with sheep ; the ro- 
mantic beauty of the Happy Isles 
— do we not all recall the delight 



we felt when these enchanting lit- 
tle sketches first smiled on us 
from the weary drudgery of Taci- 
tus and Thucydides like vistas of 
fresh meadow and woodland and 
cascade caught by the wayfarer 
from the hot and dusty highway ? 
We did not so well relish then, 
in that out- door time of life, the 
warm little interiors that contrast 
and set off these : the glowing fire- 
side piled high with logs, made mer- 
ry with old Falernian, and laugh 
and joke and friendly talk, while 
the rain beats upon the roof and 
the snow whirls about Soracte, and, 
drawing closer to the cheery blaze, 
we hug ourselves in the " tumultu- 
ous privacy of storm " ; the jolly 
dinner-parties, where we help to 
quiz Quinctius for his gravity or 
chaff that harebrain Telephus out 
of his affectation pf wisdom; the 
more sober feasts with Maecenas 
or Virgil at the little Sabine Farm 
— ^but these, too, we soon get to 
know, and linger over them with 
fond familiarity. Then, too, we 
win to the secret of that genial 
though pagan philosophy which 
comes home to the " business and 
bosoms" of all of us, and whose 
precepts are so pithily expressed 
we cannot forget them if we would : 
that there is a time when folly is 
the truest wisdom; that he alone 
is happy who is content with little ; 
that a wise man takes care of the 
present and lets the future take 
care of itself, because, as Cowley 
puts it, 

*' When to future yean thou extend^st thy cares. 
Thou dealest in other men's affkirt" ; 

that we must pluck the blossom of 
to-day, or we may never have a 
chance at the morrow's. 

** Gather ye rosebuds while ye may. 
Old Time is still a-flying/* 

says Herrick, a later Horace. As 



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we grow older and graver his sym- 
pathetic companionship keeps pace 
with us still, and in his deeper 
tones there are hints which even 
Christian civilization need not dis- 
dain to add to its scheme of a lofty 
and noble life. 

So it is that England for three 
centuries back — indeed, ever since 
she began to have a literature to 
house them in — has been trying to 
naturalize and domesticate these 
Roman poets. In this, however, 
Virgil had nearly a century the 
start of Horace, owing, no doubt, to 
the nature of his great work, which 
appealed to the romantic impulses 
of that early time. Indeed, long 
before either the ^neidox the Iliad 
was generally known in Europe, the 
stories of both had been made over 
into the form of romances : the 
former by Guillaume de Roy in 
French, the latter by Guido de 
Colonna in Spanish. De Roy's 
Livre d'Eneidos, translated into 
English and printed by Caxton, '' no 
more resembles Virgil," cries the 
good Bishop of Dunkeld wrathfully, 
"than the devil does St. Austin." 
It was probably to clear the fair 
fame of his beloved poet that the 
bishop brought out his own quaint 
and spirited Scotch version in 15 13. 
The first complete English transla- 
tion came out in 1558 ; but in the 
previous year appeared the Second 
and Fourth Books, done into blank 
verse by the Earl of Surrey, nota- 
ble as the first-known blank verse in 
the language, unless we are to take 
as such the unrhymed, alliterative 
metre used by Lon gland in The 
Vision of Piers Ploughman. It is 
thought to have been Surrey's de- 
sign, had he lived, to translate the 
remaining books. Had he done so, 
he would have added an ornament 
to our literature. 

As it is, the distinction of giving 



the first full translation of the 
u£neid to the language rests with 
a Welshman — Dr. Thomas Phaer. 
He himself, however, did only the 
first nine books and part of the 
Tenth ; when dying, the work was 
taken in hand and finished, with the 
Thirteenth or supplementary book of 
Maffeo Veggio, by another physi- 
cian. Dr. Thomas Twynne. Eng- 
lish doctors then and afterwards 
seem to have had a propension to- 
wards the Muse. Dr. Borde, Dr. 
Thomas Campion (" Sweet Master 
Campion"), and Dr. Thomas Lodge 
— they seem to have had a propen- 
sity to be named Thomas also — 
were only the first of a long line of 
tuneful leeches, ending with our 
own Drs. Holmes and Joyce. Is 
there any occult connection be- 
tween physic and Parnassus, be- 
tween rhyme and rhubarb, between 
poetry and pills? and is Castaly a 
medicinal spring ? Phaer's version, 
which is printed in black-letter, is 
in rhymed fourteen-syllable verse, 
or "long Alexandrines" — z. metre 
which Chapman afterwards took 
for his Homer, and to which Mr. 
Morris, the latest translator of the 
uEneid^ has reverted. 

The long Alexandrine has per- 
haps as much right as any to be 
called the English national metre 
in the sense in which we call the 
Saturnian verse the national metre 
of the Latins. Chaucer took his 
heroic couplet from the Italian or 
French, and Surrey, no doubt, had 
from the same source, or perhaps 
the Spanish, the hint for his blank 
verse. A curious parallel might be 
drawn between Surrey and Ennius, 
who, like him, introduced a new or 
"strange metre — ^the Greek hexame- 
ter — and, like him, by doing so re- 
volutionized the versification of his 
country. Another point in common 
is that each has been reproached 



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for his action. Ascliani impliedly 
finds fault witli Surrey because 
he did not choose hexameters or 
unrhymed Alexandrines instead 
of his unrhymed verse of ten or 
eleven syllables; and certain of 
those dreadful German scholars, 
who know everything and a few 
things besides, assure us that Enni- 
us dealt a fatal blow to Latin po- 
etry when he foisted on it a me- 
tre unsuited to its genius. One 
can hardly help speculating on the 
result had Virgil had to content 
himself with the horridus numerus 
Safurnius as the vehicle of his ten- 
derness and elegance, or if Hamlet 
had had to soliloquize in the metre 
of Sternhold and Hopkins. Would 
the rude instrument have cramped 
the player, or would the genius of 
the player have elevated the instru- 
ment ? As Macaulay points out, 
the old nursery line, 

*" * The queen is in her parlor eating bread and 
honey," 

is a perfect Saturn ian verse on Te- 
rence's model : 

'' DflbuntmUumMet«m Naevl6 pd€t«B." 

How would Mr. Gladstone's men- 
ace, 

** Ezoriare aKquis nostris ex oatibtu ultor/* 

have sounded in that shape? 
Should we recognize, do you think, 
those 

'* Daffodils 
That come before the swallow dares, and take 
The winds of Match with beaaty," 

done up in long Alexandrines or 
in such hexameters as those of 
Master Abraham Fraunce, which 
moved Ben Jonson to dub him a 
fool: 

** Now had fiery Phlegon his dayes revolation end* 

ed. 
And his snoring snout with salt waves all tobe- 

washed/' 

or even in Sidney's or Spenser's, 
which were, in truth, little better } 



No doubt Virgil and Shakspere, be- 
ing great poets, would have subdued 
what they worked in to their own 
artistic uses. Yet all the same let 
us be thankful to the humbler arti- 
sans who furnished to their hands 
pipes fit for them to play on, and to 
make such music as the world shall 
never tire of hearing. It should 
be added that the likeness between 
the English and the Latin reformer 
does not extend to the degree of 
refinement attained by each. In 
this respect Surrey is much the 
more advanced. Ennius never 
got over the barbarism of excessive 
alliteration which seems to mark 
the early metrical efforts of all 
peoples. 

" Sicut si quando vincleis venatica velox *'; 
** Sicut fortis equus spatio qui forte supremo '*; 
** Qua! neque Dardanois campcb potuere perire 
Nee cum capta capeif ncc cum combusta cremari." 

The last passage Virgil copied, as 
he did many others, «n.nd it is in- 
structive to see how his more pol- 
ished taste tones down his prede- 
cessor's jingle : 

** Num Sigmis occumbere campis. 
Num capti potuere capi ? num inoensa cremavit 
Trqjaviros?" • 

Surrey's blank verse has the 
quaintness of his age, but not its 
defects of taste. Martial, writing 
about two centuries after Ennius, 
sneers at him, much as Ennius 
had sneered at his predecessor, 
Nsevius — he who lamented that 
Latin poetry was to die with him ! 

*' Eonius est Icctus, salvo tibt Roma Maxone." t 

Pope, writing nearly the same 
length of time after Surrey, has 
only praise for him : " Surrey, the 

• '' Was there no dead man's place for you on that 

Sigeian plain ? 
Had ye no might to wend as slaves ? Gave Troy 

so poor aflame 
To bum her men . . . ?" 

^Mwidy vii. 994 seq., Morris* Trans, p. 175. 
t ** And Rome reads Ennius while ViigU lives 1" 



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Grenville of a former age" — ^at 
least, Pope meant it for praise. 

To return to Phaer. It may be of 
interest to the reader to contrast the 
manner of the earliest and latest 
English translators of the j£neid, 
Venus* admonition to ^neas (ii. 
607) is thus given by the Welsh 
doctor : 



*^ Then to thy parent's hest take heedci dread not, 

my mind obey : 
In yonder place where ttones finom stones and bild* 

ingi huge to sway 
Thou seest, and mixt with dust and smoke thicke 

stremes of redungs rise, 
Himselfe the god Neptune that side doth fume in 

wonden wise ; 
Withforke three tiade the wall ypvoocs, foundations 

allto shakes : 
And qvite from ynder soile Che towne, with ground- 
works all uprskes. 
On yonder side with Furies most, dame Juno fiercely 

stands, 
The gates she keeps, and from the ships the Greekes , 

her friendly bands. 
In armour girt she caUes. 
Lo 1 there againe where Pallas sits, on Ibrtes and 

castle- towres. 
With Gorgon's eyes, in lightning doudes enclosed, 

grim she lowres, 
The father-god himself to Greekes their mightes 

and courage stares, 
Himselfe against the Tioyan blood both gods and 

armour reres. 
Betake thee to thy flight, my sonne, thy labouit' 

ende procure, 
I will thee never faile, but thee to resting-place 



She said, and throus^ ^^ darke night shade her- 

selfe she drew from sight ; 
Appeare the grisly faces then, Troyes ea'mies vgly 

dight." 

Mr. Morris gives it thus : 

" And look to it no note afeoid to be 
Of what I bid, nor evermore thy mother's word dis- 
own. 
There where thou seest the great walls cleft and 

stone turn off from stone. 
And seest the waves of smoke go by with mingled 

dust-ckmd rolled. 
There Neptune shakes the walls and stirs the 

foundings from their hold 
With mighty trident, tumbling down the city from 

its base. 
There by the Scsean gates again hath bitter Juno 

place 
The first of all, and wild and mad, heiself begirt 

with steel, 
Calls up her fellows from the ships. 
Look back I Tritonian Pallas broods o'er topmost 

barg on high. 
All flashing bright with Gorgon giim from out her 

stormy sky ; 
The very Father hearteneth on, and stays with 

happy might 
The Danaans, crying on the gods against the Dar- 

dan fight. 



Snatch flight, O son, whiles yet thon mayst, and 

let thy toil be o'er; 
I by thy side will bring thfse safe onto thy Csther's 

door. 

** She spake, and hid henelf away where thickest 

darkness poured. 
Then dreadful images show forth, great godheads 

are abroad, 
The very haters of our Troy." 

The half-lines respond to the im- 
perfect verses in Virgil, which, in the 
fashion of the Chinese tailor, both 
Mr. Morris and his forerunner con- 
scientiously copy. Phaer has other 
oddities, such as " Sy bly " for Sibylla, 
" lymbo " for Hades, " Dei Phobus " 
for Deiphobus,and **Duke .^neas "; 
while every book is wound up with 
a Deo Gratins by way of colophon. 
Let us hope it was not too fervent- 
ly echoed by his readers. Indeed, 
Phaer's version is better than its 
fame. 

"After the associated labors of 
Phaer and Twynne," says Warton in 
his History of English Poetry^ " it 
is hard to say what could induce 
Richard Stanihurst, a native of 
Dublin, to translate the first four 
books of the ^ruid into English 
hexameters." The remark shows 
less than the wonted perspicuity 
of the historian of English poetry. 
What induces any translation, ex- 
cept the belief (the fond belief!) 
that the work it aims to do has not 
yet been done ? Master Stanihurst, 
like many other learned men then 
and since, was firmly persuaded that 
the hexameter was your only measure 
for a translation of Virgil. But there 
are hexameters and hexameters, and 
Master Stanihurst's were unluckily 
of the other sort. A poet who pro- 
claims his intention to "chaunt man- 
hood and Garboiles," and gives us 

'* With tentive list'ning each wight was settled b 
hark*ning" 

for 



** Conticuere omnes intentique ora tenebant," 



or 



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" You bid me, 6 princesse, to icarifie a festered old 
sore" 

as an equivalent for 

" Infiudum, regina, jabes renovaie dolorein," 

must be content with " audience 
fit though few." Sir Philip Sidney 
and Gabriel Harvey and a few other 
choice spirits, all bitten with the 
same flea, patted poor Stanihurst 
on the back and told him that what 
Nash called " his [and their] foul, 
lumbring, boisterous, wallowing mea- 
sures " had ** enriched and polished 
their native tongue." But the rest 
of the world laughed with Nash, and 
may still for that matter; for Stani- 
hurst's version is full of conceits even 
droller than Phaer's. " Bedlamite 
ioT furiatd mente^ " Dandiprat hop- 
thumb " ioxparvuiusy Jupiter " buss- 
ing his pretty, prating parrot " — />., 
Venus — and Priam girding on his 
sword Morglay, are some of them. 
The last shows how the glamour of 
the Gothic romances,in which Virgil 
figured sometimes as a magician — 
the Sortes Virgiliana long outlived 
their origin — still hung about even 
the learned, of whom Stanihurst 
was indisputably one — *' eruditissi- 
nnis ille nobilis " Camden calls him. 
It may be interesting to add that 
he was a Catholic, a friend of Cam- 
pion the martyr, and died in exile 
because of it. 

Stanihurst seems to have played 
the part of horrible example to all 
after-translators ; for although Sur- 
rey's metre has been repeatedly used, 
and Phaer's of late by Mr. Mor- 
ris, and we might add by Prof. 
Conington (for his octosyllabic verse 
is but a variation of the Alexandrine, 
which skipped capriciously from 
twelve syllables to sixteen*), the 
hexameter has never again, so far as 
we know, been applied to rendering 
the yEneid. Yet the measure which 

♦ See Warton, HUt. B. P, sec. l 



in English goes by that name seems 
far better adapted, ^or^ Mr. Arnold, 
to the pensive grace of Virgil tlian to 
the grave majesty of Homer. It may 
be true, as scholars contend, that it 
by no means reproduces the effect of 
the Greek or Roman hexameter, and 
it may be equally true, as other 
scholars tell us, that we have no 
conception of what was the effect of 
the Greek or Roman hexameter on 
the Greek or Roman ear — though 
the second objection might, in mali- 
cious hands, prove an embarrassment 
for the first Yet as we read Homer 
and Virgil there is no doubt that 
hexameters can be — indeed, that 
such have been — constructed which 
do go far to reproduce the effect of 
Homer and Virgil, according to the 
modern reading, upon the modem 
ear. Grant that this is an entirely 
wrong effect ; that either Homer or 
Virgil, hearing his verses read in 
modern fashion, would be sure to 
clap hands to ear, and cry out in 
an agony with Martial : 

'* Quem redtas, meus est, O Fidentine, libeHus ; 
Sed male cam recitas, indpit esse tutis^'; * 

it is yet the only effect we are ever 
likely to get until the day of judg- 
ment ; and what are you going to do 
about it? Of course it is hopeless 
to try to imitate Homer's sonorous 
harmonies — the xaXd rd 'OfArfpov 
inrfy as Maximus Tyrius calls 
them, the lovely Homeric words 
— the n6Kv€pKoiiS fioio ^akdtSiSri^ 
and dpyvpioio fiioio. It is not 
in ours or any other tongue 
but Homer's own to do it. But 
Mr. Arnold has shown that we can 
imitate afar off his rhythm and me- 
trical effect, and why should we 
not do that ? If anybody can give 
us hexameters that please the Enj?- 

* " My piece yoa*ve been spouting ! I ne*er should 

have known : 
Next time, if you love me, do say it*s your own.*' 
—Mart. E^fgr, i. 39. 



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lish ear and make it fancy, without 
being conscious of too much elonga- 
tion, that it is listening to the faint- 
est echo of Homer's mighty lyre or 
Virgil's silver string, why, let us 
have them, prithee, and a fico for 
the grammarians. 

In this desultory review of Virgil- 
ian translators we mean to confine 
ourselves to the j£neid ; but we 
may say in passing that the ^- 
/(t?^i^^ were, about 1587, put intoun- 
rhymed Alexandrines by Abraham 
Fleming, who thus nearly anticipat- 
ed the metre Prof. Newman, after 
much experimenting, hit on as the 
proper one to render Homer, and 
which, as Prof. Marsh says, has the 
disadvantage (or the merit?) to 
American ears of suggesting our 
own epic strain of Yankee Doodle. 
Fleming, however, as will be seen 
from the following quotation, taken 
from the beginning of his Fourth 
Eclogue, only dropped into our 
national music occasionally : 

« * O Muses of Sicilian ile, let's greater matters nnge I 
Shrubs, groves, and bushes lowe delight and please 

not every man. 
If we do sioge of woods, the woods be worthy of a 



While Virgil was thus engrossing 
the attention of Elizabethan schol- 
ars Horace lay comparatively neg- 
lected, although it was an era of 
translation, as transitional periods in 
the literature of a country are apt 
to be. Nearly all the Latin poets 
then extant were done into English 
before the beginning of the sev- 
enteenth century, and the Greek 
series began sonorously with Chap- 
man's Homer soon after. Even 
that most perfect of all actual or 
possible poets, as her courtiers call- 
ed her — Queen Elizabeth — tried her 
hand at it in a translation of part 
of the Hercules CEteus of Seneca. 
But no complete version of Horace 
seems to have appeared prior to 
Creech's towards the end of the 



seventeenth century. In 1567, 
however, Thomas Drant published 
Horace, his Arte of Poetrie, Pistles, 
and Satyres Englished, In his pre- 
face is one quaint remark, to the 
truth of which all Horatians will 
bear witness : " Neyther any man 
which can judge can judge it one 
and the like laboure to translate 
Horace and to make and translate 
a love booke, a shril tragedie, or 
a smooth and platleuyled poesy e. 
Thys I can truly say, of myne owne 
experyence, that I can sooner trans- 
late twelve verses out of the Greeke 
Homer than sixe out of Horace." 

The first version of the Odes was 
that of Sir Thomas Hawkins, about 
1630. This, though it seems to 
have been popular enough to go 
through several editions, was far 
from complete, the lighter odes 
being omitted as being " too wanton 
and loose." Our own edition, which 
is the fourth, dated 1638, contains 
about two-thirds of the odes and 
epodes. Here and there we find a 
tolerably good verse : 

" What man, what hero [Clio] wilt thou raise 
With shrillest pipe or Lyra's softer lays ? 
What god whose name in sportive straine 
Echo will chaunt thee back againe ?" * 

This will compare not too disad- 
vantageously with the latest ver- 
sion — Lord Lytton's — which, in- 
deed, is not especially good : 

** What man, what hero, or what god select'st thou, 
Theme for sweet lyre or fife sonorous, Clio, 
Whose honored name shall that gay sprite-vmcc. 
Echo, 
Hymn back reboxmding ?*^ 

As a rule, however, Sir Thomas is 
stiff— a fault common to almost all 
translations of the easiest of lyrists 
up to a much later period. Yet in 
this century there were many ver- 
sions of single odes, epistles, and 
satires, some of which have scarcely 
ever been surpassed. Such, for in- 

^ Carm, i. la. 



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stance, were Ben Jonson's rendering 
of Ode IV. \yAd Venerem^ and Mil- 
ton's of I. 5, Ad Pyrrhunt^ severally 
included by Mr. Theodore Martin 
and Lord Lytton in their respec- 
tive versions as beyond their skill 
to better ; Dryden's fine paraphrase 
of III. 29, To Macenasy which Mr. 
Martin, non sordidus auctor^ pro- 
nounces finer than the original ; and, 
on a lower plane, however, Roscom- 
mon's version of the Art of Poetry^ 
Of these, Milton *s has been said to 
touch the high-water mark of trans- 
lation, and is indeed very elegant 
and close. 

Ben Jonson's set translations are 
often injured by a rigid strictness 
which Horace might have warned 
him against : 

'* Nee verbam verbo curabb reddere, fidus 
Interpres," • 

and which evoked Dryden's protest 
against " the jaw-breaking transla- 
tions of Ben Jonson." Yet even in 
fetters he danced better than most ; 
and some of his translations, nota- 
bly the one mentioned above and 
one of Martial, Liber^ amicorum 
dulcissima cur a iuorum^ it would be 
hard to pick flaws in. 

In Jonson's day, however, there 
was no mean between word-for- 
word rendering and the loosest 
paraphrase, until Denham laid 
down something like the true rule 
in his verses to Fanshawe on the 
latter's translation of Guarini : 

" That servile path thou nobly dost decline 
Of tracing word for word and line for line. . . . 
A new and nobler way thou dost pursue 
To make translations, and translators too. 
They but preserve the ashes, thou the flame, 
True to his sense, but truer to his fame." 

Cowley, who translated largely 
from Horace, runs to the opposite 
extreme from Jonson : his Versions 
are as much too free as Jonson's 



* *^Nor word for word translate with painful care." 
— Horat. DiArte PpiU^ Frands* Trans. 



are too close. Yet some of his 
single lines are unmatched for fe- 
licity and force : 

*^ Hence ye profane. I hate ye all. 
Both the great vulgar and the small " 

(a phrase which has passed into a 
proverb) for Odi profanum vulgus 
et arceo j " The poor rich man's 
emphatically poor " for Magnas in- 
ter opes inops ; "From his toucht 
mouth the wanton torment slips " 
for Fugieniia capiat Flumina ; 
and, best of all, perhaps, "He 
loves of homely littleness the 
ease ** for Martial's Sordidaque in 
parvisotia rebus amet — which shows 
how a deft translator can, without 
leaving his original, breathe into it, 
so to speak, a beauty it scarcely 
had — such lines as these make 
us regret either that Cowley did not 
translate more or that he was un- 
able to transfer to his own poetry 
more of the same simple elegance of 
thought and word. 

All of Cowley's contemporaries 
were not so happy, however, as he 
in their attempts to better Horace, 
though many tried it. One of 
them, Sir Edward Sherburne, claps 
a periwig on Mt. Soracte : * 

" Seest thou not how Soracte^s head 
(For all his height) stands covered 
With a white periwig of snow, 
While the lalxning woods below 
Are hardly able to sustain 
The weight of winter*s feathered rain ?" 

He had evidently been reading and, 
with Dryden, admiring Sylvester's 
Du Bartas : 

** And when the winter's keener breath began 
To crystallize the Baltic Ocean, 
To glaze the lake, to bridle up the floods. 
And periwig with snow the bald-pate woods.*' 

The conceited style then in 
vogue was not well fitted to do jus- 
tice to Horace's simplex mundiiiisy 



• Horat. Carm, i. 9. One of the best versions of 
this ode is that of Allan Ramsay, in the Scotch 
dialect. ^_^ 



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Among the Translators. 



although he was now universally 
read and esteemed — "The next 
best poet in the world to Virgil," 
Cowley calls him — and has left the 
mark of his genial influence on all 
the writers of the time. One finds 
the Horatian sentiment running 
like a golden thread through the 
minor poetry of James and Cliarles 
I., at times informing whole poems 
with a pithiness of phrase and a 
dignity which Horace might call 
his own. Such are Marvcll's ode 
on The Return of Cromwell^ such 
Shirley's " The glories of our blood 
and state " and " Victorious men 
of earth, no more " — all three 
among the finest productions of 
their kind in the language. 

After the Restoration the busi- 
ness of translation was resumed 
with vigor. Dryden in his Virgil, 
and, somewhat later, Pope in his 
Homer, set a fresh model which was 
followed by all their successors un- 
til Cowper's Miltonic Iliad came 
to break the spell and pave the way 
to the modern style, which aims 
to combine freedom with fidelity, 
ease of manner with correctness of 
meaning, and so far as possible to 
reproduce the author himself, form 
as well as matter. Creech's Horace 
was hardly a success, being stiff and 
ungainly without being particular- 
ly close, and, while showing in its 
metre some sense of the poet's 



rhythmical grace, scarcely attempt- 
ed to render the characteristic de- 
licacy of his wording — that curiosa 
felicitas we all have heard of. In 
this — and indeed in every — respect 
the version of Dr. Francis, which 
came out about half a century later, 
was greatly superior as a whole to 
any previous one, and took with 
Horatians a position the best of 
its successors has found it hard to 
shake. Indeed, with such of the 
poet's lovers as date from the gold- 
en age of Consul Plancus, Francis 
is still the paramount favorite, and 
you will talk to them in vain of the 
merits of Robinson or Lytton, of 
Conington's fluent ease or Martin's 
sprightly grace. Francis is in the 
main faithful, generally pleasing, 
and always respectable at least, but. 
like most of his rivals, he lacks 
a certain lightness of touch, an 
airy gayety of treatment in the mi- 
nor odes which no one, we think, has 
hit off so well as Mr. Theodore 
Martin. They are, as that accom- 
plished writer says, in many in- 
stances what would be called now 
vers de societ/^ and their chief value 
rests in the poet's inimitable charm 
of manner. Unless some notion of 
this can be given, the translator's 
labor is lost, and he offers his 
readers but a withered posy from 
which color and perfume alike are 
fled. 



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ALBA'S DREAM. 

BY THK AUTHOR OF *' AKS YOU MY W1F« ?" " A SALOK IN PARIS BBFORB THB WAR," ETC. 
PART HI. 



GoNDRiAC had seen many strange 
things come to pass of late years : 
stupendous things, as when M. le 
Marquis climbed up the cliff like a 
common man to condole with old 
Caboff; wonderful things, as when 
M. le Marquis was rescued by old 
Caboff in the storm ; tragic things, 
as when he went forth and died in 
the place of young Caboff; but 
nothing so untoward as this had 
ever happened at Gondriac before : 
M. le Marquis was going to marry 
Alba. The wonder was both les- 
sened and heightened by the ro- 
mantic story concerning Alba's 
birth, which was spread through 
the village simultaneously with the 
announcement. The fatherless girl, 
who had owned no name but Alba, 
was the daughter of a nobleman, 
who had been affianced by his 
family to a great heiress, but who 
fell in love with a penniless or- 
phan and married her secretly; a 
few months after his marriage he 
was ordered off to Egypt with Bo- 
naparte and was killed in his first 
engagement. The young wife lived 
to give birth to her child, and then 
died, leaving it to the care of an 
old friend of her mother, a child- 
less widow, whom the Revolution 
had ruined, and who now gained 
her bread by needlework. Virginie 
accepted the charge, and adopted 
as her own the little one, whose 
sole provision was a pittance which 
the father had been able to secure 
to his wife as a dower. Her heart, 
hungering for some one on whom 
to lavish its great capacity for lov- 



ing, bestowed upon the baby more 
than a mother's tenderness ; she 
loved it with a love that seemed to 
gather up into one passion all the 
loves that a woman's heart can 
hold. She left the shelter of her 
native place, where all had known 
her from her childhood, and where, 
in spite of her poverty, she held her 
head high, and went to live at Gon- 
driac, where no old familiar face 
would smile upon her, but where 
hfer secret would be secure, and 
none would know that she was not 
Alba's mother. This was the story 
she told Hermann when he asked 
her for Alba's hand. 

" I thought to let the secret die 
with me," she said, " and that the 
child might have loved me to the 
end as her own mother; but now 
she must hear the truth. To me she 
will always be my child, my very 
own — as truly mine as if I had given 
her birth." 

" Let her know nothing until she 
is my wife, and then I will break it 
to her," replied the young lord; 
** and I doubt but she will love you 
more dearly still when she learns 
the truth." 

Alba was very happy — so happy 
at times that it was more than she 
could bear ; she would often heave 
great sighs for very bliss as she sat 
upon the rocks, her hand clasped 
in Hermann's. 

"Why do you sigh, my Alba.?" 
he asked her once reproachfully. 
" Are you afraid I shall not make 
you happy ?" 

" I am afraid of being too hap- 



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Albas Dream. 



py; I ana so happy now that I 
could die of it. And by and by, 
when I am your wife, and you will 
never leave me, and that all I used 
to long for when I believed in fair- 
ies shall be mine — I feel as if the 
joy of it must kill me. Hermann, 
we will try to be very good to- 
gether, will we not? We will do 
our best to make everybody good 
and happy. There shall be no 
poor people here, and when they 
are sick we will have a good doc- 
tor to come and take care of them, 
and I will go and nurse them my- 
self. I hope they will all love me. 
Do you think they will } Some- 
times I am frightened lest they 
shouldn't care for me any more 
when I am a great lady, living in a 
castle." 

** You foolish child ! They will 
care ten times more for you then," 
said Hermann, " because you will 
be able to do so much for them." 
Then, looking at her with a smile 
at once tender and suspicious, 
" What a greedy little thing it is for 
Jove!" he said. "You can't care 
for me as I do for you, Alba, or 
else my love would be enough for 
you; I don't long for anybody's 
love but yours." 

" It is not so much that as that 
1 long to make them happy," ex- 
plained Alba ; " and how can I do 
that until I can make them love 
me.?" 

They quarrelled over this phi- 
losophy of hers, and then made 
plans for the future. 

" You will take me to see all the 
beautiful places you have told me 
of, will you not.**" said Alba. 

" I will take you round the world, 
if you like it — that is, if you don't 
get tired of it before we are half 
way." 

'* Tired! with you? I should 
never be tired — never, never, ne- 



ver." She repeated the word in a 
low voice, as if speaking to herself, 
while looking dreamily out over 
the sea, where a ship, with her 
white sails set, was drifting away 
into the sunset. 

" Where shall we go to first ?" 
said Hermann. 

" To Egypt, I think ; or perhaps 
to Italy — I am dying to see the 
city with the streets of water, and 
Spain* where the palaces grow, and 
Moorish temples; but let us go 
first of all to Germany and see the 
countries where you won the bat- 
tles. I should like that best. O 
Hermann, Hermann ! how happy we 
shall be." And then, as if her 
heart were overfull of joy, she be- 
gan to sing. Hermann liked this 
better. Those silent, rapturous 
moods sometimes frightened him, 
as if they were a demand for some- 
thing that he could not give. M. 
de Gondriac was as much in love 
as a man could be, and so far he 
would have no difficulty in making 
his wife's happiness his chief con- 
cern ; but he was quite aware that 
this was not to be achieved by the 
usual commonplace means. Some- 
thing more than ordinary love, let 
it be ever so tender and chivalrous, 
was needed to satisfy the cravings 
of a heart like A 1 ba's. She worship- 
ped him as the noblest of men ; and 
it was no easy thing to realize this 
ideal. Would he be able to achieve 
it, to live up to her exalted stan- 
dard through the coming years, 
when the glamour of young love's 
idealizing mists should have cleared 
away, and his wife would be at lei- 
sure to observe him with her clear, 
intelligent eyes ? 

But a cloud was gathering over 
these sunny days of courtship. M. 
de Gondriac was summoned to Pa- 
ris by the chief of tlie War OflBce. 
The call, of course, brooked no de- 



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Albans Dream. 



7Z7 



lay. His arm, though nearly heal- 
ed, still incapacitated him from 
joining his regiment; but he must 
go in person and certify to this. 
Though they might admit him un- 
fit for active service, he might be 
retained in attendance on the em- 
peror; Bonaparte liked to have 
high-sounding names upon his per- 
sonal staff. But Hermann would 
not alarm Alba by suggesting this 
possibility. They parted in sweet 
sorrow, looking forward to meeting 
soon again. 

Alas ! is it a decree of fate that 
the course of true love never shall 
run smooth ? Are poets, prophets, 
or do the loves of all humanity con- 
spire to make their voice an oracle ? 
The days went by, and Alba wait- 
ed ; but Hermann neither came nor 
wrote, and they could get no tid- 
ings of him. Had he been ordered 
to the frontier, in spite of his dis- 
abled arm, and killed or taken pri- 
soner ? Doubts crowded upon Al- 
ba's lieart until they almost stopped 
its pulses. But Virginie feared 
even worse than this, and, if her 
fears were true, there was no com- 
fort in store. M. de Gondriac had 
felt strong enough to brave the em- 
peror's displeasure at a distance ; 
but how when he stood face to face 
with it, with the power of that mag- 
netic will, with the ridicule of his 
equals, with the blandishments of 
refined court ladies 1 Was his love 
of the metal to challenge these an- 
tagonistic forces and prevail ? 

Spring passed, and summer, and 
now it was harvest-time ; the reap- 
ers waded through the yellow fields, 
tlie sickle was singing in the corn, 
the grapes hung heavy on the vine. 
But no news came from Hermann. 
Alba pined and drooped, and at 
last fell ill. The doctor came from 

X and saw her, and said that 

it would be nothing ; it was weak- 
VOL. XXV. — 46 



ness and oppression on the heart ; 
she wanted care and nourishment. 
But no care revived her. She grew 
weaker and weaker, and the low 
fever came. And there was no 
strength left to battle with it. But 
Virginie would not see the danger ; 
when the neighbors came for news, 
she would answer, with a smile on 
her wan face : " Thank God ! no 
worse. The child is very weak ; but 
last night she slept a little." Thus 
twenty days went by, and then 
there came a change, and on the 
twenty-first day, as the Vesper bell 
was tolling, the cur^ came, and Alba 
was anointed as a bride for heaven. 
The 0I4 man wept like a child 
as he blessed her and departed. 
" God comfort you, Mfere Virginie !" 
he said, laying his hand heavily on 
the mother's head. But Virginie 
was like one in whom the faculty of 
pain or of despair was paralyzed. 
" She will not die, M. le Cur^. God 
is merciful; his heart is kind," she 
said. When the sun was going 
down, Alba spoke : " Mother, bring 
me his picture and the pearls he 
gave me; I should like to wear 
them once before I go. . . ." They 
brought the pearls and decked her 
in them; they smoothed back the 
moist, dark hair and crowned her 
with the queenly coronet ; they 
clasped the necklace round her 
throat and the bracelets on her 
arms, while she lay quite passive, 
as if unconscious of what they were 
doing. Never had she looked so 
beautiful as at this hour in the 
deepening twilight, with the shadow 
of death stealing on her and touch- 
ing her features with a celestial 
pathos. Virginie could not but see 
it now. Alba was going from her. 
But, no! it should not be. No, 
there was a God in heaven, a mer- 
ciful, all-powerful God ; it should 
not be. He would save her child 



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Albas Dream. 



even at this extremity. She had 
not cried to him loud enough be- 
fore, but now she would cry and he 
should hear her, now that she knew 
liow dire was her need of him. She 
knelt down at a little distance from 
the bed and began to pray. It was 
terrible to see her ; to see how de- 
spair and faith wrestled within her. 
Tlie agony of the strife was visible 
in her face ; it was pale as death,' 
and the big drops stood upon her 
brow, that was contracted as by 
breathless pain; her eyes were 
open, fixed in a rigid stare as on 
some unseen presence; her white 
lips, drawn in, were slightly parted, 
as if to let the words escape that 
siie could not articulate ; her hands 
were locked together, bloodless 
from the fierce grip of the fingers. 
Old Jeanne cowered in the corner 
as she watched her. 

An hour went by. The tide was 
coming in; the waves were wash- 
ing on the shore with the old fami- 
liar sound. The moon rose and 
stirred the shadows on the plain ; 
its light stole tlirough the latticed 
window and overflowed in a silver 
stream upon the bed, illuminating 
it like a shrine in the darkened 
chamber. 

" Mother !" murmured Alba 
faintly. 

" My child !" 

" Kiss me, mother. ... I am 
going. . . r 

"Alba! my child! . . O God! 
O God! have pity on me. . . ." 

But Alba had passed beyond the 
mother's voice. 

There are cries, we sometimes 
say, that might wake the dead — 
cries that sound like a disembodied 
spirit, as if a human soul had broken 
loose with all its terrors and hopes 
and concentrated life of love and 
agony, and, escaping in a voice. 



traversed the void of space and 
pierced into the life beyond. Those 
who have heard that cry will re- 
member the silence that followed 
it — a silence like no other, infinite, 
death-like, as if the pulse of time 
stood still, hearkening for the echo 
on the other side. 

The neighbors came^ and grieved. 
" How beautiful she is!" they whis- 
pered to one another, as they stood 
by the couch where Alba lay smiling 
in her death-sleep and decked in 
her bridal pearls. " No wonder our 
young lord loved her. How strange 
that he should have left her ! Has 
she died of love, I wonder V* 
Many thought more of Virginie 
than of Alba. "She will die of 
grief," they said. For Virginie had 
not shed a tear, not uttered one 
wail of lamentation, since that great 
cry that followed Alba into, the dark 
beyond. She and Jeanne had ar- 
rayed her in her bridal dress — those 
splendid robes of silk and lace 
which her lover in his pride had 
prepared for her ; it was a foolish 
fancy, but the mother, remember- 
ing how her lost one had loved 
these splendors, seemed filled with 
a vague idea that they might even 
now give her some pleasure. When 
this was done she sat with her 
hands lying loosely locked together 
on her knees, gazing on the dead 
face, as mute and motionless as if 
she were dead herself. Yet some 
said they noticed a strange look 
like a gleam of disbelief in her eyes 
now and then, as if she thought 
death but mocked her with some 
kind intent. 

The night and the day passed, 
and the night again, and to-day at 
noon the dead bride was to be 
borne away. Friends crowded in 
for a last look; then, as the hour 
drew near, there was a movement 
without, a sound of voices chanting 



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in the distance, the tramp of feet 
approaching, and they knew it was 
time for them to go. But Virginie 
still sat there, pallid, immovable, 
like a statue set up to stir pity 
and reverence in the hearts of the 
beholders. Mme. Caboif laid a 
hand upon her arm and pressed 
her gently to come away. "The 
child is not dead, but sleepeth," 
4^e said; "take comfort in that 
thought." 

Then Virginie rose like one 
waking from a trance, and that 
strange gleam of disbelief which 
some had noticed in her eyes was 
now visible to all. " Go ye away, 
my friends," she said, " and leave 
me here awhile with my child and 
God." There was no murmur of 
dissuasion, though many thought 
that grief had made her mad; the 
majesty of grief subdued them to 
obedience, and one by one they 
passed out of the room in silence. 

Then Virginie knelt down and 
lifted up her voice in a last su- 
])reme appeal to God. 

"She is not dead, but sleepeth ! 
Was that a message from thee. 
Lord? Thou hast whispered it to 
my heart before. And what if she 
were dead — are not death and sleep 
alike to thee.^ Canst thou not 
wake from one as easily as from 
the other ? She is not dead, but 
sleepeth ! When the Jews laughed 
thee to scorn, thou didst glorify thy 
Father and raise the dead girl to 
life again, and all the people bless- 
ed thee. Thou didst pity the wid- 
ow and restore her son, though she 
knew not of thy presence nor be- 
lieved in thee. Wilt thou be less 
l)itiful to me, who believe and cry to 
thee .? Son of David, look down upon 
me, have pity upon me, and awake 
my child ! She is not dead, but sleep- 
eth. Canst thou not wake her from 
this sleep as readily as thou didst 



raise Lazarus from the grave where 
he had lain four days 1 Christ cru- 
cified ! Redeemer ! Saviour ! Fa- 
ther! hearken to my prayer and 
have mercy on me ! By thy pity for 
the widow, and for Lazarus' sisters, 
and for thy own Mother at the foot 
of the cross, and for John and 
Magdalen, and for thy murderers, 
have pity on me and call back my 
child ! She is not dead, but sleep- 
eth. Father! by the birth of thy 
dear Son, by his thirty-three years* 
toil and poverty, by his bloody 
sweat, by his scourging, by the 
nails that were hammered into his 
hand? and feet, by the lance that 
cut into his heart, by his death and 
sleep in the sepulchre, by his victo- 
ry over the grave, by his resurrec- 
tion and his reign of glory at thy 
right hand, hear me and give me 
back my child ! She is not dead, 
but sleepeth. Lord ! I believe in 
thy name, I believe in thy love, 1 
believe in thy mercy and omnipo- 
tence. I believe ; O God ! help 
thou my unbelief. The child is not 
dead, but sleepeth." 

She rose from her knees, and, 
pressing the crucifix with one hand 
on the breast of the dead, she held 
the other uplifted with priest-like 
solemnity. There was a pause of 
intense and awful silence ; the 
chanting without had ceased ; every 
ear was strained, every heart stood 
still, listening to the prayer they 
dared not say amen to. Then 
Virginie's voice arose again, sound- 
ing not like hers, but rather like a 
•voice that came from some depth 
of life within, beyond her, and 
making the mute void vibrate to its 
solemn tones : " Alba ! in the name 
of the living God ^ a7vake ! ..." 

Then silence closed upon her 
speech, and every pulse was stilled 
to a deeper hush. . . . The white 
lids quivered, the sleeper's breast 



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Albds Dream* 



heaved beneath the pressure of the 
cross, sending forth a soft, long sigh, 
and Alba was awake. 

'* Mother!" 

And now a cry arose from with- 
out the cottage which must surely 
have been heard in heaven ; for the 
rocks took it up and bore it out to 
sea, and the waves rolled it back to 
the reverberating shore, and deep 
called unto deep, and louder and 
louder it rose and rang, until it 
thrilled the welkin, and heaven sent 
back to earth the shout of jubilee 
and praise. 

But there was one who did not 
join in it. When the first ecstasy of 
her thanksgiving was past, and Vir- 
ginie had clasped the loved one in 
her arms, and felt the warm blood 
returning to the cold lips under her 
kisses, she saw that Alba was like 
one whose spirit was not there ; her 
eyes were open in a wide, intense 
gaze, as if straining to see beyond 
their ken, her ears were deaf to the 
sounds around her, hearkening for 
a voice that others could not hear. 

" My child, my darling, let us 
give thanks together !" Virginie 
said when they were once more 
alone. But Alba turned her eyes 
upon her mother with that far-off 
gaze that seemed to reach beyond 
the veil. ** Mother," she said, 
speaking in low, fearful tones — 
"mother, why did you call me 
back ? Did you not know I was 
with God.? I was with God," 
she continued in th^^ same hushed 
tones ; " I was in heaven with the 
angels and all the blessed ones, so 
full of happiness that I have no 
words to speak of it." 

"Tell me what you saw, my 
child. It was a dream ; but God 
sometimes gives us visions in a 
dream." 

" It was no dream, mother. I 
was dead. My soul had left my 



body and taken flight into eternity. 
I stood before the throne and saw 
the vision of God. But of this I 
cannot speak." 

Alba paused like one whom re- 
verence made dumb, and then con- 
tinued : " I sang. O the joy of 
victory that thrilled through me as 
I lifted up my voice, and heard it 
amongst all the voices of the bless- 
ed ! That was the wonder. Voic^ 
upon voice uprose, till all the hosts 
of heaven were singing, and yet 
you heard each singer distinct from 
all the rest; each voice was diff'er- 
ent, as star differeth from star when 
all are shining. And there was 
room in the vast space for silence. 
I heard the silence, deep, palpitat- 
ing, as when we hold our breath 
to listen, and I heard the songs as 
they rolled out in full organic num- 
bers from the countless choir. I 
heard my own voice, clear and 
sweet and loud like the clarion of 
an archangel ; thousands of nightin- 
gales singing as one bird in the 
stillness of the summer night were 
nothing to it I And then the joy of 
recognition and of love — the very air 
was warm with love. Every spirit 
in the angelic host — the saints, the 
prophets of the old law, the mar- 
tyrs and confessors and virgins — all 
loved me and knew me with an in- 
dividual knowledge, and I knew 
them. And — I know not how it 
was — though all were resting in a 
halcyon peace, none were idle; 
they were busy at some task in 
which the faculties of mind and 
soul, new-born and glorified and 
quickened a thousand-fold, were 
eagerly engaged. I seemed to see 
that they were governing the world 
and caring for the souls of men — of 
those chiefly whom they loved on 
earth. For this I know : that no 
true bond is broken by death ; the 
loves of time live on into eternity ; 



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Albas Dream. 



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the sorrows of earth are felt and 
pitied up in heaven, and the bless- 
ed clasp us in their cherishing sym- 
pathies closer than they did on 
earth. For the life in heaven is 
manifold, and, while the blessed 
citizens toiled, and sang as if their 
very being were dissolving into mu- 
sic, their souls were dwelling in the 
light of the vision of God, feeding 
on its beauty in unbroken contem- 
plation. All was activity, and a 
fulness of life compared to which 
our life is death, yet all was steeped 
in peace, in rest unutterable. O 
mother ! why did you call me back 
.from it.>" 

" It was a dream, my child ; your 
soul was in a trance ; perhaps it 
was at my prayer God woke you 
from it in time. But, Alba, are you 
not glad to be with me again } It 
seems to me that even in heaven I 
should have missed you !** 

" I did not feel that I was parted 
from you ; you seemed nearer to 
me there than when I was on earth. 
But, mother, I saw standing near 
the martyrs, yet not of them, a soul 
arrayed in crimson — that flaming 
light that I call crimson, not know- 
ing its real name — and she stretch- 
ed forth her arms to greet me with 
a greater joy than all the rest, and 
she called herself my mother ?" 

Virginie's heart stood still. Had 
heaven betrayed her secret ? If so, 
it were vain to try to hide it any 
longer. She told the truth to Alba. 
" And now," she said, " you will 
love that mother in heaven better 
than you love me !" There was a 
look of humble, beseeching misery 
in her face as she said this that 
was most pitiful. But Alba did 
not answer; that far-off gaze 
was in her eyes again. At last, 
slowly turning them upon Virginie, 
she said : " Now I can understand 
why you called me back. If you 



had been my real mother you 
would have let me go ; your love 
would have been brave enough to 
part with me, to suffer when you 
knew that I was happy." 

There was no anger in her voice, 
no reproach in her look ; but the 
words held the bitterness of death 
to Virginie, and pierced her heart 
like blades of poisoned steel. 

The mystery of the young 
lord's silence ceased to occupy 
the first place in local gossip, now 
that a more exciting theme had 
been provided, but it held its place 
in Virginie's mind and was seldom 
out of her thoughts. 

" Would it not be a great joy to 
you to see him again V* she said to 
Alba. 

" I should be glad of it, mother ; 
but the time is so short it matters 
little whether I see him here or 
not." 

"You never loved him. Alba," 

" I loved him with my whole 
soul ; I loved him too well. I would 
have died for love of him." 

She had died for love of him, the 
mother thought. 

" And yet you do not care to see 
him again ?" 

" I am satisfied to wait until we 
meet in heaven." 

The spark was dead ; it was use- 
less trying to blow the cold ashes in- 
to a flame. Virginie devoured her 
heart in uncomplaining silence. If 
Alba's reproach was merited, if 
her love had been at fault, tainted 
in its origin with egotism and cow- 
ardice, then it was meet that she 
should suffer and expiate the sin. 

But Hermann, meantime, was on 
his way to Gondriac. He had not 
been killed or wounded or faith- 
less ; he had been confined at Vin- 
cennes by order of the emperor, in 
hopes that solitude might help him 



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742 



Albas Dream. 



to see the folly of this intended 
marriage, and bend his stubborn 
fancy to the reasonable will of his 
imperial master. The experiment 
had failed. The emperor was de- 
throned, a captive now himself, and 
M. de Gondriac was free and speed- 
ing on the wings of love to claim 
the reward of his fidelity. 

Before he reached the cottage 
on the cliff he had learned the 
story of Alba's — resurrection, was 
it ? — of her having passed in spirit 
through the gates of death, and 
come back to life so changed men 
hardly knew her for the same. 
" It was a trance," the curi said, 
when Hermann stopped on the 
road to take his greeting. 

"It was death, monseigneur," 
said the fishermen who gathered 
round his saddle-bow. " She died 
of love, and the mother's prayer 
called her back to life; but the 
child left her heart in heaven and 
pines to be gone again." 

Hermann sent his horse on to 
the castle and made his way up 
the cliff, pondering this strange 
story. She had died of love of 
him, they said in their simple su- 
perstition, and was pining to die 
again. Sweet Alba! He would 
make her life such a paradise of 
love that she should have no rea- 
son to regret her glimpse of hea- 
ven. As he drew near the low, 
thatched cottage the purr of Vir- 
ginie's spinning-wheel came to him 
with the old familiar welcome. 
He opened the door and entered 
unannounced. 

*' Monseigneur !" She dropped 
her yarn with a cry. 

The glad surprise subsided, Her- 
mann in a few words explained all, 
and then heard the details of the 
wonderful tale Virgin ie had to 
tell. 

"You will find her somewhere 



on the rocks," she said. " It may 
be that the sudden sight of you will 
startle her dead heart into life and 
bring back a thrill of the old hap- 
piness ; if not, I pray God to take 
her to himself, for the sight of the 
child's patient misery is killing 
me.^' 

But M. de Gondriac had no such 
dismal apprehensions as he went 
out to seek his beautiful one. How 
would she meet him? Would it 
be with the old shy glance of plea- 
sure, giving him her hand to kiss, 
and forbidding any tenderer caress 
by that air of virgin pride that sat 
on her so queenly? Or would joy 
break down the barriers and send 
her bounding into his arms ? He 
trod the sandy grass with a quick, 
strong step, but the sound of his 
footfalls fell upon her ear unheed- 
ed ; she sat motionless, with her 
face set towards the sea till he was 
at her side. 

"Alba!" 

Then she looked up, and a pale 
blush, faint as the heart of a white 
rose, clouded her face. 

" Hermann !" 

He caught her in his arms and 
kissed her, and she took his caress 
as she might have done a brother's. 
The placid tenderness of her man- 
ner chilled him. 

" Alba ! my wife ! You are glad to 
see me back again !" he said, still 
holding her close to him and look- 
ing into her eyes for some answer- 
ing sigh, some flash of the old coy, 
shrinking fondness ; but they looked 
back into his limpid, calm, passion- 
less as a dove's. She smiled and lift- 
ed up her face to kiss him. He bent 
down to receive it, but that prof- 
fered kiss was like the iron entering 
into his soul. The Alba whom he 
had left was not here; she had 
gone, he knew not whither, and in 
her place another being had come — 



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Alba's Dream. 



743 



a shadow of the woman who had 
loved him with all a woman's ten- 
derness. He sat down beside her 
and related the history of his life 
since they had parted, all he had 
suffered for her sake, and how light 
he held the suffering now that the 
reward was his ; and she listened 
calmly, and spoke her gratitude 
with a gentle humility that was 
very touching. Then they were 
silent for a while, Alba apparently 
not caring to speak, Hermann 
longing to do so, but not daring to 
say what his mind was full of. At 
last Alba broke the spell. 

"You know that I was dead," 
she said ; " I should be in heaven 
now, if mother had not called me 
back." 

" My darling ! I will make a 
heaven for you on earth." 

" I once thought that was possi- 
ble. I thought that heaven could 
give me nothing better than your 
love ; but now I know that all the 
love of earth is but a shadow, a 
mockery compared to the love of 
heaven. It is nothing, nothing be- 
side it ! O Hermann ! when we 
talk of happiness we are like blind 
fools. We don't know what hap- 
piness means." 

" Alba ! you have ceased to love 
me, or you would not speak so !" 

" I love you as well as ever — nay, 
better than I did before; but, O 
Hermann ! I should have loved you 
so infinitely better up in heaven. 
If you knew what the life of love is 
there!" 

She clasped her hands, and her 
dark eyes shone with a supernatu- 
ral light, as if the brightness of glo- 
ry, invisible to him, were reflected 
there. 

" You will tell me about it, dar- 
ling, but not now," he said, a ter- 
rible dread seizing him. " I want 
you to think of me a little now, and 



not so much of heaven. W% must 
fix our wedding-day; it shall be 
soon, shall it not? There is no 
need for any delay." 

" No, there is no need," she re- 
peated. Then, after a pause, she 
said, looking calmly into his face : 
"Hermann, why should we not 
wait to wed one another in heaven ?" 

" There is no marrying or giving 
in marriage there," he replied: but 
he had grown ashy pale, and the 
chill of a horrible fear was in his 
heart, deepening with every word 
that Alba spoke. 

"You are angry with me," she 
said, misunderstanding his pallor 
and the changed expression of his 
face. " O Hermann ! don't think 
that I have ceased to love you. I 
love you with all my heart. I have 
never loved any one, never could 
love any one, but you. Say you 
are not angry with me !" 

"No, darling, I am not angry; 
but I thought we were to be so 
happy together, and I see that you 
are changed. But, Alba, I will not 
hold you to your promise; you 
shall not marry me unless you wish 
it." 

"I do wish it. I wish to make 
you happy. I have no other wish 
on earth now." 

He kissed her without answering, 
and they went home. 

The terrible fear which for a mo- 
ment possessed him was soon dispel- 
led. Alba was not mad. Whatever 
was the mysterious change that had 
come over her, her reason was un- 
impaired. But all else was chang- 
ed : the conditions of life had be- 
come reversed, the spiritual rela- 
tions between the seen and the un- 
seen were in some way disturbed, 
and things thrown out of their natu- 
ral proportion. But the nature of 
the experience by which this change 
had been wrought eluded Her- 



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Albans Dream. 



manners grasp, baffling reason while 
it compelled belief. Belief in 
what ? Had Alba's spirit, infring- 
ing the laws that rule our mortal 
stale, broken loose from its prison, 
and been permitted to stand before 
the gates of pearl and taste of 
those joys which it bath not enter- 
ed into the heart of man to con- 
ceive, and then been sent back to 
earth, home-sick as an exiled angel ? 
Was this thing possible ? Is any- 
thing not possible to Him who bids 
the lilies blow and the stars shine, 
and who holds the sea in the hol- 
low of his hand ? Hermann de Gon- 
driac did not stop to investigate 
the mystery. His was one of those 
human souls whose deepest con- 
victions lie dormant in their depths, 
not only unanalyzed but unrecog- 
nized, for want of a voice to ques- 
tion them. He loved Alba, and 
he would trust to his love to mend 
the broken spring and reconcile to 
the happiness of earth this heart 
enamored by the bliss of heaven. 

The wedding-day rose bright 
and fair; a golden glow was on 
the flood ; the sun shone on the 
breakers, turning the green to sap- 
phire blue, while the tide flowed 
in, swelling the anthem of the 
dawn; the yellow woods round 
Alba's home glistened like a golden 
zone, fit symbol of the enchanted 
life awaiting her within their magic 
ring. No sad Vesper bell was toll- 
ing; merrily the silver-footed 
chimes, like messengers of joy, 
tripped on to meet her on the 
morning air, as she came forth, 
once more arrayed in bridal pearls. 
A train of little children, clad in 
white and piping canticles, went 



on before, strewing flowers upon 
her path. 

Pale as a lily in her snow-white 
robes was Alba, her dark eyes 
glowing with a light that was most 
beautiful ; and when the bride- 
groom turned to greet her at the 
altar, her smile, they said, was like 
the smile of an angel. 

The wedding rite began ; the 
ring was passed, the solemn words 
were spoken : " Until death do 
part ye, . . .** Then Alba, with a 
cry of joy, as when we greet some 
vision of delight, fell forward and 
was caught in Hermann's arms. 

" Farewell, beloved ! . . . Mo- 
ther, farewell ! . . ." 

"Alba! my wife! O God! can 
it be possible.? ..." 

But loud above the lover's wail 
and that of all the people Virgin- 
ie's voice was heard in tones more 
of jubilee than lamentation : " Thy 
will be done, O Lord ! Blessed be 
the name of the Lord !" 

That night the moon rose late; 
the sea-gulls, poised above the 
purple flood, heard the waves wash 
softly on the noiseless shore ; the 
stars came out and looked into 
the shining sea below; the rocks 
gleamed white as snow-peaks in 
the moonlight, and all the land lay 
listening to the silver silence. 
From out its depths a voice was 
calling, though only those who 
hearkened heard it, and the voice 
said : ** Thou shalt see His face, . . . 
and night shall be no more, and 
they shall not need the light of the 
lamp, nor the light of the sun, be- 
cause the Lord God shall enlighten 
them, and they shall reign for ever 
and ever." 



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Italy, 745 



ITALY. 

WRITTEN AFTER READING " POEMS OF PLACES — ITALY," EDITED BY H. W. 

LONGFELLOW. 



Amid those shining ways of Italy 

I thought of one who walks with bandaged eyes, 
Led by some loving guide who, in sweet guise 

Of eloquent speech, makes blinded vision see 

The very lines that make tall towers fair. 

The peaceful saints that guard cathedral door — 
In death still keeping watch the people o'er — 

Lifting tired souls to holy heights of prayer. 

Even frail nest familiar form doth wear 
Built far above upon the shoulders broad 
Of sculptured friar, bearing light the load 

His brother birds give, trustful, in his care. 

So, poet-led, seemeth scarce need of eyes. 

Pictured earth's loveliness in words so wise. 



II. 

The blinded wanderer sees the far-off light 
Of shadowy Alp, and his the lingering glow 
That breathes in western skies along the loAr 
And gleaming marshes darkening with the n^ht. 
Not bluer to fond eyes that see most clear 

Are Naples* waves than break they in his sight; 
Nor floats St. Peter's dome in softer light, 
Seen from the Pincian, than its image fair 
Rests in the pilgrim's heart that in Rome sings 
Its Nunc dimitiisy whether it hold dear 
For Brutus' sake the city, or revere 
The holier presence shadowing with strong wings 
The mighty one, earth's new Jerusalem, 
Whose virtue fills her very garment's hem. 



III. 

He sees the shadows o'er the valley creep — 

Nay, even knows he, through his guide's clear speech, 
Where, at each hour, the ilex shade shall reach. 

Though blinded, he can feel the sunshine steep 



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746 Ital). 

The hill he climbs; fair Italy's soft air 
Grow yet more soft with pity for poor eyes 
That only feel the brightness of her skies, 
Not know the infinite depths that glisten there. 
And quick his ears catch sound of falling stream, 
Twitter of leaves in Yallombrosan woods, 
Bird-carol flung from chestnut solitudes ; 
While soft-voiced waves, like music in a dream. 
Now tread with rippling touch Sorrento's shore, 
Now rise and fall Venetian stairway o'er. 

IV. 

He hears in Roman mouth the Tuscan speech ; 
Hears Naples chant the light of Syracuse, 
Siena's tongue, in guileless praise let loose, 

In its pure utterance ancient glory teach. 

And tells the poet to the wondering heart 
Old histories of older Latin days; 
Of distraught Italy's sad, stormy ways 

When feud and treason tore her sons apart, 

When Dante ate the exile's bitter bread, 

When eagles dark swept down upon the land, 
And lilies white, that should all stain withstand. 

With deeds unworthy were discolored. 

While from the Vaudois' shivering mountain crown 

The echoes of their bard-sung wars sweep down. 



Singeth the poet of still nearer days 
When all the little lands fade one by one, 
Like wan stars melting 'neath Sardinia's sun — 

While, for her crowning, 'mid the strangers' praise. 

Hastes Italy unto the Capitol. 

Life of her sons laid down for her new life, 
Maidens their soldiers arming for the strife, 

Weeping the field where love and banner fall. 

Sings he of carbine and of bayonet 

That gleam and darken on Perugian hills, 
Of sorrow that a frightened city fills, 

And priestly robe with blood defenceless wet. 

White Roman robe earth's shadow marketh dark — 

World-licensed target for the poets* mark ! 

VI. 

The pilgrim hearkens to his guide's strong words. 
Basks in their sunshine, thanketh for their dew. 
Yet wonders, could his eyes behold the blue 

As well as ears can mark the song of birds, 



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Italy. 74; 

If something still he lacks he might not find — 

Some perfect key of heavenly harmony 

That should attune all sad discordancy, 
In true accord the clashing fragments bind. 
Soft fall the Angelas bells on listening ear, 

The Miserere, in distress divine, 

Wails from the heart of city Leonine. 
Feels he the light that makes his darkness clear, 
Grasps he the chord of pure and infinite blue 
His picture lacks to make its color true. 

VII. 

So, poet-led, I trod Italian ways, 

Seeing the glimmer of pale olive-trees. 

Drifting, entranced, o'er warm Sicilian seas, 
Hearkening Siena's perfect speech of praise, 
Drinking of Trevi's fountain, o'er and o'er, 

Yet craving ever something still more rare. 

Some gift of grace that Italy must wear 
To make her so the heart's-best evermore ; 
Some crown above her hills, than her blue seas 

More luminous, beyond her painters' fame. 

Or passionate poets' soaring words of fiame, 
More than all proudest earthly destinies. 
So drowned, amid the peal of Saxon bells, 
Thought of that life wherein her true soul dwells. 

VIII. 

Seemed it as if the poet built a shrine — 
Lifting its towers in the radiant air 
The doves might haunt to make it seem more fair. 

Lifting its columns that an art divine 

With watching saints should crown, setting its fioor 
In firm mosaic, where, alas ! inwrought 
Should forms misshapen of ungentle thought 

Sadden the Roman sunshine wandering o'er, 

That, creeping onward, still should hope to kiss 
The gladder sunshine of St. Philip's feet. 
Heaped high the altar with all flowers sweet — 

Rich Italy's unstinted loveliness — 

Kindled the lamp before the inmost shrine, 

Withheld the presence of the Guest Divine ! 



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The Seven Valleys of the Lavedan. 



THE SEVEN VALLEYS OF THE LAVEDAN. 



On the 4tli of July, 1876 — the 
day after the coronation of Notre 
Dame de Loiirdes, la plus noble 
dame qui fut jamais^ to use the 
expression of an old chronicler — 
we set out for the springs of Cau- 
terets. South of Lourdes the 
mountains seem to stand apart to 
afford a passage to the headlong 
Gave. Here begins the Lavedan, 
the old Pagus LavitanensiSy which 
comprises seven valleys that extend 
to the very frontier of Spain. This 
was the ancient country of the 
Sotiates, who were famous for their 
horsemanship, as Lavedan has al- 
ways been for its horses. In the mid- 
dle ages it became a vicomt^, which 
dated from the early Carlovin- 
gians and flourished for more than 
seven centuries. The vicomtes 
of Lavedan figured in all the great 
wars of their time, particularly 
against the Moors in Spain, and 
became so powerful as to defy the 
Count of Bigorre, their own liege 
lord. They displayed great valor, 
too, against the English, who for 
sixty years held the citadel of 
Lourdes that commanded the en- 
trance to their valleys, as well as 
several fastnesses among the 
mountains. We find members of 
their race among the bishops, ab- 
bots, and Knights-Templars of the 
province, as if able in every path 
of life to assert their capacity. 
The last of the old lords fought 
with Dunois the brave under the 
banner of Joan of Arc at Orleans. 
His only grandchild married 
Charles de Bourbon, a favorite of 
Henry IV/s. The glory of this 
family, however, is mostly confined 



to the Pyrenees, and might never 
have come down to modern times 
had it not been for the faith- 
ful chroniclers of the Lavedan 
monasteries. It is, in fact, first 
mentioned in 945 in a cartulary 
of the abbey of St. Savin, of which 
it was a benefactor. 

Hardly had we entered the val- 
ley of the Lavedan before we saw, 
on an isolated mount at the left, 
the dismantled tower of Hieou, one 
of the signal-towers that, in times 
of border warfare, used to trans- 
mit messages from the Spanish fron- 
tier to the heart of France. The 
shores of the Gave were deliciously 
fresh, but the mountains on both 
sides are at first treeless and unin- 
teresting. Nothing grows on them 
but the purple heather, and patch- 
es of odorous shrubs that perfume 
the valley. Here and there on 
their sides are great heaps of black 
slate from the numerous quarries. 
But these mountains have a certain 
austere charm of their own, not un- 
befitting sentinels that guard the 
approaches to the grotto of the 
Virgin. We passed group after 
group of pilgrims returning from 
the recent celebration, with red 
crosses fastened to their breasts, or 
blue-and-white badges of the Im- 
maculate Conception, saying their 
rosaries or singing a hymn. They 
invariably saluted us politely as 
we drove past, and two bronzed 
mountaineers whom we stopped for 
information sped us on our way 
with the pious wish : " May God 
accompany you!" 

After several leagues the moun- 
tains became wooded, and a bend 



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The Seven Valleys of the Lavedan. 



749 



of the river, along which we kept, 
brought us into the delightful 
basin of Argel^s, one of the valleys 
of the Lavedan. This is the Eden 
of the Pyrenees. On the moun- 
tain slopes grow the walnut and the 
oak. The roads are shaded with 
long lines of ash-trees. The mea- 
dows were covered with rich har- 
vests. The thickets were blooming 
with roses. The houses were al- 
most buried among fruit-trees of 
all kinds. Every now and then we 
came to a tall cross with the insig- 
nia of the Passion, or some way- 
side niche with its Virgin and fresh 
flowers before her. We passed the 
square tower of Vidalos on a height, 
and farther on came to the ancient 
castle of Vieuzac, once a military 
post that kept alive the signal-fires 
in troubled times. On every hand 
were quaint-looking villages with 
pretty chapels half-hidden in the 
folds of the mountains, each with 
some old monument, or older tra- 
dition, to which it fondly clings. 
From Agos to Pierrefitte, only 
about six miles, there are ten 
charming villages set in a frame- 
work of mountains no poet could 
describe. They close around this 
happy valley, as if to shield it from 
all outward influences. During 
the Huguenot ascendency in the 
neighboring province of B^arn it is 
said no taint of the new religion 
ever found its way into this valley. 
At the north is Mount Balandrati, 
easily ascended, that affords a fine 
view of the country, which is full of 
wonderful contrasts. The Gave 
winds swiftly through the most 
beautiful of valleys ; on every hand 
are the mountains, sometimes like 
a vast rampart of verdure, some- 
times swelling up, one after the 
other, like great waves, with a high 
peak occasionally, jagged as a saw, 
and in the distance the eternal 



glaciers glittering in the sun and 
feeding the numerous cascades and 
torrents that lash the mountain 
sides. 

To this peaceful valley came St. 
Orens from his native Spain, in the 
fourth century, before whom, ac- 
cording to the Spanish legend, a 
supernatural light burned and a 
mysterious hand pointed the way. 
And it was yonder umbrageous 
mountain that, when he sought to 
escape from the fame of his sanc- 
tity, opened at his approach and 
hid him in its bosom. 

Here, too, four centuries after, 
came St. Savin, son of the Count of 
Barcelona, when he forsook the 
grandeurs of the world for a cell in 
the wilderness. A it.\f years since 
there were vestiges of his cell at 
Pouey Asp^, after a thousand years ; 
and tradition points out the foun- 
tain that sprang up from a blow of 
his staff when the stream that flow- 
ed past his cell dried up in the 
summer. His tomb is still honor- 
ed in the abbey church of St. Savin, 
which is one of the most conspicu- 
ous objects in the landscape, with 
its queer steeple, shaped like an 
extinguisher. 

No tourist fails to visit St. Savin : 
the archseologist on account of its 
old Romanesque church of the 
tenth century; the artist for its 
picturesque site; the pious to 
honor one of the most popular 
saints of the seven valleys ; and the 
political economist because, in the 
middle ages, this abbey was the 
nucleus of a little republic of eight 
villages, called the Pascal of St. 
Savin, the inhabitants of which had 
from time immemorial the right of 
universal suffrage, and where even 
the women, without the advantages 
of modern progress, were admitted 
to vote ! 

The abbey of St. Savin— that is 



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The Seven Valleys of the Lavedan. 



what remains of it — stands on the 
side of a mountain amid dense 
groves of chestnut-trees. Accord- 
ing to the old cartularies, it was 
founded by Charlemagne on the 
site of the Palatium uEmilianum 
erected by the Romans after the 
conquest to keep the country in 
subjection, but ruined by the Sara- 
cens. Roland himself is said to 
have received hospitality from the 
monks. Pulci, in his-^<;//tf di Ran- 
cisvaUe^ relates how he delivered 
them from the giants Alabastre and 
Passamonte, and their brother Mor- 
gan te only escaped being cleft in 
two by submitting to be baptized 
in the church. This monastery, 
renowned in legend and song, was 
burned to the ground by the fierce 
Normans, and it was more than a 
century before it rose from its 
ashes. It was restored by Ray- 
mond I., Count of Bigorre, about 
the middle of the tenth century. 
He gave the house to the monks of 
St. Benedict, and bestowed on them 
tl)e valley of Cauterets, on con- 
dition that they would build a 
church there in honor of St. Mar- 
tin, and provide accommodations 
for those who should frequent the 
springs. He also made over to 
them his rights to the game in the 
pascal valleys, as well as certain 
claims on the produce of the dairy. 
The abbey became likewise an ob- 
ject of bounty to other neighboring 
lords, who confided in St. Savin 
when alive, and in death wished to 
lie near his hallowed shrine. Cor- 
nelia de Barbazan, grandmother of 
a Vicoratesse de Lavedan, had great 
devotion to St. Savin, and gave the 
monastery one-half the abbey of 
Agos. The other half belonged to 
Arnaud de Tors, a lord who only 
had two children, and they were 
deaf mutes. He offered them both 
to God and St. Savin, and subse- 



quently his wife, himself, and all 
he possessed. Cornelia's husband 
outlived her, and on his death-bed 
asked the monks of St. Savin for 
the monastic habit, and gave them 
also all he owned at Agos. The 
kings of Navarre, the vicomtes of 
Beam, and Henry IV. himself 
proved themselves the zealous pa- 
trons of this monastery. 

The abbey of St. Savin became 
the intellectual as well as moral 
centre of the valleys around. Sev- 
eral of the abbots were noted for 
their sanctity, and most of them 
were from good families. They 
figured among the great lords of 
the province, and when they visit- 
ed the little states of their republic 
the people came out to meet them 
with young maidens bearing Row- 
ers in a basket. They had certain 
feudal rights over the eight villages, 
but bound themselves, on taking 
possession of their office, to respect 
the customs and privileges of the 
inhabitants, believed to have been 
handed down from the beginning 
of time. The people were none of 
them serfs, but all free citizens who 
had the right of deciding by major- 
ity of votes every question that af- 
fected the interests of the republic. 
Each village was a little state by 
itself, and sent its representatives 
to the general assembly, which was 
held in the cloister of St. Savin. 
The women themselves, as we have 
said, had a voice in public affairs. 
An old record of 1316 says that 
when the people of Cauterets came 
together in the porch of the church 
to decide whether they should 
yield to the abbot's proposition to 
change the site of the town and 
baths, they all consented, except 
one strong-minded woman, named 
Gaillardine de Fr^chou, who stout- 
ly held out against the lord abbot. 
Women seem to have been regarded 



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in these valleys as something sa- 
cred. In the old statutes of the 
country, drawn up by the abbot of 
St. Savin and other dignitaries of 
the province, one of the articles 
declared that if a criminal took re- 
fuge under a woman's protection, 
liis person was safe, on condition 
of his repairing the damage. She 
gave him asylum, as if a temple, or 
had something of the nature of a 
divinity 1 This code also forbade 
the creditors seizing the oxen and 
agricultural implements of the la- 
borer. The people elected seven 
judges to try all criminal cases, but 
the abbot exercised the higher prero- 
gatives of justice. He never stain- 
ed his hands with blood, however; 
it was the Count of Bigorre alone 
who could impose the sentence of 
death. The abbot had special 
rights, also, which he jealously 
guarded as a means of revenue. 
The pastors of the eight villages 
could say Low Mass for their flocks 
and administer the Holy Commu- 
nion, but High Mass had to be at- 
tended at St. Savin, where the chil- 
dren were also brought to be baptiz- 
ed and the dead for burial, unless in 
exceptional cases. The obligation 
of baptism and burial at St. Savin 
was not confined to the Pascal, but 
extended to the sixty villages of 
the valleys of Argel^s and Azun. 
The people had the privilege of 
hunting in the forests and fishing 
in the streams — and the game and 
trout are not to be despised in these 
days — but the abbot had a right to 
the skins and a shoulder of certain 
animals, and an annual tribute of 
fish. 

The monks of St. Savin were 
noted for their hospitality, and they 
often received visits from those 
who frequented the baths of Cau- 
terets. In the sixteenth century 
they welcomed Catharine of Na- 



varre in spite of her Conies and 
taste for the doctrines of Calvin ; 
and in the seventeenth the poet 
Bertin, who, in his light, scoffing 
way, has celebrated ** the long din- 
ner and short Mass of the good ab- 
bot of St. Savin," though he does 
not seem to have attended the 
latter, brief as it might have 
been. 

Margaret of Navarre had been 
staying at Cauterets, where she is 
said to have composed the Hep- 
tam^ron. She set out thence for 
Tarbes, but the bridges had all 
been carried away by rains, which 
she says were " so marvellous and 
great that it seemed as if God had 
forgotten his promise to Noe not 
to destroy the earth again by wa- 
ter." The preface to her work says : 
" After riding all day she and her 
suite towards evening espied a bel- 
fry, where, as well as they could, 
but not without great trouble and 
difficulty, they succeeded in arriv- 
ing, and were kindly received by 
the abbot and monks of the abbey, 
called St. Savin. The abbot, who 
was of an excellent family, lodged 
them very honorably, and, as he 
conducted them to their rooms, 
made inquiries as to the dangers 
they had undergone. After listen- 
ing to their account he told them 
they were not alone in their mis- 
fortunes, for there were two young 
ladies in another apartment who 
had escaped great danger. These 
poor ladies, at half a league from 
Pierrefitte, had met a bear descend- 
ing from the mountain, from which 
they fled at such speed that their 
horses fell dead on arriving at their 
place of refuge." 

When the princess left St. Savin 
the abbot furnished her party with 
*'the best horses in Lavedan, thick 
B^arn cloaks, substantial provi- 
sions, and excellent guides across 



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the mountaios, which they were 
obliged to traverse partly on foot, 
in spite of the horses, and, after 
great sweat and labor, arrived at 
Notre Dame de Sarrance." 

The sceptical poet Berlin, too, 
thought his visit worthy of record- 
ing : " We chose that day to pay 
our brief devotions at the Abbey of 
St. Savin; that is to say, to dine 
there at the expense of St. Bene- 
dict. The steeple of the Abbey 
comes in sight between Pierrefitte 
and Argel^s. The road ascends 
amid the trees, a little rough, but 
cool, impenetrable to the rays of 
the sun, and watered by an infinite 
number of living streams that come 
down from the mountains. It may 
be well to say that some of us were 
in a carriage and others on horse- 
back, but the greater part were 
perched, well or ill, as the case 
might be, on donkeys. Our arrival 
was triumphant. The ladies were 
received by the prior to the sound 
of the organ, the only instrument 
he could strike up, thanks to the 
talent of his cook. He likewise 
presented them a bouquet of flow- 
ers and made them a compliment. 
. . . The house is well built, spa- 
cious, and in the finest position in 
the world. From the upper ter- 
race of the garden the eye wanders 
over the magnificent plain of Ar- 
gel^s, which bears comparison, to 
say the least, with the famous val- 
ley of Campan. The day was spent 
very agreeably, but almost wholly 
at table. We returned a little late 
in the evening, without any other 
accident but the loss of one of our 
donkeys, which took it into its head 
to die on the way, under the pre- 
text tliat he had been overworked 
in the morning and could go no 
farther. We celebrated in coup- 
lets, half sad, half merry, to which 
every one contributed '* 



*' * Le trtpas de la Teielle ftsesss, 
Qu*on magn^tisa, mais en vain 
(Trop sotte fetait la sotte esptee ) ; 
Le long dfner, la courtc messe, 
I.a chire fine, et le bon vin, 
L'enjoiiment et la politeiae 
Du bon prieur de St. Savin/ " 

None of the local traditions or 
documents contain anything to the 
disparagement of the monks of St. 
Savin, and their memorj' is still 
dear to the inhabitants of the val- 
ley. Madame de Motteville, lady 
of honor to Anne of Austria, when 
she came to the Pyrenees on the 
occasion of Louis XIV.'s mar- 
riage, visited St. Savin, and thus 
speaks of it : " There is an abbey 
here of great importance and re- 
nown. It is well built and the 
monks lead an exemplary life." 

The abbatial church escaped at 
the Revolution, and the tomb of 
St. Savin was respected. But it 
became the property of the gov- 
ernment, and it was not till 1874 
that it was purchased by the Bishoj) 
of Tarbes. The greater part of 
the abbey has disappeared. The 
old chapter-hall, however, is still 
standing. It is of the twelfth cen- 
tury, and has six low arches sup- 
ported by two central pillars, cy- 
lindrical in form. This hall open- 
ed into the cloister, which has been 
totally destroyed. The fine Ro- 
manesque church is in good pre- 
servation. Around the deep em- 
brasures of the entrance are sym- 
bolic animals of evil import some- 
what coarsely sculptured, such as 
the scaly dragon of adverse influ- 
ence, a bear devouring a sinless 
child, and the screech-owl, symbol 
of Jews, traitors, and the foul 
fiend : 

*' En cest oisel sunt figur^ 
Li felon Jeve maleur " 

— by this bird is figured the felon 
Jew malign. And, in fact, the Jews 
closed their eyes, like the owl, to 



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the light, not to recognize the Mes- 
sias. 

We descended by several steps 
into the church, into which the sun 
was streaming from the rose win- 
dow at the west. The tomb of St. 
Savin is at the apsis, beneath a 
gilded canopy of rich design. It is 
of schist, about six feet long and 
three broad, and rests on double 
columns of marble, which have 
carved capitals* It was long used 
as an altar, according to the cus- 
tom of the early church. Above 
is an ancient statue of the Virgin, 
said to have been brought from the 
East by the Crusaders, and in an- 
other part of the church is a rever- 
ed crucifix of great antiquity. One 
of the most interesting ornaments 
is a painting in eighteen compart- 
ments that presents a complete 
epitome of St. Savin's life, and is 
curious for its details of costume 
and architecture. Here we are 
told how St. Savin was sent by his 
mother, the Countess of Barcelona, 
to complete his education at the 
brilliant court of her brother, the 
Count of Poitiers, who received him 
with great favor and entrusted his 
son to his care. St. Savin, for 
whom, young as he was, life had no 
illusions, inspired his cousin to lead 
a simple, unostentatious life in the 
midst of worldly luxuries, and the 
latter, not satisfied with this taste of 
self-renunciation, soon betook him- 
self to the convent of Liguge, near 
Poitiers. His mother, in despair, 
threw herself at St. Savin's feet, 
crying : ** Give me back my child ! 
It is you who have robbed me of 
him. You have a mother; think 
of her grief should you abandon 
her for ever." Alas I this was the 
very thing the saint was thinking 
of, but he could not resist a higher 
will. He soon followed his cou- 
sin's example, and they took the 
VOL. XXV. — 47 



monastic habit together. St. Sa- 
vin's heart, however, yearned for 
a more profound solitude, and a 
celestial inspiration directed his 
steps toward the Pyrenees. Com- 
ing to the valley of the Gave, he 
followed its windings till he reach- 
ed a spot overshadowed by three 
lofty mountains that were covered 
with snow nearly all the year 
round — cold, stern, wrapped in 
gray mists, and infested with wild 
beasts. Here he looked down on 
the lonely valley once inhabited by 
his countryman, the great St. Orens, 
and resolved to build his cell in 
a place so favorable to meditation 
and prayer, and give himself up to 
a life of austerity. He trod the 
rough mountain paths with bare 
feet — he who had been brought up 
in the court of princes. His only 
garment lasted him thirteen years. 
He dug a grave seven feet long 
and ftve deep, and there he slept, 
or lay buried in divine contem- 
plation. Chromasse, a neighboring 
lord, angry to see a stranger on his 
lands, sent a servant to drive him 
away, but the latter only rendered 
St. Savin incapable of obeying by 
the blows he inflicted on him. Both 
master and servant were punished 
for their cruelty. The former was 
struck blind, and the latter became 
possessed by the devil. The moral 
condition of the servant particular- 
ly excited the compassion of the 
saint, who obtained his deliverance 
by the power of prayer. 

An old legend says that when St. 
Savin wished to have a light in his 
cell he used to hold a torch to his 
breast, and in that furnace of di- 
vine love it was at once lighted. 
This torch used to burn all night 
long without being consumed, and 
only grew pale when the morning 
light came to surprise the saint lost 
in prayer. 



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St. Savin, in his last illness, was 
attended by Sylvian and Flavian, 
two monks from the neighboring 
abbey. When he felt his end was 
drawing near he requested to see 
Abbot Forminius, who, detained 
by important business, sent word 
that he would come on the follow- 
ing day. The dying hermit re- 
plied that the morrow would be too 
late, for then a higher occupation 
would engross him. As soon as 
his condition became known a 
great number of priests and monks 
hastened to his cell. He received 
the Body of the Lord, and, with his 
arms stretched towards heaven 
and a face radiant with joy, he fell 
asleep in the midst of a prayer 
which he finished in heaven. 

All the people of the neighbor- 
ing valleys followed St. Savin's 
body to the grave. The repent- 
ant Chromasse himself joined the 
procession, and, pressing close to 
the bier, he touched with trembling 
hands the body of the saint, and 
his eyes, so long closed to the 
light, instantly recovered their 
sight. 

Such is the legend of St. Savin, 
who became of so much repute in 
these mountains that it is not sur- 
prising his name should be given to 
the abbey where he was buried. 

From a terrace before the church 
is a superb view of the vale of Ar- 
gel^s, around which rises moun- 
tain above mountain ; the lowest 
rich with vegetation, tlie upper 
peaks bare and covered with eter- 
nal frosts. Not far off are the re- 
mains of the old feudal castle of 
Baucens, formerly inhabited by the 
Vicomtes de Lavedan, lords of 
the Seven Valleys. Madame de 
Motteville, who stopped here, com- 
pares it in her M(f moires to the pa- 
lace of the fairy Urgande. 

Just below St. Savin is the vil- 



lage of Adast witli the chateau 
de Miramon, the heiress of which 
married Despourrins, the bucolic 
poet of the Pyrenees, who composed 
here, in the idiom of the valley, 
pastoral songs full of grace and 
feeling, which have made his name 
popular in the mountains, where 
they are still sung by the herdsmen. 
Beam and Bigorre contend for the 
honor of being his birthplace, as 
the Greek cities of old for that of 
Homer. Here Boieldieu, struck 
by the beauty of the country and 
its poetic associations, wished to 
found an academy of artists. His 
plan was, as he wrote his friend 
Berton in 1832, " to buy an old cha- 
teau in the beautiful valley of Ar- 
gel^s, as finely situated as that of 
the poet Despourrins. The sight 
of so glorious a landscape would 
rouse the torpid imagination, and 
perhaps awaken in the exhausted 
brain fresh inspirations that might 
rival the vagaries of certain artists 
of the new school. The sky of the 
Pyrenees ought to be as propitious 
as that of Italy. The Pic du Midi 
is not a volcano, but it is covered 
with flowers. And Marbore, the 
Br^che de Roland, and the Cirque 
de Gavarnie, with its cascade that 
falls down twelve hundred feet, are 
monuments capable of electrifying 
the imagination as well as St. Pe- 
ter's, the Coliseum, and the Panthe- 
on at Rome." 

On a promontory near Miramon 
is the votive chapel of Pic'tad^ 
with its Romanesque lucarnes and 
low arches, that dates from the 
ninth century. It was saved at the 
Revolution by the mountaineers, 
among whom, as in Spain, Our La- 
dy of Sorrow (or of Pitie, as she is 
called here) is especially popular. 
There is, too, the chapel of Soulon, 
with its crenellated tower, and near 
by the hermitage of St. Aoulari, 



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with its Roman apsis — a rural ora- 
tory, once supported by the offerings 
of pilgrims and a field that yielded 
three sacks of wheat, but where 
services are now lield only on cer- 
tain festivals of the Virgin. 

On the other side of the Vale of 
Argel^s stood the hermitage of St. 
Orens between two cliffs, where, in 
the tenth century, the Countess Fa- 
quilie of Bigorre built a monastery, 
that this great saint might come to 
her aid on the dread day of judg- 
ment; but only a few picturesque 
ruins now remain on the edge of a 
frightful abyss. An old charter 
enumerates the gifts of the coun- 
tess for the support of this ab- 
bey, called St. Orens of Lavedan : 
fields, vineyards, books, vestments, 
and sacred vessels. Nay, more: 
twenty cows with their calves, six 
horses, cattle, sheep, swine, and a 
donkey. The neighboring lords 
verified the boundaries of the land 
she gave, and swore thereto by six 
saints popular in the mountains: 
St. Saturnin, St. Paul, St. Andrew, 
St. Martin, and St. Orens. 

St. Orens rivals St. Savin in po- 
pularity in southwestern France, 
where many churches and convents 
still bear his name. Nor is his 
fnme confined to this region. St. 
Hugo consecrated a chapel to his 
memory in the magnificent church 
of Cluny. In Spain there is a 
church bearing his name at Huesca, 
which claims to be his native place. 
In it is the tomb of St. Patience, his 
mother. And we remember seeing 
a marble statue of St. Orens beside 
the shrine of St, Isidro in one of 
the finest churches of Madrid. 
The Spanish say St. Orens was the 
brother of the great St. Lawrence, 
so honored by the church universal ; 
but the traditions of France only 
speak of him as the son of the Duke 
of Urgel, who crossed the Pyrenees 



to bury himself in the solitude of the 
mountains. Here he found a cave 
in a melancholy valley — the Val 
Caprasie — where the only noise to 
break the everlasting silence was 
the torrent that escaped from Lake 
Isaby. No place could have been 
better suited to the poetic soul of 
St. Orens ; for a poet he was. His 
hymns and other writings are still 
admired in our day, and his La- 
tin poem, entitled Commonitoriuniy 
has recently been translated into 
French. Fortunatus mentions it : 

*' Paucaque pentrinxit florente Orientius ore.'' 

This is a treatise of Christian mo- 
rality in elegiac measure. It is 
pleasant to read it in the place 
where it was written and among 
people wliose ancestors probably 
first read it. We quote one pas- 
sage, worthy of being written over 
the doors of the hospitable monas- 
teries that bear his name, in one 
of which we have so often found 
shelter: "Fail not to receive un- 
der thy hospitable roof the travel- 
ler overtaken by darkness. When 
thou art naked, thou desirest a gar- 
ment to cover thee ; thirsty, a cup 
to refresh thee. Let similar wants, 
therefore, excite thy compassion. 
Share thy mantle, thy loaf with the 
unfortunate." 

It is said that this saint, so bene- 
volent to others, exercised such 
severity towards himself as to gird 
his body with an iron chain and 
recite the Psalter daily standing in 
the icy waters of Lake Isaby. He 
may be cited as an early example 
of the benefit of hydropathy, for he 
lived to a good old age in spile, or 
in consequence, of the rigors of pen- 
ance. He erected a flour-mill on 
the borders of the lake for the use 
of the people around, which tradi- 
tion says lasted most miraculously 
seven centuries without ever need- 



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ing the slightest repair. The re- 
mains of it are still pointed out with 
respect by the herdsmen of the val- 
ley. And the stone on which the 
saint used to kneel in his cave has 
been carefully preserved ; for noth- 
ing can exceed the tenacity with 
which these mountaineers cling to 
their ancient traditions and memo! 
rials. It is worn by the knees of 
generation after generation who 
liave knelt to pray where St. Orens 
prayed fourteen hundred years ago. 
St. Orens became noted through- 
out the province for his sanctity 
and eminent abilities, and the in- 
habitants of Auch, after three days 
of fasting and prayer, chose him as 
their bishop. The messengers they 
despatched to the mountains found 
him cultivating the earth. " Deign, 
O Lord!" cried he, planting his 
spade in the ground, " deign, I be- 
seech of thee, to manifest thy will 
in an unmistakable manner.*' And 
in an instant the handle became a 
bush, which put forth branches and 
was covered with foliage. The 
saint no longer hesitated, but de- 
parted with the messengers. When 
he entered the city of Auch all the 
sick are said to have been instantly 
healed. He found his diocese part- 
ly under the influence of paganism, 
and showed his zeal in demolishing 
the altars 'of the false gods. He 
saved it also from the ravages of 
the Vandals at the beginning of the 
fifth century, and was deputed by 
the king of the Visigoths to avert 
the danger that threatened Toulouse, 
on which the Romans were march- 
ing. He is believed to have saved 
that city by his prayers, and his 
statue was afterwards placed over 
one of its gates out of gratitude. 
A portion of his relics is likewise 
borne through the streets in the 
magnificent annual processions for 
which Toulouse is famous. 



St. Orens is said to have regret- 
ted the solitude of this peaceful 
mountain valley, and once, when 
overwhelmed with the responsibil- 
ity of his office, he secretly escaped 
and fled to his cave. His people, 
however, went in pursuit of him 
and succeeded in bringing him 
back. But the time of release 
came. On his death-bed he had a 
wondrous vision of Christ surround- 
ed by a multitude of angels, and 
while in mystic converse with them 
his soul took flight for heaven. 
He was buried in the church of St. 
Jean de I'Aub^pine at Auch, and 
his tomb became famous for mira- 
cles, particularly in cases of epilep- 
sy and diabolical possession. 

A Benedictine monastery was 
built here in the tenth century and 
called St. Orens' Priory. Its third 
prior, Bernard de Sedirac, after- 
wards Archbishop of Toledo, had 
the remains of St. Orens exhumed 
and placed in a cofler covered with 
silver bas-reliefs relating to the 
saint's life. This chdsse was sus- 
pended on the wall of a chapel be- 
hind the high altar, and could only 
be reached by means of a ladder. 
Notwithstanding, it was robbed of 
its silver covering some time after 
by two soldiers, one of whom ex- 
claimed in the true modern spirit : 
" What ! workest thou miracles nt 
this late hour.?" But he speedily 
expiated his sacrilege. He was 
seized inwardly with a terrible fire 
that soon consumed him. After 
this the pavement beneath was 
covered with bristling iron spikes 
to prevent another profanation. 
But'the relics of St. Orens, that had 
escaped the Moor and the Norman, 
and were even spared by the icon- 
oclasts of the sixteenth century, 
were less fortunate at the Revolu- 
tion, when the church of which they 
were the glory, with its tombs of 



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the early bishops, and the mauso- 
leum of Sancho Mitarra, the 
scourge of the Moors, from whom 
sprang the great family of the Ar- 
magnacs, so celebrated for their 
power and their misfortunes, was 
mostly destroyed, together with a 
part of St. Orens' Priory. 

The last prior of this monastery 
was a member of the illustrious 
house of Montesquieu, one of the 
most ancient in the province. His 
brother, a writer of some merit, 
when the family name and arms 
were claimed by the sires of Boul- 
b^ne, instituted a lawsuit against 
them, and wrote a work to prove 
his descent from Clovis,iniich led 
the Count de Maurepas to exclaim 
with affected alarm after M. de 
Montesquieu had gained his suit: 
" Now, we really hope you are not 
going to claim the throne of 
France!" And among the epi- 
grams that rained on him when he 
was made a member of the French 
Academy was the following : 

** Montesquiou-FezeoMC est de TAcadteiie. 
Quel ouviage a.t41 fait ? Sa Genialogie !*' 

The prior was one of the deputies 
of the Etats-G^n^raux, and made 
himself conspicuous for his mild, 
persuasive eloquence. One day 
Mirabeau, perceiving the effect of 
his discourse, cried out: Mifiez- 
vous de ce petit serpent : il vous j/- 
duira / After being in exile twice 
he was, at the Restoration, made a 
duke and peer of France. 

How dear St. Orens' memory 
still is in the diocese he once gov- 
erned we well know who have 
spent several years of our life there- 
How joyous is the ist of May, on 
which his festival falls ! His relics 
are exposed at the priory, a pro- 
cession, with lights and music, 
gathers around the place where his 
shrine once stood, and at night 



bonfires are lit on the other side of 
the Gers and the people dance in 
the open air. 

But to return to the pastoral val- 
leys of the Lavedan. Out of Ar- 
gei^s you pass into the valley of 
Azun, one of the least known, but 
one of the most picturesque in the 
Pyrenees. It is high up among the 
mountains and divided by the 
deep and turbulent Gave.* The 
entrance was once defended by the 
castle of Vieuzac, the ruins of which 
remain, associated with the memo- 
ry of the too famous Harare. The 
valley is inhabited by people of 
primitive manners with few artifi- 
cial distinctions. Here every year, 
at Carnival time, is to be seen the 
peculiar dance of the country call- 
ed the Ballade^ performed by the 
young men, who often assemble 
from different villages in short vests 
gaily adorned with ribbons, with 
the most efficient balladeur at their 
head, playing 6n the fife and tam- 
bourine and waving their flags. 
The tambourine of the Pyrenees is 
a primitive instrument of pine 
wood, as simple as the lyre of 
Apollo, and with the same number 
of strings, which the performer 
beats with a little rod. These 
dancers are escorted to the edge of 
their villages by young girls, who 
welcome them at their return and 
lavish praises on those who have 
distinguished themselves. They 
are presented with eggs, ham, and 
butter in all the villages they pass 
through, on which they feast the 
following day. 

Among the curious old usages of 
this valley, before 1793, was the 
tribute of butter to the shrine of St. 
Bertrand of Comminges, a popular 
saint in the Pyrenees, where he la- 
bored in the eleventh century. 

*Gave is the genend name of these mountain 
itreams. 



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The people of Azun were then al- 
most out of the bounds of civiliza- 
tion, and for what religious instruc- 
tion they had they were chiefly in- 
debted to the holy hermits of the 
neighboring mountains. It is said 
that when St. Bertrand came to 
preach among these rough moun- 
taineers, he was treated with so 
much indignity that the tail of his 
mule was cut off, for which the land 
was cursed with sterility for seve- 
ral years. Touched by the repent- 
ance and sad condition of the in- 
habitants, the saint, by his prayers, 
obtained the cessation of their pun- 
ishment, and they, in their grati- 
tude, promised to give him hence- 
forth all the butter made the week 
before Whitsuntide. This vow was 
kept for nearly seven centuri^. A 
canon and two prebends from St. 
Bertrand's came every year to the 
valley in acknowledgment of this 
tribute, bringing with them water 
that had been passed through the 
saint's pastoral staff while chanting 
some orison in his honor. This they 
gave to the people as a remedy for 
disease among cattle. These depu- 
ties never failed to pass before the 
house, which is still standing, where 
St. Bertrand had been so disrespect- 
fully treated. The master stood in 
the door and humbly prayed them 
to enter and partake of the refresh- 
ments he had prepared, which they 
did with emotion, like angels of 
peace and reconciliation. 

At the farther end of tlie valley 
of Azun, not far from the Spanish 
frontier, rise the dome and square 
tower of Notre Dame de Pouey-la- 
Hun, that stands on an isolated 
peak overlooking the village of Ar- 
rens, between the two roads that 
lead to Spain and the province of 
B^arn. The present edifice is com- 
paratively modern, but its founda- 
tion is so remote as to be lost in 



obscurity. You enter by a fine 
porch supported by four marble 
pillars, and are at once surprised at 
the richness of the interior. The 
walls are brown and gold, and the 
pillars, carvings, statues, and the 
very mouldings of the blue arch- 
es are all gilded, producing a most 
brilliant effect. Around the nave 
are two galleries, one above the 
other, for the men, who are gener- 
ally separated from the women in 
the churches of Bigorre ; at least, 
in the villages. The pavement is 
the unhewn granite cliff, which is 
worn quite smooth by the feet of so 
many generations of worshippers. 
It descends like an amphitheatre, 
enabling every one to see the altar 
distinctly. Across it is a groove, 
worn by a mountain stream at cer- 
tain seasons of the year. All the 
joys and sorrows of the valley are 
brought to the feet of Notre Dame 
de Pouey-la-Hun, and numerous 
pilgrimages are made here at cer- 
tain seasons of the year. 

In 1793 orders came to destroy 
this venerated chapel, but when the 
emissaries entered it they were sa- 
luted by mysterious voices among 
the arches, as if reproaching them 
for their blasphemies and impreca- 
tions, and, terrified by the unearthly 
sounds, they at once made their 
escape. There was nothing super- 
natural in this, however. It was a 
mere stratagem on the part of the 
peasants to save their beloved cha- 
pel, and they boast of it to this day. 

During the troubles with Spain 
this chapel was used as a military 
post, and consequently much in- 
jured. As soon as it was no longer 
needed for this purpose the govern- 
ment again decided to demolish it 
and sell the materials. The peo- 
ple became excited, and the women 
assailed with stones the agents sent 
to examine the building, who fled 



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for their lives. Then a pious wid- 
ow, to save it from further profa- 
nation, bought it for about fifteen 
thousand francs, which was nearly 
all she had, and, when she died, 
bequeathed it to her nephew, a 
priest, till better days should ar- 
rive. Time and neglect were be- 
ginning to leave iheir traces on 
the chapel when Queen Hortense 
came to the Pyrenees. She had 
just lost her son, the Prince Royal 
of Holland, and the wild, melan- 
choly grandeur of these mountain 
valleys harmonized with her sad- 
ness. She was particularly pleased 
with the quaint village of Arrens 
and its picturesque chapel, and 
made a sketch of the landscape 
herself. The devotion of the peo- 
ple to the Virgin of Pouey-la-Hun 
touched her, and she sympathized 
in their wish it should be reopen- 
ed for public worship. She went 
there to offer her vows, and found- 
ed an anniversary Mass for her 
son, which was to be celebrated 
with all possible solemnity, as re- 
corded by the authorities of the 
place. This was shortly before the 
birth of Louis Napoleon. She 
never forgot her visit to Pouey-la- 
Hun. She alludes to it in her tra- 
vels, and excited the interest of the 
government in its neglected condi- 
tion. In 1836 it was made over to 
the Bishop of Tarbes, who founded 
a seminary here under the care of 
missionaries from Garaison, who 
have rendered it one of the most 
popular chapels in the Pyrenees. 

But to return to the basin of 
Argel^s. Tlie valley of Cauterets 
begins at Pierrefitte. A carriage- 
road has been hewn along the steep 
mountain side ©n the very edge of 
a precipice, three or four hundred 
feet deep, at the bottom of which 
rushes a fierce torrent that breaks 
into foam over the sharp rocks that 



encumber its bed. On each side 
of this gulf rise steep cliffs almost 
perpendicularly, down which dash 
here and there miniature cascades, 
all in a foam. A bend in the river 
enables you to look back through 
the gorge over the wild Gave, the 
waters of which are of the color of 
beryl. Nothing could be more 
delicate than the tint of the foam. 
Beyond the bold arch of the bridge 
at Pierrefitte can be seen the fair 
vale of Argeles, forming a lovely 
picture framed by the lofty pali- 
sades of this wild pass. We left 
the carriage and wandered on afoot, 
gathering the eglantine and other 
wild flowers, inhaling the delicious 
mountain air, and drinking the 
cool waters of its numerous streams. 
By moonlight the scene is particu- 
larly sublime. The gloom of this 
narrow gorge shut in by the lofty 
mountains, the deep shades of the 
forests that cover them, and the 
abyss below, with the ceaseless rush 
of the mad stream, produce a pro- 
found impression on * the mind. 
We remember driving through it 
on one occasion at midnight. The 
full moon hung over the mountains 
of Gavarnie, its light streaming 
down here and there into the 
gorge with mysterious, enchanting 
effect. Before us was the peak of 
P^gu^re, like an enormous pyra- 
mid with one tremulous star above, 
its summit bathed in the soft ra- 
diance, while its furrowed sides and 
unfathomable gulfs were veiled 
with a thousand shadows. As you 
wind up the Cdte du Limagon, the 
whole Gave is beaten into spray 
among the huge rocks. Here the 
lateral mountains recede somewhat, 
and you shortly come to the tri- 
angular valley of Cauterets, com- 
pletely shut in among majestic 
mountains. Its springs were well 
known to the Romans, and some 



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pretend that Csesar himself visited 
them. It is more certain that the 
kings of Aragon and Navarre did, 
as well as the ancient lords of Bi- 
gorre and B^arn. The little town 
is more sumptuous now than when 
under the rule of the abbot of St. 
Savin. Wooden cabins have been 
replaced by marble edifices, and 
the artificial appliances of modern 
times substituted for the primitive 
observances of St. Orens. But one 
gives a sigh now and then for the 
good old simple days when the 
lord abbot, to prevent all imposi- 
tion on the stranger and the poor, 
forbade the sale of provisions ex- 
cept on the public square. The 
wine, too, which had to be of good 
quality, could only be sold a Hard 
more on a pint than at St. Savin, 
and if false measure was given a 
fine of ten crowns was imposed on 
the vender, one-half of which went 
to the poor and the rest to the 
abbot. 

Cauterets is a very agreeable re- 
sidence in the season. Here you 
meet strangers from all parts of 
the world, and there is a certain 
charm in the unrestrained inter- 
course. At certain hours, of course, 
every one goes to partake of the 
waters and to bathe. There are 
pleasant walks along the banks of 
the Gave, and fatiguing ones up 
the steep mountain sides. At table 
you have trout from the river and 
game from the forests, fowl and ve- 
getables from Argel^s, apples and 
plums from St. Savin's, peaches 
from B^arn, and berries of rare 
flavor from the mountains. Buried 
in this quiet valley, away from all 
human agitations, in daily commu- 
nication with nature, that puts on 
here its fairest aspect, the invalid 
returns to a isimple, inartificial life 
which produces more effect than 
the waters. Rousseau thought no 



violent agitation whatever, no va- 
pors of the mind, could long resist 
such a place of residence, and he 
was astonished that the salutary 
air of the mountains was not num- 
bered among the chief remedies of 
medical and moral science. 

1'he valleys of Bareges and Ga- 
varnie also belong to the Lavedan. 
Another gorge near Pierrefitte leads 
to them, which is even gloomier 
and more savage than that of Cau- 
terets. A little more than a cen- 
tury ago it was inaccessible to car- 
riages, but since, by a miracle of 
engineering, a road has been con- 
structed along the edge of the pre- 
cipice, and when it cannot find 
room on one side it springs boldly 
across the abyss to the other by 
means of a bridge from which you 
look down a terrific depth at the 
Gave, that roars and struggles 
along with scarcely room enough 
in its bed. The road thus crosses 
and recrosses the river seven times. 
It was completed in 1746, when a 
carriage was for the first time seen 
in the gorge. Anything more wild 
and melancholy than this defile 
cannot be conceived. The moun- 
tains rise perpendicularly up on 
both sides, with nothing growing on 
them but a few wretched pines 
twisted by the winds. The height 
of these grim walls, the depth of 
the abyss over which you hang, 
the gloom, the silence only broken 
by the roar of the torrent, appall. 
From time to time you see an iso- 
lated house, and at length the vil- 
lage of Viscos, hanging like an ea- 
gle's nest on the rocks. There are 
two ferruginous springs in the 
gorge, but they cannot be utilized 
on account of their position. 

Just as you are beginning to 
yield to the horrors of this wild 
pass, it opens, and you soon come 
to the sweet, fresh valley of Luz, 



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one of the most beautiful in the 
Pyrenees. It is three tliousand feet 
higher than the Vale of Argel^s. 
Here the Gave is a peaceful, well- 
behaved stream. Its shores are 
planted with long lines of decorous 
poplars. The meadow is dotted 
with trees and covered with har- 
vests. Lofty mountains keep guard 
around, the lower ones wooded and 
crowned with the ruins of some old 
castle, the upper covered with gla- 
ciers. In the depths of this valley 
is the town of Luz, with narrow, 
tortuous streets, and at the right, 
on the side of the mountain, is the 
fashionable watering-place of St. 
Sanveur. The church of Luz, built 
by the Knights-Templars in the 
twelfth century, looks like a for- 
tress with its battlements and great 
square tower. As in many church- 
es of tliis region, there is a low, 
narrow door, now walled up, by 
which the Cagots — those unhappy 
pariahs of the Pyrenees — were once 
obliged to enter. This proscribed 
race is known to have existed in 
the time of the early French mo- 
narchy. It is said that they de- 
scended from the Goths or some 
vanquished nation, which made 
them an object of contempt. They 
were denied citizenship and oblig- 
ed to live apart and wear a red 
badge on their breasts, shaped 
somewhat like a duck's foot. The 
church endeavored to triumph over 
this prejudice by reminding the 
people tliat all men are brethren. 
She would not allow the Cagots, 
though they were deemed infec- 
tious, to be banished from the 
churches, but gave them a separate 
place till they should be regarded 
with more favorable dispositions. 
They had their own stoup, and it 
was a defilement to pass through 
their door. In one church of the 
diocese of Tarbes the archdea- 



con with the other clergy, to do 
away with this odious distinction, 
passed through their door at some 
public procession, and the people 
were obliged to follow. From that 
time they passed indifferently 
through either door. The race is 
nearly extinct now, or has gradual- 
ly become almost identified with 
the other inhabitants. 

Ascending one of the church 
towers to the battlements, you find 
broken lances, stirrups, and other 
accoutrements — perhaps left behind 
by the old Knights. There are 
also four cannons placed here by 
the Leaguers to defend the edifice 
against the Huguenots, who always 
made churches the principal object 
of attack. 

East of Luz, on a high mount, 
are the picturesque ruins of the 
Castle of Sainte Marie, which once 
defended the valley, likewise attri- 
buted to the Templars. This 
was one of the last holds of the 
English in Bigorre. It is also as- 
sociated with Burke of the " Sub- 
lime and Beautiful," who surely 
found both in this incomparable 
valley. Was it in France that he 
found reason to prefer ** the furni- 
ture of ancient tyranny, even in 
rags,*' to the torrent of liberty that 
swept it violently away } 

St. Sauveur is built in a curve of 
the mountain side, and its houses 
on the cliffs and terraces produce 
a charming effect. It is only ten 
minutes* walk from Luz, through a 
long avenue of Lombardy poplars, 
across a marble bridge over the 
Gave, and then up a spiral rampe 
which affords a new and more ex- 
tensive view at every step. You 
see the verdant meadow, pretty 
hamlets on the mountain slopes, 
foaming cascades, on every hand a 
landscape varied, brilliant, and im- 
posing. 



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Tlu Seven Valleys of the Lavedan. 



The first to discover the virtues 
of the thermal springs of St. Sau- 
veur was a bishop of Tarbes who 
took refuge here when his diocese 
was ravaged by the Huguenots of 
B^arn in the sixteenth century. 
Surely he had. need to drink of 
their soothing waters ! After ex- 
periencing their virtues he placed 
the following inscription over the 
principal spring: Vos haurietis 
aquas de fonte Salvatoris^ whence 
the name of St. Sauveur. But the 
place did not become a fashionable 
resort till the present century. At 
the Restoration the French aristo- 
cracy, diplomatic highnesses, and 
military officers flocked hither to en- 
joy the scenery and allay the fever 
of their uncertain political life by 
drinking of the sulphurous waters. 

Not far from Luz, on a verdant 
hill, are the ruins of a hermitage 
where from time immemorial lived 
a succession of hermits down to the 
end of the eighteenth century. Be- 
side it was the chapel of St. Pierre, 
held in great veneration by the 
mountaineers, who, on solemn oc- 
casions, went there to pray for 
some special blessing or be deliv- 
ered from some evil. The statutes 
of Luz forbade under severe penal- 
ty any person over twelve years of 
age to ring the bells of this cha- 
pel without orders. They required, 
moreover, a general procession to 
be made here on St. Mark's day in 
order to " obtain a blessing on the 
fruits of the earth, peace with the 
neighboring valleys, power to resist 
the devil and all wickedness, and 
strength to perform those works 
agreeable to God by means of 
which is attained the glory of Para- 
dise — Amen." When the bells rang 
out on the 25th of April, the master 
and mistress of every house in the 
valley were to present themselves, 
as well dressed as possible, in the 



church of Luz, and thence proceed, 
reciting a prescribed number of 
jPafers and AveSy to the hermitage, 
where the Mass of St. Mark was 
said and a portion of the four Gos- 
pels read. Those who failed to 
take part in the procession of 
" Monsieur Saint Marc," without a 
legitimate excuse, were obliged to 
pay a fine of two quarts of wine 
and half a pound of wax. 

St. Peter's chapel was latterly re- 
stored by Napoleon II L under the 
name of St. Pierre de Solferino. 
The last hermit who lived here was 
a Capuchin named Father Ambrose, 
who consecrated himself to God at 
the age of sixteen and was all his 
life a model of holiness. When he 
took possession of his cell he ex- 
claimed : " I wish to live here as in 
a tomb — ^to be counted as nothing 
— to live unknown, a simple, prayer- 
ful, abject life, in utter ignorance 
of all that is passing in the world." 
How complete his renunciation of 
the world was, how profound the 
peace he found here, may be seen 
by two works he left behind, which 
breathe the deep piety of his nature. 
They are entitled : Trait/ de la 
Paix Int/rieure and Trait/ de la 
Vote de fAme. In the latter he 
says : ** It is in the silence of the 
passions, interior calmness, exemp- 
tion from unruly desires, and the 
government of one's self that true 
happiness consists." This work 
acquired great renown. The Queen 
of France accepted the dedication, 
and nine or ten editions were pub- 
lished during the author's life with- 
out disturbing his profound humili- 
ty or love of solitude. He died 
here in the odor of sanctity, in 1778, 
at the advanced age of seventy. 

One of the excursions generally 
made from Luz is to the hermitage 
of St. Justin, the first bishop of 
Tarbes, who fled from persecution 



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to the summit of this lofty mountain, 
where he and his companions built 
three cells and gave themselves up 
to austerities and prayer. They 
were succeeded by other hermits 
for ages. The ruins of their cells 
are still to be seen. St. Justin, 
says the Martyrology, " rendered 
himself glorious by the multiplica- 
tion of his talents." 

At the foot of the castle of Sainte 
Marie is the gorge to the valley of 
Barege along the river Baslan, 
which you follow a few miles, 
through the poplars and willows, 
till you come to the village at the 
head of the valley, which is here 
so narrow as to leave barely room 
for a single street. Nothing could 
be sterner and wilder, and the 
place would long ago have been 
abandoned to the bears and the 
elements but for the reputation 
of its mineral waters. It is, in 
fact, nearly abandoned in the win- 
ter, when a part of the village is 
generally carried away by the ava- 
lanches or the inundation of the 
most insubordinate of streams. It 
was Madame de Maintenon who 
came here with the Due du Maine, 
that gave a reputation to the 
springs of Bareges. Louis XV. 
built a military hospital here, as 
the waters are efficacious in the 
healing of wounds. 

The heiress of Bareges in the 
middle ages married a knight nam- 
ed D'Ossun, but the mountaineers, 
unable to tolerate the rule of a 
stranger, resolved to slay him. 
He was warned and took flight. 
All the mountain passes were 
guarded, but he had, says the le- 



gend, a wonderful horse, by means 
of which he leaped from cliff to 
cliff, and thus made his escape. 
This place is still called the Pas 
d'Ossun. The house of Ossun was 
famous for its warriors. Pierre, a 
member of this family in the six- 
teenth century, was a great captain 
and chiefly contributed to the vic- 
tory at Dreux. Disheartened at 
one moment, he followed the exam- 
ple of his fellow-soldiers who were 
flying from the battle-field, but a 
feeling of honor brought him back 
and he covered himself with glory. 
He could not, however, forgive 
himself for a moment of weakness, 
and, in punishment, suffered himself 
to die of hunger. 

There are numerous hollows 
among the Pyrenees called Oules 
(a word in patois signifying a large 
pot or kettle), around which the 
mountains rise almost perpendicu- 
larly. These basins are also called 
Cirques, The most famous, as well 
as most perfect, is that of Gavarnie, 
surrounded by the mighty walls of 
Marbor^ with its towers and em- 
battled summit. The emotion that 
seizes one in this sublime spot is 
unparalleled. But its chaos of ter- 
rific aspect, its mountains with their 
glaciers, the famous Brfeche de Ro- 
land, and the thread-like cascade 
that falls down so many hundred 
feet — the source of the Gave that 
flows past the grotto of Lourdes — 
have too often been depicted to 
need repetition. The scene is to 
be felt, not desciibed. Here end 
the seven valleys of the Lave- 
dan on the very boundaries of 
Spain. 



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Job and Egypt, 



JOB AND EGYPT.* 



There is perhaps no fact more 
important in the history of the hu- 
man race, or which, in its striking 
corroboration of revealed truth, is 
worthy of higher consideration, than 
the accumulation of proof, resulting 
from the exhumation of past ages 
by modern research, that there are 
certain beliefs which are the inalien- 
able inheritance of the great human 
family — beliefs which modern scep- 
ticism attacks by a process of false 
reasoning incomprehensible to any 
simple and upright nature. 

For some years past the sacred 
texts have been put to the proof by 
tests of a character as severe as they 
were unexpected ; and thus, from 
the moment that the key was obtain- 
ed for deciphering the inscriptions 
of a far-remote antiquity, it was not 
without eager anxiety that the judg- 
ment was awaited which science 
was about to pronounce. 

But on this occasion, as always 
when interests of this description 
are at stake, the first conclusions 
were too hastily arrived at, and 
precipitation led to mistakes. 

After the vain attacks made on 
the one hand, and the groundless 
anxieties raised on the other, with 
regard to the question of the zo- 
diacs, it was soon found that greater 
circumspection as well as more ac- 
curate criticism must be brought to 
the Examination of evidence before 
it could be quoted in proof or dis- 
proof of any theory. Since that time 
the lapse of a century has witnessed 
a vast accession of documentary 
testimony, and it may be affirmed 

• V. LeRidtmpUur tt la Vie Fuiurt^ dans Ut 
Civilisations Primitives, Par M. I'AbM Anccssi. 
Paris ;Leroux. 



that up to this moment the whole 
concurs in establishing the veracity 
and authenticity of the Holy Scrip- 
tures. As the inscriptions of the 
kings of Assyria bear witness to the 
fidelity of the Bible narrative, and 
the Babylonian tradition of the 
Creation, the Fall, the Tree of Life, 
the Tower of Babel, and the Deluge 
confirm the grander, more logical, 
and simpler account given in the 
Book of Genesis, so do the annals 
and theological teachings of ancient 
Egypt testify to the truth of those 
doctrines contained in the inspired 
writings of which they are the tra- 
ditional echo — an echo mute for 
ages, and but now reawakened as 
if to add its protest against the 
miserable scepticism which is one of 
the signs of a degenerate and de- 
caying world. 

M. TAbb^ Ancessi, whose work 
on the sacerdotal vestments of Is- 
rael and Egypt we have already 
noticed,! has lately published one 
of more extensive interest, the ob- 
ject of which is to establish from 
the most ancient documents in ex- 
istence, outside the Holy Scriptures, 
that the dogmas necessary to the 
religious and moral life of man were, 
from the very origin of society, the 
heritage of our forefathers, and that, 
more than a thousand years before 
Moses, well-nigh all our doctrines 
and all our hopes existed in the most 
remote civilization in the universe ; 
and from thence to draw the conclu- 
sion that these doctrines and prin- 
ciples would not have remained in- 
destructible in the human mind, 
diversified and restless as it is, had 

t Thb Cathouc World, Nov., 1876, p. 913. 



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Job and Egypt. 



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they not been a part of itself, the 
foundation of its nature, and one 
final reason of its being. 

The author proceeds to group 
the Egyptian belief with respect to 
God, a Redeemer, and the life to 
come around the well-known text 
in which Job, overwhelmed by the 
reproaches of his friends and the 
weight of his misfortunes, despair- 
ing of consolation in this world, 
declares his certainty of a life to 
come, where, after death, he will 
meet with a powerful Avenger, 
who will put his enemies to shame 
nnd make his cause triumph, end 
his trials, and recompense his vir- 
tues by tiie supreme blessedness 
of the Vision of God. 

The argumentof Baldad theSuhite, 
put briefly, is that The impious man 
is always unfortunate in this worlds 
with its counterpart, Whoever is un- 
fortunate is impious ; but, in spite of 
this most imperturbable of theorists. 
Job is conscious of his own inno- 
cence, and after listening to a long 
outpouring of eloquent imagery, 
amid the desolate splendors of 
which there shines no ray of hope 
or comfort for him, he bursts forth 
like a tempest : 

*' How long, then, will you afflict my 
soul, and break me in pieces with your 
words?. . . Have pity, have pity upon me, 
at least you my friends, for the hand 
of the Lord hath touched me. . . . Who will 
grant me that my words may be written? 
who will grant me that they may be 
marked down in a book with an iron 
pen. and in a plate of lead ; or be graven 
with an instrument in the rock ? For I 
know that my Redeemer liveth, and that 
he shall stand at last upon the dust. 
That these bones shall again be covered 
with their skin ; that in my flesh I shall 
see God. I myself shall behold him ; 
mine eyes shall behold him, and not an- 
other." 

This rapid incursion into the 
world beyond the tomb, with which 



the Semitic races were never fami- 
liar, and which they appeared in 
thought to avoid with a singular re- 
serve, contains all the solution of 
the redoubtable problem; but though 
the question was settled, the argu- 
ments of the pitiless sages began 
again with renewed volubility, un- 
til the voice of God himself inter- 
posed, on behalf of his servant, to 
silence them. 

The words quoted above con- 
tain evident allusions to traditions 
and dogmas which appear to have 
become obscure or been forgotten 
among the Semitic races. This 
profession of faith remains isolated, 
without a precedent which explains 
it ; there is, in fact, nothing analo- 
gous to it in the most ancient texts 
of the Pentateuch, in the Songs of 
Israel, or the promises and teach- 
ings of the prophets. 

In the family of Israel, with the 
Mosaic legislation, the primitive 
world closes and another begins. 
The doctrines and hopes freshly 
implanted by God develop like a 
plant from its seed, each part being 
necessary to the other parts; but 
amidst all the Hebraic literature 
the Book of Job and his profession 
of faith remain isolated, and on this 
account the value of both have 
been disputed by persons interest- 
ed in lessening their importance. 
From this point of view, therefore, 
it is of moment to find an analogous 
doctrine in the outlying records of 
a remote antiquity, and to discover 
the edifice from which this frag- 
ment has been detached. 

On the rolls of linen and papy- 
rus preserved in the tombs of 
Thebes or of Serapeum we find 
not only the belief mentioned in 
the Book of Job, but the very ex- 
pressions there made use of. On 
these rolls rK)t only is this belief 
repeated in a multitude of forms. 



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yob and Egypt. 



but a community of traditions in 
the two great families of Sem and 
Cham is also proved. 

Long centuries had elapsed since 
their dispersion ; they were sepa- 
rated not only by their intervening 
deserts, but by their difference of 
language, customs, laws, and wor- 
ship ; and yet, where the Semitic 
text is obscure, we have but to com- 
pare it with the writings left by the 
old Egyptians to. make cl<;ar its 
meaning. 

The opening words of the quota- 
tion above apparently allude to 
some contemporary usage well 
known to the patriarch and his 
friends, but still not in use among 
themselves : " Who shall grant that 
my words may be written . . . and 
engraved in the flint-stone ?" M. 
Ancessi asks if we have not here 
an allusion to the styles or small 
obelisks which then abounded in 
the temples and tombs of Egypt, 
and which, if not in use among the 
tribes of the land of Uz, had never- 
theless been seen by these families 
of shepherds in their distant wan- 
derings. Besides the great inscrip- 
tions commemorating the conquests 
of the Pharaos, there are, in or 
near the Egyptian temples, at the 
gates of the tombs, or within 
the sepulchral chambers, innume- 
rable smaller monuments placed 
there by private individuals, and 
inscribed with their confession of 
faith. Of this we shall speak fur- 
ther on. 

Numerous passages in the Book 
of Job seem to indicate that he had 
visited the land of Egypt,* and. 



* Job yiii. s. Take, for instance, the description 
of the papyrus (Job viii. 1 1 ); the allusion to the 
rush-boats which are used on the Nile (ch. ix. 
36), and to the hippopotamus, under the name of 
Behemoth, the Hebrew translation of the Egyptian 
pihtmouty or river-horse, and which is described 
as ^* sleeping in the shadow of the lotus, in the 
covert of the reeds, and in the marshes; . . . compass- 



among these, allusion is made to 
the tombs of the "kings and coun- 
sellors of the earth," with whom he 
would fain " be at rest," and *' with 
princes, who possess abundance of 
gold and fill their dwellings with 
silver " ♦ (alluding to the Egyp- 
tian custom of heaping precious ob- 
jects in the tombs for the use of 
the departed at the resurrection). 
Like them. Job desired to leave his 
tablet, in which, after the manner 
of the commemorative obelisks of 
the valley of the Nile, he would 
declare the innocence of his life, 
his faith in a divine Avenger, in 
the resurrection of the body, and 
the vision of Him who recompenses 
the just and punishes the wicked. 

The funereal inscriptions of an- 
cient Egypt are of two kinds: 
those written on rolls of papyrus 
or linen bands, enveloping the body 
of the mummy or enclosed with it 
inside the sarcophagus; and the 
incised monuments of stone or 
granite, erected in the chambers 
or cut in the walls of the tombs and 
temples and at the entrance of the 
pyramids. 



ed about by the willows of the brook" (Job xl. i6). 
Again, in ch. xxviii. x-zz, there may be an allu- 
sion to the mines worked by the Egyptians on Mt. 
Sinai, where also are numerous inscriptions left by 
that people on the rocks. 

♦ Job ill. Z3-Z5. In the papyri of Neb-Qed in the 
Louvre, in a gallery parallel to the great hall where 
the sarcophagus is placed, we see a coffer, a mirror, 
a coUyrium-case, a pair of sandals, a cane, a vase for 
unguent, another for ablutions, a third for perfumes. 
The kings and queens took with them into the 
tomb also their jewels and richest garments, so sure 
were they of their resurrection. The ordinary 
dwellings of the Egyptians were small, built ol 
wood or unbaked bricks, but their tombs, the 
" Ettrnal A bodts^^ were of granite. Not a house, 
not a palace of ancient Egypt is now standing, but 
their tombs and sepukhral pyramids will probably 
last as long as our planet. The Hebrews, after the 
example of the £g>'ptians, appear to have had 
treasure buried with them. Josephus relates 
that Herod, being in want of money, made a noc- 
turnal descent into the tomb of King David. He 
found there no money, but ** aurea erHumenia 
muUumque supellectilis prtetieste^ qua omnia ah- 
stulity—Ant.yud. lib. xiv. cap. vii. p. 7*4, Ed. 
Oxford. 



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Almost all the texts * found upon 
the mummies are extracts from a 
book which ChampoUion called the 
Ritual^ but which is now styled the 
Todtenhuchy or Book of the Dead; 
tiie term " ritual " being confined 
to the liturgical manuals relating 
to the ceremonies of inhumation, 
etc., some curious copies of which 
may be seen in the Louvre. 

The Todtenbuch is a collection 
of hymns, prayers, and theological 
instructions, divided into one hun- 
dred and sixty-five chapters, with 
their titles and rubrics. These ru- 
brics, as in the Catholic missals 
and breviaries, consist of a few 
words in red ink to guide the cele- 
brant. The titles of the chapters 
are also in red. The lines are usu- 
ally vertical, and, in the richer 
copies, the upper margin of the roll 
is adorned, by the side of the title 
of each chapter, with an illustration 
or vignette representing the subject 
there treated. Finally, a whole 
page is taken up by a picture of the 
judgment of souls and the ingath- 
ering of the harvest in the blessed 
fields of Ker-Neter. 

These texts were to be recited 
by the soul during its journey, as a 
safeguard from danger and to pu- 
rify it at the moment of the solemn 
judgment which should decide its 
eternal destiny. The manuscript 
is intended to assist the memory of 
the departed. Under the twelfth 
dynasty these texts were often en- 
graved on the sarcophagus itself. 

Thoth, the God of Wisdom, was 
said to have dictated the Book of 
the Deady the greater portion of 
which Bunsen does not hesitate 
10 relegate to prehistoric times.f 

*The faithful in the middle ages were fre- 
quently interred with their profeskion of faith, the 
Credo and Con/it eor» or sometimes also the very 
text from the Book of Job which we are about to 
consider. 

t Bunsen, EgypCs Place in Universal History^ 
voL V. p. xzo. 



In support of this supposition, M. 
Deveria notices two very ancient 
annotations. The first of these, at 
the sixty-fourth chapter, states that 
this portion of the Book of the 
Dead was found at Hermopolis, 
written in blue, on a cube of Baakes, 
under the feet of the god, where 
the royal son Hardanouef found it 
in the time of King Menkera when 
making the inventory of the tem- 
ple. The second annotation tells 
that chapter one hundred and thirty 
was found* in the pylone of the 
great temple in the reign of King 
Housapti, who was the fifth mon- 
arch of the first dynasty, and Men- 
kera built the third pyramid. Thus, 
at these periods, certain parts of 
the Todtenbuch were discovered as 
antiquities, the memory of which 
had been lost ; and certainly we 
find on the wooden mummy-coffins 
of the eleventh dynasty long pas- 
sages from it, proving, therefore, its 
composition to have been long an- 
terior to the Shepherd Kings, and 
consequently long before Abra- 
ham. 

The obelisks, or inscriptions in 
stone, have not, however, the im- 
personal and theological character 
of the writing on the rolls. On the 
obelisks the name of the departed 
is usually inscribed side by side 
with the names of his family, pa- 
rents or children, and his titles and 
occupation are there given. At the 
head of the monument he is repre- 
sented making an offering to Osiris, 
his judge, or his children are there 
depicted offering libations before 
the image of their father and recit- 
ing the liturgical hymns for his 
soul. 

It is not rare to find the dead 
himself asking for prayers. The 
funereal obelisk of Neb-oua at 
Boulag ends thus : " To the living ; 

* Catalogues des MSS. Egyptiens^ p. 51. 



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Job and Egypt. 



to the ancients of the earth ; to the 
priests ; to the panegyrists ; to the 
divine fathers ; to all who see this 
obelisk : make for me your songs, 
beloved of Osiris, the Eternal 
King. Say : May the delicious 
breath of life breathe in the face of 
Neb-oua, the first prophet of Osiris, 
the acknowledged just one/'* 

Again, on the lid of a sarcopha- 
gus in the same museum (No. 978) 
we find a " Prayer to be said by 
every person who draws near to 
this tomb:^ May God give thee 
light,f and may its beams shine 
into thine eyes ; may he breathe 
into thy nostrils the breath which 
thou must breathe to live." 

The personal details, which vary 
upon every obelisk, are accompa- 
nied by formulae taken from the 
Book of the Deady which recall the 
faith of the departed in the resur- 
rection of the body ; the rewards 
and punishments of a future life ; 
the judgment, presided over by 
Osiris, his redeemer; and the hope 
of an eternity of happiness flowing 
from the beatific vision. 

Here we have, in fact, the pro- 
fession of faith of the patriarch Job, 
a further examination of which will 
show us that the analogy is carried 
into the minutest details. In re- 
gard to it we will first consider 
l)riefly the Egyptian doctrine about 
God and the Redeemer. 

Although nothing was originally 
more simple than the theology of 
Egypt, yet nothing could well be 
more confused and perplexing than 
it became as the commentaries of 
the schools and the mythological 
superfetations of each temple de- 
veloped in the course of time. From 
its earliest to its latest days Egypt 



• Notice des Princip. Monum. Par M. Mariette. 

t As this formula recalls the Lux perpttua //.• 
ceat eis of the Catholic, so also we find on the 
tombs of Egypt the Reguietcmt in pace. 



believed in one God, personal, un- 
created, almighty, the author and 
watchful preserver of the universe. 
How, then, it may be asked, can 
its exuberant polytheism be re- 
conciled with this doctrine.' In 
traversing the galleries filled with 
long ranks of the Egyptian deities— 
Thoth with the head of an ibis 
and the hawk-headed Horns being 
conspicuous among them — we pass 
along the stony piles of these an- 
tique and impenetrable monstrosi- 
ties as if under the influence of a 
nightmare, while the words of libe- 
rated Israel echo from distant ages 
in our ears: "Os habent et non 
loquentur; oculos habent et non 
videbunt; manus habent et non 
palpabunt ; pedes habent et non 
ambulabunt ; non clamabunt in gul- 
ture suo." And we ask what there 
can be of just and true behind the 
strange forms of these old-world 
phantoms. 

The answer is contained in the 
fact that the Egyptians attributed 
to God different names and forms, 
according to the aspects and attri- 
butes to which they wished to give 
prominence, while, under each of 
these names and forms, God, in his 
inalienable infinity, remained al- 
ways the same ; and, as if they had 
anticipated our perplexities at the 
sight of these battalions of divini- 
ties, they have taken exceeding 
pains to instruct us on this point. 
As the Eternal, God had one name; 
as Creator, he had another ; as Pro- 
vidence or Preserver, another ; and 
as Judge and Redeemer of souls, 
the name of Osiris. In each sanc- 
tuary the one God of- the whole 
country, living in a Triad which, 
without division of substance, ex- 
pressed the phases of his threefold 
existence, was worshipped under a 
particular form and name. He had 
a special worship, rites, chants, and 



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ceremonial, unknown in the neigh- 
boring temples ; but the hymns and 
inscriptions constantly dwell on the 
fact that each temple and each ri- 
tual was in honor of the only God, 
to whom belong all temples, and to 
whom all prayers are addressed.* 

The Egyptians knew that the 
Deity is an unfathomable mystery 
and can have no name. " His 
name," say the texts, "is myste- 
rious as his being." Considered 
from til is point of view, he is call- 
ed The Hidden 



1 



" Tk* Otu wka dUmt U : (ktn U tf him no ueond. 



One — Amnion, ' "^ iD ^ ^ 

whose image is 
enveloped in an 
i m p e n e t rable 
veil. In his uncreated essence God 
is invisible, but he has revealed him- 
self in his acts, expressive of his 
wisdom, power, and goodness, and 
each of these attributes presents an 
accessible side, by which the mind 
can take hold of the incomprehen- 
sible, see the invisible, and name the 
nameless One. Having in himself 
all powers and every form of great- 
ness, his names and forms are with- 
out number, and the texts, as in 
the Hymn to Amnion, expressly 
designate him as The Many-Named 
— the Multitude by the Names.\ 

* An historical fact which exercised considerable 
influence on the religion of Egypt, and which helps 
to explain the multiplicity of the names given to 
the Deity, was that the whole of Egypt which 
Menes united under his sceptre was divided into 
ftomtSf each having its capital city ; and each of 
these regions had iu principal god, designated by 
a special name, but under these different names the 
same doctrine always remains of a divine unity. 
Thus by the side of the political there was also a 
kind of divine feudality. Tum reigned at Helio- 
polis, Osiris at Theni and later at Abydos, Am- 
mon was over Thebes, and over Memphis Phtah. 
Each of these gods, identical in substance with the 
gods of the other nomes, easily allowed this funda- 
mental identity. Ammon of Thebes gave hospi- 
tality in his temple to Min or Khem of Coptos, to 
Tum of Heliopolis, and to Phtah of Memphis, who 
on their part received Ammon with equal readiness 
into their own sanctuaries. 

+ " The habit of reuniting in one worship the dif- 
erent forms of the Divinity continually led to their 
fusion into one personality. Sevek, of Fayom, as- 
sociated with Ra, became Scvek-Ra ; Phtah was 
fused with Sokari under the name ef Phtah-Sokari, 
VOL. XXV. — 48 



The true name of God appears 
to have been, with the Egyptians as 
with the Hebrews, the greatest of 
mysteries. Probably it was not al- 
lowed to be written ; in any case, 
as in the papyrus Harris, its utter- 
ance was forbidden. **^I am He 
who makes trial of the warriors, he 
whose name is known to none. His 
name must be kept in silence on 
the borders of the river : whoso shall 
utter it, he shall be consumed. His 
name must be silent upon earth." 

We find this 
""""^^ "^^ "2r in the hymn to 
Ammon,* and 
the remainder 
of this text 
leads us further into the doctrine 
of a Trinity which Egyptian theo- 
logy had preserved amidst other 
primeval traditions. 

'* Creator of the pastures whereon the 
cattle feed, and of the plants which 
nourish man ; he who provides for the 
fishes of the sea and the birds of heaven, 
who gives the breath of life to (he germ 
yet hidden in the egg, who feeds the 
fl3ring insect and the creeping thing, 
who provides the stores of the mouse in 
his retreat and of the birds in the forest f 
— ^homage 10 thee, the author of all, who 
alone art, . . . who watchest over men 
when they repose, and seekest the good 
of thy creatures ; God, Ammon, the 
preserver of all ; Tum and Armachis 
worship thee in their words, and say. Ho* 
mage to thee, because of thy immanence 
in us ; prostration before thy face, be- 
cause thou producest us ; . . . the gods 
bow before thy majesty, and exalt the 
soul of him by whom they were produc- 
ed, happy in the immanence of their 
generator," etc. 

It will be perceived that Tum 
and Armachis appear to form, with 
Ammon, a triad, of which the per- 

and Osiris, being afterwards joined to these, made 
Phtah-Sokar-Osiris. All the divine types were re- 
ciprocally interpenetrated and absorbed into the 
supreme deity. The names and forms of God were 
indefinitely multiplied, but God, never." — G. Mas- 
pero, //ist. Atu.y ch. i. p. 29. 

* See papyri in the museum of Boula^ 

t Conf. Job zxxviii. 39-41. 



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Job and Egypt. 



sons are distinct without being 
separate, each person being repre- 
sented as reposing in one divine 
substance, of which each is an as- 
pect, of which each expresses an at- 
tribute, and of whose indivisible es- 
sence each forms a part.* 

It is not to be supposed, how- 
ever, that this lofty and abstract 
conception was appreciated by the 
multitude, with whom, on the 
contrary, the numerous names and 
forms of their deity degenerated 
into a monstrous polytheism, and 
who, in spite of the reiterated affir- 
mations of the hymns and inscrip- 
tions, crowded their altars with 
fantastic idols. 

But for the depositaries of the 
sacred doctrine there was but one 
God, living in the midst of the di- 
vine triads, uncreated, and the 
principle of life. He was also the 
principle of truth : " Hold nothing 
as truth but the Eternal and the 
Just. . . . Man is only the appear- 
ance; and the appearance is the 
supreme lie. . . . What is the First 



with his hands, but with his word." 
And again : 

" The luminous Word ( Verbum\ which 
emanates from the Intelligence, is the 
Son of God. . . . The Intelligence of 
life and light engendered, by the Word, 
another creative Intelligence, the god 
of fire and fluids, who in turn formed 
seven ministers, enveloping in their cir- 
cles the sensible world, and govern- 
ing it by what is called destiny. This 
spirit is necessary to all ; he gives life to 
all, sustains all. He flows from the ho- 
ly source, and unceasingly comes to the 
aid of the spirits and of all things living.'** 

This spirit, Tum, or Tum Cheper 
(creator), is described in the texts 
as ** Master of understanding, . . 
giving to all things their motion: 
when he wrought in the abyss of 
the waters,! then was produced the 
gladsomeness of the light. The 
gods rejoiced at its beauty." 

The Author of the universe is 
also worshipped as the principle of 
Goodness under the name of Oun 
Nofr^ — the Good Being; and the 
inscriptions reiterate the appella- 
tion: 



m^ii^M^ 



' ThMgood G«d; grtaily b 



Truth .' He who is one and alone, 
the Lord of Truth and Father of 
the gods." 

The explanation to this formula 
is to be found in the other text 
which supposes the Word to be the 
principle of the divine persons : 

" Giving niUranc* to ti* Word, ixUt ti* gods.'* 

Hermes Trismegistes, comment- 
ing upon the above, says: "He 
who made the world made it not 

* At Heltopolis the divinity appears under three 
forms : Atoum, the Ina^tessiblc God ; Choper, the 
Creator (the scarabseus God) ; and Ra, the Mani- 
festation of God— the visible sun. It was not until 
later that we find a feminine divinity. 




, ir mtmn ofknn^ 



"His love is in the south: his 
graces in the north : all hearts are 
transported with his beauty. . . • 
When he traverses the heavens in 
his bark, and travels in peace 
through celestial space, his rowers 
are in gladness." J 

Again, in the wisdom of his se- 
cret counsels, God is described as 
holding in reserve all that may 
happen in the future. " He is that 

♦ We seem to have here a vague idea of the Ho- 
ly Spirit, with his Seven Gifts, which arc resplen- 
dent in the world of nature as well as in the work! of 
grace. 

t '* And the spirit of God moved over the «- 
ten" (Gen. i. a). ^„ _ 

»' And God saw the light that it was good' (Gen. 

1.4). 

X Hymn to Ammoo-Ka. 



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which is, and that which is not," 
says the Todtenbuch ; **for that 
which is, is in my hand, and that 
which is not is in my heart." 

It has been necessary to dwell 
at some length on the Egyptian 
doctrines respecting the nature of 
God and his relation to the world 
before approaching another feature 
of exceeding interest in their theo- 
logy — namely, the history and office 
of the Redeemer. 

This mighty Liberator, the first 
hope of whom was given by God to 
our first parents, appears under va- 
rious forms in the traditions of all 
the peoples of a distant antiquity, 
and among these traditions the 
most ancient and the most pure is 
certainly that of Osiris^ whose noble 
and beneficent attributes raise him 
above all the divinities of other 
nations, represented as coming to 
bring succor to man. The Doctors 
of the church were themselves 
struck with admiration before this 
august figure, and did not hesitate 
to identify the name of Osiris with 
that of our Lord Jesus Christ,* 
being convinced that the belief re- 
specting him was but an echo of 
the primitive revelation. It would 
indeed be difficult to explain othei> 
wise its correspondence to the Mes- 
sianic prophecies given later to the 
chosen people, or the analogies of 
the Osirian teaching with the ac- 
complishment, in the life of our 
Lord, of the hopes which, during 
long centuries, it kept alive in the 
countless generations of Egypt. 

The special attribute of Osiris is 
goodness ; it is he who is Oun-Nofre 
the Good Being /ar excellence j it is 
he who, with Turn (or Phtah) and 
Thoth, partakes of the divine es- 

* This fact, which appeared inexplicable temerity 
on the part of Tertullian, is justified by what has 
of late years been discovered from original docu- 
ments, which correct the classical misrepresenta- 
tions of Egyptian theology. 



sence, and is called, like Ammon, 
Neb'oua — the Lord alone. 

In the papyrus 3292 in the Hall 
of Tombs in the Louvre is the fol- 
lowing passage : *' Hail to thee, 
Osiris, . . . the great eldest Son 
of Ra, Father of fathers, . . . King 
of immeasurable time and lord of 
eternity. . . . None knows his name ; 
innumerable are his names in the 
cities and the nomes.* . . . Hail to 

* It is of these innumenble names that the 
Egyptians formed their long litanies, which are, as 
it were, the type of those of the Catholic Church. 
M. Ancessi mentions having heard at Cairo some 
wandering musicians chanting under his window 
an old legend in the simple rhythm in which the 
melodic phrase, incessantly repeated, has a close 
resemblance to the Catholic litanies. 

The following is a comparatively small portion of 
the papyrus of Neb-Qed, where the departed, ar- 
rived in the hall of Supreme Justice, enumerates 
the faults which he has avoided, proclaiming, 
at the same time, some of the titles of Osiris : 

**• O thou who marchest, \_who art} come forth 
from Am/ 1 am without fault. 

** O consumer of shadows I come forth from the 
double retreat ; I have not slain any man. 

*' O parity of the face I come forth from Rtutou : 
I have committed no fraud on the measures of com. 

*• O Two Lions ! come forth from heaven ; I 
have committed no fraud in the dwelling of justice. 

" O Flame ! come forth in turning backwards ; 
I have told no lie. 

** O Rampart I come forth from the mysterious 
abode ; I have done nothing worthy of condemna^ 
tion. 

*' O thou that vivifiest the flame ! come forth 
from Hat-Phtah : my heart has had no evil hi- 
tentions. 

** O thou that tumest back the head (etc) ! . . . I 
have been no detractor. 

*'0 mystery of the leg! come forth from the 
might ; I have not given way to anger. 

*' O light ef the senses ! come forth from the 
mysterious region : I have had no intercourse with 
a married woman. 

** O blood I come forth from the chamber of the 
lotus : I have not been depraved. 

** O thou who perpetually renewest that which is I 
issued from Khem : I have not been violent. . . . 

*^ O thou who hidest words ! . . . I have not been 
prodigal of words. 

*'0 Nofre-Toum in Ha-Phtah-Ka, I have not com- 
mitted abomination. 

'*0 thou who art unchanging ! issued frotn Da-^ 
dou : I have done no outrage against the gods. 

^* O thou who sendest forth the heavenly river ! 
come forth out of Safs ; I have not made the slave 
to be maltreated by his master. 

^ O thou who vivifiest intelligent beings ! I have 
not defrauded the loaves in the temple. 

** O beautiful Neb-Ka ! I have not profaned the 
meat of the gods. ... I have not taken off the 
wrappings of the mummies. ... I have not taken 
away milk from the mouth of the infant. 

** O thou whose eyes are like a sword ! I have com- 
mitted no fraud in the abode of justice.'* 

Each title given to Osiris alludes to some mystery 
or teaching in the Egyptian theology. 



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thee, ... the one who didst rise from 
the dead. He is the lord of life, 
and we live by his creations ; none 
can live without his will." The 
second aspect of the life of Osiris 
is his sojourn upon earth in human 
form, his death, and passage into 
the land of the departed. Plutarch 
tells us that Osiris, lord of time, 
made himself man and reigned on 
earth, giving his people wise and 
holy laws; that he taught them 
agriculture and reverence to the 
gods, going through all the country 
to instruct his subjects, whose at- 
tention he won and whose manners 
he softened by the penetrating 
charm of his words and by music* 

Even according to the myths, 
however, righteousness does not 
long prosper upon earth. The 
Principle of Evil, enraged against 
him, compassed his painful death 
when his life upon earth had at- 
tained twenty-eight years \ — often 
represented by twenty-eight lotus- 
flowers in the inscriptions, and 
fixed by the traditional age of the 
Apis. 

But for Osiris, as for the true 
Saviour, the hour of death is the 
hour of victory. He rises again, 
and reigns henceforth, king of an 
eternal kingdom. 

* Music amongst the ancients was« far more than 
it is with us, an agreeable pastime. Socrates 
declares that philosophy is nothing but a sublime 
music : we ^tAoao^taf ittv ownn liMyLar^ jxovo-uc^f . 
In the third book pf his Republic Mato goes much 
further, and affirms that the musician alone is truly 
a philosopher: 6r» itovot /ikov<rue6f o ^iAiSo-o^ot. 
The chanted poems and traditions were for ages 
the depositaries of the laws, ritual and history of 
a nation. 

t It has hitherto been difficult to discover the 
circumstances of the death of Osiris, or the primi- 
tive tradition of his sufferings, about which several 
legends have successively prevailed. The one 
given by Plutarch cannot be of great antiquity. In 
the Isle of Philae, which, if we may so express it, 
had a special devotion to Osiris, the history of his 
life is given in a series of bas-reliefs in a small 
sanctuary on the west of the great temple, his 
death and resurrection fonning the principal sub- 
jects. 

There is a splendid passage relating to this god 
in Pluurch, ch. budx., Treatueon Otiri* and Uie, 



The priests and faithful of Osiris 
could not endure the attempts 
made by travellers and philoso- 
phers to find a resemblance between 
this pure and lofty divinity to any 
of their own disreputable gods, or 
to fix in the depths of the earth and 
the abode of the dead the dwell- 
ing-place of him who had ^^ no kind 
of communication with substances 
subject to corruption and death." 
No other god had in Egypt so 
many temples and worshippers as 
this the favorite deity of the coun- 
try, since, besides its own local 
divinity, each of the nomes wor- 
shipped Osiris and Isis, and thus 
the " Protector of souls" was, from 
the Mediterranean to th^ cataracts, 
the god of all the Egyptians. 

The anniversary of the death of 
Osiris* was every year observed 
with lamentations throughout the 
land, until the hour of his resur- 
rection, which was hailed with jo3% 
festivities, and triumph ; this peo- 
ple, always so anxious and interest- 
ed about the future beyond the 
tomb, having for the " Lord of the 
life to come " the most deep and 
tender devotion. For, of all the 
phases of his worship, that which 
occupied the largest place and ex- 
ercised the profoundest influence on 
the religious life of this great na- 
tion is connected with the office of 
Osiris in regard to each separate 
soul. AH the funereal inscriptions 
dwell upon this. Osiris was not 
only their saviour but their judge. 
In the paintings and sculptures, 

* Most nations of antiquity have known the tia- 
ditional mystery of a god suffering, dying, and ris- 
ing again. The worship of Adonis, long prevalent 
among the Syrian races, penetrated, under the name 
of Thammuz, even into the sanctuary of Israel 
(Ezek. viii. 14). Macrobius speaks of it also among 
the Assyrians, and of the lamentations of Proser- 
pine ; and the same belief is to be found in the lone; 
poems of India. It is also probable that the Moa- 
bite worship of Beelphegor was analogous to thai of 
Osiris, Adonis, and Thammuz (see Numbw sncv. 
3). Women are here, as in Egypt, at Byblos, and 
Athens, especially charged with his wonhipw 



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and the vignettes of the ritual, he is 
usually represented enthroned in the 
Hall of the divine Justice, where, 
enveloped, all but the face and 
hands, in the shroud which had en- 
folded him in the tomb, and hold- 
ing in his right hand the hyk, or 
pastoral staff (not unlike an epis- 
copal crosier), and in the left a 
double- thonged scourge, he awaits 
the soul of the departed. At his 
feet are the divine balances, where- 
in will be weighed the heart of the 
dead. At the threshold of the hall 
Maat, the symbol of justice and 
truth, receives the soul and pre- 
sents it to the Judge. 

The souFs first words on being 
brought into the presence of its 
God were : " I am the Osiris [such 
a one],*' giving his earthly name.* 

This assimilation of the faithful 
worshipper with his divine type is one 
of the most elevated and touching 
cliaracteristics of the Egyptian doc- 
trine ; nor does anything analogous 
to it exist in any other religion of an- 
tiquity — it is only in Christianity 
that we find it again. In the same 
way that the Christian is a living 
member of Christ, sharing in his life, 
rights, and merits, bearing his 
name, taking refuge behind the 
person of his Saviour, so does the 
worshipper of Osiris become a liv- 
ing member of his liberator, and 
another Osiris ; and at the hour of 
death the soul calls for aid from him 
who had also passed its dark portal 
and come forth again victoriously. 

Nothing is more touching than 
the prayers addressed by these 
suppliant souls to their protector; 
thus we read, in a papyrus of the 

*In the papyrus Neb-Qed we find as follows: 
•* W^ords, on entering the Hall of Double Justice to 
see the face of the gods, spoken by the Osiris Neb- 
Qed. He said : Hail to thee, great God, Lord of jus- 
tice 1 I come into thy presence to beh<^d thy beau- 
ties . . , OH i^e day of tk« giving account of 
7i'ordt before the Good Being. I place myself in 
your presence, ay lords: I faiiiig you the truth.*' 



Louvre : " Ainensaouef the depart- 
ed says to Osiris : Receive in 
peace this Osiris, Amensaouef jus- 
tified. . . . Open to him thy gates, 
that I may enter there when my 
heart shall desire : may the guar- 
dians of thy pylones not fight 
against me, and may I not be 
thrust back by thy guards, that I 
may see God in his beauty; that I 
may serve him in the place where 
he dwells." 

To obtain a right to these favors, 
the soul, as in the litany already 
quoted from the Book of the Dead, 
recalled its innocent life ; in the 
Book of tlie Breathings the dead 
continues his justification by enu- 
merating h'is good works : " O gods 
who dwell in the lower hemispliere ! 
listen to the voice of the Osiris 
[such a one]; he is come before 
you. There is in him no fault; no 
testimony arises against him. . . . 
He gave bread to the hungry and 
water to the thirsty; he gave 
clothes to the naked;* he offered 
peace-offerings to the gods and 
oblations to the manes.'' 

According to the result declared 
by the unerring balances, judgment 
was given, and the name of the 
righteous written down by Thoth in 
the Book of Life. The just had 
right to enter into the " Mysterious 
Retreat," the place of eternal bliss, 
to eat the fruit of the tree of life, 
/istu^ and rest in its shadow; to 
drink the waters of the river of 
life, to sit down at the heavenly 
feast with Osiris, and to find the ful- 
ness of happiness in the contempla- 
tion of the face of God. Tiie im- 
pious were driven to endless pun- 
ishment in the fiery gulfs of Amma^ 
while "intermediate souls" >vere 
purified, by an expiation propor- 
tioned to their faults, \\\ the Lake 
of Fire. 

* Of. Job xzix. 12-17, and zxxx. i6-fla. 



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yob and Egypt. 



The most curious document, 
after the Todteftbuch^ which Egypt 
has bequeathed to us on the sub- 
ject is the long MS. entitled The 
Book of that which takes place in the 
Lower Hemisphere* The author 
there describes, as if he himself had 
visited them, all the various locali- 
ties of these regions of darkness. 
In it we advance, with Osiris and 
his dead, along the gloomy paths 
which frequently remind us of the 
wanderings of Dante. The way is 
divided into twelve " Hours " with 
their corresponding stations, and is 
peopled with mysterious phantoms 
and mythological forms, who some- 
times stop the travellers and at 
others favor their progi^ss. It is 
said at the seventh hour : " Who 
knows this, the panther devours 
him not." f The name of this hour 
is, ** He who repulses the reptile, who 
wounds the serpent Ha-her." J 

The most detailed description of 
the Egyptian hell is given in the 
third register of the eleventh hour. 
There we are shown seven god- 
desses standing, each armed with a 
sword ; § the flames which spring 
from their mouths fall into seven 
gulfs, wherein condemned souls, 
hieroglyphic symbols of spirits, 
heads cut off, etc., are confusedly 
mingled amidst the fire. Each gulf 
is designated in retrograde charac- 

* M. Deveria has given a sannnary of this book, 
in his Notict dtt Manuscrits du Mtuie du Lou- 
vrt, 

t It is also a panther that Dante encounters at 
the entrance of the forest which is the commence- 
ment of the mysterious realm of Death. The Egyp* 
tian texts mention also the lim, of which the Ca- 
tholic lituigy retains the remembrance in the 
Offertory for the Mass for the Dead : J>9mime Jetu 
Ckrisity libera animasdt/unctornm . , ^ dt ort 
teonis, ne ahtorbeat to* Tartarus. 

X Each hour of this night has a name, according 
to the mystery accomplished in it. The eighth 
hour is characterised by the defeat of the great 
serpent, cast into the abyss. One of his names is 
APfP—he who lift* the head, the proud one ^ re- 
presented by a sert>ent pierced with arrows. 

S " In that day, fear ye before the sword ; the ven- 
geance of the sword is burning ; that ye may know 
that there is a judgmant " (Job xix. 99). 



ters by the word Hady reminding 
one of the Greek Hades ; and each 
goddess has a name which indicates 
her powers and functions. It was 
this hell that was called also the 
second death — ^an expression pre- 
served by tradition to the days of 
Christianity, and repeated by St. 
John in the Apocalypse, in whicii 
we find almost all the ancient for- 
mulae of the religious beliefs of 
primitive times. 

We have now briefly to consider 
Osiris under the aspect of the Risen 
One. When, like the sun overcoming 
the shades of night, he rises from 
the dead, he is called Horus ; and 
although the texts insist upon the 
absolute identity of the divine p>er- 
sonality who manifests himself 
under these two aspects, Horus 
nevertheless, in the mythological 
form of the doctrine, is called his 
son — ^the Avenger of his father 
Osiris. 

This formula, " I am Horus, the 
Avenger of his father," occurs re- 
peatedly throughout the Todten- 
buch ; the Avenger being the God 
himself awakening from the tomb 
under a new form, and taking pos- 
session of the second life that knows 
death no more; that which hap- 
pened to Osiris being repeated in 
each departed soul, of whom he 
was the type and the Saviour. 

Later on Egyptian mythology 
furnished Osiris with assistants for 
this combat with death. The 
Book of the Lower Hemisphere re- 
presents, at the tenth hour of the 
journey through the lands beyond 
the tomb, and at the moment when 
the trial is about to end, four 
gods, each bearing a bow and ar- 
rows, with the legend : " These 
with their bows and arrows, going 
before the great God, open to him 
the eastern horizon of heaven. 
This great God says: Choose out 



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yonx arrows, draw your bows; 
wound for me mine enemies who 
are in darkness at the gate of the 
hot" izon." * This combat is renew- 
ed for each soul, and the avenging 
God invariably intervenes with his 
attendant spirits. M. Ancessi con- 
siders that we have here an unex- 
pected and natural commentary 
upon the words of Job, ^^ I know that 
my Avenger liveth^'' and proceeds to 
examine the sense of the word goel^ 
or avenger, of the Hebrew text. 

In the social order of the wan- 
dering tribes a traditional law re- 
gulated that, in case of murder, it 
rested with the family of the victim 
to take vengeance on the murderer. 
It was for the son to avenge his 
father, or, in default of a son, the 
nearest relative, who thus became 
the god of the slain. It is easy to 
imagine the terrible effects of this 
fatal law, which still prolongs itself 
through centuries, and sometimes 
does not end before a whole tribe 
lias been cut off. 

But besides the earthly avenger, 
there was another — God himself, 
who intervened at the hour of 
death to adjudge the punishment 
of the wicked and take in hand the 
cause of the departed. Such is, in 
fact, the character of the mysterious 
protector whose aid is claimed by 
Job when he exclaims, "I know 
that my Goel is living " ; he can 
count upon him, as in his tribe 
he counts upon the never-failing 
avenger of the cause of the op- 
pressed, t 

*Cat. of Egypt. MSS., Booko/thtLcwtrHtm' 
itphtre^ p. 15. 

t Osiris surrounded his children with so much 
solicitude that he is represented as even sending 
his attendants to visit their sepulchres. We find, 
for instance, the following in papyrus 3383 of the 
Louvre : ^* Said by Osiris to the gods of his suite : 
Go, then, and see this dwelling of the departed, 
that it may be thus constructed ; hasten it for the 
moment of his heavenly birth with you ; req>ect 
him ; salute him, for he is honorable." It is curi- 
otu to find so early the dU* natalit o{ our martyr- 
ologies. 



We need only allude to the fre- 
quency with which, in all poetical 
and imaginative nations, a metaphor 
becomes a myth, to perceive the 
facility with which the idea of the 
resurrection of Osiris became the 
birth of Horus in the cradle of his 
father's tomb. Thus there was a 
violent death ; there was a son ; 
the next step naturally transforms 
Horus into the avenger. 

How often is it the case that a 
word of apparent unimportance, 
having found its way into a dog- 
matic explanation, ends by entirely 
disfiguring its sense, like a graft left 
by an unknown hand in the bark of a 
tree, and which produces a complete 
change in its fruit ! * Thus, as time 
goes on, we find grouped around 
Osiris, Horus the Avenger, who is 
called his son, Isis and Nephtys, 
who are his sisters, forty terrible 
assessors who surround his tribunal 
and aid him as judge, besides a 
multitude of details whi^h compro- 
mise and disfigure the ancient doc- 
trine; while the text of Job pre- 
serves the mysterious germ of the 
Osirian doctrine in its simplicity 
and grandeur, and then applies it 
in prophetic allusion to the death 
and resurrection of Messias the 
Redeemer. 

An additional probability that 
the words of Job contain an allu- 
sion to this doctrine is to be found 
in the remarkable identity of the 
remaining portion of this text with 
the formula of the Egyptian papyri. 

*^*How often would the Catholic faith have 
hopelessly foundered amidst the innovations which 
the heretics and sectaries of all times have at- 
tempted to foist upon her, had not an infallible au- 
thority watched over her and secured her integrity ! 
I know nothing more convincing as to the necessity 
of this doctrinal magistracy than the incessant va- 
riation of the religions of antiquity. From a dis- 
tance, and at first sight, they seem to have changed 
the least ; whereas on the contrary, their historv 
has been nothing but a gradual and perpetual 
change, the laws of which it may not be impossible 
some time to discover."— iD# RidempUur et la Vie 
Future, 



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yob and Egypt. 



After his affirmation of faith in a 
living Redeemer Job immediately 
adds, with the theologians of Egypt : 
" In my flesh I shall see God, whom 
I, I shall see for myself; mine eyes 
shall see him, and not [those of] 
another." 

The passages in the Todtenbuch 
and funereal inscriptions are num- 
berless in which we And it said of 
the departed : 



in an exuberant mythology, the 
pastoral tribes of Seni preserved 
them in the simplicity of the first 
ages. 

And yet all these doctrines, which 
are proved to be the heritage of 
humanity, would have been lost 
and buried with the Egyptian dead 
had it not been for the interven- 
tion of Christ. In vain for three 
centuries did the loftiest tntelli- 



" Tkisgforiomipirit, in hisJUsk, h4 himuif, h* tm {Gad):* 



Again ; " I come to thee, Lord of 
gods and men; I come to contem- 
plate thy beauties." " I behold 
the great God in the interior of his 
tabernacle ; in this day of the judg- 
ment of souls." 

The resemblance is so striking 
between the Hebrew and Egyptian 
texts that comment is needless ; 
nevertheless, we would guard 
against the supposition that the 
ideas uttered by the patriarch were 
borrowed from Egyptian theology ; 
for, besides that in the words of 
Job there is the absence of any 
myth or secondary personage what- 
ever, it appears certain that these 
doctrines, preserved in greater pu- 
rity in their primitive form among 
the Semitic races, may be traced 
back to the time of the separation 
of the families of Sem and Cham, 
whom they respectively accompa- 
nied into their distant wanderings 
as their most precious heritage ; but 
•whilst the scribes and doctors of 
Egypt gradually enveloped them 



gences of Greece weary themselves 
in studies whose result was to 
prove that man was incapable of 
forming true notions of God, the 
soul, and our destinies from the 
chaos of systems which enveloped 
the original revelation when our 
Lord brought to the human race 
the realization of its venerable tra- 
ditions and the faith of its earliest 
days. 

Let it not be objected that the 
doctrines of the Redeemer were 
more ancient than his advent and 
known to man before he taught 
them upon earth ; for man having 
always had the same duties to fulfil 
in regard to his future destiny, of 
necessity God did not leave him in 
ignorance of them from the time 
of his origin ; and when, later on, 
they were forgotten, and the whole 
world lay in darkness, then arose 
the Light of which a faint reflection 
in the firmament had long heralded 
the approach, though clouded most 
before the dawn. 



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MILLICENT. 



About two years ago we were 
sitting in our sunny saian in the 
Avenue Gabrielle, my mother and I, 
she reading, I at my harp, when 
Tomlins, our English maid, opened 
the door, her face all alight with 
suppressed laughter. 

"Well, Tomlins?" said my mo- 
iher. 

"Please, ma*am, it were such a 
joke !" said Tomlins. " I was a-com- 
in' past the porter's lodge when 
I *eard a gentleman trying that *ard 
to explain himself, and he 'adn't 
*alf a dozen words o' French, he 
'adn't ; and the concierge he could 
make neither *ead nor tail of what 
he was wanting to say; and it wcu 
that funny I couldn't for the life of 
me but burst out a-laughin*!" 

" That was a shame ! You should 
have gone to the gentleman's assis- 
tance, instead of laughing at him," 
said my mother reprovingly ; " he 
would have done so had he seen 
you in a difficulty." 

" I think he was Hamerican, 
ma'am," said Tomlins, in a tone 
which clearly indicated that she 
thought this fact an extenuat- 
ing circumstance of her misbe- 
havior. 

**That makes no difference," 
said my mother ; " you know enough 
of French, such as it is, to have 
been useful to him, and you should 
have come forward. But how do 
you know he was an American ?" 

" He wore a white 'at, ma'am, and 
that's what Henglish gentlemen 
don't use to, leastways not this time 
of year. He be the family that has 



took the flat down-stairs for the win- 
ter." 

"Oh! he is a neighbor, then!" 
remarked my mother ; and, turning 
to me, she added : " Perhaps I ought 
to go down and see if we can be of 
any use to them ?" 

" Indeed, mamma," I replied has- 
tily, " you will (Jo nothing of the sort ! 
We have had enough of American 
acquaintances. These are most 
likely enormously rich people, whose 
neighborhood, if we knew them, 
would be nothing but a bore." 

** We have known some very rich 
ones who were exceedingly plea- 
sant," urged my mother. 

"Yes, and that is why I have re- 
gistered a vow never to know an- 
other — not if I can help it, at least," 
I replied. " Just as you have grown 
to care for them they sail away 
across the Atlantic, and you never 
see them again ! No, please, let us 
have nothing to do with these peo- 
ple down-stairs ! They may be 
perfectly charming, and, if they are, 
all the more reason for keeping 
clear of them." 

" This is all very selfish and not 
at all like you," persisted my mo- 
ther. " These people are at our 
door, strangers, and at the mercy of 
the comierge^ who will fleece them 
and worry them till they ar^ driven 
wild ; it is a real act of charity to 
come to their rescue. I will send 
Tomlins down with my card." 

I gave up the contest. I knew 
that, when there was an act of kind- 
ness to be done, it was no use try- 
ing to oppose my mother, especially 
on such selfish grounds as my pre- 
sent ones. The card was sent 



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accordingly with a message, and 
about ten minutes later up came 
the whole tribe — Dr. Segrave, Mrs. 
Segrave, and Miss Sybil Segrave. 
They were simply beside themselves 
with gratitude. Their delight on 
discovering that there was a deliv- 
erer at hand, under the same roof 
with them, was quite affecting. 
How they ever found the courage 
to come and face the situation at 
all, with such a lively horror of its 
consequences, was a matter of great 
surprise to us. Miss Segrave spoke 
French fluently, but this accomplish- 
ment apparently was reserved sole- 
ly for ornamental purposes; her 
disconsolate parents had evidently 
not thought of pressing it into such 
vulgar service as parleying with the 
concierge and the cook — two do- 
mestic enemies before whom they 
had already learned to shake in 
their shoes. 

There was something about the 
three that smote my heart at once. 
There was a freshness, a frankness, 
a spontaneous trustfulness that it 
was difficult to resist. I made a 
stand for ^it, nevertheless, and was 
as coldly unresponsive to their exu- 
berant warmth of manner as was 
consistent with politeness. The 
doctor, however, took me by storm, 
and in one minute and a half I had 
capitulated. 

He was only doctor by courtesy ; 
he had taken every degree that 
could be taken, but he had only 
practised as an amateur, being, as 
my prophetic soul had warned me, 
" enormously rich." He was about 
fifty-five years of age, tall, slim, 
dark, but he had a quizzical ex- 
pression of face, a twinkle in his 
eye, and a spring in his manner 
that made you forget he was not a 
boy. 

Mrs. Segrave was a complete 
contrast to him. Middle-sized, 



stout, and unfashionable in appear- 
ance, she had the gentleness and the 
kindliness of half a dozen mothers 
rolled up into one ; her voice was 
low, her manner simple almost to 
homeliness, but full of that easy 
self-possession that stamped her at 
once as a lady — a most winning 
woman. 

Sybil— O Sybil! How shall I 
describe her } She was not a beauty, 
and yet she made the effect of be- 
ing one. There was a brilliancy 
about her that is indescribable ; it 
lighted up the room the moment 
she entered. Pull her to pieces, and 
she was nothing; take her as a 
whole, and she dazzled you. Her 
features were irregular, her com- 
plexion was nothing particular, but 
there was a sparkle, a glow, a grace 
about her altogether that were 
more striking than the loveliest col- 
oring or the most perfect symmetry. 
I can see her now as she appeared 
to me that first day, standing on her 
high heels, a little behind the doc- 
tor and Mrs. Segrave, her black 
eyes glancing right and left like 
flashes of lightning, her scarlet 
feather, set like a flame in her black 
velvet hat, illuminating her olive 
skin, and her gold-brown silk dress 
glistening like a separate patch of 
sunshine in the sunlit room. A 
most picturesque creature she look- 
ed. I longed to hear her speak. 
No one was kept long waiting for 
this in Sybil's presence. 

" This is the very kindest thing I 
ever heard of!** said Mrs. Segrave, 
holding out her fat little hand to 
my mother. 

" You have saved a family man 
from suicide, my dear madam !" 
said the doctor in the heartiest 
tone. 

" Father !" protested Sybil," there 
you are making ^//r^ a character for 
us ! Mrs. Wallace will set us down 



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as a family of mad Americans. 
I assure you, Mrs. Wallace, we are 
all perfectly in our right minds, and 
very grateful to you." 

This sortie broke the ice into 
splinters. We all laughed, shook 
hands, and sat down, and the doc- 
tor began forthwith to pour out his 
troubles. Their name was legion. 
He had not been twenty-four 
hours in the house, and \ht concierge 
had already driven him to the verge 
of insanity. 

" If 1 could speak to the rascal, 
I*d be a match for him, and soon 
make him know I would stand no 
nonsense,** he went on to explain. 
" But that's where he has me on the 
hip, as Shakspere says; he keeps 
jabbering on, and I can*t answer 
the fellow. I know what he's driv- 
ing at, I know he*s robbing me; 
but what aggravates me most is 
that he thinks he*s fooling me.** 

My mother poured all the oil she 
could on these angry waters, and 
in ten minutes I could see that she 
and the doctor were sworn friends. 

Sybil listened so far to the con- 
versation with an air of amused in- 
terest, just as I was doing ; then ab- 
ruptly turning from it, as if she had 
had enough of the subject, "You 
are a musician, I see,** she said 
— my harp and piano stood open 
ready for action. "I am perfectly 
devoted to music ! I will come up 
and play duets with you, if you let 
me V I said I should be delighted. 

" But I like talking ten thousand 
times better that music," she went 
on. " Music is a way of expressing 
one*s self with another instrument 
than one's tongue ; but one tires of 
it after awhile. One never tires of 
talking ; / never do.*' 

I could readily believe this, but 
assented as to a general propo.si- 
tion. 

*'Do you read a great deal.?*' 



she continued. " I don't. I find 
life is too absorbing, too full ; one 
has no time left for reading. Have 
you } Human beings are the books 
I enjoy most. I am so intensely in- 
terested in my fellow- creatures ! I 
like to study them, to turn them 
inside out, to analyze their charac- 
ters, to exchange views with them. 
I do so enjoy discussing life. Don't 
you ?" 

This time she did " pause for a 
reply,** and I was able to make one. 
It was not very satisfactory. 

" No, really ! You don't care for 
discussing life! Well, I am sur- 
prised at that. Dangerous ! What 
a funny idea ! But if it were, that 
would only make it ten times more 
interesting to me ; there is such an 
excitement in danger ! If I had 
been a man I should have been 
passionately devoted to tiger-hunt- 
ing. Now, life is a kind of tiger- 
hunt, when one comes to think of 
it ; one can always get some excite- 
ment out of it — ^watching other 
people at the hunt, I mean. Don't 
you think so } People take such 
different views of life. Good gra- 
cious ! one would never get to the 
end of one's friends* views, if one 
began, even on one^ particular sub- 
ject. Take love and marriage, for 
instance ; what can be more intense- 
ly interesting than to discuss mar- 
riage with a person who holds 
views ///fl/w^/rfVa//v opposite to one*s 
own r 

She rattled on in this way for 
half an hour : it was very amusing. 
I felt very tame beside her, and I 
fancied she must have found me in- 
sufferably dull and unsympathetic. 
I found out afterwards that I was 
mistaken in this; her estimate had 
been very flattering. On reflection 
it need not have surprised me ; 
there is nothing a great talker likes 
so much as a good listener. 



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We all parted most cordially, 
with mutual congratulations on 
the chance that had brought us 
together. 

" I feel as bold as a lion," said the 
doctor as he shook hands with my 
mother. ** I am ready to brave an 
army oi concierges^ 

" Oh ! keep the peace ; keep 
friends with him at any cost. If 
you make him your enemy, he will 
worry your life out," was her part- 
ing injunction. 

'* Well," she said, when the door 
had closed on our new acquain- 
tances, *Svhat do you think of 
them ?" 

" I think them perfectly odious !" 
I replied. 

"My dear Lilly!" 

"Yes. They are just the kind 
of people we are sure to get fond 
of, to make a friendship with, and 
then away they will fly, and we 
shall never hear or see them for 
the rest of our lives." 

" You are determined to make a 
tragedy out of it, so I will not 
contradict you," said my mother. 
** Meantime, I shall enjoy the plea- 
sant neighborhood, and trust to its 
not ending so badly. They are 
here for six months certain, and 
if they like it, and the countess 
likes to renew their lease, they 
may remain for six months more. 
They intend to make themselves 
very comfortable, meantime, and 
to receive a good deal." 

"Humph! They will be send- 
ing us invitations to their entertain- 
ments, I suppose," I said. 

" That is very likely." 

"They will have their share in 
their thanks, as far as I am con- 
cerned," I said; and I sat down to 
my harp again. " I have no fancy 
to go and figure as a housemaid 
amongst their magnificent American 
toilettes." 



" I am vain enough to flatter my- 
self that my child would look like 
a gentlewoman, whatever her sur- 
roundings might be," observed my 
mother quietly, " and that she does 
not depend on dress for her indi- 
viduality/* 

What else could I do but jump 
up and kiss her for this speech, 
and declare myself ready to go and 
sport my white muslin and pink 
ribbons in the midst of all the latest 
wonders of Worth & Company > 

It was not many days before I 
had an opportunity of putting this 
heroic resolve into execution. 

You may laugh; but it was he- 
roic. I realized this distinctly, 
even before the supreme crisis of 
the eventful evening came. Sybil 
herself came up with the card of 
invitation. 

" Mamma was putting it into an 
envelope to send it by Pierre," 
she said; "but I said that was the 
veriest nonsense, and that I would 
take it myself. Of course you are 
disengaged ? You must be disen- 
gaged !" 

"Unfortunately, we are," I re- 
plied. 

"Why, Lilly Wallace, what do 
you mean !" screamed Sybil. 

"Just this: that I am a trifle 
proud, and just vain enough not to 
care to look a guy wherever I go, 
and that I am pretty sure to look 
that at your house on the 2 2d. 
You will all be dressed to kill, as 
you say — rigged out in the very 
newest fashions by the most expen- 
sive dressmakers in Paris — and I 
shall have to appear like a school- 
girl in plain white muslin. I never 
wear anything else; mamma can't 
afford it. I shall have a new one, 
and she will give me a handsome 
sash and fresh flowers ; but that is 
all. She will appear herself in 
plain black velvet, without either 



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old point or diamonds. If you 
think we will make too hideous a 
blot on your splendor, say so hon- 
estly, and we will spare you the 
disgrace." 

" T.illy, you are the viry oddest 
girl I ever came across in the 
whole course of my life!" protest- 
ed Sybil. " Why, how can you talk 
so ? You will look perfectly lovely 
in your sheer white muslin. I only 
wish we Americans were not such 
fools as to spend all our money on 
our backs as we do ; I can tell you 
most of us hate it and think it aw- 
fully hard to have to do it. But 
we can't help it; we should get so 
laughed at if we went to a ball in 
white muslin that we should die of 
shame." 

*^ Well, that's a pleasant lookout 
for me !" I remarked. 

" Oh ! it's quite a different thing 
with you," Sybil declared, and 
with a warmth I felt was sincere ; 
indeed, I felt she was sincere all 
through. " You are English, and 
we know perfectly well you have a 
different standard in those things." 

"And my mother?" 1 said. 
" What sort of effect is she likely to 
produce in her plain black velvet ?" 

"She will look like a queen — 
that's all; you know she will, 
Lilly." 

I did knoj^ it ; I had known it as 
long as I could remember. I had 
been brouglit up by my mother in 
a black velvet dress, and believed, 
nay, knew, that she looked as beau- 
tiful and queenlike in it as if its 
soft and sombre simplicity had been 
embroidered in gems and befiowered 
by all the Worths in Christendom. 

I confess, nevertheless — and I do 
so with shame — that I felt mortified 
at her having to present iierself in 
this splendid gathering of Transat- 
lantic rank and fashion in the attire 
which had borne her triumphantly 



through many a stately Parisian 
crowd. I was really dazzled by the 
splendor of the dresses when we 
stood in the midst of them. There 
was no distinguishing the young 
from the old, the maid from the 
matron ; silks, satins, laces, jewels 
glistened indiscriminately on all. 
There was a great deal of beauty 
amongst the women — there is sure to 
be in an American assembly; but 
the richness of their dresses sur- 
passed anything I ever beheld. In 
a French salon you may expect to 
meet a great deal of elegance — some 
dresses that stand out from the 
common level of taste and becom- 
ingness by their more brilliant hues 
and elaborate trimmings ; but here 
all were brilliant, all were elabo- 
rate, all were magnificent. I 
really did feel an anachronism as 
I stood there in my innocent, flut- 
tering muslin, while these su- 
perb, many-colored birds-of-para- 
dise floated and rustled all round 
me, sweeping the dark carpet with 
miles of silk, and satin, and velvet, 
and lace of every hue in the rain- 
bow. It was like being shut up in 
a kaleidoscope ; the pattern shifted, 
flashing into new forms before my 
eyes at every turn, until I felt fairly 
bewildered by the moving glory. 
What kind of conversation could 
go on under external conditions 
like these? How were people, 
women at any rate, to collect their 
thoughts to converse on any possi- 
ble subject except the one that was 
under their eyes, brought before 
them in such victorious, fascinating 
guise ? If they were not talking of 
dress, their own dress, their friend's 
dress, dress in general or in partic- 
ular, they were most assuredly 
thinking of it. And small blame 
to them. I know I, for one, could 
think of nothing else. 

Nothing could exceed the cour- 



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tesy of our hosts. They led up 
guest after guest to introduce to 
us ; all the magnates were present- 
ed to my mother, all the young 
ladies to me. They were very gra- 
cious, every one of them, but we 
did not get on well after the first 
exchange of commonplaces. How 
could we } What interest could a 
white-muslin creature like poor me 
have in the eyes of these sumptu- 
ously-attired young ladies ? I said 
simply nothing to them, I suggest- 
ed nothing ; I was a blank. Sybil 
never sat down for a moment. She 
was untiring in her efforts to make 
everybody happy and pleasant and 
at home. She kept flitting about 
from room to room, bringing young 
gentlemen up to young ladies, see- 
ing that no one was overlooked, 
that congenial elements were drawn 
together, that antagonistic ones 
were kept asunder. There proba- 
bly were some antagonistic ones, 
though they were invisible beneath 
the gay, harmonious surface — that 
pale, stately-looking girl, for in- 
stance, whom I had noticed sitting 
apart beside a large console that 
separated her from the gaudy group 
standing close by. I knew she was 
a great friend of Sybil's, because I 
had seen her photograph in a dain- 
ty gilt frame in the place of honor 
on her writing-table, I saw Sybil 
making a dart to her side every 
now and then, and interchanging a 
few hurried words in a tone of 
close confidence ; and yet she took 
no pains to bring her forward or 
to introduce people to her. There 
was something peculiar about the 
girl's air and countenance that drew 
my attention and made me wish to 
speak to her. I seized the first op- 
portunity to whisper this wish to 
Sybil. 

"The pale girl in the corner? 
Whoever do you mean ? Oh ! Mil- 



licent Gray. Yes, by and by. I 
don't think you would care much 
to talk to her; I mean I don't think 
you and she would hit it off very- 
well," said Sybil in a hesitating 
way; and somehow it was borne 
upon me that she thought exactly 
the contrary ; that we should hit it 
off too well, and that she preferred, 
for reasons of her own, not to bring 
us together. I there and then re- 
solved that I would make Millicent 
Gray's acquaintance before I left 
the room — or die. 

Did Sybil see this in my face, I 
wonder ? She had a way of flash- 
ing a look at you with her round 
black eyes that suggested a power of 
reading you through and through 
which was sometimes uncomforta- 
ble. I felt it so now, and, trying to 
assume an air of supreme indiffer- 
ence, I observed, looking in an- 
other direction : 

" Then never mind. I only fan- 
cied talking to her because no one 
else has been doing so; she looked 
lonely." 

Sybil's rose-colored skirts floated 
away in the direction of Millicent 
Gray, and for a moment I half-ex- 
pected she was going to bring her 
up to me. I was mistaken; she 
bent over her friend, and began 
talking in animated tones, gesticu- 
lating with her fan in an excited 
manner. Millicent listened appar- 
ently with more surprise than ap- 
proval ; there was a faint expres- 
sion of sarcastic resentment on her 
pale, thoughtful face, and an im- 
perceptible movement of her shoul- 
ders seemed to shrug away some 
remark of Sybil's with smiling dis- 
sent ; as she did so, her eyes turned 
towards me and our glances met. 
There was a mute recognition in 
them which we both felt. I blush- 
ed, feeling rather guilty for watch- 
ing her so closely ; she smiled, and, 



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in spite of myself, I obeyed a law 
of nature and smiled too. The 
rooms were now so full that it was 
difficult to move about ; there was 
small chance of the crowd swaying 
me across towards Millicent, and 
she sat on, surveying the scene 
from her nook with a face that was 
more expressive of quiet observa- 
tion than enjoyment. She was 
dressed in white silk, with waves 
of tulle flowing over it, but without 
further ornament — neither ribbons 
nor flowers; she wore one large 
crimson rose in her hair, a long 
trainee of leaves dropping down 
from it and entangling a rich curl 
of her dark hair. The relative 
simplicity of the dress singled her 
out as a very remote cousin to my 
white muslin, and I felt more than 
ever convinced we should prove 
sympathetic to each other. How 
was I to make good my vow to 
speak to her or die ? The chances 
were that I should die, for just at 
this moment Sybil bore down on 
rae from the rear, and took me in 
tow through the billows of silks 
and lace into her own boudoir, 
which was two rooms off" from the 
central scUon where my pensive he- 
roine abided. 

" Are you having a good time of 
it, Lilly ?" she inquired, darting 
her bright black eyes through me, 
when we came to a little breathing 
space. "What do you think of our 
American society 1 Are our wo- 
men as handsome as yours? Are 
our young men as agreeable ?** 

" Four questions in one breath !*' 
I cried, pretending to gasp. " Let 
me answer the first — the only one I 
can meet on such short notice : I 
am having a capital time of it. 
You are the best hosts I ever 
saw, all three of you. But, Sybil, 
do introduce me to that girl in wliite 
silk." 



" No, I won't," said Sybil. " You 
must want some refreshment. I 
don't believe you've taken so 
much as an ice; I've seen you let 
the trays pass a dozen times un- 
touched. Come into the supper- 
room and have something. Stay," 
and she bent close to me and went 
on in a whisper : " I will make Mr. 
Halsted take you in. You see that 
young man with the fuchsia in his 
buttonhole t He is perfectly charm- 
ing. I have had such a delightful 
talk with him just now !" 

"About what.?" 

" Good gracious \ About every- 
thing." 

" You have been discussing life 
with him?" 

" Precisely." 

" And what has come of it ? Has 
he proposed, or is he only hovering 
on the brink, poor wretch ?" 

'* How absurd you are, Lilly, with 
your English ideas !" cried Sybil, still 
in a sotto voce^ although the music 
drowned everybody's voice. "You 
won't understand that one may dis- 
cuss life with a young man with- 
out meaning any harm !" 

" Harm ? To his heart, do you 
mean ?" 

" Or to one's own." 

"Have you got one, Sybil?" I 
asked quite seriously. 

" Yes, I have, and a very sensi- 
tive one too, let me tell you," she 
said in her vehemently emphatic 
way. " Mr. Halsted, will you take 
my friend to have some refresh- 
ment? Mr. Halsted — Miss Wal- 
lace." 

And off" I went with this perfect- 
ly charming young man. 

The first person I met in the 
supper-room was my mother, whom 
the doctor had just taken in and 
was plying with some delicious nec- 
tar of an American drink. 

" i\Iy dear, I was beginning to 



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wonder what had become of you," 
she said. " It is growing rather late, 
is it not ?" 

Tlie doctor protested, but we 
made good the opportunity as soon 
as his hospitable back was turned, 
and disappeared from the brilliant 
scene. 

And Millicent Gray? I was of 
course in honor bound to die, as I 
had not spoken to her; but I 
thouglit it better to live, and try 
and make good my resolution in 
some other way. Chance favored 
me unexpectedly. A few days af- 
ter the magnificent reception on 
the first floor I went down to dis- 
cuss life quietly with Sybil for half 
an hour, when the servant said she 
had been obliged to run out for a 
few minutes to her aunt's, next 
door, but that she would be back 
presently, and had begged I would 
go in and wait for her. 

I had not been many minutes in 
the salon when the doctor came in. 
He had been "down town" to 
Galignani's, and had gleaned all the 
news that was abroad, what steam- 
ers were signalled, which had come 
in, which had sailed, and who had 
come in by the last arrival. The 
doctor was a terrible flirt. He sat 
down on the sofa beside me, and 
began to repeat verses from Tommy 
Moore about my " bright eyes that 
were his heart's undoing," and I 
know not what besides. Mrs. Se- 
grave heard us laughing, and came 
in to see what it was all about. 

** Ah ! my dear," she said, " he 
whispered those very same verses 
to me five-and-twenty years ago. 
Don't believe him; he's a gay de- 
ceiver. Charles dear, did you ask 
Mrs. Wallace what we were going 
to do about this claim the concierge 
is making of twenty francs a 
month extra for bringing up our 
letters V* 



" No, I did not," said the doctor. 
" In fact, I had not time yet ; but I 
dare say Miss Lilly can tell us just 
as well !" 

" Oh ! if it's anything about the 
concierge you had much better ap- 
peal to mamma," I said to Mrs. Se- 
grave. ** She is at home now, and 
if you go up you will find her 
alone." 

"I see how it is: you want to 
get me out of the way !" said Mrs. 
Segrave. "You want to hear what 
more Charles has to say about 
your bright eyes. Well, well, I'll 
go; 1 11 not be a spoil-sport." 

She was going to open the door 
when Pierre opened it, and in walk* 
ed — Millicent Gray. After the usu- 
al greetings Mrs. Segrave said, turn- 
ing to me : 

" You know Sybil's friend, Miss 
Gray, of course ? No ! I was 
sure you had met. Then let me in- 
troduce you — " 

As soon as we had got " well into 
conversation," the doctor proposed 
that he and Mrs. Segrave should 
leave us young ladies together, and 
go up to consult my mother about 
this new imposition of \\\.^ concierge. 

When Millicent and I found our- 
selves alone there was an awkward 
pause for a moment ; we felt as 
conscious as a pair of lovers thrown 
together for the first time- At last 
we looked at each other and began 
to laugh. 

" I am so pleased to meet you," I 
said. 

" Not so much pleased as I am," 
she replied. " I have been entreat- 
ing Sybil to make me acquainted 
with you, and she would not. We 
came near quarrelling over you the 
other evening." 

" So did she and I ! What could 
have been her motive V I said. 

"Did she not tell you?" 

" No." 



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" And you don't guess ?" 

" No ! Pray tell rae, if it is not 
a secret," I said. 

" Oh ! no, it's no secret," replied 
Millicent, laughing. " You are a 
Catholic. She was afraid to let me 
know you." 

" Lest I should contaminate 
you!" 

" Lest you should convert me." 

I was silent from sheer surprise. 

** You see what a dangerous per- 
son she thinks you !" said Millicent, 
laughing. 

** I don't see why she should," I 
replied, rather nettled. " I never 
tried to convert her." 

" Perhaps because you felt it was 
a hopeless case," said Millicent, 
who could not apparently see the 
thing in a serious light ; for she was 
laughing still, and looked altogether 
highly amused. 

"I don't know whether I felt 
about it one way or the other," I 
said. " I am utterly bewildered 
that Sybil should have laid hold of 
the idea of ray being so dangerous in 
that line ; from the moment I dis- 
covered what her notions on reli- 
gion were I avoided even touch- 
ing on the subject directly or indi- 
rectly, and yet she looks upon me 
as a lion or a fox going about and 
seeking whom I may devour !" 

** No, no ; you must not think 
that," protested Millicent. "She 
looks upon you as dangerous, but 
in quite another sense from prosely- 
tizing. She suspects me — very un- 
justly, I assure you — of having what 
she calls Roman Catholic proclivi- 
ties ; and when I expressed a wish to 
know you — she raves about you in 
the most enthusiastic way — she 
said nothing would induce her to 
make us acquainted; that you were 
just the kind of person to whisk me 
into the Catholic Church before I 
knew where I was." 
VOL. XXV. — 49 



There was something at once so 
absurd and so thoroughly charac- 
teristic of Sybil in this remark that, 
in spite of myself, I burst out laugh- 
ing. 

"I promise solemnly," I said, 
** that I will not whisk you in with- 
out giving you due warning, and, 
moreover, having your full and free 
consent to the operation before- 
hand." 

** Thank you. That is generous," 
said Millicent ; " and to prove my 
sense of it I solemnly promise not 
to whisk you into my church with- 
out having -your full and free con- 
sent beforehand." 

"Yes, by the bye," I said, "it 
never seems to have occurred to Sy- 
bil that the danger might be mutu- 
al ; that I ran a risk as well as you 
by our becoming acquainted V 

Millicent was hesitating in her 
answer when we heard a loud ring 
at the door, and in an instant Sybil 
burst into the room. She stood 
for an instant looking at us, and 
then cried out in her ringing tones : 

" Well, is it all over with you } 
Has she done it.**" 

"Done what?" I said. "Miss 
Gray has not attempted to do any- 
thing except to make herself ex- 
ceedingly agreeable," 

Sybil laughed merrily. 

" I call that exceedingly smart 
— quite worthy of a Yankee!" 
she cried. " By the way, it puts 
the thing in a new light. Milly, 
turn on the guns and try and con- 
vert //<?r. " And she pointed to me 
with her chinchilla muff. "That 
would be a feather in one's cap ! 
Good gracious !" 

" Then why should you not try for 
it yourself?" I inquired. "Sybil, 
I am inclined to be very angry 
with you for making me such a 
reputation. You know perfectly 
well I have never had a word of 



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controversy with you since we have 
known each other ; never done the 
least thing to try and make a Cath- 
olic of you. You know I have not !" 

"I know nothing of the sort," 
protested Sybil. ** I know this : that 
you and your mother are the very 
most dangerous pair of Catholics I 
have ever met — just the kind of Cath- 
olics to knock one's prejudices on the 
head with one blow." And she bang- 
ed the table with her pretty little 
muff. " You never preach, either of 
you, or talk controversy, or do any 
mortal thing to put one on one's 
guard; but you do every cbnceivable 
thing to make one fall in love with 
your religion : you are the very milk 
of human kindness, you never speak 
ill of any one, you are always ready 
to help people, you spend your time 
going after the poor, nursing the 
sick, and heaven knows what be- 
sides; for you are up at cock-crow, 
and out by candlelight saying your 
prayers, when we are fast asleep in 
our beds. Milly Gray, now mark 
my words" — and she faced round 
and confronted Millicent with up- 
lifted muff, in a Sibylline attitude 
of warning — " mark my words : this 
is. none of my doing, and whatever 
comes of it is not to be laid at my 
door." 

" Sybil, I promise that, whatever 
catastrophe the future of this day 
may have in store, it shall not be 
visited on you," said Millicent. 
" You have warned me of my peril, 
and, you know, he who is forewarn- 
ed is forearmed. Tell me, now, 
what have you done with Mr. Hal- 
sted ?" 

" Done with him 1 What did 
you want me to do with him ?" 

" Either kill him or cure him." 

" I should kill him, if I could," 
said Sybil. " I never knew so per- 
verse a man in the whole course of 
my lifer 



She dragged out the last words 
with an emphasis that might have 
led one to suppose the course of 
her life embraced a period of 
at least ninety-nine years. 

" What is he perverse about ?" 
inquired her friend. 

"He won't change his politics, 
he won't go back to the States, and 
he won't marry the girl he ought 
to marry." 

She enumerated these grievances 
with a gusto of indignation that 
made us scream with laugluer. 

** I thought his politics were on 
the right side — that is, on your 
side," said Millicent when she had 
recovered her gravity. 

"That's the wrong side," said 
Sybil; ^^ her politics are strongly 
Democratic, and there is not the 
ghost of a chance for him, unless he 
turns Democrat too." 

" But if he does not want a 
chance ?" I ventured to put in. 

" But he ought ; I want him to 
want it. She's the very sweetest 
girl in the whole of the United 
States ; and her father is the dearest 
old man, and would give her a 
splendid fortune if Mr. Halsted 
would marry her. And everybody 
believed he would ; only old Nick 
put it into his head to come out to 
Europe, and he has gone and fal- 
len in love with another girl !" 

"Who won't marry him .^" sug- 
gested Milly. 

" CVrtainly not !" declared Sybil. 

At this juncture Dr. and Mrs. 
Segrave came in, bringing my nio* 
ther with them. She was dressed 
for me to go out with her, so I had 
to run off to equip myself, having 
first cordially invited Millicent 
Gray to come and see me as soon 
as possible. 

She came the next day, and on 
a strange errand, considering the 
warnings of Sybil. 



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" I am anxious to be of some use 
to the poor," she said, after we had 
talked some little time, " and I 
don't know how to go about it here. 
I suppose there are no Protestants 
to visit, or at least they must be 
very few ; would there be any ob- 
jection to my visiting Catholics ?" 

" Not the slightest," I replied, 
** unless you intend to whisk them 
into the Protestant Church before 
they know where they are ; in that 
rase I don't think M. le Cur6 would 
care to enlist your services." 

" I have no sinister designs of that 
sort, I assure you," said Millicent ; 
**and to prove it, I want you to 
let me go with you on your rounds. 
I will make myself useful in any way 
you appoint, and I will do exactly 
as you tell me — as far as I know 
how, that is." 

I said, of course, that I should be 
delighted to have her as a compan- 
ion, and that we should begin our 
partnership to-morrow ; but my mo- 
ther came in as we were settling 
about the hour we were to meet, 
and unexpectedly put a spoke in the 
wheel. 

" Does Mrs. Gray approve of this 
arrangement, my dear V* she inquir- 
ed. 

'* I have not mentioned it to her," 
replied Millicent, her American 
ideas of independence evidently a 
little shocked by the question ; " but 
she is sure to approve of it when I 
<lo. Is there any reason why she 
should not?" 

" There may be. You are a Pro- 
testant, and this scheme of visiting 
the poor with my daughter must 
bring you in contact with Catholics 
of various classes — the poor, the Sis- 
ters of Charily, perhaps incidentally 
with M. le Cure and other priests. 
lie fore you embark on these perils I 
should prefer that your mother's con- 
sent was secured. We English moth- 



ers have Old- World prejudicesabout 
parental authority, you perceive," 
added mamma, smiling; ^' you will not 
mind humoring mine in this case." 

Millicent declared her perfect 
readiness to do so. She looked like 
one who would gladly humor every- 
body's wishes. 1 was already in love 
with her. The charm ivhich at- 
tracted me that night amidst the 
gay crowd had not fled "like the 
talisman's glittering glory " on a 
nearer approach. I was at a loss 
to see where the point of mutual 
attraction lay between her and 
Sybil ; but Sybil was one of those 
creatures who spirited away your 
sympathies before you had time to 
challenge the thief or lay a pro- 
tecting hand upon your treasure. 
She was a siren, who drew you to 
her cave and did not devour you. 
Millicent was a complete contrast 
to her in appearance as well as in 
character ; her eyes were deep blue, 
and her. hair, which was very dark, 
whitened her fair complexion to 
the transparency of alabaster, and 
gave a stronger individuality to her 
delicate features than blond hair, 
which seemed their natural birth- 
right, could have lent them. She 
was very tall, and her small, beauti- 
fully-formed hands and feet put the 
seal on the character of singular re- 
finement which pervaded her whole 
exterior. 

My mother was greatly taken with 
her. " You have committed your- 
self more seriously in this case, it 
strikes me," she remarked when. 
Millicent had taken leave. 

"They are settled in Paris per- 
manently," 1 replied ; " I asked her 
that at once. I should not have 
embarked on an intimacy with her,, 
if they had been only birds of pas- 
sage." 

Mrs. Gray made no difficulty 
about Millicent's joining me in my 



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visits to the poor ; she observed, in- 
deed — very naturally, I thought — 
that " Mrs. Wallace ran just the same 
risk in allowing her daughter to as- 
sociate with Millicent." Millicent 
returned next morning quite jubi- 
lant with this message, and we set 
out on pur first walk together. We 
agreed that we were not to improve 
this or any future opportunity to 
convert each other. Was I quite 
sincere when I entered on this 
agreement 1 liOoking back on it, I 
think I can honestly say I was. I 
jmeant that I would not discuss reli- 
-gion or say anything to prejudice 
Millicent against her own ; that I 
would rigidly avoid controversy ; 
and in all this I kept my word. 
But I did not disguise from myself 
that I had a great longing to see her 
a Catholic, and that 1 should do my 
best in another way to bring about 
this result. For this purpose I had 
her name put down at Notre Dame 
des Victoires for prayers. I asked 
several of my friends to pray for the 
same intention, and I made a poin^ 
of praying every day for it myself. 
I took her to see Soeur Lucie, a Sis- 
ter of Charity I was very fond of, 
and I interested her in the same 
object. I counted a good deal, too, 
on the impression which the faith 
of the poor was likely to make on 
her. 

I was just then much occupied 
with a poor woman named Mme. 
Martin, who was dying, who had 
•been dying these five years of a 
very painful malady. I think she 
was the first person I took Milli- 
cent to see. She lived in a room 
on the sixth floor — that is, in the 
attic — of a house where her mother 
\\Si?,cofuierge. She had been better 
educated than the generality of her 
.class, having been brought up as a 
.teacher of singing. This pursuit 
had subsequently thrown her into 



the society of persons much above 
her in position, and the contact had 
contributed still more to educate 
and refine her. She had conse- 
quently acquired something of the 
varnish of a lady, and, without be- 
ing really educated, she had gained 
that increased capacity for suffering 
which even imperfect education 
gives. Her illness had thrown her 
back into her original position and 
surroundings, and these w^ere per- 
fect misery to her. She could not 
bear the society of the servants— 
her constant one now, owing to that 
horrible French system of stowing 
away the servants of every flat in 
the same house into pigeon-holes un- 
der the roof, old and young, men 
and women, innocent, honest girls 
and vicious old veterans in dishones- 
ty, all crammed higgledy-piggledyin 
a proximity full of dangers to both 
soul and body. This population 
of the pigeon-holes was insupporta- 
ble to Mme. Martin ; she had noth- 
ing in common with them nor they 
with her. They pitied her — for the 
French are always kind-hearted— 
but they resented her evident supe- 
riority, and often showed their pity in 
a way that hurt more than it sooth- 
ed. She writhed under the com- 
passion of these coarse, vulgar- 
minded men and women, whose 
conversation turned chiefly on the 
domestic concerns of their masters, 
how they cheated them, the tricks 
they practised on them. 

They came to see, after a while, 
that she did not care, for their so- 
ciety, and they ceased to inflict it 
on her, and Mme. Martin carae 
gradually to be as isolated as if she 
had been living in a desert. She 
was glad of it in one way. We 
most of us prefer solitude to un- 
sympathetic company ; we had ra- 
ther be left alone than intruded ow 
by those loud voices and heavy 



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steps that jar so painfully on the 
nervous atmosphere of a sick-room ; 
but there were times when her lone- 
liness weighed terribly on her, when 
she longed for any hand that would 
but raise her paralyzed limbs from 
a posture that had grown agoniz- 
ing from prolonged immobility, that 
would give her the drink that was 
just beyond the reach of her arm. 
Her mother could come to her but 
very seldom ; she dared not absent 
herself during the busy portion of 
the day from her lodge down- 
stairs. Soeur Lucie was very kind, 
and came as often as she could ; it 
was she who had taken me to her 
and begged me to look after her. 
I was* the better able to do so that 
Mme. Martin lived only five mi- 
nutes* walk from our house. I 
don*t think I ever came in contact 
with a sufferer who edified me 
more than this poor woman. It 
was not that she was so wonder- 
fully pious, or heroic, or resigned; 
she was all three by turns, but 
none constantly. Perhaps it was 
this very fluctuation that made one 
realize so vividly the supernatural- 
ness of the struggle she was carry- 
ing on. You saw the power of the 
sacraments, the action of grace 
working on her soul, almost as 
visibly as that of medicine on the 
body. She was a woman of very 
strong passions, acute sensibilities, 
and ardent imagination ; you fan 
fancy what it was to such a nature 
to be immured in a room about 
twelve feet long by eight, with a 
roof slanting to the floor at one 
side, and a window in the slant, 
incapable of moving in her bed 
without help, dependent on cha- 
rity for even that bed and for the 
bread she ate. For the first years 
of her illness this misery was so 
unendurable, she told me, that she 
thought it would have driven her 



mad, and the terror of this pros- 
pect was the most unbearable thing 
of all. She had not the consola- 
tions of religion then. Her artist 
life, with its alluring perils, its wild 
companions, its passionate aspira- 
tions, had led her away from the 
realities of the faith and gathered 
a mist before her eyes. But she 
fell ill, and then the mist b^gan to 
clear away. The Sisters of Cha- 
rity found her out, and the old sa- 
cred memories of childhood were 
awakened ; her First Communion, 
with its sweet, pure joys, its lovely, 
solemn pageant, the bright com- 
panionship of kindred hearts start- 
ing with the fervent promise to the 
divine Guest whose first coming was 
the grand event, the supreme crisis 
of their little lives, the goal to 
which, thus far, their lives had 
tended — all this came back like a 
well-remembered dream at the sight 
of the gray habit and the white cor- 
nette. It was the old, o^d story : 
the prodigal had wandered into a 
strange country, and had grown 
homesick and turned back, and 
the Father had met him half way 
on the road. She had not fed upon 
the husks of swine, poor Mme. Mar- 
tin ; only " forgotten to eat her 
bread," and hunger had driven her 
home. She spoke to me of her 
conversion in terms of such deep 
humility and compunction that I 
might have fancied her the most 
appalling sinner who had ever lived, 
if Soeur Lucie had not told me the 
exact history of it. 

But it was not all sunshine and 
smooth waters even after this bless- 
ed welcome home. There were 
dreadful battles to be fought yet. 
She fought bravely, but not al- 
ways with a smiling face and a glad 
heart. Oh ! no. There were days 
of such terrific anguish, such utter, 
black despair, that it used to seem. 



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to me sometimes that her faith must 
fail this time, that nothing short of 
a miracle could save her now. And 
nothing else did. What greater mi- 
racle is there than the triumph of 
God's grace over our corrupt and 
fallen nature, the victory of sacra- 
ments over the devil that holds our 
soul ? It was a greater wonder to 
me every time I witnessed it in 
Mme. Martin. This presence of 
an evil spirit in her — a real though 
invisible presence of tremendous, 
almost omnipotent power — was so 
palpable that I used to feel some- 
thing like the kind of terror one 
would feel near a person possessed. 
I always felt perfectly helpless while 
the crisis lasted, and would sit 
there and listen dumbly while she 
uttered her bitter, fierce words, not 
raving in loud, wild accents, but 
with a sort of hard, suppressed an- 
ger, a deep-down rebellion against 
the cruel, all-powerful will that was 
torturing her. There was no use 
arguing or preaching, or trying to 
make her see the sinfulness and 
the stupidity of it all ; one could 
<io nothing but bear with it, pray- 
ing silently to God to come to her, 
and lay his finger on the wounded 
soul, and speak with his voice, and 
bid the winds be still. 

One thing struck me with pecu- 
iliar significance : no matter how 
fiercely rebellious she was towards 
'God, she could always turn with a 
softened glance towards his Blessed 
Mother. There was an old print 
of the Mater Dolorosa on the wall 
over her bed, and it was the stran- 
gest thing to see the poor sufferer 
•lift her dark, vindictive eyes to it 
with a tender, compassionate, en- 
treating glance, while words of al- 
most savage petulance against the 
Son were still hot on her lips. 
Once I remember her bursting into 
tears as she turned towards it in 



one of these sudden appeals. The 
fiend was exorcised for that day. 
I sat beside her till she had cried 
herself to sleep like a tired, naugh- 
ty child. 

These terrible days were invari- 
ably followed by periods of com- 
punction, humble self-reproach, and 
love so fervent and consoling thai 
it used to seem to me they could 
never pass away, that the darkness 
could never return, that this time 
the rescue was complete and irre- 
vocable. The humility with which 
she would beg my pardon for the 
scandal she had given me, the way 
she would upbraid herself for her 
base ingratitude to our Blessed 
Lord, were more touching than I 
can describe. She would look up 
fondly towards the Mater Dolorosa 
with such an expression of tender- 
ness on her haggard, sunken face, 
and say, as if apostrophizing it : 
" Ah ! I knew she would gain the 
victory. I knew she would not 
desert me! Pauvre vilrc ! Ellc a 
tant souffertr 

The first day that I took Millicenl 
Gray to see her she was in one of 
these blessed, penitential moods. 
It had lasted through several days — 
days of fearful suffering, and nights 
of sleepless weariness. She utter- 
ed an exclamation of joyous weN 
come when I appeared. 

" Que le bon Dieu est bon 1 I knew 
he would not keep me waiting 
much longer. My little stock of 
patience was just coming to an 
end !" And she smiled good-hu- 
mored ly. 

** What is it you want ?" I in- 
quired. 

" I was dying with thirst," she 
said, "and I managed to draw this 
cup to me by hooking my finger in 
the handle, b\it I was in such a 
hurry to drink it that it slipped 
from me, and I am all wet and half- 



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perished !" And, indeed, she was 
irembling with cold ; her hands 
were like ice and her teeth chatter- 
ed. I hastened to lift her up on 
her pillows and repair the accident, 
Millicent helping very dexterously. 
I had prepared Mme. Martin for 
her visit, so merely introduced 
her as a friend of mine, who would 
be glad to come and see her some- 
times, if she allowed it. 

When we had settled her in some 
degree of comfort, Millicent and I 
sat down and began to converse. 
Mme. Martin was in too great pain 
to join in the conversation, except 
by throwing in a word now and then 
to show she was following it, but 
one could see she was interested in 
what we were saying. There was 
an unusual brightness and peace 
about her, in the expression of her 
face and the tone of her voice ; I 
rejoiced that Millicent should see 
it, for I knew it could not fail to 
impress her. 

**\Vas last night as bad as the 
preceding ones?" I said when we 
were going away. 

" Yes ; it was very bad. I did 
not get a moment's rest till it was 
daylight," she said; and she smiled 
quite serenely. 

** My poor friend ! , How cruelly 
tried you are !" I could not help 
exclaiming. " May God give you 
courage !'* 

"He does! he does!" she cried 
fervently. **It is a miracle how 
good he is to me — a miracle." 

"We must ask him for another 
one, that your courage may be re- 
warded by a cure," said Millicent 
kindly. 

" Oh ! no. Don't ask for that ! I 
don't want it !" said Mme. Martin 
quickly, as if she were frightened 
the miracle was going to be wrought 
on the spot. " I don't want to be 
cured, only to be sustained, and to 



go on suffering a long time — as long, 
that is, as He likes — that I may 
prove I am not ungrateful ; that I 
love him a little bit after all he has 
done for me ! All he has ^one for 
me !" There was a look almost of 
ecstasy on her features as she said 
this, her face slightly upturned, 
but her eyes closed as if she were 
looking within her, into that sanc- 
tuary of her soul where God was 
present. I felt, rather than saw, 
Millicent turn a sudden, startled 
glance towards me. 

" That is the most precious and 
most beautiful of all miracles," I 
said presently, " that our hard 
hearts should be softened by the 
cross, and that we should come to 
love it for His sake ; is it not ?" 

"Yes," she replied; "it is the 
one I have most prayed for. It is 
to her I owe it." And she turned to 
the Mater Dolorosa, "In my worst 
moments I always felt for her ; that 
my cross was nothing compared to 
hers — ^noth ing ! Pauvre mire /" 

When we were out of earshot, on 
the landing about half way down 
the narrow stair, Millicent stopped, 
and, looking round at me, said : 
" Her brain has begun to be affect- 
ed ; she is a little mad, poor crea- 
ture, is she not ?** 

"Yes," I replied, "she is; she 
has got what we call the madness 
of the cross. Many of our saints 
have died of it : la folie de la croix" 

Millicent stared at me for a mo- 
ment with an expression that sug- 
gested some vague alarm as to my 
own sanity, but she made no fur- 
ther remark until we had got out 
into the street. 

" What did she mean by saying it 
was the Virgin Mary that worked the 
miracle for her.>" she then asked. 

" She meant that the Mother of 
Sorrows had prayed for her and ob- 
tained a great grace for her." 



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"But God would have given 
it to her, if she had asked him, 
without going to any creature for 
it, would he not ?" answered Milli- 
cent. 

" Perhaps ; but he would be more 
willing to grant it to a creature who 
was sinless and his Mother, and who 
had stood by the side of his cross, 
than to a poor weak, rebellious crea- 
ture who had sinned a thousand 
times and more. Does it not seem 
likely ?" 

" Oh ! putting it in that way," 
said Millicent dubiously. " But he 
is God, our Saviour ; he must love 
US-more than she does. He died for 
us; the Virgin Mary did not die 
for us ?" 

" Well, really, Millicent— almost," 
I said, and, stopping, I looked her 
straight in the face. "Fancy a 
mother that loved her son, her 
only son, as Mary must have loved 
him, standing by while he was be- 
ing executed — I don't say scourged, 
and beaten, and hammered with 
nails to a gibbet, murdered piece- 
meal with the rage of devils let 
loose from hell, but simply hanged, 
or even beheaded ; would it not be 
worse to her than any death that 
ever a mother died } And then 
fancy her blessing the men that 
murdered him, praying for them, 
adopting them ! And you can say 
the Mother of God did not die 
for us?" 

Millicent made no answer, but 
walked on in silence. We said no 
more until we got to my door, and 
then I asked if she would not come 
up and rest a while. 

" No, I prefer to go home, thank 
you," she said, putting out her 
hand. She held mine for a mo- 
ment, as if she were going to^say 
something; but she did not, and 
we parted silently. 

She seemed strangely moved. 



11. 

I did not see Millicent until the 
following Sunday, when she came 
to ask me if I would go for a walk 
in the afternoon. 

Sybil happened to be there when 
she came in. 

" What hour do you go to church, 
Milly — the morning or the af- 
ternoon ?" asked Sybil. I saw the 
drift of the question : she suspect- 
ed Millicent had been to church 
with us. 

" I generally go in the morning; 
mamma likes it best," replied Mil- 
licent. "She was not well this 
morning, so we are going to late 
service. And you .?" 

" Me ? I don't go to late or 
early. I stay at home and think it 
over," said Sybil. 

"Think what over?" I asked. 
" The service ?" 

" Services in general, religion in 
its cause and effect — life altogether, 
in fact," summed up Sybil. " Will 
you two let me join you in your 
walk this afternoon, or shall I be in 
the way.?" We both protested we 
should be delighted to have her; 
and at four o'clock we were assem- 
bled down-stairs in her boudoir, 
ready to start, when a loud ring 
sounded at the door. - 

" Good gracious !" screamed Sy- 
bil ; and she dropped into a chair, 
the picture of astonishment and 
vexation. " I'll bet any mortal thing 
you like that that is Mr. Halsted ! 
Was there ever anything so pro- 
voking! I so wanted to have a 
walk with you!" 

" Why need his coming prevent 
you V I said. " The doctor and Mrs. 
Segrave are at home, are they not ?" 

" Why, Lilly, how can you talk 
so!" she exclaimed. "What does 
that matter to Mr. Halsted? He 
comes to see me !" 



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" Then you throw us overboard ?" 
I said. " That's complimentary. 
What do you say, Millicent ?" 

Millicent laughed. She was not 
sorry at heart, I could see, that we 
were to be left to 3l tite-it-tSte. Per- 
haps Sybil saw it, too, for she said, 
starting up suddenly : 

" I won't throw you overboard. 
Let him call again. Let him come 
with us, if he likes. Have you two 
any objection ?" 

Millicent said she had none. I, 
however, demurred. 

" You will think it absurdly prig- 
gish,'* I said, "but you know I am 
half-French — at least, Hive amongst 
the French, so I can't afford to 
knock against their hautes conve- 
nances; and if I were seen walking 
with a gentleman without my mo- 
ther or some married chaperon, it 
would make quite a scandale'' 

" How inconceivably ridiculous !" 
cried Sybil, staring at me with 
round, shining eyes. " What a grand 
privilege it is to be a free-born 
American woman ! I wouldn't be 
a slave like you — no, not for the em- 
pire of France, Lilly !" 

Pierre came to the door to an- 
nounce Mr. Halsted's arrival, and 
we all sallied into the drawing- 
room. Sybil burst out into re- 
grets at having to go out, and then, 
pointing a finger of scorn at me, 
"Only fancy!" she cried — "you'll 
hardly believe it, but it's a fact — 
Miss Wallace says she dare not 
come out for a walk with you 
without her mother, lest it should 
make a scandal in the town ! Did 
you ever hear anything so pre^^j- 
terously absurd, Mr. Halsted .?" I 
crimsoned to the roots of my hair, 
and longed to choke Sybil on the 
spot. Happily, gentlemen being the 
same in all countries, Mr. Halsted 
saw my embarrassment and turned 
it off with easy good breeding. 



" Miss Wallace has been brouglit 
up in France/' he said. " It is quite 
natural she should have adopted 
the notions and manners of the 
country; but it's rather hard on 
us poor fellows. We are cut off 
from our most Cherished preroga- 
tives here in this centre of civiliza- 
tion. May I call this evening ? 
You promised to teach me the Po- 
lish mazurka ?" 

Sybil hesitated. There was to be 
a dinner-party that evening, so the 
dancing lesson could hardly take 
place, and I knew he wanted to 
figure in the mazurka at a Polish 
house the next night. 

" I can't this evening," she said 
musingly ; then, as if moved by a 
sudden inspiration, she flung down 
her muff. " I see I must victimize 
myself for my country's sake, and 
give up my walk to save you from 
making an exhibition of yourself 
to-morrow before the assembled 
nations. You two go and take your 
walk alone." 

Mr. Halsted entered a feeble 
protest, which Sybil did not even 
so much as notice, but proceeded 
to take off her bonnet and prepare 
for the dancing lesson. 

We were not long on the road to- 
gether when Millicent opened the 
subject of religion ; Sybil's idea of 
" thinking it over " being the osten- 
sible pretext. 

" I wonder you don't talk to her 
about it," she said; " you might do 
a good work in that direction, if 
you tried." 

" By making a Catholic of Sy- 
bil r 

" By making a Christian of her." 
" Poor Sybil ! Is she as bad as 
that.^" I said, laughing. "She is 
more in your line than mine, at any 
rate. She hates popery like fire; 
I would as soon try to convert the 
Great Mogul." 



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** You are a great puzzle to me, 
do you know," said Millicent, look- 
ing at me witli a glance of search- 
ing curiosity. ** Catholics as a rule 
are such ardent proselytizers, and 
you seem to have no taste in that 
direction at all." 

"Have you known a great many 
Catholics before me ?" I asked. 

"You are the first I may say I 
have ever known." 

" Then how can you answer for 
what we are as a rule .>" 

"I have always understood it," 
she replied. 

" You have understood, or rather 
misunderstood, many things about 
us," I remarked. " Is Mr. Halsted 
in love with Sybil, do you think .>" 

" Mr. Halsted is not/iinj^ of the 
kind. Nice conversation for the 
Sunday afternoon !" said a sharp, 
bright voice, and Millicent and I 
leaped half a mile asunder as Sybil 
popped her scarlet feather in be- 
tween us. 

" I made sure you would be dis- 
cussing theology," she cried, " in- 
stead of which I find you discussing 
me!" 

" And why are not you discussing 
the mazurka with Mr. Halsted?" 
demanded Millicent and I together. 

" Because I thought better of it," 
was Sybil's terse explanation, nor 
could we extract any other from 
her. 

" What were you talking about 
before you began about Mr. Hal- 
sted and me?" she inquired, flash- 
ing her lightning glances from one 
to another. 

" We were talking about you and 
the Great Mogul," I replied, "and I 
was considering which of you I 
should first set about converting." 

" You had better begin with 
him," said Sybil. " Have you done 
for Milly already ?" 

" Not— quite— " I said. 



" I should like to have it out with 
you once for all, Lilly," she said, 
"and just hear from beginning to 
end what your religious views arc, 
and how far exactly they differ 
from mine." 

" You have views on religion, 
then ?" I said in a tone of surprise. 

"Certainly I have, Lilly Wal- 
lace," retorted Sybil with indignant 
emphasis, " and I should like very 
much to compare them with yours," 

" That would be difficult," I re- 
plied, " for I have no views." 

"What!" 

*' Not the ghost of one," I re- 
peated. " We Catholics never have ; 
we listen to the church and accept 
all she teaches. There is not such 
a thing amongst us as a view ; we 
would not know what to do with 
one." 

" Good gracious ! That reason- 
able beings should let themselves 
be so gul — so — that you should — in 
fact, it's beyond belief!" 

"No, that's just what it. is not 
beyond ; it is our belief that binds 
our reason and puts views out of 
the question," I .said. "We have 
our faith propounded to us by the 
church, and the church is the in- 
fallible witness of the truth ; we 
have not to make out a creed 
for ourselves, as you Protestants 
have." 

"Then why did God give us 
brains, if we are not to make use of 
them ?" demanded Sybil. " I would 
not hand over my conscience to 
any man or any body of men liv- 
ing ; I would rather take my Bible 
and make out the right and the 
wrong of it myself." 

" Suppose you make it out all 
wrong — for you admit there is a 
right and a wrong to it — what 
then?" I said. 

" It does not much matter, so 
long as our intention is good. God 



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Almighty does not expect us to be 
infallible." 

"Certainly not!" I replied; 
" that is precisely why he made his 
church infallible, to save us from 
our own fallibility and . teach us 
what to believe and what not to 
believe. If I believe black and 
you believe white, we can't both of 
us be right ; one or other must be 
in error, and God, who is Truth 
itself, can't approve equally truth 
and error ?" 

"I tell you what it is, Milly," 
said Sybil, turning round sharply 
on Millicent, who was walking on 
the other side of her, "it is very 
bad for you to be discussing theo- 
logy with Lilly Wallace in this way. 
Mind what I tell you, no good will 
come of it !" 

"Why, I've not opened my lips !" 
protested silent Milly. " It is you 
who are discussing it; it was you 
began it!" 

" If 1 had not, you would," re- 
torted Sybil ; " you are perfectly 
crazed on religious discussion. I see 
how it is going to end !" 

I burst out laughing. Millicent, 
however, looked amazed. 

" I will tell you what / see," I 
said : " that you had much better 
have stayed at home and discussed 
life with Mr. Halsted than come 
out here to bully us. It would be 
serving you right if I made a pa- 
pist of you on the spot." 

Sybil saw that Millicent was 
vexed, and, adroitly dropping the 
subject, liurst out into vehement 
denunciation of French conven- 
tionalities. If it had been any 
other country in the universe, Mr. 
Halsted might have come out for a 
walk with us, and we should have 
had an excellent time of it ; for he 
was the very best company she 
knew. We continued, nevertheless, 
despite his absence, to enjoy a very 



pleasant walk, and to steer clear of 
burning subjects the rest of the 
way. The incident, however, left 
its mark on us all three, and from 
that day forth there was an imper- 
ceptible but a very decided change 
in Millicent's "views." As to Sy- 
bil's, I never got a glimpse of them, 
so it may not be rash judgment to 
express a doubt whether she had 
any. 

I kept to my promise of avoiding 
controversy with Millicent, and she, 
seeing my reluctance to gratify her 
curiosity on this point, gave up try- 
ing to overcome it. We talked 
very freely on religious customs 
and institutions, but whenever she 
demanded my reasons for believing 
this or that I evaded controversy 
by that inexorable Catholic answer 
so aggravating to a Protestant — 
"The church teaches it." 

The winter passed, and the spring, 
and my mother and I were prepar- 
ing to leave Paris to spend the 
month of June in London. One 
of my greatest difficulties in go- 
ing away was how poor Mme. Mar- 
tin was to get on in my absence. 
Millicent had come with me once a 
week to visit her. She would con- 
tinue to do this when I was gone, 
I had no doubt; but the poor soul 
was in a state that required a visit 
every day, and I hardly dare ask 
or expect that Millicent would 
break from her mother and her own 
occupations regularly every day for 
this purpose, or that* Mrs. Gray 
would allow it. I told her of my 
trouble, and the next morning she 
ran in looking quite radiant. 

" Mamma says she will allow me 
to go every morning from eleven to 
twelve and sit with Mme. Martin 
and do all she wants ; is it not 
good of her !" she exclaimed, em- 
bracing me. 

" It is !" I cried, " and very good 



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MiUiceta, 



of you, dear Milly. You can't 
think what a relief it is to my 
mind ! I was miserable at the 
thought of leaving her without 
some one to take my place of a 
morning; and she is so fond of you, 
poor soul ! She is so touched by 
your charity — above all in a here- 
tic !" I added, laughing. 

"Charity covereth a multitude 
of sins," said Millicent. " I suppose 
the sin of heresy is included?" 

It was quite true : Mme. Martin 
was wonderfully taken with her. 
She admired her grace, the quiet 
distinction of her manner, the sub- 
dued elegance of her dress — a 
Frenchwoman has an eye for la 
toilette so long as the breath of life 
is in her — and most of all the gen- 
tle kindness with which Millicent 
performed the little services of the 
sick-room. It was quite beyond 
her comprehension that so much 
sweetness and goodness should ex- 
ist in anybody who was not a Ca- 
tholic ; it was most amusing to see 
her naif wonder at this phenome- 
non, and her surprise that I did not 
abolish it. 

" But, mademoiselle, why do you 
not explain to her how dreadful it 
is not to be in the true church ?" 
she AYOuld urge again and again ; 
and to my answer, "I have tried, 
but she cannot see it," she would 
return the same wondering excla- 
mation, '' Est-il'possibU r 

She evinced as much pleasure as 
surprise whfin I told her that Milli- 
cent was to come every day during 
my absence, and read to her and 
put things tidy in the little room. 

"Now," I said, "you must pay 
back all this kindness by getting 
the grace of the faith for her." 

" Oh ! if I could but do it," she 
exclaimed heartily. 

"You may do a great deal," I 
said; "your prayers ought to be 



very powerful with our Blessed 
Lord, because you are on the 
cross." 

She shook her head. 

"If I lay on it lovingly, as he 
did," she said; "but I don't — not 
always, at least. I wriggle, and 
kick, and try to slip off it every 
now and then." And she heaved a 
deep sigh. 

" You are not a saint," I said ; 
" of course you have your ups and 
downs, but you would rather stay 
on the cross for any length of time 
than get off it, if you could, against 
the will of God, would you not V^ 

" Oh ! yes, that I would," she 
answered impulsively. 

" Then you are all right," I said. 
" Never mind the wriggling and the 
kicking ; your heart is loyal to 
God, and that's what he looks to. 
Set about asking for Mademoiselle 
Gray's conversion, and he will not 
refuse it to you. Offer up all your 
sufferings for it from this time forth, 
and I feel perfectly certain our 
Lord will grant it to you." 

"Well, I will try," she said, in 
an accent of simplicity and earnest- 
ness that sounded already like a 
guarantee of success ; and then, 
looking at her Mater DolorosUy she 
added suddenly : " I will ask her to 
get it !" 

I had brought some fresh flow- 
ers, and was arranging them in a 
pretty vase that Millicent had given 
her, when my eye fell upon a new 
book that lay beside it. It was 
Notre Dame de LourdeSy wliich Soeur 
Lucie had brought her the day be- 
fore. 

"I will get Mademoiselle Gray 
to read me some of it every morn- 
ing," said Mme. Martin ; " they say 
it is beautiful. Do you think she 
will mind reading it ?" 

I thought not, and was delighted 
with the suggestion. 



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" I have a beautiful life of St. 
Francis de Sales which I will bring 
you," I said, " and you will ask her 
to read it to you when this is finish- 
ed. He was a charming saint, and 
had a great deal to do with convert- 
ing Protestants; ask him to help 
you." 

We consulted what other books 
it would be advisable to get, and what 
snares were to be set in other ways 
for Millicent. Soeur Lucie was, of 
course, to be actively established in 
the .service, the orphans were to be 
set to pray — nothing was to be left 
undone, in fact, for the capture of 
the unsuspecting soul. Of course 
this was all very treacherous and 
base, and we were no better than a 
pair of designing Jesuits — so our 
Protestant friends will say, if they 
should happen to light on my lit- 
tle story. I cannot help it if they 
think so. 

We left Paris, my mother and I, 
and during the three months of our 
absence Millicent devoted herself 
like a real Sister of Charity to the 
service of our poor friend. The 
weather became intensely hot, but 
she never let this deter her; she 
never missed a day. She was inex- 
haustible in her devices for amusing 
and comforting the poor paralyzed 
invalid : she made her bed, and 
dusted her room, and kept it fra- 
grant with flowers ; she brought her 
little delicacies of every sort ; she 
read to her by the hour — for, though 
it had been understood that she 
was only to devote from eleven to 
twel,ve to this visit of charity, she 
managed generally to spend double 
that time there. All this kindness 
called out passionate love and gra- 
titude from Mme. Martin. She 
longed with the most intense long- 
ing to requite it by drawing down 
a blessing upon Millicent; she told 
me afterwards that the yearning to 



obtain the faith for her grew to be 
a kind of thirst that never left her 
day or night. She offered her suf- 
ferings — and they were manifold 
and terrible — her weary, sleepless 
nights, her long days of feverish 
loneliness, every pain and trial of 
soul and body, not once nor many 
times a day, but constantly, for her 
dear benefactress' conversion, till 
it became an id/e fixe that was never 
absent from her mind, and found 
vent continually in interior aspira- 
tions or ejaculatory prayers ; wak- 
ing or sleeping, there it was, a part 
of herself, something that never left 
her. If she lay awake at night, 
restless and throbbing with pain, 
she comforted herself wich the 
thought that it was so much suffer- 
ed for this dear object; she fell 
asleep praying for it, and woke up 
to pray for it again. 

We returned to Paris just as Mrs. 
Gray and Millicent were getting 
ready to start for some watering 
place, from which they were to pro- 
ceed to the south and not return 
until the spring. Their departure 
was a real sorrow to me. I had 
grown sincerely attached to Milli- 
cent, and she to me. I had strug- 
gled at first to keep my feelings with- 
in the proper bounds, not to let my- 
self slip into bondage and so prepare 
the day of reckoning that waits on 
all human affections ; but the chains 
had coiled round me unawares, and 
when it came to saying good-by I 
found myself hopelessly a captive. 
We parted with full hearts and pro- 
mises of mutual remembrance. Mil- 
licent was afflicted with that com- 
mon vice, hatred to letter-writing, 
which so many of our friends make 
us suffer from, so we exchanged no 
vows in this respect, I steadily refus- 
ing to write unless my letters were 
answered. Our separation was 
therefore likely to be complete. 



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"You will pray for me, at all 
events?" she whispered as we em- 
braced. 

** Yes," I said, "but on condition 
that you pray for me." 

Sybil went with me to the rail- 
way station to see the Grays off. 
She was sorry to lose Millicent, 
but I could see at the same time 
that she was glad to have her out 
of the way. 

" I never expected to see Milly 
come so safely out of it!" she ex- 
claimed as we turned away, after 
watching the train puff out of the 
station. " I could have staked my 
head on it that you would have 
made a Romanist of her by this." 

" You would have lost your 
head, then, and, such as it is, you 
would be worse off without it," I 
answered crossly. " One really 
would imagine, to hear you talk, 
Sybil, that tire faitli was a disease 
that people cauglit like measles or 
the small-pox." 

"And so it is — that is — I don't 
mean exactly that — but it cer- 
tainly is contagious ; everybody 
says it is, and that there is nothing 
so dangerous as living amongst 
good Catholics. I was terrified out 
of my life for Milly ; I told her so 
over and over again, and did my 
very best to protect her. But I 
must say you have behaved very 
honorably, Lilly ; I suppose there 
is hardly a Roman Catholic you 
know who would have behaved as 
well." 

" You mean to be complimenta- 
ry, so I suppose I ought to say 
* thank you,' " I replied, while I 
could not but laugh at her imperti- 
nence. "Just tell me one thing, 
Sybil," I said : " You admit the right 
of private judgment, don't you V 

" Do I } Why, I admit nothing 
else !" screamed Sybil. 

" Then if Protestants, in right of 



their private judgment, choose to 
believe in the Catholic Church, 
what have you to say against it 7" 

" Only this : that in becoming 
Catholics they don't exercise their 
private judgment, they renounce it," 
said Sybil. 

" After they become Catholics ; 
but in the first instance? The 
act of renunciation involves an ex- 
ercise of the judgment, does it 
not ?" 

" Oh ! if you are going to be meta- 
physical, 1 give in," said Sybil ; " I 
hate and detest metaphysics!" 

" Well, just answer me thisniuch, " 
I pleaded : " Do you think Catho- 
lics are all certain to be damned ?" 

" Good gracious ! I don't believe 
one of them will be damned. Not 
the good ones, at any rate — not 
such as you, Lilly!" replied Sybil 
with extraordinary vehemence. 

" Then why, in the name of won- 
der, should you have such a horror 
of any one becoming a Catholic.^" 
I asked. 

" Why } Why, because it's a dread- 
ful thing to . . . change one's reli- 
gion, and the Roman Catholic reli- 
gion is full of superstitions, of mis- 
takes of all sotts. . . . But look ! 
I declare that's Mr. Halsted on the 
other side of the street, and he sees 
us and is coming across !" 

" In time to rescue you from 
metaphysics," I said. " 1 hope be 
won't stand and speak to us; do 
you think he will .?" 

" I won't let him ; I'll make him 
walk on at once with us," said 
Sybil. 

"O Sybil!" I cried, " you must 
not do that ; mamma would be 
very angry if I were seen walking 
with him alone." 

" What nonsense ! You're not 
alone ; /'m here," said Sybil. 

" You don't count," I said ; " you 
know you don't." ^ 



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Mtllicent. 



799 



" Well, you talk of being compli- 
mentary," protested Sybil, " but 
that beats all / ever said in the 
way of polite compliments." 

" You must dismiss him at once," 
I said hurriedly, for he was close 
on us now; "if you don't, 1*11 call a 
cab and go home alone." 

Mr. Halsted, serenely uncon- 
scious of being a cause of terror 
or contention, approached, smiling, 
with his hat in the air. He rather 
affected the extreme of French 
courtesy in his -demeanor towards 
ladies ; which was a mistake, for 
his native American urbanity, frank 
and free from grimace and palaver, 
was much more formidable, if he 
had but known it. Strange to say, 
it had not occurred to me before 
that he was here on invitation ; but 
this fact flashed on me suddenly as 
I noticed Sybil's embarrassment. 
It was certainly hard on her to 
have to turn him away after invit- 
ing him to meet her. I saw but 
one way to rescue her and myself. 

" I am so glad you have come ; 
you will accompany Miss Segrave," 
I said. "I am rather tired, and 
shall be thankful now to drive 
home. Will you kindly call a cab." 

There was a little pretence of 
jirotest, from Sybil, of offering that 
we should both drive, but I over- 
ruled this and had my own way. 
I was glad to be alone. I wanted 
to think about Millicent, to look 
back over the short history of our 
intercourse, to look forward to its 
l>ossible issue. I felt disappointed. 
1 had hoped to find her, if not a 
Catholic, at least very near it, on 
my return; I had built so much 
on Mme. Martin's prayers, on the 
example of her patient piely, and 
the living triumph of the faith 
which she presented. Then I be- 
gan to reflect that after all I was 
quite in the dark as to how far 



these hopes had been disappointed. 
I had had scarcely any opportu- 
nity of judging. Millicent and I 
had not been once entirely alone 
since my return, and it was impos- 
sible to enter on the subject in a 
room where others were present. 
By the time I reached home I had 
cheered up, and began to take a 
more hopeful view of things. God 
works slowly, I said to myself; 
what are three months to his eternal 
patience ? Mme. Martin was full 
of hope, though, like myself, the 
delay seemed long to her. 

Her own day of trial was draw- 
ing to a close. I found her very 
much weaker, and altogether more 
worn and exhausted than when I 
left. Her soul, on the contrary, 
seemed to have risen to a higher 
and purer region, and to be breath- 
ing the air from the heavenly hills ; 
her spirit of detachment, her love 
of the cross, had reached those 
heights where I could only follow 
her with a gaze of wondering, awe- 
stricken admiration. I had always 
felt a poor creature by the side of 
her, but I had felt justified in ofler- 
ing her sometimes what little help I 
could, reminding her of consola- 
tions and truths that temptation or 
overpowering physical pain had 
momentarily obscured. From this 
time forth I never dared to do so. 
Indeed, the opportunities which she 
herself had formerly furnished for 
it never occurred. That folly of 
the cross which had been a source 
of mild scandal to Millicent on the 
occasion of their first meeting had 
come to be her normal state. She 
had chewed the bitter wood until 
it had become sweet. The winter 
wore on and brought no change in 
her condition, except the gradual, 
almost imperceptible decay of 
strength which foretold the ap- 
proaching close of the struggle. 



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Millicent. 



She continually asked for news of 
Millicent; I was able to tell her 
that she was well and happy. There 
were some American families at 
Cannes who wrote now and then 
to the Segraves, and generally re- 
ported of mutual friends ; but Mil- 
licent herself perversely refrained 
from writing to me. I half sus- 
pected that there was a motive in 
this. I said so to Mme. Martin, 
and it consoled her greatly. 

** Yes, it is very possible," she 
remarked. " I often fancied Made- 
moiselle Gray wished to speak more 
openly to me than she did ; the life 
of St. Francis of Sales evidently 
made a great impression on her. 
Sometimes, when she was reading 
to me, she would stop and look up 
as if she were going to ask a ques- 
tion, but, after hesitating a moment, 
she would go on without saying 
anything." 

"You must pray harder than 
ever," I said; "there is nothing 
else to be done." 

" When I am in purgatory, please 
God, I will pray for her," she re- 
plied. 

" I hope you may go straight to 
heaven without going through pur- 
gatory at all," I said; "you have 
suffered so long and so patiently !" 

But she shook her head, and an- 
swered, with a look of austere hu- 
mility I shall never forget : 

" What are my sufferings com- 
pared to my sins — compared to the 
holiness of God ?" 

" Do you long very much to see 
heaven — to know what it is like V* 
I said, after we had been silent a 
while. 

"No; I can't say I do," she re- 
plied. " I only long to see God." 

" Do you realize at all what the 
vision will be.^" I asked. 

" No," she said, and her black eyes, 
so deep-sunk in their sockets, were 



lifted up with an expression of ea- 
ger, tender yearning that was inde- 
scribable. "I realize nothing; but 
when I try to do so, I feel the most 
wonderful peace stealing over me — 
a sense of safety, of rest, of happi- 
ness. I can't describe it; but it is 
like a foretaste of the bliss of Para- 
dise — to see God! That is what 
makes Paradise!" 

She was speaking rather to her- 
self than to me, in a low voice, 
scarcely above a murmur. I felt 
that God was very near to her ; the 
low- roofed attic was filled with an 
august, unseen Presence that touch- 
ed us with a thrilling solemnity. 

Presently I said : " You will re- 
member me when you see God, 
will you not t You will pray for 
me by ray name ?" 

" Oh ! yes, that I will," she an- 
swered, with a loving smile ; " after 
my mother, you are the first person 
I shall name. I shall tell our Lord 
how kind you have been to me for 
his sake ; I shall beg him to pay it 
all back to you." 

" There is very little to pay," I 
said ; " it has been a privilege and 
a delight to me to come and see 
you. (But I will ask you to do 
some 'commissions for me the first 
thing when you get into heaven." 

I gave her the commissions. 
There were three. Millicent Gray's 
conversion was the second on the 
list. She promised me solemnly 
that she would execute them, either 
in heaven, if she was so happy as 
to go there straight, or else in Pur- 
gatory, if this were possible. 

It was wonderful to see the calm- 
ness with which she lay there dis- 
cussing the prospects of the life 
beyond, the simplicity and childlike 
fearlessness with which she watch- 
ed the approach of death, while at 
the same time her soul was filled 
with a sort of awful reverence at 



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the thou gilt of appearing before 
God. It was impossible to wit- 
ness it without having one*s faith 
quickened. 

Christmas came. The winter was 
unusually severe, and the intense 
cold, from which it was impossible 
to protect her fully in her miserable 
room close under the thin roof, 
brought terrible aggravation to 
Mme. Martin's sufferings. It in- 
terfered, too, with my daily visits ; 
when the snow came I was com- 
pelled to limit them to one or two 
a week. This was a privation to 
both of us. I had grown not only 
deeply interested in her, but sin--, 
cerely attached to her, and she, on 
her side, had come to love me with 
a love of sympathy as well as grati- 
tude that was very precious. It was 
like being in the companionship of 
a soul in purgatory ; she seemed so 
loosened from this life, so lifted up, 
as if the nearness of God were all 
but a visible reality to her. The 
more the shadow of death closed 
round her, the more fully the light 
from the heavenly mount seemed 
to shine upon her. My visit was 
the solitary break in her long day 
— the only little breeze of human 
sympathy and comfort that came 
to refresh her. I knew it was a 
great trial to her to be deprived of 
it ; she had often said the sound of 
my steps on the stairs was like a 
drink to her when she was parched 
with thirst ; sometimes she greeted 
me playfully with the salutation, 
" Bonjour^ mon verre cTeau fratche r 
But she had now grown so strong 
in sacrifice that it was difficult to 
trace the slightest symptom of re- 
gret in her. She would reproach 
me for coming out in the severe 
weather, declaring that she would 
rather never see me than have me 
take cold ; that it was wrong of me 
to run such risks; and that there 
VOL. XXV. — 50 



was no necessity for it, because she 
wanted for nothing, her mother 
came up twice a day to look after 
her, and so on. 

One day she asked me if I had 
any news of Millicent. I had heard 
that very morning from Sybil that 
she was figuring with great success 
in some private theatricals at Men- 
tone. But I did not like to tell 
Mme. Martin this; I feared it might 
shock her, or at least jar painfully 
on her present mood. 

" She is very well," I said. " You 
know she is very bad at writing 
letters ; I only hear of her through 
friends." 

'' I was dreaming of her last 
night," she answered musingly^ 
*' How I wish she might become a. 
Catholic before I die ! It would 
be such a consolation to me to hear 
of it!" 

** You will hear of it in the next 
world, please God," I said. 

" You think souls know what 
goes on on earth ?" she inquired. 

"Of course they do!" I said.. 
** How could there be joy in heaven, 
for the return of the sinner unless 
they heard of it ?" 

" Ah ! yes, in heaven, to be sure ;. 
but I was thinking of purgatory. 
Do you think they know there what 
happens here below ?" 

" 1 see no reason for not believ- 
ing it," I replied. " Many saints 
and doctors have believed it ; why 
should not our guardian angels car- 
ry messages from us to the angels 
of holy souls, if not to themselves, 
direct, and tell them when we are 
helping and praying for them, and. 
ask their prayers for us in return .> 
It is a belief that fits in perfectly 
with the doctrine of the commu- 
nion of saints." 

" It is a most consoling idea," 
she said. " I shall be longing for a 
message from your guardian angel 



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Millicent. 



to tell me I have obtained all your 
requests." 

" Pray hard, then, that you may 
not have long to wait/' I said, kiss- 
ing her face, that was looking up at 
me with a smile. I smoothed her 
pillows once more, and fussed 
about the bed and the room, with a 
pretence of busily setting things to 
rights, but in reality to hide an 
emotion that I could neither ex- 
plain to myself nor master. I re- 
member turning back, as I was 
closing the door, to have a last look 
at her. She made a sign with her 
■head, and answered me with an af- 
fectionate smile. 

On the stairs I met Soeur Lucie. 

" She seems just the same, via 
.saur^" I said. " How long do you 
think it will last like this V* 

" Oh ! not very long now," she 
replied. " This cold will soon 
•bring it to an end. She may be 
carried off at any moment." 

My heart gave a great thump 
against my side. I could not real- 
ize it, and yet it had been borne in 
upon me that this was the last visit 
I should pay her. The longing to 
kiss her once more, to say good-by 
with the full consciousness that it 
was to be for the last time, was so 
strong that I could not resist it. 
I turned back with Soeur Lucie, 
and went up again to her room. 
She did not seem surprised — at least, 
she said nothing about my reap- 
pearance. I waited a moment 
while Soeur Lucie questioned her, 
and then kissed her and said good- 
.by. 

^^Au revotr^ " she said, ** au rcvoir, 
i will not forget your commissions ; 
and mind you pray for me always,** 
I was laid up with a violent at- 
tack of neuralgia for several days 
after this. One afternoon, about 
ibur days after I had seen her, a 
messenger came from Soeur Lucie 



to say that Mme. Martin was dying: 
she was to receive the Viaticum and 
Extreme Unction in an hour, and 
had expressed a wish that I might 
be present. The doctor was in the 
room when the message w^as deliv- 
ered. I entreated him to let rae 
get up and go, if it was possible. 

" You will do as you wish," he 
replied, " but you will do it against 
my emphatic prohibition. I won't 
answer for the consequences, if you 
attempt it." 

Of course this settled the ques- 
tion. Had I been rash enough to 
try to disobey him, my mother was 
there to prevent it. I was greatly 
distressed. I had looked forward 
for so long to being with her at the 
last, to receiving her last kind Avord 
of farewell, and helping her with 
my love and my poor prayers 
through the great passage. My mo- 
ther saw how pained I was, and 
volunteered to go and take my 
place, and tell Mme. Martin how 
grieved I was at being prevented. 
She just arrived as the room was 
being made ready for the corning 
of the priest. The dying woman 
had insisted on being taken out of 
bed and placed sitting up in a 
chair, that she might receive our 
Lord more befittingly on this his 
last visit to her ; this was done ac- 
cordingly with great difficulty and 
immense suffering to herself. She 
insisted, too, on being washed, and 
dressed in her best clothes, and, 
what struck me as still more char- 
acteristic at such a moment, she 
entreated her mother to put on her 
Sunday clothes, and to wear a cap 
which was only taken out on very 
great occasions. When all was 
ready, and the three assistants sat 
praying in silence, Mme. Martin 
signed to my mother that she wished 
to speak to her. " Give my love 
and thanks to Mile. Lilia," she 



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Millicent. 



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whispered, " and tell her I will not 
forget her commissions.** Then, 
after a short silence, she said, as 
quickly as she could gasp out the 
words : " He is coming ! Make 
haste ! Light the candles !*' 

They did so, but waited still full 
ten minutes before the tinkle of the 
silver bell was heard on the stairs. 
Soeur Lucie told me this incident 
was not such a rare occurrence with 
the dying; that frequently they an- 
nounce the approach of the Bless- 
ed Sacrament when the priest is 
yet a long way off, as if their 
senses were quickened by some 
spiritual faculty that is only awak- 
ened in death. The solemn, mag- 
nificent rite was performed, but it 
was too late to think of Holy Com- 
munion. The priest gave the last 
absolution and began the prayers 
for the dying. Before he had fin- 
ished them the long struggle was 
over. Mme. Martin was at rest. 

About five weeks after her death 
I received a letter from Millicent, 
informing me that she had become 
a Catholic. ** It has been all so 
quickly done ; I seem to have been 
so completely taken up and lifted 
into the church," she said, " that I 
cannot help thinking some power- 
ful supernatural agent has been at 
work all along overruling my own 
will. I had no more idea of becom- 
ing a Catholic than I had of turn- 
ing Mohammedan— although all my 
sympathies had been quite gained 
over to tlie church by you and Mme. 
Martin — when one evening I went 
to act Racine's Athalie at the house 
of a friend here. When it was all 
over, and the people were crowd- 
ing round me with compliments 
and congratulations, a gentleman, 
a Catholic priest, came up and spoke 
to me ; he thought I was a Catho- 
lic, and began at once to discourse 
on the grandeur of the Bible narra- 



tive and Racine's interpretation of 
it. I undeceived him as soon as I 
had the chance ; he seemed sorry 
and surprised, but went on talking 
very pleasantly, and, when we Avere 
saying good-evening, I said : * My 
mother will be happy to see you, 
M. I'Abb^, if you would not object 
to call upon a heretic !* I cannot 
to this day tell what moved me to say 
this. The next moment I thought 
I must have been out of my mind. 
"He replied good-humoredly that 
he was not afraid of heretics, and 
was very glad when they were 
not afraid of him. My dear Lilly, 
if the heretics only knew, they 
would fly from that man as the 
devil does from holy water! He 
came to see us next day ; it so hap- 
pened mamma was out, so I saw 
him alone. I met him several times 
again, and — well, dear, before the 
month was out I was a Catholic. 
When I look back on it, it seems to 
me that I was in a dream, and that I 
was led on and on without any con- 
scious will or action of my own, but 
just let myself follow the lead of 
some invisible attraction, some mag- 
net that drew me in spite of myself, 
and here I am safe in St. Peter's 
net and happily landed in his bark. 
Are people often converted in this 
way ? Tell me if the church has 
invisible fishermen who go about 
casting nets and catching wayward, 
silly souls thus, or is it a special 
dispensation of mercy invented for 
me V 

" Dear, grateful Mme. Martin ! 
How quickly and well you have 
executed my commission ! Make 
haste and fulfil the others now!" 
I cried out to my dead friend 
on reading Millicent's letter. She 
has kept me waiting for the other 
two ; but I have not a doubt they 
will come in good time. 

You can imagine Sybil's feelings 



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The Madofina'aiid-Child a TesUSymboL 



on hearing of this event. I shall 
certainly not attempt to depict 
them. Yet, in the midst of her 
genuine displeasure, there was a 
high note of satisfaction — the exul- 
tation of a prophet who had lived 
to see his prophecy fulfilled. I am 
sure this was a great comfort to 
her. We did not quarrel, though 
she let me plainly see she looked 
upon me as a kind of spiritual mur- 
derer. On the other hand, she 
took a more merciful view of it: 
It was to be, it was written ; I was 
the appointed, or the permitted, in- 
strument of Millicent s destiny, and 
if I had not come some one else 
would ; Millicent was doomed from 
the beginning. 



In the spring my fears were real- 
ized : the doctor and Mrs. Segrave 
and Sybil sailed away to New York. 

A few days before they left Paris 
Sybil burst into my room in high 
excitement. 

" Will you believe it !" she cried. 
**Mr. Halsted has taken his place 
in the Tiger and is going back 
with us !'* 

" Well, and why not r I said. 
" You and he will have delightful 
opportunities for discussing life 
on deck every day." 

Soon after tlieir arrival I had a 
letter from her informing me that 
they had discussed it to the issue I 
had long since foreseen : she was to 
be married to him in a month. 



THE MADONNA-AND-CHILD A TEST-SYMBOL. 



Among the most beautiful of 
American lakes is one in the north- 
ern part of New York State. Tlie 
old Indian name for it was Horicon, 
or Holy Lake — called so, perhaps, 
from the transparency of its water. 
Its banks abound with historic 
memories. They have been a bat- 
tle-ground for English and French, 
and again in the war of Independ- 
ence. But what specially endears 
it to Catholics is its consecration 
by the Jesuit missionary Father 
Jogues, who gave it, on the Eve of 
Corpus Christi, in the year 1646, 
the name of Lac du Saint-Sacre- 
ment — Lake of the Blessed Sacra- 
ment. Unhappily, the name it 
bears at present is the one confer- 
red upon it by Sir William John- 
son, who, courtier-like, dubbed it 
Lake George, after George I. of 
England. 

May its Catholic name soon be 



restored! As an earnest whereof 
there now stands on the right 
shore — ^about a mile and a half 
from the head — a building known 
as "St. Mary's of the Lake," 
from which, through the summer 
months, a silvery bell rings out the 
AtJgelus at morning, noon, and 
evening. Strangers are informed 
that this building is ** the monas- 
tery"; but a front view of it pre- 
sents one feature which dispenses 
with all need of inquiry as to the 
creed of its occupants: not the 
cross upon the roof — for heresy 
has stolen that; but an unmistaka- 
ble "encroachment of popery" in 
the shape of a Madonna-and-Child. 
Among the curious who have 
ventured upon visiting " the mon- 
astery," a certain good woman was 
one day discovered standing before 
the house and looking up at the 
statue. On being asked what she 



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thought of it she replied, in the 
accent of Vermont : " Waal, it gives 
me a feeling as if something was 
crawling all over me to see the 
Virgin so big and the Saviour so 
small ! It's the Saviour that ought 
to be big." Now, this sentence, 
absurd as it sounds, contains, we 
may say, an entire theology. To 
one who has never been a Protes- 
tant it is unintelligible, no doubt ; 
but to one who has, or has had, that 
misfortune it expresses, though 
poorly, an idea of which he is, or 
has been, himself conscious. Our 
friend was sufficiently familiar with 
the Gospel story to know that the 
figures before her represented the 
Virgin Mary and the Child Jesus. 
Her remark, too, evidenced her be- 
lief in that story. She meant to 
tell us, in her simple way, that we 
made almost everything of the Vir- 
gin and almost nothing of the Sa- 
viour. Perhaps, had she been better 
educated, she would have expressed 
a preference for seeing the Saviour 
alone, and not as a child but as a 
man. Such, at least, would have 
been the writer's own sentiment, 
years ago, when he was a Protes- 
tant. Not but that we should have 
felt more at ease had there been no 
image there at all ; for the genius 
of Protestantism dislikes images : 
it is essentially iconoclastic. But, 
certainly, we would rather have 
seen any image than a Madonna- 
and-Child. 

Here are two points for investi- 
gation : Why Protestantism is es- 
sentially iconoclastic; and why it 
is particularly uneasy and bitter in 
the presence of a Madonna-and- 
Child. 

The heresy of the Iconoclasts, or 
Image-breakers, was Eastern, and 
raged in the eighth and ninth cen- 
turies ; even reviving, for a lime, 
after its condemnation by Pope 



Adrian I. and the Seventh (Ecume- 
nical Council. It sought to abolish 
sacred images and pictures, on the 
ground of their being idolatrous. 
Originating with an ignorant sol- 
dier, Leo the Isaurian, who had be- 
come Emperor of Constantinople, 
and " manifesting itself " (to borrow 
the words of Dollinger) " as a blind 
and senseless hatred of the imita- 
tive arts," we wonder that such a 
fanaticism could gain footing at all. 
But, in fact, it developed into a 
persecuting heresy which " shed 
more blood," says the same writer, 
"than any which had preceded it.'* 

Now, Protestantism has been said 
to partake of all the previous here- 
sies ; and we, for one, can testify to 
the truth of the accusation ; for, af- 
ter becoming a Catholic, we discov- 
ered, in the course of study, that our 
mind had entertained, at some time 
or other — though not always culpa- 
bh% we trust — nearly every heresy 
ever known. But that Protestant- 
ism has especially distinguished 
itself by its iconoclastic zeal will 
be questioned by no one who is 
acquainted with its history. 

We say, then, that Protestantism, 
as such, is necessarily iconoclastic. 
And, first, from the negative attitude 
which its very name implies — from 
its principle of asserting the right 
of private judgment to the rejection 
of extrinsic authority. Man, hav- 
ing a body as well as a soul, and 
living in an order of the visible and 
the palpable, naturally seeks to im- 
age his ideas — to place them out- 
side of himself in a representative 
form. And particularly does he 
feel this need in matters of reli- 
gious belief. Whence we find the 
use of symbolic representations in 
all the ancient religions. The 
Egyptian, Greek, and Roman minds 
were peculiarly fertile in symbol- 
ism — most so the Greek (the word 



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" symbol'* is Greek). Bat a creed, 
if it can be called a creed, which 
consists of negations — which finds 
its vitality in protesting against 
authority — cannot consistently use 
symbols; for, obviously, it has 
nothing to symbolize. Protestant- 
ism, therefore, instinctively dislikes 
images, seeing in them the symbolic 
representation of what is positive, 
affirmative, dogmatic. 

Again, Protestantism started with 
another principle which gave it a 
tradition of iconoclasm — the prin- 
ciple of a false supernaturalisra. 
The supernatural was exaggerated, 
to the destruction of the natural. 
Our nature was declared to be to- 
tally depraved, so that even free- 
will was wanting to us. Conse- 
quently, instead of being able to 
co-operate with grace and acquire 
merit, we had to be justified by 
*' faith only " ; the righteousness of 
Christ had to be " imputed " to us — 
thrown over our depravity like a 
cloak over a leprous body. Now, 
of course, as an immediate result 
of this doctrine, away went the 
saints ; for they were no better than 
ordinary mortals — possessing no 
merit of their own and nothing to 
be venerated for. And with them 
away went their images. 

Furthermore, this exaggerated 
supernaturalism involved elimina- 
tion of the visible and the material 
from the economy of grace. For the 
natural being evil, the visible and 
the material were evil too, as a part 
of the natural, and therefore inca- 
pable of forming a system interme- 
diary and sacramental between the 
soul and grace. Hence, away went 
the idea of a visible church, and 
away went sacraments and sacra- 
mentals. Now, images — representa- 
tions of any kind — come under the 
sacramental system, inasmuch as, 
by raising our thoughts to their 



originals, they help us to commune 
with the unseen, and put us in mind 
the more constantly to invoke that 
mercy or intercession from or 
through which graces flow to us. 
Therefore, again, away went images 
with the rest of the sacramental 
system. 

But, now, does not all this hostili- 
ty to the visible and the material 
as elements of religion look very 
much like a misunderstanding on 
the subject of the Incarnation 7 If 
Christ is God- Man, he is God made 
visible — God with a human soul 
and a material body. Surely, then, 
to maintain that Christianity has 
nothing to do with the visible or 
the material is to betray an unfa- 
miliarity with the meaning of the 
Incarnation. 

This unfamiliarity will become 
the more apparent when we shall 
have considered an objection to 
what has been said on the icono- 
clastic tendencies of Protestantism. 
We may not unreasonably be 
reminded that Protestantism has 
passed through various important 
changes in the course of its career, 
and especially within the last half- 
century ; that the doctrine of total 
depravity has long gone out of fash- 
ion and is practically extinct ; and, 
again, that Protestants do use sym- 
bols now — such as the cross and the 
triangle — while some of them en- 
courage painted windows, and even 
images, in their churches. Very 
true. And the change is not sur- 
prising — what with unnaturalness of 
doctrine on the one hand and con- 
flict of principle on the other. " Na- 
turam expellas furca^ tamen usque re^ 
curreiy' says Horace — " You may 
drive nature off" with a pitchfork, 
yet she will keep running back." 
Then, as to principles, logic, like 
murder, " will out." The doctrines 
of the Reformation, though nega- 



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tions of Catholic dogmas, took a 
positive aspect for themselves ; and 
the right of private judgment, which 
had made them, was only consistent 
in destroying them. Within the 
last half-century — and particularly 
within the last quarter — the princi- 
ple of self-sufficiency has found its 
extreme in the complete rejection 
of the supernatual. Its votaries 
who have not reached that terminus 
are drifting thither, if unconsciously. 
And hence a reaction, in favor of 
what are called " orthodoxy '* and 
" churchmanship," is perceptible 
among all earnest Protestants who 
retain belief in Christianity as some- 
thing more than philanthropy, 
something with a divine meaning. 
Not that they at all suspect (except 
those in the front ranks of the 
movement — the Ritualists, who 
openly avow it) that they are going 
back upon the Reformation. But 
they are. And as they advance 
they take in ideas which are less 
and less compatible with genuine 
Protestantism. One of these ideas 
is symbolism, the representation of 
doctrines by signs or images — as 
the triangle signifies the Blessed 
Trinity and the cross the Redemp- 
tion. 

Our argument, therefore, that 
Protestantism, assuch^ is necessarily 
iconoclastic or hostile to images, 
holds good in spite of the fact that 
modern Protestants are returning to 
the use of symbols. This return 
means that they have abandoned 
the position taken by the Reformers, 
and have set their faces — how little 
so ever they think so — Romeward 
and homeward. 

Here, then, comes in a very ap- 
propriate question. If Protestants 
are gradually relinquishing their 
old iconoclastic spirit — if nowa- 
days they set up tiie cross to ex- 
press their faith in the Atonement, 



and use the triangle as an affirraa^ 
tion of their belief in the Trinity — 
where is their symbol for the Incar- 
nation? Of course they acknow- 
ledge the Incarnation. They brack- 
et it with the Trinity as a funda- 
mental doctrine of Christianity. 
Then why do they not equally 
symbolize it ? Evidently, their not 
even attempting to do so — their 
having no symbol for it — is abun- 
dant proof of what has been just 
said, that, while they profess to re- 
ceive the doctrine, they are stran- 
gers to its meaning. They under- 
stand by it merely the divinity of 
Christ, and beyond this keep it in 
the background and give it no 
practical bearing. The Atonement 
is everything with them; the In- 
carnation nothing. But Christian- 
ity is the religion of the Incarnation. 
For call it, if you will, the religion 
of the cross, that term does not 
designate it as a whole. The truth 
expressed by the cross depends on 
the truth of the Incarnation ; and 
so does every other Christian 
dogma. Christianity, therefore, is 
either the religion of the Incarna- 
tion or it is nothing. As t/iat it 
must stand or fall. And if we 
would express it as a whole, we 
must symbolize the Incarnation. 
Now, the crowning proof (were any 
needed) that the Incarnation, right- 
ly understood, has no place in Pro- 
testant theology lies in the fact that, 
besides not attempting to symbolize 
the doctritie themselves, all Protes- 
tants agree in a common aversion 
(not to say abomination) to the 
only symbol possible, which is — 
the Madonna-and-Child. 

And why is the Madonna-and- 
Child the only symbol of the Incar- 
nation? Because the Incarnation 
means that God is man ; but how 
can we express tiie truth that God 
is man, except by showing that he 



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has a Mother? In his divine na- 
ture he has no mother ; then, if he 
has a mother, he is man. Whence 
the creeds do not merely say that 
Christ is the Son of God, or that 
the Son of God tvas made man, but 
affirm that he was ^^ bom of the 
Virgin Mary "; " Incarnate of {or 
from) the Virgin Mary " — thus set- 
ting forth the same divine Person 
as at once the Son of God and the 
Son of Mary. That is, they show 
us Incarnate God as a Child in his 
Mother's arms ; they symbolize the 
Incarnation (a creed is called a 
" symbol ") by the Madonna-and- 
Child. 

Thus far, then, we have seen that 
the genius of Protestantism is hos- 
tile to images in general, and to the 
Madonna-and-Child in particular, 
because it is out of joint (so to 
speak) with the genius of the Incar- 
nation. We have here a very sin- 
gular spectacle : a vast body of 
professing Christians, who hold, 
with us, the doctrine of the Incar- 
nation, and have not formulated 
any heresy about it in their " con- 
fessions of faith " (we are not in- 
cluding Unitarians among Chris- 
tians ; for they have no more right 
to the name than Mohammedans) ; a 
body of Christians who say with us 
that they " believe in Jesus Christ 
. . . born of the Virgin Mary"; 
who keep " merry " Christmas, too, 
-with us — Christmas, the feast of the 
Madonna-and-Child — who yet, for 
all this, instead of dwelling with 
delight on a representation of the 
Infant Saviour in the arms of his 
Blessed Mother, invariably show 
that they are not at home with it as 
a religious symbol. 

Can it be that they are insensible 
to what is beautiful and touching ? 
No; their hearts are as human as 
•ours. Any other mother and child 



by an artist of moderate skill could 
scarcely fail to interest them. 
Moreover, it is fashionable with 
cultivated Protestants to admire 
this Mother and Child where the 
question is one of art, not of reli- 
gion. They display a very credita- 
ble taste for the Madonnas of Ra- 
phael and other great painters. Or 
if the association of religion add a 
charm, it is nothing more to them 
than the glamour which invests a 
symbolof pagan superstition. And 
in saying this we speak from ex- 
perience. When, as a school-boy, 
the writer became acquainted with 
the mythologies of Greece and 
Rome, he found them full of poetry, 
and soon came to envy the religion 
of those old pagans — a religion so 
much in contrast with the aridity of 
his own. So, too, when, a year or 
two later, he first saw Catholic wor- 
ship (it was Benediction, of all 
lovely rites), he remarked as he 
came away : " That religion is full 
of poetry." "Yes," was the an- 
swer — ^**of pagan poetry." And 
then he was told how all the " cor- 
ruptions " of Rome had been intro- 
duced from paganism; and, as an 
instance, the Madonna was cited. 
" They call her the Mother of God," 
said the informant (a clergyman of 
the Church of England, who had 
learnt his lesson well). " You re- 
member Cybele, the ' mother of the 
gods * } Well, there's their Madonna 
— the Virgin Mary in place of the 
goddess Cybele." He was told this 
and other things of like nature, 
and so became imbued with the 
idea that the Catholic religion was 
a paganized Christianity. Still, for 
this very reason (as we are free to 
confess), it had a fascination for 
us ; and the greatest charm of all 
was its supposed goddess-worship. 
At sixteen, again, our attraction 
to the Madonna was greatly in- 



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creased by some stanzas of Lord 
Byron, in which that most won- 
derful of poets, inspired by the 
beauties of the Mediterranean twi- 
light, and with some famous paint- 
ing in his mind, thus apostrophizes 
Our Lady : 

** Ave Maria I Over land and sea, 
That heavenliest hour of heaven is worthiest 
thee I 

** Ave Maria ! 'Tis the hour of prayer ! 
Ave Maria ! 'Tis the hoar of love f 
Ave Maria ! May our spirit* dart 

Look up to thine and to thy SoiCs abort I 
Ave Maria I O that face so fair ! 
Those downcast eyes beneath th* Almighty 
Dove! 
What tho^ 'tis but a pictured image strike. 
That painting is no idol—'tis too like ! 

^^AveMaiia! Blessed be the hour, 

The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft 
Have felt that moment in its fullest power 
Sink oVr the earth, so beautiful and soft ! 
As swung the deep bell in the distant tower, 
And the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft : 
While not a breath crept thro* the rosy air. 
Yet all the forest leaves seemM stirred with 
prayer !" 

Perhaps, too, we were even more 
impressed by a single stanza in an- 
other canto of the same poem, 
where, in his description of Nor- 
man Abbey (his own Newstead), 
he recalls a solitary Madonna-and- 
Child which had been standing 
amid the ruins : 

** But in a higher niche— alone, but crownM — 
The Virgin-Mother of the God-bom Child, 

With her Son in her blessed arms, look'd round : 
Spared, by some chance, when all beside waa 
spoil'd. 

She made the piaci beneath seem holy /ground. 
This may be superstition, weak or wild : 

But ev'n the faintest relics of a shrine 

Of any worship wake some thoughts divine." 

Lord Byron, it is true, was not a 
Protestant, but a deist. But this 
makes it all the more evident how 
full of poetry the Catholic religion 
is — and particularly in its worship 
of the Madonna — when it could so 
attract a mind that rejected Chris- 
tianity altogether. Other non- 
Christian poets have proved the 
same thing, and none more so than 
our own great Unitarian poet, Long- 



fellow, whom, when we first read 
" Evangeline " and '* Hiawatha," 
we supposed to be a Catholic. 
But Protestant poets, too, and of 
various persuasions, have evinced a 
sympathy with particular features 
of the Catholic religion as it appears 
to those outside of it, and especial- 
ly with the Madonna. These see 
an ideal in our Virgin-Mother. 
And none has expressed this high- 
er view so well as Wordsworth in 
his celebrated sonnet — to which, 
perhaps, we are indebted for our 
own first glimpse of her as an ideal. 
It is one of his Ecclesiastical Son nets y 
and comes among a series in which, 
as a true poet, he is forced to la- 
ment the destructive work of the 
so-called Reformation. 

^' Mother, whose virgin bosom was uncrost 
With the least shade 0/ thought to sin allied : 
Woman above all women glorified— 
Our tainted neUure^s solitary boast / 
Purer than foam on central ocean tost : 
Brighter than eastern skies at daybreak strewn 
With fiuicied roses : than the unblemished moon. 
Before her wane begins on heaven's blue coast ! 
Thy image falls to earth. Yet some, I ween. 
Not unfoTgiven the suppliant knee might bend, 
As to a visible Power, in which did blend 
All that was mix'd and reconciled in thee 
Of mother's love with maiden purity— 
Of high with low— celestial with terrene !" 

Clearly, therefore, it is not an ob- 
tuseness to the beautiful, or even 
to the ideal, that alienates the Pro- 
testant mind from our symbol of 
the Incarnation. No ; the key to 
the puzzle is this : that the system 
of Christianity known as Protes- 
tantism cannot see in the Madonna- 
and-Child a symbol of itself — has 
nothing in it capable of being sym- 
bolized by either Madonna or 
Child. 

The Incarnation, once more, is 
God made visible. As such it must 
needs create for itself a visible 
kingdom on earth : a kingdom 
over body as well as over soul — a 
kingdom in the world of mind, and 



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equally into the world of sense and 
matter. The kingdom thus created 
will, of course, be in harmony with 
that which created it — the Incarna- 
tion — and, therefore, with the sym- 
bol of the Incarnation — the Madon- 
na-and-Child ; and so will find in 
the Madonna-and-Child the symbol 
of itself — the mould upon which it 
was cast. 

Here, then, the reader will per- 
ceive what we mean by calling the 
Madonna-and-Child a /^/-symbol. 
Whatever system of Christianity is 
not at home with this symbol, or not 
entirely in harmony with it, is there- 
by convicted of being false, as not 
the kingdom of the Incarnation. 
So that, to demonstrate the true 
Christianity, out of all existing sys- 
tems calling themselves Christian, 
we have only to confront them with 
the Madonna-and-Child. 

Let us do this. And, first, we 
will call up all the Protestant com- 
munions, and particularly the two 
most important and respectable — 
the state church of England and 
her daughter in America; excluding 
on the one hand whatever sects 
deny the divinity of Christ, and 
on the other that party in the said 
Episcopalian churches which is 
working, more or less consciously, 
to bring back ** popery without the 
pope." Neither of these extremes 
is genuine Protestantism. 

All classes of genuine Protestants, 
when confronted with the Madonna- 
and-Child, acknowledge it, of course, 
the representation of an historic 
fact in which theybelieve — the birth 
of Jesus Christ from the Virgin 
Mary — but instinctively feel that it 
meatis a great deal more. They 
principally object to the Madonna, 
as giving the Blessed Virgin too 
much prominence. " We all know," 
they argue, " that she is the Mo- 
ther of our Saviour ; but, beyond 



this, what is she to us /" They are 
not accustomed to speak of her, ex- 
cept when they mention her in the 
Creed ; or even to think of her, 
except when they pity or abuse 
their " idolatrous " fellow-Christians. 
At the same time neither do they 
care to see the Cliild, particularly 
in Mary's arms or by her side. 
" He did not remain a child all his 
life," they say. " It was not as a 
child that he came out in public to 
work miracles and preach the Gos- 
pel ; it was not as a child that he 
suffered and died. Then what is 
his childhood to us /" In a word, 
our symbol of the Incarnation re- 
minds them of nothing with which 
they are familiar. 

The secret is, they are not with- 
in the visible kingdom of the Incar- 
nation ; they are outside the visible 
church. Each sect will call itself 
a church, no doubt ; and the Epis- 
copalians have something to show 
for theirs, because, in its outward 
form, it is a fair imitation of a real 
hierarchy. But when they say in 
the Creed, with us, " I believe in 
the Holy Catliolic Church," they do 
not mean at all what we mean. 
To them the Catholic Church of 
the Creed is the collective multi- 
tude of omnigenous believers in 
Christ, instead of signifying a visi- 
ble institution divinely endowed to 
teach and govern, and standing to 
them in the relation of a mother — 
carrying them in her arms and 
feeding them at her breast. If 
they did mean this by the Catholic 
Church, they would recognize at 
once in the Madonna-and-Child a 
symbol of that church with them in 
her arms, and would, so far, feel at 
home with the Madonna-and-Child. 

Neither, again, have they the 
Blessed Sacrament — that lovely 
" second infancy " of Jesus — or 
they would joyfully acknowledge in 



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the Madonna-and-Child an image 
of the church with the Blessed 
Sacrament in her keeping. 

But especially would their atti- 
tude towards Our Lady be differ- 
ent from what it is now. Believing 
in a visible church, they would not 
insist, as now, on having nothing be- 
tween themselves and Christ, who, 
by instituting the church, chose 
to place an entire system between 
himself and them. And, seeing 
the type of this church in Mary, 
they could not vituperate our doc- 
trine of the latter's maternal media- 
tion ; not only because of the 
church's mediation, but also be- 
cause Mary, as the type of mother 
church, must needs be Mother 
Mary. 

Now, to the writer this is all the 
more clear because it is the history 
of his conversion. Having come — 
and, thank God ! not so late as it 
might have been — to feel the neces- 
sity of a visible church as a mother 
and guide, at whose feet we could 
sit child-like and learn from her 
** the words of eternal life *' — to 
hear whom would be to hear Christ ; 
to go to whom, to go to Christ — 
we gradually discovered that the 
Church of England, in which we 
had been reared, and to whose 
ministry Ave were looking forward, 
was no such mother and guide, nor 
ever could be. We found that she 
did very well as a state church, a 
moral police, a " part of the civil 
service " ; but that her success in 
he'ing fashionable was owing — not to 
any divine commission, not to her 
speaking "as one having author- 
ity," not to her teaching one defi- 
nite body of doctrine — but, on the 
contrary, to her being the creation 
of Parliament; to her disclaiming 
all authority to teach, except as a 
fallible human witness ; and to her 
leaving the utmost latitude for every 



variety and contradiction of opinion, 
so that her clergy were equally at 
liberty to hold or deny such vital 
doctrines as baptismal regenera- 
tion, the Real Presence, sacerdotal 
absolution, and apostolical succes- 
sion. Added to these doctrines — 
which we had come to believe from 
joining first the moderate High- 
Church party, and then the ex- 
treme, or the Ritualists— was a 
parallel attraction to the Blessed 
Virgin, whom we had discovered 
to be truly the Mother of God. 
And the two ideas of a mother in 
the church and a Mother in the 
Blessed Virgin rose together and 
grew together, till we found them 
both realities in the kingdom of the 
Incarnation. 

And no\v we may let Protestant- 
ism go. Its votaries are loud in 
exhorting us to return with them 
to the purity of primitive Chris- 
tianity. But when we^ take them 
back with us over the centuries to 
the very cradle of Christianity — to 
the cave of the Nativity at Bethle- 
hem — and enter that sanctuary on 
the first Christmas morning, are 
they or we more at home there, in 
the presence of the Madonna-and- 
Child.^ So far, then, from estab- 
lishing its clamorous pretensions to 
be the only unalloyed Christianity, 
Protestantism is ruled out of court 
by our test-symbol, as neither the 
kingdom of the Incarnation nor any 
part of that kingdom, and there- 
fore — virtually and logically — not 
Christianity at all. 

The Catholic Church, however, 
has not the field all to herself yet. 
There is the Russo-Greek, includ- 
ing some half-dozen independent 
communions. Is not she in har- 
mony with our test-symbol ? 

While on the road to Rome we 
were much attached to the Greek 



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Church. Most Anglicans of the 
" High " school are — because they 
know very little about her. (A. case 
where " distance lends enchant- 
ment " — and a very hazy distance, 
to boot.) There is one thing, though, 
which Anglicans ought to know 
about the Greek Church, and which 
we did know : the fact that her 
worship of the Blessed Virgin is 
more " excessive " (to use their own 
phrase) than that of the Roman 
Church. We say we knew this, 
and confess that, instead of being 
repelled by it, we were the more 
attracted. So far, therefore, the 
writer was consistent, at least — un- 
like other Anglicans, who protest 
especially against our "Marian 
system " (as they call it), and at the 
same time babble and dream (for 
dream it is) of union with the Greek 
Church. What we were afraid of 
in the Roman Church was not the 
Blessed Virgin, but the Pope. We 
had been ^o thoroughly imbued 
from boyhood with the notion that 
the Pope was " Antichrist " and 
the "Man of Sin," that the influ- 
ence of this monstrous supersti- 
tion haunted us, in some shape, to 
the very eve of our conversion. 
We say in some shape. We had 
come, since a Ritualist, to believe 
that Antichrist was yet to appear, 
and that the Pope could not possi- 
bly be he. Nevertheless, we took it 
for unquestionable that the Papacy 
was a usurpation; had caused the 
separation of the Greek Church 
from the Latin ; and was also to 
blame, in a great degree, for Eng- 
land being out of communion with 
the other western churches. While 
under instruction for reception into 
the church we read Mr. Allies* 
See of Peter J and our amazement 
at the evidence for the Papacy was 
only equalled by our indignation at 
the unblushing impudence which 



had assured us, and with such pre- 
tence of patristic learning, that 
there was not a single proof from 
the first six centuries for the su- 
premacy of the Bishop of Rome. 

Well, then, the Greek Church is 
in harmony with our test-symbol 
to a certain and considerable ex- 
tent. In the first place, she holds 
the Catholic doctrine of the Incar- 
nation, and by no means keeps it in 
the background, but gives it due 
prominence in her catechism and 
liturgy. And since she teaches the 
devotional use of representations, 
particularly of pictures, her people 
are no less familiar than we are 
with the Madonna-and-Child as the 
symbol of the Incarnation. Second- 
ly, although (as must be the case) 
they have not the same tender mo- 
ther in their church that we have 
in ours, still, all who are in good 
faith being by intention Catholics, 
they can speak, with us, of " our 
mother the church." And, again, 
though they are made much less 
familiar with the Blessed Sacrament 
than we are, yet, having a tnie 
priesthood (not a sham one like 
the Anglican), a true altar, and a 
true Mass, the Real Presence is 
a living fact with them. So that 
they may see in the Madonna-and- 
Child the church and the Blessed 
Sacrament as we do. 

The Madonna-and-Child, how- 
ever, being, as we have said, the 
mould upon which the church is 
cast, makes a law which must not 
be violated in any single particular. 
If, therefore, this self-styled "or- 
thodox" Greek Church be found 
out of harmony with our test-sym- 
bol in even one point, she is no 
more the kingdom of the Incarna- 
tion than if she were in harmony 
with it at no point. 

Now, she does fail to correspond 
with it in one most important point : 



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viz., in her theory of the church 
as a whole. She holds, like the 
Anglican Ritualists, the theory of a 
divided church. But the Madonna 
can no more represent a divided 
than an invisible church, and those 
who say, with us, in the Nicene 
Creed, ** I believe one Catholic and 
Apostolic Church," yet maintain 
that she need not be visibly " one," 
are more illogical than those who 
use the words in the sense of an 
iVivisible church. That a visible 
church, of which oneness is a mark, 
need not be visibly one ! — could ab- 
surdity, in the shape of theory, go 
further ? 

Again, if this theory of the church 
as a whole — that she is no longer 
visibly one as her divine Author 
made her — renders it impossible to 
see the type of such a church in 
the Madonna separately, what mean- 
ing will it find in the Madonna-and* 
Child together ? It beholds in the 
Madonna a unity which it denies ; 
and in the Child — either nothing at 
all, or something which it conscious- 
ly rejects. 

What nwkes a church, according 
to the apostolic constitution ? All 
churches which have that consti- 
tution agree that the essentials of a 
church are a bishop with a clergy 
and laity in his communion. The 
bishop is its nucleus, and makes 
the church in the sense in which 
the head makes the body. A bi- 
shopless church is a headless body. 
We say this is what all Christians 
agree upon who believe in aposto- 
lical succession. So that even the 
recent contemptible sect calling 
themselves '* Old Catholics " were 
bound to procure a bishop for their 
schism, albeit they set at defiance 
both authority and logic. 

A bishop, then, and the church 
in his communion are the normal 
or representative church. Now, we 



see in this representative church the 
form of the Madonna-and-Child. 
To some this may seem fanciful. It 
is not. Every priest is " another 
Christ" — in the celebrated words 
of St. Bernard ; and the bishop is 
the complete priest, as having the 
power to confer the priesthood. 
If, then, the Madonna typifies the 
church, the Christ-child typifies the 
priesthood, and, if the priesthood, 
still more the episcopate. Again, 
as Christ has in Mary not only a 
Mother, but a Daughter and a 
Spouse — for he is her Father by 
creation (whence Chaucer and 
Dante exclaim, " Daughter of thy 
Son !") and her Spouse as the 
Spouse of all elect souls, among 
whom she is "as the lily among 
thorns " — so, too, has the priest in 
the church at once a motlier, a 
daughter, and a spouse ; and there- 
fore still more does the bishop 
stand in this threefold relation to 
the church. And, once more, as 
Christ is "the first-born among 
many brethren," his Mother being 
ours also, so is the priest an elder 
brother, ruling his brethren from the 
arms of their common mother ; and, 
if the priest, much more the bishop. 
There is nothing fanciful, then, 
in our view of the Madonna-and- 
Child as a symbol of the normal 
or representative church. But what 
does this mean, if not that the col- 
lective church, consisting as it must 
of a multitude of single churches, 
has equally the form of the Ma- 
donna-and-Child — is equally capa- 
ble of being symbolized thereby? 
or, in other words, that all single 
episcopates must be subordinated 
to one universal episcopate.^ Now, 
the Russo-Greek Church, while af- 
fecting (at least in theory) the prin- 
ciple of hierarchical subordination 
from the bishop up to the patriarch, 
stupidly contradicts her own asser- 



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tion of this principle, and destroys 
the church as a whole, by rejecting 
the supremacy of the Pope. She is, 
therefore, in this all-important point, 
as much out of harmony with our 
test-symbol as the Anglican and 
the other Protestant sects; and is 
ruled out of court, in her turn, as 
neither the kingdom of the incarna- 
tion nor any part of that kingdom. 

So at last we have only the Ro- 
man Church to contrast with the 
Madonna-and-Child. And small 
need have we to show how harmo- 
nidusly at all points she corresponds 
with our test-symbol. The Catho- 
lic recognizes in the Madonna-and- 



Child not only the Incarnation but 
its kingdom. He sees there the 
church with the Blessed Sacrament 
in her hands; and, again, the church 
our mother with her Christ-child at 
her breast; and, lastly, this same 
mother as our lady and queen, with 
her eldest son the Pope ruling his 
brethren from his throne on her 
heart, the Sancta Sedes. 

With regard to this last point we 
think it strange that controversial- 
ists have made so little use of the 
Madonna-and-Child of the Apoca- 
lypse.* We proposed to conclude 
our subject with a proof of the Pa- 
pacy from this vision, but must re- 
serve it for a separate article. 



COLLEGE EDUCATION. 



The schools of the country have 
held their days of exhibition or of 
graduation, the young men are en- 
joying their holidays, and the 
teachers are preparing themselves 
for a new year of work. It would 
seem to be a favorable moment to 
say a word about the question that 
more or less occupies all who think 
seriously of the future — education. 
This word, so often used, con- 
veys different ideas, according to 
the person who speaks. Its etymolo- 
gy undoubtedly gives it a certain de- 
finite meaning : educOyerudirids^Xvio 
words that signify the bringing forth 
from a negative state to a positive 
one — from ignorance and rudeness 
to knowledge and culture. But 
this general idea does not cover 
the whole matter. We have to 
consider the end to which this pro- 
cess is directed in order to have 
an adequate idea of what it should 
be. Now, this end we shall have 
clearly before us if we call to mind 



the end for which man is here on 
earth. Christians all acknowledge 
and teach that man is here to know, 
love, and serve God and save his 
soul. These two, therefore — re- 
demption from ignorance and a 
rude state, and the end for which 
man is here — give us the right idea 
of what education ought to be. 
The appreciation of both will ena- 
ble us to avoid two fatal obstacles — 
presumption and error. The proper 
state of mind of any one beginning 
a course of education is the recog- 
nition of his want of knowledge. 
There is nothing so hurtful as a 
spirit of pride ; for this blinds the 
mind, makes one overweeningly 
confident of his powers, attached 
to his own opinions, and loath to 
receive instruction. We have heard 
in our day young people discussing 
the question whether a man were 
not able to work out the most diffi- 

• Chap. xii. 



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cult problems of human science 
of himself; whether he absolutely 
stood in need of the guidance of 
others ; and whether there were 
any branch of human knowledge or 
achievement of past times any one 
might not be able to attain to or 
\ accomplish, provided he turned his 
attention to it. and circumstances 
were favorable. And when a young 
man had succeeded in mastering a 
certain amount of learning or sci- 
ence, we have been witnesses of the 
very remarkable phenomenon of 
seeing him set himself up as one 
whose opinion should cut short 
every discussion, and form the law 
of belief or action for those around 
him. Any one having had any 
experience of truly learned men, 
who even may not have been mo- 
dels of virtue, must have been 
struck at the humility of mind they 
give proof of. They, more than 
others, appreciate how little they 
know of what it is possible to 
know ; they see the vast field of 
knowledge of which they individu- 
ally can but cultivate a part, and 
common sense keeps them from 
thinking themselves possessed even 
of all that can be known of what 
they are actually engaged in. They 
agree in spirit with the celebrated 
master of Plato, whose saying is 
familiar to us : " I know only this : 
that I know nothing." The first 
requisite, therefore, for sound educa- 
tion is a humble state of mind, a 
disposition to be taught and receive 
the lessons with docility — a disposi- 
tion not only needful in a beginner, 
but required even more the further 
one advances into the domain of 
knowledge. When one adds to the 
original and relative ignorance of 
VIS all the further fact of the ease 
with which we go astray, fall into 
error — a facility so great as to have 
given rise to the adage in universal 



use, " Humawim esterrare " — it is im- 
possible a man of sense should not 
recognize the necessity of keeping 
down the spirit of pride and self- 
confidence, and confess that, in not 
having controlled himself in this re- 
spect, he has given the most com- 
plete proof of the adage in his own 
case. We are therefore all in the 
same condition, all in need of learn- 
ing, and stand in want of a teacher 
to instruct us and lead us in the 
path of truth. AVhat is the truth we 
are to seek after, who the teacher we 
are to go to, results from the study 
of the end to which education is 
to be directed. We have seen that 
the end of man is to know, love, and 
serve God and save his soul, and 
this tells us what education should 
be. Anything that conflicts with 
this end is to be rejected ; whatever 
aids us in attaining it is to be em- 
braced ; and as all truth is in har- 
mony with that end, it follows that 
education can embrace all sciences 
that are truly such, while it must 
eliminate all error ; for error has a 
logical effect of keeping us from the 
attainment of that end, especially 
where that error regards the higher 
branches of speculative education. 
Here, then, comes in the most im- 
portant element in the education of 
man — religion ; religion, that is, to 
teach his head and train his heart. 
If, as is most certainly the fact, 
man was made for God and for im- 
mortal life hereafter, education that 
would exclude this element — reli- 
gion — which regulates the relations 
of man with God, and teaches him 
how he may gain that everlasting 
state for which he has been created, 
is wanting most deplorably in the 
one thing needful. Such an edu- 
cation fits a man only for matter ; 
is of the earth earthy. It has no 
higher aim than the objects around 
him ; it is a guide that does not 



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bring into the presence of the King, 
but takes one no further than the 
domain over which the King's power 
is exercised. However much it 
may delight the eye with grandeur 
of scenery, proofs of power and of 
wisdom, it has no right or ability 
to introduce into a close commu- 
nion with the Sovereign, the source 
of all it beholds. It is simply an 
unworthy servant banished for ever 
from the face of his Master. This 
kind of education, which we shall 
style secular, professedly excludes 
all religious control of any kind 
whatsoever, and it consequently 
relies only on reason and scientific 
examination. Now, reason has been 
found wanting. In the brightest 
examples of pagan times, familiar 
to students of history, are to be 
found not only actions nature itself 
condemns, but principles laid down 
by them subversive of natural so- 
ciety and of all Christian virtue — 
pantheism and immorality. And 
we owe it to Christianity that we 
have been rescued from the social 
life in which such principles prevail- 
ed and were in practice. Any one 
nowadays who knows something of 
men will bear witness to the fact 
that both the one and the other — 
pantheism and immorality — are on 
the increase and show themselves 
publicly in the speech of the men 
and women of to-day. This can be 
owing only to one cause — the divorce 
of religion from education. And 
because this is so, because secular 
education does not lead us to God, 
but takes us from him, a dividing 
line must be drawn between reli- 
gious education and secular educa- 
tion ; an insuperable barrier exists 
between them, which must and 
ought to keep all that believe in 
revelation on the side of a training 
under the eye of religion. And if 
this be the case with regard to all 



who profess belief in Christ, how 
much truer is it with reference to 
those who have given their names 
to the Catholic Church and look 
to her infallible voice for their 
guidance! In saying this we do 
not wish to speak disparagingly of 
the learning, the ability, or the zeal 
of those engaged in the cause of 
education who are not with us. 
We respect all those who are striv- 
ing to increase the treasure of hu- 
man knowledge or dispense it to 
their fellow-raen. We join hands 
with all who are earnest in their 
study of true science, and rejoice 
in their success. We have no right 
to question their sincerity. But 
between their efforts and success 
in discovery, or in acquiring and 
imparting learning, and the way in 
which they educate, there is a dif- 
ference most vital and essential. 
The one investigates the works of 
the Creator, while the other leads 
men practically, wiiere it does not 
absolutely tell them as much, to 
ignore the Creator himself. God- 
less science can only fill a man 
with himself, while it offers no 
guarantee for the preservation of 
his morals and the attainment of 
his last end. 

On the other hand, religion goes 
before the education which is allied 
with her. With her torch of faith 
she illumes the darkness of men's 
minds. She shows them how much 
more beautiful is the Author of all 
the beautiful things they contem- 
plate than are the objects them- 
selves. She makes them behold in 
him the original essential beauty 
of which the universe is only a 
faint participation, and yearn for 
the possession of that Beauty and 
sovereign Good she tells them is 
within their reach ; and she shows 
them how, under her direction, they 
may not be carried away by tran- 



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sient allurements, by what they 
see around them, but attain to an 
indissoluble union with that Beauty 
and sovereign Good — with God 
himself. 

But it may be said religion has 
nothing to do with natural science; 
It cramps man's mind, fetters his 
intellect, stops his investigation. 
It will do w^ell enough in its 
sphere, but its action is hurtful to 
scientific pursuits. 

Is this true? It is not true ; and 
we can refute the charge by princi- 
ple and by fact. 

All that exists belongs to God. 
All science, all truth comes from 
him, the great First Cause, from 
whom all things proceed, in whom 
there can be no contradiction. 
His works, therefore, cannot contra- 
dict him nor contradict each other. 
Natural truth and revealed truth 
must, then, be in harmony, and we 
do not fear a conflict between 
them. The Catholic student of 
science is as fearless an investiga- 
tor as is his rationalist confrere; 
but the former will not rashly give 
himself up to speculations the 
other's further experience will 
oblige him to retract. The facts of 
science will never be in opposition 
to revelation, though the interpre- 
tation of scientific men may be, to 
their discomfiture later on. Even 
if the teacher of revelation, the 
church, should by any possibility, 
as is asserted in the case of Galileo, 
fail in a disciplinary decree with re- 
gard to scientific research, such de- 
crees not being infallible utterances 
of the Holy See, there remains 
always the remedy of a reversal 
when the incontestable proof of the 
contrary, sucii as he did not bring 
forward, shall be produced. So 
spoke Cardinal Bellarmine, one of 
Galileo's judges. Though we may 
safely say that those in charge of 
VOL. XXV. — 51 



the interests of the church do well 
in being exceedingly careful how 
they interfere with scientific inves- 
tigation, it nevertheless may be- 
come necessary at times to curb 
the license of those who undertake 
to interpret the truths of revelation 
according to their ideas or appre- 
ciation of science. How many 
scientific theories fall to pieces 
every day ! And is it not reason- 
able that those who believe in a 
revelation should not be left at the 
mercy of every clever scientific 
man who is pleased to have a tilt 
against it .^ Let any scientific truth 
be fully proved, and the Catholic 
Church will be the first to applaud, 
for it redounds to the glory of her 
Head. 

We need not, however, confine 
ourselves to this negative way of 
advocating the cause of revelation 
as friendly to science, for there is 
no dearth of positive proof of the 
fact. 

Revelation is positively of advan- 
tage to the study of science. It is. 
clear that any one who keeps me,, 
when on a journey, from going out 
of my way saves me an amount of 
time and trouble. Instead of wan-, 
dering in the woods and bypaths, I 
am enabled to keep the highway 
and so reach sooner my destina- 
tion. This is one of the impor- 
tant services revelation renders 
science. It tells us : Don't direct 
your attention hither or thither;, 
for you will find out you are wrong, . 
after losing precious time and 
making yourself a laughing-stock.. 
Don't go in search of the "missing 
link," for you won't find it. Don't 
divide the unity of the human race, . 
for it is one — of one man and one 
woman. Don't grovel with the 
materialists; for man has a spirit,, 
and he is destined for a better life 
hereafter. Such like warnings we- 



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have from revelation, and, instead 
of going astray with evolutionists 
and so-called philosophers, we em- 
ploy our time and talents on points 
that are serious and practical in 
science and nature; and Heaven 
knows there are plenty of these to 
engage us. The result is useful 
knowledge that does not undo but 
builds up society and perfects 
civilization. For this our grateful 
thanks are due revelation. 

Then, again, revelation opens up 
to us new fields of tliought. It gives 
us an insight into what we could not 
otherwise know. It is as if chance 
discovered to us some principle of 
art or science no one had before 
suspected. Once presented, reason 
can occupy itself on it, explore it 
as far as possible, make deductions 
and applications. How much hu- 
man ethics have gained in clear- 
ness and jisefulness by the light 
• of the command to love our neigh- 
bor, and by the example of the 
Redeemer of man ! How much 
speculative philosophy with regard 
to personality, responsibility, good 
and evil, and the future life ! The 
crude theories of pagan times 
excite our compassion nowadays, 
though we honor the ability of their 
original propounders; yet these 
same theories we see now broached 
by those who have cast aside reve- 
lation, but often with less depth 
and less wisdom than the pagan in 
whose mind not all the light of 
natural religion was quenched. 
No ! revelation is the friend of 
science ; science divorced from 
religion, the vaunted glory of to- 
day, is the enemy of progress ; retro- 
grade in all save the energetic 
talent that is lost in its service. 

A few examples will show what 
revelation or the church has done 
and is doing for the cause of edu- 
cation ; whether it has checked 



the development of man or favor- 
ed it. 

We will go to the "dark ages," 
in which those who oppose the 
church as an educator are wont to 
find their cheval de bataille^ their 
bugbear to frighten off those inclin- 
ed to trust her. AVe say nothing of 
the unfairness of Protestants who 
wilfully ignore the sad state of the 
Roman world consequent on the 
barbarian invasions of the fifth, sixth, 
and seventh centuries, and the strug- 
gles with the Saracens, who penetrat- 
ed even into Italy — a condition of 
things most inimical to the quiet re- 
quisite for study; who pass over the 
conquest of those barbarians and 
their civilization by the church ; who 
pretend to know nothing of what 
was done by the monks to preserve 
learning in their monasteries, to 
whom the preservation of the classic, 
philosophic, and ascetic works of an- 
tiquity and of the early church — 
the Bible among them — is due. We 
come to the thirteenth century. 
There we see, burning with a light 
that is celestial, a luminary not of 
the church only but of human reason 
— St. Thomas Aquinas, the Angelic 
Doctor. There was hardly a branch 
of intellectual pursuit of which he 
was not a master. His works are 
wonderful, and have always been a 
precious and useful legacy in every 
subsequent age. His great work, 
the Sum of Theology, has remained 
the text-book of theologians. In 
fact, no theologian is master of 
his subject who has not made St. 
Thomas the object of his constant 
study. Though at times somewhat 
neglected, we may safely say that at 
present there is an increasing ap- 
preciation of his works. Certainly 
this is true of his philosophical 
treatise Contra Gentiles. There is 
now a wide-spread movement in all 
civilized nations to return to the 



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use of the metaphysical and ethical 
teachings of St. Thomas, and it will 
be the means of regenerating such 
philosophical studies in this epoch 
of individual self-assertion, of ipse 
dixifs, when every man of talent 
who lists puts forth his own hazy 
speculations as the truth, and strives 
to force down his deductions as the 
tie plus ultra of science. Doraenico 
Soto, at the Council of Trent, defin- 
ed scholastic theology to be reason 
illumined by faith ; we may, like 
him, style scholastic philosophy rea- 
son kept in its right path by the 
torch of faith. In the works of St. 
Thomas will be found the refutation 
of the pantheism of Spinoza and the 
present German school, of the mate- 
rialism of Hobbes and BUchner, of 
the utilitarian ideas of Mill, Spencer, 
and others of the followers of Puffen- 
dorf. We shall find, too, in his writ- 
ings the ablest defence of revelation, 
and the sound principles that will 
enable us to put to flight the whole 
host of mythical theorists of the age. 
So much for theology, metaphysics, 
and ethics. 

If we wish to speak of the work of 
the church in poetry, science, and lit- 
erature, we have a monument of what 
she could do, even in the middle ages, 
in Dante. We hardly know which to 
admire most in this extraordinary 
man — his native genius, his extraor- 
dinary powers of imagination, the 
beauty of his imagery, the remark- 
able knowledge of theology and 
philosophy he exhibits in his writ- 
ings, or the beauty of the language 
he created. His culture was due 
to the church ; his inspiration was 
drawn from revelation; and his 
science he drank in at the great 
schools established and carried oi\ 
by the church in Italy, in France, 
and in England. So pre-eminent is 
this writer, philosopher,, and poet, 
that even in the nineteenth century 



our own poet whose works are read 
and justly appreciated wherever the 
English language is spoken — Henry 
W. Longfellow — ^lias deemed it well 
worthy of his own genius to* be his 
translator. Yet Darftte is the pro- 
duct of the Catholic Church. 

But the fashion to-day is to extol 
physical science. Of a truth, phy- 
sical science does not hold, and 
should not hold, the first place. If 
man were only matter, it might and 
should; but he has a soul, and the 
spiritual and intellectual world is 
his proper sphere. Scientific know- 
ledge is useful for the arts that 
serve to make commerce prosper, 
and should be sought after ; but to 
make commerce and what pertains 
to it, and the material comforts of 
man, the main object of his thoughts 
and aims is a monstrous disorder. 

However, even in this sphere of 
physical science the church is not 
afraid of her competitors. We 
leave to one side old Friar Bacon 
and other patriarchs of science, and 
we come to our own day. The 
church can point to Angelo Secchi, 
one of the first of living astrono- 
mers and physical scientists, and a 
member of a society that counts 
among its members men distinguish- 
ed in every branch of human know- 
ledge — the Society of Jesus. Sa 
great is the pre-eminence of this, 
distinguished savant in his native 
Italy that, since the city of Rome 
has been in the hands of the pres- 
ent rulers, they have left nothing un- 
done to gain him over to their side. 
And it 15 a pleasure ta us to pay 
this public tribute to the noble fide- 
lity he has shown to his faith, his 
church, and his society, giving as he 
does a splendid example of the alli- 
ance between the most advanced, 
physical science and the Catholic 
Church. 

As faithful adherents to reve«» 



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lation, though not Catholics, we 
may mention the late Prof. Fara- 
day and the no less distinguished 
Dr. Carpenter, who show that reve- 
lation and science do not war 
against each other. 

But we need not content our- 
selves with showing that the church 
is not hostile to human learning. 
It is easy to bring forward facts 
that put her before the world in her 
true character as the real friend of 
man, the guardian of his dignity, 
the zealous protectress of the truth 
of his intellect and of the freedom 
of his will. In medio stat virtus — 
Virtue avoids extremes. Our ten- 
dency to go wrong is by doing too 
much or too little, and we need 
something to keep us from either 
of these two extremes. It is here 
the church comes in to fulfil this 
friendly and much-needed office. 

There was in the fourth and 
fifth century an intellectual move- 
ment that attributed more than its 
due to human nature. The Pelagian 
errors gave to man a power he does 
not possess, and those errors are 
very widely spread in this nine- 
teenth century. They ignore the 
efficacy of grace, or the help the 
will stands in need of to serve God. 
Grace^ according to their most fa- 
vorable view, was only a light for 
the intellect. Here was an excess ; 
too much was claimed for human 
nature. Such doctrine is contradict- 
ed by Scripture and by the Fathers. 
Our Lord tells us : "I am the vine, 
and you are the branches; without 
me you can do nothing." And St. 
Paul says : " We are not able to 
think of anything [conducive to 
salvation] of ourselves ; but our 
sufficiency is from God." And St. 
Augustine, against those who spoke 
of some of the precepts as impossi- 
ble, writes : " God does not com- 
mand what is impossible ; but com- 



manding [thereby] counsels us to 
do what we can, to ask for aid to do 
what is beyond our power, and aids 
us that we may be able to do it." 
In this case we have the church 
curbing human pride and keeping 
the intellect and will within its true 
limits. 

In the sixteenth century there 
was a movement, resulting from 
pride and rebellion, that had its 
own punishment in the degradation 
to which it reduced man's nature. 
Luther's dogmatic system had, and 
has — for it lives in Protestantism — 
the efiect of so debasing human na- 
ture as to deny light to the intel- 
lect and power to the will to do 
anything that was not sinful ; for 
he held that the will of man is es- 
sentially changed, so that it de- 
pends on who directs it, God or 
the devil ; and, besides, whatever it 
does is sinful, though covered by 
the merits of Jesus Christ, which, 
like Esau's garments, prevent the 
knowledge or sight of the true 
state of things and the imputation 
of sin. 

Here was a defect; human na- 
ture was denied some of its powers. 

The church fulminated this doc- 
trine, and taught formally that 
man's intellect and will, though 
weakened by sin and passion, are 
not essentially changed, and that all 
man's acts are not sinful. She rec- 
ognized something of his original 
dignity in man. Hers is the spirit 
of the great St. Leo, whose eloquent 
words made the Christians and Ro- 
mans of his day remember their ori- 
gin, and the height to which they had 
been raised by the Incarnation. He 
exclaims: "Remember, Oman! thy 
dignity, and, having been made a 
partaker of the divine nature, re- 
turn not by degenerate conversa- 
tion to thy former vileness." She 
bade man remember that his na- 



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tiire, never essentially corrupt, had 
been purified by the grace of God, 
and that " in those that please God 
there is nothing defiled." 

Luther's teachings shed a sinis- 
ter influence far and wide that 
tainted even Catholic universities 
and affected writers who still pro- 
fessed to be in union with the 
church. 

In the former University of Lou- 
vain Jansenius went so far as to say 
that some of the gospel precepts were 
impossible, and that no grace was 
given to fulfil them. The words that 
were used by St. Augustine to refute 
the Pelagians were turned against 
Jansenius, and the voice of the 
church was heard anew vindicating 
man from the necessity of commit- 
ting sin. Later on came Baius, of 
the same university, teaching also 
a doctrine of universal depravity ; 
and the Sovereign Pontiff proclaimed 
that negative infidelity — that is, idol- 
atry in good faith — is not a sin ; that 
consequently those who have not 
grace or the illumination of faith 
can do many good actions, though 
such actions have not the merit of 
those which are made available 
through the merits of Christ. Thus 
again did the cliurch prove herself 
the friend of human dignity. 

Further on we meet those who, 
suffering the infection of the air 
caused by the doctrines of univer- 
sal depravity, deny to the intellect 
the power of discovering the truth 
by itself. The traditionalists wish 
to trace everything to an original 
revelation ; man has nothing he has 
not received from outside. Even 
his knowledge of God comes from 
tradition. And this doctrine the 
church, through her supreme teach- 
er, discountenanced. She bade them 
recall to mind the words of the 
Book of Wisdom and of St. Paul, 
where we are told that God can be 



known from the contemplation of 
this visible world. 

We will crave indulgence if we 
go so far as to venture the asser- 
tion that the doctrines of Male- 
branche and his school had their 
origin in this same depreciation 
of the powers of the human in- 
tellect. It may be said that the 
idea of intuition is a nobler one 
than that of painful analysis and de- 
duction; that intuition — ^vision — is 
the lot of the blessed, and therefore 
a higher state. But this is a state 
above nature, for the blessed ; not 
a natural state in our present con- 
dition. Moreover, there are rea- 
sons to make us believe that Male- 
branche did not escape the infec- 
tion of the world of thought pre- 
valent in his day — the disesteem of 
human nature ; an infection not, 
indeed, logically connected with the 
system of Luther. It was, if we 
may be permitted so to speak, a 
psychological effect — a habit of 
mind being induced, whereby one 
was led so to think. This would 
appear to be evidenced by his doc- 
trine of occasionalism, which made 
God always acting because man 
could not — a doctrine the authority 
of the church obliged him to modi- 
fy, for he would thereby have made 
God the author of sin. Though no 
official condemnation of the theo- 
ries of Malebranche, regarding the 
primary mode of knowing truth, has 
ever been given by the church, or 
is at all likely to be given, the de- 
ductions of certain of his followers 
have been condemned ; and it is 
well known that the weight of the 
influence of the Holy See has been 
cast in the scale of the psychologi- 
cal theories of St. Thomas, whose 
principle, clearly laid down, is: 
" Operatio intellectus praeexigit op- 
erationem sensus " — " The opera- 
tion of the intellect prerequires 



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the operation of sense " — I. 2, 
quaest. iii. art. 3, resp. And in his 
first part, quaest. xviii. art. 2, he 
writes : " Intellectus noster qui pro- 
prie est cognoscitivus quidditatis 
rei ut proprii objecti, accipit a 
sensu; cujus propria objecta sunt 
accidentia exteriora. Et inde est, 
quod ex his quae exterius apparent 
de re, devenimus ad cognoscen- 
dam essentiam rei " — " Our intellect, 
that properly takes cognizance of 
what a thing is (its essence) as 
its proper object, receives of the 
senses, the proper objects of which 
are external accidents. Hence it 
is that from what appears external- 
ly in a thing we come to know its 
essence," Of course sense is to be 
taken in its widest meaning, so as 
not to exclude the perception of 
the modifications going on in our 
internal being, which are the acci- 
dents of our spiritual essence. Man, 
therefore, has no natural revelation, 
but he arrives at knowledge by the 
essentially inherent powers of his 
mind — perception, abstraction, gen- 
eralization. God sees by intuition 
everything in himself — this is essen- 
tial in him; created intellects see 
what is, or intellectual truth, the 
arclietype in God, reflected from 
creation as from a mirror. 

From these instances, then, it is 
evident that the church has always 
been the friend of human nature, 
asserting for it the possession of 
faculties denied it, protecting it 
from error, and guiding it in the 
search of truth. She is, therefore, 
worthy of the gratitude of mankind 
for what she has done in the cause 
of education, as well as of the con- 
fidence of men as an instructor of 
youth in the future. 

We come now to a more directly 
practical part of our assumed task, 
and shall consider it our duty to 
speak plainly, and perhaps in a way 



to be censured by some ; but we 
do it in what seems to us the inte- 
rest of our people and countr)'. 
The Rev. Father. T. Burke, O.S.D., 
while in this country some years 
ago, addressing a society of young 
men, told them that Americans 
could not expect to take their posi- 
tion among the civilized nations of 
the world unless they studied, and 
studied not superficially but well. 
For our part, we thank him for this 
word. It is time to put out of our 
heads that we are the most culti- 
vated, civilized, well-informed peo- 
ple of the world. We are not. 
Alongside the generality of the ed- 
ucated men of Europe the general- 
ity of the educated men of Ameri- 
ca do not appear to advantage. 
Who and what is to blame for 
this .^ 

In the first place, we blame pa- 
rents. They ought to know better; 
they have had experience of the 
world. They are the natural guar- 
dians of their offspring, and should 
provide by their experience a reme- 
dy for the inexperience of youth. 
Yet they, and especially Catholic 
parents, are those who put the 
greatest obstacles in the way of 
those engaged in teaching. They 
want their boys hurried through 
school; they can't see the use of 
Latin, much less of Greek. As for 
philosophy, a man can make a for- 
tune without philosophy; as if a 
fortune were the only thing worth 
living for ! If that were the case, 
your California stage-driver who has 
struck a ** bonanza " is the type of 
what a man should be intellectual- 
ly. Heaven save the mark! We 
have had such men say to us : ** I 
assure you, sir, it is a very great 
misfortune my education was neg- 
lected ; I have wealth and don't 
know how to enjoy it." There are 
numbers of unhappy wealthy Araeri- 



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cans travelling in Europe whose 
children are looking forward to 
brilliant futures, but who themselves 
rush from one place to another, tor- 
tured by the necessity of having to 
come in contact with educated 
people and learn daily their own 
inferiority. We have met such peo- 
ple, and, out of sheer pity for their 
unhappy lot, have done what was 
in our power to make tliem forget 
for a while their troubles. 

The fact is, no greater boon can 
a wealthy parent bestow upon his 
child than a thorough, careful edu- 
cation, and every effort should be 
made to secure such education. 
And one of the first steps to be 
taken is tiiat parents second the 
efforts of zealous educators in our 
Catholic institutions. These insti- 
tutions have their defects, but those 
defects can hardly be remedied 
%vitliout the co-operation of parents. 
What that co-operation should be 
will be seen further on. 

There are defects in our institu- 
tions of education. This is our 
next point. These defects are in 
the manner of teaching and in what 
is taught. 

We acknowledge that there have 
been great improvements in the 
manner of teaching since we were 
boys ; but with all this the want 
of uniformity, scarcely attainable in 
this country, will always leave the 
door open to defects in teaching. 
As a rule, the mind of a boy is too 
much taxed with speculative mat- 
ter, and his memory comparatively 
neglected. The* memory is one of 
the first faculties to show itself ac- 
tive, and it is also capable of won- 
derful development. In the earlier 
education of the child the exercise 
of the memory siiould predominate ; 
as little strain as possible should 
be put on the mind yet tender. As 
tiie education progresses the exer- 



cise of the memory should be kept 
up; choice extracts from the best 
poets and writers should alternate 
with the useful storing in the mind 
of facts and definitions. The preli- 
minary education should consist in 
the learning of languages, which 
are means of acquiring further 
knowledge by intercourse and read- 
ing, not by any means the sum to- 
tal of education. We wish our Ca- 
tholic parents would understand 
this; for when a boy succeeds in 
knowing a little French and Ger- 
man they seem to think everything 
done. These languages are only the 
keys to the treasures locked up in 
the writings of other nations. They 
are principally to be acquired by 
memory ; and, in fact, this is the 
way the most successful and gen- 
erally used method — that of Ollen- 
dorf — adopts. There is no reason 
why the boy should not be put at 
a very early age to learning foreign 
languages. There is, too, one 
great advantage in this: that his 
work at such languages will be 
lighter and less absorbing when he 
comes to be engaged in scientific 
stujiy. Again, care should be taken 
not to put into the hands of a child 
books of an abstruse or relatively 
difficult character; for excessive cau- 
tion against straining the mind of 
such a scholar can scarcely be ta- 
ken. A great deal of harm is some- 
times done from the too high stan- 
dard exacted by school-boards of 
the various categories of boys. We 
have never ceased to praise the ju- 
dicious interference of our father, 
who, finding us with an analytical 
arithmetic put into our hands at 
seven years of age, took it away 
and placed it on the highest shelf 
of his closet. 

When a boy is well under weigh in 
the languages — we do not speak of 
religious education, which we take 



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for granted — he may very properly 
be introduced to the study of ex- 
perimental science and the more 
difficult problems of analytical ar- 
ithmetic and mathematics. But 
these branches sliould not be ar- 
ranged in such a way as to com- 
pete, as it were, with that much- 
neglected study, so lightly thought 
of — mental philosophy. If one 
visits our different Catholic insti- 
tutions of learning, and examines 
their system, still more looks into 
the practical working of it, he will 
find that the year of philosophy, 
much talked of, is employed in a 
most perfunctory manner. We 
would not be* understood as attri- 
buting any culpa theologica to the 
instructors. We consider this state 
of things owing first to parents, and- 
consequently to their children, and 
in part to the want of appreciation 
of the need of such philosophical 
training on the part of the teachers ; 
though also, sometimes, to want of 
•competency in the teachers them- 
selves, whose previous education 
has been on the old plan. We con- 
ceive that too great attention and 
zeal cannot be expended in the cor- 
rection of these defects. Correct- 
ed they can be, and they must be, 
if we wish to take and keep our 
proper standing. We cannot have 
a university for the present, and 
•therefore it is all important that 
the one essential thing a university 
can give — a higher mental training 
— should be given to our young Ca- 
tholic men. They must receive 
ithis in our colleges ; they will not 
liave it elsewhere. Of the need of 
it there can be no question. The 
great number of able, educated Eu- 
ropeans who, from political causes, 
have had to leave their native 
country and come to us, and 
the large number of Americans 
who nowadays study in European 



universities, all of whom, in conver- 
sation and through the press, retail 
to us the wildest phases of infidel, 
metaphysical, and social doctrine, 
is a sufficient argument to decide 
the matter, should any one hesitate. 
The church, to be sure, is our infal- 
lible guide, but there are many 
questions she does not treat, or, if 
she has treated them, her decisions 
can be understood only by careful 
study and explanation in the lan- 
guage of philosophy. So far from 
discouraging thestudy of philosophy, 
of metaphysics, and of ethics — pos- 
sibly the more important of the two 
— she encourages us to make a good 
use of this handmaid of theology. 
It is therefore a duty incumbent on 
those in whose hands is placed the 
education of our young men to pay 
more attention than ever to this kind 
of instruction. We know of efforts 
in some instances that have been 
made in this direction, but wliich 
have failed. We are afraid they 
were not very numerous. In some 
instances a tincture of metaphysics 
was deemed enough ; ethics were 
wholly neglected. How this could 
be has always been a puzzle to us. 
But it should not be any longer. 
A careful course of metaphysics 
that would embrace particularly 
the refutation of pantheism and 
materialism, besides establishing 
thoroughly the existence of God 
and the spirituality and immortal- 
ity of the soul ; and an equally 
careful course of ethics that would 
refute the utilitarians and social- 
ists of the day, while making clear 
the claims of authority, the nature 
of law, the origin of right in the 
eternal fitness of things as seen in 
the divine Mind, and such kindred 
questions, should be the object of 
the most earnest solicitude of the 
superiors of our Catholic colleges. 
The young students should be 



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made to apply their knowledge 
thus received either by short com- 
positions in addition to the repe- 
tition of the lessons taught ; or, far 
better still, by academic exercises 
in which one student defends in the 
school-room before his teacher 
and fellow-students a thesis or 
proposition already explained, while 
one or two others object against it 
all they can think of or learn, and 
this, too, in strict syllogistic form. 
Exercises such as these would be 
of the greatest advantage in train- 
ing the mind to the ready use of 
logic, and to refuting the arguments 
possible to be urged against sound 
doctrine. Nothing better than this 
would tend to take away the reproach 
so often, and perhaps in some cases 
most unjustly, made against our 
educational institutions, of incom-. 
petency for thorough education. 
Did it depend on us to have the re- 
casting of the system of education, 
we should be inclined to add on a 
year of further study as a requisite 
for graduation, and during the last 
two years of a young man's course 
we would employ him entirely in 
the study of metaphysics and 
ethics, including the principles of 
political economy, of the philoso- 
phy of history — in which the great 
questions of history, as far as possi- 
ble, might be reviewed — and in the 



further polish of his literary Eng- 
lish training. The philosophy of 
history is most important, for it is a 
powerful teacher. History is not 
to be studied as a bare narrative 
of facts; the facts have a language 
of their own which needs an in- 
terpreter. The polish of literary 
education is of great necessity, as it 
is the one thing those educated in 
the non-Catholic colleges may be 
said to excel us in. We do not 
dwell much on scientific education, 
because that is really of secondary 
importance, and it is impossible to 
give boys more than an elementary 
training in this branch, which may 
serve as a ground-work for further 
pursuit of it, if one is destined to 
turn his attention in that direction. 
To enable the superiors of our col- 
leges to carry out such a plan 
would depend upon the parents of 
young students having the fortitude 
to oblige their sons to remain the 
requisite time and make a diligent 
use of their opportunities. Here- 
in lies their co-operation in the 
great work of the future education 
of the young Catholic men of 
America ; and our word for it, if 
they follow this counsel, they will 
never have cause to repent. They 
will give us, too, far abler champions 
of truth than our young men have 
shown themselves to be in the past. 



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The Dancing Procession of Echternach. 



THE DANXING PROCESSION OF ECHTERNACH. 



PROM THB ItEVUB CENBKAX.E. 



In the year of our Lord 690 a 
vessel from the island of Britain 
left upon the const of Catwyk, in 
Holland, twelve young Anglo-Sax- 
ons who had abandoned their 
newly-converted country to carry 
the blessing of the Gospel to their 
brethren of the Continent. Chief 
among these young men, several of 
whom were of noble birth, was 
Willibrord, predestined from his 
mother's womb to be a glory to the 
church and famous in the estima- 
tion of men. The young strangers 
separated, to work, each in his own 
way, in the vineyard of the Father. 
Willibrord began that very day the 
long and heroic apostolate of fifty 
years which ceased only with the 
pulsations of his heart. If we ex- 
cept his two journeys to Rome, 
where the great servant of the Pa- 
pacy twice received the blessing 
and encouragement of the Sovereign 
Pontiff, he did not relax for a sin- 
gle day his labors in the vast region 
which stretches from the mouths 
of the Elbe and tlie Rhine to the 
banks of the Moselle. At his voice 
nations sitting in darkness rose up 
to behold the light, idols crumbled 
before the amazed eyes of their wor- 
shippers, churches arose from the 
soil and gathered about their altars 
multitudes of Christians, lay soci- 
ety organized itself little by little 
after the model of spiritual so- 
ciety.* 

Tradition and history show us by 
turns the great Anglo-Saxon apos- 



• V. Alcuin in Vita Willibrordi ap. Mabillon. 
Ada Sanctorum^ Ord. S. Benedict!, t. iii. p. 567, 
Venetian edition. 



tie in Friesland as the master of 
St. Boniface; in Denmark, preced- 
ing by more than a century the 
famous St. Anscarius ; in the isl- 
and of Helgoland, destroying the 
idol of Fosite and braving King 
Radbod's wrath ; in the Isle of 
Walcheren, where he nearly fell a 
victim to his heroism and apostol- 
ic zeal ; in Campine as the friend 
of St. Lambert, another untiring 
athlete of Christ ; and, finally, in 
Luxembourg, where even more than 
elsewhere his name is glorified and 
revered. For half a century he 
stood with Lambert and Bonifiice 
in the breach, the father of civil- 
ization in Western Germany and 
one of the most signal benefactors 
of mankind. 

The common people, though 
they forget great poets and great 
generals, preserve the memory of 
saints. Seventeen churches in Bel- 
gium and fifty-eight in Holland are 
under his patronage, without count- 
ing those in the valleys of the Mo- 
selle and the Rhine, where his fame 
is equally wide-spread. Sixty-three 
leagues apart, a small section of St. 
Willibrord's vast itinerary, two vil- 
lages to-day preserve in their own 
names the undying memory of his 
works : Wilwerwiltz on the sterile 
moors of the German Ardennes, 
and Kleemskerk on the low, fer- 
tile plains of maritime Flanders.* 
Drawn, as it were, from nothingness 
by this great man, these two local i- 

* Wilwerwilti is a contraction of WiUibi\>rdswiItx. 
As to Kleemskerk (Clement's Church), we know 
that in Kome Willibrord received the name of 
Clement, as did Winfrid that of Bcniface, under 
which he is venerated. 



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tie^, were other witnesses wanting, 
would tell to later ages the glory of 
their sublime founder. Answering 
one to the other across the whole 
extent of Belgium, tliey testify to 
his vast labors and his devotion 
to the Roman Church, which we 
unworthily defend to-day against 
the barbarism conquered by him 
twelve centuries ago. 



During his apostolic missions 
through the forests of Luxembourg 
Willibrord remarked one of the 
most charming and romantic spots 
in that fine country. It was at a 
turn of the Sdre, which even to-day 
flows on beneath the shade of 
savage rocks and deep forests. 
The valley, widening at this place, 
must at that time have presented a 
most imposing aspect, while it of- 
fered every facility for a settlement 
of human habitations. Indeed, the 
dwellings were even then of ancient 
date. The place bore a name re- 
calling incontestably its first Celtic 
occupants : Epternacum. There, 
too, the Romans had left traces of 
their passage. A short league from 
Echternach archaeologists may still 
read beneath the great shadowy 
oaks and thick brushwood that 
half hide it the following inscrip- 
tion engraved on the base of a 
monument : 

DE.« DIANi« 
Q. POSTVMIVS 
POTENS. V. S. 

The u|)i)er part of the monument 
is gone, but enough remains to show 
that it represented two persons — no 
doubt the goddess and her wor- 
shipper, with a hunting-dog crouch- 
ed at Diana's feet. He who over- 
threw the false gods of Helgoland 
and Walcheren must have crushed 
in holy ire this monument of the 



paganism he had just destroyed.* 
At all events, the image of Diana, 
once proudly throned above the 
valley at the edge of the wood, now 
hides, degraded and mutilated, in 
the dank gloom of brambles and 
brushwood — an eloquent emblem 
of St. Willibrord's work in this 
country. Echternach, where even 
then two little Christian oratories 
stood on the site of the two church* 
es of to-day, attracted the great 
man's attention and heart. He 
built there a Benedictine monastery, 
which was favored from its founda- 
tion by the bounty of two royal 
families, the Merovingians and 
Carlovingians. Around this focus 
of Christian life habitations gath- 
ered, and, as always happened, the 
monastery expanded and became a 
town. Such was the origin of the 
commune of Echternach, one of 
the most flourishing in that happy 
country of Luxembourg whicii 
knows neither great cities nor 
great miseries. 

The monastery of Echternach 
was always dearer to its founder 
than his other foundations. There 
he loved to pass his rare hours of 
repose. There, on the 6th of No- 
vember, 739, at the age of eighty- 
one years, he reached the terra of 
his mortal career. His remains 
were laid in the basilica of the 
abbey among his monks and his 
people. Even in the tomb he con- 
tinued to be the father of that coun- 
try and to exercise over men the 
sovereign authority which his vir- 
tues and labors had won. Death 
has no hold upon the saints ; when 
we lower their bodies into the grave 
we rear their images upon our altars. 
St. "Willibrord, more than any other 
patron of the country, is one whose 

* ThiSf at leastf is the plausible conjecture of a 
scholar of the first rank— F. Alexander Wiltheim— 
in his fine book, Luxetftburgum Rymanum, 



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The Dancing Procession of Eckternach, 



sepulchre may be called glorious. 
Few tombs have inspired a venera- 
tion so extraordinary, attracted the 
faithful in such crowds, excited acts 
of faith so intense. No sooner was 
he laid in his grave than multitudes 
came to invoke the apostle of 
Luxembourg, and frequent miracles 
bore witness to his powerful protec- 
tion. A century had not elapsed 
when this wonderful devotion was 
spoken of by the greatest writer of 
his time — Alcuin, the biographer of 
our saint.* His festival was cele- 
brated by an immense concourse, 
who filled the air with his praise. 
"See, brethren," says St. Alcuin. 
** Behold the glory of serving God. 
Our holy patron, for love of Christ, 
left his native country and led the 
life of a pilgrim. He trampled 
under foot the riches of this world ; 
he loved, he clung to poverty. And 
you know the glory he acquired 
among men. But preferable far is 
that which he possesses for all 
eternity among the angels." \ And 
the illustrious friend of Charle- 
magne, speaking to his contempo- 
raries of facts of which he had been 
an eye-witness, told of the iron fet- 
ters on the wrists and ankles of de- 
vout pilgrims which burst asunder 
when they came to do penance for 
their sins at the venerated tomb.J 

Two centuries afterward the voice 
of Theofrid, St. Willibrord*s suc- 
cessor and later biographer, echoes 
the powerful voice of Alcuin and 
tells of the ceaseless devotion 
which brings crowds to Echternach 
every year. He, too, bears witness 
to the saint's miracles — so numerous, 
he says, that a yoke of oxen could 
not drag the chariot that would 
hold the votive offerings of wax 

*Ibi usque hodie divinal operante misericordia 
signa et sanitates ad sancti viri et sacerdotU reli- 
quias fieri non cessant.—/f /<:»/« 0,C.y lii. p. 571. 

t Id. in Mabillony iii. p. 575. 

X Id. ib. iii. p. 572. 



and metal. And among these won- 
ders, as in Alcuin 's day, were to be 
seen broken chains and instruments 
of torture worn by slaves, which 
were shattered into splinters.* No 
miracle is oftener recorded of our 
saints than this one. I confess I 
never read the record in the quaint 
and simple narrative of our ancient 
hagiographers without emotion. 
Wherever they went the breakers 
of idols were also breakers of fet- 
ters ; that word which called men 
to the knowledge of the true God 
called them also to the enjoyment 
of true liberty. Christus nos libera- 
vii. Therefore the church has been 
honored by the opposition of all the 
tyrants who have wished to subju- 
gate nations. They have felt that 
liberty could be easily destroyed, if 
they could destroy her who is the 
fertile mother and the fearless guar- 
dian of freedom. But nothing can 
avail against the church nor against 
the liberty which is her offspring, 
which her voice called into life, 
which she has bathed in the blood 
of her idol-breakers. 

It was St. Willibrord's destiny to 
see crowned heads bow among the 
crowds that pressed around his al- 
tars, and the imperial purple of 
Germany trailing in the dust before 
his coarse robes of haircloth. In 
the imposing procession of genera- 
tions marching towards the saint's 
tomb it is difficult to distinguish 
the royal forms mingling with the 
crowd of pilgrims, so petty seem to 
him who gazes from the altar the 
earthly grandeur which sets them 
apart from other Christians. 

Many a time in earlier days the 
Carlovingians had come to pray 



• Theo/ridus vita S, Willihrardi^ c. 94 (saec. 
zii.) This life of St. Willtbrord is still unpublished ; 
only a few fragments having appeared in Mtm. 
Gtrm. Hist^ t. xxiii. Script. The fact I mentioo 
is taken from M. Krier's pamphlet, DU S^ing- 
procession^ p. 33, from the MS. life. 



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and humble themselves in the sanc- 
tuary at Echternach. They came 
with hands filled with gifts, and, by 
one of those strange vicissitudes 
which the finger of Providence 
points out, it was one of their num- 
ber who, blind, outcast, and bereft, 
came later to eat the bread of St. 
Willibrord and seek refuge in the 
shades of his monastery. History 
hardly mentions the wretched Carv 
Ionian, rebel son of Charles the 
Bald, whose eyes were put out by 
his father's orders, and who received 
in charity from his uncle Louis the 
Abbey of Echternach ad subsidium 
vitaJ^ The families who succeeded 
the Carlovingians in Germany never 
forgot the saint or the duty of pay- 
ing him homage. In the year 1000 
the list of imperial pilgrimages was 
opened by Otto III., the young and 
brilliant prince who planned so many 
great expeditions, and whom death 
had already marked with his mys- 
terious seal. Lothaire of Saxony, 
and Conrad of Hohenstaufen, came 
in their turn to pray before the 
.saint's relics, the one in 1131, the 
other in 11 45. Then, in 15 12, 
Maximilian joined in the procession, 
and in memory of his visit gave to the 
town the bell which bears his name 
and still rings on feast days. . Thus, 
except the sacrilegious house of 
Franconia, all the dynasties of the 
German Empire seem to have been 
represented at Echternach, and to 
have paid court to this prince of 
peace, greater and more respected 
than they. 

Echternach was always the capi- 
tal of St. Willibrord's peaceful 
realm. There was his tomb ; there 
rose convent and basilica, perpetual 
heralds of his great deeds. The 
convent was a city in itself, and 
the basilica is a most precious relic 

*M. G. xxiii. Script., Catalogus ahhatum 
EpUrnactniinm primus. 



of eleventh-century architecture — a 
veritable pearl which alone would 
make the reputation of a town. I 
will not be drawn into further de- 
tails, for fear of leaving my subject.* 
It suffices to remember that this 
wonderful monument, a victim of 
revolutionary vandalism, had been 
sold as national property, and was 
falling into decay, when the piety 
and patriotism of the people of 
Echternach snatched it from cer- 
tain destruction. They formed, un- 
der the name of WilUhrordus Verein^ 
a society whose aim was to recover 
the basilica and restore it to wor- 
ship. This society, founded in 1862 
by a few citizens in a little town of 
four thousand souls, now numbers 
its members by hundreds. It has 
already devoted more than one hun- 
dred thousand francs to the basili- 
ca, and will soon crown its work 
by bringing back the shrine of the 
saint, now preserved in the parish 
church. All reverence to the in- 
telligent Christian people who guard 
their honor so faithfully and un- 
derstand so well the interests of 
their own glory! Inspired by the 
three-fold love of religion, country, 
and art, the Willibrordus Verein is 
one of the finest institutions that I 
know. It does honor to the whole 
of Luxembourg, and will leave a last- 
ing memory. Of how many asso- 
ciations of our day can as much be 
said? 

The entire town of Echternach 
has retained that stamp of antiquity 
so eagerly sought by artists, and so 
much despised by our petty, mate- 
rial generation. Surrounded by the 
fantastic hills that form the valley, 
whose strange summits look like 
crumbling castles ; still enclosed by 

* On the basilica of Echternach read a good no- 
tice by Prof. Namur inserted in t. xxii. of Annuls 
o/tht A rchasological Acadtmy of Bdgium ; and 
another by M. Bock, in Rheinlands Baudenkmaie 
de$ Mittelalters. 



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The Dancing Procession of Echternach. 



three-quarters of its ancient fortifi- 
cations, with here and there a ruin- 
ed tower, it strikes the beholder 
with a surprise which only increases 
as he penetrates to the interior of 
the town. Passing through crook- 
ed and narrow streets, where each 
house has an architecture of its 
own which is often very impres- 
sive, he reaches the public square, 
where stands the antique town- 
hall, known by the more ancient 
name of Dingsthal, an interesting 
building which rests on Gothic ar- 
cades. The parish church is equal- 
ly worthy of attention for its old 
Romanic architecture and its beau- 
tiful position upon the summit of 
an eminence overlooking the town. 
What especially tends to give to 
Echternach its peculiar character 
is the habits of its population, so in 
harmony with the tranquil, cheerful 
country and its medioeval monu- 
ments. Here more than elsewhere 
Catholic faith has impregnated the 
life of the people. All their actions 
reflect its powerful simplicity, its 
generous hardihood, its customs of 
ten or fifteen centuries back. The 
poetry of the past, that exquisite 
influence of ancient times which we 
inhale with delight, is here an in- 
cense ever ascending from this hap- 
py valley. In this respect nothing 
can equal the dancing procession 
of Echternach, which takes place al- 
ways on Whit-Tuesday, in honor of 
St. Willibrord, and attracts those 
who come especially to invoke his 
aid for nervous diseases. This pro- 
cession has taken place for more 
than five hundred years. It can be 
traced back to the fourteenth cen- 
tury, and may be perhaps of even 
earlier origin. The dance has been 
explained in various ways : some- 
times as expressing the joy of a 
Christian people coming to venerate 
the relics of their patron saint ; 



sometimes as a symbolical repre- 
sentation of nervous attacks, epi- 
lepsy, and other maladies of the 
kind, from which the country was 
delivered by St. Willibrord *s inter- 
cession in the fourteenth century'. 

It is this ceremony, whose ori- 
ginal and picturesque character is 
quite unique in the Christian world, 
which I am about to describe to 
the reader. 

II. 
When WHiit-Sunday comes an 
amazing animation rouses the little 
town from its habitual tranquillity, 
and the excitement only increases 
on the Monday. Hotels and pri- 
vate houses are thronged with 
guests; many travellers, unable to 
get lodgings, camp out in the neigh- 
boring villages or go back to die 
Kirchy to return by railway the next 
day. The streets are thronged with 
dusty tourists : gentlemen of leisure 
regarding everything with a patro- 
nizing smile, peasants in rustic garb, 
rich strangers arriving in spruce 
equipages, and respectable jaunt- 
ing-cars with three rows of seats, 
conveying the opulent farmers of 
the neighborhood. Booths are 
planted everywhere, blocking up 
the streets and setting their backs 
against every available corner. 
Mountebanks and charlatans, who 
come to levy their tithe on public 
piety, stun with their piercing out- 
cries the busy folk running about 
to look for lodgings. Religion pre- 
ludes the imposing solemnities of 
the following morning. The faith- 
ful flock to religious offices and 
sermons. All day long they are at 
prayer before the sarcophagus where 
lies the body of the saint. There 
you will see the most fervent ; and 
by their attitudes, the expression 
of their faces, and the ardor of 
their gaze, it is plain that they have 



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some great favor to implore and 
hope not to go away unsatisfied. 
Prostrate before the altar, these 
rude laborers from the Eyfel and 
the Ardennes, with their great homy 
hands and tanned faces, opening 
their whole hearts to God and ab- 
sorbed in prayer, are beautiful to 
look upon. TheV seem to symbo- 
lize the destiny of mankind, born 
to labor, to suffer, and to pray. It 
is pleasant to ponder and pray in 
the stillness of that little Romanic 
church, beside the greatest man of 
the country. 

It was an humble church with vaulted roof. 

The church we entered in. 
Where for eight hundred years the sons of men 

Had wept and prayed 'gainst sin. 

There, on the hill sacred for so 
many ages, under the shade of the 
lindens that screen the courtyard 
of this ipodest edifice, in the pre- 
sence of the wide and peaceful 
landscape, the heart feels at ease, 
the mind is in repose. It is like a 
haven of rest or like some enchant- 
ed country. The hideous, infernal 
tumult of the church's enemies dies 
away in this Catholic oasis. Man 
and nature are in harmony ; the se- 
renity that reigns in this lovely 
country sinks into the most stormy 
heart. Here Dante would have 
found the peace he sought under 
the vaulted roof of the monastery 
at Monte Corvo. 

Evening fell ; the chants for 
Benediction rang through the 
church as I entered. Tliousands 
of voices, accompanied by the 
grave and solemn tones of the or- 
gan, were singing the beautiful 
litany of St. Willibrord, which is 
like the national air of Echternach, 
and has a peculiar sweetness in a 
language that admits of saying 
thou to God and to the saints : 

St. WilHbrord, shining tUr of our country, 
St. Willibrord. ornament of the Roman Church, 
St. Willibrord, breaker of idols. Fray /or us. 



I cannot describe the effect of 
this chant, rising on so many voices 
in accents of plaintive supplication, 
penetrating the heart with its ex- 
pression of love and trust. These 
people love St. Willibrord and treat 
him with a sweet familiarity. 
" Who and what was he that men 
should come every year to kneel 
before his relics and pay him ho- 
nors so exceptional.' What had 
he more than others, and by what 
was he distinguished? By beauty, 
genius, science, riches V Such 
was the idea of the sermon whicii 
followed Benediction, and was 
heard by that whole multitude in 
breathless attention, some standing, 
others kneeling on tlie flags — for all 
the chairs had been taken away. 
The sacred orator developed his 
theme with remarkable skill, and, 
after proving that St. Willibrord 
had shone by none of these gifts, 
he concluded that he had reached 
this exceptional glory on earth and 
in heaven because he had under- 
stood and applied better than 
others the divine command, ** Love 
God above all things, and thy 
neighbor as thyself,*' 

O grandeur of Christianity ! O 
eternity of the church ! A thou- 
sand years ago Alcuin said the 
same in his panegyric ; the modern 
preachers noble words were like 
the lingering echo of the same 
Christian voice sounding through 
ages — of that voice which ever re- 
peats itself, and yet is always fresh, 
for it is the voice of truth. Thus, 
at the two extremities of this de- 
cade of centuries, the friend of 
Charlemagne and the young priest 
of Luxembourg were the two ends 
of a chain whose every link is 
an extinct generation, and which 
brings down to our own day the 
unchangeable,* immortal tradition. 
One thousand years hence other 



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The Dancing Procession of Echicrnach. 



pilgrims will come to contemplate 
these great lessons of time and 
pray before the sacred tomb, tread- 
ing beneath their feet the ruins 
of our civilization and modern so- 
ciety. 

After Benediction I went to walk 
on the heights above the town. 
The night was clear and the moon 
hung calmly serene in the hea- 
vens. Every time I pass through 
Echternach I climb these hills; 
the place is full of calm and re- 
freshment, and I always feel hap- 
py there. Looking down upon the 
town, with its spires and ancient 
roofs mirrored in the peaceful river, 
I listened to the last sounds dying 
away in the streets; for the town 
went to rest as early that night as 
on any other. Heaven and earth 
seemed so quiet, so infinitely peace- 
ful ! If at that hour propitious to 
dreams you would evoke in spirit 
the memory of- the past, it would 
rise like a gigantic phantom. One 
glance cast into the domains of 
fancy would show the wild valley 
heaped with Druidic stones, crown- 
ed with altars and, Roman monu- 
ments, and traversed by the swift, 
silvery flood of the SClre, which 
seems to pierce like a dart the mys- 
terious depths of the ancient Ar- 
dennes. On the summit of the 
height appears a wonderful man, 
who breaks the Gallic and Roman 
idols, and with their fragments 
builds Christian oratories ; he lev- 
els the forest and cultivates the 
valley ; builds dwellings around 
the church, calls men, and they 
come at his bidding ; and this new 
Orpheus, with no lyre but his voice, 
leads in his train Barbarism, con- 
quered, charmed, converted. 

The next day I breakfasted be- 

n five and six o'clock in one of 

"lany pretty pleasure-gardens 

town. The evening before 



had been very warm; the day 
dawned under the same auspices, 
but perfectly clear. The people 
of Echternach declare that it can- 
not rain on the day of their proces- 
sion, or, at least, that the rain must 
stop before they enter the church. 
On all sides resounded clear and 
full the voices of pilgrims coming 
in procession from villages near by 
and chanting the litany of St. Willi- 
brord. These aerial tones, coming 
to us in the freshness of dawn 
through blossoming trees, opened 
the day very pleasantly. I went 
out. Through every street there 
poured a stream of country people, 
preceded by crosses arid banners. 
Whole parishes came with their pas- 
tors ; they had left home at day- 
break and walked several leagues, 
with prayers and chants rousing 
the wondering birds, unused to hear 
human voices praise the Creator ia 
advance of them. The nearest vil- 
lages came in procession ; others, 
who could not send a solemn train, 
furnished a large number of pil- 
grims, who marched in isolated 
groups. Without counting the pil- 
grims of the Luxembourg, Belgium, 
France, and Russia are represented 
every year. The number of devout 
Christians whom each anniversary 
brings to the sacred tomb varies 
from 12,000 to 15,000, leaving out 
those who come without having 
made a vow, some from religious 
feeling, others from mere curiosity. 
About 20,000 strangers in all crowd 
into the narrow precincts of the lit- 
tle town every Whitsuntide, For 
whole hours you see the flood of 
humanity ascend and descend the 
steps of the parish church ; for all 
the pilgrims on their arrival go fiitt 
to kneel at the saint's shrine. 
About eight o'clock the multitudes 
pass over to the other bank of the 
S(ire, where the procession is to be- 



\ 



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gin. The Sftre forms the boundary 
between the territory of Luxem- 
bourg and Prussia. Just there the 
procession falls into line of march. 
At the foot of the hills, beside a 
little stone cross, they erect a tem- 
porary pulpit, from which a priest 
addresses the people before the 
ceremony begins. Thousands had 
collected to await the coming of 
the clergy. Some walked about, 
others sat along the edge of the 
road or leaned against the parapet of 
the bridge. The crowd, scattered in 
picturesque confusion and disorder, 
buzzed like a hive of bees. The 
throng increased ; along every road 
came hosts of pilgrims ploughing 
their way. From afar came vague, 
indistinct sounds of singing, and 
along the valley, through the nar- 
row road traced between the Sdre 
and the hills, there advanced a long 
column. Banners floated in the 
sunshine and gleamed through the 
trees; the procession undulated 
and unrolled its length as it follow- 
ed the windings of the river. The 
voices, as they drew nearer, be- 
came distinct, and soon the head 
of the procession appeared. They 
were pilgrims from Prtim, in the 
Eyfel, more than twelve leagues 
from Echternach, coming to make 
their annual devotions to St. Willi- 
brord. These good people had set 
out on Sunday evening ; they had 
walked part of that night and of the 
next day, praying and chanting. 
On Monday evening they had dis- 
banded, scattering about through 
fields and in barns a few leagues 
from Echternach, and had resum- 
ed their march early in the morn- 
ing. Tanned, heated, dusty, clad 
in coarse raiment, they came on in 
good order, forming an almost in- 
terminable train* It seemed as if 
the whole village had come. Their 
accoutrements were rustic, fantas- 
VOL, XXV. — 52 



tic even ; the men carried crosswise 
overtheir backs an umbrella fasten- 
ed by a string which passed over 
their breasts, crossing the strap of 
a large leathern valise hanging on 
the other side. The women had bas- 
kets on their arms. These valises 
and baskets held the provisions for 
that journey of four or five days. It 
is remarkable that this pilgrimage of 
the people of PrUm is voluntary and 
a popular movement; the clergy 
take no part in it? organization, and 
seldom join it, the parishioners 
making it their own affair. On this 
occasion, indeed, a priest was with 
them, but the order of march and 
the devotions were directed by a 
certain num ber of men placed at in- 
tervals in the procession. They car- 
ried, as the insignia of office, a red 
staff surmounted by a little copper 
cross. The priest, who closed the 
procession, walked between two 
young men clad in quaint and an- 
tique garb, with hats turned up and 
trimmed with flowers. One carried 
the cross, the other a large votive 
candle adorned with emblems, the 
annual gift of their village to the 
patron of Echternach. The proces- 
sion advanced in perfect order. 
Indifferent to curious looks, turning 
their eyes neither to the right nor 
to the left towards the human 
hedge that lined their path, they 
passed on, saying their rosary aloud 
and repeating after each Ave this 
familiar salutation, full of simplicity 
and grace : " St. Willibrord, we are 
coming to thy tomb !" I loved to 
see and hear them. Their fervor 
in prayer and contempt of fatigue,., 
their rustic dress and primitive man- 
ners, their indifference to all but 
their one object, made these peasants, 
a people set apart, and their pilgrim- 
age a type of the pilgrimage of hu- 
man life as it ought to be made. I 
watched the pious train until it en- 



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The Dancing Procession of Echiernach, 



tirely disappeared on the other side 
of the bridge ; for, before returning 
to the Prussian bank to take part 
in the sacred dance, the people of 
PrOm were going to kiss the shrine 
and pray before the relics of the 
saint. 

At last, about nine o'clock, a nu- 
merous band of clergy appeared, 
and the ceremony opened with the 
accustomed sermon. Fancy the 
scene : the lovely morning and beau- 
tiful country, the vast host of listen- 
ers intent on the words of the priest. 
For a frame there were the high 
hills on one side, on the other the 
silvery course of the Sftre, and be- 
low the spires of the town. 

Not less wonderful was it to hear 
on Prussian ground a Catholic voice 
calling upon thousands of the faith- 
.ful to pray for the Holy Father and 
•the persecuted church. And while 
the priest was speaking there came 
from all the heights belated pilgrims 
hastening to the ceremony. They 
were seen afar off, coming down the 
steep paths bordered with flower- 
ing hedges ; and the bells rang out 
full peals, and the word of God was 
scattered among the multitude with 
the song of birds. 

When the sermon was ended, the 
clergy, in white surplices, formed 
in line of march and opened the 
procession. Behind them came the 
musicians, and afterwards the im- 
mense throng of those who were to 
join in the dance. At first there 
was much crowding. Leaning 
.against the parapet of the bridge, I 
4iad to ply ray elbows lustily to pre- 
vent the multitude from suffocating 
me, and farther on, when the train 
began to defile through the narrow 
•street which leads to the Sdre, the 
pressure v/as quite frightful. There 
were not ushers enough to preserve 
order. A few firemen and police- 
men had to be everywhere at once. 



and were swallowed up in the bil- 
lows of the confused crowd. The 
cause of the disorder was the impa- 
tience of some people, who, instead 
of waiting until the street should be 
cleared for the beginning of the 
dance, went forward to post them- 
selves higher up in the procession. 
This choked the way in some places, 
and there was terrible pushing. 
Women screamed ; several were 
nearly suffocated. I saw some men, 
who, as they awaited their turn with 
philosophic patience, set their backs 
against walls and rowed with their 
arms against the human flood to 
save themselves from wreck. A 
hospitality, as unexpected as it was 
welcome, rescued me from the tu- 
mult to become a peaceful specta- 
tor in a neighboring house instead 
of an actor in the scene. "It is 
sweet," says Lucretius, " when the 
sea is swollen and tossed by rough 
winds, to look from the shore upon 
the distress of others, not finding 
pleasure in their troubles, but in our 
own exemption from them." I felt, 
in selfish enjoyment, the spirit of 
these lines, gazing at my ease from 
an upper window upon the undula- 
tion of several thousand heads float- 
ing apparently upon a liquid ex- 
panse. Actually, a needle thrown 
from above would not have reach- 
ed the ground. 

Order was soon restored. The 
police got angry and used their fists 
unsparingly to force back into their 
places the intruders, who continued 
to leave the ranks and insinuate 
themselves in among the front rows 
of the procession. All this went on 
while the head of the cortege disap- 
peared at the turn of the street, 
dancing to the traditional air play- 
ed by the musicians. It was a 
quaint tune, rather quick m measure 
and old-fasliioned. It was hard to 
say whether it expressed joyful ex- 



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citeraent or the emotions of grief; 
for music, with its wonderful supple- 
ness, may sometimes speak to us of 
our joys and sorrows, according to 
the mood in which we listen. And 
now this melody, centuries old, set 
in motion a dancing multitude. 
The sight was strange, striking, in- 
describable. To an unaccustomed 
spectator the first moment is of 
stupefied amazement. His fancy 
enters a new world ; the movement 
of all these heads bending and 
rocking in a rhythmic measure pro- 
duces a fantastic effect that no 
words can convey. 1 do not know 
whether I can tell exactly what I 
saw, or if my sketch will give even 
a faint idea of a scene which defies 
analysis and description. 

Think of a stream of twelve thou- 
sand persons in a street where only 
eight can walk abreast; fancy all 
these people, in rows of four, six, or 
eight, advancing, held together by 
handkerchiefs or staves to keep or- 
der in the ranks and measure in the 
dance; fancy them, I say, executing a 
dance which consists of three steps 
forward and two back, and which 
moves the whole multitude from 
end to end with one unceasing ac- 
tion of ebb and flow. The intermi- 
nable 'train stretched over about 
fifteen hundred metres from the 
bridge of the Sfire to the parish 
church. It took not less than four 
hours to accomplish that quarter of 
a league by dancing, and under the 
direct rays of the sun, without a 
moment's rest. It is easy to ima- 
gine that order and regularity were 
sometimes disturbed, but what was 
lost in symmetry was gained in 
picturesque originality of detail. 
There were almost as many differ- 
ent styles of dancing as there were 
various groups, everybody manag- 
ing his own affairs. The groups 
just behind the musicians succeeded 



best, being kept in step by the 
music ; and in general the people 
of Echternach danced more har- 
moniously and correctly than the 
others. As the bands were few and 
stationed quite far apart, the pil- 
grims who could not hear them 
hopped about in utter confusion, 
while the rest had a certain har- 
mony of movement. These eccen- 
tricities of choregraphic movement 
were worth seeing; here they glid- 
ed with light step, elegantly and 
smoothly; there they jumped 
about with heavy tread and im- 
mense exertion. Watching careful- 
ly those who seemed to have best 
preserved the tradition, I thought 
that the most pure and " classic " 
rhythm consisted in five steps of a 
dance, quite slow and without turn- 
ing, three forward and two back, 
made by gliding rather than bound- 
ing. The whole character was 
grave, solemn, and suited to a reli- 
gious dance. A band from Echter- 
nach opened the march and played 
the tune for the first pilgrims. 
The others danced to the strains of 
a few isolated instruments. Each 
cortige had its own musicians, and, 
as each parish danced separately, 
they had their local players. It is 
needless to say that variety reigned 
among the instruments — drums, 
violins, flutes, clarionets, and haut- 
boys — all hard at work and produc- 
ing combinations hardly grateful to 
musical ears. But the good fel- 
lows did not pretend to be artists. 
They worked for conscience* sake ; 
they piped and they blew, they 
beat and they scraped, with all the 
accumulated force of lungs, fists, 
and bows. St. Willibrord is not 
fastidious ; he takes the will for the 
deed, and if there be here and there 
some cockney scandalized by this 
cacophony, so much the worse for 
him. Ill though they play the 



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The ^ancing Procession of Echternach. 



melody, it Is a good work to make 
the attempt, and the worthy pilgrims 
accommodate themselves to circum- 
stances. Formerly no fiddler was 
allowed to play in village fairs, if he 
had not paid far the privilege at 
the procession of Echternach that 
same year. This custom, with 
many others, is obsolete, but many 
musicians remain faithful to tradi- 
tion. 

This year, while the procession 
was crossing the town, there came 
marching through a cross-street a 
brilliant band of music preceded 
by a banner ; it was a philharmonic 
society from Remich on the Mo- 
selle, and was received with accla- 
mation. It joined the procession, 
and its fine execution came as a 
welcome reinforcement to the poor 
musicians, who were nearly ex- 
hausted. 

I could not take my eyes off the 
wonderful scene, sometimes taking 
in the whole picture at a glance, 
sometimes pausing to examine de- 
tails in all their picturesque variety. 
Most attractive of all was the sight 
of the children of Echternach, 
dancing at the head of the proces- 
sion just behind the village band; 
they put such life into the afiair, 
and felt it such a festive occasion. 
It was refreshing to watch the rosy- 
cheeked, laughing rogues, usually in 
their shirt- sleeves, bounding mer- 
rily "for St. Willibrord." Then 
came the grown folk of Echter- 
nach, then the various parishes, 
each, as I said, forming a distinct 
group with its own musicians. The 
sexes were separated. Formerly 
the pilgrims from Priim and Wax- 
weiler, who came from the most dis- 
tant points, had the right of open- 
ing the procession, while the inhab- 
itants of Echternach, through cour- 
tesy, took the last place. Now there 
is no fixed order ; the parishes take 



their places at hap-hazard, and 
many people leave the ranks to 
join the front rows at the risk of 
throwing the whole procession into 
confusion. I saw the good people 
of PrUra, with their monumental 
green and blue umbrellas capable 
of sheltering whole households. 
Now they were unstrung from their 
proprietors* backs, and, bound two 
and two, served as a balustrade to 
be grasped by three or four persons 
to keep them even in the ranks 
and regulate their step. Here and 
there, amid the rhythmic move- 
ment of these thousands of heads, 
I descried some unhappy being 
afflicted with St. Vitus' dance, 
shown by wild, spasmodic springs, 
violent excitement, and the pitiful 
rocking of all the limbs. They 
were usually women, young girls 
stricken with this terrible disorder. 
I noticed one in particular whom 
every one looked at with earnest 
sympathy. She leaped in a wild, 
feverish way, supported under the 
arms by her mother, whom I knew 
by the look of anxiety and sadness 
imprinted on her face. The kind 
people of the town stood ready at 
their doors with refreshing bever- 
ages for these poor creatures ; but 
they hardly stopped to drink be- 
fore continuing their dance under 
the whip of the sun, as the great 
Alighieri says, whose words came to 
my mind more than once at sight 
of these miseries. So drawn along 
by this weird dance, the pilgrims 
appeared and vanished, as wave 
follows wave, and the monotonous 
melody carried on ten thousand 
people to the sound of its fantastic 
cadences. Add one or two thou- 
sand pilgrims who, not joining in 
the dance, followed the procession, 
saying their beads or reciting the 
litany, and you have in all twelve 
thousand Christians of both sexes 



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The Dancing Procession of Echterttach. 



837 



and of every age and rank, who, 
through four whole hours, formed 
St. Willibrord's triumphal proces- 
sion and visited his sacred tomb.^ 
All the energy of the vigorous 
Luxembourg sinews is required to 
bring to a successful close this long 
and fatiguing pilgrimage, whose dif- 
ficulties increase as they near their 
end ; for I forgot to say that the 
procession danced up the sixty-two 
steps which lead to the parish 
church. Not every one can go to 
Corinth, says the proverb. The 
same is true of Echternach, though 
in a different sense, thank God! 
But it would be a mistake to think 
that the famous ceremony demands 
anything excessive or superhuman. 
The calm, grave character of the 
dance, and the numerous pauses 
which are made necessary by the 
blocking of the way, suffice to hus- 
band the pilgrim's strength. Their 
vow, though hard and laborious, is 
not impossible or dangerous. The 
proof of this is that many children 
in the procession dance the whole 
length of the way twice over. 
No sooner do they reach the 
church at the head of the proces- 
sion than they scamper back to 
join the rear and begin the exer- 
cise over again. Pilgrims who, on 
arriving at Echternach, do not feel 
equal to executing their vow, and 
yet wish to contribute to the bril- 
liancy of the festival, give a few 
sous to one of these children, and 
the indefatigable little fellows ac- 



♦ According to the EchternacAier Anztiffer of 
June 5. the nnmher of dancers was 10,600; of 
other pilgrims x,8oo. This does not include x88 
musicians, 7a priests, z,xoo chanters, and various 
corporations. There were, moreorer, 14,000 or 
15,000 spectators, making a total of about 30,000 
people. Comparing these numbers with those of 
former yean, we shall see that the ancient cexemony 
increases in importance and iclat. This conclusion 
is correct, as M. Krier*s statistics show, DU Spring- 
Procesti^ny p. 148. Since the beginning of this 
century the number of dancers had not before reach- 
ed zo,ooo. 



quit themselves of their task with 
imperturbable seriousness and 
charming grace. But prodigious 
people are again the people of 
Ptlrra. They arrive at the town, 
to use a familiar expression, with 
twelve leagues in their heels ; and 
at once they set to work and danc^ 
four long hours. Then, when their 
devotions are ended, they take 
barely time to eat their modest fare 
out doors or at an inn table, and 
go home singing and praying to 
the high table-lands and extinct 
volcanoes of their wild country. 

One should be in the church 
when the procession pours in by 
traditional custom through the left 
aisle, to pass round the altar in the 
choir and go out through the right 
aisle. The dance does not cease 
an instant as they pass through the 
sanctuary; the orchestra goes on 
playing the quaint, archaic melo- 
dy, the dancers make the old Ro- 
mano-vaulted roof ring with the 
clang of their measured steps. The 
pilgrims do not think their vow ful- 
filled until, after making the tour of 
the church, they find themselves in 
the courtyard before an old wood- 
en cross, where they break ranks. 
Nothing can be more fantastic than 
this irruption of dancing and music 
in the house of God. The specta- 
cle in the church is beyond de- 
scription ; you feel as if you were 
dreaming, and your spirit floated in 
the domain of the impossible. What 
do the people mean ? Have they 
come to pillage and destroy } Is 
this tumultuous throng the prey of 
a sudden delirium, of a dancing 
mania } Or, if it be worship, does 
it not revive the solemn orgies of 
ancient Greece, where certain dei- 
ties of Oriental origin were honored 
by the leaps, the cries, and the 
races of their idolaters? No; to 
the first instant of amazement there 



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TJu Dancing Procession of Echternach. 



succeeds a more correct and com- 
plete judgment. Beneath the ex- 
ternal agitation, beneath the noise 
and movement, you see the reli- 
gious calm which fills these souls, 
and the solemnity pervading the 
expression of their inner feelings. 
It is this contrast which gives to 
the singular ceremony its cliaracter 
of deep originality. No doubt we 
have lost the sense of mysterious 
symbolism in the sacred dance ; we 
no longer see its true motive or 
significance ; we only know or di- 
vine that the devout thought which 
first inspired it animates it at the 
present da}'. 

Among various ideas suggested 
by this astonishing experience, there 
was one that I could not get rid of, 
and which returned to me on the 
festival and its eve again and again. 
While multitudes knelt before the 
altar, kissed the shrine, touched it 
with objects of devotion, and filled 
the church with their prayers, you 
would have said that the great man 
must be there, present among the 
faithful, speaking to them and lis- 
tening to them. What glory equals 
that of the saints ? What other son 
of Adam enjoys such honors? 
Those whom the Catholic Church 
has crowned with eternal palms do 
not reign only in heaven ; the hu- 
man glory which they despised is 
given to them abundantly, and 
these little ones, who passed through 
life obscure and despised, see them- 
selves suddenly surrounded with an 
amazing glory with which Caesar, 
Homer, Archimedes, and Plato do 
not shine. The world rings with 
their name, and the least and most 
ignorant of human beings know^, love, 
and revere them. They are not 
only illustrious, they receive solemn 
veneration, they share in a cer- 
tain way the honors of God him- 
self. Their names are uttered with 



bended knee, nations flock to their 
tombs, and they are gloriously en- 
throned in Christian hearts. Be- 
side such a destiny is it worth while 
to try to immortalize one's name 
and to flutter, as the poet says, 
upon the lips of men t What is the 
greatest name on earth, unless it be 
encircled with the aureole of sanc- 
tity } Ignored by the crowd, ut- 
tered coldly by most of those who 
know it, respected by a few, but 
invoked by no one with clasped 
hands and heart uplifted to him 
who bore it. The name of the 
least saint prostrates in the dust all 
human generations through the long 
succession of ages, and resounds 
like a word of life on all lips. The 
church alone is the dispenser of 
glory, and even among secular 
names the noblest and most lasting 
are those of Catholic associations. 

III. 
The reader asks, no doubt, what 
is the finsd impression produced by 
the spectacle of the dancing pro- 
cession, and how we should esti- 
mate this strange ceremony,? I 
will try to answer the double ques- 
tion clearly. In the first place, one 
must see the procession with one's 
own eyes to judge it fairly. The 
public must beware of newspaper 
reports, which are numerous and 
usually wholly incorrect, not to 
use a more uncivil terra. There is 
no name which certain papers have 
not applied to the subject ; for cor- 
respondents of a farcical turn 
amuse themselves every year at 
the expense of a credulous public. 
AVe may say, en passant^ that no 
class of beings can be more con- 
temptible than reporters hunting 
for a sensation — travelling bagmen 
of the press who are allured by 
scandal as the vulture is by a 
carcase. It is easy to fancy what 



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The Dancing Procession of Echternach. 



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the ceremony at Echternach must 
have become under their pen. 
The very name of dancing proces- 
sion makes them scent a topic, 
and, devoid of all religious feeling, 
they describe first and judge after- 
wards a spectacle they are incapa- 
ble of understanding. Their de- 
scriptions are so imfaithful that you 
doubt whether the good people 
ever saw the procession, or whether 
they did not write the account be- 
fore going to the ceremony. They 
give caricatures of a mass of hu- 
manity entangled in frightful con- 
fusion and bounding with all their 
strength to the sound of a gigantic 
hubbub. The ranks get mingled; 
the dancers crush each other and 
spring about, regardless of the toes 
of their neighbors, who scream for 
mercy. With rubicund faces stream- 
ing with perspiration, and with eyes 
starting from the sockets, these 
wretched fanatics would die rather 
than pause. On all sides numbers 
give up in despair and drop breath- 
less among their barb^ous com- 
panions. Sometimes they are 
drawn out of the crowd by com- 
passionate persons and restored to 
life, but no one in the procession 
stops for anything, and the pitiless 
Catholic bamboula goes on and on, 
sowing devastation at every step. 
I spare the reader further details 
and give only the canvas of an em- 
broidery more or less varied ac- 
cording to the imaginative' powers 
of the correspondent. In short, 
despite the diversity of some de- 
tails easy to add, this fancy sketch 
has appeared in nearly all the anti- 
religious papers in Belgium, and 
will end in being stereotyped. It 
is needless to say that it is false 
throughout. Among ten thousand 
persons who were dancing I did 
not see one give out. Also, contra- 
ry to another assertion, the number 



of epileptics and other invalids in 
the procession is very small. I 
saw in all five or six persons evi- 
dently afflicted with nervous dis- 
eases. 

After reading this high-toned de- 
scription, flavored with a few Vol- 
tairean jests of the old type, it is 
natural to pronounce the proces- 
sion of Echternach an absurdity. 
The sarcasms of free-thinkers an- 
nually assail the venerable cere- 
mony, but without injuring it. In 
fact, it is irreverent enough in this 
nineteenth century to increase in 
importance. Eye-witnesses of the 
strange spectacle always retain an 
impressive memory of it. I confess 
to having been rather prejudiced 
against the grotesque scenes I ex- 
pected to see. At the end of a 
quarter of an hour I was convinced of 
the powerful religious character of 
this great public act, and I remark- 
ed that all the spectators shared my 
feeling. Any one must have a singu- 
larly empty mind and heart not to 
be struck by the grandeur of the 
scene. Those who always take a 
petty view of things, because they 
can take no other, may laugh at 
the discordant music and the clum- 
sy dancing of some of the pilgrims. 
For myself, when I see the same 
belief, centuries old, translated by 
thousands of men into bold, spon- 
taneous action, I cannot restrain 
my admiration. Before the intre- 
pidity with which these men, tramp- 
ling under foot all human respect, 
honor with consecrated rites their 
patron saint, I feel moved and im- 
pressed. Where is there such faith 
left in Israel } " When I hear the 
old tune,*' said one of the most 
honorable bourgeois of Echternach 
to me, "and when I see the first 
pilgrims arrive, I feel something 
circulate between my flesh and skin 
that makes me fairly shiver." A 



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The Dancing Procession of Echiernack, 



young student of the town said to 
me very prettily: **I do not care 
much for the dancing of the grown 
people, but the sight of the danc- 
ing children carries me back to 
my own happy childhood, and ray 
eyes fill with tears." 

These feelings are unanimous. 
You see once in a while in the 
crowd a travelling clerk on his va- 
cation hazarding a timid and color- 
less sarcasm which a generous pub- 
lic passes over unnoticed. Beyond 
dispute, the sight of the procession 
exercises a moral and religious in- 
fluence. Like incredulity, faith 
is contagious; timid spirits feel 
strengthened in this region where 
the breath of Catholic life circulates 
so freely ; sick hearts come out re- 
newed from the spectacle of thou- 
sands of Christians revealing the 
true remedy for human woe. The 
people of Luxembourg, essentially 
serious and meditative, understand 
the aim of the ceremony; its 
quaintness does not prevent them 
from seeing it as it really is — ^a great 
and solemn affirmation of faith, at 
once an act of penance and a pray- 
er, to be preserved in the original 
form out of respect to their ances- 
tors and veneration for the. saint. 
Whatever the origin of this ancient 
custom,* it deserves to be preserved 
not only because it fosters and de- 
velops religion in the people, but 
because it revives before our eyes, 
in the most picturesque way, the 
manners of our fathers, whose least 
traces historians and archaeologists 
are jealous to discover. A Luxem- 
bourg writer says well on this sub- 
ject : "We preserve with scrupu- 
lous fidelity old monuments and 
objects of antique art. Why not 



* I have given the two current opinions on the 
origin of the dancing proceMion. I share neither, 
And hope my different explanation clear by weight 
of proof. 



do our best to preserve in its ori- 
ginal type this remarkable proces- 
sion, this monument graven in the 
living hearts of our brethren }" ♦ 

The intelligent town of Echtcr- 
nach perfectly understands that it 
is incumbent upon its honor to re- 
spond to this wish. It has neglect- 
ed nothing in the cause, and at vari- 
ous times has had to surmount great 
obstacles. The administrative pro- 
hibitions of Joseph II., the brutali- 
ties of the French Revolution, the 
petty opposition of the Dutch 
government, have not discouraged 
them; they have held faithfully to 
their patriotic tradition, and have 
no cause to repent it, for they find 
in this devotion a source of great 
prosperity. Their unalterable at- 
tachment is the more remarkable 
because even the clergy have often 
been opposed to the procession. 
In 1777 the Prince Elector of 
Treves, Clement Wenceslaus — ^un- 
der the reign of the Febronians, I 
should add — actually forbade the 
dance, and thus furnished excuse to 
Joseph II. to forbid it also a little la- 
ter. To-day quite a number of the 
clergy look unfavorably on these ex- 
traordinary demonstrations of faith. 
They think religion is compromis- 
ed by associating it with practices 
which, without being bad in them- 
selves, may provoke the mockery 
of the incredulous and alienate 
them farther from the church. This 
opinion, based, of course, on a sin- 
cere devotion to religious interests, 
appears to me an unconscious and 
useless concession to the petty 
spirit of the age, which is never 
satisfied with half-measures. Anti- 
religious fanaticism will not be 

♦ Krier, Dancing ProctMtian^ p. 55- This au- 
thor wrote his work first briefly in trench, then in 
German with more details. The latter is a serious 
and interesting work as regards the ceremony. Ir 
is also an edifying appeal from a Christian priest to 
his brethren. 



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The Dancing Procession of Echterfiach. 



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appeased by our throwing to it as 
a sop a small portion of Catholic 
treasure. What it wants is the 
entire suppression of religion. To 
yield any point whatever will only 
serve to whet its appetite and aug- 
ment its pretensions. 

Far from sharing these fears, I 
think that in these days of struggle 
it is important to oppose the faith 
as a whole to unbelief as a whole, 
and not yield an inch of ground, 
unless we wish to lose all. From 
the earliest days of Christianity 
there have been people who took 
scandal at faith which goes beyond 
what is strictly necessary ; among 
CJirist's apostles there were those 
who blamed Magdalen for anoint- 
ing the feet of her Master with 
precious ointment. It is instruc- 
tive to remember that it was Judas 
who showed himself most shocked 
by what he called useless expense. 
We may be sure that, as a general 
rule, the enemies of the church de- 
test all her practices and would 
like to see them every one abolish- 
ed. Give them the dance of Ech- 
ternach to-day; to-morrow they 
will demand the suppression of the 
procession itself, and soon after 
they will wish to close the church 
where the saint's relics are vene- 
rated. We know something of this 
in Belgium. Because we submit- 
ted to the proscription of jubilee 
processions last year, we have had 
to resign ourselves this year (1876) 
to seeing God in the Eucharist con- 
fined to the temple; and we shall 
see worse things still, if we do not 
guard against them in time. It 
would, therefore, be mere folly to 
sacrifice to interested claimants a 
venerable custom, dear to whole 
populations and full of poetry and 
originality. **But why dance?" 
you ask. " Cannot faith be shown 
in some other way.**" Of course it 



can. Do not let us kneel down to 
pray, or stand uncovered before 
holy images, or make the sign of 
the cross, or do a hundred other 
things equally useless, strictly 
speaking. Yet who would propose 
to give them up ? There is in the 
heart of man a powerful, mysterious 
tendency to express the inner feel- 
ings of the soul by symbolical ac- 
tions. Thence come these many 
ceremonies which have no sense in 
themselves, and all owe their worth 
to a hidden significance. The 
dance of Echternach has no other 
origin ; it is the symbolical repre- 
sentation of the sentiments of joy- 
ful confidence which the people 
feel in the holy patron of their 
town. In every age joy has been 
expressed by dancing, and among 
those who blame the custom of 
Echternach may there not be some 
one who has danced for joy at hear- 
ing good news .^ Many examples 
could be cited since David danced 
before the Ark of the Alliance 
down to our own days, so readily 
do these impetuous emotions of 
the soul translate themselves into 
movements of the body. 

Still, the church, while introduc- 
ing into her ceremonies a rich and 
varied symbolism, has never admit- 
ted dancing ; and this prudent re- 
serve is to be admired because 
dancing, harmless in itself, is one 
of those dangerous things which 
can, according to time and place, 
produce deplorable abuses. With 
the same wise moderation she has 
not absolutely forbidden it ; and 
where the practice has been intro- 
duced naturally, and has become a 
part of popular devotion, she has 
tolerated it, as at Echternach, and 
even encouraged it because she saw 
in it clearly a religious element. 
Nothing is more wonderful in the 
church than this perfect wisdom, 



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The Dancing Procession of Echternach, 



this superior good sense, with which 
she regulates great social and politi- 
cal questions and decides the petty 
details of individual life. Her atti- 
tude towards this ancient ceremony 
is as clear and correct as possible ; 
she mildly favors it in spite of its 
sf range forms, and refuses to blame 
these unless they become an occa- 
sion of scandal. From the moment 
that the dance should lose its tra- 
ditional character of austere and 
respectable devotion, and become a 
pretext of pleasure and disorder, it 
would be at once condemned by 
the church and would fall into dis- 
credit. Thank God! that day is 
not near, and the procession of 
Echternach will still outlive many a 
kingdom and empire. 

As a matter of course, it will be 
discussed as long as it lasts, and 
will always have adversaries and 
partisans. Prose and poetry will 
for ever dispute over human society, 
and will seek to model it after two 
opposite fashions. We live to-day 
in a prosaic age. Prose triumphed 
with tlie French Revolution and has 
passed through western Europe 
with a hammer, destroying, togeth- 
er with works of art, all the flower 
of Catholic institutions and habits. 
They will revive, but slowly, and 
this generation will not see their 
complete restoration. Now, de- 
spoiled of all which lent a charm 
to existence, society languishes 
in a desert of monotony. Rhythm, 
so to speak, has disappeared 
from our lives with that glorious 
succession of festivals, customs, 
memories, and hopes which sur- 
rounded us from the cradle to the 
grave. All that was Catholic po- 
etry ; it enlivened the existence of 
the poor laborer, and made of a 
peasant, attached to the soil and 
toiling for his master, a happier 
man, more contented with himself, 



than workmen in the cities who get 
a good salary and enjoy their inde- 
pendence. There is in the human 
soul a sublime aspiration after beau- 
ty and poetry which nothing can 
destroy, and its wings grow strong 
as they meet with resistance. Does 
not the tedium which has devour- 
ed the last generation betray a 
sense of want and an aspiration 
after Catholic life with its artistic 
magnificence and poetic influences } 
Humanity is tending in that di- 
rection, and has already met the 
enemy who would bar the way. 
Thence comes the loud and terri- 
ble struggle which tears the whole 
earth, and of which we may, without 
presumption, hope to see the close. 
The procession of Echternach, 
like the mysteries of Oberammer- 
gau in Upper Bavaria, is a precious 
relic of the old popular poetry of 
Catholicity translated into the ha- 
bits of life. That is its true and 
complete meaning. It is neither 
more nor less ; it is not an act of 
worship nor a vulgar profanation. 
It stands on that boundary line 
where the church condescends to 
popular feeling and makes the hard 
road through life easier by her 
help. It is the natural fruit of 
popular devotion which sprang 
from a religious feeling and has 
been preserved with respectful pi- 
ety. It could not be imitated or 
transplanted ; like generous wine, it 
would lose the flavor of the soil if 
it were cultivated on strange land. 
It is only possible there where all 
is harmonious with it. One must 
have a studied hostility towards 
religious things to fail to see its 
aesthetic character, even without 
recognizing the sincerity and the 
venerable tone of the old custom. 
Some people fall into ecstasies over 
Grecian theories and the beautiful 
religious dances sculptured on the 



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The Pan-Presbyterians, 



843 



metopes of the Parthenon. Others 
devote their lives to the study of 
the chorus in ancient tragedies 
and its evolutions on the stage. I 
do not say that the dance of Ech- 
ternach, as such, is comparable to 
these choregraphic works of art, 
but why refuse to a Christian prac- 
tice in use among our fathers the 
benevolent attention lavished on 
pagan society. Has it not a double 
claim to study in the fact that we 
received it from our Catholic an- 
cestors .^^ For five centuries, at 
least, it has lived and flourished 
among the populations of the Ar- 
dennes and its surroundings. Every 
year it draws from their homes 
thousands of these sedentary pea- 
sants; it furrows with the steps of 
pilgrims the long, white, desert 
roads of Luxembourg; it draws 
together in fraternal relations men 
far removed from each other, by the 



same prayers and the same emo- 
tions ; it lifts towards heaven in 
unalloyed joy their faces bowed 
pitilessly earthward all the rest of 
the year. It teaches them to know 
beyond their own fireside and par- 
ish the great Christian family of 
whfch they are members, and leaves 
in their memory for all the rest 
of the summer and through the 
long winter evenings ineffaceable 
impressions of peaceful happiness. 
That is poetry, it seems to me, and 
of the best kind ; more is the pity 
for those who cannot feel it. As 
the name of pUerinard is not one 
that frightens or mortifies me, I 
will assert that the ancient proces- 
sion of Echternach inspired me 
with unlimited admiration, that it 
edified, moved, and consoled me, 
and appeared to me a most charm- 
ing episode in the great, mournful 
epic of human life. 



THE PAN-PRESBYTERIANS. 



After two years of careful pre- 
paration the great Pan-Presbyterian 
Coimcil has assembled ; has eaten 
seven luncheons in public and at 
the public expense, and a corre- 
sponding number of breakfasts, din- 
ners, and suppers in private and 
at private cost; and has dispersed; 
its members talked much — but 
these were their only deeds. The 
labor of the Pan-Presbyterian moun- 
tain brought forth not even a 
mouse. Its promise was large ; its 
performance was ludicrously small 
— so small that the leading journals 
of England appear to have been 
almost unaware of the existence 
of the Pan-Presbyterians, while the 
principal organ of opinion in the 
Scotch city where the council was 



held — "close to the grave of John 
Knox, the founder of Presbyterian- 
ism " — gave to tlie record of its 
proceedings not so much space as 
it often devotes to the report of a 
local synod, and dismissed it at its 
close with good-humored but con- 
temptuous ridicule. Here, how- 
ever, the ingenuous reader may in- 
quire, " Who are the Pan-Presbyte- 
rians, and for what purpose were 
they in council ?" The question 
would be a natural one, and he who 
propounds it need not blush for 
his ignorance. Tlie people of Scot- 
land may be presumed to know all 
that is worth knowing about Pres- 
byterianism in all its forms ; but it 
appears that in certain rural dis- 
tricts of that very Presbyterian land 



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The PaiuPresbyterians. 



the impression prevailed that Pan- 
Presbyterian was the title of a new 
sect indigenous to America, and 
recent]/ smuggled into Scotland 
like the Colorado beetle; while in 
the more learned circles of Edin- 
burgh this bucolic delusion was de- 
rided by erudite philologists, who 
explained that " Pan-Presbyterian- 
ism is a learned form of stating that 
Presbyterianism is Everything, and 
that a Pan-Presbyterian is a person 
who holds that comprehensive yet 
exclusive doctrine." In point of 
fact, however, the Pan- Presbyteri- 
ans were simply three hundred and 
twenty-five gentlemen, most of them 
with the handle of reverend to their 
names, who claimed to be the dele- 
gated representatives of the various 
Presbyterian sects throughout the 
world. From time to time some 
of the almost innumerable Protes- 
tant sects show that they are 
ashamed of their sectarianism. 
Those of them who recognize at all 
the fact that Jesus Christ establish- 
ed one church in the world are 
uneasy when they remember that 
they are members only of a sect 
which has a human origin. This 
feeling, if rightiy nurtured and 
obeyed, would lead those who en- 
tertain it into the fold of the church ; 
but prejudice, pride, ignorance, and 
self-interest too often stand in the 
way, and lead to attempts to satisfy 
the natural Christian yearning for 
unity by projects for the amalga- 
mation of a few of the sects into 
one body. Thus we have had a 
Pan-Anglican Congress, a Bonn 
Conference, and an Evangelical Al- 
liance; and now this Pan-Presbyte- 
rian Council. Presbyterianism has a 
history of about three hundred and 
twenty-five years, and in this period 
it has succeeded in dividing and 
subdividing itself, until even its own 
doctors do not know with exactness 



how many different kinds of Pres- 
byterians there may be, or in what 
manner the points of doctrine which 
separate them should be formulat- 
ed. It was suggested at the coun- 
cil that accurate information upon 
this subject was desirable, and the 
task of obtaining it was entrusted to 
a committee, who hope they may be 
able to report in three years* time- 
The project for the Pan-Presbyte- 
rian Council was originated by an 
eminent American Presbyterian 
minister — President McCosh, of 
Princeton (New Jersey) College ; 
and it took definite shape at a 
meeting held in London in 1875, 
when *' the alliance of the reformed 
churches throughout the world hold- 
ing to the Presbyterian system " 
was organized. Before the council 
could be summoned, however, care- 
ful precautions had to be taken in 
order to prevent the assemblage, 
which was to meet for the promo- 
tion of unity, from breaking up in 
a row and resulting in the establish- 
ment of one or more new schisms. 
A charm of novelty was thus im- 
parted to the undertaking; every 
one felt that a Presbyterian synod 
which could hold its sessions with- 
out a free fight would indeed be a 
new spectacle. The harmony of 
the council was to be assured be- 
forehand by forbidding it to exer- 
cise any authority whatsoever. It 
was especially prohibited from at- 
tempting to " interfere with the ex- 
isting creed or constitution of any 
church in the alliance, or with its 
internal order or external relations." 
Thus the door was opened for the 
admission of the representatives of 
sects who are almost as wide apart 
from each other in what they be- 
lieve and teach as they are from the 
church. So long as they called 
themselves Presbyterians, or " held 
to the Presbyterian system of church 



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government," it was enough. There 
is a Presbyterian sect in Holland 
whose pastors, at least, teach that 
the Bible is not an inspired book, 
and who deny the divinity of 
Christ ; there is a Presbyterian sect 
in France which avows the boldest 
rationalism ; there are Presbyterian 
sects in the United States who re- 
joice with exceeding great joy in 
the belief that there are millions 
of infants not a span long frying 
in hell; and there are others 
who have recoiled so far from Cal- 
vinism that they have fallen into 
Universalisra. In Scotland itself 
bitter strife prevails between the 
various Presbyterian sects on such 
questions as the connection of the 
state with the church, the binding 
force of the " Standards," and the 
extent and nature of the Atone- 
ment ; and tliere is a large party 
which is declaring that if a certain 
reverend professor, who has written 
to prove that parts of the Bible are 
forgeries, myths, or fables, is disci- 
plined for that expression of opin- 
ion, they will revolt and help him 
to set up a sect of his own. But 
the Pan-Presbyterians resolved to 
concern themselves with none of 
these things. Everything unplea- 
sant was to be avoided; unity 
was to be talked about, but no at- 
tempt to effect it by defining truth 
or denouncing error was to be 
made. Even with these restric- 
tions the promoters of the council 
realized the danger of their experi- 
ment, and at the last moment they 
diminished its perils by enacting 
that no one should speak twice on 
the same subject, and that the dis- 
courses should be limited from 
twenty to ten minutes each. The 
latter provision, which was strin- 
gently enforced, more than once 
saved the council from painful 
scenes. We had occasion, when 



writing in these pages six months 
ago,* to show that in the Presbyte- 
rian body in Scotland theoretical 
infidelity had made such headway 
and had obtained so firm a foothold 
that to deny the inspiration of the 
Bible, and to cast doubt upon the 
authenticity of the miraculous 
events recorded in its pages, was 
regarded by a powerful section as 
an evidence of profound scholar- 
ship and of a fearless love for truth, 
rather than as a proof that the ad- 
vocates of these opinions had ceas- 
ed to be worthy of the name and 
position of Christian teachers. In 
a word, the condition of the Pres- 
byterian sects throughout the world 
was such that a general council of 
its leading men was highly desira- 
ble, provided that there remained 
in the sects anything worth saving, 
and they possessed in themselves 
the power of saving it. For our- 
selves, we believe that the muti- 
lated fragments of Christian truth 
still retained by the majority of the 
Presbyterian laity and by a consi- 
derable number of the Presbyterian 
ministers are well worth saving; 
but we fear that the Presbyterians 
themselves will not, or cannot, save 
them. If these Pan-Presbyterians 
were truly representative men, then, 
we should say, it is all up with 
Presbyterianism. The spirit which 
conceived the council and which 
governed its proceedings was the 
spirit of cowardice, of temporary 
expediency, of prophesying smooth 
things, and, if we must speak with 
entire plainness, the spirit of utter 
and base unfaithfulness to God's 
revealed truth, even to that version 
of his revealed truth which the 
Presbyterians profess with their 
lips, and which they have formu- 
lated in their own creeds, confes- 
sions, and catechisms. In the face 
^ See The Catholic World for April. 



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of the fact that on the Continent ot 
Europe their co-religionists are ra- 
pidly becoming Unitarians, ration- 
alists, and infidels ; that in Scot- 
land German rationalistic philoso- 
phy has won its way into their 
theological schools and poisoned 
the very fountains of their eccle- 
siastical learning, so that it has 
now become notorious that a large 
share of their ministers either do 
not believe what they preach or 
else preach that which is in irre- 
concilable antagonism to the ** Stan- 
dards " ; and that in America the 
Presbyterian bodies are drifting into 
Socinianism on one hand, and back 
into the hardest and most repulsive 
form of Calvinism on the other — 
in view of all these undeniable 
facts, or rather with assumed and 
predetermined blindness to them, 
the chosen representatives of the 
Presbyterian sects assemble, spend 
seven days in talking with each 
other, and separate without utter- 
ing a word or performing an act 
in affirmation or defence or vindi- 
cation of absolute and divine truth. 
No ! That was not in the pro- 
gramme ; it was only on condition 
that nothing of the kind should be 
attempted that the council was got 
together at all ; it was only because 
this promise was observed that the 
council managed to do its talking 
and to disperse in peace. At one 
of its meetings a curious scene 
occurred. A woman— an earnest 
Presbyterian of the old sort, a spi- 
ritual descendant of Jennie Geddes 
— had made her way into the coun- 
cil, and had listened to the debate 
for some time in silence; but her 
emotions at last overcame her, and, 
rising to her feet, she politely in- 
formed the chairman that she hop- 
ed God's lightning would come 
down and strike the assembly for 
its unfaithfulness. This irate lady 



was indiscreet; but she only ex- 
pressed, we suppose, the feelings 
of many an honest Presbyterian. 
The council, however, was wise in 
its generation, and it must be con- 
fessed that it acted upon strictly 
Protestant principles. The essence 
of Protestantism is a revolt against 
supreme authority; it is the affir- 
mation of the idea that one man's 
opinion is as good as another's, and 
perhaps better. An attempt to pro- 
vide means for an organic unity of 
the sects represented would have 
ended in a free fight ; the affirma- 
tion of positive truths condemna- 
tory of the heresies M'hich honey- 
comb the sects was impossible so 
long as the bargain by which these 
heresies were to be ignored was 
carried out. 

The official programme of the 
work of the council was thus con- 
ceived : 

" To consider questions of general in- 
terest to Presbyterians ; to strengthen 
and protect weak and persecuted church- 
es ; to explain and extend the Presbyte- 
rian system ; and to discuss subjects of 
church work — evangelization, training of 
ministers, use of the press, col portage, 
suppression of intemperance, observance 
of the Sabbath, systematic beneficence, 
and the suppression of Romanism and 
Infidelity." 

We must here record, with a 
grateful heart, that " Romanism " 
came off very lightly. We are not 
certain that for this crowning mer- 
cy we are not indebted to those 
wily fellows, the Jesuits. For it 
was observed that, whenever one of 
the speakers began to adduce evi- 
dence that the Pope was Antichrist, 
the chairman suddenly discovered 
"that time was up"; and it was 
likewise remarked that more than 
one soul-stirring revelation of the 
diabolical seductions of the Scar- 
let Woman was cut short by the an- 



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nouncement that " the luncheon 
hour liad arrived, and that Baih'e 
McTavish would preside " — an 
intimation which never failed to 
empty the hall. Now, there are 
Jesuits in Scotland — no less than a 
score of them — and that they are 
quite equal to the task of devising 
means like these for their protec- 
tion cannot be doubted by any en- 
lightened Protestant mind. As for 
the twin sister of Romanism — in- 
fidelity — that escaped almost scot 
free. The learned and pious dele- 
gates fought shy of the subject ; it 
was felt to be a dangerous one. 

The council began its sessions in 
the Free Assembly Hall, Edin- 
burgh, on the 4th of July. It was 
found to consist of 325 members, of 
whom 238 were regularly-appoint- 
ed delegates, and 87 were honora- 
ry, or associate, delegates. Thirty- 
one of the delegates were from the 
Continent of Europe ; Scotland, 
England, Wales, and Ireland sent 
92 delegates ; the colonies 30 ; and 
the United States 85. The Ameri- 
can delegates had brought with 
them 32 '* associates "; and it was, 
perhaps, in order to guard against 
bulldozing on the part of the Ameri- 
cans that the Scotch delegates ap- 
pointed on the spur of the moment 
48 " associates " to sit with their 
delegates and thus maintain a pro- 
per balance of power. The pre- 
caution was not unnecessary; 
even after it had been adopted the 
Americans did far more than their 
share of the talking. The estab- 
lished church of Scotland, in ap- 
pointing its delegates to the coun- 
cil, had instructed them to take a 
high and mighty attitude, and to 
refrain from doing or saying any- 
thing which would imply that they 
had been sent tliere to treat on 
terms of equality with the repre- 
sentatives of the other sects. The 



American delegation was respecta- 
ble for its ability, and the ultra-or- 
thodox element was dominant in it. 
The two hostile camps into which 
the handful of French Presbyteri- 
ans are divided were both repre- 
sented ; and so were the two Pres- 
byterian sects of Holland. There 
were enough Presbyterians in Bel- 
gium to send one delegate, and no 
more. The German Presbyterians 
declined to be officially represent- 
ed, and the three German members 
of the council came as volunteers. 
Bohemia and Hungary had their 
delegates; Switzerland sent some 
gentlemen who were rather sat 
upon ; the modern inheritors of 
the old Waldensian heretics were 
the constituents of a delegate who 
had little to say ; and the remain- 
der of the thirty-one European 
delegates were representatives of 
" the missionary churches "in Italy, 
Spain, and Greece. As nearly as 
could be ascertained, there are 
about fifty different Presbyterian 
sects, and it was estimated that 
more than half of these were repre- 
sented in the council. But the 
delegates were not endowed with 
any power to act, or even to speak, 
officially, in the name of their re- 
spective constituents. Those of 
the sects in Switzerland, Germany, 
Bohemia, and Hungary which have 
a connection with the state had 
either refused to be represented at 
all or had permitted their members 
to attend only as individuals. This 
complete absence of everything 
like legislative or judicial power in 
the council is a sufficient apology 
for its failure to promulgate new 
decrees or to define any dogma. 
But had the Pan-Presbyterians 
been of one mind and heart, they 
might at least have lifted up their 
united testimony, in some shape or 
other, in defence of those cardinal 



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TJte Pan-Presbyterians. 



truths of Christianity which are 
now assailed, all the world over, by 
men in their own ranks. This 
they did not venture to do, for the 
reason that, had they tried to do it, 
their congress would have ended 
in a row. 

The opening sermon of the coun- 
cil was preached by Professor Flint, 
who took for his text the prayer of 
our Lord for the unity of his 
church, and whose discourse was an 
argument to the effect that when 
the Founder of the church prayed 
that his followers " all may be one," 
he intended that they should be all 
divided. ** A universal church," 
says Professor Flint, " was as gran- 
diose and diseased a dream as was 
a universal empire "; and he warn- 
ed the council against striving after 
organic unity even among the fifty 
separate Presbyterian sects. The 
adoption of the rules of order, 
which provided that the meetings 
"should be opened shortly with 
prayer," caused a member to com- 
plain that it was very awkward to 
use the word " shortly " in connec- 
tion with prayer ; but the chairman 
replied that while it was awkward 
it was very necessary, else they 
would have nothing but praying. 
The first subject of discussion was 
"Harmony of Reformed Confes- 
sions," which were divided into 
three classes — ante-Calvinistic, CaU 
vinistic,and post-Calvinistic. These 
originally were not intended to be 
formulas, but only apologies — " vin- 
dications of the Protestant faith 
against Romish misrepresentation 
and slander." For a while these 
confessions maintained their su- 
premacy, but now " they have lost 
their authority in almost every 
country except England, Scotland, 
and the United States " ; and each 
church interprets the Scriptures to 
suit itself, even upon such grave 



questions as " reprobation and in- 
fant salvation." Should the coun- 
cil leave this matter in its present 
indefinite state, or should it under- 
take to formulate a new confession 
to which all Presbyterians should 
subscribe } A Swiss delegate ven- 
tured the startling suggestion that 
if such a confession were formulat- 
ed " the Divinity of Christ should 
be the central stand-point in it"; 
and another delegate produced the 
draught of a new dogmatic constitu- 
tion, in thirty-one articles, which 
had been obligingly formulated by 
Professor Kraft, of Bonn, who had 
patched it up from the various con- 
fessions and had sent it to the 
council with his compliments. Prin- 
cipal Brown, of Aberdeen, remark- 
ed that it would be extremely de- 
sirable that this or some other 
similar constitution should be adopt- 
ed, or something else done, chiefly 
" in order to silence — no, it would 
not do that — but to put to shanie 
the calumny of the Church of 
Rome, which said that the Reform- 
ed churches were divided into as 
many distinct and conflicting reh- 
gions as there were sects of them. 
The more intelligent Romanists 
knew this was false " (then we can- 
not be classed among the more in- 
telligent Romanists), " but it suited 
them all the same to say it and re- 
peat it, because it had a certain 
pithy and plausible sound. And 
Presbyterians were there to testify 
that it was false, and that in all that 
was substantial and vital in Chris- 
tianity the Reformed churches were 
practically one." After this bold 
declaration it would have been 
naturally in order to take the step 
necessary to prove it. But canny 
Professor Brown hastened to add 
that, on second thoughts, lie was of 
the opinion that the council had 
better leave the matter alone and 



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not attempt any unity save that of 
** sympathy." Professor Candlish 
lamented that " there was not now 
that lively sense of the unity and 
harmony of the Reformed confes- 
sions that there once was." In fact, 
no one knew exactly what changes 
the various churches had made in 
the ** Standards," and he thought it 
would be interesting, at least, to col- 
lect information on that point, so 
as to ascertain how many different 
Prersbyterian beliefs there were. 
Dr. Lang, of Glasgow, warned the 
council that it was treading on 
dangerous ground. "There were 
deeper issues involved than merely 
touching the surface of their con- 
fessions : there was the whole ques- 
tion as to the authority and place 
of the Bible, and behind that the 
whole question of the supernatural." 
The widest differences of opinion 
existed on these questions — every 
one knew that — but as long as pos- 
sible let them be kept in the back- 
ground. By covering them up, 
and avoiding " a restless and con- 
tinual nig-nagging at the matter," 
a sufficient degree of harmony could 
be maintained, at least for the pre- 
sent. A lay delegate, a lawyer, 
said that if the council once ven- 
tured to deal " with the very com- 
plicated, delicate, and difficult ques- 
tion of creeds," there might be 
found many who would propose to 
solve the difficulty by dispensing 
with all creeds. Dr. Begg at this 
point boiled over, and read the 
council a severe lecture, expressing 
the disgust with which he had lis- 
tened to some of the statements 
which had been made and appa- 
rently accepted. 

" Every age had its own theology ! — 
(laughter and applause) — ^he did not in 
the least believe that. Theolog)' had 
been the same since the days of Eden. 
The idea of having a new theology at 
VOL. XXV. — 53 



every stage was a blunder. (Laughter.) 
They heard of discoveries being made ; 
but these discoveries were only resurrec- 
tions of old errors. (Laughter.) He 
found a revolt against the divine autho- 
rity and the divine Word — and the re- 
bels were the discoverers of these new 
theologies.'* 

The discussion was now growing 
warm, but as it was announced that 
" the hour for luncheon had arriv- 
ed, and that Mr. Stevenson, M.P., 
would preside," the threatened 
fight was averted, and the subject 
was disposed of at a subsequent 
meeting by the passage of the fol- 
lowing resolution : 

"That this council appoint a commit- 
tee with instructions to prepare a report 
to be laid before the next General Coun- 
cil, showing, in point of fact — i. What 
are the existing creeds and confessions 
of the churches composing this alliance, 
and what have been their previous 
creeds and confessions, with any modi- 
fications thereupon, and the dates and 
occasions of the same from the Reforma- 
tion to the present day. a. What are the 
existing formulas of subscription, if any, 
and what have been the previous for- 
mulas of subscription used in those 
churches in connection with their creeds 
and confessions. 3. How far has indi- 
vidual adherence to those creeds by sub- 
scription or otherwise been required from 
the ministers, elders, or other office- 
bearers respectively, and also from the 
private members of the same. And the 
council authorize the committee to cor- 
respond with members of the several 
churches throughout the world who may 
be able to give information ; and they 
enjoin the committee, in submitting their 
report, not to accompany it either with 
any comparative estimate of those creeds 
or with any critical remarks upon their 
respective value, expediency, or effi- 
ciency." 

There was an unhappy and heat- 
ed controversy concerning the ap- 
pointment of some of the members 
of this committee, but this excite- 
ment was unnecessary. The in- 
formation can all be obtained by 
the purchase of a few books and 



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pamphlets; and as the committee 
is forbidden to accompany its re- 
port with "any critical remarks," 
the presence upon it of a fe\T ra- 
tionalists or Universalists can do no 
mischief. 

The remainder of the time of tlie 
council — and it sat thrice a day for 
a week — was occupied with talk. 
Nothing was done that was worthy 
of the name of action. Extracts 
from scores of religious essays were 
read; hundreds of little religious 
or semi-religious speeches were 
made; and that was all. We do 
not know what the Presbyterians 
here and elsewhere expected; but 
if they expected anything practical 
they have been sadly disappointed. 
Some of the little speeches were 
comic — as, for example, that of" the 
Rev. Mr. Robinson, of Louisville, 
U. S.," who seems to have pursued 
antiquariaa researches with start- 
ling results, since he has ascertain- 
ed that Presbyterianism began with 
Abraham ; that Moses was a mem- 
ber of the presbytery of Egypt ; and 
that Elisha and Ezechiel were the 
moderators of the Presbyterian 
synods of Samaria and Jerusalem. 
Presbyterianism was the true form of 
government in the Jewish Church, 
and it was the general assembly of 
the Presbyterian Church of Judea 
that passed sentence of death on 
Jesus of Nazareth. Nay, accord- 
ing to this sprightly Kentucky di- 
vine, heaven itself will be a Pres- 
byterian community, governed by 
a presbytery of four-and-twenly 
members. To listen to such excel- 
lent fooling as this; to read the 
essay laboriously prepared at home 
in Peoria or Dundee, and carefully 
rehearsed to admiring wife and 
wondering bairns for months be- 
fore starting; to discuss, even in 
ten-minute speeches, such thrill- 
ing and novel themes as the uses 



of elders, the sinfulness of Sabbath- 
breaking, the advantages of assem- 
blies, the wickedness of the Pope, 
and the unquestionable mental, 
moral, and religious superiority of 
Presbyterians in general, and Pan- 
Presbyterians especially, over all the 
rest of mankind — all this, no doubt, 
was pleasant enough to the partici- 
pants; but it was scarcely the en- 
tertainment to which the outside 
world had been invited. True, there 
was voted, at the close of the coun- 
cil, a«d after an unusually hearty 
luncheon at which the brethren tar- 
ried long, "an address to the queen," 
accompanied by what an Edin- 
burgh journal irreverently describes 
as "unanimous votes of thanks to 
the Deity, Mr. A. T. Niven, C.A., 
and the lord provost.*' Probably 
her majesty will never read the ad- 
dress, as it is a long one and does 
not call for a reply. But if she 
should peruse it, she will scarcely 
thank its authors for suggesting 
that she, too, is a Pan-i^resbyterian, 
or that she changes her religion 
every time she crosses the Tweed. 
It appears something like an im- 
pertinence in the Pan-Presbyte- 
rians to write thus to the queen : 

•' We venture to indicate the deep in- 
terest which we take in the circumstance 
that, while residing in Scotland, your 
majesty joins in the Presb3rtcrian wor- 
ship and commufiion." 

The queen goes to a Presbyterian 
church when in Scotland because 
Presbyterianism is the religion of 
the state in Scotland, of which she 
is the head ; and she goes to an 
Episcopalian church when in Eng- 
land because episcopacy is the re- 
ligion of the state in England. If 
she were in India, and Mohamme- 
danism were the state religion there, 
she would probably go to a mosque 
with the same good grace that she 
displays when sitting under the 



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parish minister near Balmoral. 
The council also appointed a com- 
mittee to see whether money could 
be raised for the publication of a 
mass of old treatises and essays 
upon Presbyterianism which no 
private publisher has ever thought 
of reprinting; and another com- 
mittee to "consider" what could 
be reported to the next council — 
which, "by the way, is to be held at 
Philadelphia in 1880, if the world 
and Pan-Presbyterianism be then 
in existence. That portion of the 
programme which promised "the 
suppression of infidelity " was not 
carried out; a day was spent in 
talking about the best methods of 
getting the better of Spencer, Dar- 
win, Huxley, Bradlaugh, and the 
like, but the matter ended with the 
acceptance of the remark of Prof. 
Cairns, that disputation with such 
people is rather worse than useless, 
since they are well skilled in argu- 
ment, and that the only thing to be 
done with them is to pray for them. 
As Americans we record with justi- 
fiable pride the encomiums be- 
stowed upon the American dele- 
gates by the great Dr. Phin, and 
the still greater Dr. Begg. " Sound 
Christian doctrine," said the first, 
" in this land has received a most 
powerful impulse from the address- 
es of the American brethren "; and 
Dr. Begg " rejoiced because of the 
firm tone which had characterized 
the addresses of the American 
speakers, as we require in Scotland 
an ecclesiastical tonic to brace us 
up to a firm maintenance of our 
own Scriptural principles." The 
firm tone was not backed up by 
firm action, nor by any action at 
all ; but, all the same, Dr. Begg is of 
the opinion that if the orthodox 
Presbyterians in Scotland could 
talk as their American bretliren do, 
there would soon be an end to the 



croaking of " the frogs of infidelity 
that are coming into our churches 
like the frogs that went into Plia- 
rao's bed-chamber." But it may 
prevent some disappointment in 
the future to our American Pres- 
byterian friends if we convey to 
them the warning uttered by the 
Edinburgh Scotsman at the end of 
the council — a journal whose opin- 
ion on the affair is all the more 
valuable from the fact that its edi- 
tor is a Presbyterian clergyman of 
renown who has abandoned the pul- 
pit for the f)ress : 

"Meanwhile," says the Scotsman, 
" what with choking ' frogs ' and cover- 
ing up disputable subjects, the appear- 
ance of a complete, if not a completely 
beautiful, harmony was unquestionably 
produced. But it is only right to warn 
the Pan-Presbyterians that if they leave 
us with the notion that, because all is 
peaceful now, unity is established, they 
are the victims of a delusion. They may 
depart to their Swiss hamlets or their 
Transatlantic cities with psalm-tunes 
sounding peace within Jerusalem ring- 
ing in their ears, and imagine that after 
this most refreshing time the millennium 
has come when Dr. Phin and Dr. Blaikie 
will lie down together, and Dr. Marcus 
Dods and Dr. Moody Stewart will kiss 
each other. But, alas ! shortly after they 
have told their deeply-affected flocks at 
home of the harmony which prevails in 
Bible-loving Scotland, some morning 
when Dr. Rufus Choate examines his 
Chicago Trumpet^ and Dr. Bnxnnelhanner 
lays down his meerschaum to take up his 
paper, they will find that all the old dis- 
sensions have broken out again with 
alarming violence ; that ministers who 
agreed on a platform of wood can agree 
upon no other ; that Dr. Blaikie has at- 
tacked Establisliments from love of their 
members, and has Dr. Pine's head in 
Chancery ; that Dr. Phin has a new 
scheme to ' dish ' the Dissenters ; that 
those who led the devotions are now 
leading the fray ; that those who were at 
peace are not on speaking terms, or on 
terms in speaking which are very bad 
indeed ; while those who lauded the 
agreement between confessions cannot 
agree amongst themselves as to^what 



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these confessions mean to say. The 
visit of the Pan-Presbyterians may, after 
all, share the fate that generally over- 
takes the other numerous excursionists 
who appear among us about this season. 
For the moment we may be struck by 
their numbers and their banners with 
their strange devices, and be moved to 
the heart, or even deeper, by their bass- 
drum and their instruments of brass; but 
when they have gone, if any memory of 
them remains, it is only of something 
that was loud and singular, but what it 
was or what it did there is nothing pal- 
pable to show." 

The Pan-Presbyterians repeated 
very often that, while tl\ey did not 
expect, or even desire, to effect 
** organic unity " between their va- 
rious sects — that unity being, in 
their opinion, opposed to the will 
of God — they were, all the same, 
"one in spirit and in sympathy." 
But the hollowness of even this 
pretence was manifested when an 
attempt was made to induce them 
to unite in what they call " partak- 
ing of the Lord's Supper." To- 
ward the close of the council it was 
announced that " Dr. Moody Stew- 
art and his session invited the mem- 
bers of council to communion at 
half- past twelve on Saturday." Now, 
from a Catholic, or "Romanist," 
point of view, it is rather surpris- 
ing that a convention of eminent 
Christian ministers, assembled for 
what they professed to regard as 
the most important purposes, should 
have already spent several days 
without performing this supreme 
act of Christian devotion. But 
Pan- Presbyterian ways are not as 
our ways. Nevertheless, one would 
have supposed that, being thus in- 
vited to do what they had neglect- 
ed, they would at least have re- 
ceived the invitation kindly. On 
the contrary, a most unhappy scene 
followed. The Orthodox Pan-Pres- 
byterians were willing to talk with 
their unorthodox colleagues; they 



would eat luncheons with them, 
make speeches and read papers to 
them, and even listen to their 
speeches and papers in return; but 
when it came to " partaking of the 
sacrament " with them, they would 
not do it at any price. Dr. Phin 
at once protested against the idea 
that he, for one, could thus be 
yoked unevenly with unbelievers. 
" He happened to entertain certain 
old-fashioned ideas with respect to 
the dispensation of the Lord's Sup- 
per " which would prevent him 
from joining in it unless he knew 
his company. For instance, there 
should be " the fencing of the ta- 
bles " ; and this fencing would sure- 
ly shut out either the sheep or the 
goats. The *' fencing of the tables," 
it appears, is a curious custom pre- 
valent in Scotland, and may be 
thus explained: an invitation to 
** the communion " is given, and 
then every one who wishes to re- 
ceive it is scared off either by ter- 
rific denunciations of the awful 
guilt incurred by those who partake 
unworthily, or is compelled to pass 
a severe competitive examination 
as to the soundness of his faith 
and his acceptance of the " Stan- 
dards." Dr. Phin was, no doubt, 
correct in supposing that the appli- 
cation of these tests would produce 
unpleasant results, and his con- 
science would not permit him to 
assist at a communion where they 
were not applied. Dr. Begg took 
the same view, and " regretted that 
the invitation had been given." 
The cli airman — who on this occa- 
sion happened to be Dr. Ormiston, 
of New York — sought to get over 
the difficulty by suggesting that " it 
would be understood that nobody 
was committed except the gentle- 
men who took part in it," and he 
added the remarkable declaration 
that "as members of council not 



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The Pan-Presbyterians. 



853 



one of them had any responsibility 
to the weight of a hair." A lay 
member " protested against any ad- 
ministration of free communion in 
connection with the council "; and 
Dr. Blaikie said the committee had 
"taken every precaution that the 
council should not be committed 
in any way." With this assurance 
the subject " was allowed to drop," 
and when the time for the communion 
arrived only one hundred and thir- 
ty of the three hundred and twen- 
ty-five Pan-Presbyterians presented 
themselves to receive it — and among 
these neither Dr. Phin nor Dr. Begg 
was seen. 

The Continental Pan-Presbyte- 
rians made a pitiful show for them- 
selves during the council. Few of 
them could speak English ; and the 
linguistic accomplishments of the 
majority of their colleagues being 
limited, they were compelled, when 
they spoke at all, to express them- 
selves through an interpreter, which 
is not generally an exhilarating pro- 
cess. One of the French delegates 
said there were forty Presbyterian 
congregations in France without 
pastors, and he suggested that a 
collection might be made to aid in 
hiring men to fill these vacancies ; 
but this hint was not taken. A 
volunteer member from Berlin read 
a sensible paper upon "missions," 
in which he ridiculed the present 
system of Protestant missions, and 
said that their only fruits were the 
inculcation of hypocrisy and of 
pauperism among the so-called con- 
verts. On this same subject, by 
the way, one of the members put 
forth the novel idea that the con- 
version of one Jew was worth more 
than the salvation of a hundred 
pagans. Dr. Hoedemaker, of Am- 
sterdam, said that the Presbyte- 
rians there had long been poisoned 
with the virus of rationalism, and 



that forty years ago " there were 
very few who preached the living 
Christ in his church"; but now, he 
hoped, there was some improve- 
ment. M. Decoppet, of the French 
Presbyterian body, complained that 
the sect could make no progress 
there, " because they were not al- 
lowed by the law to give a tract on 
the street or to deliver public lec- 
tures"; but still he was confident 
that " France would soon become a 
Protestant nation" — by the aid of 
M. Gambetta and the Reds, we 
presume. The representative of 
the Waldensian heretics apologized 
for the bad character of some of its 
ministers, but said that as fast as 
the false sliepherds were detected 
they were expelled from the fold. 

Politeness, perhaps, would com- 
mand us to express our acknow- 
ledgments of certain courteous, 
sensible, and truthful things which 
were said about the church — as, for 
example, that " she was the mother 
of infidelity" and the fountain and 
origin of all civil, moral, and reli- 
gious evil. But, on the whole, we 
think our readers will have had 
enough of the Pan-Presbyterians. 
Dr. Begg, at the last meeting of the 
council, said that "they saw the 
shadow of the great eclipse of Ro- 
manism again cast over the coun- 
try." We take this to be the Beg- 
gonian method of expressing the 
fact that the few Christians who re- 
main in Scotland are on the way 
to return to the church of their 
forefathers — the church which civ- 
ilized and Christianized Scotland, 
and which had the unhappiness to 
nurture in her bosom the apostate 
priest who was the father of Scotch 
Presbyterianism. Dr. Begg is not 
an infallible prophet, but such 
events as the Pan-Presbyterian 
council are calculated to hasten the 
event which he predicts. For the 



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854 Translation from Horace. 

council has shown that the Presby- that its existence, in their opinion, 

terian Church throughout the world, depends upon concealing this fact 

as represented by its chosen men, and pretending that no one has the 

is undermined by infidelity, and right to proclaim it. 



TRANSLATION FROM HORACE. 

ODE 14, BOOK 2. 
Ek€u t /ugaetty PoHumt^ Pottnmtl 

Alas ! my Posthumus, our years 
Glide silently away ; no tears, 
No loving orisons, repair 
The wrinkled cheek, the whitening hair. 
That drop forgotten to the tomb : 
Pluto's inexorable doom 
Mocks at thy daily sacrifice ; 
Around his dreary kingdom lies 
That fatal stream whose arms enfold 
The Giant race accursed of old ; 
All, all alike must cross its wave. 
The king, the noble, and the slave. 
In vain we shun the fields of war, 
And breakers dashed on Adrians shore ; 
Vainly we flee, in terror blind, 
The plague that walketh on the wind ; 
The sluggish river of the Dead, 
Cocytus, must be visited ; 
And Danaiis* detested brood. 
Foul with their fifty husbands' blood ; 
And Sisyphus, with ghastly smile 
Pointing to his eternal toil. 
All must be left : thy gentle wife. 
Thy home, the joys of rural life ; 
And when thy fleeting days are gone, 
Th' ill-omened cypresses alone 
Of all those fondly- cherished trees 
Shall grace thy funeral obsequies. 
Cling to thy loved remains, and wave 
Their mournful shadows o*er thy grave. 
A lavish but a nobler heir 
Thy hoafded Caecuban shall share. 
And on the tessellated floor 
The purple nectar madly pour. 
Nectar more worthy of the halls 
AVhere Pontiffs hold their festivals. 



S. E. DE V, 



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NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



Public Libraries in the United States 
OF America ; their History, Condition, 
and Management. Special Report. 
Department of the Interior, Bureau of 
Education. 1876. 

In 1874 the Commissioner of the 
Bureau of Education in the Department 
of the Interior at Washington began the 
preparation of a complete Report on the 
Public Libraries in the United States ; 
on the 31st of August, 1876, the report 
was submitted ; it was printed, and it 
makes a volume of 1,187 pages. A care- 
ful study of the contents of this unique 
work compels us to express, in the 
first place, our most cordial apprecia- 
tion of the great labor which has been 
expended upon it, and of the value of the 
information which it contains. The size 
of the volume, we fear, has deterred many 
into whose hands it has fallen from more 
than glancing over its pages ; we confess 
for ourselves that we shrank, for a while, 
from the task of reading it. But we have 
been amply repaid for our toil, which 
soon became a pleasure ; and we may 
say here that we have seen in foreign 
periodicals and journals a number of 
highly eulogistic and discriminating re- 
views of the report. We propose to 
make our readers share in the satisfaction 
we have derived from our study of this 
work ; but our space will permit us only 
to give a condensed summary of a por- 
tion of its contents. 

No less than 132 pages of the report 
are taken up with a table giving the 
statistics of all the "public libraries" in 
the United States and Territories num- 
bering 300 volumes or more, excepting 
common or district school libraries. The 
table is as complete as it could be made 
from the returns received in 1873-76 ; but 
it is incomplete, because many of the li- 
braries named in it do not report the date 
of their foundation, their average annual 
increase in books, their financial con- 
dition, or their yearly expenditures. 
But with all these defects the table is 
extremely valuable. It shows, to begin 
with, that the total number of these 
libraries is 3,647, having as their total 



number of volumes 12,276,964. We 
pause here for a moment to say that the 
report also shows that in the district- 
school libraries, not included in the table, 
there are 1,3651407 volumes, and that in 
all the libraries there are about 1,500,000 
pamphlets not classed as ** volumes." 
The census of 1870 showed that there 
were 107,673 private libraries, containing 
25t57ii503 volumes, exclusive of those 
which may be in the State of Connecticut, 
from which State no leturns on this sub- 
ject were received. Here, then, we have 
a total of 39,213,874 volumes of books in 
the public, private, and school libraries 
of the country — a mass of printed matter 
large enough, estimating each volume to 
weigh a pound, to fill nine merchant ves- 
sels of 2,000 tons burden each. Let us 
also in this place give the following list 
of the number of volumes in several not- 
ed libraries in other countries, with the 
remark that, as the statistics of these li- 
braries differ widely according to differ- 
ent authorities,^ we have in each case 
taken the highest number given, and 
that this number relates only to books, 
and not to manuscripts or pamphlets, 
fugitive publications, etc.: 

Volumes, 

Bibtioth^oe Natiooale, Paris a,ooo,ooo 

Mazarin library. Pans x6o,ooo 

Royal Library, Madrid . .*. aoo.ooo 

Convent Library of the Escorial, Madrid . 130,000 

Vatican Library, Rome x,ooo 000 

Magliabecchiana Library, Florence 900,000 

Laurentian Library, Florence x 30,000 

Museo Borbonico, Naples 900,000 

University Library, Bologna aoo,ooo 

Brera Library. Milan aoo,ooo 

Ambrosian Library, Milan 140,000 

University Library, Turin 150,000 

Royal Library, Berlin 7o«,ooo 

Royal library, Dresden 500,000 

University Library, Breslau 350,000 

Univemty Library. GOttingen 400 oao 

Ducal Library, WoIfenbQttel 300 coo 

University Library, Freiburg 950 000 

Royal Library, Stuttgart 4.^0,000 

Royal Library, Munich 900000 

Royal Library, Copenhagen 550,000 

Bodleian Library, Oxford 900 000 

Advocates* Library, Edinburgh 300 000 

Univenity Library, Edinburgh 130.000 

Imperial Library, St. Petersburg z,ioo,ooo 

City Library, Augsburg 150 000 

University Library, Cambridge 400,000 

City Library, Frankfort 150,000 



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Volumts. 

Ducal Library, Gotha.% 340,000 

City Library, Hambuig. 300.000 

City Library, Leipsic 170 000 

Univeruty Library, Leipaic 350,000 

British Museum, London x/mo^ooo 

In these 33 libraries in the Old World 
there are 14,110,000 volumes, exclusive 
of manuscripts, or 1,833.176 more vol- 
umes than we have in all of our 3,647 
public libraries. We say nothing of the 
comparative value of the collections, for 
of course there is no comparison be- 
tween a collection which has been ac- 
cumulating for a thousand years and one 
which was made yesterday. But we have 
no reason to be ashamed of our Amen- 
can public libraries ; on the contrary, as 
the report which we are reviewing abun- 
dantly shows, we have every reason to 
be proud of them. We take from this 
report the following table : 

Whole number of public libraries 3,647 

Whole number of volumes 19.076,964 

Average number of vohunea 3.366 

Yearly additions (1,510 reporting) 434.339 

Yearly use of books (743 reporting) B. 879,869 

Amt of permanent ilind (1,793 reporting) f6,xo5.5Bi 

Yearly income (830 reporting) $1,398,756 

Yearly expenditui«s for pubUcations (769 

reporting) $5^*407 

Yearly expenditures for salaries, etc. (643 

reporting) 9683,166 

The 3,647 libraries are distributed 
among the various States and Territories 
as follows ; and here we make our only 
complaint against the report— to wit, that 
its laborious and faithful editors have 
not furnished the footings, which we have 
been compelled to make for ourselves : 

Alabama, 31 libraries ; Alaska, i 
(the post library at Sitka, and now re- 
moved since the garrison has been with- 
drawn) ; Arizona, 3 (two of them being 
military libraries) ; Arkansas, 6 ; Cali- 
fornia, 87; Colorado, 8; Connecticut, 
125 ; Dakota, 4 (two being military libra- 
ries) ; Delaware, 18 ; District of Colum- 
bia, 57 (31 of them belonging to the fe- 
deral government) ; Florida, 6 ; Georgia, 
44 ; Idaho, i ; Illinois, 177 ; Indiana, 133, 
Indian Territory, 4 (two of them military 
libraries) ; Iowa, 80 ; Kanj>as, 19 ; Kentuc- 
ky, 72 ; Louisiana, 31 ; Maine, 85 ; Mary- 
land, 77 ; Massachusetts, 453 ; Michigan, 
89 ; Minnesota, 39 ; Mississippi, 23 ; Mis- 
souri, 87 : Montana, 2 ; Nebraska, 14 ; Ne- 
vada, 6 ; New Hampshire, 86 ; New Jersey, 
91 ; New Mexico. 4 (one of them a military 
library, and two of the others belonging 
to Catholic academies) ; New York, 617 ; 



North Carolina, 37 ; Ohio, 223 ; Oregon, 
14 ; Pennsylvania, 367 ; Rhode Island, 
56 ; South Carolina, 26 ; Tennessee, 71 ; 
Texas, 42 ; Utah, 5 ; Vermont, 65 ; Vir- 
ginia, 63 ; Washington Territory, 2 (one 
of them a Catholic library) ; West Vir- 
ginia, 23 ; Wisconsin, 73 ; and Wyoming 
Territory, 3. 

These figures are suggestive in various 
ways, and many interesting and valuable 
inferences might be drawn from them. 
But a careful analysis of the other por- 
tions of the table would also be necessa- 
Ty in order to avoid mistakes ; and the 
wholly unknown quantity in the prob- 
lem—the comparative value of di^rent 
collections— would imperil the accnracy 
of any deductions which might be made 
from the statistics in this table. For in- 
stance, the 31 libraries in Alabama con- 
taia 60,615 volumes — ^nearly 5,000 less 
than are in the New York Society Libra- 
ry alone. A library is a library, for the 
purposes of this report, if it contain 300 
or more volumes, just as a book is a 
book although there may be nothing in 
it. Who is to say whether some of the 
smaller collections in the South are not 
really more valuable than the larger and 
newer libraries in the North ? We fear 
it is not so ; but there is no test by which 
to decide the question. If we leave this 
point, and turn our attention to the sta- 
tistics relating to the principal libraries, 
we shall come upon more satisfactory 
ground. 

The tfairty-eigh& chapter of the report, 
filling 273 pages, is devoted to a review 
of the public libraries of ten principal 
cities—Baltimore, Boston, Brooklyn. 
Charleston, Chicago, Cincinnati, New 
York, Philadelphia, St. Louis, and Stn 
Francisco. In these ten cities there axe 
471 public libraries with 3,447>628 vol- 
umes, viz. : 

Name 0/ City, Libraries Volumes. 

Charkston 6 t6,fao 

Chicaco •'... «3 i4ii9» 

Saa Fnutdaco y> 164.238 

Brooklyn at 165,"* 

St. Louis 3» ^jo^n 

Cinciiuttti 30 «97i*9* 

BaltimoM 3S •a»34* 

Philadelphia xoa 7«7t697 

Boston .' 68 734-74« 

NewYoric i« 7"^^^ 

Total , 47* 3»445i52* 

To this list we add, in order that the 
South may have justice done to her : 



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Name of City. Librarut Volumes, 

New Orleans 15 94,080 

LoukviUe •. 6 65,897 

Richmond 17 63,526 

A library contaiaing io,<x)o volumes 
or more, if well selected, may be said to 
be a respectable collection. Now, there 
are no less than 366 libraries of this 
class in the United Slates, and they con- 
tain a total of 6,984,882 volumes — an 
average of 26,259 volumes in each. 
These 266 libraries, it will be seen, 
account for more than one-half of the 
total number of volumes in all the pub. 
lie libraries, and they reduce the average 
number of volumes in the remaining 
3.381 libraries to 1,565. But even a 
library with 1.500 good books is not to 
be despised. 

The largest library in the United 
States is that of the National Congress 
at Washington, which has 300,000 vol- 
umes ; and then follow : 

Volumes. 

Social Law Library, Boston •991869 

Harvard University 827,650 

Mercantile, New York 160,6x3 

Astor, New York 153,446 

Mercantile, Philadelphia 195,668 

House of Rbpresentatives, Wathington . . . 195,000 

Yale College xx4,«)o 

Athenaeum, Boston 105,000 

These are the only libraries which 
have 100,000 volumes and more. Those 
which have 50.000 and less than 100,000 
volumes are the 

Volumes. 

State library at Albany 95«ooo 

New York Society, New York 65,000 

Antiquarian Society, Worcester 60,497 

Peabody Institute, Baltimore 57«458 

Apprentices*, New York 53«ooo 

Dartmouth College 59i55o 

Mercantile, Brookl^ni 50,257 

State University, Baton Roofe so,ooo 

There are 10 libraries having more 
than 40,000 and less than 50,000 vol- 
umes ; 23, with more than 30,000 and less 
than 40,000 ; 49, with more than ao,ooo 
and less than 30,000 ; 5a, with more than 
15,000 and less than ao,ooo ; 100, with 
more than 10,000 and less than 15,000 ; 
264, with more than 5,000 and less than 
10,000; 156, with more than 4,000 and 
less than 5,000 ; 236, with more than 
3,000 and less than 4,000 ; 362, with more 
than 2,oco and less than 3,000 ; 762, with 
more than i,oco and less than 2,000; 
and 925, with more than 500 and less 
than 1,000. 



Of the whole number of 3,647 public 
libraries mentioned in this report, we 
find 221 which we recognize as those of 
Catholic institutions. There are no 
doubt others in the list, but there is no 
mark by which they can be certainly 
recognized. Of these 221 distinctively 
Catholic libraries the following are the 
chief: 

Date 0/ 
Place. Name. Origin, Volt. 

San Frandsoo, St. Ignatius* College, 1855 ix,ooo 

SanU Clara, Sanu Clara College, 1851 so,ooo 

Georgetown, Georgetown College, 1791 33,268 

Washington, Gonzaga College, 1858 10,000 

New Orleans, Libraire de la Csnille, 1879 15,000 

Baltimore, Aichiepisoopal, .... lo^eoo 

Baltimore, Loyola College, 1853 21,500 

Baltimore, St. Mary^s Seminary, 1791 15x00 

Hagerstown, St. James' College, 1849 xi,coo 
Worcester, College of the Holy 

Cross, Z843 X3«ooo 
St Louis, College of the Chris- 
tian Brothers. i860 ss.ooo 
Brooklya, St. Francis* College, .... 13,970 
Feidham, St. Joha's Colkgc, 1840 15,000 
NewYorlc, St. Francis Xavier*s 

• College, 1847 ax, 000 

Cmcinnati, Mount St. Mary^s, 1849 15,100 

Cincinnati. St. Xavier's College, 1840 17,000 

Lauobe, Pena., St. Vincent's Colleps, 1846 X3,coo 

In these 17 Catholic libraries there are 
264,838 volumes. It is a very respecta- 
ble number, and, when the probable quali- 
ty of the books contained in these collec- 
tions is taken into account, the value of 
such comparatively small libraries will 
be seen to be great. The number of 
volumes in the other 304 Catholic libra- 
ries, as we have ascertained by a labori- 
ous examination of the tables, is 448,688, 
so that the total number of volumes in 
the distinctively Catholic libraries is 
713,526. It is a large number of books ; 
but one might complain that it was not 
larger. We are not sure that these com- 
plaints would be well founded. As 
Catholics we establish our own libraries, 
but as citizens we aid in the labor and 
share the cost of forming the general li- 
braries, and we have our part in the ad- 
vantages which they afford. It will al- 
ways be our duty, of course, to exert our 
influence in preserving these collections 
of books from the contamination of the 
works of authors whose aim is to under- 
mine mcmds and to destroy faith ; and 
to introduce to their shelves the writings 
of the best and most able defenders and 
advocates of truth and religion. But 
this duty being well performed, we are 
free to aid in the work of building up 
our general libraries and in enjoying the 



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pure intellectttal delights which they 
may afford. 

Thirty-eight pages of the report before 
us are devoted to a chapter upon Theo- 
logical Libraries: A table is given of 44 
of the principal theological libraries in 
the United States ; they contain 528,024 
volumes. Eight of them belong to Ca- 
tholic theological seminaries and con- 
tain 71,600 volumes. The two largest 
of the theological libraries are those of 
the Union Theological Seminary of New 
York, and the Andover Theological 
Seminary, each of which contains 34.000 
volumes. The report states that, with a 
few exceptions, the public theological 
libraries in this country are the libraries 
of theological seminaries. The excep- 
tions are the General Theological Library 
in Boston, established in i860, and now 
containing 12,000 volumes ; and the li- 
brary of the Congregational Association 
in the same ciiy, which contains 22,000 
volumes and 80,000 pamphlets. None 
of the theological libraries are 160 years 
old. The eldest of all of them is the 
library of St. Mar}''s Theological Semi- 
nary of St. Sulpice in Baltimore, found- 
ed in 1791 by the Sulpician Fathers. It 
now contains 15,000 volumes. The re- 
port devotes considerable space to a dis- 
sertation upon " Catholic Libraries," and 
its remarks upon this head are conceiv- 
ed in a kindly and enlightened spirit. 
•* All learning," writes the reporter. " is 
welcome to the shelves of Catholic libra- 
ries, and nothing is excluded from them 
that should not equally be excluded from 
any reputable collection of books. Nor 
will anti-Catholic works be found want- 
ing to them, at least such as possess any 
force or originality. The history of the 
church being so interwoven with that of 
the world since the days of Augustus 
Caesar, there is no period which is not 
redolent of her action, and consequently 
no history which does not have to treat 
of her, either approvingly or the reverse. 
In regard to general literature, she pre- 
served ... all that has come down to 
us from classic sources, and therefore 
works of this character can be no Strang- 
ers to shelves of Catholic libraries. Still 
less can the Sacred Scriptures be, which 
Catholic hands collected, authenticated, 
and handed down for the use of the men 
of our time. Nor will the sciences be 
overlooked by ecclesiastics in forming 
their libraries ; for in past ages it was the 
care of their brethren, with such limited 



facilities as were at their command and 
in days inauspicious for scientific inves- 
tigation, to cultivate them.** No new 
truths these ; but they are well express- 
ed, and it is worth something to have 
them set forth in a volume prepared by 
federal authority and published with 
federal approval. The report goes on to 
speak of the general characteristics of 
Catholic theological libraries. They 
contain, it says, abundant versions of the 
Sacred Scriptures in all languages, with 
copious commentaries and expositions ; 
and the writer adds that t&e professors 
of our Catholic theological institutions 
** are generally graduates of the best theo- 
logical schools in Europe.** He thus 
proceeds : 

" Next in authoritative rank come the 
Fathers and Doctors of the church, from 
those who received instrucUon from the 
apostles themselves and committed their 
doctrine to writing, down to almost our 
own day; for St. Alphonsus Liguori, the 
latest on whom the Holy See has con- 
ferred the title of Doctor of the Univer- 
sal Church, died only in the latter part 
of the last century, and his authority is 
that which Is principally followed in the 
treatment of moral questions. Works 
also by later writers, principally on dog- 
matic subjects, are constantly appearing. 
The study of dogma embracing an inves- 
tigation into all revealed truths, and 
therefore essential to those who are to 
instruct others authoritatively. Involves 
a reference to many learned books in 
which proofs and illustrations are elabo- 
rated to the last degree of exactness, 
side by side with every possible difficulty 
or objection that can be brought to bear 
against each doctrine treated of. Some 
works are occupied with the discussion 
of but a single point ; others take in a 
wide range, and some voluminous au- 
thors have published an entire course 
of dogma. . . ." ** The study of moral, 
the other great branch of Catholic theo- 
logy, embraces a scrutiny into every 
question of morals that needs to be in- 
vestigated by those who have the direc- 
tion of consciences, or whose duty it is, 
in the tribunal of penaace, to adjudicate 
upon matters affecting the rights of 
others. As solutions in these cases are 
sometimes attended with considerable 
difficulty, and a grave responsibility is 
attached to the delivery of an opinion, 
authorities for reference must be ample 
and exhaustive. Such authorities will 



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be found in the theological libraries, and 
are relied upon in proportion to their 
world-wide repute, as representing the 
opinions of prudent, learned, and expe- 
rienced men." 

The report goes on to speak of the 
reasons why every complete Catholic 
library must have copies of the publish- 
ed acts of the general councils of the 
church, and of national and provincial 
councils, as well as of the decisions and 
solutions of the various congregations at 
Rome, and other documents emanating 
from the Holy See. The supply of 
•• works on ritual,*' and those necessary 
for a thorough course of rational philo- 
sophy, must be ample, and there must 
be works on mathematics, physics, astro- 
nomy, meteorology, chemistry, and other 
sciences. We again quote : 

'* The attention given in these schools to 
sacred eloquence — for practice in which 
students are required to prepare and deliv- 
er sermons in presence of the community 
—calls for the best models of sacred ora- 
tory, besides works on rhetoric and elocu- 
tion. As models of composition, arrange- 
ment, and intrinsic solidity, the sermons 
of the ancient fathers share equal attention 
with those of the great French orators of 
the last century, and no library for the use 
of ecclesiastics will be without a copious 
supply of the works of those and others 
of the best pulpit orators in the church. 
Catholic libraries in general— and not 
those alone which are attached to theolo- 
gical schools — will be found amply sup- 
plied with controversial works written 
by Catholic authors. These are needed, 
however, not so much for the use of the 
owners as for that of non-Catholic in- 
quirers who wish to be enlightened in re- 
gard to some controverted point, or who 
desire to learn the evidences upon which 
the Catholic Church bases her claims to 
the credence of mankind. Catecheticnl 
works, of which there are a great number, 
answer this purpose still better when the 
polemic spirit has been allayed, and it is 
impossible to conceive of a Catholic li- 
brary, large or small, without an abun- 
dance of both these classes of books. The 
controversial works discuss every objec- 
tion which can be alleged against the 
church or the practice of members of it, 
and are necessarily very numerous. Every 
age has left behind it these testimonies 
to the controversies that agitated it, and 
the present age is no less prolific than 
its predecessors, though the grounds of 



dispute are shifting now rather from 
dogma to historical questions and matters 
of science, indicating the lessening hold 
which doctrine has on the non-Catholic 
mind." 

And again : 

" Ecclesiastical history, of course, forms 
an important element in Catholic libra* 
ries ; but this history not only includes 
the exhaustive tomes of writers who take 
in the whole history of the church, but 
of others who illustrate a particular age, 
country, event, or transaction. Works 
concerning the history of the church in 
the United States, or in particular States, 
form a growing collection. The current 
of contemporary Catholic history is well 
shown forth through the monthly and 
weekly publications which appear in 
many countries and languages. Tlie 
Catholic quarterlies, however, and some 
of the monthly publications, are devoted 
chiefly to literary or scientific criticism. 
The Catholic weeklies in this country 
are now so numerous that their preser- 
vation in libraries is seldom attended to. 
If this apology is needed for the absence 
from such libraries of publications that 
will form an important reference hereaf- 
ter for others besides Catholics, it ought 
to be coupled with the suggestion pro- 
per to be made in a work which will be 
placed in the hands of persons of all re- 
ligions : that a general Catholic library 
ought to be established at some central point 
where every Catholic publication^ at least 
among those issued in this country^ may 
have a place. Materials for history would 
gather in such a collection that might net 
readily be found combined in any other, 

*' Having thus touched upon the more 
important characteristics of Catholic li- 
braries, it would be well, perhaps, to ob- 
serve that while the leading ones in this 
country are attached to seminaries, col- 
leges, or religious houses, there are many 
private collections of considerable value, 
especially those in episcopal residences, 
or belonging to gentlemen of the clergy 
or laity who, together with literary tastes, 
possess the means to gratify them. Ca- 
tholic libraries are also beginning to be 
formed in cities and towns, chiefly under 
the auspices of associations that seek to 
provide a safe and pleasant resort for 
young men in the evenings. In these 
libraries will be found the lighter Ca- 
tholic literature, to which no reference 
has so far been made in this paper — tra- 
vels, sketches, poems, tales, etc., a few 



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New Publications. 



of which are by American and some 
Irish authors, but the majority by Eng- 
lish writers, chiefly converts, or trans- 
lated from the French, German, Flemish, 
and other Continental languages. Fi- 
nally, it would be well to observe that 
Catholic libraries are accessible for ref- 
erence, if not for study, to all inquirers. 
In most cases non-Catholic visitors 
would doubtless be welcomed to them 
with great cordiality. Those who have 
these librarUs in keeping rather invite than 
repel scrutiny into whatever is distinctively 
Catholic in their collections,** 

We regret that the limits of our space 
forbid us to dwell further upon the con< 
tents of this really fascinating volume. 
To use such an adjective in speaking of 
a *' Blue-Book,*' or an official report, 
may seem extravagant, but in this case 
it is not so. Its chapters upon the growth 
of libraries in the United States ; college 
libraries ; law, medical, and scientific 
libraries ; libraries in prisons and refor- 
matories ; libraries of the general and 
State governments ; libraries of historical 
societies; and upon "catalogues and 
cataloguing," are crammed with useful 
and important information ; and what- 
ever may have been the sins of omission 
or commission that may be laid at the 
door of the " Department of the Interior 
at Washington," we are willing to bear 
witness that its Bureau of Education, in 
the preparation and publication of this 
report, has done much to atone for them. 

Elements of Geometry. By G. M. 
Searle, C.S.P. With an Appendix con- 
taining Problems and Additional Pro- 
positions. New York : John Wiley & 
Sons. 1877, 

The object of this work is to place 
geometry on a more perfectly logical 



basis than it has been usually considered 
worth while to adopt in text -books. 
Geometers at the present day generally 
agree as to the unsatisfactory nature of 
the axioms usually adopted, some being 
superfluous, and others, especially the 
famous one about parallels, not being 
clearly self-evident. 

The reduction in the number of axioms 
has of course introduced some complexi- 
ty into the reasoning in this book, and 
the difficulty about parallels is not com- 
pletely removed ; nor does the author 
pretend completel}- to remove it. Some 
new views, however, are presented which 
may be worthy of consideration. 

Elements of Ecclesiastical Law. 
Adapted especially to the Discipline 
of the Church in the United States. 
By Rev. S. B. Smith, D.D., formerly 
Professor of Canon Law, author of 
" Notes," etc., etc. New York, Cin- 
cinnati, St. Louis, and Einsiedein : 
Benziger Brothers, Printers to the 
Holy Apostolic See. 1877. 

This work of Dr. Smith's cannot fail 
to be a welcome addition to any theo- 
logical library. There are a great many 
works on canon law, it is true, but veir 
few which give much information on the 
discipline of the church here, whidi is 
what priests in this country and those 
who are preparing for the priesthood 
principally need to understand. 

The present volume goes far to supply 
this deficiency, and the author promises 
to supplement it soon by another, for 
which we shall look with interest. He 
has made a good choice in writing in 
English ; there seems to be no need 
of choosing Latin for a book on this 
subject, and intended for this nation 
chiefly. 



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The Life of GSiristopher Columbus. 

BY 

REV. A. G. KNIGHT, SJ. 

1 Vol. 16mo, 75 cts. 

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I Boll. IV. St. Christopher. V. Improved Notions of Natural History. VI. Mii.icu- 

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ESSAYS AND REVIEWS. 



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1 Vol. 12mo, $1 50. 

The Catholic Church in the United States, 1776- 

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I. Wealth. II. Education. III. Morality. 

Prussia and the Church. 
German Journalism. 
Religion and Art. 



A liberal discount to the trade. Address 

The Catholic Publication Society 

COMPANY, 

Lawrence Kehoe, Manager, 

9 Barclay Street, New York. 



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