(navigation image)
Home American Libraries | Canadian Libraries | Universal Library | Community Texts | Project Gutenberg | Children's Library | Biodiversity Heritage Library | Additional Collections
Search: Advanced Search
Anonymous User (login or join us) Upload
See other formats

Full text of "The Catholic world"

dy^ridvria' 




, 

' 



THE 



; " 



CATHOLIC WORLD, 



MONTHLY MAGAZINE 



OF 



GENERAL LITERATURE AND SCIENCE. 




VOL. XXIX. 

, TO SEPTEMBER, 1879. 



NEW YORK: 

THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION SOCIETY CO., 
9 Barclay Street. 

1879, 



Copyrighted by 
I. T. HECKER, 

1879. 




THE NATION PRESS, 27 ROSE STREET, NEW YORK. 



CONTENTS. 



Annie Keary, .... 5 J 8 

A Discontented Journey, .... 59 2 

A Knight's Wooing, 382 

An Archbishop of Canterbury in the Tenth 

Century 797 

A New Glance at an Old Acquaintance, . . 671 

A Peep into Two Buried Cities, . . . 654 

Bayard Taylor, * 

Black Age, The 358 

Boreen, 498,629 

Bridal Ring of Our Lady at Perugia, and the 
Pardon of St. Francis at Assisi, . . 774 

Catholicity and Pantheism, .... 54 

Catholic Church and Modern Liberties, . 832 

Catholic Church in the United States, . . 433 

Catholic Colonization, 120 

Centenary of Thomas Moore, . . . 225 
Certitude, Reality and Criterion of, . .n 

Christian Art, 820 



Church and Medicine, The, 
Church of the Cup of Cold Water, 
Civil Marriage Bill in Italy, 

Congal, 

Correspondence, 
Current Events, 

Educators, Some Specimen, 
English Men of Letters, . 
English Press, The, 
Expulsion of Teaching Orders, 



192 
697 



530 
4*3 



417, 559, 7ii 849 



292 
337 
544 
104 



Fighting Fitzgerald, 

From an Irish Country House, 

Has History Become a Novel ? 



701 

202 

650 



Is Life worth Living ? 7 21 

. 679 

. 555 

25 

. 537 

. 755 

. . 784 



Italy, The Crisis in, 
Italy, The Drift in, . 

Jews of Rome in Christian Times, 
Legend of the Weilden, . . 



Magdalene, The Tomb of, 
Major's Manoeuvre, The, . 



Man, What was the Primitive State of ? . . 602 

Martyr of Martyrs, A, 811 

Moore, Centenary of, 225 

Medicine, The Church and, . . . .192 



Novel-Mongers, 



661 



Osimo ......... 64 

Old Irish Churches, ..... 4 12 

On Evil, . . . . . . . . 5 10 

One of Rome's Recruits, . . . . . 153 

Origin and History of the Christian Liturgy, 524 

Our Diplomatists, ...... 74 



39> 



3 I 4 



Pearl 

Plain Chant, 

Private Charities and Public Lands, 

Private Charities and Public Money, 

Protesting Christians, 

Protestant War against Christianity, 



577i 737 

363 

.127 

. 253 

169 

. 325 



Quiberon, Victims of, ..... 685 

Reality and Criterion of Certitude, . .11 

Reality of the Soul, ..... 344 

Reality of the Sufficient Reason, etc. , . . 212 

Reality of the Supernatural Order, . . 481 

Reply to C. C. Tiffany, ..... 249 

Rome's Recruits, One of, . . . . 153 

Science and Sentiment, ..... 403 

Some Specimen Educators, .... 292 

Some Specimens of Swedish Poetry, . . 305 

Souvenirs of Madame Le Brun, . . . 767 

Story of Agnes, ...... 89 

Swedish Poetry, . ..... 305 

Teaching Orders, Expulsion of, ... 104 
The Church and Medicine, . . . .192 

The Crisis in Italy, ...... 679 

The Holy Maries, ...... 468 

The Sainte Baume, ...... 611 

Victims of Quiberon, ..... 685 

What was the Primitive State of Man? . . 602 



IV 



Contents. 



A Borrowed Thought, 
A Mission Mass, 
A Prayer for Lady Poverty, 
A Summer Idyl, 

Cardinal Newman, 
Chicago, .... 



POETRY. 

June, . 



529 
752 
496 
707 



CruxAve, 

Dante's Purgatorio, 289 

Evening Service in Lent, .... 201 

Holy Week in Rome, 284 

In the Valley of the Pemigewasset, . . 736 



380 



King Ethelbert of Kent, i 

King Sigebert of Essex, 145 



126 Legend of St. Paschal of Baylon, 



847 



The Christ of Vienna, 335 

The Burial of P&re Marquette, . .626 

The End of Man, 809 

Thomas Moore, 247 

To St. Matthew, 63 

To Whom Comfort, 552 

Transformation, iSo 



NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



A Benedictine of the Sixteenth Century, . 574 

Cantica Sion 720 

Catholicity in the Carolinas, . . . .57 
Christian Life and Virtues, . . . .287 

Conference Papers, 572 

Constitution "Apostolicae Sedis Moderationi," 

The, . 859 

Counter Points in Canon Law, . . .426 



De Re Sacramentaria, 
Emerald Gems, 



. 856 

859 



Faith and Rationalism, 430 

Familiar Instructions, 575 

Four Gospels United into One, The, . . 860 



Grants of Land, etc , 

God the Teacher of Mankind, 



432 
859 



Health, 

History of the Mass, 



. 141 

. 140 

Inner Life of Lacordaire, 719 

Horse Sacrae, 576 

La Nouvelle Atala, 720 

Lectures on the Origin and Growth of Religion, 286 

Legends of the Saxon Saints, . . . 860 

Les Derniers Jours de Mgr. Dupanloup, . 860 
Lessons in Practical Science, . . . .720 



Life and Acts of Pope Leo XIII 859 

Life and Epoch of Alexander Hamilton, . 858 

Life of Sister Gojos, 575 

Life of the Ven. Elizabeth Canori Mora, . 144 

Louisa Kirkbride, . . . . ' . . 719 

Manna of the Soul, 575 

Mass, A History of the, 140 

Month of May, 287 

Moondyne, 718 

Mystery of the Wizard Clip, . . . .838 



Principles of Political Economy, 
Prisoners of the King, 



142 



Religion and Science, 857 

Roman Violets, . 575 

Sadlier's Speller, 719 

Solemn Blessing of St. Patrick's Cathedral, . 574 

Song of Liberty, 141 

Songs and Sonnets, 428 

St. Paul at Athens, 288 



The Curb's Niece, 57 6 

The Church and Sovereign Pontiff, . , .143 
Three Catholic Reformers, . . . . 43 1 
Theologise Dogmaticse Compendium, . . 42$ 
The Two Brides, 7'9 



THE 



CATHOLIC WORLD. 



VOL. xxix., NO. 169. APRIL, 1879. 



KING ETHELBERT OF KENT. 

A LEGEND FROM BEDE. 
BY AUBREY DE VERB. 

FAR through the forest depths of Thanet Isle, 
That never yet had heard the woodsman's axe, 
Rang the glad clarion on the May day morn, 
Blent with the cry of hounds. The rising sun 
Flamed on the forests' dewy jewelry, 
While, under lifted mists, a host with plumes 
Rode down a broad oak alley t'wards the sea. 

King Ethelbert rode first: he reigned in Kent, 
Least kingdom of the Seven, yet head of all 
Through his desert. That morn the royal train, 
While sang the invisible lark her song in heaven, 
Pursued the flying stag. At times the creature, 
As though he too had pleasure in the sport, 
Vaulted at ease through sunshine and through shade, 
Then changed his mood, and left the best behind him. 
Five hours they chased him : last, upon a rock 
High up he held awhile his antlered front, 
Then took the wave and vanished. 

Many a frown 

Darkened that hour on many a heated brow; 
And many a spur afflicted that poor flank 
Which panted hard and smoked. The king alone 
Laughed at mischance. " The stag, with God to aid, 
Has left our labor fruitless ! Give him joy ! 
He lives to yield us sport some later morn : 
So be it. Waits our feast, and not far off: 
On to the left, 'twixt yonder ash and birch !" 

COPYRIGHT : REV. I. T. HECKER. 1879. 



King Ethdbert of Kent. 

He spake, and anger passed : they praised their sport ; 
And many an out-blown nostril seemed to snuff 
That promised feast. They rode through golden furze 
So high the horsemen only were descried, 
And glades whose centuried oaks spread far their boughs 
O'er violet banks, and fruit-trees, some snow-veiled 
Like bridesmaids, others like the bride herself 
Behind her white veil blushing. Near, the thrush 
Carolled ; far off the wood-dove mourned ; close by 
A warbling runnel led them to the bay : 
Two chestnuts stood beside it : 'neath their roof 
The banquet gave them welcome. 

Feasting o'er, 

The song succeeded. Boastful was the strain, 
Each thane his deeds extolling, or his sire's; 
But one, an aged man among them, scoffed : 
" When I was young when Sigbert on my right 
To battle rode, and Sefred on my left 
That time men stood not worsted by a stag ! 
Not then our horses turned them from a strait, 
Scared by the ridged sea-wave !" Next spake a chief, 
Pirate from Denmark late returned : " Our skies, 
Good friends, are all too soft to build the man ! 
We fight for fame : the Northman fights for sport ; 
Their annals boast they fled but once ; 'twas thus : 
In days of old, when Rome was in her pride, 
Huge hosts of hers had fallen on theirs, surprised 
And way-worn : long they fought : a remnant, spent, 
Fled to their camp. Upon its walls their wives 
Stood up, black-garbed, with axes Jieaved aloft, 
And fell upon the fugitives, and slew them ; 
Slew next their little ones ; slew last themselves, 
Cheating the Roman Triumph. Never since then 
Hath Northman fled the foeman." 



Egfrid rose : 

"Who saith our kinsfolk of the frozen North, 
One stock with us, one faith, one ancient tongue, 
Pass us in valor? Three days since I saw 
Upon the East-Saxon's border and our own 
Two boys that strove. . The Kentish wounded fell : 
The East-Saxon on him knelt ; then made demand : 
* My victim art thou by the laws of war ! 
Yonder my dagger lies ! Till I return 
AVilt thoirabide?' The vanquished answered, 'Yea!' 
A minute more, and o'er that dagger's edge 
His life-blood rushed !" The pirate chief demurred : 
" A gallant boy ! Not less I wager this, 



King Ethelbcrt of Kent. 

The glitter of that dagger ere it smote 

Made his eye blink ! Now hear ! Three years gone by, 

Sailing with Hakon on Norwegian fiords, 

We fought the Jomsburg Rovers, at their head 

Sidroc, oath-pledged to marry Hakon's child 

Despite her father's best. In mist we met : 

Instant each navy at the other dashed 

Like wild beast, instinct-taught, that knows its foe ; 

Chained ship to ship, and clashed our clubs all day 

Till sank the sun : then laughed the' white peaks forth, 

And reeled, methought, above the reeling waves. 

The victory was with us. Hakon, next morn, 

Bade slay his prisoners. Thirty on one bench 

Waited their doom : their leader died the first ; 

He winked not as the sword upon him closed ! 

No, nor the second! Hakon asked the third, 

' What think'st thou, friend, of death?' He tossed his head 

' My father perished : I fulfil my turn.' 

The fourth, ' Strike quickly, chief! An hour this morn 

We held contention if, when heads are off, 

The hand can hold its dagger: I would learn !' 

The dagger and the head together fell. 

The fifth, ' One fear is mine lest yonder slave 

Should touch a prince's hair ! Command some chief, 

Thy best beloved, to lift it in his hands ; 

Then strike and spare not.' Hakon struck. That youth, 

Sigurd by name, his forehead forward twitched, 

Laughing, so deftly that the downward sword 

Smote off those luckless hands that raised his hair: 

All laughed; and Hakon's son besought his sire 

To loosen Sigurd's bonds : but Sigurd cried, 

* Unless the rest be loosed I will not live ' : 

Thus all escaped save four." 

In graver mood 

That chief resumed : " A Norland king dies well ! 
His bier is raised upon his stateliest ship, 
Piled with his arms: the men who love him best 
Rush to their monarch's pyre, resolved with him 
To share in death, and with becoming pomp 
Attend his footsteps to Valhalla's hall. 
The torch is lit : forth sails the ship, black-winged, 
Facing the midnight seas. From beach and cliff 
Men watch all night that slowly lessening flame ; 
Yet no man sheds a tear." 



Earconwald, 

An aged chief, made answer : " Tears there be 
Of divers sorts : a wise and valiant king 



King Etheibert of Kent. 

Deserves that tear which praises, not bewails, 

Greatness gone by." The pirate shouted loud, 

" A land it is of laughter, not of tears ! 

Know ye the tale of Harald ? He had sailed 

Round Southern coasts and Eastern sacked or burned 

A hundred Christian cities. One he found 

So girt with giant walls and brazen gates 

His sea-kings vainly dashed themselves thereon, 

And died beneath them, frustrate. Harald sent 

A herald to that city, speaking thus: 

4 Harald is dead : Christian was he in youth : 

He sends you spoils from many a city burnt, 

And craves interment in your chiefest fane.' 

Next day the masked procession wound in black 

Through streets defenceless. When the church was" reached 

They laid their chief before the altar-lights : 

Anon to heaven rang out the priestly dirge 

And incense-smoke up-curled. Forth from its cloud 

Sudden up leaped the dead man, club in hand, 

Spurning his coffin's gilded walls, and smote 

The hoary pontiff down, and brake his neck ; 

And all the sea-kings doffed their weeds of woe 

And showed the mail beneath, and raised their swords, 

And drowned that pavement in a sea of blood, 

While through the open portals rushed their mates ; 

And, since that city seemed but scant of spoil, 

Fired it and sailed. Ofttimes old Harald laughed 

That tale recounting." 

Many a Kentish chief 

Re-echoed Harald's laugh ; not Etheibert : 
The war-scar reddening on his brow, he rose 
And spake : " My thanes, ye laugh at deeds accurst ! 
An old king I, and make my prophecy 
One day that northern race which smites and laughs, 
Though near to us akin, shall smite our coasts : 
That day ye will not laugh !" Earconwald, 
Not rising, likewise answer made, heart-grieved : 
** Six sons had I : all these are slain in war : 
Yet I, an unrejoicing man forlorn, 
Find solace ofttimes thinking of their deeds : 
They laughed not when they slew. No God, be sure, 
Approves the jest red-handed." Egfrid rose 
And three times cried, with lifted sword unsheathed, 
" Behold my God ! No God I serve save him !" 

While thus they held discourse, where blue waves danced 
Not far from land, behold, there hove in sight, 
Seen 'twixt a great beach silky still with spring, 



King Ethelbtrt of Kent. 

And pine broad-crested round whose head old storms 

Had woven a garland of his own green boughs, 

A bark both fair and large, and hymn was heard : 

Then laughed the king: "The stag-hunt and our songs 

So drugged my memory I had nigh forgotten 

Why for our feast I chose this heaven-roofed hall. 

Missives I late received from friends in France; 

They make report of strangers from the south 

That, tarrying in their coasts, have learned our tongue 

And northward move with tidings strange and new 

Of some celestial kingdom by their God 

Vouchsafed to men of Faith. Nor churl am I 

To frown on kind intent, nor child to trust 

This sceptre of Seven Realms to magic snare 

That puissance hath who knows not ? greater thrice 

In house than open field. I therefore chose . 

For audience-hall this precinct." 

Muttered low 

Murdark, the scoffer with the cave-like mouth 
And sidelong eyes : " Queen Bertha's voice was that ! 
A woman's man ! Since first from Gallic shores 
That dainty daughter of King Charibert 
Pressed her small foot on England's honest shore, 
The whole land dwindles !" 



In seraphic hymns 

Ere long that serpent hiss was lost: for soon, 
Circling a rocky point with thorny beak, 
O'er sands still glistening with a tide far-ebbed, 
On drew, preceded by a^silver cross, 
A white procession. Music, as it moved, 
Floated on sea-winds inland, deadened now 
By thickets, echoed now from cliff or cave : 
Ere long before them that procession stood ; 
The king addressed them thus: " Hail, heralds sage! 
And if from God I welcome you the more ! 
Since great is God, and therefore great his gifts : 
Speak without fear, for him alone I hate 
Who brings ill news, or makes unfit demand, 
Unmeet for kings. I know that Cross ye bear, 
Since in my palace sits a Christian wife, 
Bertha, the sweetest lady in this land, 
Most gracious in her ways, in heart most leal. 
I knew her yet a child : she knelt whene'er 
The queen, her mother, entered: then I said, 
A maid so reverent will be reverent wife, 
And wedded her more late. Both morn and eve 
She in her wood-girt Chapel sings her prayer, 



King Ethclbcrt of Ktni. 

Which wins us kindlier harvest, and, some think, 
Success in war. She strives not with our gods : 
Confusion never wrought she in my house, 
Nor minished Hengist's glory : had her voice 
Clangorous or strident drawn upon my throne 
Deserved opprobrium" here the monarch's brows 
Flushed at the thought, and fire was in his eyes 
"The hand that clasps this sceptre had not spared 
To hunt her forth, an outcast in the woods, 
Thenceforth with beasts to herd ! More lief were I 
To take the lioness to my bed and board 
Than house a rebel wife." Remembering then 
The mildness of his queen, King Ethelbert 
Resumed, appeased, for placable his heart : 
" But she no rebel is, and this I deem 
Fair auspice for her Faith." 

A little breeze 

Warm from the sea that moment softly waved 
The standard from its staff, and showed thereon 
The Child Divine. Upon his Mother's knee 
Sublime he stood. His left hand clasped a globe 
Crowned with a golden Cross; and with his right, 
Two fingers heavenward raised, o'er all the earth 
He sent his blessing. 

Of that stranger band 
One taller by the head than all the rest 
Obeisance made ; then, pointing to the Cross, 
And forward moving tVard the monarch's seat, 
Opened the great commission of the Faith : 
" Behold the Eternal Maker of the worlds ! 
That hand which shaped the earth and blesses earth 
Must rule the race of man !" 

Majestic then 

As when, far winding from its mountain springs, 
City and palm-grove far behind it left, 
Some Indian river rolls, while mists dissolved 
Leave it in native brightness unobscured, 
So forward flowed in apostolic might 
Augustine's strong discourse. With God beginning, 
He showed the Almighty all-compassionate, 
Down drawn from distance infinite to man 
By the infinite of love ! Lo, Bethlehem's crib ! 
There lay the Illimitable in narrow bound! 
Thence rose that triumph of a world redeemed! 
Last, to the standard pointing, thus he spake: 
" Yon Standard tells the tale! Six hundred years 
Westward it sped from subject realm to realm : 



King Ethelbert of Kent. 

First from the bosom of God's race elect, 

His people, till they slew him, mild it soared. 

Rejected, it returned. Above their walls 

While ruin rocked them, and the Roman fire, 

Dreadful it hung ! When Rome had shared their guilt, 

Mocking that Saviour's brethren, and His Bride, 

Above the conquered conqueror of all lands 

In turn that Standard flew. Who raised it high? 

A son of this your island, Constantine ! 

In these, thine English oakwoods, Helena, 

'Twas thine to nurse thy warrior ! He had seen 

In heaven this Standard, and thereon these words : 

' Through me is victory.' Victory won, he raised 

High as his empire's queenly head, and higher, 

That Standard of the Eternal Dove, thenceforth 

To fly where eagle standard ne'er had flown; 

God's glory in its track, good-will to men. 

Advance for aye, great emblem ! Light as now 

Famed Asian headlands and Hellenic isles! 

O'er snow-crowned Alp and citied Apennine 

Send forth a breeze of healing ! Keep thy throne 

For ever on those western peaks that watch 

The setting sun descend the Hesperean sea, 

Atlas and Calpe ! These the old Roman bound 

Bujld but the gateway of the Rome to be: 

Till Christ returns, thoit Standard, hold them fast : 

But never till the North that, age by age, 

Dashed back the pngan Rome, with Christian Rome 

Partakes the spiritual crown of man restored, 

From thy strong flight above the world surcease, 

And fold thy wings in rest !" 

Upon the sod 

He knelt, and on that Standard gazed, and spake, 
Calm-voiced, with hand to heaven : " I promise thee, 
Thou Sign, another victory, and thy best : 
This island shall be thine!" 

Augustine rose 

And took the right hand of King Ethelbert, 
And placed therein the Standard's staff, and laid 
His own above the monarch's, spraking thus; 
" King of this land, I bid thee know from God 
That kings have higher privilege than they know, 
The standard-bearers of the King of kings." 

Long time he clasped that royal hand : long time 
The king, that strenuous hand at last withdrawn, 
His own withdrew not from that Standard's staff 
Committed to his charge. His hand he deemed 



King Ethelbert of Kent. 

Thenceforth its servant vowed. With large, meek eyes 
Fixed on that Maid and Babe, he stood as child 
That, gazing on some reverent stranger's face, 
Nor loosening from that stranger's hold his palm, 
Listens his words, attent. 

The man of God 

Meantime as silent gazed on Thanet's shore 
Gold-tinged, with sunset spray to crimsom turned 
In league-long crescent. Love was in his face, 
That love which rests on Faith. He spake : " Fair land, 
I know thee what thou art, and what thou lackest \ 
The Master saith, ' I give to him that hath ' : 
Thy harvest shall be great." Again he mused ; 
And shadow o'er him crept. Again he spake : 
"That harvest won, when centuries have gone by, 
What countenance wilt thou wear ? How oft on brows 
Once bright with baptism's splendor sin more late 
Drags down its cloud ! The time may come when thou, 
This day, though darkling, yet so Innocent, 
Barbaric not depraved, on greater heights 
May'st sin in malice sin the great offence, 
Changing thy light to darkness, knowing God, 
Yet honoring God no more : that time may come 
When, rich as Carthage, great in arms as Rome, 
Keen-eyed as Greece, this isle, to sensuous gaze 
A sun all gold, to angels may present 
Aspect no nobler than a desert waste, 
Some blind and blinding waste of sun-scorched sands, 
Trod by a race of pigmies not of men, 
Pigmies by passions ruled !" 

Once more he mused; 

Then o'er his countenance passed a second change ; 
And from it flashed the light of one who sees 
(Some hill-top gained) beyond the incumbent night 
The instant foot of morn. With regal step, 
Martial yet measured, to the king he strode, 
And laid a strong hand on him, speaking thus : 
" Rejoice, my son, for God hath sent thy land 
This day good tidings of exceeding joy, 
And planted in her breast a tree divine 
Whose leaves shall heal far nations. Know besides, 
Should sickness blight that tree, or tempest mar, 
The strong root shall survive them : winter past, 
Heavenward once more shall rush both branch and bough 
And over-vault the stars." 

He spake, and took 

The sacred Standard from that monarch's hand 
And held it in his own, and fixed its point 



King Ethelbert of Kent. 

Deep in the earth, and by it stood. Then lo ! 

Like one disburdened of some ponderous charge, 

King Ethelbert became himself again, 

And round him gazed well-pleased. Throughout his train 

There passed a movement; and, remembrance had 

Of those around, his warriors and his thanes, 

That ever on his wisdom waiting lay, 

Thus he replied, discreet : "Stranger and friend, 

Thou bearest good tidings ! That thou comest thus far 

To fool us, knave and witling may believe : 

I walk not with their sort ; yet, guest revered, 

Kings are not as the common race of men ; 

Counsel they take, lest honor heaped on one 

Should strip some other. Odin holds on us 

Prescriptive right, and special claims on me, 

The son of Hengist's grandson. Preach your Faith ! 

The man who wills I suffer to believe : 

The man who wills not, let him moor his skiff 

Where anchorage likes him best. The day declines : 

This night with us you harbor, and our queen 

Shall lovingly receive you." 

Staid and slow 

The king rode homewards, while behind him paced 
Augustine and his monks. The ebb had left 
'Twixt Thanet and the mainland narrow space, 
Marsh-land more late : beyond the ford they found 
A path through meads fair-flowered ; and, as they passed, 
Not herdsmen only, but the broad-browed kine, 
Fixed on them long their meditative gaze, 
And oft some blue-eyed boy with flaxen locks 
Ran, fearless, forth, and plucked them by the sleeve, 
Some boy clear-browed as those St. Gregory marked 
Poor slaves, new-landed on the shores of Rome, 
That drew from him that saying, " * Angli ' nay, 
Call them henceforward * Angels ' !" 

From a wood 

Issuing before them sudden they beheld 
King Ethelbert's chief city, Canterbury, 
Strong-walled, with winding street, and airy roofs, 
And high o'er all the monarch's palace pile 
Thick-set with towers. Then fire from God there fell 
Upon Augustine's heart; and thus he sang 
Advancing; and the brethren sang, " Amen " : 

" Hail, city loved of God, for on thy brow 
Great fates are writ ! Thou cumberest not His earth 
For petty traffic reared, or petty sway : 



King Ethelbert of Kent. 

I see a heavenly choir descend, thy crown 
Henceforth to bind thy brow. For ever hail ! 

44 I see the basis of a kingly throne 
In thee ascending ! High it soars and higher, 
Like some great pyramid o'er Nilus kenned 
When vapors melt the Apostolic Chair! 
Doctrine and discipline thence shall hold their course 
Like Tigris and Euphrates through all lands 
That face the Northern star. For ever hail ! 

44 Where stands yon royal keep, a church shall rise, 
Like incorruption clothing the corrupt 
On the Resurrection morn ! Strong house of God, 
To him exalt thy walls, and nothing doubt, 
For lo! from thee, like lions from their lair, 
Abroad shall pace the Primates of this land ! 
They shall not lick the hand that gives and smites, 
Dog-like, nor snake-like on their bellies creep 
In indirectness base. They shall not fear 
The people's madness, nor the rage of kings 
Reddening the temple's pavement. They shall lift 
The strong brow mitred, and the crosiered hand, 
Before their presence sending love and fear 
To pave their steps with greatness. From their fronts, 
Stubborned with marble from Saint Peter's rock, 
The sunrise of far centuries forth shall flame : 
He that hath eyes shall see it, and shall sny, 
4 Blessed who cometh in the name of God !' " 

Thus sang the saint advancing; and behold, 

At every pause the Brethren sang 44 Amen " ; 

While down from window and from roof the throng 

Watched them in silence. As their anthem ceased 

Before them stood the palace clustered round 

By many a stalwart form. Midway the gate, 

On its first step, like angel newly lit, 

Queen Bertha stood. Back from her forehead meek, 

The meeker for her crown, a veil there fell, 

While streamed the red robe to the foot snow-white 

Sandalled in gold. The morn was on her face ; 

The star of morn within those eyes upraised 

That flashed all dewy with the grateful light 

Of many a granted prayer. O'er that sweet shape 

Augustine traced the venerable sign ; 

The lovely vision sinking, hand to breast, 

Received it ; while, by sympathy surprised, 

Or instinct-taught, the monarch and his thanes 

Knelt as she knelt, and bent like her their heads, 



The Reality and the Criterion oj Certitude. 1 1 

Sharing her blessing. Like a palm the Faith 

Thenceforth o'er England rose, those men of God 

Preaching by saintly life, not words alone, 

The doctrine of the Cross. Some power divine, 

Stronger than patriot love, more sweet than spring, 

Made way from heart to heart, and daily God 

Joined to his church the souls that should be saved, 

Thousands, where Medway mingles with the Thames, 

Rushing to baptism. In his palace cell 

High-nested on that Vaticanian Hill 

Which o'er the martyr-gardens kens the world, 

Gregory, that news receiving, or from men 

Or haply from that God with whom he walked 

The Spirit's whisper ever in his ear, 

Rejoiced that hour, and cried aloud, " Rejoice, 

Thou earth ! that North which from its cloud but flung 

The wild beast's cry of anger or of pain, 

Redeemed from wrath, its halleluias sings : 

Those waves our Roman galleys feared, this day 

Kiss the bare feet of Christ's evangelists : 

That race whose oak-clubs brake our Roman swords, 

Glories now first in bonds the bond of Truth ; 

At last it fears ; but fears alone to sin, 

Striving through faith for virtue's heavenly crown !" 



THE REALITY AND THE CRITERION OF CERTITUDE. 

IN the Academical Questions of ed would not care to read." * We 

Cicero the learned Roman Varro are not without fear of meeting 

is represented as excusing himself with a similar mishap in our pre- 

to Cicero and Atticus for not hav- sent undertaking. We have been 

ing made an exposition of the thus far trying to make an exposi- 

Greek philosophy in the Latin Ian- tion, which we now resume, of some 

guage. He says that he had fear- of the principal parts of the Logic 

ed lest all those who were suffi- and Metaphysics of Aristotle, as 

ciently learned to understand such perfected by St. Thomas, in such 

matters would prefer to read Plato a way that any person at all given 

and Aristotle and the other great to serious thought may find it both 

Grecian authors for themselves, readable and intelligible. It can- 

and that all others would be unable not be expected, indeed, that this 

to understand any exposition which way of reasoning should be made 

he might make in their own mother- so plain that even the wayfaring 

tongue. " Wherefore," he says, " I or seafaring man, though a fool, 
was unwilling to write those things 

Which the Unlearned WOuld not be *"Itaque eanoluiscribere^u^necindoctiintel- 

ligere possent, nee docti legere curarent." Quant. 

able to understand, and the learn- Acad.^.i. 2. 



12 



The Reality and the Criterion of Certitude. 



shall not err therein. For such 
there is, happily, an easier way to 
the truth which is necessary to sal- 
vation. But the travellers over the 
rugged road, the voyagers over the 
tempestuous ocean of life, who 
know or think they know enough 
to need, and to be entitled to, some 
answer beyond the catechism 
when they raise questions about 
their destination and the way to it, 
ought to be willing to take the 
pains to understand the only ra- 
tional answers which can be given 
to them. Physics, as a pure' sci- 
ence, is abstruse and difficult ; and 
yet the most substantial and inter- 
esting truths of physics are brought 
within the reach and made the in- 
tellectual property even of school- 
children. Why not these higher 
truths, also, which give the intel- 
lect a greater perfection, which are 
more interesting, and far more im- 
portant ? 

There are many who put the 
same question which Pontius Pi- 
late, the educated Roman nobleman 
and statesman, put to our Lord : 
"What is Truth?" Is there truth 
which is certain in itself, and know- 
able by men, concerning those 
things which surpass the bodily 
senses, and a criterion or unerring 
rule by which truth can be discern- 
ed from falsehood, and error avoid- 
ed or corrected ? We maintain 
that plain common sense suffices 
to shut out all doubt about these 
things, so far as is really necessary 
for the mass of mankind, and that 
the church gives them an unerring 
criterion and rule of faith which is 
assured to those to whom it is suffi- 
ciently proposed by an easy pro- 
cess ; a way so plain that even the 
wayfaring man, though a fool, need 
not err therein. But we are deal- 
ing with those who professedly 
doubt the truths of revealed or 



even of natural religion from mo- 
tives derived from some sort of 
philosophy called rational. We 
have to take them on their own 
ground ; and we may therefore 
justly ask of them that patience 
and diligence and close attention 
to solid arguments which are abso- 
lutely necessary to those who seek 
after wisdom by rational research. 
Those also who have faith, but 
who demand a better understand- 
ing of the reason of the tilings 
which they believe, must be will- 
ing to undergo the trouble and 
labor required by the very nature 
of the case. It is a serious inqui- 
ry after Truth in which we are en- 
gaged. The nature, the reality, the 
criterion of truth and certitude, are 
the objects of our attention. This 
is the very object of the science of 
Logic, aGreek term which in English 
has for its equivalent Rational Dis- 
cipline, and, in the words of a text- 
book * which is one of two pre- 
scribed by Leo XIII. for use in the 
Roman colleges, " considers the 
order which is in the acts of rea- 
son, for attaining truth and avoid- 
ing falsehood." We cannot prose- 
cute the inquiry after Truth with- 
out investigating the supreme 
causes of things, and this is the 
object of Philosophy in general. 
We are asked for Logic and Meta- 
physics by all those who demand 
something which shall satisfy their 
reason, and we must give them 
what they ask for, trying to do so 
with the clearest reasoning and in 
the plainest English that we are 
able to use. We must, however, 
make a path through the densest 
thicket of the metaphysics of Aris- 
totle and St. Thomas Aquinas, in 
order to get a view of the region 
beyond ; and our readers must come 

* Liberatore, Introduction to Logic \ vol. i., of the 
Philosophy, p. 19. 



The Reality and the Criterion of Certitude. 



after or give up following in our 
track. It is no garden-walk, and 
we cannot make it such. Never- 
theless Lord Macaulay, who had 
studied Aristotle, and yet delighted 
quite as much in the conversation 
of children as in the Greek classics, 
has said : " In theology the inter- 
val is small indeed between Aris- 
totle and a child." * We have al- 
ready affirmed that the child is a 
philosopher and knows the trans- 
cendentals and universals. He 
has the truth and the criterion of 
certitude. It is not, then, for a 
new rule and medium above our 
common nature, by which to find 
out truth, to prove and verify it, 
and give security to our tenure of 
its domain, we are searching, when 
we inquire for the criterion of cer- 
titude. Such an inquiry is vain 
and futile, and would set the mind 
turning in a perpetual vicious cir- 
cle of scepticism. We do not ask 
what is the receptacle in which 
space is contained, or in what time 
time itself exists. There is no 
other light in which we see light. 
So there is no faculty by which to 
measure intellect except intellect 
itself, there are no other principles 
or demonstrations extrinsic to first 
truths and the deductions of reason 
from them by which to verify and 
prove the same. " That we are 
made for attaining truth, and that 
in effect we do attain it by the le- 
gitimate exercise of our cognosci- 
tive faculties, is a postulate of natu- 
ral certitude, which no one doubts 
or can doubt without spontaneous- 
ly renouncing his rational nature. 
The only thing we can do in addi- 
tion to making this postulate is to 
gain a reflexive recognition of it, 
not in order to acquire certainty in 
the first instance, which, as we have 



said, is not possible, but only to 
discover its intrinsic reason and to 
convert into philosophical certi- 
tude that common certitude which 
every man naturally possesses."* 

The criterion we want is a rule 
which the intellect derives from 
within itself as a test of the truth 
or falsehood of its own judgments, 
which it uses by taking a review of 
these judgments in the act of re- 
flection upon itself and its own 
operations. This criterion is found 
in the objective truth of the things 
themselves as it makes itself mani- 
fest in the mind by their evidence, 
or the showing of their reality 
which is effected in our immediate 
cognitions. There is no falsehood 
or error possible in these imme- 
diate cognitions. It is only in 
mediate cognitions and judgments 
that a discernment of truth and 
error can be made. The rectitude 
of judgment consists in its con- 
formity to the real nature of things, 
and its error in a non-conformity 
to the same. We can only get at 
this true essence of being which is 
distinct from ourselves as the same 
subsists in the mind ideally by our 
simple apprehensions. With this 
we must compare our judgments in 
order to discern their conformity 
or non-conformity to reality. This 
is, therefore, the criterion of truth 
and certitude for all judgments 
which the mind pronounces upon 
those things of which it can take 
cognizance by itself. For other 
things, which are made known only 
by testimony, there is an extrinsic 
criterion of their credibility, an ex- 
ternal rule of the judgments made 
upon them, and of their respective 
truth or falsity, and this is the au- 
thority of the witnesses who deliver 
the testimony. Thus, the crite- 



*H>st. of England, chap. 
George Fox, 1691. 



xvii. Account pf 



p. 446. 



>ib., Conos. Inf. /?//. Del Criteria di Verita, 



The Reality and the Criterion of Certitude. 



rion of certainty for the intellectual 
judgment that the planet Neptune 
exists and revolves around the sun 
in a period nearly equal to one 
hundred and sixty-five terrestrial 
years, for Leverrier, Adams, and 
other astronomers was scientific evi- 
dence ; for the ordinary student it 
is the authority of these astrono- 
mers. 

This brief statement has been 
premised, in order that the reader 
may distinctly understand what it 
is which we are about to explain 
and prove more fully in regard to 
certitude and its criterion. We 
will first make a more explicit defi- 
nition of the terms Truth and Cer- 
titude. Objective truth, or the 
truth which is predicated of a be- 
ing, is nothing but its real confor- 
mity to its own essence. Truth as 
subjective, and as predicated of an 
operation of the mind, is an ade- 
quation of the intellect and the 
thing which is objectively true. 
Certitude is a quality of the assent 
which the mind gives to objective 
truth which makes the assent firm 
and exclusive of doubt or fear of 
the contrary. The criterion is a 
rule employed by reason in reflect- 
ing upon its own judgments, a sort 
of intellectual spirit-level, by which 
it measures their rectitude. Rea- 
son is a light and a law to itself. 
As in arithmetical computation 
the correctness or incorrectness of 
the process and result can only be 
reviewed and tested by computa- 
tion, so in all intellectual and ra- 
tional operations it is the intellect 
reflecting on itself according to its 
own intrinsic law and rule of 
operation, that is its own regulator. 
It cannot go out of itself to mea- 
sure its cognitions and judgments 
by anything wholly and absolutely 
extraneous to itself, for its acts are 
all immanent. The objective ver- 



ity with which it compares its 
judgments is within itself. This 
has been already shown in treating 
of the reality of knowledge. And 
we must now return upon the ex- 
position then given of the nature 
of cognition, in order to develop 
more fully the sufficient reason and 
nature of certitude, to analyze the 
ratios of truth and error in ration- 
al judgments, and to explain how a 
being who is fallible and frequent- 
ly does err in his opinions and be- 
liefs, and who is, moreover, ex- 
tremely ignorant even when he is 
most wise, can nevertheless pos- 
sess and apply an unerring crite- 
rion of certitude with due limita- 
tions and under the requisite con- 
ditions. 

In the exposition of the nature 
of cognition just referred to, it was 
shown that the mind in actual cog- 
nition becomes in a certain sense 
that which is actually cognized.* 
My visible moon, and the visible 
moon of millions of other individu- 
als, is the same moon which existed 
before our creation, which exists 
when we neither see it nor actually 
attend to our imaginary representa- 
tion of its visible appearance. The 
object reproduced and represented 
in our cognoscitive faculty is the 
same being which exists in itself, 
only that it is in the ideal state, and 
is received into the being of the 
cognoscitive subject, according to 
the mode of the recipient. In the 
intelligent subject, it is this intelli- 
gible similitude of every real ob- 
ject of cognition, this intelligible 
species, or ideal conformity to all 
being which is present to it, which 
is the form of its actual intelligence. 
As the likeness to the human 
species is the form of a statue, 
making it a statue, as the likeness 

* Cognasctns in actu fit cognitum in actu is an 
axiom in scholastic philosophy. 



The Reality and the Criterion of Certitude. 



to Shakspere is the form of a statue 
of Shakspere, so is the ideal simi- 
litude in the intellect its intelligi- 
ble form. In nature and in art, 
that which makes a thing to be 
what it actually is, the form of its 
essential actuality, cannot be taken 
from it without destroying it. 
What accedes to the nature of the 
thing, or follows from it, may be 
absent and make it deficient or 
excessive in certain respects. An 
animal of a certain species must 
have what essentially makes it an 
individual of that species, as for in- 
stance a dog must have what is 
necessary to constitute him a ca- 
nine animal. Yet he may be, as 
a witty Franciscan friar once re- 
marked of a dog belonging to a late 
illustrious bishop, which had no 
tail and barked frequently, "evil 
both by excess and defect." A 
man must have that which makes 
him a human being, but he may 
have legs of unequal length, a 
loathsome countenance, disgusting 
manners, and a vicious moral char- 
acter. Cognition, in like manner, 
whether sensible or rational, must 
have that which is its constitutive 
natural form. The similitude of 
the cognoscitive subject to the real 
object is this form, and in this na- 
ture cannot fail. Nature is no de- 
ceiver, and the laws of nature are 
constant. In so far as the cognos- 
citive faculties are passive and sub- 
ject to 'the laws of nature there is 
no chance for falsity in cognitions, 
where the faculties are in a normal 
state and there is no impediment 
to their receiving due impressions 
and duly putting forth spontaneous 
actions. There is a natural rela- 
tion and correspondence between 
sense and whatever is sensible, in- 
tellect and whatever is intelligible, 
reason and whatever is demonstra- 
ble. The whole universe of being 



is objective truth ; is, in its nature, 
apprehensible and knowable as 
true and real. Being, as such, has 
in itself the aptitude to make itself 
known when brought into contact 
with a cognoscitive faculty. The 
faculty itself, in proportion to its 
nature, is in potency to be deter- 
mined to any cognition, indifferent- 
ly, by any connatural object duly 
present to it. When it is determin- 
ed in this way, its operation is nat- 
ural, necessary, according to fixed 
and constant laws of nature, which 
are as invariable as the laws of 
motion. The question of truth or 
falsehood cannot be proposed in 
respect to these states of the sub- 
ject of cognition which are deter- 
mined by the objective verity, be- 
cause the two terms of compari- 
son are wanting. You cannot ask 
whether the simple apprehension 
of the object corresponds or does 
not correspond to the object, for 
the simple reason that the object as 
it is in itself is identical with the 
object as it is in the apprehension. 
How can you compare the observ- 
ed course and time of revolution of 
a planet with the orbit and period 
itself as not observed ? The theory 
of a circular orbit can be compared 
with the observed course and time. 
Any other theory can be compared, 
and, among these hypotheses, the 
one which ascribes to the planet 
an elliptical orbit around the 
sun placed in one of the foci, 
can be proved to conform to the 
observed facts, and thus verified 
by the criterion which we have 
already defined. The observed 
facts are the objective verity, and 
their evidence, which is a deter- 
mination of nature controlling the 
faculty of observation, is the crite- 
rion of the truth and certainty of 
the judgment, this planet moves in 
an elliptical orbit, in a certain pe- 



i6 



The Reality and the Criterion of Certitude. 



riod, around the sun. The mind 
has done something, here, of itself : 
it 'has pronounced a judgment. 
There were previous judgments by 
astronomers before Kepler, and 
conjectural hypotheses subjected 
by himself to the test of calcula- 
tion. They are now condemned 
by science as false. The one just 
mentioned is approved as certainly 
true. And this one illustration 
suffices to make the whole matter 
we are considering plain. Truth 
makes an equation between the 
mind and the reality, and as this 
ratio of equality can only exist -be- 
tween two distinct terms, the mind 
must create the second term, to 
be compared with the first which it 
already possesses in its apprehend- 
ed objective verity, by making a 
judgment. If the judgment agrees 
with the objective verity whose 
evidence shines forth in the prima- 
ry idea manifesting the object, it 
is true; if it disagrees with it, it is 
false- Our judgments are true, 
says St. Augustine, when we judge 
that to be which really is, and that 
not to be which is not. They are 
false, when we judge that what is 
not is, and what is is not. The 
mind can review and reaffirm or 
reverse its secondary and mediate 
judgments by applying to them the 
criterion of truth, by virtue of its 
power of return upon itself in re- 
membering and reflecting. It can 
re-cogitate and re-cognize its prior 
cogitations and cognitions, and re- 
new the reasoning process by 
which it arrived at its conclusions. 
Moreover, it can, by the same 
power of perfect return or bending 
back upon itself, inspect its own 
states and operations as modifica- 
tions of itself, and inspect itself as 
the principle and subject of these 
states and operations, investigate 
its own proper essence and laws, 



and institute a comparison between 
subjective truth in itself as psy- 
chological, and objective truth as 
ontological. It can review its pri- 
mary sensations and intellections 
and discursive acts. In this way, 
it can by reflection verify and jus- 
tify even those first and necessary 
judgments in which the objective 
truth is infallibly attained in the 
first instance, and the original first 
apprehensions in which these judg- 
ments have their inchoate exist- 
ence. When this work is correct- 
ly and completely done, and its 
results are expressed in accurate 
terminology, we have a theory of 
ideology and cognition which gives 
us a philosophical certainty or 
science, by which our natural cer- 
tainty and implicit logic are per- 
fected. A part of this work we 
are nowqattempting in the analysis 
of natural certitude, and we are 
now prepared to go on still further 
in the exposition of the three dis- 
tinct species of certitude which are 
named, respectively, metaphysical, 
physical, and moral. 

Certitude is a state of the mind in 
respect to truth which has been al- 
ready defined. It is produced by 
a necessary law whenever the truth 
is made evidently apparent. The 
difference between its three distinct 
species just now named is deter- 
mined by the difference which dis- 
tinguishes the .motive of assent in 
its several objects. In respect to 
the exclusion of doubt, the several 
sorts of certitude are equal. But 
in the positive intensity of the light 
of evidence and the proportionate 
clearness of the mental insight into 
the objective truth present to the 
mind, there is a variation and a 
relative precedence of the different 
species of certitude, according to 
the order in which they have been 
named. When the motive of as- 



The Reality and the Criterion of Certitude. 



sent is founded in the very nature 
of the thing and the connection of 
ideas, certitude is metaphysical; 
when the motive is founded in ex- 
perience and the constancy of the 
laws of nature, certitude is physi- 
cal ; when, in fine, it is in the tes- 
timony of man and the laws by 
which their voluntary acts are gov- 
erned, we have moral certitude, 
produced in each case by metaphy- 
sical, physical, and moral evidence 
respectively. That a point has 
position but not divisibility is an 
example of the first species; that 
the moon shines by the reflected 
light of the sun. of the second ; that 
Livy was a Latin historian, of the 
third ; and another example of the 
third is, that mothers are fond of 
their offspring. 

Rational philosophy takes its be- 
ginning from first principles which 
are self-evident and known by 
themselves, immediately, as soon as 
they are presented to the view of 
the intellect. We have already 
explained how the intellect, by its 
innate, intrinsic active power, im- 
mediately abstracts the most uni- 
versal of all ideas, the idea of being, 
or essence in general. The very 
name of this faculty, intellect, is 
derived from intus legere, to read 
within. The human intellect reads 
within the sensible object its intel- 
ligible ratio. The ratio of being is 
that which is nearest the surface, 
and first presents itself, as the most 
universal and most simple, the first 
in the order of time and in the 
logical order. "That which the 
mind conceives as the most known, 
and into which it resolves all its 
concepts, is being."* The notions 
of something or essence, of the one, 
the true, the good, are aspects of 

! " Illud, quod mens concipit, quasi notissimum 
et in quod omnes conceptiones resolvit, est ens." St. 
Thomas, Qq. Disp., q. \.De Veritate, a. i. 

VOL. XXIX. 2 



the same universal notion of being, 
which transcend all generic classi- 
fication of things, i.e., thirtkables, 
and are necessarily attached to all 
supreme genera or categories of 
being, and all their subordinate 
species and individuals. The ab- 
straction of the universal concepts 
proceeding from the most universal 
and simple to those which have a* 
less extensive but more intensive' 
nature, distinguishes determinate 
kinds and sorts of being with their 
intrinsic, distinctive characters, 
notes, or marks. Each one of these 1 ' 
is called an essence or nature, and 
is 'that which determines the com- 
mon alikeness of things to their 
diverse and distinct unlikenesses.' 
The essence thus apprehended by 
the intellectual faculty is appre- 
hended as an abstract ratio or uni- 
versal, by which you answer the 
inquiry about anything: What i3 
it? Wherefore it is called in scho- 
lastic Latin the quidditas, or w hat- 
ness of any specific object. As', 
for instance, you ask the question, 
What is that figure ? It is a circle. 
Circularity is the abstract ratio, 
the essence, prescinding from any 
one circle or number of circles, by 
which the nature of the giveii 
figure is defined. What sort of 
being is a man ? He is a rational 
animal. The specific essence of 
humanity, as an abstract ratio, a 
universal concept of the intellect, 
is expressed in these words. Now, 
when the agreement or disagree- 
ment of two ideas is self-evident in 
the immediate intuition of some 
such essence or nature, we have 
immediate, ct, priori, metaphysical 
evidence, producing a judgment of 
immediate metaphysical certitude 1 , 
which is a first principle, an un- 
demonstrable postulate of rational 
philosophy, containing virtually in 
itself all the truth which can be 



13 



The Reality and the Criterion of Certitude. 



deduced from it with the help of 
some other certain principle, by 
demonstration. This is the way of 
procedure in geometry, and in all 
purely rational science, and what- 
ever is self-evident, or demonstrat- 
ed by pure logic from self-evident 
principles, is within the scope of 
metaphysical certitude. The move- 
ment of the reason toward this 
kind of certitude starts from the 
intuition of ideas, in which first 
principles are discovered by analy- 
sis and affirmed by analytic judg- 
ments. These first principles are 
in themselves irreducible into any 
concepts more simple, because they 
originate immediately from intui- 
tion. There is, nevertheless, one 
principle latent in all, which serves 
as a kind of general equivalent, can 
be verified in every one, and is a 
sign that the principle is self-evi- 
dent. This is the principle of con- 
tradiction that the same thing, 
namely, cannot be and not be, or 
be truly affirmed and denied in the 
same sense. This principle is im- 
mediately perceived in the idea of 
being and is equally universal. It 
excludes from the idea of being in 
the most absolute manner its abso- 
lute negation, which is not-being or 
nothing. It is an absolute formula of 
the reductio ad absurdum, by which 
every negation of a self-evident 
truth is shown to be a contradic- 
tion to reason itself and the essen- 
tial nature of things, and reducible 
to a contradiction in terms. What- 
ever proposition cannot be denied 
without implying that the same 
thing is both affirmed and denied in 
the same sense, is self-evident. It is 
only necessary to make this implicit 
contradiction manifest in explicit 
terms, if it is not already manifest. 
The well-known nonsense verses : 

Bear me straight meandering ocean 
Where thy stagnant currents roll : 



and these : 

Some boys a-skating went. 
All en a summers day, 

The ice broke in, 

They ail fell in, 
. The rest, they ran away ; 

furnish an illustration of the con- 
tradiction in ideas made most ob- 
viously absurd in terms. It is a 
rule of logic that two contradictory 
propositions cannot both be true, 
or both false. Whoever violates 
the principle of contradiction in 
affirming or denying something vio- 
lates this rule. Whenever, there- 
fore, you are obliged either to af- 
firm some postulate of reason or to 
violate this rule, you have a sure 
and infallible character of self-evi- 
dent truth which marks the pre- 
sence of a first principle of meta- 
physical certitude. And in like 
manner, the necessary and demon- 
strated consequences and conclu- 
sions deduced from first principles, 
since they are virtually contained 
in these, cannot be denied without 
violating the same principle of con- 
tradiction and implying an absurd 
affirmation and denial of the same 
thing in the same sense. There- 
fore, in analytic mathematics, where 
the demonstrations are the most 
rigorous possible, the reductio ad 
absurdum is continually employed.* 
In all judgments of metaphysical 
certitude, the agreement or the dis- 
agreement of two ideas is either 
self-evident or evident by demon- 
stration. This may be illustrated by 
an example from grammar. There 
is a line in Horace which is famous 
among school-boys : Triste lupus in 



* " Principium contradictions est veluti lydius 
lapis ad analytica judicia internoscenda. Ea enim 
in hoc numero haberi debent, quae nisi vera essent, 
idem simul oporteretaffirmarietnegari " The prin- 
ciple of contradiction is a kind of lydian stone by 
which analytical judgments can be discerned. All, 
namely, are to be considered as having this quality, 
which must either be true, or else the same thing 
must be at once both affirmed or denied. Lib., 
/>/. Phil., vol. i. p. 224. 



The Reality and the Criterion of Certitude. 



stabulo A sad thing is a wolf in the 
sheepfold. In the delightful story, 
Tom Brown s School- Days at Rugby, 
a very amusing incident is told, 
which seems likely to have actual- 
ly happened to some real boy, it is 
so very natural. Dr. Arnold hav- 
ing come unexpectedly to hear the 
recitation of a class, an unlucky 
idler was called up on the passage 
in Horace where the triste lupus is 
found. He began, in consterna- 
tion, " Triste lupus, the sorrowful 
wolf " but proceeded no further 
on that day, for a sudden box on 
the ears laid him level with the 
floor, and the doctor, ashamed of 
his sudden passion, dismissed the 
class to the playground, where the 
hero of the morning was ever after 
known as ** the sorrowful wolf." It 
is a rule of Latin grammar that an 
adjective must agree with its sub- 
stantive in gender. Therefore triste^ 
a neuter adjective, cannot agree 
with lupus, a masculine noun. Any 
boy who knew the meaning of the 
separate words in the sentence and 
their declinations, and the rules of 
grammar, would perceive imme- 
diately the incongruity of triste to 
lupus as the predicate of a subject, 
and the necessity of supplying a 
neuter noun understood, to agree 
with the neuter adjective. All ana- 
lytic judgments have an analogical 
resemblance to this one, and surely 
it must be plain to every one who 
can . reason at all, that whoever 
questions the principle of contradic- 
tion and the metaphysical certainty 
of which it is a touchstone, de- 
serves to be laid on a level with 
" the sorrowful wolf " of Rugby. 

In respect to those general laws 
which are matters of physical cer- 
titude, the principle of the suffi- 
cient reason is in the same attitude 
as the principle of contradiction is 
towards the truths of purely ra- 



tional science. This is the realm 
of natural and experimental philo- 
sophy. This kind of science be- 
gins from the intuition of sensible 
facts, which must be investigated 
by the aid of experience and a suf- 
ficient enumeration to justify an 
induction, in order that reason may 
be enabled to determine their suf- 
ficient reason by a general, synthe- 
tic judgment. The principle of the 
sufficient reason follows immediate- 
ly from the principle of contradic- 
tion. It means simply that what- 
ever has being is what it is, either 
by virtue of its own essence or na- 
ture, or by some determination pro- 
ceeding from another being distinct 
from itself. Ex nihilo nihil fit. You 
cannot get something out of noth- 
ing. Deny the principle of the suf- 
ficient reason, and you make no- 
being equal to being, contrary to 
the very intrinsic character of be- 
ing which absolutely excludes all 
that is negative of itself, and is 
manifested in the statement of the 
principle of contradiction that you 
cannot deny what you affirm, or af- 
firm what you deny. 

In the early age of Italian art 
Giotto's O was famous, and it be- 
came a proverbial saying, " As 
round as Giotto's O." Suppose,, 
now, that Giotto undertook the il- 
lumination of a Missal. Any one 
initial O would be perfectly round, 
and have its diameters equal. The 
sufficient reason is, that this equa- 
lity belongs to the essence of a 
circle. One who would deny this 
must assert that a perfectly round 
O is both a circle and not a circle- 
But this O has other determinations 
which do not come from the nature 
of rotundity as such, and are not 
essential to a circle. It is on a 
particular page, it has definite di- 
mensions, color, and ornamenta- 
tion. The sufficient reason for the 



20 



The Reality and the Criterion of Certitude. 



existence of this particular letter 
are the parchment, the coloring 
matter, the form of decoration in- 
vented by the artist, the purpose 
for which he exercised his art^; and 
the efficient cause, the artist's ac- 
curate and masterly hand, the in- 
strument of his mind and will. If 
any one denies that these are the 
sufficient reason of the particular 
determinations added to the es- 
sence of the circle, the cause why 
the letter appears as it does to the 
eye, he affirms that nothing has 
been done or exists,- which is a 
contradiction in terms. The prin- 
ciple of causality is nothing more 
than the principle of the sufficient 
reason, with a restriction to those 
cases where something is actually 
effected by the operation of an ac- 
tive agent, producing a term dis- 
tinct from itself. The idea of cause 
is contained in the idea of effect. 
Volition implies a wilier, thought a 
thinker, attraction or repulsion an 
active force in matter, movement a 
mover. A song sung requires a 
singer of the song. No singer, no 
song ; no speaker, no speech ; no 
painter, no picture. In respect to 
nature in general, it is an axiom 
that all observed facts have a suffi- 
cient reason, that the sufficient rea- 
son is to be sought for by investi- 
gating the laws of nature, and that 
these laws are constant. The exis- 
tence of a particular law is ascer- 
tained by a sufficient induction. 

As an illustration, we may take 
Kepler's laws, quoting for the 
purpose from the excellent little 
manual entitled Fourteen Weeks in 
Descriptive Astronomy : 

" Tycho Brahe erected a magni- 
ficent observatory, and made many 
rare and beautiful instruments. 
Clad in his robes of state, he 
watched the heavens with the in- 
telligence of a philosopher and the 



splendor of a king. His indefati- 
gable industry and zeal resulted in 
the accumulation of a vast fund 
of astronomical knowledge, which, 
however, he lacked the wit to ap- 
ply to any further advance in 
science. His pupil, Kepler, saw 
these facts, and in his fruitful 
mind they germinated into three 
great truths, called Kepler's laws. 
These constitute almost the sum of 
astronomical knowledge, and form 
one of the most precious conquests 
of the human mind. They are the 
three arches of the bridge over 
which astronomy crossed the gulf 
between the Ptolemaic arid Coper- 
nican systems." 

These laws are: i. Planets re- 
volve in elliptical orbits around the 
sun, which is placed at one of the 
foci. 2. A line connecting the 
centre of the earth with the centre 
of the sun, passes over equal spaces 
in equal times. 3. The squares of 
the times of revolution of the 
planets about the sun are propor- 
tional to the cubes of their mean 
distances from the sun. When his 
work, which had consumed the 
labor of seventeen years, was ac- 
complished, Kepler exclaimed : 
" Nothing holds me ! The die is 
cast. The book is written, to be 
read now or by posterity, I care 
not which. It may well wait a 
century for a reader, since God has 
waited six thousand years for an 
observer." 

The nature of moral evidence 
and moral certitude is sufficiently 
illustrated in this very same in- 
stance of Kepler's laws. Their 
truth is assented to with a firm 
and certain adhesion of the mind, 
by all those who have not actually 
mastered their physical and mathe- 
matical demonstration, on account 
of the testimony of astronomers. 
We receive readily and habitually, 



The Reality and the Criterion of Certitude. 



21 



on a similar authority, a great num- 
ber of facts and truths which are 
really astounding to our reason and 
imagination. The greatest part of 
our knowledge of our own world, 
and of the universe, all our know- 
ledge of history, and, in general, 
our knowledge of everything which 
we do not know by the direct con- 
tact of our own faculties with the 
objects known, comes to us in the 
same way, by testimony and human 
authority, manifested to our minds 
by moral evidence, and capable of 
measurement in respect to its cer- 
titude, only by the external crite- 
rion. 

Everything, therefore, which we 
have been endeavoring to explain 
concerning the reality and certi- 
tude of our human and rational 
cognition, is completely exemplified 
in this one instance of Kepler's 
astronomical discoveries and their 
incorporation into common and 
popular science. The single and 
particular facts were observed by 
him as objects of sensible and in- 
tellectual intuition. His own iden- 
tity as the basis of the continuity of 
his thoughts, the operations of his 
own rnind in observing, reasoning, 
remembering, and reflecting during 
the long period of seventeen years, 
were known to him by conscious- 
ness, and his philosophical certi- 
tude was ascertained and verified 
to himself by the application of the 
internal criterion. The purely ra- 
tional truths which were the ra- 
tional basis of his geometrical 
and arithmetical calculations were 
known to him by ideal intuition 
and demonstration. The analyti- 
cal process of induction disclosed 
to him the three general laws 
mentioned above, in which is de- 
clared, by a synthetical judgment 
applied to all the planets, the suffi- 
cient reason of all the observed 



facts concerning their orbital revo- 
lution around the sun. Finally, 
his authority, corroborated by that 
of other astronomers, and accepted 
by the common sense of men as 
sufficient, furnishes an external 
criterion of certitude to those who 
are unable or unwilling to make a 
personal investigation of the physi- 
cal evidence, justifying their belief 
in these laws without danger or 
fear of error, and reasonably ex- 
cluding doubt. 

We may also conveniently in 
this place explain what is meant 
by the terms analysis and synthe- 
sis, which are so frequently used, 
and often, we fear, without any dis- 
tinct notion of their true significa- 
tion. Analysis is a Greek term, of 
which the English word unloosing 
is an almost literal counterpart, as 
it is an exact translation. It de- 
notes a disentangling, distinguish- 
ing process, by which a universal 
and elementary principle is liberat- 
ed from its surroundings and ad- 
juncts, in a manner analogical to 
the liberation, for instance, of oxy- 
gen from its combination with hy- 
drogen in water. In analyzing, we 
prescind from particulars, and are 
intent upon a geperal idea. Kep- 
ler was following the analytical 
method, while he was disengaging 
the thread of his theory from the 
complex multitude of observed 
facts and computations, and pur- 
suing his induction up to a simple 
and general law, the ellipticity of 
planetary orbits. 

Synthesis is a binding together. 
A general principle is taken at the 
outset of the process of investiga- 
tion or exposition as the rule of the 
co-ordination of particulars, and ap- 
plied to one thing after another; as 
when you select and bind together 
out of a heap of bank-notes all 
those of a particular denomination. 



22 



Ike Reality and the Criterion of Certitude. 



Thus, the laws of Kepler which 
were obtained by analysis were 
converted into synthetical judg- 
ments. The orbits of planets are 
elliptical, is a general law. It is 
applied to all the planets, defining 
that the orbit of Mercury, the orbit 
of Venus, the orbits of all the other 
planets are elliptical, and that they 
are thus bound together in unity 
and order to their common centre, 
the sun. The analytical and syn- 
thetical methods are both vaiid and 
both necessary. So also are the 
deductive and inductive methods 
of reasoning, rational philosophy, 
and that which is based on ex- 
perimental knowledge. It is a 
futile and narrow assertion that 
there is any opposition between 
these different parts and various 
methods of science, and the notion 
that one should be esteemed and 
cultivated to the disparagement and 
neglect of the other is on a par 
with local and partisan prejudices 
and the whims of children. Macau- 
lay, in that part of his history of 
the reign of Charles II. in which 
he describes the state of science in 
England and enumerates the dis- 
tinguished scientists who flourished 
therein, during the latter part of 
the seventeenth century, makes the' 
following just remarks, in his own 
felicitous style, about Sir Isaac 
Newton : " The glory of these men, 
eminent as they were, is cast into 
the shade by the transcendent 
lustre of one immortal name. In 
Isaac Newton two kinds of intel- 
lectual power, which have little in 
common, and which are not often 
found together in a very high de- 
gree of vigor, but which neverthe- 
less are equally necessary in the 
mo>t sublime departments of phy- 
sics, were united as they have 
never been united before OF since. 
Thjre may have been minds as 



happily constituted as his for the 
cultivation of pure mathematical 
science ; there may have been 
minds as happily constituted for 
the cultivation of science purely 
experimental; but in no other mind 
have the demonstrative faculty and 
the inductive faculty co-existed in 
such supreme excellence and per- 
fect harmony." 

There is some exaggeration in 
this language, and there are other 
statements in connection with it 
in which we cannot concur. The 
eminent literary man who employ- 
ed it was a man of modern opinions, 
and shared with his contemporaries 
in the superficial estimate of pure- 
ly rational philosophy which is 
common. It is precisely for this 
reason that this quotation from him 
is especially apposite to our pur- 
pose. It is a glowing eulogium on 
man's rational nature, a tribute to 
the supereminent glory in which 
great thinkers who have been 
genuine lovers and seekers after 
truth, who have enlarged the 
bounds of real knowledge and real 
science, are invested by the verdict 
of mankind. Its philosophical just- 
ness is equal to its rhetorical ele- 
gance, and the leading idea con- 
tained in it is capable of a wide 
extension, and an application to 
philosophy in general as well as to 
the department of physics. 

The human faculties are all con- 
nected together in harmony, and 
so are their specific objects, and 
all the five primary sciences into 
which universal natural science is 
divided. They are provinces of 
one realm, distinct but co-ordinate 
parts of one great structure, and all 
stand upon the same basis. You 
cannot establish or undermine the 
foundation of one of them, without 
strengthening or weakening that of 
all the others. The universe is 



The Reality and the Criterion of Certitude. 



real, knowledge is real, and ex- 
tends potentially to all being. 
Science is universal, for the imme- 
diate object of the intellect is the 
universal, and it naturally seeks to 
know all tilings in their deepest 
causes. It is universal ratios and 
essences which are individuated 
in material and immaterial things, 
in bodies and spirits, in the ob- 
jects of sense, and in each in- 
divisible I of separate persons. 
Thus, sense, consciousness, intel- 
ligence, reflection, rational dis- 
cursion, immediate intuition and 
mediate demonstration, induction, 
and belief on credible testimony, 
all concur in laying the founda- 
tions, building the walls, and erect- 
ing the towers of the grand edifice 
of universal science. The grand 
idea which pervades this solid, vast, 
and lofty structure is one, and it is 
the great glory of the human race, 
a monument of man's rational na- 
ture, of that intelligence which is 
the distinguishing, characteristic 
mark of his species among all the 
living beings of the earth, which 
makes him its lord and sovereign, 
and worthy of alliance with angels. 
The honor cheerfully paid to men 
of high intelligence is honor to 
man's rational nature as exhibited 
in these perfect specimens. Let 
us be permitted to quote again 
from Macaulay, who in another 
portion of his history has added 
one more rich gem to the coronal 
of praise with which he has crown- 
ed the brow of Newton. He is 
describing the convention which 
transferred the crown of England 
to William and Mary, and enume- 
rating the leading members of the 
House of Commons. After com- 
pleting the list of names now al- 
most forgotten among men, he goes 
on to another which will not be 
forgotten, even when the famous 



traveller from New Zealand shall 
have published his sketches of the 
ruins of London : 

" One other name must be men- 
tioned ; a name then known only 
to a small circle of philosophers, 
but now pronounced beyond the 
Ganges and the Mississippi with 
reverence exceeding that which is 
paid to the memory of the greatest 
warriors and rulers. Among the 
crowd of silent members appeared 
the majestic forehead and pensive 
face of Isaac Newton. The renown- 
ed university on which his genius 
had already begun to impress a pe- 
culiar character, still plainly dis- 
cernible after a lapse of a hundred 
and sixty years, had sent him to 
the convention ; and he sat there ; 
in his modest greatness, the unob- 
trusive but unflinching friend of 
civil and religious freedom." 

How shall we explain this ex- 
ceeding reverence won simply by 
thinking and writing? And, we 
may also ask, how shall we explain 
the exceeding reverence with which 
the man who wrote these words 
was laid in Westminster Abbey by 
the most illustrious of his com- 
'peers, and mourned by multitudes 
in both hemispheres ? Why do we 
trace his history from infancy, and 
read the story of his mental develop- 
ment from its earliest stages to its 
final result with so deep an interest ? 
It is the spontaneous homage of 
our rational nature to itself. The 
very name of man, in its Sanscrit 
original, means " the thinker." Our 
highest natural glory and our chief 
natural delight is in intelligence, 
and that in proportion to the pure 
intellectuality of its operations. 
The man who helps us to think 
and to know, is the one for whom 
we have the most gratitude, be- 
cause he has given us pleasure of 
the most elevated kind, and whom 



The Reality and the Criterion of Certitude. 



we most delight to honor, because 
lie exalts our own rational nature 
in our own estimation. It is a 
well-known truism that the curious 
mind of man seeks to penetrate the 
deepest causes of things. The 
more deeply our intellect can read 
within the numerous, complex, and 
brilliant phenomena of the universe 
and the dark shadows which ac- 
company them, the greater is our 
pleasure. The more deeply a 
great thinker penetrates into the 
sufficient reasons, the causes, the 
hidden essence of things, the fur- 
ther lie can extend the adequation 
between mind and reality, the 
more extensive and perfect the 
similitude of real being which he 
can reflect from the mirror of ideal- 
ity, or project upon the canvas of 
imagination, the more does he ap- 
proach to our type of the perfec- 
tion of humanity, and command 
our willing homage as a great po- 
tentate and ruler in the intellec- 
tual realm. That which man de- 
sires most of all, when he is not 
stupefied in the slumber of his 
senses, is to know. He has questions 
to ask which leave him restless 
while they are unanswered. He 
desires to know what is in this 
wonderful and illimitable sensible 
world which surrounds him, the 
inorganic, organized, and animated 
entities of creation ; what has been 
done by his fellow-men since the 
human race began on the earth; 
what may be anticipated to take 
place in future times, and what is 
the origin and consummation of all. 
Unsatisfied with all he can dis- 
cover in this real world, he desires 
another imaginary world to be 
created for him, filled with simili- 
tudes of real beings. More than 
all, he desires to penetrate the 
depths of his own nature, to inves- 
tigate the world of mind, deeper 



and vaster than all the spaces of 
the stellar universe. Even in in- 
fancy, man, as says that chief of 
American humorists and true poet, 
Mr. Holmes, 

" Fucks his little thumb, 

With ' Whence am I here ?' and ' Wherefore did I 
come ?' " 

More than, all, the human mind 
seeks to know its primal light, the 
source of eternal truth, the cause 
of the universe, the future which is 
to follaw the short present life. It 
is not 'possible that it should be 
satisfied with the answer of those 
who, like an owl blinking with a 
ridiculous look of wisdom, gaze in- 
to the face of the questioner with 
portentous solemnity and mutter 
"unknowable." Much less can it 
degrade itself so far as to bury all 
its high thoughts and aspirations in 
the mud of materialism. Surely, 
the pride of reason, glorying in the 
rights and liberties of human intel- 
ligence, in the conquests of science, 
claiming equality with the gods, 
and all the prerogatives of self-sov- 
ereignty, cannot stoop so low as 
this, and sell out all its dignity for 
the mean privilege of existing as the 
brutes, after the manner of the 
vanquished Romans, bartering with 
Brennusand his barbarians. The in- 
fallible criterion of truth in the au- 
thority of the church, and the certi- 
tude of Catholic faith, were rejected 
as injurious to the internal crite- 
rion and the certitude of private judg- 
ment. The criterion of divine re- 
velation and the certitude of divine 
faith have been rejected for the 
same reason. Rational philosophy 
was proposed as a substitute for 
religion. The surrender of this 
last citadel of truth and human 
dignity is a total abnegation of the 
rational nature of man and of all 
his rights and prerogatives which 
are founded upon it. V<z victis ! 



The Jews of Rome in Christian Times. 



Woe to the vanquished defenders 
of the capitol of man's intellectual 
kingdom ! may be said with more 
disgraceful and mournful meaning 
than was resonant in the scornful 
words of Brennus to the subdued 
remnant of the Roman senate and 
army. Those who thus abjure their 
intelligent nature by the philosophy 
of nescience and the " gospel of 
dirt," are only fit to be slaves. 
They avow that they belong to that 
class of human beings whom Aris- 
totle regarded, as intended by na- 
ture for slavery, because they did 
not possess enough of reason and 
knowledge to make them fit for any 
higher destination. 

Those nobler and still undaunt- 
ed spirits who scorn such a base 
surrender, who retain their recti- 
tude of mind and will, especially 
such as still possess that precious 
privilege of youth, to be unharden- 
ed by prejudice and untainted with 
selfish interests, may perhaps find 
that there is succor for the men- 



aced citadel of rational philosophy 
from an unexpected quarter. That 
genuine Catholic philosophy which 
contains all the best wisdom of the 
ancients, purified and completed, 
together with that of the great 
sages of Christendom, and which 
formerly conquered all sophistry 
and error ; cast out, exiled, and vi- 
tuperated in modern times; may 
be the Camillas who will rescue 
and restore the citadel and city of 
truth. 

We have endeavored to defend 
and vindicate the rational nature 
of man, and the fundamental prin- 
ciples of rational philosophy which 
are the foundations of all science 
in general, and of philosophical cer- 
titude. This is to prepare the way 
for the vindication of natural theo- 
logy ; and of the basis of the reveal- 
ed theology, which rests its claim 
in the evidences furnished by ra- 
tional philosophy and rational re- 
ligion, in connection with testimony 
and historical facts. 



THE JEWS OF ROME IN CHRISTIAN TIMES. 

11 According to the Gospel, indeed, they are enemies for your sake : but according to election, they are 
most dear for the sake of the fathers." Romans xi. 28. 



A REMARKABLE work recently 
published in England by the Rev. 
H e n r y F o r rn b y , o n The Primitive Re- 
ligion of the City of Rome, attempts 
to prove that the early monotheism, 
of which there are indications in 
many ancient writers, was origi- 
nally derived from the Hebrews 
through the connection of Numa 
Pompilius with the school of the 
witnesses of the Lord God of hea- 
ven in Jerusalem. It is not impro- 
bable that at some earlier age than 
that of the Machabees Rome and 



Jerusalem were brought into a phi- 
losophical and religious intercourse, 
which was to end in the transfer of 
the seat of divine authority on 
earth from one city to the other, 
where it shall remain until the end 
of the world. The Jews, who were 
scattered throughout every nation 
and inhabited every large city in 
such numbers as to excite the as- 
tonishment of Strabo, had a supe- 
rior mission to perform in impart- 
ing the knowledge they possessed 
to all mankind (Isa. xliii. 10), " for 



26 



The Jews of Rome in Christian Times. 



salvation is of the Jews." They 
were particularly numerous in 
Rome, where, as we have said in a 
former article, they were favored 
by Augustus, who settled a large 
colony of them in the Transtiber- 
ine quarter of the city about the 
Vatican and Janiculum hills, and 
allowed them the free exercise of 
their religion, distinct cemeteries 
for their dead, and the practice of 
the Mosaic law. This emperor 
used even to send considerable 
sums through them to Jerusalem 
to have sacrifices offered in his be- 
half; and the number of these Jews 
must have been large when Jose- 
phus tells us that as many as eight 
thousand attached themselves to 
an embassy which appealed to the 
emperor against the administration 
of King Herod (Ant., xvii. n). 
They had established the Syna- 
gogue of the Libertines at Jerusa- 
lem ; and since there was not at 
this period a single religion, except 
the Jewish, which was felt by the 
more enlightened part of its pro- 
fessors to be real, we can under- 
stand the measure of success which 
attended the efforts of the better 
class of Hebrews to spread the 
knowledge of the true God among 
the Gentiles and inspire respect for 
their own belief. In this way many 
pagans professed the monotheism 
of the Jews, adopted their moral 
code, abstained from flesh-meat of- 
fered to idols, and abandoned other 
heathen practices. These were 
styled Proselytes of the Gate, and 
were quite numerous at Rome; but 
those who submitted to circumci- 
sion, fully observed the law of Mo- 
ses, and were known as Proselytes 
of Justice were comparatively rare 
(Alzog, vol. i. p. 120). The num- 
ber of Jews residing in Rome about 
the thirteenth year of the reign of 
Augustus, which corresponds with 



the beginning of the Christian era, 
has been estimated by statistical an- 
tiquarians at considerably upwards 
of twelve thousand. They bore, 
however, but a small proportion to 
the entire population of the city, 
which was probably about two mil- 
lions, nearly a half of whom were 
slaves. Between this time and the 
arrival of St. Paul the calamities 
and dissensions of Judea caused 
the emigration of large bodies of 
its inhabitants, many of whom took 
up their abode in the capital of the 
empire, so that in the reign of Cali- 
gula, A.D. 37-41, the greater por- 
tion of the city beyond the Tiber 
a healthy and delightful locality 
was occupied by Jews. A close 
and constant communication was 
kept up between these Jewish resi- 
dents and their fellow-countrymen 
in Palestine by the exigencies of 
commerce, in which the sons of Ja- 
cob became more and more engross- 
ed as their national hopes declined, 
and by the custom of repairing regu- 
larly to the sacred festivals at Jerusa- 
lem. It may be that some of those 
"strangers of Rome, Jews, and pro- 
selytes" who are mentioned in the 
Acts (ii. 10, n) as present at Je- 
rusalem on the day of Pentecost 
carried back the earliest tidings of 
the new doctrine, or the Gospel 
may have first reached the impe- 
rial city through those who were 
scattered abroad to escape the per- 
secution that followed on the 
death of Stephen (Acts viii. 4; xi. 
19). As time advanced better-in- 
structed teachers arrived, the chief 
of whom was St. Peter, who reach- 
ed Rome in the spring of the year 
42, in the reign of Claudius. Faith- 
ful to the understanding with the 
other apostles that the principal 
charge of laboring (but not exclu- 
sively) among the Jews was assum- 
ed by him, he went immediately to 



The Jews of Rome in Christian Times. 



27 



reside where a large body of his 
countrymen was collected, and 
dwelt in the house of the two Jew- 
ish converts, Aquila and Priscilla, 
on the Janiculum, near the present 
church of San Pietro in Montorio 
(Gueranger, Ste. Ce'cile). The in- 
structions of this apostle must have 
created considerable excitement in 
the Jewish colony, as we may 
judge by analogy from the relations 
given in the Acts. In A.D. 49 
Claudius " commanded all Jews to 
depart from Rome " on account of 
tumults connected with the preach- 
ing of Christianity, because, in the 
words of the Roman historian, 
" they excited an incessant dis- 
turbance, instigated by one Chres- 
tus." That quarrels about the 
Messiaship of Christ and the com- 
motion caused by the rising Chris- 
tian community are meant by Sue- 
tonius is so obvious an explana- 
tion that no one disputes it. In 
this famous passage, JudaoS) im- 
pulsore Chresto, assidue tumultuantes, 
Roma expulit (In Claud, xxv.), the 
historian ascribes the dissensions 
between Jews and Christians (who 
were all considered Jews, the most 
part being originally such) to Christ, 
whose doctrines and character 
they regarded. We here see the 
carelessness and contempt with 
which a Gentile writer usually treat- 
ed what was called the superstition 
of the Jews. It was on this occa- 
sion that, as St. Peter was leaving 
Rome, he was detained by a re- 
proachful vision of our Lord on the 
spot where afterwards arose the 
oratory of D online Quo Vadis. 
Returning into the city, he betook 
himself to the house of the senator 
Pudens, of the gens Cornelia, to 
whom he was attached by the sa- 
cred ties of hospitality through 
his kinsman Cornelius, the Gentile 
convert and centurion in the Italic 



band at Csesarea. His former hosts, 
Aquila and Priscilla, went to Corinth, 
where they became acquainted with 
St. Paul and abode together; but 
their banishment cannot have been 
of long duration, for many Jews re- 
turned to Rome in the early part of 
the reign of Nero, which was mark- 
ed by clemency and peace. Among 
them were these two celebrated 
converts, and in the year 58, when 
St. Paul wrote his Epistle to the 
Romans, their house was a place of 
assembly for the Christians (Rom. 
xvi. 3). Aquila was a native of 
Pontus and a tent-maker by trade, 
a man of wealth and consideration. 
Priscilla, his wife, was probably 
the freed- woman of some great 
Roman lady, who, it is almost cer- 
tain, was no other than the wife of 
the senator Pudens, for that lady 
bore this name, as we learn from the 
acts of St. Praxedes. In the Acts of 
the Apostles and the Epistles hus- 
band and wife are always mentioned 
together, but the latter generally 
first, whence we might conclude that 
she was the more energetic, and 
perhaps, from her connection with 
a patrician family, the more influ- 
ential, of the two. The form Prisca 
is sometimes used, but such a vari- 
ation in a Roman name is not un- 
usual. A very ancient church on 
the Aventine, which is now known 
as Santa Prisca , and was long a 
cardinalitial title called Titulus 
Aquila et PriscillcE, marks the habi- 
tation of these two Jewish converts 
when they returned to Rome from 
the Claudian banishment, the Jews, 
at least those of the better class, 
not yet being constrained to reside 
in a particular part of the city. 
There are numerous passages in St. 
Paul's Epistle to the Romans which 
imply the presence at Rome of a 
large number of Jewish converts to 
Christianity. Of the names of 



28 



T/ie Jeivs of Rome in Christian Times. 



Christians given in the salutations 
at the end of tin's Epistle, although 
that of Mary is the only one 1 dis- 
tinctively Hebrew, Andronicus, Ju- 
nias, and Herodion are called St. 
Paul's "kinsmen," and must conse- 
quently have been of Jewish origin. 
Aquila and Priscilla were certainly 
Jews. The name Apelles was most 
commonly borne by Jews, as ap- 
pears from Horace; and if Aristo- 
bulus was one of the princes of the 
house of Herod, as seems likely, 
we have also in his household sev- 
eral Jewish converts. Rufus, of 
verse 13, if the same as the son of 
Simon the Cyrenean mentioned in 
Mark xv. 21, was also a Jew. But 
if some, and even a considerable 
number of Jews received the Gos- 
pel, the greater part obstinately re- 
mained outside of the church. When 
St. Paul reached Rome, about the 
year 62, the Christians were mainly 
converts from Gentilism, though 
many of them may previously have 
been Jewish proselytes. He invited 
the chief men among the Jews to 
come to him, and explained to them 
that though he was brought to 
Rome to answer charges made 
against him by the Jews in Pa- 
lestine, he had really done noth- 
ing disloyal to his ftrllow-country- 
men. The Roman Jews expressed 
themselves with evident reserve 
about the Christian community : 
" For as concerning this sect, we 
know that it is everywhere oppos- 
ed " (Acts xxviii. 22). The clos- 
ing chapter of the Acts vividly 
brings before us the final reproba- 
tion of the Jews in the person of 
their representatives at the seat of 
empire,* now become the seat of re- 
ligion also and the heiress of Jeru- 
salem. A day being appointed, a 
large number came expressly to 
hear St. Paul expound his belief; 
and from morning till evening he 



bore witness to the kingdom of 
God, persuading them concerning 
Jesus; "and some believed the 
things that were said, and some 
did not believe," and these were 
the more numerous. Then said 
the apostle : " This salvation of God 
is sent to the Gentiles, and they 
will hear it. And when he had 
said these things, the Jews went 
out from him, and had much dis- 
cussion among themselves." When 
St. Paul was brought to Rome he 
was allowed to dwell by himself in 
private lodgings with a soldier who 
kept him, and the house in which 
the impressive scene took place be- 
tween the prisoner in chains for 
Christ and his obdurate fellow- 
countrymen is now the subterra- 
nean church of Santa Maria in Via 
Lata, in the modern Corso, which 
derives its name from having been 
erected on the broad highway 
that in the apostle's time ran 
through the southern extremity of 
the Campus Martius and beside 
the magnificent new Septa of Julius 
Caesar. 

The Christians passed at first in 
the eyes of heathens, and especially 
of the Roman authorities, for a 
Jewish sect formed through some 
internal schism in the bosom of 
Judaism. As such they would 
only appear insignificant to the 
Romans, and in Rome, as elsewhere, 
the Jews were the first and bitter- 
est accusers of the Christians. 
"Since the days of the apostles," 
said Tertullian, "the synagogue 
has always been a torrent of perse- 
cution." When Nero, terrified at 
the popular hatred excited by his 
conflagration of the city, cast about 
him for victims to bear the odium, 
it was probably Jewish influence 
which suggested the Christians, 
for Nero's wife, Poppaea Sabina, 
who then ruled him, was a proselyte, 



The Jeivs of Rome in Christian Times. 



and he was himself surrounded by 
Jewish soothsayers and magicians. 
Thus began the first general per- 
secution, and on June 29, A.D. 
67, SS. Peter and Paul were put to 
death. 

We do not hear much of the 
Jews in Christian writers, except in 
a controversial way, during the era 
of persecutions, although Judaiz- 
ing Christians, and heretics infect- 
ed with Jewish errors, sometimes 
troubled the church in Rome; such 
were the Ccelicolse, the Cerinthiani, 
Ebionaei, Nazaraei, Elcesaei, and 
Samssei. By the 63d of the Ca- 
nons of the Apostles clerks who 
went into the synagogues to pray 
were deposed and laymen were 
excommunicated. By other canons 
in the same collection ecclesiastical 
censures were imposed on those 
who fasted on the Lord's day, ob- 
served Jewish feasts, or gave oil 
for consumption in synagogues; 
and since "evil communications 
corrupt good morals," the clergy 
and laity were forbidden to eat un- 
leavened bread with Jews, or to 
have any very intimate relations with 
them, or to consult with them in 
sickness; and the danger which 
lurked in association with the Jews 
is exemplified at great length by 
St. John Ciirysostom in his six 
homilies In Judceos. But while 
warning the faithful against the 
danger of too close an intimacy 
with this misguided people, the 
Roman pontiffs were always ready 
to enlighten them and to amelior- 
ate their temporal condition, which 
became more and more distressing 
as time wore on and the successive 
invasions of cruel and rapacious 
barbarians broke down the fabric 
of Roman civilization. We find 
a few scattered notices of Jews in 
Rome under Theodoric, King of 
Italy, in the beginning of the sixth 



century, when two disputes at 
Rome between Jews and Christians 
were settled by this Arian prince 
(Cassiodorus, Var.^ iii. cap. xlv.and 
iv. cap. xliii.) One of the matters re- 
garded with peculiar jealousy by 
the popes was the right of Jews to 
hold Christians in slavery, and at 
their instigation the earlier Chris- 
tian emperors made various enact- 
ments restraining or entirely abol- 
ishing this shameful servitude, lest, 
as says St. Gregory the First (540- 
590), the true religion should be 
degraded by the subjection of its 
followers to the reprobate Jews. 
But if this great pope showed him- 
self a strenuous advocate of the 
legal right of a Christian to his 
freedom against the Jew who would 
irregularly hold him in bondage, 
he was also a powerful patron of 
the Jews against every species of 
injustice and oppression, as we see 
by his letters, and particularly by 
one to Fantinus, the proctor at 
Palermo, and to Victor, bishop of 
the same city, concerning the Jew- 
ish synagogues and dwellings at- 
tached which had all been wrong- 
fully seized, since by a law- of the 
Theodosian Code (De Jiidceis, 1. xxv. 
and xxvii.) the Jews were allowed 
to retain their synagogues, >ut only 
forbidden to erect new ones.* 
Another letter to the same proctor 
shows us that the pope's tribunal 
was open equally to Jew and 
Christian, for one Jamniis, having 
personally appealed to it at Rome 
to obtain the return of his written 
bond, fraudulently detained by his 
creditors after his debt had been 
satisfied by the sale of his ship and 
chattels, had justice promptly done 
him. St. Gregory decided that the 

* St. Gregory's authority over Sicily was not 
merely spiritual, but the Roman Church having 
immense possessions there, the popes exercised a 
temporal supervision, if not full sovereignty, over 
a greater part of the island. 



The Jeivs of Rome in Christian Times. 



slaves of Jews, on becoming Chris- 
tians, should be entitled to their 
liberty. He commended the bishop 
of Cagliari, in Sardinia, for protect- 
ing the Jews .against the machi- 
nations of a certain fanatic, and 
blamed the bishop of Terracina for 
oppressing them. The influence 
of this celebrated pope was very 
far-reaching in the whole of the 
middle ages in regard to the treat- 
ment of the Jews who lived in the 
States of the Church, and the almost 
exceptional condition of the Jews 
in Rome,' and the amount of liberty 
they enjoyed there during so many 
centuries, were due in a great mea- 
sure to his mild and liberal disposi- 
tion, perfected by a legal training 
and the piety of a saint. He would 
not, however, relax the rigid rule, 
made by one of his predecessors, not 
to hold any personal communica- 
tion with Jews, because they often 
sought to corrupt by costly presents 
the members of the papal house- 
hold, that the laws against them 
might not be executed. Hinc est, 
says John the Deacon, and this 
pope's biographer, quod sicut a 
majoribus traditur, et usque ad tem- 
pora nostra, dum adhuc pubescere- 
mus oculis nostris conspeximus. con- 
snetudo vctus obtinuit ut omncs HHus 
super stitionis homines quantum cun- 
que pulcherrima merdmonia deiulis- 
sentj nunquam pontificalibus alloquiis 
fruercntur, nunquam obiiitibus aposto- 
lic is potirentur, sed extra velum Ion- 
gissimccporticus, non quidem in scam- 
nis, sed in mannoreo pammento se- 
dentcs, susccpta pretia numerabant, 
ne videlicet viderentur aliqtdd de 
manu pontijicis accepisse (Vit. S. 
Greg,, Jib. iv, cap. 1.) 

Soon after the pontificate of St. 
Gregory the Great the Jews disap- 
pear almost from the annals of 
Rome, and their number was re- 
duced in a few centuries to that 



mere handful found there by 
Benjamin of Tudela. Once only 
during this long period do we hear 
of an uprising of the Roman popu- 
lace against them, which was in the 
year 1020 on the occasion of a 
frightful earthquake. On the ac- 
cession of every new pope the 
Jews did homage and sang hymns 
in their own language, and as a re- 
turn their Schola was one of the 
seventeen guilds or companies 
which received a gratuity of bread 
and wine and other delicacies from 
the palace on certain festivals. 
Judceis viginti solidos provesinorum, 
says Cenci in the Or do Romanus. 
The earliest account that we have 
of the ceremony performed by the 
Jews when the new pope went in 
solemn cavalcade to take possession 
of the Lateran dates from the 
pontificate of Calixtus II., in 1119. 
In 1165 the Jews are described as 
going out to meet Alexander III. 
on his return to Rome cum signi- 
.feris, stratoribus, scrinariis, jiidicibus, 
clero, etc., de more legem suam de- 
ferentes in brachiis (Muratori, Ant. 
Ital., torn. i. p. 896). This pre- 
sentation of a copy of the law, 
which was elegantly written and 
richly bound, is a happy thought, 
suggested, perhaps, by the expres- 
sion of St. Augustine that the Jews 
are Christianorum bibliopolce et 
librarii. Besides a copy of the 
law, which was a tribute to the 
spiritual character of the pope, the 
Jews, to acknowledge his temporal 
dominion, presented annually in 
feudal style to the Camera Apostolica 
one pound of pepper and t\vo pounds 
of cannel wood rare articles in the 
middle ages, and which indicate 
the traffic of the Roman Jews with 
the East. For some centuries the 
Jews stood bareheaded on Monte 
Giordano, near where the modern 
Gabrielli palace is built, to offer 



The Jcivs of Rome in Cliristian Times. 



their congratulations to the new 
pope going to take possession of 
his SCL -juxta palatium chromacii 
Judtzi faciunt laudem ; but in the 
year 1484 a less exposed and more 
convenient site was assigned to 
them by Pope Innocent VIII. 
within the enclosure of Castel San 
Angelo. Cumpapa^ says Burkhard, 
the pontifical master of ceremonies 
to this pope, pervenisset prope cas- 
trum St. Angeli se firmavit, et 
Judcei, qui ad inferior es merulas in 
angulo dicti castri versus plateam se 
cum ornatu, et lege sud receperant, 
ebtulerunt P.P. legem adorandam, 
ct honorandam verbis hebraicis in 
hanc ferine sententiam. Papam accla- 
mantes : Beatissime Pater : Nos 
viri hebraici nomine synagogue, nos- 
trcz supplicamus S. V. ut legem Mo- 
saicam, ab omnipotent Deo Moy- 
si pastor i nostro in mo tit e Sinai 
traditam, nobis confirmarc, et ap- 
probare dignemini, quemadmodiim 
alii Summi Pontifices S. V. prade- 
cessores illam confirmarunt, et appro- 
bar tint. Quibus respondit pontifex : 
Commendanius legem ; vestram autem 
observationem, et intellectum condem- 
namus, quia, quern venturum dicitis, 
ecclesia docet, et prcedicat venisse, 
Dominum nostrum Jesum Christum. 
A remarkable occurrence connect- 
ed with the Jews of Rome is the 
rise of a Jewish family to enor- 
mous wealth and power, its con- 
version to Christianity and bold 
attempt to seat one of its* mem- 
bers on the chair of St. Peter, which 
led to a lamentable schism. The 
name of the family that suddenly 
emerged from the synagogue in 
Trastevere to make a figure in the 
Church was Pierleoni. The great- 
grandfather (or, as some maintain, 
the grandfather) of the anti-Pope 
Anaclet II. was by birth a Jew 
the Rothschild of the middle ages 
whose financial ability made him 



useful to the Holy See, but whose 
great riches were accumulated, ac- 
cording to popular belief, by long- 
continued and oppressive usury.* 
In course of time he was baptiz- 
ed as Benedictus Christian its i.e., 
Benedict the convert and after his 
conversion married a lady of noble 
blood. Their descendants were 
admitted into the Roman patri- 
ciate and allied themselves by mar- 
riage to the best families of the 
city. His son Leo, who signs him- 
self Leo de Benedicto Christiano in a 
document of the year 1060, must 
have been a man of no ordinary 
character, if we judge by a metrical 
inscription composed for his tomb 
by the Archbishop Alfanus, in 
which his prudence, wisdom, 
wealth, and devotion to the Holy 
See are recorded. He was buried 
in San Alessio, on the Aventine. 
His son, Petrus Leonis, or Pier di 
Leone, gave to the family its dis- 
tinctive patronymic Pierleoni. The 
possessions of the Pierleoni within 
the city covered a great part of the 
modern Ghetto, and their fortified 
palace (now the dwelling of the 
Orsinis) was constructed on the 
site and out of the ruins of the 
theatre of Marcellus, large portions 
of which are still standing. By 
means of walls and towers along the 
river they commanded an extend- 
ed water-front, and controlled the 
bridge, even then called Pons Ju- 
dceorum, between the city and the 
island of the Tiber. Their special 
rivals were the Frangipanis, who 
held the Arch of Titus, the Coli- 
seum, and parts of the Palatine and 
Coelian hills. Petrus Leo died on 



* Cum inastiinabilem pecuniam multiplici 
corrogasset usitra C'-rcuincisiont'in baptismatis 
undo, dampnavit. Factus dignitate Rmnanus, 
dum genus et for mam regina prcunia donnt, al- 
ter nio tnatrimoniis omwes sibi nnbiles civitatis 
ascivit. says Arnulf in his indignant letter to the 
anti-pope's legate in France {Monument. Germ., 
xii. p. 711). 



The Jews of Rome in Christian Times. 



June 2, 1128, leaving several chil- 
dren ; and a marble sarcophagus 
with barbarous bas-reliefs and sculp- 
tures, which once contained his 
corpse, is now preserved, with 
other remains of the ancient basili- 
ca, in St. Paul's on the Ostian Way. 
One of his sons, who bore his own 
name, was sent to study at the 
University of Paris and after- 
wards became a monk of Cluny. 
While still young he was creat- 
ed a cardinal by Pope Paschal II. 
On the death of Honorius II., in 
1130, those members of the Sa- 
cred College who were solicitous 
for the church's good and sensi- 
tive to her honor, knowing the 
loose morals and ambitious design 
of Pier Leone, hastened to elect 
Cardinal Gregory Papareschi, who 
took the name of Innocent II.; 
but his opponent, relying upon the 
influence of his family and the 
number and daring of his adher- 
ents, who had been gained over by 
a lavish distribution of money, had 
himself elected by the remaining 
cardinals and assumed the name of 
Anaclet II. As the parly of the 
anti-pope was too powerful at the 
time for Innocent, he retired into 
France, and the schism was closed 
only by the death of Anaclet, who 
to the last kept possession of St. 
Peter's and Castel San Angelo, on 
January 25, 1138. St. Bernard 
of Clairvaux, who had come to 
Rome in the interests of the legi- 
timate pontiff, was the principal 
agent in persuading the followers 
of the late anti-pope to return to 
their allegiance, and even brought 
in person the chief men of the 
Pierleoni family to the feet cf In- 
nocent, who received them kindly 
and promoted them to high offices 
and honors. 

Shortly after the healing of this 
schism appeared at Rome one of 



the most remarkable Jews of the 
middle ages, Benjamin of Tudela, 
whose curious book of travels, be- 
ginning in Spain and continuing 
through many different countries, 
contains the fullest account extant 
of the number and state of the Jews 
in the twelfth century. He visited 
Rome some time between the years 
1159 and 1167, during the pontifi- 
cate of that good and wise pope, 
Alexander III. "A journey," he 
writes, " of six days from Lucca 
brings you to the large city of 
Rome, the metropolis of all Chris- 
tendom. The two hundred Jews 
who live there are very much re- 
spected and pay tribute to no one. 
Some of them are officers in the 
service of Pope Alexander, who is 
the principal ecclesiastic and head 
of the Christian Church. The 
principal of the many eminent 
Jews residing there are R. Daniel 
and R. Jechiel. The latter is one 
of the pope's officers, a handsome, 
prudent, and wise man, who fre- 
quents the pope's palace, being the 
steward of his household and min- 
ister of his private property. R. 
Jechiel is a descendant of R. Na- 
than, the author of the book Aruch 
and its comments. There are fur- 
ther at Rome R. Joab B. Rabbi 
R. Sh'lomo; R. Menachem, the 
president of the university; R. 
Jechiel, who resides in Trastevere ; 
and R. Benjamin B. R. Shabtai, 
o. b- ///."* 

In this short but important pas- 
sage, which gives more details 
about the Jews in Rome than can 
be found anywhere else from the 
eighth to the fourteenth century, 
the initials o. b. m. at the end 
stand for the words " of blessed 
memory," and denote that the per- 
son after whose name they are put 

* Asher, The Itinerary of Rabbi Benjamin of 
Tudela, p. 38. 



The Jews of Rome in Christian Times. 



33 



is dead ; B stands for Bar, or Ben, 
the rabbinical Hebrew for son ; R. 
is for rabbi, an epithet synony- 
mous with, and used exactly like, 
the English master, whereas the 
reduplicate form Rabbi R., Rabbi 
Rabbi, distinguishes a person who 
is in possession of the clerical 
or ministerial dignity in the con- 
gregation of the synagogue, or of 
such eminent talents as univer- 
sally to command the title of 
" master and teacher." While 
we appreciate the reasons why no 
mention is made of the renegade 
Pierleoni, whose Jewish origin was 
so opprobriously thrown up to 
them by some of the most celebrat- 
ed writers in Europe during the 
recent schismatical pontificate of 
Anaclet II.,* we are disappoint- 
ed in not finding here the name 
of Abraham B. Meir A ben 'Esra, 
a genius who commanded all the 
knowledge of his age, and had 
travelled in Africa and to India, 
and had composed works on astro- 
nomy and theology. He visited 
Rome as early as 1140, and died 
there in 1168. Being a native of 
Spain and such a distinguished 
Jew, he must have been absent 
from Rome when Tudela passed 
through that city, or he would cer- 
tainly have been noticed. R. Na- 
than, the author of the celebrat- 
ed dictionary Aruch (which Bux- 
torf, many centuries later, made 
such ungracious use of for his Lexi- 
con}, completed this work at Rome 
in the year 1101, and died there in 
1106. He came of a literary fami- 
ly, his father, R. Jechiel B. Abra- 
ham, being known for his liturgical 

* St. Bernard says, Judaicam sobolem sedem 
Petri occupasse (Ep. 139), and Walter, Archbishop 
of Ravenna, stigmatizes the attempt of those who, 
so soon after embracing the faith, presumed to as- 
pire to the highest dignity in the church, as Judai- 
CCK perfidies hceresis (apud Mansi, xxi. p. 434). 
Ordericus Vitalis, Arnulfus, and others deride the 
Hebrew cast of countenance of the Pierleoni. 

VOL. XXIX. 3 



poems and other compositions, to 
be found in the Roman Machasor, 
where he is styled R. Jechiel B. 
Abraham B.Joab. Aben 'Esra wrote 
a commentary on Job for R. Benja- 
min B. Joab of Rome, which is 
now in the Vatican Library (Cod. 
Vat. 84). The R. Joab B. Rabbi 
R. Sh'lomo of Tudela was grand- 
nephew to the famous Rabbi Na- 
than through his brother Abraham. 
This Rabbi Nathan's family has 
been traced at Rome down to the 
beginning of the fourteenth cen- 
tury. R. Menachem, the president 
of the university i.e., head of the- 
Schola Judceorum at Rome, is the 
same whose virtues and learning 
are commemorated in the verses of 
Aben 'Esra, and perhaps also the 
same who is mentioned in manu- 
script collections of rabbinical de- 
cisions as one of the Roman 
rabbis. The name of Shabtai, 
which Tudela notices, is confined 
prior to the sixteenth century al- 
most exclusively to Italy, where it 
was most common in Rome and 
Naples. It was a very distinguish- 
ed race, and the chief Roman Shab- 
tais of the middle ages are Shab- 
tai B. Moshe, author of liturgical 
poetry; Calonymos B. Shabtai, who 
figured at Worms in 1090 ; Benja- 
min B. Shabtai, a teacher the one 
mentioned by Tudela; Mathathia 
B. Shabtai, teacher of Talmudic 
law about 1250; Sh'lomo B. Shab- 
tai, a commentator of Sheeltoth of 
R. Acha ; Mordecai B. Shabtai, 
author of penitential prayers in the 
liturgy of the Roman synagogue ; 
Moshe B. Shabtai B. Menachem, 
noted for his great riches circa 
1340 ; Shabthai B. Levi B. Shabtai 
B. Elia B. Moshe Shabtai, copyist 
of the Vatican MS. No. 219 circa 
1394; finally, Elia Beer B. Shabtai, 
a physician of repute and large 
practice about the year 1420. In 



The Jews of Rome in Christian Times. 



the erudite work of Gaetano Ma- 
rim on the court physicians of 
Rome Z?^// Archiatri Pontificii 
many famous and really learned 
Jews are noticed, whose services 
as physicians and surgeons were 
employed by several popes, particu- 
larly Boniface IX., Martin V., and 
Paul III. At the period of the 
revival of letters the Jews were the 
best Oriental scholars in Europe, 
and many of them made a living 
at Rome under the protection of 
wealthy cardinals and prelates as 
copyists of Arabic and Hebrew 
manuscripts. The study of He- 
brew was always kept up at Rome 
by learned men in the church from 
the days of St. Jerome. Clement 
V., in the General Council of Vi- 
enne in 1311, ordered special at- 
tention to be given to Hebrew in 
the universities and colleges; and 
at the coronation of Alexander V. 
in 1409 the Epistle and Gospel 
were read aloud in Latin, Greek, 
and Hebrew. Elias, a famous Jew- 
ish critic (1472-1549), lived and 
studied some time at Rome ; in 
1481 the apostolic preacher on 
Good Friday was complimented by 
Pope Sixtus IV. for his knowledge 
of Hebrew, as shown by texts of 
Scripture and citations from rab- 
binical writers with which he had 
heavily loaded a sermon of two 
hours preached before the court. 
Under Alexander VI. Jochanan 
Aleman flourished at Rome. He 
was born in Constantinople, but 
was called to Italy by Pico de la 
Mirandola, for whom he wrote two 
works, Evl Haeda and Chescek 
Schelomoh. In 1483 we find the 
cabalist Abdias Sphornus at Rome 
and teaching Hebrew to Reuchlin ; 
and so great was the renown of 
the Roman court for the patronage 
of every kind of learning, without 
prejudice of race or religion, that 



when the French rabbi, physician, 
and astronomer, Bonet de Lates, 
was looking about for a patron, he 
could find no one more munificent 
or acceptable than Alexander VI. 
to whom to dedicate his elegant 
Latin treatise describing an in- 
strument of his own invention for 
measuring the altitude of the sun 
and the distance of the stars,* 
which the pope received so well 
that the author went to reside in 
Rome, where he enjoyed a great re- 
putation for mathematics and as- 
tronomy. Jacob Mantino of Tor- 
tosa, who flourished in the six- 
teenth century, was physician to 
Paul III., and translated several 
works of Averroes and Avicenna 
into Latin. Julius III. also had a 
Jewish physician, Vitalis Alatini ; 
and it was this same zealous pon- 
tiff who instructed and baptized 
a learned rabbi who afterwards 
preached controversial sermons to 
the Jews in the oratory of San 
Benedetto alia Regola, which had 
such good effect that Gregory XIII. 
established a perpetual course of 
sermons to the Jews in 1584, to be 
given by a Dominican father who 
must be a doctor in theology and 
a perfect master of Hebrew. 

Of the many laws made at Rome 
concerning the Jews living there, 
some have reference to faith and 
morals, and others relate to matters 
of habit and local customs ; which 
last, depending for their raison d'etre 
on the manners, amusements, fears, 
or prejudices of certain ages, are, 
of course, extremely variable, as 
may be seen by consulting that 
most interesting collection of me- 
diaeval municipal regulations, the 
Statuta Urbis Roma, and were 
often abolished, modified, or re-en- 



* Boneti de Latis, ntedici Provenzalis, Annnli 
per eum compositi super astrologiam utilitate:. 
Rome, 1493, in^4to, 12 pages. 



The Jews of Rome in Christian Times. 



35 



acted, according to the individual 
inclination of successive pontiffs or 
the temper of the Roman populace, 
which it was never easy to control. 
In a Roman council, convened in 
the year 743, Pope Zachary forbade 
intermarriages between Jews and 
Christians and the selling of Chris- 
tian slaves to Jews. Innocent III. 
found much to complain of in the 
villany of the Jews, who were al- 
ways Ghibellines, as in Spain they 
favored the Moors. In the fourth 
Council of the Lateran, held by him 
in the year 1215, it was enjoined 
upon all Jews to wear a distinctive 
badge on their habit, so that they 
might be immediately known.* 

Usury, that " breed for barren 
metal," as Antonio calls it, being 
strictly forbidden to Christians, fell 
naturally into the hands of the 
Jews, who made no scruple to in- 
terpret the prohibition in Exodus 
xxii. 25 according to the letter, thus 
excluding from its benefits the 
Gentile, who might be fleeced at 
discretion.f Their exactions be- 
came at last so severe that some 
relief was attempted in the fourth 
Council of Lateran, where the 6yth 
canon says : Quanto amplius Chris- 
tiana religio ab exactione compescitur 
usurarum, tanto gravius super his 
Jud&orum perfidia inolescit, ita 
quod brevi tempore Christianorum 
exhauriunt facilitates. Their cu- 
pidity was the cause of founding in 
the fifteenth century, when Jews 



* How Jews are recognized on early Christian 
monuments is one of the points of sacred archaeolo- 
gy. The Jews of our Lord's time appear in various 
sculptures of scenes from his life on ancient sarco- 
phagi engraved by Bottari, Tav. , Ixxxv. et passim. 
They are usually distinguished by a flat cap or 
berretta, without a rim, and chipped to represent the 
curly material lamb's wool of which it was made. 
This was probably a common feature of Jewish 
dress among the Romans. 

t We remember that a few years ago the only Jew 
in Tivoli, near Rome, was a money-changer named 
Giacobbe, who was allowed to occupy, scandalously 
as we thought, the very room once inhabited by 
St. Ignatius Loyola. 



often claimed the exorbitant in- 
terest of twenty and even twenty- 
five per cent., those benevolent in- 
stitutions called Monti di Pieta, the 
first of which was opened at Padua 
in 1491. The one in Rome was 
established by Father Calvo, a 
Franciscan, in 1539. The original 
principle of the Lombard houses, 
as they used to be called in English, 
was to lend money on pledges for 
a fixed term at a low rate of inter- 
est, which at Rome was only five 
per cent., to defray the unavoid- 
able expenses of such establish- 
ments. They differed essentially 
from pawnbrokers' shops in being 
under government control, and for 
the benefit of the borrowers and 
not for the profit of the lenders. 

The thirteenth and fourteenth 
centuries were memorable for mas- 
sacres of Jews in almost every large 
city of Europe except Rome, where 
the wild cry of " Hep ! Hep !" was 
never raised, and whose streets 
were never stained with the blood 
of this ill-used race of men. This 
singular shout is supposed to have 
been formed from the initial letters 
of the three Latin words, Hierosoly- 
ma est perdita Jerusalem is lost ! 
It was the signal for sudden and 
sanguinary outbursts of popular 
fanaticism, in Germany particularly, 
where the Jews made themselves 
unusually odious to the sons of the 
Crusaders. A noble tribute to the 
humanity of the popes was paid by 
the Jews of that country, who sent a 
deputation of their number to In- 
nocent IV. (1243-1254) to ask the 
protection of the Holy See : Exter- 
minium metuentes duxerunt ad Apos- 
tolic cz Sedis prudentiam recur rendum 
(Raynald., Annales, cap. Ixxxiv.) 
Rome was, in fact, the headquar- 
ters and very paradise of the west- 
ern Jews, and even Dean Milman, 
who seems in his History to be al- 



The Jews of Rome in Christian Times. 



most more friendly to them than to 
the Christians, is fain to acknow- 
ledge that "in Rome the Jews 
have been more rarely molested 
than in any other country. They 
have long inhabited a separate 
quarter of the city, but this might 
have been originally a measure at 
least as much of kindness as con- 
tempt a remedy against insult 
rather than an exclusion from so- 
ciety." Another writer, who has 
made a special study of the Jews 
of the middle ages, and whose bias, 
being unfriendly to the church, 
makes his testimony stronger, leads 
us to infer that the spirit of justice 
and humanity shown towards the 
Jews in Rome was not an effect of 
the milder or more refined nature 
of the Italians, who were civilized 
in ages when English, Germans, 
French, and Spaniards were still 
almost barbarians, but was inherent 
in the beneficent nature of the Pa- 
pacy ; for while French kings were 
grinding down the Jews in every 
worst manner, French popes pro- 
tected them, and it was a German 
pope, St. Leo IX., who converted 
by his kindness the first of the 
Pierleoni family, and allowed him 
to give his own name to his son 
and heir : " Des que 1'etablisse- 
ment des pontifs a Avignon fut de- 
cide on y vit affluer de TEspagne, 
de la France, et de 1'Allernagne 
une nuee de Juifs que le commerce 
autant que Vespoir du repos y atti- 
rait. Clement V. les reut a bras 
ouverts. II fut leur protecteur 
centre les Pastoureaux " (Beu- 
gnot, Les Juifs d 1 Occident . . . 
pendant la dure'e du Moyen Age, 
part i. p. 158). Clement VI. 
(Pierre Roger de Beaufort, 1342- 
1352) was another powerful friend, 
and by letters of October 5, 1348, 
given at a time when there was the 
most intense excitement against 



the Jews, who were accused of kid- 
napping and murdering Christian 
children particularly during Holy 
Week * of poisoning wells, and 
otherwise spreading the terrible 
pestilence that then desolated many 
parts of Europe, he sought to allay 
the fears of the people, and forbade 
under very severe penalties to kill 
or to calumniate the Jews (Baluze, 
Vita Paparum Avenion., xi. p. 254). 

The celebrated Rabbi Joshua, or 
Joseph, whose ancestors fled from 
Navarre to Avignon when his 
brethren were expelled from Spain, 
and who afterwards lived at Rome, 
wrote a history of the Jews, in 
which he says that at the capture 
of the city by the Constable of 
Bourbon, under Clement VII. , in 
1527, which was followed by long- 
continued bloodshed and pillage, 
many of his race were slaughtered 
and all suffered in the general dis- 
order ; but the continuator of the 
chronicle of the Abbas Uspergensis 
declares that the Jews not only 
bought their own security, but 
made vast sums by purchasing the 
plunder sacred vessels, church 
ornaments, etc. at the cheapest 
rates : Ex prcedd omnis generis vili 
emptd, ingens lucrum facientes. 

The same rabbi tells us that at 
the triumphal entry into Rome of 
the Emperor Charles V., in 1536, 
they were threatened with spolia- 
tion by his followers. " And had 
it not been for the mercies of the 
Lord, which never fail, the Jews 
would have been given up to pil- 
lage on that day. For the men 
of the emperor gaped with their 
mouths, hissed, and gnashed their 
teeth at them, but the Lord de- 

* See Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, " The Prio- 
resses Tale," for the spirit of the age ready to be- 
lieve any thing against the Jews. 

" For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe ; 
You call me misbeliever, cut-throat dog, 
And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine." 

Merck, of Venice. 



The Jews of Rome in Christian Times. 



37 



livered them." Under Julius III., 
a quarter of a century later, Corne- 
lius of Montalcino, a Franciscan 
friar, embraced Judaism, circum- 
cised himself, and "set his face as 
a flint " to preach against Chris- 
tianity in the streets of Rome. The 
Talmud, to which his apostasy was 
attributed, was publicly burned ; 
but although the populace was ter- 
ribly excited, no violence was at- 
tempted against the Jews, on ac- 
count of the measures which the 
pope had taken to defend them. 
" And he was long-suffering with 
them," says Rabbi Joseph (ii. p. 
523), " because he delighteth in 
mercy." A few years later Gre- 
gory XIII., under whose pontifi- 
cate the Jewish population of Rome 
amounted to about thirteen thou- 
sand, issued an edict, which was 
suspended at the gate of the Jewry, 
forbidding the reading of the Tal- 
mud, blasphemies against Christ 
and his blessed Mother, and ridi- 
cule of the ceremonies of religion. 
In 1562 St. Pius V. established a 
House of Catechumens, where Jews 
wishing to become Christians could 
be received for a time and proper- 
ly instructed; and in many other 
ways has Roman charity displayed 
itself for the benefit of the Jews, to 
whom it is a greater kindness to 
instruct unto justice than to open 
wide the gates of wealth and honor, 
for " not by bread alone doth man 
live, but by every word that pro- 
ceedeth from the mouth of God " 
(Matt. iv. 4). In the year- 1555 
Pope Paul IV. issued a bull, Cum 
nimis, assigning to the Jews for 
ever a certain sufficiently ample 
and healthy locality in Rome, where 
no one can say that 

" They lived in narrow streets and lanes obscure, 

Ghetto and Judenstrass, in murk and mire ; 
Taught in the school of patience to endure 
The life of anguish and the death of fire." 

LONGFELLOW. 



Our space does not allow us to 
pursue our subject into the recesses 
of the modern Ghetto, but we wish 
to give in this connection just one 
instance of the ignorance of the 
latest English guide to the Eternal 
City, whose Walks in Rome has 
succeeded to Story's once popular 
Roba di Roma stuff from the sew- 
ers of Rome. Mr. Hare, after tell- 
ing his readers how " the fanatical 
Dominican (!) Pope, Paul IV.," im- 
prisoned the Jews, goes on to say 
that " the Ghetto, or Vicus Jud^eo- 
rum, as it was at first called, was 
shut in by walls which reached from 
the Ponte Quattro Capi to the Piaz- 
za del Pianto, or * Place of Weep- 
ing,' whose name bears witness to the 
grief of the people on the 26th July, 
1556, when they were first forced 
into their prison-house " (vol. i. p. 
252). This is mere bosh, but, since 
it is only a little matter about a 
pope, and a very saintly one, the 
Italian proverb must hold good, 
Se non e vero, e ben trovato ; but any 
one acquainted with the origin of 
the streets and squares of Rome 
knows that the Piazza del Pianto 
has no connection whatever with 
the Jews and their Ghetto, but ex- 
isted long before the Jews were re- 
stricted to this part of the city, 
and derives its name from a de- 
vout picture of Our Lady of Soi- 
rows, called- Madonna del Pianto, 
exposed at the corner of a private 
dwelling-house in the form of a 
shrine (Panciroli, Tesori nascosti di 
Roma, p. 476 ; Vasi, Tesoro Sagro, 
torn. ii. p. 89 ; Vasari, Vite de piu 
excellenti Pittori, vol. vi. p. 742). 
During the reign of Clement VII. 
one of those singular Oriental He- 
brews upon whose pretensions and 
adventures so much has been writ- 
ten suddenly appeared in Rome. 
His name was David Reubeni, 
prince or ambassador of the Reu- 



The Jeivs of Rome in Christian Times. 



benites in the desert of Chobar, 
from whence he travelled to Djid- 
da by way of the plains, crossed 
the Arabian Gulf to Abyssinia, 
and for some time wandered about 
the Nubian Empire and Egypt 
and Palestine. In 1523 he embark- 
ed from the island of Candia for 
Venice, and thence journeyed 
through Pesaro and Castelnuovo to 
Rome, where we know that in Oc- 
tober, 1524, he had already been 
for eight months. Leaving Rome 
for a tour in the southern provinces, 
lie returned in February, 1525, and 
a year later departed for a visit to 
Spain and Portugal. In some of 
the cities of Granada the newly- 
converted Moorish Jews hailed him 
as their Messias, which led to his 
imprisonment by the inquisitor- 
general of Murcia; but he must 
soon have recovered his liberty, for 
we find him shortly afterwards again 
in Italy and making some stay at 
Rome. He is described as a little, 
weak, spare man of the age of forty, 
speaking Arabic and Hebrew, and 
calling himself the envoy of his 
brother, King Joseph, who ruled 
over the still existing tribes of Reu- 
ben, Gad, and the half of Manas- 
seh in the desert of Chobar. He 
told the pope that he came to soli- 
cit aid against the Mohammedan 
Arabs, who persecuted this rem- 
nant of the people o Israel, and 
pretended that he was a lineal de- 
scendant of David. His royal pe- 
digree was inserted in an epistle 
which he wrote to John III. of 
Portugal, to urge him to undertake 
the conquest of Palestine in con- 
junction with his brother's army. 
This impostor finally died in a dun- 
geon in Spain, after several years' 
confinement. Among the Jews of 
the Persian, Greek, and Roman 
periods there were unquestionably 
many legitimate Davidians, as the 



descendants of King David were 
styled ; but in consequence of the 
dispersion and exterminating wars, 
the connecting links of the old 
families were lost or confused as 
early as the first centuries of the 
Christian era. It was a characteris- 
tic weakness of some eminent Jews 
to boast of noble, and particularly 
Davidic, blood, and spurious pedi- 
grees were often drawn up and tri- 
umphantly exhibited the " endless 
genealogies" which St. Paul con- 
demns (i Tim. i. 4). During the 
middle ages two families above all 
others asserted their Davidic de- 
scent the Nesiim of Narbonne, 
which had branches at Mosul, Da- 
mascus, and in Andalusia, and the 
Negidim of Egypt. It is curious 
in this connection to recall of 
Benjamin Disraeli that, being at 
Jerusalem in 1831, and visiting the 
traditionary tombs of the kings, 
" My thoughts," he says, " recurred 
to the marvellous career which had 
attracted my boyhood;" and he 
soon after published the Wondrous 
Tale of Alroy, an Oriental romance 
of extraordinary eloquence and 
power, depicting the adventures of 
a prince of the house of David 
who in the twelfth century pro- 
claimed himself the Messias and 
called the Jews of Persia to arms. 
Solomon Ben Virga, a Spanish 
Jew and physician, wrote a singu- 
lar history of the calamities of the 
Jewish nation, which was translat- 
ed into Latin by Gentius, at Am- 
sterdam, in 1690. The most re- 
markable part of the work is its 
close. It is a bold attempt by an 
apologue, which assumes the form 
of history, to place all the Jews of 
the world under the protection of 
the Sovereign Pontiff. In fact, 
Christian Rome has always been 
"from child to child, from pope to 
pope, from age to age," the asylum 



Fearl. 



39 



and home of this oppressed people, ually but surely melting away be- 

and even the mild restraints to fore the benign influence of the 

which they were formerly subject- illustrious and kind-hearted Pius 

ed in the Eternal City were grad- IX. 



PEARL. 

Y KATHLEEN o'.MEARA, AUTHOR OF u IZA'S STORY," lt A SALON IN THE LAST DAYS Of THE EMPIRE," U ARE 

YOU MY WIFE? " ETC. 

CHAPTER xii. continued. 



MME. LA BARONNE LEOPOLD 
mere lived on a rez-de-chaussee 
in the Rue du Bac, in an old hotel 
between a court and a garden. 
She was a sensible woman, and had 
never taken up her abode in the 
house of her son and daughter-in- 
law, although they had repeatedly 
pressed on her to do so, the one from 
affection, the other with a view to 
the interests of her children. Where 
was the use of Mine. Mere spend- 
ing three thousand francs a year, 
which might have gone to swell 
Blanche's dot, when she only came 
to Paris for a couple of months in 
the spring? But Mine. Mere held 
to her own pied-a-terre, whether 
she occupied it for long or for 
short. She was a small woman, 
delicately made, and still showing 
traces of great beauty. It was 
from her that. Blanche got her 
creamy white complexion and Leon 
his large black eyes ; but the grand- 
mother had not given him the soft 
lustre of her own, with their long, 
curling fringes. 

Mine. Mere, as she was called 
by the family and their friends, 
was not nee; but her mother was, 
being the daughter of a Languedoc 



nobleman, a descendant of the an- 
cient and illustrious house of Bri- 
anceaux a circumstance which her 
daughter-in-law was careful to bring 
forward on fitting occasions, allud- 
ing incidentally to " nos aieux, les 
Comtes de Brianceaux." 

Mme. Mere was buried in a big 
arm-chair by the fire, reading, when 
Mrs. Monteagle and Pearl were an- 
nounced. She knew at once who 
Pearl was, and the moment the 
young girl looked into her face 
with that timid, deprecating expres- 
sion that comes into the eyes of a 
human being who is going to be 
hired by another, she fell in love 
with her. 

"Mme. Leopold has just told 
us," began Mrs. Monteagle, "that 
you were looking for a " 

" Daughter," said the old lady, 
interrupting her. " Will you come 
to me ? I am not a very cross 
old woman." And she held out her 
hand. 

Pearl, with charming grace, bent 
forward, offering her forehead for a 
kiss. 

They sat down. 

" I wish you had not received 
her in this way," Mrs. Monteagle 



Pearl. 



said. " I was hoping you would 
have been rude or patronizing, 
and I should have snubbed you 
and carried her off." 

Pearl laughed, and looked up af- 
fectionately at her old friend. 

" Pardon !" said Mine. Mere. 
"Come a little nearer to me ; I am 
rather deaf." 

" Good gracious ! This is dread- 
ful ! She will wear your lungs out 
in no time," said Mrs. Monteagle 
in her clear voice, and looking at 
Pearl in dismay. 

" Let me come close to her," 
said Pearl ; and she took a low 
chair and drew it to the old lady's 
knee, and spoke, looking straight 
into her eyes, and in a high tone: 
" Mrs. Monteagle is afraid I shall 
grow too fond of you, madame, if 
you begin by receiving me as a 
daughter." 

"Ha! she is jealous. That is 
well ; we shail try and make her 
more and more jealous ! Tell me, 
now, how old are you?" said Mme. 
Mere, holding Pearl's hand on her 
knee. 

"Oh ! don't be frightened at my 
age. I am old enough to be steady. 
Ask Mrs. Monteagle, madame." 

" I would trust her to any ex- 
tent," said Mrs. Monteagle. 

"What does madame say?" 

Pearl repeated if, blushing as she 
did so. 

"My dear child, the old woman 
would make you roar yourself into 
a consumption in three months," 
said Mrs. Monteagle. 

'* I don't mind roaring ; my lungs 
are made of iron." Then, pitching 
her voice again : " Do you think I 
am clever enough to do all you 
want, madame? I can sing and 
play very nicely." 

;k I am glad of that, mon enfant; 
it will be a resource for you. But 
I sha'n't want you to do it for me. 



All I want is to have a bright young 
face to look at, and young eyes to 
write my notes now and then, and 
to read to me for an hour or so 
every morning, and then again in 
the evening. Do you like reading ?' 

" Very much." 

" Good gracious ! Why, the wo- 
man ought to pay you five hundred 
a year. I never heard of such 
selfishness in my life !" said Mrs. 
Monteagle. 

"Are you fond of the country? 
Are you sure you will not die of 
ennui alone with an old woman in 
a big empty chateau ?" pursued 
Mme. Mere. 

" I like the country better than 
town." 

"Ask her how many months she 
lives in the country." 

Pearl put the question. 

"Ten months always, my dear; 
sometimes more." 

" My God ! it would kill you, 
child. You would be dead in half 
the time !" 

The servant came in with a 
note that wanted an immediate an- 
swer, and under cover of the man's 
roaring Mrs. Monteagle and Pearl 
exchanged a few remarks. 

" I can't hear of it." 

" Oh ! please don't prevent me. 
Let me try it for a month, just 
while she is in Paris. I shall 
never get anything so easy or so 
nice ; and then, if it tires me too 
much, you will see it before we 
leave for the country." 

"Your mother never would for- 
give me." 

" Dear Mrs. Monteagle ! I en- 
treat you." 

" Well, if you will have it, I sup- 
pose I must give way ; but mind, it 
is only a trial. I shall tell her that. 
And then we have got to settle 
about the terms. That is why I 
insisted on coming. Mme. Leo- 



Pearl. 



pold would have screwed you down 
to fifty pounds a year." 

" I am sure it ought to be enough 
for what I shall have to do." 

" Nonsense ! You know nothing 
about it. I shall send you away 
and have a talk with her. She is 
rich, and she must pay." 

With many misgivings Pearl 
yielded, and said au revoir to Mine. 
Mere, leaving Mrs. Monteagle to 
fight the battle about the salary, if 
battle it was to be. 

An hour later Mrs. Monteagle 
came home and announced that 
she had carried all her points. 

"You are to have a hundred a 
year, and your washing, and six 
weeks holiday in the summer, and 
a month at Christmas. And I con- 
sider you are throwing yourself 
away. However, you are as ob- 
stinate as a little, mule, and so 
there is no more to be said 
about it." 

Pearl was quite contented. She 
had succeeded in doing what she 
had come for, and though the suc- 
cess was not of a kind to elate her, 
to make her happy in the full sense, 
still it was very satisfying. She 
would be able to help them at 
home now ; this was the ostensible 
motive of her satisfaction, the only 
one she could avow ; but in her 
heart what she most rejoiced at 
was that she had now secured a 
pretext for remaining away from 
Polly. 

" When I shall no longer be al- 
ways before her like a living re- 
proach she will get back the old 
tender feeling for me ; she will 
come by degrees to forgive herself 
and to forgive me," thought Pearl. 
In the generosity of her love she 
never stopped to ask herself what 
Polly had to forgive. And she 
was right. We have need, now 
and then, of something more than 



love to make our love accepted, 
and win forgiveness for the sins 
that are committed against it. 

Mme. Leopold called a couple 
of hours later. Pearl was in her 
room, writing home the news to 
her mother. 

" Unreasonable pretensions you 
call them ? Then, my good lady, 
by all means let the engagement 
be broken," said Mrs. Monteagle. 
" I shall be delighted, for my opin- 
ion is that Miss Redacre is throw- 
ing herself away." 

"Twenty-five hundred francs a 
year, and you call that throwing 
herself away! I call it throwing 
money away. I can't think what 
my mother-in-law was about when 
she agreed to such terms. The 
girl will have no expense of any 
sort, and nothing on earth to do !" 
protested Mme. Leopold. 

" Except to sacrifice her youth 
and her spirits and her health to 
a deaf old woman. My belief is 
that Miss Redacre won't stay there 
a month ; the shouting will destroy 
her lungs. When does your mo- 
ther-in-law go to the country ?" 

" She seldom remains more than 
a couple of months in town. I 
should not be surprised if she went 
earlier than usual this year. Now 
that she has treated herself to such 
an expensive companion, I should 
think she might dispense with com- 
ing to Paris at all. I shall speak 
to her seriously again about giving 
up that apartment. It is prepos- 
terous paying such a sum for rent 
when we could accommodate her 
in our house. It would put us out, 
to be sure ; but for a month or so 
that would not signify. Besides, 
I never mind putting myself out 
for those I love. It comes natu- 
rally to me to devote myself. The 
least Pearl can do now is to second 
me in this matter." 



Pearl. 



" Of devoting yourself?" 

" Of persuading my mother-in- 
law to give up her apartment. It 
costs three thousand francs; if it 
is given up that will more than 
cover the expense of Pearl's 
salary." 

" If you grudged the salary, as 
you call it, so much, why did 
you propose Mme. Leopold taking 
a companion?" demanded Mrs. 
Monteagle. 

"I never dreamed of her paying 
more than twelve hundred francs 
for one. Nobody does. It was 
most grasping of Pearl to ask such 
a sum, and for doing absolutely 
nothing ! However, what's done 
can't be undone ; but I look to 
Pearl's showing her gratitude to 
me by using her influence to get 
rid of the Rue du Bac. Mme. 
Mere has taken such a fancy to 
her that she will be able to make 
her do anything. In fact, if Pearl 
were not well brought up, and with 
good principles, I should be un- 
easy ; but I trust she will always 
use her influence strictly within 
the sphere of her position." 

Mrs. Monteagle was so incensed 
by this cool impertinence that she 
was going to make a retort which 
might have broken up the affair 
there and then, but before she had 
time to say a word Pearl came 
into the room. Her eyes were 
red, but she wore a happy look in 
spite of this, and came forward to 
greet Mme. Leopold with a smile 
that was very touching. Mme. 
Leopold was a mother; indeed, it 
was the mother in her that was re- 
sponsible for most of her faults. 
Her grasping love of money, her 
little duplicities and manoeuvres, 
her hardness to others, all sprang 
from that ill-regulated maternal af- 
fection which makes the tigress 
pounce upon and eat up any un- 



wary beast who comes prowling 
near the lair where her cubs are 
asleep. She would have been 
kind and utterly indifferent to 
money and worldly advantages of 
every so.rt (so she said, and so she 
believed, very likely) if she had 
been alone ; but her duty as a mo- 
ther compelled her to be perpetu- 
ally intriguing for ces chers cnfans, 
and kept her on the qui vive to 
seize and devour every human be- 
ing who crossed, or looked as if 
they might by possibility cross, their 
path. Yet, with all this, and un- 
derlying the tiger, was the woman, 
and at the sight of Pearl's young 
face, tear-stained and smiling, bear- 
ing such a look of anxious care, 
the woman was stirred in Mme. 
Leopold and smote her selfishness. 

She held out a hand to Pearl, 
and drew her down and kissed 
her. 

"Mme. Mere has been thanking 
me rapturously for the beau cadeau 
that I have made her, ma petite ; 
she is quite in love with you. I 
am going to be very jealous of you 
both." 

There was a little talk about 
Mme. Mere's ways and her likes 
and dislikes, Mme. Leopold giving 
Pearl some friendly hints that might 
be useful. Then she rose to go, 
announcing to Mrs. Monteagle and 
Pearl that they were to keep them- 
selves disengaged for a family din- 
ner which the baron intended to 
give. 

"It is for Leon's fete, and, alas! 
I fear it will be a diner d'adieu to 
him. They say that the regiment 
is to be ordered out to Algiers at 
the end af the month." 

" Why need you cry * alas !' over 
that?" said Mrs. Monteagle. "It 
is the best thing could happen to 
him, next to a declaration of war. 
A campaign in Algiers counts as 



Pearl. 



extra service. ' Then the climate 
is beautiful." 

"But it is such a wearisome 
campaign !" And the mother heav- 
ed a sigh. "There is no society, 
no distraction ; the officers die of 
ennui." 

" Not they ! They hunt the 
tiger, and they make expeditions 
into the desert, and when they 
bore themselves too much they 
marry a pretty Jewess ; the Algerian 
Jewesses are marvels of beauty." 

" Grand Dieu ! what a conso- 
lation to offer me. My son marry 
a Jewess ! I should die of de- 
spair. But no, he is a good son ; 
he loves his mother; he is incapa- 
ble of marrying except to please 
her. Ah ! madame, you have put 
a knife into my soul." 

"Ha! ha!" chuckled Mrs. Mont- 
eagle. " He has not done it yet, 
and, as he is such a dutiful son, he 
may never do it ; but I have known 
two young men bring home African 
daughters-in-law to their mothers 
after three years' absence." 

" They were not like my son ; he 
is incapable of it," protested Mme. 
Leopold. 

" They were uncommonly nice 
young fellows, of good position and 
with excellent prospects, and might 
have married anybody. But they 
bored themselves to the brink of 
suicide, and rather than cut their 
throats they married a little Jewess. 
And they did quite right." 

"Quelle horreur!" exclaimed 
Mme. Leopold, holding up her 
hands in appeal to a more merciful 
Providence than this cruel tor- 
mentor. " Madame, you are not a 
mother, or you could not thus make 



sport of a mother's most sacred 
feelings. But I know my son. He 
is incapable of anything so wicked, 
so ungrateful, so base !" 

She left the room, repeating to 
herself: " Mon Dieu! Epouser 
une Juive ! Jamais!" 

"Why did you say that?" said 
Pearl. " She thought you were in 
earnest." 

" And so I was. I hope he may 
marry a Jewess, an Ethiopian, or a 
Hottentot. Serve her right if he 
does." 

Pearl was surprised at her friend's 
vehemence, but she only laughed, 
and went away to put on her bon- 
net for their afternoon walk. 

"Serve them both right if he 
does," thought Mrs. Monteagle. 
" She will find out when it is too 
late what a fool she was to hinder 
him marrying Pearl Redacre sim- 
ply because she had no money ; 
though what the girl can see in 
that black stick to care for is be- 
yond my comprehension." 

They were soon both ready and 
back in the drawing-room. 

" I don't think we will be asked 
to the diner de famille after that 
sortie of yours," said Pearl, button- 
ing her glove. 

" So much the better ! If there 
be a thing I hate, it is a diner de 
famille. It is a toss-up between 
that and an amateur concert which 
is worse." 

But she remembered that this 
dinner might have been a pleasure 
to Pearl, a last opportunity of meet- 
ing the " black stick," and she de- 
termined to make it up with Mme. 
Leopold, so that the invitation 
might be renewed. 



44 



Fearl. 



CHAPTER XIII. 



PEARL'S FRIEND. 




II I U V 1 Cl 



ON the Monday morning after 
that visit to Mme. Mere, Mrs. Mont- 
eagle drove with Pearl to the Rue 
du Bar. She had been in a very 
bad temper the worst of tempers. 
She had done nothing but snap and 
chuckle and scold all the morning; 
she quarrelled with Parker for being 
so slow in dressing her ; she fought 
Adolphe for not lighting the stove 
in the dining-room, although a 
fire would have been an insult to 
the eastern sun that poured in 
through the two tall windows, 
flooding the room with light and 
warmth. She lectured Pearl on her 
abominable obstinacy, and warned 
her with tenfold severity of the 
doom that awaited it : " When 
your left lung is gone the left 
generally goes first, I don't know 
why, except, it may be, the action of 
the heart has something to do with 
it you will come to me, and I will 
do the best I can for you. Taken 
in time, we may save the right lung ; 
but I would not have you trust too 
much even to that. What do you 
say ? People live to be old with 
one lung ? Perhaps they do ; but I 
should say they are the exceptions. 
And I don't believe they are the 
ones who lose their other lung by 
sheer perversity ; it is by a visita- 
tion of Providence, and so Provi- 
dence helps them. But you will 
have no one but yourself to blame. 
One thing I insist upon : you must 
wear flannels. They are a great 
protection to the lungs." 

" When one's lungs are delicate, 
dear Mrs. Monteagle, and against 
cold or damp ; but mine are as 
tough as india-rubber," protested 
Pearl. 



" Tough as fiddlesticks ! But 
you are right : flannel can't lessen 
the strain of the shouting. That is 
what will kill you. Not that it 
matters to me. What a fool I am 
to trouble myself at all about it ! 
Happily, I don't care a straw about 
you or any one else. I hate every- 
body. I always told you I did, so 
don't pretend to be hurt or as- 
tonished at my saying it now. I 
wish you were all dead. It would 
be a relief to me. I should only 
have to think of myself then." 

" I know exactly how much to 
believe of all that," said Pearl. 
"Give me a kiss, and don't look 
cross." 

"Look cross! I am cross." But 
she let Pearl take the kiss. 

The cab stopped at Mme. Mere's 
door, and they got out. 

" Here she is," said Mrs. Mont- 
eagle, laying her hand on Pearl's 
shoulder as Mme. Mere came for- 
ward to welcome them. u See that 
you are good to her, or I will come 
here and murder you, madame. I 
am a very wicked woman, as this 
child will tell you, and capable of 
doing anything when I am angry. 
I am very angry with her for 
leaving me." She said this with 
her mouth close to the little French 
lady's ear, and then, without wait- 
ing for an answer, turned abruptly 
away and was leaving the room 
without a word to Pearl ; but Pearl 
put her arms round her and kissed 
her, clinging to her. 

" There, there, that will do, child ; 
you know I hate being kissed," 
said Mrs. Monteagle ; but she made 
no movement to disengage the 
arms from her neck, or to draw 



FearL 



45 



away her face from the soft, warm 
kisses ; and when at last Pearl let 
her go, there was a tear on her 
sleeve that could hardly have drop- 
ped there from Pearl's eyes. 

It was an odd sensation when 
Pearl found herself in her room 
alone, and looked about her, and 
said to herself, " I am in a situa- 
tion ; I am -earning my bread." 

It was a comfortless room to 
English eyes, though Mme. Mere 
had been very anxious to make it 
the reverse, and had herself seen to 
everything in it being right. A 
regular French bed-room of the 
old-fashioned type. There was no 
carpet, and the floor was polished 
so as to reflect everything like a 
glass ; so bright and cold and slip- 
pery that it gave Pearl the creeps 
as she stood in the middle of it and 
examined her surroundings. The 
bed was in an alcove draped with 
white muslin curtains tied up with 
red cords ; the chairs were Empire 
style, square, hard, and covered in 
red Utrecht velvet with that inva- 
riable square, hard pattern cut on 
it ; the clock on the chimney-piece 
was an Empire monument, straight 
little gray marble pillars holding 
up the gold dial, and two slim gray 
marble candlesticks on either side 
of it ; the table in the middle had a 
gray marble slab, and looked 'so 
cold that Pearl -thought it must 
freeze her if she touched it ; there 
was an armoire-a-glace with pillars, 
and brass rings grasping them, and 
a chest of drawers with gray marble 
top ; the window had red woollen 
curtains, that made the light mur- 
ky as it shone through them. Al- 
together a dreary room to poor 
Pearl, and it required all her cour- 
age not to sit down in one of the 
straight-backed and angular chairs 
and have a good cry when she had 
taken off her things; but she resisted 



the temptation, and set to work to 
unpack her trunk, and arrange its 
contents in the armoire-a-glace 
and the chest of drawers, and then, 
without allowing herself the dan- 
gerous luxury of half an hour's 
thinking, she went into the salon, 
where Mme. Mere was anxiously 
waiting for her. The drawing- 
room was, in its way, as rigid as 
the bed-room. It was not carpet- 
ed ; there were only little squares 
of carpet before all the chairs, like 
patches of flowers floating on the 
water-like surface of the shining 
floor, and a large flowery rug be- 
fore the fire and under the centre- 
table an Empire table with straight 
legs and a white marble top. The 
cheerless character of the furniture 
was relieved, however, by a fire 
big blocks of wood that smoked 
away against a mountain of ashes 
piled half-way up the chimney 
and by books and newspapers ly- 
ing about on the sofa and little 
tables. Mme. Mere was a great 
reader, and just now, as Pearl re- 
entered the salon, she was hid 
away behind the Journal des De- 
bais a sin that she indulged in pri- 
vately of a morning when no one 
was likely to come in and catch 
her at it. She was a very pious 
woman, and would have scrupled 
to give scandal to the weaker ves- 
sels ; but her own principles were 
robust enough to seek the danger 
and not perish therein, so she read 
the Debats and kept it dark. 

" Come and sit by me, and let 
us have a little chat until dejeuner 
is ready," said the old lady ; and 
Pearl drew a low chair close to the 
roomy fauteuil and sat down. 

" Would you not rather I read 
to you, madame ?" she said. 

" No, ma petite ; let us talk. I 
want to hear all about you from 
yourself. Tell me everything, what 



4 6 



Pearl. 



you like and what you dislike, and 
what sort of life you are in the 
habit of leading at home. I know 
you are fond of music, so I have 
ordered a piano for you. Mme. 
Monteagle has been good enough 
to go and choose it. I thought 
she would know the kind of in- 
strument that would suit you. And 
she tells me you have not a very 
strong chest ; so we must limit our 
reading to the evenings when I 
can't do much in that way. My 
old eyes don't bear the lamp-light ; 
but I won't be very exacting, ma 
petite, and you must be frank al- 
ways, and tell me when you are 
tired. Mme. Monteagle promised 
me you would." 

Pearl took the old lady's hand 
and kissed it. She had to get over 
a choking sensation in her throat 
before she could say anything, and 
just as she was going to answer 
the door opened, and Mme. Leo- 
pold and Blanche came noisily in. 

" Chere enfant !" cried the bar- 
oness, with a motherly embrace, 
and Pearl and Blanche paired off, 
leaving the two ladies to discourse 
alone. 

" Let us go to thy room," said 
Blanche, who was more sisterly 
than ever since Pearl had come 
back in the capacity of une amie 
malheureuse ; " I have much to say 
to thee." And Pearl knew at once 
that there was a parti on the tapis. 

" Yes ; this one looks serious," 
said Blanche when they were safe 
in that icy, pillared little room of 
Pearl's " so serious, ma chere, that 
I am positively forbidden to men- 
tion his name; but it is a parti 
magnifique ! Tout y est : for- 
tune, position, alliances on every 
side mamma is so happy about it !" 

"Suppose I guess who it is?" 
said Pearl. 

" Ah ! in that case I should not 



have disobeyed; but I don't see 
how you could guess. Say, whom 
do you suspect ?" 

" Le Marquis de Cholcourt." 

" Oh ! no. It is not so magnifi- 
cent as that," and Blanche heaved 
an imperceptible sigh ; " that would 
have been the ideal !" 

In Pearl's gospel the fiance al- 
ways was the ideal ; but then she 
knew that hers and Blanche's dif- 
fered. 

"And do you like him very 
much ? the other, I mean." 

" II n'est pas mal. He is not 
quite as tall as I should like, but 
he is three centimetres taller than 
myself, so we should not look ri- 
diculous. But, ma chere, he has a 
chateau, vrai huitieme siecle. I 
have seen the photograph of it 
un chateau comme on en 
reve !" And the fiancee that hop- 
ed to be dragged out the words 
with a weighty emphasis that spoke 
volumes. 

"Are you to live most of the 
year in it ?" inquired Pearl. 

" Oh ! par exemple, no. I never 
would marry any man who con- 
demned me to live out of Paris 
more than four months. What an 
idea ! But, ma chere, there is an- 
other great affair on the tapis. 
Mamma wants to marry Leon, and 
she has found him such a nice wife, 
a splendid dot atod everything; but 
Leon won't be married. Is it not 
disagreeable of him ? Mamma is so 
vexed ! She has come this morn- 
ing to try and get bonne-maman to 
talk him over about it. He is so 
fond of bonne-maman he would 
do anything to please her. She 
paid his debts for him two years 
ago ; but that is a secret. Mamma 
knows nothing about it, so mind 
you never let it out ! Was it not 
good of bonne-maman ? But she 
is rich. I dare say she will give 



Pearl. 



47 



me my trousseau. How I wish you 
could be here to help me to choose 
it ! It would be such fun ! But 
bonne-maman will not stay more 
than a month in Paris this year. 
There are some works going on 
down at Gardanvalle that she wish- 
es to superintend. You will die of 
ennui at Gardanvalle. But I ; will 
write to you often, and you will 
answer me, nice long letters, and 
that will desennuyer you a little." 

" The marriage, then, is as good 
as settled, since you are already 
thinking of the trousseau," said 
Pearl. 

M I believe it is bien en traine. 
Our notaire has had an interview 
with theirs; but I have nothing to 
do with that, you know. All that 
I have to worry about is the trous- 
seau, and after all that is the most 
troublesome part of the thing, is it 
not? And then it is never time 
lost reflecting about it, for if one 
parti falls through another is sure 
to turn up, and the trousseau is the 
trousseau, whoever one gets it for." 

The conversation was interrupt- 
ed by old Pierre knocking at the 
door and announcing that dejeuner 
was served. The two girls kissed, 
Pearl swore profound secrecy, and 
then they went back to the salon. 

" I will do what I can," Mme. 
Mere was saying ; " but don't over- 
rate my influence. A young man 
may do a good deal to please his 
grandmother, if he is fond of her; 
but I never knew of anybody mar- 
rying to please his grandmother. 
Indeed, my dear, I should say 
Le"on was a fool if he did it." 

" Bonte divine ! If you are go- 
ing to say that to him he had bet- 
ter not come, ma mere," said Mme. 
Leopold. But Blanche declared 
bonne-maman was right, and that 
the best way to manage Leon was 
not to seem to manage him. 



" My good Pearl, I count on you 
as an ally," said the anxious mo- 
ther; " urge on Mme. Mere the 
immense necessity there is for mar- 
rying my boy before he starts for 
Africa. Providence must help me ! 
That idea of his marrying a Jewess 
out there -has haunted me ever 
since Mme. Monteagle spoke of it. 
But Leon loves his mother ; he 
will never bring her a daughter 
that she has not chosen." 

At last they were off, and Mme. 
Mere and Pearl went in to their 
breakfast. 

" Sophie is very clever," said the 
old lady, " but she is too apt to 
think that the rest of the world are 
fools ; that they have no will of 
their own and no right to oppose 
hers. I hope you like your bifteck, 
ma petite ? I ordered it to be 
done a 1'Anglaise. I know Eng- 
lish people like their meat under- 
done." 

It was all Pearl could do to con- 
trol her feelings when the scarlet 
slice was put before her; for the 
cook had overdone madame's sug- 
gestion, and sent up the bifteck 
red-rare. Happily, madame was 
too full of the two marriage schemes 
to notice her young friend's coun- 
tenance ; she went on with her 
own dejeuner, meditating what she 
was to say to Leon. 

Blanche and her intended were 
to meet at the theatre one of these 
evenings, and Mme. Mere had 
promised to go too and give her 
opinion of the gentleman. 

" Not that it can be of any im- 
portance to any of them what I 
think of his to urn u re," she said; 
u but Sophie wishes me to go. I 
think myself he is too old for 
Blanche. It would not matter for 
some girls ; but for her to marry a 
man of sixty is, I fear, a risk." 

" Sixty ! And Blanche is not nine- 



4 8 



Pearl. 



teen yet! What could possess her 
to marry a man of sixty ?" ex- 
claimed Pearl, aghast. 

" He unites every condition that 
Sophie wants; his age is his one 
defect. He is bald, and he has false 
teeth ; but his sight is good and 
his hearing. But it is a mistake. 
What have you there, Pierre ? Bei- 
gnets de pomme. Ma petite, I hope 
you like beignets ?" 

But ma petite was too much 
shocked by this discovery to care 
about beignets. She ate without 
tasting them, and then they went 
into the salon, where Pierre served 
the coffee and brought in letters 
which had just come. There was 
one from Polly. Pearl's heart al- 
ways beat at the sight of a letter 
from home ; but Polly's handwrit- 
ing had a more exciting effect on 
her than any one else's. 

" BROOM HOLLOW, May 10, . 

" MY DARLING PEARL : It was a great 
surprise to everybody to hear that you 
had factually engaged yourself, and I 
don't think papa or mamma would ever 
have consented to your having your own 
way if I had not fought your battle. I 
wonder myself why I did. For, of 
course, I hate the idea of your being in 
the position of a dependant, and above 
all amongst those Leopolds. Papa was 
so dreadfully angry at first, I thought he 
would never have calmed down. He 
wanted to know if there was a love af- 
fair in the way, and, as I knew he meant 
Leon, I was able to declare with a clear 
conscience that there was not. He then 
said he supposed you were tired of the 
dulness and the disagreeable work you 
had to do here, and that that drove you 
away. I did not know what to say to 
this, for in my secret soul I suspect he 
was partly right. Indeed, I don't wonder 
at it. I don't find that poverty improves 
on acquaintance, and one certainly can't 
say of it, as one does of some unpromis- 
ing acquaintances, that the longer you 
know it the better you like it. Mamma 
was very unhappy about you and misses 
you frightfully. So does everybody, if 
that is any comfort to you. Our room 



looks very lonely without you. Mrs. 
Monteagle has written a long letter to 
mamma, singing your praises. It made 
mamma cry, and I think it was this that 
decided her to let you have your way. 
Mrs. M. talked about your 'vigorous 
individuality,' and about allowing peo- 
ple to follow the dictates of conscience 
and character, and develop this, that, 
and the other. Even papa was set down 
by all she said ; but it did not convince 
me. I still think you are acting very 
ridiculously and unkindly. ' But enough 
of this, Horatio !' (papa is reading 
' Hamlet ' to us of an evening now) ; let us 
talk of something else. We are as live- 
ly as usual here. Lady Wynmere has 
been laid up with neuralgia, and so the 
one civilized element in our existence is 
pro tem. at an end. The Badows bounce 
about the county in their saddles, and 
occasionally pay us a visit. Cousin Bob 
came back with papa and stayed a few 
days, which cheered us up, and gave us 
another lift in the eyes of the neighbor- 
hood, I dare say. We will want a good 
one now, for of course it will soon be 
all over the place that you have taken a 
situation as a humble companion, and I 
don't see how we are to live down that, 
unless I marry a peer; and no peer, un- 
less he walked straight out of the Garden 
of Eden, would marry a girl whose sis- 
ter was in service. But I don't care 
what becomes of me. I am no worse 
here than I should be anywhere else, 
and it will all come to an end some day. 
I must not forget to answer your ques- 
tions about domestic affairs. Mrs. Mills 
does the cooking (most abominable 
cooking it is, half the time not eatable), 
and she has engaged the postman's 
daughter to come and help in the dairy 
and the laundry, and so between them 
this gentlemanlike establishment gets 
on as best it may. Mrs. Mills begs me 
to send you her duty, and you will be 
glad to hear that the 'ens and chickens 
are numerous and thriving. Fritz sends 
you a wag of his tail ; the said tail at 
this moment presents a sorry sight, be- 
ing exactly like a long black sausage 
dripping from an ink-bottle, and the 
rest of his unfortunate person says ditto 
to the tail. He was washed yesterday, 
and looked lovely with his thick white 
hair standing out like a muff, and his 
tail like a bunch of snow-white feathers ; 
but there was a rat-hunt at the end of 
the meadow this morning, and, though 



Pearl. 



49 



Jacob shut him up in the kitchen, the 
moment my friend heard the report of 
the gun he leaped upon the table and 
took a header through the open window, 
and away with him to the sport ; and be- 
fore any one could stop him he was 
burrowing half a mile under ground, 
whence he emerged into public life in 
the miserable condition I have describ- 
ed. Balaklava is tolerably well, I sup- 
pose, for we hear little about him. 
Mamma is really wonderful, and bears 
the climate, and the cookery, and the dul- 
ness, and all the ills of this valley of 
tears with the serenity of a philosopher. 
I suspect she has a private cry every 
now and then about you ; but I have 
never been able to catch her in the act. 
I wonder how you are going to like 
your ' situation,' and how long your he- 
roic fit will last. The boys persist in 
saying you are after a lark of some sort ; 
their infant minds being incapable of 
believing that anything else could have 
tempted you from the bosom of your 
family. Now I have told you all the 
news, so good-by. Write soon. Give 
my love to everybody, and believe me 
always your affectionate sister, 

" POLLY." 



There was only one line in all 
this letter for Pearl : ''Mamma has 
a private cry about you every now 
and then." It made her heart 
heave to bursting, and all her self- 
control could not keep the tears 
from overflowing. Happily, Mme. 
Mere was absorbed in troubles of 
her own, and the little outburst was 
unnoticed. 

The old lady laid aside her letters 
and finished her coffee in a hurry. 

u Ma petite," she said, " I want 
to see my son, and I must go at 
once or he will be out. Pierre, 
fetch a coach ; and you, my dear, 
which do you prefer, to stay at 
home or to come with me ? If 
you come, you and Blanche can 
make lacausette together while I am 
with my son." 

Pearl was too glad to be an hour 
alone, and said she would much 
prefer staying behind. 
VOL. xxix. 4 



"These work-people are so diffi- 
cult to manage !" sighed Mme. Mere, 
taking up her letters and bustling 
out of the room. " They will pull 
half the house down under one pre- 
tence or another unless my son goes 
down himself to stop them." 

She was soon rattling across the 
river to the Champs Elysees, and 
Pearl was alone. Alone ! Yes, she 
realized for the first time this morn- 
ing that she was alone ; that she had 
to bear her burden and fight her bat- 
tle without help from any one; that 
she stood by herself, her own coun- 
sellor, and to act the part of moni- 
tor to her own heart. You must 
not suppose from this that she had 
taken up the attitude of a victim, 
and fancied herself playing at he- 
roics. She was too simple and had 
too much common sense to do any- 
thing of the kind. Her circum- 
stances were uncongenial, but she 
was not suffering morbidly from 
them. She knew, moreover, that 
they were of her own creation and 
that she had no right to complain. 
But rights and feelings do not always 
adjust themselves harmoniously. 
Our lives are complex; we accept 
with glad enthusiasm on one side, 
and we repel with fierce antago- 
nism on the other ; the fiat of con- 
sent goes up from our soul with the 
same breath that utters its rebel- 
lious anathema. Pearl was satis- 
fied to relinquish the external joys 
of life, its sweet home happiness, 
its personal independence and con- 
sideration; but she had not realized 
that in surrendering these she was 
condemning herself to a moral iso- 
lation, which was the hardest sacri- 
fice of all. No one knew what her 
motive was in cutting herself adrift 
from her family, so no one pitied 
or praised her for it. She would 
have to suffer and get no sympathy; 
and, to her ardently sympathetic 



Pearl. 



nature, there was scarcely any suf- 
fering to be compared to this. She 
could have gone on discharging 
the duties of her self-elected posi- 
tion cheerfully, with quiet gentle- 
ness, never suggesting the idea of 
sacrifice to those around her, and 
needing no stimulus of conscious 
heroism to sustain her all this she 
could have done, if only her heart 
had been fed with the sympathy of 
that one for whose sake she was 
immolating herself. If Polly had 
repaid her by a return of the old 
tenderness, the sweet sisterly union 
that had once made the joy of their 
lives so perfect ; if she had let Pearl 
see that she guessed some generous 
motive in her conduct, how largely 
this would have compensated Pearl ! 
But Polly guessed nothing, and ab- 
sence, which Pearl had expected so 
much from, was so far only pas- 
sive in its effect ; it checked the 
growing irritation between the sis- 
ters, it averted collisions, but it was 
not restoring or revealing anything 
to Polly. Nothing seemed to reach 
her, nothing moved her. Pearl's 
gentle, deprecating silence had gall- 
ed instead of soothing her ; she 
chafed under the generous love that 
would have multiplied itself to fill 
up every other void, and cheat her 
into forgetting what she had lost 
through her own fault. 

The magnet has no power to at- 
tract some metals, while on other 
baser ones it seizes with irresistible 
force ; so there are natures on whom 
luve, the sovereign magnet, does 
not act. It is not that they are the 
worst, or even particularly bad; 
they have simply no power of re- 
sponse in them. 

Pearl read her sister's letter over 
again, and then cried bitterly. But 
the weakness did not last long ; she 
wiped her eyes and swallowed the 
sobs, and took herself to task for 



being so foolish. What was there 
to cry for after all ? Her mother 
was there, with her great heart full 
of mother's welcome waiting for 
her the moment she chose to go 
home. There was comfort enough 
in this to carry her through a few 
months' loneliness without behav- 
ing like a coward. She went to 
the window and threw it open to 
let the air blow upon her face, that 
was hot with the tears. There was 
a lilac-tree in the courtyard, and 
the May 'breeze swept its blossoms 
and bore the scent to her like a 
sweet kiss. The porteur d'eau was 
filling his pails ; a bird perched on 
the barrel and sang to the silver 
rush . of the water; but the rumble 
of the street grew louder for a mo- 
ment, and drowned the duet be- 
tween the two. Pearl stood watch- 
ing them until the bird flew away 
and the broad-shouldered Auver- 
gnat stopped the crystal spout, lift- 
ed his pails, and went tramping on 
with the water flapping at his heels. 
Then she closed the window, and, 
turning into the room, saw Captain 
Darvallon standing there waiting 
for her. 

" I startled you," he said, holding 
out his hand. 

" Yes," said Pearl frankly, and he 
saw that her eyes were red ; but she 
did not seem abashed or annoyed 
by the intrusion. " I never thought 
of seeing you here," she said; "I 
thought you were in London." 

" So I was yesterday. I have 
only arrived by the mail that came 
in at midday. I have come straight 
here from the hotel." 

" How did you know that I was 
here ?" 

Pearl had no sooner said this 
than she blushed scarlet ; for it was 
a tacit admission that she knew it 
was herself, and not Mme. Mere, he 
had come to see. 



Pearl. 



" Leopold told me," replied Dar- 
vallon, looking away and drawing 
a chair towards her. 4< I had a let- 
ter from him yesterday, and he said 
you were coming to stay with his 
grandmother. How do you get on 
with the old lady ?" 

" I have not had time to find out 
yet, but I dare say we shall get on 
very well; she will neither beat nor 
bully me. She is a dear old lady." 
"In Paris it will do very well ; 
but how when you are buried 
with her down at Gardanvalle ? 
Leopold says you will die of en- 
nui." 

" Mourir pour mourir one may 
as well die of ennui as anything 
else." Pearl shrugged her shoulders 
and laughed. 

"You are tired of life already?" 
said Darvallon, with his deep-set, 
gray eyes fixed upon her. 

" Not the least !" said Pearl ; and 
she took up her work, a long strip 
of canvas, and unrolled it, and 
opened her ivory necessaire. 

"Then why do you talk of dy- 
ing?" 

" It was you who began to talk 
of it ; you announced to me, without 
so much as a word of preparation 
to break the shock, that I was 
condemned to die this summer of 
a particular disease, and I say that, 
all things considered, I like it bet- 
ter than small-pox or a railway 
collision." 

She spoke in a jesting tone, hunt? 
ing assiduously for a certain shade 
amongst her wools. 

" Mademoiselle, would you mind 
putting aside those corn-flowers 
and talking to me for a few min- 
utes?" said M. Darvallon. 

Pearl stuck her needle in a moon- 
daisy, rolled up the band of canvas, 
and folded her hands upon it. 

" Now, monsieur, I am all atten- 
tion," she said, looking at him 



across the work-table with a gleam 
of fun in her eyes. 

"And so you have carried out 
your resolution and are earning 
money," said Darvallon. " Hon- 
estly/don't you find it very bitter?" 
" I have not had time to decide ; 
but I don't believe I shall. I don't 
mean to pose for la femme incom- 
prise, and make miseries for myself 
out of mole-hills. Mme. Mere is 
very kind, and I intend to be very 
happy with her." 

"And yet you were crying when 
I came in ?" 

* Pearl's eyes fell, and the color 
rose to her cheeks. 

" I am your friend. I have a 
right to ask why you are unhappy," 
persisted Darvallon, not in soft, lov- 
er-like tones, but with the quiet in- 
terest of a friend. 

" 1 had just been reading a letter 
from home," she replied, and her 
under-lip began to quiver till she 
bit it angrily. 

" Pauvre enfant ! This is what I 
foresaw. This is what will be hard 
on you : the loneliness, the isolation. 
Strangers don't replace kindred ; 
kindness can't make up for affec- 
tion. There are people who can 
dispense with both ; but you you 
will starve without them. I would 
not say this if the starvation were 
a necessity; but I went down to 
Broom Hollow before I left, and 
from what they all said, especially 
Colonel Redacre, I feel convinced 
your absence is a greater loss than 
any money you can gain will make 
up for. I am sure, moreover, that 
you exaggerate the need for this 
self-sacrifice. Lord Ranperth has 
great hopes of getting some literary 
work for your father, and this 
would make everything easy at 
home. Think well what you are 
doing while there is yet time. 
Consider if you would not do bet- 



Pearl 



ter to return home instead of going 
to Gardanvalle." 

Pearl listened without interrupting 
him; but when he ceased speaking 
she said in a low voice: 
"I cannot return home." 
"And I must not ask why?" 
" No ; you must trust me with- 
out knowing. Friendship is built 



upon 



trust, is it not ?" 



" Yes; I will prove it and trust 
you, since you cannot trust me." 

Her lips parted quickly, as if to 
utter an exclamation ; but they 
closed again and she said nothing. 

"When does Mine Mere leave- 
Paris ?" said Darvallon after a pause, 
during which Pearl, unable to bear 
the oppression of the conscious 
silence, again unrolled her scroll 
of field flowers and began to work. 

"In six weeks or so." 

" Leopold has told you, I suppose, 
that the Fourth Hussars are expect- 
ing to be ordered out to Algiers ?" 

" Your regiment !" said Pearl, 
dropping her canvas and looking 
up with dismay in her eyes. 

Something purer than vanity 
thrilled through Darvallon as the 
involuntary confession escaped her ; 
but he did not let her see this. 

"Yes, my old regiment. An in- 
surrection has broken out near Bli- 
diih, and they don't know how far 
it may spread ; there will be some 
hot work anyhow to put it down, so 
the troops are wild to be off. 1 
have to make up my mind at once 
whether or not I shall cast in my 
lot with them ." 

"But can you throw 7 up your ap- 
pointment ?" 

" If I prefer to be sent on active 
service I can do so ; if I apply for 
it they will reappoint rne to a regi- 
ment ; the question is whether I 
ought to do so or not." 

Now, Pearl was a soldier's daugh- 
ter, and she knew enough about 



military matters to understand 
that, without some exceptional mo- 
tive to justify the act, a man would 
be voted a lunatic to throw up an 
appointment like this for the sake 
of going off a-skirmishing with the 
Arabs; but she merely remarked : 

" A campaign in Africa counts as 
extra service, does it not?" 

"Yes; it is considered a stroke 
of luck to be shipped off there for 
a few years ; there is nearly always 
some fighting going on, so that one 
has a chance of promotion." 

" Then, I suppose, diplomacy 
will go to the wall," said Pearl, not 
daring to look up, but pulling her 
thread into a knot. " The fighting 
is irresistible, is it not ?" 

" It is always tempting to a fight- 
ing man ; but there are other con- 
siderations that may sometimes 
outweigh even that." Then, after 
waiting in the faint hope that Pearl 
might express some curiosity as to 
what these considerations were, he 
added : " I don't see my way clearly 
to a decision. What do you think 
I ought to do, mademoiselle ?" 

"You must consult your family 
first, I suppose," she replied, closo- 
ly counting the stitches in a scar- 
let poppy. 

"I have no family to consult. 
My father and mother both died 
while I was a lad at St. Cyr. I 
have no near relatives living." 

"St. Cyr!" repeated Pearl with 
three notes of exclamation; and 
then she could have bitten her 
tongue, for the astonishment was 
an admission of what might seem 
offensive. 

" Yes, I was educated at the 
military school of St. Cyr. You 
thought I entered as a soldier?" 

" Oh ! no," said Pearl, with a little 
start, and blushing the deepest 
carnation that ever burned in the 
heart of a rose 



Pearl* 



53 



" Yes, you did," said Darvallon, 
smiling pitilessly at her distress. 
" You heard I was a self-made man, 
and naturally concluded that I had 
risen from the ranks. And, indeed, 
except for the fact of my military 
education, the assumption is true. 
My father was a working-man, and 
I should have been brought up to 
follow his calling, no doubt, but for 
an accident. He had occasion to 
render a service to a marshal of 
France, who saw no better way of 
evincing his gratitude than by 
placing me at school, and after 
that sending me to St. Cyr. So 
you see, although I started with 
my epaulet, I am as genuine a ple- 
beian as ever fought his way up 
from the ranks." 

" If your mother had lived she 
would have been proud of you," 
said Pearl, looking up at the ple- 
beian speaker with unabashed ad- 
miration. 

" Ah ! yes. Pauvre mere !" 

His eyes grew moist, and he 
made no attempt to conceal the 
weakness, not feeling it any shame 
to his manhood. 

11 But she is no longer here to 
care whether I go to Africa or 
not," he continued presently; " no- 
body need care, unless my friends 
do. Leopold, of course, would like 
me to go, though he protests he 
will shoot me for a madman if I 
do. What does my other friend 
say ?" 

He tried to speak in the tone of 
placid interrogation that became 
a friend consulting a friend ; but 
Pearl detected a note in his voice 
that set her heart beating. After 
a pause that seemed never-ending 
to him she said : 

"I shall be more lonely when 
you are gone." 

Darvallon did not trust himself 
to answer, but he bent his eyes on 



her with a passionate tenderness 
that Pearl felt though she did not 
see it, for the blush rose steadily to 
her neck and brow. He tasted the 
sweet triumph in silence, till its in- 
tensity grew almost painful. Ris- 
ing abruptly, he said : 

" I must be going. I have an 

appointment with Marshal N 

at three. Well, since you are de- 
termined to be a worker, we must 
be content to let you have your 
way. The life you have chosen is 
not one of ease, but it will have its 
compensations." 

"A life of duty always has," 
said Pearl brightly. 

"Yes; it is the only life worth 
living, for it is a life of effort, and 
lofty hopes, and hard-won joys." 
There was a ring of triumph in his 
voice that sounded to Pearl like 
the note of the war-bugle. " Good- 
by. I shall see you again before 
I leave. ' 

" For Africa ?" 

"For London. I am under 
orders to return, am I not?" 

Pearl stood smiling, with down- 
cast eyes, while the sunbeams 
streamed in through the high win- 
dow, making a glory of amber light 
around her. She looked like one 
of Fra Angelico's saints in her 
clinging drapery against the golden 
background, the flowery scroll rip- 
pling to her feet. Captain Darval- 
lon thought her - more beautiful 
than her sister Polly, or any other 
woman his eyes had rested on. 
He raised her hand to his lips, 
kissed it, and left her without an- 
other word. 

The soldier's heart beat high as 
he stepped forth into the sunshine. 
He had no fortune but his sword; 
but what of that ? He would be a 
match for the churlish dame; he 
had a will and a strong right hand, 
and he loved a noble woman. 



TO BE CONTINUED. 



54 



CatJiolicity and Pantheism. 



CATHOLICITY AND PANTHEISM.* 



ON EVIL. 



IN our articles under the above 
title published some years ago we 
endeavored to explain the plan of 
the universe independently of the 
question of evil. The difficulty of 
the subject, the number and diffi- 
culty of the questions to be treated, 
obliged us to this course. But now 
that our readers have the whole 
plan of God's external works in its 
first stage laid before them, we 
may take up the question of evil, 
and, after investigating its nature 
and its cause, see what new rela- 
tions it creates, what new results 
it gives rise to, what new modifica- 
tions, in fine, it introduces in the 
world. We approach a question 
which, for its obscurity, for its 
depth, for its consequence, is 
the very hardest that can occupy 
the human mind, and, for its very 
close connection with the best in- 
terest of man, is of paramount im- 
portance to him. Hence we find 
that it has always engrossed the at- 
tention of man's intellect, from the 
rudest and most uncultivated in- 
tellect of the savage to that of the 
loftiest of the most polished na- 
tions of the earth whose natural at- 
mosphere was the highest region of 
the sublimest metaphysics. 

Evil is in man, around him, in 
all his relations, as individual, as 
a member of the domestic and civil 

* The attentive reader will observe that some 
opinions expressed in this article differ from those 
generally advocated in this Magazine. The learned 
writer of the article is well known, and we leave to 
him the liberty of arguing according to his own ( 
convictions upon open questions of theology, and to 
the reader the profit and pleasure of perusing and 
considering arguments presented with so much 
ability. ED. CATH. WORLD. 



societies ; it pursues him at every 
stage of his life, from the instant 
he begins to draw his breath in this 
world to the moment when he 
yields up his spirit into the hands 
of his Creator. Evil threatens man 
beyond his grave with all the hor- 
ror of a mysterious, most powerful, 
and inevitable enemy. All man's 
occupation in life consists mainly 
in preventing, warding off, freeing 
himself from, or in committingevil. 
Hence the interest which man has 
taken in this great question, though 
he has never been able to solve it, 
the question being too high, too 
deep, too far above his comprehen- 
sion ; and his efforts have resulted 
in implicating him more and more 
in the mazes and intricacies of this 
eternal labyrinth. We approach 
the question with calm confidence; 
for we plunge into this dark and 
profound abyss guided by the light 
of revelation as explained and de- 
veloped by the philosophical ef- 
forts of nineteen centuries of 
Christian genius. 

NATURE OF EVIL ACCORDING TO 
PANTHEISM. 

In accordance with the system 
and method we have pursued in 
our preceding articles, we shall at 
the outset expound the pantheistic 
theory in reference to evil. What 
is the nature of evil according to 
this system ? 

The Infinite in this system, as 
our readers will remember, is some- 
thing void of, and free from, all de- 
terminations and limits whatsoever, 



Catholicity and Pantheist*. 



55 



whether we consider these limits 
or determinations in a physical or 
metaphysical sense. Hence this 
Infinite has no limits either of es- 
sence or nature, or existence or 
subsistence, or individuality or 
personality, no concreteness in any 
sense whatever. For if it were 
any of these things, essence, nature, 
existence, individuality., or person- 
ality, it would have some definite- 
ness, some limit, and would no 
longer be infinite but finite, each 
one of those ontological notions 
being a kind of limit or the cir- 
cumscribing of a being. It is con- 
sequently the supreme and abso- 
lute indefiniteness, the highest pos- 
sible abstraction. Now, this su- 
preme and absolute indefiniteness, 
which is in no sense circumscribed 
and limited by any metaphysical 
notions, contains, in some unac- 
countable manner, an interior and 
necessary impulse to unfold and 
develop itself that is, to put on 
limits and determinations. So far 
we have described the supreme 
Unity) as it was called by the Neo- 
platonists ; or the Substance, accord- 
ing to Spinoza ; or the Me, accord- 
ing to Fichte ; or the Universal Iden- 
tity, according to Schelling; or the 
Idea, according to Hegel ; or Na- 
ture, or Society, or Humanity, with 
the progressists, socialists, and hu- 
manitarians. Multiplicity begins 
as soon as this impulse to develop 
itself begins to act or to put on 
limit. This circumscribing or ex- 
trication of the Infinite is of course 
progressive, and begins from the 
minimum to arise to the maximum 
of perfection. The different forms 
or limits which it assumes realize 
that perfection. 

Let the Infinite, therefore, from 
all eternity launch forth into this 
progressive development. From 
the very highest pinnacle of ab- 



straction it descends gradually, 
to become less and less abstract 
until it arrives at reality and con- 
creteness, and takes up the form 
of existence. -But this existence 
is at first of a very imperfect and 
inanimate kind matter. Then, 
mounting the steps of limitation, it 
assumes an organism of the lowest 
kind and appears in the vege- 
table kingdom. Gradually re- 
doubling its efforts and limiting 
more and more its organization, it 
breaks forth into sensitive life, 
and by continued process of efforts 
and developments it finally ar- 
rives, in man, at the highest form of 
life and reaches the goal it aspires 
to the consciousness of itself. 
But even then the process is grad- 
ual and slow, because this life does 
not at first manifest itself in the 
plenitude of its perfection, but as- 
cends step by step from the mini- 
mum of intellectual life to the 
maximum. Hence in the first' 
cycle of the life of humanity pre- 
dominate those powers which are 
akin to sense, such as the imagina- 
tion and fancy, and thus the cra- 
dle of humanity is the age of poet- 
ry, of legends and myths. Con- 
tinuing the march onward, the in- 
tellectual faculties begin to obtain 
the ascendency and create the age 
of philosophy, until humanity, pro- 
gressing in this ascending scale, ar- 
rives at the plenitude of the con- 
sciousness of its own infinity in 
Christ, who is nothing else than hu- 
manity conscious of its own infi- 
nite powers. 

But in all these forms which 
this Infinite assumes in order to 
attain to limitation and perfec- 
tion, does it always succeed ? Are 
these forms which it endeavors to 
cast, to extricate from itself, so 
good and perfect as to be so many 
steps forward in the march 01 pro- 



Catholicity and Pantheism. 



gress, or does the Infinite sometimes 
fail, and, instead of advancing, go 
backward? Here is the problem 
of evil in its full force in the sys- 
tem of pantheism. Of course the 
advocates of this system cannot 
deny the existence of the problem ; 
for it is evident that there is some- 
thing which mankind calls evil both 
in the physical and moral world. 
All the revolutions and cataclysms, 
both in the physical and moral world, 
proclaim the fact too loudly to be 
denied by any system. Pantheists 
are therefore compelled to admit 
that the Infinite, in the gradual and 
successive development and extri- 
cation of itself, sometimes fails, but 
that the failure is an absolute neces- 
sity of that development, and can- 
not be called evil. " Whatever is 
first in rank and perfection," says 
Spinoza, "becomes that which is 
most imperfect to attain that which 
is last and most perfect. There is 
not, therefore, in the nature of things 
either good or evil. All is neces- 
sarily as it is."* 

Evil, therefore, according to Pan- 
theism, is failure in the progressive 
movement of the Infinite, caused 
by an absolute necessity inherent 
in that movement. 

We have already in our former 
articles refuted all the premises of 
pantheism, and might take for 
granted the refutation of the con- 
sequences of those premises con- 
cerning the present question. But 
a few remarks bearing directly upon 
the point will, we trust, be not al- 
together out of place. 

To explain a thing scientifically is 
to give the cause, the origin, or the 
principle of that thing scire rem 
per causam. To explain the na- 
ture of evil, therefore, it is neces- 
sary to study its cause. What is 

* Ritter, History of Modern Philosophy, art. 
" Spinoza.' 1 



the cause, according to pantheism 
of that which all mankind calls 
evil ? An absolute necessity in- 
hering in the movement of the In- 
finite, answers pantheism. 

Now, this does not resolve the 
problem, but leaves it where it was, 
because we have a right to ask, 
What is the cause of such necessity? 
Or, in other words, why is it that 
the Infinite, in its gradual assump- 
tions of new forms, both physical 
and moral, must oftentimes neces- 
sarily fail ? Pantheism cannot give 
any other reason but an inherent 
necessity. Now, to show the ab- 
surdity of such an answer, let us 
inquire into the metaphysical rea- 
son of the failure of a necessary 
cause. How can a cause acting by 
necessity fail in the production of 
its effects? We can see no possi- 
bility of such a failure, except in one 
of these two cases: ist, either the 
cause which is supposed necessary 
is not sufficient to produce its ef- 
fect, or, 2d, we must suppose the 
interference of another agent neu- 
tralizing the action of the cause. 
In no other supposition is a failure 
metaphysically possible. 

For, in the first case, to suppose 
a cause failing in the production of 
its effect, for which it is fully ade- 
quate and sufficient, and which it 
must necessarily produce, is to sup- 
pose the cause sufficient and neces- 
sary in one breath, and to deny 
those two attributes in another 
breath ; it is to say yes and no of 
the same thing, at the same time, 
under the same circumstances. 
If it, the cause, is necessary, h 
must and cannot fail to act; if it is 
sufficient, it is. fully adequate for 
the effect ; how, then, can it fail ? 
A free cause might be unwilling to 
employ all its power, an insufficient 
cause would not be able to produce 
the effect, and in both cases the 



Catholicity and Pantheism. 



57 



failure would be intelligible, but not 
otherwise. 

In the second supposition the 
failure might be possible. A neces- 
sary, sufficient cause might act, but 
another agent might neutralize the 
action of the cause, and cause the 
effect to fail. 

Applying now these evident prin- 
ciples to the subject, it is plain 
how absurd is the answer of pan- 
theism to the problem of evil. In 
the first place, the Infinite cannot 
fail in the gradual development of 
itself because of the supposition of 
another agent counteracting its ac- 
tion, since in that system no other 
agent is admissible but the Infinite. 
In the second place, the Infinite 
being a necessary agent and suffi- 
cient cause, because infinite, the 
effect must necessarily follow, and 
no possible failure can be conceiv- 
ed. What, then, becomes of evil 
in the pantheistic system ? The 
same result, as the reader may have 
remarked, is obtained here which 
we elsewhere found to have fol- 
lowed from pantheistic solutions of 
the problems of the human mind. 
The solution renders the terms of 
the problem incompatible. A ne- 
cessary and sufficient cause, be- 
cause not free to withhold its ac- 
tion, and because fully adequate, 
must necessarily obtain its effect. 
Consequently, in the supposition of 
a necessary, infinite cause, the first 
term of the problem evil or failure 
is impossible. Evil, then, is swept 
away by the first term of the prob- 
lem. Failure, on the other hand, 
necessarily implies defect and limi- 
tation in the agent when by sup- 
position, as in the present case, no 
alien agent is called to interfere 
and to neutralize its power. Con- 
sequently, if evil exists it cannot 
originate in an infinite and neces- 
sary cause ; hence the other term 



swept away in the pantheistic prob- 
lem the Infinite. If the Infinite 
alone exists evil is impossible ; if 
evil exists it cannot come from the 
Infinite, and pantheists must either 
give up the problem altogether or 
admit the solution of the Catholic 
Church, that evil originates in a 
finite, free cause. 

CATHOLIC SOLUTION OF THE PROB- 
LEM OF THE ORIGIN OF EVIL. 

The Catholic Church teaches 
that evil originates in a cause 
which is both finite and free, two 
necessary elements which render 
evil possible. 

We prove this statement as fol- 
lows : A necessary cause, though 
finite, and consequently limited 
and circumscribed as to the pro- 
duction of effects enclosed within a 
certain sphere, cannot fail in pro- 
ducing its effect. For suppose the 
effect to require ten degrees of 
power and activity; and suppose, fur- 
ther, that the cause possesses them, 
and is not free either to employ or 
not employ them, but must necessa- 
rily act and employ those ten degrees 
of energy; it is evident that the 
effect must follow and that failure 
is impossible. For whence could 
the failure arise ? So much power 
is required, so much power is at 
hand and is necessarily employed ; 
how, then, could the effect fail? 

The supposition of an alien agent 
neutralizing the power of the cause 
would not affect our argument, be- 
cause in such a case sufficient pow- 
er is not employed to cause the 
effect when the original power of 
the cause is neutralized and coun- 
teracted by another cause. A ne- 
cessary, finite cause cannot possi- 
bly fail in its action, and to explain 
the problem and the existence of 
evil or failure, or whatever panthe- 



Catholicity and Pantheism. 



ists may be pleased to call it, we 
must admit that it arises from a 
finite, free cause the solution of 
the Catholic Church. 

But, the better to illustrate and 
strengthen this solution, we will 
give the doctrine of Catholic phi- 
losophy about the nature of evil 
with as much accuracy as we are 
capable of. There is an essential 
difference between these three on- 
tological ideas, which are common- 
ly confounded : negation, limitation, 
and privation. The first merely 
conveys the idea of the absence of 
being. It is founded on a logical 
relation : supposing a being to ex- 
ist, and then supposing it not to 
exist, we form the idea of negation. 
Limitation implies the absence of a 
further perfection in a being not 
necessary either to its nature or es- 
sential attributes. In other words, 
limitation excludes the fulness of 
being and action fulness which is 
not required by the very essence 
and nature of the being. Priva- 
tion conveys the absence of a per- 
fection in a being necessary either 
to the nature, attributes, or pro- 
perties of the being. Thus, blind- 
ness in man conveys the idea of 
the absence of a perfection which 
ought to be found in man, and 
hence involves the idea of pri- 
vation. 

Evil, in its strictest metaphysical 
acceptation, is nothing but priva- 
tion, or the absence of a perfection 
necessary to a being or to the act of 
a being; and by the term act we 
mean to include whatever modifica- 
tion may affect or take place in a be- 
ing. That such is the idea which 
all mankind has formed of evil is 
a fact so well established as to be 
beyond dispute. That man should 
be without the power of flying like 
the feathered tribes, or that he 
should not be a pure spirit like the 



angels, are things which imply the 
absence of some perfection, but 
an absence of which no man ever 
complained or regretted, and much 
less called evil, without being laugh- 
ed at by the common sense of man- 
kind ; because those things, though 
perfections, are not at all necessary 
to the nature, attributes, or proper- 
ties of man, and he cannot consider 
them as a privation or evil. Again, 
that man is not almighty, all-wise, 
all-good was never thought to be 
an evil, because man, being a crea- 
ture, is necessarily finite and limit- 
ed, and cannot count the absence 
of the fulness of being which those 
things imply as a privation or evil. 
But all mankind calls evil sickness, 
the loss of a limb, of personal liber- 
ty, the impairing of the intellectual 
faculties, the absence of moral rec- 
titude, because all these things are 
necessary to man's nature, attri- 
butes, and properties. They ought 
to be found in him.* 

The foregoing remarks illustrate 
that distinction of evil made by 
philosophers into metaphysical, 
physical, and moral. By metaphy- 
sical evil they mean that necessary 
limitation which is natural to con- 
tingent beings, and which, as we 
have just said, is not, strictly 
speaking, evil, but is called so in a 
wide sense and because it is the 
necessary foundation of the other 
two. 

Physical evil is the absence of a 
perfection which a substance or its 
faculties ought to have. 

Moral evil is the absence of a 
perfection necessary to the action 
of a moral agent. These two last 
kinds are strictly called evil, be- 
cause they truly imply a privation 
of a thing which ought to be in a 
substance or in its acts. 

" Privatio est eius quod quis natus est habere et 
debet habere " (St. Thomas). 



Catholicity arid Pantheism. 



59 



But to have a perfect idea of the 
essence of evil it is necessary to 
distinguish its material and its for- 
mal being. The material being of 
evil is that something really exist- 
ing which is the foundation of its 
formal being. In evil there must 
be something real, something actu- 
ally existing as a foundation, so to 
speak, for its formal being ; because 
if there was nothing real or posi- 
tive in evil it would be a mere ne- 
gation and no evil at all: 

The formal constituent of evil is 
that which really makes it evil. 
For instance, a man is killed by 
poison ; this is an evil, but in this 
evil there is something positive 
the action of the person who ad- 
ministers the poison, the action of 
the poison upon the body, the 
change produced in the body in 
consequence of the action of the 
poison, and so forth. Now, every 
one of these elements is something 
real, actual, positive, and consti- 
tutes what we have called the ma- 
terial being of evil. 

What is, therefore, that which 
makes it evil? The absence of 
the organic and natural state of 
the body, which causes death, pro- 
duced by the action of the poison 
upon the body. It consists essen- 
tially in the privation of that or- 
ganic state which is natural to the 
well-being of the body, and without 
which it cannot live. And to make 
the reader understand wherein, pro- 
perly speaking, lies the evil in the 
case, let him suppose the murdered 
man to be seen by an animal which 
cannot compare the organic state 
of an animal body with that of a 
body in dissolution and decay. 
What is it that the animal could 
see in that body? Nothing but 
being or reality ; nothing frc.c what 
exists. T. could see nothing want- 
ing or amiss. But why is it that 



man can see evil in it ? Because 
he compares the organic and natu- 
ral state in which the body ought to 
be with the absence of it in the 
body before him, and proclaims 
evil. He can see the privation. 
The material being of evil, or that 
which is positive and real in evil, is 
always good, because these two 
terms are ontologically identical, 
differing from each other only by a 
logical relation. 

We conclude, then, that evil is 
the absence of a perfection which 
ought to be found in a substance, 
its faculties, or its acts ; that in 
evil there is a double element the 
one, positive element, that some- 
thing really existing which forms 
the substratum of the negative ele- 
ment ; and the latter, in which the 
formal essence of evil consists, and 
which is the absence of a perfec- 
tion necessary to a being, its facul- 
ties, or its acts. 

Having thus briefly explained 
the nature of evil, we enter upon 
the inquiry, What can be the cause 
of evil? And we answer: It must 
be a finite, intelligent, free cause 
intelligent, because evil consists es- 
sentially in a relation, being the ab- 
sence of something which ought 
to be. To cause, therefore, such an 
absence an activity is required 
which can perceive the relation 
existing between a substance, its 
faculties, and its acts, each withjts 
natural perfections. Now, only an 
intelligent being can perceive rela- 
tions; consequently an intelligent 
being alone can be the cause of 
evil. 

The better to perceive this con- 
sequence, let the reader analyze the 
cause of good. Good, objectively 
considered, is being or reality. 
Whence is it that mere reality be- 
comes good ? When that reality 
becomes the object of a tendency 



Catholicity and Pantheism. 



which it can satisfy and bring to 
perfection. It is evident, therefore, 
that good in its formal essence lies 
in a relation the relation of an 
object with a faculty which it can 
bring to perfection. The formal 
cause of good cannot be anything 
else but an intelligence perceiving 
the relation. 

What we have said of good may, 
in a contrary sense, be said of evil. 
Evil consists in the absence of a 
certain perfection to which a facul- 
ty or an act really tends, and hence 
that alone can cause it which can 
perceive the faculty or the act, the 
perfection to which they tend, and 
the relation between them. 

It follows from this that no be- 
ing which is not intelligent can be 
the real and formal cause of evil. 
An unintelligent being can only be 
the material cause of evil. 

In the second place, the real 
cause of evil must necessarily be 
finite and contingent, because an in- 
finite cause could never fail either 
in activity or in causing the effect 
to correspond with its type ; in 
other words, it could not fail 
either as efficient or typical cause 
not as efficient cause, since an in- 
finite cause is essentially an infi- 
nite activity, actuality itself, and as 
such it .must necessarily attain its 
effect. 

Again, in an infinite cause, as St. 
Thomas elegantly explains, there is 
no distinction between its activity 
and its ideality, but both are es- 
sentially identical and only dis- 
tinguished by a mental distinc- 
tion of our own making. So 
that in an infinite cause the ac- 
tivity which produces the effect, 
the plan or type which delineates 
its nature and perfections, are one 
and the same thing, and both, being 
infinite, can never fail in producing 
the effect in the reality with all 



the perfection which it has in the 
idea. But the case is entirely dif- 
ferent as to finite causes. The 
activity of the latter is limited with- 
in a certain sphere, and that ac- 
tivity, even in its own sphere, is not 
identical with the type, the rule, of 
the perfection of the thing to be 
effected. Hence a failure is abso- 
lutely possible, because the activity 
not being identical with the rule of 
the perfection of the object to be 
effected, it is possible that it may 
depart from it and fail. An ex- 
ample of St. Thomas will illustrate 
our meaning. To make the plan 
of a building absolutely perfect 
three things are required the ac- 
tivity of the architect, the mathe- 
matical rules of architecture, the 
application of those rules to the 
building. Now, if the activity of 
the architect were identical in na- 
ture with the mathematical rules 
of architecture, it would follow that 
the architect's activity would be 
itself the rules, and consequently 
when applied would act according 
to those rules, and no failure in such 
a case could be possible. But be- 
cause the case stands quite con- 
trary a failure may occur in a plan 
drawn by the very best artist. 

Again, suppose a moral agent. 
If the supreme principle of moral- 
ity were identical with the faculty 
and the act of a moral agent, it 
would follow as a necessary conse- 
quence that his action would not 
only be moral but morality itself; 
and consequently, by the principle 
of contradiction, no possible failure 
or sin could occur, in the act of 
such an agent, just as it is the 
case in the infinite. But because 
those things are necessarily dis- 
tinct as to the finite, the one being 
universal, eternal, and objective, 
and independent of the finite, the 
latter being particular and subjec- 



Catholicity and Pantheism. 



61 



live, a failure may and will occur 
in the acts of the same. 

Yet the failure requires another 
element to be possible that is, free- 
dom of will. As we have above said, 
a finite, necessary cause, though 
limited in its sphere of action, yet 
when acting within that sphere, and 
acting necessarily, can never fail by 
the very force of the supposition. 
It may be interfered with by a for- 
eign agent, but, so far as itself is 
concerned, it employs its amount of 
action by necessity of its nature, and 
the effect must necessarily follow. 
A necessary, finite cause cannot 
fail. In order, therefore, to render 
the failure possible, a cause is re- 
quired which can perceive the rela- 
tion between an act and its per- 
fection, and which may be able to 
give its act that proper direction 
which will lead it to perfection, 
and at the same time choose to 
give that act a wrong direction 
because free. 

It follows from all we have said 
that a finite person alone can be 
the real efficient cause of evil. Be- 
cause evil implies three elements : 
It is, ist, a relation, and consequent- 
ly it requires for its cause an intelli- 
gence able to perceive that relation, 
ad. It implies the absence of the 
plenitude of being and activity, and 
therefore it seeks the cause to be 
finite. It demands, finally, a cause 
which is not necessarily bound to 
act, to act thus and not otherwise, 
but a cause which is master of the 
use, and of the kind of use, it may 
make of its activity in a word, a 
free cause. 

It follows, again, that God cannot 
be the cause of evil, because his 
activity and the transcendental rule 
of his actions are identical and in- 
finite. He can be said to be the 
cause of the material being of evil 
that element in evil which is 



really existing and positive but ns 
to its formal element he is cause in 
no other sense, except inasmuch as 
he does not interfere in preventing 
it, but allows it to be caused by 
the free actions of his creatures ; 
because he cannot prevent the ne- 
cessary limitation of their being, 
nor take from them the liberty with 
which they are endowed. 

Leibnitz illustrates this conclu- 
sion by a beautiful comparison, 
which we shall quote : " The cele- 
brated Kepler, and after him Des- 
cartes, have spoken of the natural 
inertia of bodies; it is something 
which may be considered as a per- 
fect image of the original limitation 
of creatures, to show that priva- 
tion constitutes the formal part of 
the imperfection which may be 
found in a substance or its action. 
Let us suppose that the current of 
the same river carries along several 
vessels which do not differ from each 
other except in their cargoes some 
being laden with wood, others with 
stone ; some carrying more, some 
less. Such being the case, it will 
happen that the vessels which are 
more heavily laden will go more 
slowly than others always suppos- 
ing that neither wind nor oars nor 
any other similar means hasten 
them on. It is not, properly speak- 
ing, the weight which is the cause 
of the slowness, because the ves- 
sels descend instead of ascending; 
but it is the same cause which in- 
creases the weight in bodies which 
have more density that is, which 
are less spongy and more charged 
with matter proper to them ; be- 
cause that matter which passes 
through the pores, not receiving the 
same movement, cannot be taken 
into account. The cause, there- 
fore, is that matter is naturally in- 
clined to slowness or privation of 
velocity, not in order to diminish 



62 



Catholicity and Pantheism. 



it by itself for that would imply ac- 
tion but in order to diminish by 
its receptivity the effect of the im- 
pression when it has to receive it. 
And consequently, because there is 
more matter put in motion by the 
force of the current when the vessel 
is more heavily charged, it is neces- 
sary that it should go more slowly. 
Let us now compare the force which 
the current exercises upon the ves- 
sels, and which it communicates 
to them, with the action of God 
which produces and preserves what- 
ever is positive in creatures and 
gives them the perfection of being 
and force let us, I say, com- 
pare the inertia of matter with the 
natural imperfection of creatures 
and the slowness of the vessel 
charged with the defect which is 
found in the quality and action 
of creatures, and we shall find that 
there is nothing more appropriate 
than this comparison. The cur- 
-rent is the cause of the movement 
of the vessel, but not of its slow- 
ness. God is the cause of the per- 
fection in the nature and in the 
action of his creatures, but the 
limitation of the receptivity of 
creatures is the cause of the de- 
fects which, may exist in their ac- 
tion. Hence the Platonists, St. 
Augustine, and the Schoolmen were 
right in saying that God is the 
cause of the material element of 
evil, which consists in something 
positive, but not of the formal ele- 
ment, which consists in a privation, 
as one may say that the current is 
the cause of the material element 
of slowness without being the 
cause of its formal element that 
is, the cause of the velocity of the 
vessel without being the cause of 
the limits of that velocity." * 

It follows, finally, that a physical 
agent cannot, properly speaking, be 

* Leibnitz, Theodicte^ part i. par. 30. 



called the cause of evil, because, as 
we have shown, evil consists in a re- 
lation ; and to be, in the strict sense 
of the word, the cause of evil, it would 
require an agent capable of perceiv- 
ing that relation. Hence evil exists 
only for finite personalities as pas- 
sive subjects or agents of it. Thus, 
if a stone falling on my foot should 
lame me for life, assuredly such 
an accident would be an evil for 
me ; but I could not, with propriety 
of language, call the stone the effi- 
cient cause of that evil, because 
all that the stone has effected is 
something real and positive ; that 
which makes it evil for me is the 
discrepancy which that something 
positive has with my well-being 
a relation which the stone can 
never perceive. 

Again, everything hurtful to sen- 
sitive beings affects them painfully, 
of course ; but they cannot attach 
to that painful sensation the idea 
of evil, because they cannot detect 
the relation between that some- 
thing positive which hurts them and 
the injurious or unpleasant effect 
of which they are sensible. ' Finally, 
we must remark that, although we 
are absolutely certain that a finite 
person alone can be the cause. of 
evil, yet we can only partially un- 
derstand how he can determine to 
choose it. Not being infinite actu- 
ality, the plenitude of force and 
energy, but only limited and contin- 
gent, more akin to not being than to 
being, it follows that it is absolutely 
possible for him to fail in acting in 
such a manner as to give the whole 
perfection to his own act or to 
give it its right perfection. Now, 
whatever is absolutely possible may 
sometimes really come to pass ; and 
hence evil. But it is beyond the 
reach of the human intelligence or 
capacity to explain the psycholo- 
gical genesis and the internal, sub- 



To St. Matthew leaving his Money to follow Jews. 



jective history of that process by 
which a finite, intelligent, free agent 
comes to the determination of 
choosing evil. It must be ranked 
among the many profound myste- 
ries which surround our souls and 
their acts.* 

Why does God permit evil ? 

We have already pointed out the 
two great reasons why God permits 
evil. The first is the necessary 
limitation of his creatures, which 
establishes the possibility of evil, 
and which limitation God could 
not remove without contradiction. 
The second is the free-will with 
which he has endowed them, and 
of which he cannot deprive them 
without changing their nature and 
essential attributes. Consequent- 
ly, if the limitation of their nature 
renders evil possible, if their free 
activity renders it actual, God can, 
without contradicting any of his 
attributes, permit it, and the human 
mind can have no reason against 
that permission. Let the human 
mind show that the permission 

* See Rossely de Lorgues, La Morte anterieure 
aliHomme. 



of evil consequent on the natural 
limitation and free agency of crea- 
tures is in direct opposition to any 
of God's attributes, and then, in- 
deed, it could object to the per- 
mission of evil. But human rea- 
son has never and will never be 
able to do that. Thousands upon 
thousands of sophistries have been 
brought forward to show such con- 
tradiction, but all these are mere 
cobwebs, spun out of weak brains, 
which the slightest touch can 
break. The creature is limited, 
and God could not make it other- 
wise ; rational creatures are free, 
and God cannot deprive them of 
that essential attribute of their in- 
tellectual nature which, apprehend- 
ing the universal, can yet allow it- 
self to be attracted by the particular 
and individual. These two things 
will sometimes result in evil, and 
how can God be made accountable 
for it ? 

There is one real objection 
which can be raised in this great 
question of evil. This we shall 
examine in a future article. 



TO ST. MATTHEW LEAVING HIS MONEY TO FOLLOW 

JESUS. 

"Whose image and inscription is this?" ST. MATT. xxii. 20. 
11 He is the image of the invisible God." COL. i. 15. 

THY trade, O Levi ! was well learnt, I trow, 

And -served thee better than the Rabbin's lore 

Thus speedily the One True Coin to know 

Impressed from Virgin mould. Yet heart served more 

Than wit. Love gains by loss; and, losing all, 

Doth all things win. Lost is thy money-stall 

And hoarded coins. For stall hast gained a throne : 

For coins all wealth in One whose worth is known 

By image and inscription both divine. 

Enough : give Caesar his. Heaven's wealth is thine ! 



Osimo. 



OSIMO.* 



EVERY one who, like Mr. Boffin, 
has undertaken in some literary 
mood to "Decline and Fall-off" 
the Roman Empire according to 
Gibbon, and thereby become in- 
terested in the fortunes of that 
great military leader whom the 
bold Mr. Wegg unflinchingly "col- 
lars and throws " under the some- 
what Britannic name of Bully Saw- 
yers, will remember that this hero, 
perhaps better known to fame and 
easier of identification as Belisa- 
rius, nearly lost his life at the siege 
of Osimo by an arrow discharged 
from the walls that would have in- 
evitably slain him had not the mor- 
tal blow been intercepted by one 
of his devoted guards, who thereby 
lost his hand. A reader of this 
classical turn of mind will not fail 
to look for so historic a place on 
his map, but he may not carry his 
love of research quite- so far as we 
did one soft, spring-like day in 
February, 1877, when we set out 
from Loreto to visit Osimo in com- 
pany with the English gen'tleman 
who has so ably abridged Father 
Bambozzi's life from the more 
diffuse Italian work, but who, 
modest as he is accomplished, has 
chosen to conceal his name under 
the designation of " a lay tertiary 
of St. Francis." From prolonged 
Fesidence in Italy he was familiar 
with all this region, and therefore 
an invaluable companion. We must 
confess, however, that it was not 
with any intention of ".looking into 
the affairs of Bully Sawyers " we 



* Life of Father Benvenuto Bambozzi^ some- 
time Master of Novices of the Conventual Friars 
Minor at Osimo. Abridged from the Italian by a 
lay tertiary of St. Francis. London: R. Wash- 
bourne. 1879. 



undertook the excursion, or, indeed, 
out of any classical interest what- 
ever in the to\vn of Osimo, though 
it is a place of high antiquity, 
known before Christ under the 
name of Auximum, and spoken of 
by Lucan as 

11 Admotse pulsarunt Auximon alae." 

It was not, therefore, with any 
preoccupation of mind with re- 
gard to the uncertainties besetting 
the Roman Empire that we drove 
down from the sacred heights of 
Loreto into the lovely valley be- 
neath. At our right lay the blue 
Adriatic, which the cliff of Ancona 
partially intercepted. To the north 
and south the receding hills revealed 
a country at once beautiful and fer- 
tile, while in the west rose the im- 
posing Apennines, clothed in a light 
gauzy mist, now violet, now rose, 
or gray or golden, but always like 
the veil to some enchanted land. 
We crossed the fatal battle-field of 
Castelfidardo, where so many mod- 
ern crusaders gloriously fell in the 
service of the Church, and before 
long struck into the rich valley of 
the Musano, with a low ridge of 
hills on one side covered with vines 
and olives. In an hour or so 
Osimo and its towers appeared, 
picturesque on its steep hill nearly 
a thousand feet above the sea, well 
fitted to stand out stoutly against 
the enemy. It is in the March of 
Ancona, about six miles from the 
Adriatic, near the old Flaminian 
Way. It still retains a part of the 
ancient Roman wall which Beli- 
sarius, or his guard, had so much 
reason to remember. In these old 
places the past and the present lie 



Osimo. 



in such close juxtaposition that 
time is annihilated. A thousand 
years seem but as a day. It was a 
strong sense of this that now 
caused a little confusion between 
the ancient and modern in our 
mind, so that we began to feel 
somewhat alarmed as to the affairs 
of our hero of the Britannic name, 
and wonder if the weather was go- 
ing to be favorable for the impend- 
ing expedition against the Persians ! 
But we quickly rallied from the 
weakness of "Declining and Fall- 
ing" to such a degree, and began 
to attune our minds to the more 
modern and more glorious recol- 
lections of the place, in honor of 
which we had .undertaken the pil- 
grimage. Osimo is now more fa- 
mous at least in the Christian 
world for the tomb of the wonder- 
working St. Joseph of Copertino 
than for any classical associations, 
and is probably destined to acquire 
additional renown from the saintly 
Father Benvenuto Bambozzi, the 
preliminary steps of whose "cause," 
with a view to his canonization, 
were taken by Mgr. Seri-Molini, 
Bishop of Osimo, in September, 
1877. Both of these holy men be- 
longed to the order of St. Francis, 
and ended their days in the con- 
vent of the Minor Conventuals of 
this place. We drove directly to 
the convent, where, thanks to the 
merit of our companion, we were 
most cordially received by the guar- 
dian, formerly a novice of Father 
Benvenuto's, and now the postula- 
tor of his " cause." There were 
but a few friars left in the house, 
the community having been sup- 
pressed some years previously by the 
Sardinian government, and the for- 
lorn aspect of the deserted convent 
was melancholy to the last degree. 
The cheerful endurance of those 
who were left, under the heavy 
VOL. xxix. 5 



hand of the powers that be, was no 
less touching. As an example of 
this spirit we quote the following 
passage from our author : 

"When I visited the shrine of St. Jo- 
seph of Copertino, nearly two years ago, 
I found only one lay brother in the con- 
vent opposite, doing the whole house- 
work and waiting on three priests, one 
cleric, and myself as a guest. This good 
lay brother, Fra' Pippo, . . . though well- 
nigh threescore and ten years weigh on 
his head, is as lithe and quick about his 
work as he is ready with an answer. 
When there is bread to knead or maca- 
roni to prepare, he gets up some three 
or four hours after midnight ; at other 
times he rises at five o'clock in the morn- 
ing. This same Fra' Pippo was impri- 
soned and exiled to Elba (!) on the false 
charge of persuading a young friar not 
to enlist in the model Italian army. He, 
however, drove his keepers desperate 
by his cheerful ways and ready wit, for 
he would say : ' I have to be very thank- 
ful to this new government. Per Bacco ! 
when I was a friar in the Pope's time I 
never went beyond the kitchen and the 
church, and now I am travelling about 
scot-free and seeing the big world with- 
out having any work to do.' He was 
later on confined fn Ancona, but as he 
drove the ruffians with whom he was 
pent up mad by his holy and cheerful 
resignation, he was let off civ ap, and 
went back to his kitchen and church 
among his own brethren, and there I 
found him, a perfect example of the hal- 
lowing influence which true religion can 
work, even on a Neapolitan peasant." 

We were received in the snug 
library, packed full of ponderous 
tomes bound in parchment, delight- 
ful to the eye, and from there we 
went to the studio where the fa- 
ther guardian, who is something of 
a sculptor, finds his chief recrea- 
tion in modelling. But the princi- 
pal points of interest were the tomb 
of St. Joseph of Copertino and the 
cell he occupied during the last 
years of his life. The latter is now 
an oratory, and in the adjoining 
room are a thousand objects asso- 
ciated with his memory and care- 



66 



Osii/tc. 



fully preserved as relics. The tomb 
is in a vast church full of gloom. 
We visited it at midday, when it is 
for an hour or two closed to the 
public. It should be seen on the 
festival of the saint, when it is hung 
with brilliant draperies and lit up 
with countless lights. Then it is 
thronged by the inhabitants, who 
at night illuminate their houses 
and have fireworks on. the principal 
square. They look on St. Joseph 
as their great protector. When 
Ancona was smitten with the cho- 
lera in 1865, the whole town of 
Osimo was in consternation. The 
shrine was opened and the body of 
the saint exposed. In spite of an 
attempt on the part of the civil au- 
thorities to prevent all such assem- 
blies, as tending to increase the 
panic, and thereby the danger of 
disease, the basilica was crowded 
all day long by people of every 
rank. Moans, sighs, and the sound 
of weeping rose from the throng 
gathered around the glorious shrine, 
and many were seen praying who 
at other times seldom set foot in 
God's house. 

We had already come upon the 
traces of this great saint in the 
sagro convento at Assisi where he 
spent thirteen years. His cell 
there is still shown with honor. 
St. Joseph was born at Copertino, in 
the kingdom of Naples, in 1603, 
and, like St. Francis and several 
other saints, in a stable where his 
mother had taken refuge from her 
husband's creditors. He entered a 
house of the Minor Conventuals at 
the age of eighteen, and from the 
first led a life which was one con- 
tinued miracle. The animal world, 
and indeed all nature, seemed sub- 
ject to him, as they were to St. 
Francis. And he was as much en- 
amored of Poverty as that great 
patriarch, who chose her as his 



bride. When he and his compan- 
ion entered Rome they had but 
one small piece of silver between 
them. This he left on the boundary, 
that, as he said, he might enter the 
holy city poor and humble as St. 
Francis. When he arrived at As- 
sisi, and first saw the church, glo- 
rious as Christian art could make 
it, that had been built over the 
tomb of that gl arioso p over ell o di 
Christo, he fell prostrate before the 
altar and cried out in 'his astonish- 
ment : " How is it, holy father, 
that you, who during your life so 
loved the Lady Poverty, are now 
in the midst of gold and brocade, 
and your church so sumptuously 
decorated?" But an interior voice 
at once replied that all this pomp 
was not for St. Francis, who lay be- 
neath the ground in obscurity and 
humility,* but in honor of the Di- 
vine Presence on the altar. 

Though poor by birth, and what . 
might be called illiterate, so great 
was St. Joseph's gift of wisdom 
and infused light that princes and 
dignitaries came to take counsel of 
him. That venerable servant of 
God, Mary, Infanta of Savoy, 
daughter of King Charles Ema- 
nuel, took up her residence at Pe- 
rugia for several months, that she 
might have the privilege of fre- 
quently consulting him. Prince 
Casimir of Poland, whom the pope 
had dispensed from his ecclesiasti- 
cal obligations after he had become 
a Jesuit and been made a cardinal, 
in consequence of the urgent de- 
mands of the Poles to have him 
for their king after the death of his 
brother, Ladislas IV. who left no 
posterity fearing God might be 
displeased at this change of life, 
went to Assisi to obtain the opinion 
of St. Joseph. " Is it with the car- 

* The body of St. Francis had not then been 
exhumed. 



Osimo. 



dinal's hat, or the sword, I am call- 
ed to serve the Divine Majesty?" 
he asked. " With the sword," un- 
hesitatingly replied the saint. He 
was right. Casimir strengthened 
the kingdom of Poland, and bene- 
fited all Christendom by his vic- 
tories over the Turks. But, whether 
in camp or at court, he always 
found time to keep up a corre- 
spondence with the saint. The 
Spanish ambassador went to con- 
sult St. Joseph, and was so satisfied 
with the interview that he wished 
his wife to have the same privilege ; 
but when she saw the saint borne 
across the church over her head 
on the wings of ecstasy she faint- 
ed with terror. The pope finally 
sent St. Joseph to Osimo, to with- 
draw him from the pious importu- 
nity of the world, and here he died 
in 1663. 

About the middle of September, 
1861, Prince Umberto (now king) 
and his brother Amadeo stopped at 
Osimo on their way to the battle- 
field of Castelfidardo. As soon as 
the Minor Conventuals heard they 
were to show the princes over the 
basilica of St. Joseph of Copertino, 
they ventured to hope their con- 
vent would be spared, especially in 
view of the relations of Donna 
Maria of Savoy with the saint. 
But Father Bambozzi quickly sup- 
pressed their joy with the words : 
" Cursed is he who putteth his 
trust in princes !" It was after- 
wards found that the decree for the 
suppression of the convent was 
dated the very day the princes vis- 
ited Osimo. The expulsion of the 
friars took place the following De- 
cember. 

Father Benvenuto Bambozzi is 
another instance of an Italian pea- 
sant's rising to a sublime degree of 
sanctity by the practice of the low- 
ly virtues. We first heard of him 



at Rome, but it was at Osimo we 
conceived a genuine veneration for 
his character, which has only been 
increased by the life before us. 
We remember visiting the humble 
cell where he died, seeing his in- 
struments of penance, and praying 
at his tomb in the public cemetery, 
which, though he had not been 
dead three years, had more than 
once required important repairs, in 
consequence of the people's carry- 
ing away portions of it as relics. 

Father Bambozzi was born on 
the 22d of March, 1809, in the ter- 
ritory of Osimo, and the following 
day received in holy baptism the 
name of Benvenuto Leopardo, in 
memory of the two first apostles of 
this region St. Leopardo being 
the first bishop of Osimo, and St. 
Benvenuto the second. From his 
childhood he seemed predestined to 
a life of special sanctity. When his 
mother wished to send him to school 
he begged to be let off, because, as 
he said, he "wished to keep good all 
his life." But when he found his 
brother Giuseppe* was learning to 
read without any visible change for 
the worse, he acquiesced in his mo- 
ther's wishes and regularly attend- 
ed school, without,- however, neg- 
lecting his work at home. But it 
was not till some years later, when 
hebegantofeeladecidedinclination 
towards the monastic life, that he 
seriously applied himself to study 
at the college of Osimo, that he 
might be fitted to enter among the 
Minor Conventual friars. A wretch- 
ed garret, poorly lighted and scan- 
tily furnished, constituted his stu- 
dent's quarters. His meals were 
of the coarsest fare, and his dress 
that of a peasant of those days. 
One can hardly wonder that the 
town scholars, seeing this country 

* This brother afterwards became a lay brother 
among the Oratorians at Sant' Elpidio-al-Mare. \ 



68 



Osimo. 



lad in his short, tight breeches, an 
outgrown smock frock, and a pea- 
sant's cap of mottled wool, from 
which hung a tassel that continual- 
ly dangled from shoulder to shoul- 
der, with his school-books under 
his arm, and one or two pieces of 
brown bread peering out of his 
pocket, should make him an object 
of raillery. And when one day he 
was introduced to the novices he 
was soon to join, in spite of their 
religious training they could 
scarcely refrain from laughing at 
his ridiculous dress and rustic 
bearing. This did not escape the 
keen eye of their master, who after- 
wards rebuked them, saying they 
little knew what a beautiful nature 
lay hidden under such a rude ex- 
terior. 

Benvenuto had a most exalted 
idea of the monastic life. In after- 
times he was often heard to say : 
" We shall never properly under- 
stand on earth how great is the gift 
of a religious calling; we shall only 
know in Paradise." "After the 
grace of being born in the Catholic 
Church, the most special grace of 
God is to be called to religion." 
Accordingly, it was for him one of 
the happiest days of his life when, 
at the age of twenty-two, he passed 
his examination before Father Bar- 
tolini, of distinguished memory, 
and was received into the order of 
St. Francis. His religious clothing 
took place December 3, 1832, at 
the hands of the late Father Francis 
Ventura, after which the guardian 
of the convent handed 'him over to 
the master of novices for his year 
of probation. During this year no 
profane studies are allowed. The 
entire period is spent in acquiring 
a knowledge of the spirit and prac- 
tices of the order, laying the founda- 
tion of the interior life, and taking 
part in the religious exercises of 



the community. How seriously 
this young peasant applied himself 
to acquire the spirit of his calling 
may be seen from a few extracts 
taken here and there from his note- 
book, begun shortly after his en- 
trance into religion : 

" I will always remember that my aim 
is to become holy. I will constantly en- 
deavor to do all things with a view of 
pleasing God and not mysef. I will al- 
ways live in the holy feurof God. striving 
to shun every deliberate venial sin and 
to fulfil my duties to the best of my abil- 
ity. I will often call to mind that, being 
a religious, I am a victim destined to be 
consumed on the altar of Jesus Christ. I 
will bear my cross, whatever it be, and 
follow in his footsteps without murmur- 
ing knowing that whatever befalls me, 
either from the world, the flesh, or the 
devil, great as the evil may be, is still 
permitted by God for mv good. There- 
fore I will endure everything in silence, 
and conform myself to the divine Will. 
I will bear in mind that I must deny my- 
self inwardly, and hence must daily re- 
joice, even to the end of my life, when 
my wishes are thwarted in :my wav. I 
wish to have charity for all, however 
wicked any particular individual may be, 
since it is my bounden duty to look 
upon everybody as God's creature. 
Should the Almighty ever grant me the 
grace to preach, I will do so in a way 
that shall have for its first object the 
good of the poor and ignorant masses, 
avoiding all attempt at oratory and de- 
sire of praise. If I am not called upon 
to preach from the pulpit, I will never- 
theless strive to preach every moment of 
my life by the force of a good example, 
by often speaking of God, the eternal 
truths and the claims which Jesus has 
on our love. Should I even be the means 
of converting the whole world, I will 
still look upon myself as a useless ser- 
vant. The greatest of all mi -cries would 
be not to be able to look upon myself as 
the chief of sinners. I will pray with 
fervor for the ministers of ti:e church, 
that the world may be renewed through 
the holiness of their lives. I will, more- 
over, weep for their sins, which above 
all others pierce through our Redeem- 
er's Heart. I will often renew my vows, 
bearing in mind that they are the wings 
with which I must rise to holiness. I 



Osimo. 



will take Obedience for my device, and 
will, whenever I can, anticipate my su- 
perior's commands. Chastity, that mak- 
eth us like unto the angels, that raiseth 
us to th-j knowledge of heavenly things 
and bindeth us closely to Jesus Christ, 
the Spouse of souls, will I make my cho- 
sen virtue. I will at all times chastise 
my body and hold the strictest watch 
over my eyes, denying them even lawful 
if nee iless, gratification, that I may the 
more easily restrain them in clearly for- 
bidden cases. I will mortify the sense 
of smell. I will delight in putting up 
with any inconvenience in this respect, 
especially when tending the sick, the 
aged, the poor, or fulfilling any other 
distasteful duty set before me. Since 
necessity compels me to take food, I will 
direct this act to God, begging his grace, 
so that It may not lead me into sin. I 
will deny myself in s >me way, however 
slight, with regard to my food, at every 
meal, and be satisfied w.th whatever is 
set before me, refraining from choosing 
my portion in any way. In order to keep 
the Franciscan rule of Poverty, I will 
look upon everything I use as given me 
in charity. I will gladly wear the coars- 
est clothing, using only what is abso- 
lutely needed. And as our nature never 
says ' enough ' with tespect to money 
and commodities, I will try to forego 
even what is necessary, and frequently 
examine my conscience on this score. I 
will take pleasure in seeing the convent 
bestow alms, and to this end will gladly 
give up something that would otherwise 
have fallen to my lot. I will often medi- 
tate on the Way of the Cross, and ponder 
on the Passion of our Saviour, and gaze 
upon his wounded Heart, in whicli I 
would fain for ever dwell, thinking un- 
ceasingly on the price which my soul 
and the souls of those around me have 
cost. One great means to help me in 
carrying out my resolutions is prayer. 
I will therefore pray without ceasing, or 
at least beg our Lord to give me the 
spirit of prayer With regard to vocal 
prayers, I will rather say a few well than 
many in a slovenly manner, and I will 
increase their number when I find my- 
self less apt for mental prayer. The 
greatest need I have is to meditate on 
the Passion of our Lord Jesus Christ ; 
on the sorrows of his Mother, who is 
also our mother ; and on the eternal max- 
ims. I will not fail, especially in spare 
moments, to make holy ejaculations in 



order to ward off temptations and unite 
myself to God. As the fruit of ea~ch 
prayer, I will aim at acquiring a deeper 
and deeper knowledge of my own no- 
thingness and the most wretched way in 
which I respond to the calls of grace, 
and strive to show an unbounded love 
for God and trust in him. Knowing as 
I do how essential peace is to holiness 
of soul, I will always show myself meek 
and courteous towards all, especially 
towards religious, even should there be 
any among them bearing me a grudge. 
I will take care not to meddle in world- 
ly affairs, unless prompted by motives 
of charity, justice, obedience, or some 
other virtue proper to my state. I will 
shun melancholy as much as I can, 
knowing that true joy is found in a 
peaceful heart, in a holy life, in collect- 
ed thoughts, and a cheerful kindliness 
tempered by modest reserve." 

These disjointed fragments are 
unsatisfactory, but they serve to 
show that the spiritual enlighten- 
ment of this young Italian peasant 
compares favorably with that of 
persons in any other nation, and how 
little need there is of foreign inter- 
vention for the moral improvement 
of Italy, unless to procure freedom 
for the clergy to exercise their min- 
istry.* 

After his profession Father Ben- 
venuto was sent to Urbino to 
study theology not so much dog- 
matic as moral theology, his chief 
aim being to fit himself for .an 
apostolic life among the poor and 
unlettered. He received 'Holy 
Orders in 1834, and after various 
temporary charges was sent to a 
convent in the small domain of 
Fratte Rosee, which stretches along 
the southern slope of a smiling, 
well-cultivated hill, about twelve 
miles from Fossombrone. East- 
ward, on an eminence, stands the 

*We remember passing through an obscure 
street in Rome, and smiling as we looked up and 
saw over the door of one of the new chapel* opened 
under the present government (a Waldensian chap 
el) the device of a candle trying to dispel the thick 
clouds around it, and the words : Lux lucet in 
tenebris the light shineth in darkness ! 



Osimo. 



castle of Torre, and from the top 
of another height towers the con- 
vent of Santa Vittoria, the founda- 
tion of which is said to date from 
the middle ages. It is a beautiful 
spot, but solitary, the convent be- 
ing remote from any other dwell- 
ing. There is a handsome church 
connected with it, and no place 
could be more delightful to those 
who wish to give themselves up to 
a life of devout seclusion. It was 
in this sweet solitude that Father 
Benvenuto acquired such a taste 
for the contemplative life that he 
wished he could hew out a grotto 
in the mountain side where he 
might abide solely with God. And 
yet such was his charity that he 
was always ready to exercise the 
duties of his ministry, especially to 
those who had incurred some mis- 
fortune, or had an aching heart he 
could heal or soothe. He used to 
go on foot across the hills to visit 
those who could not come to him ; 
sometimes, by a sort of divine pre- 
monition, arriving just in season to 
aid some poor sinner in his dying 
moments. 

It was at Fratte Rosee that Fa- 
ther Benvenuto found leisure for 
the first time to read the great mys- 
tic authors of the church, such as 
St. Teresa, St. John of the Cross, 
etc. These opened to him new 
heights in the spiritual world, and 
enabled him to comprehend better 
the workings of his own soul. He 
now underwent a great spiritual 
transformation, passing through 
those ascending grades of prayer 
by which God purifies the soul, 
fitting it for more complete union 
with him, and giving it a special 
light to discern the faintest blemish 
that mars its purity in his all-see- 
ing eye. This clear perception of 
the guilt of our nature, and of not 
fully corresponding to divine grace, 



produces an unutterable anguish 
in the soul, and Father Benvenuto 
was often seen to shake like a leaf 
at the thought. He was so pro- 
foundly convinced of his sinfulness 
of nature that he wondered how 
God could bear with him any long- 
er and not cast him into the depths 
of hell. But as this state of 
mind is only the effect of a sincere 
love of God, it becomes a means of 
purifying the soul, and little by 
little it rises out of this obscurity to 
a region of light and peace and 
most sweet union with God. 

It was this experience that gave 
Father Benvenuto such a know- 
ledge of divine things as to enable 
him afterwards to unfold and ex- 
plain abstruse points of mystic 
theology with so much clearness 
and precision as to astonish many 
a master in divinity. Above all, 
it fitted him for the spiritual direc- 
tion of others, enabling him to dis- 
cern the wants of different na- 
tures and guide them in the mazes 
of the religious warfare. * 

One anecdote is related of Fa- 
ther Benvenuto which shows him 
not without a certain shrewdness 
in spite of his unworldly nature. 
'flie convent of Santa Vittoria, as 
we have said, stands in a very 
lonely spot, and previous to his 
coming here had been repeatedly 
attacked and plundered by bri- 
gands. He had not been here 
many months before he secretly 
learned that a fresh assault was in- 
tended. The brethren were nat- 
urally alarmed, expecting to be at 
the mercy of the ruffians, as on 
former occasions no means of de- 
fence being at hand. Father Ben- 
venuto alone was undismayed. 
Gathering together all their avail- 
able lamps, he filled them with oil, 
and, when night came, lit up every 
room in the convent, and went 



Osimo. 



into the church, where he prayed till 
a late 1i our. The brigands came, as 
had been expected, but, seeing so 
many lights, thought a large force 
was on hand, and decamped with- 
out any attempt at violence. 

Father Benvenuto's sister wish- 
ing to embrace the monastic life, 
he provided her with a teacher for 
the study of Latin, that she might 
become a choir nun, and obtained 
her admittance into a Benedictine 
monastery at Mondavio, a little 
walled town on a height between 
the valleys of the Metauro and the 
Cesano, not far from Fratte Rosee. 
[t was there she made her vows in 
1844, under the name of Dame 
Scholastica, and lived twenty-one 
years. She was cheerful, open- 
hearted, and pleasant in her ways, 
but had withal a certain religious 
gravity. It is related that she was 
naturally quick-tempered, but she 
fought so resolutely against this 
defect that it seldom gave her any 
trouble at last. She ardently de- 
sired to make progress in the spir- 
itual life, and it was in reply to her 
request for advice that Father Ben- 
venuto drew up the Ladder of Per- 
fection a kind of rule of life, 
which shows how this brother and 
sister sanctified the tie of nature. 
We will barely enumerate the de- 
grees of this holy ladder for scal- 
ing the heights of virtue, though he 
makes a practical comment on 
each one : 

I. The Desire of Perfection. Let this 
be your continual longing. 

II. Observance of the rule. Let this 
be the road. 

III. Love of God. Let this be the 
motive. 

IV. God's glory. Let this be the end 
in view. 

V. The Will of God. Let this be its 
rule. 

VI. The Grace of God. Let this be 
its origin and source. 



VII. Trust in God. Let this be its 
soul. 

VIII. God's Presence. Let this be 
the spur. 

IX. Obedience. Let this be the guide. 

X. Humility. Let this be the ground- 
work. 

XL The unceasing practice of virtue. 
Let this be the way of raising the edifice. 

XII. Prayer. Let this be its main 
stay. 

XIII. Mortification. Let this be its 
bulwark. 

XIV. Frequenting the Sacraments. 
Let this be the means. 

XV. Silence. Let this be its keeper. 

XVI. The love of your neighbor. Let 
this be its test. 

XVII. Detachment. Let this be its 
token. 

XVIII. Remembrance of our Lord's 
Passion. Let this be its solace. 

XIX. Devotion to the Blessed Virgin. 
Let this be its safeguard. 

XX. Purity of intention. Let this be 
its fulfilment. 

In Father Benvenuto's last letter 
to his sister he says : " Now is ,the 
time to abandon ourselves wholly 
to God, to stifle all earthly crav- 
ings and affections, to deny our- 
selves even in holy things, and 
greatly humble ourselves for our 
failings. Let us not, however, give 
ourselves too much anxiety about 
them, but live peacefully and calm- 
ly, whatever may happen, like the 
fish in an angry sea." And he re- 
commends her to often recall the 
presence of God and think of her 
own wretchedness, but to dwell 
thereon in holy peace, to gather 
her thoughts home and speak to 
God, heart to heart. 

Dame Scholastica fell ill in Oc- 
tober, 1865. She called all the 
sisters to her bedside, begged their 
forgiveness for all her shortcom- 
ings, embraced them for the last 
time, and asked them to repeat the 
Seven Penitential Psalms, and, with 
the words of the Royal Psalmist in 
her ears, she calmly died on the 
Feast of the Presentation. Her 



Gsimo. 



father was already dead. He 
breathed his List on Christmas eve, 
1851, with Father Benvenuto at his 
bedside praying for his departing 
soul. When all was over Father 
Benvenuto comforted his mother 
and then went back to the con vent, 
where, laying aside his own private 
griefs as usual, he celebrated the 
festival of the Nativity with the 
fulness of joy breathed into him by 
faith. 

A few years after his mother lost 
her sight, and from that time Fa- 
ther Benvenuto visited her fre- 
quently, administering every com- 
fort his kind heart could suggest. 
She died about a fortnight after 
Dame Scholastica, with him to aid 
her in the great passage to Eter- 
nity. 

Meanwhile Father Benvenuto 
had been sent back to Osimo as 
master of novices a post for which 
he was eminently fitted and here 
he spent the remainder of his days. 
How faithfully he had put in prac- 
tice the resolutions he made when 
a mere novice in the house was 
evident from his severity to him- 
self, his indulgence to others, his 
readiness to serve his sick breth- 
ren, even in the most humiliating 
offices, his sympathy for the poor, 
his zeal for the salvation of souls, 
his cheerfulness amid fatigue and 
suffering, and his constant prayer- 
fulness and union with God amid 
his multiplied duties. He sancti- 
fied even the most material acts. 
If he walked about the convent he 
sought to give boundless praise and 
glory to God by the very act, as 
though he were touching at every 
step some musical chord in honor 
of the Divine Majesty. If lie went to 
his cell it was to collect his thoughts 
more fully and to find himself at 
once in peaceful quiet with God. 
If he went to the choir it was as 



the disciples went to the cenacle 
to await the coming of the- Holy 
Ghost. While vesting in the sa- 
cristy he made acts of love to God. 
At the Holy Sacrifice he " seemed 
to be in Paradise," to use his own 
expression. At the Elevation he 
adored our Lord with profound 
love even as Mary did quern 
getmit adoravit. When he made 
the Way of the Cross it was with 
such intense devotion and so keen 
a realization of the awful scenes of 
the Passion that any one gazing at 
his features would have thought 
the woful tragedy being wrought 
in his very presence. He was so 
studious that he was seldom seen 
without some theological work at 
hand; for, as he said, " though it is 
by prayer that we ourselves draw 
nearer to God, it is only by a sound 
knowledge of moral theology we 
are enabled to bring our neighbor 
nearer to him." Like many other 
holy souls, he honored some spe- 
cial Christian mystery every day of 
the week, as on Thursday the in- 
stitution of the Eucharist. " Every 
Thursday throughout the year has 
now become a day of great remem- 
brance and fresh love for me," he 
s'ays. Friday he consecrates to 
the Passion, and says it is the day 
which "comforts me most in this 
vale of tears, and makes me hope 
great things for the church." Sa- 
turday to Our Lady. " On this day 
I also call to mind the great work 
of Creation, which seems ever new 
to me, and I keep the day as a 
preparation for Sunday." Sunday, 
he says, "is to me the day of all 
days; only in heaven shall we 
realize something of its greatness." 
In an account of his interior life, 
drawn up for his spiritual director, 
he says : 

" During certain days, and even weeks, 



Osiwo. 



73 



in which I am overflowing with joy and 
filled with spiritual consolation, I seem 
to lose sight o! my \vretchedness ; arid 
yet even at these times, when perhaps 
thinking least of my \vorthlessness, I de- 
tect some fault in myself, and in fact 
discover flaws in every one of my ac- 
tions. At other times, when looking 
over my life in general, but more parti- 
cularly when searching into my acts one 
by one, I see these faults of mine pour- 
ing down like drops of rain and bound- 
less as the ocean. I see these things 
most clearly by the light of grace, which 
teaches me to live ever united with God, 
to direct all the affections of my heart to 
him, and to do all even the smallest of 
my daily actions thoroughly and with 
the one object of pleasing him. I hold 
it enough if, at the sight of this great sea 
of imperfections, I can bow down and 
humble myself a thousand times a day 
and offer continued acts to God, my Sa- 
viour, in order to prove my exceeding 
sorrow for my sins and my earnest wish 
to begin a new life." 

When the Marches were overrun 
by the Piedmont troops in 1860, 
Father Benvenuto offered himself 
to God as a voluntary victim to 
stay the divine wrath; but, though 
bowed down by affliction at the 
evils he foresaw, he never lost his 
peace of mind and quietude of soul. 
And when the decree for the sup- 
pression of the religious orders was 
issued, and the plundering of their 
goods followed, he never uttered a 
word of complaint. " They may 
hunt us out," he said, "but they 
can never tear us from the Heart 
of Jesus or from his love. The 
love of God is not confined to 
cloistered walls." When some one 
thought to please him by speaking 
of the harsh treatment he had re- 
ceived from the municipality, not- 
withstanding his services during 
the cholera, he replied : " If you 
but knew how many sins I have to 
account for, you would not com- 
passionate me in this way. Let 
the Almighty smite this wretched 
creature as he deserves." And he 



often said : " I am content to be 
humbled and despised, so that the 
power of Jesus Christ dwell within 
me." 

When the expulsion of the friars 
of Osimo took place, Father Benve- 
nuto and an old religious of four- 
score were left as custodians of the 
church of St. Joseph of Copertino ; 
but when Osimo became a recruit- 
ing centre, and Father Benvenuto, 
by direction of the ecclesiastical 
authorities, declined administering 
the oath of fealty to the soldiers, 
he and his companion had three 
hours' notice to leave the convent. 
The whole town was dismayed, and 
the better part indignant, but no 
one dared open his door to the 
houseless father except a priest at- 
tached to the little church of St. 
Bartholomew. Father Benvenuto 
applied to the civil authorities for 
permission to say Mass and hear 
confessions in the basilica of St. 
Joseph, but he and his brethren 
were formally prohibited from set- 
ting foot in it. "Viva Maria!" he 
exclaimed. " God be blessed ! Now 
I am happy, for I have done what 
I could, and feel no remorse." And 
the next morning, long before day- 
break, he was found in his usual 
attitude of profound contemplation 
before the altar of St. Bartholomew. 
His confessional was crowded, and 
he often rose an hour and a half 
after midnight to be ready for those 
who wished to consult him. Noth- 
ing could prevent him from the dis- 
charge of his priestly offices ; neith- 
er the wrath and threats of the 
wicked, nor distance, nor his own 
bodily infirmities, nor the ill- fame 
or poverty of those who had need 
of his services. 

" How often," says the author of his 
life, " have we not seen him returning 
from some filthy hovel, his clothes swarm- 
ing with loathsome vermin, which he 



74 



Our Diplomatists. 



had no sooner shaken off than he went 
to work again among his beloved poor ! 
The hope of increasing God's glory by 
leading souls away from the paths of sin 
has been known to make him face dan- 
gers of no small magnitude, and many a 
time to climb over rude cliffs that might 
have daunted a nimble youth. Times 
without number have we known him, 
when haggard and weary, to exclaim : 
* Now I am happy. Viva Maria !' and 
set to work again as if he were only be- 
ginning the labors of the day." 

During the last months of Father 
Benvenuto's life he gave himself up 
more and more to deep, earnest 



prayer. He had, in fact, the habit 
of constant prayer, as he had an 
abiding sense of God's presence. 
Every instant was turned to ac- 
count, and his energy and self-for- 
getfulness, and his absorption in di- 
vine things, made him overlook his 
own bodily infirmities. In the 
midst of his duties he was, in 
March, 1874, stricken down by 
pneumonia, and died with the cru- 
cifix clasped to his breast on Wed- 
nesday of Holy Week, March 24, 
at the age of sixty-six. 



OUR DIPLOMATISTS. 



" FOREIGN intercourse " costs 
the people of the United States 
about $1,230,000 per annum. As- 
suming the population of this na- 
tion to be 45,000,000 of persons, 
each poll is taxed about two cents 
and seventy-three mills to sustain 
our consular and ' diplomatic ser- 
vice. Again, assuming that 12,- 
000,000 persons actually pay the 
taxes, each taxpayer pays ten and 
one-quarter cents per annum for 
the privilege of being represented 
abroad by a number of American 
politicians. The total expenditure 
of the government of the United 
States last year was a trifle under 
$237,000,000. Fully one-half of 
this amount is paid for interest on 
the public debt, so that about the 
one hundred and twentieth part of 
the expenditure of the United 
States government goes to sustain 
the diplomatic service. 

Two and three-quarter cents per 
capita as an annual tax, or an 
average annual payment by each 
taxpayer of ten and one-quarter 
cents, does not at first sight seem to 



be a very onerous burden. Com- 
pared with the annual outlay of 
England, France, *and Germany to 
sustain their respective diplomatic 
services, our expenditure under the 
same head appears moderate in- 
deed/ The United States govern- 
ment does not expend on its foreign 
service all told twenty-five percent, 
of the sum spent by any first-class 
European power for a similar pur- 
pose. To many persons $102,500 
per month will seem a very small 
sum for sustaining our agents 
abroad. 

In one sense the sum is small 
and the burden is far from heavy. 
But a low-priced thing may be very 
dear. It is always in order to in- 
quire of a purchaser who is boast- 
ing of his bargain, What did you 
get for your money ? A tin whistle 
might be dear at five cents, while 
an organ might be very cheap at ten 
thousand dollars. A " chromo " 
might be dear at any price most 
of them are while a painting of 
Raphael or Murillo would not be 
dear at any figure. What one pays 



Our Diplomatists. 



for a commodity or a service by no 
means decides the question whether 
or not he has made a good bar- 
gain. The complete decision de- 
pends upon what he has received 
for his money. 

What, then, have the people of 
the United .States received for the 
expenditure of $1,230,000 which 
was last year appropriated for 
"foreign intercourse"? The aver- 
age man who reads his newspapers 
and who follows the debates in 
Congress will have some difficulty 
in answering this question satisfac- 
torily even to himself. It might 
probably prove a hard problem 
even for the acute lawyer who is 
now Secretary of State. We have 
not drifted into a foreign war, 
true enough; but is any one pre- 
pared to say that, if Mr. Noyes, 
and Mr. Welsh, and Mr. Kasson, 
and Mr. Stoughton, and Mr. May- 
nard, and Mr. Marsh, and Mr. Fos- 
ter had been during the past year 
quietly attending to whatever pri- 
vate business they may happen to 
have at their respective homes, the 
people of the United States would 
l)e at this moment engaged in a 
conflict with France, Great Britain, 
Austria, Russia, Turkey, Italy, and 
Mexico, the countries to which 
those gentlemen are respectively 
accredited ? The mere suggestion 
is absurd. That we are at peace 
with all the world is not primarily 
due to the fact that certain repre- 
sentatives of American political life 
continue, for a longer or shorter 
period, to reside at the capitals 
of the principal nations of the 
world. Wars arise between nations 
much more ably represented abroad 
than we now are, and between na- 
tions who pay much more money 
for their diplomatic service than 
we are likely to spend, and between 
nations who deal with their foreign 



intercourse much more intelligent- 
ly than we. The fact is, our immu- 
nity from foreign wars is not due 
to the exertions of our diplomatists 
nor to the excellence of our diplo- 
matic service. Our fortunate situ- 
ation, far removed from ambitious 
neighbors, is the main cause of 
our exemption from this dreaded 
curse. Indeed, one would not be 
far out of the way in asserting that 
the indiscretions and bigotry of 
some of our foreign ministers 
misrepresentatives, and not repre- 
sentatives, of the American peo- 
ple would long since have driven 
us into war, had it been pos- 
sible for any action of theirs to 
have brought about such a calamity. 

But what return have we receiv- 
ed for our money from our foreign 
ministers ? At the opening of the 
second annual session of the Forty- 
fifth Congress, in December last, the 
President sent with his message to 
the Senate and House of Repre- 
sentatives Papers relating to the 
Foreign Relations of the United 
States. These papers have been 
printed at the Government Print- 
ing-Office in Washington. Exclu- 
sive of the President's message, 
the analytical table of subjects, and 
the index, the papers relating to 
our foreign relations cover nine 
hundred and forty-eight pages, 
most of them in large type. This 
is the ostensible return for an ex- 
penditure of $1,230,000. This book, 
then, cost the government about 
$1,295 per page. A very fair 
volume ought to be obtained at 
that figure, which does not include 
the cost of printing, paper, and 
binding. 

And what does this costly vol- 
ume record ? Are there any diplo- 
matic exploits narrated on any one 
of its thousand pages ? After a 
careful examination we have been 



Our Diplomatists. 



unable to find one. During the 
year covered by this correspond- 
ence no treaty has been concluded 
between the United States and 
any foreign power; or, to be more 
exact, if any such treaty has been 
concluded no record of it appears 
among these papers. With two or 
three exceptions, to which reference 
will presently be made, there is. not 
a striking letter in the whole col- 
lection, not one letter on purely 
diplomatic business, which any man 
or, to restrict it a little, any re- 
porter could not have written with- 
out having either his salary or his 
expectations increased. The read- 
er will search the volume in vain 
for a paper that will give him any 
information of what is going on in 
the country to which the writer is 
accredited. When our ministers 
do write in regard to current* af- 
fairs they write in a perfunctory 
and half-hearted way that shows 
that they are too indolent to make 
themselves masters of their sub- 
jects, and perhaps, also, with the 
well-grounded suspicion that what- 
ever they may say will be but a 
faint echo of what the newspaper 
correspondents had said long be- 
fore them. The impression one 
receives after turning over half a 
dozen pages of this volume the 
Black-book one should call it is 
the impression that clings to him 
after he has perused it to the end, 
and that is that the book is the 
veriest commonplace; that it had 
and has no reason for existing ; 
that it is a waste of money to print 
and bind it; and that if the State 
Department is desirous of sustain- 
ing whatever reputation some of our 
abler foreign representatives have 
in time past conferred upon our 
diplomatic service, it must sup- 
press the greater number of their 
present successors, or at least sup- 



press the rubbish which they write. 
If it is beyond the power of the 
President and Secretary of State 
to choose persons to represent us 
abroad who will confer lustre on 
the office and the nation, it cer- 
tainly should not be out of their 
power to file away in a dark closet, 
where only the eye of the antiqua- 
ry of the twenty-fifth century would 
meet them, the dull and purpose- 
less letters which are now printed 
by Congress as Papers relating to 
the Foreign Relations of the United 
States. 

To descend to particulars, let us 
begin with what may appear to 
many as a small point. A number 
of papers relating to the foreign re- 
lations of other countries inter se, 
and not with this country, are in- 
troduced as enclosures in the let- 
ters of some of our foreign minis- 
ters. Mr. Horace Maynard, our 
representative in Turkey, for in- 
stance, introduces in his letter No. 
241, of' April 3, 1878, a copy of the 
treaty of San Stefano. He relates 
in his letter that he endeavored to 
obtain an authentic copy of the 
treaty for transmission to the Sec- 
retary of State, but that " applica- 
tions at the Porte disclosed the fact 
that the government has printed 
no copies even for office use, his 
Excellency Safvet Pasha himself, 
the Minister of Foreign Affairs, and 
one of the plenipotentiaries who 
negotiated the treaty, using for re- 
ference a copy of a newspaper 
which had published it as current 
news." The Secretary of State is 
apparently so enamored with his 
excellency's mode of doing busi- 
ness that he will have us all follow 
his example. Because Safvet Pasha 
uses a newspaper copy of the treaty 
of San Stefano, every person who 
is so fortunate or unfortunate as to 
possess a copy of the Papers re- 



Our Diplomatists. 



77 



/citing to the Foreign Relations of 
the United States, transmitted to 
Congress December 2, 1878, must 
until the end of time read that 
treaty as given in the said newspa- 
per. As printed in this volume the 
preliminaries of San Stefano are 
thus headed : " Tire Treaty of Peace 
Official Text"; and immediately 
after the document is properly 
credited to " the Levant Daily 
Herald of March 30, 1879." And 
the Levant .//<?ra/</ itself, in introduc- 
ing the treaty to its readers, gives 
the following account of the origin 
of this "official text": "The offi- 
cial text of the treaty of San Ste- 
fano was published at St. Peters- 
burg on March 21, under the head- 
ing of ' Preliminaries of Peace/ 
and was telegraphed in full by the 
correspondent of the Times to that 
paper of the 22d of March." The 
text that Mr. Secretary Evarts la- 
bels " official " is simply a reprint 
in a Levant newspaper of a tele- 
graphic despatch in the London 
Times embodying the translation 
into English of a treaty drawn up 
in the French language, and in that 
language signed by the plenipoten- 
tiaries of the high contracting par- 
ties. 

Now, it may be consonant with 
Mr. Evarts' peculiar notions of no- 
menclature to call a document with 
this history " official," but persons 
less liberal will hardly agree with 
him. In the despatch from which 
a few words have been quoted 
above Mr. Maynard continues his 
narrative : 

41 He [Safvet Pasha], however, kindly 
placed at my service the original in- 
strument, either to have it copied ot 
collated with the newspaper impression. 
This has been done, and in this form a 
copy of the original French text is en- 
closed, which I believe to be accurate. 
As neither of the two contracting na- 
tions uses the English language, there 



is, of course, no authorized translation 
in that language. I enclose a copy of 
one made for her Britannic Majesty's 
government, and undoubtedly correct." 

Mr. Maynard's use of the Eng- 
lish language leaves much to be 
desired, but he makes it sufficiently 
clear that he sent the Secretary of 
State a copy of the original French 
text, and also the Times' corre- 
spondent's translation of the docu- 
ment as reprinted in the Levant 
Herald. Why it was necessary to 
print this treaty among Papers 
relating to , the Foreign Relations of 
the United States is not clear. 
But if it were to be printed it 
should have been printed in the 
official text with a careful English 
translation. 

Mr. Maynard is apparently a 
studious reader of the newspapers. 
He uses his shears to some pur- 
pose, as hardly a despatch leaves 
his hands without containing one or 
more clippings from his " exchan- 
ges." Mr. Secretary Evarts appears 
to regard it as a duty to reprint 
them all. Mr. Maynard sends "The 
Marquis of Salisbury's Circular," 
" The Russian Reply to England," 
newspaper account of the recent 
attempt at revolution, a series of 
despatches from the Marquis of Sa- 
lisbury to Sir A. H. Layard, and 
from the latter to the former, a 
memorandum of the Turkish gov- 
ernment in reply to the complaints 
of Greece, the treaty of Berlin, and 
numerous other extracts, most of 
them from the Levant Herald. In 
one sense the Secretary of State 
has turned his space to good ac- 
count. The enclosures are much 
better reading than the letters, even 
if no care has been taken to print 
the enclosures accurately. But one 
should draw the. line somewhere. 
It may be pardonable to print pub- 
lic treaties,, but to print mere news- 



Our Diplomatists. 



paper gossip about the movements of 
generals, the exile of Pasha this and 
the promotion of Pasha that, is un- 
pardonable. And yet page after page 
of this twelve-hundred-thousand- 
dollar volume is devoted to this use. 
But Mr. Maynard has achieved a 
greater success than the mere print- 
ing of newspaper copies of treaties, 
or of the circulars of foreign minis- 
ters, or even of court intrigues or 
newspaper personals. He has giv- 
en as enclosures in his letter 230, 
of March 7, 1878, a number of ex- 
tracts from newspapers detailing 
Gen. Grant's movements while at 
Constantinople. These clippings, 
as printed, fill nearly three pages 
of this volume. ^It was a piece of 
enterprise in the Levant Daily He- 
rald of March 4, 1878, to reprint 
verbatim the article on " General 
Grant " from the " Men of the 
Time"; but this newspaper enter- 
prise is quite thrown in the shade by 
Mr. Maynard and Mr. Evarts, who 
insist on reprinting the same article 
from the Levant Herald among the 
Papers relating to the Foreign 
Relations of the United States. 
Sources of information in regard to 
Gen. Grant's career are not want- 
ing to his countrymen. They need 
neither go to the " Men of the 
Time " nor to the Levant Herald 
to learn the main outlines of his 
career. Both his military achieve- 
ments and his civil administration 
are still fresh in our recollections. 
In fact, all the extracts that are 
here printed in regard to Gen. 
Grant's movements might have been, 
and ought to have been, left out of 
this volume. They have no place 
in it. A few lines in the minister's 
despatch would cover all that was 
needful to say about Gen. Grant. 

But then Mr. -Maynard's de- 
spatches would make a beggarly 
showing were it not for the col- 



umns of the Levant Daily Herald. 
He keeps his shears and paste-pot 
handy, doubtless, and whenever 
news at the legation runs low he 
repairs to his newspaper and helps 
himself to some tid-bit, which he 
sends, with an appropriate intro- 
duction, to Mr. Evarts. 

And this is American diplomacy 
according to Mr. Maynard, whose 
ideal of what his office demands 
seems to have received at least the 
tacit endorsement of Messrs. Fish 
and Evarts, both cultivated gentle- 
men, who certainly, if they were out 
of politics, would not tolerate such 
discharge of duty in a subordinate. 

The readers of THE CATHOLIC 
WORLD will remember that the sec- 
tarianism of the American diplo- 
matic service has frequently been 
exposed in its pages. In our num- 
ber for May, 1878, it was said, in 
an article especially devoted to the 
sectarianism of the American di- 
plomatic service, that 

"The State Department has been for 
years, and is now, conducted as if it were 
an agency for a religious sectarian pro- 
paganda. The gentlemen whom it has 
sent to represent us at foreign courts 
have acted, in numberless instances and 
with few exceptions, as if they were the 
emissaries of Protestant or infidel mis- 
sionary societies rather than as the am- 
bassadors, ministers, and charges d'af- 
faires of a government which professes 
no religion, but which nevertheless has 
among its citizens eight millions of Ro- 
man Catholics, whosa rights and opin- 
ions it is bound at least to respect." 

The indictment then found 
against our diplomatic service was 
sustained by the amplest proofs. 
The names of offending ministers 
were given, and their very lan- 
guage was cited to show that they 
had not been unjustly dealt with. 
Whether or not the exposure then 
made of this disgraceful wrong 
called the attention of the authori- 



Our Diplomatists. 



79 



ties to its correction and suppres- 
sion we do not know. But we 
must in fairness say that, on the 
ground of sectarianism, the present 
volume contrasts very favorably 
with its predecessors for some 
years past. A careful perusal of 
it has only brought to light three 
or four instances of statements 
which the most sensitive Catholic 
could resent. Two of these in- 
stances are mere intimations, and 
were probably not intended by the 
writers to be more than g a state- 
ment of what they conceived to be 
facts. But the American minister 
to the kingdom of Italy is a per- 
sistent sinner. He always means 
to be offensive to Catholics, and he 
never fails to offend when the slight- 
est opportunity is afforded him. If 
G. Perkins Marsh has ever written 
a despatch in which Catholics, the 
pope, or the relations of the church 
to the state were mentioned with- 
out at the same time the aforesaid 
G. Perkins Marsh filling his letter 
full of sneers against, and positive 
misstatements of, the position of the 
church and its spiritual leaders, 
and even of their lay followers, then 
that letter has not fallen in the 
writer's way. Such a letter may 
exist, but the fact of its existence 
is at least highly improbable. Last 
year it became a painful duty to 
comment upon the slanders against 
the Pope and the Catholics of 
Italy contained in the letters to the 
Department of State written and 
sent by G. P. Marsh. The tone 
of his letters in the present volume 
shows no improvement ; their num- 
ber is less that is all. In his No. 
679, dated "Rome, June 2, 1877 " 
(Papers, p. 457), in referring to 
the fact that " the influx of pil- 
grims to attend the fiftieth anni- 
versary of Pope Pius IX. 's election 
to the episcopate has ceased," this 



model representative of a sectarian 
diplomatic service comments as fol- 
lows : " The pilgrims have not form- 
ed a body sufficiently strong in 
numbers to venture upon organized 
violence in the face of the forces 
of the government and the muni- 
cipality." As if the pilgrims whq 
went to Rome in the summer of 
1877 contemplated violence either 
organized or unorganized ! Many 
of Mr. Marsh's fellow-citizens were 
among those pilgrims a numerous 
body leaving our great metropolis 
and if no other consideration had 
any weight with a politician, at 
least the reflection that some of 
these persons, so foully stigmatized 
as brigands coming to attack the 
civil government, were citizens of 
the United States" ought to have 
caused even Mr. Marsh to think 
twice before publishing this libel 
to the world. " Still," he writes 
in continuation, " there have been 
not a few instances of provocative 
words and acts on the part of the 
pilgrims, and the zealots of both 
parties are greatly excited." It is 
the pilgrims who are guilty of these 
provocative words and actions. It 
never occurred to Mr. G. Perkins 
Marsh that the infidel and anti- 
Catholic mob in Rome could do or 
say anything that would provoke a 
Catholic. It is even doubtful wheth- 
er Mr. Marsh has the power to put 
himself so far in another's place as 
to be able to appreciate how offen- 
sive his insinuations against Catho- 
lics may be and are to every right- 
minded person into whose hands 
they fall. And now for the in- 
stance he gives of the fell designs of 
these blood-thirsty pilgrims: "Not- 
withstanding this, a numerously-at- 
tended public meeting, held in this 
city on Thursday, the 3ist of May, 
to protest against the excesses and 
usurpations of the clericals, and at 



8o 



Our Diplomatists. 



which strongly denunciatory lan- 
guage was used by the speakers, 
was conducted with perfect tran- 
quillity." The Catholics are so dis- 
orderly and intent on violence that 
they actually permit a meeting of 
their opponents, at which they were 
denounced in the bitterest terms, to 
be held in ''perfect tranquillity." 
In Mr. Marsh's opinion it is the 
lamb that is always the aggressor, 
and the wolf is the meek saint, 
who only devours the lamb because 
of his excesses and usurpations. 
Our minister then proceeds to give 
Mr. Evarts a piece of real news. 

"The pilgrims," he writes, "are in 
very large proportion ecclesiastics, com- 
prising a large number of cardinals and 
other dignitaries of the church, who 
visit Rome not as pilgrims simply, but 
for purposes of mutual consultation, and 
as members of the probably approaching 
conclave for the election of a successor 
to the present Pope. Of course the 
consultations of these personages are 
not public, but it is ascertained that, at 
a recent meeting of the most conspicu- 
ous amongst them, it was decided by a 
nearly unanimous vote to advise Pius 
IX. to abandon his profaned and dese- 
crated capital, and to retire, with his 
whole curia, to the purer soil of Lyons 
in France. It is vehemently suspected 
that the coincidence of this resolution 
with the recent political movement of 
the chief of the French state was not ac- 
cidental, and at Rome, where all things 
are contemplated through a clerical 
mist, this belief is very general. It is 
believed that the Pope would have yield- 
ed to this advice but for the strenuous op- 
position of his physicians, who were of 
opinion that to attempt such a journey 
would involve his certain and speedy 
death." 

If all things at Rome are con- 
templated through a clerical mist, 
all things at the American Legation 
presided over by Minister Marsh 
are regarded through a "no-popery 
mist." Catholic pilgrims cannot 
enter Rome to rejoice with the 
late Holy Father on the fiftieth 



anniversary of his elevation to the 
episcopate but Mr. Marsh must 
suspect them of coming on vio- 
lence bent. The shepherds of the 
Catholic flock cannot meet in con- 
sultation without its being "vehe- 
mently suspected " that they are 
plotting for the exodus of the 
Holy Father and his whole curia 
from Rome. Why did not Mr. 
Marsh say they were going to take 
the Vatican and at least one of the 
seven hills away in their train ? 
They ar not only to be held ac- 
countable for tlit-ir own sins but 
for those of the civil power in 
France. The cardinals and bishops 
are not only plotting against the 
Italian government but are'plotting 
against French liberty. Is it not 
quite time that Mr. Evarts intimat- 
ed to Minister Marsh that lie had 
quite enough of such " diplomacy "? 
And if Mr. Marsh will write, why 
cannot Mr. Evarts suppress his 
malicious nonsense ? 

Mr. Marsh's No. 291, dated Rome, 
February 8, 1878, is devoted to re- 
flections on the death of Pope 
Pius IX., which occurred the even- 
ing before. He is good enough to 
declare that though the Papacy, as 
an institution, has " lost its regal 
position," and though "the Roman 
See and the life or death of its in- 
cumbent have, strictly speaking, no 
longer any direct political signifi- 
cance," yet "the moral influence 
of the Papacy is as formidable as 
ever, and it can and does thus pow- 
erfully affect political action; but 
its power is exerted not by the 
chair of St. Peter, but by organiza- 
tions which surround and control 
it to such an extent as to render 
the personal will or character of 
the pope a matter of little impor- 
tance." The first half of this sen- 
tence may be taken for what it is 
worth. It is useless to discuss it 



Our Diplomatists. 



81 



at this time. But the latter half 
challenges discussion. Will Mr. 
Marsh be good enough to inform 
us through the Secretary of State 
what authority he has for asserting 
that not the pope, but organizations 
which surround him, wield the real 
power of the Catholic Church ? 
As well say that, because the hands 
and feet are thoroughly organized 
for the work of the body, it 
makes no difference what kind of 
mind directs their actions, as to say 
that because in its eighteen cen- 
turies of triumphal progress the 
church has been enabled through 
the guidance of the Holy Spirit to 
surround the Supreme Pontiff with 
councillors and congregations and 
organizations fitted to execute his 
wishes -and the Master's plans, 
" the personal will or character of 
the pope is a matter of little impor- 
tance." These things were never 
a matter of little importance. And 
they were never more supremely 
important than they are to-day in 
the face of the trials and perils 
that beset the church at its very 
seat. We can all rejoice that when 
the princes of the church were call- 
ed upon to select a successor to Pius 
IX. they did not take Mr. Marsh 
as their guide, but, appreciating the 
supreme importance of the per- 
sonal will and character of Peter's 
successor, chose as Supreme Pon- 
tiff a man of the highest character 
for integrity, learning, and piety, 
and a ruler whom Mr. Marsh him- 
self in a subsequent letter declares 
to be firm and energetic. Our 
minister evidently regards the pope 
and his curia, and the heads of 
orders in connection, therewith, 
through the mist of the American 
caucus system. He cannot think 
of a ruler who is not like a mayor, 
a governor, or a president that is, 
a creature of caucus and party, 
VOL, xxix. 6 



who must obey the commands and 
meet the demands of party leaders. 
The pope is not such a ruler. He 
acts on his own responsibility un- 
der God. He is no man's man. 
To him the keys are committed, 
and he it is who must keep the 
treasure secure. His responsibili- 
ty is higher than to caucus, Con- 
gress, parliament, or king. Men 
may say " Do this or do that ; com- 
promise here or trifle there "; but 
the pope is called upon to resist 
all the seductions of the enemy, 
and he must say, even if it provoke 
a jibe, "In the face of God I can- 
not." What have outside associa- 
tions or organizations to do with 
this ? It is a personal matter a 
supremely personal matter. Leo 
is now the shepherd, as Peter was. 
He has all the duties and responsi- 
bilities of the whole church cast 
upon him. He must decide. 
Others may wait ; he must act. 
He makes use of the organizations. 
Why should he not? But they 
neither use him nor control him. 

In his No. 741, dated " Rome, 
February 20, 1878," Minister 
Marsh announces to the Secretary 
of State the election of a successor 
to Pope Pius IX. The letter is 
characterized by the small and bit- 
ter intolerance which marks all the 
correspondence of this misrepre- 
sentative of America when Catho- 
lics or the Catholic cause is in 
question. He takes a perverse 
pleasure in misinterpreting the acts 
and misconstruing the motives of 
Catholics. For instance, he de- 
clares that " the reputation of Car- 
dinal Pecci for moderation was 
thought to form a still stronger 
objection to his choice by the [Sa- 
cred] College " than the fact of his 
being chamberlain of the curia an 
officer who " has been generally 
understood not to be in the line 



82 



Our Diplomatists. 



of preferment." " Bat " and now 
hold your breath, gentle reader, 
while G. P. Marsh proclaims to the 
world a great state secret "but 
great efforts had been made by the 
Catholic governments of Europe, 
strengthened by a powerful public 
opinion among political men, to 
induce the cardinals to agree in the 
selection of a man of the temper 
which is ascribed to Cardinal Pec- 
ci," and tell it not in Gath Car- 
dinal Pecci was accordingly chosen 
Supreme Pontiff. These " political 
men " to whom Mr. Marsh attri- 
butes the choice of Leo XIII. were 
so successful in that undertaking 
that one wonders why their names 
were not mentioned, and why they 
do not turn their massive intellects 
to the many and intricate political 
problems that are pressing for so- 
lution in Germany and Italy, with- 
out mentioning any other states of 
the great European family which 
are to-day face to face with the 
most momentous questions. Will 
Mr. Marsh and those of his in- 
tolerant ilk neve^r learn that the 
church is equal to the discharge of 
her own duties ; that the only fa- 
vor she asks is to be permitted to 
deal freely with her own interests; 
and that if " political men " would 
only deal with questions of purely 
temporal concern they would find 
ample scope for the use of all the 
talents which have been given to 
them? Leo XIII., as every one 
knows, was the free choice of the 
Sacred College. 

"Strong passions," said Edmund 
Burke, " awake the faculties." 
And intolerance is a strong "pas- 
sion. It blinds the eyes or it opens 
them. In most cases it certainly 
blinds Mr. Marsh's eyes, but in 
one it has certainly opened them. 
He scouts as absurd the intima- 
tions in certain European journals, 



which were copied from them into 
American newspapers, that Leo 
XIII. was going to reverse the poli- 
cy of his predecessor going to 
make, in the slang of the day, " a 
new departure." 

" Certain minor arrangements of Car- 
dinal Pecci during his regency as cham- 
berlain after the death of the late Pope," 
writes Mr. Marsh, "are construed by 
many as indicative of comparatively lib- 
eral intentions, and particularly of the 
purpose of abandoning the farce of a 
pretended restriction of the liberty of 
the Pope by the Italian government, 
which was kept up by Pius IX. from the 
entry of the royal troops into Rome on 
the 20th of September, 1870, to the day 
of his death. I do not attach much con- 
sequence to any of these demonstrations, 
nor shall I to any initial professions of 
liberalism which may be made on behalf 
of the new pontiff, who will feel as little 
bound by such professions as did Pius 
IX. by those which accompanied the 
commencement of his reign, and who 
in the long run must shape the policy of 
the Papacy by the rule, ' Sit nt est ant 
non sit? " 

Nothing could well be worse 
than the form into which Mr. 
Marsh puts a perfectly true obser- 
vation that the churcli will not 
and cannot follow a course mapped 
out for her by her enemies. She 
has a path of her own, and that 
she must follow. Mr. Marsh and 
his kind make it a reproach to her 
that she is not turned aside by 
every wind that blows, but he sees, 
what very few of his colleagues see, 
that whatever may be his and their 
wishes, the church stands squarely 
on the rock and will not be moved 
by rain or storm. Every compli- 
ment paid to our minister's intelli- 
gence but adds to the severity of 
the condemnation to be meted out 
to him for the course which he 
actually follows. He does not sin 
through ignorance but through 
malevolence. Had he the desire 



Our Diplomatists. 



to treat the church fairly, he lias 
the necessary means of knowledge 
at his hand. But he chooses to 
insult and revile the church and 
the faith of unnumbered millions 
of Christians for eighteen centuries 
past, and of eight millions of his 
own fellow-citizens now living, who 
are taxed to support him in writing 
these abominable diatribes against 
what they hold not only dear but 
sacred. 

One more extract, and we shall 
drop Mr. Marsh, from whose com- 
pany our readers will doubtless be 
glad to escape. In his " No. 736," 
from which 'we have previously 
quoted, appears the following clos- 
ing passage : 

" Attempts will be made [to bring 
about a reconciliation between the tiara 
and the crown of Italy ; but King Hum- 
bert will, I trust, be found as firm in 
his adhesion to the principle of the su- 
premacy of the civil government as his 
father showed himself, and there is 
nothing to encourage the expectation 
that the successor of Pius IX. will be 
permitted to propose or accept any mo- 
dus vivendi incompatible with the civil 
liberties of the Italian people, or with 
the rights of private conscience and 
opinion." 

One would infer from this that 
Mr. Marsh had the Italian gov- 
ernment and people in his keep- 
ing. What is it to him, as the re- 
presentative of the American peo- 
ple, what contracts or engagements 
are entered into between King Hum- 
bert and the Pope ? He does his 
whole duty when he sees that, what- 
ever these engagements may be, 
the rights of the government of 
the United States and of its citi- 
zens are not invaded. Further 
than this it is an impertinence for 
him to interfere in any way. One 
would think he was a demon of 
discord and hate to hear his vehe- 
ment protests against anything like 



accord between church and state. 
He is up in arms in favor of " the 
rights of private conscience and 
opinion," for his friends, no doubt ; 
but he applauds the violation of 
the rights of private conscience 
and opinion when the consciences 
and opinions belong to Catholics. 
Mr. Marsh always asserts, what- 
ever he may think, that the church 
is ever in the wrong. She has no 
rights that Mr. Marsh is bound to 
respect. He applauds all the as- 
saults against her integrity and 
freedom, and he himself never fails 
to scoff and revile her. It is per- 
haps too much to ask the Secretary 
of State to tame his fiery minister. 
But is there no member of Con- 
gress no senator or representa- 
tive who will rise in his place 
and rebuke this abuse of our dip- 
lomatic service? It is not neces- 
sary that a Catholic should perform 
this duty. Any person who can 
read the Constitution of the United 
States knows that turning any por- 
tion of the public service into a 
sectarian engine is a perversion of 
the whole letter and spirit of our 
organic law. Every fair-minded 
man, whether Catholic or Protes- 
tant, must resent the intrusion of 
Mr. Marsh's bigotry into our dip- 
lomatic correspondence. If this 
matter is once ventilated on the 
floor of either House, Mr. Marsh will 
cease to be minister or his bigotry 
will cease to appear in the diplo- 
matic correspondence. Until such 
intolerance is denounced in Con- 
gress there is no hope of suppress- 
ing our diplomatic Whalley. 

From Italy let us turn to Spain, 
and from G. P. Marsh to James 
Russell Lowell. Mr. Lowell strug- 
gles manfully to work up an in- 
terest in the Spanish differential 
duties in favor of national vessels 
and against foreign bottoms a sub- 



Our Diplomatists. 



ject on which Mr. Evarts writes 
with evident zest. Probably Minis- 
ter Lowell's representations on this 
knotty point were as effective as 
they could have been had the most 
acute admiralty lawyer presented 
them. And yet one feels that Mr. 
Lowell is not quite at home in 
dealing with the topic, and in all 
probability the Spanish Govern- 
ment felt so too, for it is notice- 
able that Mr. Mantilla, the Spanish 
minister in Washington, deals with 
the subject at large in communica- 
tions addressed to the Department 
of State, though it is but justice to 
add that Mr. Mantilla is endeavor- 
ing to make out a case against the 
United States, while Mr. Lowell 
was endeavoring to bring to the at- 
tention of the Spanish government 
alleged discriminations against 
American shipping. But be this 
as it may, Mr. Lowell, unlike Mr. 
Maynard, can write the English 
language, and he can intimate his 
want of sympathy with the man- 
ners and customs of the people and 
the court to which he is accredited 
without descending with Mr. Marsh 
into denunciation and misrepre- 
sentation. In his " No. 65," dated 
"Madrid, February 6, 1878," Minis- 
ter Lowell writes of the marriage 
of King Alfonso and the unfortu- 
nate Mercedes. It is a letter worth 
reading. This is no newspaper 
clipping, but a genuine piece of de- 
scription by a master-hand. One 
could wish that some expressions 
in it were toned down, but as a 
whole it is a piece of writing that 
is not met with every day. It is 
one of the three or four letters that 
at the beginning of this article 
were excluded from the general 
condemnation passed upon the 
rest of the "papers" contained in 
this volume. For only one paragraph 
can we find room. After declar- 



ing that " nowhere in the world 
could a spectacle have been pre- 
sented which recalled so various, 
so far-reaching and in some re- 
spects sublime associations, yet 
rendered depressing by a sense of 
anachronism, of decay, and of that 
unreality which is all the sadder 
for being gorgeous," and after re- 
ferring to some of the elements of 
this pageant the banners of Le- 
panto, "the names and titles that 
recalled the conquest of western 
empires, or the long defeat whose 
heroism established the indepen- 
dence of the United Provinces and 
proved that a confederacy of 
traders could be heroic," the state 
coaches, plumed horses, and blaz- 
ing liveries, the gay or sombre cos- 
tumes from every province in Spain, 
and the dense and mostly silent 
throng which lined for miles the 
avenues to the church he con- 
tinues : 

" There was everything to remind one 
of the past ; there was nothing to sug- 
gest the future. And yet I am unjust. 
There were the young king and his bride, 
radiant with spirit and hope, rehearsing 
the idyll which is charming alike to 
youth and age, and giving pledges, as I 
hope and believe, of more peaceful and 
prosperous years to come for a coun- 
try which has had too much glory and 
too little good housekeeping. . . . The 
bent of ages is not to be straightened in 
a day by never so many liberal constitu- 
tions nor by the pedantic application of 
theories drawn from foreign experience, 
the result of a wholly different past. If 
the ninety years since the French Revo- 
lution have taught us anything, it has 
been that institutions grow and cannot 
be made to order ; that they grow out of 
an actual past, and are not to be con- 
spired out of a conjectural future ; that 
human nature is stronger than any in- 
vention of man." 

Mr. Lowell is not prepared to 
say how much of this lesson has 
been learned in Spain, but it is 
perfectly safe to assert that very 



Our Diplomatists. 



many of the very radicals who will 
be found complaining with Mr. 
Lowell himself that antiquity 
means "anachronism, decay, and 
unreality " have not learned this 
lesson. They will be found sub- 
stituting "the pound of passion for 
the ounce of patience," and expect- 
ing that stable institutions can be 
conspired out of a conjectural fu- 
ture. 

The marriage and the death of 
Queen Mercedes occurred in the 
same year, and both are chronicled 
by the same hand, and within a 
few months of each other. " No. 
65 " described the wedding and re- 
flected upon the event to the pur- 
pose above set forth. " No. 95 " 
gives an account of the young 
queen's illness, of her death, and of 
her funeral. Here is an eloquent 
passage : 

" During the last few days of the 
queen's illness the aspect of the city had 
been strikingly impressive. It was, I 
think, sensibly less noisy than usual, as 
if it were all a chamber of death, in 
which the voice must be bated. Groups 
gathered and talked in undertones. 
About the palace there was a silent 
crowd day and night, and there could 
be no question that the sorrow was uni- 
versal and profound. On the last day I 
was at the palace just when the poor 
girl was dying. As I crossed the great 
interior courtyard, which was perfectly 
empty, I was startled by a dull roar not 
unlike that of the vehicles in a great 
city. It was reverberated and multi- 
plied by the huge cavern of the palace 
court. At first I could see nothing that 
accounted for it, but presently found 
that the arched corridors all round the 
square were filled, both on the ground 
floor and the first story, with an anxious 
crowd, whose eager questions and an- 
swers, though subdued to the utmost, 
produced the strange thunder I had 
heard. It almost seemed fora moment 
as if the palace itself had become vocal. 
At the time of the marriage I told you 
that the crowd in the streets was indiffer- 
ent and silent. . . . On the day of her 
death the difference was immense. Sor- 



row and sympathy were in every heart 
and on every face. By her good temper, 
good sense, and womanly virtues the 
girl of seventeen had not only endeared 
herself to those immediately about her, 
but had become an important factor in 
the destiny of Spain. . . . Had she lived 
she would have given stability to the 
throne of her husband, o*-er whom her 
influence was wholly for good. She was 
not beautiful, but the cordial simplicity 
of her manner, the grace of her bearing, 
her fine eyes, and the youth and purity 
of her face gave her a charm that mere 
beauty never attains." 

We will not argue the question 
with those Gradgrinds who want 
" facts " and figures about the 
movements of trade whether or 
not such letters should find any 
place at this day in the despatch- 
bag of a modern diplomatist. But 
we do say that if more of our min- 
isters could write the English lan- 
guage it would be better for our 
diplomatic service ; and it is cer- 
tainly better to fill a few pages of 
the volume containing "papers" 
relating to our foreign relations 
with descriptive letters than to 
lumber them up with newspaper 
clippings and the heated imagina- 
tions of an intolerant brain. Mr. 
Lowell, like all our foreign repre- 
sentatives, suffers from lack of train- 
ing for his special calling; and lack 
of training means in this case lack 
of knowledge of the persons, official 
and other, with whom a minister 
must deal. But whatever may be 
his shortcomings, we need not blush 
when reading his productions. As 
far as mere literary finish is con- 
cerned they leave little to be de- 
sired, and so far surpass the pro- 
ductions of any other American 
minister represented in this vol- 
ume that there is only contrast 
and no comparison between them. 

Mr. George F. Seward, who is at 
this writing still our minister to 
China though he himself is in 



Our Diplomatists. 



Washington, where a committee of 
the House of Representatives has 
been for a long time, and is now, 
eng'ged in investigating charges 
of grave official misconduct made 
against him has prepared a memo- 
randum " On the Currency of 
China," which was submitted to 
the State Department and is print- 
ed in the present volume (pp. 133- 
139). This memorandum appears 
to be carefully done, and it has 
been commended by members of 
a special committee of the Shang- 
hai Chamber of Commerce, who 
are familiar with the subject, as 
they had recently endeavored, 
but in vain, to induce the gov- 
ernment of China to place the 
currency on a more satisfactory 
basis. This memorandum and Mr. 
Seward's letter " No. 425," dated 
"Peking, March 22, 1878," are 
among the exceptions to the gene- 
ral condemnation passed upon the 
volume. The letter is an extreme- 
ly forcible presentation of the un- 
wisdom of abrogating certain parts 
of our treaties with China by spe- 
cial legislation. Congress has late- 
ly taken this course, but Mr. Sew- 
ard's reasons against it are still un- 
answered. He shows that, from 
the diplomatic point of view, we 
have always been at a disadvantage 
in dealing with China, because 
we voluntarily accorded to her 
people within our borders all the 
privileges of the most favored na- 
tions, while China has only yielded 
to us a few privileges, and even 
these cannot be enjoyed without 
constant diplomatic representations. 
We are therefore continually ask- 
ing something from China, and, on 
the contrary, she has nothing to 
ask from us, her subjects having all 
that we can give. Now, reasons 
Mr. Sevvard, if we legislate the 
treaty out of existence by a mere 



act of Congress, we will set China 
an example of an arbitrary and wil- 
ful abrogation of a treaty or a part 
of a treaty, and this example the 
Chinese, who are apt scholars, 
might not only follow but improve 
upon. " Would it not, indeed," he 
asks, "imperil all our relations 
with the empire, and afford a cer- 
tain ground of reproach against us 
by China, and by all the powers 
that are interested here ?" The 
question of Chinese immigration is 
a many-sided one, which cannot- be 
solved off-hand by the passage of a 
mere statute. 

It is not improper to ask in clos- 
ing why it is that in reading 
through the correspondence of 
our ministers one meets with so 
much chaff and so little wheat. 
Here is, for instance, an extract 
from " No. 60 " of Mr. Jehu Baker, 
dated " Caracas, October 30, 1878." 
Mr. Baker is describing, or at- 
tempting to describe, the national 
festival of Venezuela in commemo- 
ration of Bolivar : 

" The Plaza Bolivar," he informs Mr. 
Evarts, " was, on this as on other occa- 
sions, the centre of public reunion and 
display. ... In the centre of the plaza 
stands an equestrian statue of Bolivar, 
supported upon a pedestal of granite, 
surmounted by a beautifully wrought 
and polished superstructure of dark- 
colored syenite. This work, I under- 
stand, was done in Europe, and I sus- 
pect it may be superior, as a work of 
art, to anything of the sort we have in 
Washington." 

This choice morsel is the last 
letter in the volume, on the last 
page before the index. It has one 
of the posts of honor. And well it 
deserves some special mark of con- 
sideration. How Mr. Evarts must 
have rubbed his eyes when he read 
it ! The writer is careful to tell us 
what the pedestal and the super- 
structure are made of, but he does 



Our Diplomatists. 



not think it worth his while to 
mention the material out of which 
the statue itself is made. This 
would be more important informa- 
tion than his vague understanding 
that the work " was done in 
Europe." Was there no one to 
inform Mr. Baker on this point ? 
If it was worth writing about at all, 
it was worth writing about, if not 
in good English, at least with some 
approach to knowledge of what the 
writer was treating. But Mr. 
Baker's " understanding " is infe- 
rior to his suspicion. " I suspect," 
says he cautiously, " it may be 
superior, as a work of art, to any- 
thing of the sort we have in Wash- 
ington." What sort ? 

To return to our question, Why 
is there, with all this waste of paper 
and printer's ink and money, so 
little in this volume? Why is it 
padded out with newspaper clip- 
pings, some of them of very in- 
different quality? Why is Mr. 
Marsh permitted to print his in- 
tolerant utterances in defiance of 
the very principles on which the 
government is founded, and to 
the direct insult of about twenty 
per cent, of the population of the 
country ? Why is Mr. Jehu Baker 
permitted not only to write, but to 
print at public expense, the pre- 
cious art criticism of which a 
specimen is given above ; and when 
his imagination or his industry is 
not equal to the task, why is he per- 
mitted to fill his letters with news- 
paper clippings, and have these, 
too, printed at public expense ? 
Why is Mr. Maynard allowed to 
send home the files of the Levant 
ffera!d, and have important treaties 
printed from its columns and la- 
belled "official," when the text 
bears every evidence of not only not 
being official but not even being 
correct? Why does not the Secre- 



tary of State edit these papers 
and throw the greater part of them 
into the waste-basket ? They give 
no information. Most of them are 
badly written. Some of them are 
low in tone. Ninety per cent, of 
them would never have been writ- 
ten at all, were it not that the 
minister wished to impress the 
State Department with his dili- 
gence to show how much he was 
doing for his money. The activity 
of the majority of our ministers is 
time wasted, and unfortunately it 
leads to a new outlay of money 
when Congress prints the collection 
covered by the " President's Mes- 
sage and accompanying Docu- 
ments." Why do our representa- 
tives abroad never think of doing 
some careful piece of work in re- 
gard to the people to whose gov- 
ernment they are accredited? One 
would think that, if our Mr. Kasson 
only knew where to look, there are 
at hand ample materials for com- 
piling a memorandum that would 
repay perusal on the monetary and 
financial expedients of Austro-Hun- 
gary, and on her political experi- 
ment with a dual government, in 
which, as a politician, he must take 
some interest. Germany would af- 
ford an observant minister ample 
scope for a political study on the 
relations of the government to the 
chambers and to the people, and 
on the relations of the state to the 
church. Why are such things never 
done, or attempted to be done, ex- 
cept on rare occasions ? The an- 
swer is that we have in reality no 
diplomatic service at all. Training 
and experience are at a discount. 
All men are equal ; therefore any 
political hack or newspaper writer, 
or Congressman whose constituents 
have chosen his successor, is fitted 
to represent the United States at 
any of the courts of the Old World 



88 



To Pontius Pilate washing his Hands. 



and the capitals of the New. Is it 
not wonderful that we have any 
prestige at all abroad when the 
mode by which we aim at creating 
and sustaining it is considered ? We 
send strange beings often to courts 
famous for their elegance and in- 
tellectual character, and we wonder 
that they make little progress in 
delicate matters confided to them. 
To Catholic nations we do not send 
Catholics, when our diplomatic suc- 
cess would be rendered much more 
probable if we did. But there are 
Protestants and Protestants. No 
one asks as a matter of right that 
there should be Catholic ambassa- 
dors to Catholic countries, though 
as a matter of expediency there 
ought to be. But we send bigots 
to Catholic governments men who 
do not know and will not learn 
anything about the people among 
whom they have temporarily to re- 
side. Our whole diplomatic ser- 
vice, from top to bottom, is char- 
acterized by " how not to do it." 
There is a cry for its abolition. 



If it were simply a question of sus- 
taining the service as it now is, 
with its ignorant Bakers and intol- 
erant Marshes, we should say let it 
go ; we cannot be worse served if 
not served at all. But it is because 
there are hopes that there will be 
a change for the better in the near 
future that we are inclined to tole- 
rate the service a little longer. If 
the service were properly officered 
and organized it could do good 
work. But there must be a change 
of methods and of men. Hapha- 
zard, and equality, and chance, and 
rewarding partisanship will not give 
us even a tolerable diplomatic ser- 
vice. We must have trained dip- 
lomatists men educated for their 
life-work ; persons who will not 
only know how to deal with diplo- 
matic questions, but will know how 
to avoid sectarianism and bigotry. 
A very few years will show wheth- 
er we are to have a reformed diplo- 
matic service or to try the experi- 
ment of no diplomatic service at 
all. 



TO PONTIUS PILATE WASHING HIS HANDS. 



HOLD, fool ! Not all the floods that gird the earth, 
Or from the clouds of heaven receive their birth, 
Can wash thy hands. If of that blood one drop 
Be on thy guilty palms, there let it stop. 
- Thou'lt need it sorely in that Day of Woe 
When souls, not hands, are called to make clean show. 



The Story of Agnes. 



THE STORY OF AGNES. 



YEARS ago there lived and flour- 
ished in Prague two Jewish bro- 
thers named Trendellsohn, who, 
by their wealth and known integri- 
ty, had acquired for themselves an 
honored position even in that city, 
where the prejudice against their 
race held strongest sway. Side by 
side rose their stately homes, the 
boasted ornaments of the Juden- 
stadt, alike yet differing widely ; 
for in the house of the younger 
brother, Mark, were heard on all 
sides the noise and clatter of child- 
ish play. Dark eyes set in sallow 
little faces peeped through every 
window, and the narrow slip of 
garden rang with the merriment, 
which sounded sweetly in the fa- 
ther's ears, and echoed even 
through the quiet halls where 
Reuben's wife sat childless child- 
less, and sorrowing as Anna sorrow- 
ed over the one great happiness 
which, for the first seven years of 
her married life, was denied her. 

Then came a joyful time for the 
rich Jew's household, for at last a 
baby was born to them a tiny, dark- 
eyed, dark-haired baby-girl who 
lay calmly sleeping in the happy 
mother's arms, while all the little 
cousins tiptoed in and out of the 
room for a glimpse of the welcome 
new-comer, and the momentous 
question was 'raised, What should 
she be named ? 

"You will call her Miriam after 
our mother, I suppose?" said Mark 
to his brother, whose grave, firmly- 
lined face looked strangely soften- 
ed with the light of this new-found 
joy. 

"Your eldest girl is named Mir- 
riam," said Reuben absently, as 



though hardly hearing the ques- 
tion. 

" Our mother's virtues might well 
bear diffusion among a dozen de- 
scendants," was the proud reply ; 
"you need have no fear in multi- 
plying her honored name." 

" Mark," said the elder brother, 
rousing himself from the retrospec- 
tion into which he had fallen, "no 
one can more love and revere his 
mother's name and memory than I 
do; but I am going to fulfil a pro- 
mise I made lightly enough in 
early youth, and call my first girl 
after our old and faithful nurse " 

" What ! Agnes ? " exclaimed 
Mark hastily. 

" Yes, Agnes," was the reply, so 
decisively given that the other bro- 
ther attempted no remonstrance, 
merely expressing his disapproval 
with an emphatic shrug of his 
broad shoulders. And so the mat- 
ter was settled; and the baby, re- 
ceiving the most un-Jewish name 
of Agnes, took to it kindly, and 
grew prettier and brighter as every 
month went by, until the mother 
thought in her fond, proud heart : 
"If I have but one, she is fairer 
and sweeter than all my brother- 
in-law's many children, and I am 
more than satisfied." At three 
years old the little Agnes might 
have passed for no unfit portrait of 
that other Jewish maiden, purest 
and loveliest of earthly children, 
who went to the Temple to offer 
her infant holiness to God. 

At this time the mother died, 
leaving her precious gift, just when 
the charge had grown sweetest, to 
the care of others, to receive from 
stranger hands her baby wants, to 



The Story of Agnes. 



give to stranger hearts her baby 
love. She was a good woman, who 
looked into futurity with calmly 
hopeful eyes ; and yet she felt, as 
many mothers have felt before and 
since, that it was hard to go while 
those little hands clung to her so 
desperately, holding her down to 
earth with links like adamant. 
But yet she died, and after this the 
child grew up alone, manifesting 
from her earliest years certain dis- 
tinct peculiarities, which, uncheck- 
ed by any guiding hand, grew with 
her very growth. Noticeable among 
these were a passionate admiration 
for rich dress and bright colors, a 
very positive and plainly shown 
aversion to the society of her 
merry little cousins next door, and 
a great love for pictures of all kinds 
and degrees. She drew almost as 
soon as she could hold a pencil in 
her tiny hands, and no other occu- 
pation ever gave her prolonged 
amusement. Dainty forms began 
to grow beneath the child's deli- 
cate fingers baby faces with in- 
nocent, staring eyes and pretty, 
pouting lips ; angels with floating 
drapery and heads thrown back in 
winged ecstasy; or kneeling, as 
above the Ark of the Covenant, with 
downcast eyes and humbly-folded 
wings ; or soaring upwards with 
outspread pinions, and clear eyes 
penetrating through the veil of 
heaven. 

Reuben, while proud of his little 
daughter's talent, grew alarmed at 
the intensity of her devotion to it, 
and tried to force her into the free 
and commonplace life of his bro- 
ther's children, but without much 
success. At home she was merry 
enough, but among them she seem- 
ed to change entirely, and grew si- 
lent and unhappy amid their boister- 
ous fun. Every fibre of the child's 
delicate soul shrank instinctively 



from contact with these coarser na- 
tures, until at times their very pre- 
sence grew insupportable to her ; 
and then a careless word, a rude 
and hasty act, would result in a 
burst of such uncontrollable weep- 
ing that it was no wonder her little 
cousins soon ceased to care much 
for her company, and gradually 
learned to leave her to her own 
devices. 

As she grew into girlhood she 
gave more and more of her time to 
the one pursuit that seemed for the 
present to fill and satisfy her life. 
Her father's wealth procured for 
her good masters even in Prague, 
and they all acknowledged that she 
had great talent, though it wasmarred 
by the extreme difficulty of direct- 
ing or controlling it. While she 
could not be trusted to work two 
days alike, yet there were certain 
mannerisms that seemed already to 
haunt her style and threatened to 
block her future progress. Patience, 
that one great requisite of a true 
artist, she undoubtedly possessed. 
Never satisfied, yet never despair- 
ing, she toiled on, now trying vainly 
to express in definite form the in- 
distinct visions that dwelt for ever 
in her fancy ; now painting and re- 
painting her own head, with a keen 
artistic appreciation of its dark 
young beauty which was too ab- 
stract a feeling to have anything in 
common with mere vanity. Of the 
same kind was her passionate love 
for dress. She valued it, not for its 
effect on others, but solely for the 
pleasure it gave herself a pleasure 
redeemed from vulgarity only by 
the intensity of its selfishness. 
Humored by her father to the ut- 
most in this respect, her silks and 
jewels became objects of wonder 
and admiration to her cousins and 
her few friends, and, though unsuit- 
ed to her years, they seemed a nat- 



The Story of Agnes. 



ural part of her, a fitting frame- 
work to her ripe young loveliness 
and stately, girlish grace. She was 
self-possessed, because in a great 
measure self-centred; unrevealing, 
as having never had any one to 
whom she could speak her hidden 
thoughts; yet beneath her outward 
calm lay concealed a strife of ever- 
contending elements a mind un- 
trained, undisciplined, and unsatis- 
fied, a soul full of undefined yearn- 
ings after better things, but hedged 
in by earthliness and by its impo- 
tence to rise unaided, and mani- 
festing its possibilities for good 
only by its ever-increasing restless- 
ness under the load it bore. Add- 
ed to these were the thousand min- 
ute shocks and jars the high-strung, 
sensitive nature received from all 
it touched. The poverty, the dark- 
ness, the filth of the Jew's quarter 
in which she was obliged to live; 
its narrow streets, filled with coarse, 
loud-voiced men and women jost- 
ling against each other in their rude 
haste; the low tastes and aims of 
those around her; the atmosphere 
of grasping cupidity and impotent 
malice, though biit the natural fruit 
of persecution and oppression, 
weighed her down. She hated near- 
ly everything that surrounded her 
and that formed part of her daily 
life, and, turning to herself for 
comfort and sympathy, found none. 
If all was hateful without, all was 
dark and unsatisfied within ; and 
Agnes, looking into life with sad, 
passionate eyes, and finding no- 
where what she hungered for, 
groped her way blindly onward, 
rebellious, suffering, silent. Re- 
ligion was to her but an honored 
name. If it had once really touch- 
ed her heart, it would have flooded 
with light all these daily trials en- 
dured in its name and for its sake; 
but alas ! for those who suffer un- 



willingly for the faith they hold 
martyrs, without the crown of mar- 
tyrdom. 

Painting was the safe and natu- 
ral outlet of all her emotions ; but 
when she flew to it for solace she 
found herself baffled by the limits 
she could not pass, the iron bar- 
riers that hemmed in her one tal- 
ent till it grew almost useless to 
her impatient eyes. About this 
time she was fond of drawing all 
her inspirations from the Sacred 
Scriptures, as though with some 
vague hope that with such subjects 
would come the light to help her ; 
and yet everything that she did 
was but the reflection of her own 
sorrowful mind : Ruth standing 
sad-eyed and drooping amid the 
stranger's harvest ; Jephte's doom- 
ed daughter, shrinking yet heroic, 
with strained, pathetic gaze and 
quivering, patient smile ; and Agar 
turning darkly away in mute an- 
guish, lest her eyes should fall upon 
her dying boy. 

The cousins shrugged their 
shoulders at such pictures, and re- 
ported at home that Agnes was 
growing more melancholy and pe- 
culiar every day. Mark Trendell- 
sohn advised his brother to take 
her away, at least for 'a time ; 
Prague was no place for her. And 
Reuben tried hard to make up his 
mind to follow this advice. His 
daughter did seem to droop in the 
vitiated atmosphere of the Juden- 
stadt ; he felt how much more 
suited to her would be any one of 
the Italian cities which he had 
visited, but of which she knew 
nothing. There, at least, her artist 
nature would find its proper food. 
He knew that she was cast in a 
finer mould than her cousins and 
those around her, and that the 
things they scarcely heeded weigh- 
ed cruelly on her shoulders. He 



9 2 



The Story of Agnes. 



loved her and was proud of her ; 
and yet, though he believed himself 
willing to sacrifice everything for 
her good, he put cff from month to 
month, from year to year, the evil 
day of departure. 

It is strange that a Jew, who has 
no home and no country, should ' 
be susceptible of such intense af- 
fection for his birthplace. Prague 
had been, at best, but a harsh step- 
mother to her Jewish children ; and 
yet Reuben Trendellsohn loved 
every street and every stone of the 
gloomy quarter in which he had 
spent his life. 

Just where his handsome house 
now stood had leant over into the 
street the crazy pile of buildings 
in which he had been born. There, 
in its narrow rooms, had worked 
and smiled' the dark-eyed mother 
whose memory was green in her 
children's hearts. There, in an 
upper story, had dragged through 
the last ten years of life the grand- 
father, withered, crippled, and in- 
firm, whose crabbed age the boys 
were taught to reverence, though 
they could not love. By their 
unaided efforts had he and his 
brother risen to wealth and to 
such reputation as a Jew \could 
have. To him the narrow streets 
were endeared by a thousand 
tender recollections binding him 
to the happier past. It was like 
tearing his very soul asunder to 
leave all this, and begin life again 
in a strange place and with strange 
people. He was willing to go, if 
his daughter really needed the 
change; but what wonder that he 
deferred the bitter moment which 
should separate him from his past ? 
And in the meantime a merciful 
Providence did for Agnes more 
than it was in her father's power 
to do. 

Strangely trivial are the events 



which at times alter the whole 
course of our lives. The turning- 
point of our career is often so faint- 
ly marked that a few months or 
years obliterate all trace of that 
whose after-consequences follow us 
to death's very door, and perhaps 
mark our souls for eternity. 

It was one day in the early spring 
that Agnes, listlessly turning over 
some prints in a picture-dealer's 
store, heard a sweet voice near her 
say : " There, my dear, is a picture 
of your patroness, the blessed St. 
Agnes." Turning instinctively at 
the sound of her own name, she 
saw that the speaker, a very young 
girl, was really addressing her 
companion some distance off; but 
on seeing trie stranger mechani- 
cally hold out her hand for the 
print, the child for she was no 
more courteously offered it to her, 
with a shy glance at the lovely 
dark face and sombre, dreamy 
eyes. 

It was a time-worn copy of that 
rare engraving of Martin Schoen's 
where the saint, palm-branch in 
hand, stands looking down, a pic- 
ture of meek, girlish beauty, her 
heavy tresses falling to her feet, her 
lamb lying sleeping by her side. 

Agnes looked long and curious- 
ly at the tender loveliness of this 
child-martyr who bore her own 
name. She wondered much who 
she was and when she suffered, but 
did not like to ask partly because 
ashamed of her own ignorance, of 
which she was at all times painful- 
ly conscious, partly because too 
proud to acknowledge the interest 
which she, a Jewish girl, felt in a 
Christian saint. So, putting the 
picture softly down and stealing a 
wistful look at the two children, 
she left the store, resolved to buy 
for herself the history of St. Agnes, 
if there was one in Prague. 



T/ie Story of Agnes. 



93 



Why should she not know some- 
thing of those whom the old paint- 
ers deemed the worthiest subjects 
of their canvas? There could be 
no possible harm in it; and yet it 
wns with a feeling of guilt she 
could not quite subdue that she 
sat down in her room that night 
to read the story of this purest and 
sweetest of saints and martyrs. 

There was not much to read. 
The history of those thirteen years 
of life was quickly told ; but every 
word went straight to Agnes' heart, 
because of her natural assimilation 
with the saint's character. The 
likeness between them, it is true, 
lay deep down, for on the surface 
everything seemed so different ; but 
the passionless purity of the girl's 
soul, which had so long recoiled 
from all that touched it, went forth 
in intense yet half-despairing love 
for this its natural ideal. 

During those first hours of 
thought despair indeed predomi- 
nated ; for Agnes, applying the key 
of the saint's inner and outer life 
to her own, read by its help all 
that was earthly and false in her 
own nature. 

From infancy St. Agnes had 
lived in the clear vision of God. 
Every throb of her white soul was 
open to his loving eyes ; every im- 
pulse, and thought, and deed 
found its natural end and means 
in him ; while she, who had found 
nothing but bitterness in her earth- 
ly world, had yet lived in it and for 
it alone. She had been the centre 
of her own life ; God had been the 
centre of the saint's ; and Agnes 
clearly saw the different results. 

Even in remote details how un- 
like she was to this favored soul ! 
The saint, though young and beau- 
tiful and nobly born, esteemed all 
these things as nothing, wrapped in 
more perfect joy. And she! The 



rich dress in which she delighted, 
her pride in her own loveliness, 
her indolence and luxury, all the 
earthly bonds she hated and yet 
bowed beneath, came surging 
through her mind with sudden, 
cruel force. And yet what were 
these things compared to the dif- 
ference in their inner lives? 

Her sense of self-abasement 
seemed to stifle her, and she leant 
from her window for a breath of 
the cool night air. Above her 
spread the quiet beauty of the 
heavens, and their silent majesty 
soothed her troubled mind ; but 
below, through the deserted streets, 
crept two men, and as they passed 
one of them struck the other angri- 
ly and muttered a low blasphemy ; 
and Agnes, shrinking back into her 
room, fell upon her knees and pray- 
ed. Then for the first time it came 
upon her mind with overpowering 
force that St. Agnes was a Chris- 
tian, and perhaps only Christians 
could .reach to such ideal purity 
and love. If that were so, what 
would become of her ? Must she 
always remain what she now was, 
or could she take .the terrible step 
and renounce at once faith, and 
race, and kindred ? 

She felt rather than knew with 
what deep-seated, unrevealed dis- 
like and hatred her father looked 
upon the Christian faith ; for Reu- 
ben Trendellsohn was not one to 
lightly express his intense emotions. 
Very little had ever been said to 
her on the subject, yet heretofore 
she had remained docile to the reli- 
gious training of her earliest years. 

Now she was confused and terri- 
fied at the greatness of the struggle 
that raged within her soul a strug- 
gle in which she had no one to 
help her, and seemed so powerless 
to help herself. " St. Agnes, pray 
for me ! pray for me !" she sobbed, 



94 



The Story of Agnes. 



half unconscious of her words ; 
and still repeating at intervals, 
" Pray for me ! pray for me !" she 
knelt motionless as a stone until 
the first gray light of morning peer- 
ed softly through the open window. 

Spring had gone, and the dying 
glory of a summer day lit up the 
many carvings that adorn the 
church of St. John Nepomucene, 
and, slanting through the stained 
windows, wrought delicate little 
patterns on the floor, and settled 
here and there on the walls in 
streaks of burnished gold. The 
sunshine played softly like a halo 
around the few old women who 
still lingered near the altar; but 
no ray, however small and faint, 
reached to the farthest end of the 
church, where, close to the ponder- 
ous door, and shrinking into the 
shadows, knelt a girl with her face 
buried in her hands. When at last 
she rose to go, and passed from 
the dimness within to the dazzling 
light without, you saw that it was 
Agnes Trendellsohn, who, with a 
quick, apprehensive look around to 
make sure that no one followed 
her, walked rapidly towards the 
Judenstadt. 

When she reached the bridge 
with its many statues, she paused 
for a few minutes before the figure 
of St. John Nepomucene, and, lay- 
ing her little hand softly upon the 
hem of his stone garment, she 
stood looking silently down upon 
the rushing Moldau beneath. A 
passer-by would have thought her 
merely idling away a little while 
by watching the smooth black wa- 
ters as they sullenly washed the 
great arches ; but the saint doubt- 
less knew that in her unspoken 
way she asked for his protection 
asked it with her heart, and with 
her imploring eyes, and with the 



gentle touch of her hand upon 
his image, as a child begs by 
pulling at its mother's skirt. He 
is so pitiful in heaven, this St. 
John, who was on earth so strong 
and courageous, that doubtless he 
heard and answered. 

As she stands thus, looking down 
upon the waters, Agnes shows that 
she has strangely altered. Her 
dark eyes have lost their dreamy 
wistfulness, and shine with a new 
light, hopeful yet longing; the air 
of scornful weariness that hung 
about her like a veil is gone. She 
looks like one who seems almost to 
reach the happiness of her life, and 
longs to annihilate the minutes that 
must come and go before it can be 
consummated. " To-morrow," she 
murmured softly to herself " to- 
morrow " ; and she turned to go. 
Only one more night, and to-mor- 
row she was to be baptized ; but, 
in the intensity of her desire, that 
one night seemed to stretch before 
her like a lifetime, and what might 
not happen before another sun? 

The old priest to whom she 
had come, doubting, fearing, and 
torn with conflicting emotions, felt 
that he had never had a soul like 
this under his hands. He had in- 
structed many converts and raised 
up many fallen ones in his long 
years of ministry. Sore and wound- 
ed souls had been so often laid 
bare before his pitying eyes that 
now the lights and shades of hu- 
man nature were as an open book, 
to which experience had given him 
the key. But this soul, so weak 
and yet so strong, so turned to 
heaven yet so bound down to 
earth, so pure and yet so shame- 
laden, puzzled him strangely. It 
was an easy task to show the light 
to one already touched by divine 
grace. Agnes could readily under- 
stand, and, understanding, believe; 



The Story of Agnes. 



95 



but the one feeling he could not sub- 
due, and that nothing but the wa- 
ters of baptism could entirely van- 
quish, was this terrible sense of 
shame. It was pain for her to 
enter a church where she knew 
dwelt the living God while this pro- 
found consciousness of sin weighed 
her down. Kneeling always in the 
farthest comer, she yet shrank 
from so close a contact with the 
Divinity. Her love for God made 
the thought of her unbaptized soul, 
on which his pure eye could not 
rest with pleasure, insupportable to 
her. Added to this was the mis- 
ery she felt in being of her race. 
She seemed to carry on her deli- 
cate shoulders the crushing weight 
of that terrible curse whose echo 
sounds from generation unto gen- 
eration : " His blood be upon our 
heads and upon our children " ; 
and there were times when the ter- 
ror of this thought took away her 
breath and stopped the prayers 
upon her lips. How could she 
dare to pray to the risen Christ 
when in her ears, carried through 
ages, rang the cry of " Crucify him, 
crucify him "? How could she lift 
her eyes to the sorrowful Mother 
standing at the foot of the cross 
and gazing at her dying Son ? 
This unconquerable sense of fear 
and shame swayed her so strongly 
that the priest, unable to overcome 
it, and knowing too well in what 
strangely subtle ways the arch- 
enemy often ingratiates himself, 
making of a virtue exaggerated the 
easy road to vice, determined to 
hasten the day of her baptism, trust- 
ing that, once purified in God's 
sight, these fears would vanish in 
the full light of love. And so it 
was that on this June evening Ag- 
nes, as she hastened home, thought 
with bated breath, " Only one night 
more, one little night, and then " 



And she smiled as the Christian 
smiles who sees opening before his 
eyes the gleaming gates of Paradise. 

As she passed through one of the 
narrower streets of the Jews' quar- 
ter a sudden thought struck her, 
and turning into a filthy little court- 
yard, whose wretched houses stood 
tumbling against eacli other like a 
party of drunken revellers who 
crowd together for support, she 
hastily went up to one of the door- 
ways, where a coarse-looking young 
Jew of the thick-lipped, light-hair- 
ed type stood lazily looking out 
upon the darkening street. 

" Is your mother at home, An- 
ton ?" she said ; " and how is your 
sick brother?" 

The young man's heavy and al- 
most brutish face brightened and 
softened when he saw the ques- 
tioner. 

" My mother is at home and will 
be glad to see you, Miss Trendell- 
sohn," he said; "and the baby is 
worse. I, for one, do not expect 
him to live." 

He made room for her as he 
spoke, and she ran lightly up the 
broken stairway. A mingled smell 
of dirt, foul air, and disease filled 
the house, and Agnes turned sick 
and faint before she had reached 
the second story. She paused for 
a minute, not to make up her mind, 
but to gather up her strength. 
" For thy sake, O blessed St. Ag- 
nes !" she whispered, and, making 
a strong effort, she went on and 
opened a door to her right. The 
sick child lay on the bed, consumed 
with fever, and the mother, a mid- 
dle-aged woman, with a skin like 
chalk and a tangled mass of light 
hair hanging down her shrunken 
shoulders, sat in the reeking room, 
her hands folded listlessly in her 
lap, and her sad eyes fixed with a 
vacant stare on the grimy floor. 



The Story of Agnes. 



" Is it you, Miss Trendellsohn ?" 
she exclaimed, rising to her feet as 
Agnes entered, while a dim smile 
played for one instant on the worn, 
stolid face. " How can you bear to 
come here? Even my own kin- 
dred have forsaken me, and Anton 
will not so much as enter the room. 
He says that if one must die there 
is no reason why two should. But 
do you, too, think that he must 
die? Is there no hope, at all?" 
she asked wistfully, as the girl bent 
over the flushed and pitiful little 
figure on the bed. 

" God is good," said Agnes soft- 
ly, " and he holds life and death in 
his hands ; but has the doctor I 
sent been here ?" 

" Oh ! yes," replied the woman, 
a sullen shadow stealing over her 
face ; " he came here, and ordered 
this and that and the other for the 
child, just as if I had the money to 
pay for them." 

" I told you," said Agnes gently, 
putting some silver in her hand, 
"that I would pay for all that he 
ordered ; but what else did he say?" 

" He said the boy wanted air, 
and a clean room, and a clean 
bed," said the other unwillingly ; 
but, as if softened by the touch of 
the money, " Doctors are for ever 
preaching, 'clean, clean, clean.' 
What can I do with a den like this ?" 

" Did he say that the child could 
be "moved?" asked Agnes, shudder- 
ing as she glanced at the foul walls 
and rotten ceiling. 

" Yes," was the sullen answer. 

" Then take him away to-mor- 
row," she said peremptorily. " No 
human being could hope to live in 
a spot like this. Mother Rachel 
over the way will give you clean 
rooms, and I will pay the cost; 
only rouse youself, and do not let 
your little boy die for want of the 
care you owe him." 



The woman trembled all over, 
then, with a wailing cry, threw her- 
self on the floor and kissed the 
hem of the girl's dark dress; but 
she did not utter a word of thanks. 
Agnes bent down and softly touch- 
ed the baby's face With her cool 
hand ; then she glided rapidly down 
the stairs into the gathering twilight, 
a strange sense of weakness and 
giddiness creeping over her at 
every step. Once in her room, she 
sat down to try and collect her scat- 
tered thoughts and ease her aching 
head. Directly over her bed hung 
a painting, to which her tired eyes 
constantly strayed. It was a 'pic- 
ture of St. Agnes, on which she had 
lavished many hours of tender, lov- 
ing work. She would not paint 
the saint with downcast, modest 
eyes, as in Martin Schoen's rare en- 
graving, but looking upwards in the 
boldness of perfect purity; nor 
clad in costly drapery, as is Titian's 
masterpiece, for the spouse of 
Christ needs no earthly adornment ; 
nor seated in the full glow of 
womanly beauty, as Andrea del 
Sarto painted her, for the childish 
loveliness of the maiden of thirteen 
bloomed into prime not on earth 
but in heaven. 

Day after day, week after week, 
Agnes toiled over this picture, and 
now it hung finished on her wall 
a slender child in soft, white 
drapery, her deep eyes raised in 
loving ecstasy, her sweet lips part- 
ed in the shadow of a smile; strong 
in her youthful purity, happy in 
her burning love. She carried no 
lamb or palm-branch which might 
betray her to that Jewish house- 
hold, but hung there in their midst, 
the highest type of weak humanity, 
the crowning triumph of the Chris- 
tian faith. And as Agnes knelt to 
pray it almost seemed to her that 
in the gloom the saint's dark eyes 



The Story of Agnes. 



97 



were turned upon her in loving pity 
as, growing fainter and fainter, her 
head drooped on her pillow. " To- 
morrow," she repeated half uncon- 
sciously " to-morrow" ; and, trying 
to rise, her strength entirely failed 
her, and she knew no more. 

But when the morrow came 
Reuben Trendellsohn stood by his 
daughter's bedside with compress- 
ed lips and flashing eyes, as over 
and over again in her disjointed 
ravings she revealed the secret she 
had striven so hard to hide ; and as 
he heard and understood his dark 
cheek paled with mingled anger 
and sorrow. Agnes was very ill. 
The cousins thought it hard they 
were not allowed to see her, even 
for one moment, for her danger had 
quickened the love in their warm 
. hearts; and Mark's wife turned bit- 
terly away when her brother-in-law 
refused her kindly offers of assist- 
ance, and closed the door of his 
daughter's sick-room to her, as to 
all others except the doctor and 
the nurse, a strong-faced, taciturn 
Jewess, with whom he had an in- 
terview before she took her post'. 
Only these three ever saw the 
patient, for Reuben meant to guard 
the secret at any cost. " Better 
that she should die," he bitterly 
thought, " than live to desert her 
faith and kindred"; and so for long, 
long days and nights Agnes fought 
with the deadly fever that consum- 
ed her, watched only by those 
three stern faces, and by the white- 
robed, soft-eyed saint upon the 
wall. 

And when at last the fever left 
her she lay so weak that her life was 
more than ever in danger, and her 
father, standing by her bedside and 
meeting the imploring glance whose 
meaning, he read too well, walked 
quickly to the window, to gain a 
moment's time and to strengthen 
VOL. xxix. 7 



his resolution. It was early even- 
ing, and the noisy streets were 
hushed into something like quiet. 
Reuben stood looking down upon 
them, revolving once more in his 
mind thoughts that had grown to 
be his hourly guests. He was 
firmly determined that no grief or 
anger should prompt him to a mo- 
ment's harshness to his motherless 
child. He was a scrupulously just 
man, and he now took ,on his own 
shoulders the greater part of the 
blame for jvhat had occurred. 
Had not his little daughter been 
left to his sole care, and had he 
not in many ways neglected her? 
And if in her loneliness and dis- 
satisfaction she had wandered off 
to the Gentiles, was not the re- 
sponsibility his, and his alone ? If 
it were not too late even now she 
might be saved, and must be sav- 
ed, at any cost. Reuben did not 
shrink from the thought of what 
that cost might be ; but he pro- 
mised his dead wife that he would 
be gentle in all things to the child 
that she had given him. 

Then, and not till then, he re- 
turned to his daughter's bedside, 
and took one of her little hands in 
his, steeling his heart meanwhile 
against the passionate entreaty that 
burned in her wistful eyes. For a 
minute there was a breathless si- 
lence in the room ; then Agnes 
spoke : 

" For my mother's sake," she 
whispered, "do not refuse me." 

He looked at her inquiringly, but 
said no word. A little wail broke 
from her parched lips. 

" I am unbaptized," she moaned ; 
" for God's dear love do not let 
me die thus.. For the sake of the 
love you bore my mother, and have 
always borne me, let me be baptiz- 
ed before I go to meet my God." 

A joyful light came into Reu- 



9 8 



The Story of Agnes. 



ben's eyes then it was not too 
kite; but it faded away as he glanc- 
ed at his daughter's pale face. 

" Listen to me, Agnes," he said. 
' ; I.do not reproach you for the 
grief that you have brought upon 
me, because I blame myself too 
bitterly for my neglect of you. I 
will still hold you as my child when 
you have cast away from you the 
Christian faith, and returned hum- 
bly and contritely to the belief of 
your fathers. I will, do all in my 
power to cure your sv^k mind of 
its fancies ; but do not presume to 
ask me to consummate your ruin. 
Dearly as I love you, I would ra- 
ther you died a Jewess than lived 
a Christian. Above all do not 
dare " here his enforced gentle- 
ness failed him for an instant, but 
he regained it with a powerful ef- 
fort "do not dare to conjure me 
in the name of your mother, whose 
memory you have wronged so deep- 
ly, and who, thank God ! is spared 
the pain I feel to-day." 

He paused, and Agnes in her de- 
solation, knowing that no earthly 
power could move him, turned her 
sad eyes from his set face to the 
saint's above her pillow. " St. Ag- 
nes, pity me !" she moaned with a 
faint gesture of her hand towards 
heaven. t 

Reuben's eyes flashed fire ! The 
effort he had put upon himself was 
stronger than could be imagined, 
and he seized this loophole to give 
vent 'to the overwrought feelings 
he could no longer restrain. Here 
was the work of his daughter's 
hand, and to it, like an idolater, she 
prayed. A knife was lying on the 
table, and with one quick step and 
rapid action he ripped the picture 
from side to side. As he did so 
he heard a low cry, more like pain 
than sorrow, come from his daugh- 
ter's bed as she saw her best-be- 



loved work so ruthlessly destroyed, 
and the sound, faint as it was, re- 
called him to himself. What he 
had done was the almost uncon- 
querable impulse of a deeply ex- 
cited man breaking through the 
forced calmness that choked him, 
and venting his rage upon what 
was innocent b'ecause he 'might not 
touch the guilty. Ashamed of his 
momentary outbreak, he paused for 
an instant, and then with downcast 
eyes he left the room to try and 
gather strength to meet the trou- 
ble^ that encompassed him. 

But Agnes, left alone in her sor- 
row and helplessness, lay white and 
motionless, her dark eyes fixed 
upon the mutilated picture, but her 
heart lifted up in pitiful prayer to 
God. She had no hope of living; 
the faint spark of life within seem- 
ed almost burned out; she must 
die, and she was unbaptized. In 
vain she tried to think of all that 
the priest had told her of that mys- 
tical sacrament, the baptism of de- 
sire, in which many a longing soul 
had by God's mercy been purified. 
In her exhausted state she was far 
less able than ever to overcome the 
terrible feeling of shame and fear 
that had always proved her stum- 
bling-block ; and now all thought, 
all hopes, all prayers were swallow- 
ed up in an infinite longing for the 
sacrament that was denied her. So 
the long night wore on. The nurse 
lay sleeping at her feet ; the lamp 
burned dimly in the room; the 
wind swept mournfully by the win- 
dows ; the tattered picture hung 
upon the wall, and beneath it the 
dying girl fought single-handed with 
the demon of despair. 

Suddenly a soft light shone about 
the bed, and by her side she saw 
one whom 'she knew to be St. Ag- 
nes, her deep eyes full of tender 
love and pity a love which has its 



The Story of Agnes. 



99 



rise in God alone, a pity with no 
shade of sorrow in it. She held in 
her hand a lily, whose fragrant urn 
was full of sparkling water, and in 
it Agnes thought she saw reflected 
her own passionate, longing soul. 
The vision smiled and raised the 
lily over the sick girl's head. " I 
baptize tbee, Agnes," she said in 
clear, sweet tones, " in the name of 
the Father, and of the Son, and of 
the Holy Ghost. Amen." And 
the cool waters fell upon her burn- 
ing brow, and a great wave of joy 
surged through her heart, and 
strains of glad, triumphant music 
rang in her ears ; and the room 
seemed full of light and perfume, 
and snowy angel wings, and radiant 
angel eyes; and then the vision 
vanished and the music died away, 
but the troubled soul was at last in 
peace. 

For hours had Reuben Trendell- 
sohn sat lost in thought, revolving 
in his .mind his future course of 
action, hardening his heart against 
Ins only child. When morning 
dawned he nerved himself to go 
again into her room. He would 
be more gentle, he said, and per- 
haps his love would win her back 
to him ; he would be patient, too, 
but always firm. She was only a 
child after all, and must yield in 
time ; and yet and yet he had 
known others who w.ere struck with 
this same madness, and he remem- 
bered that they had never yielded. 

Quietly he entered his daughter's 
room. She was lying peacefully 
upon her bed, her eyes open and 
shining with a new, soft light that 
he had never seen before. Her 
whole face, wan and thin with ill- 
ness, was radiant with joy; and as 
she turned to see him her delicate 
lips were curved into the tender 
smile she used to wear as a baby 
before her mother died. 



She tried to put her little hand 
in his. " It is over, my father," 
she whispered gently ; " the blessed 
St. Agnes came to me during the 
night and baptized me. I will pray 
for you always, dearest, when I am 
in heaven, and our Lord will have 
mercy on you too." 

Reuben Trendellsohn started 
back, his face ashy pale, his lips 
trembling. Had he driven his 
child to madness? The thought, 
was terrible to him, and yet what 
mad woman ever smiled like that 
or looked so strangely happy ? She 
was not feverish ; her hand lay cool 
and moist in his, but the pulse 
was beating low. Terrified, he 
knelt by the bedside and took her 
in liis arms. " Agnes ! Agnes !" he 
cried, " you have been ill or dream- 
ing. Do not think of such things, 
but try and get well, and I swear 
that I will give you all that your 
heart desires, at any cost to me." 

She laid her head gently on his 
breast; he had not held her so 
since her mother died. " I am rvot 
ill or dreaming," she said slowly, 
" but Christ has already given me 
all that my heart desired. I go to 
him, not shrinking away in shame,, 
but pure and trusting." 

"You are raving, Agnes," said 
her father huskily, and he put her 
from him and rose to his feet; but 
his daughter, touching his arm with 
weak, white fingers, held him as 
though chained to her side, for he 
loved her dearly. 

"St. Agnes, pray for him!" she 
murmured ; and as she spoke, in- 
stinctively he raised his eyes to the 
picture he had destroyed. But the 
look of- shame was lost in one of 
wonder, and the strong man trem- 
bled like a child ; for the painting 
hung whole and uninjured on the 
wall, and the saint's soft eyes seem- 
ed to look reproachfully at nim as 



100 



Crux Ave ! 



he examined the canvas. There 
was no sign of cut or tear about it 
to show the treatment it had re- 
ceived. A thousand wild conjec- 
tures surged through Reuben's 
brain as he stood transfixed and 
bewildered. Then a ray of faith 



pierced through the darkness of his 
soul, and he gave a sobbing cry, 
like a man in danger of drowning. 
And as he knelt reverently by his 
daughter's bedside, Agnes opened 
her eyes once more, and then closed 
them for ever in the sleep of death. 



CRUX AVE! 



Stand fast, ye spruces ; lift your heads ! Ye catch 

The earliest dawn ; unweariedly ye watch 

The changing seasons, swiftly passing days ; 

Nor frost, nor bitter wind, nor darkness stays 

Your course. Your arms, with patient, high emprise, 

Still lift their myriad crosses to the skies. L. D. PYCHOWSKA. 



THE summer day was dying in the sky, 
And deep'ning shadows had begun to lie 
On field, and wood, and river flowing by- 
Flowing in shade save wher,e it caught the light 
Of golden skies, slow melting into night, 
Where hung the hollow moon faint-lined and bright. 

Of stars shone, here and there, the uncertain gleam ; 
Like altar-lights the kindled orbs did seem 
Faint at first lighting, soon undimmed to beam. 

As if forgetting that the day was dead, 

Some bird poured song triumphant overhead ; 

Pure, sweet, and clear the quivering notes were shed. 

Tall spruces wafted balm, as if to place 

Sweet perfume on the shroud that, fair in grace, 

Lay gently folded round the day's dead face ; 



And lifted o'er that day in death so blest 

The cross's sign as token of true rest 

By that calm dead for all the years possessed. 



Crux Ave ! 101 

n. 

A golden vision mingled with the still, 
Prayer-laden peace that seemed the hour to fill 
With angels' tidings unto men of gentle will : 

A Christmas altar rose before my sight, 

Shining with slender tapers crowned with light 

Like Love Divine consuming souls all white 

The altar robed, like bride to meet her lord, 

In garments rich where loving hands had poured 

The thoughts of loving hearts that Him adored, 

In ancient symbols wrought bright, silken thread, 
Full, purple grapes, of Calvary hallowed, 
And golden wheat-ears, sign of Living Bread, 

Telling with silent grace of Love Divine 

Hiding itself within the earthly shrine 

Where, e'er unquenched, faith's mystic light doth shine. 

From Raphael's canvas gazed our Heavenly Queen, 
Clothed with the sun, and fair with smile serene, 
Clasping her Son his humble saints between. 

Below, with varying light, the Christmas star 

Twinkled, and told of Eastern lands afar, 
And Gentile kings of old whose heirs we are ; 

Shining the star as once in Juda's town 

Above the King of kings laid helpless down, 

His Godhead veiled, with faith and love for crown. 

All hearts, in loving worship lost, bent low, 
While angel hosts seemed wandering to and fro, 
Singing, as once the crowded years ago : 

" Glory to God, to men of gentle will 
His peace " seeming that peace each heart to fill, 
Earth's longing hushed, forgotten earthly ill. 

Above the crib arose the laden cross 

With arms outstretched to save the world from loss, 

Cleansing the nations from sin's clouding dross : 

. * 

So e'er upon the day of this dear birth, 
The Christmas season glad with Christian mirth, 
The cross's shadow falls aslant the earth ; 



IO2 Crux Ave ! 

The stable's walls with Calvary's echoes ring- 
Fair Bethlehem's offering to her Infant King 
Jerusalem's proud scorn foreshadowing. 



in. 



Where lowlier altar stood apart, less fair, 
Clustered tall spruces, nursed by mountain air, 
And late the crown of hillsides cold and bare, 

Now pouring forth their perfume, spicy sweet, 
Like Eastern kings hastening their Lord to greet, 
Their worship laying at their Master's feet. 

Here mirnic manger lay amid the green 

That framed the pleading pathos of the scene 

The Holy Child two angels white between, 

Whose lifeless silence adoration wrought, 

Each folded pinion filled with wondering thought 

Of Infinite Might through love so lowly brought. 

Here rose the cross above the crib once more, 
Crowning the stately spruces, towering o'er, 
That 'mid their green redemption's symbol wore. 

Their perfect boughs held forth the holy sign 
Grown with their daily life with art divine : 
Obedient wrought each fibre strong and fine. 



IV. 



Ah ! happy tree, dowered so rich indeed, 

Bearing the sign by which our souls are freed, 

As if dumb earth sought God's dear cause to plead. 

Brave spruce ! firm in thy constant green, e'en though 
The winter heap thee with its weight of snow, 
And biting winds with icy torment blow; 

As faithful witnesses thy branches throw 
The cross's shadow on the sunlit snow 
Heaven's own blue that shadow here below. 



Crux Ave ! 103 



Distilling balm, thou fill'st the bitter air : 
Like to the incense of ascending prayer, 
Wreathing the cross thyself dost proudly bear. 

And, 'mid thy fragrance, comes the blessed thought 
Of those sweet spices that the Marys brought 
When to anoint the Crucified they sought. 

Telleth of her, thy perfume-laden bough, 
Who, sorrow-struck with love and sin, bent low 
To wipe his feet, winning forgiveness so. 

Lo ! through thy solemn boughs the wandering breeze 
Grows sadder-voiced, as if it toned 'mid these 
The Passion chant's appealing harmonies. 



v. 

The Christmas dream grew dim, the day was gone, 
The lingering summer eve so softly flown, 
The twilight into night fast drifting on ; 

The bird grown silent, and the low-voiced breeze 
Whispering amid the ghostly birchen trees 
Faintly as wave-break on scarce-ruffled seas. 

Damp from the fog-wreathed meadow rose the air- 
The meadow in the day's late light so fair, 
With summer's sweet grass harvest lying there. 

The stars o'erhead bright promise of our peace 

The earth below, awaiting its release, 

And crowning earth its heaven-aspiring trees. 

Above the crib the cross ! our cradle earth 
Lifting the symbol of our heavenly birth 
Blest symbol, kindling light on darkest hearth' ! 

Pure light wherein all earthly fires grew pale, 
Blest sign that doth God's perfect love unveil ! 
O holy cross, on earthi in heaven, all hail ! 



IO4 The Proposed Expulsion of the Teaching Orders 



THE PROPOSED EXPULSION OF THE TEACHING ORDERS 
FROM THE PUBLIC SCHOOLS OF PARIS. 



THE municipal council of Paris, 
in its sitting of December 14, 1878, 
passed the following resolution : 

"The council, considering that the 
prefect of the Seine, in continuing to en- 
trust the direction of a large number of 
public schools in the city of Paris to 
congregational teachers, could not fail 
to be aware that this proceeding was 
utterly in opposition to the decided opin- 
ion of the council, and also of the ma- 
jority of the population ; 

" Considering, moreover, that a circu- 
lar issued by the Minister of Public In- 
struction, September 24th ult., reminded 
the prefects that, while retaining the 
liberty and responsibility of 'decision 
without appeal,' they were bound to 
take largely into account the advice of 
the municipal councils in the matter of 
choice between lay and congregational 
teaching ; 

" Considering that there is reason for 
again representing seriously to the pre- 
fect of the Seine the advisability of con- 
forming himself to the recommendation 
of the Minister of Public Instruction, to 
the unmistakable feeling of the majority 
of the Parisian population, and a formal 
resolution of the municipal council, ' the 
natural and legitimate interpreters of 
the commune' ; 

"The council prays that the di- 
rection of the public schools and Salles 
d'Asile (infant schools) of the communes 
of Paris be placed exclusively under lay 
teachers" 

The moment appears to have ar- 
rived for those who especially claim 
the title of republicans to put into 
execution projects which have long 
been in existence, and which were 
never more accurately demonstrated 
than during the terrible days of the 
siege and Commune. These de- 
signs, ripened by eight years of re- 
flection and study, present a three- 
fold interest, accordingly as they 



are considered with reference to 
(i) the finances of the city, (2) the 
progress of primary education, or 
(3) public morality and social ad- 
vantage. We propose briefly to 
examine the motives which must 
be supposed to actuat'e these de- 
signs, and those which alone could 
render their accomplishment ac- 
ceptable. 

And, first, with regard to the in- 
terest of the budget. On this 
point, at least, the municipal coun- 
sellors cannot be acting with their 
eyes shut, being perfectly aware 
that the congregational teachers 
cost far less than laics, and that the 
substitution of the latter would lay 
a serious additional burden on the 
city. 

This consideration does not in 
the least trouble the counsellors. 
But the taxpayer, who is at this 
moment bearing the maximum of 
the charges it is in his power to de- 
fray, has some right to be anxious. 
He is promised a reduction of 
taxes a reduction which is always 
postponed, and, instead of this, fresh 
duties, rights of octroi, and munici- 
pal taxes are annually created, old 
imposts are increased, and new 
loans in course of preparation. 
The tax upon house-rent, for in- 
stance, has just been raised to thirty 
per cent., although trade is far from 
flourishing and thousands of work- 
men are out of employment. It is 
true that the Chamber of Deputies, 
for the consolation of the people, 
has lately suppressed the duty upon 
chiccory and- oil ; but bread, meat, 
wine, and vegetables continue to 
pay an enormous duty. Does not 



from the Public Schools of Paris. 



105 



the city, then, know what to do 
with its money ? And this, too, 
when, as is well known, so much 
requires to be done, especially in 
supplying the material needs (as to 
deficiencies of building, etc.) of the 
public schools ; some localities be- 
ing too small or otherwise un- 
healthy, others needing rebuilding 
or repair. There are at this mo- 
ment in Paris 16,000 children who 
cannot be received into the exist- 
ing schools for want of room. And 
this is the time chosen by the mu- 
nicipality to carry out its project ! 
The following table indicates the 
importance of the change propos- 
ed by the municipal council : 

STATISTICS OF THE ECOLES COMMU- 
NALES OF PARIS. 

Boys' Schools Lay, 87, comprising 
500 masters. Congregational, 54, com- 
prising 350 brothers. 

Girls' Schools Lay, 86, comprising 446 
mistresses. Congregational, 58, com- 
prising 390 sisters. 

Infant Schools Lay, 97, comprising 
212 mistresses. Congregaiional, 33, 
comprising 98 sisters. 

Thus it is on a total of 145 
schools, and a personnel of 838 
teachers, that the transformation is 
to be effected. But besides the 
titulars, the supplementary teachers 
must be taken into consideration, 
and the indemnities received by 
them for replacing the titulars when 
ill or absent. 

This source of expenditure does 
not exist among the congregational 
teachers. If a brother or sister is 
ill or obliged to be absent for a 
time, the superior immediately 
provides a substitute, and the sick 
or absent teacher no longer counts 
as a recipient of payment. Indem- 
nities for lodging must also be add- 
ed to the account, as the lay mas- 
ters could not (and certainly would 
not) inhabit the poor and narrow 



cells of the brothers and teaching 
sisters. 

After a careful calculation, based 
on the minimum of the salaries al- 
lowed to lay teachers in virtue of 
the decree* 'of February 3, 1873, 
it is ascertained that the lowest 
sum which the new personnel, with 
requisite accommodation as to 
lodging, will annually cost the city 
of Paris amounts to 1,977,190 
francs. 

We will now see what is the cost 
of the congregationists ; but, in or- 
der not to make the triumph of 
their friends too easy, we do not 
take as the basis of our calculation 
the figures of 850 and 700 fr. for 
the salary of the Christian Bro- 
thers, and 600 fr. for the sisters, as 
they really stand in the budgets of 
1878 and 1879 these sums being, 
as it were, war prices, and having 
for their object to starve the con- 
gregationists into capitulation or 
retreat but we go back to those 
of the budget of 1877, which are as 
follows : 



Salaries of 350 brothers, at 950 fr 332,500 fr. 

" 390 sisters, at 850 fr 331,500 fr. 

Various indemnities, 3,700 fr 3,700 fr. 

Salaries of 98 sisters in the infant schools, 

at 850 fr 83,300 fr. 



751,000 fr. 

We have now only to subtract this 
'sum from the foregoing amount of 
I '977 I 9 fr- to fid that the lay 
teachers will, at the lowest estimate, 
cost Paris annually 1,226,190 fr. 
more than those whom they are to 
replace. 

This, moreover, is only the ap- 
proximate increase for the first 
year ; lay teachers being allowed 
an annual rate of increase, up to 

* According to this decree the minimum salary 
of a " director ;" is 2,800 fr. of a directress, 2,600 ; 
of a male assistant, 2,000 ; female assistant, 1,800 ; 
directress of infant school, 1,600 ; assistant, 1,200 ; 
supplementary assistants, 800 fr. each, 600 fr. in 
infant schools. 



io6 The Proposed Expulsion of the Teaching Orders 



4,000 fr. for directors, 3,500 for di- 
rectresses, 2,400 for male assistants, 
and 2,200 for female. Thus the 
yearly augmentation . of salaries 
would in a short time exceed two 
millions more than is paid at the 
present time. 

But, it might be asked, why 
should this fact be an obstacle, if 
it be likely that popular education 
would gain by the change ? We 
will examine the probability of this 
result. 

The municipal council, to justify 
the terms of "ignorantins," "ob- 
scurantists," and " extinguishers " 
(e'teigtioirs), which it applies so 
freely to the Brothers of Christian 
Doctrine, would have it believed 
that their schools are so inferior, 
both as regards the kind of instruc- 
tion imparted and the qualifica- 
tions of the teachers, that a mar- 
vellous improvement, or rather " a 
complete transformation," may be 
confidently expected from the mo- 
ment they are placed under laics. 

We must again have recourse to 
figures, which are not without their 
eloquence. In this time of uni- 
versal suffrage the votes of fathers 
and mothers ought to have some 
value as showing what is thought 
by that "majority" of which the 
council claims the support. 

There are in the 173 lay schools 
of Paris (not reckoning the Salles 
d'Asile) 52,683 children, and 40,474 
in the 112 congregational schools. 

The comparison of these figures 
shows that, proportionally, the reli- 
gious are more frequented than 
the lay schools, their average be- 
ing 361 pupils, while the lay aver- 
age is 104, and this notwithstand- 
ing the strenuous efforts made by 
the subordinates of the radical 
mayors to obtain recruits for the 
lay teachers, and also the fact that 
many parents send their children 



to the latter for the sole reason 
that the brothers' schools are au 
grand coinplet and cannot receive 
another pupil. 

It is therefore false to say that 
the " majority " of the population 
of Paris is hostile to the teaching 
of the congregationists ; on the 
contrary, it has a confidence in its 
results which is strengthened by 
constant success a success proved 
by official documents of unques- 
tionable impartiality. 

The city of Paris annually offers 
for competition a certain number 
of prizes in money, called bourses, for 
the primary schools of higher edu- 
cation i.e.j those of Turgot, Col- 
bert, Lavoisiez, J. B. Say, and the 
College Chaptal. We have care- 
fully examined the official table in 
which* are registered the results of 
this competition each year, from 
1848 to 1877 inclusively. From 
this table we find that, during this 
interval of twenty-nine years, out 
of 1,445 bourses, 1,148 were gained 
by the brothers' schools, the lay 
schools gaining 297. 

The last year, 1878, the result 
was the same; 788 pupils from all 
the schools took part in the trial. 
Of the 339 who were declared ad- 
missible, 242 belonged to the 54 
schools of the brothers, and 97 to 
the 87 lay schools. Of the 50 
candidates who took the highest 
places for the general certificates, 
43 belonged to the brothers, and to 
the laics, 7 ! 

This, however, is only one aspect 
of the successes obtained by the 
" ignorantins." 

With them originated the method 
of simultaneous instruction, now 
acknowledged to be the best. In 
-the analysis which appeared in the 
Journal Officiel of M. Greard's 
voluminous report for the Paris 
Exhibition, his statement was quot- 



from the Public Schools of Paris. 



107 



ed that "it is also the Christian 
Brothers who have given the best- 
known method for teaching draw- 
ing," and that " at the Exhibition 
of 1867 they saved the honor of 
France." 

They were the first who in Paris 
opened classes for adults. Twen- 
ty-two of their communal schools 
are open every evening for appren- 
tices, young working-men, or any 
who wish to commence or complete 
their primary education. They 
have organized scientific and pro- 
fessional cours at their establish- 
ments at Issy, Passy, St. Nicolas, 
and the commercial school of St. 
Paul, and their books have been 
honored by the highest recompen- 
ses at the Vienna Exhibition in 
1873, the Geographical Exhibition 
at Paris in 1878, and at the u Uni- 
versal " Exhibition in 1878. At 
the last they obtained for special 
subjects (agriculture among the 
rest) three gold medals, three sil- 
ver, two bronze, various mentions 
honor ables, besides s*haring in the 
great prize of the Ministry of Pub- 
lic Instruction, with which they ex- 
hibited. 

Nor are the schools of the sis- 
ters inferior to those of the bro- 
thers, although they cannot, like 
them, publicly prove their effici- 
ency by competing for the bourses. 
They had their share of honor 
at the Exhibition of 1867, when 
112 schools under religious receiv- 
ed prizes, while 68 only of the lay 
schools obtained honorable mention. 

They maintained their excellent 
reputation at the Exhibition of 
1878, and won the admiration of 
competent examiners. The re- 
ports of the inspectors and can- 
tonal delegates are full of praises 
of the state of their schools, which 
these reports assert to be habitually 
superior to that of the schools 



under lay direction. It has 
even been enthusiastically eulogiz- 
ed by writers in the Revue des Deux 
Mondes, 

The 42 schools in Paris directed 
by the Sisters of St. Vincent de 
Paul have, during the interval from 
1874 to 1878, presented 2,815 pupils 
as candidates for certificates. Of 
this number, 2,248 have been suc- 
cessful in obtaining them. During 
this time 18 of their girls have been 
admitted into the Normal School, 
51 hafe obtained diplomas as as- 
sistant-mistresses, 52 diplomas of 
capacity, 44 " medals of honor/' 
and 88 mentions honor ables. 

From the foregoing facts it will 
be seen how unwise it is, as well as 
unjust, to attempt to substitute for 
teachers of such proved efficiency 
persons recruited in haste and 
coming no one knows from whence. 
For the city of Paris would be 
seriously perplexed to find a per- 
sonnel sufficient, either as to num- 
ber or qualifications, to replace the 
religious. The normal schools, 
according to the report of M. 
Greard, have, during the five years 
from 1872 to 1877, furnished no 
more than 204 male and 156 female 
teachers that is to say, it will be 
necessary to accept all comers. It 
is true, however, that in these days 
any one may hope to pass mitster 
for anything, the fitness of a per- 
son for a post being often the last 
consideration. If it were not so 
we should scarcely see as recent- 
ly in France coachmen and valets 
suddenly transformed into justices 
of the peace. 

We now come to the chief and 
decisive argument. La (morale 
publique, we are told, forbids the 
teaching by religious to be any 
longer tolerated, because, even 
should it not obscure the under- 
standing of children, it is at least 



108 The Proposed Expulsion of the Teaching Orders 



incapable of making them ties antes 
fibres and true patriots, and de- 
grades them (les abrutit) by " the 
practices of bigotry." 

And so the Christian Brothers 
and the Sisters of St. Vincent de 
Paul, who have quitted their fami- 
lies and all future prospects or 
position to devote themselves to 
teaching the children of the people 
a work upon which they spend 
their lives and energies, and by 
which they are often worn-out in 
the flower of their age are vile 
beings, unfit for the companionship 
or even the sight of children (cjiiil 
faut soustraire a la vue de t enfant). 
They have had the magnanimity to 
offer their life, and have joyfully 
laid themselves out for the most 
ungrateful of occupations, in which 
they give a daily example of patient 
toil, of disinterestedness and disci- 
pline ; and to their virtues they owe 
their proscription ! 

Athens banished Aristides be- 
cause he was "just." Paris, among 
not a few other Athenian procli- 
vities and pretensions, must also 
have her ostracism. We ma)' rea- 
sonably imagine the thoughts of 
the citizens forming the municipal 
council of Paris to run this wise : 

"What!" they exclaim to them- 
selves " these people are making 
our children docile, obedient, dili- 
gent; they teach them that a life 
of industry is an honorable life, 
and that there is a nobility in 
honest and intelligent labor. The 
children believe them. They will 
become first-class workmen, or, 
mounting the social ladder, will rise 
to positions of eminence, and one 
and all will proclaim that they owe 
their success to the teaching of the 
Christian Brothers! This must 
not be ! We have had too much of 
it already. The people must be 
freed from its prejudices and the 



swaddling bands of an effete and 
bigoted despotism. Vive la lib- 
erte!" Yes; all that these free- 
thinkers of "independent morals " 
clamor for, for the children of 
France, is the negation of every 
higher good. No more catechism, 
no more creed, no more prayer, no 
more God ! And since religion is 
the basis of the brothers' teaching 
and the source of their success, 
their animating principle and in- 
vigorating power, their schools, 
odious to these men of progress, 
must be closed, their voice's si- 
lenced, their spirit extinguished. 
Henceforth let the juvenile citoyen 
vociferate to his heart's content : 
Qiiun sang impnr abreuve nos sillons ! 
but beware of letting the sweet 
canticles, O Dieu de Clemence or 
Sottvenez-vous, 6 tendre Mere, sound 
pleasantly in his parents' ears, 
bringing the thought of God and 
his blessed Mother to shed a breath 
of sacred fragrance in his humble 
home. 

Alas ! it has already been said, 
with too much truth, that " in 
France there are no more children." 
And, in fact, the workshops and 
manufactories swarm with boys 
who, at twelve years of age, are hope- 
lessly corrupted. Daily before the 
tribunals are brought precocious 
malefactors whose language is as 
cynical as the nature of their mis- 
demeanors is frightful. The statis- 
tics of crime in France show the 
number of robbers and assassins to 
be increasing every year, and also 
(to the shame of our era be it 
spoken) the number of fathers and 
mothers obliged to have recourse 
to the courts of justice to compel 
their children to allow them in 
their old age a sufficient " alimen- 
tary pension " to keep them from 
starvation. 

Is it possible, we ask, that these 



from the Public Schools of Paris. 



109 



men sincerely believe that the 
"moral independence" they de- 
mand so loudly will arrest these 
evils ? No ; they well know that it 
will not. Every man' not wilfully 
self-blinded is compelled to ac- 
knowledge that religion alone is 
efficacious to arrest them. 

It would be well if the municipal 
council would reflect upon the fol- 
lowing words of Victor Hugo. Re- 
peating what his eminent col- 
leagues, Guizot, Cousin, and Ville- 
main, had expressed before him, he 
says : 

" Far from wishing to proscribe re- 
ligious teaching, I consider it to be more 
necessary at the present day than it has 
ever been. The older a man grows the 
more needful it is that he should believe. 
The bane of our t'ime is to make this life 
all. In giving to man this earthly life as 
his sole end and aim, all its miseries are 
aggravated by the negation at its close, 
which, to the already oppressive burden 
of the unfortunate, adds the insupport- 
able weight of future nothingness, and, 
instead of suffering, which is the law of 
God, causes despair. Hence spring vast 
and deep social convulsions. I would, 
with unspeakable eagerness, desire to 
ameliorate the material condition of those 
who suffer, but the first and most neces- 
sary amelioration is to give them hope. 
Mingled with an infinite hope, how 
much smaller do finite miseries become ! 

". . . Death is a restitution ; own it 
boldly. God is found again at last ; let 
us remember this, and teach it to all. 
There would be no dignity in living, and 
it would not be worth the trouble to live, 
if, when we die, we die wholly. 

" And that which lightens suffering 
sanctifies toil. That which makes a 
man good, wise, courageous is the per- 
petual vision of a better world shining 
through the darkness of this. . . . I here 
declare that my profound belief in that 
better world is the supreme certitude of 
my reason, as it is [the supreme joy of 
my soul." 

There is yet another charge 
against the Christian Brothers 
that they are not patriots. 

If this is because they do not 



bear arms, being dispensed from 
military service, the same reproach 
must be made against the 530 lay 
schoolmasters, not one of whom 
has been a soldier, any more than 
the 500 more who are to be sent 
to replace the brothers in the 
schools of Paris. 

But he surely is a " patriot " who 
does all in his power to promote 
the welfare of 1iis country. And 
the brothers -have rendered no 
small service to theirs, not only by 
their unremitting personal toils, 
but also by having, at the cost of 
long and too-easily-forgotten strug- 
gles, succeeded in organizing a sys- 
tem of teaching which produces 
intelligent workmen and employes 
and also learned and scientific 
men. It is, in fact, to them that 
France is, in a particular manner,' 
indebted for .the constituent ele- 
ments of national prosperity. 

Besides, can it be that their ac- 
cusers have already forgotten the 
battle-fields of Bourget, Buzenval, 
and Champigny, the attack of 
Monthelon, and the noble conduct 
of the Christian Brothers and of 
the Sisters of St. Vincent de Paul 
in these and many another scene of 
carnage around their beleaguered 
capital ? Have they forgotten the 
acclamations, not only of Paris but 
of all France, when the French 
Academy awarded to the brothers 
the prize offered by the city of Bos- 
ton for the noblest acts of patriot- 
ism performed during the war of 
1870-71 ? 

The following is a quotation from 
the report read during the sitting 
of the Academy, August 8, 1872 : 

" We have awarded this recompense 
to an entire body as modest as it is use- 
ful a body known to all, esteemed by 
all, and which, in these unhappy times, 
has won for itself true glory. You are 
all aware to what career the Brothers of 



1 10 The Proposed Expulsion of the Teaching Orders. 



Christian Doctrine consecrate their lives, 
and with what disinterested devotion 
and paternal simplicity they pursue this 
career. . . . When, however, they saw 
their country in danger, the same feel- 
ing which filled us all filled their hearts 
also, and they asked themselves in what 
way they could contribute to its defence 
and relieve its sufferings. ... On the 
i5th of August their venerable superior, 
Brother Philip, wrote to the Minister of 
the Interior, placing at his disposal for 
the sick and wounded all the establish- 
ments and communal- schools in the 
possession of his Institute, as well as all 
the members which composed it, his 
council, his novices, and himself. The 
minister gladly availed himself of the 
offer. The brothers established, at their 
own expense, a large ambulance in the 
Rue Oudinot, and furnished a numer- 
ous and efficient personnel to the various 
other ambulances of Paris, particularly 
those organized in the railway stations 
for the immediate reception of the train- 
fuls of wounded. The Society of the 
Press also appealed to them for assist- 
ance as brancardiers , or fitter-bearers, on 
the fields of battle, as well as attendants 
in its ambulances. In these two services 
six hundred of the brothers were con- 
stantly and gratuitously occupied. On 
days when there was an engagement 
they were more numerous. 

" During the whole time of the siege 
their schools were never closed nor 
their classes interrupted. They sufficed 
for everything ; they seemed to multiply 
themselves. Each brother^ marched in 
his turn. One day he taught in class, 
the next he went under fire. The day 
Brother Nethelone was killed at Bour- 
get it was not his turn to march ; he had 
taken the turn of another. Daily, in the 
intense cold, very early in the morning, 
they might be seen, to the number of 
three or four hundred, traversing Paris, 
saluted by the population as they passed 
with Brother Philip at their head, in 
spite of his eighty years ; he sending 
them to the combat whither he could not 
follow them. As to the brothers, they 
faced fire as if they had done nothing 
else all their lives, admirable for their 
discipline and ardor. 

" They marched like a regiment, in 
companies of ten, each with a surgeon. 
Arrived at the scene of action, girt with 
a cord, they advanced, with a litter be- 
tween every two, running always in the 



direction of the firing, lifted up the 
wounded, and carried them carefully to 
the ambulances. ' Mes freres /' exclaim- 
ed one of our generals, 'you exceed all 
that humanity and charity can demand !' 
Another leader dismounted to embrace 
one of the devoted band, saying, ' You 
are admirable, you and all yours.' 

" The day after an engagement they bur- 
ied the dead. Two of their number were 
killed on the field, and eighteen died 
from- maladies contracted in tending the 
sick and wounded." 

With regard to the sisters, it is 
needless to speak of their heroism 
and devotion in the ambulances, 
the hospitals, and on the fields of 
battle. Have the people of Paris 
forgotten the forty-seven sisters 
sent to Bice'tre to nurse the sol- 
diers suffering from smallpox, and 
that, when eleven of their number 
caught the disease and died, thirty- 
two immediately offered to replace 
them, so that the requisite number 
was chosen by lot ? 

During the siege of Paris the 
sisters tended, in their ambulances, 
15,000 sick and wounded soldiers, 
established soup-kitchens to feed 
the famishing people for the small- 
est sums possible, and all this time 
never omitted their daily visits to 
the poor, even during the bom- 
bardment. 

But the radical municipality of 
Paris, if it remembers, at least cares 
for none of these things. And 
thus, while other nations have rea- 
son to envy France her Brothers of 
Christian Doctrine, and seek to at- 
tract them, as well as the daughters 
of St. Vincent de Paul, to their 
shores, Frenchmen, who ought to 
be jealous of their national glories, 
especially at a time when so few re- 
main to them, are seeking to drive 
them away ! 

And these men call themselves 
patriots, and have ever in their 
mouths, as on their charred palaces, 



Bayard Taylor. 



ill 



the false formula of Libertc, Egalite', 
Fraternity Liberty of teaching 
and liberty of conscience are alike 
to be stifled by these liberal op- 
pressors, who for ever accuse the 
Catholic Church of intolerance the 
church which has never ceased to 
claim liberty of teaching for all who 
should be found worthy of it, and 
which has not only not set aside lay 



teaching, but has ever made a point 
of inviting distinguished Christian 
laymen to teach in her schools, and 
in all her works accepts, and even 
solicits, lay co-operation. We 
would fain believe that Paris, which 
paid grateful and enthusiastic horn- 
mage to Sceur Rosalie and' Brother 
Philip, will never consent to drive 
the religious from her schools. 



BAYARD TAYLOR. 



IT is with a genuine emotion of 
thanksgiving and joy we learn that 
the late Bayard Taylor did not 
even begin his contemplated bio- 
graphy of Goethe. We are glad 
for two reasons : First and prin- 
cipally, because the sooner the 
world forgets that passionless and 
scientific advocate of lust the bet- 
ter; and, secondly, because we be- 
lieve that Mr. Taylor had no real 
sympathy with, or just estimate of, 
him. We should be sorry to think 
that one who represented the most 
popular, if the crudest, department 
of American literature should have 
lent the charm of his style and the 
generous fervor of his imagination 
to reproducing for his wide circle 
of readers and admirers the most de- 
testable man of letters of the nine- 
teenth century. We believe that 
Mr. Taylor intended to blend the 
biographies of Goethe and Schil- 
ler a purpose which betrays a fatal 
critical misconception. The genius 
of Schiller is human ; but we can 
parallel Goethe only with his Me- 
phistopheles. Mr. Taylor would 
have been certain to have invested 
the hierophant of the Kulturfampf 
with his own glowing fancies. We 



should have a Goethe projected 
from the imagination which con- 
ceived Deukalion, and arrayed with 
the moral virtues that adorn the 
sages of the Poems of the Orient. 
The real Goethe, the calm and self- 
approving sceptic, measuring the 
mental calibre of Jesus Christ and 
sneering at his simplicity; making 
the intellect of man the gauge of 
eternity ; and classifying woman 
as the ministrant to imperative 
animal needs, is capable of analy- 
sis only by himself. He has left 
us his own biography, and it is one 
of which Ktdtur should be asham- 
ed, if it did not regard shame as a 
conventionality. We are profound- 
ly grateful that American literature 
has escaped the infamy of such a 
book as Lewes' Life of Goethe; 
and as Mr. Taylor was not a phi- 
losopher in any sense, his work in 
all probability would have been 
more dangerous than Lewes', who 
dwells mainly upon the opinions of 
the German sage, and thus produces 
in a sensible and pure-minded man 
a hearty hatred and detestation of 
them. 

'We can understand the enthu- 
siasm of such a mind as Taylor's 



112 



Bayard Taylor. 



over Goethe's Faust. Indeed, the 
American writer quickly glowed 
overevery form of literary and natu- 
ral beauty. It was a boyish fervor, 
which brings a smile of pleasure to 
the face of the bias/ man of letters. 
No doubt a schoolmaster enjoys 
the keen delight of his pupils when 
first they encounter some of the re- 
sounding lines of Homer or Virgil's 
rapid dactyls keeping time to a 
storm or a battle. The old theatre- 
goer at the end finds himself more 
interested in the audience than in 
the stage. Taylor's translation of 
Faust was evidently a keen enjoy- 
ment to him. Everything is a sur- 
prise. No one before ever saw as 
he the scenes of his travels. It is 
this freshness of perception which 
gives his writings their charm. 
Most of his books read like the 
letters which a bright schoolboy 
writes to his mother. It is clear 
that he has no deep perception of 
Goethe's purpose in Faust. His 
translation is sparkling, pictur- 
esque, and felicitously imitative, but 
it is like the music of the opera. 
The real purpose of Goethe in the 
poem, which is unfit and unintend- 
ed for dramatic or operatic render- 
ing (at least s.o far as such render- 
ing aims at representing Goethe's 
idea), is a complete reversal of 
every Christian canon and the- 
ory of the other life. It was for 
this that Goethe lived and wrote. 
In Wilhelm Meister he parodies 
Christian symbols with the em- 
blems of Kultur. In Faust he 
aims a blow at the essence of Satan, 
the failure of which he has by this 
time discovered. In Helena we 
have the pagan idea of love restor- 
ed ; and in his Elective Affinities, 
written in the impotency of old 
age, he gloats over veteris vestigia 
flajiimce, and formulates a theory 
of matrimonial morals which makes 



adultery the normal rule of life. 
His abilities might have secured 
him from the fear of rivals near his 
throne. But he was so jealous and 
envious that he kept his little court 
of Weimar barred against talent 
till it thundered for admittance and 
the echo resounded throughout 
Germany. Professing the greatest 
love for Fatherland, and writing 
fierce diatribes against Napoleon, 
he was enraptured with a medal 
which the conqueror threw to him 
as a sop to a poetical Cerberus ; 
and in fulsome verses he compar- 
ed the subduer of his native land 
to all the doves, Marses, and Apol- 
los in every mythology which his 
learning could suggest. It would 
have been a pitiful spectacle to see 
Mr. Taylor trying to make this 
man out a demigod, as is the Ger- 
man fashion. A less heroic char- 
acter there is not in all history. 
Old Sam Johnson, or Washington 
Irving, or Mr. Taylor himself, is a 
far more* excellent specimen of the 
man of letters. Possibly, when the 
present culture fever is passed, 
literature will appraise Goethe at 
his true valuation. As it is, it may 
be of interest to note that Taine, 
the French critic, and Jeffrey, the 
English one, are unsparing in their 
castigation of the Master, as Car- 
lyle and Emerson call him, perhaps 
for the reason that nobody is likely 
to have sufficient courage to chal- 
lenge them to a critical examina- 
tion of his works. 

It is the object of this criticism 
to measure the literary status *of 
Mr. Taylor, and to draw from hij 
career a few lessons applicable to 
the body of litterateurs of which he 
was a distinguished representative. 
We do not offer our views] in any 
Rhadamanthine spirit of critical 
infallibility. We should have been 
proud to regard Mr. Taylor as 



Bayard Taylor. 



deserving of the high literary en- 
comiums which have been passed 
upon him. Our American litera- 
ture is too sparse to leave ungar- 
nered excellence in any field. But 
after all criticism is criticism, and 
it is simply nonsense to represent 
Taylor as an unrivalled poet, a sci- 
entific traveller, a safe and sound 
critic, and a distinguished states- 
man ; and we are sure he would have 
been the first to condemn many of 
the laudatory notices which his 
lamented death has occasioned. 
We have reason to think that he 
merited all the tributes which speak 
of his genial, kind-hearted, and open 
disposition, his honest literary am- 
bition, and that wonderful versati- 
lity which, however creditable to 
him under one aspect, was never- 
theless fatal to his abiding literary 
fame. 

The reader, then, need not deem 
us ungracious in saying that Mr. 
Taylor's chief, if not sole, excel- 
lence was that of a newspaper cor- 
respondent. When we have said 
this the inexorable conclusion fol- 
lows that under no circumstances 
can his writings ever become or be 
regarded as classics. The average 
daily journalist must make up his 
mind to forego any claim upon pos- 
terity. It is different with a maga- 
zinist ; and, indeed, the tendency 
of contemporary literature sets to- 
ward the magazine. The best 
minds, that a few decades ago 
would have waited for a folio vol- 
ume, now give their thoughts to 
a periodical. But the newspaper 
correspondent writes for the day 
and the hour. He has no liberty 
of opinion. He addresses a mixed 
audience impatient of reflection. 
His mind quickly sinks into the 
state of the writer- of weekly ro- 
mances. Every letter must have 
a " hit " indeed, every paragraph. 
VOL. xxix. 8 



No doubt Mr. Taylor could have 
turned out better work if he had 
not been a slave to that awful mon- 
ster, the daily press. He was like 
Jack in the fairy story, trying to 
amuse the hungry giant, without 
Jack's luck, for he could not kill 
it, though he poured into it a vast 
amount of porridge. 

Taylor's career is another illus- 
tration of the possibilities of the 
American printing-office. He was 
a contemporary reproduction of 
Benjamin Franklin, whom he ap- 
pears to have taken for a model. 
He had many vicissitudes of for- 
tune, and could parallel Benjamin's 
Philadelphia experience of want of 
food and shelter. He picked up 
that multifarious knowledge which 
" lies around loose " in a printing- 
office. He had no educational 
discipline, and, being of an ardent 
disposition, he felt a craving for 
travel and excitement a restless- 
ness which is generated by the 
humdrum existence of most Ameri- 
can hamlets. 'Our great cities fo- 
cus all the vitality of American 
life, leaving none for the villages. 

His book Views Afoot, which de- 
scribes a pedestrian tour in Eu- 
rope, is one of the most painful that 
we have ever read. Nothing but 
sheer penury should have induced 
him to publish it. There is a dis- 
agreeable self-complacency in many 
Americans, who seem to think it a 
grand exploit to have lived on five 
cents a day. We have no quarrel 
to find with rigid economy, but it is 
due to the biensfances not to obtrude 
our makeshifts. No one attaches 
any value. whatever to Mr. Taylor's 
judgments, though often correct, in 
this book. We refuse to believe 
that a man who " tramped it " 
through Europe can have arrived 
at any just conclusion upon its po- 
litical, social, or religious condi- 



114 



Bayard Taylor. 



tion. However unjust it may seem, 
the general conviction is that the 
intelligence, morality, and sociolo- 
gy of a land are' best studied in its 
well-to-do and middle classes. Mr. 
Taylor's ingenious expedients to se- 
cure food and lodging, his disputes 
with and triumphs over his land- 
lords, his observations upon his 
fellow-passengers, his strictures on 
the wretched moral condition of 
the European peasantry, his strug- 
gles to preserve his scanty ward- 
robe from thieves, leave his book 
worthless and uninfluential as a re- 
cord of travelling experience. 

He saw Norway and Sweden, 
Palestine and India, under more 
favorable conditions. In all these 
books there is displayed the pecu- 
liar talent of the newspaper man. 
They were written for the New 
York Tribune, and it is curious to 
notice how deftly this versatile 
writer adapts his tone to the ears 
accustomed to the music of Horace 
Greeley. We long since learned 
not to mind the reliable corre- 
spondent when he begins to moral- 
ize ; but if any one contemplates a 
new edition of Mr. Taylor's trav- 
els, we should suggest for the sake 
of the departed, quite as much as 
for the, sake of truth and justice, 
that all his chapters touching upon 
religious topics be omitted. The 
chapter on Jerusalem (Land of the 
Saracens], in which he expresses his 
emphatic disbelief in the divinity 
of Christ ; the offensive chapter in 
his book on Greece, in which he 
defends the marriage of the Greek 
priesthood as preferable to the con- 
cubinage of the Latin priesthood ; 
and his general laudation of the 
Mohammedan religion over Chris- 
tianity, are instances of shameful 
ignorance and captious criticism 
which should not be suffered to re- 
main. His lack of any definite re- 



ligious training is painfully and of' 
fensively apparent in every instance 
in which he touches upon a reli- 
gious question. Nor has he the 
well-bred sneer of the genuine infi- 
del. His assaults are always vul- 
gar and in bad taste. He speaks 
of the saints, for example, as " un- 
washed " and "holy drones." A 
Te Deum to which he listened 
gives him an opportunity for a poor 
pun on the word "tedium." Fes- 
tivals and holydays are character- 
ized as " loafing-spells." There is 
an abundance of poor satire upon 
priests and monks. Now, if a 
tourist is a hearty hater of the 
Catholic Church, we rather re- 
lish h\s fret and fume. Some Eng- 
lish tourists are really enjoyable 
on this account. Their indigna- 
tion, however ignorant, is honest. 
They -fly into a passion at an Ital- 
ian throwing kisses to the Madon- 
na, and they cannot contain them- 
selves at the sight of a bandit with 
a large rosary and several crucifixes 
strung around his neck. They 
make grim fun of the pilgrims 
whose feet the pope washes, and 
scold the begging friars to their 
hearts' content. If 'their hat is 
knocked off during a procession of 
the Blessed Sacrament, they go at 
once to the British consul and 
write a sardonic letter to the Lon- 
don Times. We think, however, 
that these good people are obsti- 
nately sincere, and we laugh at 
them, but do not get angry with 
them. But such is not the indig- 
nation of Mr. Taylor. It is a 
coarse burlesquing of the very es- 
sence and idea of sacred things. 
His art is clumsy. He has not the 
infidel's indifference nor the Protes- 
tant's wrath. 

Yet one would suppose that Mr. 
Taylor journeyed enough to have 
mastered the simple rule of the 



Bayard Taylor. 



trustworthy tourist, "Put yourself 
in their place." No. It is marvel- 
lous that one who travelled so 
much has so little to tell. It is 
true that in the preface to his 
book on Sweden and Norway he 
expressly disclaims any intention 
of giving a social, religious, or po- 
litical picture of the countries ; but, 
if not, of what practical value is 
his book? We may as well keep 
to the geography. But he is not 
bound by his declaration ; for we 
find in the same work the differ- 
ence between the Catholic and the 
Lutheran doctrine of the Euchar- 
ist compared to the distinction be- 
tween " tweedledum and tweedle- 
dee." Not all the graphic descrip- 
tions of scenery or vivid pictures 
of travel can make these books 
aught but newspaper literature. 
He is fearful of giving offence to 
anybody but to a Catholic. There 
is not a reflection above the ca- 
pacity of any well-informed man 
who never left his native town. 
Indeed, we think that, had Mr. 
Taylor kept at home and read 
books of travel, he would have ar- 
rived at much juster conclusions, 
and, with his poetic powers, have 
given -'us brighter and bet.ter 
sketches of scenery and character. 
His poetry furnishes evidence of 
remarkable versatility and an al- 
most mechanical power of rapid 
composition. But there is no life 
in it. In a little book called the 
Echo Club he imitates the style of 
contemporary poets, and fully dis- 
plays this remarkable talent, which 
was certainly equal to that of the 
authors of the Rejected Addresses. 
He could roll off a poem on any 
subject to order. But it is mechan- 
ism. How, indeed, could he infuse 
life when he had no living faith or 
hope ? Turning over these mani- 
fold poems, some of them of strik- 



ing symmetry and finish, we con- 
fess to a feeling of sadness and dis- 
appointment. His poetry never 
took hold of the popular heart. 
His Centennial Ode was as great a 
failure as Sidney Lanier's. There is 
no thought, no soul, no mensdivinior 
in it a symphony of unmeaning 
sounds, but no inner music. He iS 
best in his poetical descriptions of 
natural scenery. He had a good 
eye for this, and he manages to 
catch the expression. His trans- 
lations are invariably good. In- 
deed, to speak phrenologically, he 
had imitation large but ideality 
small. So, too, the best reflections 
in his prose works are unconscious- 
ly copied from, the vast stores of 
his reading, though he himself is 
perfectly honest. Still, he must 
pay the penalty of the versatile 
genius of the journal in having 
most of his writings classed as 
ephemeral. 

If Mr. Taylor was a fair speci- 
men of the American journalist 
and we think he was his inevita- 
ble literary fate should be ponder- 
ed over by the class to which he 
belonged. There has been a revo- 
lution in journalism since the days 
when he wrote his first letters. 
The telegraph has effected good in 
forcing the correspondent to con- 
dense his thought. The Associat- 
ed Press, too, is as impersonal as 
possible. Nor is any part of the 
world difficult of access since the 
era of steam set in. The news- 
paper correspondent is generally 
resident, and is forced to stick to 
balls and society gossip. He is 
usually too busy with politics, when 
not with society, to give heed to 
religion, unless it falls under the 
spectacular head. Books of travel 
need to be well scrutinized now 
before publication. It is no longer 
true that half of the world does not 



n5 



Bayard Taylor. 



know how the other half lives. 
Othello used to tell the gentle Des- 
demona tales about the Anthro- 
pophagi, and men whose heads 
do grow beneath their shoulders ; 
but he would now have no silch 
credulous listener. Travellers have 
found out that they need not ex- 
'pect open-mouthed wonder at their 
tales. Unless a man discovers the 
north pole there is little heed given 
to him in our day. It is impera- 
tive on every contemporary travel- 
ler who contemplates publishing to 
study the ethnology of the people 
he visits ; or set on foot some 
scientific investigation ; or at least 
gather certain trustworthy statis- 
tics. The world has outgrown, 
Because it has satisfied, its curiosity 
about the mere externals of nations 
and of lands. 

If a man has not a broad mind, 
a trained religious character, and a 
sympathetic disposition, the closer 
he keeps to his own house and 
home the better for him and for 
those on whom he meditates in- 
flicting a book of travels. He 
must be either a cosmopolitan like 
Goldsmith, who was as much at 
home on the banks of the Loire as 
the Liffey, or else a stolid scientist 
like Humboldt, who thought more 
of a stratification or a new fauna 
than he did of the Deity. What 
call had Taylor to travel, beyond 
an untrained curiosity ? What spe- 
cial fitness' has the average news- 
paper correspondent at Paris, at 
London, at Rome ? In many cases 
the gentleman or the lady is not 
a Catholic in a Catholic country, 
or, indeed, the professor of any 
creed. He is frequently a member 
of a legation, who has at least one 
idea drilled into him to tell noth- 
ing of any importance. His pro- 
motion in the Circumlocution Office 
will depend upon his reticence or 



his evasiveness, which he is taught 
is diplomacy. He perforce con* 
fines himself to the visible and ex- 
ternal, and has no intention of 
touching upon any real, moral 
issues. No reliance can be placed 
upon the general correspondence 
which appears in our newspapers, 
and it might as well be written in 
the office, which is not tmfrequent- 
ly the case, as in Europe or Asia. 
One may read all of Mr. Taylor's 
travels and not obtain a clea,r idea 
of any nation or its institutions. 
Only, if the reader is not a Catholic, 
he is likely to remain so. 

Thebooks of travel quite popular 
and authoritative thirty years ago 
are now known to be wretchedly 
inaccurate. It is interesting to 
turn over the pages of the United 
States Catholic Magazine to see how 
the reviewer had to correct mis- 
statements at every step in books 
about Catholic countries ; and we 
believe that this inaccuracy runs 
through the non-religious portions. 
A sensible man nowadays never re- 
fers to his trip to Europe; but it 
was once a very great adventure. 
It is singular that these old tourists, 
and some of their successors, never 
appear to reflect upon their incompe- 
tency to pass judgment upon nations 
of which they know nothing outside 
a spelling-book at home. One should 
fear to misinterpret certain, cus- 
toms of the Hottentots, let alone 
the immemorial habits of the most 
civilized nations of Europe. Peo- 
ple ignorant of the language, the 
religion, and the customs of France 
raid through that land, unconscious 
of their insolence, vulgarity, and 
ignorance, and write by every post 
the most astounding descriptions of 
vice and immorality. Italy and 
Spain fare as badly. England is 
slobbered over as the " mother 
country " ; and, in a word, an 



Bayard Taylor. 



117 



American scholar would be glad, 
for the sake of his country's litera- 
ture, if the bulk of this branch of 
letters, distributed in innumerable 
books, magazines, and carefully- 
preserved newspapers, manuscript 
journals, and diaries, were bundled 
off to Washington and presented to 
the government printer, with a re- 
quest that it be reduced ft) pulp 
and utilized in his department. 
The Congressional Globe and pub- 
lic documents may be dull reading, 
but they are eminently respectable. 
We may congratulate ourselves that 
this species of tourist literature is 
now hardly possible. Even a Pro- 
testant minister must be .careful of 
what he says about Rome. The 
detestable gossip about society is 
no longer tolerated in our best 
journals, and the day seems coming 
when we shall study a nation and 
its life from its own authorities, not 
in the letters of some obscure 
scribe. 

The ^ newspaper stimulated the 
versatility of Taylor, and so did 
him injury. There is nothing like 
a journal to exhaust intellect. It 
dries up the most succulent brains 
in a few years. We read that Mr. 
Taylor used to work fifteen hours 
a day. This struck the public with 
surprise, but it is not uncommon. 
After his day's work at the office 
he would go home and write poetry. 
People have no appreciation of the 
amount of downright brain-work 
that must be put into any periodi- 
cal. The slaves of the pen are 
the only ones that have no sympa- 
thizers. Whatever favorite taste 
in letters a man has, he must sacri- 
fice it unflinchingly if he is to suc- 
ceed as a journalist. There must 
have been a wearying conflict go- 
ing on in Taylor's mind between 
the harsh, prosaic newspaper work 
and his poetical dreams. Yet he 



did his journalistic work conscien- 
tiously. 

In journalism a very few men on 
the staff really do most of the work. 
A magazine may* now and then 
have an article from some eminent 
man, or its prospectus may an- 
nounce a brilliant array of .talent ; 
but the editor knows that he can 
safely depend only on the working 
staff. So the steady, trustworthy 
work on a daily is done regularly 
by a few. Taylor was a man who 
could write a poem, a leader, a 
criticism, a story in fact, could 
write, and write well enough, on any 
theme submitted to him. He al- 
lowed himself to spread over this 
campus, and the inevitable conse- 
quence was that he failed to attain 
any high excellence. A newspaper 
should be obliged to fortify its 
staff, if its income at all warrant, 
sooner than the promise of a good 
workman should be spoiled. We 
believe that few leading journalists 
have time to read a book. They 
are, in fact, sick of reading and 
writing. They are weary of print. 
They hate to think outside of the 
profession, and they escape from 
thought as soon as the pressure is 
withdrawn. And who is to blame 
them ? Their vocation is a sla- 
very. They are in the grasp of a 
public for ever bellowing for more 
information, sensation, jokes, sto- 
ries, politics, and criminal news. 
If the monster is not glutted, it will 
turn upon and rend them. 

The strong imagination of Tay- 
lor gave him an advantage over his 
fellow-journalists, and this should 
suggest to them the need of culti- 
vating the higher faculties. He 
'could never have written so long 
and so well if the mental fountain 
had not been supplied from the 
Pierian spring. Most journalists 
get into what Carlyle calls the 



iiS 



Bayard Taylor. 



threshing-mill. There is no fresh- 
ness either of conception or of ex- 
pression. An automatic mental 
routine takes the place of wide and 
varied thought, tind the opening 
sentence of an editorial is frequent- 
ly the only attempt at originality. 
Then succeeds the old application 
of old platitudes. If one speaks to 
an editor on this subject, he smiles 
sarcastically and asks you if you 
would change places with him ; 
and one who knows the editorial 
life has not the heart to press the 
point. A man who must make up 
his mind on a hundred different 
subjects between dusk and dawn 
is entitled to the largest considera- 
tion. 

It would be false to say. that 
American journalism has been fatal, 
or even detrimental, to our scholar- 
ship. But this may be set down as 
incontrovertible: that the man who 
enters the sanctum without a pre- 
paratory mental discipline, sound 
and wide learning, and a fearless 
and truth-loving disposition, will 
assuredly deteriorate into the nar- 
rowest-minded of sciolists. A news- 
paper writer is asked to surrender 
his individuality, his convictions, 
and his tastes, and offer them in 
sacrifice to the genius of the Public 
Press. The last thing an editor 
wants in his paper is religion ; and 
thus what should be the first in the 
thoughts of both writer and reader 
is rigidly excluded by this strange 
creed of journalism. The unedu- 
cated public are intolerant of rare 
learning, and should a writer ven- 
ture upon a classical quotation or 
an unfamiliar word, he is sure to 
be coarsely ridiculed in the " fun- 
ny" bucolic press. A thoroughly 
educated gentleman of the press 
informed the writer that he once 
wrote a good style, but work on 
the local columns completely vi- 



tiated it. Every newspaper should 
write up to a high standard, and 
not be fearful lest the people may 
not understand it. The newspaper 
does injury to scholarship by its 
exaction of quick work. Few can 
write rapidly and well. An edito- 
rial sprawls over a column or two, 
when a little time and thought 
would have put it into a paragraph. 
The frightful necessity of " filling 
up " is of course destructive to any- 
thing like nervous force and point. 
It is like the "talking against time " 
in Congress, when wandering law- 
givers have to be hunted up. It 
may be observed that since the 
predominance of the periodical 
press there are fewer solid books. 
The press is responsible for that 
impatience which makes the public 
clamor for immediate literary re- 
sults. A confirmed newspaper read- 
er rarely opens a book. 

We are of opinion that the news* 
paper spoiled Bayard Taylor. What 
he should have done was to have 
passed a few years in quiet study ; 
nor did such a mind need a col- 
lege training, except, perchance, for 
its opportunities of emulation and 
correction. His friends ill-advis- 
ed him to make his first trip to 
Europe, and they injured him per- 
manently by allowing him to pub- 
lish a book about it. When he 
adopted journalism he should have 
confined himself to one department, 
no matter what temptations lay in 
his way, whether of better pay or 
greater fame. He had in him the 
intellectual power that would have 
made him a representative Ameri- 
can writer. And we cannot say 
that his work, varied as it was, has 
not special merit. 

It is a rather saddening reflec- 
tion that all this vagueness of pur- 
pose might have been obviated had 
he had a clear ethical conception ; 



Bayard Taylor. 



119 



above all, had he been a member of 
the Catholic faith. He flattered 
himself that as a disciple of cul- 
ture he had religion enough. He 
did not clearly apprehend what 
culture is, and never could he rest 
satisfied with its boasted passion- 
less calm. If he fancied that this 
delusion is sufficient to answer all 
life's problems and lead humanity 
to its highest perfection, his minis- 
terial experience in Germany must 
have completely undeceived him. 

We see no real hope for Ameri- 
can scholarship so long as it wil- 
fully divorces itself from religion 
and pursues this phantom of cul- 
ture. All knowledge supposes, cer- 
tain great facts and principles 
which, in the ultimate analysis, are 
moral. The being and nature of 
God, his attributes, his relations to 
us, his moral governance of the 
world, and, in short, the loci com- 
munes of theology, form an integral, 
if not an essential, part of know- 
ledge. A mind cannot go for- 
ward in the pursuit of truth and 
ignore all these. Culture is a self- 
contradiction, by assuming the pos- 
sibility of attaining all real know- 
ledge independently of any natural 
or revealed divine truth.* 

The dreams of the German 
idealists took hold on Taylor, and 
in his later poetry we have a curi- 



* See THE CATHOLIC WORLD for March, 1879, 
' The Reality of Knowledge.'' 



ous mixture of pantheism and Pla- 
tonism, only the metempsychosis 
into animals is rejected, and that 
of beautiful forms, lights, etc., sub- 
stituted. A good course of logic 
would have cleared his mind of 
this cant. We understand that this 
is the noble end of culture self- 
renunciation. No aspiration to- 
ward God is permitted. We must 
say with Marcus Aurelius : If there 
be gods it is well ; if there be no 
gods it is well. It is of sublime 
unimportance whether we survive 
or perish utterly after death. "The 
eternities, immensities, and fates will 
march on in their unending course, 
and thou, poor man, thinkest of 
thy smallest soul when the Great 
Soul itself sleeps placidly upon its 
ever-spinning wheel." 

We trust that no one will mis- 
construe the purport of this essay, 
which is simply an endeavor to de- 
termine the literary worth of an 
American author. We are not 
disposed to wait for an English 
verdict, which would turn aside 
from the review on hand to sneer 
at the crude American criticism 
which could rank Taylor among 
the immortals. We hold his me- 
mory in respect. He was a scholar, 
and a ripe and good one ; and if he 
failed to attain to commanding 
literary eminence, the cause must 
be looked for in the unfavorable 
conditions under which he worked. 



120 



Catholic Colonization as actually Established. 



CATHOLIC COLONIZATION AS ACTUALLY ESTABLISHED. 



IT is more than a year and a 
half since we reviewed in these 
pages the history of the European 
exodus to America and dwelt upon 
the new features of Catholic colo- 
nization and of the prospects of fu- 
ture emigration.* We have now be- 
fore us a pamphlet entitled Catho- 
lic Colonization in Minnesota. It 
has been issued by the Catho- 
lic Colonization Bureau of Minne- 
sota, which is under the auspices 
of the coadjutor-bishop of St. 
Paul. The pamphlet is not only 
remarkably interesting in itself, but 
especially gratifying as a practical 
demonstration of the soundness of 
the views which we expressed in 
the articles to which reference is 
made. We sought to show in those 
articles that the congregation of 
our Catholic people in the large 
cities, so far from being an evil, 
had been the means of bringing 
about inestimable blessings in the 
past; but that the time had now 
fully arrived when not only many 
of our present urban inhabitants, 
but the great bulk of our future 
Catholic emigrants, should be in- 
vited to the West and planted there 
upon the soil as its owners and cul- 
tivators. The pamphlet before us 
shows to what great extent this has 
already been effected in a single 
State ; and we propose to summar- 
ize its contents. Readers will find 
the facts neither uninteresting nor 
uninstructive. We are tolerably 
confident that if, in the preparation 
for the census of the United States 
next year, proper arrangements are 

* See THE CATHOLIC^WORLD for July and Au- 
gust, 1877, articles " The European Exodus " and 
l4 Colonization and Future Emigration." 



made for a correct enumeration of 
the actual strength of the various 
religious bodies, the result will 
show that even the most sanguine 
estimates of the numerical force of 
the Catholic Church have not been 
exaggerated. By natural increase, 
by emigration, and by conversion 
we continue to grow; by the spirit 
of unity which animates us we re- 
main without division ; and through 
the wisdom and good management 
of such associations as this Catho- 
lic Colonization Bureau, as well as 
through the individual thrift and 
enterprise of our people, we are 
possessing ou-r fair share of the 
land. It is a goodly inheritance, 
and we have every right to it. 
Catholics discovered the continent ; 
Catholics first settled it ; Catholics 
shed their blood, spent their money, 
and gave their talents to bring about 
its independence and secure the 
establishment of its free institutions. 
It will be Catholic talent, Catholic 
work, Catholic faith, and Catholic 
conservatism which will mainly 
help to keep the land in peace and 
prosperity, and save it from the 
crushing domination of monopolies 
on one hand and from destructive 
and anarchical communism and 
agrarian ism on the other. 

It appears that there are at 
present four Catholic colonies in 
Minnesota : two in the western and 
two in the southwestern part of 
the State. The first of these colo- 
nies was opened only in the spring 
of 1876, and two of them were 
founded in the spring of last year. 
The oldest and most widely known 
of the settlements is that of Swift 
County. Its lands commence one 



Catholic Colonization as actually Established. 



121 



hundred and twenty miles west of 
St. Paul, and extend for thirty-six 
miles on each side of the St. Paul 
and Pacific Railroad. This colony 
has two divisions, or parishes, each 
eighteen miles in length and twelve 
miles wide, there being in both 
four hundred and thirty-two square 
miles. One of these, which lies on 
the east side of the Chippewa River, 
is called De Graff. It has for its 
pastor the Rev. F. J. Swift. The 
other is called Clontarf, and its pas- 
tor is the Rev. A. Oster. Each has 
its Catholic church and its Catho- 
lic schools. Bishop Ireland, three 
years ago, obtained control of the 
then unsold railroad lands within 
the limits of these colonies, but 
there was also a large quantity of 
government lands lying beside 
those belonging to the railroad. 
The government lands were open 
to entry under the Homestead and 
Pre-emption laws, and many of the 
colonists were able to obtain their 
farms, sometimes of eighty acres 
and sometimes of one hundred and 
sixty acres, by merely paying the 
fees of the United States Land Of- 
fice, which amounted only to four- 
teen dollars under the Homestead 
Act, and from one dollar and twen- 
ty-five cents to two dollars and fifty 
cents an acre under the Pre-emption 
Law. The provisions of these two 
laws may perhaps be here stated 
with advantage, since our article, 
we trust, will be read by many who 
may wish practical information on 
these points for their' own guid- 
ance. 

The provisions of the Homestead 
Law are extremely liberal and 
tempting. Not only the heads of 
families, but single men, and even 
single women, may acquire proper- 
ty under this law with very little 
difficulty. They must be twenty- 
one years of age, and must be citi- 



zens of the United States or have 
declared before a court their inten- 
tion to become citizens. Along 
the line of. almost all the railroads 
throughout the far West the gov- 
ernment has given each alternate 
section and a section is one mile 
square to the railroad. This 
grant extends ten miles each side 
of the railroad. So that the land 
left open to persons desiring to 
avail themselves of the provisions 
of the Homestead Law is within 
these limits curtailed one-half. 
Accordingly, while outside the ten- 
mile limit on each side of the rail- 
road one may 'enter only eighty 
acres of land under the Homestead 
Law, beyond this limit he may en- 
ter one hundred and sixty acres ; 
and he may take this from any of 
the lands yet owned by the govern- 
ment. He must pay fourteen dol- 
lars as the fees for entering and 
recording his claim. This being 
done, within the next six months 
he must take actual 'possession of 
his land and begin to cultivate it. 
When he has lived upon it and cul- 
tivated it for five years, he must 
make an affidavit of the fact, and 
obtain the testimony of two wit- 
nesses to the truth of his statement; 
and then the land becomes his own 
in fee simple. He is by no means 
required to cultivate the whole of 
his land during this period ; all 
that is necessary is that he should 
dwell upon it and show a reason- 
able degree of industry in cultivat- 
ing a portion of it. An exception, 
well worthy of notice, is made in 
favor of every man who has served 
in the army or navy of the United 
States for even so short a term as 
three months, and has received an 
honorable discharge.. Each one 
of these may enter 160 acres, even 
within the limits of the railroad 
grant, upon the payment of $i for 



122 



Catliolic Colonization as actually Established. 



registration fees, and the time 
which he has spent in the service 
will be deducted from the five 
years' residence required from others 
before a full title is given. There 
are thousands of good Catholic 
citizens of this country who have 
served in the army or navy of the 
republic one, two, three, or perhaps 
five years, and whose " honorable 
discharge " is lying among their 
other papers. Let these reflect 
upon what is offered them by the 
Homestead Law. If they have con- 
trived to save a little money 
enough to begin the cultivation of 
a few acres of land and to build a. 
temporary* cabin let them reflect 
that by availing themselves of the 
provisions of the Homestead Law 
they may, perhaps in one, or two, 
or three years, be the absolute 
owner of a farm of 160 acres, with- 
in ten miles, of a railroad and in an 
excellent country. Unfortunately, 
in the four Catholic colonies al- 
ready established in Minnesota 
government lands can no longer 
be certainly promised; but others 
will probably soon be commenced 
in which the lands can be obtained 
in this way. And, as we shall soon 
show, even without the advantages 
of the Homestead Act it will be 
no hard thing for a thrifty man, 
with good health, a strong heart, 
and a willing mind, to win for him- 
self and his family a home in one 
of the Catholic colonies of Minne- 
sota. 

Let us first, however, complete 
our explanation of the laws. Any 
one making a Homestead entry is 
also entitled to make an additional 
entry under the Timber Culture 
Act. He may thus acquire 40, 80, 
or 160 additional acres of land, on 
condition that within three years 
he sets out and nourishes a certain 
number of trees. Under these two 



acts it would be easy for a family 
consisting of a father and mother, 
and a son and daughter each twen- 
ty-one years or more, to secure for 
themselves an entire "section" 
that is, a square mile, 640 acres, of 
land. The father can enter 160 
acres under the Homestead Law 
and 160 acres under the Timber 
Culture Act; the son and the 
daughter can each enter 80 acres 
under each act; and .the family 
can thus place themselves in pos- 
session of 640 acres, a square mile, 
an estate large enough to support 
themselves and their descendants 
for many generations yet to come. 
There remains the Pre-emption 
Act, which, although it existed be- 
fore the enactment of the Home- 
stead Law, is now in a manner its 
useful supplement and complement. 
Under the Pre-emption Act one 
may enter 80 acres of land within 
ten miles of the railroad line, or 
160 acres beyond that limit, and 
become its owner on the payment 
of $2 50 per acre for the 80 acres, 
or $i 25 for the 160 acres, within 
two years from his pre-emption, on 
condition that he has lived upon 
the land and improved it. Having 
done this, he can enter 80 or 160 
acres under the Homestead Act, 
and as much more under the Tim- 
ber Culture Act ; so that a man, 
. even without adult children to aid 
him in his " land-grabbing," may 
soon find himself in the possession 
of 480 acres ; that is to say : 

By Pre-emption. 160 acres, cost $200 oo 

By Homestead Law, 160 acres, cost 14 oo 

By Timber Culture Act, 160 acres, cost. . . . 14 oo 

480 acres cost $228 oo 

Thus his 480 acres of land, for 
the fee simple in them, will have 
cost him less than forty-eight cents 
an acre. Of course to this must 
be added the labor expended upon 



Catholic Colonization as actually Established. 



them, and the cost of the agricul- 
tural implements necessary to cul- 
tivate them. But when all these 
things are taken into consideration, 
and fully weighed and counted, the 
ease and the cheapness with which 
lands can be acquired in the West 
are startling. 

Let us now return to our Minne- 
sota colonies. The conditions un- 
der which the two colonies in Swift 
County were founded were perhaps 
exceptionally favorable, and the 
earlier settlers got remarkably cheap 
bargains. But there is still a great 
quantity of land within the limits 
of these colonies that can be had 
at temptingly low prices. The rail- 
road company is compelled to take 
in payment for its lands its own 
bonds at par ; and these are to be 
bought at a very considerable dis- 
count on their nominal value. This 
year, also, the lands belonging to 
the State, and to the school fund of 
the State, will be thrown upon the 
market ; and there are a number 
of non-Catholic settlers who unfor- 
tunately feel uncomfortable %t be- 
ing so swamped by papists, and 
are willing to sell out and move 
away. In these two divisions of 
the Swift County colony there are 
about eight hundred Catholic fami- 
lies, each owning its own farm. 
They are for the most part Irish ; 
the minority is made up of Ger- 
mans, Poles, and Frenchmen. We . 
take from the pamphlet the follow- 
ing description of the almost ma- 
gical work that has been accom- 
plished since the Catholic Coloni- 
zation Bureau opened the colony 
in 1876 : 

" IXriving west from De Graff to Clon- 
tarf, seventeen miles, and still eleven 
miles farther west from Clontarf to the 
Pomme de Terre River, one is never out 
of sight of a settler's house ; and some of 
these farm-houses would be a credit to 



a much older settlement, for we have 
settlers who farm as much as five hun- 
dred acres, while others again farm but 
eighty acres. De Graff has a railroad de- 
pot and telegraph office ; a grain eleva- 
tor, with steam power which is the 
same as saying a cash market for all 
farm produce six or seven stores, with 
the general merchandise found in a coun- 
try town ; lumber yard, machine ware- 
house ; blacksmith, carpenter, and wagon- 
maker shops ; an immigrant house, where 
persons in search of land can lodge their 
families until they are suited ; a resident 
doctor, and resident priest, Rev. F. J. 
Swift ; a fine, commodious church ; a 
handsome school-house and pastor's re- 
sidence. No saloon. The businessmen 
of the town are our own people, and a 
Catholic fair, for the benefit of the new 
church, held last fall, and patronized ex- 
clusively by the colonists, netted $1,000 
clear. Travelling along the railroad and 
passing through Benson, half way be- 
tween De Graff and Clontarf, we come 
to the latter, the youngest town in this 
young settlement. Clontarf has two gen- 
eral stores, a grain elevator, an immi- 
grant house, a railroad depot, blacksmith 
shop, a large church, and a very hand- 
some residence for the priest, the Rev. 
A. Oster. Swift County colony is fast 
beginning to wear the features of a set- 
tled community. Many of our farmers 
have harvested this year their second 
crop ; our merchants report that they 
are doing a lively business ; bridges are 
being built, roads laid out, plans of im- 
provement discussed by the settlers ; 
and we challenge any part of the West 
to produce a more intelligent rural class. 
True to the memory of the old land and 
their love for their church, the settlers 
have given familiar names to many of 
the townships in the colon) r , such as 
Kildare, Cashel, Dublin, Clontarf, Tara, 
St. Michael's, St. Joseph's, St. Francis', 
etc., etc." 

The next of the Minnesota colo- 
nies is that of Graceville, in Big 
Stone County, which lies west of 
Swift County. The Bureau during 
the months of March, April, and* 
May of last year located one hun- 
dred and seventy-five families upon 
lands selected in this county, and 
thus began the new colony. A 



124 



Catholic Colonization as actually Established. 



letter from one of the residents 
of-the colony thus describes it, and 
tells how it was established : 

" During tha months of March and 
April, 1878, a great number of claims for 
our people were entered in the United 
States Land Office, but before any of 
(hem came on to their lands Bishop Ire- 
land shipped, in March, five car-loads of 
lumber for erecting a church building ; 
the church was commenced the same 
month, and completed, in the rough, in 
about three weeks. This is the first in- 
stance in my knowledge where a church 
was erected in advance of settlement. 
Our Right Rev. Bishop must have had a 
foreknowledge of what was to follow. 
In the short space of three months there 
were built, in a radius of six miles from 
Graceville church, over 150 comfortable 
cabins, and on each claim from five to 
ten acres broken for a garden and plant- 
ed with potatoes, corn, beans, turnips, 
etc., etc., which yielded quite a good sup- 
ply for the present winter. Our colo- 
nists had the advantage of being early 
on the ground and had their gardens 
planted in May. The colonists broke 
during last summer from fifteen to thirty 
acres per man, so that next spring they 
will be able to get in wheat sufficient to 
carry them through the second winter 
handsomely. They are all in the very 
best spirits and could not be induced to 
return to the cities, for they already feel 
independent and masters of the situa- 
tion. The soil here is splendid and the 
country beautiful gently rolling prairie, 
with numerous ponds or small lakes 
and plenty of the finest hay. And now 
to tell you about our little village, 
Graceville, named in honor of our rever- 
ed bishop, the Right Rev. Thomas L. 
Grace. It is beautifully situated on the 
north shore of one of the two large lakes 
known as Tokua Lakes, and has three 
general stores, one hotel, one blacksmith 
and wagon shop, a very handsome little 
church and the priest's residence attach- 
ed. Around the lake is a fine belt of tim- 
ber, which adds much to the beauty of the 
place. The village is twenty-six miles due 
east from Morris, on the St. Paul and Pa- 
cific Railroad, but the Hastings and Da- 
kota Railroad, now built close to the 
line, will run through our county next 
summer ; by and by we will have a cross- 
road running through the colony lands." 



Let the reader remember that 
this was the work of but a year 
practically less than a year. It 
seems like magic or a miracle. 
Where but a little more than a year 
ago there was only a wilderness 
is now this happy, thrifty, and 
growing Catholic colony. "The 
Holy Sacrifice," writes one of the 
colonists, " is offered up in our 
church every day; and on Sundays 
we have High Mass, for Graceville 
has a sweet church choir. It is 
most edifying to see the crowd of 
men, women, and children who 
flock in from all points of the com- 
pass to church on Sundays. Father 
Pelisson had the first temporary 
church taken down, and in its place 
he has erected one of the prettiest 
and neatest churches in the State. 
From the roof of the church I can 
count to-day over seventy houses 
where last March there was nothing 
but a bare prairie." 

Let us look at the colony of St. 
Adrian, in Nobles County, in the 
southwestern portion of Minnesota 
and near the Iowa Ijne. Here the 
Bureau acquired control of 70,000 
acres of land for colony purposes, 
and of these 22,000 acres have al- 
ready been sold to settlers. The 
colony adjoins the new town of 
Adrian, which is on the Luverne 
and Sioux Falls branch of the Sioux 
City and St. Paul Railroad. In Sep- 
tember, 1877, when Father Knauf, 
the parish priest, arrived there, 
there were only three houses in the 
place. Writing fifteen months 
afterwards, Father Knauf says : 



" Now there are 68 houses in the vil- 
lage. T was the first Catholic to arrive 
here ; now we have 60 Catholic families 
in the colony. Next spring we shall 
have 160 Catholic families. We have a 
public school-house, costing $1,800; a 
Catholic churchr well finished ; and the 
pastor's house, the latter costing $1,840." 



Catholic Colonization as actually Established. 



125 



The lands yet to be bought in this 
colony are sold at from $5 to $7 50 
per acre. A discount of 20 per 
cent, from these prices is allowed 
for cash. The conditions for time 
contracts are as follows : at time of 
purchase, one-tenth of principal 
and interest on unpaid principal; 
second year, interest only ; third 
year, one-fourth of remaining princi- 
pal, and interest on unpaid princi- 
pal; same for three ensuing years, 
after the expiration of which the 
full price of the land is paid. 

The newest, and most interesting 
in some respects, of the colonies is 
that of Avoca, in Murray County, 
Southwestern Minnesota, adjoining 
Nobles County on the north. Here 
Bishop Ireland secured 52,000 
acres of land for the colony. 
These lands are sold at from $5 to 
$6 50 per acre ; and the sales are 
made upon a peculiar system. An 
illustration will, best explain it. In 
January last an intending purchas- 
er contracted to buy 80 acres at $5 
an acre. This will amount to $400, 
and in addition he must pay ,7 per 
cent, interest on the amount until 
the transaction is completed. The 
payments would be made thus : 



Jan. i, 1879. At time of purchase, 
one year's interest in advance, at 

7 per cent $28 oo 

Jan. i, 1880. One year's interest in 

advance, at 7 per cent 28 oo 

Jan. i, 1881. Ten per cent, of prin- 
cipal $40 oo 

One year's interest on balance, 

$360, at 7 per cent 25 20 

65 20 

Jan, i, 1882. Ten per cent, of prin- 
cipal 40 oo 

One year's interest on balance, 
$320, at 7 per cent 2240 



Jan. i, 1883. Twenty per cent, of 

principal 80 oo 

One year's interest on balance, 
$240, at 7 per cent 16 80 



Jan. i, 1884. Twenty per cent, of 

principal 80 oo 

One year's interest on balance, 

$160, at 7 per cent n 20 



62 40 



96 80 



91 20 



Jan. i. 1885. Twenty per cent, of 

principal 80 oo 

One year's interest on balance, 

$80, at 7 per cent 5 60 

? 5 60 

Jan. i, 1886. Twenty per cent, of 

principal 80 oo 

Total $537 20 

" The advantage of the terms is that the 
principal payments are all postponed 
until the farmer has had time to raise 
several crops from his land. A quarter 
section of land will support a family, 
pay for itself, leave after seven years a 
balance in cash, and be worth more than 
twice its original value." 

The Bureau states that the best 
time for an emigrant to go to Min- 
nesota is in the spring, arriving not 
later than the first week in May. 
The emigrants, on arriving at St. 
Paul and repairing to the office of 
the Bureau, will be furnished with 
every necessary information and 
with tickets at reduced rates, sup- 
plied to the colony for transportation 
to their points of destination. The 
pamphlet before us fills a number 
of its pages with most interesting 
stories of the success attending the 
colonists. These are not fancy 
pictures. The names of the people 
are given, and the entire history of 
their first settlement, their strug- . 
gles, and their quick success is pre- 
sented. 

Of course success is not won 
without industrious toil, some 
self-denial, and sober persistency. 
But the difference between the 
condition of these colonists and 
of the people in the same class of 
life living in our tenement-houses, 
or gaining a precarious livelihood 
upon the outskirts of our great 
cities, is striking. As we said at 
the outset, the conditions which 
made emigration into the far West 
twenty-five or thirty years ago dan- 
gerous and undesirable from a reli- 
gious point of view are now wholly 
changed. As in the case of one of 



126 



Chicago. 



the colonies which we have men- 
tioned, the church now actually 
precedes the settlers. The priest 
came before the people, and the 
holy tabernacle was set up before 
there were more than half a dozen 
worshippers to attend it. Almost 
every portion of the West has now 
its Catholic priest, its Catholic 
church, and its Catholic schools. 
Bishop Ireland, in organizing the 
Catholic Emigration Bureau, had 
chiefly in mind the religious wel- 
fare of those whom he invited 
westward. The rule was estab- 
lished that whenever a colony was 
planned and people were invited 



to it the resident priest and church 
should go in with the first settlers, 
be their number large or small. 
To this rule is to be attributed to 
a great extent not only the imme- 
diate success which has attended 
the bringing of settlers to these 
colonies, but their general content- 
ment in their new homes, and 
their cheerfulness in meeting the 
trials and hardships which are in- 
cident to new settlers, but which 
after all are nothing compared to 
the constant evils, discomforts, de- 
gradation, and danger to morals and 
religion which too often attend the 
life of the poor in the great cities. 



CHICAGO. 

FEBRUARY IQ, 1879. 

THE servants of our Lord must follow him. 

Many the paths they tread the end is one ; 

So towards one ocean distant torrents run 
Down mountain steeps, 'mid valleys deep and dim. 
To find him these through floods of sorrow swim ; 

And those his scourge of righteous anger bear : 

Some sit with him at Cana's feast, and share 
Its heavenly vintage till their cups o'erbrim ; 
Such was his happy place, and thence he brought 

Pure joy that all his look transfigured, 

Celestial peace from haunts of seraphim. 
O flock bereft ! your shepherd's fondest thought, 

That our poor sight to faith's great heights be led. 
The servant of our Lord has followed him. 

M. G. M, 



Private Charities and Public Lands.. 



.' \\ 
PRIVATE CHARITIES AND PUBLIC LANDS. 




THE difficulty which honest peo- 
ple sometimes find in stating the 
exact truth on a subject which ex- 
cites their prejudices has been illus- 
trated in a most remarkable man- 
ner by a recent correspondence in 
the Atlantic Monthly. We may well 
pause and consider the historic 
value of " contemporary records " 
when .we find a gentleman for 
whose character we have a high 
respect, and in whose good faith 
we have entire confidence, writing a 
wholly mistaken account of impor- 
tant public transactions occurring 
.in his own city during his own time, 
and, when his errors are pointed out, 
excusing them by the perpetration of 
other inaccuracies hardly less seri- 
ous than the original blunder. If all 
this may be done with good inten- 
tions by an honest contemporary 
'observer, how may not history be 
daily falsified by people who write 
without opportunity of knowing 
the truth or without the desire to 
tell it ? 

Mr. Clarence Cook contributed 
to the February number of the 
Atlantic Monthly a criticism upon 
the new cathedral in this city, and 
in order to give more force to his 
strictures he represented the whole 
work as a monument of fraud, chi- 
canery, political immorality, and 
outrageous taxation of the poor. 
He asserted that the wages of ser- 
vants are extravagantly high be- 
cause " the receivers of these wages 
are obliged to pay the greater part 
of what they get to the support of 
their church, and are regularly tax- 
ed besides for the building of their 
cathedral." But even this plun- 
dering of the poor was not enough ; 



and Archbishop Hughes (whose re- 
spected memory Mr. Cook assailed 
with extreme bitterness) supplied 
the deficiency with " the money 
of Protestants and non-Catholics." 
" Of course," said the critic, "it 
was a subject of no little wonder 
where the money was to come 
from, not only to build the church 
itself but to buy the land, which 
under ordinary circumstances would 
have cost no small part of the whole 
sum. How this latter Teat was ac- 
complished we all know now, and 
New-Yorkers are disposed to say 
as little about it as possible. The 
city was jockeyed out of the finest 
site on the island by a crafty and un- 
scrupulous priest playing upon the po- 
litical hopes and fears of as base a 
lot of men as ever got the government 
of a great city into their power. For 
the consideration of one dollar the 
Archbishop of New York became 
possessor of the deed for the whole 
square bounded west and east by 
Fifth Avenue and Madison Ave- 
nue, and south and north by Fif- 
tieth Street and Fifty-first Street, 
a plot of ground 420 feet on the 
cross streets and 200 feet on the 
avenues, situated in the heart of 
the most fashionable part of the 
city, and on one of the highest 
points of the whole island." This 
would appear from the context to 
have occurred in 1858; Mr. Cook 
no doubt supposed that it did oc- 
cur at that date. He added, how- 
ever, that the Protestants would 
have generously pardoned the rob- 
bery if the Catholics had built a 
better church : " We were willing 
even to wink at the scurvy trick by 
which the land belonging to all the 



128 



Private Charities and Public Lands. 






citizens was given in fee to a mi- 
nority for their own private use. 
'Let them have it,' we said; 'there 
is no other body of our citizens 
who can command money enough 
to build such a splendid structure 
as the Catholics can.' " 

When we say that every one of 
the statements we have quoted 
from the article in the Atlantic is 
untrue, we wish it to be distinctly 
understood once more that we do 
not impugn Mr. Cook's good faith. 
We know that he believed what he 
wrote. The story about the cathe- 
dral land is an old no-popery in- 
vention which, although it has been 
exposed a hundred times, is con- 
tinually renewed ; and since there is 
nothing so hard to extirpate as a 
striking lie, it is quite conceivable 
that a gentleman who may be no 
very industrious reader of the news- 
papers should have missed the 
numerous contradictions by which 
the false statement has been regu- 
larly followed. He heard the story 
once upon a time ; he assumed that 
it was correct ; and he made no 
further inquiries. Yet while he 
thus acquits 'himself of intention- 
al wrong, he remains open to the 
charge of a recklessness which is 
but too common in the controver- 
sies of our time. 

The charge that a church, or an 
archbishop, or a body of priests 
''jockeyed" a community by crafty 
and unscrupulous arts out of a 
valuable piece of property is too 
serious to be made on the strength 
of vague rumor. And that it was 
made upon nothing better is quite 
clear. The slightest investigation 
would have shown that the story 
had no basis none, at least, in any 
transaction of a doubtful or dis- 
creditable character. The records 
of all transfers of land are open to 
public inspection. The conditions 



of all sales, leases, or grants by the 
city may be examined by anybody 
who will take the trouble to go to 
the City Hall and ask for the book 
in which they are entered. To do 
this would have been only an ordi- 
nary precaution. But Mr. Cook, no 
doubt unconsciously, fell into the 
common error of supposing that 
headlong denunciation of Catholic 
priests was entirely safe. How 
carelessly he treated the impor- 
tant charge is illustrated, moreover, 
by the dramatic incidents which 
he adduces in connection with it. 
He says that it was a matter of 
no little wonder in 1858 where the 
money was to jcome from to buy 
the land ; that can hardly be, be- 
cause the cathedral and St. Peter's 
Church had bought the land to- 
gether nearly thirty years before 
that date; the cathedral had pur- 
chased St. Peter's share at public 
auction in 1852; and the notorious 
fact that this property was held by 
the Catholics for church purposes 
was kept constantly before the 
eyes of citizens by the Orphan Asy- 
lum standing on the north side of 
the propert)', and the church of St. 
John the Evangelist on the east 
side. Mr* Cook may have wonder- 
ed where the money was to come 
from ; but to the community at 
large it was well known that the 
trustees of the cathedral had been 
in possession of the land for a 
long while. So, too, Mr. Cook un- 
intentionally draws upon his im- 
agination when he adds that the 
Protestants were willing to wink at 
a trick which never was played, 
and that they said, " Let the Catho- 
lics have this land, provided they 
put a fine building on it." The 
Protestants could not have said 
anything of the kind, because we 
had bought the land at auction 
and paid the full price for it, and 



Private Charities and Public Lands. 



129 



there was no reason why they 
should make the matter their busi- 
ness. The public authorities had 
nothing whatever to do with the 
affair. The lots anciently formed 
part of the common lands of the 
city, but the city sold them to pri- 
vate persons before the close of 
the last century, and they had pass- 
ed through several hands when they 
came into possession of the Catho- 
lics by purchase, at what was then 
probably the fair price of $5,500, in 
1829. When they were put up at 
auction again in 1852 the cathe- 
dral bought out the half-interest of 
St. Peter's for $59,500. 

Mr. Cook's mistakes were cor- 
rected in a private note addressed 
to him by Mr. John R. G. Hassard, 
and Mr. Cook, with a frankness 
which does him credit, caused this 
note to be printed in the next 
number of the Atlantic, along with 
an expression of his regret for hav- 
ing been the means of disseminat- 
ing a fiction. Here, it would seem, 
the affair ought to have stopped. 
What fatality drove Mr. Cook far- 
ther? In the desire to excuse his 
first error he rushed headlong into 
another, less venial, since it was 
made after such ample wafning. 
Accepting, like a man of honor, 
the correction of his statement 
about the cathedral, he neverthe- 
less added that the blunder was a 
natural and, we suppose he meant 
to imply, a wholly immaterial one, 
because if the Catholics did not 
" jockey " the city out of that, par- 
ticular block of land they did jock- 
ey it out of the next block, now 
occupied by the Orphan Asylum. 
" The taxpayers of New York 
knew," said he, " that they had 
been tricked out of a large and 
valuable tract of land, and they are 
not to be too hardly judged for 
having mistaken one block of land 
VOL. xxix. 9 



for another immediately adjacent, 
and not at that time separated from 
it by any actually existing street." 
To this the reply might be made that 
the two tracts were distinguishable 
by something much more conspicu- 
ous than a roadway between them, 
because when the cathedral was be- 
'gun the Orphan Asylum grant had 
long been occupied by the Orphan 
Asylum buildings. This matter, 
however, is of no consequence. 
We are concerned now in knowing, 
not how the error originated, but 
by what evil spirit of sectarian hos- 
tility it is so* persistently kept 
alive. 

Mr. Cook's next sentences are as 
follows : 

" From a point of view outside of any 
sect or party I cannot see any defence or 
excuse for the transaction I have de- 
scribed. The men who were at the 
head of the city government at the time 
had no right to give away or to lease in 
perpetuity for the benefit of any body of 
men, secular or religious, lands that be- 
longed to the whole people. Nor could 
the bargain have been proposed and 
consummated except by crafty and un- 
scrupulous men. That was a dark day 
for our city politics, and I am much mis- 
taken in your character if you do not 
agree with me that it was a time in the 
history of the Catholic Church in. this 
city which its best friends must prefer 
not to have dragged into the light." 

The critic adheres, then, to the 
substance of his original charges. 
The piece of land involved in the 
case is not the one he suppos- 
ed, but an adjoining piece of the 
same size and value. Otherwise 
he holds the accusations to be true. 
A crafty and unscrupulous priest 
obtained the land from the city by 
trick "jockeyed the city out of 
the finest site on the island." The 
wicked priest accomplished this 
feat by playing upon the political 
hopes and fears of the Common 
Council. The municipal author!- 



130 



Private Charities and Public Lands. 



ties at that time (1846) were as 
base a lot of men as ever got the 
government of a great city into 
their power. The transaction can 
neither be defended nor excused. 
It was a bargain which could 
not have been proposed and con- 
summated except by crafty and un- 
scrupulous men. The city govern- 
ment has no right to give away or to 
lease in perpetuity for the benefit of 
any body of men, secular or religious, 
lands that belong to the whole people. 
In this sentence which we have 
placed in italics lies the essence 
of Mr. Cook's accusations. Upon 
this principle alone, propounded 
with as much assurance as if it 
were a rule in arithmetic, are based 
his indictment of the Catholic 
church and clergy, of Bishop 
Hughes, and of the city govern- 
ment of 1846. No reason is as- 
signed for calling one party base 
and the other crafty and unscrupu- 
lous, except that they combined to 
violate this principle. 

The proposition is not stated 
with perfect clearness, because 
there is no pretence that the lands 
were given away or leased " for 
the benefit of any body of men," 
and Mr. Cook knew, as he shows in 
the context, that the donation was 
made for the benefit of the Orphan 
Asylum, the conditions as to the 
use of the land being stated in the 
deed and lease. Undoubtedly the 
critic meant to lay down the gene- 
ral rule that the city has no right 
to apply the public property to the 
endowment of any charitable in- 
stitution controlled by a private 
corporation or society. If that was 
not his meaning we can discover 
no meaning at all in the sentence 
we have quoted. He raises no ob- 
jection to the amount of the en- 
dowment. He does not complain 
that the Catholics received more 



than the Protestants. He does 
not denounce the grant for the rea- 
son that the institution benefited 
was what he perhaps calls " secta- 
rian "; but he sets forth the broad 
general principle that the city has 
no right to endow any charitable 
foundations whatever. 

If he does hold that opinion he 
has the distinction of holding it 
almost entirely alone. Neither in 
this city, nor in any other Christian 
community that we know of, has 
it ever been accepted. For the 
honor of human nature, for the 
cause of civilization, we trust that 
it may never be accepted. Dona- 
tions of land and money to chari- 
table societies have always been 
made, with great liberality, by our 
national, State, and municipal gov- 
ernments, with the cordial approval 
of all classes of citizens. All denomi- 
nations have shared in them. Trans- 
actions such as Mr. Cook denounces 
begin in the early days of our his- 
tory and reach down to the present 
time. Appropriations from the 
public treasury or the public lands, 
which he thinks could only be ob- 
tained by fraud, have been made 
habitually in New York, in Albany, 
in Washington, in .probably every 
State capital and every large city, 
to Catholic, to Protestant, to Jew, 
to infidel, and have been regarded 
by all classes as the best evi- 
dences of the enlightenment and 
humanity of the American people. 
Manhattan Island contains about 
one hundred and fifty asylums, 
hospitals, refuges, and similar 
establishments for the succor of 
the unfortunate ; nearly all of them 
have been aided from the public 
funds; a majority, we suppose, 
derive a considerable part of 
their revenues from State or city 
appropriations ; and many of them 
have obtained grants of. land from 



Private Charities and Public Lauds. 



the Common Council by " transac- 
tions " precisely like that which we 
have seen stigmatized as a scurvy 
trick. It seems strange that a New- 
Yorker should be ignorant of the 
existence of this long-established 
and approved system of distribut- 
ing municipal and State aid among 
the sick and poor; but we must 
infer from Mr. Cook's letter that 
he imagined the concession to the 
Roman Catholic Orphan Asylum 
to be . something extraordinary, if 
not unprecedented. 

His error is the more remarkable 
because the steps which he took to 
ascertain the particulars of the 
grant for the benefit of the Orphan 
Asylum ought to have led him to 
the discovery that such grants are 
customary, and that their propriety 
has always been recognized. The 
same books in the comptroller's of- 
fice from which the deed and leases 
of the Orphan Asylum property were 
copied for his use contain numer- 
ous other deeds and leases to insti- 
tutions of the same class, and for 
one grant to a Catholic institution 
there are five grants to Protestant 
or non-Catholic institutions. Were 
they all obtained by chicanery and 
fraud ? Are they all without de- 
fence or excuse ? Were all the 
Common Councilman who voted for 
these concessions, and all the may- 
ors who approved them, " as base a 
lot of men as ever got the govern- 
ment of a great city into their pow- 
er " ? Was every day on which 
such a grant was made a dark day 
in our city politics? Are there 
times in the history of every reli- 
gious denomination in this city 
which its best friends must prefer 
not to have dragged into the light? 
We have caused a careful search 
to be made in the comptroller's office, 
and memoranda to be taken of all 
grants and leases of land executed 



by the city to institutions of cha- 
rity under the management of 
churches, religious orders, or other 
societies and private corporations, 
"secular or religious." The mu- 
nicipal charities, such as the alms- 
house, Bellevue Hospital, etc., are 
of course not included ; neither 
are the schools and colleges, none 
of these institutions coming within 
the scope of Mr. Cook's remarks ; 
but we have endeavored to include 
everything else. If any grant has 
been overlooked the omission is 
accidental, and we shall be grate- 
ful for an opportunity to correct it. 
Before we proceed there are a few 
points which the reader is request- 
ed to fix in his mind : 

I. If it appear that the propriety 
of public grants to private chari- 
ties (that is to say, charities not 
managed by State or municipal of- 
ficers) has been generally admitted 
both in theory and practice, and 
that such grants are an ordinary 
incident of our city administration, 
then the charge of Mr. Cook, that 
the grant to the Orphan Asylum was 
a scurvy trick which could not 
have been played upon the people 
except by crafty and unscrupulous 
'men, falls to the ground. 

II. There is no question at pre- 
sent of the justice or policy of pub- 
lic aid to denomi?iational charities. 
Mr. Cook's statement is clear and 
broad that a donation of public 
land to any body of men, " secular 
or religious," is a fraud upon the 
taxpayers. 

III. There is no question as to 
the comparative value of the gifts 
to Catholics and to Protestants. 
The objection is made on princi- 
ple to any gift at all, either to Ca- 
tholic, to Protestant, to Jew, or to 
infidel. Nevertheless it will be 
seen that the grants to Catholics 
are far below what we should be 



132 



Private Clarities and Public Lands. 



entitled to under any pro-rata dis- 
tribution. 

DEEDS AND LEASES OF LAND TO 
CATHOLIC INSTITUTIONS. 

i. The Roman Catholic Orphan 
Asylum. The grants to the Orphan 
Asylum, conducted by the Sisters of 
Charity, were made in 1846. The 
institution had then been in exist- 
ence nearly thirty years, and the 
buildings in Prince Street contain- 
ed about 270 children, who were 
supported entirely by private con- 
tributions. The accommodations 
being inadequate to the demands 
upon the society, a petition for the 
appropriation of land for a new 
asylum was presented to the Com- 
mon Council in December, 1845, 
but it was not acted upon until the 
following July, when the Finance 
Committee of the Board of Alder- 
men presented a report in which 
occurs the following passage : 

" It has been questioned by some as 
to the right of the corporation to make 
similar grants of land, as in the case of 
the Colored Orphan Asylum and the 
Colored Home, but your committee be- 
lieve it to be perfectly legitimate for the 
city authorities to dispense charity to the 
helpless and the destitute in any manner 
which may best comport with the public 
interest ; and they consider the object 
much more economically and satisfacto 
rily obtained by assisting the efforts of 
humane associations, by the granting of 
a piece of land upon which to erect the 
necessary asylum building, than to 
maintain the recipients of their bounty 
in the almshouse." 

The committee consequently re- 
commended the grant, and their re- 
port was adopted. It does not ap- 
pear from the official record of the 
proceedings of the Common Coun- 
cil whether there was any opposi- 
tion to the resolution offered by 
the committee, but it was prompt- 
ly adopted at any rate both by the 



aldermen and the assistants. The 
submission of the favorable report 
was announced (somewhat conspic- 
uously) in the New York Tribune 
of the next morning. No com- 
ment was made upon it in that 
journal at the time, nor does an ex- 
amination of the newspaper files 
show any trace of a discussion of 
the matter outside of the Common 
Council. Of course there may 
have .been such debate; but we 
chance not to have discovered any 
indication of the great "stir" of 
which Mr. Cook speaks. In ac- 
cordance, then, with the resolution 
of the Common Council, a deed, 
dated August i, 1846, conveyed 
to the Orphan Asylum Association 
the land now bounded by Fifth 
and Madison Avenues and Fifty- 
first and Fifty-second- Streets (34 
lots), for the consideration of one 
dollar, and on the condition that 
within three years the managers 
should erect a suitable asylum. A 
lease was executed on the same 
day, transferring to the same so- 
ciety the block between Madison 
and Fourth Avenues and Fifty-first 
and Fifty-second Streets (30 lots), 
at the rent of one dollar a year, 
during the pleasure of the Com- 
mon Council. In 1857 a new lease 
was granted of the same premises, 
so long as they should be occupied 
for the purposes of an orphan 
asylum. 

On the land thus acquired the Ca- 
tholics erected extensive buildings, 
and on January 1,1877, the num- 
ber of children maintained by their 
society was 1,345. The support of 
these waifs would have fallen upon 
the city, if they had not been cared 
for by a private corporation. The 
revenue for the previous year was 
about $100,000, of which sum $28,- 
600 was drawn from the public trea- 
sury under general laws making per- 



Private Charities and Public Lands. 



133 



capita allowances to all such insti- 
tutions, and the rest, except a few 
miscellaneous items, consisted of 
the voluntary offerings of the Ca- 
tholic people and about $15,000 in 
legacies. The expenditures, in- 
cluding payment of debts and per- 
manent improvements, were some- 
what in excess of the income. The 
society maintains four establish- 
ments namely, the old one in 
Prince Street, two asylums (male 
and female) on the city grant, and 
a farm at Peekskill. The aggre- 
gate cost of administration in 1877 
was, for salaries of officers only 
$3,045 ; wages of servants and la- 
borers, $5,660, about half of which 
was on the farm ; and maintenance 
of the Sist'rs of Charity and Bro- 
thers of the Christian Schools em- 
ployed in the care of the asylums, 
$6,300. The religious give their 
services gratuitously. In point of 
economy and efficiency the admin- 
istration is admitted to bje a model. 
The charge that the city govern- 
ment which made the grant to this 
institution was composed of a par- 
ticularly base set of men we con- 
fess that we do not understand. 
The Common Council of 1846- has 
not left in the annals of our city, so 
far as we have learned, a bad repu- 
tation, or, indeed, a reputation of 
any kind. The list of aldermen 
and assistant aldermen contains 
very few names that are now re- 
membered. One of the assistant 
aldermen was Mr. Thomas McEl- 
rath, for many years Mr. Greeley's 
partner in the publication of the 
Tribune. One of the aldermen was 
Mr. William V. Brady, whom the 
Tribune earnestly supported for 
mayor the next year. One of the 
signers of the report of the Finance 
Committee recommending the grant 
to the Orphan Asylum was Alder- 
man Egbert Benson, whom Mr. 



Greeley urged for re-election a few 
months later as a reward for his 
eminent faithfulness. The mayor 
was Andrew H. Mickle. 

2. St. Joseph's Industrial Home. 
This institution, under the charge 
of the Sisters of Mercy, was found- 
ed for the protection and support 
of destitute girls between the ages 
of eleven and eighteen, who are 
received free of expense and taught 
remunerative trades. In 1878 it 
had between 500 and 600 inmates. 
The land which it occupies, an ir- 
regular block, 200 feet on Madison 
Avenue, 255 feet on Eighty-first 
Street, and 205 feet on Eighty- 
second Street (about eighteen city 
lots), was leased from the corpora- 
tion February 3, 1866, for the term 
of ninety-nine years, at the yearly 
rent of one dollar. 

3. New York Foundling Asylum. 
This establishment, one of the 
best of its class in the world, and 
one of the noblest in the metropolis, 
is under the charge of the Sisters of 
Charity. It supports about 2,000 
infants, and how much crime, suf- 
fering, and mortality are prevent- 
ed by its beneficent and extensive 
operations the mind can hardly even 
conjecture. It is needless to say 
that the poor little creatures com- 
mitted to its charge have the 
strongest possible claims upon the 
compassion of the public, and that 
they could not be cared for except 
by a voluntary association of be- 
nevolent women. The land now 
occupied by the asylum was ob- 
tained from the city December 15, 
1870, on alease for ninety-nine years, 
at the yearly rent of one dollar. 
The grant covers about thirty-four 
lots, being the block between Lex- 
ington and Third Avenues and Six- 
ty-eighth and Sixty-ninth Streets. 

These are the only grants or 
leases of land from the city to Cath- 



134 



Private Charities and Public Lands. 



olic institutions of which we find 
any record, except that, in order to 
rectify the street lines, an exchange 
of small gores was made between 
the city and the trustees of the new 
cathedral in 1852. The question 
of appropriations of money has not 
been raised in this controversy, but 
we shall consider it later. We 
come now to the concessions of 
land to Protestant and other non- 
Catholic institutions : 

DEEDS AND LEASES OF LAND TO 
PROTESTANT AND OTHER INSTI- 
TUTIONS. 

1. The Colored Orphan Asylum. 
On December 29, 1842, the city 
sold to the Association for the 
Benefit of Colored Orphans, for one 
dollar, a piece of land 200 feet on 
the west side of Fifth Avenue, and 
250 feet on Forty-third and Forty- 
fourth Streets (20 lots), which was 
a much more liberal appropriation, 
considering the number of orphans 
to be relieved, than the concession 
to the Catholic asylum. The trus- 
tees were required to erect a suit- 
able building within three years, 
and to provide for twelve colored 
pauper children committed to their 
care by the public authorities. 
After the destruction of the asylum 
during the draft riots the society 
sold this land, and with the pro- 
ceeds purchased a new site on One 
Hundred and Forty-third Street. 
Like other institutions of the same 
class, the Colored Orphan Asylum 
receives per-capita allowances from 
the city and State. The religion 
taught the children is Protestant, 
although no particular denomina- 
tion is recognized to the exclusion 
of others. The number of orphans 
in the asylum on December i, 1878, 
was 307. 

2. Protestant Episcopal Orphan 
Asylum. This institution is strictly 



denominational ; the religions ser- 
vices and instructions are those of 
the Protestant Episcopal Church, 
and all persons to whom children 
are bound out from the asylum 
must be Episcopalians. The land 
which it occupies, 100 feet on Lex- 
ington Avenue and 305 feet on 
Forty-ninth Street (about 12 lots), 
was leased from the city April 26, 
1861, for twenty years, at a yearly 
rent of one dollar. The asylum 
is not a large one, being intended 
only for a small class of the poor. 
Under the circumstances, it is in- 
teresting to note that The Church- 
man, Protestant Episcopal journal 
of this city, " agrees with Mr. Cook 
that the less said aboul^ the leasing 
of the thirty-six lots T>y the city 
government to the Roman Catholic 
Orphan Asylum Society, the better 
for the Roman Catholics and the 
city government." 

3. Hebrew Orphan Asylum. The 
Hebrew Benevolent Society of New 
York manages an Orphan Asylum, 
and also a general charitable fund, 
the two branches of the benevolent 
enterprise being kept separate. 
As the title of the association im- 
plies, its object is to relieve the 
suffering and destitute of the He- 
brew race ; the trustees are requir- 
ed to be Israelites; and the chil- 
dren in the asylum are instructed 
in the Jewish faith, none but Jew- 
ish children being admitted. Of 
course the number of inmates is 
not large. On October 29, 1860, 
the city conveyed to the society, 
in fee simple, for the consideration 
of one dollar, a parcel of ground 
consisting of about twelve lots, ex- 
tending 300 feet on Seventy-seventh 
Street and 102 feet on the west 
side of Third Avenue; and on the 
i7th of October, 1864, a second 
deed, for the same consideration., 
added to the grant the five adjoin- 



Private Charities and Public Lands. 



135 



ing lots on Seventy-seventh Street. 
The land is now occupied by the 
Hebrew Orphan Asylum. 

4. Baptist Ladies' Home. The 
Ladies' Home Society of the Bap- 
tist churches in the city of New 
York manages an institution com- 
monly known as the Baptist Home. 
Its object is " to provide the aged, 
infirm, or destitute members of the 
Baptist churches with a comforta- 
ble residence, with board, clothing, 
skilful medical attendance, with 
their accustomed religious services, 
and at their death with respectable 
burial." It is not an almsjiouse, for 
an entrance fee of $100 is required. 
At the date of the last published 
report (1878) the number of inmates 
was ninety-one. This institution 
received from the city, November 
28, 1870, a lease for ninety-nine 
years, at the yearly rent of one 
dollar, of the land which it now 
occupies, comprising ten lots, be- 
tween Lexington and Fourth Ave- 
nues, running through from Sixty- 
seventh to Sixty-eighth Street, with 
a width of 125 feet and a depth of 
200 feet. 

5. T/ie Chapin Home is an insti- 
tution for the aged and infirm 
under the control of the Universal- 
ists, only members of that denomi- 
nation being eligible as trustees. 
Its objects are like those of the 
Baptist Home, and it demands an 
admission fee of $300. In 1878 
the number of inmates was forty- 
four. The asylum obtained from 
the city, March 29, 1871, a lease 
for ninety-nine years, at the yearly 
rent of one dollar, of the premises 
extending from Sixty-sixth to Sixty- 
seventh Street between Lexington 
and Third Avenues, with a width 
of 170 feet and a depth of 200 feet, 
being nearly fourteen lots. We 
have no fault to find either with 
the plan or administration of the 



Baptist and Chapin Homes, or with 
the liberality of the corporation 
towards them ; but we do not be- 
lieve it would be easy to select more 
striking examples of what Mr. Cook 
calls the giving away of the lands 
of the whole people for the benefit 
of a small minority than these 
grants of valuable property, made 
not to save the destitute from star- 
vation, but to enable forty or ninety 
members of a particular church to 
obtain a great deal of comfort for 
a very small price. 

6. Society for the Reformation of 
Juvenile Delinquents. The House 
of Refuge on Randall's Island is 
supposed by many to be a munici- 
pal institution. This is a mistake. 
It is under the full control of a 
private corporation, although it was 
founded at the public cost and is 
supported from the public funds. 
Juvenile vagrants and criminals 
are committed to it by the courts. 
It is entirely Protestant in its reli- 
gious instruction and forms of wor- 
ship ; it has a Protestant chaplain ; 
Catholic priests are not allowed to 
visit the children unless they are 
asked for in case of sickness. Yet 
that a large proportion of the in- 
mates are Catholics may be gath- 
ered from the fact that out of 948 
boys and girls in the institution at 
the beginning of last year, 317 were 
of Irish parentage. There were 
also in of German parentage, and 
many of these, too, were doubtless 
Catholics. Formerly magistrates 
were required by the statute to 
send Catholic children to the Ca- 
tholic Protectory, but this law has 
been repealed. More than half 
the children are committed not for 
crime but for truancy, vagrancy, 
and disorderly conduct ; so that in 
point of fact the society obtains a 
large number of innocent Catholic 
children, picked up in the streets 



Private Charities and Public Lands. 



by the police, and keeps them 
under lock and key until it has for- 
cibly made them Protestants. TliQ 
last annual report shows that the 
expenditures for 1878 amounted to 
$136,754, including about $14,500 
for permanent improvements and 
$5,000 in payment of a loan. Sala- 
ries and wages cost $37,454, or 
about one-third of the running ex- 
penses ; and the cost of maintenance 
of the children, after allowing for 
their earnings ($31,000), was $85 87 
per capita per annum. The reve- 
nues (earnings, etc., excepted) were 
wholly from the public treasury : 
$68,500 from the State comptroller, 
$11,843 from the Board of Educa- 
tion, $22,457 from theatre licenses. 
In 1824 the society obtained from 
the city a grant of a triangular plot 
of land on Madison Square. This, 
together with an adjoining piece of 
property purchased from the United 
States, they afterwards transferred 
to the city in exchange for premises 
on Twenty-third Street and First 
Avenue. A further grant of ad- 
joining lots was made in 1854, and 
the society then had the whole 
block, *97 by 613 feet, between 
Twenty-third and Twenty-fourth 
Streets and Avenue A and First 
Avenue. On November 10, 1851, 
the city conveyed to the society 
thirty-six acres on Randall's Island, 
and the buildings which it now oc- 
cupies there were erected partly 
with the proceeds of the sale of the 
Twenty-third Street property, part- 
ly by fresh appropriations from the 
State. We shall have occasion to 
examine hereafter the enormous 
grants of money to this cruelly sec- 
tarian institution. The Catholic 
Protectory, which does for Catholic 
children what the House of Re- 
fuge does for those of , Protestant 
parentage, has never received any 



grant or lease of land from the city 
or the State. 

7. Nursery and Child's Hospital. 
This institution, founded (under' 
another name) in 1854, has three 
departments. It comprises, i, an 
asylum for children who from any 
cause are deprived of the care of a 
mother; 2, a hospital for sick chil- 
dren ; 3, a lying-in asylum and a 
foundling hospital for illegitimate 
children. Last year the society 
received $102,000 from the city 
government. The city granted the 
land which the asylum occupies, 
consisting of about fifteen lots, be- 
tween Fiftieth and Fifty-first Streets 
and Lexington and Third Avenues. 
The concession was in the form of 
two leases made at different times 
(August i, 1857, and February 16, 
1866), at the yearly rent of one dol- 
lar, to hold as long as the property 
is used for the purposes of the asy- 
lum. The State contributed liber- 
ally towards the cost of the build- 
ings. 

8. St. Philip's Cfatrc/i.This is 
a Protestant Episcopal Church for 
colored persons. In 1827 the city 
conveyed to it for one dollar a 
plot of land in First Street, 50 by 
200 feet (four lots), to be used as a 
burying-ground. 

9. Church of the Redeemer. The 
city granted permission to the Pro- 
testant Episcopal Church of the 
Redeemer, Yorkville, December 31, 
1864, to occupy a plot of land ex- 
tending 204 feet on Fourth Ave- 
nue, 200 feet on Eighty-first Street, 
and 100 feet on Eighty-second 
Street during the pleasure of the 
Common Council. 

TO. St. Luke's Hospital. Two- 
thirds of the land now occupied by 
this fine institution was originally 
a grant from the city, though not 
to this particular establishment. 



Private Cliarities and Public Lands. 



137 



May TO, 1848, the city conveyed 
to the Protestant Episcopal Church 
of St. George the Martyr a plot 
200 feet in extent on the west side 
of Fifth Avenue, and 300 feet on 
Fifty-fourth and Fifty-fifth Streets 
(24 lots), for the consideration of 
one dollar, and on condition that 
the rector should build a hospital 
and chapel for British emigrants, 
and that Trinity Church should, 
moreover, surrender all its claim 
to certain land in the lower part of 
the city land of which, if we are 
not mistaken, the title was in dis- 
pute. The value of the grant de- 
pends of course upon the value of 
the claim thus surrendered as a 
partial equivalent, and as we are 
not familiar with all the facts we 
state the transaction under reserve, 
giving merely what appears upon 
the record, and drawing no con- 
clusions. Subsequently (November 
20, 1851) the Common Council au- 
thorized a transfer of the Fifth Ave- 
nue land to the managers of St. 
Luke's Hospital, on condition that 
they should comply with the cove- 
nants of the original grant. The 
institution is denominational in its 
government and character. It was 
established " for the purpose of af- 
fording medical and surgical aid 
and nursing to sick or disabled 
persons, and also to provide them, 
while inmates of the hospital, with 
the ministrations of the Gospel 
agreeably to the doctrines and 
forms of the Protestant Episcopal 
Church. A further object of the 
society is the instructing and train- 
ing of suitable persons in the art 
of nursing and attending upon the 
sick." A sisterhood is connected 
with the hospital. Service is held 
daily in the wards. Although the 
hospital opens its doors freely to 
accident cases requiring immediate 
attention, patients are not usually 



admitted except upon payment. 
But however freely it might extend 
its charity to the suffering, it would 
still, according to Mr. Cook's prin- 
ciple, be inexcusable for the city 
to help it. 

IT. Mount Sinai Hospital. 
Founded especially for the benefit 
of the Jews, and governed by men 
of that race and creed, this insti- 
tution admits patients. of whatever 
belief, and, we believe, allows them 
all to receive the visits of clergy- 
men of their choice; but naturally 
the inmates are nearly all Hebrews. 
It received from the city, May 31, 
1871, on a lease for ninety-nine 
years at the yearly rent of one dol- 
lar, the ground which it now occu- 
pies, 200 feet on Lexington Ave- 
nue and 170 feet on Sixty-sixth 
and Sixty-seventh Streets that is 
to say, about fourteen lots. 

12. German Hospital. The Ger- 
man Hospital and Dispensary oc- 
cupies the block- between Lexing- 
ton and Fourth Avenues and 
Seventy-sixth and Seventy-seventh 
Streets. It purchased a part of 
the land from a private owner, and 
obtained the rest (eighteen lots) 
from the city February 9, 1866, on 
a lease for fifty years, at the yearly 
rent of one dollar. 

13. Hahnemann Hospital. This 
homoeopathic institution, occupy- 
ing 200 feet on Fourth Avenue and 
125 feet on Sixty-seventh and Six- 
ty-eighth Streets (ten lots), obtain- 
ed a lease of its land from the city, 
January 10, 1871, for ninety-nine 
years, at a yearly rent of one dollar. 
This would certainly seem to be a 
case in which " the land belonging 
to all the citizens was given to a 
minority for their own private use "; 
but we are not prepared to believe 
that the felonious deed was accom- 
plished by "a scurvy trick." 

14. New York State Woman's 



138 



Private CJiarities and Public Lands. 



Hospital This is not only an in- 
stitution for the benefit of a small 
minority, but it is intended for the 
treatment of a certain class of dis- 
eases only. A considerable propor- 
tion of the patients pay board, but 
there is a fixed number of free beds. 
The sick are allowed to call for the 
services of any clergyman they de- 
sire, but only " in extreme cases." 
January 10, 1859, the institution 
obtained from the city, for one dol- 
lar, the whole block between Fourth 
and Lexington Avenues and Forty- 
ninth and Fiftieth Streets (32 lots), 
on condition that twenty-four free 
beds should be provided for poor 
persons residing in New York City. 

15. Deaf and Dumb Institution. 
Although the New York Institu- 
tion for the Instruction of the Deaf 
and Dumb is supported chiefly at 
the cost of the State, it is, like all 
the other institutions we have men- 
tioned, a truly private charity in 
its management. In its religious 
character it is distinctly Protestant, 
and the pupils attend Protestant 
service every day. In September, 
1827, the city conveyed to the in- 
stitution for one dollar a tract of 
land between Fourth and Fifth 
Avenues extending from Forty- 
ninth to Fiftieth Street, and 207 
feet wide on each street (eight lots). 
In 1850 the city sold to the institu- 
tion all the remaining land between 
Fourth and Fifth Avenues and 
Forty-ninth and Fiftieth Streets 
(25 lots) for $28,000, a price which 
made the transaction virtually a 
gift. The establishment was after- 
wards removed to Washington" 
Heights, and the old buildings are 
now occupied by Columbia Col- 
lege. 

1 6. The Association for the Im- 
proved Instruction of Deaf Mutes 
obtained from the city, August i, 
1870, a lease for ninety-nine years, 



at the yearly rent of one dollar, of 
a block of land extending 200 feet 
on the west side of Lexington Ave- 
nue, and 155 feet on Sixty-seventh 
and Sixty-eighth Streets, or about 
twelve lots. 

Here, then, we have a total of 
nineteen charitable institutions and 
churches to which the city has 
made grants of land under exactly 
or substantially the same conditions 
that accompanied the grant to the 
Orphan Asylum of the Sisters of 
Charity. Only three of these in- 
stitutions are Catholic. The other 
sixteen, with only one or two unim- 
portant exceptions, are distinctly 
Protestant or Jewish. We have laid 
no great stress upon the religious 
influences of these sixteen estab- 
lishments, because the question now 
is not whether the public authori- 
ties have distributed their bene- 
ficence impartially between the 
two great religious bodies, nor is it 
whether the city has a right to aid 
" sectarian charities"; it is whether 
there is justification, precedent, es- 
tablished and approved custom, 
for the donation of public lands to 
benevolent institutions, or whether, 
as we have been angrily assured, 
the endowment of an orphan asy- 
lum with lands belonging to the 
taxpayers was an inexcusable out- 
rage, a scurvy trick, an infamous 
bargain, which could only have 
been proposed and consummated 
by a crafty and unscrupulous 
priest on one side and a base Com- 
mon Council on the other. The 
high grounds within a radius of a 
mile and a half of the Catholic 
Orphan Asylum are covered with 
magnificent hospitals, homes, re- 
fuges, etc., etc., for the relief of 
almost every sort of misery. That 
region of the island might almost 
be called a colony of charity. We 




Private Charities and Public Lands. 



139 



have seen that the city has given 
the land for a large proportion of 
the most important of these institu- 
tions. We shall see hereafter that 
the donations in money have been 
still more generous than the dona- 
tions in land. Without such aid 
from the city and State not a tithe 
of these foundations could exist. 
To some people we hope they are 
not many it may seem that this 
expenditure of a part of the funds of 
the whole people for the relief of 
the suffering and destitute is a 
crime. To us it appears to be one 
.of the glories of the metropolis. 

With respect to the comparative 
values of the donations to Catholic 
and Protestants charities, although 
the matter is not pertinent to the 
present discussion, it may be worth 
while to remind the reader that the 
Orphan Asylum grant which was 
the most considerable made to us 
is surpassed by many others. At 
the date of the deed and lease 
(1846) a block of ground on Fiftieth 
Street was not worth an extrava- 
gant sum, probably not so much as 
the grant to the Hebrew Orphan 
Asylum was worth when it was 
made fifteen and eighteen years 
later. And it would be the height 
of absurdity to reckon such grants 
as additions to the wealth of the 
church which holds them. How a 
piece of land which can never yield 
any revenue, but, on the contrary, 
must always make necessary a 
heavy annual outlay, can be called 
an addition to one's wealth we are 
at a loss to understand. 

Some of the institutions which 
we have classed as Protestant pro- 
fess to be unsectarian. Probably 
there are only one or two and those 
hospitals for adults which are en- 
titled to make such a claim. In 
all hospitals, if there is no religious 
influence or ministration there 



ought to be, and it is monstrous 
that the sick should be left to die 
without the attendance of a clergy- 
man unless they ask for one. In 
most of the hospitals we have enu- 
merated the duty of attending to 
the soul is at least recognized. Asy- 
lums for the care of children can 
never in any case be unsectarian. 
If religion is banished from them 
altogether, they become nurseries 
of atheism and the most cruel of 
inventions for the ruin of the little 
ones. If religion is taught at all, it 
must be some particular kind of re- 
ligion, for there is no delusion so 
empty as that which hugs the idea 
of abstract religion without any 
concrete belief. 

The question of State aid to reli- 
gious charities was argued in the 
Constitutional Convention of this 
State in 1868. Among those who 
came forward most conspicuously 
in that body to rebuke the narrow 
sectarian spirit which remonstrated 
against " sectarian charities " and 
which clamored at the benefactions 
to Catholic asylums, was no less 
bitter a Protestant than Mr. Eras- 
tus Brooks, then editor of the 
Evening Express. " Let me address 
a few words," said he, " to those 
who would refuse appropriations to 
men, women, and children of the 
Roman Catholic faith. Those who 
know my antecedents will not ac- 
cuse me of any undue partiality for 
the adherents of this church. I 
would give them no advantage 
over others, and I would do them 
no wrongby discriminations against 
them, an o> least of all in dispensing 
charity would I inquire the reli- 
gious faith of any who need assist- 
ance. . . . While discarding state 
and church as combinations, we 
must remember that there can be no 
true charity where all religion is ex- 
cluded, since a pure charity is the 



140 



New Publications. 



very essence of practical Christian- 
ity. To say that the state has 
nothing to do \yith religion makes 



it atheistical; and that education 
and charity form no part of its du- 
ties, makes it barbarian." 



NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



A HISTORY OF THE MASS AND ITS CERE- 
MONIES IN THE EASTERN AND WESTERN 
CHURCH. By Rev. John O'Brien, 
A.M., Professor of Sacred Liturgy at 
Mt. St. Mary's College, Emmittsburg. 

The rites and ceremonies used in the 
Catholic Church, and in those separated 
bodies also which have retaine'd more 
or less of the old liturgy and ritual, are 
a most interesting object of study. This 
is especially the case with those which 
are immediately connected with the 
great act of worship, the Eucharistic Sac- 
rifice. Even in the baldest and nudest 
rite of the "Lord's Supper," as celebrat- 
ed by those who have no liturgy, the 
ceremony is most solemn and impres- 
sive. The Episcopalians and some 
other Protestants have retained enough 
of the ancient forms to make their Eu- 
charistic service even somewhat similar 
to the majestic grandeur of the Mass, 
which in some of their churches is more 
closely imitated. The Oriental sects, it 
is well known, are even more elaborate 
and profuse in external splendor, so far 
as their means will permit, than West- 
ern Christians have been led by their 
more severe and simple taste to imitate 
or rival. Vestments, forms, ceremonies, 
as well as religion itself, came from the 
East to the West, and in tracing up their 
history we are naturally led to study it 
in its place of origin and most abun- 
dant development. 

Father O'Brien has made a thorough 
and extensive study of these interesting 
matters, and the valuable work which he 
has prepared is full of a copious and accu- 
rate erudition. Its great practical value 
consists, however, in this: -that it re- 
quires no learning in the reader in order 
to be read with profit and pleasure. 
The information which priests and 
scholars have to search for in heavy Latin 
tomes, or rare books in foreign langua- 
ges, is here condensed and placed at the 



service of all readers, in plain English. 
Even ecclesiastics like to have such a 
book, which saves them a great deal of 
trouble, and is frequently the only prac- 
tical resource for renewing their old- 
time acquaintance with a subject of the 
greatest interest to them, when they are 
no longer within reach of the numerous 
and costly works of original resort. All 
the pious laity, and all who have some 
taste for the aesthetic side of religion, 
and curiosity to understand what they 
enjoy and admire, must be delighted to 
find within moderate compass such a 
full explanation as Father O'Brien has 
here furnished. He has done a good 
work, for which thousands will be grate- 
ful, and supplied a great want. Hither- 
to there has been no complete and satis- 
factory manual of this sort in the Eng- 
lish language, although much has been 
written about its several topics in detail. 
Rock's Hierurgia, which is the best trea- 
tise on these matters in English, is not 
adapted for general circulation, and has 
been out of print for years. This one is 
a book for the people, suited for young 
and old, level to the capacity of all who 
can read, and quite sufficient for the 
most educated. We trust that it will 
have a large ^ circulation, not only in 
America, but in England and Ireland as 
well, and therefore venture to call the 
attention of other editors to its merits, 
trusting that they will endorse them as 
fully as we have done. 

There is another reason why every 
devout Catholic who reads the book 
should feel a personal sympathy for the 
learned and pious author. He has per- 
formed this labor of love, the greatness 
of which every scholar will appreciate, 
while failing under a fatal malady, and 
far more in need of rest and relaxation 
than fit for work. We trust that a mul- 
titude of prayers will be his recompense, 
from pious hearts whose veneration and 
devotion toward the august mysteries 



New Publications. 



141 



and rites of our holy religion will be in- 
creased by the perusal of what he has 
written for the glory of God and their 
benefit. 

HEALTH, AND How TO PROMOTE IT. By 
Richard McSherry, M.D., Professor 
of Practice of Medicine, University of 
Maryland ; President of Baltimore 
Academy of Medicine, etc. New 
York : D. Appleton & Co. 1879. 
There are many books written on pub- 
lic and private hygiene for general read- 
ers, but none within the limits of our 
reading which displays greater practical 
judgment and contains wiser counsels 
than this volume from the pen of Dr. 
McSherry. The distinguished professor 
has the knack of making a technical 
subject plain to ordinary minds, and is 
gifted with a style which makes one for- 
get, from the pleasure derived in reading 
his composition, that he has been made 
acquainted with what under other pens 
would have been a dry subject. This 
volume shows a varied and extensive 
experience, a familiarity with the stan- 
dard authorities of most recent date on 
the subjects which are treated, and its 
perusal leaves the impression that it is 
the ripened fruit of the experience of 
a sagacious, judicious, and conscien- 
tious physician. " It is offered," says 
the author in his preface, " as a contri- 
bution to a great cause, and the writer 
trusts that it will have some influence 
in promoting the health, happiness, and 
welfare of all who may honor it with 
careful perusal. The principles advo- 
cated have een, to a great extent, put in 
practice in the personal experience of 
the writer in various parts of the world, 
and under many vicissitudes, and he 
has found them to* be not vague theo- 
ries, but practical truths of the greatest 
importance." 

. The following are the headings of the 
chapters : Part i., c. i. Introductory Re- 
marks ; Hygiene the better part of 
Medicine ; ii. The four Divisions of Life ; 
iii. The Young Man ; The Young Woman ; 
iv. The Man ; The Woman ; v. The De- 
clining or Old Man. Fart ii., c. i. Race, 
Temperaments and Idiosyncrasies, In- 
heritance, Habit, Constitution ; ii. The 
Air we breathe ; iii. Water ; iv. Cloth- 
ing ; v. Exercise or Work; Influence of 
Occupation upon Longevity ; Limits to 
Labor; vi. The Food of Man ; Accessory 
Food ; Manner of Eating ; Tea and Coffee ; 



vii. Alcohol, use and abuse ; Ardent 
Spirits, Wines, Malt Liquors ; viii. To- 
bacco, Chewing and Smoking should be 
forbidden in Schools ; Report of Naval 
Schools. 

THE SONG OF LIBERTY. By W. E. Cof- 
fin. New York : Harpers. 1879. 

This is one of those books that set 
all criticism at defiance. Its historical 
theory is that American independence 
is due to Martin Luther ; its ethical 
doctrine is that the Reformation made 
a vast advance upon primitive Chris- 
tianity ; and its polemical method is to 
call the Catholic Church names. It is 
dedicated with a flourish to the boys and 
the girls of America. We wish that we 
could say, with the wit who read an 
Ode to Posterity, that the Song will not 
reach its address. Children of a larger 
growth will present it to the young folk. 
Its handsome binding, typography, and 
pictures make it available as a present, 
while its ardent Protestantism is the 
crown of its excellences. 

When Jeffrey, of the Edinbiirgh, receiv- 
ed a book on cookery or plumbing, he 
sent it for review to the appropriate au- 
thority. So we entrusted the Song to a 
young American, the son of an intelli- 
gent Protestant friend, and we asked 
him to give us his impressions of the 
work. This young gentleman conde- 
scended to glance over it during the 
leisure permitted by the more important 
pursuit of skating and coasting. In 
evidence of his critical judgment upon 
such a work it may be said that he has 
read a good-sized Sabbath-school library 
through, and had dipped surreptitiously 
into our juvenile secular literature. 
His amiable father has no fear of his 
genius. 

Examined on the general scope of the 
Song of Liberty, Young America gave it 
as his impression that the title is a fraud : 
" It was one of them Sabbath-school 
books all about Luther, and the pope, 
and burning Protestants. I know the old 
story from cover to cover. We get a 
regular dose of it, only they're too 'cute 
now to print the right name, 'cos fellows 
won't read them." This sagacious ob- 
servation he confirmed by appealing to 
the really preponderating quantity of 
anti-popery invective. We felt that our 
young friend was somewhat prejudiced 
against the book, believing in the de- 



142 



New Publications. 



lusory nature of the title. We could 
not instance such a book as the Diver- 
sions of Purity as a parallel deception of 
title. 

" Then wasn't it George Washington, 
and the boys of '76, and the Declaration 
of Independence, and all that that made 
America free ? Here the fellow says it 
was Martin Luther. Why, he was dead 
long before. Besides, he was a Dutch- 
man, and who knows but a Hessian? 
Pshaw ! I know more history than that." 
Young America also intimated the au- 
thor's inability to shut his organs of 
vision as to who whipped the Britishers. 
The chapter fantastically entitled 
''The Man who spoke after he was 
Dead " also awoke his ire. It describes 
the life and labors of John Wycliff. "I 
thought it was a ghost story." From 
this writers should be warned of the 
exceedingly practical views taken by 
youth. 

The first two hundred pages are taken 
up with the fiercest attacks upon the 
pope, the priests, and every institution 
of the Catholic Church. The artist 
works in full harmony with the author, 
or perhaps it is vice versa. Monks of 
Falstaffian proportions and Bardolphian 
noses are principally engaged in firing 
up the stake for heretics. The pope, in 
full pontificals, prepares a poisoned 
bowl of wine for the Sacred College. 
Every slander that can be pictured is, 
and well, pictured. A Catholic has 
really to laugh, for it is too absurd to 
get angry over. The calm and contin- 
ued falsification of the writer would 
make Munchausen himself stare and 
gasp. How a man can write so is a 
problem for psychologists ; and how a 
publisher claiming to be respectable 
can lend his name to so false and ma- 
licious a work is a problem that only 
the firm of Harper could solve. 

Very likely the writer thought that 
no one but youth would trouble himself 
about his book. He takes a mean ad- 
vantage of children. He makes no pre- 
tences to proof. He quotes no histori- 
cal authorities, and he appears to gather 
courage as he advances. 

Our young friend exercised his terri- 
ble critical power on the picture and 
description of the burning of John Huss. 
The voice of the martyr was heard clear 
and resonant singing the Twenty-third 
Psalm. Young America objected to this 
on the ground that nobody could shout 



so loud and be choked with smoke at 
the same time. Grave doubts were also 
expressed as to the trustworthiness of 
the story about the poor wretch who, 
after all the tortures of the Spanish In- 
quisition, survived to spread the Gospel 
tidings. Papa, who 'had been all over 
Europe, assured Young America that the 
monks were not such bad fellows at all ; 
that they studied, and read, and wrote, 
and built monasteries, and painted; that 
the pope, at least the one that papa saw, 
was the dearest old gentleman that ever 
lived, and never said a word about 
burning papa ; that this story about 
American liberty being from the Re- 
formation is too thin ; and that a fellow 
gets tired reading about nothing more 
terrible than burning a heretic, without 
a war-dance or a previous running of 
the gauntlet. 

What good for Protestantism such 
books subserve we leave unanswered. 
Surely that must be a weak cause which 
resorts to wholesale defamation of the 
church before the unformed mind of 
childhood. The book is even trashier 
than many in the ignoble sphere to which 
it belongs, and there are certain passa- 
ges in it in which the laws of delicacy 
and modesty are violated. We caution 
such Protestants as may read this 
against it, for the sake of their children, 
who would learn nothing but wrong 
history, unchristian hatred and slander, 
and inopportune moral reflections from 
its pages. 

THE PRISONERS OF THE KING. Thoughts 
on the Catholic Doctrine of Purgatory. 
By Henry James Coleridge, of the So- 
ciety of Jesus. London : Burns & 
Gates. . 

" Two.or three years ago," says Father 
Coleridge in the preface of this book, 
"it fell, to my lot ... to preach during 
the octave with which the Society of the 
Helpers of the Holy Souls is accustom- 
ed to celebrate the annual commemora- 
tion of the faithful departed. It occurred 
to me that some of the miracles of our 
Lord might be usefully applied in illus- 
tration of the doctrine of Purgatory, and 
thus the substance of some few of the chap- 
ters of this book was put tog-ether. ... I 
am in hopes that no considerable point 
connected with that doctrine has been 
altogether passed over. . . . What is 
new in this volume is chiefly the appli- 
cation of the successive miracles of our 



New Publications. 



143 



Lord to various points of the doctrine of 
Purgatory." Such is, in the writer's 
own words, the origin and the subject 
of this work. Father Coleridge is well 
known, not only as a prolific magazine 
writer and contributor, but also as the 
author of a work which promises to be, 
should God spare him, nothing less than 
a complete summa of the four Gospels. 
In two volumes he has given us the 
Private Life of Our Lord, and the Pttblic 
Life of Our Lord has been treated in four 
volumes, entitled respectively, " The 
Ministry of St. John Baptist," "The 
Preaching of the Beatitudes," " The Ser- 
mon on the Mount,' 7 " The Sermon on 
the Mount, concluded." The title of 
this fourth, the latest published volume 
of the Public Life of Our Lord, shows 
how extensive the whole work promises 
to be, and how much yet remains to be 
done. We sincerely hope and pray that 
he may be given time and health to com- 
plete his undertaking. Now, to one 
who ha/> made such a deep study of the 
New Testament it must be a congenial 
and easy task to bring the doings and 
sayings of our Lord to bear upon any 
department of Catholic teaching. In 
this book the extensive knowledge which 
Father Coleridge possesses of the mira- 
cles of the Saviour is applied to the 
doctrine of Purgatory. The state of the 
holy souls in Purgatory is illustrated by 
such applications as the following : The 
cleansing of the Temple purity required 
by God in those who see him in heaven ; 
our Lord's escape from his enemies at 
Nazareth gratitude of the holy souls for 
their deliverance from hell ; the demo- 
niac in the synagogue the holy souls 
and the evil spirits ; the healing of the 
leper duration of the pains of Purga- 
tory ; the cure of the blind and dumb 
demoniac the desire of the holy souls 
for the society of heaven ; stilling the 
tempest peace of the holy souls ; the 
raising to life of the daughter of Jairus 
the pain of sense in Purgatory ; by these 
and other applications the whole doc- 
trine, as to its main points, of the pains 
and sufferings of Purgatory is most 
touchingly and clearly brought out. The 
relief of the holy souls is illustrated by 
the following miracles : The healing of 
the ruler's son devotion to Purgatory as 
an exercise of faith ; cures wrought on 
the evening of the Sabbath promptitude 
in assisting the holy souls; the miracu- 
lous draught of fishes the church on 



earth and the holy souls; cure of the 
man at the probatic pool the applica- 
tion of our suffrages to certain souls in 
particular; the raising of the widow's 
son our Blessed Lady and the holy 
souls ; feeding of the five thousand the 
holy souls relieved by Holy Commun- 
ion ; the healing of the ten lepers visits 
to the Blessed Sacrament for the holy 
souls ; our Lord's last miracle on the 
lake the treasure of the church. In 
short, here are forty-one sermons on 
Purgatory based upon Holy Scripture, 
and yet people imagine that Purgatory 
is har'dly a Scriptural doctrine ! This 
precious book, admirably written, full 
of unction, and redolent of that love 
which is born of close and constant me- 
ditation on the life of our Blessed Re- 
deemer, is a mine for our clergy, a trea- 
sure of spiritual reading for the laity. 
The month of November is the month 
of the holy souls. As May is conse- 
crated to Mary, March to St. Joseph, 
June to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, Oc- 
tober to the Guardian Angels, January 
to the Holy Infancy, so is November 
consecrated to the souls in Purgatory ; 
such, at least, is the pious practice of 
the more fervent among the faithful. We 
trust that Father Coleridge's The King's 
Prisoners will be of great use in promot- 
ing this most Catholic devotion. 

THE CHURCH AND THE SOVEREIGN PON- 
TIFF : an Analytical Catechism. By the 
Rev. Antoine Maurel, SJ. Translated 
from the French by the Rev. Patrick 
Costello, C.C., Ballinasloe. Dublin : 
James Duffy & Sons. 

This work comes to us with a serried 
array of approbations. Father Costello 
has received for his translated edition 
the approbation of his ordinary and the 
ordinary's theological censor, and of no 
less than twenty-one bishops of the Irish 
hierarchy. Many of these are approba- 
tions not only' of the substance of the 
work itself, but also of the translation, 
as a translation. They are more than 
the non-committal formulas which often 
go by the name of " approbations " : they 
are hearty and sincere endorsements 
and assurances of effective co-opera- 
tion in the disseminating of the book. 
A book that can thus enlist the sym- 
pathy of the bishops of Ireland must 
have a real value. The original work 
of Father Maurel has the imprimatur vi 
Very Rev. Father Beckx, general of the 



1 44 



New Publications. 



Society of Jesus, the approbation of the 
Cardinal Archbishop of Lyons, and 
(greatest reward that a Catholic writer 
could expect) it has been honored by a 
special brief from His Holiness Pope 
Pius IX. , of blessed memory. We have 
met with very few contemporary books 
so well and highly recommended. Father 
Costello deserves the thanks of the Eng- 
lish-speaking world for having put with- 
in our reach Father Maurel's The Chtirch 
and the Sovereign Pontiff. The form into 
which the matter is cast is catechetical ; 
it is not, however, a mere catechism in 
the common sense of that word* but an 
analytical catechism, as the title of the work 
asserts ; it is catechism only as to ques- 
tions and answers,- and, because of this 
form, might very readily be used in the 
higher grades of our Sunday-schools and 
the more advanced classes of our paro- 
chial schools. It is entirely confined to 
the two topics, the church and the Sover- 
eign Pontiff questions on which the ris- 
ing generation of Catholics whom our pa- 
rochial schools and colleges are prepar- 
ing and sending forth need to be well 
and clearly instructed. The church, 
her notes and her governing authority, 
are fully treated in a manner so clear 
and interesting that even an educated 
theologian may condone the catecheti- 
cal process through which the reading 
takes him. The second part, concerning 
" the Sovereign Pontiff," is equally com- 
plete, and includes questions which are 
rarely or very briefly touched in our ca~ 
teohisms. There is a chapter on propo- 
sitions censured and condemned by the 
Holy See, containing such headings 
as the following : " Rights and power 
of the Holy See in the condemnation 
of doctrines and propositions contrary 
to Catholic teaching ; infallibility of the 
Holy See in these condemnations ; dog- 
matic facts ; the Index." Following thte 
above is a chapter on "The infallibility 
of the Holy See in regard to religious 
orders, canonization of saints, beatifi- 
cation, the liturgy"; another chapter, 
on "The institution and jurisdiction of 
bishops." Our readers may gather from 
these few extracts from the " contents " 
how exhaustively this work, which hum- 
bly styles itself " an analytical cate- 
chism," treats the two topics of the 



church and the Sovereign Pontiff. 
Though written before the Council of 
the Vatican, it is singularly in accord 
with the teachings of that greatest and 
most important of the church's coun- 
cils. However, there are some ques- 
tions touched upon by Father Maurel 
that might now be left out, to the greater 
clearness of the main end and the great- 
er benefit of ordinary readers ; for the 
Council of the Vatican has turned into 
rubbish, and swept away as such, a great 
deal that had to be seriously considered 
and treated with some respect formerly ; 
it has set the whole question of the Sov- 
ereign Pontiff's position in the church 
and his relation to it in such a clear and 
vivid light that surely a work of this 
kind, at least in the chapters on the in- 
fallibility of the church and of the Pope, 
should be based and modelled on these 
later decisions. We trust that some future 
edition will be thus amended and brought 
up to the requirements of the day ; the 
book would gain in freshness %nd use- 
fulness. 

LIFE OF THE VENERABLE ELIZABETH 
CANORI MORA. Translated from the 
Italian, with a preface by Lady Her- 
bert. London : R. Washbourne. 1878. 

The Signora Mora was a lady of un- 
doubted sanctity, whose life was a sin- 
gular one, and whose sufferings and ex- 
traordinary gifts were also equally sin- 
gular. She was a wife and a mother, 
bound in marriage to a man of very bad 
life, who in the end deserted her and left 
her free to live in her own house under 
vows as a Tertiary of the Trinitarian Or- 
der. The most remarkable and surpris- 
ing event related in her history is the 
fact that her husband became a Francis- 
can friar after her death. Apart from 
the extraordinary things narrated in 
these pages, they present to us a picture 
of heroic virtue and goodness in an un- 
happy, ill-treated wife, who was a model 
matron as wife, mother, daughter, sister, 
and neighbor, amid great trials, and who 
reaped a great reward for her merits in 
the blessings she brought down on her 
family and on many others. A book in- 
troduced by Lady Herbert needs no 
other recommendation to Christian wo- 
men. 



THE 



CATHOLIC WORLD. 



VOL. XXIX., No. i;o. MAY, 1879. 



KING SIGEBERT OF ESSEX; OR, THE FRIEND IN DEATH. 

A LEGEND FROM BEDE. 
BY AUBREY DE VERE. 

" AT last resolve, my brother and my friend, 
Fling from you, as I fling this cloak, your gods, 
And cleave to Him, the Eternal, One and Sole, 
The All-Wise, All-Righteous, and Illimitable, 
Who made us, and will judge !" Thus Oswy spake 
To Sigebert, his friend, of Essex king, 
Essex once Christian. Royal Sebert dead, 
The Church of God had sorrow by the Thames : 
Three pagan brothers in his place held sway : 
They warred upon God's people; for which cause 
God warred on them, and by the Wessex sword 
In one day hewed them down. King Sigebert, 
Throned in their place, to Oswy thus replied : 
" O friend ! I saw the truth, yet saw it not ! 
'Twas like the light forth flashed from distant oar, 
Now vivid, vanished now. Not less, methinks, 
Long since thy Christ had won me save for this ; 
I feared that in my bosom love for thee, 
Not truth, alone prevailed. I left thy court; 
I counselled with my wisest ; by degrees, 
Though grieving thus to outrage loyal hearts, 
Reached my resolve : henceforth I serve thy God : 
My kingdom may reject me if it will." 
Then came the bishop old, and near that Wall 
AVhich spans the northern land from sea to ,sea, 
Baptized him to the God Triune. At night 
The king addressed him thus : " My task is hard ; 
Yield me four priests of thine from Holy Isle 

COPYRIGHT : REV. I. T. HECKER. 1879. 



146 King Sigcbert of Essex ; or, the Friend in Death. 

To shape my courses." Finan gazed around 
And made election Cedd, and others three ; 
He consecrated Cedd with staff and ring ; 
And by the morning's sunrise Sigebert 
Rode with them, face to south. 

The spring, long checked, 
Fell, like God's grace, or fire, or flood, at once 
O'er all the land ; it swathed the hills in green; 
It fringed with violets rift and rock; it lit 
The stream with primrose-tufts; but mightier far 
That spring which triumphed in the monarch's breast, 
His doubt dispelled. That smile which knew not cause 
Looked like his angel's mirrored on his face : 
At times he seemed with utter gladness dazed : 
At times he laughed aloud. " Father," he cried, 
" That darkness from my spirit is raised at last ! 
Ah fool ! ah fool ! to wait for proof so long : 
Unseal thine eyes, and all things speak of God! 
The snows on yonder thorn His pureness show ; 
Yon golden iris bank His love. But now 
I marked a child that by its father ran : 
Some mystery they seemed of love in heaven 
Imaged in earthly love." Wi-th sad, sweet smile 
The old man answered : " Pain there is on earth 
Bereavement, sickness, death." The king replied : 
" It was by suffering, not by deed or word, 
God's Son redeemed mankind." Then answered Cedd : 
" God hath thee in his net; and well art thou ! 
That truth this day thou seest and feelest, live ! 
So shall it live within thee. If more late I 

Rebuke should come, or age, remember then 
This day-spring of thy strength, and answer thus : 
" With me God feasted in my day of youth 
So feast he now with others !' ' 

Years went by, 

And Cedd in work and word was mighty still, 
And throve with God. The strong East Saxon race 
Grew gentle in his presence : they were brave ; 
And faith is courage in the things divine, 
Courage with meekness blent. The heroic heart 
Beats, to the spiritual cognate, paltering not 
Fraudulent with truth once known. Like winds from God-, 
God's message lifted them. Old bonds of sin, 
Snapt by the vastness of the growing soul, 
Burst of themselves ; and in the heart late bound 
Virtue had room to breathe. As when, that Voice 
Primeval o'er the formless chaos rolled, 
And, straight, confusions ceased, the greater orb 



King Sigebcrt of Essex ; or, the Friend in DeatJi. 147 

Ruling the day, the lesser, night, even so 
Born of the heavenly mandate order lived : 
Divine commandments fixed a firmament 
Betwixt man's lower instincts and his soul : 
From unsuspected summits of his spirit 
The morning shone : the nation with the man 
Partook perforce : from duty freedom flowed : 
And there where Tribes had roved a People lived. 
A pathos of strange beauty hung thenceforth 
O'er humblest hamlet : he who passed it prayed : 
" May never sword come here !" Bishop and king 
Together labored : well that bishop's love 
Repaid that royal zeal. If random speech 
Censured the king though justly, sudden red 
Circling the old man's silver-tressed brow 
Showed, though he spake not, that in saintly breast 
The human heart lives on. - 

In Ithancester 

He dwelt and toiled : not less to Lindisfarne, 
His ancient home, in" spirit oft he yearned, 
Longing for converse with his God alone; 
And made retreat there often, not to shun 
The task allotted, but to draw from heaven 
Strength for that task. One year, returning thence, 
Deira's king addressed him as they rode : 
*' My father, choose the richest of my lands 
And build thereon a holy monastery; 
So shall my realm be blessed, and I, and mine." 
He answered : " Son, no wealthy lands for us ! 
Spake not the prophet, ' There where dragons roamed, 
In later days the grass shall grow, the reed '? 
I choose those rocky hills that, on our left, 
Drag down the skyey waters to the woods : 
Such loved I from my youth ; to me they said : 
' Bandits this hour usurp our heights, and beasts \ 

Couch in our caves : expel the seed accurst, 
And vield us back to God !' " 



The king gave ear ; 

And Cedd within those mountains passed his Lent, 
Driving with prayer and fast the spirits accurst 
With ignominy forth. ^Foundations next 
He laid with sacred pomp. Fair rose the walls : 
All day the wild March s?a its thunders sent 
Through far ravines to where in wooden cell 
The old man prayed, while o'er him rushed the cloud 
Storm-borne from peak to peak. Serener breeze 
With alternation soft in nature's course 



148 King Sigebert of Essex ; or, the Friend in Death. 

Following ere long, great Easter's harbinger, 
Thus spake he: " I must keep the feast at home ; 
My children there expect me." Parting thence, 
He left his brothers three to consummate 
His work begun Celin, and Cynabil, 
And Chad, at Lichfield bishop ere he died : 
Thus Lastingham had birth. 



Beside the Thames 

Meantime dark deeds were done. There dwelt two thanes 
The kinsmen of the king, his friends in youth, 
Of meanest friend unworthy. Far and wide 
They ravined, and the laws of God and man 
Despised alike. Three times in days gone by 
A warning hand their bishop o'er them raised ; 
The fourth it fell on them like bolt frcrm heaven, 
And clave them from God's church. They heeded not ; 
And now the elder kept his birthday feast, 
Summoning his friends around him first the king. 
Doubtful and sad, the o'er-gentle monarch mused : 
" To feast with sinners is to sanction sin : 
A deed abhorred. The alternative is hard : 
Must then their sovereign shame with open scorn 
Kinsman and friend ? I think they mourn the past, 
And, were our bishop here, would sue his grace." 
Boding, yet self-deceived, he joined that feast: 
Thereat he saw scant sign of penitence : 
Ere long he bade farewell. 



That self-same hour 

Cedd from his northern pilgrimage returned; 
The monarch met him at the offenders' gate, 
And, instant when he saw that reverend face, 
His sin before him stood. Down from his horse 
He leaped, and told him all, and penance prayed : 
Long time the old man on that royal front 
Fixed a sad eye. " Thy sin was great, my son, 
Shaming thy God to spare a sinner's shame : 
That sin thy God forgives, and I remit : 
But those whom God forgives he chastens oft. 
My son, I see a sign upon thy brow ! 
Ere yonder lessening moon completes her wane, 
Behold, the blood-stained hands late clasped in thine 
Shall drag thee to thy death." The king replied : 
"A Sigebert there lived, East Anglia's king, 
Whose death was glorious to his realm. May mine, 
Dark and inglorious, strengthen hearts infirm, 
And profit thus my land." 



King Sigebert of Essex ; or, the Friend in Death. 1 49 

A time it was 

When Christian mercy, judged by pagan hearts, 
Not virtue seemed, but sin. That sin's reproach 
The king had long sustained. Ere long it chanced ; 
That near the stronghold of that impious feast, 
A vanquished rebel, long in forests hid, 
Drew near, and knelt to Sigebert for grace, 
And won his suit. The monarch's kinsmen twain, 
Those men of blood, forth-gazing from a tower, 
Saw all, heard all. Upon them fury fell 
As when through cloudless skies there comes a blast, 
Whence no man knows, that, instant, finds its prey, 
Circling some white-sailed boat, or towering tree, 
And with a touch down-wrenching, all things else 
Unharmed though near. They snatched their daggers up, 
And rushed upon their prey ; and shouting thus, 
" White-livered slave, that mak'st thy throne a jest, 
And mock'st great Odin's self and us, thy kin, 
To please thy shaveling !" struck him through the heart : 
Then, spurring through the great woods to the sea 
Were never heard of more. 

Throughout the land 

Lament was made : lament in every house 
As though in each its eldest-born lay dead ; 
Lament far off and near. The others wept : 
Cedd, in long vigils of the lonely night. 
Not wept alone, but lifted strength of prayer, 
And, morn by morn, that Sacrifice eterne 
Mightier tenfold in impetrative power 
Than prayers of all man's race, from Adam's first 
To his who latest on the Judgment Day 
Shall raise his hands to God. Four years went by : 
That mourner's wound they stanched not. Oft in sleep 
He murmured low, " Would I had died for thee !" 
And once, half-waked by rush of morning rains, 
" Why saw I on his brow that fatal sign ? 
He might have lived till now !" Within his heart 
At last there rose a cry, " To Lastingham ! 
Pray with thy brothers three, for saints are they : 
So shall thy friend, who resteth in the Lord 
With perfect will submiss, the waiting passed 
Gaze on God's Vision with an eye unfilmed 
In glory everlasting." At that thought 
Peace on the old man settled. Staff in hand, 
Forth on his way he fared. Nor horse he rode 
Nor sandals wore. He walked with feet that bled, 
And paid, well-pleased, that penance for his king; 
And murmured ofttimes, "Not my blood alone; 
Nay, but my life, my life ! " 



150 King Sigebert of Essex ; or, the Friend in Death. 

But penance pain, 

Like pain of suffering Souls at peace with God, 
Quelled not that gladness which, from secret source 
Rising, o'erflowed his heart. Old times returned: 
Once more beside him rode his king in youth 
Southward to where his realm his duty lay, 
Exulting captive of the Saviour-Lord, 
With face love-lit. As then, the vernal prime 
Hourly with ampler respiration drew 
Delight of purer green from balmier airs : . 

As then the sunshine glittered. By their path 
Now hung the woodbine ; now the hare-bell waved ; 
Rivulets new-swollen by melted snows, and birds 
'Mid echoing boughs with rival rapture sang; 
At times the monks forgat their Christian hymns, 
By humbler anthems charmed. They gladdened more 
Beholding oft in cottage doors cross-crowned 
Angelic faces, or in lonely ways; 
Once as they passed there stood a little maid 
Some ten years old alone 'mid lonely pines, 
With violets crowned, and primrose. Who were those 
The forest's white-robed guests, she nothing knew; 
Not less she knelt. Witli hand uplifted Cedd 
Signed her his blessing: hand she kissed in turn, 
Then waved ; yet ceased not from her song, "Alone 
Two lovers sat at sunset." 

Every eve 

Some village gave the wanderers food and rest, 
Or half-built convent with its church thick-walled, 
And polished shafts ; great names in after-times : 
Ely, and Croyland, Southwell, Medeshamstede, 
Adding to sylvan sweetness holier grace, 
Or rising lonely o'er morass and mere 
With bowery thickets isled, where dog-wood brake 
Retained, though late, its red. To Boston near 
Where Ouse, and Aire, and Derwent blend with Trent, 
And salt sea waters mingle with the fresh, 
They met a band of youths that o'er the sands 
Advanced with psalm, cross-led. The monks rejoiced, 
Save one from Erin Dicul. He, quick- eared, 
Had caught that morn a war-cry on the wind, 
And, sideway glancing from his office-book, 
Descried the cause. From Mercia's realm a host 
Had crossed Northnmbria's bound ! His thin, worn face 
O'erflamed with sudden anger, thus he cried : 
" In this, your land, men say, ' Who worketh prays ' ; 
In mine we say, ' Well prays who fighteth well ' :. 
A pagan race treads down your homesteads ! Slaves, 
That close not with their throats !" 



King Sigebert of Essex ; or, the Friend in Death. 1 5 1 

Thus, wandering still, 

On the tenth eve they came to Lastingham ; 
Forth rushed the brethren, kenning them far off, 
To meet them ; first the brothers three of Cedd, 
Who kissed him, cheek and mouth. Gladly that night 
Those foot-worn travellers laid them down and slept, 
Save one alone. Old Cedd his vigil made, 
And kneeling by the Tabernacle's lamp, 
Prayed for the man he loved, and ended thus : 
" Thou Lord of souls, to thee the Souls are dear. 
Thou yearn'st toward them as they yearn to thee : 
Behold, not prayer alone for him I raise : 
I offer thee my life." When morning's light 
In the great church commingled with its gloom, 
The monks slow-pacing by that kneeler knelt, 
And prayed for Sigebert, beloved of God ; 
And lastly offered Mass : and it befell 
That when, the Offering offered, and the Dead 
Rightly remembered, he who sang that Mass 
Had reached the " Nobis quoque famulis," 
There came to Cedd an answer from the Lord 
Heard in his heart ; and he beheld his king 
Throned 'mid the saints elect of God who keep 
Perpetual triumph, and behold that Face 
Which to its likeness hourly more compels 
Those faces t'ward it turned. That function o'er, 
Thus spake the bishop: " Sing ye next ' Te Deum ' : 
They sang it; while within him he replied, 
" Lord, let thy servant now depart in peace." 



A week went by with gladness winged and prayer : 
In wonder Cedd beheld those structures new 
From small beginnings reared, though many a gift 
Sent for that work's behoof had fed the poor 
In famine time laid low. Moorlands he saw 
With green corn sprouting; marked the all-beauteous siege 
Of pastures yearly threatening loftier crags 
Loud with the bleat of lambs. Their shepherd once 
Had roved a bandit ; next had toiled a slave ; 
Now with both hands he poured his weekly wage 
Down on his young wife's lap, his pretty babes 
Gambolling around for joy. A hospital 
Stood by the convent's gate. With moistened eye, 
Musing on Him who suffers in His sick, 
The bishop paced it. There he found his death : 
That year a plague had wasted all the land : 
It reached him. Late that night he said, " 'Tis well !" 
In three days more he lay with hands death-cold 
Placed cross-wise on his breast. 



; 2 King Sigebcrt of Essex ; or, the Friend in Death. 

Like winter cloud 

Borne through dark air> that portent feared of man, 
111 tidings, making way with mystic speed, 
Shadowed ere long the troubled bank of Thames, 
And spread a wailing round its minsters twain, 
Saint Peter's and Saint Paul's. Saint Alban's next 
Echoed that cry far northward. Southward soon 
It rang amid the towers of Rochester; 
Then sea-ward died. But in that convent pile 
Wherein so long the saint had made abode 
A different grief there lived, a deeper grief, 
That grief which part hath none in sobs or tears 
Which needs must act. There thirty monks arose, 
And, taking each his staff, made vow thenceforth 
To serve God's altar where their father died, 
Or share his grave. Through Ithancester's gate 
As forth they paced between two kneeling crowds, 
A little homeless boy who heard their dirge 
(Late orphaned, at its grief he marvelled not) 
So loved them that he followed, shorter steps 
Doubling 'gainst theirs. At first the orphan wept : 
That mood relaxed : before them now he ran 
To pluck a flower ; as oft he lagged behind, 
The wild bird's song so aptly imitating 
That, by his music drawn, or by his looks, 
That bird at times forgat her fears, and perched 
Pleased on his arm. As flower and bird to him, 
So to those monks the child. Better each day 
He loved them : yet, revering, still he mocked, 
And, though he mocked, he kissed. The westering sun 
On the eighth eve from towers of Lastingham 
Welcomed those strangers. In another hour 
Well-nigh arrived they saw that grave they sought, 
Sole on the church's northern slope. As when 
Some father, absent long, returned at last, 
His children rush loud-voiced from field to house, 
And cling about his knees ; and they that mark 
Old reaper, bent no more, with hook in hand, 
Or ploughman leaning 'gainst the old blind horse 
Beholding wonder not ; so to that grave 
Rushed they ; so clung. Around that grave ere long 
Their own were ranged. That plague which dragged him down 
Spared not his sons. With ministering hand, 
From pallet still to pallet passed the boy, 
Now from the dark spring wafting colder draught, 
Now moistening fevered lips, or on the brow 
Spreading the new-bathed cincture. Him alone 
The infection reached not. When the last was gone 
He felt as though the earth, man's race, yea, God 



One of Rome s Recruits Two Hundred Years Ago. 153 

Himself were dead- Around he gazed, and spake : 
" Why, then, do I remain ?" 

From hill to hill 

(The monks on reverend offices intent) 
All solitary oft that boy repaired, 
From each in turn forth gazing, fain to learn 
If friend were t'wards him nighing. Many a hearth 
More late, that grief's first bitterness gone by, 
Welcomed the creature : many a mother held 
The milk-bowl to his mouth, in both hands stayed, 
With smile the deeper for the draught prolonged, 
And lodged, as he departed, in his hand 
Her latest crust. With children of his age 
Seldom he played. That convent gave him rest ; 
Nor lost he aught surviving thus his friends, 
Since childhood's sacred innocence he kept, 
While life remained, unspotted. Five short years 
He lived there monk, and added reverence drew 
To that high convent through his saintly ways, 
Then died. Within that cirque of thirty graves 
They laid him, close to Cedd. In later years, 
Because they ne'er could learn his name or race, 
Nor yet forget his gentle looks, the name 
Of Deodatus graved they on his tomb. 



ONE OF ROME'S RECRUITS TWO HUNDRED YEARS AGO. 



THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MISTRESS CATHERINE HOLLAND.' 



TO THE CLOYSTER OF NAZARETE. 

The following things I write down to 
Almighty God's honor and glory. 

This is a brief narrative of the manner 
of my conversion to the Catholic faith, 
with the reasons why I forsook the Pro- 
testant heresy. September 20, 1664. 



1637. I, having had the ill for- 
tune to be born in heresy, was bred 
up i-n the same by a severe father, 

* The autobiography, as here reproduced, consists 
of consecutive extracts from the original (hitherto 
unpublished) MS. in the private library of the 
. Augustinian Monastery at Bruges, and for the use 
of which the writer is indebted to the great kind- 
ness of the Rev. Mother Prioress. Nothing of im- 
portance has been omitted, and, in fact, little else 
than the religious reflections with which the narra- 



who, though an earnest Protestant, 
self-interest, and to advance his 
fortunes, made him take to wife a 
Catholic lady, f whose riches made 
her religion tolerable ; yet much 
more was it laudable, since it taught 
her so much goodness and virtue 
that I have heard him say she was 
the mirror of wives, and he would 
often admonish me, saying, " Imi- 

tive is interspersed, and which make it somewhat 
lengthy. Catherine Holland, born in 1637, was 
daughter to Sir John Holland, of Quidenham, 
Norfolk. She wrote this account in obedience to 
the express order of her spiritual director. She 
died in 1720, aged 83. 

t Alathea, daughter of Fs. Panton, of Bruinshop, 
Co. Denbigh, and widow of William Lord Sandys 
of the Vine. (Note by Father Morris, SJ.) 



154 One of Rome's Recruits Tivo Hundred Years Ago. 



tate your mother in all things but 
her religion." And, to the end 
none of her children should em- 
brace it, he took them all into his 
own care, and bred them up in his 
own religion. 

Now, he, being a man of great 
capacity and morally virtuous, had 
many excellent maxims, gave us 
very good moral instructions, and 
catechised us himself; yet this I do 
remember, that I had a strange 
aversion to learn that catechism, 
and although I was so young that 
I knew not what conscience meant, 
yet I would often say that it went 
against my conscience to learn it, 
for which I was often very severely 
corrected. 

Although he would not molest 
my mother in her religion, yet he 
would not permit her to instruct 
any of her children, which was no 
small cross to her. She, notwith- 
standing, did learn us our prayers, 
and would be often saying, in my 
hearing, there was but one truth, 
and out of that there was no salva- 
tion, and would admonish me to 
pray to God to bring me into it ; 
and I did often say in my heart, If 
I am not in the truth, Lord, bring 
me into thy truth. 

Now, between the suggestions of 
my mother and the instructions of 
my father, which were so contrary 
one to the other, troubled I was, 
but had nobody to speak unto; 
though this I can avow with much 
truth, that, from the time I had 
capacity to distinguish between 
religions, I did incline to my mo- 
ther's, but, notwithstanding, the 
great fear I stood in of my -father 
made 'me dissemble my intention 
many years. The seed lay hidden 
in the field of my heart that was 
to bring forth fruit long after, when 
the dew of divine grace had water- 
ed it more abundantlv. 



In the meantime, being young, I 
gave myself to as much pleasure as 
I could, though not to so much as 
I would ; for, doubtless, had not 
my father or Divine Providence, 
which acted by him held me back, 
I had run, through the perverseness 
of my nature, into many great 
dangers, both of life and, honor, for 
I was an high-spirited girl and of a 
daring nature, insomuch that my 
father would say : " If that girl 
knew she should be hanged the 
next hour, she would get her will," 
so that he 'had always his eye upon 
me. 

I had many fallacies [pretences] 
to get my will, and durst act what 
my sister, of a more milder temper, 
durst not thi?ik. My father, ob- 
serving this disposition in me, and 
that I was an opiniatour and very 
crafty, often abusing my mild mo- 
ther's goodness, took me under 
his own tuition in an especial 
manner, and often told me he 
would break my will or my heart, 
and was very severe to me, feeding 
me, whilst I was in my minority, 
with a bit and a knock. Yet, not- 
withstanding this strict watch, I 
often cozened him and got my will 
in secret. 

Being about ten years of age, 
and my father, for my good, hold- 
ing a strict hand over me, severely 
corrected me, and, if I learnt not 
my catechism, debarred me from 
my meat, and if I remembered not 
the sermons for I was made to 
write them down and for the least 
fault, still reprehended, [so that] I 
grew even desperate and weary of 
my life, and was twice tempted to 
put an end to those my tedious 
days by making away with myself, 
which Divine Providence prevent- 
ed ; for once I got out of my 
father's hand, going to correct me, 
and ran away, with intention to 



One of Rome's Recruits Two Hundred Years Ago. 155 



drown- myself, but in this passion 
called out aloud that I was going 
to do it, and did not know I did 
so ; upon which my sister stopped 
me and held me fast and prevent- 
ed me. On another time, fearing 
to come into the presence of my 
father, having neglected my duties, 
I did resolve to fling myself out of 
the window, to break my neck ; but 
as Providence would have it, [upon 
a time] the desire of dying running 
in my head, I did chance to ask my 
mother if such as were authors of 
their own death went to heaven. 
She answered, No; they were 
damned, because they did an act 
contrary to God's will. She little 
thought why I asked this question. 
Now, just as I had got half out of 
the window, what my mother had 
told me came fresh into my memo- 
ry; as also that possibly God Al- 
mighty would not permit me to 
die by the fall, but only to break 
some limb, and so be lame all my 
life. These thoughts passed not as 
our ordinary thoughts, but they 
were so lively, and made so deep 
an impression, as they seemed 
rather an admonishment from hea- 
ven. Hell and lameness so terri- 
fied me that I soon crept in again, 
and walked through the briers of 
tutorship until I got capacity 
enough to see that it was better 
bending than breaking. Thus 
went Divine Providence fitting my 
unpolished soul* for what he had 
designed. 

Between pleasure and torment 
I passed several years, wherein I 
had but passing thoughts of reli- 
gion, which sprung from my mo- 
ther's frequent suggestions that I 
was not in the truth. I remem- 
ber I ever had an aversion to the 
Protestant religion ; methought it 
was a very empty way of serving 
God. 



Now, our family having taken 
its flight out of England into Hol- 
land, in the times of the troubles 
and civil wars in England between 
the king and parliament, in the 
time of Oliver Cromwell, we remain- 
ed in Holland, among those re- 
formed, many years, until, new 
troubles happening of wars be- 
tween Holland and England, being 
of that nation, we were again dri- 
ven from thence, and went to Flan- 
ders ; and about the sixteenth year 
of my age I arrived at Bruges, to 
which all our family was sent, my 
father being in England. This was 
a great providence for me, for this 
being a Catholic city, my former 
inclination began to revive, and 
'now I began to see what that was 
I had formerly heard of. There it 
was that I was unbeguiled, and 
saw that all [that] Prptestants had 
told me concerning the Catholics 
was not true. I had a greater de- 
sire than ever to be a Catholic, but 
durst not be known that I had such 
a desire, for fear of my father. 
Often, indeed, did I venture to steal 
out to church, though I knew not 
what to do there, nor did I un- 
derstand what was done ; Mass, 
and the ceremonies thereof, was 
a strange thing to me ; yet me- 
thought there was something, I 
knew not what, that moved devo- 
tion^norethan anything I had seen 
in the Protestant churches. I had 
a great desire to know more of the 
inside of that I liked so well the 
outside, but neither knew how nor 
which way, not daring to trust any- 
body. At last, I know not how, 
I had -learnt the Ave Maria by 
hear^ I got a pair of tens, which 
I ty'd next me and kept very se- 
cret, and a-nights would say them 
on my knees before I went to bed, 
with much satisfaction, but I knew 
not with what intention. All this 



156 One of Routes Recruits Two Hundred Years Ago. 



time my mind, not having any one 
to ease itself unto, was troubled 
and infinitely oppressed, and the 
more in regard I saw so little pro- 
bability of a release so long as my 
father lived. I many times ear- 
nestly prayed Almighty God to 
lead me into his truth, and not to 
let me perish through ignorance, 
. . . for, as you will see by what 
follows, my ignorance was great ; 
for, hearing of and seeing in the 
Catholic Church so many several 
orders of religious, I thought that 
every order was a several sect or 
religion, which struck me into a 
strange perplexity. It was, to my 
thinking, impossible, among such a 
variety of religions, to find out the 
truth, which put me almost out 
of hopes of finding it, and con- 
sequently less courage to look af- 
ter it. 

One day, stealing out, I got into 
the Jesuits' church, and being 
there gotten into a corner, still 
praying I might find the truth, and 
being much perplexed with divers 
cogitations, there chanced to pass 
by two of the society ; I looked 
earnestly upon them, and said in 
simplicity of heart, lifting it up to 
God, " Lord, if these men in black 
are of thy truth, make me of their 
religion," at which time methought 
I found my mind eased and my 
heart replenished with hopes for a 
space. 

After three years being in the 
Catholic town, I got acquaintance 
at the monastery where I new am ; 
but at that time 1 thought it a mis- 
erable life always to be locked up 
as in a prison. That manner of 
life did not then please me at all, 
and I little thought I was to be 
one of them I then thought so un- 
happy. In this time my know- 
ledge did increase by means of 
Catholic books, which I grew so 



fond of as I gave a gold ring* for 
one. 

Now, at the time. of the king of 
Great Britain's arrival in Flanders 
Charles the Second in the time of 
his exile then, I say, did my fa- 
ther, out of policy, remove his 
family, and went to live in Hol- 
land at a place called Bergen-op- 
Zoorn. Here now was I again out 
of the reach of any Catholics, and 
engaged to go to their reformed, or 
rather de-formed, church. Here, 
for want of fuel, did my former 
fire almost go out, or rather it was 
raked up, attending time and op- 
portunity. In that town did a 
German prince, who married the 
marchioness of the town, keep his 
court; and there it was that I did 
give myself up to all sorts of vani- 
ties, encouraged thereto by being 
her daughter's favorite. I being 
of a disposition naturally merry 
and recreative, there was no sport 
without me, I being still the ring- 
leader of all the farces and sport- 
ive fooleries. 

Thus, whilst I most ungratefully 
forgot Almighty God, neglecting 
his frequent inspirations, his good- 
ness and providence forgot not me ; 
and though I did often stumble and 
commit many gross follies, his infin- 
ite goodness never permitted me to 
fall outright. My conscience doth 
not accuse me of any deliberate, 
malicious act, or any ill intention, 
but of great indiscretions. 

In this vain and unprofitable life 
I spent seven years, after which I 
went with my father into England, 
out of which I had been from my four 
years of age. This novelty, which 
I had long desired, took my fancy 
wholly up, and, being arrived there, 
I lived according to the dictaments 
of sense. All sparks of piety seem- 

* In one part of her narrative she mentions inci- 
dentally that her father kept her " very short." 



One of Rome s Recruits Two Hundred Years Ago. 157 



ed to be extinguished. Being with 
an aunt and uncle who did make 
much of me, I had whatsoever my 
heart could desire for to please 
sense, yet I can avouch this with 
truth : that I had no true interior 
content, but was many times plung- 
ed into deep melancholy. Many 
times would I steal away to walk 
all alone in the woods, ruminating 
and thus discoursing with myself: 
What am I ? Why am I ? What 
is the world? Who made it? What 
will be the end thereof? My own 
judgment told me that none but 
an infinite, supreme Power could 
be the author of such a vast fabric; 
but what to conceive of this Power, 
and how to represent him to my- 
self, I knew not ; and I asked my- 
self, Where is this God ? How to be 
found and comprehended ? I could 
come to no certainty, and, not know- 
ing which way to inform myself, this 
threw me into great pensiveness. 

One time above all the rest, I 
remember being in the fields all 
alone, deeply engaged in these pen- 
sive thoughts. I had a great war 
within myself, and, having driven 
my mind into a deep labyrinth by 
diving into things above my ca- 
pacity, I at last began to doubt 
whether there was a God or no 
measuring everything by the shal- 
low measure of my own wit ; . . . 
and as for religion and heaven and 
hell, I thought [them] but an in- 
vention of cunning, politic men for 
to keep people in awe and for the 
better government of nations, who 
must be kept in fear with some- 
thing beside moral laws. But pre- 
sently a strong contradiction did 
spring up in my mind, and a for- 
mal dispute, insomuch that since 
I have admired how I did not break 
my brains, considering how young 
I was, weak and ignorant, and no- 
body to give me a solution. 



Although these former things 
were strongly suggested, I did not 
rest in them nor gave any delib- 
erate consent ; they, notwithstand- 
ing, brought with them great dis- 
quiets, and left me still upon uncer- 
tainties ; . . . for, being wrapped up 
in Nature, I could only see by her 
obscure lights, and could not com- 
prehend anything that was spiritu- 
al, no more than a blind man can 
conceive and comprehend by his 
touch, smell, hearing, or taste what 
a color means, so unapt was I to 
conceive that God is a spirit, but, like 
a blind, ignorant fool, would square 
and bring the essence of an incom- 
prehensible Deity within the nar- 
row compass of my weak capacity. 
Thus, with glorious St. Austen, I 
went seeking that without me that 
was within me. The truth of the 
very Scriptures would I call in 
question, conceiving them to have 
been forged by the wit of man, out 
of policy. 

Thus far was I straying from my 
former inclinations to the Catholic 
Church, insomuch as I had almost 
lost all religion and turned atheist, 
only the goodness of Almighty God 
still kept the former spark alive 
and kept me from a positive con- 
sent. And one certain thought re- 
curring to my mind did, as it were, 
quicken me and set me on my 
legs again. I called to mind that 
I had heard many things told for 
certain, as that spirits walked and 
that many souls have appeared on 
occasions ; and although I was not 
very apt to believe all the stories I 
had heard of that kind, I thought 
it absurd to believe nothing, as 
well as lightness to believe every- 
thing, when it was related by per- 
sons of credit; and if I yielded to 
believe the return of souls, I was 
consequently compelled to believe 
the immortality of the soul. Then 



158 One of Rome s Recruits Two Hundred Years Ago. 



did I conclude that there was an 
incomprehensible God, who must 
be a spirit, and spiritually to be 
comprehended, and I did humbly 
beg him to take this misbelieving 
spirit from me and direct me into 
his truth. 

My father, being upon his return, 
gave me my choice either to return 
to my mother or to remain with 
my aunt ; but most happily I chose 
to return home, which made a pas- 
sage for my future progress. 

In this my journey at sea God 
touched my heart in a more espe- 
cial manner, and I did make a pro- 
mise that if he did please to bring 
me safe to land, I would turn over 
a new leaf and lead a new life. 
But these fervorous prayers were 
made at sea, and in pain and danger 
that lasted several days, and were 
soon forgot when once safely got 
to land ; for I was no sooner arriv- 
ed into Brabant, and at my old 
home, amongst my friends and ac- 
quaintances, made much of and 
caressed, and again lulled to sleep 
with the pleasures of the court, 
[than I] thought no more of my fine 
promises at sea, but fooled away 
another two years in vain amuse- 
ments. 

At the end of these two years 
God, in his infinite goodness, gave 
me, as I may say, another pull by 
the sleeve; . . . for, one morning, 
being in my closet saying my wonted 
prayers, I found a more sensible 
devotion than ever I felt before, 
which did, as it were, allure me to 
continue praying, and, being insen- 
sibly engaged, all the promises I 
had made at sea came lively into 
my mind ^nd seemed to reprehend 
me. I was struck with a deep re- 
morse of conscience and grew sad, 
and methought that suddenly it 
was as if it were interiorly said 
unto me, " There is no fooling with 



God." And this was so pressing 
that I had not power to rise from 
the place I was kneeling in until 
I had renewed my promises and 
resolved positively on something. 
At that very same time I renounc- 
ed the Protestant errors, and re- 
solved to embrace the Catholic 
truth, and to break through all 
oppositions whatever. I found 
myself at the same moment 
strengthened and encouraged, and 
from this time I stood my ground 
and fell back no more. 

Now was the resolution made to 
enter into the spiritual combat, 
besides a moral one, for many ex- 
terior things stood in my way that 
seemed such giants as, morally 
speaking, they seemed not possible 
to overcome. My mother, though 
a Catholic, yet was of no help to 
me but by her pious prayers, which, 
as another Monica, with tears she 
often offered for me. The love she 
had for my father, being loath to 
offend him, made her she durst act 
nothing on my behalf; so that I 
did keep my designs from her as 
from the rest. The marchioness 
of the town, being my friend and 
a Catholic, yet in this occurrence 
refused me her help, not to dis- 
oblige my father. Which way so- 
ever I turned I found none to join 
with me, but enough to oppose me. 
This cast me into deep perplexities 
of mind and a deep melancholy, 
the cause whereof none could guess 
at, for I. had not yet declared my- 
self. Nothing now but solitude, 
reading, and prayer was my de- 
light, which was often interrupted 
by the combats of my mind [at] 
being forced to continue in a reli- 
gion I thought false, and going 
weekly to church against my con- 
science, from the fear I was in of 
my father's displeasure. 

In the midst of these intostica- 



One of Rome s Recruits Two Hundred Years Ago. 159 



tions, having nobody to lend me 
their hand, I made my continual 
address to Heaven, and my resolu- 
tion grew still firmer, although new 
difficulties did daily arise to in- 
crease my sadness, insomuch that 
it was very notable. Several cen- 
sures I passed, and by many it was 
said that I was possessed by that 
foolish passion called love, or being 
in love. It was love, indeed, but 
not of that kind they fancied. My 
mother was troubled to see me so 
sad who used to be so merry, she 
not being able to find out the 
cause, though she had employed 
many to sift it out. At last she 
did acquaint my father with it, 
who was then in England to pre- 
pare for our return, for as yet we 
were in Brabant. 

I will here add two more motives 
to the reason I have given why I 
did not impart my mind to my 
mother. The one was that I fear- 
ed I might have been the cause 
of making difference between my 
father and mother, who had lived 
so many years in such mutual con- 
cord. I conceived my father 
would have presently accused her 
that she had persuaded me ; and, 
whilst I left her in ignorance, she 
could clear herself and satisfy him, 
for it would have been a double 
cross to have seen them at vari- 
ance about me. My second mo- 
tive was that I doubted if she 
would have had resolution enough 
to have -helped me through those 
difficulties I foresaw I was to wade 
through ; for I, knowing her to be 
of a nature mild and timorous, had 
more faith in her prayers than in 
her help; [and thus] I was resolv- 
ed to acquaint my father with it 
first. 

He, by letter, desired me to let 
him know the cause of so apparent 
a discontent that all the world did 



take notice of. Upon this sum- 
mons I rallied up my forces, and 
finding, as if it were, that servile 
fear and human respect to vanish 
that had held me so long back, I 
set pen to paper, and very resolute- 
ly told him that, seeing he did so 
earnestly command, I would as in- 
genuously obey, assuring him that 
my discontent that all the world 
did wonder at sprung from no 
other source but that of a troubled 
conscience, I being no longer able 
to conform to a religion so errone- 
ous as the Protestant religion was, 
which discovery I had made by 
reading of histories, which had in- 
formed me of the antiquity of the 
Catholic religion. This I did in- 
tend to embrace, and it was the 
only thing which could restore me 
to my former peace of mind ; and 
I did add that I was so fully re- 
solved upon it that neither fire nor 
sword should alter my mind. 

Whilst I was expecting his an- 
swer I thought it now time to 
discover to my mother the cause of 
my discontent. She was overjoy- 
ed she should have one child that 
would be of her religion. I ac- 
quainted her with more than I had 
told my father, for I told her the 
great desire I had to retire from 
the world to some monastery. She 
was so ready to comply with me as 
even to sell her jewels but i should 
have help. I doubted not of her 
goodness, but I was sure her power 
would be soon restrained ; and no 
sooner was my father surprised 
with the discovery I had made 
him but I had a thundering letter, 
wherein he said that he wished he 
had not been so curious. Many 
conjurations I had not to discover 
this my conversion to the world, 
but to dissemble until his return, 
and he would procure those who 
should satisfie my doubts. At the 



160 One of Romes Recruits Tuuo Hundred Years Ago. 



same time he wrote to my mother, 
conjuring her, by the love she had 
for him (which he knew was not 
little), not to help me to any books, 
or give me any help, for that at his 
return he would satisfie me. 

This conjuration put my good 
mother into a great conflict of 
mind, as she expressed by her 
tears when she told me that she 
hoped that Almighty God would 
help and assist me, for she could 
only pray for me. I comfort- 
ed her all I could, and only beg- 
ged her blessing and prayers, 
saying that I did not doubt but 
God would end the work he had 
begun. 

Now did I behold myself left all 
alone to fight the battle ; I still 
with tears and earnest sighs im- 
ploring the help of God, who never 
forsakes a constant mind, and lie, 
I found, did strangely inwardly 
strengthen me. 

I returned answer to my father 
that, seeing there was no remedy, 
I would, for his .sake, dissemble, 
upon condition he would not force 
me any more to receive their com- 
munion. He in his return * to me 
did very willingly consent to that 
request. 

From this time until my father's 
return from England, which was 
not very many months after, I lived 
a dying life, with many disturb- 
ances of mind. I would at times, 
to be quit of my trouble", strive to 
reconcile myself to the Protestant 
religion, but it was impossible. I 
was still, as with a forcible hand, 
drawn back again, and interiorly 
still more confirmed that none but 
the Catholic religion was the truth. 

At what time soever I acted f 
anything in reference to my cofc- 
version all fear vanished. Every 
one had a greater apprehension of 

* Answer. t Did. 



my father's rei^rn than r> 
though I was greatly in awe ^ 
in all other . tiling besides what 
concerned my conscience and my 
religion, for not one of his children 
had he kept under the curb so 
much as he kept me in my minori- 
ty ; but now the fear of God over- 
came my natural fear, and I did so 
little apprehend seeing him that I 
longed for his coming. 

The hour arriving, he was no 
sooner entered the house but I 
was the very first that met him to 
give him the welcome, expressing 
a more than wonted joy at his re- 
turn. I cheerfully begged his bless- 
ing, but it was sooner craved than 
granted, for he, with a severe as- 
pect, seemed to overlook me. He 
only returned me a deaf ear and a 
dumb mouth, but hastened to my 
sister, and with more than an ordi- 
nary kindness embraced her. This 
being the least I could expect, it 
did neither surprise nor daunt me, 
but I looked on it as the prologue 
to the acts that were to follow. 

Notwithstanding this 'foresaid 
slight of my offended father, I was 
still very officious about him in 
being more ready at hand than 
ever to serve him at every turn, 
but I was still elbowed away, and 
none of my little services accepted, 
but my sister still employed and 
addressed on set purpose to gall 
me; but it did not work the effect 
fqr which it was done. Still, with 
simplicity of heart, I made my ad- 
dresses to Heaven, which seemed 
to hear me by prospering all I did, 
and by giving me strength and 
courage to overcome great diffi- 
culties. 

This disdainful manner of pro- 
ceeding of my father's lasted two 
or three years, in which time he 
gave 'me not one good look, nor 
one ill word nor yet a good one, I 



One of Rome's Recruits Two Hundred Years Ago. 161 



i | ifor he rar/jjy- spoke to me 
. !t tiig, doubtless, by thus dis- 
countenancing me to have tired 
me out. But by nature I hated in- 
constancy in my undertakings, and 
much more in a thing on which 
my salvation depended ; but he 
was ignorant who it was that 
strengthened me, and whom I was 
determined never to forsake. 

Whilst my father was thus mute 
I was not idle, but began to cast 
about how and by what means I 
should bring to pass what I was 
now fully resolved upon. I saw he 
sought only to tire me out, and 
used no means to satisfy me any 
manner of way. Because of my 
promise I still went to church with' 
him, which was my greatest tor- 
ment, yet I saw no remedy. My 
only way was to dissemble my re- 
sentments, and with my father also, 
as artificially as he had dissembled 
with me, until I could find an op- 
portunity to give him and the world 
the slip. This was now resolved 
upon to wit, to make a virtue of 
necessity. 

I now dissembled all my trouble 
of mind, and was more sociable 
and cheerful, insomuch that my 
father began to think that the 
storm of my mind was blown over. 
He began upon this to be cun- 
ningly kind, intermixing it with a 
kind of displeasure. I took all 
that came with the same counte- 
nance, and, whilst I seemed to do 
nothing, did act most, and made 
in my heart a firm resolution not 
to rest plotting until I had found 
a way to convey myself privately 
away to some monastery ; for I saw 
it was a folly for me to hope, if I 
stayed in the world, to have any 
liberty of conscience. 

On a time when I was revolving 
in my mind what to do, it came 
into my memory that I had seen a 
VOL. xxix. ii 



monastery of English Austin Nuns 
nine years before, when I lived in 
Flanders, at Bruges. I found a 
way to convey a letter to the supe- 
rior thereof, from whom I received 
a very civil return. This was some 
small comfort, that I had at least 
some one to ease my mind unto. 
I found, by her lines, she was a 
wise and discreet woman. Many 
secret letters passed between us 
for above a year. Then she died, 
and I continued my correspon- 
dence with her successoress. 

Now, things beginning to be set- 
tled in England, our family was 
upon its return to its native coun- 
try. I began to cast about how in 
England as well as here I might 
continue this 'foresaid correspon- 
dence, and therefore I desired the 
lady of the monastery to direct me 
to some Catholic to whom I might 
safely confide for the conveyance 
of my letters to her. The answer 
to this, directing me to a good 
lady, an aunt of hers, did very nar- 
rowly escape my father's fingers, 
which if he had opened I should 
have been in a worse condition 
than ever; but Providence was more 
favorable than to permit it. And 
it happened thus : Being abroad 
with my father and mother in a 
coach, the lackey brought my let- 
ter and presented it to my father, 
and said that it came from Ghent. 
Fancying that it might be mine, 
and seeing my father going to take 
it, I snatched it suddenly, and said, 
" It's mine " an act in another cir- 
cumstance I durst not have done; 
and I admired that no reproof fol- 
lowed. He only said, " From whom 
is that letter ?"' I answered, "From 
one of my companions "; which he, 
contrary to his wonted inquisitive- 
ness, let pass and took no further 
notice of; but had he observed the 
discomposure of my countenance, 



1 62 One of Rome's Recruits Two Hundred Years Ago. 



he might have seen that there was 
more than ordinary in the busi- 
ness. 

In the year of our Lord 1661 all 
our family were conveyed to Eng- 
land ; a tedious and troublesome, 
dangerous journey it was. My 
heart, God knows, sailed one way 
while the ship sailed another. All 
the comfort I had whilst I rowed 
thus against the stream sprung 
from an inward assurance : I felt 
that I should be a nun and end 
iny days in religion ; and in the 
midst of the storm, when there was 
danger to be cast away, the inward 
assurance never forsook me, but I 
encouraged all not to fear, espe- 
cially my mother, who even de- 
spaired of more seeing land. I 
desired her divers times not to 
fear, and that I was confident we 
should not be lost ; and I went still 
repeating to myself, " I shall not 
be drowned ; I shall be a nun," and 
was no more frightened at the vio- 
lent rolling of the ship than if I 
had been on land. 

Towards morning the storm ceas- 
ed, and the mariners came and 
told us in what an imminent dan- 
ger we had been, and how near the 
sands ; and added that a thing hap- 
pened that night they had never 
seen before since they had been at 
sea to wit, that, when they were 
almost in despair, fathoming the 
water, and found themselves so 
near the sands, there came sudden- 
ly a strong gale of a contrary wind 
than what they had had before, 
and blew the ship from the sands a 
league into the sea, which if it had 
blown it as fast forward, it must 
have perished, and they themselves 
stood surprised at the novelty. 

Now, being arrived at London, 
I gave myself hardly leave to re- 
pose before I was informing my- 
self how 1 should find out the 



'foresaid lady that I was directed 
unto, so that I might renew my 
intercourse with the lady of the 
cloyster. It was not long before I 
found out her lodgings. She, having 
had notice of me, entertained me 
with much courtesy. There it was 
where I first spoke with any priest, 
and who confirmed me in the faith 
and encouraged me in my enter- 
prise. This was some comfort, but 
I durst not partake thereof too 
often for fear of being discovered. 
At last, not daring to go so often 
out myself, I did spy a goody honest, 
simple wench in the place where I 
lodged, that I thought a fit instru- 
ment for my purpose, and she very 
faithfully carried and brought my 
letters. 

The fear I was in that my father 
would convey his family into the 
country made me beg of Almighty 
God that he would so dispose that 
my father might take an house and 
remain [if] but one year at London, 
from whence I knew it was easier 
to get than out of the country. 
My prayers were heard, and, I can- 
not tell on what motive, he did re- 
main at London just one year, to 
my great joy; and, not to lose my 
instrument, I prevailed with my 
mother to take the 'foresaid maid 
for our wash -maid, which she did 
to please me, but she knew not my 
motive. 

Now, most fortunately, the back 
door of the house my father had 
hired in Holborn came out into a 
street called Fetter Lane, and th,ere 
were lodged the two Jesuits that I 
had just made acquaintance withal, 
so that I could easily slip out to 
their lodgings. 

At this time my father was in 
great hopes that I might be wrought 
upon, though I was never further 
off it. He, to give a trial to his 
suppositions, spoke to the Bishop 



One of Rome's Recruits Two Hundred Years Ago. 163 



of Winchester to sound me, and 
try if he could settle me in the re- 
ligion I was forsaking. My mother . 
informed me that there was such a 
thing in agitation, and that this 
pretended bishop should come to 
use his power to try and pervert 
me ; for which his lordship should 
have a banquet for his reward, 
which was already prepared. 

I was very glad to hear this news, 
and did assure my mother that I 
did not fear his lordship, and that, 
as I would order the business, he 
should miss of his sweet recom- 
pense as well as of his pretence. 

Never after this did this bishop 
come to our house but I would be 
still at his elbow, and often would 
my mother say, " Why will you be 
still where that man is?" "To 
show him, madam," replied I, 
" that I am not afraid of him." I 
longed for the combat, and when 
the time drew near he was to come, 
I, to hasten his lordship into the 
field, wrote to him, desiring him to 
make haste, telling him, amongst 
many things, that if Joseph 'had not 
gone into Egypt his dream had 
never come to pass, and that like- 
wise, if so be I had spoken with 
him, possibly my designs would be 
the sooner effected, leaving it to 
my lord's learning to interpret what 
I meant. 

He returned me for answer that 
he would wait on me as soon as he 
had been with his Majesty at St. 
James'. 

The day after my lord came and 
called for me. I deferred not long 
to hear what his lordship had to 
say to me. It were too long to 
rehearse my hour's dispute I had 
with him. I shall only touch on 
some principal passages. 

Now, he having blamed me for 
offering to forsake the religion my 
father had brought me up in, I 



asked him if there was no salvation 
in the Catholic Church. He re- 
plied (most learnedly, if you ob- 
serve) that there was for such as 
were brought up in that simplicity, 
but for one that had been taught 
and knew better things he much 
doubted, and it was dangerous. 
But I fully remember that he spoke 
this so faintly, and with so little 
vigor, just as a man speaks when 
he speaks against his conscience ; 
so that this startled me not at all. 
He demanded my motives why I 
would make a change. I told him 
that I thought I could not be saved 
in the Protestant faith. He then 
told me that the Protestant Church 
was conformable to the primitive 
times, and that after the first sixth 
hundred it was corrupted by the 
superstitions brought in by several 
popes ; but the Protestant Church 
was as a weeded garden, and was 
a reformed church and free from 
error now. I replied that I found 
in the gospel that our Saviour 
promised that it should never err, 
and that hell gates should never 
prevail against it. How is it, then ? 
Is man fain to re-form because God 
cannot perform or keep his pro- 
mise ? This is strange. Moreover, 
if the church can err, what assur- 
ance can there be of any salvation ? 
It can as well lead me to hell as to 
heaven. At the same time I told 
him that that very confession of 
Protestants, " that the church could 
err," was the. very thing that had 
made me forsake that church ; and 
because the Catholic Church could 
not err made me the more willing 
to embrace their faith. 

Then he alleged a whole cata- 
logue of errors, speaking against 
the belief in the Real Presence, pray- 
ing to Our Blessed Lady and saints, 
and several ceremonies he con- 
demned. To these points I, hav- 



164 One of Rome's Recruits Two Hundred Years Ago. 



ing no learning to insist upon them, 
and knowing, if I did, that he would 
speedily overthrow me though not 
overcome me by his rhetoric and 
scholastic queries, I simply told his 
lordship that, as for the Real Pres- 
ence, I took the words as they 
stood, and seeing it was our Lord's 
last will and testament, and that 
the divine mouth of Truth had it- 
self said, "This is my -Flesh in- 
deed," and " This is my Blood in- 
deed," it became me not to give 
our Lord the lie and say, " It is 
not true," as the Protestants do ; I 
thought it more just and pious to 
submit my judgment. And as for 
the other things he called errors, I 
thought it absurd for me to call in 
question what hath been approved 
and denned long since by an uni- 
versal church and confirmed by 
councils ; and withal that history 
could tell me that there had been 
a time when no Protestants were 
heard of, neither could it be call- 
ed an universal church, as God's 
church ought to be; and if I went 

out of England I could not go to 
church. 

To this he made I know not what 
insignificant replies ; that the Jes- 
uits had put these things into my 
head; but he did wrong them. 
Then I Basked him where the 
Church of England was in Crom- 
-well's time ? He told me it was 
still in being; that every one's 
church was in his own heart. I 
replied, between jest and earnest, 
I was not so artificial * as to build 

churches, and so I would go to a 
visible church ; to one that was 
united (for I could not find ten 
Protestants of one mind or opin- 
ion). 

To all this his lordship answered 
so faintly and indifferently, and so 
.little to the purpose, that it moved 

* Skilful. 



me not ; but possibly his dry an- 
swers sprung from a disdain he 
had to dispute with a girl, 'as I 
was, in comparison of him,' who 
was ancient enough to have been 
my grandfather. In fine, after a 
long to-and-fro dispute, and tell- 
ing me still that it was the Jesu- 
its that had put these things in 
my head (although I had not had 
an hour's discourse with a Jesuit 
in my life, nor hardly half an hour, 
in. regard that, my excursions being 
by stealth, I durst not be so long 
absent from home, and none durst 
come to me; yet "it was the 
Jesuits that had deluded " me). 

Now his grace, being weary, took 
a quick way to ease himself and 
end the dispute, sending me to 
study the Scriptures, saying some- 
what earnestly : " Come, madam, 
take the Scriptures, and pray Al- 
mighty God to illuminate you ; 
there is truth to be found in 
them/' 

I thereupon replied: "Indeed, my 
lord, I do believe you do wish you 
had not made the Scriptures so 
common, for from thence lias 
sprung up, by false interpreting 
the Scriptures, so many heresies 
and false opinions as are in Eng- 
land." 

He was a little mute upon this, 
and waived the answer, still per- 
sisting that I should search the Scrip- 
tures. Then I told him that indeed 
I understood them not, because in 
many places they seemed to contra- 
dict themselves. 

Upon this reply his lordship be- 
gan to be somewhat angry, and 
told me that it was a blasphemy 
to say so. I replied that in their 
true sense I knew they did not 
contradict themselves, but in the 
literal sense there were many con- 
tradictions I could not reconcile. 

" Show me," said he, raising his 



One of Rome's Recruits Two Hundred Years Ago. 165 



voice, " one contradiction in the 
whole Bible." 

My lord bishop thought here to 
have posed his effeminate defend- 
ant ; but I, no whit daunted, found 
a very fit piece of Scripture for his 
purpose at that time or rather Al- 
mighty God, who sometimes con- 
founds the wise by the weak, found 
it for me for just upon this pinch 
came into my mind a place in the 
Proverbs of Solomon that stopped 
my lord's mouth, 

"I will, sir, show you one present- 
ly; for, pray my lord," said I, " doth 
it not stand written in such a place 
in the Proverbs, ' Answer not a 
fool, for fear you partake of his 
folly,' and then in the very next 
verse doth it not stand, ' Yet an- 
swer him, for fear he should seem 
wise in his own eyes ' ? Now, my 
lord, am I to answer the fool, by 
Scripture, or not ? Is not this 
a plain contradiction ? * Answer 
not,' yet * answer.' ' 

Upon this he was like a man 
struck dumb, and answered not one 
single word, but did turn from me 
suddenly. Whether it was that he 
thought I had called him fool, by 
Scripture, or to hide his smile at 
the piece I had picked out, I know 
not; but, without turning round- he 
asked me where my father was. I 
told him I knew not; and, bestow- 
ing a coy curtsy on his lordship 
for his pains, and my father not 
being at home, his worship went 
away as wise as he came, without 
the fine banquet that was prepared 
for him, as I had foretold. I was 
informed afterwards that the bishop 
told my father there was no good 
to be done with me, for I was so 
obstinate that if an angel should 
have come from heaven and tell 
me anything but what I had got 
into my head he would not be 
able to prevail. And I do believe 



so, too, if an angel should speak 
no more to the purpose, or have no 
more zeal to gain a soul than his 
lordship had. 

Now, having, by Almighty God's 
goodness, passed thus happily this 
brunt, I began with a new vigor 
and courage to prosecute my de- 
sign, which I saw must be this 
year (1663) or never, because the 
year after our family was to go 
down to Norfolk. While I de- 
spatched letters to the lady of the 
monastery, I also took counsel of 
the two Jesuits of my acquaintance 
how to get away. 

One danger more my letters did 
escape. One day the [aunt of the] 
'foresaid lady sent me a packet of 
letters by a lackey of hers, who 
asked for the wench that always 
did receive them for me. She be- 
ing in a chamber above, smoothing 
of linen, the cook-n\aid was too 
lazy to call her, and did let the 
boy stand expecting at the door. 
It being hot weather, and he. weary, 
he sat down and fell asleep with 
my letters in his hand. Here did 
Divine Providence help me; for, as 
she did assure me (she being a 
good, ignorant, simple wench, but 
very faithful), she all on the sudden 
had such a propension to go down 
that she had no power to go on 
with her work ; down she must 
go, though she knew neither why 
nor wherefore. Then her fellow- 
servant told her there was a boy 
at the door would speak with 
her. She went, and found the 
youth fast asleep, with my letters 
in his hand. She, talcing them, 
sent the boy away, and brought 
them, telling me what a hazard 
they had run ; for, said she, " I had 
no sooner taken the letters but 
your father came with several gen- 
tlemen out of the parlor to go 
abroad." I blessed Almighty God 



1 66 One of Rome's Recruits Two Hundred Years Ago. 



for this great deliverance ; for had 
my father intercepted those letters, 
I had been quickly secured from 
getting away. 

As the time grew shorter my 
care grew greater and difficulties 
did increase. I was [still] constrain- 
ed to act two several parts to wit, 
to obey God's call, and also seem 
to comply with the world. 

I kept the world in play, 
While God I did obey. 

I followed the modes, and talked 
of nothing but vanities, but at the 
same time I did write to the mon- 
astery to .desire them to send one 
over to fetch me. The thirty 
pound a year that was allowed me 
for my maintenance I laid up to 
travel withal. I consulted with 
such as were privy to my designs, 
which were only one lady and two 
Jesuits, which fathers were very 
zealous in my cause until they 
were prohibited to meddle with 
my concerns. 

I, being ignorant of this com- 
mand, and thinking to find help 
now at my last pinch, found myself 
again left to shift for myself; for, 
coming one day, as I was wont, to 
the lodgings of one of these fa- 
thers, I found him very sad, and 
spoke not as he used to do. I 
marvelled at his change, but at 
last, very unwillingly, he told me 
he had a command from his pro- 
vincial not to meddle with my 
business. 

This was most surprising news, 
and at first startled me and strook 
me even into tears ; I was even 
struck dumb for a while ; but recov- 
ering myself, I said : " Well, if man 
will not help me, I am sure God will ! 
I will go, though I should wade 
through the ocean." 

He admired to see me so reso- 
lute, and replied, " I think thou 



art more than a woman," and bid 
me do, in God's name, what I 
would, but: he could only pray for 
me. I then desired him to let me 
know where the cautious provin- 
cial was, for I was resolved to let 
him know my mind, were it but to 
ease it. He then bade me write, 
for he was as much troubled as 
myself. As soon, therefore, as I 
returned home I did set pen to 
paper. . . . [Notwithstanding my 
letter] he did but redouble his 
commands, saying I had courage 
enough to do it alone. He after- 
wards came to the monastery and 
made me his late apology, and told 
me indeed my lines made him 
weep, but not to compassion. But 
Almighty God would have it thus, 
to make the work his own. 

I did receive a letter from the 
lady of the monastery to come 
with all speed, and that she would 
receive me with open arms. Here 
the heavens opened, and I revived, 
with new hopes of good success. 

By this time the person that was 
to fetch me was come to town, and 
I appointed her to meet me at a 
certain place. Here had I like to 
have had another 1 stop, for I found 
her in a strange perplexity about 
taking me with her, seeing that 
some one had scared her, telling 
her that she should take heed what 
she did, and remember whose 
daughter I was ; and that if ever my 
father should find out that it was 
she that conveyed me away, he 
might put her into trouble, and she 
should never dare to set her foot 
in England again ; so that she in a 
manner refused to take me, being 
now ready to go with her the next 
day. This was another stratagem 
of the devil to discourage me, but 
it took no effect. 

I found a charm that banished 
all her fears. I flung into her lap 



One of Rome's Recruits Tivo Hundred Years Ago. 167 



seven pound, and told her if she 
would bring me safe unto the mon- 
astery I would demand of her no- 
thing else. 

This golden cordial revived her 
fainting spirits, and she most cour- 
ageously told me that, seeing I 
had so much courage, she would 
have no less. Then she took my 
trunk and conveyed it before, and 
appointed me to meet her next 
morning, about eight of the clock, 
in the same place. 

This being concluded, I return- 
ed home, very thoughtful of what 
I was about to undertake. Many 
great combats I had that day and 
the next night, not being able to 
sleep one wink. The night be- 
fore I went away my mother bid 
me put on my best apparel to go 
a-visiting the next day. I thought 
to myself, "I have a visit to make 
you know little of!" 

I rose the next morning betimes, 
and went to my prayers a good 
while; then went to my mother's 
chamber, and stood and discoursed 
with her for a while, who wonder- 
ed to see me so early up and with 
her, which was very unusual with 
me. In going out I sighed, for 
my heart was full. I begged her 
blessing, and thought in my heart, 
"Dear mother, you little think you 
shall see me no more!" 

Now, as if Divine Providence 
would give me free passage, this 
very week my father, uncle, bro- 
ther, and cousin were gone in- 
to the country, so that I feared 
not to be pursued, which I should 
have been in danger of had any of 
these remained in town. But the 
coast being clear, and I finding my 
mind and heart replenished with 
a more than wonted vigor and 
courage, went to my closet and 
writ two letters, the one to my fa- 
ther, to beg his blessing and par- 



don for my going away without his 
knowledge, telling him that no- 
thing but the love of God and 
liberty of conscience should ever 
have made me separate myself 
from his obedience; and withal 
desired him not to lay my depar- 
ture to my mother's charge, for it 
was as great a secret to her as to 
himself. 

In the letter I writ to my mo- 
ther, who I knew would be over- 
whelmed with sorrow to part with 
me, and on the other side no less 
joyed to have one child a Catholic 
and religious, I comforted her by 
telling her how happy I should be 
in the place I was going to, acquaint- 
ing her with my intention of being 
a religious. 

These letters I sealed and laid 
them upon my table. I put my 
hoods and scarfs in my coat, and, 
taking a book in my hand, went as 
if I was going to walk in the garden. 
I met only with the maid that had 
so faithfully carried my letters. I 
gave her then a reward, though she 
did little think it would be the 
last, as also the last time that she 
would see me. As soon as the 
coast was clear I slipped out at 
the back gate to meet my conduc- 
tor. At my going from my father's 
house I did not shed a tear, but 
I trembled ; and although Nature 
was upon the rack, I found myself 
inwardly encouraged and strength- 
ened, so that it seemed not in my 
power to desist, and all things did 
connect to advance my design of 
leaving the world. 

My conductress, Mrs. Fosset, 
stood ready in the place I had ap- 
pointed her to meet me. My trunk 
having gone before, I did take the 
Canterbury wagon, refusing the 
coach, in regard that if so be I was 
followed and sought after they 
would sooner examine a coach. 



1 68 One of Rome s Recruits Tivo Hundred Years Ago. 



Being arrived at Dover, there I 
was examined what my name was. 
I told them Catherine Brown, and 
by that name I was registered in 
the book. I did change my name 
for fear of being discovered, and 
in effect there were several gentle- 
men that went over at the same 
time that knew very well our 
family ; but thus I escaped, incog- 
nita, until I came safe to my jour- 
ney's end. The next day I took 
the packet-boat, and in twenty- 
four hours I was wafted over and 
arrived in Flanders, and so came 
at last to my desired haven that 
was, to the monastery of the Aus- 
tin Nuns where I received a very 
kind welcome from the superior 
thereof, who was the niece of Rev. 
Mother Augustin Benedfield, with 
whom I had begun to correspond, 
but she died before I did compass 
my design. So I was accepted 
with much charity and goodness, 
for they were not certain if they 
should ever have a penny with me, 
by reason my father was so highly 
offended with me for going away 
without his leave and. for changing 
my religion. But though I was 
come, as I may say, blindfold to 
the state of life God had chosen 
for me for I was as ignorant as a 
child what a religious life was and 
what would be required of my 
hands I was not frustrated of the 
hope I had to find the happiness I 
had proposed to myself. 

A lady that had helped me, after- 
wards coming to our monastery to 
be a nun in the same, related to me 
the great confusion our family was 
in when they did miss me, which 
was about dinner-time, to which 
being called, I was not found. 
Servants were sent about to all 
that knew me, but none could give 
any account of me. It was judged 
by all that I was run away with 



some gallant, for going to be a 
nun and leave the world was the 
last of their thoughts. At last they 
found the two letters I had left 
upon the table in my room, which 
informed them whither I had gone, 
but I was out of their reach of 
overtaking me when they found 
them. 

Many a letter was sent after me, 
especially by my father, blaming 
me for my rash action and disobe- 
dience; to which I answered that 
a thing that had been above three 
years in agitation could not be 
looked upon as rash, that I did 
beg his pardon, and that I was not 
able any longer to go against my 
conscience. 

I again earnestly soliciting his 
pardon, he in a few lines answered 
me : " I here give you my pardon, 
seeing you desire it from my own 
hand, and remain your affectionate 
father J. H." 

After this 'foresaid letter he never 
writ to me more, but he would re- 
ceive mine, and now and then, 
when I demanded it, send me some 
token, [as] on the death of my 
honored and dear mother, who was 
joyed that she had one child of her 
own religion, and was very kind; 
but when death deprived me of 
her I was as a stranger to all the 
rest of my kindred. 

To the end to be able to settle 
myself in religion, I addressed my- 
self to a great friend of my father's, 
which was the Duke of Norfolk, 
Henry Howard. He being a very 
good Catholic, and understanding 
how the case stood between me 
and my father, took the business 
in hand to procure me a portion, 
to the snd to be professed. He 
then did me the honor to adopt 
me as his daughter, and told my fa- 
ther that, if so be he would not give 
me a portion, that he himself would 



Protesting Christians. 



169 



give me one. My father did reply 
that he would not give me any 
portion, only, in regard he would 
not consent any one else should 
maintain any of his children, see- 
ing he was able to do it himself, 
he would send an alms to the mon- 
astery, that they might not be 
burdened with me; and then, by 
the hand of the same duke, sent 
four hundred pounds three weeks 
after my noviceship had ended. 
I did not care what he called what 
he sent, a portion or an alms I was 
sufficiently joyed ; . . . and then my 
mother supplied other charges, and 
was very kind to me until her death. 
The happy day of my settlement 
being come, which was the yth of 
September, 1664, the duke came to 
my baptism, and gave me, instead 
of my father, to God, and was ever 
after most obliging. 



By this means I was settled, 
after a great deal of trouble, in the 
state of life I had so long desired, 
in the which I live truly content ; 
and no little satisfaction of mind it 
was to me [that] I was out of dan- 
ger of ever being in the slavery of 
marriage,* for which I had so great 
an aversion, and there was no 
other way to avoid it but by em- 
bracing the state of religion. In- 
finite was the goodness of God 
toward me, for he caused all things 
to conclude for my advantage, 
whilst I did only desire his holy 
will might be done to his own 
glory, for whose sake I had 
forsaken all the pleasures of the 



Fair Truth has charms 
In such a plenteous store : 

Who sees her, loves ; 
Who knows her, must adore. 



PROTESTING CHRISTIANS. 



A PROTESTANT is a Christian 
who is not a Catholic. We do not 
know that we can get nearer to a 
definition. There may be "acci- 
dental " distinctions between the 
baptized and the unbaptized, be- 
tween the more positive and the 
more negative sort of Protestants ; 
but " essentially " a Protestant be- 
lieves in Christ and does not ac- 
cept the authority of the Holy See. 
It is true that, speaking popularly, 
when we use the word Protestant 
we mean to imply much more than 
this. We mean the angry or sullen 
protest against half a dozen dog- 
mas, against the spirit of the his- 
tory of the church. We mean 
schism, and heresy, and fierce 
controversy. We mean hatred of 



confession, and disbelief in the 
Mass, and contempt for the preten- 
sions of priesthood. What do we 
not mean, in the way of " heretical 
pravity," when we use that most 
unpleasant word, Protestant ? But 
sinceno two Protestants have exactly 
thesame belief, or profess exactly the 
same grounds for their belief, it 
would be idle to attempt to define 
the indefinable, or to try to suc- 
cessfully postulate a negative. 

Our motive for the consideration of 
the word Protestant, and for the con- 
sideration of whatever it involves, is 
the hope that we may be able to com- 

* In one of her Prayers, or Meditations, which 
in the MS. follow the account of her life, Sister 
Catherine again expresses her thankfulness for hav- 
ing been preserved from being " ty'd to a lump of 
animated clay." 



Protesting Cliristians. 



bat its newest meaning, which is " to 
protest that a true Protestant is not 
a Protestant." The English Ritual- 
ists have asserted that the true 
spirit of the Church of England 
(which is admittedly the highest 
development of non- Catholicism) 
is not Protestant but Catholic ; is 
first Catholic, then Anglican; is too 
primitive to be in any way Protes- 
tant. The assumption is so sub- 
lime that it seems irrefutable. We 
bow respectfully to a theory which 
is beyond us. Because the Church 
of England is primitive, because it 
is "the purest form of Catholi- 
city," because it was born before 
the erring Church of Rome, and 
was, indeed, the mother of that sad 
offspring, therefore who does not 
see that the Church of England 
cannot protest against an institu- 
tion which is so infinitely below 
it ? True, indeed, the particular 
establishment called " Church of 
England " came into modern exist- 
ence in the sixteenth century ; true, 
its material and its demonstrative 
characteristics remained invisible 
for the space of, say, a thousand 
years ; yet since pure Anglicanism 
was the religion of the first centu- 
ries, and since pure Anglicanism is 
the religion of the Ritualists, it fol- 
lows that every Ritualist is in the 
position of an heir-at-law who 
looks down with contempt on bas- 
tard rivals. How can such an heir 
condescend to protest against the 
pretenders who have appropriated 
some of his acres ? He rather lives 
in solemn majesty in his hereditary 
castle, and does not even recognize 
his neighbors. Protest may be for 
lesser and weaker minds ; but the 
true heirs of primitive truth are 
above it. 

If this seem but a pleasantry, and 
not a statement of position, we re- 
ply that it is both the one and the 



other. The Ritualists have two ways 
of treating the Roman Catholic 
Church, and both are a protest against 
protest. The one way is to ignore it 
as an unavoidable evil ; the other way 
is to patronize its good points. As to 
protesting, they leave that to Low- 
Churchmen. They positively exe- 
crate the word protest in its histo- 
rical and in its doctrinal meaning. 
They will have it that the Church 
of England never protested against 
Rome,but assumed (in the sixteenth 
century) the Catholic attitude ; or 
that, at the most, a temporary pro- 
test was begotten by Roman atti- 
tude, but was no expression of pure 
Church-of-Englandism. They ad- 
mit that English Protestantism is an 
historical fact, but not that it is 
Anglican or Catholic. It is an ac- 
cident of the corruptions of sheer 
ignorance. The Church of Eng- 
land is Catholic, was Catholic, must 
be Catholic ; people who call them- 
selves Protestants are not Angli- 
can. 

We have not the least intention 
of proving that modern Ritualism 
is not the religion which was pro- 
fessed by the Christians of the 
" early church " that would be a 
subject beyond our compass nor 
is it the immediate subject we 
would investigate. What we pro- 
pose to do is to show that the 
Church of England is essentially, 
and also exclusively, a Protestant 
church, and that if it were not 
Protestant it would be nothing. 
There are three ways of proving 
this Anglican Protestantism: the 
first is the Protestant attitude of 
the Reformers royal, episcopal, 
priestly, and lay. The second is 
the whole history of Anglican for- 
mularies. The third is the whole 
history of Anglican sentiment. 

In a pamphlet which was pub- 
lished last year by an English 



Protesting Christians. 



171 



judge of county courts, and of 
which the title was, Is the Church 
of England Protestant? it was as- 
serted that in the reign of Eliza- 
beth "there was no union of the 
Church of England with Protestant- 
ism " ; that Protestantism " may gra- 
tify the mental cravings of Scotch 
Calvinists and Irish Orangemen, 
but, by the grace of God, it is not 
the religion of the Church of Eng- 
land." 

This statement is so opposed to 
universal recognition that we must 
be excused for pronouncing it to 
be eccentric. If there is one word 
which would describe the Eliza- 
bethan faith and piety ; which 
would sum up the religious princi- 
ples of the disastrous forty years 
during which Queen Elizabeth bru- 
tally reigned ; and which would 
aptly give the character of all Ang- 
lican legislation, as well as of the 
hideous penal laws against Catho- 
lics, that word is emphatically Pro- 
testant. Queen Elizabeth could 
only reign because she was a Pro- 
testant ; and her successors have 
only reigned on the same condi- 
tion. The reign of Elizabeth was 
the introduction and the firm set- 
tling of the principle of political 
Protestantism. From the time 
when she ascended the throne po- 
litical Protestantism has been des- 
potic, and Anglican Protestantism 
lias been inseparably allied with 
the political Protestantism which 
created it. Even Charles II. could 
only recover his throne on condi- 
tion that he supported both Protes- 
tantisms. James II. forfeited his 
throne for not doing so. In 1688 
the new dynasty was established on 
the condition of the same twofold 
faithfulness. Queen Victoria was 
pledged at her coronation to 
"maintain the Protestant religion 
as by law established," the same 



twofold Protestantism being de- 
manded of her which was demand- 
ed of all her Anglican predeces- 
sors. Protestantism and the Eng- 
lish sovereignty are inseparable ; 
and so are the English sovereignty 
and Anglicanism. 

But, next, to show that the sym- 
pathies of the English sovereignty, 
always evinced through the Parlia- 
ment and through the church, were 
in the direction of " pure and sim- 
ple " Protestantism, as opposed to 
any relations with Rome, let it be 
mentioned that Charles II. and 
James I., as well as the Convoca- 
tion of the clergy, by many acts of 
the most formal and public charac- 
ter, expressed their sympathy with 
the Protestant churches of the 
Continent and their abhorrence of 
all sympathy with Catholics. At 
the Synod of Dort the officially- 
sent Anglicans acted in brotherly 
concert with the Protestants. Con- 
vocation very frequently addressed 
the crown on behalf of foreign Pro- 
testant sects. And what is far 
more important, for it thoroughly 
settles the question of Anglican 
indifference about " priesthood " 
Anglican bishops, in the time 
of the Stuarts, formally recogniz- 
ed Presbyterianly-ordained clergy. 
This last point is of such obvious 
interest in the historical argument 
for " Protestantism " 'that we must 
give to it a moment's attention. 
The late Mr. Keble, a most dis- 
tinguished High-Churchman, ac- 
knowledged that " numbers had 
been admitted to the ministry of 
the Church of England with no 
better than Presbyterian ordina- 
tion," and that this had taken 
place " nearly up to the time when 
Hooker wrote." And Bishop Co- 
sin, writing from Paris in 1650, said 
that he had known ministers who 
were not episcopally ordained, but 



Protesting Christians. 



only ordained according to the 
rites of a Protestant sect that is, 
of some French Protestant sect 
admitted to charges by bishops of 
the Church of England without be- 
ing episcopally re-ordained. " Nor 
did our laws," he wrote, " require 
more of such an one than to de- 
clare his public consent to the re- 
ligion received among us, and to 
subscribe the articles established." 
And he argued that, in the French 
Protestant sects, "the sacraments 
were duly administered according 
to Christ's ordinance in all those 
things that of necessity are requisite 
unto the same " ; though he thought 
that it was better to have episcopal 
ordination, as being the most pri- 
mitive in type. And Archbishop 
Bramhall, an Anglican of much 
weight, pronounced that Presbyte- 
rian ordination was sufficient for 
the due exercise of functions, 
though it would not give " legal " 
claim to church revenues; and he 
instituted and inducted Presbyteri- 
ans as " valid," though not " legal," 
Anglican priests. It was the state, 
not the church, which required 
episcopal ordination ; and this for 
legality, not validity. The truth 
is that the communion between 
the English Protestant Church and 
the foreign reformed Protestant 
churches was not only recognized 
but rejoiced in; and well might it 
be so, since the Anglican schism 
had put an end to all Catholic 
communion. 

If we pass to the consideration 
of the Protestant character of 
church formularies, we are really 
continuing the same " historical " 
argument for the essential, pro- 
found Protestantism of Anglican- 
ism. The Thirteen Articles of 
1538, like the Thirty-nine Articles 
of 1563, were Lutheran in spirit 
in origin. The Augsburg and 



the Wiirtemberg Confessions were 
the sources from which the latter 
were drawn. A careful comparison 
of these Articles with the Germanic 
Confessions will show that, in words 
as well as spirit, the paternity was 
recognized and venerated. And 
throughout the Book of Common 
Prayer (not priestly but Common 
Prayer), with all its shufflings, eva- 
sions, and compromises, Protestant- 
ism stands out all the more broad- 
ly and offensively from the inci- 
dental affectation of Catholicism. 
In no one doctrinal statement of 
the Anglican Prayer-Book is there 
a manly and honest profession of 
Catholic dogma; but there is al- 
ways the grave quibbling, and wrig- 
gling, and haggling which prove 
the Protestant bias and enmity. 
The Lutheran divines and the Lu- 
theran Confessions were the real, 
"primitive " sources of the formu- 
laries. Just as the orders of the 
Church of England were affectedly 
episcopal, with apologetic conces- 
sions to Presbyterianism, so the 
formularies of the Church of Eng- 
land were affectedly Catholic, with 
wholesale concessions to sectarian- 
ism. 

But that which proves the Pro- 
testantism of the Church of Eng- 
land, far more even than its shuf- 
fling orders and shuffling formula- 
ries, is the national sentiment of 
hostility to Catholicism which has 
always imbued the whole people. 
We find it difficult to argue grave- 
ly with those Ritualists who af- 
firm that the Church of England is 
not Protestant. It would be like 
attempting to argue gravely that 
the object of the Reformation was. 
to intensify the authority of the 
Holy See. What is Protestantism 
but resistance to that authority to- 
ward which all Christian unity must 
centre, the setting up the throne 



Protesting Christians. 



173 



of private judgment against the 
throne of the Vicar of Christ? And 
since, for centuries, every pulpit of 
the Church of England has rung 
with the protest against Rome, with 
the protest against dogmatic infal- 
libility, with the protest against 
Mass and against confession, with 
the protest against priesthood and 
against penance, with the protest 
against "hampering religious liber- 
ty," how unreal is it to pretend 
that Protestantism rank Protes- 
tantism is not the one master pas- 
sion of Anglicanism ! Because a 
few educated persons, less preju- 
diced than the masses, and less 
profoundly unacquainted with Ca- 
tholic philosophy, have felt asham- 
ed of their unreasoning hostility, 
or of what Leo XIII. calls " the 
delirium of reason," therefore it 
is assumed that the Church of Eng- 
land is not Protestant, but, on the 
contrary, is more Catholic than is 
Catholicism. All history is smooth- 
ed over, all facts are softened down, 
the whole national "delirium" is 
set aside, in order that High- 
Churchmen may theorize the posi- 
tion that Protestantism is an ac- 
cident, not an essence. Yet men 
who are well advanced both in 
years and experience men who 
have lived, say, for fifty years in 
England can tell us what are the 
recollections of their youth in re- 
gard to the national spirit of Pro- 
testantism. [We will speak on]y 
of England, both because it is the 
chief home of Ritualism and be- 
cause it is the most missionary 
Protestant country.] Before' " Pu- 
seyism " was first begotten at Ox- 
fordbefore the first of the Tracts 
for the Times was composed 
there was not one parish in Eng- 
land where the word Mass or the 
word confession, the word priest or 
the words " Sacramental Real Pre- 



sence," could be spoken without 
eliciting controversy. Every ser- 
mon which was preached, both in 
towns and in country parishes, was 
primarily characterized by the ab- 
sence of Catholic doctrine or by 
the presence of Protestant recrimi- 
nation. Whether from the pulpit 
of St. Paul's Cathedral in London 
or from the pulpit of any parochial 
city church, from the pulpit of St. 
Mary's Church, Oxford, or from 
the pulpit of any fashionable pro- 
prietary chapel, but one voice was 
heard, one teaching, one sentiment, 
and that was the protest against 
Rome. Nor could it matter what 
the oral teaching might be, since 
the material teaching was so em- 
phatic. The furniture of all church- 
es, the material exponents of all 
doctrine, were expressly framed 
with the view of pronouncing em- 
phatically that " no Catholic doc- 
trine would be admitted." The 
altar was always hidden behind the 
pulpit. The font was always care- 
fully put out of sight. The cler- 
gyman's robes were always studi- 
ously non-priestly. The clerk's 
desk was always pompously vica- 
rious. The pews had always doors 
and always bolts. The church or- 
naments were always offensively 
mundane. The monuments were 
always pagan or sentimental. The 
"lion and the unicorn" crowned 
the altar. The Ten Command- 
ments were supreme in doctrinal 
place. You could not find, in fur- 
niture or in structure, in any ma- 
terial intimation or symbol, one 
single suggestion of one Catholic 
doctrine, one emphatically Chris- 
tian credo. 

The writer of these pages well 
remembers with what delight he 
used to go, when a school-boy, to 
St. Paul's Cathedral. The music 
was so pretty, the psalms were so 



174 



Protesting Christians. 



well chanted, the anthem was so 
charmingly rendered, that no musi- 
cal treat could be more welcome 
to musical taste than that very 
pretty " afternoon service." But 
the music was the all in all of that 
service. The clergy and the cho- 
risters used to come rushing into 
their places like a flock of sheep 
which had broken loose from a 
pen; and they used to go through 
their duties in such a perfunctory 
way that they evidently thought 
the whole thing a "paid bore." 
Now all sucli details are changed. 
On Sunday morning such array of 
processional prettiness is organized 
in the vestry of the cathedral, such 
solemn walking precedes taking of 
place, that the idea which is sug- 
gested is the making the very most 
of a barren and non-Catholic cere- 
monial. Even the clergy now 
group themselves about the altar; 
college hoods are widely spread 
out like chasubles; and a big cross 
is placed on the communion-table, 
with two candlesticks and two 
noble gold plates. But why has 
this reformation taken place? Is 
it because Protestantism is no more, 
and aesthetic aspirations have sup- 
planted it, or is it in professed def- 
erence to the High-Churchism of 
the age and to a certain apprecia- 
tion of dogmatic need? The an- 
swer is that Protestantism is not 
dead, but that Catholicism has 
forced Protestantism to wear its 
" Sunday best." The sermons in St. 
Paul's Cathedral are still profound- 
ly anti-Catholic, tempered only with 
an educated ecclesiasticism ; and 
communion is administered with- 
out requiring confession which 
shows that the Real Presence is not 
a dogma. No preacher in St. Paul's 
Cathedral dare recommend con- 
fession, dare advocate the sacrifice 
of the Mass, dare profess his vene- 



ration for the Holy See; the most 
that he dare do is to round pious 
platitudes about " church doc- 
trines," "church services," "brd- 
therly union." The old Protes- 
tantism is precisely what it was, 
plus the homage of the imitation 
of Catholic form. The bishop of 
London would be down on any 
preacher who overstepped the dis- 
creet boundaries of compromise. 
To talk High-Churchism while not 
practising obedience ; to speak of 
sacraments while repudiating de- 
finition ; to revere the church while 
not deciding what it is ; to be very 
Catholic while not abandoning the 
national sect ; to respect the coun- 
cils while interpreting their teach- 
ing; and to quote the Fathers while 
expurgating their " popery "such 
are the silky shifts, the invertebrate 
evasions, which now characterize 
the teaching in high places. Pro- 
testantism is not so blatant as it 
was; it is more cunningly dialectic 
and tortuous. It has abandoned 
its purely negative attitude for a 
^positive affirmation of the indefi- 
nite. Yet its spirit is quite as ec- 
lectic as ever. Every clergyman 
and every layman creates his 
church. Implicit obedience is un- 
known. How can any one obey 
what is not ? 

And since Protestantism that 
is, the spirit of personal protest 
against one, infallible, divine church 
authority is as real and profound 
as it ever was, let us next put 
the question : Is not the spirit of 
Protestantism the exact opposite 
of the spirit of truth ? 

To answer this question it will 
be desirable to distinguish clearly 
between the protesting against au- 
thority and against doctrine. It 
is true that the one protest in- 
eludes the other in the Catholic 
estimation of obedience; but we 



Protesting Christians. 



175 



have to consider that High-Church- 
ism proposes obedience to church 
while proposing repudiation of some 
dogmas. The explanation is that, 
when the church was united, it 
necessarily taught what was true, 
but that, consequent upon the 
grave schisms of Christendom, the 
power of teaching became lost. 
The " protest " is therefore made 
against those " corrupt Roman 
teachings " which, presumably, en- 
sued upon division. Now, first, it 
is absurd, in purely logical argu- 
ment, to say that the church could 
lose its doctorship on account of 
the rebellion 'of its children; for 
the very use of her doctorship, its 
" reason of being," its divine ob- 
ject, its power, its gift, was to cor- 
rect and to punish, to excommuni- 
cate and to receive back, erring 
sons who had preferred private 
judgment. If the church could be- 
come fallible because her sons had 
become rebellious, then is rebel- 
lion the superior of infallibility ; 
and the taught are the masters, the 
reprovers of the teacher, and also 
its divine excommunicators. Core, 
Dathan, and Abiron took from Mo- 
ses the divine prerogatives which 
God gave to them conditionally on 
popular acceptance ! All power, 
and justice, and authority are de- 
pendent on the criminal's liking ! 
" I can only teach you," the church 
is made to say, " up to the point 
where you are so gracious as to 
agree with me ; but the moment 
you tell me I am mistaken my 
teaching power passes into your 
hands." This is the (logical) in- 
vention of High-Churchmen. It 
is indeed the most illogical, the 
most monstrous supposition which 
could possibly enter any Christian's 
head. If we must argue gravely 
on its merits, let us say that Al- 
mighty God, when he founded his 



church, did so with full knowledge 
of human nature ; that he was 
aware of the pride of the human 
intellect; and that he foresaw that, 
in long ages to corne, schism and 
heresy would abound. Becattse he 
foresaw this, say High-Churchmen, 
therefore he made the doctorship 
of his church to be dependent 
on the disobedience of her chil- 
dren, and ordained that, directly 
church authority should be want- 
ed, it should be lost pari passu 
with the need. Infallibility being 
necessary to judge heresy, heresy 
should take away infallibility ; and 
authority being necessary to pun- 
ish revolt, revolt should put an end 
to authority. This is the High- 
Church, Oxford logic. It does not 
do credit to her schools. How any 
student could think this, and yet 
take honors in head-work, is in- 
comprehensible to the Catholic 
common sense. 

So that, in truth, the considera- 
tion of obedience to authority, and 
the consideration of the acceptance 
of all its dogmas, are one and the 
same consideration. Yet since the 
point we are inquiring into is the 
Protestantism of the Church of 
England in all its. history, its for- 
mularies, its sentiment, let us take 
one "protesting" doctrine as the 
test of the fact that Church-of- 
Englandism is essentially non-Ca- 
tholic. The thirty-first Article of 
the Church of England pronounces 
that " the sacrifices of Masses, in 
which it was commonly said that 
the priests did offer Christ for the 
quick and the dead to have remis- 
sion of pain or guilt, were blasphe- 
mous fables and dangerous deceits," 
while the adoring the sacramental 
Real Presence is described by the 
same final authority as " idolatry 
to be abhorred of all faithful Chris- 1 * 
tians." And let it be added, cor- 



176 



Protesting Christians. 



relatively, that on all those many 
occasions when the Church of 
England has courted the favor of 
foreign sects (while never once 
courting the favor of the Catholic 
Church), the reason given, the 
main apology offered, has been 
that the rejecting the Mass was 
" common ground." Indeed, the 
one sovereign pretext of the whole 
Protestant schism has been the re- 
jection of the sacrifice of the Mass, 
" popery " being abhorred as the 
embodiment of the theory of sa- 
cerdotal prerogative and power. 
Now, this being the fact, how can 
the modern High-Churchmen, who 
make sacerdotalism their great 
" Catholic " claim, affect to be not 
Protestant on the one ground that 
they venerate what all their Ang- 
lican forefathers detested ? For, 
since Protestantism and Anglican- 
ism are the same thing, both must 
be accepted or abhorred. If the 
Ritualists would repudiate their 
"church" and profess themselves 
a perfectly new " sect," we might 
then contemplate their, pretensions 
on their merits ; but to affirm that 
they are Anglicans while repu- 
diating all Anglicanism is like 
a Dissenter giving the toast of 
" church and state!" What pre- 
cise place a High- Churchman may 
appropriate in the oasis between 
the church and dissent we should 
be sorry to be called upon to de- 
fine ; but that he is essentially a 
Protestant, and accidentally a sham 
Catholic, we can lay down with a 
logical certainty. If he hates his 
own paternity and disowns his 
own mother, we can only regret 
that he is 'so ungracious or so un- 
natural ; but, as outsiders, we must 
regard him as an equivocal off- 
spring of an ancestry whom " pious- 
ly " he should revere. 

Indeed, we regret to have to 



think that the High-Churchman is 
more Protestant than his Low- 
Church or Puritan brothers. They 
reject the church because they do 
not like her teaching, while they 
simply ignore all church authority ; 
but he rejects the church while 
liking her teaching and affecting 
to venerate her authority. So that 
he confesses himself a Protestant 
without doctrinal motive, arid with- 
out plea of an assured (Catho- 
lic) authority. The very slight 
distinctions which he personally 
draws between primitive and nine- 
teenth-century Catholicism are too 
fragmentary or unsubstantial to 
afford him sound pretext for an 
isolated doctrinal position ; while 
the total absence of any living 
(Catholic) authority to which he 
can profess perfect obedience 
leaves him out in the cold as an 
" Anglo-Catholic." " Protestant " 
in his rejection of the church, 
while "Protestant " in his interpre- 
tation of her dogmas, he is really, 
in his logical attitude, more inex- 
cusably and irrationally anti-Ca- 
tholic than they who reject au- 
thority with dogma. 

And now that we have got so 
far as to see clearly that all Angli- 
cans are essentially and unavoida- 
bly Protestants and that all Chris- 
tians who are not in communion 
with the Holy See must be generi- 
cally classed under the same name 
let us consider what is the ani- 
mus of Protestantism, what is its 
spiritual or supernatural worth. 

The first Protestant we know 
who he was ! Core, Dathan, and 
Abiron we know what they were. 
Under the Jewish and under the 
Christian dispensation a Protes- 
tant was exactly the same thing. 
He was a "churchman " who pre- 
ferred his own judgment to that 
of the divinely-appointed authority. 



Protesting Christians. 



177 



Whether it was Moses or Pius 
IX., on Mt. Sinai or in St. Peter's 
at Rome, who was resisted when 
teaching divine truth, the same 
animus, the same spiritual rebellion, 
is proved against the advocates 
of private judgment. Only, with 
Christians, the animus is more 
deadly, because the authority resist- 
ed is the Holy Ghost. We are 
not speaking of private persons 
(there must be thousands of sin- 
cere Protestants), but of the intel- 
lectual attitude of all non-Catholics. 
The authority of the church is the 
abiding presence of God, the in- 
fallible inspiration of the Holy 
Ghost, the continued teaching of 
the Incarnate Son of God, the final 
work of the Divine Father for men's 
souls. This, then, is the authority 
which is (intellectually) repudiated 
by the (intellectual) attitude of all 
Protestants. When they protest 
they are not protesting against man 
but against God, who is speaking 
through man. " Ye take too much 
upon you," said the Jewish rebels 
to Moses and Aaron, " seeing that 
all the congregation are holy." 
But the congregation was only holy 
because elected by God to obey his 
supernatural truths. In the same 
way all Christians are, in a certain 
sense, holy, but only relatively, ac- 
cording to their obedience. Every 
baptized child is holy; but he may 
cease to be holy if he grows up to 
misuse his private judgment. Now, 
exactly as the Jews said to Moses 
and Aaron, in conspicuously Pro- 
testant attitude, " Ye take too much 
upon you," so do all Protestants 
say to the Vicar of God, " All Chris- 
tians are entitled to teach them- 
selves." All Protestants are as 
Core in their pretension to know 
better than the authority which is 
commissioned by God. It matters 
not one pin, in the logical argu- 
VOL. xxix. 12 



ment, in the rational consistency 
of the position, whether one doc- 
trine more or less be accepted, if 
the authority for that doctrine be 
despised. It is not this doctrine 
or that doctrine which makes a 
heretic ; it is his refusal to be com- 
manded by authority. The Rus- 
sian schismatics the czar's " ortho- 
dox " Christians are as much Pro- 
testants as are Quakers or Agape- 
monists. The archbishop of Can- 
terbury and the most transcendental 
of Ritualists, the rationalist dean 
of Westminster and any unctuous 
Low-Churchman, are in attitude 
(we speak not of their consciences) 
all emphatically and all equally 
Protestants. They disobey eccle- 
siastical authority. They set up 
their own throne of private judg- 
ment. They prefer their "inter- 
pretation " to that of the pope, their 
" exegesis " to that of the councils, 
their " patristic reading " to the 
" church's living voice," their su- 
preme ego to papal infallibility. 
They either believe in infallibility 
and claim it for themselves, or 
they reject it and so reject all 
(certain) truth. But a truth which 
is not certain, on the ground of 
its authority, cannot possibly be a 
truth which is de fide j and so all 
non-Catholics are driven either to 
believe themselves infallible or to 
deny that any truth is de fide. 
They may try, indeed, to escape 
from the dilemma by affirming that 
all "necessary truths are obvious "; 
and thus, while they differ as to 
what are " necessary truths," they 
profess their own ability to number 
them. The very question, " What 
are necessary truths ?" is the ques- 
tion which is radical in the whole 
argument ; for, of course, if it could 
be determined what truths are 
necessary truths, there would be 
an end to all schism, all heresy.. 



178 



Protesting Christians* 



But to determine this question 
there must be a living church 
authority a fact proved by all 
schisms, all heresies. " Bible Chris- 
tianity "means really private Bibles. 
A man who reads the Bible and 
calls himself a Christian is like 
a man who looks up to the starry 
heavens and professes himself an 
astronomer. " There are more 
things in the Bible which I do not 
understand than which I do," said 
the learned and profound St. Augus- 
tine. " I would not believe the Gos- 
pel itself, except on the authority of 
the church, "said the same thorough- 
ly "primitive" doctor. Now, the 
.attitude of a Protestant who, while 
rejecting divine authority, thrones 
himself infallibly in its stead, pro- 
fessing that he can define necessary 
truths, though God's church is in- 
competent to do so, is the atti- 
tude of a man who either in vanity 
>4s supreme, or in patent imbecil- 
ity is ridiculous. While acknow- 
ledging that a thousand different 
sects are divided on the ques- 
tion "what is necessary," he both 
affirms that "what is necessary is 
obvious," yet that no Protestant 
-can possibly ever know it. Has he*, 
then, received some strictly pri- 
vate revelation which makes him 
judge of the whole Word of God ? 
Is his learning so colossal, his wis- 
dom so profound, his sanctity so 
mystic, his life so rapt, that, indi- 
vidually, he can teach all churches, 
all nations what they have totally 
-failed to discriminate ? Are we not 
justified in saying that the Protes- 
tant (intellectual) attitude is the 
denial of the possibility of Chris- 
tian ck>gma, save only on the as- 
sumption that each Protestant 
'Christian is divinely illuminated to 
'know the truth? Yet, since this 
marvellous hypothesis would in- 
volve the necessity of each Protes- 



tant being differently illuminated, 
it would follow that one God illu- 
mines different souls with opposite 
yet divinely certain truths. Take 
which alternative you prefer, the 
whole Protestant attitude, regarded 
from the logical point of view, is as 
fatal to God as to man. 

Fortunately, all Protestants are 
not logical, and therefore all Pro- 
testants are not guilty of the ab- 
surdity of intellectually worship- 
ping a fallacy. Yet all Protes- 
tants are intellectually guilty of 
preferring the weak before the 
strong, of preferring a negative to a 
positive, of preferring the minimum 
of a Christian faith to the maxi- 
mum which is offered by the 
church. And this choice is intel- 
lectually disgraceful. The mere at- 
titude of protest against infallibil- 
ity is in itself a dishonoring atti- 
tude. To protest against know- 
ledge while honoring uncertainty ; to 
protest against being taught while 
venerating self-will ; to deliberately 
put confusion before unity, feeble 
heresy before mighty Catholic truth, 
the disjecta membra of private theolo- 
gies before dogma, and purely human 
speculation before judgment, is in it- 
self, we repeat, the confession of an 
attitude most unworthy of the soul 
and of the mind. Protestantism is 
the humanizing of the divine. It 
is the pulling down the immutable 
to the level of caprice ; the reducing 
the irreversible to the inconstant ; 
the degrading the supernatural to 
the natural ; the placing human rea- 
son above faith. Both dogmati- 
cally and devotionally the spirit of 
protest is the exact opposite of 
the spirit of obedience. And since 
obedience is the spirit of Christian- 
ity, it follows that protest is not 
Christian. 

It is most important to remem- 
ber in considering protest that true 



Protesting Christians 



179 



devotion is founded on true dogma ; 
so that protest against dogma is 
protest against devotion protest 
against perfect devotion. The sen- 
timent of devotion is common to 
all mankind, but Christian devo- 
tion is more than sentiment. It is 
the emotional homage of the di- 
vinely-taught intellect as well as 
of the aspiring heart. For example, 
take the sentiment of devotion in 
regard to the Real Presence of the 
Host. It is first founded on the 
certainty of that presence. Re- 
move the absolute certainty, and 
you cut away the ground on which 
the adoring mind and heart build 
their sentiment. But the senti- 
ment of devotion is true love; and 
since true love must be certain of 
its object, protest becomes fatal to 
true love. Who could kneel for 
hours before a Protestant commu- 
nion-table rapt in undivided ado- 
ration ? And why not ? Because 
protest is not love, but the exact 
opposite of love, being the ques- 
tioning of the fulness of the gift. 
The same reasoning applies to the 
Sacrament of Penance, to the dog- 
ma of divine absolution. If you 
protest against the dogma of the 
Sacrament of Penance, as to powers, 
as to conditions, as to obligations, 
you cut away the certainty on which 
the full saving of the soul is aban- 
doned to love and to repentance. 
Protest becomes the killing of the 
sacrament. Since the intellect, the 
heart, and the will must be all 
abandoned to the certainty of di- 
vine law, protest kills the intellect, 
the heart, and the will, and there- 
fore kills the fruits of the sacra- 
ment. One doubt will kill all. 
And since protest means not one 
doubt but many doubts, a non- 
Catholic penitent is in a chaos. 
Whereas perfection of devotion 
if we may repeat ourselves for 



clearness is built on the perfec- 
tion of Catholic dogma, imperfec- 
tion, first of dogma, then of devo- 
tion, is inseparable from the attitude 
of protest. 

And once more that we may 
measure the full horrors which are 
involved in the attitude of heretical 
protest let it be remembered that 
the most ungracious of all ingrati- 
tudes is the depreciating the gift of 
the giver. God being perfection, 
his gifts are perfection ; his authori- 
ty, his sacraments are perfection ; 
his means of grace, whether dog- 
matic or devotional (and we have 
shown that the two are inseparable), 
are all perfect in theory and in ap- 
plication. Now, to protest against 
perfection and to prefer imperfec- 
tion is, in truth, to protest against 
God. We do not know how, intel- 
lectually speaking (and we say 
again that we are not judging in- 
dividuals), to distinguish between 
the spirit of protest and the spirit 
of most unchristian impiety. The 
preference of the imperfect is im- 
piety. Since we are not speaking 
of man's truths but of God's truths 
of all those truths which were 
revealed by the Divine Son it fol- 
lows that to depreciate divine truths 
by lowering the divine standard of 
their perfections is to depreciate, 
by the most appalling ingratitude, 
not only the gifts but the Giver. 
When God gives his own Presence^ 
to protest against it; when God 
gives absolution, to protest against 
it ; when God gives infallible teach- 
ing, to protest against it ; when 
God gives a Supreme Pontiff, to 
protest against him ; when God gives 
seven sacraments, to protest against 
five all such protests are so many 
acts of impiety, partaking of the 
character of gross ingratitude. 
Naturally the attitude of protest 
is base ; supernaturally it is im- 



i8o 



Transformation. 



pious in the extreme. And being 
intellectually disgraceful, as well 
as devotionally most unchristian, 
the attitude of protest sinks down 
to a deformity which is most con- 
torted and hideous to contemplate. 
Imagine if in heaven the blessed 
were to make preference of the les- 
ser over the greater of God's gifts ; 
if they were to protest against 
knowing too much, against too 
great a nearness to the divine ful- 
ness, against too rich a fruition of 
the Divine Mind. Yet Christianity 
is the heaven of earth, since not 
only is it revealed to us by God, 
but God himself is ever with us 
and in us. Holy Communion is 
God. In true sense absolution is 
God. Baptism is God. Infallible 
teaching' is God. The church is 
the " second Incarnation." Yet 



against all this the Protestant pro- 
tests. He will not have the ful- 
ness of God's gifts. He prefers to 
have the minimum^ with doubt. 
Is not this, then, the attitude of im- 
piety? Unconsciously, and in ignor- 
ance, all Protestants are ungrate- 
ful, because they are bidden to the 
banquet and will not come. They 
prefer to be outside the King's 
home. They live on, all their 
lives, on the outskirts of Paradise, 
when they have but to knock at 
the gate and to come in. This is the 
ungratefulness of protest. Where- 
as inside the church there is the 
fulness of Divine Wisdom, both in- 
tellectual and devotional perfec- 
tion, the protesting Christian pre- 
fers to be on the outside, tossed 
by doubt and unable to love per- 
fectly. 



TRANSFORMATION. 

IN the late winter, when the breath of spring 
Had almost softened glazed plains of snow, 
A mother died, and, wandering to and fro, 
Her sad child sought her frightened little thing! 
Through the drear woodland, as on timid wing 
A young bird flies ; amid bare bushes low 
It sank in sleep, thus losing all its woe, 
With smiling lips her dear name murmuring : 
No loving arms were there to hold it fast, 

There were no kisses for it warm and sweet, 
But snowflakes, in their pity, fell like tears ; 
Then cried its angel : " Snowflakes, ye shall last 
Beyond the life of snowflakes- at spring's feet 
Bloom ye as flowers in all the coming years." 



'Pearl. 



181 



PEARL. 



BY KATHLEEN o'MEARA, AUTHOR OF " IZA'S STORY," U A SALON IN THE LAST DAY* Or THE EMPIRE, 

"ARE YOU MY WIFE? " ETC. 
CHAPTER XIV. 



DARVALLON S FKIEND. 



THERE was great excitement in 
the Leopold family. M. le Baron 
was named Minister for Foreign 
Affairs a position that had been the 
dream of Mme. la Baronne's life, 
for it was of all others the one that 
offered the widest scope of selec- 
tion for a husband for Blanche. 
Young men of family and fortune 
who wanted a step in diplomacy 
would be willing to count the 
minister's patronage as a heavy 
item in Mile. Leopold's dot, and to 
set the father-in-law's influence 
against any flaw in the matrimonial 
transaction. In Blanche herself 
there was none ; she was nineteen, 
charming to see, well educated, and 
had been covered with her mo- 
ther's eyes, as that lady touchingly 
declared, from the moment of her 
birth to the present hour. The 
only'obstacle to her making a great 
match was that her fortune was not 
up to the mark. But that no 
longer counted now; her father's 
influence would amply supply the 
deficiency. The suitor who yester- 
day was as good as accepted was 
of course no longer to be thought 
of. Cette chere enfant need not 
now throw herself away. How 
providentially things were arrang- 
ed ! A few days more and the af- 
fair might have been settled be- 
yond recall ; but just at the present 
point it could be broken off without 
the least esdandre. The mere sound 
of the word esdandre made the 
French mother's blood run cold. 



But Blanche was not her only pre- 
occupation. 

" Now, mon ami," she said to the 
new minister, " you must immedi- 
ately set about getting this order to 
Algiers countermanded. Comme 
le bon Dieu nous protege ! Noth- 
ing could be more opportune than 
the whole thing. You are on such 
good terms with the new Minister 
of War that there will be no diffi- 
culty in getting him to do it. To- 
day I breathe. I have not breath- 
ed since that thorn entered my 
heart about the Algeric Jewesses." 

" Nonsense ! Leon must learn 
to take care of himself like other 
young fellows," replied M. Leopold. 
"You don't suppose I could go to 

Marshal N with such a story 

as that, and expect him to change 
the programme of the War Office 
on the strength of it ?" 

"You mean that you will let my 
son be sent out to that horrible 
desert amongst the savages, to be 
taken hold of by a wretched black 
woman? Bonte divine! Have you 
not the heart of a father?" 

" I hope I have ; but I don't be- 
lieve my son is the milksop you would 
make him out. He is a soldier, 
and he must do his duty, and we 
must take our chance for what may 
come of it. Where is my portfolio ? 
Is the brougham ready? All ! then, 
au revoir. Bon jour, ma petite!" 
And he kissed Blanche on the fore- 
head and hurried away, the hard, 
callous man ! 



182 



Pearl. 



" Quel egoisme!" exclaimed 
Mme. Leopold, throwing up her 
hands. But she would circumvent 
the egotist, and take her son's des- 
tiny into her own hands. 

Blanche was quietly triumphant. 
She had been reasonably content 
yesterday, and would have mar- 
ried those cent mille livres de rente 
and the false teeth in a thankful 
spirit, and done her duty by them ; 
but she was conscious of a relief in 
die prospect of cent mille livres de 
rente without drawbacks. 

Mme. de Kerbec was the first to 
fly in with congratulations. 

" Chere amie! how proud and 
delighted we all are. He is just 
the man that was wanted at the 
Foreign Office. The count was 
saying so only yesterday to an old 
enrage of the Faubourg, who was 
for the emperor naming some bro- 
ken-down duke of the old noblesse ; 
but the emperor knows his times 
better than that. How charmingly 
you will do the honors of those 
splendid saloons ! I am glad I shall 
be able to go and see you there. The 
Affaires Etrangeres is a kind of 
neutral ground where all parties 
can meet without compromising 
themselves. And Blanche, how 
recherche she will be ! You must 
marry her off while you are in of- 
fice. She is a brilliant match 
now." 

"Blanche has only had the em- 
barras de choix to complain of," 
said Mme. Leopold, who took this 
swinging of the incense-pot for 
what it was worth. She took the 
exact measure of Captain Jack's 
friendship, and had been quietly 
observant of her growing affability 
ever since M. Leopold had held 
a portfolio. But if Captain Jack's 
toadying was a degree more bare- 
faced than other people's, it was not 
a bit meaner in reality and was just 



as welcome. " I despise flattery," 
said Napoleon I.,*" but it gratifies 
me to see men mean enough to 
offer it to me." One who neither 
toadied nor flattered was Mrs. 
Monteagle, and yet, oddly enough, 
she was the first person to whom 
Mme. Leopold went herself with 
the great news. 

" Good heavens ! what is the em- 
peror about ?" said the incorrigi- 
ble old woman. " M. Leopold has 
never had anything to do with for- 
eign politics ; he knows no more 
about them than the grand lama, I'll 
be bound. But things are going from 
bad to worse in this unfortunate 
country ; I should not wonder if my 
concierge were appointed to a port- 
folio one of these days. He would 
do as well as most of the men go- 
ing." 

" Franchement, chere madame, 
you are complimentary," said Mme. 
Leopold ; but she was not offended. 
People never were offended by any- 
thing Mrs. Monteagle said ; she had 
a way of chuckling out her imperti- 
nences with a smiling countenance 
that left you in doubt whether she 
was in earnest or not. 

"Complimentary! Certainly not. 
You French are a great deal too fond 
of compliments; and you know I 
hate them." 

" They are pleasant all the same," 
said Mme. Leopold, "though one 
likes them administered with a little 
tact, not as Mme. de Kerbec gives 
them to one, thick lumps of honey 
that one can't swallow without 
choking. Mon Dieu ! what a toady 
that woman is. She flew in the 
moment she read the baron's ap- 
pointment in the Moniteur, and 
she went on rejoicing and blowing 
the trumpet till I thought she 
would never have done." 

" And that is all the thanks she 
gets for her good nature; serve her 



Pearl, 



183 



right for being such a fool. Cap- 
tain Jack has her faults, but she is 
one of those people who don't 
keep their sympathy for times of 
mourning, as most good Christians 
do ; she can't help rejoicing with 
everybody's good luck, and she is 
called a toady for her pains. So 
Blanche is going to marry a man of 
eighty without a tooth in his head ? 
I should have thought you might 
have done better for her than 
that." 

" What a horrible story ! She is 
not going to marry any one that I 
know of. Dear child ! she is in no 
hurry to leave us; her home is so 
happy !" 

" Humph ! I'm glad to hear it. 
And how is your mother-in-law be- 
having to my friend ? If that child 
is not happy I will take her away." 

" Why should she not be happy ? 
Mme. Mere is an angel. They are 
going down to Gardanvalle next 
week. It is rather sooner than we 
expected ; but the place is under 
repair, and if some one is not there 
to look after the workmen it will 
not be ready for us in July. I am 
so glad Mme. Mere will have la 
petite Perle to cheer her until we 
go down. Bon jour, chere madame. 
I have so much to do ! This was t 
my day for visiting mes pauvres ; 
but the excitement of the Moni- 
teurs news has upset everything. 
Indeed, it is a great question how 
to reconcile these conflicting duties; 
and now society will have a larger 
claim on me than ever. People 
envy those who are in a high posi- 
tion. If they only knew the weight 
of care that comes with it !" 

And heaving a sigh from the 
bottom of her soft double chin, 
Mme. Leopold drew up her mantle 
and sailed away with a great noise 
of trailing silk skirts. 

Leon Leopold spent the morning 



with his beloved Raoul Darvallon, 
and they had a longconfab about the 
regiment and Algiers, and the threat 
his mother held out meant as a 
hope that the order to march and 
sail should be rescinded. Leon's 
prophetic soul told him there was 
more than maternal fondness in this 
scheme of hers. " She wants to 
marry me," he said, " and I won't 
be married. I will sail ; nothing else 
can save me." 

" Tut, nonsense !" said his friend. 
" She can't marry you against your 
will." 

" Ah ! you don't know what my 
mother's will is," replied Leon. 
" Mine could no more hold out 
against it, once it put forth all its 
energy, than that dry twig could 
stand against the north wind." And 
he kicked the dead thing before him 
with the tip of his boot. They 
were walking arm-in-arm across 
the Tuileries gardens, through the 
babies, the nurses in high caps and 
flowing ribbons, the perambulators, 
and the embroidering mothers, who 
sat watching their darlings as they 
crowed and played- 

"And there is no possibility of 
surrender?" said Darvallon. "A 
wife is a fate not to be contemplat- 
ed on any terms, even with extenu- 
ating circumstances ?" 

" No ; the richest of the houris 
is not worth one's liberty." 

" Yet I suppose you contem- 
plate having to give it up some 
day, and, if so, I don't see what 
you gain by waiting." 

" I contemplate having to die 
some day, but I shall postpone that 
catastrophe to the latest possible 
date," said Leon. 

" Voyons, parlons serieusement," 
said his friend. " What is it that so 
terrifies you ? If you fall on the 
right woman it is the very most 
blessed gift the gods can give a. 



1 84 



Pearl. 



man. To have a home to turn to 
after the day's work and its ennui ; 
to know that a sweet, pure, loving 
woman is waiting for you, watch- 
ing the clock and listening for 
your footfall on the stairs ; that 
little feet will come pattering to 
meet you, and and mon cher, 
trust me, no garrison larks, no jolly 
bivouac nights, are worth a rotten 
nut compared to joys like these !" 

They were close upon the stone 
basin, where the gold fish were 
darting through the water, scared 
by the children's laughter and the 
showers of bread-crumbs they were 
pelting at them through the spray. 
Leon stopped, drew his hand from 
Darvallon's arm, and laid it heavi- 
ly on his shoulder. 

" Tu es amoureux !" he said, 
looking through him with his coal- 
black eyes. 

" Allons done !" Darvallon shook 
him off, laughed, and stepped on 
with a freer stride. 

" Animal ! Traitre ! To have 
done it without telling me," said 
Leon, taking his arm again. " Tell 
me who she is ; do I know her ?" 

"Very likely, if I do. But we 
are not talking of me ; we are talk- 
ing of you. You must not be a 
fool, Leon." 

" Say, rather, you will have me 
be one because you have become 
a fool yourself. Nay, Raoul, don't 
put me off with grimaces. You are 
in love. No man can talk reason- 
ably of love who has not felt" it." 

"You admit, then, that I have 
talked reasonably?" 

Leon would not admit it; but in 
his heart he believed that Darval- 
lon had spoken wisely. He be- 
lieved also that he spoke from pre- 
sent experience, and the discovery 
shocked him inexpressibly. Dar- 
vallon had not groaned, or knit his 
brow, or fetched a sigh, and Leon 



could feel that his heart was not 
leaping in wild tumult under his 
coat; nevertheless Leon felt that he 
had been speaking from his heart's 
abundance and at the dictates of 
a new and commanding emotion ; 
that he had enthroned the false 
god, Love, in the place of the rea- 
sonable divinity, Friendship. It 
was a horrible revelation ; the ef- 
fect on Leon was pretty much as 
if he had detected his friend in a 
Fieschi plot, or some such insane 
and abominable treason. He him- 
self knew nothing about love ; he 
had known strong preferences and 
antipathies ; he had been deeply 
attached to a few people in his life, 
and he had cordially hated a few 
others; but he had never experi- 
enced the violent inward disturb- 
ance that love brings into a man's 
life, and he resented its presence 
in his friend's as a usurpation of 
his own rights. What business had 
Raoul to go and fall in love un- 
known to him they who had never 
had a secret from each other ? All 
this was absurd and irrational on 
Captain Leopold's part ; but he 
was arguing from false premises, 
and judging of this folly of falling 
in love as if it were the act of a 
man's free will, a condition to be 
freely chosen or as freely rejected. 

Captain Darvallon, meantime, 
unconscious of the commotion he 
had raised in Leon's mind, went 
on with the current of his own 
thoughts. 

" Let your mother have her way," 
he said; " if she finds you the right 
woman, take her, and you will bless 
the day that your liberty capitulat- 
ed. Que diable! Of what use is 
our liberty, if we are to sacrifice 
better things to it ? You have it 
in you to make an excellent hus- 
band, and the gods are good ; they 
will send you an excellent wife, a 



Peart. 



185 



sweet, loyal woman, who will love 
you well." 

" Pauvre diable ! Mon pauvre 
Raoul!" said Leon, heaving a tre- 
mendous sigh. 

They were crossing the Pont 
Royal; the Seine ran high between 
its banks; the bateaux mouches 
were skimming to and fro. 

"Where are you bound for?" 
said Darvallon. u The Quai d'Or- 
say ?" 

" No, I am going to the Rue du 
Bac ; and you ?" 

Darvallon had meant to go there 
too, but instead of saying so he 
replied that he had a call to make 
in the Rue de Lille. He was in 
hopes that, when they stopped at 
Mme. Mere's door, Leon would 
have asked him to go in for a mo- 
ment ; but Leon did not. 

"And so I may not know who 
she is ?" he said, with a vexed, half- 
wistful look, as they held hands. 

" Not till she knows it herself," 
said Darvallon. 

"Menteur! The woman you 
loved would find it out before you 
knew it yourself." 

And though Captain Leopold 
boasted of knowing nothing about 
the wiles and ways of love, this re- 
mark showed an amount of dis- 
cernment that bespoke some latent 
power of response in himself. 

Mme. Mere and Pearl were 
sitting comfortably by the fire, 
Pearl shouting out the Debats, the 
old lady looking up from her work 
with an occasional comment, when 
Leon walked in. He bent down to 
let Mme. Mere kiss him on the 
forehead, and then shook hands 
with Pearl. Since she was no 
longer a possible candidate for 
marriage, he had ceased to fear 
her, and was far more cordial and 
at ease with her than in the days 
when they stood on equal terms. 



He had the most profound respect 
for her, and he pitied her senti- 
ments that made such a safe barrier 
against all softer emotions that it 
never entered his head to imagine 
that this sort of close and friendly 
intercourse with a charming girl of- 
fered the smallest danger for him 
or for her. Mme. Mere idolized 
her grandson, and she was glad 
that he and Pearl got on so well, 
being old acquaintances; but the 
idea of their falling in love with 
each other no more occurred to her 
than it did to him. Pearl's posi- 
tion, her absolutely dot-less condi- 
tion, made the notion of her getting 
a husband as impossible as riding 
without a horse or flying without 
wings. Thus the young folk had 
their little jokes together, indepen- 
dent of Mme. Mere, thanks to her 
deafness and her confidence in the 
natural barriers between the two. 
Leon began to find a great attrac- 
tion in his grandmother's society ; 
it was pleasant to drop in at odd 
times and be petted by the old 
lady, and talk over himself and his 
affairs with bright, sympathetic 
Pearl, who was such a capital lis- 
tener. 

" You have heard the news?" he 
said, drawing his chair close to 
Mme. Mere. " I am condemned 
to marry. The maternal decree 
has gone forth, and unless you, 
bonne maman, rescue me, I have 
no alternative but to blow my 
brains out." 

" Mon pauvre petit ! How can 
I interfere about it if your mother 
has made up her mind ?" 

" Then I may go home and load 
my revolver." And he stood up. 

"I never should have guessed you 
were such a coward," said Pearl, 
with a twinkle in her eye that was 
inappropriate to the tragic tone 
of the conversation. 



1 86 



Pearl. 



"As regards marriage or sui- 
cide ?" said Leon, looking down at 
her with his solemn face. 

" You are going already, mon 
petit ?" said Mme. Mere, who had 
missed the threat about the revol- 
ver and what followed. " Why do 
you not practise a little with made- 
moiselle? The piano is excellent, 
she tells me, and your mother wants 
you to have a succes at Mme. de 
Kerbec's concert. Chere petite, 
make him sing that romance that I 
am so fond of." 

" Voulez-vous ?" said Pearl with- 
out looking up. 

- I am ready. I am always 
willing to be victimized." 

"And to take no credit for it, 
and to consider yourself the only 
victim." Pearl rolled up her band 
of tapestry and went to the piano. 

" I have a letter to write before I 
go out," said Mme. Mere. " What 
o'clock is it ? Near four. And I 
must be at the homme d'affaires' at 
half-past. Ring the bell, Leon. 
Where is my pocket-book ? Pierre, 
I shall want a coach presently." 

Pearl struck up the accompani- 
ment, and the room sounded to 
Leon's sonorous tones apostrophiz- 
ing the "Petite Fleur des Bois." 
He had been all animation while 
discussing the alternative of mar- 
riage or suicide, but his manner col- 
lapsed into wooden stiffness the 
moment he stood up to sing. 

"Let us try a duet now," said 
Pearl when the ballad was over, 
and hoping to stir him up a bit by 
her own warmth. 

They began " Non ti scordar di 
me," but Leon continued to pour 
out his anguish to Eleanora with 
the same stolid countenance and 
manner that had exasperated Pearl 
in his address to the flower of the 
woods. At last she could bear it 
no longer, and wheeling round 



suddenly on the piano-stool, " Pour 
1'amour de Dieu," she cried, "figu- 
rez-vous que je suis un pot de 
confiture !" 

Leon was so startled that his 
invocation to Eleanora stuck in his 
throat, and he fell back against the 
wall, roaring with laughter. Pearl 
had nothing for it but to join in the 
laugh, and they were both splitting 
their sides like a pair of children 
when Pierre opened the door and 
announced : 

" Mme. la Baronne Leopold !" 

Pearl stood up quickly; the music- 
book rattled down on the notes 
with a loud crash, adding to the 
confusion of a scene that she felt 
instinctively to be an awkward 
one for her. 

"Ma mere," said Leon, meeting 
his mother with a profound bow, 
" behold the most dutiful of sons ! 
I have been victimizing Mile. Perle 
and myself in order that you might 
be proud of me on Monday even- 

ing." 

"It is well, my son; but your 
sister would have saved made- 
moiselle the trouble and the loss of 
time. You should remember that 
her time is not her own. Etourdi ! 
Where is Mme. la Baronne?" she 
added, turning to Pearl. 

" I will go for her," said Pearl, 
with crimson cheeks, and she left 
the room. 

The mother and son did not 
spend the tete-a-tete in pleasantries 
or endearments. In a few minutes 
Mme. Mere, bonneted and cloak- 
ed, came in, and she also heard a 
few words that were not very ten- 
der. Lon made matters a great 
deal worse by declaring that he 
would rather cut his throat than 
compromise Pearl Redacre, whom 
he regarded as a sister and vene- 
rated as an angel, and that he would 
run any one through the body who 



Pearl. 



.87 



dared to say she could be com- 
promised by him or any man living. 
His mother was scared by the vehe- 
mence lie displayed, and tried to 
pour oil on the waters by assuring 
him that she was only so touchy 
about Pearl because she loved her 
as her own child. 

Mme. Mere was hurt and annoy- 
ed ; but she knew her daughter-in- 
law, and made no attempt to ex- 
cuse either Pearl or herself. 

" Thank Heaven ! they are leav- 
ing Paris so soon," thought Mme. 
Leopold as she went down-stairs 
with her son and her mother-in- 
law. 

They saw her into her brougham, 
and she drove away, smiling and 
full of wrath. 

" I must go back and apologize 
to Mile. Perle," said Leon, turning 
to re-enter the house. 

" It is not worth while, mon 
petit ; I will explain it all to her," 
said Mme. Mere, arresting him. 

Leon let her have her way ; 
but he was more stirred than she 
had ever seen him. He put her 
into the hackney-coach that she 
had preferred to a seat in her 
daughter-in-law's brougham, and 
went on to the Foreign Office to 
see his father. 

Pearl, on her side, was greatly 
disturbed by the incident. She 
knew French ways and ideas, and 
Mme. Leopold's ideas especially, 
too well not to understand that she 
stood convicted of grievous impro- 
priety in being caught laughing 
with Leon en tete-a-tete ; and, cir- 
cumstanced as she was, the mis- 
hap might have serious conse- 
quences. Indeed, the scandalized 
mother had stingingly reminded 
her of this. 

" Her time is not her own," she 
had said to M. Leon. 

" Thank goodness ! we will soon 



be gone. There will be no one to 
compromise me down at Gardan- 
valle, I suppose," thought Pearl. 

She hoped Leon would be warn- 
ed by the adventure and not come 
near them again. But Captain 
Leopold, though a coward in some 
ways, was not to be bullied into 
the reality of cowardice. He de- 
termined to go every morning to 
the Rue du Bac until his grand- 
mother left town. Meantime he 
went to look after Raoul Darvallon, 
to unbosom to him, as was his habit 
in every grievance, great or small. 
He did not find his friend at home, 
and when he met him in his mo- 
ther's salon that evening he was 
annoyed and amazed to discover 
that she had been beforehand with 
him, and that, instead of at once 
and unhesitatingly taking his view 
of the case, Captain Darvallon lis- 
tened with an unsympathizing, al- 
most a severe, countenance. 

"Your mother must understand 
a thing of this kind more clearly 
than either you or I," he said ; 
" you had better be ruled by her 
and not return to the house. It is 
of some consequence to Mile. Red- 
acre, though of course you attach 
no importance to the matter." 

" You are mistaken. I attach 
considerable importance to it. I 
don't choose that Pearl Redacre 
should think me a sneak and a 
coward," said Leon with some 
heat. 

"Since you set so high a value 
on her good opinion, see you act 
so as to deserve it. There would 
be more delicacy, it strikes me, in 
staying away." 

" That depends upon how she 
looks at it. I shall not be wanting 
in delicacy towards her, at any 
rate." 

" I hope not," said Darvallon, 
looking at Leon ; and as their eyes 



1 88 



Pearl. 



met there was a threat in those of 
the older man that Leon read, 
though he did not interpret it. 
He moved away without making 
any comment, and the two friends 
had no further conversation that 
night. 

Destiny is an indefatigable crea- 
ture, weaving and spinning over 
our heads and under our feet, 
catching us in her toils, knotting 
the threads when we break them, 
snapping them when our shuttle is 
flying through the woof. Mme. 
Leopold had a mighty web in her 
loom to-night. A parti had pre- 
sented itself which realized almost 
all her ambitions for Blanche. 
There was no drawback this time, 
except that the gentleman was a 
widower and had a daughter two 
years younger than Blanche; but 
she was at the Sacre Cceur and 
was to be married in a year, the 
husband being already provided. 
Barring this trifling inconvenience 
the affair was perfect : old name, 
fine income, chateau huitieme 
siecle. Mme. de Kerbec had 
found him out, and the belligerents 
were to view each other at a re- 
spectful distance to-morrow even- 
ing at the theatre. She was ar- 
ranging it all now behind her fan 
with Mme. Leopold, both ladies 
tenderly confidential and in their 
element. 

" I am bidden to dejeuner chez 
le colonel to-morrow," said Captain 
Darvallon when he was going away. 
" I suppose we shall meet there ?" 

" No," said Leon, " you will not 
have that felicity." 

"He told me he had asked 
you." 

u So he did ; but I have another 
engagement." 

It was an engagement contracted 
with himself on the spur of the mo- 
ment. For the first time since 



their friendship had begun Leon 
felt that a vague misunderstanding 
had crept in between him and 
Raoul ; it was very slight, but it 
checked the perfect flow of sympa- 
thy, as a touch of east wind chills 
the soft kiss of a summer breeze. 
He did not care to meet him at the 
colonel's to-morrow, because that 
would throw them en tete-a-tete for 
the rest of the afternoon. Darval- 
lon, on his side, was conscious of 
some vague antagonistic influence, 
and when they said good-night 
there was something in the clasp 
of Leon's hand that he missed. A 
week ago the sensation would have 
brought a sharp pang with it. But 
as the days go by our life's trea- 
sures accumulate and the value of 
things changes ; their proportions 
alter ; the thunder-storm of yester- 
day is only a passing cloud to-day ; 
our ship rides at anchor in the 
sheltered port, and laughs at the 
winds that beat her rudely on the 
high seas yesterday, threatening de- 
struction to her cargo and the lives 
she carried. 

Friendship was a jewel beyond 
price ; but somehow its lustre was 
dimmed to Raoul Darvallon, as he 
looked at it, altogether uncon- 
sciously, in the light of Pearl Reda- 
cre's presence standing there with 
the sunshine in her eyes. 

Just as Pearl and Mme. Mere sat 
down to breakfast next morning a 
sharp ring summoned Pierre to the 
door. 

" Bonne maman, can you spare 
me a cutlet ?" said Leon, putting in 
his head, his gay hussar uniform 
making a bright picture in the 
doorway of the red-tiled salle a- 
m anger. 

" Ah ! mon petit, what a surprise. 
Pierre, place monsieur's cover. You 
have fallen on evil times, mon gar- 
con. Is he not perverse ?" this 



Pearl. 



189 



was to Pearl. " You know how 
often I have invited him, and he 
never would come, and now he 
walks in and takes the bit out of 
our mouths." 

But the old lady was delighted. 
Leon was the apple of her eye ; to 
pet him and spoil him, to pay his 
debts and pull him through his 
scrapes, was the greatest happiness 
she knew. She had felt yesterday 
that both he and she had been sat 
upon by Mme. Leopold they had 
caught it, as Leon said and this 
community of misfortune drew them 
together more closely than usual 
this morning. It was very naughty 
of him to come straight back so 
soon to the scene of his misdeed ; 
but it was very plucky, and Mme. 
Mere was a true woman and loved 
a bold rider. 

Pearl was rather frightened at 
Leon's audacity, and, if the truth 
must be told, a trifle flattered. She' 
had grown fond of Blanche's brother, 
he had been so kind and brother- 
like to her in her altered position ; 
and just as the superadded sun- 
shine on Captain Darvallon's path 
had dwarfed certain figures, so the 
shadows of isolation in Pearl's had 
magnified objects which she would 
scarcely have noticed in the sun- 
light of her happy home. Every 
cup of cold water was precious to 
her now. 

" I have risked my head to eat 
this cutlet with you, bonne maman," 
said Leon, spreading out his nap- 
kin triumphantly. " I have refused 
an appeal from my colonel to go 
and breakfast with him, and he is 
very touchy ; he is certain to cashier 
me, if he does not have me shot." 

"You wicked boy! And what 
excuse did you give the colonel ?" 
asked the delighted grandmother. 

" That I had a better engage- 
ment. The fact is, it bores me to 



go there ; he breakfasts at half-past 
ten, and one must get up over-night 
to be ready at such unearthly 
hours. Moreover, I had an official 
call to make, as you perceive. I 
have just come from the War Office. 
Besides, I must see you while I can ; 
you will soon be leaving town now. 
Mademoiselle, when some one ap- 
plies to you one of these days for a 
character of me, I hope you will 
bear witness to me as a model petit- 
fils, ergo the making of a model 
husband." 

"What is he saying, my dear?" 
inquired Mme. Mere. 

Pearl explained at the top of her 
voice. 

"Ah! te voila done converti au 
mariage ? How I rejoice, mon pe- 
tit ! You have, then, seen her, and 
she pleases you?" 

"I have seen no one, and I am 
not converted," protested Leon ; 
" but I know my mother. It was 
an ancestor of hers in the female 
line who invented the saying, * Ce 
que femme veut, Dieu veut.' If 
she holds out as she is sure to do 
I must capitulate. Mon Dieu ! 
what a good world this would be 
if there were no giving in mar- 
riage." 

" When does the regiment start 
for Algiers?" inquired Mme. Mere, 
who had missed the final invoca- 
tion. 

" It does not know. Perhaps 
not at all. My mother is capable 
of countermanding the order." 

" It will be a great relief to her 
when you marry, mon petit. She 
will be tranquil about you then." 

" Why can she not be tranquil 
about me now? I have ranged 
myself. You know I have ranged 
myself, bonne maman ?" he said, 
bending towards the old lady and 
pitching his voice to a shout. 

" Yes, yes ; but you are still ca- 



190 



Pearl. 



pable of many follies, Leon," said 
Mme. Mere, shaking her head. 

"What does she mean ?" said Le"- 
on, addressing the dish and help- 
ing himself to puree de pommes de 
terre. 

Pearl only laughed. 

"What is she driving at?" said 
Leon, his curiosity aroused by the 
comical expression of the young 
girl's face. 

" Ask her," said Pearl. 

But Mme. Mere would or could 
explain nothing beyond the palpa- 
ble fact that his mother wanted him 
to marry. 

"I will not leave you alone till 
you tell me," said Leon in a safe 
sotto voce across the table; "there 
is something in the wind, and you 
know it." 

His curiosity amused Pearl, and 
the spirit of mischief got up in 
her ; she determined to mystify 
him. 

"Whatever I know, I tell no 
tales," she said. 

" You shall tell me. I swear you 
shall ! I will give you no peace 
till you do," protested Leon. And 
tli en he began to make inquiries 
about the works that were going 
on at Gardanvalle; how far the 
water-pipes were being carried, and 
if his suggestion about breaking in 
a western window in one of the 
rooms had been adopted. 

They went into the salon for 
coffee, and Mme. Mere dipped into 
a newspaper, leaving Pearl and 
Leon to fight over their politics 
alone. They had not got beyond 
the chances for and against Fain 
that evening when Pierre came in 
with a letter for madame. It was 
from Gardanvalle. She opened it 
and glanced down the page. 

" Ah ! mon Dieu, the chateau is 
burned down," she cried, drop- 
ping the letter on her knees and 



turning to Leon with a face of 
dismay. 

Leon snatched up the letter and 
ran his eye over it. 

" Voyons, bonne mam an, it is 
nothing to be frightened at," he 
said ; "only a part of the left wing 
burned your rooms, unfortunate- 
ly but the mischief is not so great. 
Daron says three months will see 
all put to rights ; but you can't re- 
turn to Gardanvalle till your rooms 
are rebuilt and put in order. So 
much the better ! You will have 
to stay here till I start for Algiers 
or get married." 

Mme. Mere was on her feet in a 
moment, ringing the bell and or- 
dering a coach. She must go and 
communicate this disastrous intel- 
ligence to the baron ; he would ad- 
vise, he would do something. 

" Shall I accompany you, or shall 
I wait here and practise my sing- 
ing with mademoiselle till you re- 
turn ?" said Leon. 

" Of course you will accompany 
me. What an incorrigible boy you 
are ! I shall be ready in two min- 
utes. What o'clock is it? Just 
one ! Your father will be busy 
with his audiences if I don't make 
haste." 

And she bustled off, leaving 
Pearl and Leon together. 

"Now tell me what is this fly in 
my mother's ear," said Leon, dis- 
missing the conflagration of the 
family roof-tree as a matter of 
secondary interest. "Who is she 
crazed for me to marry ?" 

"I don't know. I give you my 
word I don't," protested Pearl; 
but Leon looked at the dimples in 
her cheeks, with an imp of mis- 
chief lurking in each of them, and 
he did not believe her. 

" Why, then, is she crazed all of 
a sudden for me to marry nobody 
in particular?" 



Pearl. 



191 



" Perhaps she is afraid of your 
marrying somebody in particular." 

"Ha!" His black eyes flashed 
with a perfect fire of curiosity. 
At any cost Pearl must tantalize 
him a bit. 

" You must ask me no ques- 
tions," she said, turning to look 
for her work-basket, but in reality 
to hide her face. " I know no- 
thing; I can tell you nothing." 

" Nay, but that is unkind ; that 
is wicked. You will tell me her 
name ? I adjure you ! Nay " see- 
ing Pearl shake her head while 
still keeping it averted " if you 
are my friend ! We are friends, 
are we not ? Well, one word the 
name of the family one word to 
put me on the scent ! Voyons !" 

Pearl moved toward the mantel- 
piece, and waved him away with a 
mock heroic gesture, but with a 
laughing devil in her eyes that 
lent their brown lustre a strange 
fascination. He seized her hand 
a small, tapering hand, soft and 
milk-white clasped it in both his 
own, and dropping on one knee, 
his sabretache clanking with a loud 
metallic jingle as he knelt, " One 
word the first syllable the first 
letter !" he cried passionately and 
looking up into her face. 

" M. le Capitaine Darvallon !" 
called out Pierre, throwing open 
the door. 

Leon started violently to his 
feet, his sabretache ringing. Dar- 
vallon hesitated whether to ad- 
vance or not. There was an awk- 
ward pause as the three stood un- 
certain, abashed. But it was only 



for a moment, and Mme. Mere 
came in and the spell was broken. 

"Ah! bon jour, monsieur. They 
have told you the news ? Is it not 
terrible ! Come, mon petit. Is 
the coach at the door? Mon Dieu ! 
one is never a moment quiet. 
How sorry I am that I can't wait ! 
But you will perhaps look in on 
me to-morrow or this evening ? I 
shall be delighted." 

Captain Darvallon said he would 
do himself the honor of calling soon 
again, and was going to withdraw, 
contenting himself with a distant 
bow to Pearl, but she came for- 
ward, holding out her hand and 
her eyes still full of laughter. 

He took her hand, but looked 
at her with an expression that 
quenched the laughter in a mo- 
ment. Was he angry? She turn- 
ed instinctively to Leon, as if ex- 
pecting him to explain, to say 
something; but Leon's face fright- 
ened her more than Captain Dar- 
vallon's ; there was a defiant flash 
in the black eyes that made her 
heart stop beating, as if it had been 
suddenly frozen. It was not at 
her that Leon was looking, but at 
his friend. He turned to her with 
an air of ostentatious deference 
that would have made her laugh, if 
she had not been so much more 
inclined to cry, and with a low 
bow, " A 1'honneur de vous revoir, 
mademoiselle," he said. 

Captain Darvallon went out after 
Mme. Mere, without trying to ex- 
change another glance with Pearl. 

She felt very miserable as the 
door closed behind them. 



TO BE CONTINUED. 



I 9 2 



The Church and Medicine. 



THE CHURCH AND MEDICINE 



AMONG the calumnies against 
the church which are most persist- 
ently brought forward by infidel 
and Protestant writers, and guile- 
lessly accepted by their blind fol- 
lowers, the assertion that the church 
is, or has been, opposed to science 
holds a prominent place. This 
falsehood may, in fact, be said to 
have become history, so much so 
that we are sure whoever should 
dispute it would in many com- 
munities be regarded as an imbe- 
cile deserving pity rather than 
anger. It is true that the falseness 
of the statement has been repeat- 
edly shown, and that no one con- 
versant with either general history 
or that of particular sciences can 
be deceived by it ; the mass of 
readers have to get their ideas of 
history as they can, and have 
neither time nor opportunity to 
inquire into the accuracy of the 
information. Indeed, many utterly 
false statements, like the one in 
question, are announced with such 
an air of conviction, as being so 
far beyond doubt, that the unwary 
reader cannot but accept them, and 
even Catholics have uncomfortable 
doubts lest there be some germ of 
truth in them. For those who 
know the truth, to put these falla- 
cies aside with the remark that 
they have been disproved is as if 
the gardener should say that the 
garden had been weeded and the 
lawn mown, and that he need give 
them no further attention. 

Indeed, it is hard not to think 
that men of a certain order of mind 
presume on the impunity they have 
experienced to make statements 
which can stand only by the indif- 



ference of opponents. Here is an 
instance: "It lias always been the 
policy of the church to discourage 
the physician and his art ; he in- 
terfered too much with the gifts 
and profits of the shrines." * To 
one knowing the facts such a state- 
ment is ludicrous, but it is sad to 
think that numbers of honest and 
intelligent people accept it without 
question. 

The attitude of the church to 
science is too vast a subject for a 
short paper, and, besides, it will be 
more profitable to restrict this in- 
quiry to her relations with medi- 
cine, and especially with anatomy. 
In ancient and modern times, 
among pagans and Christians alike, 
the dissection of human bodies, by 
which means alone anatomy can be 
learned, has been an object of 
popular abhorrence. Superstition 
throws a vague shadow of unho- 
liness over these investigations, 
while the scrupulous might fear 
that their tendencies were towards 
materialism. In a word, if the 
church were what she is often re- 
presented, we cannot doubt that 
she would attack the study of ana- 
tomy with the most intolerant 
bigotry. 

The following remarks on the 
early history of Christian medicine 
are restricted to propositions which 
are generally admitted or for which 
good authority can be shown. It is 
admitted that in Italy, during the 
early part of the middle ages, medi- 
cal learning was nearly confined to 
religious orders, who treated the 
sick abroad and received the suffer- 

* Draper's Conflict of Religion and Science, 
1875, p. 369. 



The Church and Medicine. 



193 



ing poor into hospitals in the mo- 
nasteries. Few have presumed to 
question the great services rendered 
to learning by the Benedictines. 
Medical science was, no doubt, 
still in its infancy, but it is due to 
the church that it existed at all. 
The light of the medical school 
of Salerno is too brilliant in the 
general darkness to be ignored. 
The only way to avoid giving 
credit to those to whom it is due 
is to maintain that science was in- 
troduced into Europe by those 
outside. Prof, Draper* declares 
that " the first medical college es- 
tablished in Europe was that found- 
ed by the Saracens at Salerno, in 
Italy " a statement which it would 
be difficult to support by a date or 
by a convincing authority. We have 
been unable to ascertain when this 
celebrated school began its benefi- 
cent work, but the following de- 
tached facts show the folly of as- 
cribing this honor to the Saracens. 
St. Benedict founded the abbey of 
Monte Casino in 528 or 529. In 
the annals of the Benedictine Or- 
der f there is a description of the 
position of the hospital (nosoco- 
mium) in that monastery as it was 
in 720. Sprengel J goes so far as to 
say that Berthier, the abbot of the 
same abbey in the ninth century, 
was certainly not the first who gave 
medical instruction and wrote me- 
dical works. There is authority 
given by Tosti to show that from 
the time of Pope John VIII., who 
reigned from 872 to 882, the monks 
of Monte Casino were assiduously 
devoted to medical studies. Spren- 
gel states that the school of Salerno 
was founded by the Benedictines, 



* Loc. cit., p. 115. 

f By Mabillon. 

+ Histoire de la Medecine, translated from the 
German into French, vol. ii. 

\Storia, della Badia di Monte-Cassino,vo\. i. 
P- 345- 

VOL. XXIX. 13 



and asserts that even in the eighth 
century it was very celebrated for 
medicine. The Saracens did not 
capture Salerno till 905, and held 
it but fifteen years. One would 
not suppose that this was a very 
favorable opportunity for an in- 
vading enemy of hostile race and 
religion to found a school. But 
even if we should admit, contrary 
as it is to all evidence, that the 
Saracens really did found the 
school and that it was the first one 
of medicine in Europe, is it not 
remarkable that after their brief 
stay it should not only have per- 
sisted but have flourished, as was 
the case ? Daremberg, * speaking 
of the abuse heaped on the early 
part of the middle ages, very justly 
observes : " If during these centu- 
ries there had reigned only igno- 
rance and superstition, or rather if 
scientific ideas had been entirely 
wanting, it is hard to understand 
how first the Arabs, and then the 
Renaissance, had been able to 
scatter such entirely new and yet 
such efficacious germs on such 
barren soil." It is true that medi- 
cal knowledge in Italy was in- 
creased from Saracen sources, and 
it is a proof of the catholic spirit 
of the monks who took knowledge, 
or what passed for such, even from 
the infidels. In Spain the Moors 
had a considerable influence on me- 
dicine, but yet none of the great 
discoveries of the era of the Re- 
naissance can be traced to them. 

In the eleventh and twelfth cen- 
turies the school of Salerno was in 
its prime, enjoying general respect 
and sending forth many distinguish- 
ed men. To obtain a degree at 
least five years had to be devoted 
to the study of medicine alone, 
after a preparatory course of two 
or three years. To practise sur- 

* Histoire des Sciences Medicates, 



194 



The Church and Medicine. 



gery another year was required to 
be given to the study of anatomy, 
though it is to be feared that this 
was generally taught on animals. 
Other medical schools sprang up, 
and in the thirteenth and four- 
teenth centuries Salerno lost its 
pre-eminence. Prosperous schools 
at Naples, Rome, Bologna, Padua, 
Pisa, Pavia showed the interest 
taken in medicine. 

As anatomy is the basis of 
rational medicine, and as dissec- 
tion is the only means of learning 
it, there can be no question of the 
gratitude we owe to the authorities 
that first permitted its practice. 
It is pleasant to be able to record 
that this merit, at least, has not 
been awarded to the Saracens. 
What little 'they knew of anatomy 
they had learned from old authors.* 
Their religion forbade such inves- 
tigations, and the revival of anato- 
my in the sixteenth century is due 
to Christians. The movement, 
indeed, had begun much earlier, 
though we do not know exactly at 
what time. 

Mondino, professor of anatomy 
at Bologna, is known to have dis- 
sected. He wrote an original 
work on anatomy in 1315, more 
than a century before the inven- 
tion of printing (that " severe blow 
to Catholicism "j), which was pre- 
served in manuscript and publish- 
ed in type in 1478 at Pavia an 
instance of the opposition the 
church has always offered to the 
acquisition and diffusion of know- 
ledge. It is thought that artists as 
well as physicians studied :!ie inti- 
mate structure of the human body. 
According to Sir Charles Bell, Da 
Vinci, born in 1452, and Michael 
Angelo, born in 1474? were the 
best anatomists of their day. The 
realistic pictures of the Spanish 



Sprengel. 



t Draper, p. 292. 



school imply more than a superfi- 
cial knowledge of anatomy. Bene- 
detti and Achillini, anatomists of 
the fifteenth century, both dissect- 
ed. Berenger de Carpi, professor 
of anatomy at Bologna early in the 
sixteenth century, is said to have 
dissected one hundred bodies.* 
This would imply the existence of 
a law, or at least a custom, allow- 
ing the use of the unclaimed dead 
in hospitals. Later in the same 
century this privilege was enjoyed 
by Eustachius at Rome. This is a 
proof of liberality not easily to be 
controverted, and an example which 
many States in the Union would 
do well to imitate. f Various eccle- 
siastical authorities have author- 
ized dissection, sometimes by di- 
rect assent, sometimes by silence. 
And we are not aware that any 
have ever forbidden it. The 
church certainly never has done so. 
It has, indeed, been claimed that 
Boniface VIII. issued a bull 
against it in 1300, but it appears 
that he simply forbade the custom 
of eviscerating and cooking the 
dead, which had come into vogue 
during the Crusades, in order to 
allow the remains of the fallen to 
be conveyed to their homes. 

The sixteenth and seventeenth 
centuries were a glorious period in 
the history of anatomy. Then 
flourished the men whose names, 
attached to organs and parts 
which they discovered or describ- 
ed, are familiar to every student. 
The anatomical chair at Padua was 
occupied successively by Vesalius, 
Columbus, Fallopius, Fabricius, Cas- 
serius, and Spigelius ; Eustachius, 
Varolius, and Caesalpinus taught " 

* Lauth, Histoire de FA natomie. 

tThis is a disagreeable subject, but it was 
thought best not to avoid it, as it is of much weight 
as an argument. Wise legislation in this matter is 
certainly a criterion of civilization ; the want of it 
is the cause of many of the disgusting horrors so 
common in the newspapers of this time. 



The Church and Medicine. 



195 



at Rome, Vidius- at Pisa, Arantius 
at Bologna, Malpighius at Messina. 
Many of these taught at several 
cities and received marked honors 
from prelates and princes. 

The services of Vesalius and 
Eustachius to the cause of modern 
anatomy were so great that some 
sketch of their careers will not be 
out of place. Vesalius was born at 
Brussels in 1514, of a wealthy fami- 
ly distinguished in medicine. He 
pursued his earlier studies at the 
celebrated University of Louvain, 
and later studied medicine at 
various places. He had a remark- 
ably original mind, was not satis- 
fied with repetitions of ancient 
learning, but would study nature 
for himself. He quarrelled with 
Sylvius, his professor of anatomy 
at Paris, because he would not 
pay the respect to the views of 
Galen which his teacher thought 
proper. At twenty he discovered 
the valves of the aorta and of the 
pulmonary artery. But three years 
later the senate of Venice appoint- 
ed him professor of anatomy at 
Padua. He appears, however, not 
to have spent all his time there, for 
he taught his favorite science at 
Bologna and Pisa also. At the 
age of twenty-nine he published 
his great work on anatomy which 
made his name immortal. He 
was celebrated as a practitioner 
as well as an anatomist, and a year 
later he gave up his studies to be 
physician at the court of the king 
of Spain, apparently wearied by 
the controversies which the origi- 
nality of his genius had brought 
upon him. He followed the court 
nineteen or twenty years, and then 
suddenly set out on'a pilgrimage to 
the Holy Land. At Jerusalem he 
received letters from the senate of 
Venice offering him the professor- 
ship at Padua, then vacant by the 



death of Fallopius. He accepted 
the honor, but on his return he 
was shipwrecked and perished on 
the island of Zante. His remains 
were recognized and deposited in 
a chapel of the Blessed Virgin. 

There has been much specula- 
tion as to the cause of Vesalius' 
pilgrimage. There is a romantic, 
but probably quite imaginary, sto- 
ry of his having cut into a live 
body, thinking it dead. Some say 
he went for wealth, some to get 
rid of his wife, some to escape pro- 
fessional jealousies. There have 
been vague allusions to the Inqui- 
sition, and Canon Kingsley * has pre- 
sumed to hint at suspicions of 
heresy. The object of his last 
journey would suffice to refute this 
charge, even if it had some plausi- 
ble basis. 

What an answer is the life of this 
man alone to those who claim that 
the church opposed science ! He 
threw to the winds old opinions, 
venerable only by antiquity, and 
replaced them with the results of 
original research, carried on by 
methods which, though absolutely 
necessary, were then, as now, re- 
pulsive to the popular mind. Yet 
where does this radical investiga- 
tor flourish ? Not in some corner 
where those who timidly sympa- 
thize with him can be overlooked, 
if they do not make themselves too 
prominent, but in the two most 
distinctly Catholic countries of Eu- 
rope, and we see the Italian uni- 
versities vying with one another to 
honor him. 

We know but little of the life of 
Eustachius. He was a contempo- 
rary of Vesalius, but the year of 
his birth is unknown. He is one 
of those who live in their works. 
He was professor of anatomy at 
Rome, and physician to Cardinals 

* Health and Education^ 1874. 



196 



The Church and Medicine. 



Borromeo and Rovero and to the 
Duke of Urbino. He died in 1574. 
Like Vesalius, he trusted to ori- 
ginal research. The latter, indeed, 
has the merit of having given a 
great impulse to the study of ana- 
tomy, but Eustachius followed it 
more perseveringly. He published 
a book on anatomy, but unfortu- 
nately could not afford to bring 
out his anatomical plates, his great 
work, which, though finished in 
1552, were not made public till 
1714. 

If the reader will consult tjie 
Encyclopedia Britannica, eighth edi- 
tion, article "Anatomy," he will 
be edified with the following pas- 
sage : '' The facts unfolded in these 
figures are so important that it is 
justly remarked by Lauth that if 
the author himself had been fortu- 
nate enough to publish them, ana- 
tomy would have attained the per- 
fection of the eighteenth century 
two centuries earlier at least. Their 
seclusion for that period in the pa- 
pal library has given celebrity to 
many names which would have 
been known only in the verification 
of the discoveries of Eustachius." 
Who can read this without a feel- 
ing of at least mortification that 
neither pope nor librarian during 
all these years should have recog- 
nized the value of these plates and 
rescued them from oblivion ? But 
before yielding to this feeling let 
us inquire how the plates were 
finally given to the world. 

In the early part of the eight- 
eenth century Lancisi, who either 
'was or had been professor of ana- 
tomy at Rome, learned that on the 
death of Eustachius these plates 
came into the possession of a cer- 
tain Pinus.* He spoke of the mat- 

* As our authority is French, it is probable that 
Pinus is some modification of the Italian family 



ter to the pope, Clement XI., who 
was interested and caused research- 
es to be made. The family of Pi- 
nus had become extinct, but their 
books were traced to the Rossi 
family and the plates were found. 
They were published in 1714, one 
hundred and forty years after the 
death of their author. Lancisi 
wrote an explanation of them with 
the assistance of other anatomists, 
among them the celebrated Mor- 
gagni, who in 1715 was appointed 
professor of anatomy at Padua. 

This passage from the Encyclo- 
pcedia shows how history is too fre- 
quently written. Here we have a 
suppression of the true, if not a 
suggestion of the false. What makes 
it worse is that the account just 
given of the recovery of the plates 
is taken from the work of that very 
Lauth * from whom the writer 
quotes, and the two passages are 
near together. 

A passing mention may be made 
of Varolius, born in 1543. He 
taught anatomy at Bologna, and 
then at Rome, and deserves great 
credit for his studies on the brain. 
He was physician to Gregory XIII., 
yet his life lasted but thirty-two 
years. 

English writers are accustomed 
to boast of Harvey's discovery of 
the circulation of the blood as a 
triumph of Protestant science. We 
may not find it stated quite as 
plainly as this, but the inference 
has been offered again and again 
that in some way, not very well 
explained, the beneficent influence 
of the " Reformation " is exempli- 
fied in this discovery. We do not 
propose to discuss Harvey's claims 
to be called a discoverer. There 
is much doubt as to what is im- 
plied by the title. He certainly 
had great merit. He was the first 

* Histoire de FA natomie. 



The Church and Medicine. 



197 



to write a book on the circulation 
alone; lie gave a better description 
of it than had been given; he pro- 
bably appreciated better than any 
of his predecessors the great im- 
portance of the fact, and did more 
to spread the knowledge of it. We 
have no quarrel with any one who 
asserts that this constitutes dis- 
covery; much may be said on that 
side, even if it be admitted that the 
essential phenomena were already 
known. Our purpose is not to be- 
little Harvey, but to show how 
much was known to anatomists in 
Catholic countries, and that they 
were honored, not discouraged. 

William Harvey was born in 
1578. He took the degree of B.A. 
in 1597, and either that year or the 
next went to Italy to study medi- 
cine. We may believe that the in- 
stinct of an anatomist led him to 
choose Padua, where Fabricius was 
then professor of anatomy. He re- 
turned to England in 1602, and we 
hear little of him till 1615, when he 
began to lecture on anatomy and 
surgery at the College of Physi- 
cians. Thirteen years later, in 
1628, when he had reached the 
age of fifty, he brought out his 
great work, Exercitatio Anatomica 
de Motu Cordis et Sanguinis in Ani- 
malibus* The greatest praise is 
due to the correctness and vivid- 
ness of the description of the ac- 
tion of the heart, and to the skill 
with which the subject is present- 
ed. Harvey states in this work 
that he had demonstrated the cir- 
culation for nine years. 

There has been much discussion 
whether or not Harvey understood 
the system of very minute vessels 
by which the blood passes from the 
arteries to the veins. In his book 
he uses the expression " per porosi- 

* " An Anatomical Disquisition on the Motion 
of the Heart and Blood in Animals." 



tates " by pores which some have 
said meant indefinite spaces, others 
true vessels. The question, how- 
ever, is of little importance, for, 
even if Harvey had a correct idea 
of the matter, it can have been only 
an assumption, for it was not till 
the latter half of that century that 
Malpighius had the fortune to be 
the first to enjoy through the micro- 
scope the wonderful spectacle of 
the circulation in the tissues of the 
live frog. 

Let us now see what was already 
known on this subject and by 
whom it had been written, retrac- 
ing the course of discovery from 
Harvey's to earlier times. 

First comes Caesalpinus, a man of 
great and varied learning. He was 
born in 1519 and died in 1603. 
He taught at Pisa, and then at Rome, 
where he was physician to Pope 
Clement VI II. The following pas- 
sages are from his Peripatetic Ques- 
tions, published in 1571 : 

" With this circulation of the blood 
from the right to the left ventricle by 
way of the lungs everything discovered 
by dissection is in complete accordance ; 
for as there are two vessels ending in 
the right ventricle so there are two end- 
ing in the left. Of the two, however, 
one only in each intromits, the other 
emits, the valves being so arranged as to 
secure this result." Again : " The pas- 
sages of the heart are guarded by nature 
in such a way that there is free intromis- 
sion from the vena cava into the right 
ventricle; from thence there is an outlet 
to the lungs by the vena arteriosa. From 
the lungs, again, there is another ingress 
to the left ventricle by the arteria venosa, 
from whence there is an outlet by the 
aorta ; the valves at the mouths of the 
vessels being so placed that they pre- 
vent retrogression." 

It is difficult after this to main- 
tain that before Harvey it was be- 
lieved that, though arterial and ven- 
ous blood were of different natures, 
they both had merely a to-and-fro, 



198 



The CJiurcJi and Medicine. 



tide-like movement towards and 
away from the heart. Thereare, how- 
ever, very obscure and unsatisfac- 
tory passages in Caesalpinus' de- 
scription, and, though he had a cor- 
rect general idea of the circulation, 
he by no means had Harvey's clear- 
ness on the subject. It is surpris- 
ing to find Dr. Willis' * assertion 
that 

"No one in those days" i.e., after 
Harvey's publication " either claimed 
for himself or another so extravagant a 
notion as Harvey had been reckless 
enough to enunciate. Ascribed to any 
respectable member of the medical pro- 
fession, his immediate business would 
have been to purge himself of the im- 
putation. In Harvey's life-time, and for 
a good while after, indeed, it was never 
his title to be accounted the discoverer 
of the circulation cf the blood that was 
matter of question, but the fact of there 
being any such circulation of the blood 
as he proclaimed." 

Harvey died in 1657. We are 
unable to say how long a " good 
while " may be, but the following 
passage occurs in Borelli's great 
work, De Motti Ammalium, publish- 
ed at Rome in 1680-1 :f 

" This motion of the blood is, I say, 
calleo 1 its circulation. Partly discovered, 
indeed, by Caesalpinus, but afterwards 
most exactly by Harvey, it has lately 
been demonstrated with such evidence 
that there remains no one who still 
doubts its truth." 

In 1696 Pierre Bayle, certainly 
no friend of the church, writes in 
his Dictionnaire Historique et Crit- 
ique as follows : " We should deprive 
Caesalpinus of a very precious 
glotvy if we did not say that he 
knew the circulation of the blood, 
the proofs 01 which are so plain 

* William Harvey. A History of the Discovery 
of the Circulation of the Blood. G. R. Willis, M.D. 
London. 1878. Vide p. 211. 

t It is only fair to say that we translate from the 
second addition (r ditto alteni), not having obtain- 
ed access to the first. 



that they cannot be eluded by any 
cavil." 

We come next to the claims of 
Columbus, who succeeded Vesalius 
at Padua. He taught later at Pisa, 
and then at Rome, where he was 
the physician of Paul IV. In 1559 
he published his work, De Re Ana- 
toinica, from which the following 
passages are taken : 

" Nothing, however, can pass through 
the septum " (of the heart) '* between the 
ventricles, as is commonly said; for the 
blood is carried by the vena arterialis to 
the lung, whence, having been attenuat- 
ed, refined, and mingled with air, it is 
brought by the arteria venalis to the 
left ventricle a fact which no one has 
referred to in words or recorded in his 
writings." Again : " When the heart 
dilates it draws natural blood from the 
vena cava into the right ventricle, and 
prepared blood from the pulmonary vein 
into the left, the valves being so dispos- 
ed that they collapse and permit of its 
ingress ; but when the heart contracts 
they become tense, and close the aper- 
tures, so that nothing can return by the 
way it came. The valves of the aorta 
and pulmonary artery, opening, on the 
contrary, at the same moment, give pas- 
sage to the spirituous blood for distribu- 
tion to the body at large, and to the 
natural blood for transference to the 
lungs." 

The statement at the close of 
the first of these extracts, that no 
one had yet referred to the pul- 
monary circulation, is incorrect. 
Servetus had done so in the Chris- 
tianismi Restitutio (the " Restoration 
of Christianity "), a book which he 
published in 1553, and which led 
to his being burned together with 
it by the Calvinists at Geneva in 
the same year. 

The two accounts are so strik- 
ingly similar that it has been urg- 
ed with a good deal of plausibility 
that one of the few copies of Ser- 
vetus' work which escaped the fate 
of the unfortunate adventurer had 
fallen into the hands of Columbus. 



The Church and Medicine. 



199 



There is no evidence, however, 
that this occurred, and it is for 
some reasons so improbable that it 
is unfair to accuse Columbus of 
plagiary on such vague suspicion. 

The question, however, may be 
allowed to drop, for it can be shown 
that before this there was more 
than an inkling of the circulation 
in Spain. It is, perhaps, not gen- 
erally known that Spain as well as 
England and Italy claims this dis- 
covery. Some ascribe it to Fran- 
cisco de la Reyna, the learned far- 
rier of Zamora, who wrote a book 
in the middle of the sixteenth cen- 
tury, but his claim is of very doubt- 
ful value. In 1550, three years be- 
fore the appearance of the Restora- 
tion of Christianity and long after 
Servetus had quitted his native 
country, Montana of Monserrat * 
wrote as follows : 

" I say, then, that the said auricles prin- 
cipally serve, either one of them alike, 
to have and to hold the blood that the 
heart hath need of, and to feed the heart's 
necessity, in the one ventricle as in the 
other, in such sort that, though the heart 
may close and drive on the blood from 
the ventricle, there should still be in 
store with the auricles that very propor- 
tionate quantity of blood which the cavi- 
ties of the heart require. And the ex- 
cellence of the proceeding is apparent; 
for does not experience show us that 
the said auricles are filled with blood 
when the heart is undergoing contrac- 
tion, and, when once it loosens out, then 
is the time for the auricles to pour fresh 
.blood into the ventricles?" 

Montana gives also an excellent 
account of the pulmonary circula- 
tion, which is not reproduced here, 
as we have not seen a literal trans- 
lation of it, but only an abstract. 
In 1549, a year earlier, Pedro Gi- 

*For the facts concerning the Spanish anato- 
mists (except Servetus) we are indebted to some very 
interesting papers in the Medical Times and Ga- 
zette of London, by George Gaskoin. See the 
numbers for October 5 and 19 and November 23, 
-1878. 



meno, a well-known Spanish ana- 
tomist, wrote as follows : 

"The heart drawing the spirit from 
the lungs, and directing to the left ven- 
tricle the quantity of blood that comes 
from the right ventricle, the spirit and 
blood become there mixed by the instru- 
mentality of friction and compression, 
and so it is distributed by the arteria 
magna to every part of the body." 

We merely allude to the merits of 
Aguero of Seville, who lived at this 
time, and to those of Juan Calvo of 
Valencia, who nourished in the latter 
half of the same century, especially 
as we do not know the precise date of 
their publications. Suffice it to say 
that it cannot be doubted that they 
knew the chief phenomena of the 
circulation, whether they had grasp- 
ed their full bearing or not. 

So much for this episode. It 
may be interesting as showing the 
gradual development of discovery. 
It is of importance as showing who 
were the men, in what countries, 
and how encouraged, by whom at 
least all the preliminary steps were 
made. With the exception of Ser- 
vetus, whose claims are no greater 
than those of others, they were sons 
of the church, living in countries 
where her influence was great, and 
many of them were honored by her 
highest dignitaries. 

In even as slight a sketch as this 
paper mention must be made of 
what may be called the mechani- 
co-medical school, which nourish- 
ed in the seventeenth century, and 
which has since borne great fruit, 
especially in Germany. By "school " 
no particular institution is meant, 
but simply the practice of applying 
the laws of mechanics to the mo- 
tions and internal workings of the 
human body. Were the church 
afraid of knowledge, surely this is 
the kind of science she would con- 
demn, for its tendencies may seem 



200 



The Church and "Medicine. 



materialistic, though only so to the 
foolish and the vain. 

Borelli, the great light of this 
school, was born near Naples in 
1608. He was a professor at 
Florence, Pisa, and Messina, but, 
having become involved in poli- 
tical troubles, he took refuge at 
Rome in his old age, where he taught 
mathematics at the Convent of St. 
Pantaleon till 'his death in 1679. 
His great work, JDe Motd Anima- 
lium, was published a year or two 
after his death. For a long time 
it was very highly esteemed, and, 
though now antiquated, still com- 
mands respect as an able and origi- 
nal work which marked an era in 
medical science. 

Malpighius has been mentioned as 
the first who saw the capillary cir- 
culation. He was born near Bo- 
logna in 1628, and was professor of 
medicine in that city, and later at 
Pisa, where he became intimate 
with Borelli, who no doubt exer- 
cised a great influence on his ca- 
reer. He taught later for a time 
at Messina. In 1691 he was call- 
ed to Rome and appointed chief 
physician and chamberlain to Pope 
Innocent 'XII., which office she held 
till his death. He was a worthy 
follower of Borelli. He is one of 
those to whom the credit is given of 



having made the microscope an in- 
strument instead of a toy. He cer- 
tainly used it with good effect. His 
name has been preserved in con- 
nection with certain points of mi- 
nute anatomy. 

The name of one more distin- 
guished member of this school may 
be mentioned. It is that of Bel- 
lini, a pupil of Borelli, who was a 
most successful professor of anato- 
my at Pisa. 

The facts mentioned in this ar- 
ticle speak for themselves. Little 
skill is necessary in presenting 
them ; no eloquence is needed to 
show their bearing, which is un- 
deniably that the church favored 
and fostered medicine. These facts 
cannot be denied ; it is difficult 
even to distort them ; but they can 
be ignored. This is the only way 
by which the enemies of the church 
can conceal the great services she 
has rendered to the science of 
medicine. How persistently and 
effectively this has been done may 
be inferred from Prof. Draper's 
presuming to inform an intelligent 
public that " it had always been 
the policy of the church to dis- 
courage the physician and his art; 
he interfered too much with the 
profits of the shrines." 



An Evening Service in Lent. 201 



AN EVENING SERVICE IN LENT. 



THE altar-lights were out ; one lamp alone 
Swinging o'er silver urn, with glimmer faint 
A pale, red star, constant as cloister saint 

That doth one Love upon his heart enthrone. 

The prayers were o'er; the earnest voice and low 
Of him who unto God the people led, 
Their hearts uplifted with words hallowed, 

No longer stirred the air with tearful woe 

Of Calvary, with blessing for the night 
Of God and angels and of heart at rest 
As if close folded to the Father's breast, 

Where shadows darken not, nor dreams affright. 

Not any sound the dim, sweet silence bore, 

Save tread of reverent feet on sacred floor. 



n. 

Into the shadow faded radiant face 

Of her whose Rosary our lips had told, 
Each bead, in love's hot crucible grown gold, 

Blessing our finger-tips with touch of grace. 

Dim m the shadow grew the altar fair 

Whose silence deep shrouded the Lord of Heaven, 
This night unto his little ones not given 

In shining benediction, lightening care. 

Faint in the silence grew the sound of feet, 

The stillness our calm prayer had scarcely stirred, 
That had no organ note nor anthem heard, 

No music save the unison complete 

Of faithful hearts, whose tempered strings along 

No doubtful note jarred fulness of soul's song. 

in. 

Never did angels seem more near than then 

With soft, white wings the aisles' dim shadows gleamed; 

The very stillness, through its deep peace, seemed 
The immortal sweetness of the last amen 
Wherewith the guardian spirits blessed our prayer 

That gave for our good-night the peace of God. 

The darkened aisles the shining creatures trod, 
Each with the soul that won his presence there, 



2O2 



From an Irish Country-House. 



So passed the narrow threshold of the door, 
Kindling the darkness of the starlit night 
With unseen glow of super-earthly light ; 

Hushing earth's noises, that seemed sharp no more, 

Dulled by the guardian wings that held each heart 

In their soft folds in holy peace apart. 



FROM AN IRISH COUNTRY-HOUSE. 



in. 



AT breakfast Y- 



AUGUST i. 
announced 



that he had to go off, in his charac- 
ter of magistrate, and settle one of 
those never-ending land disputes, 
and if one of the Americans cared 
to join him the occasion might be 
amusing as a novelty. According- 
ly they set off before luncheon, 

and returned late in the day, X 

laughing heartily over the lively 
scene he had witnessed. It ap- 
pears that there was a dispute be- 
tween two men as to the bounda- 
ries of their respective acres, and 

Mr. Y had promised to go 

down as arbitrator, to see the land 
in question, and determine the 
rights and wrongs of the* case. 

Arrived at the place, the dis- 
putants came out of their cabins 
and on either side of" his honor's " 
horse bitterly reviled each other, 
the magistrate interfering when the 
war of words was too fiercely wag- 
ed ; and after an amusing scene, in 
which each man's coat was " trail- 
ed " very low for his opponent's 
ready heel, the case was finally 
decided. But who knows how 
soon the descendants of these two 
men may take it up ? The laws of 
boundaries and trespass, it appears, 



in this dear green isle, cannot be 
too clearly defined, for in the small 
courts, and in the great as well, 
these subjects are perpetually com- 
ing up. At dinner our host told 
some piquant anecdotes of what he 
had seen in his youth in this way ; 
how fights began over a few blades 
of grass growing the wrong side of 
a hedge, and were carried on from 
generation to generation, blood- 
shed not seldom following the bit- 
ter recriminations. From such in- 
cidents of strife and bitterness it 
was gratifying to turn to another 
phase of Irish character, as our 
hostess laughingly announced to 
her father that the ancient Brian 
had "slipped off" that day. To 
explain, she told us of such a case 
of fidelity and gratitude as in any 
other country would be remarkable, 
and perhaps unheard of: how for 
years and years a certain man 
whom their family had once be- 
friended came regularly at harvest 
time to give his help in the fields, 
refusing all payment, and always 
seizing an opportunity to slip away 
unperceived, if possible, when the 

"master" and "Mr. Z " were 

not by to force money or presents 
upon him. Gratitude alone actuat- 



From an Irish Country-House. 



203 



ed this visit, and Brian would have 
deemed wages an insult ; and so, his 
annual duty completed, he silently 
stole away, returning, as he came, 
on foot to his home in a distant 
county. It is pleasant to add that 
his benefactor always managed to 
requite the honest Brian's toil be- 
fore the year was out, in one way 
or another, in spite of determined 
opposition. 

AUGUST 5. 

Two of the county magistrates 
dined here to-day. When duty calls 

them to the court at M they 

are usually invited to dine at some 
gentleman's house in the neighbor- 
hood. I hardly think that conver- 
sation would have taken a legal 
turn but for the Americans present, 
who naturally fell to discussing the 
differences between American and 
Irish methods of justice. The 
government is extremely vigilant 
now, both in England and Ireland ; 
the police force well established 
and maintained upon an admirable 
system. Every district has its po- 
lice inspector to co-operate with 
the local magistrates, and as the 
position is a highly honorable one 
and in many ways desirable, it is 
usually held by men of the best 
standing and character in their 
class ; and the same is true of the 
lesser positions in the service, no 
man being accepted as a constable 
I' or subaltern unless he comes up to 
i'the very high government standard 
in point of intelligence and moral 
character and reputation, as well as 
in size and physique. A curious 
little Tour-page sheet, called The 
Hue and Cry, is published by the 
government twice a week in Dub- 
> : lin, and sent all over the coun- 
try to every magistrate and every 
member of the constabulary in Ire- 
land. It contains an account of 



the various offenders against law and 
order who have escaped or are not 
yet apprehended, and is supposed 
to set everybody who reads it on the 
alert; the constables, I was told, are 
expected to commit its contents 
to memory, and at stated times to 
have to pass an examination in the 
back numbers before their inspec- 
tor. Some of the descriptions of 
fugitives are extremely amusing ; 
one man, who had stolen a heifer, 
was described as having, among 
other marks for identification, " a 
dirty face." * In the same issue 
we observed an announcement of 
free pardon to any person or per- 
sons turning queen's evidence in 
the Leitrim murder case, while 
for the apprehension of the mur- 
derers a reward of one thousand 
pounds was offered. 

In our conversation to-day much 
was said about the former methods 
of administering justice, or rather 
injustice, in Ireland in those days 
when a Catholic gentleman's word 
was not looked upon as legal evi- 
dence. Then naturally, after dis- 
cussing the improvement in these 
matters to-day, there came queries 
as to the actual march of civiliza- 
tion and tolerance; and though our 
hostess admitted many things to 
be better than they had once been, 
there was some reason for her to 
shake her head gravely. There 
was more than Home Rule needed 
indeed, something better, perhaps, 
than Home Rule. 

Talking after dinner of Irish 
school-laws, an incautious and pre- 
judiced person exclaimed : " But 
you never can do very much with 
the lower classes. What were they 
a dozen years ago, I should like to 
know ? Scarce a man or woman 
among them could read." Here, in-' 
deed, was a theme for different 

* Hue and Cry, July 31, 1878. 



204 



From an Irish Country -House. 



tongues in the company ; and in 
proving how eager the Irish mind 
has always been for information, 
how quick to learn, how hard to keep 
ignorant, many entertaining and 
obscure facts were brought to light ; 
stories that lie on old book-shelves, 
cobwebbed and forgotten, were 
brought out, and figures from the 
past rose to show what Ireland was 
in the middle ages, what she was 
when most oppressed, what she was 
all through the dreadful period of 
William III. Somebody present 
very proudly related the story of 
Margaret O'Carroll, that learned 
and gracious Irish lady of the fif- 
teenth century, who, clever at 
books and brewing and baking, 
was the most agreeable and hospit- 
able hostess and the most pious 
of Catholic women. She it was 
who made the pilgrimage to the 
shrine of St. James of Compostella 
of Spain. " And was it not Mar- 
garet of Carroll," asked one of the 
Americans, " who gave those fa- 
mous invitations ?" 

" Yes, indeed, to rich and poor 
alike. McFirbis, the old antiqua- 
ry, relates that twenty-seven hun- 
dred people were gathered to- 
gether at her invitation, and had 
meat and money bestowed upon 
them. She was one of the most 
learned women of the day, and 
Irish to the very heart's core." 

"Now," said a lady present, "I 
should like to know what the Eng- 
lish mean by an ' ignorant Irish- 
man.' What have they tried to 
make of the lower classes in Ire- 
land? I well remember my grand- 
father telling of the time when it 
was illegal for a Catholic to be em- 
ployed in a school, and felony for 
a Catholic to give any child in- 
struction." 

"Yes, that was the law that 
brought the 'hedge-schoolmaster' 



into vogue/'' says somebody else. 
" In the old days there were among 
the educated Catholics, oppressed 
and hounded as they were by sta- 
tutes and penalties, some few who 
tried to evade the letter of the law 
by teaching under the hedges by 
stealth. The Irish peasant long- 
ed for education, and in spite of 
English laws he continued to get 
it. To my way of thinking," this 
speaker continues, with a heighten- 
ed color, "it ought to be a proud 
boast for any man that he was 
taught by a * hedge-schoolmas- 
ter.'" 

MONDAY. 

We drove out to-day, and our 
recent talk about Irish education 
made us look with newly-awaken- 
ed interest at the school-houses we 
passed. The first was a neat white- 
washed building, with a plain in- 
terior and thoroughly Catholic air,, 
though, of course, the attendance 
was mixed. The schoolmistress 
was a pleasant young woman of the 
middle class, fairly well informed, 
and interested in her work, having, 
some knowledge of music and a 
good common-school education. 

" How comes it," said one of the 
Americans, " that you have a re- 
gularly organized Catholic school 
here ?" 

"It is not entirely Catholic," re- 
sponded Y . " You see Mr. 

R (the school commissioner) 

is allowed to give Catholic instruc- 
tion, but none of the Protestant 
children attend k ; they go regu- 
larly to their own clergyman." 

" That sounds fair enough." 

" Yes ; but you see all Catholic 
board teachers must have a certain 
amount of education, and general-i 
ly pass an examination in the Dub-l 
lin Training-School, which is a Pro- 
testant institution. Few Catholic 
parents like to send their daugh- 



Front an Irish Country- House. 



205 



ters to be trained by the enemy, 
yet it is a great temptation, and 
one generally yielded to in spite of 
the opposition of the clergy. I 

suppose," continued Y , " no 

question ever mooted had so much 
of right and wrong on both sides 
and was so difficult to settle justly. 
At present many Protestants admit 
the injustice of there being no Ca- 
tholic university. Our country is 
as thoroughly Catholic as Scotland 
is Presbyterian, yet we cannot get 
our claim properly recognized. 
This must come by degrees, I sup- 
pose; there has been a great im- 
provement, however, within the last 
twenty years." 

" And are there no denomina- 
tional schools ?" 

" Oh ! yes ; the Protestants and 
Catholics alike have many small 
schools of their own. There, we 
are coming now to one of them ; 
this is a purely Protestant estab- 
lishment." 

It was a very pretty building, the 
entrance by a garden blooming with 
common flowers, the windows lat- 
ticed, and the doorway picturesque 
with hanging vines. A troop of 
children were on their way back to 
the school from their afternoon re- 
cess, and there was a comfortable 
air of well-being about them that 
showed plainly how much care was 
bestowed upon their physical as 
well as mental wants by the school- 
board directors. 

"The Protestant part of the 
community being the richer," said 

Y , " they have more money to 

give in charity to their own than 
the Catholics ever have." 

"And is there much feeling 
among the lower classes ?" 

" Even more than in the upper," 
our hostess said; "but what would 
you expect? There is a deep, in- 
dignant sense of wrong burning in 



every Irishman's heart, and from 
time immemorial the fact of his 
Catholicism has been the great 
cause of it. It is Protestant Eng- 
land that has dealt the blows at 
Catholic Ireland. Protestant Ireland, 
only may hope to prosper; and 
these poor people, many of whom 
remember their fathers and grand- 
fathers struggling against persecu- 
tion, poverty, even starvation, re- 
member also that the struggle came 
because of the faith in which they 
were born, and in which," she add- 
ed, smiling, " every one of them 
will die!" 

" But we have drifted away from 
the school-board question," said 

Y after a moment, " and I 

have just a few more words to say. 
You know that when the first ef- 
forts at school reform were made 
Bible lessons and religious instruc- 
tion formed a distinct part of the 
system ; but now the teacher is at 
liberty, at a fixed hour, to give re- 
ligious instruction in accordance 
with the need of the majority of 
his pupils, and, the hour being 
known, only those pupils who wish 
to conform need remain within for 
it." 

"I have been thinking," broke 
in our friend from India, who was 
riding his white horse near the car- 
riage, " that those school-houses 

we saw between this and F 

would be delightfully cool retreats; 
did you notice the stone floors and 
thatched roofs?" 

"Yes," said our hostess; "but 
those are rare. We have good 
boarded floors in C , and, in- 
deed, our children are in every way 
comfortably off, with Jane and her 
father to teach them." 

In some way we let national and 
political topics drift away dur- 
ing the last part of our drive, for 
suddenly all the air seemed to grow 



206 



From an Irish Country- House. 






full of that curious golden light 
which we have noticed on so many 
afternoons in Ireland. The trees 
caught it and transfigured all the 
roadside, and the party on horse- 
back, who rode on ahead, and who 
drew rein for a few moments under 
a clump of wide-spreading old 
trees, were glorified in a strange, 
uncertain way, the red lights of 
the sunset filtering through the yel- 
low and the shadows stretching 
afar off, while the outlines in the 
west grew more radiant, and every 
blossom and bit of verdure border- 
ing our path gained a new perfec- 
tion in this wonderful still death of 
day. Over all the land had come 
this sudden benediction of color, 
and the cool wind that blew had 
that fragrance of sea-mosses in it 
that makes one strain the eye for a 
glimpse of the restless ocean, which 
we seem to feel up here, though we 
never see it. A girl and boy saun- 
tering on the roadside had clam- 
bered up a moss-grown wall, and 
were evidently enjoying the ra- 
diance of the hour, unconscious of 
its aesthetic charm ; and had Birket 
Foster and George Boughton but 
seen them they would have recog- 
nized perfect figures for their mag- 
netic summer landscapes : the girl's 
bare brown feet, dark cotton gown, 
and striped shawl showing perfect- 
ly against the hedge, her face col- 
ored by the evening light, her hair 
tossed and blown about her cheeks; 
the boy in dingy corduroys, his 
hands clasped behind his head as 
he raised his face in childish, wait- 
ing wonderment at the clouds of 
amber and crimson that swept past 
like a glorious, ineffable vision 
across the sky. 

TUESDAY. 

To-day was rather bleak after 
last night's unexpected glory, and, 
as most of our company became 



absorbed in books or letter-writing, 
we missed some of our usual hours 
of talk and gossip; but coming in 
from a sharp ride about the mead- 
ows, and looking a little wind-blown, 
a certain member of the party said, 
laughing : 

" The winter is coming !" 

" It is time to expect it," replied 
Y , also laughing. 

" Whatever do you mean by that?" 
asked a downright American. " It 
is only the beginning of August." 

11 Oh !" said F , " I was only 

giving Y the password to see 

if he was a ' Ribbon-man.' Now I 
see he is." 

" Indeed, I am not" said Y , 

with a smile. " And do you know," 
he added, " you Americans view 
certain things so oddly ! Now, if 
you were asked suddenly, what' 
would you say a * Ribbon-man ' 
was ?" 

"A true Irishman!" exclaimed 
F , with a little burst of enthu- 
siasm. 

Everybody laughed outright. 

"I thought so," said Y , "for 

which reason I put the question. 
But really you are quite wrong ; a 
Ribbon-man is only a member of a 
secret society despised by all hon- 
est-minded Irishmen certainly not 
to be named in the same breath 
with a Fenian." 

F looked subdued but in- 
terested ; so Y continued : 

"I am not going to deny that 
Ribbonism is the outgrowth of a 
great deal of wrong-doing on the 
part of land-owners and landlords, 
but it is a society condemned by 
the Catholic Church as base in pur- i 
pose and result. Do you remem- 
ber what Mr. Sullivan says about 
it in his New Ireland?" 

" Yes ; but what a fascination! 
there is about all secret societies ! 
I enjoy the passwords, the signals, 



From an Irish Country-House. 



207 



the hidden meetings. Why do not 
women insist on membership, I 
wonder ?" 

The male portion of the com- 
pany looked supercilious. 

" I have heard that there was 
once a lady Freemason in Ireland, 
and there was a very romantic 
story connected with her admis- 
sion. Does anybody remember 
it?" 

" Oh ! yes, this is the hour for 
such tales," said the young lady of 
Keppoch. " A windy twilight that 
is just the time ; do tell it, some- 
body." 

" But her story is strictly a 
matter of history after all," said 

R , " strange as it is. I have 

often heard it from my grandfa- 
ther's lips, and he heard it dis- 
cussed, when he was a boy, by peo- 
ple who actually knew the parties 
and all the circumstances. The 
young lady was the daughter of the 
Hon. Arthur St. Leger, Lord Don- 
eraile, and was born about 1713. 
Her father was a famous Freema- 
son, and was authorized to bold 
lodge meetings at Doneraile House, 
where from fifty to one hundred 
and fifty members used to attend. 
Elizabeth St. Leger was described 
as a daring and vivacious girl, beau- 
tiful and accomplished. She was 
full of curiosity as to the duties of 
Freemasonry which were performed 
at Doneraile House, and resolved, 
if possible, to catch a glimpse of 
them from some hidden post of ob- 
servation. It so happened that re- 
pairs were being made to the room 
adjoining that in which the lodge 
was to be held on a certain even- 
ing, and Miss St. Leger contrived in 
advance to make a small hole in the 
intervening partition, through which 
she could see the interior of the 
mysterious room. The night came, 
and she placed herself tremblingly 



at the little aperture and watched 
the proceedings. But when she 
had witnessed the first two steps in 
Masonry a terror seized her, and 
she discovered that she had no 
means of escape except through 
the very room where the conclud- 
ing ceremonies were going on. 
There was a door at the lower end, 
and she seized a moment when the 
Masons were absorbed in their 
mystic rites to slip out, cross the 
room swiftly, and open the door. 
A wild shriek suddenly discovered 
her to the Masons, for on reaching 
the door she had encountered a 
sentinel on guard, who flung her 
back swooning into the room. A 
terrible scene followed, for the 
Freemasons were so enraged that 
many of them forgot even humani- 
ty and declared that Miss St. Le- 
ger should suffer death. The un- 
happy girl sat by, half-swooning, 
while her father and brother plead- 
ed for her life, and it was at last de- 
cided that if she chose to undergo' 
initiation into the society she should 
be spared. To this she assented, 
and no Freemason, it is said, ever 
did more honor to his guild; she 
interested herself in the charities 
connected with the society, and 
died revered by all who knew her 
either in public or private life. A 
There are many versions of the 
story, and even her name is given 
sometimes as Aldworth, but that 
was her married name; at the time 
of her initiation she was Miss Eli- 
zabeth St. Leger." 

We fell to telling old stories and 
reminiscences to-night, and our host 
had much to say of the famous Miss 
O'Neill in the days of her prime. 

" Was she at all like * The Foth- 
eringay ' in Thackeray's Penden- 

nis ?" inquired X . " It is said 

he had her in mind when he wrote 
the story." 



208 



From an Irish Country- House. 



"Not in the least," exclaimed 
our host energetically, "except in 
her personal appearance. She was 
a refined lady, both off and on the 
stacre; not highly cultured, per- 
haps, until after her marriage, but 
by no means the vulgar creature 
Thackeray describes at any time. 
Her voice was simply delicious, and 
her manners a combination of dig- 
nity and girlish grace. Her Juliet 
surpassed all others I have ever 

seen." 

" What a book might be written, 
^ a ^ x ' , " about the Irishwo- 
men who have been * queens of the 
stage/ beginning with PegWoffing- 
ton and coming down to Helen 
Barry!"* 

"But Ireland could furnish bet- 
ter annals than those of the stage," 
said j . " Think, if the histo- 
ries of all the brave, romantic, and 
god-ly lives of her men and women 
were written, what a volume it 
would be ! pure and loyal, god- 
fearing lives, yet full of a certain 
poetry and romance ; it is this 
glow of something higher than he- 
roism that shines on the face of our 
heroes like the light of the Ever- 
lasting." 

Nobody spoke for a Iktle while. 
We were all busy with our individ- 
ual trains of thought awakened 

ky Y- 's quietly-uttered words. 

One person present was looking 
back to childish days, when Ireland 
was the far-off country which made 
the background of so much pure 
Catholicism in a freer land ; when 
Irish legends, Irish ballads, Irish 
purposes seemed all to bear a touch 
of inspiration with them; when 
Ireland seemed to be the country 
of hope and faith, tragedy and 
that ineffable melancholy which 
has tinged even her most exultant 

* Something of the kind has been written, we 
ielieve, by Mr. Owens Black 



sayings ; and here, sitting by an 
Irish fireside, listening to winds 
that blew across Irish moors and 
from the Irish lakes, old chords 
were swept strangely and with 
something in their tone that brought 
a silence which was half a prayer. 

E - was busy lighting candles 
at the piano and drawing closer 
the drapery of the windows. 

" When you sing," said J - 
quietly, " let it be something in 
harmony with this calm twilight. 
Have you Moore's Melodies there ?" 

In some way all the vindictive 
earnestness of the other night had 
gone from A - 's voice and mind, 
it seemed ; for what she sang had 
only pathos and simplicity in it, 
though it spoke of exile and that 
passionate regret which came when 
Robert Emmet laid down his life 
for Ireland. 



He had lived for his love, for his country he died ; 

They were all that to life had entwined him ; 
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, 

Nor long will his love stay behind him." 



THURSDAY. 

I wonder how many Irish and 
English gentlemen and game-keep- 
ers awoke this morning saying, 
"The i2th of August!" with a 
sense of the freedom and sport it 
implied ? Our host came down to 
an early breakfast in shooting cos- 
tume, and was off while the dew 
still lay on the hedges. The day 
was clear and warm at the outset, 
but a heavy rain set in before two 
o'clock, and on some one's saying, 
" How will * the master ' stand 
this ?" the whole company laughed, 
for never was storm so great that 
the master could not climb or 
cross field with his gun and dogs. 
He came home about six o'clock, 
drenched, of course, but in hearty 
good spirits and with a fine bag of 
game. Never have I tasted any- 



From an Irish Country-House. 



209 



thing daintier than the grouse 
roasted with a rich mushroom 
sauce. Conversation at dinner 
turned to sporting topics, on which 
Americans are naturally ignorant. 
In England we well remember the 
bewilderment of a " hunting morn- 
ing," and over here in Ireland per- 
plexities deepened. We had to be 
initiated into all the mysteries of 
the " 1 2th," after which date shoot- 
ing privileges begin and the game- 
keepers breathe freely. There is 
in England more antagonism be- 
tween game-keepers and huntsmen 
than there is in Ireland, since the 
fox hunted in England is a more 
dangerous foe to game than the 
hare ; still, there is always a certain 
amount of rivalry between the two. 
Shooting in Ireland is less formally 
conducted than in England chiefly, 
I suppose, because the country is 
so much wilder and the middle- 
classes poorer; moreover, mightier 
things are "traditions" in Ireland. 
The English farmers we have seen 
make more of a " good run " than 
they do of a brave deed in their 
history, and shooting seems to be 
more pronouncedly an English 
sport at the present day. 

AUGUST 14. 

Being the eve of the Assumption, 
we went down to the little chapel 
to superintend the simple decora- 
tions for to-morrow. Some young 
girls from the village had brought 
up ferns and wild-flowers, and the 

gardens of S contributed some 

lovely blossoms. Here and there 
along the shady road we stopped 
the phaeton long enough to gather 
more ferns, and rarely have I seen 
such luxuriant green growth. Above 
a bit of stream they lay in most 
graceful abandon ; such rich green 
stems, every leaf perfect, and the 
tiny pale sprays clustering beneath. 
VOL. xxix. 14 



It seemed fair only to rob the bank 
for Our Lady's sake; and is it not 
beautiful, this rendering to our 
Lord's homage his fairest gifts ? 
The day was warm, still, and a 
trifle hazy. Driving through the 
little village, one remarked the list- 
lessness of summer in open door,- 
ways, tranquil attitudes, and a gen- 
eral, lazy silence. But up at the 
little chapel there was devotional 
stir enough ; a crowd of people 
were going to confession ; many 
others kneeling in the churchyard ; 
some busy with the schoolmistress 
practising the hymns for to-mor- 
row's Mass. What mattered it 
that the voices rose and fell with a 
rather shrill vibration ? The words 
were sung with simple, youthful 
fervor : 

" I keep singing in my heart, 
Immaculate ! immaculate !" 

The singers were bright, bonny- 
looking young people, who, when 
their practice was at an end, came 
out cheerfully to tie up ferns and 
rich roses for Our Lady's altar. We 
came away about sunset, leaving 
that one corner of the little, chapel 
green and beautiful to welcome 
Our Mother on her festal day. 
Strangely enough, as we drove away 
we passed a party of people bent 
on preparing for some Protestant 
church festival. Comfortable and 
well-to-do they looked, with well- 
filled hampers and a general im- 
pression of new ribbons and smart 
gowns. Few things strike Ameri- 
cans more forcibly, in both Eng- 
land and Ireland, than the outward* 
and inward air of prosperity and 
luxury which affects all Protestant 
church matters and people. Occa- 
sionally we have been moved to 
something like satire when in an 
English cathedral town we have 
remembered the never-ending flings 



210 



From an Irish Country-House. 



at our Roman cardinals' dignity, 
which is as much a part of Italian 
tradition and temperament as of 
church importance. In the party 
we passed to-day going to their 
church festival there was nothing, 
of course, to complain of, and I 
mention them only because they 
afforded a sudden, sharp contrast to 
the Catholics in the same neighbor- 
hood, and made us remember we 
were not in Limerick or Tipperary. 

AUGUST 20. 

These final days of our Irish 
visit make us almost melancholy. 
There is something in the very 
atmosphere which is pathetic, still, 
languorous, and golden : the last 
days of summer harvesting ; the 
last days of out-door activity, with 
heads and shoulders free in the 
sunshine, with a hot, fierce noon- 
tide and cool breaths from the sea 
coming softly ; cold winds steal up 
towards evening ; our peat-fire burns 
now at tea-time regularly, and, 
though the verdure is untouched, a 
look of autumn has crossed the 
hills. 

We drove out to-day, a long dis- 
tance, to Lough , and on the 

way passed several of those desert- 
ed dwellings which in both Eng- 
land and Ireland, but especially 
the latter, strike Americans curi- 
ously. One quite fine house stood 
almost proudly going to decay. 
Why was it left thus ? we asked. 
" Oh !" Y answered, " the own- 
ers couldn't live there ; the place 
was damp, no one wanted to rent 
it, and it was better to let out the 
lands for pasture." We went in, 
our footsteps echoing a little drear- 
ily and our emotions touched slight- 
ly, as is always the case on visiting 
a deserted home. The rooms were 
very fine, the walls thick, the door- 
way and windows built in heavily, 



and the wood-work handsome ; over 
all hung the suggestions of " lang 
syne " and the rnournfulness of 
crumbling ceilings and slowly-de- 
caying hearths. From every window 
we could see the stretch of rich 
country, but the near peat-bogs 
gave up a certain dampness which 
must have made it unhealthy. 

On this drive to Lough we 

passed a deserted church which 
had in its look so strong a touch 
of the mediaeval that it characteriz- 
ed the whole surrounding country; 
old tombs were scattered near it ; 
the broken windows and moss- 
grown arches looked as though it 
might have been reared before the 
days of William III. ; a beautiful 
tree spread its branches near by, 
and as a violent, sudden storm 
came up we drew under the green 
protection. The rain swept fierce- 
ly past and about us, while the 
outer branches of the dear old tree 
dripped softly. The country look- 
ed refreshed when the storm was 
over ; it ended with a sudden, swift 
clearing away of dense clouds and 
a flush of dimpling, moving color, 
out of which a majestic rainbow 
seemed to form, arching in the 
background, while hills and dales 
and the silver lakes shone with a 
wonderful new beauty. We drove 
down quite to the shore of Lough 

, stopping now and then to 

ask our way of the good-humored 
country-people, who had always 
something quaint to say in answer. 
The lake lies amidst pretty sloping 

shores, on one of which Lord 's 

stately residence showed clearlyj 
To the left the country rises boldly ; , 
the road is tortuous and the shores 
uneven, while here and there the 
yellow gorse colors the hillsides 
becomingly. We drove home past 
the fragrant moors, meeting the 
peasants and workmen and women 



From an Irish Country-House. 



211 



with the rosy sunset on their faces ; 
the old church and its grave-yard 
full of solemn color, the big tree 
shining a "good-evening." Every- 
where we looked with tender fare- 
well eyes. The beautiful country 
is vanishing from our sight, and 
with what fond memories do we 
leave it ! 

AUGUST 29. 

"And so it is good-by to Erin," 
says our friend from India, stand- 
ing out in the sunshiny garden this 
morning. 

"Good-by to Erin," echo two 
voices mournfully. 

"What a wonderful summer-time 
it has been ! Such weather ! Surely 
it was a royal welcome of dear, 
dear old Ireland's !" 

"'We'll not see another like it for 
many a day," says our host, walk- 
ing up and down between the low 
beds of rich flowers which lead 
up to the garden wall. " Every- 
where I go the people stop me 
to say : ' Well, hasn't this been a 
fine summer ? The Lord be prais- 
ed !' Poor creatures ! they well 
remember many a harvest that has 
been different." 

"But how fortunate," said X , 

" that our first and last glimpses 



should be so radiant ! To me Ire- 
land will always mean a rich green 
country where the sun shines in a 
glory ; where every one is hospita- 
ble, generous, and friendly ; where 
firesides are open and hands are 
held out with a genuine grasp; 
where smiles are bright and voices 
kindly ; where " Was X' sub- 
dued by his own eloquence ? He 
looked down a moment, and then 
turned his face to the hospitable, 
open mansion from whose friendly 
doorway we are passing. 

" Ireland !" says our friend from 
India slowly " ah ! what will not 
Ireland mean to me this day three 
months ? Think of the Indian 
Christmas cheer I'm going to a 
hot, fierce sun, perhaps, a longing 
for a cool drink and a fresh breeze ; 
and I must look back and remem- 
ber //>/" 

He waved his hand about de- 
spairingly. And what is it Ireland 
means to us all when the last day 
has. come ; when we have watched 
the last sunset fling its pathetic 
glory over this dear land ; when we 
have assembled for the final even- 
ing about the fireside that has.made 
us so generously welcome ? It 
means so much that no one.- can 
utter one word of it alL 



212 



The Reality of the Sufficient Reason and 



THE REALITY OF THE SUFFICIENT REASON AND FIRST 
CAUSE OF THE WORLD. 



THAT sagacious and penetrating 
thinker, Leibnitz, reasoninguponthe 
necessary truths which are self-evi- 
dent or demonstrable, inquires what 
is their original source and ultimate 
foundation. 

" Some one may, however, inquire 
where these ideas would be if no mind 
existed, and what would be, in that case, 
the real foundation of this certainty of 
the eternal truths? This leads us at 
last to the ultimate foundation of these 
truths, namely, to that supreme and uni- 
versal mind which cannot fail to exist, 
whose understanding is in reality the 
region of the eternal truths, as St. Au- 
gustine held and most distinctly teaches. 
Moreover, lest it might be thought un- 
necessary to have recourse to this foun- 
dation, it must be borne in mind that 
these necessary truths contain the de- 
termining reason and regulating princi- 
ple of the really existing things them- 
selves, and, in a word, the laws of the 
universe. Therefore, these necessary 
truths being anterior to the existence of 
contingent beings, it is assuredly requi- 
site that they should have their founda- 
tion in the existence of a being who 
subsists by necessity of nature." * 

The idea of Leibnitz is a very 
.clear one. Truths which do not 
-depend on the existence of any 
-contingent being, which are not 
confined within any limits of time 
or space, which are universal, un- 
changeable, necessary, and eternal, 
which impose a law upon our 
minds and are the archetypes of 
,all things existing in the visible and 
invisible world, cannot be floating 
about unsustained in a kind of in- 
tellectual ether as self-subsistent, 
abstract entities. This notion, as- 
cribed to Plato by Aristotle, was 
by him refuted with great copious- 

-* Nouveaux Essats, liv. iv. c. it. 



ness and subtlety of reasoning. Its 
absurdity is so plain that the Pla- 
tonists, following St. Augustine, 
have maintained that Plato did not 
hold it, but really intended to rep- 
resent the eternal ideas as having 
their foundation in the sovereign 
mind. Aristotle, whatever may be 
thought of Plato, sets forth in pre- 
cise terms the sovereign intellect 
as noesis noesios, the intelligence of 
intelligence, absolute truth, or ade- 
quation in terms of the infinite be- 
tween the knower and the known. 

We will now go back upon the 
conclusions we have previously es- 
tablished concerning the first truths 
and principles of both rational and 
experimental science, and show 
how the idea of God is virtually 
contained in them, educed from 
them by analysis, and proved to 
be really actuated in the existence 
of God by a demonstration, pro- 
ceeding from those things which 
are naturally known to their suffi- 
cient reason and first cause. 

The regulating principle of thfe 
argument is given by St. Paul : 
"The invisible things of Him art 
seen from the creation of the 
world, being understood by the 
things which were made."* The 
way of understanding by these 
made things or facts is clearly 
expressed by St. Thomas : " Otn 
natural cognition takes its begin- 
ning from sense ; wherefore oui 
natural cognition can extend itsel 
just so far as it can be led by th< 
hand by sensible things." W< 
have already shown how we an 
led by the hand to self-evident anc 



First Cause of the World. 



213 



certain first truths, the principles 
of science, " the inviolable truth." 
"This inviolable truth, moreover, 
we behold in the similitude of it- 
self which is impressed on our 
mind, inasmuch as we cognize 
naturally some things which are 
known in themselves, and by these 
examine all other things, and ac- 
cording to them judge of all things." 

"The first thing which is under- 
stood by us, according to the state 
of the present life, is the essence 
(quidditas) of the material thing." * 
From this primary perception re- 
sult the perceptions of first princi- 
ples, from reflection upon the acts 
of sense and intellect result the in- 
tellectual perceptions of our own 
existence and that of bodies dis- 
tinct from us, and in these elements 
we have the beginning of all philo- 
sophy and the criterion of certitude. 
It is by this road tha*t we must rise 
to the cognition of God, the sum- 
mit of philosophy. 

It is plain, from what has been 
proved in the exposition of previ- 
ous topics of this essay, that the 
essences perceived by the intel- 
lect, in their abstract, universal ra- 
tios, are necessary, immutable, eter- 
nal, and potentially infinite. The 
transcendental ratios of being, uni- 
ty, truth, and goodness, are evi- 
dently what they are by necessity, 
and not by chance, or from the 
capricious will of any being who 
has made them. Call to mind the 
principle of contradiction. Being 
cannot possibly be not-being, unity 
cannot be multiplicity, truth can- 
not be falsehood, good cannot pos- 
sibly be evil. The proposition that 
they are made what they are, or 
that the principle of contradiction 
is made what it is, by chance, or 
by a sovereign will acting without 

* Summ. Theol., i. p. xii 12, Ixxxviii 3, Qq. De 
Meute. 



reason from arbitrary caprice, is a 
mere set of words without sense. 
Their necessity is self-evident from 
the mere statement. What is ab- 
solutely necessary cannot be chang- 
ed, for the changeable is contin- 
gent, and subject either to chance 
or to the action of some cause, and 
that which is not subject even to a 
supreme will is not contingent, and 
is therefore immutable. The nec- 
essary and immutable is eternal, 
for that which is confined to time 
may have a beginning and an end- 
ing and must have succession, and 
is therefore both contingent and 
changeable. That the transcen- 
dental ratios are potentially infinite 
is manifest from their universal ex- 
tension to all that is intrinsically 
possible. That the possible is in- 
finite will be hereafter proved. 

If we take, now, some determi- 
nate essence, for instance humanity, 
it is obvious that the same affirma- 
tions are verified in the very no- 
tion of essence. The individual 
man is not, indeed, a necessary, 
immutable, eternal, and infinite be- 
ing. His really existing animal 
and rational nature is contingent, 
changeable, limited by beginning 
and succession in time, and finite 
on all sides. But his specific ratio 
by which he is defined to be a ra- 
tional animal is not limited to his 
single and particular existence as 
an individual. Humanity is some- 
thing universal, which can be pre- 
dicated of one and of many, of all 
men in general, and of any number 
of possible men without any limit. 
The ideal essence, that which the 
intellect understands as the idea 
of what constitutes the species of 
being called rational animal, pre- 
scinds from the fact of one or many 
men really existing, and only de- 
notes what is a possible grade of 
being, intrinsically capable of being 



2I 4 



The Reality of the Sufficient Reason and 



actuated in any number of individ- 
uals who can be made to exist by 
a sufficient cause. In the language 
of St. Thomas : " The knowledge 
which we have of the soul [and by 
parity of reason of the whole hu- 
man essence] by virtue of an intui- 
tion of the inviolable truth is such 
that by it we define not what the 
mind of each man actually is, but 
as perfectly as we can what it 
ought to be in the eternal reasons."* 

The idea of animal nature, of 
rational nature, and of the intrinsic 
compatibility of the two as parts of 
a composite essence, is something 
in itself intelligible. We know that 
rational animals really exist. Their 
essence is therefore intrinsically 
possible, and this is a necessary, 
immutable, eternal truth. On the 
other hand, intelligent matter, ex- 
tended thought, volition gravitating 
toward a corporeal mass, the bou- 
quet of a vine tied up by a ribbon, 
a sphere composed of moral obli- 
gations revolving in an elliptical 
orbit around the sun, are intrinsic 
impossibles ; each one is a " triste 
lupus " of incongruity. The possi- 
bility of the human essence, though 
known to us from its actuation in 
individuals, is anterior to our 
knowledge, and anterior to the ex- 
istence of human beings. Ouridea 
of humanity as a universal is a con- 
cept of our mind, with its proxi- 
mate foundation in real existences. 
But what is its ultimate, neces- 
sary, and eternal foundation, its 
sufficient reason which precedes 
all contingent beings and their 
thoughts ? We have already given 
the answer of Leibnitz to this ques- 
tion ; but before we fix our atten- 
tion directly upon it, we have yet 
to bring forward another illustra- 
.tion. 

In the science of geometry at 

* De Mente, viii. 



least two postulates are assum* 
viz., position and direction. From 
these and whatever other elements 
are necessary it is easy to con- 
struct a sphere of any given dimen- 
sions. A sphere, by its very es- 
sence, is capable of indefinite in- 
crease of geometrical magnitude. 
Let it be equal to the known stel- 
lar universe, it is still capable of 
increase to infinity. Any point in 
it can be taken as the centre of a 
similar sphere. From its surface 
lines can be produced of any given 
length in any number of directions. 
The extremities of these lines can 
be taken as central points for the 
construction of other spheres. Be- 
yond these, the possibility of con- 
tinuing the same process is indefi- 
nite and illimitable. It is evident, 
therefore, that the abstract ratio of 
dimensive quantity or the possibil- 
ity of extension is infinite. It is 
obviously also necessary, immuta- 
ble, and eternal. 

Again, any number of spheres 
can be supposed to revolve on their 
own axes, and to be arranged in 
planetary groups, revolving around 
their suns. In any given number 
of these revolutions, however great, 
there must be a first one. Before 
this first revolution another is con- 
ceivable as equally possible with 
the actually first revolution, and 
before that another, and so back- 
ward indefinitely and without any 
necessary limit. So, also, in the 
future, the possible revolutions are 
infinite. All these measure pe- 
riods of duration, and the measura- 
bility of duration by periods of 
successive change, or time, is con- 
sequently infinite. 

It must be perfectly evident to 
every one who has not a " triste 
lupus in stabulo " that the really 
existing world has its actual exist- 
ence projected upon a background 



First Cause of the World. 



215 



of infinite potentiality, and that the 
axioms, that every line is produci- 
ble to infinity and every number 
has an infinite multiplicability, 
stand as signs of a universal pre- 
dicate of being. The transcenden- 
tal and universal ratios are eternal 
and infinite. As soon as the in- 
fant has abstracted his first univer- 
sal from the rose or any other sen- 
sible object, the invisible power 
has seized his hand which will lead 
him to the infinite. As soon as he 
possesses the primary truths and 
first principles, he has virtually the 
ideas of the infinite and the eter- 
nal of which he can never rid him- 
self, even though he may foolishly 
attempt to do so. When he can 
make right and left exchange places 
in his body, when he can under- 
stand how the earth can revolve 
on its axis from west to east and at 
the same time from east to west, 
remaining meanwhile stationary, 
when he can put four angles into a 
triangle, and shift the centre of a 
circle into the middle of one of its 
radii, he may rid himself of the 
ideas of the infinite and the eter- 
nal. Until then he will be forced 
to see that there is a truth so true 
that it cannot possibly be untruth, 
so old that it can have no begin- 
ning, so vast that it can have no 
bounds. Though he should have 
begun to exist with the world and 
continue to exist until the end of 
the world, he would never be able 
to stir from one, indivisible present 
instant in the middle of eternity ; 
and though he should circumnavi- 
gate the universe, he would never 
be able to get away from the cen- 
tral point of infinity. Nothing and 
nowhere are not in the region of 
ideas. The mind cannot utter the 
"everlasting no," for its thoughts 
art "a re-thinking of the thoughts 



of God," * which are an " everlast- 
ing yea," re-echoed in the crea- 
tion and striking our ears from 
every object in the universe. This 
is what is intended by St. Augus- 
tine and St. Thomas when they 
say that the human mind thinks 
" in rationibus seternis," in eternal 
ratios, reasons, or ideal concep- 
tions. 

" Ideas are certain principal 
forms or stable and unchangeable 
reasons of things, because they 
have not been formed, and are 
therefore eternal and remain al- 
ways after the same manner, and 
they are contained in the divine intel- 
ligence?^ 

" Inasmuch as any mind 'be- 
holds whatever it knows with cer- 
titude, in those principles accord- 
ing to which judgments are elicited 
concerning all things which are re- 
solved into these first principles, 
this mind is said to see all things 
in the divine truth or in the eter- 
nal reasons, and to judge of all 
things according to these rea- 
sons." \ This is precisely what 
Leibnitz affirms. What is this ne- 
cessity, eternity, and infinity of pos- 
sible things, of abstract ratios, but 
a shadow of real being which is 
positively infinite and eternal in 
act? What is abstract being, 
unity, truth, goodness ? What are 
abstract essences ? What are infi- 
nite space and duration ? What 
are the necessary principles of con- 
tradiction and the sufficient rea- 
son, the necessary mathematical 
truths, the laws of the universe, 
the ideal forms which are impressed 
upon all things in nature, in their 
purely ideal and intelligible atti- 
tude, outside of the conceptions 

*Leo. 

tSt. Aug., De. Div., Qq. Ixxxiii. q. 46. 

$St. Thorn., Con. Gent., lib. iii. c. 47. 



2l6 



The Reality of the Sufficient Reason and 



of our mind and the contingent 
things from which these concepts 
are abstracted by our intellect ? 
We must say with Leibnitz that 
they have their region in the di- 
vine intellect, which contains these 
eternal reasons in itself, as ideas 
and archetypes according to which 
all possibles which have received 
actual being are formed. 

Our intellect receives its mea- 
sure, its rule, its essential laws 
from the sensible objects in nature 
which are made intelligible by our 
intellectual light. It is passive, 
subject, and dependent. It can 
read within, but only what is legible 
in the great book of nature, written 
without and within, all over, with 
signs, hieroglyphics, picture writ- 
ing, by which we are taught science, 
in which we find poetry and music, 
from which we learn to contem- 
plate the true, the good, and the 
beautiful. What is the measure of 
that by which our intellect is mea- 
sured ? What is the source of the 
light in which all things are lu- 
minous ? Only mind speaks to 
mind, only the intelligent can illumi- 
nateand instruct intelligence. The 
work of art, be it a temple, a pic- 
ture, or a poem, is the product of a 
living idea, an exemplar, an ar- 
chetype. The scientific work is 
the product of a scientific mind. 
There is a great Artist, a great 
Author of science, whose intellect 
is the measure of the intelligible 
world, and contains the eternal 
reasons, the universal laws, which 
are impressed on the nature of 
things, and from thence reflected 
into our minds. 

When we turn our mind upon 
the actual world and the multitude 
of beings contained in it, we per- 
ceive that they are all contingent, 
finite, existingin time, must have had 
a beginning, and have emerged into 



actual existence from an anterior 
possibility. Intrinsic possibility in 
itself has no tendency or power of 
emerging into actual existence with- 
out a sufficient reason. The being 
whose intrinsic possibility or intel- 
ligible essence contains in itself the 
sufficient reason of existence is the 
infinite, eternal being, subsisting by 
necessity of nature, and containing, 
as the ultimate foundation of truth, 
all the necessary and universal ra- 
tios of possible existences. The 
ground of the possibility of contin- 
gent and finite existences which 
can receive a participated actual 
being from the original fount of 
being, must be eternal. But the 
eternal reasons in the divine intel- 
lect, the archetypal ideas, determine 
only abstract, possible laws and 
modes of being, which must or may 
measure and regulate, actual exis- 
tences, if they are made actual. 
But their real actuation, by which 
they emerge from pure potentiality 
into act, has a physical possibility 
only in the power of the infinite 
being who contains the eternal rea- 
sons in his intellect, to create them 
by an act of volition. All bodies 
which exist in space are in a defi- 
nite number, quantity, and loca- 
tion. In their essence they are in- 
different in respect to existence or 
non-existence, and in respect to all 
possible numbers, quantities, places, 
and modes of motion or rest. What- 
ever substantial matter and form 
may be, in whatever way extended 
atoms may be ultimately constitut- 
ed, an active power, exercised by 
an efficient first cause, is the only 
sufficient reason which can deter- 
mine their actual state and rela- 
tions. The genera, species, and 
individuals of the vegetable world 
and of animals, require the deter- 
mination of an active force pro- 
ceeding from a will which is sove- 



First Cause of the World. 



217 



reign over nature, in order that 
they should exist precisely as they 
do, and not in some other possible 
modes and numbers. ' Laws of na- 
ture are a mere abstraction, as in- 
competent to effect anything as a 
geometrical ratio to produce a real, 
solid sphere of ivory, or an artist's 
plan on paper to build a cathedral 
of marble ; unless they are the liv- 
ing ideas of a living being, effect- 
uated by a volition directing causa- 
tive power upon its term. Human 
beings subsist by a union between 
a rational principle and matter, 
which have no necessary affinity 
with each other. The human mind 
is passive and dependent, in re- 
spect to its existence, its life, its 
laws of intelligence, its union with 
the sensitive organization, and all 
that constitutes its specific and in- 
dividual character. An intelli- 
gent and creative first cause is nec- 
essary in order to give existence 
to the original first matter of the 
universe, in its simplest and most 
elementary form, even if we adopt 
the nebular hypothesis and the new 
theory of Mr. Lockyer; and also to 
impart intelligence and reason to 
contingent and finite beings. It is 
only an expansion of the same ar- 
gument, when we consider the ac- 
tual order and countless multitude 
of distinct beings existing in their 
various grades in the universe. 

Here let us be permitted to quote 
a fine passage from Cicero, which 
will perhaps be more welcome to 
some of our readers from the fact 
that he was no Christian theologian 
but a pagan philosopher : 

" Who would say that any individual 
deserves the name of man who can be- 
hold the exact movements of the celes- 
tial sphere, the orderly courses of the 
stars, and the mutual aptitudes connect- 
ing all things in their common relations 
with one another, and yet deny that there 
is a reason presiding over this order, 



asserting that the whole is the result of 
chance ; whereas the wisdom regulating 
all things is so great that it cannot be 
adequately understood by our own ac- 
quired science? If we cannot doubt 
that whatever is moved by mechanism, 
as, for instance, a sphere, clocks, or 
any similar construction, is a product 
of reason ; when we behold the heavens 
moving and revolving with wonderful 
celerity, and accomplishing with a per- 
fect constancy of law all the annual 
changes by which all things are pre- 
served in their well-being, can \ve doubt 
that these revolutions are regulated not 
only by reason of some kind, but even 
by an excellent and divine reason ? Put- 
ting aside all subtle disputation, we can, 
as it were, by the mere sight of our eyes 
perceive the beauty of those things 
which we say have been constituted by 
divine providence. In the first place, 
we behold the earth itself, a solid globe 
held together in its spherical form by the 
force of its own physical tendencies, and 
placed in the midst of the universe ; 
clothed with a vesture of flowers, herbs, 
trees, and fruits, whose multitude is 
countless and their variety inexhausti- 
ble. Consider also the cool, perennial 
fountains, the rivers with their clear 
waters, the meadows by the river-banks 
adorned with a charming verdure, the 
deep, extensive caverns below the sur- 
face of the ground, the rugged rocks, 
the high, overhanging mountains, the 
vast plains, the hidden veins of gold and 
silver, the enormous masses of marble 
in the quarries. How wonderful and 
numerous are the various kinds of do- 
mestic and wild animals ! Consider, 
too, the flight and the song of birds, the 
pastures filled with peacefully grazing 
herds and flocks, and the forests teem- 
ing with savage beasts. What shall I 
say now of the race of men, the ap- 
pointed cultivators of the earth, who 
prevent the wild beasts from making it a 
wilderness of animal savagery, and re- 
press the overrunning growth of vegeta- 
tion, and by continuous labor adorn the 
plains, the coasts, and the islands with 
dwellings and cities ? If all these things 
could be made at once as visible to the 
eye as they are to the mind, no one who 
regarded the whole earth in one view 
could possibly doubt that there is a di- 
vine reason. Consider, moreover, the 
grandeur of the ocean, the wonderful 
constitution of the atmosphere and the 



218 



The Reality of the Sufficient Reason and 



surrounding ether, the courses of the 
sun and moon and planets. Nothing 
can be more admirable and beautiful 
than this spectacle, and there are also 
beyond the region of the planets the im- 
mense multitude of the fixed stars. What 
sane man can imagine that all this splen- 
did celestial array has sprung by hap- 
hazard from a fortuitous concourse of 
bodies, or that any nature devoid of in- 
telligence and reason could have effect- 
ed these things, which not only require 
a reason from which they have originat- 
ed, but also demand for their investiga- 
tion the highest exercise of reason ?" * 

This is only a short extract from 
a much longer and more compre- 
hensive enumeration, adorned with 
many quotations from the poets, 
and summarizing a great part of 
the natural science of that age, in 
which the eloquent Roman philo- 
sopher sets forth the argument from 
design for the existence of God. 
It is needless to say that although 
it could not be presented with 
greater elegance of language, it 
could be more scientifically devel- 
oped and correctly illustrated by 
the aid of modern discoveries. 
The principle and the conclusive 
force of the argument are, how- 
ever, perfect and unassailable. 
Greater and more original power 
of intelligence is necessary to in- 
vent and construct a wonderful 
work of skill and art, than to un- 
derstand and admire the same when 
made. Therefore, if it requires 
the highest efforts of intelligence 
and reason to understand some part 
of the order of the universe and of 
the multitude of beings contained 
in it, we are compelled to infer 
that a being of original and most 
perfect intelligence is its author 
and sovereign ruler. Since the 
reasons and ideal exemplars ac- 
cording to which it has been made, 
and which shine through it into 
our minds, are necessary, infinite, 

* De Naturd Deorum, lib. ii. c. 38, etc. 



and eternal, they must have their 
original foundation in the essence 
of an infinite being, existing by ne- 
cessity of nature, and be contained 
in his intellect as the measure of 
all things. 

The ideal exemplar and arche- 
type of the moral order of the uni- 
verse, represented in the human 
breast by the conscience, and the 
argument from the moral laws by 
which free and responsible beings 
are regulated to a sovereign law- 
giver, are in the same argumenta- 
tive plane, and their exposition be- 
longs to a complete synthesis of 
ideas in this order. The reality of 
the moral world, the reality of 
moral judgments, the criterion of 
right, the sufficient reason of the 
moral laws, the foundation of all 
ethical principles in the essence of 
God, thewtllof God as the measure 
of the law by which our conscience 
is measured, all these topics might 
be treated in a similar manner to 
that with which we have been pro- 
ceeding in this essay. It is not 
because we undervalue this line 
of argument that we abstain from 
doing more than pointing out its 
direction and scope. It may be 
found presented with the consum- 
mate ability and grace which be- 
long to Dr. Newman's writings, in 
several of these, especially in the 
Grammar of Assent. 

We have shown how sensible ob- 
jects lead reason by the hand in 
the way of cognition tip to the In- 
finite Mind which is the origin and 
source of truth. And here we will 
pause for a time to contemplate 
this intellectual Sun of the universe, 
the primal light of whose radiance 
all intelligence is but a faint and 
languid ray. 

Plato and Aristotle are the two 
great philosophers of antiquity in 
whose writings, taken together and 



First Cause of the World. 



219 



compared with each other, the 
most perfect natural theology which 
has been constructed by the way 
of rational demonstration without 
ideas received from revelation, may 
be found. In the analysis of infi- 
nite, sovereign intelligence Aristo- 
tle excels. We will, therefore, pre- 
sent Aristotle's idea of God, follow- 
ing an admirable summary of the 
Aristotelian theology taken from 
his own writings by that excellent 
writer, Mgr. Laforet, the late Rector 
Magnificus of the University of 
Louvain.* 

The reasoning of Aristotle is 
based on the principle that the 
actual is in nature prior to the pos- 
sible, the immutable to the muta- 
ble. Changeableness is a mark of 
the relative and contingent which 
depends on the absolute and the 
necessary for its transition from the 
state of pure possibility, or of dor- 
mant potency, into actuality. The 
absolute and necessary being is 
above all possibility of change, free 
from all mixture of dormant poten- 
tiality, completely and immutably 
actual in the most perfect manner, 
eternal in his substance, which is 
what it is by absolute necessity of 
essence and cannot possibly be 
otherwise. This most simple and 
most perfect act in which the im- 
mutable essence of the most per- 
fect being consists, is the most ex- 
cellent and supreme intelligence, 
which is identical with supreme 
blessedness and interminable life. 
In the being who exists and enjoys 
by instants which are evanescent, 
the state of wakefulness, or fully 
aroused activity of the faculties of 
sense and intelligence, is that which 
is most pleasurable ; and the plea- 
sures of hope and memory are only 
secondary and relative to this pre- 

* Hist, de la Philos. Ancienne, torn. ii. See 
also Aristotle's Met., book xi. ch. 7, 8, and 9. 



sent, actual enjoyment. Intelli- 
gence is by its nature turned to 
some object which is good by its 
essence, the most excellent or su- 
preme intelligence faces the object 
which is the most excellent or su- 
preme good, for the supreme intel- 
ligible and the supreme desirable, 
or sovereign good, are identical in 
essence. The supreme intelligence 
is in itself this most excellent es- 
sence, at once the intelligible and 
the desirable in the most perfect 
sense. It is in pure and perfect 
actuation in God, and not at all in 
the condition of a mere faculty, 
for it is actual intelligence which 
is the most excellent, and not the 
mere power of exercising intellec- 
tion. Moreover, God cannot be 
dependent on any inferior object 
of intelligence, or exercise intellec- 
tion upon divers objects in a tran- 
sitory way, for this would be to 
deny that he has all perfection 
within himself and is immutable. 
He immutably possesses the most 
excellent intelligible, which is iden- 
tical with the most perfect good. 
His happiness is therefore perfect 
and eternal, consisting in the con- 
templation of himself. His con- 
templation is his life, since know- 
ledge is a vital act, and the most 
perfect life is the act of intelligence, 
which exists in God most perfectly, 
who is essential act and therefore 
essentially, perfectly, and eternally 
living. Therefore we name God 
an eternal and perfect living being ; 
meaning that life, in unceasing, 
eternal duration, is possessed by 
him and constitutes his very es- 
sence. 

Father Gratry sums up the doc- 
trine of Aristotle in his own elo- 
quent language as follows : 

" To be in wakeful consciousness, to 
think, to feel, to live, this is in short our 
good, our enjoyment. We possess this 



220 



The Reality of the Sufficient Reason and 



good but partially, but in God it must 
subsist in absolute, infinite plenitude. 
He is infinitely wakeful, because he is 
all act ; there is nothing in him which 
exists in an implicit, dormant state; noth- 
ing which lies in the sleep of potential- 
ity awaiting the future ; no quiescent 
force which is preparing to act ; for all 
is already in act. He thinks in the abso- 
lute sense. His thought is the essential 
thought ; he thinks that which is the 
most excellent good ; and moreover he 
is that which he thinks. As for our- 
selves, when we think, we seek to see 
and touch the intelligible, but he is him- 
self the intelligible. His thought does 
not approach more or less nearly to its 
term, but is itself its own term. He 
lives, absolutely and infinitely, because 
his life is nothing else than this very act 
itself, which is the mutual compenetra- 
tion and identity of intelligence and the 
intelligible. Not only does he possess 
this sovereign and eternal life, but in an 
admirable manner he is actually his own 
life, his essence is perfect and eternal 
life. ... In all things known to us we 
perceive a mixture of potency and act, 
of the possible and the actual ; every 
living thing is continually becoming, de- 
veloping itself, tending toward a higher 
term, which is unattainable in the same 
manner as an infinite number transcends 
all possibility of completion by the per- 
petual addition of units to units. There 
must always remain in us something 
which is in potency to a further develop- 
ment, which awaits the future in order to 
be reduced to actuality ; and this is the 
necessary and impassable chasm which 
divides the infinite from the finite. Yet, 
O happy thought ! there is a Being who 
is not becoming but who is ; who is abso- 
lutely, who is that highest term toward 
which everything is moving but without 
the possibility of attaining ever, be- 
cause the infinite must be infinite by es- 
sence, and not by result. This being is 
the infinite in absolute development of 
the plenitude of boundless life."* 

Aristotle's exposition of the na- 
ture of God as a pure, intelligent 
Spirit, self-sufficing in the infinite 
beatitude of contemplation, is the 
greatest triumph ever achieved by 
pure human reason. What extra- 

* De la Connaiss. de Dieu, t. i. 164-65. 



ordinary light he may have receiv- 
ed, unconsciously to himself, from 
the divine intelligence, we cannot 
know ; but we have no certain 
proof that he borrowed, his ideas 
from the Hebrews, who alone pos- 
sessed a more perfect x and sub- 
lime idea of God than that which 
is contained in the philosophy of 
the disciples of Socrates. There 
are great defects in the theology 
of Aristotle, and there are similar 
defects in that of Plato, though 
these defects are not precisely the 
same in both. This is true of the 
theology of all the great pagan 
philosophers taken together. We 
do not pretend to affirm that the 
complete Theistic doctrine as taught 
by the masters of Christian phi- 
losophy, who drew their wisdom 
from the Hebrew and Greek Scrip- 
tures as well as from the pagan phi- 
losophers, can be found 'explicitly 
set forth in the writings of the sages 
of Greece or those of their learn- 
ed and eloquent Latin interpreter 
and expositor, Cicero. It is a fact, 
nevertheless, that the entire sub- 
stratum of natural theology is 
really contained in their best works, 
taken together and co-ordinat- 
ed in a fair, eclectic synthesis of 
rational truths. We may go fur- 
ther, and say that a complete Theo- 
dicy is implicitly or at least virtu- 
ally contained in their explicit and 
formal statements. Where, in cer- 
tain important respects, their ideas 
are not clear, they are involved in 
an obscure manner and implied in 
those which are clear ; and even 
their formal errors of statement can 
be refuted by logical deductions 
from their sound principles, and 
shown to be contradictory to these 
very principles. If the divine phi- 
losophy of St. Thomas could have 
been presented to Plato and Aris- 
totle, they would have been obliged 



First Cause of the World. 



221 



to recognize it as their own made 
perfect, just as St. Thomas would 
have been compelled by his ration- 
al nature to admit the Coperni- 
can system of physical astronomy, 
if he had seen its evidence. 

In regard to the one special and 
fundamental doctrine of what we 
may call the radical and specific 
character of the divine essence, the 
exposition we have given from 
Aristotle is metaphysically perfect, 
and nothing has ever been added 
to it, or can be added to it by any 
effort of the human reason. The 
discoveries made by the spectro- 
scope are marvellous. Certain 
lines of light and shade indicate 
witlf certainty the nature of sub- 
stances in such distant bodies as 
the sun and the other fixed stars. It 
appears at present even probable 
that one may ascertain, from the 
constitution and condition of the 
matter of very distant fixed stars, 
what is the ultimatum into which 
all matter is resolvable by physical 
means. More wonderful is the 
proof by which certain lines of in- 
tellectual light manifest to the 
human reason the nature of God, 
showing what he is and what con- 
stitutes that primal and infinite es- 
sence. We cannot directly and im- 
mediately perceive the fixed stars, 
as they are in their physical be- 
ing. We can merely catch and 
refract their rays of light. But 
in this way we discover indirect- 
ly, by comparison with similar rays 
passing through substances direct- 
ly known to us as they exist on the 
earth, and by similitude, the con- 
stitution of these immensely dis- 
tant, unapproachable bodies. In 
a similar way, by means of the 
similitude of created essences to 
the uncreated and infinite essence 
of God, we discover and under- 
stand what is in that essence 



infinitely distant from all that is 
finite, to us unapproachable and 
unknowable by any direct and im- 
mediate intuition. It is true 
that the similitude is only analogi- 
cal, and conducts only to analogi- 
cal conceptions, which are inade- 
quate representations of the infi- 
nite, invisible reality of the divine 
essence. Yet they are just and cor- 
rect conceptions with their ultimate 
foundation in the eternal and nec- 
essary being of God, in the su- 
preme intelligible essence known 
to the divine intelligence compre- 
hensively and immediately. They 
are manifested to us by the sove- 
reign intelligence, of which our own 
intellectual faculty is a diminuted 
participation and resemblance, by 
reflected and refracted rays com- 
ing to us through created beings. 
By the perfections of contingent 
and created beings, we infer and 
conclude with rational certitude 
what is the supreme and absolute 
perfection of the necessary and 
self-existing Being. What is, in it- 
self, formally and simply a perfec- 
tion, we attribute to the most per- 
fect Being formally, removing the 
limits of the finite grade of essence, 
and adding actual infinitude or per- 
fect, boundless plenitude of the for- 
mal perfection. Thus, from the in- 
telligible in our finite intellect, we 
conclude the absolute and infinite 
intelligible in the divine intellect. 
From the intelligence of the hu- 
man mind, we infer the infinite 
intelligence of the divine mind. 
From our own consciousness of 
partial and evanescent enjoyment 
in waking, sensitive, and rational 
activity, we infer the perfect and 
eternal beatitude of God, in the 
most pure and perfect act of in- 
tellectual or spiritual life. This 
is the contemplation and posses- 
sion of the most excellent good, 



222 



The Reality of the Sufficient Reason and 



the infinite object of knowledge 
and complacency, which is none 
other than himself. By those per- 
fections which are not simply and 
formally perfections, such as the 
magnitude and motion of bodies in 
space, organic structure, sensation, 
and discursive reasoning, we infer 
the virtual existence of the same, 
not formally, but virtually and in a 
more eminent mode, in the first 
cause, and in the ideal archetypes 
of the divine reason according to 
which these perfections have been 
made to exist in creatures. It is 
impossible for human reason to 
get any nearer than this to an appre- 
hension of the intelligible essence 
of God, that infinite object of his 
eternal contemplation, and most 
excellent good in which he posses- 
ses sovereign beatitude. Reason 
can go no higher than its fountain, 
the perception of finite objects and 
first truths, and must flow and aug- 
ment itself according to its original 
law of motion and direction. The 
universe presents to the mind a 
vast and by us immeasurable ob- 
ject of contemplation and compla- 
cency. It is a sign and a re- 
semblance of something infinitely 
greater and better, of which it is a 
faint, miniature reflection, like that 
of the sky in a dewdrop. The in- 
finitely great and good essence is 
God, but this essence is unseen 
and invisible in respect to our 
finite vision, as the sun is when it 
is below the horizon. The light of 
the hidden sun gilds the mountain- 
tops, inflames the clouds which 
hover around the eastern or west- 
ern horizon, casts twilight on the 
earth, and is reflected by the moon 
and by the morning and evening 
stars. In a similar way we see by 
the light which comes from the 
primal source of light, which is not 
itself visible to the mind, and ad- 



mire his reflected radiance which 
illuminates the creation. 

Oculos in altum tollite : 
lllic licebit visere 
Signum perennis glorise. 
Illustre quiddam cernimus, 
Quod nesciat finem pati, 
Sublime, celsum, interminum, 
Antiquius coelo et chao. 

Lift up your eyes on high : 

Behold the radiant sign 
Of Him who from infinity 

Fills space with rays divine. 
Unfading glory glows 

In that perennial light, 
Whose source no orb that rose 

At morn, or set at night. 
Eternity's embrace 

His being did enclose, 
Ere time or crowded space 

From night and chaos rose. 
No night succeeds eternal light, 
No bound arrests the infinite. 

Plato's doctrine of the archetypal 
ideas is not inconsistent with the 
doctrine of Aristotle on the self-suf- 
ficing intelligence of God, and his 
sovereign beatitude in the contem- 
plation of his own essence. It is 
only requisite that we locate these 
ideas in the divine intellect and re- 
fer their ultimate foundation to the 
divine essence, in order to remove 
all Aristotle's objections against 
Plato's ideal theory. The contem- 
plation of God includes in its ob- 
ject the eternal reasons according 
to which he has created the uni- 
verse. He sees them in his own 
most perfect being, which is essen- 
tially capable of imitation and par- 
ticipation ; and in his infinite, in- 
dependent power, by which he can 
create finite beings without any 
pre-existing material as a subject 
to act upon. It is impossible that 
God should be dependent on any- 
thing extrinsic to himself for know- 
ledge, perfection, or happiness. 
He is himself his own intelligence, 
life, and perfect beatitude, in act. 
All other beings depend from him, 
receive motion toward their end 
from him, and revolve around him 
as their centre. The same reasons 



First Cause of the World. 



223 



which prove that he is their first 
mover prove that he is their creator. 
Existence, in finite, contingent 
things, is a change from the mere 
possibility which they have in their 
eternal ratios and archetypes into 
actual being. According to Aris- 
totle's fundamental principle, all 
possibility and potency is founded 
in a prior and immutable act. The 
possibilities are therefore all found- 
ed in the being of God. Every 
new act succeeding a dormant, 
unactualized potentiality is origin- 
ally moved into actuation, and into 
a succession of new actuations, by 
the first mover, the immutable. 
The divine ideas are immutable, 
but the contingent and finite terms, 
recipient of the divine action, 
which come into existence in finite 
space and finite time, and are essen- 
tially changeable, have no reason 
of being except in their first cause 
and creator. In a certain sense, 
all these terms of the divine, crea- 
tive wisdom must be in God. 
When we say they are extrinsic or 
external to him, we do not mean 
that they are separated from him 
by distance in space, but only that 
they are substantially distinct in 
an inferior grade of actual essence. 
All their inferior grades of essence 
and their finite perfections exist, in 
a more eminent and sublime man- 
ner, in the essence of God ; and 
their being is a participation of the 
infinite fount of being in him. 
Nothing is added to or taken from 
the essence, the being, the perfec- 
tion, the beatitude of God, by the 
new actuations which give distinct 
substantiality and life to corporeal 
and spiritual beings created from 
nothing by the free-will of God. 
Pure love calls into distinct, in- 
dividual, conscious existence the 
multitude of rational creatures, ca- 
pable of knowledge and enjoyment, 



and, for their sakes, the entire uni- 
verse. The sovereign good dif- 
fuses itself, but does not receive 
augmentation. 

The creative act is a mystery, 
but God is full of mysteries and 
incomprehensible. Creation, like- 
wise, is full of mysteries and in- 
comprehensible. The exercise of 
causative force by physical and spi- 
ritual causes, by attraction, repul- 
sion, cogitation, volition ; the mod- 
ifications effected, in pre-existing 
bodies and minds, by all kinds of 
natural agents, are mysterious. It 
is a mystery that the mind can give 
birth to conceptions, ideas, what 
are called creations of genius and 
art. Generation is a greater mys- 
tery, and every new infant is as 
great a marvel as if it were the 
first and only specimen of its kind. 
If a finite and dependent cause 
can bring such wonders to pass, by 
the help of material causes, effect- 
ing so many modifications in sub- 
stances already existing, it is rea- 
sonable to think that the first, infi- 
nite, independent cause should pro- 
duce an effect infinitely transcend- 
ing any effect of second causes. If 
the term of a finite act be a mode 
of substance, the term of an infi- 
nite act should be substance. 

The lack of any explicit concep- 
tion and affirmation of the creation 
of the subjacent terms of the di- 
vine action on the universe, out of 
nothing pre-existing as nature or 
material, in the Greek philosophers, 
seems strange. It makes their splen- 
did theology seem like a superb 
statue perfectly worked out in the 
upper part, but terminating in an 
unhewn marble block below the 
breast. It maybe said, in explana- 
tion of this fact, that pure human 
reason cannot find the formula of 
creation for itself, that it must be 
given to it. We will not stop to 



224 



The Reality of the Sufficient Reason. 



discuss this question. Be it as it 
may, when the formula is once 
obtained, it can be demonstrated. 
There was another cause of confu- 
sion and perplexity to the minds of 
the pagan philosophers. The ac- 
tual state of the earth and its in- 
habitants did not seem to them to 
be what it should be if God were 
the absolute cause of the world. 
Existing evils seemed to denote 
some kind of duality in original 
principles and causes of nature. It 
was very easy to refer these evils 
to an intrinsic defect in matter it- 
self, and to represent this defect as 
an obstacle to the power of God 
in some way independent of him. 
The sufficient reason for the union 
of the human spirit with matter, 
and the subjection of man to cor- 
ruptibility and death, was not clear 
to their minds. Indeed, it could 
not be, for there is a secret, a mys- 
tery in human nature and human 
destiny, impervious to mere natural 
reason. The relation of man to 
God and to divine providence, and 
all that aspect of the divine being 
which faces human affairs, espe- 
cially in regard to their moral or- 
der and government, is a problem 
beyond the power of human reason 
to solve. Mere natural theology 
must necessarily remain always 
lacking and imperfect, metaphysics 
and ethics must come short, unless 
some key can be furnished, by an 
intelligence which is superhuman, 
to unlock a door through which 
the human mind can pass into a 
region of thought lying beyond its 
natural limit. 

The history of mankind shows 
that although they have universally 
been led by natural reason to recog- 
nize in some way the evidence within 
the bosom and on the surface of the 
outer world, of a supreme and di- 
vine ruling power, their general no- 



tions have been vague, confused, 
easily corruptible by superstition, 
actually perverted by much folly 
and absurdity. The history of 
minds of th'e higher order, of phi- 
losophers and their systems, shows 
the same aspect. The grand sages 
of antiquity, the great philosophers 
of a rational and sublime Theism, 
were few in number, and even 
these came short of the truth which 
reason is capable of apprehending 
and demonstrating scientifically, 
when it is once sufficiently pro- 
posed. Their influence on the 
masses of men, and even on the 
cultured few, was comparatively 
little. Plato, Aristotle, and Cicero 
have been fully appreciated, and 
their works made practically useful, 
only among those who have inher- 
ited another wisdom by the Chris- 
tian and the ancient Semitic tradi- 
tion, by which a more sublime and 
complete idea of God was convey- 
ed, together with the doctrine of 
creation in an explicit formula, and 
an account of the origin and origi- 
nal state of mankind received and 
preserved from the very beginning. 
The lines of fracture and severed 
links, in heathen philosophy and 
history, correspond with the more' 
ancient and more universal tra- 
dition of wisdom and historical 
knowledge which is fully possessed 
by Christian science, and partially 
by Jews and Mohammedans also, 
who inherit from the same source 
that Monotheism which makes them 
superior to the heathen. The sa- 
cred literature of the Hebrews, in 
the choice and elegant phraseolo- 
gy peculiar to himself which Mr. 
Frothingham has recently employ- 
ed, " is filled with sentences crowd- 
ed with wisdom, sound in philoso- 
phy, pure in morals, and aromatic 
with the odor of the breath of 
piety." This is most true and 



Centenary of Thomas Moore. 



225 



beautiful, but not the whole of the 
truth in the case. Their philoso- 
phy and ethics are far more sub- 
lime and perfect than are found in 
any other ancient writings ; the 
aroma of wisdom and piety with 
which they are fragrant is wafted 
down to us from some most ancient 
Eden, some Academia and peripa- 
tetic walk of a primeval grove, where 
flourished the science, the morals, 
the intellectual dignity and primi- 
tive happiness of the first ancestors 
of mankind. The rationalist may 
explain this if he is able. It is an 
undeniable fact that the principal 
source of pure Theism, of pure piety 
and religion, of pure morals, and of 
the best civilization, is to be found 
here; and that, without any formal 
logic and metaphysics, it is as the 
sunlight of truth and philanthropy, 



compared with the beautiful but 
cold moonlight of pagan philosophy. 
We will not anticipate now what 
we intend to prove hereafter, or 
desert the path of pure rational ar- 
gument upon which we have enter- 
ed, to assert anything by an autho- 
rity above reason. We have thus 
far only given utterance to the mis- 
giving and the presentiment which 
reason finds arising at the end of 
its utmost efforts ; which was sigh- 
ed forth by Plato, and tacitly im- 
plied by Cicero; that the human 
mind longs for and dimly awaits, 
when left alone with nature, some 
higher light, and more consoling 
voice, from the Author and the Lord 
of nature, in answer to its ques- 
tionings of the infinite and its anxie- 
ties about its own eternity. 



CENTENARY OF THOMAS MOORE. 



TOWARDS the close of the third 
year after the Declaration of Ame- 
rican Independence, just as the 
British forces attacked the city of 
Charleston and the fleet of Paul 
Jones was sweeping British waters, 
Thomas Moore, the national poet 
of Ireland, was born in a little gro- 
cery-store, 12 Aungier Street, Dub- 
lin, May 28, 1779. 

The poet's father, John Moore, 
was born in Kerry, the county that 
gave birth to O'Connell, the sept 
of the O'Moores being originally 
from Leix, an ancient district 
marked by the present Queen's 
County, adjoining Kildare, in Lein- 
ster, from which, no doubt, the 
poet's ancestors were transplanted, 
just as the O'Connells had been 
from Limerick and Clare, in Tho- 
VOL. xxix. 15 



mond, or North Munster. The 
O'Moores, princes of Leix, were a 
gallant clan that for centuries kept 
the Palesmen in terror, one of their 
lastchiefs having been Rory, or Ro- 
ger, O'Moore, the able and intrepid 
patriot who planned the in surrection 
and civil war of 1641, whose name 
is still honored in the refrain of the 
national hope in " God and our 
Lady and Rory O'Moore." Roger 
O'Moore's daughter was mother of 
Sarsfield, Earl of Lucan, the heroic 
defender of Limerick. But, though 
Moore sprang from a brave sept, 
his father and family were extreme- 
ly humble, so that Moore knew 
nothing of them until he attained 
some distinction, when not a few of 
his Kerry relations claimed kindred 
with him. John Moore was born 



226 



Centenary of Thomas Moore. 



about 1741 in Kerry, and proceed- 
ed early in life to Dublin, where 
bis industry so prospered tbat be 
became owner of a spirit- store in 
Johnson Court. Having, married 
Anastasia Codd daughter of Tho- 
mas Codd, of Corn Market, in the 
town of Wexford, who united the 
craft of a hand-loom weaver to a 
small provision trade with whom 
he obtained some marriage portion, 
John Moore, then thirty-eight years 
of age, removed his establishment 
from Johnson Court to Aungier 
Street and extended his business. 
To lessen their rent the thrifty 
couple let the apartments over their 
store to a convivial gentleman, whose 
rooms were the resort of some of 
the gifted spirits who at that period 
were a distinctive feature in the 
social life of the gay Irish metropo- 
lis. One of those gatherings was in 
?full fling of midnight enjoyment 
when the servant entered the ban- 
queting-room, and informed the 
gleesome revellers that, as Mrs. 
Moore had just given birth to a son, 
the noisy proceedings were unsuited 
to such an occasion, and would, it 
was hoped, be closed without de- 
lay. The gallant host at once ac- 
ceded, and proposed that the guests 
should adjourn to a tavern in the 
vicinity, the famous Jerry Keller 
seconding the proposition with the 
exclamation : " It is right we Should 
adjourn pro re nata.' 1 The infant 
was Thomas Moore. 

His parents being Catholics, he 
was baptized, and his mother .be- 
stowed great attention on his reli- 
gious instruction and culture as he 
grew up. In due course he was 
sent to school, first in Aungier 
Street to a teacher named Malone, 
and afterwards to the famous aca- 
demy of Samuel Whyte, Johnson 
Court, where several of the leading 
men of the period in Dublin had 



been instructed, amongst others 
Richard Brinsley Sheridan, who had 
been a pupil there in 1758, and was 
pronounced by Mr. Whyte " an in- 
corrigible dunce." Whyte himself 
taught English only, but he was a 
gifted, graceful, and accomplished 
elocutionist, took part in the pri- 
vate theatricals in the houses of 
the nobility and gentry who at the 
time resided in large numbers in 
Dublin and the vicinity, and early 
imparted to Moore, or rather de- 
veloped in him, that love of music, 
poetry, and the drama which form- 
ed so prominent a feature in his 
character. Donovan, the classical 
usher in the school, taught Moore 
Latin, and also Irish history and 
rebellion two subjects not includ- 
ed in the academic programme of 
Mr. Whyte, a Protestant school- 
master. Father Ennis, an old friar 
from Great Stephen Street, an inti- 
mate friend of the family, taught 
Moore Italian, while La Fosse, an 
emigre instructed him in French- 
acquisitions, both learned at home, 
to which Moore was deeply indebt- 
ed in his subsequent career. His 
taste for music being retarded in 
its development by the antiquity of 
the harpsichord a pledge left with 
his father by a defaulting customer 
a new piano was purchased for his 
instruction and that of his eldest 
sister, Ellen ; and a Mr. Warren, a 
gifted master, nephew to the illus- 
trious Dr. James Warren Doyle, 
Bishop of Kildare and Leighlin, 
was employed to give instruction in 
music. Besides the active part 
which Moore took in private theat- 
ricals, he was encouraged by his 
mother to give small family enter- 
tainments in the little drawing- 
room over the grocery-store. He 
read papers at night in a domestic 
<debating society, his audience, as 
he relates, being his father's two 



Centenary of Thomas Moore. 



227 



clerks, Ennis and Delany, who en- 
livened their plaudits by the stimu- 
lus of a little stiff whiskey-punch 
after the duties of the day. 

The passing of the Relief Act of 

1793, admitting Catholics to the 
civil and military service, to the 
franchise, to the professions, and to 
degrees in the University of Dub- 
lin, seemed to open to Moore the 
career which his family and him- 
self had long desired namely, ad- 
mission to the bar. With this view 
Moore entered Trinity College late in 

1794, under Rev. Robert Burrowes 
as tutor, who obtained fellowship 
in 1782, and, after subsequent ec- 
clesiastical and scholastic promo- 
tions, became Dean of Cork in 1819, 
and died in 1841. Dean Burrowes 
is chiefly remembered as the au- 
thor of the well-known comic song, 
" The Night before Larry was 
Stretched." Moore passed a cre- 
ditable entrance examination, and 
obtained a few inferior prizes, one 
for an English poem. To gratify 
his family and prove his intellectual 
prowess he presented himself for 
examination for scholarship an 
exhibition which would admit him 
to corporate membership of the 
university, free chambers and com- 
mons, and a small salary, for about 
five years and was declared en- 
titled to it by his answering; but 
no Catholic was then, nor until the 
year 1873, eligible for such distinc- 
tion in the Dublin University, un- 
less he conformed to Anglican Pro- 
testantism by receiving the sacra- 
ment in the college chapel. Moore 
joined the Debating Society, and 
later the College Historical Society, 
Robert Emmet and other leading 
patriots taking the same side as 
Moore in the exciting discussions 
in both, and in 1799 Moore took 
his degree as B.A. when twenty 
years of age, and left the Univer- 



sity of Dublin. One leading inci- 
dent in his undergraduate life we 
shall consider presently. 

It would be almost impossible, 
even by the closest and fullest re- 
search, and endowed with the high- 
est impartiality, for any one of the 
present day to realize the social 
and political condition of Ireland, 
especially of Catholics in Ireland, a 
century ago. The defeat in the 
Williamite Avar following quickly 
the defeat of the civil war of 1641, 
penal law followed after penal law, 
increasing in savage barbarity, un- 
til the code had reached the climax 
of fiendish atrocity about 1741, 
when Moore's father was born. It 
may be stated with literal truth 
that history affords no other exam- 
ple of any Christian nation in the 
condition of the Catholics of Ire- 
land at this period. In 1727, four- 
teen years before the birth of 
Moore's father, the Catholics, four- 
fifths of the population, were de- 
prived of the Parliamentary and 
also the municipal franchise, as 
they had been excluded in 1692 
from seats in either House of Par- 
liament. In 1737, four years be- 
fore the birth of Moore's father, the 
viceroy raised the premium, ^30, 
under the act of Anne, for the 
apostasy of a Catholic priest, to 
40 a scheme ironically called 
" Townsend's Golden Drops " from 
the name of the lord-lieutenant. 
It was only after the battle of Fon- 
tenoy, 1745, when Moore's father 
was four years of age, that the Earl 
of Chesterfield, then viceroy, per- 
mitted, by proclamation, the " Mass 
houses " in the city of Dublin, as 
the Catholic churches were official- 
ly designated, to be opened for 
public worship, on the alleged hu- 
mane ground that several Catholics 
had been killed in Back Lane by 
the falling of a loft during the clan- 



228 



Centenary of Thomas Moore. 



destine and illegal celebration of 
Mass. In 1758 the lord-chancellor, 
in the trial of Mr. Saul, a Catholic 
merchant, stated from the bench 
"that the laws did not presume a 
Papist " (the legal designation of a 
Catholic up to 1793) "to exist in 
the kingdom, nor could they breathe 
without the connivance of govern- 
ment." From 1665 exercise of the 
office of Catholic professor, school- 
master, or tutor was declared pe- 
nal ; and from 1695 the education 
of Catholics abroad prohibited. In 
1782 Catholics, thanks, mainly, to 
the valor of the American patriots, 
were permitted to open school, pro- 
vided they obtained a license from 
the Protestant bishop of the dio- 
cese ; and only in 1792, under ter- 
ror of revolutionary France Moore 
being then thirteen years of age 
were Catholic schools allowed to 
be opened in Ireland. It is scarce- 
ly necessary to advert to the re- 
peated confiscations of the estates 
of Catholics, to the laws which pre- 
vented them from holding land on 
lease, to their exclusion from cor- 
porate and municipal bodies, to 
their banishment from walled towns 
and from trade-guilds, and to their 
forfeiture of a horse if over $25 in 
value, so that culture of mind and 
skill of hand, every avenue and in- 
strument of industry, were, in fact, 
closed by statute against them. 

This reference to the condition 
of the Catholics of Ireland at the 
period of Moore's birth is abso- 
lutely necessary if we would fairly 
estimate his courage, his patriot- 
ism, and the political influence he 
exercised on his age. It has been 
too much the habit, for the last thir- 
ty or forty years, to detach Moore's 
character from the environment of 
the time, and judge it by standards 
that are an anachronism, histori- 
cally and philosophically unsound 



and unjust. As well consider 
Washington apart from the War 
of Independence, or O'Connell, 
abstracting from Emancipation. 
While the proud and glorious title 
of " The Liberator " must ever belong 
to O'Connell as the great cham- 
pion who aroused, organized, and 
led the mighty moral forces that 
wrested Emancipation from a hos- 
tile and powerful government, his 
most ardent admirer must admit 
that few political leaders of mod- 
ern times ever received such sup- 
port, not merely from the masses 
but also from gifted and able men, 
in various branches and stages of 
the agitation; and amongst these 
Thomas Moore holds beyond ques- 
tion one of trie highest and most 
honored places. Opinions may and 
do differ as to Moore's claim to 
the rank of a distinguished poet ; 
but no controversy whatever can 
arise regarding the marvellous in- 
fluence which he exercised, by his 
Irish Melodies and his various po- 
litical writings in prose and verse, 
on the Catholic claims, on Irish 
nationality, and in favor of civil 
and religious liberty. A main ob- 
ject of this article is to determine 
Moore's exceptional position in 
these respects. 

Moore's father was an ardent 
patriot, and his son records his re- 
collection of having been taken by 
him to a banquet given to Napper 
Tandy who took the boy on his 
knee one of the toasts at which 
was " May the breezes of France 
blow our Irish oak into verdure." 
The success of the American arms 
produced an instantaneous and 
deep effect on the spirit of the peo- 
ple and the policy of the English 
government. It was only six 
months before Moore's birth that an 
act was passed permitting Catholics 
to hold land on lease for nine bun- 



Centenary of Thomas Moore. 



229 



dred and ninety-nine years. In the 
general rush to form volunteer 
corps to defend the country against 
the raids of Paul Jones and an ap- 
prehended French invasion, Ca- 
tholics took courage and began to 
organize; and, as evidence of the 
apprehension which this proceed- 
ing excited, on the very day of 
Moore's birth a letter was sent by 
the Earl of Tyrone, one of the Ber- 
esfords, directing that the move- 
ment should be arrested and the 
patriotic Catholics prevented from 
arming. The tramp of the volun- 
teers, the clank of their arms, and 
the ringing huzzas in College Green, 
as Grattan's declaration of the 
legislative independence of Ireland 
was carried, April 16, 1782, might 
have reached Moore's ears in the lit- 
tle grocery-store in Aungier Street, 
and " flung round his cradle their 
magic spell." The French Revo- 
lution stimulated the Irish patriots, 
whether Catholics clamoring for 
Emancipation or all liberal men 
demanding Parliamentary reform 
and popular government. Moore's 
private friends and companions in 
Trinity College and outside shar- 
ed those feelings, and he says of 
himself: " From the first I was na- 
turally destined to be of the line 
of politics which I have ever since 
pursued being, if I may say so, 
born a rebel." In 1793 Moore, 
when only fourteen years of age, 
saw his first literary contribution 
published in the Anthologia Hiber- 
nica, in which he continued to 
write. Arthur O'Connor and Tho- 
mas Addis Emmet, whose remains 
lie in our soil St. Paul's Church, 
Broadway started The Press Sep- 
tember 28, 1797, as the organ of the 
United Irishmen. Moore, then a 
memberof the Debating, and the fol- 
lowing year of the College Histori- 
cal, Society, published in The Press 



December 2, 1797, an impassioned 
address " To the Students of Trini- 
ty College" and signed " A Sophis- 
ter," one passage only of which 
need be cited: 

" Has not justice thrown away her 
sword and exchanged it for the poniard 
of the assassin ? Is not hatred to Catho* 
lies the established religion of govern- 
ment, and the oath of extermination 
their only sacrament? Is not perjury 
encouraged and murder legalized? Is 
not the guiltiest outrage of the soldier 
connived at, while the sigh or the groan 
of the peasant is treason? What is the 
trial by jury ? A mere sham, a farce, 
where the jury is acted by drunkards ; a 
villain personates the accuser, the doom 
of the victim is hiccoughed out by a 
Bacchanalian, or pronounced with true 
stage effect amidst the tears of a dra- 
matic judge."* 

Passages from this address were 
sent up with other papers to the 
House of Commons as evidence of 
the revolutionary spirit of the time, 
and were referred to the Secret 
Committee of 1798; while it also 
appears that this address was one 
of the grounds assigned for hold- 
ing the visitation of Trinity Col- 
lege that year by the vice-chan- 
cellor, the Earl of Clare, Lord High 
Chancellor of Ireland. Moore had 
formed an intimate acquaintance in 
college with Robert Emmet, and 
also with Edward Hudson and 
many other patriots, who, without 
Moore's knowledge, were sworn 
members of the United Irish So- 
ciety. It was believed by the au- 

* Referring to the legal butchery of William Orr, 
a native of the parish of Antrim, arraigned for 
having administered the United Irishman's oath 
to a soldier ; tried, found guilty, by an admittedly 
drunken jury, on the evidence of a perjured wit- 
ness, and executed at Carrickfergus, October 14, 
1797 less than two months before the publication 
of Moore's address in his thirty-first year. The 
inhabitants left the town the day of the execution 
to mark their detestation of the deed ; and " Re- 
member Orr" became the watchword at the open- 
ing of the Rebellion. His sad fate inspired Dr. 
Drennan's touching revolutionary lyric, %l The 
Wake of William Orr." 



230 



Centenary of Thomas Moore. 



thorities that one of the most dan- 
gerous centres and seats of that 
organization was the Dublin Uni- 
versity. When the graduates and 
undergraduates were summoned 
before the vice-chancellor, some, 
Robert Emmet among them, pe- 
remptorily refused to attend and 
asked that their names be removed 
from the college roll ; others ab- 
sented themselves without expla- 
nation ; while, to their deep dis- 
grace, not a few students attended 
and gave evidence incriminating 
their comrades and friends. When 
Moore's turn came his family were 
painfully alarmed, he being a Ca- 
tholic, lest he should be expelled 
like others and his hopes in life 
blasted; but /they enjoined him 
under no circiimstances to answer 
any questions involving the safety 
of his fellows. Fitzgibbon, Earl of 
Clare, was the son of a pervert, and 
himself a political apostate; while 
Dr. Patrick Duigenan, vice-assessor, 
at the visitation, professor of law 
in the Dublin University, was an 
apostate, having been intended for 
the priesthood. Moore passed the 
ordeal of examination, which he 
fully records in his journal, with 
singular credit, without compro- 
. mising himself or any one else. 

Before we close this notice of 
Moore's early life when, at twenty 
years of age, he had obtained his 
degree and was about to proceed 
to London, the terrible tragedy of 
the Rebellion, with all its horrors, 
being over we must notice the in- 
fluence which life in Trinity Col- 
lege exercised on his religious feel- 
ings and practices. His mother 
was an extremely ardent and de- 
vout Catholic, and came from a 
good stock in Wexford. She be- 
stowed great care on her son's in- 
struction, and had him prepared for 
the sacraments, Penance and Holy 



Communion, the solemnity of ap- 
proaching which he records in his 
journal. Both parents entertained 
high hopes of the boy's abilities, 
and were ambitious to send him 
to the bar. Whyte's school was 
a Protestant one, there being no 
Catholic school in Dublin at the 
period. Moore's father, who was 
much older than his mother, al- 
though intensely patriotic, was not 
so devoted a Catholic as his wife. 
Occasionally, but probably only 
with a view to rouse her religious 
sensibilities into opposition, he in- 
dulged in sly sarcasm at some of 
her strong devotional tendencies, 
when, according to Moore's own 
journal, she would indignantly ex- 
claim : " I declare to God, Jack 
Moore, you ought to be ashamed 
of yourself." When their son was 
about to enter Trinity College, the 
father, on raising the question of 
the religion in which he should be 
registered, Protestant or Catholic, 
the mother indignantly repudiat- 
ed the proposition and had him 
duly recorded a Catholic ; although 
then, and even afterwards, it was 
not uncommon for base and time- 
serving Catholic parents to regis- 
ter their sons Protestants, that they 
might open to them the numerous 
and lucrative emoluments of the 
Dublin University. If they won 
any of these the stigma of apostasy 
in the college could not technically 
apply to them ; while, if they failed, 
they could return into the world 
as Catholics. Nothing could bet- 
ter illustrate the gigantic scheme 
of apostasy by which Trinity 
College, endowed from the confis- 
cated estates of Catholics, large 
ecclesiastical revenues alienat- 
ed, and enormous Parliamentary 
grants, lured the ambition of Cath- 
olic young men in Ireland. Dur- 
ing Moore's undergraduate course, 



Centenary of Thomas Moore. 



231 



1795-99, when he had rooms in 
Trinity College, it is doubtful if 
there were twenty Catholics on the 
books of that foundation. The 
vast majority of the students were 
of Orange principles in politics and 
supported the arbitrary measures 
of the government; while the most 
brilliant intellects in the university 
were, however, on the side of Irish 
nationality, a large number of these 
were deeply tinged with revolu- 
tionary aims in politics and lax- 
ity regarding religion. No person 
could expect, humanly speaking, 
that a Catholic would escape some 
taint of principle, some laxity of 
practice, in such an institution for 
four years, and at a time of the 
greatest excitement known in mo- 
dern history. Moore relates that, 
a year or two after he entered col- 
lege, he appealed to his mother 
not to compel him to go to confes- 
sion. We thus close the educa- 
tional life of Thomas Moore. 

In 1799 Moore left Dublin and 
proceeded to London with two ob- 
jects to enter for the bar and to 
publish a translation of the Odes of 
Anacreon, with notes, by subscrip- 
tion. His devoted mother stitch- 
ed into the waistband of his trou- 
sers the requisite guineas to cover 
his expenses, and also a scapular 
as a pious antidote against the dan- 
gers of so perilous an enterprise. 
On a second journey to London 
he called on the Earl of Moira, at 
Donington Park, Leicestershire, to 
whom he had letters of introduc- 
tion, who received him most kind- 
ly, and through whose influence he 
was permitted to dedicate the 
Odes of Anacreon, published in 1800, 
to his Royal Highness the Prince of 
Wales. Lord Rawdon, born in Ire- 
land, 1754, was son of the first Earl 
of Moira, and one of the most 
distinguished soldiers and states- 



men of the age. He, with Lord 
Edward Fitzgerald and others, al- 
though friendly to the cause of the 
colonists, volunteered as " armed 
negotiators" to join the British 
army, and distinguished himself at 
Bunker Hill, 1775 ; Camden, 1786; 
and Hobkirk's Hill, i78i> where 
he defeated General Greene. He 
supported the patriotic party in 
Ireland, being always on the side 
of Grattan and Charlemont ; pro- 
moted the Catholic claims ; de- 
nounced the cruelties of 1798 ; and 
opposed the Union. His residence 
in Dublin was Moira House, Usher's 
Island (now the Mendicity Insti- 
tution), in repairing to which to 
see his wife, on the evening of 
May 17, 1798, Lord Edward Fitz- 
gerald was set upon, in Watling 
Street, by the officers of the crown, 
whom, after a brisk' encounter; he 
defeated ; but the following day 
he was captured after a terrific 
conflict, in which he was badly 
wounded, and died in prison. We 
mention these facts to indicate the 
political character of Lord Moira, 
in order to show that the patron- 
age of so liberal and distinguished 
a man in no wise compromised 
Moore's principles. 

Although Moore frequently vis- 
ited Ireland afterwards, he may be 
said to have never again resided 
for any length of time in his native 
country. In 1803 he published 
his Juvenile Poems under the nom 
de plume of " Thomas Little, the 
Younger," a work strongly con- 
demned by moralists, but, as has 
been observed, " very few poets 
have sailed to Delphi without 
touching at Cythera." In the sub- 
sequent and latest editions of his 
works Moore omits the more ob- 
jectionable poems and apologizes 
for the original publication of the 
work. That same year, through 



2 3 2 ^ 



Centenary of Thomas Moore. 



the influence of Lord Moira, Moore, 
who had been keeping his law 
terms, was appointed registrar to 
the Court of Admiralty, Bermuda. 
He was only fourteen months ab- 
sent from England, during which 
he visited the United States twice, 
and Canada, and wrote the " Poems 
relating to America," published, in 
a collected form, in 1806. 

In the preface to the second vol- 
ume of his Complete Poetical Works 
he gives a full description of the 
society into which he fell in the 
United States, " composed entire- 
ly of the Federalist or Anti-Demo- 
cratic party," and adds, by way of 
explanation and apology for his 
strong opinions : 

"Few and transient, too, as had been 
my opportunities of judging for myself 
of the political or social state of the 
country, my mind was left open too 
much to the influence of the feelings 
and prejudices of those I chiefly consort- 
ed with ; and certainly in no quarter 
was I so sure to find decided hostility, 
both as to the men and the principles 
then dominant throughout the Union, as 
among officers of the British navy and 
in the ranks of a Federalist opposition. 
For any bias, therefore, that under such 
circumstances my opinions and feelings 
may be thought to have received, full 
allowance, of course, is to be made in 
appraising the weight due to my author- 
ity on the subject." 

We are bound to admit that 
these explanations soften consid- 
erably some of the strong, if not 
coarse, terms in which Moore de- 
scribes his impressions of the 
young republic, then little over a 
quarter of a century in existence. 
His expectations were cast too 
high, and disappointment was only 
natural. Moore's account of his 
visit to Washington and presenta- 
tion to President Jefferson is brief: 

" At Washington I passed some days 
with the English minister, Mr. Merry, and 



was by him presented at the levee of the 
President, Jefferson, whom I found sit- 
ting with General Dearborn and one 
or two other officers, and in the same 
homely costume, comprising slippers and 
Connemara stockings, in which Mr. 
Merry had been received by him much 
to that formal minister's horror when 
waiting upon him, in full dress, to de- 
liver his credentials. My single inter- 
view with this remarkable personage 
was of very short duration ; but to have 
seen and spoken with the man who drew 
up the Declaration of Independence was 
an event not to be forgotten." 

Moore's stay of a few months in 
the United States was too brief 
and his experience as a politi- 
cian too slender to enable him to 
form the decided opinions which 
he records. As he acknowledges, 
he was thrown, during his . slay, 
almost exclusively amongst one 
party, the Federalists, while the 
British ambassadors and officers, 
with whom he constantly mixed, 
were prejudiced against American 
freedom and republican institu- 
tions. At a later period, in 1819, 
** Tom Crib's Memorial to Con- 
gress " betrayed similar feelings. 
Little could Moore have anticipat- 
ed, when writing thus disparaging- 
ly of the prospects of the young 
republic, that some years before 
his own death the bounty of the 
United States would supply food 
for the starving millions of his 
countrymen during the famine ; 
that a large portion of them should 
fly there for bread and work ; and 
that when the centennial of his 
birth came to be celebrated in 
1879, nearly one-third of the popu- 
lation of the United States would 
be of Irish extraction. Still less , 
could he have supposed that his 
own Melodies, not written for some 
years afterwards, would yet be as 
familiarly sung along the great 
rivers of America, on her streets, 
and over her prairies as they are 



Centenary of Thomas Moore. 



233 



in Ireland, and by a far larger pop- 
ulation. 

Moore, having left a deputy, 
with whom he entered into no 
strict legal terms, to discharge 
his official duties as registrar in 
Bermuda, returned to England. 
In 1806 he published a volume of 
Epistles, Odes, and Poems, including 
those relating to America, dedi- 
cated to the Earl of Moira, gen- 
eral in his majesty's forces and 
master-general of the ordnance. 
Jeffrey, in the Edinburgh Review, 
severely criticised Moore's publica- 
tions, and branded him with a de- 
liberate attempt to corrupt public 
morals. Moore challenged him, 
when the ludicrous duel at Chalk 
Farm, intercepted by Bow Street po- 
lice officers, came off an incident 
satirized by Byron in 1809 in his 
" English Bards and Scotch Re- 
viewers." Moore challenged By- 
ron for the satire, when a con- 
flict was again averted, which hap- 
pily ended by Moore, Byron, and 
Thomas Campbell meeting for the 
first time at dinner at the house 
of Samuel Rogers, when Byron and 
Moore became the fastest friends 
and continued so. The Earl of 
Moira, in 1806, appointed Moore's 
father to a respectable post in the 
civil branch of the ordnance 
barrack-master in Dublin, at ^300 
a year, which he held until his 
death. This appointment was a 
great relief to Moore, who for some 
time had been contributing, to the 
extent of his means, towards the 
support of his struggling family 
father, mother, and two sisters to 
whom he was devotedly attached. 
In 1808 he published, without his 
name, his satires, " Corruption " 
and "Intolerance," and in 1809 
" The Sceptic," which were not, 
however, as successful as his other 
works. 



Moore returned to Ireland* 
where, in 1808-9, he joined the 
Private Theatrical Corps in the 
city of Kilkenny, and took part 
in varied plays, Miss Bessy Dyke, 
a gifted Irish actress, being of the 
ballet company. Her mother and 
sister lived with her in lodgings 
in Kilkenny, where Moore visited, 
which led to his marriage with 
Miss Dyke in London, March 
25, 1811. She was a Protestant, 
proved a most devoted wife, bore 
Moore five children, three daugh- 
ters and two sons, all of whom died 
before their parents. She died on 
September 4, 1865, having survived 
her husband thirteen years. Her 
remains were placed beside his in 
Bromham churchyard, near Sloper- 
ton Cottage, Wiltshire, where they 
had resided from 1817. 

We now approach the projection 
of the publication of the greatest 
work of Moore's life, the Irish Mel- 
odies. If every other production 
of his genius were destroyed or 
forgotten, this alone would immor- 
talize his memory and establish a 
claim to the enduring gratitude of 
liis country. The Irish Melodies 
were published in ten numbers, about 
twelve lyrics. or songs in each, and 
issued at irregular periods from 
1807 to 1834, an interval of twen'ty- 
seven years. Moore's early taste 
for music, elocution, and the drama 
has already been noticed. The 
publication of Bunting's Ancient 
Music of Ireland, a copy of which 
was placed in Moore's hands in 
1797 by the accomplished and pa- 
triotic Edward Hudson, first made 
known to him, as he says, "this 
rich mine of our country's melo- 
dies." We shall leave Moore him- 
self to open the interesting story : 

" There elapsed no very long time 
before I was myself the happy proprie- 
tor of a copy of the work [Bunting's"!, 



234 



Centenary of Thomas Moore. 



and, though never regularly instructed 
in music, could play over the airs with 
tolerable facility on the piano-forte. 
Robert Emmet used sometimes to sit 
by me when I was thus engaged. And 
I remember one day his starting up, as 
from a reverie, when I had just finished 
playing that spirited tune called ' The 
Red Fox,'* and exclaiming, ' Oh ! that 
I were at the head of twenty thousand 
men marching to that air/ How little did 
I then think that, in one of the most 
touching of the sweet airs I used to play 
to him, his own dying words would find 
an interpreter so worthy of their sad but 
proud feeling, f or that another of those 
mournful strains \. would long be asso- 
ciated in the hearts of his countrymen 
with the memory of her who shared 
with Ireland his last blessing and 
prayer !" 

The tragic events of 1798, the 
despotic proceedings of 1800, by 
which the legislative independence 
of Ireland was stamped out, and 
the sanguinary period of 1803 all 
contributed to develop and mature 
in Moore the desire to depict or 
crystallize the sorrows, the glories, 
and the hopes of his country in 
popular melodies associated with 
the exquisite ancient music of Ire- 
land. The Powers, spirited musi- 
cal publishers in London, invited 
Moore to lend his poetical genius 
to such a work, in which he would 
be seconded by the musical ability 
of Sir John Armstrong Stevenson, 
whose intimate connection with 
the Irish Melodies and singular his- 
tory claim brief notice. Steven- 
son, born in Dublin in 1762, was 
son of a poor coachmaker, and was 
left without father or mother when 
only nine years of age. A musical- 
instrument maker named Gibson 
adopted him, and the lad display- 
ing remarkable musical genius, he 
obtained a place in the choirs of 

* " Let Erin remember the days of old." 

t " Oh ! breathe not his name ; let it sleep in the 

shade." 
J " She [Sarah Curran] is far from the land where 

her young hero sleeps." 



St. Patrick's and also Christ Church 
Cathedral. The Dublin Univer- 
sity conferred on him the degree of 
doctor of music in 1800, and in 
1803 he was knighted. Sir John 
A. Stevenson left a daughter, who 
married Mr. Dalton, a country 
gentleman of the County Meath, 
to whom he dedicated his Sacred 
So7igs, and, on being left a widow 
with some children, she married 
the Marquis of Headfort, at whose 
seat, beside Kells, County Meath, 
Sir John A. Stevenson died. The 
present Marquis of Headfort and 
his brothers and sisters are thus 
grandchildren of the poor coach- 
maker's orphan. Adelaide, one 
of Mrs. Dalton's children, married 
Mr., afterwards Sir John Young, 
Bart., subsequently Lord Lisgar, 
Governor-General of Canada. Sir 
John A. Stevenson's share in, and 
his execution of the arrangement 
of, the Melodies have frequently 
been adversely criticised. Yet nev- 
er did two gifted men evince a 
kindlier or a more generous spirit 
of co-operation than Moore and 
Stevenson. It is commonly charg- 
ed to Stevenson that he spoiled 
the original airs by his modern 
accompaniments a charge which 
Moore generously answers as fol- 
lows : 

"Whatever changes of this kind may 
have been ventured upon (and they are 
few and slight), the responsibility for 
them rests solely with me, as, leaving the 
harmonist's department to my friend 
Stevenson, I reserved to myself the se- 
lection and arrangement of the airs." 

On the other hand, Stevenson 
had such an exalted idea of the 
poetry of the "Melodies, and of the 
admirable selection of the airs by 
Moore himself, that he deemed his 
own symphonies and arrangement 
altogether inferior. To the late Dr. 
Petrie, one of the most gifted Irish 



Centenary of Thomas Moore. 



235 



musicians of modern times, Ste- 
venson said : " I would recommend 
any person who means to sing the 
Melodies to purchase a piano about 
the value of ^5, for it will be then 
likely that one may have a fair 
chance of hearing very little of the 
instrument and something of the 
melody and the poetry." Moore's 
touching monody on the death of 
Stevenson fitly closes the Melodies : 

" Silence is in our festal halls 

Sweet son of song thy course is o'er! 
In vain on thee sad Erin calls : 
Her minstrel's voice responds no more. 

" But where is now the cheerful day, 

The social night, when, by thy side, 
He who now weaves this parting lay 

H is skilless voice with thine allied, 
And sung those songs whose every tone, 

When bard and minstrel long have past, 
Shall still, in sweetness all their own, 

Embalm'd by Fame, undying last ?" 

The terms offered by Power for 
the Irish Melodies were $2,500 a 
year, paid to Moore, for seven 
years, or as long further as he 
chose. Their publication extend- 
ed over twenty-seven years, and 
included (last edition) one hundred 
and twenty-four songs in ten num- 
bers ; so that if that agreement was 
carried out, which there is no rea- 
son to doubt, Moore must have re- 
ceived $67,500 for the Irish Melo- 
dies, being at the rate of $540 for 
each song and about $25 a line a 
sum without parallel in the history 
of literature. This, of course, is 
exclusive of the publisher's terms 
with Sir John Stevenson for the 
musical accompaniment and ar- 
rangement ; while Maclise, R.A., 
the artist, born in Cork, 1811, died 
in London, 1870, who executed 
several of the historical frescoes in 
the new Houses of Parliament for 
one of which, "Meeting of Welling- 
ton and Blucher after Waterloo," 
he received $17,500 illustrated 
the Irish Melodies. This great 
national work may favorably com- 



pare with any kindred production 
ever issued from the press. Its 
subjects are Irish, the bard is Irish, 
the minstrel is Irish, the artistic il- 
lustrations are Irish, and the pub- 
lisher is Irish ; and while the Irish 
race exists the Melodies and their 
author will never die. 

Closely examined in comparison 
with the national lyrics of any 
other people or age, the Irish Melo- 
dies are entirely unique. Pagan, 
Jew or Christian, Oriental or 
European, Greek or Roman, an- 
cient or modern, can produce no 
such collection. Not that ballads, 
songs, lays, odes, and historiettes 
in abundance may not be gathered 
in all lands, in all tongues, and at 
all periods, differing in form and 
culture. But no attempt has ever 
been made before (or, if so, the 
tradition of it is lost) to embody so 
many -characteristics of a nation 
its social life, scenery, manners, 
and customs ; legends, traditions, 
victories, and defeats ; its dark 
history and bright hopes in lyric 
form, wedded to music familiar by 
its antiquity and its winning pathos 
to the whole peasantry ; strains that 
stimulated their ancestors in bat- 
tle ages before, that inspirited their 
dances and athletic games, and 
that proclaimed their triumphs and 
softened their defeats. When we 
analyze the lyric poetry, the lays 
or the odes, of any country, ancient 
or modern, we find that they cover 
a comparatively small portion only 
of the life and history of the peo- 
ple ; whereas the subjects of the 
Irish Melodies range .over nearly 
the entire scope of Irish life, past 
and present. We would here re- 
mind our readers that while the 
earliest numbers of the Melodies 
were issued in 1807, the struggle for 
Catholic emancipation continued 
until carried in 1829 ; and from 



236 



Centenary of Thomas Moore. 



that date to the close of their pub- 
lication, in 1834, popular educa- 
tion, Parliamentary reform, the tithe 
question, and the church establish- 
ment were being agitated. The 
very first number of the Melodies 
produced a profound sensation. 
Its historic revivals brought the 
Irish mind, through " The harp that 
once through Tara's halls," back 
for more than twelve centuries a 
national dirge embodied in one of 
the most plaintive airs (Gramachree) 
of the country. The war-song, 
" Remember the glories of Brian 
the Brave," reminded the masses 
that while Canute, the Dane, ruled 
the English the Northmen were 
utterly defeated at Clontarf in 1014, 
more than fifty years before Wil- 
liam theConqueror defeated Harold 
at Hastings. And following that 
historic incident is the practical 
admonition to unity in the next 
lyric, " Erin ! the tear and the 
smile in thine eyes," to the ex- 
quisite air Eibhlin a rtiin, by which 
in 1807, as seven centuries before, 
Irish Catholics could by union and 
bravery repeat the victory of Clon- 
tarf, as they did at the Clare elec- 
tion in 1828, by which Emancipation 
was won. In the same number 
the high social condition and chiv- 
alry of Ireland in the time of King 
Brian Boroimhe is allegorically and 
effectively pictured in the beauti- 
ful melody, " Rich and rare were 
the gems she wore." The war of 
extirpation declared in the Statute 
of Kilkenny, 1367, by the Anglo- 
Norman settlers against the na- 
tives, proscribing Irish minstrelsy 
and music, and the wearing of the 
beard and the hair after native 
fashion, is feelingly lamented in 
the touching appeal of an Irish 
maiden to her lover to fly from the 
Palesmen with her " Coulin," the 
moustache giving name to the 



charming air, "Though the last 
glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see ": 

"And I'll gaze on thy gold hair as graceful it 

wreathes, 

And hang o'er thy soft harp as wildly it breathes ; 
Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon will tear 
One chord from that harp or one lock from that 

hair." 

But amongst the political lyrics 
that inspired warmest popular ap- 
probation in the first number of 
the Melodies an approbation that 
has increased over a period of 
seventy years were the two relat- 
ing to Robert Emmet and Sarah 
Curran. Emmet, a^year older, had 
been Moore's fellow-student in col- 
lege, where they stood side by side 
in the Historical Society in defence 
of Irish nationality and popular 
rights, and his attached friend. 
Emmet's sad fate in 1803 must 
have been a source of terrible af- 
fliction to Moore, notwithstanding 
the many friends who fell on the 
scaffold or were banished as exiles 
in that dark period. Moore, de- 
scribing his recollection of Emmet's 
oratory in the Historical Society, 
says : 

' I have heard little since that appear- 
ed to me of a loftier, or, what is a far 
more rare quality in Irish eloquence, 
purer character ; and the effects it pro- 
duced, as well from its own exciting 
power as from the susceptibility with 
which his audience caught up every allu- 
sion to passing events, was such as to 
attract at last the serious attention of 
the fellows ; and, by their desire, one of 
the scholars, a man of advanced standing 
and reputation for oratory, came to at- 
tend our debates expressly for the pur- 
pose of answering Emmet and endeavor- 
ing to neutralize the impressions of his 
fervid eloquence." 

Catching the inspiration from 
the passage in Emmet's celebrated 
speech, " Let rny memory be left 
in oblivion, and my tomb remain 
uninscribed, until other times and 
other men can do justice to my 



Centenary of Thomas Moore. 



237 



character," Moore burst forth, four 
years after Emmet's death, into the 
strain : 

" Oh ! breathe not his name ; let it sleep in the shade 
Where, cold and unhonored, his relics are laid ; 
Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we shed 
As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his 
head !" 

While following this in the open- 
ing number of the Melodies we find 
Emmet's address to Miss Curran, 
to the tune, " The Red Fox," he 
so loved to hear Moore play : 

" When he who adores thee has left but the name 

Of his fault and his sorrows behind, 
Oh! say, wilt thou weep when they Darken the 

fame 
Of a life that for thee was resigned ?" 

Nor was this or any subsequent 
number of the Melodies confined to 
historical or political lyrics.* The 
scenic beauties of the country, fol- 
lowed up in subsequent parts, are 
opened with the charming song, 
" There is not in this wide world 
a valley so sweet," describing the 
" Meeting of the Waters " and 
" Vale of Avoca," below Rathdrum, 
County Wicklow ; while social and 
domestic life is well represented 
in " Go where glory waits thee " ; 
" Fly not yet," " Oh ! think not my 
spirits are always as light," and 
" As a beam o'er the face of the 
waters may glow." There are thus 
strung together throughout the 
Melodies the most felicitous com- 
bination of elements, highly diverse 
in character, yet all truly national. 
No other country on earth can ad- 
duce such touching appeals to its 
native minstrelsy as we find in the 
Melodies : " Dear harp of my coun- 
try, in darkness I found thee," " Oh ! 
blame not the bard," " 'Tis believ- 
ed Wiat this harp " (inspired by a 
charcoal sketch which Moore saw 
in Edward Hudson's cell in Kil- 
mainham Jail) ; " The minstrel boy 
to the war is gone," " When through 
life unblest we roam," " My gentle 



harp once more I waken," and 
" Sing, sing ; music was given." 
Legendary lore finds embodiment 
in the exquisite melody, " Silent, O 
Moyle! be the roar of thy waters " 
and " How oft has the banshee 
cried," " By that lake whose 
gloomy shore," " Oh ! haste and 
leave this sacred isle," " Oh ! the 
shamrock," " O'Donoghue's Mis- 
tress." The historical lyrics are, of 
course, the most exciting strains in 
the Melodies : " Let Erin remember 
the days of old," one of the most 
magnificent songs in existence; 
"Avenging and bright fall the 
swift sword of Erin," "The valley 
lay smiling before me," " Like the 
bright lamp that shone in Kildare's 
holy fane," " Sublime was the warn- 
ing that Liberty spoke," " She is far 
from the land where her young 
hero sleeps," " Though dark are 
our sorrows," " Forget not the field 
where they perished," " Where is 
the slave so lowly," " Before the 
battle," " After the battle," " Oh ! 
the sight entrancing," l - When first 
I met thee," and " Yes, sad one 
of Sion." Amongst the Melodies 
there is one of surpassing tender- 
ness, in which the sufferings of the 
Irish Church during the penal laws 
is depicted under the allegory of 
"The Irish peasant to his mis- 
tress." It appeared in the third 
number of the Melodies, in 1810: 

" Through grief and through danger thy smile hath 

cheered my way, 
Till hope seemed to bud from each thorn that round 

me lay ; 
The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love 

burned, 

Till shame into glory, till fear into love, was turned. 
Oh ! slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free, 
And bless'd even the sorrows that made me more 

dear to thee. 

" Thy rival was honored, while thou wert wronged 

and scorned \ 
Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows 

adorned ; 
She wooed me to temples, while thou layest hid in 

caves ; 
Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas ! were 

slaves ; 



Centenary of Thomas Moore. 



Yet, cold in the earth at thy feet I would rather be 
Than wed what I loved not, or turn one thought 
from thee. 

" They slander thee sorely who say thy vows are 
frail ; 

Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had looked 
less pale ! 

They say, too, so long thou hast worn those linger- 
ing chains 

That deep in thy heart they have printed their ser- 
vile stains ; 

Oh ! do not believe them : no chain could that soul 
subdue 

Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty shineth 
too!" 

We have thus entered into a 
critical and classified analysis of 
the Irish Melodies, Moore's greatest 
work, as the readiest and most com- 
plete refutation of one of the 
charges frequently brought against 
them namely, that they contain no 
distinctively Irish or national sen- 
timent, the patriotism in them being 
only that vague and general devo- 
tion to liberty which would equally 
suit the songs of the Pole, the Hin- 
doo, the Kaffir, the Red Indian, or 
the Maori. If that appeal of the 
Irish peasant to his church -fail 
which it cannot to refute such an 
unfounded imputation, the follow- 
ing one to his country, a stanza 
from which graced many a speech 
and letter of O'Connell, would alone 
suffice : 

"Remember thee ? Yes,while there's life in this heart 
It shall never forget thee, all lorn as thou art 
More dear in thy sorrow, thy gloom, and thy show- 
ers 
Than the rest of the world in their sunniest hours. 

" Wert thou all that I wish thee great, glorious,and 

free, 

First flower of the earth and first gem of the sea 
I might hail thee with prouder, with happier brow, 
But, oh ! could I love thee more dearly than now ? 

" No ; thy chains as they rankle, thy blood as it runs, 
But make thee more painfully dear to thy sons, 
Whose hearts, like the young of the desert-bird's 

nest, 
Drink love in each' life-drop that flows from thy 

breast. 

And so with the scenery and so- 
cial life in the Melodies all are 
distinctively Irish. " Sweet Innis- 
fallen," " Glendalough," and Kil- 
larney and Glengariffe in " 'Twas 



one of those dreams " and " Fair- 
est, put on awhile," are matchless 
gems of scenic faithfulness. If 
Moore pandered in his youth to 
voluptuousness by his translation 
of the Odes of Anacreon and his 
Juvenile (Little's) Poems, he aton- 
ed, to some extent, for the error by 
the elevated morality and the Irish 
purity which pervade all his songs 
of the affections, as "Believe me, if 
all those endearing young charms," 
" Come rest in this bosom," " We 
may roam through this world," 
" Oh ! -the days are gone when 
beauty bright," " Drink to her who 
long," " I'd mourn the hopes that 
leave me," " I saw thy form in 
youthful prime," " The young May 
moon*" and " Lesbia hath a beam- 
ing eye"; while the sentimental 
melodies, more or less kindred to 
these, are inimitable, as " Tis the 
last rose of summer, left blooming 
alone," " Has sorrow thy young 
days shaded ?" " I saw from the 
beach," and "As slow our ship." 
The social lyrics are, like the his- 
torical, the legendary, and the 
scenic, entirely "racy of the soil," 
some of them being among the finest 
efforts of Moore's genius, such as 
"And doth not a meeting like this 
make amends?" "One bumper at 
parting," "Farewell! but whenever 
you welcome the hour," " They 
may rail at this life," "Quick! we 
have but a second," " Fill the bum- 
per fair," "Wreathe the bowl," and 
" Drink of this cup [potteen], 'tisn't 
less potent for being unlawful." 

Moore avowed those patriotic 
and national objects when project- 
ing the Irish Melodies, as " a work 
which, from the spirit of nationality 
it breathes, will do more towards 
liberalizing the feelings of society, 
and producing that brotherhood of 
sentiment which it is so much our 
interest to cherish, than could ever 



Centenary of Thomas Moore. 



239 



be effected by the mere arguments 
of well-intentioned but uninterest- 
ing politicians." Nor did he shirk 
identification with his fellow-Ca- 
tholics in some of the darkest hours 
of their struggles. In the preface 
to the third number of the Melodies, 
Moore, in 1810, writes to the Mar- 
chioness Dowager of Donegal : 

" It has been often remarked, and still 
oftener felt, that in our music is found 
the truest of all comments on our his- 
tory. . . . The plaintive melodies of Ca- 
rolan take us back to the times (1670- 
1738) in which he lived, when our poor 
countrymen were driven to worship their 
God in caves, or to quit for ever the land 
of their birth like the bird that abandons 
the nest which human touch has violated. 
In many of these mournful songs we 
seem to hear the last farewell of the ex- 
ile, mingling regret for the ties he leaves 
at home with sanguine hopes of the 
high honors that await him abroad such 
honors as were won on the field of Fon- 
tenoy, where the valor of Irish Catholics 
turned the fortune of the day, and ex- 
torted from George II. that memorable 
exclamation, 'Cursed be the laws that 
deprive me of such subjects !' " 

The Melodies were gradually 
translated into almost every written 
language on earth, so that Moore's 
prophecy was amply fulfilled : 

" The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains, 
The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep, 
Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy 

chains, 

Shall pause at the song of their captive and 
weep." 

Save the Psalms of David or 
some of the chants of the church, 
no poetic or lyric composition has 
had such circulation as the Irish 
Melodies, promoted, no doubt, by 
the dispersion of the Irish race 
through the emigration that fol- 
lowed the famine. The whole 
world of letters rose in unanimous 
approbation of the Irish Melodies. 
Thierry, the historian, lauded them 
in France, and Washington Irving 
and Willis in America. Byron, 



Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Jeffrey, 
Macaulay, Sydney Smith, Wilson, 
Curran, Sheridan, Grattan, Mack- 
intosh, O'Connell, Sheil, hailed 
them with unbounded delight. By- 
ron, in his triangular " Gradus ad 
Parnassum," arranging as early as 
1 8 1 3 wh enfewofthe Melodies we re 
written the order in sections, from 
vertex to base, of the hierarchy of 
poets, places Scott at the apex, 
Rogers next below, and Moore and 
Campbell in the next section; but 
he adds : " I have ranked the names 
upon my triangle more upon what 
I believe popular opinion than any 
decided opinion of my own. For, 
to me, some of Moore's last Erin 
sparks : ' As a beam o'er the face 
of the waters,' ' When he who 
adores thee,' * Oh ! blame not,' and 
'Oh! breathe not his name,' are 
worth all the epics that ever were 
composed." Besides the special 
translations into nearly all the lan- 
guages of Europe, Rev. Francis 
Mahony (born in Cork, 1805, died 
in Paris, 1866), author of the Re~ 
liques of Father Prout, in a series 
of articles, " Moore's Plagiarisms," 
pretends to give the Greek, Latin, 
French, and Italian originals of 
some of the most popular of the 
Melodies a charming Polyglot, sin- 
gular in conception and unrivalled in 
execution"; while another eminent 
Irishman, happily still living, the il- 
lustrious Dr. MacHale, Archbishop 
of Tuam,now ninety years of age 
the oldest .bishop in Christendom, 
having received the mitre in 1825 
has translated and published mostof 
the Melodies in Irish, as also the Iliad 
of Homer and the Pentateuch of 
Moses.* When Moore was only ten 
years of age John MacHale was 



* The writer of this article had the great plea- 
sure of hearing the patriotic and gifted archbishop, 
when his guest at St. Jarlath's, sing several of the 
Melodies in Irish, accompanying himself on the 
harp. 



240 



Centenary of Thomas Moore. 



born in the village of Tubberna- 
vine, on the shores of Lough Conn, 
under the shadow of Nephin, the 
world being unconscious that the 
Mayo peasant's child would, for 
over half a century, be one of the 
most distinguished prelates in the 
church, and Jack Moore the gro- 
cer's boy, of Aungier Street, the 
national bard ; that the mitre and 
the minstrel would be united in the 
translation of the Melodies into 
Irish ; and that at the centenary of 
the poet's birth, celebrated in his 
native city, the venerated Archbi- 
shop of Tuam would be a member 
of the committee. 

While the publication of the 
Irish Melodies proceeded Moore 
brought out a number of other 
works of the most diverse char- 
acter. His National Airs, in* which 
the music of every country in 
Europe is laid under contribution, 
and his Sacred Songs, both arrang- 
ed by Sir John Stevenson, include 
several fine lyrics. His greatest 
poem, Lalla Rookh, dedicated to 
Rogers, was completed in 1816, but 
not published till the following 
year. As far back as 1811 he had 
formed some such intention, but, 
after many attempts at its plot and 
the abandonment of various abor- 
tions, he found his inspiration in 
the history of Ireland, as the four 
Oriental poems, " The Veiled Pro- 
phet," " Paradise and the Peri," 
" The Fire-Worshippers," and " The 
Light of the Harem," are only 
lengthened melodies in which the 
political and religious struggles of 
his own country are dramatized in 
Asia. Messrs. Longman, the pub- 
lishers, had agreed to give Moore 
$15,600 for a poem the same length 
as Scott's " Rokeby," the same sum 
that they had paid Byron for 
" Childe Harold," leaving Moore 
the choice of subject. In the Ghe- 



bers, or Fire- Worshippers of Per- 
sia, the best of the four poems, he 
saw the Catholics of Ireland, and 
in their ruthless Moslem tyrants 
their alien Protestant oppressors. 
Moore himself tells us in the pre- 
face to the sixth volume of his 
works : " From that moment a 
ixew and deep interest in my whole 
task took possession of me. The 
cause of tolerance was again my 
inspiring theme, and the spirit that 
had spoken in The Melodies of Ire- 
land soon found itself at home in 
the East " ; while Jeffrey in the 
Edinburgh Review, November, 1817, 
said of Lalla Rookh : 

" There is a great deal of our present 
poetry derived from the East, but this is 
the finest Orientalism we have yet. The 
Land of the Sun has never shone out so 
brightly on the children of the North, 
nor the sweets of Asia been poured 
forth, nor her gorgeousness been dis- : 
played so profusely to the delighted 
senses of Europe. The beauteous forms, 
the dazzling splendor, the breathing 
odors of the East seem at last to have 
found a kindred poet in the ' Green 
Isle' of the west." 

Seven editions of Lalla Rookh 
went off the first year ; it was 
translated into most of the lan- 
guages of Europe and some of 
those of the East, and even drama- 
tized, while before Moore's death 
some thirty editions had been pub- 
lished. Oriental travellers of the 
highest reputation testified to the 
fidelity of the charming descrip- 
tions of Eastern scenery and local 
manners and customs in Lalla 
Rookh; so Mr. Luttrell wrote to 
Moore : 

" I'm told, dear Moore, your lays are sung 

(Can it be true, you lucky man ?) 
By moonlight in the Persian tongue 
Along the streets of Ispahan." 

The spirited publishers were 
amply rewarded for their enter- 
prise, and Moore came to the front 



Centenary of Thomas Moore. 



241 



beside Byron and Scott as one of 
the first poets of the day, Ireland 
and her history having inspired his 
muse. 

While the conception of Lalla 
Rookh occupied Moore's brain for 
two or three winters (1813-16) of 
his secluded life in a lone cottage 
(Mayfield, near Ashbourne) in Der- 
byshire, where he wrote some of 
the best of his Melodies and of his 
other lyrics, and the greater part of 
that magnificent poem, he turned 
his versatile genius to the current 
events of political life a field in 
which, next to the Irish Melodies, 
he rendered some of the most 
sterling services to his country. 
The Two-Penny Post-Bag, or In- 
tercepted Letters, published in 1813, 
and his Satirical and Humorous 
Poems, of about the same time, led 
to much agitation in political cir- 
cles. The work was rapturously 
welcomed, fifteen editions having 
gone off in one year. The Morn- 
ing Chronicle, then the leading 
Liberal organ, was edited by Mr. 
Perry, an intimate friend of Moore's, 
the Times, the great Tory oracle, 
being edited by Barnes, also an 
attached personal friend of the 
Irish bard; so that Moore had the 
| command of both journals, and 
through contributions to which of 
political squibs, satires, and letters 
he derived an income of $2,500. 
'. About the same period, also, he 
contributed, on the urgent invita- 
i' tion of Lord Jeffrey, to the Edin- 
burgh Review when the first intel- 
lects in the British Empire were on 
its staff Brougham, Macaulay, Syd- 
ney Smith, and others. One of 
his articles in the Edinburgh was 
" The Fathers," replete with patris- 
tic erudition, theological research, 
and ecclesiastical history, upon the 
perusal of which Byron exclaimed 
with an oath, " Moore can do any- 
VOL. xxix. 16 * 



thing !" Another of his contribu- 
tions was on " Private Theatricals," 
in which he gives a graphic account 
of those in Dublin in his boyhood, 
and in Kilkenny in his manhood. 
As early as 1813 Murray, the pub- 
lisher, desired to start a review 
and offered, through Lord Byron, 
the editorship to Moore. When 
Jeffrey's powers were failing Moore 
was tendered the editorship of the 
Edinburgh at a salary of $4,000, 
with power "to draw $14,000 to pay 
contributors of his own selection ; 
while, on the occasion of his friend 
Mr. Barnes' illness, Moore, an in- 
flexible Liberal, was asked to edit 
the Times on very generous terms. 
Moore visited Paris for the first 
time with Samuel Rogers in the 
spring of 1818, and, though their 
stay was brief, the publication of 
The Fudge Family in Paris con- 
vulsed society with its severe po- 
litical banter, so that five editions 
were demanded in a fortnight, and 
on his return his publisher handed 
him $1,750 as his share of the 
profits of something like a month's 
incidental squibs while on his 
visit. In June, 1818, Moore visit- 
ed Dublin after his return from 
Paris. In 1815 he and his wife 
had gone there to see his father 
and mother and sisters. A public 
banquet was given him at Morris- 
son's Hotel, at which two hundred 
and twenty of the leading Liberal 
noblemen and gentlemen of Ire- 
land were present, the Earl of 
Charlemont, son of " The man 
who led the van of the Irish Volun- 
teers" of 1782, being in the chain 
Amongst the guests were Lord Clon- 
curry, Lord Allen, Sir Charles Moly- 
neux, Sir Charles Morgan (husband 
of Lady Morgan, Miss Owenson), 
O'Connell, Sheil, Peter Burrowes, 
William Conyngham, afterwards 
Lord Plunket (lord high chan- 



242 



Centenary oj Thomas Moore. 



cellor 1830-41), and W. H. Curran, 
son and biographer of his illus- 
trious father, who died the year 
before, having got the fatal attack 
at Moore's table. After the usual 
toasts, and two speeches from 
Moore, he sang and played for the 
first time : 

" And doth not a meeting like this make amends 

For all the long years I've been wand'ring away, 
To see thus around me my youth's early friends 

As smiling and kind as in that happy day ? 
Though, haply, o'er some of your brows, as o'er 
mine, 

The snow-fall of time maybe stealing what then ? 
Like Alps in the sunset, thus lighted by wine, 

We'll wear the gay tinge of youth's roses again. 

" What soften'd remembrance comes o'er the heart 

In gazing on those we've been lost to so long ! 
The sorrows, the joys, of which once they were part 

Still round them like visions of yesterday throng. 
As letters some hand hath invisibly traced 

When held to the flames will steal out on the 

sight, 
So many a feeling that long seem'd effac'd 

The warmth of a moment like this brings to 
light." 

This touching lyric, composed 
for the occasion, and rendered with 
all his charming effectiveness by 
Moore himself, after such an ab- 
sence and so brilliant a success, 
produced intense gratification. It 
was followed by another, composed 
for the occasion and sung for the 
first time : " They may rail at this 
life." Sam Lover made his de'but 
at this banquet and sang his first 
song in public. This was Ireland's 
public tribute to the genius and 
the personal character of Moore 
in the fortieth year of his age. 
The deepest political significance 
was justly attached to the banquet 
to Moore, struggling as Catholics 
then were for emancipation, and 
ardent as were his writings in that 
dark hour in favor of his faith, his 
forefathers, and his country. By- 
ron, writing from Ravenna to the 
elder Disraeli, author of the Curi- 
osities of Literature and father of 
the present prime minister of Eng- 
land, said, in reference to the ban- 
quet : 



" The times have preserved a respect 
for political consistency, and, even 
though changeable, honor the unchang- 
ed. Look at Moore ; it will be long ere 
Southey meets with such a triumph in 
London as Moore met with in Dublin, 
even if the government subscribe for it 
and set the money down to secret ser- 
vice. It was not less to the man than to 
the poet to the tempted but unshaken 
patriot, to the not opulent but incorrup- 
tible fellow-citizen that the warm-heart- 
ed Irish paid the proudest of tributes." 

Moore having determined to 
visit Lord Byron, then residing in 
Venice, and Lord John Russell 
being engaged on a new edition 
of his Life of Lord Russell, which 
obliged him to proceed to Paris 
and Genoa, both went in the au- 
tumn of 1819 to Italy. Fables for 
the Holy Alliance appeared, in the 
same sarcastic vein as The Fudge 
Family ; while Rhymes on the Road 
embodied Moore's impressions of 
his tour in Italy. He visited Turin, 
Milan, Venice, Florence, Bologna, 
Modena, Parma, and Rome, and in 
Rome he met Canova, Turner, 
Chantrey, Lawrence, and Eastlake. 
When taking leave of Byron the 
latter handed Moore a white bag 
containing the manuscript of his 
life and adventures. On his re- 
turn to Paris from Italy Moore 
was informed of the defalcation for 
$30,000, to American merchants, 
of his deputy in Bermuda, and of 
legal execution having been ob- 
tained against him for the amount. 
This prevented his return to Eng- 
land, and, having refused numer- 
ous and generous offers of pecuni-- 
ary help to meet the demand, he 
determined to settle with his fami- 
ly in Paris for a time, and by his 
own literary labors satisfy the 
claim. The Loves of the Angels, an 
Eastern allegory, was the outcome 
of this pressure, in the preparation 
of which he was assisted with books, 



Centenary of Thomas Moore. 



243 



drawings, and information by the 
leading men in Paris Humboldt, 
Denon, Fourier, and others. The 
Bermuda claim having been com- 
promised for $5,200 instead of 
$30,000, towards which the uncle 
of the defaulting deputy agreed to 
contribute $1,500, Moore was en- 
abled to return to London towards 
the end of October, 1822. The 
Loves of the Angels was published 
in December, and by June, 1823, 
Moore had to his credit for it 
$5,000, and $2,500 for the Fables of 
the Holy Alliance, so that he was 
enabled to meet his responsibilities 
connected with Bermuda. 

In 1823 Moore visited Ireland 
with the Marquis of Lansdowne, 
and spent a month in the south, 
passing through Carlow, Kilken- 
ny, Clonmel, Youghal, Cork, and 
Killarney, returning to Dublin 
by Limerick, Maryborough, and 
Naas. Everywhere he was wait- 
ed on by the leading Liberal Pro- 
testant gentry and by all the Ca- 
tholics. In Killarney he was the 
guest of the Catholic Earl of Ken- 
mare, where he enjoyed the mag- 
nificent scenery of the Lakes and 
of Glengariffe, a visit to which in- 
spired at least three of his most 
finished scenic sketches. O'Con- 
nell and his brother waited on him 
and dined with him at Lord Ken- 
mare's ; Moore's record of the po- 
litical conversation, after dinner, 
with Judge Day being one of the 
best vindications ever published of 
the sincerity of O'Connell, twen- 
ty-four years before his death, re- 
garding Emancipation, absentee- 
ism, church disestablishment, and 
Repeal of the Union. 

The Memoirs of Captain Rock, 
the celebrated Irish chieftain, with 
some account of his ancestors, was 
also published in 1824, and pro- 
duced a marked sensation. It is an 



explanation of, and apology for, all 
the secret societies and the agrarian 
and other crimes arising out of 
oppression and unjust treatment, 
pointing out their causes and their 
remedies. Sydney Smith, in the 
Edinburgh Review, writes thus of 
Moore's Captain Rock: 

" He has here borrowed the name of a 
celebrated Irish leader to typify that 
spirit of violence and insurrection which 
is necessarily generated by systematic 
oppression and rudely avenges its 
crimes ; and the picture he has drawn 
of its prevalence in that unhappy coun- 
try is at once piteous and frightful. Its 
effect in exciting our horror and indig- 
nation is, in the long run, increased, we 
think though at first it may seem 
counteracted by the tone of levity, and 
even jocularity, under which he has 
chosen to veil the deep sarcasm and 
substantial terrors of his story. We 
smile at first, and are amused, and won- 
der as we proceed that the humorous 
narrative should produce conviction and 
pity, shame, abhorrence, and despair." 

Richard Brinsley Sheridan, born 
12 Dorset Street, Dublin, Septem- 
ber, 1751? and for some time un- 
der Samuel Whyte, Moore's school- 
master, died in London July 7, 
1816. Solicited to write the bi- 
ography of that wondrous child 
of genius, Moore could not refuse. 
Byron and Moore had contributed, 
at the time of his lamented death, 
to familiarize the world with his 
rare abilities and his vile treat- 
in en t. Moore's Biography of Sheri- 
dan, published in 1825, is a further 
contribution to the national lite- 
rature of Ireland. He ever sup- 
ported the cause of Ireland and 
the Catholics. Fox said of his im- 
peachment of Warren Hastings : 
" All that he had ever heard, all 
that he had ever read, when com- 
pared with it, dwindled into no- 
thing and vanished like vapor 
before the sun." Burke said it 
was " the most astonishing effort of 



244 



Centenary of Thomas Moore. 



eloquence, argument, and wit unit- 
ed of which there was any record 
or tradition." Pitt said it " surpass- 
ed all the eloquence of ancient or 
modern times, and possessed every- 
thing that genius or art could fur- 
nish to agitate or control the hu- 
man mind." Byron said: "What- 
ever Sheridan has done, or chosen 
to do, has been,/#r excellence, al- 
ways the best of its kind. He has 
written the best comedy (School 
for Scandal], the best drama (The 
Duenna], the best farce (The Critic), 
and, to crown all, the very best 
oration (the "Begum" speech) ever 
conceived or heard in this coun- 
try " ; while his able biographer, 
friend, and fellow-citizen, Moore, 
says : , 

" Whose eloquence, bright'ning whatever it tried, 

Whether reason or fancy, the gay or the grave, 
Was as rapid, as deep, and as brilliant a tide 
As ever bore Freedom aloft on its wave !" 

Moore's visit to Scotland in the 
autumn of 1825, where he spent a 
pleasant time with Sir Walter Scott, 
Lord Jeffrey, and the leading spirits 
in the north, elicited a further 
burst of popularity towards the na- 
tional bard of Ireland. 

The Epicurean, commenced in 
Paris in 1820, was not published 
until 1827, and proved a great suc- 
cess, financially and literary. 

We have -said that when Moore 
visited Byron in Venice the latter 
gave him the manuscript of his 
journals and autobiography, with 
the conditions that, while it should 
not be published during his life- 
time, Moore was at liberty to show 
the manuscript to any friend. By- 
ron subsequently wrote to Moore, 
suggesting that he should raise 
funds from Murray on the credit 
of the publication, which Moore did 
to the extent of $10,400. On the 
death of Lord Byron the publisher 
considered that the work should be 



issued. Moore felt, however, that 
it was due to Lady Byron and 
others to submit the work to them, 
when, objections having been taken 
to its publication, he cancelled the 
agreement with Murray and burn- 
ed the manuscript. But, with the 
aid of letters and other available 
documents, Moore brought out in 
1830, in three volumes, Letters a?id 
Journals of Lord Byron, with notes 
of his life, one of the most impor- 
tant of Moore's works. The whole 
proceeding regarding Moore's ac- 
tion in the matter has been the 
subject of bitter criticism, but 
sober opinion favors the course 
taken by Byron's biographer and 
friend. 

The Life of Lord Edward Fitz\ 
gerald (two volumes) was publish- 
ed in 1831, one of the most popu- 
lar of Moore's works. Within a 
few days a second edition of it was 
sold. The preface is bold and 
fearless, treating with contempt the 
imputations of seditious motives 
alleged against such a publication. 
Reviewing it, the Times said : u The 
love of justice, humanity, and lib- 
erty breaks out through every 
apostrophe of the author, however 
he may affect to veil his emotions 
under sarcasm, levity, or scorn." 

One of the most remarkable of 
all Moore's works is his Travels 
of an Irish Gentleman in search of 
a Religion, inscribed to the people 
of Ireland in defence of their na- 
tional faith, by the editor of Cap- 
tain Rock's Memoirs, which was 
published in 1833. Being intense- 
ly polemical and political, it under- 
went severe criticism in the press, 
and was the subject of numerous 
attacks. The illustrious Dr. Doyle, 
Bishop of Kildare and Leighlin, 
the foremost prelate of his day in 
Ireland, said of it: "If St. 'Au- 
gustine were more orthodox and 



Centenary of Thomas Moore. 



245 



Scratchinbach less plausible, it is 
a book of which any of us might 
be proud." At the time of its pub- 
lication it was largely used as a 
popular manual of polemical con- 
troversy, and even in Catholic pul- 
pits, some of the rancorous spirit 
of the proselytizing societies still 
remaining, and the Anti-Tithe agi- 
tation, which finally led to the dis- 
establishment and disendowment 
of the Protestant Church, just then 
opening. 

Moore again visited Ireland, 
August, 1835, when the British 
Association held its first meet- 
ing in Dublin. He was well 
and warmly received everywhere. 
The Marquis of Normanby was 
lord-lieutenant, Lord Morpeth was 
chief secretary, and Drummond 
was under-secretary. He shared 
the viceregal hospitality. The 
gentle and beloved Catholic Arch- 
bishop of Dublin, Most Rev. Dr. 
Murray, met Moore at dinner at 
the parochial house attached to 
the pro-cathedral, Marlborough 
Street. The provost and fellows of 
Trinity College, rebel though he 
had been and Catholic as he was, 
welcomed their old alumnus and 
entertained him at dinner. But it 
was at the Theatre Royal he re- 
ceived his greatest popular ova- 
tion. Between two of the* acts he 
was forced, in compliance with the 
unanimous demand of the audi- 
ence, to rise and address the house 
in a speech of matchless felicity 
and spirit, acknowledging that he 
accepted from the people the proud 
title of the " national bard." 

One of the first and most popu- 
lar acts of the Liberal ministry of 
1835 was to confer a pension of 
$1,500 on Moore, in consideration 
of the services rendered by him to 
literature a favor which he could 
not accept from any government 



save one in conformity with the 
political principles of his life. 
This grant was increased to $2,- 
ooo a few years before his death, 
in consideration of the delicacy of 
his health and the cessation of his 
literary labors. 

Moore now entered on his last 
work, a History of Ireland, un- 
suited to his years, and which he 
was not qualified to write. In 
Lardner's Cyclopedia Scott had 
written a history of Scotland in 
two volumes, and Sir James Mack- 
intosh a history of England in 
three volumes, and Moore was 
urged to write for the same work- 
a history of Ireland, intended -to 
be confined to a single volume. 
In pursuit of material for this 
work Moore paid his last visits to 
Dublin in 1838-39, the first vol- 
ume of his history (which was ex- 
panded to four volumes) having 
been published in ^35, and the 
fourth, or last, not until 1846. He 
had issued the first volume before 
he came to Ireland to study the 
subject, so that, when too late, he 
frankly declared to Dr. Petrie in 
the Royal Irish Academy, on learn- 
ing from Eugene O 'Curry the na- 
ture of the manuscript materials 
of Irish history then before him : 
"Petrie, these huge tomes could 
not have been written by fools or 
for any foolish purpose. I never 
kne.w anything about them before, 
and I had no right to have un- 
dertaken the history of Ireland " 
(O'Curry's Lectures on the MS. 
Materials of Irish History, pp. 
153-4, 441). The history, which 
is beautifully written as to style, 
closes with the Confederate War 
of 1641, and is wholly unreliable 
as to the ancient and earlier pe- 
riods. 

Towards his declining years 
Moore, like most literary veterans, 



246 



Centenary of Thomas Moore. 



addressed himself to the revision 
of a complete edition of all his po- 
etical works, which was brought 
out in ten volumes. From about 
the year 1846 he showed increasing 
signs of decay of mental power, and, 
as with Swift, Scott, Southey, and 
O'Connell, softening of the brain 
steadily set in. In 1849 his intel- 
lect became quite clouded, and, 
though removed to Bath for a short 
time, no improvement took place, 
and he sank at Sloperton Cottage, 
February 26, 1852, in his seven- 
ty-second year. He was buried 
privately, only his physician and 
three or four other friends attend- 
ing, in Bromham churchyard, with- 
in sight of his cottage, with his sec- 
ond daughter and his second son, 
while his devoted wife, Bessy, was 
laid with them September, 1865. 
She presented all Moore's books, 
his portrait, and his harp to the 
Royal Irish Academy, Dublin, to 
which a special room is devoted. 

It is said that although he com- 
menced life as a patriot, as is prov- 
ed by his conduct in Trinity Col- 
lege and subsequently, he sank in 
after-years into the condition of a 
mere Whig, or Liberal, all senti- 
ment of Irish nationality having 
died out in him. A ready answer 
is afforded to this charge by the 
proceedings at the time of the offer 
to him, in 1832, of the representa- 
tion of the city of Limerick, with 
a small estate of fifteen hundred dol- 
lars tendered therewith. Gerald 
Griffin and his brother Daniel were 
deputed by the citizens of Limer- 
ick to tender the terms just stated. 
Moore declined, entirely owing to 
prudence as regards his circum- 
stances, but records that, were he 
to go into Parliament, he would ac- 
cept the Repeal pledge, though he 
was confident it would lead to sep- 
aration from England. O'Connell 



was bitterly disappointed at Moore's 
refusal to accept the representa- 
tion of Limerick. 

Moore is charged with being an 
absentee living out of Ireland. 
Literature was his profession, and 
he had no market for it in Dublin. 
The only offer he ever had of 
employment was an intimation 
from the Royal Dublin Society 
that if he applied for the office of 
librarian, at one thousand dollars 
a year, it was believed that his elec- 
tion could be secured. 

It was said that not alone was he 
buried with Protestant service, but 
that he conformed to Protestantism 
before his death. His wife was a 
Protestant, and it is feared that 
Protestant service was read at his 
burial; but the Catholic journals, 
such as the London Tablet, of the 
time condemned the proceeding as 
an outrage to her Catholic husband 
and an insult to Catholic Ireland. 
There were no Catholics and no 
Catholic church near Moore's resi- 
dence in Wiltshire for fifty or 
sixty years, but he was a regular 
attendant at Mass in Warwick 
Street Chapel, London, when there, 
as also his eldest son, although an 
extremely lax young man as re- 
gards morals. Lord John Russell, 
Moore's biographer, attests that he 
lived and died a Catholic. He en- ; 
joyed the confidence of Archbishop 
Murray, Archbishop MacHale, who 
still lives, Dr. Doyle, O'Connell, 
and all the leaders of Catholic 
opinion in Ireland. While in 
England he similarly enjoyed the 
confidence of Cardinal (then Dr.) 
Wiseman and Dr. Lingard,and was 
invited by the former to contribute 
articles on delicate ecclesiastical 
subjects to the Dublin Review. All 
friends of Ireland must pray and 
hope that the celebration of flie \ 
centennial of Moore may be worthy 



Thomas Moore. 247 

of the Irish race, upon whose name great cause, in which they mutually 

and fame their poet has shed undying assisted each other. May the cen- 

lustre. O'Connell and Moore were tennial of Moore be, according to 

separated in life and in death by only his relative claims, as great a suc- 

a few years, battling for the same cess as that of the Liberator ! 



THOMAS MOORE. 

MAY 28, 1879. 



The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains, 
The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep, 

Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains, 
Shall pause at the song of their captive and weep. 

T. MOORE. 



MUTE hung the harp on Tara's walls, 

No touch its music waking, 
Only the hope-fraught western wind 

The mournful silence breaking. 
In vain men died to give it voice, 

Vainly in silence suffered ; 
Truly to set the broken strings 

No aid the Saxon proffered. 



Murmured sad Erin, from the harp 

One sacred chord unstringing, 
Perchance the hearts that heed not tears 

Will list a poet's singing; 
The broad, deep stream that calmly flows 

Doth mutely mirror heaven : 
Unto the bird that warbles near 

Is wider message given." 

Softly she raised her poet's lyre, 

The tears her bright eyes blinding, 
Amid its chords of bravest song 

The string from Tara binding ; 
Glittered the sorrow-tarnished thread, 

The fairest of the seven 
Unblessed the lyre that hath no chord 

For country and for Heaven ! 



248 Thomas Moore. 

The poet bore his gift afar, 

His island's sorrow singing 
Sweet pity's tear of sympathy 

In alien hearts- upspringing 
Singing her true-eyed maidens' faith, 

Her king's old battle glory 
Ere fair-haired Saxon wrought the wrong 

That darkens Ireland's story. 



Men turned from Cashmere's rose-strewn plains 

To hear of truer loving, 
Left Eden's opened gates to list 

A nation's sad reproving. 
Echoed across the narrow seas 

The lyre's melodious sighing, 
Unto the string that Erin loosed 

Mute Tara's harp replying. 

Still echoing over broader seas, 

Salt waves the music bearing, 
The true notes rested in fond hearts, 

A people's sorrow sharing. 
To-day unto the poet's song 

Is world-wide tribute given; 
The olden echoes wake again 

Beneath a brighter heaven ; 



They rise from Ireland's saint-pressed sod, 

From leagues of prairie grasses ; 
Low sound from far-off golden waves 

Drifts through Sierra passes. 
See ! 'mid the bays the English rose 

With holy shamrock blending, 
Acacia from wide southern seas 

Its yellow sunshine lending. 



While Erin lifts brave Brian's harp, 

Her poet's birthday keeping, 
Quick blood from fiery Irish hearts 

Through countless veins is leaping 
Dim were the poet's brightest verse 

Lacking his country's blessing, 
False sweetest song of Irish harp 

If Tara's chord were missing. 



A Reply to C. C. Tiffany s Attack on the Catholic Church. 249 



A REPLY TO C. C. TIFFANY'S ATTACK ON THE CATHO- 
LIC CHURCH IN SCRIBNERS MONTHLY* 



THERE are commonly two diffi- 
culties in answering an attack on 
the Catholic Church. The one is 
the lack of correct information on 
the part of the opponent concern- 
ing the points against which he 
makes his charges, and the other 
is the absence of any authority 
acknowledged by both sides of the 
controversy as adequate to settle 
the matters in dispute. 

There is no excuse for the first 
defect. A' writer who ventures to 
speak in public or put in print his 
essay is bound to know his subject. 
In regard to the second, as the 
question now in hand is not that of 
authority, all that a Catholic writer 
can hope to do is to be useful to 
those of the household of faith, and 
to readers who, if they do not ac- 
cept the authority of the Catholic 
Church, are at least sufficiently 
free from prejudice to see the logi- 
cal cogency and appreciate the 
consistency and completeness of 
the Catholic statement. 

In the April number of Scribner's 
Monthly there is an attack on the 
Catholic Church by the Rev. C. C. 
Tiffany, who commences by saying : 
" Romanism and rationalism are 
both of them large subjects. One 
might better attempt to write a 
volume on each of them than a 
brief paper on the two." The dif- 
ficulty, we fear, with the author is 
not the want of room, but, so far as 
the Catholic Church is in question, 
the want of knowledge of his sub- 
ject. The article, in this respect, 

11 The Tendency of Modern Thought as seen in 
Romanism and Rationalism," by C. C. Tiffany, 
Scribner's Monthly for April, 1879. 



is a tissue of erroneous assertions, 
incorrect interpretations, and con- 
fused statements. Some of these 
we proceed to point out. 

The writer, in speaking of the 
Catholic Church, says that she " is 
still building costly cathedrals for 
the worship of those who deny rea- 
son and rest solely in authority." 
That the Catholic Church is build- 
ing, and that she will continue to 
build, cathedrals, and costly ones, 
until the end of time, in which her 
children may offer to Almighty 
God that worship which is pleasing 
to him, is true and beyond reason- 
able doubt. It is very natural that 
Catholics should build costly ca- 
thedrals, for it is an expression of 
their zeal for the honor of God, it 
is an evidence of love for their 
holy faith, and exhibits to the 
world, however slightly, the hidden 
and incomprehensible majesty and 
power and beauty of their religion. 
All things considered, the example 
of Catholics on this point is to 
their credit. New York may be 
congratulated on the new and grand 
cathedral which its Catholic citi- 
zens have raised by their free of- 
ferings in a prominent locality of 
the city. There is no reason, either, 
for any New-Yorker, who is proud 
of his native city and not a bigot, 
feeling spiteful about it. The new 
cathedral, in its size, in the costliness 
of its material and the correctness 
of its style, is one among the most 
conspicuous architectural orna- 
ments of the city, and indeed of the 
whole country. Strangers from all 
parts of the Union will come to see 
it, and admire the symmetry of its 



250 A Reply to C. C. Tiff any s Attack on the Catholic Church. 



proportions, the chasteness of its 
ornamentation, and its purely re- 
ligious character. It is a monu- 
ment which does great honor to 
the Catholics of the diocese of 
New York, and is worthy of the 
metropolis of the Union. Mr. Tif- 
fany was prudent in not alluding to 
the ground on which the cathe- 
dral is built while the castigation 
which Clarence Cook received for 
his false charges in the Atlantic 
Monthly was fresh in the memory 
of the public. But that method 
was evidently not in our writer's 
line ; he beats the " drum ecclesi- 
astic." 

That the Catholic Church "de- 
nies reason " is an assertion made 
with such a matter-of-course air 
that it simply strikes one as stun- 
ning, and you_r_ub your eyes and 
ask yourself, Are we indeed living 
in the enlightened nineteenth cen- 
tury ? If this be the fact, what are 
we to say of its boasted intelligence 
and knowledge, when such an utter 
falsity as this is put in print and 
offered as the proper pabulum of 
an enlightened reading public ? 

The Catholic Church "deny rea- 
son " ! No man of ordinary ca- 
pacity who had ever opened and 
read a volume of Catholic philoso- 
phy or a treatise of Catholic the- 
ology, or who was even slightly 
acquainted with the history of the 
controversy of the Catholic Church 
with the so-called Reformers, or 
with the repeated decisions of the 
church against those who would 
enhance the value of faith by the 
disparagement of the authority of 
reason, would have penned that 
sentence. And yet the acquisition 
of this knowledge would be noth- 
ing more than a scanty preparation 
for one who ventures in print to 
treat an important point of this 
kind. Certainly it is no more than 



any ordinary theological student is 
supposed to have acquired. In 
what seminary did the reverend 
author of this article (if the writer 
be not the Rev. C. C. Tiffany we 
beg his pardon) make his studies 
for the ministry ? Who were his 
professors? There is an inexcu- 
sable deficiency here. 

The Catholic Church " deny rea- 
son " ! Why, the whole fabric of 
the science of Catholic theology is 
based on the certitude and unerr- 
ing authority of human reason ; and 
yet we are told by one who, in the 
year of our Lord eighteen hun- 
dred and seventy-nine, would in- 
struct the public in a widely-read 
American magazine, that the Ca- 
tholic Church denies reason ! This 
is too preposterous. He might as 
well announce to the world that 
astronomers deny the existence of 
the sun ! 

Catholics, he tells us, " rest solely 
in authority." How can one who 
has reached the age of reason come 
to authority, except by the exami- 
nation of the proofs of its claim 
upon his obedience ? How can 
these proofs be tested save by the 
use of reason ? This investigation, 
then, supposes that the claims on 
which authority is based are ad- 
dressed to reason, and, therefore, it 
is proper to submit them to its de- 
cision. 

But if reason be not unerring in 
what falls within its jurisdiction, 
what possible value can the exami- 
nation of the proofs of authority 
possess? Is it not plain, then, that 
the Catholic Church, to be consis- 
tent, must of necessity affirm, as she 
has never failed to affirm, the value 
of human reason as a logical pre- 
requisite in order to justify the 
claims of her authority upon the 
obedience of intelligent minds? 
The assertion, therefore, that Ca- 






A Reply to- C. C. Tiffany s Attack on the Catholic Church. 251 



tholics " rest solely in authority " 
is evidently false. That we do not 
misrepresent the writer is clear, for 
he brings forward the conversion of 
Dr. Newman as an illustration of 
his meaning, and attempts to make 
his readers believe that " submis- 
sion is the only appropriate atti- 
tude of fallible man toward infalli- 
ble power." "Through this gate," 
he continues, " the Oxford scholar 
passed within the cloisters of 
Rome." Dr. Newman whom we 
hope before these words reach the 
public we may have the singular 
consolation of addressing as His 
Eminence Cardinal Newman has 
no need of our defence ; he knows 
how to take care of himself and 
defend his course. But, as a piece 
of gratuitous advice to our coun- 
tryman, we would warn him to be 
on his guard against this English 
intellectual mastiff, lest he should 
incur a shaking that would leave 
nothing to mark his career upon 
this earth, unless to be preserved, 
like a dead fly in amber, in the re- 
nown of his great antagonist. 

If we seize the case as the writer 
of this article aims at presenting it, 
his idea of the value of human rea- 
son is as poor as his notion of the 
nature of authority is wretched. 
He says : " Submission is the only 
appropriate attitude of fallible man 
toward infallible power." This 
representation of the relation be- 
tween reason and authority is an 
idea for which there is no dan- 
ger that any one will dispute the 
author's claim to originality. It 
may be his own individual concep- 
tion, it may be one he holds in 
common with his fellow-Protes- 
tants, but it is demonstratively 
certain that it is not at all the one 
which Catholics maintain. The 
Catholic conception supposes man 
capable of exercising his reason with- 



out error, and that he yields obedi- 
ence not to an " infallible power " 
but to an infallible authority, and 
that only after the proofs of its di- 
vine character have been examined, 
verified, and found perfectly satis- 
factory, and the evidence sufficient 
to convince a reasonable mind. 
Thus the obedience which Catho- 
lics pay to the authority of the 
Catholic Church rests on the va- 
lidity of the acts of reason, and it 
is this the apostle commends when 
he exhorts the faithful to offer to 
God " a reasonable service." This 
is why Catholics are so firm and 
cheerful in their faith, for they 
know that it rests on a sound, im- 
movable, rational basis, and they 
are, when well instructed, " ready," 
according to the advice of Peter, 
the Prince of the Apostles, " always 
to satisfy every one that asketh them 
a reason of that hope which is in 
them." It is the privilege of Ca- 
tholics to present to God " a rea- 
sonable service " in the obedience 
which they pay to the church ; for 
while reason is fully competent to 
test the proofs of the claims of the 
divine authority of the church, 
reason also acknowledges that the 
sphere of the exercise of this au- 
thority is above and beyond its 
competency. Hence, while Catho- 
lics maintain that their obedience 
to the authority of the church is a 
" reasonable service," they insist 
with equal force that they pay 
this obedience solely because her 
authority is divine, and, being di- 
vine, is unerring. 

Catholics are high-spirited, and 
obey in religion none but the au- 
thority of God. They consider it 
an intolerable insult to the intelli- 
gence and the dignity of man for 
any other than an unerring and di- 
vine authority to claim his obedi- 
ence in guiding him to his divine 



252 A Reply to C. C. Tiffany s Attack on the Catholic Church. 



destiny. It was the attempt to in- 
troduce human authority into re- 
ligion, by the claim of the suprema- 
cy of the private judgment of indi- 
viduals and the will of the state 
over the divinely-instituted author- 
ity of the church of Christ, which 
was the radical motive that made 
Catholics resist Protestantism in its 
commencement, and is still the 
source of their unrelaxed opposi- 
tion to the claim of Protestantism to 
be Christianity. Reason is unerring 
in its own sphere, and, above and be- 
yond reason, God alone is man's 
teacher; and hence Catholics be- 
lieve only what God has revealed as 
proposed to them by the authority 
which he himself has for this very 
purpose specially authorized. Now, 
he who allows himself to entertain 
the idea that a divinely-authorized 
teacher can propose to his belief 
any error, or what contradicts the 
clear dictates of reason, has given 
up the foundation of all truth, his 
conviction of the veracity of God. 
Hence it is that Catholics are able 
to say without .hesitation with St. 
Augustine : ** O Lord ! if I am de- 
ceived, it 1s thou who hast deceiv- 
ed me." 

This is the true position of Catho- 
lics, and this is well known to all 
who have made a sufficient study 
of the subject. Not among Catho- 
lics will be found the boast of 
being guessers at God's reveal- 
ed truth or its choosers. For one 
who has gained this position, to 
call in question, or to doubt, or to 
deny what the church in her divine 
office proposes as revealed by God 
for his belief, is a plain contradic- 
tion in terms. 

This is what the writer in Scrib- 
ners Monthly does not see, or, if he 
sees it, cannot or will not under- 
stand ; or if he does, then has the 
heat of his endeavor to make his 



point against the Catholic Church 
made him forget himself and led 
him into misrepresentations. Not 
only in this, but also notably in his 
mutilated citation of the Catechism 
of the Council of Trent. 

The Catholic Church, lie says, 
" follows the method and acts on 
the principle so prevalent in the 
scientific world to-day, that, name- 
ly, of substituting the visible for the 
invisible. The Sacrament of the 
Eucharist is not with her the visible 
sign of an invisible reality, but the 
reality itself, though disguised. It 
is no more bread and wine, a sym- 
bol of a heavenly truth, but flesh 
and blood, a verity for the senses." 
It is probable that C. C. Tiffany has 
seen and likely read some of the 
pages of the Catechism of the Coun- 
cil of Trent; and had he but taken 
the slight pains to refer to its pages 
concerning the Holy Eucharist, he 
would have found a point-blank 
contradiction to the assertion con- 
tained in his last sentence. It 
says : " Whilst we, with unwavering 
faith, offer the tribute of our hom- 
age to the Divine Majesty present 
with us, not, it is true, in a manner 
visible to mortal eye, but hidden, by 
a miracle of power, under the veil 
of the sacred mysteries." 

But does the writer not know that 
his statements are contradictory 
.to the teachings of the Catholic 
Church ? If he does, why attempt 
to impose upon his readers ? If he 
does not, why does he meddle with 
matters for which he is not fitted 
by proper studies ? Was it to af- 
ford the public an example of the 
truth of the poet who says : 

" Fools rush in where angels fear to tread " ? 

Mr. Tiffany gives no proofs of 
this statement of his of any value, 
except it be a report of a conversa- 



A Reply to C. C. Tiffany's Attack on the Catholic Church. 253 



tion he held with a priest : " In 
Jerusalem, a few years ago, at the 
door of the Holy Sepulchre, a Ro- 
man priest said to me, in reply to 
an expression of mine as to my be- 
lief in God's presence here as every- 
where : ' Yes, he is present every- 
where as a general power, but not 
as a Saviour. We have him there 
locked up in the tabernacle of the 
altar ; he cannot escape us.' ' We 
have our reasons for doubting the 
correctness of the report of the 
words put into the priest's mouth, 
but let that pass ; it would be of 
some interest to know what Mr. 
Tiffany said in reply, for the mode 
of God's presence everywhere is 
not the same as God's presence in 
the rational soul, and this differs 
from God's presence in the soul re- 
generated by divine grace, and this" 
again differs from God's presence 
in the Holy Eucharist. Mr. Tiffany 
appears to have felt himself safe 
only when he affirmed God's pres- 
ence in its lowest form ; and we can 
easily imagine a Catholic priest 
feeling indignant at hearing this 
from the lips of one who claimed 
the dignity of a rational creature, 
and professed, perhaps, to be also 
a Christian. 

Commend us to the author of 
the article in Scribners Monthly for 
the capacity of condensing the 
greatest amount of nonsense in the 
fewest words ! Here is another 
specimen of his genius : " The in- 
fallible church, being omniscient in 
relation to men's lives through the 
confessional, and omnipotent in re- 
gard to salvation by the power of 
the keys, must be omnipresent, al- 
ways ready for any emergency, by 
the constant presence of the in- 
fallible pontiff." The Sacrament 
of Penance was instituted for the 
forgiveness of deadly sins commit- 
ted after baptism. This the writer 



appears not to know ; and if a Cath- 
olic keeps from mortal sin and 
there is no reason why he should 
not the priest may never reach him 
" through the confessional." What 
then becomes of the omniscience 
of the infallible church through 
the confessional ? But suppose a 
member of the church approaches 
the Sacrament of Penance with his 
conscience burdened with deadly 
sins ; then he first of all must have a 
hearty sorrow for his past sins, with 
a firm purpose to offend God no 
more. This implies, if the penitent 
has injured any man in his goods, 
the obligation to make restitution ; 
or if he has been guilty of slanders 
by charging in public print upon a 
large body of his fellow-Christians 
false doctrines, he is equally bound 
to make a restitution in a man- 
ner as public as he has made the 
charges. Now, if the penitent be 
unwilling to comply witn these just 
conditions, then his sorrow is not 
real but feigned, and the priest is 
powerless to absolve him, and, 
should he do so, his absolution is 
worthless. What then becomes of 
the omnipotence of the infallible 
church by the power of the keys ? 
The same reasoning is applicable 
to what is said of the constant pre- 
sence of the infallible pontiff. Is 
it not plain that the staple of this 
writer is wild and reckless asser- 
tions ? His teeming imagination 
creates a monster which he fancies 
is the Catholic Church, and he char- 
ges it as Don Quixote did the wind- 
mill, thinking he is hurting some- 
body, when he himself is the only 
victim. 

Scribners Monthly has been de- 
servedly on the increase in popu- 
larity, and an article of this charac- 
ter is a new and strange feature 
in its pages, which in our opinion is 
worthy the pen of Eugene Law- 



254 A Reply to C. C. Tiffany s Attack on the Catholic Church. 



rence and fit only for the columns 
of Harper 's Weekly. 

" If, then," he says, " the tendency of 
modern thought, as seen in Romanism 
and rationalism, is a tendency to dwell 
on the outward appearance, its correct- 
ive must be found in putting emphasis 
on inward realities. Spirituality is the 
cure for materialistic ecclesiasticism or 
the positive philosophy. We must fol- 
low the larger method which both these 
systems miss, ,and grasp the greater 
truth of which both fail. We must hold 
to the unseen both in theology and sci- 
ence as the eternal, and be too catholic 
to be Roman Catholic, and too rational 
to be rationalists." 

There is a truth in the paragraph 
which closes the article, as there is 
truth in every error. Its error con- 
sists in the writer seeing the Ca- 
tholic Church only on the human 
side, with all its imperfections and 
abuses, and this, too, through a 
distorted medium, and out of all 
this put together he fabricates a 
caricature which he calls " Roman- 
ism." Seeing things thus falsely, 
his errors and exaggerations, we 
are willing to believe, are to be 
attributed rather to his unfortunate 
position than to malice. The truth 
which the paragraph contains seems 
to be this : There appears to be 



hovering before the vision of this 
writer the ideal Christian Church, 
which he would name "the Church" 
or the " Catholic " Church. What 
would happen to him, most likely, 
is what has happened to many who 
have been in his position, if he fol- 
lowed their good example. As they 
advanced in their inquiries and so- 
lid studies in ecclesiastical history 
and the true doctrines of Chris- 
tianity, the scales of prejudice and 
ignorance, by the powerful aid of 
divine grace, dropped from their 
eyes, and they beheld their ideal 
church approach nearer and nearer 
to the Roman Catholic Church, and 
finally become identical with it. 
Their ultimate conviction might be 
thus expressed : The Roman Ca- 
tholic Church is the ideal Christian 
Church, or the true Church of 
Christ, so far as this is possible 
upon earth, acting, as she does, 
through the instrumentality of men, 
human nature being what it is. 
With these words we part with our 
clerical friend of Scribner's maga- 
zine, at least in accord with him in 
the truth of one of his statements, 
and that is, " Rome is wiser than 
her opponents," and in our friend- 
ly leave-taking we bid \\\vt\ proficiat) 



Private Charities and Public Money. 



255 



PRIVATE CHARITIES AND PUBLIC MONEY. 



WE examined last month* the 
record of grants and leases of land 
by the city authorities of New York 
for the benefit of charitable insti- 
tutions, and we saw that it has long 
been the settled policy of our pub- 
lic authorities to make liberal do- 
nations in aid of the humane en- 
terprises of benevolent persons, 
whether under the control of reli- 
gious societies or of purely secular 
associations. We saw, moreover, 
that, contrary to the belief of a 
great many Protestants, the grants 
and leases to Catholic charities 
have been far below our fair pro- 
portion both in number and value. 
Out of nineteen institutions which 
have received portions of the city 
land, only three are Catholic ; and 
of the other sixteen all, except, 
perhaps, two, are more or less dis- 
tinctly "sectarian," while several 
are connected with particular re- 
ligious denominations. We have 
now something to say about grants 
of money to charitable institutions, 
and in this branch of the subject 
we shall consider the benefactions 
of the State as well as the city. 
To the best of our belief there 
have been no grants of land by the 
State to any charity within the me- 
tropolis. 

The general question of the jus- 
tice and policy of voting money 
from the public treasury to chari- 
table institutions managed by pri- 
vate corporations or individuals was 
discussed in the New York Consti- 
tutional Convention of 1867-8, and 
the principle for which we Catho- 
lics contend was sustained there 

* " Private Charities and Public Lands," THE 
CATHOLIC WORLD, April, 1879. 



with great ability by gentlemen 
who are known as uncompromising 
Protestants. When the Conven- 
tion assembled in the summer of 
1867 an anonymous document, 
headed Shall the State support the 
Churches'! was laid on the desks 
of the members. It was circu- 
lated, evidently by preconcert, all 
over the State. It asserted that 
the money of the taxpayers was 
used to build up the Roman Ca- 
tholic Church. It represented that 
the Legislature of 1866 had appro- 
priated $129,025 for sectarian pur- 
poses, of which amount the Catho- 
lics obtained no less than $124,174 ! 
As a natural consequence petitions 
were addressed to the Convention 
from various quarters, asking for a 
constitutional prohibition of all 
"sectarian appropriations." The 
dishonesty of this sensational do- 
cument was promptly exposed by 
Mr. Ellis H. Roberts, editor of 
the Utica Herald, and a member 
of the Committee of Ways and 
Means in the Legislature of 1866. 
It was also taken up in the Con- 
vention. " I do not hesitate to 
say," remarked Mr. Cassidy, editor 
of the Albany Atlas and Argus, 
" that it is false from beginning to 
end. It has all the characteristics 
of a forgery. It has been exposed 
as a deliberate and well-contrived 
falsehood. Nobody disputes it." 
" I have the memorial to which my 
friend has alluded," added Mr. 
Erastus Brooks (the same gentle- 
man who held the famous contro- 
versy with Archbishop Hughes on 
the subject of church property in 
l8 55)> "and although it may not 
go to the extent of falsehood men- 



256 



Private Charities and Public Money. 



tioned by the gentleman from Al- 
bany, that it is an entire falsehood, 
it comes under one of those defini- 
tions laid down by Lord Paley [?] 
where he says that a man may 
state ninety-nine facts and every 
one of them be a falsehood, be- 
cause when the hundredth fact is 
given it overthrows all that has 
been stated before. This is pre- 
cisely one of those cases. It has 
just enough truth in it to make a 
pretension ; but, in point of fact 
and result, it is no true statement 
at all." Mr. Alvord, the present 
Speaker of the Assembly, declared 
that the anonymous communica- 
tion was " from the beginning to 
the end a falsehood," and he add- 
ed : " In all my legislative expe- 
rience, in all these cases where 
State aid has been given to institu- 
tions of this character it has been 
based, not upon the question wheth- 
er the institution belonged to this 
or that religious denomination, but 
upon the numbers who are taken care 
of by the charity, and only upon that." 
Mr. Develin exposed the "evident 
and intentional suppression of the 
truth " in the statements of the 
same anonymous paper relative to 
the legislative appropriations of 
1867, and showed that, in order 
to pick out the Catholic charities 
mentioned in the tax-levy, the com- 
piler must necessarily have gone 
through a multitude of similar 
grants to Protestant charities, of 
which he suppressed all mention. 
The list was made up, in short, by 
the double fraud of charging to 
Catholics what they had not re- 
ceived, and omitting what had 
been given to non-Catholics. 

This fraudulent list, notwith- 
standing the complete exposure of 
its character in the Constitutional 
Convention, seems to have been 
used nevertheless by Dr. ^Leonard 



Bacon in the preparation of two ar- 
ticles against the Catholics publish- 
ed nearly two years later in Put- 
nanis Magazine (and answered in 
THE CATHOLIC WORLD, August, 
1869, and January, 18/0) at all 
events, Dr. Bacon adopted the same 
figures and now, ten years after- 
ward, we find Mr. Cook referring 
with approval to Dr. Bacon's 
" fierce, but not too fierce, denunci- 
ation of the spoliation the city was 
then undergoing." All which is 
only another illustration of the dif- 
ficulty of stopping the circulation 
of a lie. 

A small minority in the Conven- 
tion wished to insert in the consti- 
tution a prohibition of any appro- 
priation whatever for " sectarian " 
or private charitable institutions. 
The Committee on Charities, at the 
head of which was Mr. Erastus 
Brooks, recommended the creation 
of a State Board of Chanties, and 
was unwilling to limit the power 
of the Legislature to give what it 
deemed proper. Neither scheme 
prevailed, and the proposed new 
constitution left the matter as be- 
fore. We do not purpose follow- 
ing the debate ; but now that a 
fresh attempt has been made to ac- 
complish by constitutional amend- 
ments the object which failed in 
the Convention, it will be especially 
useful to note how thoroughly the 
fallacies of the anti-Catholic party 
were laid bare by some of the fore- 
most Protestants in the assemblage, 
and how indignantly principles 
were then scouted as " barbarian " 
which are now growing into fashion. 
Tli ere were several Catholics in the 
Convention who took a distinguish- 
ed part in the discussion ; but we 
shall here quote chiefly from Pro- 
testants 

Mr. Brooks, beginning with a 
severe rebuke of the "sectarian 



Private Charities and Public Money. 



257 



hate '' which had displayed itself in 
the memorials against appropria- 
tions for religious charities, laid 
down the plain rule that while " the 
State ought not to support the 
churches, and ought not to make 
donations for purely sectarian pur- 
poses," on the other hand " it is 
also unworthy of a State to deny to 
any class of needy people the State's 
aid because the recipients of its 
bounty perchance belong to any 
one sect or to no sect. And I may 
also add," he continued, "that it is 
also unworthy of ' taxpayers ' and 
all others to incite the fury of the 
State against any sect or party on 
account of its religious faith." Mr. 
Brooks reminded the Convention 
that " there can be no true charity 
where all religion is excluded"; 
and to those who cherish the ab- 
surd idea that there can be an ab- 
stract religion distinct from any 
particular creed or form of worship 
lie addressed the following sensible 
remarks : 

" Sectarianism cannot be, must not be, 
supported by the State, nor must it, if 
presented in the form of a true charity, be 
disowned by the State, If you strike at 
one mode of religious worship you strike 
at all. Your blows fall everywhere, and 
prostrate all whom they may reach. 
You must not suppose that asylums in 
New York, Westchester, Rochester, or 
Buffalo can be assailed upon the score 
of sectarianism, or Romanism if you 
please, and Protestant institutions like 
the two State Houses of Refuge, the insti- 
tutions for the deaf and dumb, the blind, 
the Children's Aid Societies, Five Points 
Missions, hospitals for those of mature 
years and infant dependants, escape un- 
scathed. All are so far Protestant as 
to have Protestant officers, Protestant 
boards of trustees and directors, and a 
general Protestant management and su- 
perintendence. This is true of all our 
main institutions, either criminal or for 
the maintenance of the poor. I have no 
fault to find with any of them ; but be 
careful where you strike, or, like Samson, 
you may bring the whole temple at your 
VOL. XXIX. 17 



feet, and destroy all in your zeal to pros- 
trate those you dislike." 

Mr. George William Curtis, the 
editor of Harper's Weekly, follow- 
ed Mr. Brooks. 

"Unquestionably," said he, "if the 
State, as we have determined, is to aid 
charities, it cannot avoid, at least pro- 
portionately, helping those institutions 
which are under the care of the Roman 
Church. It is impossible not to recog- 
nize the fact that the charitable founda- 
tions of the Roman Church are the most 
comprehensive, the most vigorous, and 
the most efficient known in history. It 
is still further true, as the chairman of 
the committee (Mr. Brooks) has told us, 
that the great majority of those who 
must be relieved by State charities in 
certain sections of the State are mem- 
bers of that church, and will naturally 
fall to the care of that church. I can- 
not stop to speak of the various forms 
of the charity of that church, but it is to 
one of its saints that civilization owes 
the institution of the Sisters of Charity, 
whose benign service is known even in 
the hospitals of other denominations, 
and any system which this State should 
adopt which should strike at the very 
root qf such institutions would neces- 
sarily bring the State to this question : 
* Are you willing to do, absolutely and 
to the utmost, what is now done by the 
institutions already in existence ?' I do 
not believe that the State is willing to do 
it. I believe the experience of this State 
to be that of Massachusetts. Massachu- 
setts in the year 1863 established a board 
of charity. In the very first report which 
that board made, after looking over the 
whole ground, they announced that in 
their judgment the true policy of the 
State was to give assistance to the pri- 
vate foundations, of whatever sect, that 
already existed, rather than to establish 
new public institutions." 

" I am not a Catholic/' said Mr. Martin 
I. Townsend, recently member of Con- 
gress from the Troy district ; " I am the 
farthest from it, perhaps, that a man can 
well be and have respect for the God that 
they worship. But my Protestantism has 
not taught me, when I see a naked, bare- 
footed child in the month of January 
tracking its little feet in the snow, to 
ask, before I relieve its necessities, what 
is the faith in which it is being brought 



Private Charities and Pitbhc Money. 



up ; and notwithstanding the multitude 
of petitions that have come here, I do 
not believe that that is the sentiment of 
the State. I believe the sentiment of the 
State would be to relieve Catholic or- 
phans as well as Protestant orphans." 

" I am aware," said Mr. Alvord, " that 
there are numerous petitions coming up 
from all parts of the State against giving 
State aid for sectarian purposes ; but I 
am not aware that this cry which has 
been raised throughout the State is en- 
titled to any consideration, because so 
far as regards the foundations of these 
charities, in the very nature of the case, 
in almost all of these institutions of 
charity throughout our land, so far as 
regards their administration, they fall 
into some sectarian hands. They are the 
creation of benevolent people people 
who have organized them because they 
have an abundance of means and there 
are very many instances, both under Pro- 
testant and Romanish auspices, where 
the institutions have been the emana- 
tions of the piety of individuals. Such 
persons consider it a part of their reli- 
gion that they should perform these acts 
of charity and kindness to their fellow- 
beings, and they must of necessity, under 
the circumstances, gather themselves 
together animated by the religious feel- 
ing in order to establish their work of 
benevolence." 

And after showing how essen- 
tial it is to the public welfare that 
orphans and other helpless and 
destitute persons should be pro- 
perly cared for, Mr. Alvord con- 
tinued : 

" It is right and proper for the great 
body politic to put their hands into the 
coffers of the State from time to time, as 
may be required, and give forth of the 
means of the people for the purpose of 
benefiting directly the people themselves 
by seeing to it that this great mass of 
human beings, orphans as they are, shall 
not come up to be a terror to the people 
of the State." 

Upon the question of the justice 
of giving State aid to institutions 
under religious influence or con- 
trol, the sentiment of the Conven- 
tion seemed, indeed, to be nearly 
all one way. The policy of that 



course, as a mere matter of expedi- 
ency and economy, was also de- 
monstrated. The point was well 
made that a large proportion of 
charitable institutions which origi- 
nate in private beneficence and are 
partly sustained by private contri- 
butions must inevitably go down 
if State aid is withheld. "If pri- 
vate liberal-minded individuals," 
said one member, " will from their 
private means defray nineteen-twen- 
tieths of this expense and leave but 
one-twentieth for the State to sup- 
ply, it seems to me wise to accept 
of such a donation, and not by] 
constitutional restrictions deny our- 
selves the benefit of such liberality." 
Private beneficence already bears 
about as heavy a tax as it is able 
to sustain. If the state and city 
should withdraw their help, indi- 
viduals would not supply the defi- 
ciency, but a large proportion of 
the charitable institutions would 
have to close their doors. Thou- 
sands of destitute persons would 
be thrown into the streets and 
become a burden upon the public.; 
The number of municipal hospi- 
tals, almshouses, asylums, etc , etc., 
would have to be quadrupled; and 
where taxation now contributes 
only a small part of the cost of 
supporting the poor and disabled, 
it would then have to pay the 
whole. 

Probably the voluntary contribtH 
tions of churches and private per- 
sons defray not less than three- 
quarters of the current expenses of 
the hundred and fifty charitable 
institutions of this city, and have 
borne an equally large proportion 
of the first cost of the buildings.; 
Does anybody imagine that these 
donations would ever have been 
made to municipal hospitals and 
almshouses ? It has been calcu- 
lated that public charities of a 



Private Charities and Public Money. 



259 



secular character consume in sala- 
ries on an average about thirty per 
cent, of their income. The income 
of the House of Refuge last year, 
exclusive of a special gift from the 
State of $20,000, was $114,962, and 
salaries and wages amounted to 
$37,454. But in the best class of 
religious charities the services of 
managers, officers, and attendants 
are in large part gratuitous. To 
show the economy of public aid to 
religious charities we have a strik- 
ing illustration in the case of the 
Catholic Protectory. That insti- 
tution does for children of Catho- 
lic parents what the House of Re- 
fuge and the Juvenile Asylum do 
for Protestants. All three receive 
per-capita allowances from the pub- 
lic funds. The House of Refuge 
and the Juvenile Asylum are sup- 
ported wholly by the city and State. 
The House of Refuge, moreover, re- 
ceived its land from the city, and 
very nearly the entire expense of 
its buildings was paid by the tax- 
payers. According to its fiftieth 
annual report, issued in 1875, the 
cost of its real estate and buildings 
up to that date was $745,740, and 
the total amount received from 
private subscriptions and donations 
during its whole history was only 
$38,702. Now look at the record 
of the Catholic Protectory. That 
establishment contained at the date 
of its last report 2,034 children, the 
House of Refuge having 903 and 
the Juvenile Asylum 781. Up to 
1875 (the same date we have taken 
for the review of the expenditures 
of the House of Refuge) the out- 
lay on real estate and buildings 
amounted to $933,968, of which the 
public authorities had contributed 
$193,502 in money and nothing at 
all in land, leaving a balance of 
about $740,000 supplied by the 
liberality of Catholics. Nor is this 



all. During the first three years of 
its existence the Protectory receiv- 
ed no allowances from the public 
treasury. It obtained at last from 
the Legislature a per-capita grant 
of $50 (less than half the actual 
cost of maintenance). It now re- 
ceives $no for each child, the 
House of Refuge drawing about 
the same amount, while the Juve- 
nile Asylum got last year $122 50 
for each child. The deficit of the 
Protectory on current expenses up 
to 1875 reached the sum of $250,- 
ooo, and it is now regularly from 
$40,000 to $50,000 a. year; so that 
this Catholic charity has expended 
in the care of the children commit- 
ted to it considerably more than a 
million of dollars over and above 
all sums received from any public 
source. If Catholic religious zeal 
had not undertaken this noble 
work the taxpayers must have 
borne the entire burden. They 
must have put up buildings for the 
army of children whom the Chris- 
tian Brothers and Sisters of Char- 
ity have taken care of (the House 
of Refuge can accommodate only 
1,000, and now contains over 900) ; 
they must have made per-capita 
grants for their support considera- 
bly larger than they have made to 
the Protectory ; or else the children 
must have been left in the streets 
to grow up vagrants, drunkards, 
thieves, and worse. Besides doing 
the public an incalculable service 
by reforming and caring for these 
boys and girls, the Protectory has 
therefore saved the taxpayers more* 
than a million dollars in cash. 

We can imagine no more dread- 
ful condition of society than one 
in which the flow of private charity 
is checked by illiberal laws, and a 
host of orphans and paupers are 
maintained out of the taxes in 
establishments from which religion 



260 



Private Charities and Public Money. 



is excluded. Such a system is a 
curse both to the community that 
gives such aid and to the poor who 
receive it. It discountenances the 
exercise of a virtue which has been 
universally recognized as one of 
the brightest ornaments of the 
Christian life ; it deprives the un- 
fortunate of the chief solace of 
their misery, the weak and erring 
of the chief help to a new career. 
It would not take long under such 
a system to produce a population 
hard, selfish, immoral, monstrous 
beyond all example in Christian 
countries. But Protestants will 
tell us that although charity ought 
to be religious, it must nevertheless 
be " unsectarian." There is no 
cant more absurd than this. Why 
must charity be "unsectarian?" Un- 
sectarian is a fetich word to which 
Protestants are prone to pay an 
unreasoning worship. If there is 
any difference between truth and er- 
.ror, " sectarian " disagreements are 
.founded upon important principles. 
Jf a man has any faith he is bound 
to stand by it and bring up his 
.children in it. To say that the 
State ought to withhold its aid 
from every charity dispensed in an 
asylum where a positive religious 
belief is professed, and to open its 
purse to asylums where indifferent- 
ism is cultivated, is to require the 
.State to discriminate against all 
creeds and in favoj of free-thinking. 
This is not impartiality; it is the 
most offensive form of sectarianism. 
It makes the State the active enemy 
, of all creeds. 

And in point of fact a general 
system of undenominational char- 
ity has never been established in 
any civilized country. We can un* 
-derstand an unsectarian soup-house 
or dispensary. But an unsectarian 
orphan asylum is an impossibility. 
All institutions which undertake 



the care and education of children, 
all which assume the ordinary 
duties of parents and attempt to 
supply the influences proper to the 
home, must give either a distinctly 
religious training or a distinctly 
infidel training. If they . accept 
the latter alternative their managers 
are guilty of the most fearful crime 
against the children, and a crime, 
too, against the state. If they 
choose the former they are driven 
to decide between rival creeds, 
Christian or Jewish, Catholic or 
Protestant. There is no getting 
around this difficulty. There is no 
devising a composite religion, suita- 
ble for the use of asylums. How 
shall we please the Jew with a 
faith that teaches Christ crucified ? 
Or if we yield to the Jew, shall we 
have a Christianity that ignores 
our Lord ? Or if perchance we can 
satisfy Jew and Protestant, are we 
to rob Catholics of the sacraments? 
Nearly all denominations which re- 
tain any love for their own creed 
and any respect for spiritual things 
understand the essential vice of 
unsectarian asylums as clearly as 
we do, and hence the multitude of 
church institutions of various sorts 
which have sprung up all over the 
city. 

An unsectarian reformatory is, if 
possible, a still greater outrage 
upon justice and common sense 
than an unsectarian infant asylum, 
since it undertakes to cultivate vir- 
tue by the exclusion of religion, 
and to conquer sin without the help 
of grace. Homes and refuges for 
adults are worse than useless if 
religion is shut out of them. Hos- 
pitals are places of danger if the 
soul is not watched in them as 
carefully as the body. Indeed, if 
our Protestant friends adhered in 
practice to the principles of man- 
agement which they profess so 



Private Charities and Public Money. 



261 



freely in the annual reports of be- 
nevolent institutions, their chari- 
ties would be cold enough. But in 
point of fact nearly all these es- 
tablishments do teach religion. It 
may not be distinguishable as Epis- 
copalianism, Methodism, or Pres- 
byterianism, but at all events it 
is surely Protestantism. The one 
point upon which they all agree is 
hostility to the Catholic Church. 
" Ours is a strictly unsectarian 
home," said the matron of one of 
these institutions to a visitor; "we 
open our doors to all, without dis- 
tinction of race or creed." " Do 
you receive Catholics too ?" " Oh ! 
yes, certainly we do ; but " confi- 
dentially " we make sure that they 
are not Catholics any more when 
they leave us." If Protestant de- 
nominations care so little about 
fundamental doctrines, so little 
about modes of worship, so little 
about positive religious duties, that 
they are content to mix their chil- 
dren in these great combination 
asylums where a Ritualist will 
preach to them to-day and a Unita- 
rian to-morrow, where nobody can 
determine whether it is even pro- 
per to baptize the little ones, and 
where they must inevitably be edu- 
cated to have no respect for any 
denomination whatever that is 
their affair ; let those support the 
system who like it. But in the 
eyes of Catholics who cling to the 
sacraments and the divinely-insti- 
tuted priesthood, and who know 
that our Lord enjoins upon us not 
merely a vague religious sentiment 
but certain religious practices, all 
such pretended compromises be- 
tween faith and infidelity are in the 
last degree odious. He who is not 
for me is against me. We take the 
ground that we have an absolute 
right to the free exercise of our re- 
ligious duties and observances, and 



our children an absolute right to 
a Catholic education. When the 
State places our poor, our sick, our 
criminals, our orphans and des- 
titute children in establishments 
where these rights are in any way 
abridged, it commits the most griev- 
ous tyranny of which a government 
can be guilty. When it declares 
that it will aid none who cling to 
their faith and their religious privi- 
leges, but will give its money liber- 
ally to all who consent to abandon 
their church, it is guilty of enor- 
mous injustice and makes itself the 
strongest support of practical infi- 
delity. 

No, the so-called non-sectarian 
institutions are either really secta- 
rian in disguise or they are schools 
of indifferentism, materialism, athe- 
ism. In either case they are vio- 
lently hostile to the Catholic Church, 
and we can have no part or lot 
with them. There is only one 
just and rational method of solv- 
ing the problem of State aid to the 
poor, only one method that treats 
all alike. That is to encourage 
every religious denomination or 
society of charitable persons to 
found and manage asylums, etc., 
for those of their own creed, and, 
when private benevolence has done 
its utmost, for the State to lend its 
assistance to all impartially in pro- 
portion to the numbers they re- 
lieve, asking of none, "Are you 
Methodists? Are you Catholics? 
Do you believe in the Trinity ? 
Do you approve of infant baptism ?" 
but only requiring proof that the 
recipients of public money are hon- 
estly engaged in work for the pub- 
lic good, and that the funds com- 
mitted to them in. trust will be 
honestly and wisely expended. 
This is " unsectarian charity." 1 
This is the only fair and economi- 
cal method of taking care of the 



262 



Private CJiarities and Public Money. 



poor. And this, as we shall see, 
in spite of occasional outbreaks of 
fanatical opposition, is the method 
to which our State has long given 
at least a formal approval. " The 
very complainants who remonstrate 
against sectarian charities," said 
Mr. Erastus Brooks, in speaking of 
the anonymous paper referred to 
in the first part of this article, "are 
themselves all of some sect and 
party, and the complaint, I think, 
is not so much that money is ex- 
pended as that, perhaps, those not 
of the sect of the signers get more 
than their share of this money." 

At the request of the Constitu- 
tional Convention in 1867 tabular re- 
ports were prepared by State Comp- 
troller Hillhouseand City Comptrol- 
ler Connolly of all sums of money 
paid by the State and City of New 
York to religious, charitable, and 
educational institutions during the 
previous twenty years, specifying 
the amounts received by each in- 
stitution in each year. In these 
reports were included asylums, re- 
formatories, hospitals, dispensaries, 
benevolent societies, colleges, cor- 
porate free schools and academies 
of various denominations, etc., etc. 
everything, in short, of a charitable 
nature except municipal institutions 
like those under the care of the 
Commissioners of Charities and Cor- 
rection on Blackwell's Island, and 
the public schools, which are main- 
tained by a special fund and tax. 
The State report covered the period 
from January i, 1847, to December 
31, 1866 ; the city report compris- 
ed also a part of the expenditures 
of 1867 ; and both were published 
with the official proceedings of the 
Convention.* We have supplement- 
ed these statements by obtaining 
from the official records an account 

i * See Documents of the Convention of the State 
of New York, vol. iii. Nos. 54 and 55. 



of all sums paid by the State and 
city to the same or similar institu- 
tions from the date of the Conven- 
tion reports down to the ist of 
January, 1878, so that the record is 
now complete fora period of thirty- 
one years. No statement covering 
the past ten years has ever been 
compiled until now, and the pre- 
paration of the table has involved 
great labor. The charitable ap- 
propriations of the city alone, which 
were less than $2oo,'ooo in 1867, 
amounted to $967,000 in 1877, and 
the number of institutions benefit- 
ed has doubled in the same time, 
although corporate schools, former- 
ly included, have been dropped 
from the listsince 1872. The figures 
include payments from whatever 
source, and fall under no fewer than 
eight separate heads : i. Special ap- 
propriations by the Legislature; 2. 
Per-capita allowances made by the 
Legislature in the annual charity 
bill, and divided first among the 
counties in the ratio of their taxa- 
tion, the share of each county being 
then divided among its charitable 
institutions in proportion to the 
number of their inmates; 3. Per- 
capita allowances from the school 
fund to charitable institutions (such 
as orphan asylums and reforma- 
tories) which are partly engaged in 
the work of education ; 4. Special 
appropriations by the city or county; 

5. Per-capita allowances from the 
city or county, under general laws ; 

6. The excise funds distributed 
among charitable associations; 7. 
License fees from theatres (paid to 
the House of Refuge) ; 8. Board of 
inmates of certain institutions paid 
from the appropriations of the 
Commissioners of Charities and 
Correction.* 

* During the seven years 1867 to 1873 these last- 
enumerated items were paid by the commissioners 
and not by the comptroller, and the confusion in the 



Private Charities and Public Money. 



263 



The State appropriations are 
taken from the State comptroller's 
annual reports. The city and coun- 
ty appropriations, up to the close 
of 1869, are copied from the an- 
nual reports of the city comptroller. 
But since December, 1869, that 
officer has never made a detailed 
report -from which it is possible to 
discover the payments to any one 
institution, and the figures have 
only been obtained by considera- 
ble research. It has been necessary 
to examine the ledgers in the comp- 
troller's office for a series of years, 
and often to consolidate a great 
number of entries, in order to as- 
certain the amount paid to a single 
society in a single year. Since the 
distinction between city and coun- 
ty expenditures was abolished in 
1874, an inspection of the comptrol- 
ler's warrants has given the de- 
sired information. The work has 
been complicated by obscurities 
and inaccuracies in the titles by 
which institutions are occasionally 
entered on the books of the city, 
and in several cases it has been 
difficult to ascertain which of two 
establishments having somewhat 
similar names was the one intend- 
ed. It is possible that this confu- 
sion lias led to a few errors in our 
table ; but we have taken great 
pains to avoid such mistakes, and 
in many instances have had re- 
course to the books of the institu- 
tions themselves. It is proper to 
say that the comptroller and his de- 
puties and clerks have cheerfully 
given us every possible facility for 
the examination of the city re- 
cords. 

Schools and colleges are not in- 
cluded in the statements that fol- 



books is such that we have failed to obtain the 
figures. The only institutions which received any- 
thing from that source during the period mentioned 
were the Colored Orphan Asylum and the Colored 
Home. 



low first, because the question of 
public education has been held to 
be distinct from that of public cha- 
rity, and cannot be discussed here 
without swelling the dimensions of 
this article far beyond all reason- 
able bounds; and, secondly, because 
no grants have been made in aid 
of corporate or private schools 
since 1872, and none can be made 
under the amended constitution as 
it now stands. Dispensaries are 
omitted, because they are a pecu- 
liar kind of charity which all par- 
ties approve of aiding from the 
public funds, and " sectarianism " 
has nothing to do with them. Hos- 
pitals, however, are included, be- 
cause religious influences are na- 
turally concerned with them. So- 
cieties for general charitable relief 
are also included, because a very 
large proportion of them combine 
missionary work with alms-giving ; 
as it is impossible always to speci- 
fy those which confine themselves 
to a single function, we have enter- 
ed them all. For convenience of 
comparison we group the institu- 
tions under several heads accord- 
ing to their chief objects. Some 
operate in two or more spheres ; 
the Sisters of Mercy, for instance, 
and the Hebrew Benevolent Socie- 
ty, besides maintaining asylums for 
children, distribute a great deal of 
out-door relief to adults ; but as we 
have no means of distinguishing 
the revenues and expenditures of 
each branch, the total grants to the 
society or institution are set down 
under the head which represents 
its principal work. 

CATHOLIC CHARITIES 

Among the Catholic institutions 
of New York there are three "great 
charities" namely,the Orphan Asv- 
lum, Foundling Asylum, and Protec- 



Pr irate Charities and Public Money. 



tory each of which far surpasses 
in the extent of its operations any 
t:vo non-Catholic establishments in 
the city, and each receives allow- 
ances strictly proportioned to the 
11 umber of its inmates. 

I. ASYLUMS FOR CHILDREN. 

i. The Roman Catholic Orphan 
Asylum embraces four important 
institutions namely, an establish- 
ment for girls at the corner of 
Prince and Mott Streets, which 
contained, according to the Catho- 
lic Almanac of 1879, 2I children ; 
another for girls on Madison Ave- 
nue and Fifty-second Street, with 
5 10 children ; one for boys on Fifth 
Avenue, with 520 children (these 
three being under the care of the 
Sisters of Charity); and a farm at 
Peekskill, where 120 of the older 
boys are cared for by the Christian 
Brothers. Whole number of chil- 
dren, 1,360, or nearly as many as 
all the seven Protestant and He- 
brew orphan asylums put together. 
The society was founded in 1817 ; 
consolidated with it are the Ro- 
man Catholic Half-Orphan Society 
and the Society for the Relief of 
Children of Poor Widows and Wid- 
owers, grants to both which are 
included in the figures given be- 
low. After the society had been 
in active operation for thirty years, 
sustaining all the poor children the 
Prince Street building could ac- 
commodate, and pressed to make 
room for more, it obtained from the 
city a grant and lease of the land for 
the erection of the new asylums on 
Fifth and Madison Avenues. The 
annual report for 1877 (the latest 
at hand) shows that the society re- 
ceived during the previous year 
from the Board of Excise $15,000; 
from the Board of Education, $13,- 
658 43; from the State, nothing; 



from legacies, 14,861 ; from the 
voluntary offerings of Catholics, 
$34,830 28. The collections taken 
up in the churches on Christmas 
and Easter days are given to this 
charity, and in prosperous years 
they have generally amounted to 
about $50,000 annually. No sala- 
ries are paid to the sisters or th 
Christian Brothers, but a small su 
is allowed for their actual expenses, 
amounting in the total to $4,400 
for the sisters and $1,895 59 f r 
the brothers. During the thirty- 
one years covered by our reports 
these four asylums have received 
from the city and State $298,- 
196 54. 

2. St. Josephs Orphan Asylum, 
on Eighty-ninth Street and Ave- 
nue A, was founded in 1858, chiefly 
for German children, and is under 
the charge of the School Sisters of 
Notre Dame. At the last report it 
had 1 80 children. Its annual ex- 
penses are about $14,000. It re- 
ceived of the public money in 1877, 
from all sources, $1,100, and its 
gross receipts from the city and 
State since its foundation (twenty 
years) have been $61,498 55. 

3. St. Vincent de Paul's Orphan 
Asylum, in West Thirty-ninth Street, 
was founded in 1858, and gives 
preference to children of French 
descent. It has 87 inmates, who 
are supported chiefly by the contri- 
butions of French Catholics and 
cared for by the Marianite sisters 
of the Holy Cross. Its expendi- 
tures amount to about $10,000 a 
year, and it has a mortgage debt of 
$54,000. Its receipts of public 
money last year were $1,500 from 
the excise fund. Its gross receipts 
of public money since its founda- 
tion (twenty years) have been $19,- 
174 04. 

4. St. Stephen s Home, under the 
Sisters of Charity, in East Twenty- 



I 



Private Cliaritics and Public Money. 



26$ 



eighth Street, was founded in 1868 
for the relief of destitute boys and 
girls between the ages of two and 
thirteen. It had 141 inmates at 
the date of the last report. Its an- 
nual expenses are between $7,500 
and $8,000. In 1877 it received 
$3,220 from the public funds, and 
its gross receipts from city and 
State since the commencement have 
been $14,202 89. 

5. The Foundling Asylum of the 
Sisters of Charity, established in 
1869, is one of the noblest of 
our Catholic benefactions. Institu- 
tions of this kind do a double ser- 
vice to the community, for they not 
only relieve a class of destitute 
children who have peculiar claims 
upon our compassion, but they ac- 
complish untold good in the pre- 
vention of the crimes of infanticide 
and abandonment. Mr. Brooks 
paid a high tribute to the useful- 
ness of foundling asylums in the 
course of the debate in the Consti- 
tutional Convention from which we 
have already quoted. A beginning 
had then been made towards the 
establishment of such an asylum in 
connection with the (Protestant) 
Nursery and Child's Hospital; but 
the reception of foundlings has al- 
ways been a small and subordinate 
part of the operations of that insti- 
tution, while the sisters' asylum 
attained from the first the most 
extensive proportions. Begun in 
East Twelfth Street, "almost im- 
mediately its many cribs were filled 
by babies of well-nigh every race, 
and presenting different conditions 
of health and suffering some with 
marks of violence upon their little 
bodies, others evidently under the 
influence of drugs to such an ex- 
tent that but the merest semblance 
of life remained in them, and others 
bearing with them contagion of va- 
rious kinds." Before the Sisters of 



Charity undertook this work the 
foundlings of New York were con- 
signed to the care of the pauper 
women in the Blackwell's Island 
Almshouse, most of whom were 
old, infirm, filthy in their habits, and 
broken down by a long life of hard- 
ships or vice. A visiting physician 
appointed to that institution was 
shocked at learning from these wo- 
men that "only one foundling had 
lived in many months." The sis- 
ters had great difficulties to con- 
tend with, and at one time their 
funds were reduced to fifty-two 
cents ; but the Legislature came to 
their aid by granting them the 
same allowances made to Protes- 
tant institutions of the same class ; 
a society of ladies was formed to 
raise money for them by subscrip- 
tion, and the city gave them land 
for the present asylum on Sixty- 
eighth Street, which was opened in 
1863. The buildings as they now 
stand cost over $300,000 ; others 
are to be put up whenever the sis- 
ters obtain the necessary funds. 
The society of ladies already men- 
tioned devotes itself especially to 
collections for this object. The 
asylum not only takes care of 
abandoned children, but it em- 
braces a refuge and reformatory 
for unfortunate mothers, receiving 
from 250 to 300 wretched women 
every year. Besides the infants in 
the asylum proper, there are many 
others whom the sisters are obliged 
to place out at nurse for want of 
room ; in the supervision of the 
nurses the sisters are aided by the 
visitors of the Society of St. Vin- 
cent de Paul. The number of 
foundlings in the institution at the 
date of the last report was 1,783. 
By the act of 1872 the supervi- 
sors of the city and county of New 
York are required to pay to the 
managers of the Foundling Asy- 



266 



Private Charities and Public Money. 



lum, for each infant maintained by 
them, the same sum granted by the 
act of 1865 to the (Protestant) In- 
fants' Asylum for the same service. 
This sum is not to exceed the ave- 
rage cost of the maintenance of 
children of like ages in the muni- 
cipal Nursery and Infants' Hospital 
under the charge of the Commis- 
sioners of Charities and Correction. 
The grants to the Catholic and 
the Protestant institution are made 
in identical terms and with the 
same conditions, the payments in 
both cases being strictly propor- 
tioned to the number of inmates, 
and made to correspond with the 
lowest cost of keeping children in 
the public institutions. Under the 
law the Foundling Asylum received 
$242,776 54 in 1877, and its gross 
receipts from city and State since 
the beginning have been $1,252,- 

713 71- 

6. St. Vincent* s Home for Boys, 
in Warren Street, was founded in 
1870, and somewhat resembles in 
its general plan the Newsboys' 
Lodging-Houses conducted by our 
Protestant friends. It gives food 
and shelter, besides a careful mo- 
ral training, to homeless lads, and 
extends charity to a great num- 
ber of out-door applicants besides. 
There are about 220 inmates. 
Those who are able pay five cents 
for a meal and a night's lodging ; 
the destitute are received free. 
The annual expenses are about 
$10,000 ; the institution received 
$1,600 from the city in 1877. Gross 
receipts of public money from the 
beginning, $5,375- 

7. St. Vincent de Paul's Indus- 
trial School for girls, in West For- 
ty-second Street, was founded in 
1856. It is under the direction of 
the Sisters of Charity, and compri- 
ses not only a school where girls 
over twelve years of age are taught 



trades, etc., but also a home for 
the destitute. It has about 160 
inmates, and in 1877 received $i,- 
200 from the city. Gross receipts 
of public money from the begin- 
ning (twenty-two years), $8,860, or 
about five cents a week for each 
girl in the Home. 

8. Asylum and Schools of the Sis- 
ters of St. Dominic. The Sisters 
of St. Dominic have parochial 
schools attached to three of the 
German churches, and maintain 
besides, in Second Street, an asy- 
lum with about seventy-five in- 
mates, and an Industrial School 
where three hundred and twenty- 
five children are clothed, fed, and 
taught trades. They moreover 
feed about fifty poor persons daily. 
They received in 1877 from the 
excise funds $5,787 28, and no 
other public money. The grants 
to these sisters previous to 1872 
were made in such form that the 
per-capita allowances from the edu- 
cation fund, on account of their 
various free day-schools, are not 
distinguishable from the grants to 
the asylum and Industrial School. 
Gross receipts of public money for 
all purposes since the foundation 
(1860), $64,75 1 94- Of this amount 
$17,030 37 came from the school 
fund. 

9. St. Joseph's Industrial Home, 
on Madison Avenue and Eighty- 
first Street, is the only Catholic 
institution except the Orphan Asy- 
lum and the Foundling Asylum 
which obtained its land from the 
city. It was founded in 1869 for the 
protection of destitute young girls 
(the daughters of deceased or dis- 
abled soldiers having a preference), 
and for the reception of homeless 
little children committed to it by 
the police courts. It is under the 
charge of the Sisters of Mercy. 
The number of inmates in October, 



Private Charities and Public Money. 



267 



1878, was 596. During the previ- 
ous year nearly 1,000 destitute 
children were sent to the asylum 
by the magistrates, not for petty 
crimes but because they had no 
home. These committed children, 
including some transferred from 
Randall's Island, were paid for out 
of the excise fund, the amount for 
the year being $39,052 43; other 
allowances from the public trea- 
sury, $9,946 51. The State made 
three appropriations towards the 
cost of the building, viz. : $30,000 
in 1867, $25,000 in 1868 on condi- 
tion that an equal amount should 
be raised by private contributions, 
and $50,000 in 1869 with the same 
proviso. Gross receipts of public 
money from the beginning includ- 
ing these three donations, $161,- 
502 81. 

II. REFORMATORIES. 

i o . The Catholic Protectory. T h i s 
is the third of the " great chanties," 
and the most extensive of any class, 
Catholic or non- Catholic, within the 
limits of this review. It was found- 
ed in 1863 for the purpose of re- 
forming juvenile delinquents and 
educating vagrant children, the 
statutes conferring upon it the 
same powers and responsibilities 
that belong by law to the House 
of Refuge, Juvenile Asylum, and 
Female Guardian Society. We 
have already seen that Catholic 
charity has contributed over a mil- 
lion of dollars to the cost of this 
institution, and that the voluntary 
offerings of benevolent persons pay 
annually a large proportion of its 
running expenses. The following 
courteous letter was addressed to 
the rector of the Protectory by 
the superintendent of the Five 
Points House of Industry : 

FIVE POINTS HOUSE OF INDUSTRY, 

May 28, 1878. 
DEAR SIR : I desire again in this for- 



mal manner to tender my sincere thanks 
for your courtesy shown to Mr. Camp 
and myself on our visit to your institu- 
tion yesterday. The visit, as we said, 
was one wholly for information which 
might be useful to us in our work. I 
was both surprised and delighted with 
what I saw, and you are certainly doing 
a most excellent work in an admirable 
manner. You have the right ideas 
in regard to fitting these children for 
usefulness, and are fortunate in being 
able to put them in such a practical 
shape. I think no candid person can 
take in such a knowledge of your gene- 
ral work as we did without commending 
it. I shall always be glad to say 'a word 
of commendation whenever an opportu- 
nity offers for the thoroughly good work 
you are doing for the poor Catholic 
children. 

Sincerely yours, 

WILLIAM F. BARNARD. 
To REV. BROTHER ADRIAN, 
New York Protectory. 

The number of inmates at the 
date of the last report was 2,034. 
The allowance from the public 
treasury for the support of the 
children is $110 each per annum, 
that to the House of Refuge being 
the same, while the Juvenile Asy- 
lum received last year $122 50. 
The Protectory obtained thus from 
the city in the year 1877-8, $227,- 
853 93, and from the Commission- 
ers of Charities and Correction $8,- 
125 98, besides a special donation 
of $50,000 from the Legislature. 
Gross receipts of public money 
from the beginning, including do- 
nations to the building fund (there 
have been no grants of land), $2,- 
030,454 47. 

ii. The House of the Good Shep- 
herd, at the foot of Eighty-ninth 
Street, East River, was founded in 
1857, by the religious order whose 
name it bears, for the relief and 
reformation of fallen women. In 
1878 it had 464 inmates, including 
penitent women, and young girls 
and children entrusted to the in- 
stitution as a measure of precau- 



268 



Private Charities and Public Money. 



lion, these classes being kept sepa- 
rate. Its annual expenditures are 
about $80,000. In 1877 it received 
from the city $8,946 47, and its 
gross receipts of public money from 
the commencement have been 
$406,552 60. 

1 2 . The Association for Befriend- 
ing Children and Young Girls is a 
society of benevolent ladies who 
sustain the House of the Holy 
Family, in Second Avenue, for the 
shelter and reformation of unfor- 
tunate children who are either vi- 
cious or exposed to bad influences. 
It was founded in 1869; expends 
about $j 2,000 a year, mostly ob- 
tained by voluntary offerings; sup- 
ports and educates about 100 girls; 
and received from the public trea- 
sury in 1877 $1,750. Gross re- 
ceipts of public money from the 
beginning, $16,450. 

III. ASYLUMS FOR ADULTS. 

13. The Institution of Mercy, in 
Houston Street, under the charge 
of the Sisters of Mercy, was found- 
ed in 1846. It comprises a House 
of Protection for poor women out 
of employment, and an asylum and 
school for young girls, and the 
sisters are also extensively engaged 
in the visitation of the* sick and the 
distribution of general out-door 
relief. It has about 250 inmates, 
and expends nearly $20,000 a year. 
In 1878 it received $1,000 of the 
public money, and its gross receipts 
from the city and State from the 
beginning (thirty-one years), for all 
branches of its work, have been $66,- 
625 46. 

14. St. Joseph's Home for the 
Aged is an asylum for poor women, 
conducted by the Sisters of Char- 
ity, in West Fifteenth Street. It 
was founded in 1868 and has 230 
inmates, the destitute being receiv- 
ed free. Its annual expenses are 



about $30,000. It received $6,930 
from the excise funds in 1877, and 
its gross receipts of public money 
from the beginning have been $27,- 
305- 

15. The 'Home for the Aged of 
the Little Sisters of the Poor, in 
East Seventieth Street, is an asy- 
lum of a similar character, founded 
in 1870. It is entirely free, and 
receives only those who are over 
sixty years of age and quite desti- 
tute. It has 158 inmates, for 
whose support the sisters in person 
go begging from door to door ; its 
annual expenditures are about $13,- 
ooo a year ; it received $3,040 from 
the excise funds in 1877 ; and its 
gross receipts of public money 
from the beginning have been $14,- 
671 02. 

IV. HOSPITALS. 

1 6. St. Vincent's Hospital, in 
Eleventh Street, was founded by 
the Sisters of Charity in 1849, and 
was the first institution of the kind 
in this city depending on voluntary 
contributions. The money for its 
first outlay was advanced by the 
late Vicar-General Starrs. In 1860 
it raised a fund of $45,000 by means 
of a fair, and this enabled it to 
purchase land and put up a part of 
its present buildings. It receives 
persons of any creed, and allows 
ministers of all denominations free 
access to patients who wish to see 
them. Inmates who are not Cath- 
olics are not expected to attend 
the religious services. There were 
about eighty patients at the last re- 
port. Those who have means pay 
something for board and attend- 
ance ; the indigent are received 
free. The annual expenditures are 
about $40,000. The hospital re- 
ceived $4,500 from the city in 1877. 
Gross receipts of public money 
from the beginning, $69,166 59. 



Private Cliaritics and Public Money. 



269 



17. St. Francis' Hospital, in Fifth 
Street, is a free German institution 
under the care of the Sisters of the 
Poor of St. Francis, who add to 
their duties in the hospital an ex- 
tensive work of out-door relief. It 
was founded in 1865; had 173 pa- 
tients at the last report; received 
$4,243 50 from the city in 1877, 
and has had of public money from 
the beginning $92,033 73. 

1 8. St. Elizabeth's Hospital, in 
West Thirty-first Street, was found- 
ed in 1870 under the Sisters of the 
Third Order of St. Francis, has 
room for about fifty patients, spends 
<6,ooo a year, and obtained $1,000 
from the city in 1877. Gross re- 
ceipts of public money from the 
beginning, $4,700. 

V. SPECIAL INSTITUTIONS. 

19. St. Joseph 's Ins tit ii tefor Deaf 
Mutes, at Ford ham, is an establish- 
ment under lay management, found- 
ed in 1869. It has received alto- 
gether $10,554 03 from the public 
funds. 

VI. GENERAL RELIEF. 

20. The Society of St. Vincent de 
Paul, an association of laymen or- 
ganized in nearly all the parishes 
for the visitation and relief of the 
poor, distributes $50,000 or $60,000 
a year. It has been in operation 
here since 1856, and has received 
$43,172 50 from the public funds. 

These are the only gifts and al- 
lowances to Catholic charities of 
which we find record. 

PROTESTANT AND JEWISH CHAR- 
ITIES. 

I. ASYLUMS FOR CHILDREN. 

i. The New York Orphan Asy- 
lum, on Eleventh Avenue near 
Seventy-third Street, was founded 
in 1806. It has been liberally en- 



dowed by the benefactions of pri- 
vate individuals, and has prosper- 
ed by the increase in the value of 
real estate. It is strictly Protes- 
tant, and orphans are only inden- 
tured to persons who are " regular 
attendants of a Protestant place 
of worship and recommended by 
their pastor." Its expenditures are 
about $40,000 a year. It has ac- 
commodation for 225 children. In 
1877 it received $1,933 9 1 from 
the city. Gross receipts of public 
money since 1847, $5 2 > 20 4 51. 

2. The Leake and Watts Orphan 
House, at Bloomingdale, was found- 
ed in 1831 under the will of Mr. 
John G. Leake, and derives an 
ample income from its endowment. 
It is free to destitute full orphans, 
of whom it has about 150. Ac- 
cording to the language of the act 
of incorporation, the children are 
to be admitted without regard to 
*' the country or religious persua- 
sion of their deceased parents." 
They attend the Protestant Epis- 
copal Church service, however ; 
the religious instruction is of course 
Protestant; and the rector of Trin- 
ity Church has been president of 
the "institution from its foundation. 
It received from the city in 1877 
$1,442 24. Gross receipts of pub- 
lic money since 1847, $22,975 49. 

3. The Colored Orphan Asylum, 
One Hundred and Forty-third 
Street, was founded in 1836. The 
city gave it in 1842 twenty lots of 
ground on Fifth Avenue, between 
Forty-third and Forty-fourth Streets, 
and with the proceeds of the sale 
of this property, after the destruc- 
tion of the asylum by a mob in 
1863, the present site was purchas- 
ed. Religious instruction is fur- 
nished by ministers of various 
Protestant denominations in turn. 
The number of children at the last 
report was 307. In 1877 tn ^ asy- 



270 



Private Charities and Public Money. 



him received $11,287 82 from the 
city. Receipts of public money 
since 1847, $176,157 24, not in- 
cluding amounts paid by the Com- 
missioners of Charities and Correc- 
tion during the seven years ending 
with 1873. (See note on a preced- 
ing page.) 

4. The Hebrew Orphan Asylum, 
founded in 1859, is one of several 
charities under the management of 
the Hebrew Benevolent Society. 
The land which it occupies on Sev- 
enty-seventh Street and Third 
Avenue was a gift from the corpora- 
tion, and the city also contributed 
$30,000 to the building fund. Be- 
sides the main building, used for 
boys, it has an industrial school 
adjoining, and an asylum for girls 
in Eighty-sixth Street. The num- 
ber of children in the three estab- 
lishments in 1878 was 301. The 
charity is exclusively for Jews, and 
the inmates receive a strictly Jew- 
ish education. The funds of the 
society are derived in large part 
from the annual contributions of 
its two thousand patrons and mem- 
bers, but it also receives liberal aid 
from the city, the payments from 
this source in 1877 amounting to 
$21,729 66. The expenditures for 
the current year have been dis- 
tributed by the managers of the 
association as follows : Orphan Asy- 
lum, $45,000 ; Industrial School, 
$3,000; charity and relief, $15,- 
ooo. Gross receipts of public 
money (eighteen years), $155,- 

147 37- 

5. The Protestant Half-Orphan 
Asylum, in West Tenth Street, 
founded in 1835, is intended ex- 
plicitly for the education of desti- 
tute children in Protestantism. It 
is not wholly free; board must be 
paid in advance at the rate of 75 
cents a week. At the last report 
the asylum had 200 children. It 



received from the city in 1878 
$2,157 86. Gross receipts of pub- 
lic money since 1847, $62,389 94. 

6. The Orphans' Home and Asy- 
lum of the Protestant Episcopal 
Church, Forty-ninth Street and Lex- 
ington Avenue, founded in 1851, 
has 158 inmates. It obtained from 
the city in 1861 a twenty years' 
lease of the land it occupies, at the 
yearly rent of one dollar, and its 
gross receipts of public money from 
the beginning have been $28,047 61. 
In this total are included a pay- 
ment of $1,000 in 1865 to the " Or- 
phans' Home," and another of $i,- 
395 79 to tne "Orphans' Home 
and Asylum," by which titles we 
suppose this institution to be 
meant. 

7. The Union Home and School, 
on the Boulevard near One Hun- 
dred and Fiftieth Street, was found- 
ed in 1861 for the education and 
support of the destitute children of 
soldiers and sailors from this city. 
It professes to permit u no secta- 
rianism in the institution," but to 
allow the visits of clergymen of all 
denominations. The infants are 
probably encouraged to judge for 
themselves on disputed points of 
theology. It is unnecessary to say 
that the spirit of such an asylum 
must be radically anti-Catholic, and 
its influence highly favorable to in- 
differentism and infidelity. By act 
of the Legislature, passed in 1873 
the managers are to receive $i5c 
per annum for every child main- 
tained in the Home, this being i 
much larger per-capita allowance 
than is made, so far as we know 
to any other establishment. The 
institution is supported entirely 
from the public funds. At the las! 
report it contained 187 children 
It received from the city in 187; 
$26,528 44. Gross receipts fron 
the city and State since 1861 



Private CJiarities and Public Money. 



271 



$252,371 54, not including amounts 
paid by Westchester, Kings, and 
other counties for children from 
those parts of the State. 

8. The Society for the Relief of 
Destitute Children of Seamen is an 
adjunct of the Sailors' Snug Har- 
bor on Staten Island, but under 
independent management. It re- 
ceived $1,000 from the city in 1877. 
Gross receipts of public money 
since 1847, $36,655 76. 

9. The Children's Aid Society is 
the most extensive of the Protes- 
tant organizations for the care of 
children, and also one of the most 
bitterly sectarian. It began oper- 
ations in 1853, and now has twenty 
industrial schools, twelve night- 
schools, six lodging-houses, and a 
summer home on Long Island. The 
daily average attendance at the 
schools last year was 3,477. The 
most important part of the work of 
the society is collecting poor and 
vagrant children and sending them 
to " carefully-selected homes " in 
the West. Nearly 50,000 boys and 
girls have thus been disposed of. 
About 3,500 were shipped last year. 
THE CATHOLIC WORLD has hereto- 
fore shown how this society operates 
in destroying the faith of Catholic 
children who are taken into its 
schools, and removing the HttleWest- 
ern emigrants from all Catholic influ- 
ences. Force is used in this process 
of conversion ; the last annual report 
speaks with approval of the effect 
of " the action of the truant agents, 
and the existence of the compul- 
sory law (though mainly unexecut- 
ed) in forcing street children into 
our own night-schools, and into 
half-sessions of our day industrial 
schools." In the same report the 
secretary, Mr. Charles L. Brace, 
congratulates the friends of the so- 
ciety on the failure of the propos- 
ed amendments to the constitution 



which threatened the existence of 
the industrial schools, and he add- 
ed the following sentence, which 
well illustrates the spirit of his en- 
terprise : "It was seen that the 
previous amendments of the con- 
stitution sufficiently protected our 
public schools from priestly or sec- 
tarian interference." Now, the 
amendments to which Mr. Brace 
refers were two. The first prohi- 
bits grants by the State, the second 
prohibits grants by counties, cities, 
towns, and villages, to any associa- 
tion, corporation, or private under- 
taking, except that provision may 
be made for juvenile delinquents, 
the blind, the deaf and dumb, and 
the poor. Under these amend- 
ments ail allowances to Catholic 
free schools have been cut off, but 
the school money is paid freely to 
Mr. Brace's schools, on the plea 
that they are for the "support of 
the poor." And when he says that 
"priestly, interference " with the 
schools has been prevented, he 
means that measures have been 
adopted to hinder Catholics from 
conducting schools of their own. 
What more open avowal could be 
made of the character of his "un- 
sectarian " establishments ? Not- 
withstanding the constitutional 
amendments, the Children's Aid 
Society received from the Board of 
Education in 1878 $34,599 28, and 
from the city $70,000. Gross re- 
ceipts of public money from 1853 
to 1877, $979,499 69. 

10. The American Female Guar- 
dian Society, founded in 1835, 1S an 
institution somewhat similar in its 
character to tlje Children's Aid So- 
ciety. It has a House of Industry 
and Home for the Friendless ~in 
East Thirtieth Street, where desti- 
tute women and children are re- 
ceived ; it conducts twelve industrial 
schools ; it finds Protestant homes 



Private Cliaritics and Public Money. 



for children on the plan of the Chil- 
dren's Aid Society ; and it does vari- 
ous out-door missionary work. "Per- 
sons applying for children must be 
regular attendants at a Protestant 
place of worship and recommend- 
ed by their pastor." In 1878 there 
were 118 children in the Home 
and 35 adults. The report for 
that year says that " 1,945 children 
have been in regular attendance " 
in the twelve industrial schools, 
but the average or the number at 
any one time is not given. The 
number adopted out during the 
year was 151. In 1877 the'society 
received $165072 23 from the'Board 
of Education and 25,000 from the 
State. Gross receipts of public 
money since 1847, $359,542 06. 

1 1 . The Five Points House of In- 
dustry, in Worth Street, founded in 
1850, embraces a home and school 
for destitute children and an asy- 
lum for poor women. An impor- 
tant part of its work is religious, 
services being held twice a day 
in the institution. The managers 
make no secret of their efforts to 
convert Catholic children to Pro- 
testantism. A large proporcion of 
the boys and girls are of Catholic 
parentage, but none are ever placed 
in Catholic homes. In 1878 the 
whole number of inmates was 286 
and the average attendance at the 
school 354. The institution re- 
ceived from the city in 1877 $6,- 
876 14. Gross receipts of public 
money from the beginning, $124,- 
472 14. 

12. The Five Points Mission, in 
Park Street, founded in 1850, is an 
enterprise of the Ladies' Home 
Missionary Society of the Metho- 
dist Episcopal Church, and is en- 
tirely under the influence and con- 
trol of the Methodist denomina- 
tion. It maintains missionaries at 
the Five Points, keeps up religious 



services, finds situations for adults 
and children, gives away food and 
clothing, and lias a school with an 
average attendance of 430. In 
nearly all associations of this class 
the distribution of material relief is 
only auxiliary to the spiritual work. 
In 1877 the mission obtained $2,100 
from the city. Gross receipts of 
public money from the beginning, 
$45,059 36. (See also Ladies' Home 
Missionary Society, No. 84.) 

13. The Howard Mission and 
Home for Little Wanderers, in the 
New Bowery, was founded in 1861 
professedly for the purpose of giv- 
ing shelter and material aid and 
" imparting intellectual, moral, and 
religious instruction " to children 
and others. It also provides homes 
4pr children, and in ho case places 
them with Catholic families. The 
perversion of Catholic children to 
Protestantism is one of its chief 
objects. It obtained $2,265 2 5 
from the city in 1877, and its gross 
receipts of public money from the 
beginning have been $22,490 50. 

14. The Wilson Industrial School 
and Mission, in St. Mark's Place, was 
organized in 1853, and comprises a 
school and night- refuge for poor 
girls, and a " mission church " with 
its pastor and Bible-reader, Sun- 
day-school, prayer-meetings, etc., 
its operations being largely of a 
religious character. The average 
number of girls in the school last 
year was 184. Gross receipts of 
public money from the beginning, 

$4,839 ii- 

15. The Shepherd's Fold, in East 
Sixteenth Street, and(i6) The Chil- 
dren s Fold t Boulevard and Ninety- 
fourth Street, are Protestant Episco- 
pal institutions which have had a 
curious history. In 1869 the superin- 
tendent of the Shepherd's Fold was 
the Rev. Edward Cowley. The 
trustees having dispensed with his 



Private Charities and Public Money. 



273 



services, he organized, with the aid 
of seceders from the original insti- 
tution, an opposition house, which 
he called the Children's Fold, both 
asylums having the same object 
namely, the care and education of 
destitute and orphan children. In 
1874 a mortgage on the real estate 
of the Shepherd's Fold was fore- 
closed, the children were trans- 
ferred to other institutions, and 
the charity was abandoned. In 
1877 the trustees of the Children's 
Fold in their turn resolved to get 
rid of Mr. Cowley. He was accus- 
ed of cruelty and mismanagement. 
The State Board of Charities took 
the matter up ; there was an in- 
vestigation and a public scandal ; 
both parties went to law to secure 
possession of the asylum, and mean- 
while the managers of the Shelter- 
ing Arms were requested to take 
care of the children. By a law of 
1874 the city was required to pay 
$2 a week for every child maintain- 
ed by the Children's Fold. But by 
a law of 1871 the Shepherd's Fold 
was entitled to draw from the pub- 
lic treasury $5,000 a year, even if it 
supported no children at all. Mr. 
Cowley and his friends, ejected 
from the Children's Fold, now re- 
vived this profitable institution 
(March, 1877), and suits and coun- 
ter suits followed to test the legality 
of their action. At their Annual 
meeting held last March Mr. Cow- 
ley stated that they had received 
fifty children in two years, and ex- 
pended $7,000, and he claims $5,000 
from the city on account of the 
operations of 1878. This amount 
has not so far been paid ; but while 
the two Folds were at open warfare 
they both drew from the public 
treasury at the same time. The 
original Shepherd's Fold from 1869 
to 1873 obtained $21,280, and v 'the 
VOL. xxix. 18 



Children's Fold from 1869 to 1877 
received $34,175 06. 

17. The Sheltering Arms, One 
Hundred and Twenty-ninth Street 
and Tenth Avenue, is a Protestant 
Episcopal institution, founded in 
1864 for the relief and education of 
poor children, not orphans, who 
are not provided for by other insti- 
tutions. It is conducted by the 
Protestant sisterhood of St. Mary. 
It has about 135 children, and re- 
ceived from the city in 1877 $2,520. 
Gross receipts of public money 
from the beginning, $21,972 95. 

1 8. St. Barnabas House, in Mul- 
berry Street, is a Protestant Epis- 
copal institution, founded in 1865, 
and comprising a temporary home 
for women and children, a perma- 
nent home for sixteen poor chil- 
dren, and a day nursery. It is un- 
der the management of a Protes- 
tant sisterhood. All the inmates 
are obliged to attend the Protes- 
tant Episcopal service every day. 
Gross receipts of public money 
from the beginning, $9,355 21. 

19. The Nursery and Child's 
Hospital, Lexington Avenue and 
Fifty-first Street, founded in 1854, 
is the largest of the Protestant 
charities for children, next to the 
Children's Aid Society. It em- 
braces a Lying-in Asylum and a 
home for children ; payment being 
expected for both classes of in- 
mates, unless they are quite desti- 
tute. At the last report there 
were 586 children and 262 women 
in the institution, including the 
country branch on Staten Island. 
During the year ending March i, 
1878, the institution received $108,- 
007 10. Gross receipts of public 
money from the beginning, $668,- 
334 10. The land which the nur- 
sery occupies was a grant from 
the city. 



274 



Private Charities and Public Money. 



20. The Neiu York Infant Asy- 
lum, Sixty-first Street and Tenth 
Avenue, founded in 1865, is an in- 
stitution somewhat like the pre- 
ceding. It comprises a home for 
foundlings and other destitute chil- 
dren, and a lying-in hospital. A 
law of 1865 requires the city to pay 
for every child maintained by the 
asylum a sum not greater than the 
average cost of each child in the 
municipal asylums. This is the 
same provision afterwards extend- 
ed to the Foundling Asylum of the 
Sisters of Charity. The number of 
children and women is about 400. 
Receipts from the city in 1877, 
$44,16543. Gross receipts of pub- 
lic money from the beginning, 
$160,208 86, nearly all of which 
was paid during the past five years. 

2 1 . The Juvenile Guardian Society, 
in St. Mark's Place, a sort of mis- 
sion and industrial school, was the 
subject^of an investigation under- 
taken by the State Board of Chan- 
ties in 1877, resulting in a most 
damaging report and an applica- 
tion to the courts for a forfeiture 
of its charter, on account of misuse 
of funds and general worthlessness. 
From 1866 to 1873 it received $59,- 
435 1 8 of the public money. 

2 2 . The Bowery Juvenile Guardian 
Society is debited with one grant of 
$264 89. 

23. The Wayside Industrial 
Home, incorporated in 1869 ' for 
the care, support, and proper train- 
ing and education of destitute chil- 
dren," received $13,998 of the pub- 
lic money during the four years 
ending with 1872. 

24. The Children's Educational 
Relief Association, in East Broad- 
way, was organized " to co-operate 
with the Board of Public Instruc- 
tion in advancing the cause of edu- 
cation on a broad and unsectarian 
basis," and its particular business 



is to aid truant officers and others 
in getting poor children into the 
irreligious common schools. It re- 
ceived $1,164 from the city in 
1876. 

25. The Ladies' Educational Union, 
which appears to be no longer in 
existence, had received of the pub- 
lic money, from 1865 to 1871, $41,- 

873 98. 

26. The Industrial School of the 
Protestant Reformed Dutch Church 
received $5,000 from the city in 
1868. 

27. The Fourth Ward Society for 
the Relief of Poor Children is de- 
bited with a gift of $980. 

II. REFORMATORIES. 

28. The House of Refuge, under 
the management of the Society for 
the Reformation of Juvenile Delin- 
quents, is the chief Protestant re- 
formatory, corresponding to the 
Catholic Protectory and the West- 
ern House of Refuge at Rochester. ' 
Juvenile delinquents under sixteen 
years of age are received on com- 
mitment by a magistrate. There 
has been an understanding, and 
for a short time there was a law, 
that the children of Catholic pa- 
rents should be sent to the Protec- 
tory, but this is not faithfully ob- 
served ; for example, out of 625 
committed to the House of Refuge 
in 1878 no fewer than 317 were of 
Irish parentage, and it is probable 
that half the inmates of the asylum 
are of Catholic birth. The reli- 
gious instruction and worship, how- 
ever, are exclusively Protestant. 
Priests are not allowed to visit the 
Catholic children, unless they are 
specially asked for in case of sick- 
ness. A formal application, made 
by the Catholic Union in 1875, for 
the admission of a priest to act as 
chaplain to the Catholic children 
and to say Mass for them, etc., was 



Private Charities and Public Money. 



275 



refused. A majority of the inmates 
are not criminals, but idle and 
neglected children. Of the com- 
mitments in 1878, only 49 per cent, 
were for crimes of all sorts, great 
and small, and the rest were for 
vagrancy, truancy, and disorderly 
conduct. The number of children 
in the institution January i, 1879, 
Avas 903. The House of Refuge 
was built almost wholly at the pub- 
lic expense, and all its expenses are 
paid from the public treasury. It 
received from the city the land 
which it now occupies on Randall's 
Island, and lands which it formerly 
occupied on Madison Square and 
on Twenty-third Street. Its reve- 
nues, apart from proceeds of the 
labor of the inmates, are derived 
from the State comptroller, the Board 
of Education, and the license tax 
on theatres, and amount in the ag- 
gregate to $110 per annum for each 
child, or the same sum allowed to 
the Catholic Protectory. It re- 
ceives nothing from private chari- 
ty. It obtained last year $68,500 
from the State, $11,843 48 from 
the Board of Education, and $22,- 
457 56 from theatre licenses ; total, 
$102,801 04. Gross receipts of 
public money since 1847, $1,552,- 
196 58. 

29. The Juvenile Asylum, found- 
ed in 1853, takes charge of children 
committed by police magistrates 
for vagrancy and petty offences, 
and children of bad habits placed 
in the asylum by their parents or 
friends. Those who have no homes 
it sends to the West. It is of course 
strictly Protestant, although a large 
proportion of its wards are of Ca- 
tholic parentage. The institution 
comprises the asylum proper near 
High Bridge, a House of Recep- 
tion in Thirteenth Street, and a 
Western Agency at Bloomington, 
Illinois. In January, 1879, there 



were 781 children in the Asylum 
and House of Reception, and dur- 
ing the previous year 141 had been 
sent to Illinois. The receipts from 
the city and Board of Education in 
1878 were $95,146 92; daily aver- 
age number of inmates, 775 ; per- 
capita allowance, $122 50. Gross 
receipts of public money from the 
beginning to 1877 (twenty-five 
years), $1,442,292 87. 

30. The (Protestant] House of 
Mercy, at Bloomingdale, founded in 
1854, is a Protestant Episcopal re- 
formatory for fallen women and 
wayward girls. It is under the 
management of the Protestant sis- 
terhood of St. Mary, and its reli- 
gious instruction and services are 
those of the denomination under 
whose auspices it is conducted. In 
1877 it had 70 inmates. The city 
and State have made several lib- 
eral grants in its aid $15,000 in 
1863, $25,000 in 1867, $10,000 in 
1872. It received $2,253 93 from 
the city in 1877. Gross receipts of 
public money (twenty-four years), 
$91,893 10. 

3 1 . The New York Magdalen Be- 
nevolent Society, founded in 1851, 
has an asylum for fallen women 
in Eighty-eighth Street, and does 
some out- door missionary work, em- 
ploying "a competent and respec- 
table agent, who shall be an autho- 
rized minister of some Evangelical 
church." The number of inmates 
of the asylum in May, 1878, was 57. 
Allowances from the city during 
the previous year, $2,620. Gross 
receipts of public money (twenty- 
seven years), $42,406 17. 

32. The Home for Fallen and 
Friendless Girls, in Fourth Street, 
had 26 inmates in 1877, and re- 
ceived that year $2,977 49 from the 
city. Gross receipts from the city 
and State between 1870 and 1877,, 
$15,446 83. 



276 



Private Charities and Public Money. 



r : 33. The Midnight Mission, in 
Greene Street, a Protestant Epis- 
copal charity, offers a temporary 
shelter to fallen women, and sends 
them to homes, friends, or public 
institutions. It received from the 
city in 1874, 1876, and 1877 a total 
of $2,404 60. 

34. The Women's Prison Associa- 
tion conducts the " Isaac T. Hop- 
per Home," in Second Avenue, for 
the help and reformation of dis- 
charged female prisoners. Gross 
receipts of public money (1859 to 
1877), $11,121. 

35. The Home for Discharged 
Prisoners (possibly the same as the 
institution mentioned above) re- 
ceived from the city $500 in 1847 
and $i,obo in 1854. 

36. The Gilbert Library and Aid 
Fund for prisoners received $1,000 
from the city in 1877. 

37. The ' National Temperance 
Society obtained $2,000 from the 
State in 1871 for the establishment 
of an Industrial Temperance Home 
in this city. 

38. The Inebriate Reform Socie- 
ty received allowances from the 
city in 1860-1-2 ; total, $1,250. 

HI. ASYLUMS FOR ADULTS. 

39. The Colored Home, in East 
Sixty-fifth Street, founded in 1839, 
embraces an almshouse and a hos- 
-pital. In the former department 
it had last year 59 inmates and in 
-the latter 127. The prevailing re- 
ligious influence is that of the Me- 
thodist denomination. The city 
makes it an allowance of $91 25 
,per annum for each person sup- 
ported, and the society has little 
other income. It received from 
the city in 1877 $21,729 66. The 
gross receipts of public money 
since 1847, not including seven 
years' per-capita payments by the 
Commissioners of Charities and 



Correction (see note on a preced- 
ing page), have been $121,342 20. 

40. The Ladies' Union Aid So- 
ciety of the Methodist Episcopal 
Church has a home in Forty-sec- 
ond Street for aged and infirm 
members of that denomination. 
Applicants for admission must have 
been members of the Methodist 
Episcopal Church in good stand- 
ing for ten years, and nominated 
by the congregation to which they 
belong. The annual report for 
1878 does not mention the number 
of inmates; but the Hand-Book 
of the Board of United Charities 
for 1877 gives the average num- 
ber as 95. The society received 
$ 2 5 375 from the city in 1877. 
Gross receipts of public money 
since its foundation in 1850, $38,- 
032 28. 

41. The Chapin Home, in East 
Sixty-sixth Street, is an asylum 
founded in 1869 for aged and in- 
firm Universalists, only members 
of the Universalist Church being 
eligible as trustees. An admission 
fee of $300 is required. Num- 
ber of inmates in 1878, 44. The 
city gave a perpetual lease of the 
ground which the institution occu- 
pies (fourteen lots), and both city 
and State have made liberal dona- 
tions in money. Gross receipts 
from the public funds (nine years), 
$38,036 16. 

42. St. Luke's Home for Indi- 
gent Christian Females, Madison 
Avenue and Eighty-ninth Street, 
founded in 1852, is a Protestant 
Episcopal institution, and is only 
open to communicants of that de- 
nomination. An entrance fee of 
$200 is required. Number of in- 
mates in 1877, 62. Allowance 
from the city that year, $1,260. 
Gross receipts of public money 
since the foundation, $21,820. 

43. The Home for Old Men and 



Private Charities and Public Money. 



277 



Aged Couples, in Hudson Street, is 
a Protestant Episcopal institution 
founded in 1872, and only open to 
members of the Episcopal Church. 
An admission fee of $250 is requir- 
ed. The average number of in- 
mates is about 20. Gross receipts 
of public money, $2,040. 

44. The Samaritan Home for the 
Aged, in West Twenty-second Street, 
was founded in 1866 as an asylum 
for indigent women. One of its 
circulars announces that it is to be 
11 absolutely free from all sectarian 
bias, and open in its direction and 
its objects to persons of all Protes- 
tant denominations," and that its 
Board of Managers " shall repre- 
sent indiscriminately our common 
Protestant Christianity in all its 
forms." An admission fee of $250 
is required. Number of inmates, 
about 40. Gross receipts of pub- 
lic money, $7,350. 

45. The Association for the Re- 
lief of Respectable Aged Indigent 
Females, founded in 1814, has a 
home in East Twentieth Street. 
Admission fee, $80. The mana- 
gers are required by the rules to 
see that " the asylum is duly sup- 
plied with the preaching of the 
Gospel, and any minister properly 
authorized as a preacher of the 
Gospel by any Evangelical deno- 
mination of Christians shall be 
cordially received. ... No inmate 
in the asylum to be permitted to 
introduce any preacher of the Gos- 
pel, or to invite their friends to give 
religious instruction, without the 
consent of the church committee." 
Gross receipts of public money 
since 1847, $10,647 36. 

46. The Home for Aged and 
Infirm Hebreivs, Eighty-seventh 
Street and Avenue A, founded in 
1848, has about seventy inmates. 
Gross receipts of public money, 
$4,403- 



47. The Nig ht- Refuge Associa- 
tion, Avenue D and Tenth Street, 
opened in 1877 a temporary shel- 
ter where it can furnish lodging to 
400 men and 100 women. It re- 
ceived $10,000 from the city in 
1876 and $5,000 in 1877. 

48. The Ladies' Christian Union 
maintains a Young Women's Home 
in Washington Square, where work- 
ing-girls and others can obtain 
cheap board and improving soci- 
ety. Religious influences are set 
forth among the chief advanta- 
ges of the institution ; there are 
morning and evening devotions, 
Bible-classes, etc. The society re- 
ceived $3,000 from the city in 1870 
and $3,000 in 1871. 

49. The Young Woman's Aid As- 
sociation, in Bond Street, a board- 
ing-house for the same class of per- 
sons, obtained $1,895 from the 
city in 1876-7. 

50. The Female Christian Home, 
in East Fifteenth Street, is an es- 
tablishment where from thirty to 
forty working-women obtain board 
at rather low rates. It received 
$1,700 from the city during the 
years 1876-7. 

51. The Peabody Home for aged 
and indigent women, Thirty-third 
Street and Lexington Avenue, with 
accommodations for fifteen per- 
sons, received $375 from the city 
in 1876 and the same amount in 
1877. 

52. The Mariners' Family Asy- 
lum and Industrial Society, on Sta- 
ten Island, is an institution found- 
ed for the support, shelter, and re- 
ligious (Protestant) instruction of 
the female relatives of seamen, 
missionary work entering largely 
into its plan of operations. It ob- 
tained $16,000 from the Legisla- 
ture at the start (1848-9), and its 
gross receipts of public money have 
been $27,966 13. 



278 Private Charities and Public Money. 

IV. HOSPITALS. 



The religious influence at the 
non-Catholic hospitals varies ac- 
cording to the rules of each insti- 
tution. In some the visits of priests 
and sisters, if not forbidden, are 
obstructed and discountenanced. 
In others the management is indif- 
ferent to all religion. 

53. The New York Hospital, in 
Fifteenth Street, with a limited 
number of charity patients, and the 
Insane Asylum at Bloom in gdale, at 
which the amount received for 
board of inmates nearly, or perhaps 
quite, meets the current expendi- 
tures, are under the management 
of the same corporation. The hos- 
pital cases are chiefly surgical. The 
society has received from the city 
and State since 1847, $331,750. 

54. The Society for the Relief of 
the Ruptured and Crippled, founded 
in 1863, has an institution on For- 
ty-second Street and Lexington 
Avenue, where a small number of 
patients are treated, but its principal 
work is among the out-door poor. 
It received $27,607 10 from the 
city in 1877. Gross receipts of 
public money (eighteen years), 
$199,087 06. 

55. The Woman s Hospital, in 
Forty-ninth Street, was founded 
in 1858 for the treatment of dis- 
eases peculiar to women. In No- 
vember, 1878, it had 98 patients. 
There are 24 free beds. Protes- 
tant service is held in the hospital 
every Sunday, and religious visits 
are paid by a regular missionary, 
and by three clergymen in turn, 
one Methodist, one Presbyterian, 
and one Episcopalian. Patients, 
however, are allowed to see any 
clergyman they desire "in extreme 
cases." The city gave the land 
for the institution (a whole block 
between Fourth and Lexington 



Avenues), and the city and State 
have paid to the hospital (twenty 
years) $i47>3 2 5 4- 

56. The Lying-in Asylum for des- 
titute married women, in Marion 
Street, founded in 1823, has accom- 
modations for twenty patients, but 
the ladies connected with it extend 
their aid to the out-door poor also. 
It has received of the public money 
since 1847 $23,437 49. 

57. The New York Infirmary for 
Women and Children, in Livingston 
Place, founded in 1853, has accom- 
modations for thirty-four inmates, 
and attends also to dispensary and 
out-door patients. Gross receipts 
of public money from the begin- 
ning, $54,5 26 27. 

58. The Women s Infirmary, for- 
merly at Washington Heights, a 
small homoeopathic institution, re- 
ceived $3,500 from the State in 
1866, and $5^500 from the city in 
1865-6 ; total, $9,000. 

5 9. The Medical College and Hos- 
pital for Women, Thirty-seventh 
Street and Lexington Avenue, has 
received $61,894 47. 

60. The Hahnemann Hospital, 
Sixty-seventh Street and Fourth 
Avenue, obtained from the city a 
perpetual lease of the ten lots of 
land it occupies, and has received 
of the public money since its foun- 
dation in 1871 $39,000. 

6 1 . The Bond Street Homoeopathic 
Hospital received $9,615 30. 

62. The Homoeopathic Surgical 
Hospital received $1,500. 

63. St. Lukes Hospital, Fifty- 
fourth Street, is a Protestant Epis- 
copal institution, served by the Sis- 
ters of St. Mary. Patients are re- 
ceived without regard to religious 
belief, but St. Luke's Hospital, like 
most of the other charities of the 
P^piscopal Church, honestly avows 
the denominational character of its 
management an example of frank- 






Private Charities and Public Money. 



2/9 



ness and common sense which many 
professedly " unsectarian " estab- 
lishments might profitably imitate. 
The last annual report says : " Cor- 
pus sanare, animam salvare 'to cure 
the body, to save the soul ' crystal- 
lizes in words the founder's thought. 
The very building embodies his 
idea. Its chapel stands, not in a 
remote corner, but as the centre 
from which the wards radiate." 
The superintendent is always a 
clergyman of the Episcopal Church. 
The average number of patients in 
1878 was 139. We have already 
told the circumstances under which 
the hospital obtained its land. It 
received $7,602 from the city in 
1877, and its gross receipts of pub- 
lic money from the beginning have 
been $30,020 73. 

64. The Mount Sinai Hospital, a 
Jewish institution, on Lexington 
Avenue and Sixty-sixth Street, 
founded in 1852, received a per- 
petual lease of its land from the 
city at a nominal rent. The num- 
ber of patients in November (1877) 
was 109. The institution received 
$4,248 from the city in 1877. 
Gross receipts of public money 
from the beginning, $46,229 60. 

65. The German Hospital, found- 
ed in 1 86 1, obtained from the city 
a fifty years' lease, at a dollar a 
year, of the greater part of the block 
which it occupies on Lexington 
and Fourth Avenues, Seventy-sixth 
and Seventy-seventh Streets. It 
has accommodation for about fifty 
free patients, and maintains also a 
dispensary in St. Mark's Place. 
It obtained $2,567 85 from the city 
in 1877. Gross .receipts of public 
money from the beginning, not in- 
cluding allowances to the dispen- 
sary before the two institutions 
were consolidated, $16,890 37. 

66. St. Marys Hospital for Chil- 
dren, a Protestant Episcopal char- 



ity in West Thirty-fourth Street, 
under the Sisters of St. Mary, 
founded in 1870, and having twen- 
ty-six inmates in November, 1878, 
received $1,500 -from the city in 
1866-7. 

67. The Home for Incurables, 
Fordham, founded in 1866, is a 
Protestant Episcopal charity, in 
which, as usual with this denomina- 
tion, the ministrations of the Episco- 
pal Church have an important part. 
One-third of the beds are free. 
Number of inmates in 1877, 58. 
Gross receipts of public money, 
fo ? 446 45. 

68. The House of Rest for Con- 
sumptives, at Tremont, founded in 
1869, is likewise a Protestant Epis- 
copal institution. Number of in- 
mates in 1877, 20. Gross receipts 
of public money, $5,317 5 6 - 

Donations and allowances have 
been made to a number of hos- 
pitals for the treatment of particu- 
cal forms of disease. We presume 
that most of them exert no re- 
ligious influence ; but we give their 
titles and the gross amount of pub- 
lic money they have received up to 
and including 1877 : 

69. Ophthalmic Hospital, $83,942 06. 

70. Eye and Ear Infirmary, $47,575 ^5- 

71. Ophthalmic and Aural Institute, 
$16,315 01. 

. 72. Manhattan Eye and Ear Hospital, 
$2,560. 

73. New York Stats Hospital for Dis- 
eases of the Nervous System, $8,000. 

74. Orthopedic Hospital, $5,000. 

75. Cancer Hospital, $1,287 24. 

76. Infirmary of the New York College 
of Dentistry, $3,500. 

77. Metropolitan Throat Hospital, $i,- 
736 60. 

78. West Side Throat Infirmary, $i,- 
103 80. 

V. SPECIAL INSTITUTIONS. 

In the education of the deaf and 
dumb and the blind it is of course 



280 



Private Charities and Public Money. 



necessary that religion should have 
as prominent a part as in the train- 
ing of children who are in posses- 
sion of all their faculties. Religion 
is an essential element, also, in the 
teaching of the insane and idiotic, 
a large proportion of those afflict- 
ed with mental disorders being 
quite capable of receiving instruc- 
tion in spiritual things. For all 
these classes of unfortunate per- 
sons there is only one small Catho- 
lic institution. (See No. 19.) 

79. The Institution for the Deaf 
and Dumb, Washington Heights, re- 
ceives free pupils from all parts of 
the State, and takes pay-pupils at 
the charge of $300 a year. It is 
entitled to draw from the public 
treasury $300 a year for each child 
committed to it by the State or 
county authorities. The city grant- 
ed the land which it formerly oc- 
cupied on Fiftieth Street and Fifth 
Avenue. The course of study, ac- 
cording to the last annual report 
(1878), does "not omit that religious 
instruction which, while entirely un- 
sectarian in its character, is yet ne- 
cessary to fit our pupils to embrace 
intelligently the various forms of 
faith which, however they may differ 
in details, unite in enjoining love 
and obedience to a common Father, 
and in most instances in fostering 
reliance upon a common Saviour." 
In November, 1878, the number of 
pupils was 485 ; only five were sup- 
ported at the cost of their friends. 
The institution received during 
the previous year $90,035 01 from 
the State comptroller, $20,384 70 
from the city of New York, $21,- 
216 98 from the other counties of 
this State, and $18,343 67 from the 
State of New Jersey ; total, $149,- 
980 36. Gross receipts from the 
city and State of New York (not 
including the counties) from 1847 
to 1877, $2,210,054 96. 



So. The Institution for the Im- 
proved Instruction of Deaf Mutes, 
founded in 1867, obtained from the 
city a grant of twelve lots of ground 
on Lexington Avenue, Sixty-sev- 
enth and Sixty-eighth Streets. It 
takes State and county pupils on 
the same terms as the preceding 
asylum. It has about 100 inmates. 
Gross receipts of money from the 
State and city, $139,180 71. 

8 1. The Church Mission to Deaf 
Mutes has a Home for Aged and In- 
firm persons of that class in East 
Thirteenth Street, with eight in- 
mates. It is a Protestant Episco- 
pal institution, of which Bishop 
Potter is president. Gross receipts 
of public money (1860-77), $3r 
340 28. 

82. The New York Institution for 
the' Blind, in Ninth Avenue, re- 
ceives both State and private pupils, 
and at the date of the last report 
"(1878) the number of inmates was 

200. No information is given 
about the character of the religious 
instruction. During the previous 
year the institution received $52,- 
643 49 from the State of New York, 
$7,283 82 from the State of New 
Jersey, $5.078 25 from the city of 
New York, and $1,921 50 from 
Kings and Queens counties ; total, 
$66,927 06. Gross receipts from 
the city and State of New York 
(1847-77), $1,052,798 06. Dona- 
tions to the amount of $8,250 have 
also been made by the city to grad- 
uates of this institution. 

The insane and idiotic poor sup- 
ported by the city are sent either 
to the municipal institutions on 
Randall's, Ward's, and Blackvvell's 
Islands, or the State institutions 
at Syracuse and Utica. Large 
sums have been appropriated to 
these asylums, but they do not 
come within the scope of this ar- 
ticle. 






Private Charities and Public Money. 



281 



VI. GENERAL RELIEF. 

83. The Ladies' Union Relief As- 
sociation, founded in 1848, has of 
late years paid particular attention 
to the visitation of soldiers' fami- 
lies. Gross receipts of public 
money, $80,807 06. 

84. The Ladies 1 Home Missionary 
Society of the Methodist Episcopal 
Church was organized " to sup- 
port one or more missionaries for 
this city, who shall be appointed in 
accordance with the requirements 
of the discipline of the Methodist 
Episcopal Church." After paying 
the allowance of the missionaries 
" the surplus funds are reserved for 
objects of benevolence," etc. The 
society supports the Five Points 
Mission-house, for children and 
others. Besides the allowances of 
$45,059 36 made to the Mission- 
house specifically, the society has 
received $42,856 14 ; total, $87,- 
915 50. (See Five Points Mission, 
No. 12.) 

85. The New York Prison Asso- 
ciation extends its operations over 
the whole State. It occupies itself 
with the reform of prison discipline 
and the support and encourage- 
ment of reformed convicts after 
their discharge. It has received 
from the city since 1847, besides 
the allowances from the State, 
$36,581 37- 

86. The United Hebrew Charities 
comprise a partnership of most of 
the principal Jewish benevolent as- 
sociations for co-operation in the 
relief of the poor of their own 
creed. They have received $24,- 
421. 

87. The Hebrew Benevolent Pud 
Association received $1,000 from 
the city in 1877. 

88. The Down-town Hebrew La- 
dies' Benevolent Society received 
$1,000 90 from the city in 1877. 



89. The Young Mens Christian 
Association received $5,000 from 
the city in 1867. 

90, 91, 92, 93. Relief for the 
Blind. The Blind Mechanics' As- 
sociation has received from the 
city and State $55,000 ; the Society 
for the Relief of the Indigent and 
Crippled Blind, $19,600; the So- 
ciety for the Relief of the Desti- 
tute Blind, $5,475 37; and the city 
has made donations to the blind 
amounting to $32,581 98. Total, 
$112,657 35. 

94. The Association for Improv- 
ing the Condition of the Poor, which 
aims at the moral instruction of the 
needy as well as their material wel- 
fare, has received $19,300. This 
organization founded the Chil- 
dren's Aid Society and the Juvenile 
Asylum, which are described else- 
where. 

95. St. Johns Guild, an associa- 
tion begun in 1866 under Protes- 
tant Episcopal auspices for the 
general relief of the poor, received 
$1,000 from the city in 1874, $21,- 
367 in 1876, and $15,000 in 1877 ; 
total, $37,367. The Society of St. 
Vincent de Paul, which is engaged 
in a similar work, and, according to 
the last report (1877), distributed 
nearly twice as much money to the 
poor as St. John's Guild did, re- 
ceived $1,000 in 1874, and has had 
nothing since then. 

96. The Female Assistance Society v 
an association for the relief of the 
sick poor, which meets in the lec- 
ture-room of the Reformed Church 
on Fifth Avenue and Twenty-ninth 
Street, has received $34,625. 

97. The American Seamen's 
friend Society, instituted "for the 
spiritual and temporal welfare of 
seamen," has received $6,007 21. 

98. The New York Seamen's So- 
ciety received $30,000 from the 
State in 1870, and $10,000 in 1872. 



282 



Private Charities and Public Money. 



99. The New York City Mission, 
in the Bible House, supports Pro- 
testant missionaries among the poor 
of the city, and -distributes money, 
food, and clothing incidentally to 
its religious work. It received 
$10,000 from the city in 1876. 

100. The German Mission receiv- 
ed $5,000 from the city in 1870 and 
$5,000 in 1871. There is a Ger- 
man Mission House in Pearl Street, 
and there is also a German Mis- 
sion connected with the Protestant 
Episcopal City Mission Society. 

101. The Dorcas Society, a Pro- 
testant Episcopal association for 
the relief of the poor, has received 

$5.500- 

102. The Protestant Episcopal 
Sisterhood of St. Mary received 
$8,500 from the city between 1869 
and 1874. 

103. The German Ladies' Aid So- 
ciety devotes itself to the relief of 
widows, orphans, and destitute siclc 
women of the German nationality. 
It received $5,000 from the State 
in 1871, and $8,334 from the city 
in 1876-7 ; total, $13,334. 

104. The Ladies' Society for the 
Support of Widows and Orphans (?) 
received $500 from the city in 
1874 and $3,272 90 in 1876; total, 
$3.772 90. 

In the list of societies which 
follow there are several which ap- 
parently are concerned only in the 
relief of material wants, and there 
are several concerning which we 
have little information. The fig- 
ures represent the gross receipts of 
public money up to the close of 
1877: 

105. Working-women's Protective Union, 
$300. 

106. Ladies' Protective Union, $200. 

107. Women's Educational and Indus- 
trial Society, $300. 

108. Ladies' Depository, $3,000. 

109. Ladies' Mission Society (?), f 1,000. 



no. Society for the Relief of Poor Wi- 
dows and Children (?), $500. 

in. New York Volunteer Association, 
$500. 

112. Free Training- School, $500. 

113. Woman's Aid Society for Training 
Young Girls, $5,250. 

114. Diet Kitchen, for supplying food 
to the sick poor at their own homes, 
$7,011 60. 

115. Colored Mission, "for the reli- 
gious, moral, and social elevation of the 
colored people," $1,132. 

116. Seventy-ninth Street Mission, $6co. 

117. The Harlem Missionary Associa- 
tion, $650. 

118. Guild of St. Ignatius (Protestant 
Episcopal), $400. 

119. Ladies Association of St. PauVs 
Evangelical Lutheran Church, $400. 

1 20. Seventeenth Ward Ragged Mission, 
$750. 

121. West Side Relief Association, $5,- 
550. 

122. Twelfth Ward West Side Relief 
Association, $1,000. 

123. Twenty-fourth Ward West Side 
Relief Association, $500. 

124. Rose Hill Ladies' Relief Associa- 
tion, $3,000. 

125. West Farms Ladies' Employment 
and Benevolent Association, $270. 

126. The Bread-and-Bcef Hotise, $2,- 
538. 

127. Free Dormitory for Women, $1,300. 

To this list may be added dona- 
tions to a number of charitable 
funds, like that for the widows and 
orphans of firemen, and also the 
following gifts to National Benevo- 
lent Associations, viz. : German So- 
ciety, $14,787 ; French Benevolent 
Society, $1,988; Swiss Benevolent 
Association, $900 ; Irish Aid Soci- 
ety, $300. 

And now for the lesson of this 
survey. It will be evident from 
the statistics and explanations giv- 
en in the preceding pages 

i. That the twenty Catholic in- 
stitutions aided by the city and 
State are devoted, without a single 
exception, to the relief of destitute 
persons who would be a burden 



Private Charities and Public Money. 



283 



upon the taxpayers or a danger to 
the community if private charity 
did not take care of them. 

2. That these Catholic institu- 
tions are vastly more extensive in 
their operations than any other es- 
tablishments of the* kind in the 
metropolis. 

3. That the allowances to these 
charities from the public treasury 
have not been proportionate to the 
allowances to Protestant institu- 
tions for an equivalent service. 

4. That all the large grants to Ca- 
tholiccharities the orphan asylums, 
Protectory, Foundling Asylum, etc. 
are made under a general system 
of law in the benefit of which Ca- 
tholic, Protestant, and Hebrew now 
share on exactly the same terms. 
Formerly there were discrimina- 
tions against the Catholics. 

5. That Catholic individual char- 
ity has borne by far the greater 
part of the burden of supporting 
these homes and asylums, so that 
the policy of the State in aiding 
and stimulating private benefac- 
tions has resulted in the saving of 
millions of dollars to the taxpayers. 

6. That the Catholic charities 
which ask help from the public 
treasury are occupied wholly in the 
care of the Catholic poor, and not 
at all in converting Protestants. 

On the other hand, it is evident 

7. That the majority of the one 
hundred and twenty-seven Protes- 
tant and other charities have receiv- 
ed payments from the public trea- 



sury far in excess of their proper 
share. 

8. That large sums have been 
granted to Protestant institutions 
which have no claim at all upon 
the taxpayers. 

9. That some of the Protestant 
charities under private management 
derive their entire revenue from 
the public treasury, whereas no 
Catholic institution has been thus 
favored. 

10. That all the institutions in 
which religious or moral influences 
can be exercised at all are " secta- 
rian " in the true sense of that 
word, many of them excluding Ca- 
tholicism by their rules, and near- 
ly all of them working against it in 
practice. 

1 1. That all denominations which 
maintain asylums, etc., for those of 
their own church are freely aided 
by the State and city, Methodists, 

'Episcopalians, etc., etc., getting at 
least as much consideration as 
Catholics. 

12. Finally, that a large number of 
the Protestant institutions are active- 
ly and primarily engaged in making 
wa.r upon the Catholic Church, using 
charity as an auxiliary to the work of 
proselytism, and especially stealing 
thousands of our Catholic children 
every year, so that the public 
money is used in their case to build 
up one creed at the expense of an- 
other. This is a charge which can 
be brought against no Catholic so- 
ciety. 



284 Holy Week in Rome. 



HOLY WEEK IN ROME. 

CHURCH OF TRINITA DEI MONTJ. 
I. 

HOLD thy deep breath, grand organ, here, 
While the roof darkens like a sky 9 

Black with the brooding thunder ! Near 
The altar let the glimmer die 

Of wavering candles, one by one; 

And leave one faithful lamp alone, 
Half hidden in the gloom profound 
A lamp of love unweary ! 

n. 

Bid time and space be cancelled here ! 

From Judah's ancient place of tombs 
The voice of her sublimest seer 

In hoary lamentation comes : 
In prophet-woes of Jeremiah, 
The after-wail for a Messiah 

The agony intoning clear 
And all the world is dreary. 



in. 



Christ's Passion Nature's horror see ! 

Yet faint not thou, O cordial spark ! 
Which on deserted Calvary 

Shows loving women, drenched in dark 
And drowned in tears. How black the sky ! 
And how that long, lone anguish-cry 

Blinds like the lightning ! Thrillingly 
Begins the Miserere. 



IV. 

Dies the lament into a moan, 

Half soars the chant, then quavers low ; 
Subdued to mournful monotone, 

Now music's mellowest surges flow, 
Where woman's facile sympathy 
Flow.s mingling. So the Marys by 

The cross wept and sepulchral stone 
O plaintive Miserere! 



Holy Week in Rome. 285 

v. 

Precious your grief, sweet chorister, 
Anointing thus the feet of Christ ! 
Weep amber, like the bird ; weep myrrh, 

Like dropping trees imparadised 
In Eastern air ; weep frankincense 
Thou couldst no balmier redolence 

Than those true tears to Heaven prefer ! 
Weep, moaning, Miserere ! 

VI. 

Moan no more Miserere lorn, 

Though the Lord Jes.us lieth cold, 
For he is man of woman born, 

And at his tomb the stone is rolled. 
Moan no more : he is God : the light 
Is dawning on the second night, 

Inaugural with the Easter morn 
Moan no more, Miserere ! 

9 

VII. 

Red lights on Roman armor play, 

Where, drenched in sleep, grim soldiers lie, 

Torch-fires affronting, as they sway, 
The one Star in the morning sky. 

Come women thither in the dawn, 

And, lo ! an angel throned thereon, 

The tomb's great stone is rolled away ! 
Moan no more, Miserere ! 

VIII. 

Whom here ye seek with weep and wail, 
Lo ! rent His shroud and void the prison. 

Unquenched from death, doth Love prevail 
Divinely, like yon Star arisen 

All-beautiful, and meek as brave. 

Last at the cross, first at the grave, 
The Saviour greets you with All Hail I 
Thrice Ave, Ave Mary ! 

IX. 

'Tis Easter Sabbath morning spring, 

And man's great hope is born in balm. 
Hosanna in the Highest ! sing; 

Sing, Hallelujah to the Lamb ! 
Falls on the shrine a beam divine 
From that far morn in Palestine, 

And whispers, 'mid all pomps of psalm. 
The Lord's own Ave Mary. 



286 



Neiv Publications. 



NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



LECTURES ON THE ORIGIN AND GROWTH 
OF RELIGION AS ILLUSTRATED BY THE 
RELIGIONS OF INDIA. Delivered in 
the chapel house, Westminster Abbey, 
in April, May, and June, 1878. By 
F. Max Miifler, M.A. New York : 
Charles Scribner's Sons. 1879. 
From the store-house of his branch of 
erudition Max Mttller has enriched the 
public with a new volume under the 
above title. The investigations of scho- 
lars in the Sanskrit, and their explana- 
tions of the religion contained in the books 
written in this language> are read with 
increasing interest by a large class of 
readers. This last volume from the pen 
of Max Miiller is broader in its scope 
and of more general interest than his 
Chips, and is valuable as a contribution 
towards what is much written about in 
our day, and is called " the science of 
religion." 

' Every scientific student in this de- 
partment of knowledge starts with a 
more or less explicit theory of religion, 
and if he could but keep his private 
opinions and speculations out of his 
scientific studies, science would be the 
gainer, and his readers also. Our au- 
thor keeps his theory considerably in 
the background, and allows it only here 
and there to be perceptible ; still it per- 
vades all his writings to such an extent 
that it seriously vitiates their scientific 
value. We are glad to note in these lec- 
tures a considerable improvement over 
some of the professor's former volumes. 
There is less of narrowness of view and 
bitterness of expression when matters 
are touched upon in connection with the 
historical Church of Christianity. Were 
Max Miiller to show as much fairness 
and appreciation of the Catholic Church 
and Catholics as he does of the Brah- 
manistic religion and the Brahmans, 
there would be on this point little ground 
for criticism or just complaint. Perhaps 
he would, if he were as well acquainted 
with the former as he is with the latter. 

The theory with which Max Miiller 
starts is, that religion springs from the 
apprehension of the infinite in the visi- 
ble creation. From a careful analysis 
of the development of this apprehension 
of the infinite as the origin of religion, 



he traces its historical development 
among the early Aryan settlers of India 
whose religion is contained in the Vedic 
literature, which antedates the advent of 
Christianity over one thousand years. 

The author at the outset discards the 
idea of a primitive revelation, and con- 
fines himself to the task of the natural 
genesis of religion from the psycholo- 
gical formula as above stated. In this 
consists the value of these lectures. As 
to the question of a primitive revelation, 
or as to Christianity as a supernaturally 
revealed religion, he is silent. But this 
silence is significant, for where he speaks 
of Christianity he evidently holds it, as 
all other religions, of a purely natural 
growth. Between Christianity and other 
religions it is not a question with the 
author of these lectures of difference in 
kind, but only one of degree. "It was 
exactly," he says, "because the doctrine 
of Christ, more than that of the founders 
of any other religion, offered in the be- 
ginning an expression of the highest 
truths in which Jewish carpenters, Ro- 
man publicans, and Greek philosophers 
could join without dishonesty, that it 
has conquered the best part of^the 
world " (pp. 358-9) 

This volume of lectures has a special 
interest and great value as a refutation 
of agnosticism, a species of intellectual 
know-nothingism, and Chauvinism, a 
cognate system, by showing the value of 
human nature as to the origin and devel- 
opment of natural religion. But it con- 
tains a deadly poison also, for its author 
professes " to say all he has to say with- 
out fear, without favor," while his whole 
argument conceals a premise which no- 
where is expressed in his volume, and 
this premise is one which leads to pure 
and simple rationalism. That latent 
premise expressed is as follows : the 
natural relations existing between the 
infinite and the finite are all-sufficient 
for man to attain the end for which he 
exists. If this be so, the rationalistic 
conclusion must follow that the Incar- 
nation with all the doctrines which flow 
from it are fictions, the Christian faith a 
superstition, and, the worship of Christ a 
form of idolatry. 

M. Le Page Renouf will follow Profes- 



New Publications. 



28 7 



sor Max Miilier in this course of lectures 
on "the various historical religions of 
the world," and his subject will be " The 
Religions of Egypt." The reputation of 
M. Renouf as an Egyptologist leads us 
to anticipate a volume of great interest. 

MONTH OF MAY ; or, A Series of Medita- 
tions on the Mysteries of the Life of 
the Blessed Virgin, and the Principal 
Truths of Salvation, for each day of the 
Month of Mary. From the French of 
Father Debussi, S.J. Translated by 
Miss Ella McMahon, and revised by 
a member of the Society of Jesus. 
New York : The Catholic Publication 
Society Co. 1879; 

The plan of this little book is arranged 
so as to give for ea'ch day of the month a 
short spiritual reading on some point 
connected with the privileges and of- 
fices of the Blessed Virgin, followed by 
a meditation on one of a series of topics 
belonging to the order followed in a 
spiritual retreat, concluding with an in- 
teresting and appropriate example of 
the narrative kind. It is thus made very 
practical, and also presents an agreeable 
variety. There is a great deal of so- 
lid instruction in the readings, giving 
wholesome and pleasant nutriment to 
the mind, soundly theological and pre- 
pared with care and thought, yet in a 
simple and easy style. We recommend 
the little book as a most suitable com- 
panion for any devout client of Our Bless- 
ed Lady who wishes to devote a short 
time every day during her month to pro- 
fitable spiritual exercises. 

THE CHRISTIAN LIFE AND VIRTUES CON- 
SIDERED IN THE RELIGIOUS STATE. By 
Mgr. Charles Gay, Coadjutor to the 
Bishop of Poictiers. Translated from 
the sixth French edition by the Right 
Rev. Abbot Burder. Vols. I. II. Lon- 
don: Burns & Gates. 1878. 

The title of this work points out its 
subject. It treats of the Christian life 
and virtues. The Christian life is that 
excellent life which, having God for its 
model and principle, becomes in Jesus 
Christ and by Jesus Christ the rule of 
human life. The virtues cannot be sepa- 
rated from this life ; they are its natural 
outcome and the indispensable mark of 
its existence. The Christian life and 
virtues are, briefly, what the Gospel calls 
" the one thing necessary" There is no 



subject more worthy than this of the at- 
tention of mankind. They are consid- 
ered by the author in their most perfect 
ideal, the religious state. But the work 
is not intended exclusively for religious ; 
it is of wider usefulness. It should be 
useful to priests, not only for their own 
sanctification, but also to assist them in 
the study of the religious life and in the 
direction of souls. Moreover, it will do 
good to every person who has the habit 
of, and relish for, piety ; to everyone who 
is attracted to the interior life ; to all 
who wish to know and seriously prac- 
tise the Christian virtues. It is a sort of 
"itinerary of the soul to God" fitted to 
our age. In the words of Mgr. Mer- 
millod, Vicar-Apostolic of Geneva, " It 
takes its place among those works which 
are the tradition, the life, and the glory 
of the church, and contains doctrinam 
sanam, scientiam veram, consilium rec- 
tum" 

Dogmatic theology is throughout the 
foundation of the work. In many spiri- 
tual works of the French school espe- 
cially dogmatic theology has been too 
much separated from mystical theology. 
This is a detriment both to the book 
and to the student. Mystical theology 
is only the fruit, and can be nothing 
else ; dogmatic theology is the natural 
and indispensable sap. After the Sacred 
Scripture, St. Thomas Aquinas and other 
masters of the sacred science are also mas- 
ters of the spiritual life. This work is 
founded on dogmatic theology, especial- 
ly on the treatise De Incarnatione. Jesus 
Christ is the Alpha and the Omega of 
all the relations of the creature to the 
Creator ; he is that " light that enlight- 
eneth every man that ccmeth into this 
world." Every moral truth, every lesson 
of asceticism, every counsel of perfection 
explained in this work is pictured as a 
gleam of that Light and relieved by its 
radiance. 

To enter into a fuller appreciation 
would be to write an article. We must 
recommend our readers to the work it- 
self. Approbations are not wanting. 
Mgr. Gay's work has been honored 
by a brief from Pius IX. "We con- 
gratulate you," says the Holy Father, 
" on having the secret of expounding 
Catholic doctrines, even of the most ex- 
alted kind, with so much clearness and 
in such a pleasing style that they be- 
come a powerful attraction and a true 
focus of piety.' ; Over twelve bishops of 



288 



New Publications. 



the hierarchy of France join the Holy 
Father in praise of the book. Mgr. Gay 
has the talent of saying things, if not 
" nova" at least " nove." His thoughts 
are always fresh, his diction vigorous, 
at times reaching the heights of elo- 
quence. Best of all in a modern spiri- 
tual writer, he is not commonplace. He 
has that holy horror which made Lacor- 
daire exclaim in the pulpit of Notre 
Dame : " Par la grace de Dieu je ha'is les 
lieux commtins" So many modern wri- 
ters on spiritualit}*- give us merely na- 
tural ethics with a thin varnish of senti- 
mental devotion. Nothing of this kind 
will be found in Mgr. Gay's Christian 
Life and Virtues. The translation is 
well done ; the clearness and elegance 
of the original seem to have been pre- 
served. The style is English. The first 
volume has already been noticed in THE 
CATHOLIC WORLD. We believe that a 
third volume is yet to appear. 

ST. PAUL AT ATHENS : Spiritual Chris- 
tianity in relation to some Aspects 
of Modern Thought. Nine sermons 
preached in St. Stephen's Church, 
Westbourne Park, by Charles Shak- 
speare, B.A., Assistant Curate. With 
a preface by the Rev. Canon Farrar, 
D.D. New York : Charles Scribner's 
Sons. 

The author of these sermons has set 
out to "-show that the Socratic and Pla- 
tonic, as well as the Hebrew and Chris- 
tian, faith requires another and a higher 
view of the world and of man, and that 
the idea of a living God would be found 
to harmonize, when allowance is made 
for the necessary limits of our faculties, 
witlr the teaching of experience, if ex- 
perience be understood to include spirit- 
ual experience." Again, he says in his 
introduction: "The fundamental idea of 
the sermons is, that the very existence 
of the spiritual faculty in man, so persis- 
tent and so vigorous, is ground of faith 
in asupersensuous reality corresponding 
to this faculty and creating it." 

It is gratifying to see Protestant 
clergymen making an effort to meet and 
counteract the prevalent modes of agnos- 
tic thought which perplex half-educated 
minds. Mr. Shakspeare has made this 
effort, and in his fundamental idea laid 



down the principles for removing these 
perplexities and refuting agnosticism. 
It is, therefore, with no little interest we 
read his volume of sermons, hoping to 
see displayed in them a masterly grasp 
as well as a logical application of his 
fundamental idea to the subject in hand. 

If it be a law. of all thought, as he af- 
firms, and we concur in his assertion, 
that there is a reality which corresponds 
to the exercise of every faculty, he no- 
where makes this plain, and nowhere 
drives home the argument to be deriv- 
ed from it in refutation of the Agnos- 
tics. He repeats the statement, and 
contents himself with its repetition, 
where one looks for logical exposition 
and demonstration. . It is no; improba- 
ble that Mr. Shakspeare was not aware of 
the value and power of the great truth 
which he affirms ; for in the very state- 
ment of it he makes what appears to us 
a palpable blunder. How can a reality 
corresponding to a faculty create the 
faculty? Knowledge is born of the 
knower, the thing known, and their re- 
lation. This is elementary, and the uni- 
versal law of all thought and of all life. 
His error is as great in exaggerating the 
side of the objectivity of knowledge as 
that of the German philosophers, who err 
on the other side, of its subjectivity. They 
are both equally as far as east is from 
west asunder from the real synthesis of 
real thought, of truth. 

The author of these sermons seems not 
to be aware of the value of his own wea- 
pons. He skirmishes when he should 
join battle, and rests in the encounter 
when there is an opportunity of giving a 
deadly thrust to error. 

Canon Farrar says in his introduc- 
tion : " The subjects with which the au- 
thor of the sermons is dealing are far too 
solemn to admit of their being made 
turbid by the wretched pettiness of party 
controversy." This is wisely said, and 
the author would have acted wisely had 
he kept altogether free from displaying 
the spirit of a partisan. There are seve- 
ral passages, however, of this character 
which we have noted. 

Mr. Shakspeare's reading in theology is 
extensive on one side ; his effort in these 
sermons is in the right direction, and 
they are creditable, and show more than 
common eloquence. 



THE 



CATHOLIC WORLD 



VOL. XXIX., No. 171. JUNE, 1879. 



DANTE'S PURGATORIO. 

TRANSLATED BY T. W PARSONS. 

[NOTE. This Tenth Canto was translated in London several years ago, and left in 
the hands of a few scholars for the benefit of their criticism. Owing to some delay in 
the transmission of the copy to this country, a break occurred, and the Eleventh 
Canto was published instead of this. To atone for many letters of acknowledg- 
ment still due to his friends, the translator would here express his thanks. Some 
private persons he may not be permitted to name ; but of that circle who have 
taken a genuine interest in his work, and to whom he feels especially indebted, he 
will venture to speak of Sir Frederick Pollock, himself a very successful translator 
of Dante ; also, of Aubrey de Vere, of Mr. Gladstone, of Lord Vernon, of Mr. 
Hazelfoot, and Sir James Lacaita ; and in Italy, Prof. Maggi, of Milan, and Mi- 
chelangelo Caetani, Duke of Sermoneta. He cannot forbear to add to these the be- 
loved name of Sister Clare Austin, who, in the stillness of her Priory, may never 
know of this mention. T. W. P.] 

CANTO TENTH. 

WHEN we had crossed the threshold of the gate 
Which from the bad love sets the spirits free, 

Bad for it makes the crooked way seem straight, 
I heard it closed : had I turned round to see, 

What fit excuse had been for fault so great ? 
We climbed up thro' the cloven rock whose face 

Went in and out like waves that come and go : 
" Here must a little art direct our pace," 

My Guide began, " in winding onward so 
-^ As where the crag recedeth to find place." 

This made our footsteps few and passage slow, 

And ere that needle's eye we had passed through 
The waning moon had sunk again to rest; 

But when free forth we had an open view 
Up where no fissure mars the mountain's breast, 

I wearied out, both doubtful of our path, 
We stopped upon the level of a ledge 

COPYRIGHT : REV. I. T. HF.CKER. 1879. . 



290 Dante s Purgatorio. 

Lonelier than roads through deserts. This plain hath 
From the steep hillside to its outer edge, 

That borders on void space, a breadth as wide 
As thrice the measure of a human frame : 

Right hand and left, far as mine eye descried, 
Tin's cornice in its breadth appeared the same. 

Thereon our feet along the mountain-side 
Had not advanced a step before I found 

Ascent impossible : it was a shelf 
Walled with white marble and so sculptured round 

That Polycrete, yea, nature's very self, 
Had there been shamed. 



There lighted on the ground 

The Angel stood who brought down the decree 
Of that dear peace which men had wept for long, 

And heaven from its old interdict set free, 
So truly cut that it had seemed a wrong 

To think that sweet look but a silent stone. 
One would have sworn that it said " Ave !" She 

Was also imaged there, the blessed one, 
Who to the Love Divine did turn the key. 

And in her act distinctly was revealed 
This word : " Behold the handmaid of the Lord !" 

Plain as a figure that in wax is sealed. 
Let not thy mind one only place record," 

Said my sweet Master, who upon that side 
Where men their heart have still was keeping me, 

Therefore I turned my visage and espied 
Behind the Mary, and beyond where He 

Was standing at whose word I turned mine eye, 
Another story carved upon the stone ; 

So I came near it, passing Virgil by, 
To where the figure might be plainly shown. 

In the same marble there was graved the car 
And oxen carrying the sacred ark, 

Whence men should of offlcioiisness beware ! 
In front the people all, as I could mark, 

Ranged in seven choirs. While one sense told me No, 
The other said Yes, I perceive they sing. 

And in like manner at the imaged flow 
Of curling incense did a discord spring 

Betwixt my sight and smell of yes and no. 
Before that blessed vessel, there, was seen 

The Psalmist dancing, humbled of his state, 
And more than king seemed less than king in mien. 

Over against him, gazing from the grate 
Of a proud palace, like a woman vext 

Looking disdainful, Michal's figure shone. 



Dante s Pur gator io.. 291 

I moved my place to mark what story next 

Gleamed behind Michal whitely from the stone. 



Here grav'n the lofty glory I admired 

Of that high Roman prince whose virtues meek 
To his great victory Gregory inspired; 

Trajan, the emperor, of him I speak ; 
And a poor widow full of grief, all tears, 

Trembled beside him at his bridle's head. 
The place looked trampled, thronged with cavaliers ; 

The golden eagles over him outspread 
Moved in the wind : and she amid the train, 

That wretched woman, looked as though she said, 
4< My lord! revenge my grief my sweet son slain !" 

He seemed as answering, " My return abide." 
4 My lord," like one whose wrong brooks no delay, 

" If thou return not ?" seemed as she replied. 
And he, " The one succeeding to my throne 

Will do thee right." " What profit unto thee 
His doing well, if thou forget thine own ?" 

Whereto in this form seemed as answering he : 
< Now comfort thee ! this duty I will end 

Ere I go hence. Pity doth plead with me 
To stay, and Justice wills that I attend." 

He unto whom naught can be new or strange 
Made visible this language I have penned, 

Novel to us, because beyond our range. 
While on these figures with delight I pored, 

Which of such lowliness the story told, 
And for their Sculptor's sake the more adored, 

The Poet murmured in mine ear, " Behold ! 
This way a crowd seems creeping : they might guide 

Our footsteps to the cornices above." 
iMine eyes, that had been wholly satisfied 

With those new things to look on which they love, 
At these words were not slow to turn aside. 



Reader, I would not have thee shrink dismayed 
From thy good purpose, hearing of the doom 

By which God wills our penance must be paid. 
Heed not its form : think on what is to come ! 

At worst, consider, it could not endure 
Beyond the judgment. " Master," I began, 

" My sight so fails me that I am not sure 
What shapes are coming; they seem unlike man." 

"Their torments' heaviness doth crush them down," 
He answered me, " that even to my sight 

Their shape at first was indistinctly shown. 



292 Some Specimen Educators. 

But fix thy gaze, to disentangle quite 

What creatures come, under those loads of stone 
Now mayst thou mark the pangs of every wight." 

O ye proud Christians ! weary, wo-begone ! 
Who with a mental vision most infirm 

Go confident with steps that go not on ! 
Perceive ye not that man is but a worm, 

Born to produce the angelic butterfly 
That with no screening shall to Justice fleet ? 

For what should human spirit mount so high ? 
Ye are as winged creatures, incomplete, 

Even as the worm is, not formed perfectly. 
As in the bracket's place one often sees 

Figures by which the ceiling is sustained, 
Crouching, with bosom doubled to the knees, 

Whence unfeigned pity for a posture feigned 
Moves the beholder's mind, so bending, these 

Figures appeared as I perused them o'er. 
They came, in truth, contracted more and less 

According to the burden each one bore : 
And he whose face most patience did express 

Seemed to say, weeping : " I can bear no more !" 



SOME SPECIMEN EDUCATORS. 

WHILE sojourning in England I can, a nondescript, and two Non- 
had occasion to be brought into conformists, one of whom was in 
personal contact, in some instan- favor of religious instruction, while 
ces into intimate relations, with the other had a somewhat strong 
statesmen and clergymen deeply leaning toward secularism. Dur- 
interested in the subject of edu- ing the period to which I refer the 
cation primary, secondary, and whole controversy concerning the 
university education. Among reconstruction of the system of 
these were Monsignor Capel, the primary education in England was 
Right Hon. Robert Lowe, Arch- fought out, and the present plan 
deacon Denison, Mr. Fawcett, was incorporated in the legislation 
M.P., Mr. Forster, M.P., and of the kingdom. The instigators 
Mr. George Potter, member of of the agitation which led to this 
the School Board of London, end were the Nonconformists that 
who is not yet an M.P., but is, the various Protestant sects out- 
who has very faithfully and per- side of the Established Church 
sistently tried to be one. The and the secularists. The first 
reader will see that this list com- wished that the primary education 
prises a representative Catholic, a of the children should be taken 
secularist, a High-Church Angli- out of the hands of the clergy of 



Some Specimen Educators. 



2 93 



the Establishment, and that they 
should receive what is spmetimes 
called " undenominational educa- 
tion" and sometimes ll evangelical 
instruction"; the latter desired 
that primary as well as secondary 
and university education should 
be wholly secular. So strong, how- 
ever, was the foothold which the 
Established Church had acquired 
in the educational field, especially 
in the rural districts, that for a 
while the Nonconformists and secu- 
larists joined their forces and 
made common cause against the 
Establishment. The basis of this 
agreement was one that will ever 
remain as an indelible stigma up- 
on the Nonconformists; for so anx- 
ious were they that the chil- 
dren of the kingdom should not 
receive such religious instruction 
as the Church of England would 
give them that they were willing 
and anxious they should receive 
no religious instruction at all. As 
it was once forcibly said by a 
spectator of the contest, " Rather 
than a child should be taught 
about God as the Established 
Church understands him, they pre- 
fer he should not be taught about 
him at all ; rather than a child 
should read the Bible under the 
direction and with the explana- 
tions of a teacher belonging to the 
Establishment, they prefer that he 
should not read the Bible at all." 
This surrender of the Nonconform- 
ists to the secularists would have 
been complete had it not been for 
the bold and manly stand taken by 
Mr. Forster, who, although a Non- 
conformist, is a Christian, and who, 
despite the fervid denunciations of 
nearly all the Baptist, Methodist, 
Presbyterian, Congregational, Uni- 
tarian, Wesleyan, Quaker, and 
other sectarian preachers and pa- 
pers in the country, insisted on 



incorporating into the new edu- 
cation act provisions which make 
it at least possible that even in the 
board schools the children may 
learn something about God, and 
which enable the denominational 
schools to continue their existence 
and their work under not wholly 
unfavorable conditions. During 
the struggle the position of the 
Catholics in England was a some- 
what peculiar and difficult one. 
The denominational schools of the 
Establishment were anti-Catholic 
in the sense that they taught Pro- 
testantism ; the proposed secular 
schools were anti-Catholic in the 
sense that they would be whol- 
ly godless. The whole system of 
"conscience-clauses" separate 
hours or half-hours when the name 
of God might be mentioned, and 
other hours when his very exist- 
ence must be ignored was abhor- 
rent to the Catholic mind. But 
any form of Christian education is 
better than atheism and secular- 
ism, and the Catholics, in and out 
of Parliament, supported the mea- 
sures which tended most to the re- 
tention and extension of religious 
education in the primary schools. 
Under the new law they have a 
tolerably fair field. The principle 
of payment by results is recogniz- 
ed. The Catholic schools, like the 
others, are visited by government 
inspectors, and, in proportion to the 
number of their scholars and their 
proficiency in the studies fixed by 
the law, they receive their share of 
the money voted for educational 
purposes by Parliament. It is sat- 
isfactory to know that the inspec- 
tors, who are often by no means 
prejudiced in favor of these schools, 
give good accounts of their effi- 
ciency and management. 

Mgr. Capel has devoted a large . 
share of his life to the promotion^ 



294 



Some Specimen Educators. 



of Catholic education in England. 
It was his incessant and engrossing 
labors in the training-school at 
Hammersmith many years ago 
that broke down his health and 
caused him to be sent away to Pau 
to die. He agreeably disappointed 
every one by living. He not only 
recovered his former health, but 
acquired a robust vigor which en- 
abled him to undertake and carry 
out extraordinary labors. It is now 
reported that the scheme for the 
establishment of a great Catholic 
university in London, of which he 
was the originator and which was 
very near his heart, has not been 
successful. Its miscarriage if it 
has miscarried could not have 
been due to any lack of zeal on 
Mgr. Capel's part. It is now 
almost exactly five years since he 
first unfolded to me his plans con- 
cerning this great work. How 
vividly the recollection of our con- 
versations concerning it come back 
tome! Mgr. Capel lived at this 
time in the house which had been 
purchased for him in Wright's 
Lane, Kensington. It had former- 
ly belonged to, or had been occu- 
pied by, Mr. Sothern, the actor; 
and the rooms which not long be- 
fore had rung with the boisterous 
merriment of Lord Dundreary and 
his comrades now echoed with very 
different sounds. Not that there 
was any lack of mirth and good 
company. On the contrary, Mgr. 
Capel's house was one of the most 
pleasant in all London. At the re- 
pasts which, by reason of the early 
hour at which they were given, he 
called " luncheons," but which in 
fact were his dinners, one was quite 
certain to find some of the most 
brilliant and distinguished people. 
His private means were sufficient 
to enable him to maintain an es- 
tablishment which was worthy of 



his rank without being at all osten- 
tatious. The house is spacious \ 
what wa's the billiard-room has 
been converted into an exquisite 
little chapel ; the general reception- 
room, the dining-room, and the 
library and working-room all "nave 
windows looking out upon a beauti- 
ful miniature park, about an acre 
in extent, belonging to the house. 
The house is full of fine paintings, 
and the library is exceptionally rich 
in works of value and rarity. I re- 
member with a certain sense of 
mixed mortification and amusement 
an incident which occurred at one 
of the " luncheons." I had obtain- 
ed permission to present two 
Americans, both of them journalists* 
and one of them a very widely 
known and highly esteemed editor. 
All went well during the dinner; 
and when the coffee came monsig- 
nor arose and took from a cabinet 
a box of cigars, which he placed 
upon the table. " I do not smoke," 
said he, " and I can say nothing as 
to the merits of these cigars from 
personal knowledge. But they 

were brought to me by Sefior , 

of Cuba, and he said I might offer 
them without fear to my friends. 
Pray try them." The cigars were 
most excellent. They were of a 
peculiarly rare and costly brand, 
and their fragrance soon filled the 
room with delicious perfume. But 
what was my horror when, as we 
were about to rise from the table, 
one of my American friends drew 
from his pocket an immense but 
empty cigar-case, and reached out 
his large hand for the box. " Mon- 
signor," said he, " these are the 
best cigars I have ever smoked ; 
with your leave I'll take some of 
'em home to America to show my 
friends and to keep as mementoes 
of my visit to Mgr. Capel." With 
these words he filled his capacious 






Some Specimen Educators. 



295 



case, while monsignor, after casting 
a comical glance at me, assisted 
him in his task, and urged him, 
when the case was filled, to stuff 
one or two more into his pocket 
an invitation that was not disre- 
garded. 

This was all comical enough, al- 
though extremely mortifying to me. 
But the work in Mgr. Capel's house 
was anything but comical. Some 
of it was most serious. I remem- 
ber the morning when he told me 
that he thought he should have to 
give his house a new name, and 
call it "The Convert's Home." 
For many years past there has pro- 
bably not been a week certainly 
not a month in which one or more 
clergymen of the Established Church 
have not become Catholics. In the 
rare cases where these converts 
were widowers, or men who had 
never married, their path was open 
before them. They could enter as 
novices one of the religious or- 
ders, or otherwise prepare them- 
selves for admission to the priest- 
hood. But the majority of them 
were married men ; and their con- 
version not only compelled them to 
resign the comfortable livings which 
they enjoyed as ministers of the 
Establishment, but barred them out 
from almost every occupation save 
that. of teaching in Catholic schools 
or as private tutors in Catholic 
families. Many of] these cases 
were attended with peculiarly dis- 
tressing surroundings ; and Mgr. 
Capel has a tender heart. In his 
house many a convert whose con- 
version had cost him all he pos- 
sessed on earth found at least a 
temporary home. Here were Ox- 
ford men, Cambridge men, splen- 
didly educated, quite capable of 
teaching, and having nothing to do. 
The idea of founding in London 
the nucleus of what in time should 



become a great Catholic universi- 
ty had long been cherished by 
Mgr. Capel, and his constant asso- 
ciation with these men urged him 
on to what may have been precipi- 
tate action. But his plans seemed 
to be feasible, and even wise. The 
university was to begin with one 
modest college, and this was to be 
planted upon grounds adjacent to 
other properties which were held 
on such terms that as the leases of 
the individual owners fell in the fee 
simple of the property could be ac- 
quired by the university corpora- 
tion, and room for additional col- 
leges thus acquired. I am by no 
means satisfied that the idea was 
not a thoroughly sound and practi- 
cal one. It may yet be carried out; 
and if it is London will have much 
for which to thank Mgr. Capel. 
But he intended to move slowly. 

As I turn over the papers relat- 
ing to this matter which I have 
preserved, the whole memory of its 
history is revived. On the pth of 
May, 1874, Archbishop Manning 
issued a circular letter in his own 
name and in that of the bishops of 
England, giving the result of their 
deliberations upon this subject. It 
set forth that the Fourth Provin- 
cial Council of Westminster had 
already made known " that the 
growth of the middle and upper 
classes of our laity, and the open- 
ing of the career of professional 
and public service, render it neces- 
sary to lay at least the foundation 
of a system of higher studies"; 
and it added that " the develop- 
ment of such a system will, they 
trust, under God, be gradually 
made hereafter as the growing 
needs of our Catholic laity de- 
mand." The Pope had not merely 
encouraged but had directed the 
bishops to begin the work, and 
had assured them that the powers 



296 



Some Specimen Educators. 



necessary for its guidance and ac- 
complishment would be granted. 
They therefore formed an Academi- 
cal Senate, composed of clergy and 
laity selected from the whole of 
England. The senate was com- 
posed of seventeen ecclesiastics 
and thirty-six laymen. Among the 
former were Mgr. Capel, the pres- 
ident-general of the Benedictines, 
the provincials of the Jesuits and 
Dominicans, the provincial of the 
Order of Charity, and the presi- 
dents of the Catholic colleges at 
Ushaw, Ware, Oscott, Prior Park, 
and Stonyhurst. The lay mem- 
bers of the senate were a brilliant 
company' the Duke of Norfolk 
leading the list, and the names of 
Bute, Denbigh, Stourton, Petre, 
Arundell, Clifford, Howard, Gerard, 
Bowyer, and De Trafford following, 
while untitled but eminent and dis- 
tinguished men made up the tale. 
There were representatives of the 
army, the navy, the law, medicine, 
and the sciences. I find among 
my papers a manuscript copy of the 
" Propositions to be submitted to 
the senate of the College for High- 
er Studies, convoked May 21, 1874, 
at the Archbishop's House, West- 
minster." Mgr. Capel gave it me 
some days before the senate met. 
It is prefaced by a pen-and-ink 
sketch of the first building for the 
college, and of the little chapel 
that was to be attached to it. The 
following extracts show the scope 
of the propositions ' 

The object of this foundation being to 
complete the education of our Catholic 
young men and to fit them for certain 
professions, it is proposed 

1. That the usual age of admission 
shall be seventeen, and that the college 
course shall extend over a period of four 
years. 

2. That an entrance examination shall 
be passed by every student prior to his 
admission. (Candidates for admission 



may live or read with a private tutor, 
but will not be regarded as students of 
the college till they have passed the en- 
trance examination.) 

3. That the teaching staff shall be of 
such nature, and the curriculum of studies 
so ordered, as to allow of young men be- 
ing efficiently prepared for the law, army, 
and civil service. 

I. Studies. While giving special care 
and attention to science and mathema- 
tics, yet the study of literature will hold 
the prominent place. 

It is proposed to establish at once the 
following chairs : 

1. Religious knowledge : (a) of popu- 
lar dogmatic theology ; (V) of natural 
theology; (c) of Scripture and church his- 
tory. 

2. Philosophy. 

3. Literature : (a) Greek, () Latin, (c) 
English, (d) French, (e) German. 

4. History : (a) ancient, (b) modern, 
and geography. 

5. Philosophy of History. 

6. Law : (a) Roman, (b) constitutional 
history. 

7. Mathematics. 

8. Science : (a) geology, (b~) astrono- 
my, (i) chemistry, (d) natural philoso- 
phy. 

9. Fine Arts. 

II. The Teaching Staff. It is propos- 
ed to have 

1. Professors who will give courses of 
lectures. ' 

2. Tutors on whom will devolve the 
daily teaching. 

3. Private tu ors to give individual 
care to those who are backward or who 
are preparing for special examinations. 

Discipline. As the candidates must 
produce certificates of good conduct both 
from their former masters and from their 
parish priests, and will already have re- 
ceived steady religious training, it may 
be confidently expected that by regularity 
in receiving the sacraments and by the 
practice of religious exercises they will 
grow up worthy Catholics. Yet, in or- 
der to give every reasonable assistance 
in a matter of such grave importance, it 
is proposed 

1. That the houses of residence 
shall as much as possible be small 
homes, with not more than twelve stu- 
dents in each, and that a resident tutor, 
clerical or lay, shall be at the head of 
every house. 

2. That all freshmen shall spend the 






Some Specimen Educators. 



297 



first two years of their course in one of 
these houses of residence ; that after the 
expiration of that time they may, if their 
conduct has been satisfactory, go to one 
of the lodging houses approved by the 
college authorities. 

3. That during college terms no stu- 
dent shall be permitted to go to theatres, 
concerts, balls, etc., which involve ab- 
sence from the houses of re-idence dur- 
ing the evening. 

The property adjacent to Mgr. 
Capel's own residence in Kensing- 
ton, which was designed for the 
nucleus of the new university, was 
purchased, and the only building 
upon it was converted into an edi- 
fice which, without being imposing 
in appearance, was spacious enough 
and convenient enough for the be- 
ginning of the work. 

The announcement of the inten- 
tion to begin in the metropolis the 
work of building up a great Catho- 
lic university excited at first the 
ridicule and then the denunciation 
of a certain portion of the non-Ca- 
tholic and Protestant press. Ere 
long the columns of the Times were 
freighted with letters respecting 
the proposed institution, some of 
which were written by men promi- 
nent in non-Catholic scientific 
and Protestant theological circles. 
These writers asked how it would 
be possible for an institution found- 
ed by the direct authority of the 
Pope acting through his servants, 
the bishops of England, and bound 
by " all the limitations of the Syl- 
labus " and of " the cast-iron dog- 
matism " of Roman Catholic theo- 
logy, to keep abreast with the science 
of the day as taught in Oxford and 
Cambridge, or in the other non- 
Catholic institutions of England 
and the Continent? The replies 
made by Mgr. Capel and by some 
of the professors of the new college 
were prompt and bold. St. George 
Mivart, in his letter to the Times 



upon this subject, remarked that 
he would never condescend to keep 
any post in which he was not able 
to teach all the scientific truth he 
knew. " My lectures," he added, 
" will be absolutely the same in 
Kensington as if I gave them in 
Govver Street, but in no institution 
would they be made the vehicle of 
insinuating a realistic or idealistic 
philosophy which I do not accept 
and which would be foreign to my 
subject. I am aware of no theolo- 
gical problem which I am not pre- 
pared to represent, when occasion 
requires, with all the just impartial- 
ity in my power. My personal 
knowledge of the authorities of the 
new institution causes me to smile 
at the idea that any such scientific 
suppression or mutilation as the 
article in the Times suggests could 
be required of me." In due time 
the staff of the college was filled up, 
and the institution was opened by 
a solemn religious service, in which 
Cardinal Manning bore a conspicu- 
ous part. When I last visited it, it 
was in what I took to be the full 
tide of success, and I well remem- 
ber the enthusiasm with which Mgr. 
Capel pointed out to me the suc- 
cessive steps through which, as he 
believed, the college would come 
to be a great university. There 
are vague newspaper reports at 
present to the effect that the new 
college has not prospered, and that 
its affairs are in financial disorder. 
Of the truth of these reports I know 
nothing; but of the hard efforts for 
its success on the part of Mgr. Ca- 
pel, and of his full belief in the ne- 
cessity and final success of the uni- 
versity, I know much. And he 
certainly had been able to convince 
the archbishop and the suffragans 
that it was incumbent upon them 
to aid in the work. Pius IX. sent 
a special brief authorizing the work 



298 



Some Specimen Educators. 



and commending it to the prayers 
and the aid of the hierarchy, the 
priests, and the people. 

Let me no\v turn to my typical 
rnan of the High Anglican school 
high, very high, but anything but 
dry the Very Rev. Archdeacon 
Denison. I have never been quite 
able to make up my mind why Mr. 
Denison had not long ago become 
a Roman Catholic priest. Perhaps 
he was influenced by family ties ; 
perhaps by pride of place, for in 
East Brent, his parish, he rules 
with an autocratic and undisputed 
sway. Perhaps it is because he is 
more fond of ruling than of obey- 
ing that he has not submitted to 
the authority of the church whose 
credo is his own, even, I think, so 
far as to the official infallibility of 
the pope and the immaculate con- 
ception of the Blessed Virgin. I 
am, however, not wholly satisfied 
of this. It is quite certain that 
there is not a Catholic bishop in 
the world who would endure for a 
single day the insolent insubordi- 
nation with which Archdeacon 
Denison habitually and ostenta- 
tiously treats the authorities of his 
church. I ventured to remark to 
him one day when visiting him at 
East Brent that probably if he 
could be pope he would become a 
Catholic. The suggestion did not 
displease him. I have rarely met 
a man who was so confident of his 
own personal infallibility, and so 
well assured of his entire capability 
of managing any and every thing. 
It is scarcely doubtful whether, 
like Lord John Russell, he would 
hesitate to take command of the 
English fleet in the British Chan- 
nel at twenty-four hours' notice. 
But the utter scorn and contempt 
with which he regards his own bi- 
shops, and the coolness wherewith 
he defies their injunctions and ridi- 



cules their half-hearted and double- 
faced opinions, is almost amusing. 
It was pleasant to visit him at his 
delightful home in East Brent, 
where, as I have said, he ruled as 
temporal and spiritual autocrat, 
and where all feared and many 
loved and revered him. " What 
are the duties of an archdeacon ?" 
some one asked of Dean Swift. 
" To discharge archdiaconical func- 
tions," replied the dean. But 
Archdeacon Denison has for many 
years given proof that archdiaconi- 
cal functions in his case were some- 
thing more than a mere name. He 
attends to everything in his parish; 
and just as a certain doorkeeper in 
the House of Representatives once 
wrote to his friends at home that 
he war, "a biger man than old 
Grant," so does Archdeacon Den- 
ison believe himself, in his own 
parish at least, to be a " biger 
man " than the amiable but weak 
old gentleman who is called the 
Archbishop of Canterbury. A very 
good idea of the man will be given 
by the following extracts from a 
letter which he wrote me more 
than three years ago, in response 
to a note in which I had called his 
attention to the curious speech of 
President Grant at Des Moines, 
and to certain other phases of the 
educational question in the United 
States : 



" I have during the last thirty years 
written, published, and spoken so much 
upon the 'education' question that I 
find it hard to know where to end. But 
I may say in sum that my judgment 
upon all the substance of the question 
being the same now as it was thirty years 
ago, and with what I first made public 
in a letter to Mr. Gladstone in 1847, 1 
have lived to see every one of my antici-' 
pations verified. The year 1870 added to 
my anticipations what, certainly, I had 
not predicted, but what is the natural 
and necessary outcome of the educa- 



Some Specimen Educators. 



299 



tional policy of the last forty years. It 
added the absolutely irreligious element 
in the school-board school, and the 
quasi-religious but really irreligious 
element in the denominational school 
under a time-table conscience clause. 

"From the moment when the bill be- 
came law, and especially when I saw it 
not only accepted but welcomed by 
bishops and clergy, I finally lost all 
trust in the position of the Establishment, 
and was compelled to believe that it did 
not only not assist, but it damaged, the 
reception of the truth of God as reveal- 
ed by the church. The nineteenth cen- 
tury is weary of Christ's religion, and of 
the church as his instrument in promot- 
ing it, and proposes to make men good 
that is, followers and servants of God by 
cultivating their intellect at the expense 
of their faith in the revealed Word. 
Out of this proposal has come all the 
miserable folly which is talked about 
'education' in England, and which is 
at the bottom of the proposals which 
your letter specifies as laid before the 
authorities of the United States. Citi- 
zens do not agree about religion ; there- 
fore let us put it aside in our schemes 
for human improvement, and, rather than 
not have children of all religions and of 
none in the same school, let us say we 
will have no Bible, no prayers, nothing 
in the shape of ' religion ' in the school. 
If the children are minded to go to the 
devil, their own way each, then let us 
not so much as think of interposing any- 
thing in the shape of a religious obliga- 
tion and a religious hope. 

"This has become the normal course 
of things in England. It seems to be 
about to become the normal course of 
things in the United States. 

"The devil has broken loose, and is 
frightening one man, and cajoling an- 
other with smoothing his way among so- 
called Christian people. 

" The ' National Society for the Educa- 
tion of the Poor in the Principles of the 
Established Church ' supplies a memor- 
able example of what never fails to come 
out of a faithless policy. It was found- 
ed to promote ' religious education.' It 
has fallen down to contending for ' re- 
ligious teaching.' What it means by 
'religious teaching' is not at all 'reli- 
gious education,' but teaching upon re- 
ligion*'.*., the hour, so-called, reli- 
gious lesson in a school enjoying a gov- 
ernment grant. From nine to ten the 



name of God may be named in" the 
school ; all the rest of the day it may not. 
This is Christian England in the nine- 
teenth century. Children are to be 
taught to serve God by being forbidden 
to name the name of God ; for an hour 
there is a ' religious ' lesson, and so there 
is a grammar or an arithmetic, or a geo- 
graphy, or a music, or a dancing lesson; 
and this is what is nicknamed ' reli- 
gious teaching.' Observe, no man dares 
to call it ' religious education.' The day 
of this is gone by, and I have no belief 
that a people who have sinned in this 
matter as this people has are ever going 
to find a ' place of repentance,' how- 
ever they may seek it carefully and 
with tears. Just now there is a move- 
ment on foot to get Parliament to re- 
lieve those who support, not schools of 
religious education, but semi-religious 
schools, in which there is a religious 
lessen every day, from being burdened 
also with paying rates for the openly- 
proclaimed irreligious schools the 
school-board schools. What has set 
this movement a-going ? Not love for 
principles, but love for money. It is a 
small matter nowadays to sell your 
principles, but when you have done it 
you want your money, the price of your 
principles, for yourself; and so thou- 
sands who swallowed greedily the 1870 
act because they liked the money find 
it very hard to digest, because what 
money it gives with the one hand it 
robs with the other." 

In one of his conversations with 
me Archdeacon Denison laid great 
stress on the fallacy of the assump- 
tion that the denominational schools 
were inferior in teaching quality to 
the board schools. He believed 
the fact to be the reverse of this, 
and in illustration of his position 
proceeded to quote some statistics 
from a return just presented to 
Parliament, and which would be 
embodied in the then forthcoming 
blue-book, relating to the year 
ending August 31, 1873. He found 
that in the Church of England Na- 
tional schools there were 1,451,666 
children taught ; in the British, 
Wesleyan, Presbyterian, and other 
sectarian schools, 435,426 ; in the 



300 



Some Specimen Educators. 



Catholic schools, 125,697; and in 
the board schools, 111,286. The 
percentage of average attendance 
upon the total number of scholars 
was as follows : church schools, 
70.1 per cent. ; British schools, 70.5 ; 
Catholic schools, 70.6 ; and board 
schools, 62.8, The numbers pre- 
sented for examination were: 
from church schools, 35.2 percent. ; 
British and other schools, 38.9 ; 
Catholic schools, 33.3 ; and board 
schools, 26.8. He found that the 
percentage of those who passed 
completely in the different stand- 
ards, of those presented for exam- 
ination, was : in the church schools, 
60. i ; British, etc., schools, 61.04; 
Catholic schools, 61.27 I an d board 
schools, 57.28. The amount of 
grants paid for examinations alone 
in which each child who passed 
could earn i2s. if properly taught, 
showed that the average paid to 
church schools was 45-. nfyd. j 
British schools, $s. 6^d. ; Catholic 
schools, 4^. 1%.d. ; and board 
schools, only $s. 8%V. The same 
averages, taken not upon the total 
number of scholars in the schools, 
but upon the numbers presented 
for examination, showed the follow- 
ing result : church schools, gs. nd. ; 
British, etc., schools, JQS. ifyd. ; 
Catholic schools, gs. iofyd. ; and 
board schools, 8s. 4^.d. Then, tak- 
ing the results both upon examina- 
tions and attendance, he found that 
the general average of the church 
schools was 12^. 2}4d. ; British and 
Wesleyan schools, i2s. 3d.; Catho- 
lic schools, us. \\Y^.d.; and board 
schools, gs. nd. These figures 
showed that, both with regard to 
management and education, there 
was a decided inferiority in every 
case on the part of the board 
schools. 

Taking next the payments under 
the twenty-fifth clause, he found 



that while in the case of the church 
schools the payment amounted to 
y 2 d. per head, in British and Wes- 
leyan schools to %d. per head, and 
in Catholic schools to ^d. per 
head, there was paid for 54,000 
children attending board schools 
^57,000, or at the rate of i os. 
gd. per head. "But," added he, 
" you cannot get the people to look 
at these figures or to understand 
them. The utter unfaithfulness of 
our bishops to their duty has led 
to deplorable apathy and careless- 
ness on the part of the clergy and 
the laity. The latter would be all 
right if they had the proper lead- 
ers. But when they see their own 
clergymen going in for these god- 
less board schools they lose heart 
and let the thing go by default." 

My conversations with Mr. Lowe 
upon the education question were 
frequent. His great hobby was not 
merely the secularization of educa- 
tion, but its technicalization if I 
may coin that word. A thorough 
classical scholar himself, taking as 
much delight in Homer, Cicero, 
Sallust, Horace, Virgil, and the 
rest of them as Mr. Gladstone or 
the late Earl Derby did, M.r. Lowe 
was continually declaring that the 
study of classical and scholastic 
literature did far more harm than 
good, and that the model grammar- 
school, college, and university would 
be one from which these useless 
studies should be excluded, and 
the whole energies of the pupil be 
directed toward the attainment of 
"practical knowledge " such know- 
ledge, for instance, as would en- 
able him to distinguish between "a 
fissure-vein " and " a pocket " in a 
gold-mine, or to determine wheth- 
er an uncultivated region would be 
susceptible of profitable farming. 
If man lived by bread alone, such 
instruction might be sufficient for 



Some Specimen Educators. 



301 



all his wants; but it scarcely suf- 
fices for the gratification of the as- 
pirations of man as he is. Mr. 
Lowe in conversation is sometimes 
extremely pleasing, and again has 
the faculty of rendering himself 
quite as disagreeable. In the 
House of Commons his matter is 
much better than his manner, and 
he is liable to be disconcerted at 
trifling mishaps, and to break down 
in the middle of an argument, as 
he did on a recent occasion when 
assailing the government for its 
mismanagement of the Zulu war. 
Mr. Lowe is a very forcible writer; 
and when he is in the humor for it 
his conversation is richly worth the 
attention of every one. His per- 
sonal appearance is not at all fasci- 
nating ; but that he possesses very 
exceptional ability as an observer 
and a thinker cannot be doubted. 
From a Catholic point of view he 
is altogether wrong on the educa- 
tion question. He was the son of 
a clergyman of the Establishment, 
and was of course brought up in 
the Protestant religion. But I have 
reason to believe that he has long 
since parted with what faith he 
had, and that he is now a thorough 
rationalist. 

Mr. Lowe's career in Australia was 
an eventful one, and his political 
vagaries have been neither few nor 
far between. But he has been stead- 
fast to one purpose. There should 
be no Catholic university education 
in Ireland if he could help it; and 
although he has never stooped to 
such means as those employed by 
the more rabid Protestants to de- 
feat every measure looking to that 
end, he has often proved to be the 
most efficient and powerful auxil- 
iary of the zealous non-Catholics in 
the House. I once asked him why 
he was so set upon depriving Ca- 
tholics of what seemed to be their 



natural rights in this matter, re- 
marking that I felt sure he cared 
little or nothing for the merely 
theological or dogmatic side of the 
question. "Well," replied Mr. 
Lowe, " if I had my way I should 
completely secularize all our uni- 
versities, and give the control of 
the primary and secondary schools 
wholly to the state. Not that I 
care a penny what religious opin- 
ions a man may hold ; but the ele- 
ment of religion introduced into 
education makes it to a certain ex- 
tent sentimental, and to that ex- 
tent robs it of the thoroughly prac- 
tical character which it should 
possess. This is a hard world, and 
it will be as much as all of us can 
do to make a good living in it, and 
to get the best possible results out 
of it, by giving all the energies 
of our minds and bodies to the 
practical and letting the sentimen- 
tal alone. The Catholic religion is 
of all others the most sentimental, 
and is the best calculated to induce 
men to put up with mundane evils 
and refrain from attempts at the 
improvement of the material world, 
in the belief that they will lead 
soft and easy lives in another ex- 
istence. That is the principal rea- 
son why I always oppose the ex- 
tension of Catholic education, al- 
though there are others." 

Mr. Fawcett, the blind member 
of Parliament, is like Mr. Lowe in 
his animosity to Catholic educa- 
tion, and is in favor of secularizing 
education, with certain limitations. 
Mr. George Potter is one of the 
ex-working-men who are anxious 
to represent the real working-men 
in Parliament, but whose merits 
are not appreciated by their wish ed- 
for constituents. As editor of the 
so-called workman's newspaper, 
the Beehive, and as member of the 
London School Board, Mr. Potter 



3 02 



Some Specimen Educators. 



has done all in his power to lead 
public opinion to accept the belief 
that while religious instruction in 
itself is a good thing, it should be 
kept wholly separate from secular 
instruction, unless, indeed, a little 
Bible-reading without note or com- 
ment might perhaps be permitted. 
Mr. Potter is a good Presbyterian 
on Sundays, but almost, if not 
quite, a secularist on week-days. 

But the man who, outside the 
ranks of the Catholics in England, 
has devoted most attention to the 
subject of primary education, and 
accomplished most to place it upon 
a footing which, without being al- 
together satisfactory, is so much 
better than either the system before 
in force or that which the united 
Dissenters and secularists sought 
to substitute for it that in compari- 
son it appears almost faultless, is 
the Right Hon. William Edward 
Forster, who entered Parliament 
as member for Bradford in 1861, 
and who has ever since retained 
his seat. To his admirable tact, 
ability, and adherence to principle 
is chiefly due the passage of the 
education bills of 1870 and of 
1876, and the failure of all the sub- 
sequent attempts that have been 
made in Parliament to obliterate 
the provisions of those measures 
which secure to all denominational 
schools that keep up to the requir- 
ed standard their due share of the 
money voted for educational pur- 
poses. Mr. Forster, by his course 
on this question, for a while incur- 
red the bitter enmity and opposi- 
tion of his Nonconformist associates 
and friends and of the secularist 
party. But, as he said to me one 
day, he never doubted that the 
ordinary sense of common justice 
and fair play in the breasts of the 
English people would bear him 
safely through the struggle. Under 



the education law which he suc- 
ceeded in passing, Roman Catholic 
schools, the schools of the Estab- 
lishment, and the schools of the 
various dissenting sects are treated 
with equal fairness. They must 
bring up their pupils to a certain 
standard of attendance and of pro- 
ficiency in their studies ; and, this 
accomplished to the satisfaction of 
the government inspector, they 
have their school fees paid for them 
out of the government Education 
Fund. It may .be well here to 
give an accurate synopsis of the 
provisions of the present law regu- 
lating public primary education in 
England : 

The Elementary Education Act 
of 1876, which took effect January 
i, 1877, makes it the duty of every 
parent, under specified penalties 
for neglect, to cause all his (or her) 
children between the ages of five 
and fourteen years to receive effi- 
cient elementary instruction in 
reading, writing, and arithmetic. 
No child under the age of ten or 
over that age without a certificate 
of proficiency, or previous due at- 
tendance at a certified efficient 
school can be employed in a fac- 
tory, unless in accordance with the 
Factory Acts or by by-law under 
the Education Acts. Any parent, 
not being a pauper, who is still 
unable to pay the fees for his chil- 
dren at a public elementary school, 
may apply to the guardians having 
jurisdiction in the parish where 
he resides, who pay it for him if 
satisfied of his disability ; and the 
parent so assisted is entitled to se- 
lect the school precisely as though 
he bore the expense himself. Any 
child who obtains before the age 
of eleven a certificate of proficien- 
cy and due attendance, as provid- 
ed by law, is entitled to receive his 
fees for the next three years from 



Some Specimen Educators. 



303 



the Education Department, such 
fees to be counted as school-pence. 
Special Parliamentary grants may 
be made to places in which the 
population is small, provided they 
are applied for by schools conduct- 
ed in accordance with the condi- 
tions of the act of 1870 relating to 
that subject. 

Mr. Forster was born of Quaker 
parents, and is now in his sixty- 
first year. He acquired a hand- 
some fortune as a manufacturer of 
worsted goods at Bradford, which 
business, I believe, he still carries 
on. Among all my English ac- 
quaintances there is not one who 
has a clearer head, a kinder heart, 
or a more ardent desire to love 
mercy and to do justice than this 
non-Catholic statesman, who under- 
stands that Catholics, even in nom- 
inally Protestant countries, have 
rights which the majority are bound 
to respect, and the denial of which 
leads only to discontent, evil, and 
revolt. In manner Mr. Forster 
is quiet, self-possessed, rather slow 
of speech, but never hesitating or 
confused. With no love for the 
Roman Catholic Church, he is free 
from the foolish animosity against 
her which sways such men as New- 
degate and Oranmore. After I 
had told him I was a Catholic his 
manner to me was even kinder than 
before perhaps he felt a tender 
pity for me ; but he did not try to 
convince me of the error of my 
ways. To him, I repeat, the Catho- 
lics of England are largely indebt- 
ed for two of the best educational 
^measures which have ever been 
l^dftpted by the English Parliament. 
Jpe entered the House of Commons 
as member for Bradford in 1861 ; 
he was under-secretary for the colo- 
nies in Lord Russell's administra- 
tion in 1865-66, and was vice-presi- 
dent of the Committee of Council 



on Education in 1868. In my opin- 
ion it would be a happy thing for 
the United States if our system 
of common-school education were 
made to assimilate more closely to 
that which Mr. Forster lias suc- 
ceeded in giving to England. The 
blot in it is that the state is made 
the schoolmaster of those children 
who do not attend the denomina- 
tional schools, and that it taxes 
every one for the support of these 
state schools. This, however, is to 
a certain extent remedied by the 
repayments which are made out of 
the fund thus raised to the denomi- 
national schools. And in this as in 
other respects the English system 
is greatly superior to our own. 

The question of education is, 
and is likely to continue for a 
long time to be, one of the leading 
questions. It is of universal im- 
portance, and it is greatly to be 
regretted that men of all parties 
should not approach it with the 
calm spirit and even temper that 
tend so much to smooth away dif- 
ficulties and cause misunderstand- 
ings to disappear. The Catholic 
Church is assailed by the more 
foolish and noisy of her opponents 
as being the great enemy of the 
education of the people. Such a 
charge should not and could not 
be made by honest-minded and in- 
telligent men. It is accepted on 
all hands that to the Catholic 
Church Christendom originally 
owes the literary and scientific 
fruits of the past. She was the 
mother of learning, as she still is. 
She has certainly not lost her 
character or deteriorated from the 
past. No men have gone farther 
in the pursuit of knowledge than 
the saints, the great Catholic doc- 
tors and scientists; as no artists 
have surpassed or reached to the 
level of those inspired by faith. 



304 



Some Specimen Educators. 



The only illumining light in the 
darkness of ignorant ages was the 
Catholic Church. All this is ad- 
mitted by men who reflect ; yet 
the absurd charge that the Catho- 
lic Church is the enemy of the 
education of the people is made 
the pretext in some non-Catholic 
communities and powers for oust- 
ing Catholics altogether from the 
chairs of universities, of colleges, 
and even of primary schools. It is 
surely a sufficient refutation of the 
charge to find the government, as 
in France to-day, compelled by 
way of justifying it to drive Catho- 
lic teachers from all the seats of 
learning, high and low, throughout 
the country, thus altogether upset- 
ting the present educational system 
in France. Protestants even, the 
secular journals of England and 
our own country, have cried out 
against so unjust, unnecessary, 
foolish, and wicked a measure. 
The very men in France who 
malignantly stamp the Catholic 
Church as the mother of ignorance 
now withdraw that healthy freedom 
of the universities which was sol- 
emnly proclaimed in 1875. In 
like manner England, which in her 
organs of opinion, such as the 
London Times, protests against the 
action of the French government, 
herself refuses an adequate means 
of higher education to the Irisii 
Catholics ; not, as is conceded, 
because the argument is not on the 
side of the Catholics, but because 
Protestant sentiment is against it. 
So Catholic funds must continue 
to sustain a Protestant university. 

Nor is our own country a whit 
less unjust in the matter of the 
public schools. In a free country 
of different confessions of faith 
there is only one fair solution of 
this question : each denomination 
should be free in every way free 



to educate its children as it is to 
follow its own form of worship ; 
and no more taxed for the support 
of a certain system of education 
than it is for the support of a cer- 
tain system of religious belief. The 
state has a right to demand that 
its children become competent citi- 
zens, but not citizens of a cer- 
tain stripe of belief or unbelief. 
That matter by its constitution it 
leaves open, and yet practically di- 
rects and controls. The Catholic 
Church will go as far in the pursuit 
of knowledge as can be wished ; 
nothing holds her back. She re- 
fuses, however, to have those bap- 
tized in her bosom brought up 
either in practical or theoretical 
disbelief in God, or even careless- 
ness about God. And to witness 
her zeal in such matters needs 
but to look around us. Poor as 
Catholics are, they raise up schools 
of their own means, where their 
children, while obtaining an educa- 
tion equal in all points to that 
given at the public schools, may 
not have God banished from 
amongst them and a knowledge of 
their religion proscribed. And 
this they do while compelled to 
support by tax the schools of which 
they cannot avail themselves. Not 
only this, but the church devotes 
whole orders of men and women 
to the one purpose of education. 
What other church can show such 
sacrifices and such zeal ? Even 
secular writers as well as secular 
rulers complain on every side that 
the spirit of faith and obedience 
is dying out among the people to- 
day, just in proportion as the 
spirit of turbulence and demorali- 
zation is making alarming headway. 
And why ? Chiefly because of the 
legal proscription of an education 
under the influence of faith in Al- 
mighty God, reverence for his 



Some Specimens of Modern Swedish Poetry. 



305 



name and authority. It is for this 
the Catholic Church contends, al- 
ways has contended, and always 
will contend. And it is 'such an 
education alone that can leave a 
lasting impress for good and pro- 
duce worthy citizens of the state 
and members of society. If preju- 



dice did not shorten their vision, 
sincere Protestants who have a 
regard for morality, freedom, and 
the welfare of their country should 
do all in their power to assist, in- 
stead of striving to retard, the 
cause of Christian education. 



SOME SPECIMENS OF MODERN SWEDISH POETRY. 



WHILE the old national literature, 
the heroic mythology and allegori- 
cal history, of the Norsemen are 
being revived and made known to 
the world by full-text translations, 
as also by music, none the less ap- 
propriate because it is not national, 
the modern growth of Swedish 
poetry in this and the last century is 
less known. Except in its simpli- 
city, it seems to have inherited little 
from the ancient style of poetry, 
and much of this simplicity itself 
sounds occasionally like mannerism, 
and suggests the French pastoral 
style fashionable for fifty years be- 
fore the Revolution. The plea- 
santest and most characteristic 
pieces have, to an ear familiar- 
ized with northern literature only 
through the novels of Andersen and 
Miss Bremer, a family likeness to 
the style of these authors, while 
here and there in the more roman- 
tic themes one catches an echo of 
what is known to us as Ossian. 
The specimens we have chosen are 
from a miscellaneous collection by 
a French writer,* the translator of 
the Eddas, as also of Tegner, 
Fryxell, Miss Bremer, and other 

* Flo-bers of Scandinavia. By Mile. R. du 
Puget. 

VOL. XXIX. 20 



Swedish authors, and may be call- 
ed fair average representatives of 
the best class of poetry. The few 
by living authors * show a whole- 
some, natural tone, far removed 
from the morbid style of transcen- 
dentalism and metaphysical ana- 
tomy prevalent in recent English 
poetry, and not unknown to some 
French, German, and even Italian 
poets of note within this century. 
Isaiah Tegner is perhaps the best 
known of modern Swedish poets, 
and his " First Communion," a 
Whitsunday idyl, was translated in- 
to most European languages ; but 
as Mile, du Puget's selections from 
his works seem to appeal less to 
the sympathy of English-speaking 
readers than do those of some of the 
minor poets, we feel no hesitation 
in passing over them. The follow- 
ing scene, from the pen of a wo- 
man, Mme. Anna Maria Lenngren,f 
has a kindly yet shrewd, not to say 
sarcastic, tone which expresses a 
mood not unknown to most thought- 
ful persons who have lived amid 
the influences, good and otherwise, 
of an old country imbued with 

* " Christmas Eve," " The Hero's Grave," 
k 'The Sentry's Betrothed," and " A Story Low- 
er." 

t Born at Upsal, 1754 ; died 1817. 



306 



Some Specimens of Modern Swedish Poetry. 



old customs, old prejudices, and old 
forms of outward politeness. The 
incident has a more serious side, 
and suggests an anomaly between 
the official status of a clergy repre- 
senting the state church, and the 
practically low social estimate at 
which this clergy is held by its 
landed patrons. Mine. Lenngren 
had a natural turn for satire, or 
rather she could not help seeing 
the weak side of an estimable char- 
acter or of a praiseworthy institu- 
tion. Her French translator says 
of her that 

" The originality, the naturalness, the 
good taste, and the simplicity of her ex- 
pressions, the truth of her pictures, and 
the smooth harmony of her verses, are 
the prominent qualities of her poetry. 
To these she adds a knowledge of the 
world and of the heart of man which 
would be surprising in a woman leading 
so retired a life, did we not know that 
for genius the teaching of experience is 
quick and unerring. Mme. Lenngren's 
writings are less satires than rapid and 
exhaustive sketches of character. She 
does not lash vice and extravagance 
with the ponderous weapons of premed- 
itation, but, deftly availing herself of 
laughter and jokes, she turns these into 
teachers and makes her readers fall in 
love with goodness. Neither the envy 
nor the weariness that often follow in 
the train of praise bestowed on a writer 
assailed her renown. Every class of so- 
ciety loved and appreciated her." 

Her domestic life was peaceful 
and happy, as that of all literary 
women might be if they chose to 
take the trouble to make it so. 
"The Countess' Visit" bears wit- 
ness to the domestic appreciative- 
ness of its writer: 

" THE COUNTESS' VISIT. 

" What disorder within and without ! What a 
hubbub and disturbance in the pastor's house ! A 
message has just come to say that her grace the 
countess would dine at the manse that day. 

' The pastor's wife holds counsel with her daugh- 
ter Louisa on the marshalling of the dishes on the 
table ; she is anxious to honor her guest and show 
off her housekeeping by a marvellous banquet. 



" The hall is dusted and the old poitraits fur 
bished, specially the family ones the women in 
loose draperies or in tight stays, the men holding 
Bibles in their hands. 

" The pastor's wife dons her long silken gown, 
her husband his best ivig, and Louisa the dress for 
many years sacred to the yearly festival. 

" The countess and her daughter are nearing the 
fence, and the pastor hastens forward, each fold of 
his robe and his ample collar studiously arranged. 

'' His wife, exulting, stands in the glaring sun- 
shine on the stoop, curtsying deeply and often, and 
both mother and daught r fall forward to kisg the 
hem of the countess' garments. 

l> The high and mighty lady steps into the hall. 
The pastor, overflowing with bows and formalities, 
tells her of the hearty joy and the pride her visit 
gives the inmates of his house. 

' The countess and her daughter are led to the 
table, where God's gifts are not lacking. The 
countess deigns to speak and blandly remarks: 
1 How much trouble you have given yourselves !' 

"She praises her hostess' housekeeping, pro- 
nounces the meat with herb sauce tender and de- 
licious, sings the praises of the cheese-cake, and 
rallies Louisa about the learned young curate of 
the parish. 

' The noble damsel with snow-white fingers 
breaks a chicken-wing to feed the fair Belinda.* and 
herself eats but little of what is set before her. 

" The noble guests secretly exchange glances at 
the sight of the pastor carving the joint, the sweat 
standing on his brow, his movements awkward 
and his bows profuse. 

" His wife serves up a bowl heaped with straw- 
berries, and presses them heartily on her guests. 
Each plate is heaped like a new-made grave. 

u The cakes, the red wine from France, the 
homely ' toasts ' take up much time, and the noble 
ladies are on thorns ; at last the meal is over. 

" The olive-branches appear, sturdy and sun- 
burnt, introduced by their fond parents ; courteous 
questions as to the children's names answers shy 
and clumsy. 

kt The pastor's wife, worthy matron ! crosses her 
closed fists, and in clear tones praises Louisa's 
housekeeping, her sewing and weaving. Thank 
God ! the girl is deft and clever. 

" Louisa stares open-mouthed at the trimming of 
the young countess' dress, and resolves to copy it to 
spite her neighbors. 

'* She brings in coffee in a silver pot of antique 
shape, and the pastor takes occasion to praise the 
gracious count, whose gift it had been in days gone 
by. 

" He tells of the count's great prowess, but, with 
growing bashfulness, covers his own retreat with 
manifold holy texts. 

" The countess draws out her handkerchief with 
a sigh, appropriate to the memory of the departed, 
and. with a few words about the trouble she has 
given, takes up her cloak and goes forth. 

" The pastor escorts the high and mighty lady as 
far as the linden-tree, while his wife and his daugh- 
ter well-bred women curtsy at the door, on the 
stoop, at the fence, and are no doubt curtsying 
still" 

A pleasant contrast to this stiff 
"duty-visit" is afforded by John 
Gabriel Carlen's " Christmas Eve 
in the Country," which he intro- 

4 

* Her lap-dog. 



Some Specimens of Modern Swedish Poetry. 



307 



duces by an apt quotation from 
Mme. Lenngren : 

" Nowhere the stiffness of conventional restraint; 
all is joy and pleasure, merriment and romping. 

" Ah ! what a noise and a confusion. All have their 
hands full ; everything is upside down within and 
without. The hall, the parlor, the kitchen are all 
swept and dusted, and in the midst of all a bare- 
legged servant-girl is busy at the floor of each 
apartment. 

"The house-father can scarcely find a corner to 
smoke his pipe in peace ; the mistress drives him 
from refuge to refuge. How can any one give him- 
self such trouble ! 

" The children are pushed hither and thither, 
and bribed by plentiful bread and butter to get out 
of the way. 

" The meats are ready, the bread baked ; the 
candles and the beer are made, the wash is over. 
The mother, proud and upright, makes her rounds. 
She is proud of the tidiness which her well-drilled 
"eye finds everywhere. She runs forward with short, 
airy steps ; she is rejoicing that the pastry has turn- 
ed out well. 

" The governess detaches from its frame the 
worsted work which has occupied her nights, and 
among roses, lambs, and shepherds appears a Cupid 
a few inches long. 

" The kitchen shines with an array of dazzling 
pots. By the hearth gathers a merry band ; a well- 
filled pot makes quick rounds, and all praise the 
good, strong beer. 

" Look at the table of the ' hands ' in that corner ; 
see how it is heaped. Round the beef and bacon 
are a circle of fish, bread, and pies. God's gifts 
will not run short ; they will last out the feast, and 
may be longer. 

" Erik is coming from the city ; the sleigh-bells 
are heard ; the children rush to meet him at the 
heels of old dog Pan. Eagerly they ask for news ; 
each had given Erik his own commission. 

" Paper, string, and sealing-wax are given to old 
and young for their preparations, and mysterious 
whispers denote consultations. Meanwhile the 
father, in his wolf-skin cloak, steals out to try the 
new sleigh. 

" Now all is ready ; nothing lacks. How good the 
meal will taste ! Not the least thought is for the 
poor, where candles, fuel, and cakes are to be de- 
spatched, and then old Lisa ties a sheaf of oats to 
the door, that the sparrows may not go away 
hungry. 

"The cuckoo-clock sounds half-past six, and the 
children are ordered off. Their mother joyfully 
heaps cakes and sugar-plums on a side-table, and 
the tree is beautiful, each candle on its branches 
alight. 

" The door opens ; the children rush into the 
blaze of light, where stand their parents with full 
'hearts. O what life ! O what joy, what heavenly 
joy ! I cannot describe the scene. 

"Rejoice, merry children, still on the road to- 
wards the uphills of life ; when joy is given you, 
taste it freely. The day will come, all too soon, 
when you will think sadly, as I do now, of Christ- 
mas eve." 

By the same author is the longer 
poem of the " Sentry's Betrothed," 
a pathetic domestic tale, very sim- 
ply told, the naive details cropping 
up everywhere and bringing their 



sentiment home to every heart. 
But for the repetitions, which con- 
siderably increase the length while 
they do not add to the pith of the 
story, we should give it whole. 
The following portions, however, 
with a few connecting words here 
and there, will give a clear idea of 
its subject : 

''Yes, I must have been bereft of my senses 
when I enlisted. What a fool I was to believe that 
Hanna could deceive me ! 

" ' She is mine in joy or in sorrow ; I know it 
now ! And I, who might have been so happy, am a 
slave here.' 

"Such were John's sad thoughts as he stood on 
guard in Stockholm, and missed the rest and the 
joys which used to make his days so happy. 

" Thirty miles away, parted from John, his 
faithful betrothed sent him, during sleepless nights, 
many a sigh from the bottom of her heart. 

" In the cottage beyond the wood and near the 
church Hanna spent heavy hours with her poor 
blind mother. 

"But her thoughts grew lighter as she gazed on 
the beloved ring that John had given her. . . . 

" She had heard her father say that the morning 
has gold in its mouth, but, to her delight, she found 
that night had no less." 

As she worked at her spinning- 
wheel Hanna resolved to earn the 
necessary sum, a hundred rix-dol- 
lars, to buy John's discharge. But 
it was very hard, for she had her 
own and her mother's bread to. 
earn, and it took two years' steady 
work, with average luck in selling 
the thread in the neighboring town, 
to make up seventy-five dollars. 
When she had sold her thread . . . 

" She took her little box, bordered with blue and 
yellow, which John had given her for a ' fairing ' 
before he enlisted. 

" For many an evening she had reckoned up the 
treasure contained in the box, each cent of which 
was to go to redeem John. . . . 

lt Hanna would forget the hunger she had often 
felt when she had left her dinner to have more time 
to increase her hoard. 

" For the pastor's post-bag had once brought her 
a letter from John, telling of his hardships since he 
had joined the guard. . . . 

" One day Hanna came home by a burning noon- 
day sun, and the road, that had seemed so long be- 
fore, she tripped over quickly and merrily. 

" She ran a race with the pig to reach the low 
room of her cottage, where her mother with trem- 
bling hands sat disentangling a skein." 

Then she tells how the innkeeper 
had sent her to a kind lady, who 
bought all her thread, and, noticing 



308 



Some Specimens of Modern Swedish Poetry. 



her pallor, asked her if she could 
be of service to her, which resulted 
in the sum being at once complet- 
ed, with something left over. A 
fortnight's journey would do what 
she needed, and that night she 
went to sleep " with the peace 
which the dove enjoys on the 
branch whereon she roosts." 

" When the red gold of the east gilded the lake 
and the meadow, Hanna was already far on the 
road to Stockholm 

i4 She rode the first mile on Per's wagon, that was 
bound for the mill, and just as she left it she met a 
gentleman. 

" ' Where are you going, my pretty maid ? We 
might be company for each other?' And Hanna, 
who saw no reason for secrecy now, told him all. 

"'But your money, take care of it ; it may be 
stolen. There are so many rogues ! Is it well 
hidden?' 

" k You may fancy how well, sir ! 'Tis sewn in 
the hem of my petticoat here. But who would ever 
dream I was so rich ?" 

At midday the girl's companion 
proposes a halt, and they rest 
awhile. 

" The wind whispered softly in the crown of the 
trees, and the tinkling of the waterfall answered 
from the mountain grotto. 

" The lizard wound his way along the edge of the 
ditch by the roadside, and the jay sat in silence un- 
der the shade of the burning and rocky slope. 

" Hanna was so hot and tired that she soon slept, 
but her dreams did not bind her senses long. 

" Her bright eyes opened ! . . . the gentleman 
was gone, and, O Heaven ! so was her money ; not 
a trace remained. 

"No words can tell her grief. What a monster ! 
Be he accurse'd wherever he goes ! Let all Sweden 
curse his treachery !" 

And the poor girl, comforting 
herself with the thought that John, 
at least, will not be disappointed, 
since she had prudently refrained 
from telling him of her design, 
goes home to her mother and her 
work. 

" Into the little box fell now and then a tear, but 
the wheel went round and the spindle flew for two 
years more. Hanna spun till her hand and foot were 
weary, and even the wheel was half worn through 
with work. 

''But the third year O happiness! the sum 
was once more full ; Hanna had often been hungry, 
and had given up everything for her purpose. 

"This time she reached Stockholm in safety. 
At the gates she took out her gala handkerchief and 
pinned it to her bridal comb. 

" The dawn gilded the towers and spires. Han- 
na's heart beat quick ; her senses all but forsook 
her. 



" But what means this crowd ? A dark procession 
from the gates was winding down the road. 

" It was a young soldier, a deserter, going to 
meet his death. 

If John . . .' And a horrible thought flashed 
through Hanna's mind. 

" No, the ways of the Lord are wonderful. Han- 
na's anguish is over : between the soldiers steps the 
man who stole her hoard." 

The sequel is short and easily 
guessed, and the following year, 
says the poem, when Hanna's friend, 
" the good lady," came to inquire 
after her, she found her the mother 
of a " naughty little soldier." 

" A Story Lower," by Frederick 
Sander, is the quaint meditation, 
half-complaining, half-arrogant, of 
a poor scholar whose present abode 
is a certainty, while the intermedi- 
ate ones of which he dreams are 
yet "castles in the air." 

"I live next the roof; a family of swallows are 
my nearest neighbors, and a narrow clay room is 
their merry summer dwelling. 

" The mother's twittering wakes me at break of 
day ; she is off to seek food for her little ones, but 
for me, poor prisoner. I stay where I am, cheating 
my wretchedness by the study of Greek. 

" Still, I have learnt to mix a freshening draught 
of grape-juiee ; but after all life is the same, wheth- 
er or no one has tasted its best pleasures. Autumn 
is near and will drive away the swallows ; I shall miss 
my pleasant neighbors. Wait a bit, however ; I 
shall become a professor and go down a story lower. 

" I shall live in light and pretty rooms, and shall 
sleep in a bed with silken curtains, where the silence 
of night will whisper riddles to me, and the spirits 
of dreams will pass without touching me. All day 
long I shall work for the good of the country ; I 
shall have a decoration given me, and perhaps I may 
find a wife. When an old friend comes to see me, 
he will wonder and exclaim : ' Thou too /' 

11 But if for who knows where the serpent will 
treacherously aim ? if (I say it once more) the ar- 
rows of gout should reach me and bad temper be- 
come the burden of my songs ; if gout should weight 
my feet with lead and make my eyes seek my crutch- 
es ; if the head of the tree should wither before its 
roots, then I will go down a story lower. 

"I will live on the ground-floor, where 'tis no 
trouble to come in. Stairs are stumbling-blocks to 
good health, and who is more anxious for health 
than an old man ? He loves to smoke his evening 
pipe when his other flames have gone out in smoke * 
and trying to lengthen out each of his poor plea- 
sures, he pours out a drop in a glass but, alas ! 'tis 
but a vain effort. 

"Any lamp, however well filled, will go out when 
the wick is exhausted. When I have taken my last 
steps I will ask, ' Is all over?' When I am weary 
of life's treacherous moods, and see no friendly star 
shine for me, I will go in peace towards the tomb, 
and with a smile go down a story lower." 

Among Swedish poets Amadeus 



Some Specimens of Modern Swedish Poetry. 



309 



Atterbom * may be called their 
Wordsworth for the moral tone of 
his poetry and his deep love of 
nature. Mile, du Puget says 
of him : " Sweet dreamer ! he is 
like a nightingale astray in the 
dark pine forests of the North, 
shivering in a winter which he can 
neither bear nor yet fly from. . . . 
When he describes flowers he gives 
them each a character and a spe- 
cial symbolic life. His great poem, 
* The Isle of Happiness,' is bor- 
rowed from the old legend of this 
name. In it are to be found the 
flashes of lyrical inspiration which 
in Swedish literature belong exclu- 
sively to Atterbom; but one is sor- 
ry to find side by side with them 
tedious periods and traces of pe- 
dantic subtleties which spoil the 
simple charm of the tale. Atter- 
bom is also the author of a stand- 
ard history of Swedish literature." 
The following short poem reveals 
his melancholy and tender nature: 

" PATIENCE. 

"Which of all the virtues deserves to be called 
the hardest to practise? That which shines not 
"" in strength but in calmness. All the rest have 
their reward, either in the joy that comes of sac- 
rifice or in the thrill and excitement of inspiration 
and action. 

" Patience, silent daughter of unselfishness, feeds 
only on privations ; the Eternal only can reward 
her. She gives up all things, and shines the most 
when no one sees the spot on which, kneeling ia 
prayer, she clasps and kisses the cross. 

" Patience is woman's virtue. Riveted to earth 
as a plant, she looks gently up towards the light 
and bows down at each blast of wind ; she is still 
fair when trodden under foot, still fragrant when 
withered by time. 

" To the lord of creation she opposes only the 
pliancy of a flower, and to the hand that crushes 
her only the secret dew of tears. Man is taught 
suffering by the world, but woman by man. He it 
is who frames her lot, and, like fate, is often her ty- 
rant. 

''The flower is the heart of the plant, and the 
flower of nature is woman; the flower forgets self, 
and woman lives for others. Gentle sex which 
binds man to earth, thou hast kept for thy share 
only the holy virtue of the flower." 

Though best known by his im- 
passioned poem on the " Death of 
the Countess Spastara" the beau- 

* Born 1796 ; died at Upsal 1855. 



tiful French wife of a Sicilian, who 
at the age of twenty-two died with 
her infant son during a fire caused 
at Messina by an earthquake, she 
being unable to rescue him and 
unwilling to live without him 
Bengt Lidner must be judged by 
our readers through a humorous 
and shorter poem, the former being 
too long for this article. Lidner's 
history, sadly like that of Edgar 
Poe, is as checkered and romantic 
as any poem. Born in 1759 at 
Gothenburg (a city now known as 
the headquarters of a new tempe- 
rance scheme, practical and hitherto 
very successful), he went to Lund 
University to study, but led such a 
dissipated life while there that he 
was dbliged to go to Rostock to 
take his degree in philosophy. His 
life was so notoriously bad that his 
relations got rid of him later on by 
making him go as foremast-man on 
board a ship bound for the East 
Indies ; but he ran away when the 
ship touched the Cape, and thence 
made his way home, where his 
genius soon drew upon him the 
notice of the king, Gustavus III., 
who lavished both money and real 
friendship upon him. Stijl, his pas- 
sion for drink was too great to be 
controlled, and the king finally gave 
him up. He died in penury and 
obscurity in 1793- His poems are 
often gloomy and despairing, yet 
teeming with rich fancies and deli- 
cate expressions. The following is 
one of his " Fables " : 

"'A cock fell in love.' . . . 'How now! do 
cocks fall in love?' 'Why, yes, Iris, they are 
proud to be like you in some things. Well, this 
cock fell in love.' . . . l With a hen, no doubt ?' 
1 No, better than that with a goose. They lived 
for a few minutes in peace and content, but the cock 
began to crow. l Have done !' cried the goose. ' You 
ought to be ashamed of yourself; do /ever make 
such a noise ? In a word, do just as I do, and noth- 
ing more.' The cock held his peace and deferred 
to his better half. I should have behaved other- 
wise. When I see a fair woman in a bad temper I 
run away without daring to look behind. By and 
by the cock picked up a grain of corn at his feet. 



Some Specimens of Modern Swedish Poetry. 



' Listen,' said the goose : l am I not your wife, and 
should you not learn to eat as I do? Your race, in 
these enlightened times, ought to follow our pat- 
tern in all things. You ought to be ashamed of 
having forgotten it.' 'What does this scolding 
mean ?' asked the cock. ' Do you dare,' said the 
goose, ' cross my wishes ? Go, then, wretched fool, 
and become the prey of the cruel hawk !' 

" Pluck up thy spirit, O cock ! and let every 
honest burgher who marries above him be a com- 
fort and a warning to thee." 



Another class of poems are those 
treating of historical or legendary 
subjects ; but among these we have 
included neither the adaptations of 
the ancient poems nor portions of 
the later epics and poems of chiv- 
alry as, for instance, Tegner's 
" Fridthiof," his " Axel," or Ling's 
historico-dramatic " Song of the 
Asae," or Odin's Companions. Mi- 
nor topics of the heroic kind, how- 
ever, are not wanting throughout 
the field of Swedish poetry, and 
among them Geijer's " Pirate " is 
one of the shortest and the most 
characteristically treated. This poet 
is one of the most popular in Swe- 
den, though his prose works 
chiefly scientific criticisms on the 
national history far outnumber his 
poetical ones. Born in the pro- 
vince of Wermeland in 1783, he 
drank in the love of learning, chiefly 
of literature and music, with his 
earliest recollections, although his 
father's position was only that of a 
master-blacksmith. At sixteen he 
was already a composer of some 
merit, but his genius finally turned 
to history as its most appropriate 
field. After a brilliant university 
career at Upsal and a long journey 
through Europe, his Alma Mater 
received him back as professor of 
history, and the Swedish Academy, 
a choice body containing but eigh- 
teen members, elected him to fill 
the first vacancy that occurred 
after his return. His historical 
works are full of acumen and. calm, 
philosophical judgment, and show 
signs of immense and laborious re- 



search. His name was a household 
word far away among places and 
populations as proud of their na- 
tional associations as if they them- 
selves had been centres of learning 
and competitors in its race ; for the 
people of Sweden, as a rule, though 
individually comparatively igno- 
rant of things beyond practical life, 
have a keen instinct of indepen- 
dence arid self-respect which makes 
them look on all national excel- 
lence as part of themselves, and 
claim a share in it by sympathy, 
appreciation, and encouragement, 
as of a patrimony belonging of 
right to the nation at large. Gus- 
tavus Erik Geijer died, universally 
lamented, in 1847. 

"THE PIRATE. 

" 'When I was fifteen my mother's hut began to 
grow too narrow for me. I found the long days 
tedious which I spent herding the goats. My j 
temper and my tastes became wilful and my moods 
many ; I dreamt of things I could not define, and 
the merry days of old in the forest were fled. 

"'My mind rudely shaken, I ran towards the \ 
rocks and my glance fell on the boundless sea. j 
The roaring of the foam-whitened waves sounded 
in my ears like a stately song; the billows come 
from a measureless distance, and nothing binds 
them, nothing bars their freedom on the ocean. 

" ' One morning, as I stood on the shore, I saw a 
ship come into the bay quick and straight as an 
arrow. My bosom swelled, my brain took fire, and 
I knew what it was that had haunted me. I for- 
sook my goats and my mother, and the pirate took 
me aboard his ship, out on the ocean. 

" ' The wind swelled the sails ; we skimmed the 
watery plain as lightly as a bird. The crests of the 
rocks dissolved in the blue distance. I was happy 
and at peace. I took my father's rusty sword, and 
swore to conquer a kingdom and broad lands on 
the ocean. At sixteen I killed the pirate : he had 
taunted me for a boy and a coward ! I was king of 
the sea ; I made raids and attacks, took castles and 
forts, and the booty I shared by lot with my war- 
riors on the ocean. 

" ' Spite of storms and waves, we emptied draughts ' 
of hydromel out of our cups of horn. Our ship 
gave laws to the coasts all around. I carried off a 
maiden of Gaul. She wept three days and then 
was comforted, and we held a wedding-feast on the 
ocean. 

" ' Once I was master of a kingdom and many 
forts ; I drank wine in a house, I gave laws to a 
people, I slept within walls and behind bolts and 
bars. It lasted a whole winter. The winter was 
long and weary, and, king though I was, earth 
seemed narrow to me compared with the ocean. 

" ' I did nothing, but I was for ever pestered to 
help fools whom it was useless to help. There v.~ere 
those who would fain see me fence in the huts of 
peasants and give the beggar a stout stick for his 



Some Specimens of Modern Swedish Poetry. 



bundle. It wearied me to hear of money-fines, 
oaths administered, robbers and robberies. Oh ! 
that I were far away on the ocean. 

" ' Such was my prayer. The long winter broke 
at last, and the anemones grew once more on the 
shores. The waves awoke and called to me ; the 
birds played on hill and dale, and the streams, roll- 
ing free again, rushed blithely towards ocean. 

'' ' Then once more the unknown thrill came o'er 
me ; the swelling waves bewitched me. I sowed 
my gold in the cities and the country ; I ground my 
crown into dust. Poor as of old, with naught but 
ship and sword, unknowing of my fate, once more 
I coursed the ocean. 

" l Free as the wind, we floated on seas remote 
and stormy. We saw man on foreign shores live 
and die, in each place alike, and foes for ever tak- 
ing root on his hearth ; but sorrow misses the track 
of the pirate on the ocean. 

" ' Once more I watched amid my warriors the 
distant ship on the blue horizon. Was she a pi- 
rate ? then blood would flow ; or a trading sail ? we 
let her pass. The hero's triumph is one of blood, 
and a pirate's bond is bought with the sword on 
the ocean. 

" ' If I stood on the prow by day a glowing future 
stretched before me. Carried on the moaning 
wave, I was calm as the swan that sways on river 
reeds. All the treasures in my track fell into my 
hands, and nothing vexed my hopes on the bound- 
less ocean. 

" ' But if I stood on the prow at night, and the 
lonely waves roared at my feet, I thought I heard 
the Nornse * weaving their web. There is uncer- 
tainty on the sea, as there is in man's fate. Better 
be ready for evil as well as good on the bosom of 
the ocean. 

"' ' I am twenty years old. Misfortune came to me 
swiftly. The waves demand my blood ; they 
know it of old, and have seen it flow hot in battle. 
My heart burns and beats so high, yet it will soon 
be still in some icy cave of ocean. 

" ' I mourn not my short days ; they were few but 
happy. Many roads lead to the halls of the gods, 
and the shortest is the best. The waves sing my 
dirge ; I have lived my life with them. I shall find 
a resting-place in ihe ocean.' 

"So sings the shipwrecked pirate on a rock amid 
the reefs. The sea drags him down to her depths. 
The waves sing once more, and the winds take 
their wayward course, but the fame of the hero 
clings to the ocean." 

All northern mythologies or ra- 
ther folk-lore are concerned with 
those imaginary beings, interme- 
diate between gods and men, whom 
we lump together under the name 
of fairies. Their moonlight pranks, 
their "rings" on the grass, their 
supposed trickiness and power over 
the elements, are all familiar to us 
from childhood. It is natural Jhat 
they should suggest themes to 
northern poets, as the' more stately 
sylvan deities of Greece did to the 
classic poets. John Erik Stagne- 

* The Parcse of Scandinavian mythology. 



lius (born in 1769, died 1823), al- 
though fond of melancholy and 
hopeless subjects he was himself 
an incurable invalid, which ac- 
counts for much of his sad poetry 
has spent upon his poem of " The 
Elves " a good deal of delicate 
imagery and sprightly fancy. For- 
tunately for him, he had a deeply 
religious nature and a never-failing 
trust in the divine mercy, so that 
his estimate of sorrow as the neces- 
sary lot of mankind was redeemed 
from becoming the expression of 
mere cynical pessimism by being 
qualified and explained according 
to his belief in an active and com- 
passionate Providence. A scholar 
of Lund and Upsal, he was not 
seldom also a genial and humorous 
companion, full of pleasantry, yet 
never going beyond the bounds of 
a good taste that was natural to 
him, and young people especially 
enjoyed his conversation, fed as it 
was from tHe stores of a wonderful 
memory. 

"THE ELVES. 

" Think not. O men ! that the earth was made for 
you alone, ephemeral beings whom the foot of Time 
crushes as easily as the flowers of spring ; 

" That the sun comes forth from the gates of the 
dawn solely for your sakes, deluded, men, to ripen 
your grapes and your corn, to shine on your errors 
and sins ; 

k * That the torch of the moon, when the gold of 
evening has faded and the stars smile in the sky, 
shines specially for the lover or the murderer, each 
stealing silently towards his goal ; 

" That the dark greenwood hospitably shelters 
none but wayfarers ; that the silver brooklet, so 
fresh and lovely, murmurs for none but you and 
your cattle ? 

" Where the ice of the poles forbids further travel, 
where the sand-fields dip beneath the waves of the 
sea, where no sun-ray has ever lighted a human 
footstep, there is life and there is joy. 

" In the wilderness of the forest and in the foam 
of the waves, in the peaceful, smiling valleys, in the 
rocks, in the clouds, live wondrous beings. 

u Speak ! Knowest thou the merry band of 
elves ? They build on the banks of streams ; they 
weave their festive robes of moonlight tissue with 
sportive fingers lily-white. 

" They gather for their banquets in the shade of 
fir-groves or greenest grass, and quaff pearly dew- 
drops out of golden flower-cups in spring. 

"They gather for their pranks, for their dances 
and their games, when the sun has fled and the 
stars twinkle in the saddened sky of midnight. 

" In meadows silvered by the moonlight they 



3 I2 



Some Specimens of Modern Swedish Poetry. 



form rolling rings in elfin manoeuvres. Necken, the 
green-bearded, plays the harp in his river-cavtrn,and 
its strains are magical and compelling. 

" But if he lifts his voice in song the valleys and 
the hills rejoice. The elves suspend their thunder- 
sounding courses, and the wings of the night hurri- 
cane are folded. 

" The wayfarer's heart beats with a strange de- 
light, and the lily dissolves in silver tears, at the 
sweet spell of the night-song." 

A more serious theme, whose 
treatment seems to us the most 
appropriate and praiseworthy of 
all that have been noticed by the 
writer, is " The Hero's Grave," by 
John Nyborn, one of the living 
poets of Sweden. Though its 
shortness is no doubt a merit, the 
reader would wish this poem to be 
longer : 

" Make ready a grave for the soldier on the shore 
of the moaning sea ; a hero in life as in death, he 
has fallen for his country's sake. 

"He has fallen, like a pine-tree felled, stretched 
on the rock where erst he stood so haughtily. The 
hero has fallen, and here where the earth has 
drunk his blood shall he rest. 

" Close his eyes, they will flash lightning no more ; 
and the arm that was raised against wrong shall be 
hidden beneath the earth. 

u Clear the hair, clotted with blood, from the 
snow-white pallor of his brow, ^n death let him 
still be free, he who died for freedom. 

" He shall go down into the grave in the garment 
of a conqueror. Thou art stretched on blood-red 
roses ; how beautiful is thy bed, O my brother ! 

" No laurel binds thy brow, but a hero's fame is 
thine, and the thunder of battle sings thy dirge 'mid 
the mountains and the forests. 

" No maiden will water thy grave with the river 
of her tears, but the blossom of memory will spring 
from thy fruitful blood. 

" Fresh sods are over thee, the last gift our love 
can offer thee ; but we shall speak of them with 
pride, for they mark the grave of a hero. 

" His bed of death is made ; soon, perhaps, our own 
will be ready. Let us give prayers and farewell 
tears to the soldier's dust. 

" And thou, God of Hosts, hear my prayer: I ask 
from thee no crown of victory, but grant, when my 
hour comes, that my death may be even as his !" 

The next two specimens are of a 
different order of poetry, one which 
in our days has risen to an import- 
ance hitherto unheard of, and de- 
rived rather from the researches of 
science than from the sanction of 
art. Popular songs are history, 
and bear a directer stamp of na- 
tional feeling and character than 
the more complex poetry which fol- 
lows, to a certain degree, the fash- 



ion of each age, and even that as 
this fashion changes, not in the fa- 
therland, but in some foreign coun- 
try acknowledged arbitrarily at the 
time to be the standard model. 
The following pieces have a bold 
outspokenness which is eminently 
national, while the popular super- 
stitions on which the stories are 
founded have their moral side, and 
are picturesque and realistic ex- 
pressions of spiritual truths. The 
first is called 

"THE YOUNG LORD PEDER'S SEA-VOYAGE. 

" 'Tis the young Lord Peder who seeks his nurse- 
mother to ask by what death he shall die. 

' ' Thou shalt not die in thy bed ; thou shall not 
be slain in war ; but see to it that the blue waves 
do not shorten thy life.' 

" ' If I die not in my bed, if I be not slain in war, 
I shall not fear the blue waves that may shorten my 
life.' 

u 'Tis the young Lord Peder. He goes to the 
shore and builds him a ship, the best of all ships. 

" Made all of whalebone, and likewise the masts, 
but the flame at their end is of the reddest gold. 

a 'Tis the young Lord Peder. He launches the 
ship, but forgets God the Father, God the Son, 
and God the Holy Ghost. 

' ' To-night we will drink, since we have strong 
beer ; to-morrow we will sail, if the wind favors 
us.' 

"They sailed for two days, they sailed for three 
days, but on reaching the open sea the ship stood 
still. 

" They threw dice on the widest table ; the lot fell 
to the Lord Peder, who was verily a great sinner. 

' ' You say too true : I am a great sinner. Let 
me kneel before God the Lord to make my confes- 
sion. 

k "I have made many widows and orphans; I 
have betrayed and ruined many an honest woman. 

" ' If any of you reach land, and my nurse-mo- 
ther asks after me, tell her I am with the king and 
have a good office. 

"If any of you reach land, and my betrothed 
asks after me, tell her I am at the bottom of the sea 
and I beg of her to marry.' 

" They seized the young Lord Peder and threw 
him into the sea over the larboard side. And the 
ship resumed her natural course, though she had 
lost one man." 



Another equally pithy ballid is 
that of " The Stepmother." The 
refrain seems unconnected with 
most of the facts related, but is, of 
course, an integral part of the song 
as a representative of popular po- 
etry : 

" A king went to travel in the south, and while 



Some Specimens of Modern Swedish Poetry. 



3^3 



there he married Dame Silfra. Thou art the fair- 
est, and thou art mine.* 

u He travelled with her on land and sea until he 
came home to his own country. 

" They lived together for seven years ; Silfra 
bore the king three children. 

" Then death entered into their house. Dame 
Silfra was laid on a black bier. 

u And the king went to travel in the south, and 
while there he married Dame Frcedenborg. 

11 He travelled with her on land and sea until he 
came home to his own country. 

u Froedenborg had been home only two days, yet 
the children all fled from her, each into his own 
corner. 

" She hated one, and beat the other, and the 
third she seized by the hair of his head and dragged 
him along. 

"The children went to their father, and asked 
leave to go to their mother's grave. 

" ' Go to your mother's grave, but that will do 
you no good.' 

" The children did as they wished, and went to 
their mother's grave. 

" The first wept ; the second shed tears of blood ; 
the tears of the third drew his mother forth from 
the earth. 

" Dame Silfra went to God the Father and be- 
sought him to let her return to earth only for a sin- 
gle day. 

" 1 1 grant thee leave to return to earth this day, 
but at one hour past noon thou must be in thy 
grave again 

" And Dame Silfra goes to the king's dwelling. 
She stands upright before Froedenborg. 

"'What mean these complaints? What is this 
cry? The sighs of my children reach up to God.' 

' k ' I hear their groans ; I hear them weep on my 
grave ; I heard lamentable cries. 

" ' I left behind me fields and farms, and my 
children rise hungry from table. 

" k I left behind me fields and farms, and my chil- 
dren go to sleep hungry. 

11 ' I left behind me good beds of blue feathers, 
and my children sleep on straw and branches. 

" ' If thou wilt be a good mother to my children, 
I will cause a chair to be set for thee in heaven. 

' ' But if thou art not a good mother to my chil- 
dren, I will have a chair set for thee in hell.' 

"Dame Froedenborg fell on her bare knees. 
' Dear Dame Silfra, forgive me ! 

' ' Thy children shall never want for anything ; 
I promise it, and I will keep my word till I die. 

' l May serpents gnaw my heart within my 
bosom if I ever give thee cause of complaint 

lkl Never will I be harsh to thine, but come not 
again in this garb.' 



* This refrain is repeated at the end of each 
verse. 



" And there was a great change in the house of 
Dame Frcedenborg ; she lit torches and candles for 
the children. 

'' She clasps them all in her motherly arms and 
calls them loving names. 

" She warms two between her motherly arms ; 
she carries the third on her snow- white arm. 

a And there was great rejoicing in the king's 
dwelling ; Froedenborg was never again cruel as 
she had been. Thou art the fairest, and thou 
art mine" 

There seems little of French 
vivacity in any of these poems, 
whether popular or otherwise un- 
less sometimes in the mock-Ar- 
cadian treatment of conventional 
themes with semi-classical subjects, 
such as the tragic " Camilla " of 
Mme. Nordenflycht, or some of 
the fables of Count Gyllenborg 
yet the %vede has been called 
the Frenchman of the North. The 
Swedish is a many-sided character, 
an4 the improvidence and dash 
that balance its spurts of tremen- 
dous energy) and even dogged per- 
severance, or rather endurance, are 
the qualities which have suggested 
this comparison. This endurance 
is one of the grandest national 
characteristics, and the frugality it 
engenders is almost always to the 
Swede a pledge of success. Con- 
ceive an Irish imagination grafted 
on a New England will, and you 
will have some idea of a high type 
of this poetical people: yet the 
gleams of tender melancholy, the 
repose, and the silent self-sufficiency 
of the race would be unreprese.nt- 
ed, if you did not add a cross of 
the highest type of German say 
Schiller. 



Pearl. 



PEARL. 



BY KATdL^EN o'.MEARA, AUTHOR OF " IZA 1 S STORY," u A SALON IN THE LAST DAYS OF THE EMPIRE,' 

''ARE YOU MY WIFE?" ETC. 

CHAPTER XV. 
"AU REVOIR, DARVALLON" U AU REVOIR, LEOPOLD." 



" THAT woman is snubbing you," 
said Mrs. Monteagle. "You must 
come away. What ! that would 
be behaving ill to Mme. Mere ? 
Nonsense ! She can easily hire 
another pair of lungs ; don't you 
be a fool, my dear. Come away. 
I will take the blame of it on my- 
self." 

"I don't want to leave her," re- 
plied Pearl, "but I do wish we 
were out of Paris. I can see Mme. 
Leopold is dying to get me out of 
the way." 

"She has been rude to you? 
Don't deny it ! I guessed as much 
when she came to me with that 
ridiculous story about having 
caught you laughing with the black 
stick at the piano. I asked her if 
she would rather have caught you 
both crying. What a fool that wo- 
man is! I devoutly hope he may 
marry a Hottentot ; only the poor 
thing would have a hard time of it 
with her mother-in-law." 

" I wish I had the courage to 
have it out with Mme. Leopold my- 
self," said Pearl. " I feel I behav- 
ed like a guilty sneak that day ; 
but she looked so furious I lost all 
my presence of mind. And he was 
taken aback, too, though he put 
such a bold face on it. I think I 
will speak to her ; I did nothing to 
be ashamed of, and I will just tell 
her that I know that." 

" Whatever you say, try and say it 
with a smiling countenance," said 



Mrs. Monteagle, smoothing away 
the anxious frown from Pearl's 
forehead with one long finger ; " if 
you go to her with a face like that 
you will quarrel. It is not what 
people say to each other that makes 
them quarrel ; it is their faces when 
they are saying it. Look at me! 
I say things to people that would 
make them murder any one else ; 
but I laugh while I am snubbing 
them, and they set it down to ec- 
centricity and put up with it." 

"I can't smile when I am angry 
or hurt," said Pearl. 

" Of course you can't ; but you 
mustn't be angry and you mustn't 
be hurt. Nothing is worth it; it 
makes bad blood and it helps 
nothing. Laugh at people when 
they are rude, or stupid, or ill-na- 
tured ; laugh at them and give 
them your mind." 

But it was easier for Mrs. Mont- 
eagle than Pearl to follow this the- 
ory. The worried look came back, 
puckering up her forehead in long 
wrinkles. 

"Child, you are worried; you j 
had better- give notice and come 
away. You will get into trouble if 
you don't," said Mrs. Monteagle. 

The trouble had come already, 
though not in the way or of the 
kind she meant. 

Pearl had not said a word about 
that coup de theatre of the other 
morning between Leon and Cap- 
tain Darvallon ; but this was what 



Pearl. 



31$ 



gathered the cloud on her brow, 
and not Mme. Leopold's anger. 

It was three days ago that the 
scene had taken place, and Raoul 
had never come near the house 
since. Leon, on the contrary, had 
been every day and stayed two 
hours at a time. He had never 
alluded to the scene, but something 
in his manner told Pearl that he 
thought a great deal about it. His 
manner puzzled and distressed her 
altogether. Their easy, pleasant 
intercourse was at an end. He 
had become deferential, anxious 
to please her; he had ceased to 
be simple and brother-like. She 
happened to mention quite inci- 
dentally her fondness for yellow 
roses, and the next morning he 
arrived with an enormous bouquet 
of Gloire de Dijons and Marshal 
Niels, and presented them to his 
grandmother. 

"You extravagant boy!" cried 

the old lady, horror-stricken at the 

princely offering. " I wanted a tiny 

bunch of these yesterday, and they 

asked me ten francs for it !" 

" I knew you were wishing for 
them," said Leon, who had never 
heard her mention roses in his life. 

" Mon petit! But what a sum 
they have cost you !" And she look- 
ed at the lovely flowers and then 
at him. 

"Anything is cheap that gives a 
moment's pleasure to those we 
love," said Leon in a voice that 
could not possibly have reached his 
grandmother, though he was osten- 
sibly addressing her. 

" You ought to go to the opera, 
bonne maman," he said when 
Pearl had left the room to put the 
roses in water. "Why don't you 
take Mile. Perle to see the Trova- 
tore ? She will die of ennui if you 
don't give her a little distraction." 

" I am afraid she finds it dull 



here," assented the old lady ; "but 
you know I never go to the theatre, 
mon petit." 

"The theatre no; but the opera 
you would enjoy. Let me take a 
box for you at the Italiens on 
Tuesday ?" 

"I will think about it. But per- 
haps la petite would rather see a 
good comedy. I will ask her." 

** No, no ; don't ask her," said 
Leon. " She is sure to say that she 
does not care ; but she would care. 
She is young, and she will fall ill 
if she has not some amusement. 
Bonne maman, you will be very 
dull when I am gone." 

" Ah ! mon Dieu, aquile dis-tu ?" 
exclaimed Mme. Mere, heaving a 
terrible sigh. "Ma petite, what is 
to become of us when he is gone ? >r 
she said, as Pearl came back, car- 
rying the roses in a large glass bowl, 

" He is really going, then ?" said 
Pearl, conscious of more regret at 
the announcement than she would 
have felt a few days ago. 

" Yes," said Leon, " I believe it 
is quite settled." 

He fixed his black eyes on her 
to see if the mobile face would tell 
any tales. Pearl felt he was watch- 
ing her, and she suspected why and 
grew scarlet. She looked very 
graceful and picturesque, the pale 
gold of the roses shining like a 
vestal flame against her black dress 
as she held up the crystal bowl 
and placed it on the littered table. 
She appeared to Leon like a new 
creature. He guessed now that it 
was she who had stolen his friend's 
heart away from him. Was it a 
theft or an exchange ? Did she 
love Raoul ? How could she help 
it ? How could any woman help 
loving that strong, proud nature, if 
once it bent itself to sue for love ?' 
Strange that it had never before 
struck Leon how lovely this Eng- 



3 i6 



Pearl. 



lish girl was ! No wonder she had 
brought his soldier brother to her 
feet. And what business had he 
now, that brother's friend, to come 
here day after day, gazing at her, 
talking to her, trying to win a smile 
from her ? He was not deliberately 
bent on supplanting Raoul he was 
incapable of that but since he 
had discovered that Raoul loved 
Pearl his own eyes had been open- 
ed, and all the grace and sweetness 
which had hitherto escaped him 
became visible. The spell had 
been gradually working on him, 
too, and he now gave himself up to 
the delicious intoxication, calculat- 
ing nothing beyond the delight of 
the passing hour. 

Why had not Raoul trusted him 
instead of making a mystery of his 
love, as if he were ashamed of it ? 
Or was he afraid to tell Leon, lest 
he should come and steal away his 
treasure ? Well, since he could so 
misjudge his friend, let him pay the 
penalty. Where there had been 
no trust there could be no betray- 
al. Leon had as good a right as 
Darvallon to enter the lists for the 
prize. He was not sufficiently in 
earnest to ask himself, " If I win it, 
what shall I do with it?" 

It had been planned that Mine. 
Mere and Pearl were to join the 
Leopolds in the ministerial box at 
the Odeon on whatever evening 
Blanche and her fiance were placed 
on view for one another's approba-. 
tion ; but since this had been ar- 
ranged the situation had become a 
little strained between Mme. Mere 
and her daughter-in-law, and the 
invitation had not been renewed, 
so that when the eventful evening 
came Blanche and her parents 
were the sole occupants of the 
large avant-scene box. The piece 
was a harrowing drama, and every- 
body, the gentlemen included, 



came prepared to soak their pock- 
et-handkerchiefs. Blanche was not 
very emotional, and, as a rule, she 
never cried unless she could not 
possibly help it : it was bad for the 
eyes and extremely unbecoming. 
To-night she was less likely than 
usual to yield to the weakness, for 
the gaze of her future lord would 
be upon her, and she was not go- 
ing to blur her complexion for the 
finest sentiments that ever drew 
tears from an audience. 

They entered their loge d'avant- 
scene with a certain pomp ; every 
eye was turned on the group the 
minister big and self-important, 
Mme. la Baronne portly, beaming, 
magnificently dressed, and her 
handsome daughter in white drift- 
ing in behind her. They seated 
themselves in the hot velvet fau- 
teuils, and the ladies adjusted their 
glasses to take a view of the house. 

"Is he here, mamma?" said 
Blanche; and laying down her 
mother-of-pearl lorgnette, she open- 
ed her fan and began to play with it. 

" I don't see him. Yes, there 
he is, right opposite." 

"In a box?" 

"No, in a fauteuil de balcon. 
He is looking at us." 

Mme. Leopold turned carelessly 
towards her husband, who wanted 
to take a look at the house, but 
was told he must wait ; it would 
not do to seem over-anxious. 

" Is he alone ?" inquired Blanche, 
still flirting her fan and looking 
steadily away to the right. 

"Yes, I think so; he leans for- 
ward, speaking to no one." 

The orchestra tuned its violins, 
the curtain rose, and the play be- 
gan. It was fully equal to its re- 
putation, M. Leopold thought ; he 
listened with an interest that grew 
to intensity as the piece went on. 
Blanche at first was too much oc- 



Pearl. 



317 



cupied with her own little comedy 
to care at all about the mimic woes 
and passions of the actors; but 
by degrees her wandering will was 
taken captive, and she was com- 
pelled to look and listen, until 
gradually her interest became tho- 
roughly absorbed, and even her 
flinty heart was not proof against 
the power and pathos of the story. 
The tears rose, and after struggling 
to swallow them for a while she 
gave it up and let them course/ 
freely down her cheeks, sobbing, 
blowing her nose, and wiping her 
eyes, to the utter detriment of her 
creamy complexion and composed 
countenance. Mme. Leopold was 
weeping abundantly, the minister 
also; the house from pit to gallery 
was flowing like a fountain, and the 
fall of the curtain was the signal for a 
general display of pocket-handker- 
chiefs, which, acting in chorus, 
sounded like the blast of a fog- 
horn. 

" Mon Dieu ! que je m'amuse 
bien !" sobbed Blanche, falling back 
in her chair and letting her arms 
drop. 

" It is fine acting; I myself have 
not been unmoved," observed the 
baron, belaboring his face with his 
crimson foulard. 

" May we come in ?" called out 
a voice from the door, and, without 
waiting for an answer, M. de Ker- 
bec entered, followed by Captain 
Darvallon. 

"What strong emotions we are 
experiencing!" said M. de Kerbec. 
" That does one good. I am sorry 
my wife is not here ; she would 
have enjoyed it." 

" It is almost too much," said 
Mme. Leopold; " and you, captain, 
have you been able to refrain from 
tears ?" 

" I have only just come," said 
M. Darvallon. " I suppose I have 



had a great loss, but my supply of 
tears will be fresh for the fifth act, 
when all of yours will be exhaust- 
ed." 

" Ah ! you mock us because your 
eyes are dry ; but our turn to mock 
will come. We shall see your pride 
brought low ; shall we not, ma 
Blanche?" 

" Mile. Blanche has given proof 
of a charming sensibility," observ- 
ed M. de Kerbec ; " she has been 
the object of a profound admir- 
ation during the emotions of the 
last act. Nothing >s so touch- 
ing in the young as this sensitive- 
ness of the heart." 

Blanche looked modestly con- 
scious, while her mother and M. 
de Kerbec exchanged significant 
glances. 

" He is a lost man!" whispered 
the count : " I have been speaking 
to him; he came and seized me in 
my box to confide to me his im- 
pressions. He is impatient to 
hear." And by a sign he asked 
what Blanche thought of the vi- 
comte. 

Some little conversation ensued 
sotto voce between the mother and 
M. de Kerbec, while Blanche en- 
gaged the attention of her father 
and M. Darvallon. 

<l De Cholcourt has been begging 
me to commend him to you for a 
nomination to Vienna," said M. 
Darvallon ; "he seems to be taking 
. the diplomatic career an serieux. 
I thought it was merely a caprice, 
and that he would throw it up at 
the end of six months; but I was 
mistaken. He is bent on distinguish- 
ing himself. He certainly has every 
qualification for making a good am- 
bassador; it is a pity he should not 
succeed." 

" What is to hinder his succeed- 
ing?" inquired the baron. 

" He is mal vu by the emperor, 



Pearl. 



and still more by the empress ; his 
mother refused the post of Dame 
du Palais, which was offered to her 
at the time of the marriage, and she 
has nearly quarrelled with her son for 
going to dance at the Tuileries." 

" Vieille bigote !" said the impe- 
rial minister, with a contemptuous 
shrug. " It would be serving her 
right if we made the young mar- 
quis our ambassador to Vienna ; 
it would be good fun to send the 
son to represent Napoleon III. at 
the same court where his father 
and grandfather represented a 
Bourbon." 

" Play the old lady that trick, 
papa," said Blanche, who had been 
listening with deep interest to the 
conversation; "tell the emperor, 
and he is sure to fall in with the 
joke." 

"Well done, Mile. Blanche!" 
said Darvallon. " I notice that la- 
dies, especially young ladies, are 
always for bold measures ; and, in 
politics as in war, it generally 
proves successful." 

" I hate those old bigotes of the 
Faubourg," said Blanche. 

" Is DeCholcourt in town at pre- 
sent ?" inquired M. Leopold. 

"He was in this house five min- 
utes ago. I wanted him to come 
and speak to you on the spot;, but 
he was afraid of seeming indiscreet 
on account of the presence of ces 
dames." 

" Tell him to come and see me 
to-morrow morning. I will help 
him as far as I can. It is abomi- 
nable that intelligent men should be 
shut out from public life through 
the silly prejudices of old women." 

" The Faubourg is so unpa- 
triotic !" remarked Blanche. " It 
cares for nothing but its own im- 
portance. Perisse la France, pour- 
vu que mon parti vive ! that is its 
motto. It is so stupid and selfish !" 



" What treason do I hear Mile. 
Blanche talking ?" cried M. de 
Kerbec, turning round with a pre- 
tence of horror. " If my wife were 
here she would have a fit." 

" You must tell no tales, De Ker- 
bec," said the baron. But Blanche, 
with a little toss of her head, said 
she did not care who heard her. 

" That is right. Have the cour- 
age of your opinions, mademoi- 
selle," said M. Darvallon, amused 
at her spirited attack on the old 
Faubourg. He had never heard 
Blanche express any opinion so 
freely or with so much aplomb. 
Her mother was rather alarmed. 
M. de Kerbec was a real friend, 
and eager for the vicomte's suit, 
or else he might make mischief; 
for the vicomte was a cheval sur 
son Faubourg, and the Bonapar- 
tist stain on Blanche had to be 
covered over with a vast amount 
of influence and promise of exer- 
tion for a young brother, on the 
part of the minister, before the can- 
didate could be brought to enter- 
tain the idea of this marriage at 
all. 

" What have you done with 
Leon ?" inquired Mine. Leopold, 
turning off the conversation to 
safer ground. 

" I have not seen him to-day," 
said M. Darvallon ; he might have 
said, for several days. 

" You may see him now, if you 
choose," said M. de Kerbec ; " he 
is within half a dozen boxes of 
this." 

"Who is he making himself 
agreeable to ?" said M. Leopold, 
stooping forward to see if his son 
were visible from their box. 

" To Mme. Monteagle or per- 
haps I should say to Mile. Red- 
acre; they are both there." 

Mme. Leopold gave a little start, 
as if a popgun had been let off 



Pearl. 



319 



under her chair. Darvallon made 
no sign, but his face grew dark 
and he bit his moustache, 

" He is betraying me," thought 
Leon's friend. 

" He is braving me," thought 
Leon's mother. 

" I will go and pay my respects 
to those ladies," said the minister, 
glad to make a tour out of the 
heated box. 

" Tell Leon to come and pay his 
respects to us," said Mine. Leopold 
in a playful tone. 

" Will you come, Darvallon ?" 

" No, if I may remain here a 
little longer?" 

Mme. Leopold nodded a friend- 
ly assent ; she longed to pour out 
her angry terrors in the ear of her 
son's friend, but De Kerbec's pre- 
sence made this impossible. Still, 
she would keep Darvallon ; the op- 
portunity might occur presently. 

Leon did not precipitate himself 
to answer his mother's summons ; 
he stayed on talking to Pearl, 
while his father was occupied with 
her chaperon. It was he who had 
given this box to Mrs. Monteagle, 
and suggested her taking Pearl to 
see the play that all Paris was cry- 
ing over. Mrs. Monteagle enjoyed 
fine acting more than music, and 
she was glad to give Pearl the out- 
ing, so she accepted the box and 
said nothing about where it came 
from. 

"Are you amused?" said Leon, 
as the two sat close together in the 
back seats of the dark box. 

" I'm not amused," said Pearl. 
"" I am too intensely interested to 
be amused ; I am rather vexed. I 
hate crying over plays and stories." 

" You prefer shedding your tears 
over real sorrows ?" 

" I prefer not shedding them at 
all; but if I must cry it is better 
worth while crying over the woes 



of people who exist than over the 
sorrows of people I don't know and 
care for." 

" Those people are much to be 
envied, whatever their misfortunes 
may be, if you shed tears over 
them; it would console me for be- 
ing shot, if I knew beforehand you 
would weep over me." 

" What nonsense you can talk, 
to be sure !" said Pearl, laughing ; 
but she wished he spoke more as if 
he knew he was talking nonsense. 

"I am not laughing; I swear to 
you I mean it !" said Leon in a 
low tone that made her move un- 
easily in her chair. 

" How hot it is ! I wish you 
would open the door," she said, 
fanning herself at arm's length. 

"You don't believe a word I 
say," said Leon; "you don't care 
what becomes of me. If I get shot 
down by the Arabs one of these 
days, you will say, ' Poor devil !' 
and come to the theatre the next 
minute as if nothing had hap- 
pened." 

" I never call any one a devil, 
and I don't believe there is such a 
glorious death in store for you. 
Do oblige me and open the door ! 
One suffocates here." 

But he took no notice of the re- 
iterated request, only bent nearer, 
resting his hand on the back of her 
chair. 

" Pearl, i love you !" he said 
suddenly, his face so close to hers 
that they almost touched. 

She started and would have stood 
up, but that was impossible with- 
out at once drawing M. Leopold's 
attention on them both. Why did 
not Mrs. Monteagle see what was 
going on and come to her assist- 
ance ? But if Mrs. Monteagle 
noticed anything she kept never 
minding and continued her animat- 
ed conversation with the minister, 



320 



Pearl. 



whose face was turned full on the 
house. 

" Pearl, I love you !" repeated 
Leon in the same hurried under- 
tone. " I have never loved any 
woman as I love you." 

" This is cruel, this is cowardly 
of you," said Pearl, dreadfully agi- 
tated, and in her excitement speak- 
ing so loud that it was a miracle 
the others did not hear her ; but 
Mrs. Monteagle was now talking 
at the top of her voice. 

" It is you who are cruel. You 
will not believe me ; you think I am 
mocking you. I swear to you I am 
not ! I was never more in earnest 
in my life. I will throw up my 
sword, I will brave my mother, I 
will cut my throat to prove it ! If 
only you could love me a little in 
return !" 

" I wish you would go away ! 
Can't you see that you are annoy- 
ing me ?" said Pearl, looking him 
full in the face and flashing her 
fan angrily between them ; but the 
flame in her eyes made them more 
beautiful than ever. 

" Ah ! is it so ? You don't care 
a straw for me ; you scorn my love ; 
and yet I think I could have made 
you love me if if " He looked 
at her fixedly, and then sinking his 
voice to a deeper whisper, " Do you 
know," he said, " that Raoul Dar- 
vallon is within a few doors of us ? 
He is in my mother's box." 

He could see the shock that the 
announcement gave her. But she 
raised her head and looked at 
him coldly; all the pride of her 
nature rallied to the rescue. How 
dare he attempt to raise the veil 
from her heart and pry insolently 
into its secrets? And yet the 
name, flung thus rudely at her, act- 
ed like a 'charm upon Pearl and 
soothed and reassured her. She 
had been frightened and annoyed 



by Leon's passionate sortie, but 
Raoul's name allayed her irritation 
as by a spell. It was not that it 
calmed her; she was conscious, on 
the contrary, of a new and strong 
emotion, but one of an altogether 
different kind joyous, timid, full 
of thrilling expectation. He was 
close to her ? Why did he not come 
nearer and speak to her ? Was it 
that he did not care ? The cur- 
rent of her feelings, checked in their 
angry flow, fell back and set softly 
in another direction. She knew 
that he cared ; then why did he 
keep aloof? Was he angry ? Did 
he resent Leon's presence near her ? 
Pearl could not have asserted posi- 
tively ten minutes ago that she 
loved Raoul Darvallon with her 
whole heart ; she knew that he had 
more power over her than any other 
human being, and a special kind of 
power ; that her thoughts turned 
constantly to him as the needle to 
the magnet ; that it was in her to 
love him if she dared. She knew 
now that she had dared. Her 
heart had revealed itself and con- 
fessed the secret it had been trying 
to hide. She saw that she loved 
him, that her heart was his with a 
jealous and entire devotion which 
would tolerate no approach from any 
other worshipper. From him she 
had first heard the voice of love, of 
real love, speaking in restrained, in- 
articulate utterances, it is true, but 
with a penetrating sweetness that 
left no doubt of its reality. Beside 
these timid whisperings, full of the 
strength of true, manly passion,' 
Captain Leopold's ardent declara-.' 
tion showed like the flaring of a 
candle compared to the strong, 
glorious light of the sun. 

Leon was watching her as these 
thoughts passed through her mind t 
and something of that electric cur- 
rent which flows like a voice from 



Pearl. 



321 



one soul to another was quickening 
his perception of facts which had 
for some time been matter of sus- 
picion. Pearl's quivering, tell-tale 
features, moreover, were complet- 
ing the discovery his own instincts 
had begun ; and she felt this, and at 
last she could bear it no longer. 
The audience was flowing back to 
the empty boxes ; the curtain was 
about to rise ; but she was not going 
to sit out the rest of the piece with 
Captain Leopold close to her, 
whispering his love in her ear. 

" M. le Baron," she said, stoop- 
ing forward, and touching the min- 
ister with her fan, " I should like 
so much to get a little air ! Would 
you take me for a turn before the 
curtain rises ?" 

" Certainly, my dear young lady. 
Ha ! there is the signal. It is 
too late. But we can open the 
door for a moment. Only be care- 
ful ; the current of cold air is treach- 
erous. Come, Leon, we must go 
now ; your mother expects you to 
pay her a visit in her box." 

They went out, and Pearl moved 
forward into M. Leopold's vacant 
seat. Mrs. Monteagle noticed how 
flushed she was ; but the heat she 
complained of would have account- 
ed for this, even without that tete- 
&-tete which her friend had been at 
such pains to cover and prevent 
M. Leopold from interrupting. 
There was no mistaking the de- 
votedness of Leon's manner and 
attitude, both of which this unprin- 
cipled Englishwoman had observ- 
ed with great satisfaction ; but she 
was surprised not to see a more 
radiant look on Pearl's face. Pearl, 
in truth, was very far from feeling 
radiant. She was listening to every 
step that approached the door of 
their box, wondering that it did not 
open and admit Raoul Darvallon. 
He must know now, if by an unlike- 
VOL. xxix. 21 



ly possibility he had not known it 
before, that she was here, and his 
not coming near her was significant. 
Pearl felt certain it was not indif- 
ference that kept him away. M. 
de Kerbec came in presently and 
sat down behind Mrs. Monteagle's 
chair, making a copious display 
with his pocket-handkerchief when 
the opportunity occurred. But 
Pearl had no more tears to spare 
on the interesting hero and heroine ; 
there was a hand at her heart that 
had shut up the spring of all sur- 
face sensibilities, oppressing her 
with a sense of suffocation. When 
the curtain fell on the fourth act 
she complained of being overcome 
by the heat, and begged Mrs. Mont- 
eagle to let M. de Kerbec call the 
fly and send her home. 

" Adolphe will see me safe to the 
Rue du Bac, and then come back 
for you," she said. But Mrs. 
Monteagle protested that she was 
glad to go herself; she knew how 
the piece ended, and the heat and 
the crying were beginning to be 
too much for her. 

M. de Kerbec gave her his arm, 
and they left the box. Pearl had 
a soft white hood tlfrown over her 
head, and she drew it close round 
her face as the cold air met them 
near the staircase. 

"Why are you going so soon? 
Take my arm," said a man's voice; 
and Captain Leopold was at her side. 

They were on the landing above 
the hall, where M. de Kerbec had 
placed Mrs. Monteagle in a corner 
out of the draughts while he hur- 
ried off to look for Adolphe. Pearl 
started and drew her hood a little 
closer. 

"Thank you; I prefer going 
alone," she replied. 

" It can't hurt you to take my 
arm," he said in a deprecating tone 
and holding it out to her. 



322 



Pearl. 



But Pearl was in no mood to be 
propitiated. Drawing herself up 
haughtily, she let the swansdown 
snood fall back and show her face, 
angry and severe. 

" I will not take your arm, mon- 
sieur. It is unmanly of you to pur- 
sue me in this way. Go back to 
the theatre, and let me go on 
alone." 

"I 'will go, since you command 
me; but you are cruel," he said, 
though making no attempt to 
move. 

Some one was coming up from 
the hall. 

" Mademoiselle, may I conduct 
you to your carriage ?" said Cap- 
tain Darvallon, standing bare-head- 
ed a step below her, and looking 
steadily away from Leon. 

With a quick, impulsive move- 
ment Pearl turned to him, and put 
out her hand to take his arm. 

" Au revoir, Darvallon /" 

** Au revoir, Leopold /" 

Pearl heard the ring of clashing 
steel in the voices of the two men 
as they exchanged the salutation, 
confronting one another for a mo- 
ment on the stairs. She felt sick, 
as if she were'going to faint. 

Darvallon felt her trembling on 
his arm, and he tightened his grasp 
to support her as she clung to him 
while they descended to the hall. 

Mrs. Monteagle was in the car- 
riage already. 

" I expect to leave Paris to-mor- 
row," said Raoul in a low, hurried 
voice, and Pearl nearly exclaimed, 
" Thank heaven !" "I must see you 
before I go. I want to speak to 
you alone for a moment. Can you 
come to Mrs. Monteagle's to-mor- 
row morning ? I will be there be- 
fore one o'clock." 

" I will come if I can," said Pearl. 
He assisted her into the carriage, 
and they drove away. 



"Well," said Mrs. Monteagle 
" what is the matter ?" 

"Oh! I am so sorry that you 
should have lost the end of the 
piece on my account," said Pearl. 

"I am not talking about the 
piece. I want to know what is the 
matter. Have you and Captain 
Leopold had a quarrel, or what is 
it?" 

" We are not on quarrelling 
terms." 

" Humph ! one would not have 
supposed that to see you together 
this evening." 

Pearl made no answer. She was 
in no mood to be joked about 
Leon. She wanted to speak out to 
Mrs. Monteagle, and she had not 
the courage to begin at once. 

" My dear, people say many dis- 
agreeable things about me, but I 
never heard that anybody ever call- 
ed me a fool," said Mrs. Montea- 
gle, seeing that Pearl volunteered 
no explanation. " That young man ] 
is in love with you. I would not 
have given him credit for so much 
pluck; but he has actually fallen in 
love with you without the family 
lawyer's advice, and you know it. 
The thing for you to do now is to \ 
leave his grandmother's house at 
once and come to mine, and wait 
till your father can come over and 
take you home." 

"There is no need for me to 
leave Mme. Mere." 

"You have not refused him?" 
" He has not given me the 
chance." 

" Tush ! Nonsense ! He may 
not have .asked you in so many 
words he is a Frenchman, and I 
suppose he could not bring himself 
to do that but he has made you 
understand that he wants to marry 
you." 

" He talked great stuff this even- 
ing, and I begged him to hold his 



Pearl. 



323 



tongue and leave me alone ; and I 
think he will for the future." 

" Pearl, I am very fond of you ; 
I have always found you truthful 
and straightforward; but I can't 
make you out now. You as much 
as owned to me that you were at- 
tached to some one, and of course 
it can be no one but Captain Leo- 
pold." 

"Oh !" cried Pearl. 
" And I now know that he is in 
love with you." 

"Did he tell you so?" 
" He did. And I took you to 
the theatre to-night that he might 
have an opportunity of telling you, 
though of course it could be no 
news to you." 

Pearl uttered another inarticu- 
late exclamation. 

" I never could make out what 
you saw in a black stick like him 
to care about," continued Mrs. 
Monteagle ; " but, as you did, I was 
anxious to make you happy, and I 
have done my best to bring matters 
to a crisis between you." 

"Dear Mrs. Monteagle! how 
could you suppose I cared for him? 
Don't you remember how, long 
ago before we left Paris you 
asked me, and I laughed at the 
bare notion of the thing ? Do you 
forget ?" 

."No, I don't. But, as you say, 
that is a long time ago several 
months; you have had time to 
think it over. But even then I 
did not believe you when you de- 
nied it." 

" You thought I was telling you 
a lie!" 

"Lie is a big word; but lies, I 
believe, are considered fair in love 
and electioneering. However, that 
is nothing to the purpose. Do you 
mean to tell me now that you don't 
care for him, and that you won't 
marry him ?" 



" He has not asked me." 
"Don't be silly; he means to 
ask you." 

" Then I shall refuse him." 
" You positively mean it ?" 
<; I would rather go to the block 
than marry him !" 

" Poh ! Don't fly off into hero- 
ics ; there is no need for you to go 
to the block, whether you marry or 
whether you don't. Only it is a 
pity I did not know your feeling 
about it sooner. I have moved 
heaven and earth to bring about 
this marriage. Now I have only 
to tell Leopold that he must bind 
up his wounds and be on with the 
new love as soon as he can. Poor 
wretch ! I am sorry for him." 

" I don't believe lie needs your 
pity. I don't believe he can ever 
have seriously meant it. He would 
no more dare tell his mother that 
he was going to marry me than he 
would walk up to his colonel on 
parade and slap him across the 
face; his mother is the only human 
being he is afraid of." 

"He was prepared to brave her 
for all that." 

"Arid marr/ a girl without a 
penny !" 

" He has pennies enough for two. 
But that is neither here nor there 
now. You don't like him, so there 
is an end of it. I will tell him to- 
morrow that the sooner he sails for" 
Algiers the better." 

" You will see him to-morrow ?" 

"Yes; he is coming to break- 
fast with me." 

*' Good heavens !" 

Pearl started forward on the seat, 
clasping her hands. 

"Well, what's the matter now?" 

"He must not come! Dear 
Mrs. Monteagle, you must not let 
him come ! Something awful will 
happen if they meet !" 

"If who meet ?" 



324 



Pearl. 



But Pearl could not answer; the 
carriage had turned upside down ; 
the stars were under her feet; the gay 
lamps were spinning in and out of 
the windows ; her breath came and 
went. 

" What is it all about ?" said 
Mrs. Monteagle, who began to be 
alarmed by the girl's excited man- 
ner, her scared face and rigid atti- 
tude. "Tell me the truth, Pearl. 
Child, can't you trust me ?" And 
she laid her hand on Pearl's, that 
were locked together like a vise. 

" Captain Darvallon is to be at 
your house to-morrow immediately 
after breakfast/' 

"Well?" said Mrs. Monteagle, 
more and more mystified by the 
solemnity with which Pearl, made 
the irrelevant announcement. 
" They must not meet." 
" Darvallon and Leopold? Why, 
they are brothers ! They never 
have a secret from one another." 
" They have now. He Iwes me /" 
"Who? Darvallon ?" 
Pearl made no answer. 
" And you do you love him ?" 
"Yes!" It came in a whisper 
so faint that, if Mrs.%Monteagle had 
not read it on the timid, parting 
lips, the word would not have 
reached her. Pearl burst into 
tears and let her head drop on 
Mrs. Monteagle's shoulder. The 
discomfited matchmaker was so 
utterly confounded that it was 
some minutes before she recover- 
ed herself sufficiently to offer a 
word of sympathy or condolence, 
or to ask how it had all come 
about. Pearl had her cry out, and 
then she told her story, everything, 
from the absurd incident, as she 
thought it, of Leon's being caught 
on his knees before her to that 
terrible " au revoir /" which the two 
men had just exchanged at the 
head of the stair. 



" It sounded like a challenge to 
a duel," she said, shuddering. 

" It was a challenge," said Mrs. 
Monteagle. 

" You think they will fight ? But 
he told me that he expected to 
leave Paris to-morrow night." 

** That was very likely to throw 
dust in your eyes and prevent your 
giving the alarm." 
" O my God !" 

" Don't be frightened, dear. We 
won't let them fight. I will pre- 
vent it. Trust me to manage it. 
Here we are at No. 25. Now 
good-night. Don't let this worry 
you. I promise you no harm shall 
come to them." 

Pearl was crying bitterly. Mrs. 
Monteagle put her arms round her 
and rocked her like a baby. 

" Are you sure you can stop it 
in time ?" said Pearl, lifting her 
head as they drew up at Mme. 
Mere's door. " Suppose they meet 
to-morrow morning before we are 
out of our beds?" 

Mrs. Monteagle laughed. 
"A duel is not despatched in 
such a hurry as all that. They 
must choose their seconds, and the 
seconds must meet and make ar- 
rangements, and so on ; and all 
that takes time. They couldn't 
possibly manage it before the day 
after to-morrow, and I shall take 
care that the affair is settled for 
them before then. Promise me to 
sleep on that and be good." 
Pearl kissed her fondly. 
" Shall I say anything to Mme. 
Mere?" 

" Not for your life ! She would 
fly off to old Leopold, and the story 
would get wind at once ; and that 
would make no end of mischief, 
and they would fight ten times 
more certainly. Don't say a word 
about it to any one. There is no- 
thing men resent like being inter- 



The Protestant War against Christianity. 



325 



fered with in an affair of this kind. 
Captain Darvallon would never 
forgive us." 

This was a random shot, but it 
took effect, though Pearl did not 
need that threat to do as her old 
friend advised. 

" Don't come to my house to- 
morrow morning. I will call here, 
or else send you a line to say that 
it is all made right," said Mrs. 
Monteagle. 



They kissed again. Pearl got 
out. Mrs. Monteagle waited till 
Adolphe had seen the young lady 
safe inside Mme. Mere's door, 
then she drove away not home, 
but to Mme. de Kerbec's. She 
waited for the count's return, and 
then they went out together. It 
was past two in the morning when 
he left Mrs. Monteagle at her own 
door. 



TO BE CONTINUED. 



THE PROTESTANT WAR AGAINST CHRISTIANITY. 



IN their pulpits some of the Pro- 
testant preachers still proclaim 
thefr adherence to the essential 
dogmas of the Christian religion. 
They still profess their belief in 
one God, the Father Almighty, and 
in Jesus Christ, his Son and our 
Lord. They say they believe in 
his miraculous conception ; in his 
birth, crucifixion, death, burial, 
and ascension ; in the church 
which he founded, but which, in 
their opinion, he has not been able 
to maintain in unity; in the Holy 
Ghost,, in the resurrection of the 
dead, and in life eternal. But 
many other Protestant and non- 
Catholic preachers and writers be- 
lieve none, or not all, of these 
things, and they are by no means 
backward in expressing their dis.- 
belief and in seeking to spread 
abroad their heresies. In October 
last* we presented in these pages 
a review of the anti-Catholic and 
anti-Christian literature of that 

* " The New Protestant Criticism of Christian- 
ity." See THE CATHOLIC WORLD for October, 1878. 



year. Some of the books of which 
we then gave a synopsis had been 
written with the avowed, or at least 
undisguised, purpose of destroy- 
ing faith and inculcating atheism; 
a larger number of them had the 
same object, but concealed it more 
or less skilfully. It may surprise 
our readers that another similar re- 
view can be profitably made so 
soon ; but no previous century, 
generation, or decade has been so 
prolific as this of books discussing 
that tremendous problem the des- 
tiny of the human soul. The busy 
press literally rains books upon the 
world, and a very large proportion 
of them are devoted to the consid- 
eration of questions which lie at the 
foundation of the Christian faith, 
and which, indeed, involve the 
existence of the Creator himself. 

Even a casual glance at the new 
books of any year will convince 
the observer that the Protestant 
sects are day by day breaking into 
smaller and smaller factions, and 
that the basis of a creed which 



326 



The Protestant War against Christianity. 



they once fancied they held in 
common is disintegrating, and will 
soon be discarded altogether. 
Chaos has set in, and even the de- 
voutness which served as a cable 
to hold Protestant? at least with 
their faces in the right direction 
is growing more and more tenuous 
and filmy, and most of the sects 
are gratifying their curiosity by un- 
ravelling it to see of what it is 
made. Protestantism is weakening 
every day, and what it loses is gain- 
ed by the Catholic Church on the 
one hand and by the army of atheism 
on the other. 

It is noticeable, also, that the 
avowed foes of Christianity are 
somewhat changing front, or at 
least are adopting new names. 
Materialists no longer call them- 
selves atheists but " agnostics " ; 
they no longer say, " There is no 
God," but they timidly exclaim, 
."I don't know whether there is or 
not." They speak of all that realm 
that lies beyond the physical sen- 
ses as "the unknowable"; they 
say, " We know and can know 
only matter and force, only cause 
and effect, only an unbroken se- 
quence of physical phenomena." 
.This is specious, but it is a retreat 
of the forces of Satan to an unten- 
able fortress. This, in turn, will be 
besieged, compelling another re- 
treat or capitulation. 

From the scores of books of 
an anti-Catholic and anti-Christian 
character that have been issued in 
Great Britain since last fall, we 
have selected a few of the most 
striking for analysis and comment. 
The effort which the Protestants 
are making to get a new Bible 
from the convocation of scholars 
at Westminster is only one of the 
signs of the theological anarchy 
that prevails outside of the Catho- 
lic Church. Another sign, quite as 



important, is the diversity of read- 
ings in which educated Protestant 
clergymen indulge upon their own 
personal responsibility clinging to 
the King James version, to which 
they have become accustomed, and 
for which, as Dr. Schaff acknow- 
ledges, congregations " have a pre- 
judice" and yet reading between 
the lines whatever they please. 
Apropos of this is a notable article, 
under the suggestive title of " Di- 
vine Myths, "to which that very'' lib- 
eral " magazine The Expositor gives 
hospitality. It is contributed by a 
man who is vouched for as '' no 
free-thinker, but, on the contrary, 
an out-and-out believer in the 
inspiration of Scripture." It is cu- 
rious to hear an "out-andout be- 
liever " saying to his Protestant au- 
dience : 

" I believe firmly and devoutly that 
the Bible, from Genesis to Revelation, /> 
the word of God ; I believe that the 
Spirit of God not only moved by secret 
impulses the minds of the sacred writers, 
but also overruled to a great extent the 
ipsissima verba of Holy Writ. And no- 
where do I feel (rightly or wrongly) the 
divine inspiration more strongly and 
pervadingly than in the early records of 
Genesis. . . . And yet I do regard 
these records as myths ; and I think 
that all the efforts made, and still being 
made, to reconcile their statements with 
history and with science are only so 
much earnestness and ingenuity thrown 
away." 

This is the sort of plenary inspi- 
ration which a Protestant maga- 
zine sets forth to enlighten the 
minds and promote the devotion 
of Protestants. 

The"French Reformed Church" 
is perhaps not a very important in- 
teger in the sum of Protestantism, 
but its voice may be deemed to 
some extent representative. The 
History of the Dogma of the Deity 
of Jesus Christ is the rather start- 
ling title under which one of its 



The Protestant War against Christianity. 



327 



clergymen, Albert Reville, D.D., 
calmly challenges the title of the 
Lord of lords and King of kings. 
It has been translated into English, 
and has reached a second edition 
under the patronage and auspices 
of the Protestant churches of Great 
Britain. The author bravely sets 
out to prove that the divinity of 
Jesus of Nazareth is a 

" doctrine which, having been slowly 
elaborated, arrived at supremacy in the 
Christian Church towards the end of the 
fifth century, and which, after continu- 
ing undisputed, except in connection 
with some obscure heresies, for eleven 
centuries, has been gradually, from the 
sixteenth century, losing its prestige, 
although it is still the professed belief 
of the majority of Christians." 

Dr. Reville undertakes to show 
that Jesus did not "claim for him- 
self the name and the attributes of 
the Divinity"; that he did not 
found " upon this claim his right 
to be believed and implicitly obey- 
ed " ; that the dogma was not held 
by the apostles nor taught for a 
long time by any church authority ; 
that it is neither expressly revealed 
in Scripture nor deducible there- 
from by legitimate inference ; and 
that even the early councils of 
the Catholic Church did not, in 
this respect, pretend to announce 
what was true, but only to " ex- 
press with greater clearness the 
permanent belief of Christendom." 
Dr. Reville says : 

" There is first a period of incubation 
and slow formation, which dates from 
the early days of Christianity, and ends 
nearly at the commencement of the mid- 
dle ages ; then comes a period of tri- 
umphant immovability, which terminates 
in the sixteenth century ; and lastly a 
period of slow transformation and de- 
cline, whi< h commenced at the Refor- 
mation and still continues." 

It was the fifth century, he ex- 
claims, " before the Son of Man 



became God," and the Reforma- 
tion "was the signal for the decline 
of this dogma, which is now verg- 
ing towards ultimate extinction." 
The first questions he proposes to 
himself are: In what light did Je- 
sus regard himself? and, In what 
light was' he regarded by his disci- 
ples during his lifetime? These 
questions he answers by retaining 
as much of the Bible as accords 
with his view, and discarding the 
rest. Of his own utter " freedom " 
he says : " We exercise a complete 
independence with regard to the 
formulas successively sanctioned by 
the dogmatisms of the past. What 
we hold to of these for our own 
part is what appears to us to be 
true in them, apart from all super- 
natural authority." 

So he discards the Gospel- ac- 
cording to St. John with a flourish 
that would be amusing if it were 
not irreverent. He says that this 
Gospel 

" speaks throughout, and makes Jesus 
speak, as if from the very first he had 
claimed and received from las disciples 
the .honors due to a being of superhuman 
origin, of transcendent nature, existent 
long before his appearance on earth, and 
only passing a short time here, to return 
almost immediately to the super-physical 
region whence he came." 

He therefore decides that the 
book is of uncertain date and 
anonymous authorship; that it was 
probably written four o.r five gen- 
erations after the Crucifixion, and 
that, " whoever may be the author, 
whatever the date," it is not enti- 
tled to credence. He does not 
scruple to charge on the fourth 
Gospel the attempt to palm upon 
the world a fraudulent Messias, 
and affirms that 

" one of the most unassailable results of 
the Biblical criticism of our time is the 
demonstration it has furnished of the 
systematically-formed plan of the anony- 



328 



The Protestant War against Christianity. 



mous historian, and of bis unvarying 
purpose, carried out with rare ability, to 
eliminate from the evangelical history 
whatever tended to compromise the 
doctrine of the Word, while introducing, 
on the other hand, many new elements 
to confirm it." 

With much casuistry and sophis- 
try he follows what he calls " the 
growth " of our Lord's divinity 
from century to century; and fin- 
ally, with sinister accent, says that 
if there is nothing primitive in this 
doctrine; if "not only Jesus him- 
self, but the apostolic age and the 
two following centuries, did without 
it " ; if it " was not formed complete 
in all of its parts, but little by 
little," then its gradual and visible 
decay, and the degradation of the 
Head of the church to the low 
level of a mere man, need cause no 
alarm to the mind of Christendom. 
Perhaps this volume indicates 
the tendency of Protestantism as 
clearly as any book of the year its 
tendency to quit all anchorage, and 
to cut loose from all moorings, and 
drift, whithersoever atheistic winds 
may blow, upon the fathomless 
ocean of the supernatural. Such 
Protestantism feels the set of all 
the currents of rationalism, posi- 
tivism, spiritism, agnosticism, and 
goes with whichever influence hap- 
pens to be strongest ; but Why does 
it persist in calling itself Chris- 
tianity ? 

A fitting companion volume to 
the work of the French pastor is 
The Bible and Criticism, by Robert 
Rainy, principal and professor of 
divinity and church history of a 
religious college in Edinburgh. 
The Proverbs of Solomon, he in- 
forms his school, are a piece of 
mosaic, made up by collecting the 
current maxims of the time and by 
piecing together the work of differ- 
ent authors, when or by whom we 



do not know. And he does not 
hesitate to tell his young men that 
" those who think it important to 
maintain the Mosaic origin of the 
main substance of Deuteronomy 
cannot exclude the idea of later ed- 
iting." He is so very considerate 
as to leave some of the Psalms 
to David. Yet he hedges by say- 
ing : " When I recognize an opinion 
as in general compatible with faith 
and with useful service to the com- 
mon cause, I do not thereby decide 
whether it is or should be free to 
men to teach it in my own church." 
This is very odd. One would 
suppose that an opinion " compati- 
ble with faith and with useful ser- 
vice to the common cause " might 
safely be left " free to men to 
teach." But there is no knowing 
what eccentric thing a sect will do 
which holds the theory, " Every 
man his own pope." 

Dr. Rowland Williams is the au- 
thor of a work entitled The Book 
of Daniel and the Revelation of St. 
John, which boasts of being " a 
fearless and unsparing application 
of the methods and principles of 
historical criticism, irrespective of 
any theory of revelation." He in- 
sists that the Book of Daniel is not 
placed among the prophets but 
among the hagiographa, where it 
has songs or semi-canonical books 
for neighbors; then he detects in 
Daniel certain Persian and Greek 
words which, he thinks, could only 
have been used "after Alexander." 
He gives the book a recent origin, 
says it was written by " some un- 
known Jew " who personated Dan- 
iel and 'masqueraded under his 
name. Of the canonical authority 
of Scripture Dr. Williams says that 
"the mere canonicity or enrolment 
on the list of the church in itself 
determines nothing as to the in- 
herent quality, whether human or 



The Protestant War against Christianity. 



329 



divine, of the book enrolled," but 
that it " recommends to us each on 
its own ground, and leaves us free 
to discriminate each." This is the 
Protestant ground every man his 
own pope. Luther took the same, 
and even greater, liberty. 

The fact that the Saviour spoke 
of Daniel as a prophet the writer 
disposes of by saying : " We have 
no reason to assume that, in this 
particular, our Lord exercised a 
critical discernment in advance of 
that of his own age"; and "the 
writers of the New Testament do 
not claim for their Master that in- 
fallible knowledge which theologi- 
cal inference has ascribed to him." 
And he proceeds, with true Protes- 
tant rashness and irreverence, to 
say that 

" It need not, then, surprise us to dis- 
cover that Jesus shared the Messianic 
conceptions of his contemporaries, and 
that his apprehension of the Book of 
Daniel corresponded with that of the age 
in which he lived. . . . Whether Jesus 
himself uttered the eschatological say- 
ings recorded in the synoptic Gospels, 
or whether they were put into his mouth 
by the writers of the evangelical histories, 
we have no means of determining. In 
either case we are placed on the horns 
of a dilemma. If he gave them utter- 
ance, he was himself deceived ; if they 
were put into his mouth by the evange- 
lists after his death, they were negatived 
by the course of events." 

The same critic very kindly con- 
cedes to St. John the authorship 
of the Apocalypse, but contends 
that the same John could not have 
been the writer of either the fourth 
Gospel or of the Epistles which 
bear his name. Indeed, he sweeps 
the fourth Gospel out of existence 
with one wave of his pen, as an 
anonymous work which is entitled 
to neither reverence nor belief. 
And the Christian Church, he con- 
tends, must cease to worship God 
and Christ must, in fact, cease to 



worship at all, and become merely 
a teacher of " disinterested virtue." 
This is Protestantism ! 

Dr: William Cunningham, princi- 
pal and professor of church history 
in New College, Edinburgh, starts 
up to prove, in a great volume of 
Theological Lectures, the plenary ver- 
bal inspiration of King James' ver- 
sion of the Protestant Bible. How 
it can be " verbally " inspired when 
no special divine assistance is claim- 
ed for King James' Forty-seven 
the author does not condescend to 
tell us ; but he does say : 

" By far the most plausible objection 
against the plenary verbal inspiration of 
the Bible is that derived from the verbal 
differences in the Bible narratives of the 
same event, and especially from those 
occurring in the different records of what 
is narrated as having been spoken upon 
the same occasion by God and Christ." 

This he explains in a manner 
which implies a complete surrender 
of the doctrine he is. trying to 
maintain, thus : 

" The main ground which is taken by 
the defenders of verbal inspiration in 
direct answer to this objection, and the 
only one, so far as I can see, which they 
could take, is this : that as it is univer- 
sally allowed that it is no argument 
against the truth or veracity of witnesses 
or narrators that their accounts, while 
agreeing in substance, should vary some- 
what in minute details and in the pre- 
cise, words in which they are set forth, 
so whatever is inconsistent with truth and 
veracity in men, when left to the unaid- 
ed exercise of their faculties, is consist- 
ent with the agency and operation of the 
Holy Spirit." 

The difficulty with this theory is 
that men " left to the unaided ex- 
ercise of their faculties " are liable 
to make serious mistakes, even 
when their veracity is unquestion- 
ed ; and such liability to error on 
the part of the inspired writers is 
not at all consistent with Dr. Can- 



330 



The Protestant War against Christianity. 



ningham's claim. He completes 
his survey of the evidences of 
Christianity by endeavoring to de- 
monstrate that all the books which 
are plenarily and verbally inspired, 
and no others, are included in the 
canon of Scripture as accepted by 
Protestants. As the Protestant Bi- 
ble is the subject of such fierce 
controversies regarding its origin 
and meaning that there are no two 
clergymen or parsons, much less 
any two of the hundred sects, that 
entirely agree as to its inspiration, 
it is obvious that Dr. Cunningham 
must be a very acute and ingenious 
person to make his claim appear 
plausible even to an audience of 
Protestants. 

Of the many non-Catholic books 
issued during the last few months, 
the most dangerous, because the 
most insidious, are those which are 
called histories, and next in the 
classification of peril we must name 
the so-called commentaries. These, 
while claiming to be merely histori- 
cal or analytical, are often polem- 
ics in disguise. The volume con- 
taining Matthew's Gospel and Par- 
allel Passages is an innocent book 
on its face, but the reader will not 
go far before he observes that the 
anonymous author attacks under 
his mask not only " Popish super- 
stition and Romish error," which is 
a matter of course, but fiercely as- 
sails the doctrine of the Trinity, 
inveighs against plenary inspira- 
tion, and descants in an aggrieved 
tone on a version of the Bible 
which deceives the world into be- 
lief in the personality of the Holy 
Ghost and the divinity of Jesus 
Christ. The parallel passages al- 
luded to in the title are dovetailed 
into Matthew from the other Gos- 
pels for the obvious purpose of 
convincing the reader, in the ab- 
sence of any competent explana- 



tion, that the Bible is full of con- 
tradictions and misstatemeiitS of 
fact. The strange fact if, indeed, 
it be strange is that the writer of 
this assault on revelation claims to 
be a Protestant Christian, and sug- 
gests that the manual is issued for 
use in Bible-classes and Sunday- 
schools. 

The utter perversion from the 
purpose of their pious founders of 
those ancient Catholic universities 
of Oxford and Cambridge is em- 
phasized in nothing more strongly 
than in the religious literature put 
forth by their faculties. One of the 
latest of their exploits in Biblical 
dialectics is A Commentary on the 
Epistle of St. Paul to the Galatians, 
by Rev. John Venn, a fellow of 
Queen's College, Cambridge. The 
chief question which Ire discusses 
is whether Pauline Christianity dif- 
fered essentially and fundamentally 
from the Christianity of Peter and 
James. " If Paul taught to be sin- 
ful that which the original apostles 
not only tolerated but practised 
and inculcated as an essential ele- 
ment of Christianity, then it is in 
vain to contend that his teaching 
was in substantial harmony with 
that of those who were apostles 
before him." Mr. Venn very kind- 
ly and complacently minimizes the 
difference. He assures the world 
with much assurance, it may be 
said that Paul taught the Metho- 
dist doctrin , " once in grace a.lways 
in grace," and that it is impossi- 
ble for a Christian to fall. 

The Protestant sects are rent by 
conflicting guesses and specula- 
tions. Every sect has its rhetori- 
cal adventurers, who publish volume 
after volume to maintain theories 
which originated in their own brains, 
and which they present as creden- 
tials of their right to speak as am- 
bassadors of the Most High. A 



T/ie Protestant War against Christianity. 



331 



recent English utterance of this 
sort is Parousia : A Critical In- 
quiry into the New Testament Doc- 
trine of our Lord's Second Coming. 
Having no infallible guide, either 
in revelation or tradition, either in 
apostle or bishop, it is not surpris- 
ing that the second advent of 
Christ has greatly puzzled and wor- 
ried the most sincere Protestants ; 
nor is it surprising that, in propor- 
tion to their earnestness and their 
misinformation, they have issued 
dogmatic manifestoes announcing 
what each supposes to be true. 
The author of Parousia finds 
throughout Gospels, Epistles, and 
Apocalypse one single constant an- 
nouncement, and that is the return 
of Christ in a few years, at the de- 
struction of Jerusalem, attended by 
a resurrection and a judgment. 
This prophecy, he believes, has 
been strictly fulfilled. "The end 
of the world " (or, according to his 
translation, " the end of the age "), 
the " last day," the resurrection, 
the judgment day, he considers to 
have been rightly described by 
Jesus as close at hand, as contem- 
porary with the second coming, 
which was to be so soon that Christ 
promised that " some should not 
taste of death till they see the Son 
of Man come in his kingdom." 
Jerusalem was destroyed ; so much 
of the prophecy came to pass ; and 
this speculator claims that the rest 
of the prophecy came to pass at 
that same time ; that the resurrec- 
tion of all who were dead took 
place, though no eye saw it; that 
they received judgment in the 
spiritual world ; and that the Mas- 
ter returned, but chose to remain 
invisible. Even some Protestants 
seem to feel that this is a lame and 
impotent conclusion, for one of their 
own reviewers says of this fantas- 
tic conjecture : 



" That all these grand prophecies were 
fulfilled in the destruction of one town ; 
in the abolition of an effete nationality ; 
in a judgment, about the year 70 A.D., 
which took place no one knows why; in a 
resurrection then, no one know-; where ; 
in a coming in glory no one ever beheld, 
cannot be considered highly satisfactory. 
Certainly it is very curious, if the advent 
really took place at the fall of Jerusalem, 
that the primitive church was never 
aware of it ; that no early Christian far 
less any Jew was conscious of its hav- 
ing happened ; that apostles should have 
even lived to see it, and yet never known 
it, and left their successors still looking 
for it." 

This reviewer thinks, however, 
that the book has a certain value 
for its " exhibition of the various 
statements on eschatology " ; but it 
seems to be particularly curious as 
an illustration of the unrest and 
anxiety of Protestants, which cause 
them to feel in every direction for 
solid ground, and constantly miss 
it because they wander in the quag- 
mire of egotistical speculation. 

Some of those Protestant books 
which masquerade under the spe- 
cious titles of dictionaries, school- 
books, etc., are capable of doing 
an immense amount of injury, es- 
pecially to the young. They are 
made attractive by the pretence of 
conveying in compact form much 
useful and impartial information. 
Our readers know how often histo- 
ry is belied and sacred things are 
blasphemed in the current " read- 
ers " of the public school ; and not 
less is this the case with multitudes 
of alluring books which make their 
way into unsuspecting houses. A 
specimen of these is Biblical Things 
not generally known, a chaotic con- 
glomeration of fragmentary scraps 
conveying to the vigilant read- 
er " vast and varied misinforma- 
tion." Much of this book is posi- 
tively untrue and misleading. The 
author, for instance, gravely tells the 



332 



The Protestant War against Christianity. 



reader that "Publius Lentulus, who 

was Governor of Judea in the time 
of Christ, wrote to Tiberius Caesar " 
a minute description of the person- 
al appearance of our Saviour, and 
he quotes, as if it were a genuine 
epistle and not a coarse and im- 
pudent forgery, the letter in ques- 
tion, which purports to describe 
his eyes, nose, mouth, hair, and 
beard, and to characterize him as 
41 the handsomest man in the world." 
Jonas and the whale seem to trou- 
ble the same author. In one scrap 
we are informed that "a large whale 
was lately stranded on the beach 
near Tyre"; and, as this does not 
clear up the difficulty much, an- 
other scrap adds that the white 
shark is found in the Mediterrane- 
an, that it frequently swallows its 
prey alive, and that " cases are on 
record, sustained by the most un- 
doubted authority, in which entire 
bodies were found in the stomach 
of this fish, such as a man, a man 
clad with armor, and even a horse." 
Feeling that something is still lack- 
ing to explain the extraordinary 
history of Jonas on " natural prin- 
ciples," he proceeds to add, " Natu- 
ralists have recorded that sharks 
have the habit of throwing up again 
whole and -alive the prey they have 
swallowed," leaving the inference 
that sharks are in the habit of dis- 
gorging men alive. The disingenu- 
ousness of this is striking. So ea- 
gerly does this little innocent-look- 
ing book strive to explain away 
every miracle that it might almost 
have been written by that peripa- 
tetic Pope of Protestantism, Joseph 
Cook, himself. 

The Decalogue is not held in very 
high esteem nowadays by the school 
of transcendental philosophers. 
They are not at all satisfied with a 
mere moral code from the lips of 
the Deity, but hold nothing bind- 



ing except a law of right which is 
evolved from their inner conscious- 
ness and that they frequently hold 
to be binding only on others. The 
Evolution of Morality is a work in 
two volumes, somewhat larger than 
the Bible, and, in the minds of ra- 
tionalists, quite superior to it as a 
code of duty. Its author, C. Stani- 
land Wake, seeks for the roots of 
morality "down deep in the in- 
stincts of humanity." The sense 
of right he traces back to mere 
animal instinct : 

"The bird which has built a nest or 
obtained certain food instinctively feels 
that it has secured an exclusive interest 
in the object as against all other crea- 
tures. It can easily be shown that the 
instinct which thus operates must in the 
human mind give rise to the sense of 
right, with the correlative feeling of wrong. 
That which I have acquired a property 
in I intuitively feel that I have a right 
to retain, and, therefore, that it is wrong 
for any one else to deprive me of." 

A starting-point thus obtained, 
Mr. Wake proceeds to evolve high 
morals, and to demonstrate by what 
steps andunderwhat influences this 
instinctive feeling develops into the 
delicate and sensitive . conscien- 
tiousness and reverence for right 
found among the most cultured 
races. He enters on a critical re- 
view of the principal modern theo- 
ries of morals, and embarks with 
Hamilton, Bain, and Mill on a dis- 
cussion of the question, " What does 
Ought mean ?" He reviews the al- 
truistic, or Positive, or Comtean the- 
ory, which holds that benevolence 
arises from an educated regard for 
others; and the egoistic or utili- 
tarian theory, which holds that no 
man does anything except from 
self-interest, that vice is ignorant 
self-interest and virtue enlightened 
self-interest, and that so-called 
wrong-doing is simply a miscal- 
culation of what will pay the best. 



The Protestant War against Christianity. 



All of these high-flown and fan- 
ciful notions of morals are perni- 
cious. The Decalogue and the re- 
wards and penalties of religion are 
a thousand times better than the 
best of them. Where the church 
moves with its rule of duty, there 
society is safe ; while if any of 
these fantastic codes could be 
wholly substituted for Christianity, 
savage man would prey upon his 
unprotected fellow and civilization 
would perish from the earth. 

One of the most curious books 
of the year is the volume entitled 
The Future Life, in which some 
score of Protestant ministers " the 
most eminent American scholars " 
present a consensus of opinion in 
favor of the endless duration of fu- 
ture punishment. Several of these 
are very spirited and rhetorical, 
not to say declamatory and denun- 
ciatory ; a few are scholarly and 
exegetical, and a few more affect 
to be metaphysical or philosophical 
or psychological. But it is odd to 
observe that each disputant decides 
the tremendous question for him- 
self, and seems to have no suspi- 
cion that the decision may possibly 
lie outside of his personal jurisdic- 
tion. The Word of God in the 
matter is of subordinate interest 
and importance to them ; the main 
question with each one seems to 
be, " Is eternal punishment accept- 
able to my reason, and does it sat- 
isfy my affections and accord with 
my prejudices ?" Nothing evinces 
the chaotic character of Protes- 
tantism more clearly than the com- 
placency with which its preachers 
take out of the hands of the Al- 
mighty the question of the future 
destiny of his children. 

The Rev. Dr. Wylie, of Scotland, 
whose breast is filled with virtuous 
alarm over the decline of the sec- 
tarians and the growth of the 



333 

Catholic Church there, gives to the 
world a volume entitled The Papal 
Hierarchy : An Exposure of the 
Tactics of Rome. Of course this 
outburst of holy wrath is caused by 
the recent re-establishment by the 
church of the hierarchy in Scot- 
land, and the bestowal of territorial 
designations on her prelates. A 
Protestant reviewer says of Dr. 
Wylie's frenzy : " He has made up 
his mind that this latest step in the 
great campaign of the Romish 
Church against Protestantism is 
pregnant with evil and ruinous con- 
sequences for. the blinded and be- 
sotted people of those realms, who, 
confident in the civil liberties they 
enjoy under the British constitu- 
tion, refuse to trouble themselves 
about the insidious manoeuvres of 
the papal host." 

The insidious sarcasm under this 
quieting paragraph shows plainly 
enough that the reviewer is of an- 
other sect from the writer. The 
odium theologicum is scarcely dis- 
guised. The author beats the po- 
lemical gong with great energy, and 
marshals a tremendous array of 
evidence to show that the Papacy 
aims at universal dominion, and is 
making converts by tens of thou- 
sand in the empire of St. Knox, 
the home of Presbyterianism. The 
Protestant reviewer from whom we 
have already quoted says further, 
in the same vein : 

" The volume will be read with satisfac- 
tion by Roman Catholics, at any rate 
a satisfaction that will not be unmingled 
with surprise ; for they will learn from 
its pages that their church ... is making- 
its way toward absolute dominion in un- 
happy Britain, and that there is every 
reason to apprehend that the Pope will 
ere long bfe more potent in the United 
Kingdom than Queen Victoria herself. . . 
The doctor has not condescended to 
particularize the exact way in which the 
Romish invasion should be repelled. 
Would he repeal the Catholic Emanci- 



334 



The Protestant War against Christianity. 



pation Act, and restore to the statute- 
book the old persecuting laws against 
Papists? Would he banish all Roman 
Catholic bishops, make the saying of 
Mass a penal offence, and exclude from 
the army and navy, as well as from Par- 
liament, all those Romanists whose pre- 
sence there seems to be to him a source 
of such lively uneasiness? If not, what 
measures would he recommend ? Per- 
haps it would be as well to fight the 
enemy with his own weapons : divide 
Italy into presbyteries, and send Dr. 
Wylie, Dr. Begg, and a few other zealous 
members of the Reformation Society to 
act as moderators. It is not impossible 
that, after a short experience of the mis- 
sionary efforts of these gentlemen. Leo 
XIII. would be willing to consent to a 
mutual withdrawal of the priestly armies; 
and even if he did not, neither Scotland 
nor Italy would be much the worse." 

We may add that the febrile 
symptoms exhibited by Dr. Wylie 
are evidences of an excitable tem- 
perament rather than of any extra- 
ordinary conquests of the church. 
There is nothing phenomenal about 
the progress of the Roman Catholic 
religion in Scotland ; it advances 
with a uniform step, as it does in 
all the countries of the earth, slow- 
ly but surely. 

An extensive accumulation of 
facts and inferences is given to the 
world by Mr. Bonwick concerning 
the life and religion of the ancient 
inhabitants of the lower Nile val- 
ley, under the title Egyptian Belief 
and Modern Thought. The last 
clause of the title contains a hint 
of a sinister motive, and this ap- 
pears in the chief purpose of the 
volume, which is to show (i) that 
the age of the world goes back far 
beyond the Mosaic chronology, and 
(2) that Christianity is a plagiarism, 
having borrowed its rites and forms, 
its morals and its creed, from the 
religion held during the Pyramid 
age, four thousand years ago. Mr. 
Bonwick not only insists that the 
people of the time of the Pharaos 



were definite believers in a Supreme 
Being and immortality as now un- 
derstood, but he claims that the 
Decalogue can be found in detach- 
ed fragments on their ancient papy- 
rus, that they " saluted the great 
God with palm branches in their 
hands," and that their creed em- 
braced the Unity of God, the 
Trinity, the Messias, the millen- 
nium, the Sabbath, atonement, hea- 
ven, hell, purgatory, circumcision, 
baptism, the Eucharist, and the 
Last Judgment. It is ingenious 
but not ingenuous on the part of 
Mr. Bonwick to leave unnoticed 
the very obvious suggestion that, 
were all the facts as he states 
them, it would only prove that God 
had vouchsafed to the Egyptians, 
through the traditions imparted to 
them by the children of Israel or 
preserved from the common ances- 
tor of the human race, a perhaps 
figurative and prophetical know- 
ledge of himself and of the future 
coming of the Saviour. But many 
of Mr Bonwick's assertions are 
based upon imagination rather than 
upon fact. 

The Boston Monday Lectures of 
Joseph Cook have been republish- 
ed both in London and Glasgow. 
These constitute the most highly- 
spiced and sensational Protestant 
polemics of the last year the most 
brilliantly quixotic effort to solve 
the insoluble and prove the un- 
provable. Mr. Cook comes to the 
footlights armed with a telescope, 
a microscope, a crucible and re- 
tort, a spectroscope, a tasimeter, 
and some bathybius from the deep- 
sea dredging, and he says, with 
a brave sweep of his hand : " Go to, 
now! I will discard the ancient 
methods of defending religion. I 
will not ask my audiences to de- 
pend on faith or the Bible. I will ' 
demonstrate Deity and Immortality 



The Christ of Vienna. 



335 



with this machinery!" And then 
he talks learnedly, in the patois of 
Herbert Spencer and Charles Dar- 
win, of protoplasm and bioplasm, 
of monera and primordial germs, 
of spontaneous generation, and ev- 
olution and natural selection, con- 
ceding four-fifths of thtir perni- 
cious philosophy, admitting their 
false premises, and only stopping 
just short of their logical and inevi- 
table conclusions. To avert this 
he sets up as "axioms " certain re- 
ligious truths which are not axioms 
at all to the mind of an atheist and 
infidel, and then he arrogantly 
commands atheists and infidels to 
accept them as a basis of argument 
on his personal authority. As 
Tyndall would say, Cook is a meta- 
physician who, instead of talking 
about the unknown in the terms of 
the known, " discusses the unknown 
in the terms of the more unknown." 



The most Protestant of Protestants, 
he is the most illogical of logicians. 
Ostentatiously advertised as de- 
monstrating to the reason of the 
unregenerate those sacred truths 
the knowledge of which can be 
reached only by love and faith, he 
is doing more than almost any 
other living man to spread unbe- 
lief and confirm atheists in their 
fatal errors. And 'in the reckless, 
slashing, and unhesitating self-as- 
sertion of his talk he reminds one 
of Mr. Potts, the clever editor of 
the Eatanswill Gazette, who, when 
required to write for a magazine 
an article on Chinese metaphysics, 
and knowing nothing about either 
China or metaphysics, turned to 
the encyclopaedia, read up all under 
the head of China and 'all under 
the head of metaphysics, and then 
" combined his information." 



THE CHRIST OF VIENNA. 

I HAVE read, in a story of old 

Which some Austrian poet has told, 

Of a wonderful picture of Christ, 

In Byzantium's glory of gold, 

Where the age and the colors sufficed 

To endow with a value unpriced 

The rude touch that, in missing all graces of line, 

Sent a sweet, solemn power through the Faces Divine. 

Not its age nor its art gave the name 

That had drawn, by its marvellous fame, 

The long crowds that came breathless to gaze 

On the changing and mystical frame, 

Where they saw, in adoring amaze, 

The bright Form that would lessen or raise 

His fair stature, rayed round with the light of his love, 

And loom up or stoop down from his height far above. 



336 The Christ of Vienna. 

For the charm of this painting of yore 

Was the varying aspect it wore ; 

Just an inch, and but one, beyond those 

Who would stand in calm wonder before 

The grand figure that narrows or grows 

As each gazer's own measure it shows : 

An inch greater than babyhood's fond little span, 

Yet for ever that one inch beyond the full man. 



I believed this old tale in my youth, 

But this hour with a still deeper truth 

Is this fable no fable to me ! 

And I need not to question, in sooth, 

If to-day in Vienna there be, 

Or was ever, such picture to see ; 

For the heart to a holier awe must be stirred 

By its truth of Christ's self and his law and his word. 



To the little, unlettered, and weak, 

Shall be bowed the great Type that they seek: . 

But however their wisdom increase, 

Still beyond them the lessons that speak 

From the fathomless pages of peace : 

Past the limits where knowledge must cease 

Spread the truths his Evangel must teach to the end, 

Yet for ever to childhood's low reach will he bend ! 



Low and far, and so high and so clear, 
For retracing and loving so near, 
Yet when closest the Model Divine, 
That one inch stretching out to a sphere ! 
Who art thou to draw compass and line 
With thy science, until we opine 
Thy may-midge of a mind has sufficed to hold all ? 
Ah ! poor sage, wouldst thou make the world's Christ,, 
then, so small ? 

DETROIT, 1879. 



English Men of Letters. 



ENGLISH MEN OF LETTERS.* 



_ 337 



MR. JOHN MORLEY has gained 
an unenviable notoriety in Eng- 
land for affected and ridiculous 
atheism by the publication of a 
book in which he prints the name 
of God with a small g. He puts 
himself forward as the spokesman 
of a large and increasing party of 
English thinkers, who claim to be 
the perpetuators of the distinctive 
English philosophical thought of 
the eighteenth century a sort of 
modified Deism. To preserve the 
memory of this broad school of 
religion he proposes publishing, 
and has published, a series of little 
books upon English men of letters, 
in which the predominant idea is 
to find a certain likeness of liberal 
religious sentiment and opinion. 
Of this series the biographies of 
Dr. Johnson, Edward Gibbon, 
Oliver Goldsmith, and David Hume 
have been given to the world, aad 
sketches of other literary charac- 
ters are promised. The new school 
of biography is composed of Mr. 
Morley himself, Leslie Stephen, 
Professor Huxley, Wm. Black, Pro- 
fessor J. C. Morison, and other 
lights of the Fortnightly Review, 
a periodical founded by the late 
George Henry Lewes. In spite 
of the flourish of trumpets, we can- 
not help thinking that this new 
school does not exert any appre- 
ciable influence in England. The 
unfair advantage which it takes of 
such characters as Dr. Johnson 
and Oliver Goldsmith merits a vi- 
gorous protest ; and, as we purpose 
showing, the idea, thinly veiled un- 
der a pretended literary necessity, 

* English Men of Letters. Edited by John 
Morley. London, 1879. 

VOL. XXIX. 22 




\\ ijil ' 
is to present eminent English men 

of letters as apostles and evange- 
lists of the present state of reli- 
gious indirTerentism in English 
Protestant quarters. 

One is surprised to find our 
sturdy old moralist, Dr. Johnson, 
placed as the choragus of advanc- 
ed English thinkers. If there ever 
was a true Church-of-England man, 
it was Johnson. His bow to an 
archbishop was as elaborate, if not 
so graceful, as that which a delight- 
ed prima donna makes to an ap- 
plauding audience upon her sixth 
summons before the curtain. 
When he went to Scotland he re- 
fused to attend a Presbyterian con- 
venticle, on the sound principle 
that a church without a hierarchy 
is no church at all. On leaving 
London for a visit to the country 
he would go to his parish church 
and salute its pavement with a 
most reverent kiss. He kept Lent, 
prayed for the dead, and nearly 
kicked Boswell down stairs fo/r 
making some disparaging remarks 
about the Catholic Church. When 
the foolish discussion was rife as 
to whether Catholics are guilty of 
idolatry in adoring the Eucharist, 
his clear sense pointed out the ab- 
surdity of the charge. He believ- 
ed in confession, yet not even he 
had the courage to face the anti- 
Catholic storm which swept over 
England in those gloomy days. 
Besides, it was then, if it is not 
now, an article of an Englishman's 
faith, more fully believed in than 
any of the Thirty-nine, that a man 
cannot be a Catholic and a loyal 
Englishman at the same time. 

It is certainly astonishing that 



338 



English Men of Letters. 



Mr. Leslie Stephen, a milk-and- 
water infidel, takes up this noble 
character and strives to represent 
it as in full harmony with the 
broad school. The very attempt 
shows a recklessness which argues 
ill for the general literary honesty 
of Mr. Morley's venture. It is 
enough to make the angry shade 
of Johnson return in vengeance ; 
and, as he believed in apparitions, 
we warn Mr. Stephen not to trust 
too implicitly to his own belief 
that death ends all. Nor would 
the ghost of the great doctor be a 
particularly handsome one. A man 
over six feet high, with his head 
shaking with nervousness, his face 
scarred with scrofula, his eyes half 
blind, and the top of his wig burnt 
through the necessity of having to 
hold his book near the lamp, was 
not a reassuring object to meet, 
even in the flesh. Johnson would 
have thundered forth his rage at 
any infidel attempting to represent 
him as a member of Mr. Stephen's 
school. Nor do we think that 
poor Oliver Goldsmith would have 
been particularly pleased with Mr. 
Black's characterization of him as 
an " uncouth Irishman," whose 
books breathe not the lightest whis- 
per of a narrow sectarianism. Prof. 
Morison must have sneered at Gib- 
bon's unscientific knowledge, es- 
pecially as the historian, in his 
eagerness to throw discredit upon 
the miraculous prevention of the 
rebuilding of the Temple under 
Julian, talks vaguely about " me- 
teoric balls generated by a damp 
atmosphere " a theory which the 
professor would characterize as 
worthy of an ecclesiastic. Hume 
and Gibbon may perchance belong 
to the broad school, but Johnson 
and Goldsmith ! 

One of the most lamentable 
characteristics of modern English 



writing is its too frequent allusion 
to, and dependence upon, human 
authorities. This feature of our 
literature is due to Protestantism, 
which, having no divine authority 
or infallibly certain moral code, de- 
pends helplessly upon the opin- 
ion of a few naturally gifted and 
honest men that traditionally pro- 
fessed its tenets. We cannot take 
up a book on the simplest sub- 
ject without finding it bristling 
with references. A Protestant 
writer always seeks external sup- 
port for his religious opinions. 
His mind is" at sea, and he would 
fain hail the passing vessel, even if 
it sometimes floats the black flag. 
The consequence is that there are 
a few great names in English let- 
ters that really carry as much 
weight with Protestants as the de- 
crees of popes and of councils do 
with Catholics. Nay, a most un- 
reasonable authority, for its ac- 
ceptance is a virtual surrender of 
the right to think. The Catholic 
has a basis for his faith, and he 
knows that the doctrinal and the 
moral decrees of the pope are any- 
thing but mere opinions. But 
what is the precise worth of the 
judgments' of Dr. Johnson, or of 
Archbishop Whately, or Frederick 
Maurice, or Thomas Carlyle ? Yet 
a quotation from one of these car- 
ries a weight with it which is sup- 
posed to settle conclusively any 
point of morals at issue. Indeed, 
most Protestant writers are fearful 
of expressing the simplest moral 
judgment without lugging in an 
elaborate opinion of one tff the 
sages. Nor is this done in a spirit 
of pedantry, but of downright 
ethical vagueness and weakness. 
They are not sure they are right 
on any first principles. 

Take up at random a few late 
English books in one or two de- 



English Men of Letters. 



339 



partments. Here, for example, is 
Rev. Frederick W. Robertson's 
Turning Points in Life a book 
which, the editor tells us, has run 
through six editions. Now, Mr. 
Robertson had a fair stock of 
brains carefully cultivated, an hon- 
est purpose in writing this book 
of advice, and certainly common 
sense enough to work out and 
prove his very commonplace theo- 
ries of life. But lo ! there is not 
a paragraph free from quotation- 
marks. We know what is coming 
in every chapter. The topics are 
business, marriage, etc. Dr. John- 
son tells you: " Sir, marriages made 
by the lord chancellor, without re- 
ference to the parties at all, are 
the happiest !" This he said when 
he was talking for the sake of talk. 
It must be confuted, says Rev. Mr. 
Robertson. Next we find the abun- 
dant hyphens and capitals of Mr. 
Carlyle : " This eternally-dismal, all- 
weeping flower-blowing, and devil- 
ploughed Earth-Garden, with its 
delving-deep, face-perspiring, and 
never-to-be-comforted Adam and its 
(what you like) Eve, etc." Or we 
open a history, and the first line we 
encounter is that one, ominous of 
quotation : " It is well remarked by 
Tacitus that the history of ancient 
peoples is a matter rather of con- 
jecture than of record; Merivale 
says, etc. ; Gibbon wisely suggests," 
and so on with a string of com- 
monplaces which the writer him- 
self could put shorter and clearer 
than in the quotation with its re- 
lated matter. A quotation, to be 
of any worth or relevancy, must be 
one that shows an author to the 
best advantage, and in his proper 
literary genius and guise. Emer- 
son in this is fine. 

There are certain quotable au- 
thors. One of the chief among the 
English is Johnson, thanks, not to 



his own written books, but to his 
table-talk as chronicled by Boswell. 
Johnson wrote a heavy, involved, 
Latinized style, but he talked 
pithily and pointedly. Deprived 
of most pleasures save those of 
conversation, he made it an art 
and science. He held his own in 
the most brilliant set of English- 
men since the days of Shakspere 
and Ben Jonson. He pronounc- 
ed the chair of a club to be the 
throne of human felicity. No 
doubt there have been as good 
talkers as Johnson, but, like the 
brave men that lived before Aga- 
memnon, they have lacked a chro- 
nicler. The scraps preserved of 
Coleridge's conversations do not 
show him to much advantage ; but 
no one can read Johnson's table- 
talk without feeling the force of 
Goldsmith's description of him, 
that if his pistol missed fire he 
would knock you down with the 
butt. He is the typical English- 
man, with the national horror of 
shams and bores, as when he said 
to a prosy judge who was recount- 
ing his having transported fourteen 
culprits : " Sir, I wish to heaven I 
were the fifteenth !" He detested 
any departure from the approved 
customs of society and religion. 
" A woman that preaches is like a 
dancing dog. We are surprised at 
the dog's dancing at all." When 
the Abbe Raynal, a French infidel, 
desired an introduction to him : 
" Sir, I never shake hands, know- 
ingly, with a scoundrel." His very 
narrowness has nothing dishonest 
in it, and his occasional perversi- 
ties of judgment must be largely 
ascribed to hypochondria, the re- 
sult of physical disease, under which 
he struggled to lead a brave, high 
life. 

It is easy to find in the sayings 
of so copious a talker many things 



340 



English Men of Letters. 



which seem to favor latitudinarian- 
ism. His severe experience of pov- 
erty and hardship made him cal- 
lous to the finer emotions. He re- 
fused to believe that we are touch- 
ed by the misfortunes of others. 
Under the head of cant he placed 
our visits of ceremony, our anxious 
inquiries after our friends' health, 
and the thousand-and-one atten- 
tions of courtesy. He looked upon 
poverty with horror. He was as 
quick as lightning to discern an 
imperfect motive, and used to de- 
clare that no author ever wrote ex- 
cept for his bread. He boasted 
that he never put pen to paper 
unless he was threatened with want. 
At the same time there is no ques- 
tion that he talked much for effect 
and in the spirit of contradiction. 
It is unfair to take up his sayings, 
divorced from surrounding con- 
ditions, and put them forth as 
weighty reflections and completed 
results of conviction. This is what 
Mr. Stephen has done. The great 
moralist cuts a very sorry figure in 
his book. An author must be judg- 
ed by what he writes, not by what 
he says in a social gathering. None 
of us are bound in conversation 
as we are in writing, and the written 
essay is the only fair index of a 
writer in his best estate. His talk 
may not be. We are, alas ! less 
perfect, less generous, less ideal 
than our written word ; and it is 
equally safe to say that a dangerous 
and immoral writer is worse in his 
life than in his books. We do not 
believe in the immaculate purity of 
Balzac or the virgin modesty of 
George Sand. 

Sing, O Muse ! the dire wrath of 
Professor Morison, able to trace 
the habitations of the many-lived as- 
cidian, and to number the legs of 
the house-ruling ant, frugal of corn. 
Mr. Morley's selection of him 



to write the life of Gibbon betrays 
a want of editorial nous. It is true 
that he is not an exact scien- 
tist, and he has dabbled in sermon- 
literature ; still, he/ is the last man 
to sympathize with the gorgeous 
and not severely-trained imagina- 
tion of Edward Gibbon. Nor are 
they at one on the religious ques- 
tion. Gibbon always took a deep 
interest in theology, which is Mori- 
son's abomination. The great his- 
torian allows no opportunity to 
pass to show off his wide acquaint- 
ance with church history. He mi- 
nutely describes every heresy, and 
is fairly correct in the statement of 
the orthodox doctrine. We expect- 
ed the professor to give us some 
new light on Gibbon's remarkable 
series of conversions. We believe 
there was a lady in the case the 
famous De Stael but it would ne- 
ver do to ascribe to such an un- 
philosophical passion as love the 
mighty change of religious faith 
wrought in the great mind of the 
historian of the Decline and Fall. 
The process must have been gra- 
dual and profoundly logical. First 
came the painful truths regarding 
the primitive Christians, whom he 
had been taught to look upon 
through a dim religious light of 
veneration and awe. What does 
he discover? Wranglings, conten- 
tions, backslidings, ignorant pet- 
tishness represented as the zeal of 
the martyrs, etc. His illusions 
vanish. Christianity is revealed as 
a myth, and the church of the 
apostles a wofully undignified and 
shabby sect. 

But Gibbon's great defect, in the 
opinion of the professor, is his ig- 
norance of natural science. The 
elaborate history is a huge waste of 
labor. There is no true philosophy 
of history which does not recognize 
the truth of the evolution theory. 



English Men of Letters. 



341 



Had Gibbon been blessed with this 
light he would not have devoted his 
uncommon powers to raking up the 
fossil bones of a dead empire with- 
out having pointed out the logical 
sequence of the advent of the fittest 
by which we really wonder if the 
professor means the barbarian 
hordes that overthrew the Roman 
Empire ? We should not be surpris- 
ed, for there is no length to which 
the evolutionist will not push his 
nonsense. Now, Gibbon's book is 
the noblest historical treatise in En- 
glish literature, and his very stric- 
tures on Christianity and the 
:hurch imparted an impulse to the 
study of the Christian antiquities 
which has given us such men as 
De Rossi and what is called the 
lodern school of Christian apolo- 
getics. What need had Gibbon of a 
irofound acquaintance with the in- 
'.rtebrata ? We suppose that Prof. 
Morison's idea of writing history 
would be something in this wise : 
riven the Arch of Trajan, the style 
>f architecture would indicate apeo- 
)le lately emerged from the woods, 
the columns being an exact repro- 
iuction of what we see in juxtapos- 
forest trees. The Coliseum sug- 
jests the nature of a bear's den, 
ind shows that this ancient people 
lad ursine proclivities. The re- 
lains of ancient statuary, studied 
r ith special reference to the dor- 
sal region, give unmistakable evi- 
dence of a rudimentary tail ; and the 
uplifted arm of the Apollo Belvidere 
is in exact position for taking a 
swing from a lower to a higher 
branch. 

No biography of Goldsmith can 
take the place of Washington Irv- 
ing's. Mr. Black is a society nov- 
elist, and would prefer detailing the 
charming conversation of his hero- 
ine to a recountal of poor Goldy's 
desperate fight with famine and 



cold. There is no sympathy be- 
tween the fashionable novelist and 
the sorely-tried Irishman. He is 
made a subject of sport throughout 
the book. The generous soul of 
Thackeray boiled with indignation 
at the horse-play to which his rude 
companions subjected Goldsmith, 
and he compared to the insult 
offered a woman, or cruelty to a 
child or to some patient dumb 
creature, the pointless and cruel 
practical jokes played upon one of 
the sweetest-minded and tenderest- 
hearted men that ever wrote. The 
general idea conveyed by Mr. 
Black is that Goldsmith was a fool. 
Old Johnson, a better judge, said 
that he touched no subject which 
he did not adorn. The spirit of 
poor Goldsmith's religion is an 
humble thankfulness to the divine 
Providence that pitied his wretch- 
edness. It is very sad to think of 
such a man as a hack-writer, a bal- 
lad-composer, a thriftless genius, 
who has left his splendid impress 
upon English letters. No doubt a 
successful novelist like Mr. Black 
is out of patience with this sad, sad 
story; but not even he can think 
that his own tales shall outlast 
the immortal Vicar of Wakefield. 
This number of the series is in 
much better taste than the others, 
the author feeling that he cannot 
adduce Goldsmith as a member of 
the broad school. 

We do not believe in scrap-books 
of literary conversation. A good 
biography should include letters, 
and aim simply at the truth. To 
write the man into the book, in- 
stead of taking the book out of the 
man, is to be guilty of a grave dis- 
honesty. This is the fault of the 
Bric-a-Brac Series, published some 
time ago in New York. The editor 
appeared to bring to his task only 
the shears and the paste-pot. Mor- 



342 



English Men of Letters. 



ley's idea is an improvement upon 
this, but it errs in another direc- 
tion. Besides, we do not attach 
much value to the biography of 
merely literary men. A scholar's 
life is a mental growth. His ex- 
ternals are of no importance. His 
life is best read in his books. Yet 
are we duly afflicted with biogra- 
phies that point to the keen eyes 
of Jenkins. We were lately amus- 
ed in reading a ponderous Cy do- 
pa di a of Biography which we feel 
certain has Jenkins for author. No 
one but a newspaper man of a cer- 
tain kind could have given such 
personal descriptions. We there 
learned that Mr. Tennyson prefers 
a pipe to a cigar, and that, in writ- 
ing an idyl, he quaffs inspiration 
from the good ale of old England. 
Miss Braddon, when composing, 
contracts herself into the narrowest 
of chairs and writes with the side 
of her pen. In an "old-fashioned 
desk are numerous little skeletons 
of stories, to which she will even- 
tually add flesh and harden the 
bones." A famous writer on poli- 
tical economy " has a majestic 
head crowned with wiry hairs, each 
one of which seems to ask you a 
searching question. His mouth is 
large but firm, and his eyes are of 
an indescribable color, but capable 
of emitting a flash of sarcasm that 
shrivels up a captious objector." 
Mr. Carlyle " has a decidedly pug- 
nacious nose. It is blunt, hard, 
unyielding, and seems to snuff the 
battle from afar off. It is a nose 
not to be trifled with. Any one 
that sees it once must turn to take 
another look." George Eliot is not 
beautiful, " but there is a lambent 
fire in her eyes and a leopard poise 
in her walk that startle and interest 
you. She generally wears a dress 
of some dark material, which clings 
to her fondly, as if pleased with the 



privilege of being worn." (A wo- 
man must have written /7z#/ descrip- 
tion.) Matthew Arnold " has what 
you might call a Boanerges face. 
His mouth seems to say to his nose,. 
* Don't come too near or there will 
be war.' His ears are well set r 
and seem by their capacity and 
outstretched position to be ever 
listening for celestial harmonies. "" 
And this is the kind of trash that 
makes up the bulk of the artist- 
biographies, literary sketches, and 
anecdotes of eminent personages,, 
which fill a wide space in literature 
and command a good sale. 

The writer of this has often been, 
asked to furnish certain hints about 
reading or about a course of Eng- 
lish literature. To the great dis- 
gust of his questioners, he has, in the 
majority of cases, advised them to 
let English literature alone, and to 
take up a language or begin a 
course of chemistry or natural phi- 
losophy. A Catholic is only con- 
fused by the variety of opinions he 
encounters in a Protestant litera- 
ture. There is no guiding star in 
it, as there is in other literatures. 
English literature is an tndigesta 
moles. Darkness is upon the face 
of the deep. We may save Shak- 
spere, but let the rest go. His- 
tory is either Protestant or infideL 
The drama is insufferably noi- 
some. "We hold our noses and read 
on, "says Taine. The social essays 
of the Spectator are not equal to a 
good modern newspaper or maga- 
zine article. 

" But the style !" Rhetoricians 
have much to answer for, chiefly 
for their exaggeration of the im- 
portance of style. The true doc- 
trine is that the style is of no im- 
portance as compared with truth 
and fact. The older a man grows,, 
and the better scholar he be- 
comes, the less he cares for the 



English Men cf Letters. 



343 



mere graces of style. In fact, he 
is suspicious of them. And it is 
to be hoped that this rhetorical 
teaching will cease before the exi- 
gencies of modern life. We have 
no time to waste over elaborate 
metaphors. A man who has any- 
thing to say worth saying must 
out with it as quickly and as plain- 
ly as he can. Carlyle tells us that 
the age of poetry is gone ; certain- 
ly that of poetical prose is. The 
style to be aimed at is that which 
is clear from the shining of the 
truth or the fact in the writer's 
mind. The one style which will 
supersede all others is the homely 
and the plain. 

But what is to become of all 
those charming works of the ima- 
gination that serve to delight and 
make us pass the weary time ? 
The sooner they disappear the bet- 
ter. We should have no weary 
time to pass away. The novel is 
on the rapid decline, and its exit 
should be hastened. What is there 
really more ridiculous than to read 
book of fictitious adventures 
>r of commonplace conversations, 
r hen the writer could tell us plain- 
ly in a chapter what moral he 
intends conveying or what social 
ibuse he proposes combating ? So, 
>o, we think that all moral essays 
lust revert to Bacon's scientific 
style in the De Augmentis the 
>imple statement of principles, with 
10 labored efforts to prove or to il- 
lustrate. The moralist is nothing 
not apodictic. A virtue that has 
to be proved and defended is not 
rorth practising. 

We have a good English Catho- 
lic literature, sufficient for the in- 
tellectual needs of any man. Over 
11 is the light of the faith. His- 
>ry should be studied in the sim- 
)lest way the mere learning of 
events. Leave the church to ex- 
plain its meaning. A good map is 



better than a dozen books of travels. 
A first-class journal and a careful- 
ly-edited Catholic magazine make 
up a sufficient library. The worst- 
educated men affect the most 
books, and no doubt read them. 
Their minds are lumbered. They 
become parrots, and weary and 
bore people. 

A Catholic who reads and medi- 
tates upon the Catechism of the 
Council of Trent has surer and bet- 
ter religious and moral views than 
the entire range of general English 
literature contains. That one book 
is better than all the writings of 
Dr. Johnson, of Addison, of Pope, 
of Buckle, or of Leeky. That book 
gives him true ideas relative to God 
and to man, and his duties to both ; 
furnishes him with the reasons of 
the moral law, and unrolls for him 
not human opinions but divine 
faith. What is it, then, but a waste 
of time for a Catholic to peruse the 
conflicting theories of English Pro- 
testant moralists ? The more you 
reflect upon the value of truth the 
less you will care about mere style. 
It is the heart of a book or an 
essay that you will seek out. Nor 
need you be afraid of the charge 
of ignorance. It is not ignorance 
not to know the useless. A Pro- 
testant in society will not press 
you for your opinions about this or 
that book when you tell him sim- 
ply that your mind is made up on 
the subject of the work. God has 
done your thinking for you, and 
you don't believe that you or any 
other man can improve upon it. 
This plain and logical answer will 
set a Protestant reflecting. It is 
some such reply as this that startles 
a badgered Protestant with the ab- 
solute repose of our certainty in 
the church, and allures him sweetly 
to share in that peace which the 
reading of many books only tends 
to disturb. 



344 



The Reality of the Soul as a 



THE REALITY OF THE SOUL AS A SELF-SUBSISTING 
SEPARABLE SUBSTANCE.* 



ENTELECHEIA is a Greek word 
which has a fine sound and seems 
to have a fine sense in it, if we 
could only get at it. This is the 
case with many Greek terms, which 
appear, by comparison with their 
similars in modern languages, like 
an effigy stamped in gold beside 
a silver medal bearing the same 
stamp. Ideas impress us as having 
a new dignity and worth from the 
precious metal in which they are 
coined ; and not only so, they seem 
to have been more cleanly cut into 
the language and better preserved 
from the rubbing of general circu- 
lation. Aristotle says that God is 
pure entelecheia. The correspond- 
ing Latin word is forma. How can 
this be adequately done into Eng- 
lish with one word ? Will the 
term form answer the purpose ? 
We fear not. In England, a form 
is understood by school-boys to 
mean a bench, and a grade of rank 
in the school. We hardly ever use 
the word here in that sense, but 
there are other common significa- 
tions, as the shape and figure of 
things, the manner and mode in 
which documents are drawn up, rites 
or other observances performed, di- 
vers acts accomplished in a regu- 
lar manner. The Greek word ente- 
lecheia, and the Latin /"<?/-;;/#, used in 
philosophical writings, present at 
once one distinct idea, rid of any 
such associations. The term de- 
notes the principle which gives 
specific actuality, a positive deter- 
mination of being. God is pure 

* In the last number, p. 214, twenty-fifth line, in- 
stead of the misprint "bouquet of a vine," read " of 
a wine" 



entelecheia, that is, pure act. He is 
not actuated, not determined in a 
specific grade of essence, not a re- 
cipient of being and existence, or 
in any respect in a dormant po- 
tency of becoming greater and bet- 
ter by an active force from within 
or without himself, but he simply 
is, in eternal, infinite plenitude of 
being. It has already been proved 
that he is the original fount of be- 
ing, that the eternal ratios and 
archetypal ideas are in his intellect, 
and the physical power of causa- 
tion in his will. All creatures are 
made after the ideal pattern in his 
mind, and have a similitude to his 
essence, in proportion to their 
higher or lower grade. Their exis- 
tence is only by a participation 
received from him. Each one of 
them must have some entelecheia, 
some active principle and force, 
some determining and positive ra- 
tio which makes it undivided in 
itself, and divided from other things 
and from mere nothing. This is 
what we mean when we speak of 
metaphysical form. 

Aristotle uses another term, Hyle, 
denoting what is not in God, but is 
in every other being, namely, a de- 
terminable element, an element of 
passive receptivity, of limitation in 
perfection, of liability to change, of 
potency to acquire or to lose some 
actuations. The Latin term is ma- 
teria, of which the English matter 
is the literal translation. The sig- 
nification of this word has never- 
theless undergone a restriction both 
in Latin and English, by which its 
use is confined to the passive, de- 
terminable element of corporeal 



Self -subsisting Separable Substance. 



345 



substance. In common English 
usage, it has come to mean even 
the whole corporeal substance. 
We cannot, therefore, properly ex- 
press what Aristotle meant by Hyle 
the term, viz., in which a finite 
active force or form, or actuating 
and determining principle, is re- 
ceived and in which it is indi- 
viduated by the word matter. If 
we do, we shall by most persons be 
supposed to mean some kind of 
body composed of atoms, or the 
atoms themselves. Others will 
think we mean the passive element 
which conspires with the active force 
in the substance of body. We will 
employ, therefore, the term passive 
potency to denote what in every 
created and finite being falls short 
of the pure entelecheia of the divine 
being, and is the mark' of its con- 
tingent, dependent nature and exis- 
tence, as something which is not 
in and from its essence being, but 
which only has being, received from 
the absolute being, and is confined 
within a certain grade of limitation. 
These limitations are the measures 
of the unlikeness of creatures to 
God, and mark their essential dis- 
tance from his essence, while their 
actual grade of being in the active 
form which really exists and acts 
within its limit of essence, marks 
their likeness to God and their re- 
lative approximation to his infinite 
and eternal being. The created 
essences which imitate the uncreat- 
ed essence are necessarily within 
limits, that is, they are finite. The 
fundamental limitations of space 
and time which bound the sphere 
of the extension of their active 
force and the duration of their 
movement, have their foundation 
in the immensity and eternity of 
God which they resemble in their 
indefinite possibility; but of which, 
in actual extension as the measures 



of real beings and their motions, 
they fall infinitely short. The 
more completely a being is confin- 
ed within their circle of limitation 
and diminished in its resemblance 
to God, the lower and more imper- 
fect it is in the scale of being. On 
the contrary, the more it escapes 
from these confining bounds, the 
higher is its resemblance to its di- 
vine archetype and the greater its 
perfection. 

The graduated scale of beings 
from the lowest to the highest 
grades has been already explained 
in treating of the Reality of Know- 
ledge. Extended bodies without 
life, and their essential constituents, 
that \s, matter, in the common sense 
of that word, are the most confined 
and limited by their relations in 
space, as mere masses, or constitu- 
ent principles of mass and molecu- 
lar magnitude, inert, and only ac- 
tive by attraction and repulsion of 
their molecules upon other mole- 
cules. Bodies organized in the 
vegetable form are somewhat supe- 
rior to these by their vitality, and 
far above these are animals. We 
cannot afford to touch the question 
of the nature of the active and 
vital principle in vegetables and 
animals. We must hasten to the 
consideration of the rational form, 
the principle of rational and intel- 
lectual life in man, which places 
him in the highest grade of beings, 
although it is by no means reason- 
able to suppose that there are not 
many higher degrees of beings in 
this intellectual grade whose nature 
is more perfect, and more nearly 
assimilated to the divine nature. 
The lowest beings imitate the being 
of God but not his life, the inter- 
mediate grades imitate his life but 
not the attribute by which it is the 
most perfect life, his intelligence. 
The highest grade imitates and 



346 



The Reality of the Soul as a 



participates in his intelligence. 
The lower grades are only vestiges 
of God, bearing the impress of his 
thoughts and his power, and repre- 
senting in a dissimilar form what is 
not in God formally, but virtually 
and in a more eminent mode which 
is absolutely spiritual. But the in- 
tellectual being is an image and 
likeness of God, and his perfections 
are in God formally. This is alone 
a sufficient evidence that his na- 
ture is spiritual, a pure entelecheia 
by comparison with body, a form 
subsisting in its own intelligent 
essence, distinct from and inde- 
pendent of matter. If it were ques- 
tion of a being who is simply intel- 
lectual and not in any way also 
animal, it would be clear at first 
sight that he must be a pure spirit, 
a diminuted copy of the Infinite 
Spirit. Nevertheless, although a 
pure spirit by comparison with 
body, and with any soul which is 
the form of a body, he is not abso- 
lutely pure from the passive and 
potential, or absolutely above the 
categories of space and time. He 
is limited in duration by a begin- 
ning, and his now of duration or 
present instant is ever approximat- 
ing towards. without ever reaching 
the infinite. His power of apply- 
ing his virtue to objects in space, 
and the virtual presence and move- 
ment in relation to these objects 
which appertain to this power, are 
limited, for he is not omnipresent. 
He is subject to some changes at 
least extrinsic. The highest and 
lowest creatures, therefore, are alike 
in a common unlikeness to God, 
and there is something in a pure 
spirit which in its lowest form in 
bodies is called their matter. He 
is all entelecheia, but the entelech- 
eia is not all pure act, or infinite. 
Neither is material substance all 
matter. There is something in 



body akin to spirit, a positive and 
formal perfection which makes it 
similar to the perfection which is 
virtually and in a more eminent 
form in the spiritual being and in 
God. 

Those who deny that there is 
any reality in the world except 
matter do not know what they are 
talking about. \Ve disclaim all in- 
tention of speaking disrespectfully 
of matter or of any kind of beast. 
Our venerable friend Plato was too 
hard upon it, and it is often un- 
justly vituperated by soi-disant spi- 
ritualists. We respect the pig in 
his own place, and admit that " at- 
tainability of pig-wash " is a desi- 
rable good for him. We allow that 
dirt, in so far as it has being, is 
good. The late F. Baker, in his 
juvenile days, leaning in company 
with the writer on the wall of a 
pig-pen which had been encoun- 
tered in the course of a ramble 
through Baltimore, enunciated a 
series of " pig-propositions," not 
precisely the same with those of 
Carlyle. One of them was : " Pigs 
are chiefly distinguished by a 
causeless fondness for dirt." We 
dissent from this in respect to ani- 
mals who are naturally pigs. There 
is good cause for their fondness 
for dirt, and there was truth in the 
remark of the drunken man in the 
gutter, that "even pigs were made 
by God." 3ut the fondness for 
dirt in amateur pigs is causeless 
and irrational, and the drunkard's 
apology for himself is inadmissible. 
The whole of philosophy, ethics, 
and history cannot be reduced to 
a series of "pig-propositions," or 
summed up in a " gospel of dirt." 
All substance is not dirt, neither is 
all life pig-life. The highest in the 
lower grade of being touches the 
lowest in the higher, and there is 
thus a graduated scale in the uni- 



Self -subsist ing Separable Substance. 



347 



verse, a connecting series of re- 
lations uniting all in synthetic 
harmony. The suppression of the 
distinct and opposite terms in the 
relation destroys all this, and both 
pure spiritualism and pure materi- 
alism are absurd. Human nature 
is the microcosm in which all these 
terms are combined in one complex 
and wonderful whole, body, spirit, 
vegetative, animal, and intellectual 
life, sense, reason, and intelligence. 
Man is certainly a corporeal be- 
ing, and matter is a component 
part of the human essence. His 
organization is generically similar to 
that of other animals, and he has 
in common with them sensitive life 
and sense-cognition. Those who 
wish to believe that he is a merely 
material being, an aggregation of 
molecules moved by electricity, 
fancy that it is easier to understand 
what matter is, and to ignore every 
superior substance, than it is to 
understand what mind is, or spiri- 
tual substance. But they are wo- 
fully mistaken in this. They are 
so accustomed to the impressions 
made on their senses, and familiar 
with sense and the sensible, that 
they fancy they understand it and 
have a clear idea of it. But the 
common, gross notion which the 
unthinking have of the nature of 
bodies is on a level with the no- 
tions of untaught children concern- 
ing the sun and moon. The senses 
present only the phenomena of 
substance, it is the mind which 
perceives and judges of essence. 
There is an immaterial element, an 
active force, conspiring with the 
nude matter, the element of inertia 
and extended bulk, to make up 
body. What is this force? It is 
an entelecheia, a form, an active 
principle. Your solid, sensible 
bulk or mass, which you can feel 
with your hand and see, analyzed, 



and reduced to its components, is 
resolved into a minute molecule, 
which is itself composite, and it 
escapes your senses altogether, at 
a vanishing point where you find 
only something which is " next to 
nothing," the name which every 
real philosopher gives to nude, un- 
formed matter. If one resorts to 
the active force, that which is the 
real agent in gravitation, light, 
electricity, magnetism, he is not 
much better off. This active prin- 
ciple of motion in bodies is at least 
equally incomprehensible with an 
active principle of sense-cognition 
or intelligence. Is it easy to un- 
derstand the attraction and repul- 
sion which proceed from the mole- 
cules of a body and act upon the 
molecules of the other bodies, at a 
distance, which are attracted or 
repelled? Is it easy to understand 
the attraction of gravitation by 
which the sun draws the earth to 
itself, or the centrifugal force which 
balances this, and makes the earth 
fly in its orbit ? It is necessary to 
infer the existence of all active 
forces which are necessary to ac- 
count for all effects which are 
known, as their sufficient reason 
and cause. From the nature of 
the effect we infer the nature of 
the cause, and from diverse effects 
we must conclude diverse causes. 
Animal life, with its sense-cogni- 
tions, demands a form, an animat- 
ing principle, immaterial, unextend- 
ed, simple, and active, which co- 
exists with the material stuff of the 
organized body and makes it an 
organic unity, determines its spe- 
cies and gives it organic life and 
motion, sensitive cognition and 
enjoyment. A child may talk to a 
doll, or whistle to a musical box. 
But it knows that it is only playing 
that they are aware of anything. 
No one ever requested a piano to 



348 



The Reality of the Soul as a 



play a tune, or asked a statue for 
historical information, if he was in 
full possession of his reason. We 
do, however, whistle to a canary- 
bird, and pat a good dog on the 
head, guide oxen by the voice, 
soothe, encourage, or restrain a 
horse by signs and tones. The 
form which vivifies the animal 
body is above that which is in a 
picture or statue ; it is quite differ- 
ent from the principle of move- 
ment in a mechanism, or the har- 
mony which lies latent in a musi- 
cal instrument. It is not identi- 
cal with the material substance 
which it informs, or a result of its 
organization and affections. It is 
distinct though not separate from 
it, whether it can operate and exist 
in a separate state or not. Animal 
life requires a body as well as a 
soul. Sense-affections and sense- 
cognitions are organic in their 
nature, as well as locomotion and 
vegetation. But there is a sim- 
ple, immaterial principle necessary 
in order to make the mechanical 
structure of the organism sensitive. 
These explanations show what is 
meant by the philosophical dictum, 
anima humana est forma corporis 
" the human soul is the form of 
the body." It is the principle of 
life, a simple, immaterial substance, 
united substantially with the cor- 
poreal substance in the human 
subject, the two making one com- 
posite but undivided essence. It 
is also a principle of rational life, 
and therefore far superior to a 
mere animal soul, as Aristotle has 
said: "It seems to be another 
kind of soul."* It is formally a 
spiritual substance, but it is also 
virtually what the lower kinds of 
souls are formally. Aristotle il- 
lustrates this by a comparison with 
geometrical figures. The more 

* On the Soul, lib. ii. c. 2. 



complete ones contain the more 
elementary in potency. Thus, he 
says, the principle of sensitive life 
includes in potency the vegetative 
principle, as the quadrangle con- 
tains the triangle.* And in like 
manner, the rational soul includes 
the principle of sensitive life. 

This principle of rational life is 
a pure entelecheia or spiritual form, 
in its activity specifically different 
from the active force of bodies, 
and in its potential or passive aspect 
free from all matter, or potency of 
extended bulk and aggregate com- 
position of atoms. We infer this 
from the nature of its modifica- 
tions and operations. We cannot 
immediately perceive the substance 
of the soul, nor can we that of the 
body. We infer the active force 
in bodies and the point of depar- 
ture in which it is concentrated as 
a concrete principle of motion and 
extension, because we are obliged 
to do so by effects which demand 
such a cause. And, by a similar 
judgment, we affirm a nature or 
principle, determined by its essence 
and attributes to be a recipient and 
an agent fit to be a subject of total- 
ly different phenomena. These are 
immaterial and spiritual. They 
are not movements in space or ex- 
tended magnitudes. Desire and vo- 
lition, sensitive apprehension and 
rational cognition, do not move 
from point to point marking a lin- 
ear track in space. Ideas and 
thoughts, imaginations, memories, 
reflections, inductions, fear, sorrow, 
hope, enjoyment, have none of the 
three dimensions, length, breadth, 
and depth ; they have no geometri- 
cal figure, are not triangular, circu- 
lar, or square, cannot be seen, 
touched, tasted, or smelled. A 
mirror which reflects objects can- 
not have by virtue of the material 
* ib. c. 3 . 



Self-subsisting Separable Substance. 



349 



composition which makes it a mir- 
ror the cognition of the reflected 
objects. It cannot be anything 
more than an instrument by which 
these objects may be apprehended. 
If we fancy a mirror which has 
cognizance, we are obliged to sup- 
pose another and distinct principle 
joined with the mirror and by its 
help taking cognizance of reflect- 
ed objects. The representative or- 
gans of sense must therefore be 
informed by a distinct and imma- 
terial principle, one and simple, 
whose instruments these organs are. 
If its activity is strictly and totally 
limited to the effect of giving life 
to the organic body and exercising 
with its parts and organs functions 
of animal life, it is dependent on 
matter for its operations, and there- 
fore, most philosophers infer, for 
its existence, which is commonly 
thought to cease when animal life 
is extinct in the body. 

The human soul, however, has a 
higher operation which is inorganic, 
a life which it possesses in itself as 
a substance having its being in it- 
self, its own proper self-subsisting 
principle, independent of the body 
for operation and existence. This 
life and operation it does not com- 
municate to the body and its or- 
gans. To this life, animal life is 
an inferior, subservient adjunct. 
The soul is like a swimmer who is 
submerged in water as to the infe- 
rior parts of the body, while his 
head is above the water. It lives 
in the body as the principle of ani- 
mal, sensitive, corporeal life and 
motion, but above it as a rational 
principle, in its intellectual, moral, 
and spiritual life. All this has been 
heretofore proved in the analysis of 
intellectual cognition. The object 
of sense-cognition is the concrete, 
singular, material object in its sen- 
sible phenomena. The immediate 



object of the intellect is the uni- 
versal, abstracted from all matter, 
above time and space, ideally ap- 
prehended, virtually infinite, apper- 
taining to the order of the eternal 
reasons which are a reverberation 
from the divine intellect. The 
highest good of the will is also im- 
material, and its highest virtue is 
moral virtue. From these opera- 
tions of the human soul which are 
superior to all motion in space we 
infer its nature, as superior to all 
dimensive quantity and every ele- 
ment of quantity or active force of 
local motion, that is, its spiritual 
nature as a spiritual being. The 
nature of spirit is constituted by its 
self-subsistence as a substance, in- 
dependent of matter for existence, 
life, and operation. This is some- 
thing more than being simple and 
immaterial. That is simple which 
has no component parts, immateri- 
al which is not a passive principle 
of inertia and extended dimensions* 
The active force of matter and the 
vital principle of animal life are 
simple and immaterial. But they 
need to actuate matter in order to 
get their centre and term of opera- 
tion. A spirit can think and will,, 
can live and act, attain perfection 
and felicity, without any depend- 
ence on matter. The human soul 
is a spirit because it is rational, and 
this is what gives to man his spe- 
cific difference from other animals. 
His spiritual substance, neverthe- 
less, contains in its nature virtually, 
in a more eminent mode, all that, 
constitutes the principle of animal 
life, as that contains the principle 
of vegetative life. It has, therefore, 
an attitude toward union with a 
body, in order to complete itself in 
the integrity of the human essence 
and nature. Without the body, one 
part of its activity would remain 
necessarily dormant. In respect 



350 



The Reality of the Soul as a 



to animal life, its dependence on 
the body is intrinsic. But in re- 
spect to rational activity, its de- 
pendence is only extrinsic, and is a 
consequence of the union of the 
soul and body in one composite 
essence. 

The exposition already given of 
the rational operation of the soul 
shows, that the sensible species or 
phantasm furnishes only the medi- 
um of-communication between the 
mind and its proper, immediate ob- 
ject, the universal, or abstract truth ; 
and afterwards presents itself as 
the secondary, mediate object of 
intellectual cognition in reflection, 
as visible by the intellectual light 
which the mind itself casts on it 
from the universal. In this pres- 
ent state of union with the gross, 
animal body, the mind is bound 
and restricted, somewhat in the 
same way as oxygen is bound by its 
union with hydrogen in water. It 
must conform itself to the condi- 
tions of its mode of life and action, 
and remain turned toward the sen- 
sible object. The brain and the 
sensitive organism must act, in or- 
der that the mind may be in a con- 
dition to act. Therefore, sleep, 
cerebral disorder, a diseased or de- 
cayed condition of the organs, and 
other physical conditions, impede 
the liberty of the mind and will 
to act. So much of the power of 
the soul is absorbed in giving the 
vital influx to the body, its state is 
so much modified by its union with 
it, it is so deeply immersed in sense, 
and so fast bound to its organs, 
that its innate faculty to perceive 
spiritual essences and apprehend 
the intelligible without any sensible 
idea is dormant, like the aptitude 
for breathing in an embryo. The 
intellect needs the previous opera- 
tion of sense and imagination to 
set its object in view, because, 



while the soul informs such a body 
as it now has, it cannot understand 
except by turning to sensible things. 
If the brain cannot furnish the 
images, the mind is like a mirror 
with a cloth thrown over it, or a 
student whose book is locked up 
in a drawer. There are certain pre- 
liminaries and conditions to the ex- 
ercise of intelligence and volition 
which the soul must place by its 
conjoint action with its bodily or- 
gans, as one complex principle of 
operation. But, as its dependence 
in the act of thinking on the con- 
course of the body is not intrinsic, 
but purely extrinsic, the act itself 
is the separate act of the mind, in- 
organic and wholly spiritual. This 
was long ago demonstrated by Aris- 
totle, and the same demonstration, 
amplified in various ways, is found 
in every treatise on psychology 
which is worth anything. 

The whole argument comes back 
to this point, that the object of ra- 
tional cognition is spiritual, and 
therefore the act is spiritual, and 
the subject spiritual. The univer- 
sal cannot in its universality be 
concreted in material conditions. 
Even the individuated material 
substance cannot manifest itself as 
essence to the senses, but only in 
its phenomena. The ideas of the 
transcendental and the universal 
as concepts of the mind are im- 
material, and as they are received 
in their subject according to the 
mode of the recipient, the intellect 
which receives them after a spiritu- 
al mode must be a spirit. 

Again, the impressions made on 
the organs of sense, when they 
reach a certain grade of intensity, 
injure or destroy the organs, be- 
cause they are material. Whereas, 
the intellect is strengthened and 
brought into more perfect activity, 
in proportion to the vividness of 



Self -subsisting Separable Substance. 



351 



the intellectual light which it re- 
ceives. 

Once more, a material organ can- 
not turn back or reflect on itself. 
You cannot apply your right hand 
to itself, in the same way that you 
can apply your left hand to it. 
You must double one hand over 
and change its figure, in order to 
apply one part to the other part. 
Moreover, if you join your two 
hands, you must touch each part 
of one by a corresponding part of 
the other, and cannot touch one 
part of one by the whole of the oth- 
er, much less touch at the same time 
each part separately and also the 
whole by one indivisible contact. 
The organs of sense, likewise, re- 
quire their object to be at a dis- 
tance from them, and their func- 
tions are separate. The eye can- 
not see itself or its vision. Nor 
can we hear our vision, or touch 
our hearing. The reflection, com- 
parison, and co-ordination of sen- 
sations require a common, interior 
sense in the sensorium, and a sim- 
ple, immaterial principle as an ac- 
tuating form. By virtue of this 
form sensation is reduced to unity, 
there is a compenetration of sensa- 
tions and movements which are 
referred to one principle and pro- 
duce an individual life. The sen- 
sitive animal by sensation thus re- 
turns partly upon himself, and by 
imagination and memory retains 
and in a measure reproduces the 
impressions of sensation. If the 
animal is merely sentient, he stops 
with the cognition of sensible phe- 
nomena. He returns on his sensa- 
tions only, by virtue of the simple, 
immaterial principle united with 
his organization. 

But the rational soul returns on 
itself by a perfect reflection. It 
touches the whole and every part 
with its whole, in one simple act. 



It returns upon its reasonings, im- 
mediate perceptions, sensations, vo- 
litions, upon all its acts and upon 
itself as the subject and actor, in a 
way which is partially illustrated by 
the perfect coincidence of several 
lines in one line, and several points 
in one point. Its complete exemp- 
tion from all extension and mate- 
riality is thus manifest, and of 
course it is a necessary consequence 
from this that it does not think, 
will, or reflect by an organ. It is 
not the brain which thinks, but the 
mind ; and the brain, with the or- 
gans, only subserves and ministers 
to it in thinking. It is therefore a 
substance, self-subsisting, and not 
intrinsically dependent on the body 
for its intelligent operation and for 
its existence. Its object is incor- 
poreal, its ideas are incorporeal, its 
operation is incorporeal, and it has, 
therefore, incorporeal essence, life, 
and existence. We repeat also, 
once more, that it is an image of 
God and participates in his intelli- 
gence, understanding and measur- 
ing every kind of being by the 
eternal reasons whose seat is in the 
divine intellect. Its archetype is 
therefore God in his specific ratio 
of being, by which he is most per- 
fect. And as God is a spirit, the 
soul which is in the highest grade 
of being and possesses formally a 
perfection which is in God formal- 
ly as his highest perfection, must 
also be a spirit. 

The immortality of the soul is 
an immediate and necessary con- 
sequence from its nature as a 
self-subsisting spiritual substance. 
Death is a separation between the 
matter of the living being and its 
vital principle, by which the corpse 
is left deprived of intrinsic self- 
moving power, and abandoned to 
extrinsic natural agencies. If the 
vital principle depends for its ope- 



352 



The Reality of the Soul as a 



ration and existence completely on 
its material compart, it becomes 
extinct when the body becomes 
unfit to be informed by its vital in- 
flux. The human soul does not 
depend on the body for its exist- 
ence, its highest life, and its proper 
specific operation. The corrup- 
tion of the body has no tendency 
to deprive it of anything except a 
mode of existence, an inferior kind 
of life, and those operations which 
have an intrinsic dependence on 
the concourse of bodily organs. It 
is capable of a continued ration- 
al existence and operation, because 
it has the nature and powers of 
pure spirits in its essence, it is self- 
subsisting and active, a real sub- 
stance, and not a mere constituent 
of a substance. It is an entelecheia 
which does not require a material 
term of actuation, but which in- 
cludes its own term in its spiritual 
essence, and has no composition 
except that of spiritual essence and 
existence. Its existence is its be- 
ing received from God by the crea- 
tive act. It can cease to exist only 
when God reverses the creative 
act, withholds the divine influx, and 
lets it perish by annihilation. No 
created power can destroy it, no 
internal disintegration can change 
it or resolve it into more simple 
elements, no number of operations 
can exhaust its vitality. Aristotle 
calls it "incorruptible and eternal." 
It is eternal in the sense of having 
begun at the instant of its creation 
an endless existence, because it 
is free from all material composi- 
tion and dependence on organic 
structure and therefore incorrup- 
tible. There is no destruction in 
the universe except that of cor- 
ruption and disintegration of com- 
posites. God creates but does not 
annihilate. All things created tend 
to perpetuity and imitate, accord- 



ing to their grade of being, the eter- 
nity of the Creator. The matter 
of the corporeal universe is ever- 
lasting. Its changes and motions 
are a series of states and acts in 
which its potentiality is educed in- 
to actuality by a perpetual process 
in the line of being, and not by 
a retrogression toward nothing. 
Living things which are corrupti- 
ble perpetuate their species. They 
do this, says Aristotle, " in order 
that, in so far as they can, they may 
partake of the eternal and the di- 
vine: for this all things desire, and 
for the sake of it they do whatever 
they do naturally. Since, there- 
fore, they cannot partake of the 
eternal and divine by a continu- 
ous existence, because no corrupti- 
ble thing can remain constant in its 
numerical unity, they partake of 
them the best they can, one more, 
another less, each one continuing 
not in the same nature individual- 
ly, but in a like nature, which is 
not numerically but specifically the 
same."* That which is incorrup- 
tible, Aristotle everywhere teaches, 
as do all sound philosophers, cannot 
perish, and there is consequently an 
indestructible basis in matter for all 
its various and changing forms, what- 
ever the true theory of the ultimate 
constitution of matter may be. 
The perishable nature of the prin- 
ciple of brute-life is asserted and 
argued solely on the ground that 
it is not a substance which God 
immediately creates, but, though a 
simple and immaterial form, an in- 
complete entity, educed from the 
potentiality of matter and existing 
in it without self-subsistence. The 
human soul is a spirit, incorrupti- 
ble, and not amenable to the laws 
of matter or subject to the action 
of material forces. The effort at 
perpetuity, the striving after a par- 

* On the Soul, lib. ii. c. 4. 



Self-subsisting Separable Substance. 



353 



ticipation of the perennial divine 
being, is not, therefore, restricted 
to a mere continuation of the spe- 
cies, but is realized in individual 
endless life. 

This is the pure, metaphysical 
demonstration that the soul is 
deathless, derived from its very 
nature as a spirit. 

But there are other proofs which 
corroborate this one and give great- 
er intensity to the rational certi- 
tude derived from pure philosophy 
that the soul was created immortal 
and destined to an everlasting per- 
petuity of being. 

In the first place, since the uni- 
verse itself is indestructible, except 
by the infinite power which created 
it, and not only is it contrary to 
fact that God ever does destroy 
what he has made, but contrary to 
reason that he should do so, those 
beings who are highest in the uni- 
verse, and for whom everything 
was made, must be immortal. Ra- 
tional souls belong to the highest 
grade of being. Each one is bet- 
ter, and more worthy of preserva- 
tion, than all the stars. Therefore, 
they will be preserved. 

Again, the object of the intellect 
is necessary and eternal truth, and 
the object of desire is the universal 
good. They are beyond the limi- 
tations of space and time. The 
faculties which are turned towards 
the intelligible and the desirable 
which is identical with it have an 
attitude and propensity toward the 
infinite. It is in the infinite, there- 
fore, that their reason of being, 
their final cause, and their ultimate 
end must be found, and towards 
this all their motions must be di- 
rected. 

That which is capable of perfec- 
tion, and has a natural appetite for 
this perfection, is not injured and 
destroyed by the same causes which 
VOL. xxix. 23 



directly and naturally tend to give 
and increase this perfection. The 
principle of life has no death-giv- 
ing influx. The soul does not cor- 
rupt or kill the body, by diminish- 
ing or withdrawing vital force, 
much less by exerting a positively 
deadly influence. Thought, un- 
derstanding, knowledge, do not 
weaken and destroy the intellect. 
They strengthen and vitalize it in 
proportion to their quantity and 
intensity and duration. Volition, 
and specifically the exercise of free 
volition or free choice, does not 
weaken but strengthens the will. 
Acts and habits of virtue increase 
by repetition and continuity. In- 
tellectual and moral life grow 
stronger as they endure, and the 
vital impulse, the desire and en- 
joyment of the intelligible and mo- 
ral object of knowledge and voli- 
tion, are never exhausted by the 
widening and prolongation of their 
sphere of action. The mind as- 
pires after universal knowledge and 
the heart after everlasting love. 
There is nothing in nature which 
is in vain. This aspiration is not 
in vain. And, moreover, nature 
proceeds from divine reason and 
goodness. It is harmonious and 
well-proportioned. There is no 
harmony or proportion in it, no 
wisdom manifested, no goodness 
exhibited, unless rational beings 
are immortal. 

Nature does not deceive, because 
the author of nature is Eternal 
Truth. But the natural reason and 
expectation of mankind in all ages 
has awaited a future life. The 
best, the most noble, the most he- 
roic of mankind, by millions, have 
lived, labored, fought and suffered > 
made sacrifices and have died, in 
the hope of immortality, encourag- 
ed by the expectation of future 
and everlasting happiness. It is 



354 



The Reality of the Soul as a 



impossible that this should be an 
illusion. 

Finally, we recur once more to 
the archetypal ideas in God, where 
we find the eternal reasons which 
measure our minds and all things. 
The creation is an imitation of 
God's essence, in so far as it is 
imitable; a participation^ of his be- 
ing, in so far as it can be partici- 
pated. The highest grade of being 
bears the formal image of God by 
the participated light of intelligence 
and the faculty of rational volition 
which accompanies reason. The 
intelligent creature imitates and 
participates in the most excellent 
act which is the divine life, the 
pure, absolute Entclechcia, which is 
eternal by essence. It is, therefore, 
as Aristotle says, aidios, eternal, in 
the full sense of the idea as con- 
ceivable and possible in a finite 
being. That is, it has a beginning 
but no ending ; it has not the total 
and simultaneous possession in per- 
fection of interminable life, but a 
continuous and never-ending pro- 
gression in a line of life which 
is never terminated, a revolution 
around God in an orbit whose 
curve is not re-entering. This is 
known to human reason by its par- 
ticipation in the eternal reasons 
which are in the intellect of God, 
and by which he created the world 
in wisdom. Our mental spectro- 
scope shows that this thought and 
purpose is in God', and has been in 
God from eternity, and that he is 
the author of our rational conviction 
that the soul is immortal. The 
very same argument proves that 
the soul was created to participate 
in the desirable good and felicity 
of God, as well as in his intelli- 
gence and duration of existence, 
in a mode proportioned to its na- 
ture. 

The one great difficulty which 



presents itself in apparent opposi- 
tion to this conclusion is the cor- 
ruptible condition of human nature 
by reason of the union of the soul 
with an animal and mortal body, 
and the universal fact of death, 
which extinguishes each separate 
human life and the collective life 
of each generation in turn. It 
might also be proved, from what is 
known scientifically of the structure 
of the earth and the sun, that the 
laws of nature, if they continue to 
operate unchanged, must eventual- 
ly put an end to the life of the 
whole human species. If the soul 
is a self-subsistent substance, an 
intelligent spirit, separate in exis- 
tence and operation from an or- 
ganic body, why is it united to a 
body, and to a body which is mor- 
tal ? Aristotle says : " It is a drud- 
gery to be joined With the body 
and unable to escape from it, and, 
moreover, something to be shunned, 
since it is better for the intellect 
not to be with the body, as it is 
commonly said and appears to 
many consonant with reason." * 

If it is not better for the soul to 
be with than to be without the 
body, it ought not in reason to 
have been united with the body. 
If it is 'better, and the human spe- 
cies has its sufficient reason of be- 
ing, body belongs to the human 
essence, is an integral part of man, 
necessary to his perfection, and 
therefore ought to be incorruptible 
and immortal. 

Moreover, the inchoate state of 
a rational, endless, and happy life 
ought to contain in germ its own 



* 'Eniwovov 5e *ai TO ^.e/xix^ac 
SwdfJ-evov aTToAvflijvai, *al irpoaeri (J>ev;cTbv, eirrep 
jSeATior T<p vcp fj.r) jnera. aw/maro? elvai, Ka.Bo.itep clcode 
re XeyecrQai KO.I TroAAot? <rvv(>oKel. Laboriosum est 
etiam conjunctum esse cum corpora, neque absolvi 
ab eo posse, et insuper fugiendum, quippe quum 
melius sit intellectui non esse cum corpora, quemad- 
modum et dici solet et complures consentiunt (De 
Anima, lib. i. c. iii. art. 19). 



Self -subsisting Separable Substance. 



355 



perfection, and develop the same 
under constant laws, according to 
the analogy of other and inferior 
parts of the universe. But is the 
life of man on earth worth living, 
taken as a whole, and worth con- 
tinuing in an endless duration? 

Ancient philosophers endeavor- 
ed to solve the problem of man 
and his mortal life, but with very 
poor success. Modern rationalists 
renew the effort, some with a ten- 
dency toward optimism, others 
with the opposite tendency toward 
pessimism. Pure reason, if the 
light of faith is shut out, may in- 
vent plausible conjectures, or even 
argue out some probable theories. 
It cannot furnish an adequate and 
satisfactory doctrine. There are 
notable shortcomings in all purely 
natural science; and in philosophy, 
as well as in the other branches of 
human knowledge. Most of those 
who hold with firm assent and with 
inward complacency the belief in 
immortality hold it as a religious 
doctrine, or by virtue of a philoso- 
phy derived in part from the tradi- 
tion of religious faith. Those pro- 
fessed theists or rationalists whose 
life is conformed to the higher 
rules of natural reason, and in 
whose breasts pure and noble sen- 
timents and affections hold sway, 
regard life and every bond of pure 
and rational love uniting them to 
their kind, as sacred. They esteem 
intellectual and moral life, and the 
union of love with those who are 
worthy of love, as an inestimable 
privilege, and long for their perpetu- 
ation after death. Let their meta- 
physical convictions be more or 
less clear and strong, they are sen- 
sible of a longing and a demand 
in human nature for immortality 
which cannot be defrauded by na- 
ture or its Author. Separation, 
and the extinction of the earthly 



life, are to them unbearable, except 
as they are sustained by the hope 
of immortality. Love of wisdom, 
love of the good, the beautiful, and 
the lovable, and the love of those 
persons who are justly dear, seeks 
to eternize itself. Mr. Buckle de- 
clared that his love for his mother 
convinced him that the souls in 
which such a love can exist must 
be immortal. The late Mr. Bayard 
Taylor is credibly reported to have 
said that although he did not know 
how to demonstrate immortality, 
he knew its truth, and could much 
better understand the infinite than 
the finite. Persons of a pure and 
pious disposition and great inten- 
sity of natural affection, who seem 
to themselves to waver in their be- 
lief of a future life, especially when 
they are in life-long, inconsolable 
sorrow over the parting from the 
persons whom they- loved the most 
deeply and tenderly, do not neces- 
sarily doubt with a real and posi- 
tive doubt seated in their reason. 
They may lack clear and consistent 
knowledge of the divine truth, and 
long for clearer evidence, while 
they still possess an inward certi- 
tude and an unwavering belief in 
their minds to which in their hearts 
they fully consent. Their waver- 
ing is the tremulousness of the 
light which is in them, which is 
totally different from the darkness 
of positive doubt and unbelief. 

The common belief of mankind in 
the future and separate existence 
of the soul is a well-known fact. 
Among the people who have been 
brought up in Christian civilization, 
the depth and intensity of their 
belief in the dignity and excellence 
given to human nature by the ra- 
tional soul is shown by their hor- 
ror for homicide. An instance of 
the intensity of this feeling in re- 
gard to the sacredness of human 



356 



The Reality of the Soul as a 



life and of the body, on account 
of the soul, occurred recently near 
New York, and is so striking as to 
be worth citing as a most curi- 
ous illustration. A pretty and in- 
teresting little boy, who was ap- 
pointed to take part with his 
school-fellows in a dramatic enter- 
tainment that same evening, while 
playing near a tame bear was sud- 
denly seized and killed by the 
bear. This was tragical enough, 
and the grief and sympathy which 
followed such a sudden and sad 
death were natural and what might 
be expected to arise in every sim- 
ilar circumstance. But the strik- 
ing and curious illustration of the 
point we are considering, furnish- 
ed by this particular instance, is 
found in an accessory incident. 
The bystanders were especially 
horrified at seeing the bear quiet- 
ly lick his paws imbrued in the 
blood of the boy. This was em- 
phasized in the newspaper account 
of the sad event, and the fact 
mentioned with evident satisfac- 
tion that the bear had been killed. 
Nothing could be less rational than 
to condemn and detest the poor 
bear for following his natural in- 
stincts. But the horror at blood- 
shedding and at bloodthirstiness 
in a rational being is so strong, 
that it overleaps the bounds of 
reason and personifies the brute, 
whose savageness is an image of 
that which is so criminal in a man. 
The sacredness of human blood, 
of human life, of the human body, 
in the common estimation, is most 
vividly exemplified in this instance. 
And this sense of sacredness is 
founded in the sense of that worth 
in man which is the primary reason 
for believing that he is immortal. 

It is for the same reason that 
the most extraordinary care and 
respect are evinced toward the 



bodies of the dead. The univer- 
sal and intense anxiety to find and 
identify the bodies of the soldiers 
who fell in our late civil war, the 
vast outlay of time, labor, and 
money devoted to this purpose, 
the rage which was excited by 
reports of insulting treatment of 
corpses on the battle-field, the in- 
dignation awakened by any sup- 
posed negligence of due rites of 
sepulture by the commanders, and 
the affecting care lavished on the 
decoration of the cemeteries where 
this army of the dead reposes all 
these are an overwhelming testi- 
mony of popular belief and the com- 
mon sentiment of the human heart. 
The deification of heroes among 
the ancient pagans, the veneration 
of Christian heroes after death 
among Christians, tli emotion call- 
ed forth by the funeral obsequies 
of the great and of the good, are 
all manifestations of the common 
sentiment of mankind that the soul 
survives the body. In a descrip- 
tion of the funeral rites of a bishop 
lately deceased contained in a 
secular newspaper, the writer has 
inserted the following sentence, in 
which he expresses the sentiment 
awakened in all hearts not insen- 
sible, by similar demonstrations : 
" Emerson says that the religions 
of the world are the ejaculations 
of a few imaginative men. That 
scene in the cathedral, so solemn, 
so rich in everything that attracts 
the senses, so overwhelming with 
its force of the most momentous 
truth of philosophy or fact death 
so full of calm, of serenity, of 
peace, was the effect of an ejacu- 
lation. It represented the convic- 
tion of nine-tenths of the enlight- 
ened portion of mankind that the 
human soul is immortal."' 

* " Ceremonies at the Funeral of Bishop Foley," 
Chicago Tribune^ February 22, 1879. 



Self-subsisting Separable Substance. 



357 



Those who are the most glorious 
in their death and after their death 
among men leave a testimony after 
them in which this common senti- 
ment of mankind is concentrated 
and intensified. In them humanity 
raised to its highest power speaks 
with the force of universal reason 
personified and manifested in visi- 
ble majesty. Socrates drank the 
hemlock calmly, as if he actually 
saw the eternity before him. Those 
who do not reverence St. Paul the 
inspired prophet and commissioned 
legate of God, must honor Paul 
the philosopher and hero. " I have 
fought a good fight, I have kept the 
faith, I have finished my course : 
henceforth there is laid up for me a 
crown of righteousness which God 
the just judge shall give me in that 
day." No rational man can neg- 
lect to give weight to such a testi'- 
mony, without violating one of the 
fundamental rules of all rational 
philosophy. Much less can he 
shut his eyes to the divine tragedy 
enacted on the cross, or his ears to 
the words of the august Sufferer 
who among all men is emphatically 
THE MAN, " Father, into thy hands 
I commend my spirit." 

If reason and philosophy come 
short of an adequate solution of 
the enigmas of human life and the 
destination of the human species, 
this is no just cause for abdicating 
reason altogether. Suicidal despair 
in philosophy is a mere insanity. 
The eternal truths, the existence 
of the most perfect Being, the spiri- 
tual and immortal nature of the 
human soul, are certain. Difficul- 
ties arising from ignorance and 
limitation before the intellect to 
puzzle and baffle it in its effort to 
search out the beginning and the 
end of universal reality, and to 
understand the harmonies of all 
spheres of existence and knowledge, 



cannot affect this certainty. It is 
utterly irrational to deny or doubt 
what is knowable and known be- 
cause it is surrounded by the infi- 
nite region which to the human 
intellect is naturally unknowable or 
in its present condition unknown. 
There is a secret in human destiny 
known to God, and which must be 
made known by God to men, or 
remain impervious to the human 
intellect. The eternal reasons ac- 
cording to which the human intel- 
lect measures nature are inadequate 
to measure man and his destiny. 
So long as he is considered in his 
relations to the purely natural 
order, his reason of being and the 
end toward which he is tending 
are enveloped in obscurity, his 
condition and history defy all ef- 
fort to bring them into harmony 
with divine reasons and a just 
order, and the human race presents 
the appearance of a planet which 
is wandering from its orbit. This 
is an indication that humanity is 
under a higher and supernatural 
law. Astronomers long ago guess- 
ed that the order of the solar sys- 
tem did not stop within its own 
bounds, that it was not isolated 
and still, within the limits of its 
own orbital revolutions around the 
centre. They conjectured also 
that the fixed stars were not 
still. 

It is known now, that sun and 
stars are moving with great rapid- 
ity, that our solar system is a part 
of a more extended system of move- 
ment. The stars behind us are 
drawing together, those in front 
are opening and separating, like 
objects on a road from which we 
are retreating or towards which we 
are advancing. So it is in the or- 
der of rational philosophy. There 
is a closing up when we look back- 
ward on rational principles which 



358 



The Black Age. 



indicates that we cannot remain 
stationary or move backward. 
There is no opening except as we 
look forward toward a region re- 
mote from mere human calculation 
with the data of our short span 
of existence, whose spaces and re- 
lations are immeasurable by our 
mind and its imperfect instruments. 
The secret of God by us undis- 
coverable, the higher knowledge, to 
us, without revelation, unknowable, 
was disclosed to man in the begin- 
ning of his history; it has come 
down -by a tradition of wisdom 
above all philosophy, and has al- 
ways been possessed by the most 
favored and elect portion of man- 
kind, the ancestors of Christ and 
the apostles, the spiritual progeni- 
tors of the whole race of Christians. 
The reminiscence of it was never 
anywhere wholly lost. The Greek 
philosophers all refer to this an- 
cient and to them dim tradition as 
coming from the age and the source 
of light. Plato vaguely and anx- 
iously hints at a hope of some new 



and divine illumination in the fu- 
ture. Cicero's hesitating and re- 
served tone in the affirmation of 
philosophical truth manifests the 
need and the longing of the human 
mind for clearer, more divine, and 
more complete answers to the ques- 
tionings of the curious intellect. 
The aspirations and attainments of 
human nature show its capacity 
and attitude for the maximum of 
good in the aspect of the intelli- 
gible and the desirable, its short- 
comings on all sides show the un- 
attainability of this summumbonum, 
without supernatural revelation and 
grace. St. Paul's declaration that 
" by the Law is the knowledge of 
sin," i.e., of a defect which separates 
man, in respect to his highest rela- 
tion, from God, is a universal truth. 
All natural knowledge of nature 
and its laws, all purely human phi- 
losophy, ends with the sense and ac- 
knowledgment of an irremediable 
deficiency, and is a smothered, half- 
suppressed moan of human nature 
crying out for its Redeemer. 



THE BLACK AGE. 



WE mean the tenth century, for 
of all the middle ages it is con- 
sidered the darkest even by ex- 
cellent Catholic writers. It gets 
this character in history from a 
negative namely, the comparative 
lack of writers who lived in it ; 
and from a positive namely, Luit- 
prand,* a Lombard historian of 
Spanish origin, who was especial- 
ly hostile to the popes from being 

* Luitprand wrote Liber de Rebus gesiis Ottonis 
Magni Imperatoris, Relatio de Legatione Con- 
ttantinopolitana, and Antapodosis^ a history 
of Eu/ope. He was bishop of Cremona, and is him- 
self one of the lights of the tenth century. 



attached to the court and the cause 
of the German emperor, Otho I., 
who, like his successors in the mid- 
dle ages, sought to control the Pa- 
pacy temporally and spiritually. 
Is it fair to draw a conclusion hos- 
tile to the tenth century from such 
a negative and such a positive? 
The anti-papal prejudices of Luit- 
prand disqualify him as a reliable 
witness in the case, since his trans- 
parent purpose, as every reader of 
him may perceive, is to defame the 
condition of the church in Rome, 
bring contempt on the popes, who 



The Black Age. 



359 



were unfriendly to the ambition of 
Otho, and extol the deeds of his 
sovereign, of whom he was an ab- 
ject courtier. 

Flodoard, a contemporary his- 
torian, who wrote a life of the Ro- 
man pontiffs, is a much better au- 
thority. The tone of his work iscalm 
and impartial, as becomes a writer 
of history, while every page of it 
shows industry, research, and learn- 
ing. Luitprand declaims while 
Flodoard narrates facts. Those 
who would have a correct know- 
ledge of the so-called " black age " 
should read Flodoard as well as 
Luitprand. Yet the latter author 
seems to have swayed the judgment 
of even such writers as Baronius, 
who calls the tenth an " iron age," 
and Bellarmine, who says it was the 
most ignorant of the ages.* We 
protest against the inference of 
these authors. We propose to de- 
fend the accused century from their 
charges, and to show that it is not 
a black spot in history, as they 
would lead us to believe. That there 
were scandals in it we admit, as 
there have been at all times in the 
church; but we deny that Luit- 
prand's statements concerning the 
popes of this age are true, and 
maintain that his whole history 
should be discounted with more 
than the usual grain of allowance 
for prejudice, bigotry, and partisan- 
ship. It can be shown that al- 
though the tenth cannot compare 
with the eleventh century in bril- 
liancy, still that the arts and 
sciences flourished in it, and es- 
pecially at Rome, in spite of many 
drawbacks. Luitprand's authority 
weighed too much with both Bel- 
larmine and Baronius. If our pur- 
pose were merely to defend the 
Papacy from the inference which 

* De Controversiis Fidei de R. Pontif., \. iv. 



its enemies draw from the scandals 
of that age, we should merely quote 
the passage of Tertullian in which 
he writes : " What, then, if a bishop 
or a deacon should fall away from 
the rule, must we admit that heresy 
has won a victory over truth ? Do 
we test the faith by persons, or per- 
sons by the faith ?"* and dismiss 
the subject. The church certainly 
did not lose her fecundity in this 
century, since it was during it that 
the Gospel was preached to the 
Normans, Sclavs, Bohemians, Poles, 
Hungarians, and Muscovites. Fe- 
cundity and sanctity in the church 
are correlative terms. The ninth 
century, the heir of three hundred 
years of Irish f missionary labor on 
the continent of Europe, combined 
with the ancient Roman Christian- 
ity of the Benedictine cloisters the 
ninth century, still resplendent with 
the traditions of Charlemagne and 
Alcuin, did not sink into gloomy 
night when the tenth was born. 
There were still countless monas- 
teries in Italy and Gaul, in which 
the monks were busy, like bees in 
the hive, copying ancient manu- 
scripts, teaching the surrounding 
populations gently but surely ex- 
tracting the honey of classic litera- 
ture from the records of the past, 
while they deprived it of its poison 
and its sting by the lessons of 
Christianity. It is a historical im- 
possibility that sudden night should 
succeed to a brilliant day, or that 
a brilliant day should suddenly arise 
after a gloomy night. Decay in 
history is as slow as growth. And 
consequently, since the ninth centu- 
ry, the parent of the tenth, was bril- 
liant, as all admit, its rays must have 
illumined the tenth, though they 

* De Pr&scriptionibus, c. iii. 

t Ozanam, in his Civilization Chrttienne chez les 
Francs, shows that Irish monks evangelized semi- 
barbarian Europe from the sixth to the ninth cen- 
tury. 



The Black Age. 



may not have shone so brightly ; 
and since the eleventh, the child 
of the 'tenth, was confessedly an 
age of learning and literary vitality, 
it must have derived its vigor from 
the paternal source. Many a man 
is considered great simply because 
there has been a historian to re- 
cord his deeds. History written by 
a skilled pen often ennobles and 
immortalizes commonplace actions 
and events, while without a record 
the noblest deeds are often shorn 
of half their splendor. May not 
this fact account for the seeming 
darkness of the tenth century ? 
There were few historians of its 
events, consequently their char- 
acter has been underrated. But 
whenever did silence prove the 
non-existence of a fact ? When we 
read of the Tiber in the classic 
writings of a Roman poet or his- 
torian we imagine it to be a large 
and majestic river, while the fact 
is that it is insignificant compared 
with many an unrecorded stream 
whose glories have never been sung 
by bard or immortalized by a writer 
of annals. Silence in this case 
proves nothing. 

Sufficient facts, however, are re- 
corded to show that, besides the 
logical inference drawn from the 
antecedent and consequent ages, 
the tenth was not so black as it 
has been painted. It began with 
the reign of a pope Benedict IV., 
a Roman whose piety and bene- 
volence are praised in the high- 
est terms by Flodoard, and ended 
with Gerbert, the celebrated ma- 
thematician, who took the name of 
Sylvester II. Thus the so-called 
" black age " began with a saint 
and ended with a scholar. Nor 
can we find that any of the scan- 
dals alleged against the intermedi- 
ary pontiffs rest upon any better au- 
thority than that of the notorious 



romancer and anti-papal partisan, 
Luitprand.* The reform of the 
Benedictine monasteries inaugurat- 
ed by St. Berno, the first abbot of 
Cluny, A.D. 910, speaks well for the 
character of the regular clergy. In 
the year 927 seven large monas- 
teries had accepted his rigorous 
sway. His successor, the learned 
St. Odo, continued the good work, 
until the reform became general, 
so that in a short time two thou- 
sand monasteries in Europe had 
accepted it in all its severity. Two 
abbots in Gaul, Einold and St. 
John, labored in the same good 
cause ; so that in spite of the de- 
moralization consequent upon the 
struggles of the German and Italian 
factions and the disorders engen- 
dered by the continual private wars 
of the feudal nobles, counts, mar- 
quises, and dukes, against one an- 
other, the monks maintained the 
purity of their institutions. 

In judging this age from an An- 
glo-Saxon stand-point it should not 
be forgotten that in it lived the 
good King Edward, son of Alfred 
the Great, Athelstan, Edmund, Ed- 
red, and St. Edward, all remarkable 
for their piety, learning, and zeal 
in purifying the church. It was 
the age, also, of St. Odo and St. 
Dunstan, Archbishops of Canter- 
bury, whose synodical letters still 
exist to attest that learning as well 
as piety adorned the episcopacy of 
the tenth century. The age is also 
celebrated as having been the first 
in which we have an instance of the 
canonization of a saint by the Ro- 
man pontiffs with solemn rite. This 
happened in the case of St. Udal- 
ric, who was canonized by Pope 
John XV. in a Roman synod held 
in the year 993; although the cus- 

* Muratori, in hisAnnatt tfltalia^ ad annum 914, 
says that Luitprand got some of his statements con- 
cerning the popes from a life of Theodora, which 
the learned critic calls " Un infante romanzo. " 



The Black Age. 



361 



torn of canonizing saints without 
this solemn rite was usual with the 
popes from the earliest period. * 
The fact that more care was taken 
to prevent abuse or error in such 
an important matter speaks well 
for the prudence and critical spirit 
of the Papacy in this age. A spirit 
of criticism and discrimination al- 
ways characterizes enlightenment. 

There are many facts which go 
to show that education, both reli- 
gious and secular, was not neglect- 
ed in the much-maligned "black 
age." In the beginning of this cen- 
tury we find that certain canons 
were appointed in Pisa to teach 
theology and canon law. A bull 
of Benedict IV. proves this. It is 
probable that a similar custom ex- 
isted in other dioceses. Certainly 
at Ravenna towards the end of the 
tenth century there-lived a certain 
Vilgard, surnamed " The Gramma- 
rian," who taught school in that 
city, and gave out with great pride 
that " Virgil, Horace, and JuVenal 
had appeared to him in a dream 
and promised him immortality." f 
Thus we see that classic lore was 
not dea$. We have also a cata- 
logue, made in this century, of the 
library of the monastery of Bobbio, 
founded by the monks of St. Col- 
umbanus. It contains an excel- 
lent list not only of sacred authors, 
but even of the best profane histo- 
rians, orators, poets, and gramma- 
rians, copied by the daily labor of 
those self-sacrificing men to whom 
we are indebted for the preservation 
of ancient literature. Raterius of 
Verona, speaking of Rome in this 
century, says that nowhere else 
could one be so well instructed 



* Those who doubt this should consult the ablest 
book ever written on the subject, Benedict XIV.'s 
De Servorum Dei Beatificatione et Canoniza- 
tione 

t Tiraboschi, Storia. della Letteratura Itali- 
, torn. iii. p. 192. 



in the sciences. This author was 
himself one of the great lights of 
the age. He was born in the dio- 
cese of Liege about the year 896, 
entered the monastery of Laubes 
when a boy, and studied with great 
success both the Greek and Latin 
authors (which were commonly 
taught in his country). He went 
to Italy with Ilduin, Bishop-elect 
of Liege, who afterwards became 
Bishop of Verona, and from it was 
transferred to the archbishopric 
of Milan ; and then Raterius .suc- 
ceeded him as Bishop of Verona. 
The learned Belgian fell into dis- 
grace with Hugo, King of Italy, 
who exiled him to France, where 
he taught literature for a long time. 
His works are divided into three 
parts. The first, besides six books 
ot Preloquia \\\ which he treats of 
the duties of man, contains many 
essays on canon law, sacred histo- 
ry, and apologies for his conduct 
in dealing with his diocesans and 
the king; the second contains his 
letters and many theological tracts; 
the third is made up of his ser- 
mons to the people. He shows 
great scholarship on every page, 
not only in sacred but also in pro- 
fane literature. His style, how- 
ever, is harsh, as is the style of most 
of the authors of the middle ages. 
They were ages when men sought 
after solid learning and not after 
the beauties of style. In our days 
we have the graces of style studied 
to excess, while our learning is su- 
perficial and our erudition very 
often slip-shod. It will hardly be 
disputed by those who make a spe- 
cial study of the so-called dark 
ages that although education was 
not as general as it now is, because 
the art of printing was not known, 
yet that the learned classes of that 
period were far in advance of the 
moderns in profound knowledge 



362 



The Black Age. 



and genuine erudition. Works 
written in the middle ages have 
never been equalled since; witness 
the poems of Dante and the theo- 
logical and philosophical works of 
Thomas Aquinas. 

Atto of Vercelli was another 
great writer of the " black age." 
He was probably of Lombard 
origin. He was made bishop of 
Vercelli A.D. 924, and lived till 
about the year 960, when he was 
succeeded by Ingone. His works 
were numerous and learned. One 
called the Capitular is divided into 
a hundred chapters, and contains 
the acts and decrees of various 
councils held by him for the regu- 
lation of his diocese. In this work 
we find many decrees ordering his 
priests to establish public schools for 
the instruction of youth. Another of 
his works is called Ecclesiastical 
Oppressions, in which we have an 
interesting account of the grievan- 
ces and vexations of the church in 
those times. He also wrote a com- 
mentary on St. Paul's Epistles, and 
two sermons, one on the Ascension, 
the other a panegyric of St. Euse- 
bius, Bishop of Vercelli.* 

These two bishops may be fairly 
taken to show that learning still 
flourished in the tenth century, 
and that schools were established 
for the education of the people in 
other dioceses as well as in theirs. 
The church was always faithful to 
this early tradition regarding the 
establishment of schools for the 
people. 

Nor were there poets wanting in 
this age of comparative darkness. 
Theodolfus, Bishop of Orleans, 
had the reputation, of being a 
second Ovid among -his contempo- 
raries; Paulinus, the Patriarch of 
Aquileia, was also a cultivator of 

* Father d'Achcry's Spicilegium^ vol. i., edit. 
Paris, 1723, contains most of Atto's works. 



the muse ; and their poetry was 
read with delight in the first part 
of the tenth century. That Greek 
literature was still cultivated is 
shown by a panegyric of King 
Berenger, the title of which is in 
Greek ; and from the writings of 
Luitprand himself, who scatters 
Greek passages over his pages, no 
doubt to show his knowledge of the 
tongue. 

Two anonymous historians, call- 
ed respectively, from the places of 
their nativity, "The Salernitan '" 
and " The Beneventan," flourish- 
ed at this time. The former con- 
tinued the excellent history of the 
Lombards, by Paul the Deacon, up 
to the year 980; while the latter 
gives us a faithful chronicle of the 
years 996, 997, and 998. We have 
already spoken of Luitprand, who, 
although a writer of great preju- 
dices, was a man of real learning. 
As for mathematics and philoso- 
phy, we may fairly ask how could 
Pope Sylvester II., formerly Arch- 
bishop of Rheims, have become so 
celebrated as a mathematician, un- 
less there were professors to teach 
him or books of the science from 
which to study ? 

Other writers of note flourished 
in the tenth century. ^Elfric, 
Archbishop of Canterbury, wrote a 
Saxon grammar, an Anglo-Saxon 
lexicon, and a Saxon version of 
the Old and New Testament. Yet 
this was the age of the " chain- 
ed Bible"! (Ecumenius, a Greek 
writer, wrote an exposition of the 
Acts of the Apostles and a com- 
mentary on the Pauline and Ca- 
tholic epistles. Witikind, a monk 
of the Abbey of Corbie, in Sax- 
ony, wrote a history of the Sax- 
ons in three books, not to speak 
of many other writers on sacred 
and profane subjects. In view of 
these facts we can with justice say 



Plain Chant in its Relation to the Liturgy. 



363 



of the "black age" what is so 
well expressed by the learned 
Pagi :* " This century had indeed 
few historians, but it did not yield 
to the preceding ages in learning, 
when emperors and kings favored 
literature. Nor should it be call- 
ed an age of ignorance and ob- 
scurantism for any other cause than 
that of the paucity of its writers 
when compared with the multitude 
who flourished in the antecedent 
and subsequent periods. That it 
had more writers than were known 
in the time of Bellarmine is now 



evident to any one who peruses a 
modern catalogue of ecclesiastical 
authors. It was illumined by 
many bishops and abbots, monks 
and religious of both sexes, of every 
rank and condition, remarkable 
alike for their holiness and their 
learning." We may say, therefore, 
that the tenth was the most silent 
of the middle ages ; but it is not 
logical on that account to say that 
it was illiterate, or to infer from its 
silence that it was inferior to the 
other centuries. 



PLAIN CHANT IN ITS RELATION TO THE LITURGY. 

\Concluded ^\ 



X. TONALITY OF THE LITURGICAL 
CHANT. 

WHOEVER has carefully followed 
our explanations concerning the 
rhythm, and from what has been 
said has obtained an idea of the 
essence of natural music, as well as 
of the significance of the chant in 
the offices of the church, will in 
consequence be obliged to defend, 
as a necessary and essential condi- 
tion, .the diatonic tonality. There 
subsists, in fact, between the rhythm 
and tonality a connection and mu- 
tual relation. The rhythm once 
established, the tonality is deter- 
mined ; the duration and accent of 
the tone once ascertained, the 
character of the tone-intervals is 
evident. In other words, the free, 
natural rhythm of the chant re- 
quires a free and natural tonal- 
ity, while the artificial, measured 

* Critica in A nnales Baronii ad annum goo. 



rhythm adopts with a decided 
preference the measured division 
of the intervals into half and quar- 
ter tones. 

But, to proceed methodically, let 
us first ask the question : What do- 
we understand by tonality, and 
what is the tonality of the Grego- 
rian chant ? 

When we speak of tonality we 
mean the proportion according to 
which the tones of a scale ascend 
and the relation in which the tones 
stand to each other, or, in other 
words, we understand by the tonal- 
ity the intervals between the tones. 

Of the various tonalities which 
the history of music exhibits only 
two are worth considering, because 
they are the only ones that have 
been retained in use, and because 
a contest for precedence is now go- 
ing on between them in the field of 
church music. These are the so- 
called diatonic and chromatic tonali- 



3 6 4 



Plain Chant in its Relation to the Liturgy. 



ties. The diatonic from diaro- 
VIKOZ, extending through is so 
called because in it the tones as- 
cend according to relations natural- 
ly given, and without introducing 
strange intervals, so that in one 
octave there are never more than 
two natural half-tones Si-Ut and 
Mi-Fa or E-F and B-C and a 
whole tone is never forced in be- 
tween two halves, nor do two half- 
tones ever follow each other in 
immediate succession. The chro- 
matic tonality, on the other hand, 
admits other intervals besides these 
natural ones of five whole and two 
half tones. This is done by sharp- 
ing and flatting the natural tones ; 
and because at first the sharp and 
the flat were represented by various 
colors, the variegated appearance 
of the scale gave it the name of 
chromatic (xpooj^ariHo?) /.<?., the 
colored tonality. 

Now, these two kinds of tonality 
correspond so fully to the two kinds 
of music and rhythm we have so 
carefully distinguished that we may 
at once call the diatonic the na- 
tural and the chromatic the artifi- 
cial tonality. This is justified both 
by the peculiarities of each scale 
and by authority. Natural music 
can only have a natural tonality, 
which, resting upon natural laws, 
has nothing artificial or conven- 
tional about it, but is, like speech 
and natural rhythm, a gift to men 
from the Creator. This natural 
tonality, or, to speak more specifi- 
cally, the natural diatonic scale, 
consists, as we have said, of five 
whole and two half tones in the fol- 
lowing order : 

J. J. j* ^L. JL JL Ji 
Ut Re Mi Fa Sol La Si Ut, or 

JL JL ^L J-, JL J^ L 
CDEFGABC 
That this scale is natural and is 



derived from the ear can be eas- 
ily shown experimentally. Take a 
person with a good ear for music 
but without musical education, and 
let him begin and sing up from a 
low note. He will keep exactly to 
the intervals of the diatonic scale, 
and, having reached the eighth note, 
will, if he goes higher, complete the 
whole octave again ; but he will 
never sing the chromatic scale, 
which, by the way, is no easy task 
even for one who knows the con- 
ventional intervals between the 
tones. Thus we see that the dia- 
tonic scale has its sanction in the 
natural ear, the u aurium adrnira- 
bile- judicium " so often quoted. 
The ear rests contented with it, 
showing it to be in conformity with 
the natural musical sense, while the 
chromatic scale (O#C-D #D-E-F-# 
F-G-ttG-A-#A-B-C) makes anything 
but an agreeable impression upon 
the ear and mind. Now, that which 
impresses the natural, unprejudiced 
organ of sense as agreeable and in 
conformity with nature must un- 
doubtedly be natural. 

This argument from the nature 
of things may be further confirmed 
by authority, since all those mas- 
ters of song whose opinion is of 
weight, and whose judgment has not 
been warped by the influence of 
artificial music, reach the same 
conclusion. In the course of this 
chapter a number of these authori- 
ties will be cited. Here we will 
only admit one passage, from an 
anonymous author of an excellent 
treatise entitled L'arbre convert 
de fleurs dont les calices renfer- 
mant les principes de ^ fart musi- 
cale. The passage is as follows : 
" Natural song is based upon eight 
melodic tones, which the voice 
forms in a manner altogether na- 
tural, and between the first and last 
of which there is a constant ratio. 



Plain Chant in its Relation to the Liturgy. 



365 



Besides these eight tones no other 
can be elicited by the voice in a 
natural manner that is, without 
effort. The voice always returns 
periodically to the same intervals. 
When the octave is reached the 
cycle is completed and a perfect 
interval formed, from which a new 
cycle begins." We may add to this 
passage a remark that suggests it- 
self to us. It can easily be proved, 
and will scarcely be gainsaid, that, 
like the liturgical chant, the genu- 
ine songs of the people (Volksge- 
sdfige) of almost all nations are 
thoroughly diatonic an argument 
which is no more weakened by the 
circumstance that other tonalities 
are sometimes found than the exis- 
tence of a poetical literature de- 
stroys the fact of the greater pre- 
valence of prose. In fact, it is pre- 
cisely the variety of the conven- 
tional tonalities among different 
nations, coupled with the invaria- 
bleness of the diatonic, which gives 
a further and infallible testimony 
to the naturalness and universality 
of the latter and to the artificiality 
of the former. 

We will not here give any place 
to the assertion that the diatonic 
scale contains only the rude ele- 
ments of music which the chroma- 
tic first improves and develops. 
We shall establish in the following 
chapter, when treating of the modes, 
that the chromatic is rather a de- 
generacy than a higher develop- 
ment of the diatonic, and in a cer- 
tain sense is far more wanting in 
musical worth. To the reasons 
already given for our division of the 
tonality into a natural and an arti- 
ficial one, let us add the most im- 
portant point of all, which entirely 
precludes the reproach of proceed- 
ing arbitrarily. It is this : that this 
division rests upon the fixed, intrin- 



sic, and essential laws of music. In 
order to prove this fact we are 
obliged to have recourse to the 
primitive elements of music i.e., to- 
the physical laws of sound. 

It is well known that sound is 
caused by the vibration of elastic 
bodies. If the sound is not of too 
short a duration and is of a uniform 
character, it is called a tone. The 
height or depth of a tone depends 
upon the rapidity with which the 
sounding body vibrates. These 
vibrations can be easily observed 
on a stretched cord. The greater 
the tension supposing, of course, a 
uniform length and thickness of 
cord the quicker is the vibration 
of the cord and the higher the tone 
that is the result, and vice versa. 
The number of vibrations corre- 
sponding to a given tone is accu- 
rately computed by means of an 
instrument called the sirene. An- 
other instrument, called the mono- 
chord, furnishes the simplest and 
easiest method of obtaining the 
proportion of the number of vibra- 
tions of each tone of a scale, whether 
diatonic or chromatic, to the fun- 
damental tone and to each other. 
We shall now exhibit, as service- 
able for our purpose, two principal 
results of the physical investigations 
on this subject. 

i. If we assume a single vibra- 
tion for the fundamental tone of 
the diatonic scale, the tones will 
bear the following proportion to 
each other : 

Ut Re Mi Fa Sol La Si U 

CDEFGAB C 

i 9-8 5-4 4-3 3-2 5-3 15-8 2 

If, in order to avoid fractions, 
we ascribe twenty-four vibrations 
to the fundamental tone, the num- 
ber of vibrations for each tone will 
be as follows : > 



366 



Plain Chant in its Relation to the Liturgy. 



Ut Re Mi Fa Sol La Si Ut 

CDEFGAB C 

24 27 30 32 36 40 45 48 

2. If we wish to raise or lower a 
given tone by one semitone the 
number of vibrations must be mul- 
tiplied or divided by 16-15. 

From these laws let us draw an 
argument in favor of our essential 
distinction between the diatonic 
and chromatic scales. A glance at 
the numbers given above shows us 
that from one tone to another in 
the diatonic scale there is not pre- 
cisely the same progress or the 
same interval, but a greatly vary- 
ing proportion. But in the chro- 
matic scale, on the contrary, from 
one semitone to another there is 
a constantly uniform progress and 
always the same interval obtained 
by the multiplication or division of 
the given number of vibrations by 
16-15. While, therefore, the dia- 
tonic scale rests upon mathematical 
laws implanted by nature in the 
voice and ear, and exhibits that 
freedom and unevenness which is the 
mark of naturalness, the chromatic 
scale is based upon laws which, 
though also mathematical, are yet 
conventional i.e., artificially estab- 
lished and which, like everything 
artificial, impart to the original 
laws of nature, upon which they 
rest, the character of constraint and 
uniformity. The diatonic scale is 
evidently the older and more vene- 
rable, the chromatic the later and 
inferior. The former no one would 
have discovered, no mathematician 
could have calculated, had it not 
been given to men, along with the 
voice and ear, immediately by the 
Creator; but this once given, it 
was easy enough to get up the lat- 
ter by the application of a fixed 
conventional law. So, also, the 
physicists, in the computation of 



the tone-relations and the vibra- 
tions, have presupposed the tones 
as given and then calculated the 
vibration from them; they have 
not constructed the diatonic scale 
upon the basis of the laws of vibra- 
tion, but have abstracted these very 
laws from this scale already in ex- 
istence. On the other hand,iri the 
case of the chromatic scale and the 
still more complicated ones which 
admit fourth and eighth tones, the 
musicians have first established the 
conventional laws, and then con- 
structed the scales according to 
them. 

From this development of the 
question every one can see the jus- 
tice of designating the diatonic as 
the natural, original, universal scale, 
based upon the natural musical ca- 
pacity of man ; and the chromatic, 
on the other hand, as an artificial 
scale, of more recent origin, known 
only to certain peoples, and based 
upon conventional laws. And who 
cannot discover here the intrinsic 
relation between the diatonic natu- 
ral music, the natural rhythm, and 
plain chant on the one hand, and 
between the chromatic measured 
music, the artificial rhythm, and the 
cantus figuratus on the other? It 
is plainly the same principle which, 
in the rhythm as well as in the 
tonality, has superadded art to na- 
ture, or, to speak more expressly, 
artificial to natural music namely, 
the principle of measure and con- 
ventional laws, which is opposed to 
freedom and the laws of nature. 
We must here again remark, how- 
ever, that we are not in any way 
Tinding fault with artificial music 
as such. We only desire that each 
kind of music should be estimated 
at its due worth, and above all that 
full justice should be done to na- 
tural music, which has been so long 
misunderstood. 



Plain Chant in its Relation to the Liturgy. 



367 



The diatonic or natural tonality 
having been thus shown to be es- 
sentially different from the chro- 
matic, and independent in its laws, 
it must retain its full and exclusive 
privileges in every piece of natural 
music, and especially in the litur- 
gical chant. Whenever in such a 
piece a departure is made from na- 
tural music, it thereby ceases to 
be natural without becoming artifi- 
cial ; it is disfigured and perverted 
into a degenerate and unnatural 
position, as we only too often have 
occasion to complain. 

We shall now devote a few words 
to our opponents on this question, 
with the full conviction that our 
arguments will thus acquire a new 
confirmation. The diatonic scale 
knows only two kinds of half-tones : 
i, the natural half-tones from Mi 
to Fa and from Si to Ut ; and, 2, 
the B moll i.e., the semitone from 
La to Si flat. This flatting of the 
Si is only admitted to avoid what 
is called the tritone, which is dis- 
pleasing to the ear. In the mod- 
ern notation it is indicated by the 
flat sign, k, but in old times it was 
observed by itself, or according to 
certain rules. We do not need to 
treat of it any further here, as every 
choralist knows the rules for the 
B moll sufficiently well. But some 
modern choralists do not hesitate 
to introduce besides into the litur- 
gical chant the chromatic semi- 
tones and the sharp. They give, 
as the grounds for their opinion 
and practice, the agreeableness of 
the sound, a tradition which they 
say is long established, and the 
judgment of competent critics. 

This last support is a weak one, 
owing to the fact that at least equal 
authorities can be brought on the 
other side. Among the defenders 
of the diatonic tonality we reckon 
Benz, Janssen, Schubiger, Bilseke, 



and Mettenleiter. They all appeal 
on the one hand to the testimony of 
such weighty authorities as Martini 
and Gerbert, and on the other to the 
practice of the Papal Chapel, and 
quite justly acknowledge that the 
tones lose their purity if they are 
not strictly diatonic, and that the 
admission of the chromatic half- 
tones necessitates more or less a 
change to the modern modes of 
major and minor. If a few, like 
Birkler, would permit the chroma- 
tic intervals when the chant is ac- 
companied by the organ, for our 
part, without committing ourselves 
to a judgment as to what kind of 
organ accompaniment is best suit- 
ed to the chant a problem as yet 
unsolved we must adhere to that 
very different opinion which re- 
gards the melody as the principal 
thing, and the accompaniments a 
something so altogether subservi- 
ent and subordinate that princi- 
ples as well as the tonality ought 
never to be sacrificed to it. We 
may remark, moreover, that all the 
modern defenders of the diatonic 
tonality regard it from a purely 
musical stand-point. We are confi- 
dent that their correct views will 
ripen into a full, sure, and firm con- 
viction, only when they have con- 
sidered the question also from the 
point of view which we have set 
forth in our chapter on the rhythm 
and execution of the chant. In the 
light of those principles all the 
objections that have been made 
against the diatonic tonality will 
vanish like mist, and it will be seen 
that this tonality, taken in connec- 
tion with the proper rhythm and 
execution, alone enables us to sing 
the chant in an intelligent, dignified, 
and edifying manner. 

With regard to the long-estab- 
lished tradition, the second weapon 
of attack against our principle, it 



368 



Plain Chant in its Relation to the Liturgy. 



is well to bear in mind that this 
tradition reaches back only to the 
time when the elements of figured 
music began to be mixed up with 
the chant, or when they had al- 
ready in many ways disfigured it, 
if, indeed, the chromatic tonality 
was not the very means of bringing 
this about. In proof we may cite 
here an appropriate passage from 
the estimable work of P. Anselm 
Schubiger, entitled The Singing- 
School of St. Gall from the Eighth to 
the Twelfth Century : " The tonality 
of all the Gregorian chants at the 
time of Romanus, and as far back 
as documentary evidence on this 
subject extends, was exclusively 
diatonic, in the scale of which two 
whole tones alternate with one half, 
and which alone is in keeping with 
the eight old ecclesiastical modes 
namely, the four authentic and the 
four plagal modes. It certainly 
cannot be denied that among the 
old chants, especially among the 
oldest sequences, some examples 
are to be found of the same piece 
written in two different modes. 
But such passages are none the 
less diatonic. They are to be con- 
sidered to some extent as a trans- 
position, and in the scale that is 
introduced we have the same fea- 
ture of two and three whole tones 
alternating with one half-tone. But 
the accordance of the old musical 
authors, as also of the oldest trans- 
latable compositions, furnishes us 
with irrefragable proof that the 
chromatic and enharmonic tonali- 
ties were altogether excluded from 
the Roman ecclesiastical chant." 
The author then proceeds to prove 
his statements: "Even as early as 
the time of Charlemagne Albinus 
speaks of the four authentic and 
four plagal modes, and calls these 
their customary names (nomina 
usitata). Aurelianus Reomensis 



writes that at his time the anti- 
phons, responses, offertories, and 
communions of both the Roman 
and Greek liturgies were composed 
in the eight ancient modes. Hue- 
bald, in his work on the ecclesias- 
tical chant, gives the distances of 
the tones from each other accord- 
ing to the diatonic scale alone, and 
says that this suffices for the pur- 
poses of his work. His manifold 
and easily translated examples show 
no trace of a chromatic or enhar- 
monic tonality, but are all written 
in the diatonic. Regino of Priim 
divides music into natural and arti- 
ficial, and counts the ecclesiastical 
chant as belonging to the first kind. 
While artificial music admits semi- 
tones, natural music allows only 
those that come in the scale (* in 
naturali musica omnes octo toni 
nullum recipiunt semitonium, nee 
diesin, nee apotomen, etc.') Odo 
of Cluny speaks still more plainly : 
' The kind of music of which we 
have been treating the diatonic, 
namely according to the opinion 
of the most experienced musicians 
and the most holy men, on ac- 
count of its more correct, more 
pleasing, and more natural method, 
is shown to be perfect ; since St. 
Gregory, whose precepts the church 
in all things most faithfully ob- 
serves, composed his Antiphonary 
in this kind of music and gave it 
to the church, and he himself in- 
structed his own scholars therein.' " 
The second ground upon which 
the employment of the chromatic 
semitones is defended their agree- 
ableness and the avoidance of 
harsh sounds has already been re- 
futed by the last citation from St. 
Odo. We may add, however, that 
those pieces of chant which actual- 
ly contain harsh sounds are defec- 
tive compositions, in which we pos- 
sess very little that has come down 



Plain Chant in its Relation to the Liturgy. 



369 



from antiquity. Let any one ex- 
amine only the Graduales of the 
Proprium de tempore, and see how 
astonishingly easy is their move- 
ment, how exceedingly delicate 
their composition. If a seemingly 
harsh passage occasionally occurs, 
it is sure to be an isolated and in- 
significant exception. I say, advis- 
edly, a seemingly harsh passage, for 
very often such apparent harshness 
is the result of a defective rhythm 
and execution, and the remedy is: 
Tollatur abusus, ut maneat usus ! 
But to seek to make up for the 
want of the correct execution by 
the introduction of chromatic in- 
tervals is only to substitute one 
error for another. By this the 
liturgical chant is not merely 
weakened but essentially destroyed. 
Passages which, on account of a 
bad rendering, appear harsh, in a 
good execution are generally seen 
to be remarkable for their strength, 
and are frequently even of wonder- 
ful delicacy. 

Before closing this chapter we 
cannot refrain from casting a glance 
of investigation into the pre-Gre- 
gorian times, in order to discover 
the judgment of Christian antiquity 
upon the diatonic and its contra- 
dictory, the chromatic, music. It 
would carry us too far were we to 
bring before the reader the great 
cloud of witnesses who speak in 
favor of diatonic music, among 
whom are SS. Cyprian, Basil, Atha- 
nasius, Augustine, Ambrose, and 
the like. Of St. Ambrose we may 
say that it is pretty generally ac- 
cepted that he based his method of 
singing upon the ancient Grecian 
system, without regard to its later 
corruptions, and that among the 
Grecian modes he adopted only 
four, the Dorian, Phrygian, yEolian, 
and Mixo-Lydian, which admit 
only the diatonic scale and exclude 
VOL. xxix. 24 



any employment of a half-tone for- 
eign to this scale. We shall confine 
ourselves, then, to a very few cita- 
tions. Clement of Alexandria, in 
the fourth chapter of the second 
book of his Padagogus t writes : 
" Sunt enim admittendae modestae 
et pudicae harmonise : contra a forti 
et nervosa nostra cogitatione vere 
molles et enervae harmoniae aman- 
dae quam longissime, quae improbo 
flexuum vocis artificio ad delira- 
tam et ignavam vitae agendae ra- 
tionem deducunt. Graves autem 
et quae ad temperantiam pertinent 
modulationes, ebriebati ac proter- 
viae nuncium remittunt. Chromati- 
cae igitur harmoniae impudenti in 
vino proterviae, floribusque redimitae 
et meretriciae musicae sunt reliquen- 
dae" " Temperate and chaste har- 
monies are to be admitted, but our 
strong and vigorous judgment must 
censure as much as possible those 
weak and effeminate harmonies 
which through pernicious arts in 
the modulation of the voice train 
to effeminacy and scurrility. But 
grave and sober melodies banish in- 
temperance and wantonness. The 
chromatic harmonies are therefore 
to be abandoned to immodest re- 
vels and to flowery and meretri- 
cious music." In the sixth book 
of the Stromata, c. xi., the same fa- 
ther says : " Est autem supervaca- 
nea respuenda, quae frangit animos 
et varie afficit, ut quae sitaliquando 
lugubris, aliquando vero impudica 
et incitans ad libidinem, aliquando 
autem lymphata et insana " " We 
must reject that superfluous music 
which enervates men's souls and 
produces various impressions, now 
mournful and then licentious and 
voluptuous, and then frenzied and 
frantic." St. Jerome, the ascetic 
zealot for the purity of the church's 
doctrine and the church's worship, 
commenting upon Eph. v. 19, lifts 



370 



Plain Chant in its Relation to the Liturgy. 



up his warning voice in these 
words : 

" Audiant haec adolescentuli ; au- 
diant hi, quibus psallendi in ec- 
clesia officium est, Deo non voce, 
sed corde cantandum ; nee in tra- 
goedorum modum guttur et fauces 
dulci medicamine colliniendas, ut 
in ecclesia theatrales moduli audi- 
antur et cantica, sed in timore, in 
opere, in scientia scripturarum " 
" Let the young men hear these 
words; let those whose office it is 
to chant the psalms in the church 
take heed that they must sing unto 
God not merely with the voice but 
with the heart; not after the man- 
ner of players anointing their 
throats with a sweet preparation in 
order that the tones and strains of 
the theatre may be heard in the 
church, but singing in the fear 
of the Lord, in practical piety, in 
the knowledge of the Scriptures." 
Finally, not to make too many 
citations, St. Basil speaks thus 
in a homily on the i25th Psalm: 
" Est autem divina et musica 
harmonia, non quae verba quae- 
dam complectitur aures demulcen- 
tia, sed coercentia et mitigantia 
malignos spiritus, qui obnoxias in- 
juriis animas infestant " " Divine 
harmony is not that which flatters 
the ear, but that which holds in 
check the malicious spirits who 
annoy and hurt our souls." 

But the same Holy Ghost who 
for more than a thousand years 
has ruled the church with watchful 
care, not only nourishing with his 
holy breath the sacrificial flame of 
the altar, but also preserving in its 
purity the sacrificial chant, to-day 
also manifests his mysterious inspi- 
ration in those ordinances which 
issue from those who hold authority 
in the church, concerning the mu- 
sic that best befits the Christian 
temple and its tremendous sacri- 



fice. We shall only quote here a 
passage from the most recent Pro- 
vincial Synod of Cologne, cap. xx. 
de cantu ecclesiastico : " Statui- 
mus ergo et mandamus, ut cantus 
ille Gregorianus suo restituatur 
juri ac magis magisque colatur, et 
ut, qui in componendis novis melo- 
diis occupantur, non tarn chroma- 
ticis modulationibus, quam scalis 
sive tonis Gregorianis utentes et 
modis diatonicis, molle et lascivum 
quodcumque excludant " " We de- 
cree and command that the Gre- 
gorian chant be restored to its 
rights and cultivated with ever-in- 
creasing zeal, and that those who 
compose new melodies exclude 
everything effeminate and volup- 
tuous by the use, instead of chro- 
matic modulations, of the Grego- 
rian scales or tones and the dia- 
tonic modes. " We must here again 
express our conviction that, by the 
aid of tradition and the logical de- 
ductions from the principles of na- 
tural and liturgical music, the con- 
clusion is necessarily reached that 
genuine plain chant is an impossi- 
bility without a strict adherence to 
the diatonic tonality ; and yet that 
this can be fully understood only 
after having both heard and sung 
for a long time a correctly-executed 
diatonic chant. 

XI. THE MODES OF THE LITURGI- 
CAL CHANT. 

In beginning to give a few sug- 
gestions about the modality or the 
tones of the chant, before bringing 
our treatise to an end, we are first 
of all obliged to exclude those 
parts of this extensive subject 
which might tempt us to overstep 
the limits of the present work, 
which, as we have often remarked, 
is concerned only with the most 
general principles. We cannot, 



Plain Chant in its Relation to the Liturgy. 



371 



therefore, treat of the physical basis 
of the modes, nor enter into the 
dreary historical disputes about the 
origin and number of the modes, as 
to whether or not they are deriv- 
ed from the old Grecian modes, 
or whether their number is eight, 
twelve, or fourteen matters of but 
little importance towards further- 
ing the revival of the chant. Nor 
can we treat systematically each 
particular mode, of the intervals, 
dominants, finals, the range of the 
melody, the cadences, etc., all of 
which belongs to a grammar or 
history of the chant. Another ex- 
tensive subject that we shall have 
to omit relates to the different kinds 
of chant, varying, according to the 
greater or lesser simplicity of the 
melody, from the simple recitation 
in directum of the final tone of the 
prayers to the complicated melodic 
chant of the Graduals, Versicles, 
etc. Finally, we are obliged to 
pass by in this chapter a subject 
that is commonly taken up when 
treating of the modes namely, the 
Psalmody, or the psalm-tones, with 
the rules about the intonation, 
mediation, and termination. We 
shall therefore simply confine our- 
selves to sketching briefly the theo- 
ry of the modes, in so far as this 
may be serviceable and indispensa- 
ble for the illustration of our prin- 
ciples, and to drawing a compari- 
son between the diatonic and chro- 
matic modalities, in order to form 
an estimate of their relative musi- 
cal value. 

What, then, do we understand by 
modality or modes ? What are the 
modes of the chant and what those 
of modern music ? What is the 
relative musical worth of these two 
modalities ? With the answers to 
these questions we shall conclude 
our work. 

Modality in its widest significa- 



tion may be defined as the modus 
essendi of music, characteristically 
expressed by certain modes or 
tones. In the tonality the musical 
elements are given us by the suc- 
cession of the tones and intervals, 
but this succession is still unlimited 
in extent. In the modality it is 
portioned out according to fixed 
laws, and made applicable for the 
expression of definite ideas in a 
musical form. This is accomplish- 
ed by means of the -modes, which 
in their most general sense may be 
defined as "divisions of the scale 
of a definite extent, distinguished 
from other series of tones by cer- 
tain characteristic marks." With- 
out tonality music would be incon- 
ceivable, but it is modality which 
gives to a piece of music a physi- 
ognomy and character of its own, 
which distinguishes it from other 
pieces. The tonality is the matter 
and the modality the substantial 
form, and both taken together make 
up the constituent elements of mu- 
sic. From their intrinsic connec- 
tion with each other it follows that 
the character of one is determined 
by that of the other. The diatonic 
tonality, therefore, requires diatonic 
modes, while the chromatic conse- 
quently makes chromatic the few 
modes it possesses. 

This preliminary question an- 
swered, we now pass on to the 
modes of plain chant. There are 
in the chant eight distinct modes, 
based upon the nature of the dia- 
tonic tonality, and received by the 
authorities of all times. The scale, 
properly speaking, consists of only 
seven tones, the eighth being the 
beginning of, a new octave. Never- 
theless the number of the modes is 
not seven, as one might infer from 
this, but neither more nor less than 
eight. The reason for this is that, 
on account of what is called the 



372 



Plain Chant in its Relation to the Liturgy. 



chorda mobilis, the intervals in the 
octaves which are constructed upon 
the last three tones of the diatonic 
octave correspond with those of 
the octaves built upon the first 
three, so that it is only the Sol-oc- 
tave which is quite different from 
each of the others, as we may see by 
the following : 



,a Sr~Ut Re Mi~Fa Sol La 



j Re MT^Fa Sol LafeSi Ut Re 
^ .La w 

(Mr 
2 - far 

j Fa Sol La ^Si Ut Re Mi~Fa 
3 ' ( Ut Re Mi~Fa Sol La Si~Ut 



^Fa Sol La feSi Ut Re Mi 
Ut Re Mi~Fa Sol La Si 



4. Sol La Si^Ut Re Mi~Fa Sol 

Therefore instead of seven we 
have only four octaves essentially 
differing from one another, forming 
what are called the four authentic 
modes, with Re, Mi, Fa, Sol as their 
finals. They are as follows : 



and a fourth. The lowest note of 
the fifth is always the final, but the 
fourth which completes the octave 
can be placed either above or below 
the fifth, so that the final may be 
either at the beginning or in the 
middle of the octave. By thus 
dividing the octave, and varying 
the position of the fifth and fourth, 
the character of the mode is plain- 
ly changed, though the final re- 
mains the same. Thus either the 
final is the lowest note, its octave 
the highest, and the fifth note in 
the middle of the scale, or the final 
is in the middle, the fifth note the 
highest, and the fourth, instead of 
completing the upper part of the 
octave, is placed below the final. 
We have here the basis for the for- 
mation of the so-called plagal or 
subordinate modes, which, taken 
together with the four authentic, 
make up the eight modes of plain 
chant. They are all diatonic, they 



RE Mi~Fa Sol La Si Ut Re (Dorian). 
Mi~Fa Sol La Si^Ut Re Mi (Phrygian). 
FA Sol La Si~Ut Re Mi~Fa (^Eolian). 

SOL La Si~Ut Re Mi~Fa Sol (Mixo-Lydian). 



Thus we obtain four of the 
modes of plain chant, taking root 
quite naturally in the diatonic 
scale. But how are we to find the 
other four, called plagal modes, 
which fill up the number of eight 
modes ? They cannot be con- 
structed simply by changing the 
fundamental tone, for we would 
then still have the same four modes 
with a difference only of key or 
pitch, which is not an essential dif- 
ference in music. Nor can other 
intervals be formed by the intro- 
duction of the flat and sharp, for 
the four tones in question must be 
diatonic. The explanation is sim- 
ply the following : 

Every octave consists of a fifth 



have, as is clearly seen, the same in- 
tervals, the same range, the same 
finals as their authentics, and yet 
in their application they differ es- 
sentially from them, so that, for in- 
stance, we can tell at sight whether 
a composition is written in an au- 
thentic or a plagal mode. 

These two ways of dividing the oc- 
tave are called respectively the har- 
monic and arithmetical divisions. 
The authentic modes have the har- 
monic division, so called because 
the fifth note is the natural har- 
monic mean between the first note 
and its octave ; the plagal tones 
have the arithmetical division, so 
called because the fourth is placed 
below the fifth in the numerical 



Plain Chant in its Relation to the Liturgy. 



373 



order. Nothing is more unfound- 
ed than the representation that this 
way of* dividing the octave has 
been a source of confusion in the 
chant. Whatever confusion has 
been introduced in the course of 
time has been rather the result of 
the extravagances in which the 
composers of the last centuries 
thought fit to indulge, now over- 
stepping the range of the octave, 
so that the plagal modes could no 
longer be distinguished from their 
authentics; now, though still retain- 
ing the dominant in its place and 
thus preserving at least the unity 
and character of the mode, yet 
perverting its nature by a depar- 
ture from the old traditional figures 
and cadences, and thus producing 
a colorless mixture of several 
modes. Add to this the introduc- 
tion of the chromatic half-tones 
and measured notes, and the con- 
fusion was supreme. 

In order to make more plain the 
theory we have set forth, we sub- 
join a table showing the succession 
of the tones, the position of the na- 
tural half-tones, the dominants and 
the finals, which table will also as- 
sist our further explanations : 



these eight modes have been re- 
ceived by the authorities of all 
times. And, first, it is certain, on 
the most indubitable testimony, 
that St. Gregory was in possession 
of these eight modes of the chant. 
It is not so easily proved, though 
highly probable, that St. Ambrose 
made use of the four authentic 
modes only, and that the introduc- 
tion of the plagals was reserved for 
St. Gregory. Certainly he could 
find a sufficient reason for this in- 
crease of the number of the modes 
partly in the fact that the four au- 
thentics did not give enough va- 
riety to the chant, and partly be- 
cause the Ambrosian method of 
singing seemed to have assimilated 
the germs of elements contrary to 
the spirit of the liturgical chant, 
such as rhythmic metre and a 
measure for the note. Yet, granted 
that the eight modes were received 
by St. Gregory, or even before his 
time, it does not follow therefrom 
that the great regenerator of the 
chant either found already in exis- 
tence or adopted more than eight. 
Neither the music older than St. 
Gregory, nor that composed by 
him, nor yet the nature of the holy 



First mode auth. 



Finals. % Dom. y t 

RE Mi^Fa Sol La Si^Ut Re 



Third mode auth. 



^ 

Second mode plag. La Si Ut RE Mi Fa Sol La 

Dom. 

Mi^Fa Sol La Si^Ut Re Mi 

Dom. 

Fourth mode plag. Si Ut Re Mi Fa Sol La Si 

Dom. 

Fifth mode auth. FA Sol La Si~Ut Re Mi~Fa 

Dom. 

Sixth mode plag. Ut Re Mi FA Sol La Si~Ut 

Dom. 

Seventh mode auth. SOL *La Si Ut Re Mi^Fa Sol 

Dom. 

Eighth mode plag. Re Mi Fa SOL La Si Ut Re 



So much for the character and 
number of the ecclesiastical modes. 
We shall now briefly show that 



chant itself in the least requires a 
greater -number. Rather this num- 
ber received by St. Gregory was 



374 



Plain Chant in its Relation to the Liturgy. 



considered, as it were, sacred and 
inviolable. St. Odo tells us in his 
book De Musica that St. Gregory 
received his music from above, and 
that therefore it is sanctioned not 
alone by human but by divine 
authority : " Sanctissimus Grego- 
rius, cujus praecepta in omnibus 
studiosissime sancta observat ec- 
clesia, hoc genere compositum mi- 
rabiliter antiphonarium ecclesiae 
tradidit suisque discipulis proprio 
labore insinuavit. Cum nunquam 
legatur, eum secundum carnalem 
scientiam hujus artis studium per- 
cepisse : quern certissime constat 
omnem plenitudinem scientiae di- 
vinitus percepisse. Unde constat, 
quod hoc genus musicse, d um divi- 
nitus Sancto Gregorio datur, non 
solum humana, sed etiam divina 
auctoritate fulcitur." 

In the eighth century Flaccus 
Alcuin declares that every musi- 
cian ought to know that in music 
there are eight tones (modes) : 
"Octo tones in musica consistere, 
musicus scire debet." In the ninth 
and tenth centuries we have the 
same testimony from Aurelian, 
Notker, and Regino of Prurn. The 
latter says: " Inveniuntur in natu- 
rali musica quatuor principales toni 
et ex eorum fontibus quatuor " 
"In natural music are found four 
principal tones and four derived 
from these." Hucbald, the great 
master of the chant, in the same 
age, describes the formation of the 
eight modes upon the four finals, 
upon one of which every melody 
must end, and declares it culpable 
in a church singer to be ignorant 
of the properties and distinguishing 
marks of these modes: "Quatuor 
sonorum virtus octo modorum po- 
testatem creat. Necesse est, ut 
quidquid rite canitur in uno ipso- 
rum quatuor sonorum nniatur. In 
octo tonos melodiam dividimus, 



quorum differentias et proprietates 
ecclesiasticum cantorem culpabile 
est ignorare." Later on we have 
testimony to the same effect from 
St. Odo, Berno, Hermannus Con- 
tractus, St. William, Theoger, Aribo, 
Engelbert, and many others. The 
last-named says expressly that the 
musical tones (modes) are neither 
more nor less than eight : " Scien- 
dum ergo, quod octo sunt toni 
musici, nee plures nee pauciores." 
The distinction between the au- 
thentic and plagal modes is quite 
unequivocally put forth and insist- 
ed on by these old authors. Thus 
Hucbald correctly distinguishes 
the authentic mode from its plagal 
by the position of the final : ** Ab 
eodem sono (finali) ut sit major 
tonus aut minor mensuram ac- 
cipit." So also Berno: "Si ultra 
diapente aliquid superius ascendit, 
nee inferius diatessaron habet, can- 
tus ille authentici erit; si inferi- 
us diatessaron habuerit, subjugalis 
erit " " If the melody rises higher 
than the fifth and does not have 
the fourth below, it will belong to 
an authentic mode ; if it has the 
fourth below, it will belong to an 
inferior (or plagal) mode." 

Yet even then these rules were 
not always strictly observed. Some 
compositions went beyond the given 
range, and were therefore styled 
degenerate and illegitimate (" de- 
generes," " nothi potius quam legi- 
timi "), pieces belonging to " mixed 
modes," and were only preserved 
on account of their age and beauty. 
But such compositions of several 
modes were always considered " su- 
perfluous." 

We shall conclude our series of 
authorities with Guido. He says, 
in the seventh chapter of his Mi- 
crologus, that there are only seven 
different notes, because in the next 
octave the same tones are repeat- 



Plain Chant in its Relation to the Liturgy. 



375 



ed; whence he concludes that it 
is enough to explain these seven 
upon which the different modes 
are based. The first mode, start- 
ing from Re to La, has below the 
first note a whole tone, and above 
it first a whole, then a half, and 
then two whole tones. The sec- 
ond mode, beginning from Si or 
Mi, has two whole tones below the 
first note, and above it a half and 
two whole tones. The third mode, 
starting from Ut or Fa, has below 
the first note a half and then two 
whole tones, but above it two whole 
tones and then a semitone. The 
fourth mode descends one whole 
tone and rises two whole tones and 
a semitone from Sol. 

We may add here in explanation 
that the modes are characterized 
and distinguished from each other 
by the final \ the dominant, and the 
cadences. The final is the last note 
of the cadences, especially of the 
concluding cadence, upon which 
the voice rests, and upon which the 
piece is ended, and regularly also 
its particular divisions the dis- 
tinctions or phrases as well. The 
dominant is the principal note, 
about which the other notes are 
grouped, and to which the voice in 
recitation constantly returns. The 
dominant as well as the cadence 
the concluding figure of the piece 
and of its divisions are most 
prominent in the psalmody, the 
dominant being different in every 
mode. 

Now, finally, let us ask, What are 
the modes of chromatic music? 
We shall be brief, because we might 
reasonably pass this by as already 
quite well known. We answer, 
therefore : In modern music there 
are only two modes, the major and 
the minor. With the exception of 
the difference of pitch (which, as 
we have said before, constitutes es- 



sentially no difference at all), all 
major as well as all minor scales 
are identical with each other, be- 
cause they have precisely the same 
intervals in the same succession. 
In every major scale the order is 
two whole tones and one semitone, 
and then three whole tones and 
one semitone. In every minor 
scale (according to what is still the 
most common method) in ascend- 
ing we have one whole tone, one 
semitone, four whole tones, and one 
semitone ; in descending, four whole 
tones, one semitone, and one whole 
tone. This brings us to our last 
question : 

How do the chromatic compare 
with the diatonic modes? It must 
now be conceded that chromatic 
music, with its two modes only, 
must be inferior in real musical 
merit to the diatonic with its eight 
modes, which, in the succession of 
intervals, in the finals, dominants, 
and cadences, are all essentially 
different from one another, and 
thus present the most beautiful 
contrasts, the richest variety. Yet 
this comparison is not sufficiently 
marked, and a closer examination 
of this question is necessary, partly 
for the perfect justification of our 
position, and partly in order not 
to lay ourselves open to the objec- 
tion that, while prizing the musical 
treasures which were the delight 
of the middle age, we undervalue 
the works of the great masters, 
such as Palestrina, Allegri, Orazio 
Benevoli, Carissimi, Scarlatti, Du- 
rante, Pergolese, Cherubini, Mo- 
zart, Haydn, Bach, Beethoven, etc. 

As the history of music teaches, 
and as we have repeatedly pointed 
out in this work, the chromatic 
tonality was formed in the course 
of time from the diatonic by the 
aid of artificial laws, the diatonic 
modes dwindled down to the major 



376 



Plain Chant in its Relation to the Liturgy. 



and minor scales, and upon this 
foundation, together with the in- 
troduction of the artificial elements 
of harmony and measured notes 
and rhythm, modern music was 
constructed. While the artistic 
creations of modern music possess 
artificial harmony, measured notes, 
and a measured rhythm, they are 
lacking in that variety of interval 
which is the characteristic of the 
chant. If in the chant we look in 
vain for the much-vaunted artistic 
developments and the elaborate har- 
monies of modern music, it has the 
advantage of a free and independent 
rhythm, of the rich fulness of soul- 
entrancing musical life, of all the 
wonderful beauty and variety of 
the modulations and tone-combi- 
nations as displayed in the diato- 
nic modes. Who can find fault 
with us for looking upon the chant 
from this point of view as nobler 
and richer, and upon modern mu- 
sic as more deficient in musical 
merit ? Who can blame us if we 
secure for the holy music of the 
altar the mother's place of honor, 
and raise her above the daughter 
who is indebted to her for her 
richest beauties, but who has put 
off the robes of the sacrifice and of 
the temple to don the garments of 
the world? For chromatic music 
has in truth borrowed all its musi- 
cal worth from the diatonic, and 
then has artificially decked out its 
acquisitions, that they might figure 
upon the stage of art, now in this, 
now in that richly ornamented and 
glittering costume. The diatonic 
music has, however, lost nothing 
by what it has given to the other, 
but, despising the artificial elements 
and chromatic modulations that are 
so foreign to its nature, it keeps on 
its way in noble and sublime sim- 
plicity, not serving the profane, 
but consecrating all its treasures 



to the glory of the Holy One. That 
chromatic music, in spite of its 
having only two modes, is able by 
changing the keys to form the 
diatonic tone-combinations cannot 
and shall not be denied. But as a 
matter of fact it is not done, partly 
because the natural melodies lose 
their freedom by the constraint of 
harmony and measure, partly be- 
cause they are not serviceable for 
profane music simply because they 
are holy. These sublime strains 
are at home only in the sanctuary, 
and the same is the case with them 
as with the rhythm the creations 
of profane art could apply all the 
rules of grammar or of rhetoric, but 
they could never draw down to 
their lower region the accent of re- 
ligion and of faith. This is why, 
as a general thing, it has as little 
occurred to the great masters to 
introduce the figures of the chant 
into their compositions as it would 
to one of us to go out and take a 
walk in a cope or a chasuble. 

The musical richness of the chant, 
and on the other side the relative 
meagreness of figured music, will be 
obvious if we take a composition 
of each kind, and, after stripping 
the figured piece of its accessories, 
harmony, time, etc., place its un- 
masked melody, its naked theme, 
in comparison with the choral me- 
lody. It will not be necessary to 
point out the surprising contrast. 
Or, for example, what is left of 
even the best-composed Masses, if 
we take away the orchestra and the 
accompanying voices, but an un- 
meaning succession of tones ? How 
different in the chant, where every 
composition, even the simplest, is 
imposing in the richness and variety 
of its movements, and all the more 
imposing if it be unhindered by the 
accompaniment in its natural or, if 
you will, its supernatural progress. 



Plain Chant in its Relation to the Liturgy. 



377 



A comparison with the opera 
shows a still more startling con- 
trast. Take away from an operatic 
aria the instrumental accompani- 
ment, the lights and the scenery, 
the costumes and the action of the 
performers, and the music becomes 
almost expressionless, which would 
not be the case if the effect were 
produced by the words or the mu- 
sic itself. Yet only let the simple 
Pater Noster be sung, without ac- 
companiment, and we are sure to 
be affected and disposed to prayer. 
This is what we call wealth, the 
other relative poverty in musical 
worth. Thus on one side we leave 
undiminished the great fame and 
merit of the masters of modern 
music, while on the other the incom- 
parably higher genius and creative 
power of the authors of the holy 
chant remain indisputable. 

We shall in conclusion seek to 
make our position still more plain 
by drawing two analogies. The 
first that offers itself to us is the 
comparison we have already made 
with language. Poetry, owing to 
the diversity of its metres, to rhyme, 
in short, to all that properly be- 
longs to it, seems to possess more 
variety than prose, yet the latter 
unites and encloses within itself all 
those elements, and freely makes 
use of them in accordance with 
the requirements of the mean- 
ing. And so the chromatic figur- 
ed music apparently displays more 
variety than the diatonic chant, 
yet the chant includes all the ele- 
ments of the other, and freely em- 
ploys them, not according to con- 
ventional rules, but as the mean- 
ing of the words demands. Our 
second comparison we shall bor- 
row from the region of light and 
color. As a picture traced by the 
magic power of a master-hand up- 
on the canvas or in fresco, with its 



glowing figures full of expression, 
with the charm of its well-arranged 
colors, with its surpassing beauty 
of harmony, brings the invaluable 
treasure of its meaning as to time, 
place, persons, and circumstances 
in sublime though silent eloquence 
before the soul of him who looks 
thereon, and exercises a lasting, 
mysterious influence upon his 
mind and feelings, so the musical 
pictures of plain chant, in their 
melodies so full of dignity and 
character, in their union of the ut- 
most grace with the holiest fervor, 
in their quiet development of the 
simplest yet the noblest resources, 
unfold before the spirit and heart 
of man the whole fulness of the 
text with its inexpressible heaven- 
ly mysteries, and lay hold upon the 
soul with a peaceful yet irresistible 
power. And as, on the other hand, 
dissolving views, the product not 
of the artist's genius but of the 
camera-obscura, by their magical 
changing, by the incessant shifting 
of various colors, by their restless 
appearance and vanishing, attract 
the eye indeed, but produce but a 
fleeting and temporary impression 
upon the spirit and mind of the 
beholder, so also figured music, by 
its minor tones, by its resolutions, 
by the distribution of its resources, 
and the interchange of harmony 
and melody, captivates and holds 
spellbound the soul of the listen- 
er, but it does not fasten upon the 
troubled hearts of men with that 
deep energy, that peaceful power 
of making them better and holier. 

From all this we have again 
the conclusion that the tenden- 
cy of modern or chromatic music 
is to flatter the senses by the 
outward form, often with entire 
forgetfulness of the thought, while 
plain chant aims at giving musical 
expression to the ideal meaning in 



378 



Plain Chant in its Relation to the Liturgy. 



the unrestrained form of rich melo- 
dies. This fact explains the cir- 
cumstance that figured music ex- 
hibits various styles, not musically 
but only formally and convention- 
ally distinct, such as the ecclesias- 
tical style, the alia capella style, 
the theatrical style, etc., just as 
the appearance of the stage is 
changed by different scenery; while 
in the chant there is but one style, 
amply sufficient for all that is re- 
quired of it, and needing no change 
of dress in order to figure in every 
rdle. 

But while we do not hesitate to 
acknowledge to the full all that has 
been done by the chromatic tonal- 
ity in the department of secular 
music, let no one, on th'e other hand, 
blame us if we more earnestly and 
firmly claim that in the worship of 
the church of God we may have 
left to us the diatonic pure and in- 
tact, and that we may not be ask- 
ed to undervalue its singular merits 
and go begging at the doors of pro- 
fane music. 

XII. CONCLUSION. 

In laying down our pen and giv- 
ing publicity to the result of our 
studies we are possessed by a two- 
fold feeling, of hesitancy and of 
confidence. Of hesitancy, because 
we are aware that in this work we 
have undertaken an attack upon 
deeply-rooted and widely-cherished 
opinions opinions which are sup- 
ported by the authority of men of 
distinguished knowledge and emi- 
nent talent, to whom in many re- 
spects we look up with reverence. 
Yet, owing to the decided mistrust 
to which merely subjective opinions 
are always open, we have not put 
forward in these pages a single 
principle which has not been abun- 
dantly supported by quotations 



from famous authorities, nor have 
we had anything else in view than 
to establish the venerable, well- 
nigh forgotten conceptions and 
rules of antiquity, not to create 
new principles. 

We cherish the hope that the 
friendly reader is now in a condi- 
tion to regard the holy chant in 
that light and from that point of 
view in which it appears to us, a 
guardian of the holy liturgy by our 
very vocation. He will have readi- 
ly drawn for himself the conclusion 
to which we have been tending, 
and we may now be permitted to 
give expression to it with frank- 
ness. 

The question is not of a relative 
improvement or a moderate com- 
promise, nor yet of a partial ac- 
ceptance or rejection at pleasure 
the issue must be an entire trans- 
formation in church music. 

The holy liturgical chant must 
be restored to its place of impor- 
tance in the church's worship, the 
Holy Sacrifice again be crowned 
with its shining aureola, and chief- 
ly by the agency of those whose 
hands have been consecrated to 
offer it. The choir must again 
draw near to the altar, and from 
the awful place of sacrifice and 
from the priesthood must receive 
its impulse, that shall cause it to 
resound and re-echo a thousand 
times its strains of benediction and 
of peace in the broad nave of the 
church and in the hearts of the 
pious throng. There must be an 
end to that deplorable estrange- 
ment which has been brought about 
between the priesthood imparting 
benedictions and the people who 
receive them, and which isolates 
the sacrificing, priest at the altar 
while the congregation are taking 
an unworthy pleasure in worldly 
music ; for this state of things has 



Plain Chant in its Relation to the Liturgy. 



379 



blunted in the people the appreci- 
ation of the mysteries of the faith 
and of religion, and has given them 
over to a sensuous revelling in 
mingled religious feelings, or to an 
apathetic indifference towards the 
divine service. There must be an 
abrogation of the privilege which 
the orchestra has usurped of dis- 
turbing the holy action, now short- 
ening, now lengthening it out by 
the introduction of strange and un- 
seemly passages, stripping it of its 
unity, significance, and dignity, and 
leaving the officiating priest unsup- 
ported. In a word, our churches 
must again be in all respects what 
they should be, places devoted ex- 
clusively to the homage of the 
Most High ; and this homage must 
in all its parts again be offered 
in the way in which the Lord has 
shown that he desires it by the 
mouth of his holy church, as the 
fathers practised it in the ages 
when faith was fullest and love 
most glowing, and as the Christian 
people, joining their voices, always 
hailed it as the divine instrument 
for their edification and sanctifica- 
tion. And what from the very first 
gleam of settled conviction has 
stood vividly before our mind, that 
the reader will now have deduced 
for himself as an irrefragable con- 
clusion namely, that an almost 
complete change in church music, 
and a thorough revolution in the 
relation of the choir to the altar, 
must be effected. 

But for this revolution we are 
now no longer unprepared. This 
is for us the bright star of hope, 
casting into the future a friendly 
light. Ten years ago it would per- 
haps have been not only a fruitless 
but even a hazardous undertaking 
to give open expression to such 
penetrating truths, such authorita- 
tive claims. But it is no longer so 



to-day, when so many powerful 
voices are lifted up for the revival 
of the ecclesiastical and liturgical 
spirit; when bishops, both at sy- 
nods and in their separate utter- 
ances, commend in such a positive 
manner the most earnest attention 
to the liturgy and the holy chant; 
when there is everywhere manifest- 
ed a desire for closer conformity to 
the principles and traditions of the 
Roman Church ; when the Chris- 
tian people, engaged in a more 
energetic warfare with falsehood, 
need the keener weapon of a more 
fervent ecclesiastical life, and, 
weary of the stale and worldly per- 
formances in their churches, long 
for more wholesome food, and 
thirst for purer drink as it gushes 
alone from that perennial spring of 
divine grace the holy liturgy. 

For this desirable revolution, we 
repeat, we are not unprepared,, 
because it has been already in 
great part effected in other depart- 
ments, in philosophy, in art, in the 
religious life. To sceptical ration- 
alism in philosophy has succeeded 
the positiveness which comes from 
faith and serious study, and where 
this has not been thoroughly 
brought about the opposing ele- 
ments are engaged in earnest con- 
flict, from which good results are 
to be expected. In the department 
of art capricious extravagance and 
bad taste have yielded to the 
readoption of old traditions and 
a worthier taste; in architecture 
and church decoration a purer 
style once more prevails, and our 
churches are adorned with new 
statues and pictures artistically 
fashioned by masters of the revived 
school of sacred art. Finally, in- 
the religious life the all-levelling 
principle of humanity and tolera- 
tion has given way to firmness of 
conviction and clearness of princi- 



June. 



pies ; the distinction between truth 
and error is more sharply drawn, 
hatred of heresy, yet charity to- 
wards those in error, increased. 
Who could close his eyes to such 
indications? Who does not recog- 
nize in these phenomena the dawn 
of a new ecclesiastical era? To 
us, in truth, they are the sure fore- 
runners of a better future for the 
church's song as well. They 
awaken thoughts of those blessed 
days when, according to the beau- 
tiful description of St. Ambrose, 
this chant was like "the majestic 
roaring of the ocean's billows ; 
when the hymns of the saints, the 
strains of the psalms, broke like the 
stormy surf against the lofty vault- 
ed arches; when young men and 
maidens, old men and children, 
united their swelling voices in one 
common, joyful song of praise to 
God. 



In submitting, full of such hopes, 
these pages to the good-will of the 
reader, we cherish the wish that he 
may exercise a kindly indulgence 
towards the author, and tender him 
a friendly hand in hearty co-opera- 
tion. We would be extremely 
gratified, and more than rewarded 
for our pains, if men of talent, im- 
pelled by our poor suggestions, 
should direct their attention and 
interest to this highly important 
subject from the point of view 
herein laid down. That success 
will come at last, and the end we 
have in view be happily attained, 
we believe with all the more con- 
fidence since we recognize in the 
tendencies of the reaction that 
has already begun the guidance of 
the Holy Ghost, whose work it 
shall also be to set the seal of the 
divine sanction upon the revival of 
the holy chant. 



JUNE. 

" June ! dear June ! Now God be praised for June." 

J. R. LOWELL. 

"And yet in vain, 

Poet, your verse : extol her as you will, 
One perfect rose her praises shall distil 
More than all song, though Sappho led the strain. 
Forbear, then, since, for any tribute fit. 
Her own rare lips alone can utter it." 

CAROLINE A. MASON. 

EACH year she comes whom poets call " Dear June," 
With face e'er young, and voice of griefless tune, 
Bright'ning the waysides with her roses' glow, 
Filling the woods with song where hides below 
Not any note of pain to trace sad line 
On her smooth brow, crowned with youth divine, 
Whence eyes look forth wherein no shadow lies 
Of any thought less glad than Paradise 
Soft, trustful eyes that look in ours to give 
Wealth of pure soul that but in joy doth live. 
Each year she comes as one that grows not old, 
Whose unstained robes unchanging heart enfold. 



June. 381 

Upon her daisy-fields, that stretch to meet 

The glitter of blue bays, her strong, white feet 

Fall with the melody of western wind 

That no dark thunder-clouds lurk low behind ; 

While, from her broidered raiment's every fold, 

The wild-grape's subtle incense is unrolled. 

Wide open are her hands that gifts may fall 

With grace of one that, loving, giveth all, 

Fears not that any cloudy day shall come 

When sun shall shine not, or sweet birds grow dumb. 

She never hath known loss ; how shall her heart 

Fear with its generous wealth in love to part ? 

And we, that list each year her winning speech 

Music of ripples on low, sandy beach 

That gaze into the depths of her clear eyes, 

Trusting each thought that in their shadow lies ; 

We, unto whom her roses' wayside blush 

Seems witchery strange as that quick-passing flush 

That, as day dieth, melteth into air 

Titanic strength of rocks high-heaped and bare ; 

To whom snow-peaks scarce fairer vision seem 

Than her blue seas where wind-pressed vessels gleam ; 

To whom a world of stars naught richer yields 

Than the white radiance of her daisy-fields 

We seek in our fond hearts some ne'er-heard phrase 
Wherewith to speak our dear queen's fitting praise, 
And lips grow dumb though heart be eloquent. 
Our little treasure of love's speech soon spent, 
Our murmuring lips but echoes old repeat 
Of some true poet's clinging accents sweet 
Whose mouth June kissed ere he had sung her grace, 
Left on his page the print of her young face, 
Guided his pen with her pink finger-tips, 
So perfecting the blessing of her lips. 

And sweet June mocks us not that incomplete 
And, unto outward seeming, all unmeet 
The stammering homage of our words' poor praise ; 
Her thoughtful eyes in ours, soft smiling, gaze. 
'Perchance for our joy's sorrow might she weep, 
Did any thought of tears her dear eyes keep. 
She reads, "We love her," written in her heart, 
So, pushing her white daisies wide apart, 
She places on our lips a red June rose 
That unto none but her each heart disclose 
What she hath waked, lest idle words do wrong 
To love that lieth deeper e'en than song. 



382 



A Knight's Wooing. 



A KNIGHT'S WOOING. 



A STORY OF RUSSIAN POLAND. 



IT was one of those magnificent 
northern nights when the moon 
shines and reigns with all her splen- 
dor in a heaven of such blue as 
we never see in these western lati- 
tudes ; when space becomes illimita- 
ble and earth holds her breath in 
the tingling silence. On such a 
night Hedwige Barowitska was 
keeping watch with her maid in the 
old castle of Zabor, situated some 
twenty versts from Kamienetz. 

" It must have been a false alarm, 
Vinka," said the young countess. 
41 It is now two hours past mid- 
night, and no messenger has come. 
Let us go to bed." 

" I knew we should lose our 
night's rest for nothing ; but you 
never listen tome, panna,"* said 
Vinka, and she stuck her needles 
into her knitting and gathered up 
her work, while Hedwige put aside 
her book and rose to leave the room. 
Suddenly both started, instinctive- 
ly clutching one another and listen- 
ing with white faces, as a long, dis- 
mal sound, like the howl of a wild 
beast with a human moan in it, 
smote -their ears, first far off, then 
nearer, and at last almost close to 
the castle walls. 

Hedwige was the first to recover 
herself. " What fools we are !" she 
exclaimed, laughing. '" It is only a 
wolf." 

" When folks are half-dazed with 
want of sleep small blame to them 
for mistaking a wolf for Cossack," 
said Vinka sulkily. " Who knows 
if one does not bode the other? 
What brings the wolf down on us 

* My young lady. 



at this time of year, when the 
snow has not been a week on the 
ground ? Be you sure, panna, the 
Cossacks are not far of; they are 
beating the forests, and the wolves 
have fled before them. Besides, it 
is a warning: when a wolf comes 
before his natural time, and gives 
that long howl under the windows 
of the house, it is the holy souls 
that send him." 

" Then the holy souls will take 
care of us," said the young coun- 
tess, but in a tone which betrayed 
as much contempt for her maid's 
superstition as trust in the vigilance 
of the blessed dead. 

She was very beautiful, this young 
Polish maiden, but it was a beauty 
of marble and metal ; her clear, ivory 
skin and chiselled features were too 
statuesque, and her large blue eyes 
had a flash of steel in them that 
was more dazzling than sympa- 
thetic. She looked a born heroine, 
and though the peasantry on her 
widowed mother's estates called 
her an angel, it would have better 
expressed her character and their 
mutual relations had they called 
her a queen. She was a creature 
born to rule, and to rule nobly ; but 
she lacked that tender, womanly 
softness which by common assent 
is supposed to represent the angelic 
attribute in woman. If the coun- 
try rose in arms, Hedwige Baro- 
witska would have led her people 
against the foe or defended their 
last stronghold from the battle- 
ments like another Maid of Sara- 
gossa ; but the village girls did not 
come to her with their love troubles. 



A Knight's Wooing. 



383 



The noblest amongst the chivalry 
of her native land had courted her, 
but they failed to make an entrance 
into her well-guarded heart, and 
one by one threw up the siege, de- 
claring there was no heart to take. 

As she and her maid stepped 
from the library into the noble gal- 
lery on which it opened, the moon- 
light streamed in upon them from 
the unshuttered windows with daz- 
zling effulgence. Marbles and pic- 
tures, bronzes and panoplies, stood 
out as brilliantly distinct as in day- 
light, and the polished oaken floor 
shone like a sheet of steel. 

Hedwige advanced to an oriel 
window and looked out into the 
night. The snow gleamed with 
blinding whiteness in the moon- 
light. One wing of the castle was 
in shadow a black mass reflected 
in deeper darkness on the ground 
but the other side shone in silvery 
brightness ; every line in the clock- 
tower, every arch and moulding, eve- 
ry grinning gargoyle and delicate 
bit of tracery, was picked out dis- 
tinctly in ebony and silver. Hed- 
wige, as she stood in her mourn- 
ing dress, bathed in the crystal 
light of the moon, resembled some 
spirit from its own mysterious cav- 
erns. She was paler than her 
wont, for that remark of Vinka's 
had made a deeper impression on 
her than her pride would own, and 
she could not banish the terrors it 
had conjured up. 

Witold Ranolzki was on his way 
to her with tidings, of life and 
death, perhaps, concerning one dear 
to them all ; but at the promised 
hour of his arrival there had come, 
instead of him, this howl of the 
hungry wolf. Where was the mon- 
ster now ? Not far off assuredly ; 
his howl had sounded close to the 
castle ; he was most likely prowling 
within the park. Riveted by the 



lovely glamour of the night, Hed- 
wige stood gazing into it, watching 
the shadows that slept upon the 
snow, noting the blue sheen of the 
window-panes in the clock-tower, 
the trees that stretched up their 
white arms breathless to the stars. 
Nothing stirred, not even a shadow, 
but was it fancy, or did she see 
something moving in the gloom 
under the left wing ? No, it was 
not fancy. Something moved, ad- 
vancing softly, stealthily, pressing 
the snow with a sleek, firm tread, to 
the foot of the terrace. It was the 
wolf. Fascinated with horror, Hed- 
wige watched him until he paused 
just opposite to her, and then; as if 
obeying a law of nature, lifted his 
head to the oriel window where, 
with fasji-beating pulses, she stood 
looking down at him. The hungry 
eyes glared red as balls of fire in 
the shadow, while the moonlight 
washed the lank body of the brute 
in a soft blue flood. He did not 
move for some minutes, and Hed- 
wige stood breathless, her blue eyes 
dilated with terror, staring down at 
him. Did he see her ? Would he 
stay there till she moved, or would 
he come up the steps of the terrace 
and howl at her ? There was an 
exulting sense of safety in the gaze 
with which she met his glare, al- 
though the sense of close vicinity 
to the monster made her blood run 
cold. The red balls rolled and 
flamed in his upturned head, as if 
their devouring fire would have 
pierced through the massive walls. 
Suddenly the long ears pricked up 
and wavered; the hideous head 
turned back, listening; the brute 
lifted one paw, and held it sus- 
pended a moment, then, with an- 
other howl, he bounded away to 
the park. 

" What can he have heard to set 
off like that ?" thought Hedwige ; 



3^4 



A Knight's Wooing. 



and she turned away and went on 
to her room, where sleepy Vinka 
was out of patience waiting. 

" Panna," cried the maid with 
sudden energy, and forgetting her 
ill-temper in a rush of unselfish 
fear " panna, if it should be the 
messenger that he heard ?" 

" Go ! run for the men ! Quick ! 
Tell them it is for life and death ! 
Fly, Vinka, fly !" 

Vinka snatched up a light and 
flew, as with wings, to the distant 
part of the castle where the men- 
servants, some fifteen in number, 
slept. Hedwige threw a large 
furred cloak about her and sped 
back to the gallery. The armory 
was at the other end of it, and 
there were firearms ready loaded 
there. She hurried to it, and se- 
lecting a small revolver from a va- 
riety of pistols that hung, wheel- 
like, against the wall, she flew back 
to the window where a few minutes 
ago she had been gazing in poetic 
meditation. It was a western win- 
dow, that swept the park and the 
distant high-road that came winding 
down through the forest on the 
mountain beyond. 

Drawing the furred hood over 
her head, the young countess 
opened the casement and met the 
keen night air. All was steep- 
ed in midnight hush. Nothing 
stirred except the stars palpitating 
in the deep blue sky. And yet 
the vvolf had heard a sound? It 
might be that Witold was wrestling 
with him in mortal combat close 
by, and yet too far for help. The 
snow-clad trees, clustering in broad 
masses all through the park to the 
very foot of the forest, offered safe 
opportunities for such an encoun- 
ter ; the wolf lying in ambush might 
spring upon his prey before there 
was time for Witold to seize his 
pistols. But hark ! That was cer- 



tainly the sound of a horse's gallop 
that she heard. Were the men 
never coming! Hedwige rushed 
out to the staircase, determined to 
go out alone and see if she could 
not help; but suddenly she remem- 
bered that the great door was bolt- 
ed and barred, and that she could 
no more have lifted those heavy 
bars and bolts than she could have 
lifted the castle on her shoulders. 
She uttered a cry of despair and 
rushed back to the gallery. As 
she did so a report of firearms 
came crashing through the open 
window, once, twice, three times. 
Then all was silence, and Hed- 
wige clung to the wainscoting and 
listened with a beating heart. 
Presently a horseman was to be 
seen galloping towards the castle, 
and at the same moment she heard 
the men hurrying down to the hall; 
but before they reached it a howl 
of rage came echoing through the 
starlight. The wolf was close upon 
the rider ; another stride and his 
fangs were in the horse's flanks. 
The terrified animal flung up his 
forefeet and fought the air for a 
moment, then with a loud cry fell. 
The wolf drew out his fangs and 
turned to attack the rider, who had 
fired his last shot and stood, re- 
volver in hand, ready to sell his 
life as dearly as he could. The 
brute, who was wounded and mad- 
dened with pain, sprang forward, 
but as he did so a bullet came 
whizzing through the air and struck 
him in the head. With one last, 
long howl lie rolled over and lay 
dead upon the snow. 

The men now came flying down 
the terrace and across the park, 
some with torches, some with fire- 
arms. 

Prince Witold, who had been 
flung violently down by the wolf in 
that last spring, raised himself from 



A KnigJtfs Wooing. 



355 



the ground, shook the snow from 
his pelisse, and made sure that he 
was not a dead man. 

" Heaven be praised ! you are 
safe, Prince," cried several in 
chorus. 

" Yes, thank Heaven, and then 
you, my good friends! That shot 
was a timely one. Which of you 
fired it?" 

" None of us, Prince," replied 
the old majordomo. " It went off 
as we opened the castle door." 

" Then it was one of your fel- 
lows who took aim from within. 
You must find him and bring him 
to me." 

" It was the Countess Hedwige 
who fired it, Prince. She was 
watching, and sent to wake us up." 

Witold looked quickly up at the 
castle, and saw a hooded figure in 
the western window ; he recognized 
it instinctively, and, dropping on 
one knee, pulled off his sable cap 
and bowed low to his deliverer. 

It was a striking scene the dead 
body of the wolf stretched upon 
the snow, the wounded horse close 
by, the men with their flaring 
torches, the young man kneeling in 
knightly fashion to the lady of his 
love, and the whole group trans- 
figured by the mystic glamour of 
the moonlight into some weird 
vision. 

Hedwige returned no salutation 
to the knightly homage, but a light 
laugh that rang out in the silver 
silence assured Witold it was not 
resented. He rose and walked 
quickly on to the castle, while the 
air resounded with the cheers of 
the men. 

Hedwige received him in the 
library. She was as white as mar- 
ble, and apparently as cold ; noth- 
ing could have been more stately 
than her greeting of the man for 
whose life she had trembled in 
VOL. xxix. 25 



every fibre and saved by an almost 
heroic impulse. 

Witold raised reverently to his 
lips the small white hand which, in 
spite of all womanly shrinkings, had 
delivered him from a loathsome 
death. 

" I owe you my life, cousin," he 
said ; " but it was yours already, to 
save or cast away as you thought 
fit. I know what it must have cost 
you to fire that shot. Tell me that 
it was your heart gave you courage 
to do it ?" 

"I will tell you nothing but the 
truth. My conscience would have 
nerved my hand to do the same for 
any fellow-creature whose life de- 
pended on the effort. It is true I 
am a coward at playing with fire- 
arms, but I am a daughter of the 
Jagellons, and our race have never 
known cowardice in the face of 
danger. You might have remem- 
bered that." 

Though playfully spoken, the 
words held the bitterest taunt those 
proud lips could have uttered. He 
remembered it only too well, this 
blood of the Jagellons, which made 
a gulf between their beautiful de- 
scendant and himself, the grandson 
of a Russian trader. He and Hed- 
wige were cousins by his father's 
side, but this vein of purple blood 
did not wash out the stain of his 
mother's birth and nationality, and 
Witold felt this too keenly to heed 
that indirect reminder of the blot. 

" What news do you bring of 
Pere Alexander ?" she said, sitting 
down and pointing familiarly to a 
seat for him. 

" Forgive me, cousin ; after rid- 
ing thirty-six hours, and escaping 
by the skin from the clutch of the 
Cossacks, and finally from the fangs 
of a wolf, a man may be pardoned 
for a momentary lapse of presence 
of mind. To proceed at once to 



3 86 



A Knight's Wooing. 



the subject of my unseasonable 
visit, Pere Alexander is alive. Af- 
ter hiding in the forest for three 
weeks he was discovered by a pea- 
sant, who informed the pope, who 
immediately denounced him to the 
district authorities. Pere Alexan- 
der was taken to Kamienetz, tried, 
or at any rate convicted, and con- 
demned to imprisonment for life." 

"For life! O my God!" 

She clasped her hands and her 
large blue eyes filled with tears. 
Witold Ranolzki bethought him 
that, let fate do her worst, Pere 
Alexander was still a man to be 
envied. 

" You have this from good au- 
thority? There is no possibility 
of a mistake ?" she said entreat- 
ingly. 

" None. I carried my inquiries 
as far as they could go, and there 
is not the shadow of a doubt as to 
the identity and the facts. He is 
at this moment undergoing sentence 
in the Fortress at Kamienetz." 

" In that terrible Fortress 
and for life ! Well, it cannot 
be for long. Death will soon re- 
lease him. But how long, O Lord ! 
how long ?" 

She hid her face in her hands 
and sobbed aloud. . 

" He is alive, cousin ; the For- 
tress* is not death. He may be set 
free; take courage in that hope," 
said Witold. 

" What hope? That those cruel 
fiends will find pity in their hearts 
for an old man who can neither 
bribe nor trick them ? I might as 
well have hoped that the wolf 
would have drawn his fangs out of 
your flesh just now." 

" Hope is inventive ; we may find 
means of bribing and circumvent- 
ing his jailers, though he himself 
can do nothing," replied Witold. 

" O Witold ! do you mean this? 



Have you any grounds for bidding 
me hope, or is it only that you 
wish to comfort me ?" 

'* It would be sorry comfort to 
raise false hopes that would Jjut 
mock your grief. Will you never 
learn to trust me, Hedwige ? But 
forgive me. I meant to tell you that 
I have a scheme in my head ; it is 
full of difficulties, but not imprac- 
ticable. Pere Alexander himself 
thinks so, and you know he is no 
dreamer. He can only help us by 
his prayers; but the prayer of an 
apostle has opened prison doors 
before." 

"He thinks? Then he knows? 
You have seen him?" 

"Yes; and he sent you a mes- 
sage. Have you a knife or a pair 
of scissors at hand ?" 

Witold turned back the breast 
of his coat and glanced round the 
table. Hedwige took up the silver 
chatelaine that dangled from her 
belt, and, opening the tiny scis- 
sors, deftly cut the lining where he 
pointed to her. 

"Here are my credentials, since 
I cannot be taken on parole," he 
said, handing her a thin letter 
which he drew from its hiding- 
place. 

Hedwige opened it with trem- 
bling fingers, and read in Pere 
Alexander's well-known handwrit- 
ing the following lines : 

" MY CHILD : It is a great joy to me 
in my prison to receive tidings of you 
and your dear mother, and to send you 
with my blessing the assurance of my 
undying affection. You have rejoiced 
with me in that I have been counted 
worthy to taste even a little drop of the 
cup of my divine Master. You have 
grieved because of the sorrow of my 
flock, poor lambs bereft of their shepherd 
and exposed to the fury of the wolves. 
But be of good heart, my daughter. 
Sorrow endureth for a night, and joy 
cometh in the morning. It may please 
our good Lord to give us all once more 



A Knight's Wooing. 



387 



the joy of meeting here below. Words 
fail me to speak of my noble son Witold, 
of his devoted courage in braving so 
many perils and enduring such sacri- 
fices for my sake. I can but bless him, 
and pray that his reward may be great 
in proportion to my love and his. 

"With affectionate greetings to your 
admirable mother, I am, my child, your 
father in Christ, 

"ALEXANDER WALARINSKI." 

Hedwige, when she had read the 
letter, looked up at Witold, and 
now read in his features the true 
meaning of their pallor and haggard 
look. 

" Dear Witold ! how can we 
ever thank you ?" she said, holding 
out her hand, which the young 
man, after the chivalrous fashion 
of his country, raised to his lips. 

"I am more than repaid," he 
murmured ; ; ' I am your debtor." 

Yet it was not so much, after all, 
for the devotion of a lifetime, for a 
worship which had been faithful to 
its object as the stars to their 
course, and pure as ever fired Crusa- 
der's breast for his liege lady. Hed- 
wige 's heart smote her as she look- 
ed at him, and saw in imagination, 
too terribly whetted by experience, 
all that he had gone through to 
give her this last proof of love. 
And he held himself her debtor 
because she had deigned to thank 
him ! What is there in these mar- 
ble women to kindle such flames 
in hearts of men ? 

Vinka came in upon the confer- 
ence, and broke the spell by asking 
if the prince was not hungry, and 
whether he would have refreshment 
brought to him here or go down 
to the dining-room. 

" How I have disgraced myself 
to-night !" exclaimed Hedwige, 
laughing; "first I demean myself 
like an Amazon and kill a wild 
beast, and then I sin against all 
the laws of hospitality as never 



hostess did before ! Send up the 
supper here. I will serve Prince 
Witold myself." 

And so, in spite of the young 
man's entreaties and protestations; 
she insisted on doing. 

"You are a hero to-night, so you 
must let me worship you. You 
know my weakness for heroes ?" 

She spoke in a tone of graceful 
banter; but it sounded cruel to 
the man who loved her, who would 
have bartered away all his earthly 
possessions to hear her speak those 
words in earnest. But even when 
her heart was touched Hedwige 
seemed incapable of owning a soft 
or tender emotion towards him. 
Was this coldness genuine, or was 
it a feint ? \Vitold could not tell ; 
but the mere sound of her voice 
wrought on him with the potency 
of a magician's spell. He felt in a 
kind of dreamy rapture while she 
stood beside him, pouring the rich 
wine into the silver flagon and hold- 
ing it to him to quaff, as if he had 
been, as in truth he was, a knight 
going forth to do battle for the lady 
of his love. 

"Will not the countess have 
been disturbed by all the noise we 
made ?" he inquired, anxious to 
turn away her attention from him- 
self to some more congenial subject. 

"Alas! no. Her sad infirmity 
preserves her from all disturbance. 
It will be a glad surprise for her to 
see you to-morrow morning." 

" I shall not be here ; I must re- 
turn to Kamienetz-in time to report 
myself by mid-day to the governor. 
Nay," seeing Hedwige was going 
to protest, " remember the slight- 
est imprudence now may ruin 
everything. I am on parole ; I 
must ride back in an hour's time." 

"You know best. I shall not 
hinder you," replied the young 
girl; and resuming her air of mar- 



338 



A Knight's Wooing. 



ble calmness, she sat clown, her 
hands clasped on her knees, medi- 
tative and silent, while her guest 
did ample justice to the viands 
bountifully set before him. He 
was a hero, and his appetite, 
like his temperament, was heroic, 
starvation forming no element 
either in his heroism or his love. 

" May I not know something of 
this scheme for our father's deliv- 
erance ?" said Hedvvige after a 
long pause. 

" There is little to tell so far. I 
have made a breach in the wall by 
gaining access, to the jailer, and 
through him to Pere Alexander. 
But while he remains in the fort 
there is nothing to be done. We 
must first get him changed to 
Kronstadt." 

" And how is that to be done ? 
There is not the faintest probability 
of his being removed there." 

" There are difficulties in the 
way, but I shall overcome them. 
The jailer is well disposed, and I 
have made it worth his while to be 
faithful to me." 

" That means that you have al- 
. ready made tremendous sacrifices, 
.and have pledged yourself to fur- 
,ther ones which may compromise 
.your own and your brother's for- 
tunes." 

" Gently, fair cousin. I have so 
,far compromised nothing but the 
.family jewel-case, which I have pil- 

fered of a few trinkets for. the jail- 
er's wife." 

The few trinkets meant a neck- 

lace of diamonds that represented 
the dower of a princess, and a pro- 
.mise of the eardrops and coronet 

on the successful escape of the pris- 
oner. 

" Cousin, the time flies fast in 
your presence, but I must not let 
the charm lure me to my ruin," 
said Witold; and washing down his 



copious meal with a last bumper of 
Burgundy, he rose and prepared 
to equip himself for the road. 

She rang, and ordered the stout- 
est hunter in the stables to be 
brought round without delay. 

" You have told me little, cousin," 
she said, as Witold was about to 
depart, "but I conjecture much 
from your silence, and I augur all 
things from your daring and the 
generosity of your heart." 

"I thank you for trusting me, 
fair cousin. You shall not repent 
it. Farewell." 

He raised her hand to his lips 
again, pressing them longer than 
was needed for mere courtesy, and 
then left her. 

She waited till he was in the 
hall, and then went out to the gal- 
lery, and stood in that oriel window 
which had been her watch-tower 
twice to-night, and waited to see 
him mount and ride away. 

The light of the moon had wan- 
ed, but the stars were shining 
brightly. The men had dragged 
away the body of the wolf, and 
stood by, scaring the starlight with 
the red glare of their resin torches, 
that threw lurid shadows on the 
snow. 

Witold did not know that Hed- 
wige was watching him, but instinct- 
ively,, as he turned away, he looked 
up at the window where she stood, 
invisible, but present to the eyes 
of her lover's memory. He was a 
lover to feel proud of, Hedwige ac- 
knowledged, as she saw him vault 
lightly into the saddle and ride 
away with the air of one bound on 
a noble mission and fitted to ac- 
complish it. 

Alexander Walarinski had made 
one of a band of five young noble- 
men,, chosen from the flower of 
Polish chivalry, who in the year 



A Knight's Wooing. 



339 



1830 took arms for the deliverance 
of their country. They fought like 
heroes. Two met a glorious death 
on the field of battle, and the others, 
when the insurrection was over, went 
one morning to the old cathedral 
of St. John's at Warsaw, and, kneel- 
ing before the shrine of the Mother 
of Sorrows, dedicated themselves 
henceforth to the service of their 
country by sacrifice and prayer. 
They laid their swords upon the 
altar and went forth to become 
priests. 

One went on the mission to Siberia 
and died there. The other was 
convicted of treason for saving the 
life of a young political criminal 
who fled to his presbytery for pro- 
tection. He was condemned to 
work in the gold-washings of Ir- 
koutsk; for five years he bore it, 
standing in ice-cold water to the 
waist, his shoulders blistered by 
the burning sun and cut open by 
the lash of the overseer. Then 
death came and set him free. The 
only survivor of the band was 
Pere Alexander. He was close on 
seventy, and it was a mystery to all 
who knew him that he should have 
lived to such an age; for no man 
had been more reckless of his life 
than he, both in driving his body 
by austerities and hard work and 
in defying the authorities up to 
their very teeth. Yet the law 
which he systematically broke with 
open contempt had never laid a 
finger on him. The authorities 
knew that to touch Pere Alexander 
would have been to rouse every 
man, woman, and child in the 
district to rebellion ; and as he was 
known to be as strongly opposed to 
rebellion as he was dauntless in the 
face of danger and uncompromising 
in his principles as a priest and a 
Pole, they felt it was safer to toler- 
ate his stiff-necked independence 



than to lock him up. So for near- 
ly fifty years he had taught and 
preached and ministered to his 
flock and warded off many a blow 
from them ; he had also kept down 
many a rebellious upheaving, which 
the government knew, and paid 
back in self-interested toleration to 
the patriot priest. But there came 
a day when his priestly influence 
became his greatest danger and his 
greatest crime. The ukase had 
gone forth ordering Catholic priests 
to be replaced by Greek priests 
whenever a vacancy occurred, and 
when the vacancies were slow to 
come they were to be created. 
This was easily done. The parish 
priest disappeared one morning on 
business ; his return was delayed, 
and then it was announced that he 
was named to another parish and a 
new priest was appointed in his 
stead. The Greek minister arrived 
with his schismatical doctrine and 
ministrations. In most cases the 
stricken flock recognized the wolf in 
the sheep's clothing and held aloof; 
but it sometimes happened, owing 
partly to their simplicity and igno- 
rance, and partly to the devilish 
cunning of the false priest, aided 
by the systematic lies of the autho- 
rities, that they were deluded by 
his well-counterfeited orthodoxy. 
He gained their confidence; little 
by little their faith was undermin- 
ed, their perception of right and 
wrong weakened, at last utterly con- 
fused, and then the work of lies 
became complete. Vacancies of this 
description had been thus created 
and filled up in nearly all the vil- 
lages round X , where Pere Al- 
exander dwelt, but the trick had 
not succeeded in a single instance. 
The peasants were proof alike 
against blandishments, threats, and 
cruelty. They showed a kind of 
apostolic instinct in detecting the 



390 



A Knight's Wooing. 



frnud, and resisted it with the spirit 
of confessors. They stoutly refus- 
ed to assist at the sacrifice or par- 
ticipate in the sacraments provided 
for them by the schismatic priest. 
In all this they were supported and 
encouraged by Pere Alexander, 
who multiplied himself to be with 
them far and near, late and early. 
He marched from village to village, 
indifferent to wind and weather, 
fatigue and hunger, like the old 
soldier that he was; thinking only 
of how he could help the afflicted 
people and circumvent or defy their 
treacherous persecutors ; confessing 
and saying Mass, preaching and in- 
structing, communicating his own 
fiery spirit to the much-suffering 
flocks, and inciting them to be 
worthy of the martyr's crown. 

The government knew all this, 
and bore it bore it till the for- 
bearance seemed to the people a 
sort of miracle. Yet it was not 
prompted by pity or respect for the 
aged confessor, but simply from 
fear that if they took violent means 
to stop him and nothing short of 
violence would do it they would 
bring worse troubles on themselves. 
Still, this open defiance constituted 
too great an outrage on the autho- 
rities to be indefinitely tolerated. 
It was a power fatal to their power. 
His very presence was in itself 
the last bulwark of his persecuted 
religion in the country. There was 
not now another Catholic priest 
remaining within a radius of four 
hundred miles, and if he could be 
got rid of the last vestige of the 
pestilent vermin would be swept 
away. How to do it was the ques- 
tion. 

Count Barowitzki was another 
opposing force with whom, in self- 
defence, the government felt it 
necessary to reckon. He was so- 
cially as great a power with the 



people as Pere Alexander was 
spiritually. To lay a finger on 
him would have been to set a 
match to the fires of rebellion, al- 
ways smouldering in the persecuted 
land, and which, once lighted, spread 
with such terrible rapidity. The 
priest was close on threescore and 
ten he must soon die ; but the 
count was a man in the prime of 
life, and had a good quarter of a 
century before him yet. 

But men reckon without those 
unseen forces which come unex- 
pectedly to cut the knots of des- 
tiny and mock our puny schem- 
ings and short-sighted calculations. 
The count caught a fever and died 
of it. Pere Alexander assisted his 
friend through the dark and nar- 
row pass, pronounced the final ab- 
solution upon his grave, and the 
next day received a letter which 
obliged him to go to Kamienetz on 
business. 

He did not return, and was- 
never seen or heard of again. 
That was now six months ago, and 
his desolate flock had long since 
given up all hope. It was said at 
first that he was hiding in the 
forest ; that he had been warned 
to fly, and had done so without 
telling any of his friends, in order 
that no one might run any risks in 
trying to save him. But this con- 
jecture was proved to be false. 
The peasants beat the forest for 
miles and miles, and found no trace 
of the missing priest. The first 
true tidings that had been received 
of him were those just brought by 
Prince Witold to Hedwige. They 
were as bad as could be, short of 
his death. But Witold, spurred on 
by love, as much as by reverence 
and loyalty towards the man whose 
name had been a war-cry to his 
people, and whose life shone for 
half a century like a light upon the 



A Knight's Wooing. 



391 



darksome waters, had already made 
possible the work of his deliver- 
ance. 

Kamienetz was about fifty miles 
from Zabor; Witold reached it in 
lime to report himself punctually 
at the governor's before noon. It 
was a ride for life, for if he failed 
to make his appearance the conse- 
quences would have been imme- 
diate arrest and imprisonment, and, 
once within the Fortress, no man 
can tell what may follow. Over 
the gates of that awful abode may 
with truth be written those saddest 
words ever uttered by human voice : 
" Voi che entrate, lasciate qui ogni 
speranza." 

But so far he was safe ; he was 
still free to go whither he listed, to 
walk abroad, to breathe the sun- 
shine. His absorbing object must 
now be to turn this liberty to ac- 
count in behalf of Pere Alexander. 
For the moment, however, he had 
but one thought, and this was to 
get home and to fling himself on 
his bed. He had not slept for two 
nights, and he had been on horse- 
back over forty hours, with no 
respite but that brief halt at Za- 
bor. 

Witold was not a hero every day. 
He loved a merry life, a life of ease 
and pleasure ; he loved the chase, 
the song, the brimming bowl, the 
glance of lovely woman; he hated 
trouble and waste of energy. But he 
had, withal, that capacity for hero- 
ism which is the birthright of every 
Polish gentleman, and which, at the 
first blast of the trumpet-call of 
duty, wakes up in sacrifice and ac- 
tion. He had been fatally com- 
promised in the insurrection of 
1860, and had only escaped death 
through the intervention of that 
Muscovite connection which he de- 
spised, but which had stood him 
in good need more than once. It 



was now his sheet-anchor in the 
perilous undertaking in hand. 

The next day he drove, after his 
early breakfast, to a large house 
not far from the governor's palace. 
"Is your master at home?" he in- 
quired of the porter. 

" Yes, prince." 

And Witold was shown into a 
room opening on the hall, and 
which the master of the house call- 
ed his study. It would have been 
difficult to surmise what kind of 
studies were carried on there, for 
there was not a book to be seen, 
nor any trace of writing materials, 
nor artistic appliances, nor scienti- 
fic instruments. The walls were 
covered with panoplies, coats of 
mail, hauberks, weapons of every 
form and period, while heads of 
tigers, jackals, and other wild beasts 
made an appropriate variety of or- 
nament. Side by side with these 
suggestive trophies were the usual 
sacred images in gold and jewelled 
frames. Divans ran round the 
room, and there were tables litter- 
ed with cards, glasses, bottles, tea- 
cups, etc., while an ominous smell 
of brandy pervaded the apartment. 
In the midst of this novel sort of 
study, close by the great stove, sat 
the master of the place, an old 
man, clad in a loose dressing-gown, 
with a greasy velvet cap covering 
his bald head. A long, tawny beard 
gave a ceitain gravity to his face, 
which otherwise betrayed little else 
than cunning and the habit of co- 
pious libations. 

" Well, scapegrace nephew, what 
brings you here to-day?" 

"To see you, my uncle." 

" Humph ! And now that you 
have seen me, what have you got 
to say ?" 

" That it rejoices me to see you 
looking so well." 

" That proves that you are either 



39^ 



A Knight's Wooing. 



blind or a hypocrite. I am abomi- 
nably ill. Why should I suffer as 
if the foul fiends were devouring 
me? I have worked hard all my 
life, and I have always saved my 
money." 

" I am grieved to hear this, my 
dear uncle." 

" You lie ! you are not grieved. 
You are glad, because you count on 
my inheritance. But you may be 
disappointed. Why should I not 
marry ? Tell me that !" 

" There are a thousand reasons 
why you should, my uncle," replied 
Witold, with that imperturbable 
good-humor which was his chief 
offence and his chief attraction in 
the old Muscovite's eyes. "It 
would cheer you up to have a pret- 
ty young wife, and the wedding 
would be very jolly for us all. But 
let it be quickly done, or else I 
may be too late for the fun." 

"Too late, eh?" said the old 
man, bristling up like a hound at 
the blast of the horn " too late ? 
What new devilment are you at ? 
Had I not trouble and expense 
enough getting you out of that last 
mess? Do you expect me to re- 
duce myself to beggary in my last 
days ?" 

" My dear uncle, I have no idea 
of anything so wicked. I merely 
urge you to make haste about get- 
ting married, so that I may not 
miss the merry-making. I should 
like, before I arn borne on the 
wings of holy Russia to Nerchintz, 
to make acquaintance with my 
beautiful young aunt. I shall fall 
madly in love with her, but I shall 
devour my passion in silence and 
die of it."' 

"Incorrigible rascal!" chuckled 
the old man, with a twinkle in his 
eye. " What is this new trouble 
you are in ?" 

" Our best friend, the man who 



has christened and married and 
buried us all for the last fifty years, 
is in prison." 

" Alexander Walarinski ! He 
ought to have been in prison long 
ago. Where is he ?" 

"Here in the Fortress." 

The old man gave a long whis- 
tle. 

"My uncle, we must get him out 
immediately." 

" What ! do you want to drag 
me into another infernal mess, to 
take my last rouble from me ? I 
will not lift a finger to save that 
insolent fanatic from his just fate. 
I would go a long way to see him 
hanged." 

" Well, my uncle, I will do the 
work of deliverance alone. I 
thought you would gladly have 
helped to save the life of the man 
who soothed your beloved sister's 
last hours, and to whose care she 
commended her children. I also 
was foolish enough to enjoy the 
prospect of seeing those proud 
aristocrats who have ignored my 
mother's family compelled to eat 
the dust at your feet. But this is 
all vanity, and you have a soul 
above it. Let us speak no more of 
it. Tell me about my future aunt. 
Let her have dark eyes, my uncle. 
We are overrun with blondes ; the 
race will be improved by the in- 
troduction of a brunette into the 
family." 

" Incorrigible dog ! How dare 
you mock me to my face ?" said 
the old man. " Why do I not turn 
you out of my house ?" 

" Because you love me, my uncle. 
In spite of my iniquities, nay, be- 
cause of them, I am dear to you." 

" Dear to me ! You have cost 
me dear enough, if that is what 
you mean. I have not yet recov- 
ered that last bleeding. Those 
bureaucrats are ravenous wolves. 



A Knight's Wooing. 



393 



They never have enough. While 
they are gulping down gold as fast 
as they can swallow it their in- 
satiable maw is crying for more ! 
more !" 

" They are a race of jackals, my 
uncle." 

"And you would drive their 
fangs into me again! You would 
drain me of my last rouble ! And 
for whom, forsooth ?" 

"My uncle, forgive me. I 
thought of that death-bed, where 
I saw you sobbing, where I heard 
you blessing the man you now 
curse. I thought of the insults 
you have suffered, and it seemed 
to me I had found you a noble op- 
portunity for revenge, and for mak- 
ing them your debtors for ever- 
more. I was mistaken. Forgive 
me." 

Macchiavelli could not have 
played his cards better. The one 
soft point in Paul Ruboff's nature 
had been his love for this sister ; she 
had become a Catholic, and died 
in the arms of the valiant soldier- 
priest, who had guided her through 
every trouble and seen her safe 
into port at last. The one vulne- 
rable point in his character was his 
desire to be recognized by the proud 
Polish family into which his sister 
had married. 

" I have no care to buy so costly 
a revenge; I despise them all, the 
proud-stomached aristocrats ! A 
pitiful lot, always in debt, for ever 
running their heads into the noose. 
I could buy out the whole tribe 
and not miss it. A stiff-necked, 
beggarly crew !" 

" You are hard on your own kin- 
dred." 

"Perhaps so, my nephew; but I 
am a practical man. I confess, 
nevertheless, it would rejoice me 
to bring them to eat dirt at my 
feet, as that proud fellow Baro- 



witzki did when I got his brother 
commuted from the mines." 

" Yes, my uncle ; but you must 
not let your heart run you into im- 
prudence. You must not compro- 
mise yourself with the authorities. 
They might, moreover, resent your 
interference ; people never know 
what their influence is worth until 
they try to use it." 

" I am not afraid of that," said 
Ruboff, his vanity kindling. "Prince 

T [the governor of the city] 

owes me a good round sum, and 
he is hard set to pay me the inter- 
est regularly." 

" Prince T is brother-in-law 

of the governor of Kronstadt, is he 
not ?" inquired Witold. 

"What has that to do with it ?" 

" It might have been of use. I 
want to get Pere Alexander trans- 
ferred to Kronstadt." 

" To Kronstadt ! Why not to 
the moon?" 

"That would be safer; but un- 
fortunately I have no influence in 
the moon." 

" And you expect to use my in- 
fluence to get this fellow to Kron- 
stadt ? You are mistaken. I will 
not move a finger in it !" And he 
struck the table near him till the 
cups and glasses rang again. 

" My uncle, I understood you 
to say so. But I mean to achieve 
the perilous feat alone. The gods 
are on the side of : desperate men. 
Farewell, my uncle. If any harm 
befalls me I commend Boleslas to 
your care. You always loved the 
boy. He is his mother's image, 
and he is proud of your affection 
for him." 

Witold stood up and held out 
his hand. He looked anything but 
desperate, and yet he seemed fitted 
for deeds of daring: tall, strong, 
iron-sinewed, his air commanding, 
his eye alight with the fire of youth, 



394 



A Knight's Wooing. 



with youth's reckless love of dan- 
ger. The old man fancied he de- 
tected a softer light in it no\v, kin- 
dled, perhaps, by the remembrance 
of his mother and by the emotion 
inseparable from a solemn farewell. 
The youth knew that it was no 
idle vaunt when lie spoke of peril 
and calmly foreboded the issue. 
He was mad, stark mad, like all his 
father's people; still, he was his 
mother's child, and Paul Ruboff 
had never loved any one but that 
mother. 

" Witold, son of Ladislas," he 
said, looking curiously up at the 
broad-chested Polish gentleman, 
" thou art a fool." 

" My uncle, you speak the truth," 
said Witold, laughing. 

" But I also am a fool." 

" Nay, my uncle " 

" I am a fool, I tell thee, boy ; 
and there is no hope for me, for an 
old fool is the worst of all. Sit 
down and answer my questions. 
Why must this other old fool be 
got to Kronstadt ?" 

" Because, once there, I have a 
scheme for effecting his escape." 

" Ah ?" 

" One of the jailers of the For- 
tress owes me his life and the life 
of his daughter, an only child, 
whom I watch over. He would 
risk a good deal to serve me." 

" Humph ! He will open the pri- 
son door to Walarinski for your 
sake ?" 

" I think so ; that is, he will con- 
nive at my plan. I have meditated 
upon this plan long. Listen " 

"Chut! I will listen to no- 
thing !" And he struck the table 
beside him till the glasses jumped 
and an empty bottle rolled off. " I 
am an old man, and I have many 
sins to answer for, but I will not 
die with the guilt of treason on my 
soul" 



" But, my uncle, to save an in- 
nocent man " 

" I will not conspire against the 
will of our father, the czar. Be 
silent ! I will hear nothing. This 
much I will do for my sister's son: 

I will ask Prince T to have 

Walarinski sent on to Kronstadt. 
Good heavens ! it will cost me 
Holy St. Nicholas ! what a fool I 
am. In my old age to squander 
my hard-earned roubles on a ras- 
cally Pole!" 

He threw up both hands, caught 
his head, and angrily twisted his 
greasy cap first this way, then that, 
and groaned as he thought of his 
darling roubles. 

"My uncle, you are an angel!" 
said Witold. 

"You lie! I am a fool!" 

"You are the truest noble among 
us." 

" I despise your nobles !" 

" You will have to tolerate their 
esteem, their admiration, their 
gratitude." . . 

" I despise them. But thou art 
thy mother's son. Go!" 

It was scarcely an hour after 
daybreak, that hour of dim white 
light peculiar to the northern dawn, 
when a strange-looking coach 
might be seen travelling on the 

road from Kamienetz to L . 

It was like an enormous coffin set 
on wheels ; the wheels were low, 
the coach was long, painted black, 
and with no windows to speak of, 
only a round hole, protected by an 
iron grating, close under the roof 
a conveyance that looked more like 
a hearse to trundle the dead than 
a vehicle to serve the living. It 
was, in fact, the travelling prison in 
which those social dead, the con- 
demned, are taken to their destina- 
tion within the empire. If their 
doom extends beyond it they leave 



A Knigkfs Wooing. 



395 



the luxury of this rolling cell for 
the kibitka or continue their jour- 
ney on foot. 

The coffin-like vehicle was drawn 
by four horses and accompanied 
by an escort of soldiers. It bound- 
ed along like a whirlwind, blowing 
the snow before it ; a little driver, 
almost a child, seated in a high sad- 
dle on the right leader, kept whip- 
ping his horses with all his little 
might, until suddenly coach and 
cavalcade pulled up at the post- 
house of a village. The hour was 
early, yet many people were already 
astir. True, the arrival of the tra- 
velling prison is always announc- 
ed beforehand, in order that fresh 
relays may be ready ; but, besides 
the people of the post-house, there 
were peasants coming and going, 
and a movement about the place 
that was hardly to have been ex- 
pected at such an early hour. 

The soldiers alighted and went 
in to their brea'kfast ; the small pos- 
tilion tumbled out of his saddle and 
followed them, while hostlers hurried 
out and began to unyoke the jad- 
ed team. In a moment the quiet 
roadside was a scene of busy con- 
fusion and loud talk. People came 
round the travelling tomb and 
looked up at the grating wistfully ; 
but no wan face such as they were 
used to see appeared there. It 
might have been carrying a corpse, 
so devoid of living tenants did it 
seem. Presently a merry fellow 
struck up a dumka on his korbana, 
and the gazers deserted the coach 
and gathered round him at the inn 
door. Every one went away except 
one tall peasant girl, whose face 
was nearly quite concealed by a 
fur hood drawn close round it. 
She waited a moment, glancing 
nervously around her, and then, 
looking up to the grating, she said 
in a low, eager voice : 



"Father!" 

"My child!" 

"Close behind the cairn, to the 
right, there is a man who is dying; 
they have brought him here to get 
absolution. See, they are com- 
ing." 

As the group of two peasants 
bearing, the dying man approached, 
a tipsy peasant opportunely came 
rolling across the road, and, stag- 
gering in amongst the hostlers, began 
swearing at them; they answered 
him in kind, blows followed quickly, 
and then the Jew postmaster came 
out and belabored them all round 
with his stick, till in a second eve- 
rything was confusion, and every- 
body was screaming and vocifer- 
ating. 

While the melee was at its height 
the two bearers approached .the 
prison, laid down their stretcher, 
and drew near to witness the fray. 
The dying man, with the sweat of 
death upon his brow, but fully con- 
scious, turned his eyes with an 
expression of contrite supplication 
towards the grating, and murmur- 
ed in a broken but audible voice : 

" Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa." 

A face appeared at the window, 
a pair of sunken eyes, still full of 
fire, met his, a hand was uplifted, 
and the words "Ego te absolvo " fell 
on the dying man's ear like the 
heavenly message that they were. 

His eyes were fixed on the face 
of the priest, whose hand continu- 
ed uplifted, repeating the blessing 
and the absolution, mingled with 
brief, strong words of hope and 
faith. The peasant girl, standing 
under the hedge, watched the scene, 
while her lips moved rapidly in 
prayer. Five minutes passed. The 
bearers went back to lift their bur- 
den. The fray was at an end. 

" Whom have you there ?" inquir- 
ed the postmaster, approaching. 



39 6 



A K nig] it ' s Wooing. 



"Our brother; we are taking 
him to our old home to be nursed ; 
he is dying." 

They bent down to lift the 
stretcher, but dre\v back with 
startled faces. 

"He is dead 7" said the Jew in 
awe-stricken tones; and all the 
people, moved by pity and curiosity, 
drew near to look. 

" Yes, he is dead !" they repeat- 
ed. 

A low cry of joy, as it sounded, 
rose up from some one perhaps 
from the hooded figure, whose eyes 
were lifted to the grating, where 
through blinding tears she could 
see a bronzed face, paler than it 
used to be, but still full of energy, 
with the bristling gray hair shorn 
and in its place the hideous con- 
vict cap. The convict's lips were 
moving rapidly, and the hand was 
raised, repeating benedictions over 
the dead confessor. 

All the people stood back re- 
spectfully as the brothers, who 
bore their affliction with surprising 
equanimity, raised the stretcher, 
now become a bier, and went on 
their way, the stately young figure 
following at a distance. 

"Whom have you within?" in- 
quired the postmaster of one of 
the soldiers, pointing to the coach. 

"A Polish priest." 

"Bound for?" 

u Siberia." 

Mysteries lie around us in the 
dark. The wicked pass upon their 
way exulting; but the glare of the 
tyrant's chariot lamps comes like a 
heavenly beam upon the victim, 
and shows him the cup which the 
angel is holding out. 

Siberia ! If the word fell on 
Hedvvige's ear, it was a stab that 
might have been spared. The 
man spoke at random, answering 



from conjecture rather than ac- 
knowledge his ignorance. In the 
land of tyranny every man aims at 
being a trusted agent. It did not 
much matter, he thought, whether 
the convict was condemned to the 
great prison land or to the nar- 
rower tomb of Kronstadt. Kron- 
stadt, with its dungeons sunk be- 
neath the sea, was good measure 
even for a Polish priest, and left 
little cause for envy to those who 
were told off to the icy arms of 
Siberia unless, mayhap, the pri- 
soner was sentenced to the mines ; 
even then, indeed, the choice was 
difficult. 

If Hedwige heard the answer 
she took no heed of it, but hurried 
on to Kronstadt as soon as her 
departure became possible. 

She was to be the guest there of 
a Mme. RakomofT, a distant cousin 
of Paul RubofFs. Mme. Rako- 
moff was a widow of about forty ; 
her husband had held a post of 
some importance in the customs, 
and this had given her during his 
lifetime an importance which she 
spoke of now as " my former bril- 
liant position," and to the rags of 
this position she clung with leech- 
like tenacity. Like most women 
of her class, she affected fine man- 
ners, talked, of the court as if it 
were her native element and the 
society of Kronstadt a land of ex- 
ile. She was a harmless soul, and 
good-natured except when her 
vanity was touched or her loyalty 
suspected, in either which case she 
would have been as cruel as a 
Nero. She had a heart of stone 
for any one who rebelled against 
the czar, especially if the rebel 
were a Pole. Still, the proud Po- 
lish nobles, who, through their mes- 
alliance with a Ruboff, had been 
drawn within the circle of her remote 
belongings, were a subject of pride 



A Knight's Wooing. 



397 



to Mine. Rakomoff, though they 
had never noticed her. 

Witold Ranolzki found her out, 
detected her weak points, and play- 
ed upon them with that skill which 
wrought upon Paul Ruboff. He 
gradually brought the widow to 
send an invitation to the young 
Countess Hedwige to come and 
visit her. But when the letter was 
gone, and Witold added as a con- 
dition of the visit that it should be 
kept a secret, the scheme nearly 
fell through. What! Mme. Rako- 
moff was to spend countless roubles 
in entertaining a great lady, her 
cousin to boot, and she was to get 
no glory out of it ? She was to 
hide her splendid candlestick under 
the bed? And why? What mys- 
tery was there to hide? Either 
the countess was ashamed of being 
the guest of Ivan Rakomoffs wi- 
dow or she was plotting mischief. 
It taxed Witold's diplomatic skill 
to the utmost to pacify the vain 
little woman, but he conquered at 
last, by dint of flattery so broadly 
tendered that he laughed openly 
at himself as he administered it. 

" She is no conspirator, I swear 
to you, my cousin," he declared ; 
and Mme. Rakomoff purred like a 
stroked cat to hear herself so ad- 
dressed by Prince Ranolzki. " She 
is a tender-hearted girl, bent on a 
mission of mercy. Will you not 
take my word as a kinsman ?" 
"Assuredly, prince, if " 
" Nay, why this ceremony be- 
tween cousins ? Call me Witold, I 
pray you." 

" Dear Witold, since you assure 
me " And the widow, chuckling 
with gratified vanity, gave in. 

The dreary state room was made 
ready for Hedwige, the tapestries 
were uncovered, the silver-embroi- 
dered counterpane was spread, and 
Mme. Rakomoff, in a flutter of de- 



licious excitement, awaited the ar- 
rival of her guest. 

But when Hedwige appeared the 
gushing hostess felt at once that 
there would be neither sympathy 
nor companionship between them ; 
her fussy affectation was* cowed by 
the simplicity and proud reserve of 
the Polish girl. It was as if a 
queen had alighted under her roof 
and put an extinguisher on her 
brass candlestick. It had taken as 
much persuasion to induce Hed- 
wige to accept the Muscovite's hos- 
pitality as to compel the latter to 
consent to the conditions, and, now 
that she had come, she stood aloof, 
courteous, unexacting, and mis- 
trustful. Witold had made all 
ready for the bold venture. The 
jailer had been won ; many others 
were bought, blinded, or circum- 
vented. 

While these preliminaries were 
going on Pere Alexander languish- 
ed at Kronstadt in one of the tombs 
beneath the sea a slimy den where 
no ray of light penetrated, whose 
walls were thick with foul live crea- 
tures that crawled over him, hissing 
in the darkness, stinging and de- 
vouring him ; where no sound ever 
broke the death-like silence except 
the heavy wash of the wave against 
the dungeon wall, or now and then 
the moans and shrieks of fellow-cap- 
tives in surrounding cells. Some 
of them were raving maniacs^ oth- 
ers only cried out under the lash or 
the screw or some other device 
of cruelty; for their jailers, brutaliz- 
ed by their diabolical employment, 
made a sport of the agonies of their 
wretched-victims, and added illegal 
tortures to their miserable lot. No 
beam of sun or stars pierced the 
dense gloom of those horrible 
abodes, where man, become a de- 
mon, works his wicked will upon 



393 



A Knight's Wooing. 



his fellow-men unseen. Only the 
light of faith may enter there to 
illuminate the saddest of earthly 
dooms, and bid the sufferer look 
beyond this life for the justice that 
has no witness here below. God 
said : *' Let there be light, and there 
was light." In Russia, the land of 
slaves and tyrants, one man says, 
" Let there be darkness !" and forth- 
with the light goes out, and men 
are plunged into the darkness of 
the shadow of death. 

Here, in our own free land, the 
sun of liberty is shining ; we are 
wronged, and we take our grievance 
to the law, and the rulers them- 
selves are ruled and no man fears 
injustice ; Sabbath bells are ring- 
ing, children's laughter comes echo- 
ing across the fields where the free- 
man drives the plough through the 
smoking furrow ; but yonder, in 
Kronstadt, captives, many of whom 
are blameless, heroic men, are 
calling to us from their tombs be- 
neath the sea; calling for help to 
their free brothers, who do not hear ; 
calling for pity to God, who does 
not answer. 

Witold arrived early one morning 
to see Hedwige and give her the 
final directions. Everything was 
ready for the rescue that night. 

" And the watch you are sure 
of him ?" she inquired. 

" His pay depends on the suc- 
cess of the enterprise." 

" And the boatman you have 
no misgivings of him ?" 

" His head is staked on the issue, 
and the game is worth ^the candle 
to him. He will be waiting for you 
under the north tower. He will 
give you the watchword, 'Czen- 
stochowa!' You will answer, ' Ora 
pro nobis !' As the clock strikes 
two the watch within will be re- 
lieved, and in a few minutes a win- 



dow in the north tower will open, 
and Pere Alexander will let himself 
down by a rope-ladder. You will 
get into the boat and the man will 
row you to the stone stair. Re- 
member you keep close under the 
wall; then, all three, you will leap 
across the bar, and, taking to the 
water, swim out to the Britannia. 
You will know her by a red light 
shining at her stern ; this is the 
signal. Swim round her to the off 
side ; the boat will be waiting there 
to pick you up." 

"Why must the boatman come 
with us ?" asked Hedwige. " It 
may be foolish, but the idea of 
having a Russian hireling for com- 
panion in our flight frightens me." 

" He is a tool and an accomplice, 
and you cannot do without him. 
He must swim with you or else re- 
main in his boat to be detected 
when daylight conies ; he would be 
at once taken up and put to the 
torture till he accounted for his 
presence there. There is no al- 
ternative but to let him swim with 
you to the ship. And it must all 
be done with the utmost rapidity. 
I can count upon the watch, but 
there are lynx-eyes stationed in the 
harbor, and if one of them spied 
the boat or any unusual movement, 
the alarm would be given and pur- 
suit would be immediate. Happily 
the nights are dark, and we are not 
likely to have a moon to-night. 
My only fear is for Pere Alexander. 
Will he be equal to the effort ?" 

"He used to be an excellent 
swimmer. I have heard my father 
tell of his feats in early days." 

"But he was young then." 

" He is young now. I have no 
misgivings about him." 

" And for yourself, my cousin 
have you calculated the risks ? 
They are tremendous : the sea is 
fearfully cold ; the distance will 



A Knight's Wooing. 



399 



strain your strength to the very ut- 
most. The dangers are great and 
manifold." 

" I have the blood of the Jagel- 
lons in my veins." 

" True ; but you are a woman 
and not inured to hardship." 

" Women who come of a race of 
heroes can bear hardship better 
than others. I know this night's 
work will try my metal, but I have 
put my trust in God. Moreover, I 
am alone now. If I die I leave 
no mother to mourn me." 

"Bid me come and share the 
danger with you, cousin." 

" You are not free to obey me if 
I did. A prisoner on parole is 
bound by the chains of honor." 

u Does a man feel bound to the 
wolf who drops him a moment from 
his fangs ?" 

"Your uncle has made great 
sacrifices for us already. If you 
break your word and fly he will 
answer for it with his life." 

"I forgot! I forgot that he ex- 
isted," said Witold, turning from 
her with visible agitation. " Hed- 
wige! Hedwige!" he cried, com- 
ing back, and his fine features 
were convulsed with passionate 
feeling, " why are you so cruel ? 
Bid me at least hope that later, 
when these terrible times are pass- 
ed away, and we can meet in secu- 
rity and peace " 

" These are not times to talk of 
hopes," she said, interrupting him ; 
but the rebuke in her blue eyes 
as they met his was more sad 
than stern. 

" I know it ; they are times for 
action. But hope lends energy to 
action. Forgive me, my cousin, 
but we are parting, perhaps for 
ever, and I fain would have had 
one gentle word from your lips to 
remember when I shall have no- 
thing else to live for." 



"You are my dear cousin, my 
best friend, my brother," said Hed- 
wige, with a tear in her voice; and 
she held out her hand to him. 

" Is this our last good-by ?" he 
asked. 

"It must be so if you leave this 
afternoon." 

" I might be in time by leaving 
this evening; I need only reach 
Kamienetz by noon on Thursday." 

" It would be folly to risk it. 
Let us say good-by now. God 
guard you, cousin !" 

He raised her hand to his lips, 
and turned from her without 
speaking. 

She heard the great door close 
upon him, and then the proud girl 
clasped her hands with a wail and 
sobbed as if her heart would break. 

The morning passed, and the 
afternoon. Happily, Mme. Rako- 
moff was in bed, resting herself 
for the coming fatigues of a ball 
that she was to attend that night, 
so Hedwige was free and alone all 
day. She spent hours pacing up 
and down the gaudy crimson draw- 
ing-room, her arms crossed, her 
head erect, and a strange light of 
triumphant energy on her pale, low 
brow. As she swept to and fro in 
her dark, clinging draperies she 
looked a true daughter of her he- 
roic namesake who gave Christian- 
ity to Poland in exchange for the 
Jagellons* crown, a creature born- 
for high achievement and assured 
of victory. 

Mme. Rakomoff, having rested 
since eleven o'clock the previous 
night, rose at'eight, and at ten made 
her appearance, equipped for the 
fray. She came rustling in, sparkling 
with jewels and self-complacency, 
and expecting to excite the young 
Polish girl's admiration and envy 
by her magnificence. Hedwipe 
was still wandering up and doun 



4OO 



A Knight's Wooing. 



the room with that restless motion 
which betokens inward agitation 
too strong for physical repose. 
She met her hostess with a cheer- 
ful smile, and, with true feminine 
instinct, gave the praise expected of 
her. 

" What glorious emeralds, ma- 
dame !" she exclaimed in genuine 
admiration of the large green gems 
that shone on the widow's neck 
and in her hair. 

Mme. Rakomoff laughed, and 
declared that these were nothing 
compared to what she had upstairs. 
She said good-night to her guest, 
and was turning away when Hed- 
wige, moved by some secret yearn- 
ing of her young heart for a touch 
of sympathy, as well as by a feeling 
of gratitude to the woman who had 
sheltered and trusted her, and 
whom she would never look upon 
again, put her arms round Mme. 
Rakomoffs neck and kissed her. 

" Good-night, my cousin ; you 
have been very good to me," she 
said. 

Mme. Rakomoff returned the 
caress with some surprise, but cor- 
dially, and rode away in a flutter of 
happy excitement. Hedwige then 
went to her room. The night wore 
on ; the hours went slowly as a 
passing bell. When it struck one 
she dressed herself in a peasant 
costume made of light material, 
'and throwing a large, hooded 
cloak, lined with fur, round her, 
stole softly down the stairs. The 
lamps were burning, but the porter 
was not in the hall ; Mme. Rako- 
moff was not expected, till four 
o'clock, so every one was resting. 
The door had been left unbarred. 
Hedwige opened it with velvet fin- 
gers, and closed it as if her heart 
were in the lock. She then stepped 
out into the street, and walked on 
as rapidly as she dared. The night 



was inky dark, but she made her 
way unmolested across the city 
through the deserted streets. No 
one was abroad on foot ; only a few 
carriages were bearing revellers 
home from a feast. As she ap- 
proached the Fortress her heart 
beat in hot thumps against her 
side. If the watch should have 
been changed, or if he should turn 
traitor? She sent up a prayer 
and walked on. She passed the 
gates unchallenged, whether unseen 
or not she could not say ; then, 
creeping with cat-like steps through 
the gloom, she crossed the great 
quadrangle and on through courts 
within courts, all dark and unten- 
anted, and at last she reached the 
trysting-place under the north 
tower. The little boat was riding 
lightly on the water, moored to the 
bank. 

11 Our Lady of Czenstochowa !" 
murmured the boatman. 

" Ora pro nobis !" answered Hed- 
wige in the same low tone. 

The man did not rise or motion 
her to enter the boat, but sat per- 
fectly still, hi:j arms crossed, his 
sheepskin cap pulled low over his 
face. She dared not ask a ques- 
tion, but stood there in the dark- 
ness, looking out over the sea, dot- 
ted with a wilderness of vessels, 
great and small, all dimly visible 
like spectral ships blotting the 
blackness of the night. Where 
was the Britannia ? Witold said 
she would know it by a red light in 
the stern ; but she strained her 
eyes in vain for the beacon. If it 
should fail ? It was an awful fate 
that she was tempting. As she 
stood there shuddering in the 
lonely darkness, all the perils and 
possibilities of the issue rose up 
before her like a horrible vision. 
Mysterious sounds seemed to echo 
from the depths of the subterranes 



A Knight's Wooing. 



401 



beneath her. Was it the moans 
of the wretched captives, or might 
not those dread abodes be haunted 
by spirits from the other world? 
the ghosts of those who had lin- 
gered there, first goaded to mad- 
ness and then starved and tortur- 
ed to death. The cold flap of the 
water at her feet sounded porten- 
tous and supernatural ; it struck 
terror into her soul, and made her 
heart die within her. Was escape 
yet possible ? She looked round 
her, cowering with fear. The great 
donjon keep reared itself above 
her far up into the night a stone 
giant lifted out of the sea by 
strong, hideous monsters who 
dwelt in the depths below. Were 
they grinning at her from the cy- 
clopean battlements, dimly visible 
near the stars ? 

But what miserable cowardice 
was this ! Hedwige made the sign 
of the cross and sent up her heart 
in a cry for strength. She had 
come here trusting in One mightier 
than the. giants of the deep, more 
powerful than all the powers of 
darkness; she would trust him still; 
he was merciful and faithful, and 
she was his child. Terror had 
made the time seem long, but in 
reality she had not been waiting 
ten minutes when the clock of the 
Fortress struck two. A hundred 
dials from the city answered it. 
They were still clanging when a 
window opened in the tower ; a 
rope-ladder was let down, and 
presently a large, heavy form 
was dimly discernible descending 
slowly. Hedwige did not dare 
watch it, but hid her face in her 
hands, praying with all her might. 
Presently she heard some one close 
beside her, and looked up. 

''Father!" 

"God be praised, my child !" 

They had spoken in a whisper, 
VOL. xxix. 26 



but the boatman hissed out an 
angry hush! and signed to them to 
take their places beside him. They 
did so quickly, and then the boat 
shot out over the flood, keeping 
close in the deep shadow of the 
wall. A few minutes brought them 
near the stone stair which park- 
ed the line that no boat dare pass. 

Thank Heaven ! they were safe so 
far. But just at this moment the 
moon sailed out from beneath a 
bank of cloud and swept the 
darkness from the sea. Ghosts 
started up from the shadows and 
glided along the rigging, signalling 
silently from ship to ship; ghouls 
leaped out from the loopholes of 
the donjon keep, goblins perched 
upon buttress and battlement; the 
vessels stood out like a phantom 
fleet in the offing, that was white in 
the silver illumination. The senti- 
nel boats gleamed in horrible dis- 
tinctness on the nearer waters. 
They lay as silent as logs; the sen- 
tinels were most likely asleep, but 
the lightest noise upon the waters 
would arouse them. And where 
was the red beacon that was to 
guide them after their perilous 
plunge ? There was no sign of it 
anywhere A cry rose to Hed- 
wige's lips, but happily did not 
pass them, for at the same moment 
the red light became visible in the 
stern of the Britannia. 

" Quick, take to the water !" said 
the boatman in a hoarse whisper. 

" You first, father ; it will give 
me courage," said Hedwige in low, 
hurried tones. 

Pere Alexander made the sign of 
the cross, commended his soul to 
his Maker, and plunged into the 
water. The noise of his fall sound- 
ed preternaturally loud. Hedwige's 
heart stood still. But no sign 
came from the watch-boats to show 
that they had heard anything 



402 



A Kniglit's Wooing. 



Pere Alexander, after disappearing 
for a moment, rose to the surface 
and struck out with the ease of a 
practised swimmer. 

Hedwige turned to the boatman 
and motioned him to follow, but as 
she did so the clear beam of the 
moon fell upon his face, and she 
repressed a scream. 
" Witold!" 
"Hush! Jump in!" 
"You first." 
" I cannot." 
"You must!" 

" I cannot. I only came because 
the boatman failed at the last. 
Quick, for Heaven's sake !" 

" I will not move until you do. 
It is madness to hesitate. Witold, 
if you love me " 

" Dearest, begone ! Every mo- 
ment is precious. If the watch 
should hear us!" 

" Jump in, and I will follow." 
" I cannot " 

" But why ? InHeaven'sname " 
There was a second's hesitation 
before he answered : 
" / cannot swim." 
"O Witold,- Witold!" She flung 
herself on his breast. " Then I will 
stay with you. Let us die together ! " 
He clasped her for one moment 
in a passionate embrace ; then, 
lifting her in his strong arms as 
lightly as if she had been an infant, 
he flung her from him into the 
heaving flood. 

The shock took her breath away, 
for the water was cold as ice, and 
he thought she had fainted; but 
loveof life quickly asserted itself and 
lent an almost superhuman strength 
to the delicate young limbs. 

The red light was shining steadi- 
.ly ahead, and he saw that Hedwige 
had it in sight. No sign or stir 
t came from the sentinel-boats ; but 
as she passed within a few yards 
of one of them Witold fell upon 
his knees and followed her with a 



prayer as pure as ever heart of man 
sent up for the woman he loved. 

He followed her track upon the 
water until she disappeared behind 
live Britannia, and then he knew 
that she was safe. 

Pere Alexander was already on 
board, and kindly hands were min- 
istering to him. The captain's 
wife, an English lady, was waiting 
to receive Hedwige, but, with an 
exclamation of anguish, she hur- 
ried to the ship's side. 

The boat lay half in shadow and 
half in the silver light; she saw 
W T itold standing there, and she 
knew that his eyes were straining 
for some sign from her. She pull- 
ed out her little handkerchief, Grip- 
ping from the sea, and shook it 
above her head. He saw it and 
waved his hand in answer. Then 
Hedwige fell upon her knees, cry- 
ing like a child. The captain's 
wife put her arms round her, and 
the girl let herself be led down to 
the cabin, while the sailors looked 
on, their honest hearts full of chiv- 
alrous compassion for the beautiful 
young lady and the lover who had 
rescued her at the sacrifice of his 
life. 

All was activity now on board 
the Britannia, for she was to sail 
by daybreak. The anchor was 
hauled up, the canvas was unfurl- 
ed, and before the last star had 
faded from the sky the good ship 
stood out to sea bearing Hedwige 
and Pere Alexander to the free 
shores of England. 

Not long after this memorable 
night the governor of Kamienetz 
was dismissed because, so the ru- 
mor ran, he had connived at the 
flight of a Polish nobleman, who 
had escaped to France disguised 
as the valet of a rich Russian trader. 

The name of the Russian was 
Paul Ruboff. 



Science and Sentiment' 



403 



"SCIENCE AND SENTIMENT." 



THE first public meeting of the 
Phi Beta Kappa Alumni of New 
York was held in this city, April 
19, at Chickering Hall. The ob- 
ject of the association was to bring 
together the college graduates in 
this city, so given to trade, and re- 
new the influence which the Phi 
Beta Kappa had exerted in the 
colleges, and the audience was re- 
fined and cultivated in character. 

Dr. Noah Portef, President of 
Yale College, was chosen to give 
the address of this anniversary, 
which we find reported in the col- 
umns of the Tribune. 

The subject which Dr. Porter 
treated is one that engages the se- 
rious attention of the active, intelli- 
gent minds of our day. His treat- 
ment of it was scholarly and his 
line of argument was philosophi- 
cal, while the general tone of his 
address was practical and popular. 

We are always gratified in see- 
ing our distinguished scholars 
coming to the front and discussing 
those serious and great questions 
which occupy, agitate, and even 
try that class of men who have not 
received their souls in vain. It is, 
indeed, a part of the duty of this 
class to endeavor to bring to light 
the truths which are necessary to 
the satisfactory solution of these' 
problems, and to aim at producing 
certain, strong, and healthy con- 
victions in the minds of the com- 
munity. While appreciating high- 
ly as we do Dr. Porter's efforts, 
and trusting that his example will 
stimulate others, equally as well 
equipped, to enter into the same 

* Dr. Porter's address to the Alumni of the Phi 
Beta Kappa of New York. 



field, we cannot avoid at the same 
time giving expression to certain 
thoughts which have arisen in our 
mind while attentively reading his 
interesting address. 

The title of President Porter's 
address is "Science and Senti- 
ment." The two are in the first 
place put in contrast to each other 
as natural enemies, following which 
they are shown to be indispensable 
friends, and then that sentiment is 
the moving force of science, and, 
finally, the claims of sentiment are 
established as interpreted by science 
robed in common sense. 

Dr. Porter, after having explain- 
ed how " sentiment is the moving 
force of science," proceeds to show 
that " sentiment is to be regulated 
by science," and under the heading, 
" The appeal always to the intel- 
lect," he says : 

" In such cases it is not the claim of 
sentiment as such, still less of sentiment 
as pure feeling, which decides the ques- 
tion, but of sentiment as recognized and 
interpreted by science. The appeal is 
not taken from the intellect to the feel- 
ings, which would open the flood-gates 
to fanaticism and passion ; nor is it 
from one feeling to another, which would 
call on the blind to lead the blind ; nor 
is it to transfer one subject-matter to the 
court of the intellect and another to the 
court of the feelings which would intro- 
duce endless questions about jurisdic- 
tion, and make the courts a laughing- 
stock by injunctions and counter-in- 
junctions but it is an appeal to the 
intellect, in robes of science, too, as 
grounding its judgments upon the data 
furnished by the presence and demands 
of sentiment in the nature of man." 

Now, what serious thinking 
minds are anxious to be inform- 
ed about is what are the ultimate 



404 



Science and Sentiment '." 



grounds on which the sentiment 
makes this " appeal to the intel- 
lect "? Grant "'the presence and 
demands of sentiment in the na- 
ture of man," what is the force and 
validity of its presence and de- 
mands? Can sentiment stand up 
and face intellect, and say : "I am 
here on as legitimate and firm a 
basis as you are, and can also 
prove in the court of reason that 
my claims to attention are as well 
grounded as yours " ? It would 
seem so by the assertions of the 
distinguished author of this ad- 
dress, and his unquestionable abil- 
ity and the character of his audi- 
ence lead us to anticipate, in an- 
swer to this question, satisfactory 
evidence and a triumphant deci- 
sion in favor of the rights of senti- 
ment. 

"Science," he tells us, "should often 
recognize in sentiment an important ele- 
ment and datum of proof. If science is 
called into existence by sentiment, and 
sentiment furnishes and shapes the ends 
of science, and sentiment is controlled by 
science, then science may reasonably re- 
cognize sentiment as having an impor- 
tant place in the economy of nature. 

" For example, in all those sciences 
which have to do with human interests, 
as in all the subdivisions of political and 
social philosophy, it may be assumed as 
a sound maxim that any principle which 
can be clearly proved to be inconsistent 
with the elevation and enjoyment of the 
greatest number of human beings is to be 
regarded as untrue. In other words, 
those teachings of political economy 
which can be shown to be the most hu- 
mane give, pri ma facie evidence that they 
are true. Those systems that favor in- 
dividual ownership of property, a mea- 
sure of copartnership in capital and co- 
operation in labor, general education, 
the alleviation of drudgery, reasonable 
amusements, the refinement of the pub- 
lic tastes, bring a strong recommenda- 
tion in their favor on strictly scientific 
grounds. These grounds rest upon the 
axiom that all the arrangements of na- 
ture contemplate the gratification of the 
better and nobler sentiments of individ- 



ual men. All social and political or- 
ganizations find the reason of their being 
in this as an assumed and attainable 
end. 

" Nature would be a monster did she 
not arrange for the common good, and 
Nature would be a bungler if she did 
not provide that whatever makes one 
man happier and better should be con- 
sistent with the well being of all the 
rest." 

We accept this appeal to the 
"nobler sentiments "as good argu- 
ment as far as it goes, but it does 
not go far enough to meet the scien- 
tists who hold, as the address in- 
forms us, the following : 

" For what, pray, has sentiment to do 
with science, when sentiment itself, ac- 
cording to the ' conquered stand-point,' is 
nothing but a transient tremor of a brain- 
cell a rosy blush suffusing for an in- 
stant the surface of super-refined mole- 
cules a rose-leaf hanging slightly on 
the stem evolved from a material germ, 
as frail as it is beautiful 

" ' Or like the snow upon the river, 

A moment white, then gone for ever' ?" 

Nor does it strengthen his case 
in their eyes by appealing to " a 
theory of life," which he makes : 

" If this is true of institutions and so- 
cial economies, it must also be true cf a 
theory of life. Whatever theory shocks 
the modesty or the moderation of nature 
does violence to that fellow-feeling which 
makes the whole world kin, gives spur 
or rein to the appetites which we have 
in common with the brutes. Whatever 
tends to degrade or debase our man- 
hood, whatever ministers to bad neigh- 
borhood between men or communities, 
*>r inflames envious or selfish passion, is 
for these reasons rightly held to be false 
on purely scientific grounds. It is the 
dictate of a rigidly scientific spirit to re- 
ject such a theory altogether until it 
forces conviction by absolute demon- 
stration." 

The last sentence seems to sup- 
pose the possibility of demonstrat- 
ing a theory of Jife such as modern 
socialists and communists wildly 
dream of. We submit that so far Dr. 



" Science and Sentiment." 



405 



Porter does not show a strong grasp 
of the radical points of his subject, 
hence his language is a little hazy ; 
his statements are somewhat weak, 
and lie fails to give full satisfaction. 
For if the sentiments of our nature 
are as valid as its cognitions, why 
stop at simply saying so? Why 
not carry the war into Africa, and 
remove any doubt on the minds of 
his hearers by proving it ? Is it 
not a culpable weakness to even 
suppose that perhaps, after all, it is 
possible they may be demonstrated 
to be all moonshine ? 

But it may be that, as the learn- 
ed professor advances in his sub- 
ject, his clearness, force, and men- 
tal courage will increase, and by 
what follows this appears to be the 
fact : 

" Science finds in man," he tells us, 
"the desire for immortality, and finds it 
to be a persistent and irrepressible force. 
It craves existence for those whom we 
love as truly as for our individual selves. 
This desire is a constant and ever-recur- 
ring fact, a phenomenon of enormous 
significance, a force of terrific energy if 
we estimate it by its power of work. It 
may not be legitimate to reason : We are 
unwilling to cease to exist, then we shall 
not cease to exist ; but it is perfectly ra- 
tional to conclude that Nature must put 
a lie on all her analogies and indications 
if she has not provided a fact which shall 
answer to this desire when viewed in its 
place among the springs of human ac- 
tion." 

This is well and strongly put, 
but it is spoiled by the clause, 
" It may not be legitimate to rea- 
son." Why put this dead fly into 
the ointment? Has Dr. Porter 
himself a lurking doubt as to the 
ability of reason to demonstrate the 
immortality of the soul ? If not, 
then why make this supposition to 
his audience ? These are not the 
times when men who stand high in 
the estimation of the community 
may use hesitating language on the 



great truths which underlie all re- 
ligion, or state them, as it were, 
hypothetical! jr. 

Let us do no injustice to Dr. 
Porter; perhaps it was but tender- 
ness on his part towards what he 
supposed might be the state of 
mind of some of his cultivated au- 
dience, and, like a wise strategist, 
he is cautiously leading them on 
to the recognition of the legitimate 
claims of sentiment and to strong- 
er convictions. In the following 
statement we have reason to be- 
lieve that some such motive has 
guided him in the use of his 
words : 

" If a man," he says, " is scientific in 
proportion as he is sensitive to the most 
subtle intimations and analogies within 
a limited field of observation and expe- 
riment, he is as truly scientific when he 
is equally sensitive to the indications 
that fly into his face in another. That 
the field of science ought to recognize 
the sentiments of the soul among the phe- 
nomena of nature will not be denied, 
however often the fact is overlooked. 
The feeling of reverence or worship for 
the more than finite is another phe- 
nomenon which science has at last con- 
ceded deserves its notice. It fails to do 
justice to this sentiment, however, if it 
does not find its counterpart in that liv- 
ing God for whom the heart thinks and 
longs." 

Precisely so ; the case is well 
stated, and as this occasion has 
been thought appropriate to bring 
before a scholarly audience the 
claims of sentiment face to face 
with those of science, who is bet- 
ter fitted than Dr. Porter to bring 
home to science by plain facts the 
proof of its injustice, and by the 
truths of reason and the force of 
sound logic to compel science to 
do justice to sentiment, and to 
" find its counterpart in that living 
God for whom the heart thinks 
and longs"? But it would be idle 
to imagine that the fact of pitting 



406 



"Science and Sentiment.' 



one against the other, and stating 
the claims of each, settles the ques- 
tion. 

Is there, then, no authoritative 
principle recognized by both par- 
ties, by which it can be clearly 
shown and turned to account that 
the faculty of feeling, or sentiment, 
is as valid in what it duly attests 
as the faculty of cognition, or know- 
ing ? That is the question. Dr. 
Porter says : 

"Thus far in our argument we have 
treated the so-called sentiments or sen- 
timentalisms as though they were emo- 
tions only, having no positively intellec- 
tual element, and as only indirectly hav- 
ing claims to the notice of science. We 
have argued that even so regarded they 
are important as data for scientific in- 
ferences, and have, so to speak, authori- 
ty over the conclusions of the intellect. 
We proceed to exhibit them in another 
aspect." 

Evidently the speaker is con- 
scious that his thesis requires of 
him .to go deeper into his subject 
than he has thus far ventured. 
Hence his presentation of it in a 
new aspect : 

" Much of what passes," he says, " for 
sentiment has a positive intellectual ele- 
ment. Many of the so-called sentiments 
signify strong convictions warmed into ar- 
dent enthusiasm and held with passionate 
earnestness. The intellectual element 
may not be obtrusive. The truths on 
which these convictions rest may be seen 
so clearly and reasoned so readily that 
the presence and activity of the intellect 
can scarcely be observed. The feelings 
may flash so quickly into flame, and 
glow with such intense earnestness, that 
even the subject of them scarcely knows 
that he thinks at all. It should never be 
forgotten that emotion in man rests on 
belief ; that feeling of every sort is the 
legitimate product of what is taken to be 
true. The proverb which reads, 'Wher- 
ever there is smoke there is fire,' may 
be expanded thus : Wherever there is fire 
there is fuel, and this may still further be 
applied : Wherever there is the fire of 
emotion there is a firm belief of truth." 



This is approaching nearer to 
the vital point, but we should have 
understood him better if he had 
said : " Much of what passes for sen- 
timent has a positive objective ele- 
ment." For we are not sure what 
he means by an " intellectual ele- 
ment." He seems to identify it 
with the subject, or the knowledge 
of the subject, of its feelings, and 
hence resolves all feelings into a 
purely subjective experience, which 
is pure nonsense. This impres- 
sion is confirmed by his remarks on 
the proverb which he quotes. For 
the logic of the proverb seems to 
us to be this : " Wherever there is 
smoke there is fire." Wherever 
there is fire there is fuel, and wher- 
ever there is the fire of emotion 
there is the fuel of truth. We pro- 
test against the weakening clause, 
"there is a firm belief." We insist that 
if you put this qualifier in the sen- 
tence for emotion, then put it also 
in the sentence on knowing. ** What 
is sauce for the goose is sauce for 
the gander." And now the doubt 
begins to creep over our mind 
whether Professor Porter himself 
really believes that there is an 
objective element in any of the 
emotions of the soul. 

But no; he grows bolder, and in 
the following paragraph he faces 
science and says : 

" Science, so far as it dishonors senti- 
ment, exposes its own narrowness and 
brings into question its own right to 
exist and to give law to man. That 
philosopher who reasons that sentimeni 
has no rights over the scientific intellect 
because its phenomena and their effects 
can neither be observed by the senses, 
pictured by the imagination, nor verified 
by experiment, may seem to be con- 
sistent in dismissing sentiment, in all its 
forms of faith and duty, as having no 
possible relations that he can define to 
what he accepts as scientific truth. It 
would be well that he should ask him- 
self whether on his own principles he 






Science and Sentiment" 



407 



does not bring into question the au- 
thority of those intellectual processes 
through which all the results of science 
have been achieved, and by faith in which 
all the devotees of science must stand. 
It were a pity that, seeking to clear out 
of its way all impertinent intruders and 
make for itself a clear and open field, it 
should cut off its legs." 

It would seem that the boldness 
he assumed in the above paragraph 
had excited his fears, and he 
hastens to retrace his steps by a 
most damaging admission to his 
entire thesis : 

" But we may not linger," he says, " on 
this treacherous ground. Let us return 
from this metaphysical quagmire and 
gain a firm footing, so that we may 
gather the results of our argument in a 
few brief definitions." 

So, according to Dr. Porter, it is 
*' treacherous ground " to seek to 
find the basis of sentiment, and in 
this pursuit there is the danger of 
landing one's self- in the bogs of a 
"metaphysical quagmire." If this 
be so, then what Mr. Emerson sings 
is true : 

" Alas ! the sprite that haunts us 

Deceives our rash desire ; 
It whispers of the glorious gods. 
And leaves us in the mire." 

This is rather a sad picture, and 
we are not surprised at the admis- 
sion contained in the sentence 
which closes this remarkable ad- 
dress : 

"In a truly scientific theory of the 
universe we recognize common sense, 
with its intuitions that command convic- 
tion and defy analysis ; science, with its 
verified phenomena and demonstrated 
reasoninrs ; and faith, with its inspiring 
analogies, that are the precursors of an 
ampler knowledge and a purer emotion, 
of a sphere in which science and senti- 
ment never even seem to conflict, but 
are always at one." 

Are we, then, to accept these 
statements as the ultimate grounds 
of the defence of sentiment, and 



stop here, and admit that all be- 
yond what the president of Yale 
College has given us in his address 
on the question of the origin of 
our sentiments is " metaphysical 
quagmire," and that what he calls 
" the intuitions of common sense 
defy analysis"? This answer may 
not be the sounding for retreat, 
but it looks to us very much like 
giving up the contest and leaving 
the best of the field in the posses- 
sion of " science." 

Instead of stopping here with 
scientists, agnostics, pos'itivists, and 
the school of German subjectivists, 
it is just at this stage of the argu- 
ment that the issue with them, in 
our opinion, should be joined. And 
it is at this precise point we do join 
issue with them. 

It is an admitted fact of common 
experience that there are longings 
and yearnings and strivings after an 
excellence and a good, even in sav- 
age bosoms, which the soul sees, 
and which the intelligence appre- 
hends more or less clearly, but 
which it cannot fully comprehend. 
Whether these " nobler sentiments " 
belong to man's natural state, or 
are partly due to a special divine 
influence acting on the soul, we are 
not now interested in determining. 
It suffices for our present purpose 
that these are acknowledged by all 
parties as indisputable psychologi- 
cal facts. 

This admitted, we proceed to in- 
quire : From whence come, or 
what is the origin and force of, 
these great longings of the soul, 
these earnest desires of the heart, 
these " nobler sentiments "? Their 
origin and basis can be no other 
than that which in the last analysis 
is common to all the operations of 
the soul, for man is a unit and 
always acts as a unit in all his 
relations. This being so, we are 



408 



Science and Sentiment'' 



then forced to advance in our in- 
vestigation a step farther, and are 
bound to ask the ultimate question : 
From whence, then, do all know- 
ledge and desire proceed ? or what 
are the constituent elements of all 
our knowledge or operations of the 
soul? All the operations of the 
soul, we reply, proceed primarily 
from the relation of ourselves with 
something not ourselves. 

If we analyze any one of the 
primal operations of the soul, it 
matters not which, we shall find 
that all knowledge is born of the 
knower and the thing known, the 
lover and the object loved, and 
their relation. Hence all life, 
which is the sum of our knowing 
and loving, is born of the thinker 
and lover, man, and his relations 
with the object thought and loved. 

These three elements, the think- 
er, and the thing thought, and their 
relation, are the essential condi- 
tions of all knowledge, of all senti- 
ment, of all life, of every process of 
the soul. Eliminate either one of 
these constituents, and the mind 
remains a blank. For it is evident 
something to be known and loved 
must exist. No one can know 
what does not exist. No one can 
love what he does not know. 
Nothing can come from nothing. 
It is equally clear that whatever 
exists cannot be known or loved 
unless it comes in some relation or 
contact with our intelligence or 
sensibility. Hence to think or to 
love at all, which is equivalent to 
exist at all, there must be some- 
thing not ourselves, and in some 
sort in contact with ourselves. 
Were the soul by possibility left 
alone to itself, it would be power- 
less to start the least act of any 
one of its faculties; it would be al- 
together unproductive. 

If, therefore, the faculty of think- 



ing or feeling is awakened into ac- 
tion in the slightest degree, it is 
due to the presence of something, 
whatever that may be, independ- 
ent of itself and in contact with 
its faculties. Hence every opera- 
tion of the soul is inseparable from 
something not ourselves, and so far 
as this something exists it must be 
true, and so far as this something 
is true it must be good. It is im- 
possible, therefore, for any one of 
the faculties of the soul to come 
into operation without the presence 
of something real, true, and good. 

Even in the wildest and most ex- 
travagant productions of the ima- 
gination, the elements out of which 
these are formed are real and ex- 
isting things. Take, for example, 
the centaur, a fabulous being, half- 
man and half-horse. Now, man ex- 
ists, and so does the horse exist, 
but each separately, and what the 
imagination does is to join these 
two separate existences together 
into one. The imagination does 
not create things, but only recasts 
the already acquired knowledge of 
things into new combinations. 

Three things are therefore nec- 
essary to every process of the 
soul, whatever may be its charac- 
ter : the soul itself with the con- 
sciousness of its acts, the object, 
and their contact with each other. 

But the mere contact of these 
two factors would not necessarily 
produce action, unless there were 
in each something which is com- 
mon to both of their natures. For 
only so far as things have some- 
thing in common with man's na- 
ture are they to him intelligible 
and desirable, and exert an influ- 
ence over him. Totally dissim- 
ilar things have no relation what- 
ever with each other, are not cogi- 
table, are unknowable and ever 
will be unknowable simile simili 



"Science and Sentiment.'" 



409 



cognoscitur. " Wherefore it must 
be clearly held that everything 
whatsoever that we know begets 
at the same time in us the know- 
ledge of itself; for knowledge is 
brought forth from both, from the 
knower and the thing known."* 

" Nothing hath got so farre 
But man hath caught and kept it as his prey. 
His eyes dismount the highest starre : 
He is in little all the sphere. 
Herbs gladly cure our flesh, because that they 
Finde their acquaintance there." 

It is, therefore, the object, or 
this something not ourselves, which 
determines the character of the 
operation of the soul. For the 
sight of the ocean, or of a bright, 
starry heaven, or of an assembly 
of human beings, gives birth to dif- 
ferent thoughts or emotions in 
the soul. Why is this ? We re- 
mained the same in viewing each, 
but the objects were changed, and 
these being of a different charac- 
ter, we were consequently differ- 
ently affected. For it is the ob- 
jects present to us which inform 
and shape our thoughts and senti- 
ments, and not we them. 

To sum up : Without, in the first 
instance, the presence of an object 
there can be no thought, no senti- 
ment, no movement of the will, and 
every operation of the soul is deter- 
mined by the character of its ob- 
ject ; these are necessary truths, of 
reason, and constitute the primal 
law, in every sphere of existences, 
of all action, all growth, all life. 

Accordingly, then, the aspira- 
tions, or " nobler sentiments," of 
the soul could not have come in- 
to existence unless something real 
was present and connatural with 
the soul. Consequently the con- 
tents of what are called and ap- 
pealed to by our distinguished au- 
thor as the "nobler sentiments" 
are the indisputable witnesses of 

* St. Augustine, De Trinitate, b. ix. c. xii. 



the intelligent and sensitive soul 
testifying to the presence of a re- 
ality which is above itself, and 
which gives birth in its very depths 
to an insatiable thirst after ampler 
knowledge, a desire for an unbound- 
ed happiness, and dreams of an un- 
earthly and indescribable beauty. 
These " nobler sentiments," these 
''intuitions of common sense," 
which, as we see, clearly admit of 
analysis, are the dawning rays of 
that Divine Sun which have pene- 
trated the soul, constitute the es- 
sence of all religion, and whose 
meridian splendor, if the windows 
of the soul are not shut against 
them, will imparadise it for ever in 
beatific bliss. 

It is here, then, on this primary 
and irrefragable basis of reason, 
we take our stand, refute the errors 
of agnosticism, positivism, scien- 
tism, transcendentalism, and all 
the errors of the schools of modern 
subjective philosophy, and main- 
tain on the terra firma of a sound 
metaphysical basis the great truths 
which underlie religion and soci- 
ety and all their great and grand 
institutions. 

What we deeply regret is that 
a certain class of public champions 
of religion, of Christianity, seem 
not to be aware of the value and 
force of their weapons, and skir- 
mish with a sort of timidity when 
they should join in battle with its 
enemies, and in the midst of the 
fight ask for a truce when there is 
a fair opportunity of giving a dead- 
ly home-thrust to error. 

For example, when Strauss af- 
firms that " to this extent Feuer- 
bach was right : when he declares 
the origin of religion, nay, the es- 
sence of religion, to be a wish. 
Had man no wish he would have 
no God. What man would have 
liked to be, but was not, he made 



4io 



" Science and Sentiment.''' 



his god ; what he would like to have, 
but could not get for himself, his 
god was to get for him " on read- 
ing '^uch a passage we feel inclin- 
ed to ask : Did it never occur to 
these German philosophers to in- 
quire, But whence is this "wish "? 
Did it never cross the minds of 
these deep casuists to ask, Why 
does " man like to be what he is 
not "? And why does he "like to 
have what he cannot get for him- 
self"? Who or what has put these 
things into man's head and heart ? 
Surely such questions are the pro- 
per subjects for the students of men- 
tal philosophy. 

Had Strauss or Feuerbach gone 
into these studies, and honestly 
investigated the origin of this 
"wish" and whence these "lik- 
ings," and followed sound logic, 
they might have, and probably 
would have, reached the essence of 
all true religion. Yet these men 
professed to be philosophers, and 
wrote in their way much about re- 
ligion; and why did they not ac- 
complish this simple task? These 
problems are not so difficult. Let 
us endeavor to fill up this impor- 
tant gap. 

What, then, is a wish ? A wish 
is the consciousness of a capacity 
which is not filled and is therefore 
not satisfied. But there can be no 
consciousness where there is no 
act, and there can be no act where 
there is no object. A wish, conse- 
quently, is the product of some- 
thing present to the soul which is 
not itself, be that something what 
it may. 

Now, this fact is an all-important 
point gained, for it frees the mind 
at once from all pure subjectiv- 
ism, the source of neatly all, if not 
all, the intellectual errors of the 
century. 

For what we think or feel exists, 



not because we think or feel it, but 
it exists independently of our fac- 
ulty of thinking or sentiment or 
of ourselves. The thing we think 
or feel existed before, and will ex- 
ist after, we have thought or felt it, 
all the same. The subject and the 
object are two independent factors 
in every act or process of the soul. 
For the power to think, to feel, 
or to act creates of itself noth- 
ing; hence what does not exist is 
not thinkable. Pure subjectivism 
begins by excluding God, humani- 
ty, and nature, and attempts to 
fasten its thoughts exclusively on 
the thinker, affirming that the 
thinker is the only reality, when it 
owes the knowledge of the thinker 
to his relation with those very 
realities which it denies! It at- 
tempts the impossible and lands in 
the absurd. Hence the possibility 
of a wish with no objective ele- 
ment as an integral part of its com- 
position is a contradiction to the 
law of all knowledge, is the extinc- 
tion of all intelligence, and turns 
the universe into a huge lie. 

Were we, then, to reverse the 
statement of Feuerbach, Strauss, et 
id omne genus, " Had man no wish 
he would have no God," and say, 
Were there no God man would 
have no wish, we would not only 
come nearer to the truth, but hit 
the truth precisely. 

God exists, therefore I think 
God ; this is a sound, correct, and 
an irrefutable statement of truth. I 
think God, therefore God exists; 
this is a non-sequitur. God does 
not, therefore, exist because I think 
him, but I therefore think God be- 
cause he exists; this is the order 
of real thought and good logic. 

The first makes my thinking God 
depend on the existence of God, 
the second makes God's existence 
depend on my thinking him ! In 



"Science and Sentiment." 



411 



the former statement all the facul- 
ties of the soul are placed in har- 
mony with the dictates of reason, 
with the common instincts of men, 
with the voice of the entire human 
race, and in conformity with the 
reality of all things ; the latter stul- 
tifies the faculties of the soul, con- 
tradicts the dictates of reason, re- 
pudiates our common instincts, 
and says of the reality of this uni- 
verse : 

u There is nothing, but all things seem, 
And we see the shadows of the dream." 

Kant was the first among the mod- 
ern German thinkers to enter up- 
on this dreary road, and his jour- 
ney ended in scepticism. Fichte, 
his disciple, advanced further on 
the road and reached pure sub- 
jectivism. Hegel continued their 
course and reached the absurd, 
and with Feuerbach, Strauss, Scho- 
penhauer, and Hartmann the road 
has ended in the slough of de- 
spair called Pessimism. The an- 
cient " fool said in his heart, There 
is no God !" but in him error had 
not reached its ultimate evolution. 
In the modern fool the disease has 
reached his head and disturbed his 
brain, and in his delirium he ex- 
claims : " Homo sibi deus " " I 
am God !" 

But here it may be said, You 
have shown that " the wish " is the 
product of something real, objec- 
tive, and independent of the soul, 
but you have not shown what that 
something is ? 

True ; and we now proceed to the 
second step in the analysis of " the 
wish " in the following manner: 

This wish, we are told, consists in 
" what man would have liked to be, 
but was not," " what he would like 
to have, but could not get for him- 
self." Now, as the object deter- 
mines the character of the act of 



the soul, it follows that man's wish 
to be what he is not, and to have 
what he had not, and could not 
get for himself, must be awakened 
in the soul by the presence of an 
object greater and more excellent 
than himself, and more desirable 
than anything he has got. For no 
one is so devoid of common sense 
as to wish to be less than what he 
is, or to have less good than he has 
got. It is not possible in the na- 
ture of man so to wish or to desire. 
This wish, therefore, is an "inward 
impulsion " for an increased great- 
ness, for a more perfect happiness, 
an " ideal excellence in all direc- 
tions." 

Now, what is this somewhat or 
something present to the soul, and 
not itself, which awakens in it the 
insatiable wish to be like it that is, 
to be transformed into it ; and in 
so being, possess, or rather be pos- 
sessed by it, and in this way attain 
its highest perfection and supreme 
happiness ? 

Here let the light of reason speak, 
here let the common voice of the 
human race over the whole world 
be heard, and they join together 
with the language of sound philo- 
sophy, and unhesitatingly proclaim 
that this something present to the 
soul, independent and above them, 
this is no other than the living 
God ! O vain sophists ! it is God's 
blissful presence which has awak- 
ened in the soul the apprehension 
of his divine perfections, and it is 
these which have given birth to 
" the wish " and all its " nobler 
sentiments," and herein lies the 
true origin and essence of all reli- 
gion ! 

God, then, who is at the bottom 
of " the wish," and its sire, is the 
origin and essence of all religion, 
and the apprehension and knowledge 
of God rests on the fast foundation 



412 



Old Irish Cliurches. 



of the essential la\v of our rational 
nature ; and so long as man remains 
man, so long as he retains a ra- 
tional element in his nature, so 
long will religion make its claims 
upon him, and its claims will be 
imperative. 

This demonstration, of which we 
have given an inadequate outline, 
is the work of mental philosophy, 
and if it would accomplish its task 
it must fearlessly advance beyond 
its present stopping-place, and, with 
a stronger and deeper grasp of the 
first truths within its own province, 
grapple with the problems which 
now occupy the thoughts of serious- 
minded men, otherwise it will fail 
to meet the intellectual, religious, 
and moral needs of our age. We 
think we see, and see clearly, that 
the road is open for philosophy to 
accomplish its great missiorr in the 
simple fact that the analysis of any 
one of the primary operations of the 
soul contains in germ the complete 
refutation of one and all of the 
false theories of modern subjective 
philosophical speculations, espe- 
cially those of Germany and France. 
In this simple analysis, so plain, 



so true, and so fruitful, will be 
found, if men could be led to seek 
it, the antidote to that poison of 
scepticism which has blighted the 
highest intellectual activity and 
smothered the noblest aspirations 
of the soul of the most gifted men 
of our century, and which has 
driven them to turn their genius to 
the anatomy of the hindmost bone 
of the hind-head of the carp, and 
to the serious study of prehistoric 
cockroaches. When it is under- 
stood, appreciated, and fully turn- 
ed to account that no act of the 
soul is possible without an ob- 
jective element which determines 
its character, then that reign of 
darkness, of unbelief, from which 
few active minds in our day have 
escaped, will be dispelled as the 
fog vanishes before the influence of 
the rising sun. Then, and perhaps 
not till then, will the way be open- 
ed for the divine light of Chris- 
tianity to re-enter into the souls of 
men, and with its creative spirit 
restore the inward man to peace 
and joy and might, and through 
the instrumentality of man renew 
the whole face of the earth. 



OLD IRISH CHURCHES. 



PERIODS of transition have been 
generally the most interesting on 
record, presenting as they do those 
contrasts which give a sort of col- 
oring or shading to events and form 
what maybe termed the picturesque 
of history. Among the most no- 
table of these transitions was that 
of old society from paganism to 
Christianity in various countries ; 
and one of them has tempted us 
to offer a few observations on that 



subject, apropos of a book recently 
published by M. Gaston Boissier, 
and entitled La Religion Romaine, 
d'Auguste aux Antonins, though this 
author does not dwell much on the 
locality to which we would make 
special reference. 

That locality is a part of Ireland, 
including those islets named the 
"Three Aras " (like the mother 
island herself, which always and 
most anciently bore the title of 



Old Irish Churches. 



413 



Aire or Eire], and situated at the 
entrance of what was once Lough 
Lurgan, and is now known as the 
Bay of Galvvay. These islets take 
the first shock of the Atlantic bil- 
lows rolling in with the full force 
of the American winds. 

" Lonely they stand, 
Like some old Druid pillars, by the sea, 
Worn by the foam-flakes and the arrowy salts 
Blown blighting from the surge." 

They were called Ara Mor (the 
great island), Inis Meadom (the 
middle island), and Inis Oirthir 
(the most easterly island), and 
have been for ages remarkable 
for the rude architecture, in the 
ancient style of pagan masonry, 
that lies along their weather-beat- 
en cliffs, headlands, and sheltered 
nooks, in a scattered and broken 
condition. They who first thought 
of setting up their architecture in 
such places must certainly have 
been a people driven away and 
into the ocean by those who, in 
the early centuries of our era, felt 
the force of some strong influence 
bearing on them from the east; and 
the traditional records of that peri- 
od assure us that they were pagans 
recoiling from the advance of Chris- 
tianity. They were, in fact, those 
whom the Irish annalists and poets 
called the Firbolgs, who were beat- 
en by the Tuatha de Danans in the 
battle of Moytura a field on the 
isthmus between Lough Mask and 
Lough Corrib and driven from 
the mainland of Connaught into 
the isles of the sea. Here they 
resided for ages, claiming kindred 
with the Firbolgs of other western 
islands off the coasts of Ireland 
and Scotland, making a savage live- 
lihood after the manner of their 
piratical cousins, the Picts and 
Scots, and housing themselves, 
like other troglodytes, in crannoges 
and a/ier/as, for which they found 



plenty of material on that stony- 
hearted soil. They also built crom- 
lechs and towers after the ancestral 
pagan fashion. 

But the Firbolgs lived in a peri- 
od of transition. The Christian 
missionaries were in the rest of 
Ireland, and in time found their 
way to the islets of Ara, where 
everything underwent what may be 
called "asea-change." The monks 
or teachers for muinac is the old 
Irish original of monk dealt hu- 
manely with those pagans, imitated 
their simple style of building, and 
even turned the old aherlas into 
Christian churches, retaining the 
name aherla, and giving it, in time, 
the improved and poetical shape of 
oriel. They also seem to have 
adopted the old fashion of the 
round tower ; and Petrie seems 
to argue very correctly when he 
maintains that many of those tow- 
ers had an ecclesiastical origin in 
Ireland. In its first diffusion 
Christianity had respect to the tra- 
ditions and customary reverences 
of the human race, guided in this 
by the sentiments of St. Paul, St. 
Gregory, and a number of other?, 
who succeeded all the better in 
their mission for their tenderness 
towards their misguided fellow- 
beings. As regards the progress 
of Christianity in Ireland, no great 
change was ever brought about in 
a more gentle way. The Firbolgs 
seem to have been won by the gen- 
tleness of St. Patrick, St. Columba, 
St. Adamnan, and the rest, and 
never ill-used any of them. It must 
be said for the Irish that in all 
ages they have exhibited a very 
kindly and intellectual respect for 
those civilizing sister-agencies of 
religion and literature. 

But to return to our islets. The 
great island of Ara, which is about 
nine miles long, with an average of 



Old Irish Churches. 



about four in breadth, contains the 
ruins of fourteen temples and a 
mass of fragments which seem to 
be the remains of others. The 
walls of those rude edifices are 
without mortar in the style of the 
old Asiatic hoglas, which in Greece 
were called kydop, or cyclop and 
their doors are very low, like those 
of the first Pelasgian and Egyp- 
tian fanes. The chief of these 
structures is called the Cell of St. 
Benan, on the highest part of the 
island. It is a relic of the fifth or 
sixth century, and quite a curiosity 
for its size, being only eleven feet 
long by seven broad, with but one 
window, in the east wall. The old 
stone roof is gone ; and the cloghan, 
or house, of the priest that stood 
beside it is in ruins. Hard by is 
another stone structure called a 
cashel, and round it are a great 
many little stone huts in which the 
old monks had their lodging. 

A little way from St. Benan's 
Cell is a fort built in Cromwell's 
time from the ruins of the round 
tower of St. Eney, and of seven 
little chapels that had stood about 
it. The stump of the tower is still 
visible. There is a little temple 
called Teglach Enda on the beach 
near the place; and this is called 
the aherla of St. Eney, long con- 
sidered the most sacred spot in all 
the Ara group; for that saint 
brought with him, they said, a hun- 
dred monks from Rome and settled 
them at Killeany. The little vil- 
lage of Kilronan has also its ruins 
those of Teampul -Assurey and 
St. Kieran together with the 
grave of the saint and a holy well. 
Hard by is the <4 Church of the 
Four Saints," one of whom was 
Fursey, founder of the French 
abbey of Lagny on the Marne ; 
and at a little distance are the 
ruins of the Teampul Mac Duach, 



the best specimen of Christian 
architecture on the islet, being 
thirty-seven feet long by nineteen 
feet wide. 

The record of these solitary 
ruins may seem trivial. But they 
have an authentic history, and 
that is vouched for by Dr. Mala- 
chias O'Kealy, Roman Catholic 
Archbishop of Tuam in 1640, 
whose testimony is preserved in 
Colgan's Acta Sanctorum Hibernitz, 
p. 714, as follows : 

" The parish church (of the first island) 
commonly called Kill-Enda lies in the 
county of Galway and half-barony of 
Aran ; and in it St. Endeus, or Enna, is 
venerated as patron on 2ist of Marc|p. 
2. The church called Teglach-Enda, to 
which is annexed a sepulchre of St. En- 
deus, with one hundred and twenty- 
seven other sepulchres wherein none 
but saints were ever buried. 3. The 
church called Kill-Enda, or the great 
church of Enda. 4. The church called 
Teampul Mic Ceanon. 5. The church 
called St. Mary. 6. The Teampul Be- 
nain. 7. The church of Mainistir Con- 
nachtach, or Connaught Monastery, on 
the ruins of which was built the chapel 
of St. Kieran. 8. The church called 
Kill-na-manach i.e., the Cell of the 
Monks. 9. The church called Teampul 
Assurnuide, a church held in especial 
veneration. 10. The church called 7V- 
ampul na ceathrair aluinn i.e. , Church 
of the Four Saints, Fursey. Brendan, 
Conall, and Berchan. n. The Teampul 
Mac Duach, which is a beautiful church, 
ii. The handsome parochial church call- 
ed Teampul Breccain, in which St. Brec- 
cain's feast is celebrated on the 22d of 
May. 13. Another church near St. 
Breccain's, called Teampul a Fuill" 

So much for the church ruins on 
that largest of the three islets, Ara 
Mor. There are others of a secu- 
lar and pagan sort, and very nota- 
ble. On the western or weather 
side of the isle are the ruins of the 
Firbolg fortress Dun Angus, lying 
on the edge of a precipitous cliff 
over 300 feet above the sea. It 
has three enclosing walls, 



Old Irish Churches. 



415 



uncemented stones, and its enclo- 
sure is 150 feet long by 140 in 
breadth. It was once, no doubt, 
a strong defence against the pirati- 
cal races of the stormy western 
isles. On that same western edge 
of Ara Mor stand the broken out- 
lines of another formidable fort, 
called Dhu Cahir, occupying its 
own precipitous cliff, and shut in 
on the land side by a huge wall 
over 200 feet long and 16 feet 
thick ; the surges presenting a ter- 
rible barrier on every other side. 
Within its enclosure are the ruins 
of a crowd of dochans, or huts, the 
quarters of the garrison, probably. 
On the northeast coast is another 
savage stone keep, Dun Onagh, 
three hundred feet in diameter. 
And there was yet another arx, 
Dun Oghil, a precipice on which 
now stands the well-known light- 
house of the islet. 

Having traced the stony records 
of Ara Mor, we turn southward to 
Inis Meadom (middle island), and 
are first aware of the Fort of Con- 
chovar, a grand oval structure, two 
hundred and thirty feet one way 
and one hundred and sixteen the 
other, within a massive wall twenty 
feet in height, and situated on a 
cliff above the ocean. In its 
neighborhood, and under its pro- 
tection against the Picts of the 
Clyde or the corsairs of Armorica 
and Biscay, stood the church of 
St. Cananogh,an old cell with mas- 
sive walls and a stone roof; and in 
the neighborhood may be seen the 
remains of two other churches, one 
named from the Virgin Mary and 
the other called Seacht Micaire. 

On the third of this Aran group 
is visible, or traceable, a vast hold 
oftheFirbolg times, within which 
was erected a strong mediaeval 
fortress of the O'Brien chieftains, 
who had a sort of custom-house 



at the place, and obliged all ves- 
sels passing up to Lough Lurgan 
through the bealac, or strait, to pay 
toll. Near this place stands the 
Teampul Chomain, or the church of 
St. Kevin, a beautiful little relic of 
old times, presenting several ar- 
chitectural improvements of the 
twelfth century ; and in the vicini- 
ty are visible the remains of the 
small church of St. Gobanat, a 
female saint of the first ages, still 
remembered in the calendar of the 
Celtic antiquarians, and perhaps in 
the Irish hamlets of Kerry and Gal- 
way. Her day is the i4th of Feb- 
ruary that which we call St. Val- 
entine's day. 

After this brief pilgrimage 
through the islets of Galwegian 
Ara the reader may be rational- 
ly astonished by the number of 
churches and shrines once crowd- 
ed within the narrow spaces of the 
three Aras. One would suppose a 
single church would be sufficient 
for each of those stony and savage- 
looking little skerries with their 
scanty population. And yet they 
were very probably more crowded 
than we are apt to fancy. Their 
land was sterile ; but they had the 
water, and that was always a grand 
source of human aliment a*hd civi- 
lization. The oldest races of the 
world as in Switzerland multi- 
plied from their little villages fixed 
on piles above their lakes, and cities 
grew from such lacustrine begin- 
nings. " Amsterdam was built up 
with herring-bones," according to 
the old Dutch proverb ; and it is 
very certain that the oldest city on 
our own continent of America had 
a similar origin. The city of Mex- 
ico grew out of the Pfahlbauten of 
the Lake Tezcuco. The people 
of those Ara islets gathered their 
floating harvests from the waters, 
in the shape of "lings, cods, hawk- 



416 



Old Irish Churches. 



fish " the enumeration is that of 
Roderic O'Flaherty, who in 1684 
wrote a history of his native Jar- 
Connaught " turbots, plaices, ha- 
dogs, whitings, gurnards, makerels, 
herrings, pilchards," and a corre- 
sponding variety of shell-fish of all 
sorts. The islanders would be in no 
great want of the means of living ; 
and for the rest, their rude buildings 
were necessities of the times they 
lived in. The greater part of them 
had the character of muinstreachs, 
or schools, to which students and 
lovers of literature would come to 
escape the predatory disturbances 
of the tribes inhabiting the main- 
land of Ireland, especially after 
Christianity had given an addition- 
al protection to those venerated 
localities. Those little oriels of the 
saints were also colleges and ora- 
tories where \\\zmuineachs, or monks 
("learners ") pursued their studies 
for the purpose of becoming priests 
or poets the two names having 
nearly the same signification in 
those remote ages of Ireland. It is 
also interesting to note that the 
students of those rude monasteries 
were also named aolaide (" men of 
science," scholars), and that this 
name was generally written culdee 
in later*ages. The Irish culdees 
professors alike of sacred and secu- 
lar .literature were honored all 
over Europe as well as in the Cel- 
tic archipelago, and they seem to 
have been, if not the originators, 
at least the great lights and helpers, 
of the school which was termed 
"scholastic" in the middle ages. 
It will be remembered that Vergil 
belonged to that school or or- 
der of scientists the man who in 
the eighth century anticipated the 
telluric and astronomic doctrine 
which subsequently made Koper- 



nik of Thorn so celebrated. And 
it is not less interesting to note 
that the ancient Irish name of 
aolaide^ or culdee, was reproduced 
in the middle ages to represent 
the various societies of craftsmen 
and men of trades which then exist- 
ed in society the guilds. These 
guilds were features of ancient so- 
ciety in Ireland, as they were, in 
fact, all over Europe. M. Boissier 
has devoted some of his space to 
such societies as they existed in 
Italy from the earliest times be- 
fore the beginning of our era. It 
may be gathered from the old re- 
cords of Rome that craftsmen of all 
sorts had their guilds or clubs for 
purposes of instruction, initiation, 
and mutual support. They had 
also their feast days, their repasts 
in common, and their " suppers," 
as they termed them, which were 
considered the grandest as well as 
the most genial features of their 
societies. 

The early church history of the 
Celtic west presents a great many 
traces of that old fashion of the 
culdees, or guilds, giving a very cu- 
rious interest and perhaps some- 
thing of a contemporary interest 
to that immemorial theme of human 
thought and progress. People in 
general are under a mistake with 
respect to the records of the church, 
regarding them as rather dull and un- 
attractive to the reader. But there 
is no necessity why they should be 
so. The early movements of the 
Christian teachers were blended 
with the movements and feelings 
of secular society, and are as much 
a part of history as the picturesque 
wars, emigrations, and the change- 
ful turmoil of men that are usually 
so interesting to the general reader. 



Current Events. 



4*; 



CURRENT EVENTS. 



ALARMISTS might readily imagine 
that the whole framework of Euro- 
pean society is breaking up. There 
is neither peace on earth nor good- 
will among men. There is an os- 
tensible peace among the nations, 
and international jealousies are 
scarcely at such a fever-heat as 
they were a year ago, or perhaps 
at any given period within the pre- 
sent century. The chief reason of 
this is that the nations are fully oc- 
cupied with their internal disorders 
and financial distress. From Eng- 
land, Germany, Italy, from all the 
nations with the exception of France, 
comes the same story of actual suf- 
fering among the laboring and in- 
dustrial classes, and of a still gloom- 
ier outlook in the future. In Eng- 
land there has been one series of 
gigantic strikes throughout the 
year; yet bad as "business" has 
been there, it has been and is con- 
fessedly worse in Germany. Eng- 
land is still the financial centre of 
the world, and a country undoubt- 
edly of vast wealth and resources ; 
yet it has been compelled this win- 
ter to open public subscriptions for 
the relief and support of its poor 
in important manufacturing centre's, 
such as Sheffield, while the docks 
in Liverpool were closed in conse- 
quence of strikes. On the conti- 
nent of Europe the disease has 
stricken deeper, and the strifes 
there are not confined to workman 
and employer, but extend to rulers 
and ruled. The sense of respect 
for authority of any kind is daily 
diminishing among the people, and 
attempts on the lives of heads of 
states are becoming common occur- 
rences. We do not here propose 
VOL. xxix. 27 



inquiring into the cause of this; 
we only notice the fact. The 
cause has been investigated often 
enough in this magazine. Those 
who are anxious to refresh their 
memories need go no farther 
than the Syllabus, in which the dis- 
orders that afflict modern society, 
government, and thought are 
clearly exposed. The "monarchs 
and statesmen " who, accord- 
ing to Lord Beaconsfield, govern 
Europe rejected the Syllabus and 
clung to the errors it condemned. 
Those who regard themselves as 
the leaders of modern thought fol- 
lowed the monarchs and statesmen. 
But the errors were there although 
they refused to see them, and the 
voice of the church is the voice of 
divine authority, even though mo- 
dern thought refuses to accept it 
as such. Our Lord Jesus Christ, 
who founded the church to perpetu- 
ate and propagate his teachings 
and to be an infallible guide to 
men, said : " I am the way, the 
truth, and the life." If those words 
are true and real and living, mon- 
archs and statesmen, as well as 
their subjects, must accept them in 
all their fulness, must accept his 
church, must model their lives on 
his, must rule their daily actions 
by his teachings. If he is true and 
the church is his voice, the solemn 
decisions of the church are inspir- 
ed and sanctioned by him. But 
the rulers have rejected his church 
and rejected him. They are now 
reaping their reward. Whether we 
believe the church or not, the 
much-derided Syllabus pointed out 
the very germs of the poison that 
is now working so fiercely in the 



Current Events. 



veins^of liuman society and vitiat- 
ing all that is noble and good in it. 
Even those who rejected the Sylla- 
bus, frightened at the evils that 
have since afflicted and now threat- 
en mankind, are beginning to tacit- 
ly acknowledge its truth. The 
universal respect with which the 
first Encyclical Letter of our Holy 
Father, Leo XIII., was received 
by those for whom it was chiefly 
intended, and who are not of the 
fold, shows this. And what was 
that letter but an extension and 
amplification of some of the lead- 
ing points of the Syllabus ? Rulers 
strive in vain to strengthen their 
hands by bayonets -and terror. 
Who provide them with the bayo- 
nets but the people ? The people 
are growing weary of forging 
their own chains, and the rulers 
who refuse to recognize this fact 
will sooner or later experience a 
rude awakening. The rule of 
blood and iron cannot last for any 
length of time in days when mo- 
narchs are necessarily brought so 
very near their subjects, when every- 
thing is called in question, when 
monarchs and statesmen make it 
their business to deny divine au- 
thority save so far as it is embodied 
in their own persons, which after 
all are composed of common enough 
clay. A change of base must be 
effected. If men would rule at all 
they must rule by justice and 
equity for the welfare of the peo- 
ple, not for their personal aggran- 
dizement. They must strengthen 
their arms, not by cannon and ter- 
rorism, but by the love of their sub- 
jects, based on good deeds, a sense 
of public security, of personal liber- 
ty, and of such happiness as is af- 
forded to honest men in this world. 
There is no power to guide men to 
right thinking and right doing like 
the church of God, which must be 



free to do its work among men. 
That which the rulers have so long 
regarded as their greatest enemy 
must be called in to resume its gen- 
tle and blessed sway, if they 
would turn aside the torrent of 
revolt against all that is right and 
good and sound which is now 
sweeping around the thrones and 
deluging the world. 

The Russian government is at 
last beginning to feel the force of 
ideas that have long been ferment- 
ing in the body politic and social 
of its people. The ebullition is of 
the violent order that long repres- 
sion is sure to engender. In no 
state to-day claiming to be civilized 
is the monarch so absolutely the 
head of the government as in Rus- 
sia. He is, in fact, the govern- 
ment. There is no such thing as 
a Russian parliament ; the Russian 
people has no sure and adequate 
representation in the government. 
The czar is the first, the middle, 
and the end of all affairs of state. 

It is against this system that 
Russian intelligence and Russian 
ignorance alike have long revolted ; 
for all alike feel the blind force of 
despotism. Such concessions as 
the reigning czar has made to the 
drift of the feelings of the age the 
emancipation of the serfs, for in- 
stance have affected neither the 
system nor the temper of his gov- 
ernment. All the thought, all the 
intelligence, all the feeling of 
Europe and of the civilized world 
is opposed to the Russian system. 
No Russian can read a foreign 
book or newspaper of any kind 
whatever without feeling how terri- 
bly he is behind others in the sense 
of all that makes manhood : free- 
dom of thought and of utterance; 
inviolability of the person ; the 
strong sense that he is not a mere 



Current Events. 



419 



chattel in the hands of an irrespon- 
sible power. Other governments 
may, and sometimes do, invade 
these rights in one shape or an- 
other; but sooner or later they 
either recognize their mistake and 
retrace their steps or come to 
grief. But from the days of Peter 
the Great downwards Russia, while 
making great material and some 
intellectual advances, has, in its 
system and form of government, 
practically stood still a Western 
power under an Eastern despotism. 
But the very fact of material and 
intellectual advance among the 
people necessitates a correspond- 
ing advance and yielding from ab- 
solute usages on the part of the 
government. The constant con- 
tact with other peoples, the con- 
stant influx of new ideas, generates 
the desire to be like them in what 
they have of great and of good. 
Unless the czar invented a purely 
Romanoff religion, worship, and 
literature, and brought his people 
to accept that as their gospel of 
life in this world and of hope here- 
after, he could not expect to with- 
stand the ever-increasing torrent of 
western ideas. An absolute ruler, 
of course, may be very good and 
very wise and a great lover of his 
people ; and as long as he is that 
his subjects may submit, though 
they secretly chafe under his rule. 
But he will not live for ever ; they 
cannot trust him always ; and they 
cannot trust his successor. Sub- 
jects have rights, so many and so sa- 
cred that they cannot be entrusted 
to the will or the whim of a single 
person. Such is the bitter experi- 
ence of all history. Men need many 
and great safeguards against the 
encroachments of rulers. These 
safeguards have been persistent- 
ly refused in Russia, and it is for 
these that the terrible conspiracy 



now raging there is striking in an 
apparently blind, aimless, and des- 
perate manner. 

For years past it was known in 
a vague way that there were strange 
knots of men and women banded 
together secretly in Russia to ac- 
complish men knew not what. As 
recently as a year ago the outside 
world knew little or nothing of the 
Nihilists. Suddenly a girl in broad 
day shot at a Russian official and 
missed him. She was brought to 
trial. She told a story of harrowing 
cruelty to political prisoners, of the 
hopelessness of any redress, and 
that the only means of bringing 
their wrongs before the world was 
the one she adopted an attempt 
at assassination. Her guilt was 
undeniable, yet the jury acquitted 
her. The government immediately 
prohibited the trial by jury of such 
prisoners. The attempt of Vera 
Zassulitch was the beginning of a 
long and far more successful series 
of attacks on officials of all kinds. 
Though the prisons were filled to 
overflowing with suspected persons, 
the actual criminals in most cases 
escaped with an ease that was re- 
markable. The conspirators grew 
bolder, and issued their pamphlets 
and edicts in a constant shower 
and in the most high-handed man- 
ner. One official after another fell, 
and still the assassins escaped. 
Persons of every rank and of both 
sexes, in all departments of life and 
service, were arrested. Both po- 
lice and army were suspected of 
being tainted. At last an attempt 
was made on the emperor's life by 
Sobolieff, an ex-schoolmaster, who 
who has since affirmed on oath that 
he was told off to kill the emperor, 
and that, though through dread of 
the threats hanging over him he 
shot at the czar, he purposely miss- 
ed him. From the circumstances 



420 



Current Events 



of the case the man's account 
would seem to be true ; for nothing 
short of the direct intervention of 
Providence could under ordinary 
circumstances have saved the em- 
peror's life. Since then Russia has 
been placed under military law, and 
no such thing as civil life in the 
ordinary sense exists there. The 
country offers a deplorable specta- 
cle of terrorism from above and 
terrorism from below. The at- 
tempts of assassins can win no sym- 
pathy from men of honest feelings. 
But if the ukase of the emperor pro- 
claiming military law be true, the 
wholesale measures adopted alto- 
gether exceed the requirements of 
the case. 'Fhe ukase expressly states 
that the conspiracy is the work of a 
small but desperate band of men ; 
and in consequence all Russiais plac- 
ed in a state of siege, the life and lib- 
erty of every man and woman be- 
ing placed at the absolute disposal 
of the military governors appointed 
over the various provinces, while 
the most odious and repulsive re- 
strictions are set upon the conduct 
of daily life. The prisons are 
glutted, and Russia is practically 
converted into one vast prison. 
Life under present conditions is 
not worth living there. The Nihil- 
ists may be stamped out for the 
time being, but such a cure is not 
radical. They have done their 
work already. They have brought 
before the eyes of all the world 
the iniquitous system under which 
Russia is governed, and the general 
apathy of the people shows plainly 
enough to which side leans the 
sympathy of the masses. It is 
plain now that neither the war with 
Turkey nor the diplomatic issue 
at Berlin has increased the popu- 
larity of the czar or strengthened 
his government. To the wild and 
desperate appeals for reform he op- 



poses a tyranny that cannot fail, in 
the eyes of outsiders, to nullify to a 
great degree the genuine sense of 
alarm and outrage at the attempt 
made on his .life. Russia refuses 
to stand still any longer; to shed 
its blood and lavish its money in 
very costly enterprises for the re- 
lief of peoples and the erection of 
new states with constitutional safe- 
guards and liberties to which Rus- 
sia herself has for ever been a 
stranger; and the czar will find 
that Russia is greater than he. 



The present government of 
France seems resolved on showing 
that names make little difference 
where the) spirit is the same, and 
that a French republic can be every 
whit as intolerant and tyrannical as 
a Russian imperialism. Jules Fer- 
ry's educational bill is the most re- 
cent and startling instance in point. 
Its aim, however its author may 
strive to disguise it, is very plain 
and thoroughly understood by the 
general public. It purposes ban- 
ishing Catholic teachers and Ca- 
tholic teaching from the schools, 
lyce'es, colleges, and universities of 
France. All educational establish- 
ments are to be secularized. The 
privilege of granting degrees, which 
was conceded by the state in 1875, 
is to be withdrawn from the Catho- 
lic universities, five of which were 
founded since that date, and on the 
strength, of course, of the conces- 
sion. For the rest, as the project- 
ed law is now framed, no member 
of a religious congregation is to be 
permitted to give instruction, either 
in public or private, unless the con-r 
gregation of which he is a member 
be especially authorized to teach. 
This measure will, if carried through, 
at once disarrange the whole system 
of education in France, in which 
the Catholic congregations of va- 



Current Events. 



421 



rious kinds, male and female, play 
a very large and important part, 
and, as has been shown by every 
variety of test that can be applied, 
play it with the greatest credit to 
themselves, the very best results to 
their pupils, and to the advantage 
of the state. There is no question 
on this score. Official statistics, 
such as have been set forth in these 
columns, with regard to the con- 
gregational schools in Paris,* es- 
tablish the superiority of the schools 
under Catholic control. Yet it is 
now proposed to remove this large 
body of educators, whose efficiency 
is proved and acknowledged, to 
either break up their establish- 
ments or transfer them to purely 
secular and state teachers, and to 
allow religion, Catholic or any oth- 
er, to have no part at all in the 
education of French children. 
Evade, disclaim, explain away as 
he may, such is the object of Jules 
Ferry's bill, and the government is 
with him in the resolve to force it 
through. According to it the edu- 
cation of France is to be thorough- 
ly irreligious by order of the gov- 
ernment, and so irreligious that 
Catholic teachers are not even to 
have a chance of imparting reli- 
gious instruction either in the 
schools or in private. 

As the London Times tersely 
puts it, "this means war to the 
knife " between the state and the 
Catholic Church, and it is some 
satisfaction here to record that the 
expression of English public opin- 
ion, so far as we have had the op- 
portunity of seeing it in the Lon- 
don Times, Spectator, Saturday Re- 
view, Pall Mall Gazette, and other 
journals, is one of utter and une- 
quivocal condemnation of so ini- 

* See " The Proposed Expulsion of the Teach- 
ing Orders from the Public Schools of Paris," THB 
CATHOLIC WORLD, April, 1879. 



quitotis a scheme. Their religious 
prejudices, strong as they are, are 
not of such strength as to cause 
these journals to lose their heads 
or deprive them of their native 
sound sense. They see very clear- 
ly that the monopolization of edu- 
cation by the state in a govern- 
ment which, though it has some 
Protestant members in its cabinet, 
is practically and avowedly infidel 
is an assault on the very founda- 
tions of Christian morality and con- 
sequently of sound government. 

Zeal for " culture " and educa- 
tion in "the modern spirit" is 
Jules Ferry's ostensible plea for 
this vast projected change in the 
French system of education. In 
distributing the prizes of the pro- 
vincial learned societies at the 
Sorbonne, April 19, he described 
the societies thus : " Non-political, 
as belonging to the party of free 
research, with which a republican 
government would always be on 
good terms, for scientific or litera- 
ry progress promoted the educa- 
tion of the democracy. By culture 
alone were powerful democracies 
maintained." 

The cant that these men use ! 
''''Free research !" French children 
and students are to be free hence- 
forth in everything save to learn 
that there is a God above them, 
who created this world and set 
them in it, with certain duties to 
him and to each other, for this 
is the sum of religion ; but in this 
particular department of necessary 
human knowledge research is not 
to be " free," " progress " is abso- 
lutely prohibited, and " culture " 
made a crime. This intelligent advo- 
cate of "free research " and "cul- 
ture " went on to describe French 
democracy vaguely as " the accu- 
mulated sum of past culture, indus- 
try ordeals, and as bent on liberty 



422 



Current Events. 



and national liberty. He distrust- 
ed the pretended liberty which 
sought to split French youth into 
t\vo parts, which, though of the 
same race and origin, would have 
different ideas both on the past and 
the future of France, and, though 
speaking one language, would end 
by not understanding each other. 
He rejected this liberty as the pre- 
cursor of servitude and despotism ; 
consequently, despite clamor and 
insults, sophisms and petitions, the 
government would persist in re- 
claiming the rights of the state with 
regard to education. They would 
maintain the supremacy of the 
state ; they did not aim at mono- 
poly, but at control and guaran- 
tees, and they were confident of 
their eventual success ; for in 
France there was always success 
when they relied on constant na- 
tional tradition and on the aspira- 
tions of the modern spirit." 

What the French democracy may 
be remains yet to be seen. Sound- 
ing phrases will affect it in nowise. 
We hope the democracy is " bent 
on liberty and national liberty." 
If so, it will speedily reject M. 
Ferry's bill. It is plain enough 
from his own words that M. Ferry 
is in love with liberty so long as 
it is on his side; but altogether 
against it when it favors those ras- 
cals, the Catholics. And there the 
matter stands at present. 

Did M. Ferry complain that Ca- 
tholic teaching was inadequate, 
and that government teaching was 
better, the question would rest on 
an altogether different ground. 
He would then have been relieved 
of the harsh resource of closing the 
Catholic schools. The question, 
however, on tins point is decided 
against him beforehand. French 
parents, often without any special 
claim to piet}, prefer to send their 



children to the congregational 
schools for the simple reason that 
they get there better care, training, 
and education. If the government 
schools were superior, the others 
would soon find themselves empty, 
and there would be no need of re- 
strictive measures under the ab- 
surd claim of love of liberty and 
culture. The fact is the bill is 
utterly indefensible on whatever 
ground it is viewed. Competition 
is good and healthy ; without it 
education is deprived of its con- 
stant spur. The state monopoly 
of education which M. Ferry disa- 
vows, but which is really the object 
of his bill, puts an end to all such 
competition. 

The author of the bill, being 
hard pressed for its justification, 
searches about among old legal 
enactments for precedents. There 
are no lawful precedents for wrong 
acts. France has millions of Ca- 
tholics, and they will have Catholic 
education. The French hierarchy, 
the clergy, the Catholic laity are 
uniting in petitioning the govern- 
ment to refuse its sanction to this 
bill. Judging by the present tem- 
per of the government, their peti- 
tions are likely to be unavailing. 
And what then ? Is Catholic edu- 
cation to cease in France ? 

What then ? Why, there will be 
nothing left then but for the Ca- 
tholics of France to brave the 
government and open their schools 
and colleges in face of its outra- 
geous mandate, as Lacordaire and 
his companions did in 1820. Men 
in all lands who have any respect 
for civil and religious liberty will 
support them. They have a noble 
opportunity. Let them seize it 
unhesitatingly. Let the govern- 
ment work its will, the world will 
soon see on which side is law, 
order, freedom, and morality. The 



Correspondence. 



423 



shackling of education is impossi- 
ble in these days. It may suc- 
ceed for a time, but cannot List; 
least of all can it succeed in a 
land claiming to be free. We ex- 
hort our brethren in France to be 
brave ; to open their schools in the 
eyes of day in every town in 
France ; to teach in them with the 
orders, or persons devoted to that 
purpose by the wisdom, love of 
learning, and providence of the 



church in all ages. If closed by 
the government in one place, let 
them open in another, always bold- 
ly and unhesitatingly. It will cost 
something for the time being, but 
the moral sense and support of the 
world will be with them, and 
victory must be theirs. The bur- 
den of tyranny and oppression is 
all on one side in this contest for 
civil and religious liberty. 



CORRESPONDENCE. 



SOUTH AMERICA, January 3, 1879. 

To THE EDITOR OF THE CATHOLIC 
WORLD : 

DEAR SIR : A friend in Natchez has 
just sent me the October and November 
numbers of your magazine. In reading 
the review on Mazzella's Treatise on 
Grace, No. 163, I resolved to write a few 
observations to you, even if they will 
reach you out of time, since I received 
the magazines quite late, and, besides, 
our mail facilities are quite scarce. The 
reviewer of Mazzella insinuates that the 
doctrine of his author " is only that 
which is most received and best estab- 
lished " even in questions which are 
open and free to admit of diverging 
opinions, since the author, after paying 
special regard to the system of the Tho- 
mists, follows the one of Molina, which 
is amply defended ; and the admiration 
of the reviewer for the prudence of Maz- 
zella when using his ''strongest argu- 
ments" is unbounded. Now, I think it 
very questionable that Molinism is ac- 
cepted more than Thomism ; should it 
be so, it would be owing only to certain 
papers which manufacture public opin- 
ion so as to remain always with the best 
litigant. About 1860 I learned from Sal- 
zano's Ecclesiastical Hist^y that Tho- 
mism was preferable to Molinism ; as I 
knew the man, I accepted his conclu- 
sion, but failed to study his reasons. 
Since, however, your reviewer is quite 
jubilant over the philosophy of Mazzella, 



because " philosophy is at the bottom of 
all theology, and right philosophical 
views are necessnry for a coherent view 
in theology," I take courage in depre- 
cating these unlimited praises of Molin- 
ism in the pages of THE CATHOLIC 
WORLD, because it has tried to follow (in 
my humble judgment) a better philoso- 
phic system than the one of Molinists. 

A true Molinist will make an " hon- 
orable exception " to the scholastic axi- 
om, omne quod esl in potentia non reduci- 
tur in actum wsi per id quod est actu ; yet 
it affects the highest logic of the writings 
of St. Thomas. On this principle and 
scholastic axiom the Thomists build 
their system. With this principle and 
their matter and form, causality and po- 
tentiality, cause and effect, first and se- 
cond act, oclus co)nposi f us&c\di divistis (the 
reduplicative]^ that God is almighty, 
hence his causing should not be meas- 
ured by the limited power man has of 
causing, etc., etc., they conclude that 
" God moves the will of man in a way 
corresponding to man's nature viz., 
without impairing man's liberty." This 
conclusion is obscure, and the Thomists 
grant it ; but did not Balmes wish for 
"more light" about space, time, exten- 
sion? Or else do all know the essence 
of light or electricity? No Thomist 
will pretend to explain a mystery, but 
he tries to give only a coherent view 
in theology based on right philosophical 
ground ; in this he succeeds better than 
any Molinist. 



424 



Correspondence. 



The reviewer, to make more efficient 
his praises of Molinism, alludes to the 
encomiums lavished on Mazzella by the 
Civilta Cattolica, and styles it "a perio- 
dical of unquestioned authority in these 
matters." Such a broad assertion is an 
unbecoming flattery ! The Italian pe- 
riodical, in its No. 681, gives a second re- 
view to Mazzella (which every one should 
have expected !), thus summed up at 
page 329: "We gave ourselves with an 
immense love to the study of the Tho- 
mistic philosophy, and more than twen- 
ty-five years ago we unfurled high its 
banner, courageously braving the aber- 
rations of public opinion. It appears 
to us, then, that we have some right 
to be believed when we say that the 
more we studied the more we became 
convinced that pred<.t rmination has no- 
thing to do with St. Thomas." These 
lines would ill fit a Liberatore, who al- 
ways conversed otherwise ; they are im- 
personal, and one must deal with their 
meaning alone. It is true that the Je- 
suits have done a good deal for the 
scholastic philosophy everlasting honor 
and glory be to them for this their good 
deed ! however, the secular clergy of 
Naples, headed by San Severino, should 
be allowed a fair share of the honors. 
But it is not true that predetermination 
has nothing to do with St. Thomas, since 
his philosophical principles lead to it, 
firstly ; and, secondly, the system and the 
very word predetermination are to be found 
in Quidlib. xii. art. iv. vol. 9, page 621, 
column 2, Fianadori's edition, 1859. 
The authority of the Civilta Cattolica is 
not quite so dogmatically unquestion- 
able'' in ihese matters," and the reviewer 
could and should have known that his 
broad "puff" to it might be found 
aliunde a servile flattery. While we are 
at the whimsical question of names, I 
remember that in the spring of 1862 a 
quite young Dominican priest in Rome 
showed to Liberatore, in a pamphlet of 
three hundred pages, that his, Libera- 
tore's, solution of a great metaphysical 
problem "was wanting in truth and op- 
posed to St. Thomas." Here was no 
question of words. But Liberatore knew 
better than open a fight on philosophical 
ground with scholastic principles ; he 
answered not. Secchi, however, came 
to the rescue, forcing a side show to get 
people to laugh at the pretentious young 
priest, who " about Molinism had used 
all the old arguments of the school." 



The young Dominican, though taken 
at a disadvantage by Secchi, showed 
" game " ; he had to acknowledge Sec- 
chi's superiority about meteorology, the 
sun-spots, the deviation of the pendu- 
lum, the variation of the needle, etc., etc., 
but, coming to principles, he handled Sec- 
chi rather roughly, and threw him into 
Cartesianism head foremost, and the 
main question remained where it was. 
In 1876 Zigliara published by the types 
of Propaganda a Minima Philosophica. In 
its third vol., page 393, Liberatore's argu- 
ment is again honored with ncgo supposi- 
tum and the exposition of the supposi- 
tion ; but Liberatore speaks not. 

My question with you is not What sys- 
tem you should have, much less I wish 
you to enlighten public opinion if your 
interest compel you to echo it, but only 
to remonstrate with you for the injured 
interests of our students ; the unlimited 
partiality for a system in your influential 
pages is dangerous to them. Addiscentem 
oportet credere ; authority goes a good 
way with students. 

Should you find herein aught offen- 
sive, please ascribe it to my ignorance 
alone, because we Catholics in these 
parts feel a kind of " family pride " in 
the press over which you preside. Nor 
do I intend to belittle the Jesuits' school, 
whereat I am proud to have got a B.D., and 
to them personally, as to other teachers, 
I owe gratitude ; only I thought that you 
had lost sight of the " Americans love 
fair play," and therefore wrote to you 
accordingly. 

With most cordial best wishes, and 
compliments of the season, I remain, 
Your obedient servant, 

NICHOLAS MIALEZ. 



We publish the piquant letter of 
our South American friend at the 
earliest date after its reception 
which we have found convenient. 
We assure the writer that we are 
not offended at his freedom of ex- 
pression. ' We are. moreover, na- 
turally quite flattered at discover- 
ing how much interest is taken in 
our humble efforts at so great a 
distance. We will not attempt a 
discussion with our learned friend 
on the merits of the question of 



Correspondence. 



425 



physical premotion. Those who 
have had the direction of THE CATH- 
OLIC WORLD have given a prefer- 
ence to Molinism because it so hap- 
pens that they personally hold it to 
be more probable than any other 
theory. They are, however, not 
quite so exclusive as the writer of 
the letter supposes. The text-book 
used in the Paulist seminary is not 
Molinistic in its treatment of the 
doctrine of grace, but decidedly of 
another to.ii. Bonal is the author 
who is firs?' put into the hands of 
the Paulist students by their dog- 
matic professor, and one of the au- 
thors whom he prefers and recom- 
mends to his pupils is Billuart. If 
our friend reads regularly THE 
CATHOLIC WORLD he will also per- 
ceive that it has admitted to its 
columns a series of essays now in 
course of publication which are 
written in the contrary sense to 
Molinism. It is our opinion that 
Molinism is really the system which 
is by far the most commonly held 
among the clergy of the United 
States, Great Britain, France, and 
other countries where the English 
and French languages are spoken. 
We will not assert positively the 
same of Italy, Germany, and Spain, 
though we believe it may be said 
with truth, in a general sense, that 
the adherents of the older Domini- 
can school are everywhere in the 
minority, although we acknowledge 
that this minority is most respecta- 
ble and includes a number of men 
distinguished as philosophers and 
theologians. 

As for the authority of the Civil- 
ta Cattolica or any other periodical, 
it is of course perfectly well under- 



stood in North America that it is 
not a dogmatic authority, but a 
moral weight and influence, arising 
from the learning and the power of 
reason manifested by the writers in 
the same, to which any of these lay 
claim, or which is accorded to them 
by persons who have a good share 
of common sense. 

The merits of San Severino and 
other eminent writers of the Nea- 
politan clergy and laity are fre- 
quently recognized and lauded by 
the Civilth, and by Father Liberatore 
himself, who is one of the most 
courteous of writers, toward adver- 
saries as well as friends, and; we 
suspect, was rather moved by com- 
passion than fear when he chose to 
leave the young friend of our cor- 
respondent unmolested in the en- 
joyment of his innocent pastime of 
" pitching Father Secchi into the 
middle of Cartesianism." Let our 
friend make his mind easy about 
our theological students. They are 
quite as much disposed to form their 
own opinions as he could wish, and 
if they are disciples of Liberatore in 
philosophy and Mazzella in theo- 
logy, it is because these eminent 
writers have a certain art of con- 
vincing the mind by their reasoning 
on the most important questions, 
though in some others of minor 
consequence they may come short, 
which is not always found in wri- 
ters on philosophical or theological 
topics. We conclude by wishing 
our reverend friend a happy Easter 
in return for his happy New Year, 
though it may be as long after Eas- 
ter when he receives our greeting as 
it was after New Year's when his own 
reached our hyperborean region. 



426 



New Ptiblications. 



NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



COUNTER-POINTS IN CANON LAW: a Re- 
ply to the Pamphlet Points in Canon 
Law and to the American Catholic 
Quarterly Review of October, 1878. 
By Rev. S. B. Smith, D.D. Newark : 
J. J. O'Connor & Co. 1879. 

Dr. Smith deserves a great deal of 
credit for this reply to the criticisms 
made upon him. We may say that it 
has really been a piece of good fortune 
for him to be attacked ; for it has given 
him an opportunity to show not only a 
knowledge of the subjects to which he 
has devoted himself that could not 
otherwise have been displayed, but also 
a singular degree of good temper under 
very considerable provocation. To an- 
swer calmly and charitably a pamphlet 
written in the style of that which opened 
this controversy shows him to be pos- 
sessed of a rare degree of self control. 

We expected great ability to be shown 
in the defence which it was announced 
that Dr. Smith would make ; but we 
must confess we did not expect that he 
would be so successful as he has been 
in maintaining his positions. 

On the first point namely, the form of 
confirmation of the Baltimore decrees 
Dr. Smith makes out a specially strong 
case, strengthened, of course, by the ne- 
cessity, in itself sufficiently obvious, but 
proved by him on excellent authority 
(p. 19), resting on his adversaries, of 
taking the burden of proof on them- 
selves. To put it on him would be as 
unfair as to accuse him of a factious 
spirit, or even of acting like one having 
such a spirit, in refusing to accept an 
obligation not clearly established. It 
must be remembered throughout that Dr. 
Smith is not writing a spiritual book ; 
he -is treating of questions of positive 
law, which must be treated according to 
strict legal principles. Minimizing in 
such things is no indication whatever of 
a spirit of disobedience, as is sufficiently 
evident from the example of the saints 
themselves. It would be equally unfair, 
and also something of an imputation on 
the wisdom of the church, to make it 
seem as though a confirmation in forma 
communi was of no use, and that Dr. 



Smith, by taking that view of the con- 
firmation actually given, was depriving 
the council of all practical value. 

On ttie question of the ''jura stola" 
on which he has also given very strong 
and convincing arguments, a remark 
similar to that above may well be made. 
The question is here simply, not what 
the practical conduct should be of a 
priest who wishes to ctftfform to the 
spirit of the Gospel, but what is actually 
the law of God and of the church on the 
subject. It seems to consist properly of 
two. The first is, whether a priest can 
be condemned as guilty of simony who 
should demand, after the performance 
of an ecclesiastical function, the stipend 
which law or laudable custom has as- 
signed to it. It does not need to be 
proved that such a demand might in 
many, or even in the great majority of, 
cases savor of avarice or give scandal ; 
it may often be inexpedient, and even 
sinful, all things being considered, to 
claim one's just rights ; the question is 
whether the "'jus stolx " be really a 
"jus" or strict right, and how far that 
right extends. If it be an obligation 
per modum stipendii, duly placed on the 
consciences of the people, it is evidently 
a right on the part of the priest. And if 
it be a right, it is evidently not simonia- 
cal, or in any vryy per se sinful, to ask for 
it. The second question is whether the 
proper authorities, to whom the execu- 
tion of the law of the church has been 
committed, can compel by external pen- 
alties the giving of this right. It seems 
perfectly plain that they do not act ille- 
gitimately in doing so ; it is almost 
equally plain that cases may arise in 
which it will be no sin of any kind on 
their part, and in fact that it may some- 
times even be required by the duties of 
their office. 

With regard to the question of the pub- 
lication of the decree " Tametsi," and the 
consequent establishment of the impedi- 
ment of clandestinity in this country, we 
have already, in a preceding notice, suffi- 
ciently expressed our views in opposi- 
tion to the sweeping statements of the 
original Pamphlet. We have nothing to 
add to Dr. Smith's able refutation of its 



New Publications. 



427 



assertions assertions that may, without 
violating charity, be considered sensa- 
tional rather than sound, and to rest in 
their most important part on an inter- 
pretation of a document which may be 
admitted as theoretically a probable one, 
but practically otherwise, being insuffi- 
cient to establish any obligation in the 
face of probable opinions to the contra- 
ry, to say nothing of custom not con- 
demned by the church. But it would 
be evidently unfair to accuse the author 
of the Elements, either in the first 
volume of his work, as he himself re- 
marks, or in his present answer, of in- 
sufficient treatment of a subject on which 
he has not as yet properly entered ; as 
much so as to find fault with him for 
not incorporating all the diocesan laws 
of the United States into his treatise, as 
the Pamphlet seems to consider him 
bound to do in its remarks on Paschal 
Communion. 

In no part of the present reply of Dr. 
Smith is his learning and accuracy of 
thought more conspicuous than in his 
chapter on the " Irremovability of Parish 
Priests." The question is here precisely 
whether a parish priest canonically con- 
stituted is by the general law of the 
church removable ad nutum, or in per- 
petual possession, subject only to dis- 
missal for grave causes " in jure . ex- 
pressas." That there are parish priests, 
even in great numbers, who are remova- 
ble, does not prove that removability is 
now the law of the church, any more 
than the fact that the abstinence on Sat- 
urday is now a thing almost of the past 
shows that it is not even now the general 
law of the church, in the strict and tech- 
nical sense. Whether the authorities 
and arguments brought forward on the 
side of irremovability are conclusive or 
not is a question which is, of course, 
open to discussion ; but one thing seems 
certain, that if it can be proved that at 
any time whatever it has been the law of 
the church, it must still be considered to 
be so, unless changed by positive enact- 
ment proceeding from the Head of the 
church, or by general custom tacitly 
sanctioned by him under the proper con- 
ditions. The allowing of removability 
in one country or another proves noth- 
ing, unless it can be shown that the al- 
lowance was made as an interpretation 
of the law, not as a dispensation or re- 
laxation from it, which last Dr. Smith 
very clearly shows to have been the case 



in the reply of Pope Gregory XVI. in 
1845. 

With regard to the question of the re- 
movability of our own pastors, though 
it has, of course, taken an entirely new 
shape since the instruction of last year 
was received from the Propaganda, it is 
still an important one for Dr. Smith's jus- 
tification. He shows that pastors who are 
removable ad nutum cannot, according to 
good authorities, be removed in certain 
cases without cause, and that these cases 
may be shown to exist and the removal 
declared invalid by the legitimate su- 
perior, though meanwhile the removal 
must, for the sake of discipline, be prac- 
tically considered as valid. 

So far his position seems to us unex- 
ceptionable. But he goes further, if we 
mistake not, and considers it at least 
probable that all kinds of delegated ju- 
risdiction are subject to the same decla- 
ration of invalidity in their removal with- 
out cause. It is of jurisdiction in the 
Sacrament of Penance that he specially 
speaks, and here, it seems to us, his ar- 
gument is wanting in its usual conclu- 
siveness. For he adduces the opinion 
of Coninck, Suarez, and others quoted 
by St. Alphonsus, and considered pro- 
bable by others, and apparently by St. 
Alphonsus himself, to the effect that ap- 
probation cannot be always validly with- 
drawn without cause, and extends the 
same to delegated jurisdiction, on the 
ground that the two are necessarily unit- 
ed for practical purposes. But this is 
a theoretical question, not a practical 
one; and it does not follow that juris- 
diction cannot be withdrawn because the 
approbation would be useless without 
it, for that might well remain, inopera- 
tive, it is true, but really existing, and 
not requiring to be renewed when juris- 
diction was again given. So the with- 
drawal of jurisdiction without cause 
would not be contrary to the opinion of 
the theologians named. In fact, a similar 
case to this exists in the withdrawal of 
episcopal approbation from some regu- 
lar confessor, his jurisdiction, even out- 
side of his order, remaining meanwhile 
untouched and not needing to be renew- 
ed with the approbation, though in the 
meantime it is practically inoperative as 
regards the people. 

It seems to us that the argument could 
only be made a part ; but there is cer- 
tainly a greater reason against the with- 
drawal of approbation than that of juris- 



428 



New Publications. 



diction without any cause furnished by 
the subject ; for approbation is an act of 
judgment on his qualities, whereas ju- 
risdiction, especially if itbe merely local, 
may well be conferred on him or taken 
away for reasons not concerning him at 
all. A subordinate has a real right to 
approbation as long as he continues 
worthy of it, but not necessarily to ju- 
risdiction, at least as it seems to us. 

This is really the only criticism which 
we have to make on Dr. Smith's reply. 
We regard his views on the '' Imprima- 
tur" as tenable, though perhaps here he 
may seem to carry principles of inter- 
pretation rather to an extreme. But here 
again it is a question, not of what course 
he would recommend to others, or him- 
self observe, but of what the real state 
of the law must be considered to be, and 
of how far a strict obligation can really 
be laid on the conscience. The church 
has in matters like this, especially where 
censures were involved, given all the 
liberty possible ; and it is the true pro- 
vince of a writer on canon law to make 
all possible examinations of the text of 
any law seeming to have a wide bearing, 
to see if it will not admit of a more be- 
nignant interpretation. Here is certain- 
ly an opportunity for him to be guided 
by the spirit of the Gospel, in not laying 
on men's shoulders burdens heavier than 
they can, or at any rate will, bear. 

In conclusion, we heartily congratu- 
late Dr. Smith on his triumphant vindi- 
cation of himself, and think that the con- 
troversy into which he has been drawn 
will serve still further to increase his 
deserved reputation as a canonist, pro- 
mote the sale of his work, and attract 
interest to that portion of it yet to come. 

THEOLOGIZE DOGMATICS COMPENDIUM. 
H. Hurter, S.J. Second edition. 
Innspruck, 1878. New York : Pustet. 

On the first appearance of Father 
Hurter's Compendi-um, in 1876, La Kevue 
des Sciences Eccle'siastiques praised it in 
the following terms : "We do not hesi- 
tate to express the conviction that this 
work is a very great improvement upon 
the ordinary text-books. It is, indeed, 
a compendium, but it is a complete one, 
including everything essential, and meet- 
ing satisfactorily all that we need to 
have in a compendium. The author 
has displayed a remarkable precision of 
expression and philosophical depth, to- 
gether with a secure exposition of doc- 



trine, and a general intellectual culture 
which is only too often wanting in the 
compilers of our theological school- 
books. He is no mere theologian, but 
a scholar in the strictest sense of the 
word, and this quality is nowadays more 
indispensable than it has ever been in a 
theological writer. We regard this work 
as supplying a need that several other 
authors have attempted to satisfy, but 
have failed of success in their effort : 
the need of a dogmatic course for be- 
ginners and more advanced students, 
easy to be grasped and yet truly scien- 
tific, holding firmly, on the one hand, to 
tradition, and on the other making suit- 
ably available the results and new dis- 
coveries of the sciences, a product of 
really scientific labors of such a kind 
as not to frighten away our young peo- 
ple from scientific research." 

We can endorse this most favorable 
judgment without much reservation. 
Among the noteworthy excellencies of 
its particular parts, we would designate 
especially the clear exposition of the 
natural and supernatural orders, of ori- 
ginal sin, and of the distinction between 
the submission due to that authority of 
the church which is infallible, and that 
doctrinal authority in the church which 
is legitimate though not sanctioned by a 
guarantee of absolute infallibility. We 
are particularly pleased, moreover, that 
the author has withheld his approbation 
from the obsolete and scientifically un- 
tenable theory, which we are always 
sorry to see advocated by any learned 
theologian, that the universe was creat- 
ed outright, a few thousand years ago, 
in six days of twenty-four hours' dura- 
tion. Exegetically, we do not think 
there are any conclusive reasons for this 
interpretation, there is no decisive rea- 
son for it from authority, and we regard 
adhesion to it as placing a great and 
most unnecessary obstacle in the way of 
a rational defence of the inspired truth 
and divine authority of the Holy Scrip- 
tures. In the exposition of that most 
difficult topic, the formal object of faith 
in its relation with the rational motives 
of credibility, we think that the author 
has been too succinct and incomplete, 
although he has given his own opinion 
clearly and distinctly enough to satisfy 
those who have not paid attention to the 
reasons which militate against it and in 
favor of the opinion of Suarez and Father 
Mazzella. We abstain from any minute 



Neiv Publications. 



429 



criticism of Father Hurter's Theology, 
and content ourselves with a general ex- 
pression of our opinion, that for advanc- 
ed students, and for the use of the clergy, 
it is the best and most satisfactory com- 
pendium which we have had the oppor- 
tunity of examining. Of course it does 
not compete with works of the order of 
Cardinal Franzelin's Treatises and the 
Woodstock Course. It is primarily in- 
tended as a text-book, and is therefore 
intentionally compendious. Text-books 
must be judged, not only by a standard 
of value which measures their relative 
excellence as succinct and complete 
compendiums of systematic theology, 
but also by their aptitude to the 
minds of students and the practical 
use of the class-room. In this regard 
we consider the older manuals prepared 
before the Council of the Vatican as no 
longer available, whatever their intrinsic 
merits may be. It seems to us quite 
unreasonable to continue the use of Lie- 
bermann, Bouvier, or even Perrone or 
Kenrick, if we can have a perfectly satis- 
factory substitute for any one of these or 
similar manuals, prepared since the de- 
finitions of the last council were pro- 
mulgated. In a comparison of class- 
books for practical use, we put aside, 
therefore, all consideration of any as 
eligible, except those which are recent. 
In this view Hurter and Bonal are, to 
our thinking, the two principal compe- 
titors for the palm. 

For Germany, very likely Hurter may 
be the best extant text-book. We are 
inclined to think that for general use in 
seminaries Bonal is, in some respects, 
preferable. For the most capable stu- 
dents, each one of these distinguished 
authors supplements the other in such a 
way, that the two together would furnish 
an elementary system of dogmatic theo- 
logy, on which the most complete and 
solid foundation would be laid for more 
extensive study at a future period. Bo- 
nal is easier, shorter, simpler than Hur- 
ter. There is a less copious erudition 
displayed in his pages. Yet, he has an 
uncommon art of going to the depths of 
a topic, gathering the essence and suc- 
culence of patristic, scholastic, and 
Scriptural doctrine, getting at the in- 
trinsic reasons of things, and presenting 
the result with that brevity, comprehen- 
siveness, and distinctness of language 
which is best adapted to the intelligence 
of beginners. There is more work left 



for the professor, in expanding and sup- 
plementing the simple and elementary 
thesis presented by the author, but if the 
professor is competent, his pupils will 
better understand his vivd voce explana- 
tions than those which are found in the 
pages of a book. If any one wishes to 
apply an easy test to the correctness of 
our statement, let him examine Bonal's 
treatise de SSmd Trinitate. 

Unless new competitors of equal or 
superior merit appear in the field, we 
venture to predict that both Hurter and 
Bonal will obtain a wide popularity like 
that enjoyed for so long by the illus- 
trious Perrone in dogma, and Gury in 
morals. We venture to recommend to 
all those whose duty it is to determine 
what text-books shall be used in the 
seminaries of the United States, to ex- 
amine these two. In conclusion, we 
beg of Mr. Pustet to abrogate the vexa- 
tious European custom of putting a pa- 
per night-gown on his books, and to 
give them a decent suit of binding. 
Hurter's Theology is admirably printed, 
but our copy is tumbling to pieces al- 
ready, and we must have the trouble of 
sending it to the binder. It will doubt- 
less be much more inconvenient to the 
students who may have to purchase the 
work, and to priests living in the coun- 
try, to get their volumes bound before they 
can use them, than it is for us. Besides, 
it costs each one more to pay for bind- 
ing a book than the additional price 
would be which a publisher could rea- 
sonably demand for a bound book. By 
all means let us have bound copies of 
books that are worth binding, especially 
when they are sent to an editor for no- 
tice. 

SONGS AND SONNETS. By Maurice F. 
Egan. 

It is impossible to read any of Mr. 
Egan's verses, a few of which are here 
reproduced for private circulation, with- 
out feeling at once that he has the true 
poetic tone and touch. There is a rare 
grace and tenderness in all he does, and 
a classic sweetness that reminds one of 
Keats. He is unequal, however, and 
that is the very best sign in a young 
poet, or writer of any kind. The man 
who attains to a fixed level and runs in 
a steady groove, never moving higher or 
falling lower, or stepping for a moment 
out of his beaten track, even if it be to 



430 



New Publications. 



make a mistake, is not likely to be 
spurred into great things. Mr. Egan is 
very fond of Theocritus, so we give his 
sonnet to that poet : 

" Daphnis is mute, and hidden nymphs complain, 
And mourning mingles with their fountains' song ; 
Shepherds contend no more, as all day long 
They watch their sheep on the wide cypress- 
plain ; 

The master-voice is silent, songs are vain ; 
Blithe Pan is dead, and tales ot ancient wrong, 
Done by the gods when gods and men were 

strong, 
Chanted to waxed pipes, no prize can gain : 

sweetest singer of the olden days, 

In dusty books your idyls rare seem dead ; 
The gods are gone, but poets never die ; 
Though men may turn their ears to newer lays, 
Sicilian nightingales enraptured 
Caught ail your songs, and nightly thrill the 
sky." 

And here is a sweet extract from the 
" Song of Cyclops to Galatea," a para- 
phrase from Theocritus : 

' Last night I dreamed that I, a monster finned, 
Swam in the sea and saw you singing there ; 

1 gave you lilies, and refreshing wind, 
Laden with odors of all flowers rare ; 

I gave you apples, as I kissed your hand. 
And reddest poppies from my richest land. 

" Oh ! brave the restless billows of your world : 
They toss and tremble ; see my cypress-grove, 

And bending laurels, and the tendrils curled 
Of honeyed grapes, and a fresh running trove 

In vine-crowned ^Etna, of pure running rills ! 

O Galatea, kill the scorn that kills !" 

We hope, however, that Mr. Egan will 
soon desert Theocritus for higher com- 
pany, nor linger too long among the 
"waxen lilacs," and "tall reeds," and 
"maidenhair," and "fauns and dryads," 
and " lowly dandelions," and " clover 
and cowslip-cups," and" carmine peach- 
es " of which he is very fond.. There are 
men and women in the world worthy of a 
song. Souls are better than daisies and 
all the adornments of the idyllic property- 
shop. The spirit of paganism and mere 
nature-worship is apt to creep into young 
blood and deaden it to higher impulses. 
Surely the fierce days we live in ought 
to draw to themselves the poets' fire ; 
yet many with gifts of great promise turn 
aside from to-day and waste themselves 
in out-of-the-way nooks, seeking for Mr. 
Matthew Arnold's " sweetness and 
light," which is only another name for 
a milk-and-water moral and mental re- 
gimen. Setting out to be discoverers, 
or builders, or architects of something, 
they fall early into bad company, and, if 
they do not sink in the mire, rise to the 
height of bric-a-brac and stay there. 



Mr. Richard Watson Gilder, whose vol- 
ume, The P^et and his Master, was le- 
cently noticed in THE CATHOLIC WORLD, 
is one of the younger poets whose ver- 
ses give promise of high things, if he only 
find them and pursue them. Mr. Egan 
is another. But if he would rise he 
must shed his Theocritan shell as speed- 
ily as possible. 

FAITH AND RATIONALISM. With Short 
Supplementary Essays on Related 
Topics. By George P. Fisher, D.D , 
Professor of Ecclesiastical History in 
Yale College. New York : Scribner. 
1879. 

This is a quite small and unpretend- 
ing volume, which grew out of a lecture 
that Dr. Fisher delivered at Princeton. 
It has more thought in it than some very 
bulky works, and the author makes a 
number of good points. In the outset 
the author describes himself as ' one 
who can claim to represent no party or 
school in theology, but who feels himself 
drawn with an increasing conviction to 
the catholic truth which has been the 
life of Christian piety in all ages of the 
church." Accordingly he quotes from 
or refers to St. Augustine, St. Bonaven- 
tura, Hugh of St. Victor, Cardinal New- 
man, as well as from Luther, Bacon, But- 
ler, and Schleiermacher. One of the 
leading ideas which he presents, and 
which he has before now most ably vin- 
dicated, is the historical basis of religion, 
and the evidence of the truth of Chris- 
tianity which its very existence presents. 

Another line of thought leads into the 
consideration of the grounds of firm con- 
viction and belief of the great and high 
truths of natural and revealed religion 
which are contained in implicit reason, 
and of the relation of the will, moral dis- 
positions, sentiments, and states of the 
affective nature to the intellect and their 
influence upon its apprehensions and 
judgments. It is just here that the 
question lies of the reasonableness and 
certitude of assent to matters which have 
not been and often cannot be the object 
of thorough study and scientific know- 
ledge, as in the case of the simple 
and unlearned. This is an intricate and 
most interesting subject. Dr. Fisher is 
in very close agreement with Cardinal 
Newman in his way of viewing it, and 
acknowledges his obligations to him in 
the most frank and generous manner : 
" By the various writings of this author, 






New Publications. 



431 



on the foundations of religion, I have 
been stimulated and instructed in ways 
that do not always admit of specific ac- 
knowledgment " (p. 31). This is a new- 
illustration of the extent and magnetic 
force of Newman's influence on the mind 
of the present generation. We have 
often tried to discover the secret of it, 
and we think we have found it in the 
Grammar of Assent, It lies in the vivid 
apprehension of a great many impli- 
cit thoughts and sentiments which are 
working in a multitude of minds, to- 
gether with a remarkable power of giv- 
ing them explicit form in a charming 
style. There is a religious, a Chris- 
tian, a Catholic movement in the centu- 
ry, as well as an opposite movement. 
Among the thinking, reading class of 
the English-speaking world, Newman is 
the leader bf the religious movement, 
because he interprets to them their 
thoughts in their own mother-tongue. 
He deals largely in history and facts of 
experience, and he gives an explanation 
of their sense, their meaning, their rela- 
tion to God's providence and man's sal- 
vation, from principles of faith and in 
harmony with sound reason and the dic- 
tates of the unperverted natural con- 
science. The current of Dr. Fisher's 
thoughts, in the present little volume, 
funs generally in the same direction. It 
is to be hoped that the religious current, 
which is deeper, swifter, and wider than 
the sceptical, materialistic, atheistical 
current, will in the coming age absorb 
and overmaster all opposing influences 
and obstacles, and turn all the powers 
of real knowledge and genuine science 
into their legitimate direction to serve 
Christianity. The greater number of the 
tolerably well-disposed people are tired 
of individualism and of theories hatch- 
ed by restless, ambitious innovators. 
They wish to fall back on the common, 
universal beliefs of the human race, and 
on the universal beliefs of Christendom. 
Even the Index and Mr. Frothingham 
confess that individualism and the ex- 
clusive use of private judgment have 
failed, and that common, unifying prin- 
ciples only are organic and constructive 
and controlling. Mr. Frothingham has 
dismissed his congregation and gone to 
Europe to prepare for constructing a 
new church, with a new faith, for a posi- 
tive renovation of mankind, on his re- 
turn. Unless he should succeed better 
than we anticipate he will, or something 
far superior to the religion of Christ be 



established by a " consensus of the com- 
petent," we shall adhere to our belief in 
Jesus Christ and the church he founded, 
and continue to regard the unchange- 
able religion which is coeval with the 
beginning of the world as the one des- 
tined to last until the end of the same. 
We are happy to find that Dr. Fisher is 
of the same mind, and we trust he may 
continue to discover and make known 
more and more of the real nature and 
divine truth of historical Christianity as 
the regenerating power for the present 
and the future as well as the past ages 
of the world. This is a road which leads 
to certainty and agreement among those 
who hold the same first principles of na- 
tural and revealed theology, all summed 
up in the belief of the real divinity and 
humanity of the One who called himself 
the Principium qui ft loquor v^bis. Opin- 
ionuni enim commenta delet dies ; natures 
judicia confirmat. 

THREE CATHOLIC REFORMERS OF THE 
FIFTEENTH CENTURY. By Mary H. 
Allies. London : Burns & Gates. 
1878. (For sale by the Catholic Pub- 
lication Society Co.) 

It is by just such books as this that 
"Rome's recruits" in England have 
been won to the fold. The Oratorian 
Lives of the Saints made a profound im- 
pression upon the English mind by their 
revelation of a saintship so much in ac- 
cord with the proverbial common sense 
of the people that the deepest effects of 
divine grace appeared, as they indeed 
are, the very flowering of our human na- 
ture. The rigid sanctimoniousness of 
the Puritan, and that pietistic effeminacy 
which Goethe sketches so masterly (Die 
Schone Seele\ have been the only ideals 
of holiness held up to Protestantism. 
The burst of splendid heroism in the 
knightly saints of Spain, so beautifully 
drawn out in this book ; the contempla- 
tive life, which shelters under its loving 
wing so many holy and learned men ; 
the passionate love of the poor which 
warms even this age of "gold"; the 
profound self-forgetful ness and abase- 
ment which made Napoleon ,,I. say 
of Pius VII., "Bah! this is the first 
gentleman of Europe ; he thinks not of 
himself"; and that supreme caritas, a 
word the fulness of whose meaning 
only the saints know, are sympathetical- 
ly described by one who bears the hon- 
ored name of him who has traced the 
For/nation of Christendom. 



432 



New Publications. 



The general theme of the book, whose 
unity of idea is admirably kept, is that 
the church is ever able to reform her 
children, provided they maintain the one- 
ness of the faith. The student of his- 
tory knows, for example, that the fif- 
teenth century was signally afflicted with 
the disputes of anti-popes ; the laxity 
which the spread of Hussism fostered in 
Northern Europe making still broader 
the road for the Reformation and the in- 
cursions of the Turks. Gibbon and Sis- 
mondi have ascribed to the Papacy the 
deliverance of modern society from these 
several pests. But the} r never thought 
that there stands at every pope's side a 
saint, an angel clothed in human flesh, 
who, in the rough garb of a poor old 
begging friar, or the finished toilet of a 
" first gentleman of Europe," is marvel- 
lously filled with the gifts of the Holy 
Ghost. 

St. Vincent Ferrer, St. Bernardine of 
Siena, and St. John Capistran would of 
themselves have redeemed a century of 
centuries. What the author says of St. 
Vincent's day applies strikingly to our 
own : 

" He lived in times of strong passions, 
which had acted somewhat like a heresy in 
blinding the minds of men to the truth. 
His weapons were therefore twofold : 
there was the vocation to combat the 
passions, and the human learning as 
the natural arm against ignorance." 

St. Vincent Ferrer was, by excellence, 
the greatest orator of the middle ages, 
and he was so precisely because he did 
not know it. St. Bernard (in vita S. 
Malachi) gives the oratorical palm to 
St. Malachy, although Bernard himself 
roused all Europe to the most difficult 
of the Crusades. What we have of the 
writings of the Doctor Mellijiuus indi- 
cates the supreme realization of that 
" sweetness and light " for which Mat- 
thew Arnold and John Ruskin are seek- 
ing and imploring in modern literature. 
Ranzano has a few of St. Vincent's ser- 
mons (evidently badly reported, as an 
editor would say), and they strike one 
as rather poor and commonplace, until 
one begins to realize that the man who 
cried out, " My beloved ones," would 
have gladly died for one soul ; and that 
" O God !" meant to him a union with 
Jesus which, we fondly hope, is reserved 
for us when the Beatific Vision dawns 
upon our sight. 

The best characterization of the church 
is St. Augustine's, " Ever ancient, ever 



new"; for the church, according to St. 
Paul, is the Body of Christ, her Love and 
Beauty, of which Augustine wrote those 
immortal words. It is gratifying to ob- 
serve how unerringly Miss Allies ap- 
plies this great thought to the treatment 
of the saints, who reappear in the firma- 
ment of the church like stars whose 
light is never quenched, though the time 
of their conjunctures with the Sun may 
be deferred for ages. We cannot close 
this notice without a tribute to the clasr 
sic elegance of the style, which is a re- 
freshment in itself. 

GRANTS OF LAND AND GIFTS OF MONEY 
TO CATHOLIC AND NON- CATHOLIC IN- 
STITUTIONS IN NEW YORK COMPARED. 
New York: The Catholic Publica- 
tion Society Co. 1879. 
The Catholic Publication Society Co. 
has here reproduced in pamphlet form 
the two articles on the charitable insti- 
tutions of New York and the donations 
to them in land and money which ap- 
peared in the April and May numbers of 
THE CATHOLIC WORLD. They form a 
complete and absolute refutation of all 
the calumnies that have ever appeared 
or ever could appear concerning the 
Catholic charitable institutions of New 
York. The Protestant press and pulpit 
and platform are for ever ringing the 
changes on these wicked calumnies and 
outrageous charges, and are not likely 
to abandon their favorite amusement for 
many years to come. It is very impor- 
tant, therefore, that the truth, as here 
quietly and fully stated, should be made 
known and spread abroad over the 
country. Catholics should have this 
matter at their fingers' ends. This cheap 
little pamphlet will for all future time 
be an effectual extinguisher on any elo- 
quent gentleman who, like the unfortu- 
nate Mr. Clarence Cook in the Atlantic 
Monthly, is foolish enough to bring for- 
ward charges of this nature without first 
ascertaining whether they are true, and, 
secondly, whether in bringing them for- 
ward he is really not digging a pit for 
himself. Over and above this, the pam- 
phlet forms a condensed and complete 
history of the charities of New York, 
and is thus of use and interest to all sorts 
of readers. 

ERRATUM In the note preliminary to 
the canto from Dante's '' Purgatorio," in 
the present number, for Sir Frederick 
Pollock read Baron Pollock, and for 
Mr. Haselfoot read Mr. Ha^elfoot. 



THE 



CATHOLIC WORLD 



VOL. XXIX., No. 172. JULY, 1879. 



THE CATHOLIC CHURCH IN THE UNITED STATES.* 






WE propose in the following 
pages to treat of the original ele- 
ments of the Catholic Church in 
the United States, her relations 
with the republic, the causes of her 
growth, and her future prospects. 

The discovery of the western 
continent was eminently a religious 
enterprise. Columbus had in vain 
sought aid for his great undertak- 
ing from his native city, Genoa, 
from Portugal, England, Venice, 
and the court of Spain ; and it was 
after these fruitless applications 
that Juan Perez, the prior of La 
Rabida, took up his cause and 
pleaded it with so much earnest- 
ness and ability in a letter to Queen 
Isabella that she at once sent for 
Columbus and offered to pledge 
her jewels to obtain funds for the 
expedition. The motive which ani- 
mated Columbus, in common with 
the Franciscan prior and Isabella 
the Catholic, was the burning de- 

* Bancroft's History of the United States. 

" The Catholic Peril in America." By Francis 
E. Abbott. The Fortnightly Review, March, 
1876. 

The Papacy and the Civil Power. By R. W. 
Thompson. 

Future cf the Republic. By Ralph Waldo 
Emerson. 

Democracy in Europe : a History. By Sir 
Thomas Erskine May. 

Romanism and High Schools. By the Rev. 
Joseph Cook. A lecture delivered in Tremont 
Temple, Boston, March 17, 1879. 



sire to carry the blessings of the 
Christian faith to the inhabitants 
of a new continent, and it was 
the inspiration of this idea which 
brought a new world to light. 

This inspiration has never died 
out ; if the Spanish and French 
missionaries did not accompany 
the first discoverers, they followed 
speedily in their tracks, and the 
work of the conversion of the abo- 
rigines was earnestly begun. In a 
short time they traversed the whole 
northern continent from the rnouth 
of the St. Lawrence to California, 
and from the Gulf of Mexico to 
Hudson's Bay. Sometimes mission- 
aries were slain, but the fearless 
soldiers of the cross continued un- 
ceasingly their work of converting 
the natives and bringing them into the 
fold of Christ. Though the pages 
of history which narrate the self- 
sacrificing labors of the missionaries 
to the Indians are among the bright- 
est in the annals of the church, still 
the whole number of Catholic In- 
dians will not appear as a large item 
in the sum of her members in the 
United States. One of the reasons 
for this is that the heroic efforts 
made for their conversion and civi- 
lization have been in a great mea- 
sure thwarted by the inhuman pol- 



Copyright : Rev. I. T. HECKER. 1879. 



434 



The Catholic Church iu the United States. 



icy pursued towards the Indians. 
Yet, when we come to consider the 
actual elements which blend to- 
gether in forming the Catholic 
Church in the republic of the Unit- 
ed States, her faithful children of 
the forests ought not to be left out 
of the count. According to the re- 
port of the Bureau of Indian Af- 
fairs for 1875 the whole number of 
Indians under the government of the 
United States is about 279,333, and 
it is estimated, on good authority, 
that of these 106,000 are Catholics. 
The raising of the red men to 
the height of the Christian faith 
was but one of the fruits of the dis- 
covery of the new continent ; an- 
other was to offer an asylum to all 
who in other lands were persecuted 
and oppressed on account of their 
religious convictions. Among the 
first to seek this relief from oppres- 
sion on the virgin soil of the New 
World were the English Catholic 
colonists under Lord Baltimore. 
To their honor it is to be said that, 
both by the original design of the 
proprietary, Lord Baltimore, and 
by the legislative enactments of 
the freemen of the province, there 
reigned, while their rule lasted in 
Maryland, a perfect equality among 
all Christian denominations, and to 
all were secured the same rights 
and privileges, civil and religious. 
This act on the part of the colo- 
nists of Maryland was in harmony 
with the dictates of right reason 
and the authentic teachings of 
faith ; for all attempts to bring by 
coercion men who differ in their 
religious convictions to uniformity 
in the profession of religious belief, 
if successful, would logically put 
an end to all rational religion. 
Compulsion never gave birth to 
faith, which is " not by any means 
a blind assent of the mind," * but 

* Vatican Council, De Fide, ch. iii. 



essentially an intelligent and vol- 
untary act. Convinced of this, as 
Catholics, the idea of religious tole- 
rance flowed naturally and consist- 
ently in the minds of the first set- 
tlers on the shores of the Potomac. 
It was a noble act on their part to 
proclaim that within the province 
and jurisdiction of Maryland no 
Christian man should be molested 
in worshipping God according to 
the dictates of his conscience, and 
whoever supposes that the Syllabus 
teaches anything to the contrary 
seriously mistakes its meaning. 
Honor, then, to the pilgrim fathers 
of St. Mary ! who, when the other 
settlements had a state-supported 
church and were intolerant to all 
others, asked for themselves no fa- 
vor, but offered equal rights to all ; 
thus excluding the secular authori- 
ty of the* state from interfering in 
matters of religion a principle for 
which the popes, in their struggles 
with the secular powers for the 
rights of the church, have always 
contended, and for which they still 
have to contend. Let, then, those 
Catholic Anglo-Americans have 
their due share of praise for the 
religious toleration of which they 
were the first to give an example 
an example, furthermore, which had 
a formative influence in shaping the 
republic and its free institutions. 
For the principle of the incompe- 
tency of the state to enact laws 
controlling matters purely religious 
is the keystone of the arch of Ame- 
rican liberties, and Catholics of all 
climes can point to it with special 
delight. This noble course of the 
Catholics of Maryland, however, 
was little appreciated, and they 
were hindered in their progress 
and trampled upon when those to 
whom they had so generously of- 
fered a refuge from persecution had 
attained to power in the province ; 






The Catholic Church in the United States. 



435 



nevertheless, they kept their faith, 
and were by far the largest part of 
the body of the Catholic Church up 
to the time when the great tide of 
immigration set in towards the 
shores of the United States, and 
their descendants still form a pro- 
minent and influential portion of 
the Catholic community. 

The next original element was 
that furnished by France. The 
soil of the United States was at an 
early period watered by the blood 
of the French missionaries t<^the 
Indian tribes. In 1775 an acces- 
sion to the church came through 
the expulsion by the Puritans of 
Massachusetts of a colony of French 
Catholics from Acadia, on the Bay 
of Fundy. In spite of the solemn 
engagements of the capitulation, 
that they should not be disturbed, 
they were driven from their peace- 
ful homes, and about seven thou- 
sand were scattered among the Bri- 
tish colonies. These are the Aca- 
dians whose sad tale has been told 
by Longfellow in the beautiful poem 
of Evangeline. The influence ex- 
erted by the flower of the French 
army and nobility who entered the 
service of the infant republic at a 
time when, but for their aid, its 
cause would likely have been lost, 
in removing prejudices from the 
minds of colonists against the Ca- 
tholic religion, and compelling them 
to show at least a decent respect 
for the religious convictions of their 
Catholic allies, is not lightly to be 
estimated. Then the storm of the 
French Revolution drove to the 
shores of the United States, be- 
tween the years 1791 and 1799, a 
body of apostolic clergymen whose 
labors reanimated the zeal of Ca- 
tholics, caused conversions to the 
faith, organized new parishes, found- 
ed seminaries and colleges, and 
created bishoprics. It would be 



difficult to estimate the influence 
which these French missionaries 
exercised throughout the country 
by their exemplary lives, their 
learning, their virtues, and their 
qualities as men. Among them 
was a Marechal, a Cheverus, a 
Brute", a Flaget, and a Dubois. 
Twenty-three French priests came 
at that period to aid the young 
church in the United States ; six 
were made bishops, and of these 
Marechal became the third arch- 
bishop of Baltimore. Cheverus was 
the first bishop of Boston, and was 
recalled to France and made arch- 
bishop of Bordeaux and cardinal. 

To these are to be added several 
thousand Catholics, among whom 
were some hundred colored people 
who came from San Domingo and 
other West Indian islands in 1793 
to escape the effects of the French 
Revolution and the negro insurrec- 
tion. These French Catholics add- 
ed faith, piety, wealth to the in- 
fant church, and their posterity, 
constant to their religion, rank 
among the distinguished citizens 
of the republic. Their number was 
also considerably increased by the 
territories acquired or admitted to 
the Union, which were mostly in- 
habited by French Catholics. Loui- 
siana *was acquired in 1803, and 
had at that time about thirty-two 
thousand inhabitants, nearly all of 
whom were Catholics. Besides 
these were other settlements, peo- 
pled by the descendants mostly of 
French-Canadians, at St. Louis, 
Detroit, Vincennes, which have 
grown since into places of import- 
ance, and still retain the deep im- 
print of the French race. 

Moreover, the immigration of the 
French from Canada to the United 
States has been slowly on the in- 
crease, and in recent years has 
grown rapidly in volume. On in- 



43 6 



The Catholic Church in the United States. 



qtiiry made of a dignitary of one 
of the principal dioceses of Canada, 
we were told that the number of 
French-Canadians who had emigrat- 
ed to the United States during a 
period of thirty years should be 
estimated atfive hundred thousand. 
The presence of this Canadian ele- 
ment is a marked feature in all 
the dioceses bordering on Canada, 
which contain a considerable num- 
ber of parishes composed entirely 
of French-Canadians. Thus it will 
be seen that the Catholic French 
element was an active and important 
one, both in regard to character 
and numbers, in the formation of 
the Catholic Church in the New 
World. 

The Catholics from Ireland will 
not be found so numerous as 
those from England and France 
among the early settlers of North 
America. The Irish settlers, how- 
ever considerable their aggre- 
gate number may have been, were 
not concentrated in any one lo- 
cality like the Spanish, French, or 
English. A number of Catholic 
Irishmen, however, or their descen- 
dants, one of whom was Charles 
Carroll, the signer of the Declara- 
tion of Independence, took an active 
part in the struggle for indepen- 
dence. The first commodoTe, the 
father of the American navy, was 
John Barry, born in Ireland, a 
faithful Catholic, a true American, 
and an able seaman. But before 
the great exodus Ireland had given 
to America prelates distinguished 
for their faith, virtue, learning, elo- 
quence, and apostolic zeal prelates 
such as Bishop England, Archbi- 
shops Ken rick and Hughes. No 
man did more in his day than Bi- 
shop England to make the Catho- 
lic Church respected. Love for 
the free institutions of his adopted 
country was with him a vital prin- 



ciple, and often prompted his elo- 
quence. Bishop England as a pul- 
pit orator was unrivalled, and may 
be called the Chrysostom of the 
American Church. The first bishop 
and archbishop of the church in 
the United States, John Carroll, 
and the first in North America to 
be invested with the dignity of 
the cardinalate, the Archbishop of 
New York, John McCloskey, were 
Irishmen by descent. 

But the famine of 1846-1847 gave 
the^npetus to a mighty stream of 
immigration which did not cease in 
volume until it supplied millions of 
faithful children to the young church 
in America and rapidly extended 
her borders. The number of immi- 
grants from Ireland who arrived at 
the port of New York during the 
thirty years ending in 1876 was 
2,001,727. 

There will not be found in the 
Catholic Church in the United 
States a people, as a class, more 
devoted, sincere, and better in- 
structed in their religion than the 
Germans. The number of their 
churches, schools, seminaries, hos- 
pitals, orphan asylums will com- 
pare advantageously, from an intel- 
lectual no less than a material 
point of view, with those of any 
other portion of the Catholic popu- 
lation. None are better supplied 
with priests for their people and 
teachers for their children than 
the Germans. The religious orders 
flourish among them, and are re- 
presented by the Benedictines, with 
several abbots; the Capuchins, and 
other branches of the order of St. 
Francis; thejesuits, Redemptorists, 
and other religious congregations 
both of men and of women, especial- 
ly such as are devoted to teaching. 
In the hierarchy there is one Ger- 
man archbishop, and a considerable 
number of the bishops are German 



The Catholic Church in the United States. 



437 



by birth or descent. The Catholic 
German element had been almost 
insignificant until the period in- 
cluding the last thirty years; for 
although Catholics are consider- 
ably in the majority in South Ger- 
many, immigration to the United 
States in the past was mostly from 
the Protestant states. According 
to the latest and most accurate 
computation of German Catholics 
in the United States, they number 
1,237,563 souls. 

Conversions to the Catholic 
faith during the early part of the 
century were few and isolated in- 
stances ; but within the last twenty- 
five years they have become more 
numerous. Speaking on this sub- 
ject, a French writer who visited, 
twelve or more years ago, the Unit- 
ed States, says : " It is difficult 
to apply a statistical table 'to the 
study of the question of conver- 
sions. The different Protestant 
sects furnish very unequal contin- 
gents to the little army of souls 
daily returning to the true faith ; 
and it is a curious fact that the two 
sects which furnish the most are the 
Episcopalians, who in their forms 
and traditions approach nearest to 
the Catholic Church, and the Uni- 
tarians, who go to the very oppo- 
site extreme, and appear to push 
their philosophical and rationalistic 
principles almost beyond the pale 
of Christianity. These two sects 
generally comprise the most en- 
lightened and intellectual people 
of North America."* 

This observation is exact and 
has a profound reason for its basis. 
The human mind is uneasy until 
it has reached unity and grasps 
universal truth. And this is ar- 
rived at by two diverse but equally 
legitimate ways. Those who are 
born in sectarianism, as soon as 

* E. Rameau, Le Correspondent, 1865. 



they allow their reason to act on 
their faith learn that they have 
but fragments of Christian truth ; 
and by tracing these to their logi- 
cal connection with other truths 
contained in divine revelation they 
gain by degrees the knowledge of 
the whole body of revealed truth. 
Having reached this stage of prepa- 
ration, there breaks upon their men- 
tal vision the divine character and 
mission of the Catholic Church. 
This once seen, to enter her fold 
becomes a test both of their intel- 
lectual consistency and of the sin- 
cerity of their faich in Christianity. 
This is the road which leads Epis- 
copalians and others who still re- 
tain firmly one or more of the 
revealed truths of Christianity to 
the Catholic Church. The second 
class fall back upon the essential 
truths of natural reason. This 
basis recovered, the rejection of 
sectarianism logically follows, for 
the denial of any one truth of di- 
.vine revelation involves of necessity 
a contradiction of human reason. 
Indignant at this, they ask rightly 
for a religion which is consonant 
with the dictates of reason and 
finds its foundation in the human 
breast. Americans who have repu- 
diated Protestantism on the grounds 
of reason and they are not a few 
have made the discovery that the 
exposition of Christianity by the 
Catholic Church agrees with the 
dictates of reason, and that it takes 
in its scope all the faculties of 
human nature. This is the Unita- 
rian road, which is destined, in 
our opinion, to become the great 
American highway to the Catholic 
Church. 

There is scarcely an American 
family, distinguished either by its 
ancestry, or by its social position, 
or by its wealth, which to-day has 
not one or more representatives 



438 



The Catholic Church in the United States. 



among the converts to the Catholic 
Church. In some parts of the 
country there are congregations al- 
most altogether made up of con- 
verts. Converts will be found 
among the archbishops, bishops, 
and clergy, and a fair share also 
belong to the different learned pro- 
fessions or hold positions of simi- 
lar respectability. Statistics which 
bear upon this point vary. In 
some dioceses the number of con- 
verts among the confirmed is as 
high as twelve per cent., in others 
it is about seven per cent., and in 
others again not more than five, 
while elsewhere probably the pro- 
portion is smaller. To the fore- 
going source of Catholic increase 
is to be added the accession of 
Florida by purchase in 1819, con- 
taining a population of about 
18,000; also the acquisition of 
Texas in 1845, and California and 
New Mexico in 1848, having about 
160,000 inhabitants. These peo- 
ple were for the most part of Span- 
ish-American blood, and nearly all 
Catholics. Finally, if we add from a 
rough guess 25,000 to 30,000 colored 
people, we have all the original 
elements which the power of the 
Catholic faith has blended together 
in one, forming the organization 
and strength of the Catholic Church 
in the republic of the United 
States. 

The connection between the re- 
public and the Catholic Church, if 
satisfactorily treated, requires that 
the fundamental principles of the 
republic should be clearly stated, 
and their relation with Protestant- 
ism first be disposed of. This is 
what we now attempt. 

The republic of the United 
States is the result of the gathered 
political wisdom and experience of 
past ages, shaped by a recognition 
of man's natural rights and a trust 



in his innate capacity for self-gov- 
ernment beyond what had found 
expression in the prevailing politi- 
cal systems of Europe. The fun- 
damental articles of the American 
political creed and the formative 
principles of the republic are em- 
bodied in the Declaration of Inde- 
pendence, whence they passed gra- 
dually into the constitutions of the 
several States and into the Consti- 
tution of the United 'States, and 
have step by step worked their 
way more or less perfectly into the 
general and special laws of the 
country. These articles consist 
principally in the declaration " that 
all men are created equal ; that 
they are endowed by their Crea- 
tor with certain inalienable rights; 
that among these are life, liber- 
ty, and the pursuit of happiness; 
that, to secure these rights, govern- 
ments are instituted among men, 
deriving their just powers from the 
consent of the governed." 

These declarations can be looked 
upon only by superficial thinkers 
as " glittering generalities," where- 
as some are divine and fundamen- 
tal, and all are practical verities, 
having a ground both in reason 
and revelation. They are divine, 
inasmuch as they declare the rights 
of the Creator in his creature; 
they are fundamental, for without 
the enjoyment of the natural rights 
which they proclaim man is not a 
man, but a slave or a chattel ; they 
are practical, for man is, or ought 
to be, under his Creator, the master 
of his own destiny and free from 
any dominion not founded in di- 
vine right. The Creator invested 
man with these rights in order that 
he might fulfil the duties insepara- 
bly attached to them. For these 
rights put man in the possession of 
himself, and leave him free to 
reach the end for which his Crea- 



The Catholic Church in the United States. 



439 



tor called him into existence. He, 
therefore, who denies or violates 
these rights offends God, acts the 
tyrant, and is an enemy of man- 
kind. And if there be any supe- 
rior merit in the republican polity 
of the United States, it consists 
chiefly in this: that while it adds 
nothing and can add nothing to 
man's natural rights, it expresses 
more clearly, guards more securely, 
and protects more effectually these 
rights ; so that man, under its popu- 
lar institutions, enjoys greater lib- 
erty in working out his true des- 
tiny. 

Since Christianity claims to be 
God's revelation of the great end 
for which he created man, it fol- 
lows that those rights without 
which he cannot reach that end 
must find their sanction, expressed 
or implied, in all true interpreta- 
tions of its doctrines. 

That the interpretations of Chris- 
tianity by the so-called Reformation, 
especially by its leaders, neither 
sanctioned nor even implied the 
natural rights of man, the peculiar 
articles of its creed and its history 
plainly show. 

When the Puritan Fathers landed 
on Plymouth Rock they brought 
with them a fixed religious creed, 
whose primary article was **the 
total depravity " of human nature, 
and, as a consequence, the loss of 
free-will ; from which premise it 
was held that man, in his unre- 
generate state, is not able to do 
any good, but is inclined/ to all evil. 
This fundamental dogma, applied 
to the political order, excludes un- 
regenerate men from all part in the 
organization of the state, as well 
as from all participation . in the 
rights and privileges of citizenship. 
Such, too, is the historical fact ; 
political citizenship in the province 
of the Puritans, where they trim- 



med the state to suit their creed, 
was exclusively granted to mem- 
bers of the orthodox church. " All 
civil power," says the Presbyterian 
Dr. Hodge, " was confined to the 
members of the church, no person 
being either eligible to office or 
entitled to the right of suffrage 
who was not in full communion of 
some church."* The natural man 
had no rights. To be a freeman 
you must be a Puritan. The men 
who came in the Mayflower did 
not hold the principles which gave 
birth to religious toleration or po- 
litical liberty in the New World. 
And so far were their annals from 
the " grand historic lines of the 
country " that it was as late as 1834 
when Massachusetts granted full 
religious liberty, while even to-day 
a Catholic is ineligible to office in 
the State of New Hampshire be- 
cause of his religion. Hence there 
can scarcely be an assertion farther 
from the truth than that made by 
Ranke and D'Aubigne, and repeat- 
ed by Bancroft and men of less or 
more note, that republican liberty 
is due to Protestantism, and due 
to Protestantism under its most re- 
pulsive form that which was given 
to it by John Calvin. 

An appeal to the New World, 
where the original Protestant colo- 
nies were free to form apolitical gov- 
ernment in accordance with their pe- 
culiar religious belief, gives no coun- 
tenance to this peremptory assertion. 
It is, moreover, made in face of the 
historic testimony of the Old World, 
for nowhere in Europe has Pro- 
testantism been favorable to popu- 
lar rights, or called into existence 
what by any honest interpretation 
can be termed a republic. This 
statement can be easily verified. 

During its three centuries of ex- 
istence a republican form of gov- 

* Princeton Review, 1863. 



440 



The Catholic Church in the United States. 



eminent has nowhere under Pro- 
testant ascendency made its ap- 
pearance. One will look in vain 
in Germany, the cradle of Protes- 
tantism, for a popular government. 
The same is true of Prussia, Eng- 
land, Scotland, Sweden, and Hol- 
land, for the Dutch Republic was 
founded upon the ancient consti- 
tutions of the provinces, and not 
upon popular rights. It was a re- 
public only in name, and, such as 
it was, its life was very short. M. 
Guizot, in his Life of John Calvin, 
reveals the cause for this, and right- 
ly discriminates between the influ- 
ence of Calvinism on churches and 
the influence of Calvinism on lib- 
erty when he says: "Calvin's In- 
stitutes were the source of the 
strength and vitality of the Re- 
formed churches in these countries," 
but at the same time he acknow- 
ledges that " their claims were in- 
compatible with the progress of 
liberty " (Guizot's Life of John 
Calvin, ch. v.) " Calvin did not 
believe in man's free-will," says 
the same author, " and he treated 
it with severity and a kind of con- 
tempt. Calvin believed and as- 
serted that he had more right over 
other men's opinions and actions 
than he ought to have claimed, and 
he did not show sufficient respect 
for their rights " (ibid) He knows 
little of the origin of liberty in 
America or elsewhere who honors 
in any sense John Calvin as its 
author. 

If Protestants have contributed 
to human freedom, it was not as 
Protestants ; the motives which 
prompted them did not spring from 
their religious creed, for that was 
a foe to human rights and the 
grave of liberty. The servitude of 
the human will in consequence of 
original sin, as taught by both Mar- 
tin Luther and John Calvin, cut off. 



root and branch, personal, political, 
civil, intellectual, moral, and re- 
ligious liberty. Protestantism as a 
religious system was an insult to 
all ideas of freedom. Hence it 
was not due to any principle of 
liberty of the original Protestant 
colonists that religious toleration 
was made a part of the organic law 
of the republic, but to the fact that 
the Protestant sects were not able 
to agree, and that there was no 
one of them sufficiently powerful 
to press its exclusive claim and get 
its peculiarities incorporated into 
the Constitution. 

In no place where Protestantism 
prevailed among a people as their 
religion has it given birth to a re- 
public, and nowhere in the nine- 
teenth century does there exist a 
republic in a Protestant land. 
The so-called Reformation, follow- 
ing out its own principles, failed 
altogether to reconcile Christianity 
with popular rights. Its spirit and 
doctrines, derived from an exagger- 
ated idea of the sovereignty of God 
and the utter nullity of man, are in 
accordance with the Oriental mind 
and suitable to an Asiatic despot- 
ism, and it deserves credit for civil 
and religious liberty nowhere. As 
for the Puritans in particular, one 
of ^.heir descendants covers the 
whole ground when he says : " I 
believe we are descended from the 
Puritans, who nobly fled from a 
land of despotism to a land of 
freedom, where they could not only 
enjoy their own religion but pre- 
vent everybody else from enjoying 
his." 

Protestantism in its political as- 
pect might be defined as a theo- 
cratic corporation composed exclu- 
sively of regenerate men of ortho- 
dox faith, having for its' premise the 
religious dogma concerningthe " to- 
tal corruption of human nature " 



The Catholic Church in the United States. 



441 



in consequence of Adam's fall, as 
taught by its leaders, Martin Luther 
and John Calvin. One may repel 
this conclusion, but it will be at 
the expense of intellectual consis- 
tency and historical testimony. 

So long as the New England set- 
tlements were content to remain 
English colonies it was possible 
for them to hold their peculiar re- 
ligious tenets and maintain their 
exclusive religio-political organi- 
zation; but when they joined with 
the other colonies, and appealed to 
the equality by birth of all men 
and the inalienable rights of man 
to justify their separation from 
Great Britain, the Puritans then 
and there, in sanctioning these de- 
clarations, entered upon a road 
which necessarily terminated in a 
radical and total change of the 
peculiar articles of their religious 
creed. For the proclamation of 
man's natural rights involved the 
overthrow of the whole theological 
structure built by the reformed 
theologians upon the corner-stone 
of man's "total depravity." The 
Puritans, in signing the Declaration 
of Independence, signed their own 
death-warrant. 

A comparison between the two 
will show this. The political sys- 
tem of the Puritans was founded on 
an exaggerated supernaturalism ; 
the political system implied in the 
truths contained in the Declaration 
of Independence supposed a mere 
naturalism. The former held hu- 
man nature to be totally corrupt ; 
the latter- supposes human nature 
as essentially good. The one 
maintained that man, by Adam's 
fall, forfeited all his natural rights; 
the other declared that the rights 
of man by nature are inalienable. 
The first granted political suffrage 
exclusively to the elect ; the sec- 
ond based the right of suffrage 



on universal manhood. The Pu- 
ritans relied altogether on the 
strength of divine grace ; the Ame- 
rican republican trusted in the 
inborn capacity of human nature. 
The two parties started from oppo- 
site poles in regard to man's rights 
and the value of human nature. 
The Declaration of Independence 
was the antithesis of Martin Lu- 
ther's work on the Slave-will and 
John Calvin's Institutes, looked at 
from their political side. 

That Calvinism excludes repub- 
licanism in politics has been shown ; 
and .that republicanism excludes 
Calvinism in religion we will now 
endeavor to prove. 

The process of this exclusion was 
a simple one. The natural influ- 
ence of the practical working of 
the American political system, bas- 
ed on universal suffrage, is an in- 
citement to the intelligence and 
conscience of the people under the 
conviction that the choice of the 
ballot-box will be in the main on 
the side of good government. Fre- 
quent elections and the popular 
agitations attending them awaken 
aspirations, excite debate and ac- 
tion, and under this stimulating in- 
fluence the people are soon led to 
trust human reason and to become 
conscious of the possession of free- 
will ; and it was quite natural that, 
as these repressed powers grew in 
strength by action, their leaders 
should assert, and rather defiantly 
at first, the rights of man, be for- 
ward as champions of human lib- 
erty, and indulge in some pretty 
" tall talk " about the dignity of 
man and the nobility of human na- 
ture. Nor can it be a matter of 
surprise that rousing appeals were 
made to men who, under the de- 
pressing influence of a religious 
creed, would have lost their man- 
hood, if that were possible : " to 



442 



The Catholic Church in the United States. 



act out yourself," "obey your in- 
stincts/' "assert your manhood," 
"be a man "! The extravagant ef- 
forts to magnify man were the na- 
tural rebound from the opposite 
extreme of excessive abasement. 

Universal suffrage is the most 
efficient school to awaken general 
intelligence, to teach a people their 
rights, and to arouse in their bosoms 
the sense of their manhood. For 
what is a vote ? It is the recogni- 
tion of man's intelligence and lib- 
erty and responsibility, the quali- 
ties which constitute his manhood. 
What is a vote ? It is the admis- 
sion that man, as man, is, or ought 
to be, considered a factor in a 
tolerably perfect political society ; 
that he has the right to shape, and 
in bounden duty ought to shape 
so far as his ability extends, the 
course of the destiny of his coun- 
try. A vote is a practical means 
by which every man can exercise 
his right and fulfil his duty by mak- 
ing his voice heard in the councils 
of the nation. It is the practical 
application of the truth that " all 
men are born equal " that is, " all 
men have an equal right to life/' 
to " liberty," and to the " pursuit of 
happiness," and, armed with a bal- 
lot, a man has the power of main- 
taining and protecting these rights. 
Every vote rightly understood 
means at least all that has been 
here stated. The force of these 
truths, by virtue of their applica- 
tion, effaced from the minds of the 
offspring of the Puritans in less than 
two generations the " injurious im- 
positions of their early catechetical 
instructions." It is speaking with- 
in the boundaries of moderation to 
say that scarcely one descendant 
of the Puritans in fifty, perhaps not 
one in five hundred shall we say 
one in a thousand ? perhaps not one 
in ten thousand will be found who 



would willingly make, without seri- 
ous reservations, an act of faith in 
the five points of Calvinism. So 
thorough has been this reaction 
that a good part of the New Eng- 
land people now hold that to be 
Christianity which their forefathers 
would have condemned as the total 
negation of Christianity. This is 
not to be wondered at when you 
consider that every time a freeman 
goes to the polls and deposits his 
vote in the ballot-box he virtually 
condemns the dogmas of Protes- 
tantism and practically repudiates 
the Reformation. The persistent 
action of the ballot-box of the re- 
public outweighed the persuasive 
force of the Puritan pulpit. 

A writer in an English periodi- 
cal, commenting on this religious 
phase of the New England mind 
resulting from their rejection of 
the doctrine of "total depravity," 
remarks : " It is now a part of the 
Boston creed that a man born in 
that city has no need to be born 
again." 

The people may not draw 
promptly the conclusions which 
How from tneir premises, for they 
act rather from implicit than ex- 
plicit reflections ; but in the long 
run they reach the explicit logi- 
cal conclusion from these premi- 
ses. The early Puritans, in conform- 
ing their politics to their religion, 
founded a theocracy ; their descend- 
ants, in conforming their religion 
to their political principles, found- 
ed Unitarianism. " I trust," wrote 
Mr. Jefferson in 1822, " there is 
not a young man now born in the 
United States who will not die an 
Unitarian.'" 1 

This truth, then, if we mistake 
not, has been clearly shown : that 
every religious dogma has a special 
bearing on political society, and this 

* Parton's Life ofjffferson, p. 711. 



The Catholic Church in the United States. 



443 



bearing is what constitutes its poli- 
tical principle ; and every political 
principle has a religious bearing, 
and this bearing involves a religions 
dogma which is its premise. And, 
as a corollary from the above, it 
may be rightly said that Protes- 
tant religious dogmas are foreign 
to republicanism and lead to a 
theocracy in politics ; and that re- 
publicanism in politics is foreign 
to Protestantism and leads to Uni- 
tarianism in religion. But Unita- 
rianism is naturalism, and no close 
observer of the current of religious 
thought of the American people 
will deny that under the genius of 
republicanism its main drift is in 
that direction. 

This much being said, the way 
is now clear to treat more satis- 
factorily of the relation between 
the republic and the Catholic 
Church. 

There exists a necessary bond 
and correlation between the truths 
contained in the Declaration of 
Independence and the revealed 
truths of Christianity, since the 
truths of the natural order serve as 
indispensable supports to the body 
of revealed truths of faith. Deny 
to man reason, and religion can 
have no more meaning to men 
than to a brute or a machine. 
Deny the certitude of reason, and 
there would be no foundation for 
certitude in supernatural faith. 
Deny the innate freedom of the 
will, and the basis for all moral- 
ity would be undermined, and the 
fountain-head of personal, political, 
and religious liberty would be dried 
up. Deny to man the gifts of rea- 
son and free-will, and the natu- 
ral rights of man which flow from 
these gifts are the wild fancies 
of a dreamer, and a republic 
founded upon them becomes the 
baseless fabric of a vision. 



The following declarations will 
throw more light on the value of 
human nature, and of the bearing 
of the truths of reason upon the 
supernatural truths of faith, and 
make our road still easier. Rea- 
son is the organ of truth, and acts 
upon the truth which lies within 
its domain with infallible certi- 
tude. The action of reason pre- 
cedes faith, and can admit the 
claims of no authority which does 
not appeal with entire trust to its 
jurisdiction for its verification, and 
can accept of none that does not 
accord and blend with its dictates. 
Man is by nature in possession of 
his free-will; therefore freedom is 
a birthright, and he holds it in 
trust from his Creator and is re- 
sponsible for its right use. Hu- 
man nature, as it now exists, is es- 
sentially good, and man naturally 
seeks and desires his Creator as 
the source of his happiness. Man 
has lost none of his original facul- 
ties and has forfeited none of his 
natural rights by Adam's fall, and 
therefore is by nature in possession 
of his natural rights, and it is right- 
ly said: "Among these are life, 
liberty, and the pursuit of happi- 
ness." " God has created all men 
equal " in regard to these rights, 
and therefore no one man has the 
natural right to govern another 
man ; and all political authority in 
individuals is justly said to be de- 
rived from the consent of the col- 
lective people who are governed. 
The people, under God, associated 
in a body politic, are the source of 
the sovereign political power in the 
civil state. The light of reason is 
the light of God in the soul, and 
the natural rights of man are c^m- 
ferred by God directly upon man ; 
and therefore a religion which 
does not affirm the value of hu- 
man reason and defend the natural 



444 



The Catholic Church in the United States. 



rights of man is baseless, and by 
no manner of means revealed by 
his Creator, but is a delusion or an 
imposition and worthy of no re- 
spect. With the light of these 
statements, the truths of which are 
in conformity with her authori- 
tative teaching, the connection 
of the Catholic Church with the 
American republic can easily be 
understood, and at the same time 
the light which they shed lays bare 
to the view of all men the real 
motives which actuate Catholics in 
their devotion to popular rights, 
and places above all suspicion the 
sincerity of their love for popular 
institutions. 

The American people in the 
Declaration of Independence avow- 
ed unequivocally their belief in the 
value of human nature, made a sol- 
emn act of loyalty to human rea- 
son, grounded their popular gov- 
ernment on a solid foundation, 
and opened the door which leads 
directly to the truth. These truths 
which it asserted were not the 
fruits of philosophical speculations, 
but evident truths of human rea- 
son ; and the rights which it affirm- 
ed were not the declamations of 
political dreamers, but rights insep- 
arable from man's rational nature. 
Nor were these truths and these 
rights proclaimed to the world for 
the first time on the 4th of July, 
1776, by the Continental Congress 
of the colonies; for they are as 
old as human nature, and will be 
found among the traditions of all 
races of civilized men. They are 
not lifeless abstractions but living 
truths, concreted more or less in 
all political governments, in their 
institutions and laws. Freedom is 
no tender sapling, but a hardy tree 
and of slow growth, whose roots 
are grounded in and entwined 
around the very elements of hu- 



man nature, and under the shel- 
ter of its' stout branches man has 
reached, through many struggles, 
his existing state of manhood. 

The War of Independence was a 
struggle for man's sacred rights and 
liberties, and in support of these 
rights and liberties the colonists, as 
British subjects, cited the Magna 
Charta outlined by Cardinal Lang- 
ton and his compeers, and won by 
them from King John in the mea- 
dow of Runnymede. Upon these. 
inherent and acknowledged rights 
of man, and upon the conclusion 
which they derived from them that 
no taxation without representation 
ought to be permitted, as a practi- 
cal maxim of government and safe- 
guard of these rights which they 
had received as a legacy from our 
common Catholic ancestors, the 
war for independence began, was 
fought, was won ; the republic was 
erected, and stands unchanged and 
immovable. Had the far-seeing 
Count de Maistre been as well 
acquainted with the history of the 
American colonies as he was with 
the history of his own country or 
that of England, he would not have 
hazarded the statement, advanced 
in his Considerations on France, that 
" he did not believe that the United 
States would last " or that " the 
city of Washington would accom- 
plish the object for which it was 
projected." All the conditions 
which he considered as essential 
to form a nation, and the vital prin- 
ciples necessary to produce a con- 
stitution, were existing and gave 
birth to the republic. The repub- 
lic came forth from these into exis- 
tence as naturally as the flower ex- 
pands from the bud. The illus- 
trious count's unbelief was in con- 
tradiction to his own political doc- 
trines no less than to the truths 
of his Catholic faith. He whose 



The Catholic Church in the United States. 



445 



intellectual vision is open to the 
light of first principles and their 
main bearings, and is not altogether 
a stranger to true history, knows 
full well that the Catholic Church 
has battled her whole lifetime for 
those rights of man and that liber- 
ty which confer the greatest glory 
on the American republic. 

That the pages of history testify 
to the close relationship existing 
between popular governments and 
the Catholic faith is shown by the 
fact that all republics since the 
Christian era have sprung into ex- 
istence under the influence of the 
Catholic Church, were founded in 
the ages of faith and by a Catho- 
lic people. The republic of San 
Marino has existed in an entirely 
Catholic population in the heart of 
Italy one thousand years or more ; 
and that of Andorra, on the bor- 
ders of Spain and France, has stood 
the same number of years, and 
neither shows any signs of approach- 
ing dissolution. But these repub- 
lics are small in numbers and in 
extent of territory ? Grant it ; yet 
they are large enough and have 
existed long enough to illustrate 
the principle that republicanism is 
congenial with the Catholic reli- 
gion and at home in a Catholic 
population. Then, again, we have 
the Italian republics .in Catholic 
ages those of Venice, Pisa, (f enoa, 
Milan, Florence, Padua, Bologna. 
In fact, there were no less than two 
hundred republics spread over the 
fair land of Italy. The princi- 
pal Italian cities may be regarded 
as model republics. Some were 
founded in the ninth, others in the 
tenth or eleventh, century, and last- 
ed several hundred years. Venice 
stood one thousand years and more. 
The Swiss republic was founded in 
mediaeval times, and counts among 
its heroes and martyrs of political 



liberty William Tell, Arnold von 
Winkelried, and Andrew Hofer, all 
faithful sons of the Catholic Church. 
The republics in South America, 
though rather quarrelsome, are at 
least the growth of a population al- 
together Catholic. How else can 
we explain that the love of liber- 
ty and popular institutions should 
spring up spontaneously and ex- 
clusively on Catholic soil, unless it 
be that republicanism and the Ca- 
tholic Church have one common 
root ? 

From this point of view it is a 
matter of no surprise that Catholics 
were the first to proclaim religious 
freedom among the original colo- 
nists, and were also among the first 
and stanchest patriots in the war 
for independence. None will be 
found among the signers of the 
Declaration of Independence whose 
position in society and wealth were 
equal to those of Charles Carroll, 
the intelligent, sincere, and fervent 
Catholic layman. The priest who 
became the first bishop and first 
archbishop in the hierarchy of the 
Catholic Church in the United 
States was the intimate friend of 
Benjamin Franklin, and, an asso- 
ciate with him, invited by Congress 
to engage the Canadians to be 
neutral if they were not ready to 
join their efforts for independence. 
Washington, with his characteristic 
impartiality, publicly acknowledged 
at the close of the war the patri- 
otic part which Catholics as a class 
had taken in the great struggle for 
liberty. No one can appreciate 
the depth of conviction and the 
strength of affection of Catholics 
for republican institutions unless 
he sees, as they do, the same order 
of truths which serve as the foun- 
dation of his religious belief un- 
derlying, as their support, the free 
institutions of his country. The 



446 



The Catholic Church in the United States. 



doctrines of the Catholic Church 
alone give to popular rights, and 
governments founded thereupon, 
an intellectual basis, and furnish 
their vital principle. What a Ca- 
tholic believes as a member of the 
Catholic Church he believes as a 
citizen of the republic. His reli- 
gion consecrates his political con- 
victions, and this consecration im- 
parts a twofold strength to his pa- 
triotism. 

What a Catholic believes as a 
citizen of the republic he believes 
as a member of the Catholic Church ; 
and as the natural supports and 
strengthens the supernatural, this 
accounts for the universally ac- 
knowledged fact that no Catholics 
are more sincere in their religious 
belief, more loyal to the author- 
ity of the church, more generous 
in her support, than the Catholic 
republican citizens of the Unit- 
ed States. Catholicity in religion 
sanctions republicanism in politics, 
and republicanism in politics favors 
Catholicity in religion. 

Their relationship is so intimate 
and vital that no attack can be 
made against the church which is 
not equally a blow against the re- 
public. The animus of the so-call- 
ed Native-American party was hos- 
tility to the Catholic Church, and 
its principles were in direct con- 
tradiction to the American bill of 
rights, and its policy was a flagrant 
violation of that religious, civil, and 
political liberty guaranteed by the 
Constitution of the United States. 

The question of education affords 
another illustration. Catholics fa- 
vor education, none more than 
they, and they take the strongest 
grounds against ignorance, for they 
look upon ignorance, when volun- 
tary, as being frequently something 
worse than a misfortune ; they 
even condemn it in many cases as 



a sin. They are prepared, if their 
rights be respected, to give their 
children all the elementary, scien- 
tific, and moral education of which 
they are capable, and even more 
than the state will ever ask. As 
an evidence of their spirit and de- 
votion to education witness their 
schools, academies, and colleges 
dotted all over the land. No de- 
nomination of Christians, no class 
of American citizens, can stand 
alongside of Catholics when it is a 
question of earnestness and self- 
sacrifice for education. But " No," 
say the votaries of the common- 
school system to Catholics ; " we 
insist that you shall educate your 
children according to our specially- 
devised state system, and that, too, 
under compulsory force ; and, what 
is more, you shall be taxed by the 
state for its support." 

Catholics say in reply that it is 
no necessary part of the function 
of the state to teach and educate 
children. The education of chil- 
dren is rather a parental than a 
political duty. Besides, to ascribe 
this function to the state is anti- 
American ; for the genius of our 
political system dictates that the 
state should abstain from all inter- 
ference in matters which can be 
accomplished by individual enter- 
prise or voluntary associations. It 
is cle*ar that the chief aim of the 
advocates of the present public- 
school system in the United States 
is less the desire for general diffu- 
sion of knowledge than the advance- 
ment of a pet theory of education ; 
and they insist upon its exclusive 
adoption because they imagine that 
its spirit and tendency are against 
the spread and progress of the 
Catholic faith. Thus they subor- 
dinate education to a sectarian 
prejudice. These feelings of hos- 
tility to the Catholic Church actu- 



The Catholic Church in the United States. 



447 



ate a considerable number of the 
advocates of this un-American sys- 
tem of what is claimed to be purely 
secular but really is infidel educa- 
tion, and to such a degree that 
they are blind to the fact that it is 
equally destructive to every form 
of the Christian faith ; that it leaves, 
because of its practical inefficiency, 
thousands of children in ignorance ; 
that it does violence to the reli- 
gious convictions of a large body 
of citizens of the republic; that it 
tramples upon the sacred rights of 
parents, and endangers the state it- 
self by perverting its action from 
its legitimate function. " Heat not 
a furnace so hot that it doth singe 
yourself" is good advice. The so- 
called American public-school sys- 
tem is a cunningly-devised scheme, 
under the show of zeal for popular 
education, for forcing the state, in 
violation of American principles of 
liberty, to impose an unjust and 
heavy tax on its citizens, with the 
intent of injuring the Catholic 
Church, while in the meantime it 
is sapping in the minds of the 
American youth the foundations of 
all religion and driving them into 
infidelity. 

There are other questions, agi- 
tated only by an inconsiderable 
portion of the American people, 
and equally foreign to the genius 
and normal action of the republic. 
Some would change the Constitu- 
tion of the United States, and, 
under the plea of Christianizing it, 
make it sectarian; while others, 
under the garb of liberty, would 
make the state at least pagan, if 
not atheistic. Had these partisans 
their way, the one would make the 
church the state, and the other 
would make the state the church. 
Catholics are content with the or- 
ganic law of the republic as it 
stands, because it is as it ought to 



be. They say to both leagues,. 
"Protestant" and ''Liberal": 
" Hands off from the palladium 
of American rights and freedom! 
Let there be an open field ; there is 
no ground for fear that truth will 
be worsted in a fair encounter." 
" Truth," in the inspired words of 
Holy Writ, " is mighty above all 
things, and will prevail." 

But we are told quite recently 
by a well-known and distinguished 
author, in a lecture on the " Fu- 
ture of the Republic," that " The 
Catholic Church exasperates com- 
mon sense." Common sense ? 
" Common sense " is the decision 
of unperverted reason, and its voice 
has been given counting nineteen 
centuries in favor of the Catholic 
Church, and this record lias not 
been reversed. It was not com- 
mon sense that dictated the ill-tem- 
pered sentence quoted; it bears the 
unmistakable ear-marks of the grim 
spirit of the old Puritans. The 
presence of the Catholic Church 
always did exasperate the Puritans, 
and acted upon their irritable 
nerves as her exorcisms act on evil 
spirits. Error always feels ill at 
ease when confronted by the oppo- 
site truth. This was so with the 
heathen, and in their exasperation 
they forced Catholic virgins into 
houses of infamy in the vain ex- 
pectation of their fall. The times 
are changed and no longer suffer 
such an outrage, but in revenge 
this writer couples the holy church 
with" trance-mediums "and " rebel 
paradoxes." He says : " The Ca- 
tholic Church, trance-mediums, and 
rebel paradoxes exasperate com- 
mon sense." This utterance of the 
oracle of transcendentalism is a 
singular survival of the Puritan and 
heathen spirit, and as such it may 
be left to the investigations of stu- 
dents of atavism. To them also 



448 



The Catholic Church in the United States. 



may be left the explanation of how, 
under their spell, an otherwise 
acute and polished writer witlessly 
commits a blunder against common 
sense and civility. "To what base 
uses we may return !" O Seer 
of Concord ! it's your nerves, and 
you need physic. 

" Dull Sphinx, Jove keep thy fine wits ! 

Thy sight is growing blear ; 
Rue, myrrh, and cumin for the Sphinx, 
Her muddy eyes to clear." 

Error forces truth to appear and 
become known ; hence every new 
attack, every new agitation, and 
every newly invented calumny 
against the Catholic Church brings 
out into clearer light her divine 
character, removes prejudices from 
the minds of her adversaries, pro- 
motes conversion, and adds to her 
strength. 

Let it, then, be clearly under- 
stood that what we maintain is 
that the common aim of all legit- 
imate political government is the 
security of man's natural rights; 
that the American republic is 
most distinctly founded on this 
common basis ; that the Catholic 
interpretation of Christianity em- 
phatically sanctions its declaration 
of these rights, and as the natural 
and supernatural spring from one 
and the same divine source, "and 
God cannot deny himself, nor one 
truth ever contradict another,"* it 
follows that the republic and the 
Catholic Church can never in their 
normal action, if intelligence reigns, 
clash, but, by a necessary law of their 
existence, mutually aid, advance, and 
complete each other. A citizen of 
the American republic who under- 
stands himself is all the more loy- 
al to the republic because he is a 
Catholic, and all the better Catho- 
lic because he is loyal to the re- 
public. For the doctrines of the 
Catholic Church alone furnish him 

* Vatican Council, De fide et ratione. 



with the principles which enable 
him to make a synthesis between 
republicanism and Christianity. 

We give below a table to show 
the gradual increase of the Catholic 
Church, so far as the data was at- 
tainable, from the time of the De- 
claration of Independence to the 
year 1878 inclusive. As for the 
number of Catholics, we have taken 
what may be considered an aver- 
age estimate : 



tx ro ro to toon 

** ?%2 

C1 m 



" 



ir~ 

oo 







. 

<Q<OwWOfc.OH 



- 



actio 
popu 



The Catholic Church in the United States. 



449 



The increase of Catholics in 
the United States has been due 
almost altogether to immigration; 
and when immigration diminishes 
will not her progress cease ? The 
number of immigrants may fall 
short of what it has been, but still, 
for good reasons, it will continue 
to be large. Recently, on account 
of the financial crisis, it nearly stop- 
ped ; but as this is now sensibly 
passing away the tide ( of immigra- 
tion is again rising. This will con- 
tinue ; for the liberty which is en- 
joyed under popular institutions, 
and the material advantages which 
the country offers to settlers, espe- 
cially in its cheap and fertile lands, 
are inducements that will suffice 
of themselves to attract large num- 
bers to its shores. The millions 
of immigrants settled in the repub- 
lic as their home and their coun- 
try act as an attractive force to 
their relatives, friends, and former 
countrymen. The desire to escape 
the almost insupportable burden of 
military service by forced con- 
scriptions, occasioned by frequent 
wars and by the dangers from ri- 
val nationalities continually loom- 
ing with threatening aspect on the 
political horizon, will drive large 
numbers in the prime and vigor 
of manhood to a country that has 
no standing army to speak of, and 
whose geographical position ren- 
ders it free from all threatening 
dangers to its peace, Last and 
not least of the causes bearing on 
this point are religious persecu- 
tions. These send large numbers, 
thanks especially to Prince Bis- 
marck, to the land of religious tol- 
eration. For these and other cau- 
ses, from Ireland, Germany, and 
other countries of Europe will flow 
a continuous stream of immigrants 
to the United States. And as 
three-fifths of Europe retain the 
VOL. xxix. 29 



Cathojic faith (omitting to count 
the promise of a greater increase 
from its Catholic population for 
which there are special* reasons), 
the Catholic Church in the United 
States may rely on having, rela- 
tively at least, her share in the fu- 
ture immigrants. 

But the increase of Catholics in 
the United States is not solely due 
to immigration ; there is another 
cause, a moral and a potent one, 
which accelerates her growth. It 
has been noticed, by several au- 
thors who have written works on 
the population of the United States 
and on kindred subjects, that the 
natural increase of the foreign ele- 
ment of our population is much 
greater in proportion than that of 
the home-born element. This will 
be best seen by following the sta- 
tistics of Massachusetts and Rhode 
Island, the former the largest State 
in New England and the latter the 
smallest, in population, and where 
registration reports have been care- 
fully kept. Taking the population 
of American origin in these States 
as a class, their deaths exceed their 
birth-rate. Dr. Allen, of Lowell, 
who is an authority on this subject, 
speaking of Massachusetts, says : 
" It is very questionable whether 
there is much increase by numbers 
in the class of Americans. " " Take, " 
he observes, " the towns contain- 
ing none or scarce any foreign 
populations, where in 1846 and 1865 
not a single foreign birth is report- 
ed (there are thirty such towns in 
Massachusetts), and the whole num- 
ber of deaths in these towns for 
1864 and 1865 exceed each year 
the births." The registration re- 
port of Massachusetts for 1870 
says : " The character of our popula- 
tion is undergoing a great change. 
Surely, and not slowly, a mixed 
stock of Irish, German, and Cana- 



450 



The Catholic Church in the United States. 



dians is taking the place of the 
pure English stock which has pos- 
sessed Massachusetts for more than 
two centuries. " To pick and to 
choose and to reject among the 
truths known to be revealed by 
God is properly called heresy, and 
it is evident that such a state of 
mind is incompatible with either 
intellectual or moral rectitude, and 
therefore all heresy, by its very 
nature, leads inevitably to self- 
extinction with its fanatical adher- 
ents. 

But there is an increase of po- 
pulation in the State of Massachu- 
setts, and whence does this come ? 
" Wherever an increase has taken 
place," observes the same writer, 
"it is found on examination to be 
made up largely of the foreign ele- 
ment, either from emigration or by 
great number of births. It is a 
fact now pretty well established 
that the foreign class will have, on 
an average, about three times as 
many children as an equal num- 
ber of the American." In Rhode 
Island the census report of 1875 
shows "that its native American 
population by parentage has in- 
creased only 12.89 per cent, in ten 
years past, while the foreign popu- 
lation by parentage has increased 
80. 1 1 percent, in the same time. 
If this increase should continue at 
the same rate in the future, the 
population of Rhode Island will 
be in June, 1877 : American 138,- 
195, and foreign 143,307; and in 
1885, American 152,087, and for- 
eign 222,466." "Old Massachu- 
setts," remarks another writer on 
the subject, " has passed away, and 
a new Massachusetts is taking its 
place." But these comparative 
birth-rates apply with equal force 
to other Eastern States; and if 
things follow their actual course, 
.and right names are applied to 



things, New England presently will 
have to be called New Ireland. 

The ratio of the Catholic popula- 
tion in all the New England States, 
compared with the non-Catholic, is 
considered at present to be about 
one-fourth. As Catholics are 
taught and believe that the bonds 
of wedlock are perpetually binding 
in conscience by a divine law, and 
the duties of parentage are sacred, 
they have no temptation to be freed 
from the restraints of the one or 
relieved from the duties of the other ; 
or if such temptations arise they 
are quickly repressed by the in- 
fluence of religious motives. Sad 
experience will teach statesmen 
that there is no other way of pro- 
tecting the state from sure decay 
than in conforming its legislation 
to Christian morals as taught by 
the Catholic Church only. If the 
Catholic Church in the United 
States were left to the law of na- 
tural increase alone, this, it is evi- 
dent, would suffice for her con- 
tinuous progress relatively to the 
population of the country. 

No vessel sails without back- 
water, and this is true of the bark 
of the church. Her counter-cur- 
rent has been in the number of her 
children who have strayed from 
her fold on account of the insuffi- 
ciency of priests, churches, and the 
means for their religious instruc- 
tion ; and, again, the increased 
death-rate of the children of for- 
eign parentage, occasioned for the 
most part by reason of poverty. 
As to the first drawback, the num- 
ber of priests, churches, schools, 
these are in the larger settled States 
approaching to the needs of the 
faithful. The vocations to the 
priesthood in the most settled dio- 
ceses, we are informed, suffice for 
their wants. Seminaries are in- 
creasing; many of them are fine 



The Catholic Church in the United States. 



451 



buildings, and that of the diocese 
of Philadelphia, if equalled anywhere 
in Catholic countries, is not sur- 
passed. The recent decrease in 
immigration has given the church 
a breathing-spell, and she is putting 
forth her strength and coping with 
these difficulties, as the table in re- 
ference to these points on page 
18 shows. As to the second, the 
relative poverty of Catholics, this, 
with their energy, industry, and 
spirit of enterprise, is rapidly disap- 
pearing. " From whatever branch 
of industry," says a Protestant 
writer,* " the Irish adopt they suc- 
ceed in driving off native Ame- 
rican competitors, and they are 
equally successful in establishing 
and maintaining in all departments 
under their control an enhanced 
rate of compensation. They have 
swept our factories almost clear of 
native help. They have nearly the 
monopoly of boot and shoe making, 
the most important and lucrative 
industry of Massachusetts. They 
are planting their colonies in many 
of the best towns and cities ; and 
when they once get a foothold 
in a neighborhood there springs 
up forthwith a populous Hibernia. 
They are fast taking to themselves 
the lion's share of the actual earn- 
ings of productive industry. They 
are sending immense sums to Ire- 
land ; the rapidly-growing capitals 
of our savings-banks belong in very 
great part to them ; they have 
very heavy deposits in the hands of 
their priests ; and their ecclesiasti- 
cal property is enormous, especial- 
ly in our Western cities and on the 
Pacific coast, where the church 
(generally under Irish auspices) 
has anticipated other purchasers, 
and obtained at the outset corner- 
lots and other real estate yielding 

* Andrew P. Peabody, D.D. 



the most ample revenue, so that the 
Romish Church often holds more 
property than all Protestant de- 
nominations." But it is not only 
in branches of industry that Catho- 
lics have become prominent; there 
will be found among the distin- 
guished merchants, bankers, judges, 
legislators, inventors, officers of the 
regular army, professors in colleges, 
literary and scientific men, mem- 
bers of the Catholic Church, and in 
all these classes Catholics are gain- 
ing, proportionately, representatives 
of their faith. 

This prosperity and elevation 
have also their effect upon the ma- 
terial advancement of the church. 
The Catholic cathedrals, both as to 
size and style of architecture, are the 
most conspicuous structures in the 
largest cities in the United States, 
such as Philadelphia, Baltimore, 
Boston, Cincinnati, New Orleans, 
Buffalo, Newark, Cleveland, Pitts- 
burgh, Albany, Rochester, Colum- 
bus, Mobile, Portland. Preparations 
are being made for the construc- 
tion of cathedrals, or cathedrals 
are actually being built, in other 
populous cities in Brooklyn, St. 
Louis, Providence, and Hartford. 
That of New York, which is on the 
point of completion, has, as be- 
comes the metropolis of the Union, 
no rival in size, in costliness of ma- 
terial, and in architectural character 
on the continent of America. The 
wealth of the Catholic Church has 
more than kept pace with the in- 
crease of the country's wealth, as 
is shown by the following statement : 
" In 1850 the total property valua- 
tion of the United States, accord- 
ing to the census report of that 
year, was $7,135,780,228; in 1860 
it was $16,159,616,068 ; in 1870 it 
was $30,668,518,507. That is to 
say, the aggregate wealth of the 



452 



The Catholic Church in the United States. 



country increased about 125 per 
cent, from 1850 to 1860, and about 
86 per cent, from 1860 to 1870. 

"The total property valuation of 
the Roman Catholic Church in the 
United States in 1850 was $9,256,- 
758; in 1860 it was $26,774,119; 
in 1870 it was $60,985,565. That is 
to say, the aggregate wealth of the 
Catholic Church increased about 
189 per cent, from 1850 to 1860, 
and about 128 per cent, from 1860 
to 1870. While, therefore, in the 
first of these two decades, the 
wealth of the whole country gained 
125 per cent., the wealth of the 
Catholic Church gained 189 per 
cent. ; and while in the second de- 
cade the wealth of the whole 
country gained 86 per cent., the 
wealth of the Catholic Church 
gained 128 per cent." 

The Catholic Church in the re- 
public finds her strength in relying 
for her material support upon the 
piety of the faithful, and the spir- 
it and generosity with which all 
classes of her children respond to 
this test of the sincerity of their 
faith is an example which has a 
meaning at this moment for the 
whole Christian world. Socially 
and politically Catholics are slow- 
ly taking the rank to which their 
education, virtue, wealth, and num- 
bers entitle them among the pro- 
minent forces of the republic, and 
the light which their religion throws 
upon its vital principles and its 
Constitution will make them con- 
spicuous as intelligent and patriotic 
citizens. 

The future of the United States 
belongs, under God, to that religion 
which, by its conscious possession 
of truth and by the indwelling 
Spirit of divine love, shall succeed 
in bringing the American people to 
unity in their religious belief and 
action, as they are actually one in 



the political sense. It would be 
the utter despair of reason to sup- 
pose that truth cannot be known 
with certitude, and it is the vir- 
tual denial of God to question his 
readiness to fill the hearts of all 
men with his love. The thought 
that the existing wr anglings in re- 
ligion are to go on and increase 
for ever can only enter base minds 
and satisfy vulgar souls. 

Admitting, then, all that has been 
said as true, it may be added that 
as the faith of the greater part of 
Catholics who come here from 
abroad rests on a traditional and 
historical basis almost exclusively; 
conceding that this traditional faith 
will be firm enough to keep its 
hold upon the immigrants and re- 
tain them in the fold of the church 
until death granting all this, the 
question starts up forcibly here : 
But will not the Catholic faith, un- 
der the influence of republicanism, 
lose its hold in one or two, or at 
most in three, generations on their 
children ? 

It is too obvious to admit of de- 
nial that a people born and edu- 
cated under the influence of popu- 
lar institutions will tend to exalt 
reason, and emphasize the positive 
instincts of human nature, and be 
apt to look upon the intrinsic rea- 
son of things as the only criterion 
of truth. It is equally clear that 
the Catholic Church, if she is to 
keep within her fold those who 
have received her baptism, and to 
captivate an intelligent and ener- 
getic people like the Americans, 
will have to receive their challenge 
and be ready to answer satisfacto- 
rily the problems of reason ; meet 
fully the demands of the needs of 
their spiritual nature ; bless and 
sanctify the imagination and senses 
and all man's God-given instincts. 
And while answering the most ener- 



The Catholic Church in the United States. 



453 



getic and sublime intelligence at 
the bar of reason, she will have to 
know how to retain her sweet and 
gentle hold on the tenderest affec- 
tions of the child. 

This task will not be an arduous 
one ; for, as has been shown, the 
authoritative teachings of the Ca- 
tholic Church maintain the natural 
order as the basis of the superna- 
tural, and, in the minds of many of 
the class of which we speak, Ca- 
tholicity is still identified with Cal- 
vinism. Hence they do themselves 
the injustice to believe that in re- 
jecting Calvinism they have also 
rejected Christianity altogether. 
They are not aware that the truths 
on which they based their rejec- 
tion of Calvinism are affirmed by 
Catholicity. What they did in 
their repudiation of Calvinism and 
Calvinism is nothing else but the 
logical basis of the dogmas of Pro- 
testantism was only a repetition of 
the anathemas of the fathers of the 
Council of Trent, and their action 
at bottom was founded mainly on 
the same reasons. They have ab- 
jured Protestantism, and never can 
be led to go back to what they 
know to be hostile to the genius of 
their country, contrary to the dic- 
tates of reason, and repugnant to 
their holiest affections. Its pro- 
mised heaven has lost for them all 
attractions; its hell no longer ex- 
cites any fear in their bosoms ; and 
its ministers openly confess that, as 
a religious system, Protestantism 
fails to exercise any authority over 
the minds, or to exert any influence 
on the conduct, of the majority of 
the American people. It demands 
from them a crippling of their na- 
ture and a sacrifice of its rights 
which, once its thraldom has been 
broken, nothing can restore. These 
minds have impeached Protestant- 
ism on Catholic grounds, and when 



they have been led to see that, 
their prejudices against Christianity 
will be removed and they will be 
willing to complete their task. . 

They cannot rest content where 
they are, for the human mind was 
made by its Creator for truth, and 
in the absence of truth it ceases to 
live. When it refuses its assent to 
truth it is either because the truth 
has been travestied and made to 
appear as false, or because it is 
seen through a colored medium. 
For the intellect is powerless to 
reject the truth when seen as the 
truth. It is not in the search after 
truth, but in the tranquil possession 
of truth and appropriation of it by 
contemplation, that man finds the 
fullest and purest joy. Man craves 
to know the enigma of life, and 
until this is known his intelligence 
cannot be wholly content with the 
investigation of bugs, or baffled by 
a word which contains a sound and 
nothing more the "unknowable." 

Moreover, the American mind in 
one aspect is unlike the European, 
in that infidelity, scepticism, mate- 
rialism, and atheism cannot find a 
lodgment in it. for any length of 
time. Their minds, like the native 
soil of their country, have some- 
thing virginal, and furnish no 
nourishment for these poisonous 
weeds, which, failing to take root, 
soon wither. There is a profound 
reason for this, and it will bear ex- 
planation. The reason may be 
found here : the denial of any one 
truth, carried out to its logical con- 
sequences, involves the denial of all 
truth. The so-called Reformers of 
the sixteenth century began by de- 
nying the supernatural origin of the 
divine institution of the church, 
and by force of logical sequence 
proceeded to the denial of its di- 
vine authority, and thus by pro- 
gression to the denial of all su- 



454 



The Catholic Church in the United States. 



pernatural truth ; thence the denial 
descended to philosophy, to poli- 
tics, to the entire natural order of 
truth, and finally to the denial of 
Him from whom proceeds all truth, 
ending in its logical termination 
atheism. The dominant intellec- 
tual tendency of Europe has, dur- 
ing these last three centuries, fol- 
lowed the law of negative sequence 
of error to its ultimate logical con- 
clusion. 

On the other hand, the affirma- 
tion of any one truth, logically fol- 
lowed out, leads to the knowledge 
and affirmation of all truth. The 
American republic began afresh in 
the last century by the declaration 
of certain evident truths of reason. 
The law of its progression consists 
in tracing these truths out to their 
logical connection with all other 
truths, and finally coming to the 
knowledge of all truth, both in the 
natural and supernatural order, 
ending in the affirmation of univer- 
sal truth and the union with the 
source of all truth God. The do- 
minant tendency of the American 
people is towards the law of the 
positive sequence of truth. The 
course of Europe was that of ne- 
gation ; the course of the United 
States was that of affirmation. The 
first was destructive, the second 
was constructive. The one was 
degrading, the other was elevating. 
That bred dissension, this created 
union. Europe, under the lead of 
the religious revolution of the six- 
teenth century, turned its back on 
Catholicity and entered upon the 
downward road that ends in death; 
the republic of the United States, 
in affirming man's natural rights, 
started in the eighteenth century 
with its face to Catholicity, and is 
in the ascending way of life to 
God. 

From this point of view the 



Declaration of American Indepen- 
dence has a higher meaning, and it 
may be said to be the turning-point 
in history from a negation to an 
affirmation of truth : interpreting 
democracy not as a downward but 
as an upward movement, and plac- 
ing political society anew on the 
road to the fulfilment of its divine 
destiny. 

Christianity, like republicanism, 
has in the last analysis nothing 
else to rely upon for its reception 
and success than reason and con- 
science and the innate powers of 
human nature, graciously aided as 
they always are; and let it once 
be shown that the Catholic inter- 
pretation of Christianity is conso- 
nant with the dictates of human 
reason, in accordance with man's 
normal feelings, favorable to the 
highest conceptions of man's dig- 
nity, and that it presents to his in- 
telligence a destiny which awakens 
the uttermost action and devotion 
of all his powers, and you have 
opened the door to the American 
people for the reception of the 
complete evidence of the claims of 
the Catholic Church, and prepared 
the way for the universal accep- 
tance of her divine character. 

The study of Zoroaster, Pytha- 
goras, Brahma, Buddha, Confucius, 
Plato, Cicero, Aristotle, Marcus 
Aurelius, and other seers and sages 
of the human race, and the admi- 
ration excited by the wisdom and 
virtues of the most illustrious 
pagans, is a healthful exercise for 
such minds as have not been alto- 
gether emancipated from a creed 
which taught that the heathen were 
God-forsaken, and insisted that 
their virtues should be " looked 
upon as so many vices." It may 
be said: What Plato did not know 
of the ancients was little worth 
knowing. Yet Justin the Philoso- 



The Catholic Church in the United States. 



455 



pher, who was a devout student of 
Plato's writings and disciple of the 
doctrine of this prince of philoso- 
phers, on his becoming a Christian 
said : " I abandon Plato, not that 
his doctrine is contrary to truth, 
but because it is insufficient and 
fragmentary. " This, too, will be the 
final verdict of all earnest and 
honest seekers after truth among 
the ancient sages and philosophers; 
and if they have the courage to 
conquer their prejudices and the 
earnestness to pursue their studies 
and make an impartial investiga- 
tion of the Christian religion in the 
light of the Catholic interpretation 
of its doctrines, their intellectual 
eyes will be opened to see that in 
Christianity are all the fragmen- 
tary truths which they found, after 
diligent and laborious search, scat- 
tered among the ancients, reinte- 
grated in their general principles. 
For Catholicity affirms the convic- 
tions and traditions of the whole 
human race, and all the truths of 
every system of religion or philoso- 
phy are contained in her absolute 
synthesis. Catholicity means uni- 
versal truth, after the knowledge of 
which all noble souls aspire natur- 
ally. One of the distinctive and 
essential marks of true religion is 
this : it grasps concretely what- 
ever truth has been held always 
and everywhere and by all men. 
All truth is catholic. 

There is a general conviction 
abroad that the people's share in 
the government of a nation ought 
to be enlarged. It must be admit- 
ted that the American republic has 
contributed not a little to form and 
support this conviction. But the 
principles of the republic are not 
like those of an Utopia in the air ; 
they are fixedly rooted in the 
ground of reason and revealed 
truth. If the framers of the repub- 



lic set aside certain privileges and 
institutions inherited from pagan, 
barbaric, or feudal times, it was 
not to break with the past, but be- 
cause these things were unservice- 
able to a people with the spirit and 
in the circumstances of the colo- 
nists. Besides, they were no less 
inharmonious with the more ration- 
al ideas of equity due to Christian 
influences ; and by their omission 
the founders of the republic provi- 
dentially advanced political gov- 
ernment, at least for a people 
situated as the American people 
were. 

When the nature of the Ameri- 
can republic is better understood, 
and the exposition of Christianity 
is shaped in the light of its univer- 
sal principles so as to suit the pe- 
culiarities of the American mind, 
the Catholic Church will not only 
keep her baptized American chil- 
dren in her fold, but will at the 
same time remove the prejudices 
existing in the minds of a large 
class of non -Catholics, and the 
dangers apprehended from the 
influence of republicanism will be 
turned into fresh evidences of the 
church's divine character. 

To sum up : He who does not see 
the hand of Divine Providence 
leading to the discovery of the 
western continent, and directing its 
settlement and subsequent events 
towards a more complete applica- 
tion to political society of the uni- 
versal truths affirmed alike by hu- 
man reason and Christianity, will 
fail to interpret rightly and ade- 
quately the history of the United 
States. It is also true that he who 
sees Heaven's hand in these events, 
and fails to see that Christ organiz- 
ed a body of men to guard and 
teach these universal truths to man- 
kind, with the promise of his pres- 
ence to the end of the world, will 



456 



Pearl. 



fail to interpret rightly and ade- 
quately the history of the Catholic 
Church, and is like a man who sees 
the light but has his back turned 
to the sun. But he who sees all 
this will not fail to see that the 
republic and the Catholic Church, 
under the same divine guidance, 



are working together in the United 
States, forming the various races of 
men and nationalities into a homo- 
geneous people, and by their united 
action giving a bright promise of a 
broader and higher development of 
man than has been heretofore ac- 
complished. 



PEARL. 

BY KATdLSEX O*M3.\RV, AUTVIOX O? U IZ\'S STORY," " A SALOX IN THE LAST DAYS OF THE EMPIRE," 

* 1 ARE YOU MY WIFE?" ETC. 

CHAPTER XVI. 



DIPLOMACY ALL ROUND. 



PEARL, in spite of her promise, 
did not sleep much that night. 
Neither did Mrs. Monteagle. She 
was up at cock-crow, and drove the 
servants wild, scolding and fidget- 
ting, and wanting her tea an hour 
before the natural time. She had 
taken energetic steps last night, 
and made it pretty certain that the 
duel should not take place at once, 
if, indeed, the two men had intend- 
ed to meet, which, after all, was 
pure conjecture so far. But Cap- 
tain Leopold was coming to break- 
fast with her, and she would find 
out the truth, let him try to hide it 
as he might. She expected him at 
twelve. At half-past eleven the 
bell rang and Mme. Leopold walk- 
ed in. Mrs. Monteagle saw at a 
glance that there was war in the 
air. 

" Chere niadame, I am come to 
take counsel with you. Your judg- 
ment is so good you will advise 
me better than any one. I am 
anxious about our dear Fearl." 

" Ha ! What's amiss with her ? 
I thought she was looking very 
well last night.* 



" It is precisely about last night 
that I want to speak to you. First, 
I must tell you that the marriage 
of my Blanche is nearly arranged. 
The young people are charmed with 
one another; he is quite enchanted, 
and to-morrow evening they are to 
meet and dance together at the 
Austrian Embassy." 

"Well, it is a good thing that is 
off your mind," said Mrs. Mont- 
eagle ; " but what has Blanche's 
marriage to do with Pearl Red- 
acre ?" 

" You took her to the theatre 
last night, and my son spent the 
evening in your box. Chere ma- 
dame, was that wise, was it a right 
thing to do ? I speak to you with 
the feelings of a mother." 

" About what ? About my tak- 
ing Pearl to the play ? I can't see 
what your feelings as a mother have 
to do with that, my good lady." 

" How literal you are !" And 
Mme. Leopold pretended to laugh. 
" I mean was it right to let my son 
stay there talking to Pearl all that 
time ?" 

" Did you expect me to order 



Pearl. 



457 



him away ? What a good joke ! 
Really, you must excuse me, but I 
am not your son's nurse, and I 
should say he was big enough boy 
to take care of himself." 

" I have no anxiety on my son's 
account," said Mme. Leopold, pro- 
voked out of her sweetness by Mrs. 
Monteagle's good-humored chuck- 
ling ; " my concern is for Pearl. I 
am responsible for her to a certain 
extent, as it was I who placed her 
with Mme. Mere." 

" So far you have no reason to 
regret' it. No harm has come to 
the child yet ; but of course one 
can't tell what may happen from 
one day to another. I have been 
foreseeing mischief to her all along. 
It was against my will that she 
went there." 

" Nay, madame, my son has com- 
mitted many follies, but he is in- 
capable of so grievous an indiscre- 
tion as that !" said Mme. Leopold, 
bridling. 

" I wish you would not be so 
enigmatical," said Mrs. Monteagle. 
" You have learned to read cipher, 
I suppose, at the Foreign Office, 
but I have not. I can only read 
plain writing, and I don't take 
crooked roads, as you diplomatic 
folks think it clever to do ; I take 
the straight one." 

"The straight road is generally 
the shortest in the end." 

"Yes, there is less traffic on it at 
any rate. Suppose you take it 
now, and tell me in plain words 
what you want me to understand ? 
Or shall I tell you ? Your son has 
fallen in love with Pearl Redacre, 
and he wants to marry her, and 
you want to prevent it." 

" Marry her ! Ah ! mon Dieu " 

She started to her feet, and then 
dropped back into her chair, white, 
horror-stricken. "Marry her!" 
she repeated. " Never ! My son is 



not capable of such an inconve- 
nance; he has too much self-respect, 
and he knows his duty to me ; he is 
not capable of breaking my heart." 

Mrs. Monteagle was too indig- 
nant to answer. She looked at the 
infuriated mother, contempt and 
disgust written on every line of her 
face. 

"Ifcette petite has been laying 
a trap for my son she shall be foil- 
ed," continued Mme. Leopold. "I 
will stop it and expose her as she 
deserves. She shall be turned out 
of my mother-in-law's house on the 
quarter of an hour. I will telegraph 
to Mrs. Redacre that her daugh- 
ter has been dismissed, and that 
she had better come and fetch her 
home. That girl will end badly ; she 
is a born intriguante /" 

This was too much. 

" That will do, madame," said 
Mrs. Monteagle. " You have been 
very explicit ; I have nothing more 
to complain of in. that respect. 
And now I will be equally frank 
with you. First let me put one 
question : Disparity of fortune is 
the only obstacle you see to a 
marriage between your son and the 
daughter of Colonel Redacre, is it 
not?" 

" Disparity ! That is a mild way 
of putting it. A girl who hasn't 
a penny !" 

" Who hasn't a penny, then. But 
the want of pennies is her only de- 
fect ; you admit that ?" 

" It is a defect that nothing can 
atone for." 

" But it is the only one ? You 
can't deny that, for not many 
months ago you were as eager for 
this marriage as you are now op- 
posed to it." 

" Everything is changed since 
then." 

" Nothing is changed, except 
that Miss Redacre has lost her 



458 



Pearl. 



fortune. Now let me set your 
mind at rest on the point. She 
will not marry your son. He is at- 
tached to her, and, to his credit be 
it said, he would overlook the ob- 
stacle which in your eyes is insur- 
mountable, and marry her with- 
out a penny; but she will not ac- 
cept him. She does not love him, 
and she has told him so. I am sor- 
ry for your son, for he has proved 
that he has a heart and that he is a 
gentleman ; but I heartily congratu- 
late Miss Redacre on escaping the 
reception she would have met with 
from his family. Your son, how- 
ever, will not bring the disgrace 
upon you of marrying a charming, 
accomplished young gentlewoman 
without a dot ; he is free to go to 
Algiers and bring you back an Afri- 
can Jewess for a daughter-in-law." 

*' My son has made her an offer of 
his hand, and she has refused it ! 
Refused to marry him !" said Mme. 
Leopold, absolutely aghast at this 
information. 

" It is an extraordinary fact, but 
it is true. I refer you to Captain 
Leopold himself for confirmation of 
it." 

But Mme. Leopold needed no 
confirmation. Mrs. Monteagle was 
a terrible woman, but she never 
told lies ; her word was gospel to 
those who knew her, and there was 
the impress of truth, simple and un- 
exaggerated, on every word she had 
just said. 

"I am bewildered," said the 
Frenchwoman. "I know not what 
to think. I feel as if I were in a 
nightmare." 

" Wake up from it," said Mrs. 
Monteagle, still too much in ear- 
nest to chuckle. " You are not on 
the edge of a precipice ; there is no 
mad bull running after you and 
your son ; you are both safe from 
Miss Redacre." 



Mme. Leopold rose to go. " I 
wish I had known sooner how mat- 
ters stood," she said. " I would 
have been spared a good deal of 
anxiety on Pearl's account. I have 
always had a great regard for her, 
and it was real pain to me to think 
that she should do anything un- 
worthy of it. But her conduct un- 
der this trying ordeal proves that 
she has great nobility of soul. It 
was heroic of her to refuse my 
son !" 

"Oh ! dear, no. It was nothing of 
the sort," retorted Mrs. Monteagle. 
" She refused him simply because 
she doesn't care for him ; the hero- 
ism would have been to have ac- 
cepted him." 

Mme. Leopold smiled, and, with 
an imperceptible shrug of her fat 
shoulders, " I confess that that in- 
terpretation of heroism is beyond 
my apprehension ; but I fully ap- 
preciate the self-respect and deli- 
cacy that actuated Pearl. At the 
same time one must remember how 
very mortifying it would have been 
for her to enter a family like ours 
in her present condition, destitute 
as she is of even the means of pro- 
viding herself with a trousseau !" 

" We would have managed to 
give her decent clothes," said Mrs. 
Monteagle. "We might have con- 
trived even to give her a few dia- 
monds ; I happen to have some 
trinkets at my own disposal that 
would not have been a disgrace to 
Mme. la Baronne Leopold. Ha ! 
ha ! But there is no need to discuss 
that now. There is an end of the 
matter, and your mind is at rest, I 
hope, as regards Miss Redacre?" 

" She has a rare friend in you," 
said Mme. Leopold. 

"When I like people, I like 
them," was the sententious rejoin- 
der. " And now will you oblige 
me by looking on all that we have 



Pearl. 



459 



said on the subject as confiden- 
tial? Your son would not care to 
have the affair belled about, neither 
would Pearl." 

^ Just so, chere madame ; then 
let it rest between us," replied 
Mme. Leopold, who felt small so 
small that Mrs. Monteagle began to 
pity her. 

" I am expecting Captain Leopold 
to dejeuner," she said, as a ring 
sounded; " I dare say this is he." 

Leon's mother composed her 
countenance with a facility that 
spoke volumes for her diplomatic 
aptitudes and her ability to steer 
safely through the dangerous wa- 
ters of the Foreign Office. She had 
a pleasant greeting for her son, and 
took leave of Mrs. Monteagle as if 
they had been interchanging the 
tenderest effusions of friendship 
during the last half-hour. 

While Pearl had been thus under 
discussion she herself was busy 
reading a letter from Polly. This 
is what Polly said : 

" BROOM HOLLOW, May . 

" DEAR OLD PEARL : I wish you would 
not be so long without writing. Mamma 
gets into the blues when we are a week 
without a letter, and papa fidgets till 
Balaklava and he quarrel, and you may 
remember the delightful state of things 
which follows in this family when the 
peace is troubled between those two he- 
roes. 

" Pearl, I have a great piece of news for 
you. I am engaged to be married to 
Percy Danvers. I wonder whether you 
are much surprised, as I want you to 
be? I'm afraid you guessed from the 
first what was going to happen. He 
says you did, and that you didn't like 
him. Of course I protest that is only a 
fancy of his about your not liking him. 
Don't imagine from this that I am in the 
seventh heaven of adoration, and that I 
expect everybody to think my Percy the 
most adorable of men. I suppose I am 
a little in love. I try to believe I am, 
and I partly succeed, for I am very hap- 



py and content, and I expect to be a 
great deal more so when I am married ; 
but that is not to be for some time. Our 
engagement is a secret just yet ; so don't 
breathe a word about it to any one. not 
even Mrs. Monteagle. And still I 
don't know if it would not be better to 
tell her, and secure her help in some- 
thing that is of great importance. I 
don't wish Percy to know that you are 
in a situation, and if he goes to Paris, 
and that Mrs. Monteagle is not warned, 
the chances are she will let the murder 
out the first time she sees him. He 
thinks you are on a visit to her all this 
time. He knew you were in the begin- 
ning, and as nobody thought it necessary 
to enlighten him on the point, he still 
thinks you are staying at his aunt's. 
There is no harm in leaving him under 
that impression. You are always with 
her on Sunday, and we see him at lunch 
here that day, so I can with a clear con- 
science speak of you as with Mrs. Mont- 
eagle, for you are sure to be there when 
I am saying it. I know you will ex- 
claim against this as deceptive, but I am 
not so squeamish as you, and I see no 
reason why I should risk my earthly 
happiness and prospects for the sake of 
a quibble. Percy is devotedly in love 
with me, but he is a thorough man of 
the world, and with his principles pre- 
judices you would call them, I suppose 
it is natural he should have a horror of 
his sister-in-law's being in the position 
of an upper servant, and amongst people 
where it is sure to get known. If you 
really love me, Pearl, now is the time to 
prove it by giving up your absurd craze 
and coming home. Percy need never 
hear of this ridiculous episode of your 
stay in Paris ; it would be forgotten by 
the time he returned there. People for- 
get everything, I notice. We can't be 
married for a year it is a question of 
property that he has to settle unless 
his uncle dies before then, in which case 
we could be married at once. 

" Papa was saying only this morning at 
breakfast that he wondered how you 
were getting on, and whether it was pos- 
sible you would stay away much longer. 
He can't make you out at all. No more 
can I. Mamma is the only one who 
takes your part ; but I don't believe she 
approves of your behavior a bit more 
than the rest of us. It seems Captain 
Darvallon is gone back to Paris. So 
Percy told me yesterday. I hope you 



460 



Fearl. 



won't confide my secret to him. He 
would consider it his duty at once to in- 
form Percy of your noble defiance of 
your family and society, and thus show 
his contempt for worldliness, and for 
persons who made themselves the ac- 
complices of worldly-minded people. 

" The country is looking lovely. This 
is a heavenly day ; the scent of the 
syringa and the lilacs is overpowering 
as I write by the open window, and 
there is a nightingale singing away in 
the sycamore tree to that pink rose by 
the gate. You never heard anything so 
delicious in your life ; all the other birds 
have shut up to listen to him. Even 
Fritz is listening ; I wish you could see 
him sitting on his tail, looking straight 
up at the sycamore, and pricking his 
ears, with a little twitch of his head, as if 
the trills tickled him. He has been in 
trouble lately, poor Fritz ! Wolf (the 
new gamekeeper's dog) and he don't hit 
it off, and they have been having words 
lately whenever we met on the road ; 
but the day before yesterday they met, 
and 'twas not in a crowd, but ' by moon- 
light alone, love,' and there was evi- 
dently a terrible row, for Fritz came 
home late at night, more dead than alive, 
with a piece of his back torn off, and 
half his tail gone, and his head all 
bloody. Jacob Mills put him into a bath 
of warm water, and we all assisted at the 
ceremony of the washing of his wounds. 
It was very affecting, for he kept lick- 
ing Jacob's hand and making the most 
pitiful eyes at us all out of his tub. The 
new calf is tumbling about the lawn on 
its rickety legs, and making moans for 
its mother that would move the heart of 
a stone. There is a brood of fifteen new 
chickens this morning, and the interest- 
ing family are doing well in a basket 
before the kitchen fire. 

" Now I have told you all the news. 
Come home come home come home ! 
Your affectionate sister, 

" POLLY." 

Mrs. Monteagle and Captain 
Leopold ate their breakfast while 
Pearl digested this letter. Leon 
ate with a very good appetite. And 
yet he had been very much disturb- 
ed by last night's episode, and it had 
rather added to his irritation than 
calmed him to learn that morning 
that Darvallon had been despatched 



at an hour's notice on a mission to 
Vienna some confidential message 
which the emperor thought fit to 
send by him instead of entrusting 
it to the ordinary channel. It was 
a relief to him to vent his feelings 
in complaint and surprise to Mrs. 
Monteagle, who was very sympa- 
thetic, and full of wonder and con- 
jecture about the strange proceed- 
ing. She forbore introducing the 
subject of Pearl, waiting for Leon 
to do so ; but he had his own rea- 
sons for avoiding it for the present. 

" Do you know who is here ?" he 
said, when they were fairly under 
way with the pate de foie gras. 
" Kingspring ! He arrived by the 
mail last night, himself and his 
friend Danvers." 

" The wicked pair, not to have 
come at once to see me!" said 
Mrs. Monteagle. 

" They will be here presently, no 
doubt. Indeed, Kingspring in- 
formed me, with \\\ai franchise bru- 
tale that he prides himself on, that 
it was not for my beaux yeux he 
was in such a hurry to come to me; 
he wanted me to get invitations for 
himself and Danvers for the ball at 
the Metternichs' to-night." 

" It is rather late, is it not ?" 

"My father will manage it; they 
are coming to dine with me at the 
club, and we will go from that to 
the Foreign Office and start in his 
excellency's train." 

" I am glad Mr. Kingspring is so 
far consoled for his loss as to be in 
a mood to care for balls," said Mrs. 
Monteagle. 

"The ball is perhaps part of the 
consolatory system that enables 
him to bear up. One must take 
the blessings that Providence gives 
us, and be thankful," said Leon. 
"At this moment, madame, I am 
deeply sensible of the blessing 
which is bestowed upon me in this 



Pearl. 



461 



excellent dejeuner. [I never ate 
anything better than this salade a 
la creme. I know you will be glad 
to see me return to it." 

Mrs. Monteagle was not glad. 
She was hospitable; it was a sat- 
isfaction to her to see the dishes 
cleared off and the wine flow free- 
ly from the decanters. She was not 
one of those who watch the jelly 
go round, and shudder when the 
first spoon is put into it, and who 
feel relieved when you answer "No, 
thank you," to their invitation to 
another glass of wine. She was 
the last person to grudge anybody 
their food at her table, and yet it 
made her positively angry to see 
how unimpaired Leon's appetite 
was by last night's catastrophe. 
Was it possible that any man who 
had an aching heart could attack 
his food with such gusto ? And if 
his heart did not ache, his love for 
Pearl had been a contemptible ca- 
price that never deserved a spark 
of the interest Mrs. Monteagle had 
wasted on it. 

" Fanchette is proud of her sal- 
ade a la creme," remarked the vex- 
ed hostess. "I shall tell her you 
have paid it a compliment. It is a 
favorite dish of mine ; but I am not 
in good appetite this morning. I 
can never eat when I am worried." 

" Madame, that is bad philoso- 
phy ; one should eat double when 
one is worried." 

"If one could it might be bet- 
ter ; but if one can't ? Has anx- 
iety or emotion never spoiled your 
appetite ?" 

" When I was young I have expe- 
rienced that weakness ; but I have 
outlived it." 

"What nonsense you talk! How 
old are you ?" 

" Alas ! madame, I am thirty." 

" Goodness me ! Thirty ! You 
are hardlv a bov vet." 



" Nay, madame, I am a man. 
There lies the difference. Up to 
twenty one dreams ; from twenty 
to thirty one loves ; after thirty 
one dines." 

Leon heaved a sigh and helped 
himself to Sauterne. 

Mrs. Monteagle* could not but 
laugh, and yet she was puzzled and 
vexed. 

"One dines," continued Leon, 
"and sometimes one dines too well, 
and then one experiences that re- 
morse of the stomach called indi- 
gestion. Was it not a compatriot 
of yours who defined remorse as 
an indigestion of the conscience ?" 

" No compatriot of mine ever 
said such a thing; if anybody said 
it before you it was a Frenchman. 
It is just like you French to make 
a jest of sacred things." 

" Nay, madame, you do us 
wrong; we have the deepest re- 
spect for the digestive organs. 
Voltaire said that perfect happi- 
ness consisted in a bad heart and 
a good digestion." 

"It was like the wicked old 
cynic to say that ; but I should 
not have expected any man in his 
right mind to quote it. I wonder 
whether you have a bad heart or 
no heart at all?" 

"You have a bad opinion of us, 
I know, madame," said Leon, de- 
liberately draining his glass of Sau- 
terne; "but it is a mistake. We 
are frivolous, we talk lightly of 
sacred things, of the stomach, of 
love ; but it is often only a mask 
to hide our emotions. When a 
man feels that his heart is getting 
the better of him, he rebels and 
turns round upon the tyrant, and 
strikes at him, and tries to carry 
off defeat as if it had been a victo- 
ry. Our vanity sometimes makes 
us appear worse than we are." 
There was an undertone of feel- 



4 62 



Pearl. 



ing in this persiflage, Mrs. Mont- 
eagle thought. She was at a loss 
what to make of him ; but be it as 
it might, she was thankful that 
Pearl did not love him and was not 
going to marry him. 

The ball at the Austrian Embas- 
sy was expected to be very bril- 
liant; the emperor and empress 
were going, and the cream of the 
empire was to be there to meet 
them. But this was not what pre- 
occupied Blanche Leopold most 
when she was "combining" her 
dress for the occasion. This even- 
ing she was to meet the man who 
was to be her husband ; all the es- 
sentials were arranged, and it only 
remained for the two human be- 
ings, whose happiness had been 
contracted for by their respective 
family lawyers, to come together, 
and look into each other's eyes, 
and hear one another's voices be- 
fore they joined their destinies for 
good or ill. The die was not yet 
cast, but the hour was at hand, and 
Blanche, with all her prosaic edu- 
cation, and despite the worldly 
maxims, traditions, and principles 
on which she had been fed, was a 
young girl, and the girlhood in her 
vindicated itself to-night. She was 
fluttered as she came and went in 
her pretty blue room, dressing for 
the ball. 

The beautiful white dress, to 
which she and her mother had given 
much thought, was tossed out on 
the bed, its delicate flowers nestling 
in soft folds, peeping from under 
transparent loops and flounces 
" line toilette comme on en reve," 
Adele, herfemme de chambre, said. 
Blanche stood looking at it, and 
then turned to look at herself in 
the long mirror opposite, and her 
heart misgave her. Had she done 
wisely in choosing those flowers ? 



Would not blue have suited her 
complexion better than this pink 
May? Her hair was dressed, and 
the garland of May was very effec- 
tive in the soft brown curls, so 
wonderfully twisted and coiled; 
but would not those azure myosotis 
that she hesitated about have shown 
off the creamy whiteness of her 
skin better? It was an anxious 
moment ; but Blanche was too 
practical to wrinkle her brow with 
regrets over the irreparable. She 
held out her foot for Adele to draw 
on the dainty satin slipper with the 
sprig of pink May on its toe, and 
then she threw off her dressing- 
gown, and stood up to be clothed 
in the toilette comme on en reve. 
But just as Adele was about to 
fling it over her head Mme. Leo- 
pold, half-dressed, burst into the 
room with a letter in her hand. 

" I want to speak to mademoi- 
selle. Wait in my room a mo- 
ment," she said, and the maid went 
out and closed the door. . 

"What is it, mamma?" 

" My child, kneel down and 
make an act of thanksgiving: the 
Marquis de Cholcourt asks you in 
marriage." 

"Oh!" 

Blanche clasped her hands and 
sat down on the edge of the bed. 

" Here it is : a letter from Dar- 
vallon to your father, saying M. de 
Cholcourt has charged him to make 
the demand." 

" Est-ce possible !" murmured 
Blanche, her hands locked togeth- 
er on her knees, and her eyes fixed 
in happy bewilderment on her mo- 
ther's face. 

" My child, the bon Dieu is very 
good to us !" said Mme. Leopold, 
embracing her with emotion. 

Blanche could not speak ; she 
held her face to take her mother's 
kiss, and listened to her rapturous 



Pearl. 



463 



congratulations as if she were in a 
dream. Could it be all real ? Mar- 
quise de Cholcourt, with the noblest 
fortune going, one of the proudest 
names, a queen in the Faubourg 
all this was to be hers ? The ideal 
that she had beheld from afar, 
floating on the misty hilltops of 
imagination, was a reality within 
her grasp ! 

"What answer has papa sent?" 
she said at last, when her power of 
speech returned. 

" I have not seen him yet; he is 
engaged, but he sent me in the let- 
ter at once. My child, you don't 
think he can hesitate that there 
can be any answer but one to such 
an offer ?" 

" Oh ! of course not, mamma." 

"Then what is it?" 

" I am thinking what we are to 
do about the other. I suppose 
there is no use in our going to this 
ball now?" 

" It will be awkward. And, as 
you say, there is no longer any ob- 
ject in our going." 

Blanche thought for a moment, 
and then, looking up, "After all," 
she said, "one never knows what 
may happen. I think we had bet- 
ter go." 

" Cherie ! you are a wise little 
woman. Then let us go." 

And they finished dressing and 
went to the ball. M. Leopold was 
detained so long that they could 
not wait for him, but set off to- 
gether, leaving the minister to fol- 
low when he could with Leon and 
his two English friends. 

Blanche walked on air. The 
echoing music, the scent of the 
flowers, the festal splendor of light, 
the brilliant crowd she glided 
through it all like one in a dream, 
intoxicated with the sense of com- 
ing triumph, borne on the waves 
of Strauss' melodious rhythm, as 



if the music were a live thing, a 
strong west wind chasing her be- 
fore it, and constraining her feet to 
keep time to its exulting harmo- 
nies. All this delirious gayety 
seemed like the natural outcome of 
the shock ; all the world was gone 
a-dancing and a-merrymaking since 
it heard that she, Blanche Leopold, 
was to be Marquise de Cholcourt. 
Then Blanche remembered that 
the great news was still a secret; 
no one present knew of it but her- 
self. The vicomte came up and 
was presented, and petitioned for 
the honor of a dance, and she grant- 
ed it with studied dignity, but feel- 
ing kindly towards the poor delud- 
ed young man, who had so little 
idea of his defeat. 

It seemed a long time till M. 
Leopold and his train arrived. 
Blanche was impatient to speak to 
her father. It was so wonderful, 
this great news that lifted her to 
the seventh heaven, that she was 
nervous and eager for fuller con- 
firmation of it. But the minister 
had no leisure at an hour like this 
for paternal Jpanchements j he was 
surrounded at once by his col- 
leagues, by courtiers and ambassa- 
dors, and Blanche was fain to con- 
trol her impatience and wait for 
a more fitting time to question 
him. 

Mr. Kingspring and Percy Dan- 
vers found her out soon, and she 
danced with them in turns. 

" I have been staying down in 
the country near your old friends 
the Redacres," said Mr. Danvers 
during the pause of a quadrille. 
" They charged me with a heavy 
budget of messages to Mme. Leo- 
pold and you. They talk of you 
all often." ' 

" I wish they had not gone away," 
said Blanche. "We miss them 
dreadfully. How they must bore 



464 



Pearl. 



themselves down there after being 
accustomed to Paris !" 

" They don't seem to find it dull, 
there are so many things that one 
gets interested in in the country. 
The colonel is wonderful; I am 
sometimes amazed to see how con- 
tented he is." 

"And Balaklava?" said Blanche, 
laughing. 

" It has taken to the change of 
climate very cheerfully on the 
whole." 

" And Polly ? I can't conceive 
Polly being happy in such a dull 
life, seeing nothing and going no- 
where. Does she not look misera- 
ble ?" 

" Not the least. She is in great 
beauty and apparently in excellent 
spirits." 

Mr. Danvers said this with an 
emphasis that made Blanche look 
at him ; but his handsome counte- 
nance betrayed nothing. 

" I hope to see her sister to- 
morrow," he continued. " I called 
at my aunt's this afternoon, but 
they were neither of them at 
home." 

" Neither of whom ?" 

11 My aunt and Miss Redacre." 

" But Pearl is no longer at Mrs. 
Monteagle's. Did they not tell 
you ?" 

" No ; I understood she was still 
on a visit at my aunt's. She was 
there last Sunday. Where is she 
now ?" 

" At my grandmother's," said 
Blanche. 

" Oh ! Is she going to remain 
long away?" 

" My grandmother is in Paris at 
present. But Pearl will soon be 
going to the country with her." 

"I wonder they said nothing 
about that to me. I thought Miss 
Redacre would have been thinking 
of going home now ; they are com- 



plaining very much of her long 
absence. I was in hopes that I 
might have met her here to-night. 
Is she here ?" 

" Oh ! no ; she never goes out of 
an evening," said Blanche, who no\v 
understood that the Redacres had 
been intentionally silent about 
Pearl's position in Paris. She was 
not going to inform Percy Danvers 
of it. Why should she ? It was 
only natural that Pearl's family 
should not have confided a fact so 
mortifying to a recent acquaintance 
who might never find it out. But 
Mr. Danvers took a provoking in- 
terest in Pearl, it seemed, and 
would not let the subject drop. 

" She is nqt in delicate health, is 
she?" he inquired, looking straight 
at Blanche, who began to feel con- 
fused, not having her mother's 
diplomatic talent for " making a 
countenance." 

" No ; she is in very good health, 
but she does not care for going out. 
Pearl never did care for tlAt sort 
of thing as much as Polly. Is not 
that my brother ? Whom is he danc- 
ing with, I wonder ?" Of course 
Mr. Danvers could not enlighten 
her on the point. The quadrille 
was over, and he conducted her 
back to her mother. Mother and 
daughter were soon conversing in 
animated whispers, Mme. Leopold's 
soft face expanding in a smile of 
malicious satisfaction. 

" It is just like. their intriguing, 
underhand way ; I shall not be a 
party to such deceit. They may tell 
lies, if they choose, but I will not 
be made an accomplice in them." 

4< There is no need for us to 
tell lies," pleaded Blanche. " I will 
only tell bonne maman to avoid say- 
ing anything to compromise Pearl ; 
there is no harm in that." 

u Compromise her ! She will do 
that for herself," said Mme. Leo- 



Pearl. 



465 



pold. " He says they want her to 
go home ? The best thing she 
could do. But don't you meddle in 
the affair; it is no concern of ours." 

Blanche did not insist further ; 
but she was sorry for Pearl, and 
just now she was so happy herself 
that she wanted every one else to be 
happy. It had struck her, more- 
over, that Mr. Danvers' manner had 
something suspicious in it when he 
spoke of Polly. She wished her 
mother were not so unsympathetic 
about it. It was odd that she 
should be; but Blanche could never 
quite make out what her mother felt 
towards the Redacres, she changed 
her tone so often about them. 

Leon and his two English friends 
joined the ladies, and the conversa- 
tion became general. 

" Look at De Kerbec expounding 
the political difficulties of Europe 
to the Turkish minister," said Mr. 
Kingspring. 

" Et le Capitaine Jack, est-il ici ?" 
said Le"on, looking round for M. le 
Kerbec's jewelled commander. 

" She is not here ; it would have 
made a revolution in the Faubourg 
if she had come to meet the empe- 
ror and empress." 

" Who is le Capitaine Jack ?" in- 
quired Mr. Danvers; whereupon 
everybody began to laugh. 

" It is a sobriquet which these 
naughty gentlemen have given to a 
most excellent woman," said Mme. 
Leopold, smiling a bland rebuke at 
Mr. Kingspring and Leon. 

" Nay, ma mere, don't steal Red- 
acre's thunder; it was he who gave 
her the nickname, and it stuck." 

" Did Colonel Redacre never 
speak to you of Captain Jack ?" 
said Mme. Leopold. 

But before Mr. Danvers could 
answer, Blanche, who did not want 
the Redacres brought on the tapis, 
called out : 

VOL. xxix. 30 



(< Here comes M. de Kerbec 
himself. He will give us the last 
news from Turkey." 

"And who is M. le Kerbec?" in- 
quired Mr. Danvers. 

" Le mari du Capitaine Jack," 
said Le"on. 

" C'est un homme tres comme- 
il-faut," said Mme. Leopold. 

" Ah ! ma mere, voila qui est 
sanglant. I never would have said 
anything so bad of poor De Kerbec 
as that," protested Leon. 

"Yes," said Mr. Kingspring, " he 
had better go and hang himself. De 
Kerbec is a poor creature, but I 
should not have said he was as bad 
as that." 

While this persiflage was going 
on the object of it advanced with 
his hat under his arm, and with that 
air of happy self-importance which 
he always wore when his wife was 
absent. Mme. Leopold took advan- 
tage of the new current which M. 
de Kerbec brought to the group 
to turn to Mr. Danvers and enter in- 
to conversation with him. Blanche 
could not catch all they were 
saying, for Mr. Danvers was on the 
other side of her mother; but an 
occasional lull in the music enabled 
her to hear snatches of the conver- 
sation, and made her aware that 
Mme. Leopold had lost no time in 
clearing herself from any suspicion 
of connivance at the duplicity of 
the Redacre family. 

"Poor child! it is very brave of 
her, is it not ? She feels the hu- 
miliation dreadfully, but it would 
be wiser as well as worthier if her 
mother and sister confessed the 
truth instead of making a mys- 
tery of it. Besides, there is no 
use trying to hide it. Polly, I be- 
lieve, thinks of going out as music- 
teacher, or something of that sort, 
by and by. She would make a for- 
tune singing at concerts. Will you 



466 



Pearl. 



give me your arm into the gallery ? 
The heat is rather too much for 
me here." 

Percy Danvers gave her his arm 
and conducted, or rather suffered 
her to conduct him to wherever 
she wanted to go. The moment 
he could make his escape he did 
so, seizing Mr. Kingspring on his 
way. 

" My dear fellow, what is all this 
about?" he said, as they emerged 
into the balmy starlight and walk- 
ed on arm-in-arm. 

" I thought you knew it," said 
Mr. Kingspring when he heard of 
the shock his friend had just re- 
ceived. 

" How the deuce should I know 
it ? You never said a word about 
it ; no more did they. It places 
me in a horrible predicament, 
can't you see ?" 

" No, that I can't, for the life of 
me." 

" Why, I have proposed to her 
sister?" 

"Well? And she has accepted 
you, and I have congratulated you 
on that fact ; and I tell you again 
now that I think you are the luck- 
iest dog alive, and the most to be 
envied of any man living, except it 
might be " 

"Who?" 

" The man who had been accept- 
ed by Pearl Redacre." 

" That's it, is it ? Then there is 
no use discussing the case, with 
you ; it is a foregone conclusion. 
All the same it's deucedly awkward 
for me. I'm very fond of the girl; 
she's asplendid creature, and it would 
go hard with me to give her up ; 
but it's too bad to have been taken 
in like this. You ought to have 
told me how things were." 

" What had I to do with it ? You 
would have told me to mind my 
own business, if I had come to you 



with a warning not to fall in love 
with the prettiest girl in England ; 
you were quite able to look after 
yourself. Besides, the Redacres 
are very old friends of mine, and 
there was no reason why I should 
have informed you of their private 
affairs. But, looking at the matter 
as it stands, I can't see what there 
is in the discovery of Pearl's conduct 
to prevent you marrying her sis- 
ter ; and if you back out of your en- 
gagement on account of it, you're 
not the man I have always taken 
you for." 

Percy Danvers felt Mr. King- 
spring's arm slacken its grip of his, 
and there was a ring in his friend's 
voice that was not consolatory. 

" It doesn't follow that I am go- 
ing to back out of it because I have 
come upon a very unpleasant fact 
in connection with it," he said. "I 
have a right to feel amazed at be- 
ing kept in the dark about what 
Pearl was doing ; they should have 
trusted me. It is the deception 
that I can't get over." 

This was putting the grievance 
on higher ground, and Mr. King- 
spring at once conceded that Dan- 
vers had just cause of complaint 
here. 

"I own it surprises me that Red- 
acre should have let things go so 
far without mentioning it," he said. 

" Between me and Polly, you 
mean ? Oh ! Redacre knows no- 
thing about that, except what he 
may have guessed ; we agreed to 
say nothing to any one until I 
have made all this other business 
straight with Sir Archiduke. U 
might involve me in endless dis- 
agreeables with him just now, you 
see." 

"So the matter is entirely be- 
tween Polly and you ?" 

"Yes. That makes it more deli- 
cate for me. It would be easier if 



Pearl. 



467 



I could have it out with a man. 
But I can't say what I feel about it 
to her. And yet she is the only 
one I have a right to reproach. 
My dear fellow, I arn horribly put 
out by this business. If she de- 
ceives me like this beforehand 
how will it be afterwards? How 
can I ever trust her ?" 

" Pshaw ! nonsense ! You are 
talking like an ass, Danvers. It 
was the most natural thing in the 
world the girl should have kept it 
dark from you that her sister was 
a governess. Remember she is in 
love with you; everything is fair 
in love." 

"That's just where I'm hit. I 
don't believe she is in love with 
me ; if she were she would have 
trusted me. And if she does not 
love me, what sort of a life are 
she and I going to have of it to- 
gether ?" m 

They were at the door of the 
hotel now, and Danvers stood for 
a moment ; the gaslight was shining 
down on him, and Mr. Kingspring 
could see that he was agitated. 

" Kingspring," he said, " I don't 
know what to do. I am very fond 
of her. It would cut me up awfully 
to give her up ; but would not that 
be better for both of us than to 
repent when it was too late ? I'm 
not sure if I ought not to write to 
her to-morrow and break it off." 

" If you do that," said Mr. King- 
spring, " you are the greatest scoun- 
drel alive." 

This was their last "good-night," 
as the two men walked in together 
and parted under the porte co- 
chere. 

Percy Danvers had not opened 
his mind wholly to Mr. Kingspring. 
He had not told him of certain 
insinuations that Mme. Leopold 
had whispered in his ear concern- 
ing Pearl not a word that he 



could lay hold of as an accusation, 
but remarks that pointed to self- 
evident conclusions : It was so 
spirited, whatever the real motive 
was ; of course people would talk, 
the world was so sceptical ; no one 
believed a girl of Pearl's birth and 
education would run away from 
home to earn money for her pa- 
rents ; they would insist that there 
was an attraction at the other 
end ; she, Mme. Leopold, stoutly 
denied this, and never would ad- 
mit if only for her dear friend 
Mrs. Redacre's sake that Pearl 
was capable of conduct so bold 
and unmaidenly as to cross the 
seas to set her cap at any man ; 
of course the dear girl was to be 
pitied, for one is not always mis- 
tress of one's heart, and Pearl had 
been brought up with romantic 
notions about love, and so on ; but 
all this was strictly confidential; 
Mr. Danvers was not to breathe a 
word to any one, above all to Mrs. 
Monteagle, lest she should men- 
tion it to Le"on ; there was no know- 
ing what might come of that, for 
Le'on was so chivalrous, so delicate, 
and had such a brotherly regard 
for Pearl, that it would make him 
furious to hear her name coupled 
Mr. Danvers understood; ma- 
dame spoke to him, knowing he 
was a friend of the Redacre family, 
and for their sakes he should use 
his influence to get Pearl called 
home . . . 

It was bad enough to find out 
that his intended sister-in-law was 
earning her bread somebody's 
bread as a paid companion 
amongst people so prominently be- 
fore the world as these Leopolds 
now were, that the idea of keeping 
it a secret was out of the question; 
you might as well have posted it 
up on the parish cross. But this 
was not all. Pearl was talked 



468 



The Holy Maries of the Camargue. 



about as having flung herself into 
the adventure out of love for Cap- 
tain Leopold, who evidently did 
not mean to requite the sacrifice, 
though he was a gentleman, and 
refrained from amusing himself or 
his friends at her expense. It cer- 
tainly was not an inviting prospect 
to enter a family where sentiment 
took such forms as this, making 
one sister a dissembler and a hypo- 
crite with the man she was going 
to marry, and prompting the other 
to wild and unmaidenly escapades. 
If Percy Danvers had been pro- 
perly in love perhaps he would 
have seen all this differently ; but 
it may be that, in spite of his 
declaration to the contrary, his 
state of feeling had not yet gone 



beyond what is flippantly defined 
as spooney. 

He was sufficiently disturbed, 
however, not to be able to sleep 
comfortably that night, and before 
the day broke he had made up his 
mind to go back to England at 
once, without seeing Mrs. Mont- 
eagle or Pearl, and, if possible, 
without again alluding to the sub- 
ject with Mr. Kingspring. It was 
clear he could get no sympathy in 
that quarter, and he would rather 
bear his friend's contempt and re- 
proaches than justify himself by 
exposing all his motives, and there- 
by inflict pain on the man who 
loved Pearl loved her hopelessly, 
chivalrously, looking neither for 
return nor reward. 



TO BE CONTINUED. 



THE HOLY MARIES OF THE CAMARGUE. 



Benedicta Villa Mans, 
Quam thesauri's tarn praeclaris, 
Rex dotavit gloriae . 



ANCIENT LITURGY. 



MISTRAL, the Provenal poet, in 
his charming pastoral of Mireio, 
makes young Vincen, the basket- 
maker, while mending crates at 
Master Ramon's on the Crau for 
harvesting the olives and almonds, 
tell the beautiful Mireille, the far- 
mei;'s only child, among other mar- 
vels he has seen in his wandering, 
gipsy-like life, of the Great Saints of 
the Camargue the shrine of the 
Three Maries on the sea-shore, 
where there is such divine music, 
where all the people of the country 
around bring their sick to be cured, 
and the blind come to receive their 
sight. " Ah ! damoisello," he cries, 



" should misfortune ever befall you, 

Courre's, coin-re's i Santo ! aures leu de soulas ! 

run, run to these Saints ; there 
you will find solace !" And when 
the hour of sorrow comes to the 
young heiress, who has been wooed 
among the mulberry-trees only 
to find the marriage forbidden 
by her parents, she remembers the 
counsel and flies across the burning 
desert of the Crau beneath the hot 
June sun, carrying Vincen in her in- 
flamed heart across the salt mar- 
shes of the Camargue, where there is 

" Ni d'aubre, ni d'oumbro, ni d'amo, 

f no tree, or shade, or living soul 



The Holy Maries of the Camargue* 



469 



till the fiery sun pierces her brain 
as with arrows, and lays her death- 
stricken on the scorching sands. 
Already she has caught sight of 
the white church of the Great 
Saints on the far-off billowy sea, 
looming up like a vessel making 
for the shore. She is only able to 
crawl along till she reaches its 
threshold. At the upper end of 
the church are three altars, three 
chapels, built, one above the other, 
out of blocks of live rock. In the 
underground chapel is St. Sara, 
venerated by the brown Bohemians. 
Higher up the second contains 
God's altar. Resting on its pillars, 
the mortuary chapel of the Holy 
Maries lifts its arches to heaven 
with its relics sacred legacy from 
which grace flows down like rain. 
Four keys fasten the shrine the 
covered shrine of cypress-wood. 
Once in a hundred years it is open- 
ed. Happy, happy he who can 
see and touch it when it is uncover- 
ed ! Serene weather his bark will 
have ; a fortunate star to guide it. 
His trees will bud and give forth 
baskets of fruit. . . . His soul, for 
believing, will have eternal riches ! 
Mireille crawls over the sacred 
threshold. There she falls on the 
pavement and cries : 

" O Holy Maries, who can change the 
bitterest tears into smiles, . . . I love him 
as the brook loves to run, as the bird 
loves to fly ! ... And they would have 
me put out the fire I cherish. But it will 
not die. They would have me uproot 
the blossoming almond-tree ! O Holy 
Maries, who can change one's tears into 
flowers, quick, listen to my grief !" 

And while thus lying, thus pray- 
ing, with her large black eyes wide 
spread, the heavens open, and along 
the pathway strewn with stars she 
sees three women, divinely beau- 
tiful, descend in shining mantle 
whiter than the snow on the moun- 



tains : one, whose brow of light can 
only be compared to the silvery 
star that guides the herdsman's 
way in the gloom of night, holds 
against her breast a vase of ala- 
baster closely pressed ; the second 
modest moves with palm-branch in 
her hand, her fair tresses floating 
at the wind's will ; the third, still 
young, lets her mantle, white and 
pure, fall a little over her dark face, 
out of which her black eyes like 
diamonds shine. 

" Comfort, Mireille," they say. " We 
are the Three Maries of Judea. We are 
the patron saints of Baux. . . . Your 
prayer afflicts us. You would drink, 
foolish one, at the fountain of love before 
death. Where have you seen such joy 
on earth ? Man forgets that death alone 
gives life by opening the way to the true 
Love. O Mireille ! if you could see how 
full of suffering is the world below, how 
vain and foolish your love of the creature, 
your fear of the grave, you would, poor 
lamb ! cry for pardon and death. The 
sown wheat must decay before it shoots. 
That is the law. We, too, had our share 
of the bitter cup before we were given 
these rays of glory." 

And then the Three Saints of the 
Sea tell the history of their coming 
to this desert shore while the peo- 
ple of Judea were still mourning 
for the carpenter's Son of Galilee 
Him of the long blond hair how 
they were cast into a boat with 
Lazarus, over whom Jesus had wept ; 
Mary, who had sat at his feet; 
Martha, who had served him ; Si- 
don ius, who had been born blind; 
St. Maximinand St. Trophime, who 
belonged to the seventy-two disci- 
ples, etc., and set afloat without 
sail, or oar, or rudder, according to 
the old prose : 

41 Sine remo, sine luce, 
Sine velo, sine duce, 
Fluctibus expositi. 

u Sed Maria maris Stella 
Naufragantes in procella 
Dirigit cum Filio." 



^ 470 



The Holy Maries of the Camargue. 



Thus happily guided, they came 
to the mouth of the Rhone and 
landed at the ancient Pagus Pelagi, 
where is now the village of the 
Saintes Maries, and here formed 
an altar out of the earth, at which 
they offered a sacrifice of thanks- 
giving, and sang hymns never be- 
fore heard on these shores. It was 
- this ship-load of saints that brought 
all Provence and Languedoc to the 
true faith. The Maries, with Sara, 
their attendant, chose to remain on 
the lonely island where they were 
cast, that they might end their 
days in the sweetness of the con- 
templative life. Beside their cabin 
sprang up a fountain of sweet water 
from the brackish soil, and close 
by they built an oratory in honor 
of Our Lady, in which they de- 
posited the head of St. James and 
three of the Holy Innocents they 
had brought with them. Here 
they lived, reverenced by the peo- 
ple around, and when they died, 
one after the other, their tombs 
were guarded with jealous care, 
their cabin was converted into a 
chapel, and the village in time as- 
sumed their name. 

The curious village of the Saintes 
Maries is at the very southern ex- 
tremity of the Camargue, about 
twenty-five miles from Aries. Be- 
fore it is the Mediterranean Sea, 
and behind is a desert of appalling 
sterility. As far as the' eye can 
see there is nothing but sand-beds, 
pools, and marshes that give out 
poisonous exhalations fatal to stran- 
gers, and a source of fevers to the 
Saintins, as the people are called. 
The Camargue is the delta of the 
Rhone, formed by a division of the 
river near Aries, the stream flow- 
ing to the westward being known 
as the Petit Rhone. It is believed 
to be the largest of the ancient 
Sticados, or Stcechades, where the 



Phoceans of Marseilles are said to 
have founded a colony and, accord- 
ing to Strabo, built a temple to 
Diana, perhaps still standing when 
the Judean Maries established 
themselves here, as her image was 
at Aries that fell from its pedestal 
at the mere name of Christ when 
St. Trophime arrived. Geologists 
have tried to do away with the 
ancient tradition concerning these 
holy women by asserting that the 
place where the village now stands 
was under water in their day; but 
though the delta in some parts is 
gradually encroaching on the sea, 
this portion is now thought to be 
very much as it was at the begin- 
ning of the Christian era. Some 
ancient inscriptions have been 
found proving it was inhabited in 
the time of the Romans. 

The Saintes Maries is at certain 
seasons quite inaccessible except 
by boat or on horseback, but in a 
dry time may be easily visited 
from Aries in a carriage. At such 
seasons the mail is carried in a 
small diligence, which we took ad- 
vantage of, leaving Aries at six 
o'clock in the morning. The road 
is good at first, and the land culti- 
vated, and there are poplars, wil- 
lows, and clumps of live-oaks. But 
in proportion as the Alps of Dau- 
phine fade away behind the hori- 
zon widens, the trees diminish in 
number and size, low bushes at 
length cover the vast plain, pools 
and marshes appear, a forest of 
pale, slender reeds rustles drily in 
the hot sun, the soil, impregnated 
with sea-water, is crusted over with 
salt, looking like a hoar-frost on 
the low, sun-bleached herbage and 
lifeless-looking marine plants, such 
as saltwort, glasswort, etc. Now 
and then there is a tamarisk-tree, 
or a lofty umbrella-pine, tall and 
stately as a palm, lifting its island 



The Holy Maries of the Camargue. 



471 



of verdure into the clear heavens, 
giving a still more Oriental look to 
the strange, weird landscape. The 
whole region assumes an aspect of 
incomparable sadness. The pale- 
ness of the vegetation, the faint 
yellows, greens, and browns, and 
the subtle hues of the ash-colored 
wastes are dreary to the last de- 
gree. And yet there is a singular 
charm about the island with its 
monotony of plain and sky, its 
neutral tints, the gray sands and 
gleaming salt crust on the flats, the 
broad horizon that gives a sense of 
infinitude, the long flights of wild 
fowl on their way to their favorite 
haunts or hovering over the sullen 
pools, the strange insects that dart 
to and fro among the tall, spear- 
like reeds, and the awful silence 
that broods over the whole scene. 
You begin to perceive the flavor of 
the sea, and soon come in sight of 
it. The mirage blends earth and 
sky and sea together in a dreamy 
atmosphere, so that the vast plain, 
under the blaze of the sun, seems 
to rise and fall, and wave to and 
fro, like the flashing billows of the 
Mediterranean. What peace and 
sense of freedom come over you 
in the boundless space of this great 
solitude ! The nomadic life seems 
natural here as in the Oriental 
deserts, and the interior of the isl- 
and, in fact, is only peopled by 
gipsies and herdsmen, who lead a 
wild, almost lawless, life. Hunters 
and sportsmen, too, come here in 
the season. And it is a very para- 
dise for the naturalist who, Egyp- 
tian-like, adores coleopterous in- 
sects, whose name is legion. 

On these marshes are flocks of 
sea-birds, cranes, wild ducks, the 
albatross, the mystic pelican, seve- 
ral species of the heron remarkable 
for height and variety of color, and 
the ibis, revered by ancient Egypt. 



Great flocks of sea-gulls wheel lazi- 
ly through the air, or float about 
like soft cloudlets, or soar away 
with stately grace, displaying the 
stainless purity of their pearly 
wings against the sapphire heavens. 
There are superb flamingoes, also, 
with their wings of flame, from 
which they derive their name. 
They flock here in November espe- 
cially, and maybe seen in a long row, 
looking like a line of soldiers, on 
the borders of the pools seeking 
their prey, while others, like senti- 
nels, keep watch. Their bodies, 
covered with white plumage, are 
supported by long legs terminating 
in palmated feet and surmounted 
by a long, slender neck, at the end 
of which is an enormous beak. At 
a warning from their sentinels they 
start up, spread broad their red 
and black wings, and betake them- 
selves elsewhere with sad, monoto- 
nous cries. It is 'difficult to ap- 
proach them except in cold wea- 
ther, when they are killed in great 
numbers. The flesh is used for 
food, and is regarded by many as 
an exquisite dish, but it has a wild 
flavor and is rather tough. The 
tongue is the most delicious part, 
and considered worthy of the pa- 
late of kings. It was a favorite 
dish at the table of Heliogabalus, 
but then it was prepared according 
to the directions of Apicius. These 
birds do not invariably migrate in 
winter, but sometimes even breed 
here. They make a cone of sand 
with a hollow on the top, in which 
they deposit their eggs ; and here 
they sit, their long legs hanging 
down the side of the hillock. 

There are herds of wild bulls 
and cows and horses on the Ca- 
margue, that roam about with un- 
restrained freedom and add to the 
uncivilized aspect of the island. 
They are not pleasant to encounter. 



472 



TJie Holy Maries of the Camargue. 



Only the herdsmen are able to cap- 
ture and subdue them, and it is cu- 
rious to see these fearless men, with 
their long, three-pronged forks like 
a trident, on the bare back of the 
wild horses, galloping across the 
plains, spearing the cattle on before 
them. 

The horses of the Camargue are 
said to be of Arabian origin, de- 
scended from those introduced by 
the Crusaders, or, as others will 
have it, brought here by the Pho- 
ceans. They are mostly white, and 
are small and slender, but vigorous, 
swift, graceful in their movements, 
and, though they subsist on very 
little, are capable of enduring great 
fatigue. They might be regenerat- 
ed and made valuable, for they are 
intelligent and not difficult to train ; 
but they live in a wild state, graz- 
ing in herds among the marshes, 
spending the whole year in the 
open air, for the 'most part receiv- 
ing no care, and scarcely used ex- 
cept for treading out the huge 
sheaves of grain in the threshing- 
floors. Veran, one of Mireille's 
suitors, has a hundred white mares 
in the great salt marshes, feeding 
on the rank sedges, with unshorn 
manes that flow in the wind. They 
might be taken for some of the 
brazen-footed horses escaped from 
the car of Neptune with manes of 
flowing gold : 

" For when the sea moans and scowls, 
When ships part their cables, 
The horses of the Camargue neigh for joy, 
And smack like whipcord 
Their long, hanging tails, 
And paw the ground, 
And feel within their flesh 
The trident of the terrible god 
Who raises the tempest and the flood, 
And stirs from top to bottom the depths of 
the sea/' 

The wild bulls of the Camargue 
are often taken to the Arenes at 
Nimes and various other places on 
the local festivities, for bull-fights, 
that are kept up more or less in 



the south of France. Their hair is 
black and shining, their horns long 
and slender, their limbs muscular 
and active. One of the most curi- 
ous sights in the Camargue is the 
ferrade, or the process of branding 
the cattle so they may be recogniz- 
ed by their owners. The herdsmen 
the day before go out on the plains, 
armed with their long forks, and, 
cautiously encircling the wary 
beasts, drive them into the brand- 
ing-field. At an early hour in the 
morning this space is surrounded 
by carts and all kinds of country 
vehicles, full of spectators, for the 
occasion is one of great festivity 
and as exciting as a bull-fight. At 
one end of the ring is a large bra- 
sier where the branding-irons are 
heating. One by one the young 
bulls are forced by means of the 
long pike to enter the enclosure. 
A bold herdsman seizes him by the 
horns, another by the tail, and a 
third thrusts a pole between his 
legs to overthrow him. The touca- 
dou, or brander, runs with the hot 
iron and applies it to the thigh of 
the animal, which utters a fright* 
ful roar, and, being released, dash- 
es furiously at his captors. They 
dexterously evade him, and he 
rushes forward through the opening 
made for him and disappears in a 
cloud of dust. Several hundred a 
day are thus marked, but not with- 
out great risk, on the part of the 
herdsmen, though they are brave 
as they are fierce. Their life, 
though full of danger and fatigue,, 
has a wild, gipsy-like charm about 
it, and they have something of the 
nature of their wild bulls, born and 
brought up as they are among them. 
This was the case with Ourrias, an- 
other suitor of Mireille's a mighty 
brander, who is represented as like 
his oxen in shape and movements, 
in the savageness of his eye and 



The Holy Maries of the Camargue. 



473 



the blackness of his skin. He has 
a scar between his eyes, got in 
wrestling with a wild bull at a great 
branding not yet forgotten in the 
Camargue. He comes to the Mas, 
or farm-house, on his swift white 
horse, armed with his long goad, to 
pay court to Mireille, the loveliest 
maiden in the Crau. He finds her 
at a cool spring, her sleeves and 
skirts tucked up, washing the earth- 
en curd-jars. 

u Saints of God ! how beautiful she is, 
Dabbling the clear water with her little feet !" 

" Mireille," says the black brander, 
"if you would come to Sylva-Real, with- 
in the sound of the sea, you would not 
have this trouble, for there the black 
cows run wild and free, and are never 
milked. The women lead pleasant 
lives. . . . Under the pines you may sit 
for ever." 

" Sooner," cries Mireille, " will your 
pronged spear put forth flowers, and 
these hills grow soft as wax, sooner 
shall I go by water to the town of 
Baux." 

Ourrias gallops away in fierce 
ire. He could fight the rocks on 
the Crau. He could assail the sun 
in its course. In this mood he 
meets young Vincen, and on him 
vents his rage. They fly at each 
other like two wild bulls of the 
Camargue. The earth trembles be- 
neath the shock. The stones fly. 
You would take them for Hercules 
and one of the Ligurians, or two 
heroes of the grand Oumero. When 
the mighty Ourrias falls beneath 
the subtle blows of the infuriated 
basket-maker, it is like the crash- 
ing of a tower. A deep hush falls 
over the whole land. But he re- 
gains his trident, and, basely using 
it against young Vincen, leaves 
him on the ground, he believes as 
a feast for the wolves. 

Towards noon, looking across 
the great salt pool of Valcaires, we 



caught sight of battlemented walls, 
as of some old castle. It was the 
church of the Holy Maries. Be- 
fore long we came to the village. 
It is inhabited by fishermen, wreck- 
ers, and herdsmen, amounting to 
about a thousand souls. But the 
men are generally absent on the 
sea or in the fens. There are no 
trees, or gardens, or regular streets; 
nothing but whitewashed cottages 
huddled around the time-stained 
church, with a burning sun over- 
head, and only some low sand- 
dunes and a broad beach to sepa- 
rate it from the sea. It is almost 
cut off from the rest of the world. 
The sand-banks prevent the near 
approach of any vessels, and its 
only intercourse with other places 
is by the post from Aries and a 
telegraph office at the mouth of the 
Petit Rhone. 

The church of the Saintes Ma- 
ries has the aspect of a citadel, and 
is one of the most striking exam- 
ples of the old fortified churches 
to be seen at Narbonne, Agde r 
Maguelone, and all along the shore 
of the Mediterranean. They date 
from the Carlovingian epoch, and 
were intended not only as strong- 
holds of prayer, but as fortresses 
for the defence of the coast, ex- 
posed in those days to frequent at- 
tacks from the Moors and corsairs. 
The general shape is rectangular, 
with strong buttresses, arched ma- 
chicolations, and battlements around 
the top. That of the Saintes Ma- 
ries has turrets at the corners, loop- 
holes in the lofty, massive walls, a 
flat roof paved with stones, with 
ramparts around it, and once con- 
tained everything necessary to sus- 
tain a siege. There is no attempt at 
decoration. Any play of the fancy 
would be out of keeping. All is 
severe and stern as a military hold. 
In time of danger the women and 



474 



The Holy Maries of the Camargue. 



children and the sick used to be 
shut up in the nave to pray, while 
the men on the top fought behind 
the battlements for the defence of 
the place. 

The diligence set us down at the 
lateral door of the church. At the 
sides are two lions of Parian mar- 
ble, corroded by time and the salt 
air, set in the wall. They are evi- 
dently very ancient, and are be- 
lieved to have belonged to a far 
older church. Some go so far as 
to say they are from the old temple 
of Diana, but they have their sym- 
bolic prey in their mouths, after 
the manner of so many lions watch- 
ing at the church portals of Italy, 
and are, no doubt, of Christian ori- 
gin. The church is a vast basilica 
without any aisles, and as yet un- 
spoiled by restoration, though on 
the list of the historical monuments 
of France, which, in itself, is an in- 
dication of its ultimate fate. It is 
bare, gaunt, and weather-stained, 
but grandiose and impressive. It 
is lighted by a few small windows 
cut high up in the thick walls. A 
banner of the Holy Maries is sus- 
pended over the old stone stoup as 
you enter. Rude benches fill the 
upper part of the nave, in the cen- 
tre of which is the well that sprang 
<up at the prayer of the Saints, with 
a railing around it. The water is 
considered efficacious for hydro- 
phobia. On the walls are the Sta- 
tions of the Cross rudely engraved, 
a great crucifix with a bleeding 
side, and a few paintings, such as 
the " Death of St. Joseph," after 
Carlo Maratta, and a copy of Mig- 
nard's Assumption. In a niche is 
a boat with effigies of the Maries 
standing erect, and over it is a 
modern picture of the Sacred 
Heart. Set in the southern wall 
is a marble slab called the coussin 
des saintes, because one of those 



found under the heads of the Holy 
Maries when exhumed in 1488, in- 
scribed with their names. It has 
been hollowed out by the peasants, 
who mix the/ powder with water 
from the holy well and take it as a 
remedy. A pagan altar of Roman 
times, but now marked with the 
cross, stands in the nave. The 
high altar is in the choir, which is 
higher than the body of the church. 
It is a semi-rotupda supported by 
eight Corinthian columns with capi- 
tals, on which are carved the An- 
nunciation, the Angel appearing to 
St. Joseph, the Visitation, the Sa- 
crifice of Abraham, rams, satyrs, 
acanthus leaves, etc. These storied 
columns form a kind of arcade 
around the apsis. The altar has 
two fronts, and on grand festivals 
the priest officiates with his face to 
the congregation, as in the great 
basilicas at Rome. 

Beneath the choir is the small 
crypt built by King Rene. You 
go down by stone steps through a 
low, broad archway. It was here 
the cabin of the Holy Maries stood, 
and here they lay buried for cen- 
turies to save them from the Sara- 
cens. There is still a hollow rock 
in which, says tradition, they cook- 
ed their food. In a wooden coffer 
are the bones of St. Sara, the at- 
tendant of the saints, or, as some 
of the Saintins will have it, Pilate's 
wife, who escaped with the Maries. 
The gipsies, who are numerous in 
the Camargue, honor her with a 
devotion quite apart. 

" Dins la capello sous terrado 
L'a Santo Saro, venerado 
Di bruns Boumian." 

The apsis of the church is unique, 
with its three altars one above the 
other. For over the choir is an- 
other chapel high up on the roof, 
secluded and' mysterious. Here is 
the shrine of the Holy Maries. It 



The Holy Maries of the Camargue. 



475 



cannot be reached from the inte- 
rior of the church. A door opens 
in the outer wall, and you go up 
by a spiral staircase in the buttress, 
lighted by loopholes. The cure 
keeps the key, but kindly gave us 
access to this singular chapel. The 
staircase continues to the top of 
the church, where you can walk 
along the battlements, and look off 
over land and sea, and hear the 
murmur of the waves. Here, be- 
tween two immensities the fathom- 
less sea and the boundless heavens 
you feel the sublimity, the fasci- 
nation of this melancholy, desolate 
shore. A profound peace seems to 
reign over the broad wastes. You 
half envy the lot of the Holy 
Maries, and begin to think it would 
be no misfortune to live here in 
the sands, in the smiles of the whis- 
pering, caressing sea, beneath so 
glorious a sun, free from the re- 
quirements of conventional life, re- 
stored to the freedom of nature, to 
pass the remainder of your days 
under the protection of the Saints 
of the Sea, 

"In dreamful wastes where footless fancies dwell." 

The moonlight nights are espe- 
cially delightful on this lonely shore 
the gleaming white village, the 
pale sands, the strange charm of the 
immense solitudes, the silence bro- 
ken only by the lulling sound of 
the waters, the moonlit air, the 
wonderful white glory spreading its 
radiance over the moorland flats, 
giving beauty even to the black 
marshes, streaming out over the 
most beautiful of seas, and bathing 
with all its fulness the tower where 
hangs the shrine of the Holy Ma- 
nes in its secret chapel. 

This chapel is hung with the 
simple offerings of the poor, but all 
the more affecting for that. There 
are a profusion of little boats given 



by fishermen saved from the quick- 
sands, crutches and models of 
limbs from the once infirm, votive 
pictures and tablets-, ornaments of 
crystal, and rows of silver hearts. 
Against the front wall, in an alcove, 
is the ancient shrine of cypress- 
wood, on which the Holy Maries 
are painted in their bark, and at 
one end is a windlass by means of 
which it is let down to the choir 
three times a year viz., May 25, 
October 22, and December 3. The 
May festival that of St. Mary 
Jacobe is the most popular, for 
then the days are longer, and the 
roads dryer than after the autumnal 
rains begin. An immense crowd 
assembles on the eve, coming from 
Aries, Nimes, Marseilles, etc., so 
that tents have to be set up on the 
sands where the people can pass 
the night. A vast number of sick 
and infirm persons are brought to 
be healed by the Great Saints. The 
church is filled at an early hour in 
the morning. At length the priests 
come in their choicest robes. The 
door over the choir is opened. 
There is an intense feeling in the 
expectant crowd. They all kneel 
with torches in their hands, gazing 
up at the open door. The Salve 
begins : 

" Salve Mater inclyta 

Jacobi Minoris ; 

Ave, Parens optima 

Jacobi Majoris." 

The shrine appears, lowered by 
ropes and chains. A thrill, a tre- 
mor passes over the breathless 
multitude, pale, palsied hands are 
lifted in supplication, a perfect wail 
of sorrow rises. The shrine comes 
slowly down, down. " Grdce ! 
Grace!" is heard on every side. 
There is a terrible cry and a sway- 
ing to and fro of the crowd. The 
shrine at length rests on an estrade, 
adorned by flowers and surrounded 



47 6 



The Holy Maries of the Camargue. 



by lights, where it remains all day 
with a throng of votaries before it. 
At a later hour the people go in 
procession down to the sea-shore 
with relics, banners, and the old 
bark, and there the cure blesses 
them with the silver arm given by 
King Rene, containing a bone of 
the Saints. Then they return to a 
cross set up in the sands, where a 
sermon is delivered. This cross is 
of stone, and on it is sculptured the 
bark of the Maries, the symbolic 
fish and pelican, and the Sacred 
Heart. 

The church of the Saintes Maries 
is variously designated in ancient 
documents as Les deux Maries de 
la Mer, Notre Dame de la Barque, 
Sancta Maria de Ratis, etc. It is 
called by the latter name in the 
testament of St. Cesaire (early in 
the sixth century), in which he 
gives it to the nuns of Aries. 
Count William of Provence, who 
expelled the Saracens from the 
country, held the church in the 
tenth century, perhaps by right of 
conquest, but restored it to the 
nuns of St. Cesaire. The village, 
which is identified with the church 
and bears its name, has for its arms 
a boat in which the Maries are 
standing with the motto Navis in 
pelago. 

We have no intention of discuss- 
ing the delightful old legend of the 
bark that brought so many saints 
from the East to this happy shore. 
It has been a constant tradition 
in Provence. M. Faillon has ex- 
hausted the subject, and we are 
only too willing to accept his con- 
clusions that put us at once in har- 
mony with the people and their 
peculiar devotions. 

There is an old religious romance 
concerning the history of the Holy 
Maries, in sixteen thousand lines, 
written in 1365 by Jean de Venette, 



a Carmelite monk, but it is full 
of fictitious incidents. He makes 
them the daughters of St. Anne, 
who, according to him, had three 
husbands Joachim, Jacob, and 
Salome by whom she had respec- 
tively three daughters called the 
Three Maries, two of whom added 
the name of their fathers to their 
own. 

On leaving Jerusalem at the per- 
secution of St. Stephen's time, he 
supposes them to go to Veroli, 
in Italy, accompanied by Sarette, 
their servant. Here they lodged in 
the house of a good Christian 
dame named Eve de la Ruolle, 
where they were taken ill and died. 
Veroli being in after-times gallant- 
ly defended by a Provencal knight, 
the religious and civil authorities 
testified their gratitude for his ser- 
vices by giving him the bodies 
of these holy women, which he 
brought to France and buried be- 
neath the church of Notre Dame 
de la Mer through fear of the Sara- 
cens. 

" You go straight into Provence, 
Where they're held in reverence, 
Three leagues from St. Giles' town." 

But the generally-received tra- 
dition is that Mary Jacobe was the 
daughter of Matthan, of the tribe 
of Levi. Her mother was the 
sister of St. Anne and of Sobe, the - 
mother of St. Elizabeth, of whom , 
was born the Baptist. Mary Jaco- 
be married Cleophas, the brother ! 
of St. Joseph, and is often called , 



by his name. She had four 
James the Minor, Jude, Sim-'j 
eon (bishop of Jerusalem), and Jo- 
seph, surnamed Justus, spoken of im I 
the Acts of the Apostles. Mary,,| 
daughter of Salome, married Ze- 
bedee and became the mother of 
St. James the Major and St. Johnll 
the Evangelist. They were so 
nearly related to the Blessed Virgin 



The Holy Maries of the Camargue. 



477 



that they formed part, as it were, 
of the Holy Family, and the chil- 
dren are called the brethren of our 
Saviour. There is a painting in 
the museum at Marseilles by Peru- 
gino, representing them all togeth- 
er, which is something unusual. 
In the centre is the Madonna en- 
throned, with the Child on her 
knee. St. Anne, dressed in green 
and purple, stands behind, with her 
hands resting on her daughter's 
shoulders. On the steps below are 
the children Thaddeus and Simeon. 
At the right stands Mary Salome, 
with St. John in her arms and St. 
James the Major (a little boy with 
a green scarf) at her side. St. Jo- 
achim is behind her with a green 
robe and yellow mantle. St. Mary 
Jacobe is on the other side in a 
pale green dress and lilac veil, with 
St. James the Minor in her arms 
and Joseph Justus at her side. 
Behind her is St. Joseph. 

Mary Jacobe is said to have died 
first. St. Trophime came down 
from Aries to administer the Holy 
Eucharist, and she was buried near 
the miraculous fountain. Salome 
lived a few months longer. Sara 
soon followed, and was buried 
near her mistresses, and became 
inseparably connected with them 
in the devotions of the people. A 
few centuries after, while the lord 
of the country (some say the king) 
was hunting in the forest of the 
Saintes Mariesdoubtless the Pin- 
ede, a remnant of the Sylva-Real 
he met the hermit who watched 
over the tombs of the holy women, 
and ordered a church to be built 
to enclose them. 

Gervase of Tilbury, marshal of 
the kingdom of Aries in the time 
of the Emperor Otho IV., speaks 
of the tradition of the Holy Maries 
as handed down from remote anti- 
quity. He says : 



" The Narbonnese province includes 
the Sticados isles, commonly called the 
Camargues, in the place where the Rhone 
empties into the sea. There on the sea- 
shore is to be seen the earliest church 
on the continent in honor of Mary, the 
holy Mother of God, consecrated by sev- 
eral of the seventy-two disciples, driven 
out of Judea and exposed on the sea in 
a bark without oars, such as Maximin 
of Aix, Lazarus of Marseilles, brother of 
Martha and Mary Magdalen, Eutrope of 
Orange, George of Velay, Trophime of 
Aries, in presence of Martha, Mary Mag- 
dalen, and several others. Under the 
altar of this basilica, made by them out 
of baked earth and covered with a tablet 
of Parian marble bearing an inscription, 
there are, according to an ancient tradi- 
tion worthy of full credence, six heads 
of holy bodies placed in a square. The 
remainder of the bodies are buried in a 
tomb, and among the number, we are 
assured, are the two Maries who, the 
first day after the Sabbath, came with 
perfumes to visit the tomb of the Sa- 
viour." 

No one was better able than Ger- 
vase of Tilbury to know the pre- 
vailing opinion in the province as 
to the Holy Maries, and his testi- 
mony that they had been venerat- 
ed here from time immemorial by 
the people of Aries and the whole 
country around is of weight. He 
shows himself well informed as to 
the Camargue and the church, as 
though he had visited them in per- 
son. 

William Durandus, the Specu- 
lator, Bishop of Mende, and one of 
the most learned schoolmen of the 
thirteenth century, alludes to the 
altar of earth in his Rationale. He 
says that "altars, according to the 
general custom of the church, 
should be of stone, though that 
made by the Israelites was of se- 
tim wood, which was incorrupti- 
ble. That of St. John Lateran is 
also of wood. And in the coun- 
try of Provence there is an altar 
of earth in the town of Sainte Ma- 
rie de la Mer, erected in that place 



478 



The Holy Maries of the Camargue. 



by Mary Magdalen, Martha, Mary 
Jacobe, and Mary Salome." 

This great doctor of the church 
was a native of Provence, but had 
studied at Bologna, been a profes- 
sor at Modena, auditor of the sa- 
cred palace at Rome, legate to the 
Council of Lyons (1274), and was 
in relation with all the learned men 
of his time. His opinion may 
therefore be supposed to be that 
which was generally received. 

This altar was so holy that, ac- 
cording to Jean de Venette, no one 
was allowed to officiate thereat but 
bishops and religious. 

" Nul n'y doit celebrer messe, 
Soit basse ou haute, a note expresse, 
Fors prelats et religieux : 
Tant est le lieu trfes pr6cieux." 

And no one was ever buried in the 
church out of respect to these holy 
women. Even when it was served 
by monks they had their cemetery 
without the walls. 

In the middle ages people of all 
conditions came on pilgrimages to 
the Saintes Maries, even from re- 
mote provinces. Jean de Venette 
relates how a bishop of St. Pol de 
Leon, having suffered for years 
from the gout, and to such a de- 
gree that he had lost the use of his 
limbs, and could not even turn in 
bed, being given up by the physi- 
cians, made a vow to go on a pil- 
grimage to the church of the Holy 
Maries, if they would enable him 
to make the journey, and forthwith 
began to compose a hymn in their 
honor, beginning Nobile Collegium. 
It was hardly completed before he 
fell into a sweet slumber, and to- 
wards the middle of the night he 
saw, either in a vision or with his 
natural eyes, the two Maries ap- 
pear, who, after anointing him, as- 
sured him he was healed. When 
he awoke in the morning he found 
it was true, and at once set forth 



to accomplish his vow. He arriv- 
ed safely at the church, difficult as 
it was of access, related his cure, 
and made rich offerings. He after- 
wards founded three chapels in 
honor of the Saints. One of these 
was in the church of St. Pierre 
at Nantes, which he adorned with 
their statues in alabaster. Another 
was in the Carmelite church at 
Paris, where he hung up a tablet 
on which was graven his hymn, 
Nobile Collegium. 

At St. Paul's Church, Lyons, 
there was a chapel of the Trois 
Maries, and the chasse containing 
holy relics was suspended behind 
the high altar, after the manner of 
that in the Camargue, and let down 
on grand occasions. 

Foulques de Chanac, Bishop of 
Paris in 1347, in consequence of 
the marvels wrought at the shrine 
of the Holy Maries, ordered their 
two festivals to be celebrated in his 
diocese, apd granted indulgences to 
all who would keep them. On 
these days their lives were read 
or made the subject of a discourse. 

But the great veneration in which 
this church was held throughout 
the country was shown in 1448, 
when Rene of Anjou, after a ser- 
mon on the Holy Maries, conceiv- 
ed the design of exhuming their re- 
mains, which still lay buried beneath 
the church, and applied to Pope 
Nicholas V. for permission, begging 
him to appoint some one to superin- 
tend the solemn translation. The 
pope appointed the bishop of Mar- 
seilles and the archbishop of Aix. 
They proceeded to the Camargue, 
and a Provencal knight named 
Jean d'Arlatan, the king's chamber- 
lain, directed the excavations, and 
the king's bailiff and the syndic of 
the town kept guard to see that no 
one touched the works. They first 
excavated the site of the ancient 



The Holy Maries of the Catnargue. 



479 



oratory, and near the well they 
found the head of St. James, bound 
with strips of lead. Then they dug 
beneath the choir, where stood the 
ancient cabin. Here they found 
coals, ashes, and some domestic 
utensils, and finally the Three 
Saints with the remains of the Holy 
Innocents, laid in the form of a 
triangle. 

King Rene, to whom the dis- 
covery was at once announced, 
came to the Saintes Maries with 
Isabella of Lorraine, accompanied 
by a brilliant train, in which were 
Frederic de Lorraine, the king's 
son-in-law, Tanneguy Duchatel, 
seneschal of Provence, Elie, lord of 
Montfaucon, the lord of Clermont, 
and three hundred other people of 
distinction. At the head of the 
clergy were Cardinal de Foix, the 
papal legate, twelve bishops, several 
mitred abbots, such as those of St. 
Gilles, Psalmody, and St. Victor at 
Marseilles, and many deans, pro- 
vosts, doctors of the law, canon 
and civil, prothonotaries, and no- 
taries public. On the 3d of De- 
cember Cardinal de Foix ponti- 
fically celebrated the Mass of the 
Holy Maries, attended by all the 
bishops, abbots, and priests in 
splendid attire. The church was 
magnificently adorned and crowd- 
ed with people holding torches in 
their hands. The relics were laid 
before the high altar, where the 
king and clergy went to venerate 
them. The legate, aided by the 
bishops of Marseilles and Couse- 
rans, took the sacred bones, wiped 
off the dust, washed them in white 
wine, and placed them in a double 
shrine of cypress-wood lined with- 
in and without with rich silk em- 
broidered with gold. Then the 
chasse was carried forth into the 
open air to allow the people to have 
freer access, and there Dom Ad- 



hemar, the king's confessor, pro- 
nounced a panegyric. 

The next day the other remains 
were duly enshrined, and the chasse 
of the Holy Maries was solemnly 
raised in presence of the king and 
people to the upper chapel of St. 
Michael the Archangel, where the 
cover was fastened down by means 
of four locks. Two of the keys were 
given to the king, and two to the 
abbot of Mont Majour. 

King Rene afterwards painted a 
triptych for the church. The cen- 
tral panel represented the Virgin 
and Child on a throne, and on the 
wings were the Maries with their 
vases. This picture was engraved 
at Paris some time last century. 
He also gave silver vessels for the 
altar, vestments wrought with sil- 
ver and gold, and rich stuffs to 
cover the shrines. 

A solemn festival, called the RJ- 
vttation, was established on the 26. 
of December to commemorate this 
translation. 

In 'September, 1596, the people 
of Aries, after successful recourse 
to the Holy Maries in a time of 
public calamity, sent their church, 
as offerings of gratitude, a cross of 
silver gilt, and a piece of orfevrerie 
representing the city of Aries in 
relief, and the three Saints appear- 
ing in the heavens. The preben- 
daries of St. Trophime, the civil 
authorities, and a great number of 
nobles and people went to the 
Saintes Maries to present the offer- 
ings. A Mass was solemnly sung, 
and, in honor of the occasion, the 
chasse was opened by the prior of 
Mont Majour and the delegate of 
the king. 

At the Revolution all the silver 
vessels and ex-votos were carried 
off. Tli ere was no danger of the 
wooden shrine's exciting the cu- 
pidity of any one, but to prevent 



480 



The Holy Maries of the Camargue. 



the relics from being profaned the 
cure had them taken out, wrapped 
in stout cloth, and buried. The 
silver reliquary in the form of an 
arm, given by King Rene, was 
also saved. The coussin des saintes 
was taken to plant a liberty-tree on, 
but when that was overthrown the 
people came with great joy to see 
the stone taken up, and accompa- 
nied it to the church, where it was 
reset in the wall, every one kissing 
it with respect and declaring that 
it gave forth a sweet odor as of vio- 
lets. The relics of the Maries were 
also restored to the upper cha*pel, 
where they are still kept. 

It is to the chapel of St. Michael 
in the upper air that Mireille is ta- 
ken that she may die before the 
shrine of the Holy Maries, and 
there, as the setting sun casts its 
last beams across the long waves 
that are slowly breaking against 
the shore, the priest administers 
the last solemn rites. Her parents 
are there : " O Saints ! let her 
live. Take my life instead !"' Vin- 
ce"n, too, rushes wild with grief 
across the salt marshes : " My love, 
my blossoming almond-tree, sun of 
my life ! Shall it be said that you, 
great Saints, have seen her embrac- 



ing your sacred altar in vain ? 
Queens of heaven, the only help 
now, take the very eyes orhny head, 
but give her back to me." The 
Saints breathe over the dying girl. 
It gives her a little strength. Her 
face flushes with sweet joy at the 
sight of young Vincen : " You told 
me to come to the Holy Maries. 
With solace, with solace my heart 
is running over." She extends her 
hands to them all. " The time of 
parting has come," she says ; " the 
light deepens on the Maries' brows. 
They beckon me to come. They 
whisper I need not fear. I shall 
go to Paradise in their bark. They 
know the pathway through the 
stars. Now they are on the prow 
awaiting me. In a moment, dear 
Saints. I cannot go fast. I am too 
weak. . . . I mount. Adieu ! adieu ! 
We are on the sea, the beautiful 
sea. Over its soft billows we go to 
heaven. The blue sky meets the 
waters." 

Her voice dies away like the 
sunlight from cloud to cloud of 
gold. " Saints, is that an organ I 
hear fn the distance ?" she mur- 
murs, and turns her face with a 
smile, and is gone. 



The Reality of the Supernatural Order. 



481 



THE REALITY OF THE SUPERNATURAL ORDER. 



THE Supernatural Order, in re- 
spect to the human race during its 
existence on the earth, subsists in 
the Catholic Church. It is a so- 
ciety having the principle of its 
organic unity and life, in faith in 
divine mysteries above the sphere 
of reason, believed on the veracity 
of God who has revealed them ; in 
hope of a sovereign good above 
any attainable by natural develop- 
ment of the human faculties ; in 
love to God in a personal, filial 
relation of equality. Its existence 
springs from and is founded upon 
the great Fact of the Resurrection 
of Jesus Christ. 

In regard to this great Fact, Mr. 
Alger, who is an extreme rational- 
ist, remarks : 

"Of all the single events that ever 
were supposed to have occurred in the 
world, perhaps the most august in its 
moral associations and the most stupen- 
dous in its lineal effects, both on the out- 
ward fortunes and on the inward expe- 
rience of mankind, is the resurrection of 
Jesus Christ from the dead. . . . If God 
is in history, guiding the moral drift of 
human affairs, then the dazzling success 
of the proclamation of the risen Re- 
deemer is the divine seal upon the truth 
of his mission and the reality of his 
apotheosis."* 

The Catholic Church is a living, 
continuous, universal witness to 
the fact of the Resurrection ; and to 
its significance, which lies in the 
nature of the Redeemer who died 
and rose again, and the purpose 
for which he submitted to death 
and triumphed over death. It is 
the medium which places us in 

* Critical History of the Doctrine of a Future 
Life, pp. 346-353. The whole of this chapter is 
well worth the study of every rationalist and 
sceptic. 

VOL. XXIX. 31 



direct contact with the great fact 
and illuminates it, so that its real, 
intrinsic character is made visible 
and intelligible. And in this fact, 
thus made intelligible, is contained 
the complete revelation of the se- 
cret mystery of human destiny im- 
pervious to reason ; and the full so- 
lution of the difficulties which phi- 
losophy, left to itself, is unable to 
explain. The knowledge of the 
person and purpose of Jesus Christ 
is derived from himself, through 
the testimony of the apostles, per- 
petuated in the Catholic Church. 
The sum of the testimony to his 
person is expressed in the words 
of St. Augustine, " Persona Christi 
mixtura est Dei et hominis " " The 
person of Christ is a mixture of 
God and man." This personal 
subsistence of a human nature in 
the divine nature is an elevation 
to that hidden life in the infinite 
intelligence and love of the divine 
essence, which constitutes the pure 
entelecheia or absolute act in which 
God exists. The sublime philoso- 
phy of Aristotle penetrates so far 
as this into the essence of God, 
that He is the infinite knower and 
known, lover and loved. Active 
intelligence, the intelligible, and 
the desirable or object of compla- 
cency, present three terms of rela- 
tion within the divine being. Be- 
cause God is absolute act, infinite 
being, whose essence is to exist, 
the term of his act is real being in 
perfect, complete subsistence, or 
personality. His intelligent con- 
sciousness with self-dominion and 
independence, the ego of his com- 
plete actuality, is in act in a three- 
fold manner, because of the three 



482 



The Reality of the Supernatural Order. 



necessary terms of relation in his 
inner life, which have each its dis- 
tinct reality. Within his individ- 
ual and indivisible unity of essence, 
there is communication, fellowship, 
an eminent mode of the society 
and mutual love which in finite 
beings springs from a multiplica- 
tion of persons with distinct na- 
tures. The human nature of Jesus 
Christ, having been taken up into 
a mode of subsistence in the per- 
son of the Divine Word wholly 
above its natural exigency, was 
made to participate in a grade of 
cognition and love equal to that 
which essentially belongs to the 
divine nature. This is a true 
apotheosis, in the literal sense of 
the word, and the Resurrection was 
its manifestation, the taking full 
possession, and exhibiting before 
the world as an accomplished fact, 
of that which existed before in 
right, the privilege of a divine 
sonship. 

The purpose of Jesus Christ in 
dying and rising again, we know 
from his own testimony, was to re- 
deem his brethren and give them 
an adopted sonship similar to his 
own. The original destination of 
human nature is proved, therefore, 
from the personal quality and pur- 
pose of the Redeemer as manifest- 
ed in the Resurrection, to have 
been absolutely supernatural. 

It is necessary to define here 
more precisely what is meant by 
this term " supernatural," for it is 
the pivot upon which the whole 
exposition of Catholic theology 
turns. 

" Supernatural " does not denote 
simply what is above sensible na- 
ture, the laws of the visible uni- 
verse, and the temporal order of 
this present world. The realm of 
nature is co-extensive with the 
creation. It includes the world of 



spirits, the entire intelligible order, 
all the relations of created beings 
to God which spring from the crea- 
tive act. The human soul is na- 
turally capable of knowing God 
and naturally subject to his domin- 
ion. It is naturally immortal, and 
has a natural exigency of its own- 
perfection in a future state of end- 
less existence. T^he providence of 
God over ail his creatures as the 
creator, the conservator, the con- 
current first cause of all effects, the 
consummator of his own plan, so 
far as known and knowable by the 
natural light of intelligence, is 
within the natural order. The 
supernatural is something above 
the plane of all effects produced 
by creation. It is a communica- 
tion of -that which naturally be- 
longs within the divine essence, to 
a term which is without. The na- 
tural interval between the divine es- 
sence and the highest created spiri- 
tual essence is infinite. The creat- 
ed spirit can only have cognition 
by becoming, ideally, what is cogniz- 
ed through representative species. 
He must take into his own being 
the form of his object of cognition. 
The essence of God infinitely tran- 
scends this finite capacity. The 
intelligent creature can only know 
God as he sees Him by a diminuted 
image in himself, in other spirits, 
in the intelligible universe. The 
works of God do not image his 
intrinsic essence as it subsists in 
Three Persons. They are the un- 
divided works of 'the wisdom and 
omnipotence of God, which are es- 
sentially and identically the same 
in the Three Persons. It is im- 
possible to know or even to guess 
that God can or will elevate any 
creature by union with his own 
essence, so that he can see God in 
and through God, as He sees him- 
self, and in this contemplation 



The Reality of the Supernatural Order. 



483 



possess a sovereign and divine 
beatitude ; unless God reveal his 
purpose to do so, and disclose the 
mystery of his interior life. He 
has done so in Christ, in whom the 
human and the divine are hypo- 
statically united. And in Christ, 
as the head of the human race, the 
Adam of the order of regeneration, 
the destination of man is made 
known as absolutely supernatural. 

In this supernatural order, the 
entire human essence, including the 
body, was destined for a state of 
glorification to succeed the present 
state. The body, naturally cor- 
ruptible and mortal, was destined 
to a transformation into an incor- 
ruptible state. In the state of ori- 
ginal innocence and justice, the 
graces and gifts with which the 
first parents of men were invested 
threw a glory over the body which 
covered its natural deficiency, har- 
monized it with the spirit, and pre- 
vented the innate corruptibility 
from taking effect in any disorderly 
appetites, in disease, decay, or dis- 
solution. Immunity from death 
was promised on the condition of 
obedience to the law of God, and 
this earthly life was ordained as a 
peaceful and happy preparation for 
the apotheosis by which the sons of 
God should be finally translated to 
the highest sphere among beatified 
spirits. 

The disobedience and fall from 
grace of the first parents of the 
human ^race changed the human 
species into something worse than 
God had made it; the despoiled 
nature was transmitted to their pos- 
terity, with its inherent corruptibil- 
ity ; and death became the common 
doom. The Redeemer restored 
the race, fallen from its destined 
end, by a better and more perfect 
way, through his own death and 
resurrection. The divine revela- 



tion and the divine religion before 
his coming were a preparation for 
him, the Catholic Church is the 
complement of his work. In the 
inchoate society which preceded the 
foundation of the Catholic Church, 
before the Resurrection ; in the per- 
fect society of the Catholic Church 
since that epoch ; all men who have 
divine faith and persevere until 
death in acting upon its dictates are 
prepared for the state of everlasting 
glory in the society of the holy 
angels, under Christ as the univer- 
sal head ; which is the consumma- 
tion of the entire plan of God. 
All things and events in the natural 
order are subordinated to this su- 
pernatural order. This is the sum 
of the principal and substantial con- 
tents of the divine revelation which 
the Catholic Church has received 
from Jesus Christ through the apos- 
tles, and teaches, by authority dele- 
gated from him, with unerring cer- 
tainty ; and it is all concentrated, 
manifested, and marked with the 
seal of divine truth in the one con- 
crete fact of the Resurrection. 

The mode of teaching by a di- 
vine revelation, received by faith 
in the divine veracity and attested 
by miracles, is rendered necessary 
by the supernatural order in which 
the destination of the human race 
is constituted. In this order, the 
human intellect and will are placed 
in relation with that which is natu- 
rally unknowable except to God 
himself. The essence of God in 
the Trinity is thus made the ulti- 
mate intelligible and desirable ob- 
ject of the human aspiration. This 
is a mystery above all created intel- 
ligence, which can only be clear- 
ly seen by supernatural intuition. 
There is a sufficient reason for dis- 
closing it in an obscure manner by 
revelation, because it is the ulti- 
mate term of the elevated and di- 



484 



The Reality of the Supernatural Order. 



vinized intelligence and will. The 
Incarnation is a mystery even more 
inscrutable and impervious to hu- 
man reason, and the inferior but 
similar filiation of the adopted sons 
who share with the Only-Begotten 
in his privilege of primogeniture is 
likewise a secret of God, which can 
only be believed on faith in the di- 
vine word. Other revealed truths 
and facts are secondary and com- 
plementary to these primary mys- 
teries. From the beginning of the 
world, the substantial revelation 
was made, and was expanded and 
completed by degrees until the 
end of the mission of the apostles. 
Since that time, there has been no 
addition made to the sum of reveal- 
ed truths. The Catholic Church, 
by her judgments and definitions 
respecting dogmas of divine faith, 
only makes .the obscure clearer, or 
determines what lias been revealed, 
or explicates the implicit concepts 
contained in revealed truths. 

The supernatural faith, hope, and 
love by which men are raised to 
the same plane in which Jesus 
Christ exists by virtue of his divine 
personality, are gifts of divine grace, 
infused virtues which elevate human 
nature above itself. Human reason, 
and rational free-will to choose the 
desirable good and use the natural 
faculties for its attainment, do not 
suffice even to initiate a movement 
toward the supernatural end, much 
less to accomplish the transition by 
which the term is reached. Never- 
theless, it is not a new intellect or a 
new will which is produced in man 
by regeneration. Nature is not su- 
perseded but augmented and ele- 
vated and subjected to a new force 
in the supernatural order. It is 
the natural capacity for knowing 
the intelligible and knowing God 
which is iurned toward the mys- 
teries of the divine essence, as 



its supernatural object. The natu- 
ral and necessary love of the uni- 
versal good, and of God as its 
source, is turned and determined to 
the beatific contemplation of the 
divine essence as its specific and 
supernatural term. In the medi- 
um or way appointed by God for 
conducting the rational creation to 
its end, all natural means are inter- 
laced with the supernatural and 
combined in one harmonious whole. 
There is an aptitude and an atti- 
tude of the intellectual and moral 
nature of man toward the divine, 
which makes him a fit and compe- 
tent recipient of the illuminations 
and inspirations of divine grace. 
Under the influence of these il- 
luminations and inspirations, the 
natural activity of the mind and 
will remains unimpaired. Revela- 
tion is not philosophy or science, 
but it is compatible with both. A 
very large part of what has been . 
handed down and taught by reli- 
gious tradition, in connection with 
the articles and dogmas of faith 
which are made known exclusively 
by revelation, is also the object of 
purely natural and rational know- 
ledge, and is provable by historical 
and philosophical evidence. The 
mysteries themselves, although ob- 
scure and inevident in respect to 
natural reason, are intelligible, and 
their harmony with rational truths 
is partially provable. The unity of 
God, the unity of the human 
species, the immortality of the 
soul, the obligations of juftice, the 
right of property, the facts related 
in sacred history, and similar mat- 
ters, can be known and proved in- 
dependently of sacred Scripture 
and sacred tradition, by metaphy- 
sical or moral evidence. The 
Trinity of Persons in God cannot 
be demonstrated metaphysically, 
because it is impossible to discover 



The Reality of the Supernatural Order, 



4 s 5 



a necessary connection in the dis 
tinct concepts enunciated in the 
statement of this article of faith. 
The compatibility between the dis- 
tinction of natures and the unity of 
person in the Son of God cannot 
be demonstrated, and the actual 
union of the two natures in him 
was not physically evident to those 
who saw him in the condition of a 
human life like our own. Never- 
theless, the meaning of the terms 
Trinity, Incarnation, and the like 
is intelligible by analogies drawn 
from known objects and rational 
concepts. There are numerous 
and copious arguments of proba- 
bility, by which it is not only shown 
that these mysteries are not con- 
trary to reason, but that they have 
even a rational verisimilitude. 

Moreover, the ground and motive 
for giving a firm and nndoubting 
assent to these articles of faith and 
all else which is revealed, as well 
as to all conclusions logically de- 
duced from revealed truths, is and 
must be a rational motive. An act 
of reason is presupposed by the 
act of faith. By faith we believe, 
on the authority of God revealing, 
whatsoever is sufficiently presented 
to the mind as a revealed truth. 
The object of faith does not of it- 
self determine and compel assent 
as self-evident. Faith is voluntary, 
free, and meritorious. It is an act 
of supreme homage and submission 
to God which has a moral as well 
as intellectual virtue in it. It is 
the will which determines the intel- 
lect to give undoubting, irrevocable 
assent to the word of God. This 
act of the will would not be pru- 
dent and reasonable, unless it pro- 
ceeded from a rational judgment 
that it is really the word of God 
which demands assent. It is re- 
quisite, therefore, to know the exis- 
tence and veracity of God, and to 



know that the proposed object of 
faith is revealed by him, on suffi- 
cient reasons which are at least 
simultaneously presented with the 
instruction given by the authorized 
teacher of revealed truth, before a 
real and certain assent of divine 
faith can be given. One who has 
had faith, therefore, from the first 
beginning of the use of reason, and 
has never doubted, if he possesses 
sufficient capacity and learning, 
can apply the internal and external 
criteria of certitude by a reflex ex- 
amination of the rational grounds 
of the Catholic doctrine. He can 
have a scientific, philosophical, 
theological, critical, and historical 
certitude of the entire Catholic re- 
ligion and all its parts, a Christian 
demonstration equal though not 
precisely similar to that which he 
may have of the best known and 
most constant laws and facts of na- 
tural science. The demonstration 
is not directly founded through- 
out on metaphysical but on moral 
evidence. It is, therefore, proper- 
ly called a moral demonstration. 
Nevertheless it is reducible indi- 
rectly to a demonstration which 
may be called strictly metaphysical. 
The whole is contained in the syl- 
logism : 

Whatever God reveals is certain- 
ly true ; 

God has revealed all which the 
church proposes as a divine revela- 
tion ; 

Therefore, all this is certainly 
true. 

The major premise is meta- 
physically certain. The minor pre- 
mise is morally certain, and proved 
by the whole mass of the motives 
of credibility. The conclusion is 
contained in the major premise, 
and therefore has all the intrinsic 
and objective truth of that premise. 
But, subjectively, and in respect to 



486 



The Reality of the Supernatural Order. 



our apprehension, our mind is 
placed in adequation to this objec- 
tive truth only in proportion to the 
quality of the moral evidence of the 
minor premise, by which the con- 
clusion is proved to be contained 
in the major. By the logical rule, 
consequently, that the weaker pre- 
mise qualifies the conclusion, the 
conclusion is for us only morally 
certain, by the direct force of the 
argument. Yet it is reductively 
metaphysical. For, it is demon- 
strably incompatible with the attri- 
butes of God that he should per- 
mit any religion to be invested 
with the credibilily of the most 
complete moral evidence, except 
that which is absolutely true and 
revealed. 

Children, and the simple, unlearn- 
ed people, have enough of this 
kind of knowledge for a reasonable 
certainty of all which is necessary 
for them as a condition of believing 
and practising the essential part of 
the Catholic religion. They have 
it, just as they have the implicit, 
substantial philosophy which suf- 
fices for the ordinary purposes of 
common life. Those who are ig- 
norant of the Catholic faith, and 
who are incapable of the amount of 
study and thought which are neces- 
sary for a complete and extensive 
understanding of an historical, 
philosophical, and theological de- 
monstration of the Catholic religion, 
like that which sufficed for convinc- 
ing minds of the order of Stolberg, 
Newman, and Brownson, can never- 
theless attain a rational conviction 
by a short and easy process. Any 
one who has the use of reason, rec- 
titude of will, a sincere desire for 
truth, and who is not so preoccu- 
pied by the prejudices of education 
as to be in a state of invincible 
ignorance, if he has the opportu- 
nity of proper instruction can learn 



enough in a month, to give him a 
reasonable certitude thai the Ca- 
tholic Church has a divine and in- 
fallible authority to teach the truth 
necessary to salvation. This is all 
he requires, for he has only to re- 
ceive on this authority whatever 
is taught him, by the way of faith. 
But if we suppose a man to possess 
the maximum of intellect and hu- 
man science, yet to be ignorant of 
the faith and to apply himself to 
acquire all the knowledge of the 
greatest possible theologian, the 
Catholic demonstration is adequate 
to give him rational and certain 
science and conviction, co-exten- 
sive with his capacity of apprehen- 
sion. Satan has all this science 
with a perfection far beyond what 
is possible for a human mind in 
virtue of its natural faculties. And 
although such a man as we suppose 
should deliberately determine to 
adhere to Satan, with full know- 
ledge of the truth, it is abstractly 
possible that he might retain his 
intellectual conviction of the abso- 
lute certainty of all Catholic doc- 
trine undiminished. If he is sup- 
posed to be wavering and undeter- 
mined, it is much more conceiv- 
able that, while his decision is in 
abeyance, he should attain such a 
clear, intellectual conviction. It 
is not, however, in accordance with 
the ordinary character of men that 
they should be so nearly assimilat- 
ed to demons. 

Rarely will a man follow his in- . 
tellect with such determined au- 
dacity on the road of despair, un- 
less he is an apostate priest who 
has become obdurate in his rebel- 
lion. One who has been hitherto 
following only the natural light of 
reason will not usually set himself 
to seek after the truth of the super- 
natural order, unless he has at least 
an incipient disposition to embrace 






The Reality of the Supernatural Order. 



487 



it, with the full consent of his will, 
for his own good, after he has found 
it. If he cherishes this disposition, 
and permits the new light which 
gradually dawns on him to influ- 
ence his will, the grace of God will 
enlighten him and stir his heart to 
embrace the truth with love, so 
that his conviction will not long 
precede the full act of divine faith. 
But if he falters and draws back, 
he will almost surely shrink from 
facing the responsibility of openly 
and avowedly violating his con- 
science, and will seek rather to de- 
fraud it by some plausible pretext. 
Even apostates ordinarily do the 
same, and not only openly deny 
and disown the faith, but inward- 
ly seek to sophisticate their own 
minds, and to persuade themselves 
that their heresy or infidelity has 
a rational ground. Seldom, if 
ever, is a complete and permanent 
intellectual conviction of the truth 
of the Catholic religion found dis- 
sociated from faith, unless in 
some cases where it exists as a dead 
residuum of the faith which has 
been once had. The evidence of 
the truth of the total sum of Ca- 
tholic doctrine does not of itself 
necessarily compel assent. The 
mind has a tendency to fall off at 
least into doubt, respecting an ob- 
ject of intelligence which is wholly 
above reason and supernatural, and 
is made certain only by the vera- 
city of God revealing, unless it is 
strengthened and steadied by su- 
pernatural light. The capacity of 
apprehending the evidence depends 
in a great measure upon the moral 
rectitude of the individual. Moral 
turpitude, even of that more sub- 
tle and refined sort which does not 
make the mind gross and stupid, 
pride, self-love, vain-glory, attach- 
ment to temporal interests, dims 
and perverts the faculty of ap- 



prehending the highest order of 
truth. Great voluntary effort is 
necessary in order to get posses- 
sion of the complete evidence and 
to keep the attention fixed upon it 
steadily. It is possible to wilfully 
ignore, forget, or distort the rea- 
sons and motives of credibility. 
Therefore, although the will can- 
not absolutely command or pro- 
hibit assent by despotic caprice, 
according to the passions and de- 
sires of the individual, its influence 
is very great in determining the in- 
tellect this way or that, when the 
object of intellectual apprehension 
does not irresistibly force itself up- 
on the attention and extort the as- 
sent of the intellect. Most persons 
have enough of ignorance, preju- 
dice, and an illogical habit of ar- 
guing, to be able to deceive them- 
selves with some sort of sophistry, 
when they have a strong motive 
for doing so. Even the few who 
know so much and think so clear- 
ly, that they cannot deceive them- 
selves by vulgar errors and illu- 
sions, can find some recondite loop- 
hole of escape from unwelcome 
truth of the divine order. We 
find, therefore, instances of men 
who admit the whole chain and 
series of arguments and facts by 
which the Catholic religion is de- 
monstrated, except some one nec- 
essary link, the want of which is 
fatal to a complete and fixed con- 
viction. Proudhon, for example, 
clearly saw and vehemently assert- 
ed, that if you admit the reality of 
the supernatural order the Catho- 
lic conclusion must be drawn by 
the force of an irresistible logic, 
yet he denied the supernatural. 

We can understand, therefore, 
how it is that the Christian and 
Catholic motives of credibility, 
without prejudice to their demon- 
strative character, are not effica- 



488 



The Reality of the Supernatural Order. 



cious to prevent numerous aposta- 
sies among those who have receiv- 
ed a Christian education, or to 
convince the greater number of 
those who have been brought up 
in error or unbelief. The real and 
intrinsic cause for rejecting or re- 
fusing to accept the revealed truth 
of God when sufficiently proposed 
by the Catholic Church, is a secret 
antipathy to God, and not a ra- 
tional judgment that the motives 
of credibility are insufficient. This 
antipathy puts in a plea in bar of 
all the rational evidence and argu- 
ments which the advocates of the 
true and divine religion can pre- 
sent. Antipathy to God as the 
most perfect being and sovereign 
good is, indeed, impossible to a ra- 
tional nature. It is only a negative 
aversion, or want of inclination to 
seek for his supreme good in a su- 
pernatural union with the divine 
essence, which constitutes the " vis 
inertias " of human nature when left 
in its native state, and places an 
obstacle which can be overcome 
only by divine grace. There can 
be, however, a positive antipathy 
to that renunciation of the sensible 
good toward which the soul has a 
natural inclination, which is re- 
quired as the condition of attaining 
its supernatural end. When this 
repugnance dominates and over- 
comes the impulse of grace, the 
soul turns away from God with a 
positive aversion, and rejects the 
sovereign good for the sake of that 
inferior good which it has chosen. 
Thus it was that the majority of 
the human race, casting themselves 
impetuously upon the current which 
carried them into the external life 
of the senses, and seeking to work 
out for themselves an earthly and 
temporal destiny, lost the truth and 
grace of the primitive revelation. 
This is the origin of the false reli- 



gions of antiquity. In the new 
world of Christendom, as soon as 
the great struggle of religion and 
the church had ended in a triumph, 
the great mass of Christians, with- 
out renouncing faith or openly re- 
volting against the Christian law r 
abandoned the practical observ- 
ance of religious maxims, and gave 
themselves to the pursuit and en- 
joyment of temporal goods. The 
revolt of heresy was the conse- 
quence of this outbreak of moral 
corruption, and the infidelity and 
atheism of the present age are the 
logical, necessary consequence of 
this heretical revolt. Their root 
and reason are not in science but 
in sin, estrangement from God in 
Christ, who is offering to the world 
a reconciliation with himself which 
the great number^ of men who are 
in revolt against his law will not 
accept. The argument against re- 
ligion is a plea in justification of 
this alienation from God, an at- 
tempt to make out a case for the 
claim of independence and self- 
sovereignty. 

The substance of the plea, which 
is thus placed in bar of all evi- 
dence proving the credibility of the 
Catholic religion, as a revelation 
from God demanding an unquali- 
fied assent and submission of the 
mind and will to its doctrines and 
precepts, may be stated as follows. 
A creator and ruler of infinite wis- 
dom, power, and goodness ought 
to govern the universe and bring 
all rational creatures to perfection 
and happiness, through constant 
and invariable natural laws. The 
operation of these laws ought to 
produce the maximum of natural 
good in all creatures, especially 
those who are rational. But the 
Catholic theory of the dealings of 
God with men represents him as 
establishing an order which inter- 



The Reality of the Supernatural Order. 



489 



rupts the course of nature, and 
produces, or at least does not pre- 
vent, the maximum of natural evil 
in the case of the great majority of 
the human race, while the smaller 
number can only hope for the good 
proposed to them in a future life 
by sacrificing that of the present 
life. 

This plea is deprived of all the 
plausibility which it may have in 
the face of the distorted, incohe- 
rent perversions of Christianity 
which have sprung from heresy, by 
the clear and simple presentation 
of the true idea of the supernatural 
order. We may admit that in an 
order purely natural, the infinite 
goodness and almighty power of 
God might reasonably be expected 
to produce the relative maximum 
of universal good by purely natural 
laws, without suffering any evil or 
pain to disturb the order and feli- 
city, everywhere reigning with a 
necessary and immutable continu- 
ity. But the actual order is super- 
natural, and by the very essence of 
nature it is wholly insufficient for 
the attainment of its end in this 
order, by natural means. This 
order is infinitely better than any 
maximum of natural good, and 
reason alone suffices to show that 
all nature must be subordinated to 
it. This sweeps away the puerile 
objections against the possibility 
of miracles and of the revelation of 
mysteries. Moreover, the moral 
order of free will, probation, and 
merit, gives a sufficient reason for 
placing rational creatures in that 
imperfect state in which they are 
obnoxious to error and evil. Tem- 
porary evils which are incidental 
to those conditions upon which the 
attainment of the ultimate maxi- 
mum of supernatural good is de- 
pendent, are not worthy of any 
consideration in view of the end. 



The martyrs, and the King of mar- 
tyrs, suffered the maximum of tem- 
poral evil for a time. The King of 
martyrs chose this supreme natural 
evil, death on the cross, for him- 
self and his most favored compan- 
ions, when he need not have done 
so. What is this crucifixion now 
to those who for the joy set before 
them endured the cross, despising, 
the shame, and have inherited a 
name above every name, arid a 
glory which is ineffable ? There 
is only one evil worth consider- 
ing, namely, that which is eternal. 
When we consider this eternity of 
evil as a preliminary objection to 
the credibility of the Catholic 
faith, it is necessary that we 
should eliminate all adventitious 
notions and accretions by which 
the Catholic dogma is perverted 
and exaggerated, and regard sim- 
ply what must be taken as certain- 
ly revealed truth by the certain 
teaching of Catholic authority. 
Not only should perversions and 
exaggerations be put aside, but ex- 
planations, deductions, and inter- 
pretations which are only private 
theological doctrine, and even the 
arguments adduced in proof of 
Catholic doctrine, are to be distin- 
guished from that naked, substan- 
tial truth which pertains to faith or 
Catholic doctrine. Concepts of 
the imagination by which poets or 
sacred orators or popular writers 
endeavor to represent in a concrete 
form the realities of the world 
which is at present to us invisible,, 
must likewise be relegated to their 
proper place as similitudes, whose 
actual resemblance to the things f 

of which they are images must be 
judged by the rational concepts of 
the things themselves, and not 
taken as a measure of the rational 
concepts, or a medium of appre- 
hending the same. 



490 



The Reality of the Supernatural Order. 



The repugnance which is so 
commonly felt toward the idea of 
-evil existing at all, but especially 
in perpetuity, in a universe created 
by infinite wisdom and goodness, 
springs chiefly, in upright minds 
and good hearts, from the imagina- 
tion and the sensitive nature, op- 
pressed by the notion of evil as some 
horrible substantive being invading 
the realm of good being and swallow- 
ing up a great part of it. Reason 
strives to free the imagination from 
the horror of this apparition. How 
can the archetypal ideas of God 
contain the type of evil; or love, 
which is diffusive of the good of 
being in its very essence, diffuse 
evil ? How indeed ? God forbid 
that they should ! It is an axiom 
in Catholic philosophy and theolo- 
gy that every being is good in so 
far as it is substance and positive 
reality, that evil is a negative quan- 
tity, and sin a privation of the 
plenitude of being due either to 
rational nature as such, or as su- 
pernaturally elevated above itself 
by grace. The evil of penalty is a 
privation which is the consequence 
of sin. Free and responsible be- 
ings are placed by the Creator in 
the way to attain their end by their 
voluntary action. There is a fixed 
term to this way for each one, and 
one common final term to the 
whole order of probation for the 
total multitude of such beings. 
Those who fail of attaining super- 
natural beatitude at the end of this 
term, are deprived for ever of the 
means of regaining it. Their es- 
sential state, involving the privation 
of that sanctity which is necessary 
for the fellowship of the blessed, and 
as an inevitable consequence the 
privation of the proportionate good, 
is unchangeable and eternal. The 
privation of natural good, due ac- 
cording to retributive justice to 



actual sins, is proportioned to the 
deterioration of nature caused by 
these sins, and to the violation of 
the natural order which follows 
from the wilful turning away from 
the supernatural end to follow an 
inferior good. The celebrated 
Roman Jesuit, F. Taparelli, in his 
great work, Saggio Teoretico di 
Dritto JVaturale, defines this retri- 
bution in the natural order as fol- 
lows : 

" II bene retribuito a chi ben fece suol 
dirsi ricompensa, premio, mercede, ec. ; il 
male a chi mal fece pena, gastigo, puni- 
zione, ec. Quindi apparisce che il gas- 
tigo e, non un dolore, un tormento dell' 
uom sensitive, ma una reazione dell' 
ordine contro il disordine, e che nel 
mondo morale come nel fisico questa 
reazione conservatrice e uguale ed op- 
posta all' azione distruttiva. La giusti- 
zia vendicativa dunque, lungi dall' es- 
sere un cieco impeto di passione, e fon- 
data in quella essenziale tendenza al 
vero, all' ordine che forma la natura 
stessa dell' umana intelligenza. Ogni 
disordine essendo una disposizionedelle 
cose contraria alle vere loro relazioni, 
eppero essendo una falsita, ripugna es- 
senzialmente alia mente, onde essa do- 
manda un violento ritorno air ordine per- 
turbato, e questa violenzo e il gastigo." 

" The good awarded to one who has 
done that which is good is wont to be 
called recompense, reward, wages, etc. ; 
the evil to the evil-doer penalty, chastise- 
ment, punishment, etc. Whence it ap- 
pears that chastisement is, not a suffering, 
a torment of the sensitive man, but a 
reaction of order against disorder, and 
that in the moral as in the physical 
world this conservative reaction is equal 
and opposed to the destructive action. 
Vindictive justice, therefore, far from 
being a blind impulse of passion, is 
founded in that essential tendency to 
truth and order which forms the very 
nature of the human intelligence. Every 
disorder being a disposition of things 
contrary to their true relations and con- 
sequently a falsity, is essentially repug- 
nant to the mind, which demands there- 
fore a violent return to the perturbed 
order, and this violence is the chastise- 



ment. 



* Dritt. Nat., vol. i. diss. i. n. 134. 






The Reality of the Supernatural Order. 



49 1 



This passage is quoted with ap- 
probation by Liberatore in his 
Ethics, one of the text-books pre- 
scribed by Leo XIII. for use in 
the Roman colleges. It may be 
accepted, therefore, as agreeing 
with Catholic faith and doctrine, 
though it is a purely philosophical 
statement, based on reason and not 
on revelation. 

The dogma of Catholic faith is 
theologically denned by Perrone as 
follows : ft t ^s ; 

" Ut autem et in gravissimo hoc argu- 
mento, quae de fide sunt, ab iis secerna- 
mus, quae eamdem non obtinent certitu- 
dinem, dicimus, duo tantum definita ac 
defide credenda circa infernum proponi ; 
ac primo quidem inferni existentiam ; 
secundo, asternitatem pcenarum. Cae- 
tera vero omnia, quae sive ad locum 
spectant, sive ad pcenarum positivarum 
naturam ac qualitatem, intensitatem, 
etc., nullo umquam ecclesiae decreto 
sancita sunt, ac plures etiam variaeque 
olim viguere sententiae, uti ostendit Pe- 
tavius, De Angelis, lib. iii. c. 5, cui alii 
adstipulantur " " In order that in such 
a very grave subject we may separate 
those things which are of faith from those 
which do not possess the same certainty, 
we say, that only two things have been 
defined and proposed to be believed as 
of faith : first, the existence of hell ; sec- 
ondly, the eternity of its penalties. All 
other things, relating either to the place, 
or to the nature, quality, intensity, etc., 
of the positive punishments have never 
been sanctioned by any decree of the 
church, and, moreover, many and vari- 
ous opinions have formerly prevailed, as 
Petavius shows, with whom others con- 
cur."* 

The best theologians concur in 
stating as a common and certain 
doctrine expressing the tacit sense 
of the church founded in the Holy 
Scripture, that the term " Eternal 
Fire" is not a merely metaphorical 
expression but one which denotes 
a physical reality. But, beyond 
this, they do not profess to give 
a certain explanation. Bonal, an 

* Compendium Theol., art. " De Inferno." 



author whose work passed through 
a careful revision by the consultors 
of the Congregation of the Index, 
and is used in thirty seminaries 
in France, says : " Qu&ritur. Qua- 
lis sit ignis inferni ? Resp. Non 
consentiunt auctores " " Of what 
nature is the fire of hell ? Authors 
do not agree." The learned Arch- 
bishop Kenrick, of Baltimore, says: 
" Quse autem supplicia ignis nom- 
ine in Scripturis designantur, non 
satis feliciter quis explicuerit " 
" No one has satisfactorily explain- 
ed what those punishments are 
which are designated in Scripture 
by the name of fire." He says, 
further, that it is sufficient to main- 
tain that the punishment arises 
" ex ipsa peccatorum conditione 
quum procul sint a regno ccelor- 
um " " from the very condition of 
sinners as far from the kingdom of 
heaven." Again, the same prelate 
says : " Necesse non est Deum con- 
cipere pcenas irrogantem " " It is 
not necessary to conceive that God 
actively inflicts punishments." Bo- 
nal also states that there is a 
difference between the essential 
and the accidental punishment, the 
first, by the essential relation in 
which the reprobate stands toward 
God, constant and eternal, the sec- 
ond capable of variation from ex- 
trinsic and accidental circumstan- 
ces : " Some have thought that 
the punishments of the reprobate 
can be mitigated, either in the 
sense that in the particular judg- 
ment God does not condemn the 
reprobate to the full degree of pun- 
ishment which they deserve ; or in 
the sense that after the particular 
judgment, at certain intervals of 
time, he diminishes the punishments 
of the damned, although they re-' 
main eternal. No one of these 
opinions is considered by theolo- 
gians as contrary to Catholic ver- 



492 



The Reality of tJie Supernatural Order. 



ity." And he goes on to say that, 
according to St. Thomas, this mi- 
tigation, if it occurs after the judg- 
ment, must be in respect to the ac- 
cidental punishment. 

The modern atheists say that the 
evils of human existence prove 
that the first cause, whatever that 
unknowable power may be, is piti- 
less. There is nothing to be ex- 
pected but the everlasting conti- 
nuity of evil or annihilation. The 
modern rationalists make the ulti- 
mate term of sin to be annihilation, 
or else they argue a possibility, a 
probability, ora certainty of progres- 
sion in the line of improvement and 
amelioration in the condition of the 
sinner hereafter. They generally 
agree that souls which have become 
voluntarily debased and degraded 
by vice in this life go into hell after 
leaving the body. They do not all 
agree in affirming that it is prova- 
ble from any source, that the final 
attainment by all of perfect holi- 
ness and felicity is certain. Those 
who believe positively in a heaven 
differ among themselves on the 
question, whether all men are sure 
of attaining it sooner or later after 
death. Some assert boldly that it is 
certain that they do. Others say it is 
to be hoped that they do. Others 
venture only to assert that they 
certainly or probably can if they 
will. If they can prove by probable 
rational arguments, without contra- 
dicting what is certainly taught in 
the Scripture, that an amelioration 
of this sort within the limits of na- 
ture may be produced by the reac- 
tion of the violated order according 
to the laws of nature, they will not 
thereby contradict any dogma of 
Catholic faith. Theology and phi- 
losophy, as human sciences, have 
an authority and a certainty only 
co-extensive with the evidence and 
the reasons on which their conclu- 



sions are based. Within the do- 
main of probability, opinion enjoys 
her liberty ; and the field is open 
for argument or even conjecture. 
But there is no foundation for pro- 
bability or hypothetical possibility, 
except from the starting-point and 
under the directive regulation of 
absolute and certain truth. It 
is absurd and immoral to make, 
a priori, a plea in bar of the evi- 
dence of the Catholic faith, on ac- 
count of difficulties, obscurities, ig- 
norance, respecting matters which 
are revealed in part and known 
in part only, and which immense- 
ly transcend our present degree 
of intelligence. The atheist re- 
nounces his rational nature, when 
he denies the existence of God, be- 
cause of the evils which he permits 
to exist; and abandons everything 
to the universal sway of evil, that 
is, privation of being. The ration- 
alist goes contrary to reason, when 
he refuses assent to the same evi- 
dence, because God reveals that 
Hell is an eternal state; and throws 
a mist of confusion over the whole 
idea of the future destiny of man. 
This plea in bar of the credibili- 
ty of revelation could only be valid, 
if some self-evident rational truth 
were contradicted by the dogmas 
proposed to faith as revealed. The 
permission of evil, for the sake of 
a greater good than the exclusion 
of evil by an exercise of omnipo- 
tence, is not contrary to any self- 
evident truths ; and those who put 
in this plea in bar not only of re- 
vealed but of all natural theology, 
do not hesitate to assert numerous 
contradictions to the most primary 
self-evident truths. The eternal 
privation of that good for which 
free and responsible beings have 
voluntarily rendered themselves un- 
fit, is not contrary to any self-evi- 
dent rational truth. The wisdom 



The Reality of the Supernatural Order. 



493 



and goodness of God produce the 
maximum of good in the rational 
universe by the supernatural order. 
To this maximum of good, proba- 
tion, involving an inchoate condi- 
tion of those placed in the way to 
the end, obnoxious to error and 
sin, is necessary. From the evils 
which are caused by actual sin, 
though these are not necessary to 
the end or directly ordered for 
that end, God, nevertheless, draws 
a still greater amount and higher 
quality of good than would result 
from his efficaciously preventing 
their occurrence. Their disturb- 
ing effect on the order of nature is 
counteracted by the reaction of 
this violated order in which con- 
sists the eternal penalty of the vio- 
lation, a penalty exactly equal to 
the offence and therefore just. 
The revealed dogma adds nothing 
to the conclusion of rational ethics 
except- this. It discloses that the 
privation of the attainment of the 
end is the privation primarily of 
the supernatural good. This good 
is not due to nature, but purely 
gratuitous. The loss of it does 
not necessarily cause a privation 
of natural good, and therefore 
this natural good is only so far de- 
stroyed or impaired, as the volun- 
tary depravation of rational nature 
by the abuse of liberty deprives it 
of the capacity of enjoying this 
good. The Eternal Hell of Ca- 
tholic faith is therefore, in its es- 
sence, the state of final privation 
of the supernatural beatitude of 
Heaven ; together with the natural 
consequences which follow from 
this privation, according to the 
moral quality and condition of each 
individual who has sinned during 
his probation and thereby missed 
1m end. The obscurity which en- 
velops our partial knowledge of the 
Siiuernal and infernal states of ever- 



lasting existence in the endless fu- 
ture, is an obscurity which envel- 
ops all things whatsoever which 
are known by any kind of science. 
It is a part of our moral discipline 
to submit to this condition of igno- 
rance, and trust absolutely to the 
incomprehensible wisdom of God. 
Some remarks of the very modest 
but thoroughly scientific author of 
a work on astronomy, concerning 
the nebular hypothesis and similar 
speculative views of the past and 
future of the solar system, are ca- 
pable of application in a wider 
range : " God's ways are not our 
ways, nor are his thoughts our 
thoughts. The laws of nature, to 
which our thoughts are confined, 
are necessarily mere fragments of 
the great order of nature, which 
exists, as we hope, by the authori- 
ty of an infinite Creator, to whose 
wisdom and goodness we may 
trust."* 

The trivial and superficial ob- 
jections so often made against 
Christianity on account of the 
many evils and miseries existing 
in nominal Christian society are 
swept away in a word, by the ap- 
plication of the same truth which 
has been the topic of our exposi- 
tion thus far. It is not the prima- 
ry and direct object of the Catho- 
lic Church to produce on earth the 
maximum of temporal good, but to 
bring men to the highest possible 
supernatural virtue and future bea- 
titude. The temporal good is only 
a means, it is only a medium and 
not a maximum good which is pos- 
sible in our present state, and this 
is only produced in so far as the 
free-will of man co-operates with 
the divine order of nature and 
grace. The power of Christianity 

* Outlines of Astronomy, by Arthur Searle, 
A.M., Assistant at Harvard College Observatory, 
p. 384. 



494 



The Reality of the Supernatural Order. 



is not mechanical but dynamic. 
The sins of men, and not the fail- 
ure of Christianity, are the cause 
of all the evils and miseries of the 
world, except in so far as the con- 
dition of human nature in its pre- 
sent state is essentially imperfect 
and incapable of perfectibility. 

With all these antecedent objec- 
tions which constitute the plea in 
bar of the credibility of the Catho- 
lic faith, the science of physics has 
nothing to do. It is not science 
but unscience which is hostile to 
Christianity and rational theism. 
Some men who have a great amount 
of knowledge of physical facts, in- 
vent hypotheses which are not prov- 
ed by induction, by which they 
slide over into the region of the 
higher philosophy of which they 
are profoundly ignorant, and make 
their worthless, absurd assertions 
or denials pass with the ignorant, 
unthinking multitude for science. 

The same is true in the field of 
history and criticism. The line 
followed is that of hypothesis, scep- 
tical criticism, the collecting of ob- 
jections, of difficulties, of logical 
sophisms, of evasions and special 
pleadings, and of the continual 
vaunting of the authority of wri- 
ters belonging to the sceptical par- 
ty, and of their conjectures and as- 
sertions, under the assumed and 
illegitimate title of scientific men 
and science. The refutations and 
arguments of the other side are 
steadily ignored. There is no se- 
rious and thorough argument against 
the minor proposition of the Ca- 
tholic syllogism, which respects the 
motives of credibility. The ra- 
tional and historical demonstration 
of credibility, by which the Catho- 
lic Church proves the obligation 
of undoubting assent to the faith 
of her Lord, Jesus Christ, remains 
unanswered and unanswerable. A 



repetition even in a condensed 
form of this demonstration would 
not be possible without adding a 
volume to this series of brief es- 
says, and is not at all requisite, 
since the work has been done so 
often and so well. The small vol- 
ume of F. Jouin on the evidences 
of revelation, and Archbishop Gib- 
bons' little book on the evidences 
of the Catholic faith, really suffice 
for gaining a competent knowledge 
of these subjects. And if any de- 
sire to study them more extensive- 
ly there is a whole library of works 
of consummate learning and ability 
in all the principal modern lan- 
guages. 

The sum of the whole mass of 
evidence is a conclusion, which 
completes the exposition of the 
reality of all objects of human cog- 
nition which we have presented. 
The real world includes the order 
of divine providence in respect to 
the human race. Following that 
rational process which is based on 
first principles and experience, we 
argue that the actual order is true 
and divine. This universal order 
is religious and supernatural. The 
reality of knowledge includes the 
reality of the universal religious 
convictions of mankind. The cri- 
terion of certitude, both the inter- 
nal and external, verifies the re- 
vealed religion by the measure of 
metaphysical, physical, and moral 
evidence. The reality of the suf- 
ficient reason and first cause mani- 
fests that God alone can be the 
author of revelation as well as of 
the rational nature ; of the order 
subsisting in the Catholic Church, 
as well as that which governs the 
visible universe. The reality of 
the soul p.nd its endless future des- 
tiny manifests the need of a dis- 
closure of the final end and of the 
way, and the necessity of an unerr- 



The Reality of the Supernatural Order. 



49$ 



ing rule to direct the intellect and 
will to their supreme good, which 
reason and rational science do not 
sufficiently furnish, and which must 
be recognized in that divine faith 
and divine law which are promul- 
gated by the infallible authority of 
the Catholic Church. The church 
stands as a great fact, present be- 
fore the mind as the sun is pre- 
sent to vision, exhibiting and giv- 
ing evidence to itself as true by its 
unity, sanctity, and universality, 
whose divine origin cannot be de- 
nied without denying the principle 
of causality. By the continuity of 
its existence and the immutability 
of its testimony, in which it is his- 
torically proved that no sensible 
change has occurred, and rational- 
ly evident that no insensible change 
was possible, it bears witness to its 
Founder, who gives testimony to 
his own divinity, which testimony 
is ratified by the Father in heaven 
through the divine works wrought 
by the Son. 

As the Triumphal Arch closes 
the vista which is open before the 
eye of an observer at the palace 
of the Tuileries, so the long vista 
through the centuries of the Chris- 
tian period from the Catholic 
Church of the present, is terminat- 
ed by that monument of the tri- 
umph of humanity, the sepulchre 
of the risen Christ. Changing a 



little the passage already quoted 
from Mr. Alger, by dropping that 
hypothetical form which is more 
worthy of an Academic than of a 
Christian believer, it is the state- 
ment of an indisputable fact and 
an irrefragable argument, in which 
the truth of Christianity and the 
divine authority of its Founder, 
exercised through his church, is so 
clearly manifested, that no mists of 
sophistry can ever shroud it in ob- 
scurity. " Of all the single events 
that have ever occurred in the 
world, undoubtedly the most au- 
gust in its moral associations and 
the most stupendous in its lineal 
effects, both on the outward for- 
tunes and on the inward experience 
of mankind, is the resurrection of 
Jesus Christ from the dead. God 
is in history, guiding the moral 
drift of human affairs, and, there- 
fore, the dazzling success of the 
proclamation of the risen Redeem- 
er is the divine seal upon the truth 
of his mission and the reality of 
his apotheosis." The Catholic 
Church makes this proclamation, 
by her this dazzling success, this 
conquest and triumph in the re- 
generation of humanity, was achiev- 
ed, which is therefore the divine 
seal upon the truth of her divine 
legation, and the reality of her di- 
vine and infallible authority. 



496 A Prayer for Lady Poverty. 



A PRAYER FOR LADY POVERTY. 

BY ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI. 

FROM THE FRENCH OF A. F. OZANAM. 

O LORD, thy mercy give to me 

And unto Lady Poverty, 
Who doth a queen o'er every virtue reign : 

Behold her miserable state, 
Upon a dunghill sitting desolate, 
Contemned by all with undeserved disdain ; 

To thee, O Lord, she looks and cries, 

Her friends all grown her enemies. 



O dearest Lord, give ear unto her cry ; 
Remember, from the angels' home 
Thou didst to earth unthankful come 

To wed this holy Lady Poverty ; 

To take her for thy spouse most dear, 
That unto thee her love might bear 
Sons, without number, who should be 

Perfect for ever in thy charity. 



She was it who did thee receive 

In heedless Bethlehem's midnight cave, 

She in the manger made thy infant bed : 

Thy whole life long she walked with thee, 
Her care was it that thine should be 

No place on earth to lay thy sacred head. 



When our redemption's war of woe 
Thou didst begin for our love's sake, 
Dear Lady Poverty her place did take 
As faithful squire a righteous lord beside, 
There ever in most loyal love to bide, 
Willing no hour of combat to forego. 

E'en when thy dear disciples fled, 
By her, of soul unterrified, 
Still wert thou not abandoned. 




A Prayer for Lady Poverty. 497 

Still, even when thy Mother pure, 

Who all thy dolors did endure 
With transfixed heart thee following to the end 

When to such Mother was denied 

To rest her head thy Heart beside, 

Because of thy dread cross's height, 
Then Lady Poverty did most befriend, 

Clasping thee tighter and more tight, 

Closing fond arms in strong embrace, %i 

The fulness poured of her love's grace, x . 

Her cheek love's pillow for thy suffering face. >'* 



Willed not dear Lady Poverty 

Thy cross should smoothly fashioned be, 
Nor willed she that each cruel, piercing nail 

A point fine-wrought and sharp should wear. 

And would she for love's purpose spare 
Three nails alone, these must in sum avail 

That so each rude- wrought edge might be 

Weapon more fit of cruelty 

In thine appalling agony, 

As willed thy perfect chanty. 



Her care was it that unto thee, 

When thy parched tongue in anguish cried, 

With mocking pity was denied 

A drop of water's charity. 

She reached to thee the bitter draught of wine, 
She with the sponge touched those dry lips of thine, 

Dear, faithful Lady Poverty ! 



So was it in the firm embrace 
The clinging arms no man could loose 
Of this undaunted, loyal spouse, 
That yielded unto none love's place; 
In those dear arms' constrained abode, 
Thy wounded Head in anguish boned, 
Thou gavest up thy soul to God. 



Who would not wed this spouse so fair, 
Whom God in dying held so dear ? 
What heart is there that would not truly love 
Dear Lady Poverty all things above ? 



VOL. XXIX. 32 



49 8 



Bore en" 



BOREEN." 



CHAPTER I. 



A TALL, powerful-looking young 
man, attired in a rough suit of gray 
Waterford tweed, stood opposite 
Morley's Hotel, Trafalgar Square, 
London, one glorious morning in 
the June of 1874. In his ungloved 
hand he carried a ragged black- 
thorn, and at his heels lagged a 
wiry, bandy-legged Irish terrier. 
Pausing awhile to gaze around him, 
Walter Nugent for this was his 
name after a brief glance at the 
lion over the gateway of Northum- 
berland House, at the superb fa- 
fade of the National Gallery, and 
at " Big Ben " high up in the dis- 
tant clock-tower attached to the 
Houses of Parliament, crossed the 
square in the direction of White- 
hall, and, turning into the Horse 
Guards, passed beneath the arch- 
way on to the park. He was no 
diligent student of landscape or 
color, yet the beauty of the sun- 
lighted foliage, the keen, translu- 
cent green of the young lime-trees, 
the golden yellow of the laburnum, 
the cream white of the chestnuts, 
and the rose pink of the red haw- 
thorn smote his senses as do sweet 
chords of music, till he inad- 
vertently exclaimed, " How exqui- 
site!" as he stopped short to quaff 
to the very dregs this goblet filled 
to the outer brim with radiant color- 
glory. 

As Nugent stood gazing, one 
hand in the pocket of his loose, 
coarse trousers, the other shoulder- 
ing his blackthorn, a gentleman 
whose glossy silken hat glittered in 
the dayshine, and whose varnished 
boots almost emitted reflected rays, 



languidly approached. This man r 
upon perceiving him of the dog 
and stick, adjusted a rimless glass 
to a very vacant eye, and, having 
satisfied himself of the identity of 
the stranger, extended a limp hand, 
exclaiming as he did so in a life- 
less sort of way : 

" You here ?" 

" Halloo, Buncombe," cried Nu- 
gent, wringing the dead, fish-like 
fingers. 

"When did you arrive?" 

" This morning. I left Dublin 
last night." 

"Come to stop?" 

" A few days. I am here on 
don't laugh, old man professional 
business." 

"So glad! You'll dine with 
me ?" 

" Con amore." 

" What are your opens ?" 

"I am all opens, Buncombe. " 

"Then let me see. I'm free 
to-day. Come and dine at the Carl- 
ton. Or stay; hadn't you better 
come to Berkeley Square and see 
my people ? You won't mind the 
nuisance of dining enfamille, though, 
by Jove, I believe there are some 
outsiders entered for the race. I'll 
take you to hawf a dozen dawnces 
awfter, if you care for that sort of 
lunacy. Say hawf-pawst seven, 
ninety-one, the Square." And wav- 
ing two fingers daintily encased in 
delicate lavender gloves, Mr. Bing- 
ham Buncombe lazily sauntered 
on his way. 

"I'm awfully sorry that I ac- 
cepted Buncombe's invitation," 
muttered Nugent. " It means 



" Screen: 



499 



choker and conventionality. Be- 
sides, one never gets a dinner at 
these swell places, and, Deo gratias ! 
my jaws are as muscular as that 
venerable lawyer who disposed of 
the goose, body and bones." And 
Nugent, cutting at the daisies with 
his blackthorn, gaily warbled : 

" ' You are old,' said the youth, ' and your jaws are 

too weak 

For anything tougher than suet ; 
Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and 

the beak. 
Pray, how did you manage to do it ?' 

" l In my youth,' said his father, 1 1 took to the law, 

And argued each case with my wife, 
And the muscular strength which it gave to my 

jaw 
Has lasted the rest of my life.' " 

Walter Nugent owned the last 
plank of a property that was wreck- 
ed in the famine of '48. His fa- 
ther, Virschoyle Nugent, had kept 
the Kildare hounds, a stableful of 
hunters, a racing stud, and a house 
and cellar open to all comers, and, 
ere his only son reached the age 
of manhood, had mortgaged a 
princely estate, acre over acre, till 
nothing remained of Kihernan but 
the house and lawn. With fading 
fortune came the bottle, and then 
the end, and the unhappy man 
died in the ghastly consciousness 
of having sacrificed his wife, his 
son, and his daughter to a reck- 
lessness as idiotic as it was cri- 
minal. 

Mrs. Nugent, upon the death of 
her husband, let Kilternan, and, 
accompanied by her two children, 
went to reside in a little cottage on 
the outskirts of the picturesque vil- 
lage of Rathfarnham, situated about 
six miles from the city of Dublin. 
Her sister, a nun in the adjoining 
convent of Loretto Abbey, under- 
took the completion of the educa- 
tion of Kate Nugent, while Walter 
proceeded to read for the Irish 
bar, to which he had been called 



at the Michaelmas Term prior to 
the opening of this story. 

The young barrister was pos- 
sessed of one of those open, frank, 
and fearless natures that woo con- 
fidence and win friendship. He 
was truth and honor personified. 
To him a mean or shabby action 
was simply unaccountable. He 
was simple as a child in the world's 
ways, but as a scholar he was both 
well read and distinguished. He 
had hot Irish blood in his veins, 
that at times lashed fiercely through 
his heart when he came face to face 
with his hard fortune, but a sooth- 
ing word from his mother or sister 
calmed him, and Hope never blos- 
somed more brightly or whitely 
than in the heart of Walter Nugent. 

When Boreen, the terrier, found 
himself in the open, he resolved 
upon making the very most of his 
opportunities, and with a joyous 
barking set off at a mad pace in 
eccentric circles, now bounding 
across the grass, now running 
fiercely after his own tail, now 
springing into the air after vicious 
and perplexing flies, and otherwise 
disporting himself after the fashion 
of the light-hearted of the canine 
race. Boreen was no beauty; on 
the contrary, he was a mean-look- 
ing dog, of a dirty-white hue, and 
one eye was covered with a mourn- 
ing-like patch of black that impart- 
ed a roue air of dissipation to his 
whole appearance. He had not 
been foxed, so that his ears were 
totally out of proportion to the re- 
mainder of his body, while they 
hung loosely and as if broken, like 
those of a lop-eared rabbit. His 
tail was long and turned upwards, 
his legs were complete semicircles, 
and his feet were doubled up as 
though he had a preference for 
walking on his heels. But Boreen 
was as brave as Brian Boroihme, 



5oo 



"Boreen" 



and would cling to death to any 
object if his master said " Hold 
on " ; and as for rats, he had " done " 
his sixty in as many half-seconds. 
The dog when a puppy was given 
to Walter Nugent by a faithful 
follower of the family, who had 
shared its downfall, as he had 
shared its prosperity Andy Gavin, 
the late Virschoyle Nugent's hunts- 
man. Andy, for whom the Nu- 
gents could obtain no suitable em- 
ployment in Dublin, resolved to 
seek his fortune in the far West, 
and it was on the morning of his 
departure for America that he pre- 
sented his young master with the 
pup. 

" Keep him, Masther Walther 
jewel," said Andy; "he's not a 
beauty for to luk at, but he's av 
as fine a breed as there's in all 
Ireland. His father it was, ' Pau- 
dheen,' that pinned a hocusser be 
the leg the night afore Flyin' Tom 
won the Conynghame cup at Pun- 
chestown races ; the hocusser bruk 
into the roof, an' only for the dog 
the horse wud have been dhrug- 
ged. It's all I have for to give ye, 
Masther Walther. If I'd 'a had 
any sinse I could have saved lash- 
ins; but I was always a gom, an' it 
all wint. Plaze God I'll do betther 
beyant, an' if I do I'll see yez all 
back at Kilternan afore I die ; ay, 
an' I'll give the view-halloo whin 
you, sir, will be leadin' the Wards 
over Malowney's Meadows." 

Boreen remained, and Andy 
Gavin crossed the broad Atlantic. 
Walter loved his father's huntsman, 
and loved the dog because it came 
from him. Boreen was his con- 
stant companion, and with the 
hard-favored terrier at his heels he 
had traversed every inch of the 
Dublin and Wicklow Mountains, 
and every road and laneway around 
the capital. How the attached 



and intelligent animal came to be 
ensconced beneath the seat of the 
railway carriage at Westland Row 
Nugent had yet to learn; there re- 
mained nothing for it but to fetch 
him along. And thus was Boreen 
smuggled up to London ; and, as if 
the brute was aware of the financial 
penalties imposed upon travellers 
discovered in the act of convey- 
ing dogs in first-class compart- 
ments, he rolled himself up into 
the smallest possible compass, giv- 
ing no sign of vitality until his 
master dug him out of a remote 
corner upon the arrival of the train 
at Euston Square depot. 

Boreen was in exuberant spirits 
this glorious June morning, and, 
having violently assaulted every 
Saxon cur who came within a ra- 
dius of a quarter of a mile, frisk- 
ed on the green and dappled grass 
as his master sauntered leisurely 
along, flicking the heads off inno- 
cent daisies, or whirling his black- 
thorn round his fingers after the 
fashion of stage Irishmen at Donny- 
brook Fair. 

Nugent was in the best of pos- 
sible spirits. But who is out of 
spirits on a June morning if the 
conscience be clear, the health 
good, and the age twenty-four ? 
The senior member for the County 
Kildare was interested in a railway 
bill that was to come before a com- 
mittee of the House of Commons. 
To support his locus standi it was 
necessary to employ counsel. The 
case merely required to be stated, 
and "Mr. Le Fanu bethought him 
of the son of his dear old friend 
Virschoyle Nugent. He wrote to 
Walter, and through his attorneys, 
Messrs. Fitzgerald & Son, retained 
the services of the young barrister ; 
hence this visit to Babylon. 

Walter was about to mow down 
an intrusive tuft of coarse grass 



Bore en.' 



501 



when an object at his feet caused 
him to stop short. This object 
had been triumphantly deposited 
there by Boreen, who stood over his 
loot, eyes sparkling, tongue lolling 
half a yard out of his mouth, and 
tail wagging like mad. At first 
the barrister thought it was a baby 
from its mass of white and lace 
and insertion, but upon adjusting 
the disordered draperies the prize 
proved to be a doll, or rather the 
remains of one, for Boreen had 
worried the delicate waxen face, and 
pulled the tow hair, and tugged at 
the costly garments as though each 
and every one of them had been at- 
tached to the person of a recalci- 
trant cat. 

" Hut tut, Boreen ! Drop it, sir !" 
The terrier still held one of the 
legs, and was chucking at it for the 
bare life. " Drop it, Boreen !" And 
Walter, disengaging the limb, from 
which the sawdust was now pour- 
ing copiously into Boreen's eyes, 
looked around to ascertain if the 
luckless owner of the doll was any- 
where in sight. 

A little lady of about six years, a 
ball of pink and white, with lustrous 
golden hair brushed down to her 
blue eyes, came running towards 
him. 

" How dare that dog touch my 
darling pet?" she cried, her haugh- 
ty, short upper lip quivering with 
anger. " I'll get papa to to kill 
him, and and you too, you hor- 
rible big man !" Then, snatching 
her mangled and tattered favorite 
from the barrister's hand, and dis- 
covering the truecondition of affairs, 
the poor little maid rent the air 
with the most heart-breaking sobs. 

"Don't cry, my little lambkin," 
said Walter, stooping and tenderly 
caressing her. " I'll get you another 
doll. Upon my honor I will. A 
nicer one, a larger one." 



"Will she open and shut her 
eyes ?" sobbed the little maid. 

"She will, she will." 

" And cry ' ma ' and ' pa ' when I 
pull a wire ?" sob, sob, sob. 

" As often as you like." 

" She'll never, never, never be 
such an angel as Maudie," hugging 
the battered effigy to her frills and 
tucker, and bows and laces. 

" Wait till you see her, my little 
bird," soothed Walter. 

" Is she dressed ?" 

"Oh! certainly." 

"Who dressed her? Worth 
dressed Maudie." 

"Well, Monsieur Worth dressed 
Estelle," baptizing the new doll. 

" Is that her name ?" 

"Yes." 

"Estelle what?" 

" Estelle Lafarge," replied the 
barrister, highly amused at the 
child's inquisitiveness. 

" Is she French ?" 

"She's French." 

" I'm so glad, for do you know 
t\t Trixy Ogilvie's new doll is 
French, and she abused my poor 
dear Maudie because she was Eng- 
lish. What'sjy<?&rname ?" By this 
time the little maid was smiling 
through her tears like a sunbeam 
in showers. 

" My name is Nugent Walter 
Nugent." 

" I like you, Walter," she said, 
putting her plump little hand in 
his. " Come over to auntie ; she's 
reading German under that big 
tree." 

" Some old-fashioned frump, a 
weather-beaten she-dragon like 
Mrs. Malaprop," thought the bar- 
rister, as his little guide tugged him 
in the direction of the umbrageous 
foliage of a gigantic elm. 

" Aunt Hester, here's a gentleman 
has a dog, and the dog ran away 
with Maudie, and ate her nose off, 



502 



" Boreen" 



and tore her clothes most awfully, 
and he beat the dog, and is going 
to get me a new doll, and she's 
French, and her name is Estelle La- 
farge, and she opens and shuts her 
eyes, the dear ! and says ' pa ' and 
* ma 'as often as Hike. His name is 
Walter. Walter, this is Aunt Hes- 
ter." And the little maid paused 
only for want of breath to enable 
her to go on. 

Nugent bowed to a young lady 
attired in a plain, tight-fitting, tight- 
sleeved dress of unrelieved black, 
her only adornment being some 
bands of big amber beads worn 
loosely round the neck. He had 
never seen hands so small and so 
white. She looked up from the 
book that lay upon her lap, and in- 
dolently stared at him. The gaze 
was not haughty, nor was it inso- 
lent, nor was it curious. It was 
cold, and indifferent, and lazily 
questioning. Her eyes were of 
dark gray, heavy lidded, and fring- 
ed with long, black, sweeping lashes. 
They were soft eyes enough and 
capable of intense expression. Her 
nose was delicately chiselled, while 
the curves of her mouth were 
modelled on the most perfect lines. 
She was a girl that no ordinary 
man could pass without paying an 
involuntary tribute of thought to. 
She waited for the barrister to 
speak. 

"I have a vagabond dog," he 
said smilingly, " who ran away 
with this dear little girl's doll and 
made sad havoc with it: This is 
the dog," kicking towards Boreen, 
who stood panting at a short dis- 
tance, well out of boot-range. " I 
am bound to replace the doll, and 
if" 

" There is no necessity," this 
coldly. 

"Yes, but there is, auntie," 
chimed in the little maid. " If I 



don't get Estelle Lafarge I shall 
die." 

" You have too many dolls 
already, Ethel." 

" They are all English. Walter's 
doll is French. She will teach me 
French, and I'll teach her English, 
auntie." 

il I am greatly afraid," said Nu- 
gent, " that this is a case which 
lies outside of your jurisdiction, 
madam, and it only remains for 
my young friend here to give me 
her name and address in order to 
have the grievous wrong done by 
my dog set to rights." 

" My name is " commenced the 
child. 

" Ethel !" her aunt drawing her 
close. 

" I will tell him my name boo ! 
hoo ! hoo !" And pink, chubby 
knuckles dabbled themselves in 
diamond-drop tears. 

Walter Nugent stood his ground, 
uncertain as to what course he 
should adopt. It was quite evident 
to him that this coldly aristocratic 
girl had resolved upon having no 
intercourse whatever with a stran- 
ger. He chafed under the conven- 
tional ice, resenting it hotly. He 
felt injured, aggrieved. His dog 
had worried a costly doll prized 
beyond all price by its patrician 
owner. It was his duty as a gen- 
tleman to make good that doll by 
substituting another in its stead. 

" Had I been a cad," he thought, 
" I would have whistled to Boreen 
or pretended not to own him, and 
have sneaked off; but here I act as 
a gentleman towards a lady, and 
this girl will have it that I belong 
to the canaille, or worse." 

Addressing himself to the sob- 
bing child, he said : " Never mind, 
little birdie, you shall have that 
doll, I pledge you my word of 
honor." And without so much as 



" Bore en" 



503 



casting a look at the coldly star- 
ing occupant of the seat, he gruffly 
lifted his hat and strode angrily 
away. 

When he had walked some lit- 
tle distance he espied a park ran- 
ger. 

" This man may be able to tell 
me who the child is," he thought, 
and he went over to him. 

" Do you see that lady in black 
seated under that elm-tree?" 

" The nuss as is a-flirtin' with a 
gawdsman ?" 

" No, yonder." , . 

" With the little girl ?" 

"Yes." 

"I see her, sir." 

" Do you know who she is ?" 

" I do, sir." 

" Who is she ?" 

" She's Miss Branscombe, the 
banker's daughter, the richest young 
lady in all England, sir." 

" Whose is the child ?" 

" Her little niece, the daughter 
of her sister, the Marchioness of 
Pomfret. They comes in 'ere every 
mornin', Miss Branscombe and the 
child, as reg'lar as if they was com- 
mon working-people." 

" Where does the child live ?" 

" Why, over there, of course," 
pointing to the palatial buildings 
a wing of which is dedicated to 
the Secretary of State for War. 

" What is the family name of the 
Marquis of Pomfret ?" 

" Branscombe, sir." 

" Thanks." 

" I wonder wot the dickens is he 
up to ?" soliloquized the ranger, as 
he gazed at the barrister's retreating 
figure. " He an't a beggin'-letter 
himpostor. Oh ! he's some feller 
a-lookin' for a place and wants to be 
up in the details of the family." 

As this wooden-headed official 
crossed the park Miss Branscombe 
beckoned to him. 



" I saw you speaking to a per 
gentleman just now." 

" Yes, miss," lifting his hat. 

" Do you know who he is ?" 

" No, miss." 

" Ah !" and she took up her book. 

"What was he saying to you, . 
Parker," eagerly demanded the lit- 
tle Lady Ethel. 

" He was a-talking about you, my 
lady." 

" Did he tell you he was going 
to send me a doll, a real French 
one, Parker ?" 

" No, my lady, but he was a-ask- 
ing of where you lived, and I sup- 
pose " 

" Did you tell him, Parker ? Oh ! 
I hope you told him." 

" I told him, my lady." 

'* Oh ! you are a nice man, Par- 
ker, and I'll introduce you to 
Estelle Lafarge, and " 

"Ethel, that will do." And Miss 
Branscombe, rising, took the child 
by the hand and swept away. 

If the barrister had been there 
to see he would have intensely ad- 
mired the easy grace of that girl, 
for a graceful carriage possessed a 
subtle attraction for him, as, in- 
deed, it does for most men. Wal- 
ter Nugent crossed over to Pall 
Mall, having ascended the steps at 
Carlton House Terrace, where he 
stumbled against Mr. Gladstone, 
and, passing up St. James Street, 
struck Piccadilly, and turned into 
the first toy-stand in the Burlington 
Arcade. 

" What can I do for you, sir ?" 
demanded a pert, flippant sales- 
woman, impatiently tapping the 
nail of the forefinger of her right 
hand with a pencil. 

" I want to buy a doll." 

" What price ?" 

" A doll that squeaks I mean 
that cries ' pa ' and ' ma,' and all that 
sort of thing. It must open and 



504 



" Boreen" 



shut its eyes, and be awfully well 
dressed." 

In a few minutes the flippant 
young lady produced a doll as 
large as a full-grown child, with 
very staring blue eyes, the lashes 
picked out, as is the fashion with 
some of the living dolls of the pre- 
sent time, vermilion lips shaped 
like Cupid's bow, and the hair, of a 
pale gold, in flowing ringlets. 

" Does she squeak ?" asked Wal- 
ter. 

A gentle pressure in the region 
of the chest extracted the desired 
sounds, while the eyes, when the 
young lady was placed in a recum- 
bent position, closed dreamily. 

" This is just the thing ; but she's 
not dressed," observed the bar- 
rister. 

" I'll have her in any dress you 
may select by four o'clock, sir 
bridal, ball, matinee, or morning 
dress, in-door or out-of-door, and 
in the prevailing mode." 

" Which would a little nymph of 
six or seven prefer, do you think ? 
She's not my child," he added with 
a smile. 

" Little girls are very strong on 
brides, sir, as they can marry them 
every day or ten times a day." 

" A wedding trousseau has al- 
ways an attraction for even the 
smallest daughter of Eve," laughed 
the barrister, whereat the flippant 



saleswoman vouchsafed to smile 
too. 

" Where shall I send the bride, 
sir ?" 

"To Lady Ethel Branscombe, 
Horse Guards. I wish to pay you 
now. How much?" 

" Will you have Honiton or Val- 
enciennes trimming ?" 

"You needn't put me through 
my facings, for I'm not up in this 
sort of thing," he laughed. 

"Well, let me see," tapping 
her teeth with the pencil-point. 
"White satin, orange blossoms 
um um um Honiton. I'll send 
her home for five pounds." 

This staggered Nugent, whose 
ideas upon the subject of the ex- 
pense of dolls had not soared above 
thirty shillings. Could he afford 
to pay five pounds for a doll, see- 
ing he could purchase a much 
cheaper one, and possibly just as 
attractive ? Then the icy stare of 
the banker's daughter smote him. 

" I'll show her that I can do the 
correct thing," he muttered, as he 
drew the crisp Bank of England 
note from his pocket-book. 

" You will be sure to send the 
doll home to day ?" 

" It shall be delivered at four 
o'clock, sir. Anything more I can 
do for you ?" 

" Thanks, no. I have purchased 
my first, and probablymy last, doll." 



CHAPTER II. 



BINGHAM BUNCOMBE was in the 
House. He sat for the pocket- 
borough of Skipton-cum-Fodlum, 
in Derbyshire. He graduated for 
senatorial honors by accepting the 
post of assistant private secretary 
to the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, 
an office created by the Earl of 
Spencer to oblige Sir Dudley Dun- 



combe, Bingham's father. It was 
while he occupied this humble 
and unobtrusive post that Walter 
Nugent encountered him. Dun- 
combe was a first-rate cricketer, a 
hard hitter, and a splendid wicket- 
keep. Nugent belonged to the 
Phoenix Club, whose first eleven 
was ever engaged in bowling out the 



"Boreen" 



505 



Viceregal eleven on the bit of green 
velvet lawn close to the Viceregal 
Lodge in the Phoenix Park. The 
young barrister was the best 
round-hand bowler in the Phoenix, 
and his twist and swiftness played 
havoc with wickets that had stood 
the test of the wickedest men in the 
All-England eleven. On one occa- 
sion Buncombe received a ball from 
Nugent in the knee instead of on 
his bat, and he was laid up on a 
sofa for weeks, during which period 
the barrister walked out to the 
Lodge day after day to sit with 
and chat to him. An intimacy 
sprang up between the two young 
men, and the assistant private sec- 
retary, who had charge of the list 
of invitations to the Viceregal 
dances, took especial care to have 
Walter Nugent bidden to all ordi- 
nary court gayeties, the extraordi- 
nary being exclusively reserved for 
the crime de la crime of Swelldom, 
or for people who had struggled to 
the front in the fight for name and 
fame. 

Bingham Buncombe was really 
glad to meet the barrister, and 
paid him the highest compliment 
that lay in his power namely, that 
of asking him to meet his mother 
and his sisters. A man will ask you 
to a hotel, to his club, but when 
he is thoroughly desirous of show- 
ing you the greatest attention he 
will invite you to his home. Rely 
upon it, he thinks well of you 
when he intends to present you to 
his sister. A brother is ever on 
the watch, on guard as it were, 
against the men who are introduc- 
ed to his sister. He knows who 
and what they are, when pater f am- 
ilias will take them on trust. 

" I've asked a young Irishman to 
dine to-day," he announced. 

"An Irishman?" exclaimed his 
eldest sister, Kate. 



" I like Irishmen," chimed in 
Miss Isabella Buncombe. " They 
always say what they like, and it's 
very refreshing. What is he like, 
Bingham ?" 

" He is very handsome, and thor- 
oughbred, and always in earnest." 

" Is he anybody ?" languidly de- 
manded Mrs. Buncombe. 

"No." 

" Ah ! the table will be spoiled 
as usual." 

The Buncombe mansion in Berke- 
ley Square was a ponderous-looking 
house, with ponderous doors and 
ponderous knockers. Ponderous 
balconies ran along the windows 
of two stories, and a ponderous 
coping completed the fagade sky- 
wards. The hall, fitted up with a 
cavernous fireplace like a family 
vault, was ponderous and gloomy. 
Ponderous tables and chairs and 
pictures furnished it, while a pon- 
derous-looking servant with pon- 
derous gilt buttons opened the 
door. 

" Why didn't I run down to the 
Star and Garter at Richmond?" 
muttered Nugent as he pulled at 
the ponderous bell-handle. 

The barrister's silver watch, a 
hunter belonging to his father, was 
fifteen minutes fast, and when the 
servant announced " Mr. Nugent," 
it was to rose-colored satin and 
white lace, and statues, and pic- 
tures, and flowers, and the thou- 
sand-and-one costly knick-knacks 
that constitute the charming ensem- 
ble of the drawing-room. 

"I couldn't have mistaken the 
hour," said Walter to himself. " I 
suppose these swells ask you at the 
half-hour for the quarter to." And 
dropping into a caressing arm-chair 
which concealed him almost to the 
top of his head, he took a photo- 
graph-album from an onyx table, 
and soon became absorbed in the 



506 



Bore en" 



counterfeit presentments of fair 
women and brave men. He was 
turning over the leaves rather rap- 
idly, as the faces were all unknown 
to him save that of Bingham's, 
when he suddenly stopped short, 
and, binding the book forward in 
order to obtain better light, con- 
tinued to gaze long and earnestly 
at the photograph of a young girl. 

" It's rather like me, Bingham, is 
it not ?" 

Walter Nugent started to his 
feet. Opposite to him stood .Hes- 
ter Branscombe. 

He bowed haughtily, and, closing 
the book, moved in the direction 
of one of the other drawing-rooms. 
He would be even with this girl 
use the same weapons. He wanted 
no speech of her. Let her remain 
within the arctic circle she had 
drawn round herself and her hun- 
dreds of thousands. He would 
none of her. 

If he had been an older man, 
had seen more of the world, he 
would have acted otherwise; but 
his heart was young and hot, and 
his blood was red and warm, and 
he was barely four-and-twenty. It 
was a silly thing to resent the man- 
ner of a total stranger, and this 
strangera woman. It was eminent- 
ly ridiculous, and, knowing this, he 
felt a stubborn pride in playing out 
the rdle he had so foolishly, and 
with such utter disregard of the 
unities, created for himself. 

" Let me present you to my 
mother," said Buncombe, and Wal- 
ter bowed to a pair of gold-rimmed 
eye-glasses surmounting a black 
satin dress. 

"Very cold in Ireland now, I 
suppose ?" 

" Oh ! dear, no, not yet." 

" Ah ! Your first visit to London, 
Mr. Mr. " 

" Nugent." 



" Nugent. First visit, of course ?" 

"Why of course, Mrs. Dun- 
combe ?" he laughed ; but the lady's 
attention was diverted from him by 
the arrival of an old gentleman all 
forehead and shirt frills, and an 
antique lady hung in diamonds like 
an Indian idol. 

" My sisters Mr. Nugent," said 
Buncombe, moving over to where 
Miss Hester Branscombe was pick- 
ing a yellow rosebud, a glorious 
Marechal Niel, to pieces. Miss 
Buncombe didn't think it worth 
while ^o waste her time upon the 
un-illustrious Irishman, but Isa- 
bella, the second sister, of sweet 
seventeen, made up for all deficien- 
cies, and was soon in the hunting 
field, " fetching croppers " and be- 
ing pounded to Walter's unmitigat- 
ed pleasure and satisfaction. He 
took her down to dinner, and it 
was only when his eyes met those 
of the banker's daughter earnestly 
fixed upon him that he recalled 
the fact of her existence. 

I have already mentioned that 
he was but four-and-twenty, and 
at four-and-twenty the appetite is 
in thoroughly good form. Walter 
applied himself vigorously to pheas- 
ant soup and chicken turbot, and al- 
though between entrees snatching 
gentle converse with his neigh- 
bor while toying with his dinner- 
roll, his honest appetite bade him 
not lightly say no to any of the se- 
ductive offerings made by confiden- 
tially-whispering servants. 

Miss Branscombe had been tak- 
en down to dinner by a pink-faced, 
pink-headed for his yellow hair 
made no show young baronet : a 
heavy dragoon with ten thousand 
a year, whose staple commodity in 
the shape of small-talk consisted in : 
" Have you seen me on my black 
chawgaw? No, not seen me on my 
black chawgaw? Bless my spurs! 



" Boreen" 



507 



you shall see me on my black chaw- 
gaw." 

This sort of thing, very clever and 
entertaining in its way, failed to in- 
terest the banker's daughter, who 
relapsed into complete silence, only 
relieved by an occasional yawn de- 
livered either behind her menu or 
her fan. Right opposite to her on 
the table stood a rare orchid, upon 
which she occasionally feasted her 
eyes, and farther still in the same 
direction sat the individual whose 
ill-favored cur had "knocked saw- 
dust" out of her little niece's doll. 
This young gentleman was appar- 
ently upon the defensive, for when- 
ever his glance would fall in her 
direction he either instantly avert- 
ed it or treated her to a haughty 
or a defiant stare. 

It was before the ladies rose 
that Miss Duncombe said to Nu- 
gent : 

" You are acquainted with Miss 
Branscombe ?" 

" I have not the honor," was his 
stiff reply. 

" I heard her tell my brother 
just now that she had met you." 

" She is laboring under a mis- 
take." 

" She is very pretty, is she not ?" 

"Yes, she's pretty," sipping a 
glass of claret. 

" She's uncommonly wealthy. 
She has an estate in Devonshire, 
and another in Yorkshire. She's 
awfully peculiar asks the queerest 
questions and in the most brusque 
way. She offends a lot of people. 
/ like her, because I know her. 
She's very truthful and, as you 
gentlemen say, straight." 

" I hope your brother may find 
favor in her eyes, if he likes it." 

"We should be all very pleased. 
It would be a very good thing for 
Bingham, and the Pomfret interest 
in the House of Commons is im- 



mensely strong. Have you been 
presented to her?" 

" No," almost gruffly. 

" I shall present you with plea- 
sure." 

" Thanks, no. I keep out of 
the way of heiresses. The fierce 
light that beats from the three per 
cents dazzles me." 

At this moment Mrs. Duncombe 
nodded to a lady in ruby velvet 
with a bird of paradise, nest and 
all, on her head, who responded by 
whisking off a glass of claret, and 
then came the rustle of female dra- 
pery, and the ladies passed out. 

"I'm glad to hear that you are 
going in for Miss What-you-call- 
her, Duncombe," said the barrister, 
applying himself to the Chateau 
Lafitte. 

" Miss Branscombe ?" 

"Yes," nodding, and peeling the 
first peach of the season. 

" It would suit me admirably, 
Nugent, if it would suit the young 
lady. With the Marquis of Pom- 
fret at my back I'd hope for a 
junior secretaryship and then the 
government benches." 

"Then ask and have." 

" I can ask ; but as to the having, 
cela depend. Half the swells in the 
peerage are soupirant. She refused 
the Earl of Forsythe last week, and 
on dit the Duke of Charlton has 
shared the same fate. Forsythe told 
us at the club,plumply and plainly." 

The two young men chatted over 
souvenirs of the Viceregal court 
until coffee, and then arm-in-arm 
ascended to the drawing-room. 

Duncombe lounged over to Miss 
Branscombe. 

" Bring Mr. Nugent here and 
introduce him to me," said that 
young lady, very much in the im- 
perative mood. 

" You're in luck, old man. Miss 
Branscombe wishes to know you." 



508 



Bore en." 



" How do you mean ?" asked the 
barrister, reddening violently. 

" I mean that she has just this 
moment, of her own free-will, com- 
manded me to bring you up for 
that purpose." 

" I don't want this thing, Dun- 
combe. She treated me like a cad 
this morning." And Nugent in a 
few words narrated the circum- 
stances connected with Boreen, the 
doll, and the little Lady Ethel. 

"What a green twig you are, 
to be sure!" laughed Buncombe. 
" Do you mean to say that you re- 
fuse to be presented ?" 

"I do." 

" But, my dear fellow, this will 
never do." 

" It must do." 

" What shall I say to Miss Brans- 
combe ?" 

"You may tell her the truth." 
And Walter, feeling himself consid- 
erably aggrieved, cast a defiant 
glance in the direction where stood 
Miss Hester Branscombe. 

With an amused yet perplexed 
expression upon his face Duncombe 
went back to the heiress, and laugh- 
ingly told her how the land lay. 

"What a boy!" she exclaimed, 
shrugging her white shoulders. 

Presently Miss Branscombe glid- 
ed to the piano, and, sweeping her 
fingers across the keys, played one 
of those marvellous bits of Chopin 
which dazzle the ears. Then, ere 
the brilliant flush of the music had 
passed away, she sighed, as it were, 
into the symphony of " Savour- 
neen Deelish " till the melody 
came softly as the murmur of sum- 
mer seas. She sang the song. 
She had not much voice, it is true, 
but it was exquisitely trained, and 
she sang with a tenderness and ex- 
pression that brought the moisture 
into the honest eyes of Walter Nu- 
gent. 



"I didn't think she could do 
that," he said in alow, subdued tone 
to Miss Belle Duncombe. 

At this moment the heiress ap- 
proached to where the barrister 
stood, languidly drawing on a 
glove. 

"So you refuse to know me?" 
she exclaimed, her eyes on a re- 
fractory glove-button. 

This advance was so sudden, so 
utterly unexpected, that the bar- 
rister stammered, shifted his feet, 
grew very red, and made no reply. 

"Sit down, Mr. Walter Nugent," 
she said, pointing to a gilt gimcrack 
that passed muster for a chair, 
while she drooped I have no other 
word to express the grace of the 
motion into a caressing fautcuil. 
"What is your case against me? 
You are a barrister. You will 
please address the court," gravely 
and earnestly. 

" I suppose that is " 

" Ah ! I see ; like many an Irish 
grievance, there is nothing but sen- 
timent at the bottom of it," she in- 
terrupted. " You said to Mr. Dun- 
combe that I treated you like a 
cad. In what way ? You were a. 
stranger ; you " 

" But the dog ?" pleaded Walter. 

" The dog was equally a stran- 
ger," with a light laugh. " It is 
not the habit for young ladies to 
be addressed in the parks by stran- 
gers. And you may not possibly 
be aware that," here she flushed a 
rosy red, " I have been persistently 
followed by a person who wanted 
to marry me. He was insane, and 
is now under surveillance." 

" I suppose I am a fool," said 
Nugent in an abject tone. 

" \Vhy, of course you are," she 
exclaimed. " You must be very 
young." 

" I am four-and-twenty." 

" Then you are very young for 



" Boreen" 



509 



your age." This in the coolest 
and most dogmatic manner possi- 
ble. " There was something so 
unique in your refusal to be pre- 
sented to me that it piqued my" 
curiosity. However, that is all 
over, and on the part of my niece, 
little Ethel, let me thank you for 
the beautiful, blushing, and exqui- 
sitely trousseaued bride that ar- 
rived to-day." 

" I hope it's all right," growled 
Walter, very dissatisfied with him- 
self. 

" She's a downright beauty, and 
already have heart-burnings, recri- 
minations, and jealousies sprung up 
amongst Ethel's friends anent Es- 
telle Lafarge. You see I have not 
forgotten her name." 

There is a subtle ecstasy in the 
thought that a young and lovely 
girl remembers some trifle uttered 
by you that you have totally for- 
gotten. 

Nugent blushed as he laughed. 
" What a memory you have, Miss 
Branscombe !" 

" Quelquefois" 

There was a silence, during which 
the heiress gazed calmly and com- 
placently at the barrister. 

" How gloriously you sing !" he 
blurted. 

" I have no voice ; the melodies 
seem to come to me, as they only 
require to be breathed." 

At this moment Mr. Duncombe, 
Sr., a pompous, bald-headed, dou- 
ble - chinned, portly - stomached, 
white-waistcoated, hard-breathing 
gentleman, approached. 

" My dear, I want you to sing 
me a song. If I dare urge a pre- 
ference, I should ahem ! ask for 
something ahem ! French." 

" I never refuse you, Pere Dun- 
combe," laughed the girl, as, draw- 
ing off her gloves, she returned to 



the piano and warbled with deli- 
cious naivete ' : 

" Dans un delire extreme 
On veut fuir ce qu'on aime, 
On pretend se venger, 
On jure de changer, 
On devient infidele, 
On court de belle en belle, 
Et 1'on revient toujours 
A ses premieres amours. 

" Ah, d'une ardeur sincere 
Le temps peut nous distraire, 
Mais nos plus doux plaisirs 
Sont dans nos souvenirs ; 
On pense, on pense encore 
A celle qu'on adore, 
Et 1'on revient toujours 
A ses premieres amours." 

"Did you like that song?" she 
asked of the barrister. 

" Not so well as the Irish me- 
lody." 

" Ah ! on revient toujours a ses 
premieres amours" she laughed. 

And the party broke up. Car- 
riages were announced, and grave 
thanks for a most delightful even- 
ing were solemnly uttered. In the 
hall Nugent encountered Miss 
Branscombe. 

" Had you not better call and see 
your bride?" she said, extending 
her hand as she spoke. 

"I should be delighted," mur- 
mured the barrister. 

" Don't bring Boreen," she laugh- 
ed, and, curtseying deeply, she was 
escorted to her brougham by Bing- 
ham Duncombe. 

Nugent walked dreamily to the 
Tavistock. A joyous bark reach- 
ed his ears as he entered the corri- 
dor upon which his room was sit- 
uated. 

" Poor Boreen !" he said. "Come 
out into the moonlight, my poor 
doggie." And the day-dawn was 
strong upon the cabbages, and tur- 
nips, and green peas, and market 
carts in Covent Garden when man 
and dog returned to the hotel. 

" A strange girl," he murmured, 
as he flung himself upon his bed. 



(TO BE CONTINUED.) 



5io 



On Evil. 



ON EVIL. 



IS EVIL OPPOSED TO THE WISDOM 
AND GOODNESS OF GOD ? 

IN our former article * we arriv- 
ed at the conclusion that evil is 
the product of the free-will of a 
finite and created person, and that 
God is nowise to be held respon- 
sible for it, or be accused of cruelty 
for the misery which evil entails on 
man, and which he simply permits, 
not to deprive man of the great 
boon of liberty which his intelligent 
nature demands. 

Yet an objection may be raised 
against this doctrine, which we 
must put in all its light, as upon it 
hinges the whole question of evil. 
It is as follows : Either God can 
or he cannot prevent his intelligent 
and free creatures from committing 
evil. If we answer that he cannot, 
then we must conclude that evil is 
an absolute necessity of creation, a 
thing beyond the control of the 
universal Cause, another God, and 
therefore we fall into the theory 
of the Manicheans, admitting two 
principles, one an infinite principle 
of good, the other an infinite prin- 
ciple of evil. 

If we answer that he can and 
will not, then it is apparent that he 
contradicts all his infinite perfec- 
tions, especially wisdom and good- 
ness his wisdom by letting the 
action of his creatures disarrange 
the order and harmony of his plan ; 
his goodness by suffering his crea- 
tures to be overwhelmed by such 
an enormous mass of misery and 
evil of every kind which he could 
easily prevent. And truly, in con- 
templating the magnificent and 

* THE CATHOLIC WORLD for April, 1879. 



sublime plan of the universe, it 
seems astounding how God could 
have permitted created spirits to 
interfere in his system, and to bring 
to naught all the order and harmo- 
ny which it was destined to pos- 
sess. For what can be conceived 
more beautiful than the whole cre- 
ation elevated in the human nature 
of Christ to the dignity of a divine 
personality, thus manifesting in the 
highest possible manner all the in- 
finite attributes of God, and ren- 
dering him at the same time a 
homage and adoration absolutely 
worthy of him ? What can be con- 
ceived grander or more sublime 
than the destination of all created 
persons to union with Christ, in 
order to extend the manifestation 
of God's attributes and the ac- 
knowledgment of his infinite excel- 
lence; and by means of that union 
to bring all human personalities to 
the intimate society of the three 
divine Persons by endowing the 
former with new and higher nature 
and faculties, and making them 
partakers of the perfections and 
attributes of Christ, causing them 
to live of his life by prayer and 
communion, by which they could 
assimilate themselves to the life of 
Christ, and could bring their 
supernatural essence and faculties 
to their full completion in bliss ? 
What more beautiful or captivating 
than the sight of all created persons 
forming one society with Christ, 
and through him and in him hold- 
ing sweet and loving intercourse 
with each other, aiding and help- 
ing each other until their society 
could be transplanted into the 
highest and supreme expression 



On Evil. 



of association, the beatific em- 
brace of the Trinity ? What more 
attractive, more majestic and wor- 
thy of the Infinite, than such a 
plan, the utmost expression of 
God's excellence, a very harmony 
and a very music of the most sub- 
lime and divine character music 
and harmony which appear not 
only in the whole plan, all the 
different parts of which are gov- 
erned by the laws of variety, uni- 
ty, proportion, and communion, 
laws which constitute the beau- 
tiful but in the veriest trifle, if 
we may so speak, of every one of its 
details ? What more worthy of di- 
vine goodness than this grand ele- 
vation of creatures, than this mag- 
nificent destiny of finite spirits, 
even to the intimate society of the 
interior life of the Godhead, attain- 
ed without struggle, without strife, 
without pain or sorrow in a word, 
without evil? On the other hand, 
let God permit evil, let this baneful 
agent enter the system of his works, 
and what is the consequence ? 
Created persons, who alone were 
able to appreciate this grand mani- 
festation of God, who should have 
rendered him the homage of their 
adoration, their obedience and love, 
who should have sung to him the 
hymn of thankful lays for his 
unutterable benefits created per- 
sons turn against him and refuse to 
acknowledge him as their Creator 
by an act of independence and 
rebellion which asserts their will 
against his. In consequence of 
this rebellion all order and har- 
mony are lost in man and the world. 
Man's natural faculties are weaken- 
ed and degraded, a horrible strug- 
gle and warfare begins to rage in 
his inmost nature, the harmony 
which reigned in his double nature 
and their respective faculties is 
broken asunder, the peace which 



prevailed between him and all in- 
ferior creatures is dissolved, and 
man, once the king and lord over 
all creatures beneath him, has be- 
come the most helpless of their 
slaves. All his faculties are con- 
demned to this thraldom, his intel- 
ligence, his will, his body. His 
intelligence is steeped in sensible 
things, and has become a prey to- 
every error and absurdity. His 
will is drawn away by the most de- 
basing tendencies. His body is 
subject to an overwhelming mass 
of suffering. Who can read histo- 
ry and not shudder with horror at 
the recital of the unutterable woes 
therein made ? Who can go over 
without a pang of sorrow the cata- 
logue of such miseries ? The fam- 
ines, plagues which have so often 
afflicted mankind ; the wars of ex- 
termination, the wholesale slaugh- 
ters, which we find at the founda- 
tion of every empire ; the human 
hecatombs so much in vogue among 
nations ; all the manifold institu- 
tions of tyranny and oppression ; 
slavery, with its thousand surround- 
ing trials; the helots, the gladiators, 
the degradation and oppression of 
woman, the feeding of beasts with 
living human flesh all this forms 
an accumulation of woes appalling 
the stoutest heart. Add to this 
the pain, the torture, the lingering 
and excruciating death of all hu- 
man persons who have suffered 
from the day of man's rebellion 
down to our time, and who will go 
on suffering until the end of the 
world ; all the anguish and sorrow, 
of every kind and description, at- 
tached to human life and its vicissi- 
tudes and changes ; add again the 
doom of an eternal 'death hanging 
over man as the crowning misery, 
and we may well exclaim : Could the 
God of heaven and earth, the wise, 
the good, the holy, the merciful, per- 



512 



On Evil. 



mit such an accumulation of woes, 
such an overwhelming mass of mis- 
ery ? Could his wisdom permit all 
this ? Could his goodness take 
pleasure in torturing the work of 
his hands ? In one word, can all 
this be reconciled with God's attri- 
butes ? If he could not prevent it, 
how is he omnipotent ? If he could 
and would not, and let such a mass 
of misery fall on mankind, how is 
he wise, and good, and merciful, 
and commiserating? 

It will not do to say that God 
does not interfere because he 
would leave his creatures free and 
untrammelled in their operations ; 
for this answer evades the ques- 
tion rather than solves it. It is 
admitted that God could not and 
sWuld not destroy his creatures' 
free-will in order to prevent evil. 
But is this necessary to obtain such 
result ? Could not evil be pre- 
vented, and at the same time the 
free-will of created persons be kept 
untouched ? Catholic philosophy 
and theology admits such a thing 
as an action of God upon his 
creatures of such efficacy as to ob- 
tain invariably and infallibly what 
God wants the creature to do, 
and at the same time leave the 
free-will of the creature perfect- 
ly untrammelled. To say, there- 
fore, that God could not inter- 
fere to prevent evil, in order to re- 
spect the free-will of his creatures, 
is no answer to the difficulty. God 
could interfere by his efficacious 
grace, and such a grace would 
obtain what it wishes the creature 
to do, and at the same time main- 
tain the freedom of the latter. Why, 
then, does not the Almighty inter- 
fere with such .a grace and prevent 
evil ? If he cannot, then he is no 
longer almighty ; if he can and 
will not, then he is cruel, inhuman, 
and barbarous. 



We think we have stated the ob- 
jection with all fairness, having en- 
deavored to make it lose none of 
its native force in the handling. 
This may be an earnest to our rea- 
ders that we do not fear it, but are 
fully prepared to meet it. We 
would only remark once for all 
that such questions as we are treat- 
ing of must be decided by reason, 
and not by the manner according 
to which they may affect the feel- 
ings. Feeling is blind and igno- 
rant, and can never be the judge of 
anything, much less of questions 
which demand the greatest atten- 
tion and the nicest discernment 
of the most dispassionate reason. 
" Sapiens operator perficit opus 
suum breviori via qua potest." 
St. Thomas. 

The solution of the above diffi- 
culty depends absolutely upon the 
nature and requirements of the 
supreme law which must govern 
the providence of God in the rul- 
ing of his creatures. We do not 
attempt here to prove the existence 
of Providence, as the objection it- 
self admits it, its attacks being di- 
rected against the mode but not 
against the existence of God's gov- 
ernment. Let us, therefore, in- 
quire into the nature of the su- 
preme law of God's providence 

The elements of Providence are 
as follows : 

1. An end to be attained; be- 
cause any one attempting to gov- 
ern must know what is the object 
he wants to secure by that govern- 
ment. 

2. An intellect which contem- 
plates the end and seeks for the 
means conducive to the end. 

3. An act of the will resolved to 
attain the end by way of the means 
discovered by the intellect. That 
these three elements are necessary 
is shown by the very definition of 



On Evil. 



513 



Providence, which is the reason or 
cause of the government of the uni- 
verse eternally existing in the mind 
of God and by him carried out j in 
other words, Providence means, 
Why is the world governed so ? 
Now, this why or fitness between 
the means and the end implies 
the three elements above mention- 
ed : an end to be attained by the 
government, an intellect contem- 
plating the end and discovering 
means conducive to the end, and a 
will carrying out the means to at- 
tain the end. 

Now, an intelligence which adapts 
means to an end is called wise, 
and a will which conforms itself to 
the dictates of a wise intelligence 
is called good j wisdom, therefore, 
and goodness are the two supreme 
elements of Providence, and in or- 
der to find out the law of Provi- 
dence we must inquire into the law 
of wisdom and goodness. 

The law of wisdom is as follows : 
An intelligent agent cannot act with- 
out a sufficient reason for his opera- 
tion. This principle is evident. 
To act intelligently implies, in force 
of the very term, the acting for a 
reason, and a reason sufficient to ac- 
count for the action ; because if the 
reason did not///y account for the 
action, the action would be rea- 
sonable only as far as accounted 
for by the reason, and unreasonable 
in that element for which the rea- 
son failed to account. This prin- 
ciple, therefore, is founded on the 
principle of contradiction. To act 
intelligently means to act for a rea- 
son sufficient to account for the 
action. To suppose, therefore, an 
intelligent being, as such, acting 
without a sufficient reason is to 
affirm him intelligent and non-in- 
telligent at the same time and in 
the same breath. 

It may often occur that finite in- 
VOL. xxix. 33 



telligent beings act without suffi- 
cient reason, and the possibility of 
such fact is found in the necessary 
composition of finite beings, which 
are not pure intelligences, but in- 
telligences wedded to feelings and 
passions. But even this exception 
proves the rule, because when 
finite intelligences act without suf- 
ficient reason they do not act as 
intelligences. However, this can 
never take place in the Infinite, 
who is pure intelligence, and whose 
nature and intelligence are abso- 
lutely identical, and who must al- 
ways act as intelligence, and there- 
fore for a sufficient reason. The 
law of wisdom, then, demands that 
an intelligent being should always 
act for a sufficient reason. 

What is the law of goodness ? 
The same as the law of wisdom, 
because the will, to be morally 
right, to be good, must follow the 
dictates of wisdom. No intelli- 
gence can be called wise unless 
it can discover the essential and 
objective relations of things, and 
hence the essential and objective 
relations of means to an end. Now, 
the will, to be right, to be morally 
good, must observe practically the 
essential and objective relations of 
things, for in that consists the su- 
preme principle of morality. The 
supreme principle of morality so- 
called because you cannot go be- 
yond it, because you cannot find 
another principle more universal 
or imperative is expressed in this 
formula : Acknowledge being as it is 
in itself and its objective relations. 
When you act in accordance with 
it you conform yourself to the es- 
sences of things and the relations 
between them, and you act rightly 
and morally. Consequently the 
laws of wisdom and goodness are 
identical, or rather one simple law. 
Goodness depends on wisdom; the 



On Evil. 



intelligence discovers the essential 
relations of things which form the 
sufficient reason for acting, and the 
will conforms itself to the intelli- 
gence. The one apprehends, the 
other carries out. The former, ap- 
prehending the essential relations 
of things, is a wise intelligence; the 
latter, acknowledging practically 
those relations, is called good will. 
Hence that profound saying of St. 
Augustine : Recta ratio ipsa est vir- 
tus* 

This metaphysical reason is con- 
firmed by the testimony of man- 
kind, which calls folly but not 
goodness whatever is done with- 
out observing the essential and ob- 
jective relations of things, against 
the fitness of things, without pro- 
per reason. 

PROPER END OF PROVIDENCE. 

Having seen what is the law of 
wisdom and goodness, the two su- 
preme elements of Providence, be- 
fore resolving the objection we 
must determine another most im- 
portant element, which is : What is 
the end which God proposes to 
himself in the government of the 
world ? 

Now, this end is the highest pos- 
sible moral good of created persons. 
The proof of this lies in the ex- 
planation of the terms. We have 
proved that the end of the external 
action of God is the highest possi- 
ble manifestation of his infinite ex- 
cellence. But when ^.nd how is 
this really attained ? Not, certainly, 
in the creation of beings which 
cannot apprehend either the Crea- 
tor or his works. It can only be 
attained in the creation of beings 
which not only can apprehend the 
Creator and his works, but acknow- 
ledge both by a deliberate act of 

* Right reason is itself virtue. 



their will that is, by created per- 
sonalities. The end, therefore, of 
the external action is attained in 
the creation of persons who can 
apprehend and acknowledge the 
Creator and his works. But to 
acknowledge the Creator and his 
works is to act morally, as we 
have said that the supreme prin- 
ciple of morality consists in ac- 
knowledging being in itself and its 
relations. The end of creation, 
therefore, can only be attained by 
supposing moral good. And as the 
end of the external action is not 
any kind of manifestation of God's 
infinite excellence, but the highest 
possible, it follows that the highest 
possible theoretical and practical 
acknowledgment by created per- 
sonalities of God and his works 
will attain the end of the external 
action, or, in other words, the high- 
est possible moral good of created 
personalities will attain the end of 
the universe. God, therefore, in 
governing the world, must have in 
view the highest possible moral per- 
fection of his intelligent creatures. 
And should God fail in procur- 
ing the highest moral perfection of 
his intelligent creatures in his "gov- 
ernment of the world, he would not 
only fail in attaining the general 
end of creation, but also cease to 
provide for the particular end of 
his intelligent creatures, as the end 
of intelligent creatures is in uni- 
son with the end of the universe. 

In the reason above given we have 
merely put the catechism in a phi- 
losophical form. God created the 
world to be known and to be loved. 
To know and to love God is moral 
perfection. The highest know- 
ledge and love of God, therefore, is 
the highest possible attainment of 
the end of the world. 

When intelligent creatures ar- 
rive at the highest possible know- 



On Evil. 



515 



ledge and love of God, then not 
only is the end of the universe at- 
tained, but their own peculiar end, 
which is also to know and to love 
God. 

In the government of the world, 
therefore, God must have in view 
the highest possible moral perfec- 
tion of his intelligent creatures. 

SOLUTION OF THE DIFFICULTY. 

Come we now to the objection. 
It will be remembered that evil is 
possible; in other words, that a 
finite agent may fail in his action, 
and that consequently the action 
of such an agent may be deprived 
of the perfection which it ought to 
have just what is meant by evil. 
Now, suppose that a finite moral 
agent, because free, chooses to fail in 
his action, would God be obliged to 
interfere and by his power prevent 
him from failing? Whatever the 
adversaries of God's government 
may think, they must admit that 
if God is to interfere at all he must 
be guided in this interference by 
the law of wisdom. They can ad- 
mit nothing less, if they do not wish 
God to use his power without rea- 
son, and make God act foolishly 
and without law or principle. The 
law of wisdom, therefore, should 
guide God in this desired inter- 
ference in the actions of his free 
creatures ; the law of wisdom which 
should guide his divine intellect 
in selecting and adopting the best 
means to attain the end, means best 
adapted to the case in hand. Now, 
when we ask God to interfere by 
his omnipotence in the action of his 
free creatures to prevent them from 
failing, his wisdom must consider 
and ponder over the following pro- 
blems before his power can act : 

i. Is this interference of pow- 
er, to prevent moral agents from 



failing, necessary to the highest 
possible moral good of the uni- 
verse, which is the end of divine 
Providence ? 

2. Is this interference useful to 
the highest possible moral good of 
the world? 

Now, according to the various 
solutions of these two problems, 
divine wisdom can pronounce 
whether God can interfere or not 
in the action of his creatures. For 
if both problems be answered in 
the affirmative, if the interference 
is necessary or useful to the high- 
est possible moral good of the uni- 
verse, it is evident what the dictate 
of wisdom would be : let God inter- 
fere by his extraordinary power to 
attain the end of his government. 
But if the problems be answered 
negatively; if the interference is 
neither necessary nor useful ; if, on 
the contrary, it is unnecessary, in- 
jurious to attain the end proposed 
to itself by divine Providence, it is 
evident that divine wisdom would 
reject all such interference and al- 
low the free failing of moral agents 
to have full play ; because if the in- 
terference were not necessary or 
useful to attain the end aimed at, 
God by his interference would act 
without a reason, without principle 
or law that is, unwisely and unin- 
telligently. Keeping these princi- 
ples in view, we can answer the ob- 
jection. It runs as follows : Either 
God can prevent evil or he cannot. 
If he cannot, then he is no longer 
omnipotent ; if he can and will not, 
then he is cruel and barbarous. 
We are free to admit that God can 
prevent evil by his own absolute 
power that is, a power considered 
independently of all relation to his 
other attributes. But if we con- 
sidered God's omnipotence not 
exclusively and independently, but 
in relation to his other attributes 



5 r6 



On Evil. 



such as wisdom, for instance then 
the answermust be different. God's 
omnipotence thus considered can 
prevent evil if his wisdom demands 
or advises the doing so ; it cannot 
if wisdom should otherwise decide. 
Those who are clamoring for God's 
power to interfere are always con- 
sidering it independently of all re- 
lation to wisdom, as if God' could 
ever act without following the dic- 
tates of his wisdom, as if the two 
attributes could ever be separated, 
as if God could act unwisely, blind- 
ly, and foolishly. Before we say 
whether God can or cannot prevent 
evil we must decide whether his 
wisdom will permit the interference 
or not consistently with the end 
aimed at in the government of the 
world. If wisdom should demand 
or advise the interference, then God 
must and will interfere; if wisdom 
should forbid interference, then 
God cannot interfere, not for lack 
of power, but in consequence of 
the absolute simplicity and oneness 
of his nature, which absolutely de- 
mands the perfect harmony and 
concord of all his attributes when- 
ever he acts. As we have already 
remarked, we creatures can act 
foolishly and unwisely, because our 
activity is not our intelligence, 
because they can be separated ; but 
if our activity were the same as 
our intelligence, one thing with it 
and both identical with our nature, 
we could no more act without rea- 
son than we could change our na- 
ture. Such is the case with God ; 
power and wisdom and goodness, 
etc., are identical in him, and all 
must act harmoniously, and God 
can no more act unwisely than he 
can cease to be God. When, there- 
fore, our objectors say if God can- 
not prevent evil he is no longer 
omnipotent, we answer, if wisdom 
forbids this interference he can- 



not prevent evil, exactly because 
he is omnipotent that is to say, 
an infinite power ; and an infinite 
power would no longer be such 
if it were not identical with other 
attributes, infinity implying not 
only mere physical, blind activity, 
but wisdom, goodness, etc. 

It is evident, also, that if God 
does not prevent evil because such 
prevention is excluded by infinite 
wisdom, he would not be cruel but 
infinitely good, because we have 
proved that the law of goodness is 
the same as the law of wisdom. 
For if we call wise him who adapts 
the means to an end, we call good 
a will which adopts and carries out 
such adaptation. This true nature 
of goodness must be well under- 
stood and weighed if we would have 
a proper idea of our present subject. 
The enemies of God's providence, 
by working on the blind feelings of 
mankind, have oftentimes succeed- 
ed in leading them into error. 
They insinuate that goodness con- 
sists in doing good wisely or un- 
wisely, reason or no reason, than 
which there is no more erroneous 
or absurd idea. Even the com- 
mon sense of mankind admits that 
the doing good, the preventing 
man from suffering, must be gov- 
erned by certain principles ; if the 
doing good, the preventing of phy- 
sical pain, should interfere with a 
higher good, a higher boon aimed 
at, all admit that the doing what is 
erroneously called good in such a 
case would be folly and real cru- 
elty, and not good at all. Good- 
ness, therefore, is the handmaid of 
wisdom, goes hand-in-hand with it, 
and is governed by the same law ; 
whatever is foolish cannot be good, 
and vice versa. 

Now, we contend that such is the 
case in our great question of the 
evil of the universe. We hold and 



On Evil. 



517 



shall demonstrate that if God, by 
an extraordinary intervention of 
his power, had prevented the com- 
mission of moral evil, he would 
have gone counter to his wisdom, 
and consequently acted unwisely and 
cruelly. We prove our statement 
by the following syllogisms : It is 
the law of wisdom to select the 
best means to the attainment of an 
end ; and it is the law of goodness 
to adopt and carry out such means. 
But if God Almighty, by an extraor- 
dinary exercise of his power, had 
prevented the commission of moral 
evil, his wisdom would not have 
chosen the best means for the at- 
tainment of the end of the universe, 
and his goodness would not have 
followed the best means to such an 
end. Therefore if God had pre- 
vented the commission of evil, he 
would not have acted either accord- 
ing to the law of wisdom or that of 
goodness, and would have been 
neither wise nor good. 

The minor of this syllogism, 
which shall form the whole burden 
of these articles, is proved by the 
statement, which we merely point out 
here, that the prevention of moral 
evil would have greatly diminished 
the moral good of the universe in- 
stead of increasing it, and that, 
therefore, in this case, if God 
had interfered to prevent evil, he 
would have employed an extraor- 
dinary amount of action to effect 
a lesser good than if he had with- 
held it and allowed the free agen- 
cy of his creatures to have full 
play. 

We put these statements in yet 
clearer light. God possessed the 
plan of the universe as we have de- 
scribed it in our former articles. In 
investigating all the forces and ac- 
tivities composing the whole plan 
he foresees that some of the free ac- 
tivities would commit evil. Here 



is a new element coming into play 
among the cosmic forces. *How is 
God to deal with it? What, is the 
principle which must guide him in 
disposing of it ? The object and 
end of the whole universe is the 
highest possible manifestation of 
his infinite grandeur by the highest 
possible moral good of the uni- 
verse. This end must be attained 
at all hazards ; and with this prin- 
ciple in view God must consider 
the question of evil. Two prob- 
lems present themselves to his 
mind : 

1. Suppose he should prevent evil 
by an extraordinary employment of 
power, what would be the final 
result in reference to the highest 
possible moral good of the universe 
which must be attained by his pro- 
vidence ? 

2. Again, suppose he should not 
interfere, and suffer evil to have free 
scope, what would be the final con- 
sequence in reference to the same 
end to be attained? 

It is evident that God must weigh 
and calculate the result of either 
supposition before he determines 
upon any plan of action. Now, 
suppose the calculation has been 
made, and that the result is summed 
up and is as follows : God finds 
that if he intervenes by his extraor- 
dinary power to prevent evil, the 
sum of moral good of the universe 
is much smaller than the sum of 
moral good of the universe in the 
case of his not interfering and al- 
lowing evil to have full scope. 
What line of action must he adopt ? 
What would wisdom dictate ? As- 
suredly to let evil have full play 
and gain the greater final result. 
By adopting another line of con- 
duct, by interfering with his power 
to obtain a lesser good, he would 
certainly act against his wisdom 
without reason, contrary to all rea- 



518 



Annie Keary. 



son, as he would employ an extra- 
ordinarj amount of power to pro- 
duce a lesser result that is, throw 
away power without reason, which 
it is impossible for a wise intelli- 
gence to do. " Sapiens operator 
perficit opus suum breviori via 



qua potest."* But is the result of 
moral good in the supposition of 
moral evil greater than in the other ? 
In other words, is the minor of 
our syllogism true ? The answer 
will be given in the succeeding 
articles. 



ANNIE KEARY. 



WHEN a loving and beautifully- 
endowed soul is withdrawn from 
our circle of friends, we feel our 
lives so irreparably impoverished 
that we are apt to think the loss is 
entire, and that nothing remains to 
us but the pains of absence. And 
yet this is never true, for there 
always survives a portion of the 
life of such souls that can never 
die, and which we need never lose 
if we are only faithful enough to 
hold it. The same consolation ap- 
plies to those unknown friends 
whom an author makes through 
his books, and who have a special 
preciousness of their own. There 
is no surer test, it is said, of the 
sympathetic power of a book than 
when it makes us love the writer. 
This is a triumph quite apart from 
literary success, which may exist in 
a high degree without command- 
ing the other ; but when the two 
are combined an author tastes 
the most perfect reward that can 
crown his efforts. It was given to 
Annie Keary to enjoy this reward 
more abundantly than many whose 
books stand far higher on the roll 
of fame. No one who has read 
Castle Daly can have laid it down 
without tender sympathy for the 



writer, who reveals herself uncon- 
sciously in every page of that de- 
lightful story, where the faults, the 
humorous follies, the virtues and 
charm of Irish character are drawn 
with such a vivid and sympathetic 
touch. But it is of herself rather 
than of her books that we are 
tempted to say a few words to 
those friends across the Atlantic 
who knew her only through them. 
She coveted an American au- 
dience, and once said to a friend 
whom she called a " sister wor- 
ker," " I envy you having an au- 
dience amongst the Americans ; 
they are so young, so genuine !" 
Her novels f are the best known 
of Miss Keary's books, although her 
historical works have a distinctive 
merit of their own which has secur- 
ed them a position amongst educa- 
tional books in her own country. 
The Heroes of Asgard, the joint 
work of herself and her sister, has 
been pronounced by high author- 
ity " the best epitome we have of 
Northern mythology." Early Egyp- 
tian History is a charming and use- 
ful book, and The Nations Around^ 



* St. Thomas. 

^Janets Home \ Oldbury, Clemency Franklin 
Castle Daly. 



Annie Keary. 



a_ description of the neighboring 
heathen peoples with whom the 
Israelites came in contact, contains 
a rare amount of conscientious re- 
search combined with much imagi- 
native power in the realization of 
ancient Oriental life and scenery ; 
her tales for the young are delicate 
and bright, and very popular with 
their special public. Miss Keary's 
name has been of late years con- 
stantly before the reading world in 
Macmillan's Magazine, where "A 
Doubting Heart " is at present ap- 
pearing. The MS. of this story 
was finished a few weeks only be- 
fore her death, and, apart from its 
intrinsic merits, it will come to us 
in its complete form invested with 
that pathetic interest which gilds 
the last work of a well-known and 
accomplished author. 

Annie Keary's was a very quiet, 
uneventful life, full of helpfulness 
for others, of active sympathy, of 
wise guidance for many a life of 
constant, unwearying self-devotion. 
One instance amongst many will 
suffice to exemplify the spirit of 
self-sacrifice that animated it. She 
and her sister were living in a 
quiet little home, with no luxuries 
but that of the delightful, society of 
a circle of friends who gathered 
round them as to a living centre, 
when they were requested by the 
foundress of a home for young ser- 
vants to assist her by taking the 
place of her matron, who was sud- 
denly invalided. No one else 
could be found at the time to 
manage it ; an interregnum might 
have perilled the success of the 
undertaking. The going there in- 
volved the breaking up of their lit- 
tle home and their withdrawal from 
the society so pleasant to Annie; 
but she never hesitated about mak- 
ing the sacrifice of herself and her 



time, and without delay she and 
her sister took up their abode in the 
" Home" at the other side of the city. 

The company with which they 
had now cast in their lot was com- 
posed mainly of poor girls recruit- 
ed from the lowest class, sometimes 
picked up from sadder depths than 
poverty and ignorance. The sis- 
ters came amongst them, not as 
benevolent patronesses standing 
on a high altitude of Christian vir- 
tue, but as friends whom a kind 
Providence had sent to help their 
poor little sisters on whom the 
storms of life beat too rudely. 
They shared their lives in the true 
sense of the expression, and felt it 
a privilege to be allowed to do 
so, bringing all the energies of 
their warm hearts and cultivated 
minds to the task of helping and 
instructing and ameliorating the 
lot of the poor outcasts. Annie's 
days were entirely taken up by the 
claims of her charges, but she was 
very far from being oppressed by 
any sense of pettiness or dulness 
in the society of her new com- 
panions. On the contrary, her fine 
sense of humor found much to feed 
upon in the curious social ex- 
perience, and many a droll story 
she had to tell of the " Guy 
Fawkes " who was to disport him- 
self for her especial amusement, or 
of the girl who felt he^r prospects 
brightened by the promise of a 
relation who trundled a fruit-cart, 
that she should never want for a 
" happle or a peer " whilst he had 
one to spare. 

One of her old friends who was 
frequently with her in this new 
life, whom we may call Emilia, 
mentions a characteristic incident. 
A girl was going off to see about a 
situation, and Annie, after seeing 
that her hair was brushed and her 
hands washed, and giving her some 



520 



Annie Keary. 



last injunctions as to how she was 
to behave, was sending her away, 
when suddenly she called out : 
** My dear Jane ! what do* I see ? 
You have a great hole in your 
stocking that shows above your 
shoe ! Just fancy if the lady saw 
that ! Slip it off, and I will mend 
it in a minute." 

Jane slipped off her stocking, 
and the authoress got her needle 
and drew her white hand through 
the uninviting hose; the disrepu- 
table hole disappeared, and Jane 
was sent on her way. 

" And if you could but see 
Annie!" wrote Emilia. " You can 
have no idea of the simplicity, the 
utter unconsciousness with which 
she does all this." 

The six months came to an end, 
and the sisters, very much ex- 
hausted, were obliged to go to re- 
cruit their health in the south of 
France. The dear literary work 
was now resumed, and the sense 
of rest aftd freedom amidst the 
olive groves and flowers and all 
the luxuriant nature of the land of 
the sun made this winter a time 
of delightful enjoyment to both of 
them. 

But they were not likely to 
be satisfied with taking their rest, 
however well earned, or with mere 
personal work, however worthy. 
They soon found plenty of other 
work to do amongst the simple vil- 
lage folk round about them. There 
were children to be taught, and 
sick people to be nursed, and suf- 
fering ones to be comforted, and 
there was everybody to make 
friends with. 

At Christmas-time a feast was 
prepared for all these friends ; 
there were games out of doors and 
merry-making for old and young, 
the two English ladies making 
themselves the centre of it all, 



and taking great pains to instruct 
the young folk in the mysteries of 
" prisoner's bar " and " oranges and 
lemons." This last seems to have 
had great success, for a week later 
Annie wrote : " I think they all 
enjoyed the sport, and our little 
maid tells me that a whole troop 
of boys and girls are practising 
' oranges and lemons ' in the village 
this morning." We can readily 
believe that " the people were very 
sorry " when their kind English 
friends sai'd good-by to them and 
the sunny shores of the Mediter- 
ranean. 

During the years that followed 
this interval of seclusion and rest 
Annie kept up a constant inter- 
course with the young girls in 
whose lives she had become inter- 
ested during her residence at the 
"Servants' Home." Her love for 
each girl was peculiar and unfail- 
ing; her sympathy was ever ready ; 
her hope, even for the most hope- 
less of them, was Christ-like in 
its power, giving strength to the 
faltering, courage to the feeble, 
guiding the double-minded into 
straighter paths, drawing out the 
best in all. Her belief in goodness 
seemed almost to create it in those 
whom she so perseveringly tried to 
help. Her memory will long be 
held in loving remembrance by the 
poof to whom she ministered ; for, 
with her limited store of gold and 
silver, she gave what was more pre- 
cious than either sympathy and 
love. And not to the poor in this 
world's possessions only did Annie 
Keary give of that spiritual abun- 
dance; her sympathy was ever es- 
pecially drawn out towards young 
writers, many of whom sought 
counsel and help from her in the 
beginning of a literary career. 
From no one of these did she turn 
away uninterested, often finding 



Annie Keary. 



521 



some little service that she could 
render, and never failing to speak 
a word of encouragement to the 
traveller on that uphill road which 
she had often found difficult to 
climb in her own early years- She 
had that rare and gracious gift of 
discerning the precious ore amongst 
the dross, and where many a less 
sympathizing counsellor would 
have found nothing to praise she 
was able to draw one or another 
good point forward into the light 
and show the young beginner how 
to do the best that was in him. 
If we might dare to lift the curtain 
of her own home a still more 
beautiful picture would greet us : 
the young came there to be direct- 
ed and cherished; aching hearts 
came to be comforted; "doubting 
hearts " to be uplifted and strength- 
ened ; selfish hearts to be made 
ashamed of their discontent, and 
sent away cheered and infected 
with the brave, sweet spirit of the 
counsellor. Joubert says some- 
where in his Pens/es, " II y a des 
esprits ou il fait clair; il y en a 
oti il fait chaud." Annie Keary's 
mind was one of those where the 
light is inseparable from heat, and 
its glow was felt like a benign and 
blessed influence by those who 
came near it. 

She took great pleasure in her 
literary work, and was gratefully 
alive to the interest it added to 
her life; and yet she wrote with 
great difficulty. She said once to 
that sister worker whom we have 
mentioned : "It is laborious to me 
as a birth. It is only by prayer 
that I can get on with it; but when 
I find the difficulty too great I lay 
down my pen and pray, and some- 
how, little by little, it becomes 
easier, the ideas and the words 
come to me, and I go on." Once 
again she said : " Let us make a 



service of our pen. I think work 
of every sort, but more especially 
ours, ought to be a kind of wor- 
ship. Do not you ?" 

We can read this idea between 
the lines of every book Annie 
Keary has written. No breath " of 
the earth, earthy " has tarnished 
the purity of a single page, and we 
may apply to her Lamartine's tri- 
bute to Walter Scott, whose ro- 
mances, he says, the young girl 
may read without hiding from her 
mother : 

" Elle peut te lire devant Dieu, comme toi-meme 
tu ecrivis." 

Early in March last year Miss 
Keary discovered that a terrible 
disease had laid its hand upon her. 
Her faith rose bravely to meet the 
cross. 

" Her sweetness and resignation 
are too beautiful to be described," 
wrote Emilia. "She has always 
dreaded this malady above all 
things, and so dreaded physical 
pain ; but she says her terror of it 
is gone, and when she woke the 
first night (after seeing the sur- 
geons) the first words that came 
to her with the thought were, ' Ac- 
cepted in the Beloved.' The ope- 
ration is to be performed on Mon- 
day. I tell you, because she longs 
for prayers to help her." 

The prayers were asked in. every 
direction, and many a fervent one 
went up from pure and ardent 
hearts, Carmelites and Poor Clares, 
Sisters of Charity, priests arid little 
children, and toilers in the great 
city. 

When the terrible Monday was 
over Emilia wrote : " All your pray- 
ers have been answered. It is just 
wonderful how she has been sup- 
ported through her sufferings ! Her 
look of calm and perfect peace I 
shall never forget, and there is not 



522 



Annie Keary. 



the slightest effort or ' exaltation ' ; 
it was just as if it were the most 
natural thing in the world to lie 
still in a Father's arms." 

It seemed for a time as if prayer 
and love, added to skill and sci- 
ence, were going to work a mira- 
cle. She went on wonderfully well, 
and when a month later she was 
moved to Eastbourne her strength 
rallied, and hopes of recovery re- 
vived with it. But it soon became 
apparent that it was only a passing 
improvement, and that the sands 
were running down. Yet even 
now her life was full of interest 
and enjoyment. She would sit in 
the sunny eastern window, looking 
out upon the sea, and correct the 
proofs of" A Doubting Heart "; then 
came endless conversations, and 
reading and work ; in the evening 
she would read aloud for a couple 
of hours; so the days sped peace- 
fully within and without. 

" These dear ones infect me with 
their intelligent cheerfulness," wrote 
Emilia, who was herself dwelling 
under the shadow of a great sor- 
row, upborne only by the hope of 
the day of resurrection. 

Towards the end of February 
another friend went to see the sis- 
ters at Eastbourne, and, writing 
from that sanctuary of patient suf- 
fering, said : " Annie is more beau- 
tiful than any words can say. It 
is absolutely wonderful to see how 
entirely free from self she is. In 
the midst of her grievous suffering 
and bodily distress of so many 
kinds she is full of interest in the 
lives of others, in their plans, and 
work, and anxieties ; standing on 
the very brink of another world, 
and yet so keenly alive to all that 
is worthy of interest in this. She 
said to me yesterday morning : 'I 
must tell you a scheme for a story 
I have in my mind ; it may be of 



use to you.' I replied that, please 
God, she would use it herself some 
day. Eliza was near, so Annie 
pressed her head against mine and 
whispered, * I shall never write any- 
thing again.' In the afternoon she 
called me to her side and said : 
' Now let us talk about this story/ 
And she would have me get a pen- 
cil and paper and take down notes, 
and all this as eagerly, and appar- 
ently as disengaged in spirit, as if 
she had no more pressing concern 
on her mind. There is an inde- 
scribable grace in the way she suf- 
fers always with such a sweet 
smile on her face, as if she were 
taking each pang, as it comes, 
straight from the hand of God. 
Never once has she talked to me 
of her sufferings. When I inquire 
how the night has been (sometimes 
they are full of suffering !) she will 
say with her angelic smile, * I am 
feeling better since I came down. 
The sun is so cheery!' or some 
such cheerful answer that seems 
to shut the door on self so com- 
pletely that you dare not force it 
open. And yet who ever valued 
sympathy more than that sympa- 
thetic heart that gave it so abun- 
dantly to all who needed it!" 

This friend wrote again on leav- 
ing Eastbourne : 

" I left Eastbourne yesterday. 
Before bidding good-by to Annie 
we said the Magnificat together. 
Then Eliza and Emilia came in, 
and I embraced her and left the 
room. I was on the stairs when 
Eliza ran after me and said, ' Come 
back; she is calling you.' I went 
back into the room, and Annie fix- 
ed those large, liquid eyes of hers 
on me with a wistful look that went 
through me, and said, ' I wanted 
to look upon your face once again. 
We shall meet, dearest ; we shall 
meet.' She had been overcome 



Annie Keary. 



523 



with emotion a moment before, but 
she seemed to have risen above 
all weakness, and said this with 
a solemnity that impressed me 
strangely." 

Even at this extremity, when the 
sufferer realized her own position 
so clearly, her sister continued 
blinded by hope. This blindness 
was no doubt one answer to the 
prayers that were sent up for Annie, 
for it robbed that time of trial of 
half its pain, sweetening the days 
of the watcher with hope, and 
sparing the other the sight of 
a grief that might have been fatal 
to her peace. This peace, which 
to the last remained undisturbed, 
was one of Annie Keary's most 
blessed and characteristic gifts. 
She possessed in a singular de- 
gree that joyous tranquillity of 
spirit that is so restful to others, 
and which would seem to be an 
essential condition for all persever- 
ing effort and enduring work. 

It was arranged that a novena 
should be offered up for Annie's 
recovery, to begin on the nth of 
March, to end on St. Joseph's feast. 
Friends, known and unknown, were 
written to far and wide ; one kind 
American gentleman got three 
thousand Catholics of the United 
States to join ; it was to be such a 
loud clamor of supplication as the 
Heart of Jesus should not be able 
to withstand. Hope beat high in 
many hearts. And they were not 
disappointed. Before the novena 
began the answer came in a more 
magnificent mercy than the healing 



of the poor suffering body. On 
the 3d of March came the tidings,. 
"It is too late! Our angel has- 
left us." 

And so the novena was said for 
her who remained behind, and for 
the faithful soul that had passed 
from its ordeal of pain to the light 
of its Redeemer's presence. 

Under the old law Israel had 
its prophets and angel heralds, and 
they came, one by one, charged 
with a summons, a warning, or a 
divine call, and delivered their 
message to the people, and passed 
on. And we, too, have ours. Every 
elect soul is a heaven-sent messen- 
ger, an utterance of the Word at 
whose bidding the darkness vanish- 
ed ;.and they come to us wtlh light 
from him, if we will but open our 
shutters and let it in ; they come 
to us with tidings, and promises, 
and admonitions, with blessed gifts 
of love and hope ; and even when 
they have delivered their message 
and passed on their voice con- 
tinues speaking, an eternal echo of 
the Word that can never pass 
away. Their life lives after them, 
beckoning us along the road that 
they have trod, cheering us when 
we are foot-sore, shaming us when 
we grow faint-hearted, a Surgite 
eamus! that will go on resounding 
till the end of time. And thus we 
who have never known them are 
richer and stronger because they 
have lived before us, and toiled, 
and died, and gone to their re- 
ward. 



524 



Origin and History of the Christian Liturgy. 



ORIGIN AND HISTORY OF THE CHRISTIAN LITURGY.* 

REVIEW OF FATHER O'BRIEN'S "HISTORY OF THE MASS." 



THE Christian liturgy is pro- 
perly the order of rites pertaining 
to the celebration of the Holy 
Eucharist, and taken more exten- 
sively embraces all the order of the 
administration of sacraments and 
rites, and of the celebration of 
public worship. 

It is only the Quakers who have 
no liturgy at all, though even these 
have certain forms which they ob- 
serve in their religious meetings. 
The Presbyterians and Puritans, 
whose forms are the most simple 
and denuded of ritualistic observ- 
ance among all those retained in 
the Protestant churches, have, 
nevertheless, their liturgy. One 
important part of public worship, 
psalmody and the singing of hymns, 
absolutely requires set forms of 
words and musical notes. Scrip- 
ture Lessons, also, must be read 
from the Book of the Scriptures. 
Sermons are frequently read, and 
are at least premeditated and pre- 
pared, unless the preacher is a 
genius, or a mere ranter. The 
idea that worship must be wholly 
an extemporaneous effusion, with- 
out any prepared form of words, is 
therefore, by common consent, a 
mere notion of superstition and 
fanaticism. Outward ceremonies 
are also necessary and universally 
observed. And visible elements 
are likewise essential and actually 
used by all who retain baptism and 
the Lord's Supper among their re- 
ligious observances. In baptism 

* A History of the Mass and its Ceremonies in 
the Eastern and Western Church. By Rev. John 
O'Brien, A.M. New York : The Catholic Publica- 
tion Society Co. 1879. 



there is a fixed manner of applying 
the water, and a fixed form of 
words, prescribed in every sect. 
In the administration of the Lord's 
Supper, certain words are always 
used, the bread is broken, the wine 
poured out, and the elements are 
administered by the deacons, with 
great solemnity of demeanor and 
according to an established man- 
ner. The baptismal ewer, and the 
table with its proper service of 
vessels for the Lord's Supper, are 
as handsome and costly as the 
congregation can afford, and are 
specially sacred to the religious 
use. In Presbyterian and Congre- 
gational churches, the ordinary 
way of celebrating the Lord's Sup- 
per and administering communion, 
though simple, is exceedingly sol- 
emn and impressive. The most 
important words and actions of 
the minister are similar to those 
prescribed in the .Catholic liturgy. 
However studiously certain terms 
which denote the sacrificial nature 
of the action are avoided, it is im- 
possible to exclude from the whole 
transaction the manifest idea and 
intention of an act of worship to 
God by means of visible things, 
viz., bread and wine, with which a 
commemoration is made of the sac- 
rifice which Jesus Christ made of his 
Body and Blood. This is a commem- 
orative oblation from the very 
nature and obvious import of the 
whole ceremony. 

Those Protestant churches which 
have retained a considerable part 
of the ancient liturgy are more 
distinctly and formally similar to 



Origin and History of the Christian Liturgy. 525 



the Catholic Church in their doc- 
trine and practice respecting the 
Eucharist and in their methods of 
conducting their divine service in 
general. It is well known how 
general and marked the tendency 
has become in modern times among 
P^testants, to depart from the 
rigorous simplicity of their more 
ancient customs and to introduce 
more ritualism into their worship. 

The specific difference which 
marks the Catholic doctrine and 
liturgy from those which are un- 
catholic, is the recognition of a 
real and mysterious change in the 
very substance of the bread and 
wine of the Eucharist, produced 
through the instrumental action of 
a duly consecrated priest, in virtue 
of which the Body and Blood of 
Christ are made really present 
under the sacramental species, and 
truly offered to God in the sacrifice 
of the Mass. The history of the 
rites and forms which are or have 
been used in the liturgical service 
of the church has its chief value, 
therefore, from the evidence which 
it furnishes of the ancient and 
apostolic origin of the Catholic 
doctrine respecting the divine sac- 
rifice and sacrament of the Holy 
Eucharist, and of the practice 
founded on it. 

Besides this primary value and 
interest which belong to liturgical 
history, it has also great worth and 
attractiveness for Catholics, because 
it makes them better acquainted 
with a sublime and beautiful part 
of the religion which is so sacred to 
their minds and so dear to their 
hearts. Those who are desirous 
of knowing something about the 
Catholic religion and its rites and 
customs, so different from those 
to which they have been used, must 
be likewise interested in reading 
an explanation of the origin and 



meaning of the ceremonies and 
forms of Catholic worship. For- 
merly, Protestants were contented 
to take for granted that the Catho- 
lic liturgy and ritual were deli- 
berately invented or adapted from 
Pagan rites, during some dimly de- 
fined period after the cessation of 
the great persecutions and before 
the epoch in which even they have 
always been compelled to admit 
that all Christendom had become 
what the Catholic portion of it still 
remains. At present, those who 
are so entirely Protestant that they 
discard even what the Episcopa- 
lians have retained of the external 
Catholic order, and believe that 
the apostles founded Presbyterian 
or Congregational churches having 
the same kind of government and 
worship as exists in these respecta- 
ble modern societies, are obliged to 
seek for the period of the supposed 
change in the century which elapsed 
between the dates of A.D. 100 and 
A.D. 200, or thereabouts. The 
form which the Christian Church 
presents during the period between 
A.D. 200 and the date of the First 
Nicene Council, A.D. 325, is ob- 
viously and confessedly sacerdotal, 
sacramental, and liturgical. Not 
only Catholics, but all separated 
Eastern Christians and those Episco- 
palians who hold even moderate- 
ly High-Church principles, believe 
that this form was not an alteration 
of the primitive, apostolical Chris- 
tianity, but its continuation. We 
do not care at present to discuss 
any points of difference with these 
two last-mentioned parties, or to 
assert anything more than that 
which they hold and defend, often 
with great learning and ability, in 
common with ourselves. That the 
great act of Christian worship is 
the Holy Eucharist, that the apos- 
tles received from the Lord and 



526 Origin and History of the Christian Liturgy. 



by ordination transmitted a mystic 
power to consecrate and offer this 
heavenly gift, the Body and Blood 
of Jesus Christ, to their successors 
in the priesthood of the New Law, 
that the sacraments are efficacious 
instruments through which the ef- 
fects which their forms symbolize 
are really produced in fit recipients, 
that the apostles ordained the ob- 
servance of the essential rites and 
forms, and established the general 
rules and customs, which are the 
foundation of Catholic liturgy and 
ritual, is a thesis quite sufficient for 
our present purpose. The proof of 
it overthrows that notion which 
Calvinists and their so-called Evan- 
gelical congeners, as well as all 
others who hold the same Low- 
Church principles, have formed of 
the apostolical and primitive cha- 
racter of Christianity. As for the 
formal proof of the thesis, we might 
refer to the many books written by 
High-Church Episcopalians, which 
have never been and cannot be 
answered. At present, we content 
ourselves in respect to the argu- 
ment of the question, on our own 
part, with a few general considera- 
tions, very briefly proposed, reserv- 
ing a more thorough discussion of 
the fundamental thesis to a more 
convenient opportunity. 

None of us really derive our idea 
of apostolical and primitive Chris- 
tianity, at first hand, either from 
the New Testament or from his- 
tory. We take it from the objec- 
tive appearance which our own 
church, in which we are born and 
bred, presents to our imagination 
and to our mind, and the instruc- 
tion given to us in childhood. 
Through this medium we look at 
the history of early Christianity 
presented to us in the New Testa- 
ment and in other historical rec- 
ords of the first age of the church. 



It is very hard to get rid of this 
first imaginary and intellectual con- 
ception, by means of the reason, 
if we find good grounds for the 
conviction that it is more or less 
false. A thorough-going Protestant, 
whether Evangelical or Unitarian, 
comes to the examination of the Ca- 
tholic idea of the church as founded 
by the apostles, with his mind and 
imagination pre-occupied by what 
he considers as the true conception 
of real and genuine Christianity. 
He finds that no such conception 
is embodied in the Christianity of 
the fourth and third centuries. 
The faint and few outlines of the 
actual Christianity of the first cen- 
tury given in the Acts and Epistles 
of the apostles he has already filled 
up by his own imagination accord- 
ing to the impressions received 
from his own familiar form of reli- 
gion. He infers that an alteration 
took place during the second cen- 
tury, because he has already deter- 
mined that it must have occurred 
at some period, it could not have 
occurred later than the beginning 
of the third, and the obscure period 
between the death of St. John and 
the year 200 is the only space left 
in which his imagination can locate 
the change. There was a change 
doubtless, the change of growth, 
expansion, and progress. But it 
was a development, not a transfor- 
mation of species. If primitive 
Christianity had been a type of 
which New England Puritanism is 
a correct representation, it could 
not have changed into something 
even like a mere model of the ideal 
Catholic Church as an Anglican 
conceives it to be, any more than a 
young poplar could develop natu- 
rally into an elm. A quiet, insen- 
sible, universal change of this kind 
is a natural absurdity and impossi- 
bility. Such a change implies a 



Origin and History of the Christian Liturgy. 527 



revolution which must have been 
sensible and violent. No one pre- 
tends that a sensible revolution 
did take place. Consequently, 
there was no alteration which was 
essential and substantial, but only 
an accidental change and a regular 
development from the principles 
deposited in the original germ. 
Nicene Christianity was therefore 
by historical and vital continuity 
the identical Christianity of the 
apostles, not only, as all orthodox 
Protestants hold, in respect to the 
substance of the Christian dogmas 
of faith, but in respect to the sacer- 
dotal, sacramental, liturgical cha- 
racter which was visibly impressed 
upon its exterior surface. 

Another consideration, more doc- 
trinal than the former. Although 
many things in the New Testament 
are obscure and indistinct, one of 
those things in it which are very 
plain and clear is, that all merely 
shadowy, symbolical, and ineffica- 
cious ordinances were abolished 
with the Jewish Law. The Pres- 
byterian Sabbath and sacraments 
are denounced and condemned by 
St. Paul. An inefficacious baptism 
and a merely figurative Eucharist 
are out of keeping with the Pres- 
byterian and Puritan conception of 
religion, which is one of pure spiri- 
tualism. They are like an apple- 
core which could never have come 
in its bitten-down condition from 
a tree, or a denuded skeleton to 
which no animal could have given 
birth. Their proper conception of 
a church is a mere assemblage of 
believers gathered for social prayer, 
reading the Scriptures, singing 
hymns, and receiving instruction 
from one or more of their number, 
whom they have chosen to preside 
and act as teachers and exhorters. 
The first day of the week is merely 
a convenient time for such assem- 



blages. When the day is made sa- 
cred, the ministry made a sacred 
order, and sacraments are celebrat- 
ed by men acting as ministers of 
God in holy things, there is in- 
troduced a foreign, un-Protestant, 
Catholic element into their system, 
a remnant and shadow of the prim- 
itive, sacerdotal, sacramental, litur- 
gical religion of the ancient church 
which they have renounced. What 
little they have retained of the lit- 
urgy is an incongruity, and hence 
they have made the celebration of 
the Lord's Supper only an oc- 
casional, infrequent observance. 
Their habitual public worship is 
merely extemporaneous prayer, with 
a little singing, and nothing can be 
imagined more bald, jejune, and 
repulsive than the "Sabbath-ser- 
vice " of the sects which have no 
Book of Common Prayer, except- 
ing in so far as fine singing and 
fine sermons make it interesting and 
attractive. Such a service was 
never known or heard of in Chris- 
tendom until the extreme Protes- 
tant sects produced this skeleton of 
dry bones. It is ridiculous to think 
that Orientals, that Jews, could 
ever have so completely abjured 
and renounced all their immemo- 
rial ways and customs, as they must 
have done, in order to invent such 
a style of public worship. Com- 
mon sense teaches us that the way 
to find out what Christian worship 
was in the East, at the beginning 
of Christianity, is to trace up the 
Eastern liturgies and rituals, and 
observances, to the earliest sources 
accessible, and to judge of their 
origin by their history. 

There are many excellent works 
in the English language, both Ca- 
tholic and Anglican, treating of lit- 
urgical history and cognate top- 
ics. Father O'Brien has compiled 
the one which for the practical use 



528 



Origin and History of the Christian Liturgy. 



of Catholics, and also of non-Cath- 
olics who wish to understand our 
rites and ceremonies, is the best 
and the most interesting. The 
Catholic liturgy, in all its various 
forms in several authorized lan- 
guages, which are in use in all 
parts of the Catholic Church and 
in all sects, though in a few in- 
stances somewhat corrupted by 
time and heresy, which have pre- 
served the episcopal succession, is 
an outgrowth from the original 
apostolical liturgy, which was sub- 
stantially one, yet having several 
varieties of accidental form. The 
essential parts of Catholic order 
are of divine institution. The ac- 
cidental modifications were left to 
the determination of the rulers of 
the church from the apostles down. 
The norm or germ of the liturgy is 
of divine and apostolical origin, 
but this normal germ has grown 
and fructified in a luxuriant man- 
ner into the Catholic liturgy as it 
exists in its present state, wherever 
there is a true priesthood and a 
true sacrifice. By one of those 
strange accidents to which lan- 
guage is subject, an insignificant 
name, endowed with meaning by 
usage and hallowed by time, has 
become attached to the Sacrifice of 
the New Law in the Latin and 
other Western languages. It is 
called, in accordance with this an- 
cient and general custom, the Sac- 
rifice of the Mass. The history 
of its external environment of set 
forms, rites, ceremonies, vestments, 
sacred vessels, etc., whatever be- 
longs to sanctioned and establish- 
ed ritual observance in connection 
with its celebration, is what Father 
O'Brien has undertaken to set 
forth. In a critical notice prepar- 
ed after examination of the first 
proof-sheets of the work, we said 
all that is really necessary concern- 



ing the merits of the work accom- 
plished by the learned Professor of 
Liturgy in the Seminary of Em- 
mittsburg. We need not no\v 
repeat what we have already said, 
or add more than a few words of 
explanation regarding the topics 
treated. The author prefixes to 
the regular series of chapters in 
which the contents of his treatise 
are comprised a Brief Dissertation 
on the Principal Liturgies in the 
East and West at the present day. 
He then proceeds to explain the 
origin of the word Mass, the vari- 
ous kinds of Masses, the author- 
ized languages in which it is said, 
and the reason for using ancient 
rather than vulgar languages. Af- 
terwards, in due order, the vest- 
ments, the sacred vessels, the ap- 
paratus of the altar, the reservation 
of the species, the music and musi- 
cal instruments employed during 
the celebration of the Mysteries, 
and the varying rites used within 
the church are described. The 
altar, the lights, incense, crucifixes, 
tabernacle, and missal, the use of 
bells, etc., next receive due atten- 
tion. The second half of the vol- 
ume is taken up with an analysis of 
the separate parts of the Mass it- 
self, with a full and detailed expla- 
nation of each one, by itself. We 
miss a Table of Chapters with their 
topics, which should by all means 
be added to the General Index. 
We have also to find fault with the 
author's use of the word '* sacro- 
sanct," which does not belong to 
the English language. 

In conclusion we renew our cor- 
dial and earnest recommendation 
of this valuable and accurate work 
to all Catholics, not only of the 
United States but of all countries 
where English is spoken. It is 
really unique in our language, and 
the only work which answers the 



A Borroived Thought. 529 

purpose for which it was written, out the domain of the English lan- 
We trust that it will receive due guage. They will find it to be one of 
attention from the periodicals of the most instructive as well as inter- 
England and Ireland, and be thus esting and edifying volumes which 
made known to Catholics through- our Catholic literature possesses. 



A BORROWED THOUGHT. 

FROM B. ALPHONSO RODRIGUEZ. 

THINK not life's burden thou dost bear alone. 
No sorrow thine but that its keenest dart 
Lies in the depths of One most sacred Heart 
No penance thine but that God makes his own 
Its loneliest thought, its bitterest tears of brine, 
Unto thy weakness lends his strength divine. 



So, when thou tremblest 'neath the cross's weight, 
When sharp-edged stones beset thy bleeding feet, 
And shadows of strange shapes about thee flit, 
He, who hath hallowed suffering's sad estate, 
Shareth thy body's woe, thy spirit's pain, 
The cross, for thee, up Calvary bears again. 



" My yoke is sweet." Ah ! wherefore did He call 
A " yoke " his law, that is so light to keep, 
But that thy wondering heart should thrilling leap 
With such sweet yoke-fellow to wear the thrall 
Of bondage blessed? self-binding thy free will 
The fields he consecrates, with joy, to till. 



For thinkest thou, O soul, that one, alone, 

Shall bend 'neath that which fashioned is for two ? 
Making that drag, with balance all untrue, 

Which else were light, with even burden thrown. 

How shalt thou falter, how discouraged be, 

When Jesus stoops to bear his yoke with thee ! 

VOL. xxix. 34 



530 



Congal. 



CONGAL. 



IT is now some forty years or 
more since Christopher North read 
admiringly at one of the symposia 
of the Nodes Ambrosiancz a poem 
entitled " The Forging of the An- 
chor," and said that it was written 
by Samuel Ferguson, an Irishman. 
The poem at once took a vigorous 
hold upon the imagination of the 
world, and has been ever since one 
of those vital pieces of poetry that 
are not only admired and read, but 
are chanted in the mind and live 
in their metrical form as well as in 
their intellectual spirit. Such po- 
ems are rare, and indicate a pecu- 
liar felicity of language and metre 
which catch the ear of the mind 
and impress it to persistent and 
almost unconscious repetition, as do 
certain melodies the musical sense. 
Cowper's " Loss of the Royal 
George," Campbell's " Ye Mariners 
of England," and others might be 
mentioned as having this peculiar 
felicity, but none has it in a more 
striking degree than " The Forging 
of the Anchor." It is not always 
accompanied by the highest pro- 
duct of poetry in the thought, but 
in this instance the broad imagina- 
tive treatment of the theme and 
the powerful pictures of the crea- 
tion and life of the great anchor 
are worthily embodied in the bold 
and happy diction and the heroic 
rhythm of the verse to make a com- 
plete poem, of which may be truly 
used the hackneyed quotation that 
" it will live as long as the English 
language." None of Sir Samuel 
Ferguson's other productions have 
reached the popularity of " The 
Forging of the Anchor," and they 
are singularly little known in pro- 



portion to their intrinsic value. 
They are also much less in quan- 
tity than could have been wished. 
A small volume, Lays of the West- 
ern Gael, and Other Poems, contains 
the poetic labor of a life, with the 
exception of the poem that gives 
the title to this article ; and these, 
with a prose volume or two, com- 
prise all that he has given to the 
world. Students of ancient Irish 
literature, however, recognize him 
as one of the finest translators of 
the lyrics of Carolan and other 
bards, and his paraphrases have a 
vigor and boldness in which the 
spirit of the ancient harp-strings is 
heard again. In the Indian sum- 
mer of his intellectual life he has 
now given us a specimen of the an- 
cient narrative verse, an Irish epic, 
as perfect as his reproduction of 
the lyrics, and one which gives a 
still higher idea of his poetical 
genius from the greater grandeur 
and magnitude of the task. 

The poem of " Congal " is found- 
ed upon the Irish bardic romance 
called Cath Muighe Rath, or the 
battle of Moyra, with its introduc- 
tory "Pre-Tale" of the Fieadh 
Ducrnia n' Gedh, or banquet of 
Dunangay, which have been col- 
lected and published by the emi- 
nent Irish scholar, Dr. John O'Do- 
novan, under the auspices of the 
Irish Archaeological Society. The 
events and principal characters are 
historic, and it is an authentic ac- 
count of the last struggle of the 
pagan and bardic party in Ireland 
against the Christian dominion, and 
its final overthrow at the battle of 
Moyra, A.D. 637, with such addi- 
tions, conceptions, and episodes as 



Congal. 



531 



would naturally be invented by the 
bards who composed it and their 
successors. Congal, Sweeny, Kel- 
lach, and others were as real as 
Agamemnon, Achilles, and Hector, 
but the tale of their exploits is as 
imaginative as the Iliad. In re- 
producing the Irish originals Fer- 
guson has been obliged to take the 
same course honestly which Mac- 
pherson did with the Ossianic re- 
mains dishonestly, and give them a 
form of his own, while retaining 
the spirit and air, the characteristic 
phrases, and the historic truth of 
persons and events as far as possi- 
ble. It was the great error of Mac- 
pherson that he did not claim to 
have created the poems, which he 
gave to the world as those of Os- 
sian, out of the corrupt fragments 
which he obtained, instead of in- 
sisting that they were exact tran- 
scripts of originals which he was 
unable to produce. By this means 
he discredited both himself and the 
poems, for the world is naturally 
unwilling to admit that a cheat and 
a charlatan can be a man of gen- 
ius, and is inclined to despise the 
poems on account of the author. 
Nevertheless, the harsh judgments 
of Johnson, Macaulay, and other 
English Philistines will not stand, 
and the wiser criticism of Hazlitt, 
that Ossian, imperfectly as he is 
visible, is one of the four great 
poets of the world, will be accepted 
by all true lovers of poetry. The 
spirit of Macpherson's Ossianic 
fragments is the genius of the an- 
cient Irish and Scotch bards ; the 
form and expression were his own, 
but he injured both himself and 
the originals by a needless attempt 
at deception. It is impossible in 
the corruptions that have inevita- 
bly been mingled in the remains of 
the Celtic bards, existing for so 
long only in tradition and in the 



peculiarities of expression, the allit- 
erations, the compound adjectives, 
and the various repugnances be- 
tween their form and diction and 
that of the English language, to 
translate them literally with any 
grace or ease of reading, or with 
any close idea of their frequently 
involved and obscure meaning. 
The only way to reproduce them 
as living forms and not as archceo- 
logical mummies is to preserve as 
far as possible their spirit, their 
phraseology, and their historic 
truth, with the essential end always 
in view of making a living and in- 
teresting poem which would not 
require exceptional study in the 
modern reader to appreciate. Thus 
the genius of the ancient Irish bards 
can be best made known to the 
world, while otherwise it would 
only be appreciated by the very 
few who have devoted a lifetime to 
study. Such a task, however, re- 
quires no less genius than a poem 
which claims to be entirely origi- 
nal. Chapman's original genius 
was made known by his translation 
of Homer, from the strength and 
vividness with which he wrought 
out the pictures from Greek sharp- 
ness of outline to English fulness 
of color, and much greater would 
have been his credit had he been 
obliged to create them from cor- 
rupt and obscure originals. Fer- 
guson, who more than rivals Chap- 
man in the peculiar felicity of his 
descriptive epithets and the sonor- 
ous spirit of his rhythm, has had 
the latter task, and it would be 
mere hypercriticism not to admit 
" Congal" to the honors of an ori- 
ginal poem, although in fact and 
purpose it is a cento from the an- 
cient bards. 

" Congal " is in five books, nnd 
relates the life and deeds of Con- 
gal Claen, or Claon, as it is various- 



532 



Congal. 



ly spelled in the originals, the 
pagan prince, who, after being kept 
out of his full inheritance and pur- 
posely or inadvertently insulted by 
Domnal, King of Ulster, goes to 
Scotland, England, and Brittany, 
raises a hot>t of his kindred 
and allies, and invades Ireland, to 
be defeated and to perish at the 
battle of Moyra. Although it was 
fated and for the best that he 
should be defeated, Congal, like 
Hector and Turnus, is of heroic 
character, and sympathy is very 
strongly with him, as with his pro- 
totypes against Achilles and ^Eneas, 
who are victors by the help of the 
gods, and not great in heroic de- 
fiance of fate. This element of 
fate, which is so conspicuous in 
Greek poetry, is also a ruling ele- 
ment in the ancient Irish epics, 
pervading all the scenery like the 
shadow of a thunder-cloud. The 
poem opens with the departure of 
Congal and his following to par- 
take of a feast of amity with Dom- 
nal at Dunangay. The opening 
will give an idea of the spirit and 
metre of the poem : 

'The Hosting here of Congal Claen : 'Twas loud- 
lark-carolling May 

When Congal, as the lark elate and radiant as the 
day, 

Rode forth from steep Rath-Keltar gate ; nor mar- 
vel that the king 

Should share the solace of the skies and gladness of 
the spring, 

For from her high sun-harboring bower the for- 
tress gate above 

The loveliesc lady of the North looked down on 
him with love." 

He rode with his brother-in-law, 
Sweeny, destined to the most cruel 
fate that could befall an Irish hero, 
until they came to the boundaries 
of Mourne, where they were met 
by the arch-bard of his uncle, Kel- 
lach the Halt, who invites them to 
turn aside and share his master's 
hospitality. As they approach his 
hall they pass a rugged tract 

" With barren breasts of murky hills and crags en- 
compassed round," 



in which the bards, banished by 
the decree of Drumkeat, dwelt in 
shelter and protection furnished by 
Kellach, and sang among them- 
selves their ancient songs. At the 
banquet of Kellach three bards 
sing in honor of Congal. One poet, 
pale and gray, prophesies that in 
him shall return the dead and great 
Slanga. Another bard tells of tho 
herdsman, Borcha, who keeps the 
score of Ulster's kine from the 
mist-covered top of Mount Bingiair, 
and how, as Congal came through 
the glen,, he was visible in joy 
counting the score for each re- 
conquered land. The third makes 
a direct appeal to the pride and 
spirit of Congal to recover his he- 
reditary lands by force. Congal is 
confused and moved, but refuses to 
abandon his visit of amity to Dom- 
nal. 

The second book relates of the 
feast at Dunangay. On their way, 
at the fords of the Boyne, they 
come upon Ere, the hermit, who 
has been despoiled of the store of 
eggs which the wild geese have 
supplied him for food, to furnish 
the ill-omened feast. Congal re- 
fuses to listen to the hermit's com- 
plaint, and rides up to the castle 
of Dunangay, where the aged Dom- 
nal receives him with much show 
of affection, and desires that he 
will sit at his left hand, as next the 
heart, at the banquet. Congal says 
that the highest privilege is at the 
right, but it shall be as Doni- 
nal's love prompts. But after the 
guests are seated a herald an- 
nounces the King of Ernan Macha, 
and proud Malodhar, who is in 
possession of much of Congal's in- 
heritance, strides up the aisle and 
takes the place of honor. Congal 
does not resent it, but after grace 
the eggs on which to begin the 
feast are passed around, and Con- 



Conga!. 



533 



gal's are served upon wood, while 
the rest are on silver. He no lon- 
ger doubts but that he is being 
purposely insulted, smites down 
the table, and in a speech in which 
he recounts how he won Domnal's 
kingdom for him by slaying Sweeny 
Menu in the midst of his royal 
guard, he announces battle and 
departs, refusing to listen to ex- 
cuses. As they ride furiously back 
Ere is found in the way at the 
ford of the Boyne, and Sweeny 
smites him so that he falls into the 
river and is drowned. For this he 
is cursed by Konan Finn, Dom- 
nal's household chaplain, who has 
followed Congal to persuade him 
to peace. Congal is welcomed with 
stern joy by Kellach, and the bards 
hail him with blazing torches -and 
loud exultations. Borcha, the 
phantom herdsman, signifies his ap- 
proval ; for 

4 ' Lo, a rushing sound, 

As of immeasurable herds a-droving all around, 
Was heard ; and presently was heard to fill the 

mountain hall 
With hollow clamor, far and wide, a whistle and a 

call." 

Congal bids farewell to Lafinda, 
his betrothed, and sails to Alba, 
where he is welcomed by his grand- 
sire, Alban Eochaid, and his four 
sons, who make his quarrel their 
own. Drostan, the bard, prophe- 
sies evil omens, which are so often 
to be repeated and unheeded be- 
fore Congal has "dreed his weird." 
At the hall of Eochaid Congal 
shows his wisdom by fixing on a 
true heir in spite of the falsehood 
of the rocking stone, which is sup- 
posed to move only at the finger of 
truth. The one that answers him 
that he will make the gate to his 
royal fort of the lordly hearts of 
men, and not of yellow gold or of 
stout oak, is regarded as of the true 
heroic strain. 

The third book relates the land- 



ing of the allied fleet at Ulster. 
The fleet takes fire from a flash of 
lightning and is burned; but the 
allied chiefs, who were dismayed 
by the evil omen, are reassured by 
Congal and Kellach the Halt, who 
convince them by historic authori- 
ties that it is a sign that they are 
to conquer. But the evil omens 
multiply. They could not sleep 
that night, for all around their 
camp was heard the echoing sound 
of giant footsteps. 

" None saw the Walker save the king. He, start- 
ing at the sound, 

Called to his foot his fierce red hound ; athwart his 
shoulders cast 

A shaggy mantle, grasped his spear, and through 
the moonlight passed 

Alone up dark Ben-Boli's heights, toward which, 
above the woods, 

With sound as when at close of eve the noise of 
falling floods 

Is borne to shepherd's ear remote on stilly upland 
lawn, 

The steps along the mountain side with hollow 
sound came on. 

Fast beat the hero's heart, and close down-crouch- 
ing by his knee 

Trembled the hound, while through the haze, huge 
as the mists at sea, 

The week-long sleepless mariner descries some 
mountain cape, 

Wreck infamous, rise on his lee, appeared a mon- 
strous Shape 

Striding impatient, like a man much grieved who 
walks alone 

Considering of a cruel wrong ; down from his 
shoulders thrown, 

A mantle, skirted stiff with soil splashed from the 
miry ground, 

At every stride against his calves struck with as 
loud rebound 

As makes the mainsail of a ship brought up along 
the blast 

When with the coil of all the ropes it beats the 
sounding mast. 

So striding fast the giant passed." 

Congal demands of him why he 
keeps such guard around their 
camp. 

" The Shape made answer none, 
But with stern wafture of his hand went angrier 

striding on, 

Shaking the earth with heavier steps. Then Con- 
gal on his track 
Sprang fearless. u Answer me, thou churl !" he 

cried. " I bid thee back !" 
But while he spoke the giant's cloak around his 

shoulders grew 
Like to a black-bulged thunder-cloud ; and sudden 

out there flew 
From all its angry, swelling folds, with uproar un- 

confined, 
Direct against the king's pursuit a mighty blast of 

wind. 



534 



Con gal. 



Loud flapped the mantle tempest-lined, while flut- 
tering down the gale, 

As leaves in autumn, man and hound were swept 
into the vale. 

And heard o'er all the huge uproar, through star- 
tled Dalaray, 

The giant went with stamp and clash, departing 
south away." * 

Congal seeks a bard to learn the 
meaning of the apparition, and is 
informed that lie who questions 
the Walker without receiving an an- 
swer is doomed to die within a 
year. To which Congal makes an- 
swer with high and heroic heart : 

" To die is soon or late 

For every being born alive the equal doom cf fate. 
Nor grieve I much ; nor would I grieve if Heaven 

had been so pleased 
That either I had not been born, or had already 

ceased, 
Being born, to breathe ; but while I breathe so let 

my life be spent 
As in renown of noble deeds to find a monument." 

But this is not the last nor the 
most terrifying of the apparitions. 
As the army approaches the fords 
at Rath more : 

" When, lo ! a Spectre horrible, of more than hu- 
man size, 

Full in the middle of the ford took all their wonder- 
ing eyes. 

A ghastly woman it appeared with gray, dishevelled 
hair, 

Blood-draggled, and with sharp-boned arms, and 
fingers crooked and spare. 

Dabbling and washing in the ford, where mid-leg 
deep she stood 

Beside a heap of heads and limbs that swam in 
oozing blood, 

Whereon, and on a glittering heap of raiment, rich 
and brave, 

With swift, pernicious hands she scooped and 
poured the crimson wave. 

And though the stream approaching her ran tran- 
quil, clear, and bright, 

Sand gleaming between verdant banks, a fair and 
peaceful sight, 

Downward the blood-polluted flood rode turbid, 
strong, and proud, 

With heavy-eddying, dangerous whirls and surges 
dashing loud." 

Congal demands of her who she 
is, and she replies : 

" ' I am the Washer of the Ford,' she answered ; 

1 and my race 
Is of the Tuath de Danaan line of Magi ; and my 

place 

* It may be interesting to those who like to trace 
the resemblances in the folk-lore of different nations 
to know that the Sac and Fox Indians of this coun- 
try have a malignant demon, who is known as 
Kiichi-pa-mortha, or Big Walker. 



For toil is in the running streams of Erin ; and my 

cave 
For sleep is in the middle of the shell-heaped Cairn 

of Maev, 
High up on haunted Knocknarea ; and this fine 

carnage heap 
Before me, and these silken vests and' mantles 

which I steep 
Thus in the running water, are the severed heads 

and hands, 
And spear- torn scarfs, of these gay-dressed gallant 

bands 
Whom thou, O Congal, leadst to death. And this,' 

the Fury said, 
Uplifting by the clotted locks what seemed a dead 

man's head, 
v Is thine head, O Congal !' " 

Then she vanishes in air, but 
Congal springs into the ford and 
defies her malignant influence. 
He is joined by the gallant Conan 
Rodd, the youth whom he had pre- 
viously shown to be a true heir, 
and the army is shamed from with- 
drawal. But it moves on in dread, 
which is increased by the appear- 
ance of Lafinda in her car, driven 
by one who seems her aged nurse. 
She warns Congal of a vision of his 
destruction and begs him to turn 
back, but he declines, and Kellach 
insults her with unaeemly banter; 
whereupon the nurse rebukes him 
and reveals herself as St. Brigid. 
The chariot glows with radiance, 
and as it moves off Congal impious- 
ly strives to seize the maiden, but 
is flung from the chariot by the 
starting steeds, who vanish with 
their freight. On this there is a de- 
bate by the chiefs, which is again 
carried for an advance by Conan 
Rodd's brave eloquence, and the 
hosts pour out upon the plains of 
Moyra. 

The fourth book gives the mus- 
ter of the hosts of Congal.* A 
mustering of the hosts of Domr.al 
as they are arrayed for battle fol- 
lows. Among the rest Clan Conail 
thus boasts itself: 

" Clan Conail for the battle 
Never needed other prompting 

* Those who wish to compare Ferguson's style, 
spirit, and accuracy with others may find this 
translated into octosyllabic verse by Mr. W. H. 
Drummond, M.R.I. A. 



Congal. 



535 



Than the native manly vigor 

Of a king-descended people, 

Whose own exulting prowess, 

Whose own fight-glorying valor, 

And old ancestral choler, 

And hot blood overboiling 

Are war-goads self-sufficing. 

Wouldst see them war-excited ? 

Wouldst see the clans of Enna 

Let loose their native fury ? 

Wouldst see the sons of Conang 

How they look in time ox* slaughter ? 

Sil-Angus at their spear-sport, 

Sil-Fidrach at their sword-play, 

Sil-Ninid rout enforcing, 

Sil-Setna panic pouring ? 

Set before them then the faces 

Of foemen in their places, 

With lances levelled ready. 

And the battle, grim and bloody. 
Coming onward o'er the tramp-resounding plain ; 

But insult not Conal's nation 

With a battle exhortation 
When with battle's self their hands you entertain." 

The battle is joined, and Sweeny, 
with the curse of Ere upon his 
heart-strings, is smitten with fear 
and flies, to be a wandering phan- 
tom of shame for the rest of his 
days. The chiefs of note engage 
individually with various success, 
and Congal advances : 

" As when a grampus makes among the ripple-rais- 
ing shoals 

Of landward-coasting ocean fry, the parted water 
rolls 

Before the plunging dolphin, so the hosts on either 
side 

Fell off from Congal, as he came in swiftness and in 
pride. 

On each hand scattering death he went ; with sword- 
strokes some he smote 

In handed fight ; with javelin-casts he others slew 
remote." 

He breaks the head of the col- 
umn of Clan Conail, and many vain- 
ly engage him in single combat 
until he and Kellach, a nephew of 
Domnal and the chief warrior of 
his army, who has slain Con an 
Rodd, meet and are parted by the 
pressure of battle. 

In book fifth Cuanna, Ultan's 
heir, an orphan and an idiot, is re- 
proached by his cruel stepmother 
with folly and cowardice, and seiz- 
ing a bill-hook for a spear and the 
brazen cover of a caldron for a 
shield, he goes to where he hears 
the roar of the distant battle. He 
meets Congal in the full career of 



victory, and smites him in the 
side with the bill-hook. It is a 
fatal wound, although he still rights 
on until he sinks ; and as he does 
so a thunder-storm bursts from the 
sky and overwhelms his host, who 
are broken in hopeless flight. Con- 
gal has been snatched from the 
field by his bard in a chariot, and 
wakes from his swoon in sight of 
his former home. He is moved to 
tears of despair arid remorse when 
Lafinda, now a nun, comes from 
St. Brigid's hospice hard by to 
comfort and to reconcile him to the 
Christian faith. His heart is suf- 
fused with tenderness and repent- 
ance. 

" No longer soiled with stain ef earth, what seem- 
ed his mantle shone 

Rich with innumerable hues refulgent, such as one 
Beholds, and thankful-hearted he,'who casts abroad 

his gaze 
O'er some rich tillage country-side, where mellow 

autumn days 
Gild all the sheafy, foodful sboolcs ; and broad before 

him spread, 
He looking landward from the brow of some great 

sea-cape's head, 
Bray or Ben-Edar, sees beneath, in silent pageants 

grand, 
Slow fields of sunshine spread o'er fields of rich 

corn-bearing land ; 
Red glebe and meadow margin green commingling 

to the view 
With yellow stubble, browning woods, and upland 

tracts of blue ; 
Then, sated with the pomp of fields, turns seaward to 

the verge, 
Where mingling with the murmuring waste made 

by the far-down surge 
Comes up the clangorous song of birds unseen, that 

low beneath, 
Poised off the rock, ply underfoot, and 'mid the 

blossoming heath 

And mint, sweet herb that loves the ledge rare- 
aired, at ease reclined 
Surveys the wide, pak-heaving floor crisped by a 

curling wind ; 
With all its shifting, shadowy belts, and chasing 

scopes of green 
Sun-strewn, foam-freckled, sail- embossed, and 

blackening squalls between, 
And slant cerulean-skirted showers that with a 

drowsy sound, 

Heard inward, of ebullient waves, stalk all the hori- 
zon round, 
And haply being a citizen just 'scaped from some 

disease 
That long has held him sick indoors, now in the 

brine-fresh breeze, 
Health-salted, bathes, and says the while he 

breathes reviving bliss, 
' I am not good enough, O God ! nor pure enough 

for this.' " 

Congal passes peacefully, and 



536 



To Cardinal Newman. 



four monks bear him into the con- 
secrated close of St. Brigid. 

Such is the poem of "Congal." 
On its historical aspects, amply elu- 
cidated in valuable notes, there is 
not space to dwell. As a poem it 
is unquestionably one of the finest 
products of Irish genius. For the 
fire and spirit of its battle-scenes 
it has not been surpassed since 
Scott. In the curious felicity of 
its diction without rudeness, and 
in the swing of sonorous verse with- 
out artificiality or affectation, it has 
no rival since Chapman's " Homer." 
Frequent passages might be select- 
ed as graphic as the famous de- 
scription of the camp before Troy, 
and epithets as happily bold and 



inspired as Chapman's best. The 
comparison is very obvious, and in 
a manner forced by the close re- 
semblance ; but, as has been said, 
Chapman had a complete and co- 
herent original, while Ferguson had 
to construct as well as translate. 
His task was greater and his work 
is finer, while equally strong and 
broad. If the spirit of the ancient 
bardic poetry of Ireland is to live 
at all to the general reader it will 
do so in the poem of "Congal," 
and Sir Samuel Ferguson has wor- 
thily crowned a literary life, so bril- 
liantly begun, with a noble and 
conscientious work, which will il- 
lustrate his country's genius as well 
as his own. 



TO CARDINAL NEWMAN. 

FATHER for loftier titles cannot hide 
The tenderness of thy paternity 
From eyes that turn with filial gaze to thee 
Sons of thy faith, across the ocean wide, 
Led of thy light from paths tmsanctified, 
Thine own begotten, though unseen, are we. 
Thy loss, thy gain, we count our own to be : 
And now our hearts, exulting in the tide 
Of favor shed upon thee from that hand 
Whose grace outgrows its giving, fondly glow 
With more than silent syllables express. 
Oh ! westward, as the sunshine, to our land 
Still let thy love, a light perpetual, flow, 
Thy children, bowed in reverence, to bless. 

AN AMERICAN CONVERT. 



A Legend of the Weilden. 



537 



A LEGEND OF THE WEILDEN. 



There is a history in all men's lives, 
Figuring the nature of the times deceased ; 
The which observed, a man may prophesy, 
With a near aim, of the main chance of things 
As yet not come to life." 

SHAKSPERE, "Henry IV.," Part II. 



DURING the centennial year of 
our country's freedom it so hap- 
pened that we paid visits to many 
friends in various parts of the " Far 
West." Whether it was that the 
reawakened patriotic fervor called 
forth by that year of grace caused 
a new raking up of old family le- 
gends and eastern country-side tra- 
ditions, or that the self-exiled com- 
munities among whom we sojourn- 
ed cling far more tenaciously to 
records borne with them from older 
States than those who remain in 
them, it is certain we heard more 
of our ancestors in New England 
in a few months than we had gath- 
ered through the course of over 
threescore years passed among the 
scenes to which those records re- 
lated. These scattered shreds of 
social, domestic, and political his- 
tory were often fraught with thrill- 
ing incident and adventure, and 
not unfrequently reached back to 
stirring events in the Old World as 
well as the New. 

In 'the restless and constantly 
changing features of society in 
our oldest States, produced by the 
steady outflow of emigration and 
enterprise to new regions, there is 
small chance for any settled local 
traditions ; but the current carries 
them like golden grains along with 
it, and deposits them fondly in the 
new homes, so that you shall hear 
by many a lonely fireside in the 
western backwoods tales of eastern 



events which were forgotten long 
ago in the places where they oc- 
curred. That they lose nothing by 
the transfer, but rather hold their 
own with increase, none will doubt 
who know the tendency to reckless 
statement and highly-wrought nar- 
rative which prevails among our 
western cousins. 

Some such thoughts as these we 
were expressing to the friend who 
was our host at the time, when he 
gave an account of an interview he 
had enjoyed very highly not long 
before with a railway comrade, 
which we found interesting enough 
to write out afterwards, as nearly as 
possible in his own words, and it 
is here given as an illustration of 
those reflections which may pos- 
sess some interest for others. 

In the course of an excursion 
undertaken a year or two since 
from my present home to that of 
my childhood in the goodly com- 
monwealth of Massachusetts, I 
chanced to form a railway acquain- 
tance witli a fellow-traveller from 
California. He was past the mid- 
dle age, of remarkably attractive 
person and manners ; had been an 
extensive rambler in our own coun- 
try as well as almost every other 
in the known world ; was a clever 
judge of men and things, and pos- 
sessed a happy knack of imparting 
the results of his observations and 
amusing incidents of his travels for 



538 



A Legend of the Weilden. 



the entertainment of his compan- 
ions. 

When we reached St. Albans, 
Vermont, we found that, owing to 
heavy fall rains, the bridges south 
and east were so damaged by fresh- 
ets as to require the delay of our 
journey for a day either at that 
place or Burlington while they 
were being repaired. We decided 
to stop off where we were. 

" How unfortunate !" I exclaim- 
ed, as I stepped into a carriage at 
the station, " when I expected to 
be with my friends before to-mor- 
row morning!" 

" Sued is life !" remarked my 
new acquaintance, preparing to 
follow me, when the lettering on 
the vehicle caught his eye. " Wei- 
den House Carriage," he said, as 
if to himself, while we moved off at 
a rapid pace. " True enough, this 
is St. Albans ! I should have for- 
gotten the fact but for that name; 
and it seems they have perpetuated 
the memory of its earliest settler in 
this noble pile of brick and mor- 
tar," he continued as we alighted 
before that fine hotel. " Rather 
too noble for its village quarters, it 
seems to me. Jesse Welden cer- 
tainly never dreamed of being so 
enshrined." 

"Who was Jesse Welden, and 
what do you know of him ?" I in- 
quired. 

" Thereby hangs a tale," he re- 
plied. " Perhaps when we have 
taken our supper its recital may 
serve to while away the long even- 
ing for us. If you think so, I am 
at your service for the story." 

I was, of course, but too glad to 
accept his offer. Accordingly, when 
we had done the justice of hungry 
travellers to the excellent supper 
prepared for us, we settled our- 
selves in the cosey parlor into 
which our two comfortable bed- 



rooms opened, and he began by 
saying that he must go a long jour- 
ney into the past to find the first 
threads of a narrative which he had 
gathered from various sources, and 
mingle scraps of Indian legends 
with its warp and woof. 

" For," said he, " I am persuad- 
ed that there is not a village or 
rural hamlet in our country where 
one who indulges a. pleasant fancy 
for 'building castles in Spain' 
might not find ample material for 
the exercise of his craft at his own 
door. It is true our people are 
so swallowed up in the maddening 
pursuit of wealth and pomp, no 
matter by what dishonest means, 
in these days, that widows and or- 
phans stand small chance of escap- 
ing from their merciless clutches 
with the * skin of their teeth ' left 
intact, and the ghost of an honest 
grandsire dare no longer walk 
among us until he has arranged 
with his militia of the table-tipping 
fraternity for safe conduct and pro- 
tection ; while ' angel visits,' al- 
ways, alas ! ' few and far between ' 
in the best of times, have now ceas- 
ed entirely. Still, I firmly believe 
that one who would step aside from 
the tumult of the frenzied crowd, 
and listen to the 'still, sad music 
of humanity ' ever floating through 
the ages and breathing gentle in- 
spirations into loving hearts, might 
select from unheeded traces,, left, 
through the length and breadth of 
our boundless domain, by succes- 
sive hordes of our migratory peo- 
ple among the mines, with the fur- 
traders, at the mineral springs and 
health resorts studies for pictures 
equal in graceful outline and use- 
ful lessons to any old-world sketch- 
es, though different in character- 
like that famous window in Lincoln 
Cathedral which was said to have 
been composed by an ingenious an- 



A Legend of the Weilden. 



539 



prentice from the scraps of stained 
glass thrown away by his employer, 
and which so far excelled all the 
others that their fabricator died of 
vexation, or, as the story goes, took 
his own life in a fit of mortifica- 
tion. But to my own story, which 
opens on the wilderness shores of 
Lake Champlain in the early part 
of the eighteenth century. And, 
indeed, 



' Where could you find in foreign land 
So lone a lake, so fair a strand ?' 



" A few years before the discon- 
tent of the colonists which led to 
our war for independence had ri- 
pened into any open acts of hos- 
tility against the 'mother coun- 
try,' so-called, there rested upon 
the deeply-wooded shores of Bella- 
maquean Bay, about three miles 
west of this village, a little cluster 
of wigwams occupied by the native 
Abnaquis from regions east of the 
Green Mountains. Less warlike 
than their friends and allies, the 
Montagnais of Montreal and vici- 
nity, who were of Algonquin de- 
scent, they preferred the seques- 
tered eastern shores of the beauti- 
ful lake named by the good Cham- 
plain to those of the St. Lawrence 
River, which were more exposed to 
the ravages of the Five Nations 
or Iroquois, as they were called by 
the French the terror of all peace- 
ful tribes. 

"Along the borders of that lake 
no place could have been found 
more charming for its quiet beauty 
than the Bay of Bellamaquean. 
Aside from its beauty, the advan- 
tages of abounding game in the 
dense surrounding forests, of fish 
in great abundance, variety, and of 
the best quality in its pure waters 
all features dear to an Indian's 
heart the controlling reason for 
their choice had been security from 



the dreaded foe, bands of whom 
sometimes dashed across the lake 
in their canoes from the region of 
the Adirondacks, and made merci- 
less havoc among their harmless 
neighbors on its eastern shores. 
The deep indenture of this bay af- 
forded such an unobstructed view 
lakeward for many miles that an 
approaching hostile party could be 
seen afar. A creek which emptied 
into it from the north furnished a 
secure hiding-place for a fleet of 
canoes and a way of escape, in 
case of an attack, for the women 
and children up its sluggish waters 
through an almost impenetrable 
swamp which entirely concealed 
the creek from all but those most 
familiar with the country to a short 
distance from Maquam Bay, whence 
an easy carrying-place across to 
that bay gave free passage to the 
mouth of Missisque River, and ac- 
cess to many places of safety. 

"During the season of peace in 
that part of New England which 
elapsed between the close of the 
Indian War in June, 1725, to the 
beginning of our struggle for inde- 
pendence in 1775, this little village 
had been planted, as well as other 
settlements of natives on the isl- 
ands, at Maquam Bay, on the Mis- 
sisque River, and on both sides of 
the northern end of Lake Cham- 
plain who did not join in the last 
French and Indian war, that ended 
when Canada was ceded to the 
British in 1763. 

" Here they cultivated their corn- 
fields, prepared their wealth of furs 
taken in the chase, improved their 
homes, and enjoyed a high degree 
of thrift and comfort in their simple 
way. Here the young braves ex- 
ulted in treasures won from the 
woods and waters for the support 
and adornment of life, content 
though no steam-whistle awakened 



540 



A Legend of the Weil den. 



the echoes, no newspaper or chain- 
ed lightning brought tidings from 
the world outside ; and, monstrum 
digito monstratum, the foolish In- 
dian maiden rejoiced in the simple 
tunic with its gay fringe furnished 
forth by the wild-wood birds, and 
pantalets broidered with porcupine 
quills and moose-hair in gorgeous 
colors, though not even a ' pull- 
back ' solaced her heart or fetter- 
ed the freedom of her untutored 
limbs ! 

" In these beautiful haunts the 
little Indian children merrily sport- 
ed, performing such feats among 
the trees of their natural gymna- 
sium as would astonish trained 
operators of the circus and tight- 
rope, and proving themselves very 
water-fowl in their surprising ex- 
ploits at diving and swimming, un- 
til the tiny flock seemed more like 
a crowd of elfin wood and water 
sprites than beings of flesh and 
blood. Each settlement had its 
Lodge of the Prayer, and was visit- 
ed at regular intervals by mission- 
ary priests from Montreal, who 
celebrated Mass, explained the 
Christian doctrine, and adminis- 
tered the sacraments to these do- 
cile children of the wilderness. 
Each one was also organized after 
their manner, by choice of a lead- 
er to conduct defence or retreat 
when necessary, and to decide 
any disputes which might arise. 
'Young Eagle/ of the Abnaquis, 
held this position at Bellamaquean. 
To his pleasant lodge on its shores, 
in the first days of the settlement, 
he brought his young bride, the 
* Snow-Drop ' of tire Algonquins, 
from Montreal. Gifted beyond 
the daughters of her race with 
beauty and intelligence, she had 
been educated and prepared for 
eminent usefulness among her peo- 
ple by the good Sisters of the Con- 



gregation of Notre Dame, whom 
she surprised by her eager desire 
for knowledge, her progress and at- 
tainments under their instruction. 

" She soon became a successful 
teacher in her new home, and spar- 
ed no pains in training the children 
to the practice of religion and vir- 
tue, in which efforts her husband 
assisted and sustained her. He 
was in turn greatly assisted by her 
wise counsels, which were also 
sought in their doubts and difficul- 
ties by all her people, who held her 
in great veneration. Traditions of 
her beauty, wisdom, grace, and 
gentle piety lingered long among 
the scattered remnants of her tribe, 
and were recited by the Indians of 
St. Regis in the early part of this 
century. She died young, leaving 
a daughter, who inherited her mo- 
ther's remarkable beauty and ad- 
mirable qualities of mind and heart^ 
and who was placed by her discon- 
solate father under the charge of 
the same sisters who had educated 
her mother. 

" To step from this retreat of syl- 
van tranquillity in the forests of 
America, across the ocean to scenes 
of turbulence and bloodshed in the 
Highlands of Scotland, seems a 
long stride, but it often happens 
that the contingencies of nations 
and their conflicts become connect- 
ing links between the most widely 
separated realms, and weave the 
strangest webs of destiny to twine 
around the most unlikely subjects. 

" Conspicuous among the devoted 
adherents of the house of Stuart 
in Scotland was the Highland clan 
of MacDonald Maclan, as they 
styled themselves inhabiting the 
gloomy and almost impenetrable 
recesses of Glencoe. When news 
of the approaching conflict in Ire- 
land reached its aged chief in 1690, 
he gave permission to one of his 



A Legend of the Weilden. 



541 



sons to join the forces in that coun- 
try with a chosen band of follow- 
ers. They were all ardent and 
impetuous young men, animated by 
the loyalty to their king, perfect 
fidelity to the cause of the Catholic 
religion, and burning detestation of 
its enemies which always followed 
every current of the pure Celtic 
blood, and was sustained by that 
inherent sense of justice and duty 
inseparable from the race. 

"In that disastrous struggle of 
James against his base son-in-law 
which ended when William with his 
Dutch troops crossed * the Boyne 
water ' and completed the ruin of 
hapless Ireland, this band of High- 
landers fought with the courage and 
ferocity of tigers. When all waso\;er 
a few returned, defeated and morti- 
fied, to the dark and barren hills 
and ravines of their native Glen- 
coe, while the remnant stood firm- 
ly by the young Maclan, whose 
proud spirit revolted at the thought 
of returning to tell the tale of de- 
feat and ruin to his clansmen. They 
joined the Irish under the gallant 
Sarsfield, embarked for France, and, 
with their dauntless comrades of 
the Irish Brigade, redeemed on 
many a hard-fought battle-field of 
the Continent the renown and 
prestige so cruelly wrested from 
them in the battle of the Boyne. 

" Two years later Maclan heard 
of the horrible massacre of Glen- 
coe, in which his aged father was 
slain, and resolved never again to 
set foot upon his native heath. A 
proclamation had been issued by 
William that all the clans must take 
an oath to keep the peace, before a 
sheriff, on or before the 3ist of 
December, 1691. The old chief 
supposed that the oath would be 
administered at Fort William, In- 
verness-shire, erected the year be- 
fore to keep the Highlands in sub- 



jection, and but a short distance 
from Glencoe. On the 3ist he 
went to the fort, and to his dismay 
found that the nearest sheriff was 
many miles distant. The most 
rugged part of that rugged country 
had to be traversed at a season 
when the roads were blocked with 
snow to a degree which made them 
almost impassable. Making all the 
haste the state of the roads and his 
advanced age would permit at that 
inclement season, he arrived six 
days too late. The sheriff too 
humane for the savage government 
under which he acted consented 
to administer the oath, and made 
every explanation possible to move 
his superiors to clemency in con- 
sideration of these exceptional cir- 
cumstances. In vain ! Orders 
were issued that all belonging to 
the clan who were under seventy 
years of age should be killed, and 
King William set out very oppor- 
tunely for the Continent. Happily, 
the humane intentions of his highly 
civilized government towards the 
Highland ' kernes ' were not fully 
carried out. The discharge of fire- 
arms by the murdering detachment, 
in the dead of night, upon the un- 
suspecting clan whose hospitali- 
ties the murderers had been enjoy- 
ing for twelve days, in a series of 
banquets and convivial meetings, 
to lull all suspicions of their foul 
purpose gave a warning to their 
victims, by which some escaped, 
among them the oldest son of the 
chief. But the carnage was so 
shocking and indiscriminate that 
even Macaulay the warm admirer 
and apologist for William, his gov- 
ernment and adherents, and the 
sneering contemner of all * Celtic 
kernes,' whether Irish or Scotch 
cannot find words bitter enough to 
express his horror of the foul and 
treacherous plot, or his condemna- 



542 



A Legend of the Weilden. 



tion of its shameless concoctors and 
perpetrators. It is recorded in his 
Life and Letters that his re- 
searches for the sickening details 
of the massacre of Glencoe among 
the documents of the period, while 
preparing that chapter of the His- 
tory of England, completely un- 
nerved him, and affected his health 
so seriously as to compel him to 
desist for a time from the labor. 
To the average Englishman, how- 
ever, as the historian himself ad- 
mits, this affair was no matter of 
regret, but rather of exultation. 
For of what consequence was the 
betrayal and slaughter in cold blood 
of a few dozens of unbelieving Pa- 
pists, who had been guilty of the 
heinous crimes of loyalty to their 
king and fidelity to their religion, 
who would not swear allegiance to 
a usurper held in place by foreign 
mercenaries, or embrace the pure 
religion as * by law established.' 
The sole cause for regret was that 
one of the clan escaped. 

" The fugitive Maclan married in 
France ; his oldest son went, when 
quite young, to live with his friends 
in Scotland, and never returned to 
France. So in the course of time 
it befell that a young grandson of 
this fugitive, and great-grandson 
of the murdered chief, fought by 
his father's side for the last Prince 
of the house of Stuart on the fatal 
field of Culloden in 1745. The fa- 
ther was slain ; the son escaped and 
assisted in rescuing that ill-fated 
prince. Perfectly familiar from his 
childhood with all the gloomy re- 
cesses and nooks of that wild glen 
now famous in story so fitly nam- 
ed the Glen of Weeping, which 
its Gaelic name signifies he con- 
ducted the prince to a cave on the 
bank of a stream which issues from 
a dark pool in the ravine of Glen- 
coe, and flows into an arm of the 



sea at no great distance from its 
source, and an eddy from which 
set into the centre of the cave, 
forming a deep whirlpool that gave 
the name of the Weilden* to the 
cavern. Here he concealed his 
royal charge until means could be 
procured for conveying him safely 
to a vessel bound for France, when 
he accompanied him to that coun- 
try. 

"The terrible cruelties and slaugh- 
ter inflicted upon the defenceless 
Highlanders by the Duke of Cum- 
berland, the entire suppression of 
the clans, the religion, the language, 
the costume, and the very names 
of that hapless race, are matters of 
history, and form, with the massa- 
cre of Glencoe, the malignity of 
her exterminating policy and grind- 
ing tyranny for centuries in Ireland, 
indelible blots upon the pages of 
England's record as a nation. 

" In requital to the young Mac- 
Ian for his timely services and for 
the proscribed name which he had 
forfeited ,by his loyalty, it was said 
the prince conferred knighthood 
upon him, under the title of * Sir 
David of the Weilden/ and he 
never resumed the family name. 
Soon after the flight to France he 
joined a party of emigrants for 
Canada, where he engaged largely 
in the fur trade with the natives. 
In Montreal he saw and was cap- 
tivated by the charms of the 
daughter of Young Eagle called 
by her people the * Water-Lily of 
the Lake' then a pupil at the 
Convent of the Congregation of 
Notre Dame. He sought her fa- 
ther and obtained his consent to 
their union. They were married 
by the venerable missionary who 
had baptized the bride in her in- 
fancy, in the old church of Notre 

* Weil.is the Scottish'name for whirlpool. 



A Legend of the Weilden. 



543 



Dame in Montreal. Soon after the 
ceremony they returned with her 
father to his home at Bellamaquean, 
of which she took charge until her 
death, which occurred a short time 
before that of her father. Their 
only son, Jesse, was placed in 
school at Montreal after his mo- 
ther's death. His father went to the 
far-off northern wilderness, where 
he established a trading post of the 
Northwest Fur Company, and died 
there. 

" When Jesse left school, not long 
after the British took possession of 
Canada in 1763, he wandered into 
Connecticut, where he remained 
several years ; thence he came to 
Salisbury,Vt., and finally returned to 
the home of his childhood now 
a solitude, forsaken by the former 
native inhabitants and remained 
the sole occupant there until the 
war of the Revolution broke out, 
when he joined the Continental 
army. At the close of that struggle 
he came back and made very stren- 
uous efforts to have the village es- 
tablished at the bay a situation 
far more beautiful and favorable 
for it, in many respects, than its 
present site, which is three miles 
distant from the lake and up rug- 



ged hills. The committee appoint- 
ed to select a position for the 
county buildings at the bay, failing 
to obtain a suitable location for 
them from the farmers whose land 
covered the proper territory, de- 
cided to accept an offer made by 
the proprietors of the present village 
of a donation of that beautiful park 
upon the north side of which this 
memorial house of Jesse Welden 
fronts, and the county buildings 
were soon erected on its eastern 
margin. 

" That intrepid pioneer, the first, 
and for some years the only, white 
settler in the town of St. Albans, 
came from the bay to the village 
very early in this century. Some 
years later he was drowned when 
returning from one of his annual 
Easter visits to his old friends in 
Montreal. 

" It was from a descendant of his 
in California, whom I happened to 
meet on one of my frequent jour- 
neys, that I heard a large portion 
of this account of his great-grand- 
father's parentage and adventures. 
The Highland Scotch exiles of 
Upper Canada and the St. Regis 
Indians also furnished their quota 
to fill up the outline." 



544 



The English Press. 



THE ENGLISH PRESS. 



THERE is no country where the 
press has greater sway of indepen- 
dence than in conservative yet 
democratic England. It is true 
that the press is severely censored, 
but it is censored by the people, 
not the government. And it will 
often happen that in England a 
newspaper which goes wrong is 
roughly handled by some virtuous 
contemporary, which lashes its 
vices, or its foibles, or its falla- 
cies with unmerciful though pure- 
ly assumed authority. Thus the 
English press keeps itself in order. 
Each newspaper is in awe of every 
other ; so that in religion, in poli- 
tics, in social morality, there is a 
sort of interjudicial arbitrament. 
And it must be allowed that the 
system works well. A certain 
level of propriety is secured and 
continued by the amour propre or 
esprit de corps of the whole press ; 
and though occasionally there may 
be hideous impropriety, the de- 
parture is spasmodical, not lasting. 
Perhaps the oddest anomaly of the 
institution, the English press, is 
the way in which it teaches and is 
taught. It leads, but it is led ; it 
initiates, but it follows ; it is plain- 
tiff, but it is defendant and judge. 
The explanation of the anomaly is 
this : The English people, not ac- 
cepting any living, divine authori- 
ty, nor, indeed, any living authori- 
ty whatsoever, upon the dogmata 
of faith or of morality, but rather 
preferring to constitute themselves 
the interpreters of the whole doc- 
trine and the whole spirit of the 
New Testament, are necessarily 
driven both to elect their own 
teachers and to judge the teaching 



of the teac.hers they elect. This 
is true both of religion, so-called, 
and of all principles which are al- 
lied with religion. Wherever a 
religious principle is at stake and 
such principle must be continually 
at stake in both the political and 
the social spheres of life there is 
no common arbiter whose authori- 
ty is accepted as settling the divi- 
nity of any principle ; and conse- 
quently all politics, all social and 
ethical questions, must be adjudi- 
cated by private estimation. Yet 
since every one, no matter what 
his views, desires to have a com- 
petent advocate not a teacher 
possessing authority, but a pleader 
possessing ability every one se- 
lects what he calls the organ of his 
party, whether in the religious or 
in any ethical sphere. It follows 
that the press, being instituted by 
the public, is at once its responsi- 
ble counsellor and its slave. It 
undertakes to teach, but it does 
so in due submission to the pupils 
who have given it authority. In 
short, a newspaper occupies much 
the same position in society as a 
nominated preacher in a conventi- 
cle. So long as his teaching is 
acceptable to his hea'rers he may 
be permitted to mount the pulpit 
stairs ; but should he be guilty of 
unpopular teaching he is told to 
make room for another. This 
being the case with a newspaper, 
two alternatives of necessity pre- 
sent themselves: the one is to 
unite consistently for one party ; 
the other, to veer about so as to 
please all parties. The Times is 
the principal organ of the latter 
class ; for it takes any or every or 



The English Press. 



545 



no side. Thus for this reason the 
Times suits a multitude who are 
guided rather by expediency than 
principle. Yet the Times is per- 
haps, for this very reason, the tru- 
est exponent of the principle of the 
English press. That principle, as we 
have said, is the substitution of ad- 
vocacy for final or " catholic !' arbi- 
trament ; it is the preferring a plead- 
er before a judge, a jury which is 
the public before both. It is the 
invention of a most perfectly suc- 
cessful compromise. For no one 
can complain of the stout advoca- 
cy of an adversary when his own 
counsellor is allowed to advocate 
quite as stoutly ; nor can any one 
care a straw for the judicial utter- 
ances of an authority whose verdict 
can be quashed by his own court. 
The fiction of press authority, while 
satisfying each party, gives no of- 
fence, because it cannot proceed 
to execution; so that the institu- 
tion, the English press, has a sort 
of Catholic character, its Catholi- 
city being most equitably subdi- 
vided. " My authority is final, so 
is yours ; neither my authority nor 
yours affects its dissidents ; you 
and I elect our own private autho- 
rity, and we accept it, condemn it, 
or fling it over. The ultimate judge 
in such authority is each English- 
man. What more equitable arbi- 
trament could we invent ?" And 
so it comes to pass that Catholicity 
in true sense being repudiated in 
the judgment upon principles, Ca- 
tholicity in private sense most 
comfortably takes its place, and 
every man teaches his teacher. 

With all it's faults, there is much 
to be said in favor both of the 
principle and the working of the 
English press. We leave out the 
anomaly, the very real, mortal loss, 
of the rejection of divine authority 
as to principles; and we speak only 
VOL. xxix. 35 



of the national benefits or the in- 
dividual advantages which accrue 
from " an enlightened, free press." 
It is manifest that where every 
newspaper must stand solely on its 
own merits, and either sink or sur- 
vive by its own consistency, there 
is a motive for appearing superior 
in the esteem of its readers, and of 
at least seeming to be guided by 
high principle. It is perfectly true 
that groove, or school, or party 
must involve the constant minister- 
ing to prejudice ; but since the 
same news-vender who hands you 
your Standard hands you your 
antidote, the Daily News; or, while 
offering you your Record or your 
Rock) offers you your Church Times 
or Church Review, you know that 
if your favorite organ makes mis- 
takes you can catch him out by the 
additional investment of one penny. 
It is perfectly true, no doubt, that 
the advocates of any one school 
do not busy themselves with the 
advocacy of its opposite school ; 
but the leaders of all schools are 
obliged to practise a caution which 
their followers feel dispensed from 
gravely cherishing. Thus a student 
of the Rock, the lowest of Low- 
Church papers, will not permit the 
Church Times to lie on his table ; 
but every preacher and public 
polemic knows that he runs the 
risk of 'being taken to pieces by 
the organs which on principle op- 
pose him, and he further knows 
that the profane or worldly news- 
papers will make capital out of the 
grist of his mistakes; so that the 
very wideness of the freedom of 
the press acts as its own corrective 
or antidote. This is also true of 
all political papers, and even of all 
social and domestic papers. It is 
true even of the funny or comic 
papers. For example, poor old 
Punch used at one time to be pas- 



546 



The English Press. 



sionately given to writing blasphe- 
mous twaddle against Catholicism : 
but another of the comic papers 
came down upon him, and has 
taught him to curb his fatuity. 
And it is observable that even the 
TYw^has learned critical cautious- 
ness in all such advocacy as might 
offend important sections, since the 
growth of counter-organs has be- 
come sufficiently recognized to 
command a certain respect for their 
pleadings. Nor can it be denied 
that to the advocates of the truth 
there is immense advantage in the 
publication of error. When you 
know all that your adversary has to 
say, you can meet him with his own 
chosen weapons ; and this is better 
than fighting in r the dark, or against 
shadows or reports or broken argu- 
ments. The Saturday Review, the 
most caustic and the most cautious 
of all the papers which commonly 
cut at Catholic principles, can be 
now taken to task by such high- 
class publications as find their way 
into drawing-rooms and clubs. If 
Mr. Gladstone may write on Vati- 
canism in the Nineteenth Century, 
Cardinal Manning may reply to him 
in the next issue ; and though the 
same magazine may contain an 
article which is rationalistic and 
an article which might be compos- 
ed within the Vatican, the readers 
are at least invited to read both 
and to compare them, which is an 
advance on the old exclusive sys- 
tem. There is scarcely a news- 
paper, a magazine, a review, any 
weekly or monthly publication, 
which does not contain at least one 
contribution on some more or less 
quasi-religious topic. Even Fraser, 
a statistical magazine, must have 
an article on " The Church of the 
Future";- nor can Mr. Gladstone, 
the most versatile of writers, help 
favoring us with a polemical trea- 



tise on " Probability as the Guide 
of Conduct." That the Church 
Quarterly should discuss " Petrine 
Claims," and discuss them unfavora- 
bly to Catholicism, may be regard- 
ed as a matter of course ; but the 
notable thing is that the most secu- 
lar periodicals go out of their way 
to drag in controversy. The points 
of contact between divinity and 
science require judicial authority 
for their definition ; but in the 
absence of such authority any 
ordinary "literary man" supplies 
what is wanting out of his own 
head. 

It would be difficult to draw a 
line between newspapers and maga- 
zines, or to say where one ends, the 
other begins ; for a newspaper which 
comprehends a dozen or twenty 
pages, and has articles on almost 
every subject, becomes, to all in- 
tents and purposes, a magazine. 
Take the " society papers," as they 
are ostentatiously called the White- 
hall, the World, Vanity Fair; their 
object is to supply the omnigenous 
pabulum which a variety of readers 
may desiderate; and they are is- 
sued in such bulk, with so many 
noble columns, that they would 
be more handy if they appeared 
in octavo form. The " society 
papers " are professedly gossipy, 
and they care less to impress their 
own views on society than to re- 
flect society's fashionable failings. 
They assume, of course, a lofty 
moral tone; they are most indig- 
nant if accused of any levity ; yet 
they appeal rather to the educated 
listlessness of May Fair than to 
the deeper current of superior as- 
piration. They take society as it 
is, on the surface, not as it might 
be, or ought to be, or can be made ; 
and seek rather to flatter what is 
small than to build up new ob- 
jects and ambitions. The success 



The English Press. 



547 



of any newspaper must depend on 
the interest which it can excite in 
the class for which it writes ; and 
a little "buttering," or courting, or 
titillating is more agreeable to 
most readers than improvement. 
Hence the general tone of the socie- 
ty papers is drivel, educated, witty, 
newsy drivel, but stopping short just 
where high aim and noble purpose 
might be taught if the writers had 
the mind. Perhaps, as Dr. Johnson 
said to Bosweli who fancied that 
he might imitate Shakspere's style, 
"if only he had a mind" to make 
the attempt " the only thing that 
is wanting is the mind." Yet this 
is not the whole of what is wanting. 
It is certain that English society 
that is, fashionable society is as hol- 
low and superficial as it can be ; it 
is conventional, groovey, even cow- 
ardly ; its canons are formed sole- 
ly to secure propriety, or to hedge 
round rank and income against in- 
trusion. Just as respectability is 
the divinity of the middle classes, 
so fashion is the divinity of the 
higher classes ; but aspiration does 
not rise proportionately with grade, 
either in the intellectual or the 
philanthropic sense. It may be 
replied, Why should it do so ? 
Rank is no more a pledge of aspi- 
ration than mediocrity is a pledge 
of humility ; men and women are 
much the same in all classes, so 
far as personal merit is concerned. 
Yet the " society papers," with their 
immense opportunities, might cer- 
tainly do something to uplift. For 
example: the distance between 
the higher and the middle classes 
ci fortiori between the higher and 
the lower classes is so great as to 
constitute two worlds. In no one 
sense is there social or practical 
sympathy, or any link either of 
sentiment or interest, between 
class number one and number 



three, nor even between class 
number one and number t\vo. 
Each class holds up the hem of 
its garment to avoid contact with 
the class just below it. This con- 
temptible pride the very es- 
sence of vulgarity diffuses itself 
downward through all the strata, 
and both produces and is produc- 
ed by bad manners, disrespectful 
and discourteous intergreeting. 
Impertinence in the superior, and 
obsequiousness in the inferior, 
make manners to be as injurious as 
they are comic ; so that a rich man- 
will not raise his hat to a poor 
man, and a poor man looks to be 
snubbed by a rich man. English 
manners are undoubtedly better 
than they were since intercourse 
with other countries has been made 
easy ; but even now one may 
know an Englishman almost any-- 
where by his graduated homage or 
rudeness. It has been well said 
that a true gentleman is distin- 
guished from a conventional gen- 
tleman by his having precisely the 
same manners for all classes ; but 
it is as true that an Englishman 
may be distinguished from, say, a 
Frenchman by his being polite 
only to those who are not below 
him. Now, this ridiculous code of 
manners interferes, in a practical 
way, with the good which the rich 
should do to the poor, because it 
both cuts off the poor from the 
rich and makes the attentions of 
the rich to be offensive. The rich 
give their checks to the poor, and 
possibly a patronizing nod ; but as 
to sympathy, friendly service, so- 
cial intercourse, the thing is un- 
known save exceptionally. Re- 
turning, then, to the " society 
papers," here is a great work for 
them to do ; but they never even 
touch it, they dare not approach 
it, they prefer to minister vulgarly 



543 



The English Press. 



to vulgarity. They will tell you 
minutely of Lady Snobbington's 
ball, of the Duchess of Fitzpoodle- 
dog's garden party, but they will 
instinctively avoid any allusion to 
that rottenness which underlies 
fashionable ethics, fashionable can- 
ons. Their mission is to reflect 
what is ordinary, not to attempt to 
infuse what is superior. They 
may preach morality (fashionable 
morality), and they may affect to be 
mightily scandalized by scandal; 
but as to pointing out the fallacies 
which lie at the root of superficial- 
ity, they do not see their way to 
make money by it. The general 
aim of the society papers is rather 
to lower virtue to a "propriety," 
and high example to a worshipful 
serenity, than to cut into the roots 
of gilded selfishness and vanity 
and expose the disgraceful sham of 
" society." It may be replied that 
in all classes the same sham exists ; 
but then the higher classes must 
necessarily set the fashion. It is 
because Lord Broadacres does not 
visit the poor that Mr. Neatvilla 
turns up his nose at them ; and it 
is because Mrs. Consols prefers the 
front seat in a church that the oc- 
cupants of the middle seats hate 
the back seats. It is because ex- 
clusiveness is the Catholicism of 
the rich that inclusiveness seems a 
heresy to all classes. It has been 
said by a good writer that when 
we get into the next world our 
earthly cowardice will shame us 
like sin ; and certainly the coward- 
ice of nineteenth-century conven- 
tionalism is the bane both of 
enjoyment and of virtue. If we 
all adopted our own standards of 
what we know to be admirable, we 
might all of us be kings in mag- 
nanimity ; whereas, adopting the 
standards of society and of the 
press, we remain puny and servile 



all our lives. The press pats so- 
ciety on its back, and society most 
graciously returns the compliment; 
hence the interchange of fatuity or 
unreality, which goes on till our 
end opens our eyes. The press, 
which esteems itself " free," is the 
veriest slave of conventionalism 
and cowardice, not daring to lift 
the veil from that prophet of Kho- 
rassan which is euphoniously and 
mendaciously called Society. 

The two best weekly papers in 
England are the Spectator and the 
Saturday Review. By "best" we 
mean simply the most "educated." 
Of the Spectator it is sufficient to 
say briefly that it is a slightly 
liberal but most cautious periodi- 
cal, always written in grave and 
thoughtful tone, and generally free 
from the faintest tinge of ill-tem- 
per. But of the Saturday Review 
it may be permitted to speak at 
length, for it is in itself a compen- 
dium of the English mind. It was 
the first "newspaper" ever started 
which was designed to comment 
upon news while strictly ignoring 
news itself. And for forty years it 
has run a brilliant course. It con- 
tains articles on every conceivable 
subject, suggested by the changes 
of the hour. From the severest 
researches of intellect and indus- 
try, down to the most ephemeral 
caprices of playfulness, it handles 
every subject with a" pen-and-ink 
despotism compared to which Rus- 
sian czarodoxy is childish. It is 
assumed to be a Church of Eng- 
land organ ; that is to say, it picks 
holes in the Church of England 
till the institution is perforated like 
a pepper-cruet. It is proverbial- 
ly cold-blooded in criticism, and 
more than chemically exact in an- 
alysis ; so that the sensation af- 
ter reading it is like that of hav- 
ing assisted at one's own or at 



The English Press. 



549 



somebody else's vivisection. Insti- 
tutions may be supposed not to 
feel ; but bishops and clergy pro- 
bably do feel, and the poor Church 
of England, like every other re- 
ligious system, is treated like a 
child's box of bricks, which, if it 
be used for the creation of an edi- 
fice, is used equally for the delight 
of knocking it down. Nor is there 
ever any invidious distinction. 
The Catholic Church and all Ca- 
tholic subjects are manipulated 
with unsparing disintegration. To 
take one more bit of imagery from 
the nursery: Catholic teaching is 
treated like a puzzle which is 
chiefly interesting from the multi- 
tude of the pieces; the imagery 
failing in this, that a child loves 
the entirety, but the Review loves 
to prove that there is none. Still, 
the Catholic religion can have no 
right to complain, for it shares 
the common fate of all "subjects." 
Given, theoretically, the institution, 
critical paper, it follows that there 
must be sufficient victims for each 
week; and if we multiply, say, 
twenty critical articles by fifty-two 
not to speak of the criticism of 
books or plays, of the fine arts, or of 
exceptional grooves we find that 
more than a thousand different 
subjects have to be taken to pieces 
every year. It is all very well for 
the Review to assure us : " It is 
the business and, as it were, the 
duty of the critic to give counsel, 
which it is not the business of the 
author to attend to "; for the au- 
thor, whether it is his business or 
not, is made to suffer in many ways 
by hostile criticism, and especial- 
ly by such hostility as seeks to 
veil its own malice by the pro- 
fession of disinterested probity. 
But " reviewing," in the book 
sense of the word, is only one 
department of this journal, the 



whole iniptrium of the Review com- 
prehending the universe, in its ori- 
gin, its purpose, all its details. Now, 
the drawback to such imperiwn is 
that the very magnitude of its as- 
sumption leads the public to place 
confidence in its authority; so that 
because the Review says "This 
is," the public likes to infer that, in 
all probability, " it may be/' And 
since no reviewer signs his name 
in the Review, whether he writes on 
the Vatican or on May Fair, there 
is an imputation of efficiency to the 
reviewer, for the simple reason that 
he is not known to be inefficient. 
" Have you seen the Saturday on 
Brown's book?" or, "Have you 
read that scathing article on rit- 
ualism ?" is a question which im- 
plies in the mere fact of the put- 
ting it an ardent acceptation of 
literary worth. Who wrote the ar- 
ticle nobody knows ; that the arti- 
cle is published is its authority, the 
neatly printed lines giving a toilet 
of hant ton to an individuality which 
one might perhaps not care to 
contemplate. Yet the Saturday 
Review 'only differs from many oth- 
er critical papers in the fact that 
it is exceptionally cold. It has no 
pulse, no enthusiasm, no pity. It 
is a caustic which burns, yet not 
to heal. It treats the mind as if it 
were a machine, which a watch- 
maker could put in or out of order. 
It certainly has the merit of never 
" gushing," but then it has the de- 
merit of appearing not to be able 
to gush. The most fascinating wri- 
ters are those who curb an ardor 
which you can see in every sen- 
tence might be indulged ; but there 
is seldom fascination about writing 
which is a mechanical, if a mental 
or thoughtful, production. And 
just here it is that one may hazard 
the observation that the English 
press is generally marred by its 



550 



The English Press. 



limitation ; certain regions of know- 
ledge, of aspiration, even of senti- 
ment, being terra incognita to most 
journalists. May it not be said 
that, just as natural high breeding 
gives a literary tone to a man's 
writing, and a naturally good heart 
gives it sweetness, so the posses- 
sion of sublime faith gives a grasp 
and a sphere which must be want- 
ing in the ordinary, educated world- 
ling? Cardinal Newman is an ex- 
ample of the perfectness of a " lite- 
rary " writer, because he has all 
three of the requisites referred to. 
As a gentleman he will never of- 
fend ; as a true poet he is always 
enchanting; and as a Christian, 
both intellectually and practically, 
he balances every sphere of legiti- 
mate thought. But those epheme- 
ral writers who know the classics 
and books of science, but who are 
as babes in the immense world of 
"faith," can only teach us frag- 
mentarily within the confines of 
" humanities," and stop short where 
expatiation begins. 

We may well despair of success 
in making any attempt to define 
what is meant by the ''authority 
of the English press." We might 
as well try to define that nebulous 
anomaly which in England is call- 
ed " church authority." Both au- 
thorities are but swung in mid-air. 
Ego is at the foundation of them 
both ; but since ego may be always 
changing his personality or, as 
Cardinal Newman says, may " put 
on a new religion every morning " 
it comes to this, that to-day's ego is 
to-morrow's tuj and thus the church 
and press have no ego* We do not 
know how to reconcile those obvi- 
ously conflicting principles pri- 
vate judgment and authoritative 
institution. It is of the press that 
we are speaking at this time ; and 
we have often marvelled how the 



English people, sensible as they 
are, can lend themselves so obe- 
diently to their journalists. Pro- 
bably the most outrageous of the 
anomalies of journalism is the in- 
stitution, " our own correspon- 
dent " ; for this emissary is bound 
always to discover what is unknow- 
able, or, conversely, to know what 
is undiscoverable ; and upon his 
invented dictum more ben trovato 
than vero the leading articles of 
the paper have to be grounded. 
Thus, the emissary of the Standard^ 
whose assumed lodging is at Rome, 
sends continually the most astound- 
ing intelligence, penetrating by 
his spiritual force into the very 
penetralia of the Vatican, and di- 
vining even what the Pope has se- 
cretly thought ; and so pervading 
is his bodily presence or rather his 
menta&cience that he can always 
tell us what all the Jesuits have 
been thinking in their inmost souls, 
and what the Pope has secretly 
thought of their secret thoughts. 
The Times' Roman correspondent 
laughs this gentleman to scorn, and 
amuses his readers by contradict- 
ing, point-blank, the flights of fancy 
of his rival " theologian." We may 
have no means of comparing the 
relative science of these two gen- 
tlemen, nor would it be of prac- 
tical utility to do so. Yet we 
always notice that there is some 
sympathy between the " news " of 
the " our own " and the political 
and "pious" bias of a newspaper. 
Hence we assume that, before quit- 
ting Britain's shores, " our own " 
has been instructed as to his " line "; 
he has been well coached in the 
stamp of news he is bound to send, 
and equally in the stamp of news 
he must avoid. He has to cherish 
the supreme art of not knowing at 
least as much as the supreme art of 
divining; nor can his pillow be 



The English Press. 



always easy in the night, from the 
fear of having not been eclectic. 
So long as there is no principle 
involved a little . freedom may 
be harmless enough ; but since at 
Rome it is difficult to ignore prin- 
ciple, almost every daily telegram 
must be risky. The same risk 
must be incurred at other pla- 
ces, but not to the same extent 
as in Rome. In Mr. Martin's plea- 
sant Life of the Prince Consort he 
tells us of the surprise of the 
French emperor in reading detail- 
ed accounts of what did not hap- 
pen, and of the mingled wonder 
and pleasure which royal persons 
experience in perusing circumstan- 
tial inventions. Yet so long as the 
inventions are kindly they need 
not of necessity be sins ; it is only 
when they throw charity to the 
winds that we sniff the painful 
u odor of odium." As Dr. Pusey 
has recently written in a letter to 
a friend on the occasion of the honor 
rendered to Dr. Newman : " For my 
part, in early life I learned how all 
reports are either untrue or had 
just enough of a basis of truth to 
make them the more noxious ; so I 
believe no reports if they have any 
unkindness in them, but turn away 
from them as one should from 
something putrid." Happy he who 
is so philosophical, so Christian, as 
to turn away from all words that 
are unkind. Yet if we were to 
adopt this salutary principle when 
perusing the English newspapers, 
we might have to turn away from 
more columns than would fill a 
page. It is not that the press- 
writers intend to be unkind, but 
that to be judicial is their habit 
and their gain ; and how a man is 
to be always critical, both on the 
good and the evil, without some- 
times offending against charity 
especially when he must be pun- 



gent and entertaining it may be 
difficult to resolve in definite terms. 
We have to fall back, then, on 
the explanation which we have of- 
fered more than once that a free 
press, without authority, must be 
hazardous. Religious principles 
being free, social ethics being elas- 
tic, even natural justice being 
weighed in private balance, free- 
dom in the press must be often 
mentally licentious, if not so in 
a moral signification. When it 
is permitted to publish reports of 
filthy scandals, to comment on them 
with a thin robe of propriety not 
opaque enough to obscure their 
nude loathsomeness, and, under 
cover of moral teaching, to teach 
immorality by euphemistic preten- 
sion to high tone, it is absurd to 
say that the press is strictly moral 
because it puts on full dress to 
discuss dirt. There may be a 
positive gain in saying, " Do not 
sin," but there is a positive loss in 
saying, " This is the way it is done." 
The English press is most morally 
immoral. It is exoteric with esoteric 
particulars. A diligent student of 
the newspapers has no need to ex- 
perience evil in order to derive the 
fullest science of its detail. 

Yet abuse it as we may and it 
abuses us to suit its purpose the 
English press is the greatest power 
in England. And if that power is 
not always well used, neither is the 
House of Commons nor the police 
force. Probably the worst influ- 
ence x of the daily press is the im- 
mense amount of time which it 
wastes. Instead of reading im- 
proving books, the vast majority of 
Englishmen read positively noth- 
ing but the newspapers ; and the 
dissipation of such study, its su- 
perficial range of interests, make 
most men to pass their lives outside 
themselves. We can well imagine 



552 To Whom Comfort. 

that before the invention of print- knowledge of evil. It is too late 

ing the world had more interior to speculate on such issues. In 

repose, or that at least, before England the daily press is now a 

the introduction of newspapers, "sort of reflection of the daily life of 

there was less of intellectual re- the majority of Englishmen the 

volt. It is probable also that there occupying the mind with every 

was more domestic happiness, be- variety of passing interest, without 

cause there was much more simpli- gathering much fruit from the oc- 

city and less wandering after fitful cupation. 
temptations, because there was less 



TO WHOM COMFORT. 

ABOVE the purple hills of Palestine 

The morning rose in splendors slow and cold ; 
Its pale and chilly gleams to amber shine, 

Then deepen to a heart of burning gold 
That opens wide a dazzling pathway large- 
For what is yet a reddening crescent's marge. 



Those crowning beams fall on the drooping head 
Of one who lies upon the glistening grass, 

Till, startled by the swift and careless tread 
Of some who by that lonely wayside pass, 

She lifts a face all pale with watches drear 

And worn and dim with many a scalding tear. 



On the rich lengths of her neglected hair 
Unheeded lie the dews of that long night ; 

As cast-off gems those dew-drops sparkle there 
Like jewels flung aside by beauties bright 

When midnight feast and pageant all are o'er ; 

No other gem shall deck for ever more 



Those streaming tresses nor that lovely brow, 
Nor star her sweeping vesture's silken grace 

For her life's feast indeed is ended now. 
One sunbeam falls on her uplifted face, 

And, lighting all her wasted brow, it dies 

In the dark depths of her sad, hopeless eyes. 



To Whom Comfort. 553 

The passing Hebrews, that tool-laden go 

To seek their morning toil, look back and turn, 

And turning look again and whisper low, 

"The Magdalen !" whose very glance would burn 

Each Hebrew maiden's cheek with shrinking shame, 

An insult in the utterance of her name ! 

What was the wondrous story Rumor, spoke ? 

That with her alabaster vase's sheen 
It chanced her proud heart, too, the woman broke 

Before his feet the prophet Nazarene ! 
But now, they say, her last fond hope is fled ; 
Betrayed, condemned, the Nazarene is dead. 

And so they pass, and whisper as they walk 

With louder words of daily mingling cheer : 
The murmur of their broken, careless talk 

Unheeded falls upon her deafened ear, 
As rain-drops, falling soft on moistened ground, 
No echoes wake in weeping woods around. 

She turns her bending head to earth again 

Kind earth that holds her Friend and hears her moan, 

And has no shame responding to her pain; 
Of all the passers, pauses One alone : 

Severe and cold the tone wherein he speaks, 

And bids the woman say what there she seeks. 

The eye is blind without the heart's swift aid, 
And dull the ear no listening thoughts control ; 

Her heart and treasure are together laid, 
And deadened senses barely touch her soul ; 

Her hasty glance the stranger but revealed 

To be, perchance, the master of this field. 

The hand that struggles in the wreck at sea 

Each broken spar and raft will madly grasp 
With all the latent force despair sets free : 

Her desperate hopes this floating chance now clasp, 
And close upon it with that clinging hold 
Which gives dismay the strength that makes it bold. 

A kindling trust is in her earnest gaze 

Love keeps some hope that grief itself must spare ; 

The soft and early breezes gently raise 

Her shining hair from blue-veined temples fair, 

And touch her tear-wet cheek with rose-leaf shade ; 

Her pale and slender hands are meekly laid 



554 To Whom Comfort. 

In prayerful clasp upon her panting breast, 

And her imploring eyes are lifted till 
The heavy lashes on the eye-lid rest : 

The sun stands full behind on Calvary's hill ; 
" O sir ! where hast thou taken Him, I pray, 
That I may go and carry Him away ?" 

A silence fell upon the spring-time air; 

That she might hear, her pulse kept silence too ; 
And stillness gathered round them everywhere : 

When, softer than from Heaven drops the dew, 
More thrilling than the sigh of midnight seas, 
An accent tender pierced the listening breeze 

The accent of that sweet and solemn voice 
By which alone God spake to wearied man, 

And bade the long-expectant earth rejoice 
Beneath a fadeless rainbow's perfect span: 

" Mary!" and at the sound of her own name 

Swift joy shoots through each fibre of her frame ; 

Not earth's poor troubled joy, but that deep peace 
Wherein the soul breathes forth, in calm divine, 

All worship knowing not a break nor cease 
In one sweet word: " Rabboni! Master Mine /" 

It was enough ! From Him, from her one word ! 

Enough ; for Jesus spoke, and Mary heard. 

O found again ! O won by patient tears ! 

She falls, just at the pity of his tone, 
And with her fall her anguish and her fears. 

. . . Her only friend her Lord, her very own ! . . . 
She finds her place, the place for her most meet, 
For ever hers low at the Master's feet ! 

Sad souls, take cheer ! raise self from self's own scorn ; 

Look up ! an Easter sun your brows may touch 
In the sweet wonder of some perfect morn. 

Arise, O much offending, grieving much ! 
The Risen shall come to meet the risen's claim 
And call each soul her own peculiar name. 

DETROIT, March, 1879. 



The Drift in Italy. 



555 



THE DRIFT IN ITALY. 

GARIBALDI AND THE ELECTIVE FRANCHISE CONSERVATIVES RO- 
MAN ITEMS. 



ROME, May 16, 1879. 
"AGITATE, agitate," was the watch- 
word of Giuseppe Mazzini to the Ital- 
ians when the dethronement of the petty 
princes of Italy was his object. " Show 
the people their strength," he would say 
on other occasions. And what with 
constant agitation and a demonstration 
of their strength on the part of the peo- 
ple, with the encouragement and ulti- 
mate military action of the Piedmon- 
tese government superadded, the seven 
principalities of Italy finally merged into 
the single fabric known to-day as United 
Italy. But the maxims of the great 
agitator did not expend all their force 
upon, and subside permanently in, the 
formation of national unity under the 
jegis of the monarchy of Savoy. They 
have become heirlooms among the rest- 
less Italians, as such designed by Maz- 
zini, to undermine the house of Savoy 
as they did the duchies, the kingdom of 
Naples, and the States of the Church. 
For Mazzini proposed to himself and 
followers not monarchical but repub- 
lican unity in Italy. In his programme 
monarchical unity was but the necessary 
intermediate between the old principali- 
ties and the republican goal only a bait- 
ing-place by the way. The elimination 
of this intermediate he very wisely com- 
mitted to time and to the restlessness 
produced among the masses by his own 
doctrines. 

The epigraphists of the monarchy, in 
the bombastic emanations which glare 
upon the stranger from the walls at 
Porta Pia, from the municipal residence 
on the Capitoline, nay, even from the 
base of the monument which the glorious 
Pius IX. erected in the Campo Varanoto 
the memory of his brave soldiers who 
fell at Mentana, tell you that the " desire 
of centuries " was consummated Septem- 
ber 20, 1870. It is a special mercy for 
truth that epigraphists are not always 
historians ; else in this instance how 
explain the " agitation " which has gone 
on uninterruptedly and with a gradual- 
ly increasing intensity since that year 



of so-called redemption? No sooner 
had Piedmont established its lares in 
the palace of the Quirinal than repub- 
lican organizations, either dependent 
upon those already existing in other 
cities of Italy or racy of Rome itself, 
began to pullulate and agitate. The 
Italian Revolution had not ceased to 
exist when the Duke of Sermoneta hand- 
ed the famous Roman Plebiscite to Vic- 
tor Emanuel, nor had the Mazzinian 
agitation settled into quietude. Alberto 
Mario qualified the one last fall by 
eliminating its first, Garibaldi the other 
when he recently described a circle of 
legality around it. Thus we have evolu- 
tion and legal agitation at work in Italy, 
and, in the ultimate analysis, to the self- 
same end and purpose a republic. 

I would invite your attention to a 
phase or two of this legal agitation, de- 
veloped of late under the auspices of 
Garibaldi and affecting universal suf- 
frage. The object of his arrival in Rome 
in the early part of last April was a ques- 
tion that for a time agitated the press 
of every color. The plea of change of 
air was accepted with diffidence, albeit 
the general was suffering intensely from 
his arthritics before leaving Caprera and 
on his arrival in Rome. He was in turn 
identified with the intended expedition 
of Italian colonists to Africa, with the 
still active movement in behalf of "un- 
redeemed Italy," and with certain proxi- 
mate "foreign complications" to which 
he had alluded in some of his letters. 
But, if we are to judge a man by the 
company he frequents, Garibaldi's inten- 
tions were certainly not compatible with 
the spirit of the oath which he swore to 
the dynasty of Savoy when he was elect- 
ed member of Parliament in the winter 
of 1875. The most notorious Repub- 
licans of Italy, Mario, Bertani, Cavallotti, 
Canzio, Campanella, Lemmi, and others, 
either preceded his arrival in Rome or 
followed in his wake, and a series of in- 
terviews began with these men. The 
object was no longer a secret when Gari- 
baldi convoked a republican congress 



556 



The Drift in Italy. 



in Rome on the 2ist of April. He had 
already written a letter to the democratic 
Bovio, commending him for his dis- 
courses on universal suffrage. In the 
course of the letter he said : " I believe 
it is the strict duty of the republican 
party to assemble all its forces in the 
field of legal agitation, in order to arrive 
progressively at those ordinances which, 
tempering themselves to the character 
and historic office of the Italian nation, 
will ensure for it liberty as an unassail- 
able right, because at present it depends 
upon the humors of a minister or the 
programme of a ministry, and will place 
it in a condition to promote all its activ- 
ity and develop its wealth towards heal- 
ing the deplorable wound of misery. 
The dreaded clerical phalanx in Parlia- 
ment is rather desirable, as something 
which, establishing the antithesis of two 
principles, would raise it up from the 
languor which now renders it an invalid, 
would excite the energies of which 
Italy is capable, and bring on fertile and 
vital discussions." 

The discourse pronounced on the 
day mentioned before sixty-four of the 
choicest spirits of the Italian republic 
explains more fully Garibaldi's inten- 
tions : " Dear friends, I have called you 
to organize the scattered forces of the 
republican and parliamentary demo- 
cracy of Italy towards a common work 
and a common purpose. Hence we must 
not occupy ourselves with those things 
on which we disagree, but with those on 
which we are unanimous. I believe that 
we all agree in recognizing the profound 
discontent of all Italy discontent on ac- 
count of economical, political, and moral 
causes. I believe that we all agree in 
admitting that, to remove it, all interests 
must be represented in public govern- 
ment ; in desiring, therefore, universal 
suffrage and the abolition of the oath, in 
order that all opinions may have a voice 
in Parliament ; in desiring the suppres- 
sion of the Guarantees (Papal), the offi- 
cial form of worship being abolished 
and the sovereignty of the state remain- 
ing undivided ; the reorganization of the 
tributary system, so that they only and 
progressively shall pay who are able ; 
the abolition of centralization and a sys- 
tem of decentralization promoted ; the 
arming of the nation, in order to be able to 
liberate the unredeemed provinces ; the 
ploughing and cultivating the two-fifths 
of uncultivated and marshy Italian terri- 



tory, fertilizing it with the 150,000,000 
of unsold ecclesiastical possessions ; 
utilizing in favor of the poor the 1,500,- 
000,000 of the Opere pie, enjoyed for the 
most part by the administrators, the 
monks and nuns ; healing by all the 
means which love can inspire and science 
suggest the great wound of misery ; the 
authority of the legislative to be render- 
ed proportionate to that of the execu- 
tive power. And to obtain these results 
it is necessary to revise the constitution, 
which is insufficient and inferior to the 
new wants of the country, in order that 
it may govern itself, not by a document 
given to one of its provinces thirty years 
ago, but may plant itself and stand 
upon a national compact. 

" It seems to me that these are the 
principal ideas upon which we do not 
differ. Let us begin by procuring the 
triumph of the one which contains all, 
and from which all spring universal suf- 
frage and the abolition of the oath. 

" Hence I propose the following order 
of the day : 

" The Assembly resolves to determine, 
as the common object of labor for the 
republican and parliamentary demo- 
cracy, the agitation by the press and by 
popular meeting? in favor of universal 
suffrage and the abolition of the oath, 
having in mind that the country can be 
established and solidified by a national 
compact. 

"A committee of persons is 

nominated, whose central seat shall be 
in Rome, and charged with the execu- 
tion of the present deliberation." 

Citizen Federico Campanella, proba- 
bly with a view of giving a tranquilliz- 
ing sop to the monarchy, proposed the 
addition of the words " voted by a 
sovereign constituent" to the terms 
" national compact." The amendment 
was rejected, nominally because it was 
more amply expressed in the words na- 
tional compact, but really because it show- 
ed a deference to the monarchy utterly 
incompatible with the object of the con- 
gress and the character of its members. 

It is needless to observe now that not 
all the desires of the Italian people were 
consummated September 20, 1870. Much 
remains to be agitated for, and that, too, 
to the exclusion of the house of Savoy. 
Universal suffrage in itself can bode no 
good to the monarchy, because universal 
suffrage to wit, the masses is tired of 
the monarchy. It eats up fifteen million 



The Drift in Italy. 



557 



francs per annum. The abolition of the 
oath is a direct blow against the dynasty, 
and a blow eminently merited. Has not 
the dynasty subscribed to the elimina- 
tion of all that is sacred from. public 
government? Did it not endorse the 
abolition of the name of God from the 
Parliamentary oath ? It has sowed a 
tempest. The harvest of whirlwinds is 
fast ripening, and the reapers have al- 
ready girt themselves. 

Soon after these deliberations were 
passed Garibaldi addressed himself to 
the whole nation in a solemn manifesto. 
It is of sufficient importance to be quot- 
ed entire : " To the Italians : The bond 
of the Italian democracy is formed. I 
rejoice that this important fact, desired 
and studied for a long time, and hitherto 
attempted in vain, was accomplished 
under my eyes on the 2ist of April. 
Conspicuous patriots of all classes, no- 
ble minds, the glory of our country, who 
distinguished themselves in preparing 
and composing the unity of the Italian 
nation from 1821 on, are fighting in the 
field of the democracy, as also the gen- 
erous youth. And as the democracy 
will succeed in spreading its influence 
by the agitation which it will promote 
for the revindication and effective exer- 
cise of the national sovereignty, for the 
less intolerable life of the unendowed by 
fortune, for social justice, for inviolable 
liberty, a multitude of distinguished citi- 
zens, who witness, distrusting and incre- 
dulous, the government of the minorities 
which have succeeded each other and 
exhausted themselves during the last 
twenty years, will certainly and quickly 
join its ranks. 

"The democracy is to-day a force of 
the first order among the forces which 
constitute the nation ; it is a power with 
which those minorities, either willingly 
or unwillingly, must settle accounts. 
Its various schools are colleagued and 
confirmed in an order of common ideas 
and purposes, and they agreed in the 
adoption of the same manner of aposto- 
late, of the same means of agitation, 
open, sincere, and within the juridical 
orbit whence their strength and they 
founded the League of the Democracy. 

" The committee to which the high of- 
fice was entrusted is composed as fol- 
lows [here follow the names]. This 
committee nominated within its ranks 
the executive commission residing in 
Rome : Garibaldi, Aurelio Saffi (Triumvir 



of Rome in 1849), Campanella, Canzio, 
Bertani, Cannetto, Castellani, Alberto 
Mario, Bovio, and others. 

" The congress of April 4 did not 
celebrate a political league alone, but 
dissipated misunderstandings, renewed 
or strengthened friendships. 

" Every school of the democracy pre- 
serves its own individuality in the de- 
velopment and in the propaganda of its 
respective doctrines, and to each belongs 
the choice of the inherent initiatives, but 
each must answer for them. Still, I am 
certain that all, animated by a lofty sen- 
timent of love of country, and guided by 
that civil wisdom which even other na- 
tions recognize in the Italians, will 
co-ordain their particular and specific 
work, and temper it with the general 
work of the committee of the League. 

"And since the League of the Demo- 
cracy has proposed to circumscribe its 
labors within the limits of right and by 
peaceful means, let it warn those who 
govern Italy that when that right is con- 
tradicted, or impeded, or manumitted in 
any way, the responsibility before the 
nation and before history will be entirely 
their own, if in defence or the revindi- 
cation of that right the League of the 
Democracy, with the consciousness of 
legitimate defence, will have recourse to 
other means than those determined. 

" G. GARIBALDI. 

" ROME, April 26, 1879." 

The Republican Circle of Rome was 
the first to adhere to the deliberations of 
April 21. Its example was followed by 
the Republican Federation of Naples, 
which gave the proper interpretation to 
the words "national compact" when it 
declared: "We will keep our flag in 
mourning untilthe day when the people 
shall have sealed the new national com- 
pact." The authorities, too, both in Na- 
ples and in Florence, gave ample and 
significant importance to Garibaldi's " le- 
gal agitation " by causing his proclama- 
tion to be torn down from the street- 
corners. Meanwhile (it was on the 2yth 
of April) Garibaldi retired to Albano to 
observe the effects of his movement. 
The organs of the Moderates were howl- 
ing with indignation. A voice reached 
him that displeasure reigned supreme at 
the Quirinal. The Radicals, on the oth- 
er hand, were jubilant. He wrote to 
General ..Thurr that the democrats were 
the best friends of King Humbert ! It 



558 



The Drift in Italy. 



should not be forgotten here that Gari- 
baldi receives one hundred thousand 
francs yearly from " the government of 
the king." 

The question, however, is rolling, and 
Parliament has taken it up. Victor Em- 
anuel, in his last address to Parlia- 
ment, promised something in the shape 
of" electoral reforms," and so did Hum- 
bert I. in his first discourse. It formed 
a substantial feature in De Pretis' cele- 
brated programme of Stradella, and in 
those of Cairoli and Zanardelli. A com- 
mittee was appointed last week to ex- 
amine the project of law affecting the 
reforms. Strange to say, the two men 
who, apart from Garibaldi, were the 
prime movers in, and are the most ar- 
dent patrons of, the electoral reforms 
Cairoli and Zanardelli were not admit- 
ted into the committee, and this, pre- 
sumably, in apprehension of the fact that 
they would not tolerate limitations in 
the law. As it is formulated now it is 
far from Garibaldi's ideal. To give Par- 
liament a little diversion, and to concil- 
iate sympathetic support on this and 
other questions of vital interest to his 
ministry, the astute De Pretis has caus- 
ed to be brought on the table the ques- 
tion of obligatory civil marriage before 
the celebration of the ecclesiastical rite. 
The action was worthy of an Italian libe- 
ral. The law will probably pass to 
judge, at least, from the discussions thus 
far and when the dreaded electoral re- 
forms and the everlasting railroad ques- 
tions are brought up, De Pretis will al- 
ready have posed as a "patriot" by 
striking the church of Jesus Christ. 

How will this elective-franchise move- 
ment affect the Catholic Conservatives 
who promise to be ? Briefly, in this 
wise : Coupled as it is with the aboli- 
tion of the inaugurative oath in Parlia- 
ment, it overturns the principal bar- 
rier between the Catholics and political 
life. Apart from this, the following sta- 
tistical items will give the reader a fair 
notion of the probabilities of the success, 
under actual circumstances, of the Ca- 
tholics in the political arena. Italy has 
a male population of 13,472,213, of whom 
7,615,896 are of age, or are citizens. 
According to the actual electoral laws 
there were inscribed in 1876, as voters, 
605,007, or 2-rVk per cent, of the entire 
population of both sexes. But of the 
605,007 voters only 368,750 voted that 
is to say, 61 per cent, of the electors, 



which is equivalent to i ^ per cent, of 
the population. The deputies elected 
received the votes of -ftfc of the popula- 
tion. Now, of these 605,007 electors there 
are 33,000 employes actually on duty in 
the civil service, not counting supernu- 
meraries, servants, etc., who are all 
voters. Add 47,000 military and marine 
officers, 22,000 civil and military em- 
ployes on the retired list but drawing 
pensions, hence voters, and 22,000 cus- 
tom-house officers, prison-guards, and 
guards of public security. Here we have 
at once more than 100,000 voters who 
must vote with the government. I leave 
the conclusion to the reader. 

To return to the actual status of the 
Conservatives, it may be described in 
few words. Shorn of the distinctions 
without differences and the officious and 
semi-officious (not official, mind) decla- 
rations and ratiocinations of different 
Catholic papers in Italy, the matter 
stands thus: The Catholics are to wait 
until Pope Leo XIII. removes that fa- 
mous non expedit. For the rest, a com- 
mission of cardinals is actually engaged 
on the question. 

The topic most talked of in the Rome 
of the popes is the recent consistory 
of the I2th inst. Of the nine cardi- 
nals preconized but three are Italians : 
Alimonda, Bishop of Albenga ; Mgr. 
Giuseppe Pecci, brother of His Holiness ; 
and Father Zigliara, of the Order of 
Preachers. For the rest a distinguish- 
ed compliment was paid by His Holiness 
to five nations of Europe in the late 
consistory: to Austria and Hungary in 
the exaltation to the cardinalate of two 
of their distinguished prelates, Mgr. 
Frederic, Landgrave de Fiirstenberg, 
Archbishop of Olmutz, in Austria, and 
Mgr. Ludwig Haynald, Archbishop of 
Kolocsa and Bacs, in Hungary ; to 
France by the publication of Monsi- 
gnori Desprez and Pie, the one Arch- 
bishop of Toulouse, the other Bishop of 
Poitiers ; to Portugal by the creation of 
Cardinal Americo Ferreira Dos Santos 
Silva, Bishop of Porto ; to England by 
the honor conferred upon Dr. John 
Henry Newman, and to Prussia by the 
preconization of Dr. Hergenrother, of 
Wiirzburg. In her apostasy official 
Italy is beyond the pale of a compliment. 
A word of explanation concerning Car- 
dinal Pecci. His creation was not a 
moiu proprio of the Pope, but the desire 
of the Sacred College, who formally 



Current Events. 



559 



asked as much from His Holiness. This 
is what His Holiness said concerning his 
brother: "To the number of these we 
also add our brother, Giuseppe Pecci, 
vice-prefect of our Vatican Library, of 
whom we will say but this much, vene- 
rable brothers, that he has discharged a 
long course of teaching in letters and 
the severe studies, and is bound to us by 
an intimate affection and is loved by us 
with an equal love, and that in his 
election you by your honest judgment 
and your unanimous and affectionate 
votes in his favor participated ; for 



which, as is just, we profess our grati- 
tude to you." Cardinal Pecci is the 
Pope's senior by two years. He was a 
member of the Society of Jesus. He 
taught humanities and rhetoric in the 
University of Perugia until the expul- 
sion of the Jesuits from that city. He 
then retired to Rome, where he lived in 
the closest retirement until the election 
to the pontifical chair of his brother, who 
invited him to reside in the Vatican, as- 
signing him an office eminently suiting 
his tastes that of vice-prefect of the li- 
brary. 



CURRENT EVENTS. 



THE NEW CARDINALS. 



IT is only natural that every pub- 
lic act of the head of the Catholic 
Church should be exposed to the 
keenest scrutiny by the world. He 
stands in the very focus of " that 
fierce light that beats upon the 
throne," for his is the throne of 
thrones. Other princes and rulers 
can afford to make mistakes ; the 
Pope cannot. His claim to au- 
thority is the most stupendous in 
the world. It is natural for men 
to look for superior wisdom even 
in mundane matters in one who 
claims inerrancy and infallibility in 
spirituals. 

Every public act of Leo XIII. 
thus far has been received by the 
great mass of those who guide or 
manufacture opinion outside the 
Catholic Church with what may 
be described as reserved approval. 
In not a few quarters a warmer 
term of commendation might be 
used. It is cheering, too, to note 
that in a time when the majority of 
governments supposed to be Chris- 



tian are arrayed against the Catho- 
lic Church, the head of that church 
is to all appearance making some 
impression on them and moving 
them to a kindlier attitude towards 
their Catholic subjects and the 
Holy See. 

Leo XIII. has now occupied the 
chair of Peter for a little over a 
year. On May 12 he performed 
what to the outside public will ap- 
pear the most significant act of his 
pontificate thus far. He filled up 
certain vacancies in the College of 
Cardinals, and the world cannot 
but look on those whom he has 
chosen to sit in the senate of the 
church and exercise a voice in the 
election of his successor as types 
of Catholic life, faith, and intelli- 
gence, and as men whom it is as 
worthy to imitate as to honor. In- 
deed, the Pope left no room for 
doubt on this point. In his allocu- 
tion delivered in the private con- 
sistory at the date mentioned, after 
referring again to the love and 



5 6o 



Current Events. 



esteem he bears to the " exalted 
Order " of the Sacred College, he 
added : 

" We have determined on this day to 
add to your college men of the most 
illustrious and proved character, some 
of whom by their great zeal, prudence, 
and assiduity in the discharge of pastoral 
duties, in the care of the salvation of 
souls, in defending by their public writ- 
ings and discourses the doctrines and 
rights of the church ; some by their great 
scientific attainments, and the reputation 
which they have acquired in discharging 
the duty of teaching, or by the publish- 
ed monuments of their genius; all by 
unchangeable fidelity to the Apostolic 
See, by their labors endured in the cause 
of the church, by the distinguished 
merits of their priestly virtue and con- 
stancy, seen and known by many proofs, 
have shown themselves altogether 
worthy to be distinguished by the title 
and insignia of your exalted dignity." 

The men thus emphatically 
honored by the Holy Father were 
Mgr. Friedrich Egon, of the Land- 
graves of Fiirstenberg, Archbishop 
of Olmiitz; Mgr. Julien Florien 
Felix Desprez, Archbishop of Tou- 
louse ; Mgr. Louis Haynald, Arch- 
bishop of Kalocs, in Hungary ; Mgr. 
Louis Francois Desire Edouard 
Pie, Bishop of Poitiers ; Mgr. 
Americo Ferreira dos Santos 
Silva, Bishop of Porto ; and Mgr. 
Gaetano Alimonda, Bishop of 
Albenga, who were elevated to 
the dignity of cardinal-priests ; 
and to that of cardinal-deacons : 
Mgr. Giuseppe Pecci, Domestic 
Prelate and Sub-Librarian of the 
Holy Roman Church ; the Very 
Rev. John Henry Newman, Priest 
of the Congregation of the Oratory 
of St. Philip Neri; Mgr. Josef 
Hergenrother, Domestic Prelate 
and Professor at the University of 
Wiirzburg ; and the Rev. Father 
Tommaso Zigliara, of the Order of 
Preachers. Of these it will be 
seen that three are Italians, while 



there are seven of other nationali- 
ties. 

The significance of choice in 
this, the first creation of Leo XIII., 
needs no pointing out. We shall 
not dwell on it further than to cite 
it as confirming what has been 
urged on more than one occasion 
in this magazine. In commenting 
on the elevation by our late Holy 
Father, Pius IX., of the Most Rev. 
John McCloskey, Archbishop of 
New York, to the dignity of the 
cardinalate, we said : 

" But what moves us most is the sig- 
nificance of the act. In the appointment 
of an American cardinal in the United 
States the wish expressed by the Coun- 
cil of Trent has in this instance been 
realized. That great council ordained, 
respecting the subjects of the cardinal- 
ate, that * the Most Holy Roman Pontiff 
shall, as far as it can be conveniently 
done, select (them) out of all the nations 
of Christendom, as he shall find persons 
suitable ' (Sess. 24, De Ref., c. i.) Were 
this recommendation completely car- 
ried out, it would probably be one of 
the greatest movements that have taken 
place in the Catholic Church for the last 
three centuries. 

" Suppose, for example, that the great 
Catholic interests throughout the world 
were represented in that body by men 
of intelligence, of known virtue, and 
large experience ; suppose every na- 
tionality had there its proportionate ex- 
pression ; a senate thus composed would 
be the most august assembly that ever 
was. brought together upon earth. It 
would be the only world's senate that 
the world has ever witnessed. This 
would be giving its proper expression 
to the note of the universality of the 
Church. . . . 

" Who knows but the time has come 
to give this universality of the Church a 
fuller expression ? . . . Who knows but 
the time is near. when the Holy Father 
will be surrounded by representatives of 
all nations, tribes, and peoples, from the 
south as well as from the north, from the 
east as well as from the west ; by Italians, 
Germans, Frenchmen, Spaniards, Eng- 
lishmen, Belgians, Portuguese, Aus- 
trians, Irishmen, Americans, Canadians, 



Current Events. 



5 6i 



South Americans, Australians, as well 
as by representatives of the faithful from 
the Empire of China ? Would this new 
departure be anything more than the 
realization of the wish expressed by that 
great and holy council held at Trent 
three centuries ago?" (" The Year of our 
Lord 1875," THE CATHOLIC WORLD, Jan- 
uary, 1876). 

And this idea was still further 
emphasized in an article on " The 
Outlook in Italy" (THE CATHOLIC 
WORLD, October, 1877, while the 
late Holy Father was still happily 
reigning). 

u There were special reasons," it was 
there said, "which made it reasonable 
that the occupant of St. Peter's chair at 
Rome should in modern times be an 
Italian. Owing to the radical changes 
which have since taken place in Europe, 
these causes no longer have the force 
they once had. The church is a uni- 
versal, not a national, society. The 
boundaries of nations have, to a great 
extent, been obliterated by the marvel- 
lous inventions of the age. The ten- 
dency of mankind is, even in spite of it- 
self, to become more and more one fami- 
ly, and of nations to become parts of 
one great whole rather than separate en- 
tities. And even if the wheel of change 
should, as we devoutly hope, restore to 
the Pope the patrimony of the church, 
the claims of any distinct nationality to 
the chair of Peter will scarcely hold as 
they once held. The supreme pastor of 
the whole flock of Christ, as befits the 
catholic and cosmopolitan spirit of the 
church, ma)'- now, as in former days, be 
chosen solely in view of his capacity, 
fitness, and personal merits, without 
anv regard to his nationality or race. 

" It must be added to the other great 
acts of the reigning Pontiff whom may 
God preserve ! that he has given to the 
cardinal senate of the church a more 
representative character by choosing for 
its members a larger number of distin- 
guished men from the different nations 
of which the family of the church is 
composed. This, it is to be hoped, is 
only a promise of the no distant day 
when the august senate of the universal 
church shall not only be open to men 
of merit of every Catholic nation of the 
earth, but also its members be chosen in 
VOL. XXIX. 36 



proportion to the importance of each 
community, according to the express de- 
sire of the holy (Ecumenical Council of 
Trent." 



The name on the illustrious list 
best known to English readers is of 
course that of John Henry New- 
man. The universal joy with 
which the announcement of his 
elevation to the highest dignity that 
it is in the power of the head of the 
church to bestow on living man 
was received testifies to the general 
esteem in which Dr. Newman is held, 
and to the wide-spread influence of 
his writings. The new cardinal 
received the official announcement 
of his creation at the residence of 
Cardinal Howard, in Rome. There 
were present almost all the Eng- 
lish, Irish, and Americans in Rome, 
as well as many ecclesiastical dig- 
nitaries and members of the Ro- 
man nobility. The formularies 
having been gone through, Cardinal 
Newman delivered the following 
reply to the announcement : 

CARDINAL NEWMAN'S SPEECH. 

" Vi ringrazio, monsignore, per la par- 
ticipazione che mi avete fatto dell' alto 
onore che il Santo Padre si e degnato 
conferire sulla mia persona ; and if I 
ask your permission to continue my ad- 
dress to you, not in your musical lan- 
guage, but in my own dear mother- 
tongue, it is because in the latter lean 
better express my feelings on this most 
gracious announcement which you have 
brought to me than if I attempted what 
is above me. First of all, then, I am led 
to speak of the wonder and profound 
gratitude which came upon me, and 
which is upon me still, at the conde- 
scension and love towards me of the 
Holy Father in singling me out for so 
immense an honor. It was a great sur- 
prise. Such an elevation had never 
come into my thoughts, and seemed to 
be out of keeping with all my antece- 
dents. I had passed through many trials, 
but they were over, and now the end of 
all things had almost come to me and I 
was at peace. And was it possible that, 



5 62 



Current Events. 



after all, I had lived through so many 
years for this ? Nor is it easy to see how 
I could have borne so great a shock had 
not the Holy Father resolved on a second 
condescension towards me, which tem- 
pered it, and was to all who heard of it a 
touching evidence of his kindly and 
generous nature. He felt for me, and he 
told me the reasons why he raised me to 
this high position. His act, said he, was 
a recognition of my zeal and good ser- 
vices for so many years in the Catholic 
cause. Moreover, he judged it would 
give pleasure to English Catholics, and 
even to Protestant England, if I receiv- 
ed some mark of his favor. After such 
gracious words from His Holiness I 
should have been insensible and heart- 
less if I had had scruples any longer. 
This is what he had the kindness to say 
to me, and what could I want more? 
In a long course of years I have made 
many mistakes. I have nothing of that 
high perfection which belongs to the 
writings of saints namely, that error 
cannot be found in them ; but what I 
trust I may claim throughout all that I 
have written is this : an honest inten- 
tion, an absence of private ends, a tem- 
per of obedience, a willingness to be 
corrected, a dread of error, a desire to 
serve the holy church, and, through the 
divine mercy, a fair measure of success. 
And, I rejoice to say, to one great mis- 
chief I have from the first opposed my- 
self. For thirty, forty, fifty years I have 
resisted to the best of my powers the 
spirit of liberalism in religion. Never 
did the holy church need champions 
against it more sorely than now, when, 
alas ! it is an error overspreading as a 
snare the whole earth ; and on this great 
occasion, when it is natural for one who 
is in my place to look out upon the 
world and upon the holy church as it 
is and upon her future, it will not, I 
hope, be considered out of place if I re- 
new the protest against it which I have 
so often made. Liberalism in religion 
is the doctrine that there is no positive 
truth in religion, but that one creed is 
as good as another ; and this is the teach- 
ing which is gaining substance and 
force daily. It is inconsistent with the 
recognition of any religion as true. It 
teaches that all are to be tolerated, as 
all are matters of opinion. Revealed 
religion is not a truth, but a sentiment 
and a taste not an objective fact, not 
miraculous ; and it is the right of each 



individual to make it say just what 
strikes his fancy. Devotion is not nec- 
essarily founded on faith. Men may 
go to Protestant churches and to Catho- 
lic, may get good from both and belong 
to neither. They may fraternize together 
in spiritual thoughts and feelings with- 
out having any views at all of doctrine 
in common or seeing the need of them. 
Since, then, religion is so personal a 
peculiarity and so private a possession, 
we must of necessity ignore it in the in- 
tercourse of man with man. If a man 
puts on a new religion every morning, 
what is that to you ? It is as imperti- 
nent to think about a man's religion as 
about the management of his family. 
Religion is in no sense the bond of so- 
ciety. Hitherto the civil power has been 
Christian. Even in countries separated 
from the church, as in my own, the 
dictum was in force when 1 was young 
that Christianity was the law of the land. 
Now everywhere that goodly framework 
of society, which is the creation of Chris- 
tianity, is throwingoff Christianity. The 
dictum to which I have referred, with a 
hundred others which followed upon it, 
is gone or is going everywhere, and 
by the end of the century, unless the 
Almighty interferes, it will be forgotten. 
Hitherto it has been considered that re- 
ligion alone, with its supernatural sanc- 
tions, was strong enough to secure the 
submission of the mass of the popula- 
tion to law and order. Now philosophers 
and politicians are bent on satisfying this 
problem without the aid of Christianity. 
Instead of the church's authority and 
teaching they would substitute, first of 
all, a universal and a thoroughly secular 
education, calculated to bring home to 
every individual that to be orderly, in- 
dustrious, and sober is his personal in- 
terest. Then for great working princi- 
ples to take the place of religion for the 
use of the masses thus carefully educat- 
ed, they provide the broad, fundamental, 
ethical truths of justice, benevolence, 
veracity, and the like, proved experience, 
and those natural laws which exist and 
act spontaneously in society and in so- 
cial matters, whether physical or psy- 
chological for instance, in government, 
trade, finance, sanitary experiments, the 
intercourse of nations. As to religion, 
it is a private luxury which a man may 
have if he will, but which, of course, he 
must pay for, and which he must not 
obtrude upon others or indulge to their 



Current Events. 



563 



annoyance. The general character of 
this great apostasy is one and the same 
everywhere, but in detail and in charac- 
ter it varies in different countries. For 
myself, I would rather speak of it in my 
own country, which I know. There, I 
think, it threatens to have a formidable 
success, though it is not easy to see 
what will be its ultimate issue. At first 
sight it might be thought that English- 
men are "too religious for a movement 
which on the Continent seems to be 
founded on infidelity ; but the misfortune 
with us is that, though it ends in infidelity, 
as in other places, it does not necessari- 
ly arise out of infidelity. It must be 
recollected that the religious sects which 
sprang up in England three centuries 
ago, and which are so powerful now, 
have ever been fiercely opposed to the 
union of church and state, and would 
advocate the unchristianizing the mon- 
archy and all that belongs to it, under the 
notion that such a catastrophe would make 
Christianity much more pure and much 
more powerful. Next, the liberal prin- 
ciple is forced on us through the neces- 
sity of the case. Consider what follows 
from the very fact of these many sects. 
They constitute the religion, it is sup- 
posed, of half the population ; and, re- 
collect, our mode of government is pop- 
ular. Every dozen men taken at ran- 
dom whom you meet in the streets have 
a share in political power. When you 
inquire into their forms of belief, per- 
haps they represent one or other of as 
many as seven religions. How can they 
possibly act together in municipal or in 
national matters if each insists on the 
recognition of his own religious denom- 
ination ? All action would be at a dead- 
lock unless the subject of religion were 
ignored. We cannot help ourselves. 
And, thirdly, it must be borne in mind 
that there is much in the liberalistic 
theory which is good and true; for ex- 
ample, not to say more, the precepts of 
justice, truthfulness, sobriety, self-com- 
mand, benevolence, which, as I have 
already noted, are among its avowed 
principles. It is not till we find that this 
array of principles is intended to super- 
sede, to block out, religion that we pro- 
nounce it to be evil. There never was a 
device of the enemy so cleverly framed 
and with such promise of success. And 
already it has answered to the expecta- 
tions which have been formed of it. It 
is sweeping into its own ranks great 



numbers of able, earnest, virtuous men 
elderly men of approved antecedents, 
young men with a career before them. 
Such is the state of things in England, 
and it is well that it should be realized 
by all of us ; but it must not be sup- 
posed for a moment that I am afraid of 
it. I lament it deeply, because I fore- 
see that it may be the ruin of many 
souls ; but I have no fear at all that it 
really can do aught of serious harm to 
the work of truth, to the holy church, to 
our Almighty King, the Lion of the tribe 
of Juda, faithful and true, or to his 
Vicar on earth. Christianity has been 
too often in what seemed deadly peril 
that we should fear for it any new trial 
now. So far is certain. On the other 
hand, what is uncertain, and in these 
great contests commonly is uncertain, 
and what is commonly a great surprise 
when it is witnessed, is the particular 
mode in the event by which Providence 
rescues and saves his elect inheritance. 
Sometimes our enemy is turned into a 
friend ; sometimes he is despoiled of 
that special virulence of evil which was 
so threatening ; sometimes he falls to 
pieces of himself; sometimes he does just 
so much as is beneficial and then is re- 
moved. Commonly the church has no- 
thing more to do than to go on in her 
own proper duties in confidence and 
peace, to stand still, and to see the sal- 
vation of God. Mansueti hereditabunt 
tertam et delectabttntur in multitudine 
pads." 

ITS APPLICATION. 

It is plain that this speech was 
addressed more especially to the 
English-speaking world, and it has 
had its effect. The drift of it was 
flashed across the ocean to us on 
the day of its delivery. It was 
eagerly caught up and commented 
on by the leading English newspa- 
pers, and has undergone a similar 
process in this country. So that 
whatever there is in the speech is 
being circulated over the world, 
weighed and discussed by the 
organs of public opinion and by 
every man who lias an interest in 
the momentous subjects of which 
it treats. The London Times 



Ciirrent Events. 



speaks of the elevation of Dr. New- 
man to the cardinalate as " an 
event of much significance." His 
speech it calls " remarkable." 
" Some five-and-forty years ago," it 
says, "a few words spoken, a thrill- 
ing line or two written, by Mr. 
Newman, of Oriel, were sufficient 
to work a ferment and revolution 
within many educated Englishmen, 
and to mark a new era in their 
lives. A barbed winged sentence 
in a sermon at St. Mary's, or a 
pregnant expression or two in the 
pages of the old British Critic, 
availed to alter the whole set of 
many a man's thoughts." 

Times and men and things have 
changed much since then, ** but," 
the Times has the courage to 
avow, "one thing still stands fast 
the magic has not gone out of their 
leader's words." 

" He speaks to this generation in very 
much the same thrilling way as of old, 
and it will be nothing but the ordinary 
course if single phrases in the speech 
which he made on Monday, when the 
consistorial messenger was announced, 
linger for weeks like a haunting strain 
of melody in the minds of many Eng- 
lishmen. Somewhere Dr. Newman has 
himself disclaimed possessing any apti- 
tude for the task of authority or rule, or 
the function of initiation. But his mo- 
desty overshoots the truth. Within his 
own diocese, which is wider than most 
that can be named, he has been a ruler 
of thoughts ; he has been the intellectual 
master of multitudes ; and he has had 
crowds of spiritual subjects unknown to 
him." 

That is a very beautiful and 
generous tribute on the part of a 
great journal which is of its nature 
and office opposed to the whole 
current of Cardinal Newman's 
speech and to the main effort of 
his long and laborious life as a 
Catholic and a priest, and the 
whole article is written in a similar 
strain. Indeed, it is rather a plead- 



ing with than an argument against 
the cardinal, and wisely so; for 
nothing could break the strength 
of the cardinal's position. Noth- 
ing could surpass the modest dig- 
nity and tender touches of the ear- 
lier and purely personal portions 
of the address. "I had passed 
through many trials, but they were 
over, and now the end of all things 
had almost come to me, and I was 
at peace." The peace was broken 
in the manner we have seen, and 
the honored head that had been 
bowed under these many trials, 
some of which are known to the 
world, was crowned before the end 
came. " In a long course of years 
I have made many mistakes." How 
such words, coming from such a 
source, rebuke the hard and asser- 
tive spirit of the times ! They are 
a stronger condemnation of the 
tone and thought of the age than 
even his invincible argument. 

" I have nothing of that high perfec- 
tion which belongs to the writings of 
saints namely, that error cannot be 
found in them ; but what I trust I may 
claim throughout all that I have written 
is this : an honest intention, an absence 
of private ends, a temper of obedience, 
a willingness to be corrected, a dread of 
error, a desire to serve the holy church, 
and, through the divine mercy, a fair 
measure of success." 

There is something peculiarly 
noble, frank, and Christian in all 
this. The privilege of making a 
public confession that will be heard 
by all the world is given to few 
men ; and few indeed could turn 
it to the advantage of the world as 
Cardinal Newman has here done. 
His confession is the very essence 
of the noble humility of a great 
Christian heart and intelligence. 
What a contrast is it, for instance, 
to the confessions that have recent- 
ly appeared of another very emi- 



Current Events. 



565 



nent man the chancellor of the 
German Empire ! 

Passing from himself, he goes on 
" to look out upon the world and 
upon the holy church as it is, 
and upon her future." And what 
does he find there ? The world 
possessed by the spirit of " liberal- 
ism in religion," that goes under 
the false name of toleration. And 
what is "liberalism in religion"? 
It is and no words could paint it 
more simply, truly, and fully "the 
doctrine that there is no positive 
truth in religion, but that one creed 
is as good as another." This is sim- 
ply, as Cardinal Newman says and 
every word he here utters is pregnant 
with force " inconsistent with the 
recognition of any religion as true." 

The whole story is told there 
the story of modern apostasy, its 
origin and its drift. Cardinal 
Newman's exposition of it is com- 
plete and will last. It is hardly 
too much to say of that exposition 
that it is the very epitome and con- 
densation of all that could be said 
on this subject to any purpose, and 
it is said as only Cardinal Newman 
could say it ; for he of all men has 
the power of conveying the deepest 
truths in the clearest way, and 
bringing the results of the widest 
observation and knowledge within 
the compass of ordinary intelli- 
gence so that nothing is obscure or 
unexplained. A man may or may 
not accept it; he can by no possi- 
bility mistake its meaning. 

Nor is this doctrine of liberalism 
or indifferentism in religion without 
its plausible and attractive side, 
which Cardinal Newman does not 
fail to set forth : " For example, not 
to say more, the precepts of jus- 
tice, truthfulness, sobriety, self- 
command, benevolence, which, as 
I have already noted, are among 
its avowed principles." 



These, of course, sound very well, 
and are to a certain extent act- 
ed up to by many excellent per- 
sons. There is everything that is 
good in them, and thousands of 
professed Christians constantly fail 
before our eyes in these very mat- 
ters, thus giving scandal and bring- 
ing disgrace on the Christian name. 
The evil attached to these princi- 
ples is extrinsic : 

" It is not till we find that this array 
of principles is intended to supersede, 
to block out, religion that we pronounce 
it to be evil. There never was a device 
of the enemy so cleverly framed and 
with such promise of success. And al- 
ready it has answered to the expectations 
which have been formed of it. It is 
sweeping into its own ranks great num- 
bers of able, earnest, virtuous men eld- 
erly men of approved antecedents, young 
men with a career before them." 

There is the great evil. To 
the religious indifferentism of a 
people may be traced the chief 
evils that afflict that people. No 
state is strong at heart that is 
built on this indifferentism. " Un- 
less the Lord build the house 
they labor in vain who build it." 
The fairest and highest principles 
are nothing better than a bundle 
of vagaries, unless cemented, held 
together, vitalized, and shaped by 
the spirit of Christianity, as with- 
out it, too, the highest intellects 
fall into the grossest absurdities 
and errors. History shows this. 
Even the pagan nations that had 
reverence for a supreme though 
unknown God only fell into cor- 
ruption and decay when the spirit 
of scepticism laughed their religion 
away and left them nothing to 
stand on but their animal instincts, 
which they proceeded to deify. 
The cry of the first French Revo- 
lution was a noble cry. Liberty, 
Fraternity, Equality in a rational 



565 



Current Events. 



measure what nobler device could 
be set on the banners of a people? 
But they struck out Christianity, 
and their liberty became a terror, 
their fraternity a hate, and their 
equality a bloody despotism. So 
we here : we have all that Heaven 
could give us, and in return some 
of us would reject Heaven itself. 
The dry rot of religious indiffer- 
entism is eating its way among us. 
The children of Protestant parents 
become when they grow up, in 
great part, indifferent in religious 
matters. Religion to them is, in 
Dr. Newman's words, simply a 
"personal peculiarity" and a "pri- 
vate possession." It is " in no 
sense the bond of society." 

The result of this we have seen 
in our public life here. The man 
who is absolutely indifferent about 
his God will not break his heart 
over his neighbor or his neighbor's 
goods. He is centred in himself, 
and the world only moves to help 
or to retard him. He lives a 
merely animal existence that may 
or may not be lighted by intelli- 
gence and fine aspirations. But 
the coherency of the people is thus 
destroyed and patriotism itself 
slain. It is false to say that this 
is not a Christian republic. It is 
eminently so ; for we can be Chris- 
tian without formal legal establish- 
ments. If religion is failing among 
us, it is not the fault of the state. 
The state gives religion every op- 
portunity. It is the fault of the 
teachers of religion and of the peo- 
ple who profess it. But religion 
must continue to fail, if it continue 
to be, as Cardinal Newman puts it, 
" not a truth, but a sentiment and 
a taste not an objective fact, not 
miraculous; and it is the right of 
each individual to make it say just 
what strikes his fancy." 



THE NEW ST. PATRICKS CATHE- 
DRAL. 

No ecclesiastical event in this 
country has commanded such gen- 
eral attention and been so widely 
commented upon as the consecra- 
tion of the new cathedral of the 
archdiocese of New York. There 
is not a newspaper in the land 
which has failed to make mention 
of this happy, auspicious, and glo- 
rious occurrence, and we are glad 
to record the fact that the com- 
ments upon it, not only in the se- 
cular journals but in the non-Ca- 
tholic religious newspapers, were 
for the most part conceived in a 
good and kindly spirit. The splen- 
dor of the ceremonial and the 
beauty of the edifice itself dazzled 
the eyes and led captive the ima- 
gination of the numerous non-Ca- 
tholic journalists who were pre- 
sent, and their descriptions of the 
event were transmitted over all the 
land. The metropolitan journals 
gave many pages to these accounts; 
the newspapers of Boston, Spring- 
field, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Wash- 
ington, Pittsburgh, Cincinnati, Cleve- 
land, Columbus, Indianapolis, Chi- 
cago, Detroit, Milwaukee, St. Paul, 
St. Louis, Louisville, Charleston, 
Savannah, New Orleans, San Fran- 
cisco, and many other large and 
important cities, were scarcely be- 
hind the New York press in their 
elaborate, intelligent descriptions 
of the consecration, and in their 
well-intentioned and good-spirited 
comments upon it. Nor was the 
intelligence of the event, and the 
interest felt in it, confined to this 
country. The transatlantic cables 
carried full accounts of it beneath 
the ocean, and these accounts were 
published in Rome, Berlin, Vienna, 
London, Paris, Dublin, and Edin- 



Ciirrent Events. 



567 



burgh within a few hours after 
the ceremony had ended. It was 
a great, glorious, and most sig- 
nificant event, and the fame of it 
has gone forth to the ends of the 
earth. 

Among the other significances of 
this crowning of twenty years' labor 
is the splendid refutation which it 
affords of the absurd assertion which 
so often falls glibly from the lips 
of non-Catholics that "this is a 
Protestant country." It is nothing 
of the kind. Unhappily the Unit- 
ed States are not yet a Catholic 
country. But here in its great me- 
tropolis is the largest, most noble, 
and most costly religious edifice in 
the land, planted in the most con- 
spicuous portion of the finest tho- 
roughfare of the city, and com- 
manding the admiration of all be- 
holders. It is a Roman Catholic 
cathedral, the mother church of 
the seventy-five other Catholic 
churches which cluster around it 
in this city. In comparison with 
it the finest of all the non-Cath- 
olic churches or meeting-houses 
dwindle into almost ludicrous in- 
significance. New York is not a 
Catholic city, but it is surely not a 
Protestant city; and what is true of 
New York is true of the nation as 
a whole. The Catholic Church is 
making steady, constant, and sure 
advances all over the country. She 
constantly receives accessions by 
the natural increase of the families 
of her children, by the arrival of 
emigrants from foreign countries, 
and by conversions. The non-Ca- 
tholic sects, on the other hand, are 
subject to equally constant disinte- 
gration and diminution. There is 
a glorious future before the Church 
in this our beloved country, so far 
as human foresight can predict ; 
and the consecration of St. Pat- 
rick's Cathedral is and always will 



be a notable landmark in the his- 
tory of her progress. 

CATHOLIC COLONIZATION. 

It is with special pleasure that we 
record the auspicious beginning in 
this city and elsewhere of the work of 
the Irish Catholic Colonization Asso- 
ciation. Months ago, before this as- 
sociation was organized, and while 
all that had been accomplished in 
the matter of systematized Catho- 
lic colonization was the admirable 
and successful work of Bishop Ire- 
land and his assistants in Minne- 
sota, we gave many pages of our 
magazine to explanations and dis- 
cussions of the colonization and 
emigration question. Our readers 
will remember the principles which 
we then advocated, and the pains 
which we took to set forth the 
moral, social, economical, and reli- 
gious advantages which would re- 
sult from the colonization move- 
ment if conducted upon sound busi- 
ness principles and managed by 
thoroughly competent business men. 
In these articles, also, we took oc- 
casion to expose what we deemed 
the fallacy of those who expended 
so much eloquence in deploring the 
evils which had resulted from the 
concentration of our Catholic pop- 
ulation in our great cities. We 
undertook to show, and believe 
that we did show, that this concen- 
tration, although not, of course, 
unaccompanied by evils, was al- 
most necessary, and certainly bene- 
ficial, to the greater and higher in- 
terests of the church in the United 
States. Take our people thirty 
years ago. Upon their arrival in 
the United States had they been 
thrust out into the western portion 
of the country, isolated, far from 
each other, scattered as sheep 
without a shepherd, deprived of the 



568 



Current Events. 



tegular and constant ministrations 
of religion and the direction of 
their priests, without churches, 
without the sacraments, and without 
schools, they might perhaps have 
earned for themselves a compara- 
tively comfortable subsistence. But 
that they would have lost to a very 
great extent their faith and become 
absorbed insensibly by the sur- 
rounding non-Catholic populations 
is almost as certainly true. But 
congregated as they were in great 
cities, what have they done ? What, 
for instance, have they done in this 
great metropolis ? If you seek 
their monuments, look at the Cath- 
olic directory and read the list of 
Catholic churches, asylums, hospi- 
tals, convents, schools, academies, 
and colleges there given, and you 
will find that the island has drawn 
around it an almost uninterrupt- 
ed cordon of religious, charitable, 
and educational institutions, which 
have been to a very large extent 
constructed by the willing and 
unostentatious contributions of 
the Catholic working population 
of both sexes. They have planted 
here institutions which will not 
only exist for all time, but from 
which are now prepared to go forth 
the hosts of well-educated, well- 
disciplined, and thoroughly zealous 
Catholics, to settle the regions 
which are awaiting them in the 
great west, northwest, and south- 
west portions of the republic. The 
daily papers have published full 
and admirable reports of the vari- 
ous meetings which have been held 
in New York at the call of the di- 
rectors of the Colonization Asso- 
ciation, and the basis upon which 
its operations are to be conducted 
is too well understood to need any 
exposition in these columns. The 
meeting preliminary to the great 
assembly at Cooper Institute on 



Wednesday evening, June 3, was 
thoroughly satisfactory. The dis- 
position of our rich Catholics to 
take stock in the association was 
made thoroughly manifest, and at 
the large meeting on Wednesday 
alluded to the success of the asso- 
ciation was placed beyond ques- 
tion. While there are tens of thou- 
sands of laboring men or small 
traders who have managed to save 
three or four hundred dollars, there 
are comparatively few who have at 
their command funds requisite for 
the purchase and cultivation of a 
farm of one hundred and sixty acres. 
The association proposes to come 
forward to meet these small capital- 
ists, and to advance to them, in the 
way of credits, the capital which 
they otherwise do not possess. The 
ultimate success of the association 
can scarcely be a matter of doubt, 
and the good results that are to 
flow from it can scarcely be exag- 
gerated. 

ARCHBISHOP PURCELL. 

The pecuniary embarrassments 
which have overtaken the venera- 
ble Archbishop of Cincinnati have 
pained every Catholic who has 
heard of them ; the statement of 
their causes has elicited expres- 
sions of regret and sympathy from 
many representatives of non-Ca- 
tholic opinion throughout the 
country. A few and only a 
very few Protestant journals, and 
one or two infidel prints, have 
made certain unkind and abusive 
remarks upon the matter; but the 
general expression of feeling has 
been one of sympathy and regret. 
This has been followed by an al- 
most universal chorus of praise for 
the action taken in the premises 
by the hierarchy, the priests, and 
the Catholic laity throughout the 



Current Events. 



569 



country. No legal obligation rest- 
ed upon any of us to undertake 
the task of aiding Archbishop Pur- 
cell to discharge the claims made 
upon him. In coming to his as- 
sistance every one acts purely on 
his own motion, without obliga- 
tion, and as one who wishes to do 
a free act for the love of God and 
the greater glory of his church by 
aiding one of its prelates to re- 
lieve himself from burdens that 
crush him, and to prevent other 
persons from suffering. In the ad- 
mirable address issued by Cardi- 
nal McCloskey, the archbishops 
and bishops, assembled in New 
York May 26, these truths are 
clearly set forth. The prelates in- 
sist that it is no part of their pur- 
pose to pronounce a verdict on the 
causes which have led to the em- 
barrassments of Archbishop Pur- 
cell. They make it very clear that 
their action on his behalf carries 
with it no recognition of an obli- 
gation, no responsibility for the 
discharge of the indebtedness, and 
no sanction as a precedent. Their 
action, they state, " is one of char- 
ity, of willingness to assist Arch- 
bishop Purcell and to second the 
efforts of his own clergy, and is for 
the present case alone." They lay 
it down and the statement is well 
worthy of remembrance that "the 
Catholic Church in the United 
States forms no corporate organi- 
zation ; each diocese is responsible 
for its own financial administra- 
tion " But while this is all true 
most necessarily true and useful 
to remember there remains the 
fact that Catholics all over the 
world are bound together by the 
sama invisible but all-powerful tie 
which unites them to God, and 
which preserves unbroken the mi- 
raculous unity of the church. We 
are all members of each other, 



members of the same body, and 
the grief or trouble of one of us is 
the grief and trouble, so far as it is 
known, of all. In this matter of 
Archbishop Purcell there are two 
parties who are in trouble and who 
are suffering the archbishop him- 
self and his creditors. The sum 
required to satisfy all the claims is 
one and a half million of dollars. 
It is a large sum, but already 
much has been done toward pro- 
viding for its payment. In the 
archbishop's own diocese many 
large individual subscriptions have 
been made; congregational dona- 
tions have been numerous and 
liberal ; and diocesan debt socie- 
ties are being formed in every par- 
ish. But these agencies alone will 
not be sufficient. The Catholics 
all over the land must be afforded 
an opportunity to aid in the work, 
and invited to do so. The prelates 
have -therefore agreed to have sub- 
scription-lists opened in every par- 
ish for special contributions, to be 
paid at once or in instalments run- 
ning through five years, and to 
have also a collection taken up on 
some Sunday before the first of 
November next. The twenty-six 
prelates present at the meeting 
personally subscribed sums amount- 
ing to $13,550, and the other mem- 
bers of the hierarchy will no doubt 
follow their example. Already a 
number of large subscriptions from 
the laity have been made. We 
had thought of using some words 
of our own in behalf of this most 
commendable and worthy work. 
But we could say nothing so power- 
ful as are the closing words of the 
address of the prelates, which we 
here subjoin : 

" And to the reverend clergy and the 
faithful people throughout the United 
States we now jointly address the exhor- 
tation which we will urge upon them in 



5/0 



New Publications. 



our respective dioceses, that they enter 
' with a great heart and a willing mind ' 
into this noble work of charity, and that 
they spare no effort and stop at no sacri- 
fice that may aid to its success. While 
again declaring that it is no obligation 
of justice that we shall thus fulfil, we do 
not forget how sacred are the demands 
of fraternal sympathy and charity. In 
times of need they have never been thus 
far appealed to in vain; and we doubt 
not that the special greatness of the pre- 
sent need will call forth a special mani- 



festation of Christian beneficence which 
will give edification to all men and glory 
to the Father of Mercies, besides pour- 
ing balm into the bruised heart of the 
venerable prelate who, during the near- 
ly fifty years of his episcopal career in 
our midst, has won for himself the ad- 
miration and affection of all by the saint- 
liness of his life and the self-sacrificing 
devotedness of his zeal. May it be our 
happiness to bring consolation and 
peace to the last days of his earthly so- 
journing !" 



NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



CATHOLICITY IN THE CAROLINAS AND 
GEORGIA : LEAVES OF ITS HISTORY. Bv 
Rev. Dr. J. J. O'Connell, O.S.B. New 
York : D. & J. Sadlier & Co. 1879. 

The number of priests and Catholics 
in the Carolinas and Georgia has been 
and still remains quite small. There is, 
nevertheless, a great deal of matter for 
very interesting narrative and descrip- 
tion, of which the Rev. Father O'Connell 
has been able to avail himself in writing 
his leaves from the history of Catholicity 
in these States. There is more romantic 
interest hanging about Carolina and the 
adjacent States in respect to political 
and social history, from old colonial 
times down to the more disastrous epoch 
of the late civil war, than belongs to 
many of our more populous States. 
There is something similar in the Ca- 
tholic history of the same region. The 
number of remarkable men both among 
the clergy and laity of what was the dio- 
cese of the greatest among them all, and, 
indeed, the one who was at least the 
compeer of any man belonging to our 
American Catholic annals Bishop Eng- 
land is remarkable, considering how 
relatively small the whole number of 
pastors and people has been. The inci- 
dents narrated by Father O'Connell are 
likewise interesting to a remarkable de- 
gree, and must be especially so to all 
those who are familiar with the scenes 
and persons described. We have been 
told of a remark made by one gentleman, 
that he would give $10,000 to be the au- 
thor of Father O'Connell's book, and the 



fact that a second edition is called for is 
a proof of its popularity. It is history 
mostly made up of matters of every-day 
life, in which a great many living per- 
sons find themselves or their relatives 
and friends figuring, and many incidents 
related with which they have been per- 
sonally familiar. In its grand, general 
features it is correct, and in many of the 
details the author has related things 
which fell under his own observation, 
and in respect to which he is a witness 
of good authority. In other minute and 
particular circumstances he is not always 
so accurate. For instance, his state- 
ment that the publication of the works 
of Bishop England entailed a pecuniary 
loss on the diocese is so far from be- 
ing correct that in fact a considerable 
amount of profit accrued from it. 

It is mentioned that Father Alfred 
Young, C.S. P., who assisted the rever- 
end author in dedicating a church while 
yet an ecclesiastical student, was or- 
dained priest in the Paulist community. 
He was really the parish priest of Tren- 
ton, N. J., when he became the first no- 
vice of the new congregation under Fa- 
ther Hecker. The mistakes made about 
certain members of prominent Catholic 
families who are reported as having aban- 
doned their religion or having died with- 
out the sacraments are much more se- 
rious, because they have given pain to 
the surviving relatives. One of these 
gentlemen, we have been assured, re- 
ceived the last sacraments. Of another, 
we have been told, on the best authority, 
that on the occasion of his being nomi- 



New Publications. 



571 



nated for an office, and having reason to 
expect opposition on the score of his re- 
ligion, he made the following terse and 
pointed speech : " Fellow-citizens ! I 
have heard that some persons are going 
to oppose my election on the ground 
that I am a Roman Catholic. I have 
always heard that an American citizen is 
free to profess any religion he pleases. 
As for me, I am not a good man, I well 
know ! But every drop of blood in my 
veins that is religious is Roman Catho- 
lic, and I am not going back on my reli- 
gion for any thing or person in this world. 
And if any man is base enough to oppose 
me on account of my religion, I tell you 
that I do not want the mean dog's vote !" 
This does not look like apostasy ! 

Some of the most noteworthy persons 
in the history of Catholicity in the ori- 
ginal diocese of Charleston are passed 
over without mention, or a very slight 
one. The Burts of Edgefield Court- 
house were two of the most remarkable 
men we have ever met in any part of the 
world, and their history would furnish 
matter for several pages equal in roman- 
tic interest to any of the most graphic 
pages of Father O'Connell's narrative. 
The conversion and subsequent career 
of their nephew, the Rev. Dr. Merri- 
wether, is of the same importance. The 
author always was and still remains an 
ardent Southerner in his feelings. It 
would be most appropriate, in our opin- 
ion, if some tribute were paid to the 
memory of the amiable and gallant Cap- 
tain Sumter Brownfield, a lineal descen- 
dant of the famous Colonel Sumter, and 
other young men of the Carolinas and 
Georgia who fell on the battle-field, and 
to others, like Captain Theodore Kana- 
paux, still surviving, who distinguished 
themselves equally. We belong to the 
opposite side. But, like most of those 
who were warmly engaged in the cause 
of the Union, we have no sympathy with 
that narrow and factious spirit of a small 
number at the North, who cannot recog- 
nize the honesty and the valor of men 
who fought for the lost cause. A num- 
ber of those who died or gallantly serv- 
ed in both armies were our near rela- 
tives, our loved pupils in their boyhood, 
or our cherished friends. May God give 
repose to the souls of those who are 
dead, and the surviving be assured of 
our undying affection and unceasing 
prayers for their welfare ! We have nev- 
er ceased to mourn over the calamities 



of Charleston, that beautiful city of the 
South, and to long for the reflourishing 
of the whole region which was desolated 
by the civil war. Such are the senti- 
ments of Northern Catholics toward 
their Southern brethren in the faith and 
all their Southern fellow-citizens. The 
sentiments of the great majority of all 
who are not extremists of the same sort 
with the fire-eaters of the other side, are 
similar to our own. 

Father O'Connell's book will be read 
with interest at the North as well as at 
the South, and it will remain as one of 
our historical documents. It is most 
important, therefore, that it should be 
corrected and improved with all possible 
care. There are numbers of persons 
living who can furnish the most authen- 
tic information to the author. We hope 
he will invite their criticisms, and make 
use of them in such a way as to make 
his ensuing editions as correct and com- 
plete as possible. 

PRINCIPLES OF POLITICAL ECONOMY. By 
William Roscher, Professor of Politi- 
cal Economy at the University of 
Leipzig, etc. From the thirteenth Ger- 
man edition. Translated from the Ger- 
man by John J. Lalor, A.M. 2 vols. 
Chicago : Callaghan & Co. 1878. 

Professor Roscher has long enjoyed 
a reputation for vast learning on the 
Continent of Europe, and especially in 
Germany. That he has richly deserved 
it the volumes before us would be suffi- 
cient to prove, even if the author had 
written nothing else, instead of being, as 
he is, the writer of some dozen other 
works equally learned. Roscher has 
projected a work on political economy 
which, when completed, will be a cyclo- 
paedia of that branch of learning, and the 
most comprehensive work on the sub- 
ject in any language. Thus far but two 
parts of the great work have been pub- 
lished in the original, and- the two state- 
ly volumes before us are the translation 
of only the first part. These volumes, 
however, are complete in themselves, 
and cover the entire ground usually 
covered by English and American works 
on political economy. They have no 
chapter on the subject of taxation, 
but, with this exception, it is safe to 
say that the careful student will find in 
these pages more information on the sub- 
ject of political economy than in any 



572 



New Publications. 



half-dozen works in English on that 
science if science it can be called. 
The author's style is exceedingly concise. 
There is scarcely a superfluous word in 
these two volumes of nearly 500 pages 
each ; and hence the amount of informa- 
tion on a page is as great as can general- 
ly be found on a great many pages of 
another author. Roscher is not given 
to long-winded discussions. He states 
principles, and states them clearly, in a 
few words, and yet in such a way that 
although he does not seem to argue, the 
reader proceeds easily and smoothly 
from one proposition to another in his 
book, and has rarely, if ever, occasion to 
find fault with the author's logic. The 
notes to the work, comprising over half 
the volumes, are a rich mine of learning 
such as cannot be found in any other 
work in our language, and they are as 
interesting as they are learned. 

Political economists are not yet agreed 
as to whether the branch of learning 
which they represent is a science or not ; 
and, as a matter of fact, some of them are 
just now hotly debating that question. 
It seems to us that the question is an 
idle one. It matters comparatively little 
whether or not political economy is called 
a science, provided it give men informa- 
tion which may be useful to individuals 
or the state ; and that it can and does 
give such information political economy 
may certainly claim for itself without 
any boasting. We may know, and cer- 
tainly do know, something about capital 
and labor, about wages and interest, 
about the nature and functions of credit, 
about the effects of free-trade and pro- 
tection, about the influence on trade of 
paper money, etc., etc. Now, what we 
do know on such subjects, the best 
known on such subjects, constitutes the 
body of political economy, is political 
economy ; and that such knowledge is 
useful, whether dignified with the name 
of science or not, cannot be questioned. 
It is useful, nay, indispensable, to our 
legislators and statesmen ; and it is de- 
sirable, especially in our days, that this 
knowledge should be as wide-spread as 
possible. We do not believe that any 
reasoning of statesmen or political 
economists can, by showing the neces- 
sary relation and harmony between capi- 
tal and labor, successfully oppose the 
inroads of infidel communism, for in- 
stance, cogent as that reasoning maybe ; 
but we believe that such reasoning has 



its force, and should, therefore, make it- 
self heard, and hence we are disposed 
to welcome the appearance of all such 
works as Professor Roscher's. 

Rjscher has been called the founder 
of the historical school in political econ- 
omy, and his method has been styled 
the historical method. Much has been 
written as to his claim to the distinction 
of an inventor of a method, and many 
have denied the claim. He, however, as 
we understand him, opposes his histori- 
cal or " realistic " method only to the 
idealistic method which has given to the 
world such writers as Fourier and Prou- 
dhon. He does not oppose it to the " con- 
crete deductive, " nor does his method 
bring him into conflict with what is uni- 
versally recognized by the best writers on 
the subject to be true. The word " real- 
istic " describes his mode of treatment 
of the subject better, perhaps, than histo- 
rical, since all he means is that he re- 
fuses to build up an ideal system of na- 
tional husbandry ; to tell how the world 
should be reorganized or made over. He 
holds to the real as distinguished from 
the ideal in economy ; and what the real 
is history past and present informs us. 

There is one feature in Professor 
Roscher's book which strikes us very for- 
cibly. He does not banish God or Chris- 
tianity from the subject he treats. He 
is evidently not a Catholic, but he has a 
profound regard for the teachings of our 
Lord, and that appreciation of the ser- 
vices rendered by the church to civiliza- 
tion which characterizes the best histori- 
ians outside the church. Indeed, there 
are some things in these volumes with 
which a Catholic could justly find fault, 
but it is surprising they are so few. 

Mr. Lalor's excellent translation has 
been enriched by three appendices fur- 
nished by the author, on paper money, 
international trade, and protective duties 
respectively most valuable additions. 
We can recommend the work to all who 
desire a knowledge of the subject on a 
broad and firm foundation. 

CONFERENCE PAPERS ; or, Analyses of Dis- 
courses Doctrinal and Practical deliver- 
ed on Sabbath Afternoons, to the Stu- 
dents of the Theological Seminary, 
Princeton, N. J. By Charles Hodge, 
D.D. New York : Scribners. 1879. 

Dr. A. A. Hodge, the son of the late 
Dr. Charles Hodge, has prepared these 



New Publications. 



573 



conferences of his late distinguished and 
honored father for the press, and prefixed 
to them a modest preface which explains 
the occasion of their delivery and pays a 
filial tribute to the memory of their au- 
thor and some of his eminent associates. 
The conferences are mere skeletons of 
discourses given to the young men of the 
seminary on Sunday afternoons and in- 
tended for their spiritual profit. So far 
as their form and arrangement are con- 
cerned, they are very perfect models in 
their kind. In substance they are what 
might be expected from a man of the 
learning, mental culture, and well-known 
theological views of the late eminent pro- 
fessor of the Princeton Seminary. The 
fundamental doctrines of the Nicene 
Creed concerning the Trinity and the 
Three Divine Persons, the great Catholic 
dogmas of the Incarnation, the Redemp- 
tion, Sanctification by the Holy Spirit, 
and the glorification in the future life of 
the saved have always been very distinct- 
ly and fully and ably taught and defend- 
ed in their most essential parts at Prince- 
ton. All these are set forth in the con- 
ferences in a convincing and attractive 
manner, and with a calm but very ear- 
nest spirit of piety. The inculcation of 
moral and religious obligations, the 
standard of Christian virtue and piety 
held up, in short, the entire practical 
bearing of the instructions given, are of 
a very elevated tone and quality. That 
part of the author's theology which is 
Catholic is the most prominent, the most 
fully developed, and evidently the most 
congenial to his own mind and heart. 
That part which he had learned from the 
school of Calvin is an alloy which is 
carefully kept in its smallest possible 
quantity. The Catholic doctrines reject- 
ed by Presbyterians were very much in 
the author's thoughts during his later 
years, and he very frequently endeavors 
to state and controvert them. It is no 
disrespect to him to deny his competency 
in regard to an intimate and accurate un- 
derstanding of the interior meaning and 
spirit of these doctrines. It is obvious 
on the surface to any Catholic theologian, 
and nearly all his objections are obviat- 
ed at once by a simple explanation of 
the misconceived doctrines. We do not 
question his sincerity, and !no one ever 
argued against the Catholic Church or 
any other form of religion opposed to his 
own convictions with more moderation 
and gentleness than Dr. Hodge. In one 



passage occurring in the conference No. 
xxxiv., on the Presence of Christ with 
his Church (p. 51), the attraction which the 
very idea of Catholicity must always ex- 
ert on a mind of such high order shows 
itself in a very pleasing manner : 

"The promise is, ' Lo, I am with you 
alway, even unto tne end of the world.' 
To whom is this promise addressed, and 
what is its piirport ? Both the points are 
assumed in the Romish theory, which as- 
sumes, i. That the promise was to the 
apostles and to their successors in the 
apostolic office. 2. That it was a promise 
to be with them as apostles : a. To im- 
part to them the necessary gifts, first, for 
teaching, and, secondly, for ruling ; b. To 
render them infallible in their official 
acts ; c. To enforce their decisions and 
sustain their authority. 

"This is a beautiful theory. It would 
to human view be a blessed thing to have 
a succession of apostles, i.e., of holy 
men, infallible in their judgments, to 
settle all points of doctrine, to remove 
all doubts, to solve all questions of con- 
science, and to rule with undeviating 
righteousness over the whole church. 

" And when to this is added on, * the as- 
sumed primacy of Peter, and of his suc- 
cessor, the Bishop of Rome, as the repre- 
sentative of Christ, we have the beau- 
ideal of a theocracy for the church and 
ultimately for the world." We devoutly 
hope that the noble-minded and pure- 
hearted man who wrote these words 
lived and died in the communion of 
saints. We do not think, however, that 
there is any salvation for Princeton Or- 
thodoxy out of the external communion 
of the church. Its Nicene doctrine has 
no sufficient basis, because it rejects the 
authority of the Nicene church. With 
its sound doctrines it combines others 
which are evidently contrary to reason 
and antecedently incredible. Such good 
and learned men as Dr. Hodge have 
held them because they had been taught 
to believe that they were revealed truths. 
This belief has no basis except in human 
interpretation of the Bible and human 
opinion. We think it is being surely, 
irresistibly undermined by the same 
power which created it, and with it, the 
divine truth is in danger of being also 
swept away. Not even the solid and 
grand philosophy of the justly eminent 

* The printer of the volume has spoiled this 
sentence by placing the comma after added. 



574 



New Publications. 



president of the college can suffice to 
prevent the lapse into rationalism. We 
do not suppose that the Princeton faculty 
are now personally responsible for the 
Princeton Review. Yet, before the world, 
its name and title, together with the fact 
that it was once the organ of Princeton 
Orthodoxy and is still a vehicle for the 
dissemination of the ideas of the Prince- 
ton professors, make an appearance of 
some sort of alliance between them and 
the Review. The extraordinary article 
of Mr. Brooks in a late number seems 
ominous, therefore, of a coming down from 
the high and exclusive attitude which 
the ancient and venerable college has 
heretofore sustained. Scarcely anything 
could have been more damaging to the 
influence of the Protestant clergy than 
the publication of that article has proved 
to be. If its statements, which are very 
wide and general, are correct, it is, of 
course, much more honest to disclose 
the truth in the case than to conceal it. 
We respect Mr. Brooks for his candor 
and sincerity in avowing his sentiments 
plainly. Yet the wavering of so many 
of the Protestant clergy in their belief of 
doctrines which they have in former times 
professed to hold as a part of their fixed 
theology is certainly ominous of a still 
deeper revolution in the bosom of the 
great orthodox denominations. It goes 
to confirm the justness of our anticipa- 
tion that rationalism will make great in- 
roads within a brief period upon Protes- 
tant orthodoxy. We sincerely hope that 
those who still hold firmly to the doc- 
trines of the Nicene Creed will never re- 
lax, their grasp on these sacred truths, 
and that the sound rational philosophy 
so ably presented by Dr. McCosh will 
furnish another sheet-anchor against the 
tide of doubt on one side and sentimen- 
talism on the other, which conflict with 
each other, but equally undermine the 
bases both of philosophy and of faith. 
There cannot be, however, more than 
one true religion and one true church, 
the one in which Dr. Hodge's "beautiful 
theory " is realized, in so far as human 
frailty and God's method of moral gov- 
ernment make it possible that the real 
should correspond with the ideal. 

A BENEDICTINE OF THE SIXTEENTH CEN- 
TURY. By Georges De Blois. Trans- 
lated by Lady Lovat. London : Burns 
& Gates. 1878. 
This is a life of the celebrated De 



Blois, Abbot of Liesse in Belgium, bet- 
ter known by his Latin name of Blosius. 
He was a man of noble birth, who was 
elected abbot of his monastery when ex- 
tremely young, and governed it until 
his death. He was one of the most 
cherished friends of Charles V., and also 
on the best terms with St. Ignatius and 
many other men of the greatest eminence 
in the church and in the state. He 
found his monastery and its dependent 
houses relaxed in discipline, and restor- 
ed a mild and lenient but strict and 
truly religious observance of rule. He 
was a most holy and also a most prudent 
and amiable man, extremely beloved by 
his subjects and by all others. His writ- 
ings are of a high order of merit in every 
sense of the word, and were highly es- 
teemed by St. Alphonsus, who frequently 
quotes them. The biography is charm- 
ingly written and most attractive. The 
Rule of Liesse, given in the appendix in 
its original Latin, will be interesting to 
ecclesiastical readers. 

THE SOLEMN BLESSING AND OPENING OF 
THE NEW CATHEDRAL OF ST. PATRICK, 
NEW YORK, on the feast of St. Gre- 
gory VII., Pope and Confessor, May 
25, 1879. New York: The Catholic 
Publication Society Co. 

It was a happy thought to have this 
excellent "libretto," as it may be called, 
prepared for the occasion to which its 
title refers. Those who were wise 
enough to buy a copy of it were enabled 
to follow the entire services of the day 
in an intelligent manner, as it contains 
a minute description of all the ceremo- 
nies of the blessing in full, in Latin and 
English, the Mass, Vespers, and Bene- 
diction service, together with the names 
of the celebrants and their ministers, 
cantors, etc., at these functions, and a 
list of all the archbishops and bishops 
present at the ceremony. The ritual 
portion of the book is preceded by bio- 
graphical notices of Archbishop Hughes 
and His Eminence the Cardinal, and a 
notice of the cathedral, its dimensions, 
architectural character, the altars, and a 
carefully-prepared description of the 
splendid stained-glass windows, from 
the pen of the Rev. John M. Farley, the 
secretary of His Eminence. It was 
widely circulated on the day of dedica- 
tion, and is still sought for as a memento 
of the great day, and for use as a " Guide 



New Publications. 



575 



to the Cathedral " by the numerous visi- 
tors who are constantly inspecting the 
building. The book is nicely gotten up 
and illustrated with cuts of the cathe- 
dral, of Archbishop Hughes, and of the 
Cardinal. It is sold for twenty-five 
cents, for the benefit of the cathedral. A 
few copies of the issue yet remain to be 
disposed of. 

FAMILIAR INSTRUCTIONS AND EVENING 
LECTURES ON ALL THE TRUTHS OF RE- 
LIGION. By Mgr. de Segur. Trans- 
lated from the French. London : 
Burns & Gates. 1878. (For sale by 
the Catholic Publication Society Co.) 

This excellent work is admirably 
adapted for evening reading in Catholic 
families or at the meetings of our 
various sodalities. Each instruction 
would hardly occupy five minutes, and 
could not fail to make a deep impression 
on a willing soul. This is precisely the 
class of works we need at the present 
time. Our young people cannot be at- 
tracted by long discourses or lectures 
on any subject. Instructions should be 
short, clear, and practical. There is per- 
haps no writer who seems to be more 
convinced of this fact than Mgr. de 
Segur, and therefore it is that his works 
have such an immense circulation and 
do an incalculable amount of good. 

THE LIFE OF SISTER JEANNE BENIGNE 
Gojos, Lay Sister of the Visitation of 
Holy Mary. By Mother Marie Ger- 
trude Provane de Leyni, Religious of 
the same order. London: Sums & 
Gates. 1878. 

Sister Jeanne Benigne Gojos died in 
the odor of sanctity in the Monastery of 
Turin in 1692. She was one of those 
simple, humble souls whom God places 
in the lowly positions and occupations 
of earth, whom he sanctifies by many 
sufferings and trials, and to whom he is 
pleased to reveal the mysteries of his 
love. Like Marie d'Agreda, St. Teresa, 
St. Catherine, Marie Lataste, and other 
saintly souls, Sister Jeanne Benigne 
went far into the most mystic regions of 
contemplative life, and speaks of its 
secrets in a manner not unworthy the 
greater masters of mystical theology. 
Surely such simple souls as Marie La- 
taste and Sister Jeanne Benigne could 
have had no other teacher than our 



divine Lord revealing himself to them 
amid the burning fires of unitive prayer. 
An experienced master of spiritual life 
once said that he had found in the works 
of Marie Lataste passages on the Most 
Blessed Trinity and the Incarnation that 
might be very well at home in St. Tho- 
mas' Summa. The same may be said 
of some sayings of this holy lay Sister 
of the Visitation. The book is divided 
into three parts : her active life, her con- 
templative life, her special graces. 
There is a simple charm, a quiet beauty 
about the style that reminds one of the 
holy founder of the Visitation, the 
sweet and lovable St. Francis de Sales. 
May the simple record of this holy life 
add new glory and bring new vocations 
to an order which, east and west, is shed- 
ding all over this land from the silence 
of its cloister the sweet fragrance of its 
many virtues and the influence of its 
truly monastic spirit ! 

THE MANNA OF THE SOUL. Meditations 
for every day of the year. By Father 
Paul Segneri. In four volumes. Vols. 
I., II. London : Burns & Gates. 1879. 

This is a book of meditations, three 
months to a volume. Father Segneri se- 
lects some text of Holy Writ for each day, 
and elaborates it into three or more 
points affording sufficient matter for a 
meditation of an hour. " If in preparing 
this repast," says the author in his preface, 
" I have been at times too lavish of in- 
gredients, I have been so rather in the in- 
terests of those persons who, like nurses, 
nourish themselves in order to nourish 
others. You are aware that the manna 
accommodated itself to the particular 
will of each; it was turned to what every 
man liked. . . . To charge the manna 
with being insipid or bitter is equivalent 
to charging one's self with being in a bad 
state of health." We have no doubt that 
these volumes will prove a most useful 
repertory to those who are accustomed 
to mental prayer, and most serviceable to 
the preacher. 

ROMAN VIOLETS, AND WHERE THEY 
BLOSSOM. By Theodora M. L. Lane- 
Clarke. London : Burns & Gates. 
1879. (For sale by the Catholic Pub- 
lication Society Co.) 

To older and younger readers we 
commend this little volume for its pure 



57 6 



New Publications. 



and tender lessons of charity unobtru- 
sively set forth in the simple story, so 
gracefully told, of the little Roman boy 
transferred, under the rude care of a pa- 
drone, from the soft blue skies of his 
Italian home, where "it is not so hard 
to be poor," to the smoke-darkened at- 
mosphere of London, exchanging the 
violets of the Villa Borghese for those of 
Covent Garden Market, the childish cares 
of home for the sorrows of the struggle 
for life in a strange land. 

Younger readers will follow the course 
of Cesare's fortunes with interest, alike 
on the Piazza del Popolo, on the rough 
sea, and among his countrymen in 
London ; Beppo, who has grown rich 
enough to own a trained monkey, and 
Luigi, who has left his pruning-hook 
among the Tuscan vines to master the 
art of organ-grinding for the doubtful 
delight of barbarian ears. We are sure 
there will be some moistened eyes when 
the story is read of Cesare's white mice 
and his pitiful prayer in the church over 
the tame creatures he had trained so 
lovingly and bemoans so passionately ; 
while older readers will be beguiled by 
the slight thread of romance woven 
through the boyish life. 

Sparkling pictures there are from 
Rome and the Bay of Naples, with sad- 
der ones from the wards of a London 
hospital and the quiet studio of the gen- 
tle-hearted Englishwoman who becomes 
the guardian angel of the little Roman 
exile. 

The bright bunch of violets illuminat- 
ed on the cover of the book is no false 
promise of the pleasant fragrance of the 
Roman violets that lie within between 
the leaves. 

THE CURE'S NIECE. By Maurice Se- 
gran. London: Burns & Gates. 1879. 
(For sale by the Catholic Publication 
Society Co.) 

This little volume is certainly very en- 
tertaining, and the style in which it is 
written, if it be somewhat formal, is very 
polished and free from the slightest sus- 
picion of bad taste. Although it reads 
like a translation, the title-page gives 
no indication of its source. The charac- 
ters are the cure's niece, a beautiful 
orphan of strong will and of a noble 
and amiable disposition ; the cure 
himself, a charmingly-drawn figure of a 
poor priest, a gentleman with aesthetic 



tastes, who throws them aside to fulfil 
his humble duties ; Mme. la Marquise, 
a stern old aristocrat, upon whom the 
devil had but one hold her pride for in 
all else she was a saint ; finally her 
grandson, the marquis, of feeble will, who 
is being drawn to perdition at a head- 
long pace when he is saved by Mariette, 
the cure's niece. The tale is a tragedy, 
but as the interest of the story is sustain- 
ed until the end, we have no doubt that 
its melancholy termination will be for- 
given for the pleasure afforded by the 
other portions of the work. 



HOR^E SACR^E. Preces et Exercitia 
Devotionis per diem, aliquotiesque 
faciendae, et Speculum Meditantis, 
seu Sacerdos sanctificatus. Ad vitam 
sacerdotalem pie instituendam Tracta- 
tus. Auctore, Georgio Josepho Gow- 
ing, D.D., P.P. Londini: Burns et 
Gates. 

The distinguishing merit of this pious 
manual for the clergy is its richness in 
quotation from the Holy Scriptures and 
the Fathers. The devout and learned 
author has brought within a small com- 
pass an abundance of the best devotion- 
al and ascetic writing upon the subject 
of the sanctification of the priest. The 
reverend clergy will find here synthetiz- 
ed the holy suggestions and methods of 
Kerckhove, Hillegeer, Abelleg, Bona, 
and other writers who treat of sacer- 
dotal perfection ex professo, and whose 
books they sometimes find inconvenient 
to carry with them as a vademecum; while 
there is also an admirable summary of 
practical directions and hints for the ad- 
ministration of the sacraments, etc. The 
meditations are short and pregnant, and, 
though they are not supposed to take the 
place of the regular meditation, their 
suggestiveness and excellent arrange- 
ment will prove of much aid in the 
spiritual life. The Preparation and 
Thanksgiving in the chapters on the 
Holy Mass are very full and very tender, 
Sto. Bernardo duce. The priest will be 
pleased to have just such a book in his 
prie-dieu for a help to his meditation, as it 
will recall to him in a few words the 
great thoughts of Deharbe, Wiseman, 
Scaramelli, and other books of medita- 
tion that are favorites with the clergy. 
The volume, though of five hundred 
pages, is small, neat, and well printed. 









THE 



CATHOLIC WORLD. 



VOL. XXIX., No. 173. AUGUST, --1879. 



PEARL. 



BY KAT.-IL-EN o'MEARA, AUTHOR OF " IZA'S STORY," " A SALON IN THE LAST DAYS OF THE EMPIRE, 

%1 ARE YOU MY WIFE?" ETC. 



CHAPTER XVII. 



THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. 



LADY WYNMERE had not been 
taken into Mr. Danvers' confidence ; 
that is to say, he had not told her 
that he had proposed to Polly, but 
he had made no secret that he was 
inclined to do so, and she encour- 
aged him in the intention by every 
means in her power. She herself 
had fallen in love with Polly from 
the first, and her enthusiasm had 
not been chilled by closer acquain- 
tance. 

" I never saw anything to com- 
pare to her in beauty and distinc- 
tion, and her accomplishments are 
equal to her beauty. I sometimes 
tell her it was quite wicked of the 
fairies to have lavished such a va- 
riety of gifts on one little girl ; but 
she laughs, and says nobody sees it 
but me. I never knew anybody so 
little conceited with all her beauty." 

This was the burden of Lady 
Wynmere's song every time Percy 
Danvers came down to Lamford, 

Copyright : Rev. I. 



which he was in the habit of doing 
every week now, merely running 
up to town, in fact, for a couple of 
days to keep up appearances. His 
trip to Paris had been undertaken 
on the spur of the moment, without 
a day's premeditation, so that when 
he ran down to Lamford the day 
after his return to London the 
news of the expedition took Lady 
Wynmere by surprise and quite 
excited her. 

" But the idea of your rushing 
back in that way without going to 
see your aunt or Pearl Redacre ! 
What will Polly say?" And the 
little lady looked very demure and 
knowing. 

11 It does seem a stupid thing to 
have done," said Percy ; " but I 
had to be in town by a certain day, 
and I made sure I should have met 
them both at the ball ; but they 
were not there. It appears Pearl 
goes nowhere." 

T. HECKER. 1879. 



5/8 



Pearl 



" She is very sensible and steady ; 
I dare say she does not like spend- 
ing money on fine clothes. But 
Polly will be very angry with you 
for not going to see her ; you may 
expect a good scolding, and from 
Mrs. Redacre too." 

' ; They are very fond of Pearl, 
are they not?" inquired Mr. Dan- 
vers irrelevantly. 

" Of course they are. I never 
saw a more united family. They 
oil dote on each other." 

"I wonder why Pearl stays away 
so long? It must be lonely for 
Polly without her." 

"Polly is never lonely; she is al- 
ways occupied. I like that so much 
in her ; it is so different from most 
girls, who are always bored if they 
have not amusements to keep them 
in good spirits." 

" Then she would not care to go 
to Paris if my aunt invited her ?" 

"I don't know about that. I 
dare say she would." 

It was tantalizing, this beating 
about the bush. He wanted Lady 
Wy nine re to say something that 
would open the door to what he 
was burning to tell. Did she know 
about Pearl or not ? Percy began 
to suspect she did, else why this 
persistency in keeping the door 
shut in his face ? 

" I thought my aunt might be 
likely to invite Polly, now that 
Pearl has left her," he said. 

" Has Pearl left her? Then she 
is coming home ?" 

" No, she is not." 

It was quite clear that Lady 
Wynmere was not dissembling; her 
limpid face expressed nothing but 
surprise. 

" She is not likely to come home 
for a long time," he resumed pre- 
sently, and he stood up and plant- 
ed himself on the hearth-rug, lean- 
ing his back against the mantel- 



piece. He was irritated and anx- 
ious, and he did not know how to 
say what he had got to say. He 
had come prepared to speak out to 
Lady Wynmere, to tell her every- 
thing, and induce her, if possible, 
to use her influence to get Pearl 
home. But it was not so easy to 
speak out ; he could not bring him- 
self even to hint indirectly at what 
Mme. Leopold had so cruelly in- 
sinuated about Pearl, and to reveal 
what Pearl was doing in Paris 
would be to show up Polly and the 
rest of them in what to Percy Dan- 
vers now appeared a very ugly 
light ; yet he must do one or the 
other if Lady Wynmere was to be 
induced to stir in the matter. 

" I have made a discovery that 
has annoyed me a good deal," he 
said. u Pearl Redacre is not on a 
visit to my aunt or any one else ; 
she is in a situation, earning money 
as companion to old Mme. Leo- 
pold." 

Lady Wynmere dropped her tat- 
ting, and gave a little jump on her 
chair that sent the ball of silk roll- 
ing along the carpet to Percy's 
feet. 

" I was horribly vexed when I 
found it out," he continued, pick- 
ing up the ball and handing it to 
her. " I had made up my mind to 
make an offer to Polly; I have 
grown very fond of her, and I fan- 
cied she rather liked me ; but this 
want of honesty has shaken my 
trust in her a good deal. I can't 
think why she didn't tell me the 
truth. She knew very well that I 
had a right to know it the moment 
things came near an understanding 
between us. And, as you know, 
they have been coming very close 
to that lately. I feel that she has 
used me ill." 

"I don't wonder you should be 
annoyed," said Lady Wynmere. 



Pearl. 



579 



"But it may not have been Polly's 
fault ; her mother may have forbid- 
den her to mention it." 

"Not she! Her mother never 
forbids her anything, and, if she 
had, Polly should not have minded 
it; she had a duty to me as well 
as to her mother." 

"I certainly think she ought to 
have trusted you." 

"That is just it! The want of 
trust is what I can't forgive," said 
Percy quickly. 

" At the same time it was na- 
tural she should not have liked you 
to know it ; it must be very morti- 
fying to them all to have Pearl in 
such a position. I am amazed to 
find that it was necessary for her 
to go out. I did not think that they 
were so straitened." 

" Nor are they straitened. It is 
a piece of independence on Pearl's 
part ; she might come home to- 
morrow if she liked, and she ought 
to come home. It is preposterous 
of her bringing this discredit on 
the rest of them for the sake of 
gaining a few trumpery pounds. 
You should speak to Mrs. Redacre 
about it, and insist upon her call- 
ing Pearl home." 

"I don't see how I can meddle 
in their family affairs until they 
consult me," said Lady Wynmere. 

" Of course you can't ! I'm a 
fool to suggest it or to meddle in 
them myself. But what is a man 
to do ? I can't go on with Polly 
as if nothing had happened. I'm 
a bad hand at playing the hypo- 
crite. It's a wretched business al- 
together." 

" It is, perhaps, not so bad as 
you think. Don't be too hasty in 
condemning Polly; she may only be 
waiting for the right moment to 
tell you." 

" The right moment came long 
ago." 



" You have actually proposed to 
her?" 

Percy winced, shifted his posi- 
tion on the hearth-rug, and thrust 
his hands into his pockets. 

"What does that signify? It is 
not the mere act of proposing that 
makes it a girl's duty to treat one 
loyally," he said. " I can't forgive 
her for " 

" Taking me in," he was on the 
point of saying; but he checked 
himself, and went to the window 
and looked out. 

Lady Wynmere was not clever ; 
she could not deal easily with prob- 
lems whose solution was not to be 
found in the Peerage or the Coun- 
ty Families, consequently this di- 
lemma of Mr. Danvers was beyond 
her reach. She was sorry for him ; 
she was sorry for Polly. Polly had 
not behaved well, but, poor little 
thing! one could not be hard on 
her ; it was so dreadfully unpleas- 
ant to have to make such a confes- 
sion to a man like Percy Danvers !. 
They were all to be pitied, and 
Lady Wynmere pitied them all, 
and wished she could help them, 
out of their troubles. But no ideas, 
came to her, so she took up her 
tatting and went on with it. 

" I suppose," said Danvers, still, 
looking out of the window " I sup- 
pose Polly would say I used her 
very badly if I were to let things, 
drop between us ?" 

" I think that would be a great 
disappointment to her," said 
Lady Wynmere, hesitating what 
word to use. 

" One gets over a disappointment. 
She would easily find a better man 
than I ; it would be kinder to dis- 
appoint her now than later when 
the mischief would be irreparable.'* 

" Oh ! yes, certainly," assented 
Lady Wynmere. 

"You agree with me that it 



5 So 



FearL 



would?" And Danvers turned round 
suddenly, like a drowning man to 
whom one had thrown a rope. 
** You think it would be better, in 
the interest of her happiness, that 
I should break off the affair now ? 
You would not say I was acting a 
cruel or dishonorable part?" 

" Well, you see I don't ex- 
actly know how you and Polly 
how she, that is, feels towards you. 
If she were very much in love with 
you it would be cruel, would it 
not ?" And Lady Wynmere sus- 
pended her tatting, and looked up 
at the strong, handsome man de- 
precatingly ; she felt so small and 
weak to be his counsellor. He 
turned away, and began to walk up 
and down the room. 

" I'm not such a fop as to fancy 
a girl would be in love with me to 
that extent. I believe I care ten 
times more for her than she does 
for me. The cruelty would not be 
so great as all that. But would 
you call it a dishonorable thing to 
do ? Women have a different way 
of looking at these things, but a 
woman's view is often the surest; 
you have an instinct that we men 
haven't." 

" It depends, as I said before ; 
if you had gone so far as to make 
an offer of your hand, then I should 
say" 

" That I was a scoundrel to draw 
out of it?" 

" I am sure it would be a very 
wrong thing to do." 

*' More wrong than to marry a 
girl with the certainty that you and 
she were going to have a miserable 
life of it?" 

"Why should you have a miser- 
able life of it ?" 

Why, indeed ? Percy Danvers 
could find no answer to this simple 
question. He was ashamed to own 
to himself the real motive of all his 



plausible pleading; he had been 
trying to persuade himself as well 
as Lady Wynmere that his motive 
was a finer one than in his inmost 
heart he knew it to be, that his 
trust and his affection were deeply 
wounded, and that he was consid- 
ering Polly's happiness as much as 
his own feelings in this contemplat- 
ed rupture. But to all this special 
pleading that troublesome *' still, 
small -voice " kept whispering a 
flat contradiction ; it was wounded 
vanity and cowardly worldliness that 
were prompting and goading him to 
a mean and heartless action. He 
was ashamed of marrying a girl 
whose sister was in a situation, and 
in the ** set " where they were all 
known. He was angry with Polly, 
not so much because she had not 
trusted him with the mortifying 
secret, but because he might have 
prevented it had he known in time, 
whereas now it was too late; and 
he was angry with her all the more 
because he was ashamed of him- 
self. 

" It is very puzzling to know 
what to do," he said, taking out his 
cigar-case and examining its con- 
tents as a preliminary to bringing 
the conversation to an end by go- 
ing out for a stroll. " I don't want 
to behave badly, but the right and 
the wrong of a thing sometimes 
get so mixed up together that the 
only way out of the mess is to cut 
the knot." 

" Or tie it !" said Lady Wynmere, 
with a little jubilant dance at her 
own wit. 

" Just so or tie it," repealed 
Percy, laughing. And he went out 
for his hat, and there was an end of 
the conference for that day. 

Blanche Leopold's marriage was 
the talk of tout Paris. Of course 
tout Paris was not sympathe- 



Pearl. 



581 



tic about it. There were disap- 
pointed mothers and daughters 
who were very angry, and who lost 
themselves in endless conjectures 
as to what the Marquis de Choi- 
court could have seen in the girl 
that made him overlook her (com- 
paratively) small dot and the dis- 
grace of the Bonapartist stain. 
There was also the natural anti- 
pathy of low to high which found 
many voices to give it utterance, to 
wonder why some people had such 
luck and got all the plums without 
in any way deserving them, while 
others so much worthier were left 
out in the distribution of good 
things. But on the whole sym- 
pathy predominated, and the name 
of those who rejoiced with Blanche 
was legion. 

She bore her honors very prettily ; 
she made no secret of her surprise 
at her own good fortune, but took 
the congratulations of her friends 
as part of the delightful wonder. 
How kind everybody was, and how 
pleasant to see that they were so 
happy at her happiness ! The 
trousseau absorbed her, of course, 
to the exclusion of all other in- 
terests for the time being. It was 
to be splendid in proportion to her 
husband's rank and fortune, and 
she and her mother gave them- 
selves up to its creation with a 
degree of intelligence and self-de- 
votion that could not be too highly 
praised. 

Mine. Leopold's attention had 
been forcibly drawn away from 
Leon's concerns by this marriage; 
but then she had ceased to tremble 
for the dear boy's safety since that 
conversation with Mrs. Monteagle 
which had revealed Pearl's feelings 
and conduct in so unexpected a 
light. Mme. Leopold did not be- 
lieve that Pearl had refused so 
magnificent a chance from the 



motives Mrs. Monteagle attributed 
to her. Not love him, forsooth ! 
As if there lived the girl who would 
refuse such a match for such a 
reason. The fact was, Pearl, being 
a girl of spirit, was too proud to 
enter the Leopold family under 
such humiliating circumstances as 
hers now were, so she had sacrific- 
ed her interest, and of course her 
feelings, to her pride. And very 
properly, Leon's mother thought. 
But though she inwardly blessed 
Pearl for this haughty self-sacrifice, 
she had no mind to proclaim her a 
heroine, and feed Leon's folly by 
throwing a romantic halo round 
the object of it. In all that con- 
cerned the interests of her children 
Mme. Leopold possessed the wis- 
dom of the serpent. She had not 
said a word to Blanche about her 
anxiety concerning Leon, arguing 
shrewdly that these things grow by 
being talked of, that words some- 
times change the shadow into sub- 
stance. Mme. Mere so far played 
into her hands by never inviting 
Blanche and never sending Pearl to 
the Champs Elysees, as she was 
wont to do on one pretext or an- 
other, but in reality to give the 
two girls the pleasure of seeing 
one another. They had not been 
thrown together alone since the 
engagement ; but the trousseau, 
which absorbed Blanche now com- 
pletely, explained herabsence. She 
and her mother were flying over 
the city from morning till night 
amongst the fournisseurs, ordering, 
adjuring, trying on. Blanche wrote 
occasional notes to Pearl, bewailing 
her fate at not seeing her dear 
friend. 

" Cherie," ran one of the little pink- 
paper effusions, " I think of thee all 
day, and every day I hope to see thee ; 
but it is a guignon, a fatality, and there is 
so much to be done and so little time to 



582 



Pearl. 



do it ! The corbeille will be a vision. 
... I have seen the jewels, diamonds 
and emeralds, and the laces mon bon- 
heur est si grand,. que je crois rever. 
" Toute a toi 

" BLANCHE." 

This echo of ideal bliss reached 
Pearl as she was reading a letter 
from her mother announcing 
trouble at the Hollow. The boys 
had caught typhoid fever. 

" It is of the mildest form, and so far 
they go on very favorably," said Mrs. 
Redacre. " We have sent Polly over to 
Lady Wynmere, and Cousin Bob came 
down yesterday and carried off your 
papa to London. He positively refused to 
go to Lady Wynmere, who begged him to 
go with Polly ; but Bob flew down and 
bore him bodily away. It is an immense 
relief to me ; for he was, of course, of no 
use, and a great anxiety lest he should 
catch the fever. Don't fancy now, my 
darling, that I am forlorn and desolate ! 
I am nothing of the sort. That dear Bob 
brought down a trained nurse to help 
me, and she is the greatest comfort, so 
kind and skilful ; and the boys have 
taken to her in a way that would make 
me jealous if I did not feel so grateful to 
her, and see how much better she manages 
them than I could do. Mrs. Mills is in- 
. valuable, too. In fact, it is not possible 
for things to be more comfortable than 
they are under the circumstances. So 
don't worry yourself by exaggerating the 
trouble. Above all, don't imagine that 
you are wanted, or that you would be a 
comfort to your mother. You would be 
very much in her way, a burden, an 
anxiety, a nuisance ! This is the real 
truth, from under the sign manual of 
your loving MOTHER." 

Pearl kissed the sign manual 
and nearly washed it out with tears. 
Her mother left in the house all 
alone with a strange nurse and the 
two sick-beds ! How could Polly 
have been persuaded to leave her ! 
"Cart ropes wouldn't have drag- 
ged me out of the house," thought 
Pearl; and then she laughed 
through her tears as she re-read 
the end of the letter : " You would 
be very much in my way, a nuis- 



ance !" Very likely. But she did 
not remain long angry with Polly. 
Of course they had insisted on her 
going out of harm's way, and she did 
well to go. This did not make it 
less cruel to think of her mother 
all alone with the boys suffering 
and in danger. There must be dan- 
ger whether the fever was mild or 
fierce ; one never could tell what 
turn it might take. Suppose her 
mother caught it ! Why should 
the chance be less for her than for 
the others ? Pearl fell on her 
knees and prayed. No, God was 
good. He would spare her this. 
He would not let harm come to 
her mother. 

Mme. Mere had gone out on 
business connected with the trous- 
seau, and was not to be home for 
an hour to come. Pearl dressed 
herself and hurried off to Mrs. 
Monteagle. There was something 
very invigorating in Mrs. Mont- 
eagle's sympathy, or perhaps in her 
way of administering it; she was 
full of tender response for Pearl's 
distress, but she would not admit 
that there was the remotest cause 
for anxiety as regarded Mrs. Red- 
acre. It was an unheard-of thing 
for a woman of her age to catch 
typhoid fever in that way. 

" In fact, my belief is that it is 
not contagious at all," she affirmed. 
" People don't catch typhoid ; they 
brew it in their blood. Your mo- 
ther never would brew it ; she is 
too sweet-tempered, and she has 
the most placid reliance on Provi- 
dence of anybody I ever knew." 

" She has indeed !" said Pearl. 
" Darling mother ! she is an angel. 
Only it's naughty of her to tell fibs, 
and -say that I would be a nuisance 
if I were there." 

" It's no fib ; it's the real truth ; 
she would worry herself to fiddle- 
strings and bring on. typhoid, very 



Pearl. 



533 



likely, if you were. Don't you go 
cind bring it on yourself by fretting 
over all this, now. Do you hear 
me ?" 

"Yes." 

" And you mean to be good ?" 

"I'll try. Indeed, it comforts 
me wonderfully what you say about 
the fever not being contagious. 
Only why was she so frightened, in 
that case, for papa and Polly ?" 
And Pearl looked at Mrs. Mont- 
eagle suspiciously. 

"Your mother, my dear, is a 
fool ; she is always frightened for 
others, and always ready to take 
everything painful and troublesome 
on her own shoulders to spare your 
father and you. I've known her 
since before you were born, and 
I've always seen her the same." 

Perhaps Mrs. Monteagle was 
thankful for the diversion this anx- 
iety would cause in Pearl's thoughts, 
for she had been greatly troubled 
about her since that discovery con- 
cerning M. Darvallon. If he had 
had money enough to marry, it 
w"ould have done as well as any- 
thing else, better perhaps, for she 
admired and liked the man ; but he 
hadn't a penny, and neither had 
Pearl, so the best thing Pearl could 
do would be to put him out of her 
head. But would she have the 
sense to do this? There was not 
time for much talk, but Pearl felt 
wonderfully cheered up when she 
rose to go. She had been too en- 
grossed by her own anxieties to 
look at Mrs. Monteagle to see her, 
that is to say, for we look at every- 
body, but we only see those we 
care for ; but as her friend stood up 
and faced the light Pearl could not 
but notice that she was looking 
poorly. 

" Dear Mrs. Monteagle, you look 
so thin !" she said. 

" That is because I am thin." 



"But you look tired ?" 

" I am tired." 

"What is the matter with you ?" 
And Pearl laid both hands on her 
friend's shoulders and looked anx- 
iously into the face that now struck 
her as being very worn and pale. 

" I am old, my dear, very old." 

"Is that all?" 

" What more would you have, 
child? Old age is the most in- 
curable disease going." 

" I wish you wouldn't talk non- 
sense," said Pearl, kissing her; 
" that is what papa is always say- 
ing, that he is so old. But is there 
really nothing else the matter?" 

"You silly thing! As if one 
wanted anything else to make one 
tired and good-for-nothing. You 
will find it out some day. Good- 
by. Come soon again and see me. 
It is not good to be so much alone 
when one is old. One is bad com- 
pany for one's self." 

" Is it possible you feel that ! I 
never should have thought you 
knew what it was to be lonely," 
said Pearl, u you are always so 
cheerful." 

" A cheerful face hides many 
things ; it is often no better than a 
gay deceiver. But don't fancy that 
I pine for company, my dear. I 
hate most people. I don't want to 
see any one, except the few foolish 
ones who have got into a habit 
of caring for me ; and I am asham- 
ed to say that I feel rather lonely 
now and then for a glimpse of 
them, of the old familiar faces. 
Run away ! You must not be out 
a-gadding when your missus comes 
home." 

Pearl paid no attention to the 
abrupt dismissal, but twined her 
arms round Mrs. Monteagle's neck 
and looked into her eyes. 

"Do you know something? I 
begin to be sorry for having re- 



584 



Pearl. 



fused that offer. I feel half inclin- 
ed to come back on it, and let you 
take me as your dame de compagnie. 
Perhaps you wouldn't have me 
now ?" 

" If I had the spirit of a mouse 
I would not." 

" But you haven't ! Then you 
will take me? I may give warn- 
ing, and say I want to better my- 
self?" 

" I don't know about that," said 
Mrs. Monteagle, yielding her face 
to the soft, sweet caresses that crept 
into her heart and warmed her 
blood like the sunshine. "Think 
well before you give your other old 
woman notice ; the change might 
turn out for the worse. But if you 
must have change, you may as well 
come here as anywhere else, I sup- 
pose." 

" Dear Mrs. Monteagle ! I am 
so glad ! I never thought to be so 
pleased about getting a situation. 
And how I shall bully you ! I be- 
lieve that is what is the matter 
with you ; you are lonely for want 
of some one to bully you ?" 

" Yes, since you gave me the bad 
habit I miss it, I'm afraid. Be off 
now, this minute ! Do you hear 
me ?" 

"When am I to come to you? 
Shall I tell Mme. Mere at once 
when I go home?" 

" No, I think you had better let 
me manage it. I will speak to 
Mme. Leopold when the time 
comes for their all going to Gar- 
danvalle. Say nothing about it till 
then." 

It was a sudden and perfectly 
unselfish impulse in Pearl that had 
prompted her to make the proposal, 
but, now that it was done, she felt 
so happy that it was a wonder to 
herself that she had not thought 
of it sooner. Not but that Mme. 
Mere was as kind as kind could be, 



but she was " the missus," as Mrs. 
Monteagle said, and then there was 
the family making such an atmos- 
phere of humiliation and worry in 
one way or another; whereas at 
Mrs. Monteagle's she would be a 
spoilt child, petted and made much 
of. Above all, she would be a 
comfort to her old friend and make 
a salutary change in the loneliness 
of her life. 

" People fancy she is so inde- 
pendent of everybody," thought 
Pearl ; " nobody suspects her of 
suffering from loneliness, and yet I 
can see what a change there is in 
her since we left Paris above all, 
since I left her." 

This was the truth. The cheer- 
ful faces are often no better than 
gay deceivers, as Mrs. Monteagle 
said, and she was herself a proof of 
it. With all her surly snarling at 
sentiment, and her make-believe 
independence of her fellow-crea- 
tures, she had a soft human heart 
that hungered for human love and 
human companionship, and she was 
perishing now in her old age for the 
want of them. This fresh interest, 
added to the painful one furnished 
by the daily letters from the Hol- 
low, went far to distract Pearl's 
thoughts from Raoul to divide 
them, rather, for he was seldom out 
of her mind for a moment in the 
day. She knew now why he had 
not kept his promise of calling the 
day after that rencontre at the 
Odeon; but he might have written. 
Why had he not written ? He must 
know that she was miserable, that 
she wanted to see him, to clear 
away the misunderstanding that 
had arisen between them. Pearl 
forgot that Captain Darvallon was 
a Frenchman, and that, with all his 
independence of character and opin- 
ion, he would never fly in the face 
of les convenances so far as to 



Pearl. 



585 



write her a love-letter to write 
to her at all until he had posi- 
tively asked her to be his wife 
and won her father's consent. But 
she did not reckon with this illogi- 
cal slavery to les convenances. Raoul 
had told her he loved her in lan- 
guage more unmistakable than mere 
words, less easily misunderstood or 
turned from its true meaning, and 
she had not tried to seem insen- 
sible or to conceal the emotion 
which the avowal caused her. 
And yet after this he could mistrust 
her on the strength of that ab- 
surd scene with Captain Leopold ! 
He ought to have known it was 
only a joke that brought Leon on 
his knees before her; at any rate 
he ought not to have condemned 
her without a hearing. It would 
have taken more than that to have 
shaken her trust in him. 

Pearl sat clasping her knee and 
looking out at the green tree full of 
birds in the courtyard, and began 
to conjure up all sorts of circum- 
stances wherein Raoul should figure 
covered with every appearance of 
guilt; she marshalled an array of 
witnesses, she piled up an amount 
of evidence that must have damned 
an angel out of heaven, and con- 
victed him as a criminal of the 
deepest dye ; and then she beheld 
herself defying judges and juries 
and witnesses alike, and acquitting 
Raoul, and clinging to him in spite 
of his disgrace, because of it, with 
the faith of a true woman. And 
yet he could lose faith in her be- 
cause of a bit of child's play ! Fool- 
ish Pearl ! She began to cry there 
at the open window; but the birds 
went on singing as if her heart had 
been light as theirs, and her love 
heaven-high, beyond the reach of 
tempest. 

Blanche's marriage was fixed for 



the last week in June. They were 
very near that now, and Mme. Leo- 
pold was in a state of mind more 
easily imagined than described. 

" If it lasts another week I will 
break down under it," declared the 
exhausted lady. 

" Under what ?" said Mrs. Mont- 
eagle. 

" The anxiety, the fatigue, the 
responsibility, the emotion. Chere 
madame, you know not what it is 
to marry a daughter, a beloved 
child whom you have covered with 
your eyes for nineteen years ! The 
anguish of the parting is so great 
that only a mother's love is strong 
enough to bear it and live." 

u How many deaths you French 
people do die before the real one 
comes !" said Mrs. Monteagle. 
"The wonder is you live through a 
tenth of them. ... Go and see the 
trousseau ? What in the name of 
common sense has an old woman 
like me to do with trousseaux ? I 
have no doubt it is very fine; but I 
don't care to see gowns and pock- 
et-handkerchiefs and night-caps 
spread out and tied up with miles 
of pink ribbon. It is very well 
for those young things. I hope 
Blanche will be happy ; I wish 
you may all be happy ; it seems to 
me you are going the wrong way 
to work, but perhaps that is my 
mistake. It all comes to the same 
in the end." 

There was a certain sadness 
about the way she spoke, a cir- 
cumstance so foreign to Mrs. 
Monteagle that Mme. Leopold could 
not but remark it. 

" You are not as well as I should 
like to see you," she said, forget- 
ting her maternal anguish for a mo- 
ment and looking kindly at Mrs. 
Monteagle. 

" An't I ? I think I am as well 
as I have any right to expect. You 



586 



Pearl. 



are all going to Gardanvalle the 
week after the wedding, are you 
not ?" 

" Yes, if the baron can get 
away, as he expects. I should not 
care to leave him all alone here." 

"And what about Pearl? Is she 
going?" 

" Certainly. That was arranged 
from the first." 

"Things have happened since 
then which might have altered the 
arrangement. In my opinion the 
best thing Pearl could do would be 
to go home." 

"Of course it is. Common sense 
ought to have told her that long 
ago." 

" So it would, if she had consult- 
ed it ; but common sense and she 
are not on speaking terms ; they 
never have been, I'm afraid, my 
poor Pearl !" 

"You surprise me. I thought 
you -considered her a model of 
good sense?" said Mme. Leopold. 

" She is a model of all good 
things, except precisely that one. 
She is not the least common-sensi- 
ble, my poor Pearl. But she lis- 
tens to people who are, which is 
something ; and I mean to tell her 
that she had better leave Mme. 
Mere before you go to the coun- 
try. She can come to me, and 
stay here until it is convenient for 
her to return to Broom Hollow." 

" You are the wisest of friends, 
chere madame," said Mme. Leo- 
pold ; "and since the proposition 
has come from you, I confess you 
have relieved me of a great bur- 
den. I have passed sleepless 
nights meditating how this could 
be done without seeming unkind 
to Pearl. Cette chere petite, I love 
her dearly, and my heart bleeds 
when I think of what she would 
have suffered down at Gardanvalle 
amongst Leon's people, reminded 



of him at every hour of the day, 
living with him for part of the 
time, perhaps we hope this horri- 
ble Algerian threat will be avert- 
ed, and then th'e dear boy may get 
leave for a month. Only think 
what a painful position for the 
poor child and for me who feel 
like a mother to her!" 

Mrs. Monteagle for once in her 
life was at a loss what to say. Did 
the woman mean to persist in as- 
serting that Pearl was in love with 
Leon ? And did she think Mrs. 
Monteagle such a fool as to swal- 
low this palaver about her feel- 
ing like a mother towards Pearl ? 
There was something too insolently 
grotesque in the notion ; but when 
ces chers enfants were in question 
nothing was too much for Mme. 
Leopold's audacity. In this in- 
stance, however, she really believ- 
ed what she said that Pearl was in 
love with Leon and it had kept 
her awake many a night wondering 
whether Leon was in love with her 
or not. A circumstance that told 
heavily against him was that he 
had never spoken about Pearl to 
his mother. Now, a French son 
tells his mother everything. She 
is the confidant of his wildest fol- 
lies, of his debts, the troubles of 
his heart, his conscience, and his 
betting-book; she knows it all; he 
will hide many things from his fa- 
ther, but he hides nothing from his 
mother. And the mother, on her 
side, repays this confidence by 
boundless indulgence and sympa- 
thy that never fails. She is never 
horrified, never shocked ; nothing 
throws her off her guard ; she would 
bite her tongue through rather than 
check the flow of filial confession 
by an exclamation of disgust, a 
word of dismayed incredulity, by a 
glance of cold rebuke. In this the 
French mother more than any 



Pearl. 



587 



other resembles the priest. The 
mantle of maternity is made of sa- 
cramental threads, making every 
mother rich in strength and mercy; 
but nowhere is this truth so mani- 
fest as in France. The French 
mother, with a heart pure as the 
morning dew, can gaze without 
shrinking into a heart as black as 
night, and listen, apparently un- 
dismayed, to the darkest revela- 
tions, never recoiling, never de- 
spairing ; seeing through all pre- 
sent corruption the beauty of in- 
nocence that once was there, of re- 
pentance that may yet be there. 
No wonder this deep, strong, all- 
embracing compassion in the mo- 
ther calls forth a full response from 
the son. Leon Leopold had never 
concealed anything from his mo- 
ther. His youth had been stormy, 
but she had seen every wreck that 
marked its course ; he was on the 
way of being " ranged " now, but 
he occasionally committed a folly, 
he occasionally got into a scrape 
in the regiment, on the turf, in 
many places, and his mother was 
always the first to hear of it ; he 
kept back nothing. But he had 
never opened his lips to her about 
Pearl Redacre. This silence was 
alarmingly significant. He knew 
that she had pity and indulgence 
for every enormity of folly he could 
commit, except one : she would 
not forgive his marrying foolishly 
marrying, that is, any one she did 
not approve of; and he knew in his 
heart that to marry a girl in Pearl's 
position would be an offence be- 
yond the reach of pardon. 

*' What have I done to be visited 
in this way !" thought Mme. Leo- 
pold many a time as the horrible 
possibility rose before her. ** I 
have been a good mother; I have 
done my duty by my children ; 
why should my son turn against me 



like this ?" But Mrs. Monteagle 
had lifted a load off her heart. 
The danger was in a great measure 
past, and she had the game pretty 
well in her own hands now. She 
had compelled Mme. Mere to for- 
bid Leon the house, and the pros- 
pect which had made him so sub- 
missive under the privation of his 
being thrown with Pearl at Gar- 
danvalle during the vacation was 
at an end. There was nothing to 
fear from the seductive power of 
personal influence. Pearl's proud 
resistance would be exposed to no 
risk of surrender from the daily 
pressure of Leon's presence; her 
heart would not be subjected to a 
trial out of which nothing but 
superhuman strength could carry 
it victorious. 

Blanche had at once announced 
her intention of having Pearl for 
her demoiselle d'honneur at her 
wedding, and Mme. Leopold had 
not thought it prudent to oppose the 
choice. She resolved to circum- 
vent it. This, however, was no 
easy matter. Her first attempt to 
substitute a young lady whose dot 
would have made an eligible daugh- 
ter-in-law was met by a flat refusal. 
Blanche unexpectedly showed that 
she had a spirit of her own, and 
meant not to be contradicted in 
this last act of the closing scene of 
her girlhood. 

" Pearl is my favorite friend, next 
to Polly," she said, "and we 
three always promised to be one 
another's bridesmaids to the two 
first who were married. I don't 
care the least about Jeanne Bru- 
here, and I don't see why I should 
turn off Pearl for her. She is 
odiously purse-proud." 

But greater troubles were brew- 
ing for Mme. Leopold. She came 
home from the shops one after- 
noon a few days after that interview 



588 



Pearl. 



with Mrs. Monteagle which had 
so roused and reassured her, and 
found Blanche and Leon together, 
deep in confidential talk, when she 
broke in upon them. Leon had an 
angry wrinkle down his forehead 
that she noticed frequently of late, 
and Blanche was flushed and met 
her mother with a hostile glance. 

" Are you long here, mon cheri ?" 
said the soft, large mother, kissing 
the strong man on the forehead. 

" I came to have a talk with 
Blanche," he said, rising. " And 
now it is time for me to be going. 
I have a good deal to do. You 
have heard the news?" 

"What news? Good heavens! 
Not Algiers ?" 

" No, worse than that. We are 
ordered to Brest, a vile hole where 
there are neither tigers nor civilized 
people. The desert is better any 
day than la province. But you 
don't think so, so I must not com- 
plain." 

Before his mother had recovered 
from the shock of the announce- 
ment he had taken himself off, and 
she and Blanche were alone. 

" He would much rather have 
gone to Algiers," said Blanche. 

" Mon Dieu ! How could I 
guess they were going to send him 
to Brest ? But he is not gone yet. 
I may be able to get the order re- 
called. Your father must help me." 

" Leon says it will do him harm 
if you interfere any more ; and be- 
sides, papa has used up all his in- 
fluence at the War Office already." 

" Yes, I left no stone unturned, 
I moved heaven and earth, to pre- 
vent his going !" 

" You had better have left heaven 
and earth alone," said Blanche, 
with disrespectful petulance. 

" Ma fille ! in what tone dost 
thou speak to thy mother ?" said 
the amazed parent. 



Instead of answering Blanche 
flung herself on the sofa and burst 
into tears. Mme. Leopold was 
aghast ; but before Blanche had re- 
covered her composure sufficiently 
to explain anything the mother 
understood that Leon had de- 
nounced her, and that the furies 
had passed her well-guarded ma- 
ternal gates. 

"Why should Leon not marry 
her if he loves her?" said Blanche, 
lifting her head and showing a 
face drenched with tears. "It is 
cruel, it is unreasonable to hinder 
him. But he won't be hindered ; he 
will marry her in spite of every- 
body ! And, ma mere, he is quite 
right !" 

" What is this ? Am I dream- 
ing ? My own children, you, my 
daughter, rising against me, defying 
your father's authority, defying all 
the convenances ! You are mad." 

" No, ma mere, I am not mad. I 
love Leon, and I want him to be 
happy ; he loves Pearl, and you 
ought to be glad that he married 
her. She lost her money ; but 
what does that signify, since Leon 
has money enough and does not 
care ?" 

" What rank nonsense you are 
talking, child ! Leon is a fool ; 
and as to that petite, she is a cun- 
ning minx, an intriguante. She 
has laid herself out to catch him ; 
a most unmaidenly girl, running 
away from her family and coming 
off here for no other purpose than 
to get your brother to marry her. 
I will none of her for a daughter! 
I never liked her." 

" O mamma !" cried Blanche, 
" how can you ? You were wild 
for Leon to marry her until she 
lost her fortune. You know you 
were !" 

" I was ready to sacrifice my 
own inclinations to what I believed 



Pearl. 



589 



would have been for his good," 
said Mine. Leopold. " I have al- 
ways sacrificed myself for my chil- 
dren, and this is my reward. They 
turn round and upbraid me ; they 
accuse me of being a bad mother !" 

"No, mamma, we don't; we are 
dutiful children ; we will always 
love and obey you; but you are 
unkind and unreasonable to Leon. 
You want him to sacrifice his real 
happiness to what he doesn't care 
a straw for; but he won't do it. 
He is his own master after all : he 
is thirty; he is not a boy." 

" He will find out whether he is 
his own master. What ! he dares 
to take that tone ? And you, you 
follow his example ? But I will 
leave your father to deal with you. 
We will see whether Leon will 
brave him in this way." 

" He will brave everybody ; he 
loves Pearl, and he will marry 
her!" said Blanche defiantly. 

" Without his father's consent ? 
He cannot." 

" He will send him a sommation 
respectueuse f" 

"Gracious heavens! what do I 
hear?" 

Mme. Leopold was sitting in an 
arm-chair, upright, flushed, panting, 
her bonnet strings pulled open ; 
but at the sound of that awful 
word, sommation respectneuse, she 
stood up, her face white, her eyes 
dilated, her hand grasping the arm 
of the sofa. She knew that there 
was such an expedient in existence 
as the sommation respecttieuse, and 
that some parents, low-born people, 
mismanaged their children so as to 
become the victims of it ; but that 
such a disgrace should fall to her 
lot had no more occurred to her 
than that she should be murdered 
by her children. The idea of Leon 
sending his father papier timbre, 
and then walking out of his fa- 



ther's house, in company with the 
commissaire de police, to meet, 
chez Monsieur le Maire, the bride 
whom his parents refused their con- 
sent to his marrying this was a 
calamity scarcely less horrible to 
contemplate than Leon's death. 
Of course things never would come 
to that pass. M. Leopold would 
consent to his son's marrying the 
Arab Jewess rather than drive him to 
make use of the weapon which the 
law wickedly provides for children 
of a larger growth against tyrannical 
parents ; but that Leon should de- 
liberately propose using this wea- 
pon, should threaten her and his 
father with it, and that Blanche 
should side with him in the crimi- 
nal revolt this was beyond belief. 
It was as if the two had flung a 
stone at her. She was too stunned 
to speak ; she stood looking at 
Blanche, bewildered, outraged, a 
lioness set upon by her young. 

Blanche had wiped her eyes and 
ceased crying, and braced herself 
to fight for her brother. 

" It is not his fault," she said. 
" He is unhappy, he is miserable ; 
but he loves Pearl, and he will not 
give her up." 

" He prefers to give up his mo- 
ther, his father, all his own flesh 
and blood !" 

" He need not give me up. I 
will stand by him and by Pearl ; 
they shall be married from my 
house." And Blanche raised her 
head with an air of dignity, as if 
she were already Marquise de Choi- 
court in her grand hotel, Rue St. 
Dominique. 

" Mon Dieu ! has it come to 
this ? My children arrange their 
destiny without even consulting 
me ! I am thrown aside ; I am of 
no account. Mon Dieu ! take 
me away, since they do not want 
me any more. Mon Dieu ! I wish 



590 



Pearl. 



I were dead." She sank down on 
her chair, repeating under her 
breath, " I wish I were dead !" 

Blanche flew to her side, and 
threw her arms round her, and 
burst into fresh floods of tears. 

" Maman, chere petite maman ! 
don't say that. You will break 
our hearts. You know how Leon 
loves you. Only speak to him 
and hear what he has to say, and 
you will forgive him, and it will all 
be right. It will kill him to see 
you unhappy !" 

She covered her mother's face 
with kisses, and Mme. Leopold 
kissed her, and they wept and kiss- 
ed together for some minutes. Then 
Mme. Leopold, feeling that, for the 
moment, she had become master of 
the situation, desired Blanche to 
sit down and tell her everything 
what Leon had said, and what 
Pearl said, and how this horrible 
scheme of the sommation respec- 
tueuse had been set on foot. But 
there was nothing to tell except 
what Blanche had already said. 
The first she had heard of the 
affair was from Leon this morning ; 
he seemed exasperated and unable 
to keep silence any longer ; he told 
her Pearl had repulsed him, and 
he did not feel at all sure that she 
would consent to marry him under 
any circumstances. He didn't be- 
lieve she cared for him; she had 
told him she did not. Blanche had 
laughed at this, and said she was 
certain Pearl had loved him for a 
long time; but she was proud, and 
Leon ought to have asked her soon- 
er, before these troubles came on 
Colonel Redacre; it would take a 
great deal of pursuing and per- 
suading now to make her yield ; 
but Blanche maintained that if 
Leon was resolute Pearl would give 
in ; the great difficulty would be to 
make her accept the sommation, or 



to have the thing done unknown to 
her; but Blanche proposed that 
they should wait till she was mar- 
ried, and then it would be more 
easily managed ; it would be so dif- 
ferent if the Marquise de Choi- 
court protected Pearl, and covered 
the proceedings with her name and 
countenance ! This suggestion had 
cheered up Leon very much, and 
decided him to have recourse to 
the three legal summonses, in case 
persuasion failed with his mother 
and that he succeeded in gaining 
Pearl's consent. 

Mme. Leopold listened to the 
whole story without a word of in- 
dignation or surprise, putting her 
handkerchief to her eyes now and 
then when she felt they were like- 
ly to betray her by an angry flash. 

" So it was you, my Blanche, who 
decided him to push things to the 
bitter end, to do what you knew 
would break your mother's heart ! 
Don't you love her any more, your 
poor mother?" 

" Chere petite maman ! I love 
you with all my heart," said Blanche, 
putting her arms round her ; " but 
I love poor Leon too, and he was 
so angry and excited that I would 
have done anything to help him. 
And it would be so nice having 
Pearl for a sister ! You see I 
know what it is now to be really 
happy. I want those I love to 
make happy marriages like me. 
It is so horrid to think of people 
marrying without caring for each 
other ! After all it is no mesal- 
liance for Leon to marry Pearl. I 
dare say those old frumps in the 
Faubourg talk of M. de Cholcourt's 
marriage with me as a mesalliance; 
they are such selfish old bigotes ! 
But I don't care what they say, 
neither does M. de Cholcourt, or 
else he would not have defied them 
all to marry me. Would he, petite 



Pearl. 



591 



mere ? He must love me or he 
would not have done it." 

Blanche said all this with her 
head nestling on her mother's 
shoulder, while the mother rested 
the fold of her soft double chin on 
her daughter's cheek and smiled 
in self-complacency. Here, at least, 
her efforts had been blessed, and 
one aim of her life splendidly ac- 
complished. Blanche had never 
entertained a " sentiment " for any 
man living, so beautifully had the 
mother's drilling kept nature with- 
in the leading-strings of les conve- 
nances ; but now the child discov- 
ered that she had a heart, and she 
had given it to the man whom her 
parents had not, indeed, chosen, 
but whom they would have chosen 
had the power rested with them. 
Blanche had found out her heart 
just at the proper moment. The 
mother's responsibility was now at 
an end. 

" Mon enfant, it makes my heart 
overflow with joy to hear you speak 
so. But, my Blanche, this other 
marriage of inclination is altogether 
different. You admit that Pearl re- 
fused Leon. I agree with you that 
this may have been from " 

" Pride and delicacy, mamma." 

" Well, be it so. She has refus- 
ed him, and he persists in suing 
her. I will cease to oppose him. 
If she consents I will consent, and 
I will use my influence with your 
father to make htm accept the mar- 
riage. But for this Pearl and Leon 
must, on their side, make some 
slight concession; he must go to 



Brest, and Pearl must return to her 
father's house, and at the end of 
six months, if they still wish it, he 
shall go to England and marry her." 

" Chere maman ! Bonne petite 
maman !" said Blanche, covering 
her mother's fat hand with kisses, 
while one arm still clasped her 
neck. 

" I will write to Mrs. Monteagle 
and tell her this," said Mme. Leo- 
pold, " and you may tell Leon. 
One other condition I make : Leon 
does not see Pearl before he leaves 
Paris, and they do not correspond 
during the six months. This is not 
asking much, considering the sacri- 
fice I am making for his sake." 

" I am sure # Leon will agree to 
it all," said Blanche ; " six months 
will soon be over, and it will be so 
much nicer for Pearl to have him 
go and fetch her ! And you, too, 
will go, petite mere, will you not ? 
And I also. M. de Cholcourt will 
take me, or I can go with you and 
Leon. It will be delightful !" 

She clasped her hands, and laugh- 
ed, and kissed her mother, and 
wanted to send for Leon that very 
moment; he had said he was going 
to the e*tat-major, and he would be 
there still. 

Mme. Leopold made no opposi- 
tion to this sisterly haste. She had 
gained six months. Pearl would 
soon be out of the way, and Provi- 
dence, meantime, would be on the 
side of the righteous, and help the 
virtuous mother fighting to save her 
son from marrying a girl without 
a dot. 



TO BE CONTINUED. 



592 



A Discontented Journey. 



A DISCONTENTED JOURNEY. 



NAPLES is dull and dreary. We 
are sick of it all. Vesuvius will 
not erupt, as he had led us to ex- 
pect. It is all " flat, stale, and un- 
profitable;" and " Da wo ich nicht 
bin ist das Gluck." So let us be 
off. Seven o'clock A.M. Friday 
morning. " Will it rain ?" "Yes, 
it rains." But Madame assures us 
it will clear. "But will Richard 
think so, and join us, as agreed, at 
the station ?" " In his place I 
should go for the chance ; so de- 
pend upon it he will." We are 
under way : Madame, the Colo- 
nel, maid, and Rufa. Arrived at 
the station, no Richard is there. 
Frantic jacchini try to drag our 
luggage off and out of the carriage. 
But we are resolved to wait for the 
laggard till the very last moment. 
The Colonel acts sentinel outside, 
watching for Richard. " He com- 
eth not, he said ; I would I were 
in bed." Finally, we climb the 
heights, driving to Richard's door, 
and the Colonel ascends to his 
aerie on the ultimo piano, and 
drags him down with his valise to 

breakfast at the Villa T and 

leave with us by a later train. For- 
tified with sea-trout and beefsteaks 
(ah ! when shall we see the like 
again ?), we start afresh, calling on 
our way for Richard's boots, which, 
however, do not prove to be of 
seven leagues. At length, with a 
puff and a snort, we are off. 

We reach Caserta in ample time 
to drive through the much-vaunted 
gardens. Passing through the beau- 
tiful portico which pierces the en- 
tire depth of the palace, a long 
vista lies before us, at the end of 
which we see what we are told is a 



cascade, produced with wonderful 
art and malice by an aqueduct 
which joins those of Carignano, 
that carry water to Naples. Un- 
fortunately, seen from a distance it 
recalls to our imagination the or- 
namentation of a German clock, in 
which spirals of twisted glass are 
made to represent falling water ; 
and, as ill-luck will have it, the 
glass seemed to do it better. The 
grand cascade contains groups of 
figures representing Diana and her 
nymphs, and Actseon just at the 
moment when his head has sprout- 
ed horns, and his nose has elongat- 
ed into a stag's face, while his 
body still claims humanity. A dog 
has his paws on his shoulder, but 
is evidently begging him first to ex- 
plain what he really is, man or 
beast, before he determines on 
what course to pursue, while all 
around stand Molossian hounds, 
equally uncertain what it may be 
their duty to do. The nymphs 
are taking it quietly; which, consid- 
ering that they are more in bathing 
undress than the indignant goddess 
herself, does not say much for 
them. Lesser cascades of tranquil 
captured water tumble down mar- 
ble steps and sink into repose in ft 
semi-circular basin below. 

We alighted from our carriage to 
walk through the English garden 
planted in 1782 by Queen Caroline 
of England. It is very pretty, 
though not more remarkable than 
many to be seen surrounding the 
snug parsonages of some of the 
more wealthy English clergy. And 
though on the lawn there are 
palms and aloes, they are not su- 
perior to those grown in pots, ac- 



A Discontented Journey, 



593 



cording to first-class gardening, at 
home. A maple-tree had shed all 
its pale gold leaves. They lay 
thick and soft over some square 
feet Danae's couch, and the fair 
frail one departed. 

The trees in the outer garden 
are clipped into walls and arched 
cloisters nature put into a strait- 
waistcoat. There are ugly laby- 
rinths of box-trees, three feet high, 
so that the unfortunate wretch who 
gets into the maze may be seen 
meandering in insane bewilder- 
ment. Also there are clumps of 
trees deftly trimmed all round and 
at the top like a huge green cake. 
The rest is grnss, badly kept. It 
is all highly artificial except the 
English garden. The green ar- 
cades are marked by rows of sta- 
tues, or rather Termini ; and no- 
thing but a Watteau scene on a 
large scale could give the place a 
cheerful animation. It wants the 
ladies in sacks, with high scarlet 
heels and elaborate buckles ; with 
the long "love-lock" and the wide 
fan ; or in hoops and ruffles, with 
spotless white pierrots lying at 
their feet ; or gentlemen in baggy 
pink satin breeches whispering soft 
nothings in their ear. Nothing less 
than this, with a sedulous study of 
" The Rape of the Lock," with 
Dresden china and old Saxe, with 
pounce-boxes and " clouded canes," 
could bring back life to such a 
made-up version of nature. 

Madame wears a bear-skin hat 
throughout the expedition ; and the 
Colonel at intervals inquires : "Com- 
bien avez vous paye pour ce cha- 
peau, Madame ?" It becomes the re- 
frain of all our lighter talk, and is 
the inverse sense of the " Prennez 
mon ours " of the French play, and 
hardly less frequently repeated. 

We next visited the palace, the 
marble staircase of which is mag- 

VOL. XXIX. 38 *** 



nificent ; the first flight is crowned 
by two beautiful white marble lions 
"couchant," copies of Canova's. 
Vanvitelli was the architect of this 
splendid palace, which is said to 
be the largest in Europe. It is 
rectangular in form, and surrounds 
four courts. The finest marbles 
are lavished upon it, but especially 
in the chapel, which we entered 
just as Benediction had begun. 
Here marble, the coldest of mate- 
rials, has, by the happy harmony of 
tints, been made to produce the 
richest and warmest effects. It is 
very large, and the scattered con- 
gregation of about fifteen people 
gave it a sadly deserted aspect. 
We went all through the lengthy 
suites of splendid rooms, only very 
moderately furnished now, and that 
little comfortless and in bad taste. 
There is the bed in which the late 
King Ferdinand died, richly but 
coarsely decorated with brass 
opima spolia in relief on the wood- 
en frame. It seemed a mock- 
ery indeed where death was the 
only victor ! There was the un- 
fortunate Francis II. 's bed, hung 
with ugly salmon-colored silk. 
There was the room occupied by 
Pius IX. during his exile here, and 
the altar at which he said Mass. 

The pictures are a horror and 
an abomination, more especially 
those in her majesty's reception- 
room, where a Prometheus larger 
than life is struggling in naked 
agony under the claws of his feath- 
ered tormentor. There was the 
bust of a pretty woman ; but, lo ! 
she has a clock in her breast, and 
all interest ceases with the thought 
of what a well-regulated and wound- 
up female she must have been,, 
never ceasing, never silent, and 
with a " memento mori " in every 
ring of her monotonous voice. 
Again we found ourselves on the 



594 



A Discontented Journey. 



beautiful staircase, passing between 
the passive lions. At the foot of 
the stairs is a fine copy of the Far- 
nese Hercules, with the tell-tale 
small head and brawny shoulders, 
the heavy, quiescent limbs, and the 
indolent pose all bespeaking the 
good-humored giant, with little 
brain but infinite strength, and 
therefore merciful and kind. 

We returned to our hotel, the 
Vittoria, and lazily examined the 
colored prints on the walls of our 
large, dark salon. They are all of 
far-away cities which are person- 
ally known only to the travelled 
Colonel. There is a bird under a 
glass case in a corner. We begin 
by calling it a bustard, but correct 
ourselves and pronounce it a bit- 
tern. 

Suddenly Richard and the Colo- 
nel disappear. It is the hour when 
the woodcocks, the Colonel's great 
predilection, alive or roasted, fly 
from the marshes towards the sea, 
.and in doing so cross a main road. 
All the sportsmen of Caserta emerge 
at that hour to take their chance, 
and the Colonel joins them. The 
birds are few, and only one is kill- 
ed, which is gracefully presented to 
the foreign gentleman. He forth- 
with announces his intention of 
coming to spend a week alone in 
the large, empty hotel, and shooting 
with the amiable landlord, who 
speaks no language but his own 
patois, whereas the Colonel can 
freely converse in Hindostanee. 
Meanwhile no eud of woodcock's 
feathers are gathered round his 
hat. 

A desultory breakfast and a 
walk to the station marked the 
early hours of the following day. 
We took the train to Sparanisi, 
passing Caserta, which sternly un- 
-seductive place we agreed our mo- 
rals, though not our " morale," 



would resist to any amount. At 
Sparanisi Rufa produced a consid- 
erable sensation in consequence of 
one of the party lifting the lid of 
her basket, and so betraying the 
secret of her sweet, soft, white-silk 
presence curled up inside. The 
carriage we had ordered was wait- 
ing for us at the station, with three 
miserable, bony, entirely starved 
ponies harnessed three abreast. 
Madame and maid and Rufa were 
packed inside, the two gentlemen 
mounted the coupe, and the little 
driver sat on a lower seat in front 
of them with his head on a level 
with their chins. The wind was 
cold, the roads were bad, and the 
carriage of the dislocating order. 
The tower of Francolisi looked 
down upon us from its picturesque 
height, and further on the pretty 
town of Teano, which gives a title 
to one of the Bourbons the an- 
cient Teanum, the city of the Sidi- 
cinians rose amid the olive-clad 
slopes of Rocca Monfini. We 
catch a glimpse of Mount Falernus, 
and once more debate how far the 
honey-sweetened and skin-bottled 
wines that Horace sings would suit 
our modern taste ; and as they 
diluted it in so much water, it is a 
marvel how they ever got merry 
upon it. We admire the rich 
brown earth that lies in narrow 
ridge and furrow ; and more still 
do we admire the man and the 
maid, Daphnis and Chloe, digging 
together, he with a spade, she with 
a light pickaxe. She wears a neat- 
ly-folded, square white cloth on her 
pretty head, and has full, snow-white 
sleeves, a tight bodice of red or 
blue, a short petticoat of blue or 
neutral green, and a red or yellow 
gown tucked up round the hips. 
She has large earrings of gold; and 
as she stands in the new-made fur- 
row, looking so bright and clean, 



A Discontented Journey. 



595 



we wonder whether the rough com- 
panion in front of her is alive to 
the picturesque effect and the po- 
etic sentiment produced by his 
graceful helpmate in the scene, or 
if long habit has made him imper- 
vious to the fancies which flit 
across our mind with memories of 
" Pastor Fido," and a whole train 
of agricultural and pastoral and 
Biblical idyls of all lands and all 
ages since Adam delved and Eye 
span. 

We pass a garden full of fine- 
grown laurels, and remark that this 
beautiful shrub, the ornament and 
the shelter of our home gardens, 
where it is so luxuriant and abun- 
dant, is rarely seen in its own clas- 
sic land of Italy. We notice a 
large farm-house, surrounded on 
the first floor with deep arcades. 
Dense shadows lie athwart the white 
inside walls, and strings of bright- 
red tomatoes hang in thick bunches 
from the ceiling, making festoons of 
vivid scarlet in the dappled light 
and shade. The house is large, 
and a group of well-built hay- 
stacks round it speak of prosperity 
and plenty. Horses seem to be 
few, and the worst of their kind. 
But donkeys are everywhere ; and 
gray oxen with Juno's eyes are 
dragging the primitive ploughs that 
recall the Georgics, or the long, 
narrow cart with the picturesque 
owner sitting at the far end, dan- 
gling his legs as though he were 
acting as balance to the rude ma- 
chine. We meet groups of pea- 
sants, each riding home on his don- 
key, with panniers made of long, 
wiry grass flung across the animal's 
shoulders. The grass we notice 
growing in dark green tufts by the 
roadside. The men have a very 
bandit appearance, and not alto- 
gether pleasant countenances. One 
old gentleman in a very ragged 



cloak of many colors had a pecu- 
liarly sinister appearance. He 
hugged a suspicious-looking bundle 
as various in color as his mantle, 
and carried a lantern, making as 
though he were going up to Monte 
Spaccata, an evil-renowned locality 
close on the confines of Fra Dia- 
volo's own country. The little 
town of Cascano stands on the 
ridge of Monte Massico ; and 
having eaten our scanty luncheon, 
we had flattered ourselves we might 
find, not Falernian wine, but some- 
thing drinkable at least. The dri- 
ver urged our stopping at an inn 
beyond the town, passing through 
which we found the women sitting 
at their doors making green grass 
panniers for the donkeys, and mats 
and brooms. They wear their hair 
in two plaits, brought forward and 
curled round in a rosette. A nar- 
row piece of linen edged with lace 
is folded rather low' on the fore- 
head, and hangs in a bow and ends 
behind. The whole street was lin- 
ed with gray pottery waiting to be 
baked. There were large ampho- 
rae and other smaller vessels of 
curious old Etruscan shapes, with 
probably less euphonious modern 
names. When we reached the 
small inn where we were promised 
good wine, and where consequent- 
ly there was no bush, the two 
gentlemen went in, leaving Madame 
and her suite in the carriage. They 
were a long time absent, and Ma- 
dame, weary of waiting, got out, 
when presently the gentlemen ap- 
peared, declaring the wine undrink- 
able, and the company sitting in 
the inn of a very Fra Diavolo type, 
and very noisy. So with unappeas- 
ed thirst we rumbled on again, the 
road terribly rough, and, as appeai> 
ed afterwards, the Colonel's new 
silk umbrella worn into holes from 
Madame having appropriated it to 



596 



A Discontented Journey. 



help support the cushion which 
she had laid between the back and 
front seats so as to make a rude 
couch. 

We rattle on. The air grows cold- 
er; the day is declining. Fine oaks 
and great chestnuts mark the land- 
scape, and large acacias line the 
road. Presently we cross the sus- 
pension-bridge over the Garigliano, 
the Liris of olden times, famous 
in ancient and modern history for 
the scenes its banks have witnessed. 
The slow and turbid stream is of a 
dull ochre hue, though probably 
that is the result of the rainy win- 
ter season. It formed the boun- 
dary between ancient Latium and 
Campania. Caius Marius crossed it 
in the Marsic or Social War be- 
tween the Romans and the Italians 
a distinction of names which has 
survived all ages and remains in 
force even in United Italy. The 
advantages of the war had been on 
the side of the Italians, although 
the Tuscans, Latins, and Umbrians 
had remained faithful to Rome. 
The chief command of the Roman 
forces was given to Julius Caesar 
and Rutilius Lupus, one of whose 
legates was Caius Marius. The 
two latter threw two bridges over 
the Liris, the present Garigliano, 
within a short distance of each 
other. Vettius Scato, commander 
of the Italian forces, had encamped 
opposite to Marius' bridge, but in 
the night he lay in ambush near 
that of Rutilius, and when the lat- 
ter attempted to cross in the morn- 
ing he was driven b'ack with a loss 
of eight thousand men, receiving 
himself a wound in the head of. 
which he subsequently died. Ma- 
rius immediately assumed the 
command of Rutilius' army. Cae- 
sar meanwhile had also been de- 
feated at the head of thirty-five 
thousand men, and escaped with 



difficulty to the modern Teano. The 
Marsians attacked Marius, but were 
driven back into the vineyards our 
eyes now rest upon ; and thither 
he did not venture to follow them. 
But Sulla, who was encamped on 
the other side of the vineyards, rush- 
ed out and put them to flight ; and 
shortly after the Italian army was 
entirely defeated. But in this war 
on the borders of the turbid Liris it 
was felt that Marius had shown but 
little of his ancient vigor, although 
he was at the age namely, sixty- 
five when our modern statesmen 
and generals seem to reach the 
acme of their intellectual vigor. 

At any rate the neighborhood of 
the Liris was to be fatal to him ; 
for two years later that is, in 88 B.C. 
his jealousy of Sulla led to his form- 
ing a conspiracy against him, and 
he thereby succeeded in obtaining 
the command of the army in the 
Mithradatic war. Marius and Sul- 
la fought against each other at the 
Esquiline ; the former was defeat- 
ed and outlawed. Marius then 
fled to Ostia, where he took ship, 
and landed off this coast ; but be- 
ing alarmed at the approach of 
some horsemen, he went on board 
again and sailed away, in spite of 
the angry remonstrances of the 
horsemen with the sailors for .dar- 
ing to carry off their intended vic- 
tim. Not long after, however, the 
sailors themselves, reflecting on 
their position and fearful of possi- 
ble consequences, persuaded the 
unhappy Marius to land at the 
mouth of the *Liris under the pre- 
tence of his thereby getting some 
rest. But no sooner was he asleep 
on the turf than away they sailed. 
Marius then fled into the marshes, 
but was hunted down like a wild 
animal, and captured while hiding 
naked in a ditch. He was convey- 
ed to Minturnae, the ruined walls of 



A Discontented Journey. 



597 



whose amphitheatre and the arches 
of an aqueduct we saw soon after 
we had passed the bridge. Here 
Marius was imprisoned. But the 
man sent to put an end to him 
shrank back before the old man's 
dauntless words and piercing 
glance. And so finally, not daring 
to kill him, they put him on board 
a vessel bound for Africa, where 
who has not seen him, " sitting on 
the ruins of Carthage," for ever 
after in painting and sculpture ? 

Once again the green banks of 
the Liris, by that time called Gari- 
gliano, witnessed another important 
battle, in 1503, and that not far 
from the spot where the present 
bridge crosses it. 

Some few years before that is, 
in 1494 Charles VIII. of France 
invaded Italy, and Piero de' Me- 
dici set out from Florence to meet 
him. But his heart failed him on 
witnessing the brilliant successes 
of the invader's arms, and he at 
once offered a cowardly surrender 
of some important cities, which 
conduct procured him a very ill 
reception on his return. Savona- 
rola was then at the height of his 
popularity, and he roused the peo- 
ple against Piero. In vain the 
latter with his two brothers travers- 
ed the streets on foot, shouting the 
cry of the Medici, " Palle! Palle !" * 
The once popular cry meets with 
no response, and Piero has to 
fly the city and escape to Bologna 
in the disguise of a Franciscan 
friar. Arrived in the city of 
arches, Piero knocked humbly at < 
the door of a Dominican monastery 
of which he had been a benefactor 
in the still recent days of his pros- 
perity. But gratitude is not always 
the virtue of the cloister, and the 
doorkeeper, recognizing'.himatonce, 
shut the door in his face. The 

* Alluding to the Medici arms, three balls. 



A 



forlorn man strolled down the Via 
Giglio, and presently, raising his 
eyes, he saw looking out of a win- 
dow Bernardo, the former sec^e- 
tary of Lorenzo the Magnificent. 
Piero, not daring openly to reveal 
himself, merely asked, " What are 
you doing there, Bernardo ?" 
"Waiting for your excellency," 
was the prompt reply from one of 
the many who never forgot the gen- 
erous and open-handed Lorenzo ; 
and for a long time the hunted 
man found refuge under Bernardo's 
roof. 

Meanwhile Charles, after discon- 
tenting everybody in Florence, set 
out for the conquest of Naples. 
But he met with serious opposition 
on the frontiers of the country. 
Nevertheless he pushed forward, 
making good his way in every 
town he passed, until Alfonso II. 
of Naples abdicated from sheer 
terror in favor of his son, Ferdi- 
nand II., and, after losing Capua, 
retired to the lovely island of 
Ischia. Ferdinand was, however, 
no more fortunate than his father, 
and all the provincial towns, and 
finally Naples itself, fell into the 
hands of that plausible monarch, 
Charles VIII., without a single bat- 
tle. This easy conquest ended in 
rousing the indignation of the rest 
of Italy ; and Charles, who had 
been amusing himself in , feasting 
for three idle months at Naples 
while his followers tyrannized over 
the neighboring provinces, thought 
it would be safer to try and get 
back to France. This he did at 
the head of a large army, and with 
a succession of brilliant conquests. 
Charles had left his relation, Gil- 
bert de Montpensier, as viceroy at 
Naples ; but he had made himself 
detested by the people, and they 
hastened to recall their own sov- 
ereign, Ferdinand II., while the 



598 



A Discontented Journey. 



French, who had come and gone 
like a comet, speedily lost all they 
had gained. 

Nevertheless the longing for the 
fair lands of the south was undy- 
ing among the French nation; 
and Charles VIII. having died 
from an accident, his successor, 
Louis XII., began his reign by 
dubbing himself Duke of Milan, in 
spite of the rightful duke being in 
possession. He succeeded in ob- 
taining the town of Milan, and 
threw the duke into prison. It was 
soon after this lawless exploit that 
the famous battle of Garigliano 
took place, on December 27, 1503. 
The Italians were allied with the 
Spanish army under the command 
of Gonsalvo de Cordova, "the Great 
Captain," as he was called. The 
French occupied the heights above 
the river; the Spaniards were in 
the marshy lands below. The 
French threw a bridge across the 
Garigliano as we have seen the 
Romans did before them; and the 
Chevalier Bayard, the "sans peur 
et sans reproche " of all history, 
defended it single-handed against 
two hundred Spanish cavalry. 
The French were decimated by the 
debilitating effects of the treach- 
erous southern climate, and the 
Great Captain gained an easy victo- 
ry over their discouraged army. 
In the French camp was Piero de' 
Medici, the exile from Florence. 
Piero, intending to carry some 
cannon to Gaeta and rally a portion 
of the forces in that strongly-forti- 
fied town, had embarked at the" 
mouth of the Garigliano. One is 
inclined to wonder whether any 
recollection of Caius Marius pass- 
ed through his highly-educated 
and classic mind at that moment. 
But several fugitives from the 
French army rushing on board 
the boat at the same time, it foun- 



dered, and Piero de' Medici per- 
ished ignominiously. His body was 
recovered and silently buried by 
the monks of a neighboring mon- 
astery. Is his sleep less deep 
though no Michael Angelo lias 
sculptured his image o'er his tomb 
to fill the world with admiration, 
as befell his predecessors ?* Thus 
the same Liris and Garigliano wit- 
nessed the defeat of two impor- 
tant historic characters, differing 
from each other as widely as did 
the epochs in which they lived. 

The evening was fast closing in 
as we entered on a flatter and less 
wooded tract of country. Rows of 
aloes formed the hedges by the 
roadside, mingled with lentiscus 
and the graceful smilax with its 
bunches of bright red berries. 
Soon wide plains of cultivated 
land spread out on either side, 
now hedgeless and unbroken. The 
wind grew damp and cold, and 
white masses of cloud drove out to 
sea, the faint silver line of which 
we were fast approaching. The 
clouds sped swiftly on, swelling in 
gray and snowy folds like the 
breast and wings of some vast bird, 
flecking the pale blue sky, which 
far off above the horizon melted in- 
to faint green and warmer yellow. 
Presently the tall, grim tower of 
Garigliano came in sight, standing 
alone in the wide plain where the 
river mingles its dim waters with 
the tideless sea, even as the world's' 
history flows on into the unknown 
eternity. 

At length, as night closed in, we 
reached Gaeta, to learn that the 
hotel named, and moderately com- 
mended, in all the guide-books had 

* There is a sculptured tomb erected by Clement 
VII. to the memory of Piero de' Medici in the 
choir of the church of Monte Casino. It is by 
San Gallo. But whether his body was removed 
from the vicinity of the Garigliano and brought to 
Rome we are unable to state. 



A Discontented Joiirney. 



599 



also passed away, and that nothing 
was left us but a certain Albergo di 
Gaeta unknown to fame. The 
driver tried to reassure us as we 
drove up to the gateless archway 
that opened upon what seemed 
nothing better than a stable for 
donkeys and mules. The gentle- 
men went in first, leaving Madame 
to await their verdict in the car- 
riage, around which gathered a 
motley crowd, eagerly eyeing the 
luggage and calculating with each 
other that there might be a few 
" soldi " to be got by carrying it 
up-stairs. Presently Madame is 
requested to alight by Richard, 
who conducts her between the 
tired mules, munching their well- 
earned evening meal regardless of 
tired travellers. Up-stairs Mad- 
ame finds herself in a vast, long hall, 
which the Colonel calls then and 
ever after the Desert of Sahara. 
At the further end is a dimly-light- 
ed table, at which were seated the 
officers of the regiment quartered 
at Gaeta, the garrison of the fort, 
and who were carrying on a vehe- 
ment debate on local affairs, which 
was renewed every night, and after 
each recurrence, although at mo- 
ments they seemed about to come 
to blows, they parted in silence 
and peace ; one tiny lamp burned 
on, and it became the haunt of 
the Colonel and his solitary cigar. 
Our several rooms (without availa- 
ble locks to the doors) were decid- 
ed upon, with the luxury of a sit- 
ting-room to ourselves, all opening 
out upon the Desert of Sahara. 

Here our little party managed to 
exist for three days, living upon 
little, and that little cooked chiefly 
under the all-necessary superin- 
tendence of Madame's maid, with- 
out whose aid we should have been 
fairly starved. It is true it was an 
inn, with a host and a hostess, and 



one poor serving lad who limped 
about equally in his limbs and in 
the way he performed his duties. 
The hostess never appeared. She 
remained our favorite aversion to 
the last. All evils were traced to 
her malign influence, and particu- 
larly the exorbitant charges in the 
bill. The rnilk was served in a 
handless teapot ; the coffee, thick 
and undrinkable, appeared in a 
wine-glass. Happily, we had pro- 
vided ourselves with certain stores, 
without which Madame at least 
must have starved. The shaking 
carnage and the cold air had made 
her ill. But Richard and the 
Colonel, fortified with good Eng- 
lish tea brewed by the invaluable 
French maid, started the next day 
under a cloudy sky for a late Mass. 
They had been assured Mass was 
said at twelve ; and so it might be, 
but it was the wrong end of it. 
They wandered about the town, 
inquisitive for sights, and exciting 
the curiosity and mirth of the in- 
habitants. True to their native 
proclivities, they started in quest of 
newspapers, and marched down 
the street with the quick, alert step 
of their race, a Daily Telegraph or 
a Times widely unfolded before 
them. Naturally the native signori 
looked forth from the cafes and 
laughed. The postman had called 
just before our arrival at the hotel, 
to ask whether an English princess 
had arrived, as her newspapers 
were waiting for her. Inquiries 
were made of the gentlemen them- 
selves, when the burning curiosity 
of the town could bear it no longer, 
whether the illustrious party had 
not arrived in the ironclad which 
then lay anchored in the port. As 
we passed through the streets 
heads appeared at every window, 
and merry maidens looked down 
and smiled upon us. 



6oo 



A Discontented Journey. 



In the evening from the Colo- 
nel's window we overlooked the 
entrance of a little theatre of Ma- 
rionettes, and the gentlemen went 
to witness the performance. The 
spectators, as a rule, were silent and 
absorbed in the interest of a sub- 
lime tragedy; but our London- 
ers were convulsed with laughter 
at the magniloquent expression 
conveyed by the arms and legs of 
the big dolls. 

On the following day we went to 
see the cathedral, over the high altar 
of which hangs the magnificent 
standard presented to the chival- 
rous and fair-haired young Don 
John of Austria when the hero set 
out for the victorious battle of Le- 
panto, that point in history which 
decided the great question between 
barbarism and the advance of mo- 
dern civilization. The venerable 
pontiff, standing at one of the win- 
dows of the Vatican, beheld in su- 
pernatural clairvoyance the success 
of the Christian arms, and intoned 
a Te Deum with the cardinal who, 
albeit seeing nothing, stood by his 
side. Outside the church there is 
a curious mediaeval pillar, richly 
carved on the four sides with Scrip- 
tural subjects in alto-rilievo. We 
wandered on past orange and 
lemon gardens shining with dark 
and pale gold fruit. We passed 
the enclosure where the " awkward 
squad " were learning to ride, sit- 
ting like sacks of wool on their ill- 
groomed horses, and the Colonel 
grew cynical and severe. We 
climbed the ramparts fringed with 
cannon ; but only two are mounted 
on their carriages. The rest slum- 
ber in the peaceful herbage, and 
are only " make-believe " in their 
present useless state. We wan- 
dered through quaint old streets 
not six feet wide, arches overhead 
connecting house with house a 



network of habitations, lying so 
thick together, parted by so nar- 
row a space, that to be born and 
live and die there must make all 
the crowded humanity as familiar 
as one family. What friendships or 
what hatreds it must engender ! 
Doubtless in the old times these 
streets were well inhabited. Scutch- 
eons and coats-of-arms surmount 
the doors and windows. We wan- 
dered up and down with a feeling 
that we were transported to the 
far East. It had Asiatic character- 
istics, and is like what may be seen 
in the old Moorish towns of Spain. 
In the afternoon the gentlemen 
climbed the hill on which stands 
the fort, to visit the circular tomb 
of Munatius Plancus, the tribune 
who with his colleague Rufus was 
prosecuted at the expiration of his 
term of office for burning the 
senate-house when, having convey- 
ed the body of Clodius, killed by 
Milo, to the Rostra, the mob car- 
ried it off, and, making a pyre of 
the seats, burnt it and the house 
together. Pompeius, having been 
made sole consul, passed a law 
forbidding any one to come for- 
ward and praise an accused per- 
son. But when Munatius Plancus 
stood on his trial Pompeius was the 
first to send in a written eulogy, 
whereupon Cato objected that he 
must not be allowed to violate his 
own laws ; and Munatius was pro- 
nounced guilty. The ascent of the 
hill was long and steep, and a cold 
wind blew as the evening closed in. 
Both the Colonel and Richard got 
a chill, of which we heard more 
later on. And now dawned the 
important moment when we all 
felt our only refuge lay in the wise, 
calm, and just administration of 
Richard. The bill had to be 
paid ! And as it was exorbitant 
and tricky, only a long practice of 



A Discontented Journey. 



60 1 



Italian ways, an intimate know- 
ledge of the language, and a habit 
of discoursing in patois could have 
overcome the wily ways and dex- 
terous calculations of our large and 
aggressive landlord, who was evi- 
dently backed up by his invisible 
wife in the remote regions of the 
dreary old house. She kept send- 
ing for him, no doubt to prime him 
with fresh deceits and renewed 
machinations. We kept it dark 
that we meant to take flight the 
next morning, not knowing what 
foul play might not be resorted to in 
order to deprive us of the power of 
locomotion. And having vanquish- 
ed our enemy and saved a few 
francs, we spent our last night in 
inhospitable Gaeta, and made our 
escape in a deluge of rain early the 
next morning to Formia, or Mola 
di Gaeta, a distance of four miles. 
It rained the whole way, and the 
hotel was considerably worse than 
the one we had left behind us. It 
consisted of two houses united by 
a little wooden bridge, which we 
named the Bridge of Sighs, and 
which was so slippery from wet and 
dirt that we always crossed it at 
our peril. To get to our sitting- 
room Madame had to pass through 
the public room, where all the 
youthful elite of Formia were hold- 
ing high festival (in company with 
several tame pigeons, who came in 
and out at their pleasure), termi- 
nating with a dance entirely without 
female partners and interspersed 
with singing. 

The afternoon was bright, and we 
took a long walk between groves of 
olives. The trees were so laden 
with fruit that the berries predomi- 
nated over the leaves. As we 
walked through the one long street 
ofthe^town we looked into a jew- 
eller's shop, and admired the 
golden bands, about an inch in 



width, called " spadelli," with 
which the women confine their 
abundant tresses. The shopman, 
with great good nature, showed us 
all his wares, and beckoned to a 
peasant woman to show us how the 
hair was plaited in with rolls of 
ribbon, the whole forming a sort of 
skull-cap. A handsome gold band 
will cost some hundreds of francs. 
The less costly ones are of silver. 
The earrings made of pearls are 
exceedingly large and heavy. 

Madame, being tired, wanted to 
borrow a donkey of a man who 
was leading one in through an 
arched gateway ; but he objected 
that he had to carry stones for 
his master, and that the stones and 
the lady could not ride together. 
Pretty little villages, with their tall 
campanile and their domed church, 
were perched amid olive-gardens 
in the heights above us, with the 
yellow and white and faint pink 
fafades of tall houses, pierced with 
many windows and rooted in the 
rocks. They bore soft Italian 
names that sound smooth and 
musical upon the lips of the bright- 
eyed, graceful peasantry of whom 
we inquire, and who, while ques- 
tioned by Richard, address their 
reply to Madame as a homage to 
the sex. 

Our dinner proved to be a 
sort of make-shift, and before it 
was well over the warrior of the 
party was suddenly and alarmingly 
seized with a sharp attack of his 
old enemy, "climatic" fever, and 
was compelled to lie down on the 
cruel sofa with a hard wooden bar 
as a pillow. Madame handed him 
the cushion from her chair, which 
was sternly refused ; and Richard, 
whose instincts are always genial, 
exclaimed, " Why cannot you gra- 
ciously accept what is graciously 
given ?" while one of the party 



602 



What was the Primitive State of Man ? 



silently remembered a great writer 
has said, " There is often more kind- 
ness in accepting a favor than in 
conferring one." The suffering 
Colonel got no sleep all night, and 
so made it his business to walk 
round and call everybody from 
their slumbers at half-past four, 
although we were not to leave till 
seven. 

The same route to Sparanisi 
was once more pursued by wiser if 
not better men and women ; and 
we hurry on to Naples, where we 
part with our good guide and 



counsellor, Richard, who toils up 
to his dwelling in the clouds, and 
goes to bed with a complication of 
rheumatism and neuralgia. The 
Colonel, who was also the following 
day to succumb to cold and fever, 
entered the drawing-room at the 

Villa T exclaiming, " Ah ! this 

is comfortable." 

And thus we bring back " the 
heavy lumber and luggage of our- 
selves," and learn for the hun- 
dredth time, and probably for the 
hundredth time in vain, that " le 
mieux est 1'ennemi du bien." 



WHAT WAS THE PRIMITIVE STATE OF MAN ? 



BEFORE we enter upon the argu- 
ments showing how the permission 
of moral evil enhanced the mani- 
festation of God's infinite attri- 
butes, and increased, therefore, the 
final moral good of the world, we 
deem it necessary to lay down the 
plan which we intend to follow as 
the best calculated to make good 
our promise. The plan is this : ist. 
We shall speak of the primitive 
state in which man was placed by 
God. 2d. We shall institute a deep 
research into the nature of moral 
evil and its consequences. 3d. We 
shall study Adam's sin in itself 
and in all its consequences relative 
to all time and space. 4th. We shall 
proceed, to establish the necessity 
of man's restoration, and state its 
nature and its conditions. 5th. We 
shall proceed to the event of such 
restoration, and to its application 
to time and space and to eternity. 
When we have discussed all these 
questions, and studied what Christ 
the mediator has done for the 
fallen universe, then shall we be 



able to judge whether the permis- 
sion of moral evil did not immense- 
ly enhance the final moral good of 
the universe. In the present arti- 
cle we limit our inquiry to the first 
question : What was the primitive 
state of man when God Almighty 
created him ? To understand which 
careful attention has to be paid to 
two principles which are fundamen- 
tal in the present question. The 
first is the final and supreme end 
of man. The second is as to the 
nature of the means necessary to 
attain such an end. We shall dis- 
cuss both questions thoroughly, but 
with suitable brevity. 

And first as to the final end of 
man. It is admitted as a matter 
of faith that according to the pre- 
sent dispensation and agreeably to 
the present system of the universe, 
which God was pleased to select 
among so many which he might 
have preferred, the final end of man 
consists in the intuitive vision of 
God. All Catholic theologians are 
agreed upon this. But whether the 



What ivas the Primitive State of Man f 



603 



intuitive vision of the Godhead is 
the final end of man simply be- 
cause God chose to elevate man to 
such a grace or privilege, or be- 
cause the intuitive vision of God's 
essence is the end and termination 
to which an intellectual creature 
naturally aspires, and without which 
it cannot be said to have reached 
its natural perfection or happiness, 
are questions which are warmly 
disputed. One school of theology, 
with which many theologians of an- 
other school agree, holds that the 
natural end of man is not the intui- 
tive vision of God's essence ; that 
such a vision is the present final 
destination of man as a grace, a 
supernatural favor, granted to him 
by God, and by no means due to 
him for any title whatever; that 
the natural end of man consists 
merely in such a knowledge of 
God as we possess in this life, 
only in a much more perfect de- 
gree ; and that God could have 
created man simply endowed with 
his natural essence and faculties 
that is, an intellectual being wedded 
to a material nature in the unity of 
one personality, having merely a 
natural end to acquire. Another 
school of theologians holds quite 
an opposite opinion, and this may 
be called the common opinion of the 
schoolmen.* It affirms that every 
intellectual creature naturally as- 
pires to the intuitive vision of 
God's essence as its final end, with- 
out which there would be no final 
perfection for its specific faculties ; 
that the said rational creature, 
though naturally aspiring towards 



*Communior scholasticorum sententia asserit 
esse in nobis appetitum naturalem ad beatitudinem 
in particular!, atque ea de causa illam dicendam. 
esse finem nostrum naturalem, non quoad assecu- 
tionem et simpliciter, ea enim ratione omnes faten- 
tur dicendam esse finem supernaturalem, sed quoad 
appetitum atque potentiam passivam. Dominicus 
Soto in 4 dist. xlii. art. i, 2, et lib. i. De Nat. et 
Gratia^ cap. iv. 



this intuitive vision of God, could 
not by its own natural powers reach 
this natural end, and that conse- 
quently God could not, without 
contravening his infinite attributes 
of wisdom, goodness, and provi- 
dence, have created man without 
giving him supernatural means to 
enable him to reach his end. 

We hold this second opinion not 
only for its intrinsic merits, but 
also because it is the most common 
opinion of the schoolmen, and of 
St. Thomas in particular, and be- 
cause it is, as it were, the bridge 
which unites the natural with the 
supernatural in the most reasona- 
ble and convincing manner. Let 
us state it with more accuracy and 
exactness : ist. We maintain that 
the natural end of man, that which 
will give man his ultimate and final 
perfection a perfection which, once 
acquired, leaves him nothing more 
to desiderate is not any knowledge 
of God such as we may acquire in 
this life, no matter how great, sub- 
lime, or perfect it may be supposed 
to be, but an immediate vision or 
intuition of God's essence, a con- 
templation of the Godhead face to 
face, with nothing between the in- 
tellect and the object which may 
obstruct the vision ; that man natu- 
rally and in force of his specific 
faculties aspires to such a vision. 
2d. We hold with all Catholic 
theologians that though (according 
to our opinion) man aspires to such 
vision, he can never actually attain 
it by his natural powers of intellect 
and will, but must receive super- 
natural aid from God to enable 
him to attain such vision. 3d. We 
admit that, considering the power 
of God isolated from, and indepen- 
dent of, all his other attributes, God 
could create man without giving 
him such supernatural aid to ena- 
ble him to reach his end. But we 



604 



What was the Primitive State of Man f 



most strenuously deny that if we 
consider the power of God not 
merely as physical power, but as a 
power directed by his infinite wis- 
dom and goodness, he could not 
create man without supernatural 
aid to enable him to reach his end. 
Omnipotence, as it really exists and 
acts, not isolated but in most per- 
fect harmony with wisdom and 
goodness, could not leave man to 
himself, sighing after an end which 
he could not possibly attain. The 
truth of this opinion entirely de- 
pends upon our establishing our 
first statement, that the natural end 
of man is the intuitive vision of 
God's essence; the second state- 
ment being admitted by all, and the 
third being a consequence of the 
first. 

PROOF. 

The end of every being may be 
easily discovered and known from 
the specific faculties of its nature. 
For if God, in creating each being, 
had in view an end to be attained 
and realized by the being, it follows 
that he must have put a certain 
proportion, or similitude, or agree- 
ableness between the nature and 
faculties of such a being and the 
end which it is destined to attain: 
a proportion and similitude which, 
if they do not always enable the 
being actually to attain its end by 
its own unaided effort a thing 
which is oftentimes impossible, as 
we shall demonstrate in this article 
yet clearly point out the nature of 
the end for which the being is des- 
tined. Hence St. Thomas teaches 
that the specific operation of every 
being is also its end, as the end 
is the second perfection of the 
being.* 

Now, the specific faculties of man 

* Propria operatic cujuslibet rei est finis ejus ; 
est enim secunda perfectio ipsius. C. G., cap. xxv. 



are intelligence and will an intel- 
ligence which, not being limited 
toward any particular truth, aspires 
to, and seeks for, only universal 
truth. "Objectum intellectus est 
universale verum " (St. Thomas, la, 
23e, qu. 2, art. 8). Likewise man's will 
is not confined to this or that par- 
ticular good, but seeks for the uni- 
versal good, the very reason why 
it is free with regard to particular 
good. Now, if the object of man's 
intelligence is not this or that par- 
ticular truth but universal truth, 
if the object of his will is also uni- 
versal good, it is evident that the 
end which corresponds to these 
specific faculties of man can be no 
other than God, the absolute truth 
and the absolute good, the princi- 
ple and fountain of every truth and 
goodness, and the clear vision of 
such a truth and the immediate 
possession of such good can alone 
be the end of those faculties. 

It has been said : It is true that 
the analysis of human nature shows 
truly that an intelligence not limit- 
ed to this or that particular truth, 
and a will not limited to this or 
that particular good, demand as 
their end an unlimited truth and 
good, but only in an indefinite way. 
Because there is a great difference 
in saying that the intellect must 
have for its end a truth without 
limit and the will a good without 
bounds, and in saying that both 
must be the immediate vision and 
possession of God. In the first 
case we only deny the restriction of 
tending to a particular object, and 
therefore assign for the object of 
the intelligence an indefinite truth 
and for the object of the will an 
indefinite good; in the second case 
we make the Infinite the immediate 
term of those faculties a thing as 
false as the confusion between the 
infinite and the indefinite. It is in 



What was the Primitive State of Man ? 



605 



force of this reason that so many 
theologians, though holding that 
the specific faculties of man require 
as their 'end an unlimited object, 
assign to man an abstractive know- 
ledge of God as his last natural 
end. But a serious reflection on 
the real difference of those two 
terms, indefinite and infinite', will 
solve the difficulty. The first 
means the impossibility in which 
\ve are to assign a limit to the ob- 
ject of our cogitative act ; the second 
expresses the objective plenitude 
of perfection in the being which 
is the object of our thought. The 
first is subjective, the second is emi- 
nently objective. Now, the simple 
notion and distinction of the infinite 
from the indefinite is sufficient to 
demonstrate how man's -end can- 
not be indefinite truth and good, but 
the true, real, absolute, objective 
truth and goodness that is, God. 
Because the last end of a being can- 
not be an abstraction, but must be 
a concrete object ; it cannot be an 
unreality, but a real being. Now, 
the indefinite only expresses a sub- 
jective negation, and not a reali- 
ty ; therefore it is so far from be- 
ing the last end of man that it could 
not even be the natural end and 
the final completion of any being. 
God, therefore, as the absolute 
truth and goodness, not in the ab- 
stract but in his objective reality 
and the plenitude of his perfection, 
can be the natural final end of 
:man. 

This truth, which results naturally 
from the simple analysis of man's 
nature, is confirmed by the condi- 
tions which are essential in that ob- 
ject the possession of which must 
form man's final happiness. The 
last end is absolute good relatively 
to the being which possesses it ; 
therefore to seek that object in 
which resides the last end of man 



is equivalent to seeking man's su- 
preme good that is, that good which 
must be sought for its own sake 
and not for another; that good 
which, once obtained, satisfies fully 
man's innate desire after it ; that 
good which, once obtained, ex- 
cludes all fear of ever being lost, 
and the possession of which implies 
an interminable life of joy and sat- 
isfaction. Hence the following 
are the essential conditions of that 
sovereign good in which we can 
place the last term of all human 
aspirations, and from the possession 
of which human happiness must 
spring forth: 

ist. It must fully and perfectly 
satisfy the innate desires of man 
after it. 2d. It must exclude all 
fear and sadness. 3d. It must be 
possessed without end. 4th. The 
act of acquiring it must be the 
highest and the greatest act of his 
specific faculties. 

All agree in the number and na- 
ture of these conditions. We have 
said that first it must fully and 
perfectly satisfy man's innate crav- 
ing after it : " Ultimus finis hominis," 
says St. Thomas (C. G., ch. xlviii.), 
" terminat ejus naturalem appetitum 
ita quod, eo habito, nihil aliud quaeri- 
tur; si enim adhuc moveturad aliud 
nondum habet finem in quo quies- 
cat." 

2d. It must exclude all fear and 
sadness : " Felicitatem perfectam," 
says St. Thomas, ib., " quoddam bo- 
num omnes confitentur, perfectum 
autem bonum est quod omnino caret 
admixtione mali." 

3d. It must be possessed without 
end : " Omne quod movetur in finem 
desiderat naturaliterstabiliri et qui- 
escere in illo." 

4th. It must be attained by the 
highest possible act of man's speci- 
fic faculties : '* Propria operatic cu- 
juslibet rei est finis ejus. Quod 



6o6 



What iv as the Primitive State of Man ? 



igitur est perfectissimum in hacope- 
ratione est ultimus finis " (St. Tho- 
mas, C. G., ch. xxv.) It may be af- 
firmed, says a modern writer,* that 
human beatitude consists principally 
and essentially in the most perfect 
operation of man's superior powers 
in regard to the highest and noblest 
object. In order for this object to 
be highest and noblest it must be 
absolutely perfect, absolutely good, 
absolutely ultimate, and thus leave 
nothing ulterior to be conceived 
and desired which is greater, etc. 
Now, if these premises be true as 
they undoubtedly are, and are ad- 
mitted by all philosophers, because 
clearly and evidently emanating 
and resulting from the nature of 
the subject who can fail to see that 
man's natural end can only be 
found in the immediate vision and 
possession of God's essence ? It is 
said that man's natural end is only 
an abstract knowledge of God, su- 
perior, indeed, by far to that of 
which we are capable here in this 
life, because after death, being strip- 
ped of the senses, our capabilities 
for abstraction would be wonder- 
fully enlarged and increased, but of 
the same nature and kind as we 
have now; and that therefore, if 
God had left man to his nature 
alone, as well he might, such would 
have been his natural end. But 
how reconcile such consequence 
with the premises already admitted 
and granted ? The object of man's 
beatitude must fully and perfectly 
satisfy man's natural craving after 
it, so that, once acquired, there is 
nothing more to be desired. Will 
an abstract knowledge of God 
fully and perfectly satisfy this crav- 
ing, which is as boundless and un- 
limited as the faculties from which 
it springs ? An abstract knowledge 
of God, multiplied and increased as 

* Hill's Moral Philosophy, ch. i. art. 2. 



much as you please, will ahvays be 
finite, as there is no medium be- 
tween the finite and the infinite; 
and could a finite object satisfy an 
unbounded craving ? " Quomodo," 
we may exclaim with St. Augustine 
(Conf., lib. x. ch. xx.), " ergo quae- 
ram vitam beatam, quse non est mihi, 
donee dicam, sat est ?" Will any 
one admit that after one has ac- 
quired the most perfect abstract 
knowledge of God he can say there 
is nothing more to be desired ? 

And will not this further desire 
which would be created in man, 
nay, this failing of satisfying fully 
and perfectly man's craving after 
infinite truth and goodness, imply 
pain and sadness and afford any- 
thing but happiness to the subject ? 
An abstract knowledge is necessa- 
rily and by its very nature progres- 
sive. It may be increased indefi- 
nitely ; until you perceive absolute 
truth and possess infinite goodness 
in their objective reality and es- 
sence, the knowledge of, and ten- 
dency towards, it must be contin- 
ually changing and progressing; and 
is not this change and progress op- 
posed to the third essential condi- 
tion of beatitude, that of stability, 
beatitude which is " interminabilis 
vitae perfecta possessio"? 

The fourth condition also de- 
mands the immediate vision and 
possession of absolute truth and 
goodness. Happiness must be ac- 
quired by the highest possible act 
of the specific faculties of a being. 
Now, will any one say that the 
highest possible act of the intellect 
is abstracting from an object that 
which it perceives as not agreeable 
to it ? The highest possible act of 
the intellect is intuition, vision, 
legere intus. Therefore, if the last 
end of man must be the highest act 
of his intelligence, it must be an 
act of intuition, an act which sees 



What was the Primitive State of Man f 



607 



the infinite essential reality. And 
with regard to the will, what would 
be the highest act of this faculty, in 
the opinion we are refuting ? Why, 
to grasp, to obtain, to embrace and 
possess nothing but an idea. What 
real, true communication would 
there be between the will and God? 
As God would not be present in 
his objective reality to the will, 
this faculty would only embrace an 
abstraction, an unreality, a chime- 
ra; and shall we call this the high- 
est act of man's will ? 

We conclude : In the opinion of 
our opponents God would have 
created man with an intelligence 
naturally craving after absolute real 
truth, with a will irresistibly and 
imperiously tending after real good- 
ness ; and this intelligence would 
have for its end nothing more than 
an abstract knowledge of him, such 
as it could gather from its fellow- 
creatures or from its own nature ; 
and this will would not really em- 
brace God in himself, but an idea of 
him, a shadow, a footprint; and they 
tell you that as such knowledge and 
such possession would be the real 
end of man, this knowledge would 
fully and perfectly satisfy the in- 
tellect and leave nothing to be de- 
sired ; it would make man perfect- 
ly happy with a happiness unmix- 
ed and free from all regret, all sad- 
ness, all privation, with a happiness 
absolutely constant and unchange- 
able ; that this will would bask and 
be filled and exhilarated in the em- 
brace of a shadow, a fiction, an 
unreality, a phantom. If our op- 
ponents, to build up their theory, 
would consent to reconsider the 
essential conditions of true beati- 
tude, if they were to say that true 
beatitude for man is a thing which 
cannot fully satisfy his yearnings, a 
beatitude which must necessarily 
be accompanied with regret and 



pain, a beatitude constantly chang- 
ing and varying, a beatitude to be 
acquired, not by the greatest act 
of his specific faculties, but by the 
lowest, then we could understand 
how an abstractive knowledge of 
God by the understanding, and fic- 
titious possession of God by the 
will, could be the natural end of 
man, his ultimate perfection; only 
in this supposition they would have 
to give satisfactory reasons for 
changing with regard to man those 
conditions which emanate from the 
very essence and metaphysical no- 
tion of happiness. But, after ad- 
mitting and defending those con- 
ditions as essential to beatitude, to 
assign for man an object which 
fails in every one of them, to ap- 
point for him an abstraction which 
could not be the natural end of 
any being, is the poorest specimen 
of logical reasoning we are acquaint- 
ed with, and a clear proof of how 
love of a system too often blinds 
the sharpest and keenest intellects. 
We conclude, therefore, in the words 
of St. Thomas: "It being impossi- 
ble that the natural desire should 
be void, which would be the case 
if it were not possible to attain to 
the intelligence of the divine sub- 
stance a thing which all minds na- 
turally desire we must admit that 
it is possible to see the divine sub- 
stance by intellect." * 

This opinion of the immediate 
vision and possession of God being 
the natural end of man will be 
strengthened by the answers we 
shall give to the objections of our 
opponents. 

The strongest objection which is 
brought forward against our opin- 



_ * Quum autem impossibile sit naturale deside- 
rium esse inane (quod quidein esset si noli csset 
possibile pervenire ad divinam substantiam in- 
telligendain^ quod naturaliter omnes mentes de- 
siderunt), necesse est dicere quod possibile est sub- 
stantiam Dei videre per intellectum. C. G., ch. li. 



6o8 



What was the Primitive State of Man f 



ion is as follows : There must be a 
proportion of nature between the 
faculties and forces of a being and 
the end which it is destined to at- 
tain. Now, it is admitted by those 
who hold that the immediate vision 
and possession of God is the na- 
tural end of man, that between 
man's faculties and forces and such 
an end there exists no such pro^ 
portion as they concede ; that man 
by his natural powers, unaided by 
God, cannot possibly attain his 
end. Therefore the immediate vi- 
sion and possession of God's es- 
sence cannot be the natural end of 
man. 

This objection, which seems so 
strong against our theory, vanishes 
the moment a little attention is 
paid to a distinction on the major 
of the syllogism. There must be 
a proportion of nature between the 
faculties and forces of a being 
and the end which it is destined 
to attain ; if the being has to attain 
its end by the exclusive unfolding 
of its own faculties and forces, we 
grant the major. There must be a 
proportion of nature between the 
faculties and forces of a being and 
its end ; if the end is to be attain- 
ed by communication with external 
objects, we deny that there should 
be a proportion of nature between 
them. There is no proportion of 
nature between man's faculties and 
forces and their end; we concede 
the minor and deny the conse- 
quence. 

Our adversaries make a great 
mistake in exacting a proportion 
of nature between the faculties and 
forces of a being and its end in all 
cases. This is only true when the 
being has to attain its end by the 
exclusive unfolding of itself and its 
faculties, if such a case ever existed, 
%f which we have grave doubts. 
But suppose the case to exist ; it is 



evident, then, by the very nature of 
the case, that there must be a pro- 
portion of nature between the fac- 
ulties and forces of a being and 
its ultimate end. Because by the 
supposition the end must be de- 
veloped, unfolded, drawn, as it were, 
from the bosom of the being and 
its faculties, and from them only, 
without any external aid. In such 
a case a proportion, if not an 
identity, of nature must exist be- 
tween the end of the being and its 
faculties and forces. If I unfold a 
spool of cotton, for instance, it is 
clear that the end of that spool will 
be cotton, and nothing more; it 
would be absurd to expect that, 
the whole spool being cotton, the 
end should be silk. This is what 
the German pantheists have done 
with regard to human science. 
They have rejected all external aid, 
all objective reality, and have 
striven to create science out of 
their own minds. What has been 
the consequence ? The result 
could be no better than the prem- 
ises ; by starting from an imaginary 
point they have arrived also at an 
imaginary end, a phantasmagoria 
of their brains. But the case is 
absolutely different when a being 
must acquire its end, not by the 
exclusive and solitary use of its 
own faculties, but by communing 
with an external object; in such a 
case no proportion of nature is 
necessary between the being and 
its faculties and the object the 
possession of which must form the 
final perfection of the being. A 
certain similitude, however faint, a 
vestige of likeness, between them is 
quite sufficient. If this proportion 
of nature were required between 
the forces of a being and its end, 
no being could attain its end. For 
instance, a plant, to attain its end, to 
reach its full growth, must suppose 



What was the Primitive State of Man ? 



6o 9 



the existence of a certain amount 
of earth from which to receive its 
food, also the existence of a certain 
amount of air, etc. Has the plant 
sufficient force in itself to procure 
these things ? They are indepen- 
dent of, and beyond the native 
force -of, the plant ; when it is put 
in contact with them it has native 
force in itself to attract them, but 
unless favored by circumstances 
the plant will remain sterile and 
will fail to attain its end. A sensi- 
tive being requires the existence of 
bodies and all those conditions 
necessary for sensation in order to 
attain its end. 

But can it by its own unaided 
forces control all these causes, the 
existence of bodies, the proper 
contact with them, etc.? Certainly 
not. Can we say, then, that neither 
the plant nor a sensitive being can 
tend to its own development, be- 
cause there is no proportion of 
nature between its forces and the 
existence of the objects neces- 
sary for that development and the 
favorable circumstances to bring it 
about ? And because the native 
force of the plant cannot control 
all the favorable circumstances 
necessary to the development of 
the plant, can we say that the lat- 
ter is not destined to rot in the 
earth, to send down roots, to grow 
into a trunk, to put forth flowers, to 
produce fruits? And because the 
animal by its forces cannot control 
all the favorable circumstances to 
procure sensation, shall we say that 
it is not destined to be sensitive ? 
When a being depends for the at- 
tainment of its end upon an exter- 
nal object, we cannot, by the ne- 
cessity of the case, expect to find a 
proportion of nature between the 
forces of the being and the end 
which it is destined to attain, other- 
wise all the different beings of 
VOL. xxix. 39 



creation would have to possess 
forces sufficient to control all 
created agencies that is, to pos- 
sess creative power. 

Now, applying these principles 
to man, it is evident that we could 
not expect any proportion of nature 
between his natural faculties and 
forces and the object which must 
form his final beatitude, which 
is no less than the Infinite, seen 
and possessed in the fulness of his 
objective reality. But because no 
proportion of nature can exist be- 
tween man's faculties and God, 
does it follow that naturally man's 
specific faculties do not tend to- 
wards him as infinite truth and 
mfinite goodness ? Assuredly not. 
Consequently from this want of 
proportion between man's native 
forces and their final object we 
cannot infer that man's end is not 
God, seen and possessed in himself. 
But we will turn the argument 
against our adversaries. They say 
the end of man consists in the ab- 
stractive knowledge and possession 
of God. Will they admit that man 
may arrive at this by his own un- 
aided forces, or that he could do 
so ? They must acknowledge that 
man should be placed in favorable 
circumstances to arrive at such a 
knowledge and possession cir- 
cumstances which are beyond 
his power; then even this end is 
above the reach of man's native 
forces, and consequently, if a pro- 
portion of nature is required be- 
tween the forces of a being and its 
end, man could not even attain to 
an abstract knowledge and posses- 
sion of God. 

It is also objected : Man can- 
not naturally tend towards an un- 
known object. But he cannot nat- 
urally know the essence of God, 
which is above the reach of the 
native force of his intellect. There- 



6io 



What was the Primitive State of Man ? 



fore he could naturally tend to the 
immediate vision of God's essence. 
Man cannot naturally tend toward 
an unknown object; if the object 
be so both generically and specifi- 
cally, we grant; if it is unknown only 
specifically, we deny the major. 
The minor also is to be distinguish- 
ed: Man does not know the essence 
of God specifically, we acknow- 
ledge it ; generically, we deny it. 
For instance, I know that in a cer- 
tain place there is a treasure hid- 
den, but am ignorant of what it is 
composed silver, gold, precious 
stones, or other material of val- 
ue. In consequence of this gen- 
eric knowledge of the existence 
and properties of this treasure, caA 
I not tend towards its acquisition, 
or must I wait till I ascertain what 
is the precise and specific quality 
of its nature ? The same thing 
must be said in our case. By 
means of the generic knowledge 
which man possesses of the objec- 
tive reality of God's essence, and 
of the particular properties which 
must necessarily determine it, he 
may easily tend towards it not only 
as it presents itself to him under 
its generic aspect, but also as it 
exists in itself. 

Finally, it is objected : Admit- 
ting once that the natural end of 
man is the immediate vision and 
possession of God's essence, these 
consequences would follow : ist. 
That the supernatural state to 
which, as we shall see, man Was 
raised by God would not be a gift 
and a privilege but a natural con- 
dition of man, because it was ne- 
cessary in order that man might at- 
tain his natural end. 2d. That 
God could not have created man 
as he is born now deprived of the 
supernatural state. 

But both these propositions have 
been condemned by the church 



when it condemned Bains' propo- 
sitions, which amount to those two 
consequences. Therefore the sys- 
tem which necessarily leads to those 
two propositions must be false. 

In answer to this objection we 
shall first lay down the different 
meanings which the word natural 
may have in theology ; 2d, we shall 
explain in what senses those two 
propositions were condemned ; 3d, 
we shall show in what sense the 
supernatural state must be said to 
be necessary in our system. 

Now, in the first place, the word 
natural may have the following 
senses : ist, we may call natural 
what we bring with us from our 
birth ; 2d, that which is agreeable 
to our nature that is to say, that 
which does not destroy our nature, 
but adorns and beautifies it ; 3d, 
that which, though a free gift of 
God, yet aids and perfects our na- 
ture even in its own natural opera- 
tions; 4th, that which constitutes 
our nature, or part of it, or follows 
from it as an effect from its cause, 
in which sense the soul, the body, 
the faculties of intelligence and of 
feeling, are said to be natural as 
forming our nature, or a necessary 
constituent of it. 

Now, as to the propositions of 
Baius ; he held that the supernatural 
state was natural in the fourth 
sense that is, it was a necessary 
part, an element, a constituent of 
human nature, something due to 
man by strict right; and under- 
stood in this sense, his system was 
false and deserving of condemna- 
tion. But it was condemned only 
in that sense, and no other. 

On the contrary, when we hold 
that the supernatural state was 
necessary we by no means imply 
that it was a necessary element of 
human nature or a thing to which 
man had any right. We simply 



The Sainte Baume. 



611 



contend that God having created 
man for an end which could not 
be attained without supernatural 
means, it behoved his providence 
to furnish him with such means. 
God owed the supernatural state 
not to man, but to his own divine 
attributes of wisdom, of goodness, 
and of providence. Absolutely 
speaking, God could have left man 
without supernatural means for 
his nature and faculties, and what- 
ever imperfect happiness he could 



have acquired by his unaided ener- 
gies were already too great a boon 
for man to complain had he been left 
to his nature. But what God did 
not owe to man he owed to himself 
as a most perfect agent, as a most 
wise, supremely good provisor, who 
would not leave his intelligent 
creatures without enabling them to 
satisfy the craving he had implant- 
ed in their breast of basking in the 
light of his countenance and of 
drinking of the torrents of his bliss. 



THE SAINTE BAUME. 

Haec est ilia femina 
Cujus cuncta crimina 
Ad Christi vestigia 
Ejus lavit gratia. 

A ncient Liturgy of A uck. 



THE Sainte Baume * is a famous 
mountain cave about twenty miles 
north of Toulon, in which, accord- 
ing to one of the oldest traditions 
of Provence, the last days of the 
contemplative Magdalene were 
consumed in ecstasy and prayer. 
Every one is familiar with that 
most beautiful of Christian legends 
which brings the family of Bethany 
to the shores of southern France, 
where Lazarus puts on the mitre 
and wins the crown of martyrdom, 
Martha founds her choir of virgins, 
and Magdalene, after aiding them 
in the overthrow of idolatry, re- 
tires into the cleft of a lofty moun- 
tain rent asunder at the awful mo- 
ment of the Crucifixion, and there, 
as Lacordaire says, resumes her 
converse with Christ, broken off at 
the Holy Sepulchre. As for the 
latter, you can scarcely take a sin- 

* From the Provengal word Baoumo, signifying 
cave or grotto. 



gle step in Provence without com- 
ing upon her traces. Her memory 
covers that .poetic land like the 
cloud of silvery olives that wave 
and shimmer over the dreamy 
plains, pale and pensive with their 
sacred shades as she who conse- 
crated them by her hermit life. 
There is the village of the Saintes 
Maries on the shore of the Ca- 
margue where she landed; the church 
of the Majour at Marseilles, on the 
site of the old temple of Diana, 
where she preached to the people; 
the hollow rock in the crypt of St. 
Victor that was once her oratory ; 
the Aigalades a few miles from the 
city, and the Baume of Belon in 
the environs of Gemenos, where 
she essayed the solitary life, but 
found them too near the haunts of 
mankind ; the chapel of St. Sauveur 
at Aix (or the spot where it once 
stood) in which she prayed with St. 
Maximin ; the road near Toulon 



612 



The Sainte Baume. 



still called by the peasants lou camin 
roitmiou de Santo Magdaleno the 
pilgrim road of the holy Magda- 
lene ; and the grand basilica at St. 
Maximin that contains her alabas- 
ter tomb. 

The great Nostradamus, in his 
Chronique de Provence, says that 
Magdalene, " after converting the 
duke and all the people of Mar- 
seilles to the faith, went to seclude 
herself at Baulne in the hollow of 
a rock that has since become cele- 
brated, having been rendered holy 
and venerable to devout and peni- 
tent souls by the thirty years that 
this tant belle et illustre gentilfame 
spent there in penitence, concern- 
ing which we once wrote a poem, 
in days when the Muses were favor- 
able to us, that was not perhaps 
unpleasing or of too common a 
vein." 

No place of pilgrimage in France 
has ever been more popular than 
the wild solitude of the Sainte 
Baume, perhaps because filled with 
that sublime, ineffable melancholy 
so attractive to the religious heart. 
Multitudes came here in the mid- 
dle ages to weep and pray in a 
spot consecrated by tradition to 
repentance. Here kings have 
knelt, and queens kissed the rock 
once wet by tears of love and peni- 
tence tears whose source seems 
dried up for us who only know the 
sterile tears of earthly woe. Those 
who have crushed " that flower of 
the virginal heart that never blooms 
but once " have come here to pray 
where she by penance and perse- 
vering prayer regained the purity 
of childhood who was the first to 
penetrate the scheme of divine 
mercy the first, says St, Chrysos- 
tom, to beg the cure of her soul. 

Petrarch, who visited the Sainte 
Baume more than once, says in his 
De Vita Solitaria, dedicated to 



Cardinal de Cabassole : " Escaping 
from her country, and transported 
into this region as into another 
world, she henceforth led a hidden 
life, having for her abode this rock 
hollow and bare which you have 
doubtless seen, as it is by no means 
distant. It is a sacred, venerable 
spot worthy of a journey from afar. 
I remember going there often in 
former times, and spending three 
days and three nights, experienc- 
ing joys very different from those' 
tasted in populous cities." 

The life of the great penitent 
here has always been a favorite 
subject among artists. Who that 
has seen it can ever forget the soft 
grace and pensive beauty of Magda- 
lene in her cave as painted by 
Battoni in the gallery at Dresden, 
her drooping head raised from the 
ground to read the book lying 
before her ? 

" The dark, o'erhanging rocks, the long, fair hair, 
The delicate white skin, the azure robe, 
The full, luxuriant life, the grim death's head, 
The tender womanhood, and the great book," 

are all brought here into sweetest 
harmony. In the background, 
through the low entrance, you 
catch a glimpse, as through a tun- 
nel, of the golden air without, that 
contrasts with the dark, shaggy 
cave, only lit up by the radiance 
of Magdalene's beauty and the rip- 
pling waves of her golden hair. 

And in the Royal Gallery at 
Madrid there is a painting by 
Claude Lorraine in which she is 
kneeling at the foot of a cross set 
up among umbrageous cliffs over 
which dash foaming cascades, and 
through an opening in the great 
forest trees you look off into a 
sunny valley bounded by moun- 
tains, with the towers of a city in 
the distance lit up as with the re- 
membrance of past pleasures. The 
faultless perspective, the harmony 



The Saint e Baume. 



6i 3 






of coloring, the happy gradation of 
lights and shadows giving brilliancy 
to the heavens and coolness to the 
leafy recess, and the moral beauty 
of the motif, covering the landscape 
as with the golden mist peculiar to 
the painter, make it one of his 
chefs-d'oeuvre. 

But what Christian artist is there 
of any age who has not painted 
Magdalene not only as the most 
beautiful of women, but the most 
touching of penitents? Every in- 
cident in her life, so full of' pic- 
turesque capabilities, glows on can- 
vas. Even the countless legends, 
so full of poetry, that have grown 
out of her history have been con- 
secrated by art, if not absolutely 
sanctioned by the church. At 
Florence there is the secluded Ri- 
nuccini chapel in the church of 
Santa Croce, where her whole legend 
has been painted on the walls by 
Giovanni da Milano, the favorite 
pupil of Taddeo Gaddi, to whom the 
series was long attributed. We find 
it also told in several other churches 
of Italy, and still more in detail in 
some of the stained-glass windows 
of France, particularly at Auxerre. 

Mediaeval legends represent St. 
Mary Magdalene as of royal blood 
through her mother, Eucharia, who 
was of the line of David. The 
name of her father is uncertain, 
but she and Martha and Lazarus 
seem to have had different fathers, 
from whom they inherited great 
wealth. Martha had the estate at 
Bethany, Lazarus a great number 
of houses at Jerusalem, and Mary 
the chateau of Magdalen, from 
which she derived her surname, on 
the shore of the Sea of Galilee. 
The recollection of this chateau 
has not entirely died out of the 
land. An old voyageur of the 
seventeenth century tells how, when 
travelling along this sea, the Arabs 



pointed out some ruins known to 
them as the tour de t amour eux. 
Lazarus was a soldier, and, to use 
the language of mediaeval writers, 
trained to the practices of chival- 
ry,* and Martha, aided by Mar- 
cella, administered not only to the 
wants of the poor but the necessi- 
ties of the knights, while Mary by 
her resplendent beauty was led 
away and acquired the sinister 
name of the pecker esse. Raphael 
represents Martha leading her sis- 
ter to the Saviour up a flight of 
steps, where he sits in a grand por- 
tico talking to the people; but a 
Syrian tradition says this first in- 
terview took place beside a well at 
Bethany where Martha herself first 
met him, and for this reason 'is 
still called Martha's Well. Near 
by is an oblong, black-and-white 
stone, called the Stone of the Col- 
loquy, where he awaited Mary, of 
whom Martha had gone in search. 
This stone, from the remains 
around it, appears to have been 
formerly enclosed in a chapel, and 
it is still in veneration among pil- 
grims, who carry away portions of 
it as relics. 

Franceschini has painted Mag- 
dalene pale and faint from remorse, 
surrounded by holy women, her 
jewels, which she has cast for ever 
away, scattered over the ground. 
In the Rinuccini chapel she is 
prostrate before Christ, her robe 
red, corresponding with her fervid 
nature, her hair falling over- her 
shoulders, and the seven devils fly- 
ing away under the form of black 
monsters. A little further on she 
is sitting calmly at his feet, while 
Martha is reprovingly pointing to 
the kitchen, where St. Marcella is 
to be seen cooking with a nimbus 
around her head. 

* So Dante, in this same spirit, alludes to the 
lance used by Judas in tilting. 



614 



The Sainte Baume. 



After Magdalene's conversion 
she followed Christ with Susanna, 
Joanna Chuza (the wife of Herod's 
steward), and other holy women 
who ministered to the wants of him 
and his disciples. The facility 
with which she entered the house 
of Simon the leper makes it easy to 
accept the old tradition that he 
was her uncle, or at least a near 
relative. In Niccolo Frumenti's 
picture in the Uffizi gallery, Judas, 
with a livid, pinched, Calvinistic 
face, looks askance with a sneer- 
ing, villanous expression at the 
wealth of perfume Magdalene is 
pouring out on the Saviour's feet. 
It was in memory of this holy pro- 
digality the popes of the middle 
ages used to distribute more abun- 
dant alms to the poor of Christ on 
the eve of Palm Sunday. 

At the foot of the cross Magda- 
lene gathered up some of the earth 
wet with the most precious Blood, 
and put it into a vial, which she 
henceforth carried about with her, 
and which became celebrated in 
Provence under the name of the 
Sainte Ampoule. 

An Oriental tradition says that 
after the ascension of Christ she 
spent seven years in attendance 
on Our Lady, and seven as a re- 
cluse at Bethany in a cell suppos- 
ed to be part of Lazarus' tomb, 
where Martha conveyed her food 
through an opening. At any rate, 
she is believed to have come to 
Provence about fourteen years after 
the Ascension. Never was bark so 
freighted as that which the Jews 
set afloat without oars or sail or 
rudder, for it was freighted with 
saints. Some think Lazarus, who 
was the first bishop of Cyprus, did 
not come till a little later. But in 
the vessel were Martha and her 
servant Marcella, Magdalene and 
the Holy Maries, St. Trophime the 



apostle of Aries, St. Parmenas the 
deacon, St. Sidonius, and among 
others some say was Joseph of 
Arimathea. St. Maxirnin, one of 
the seventy-two disciples, was at 
the head. They brought with 
them many precious relics from the 
East, among others the remains of 
St. Anne, whose shrine became so 
famous at Apt.* An angel and 
no wonder! guided the bark 
across the azure sea, through the 
golden isles, to the seven-mouthed 
Rhone, to a land which by the soft- 
ness of the air, the eternal smile of 
the sun, the luxuriance of its val- 
leys, the perfume of its thyme-cov- 
ered hills, was worthy, O Magda- 
lene ! to receive thee into the bosom 
of its mountains, worthy to embalm 
thy memory for ever. 

When this shipload of saints sep- 
arated on the shore of the Ca- 
margue the family of Bethany first 
went to Marseilles. But here they 
could find no one who would re- 
ceive them into their household. 
So they took refuge in the portico 
of the temple of Diana, and when 
people came to sacrifice to the idols 
the compassion of the devout Mag- 
dalene was so stirred that she soft- 
ly rose, and with a joyous face and 
ready-speaking tongue began to 
preach Christ and dissuade them 
from the worship of idols. And 
they were all amazed at her beauty, 
wit, and fair speech, though it is 
not to be marvelled at that the lips 
which had once piously kissed the 
feet of the Lord Jesus should utter 
his praises better than any other. 
Among them came the king of 
Marseilles to sacrifice to the god- 
dess, he and the queen, that they 
might have progeny, and Mary 
Magdalene reproved them for so 
doing. King Rene of Anjou has 
painted this scene : Magdalene on 

* Louis XI. used to swear by St. Anne of Apt. 



The Saint e Baume* 



6i 5 



the steps in white drapery, and 
among her hearers Rene and Je- 
anne de Laval, asKingand Queen of 
Marseilles, sitting on their thrones, 
with crowns on their heads and 
sceptres in their hands. 

The following night Magdalene 
appeared to the queen in a vision 
and said : " Thou who hast such 
great riches, why dost thou leave 
the Lord's poor to perish of hunger 
and cold?" The queen feared to 
make this vision known to her lord. 
And the second^night Magdalene 
appeared again, adding menaces if 
she did not admonish the king to 
come to the relief of the poor. 
Still the queen could not find cour- 
age to utter a word. Then the 
third time, in the darkness of the 
night, Magdalene appeared to the 
king and queen both, with a face of 
fire and wrath on her brow, and 
said : " Sleepest thou, tyrant and 
limb of thy father the devil, with 
thy wife, the serpent, who has not 
been willing to deliver thee my 
message ? Reposest thou, enemy 
of the cross, who hast the gluttony 
of thy belly satisfied with divers 
meats, while thou lettest perish the 
saints of God with hunger? Liest 
thou in thy palace wrapped in cov- 
erings of silk, after seeing them 
without housing and comforts, and 
passing to one side ? Thou shalt 
not escape thus, felon. Thou shalt 
not go unpunished as to that which 
thou hast so longed for." And 
having spoken these words, she 
vanished. 

At this the queen awoke and 
gave a deep sigh. And the king, 
for a like reason, groaned and trem- 
bled. And shl said to him : " Sire, 
hast thou also beheld the vision ?" 
" I have/' he answered, " and I am 
astonished and afraid. What shall 
we do?" And the queen said: 
" It would be more profitable to 



obey than to bring on ourselves the 
anger of the God she preaches." 
And they received the strangers 
under their own roof, and minister- 
ed to their wants. In a window at 
Auxerre they are on their way to 
the palace, Martha carrying the 
Gospel in Hebrew which she had 
brought with her from Jerusalem. 

As the blessed Magdalene was 
preaching one day the king said 
to her : " Art thou able to give 
proofs of the law thou proclaim- 
est ?" And she answered : " Yea, 
I am ready to prove it, as the 
preaching of our master, St. Peter, 
who sitteth in the chair at Rome, is 
daily confirmed by miracles." To 
which the prince said : " I and my 
wife are ready to obey thee in all 
things if thou canst obtain us a 
son by the power of the God thou 
declarest." And the blessed Mag- 
dalene prayed the Lord that he 
would vouchsafe to give them a 
son. And her prayers were heard, 
and the queen conceived. 

Some time after the king re- 
solved to set forth for Rome to 
visit St. Peter, and find out if all 
that he had been told by Magda- 
lene was true. The queen deter- 
mined to accompany him, in spite 
of his warnings as to the perils of 
the sea. She threw herself at his 
feet, and by her entreaties obtained 
his consent. The sisters of Betha- 
ny, as is to be seen in the window 
at Auxerre, went down to the ship 
with them. Magdalene fastened a 
cross on their breasts, and the ves- 
sel set sail. After a day and a 
night had passed away a terrible 
storm arose, and the queen in her 
terror brought forth her child and 
immediately died. The sailors 
wished to cast her body into the 
sea, hoping by this means to ap- 
pease the storm ; but the king wrung 
his hands in despair, and by his 



6i6 



TJie Sainte Baume. 



prayers prevailed on them to stop 
at a desert isle, where he laid the 
body on the shore wrapped in a 
mantle. Under it he also left his 
infant son, that he might not have 
the grief of seeing it die for want 
of nourishment. While so doing 
he gave utterance to sad sighs and 
complaints against the saint : " O 
Mary Magdalene! to my grief and 
sorrow didst thou come to Mar- 
seilles. Why pray thy God to give 
me a son that I might lose it and 
my wife also in giving it birth ? O 
Mary Magdalene ! take pity on my 
grief, and at least save the life of 
my child." And so saying, he went 
away weeping. 

At length he arrives at Rome, 
and St. Peter, meeting him by 
chance in the streets, sees the cross 
on his breast and enters into con- 
versation with him. He learns his 
misfortunes, and assures him God 
is powerful enough to restore what 
he has lost. Then he conducts 
him to Jerusalem and shows him 
the places where our Lord wrought 
his miracles, the mount on which 
he was crucified, the tomb in which 
he was buried, and the spot from 
which he ascended to heaven in 
all about fourscore places. After 
spending two years and upwards 
with St. Peter to be fully instruct- 
ed in the faith, the king embarks 
for Marseilles. Coming to the isl- 
and where he left his wife and 
child, he lands to weep over their 
remains. He sees a boy on the 
shore playing with the pebbles and 
shells. It is his own son, whose 
life has been preserved by the 
blessed Magdalene. The child 
runs and hides himself in the folds 
of his mother's cloak. The king 
follows, and is amazed to find her 
as fresh as if alive, and still more 
so when she opens her eyes and 
stretches forth her hands to him, as 



is to be seen in the Rinuccini cha- 
pel. She tells, him how, while lie 
was visiting the Holy Places with 
St. Peter, Magdalene took her like- 
wise to Jerusalem, and she enters 
into a description of the places she 
has seen, which the king recognizes 
the truth of. They offer thanks to 
God, and joyfully set sail for Mar- 
seilles, where they find that Mag- 
dalene's preaching has induced the 
people to abandon the worship of 
the false gods aiTd overthrow their 
altars. She baptizes them, or, ac- 
cording to others, St. Maximin 
does. 

This legend is given in substance 
by Bernard de la Guionie in his 
Speculum Sanctorale, and by Cardi- 
nal de Cabassole, the friend of Pe- 
trarch, who was chancellor of King 
Robert of Sicily and one of the 
regents during the minority of Jo- 
anna I. It is one of those wild 
flowers of legendary origin that the 
church has allowed to bloom un- 
checked in its garden, and even to 
beautify its temples, as it allows 
the wild vines to grace their vene- 
rable walls. 

Humanly speaking, it is not 
strange the family of Bethany 
should come to Provence when 
they escaped from the persecution 
of the Jews. All along the Rhone 
were towns of Phocaean origin. 
Marseilles was a port with vessels 
from every part of the Mediterra- 
nean, and was specially linked with 
the East. The language, customs, 
and religion of the people all sa- 
vored of their origin. Diana was 
as great here as at Ephesus, where 
Magdalene had lived with Our 
Lady. And it was to no land of 
barbarians they came, like the rude 
countries of the north. At the be- 
ginning of the Christian era it had 
been a Roman province for a hun- 
dred years, and possessed the com- 



The Sainte Baume. 



bined culture of Greece and Rome. 
The universal love of the drama is 
shown by the ruins of the immense 
theatres, like that at Aries. And 
all the remains of Roman times to 
be seen, not only in that city but 
at Nimes, Orange, etc., are proofs 
of their cultivated taste remains, 
as Lacordaire says, " worthy of 
that power which refused no one a 
part in her grandeur, because she 
had enough for the whole uni- 
verse." It is impossible that the 
remembrance of those who first 
brought the Gospel to so enlighten- 
ed a shore should ever die out, 
even though the national archives 
were repeatedly swept away in the 
devastations of the Saracens. It 
is the people, above all, who have 
preserved their memory. When 
Zwinglius, renewing the impieties 
of Celsus, demanded the abolition 
of the homage rendered Magdalene 
and the destruction of her altars ; 
when Calvin ridiculed the account 
of her emigration to Provence, and 
her identity with the sister of Mar- 
tha, as an invention of the monks, 
the people resisted the attempt to 
uproot their most ancient tradi- 
tions, linked with the very origin 
of all that was to them sacred. 
And they applauded the numerous 
refutations, among which was the 
triumphant apology of the learned 
Bishop Fisher, of Rochester, Eng- 
land, written at the request of the 
faculty of Paris. And when that 
faculty condemned the distinction 
between her and Mary of Bethany, 
they welcomed the decree with en- 
thusiasm. Particular churches, like 
those of Auch and Cologne, sang : 
"This is the woman who of all 
her crimes at Christ's feet was 
cleansed by grace." 

When the Revolution overthrew 
the altars of Magdalene, the people, 
as soon as the storm was past, went 



to pray amid their ruins, and testi- 
fied their opinion by flocking to 
the Sainte Baume in thousands. 

It was M. de Launoy, the deni- 
cheur des saints, who gave the great- 
est blow to the old traditions of 
France, but a great reaction has 
taken place, and many able writers 
have come to the support of the 
old landmarks. M. Faillon, above 
all, has triumphantly established 
the traditions of Provence, and 
published the life of St. Mary Mag- 
dalene as written by Raban Maur, 
a monk-of Fulda in the ninth cen- 
tury, who became archbishop of 
Mayence a work that had lain 
hidden for ages in the library at 
Oxford, founded on one of far old- 
er date. The Sainte Baume has 
been restored to the Dominicans, 
and, difficult as it is of access, has 
never been more frequented. 

In the summer there is a regular 
communication established between 
Marseilles and the Sainte Baume 
to facilitate pilgrimages, but as 
they cease early in the autumn on 
account of the cold weather on the 
mountain (there is even an abun- 
dance of snow in the winter), we 
found they were already over when 
we went in the middle of October 
to the Dominican convent at Mar- 
seilles to ascertain the best means 
of reaching the Holy Cave. In 
accordance with the directions 
very kindly given, we left the city 
at a quarter to seven in the morn- 
ing by the railway to Toulon. At 
Aubagne we changed cars for Au- 
riol, where we found a diligence 
for St. Zacharie, a small town at 
the foot of the mountain of the 
Sainte Baume. We arrived at this 
village about ten o'clock, and, after 
ordering a carriage to ascend the 
mountain, went through the long 
line of plane-trees to the grim old 
church to see the Virgin's slipper, 






6i8 



The Sainte Baume. 



from which the town derives its 
arms. In half an hour we had left 
the olives and vines behind, and 
were ascending craggy heights 
among low bushes and stunted 
pines. Queens and princes of the 
olden time used often to make the 
ascent on foot, like St. Louis of 
Toulouse and his sisters Mary, 
Queen of Majorca, and the Prin- 
cess Beatrice, Marchioness of Este. 
While Magdalen lived on the moun- 
tain it is said no human being was 
ever able to go up. As soon as 
any one attempted it his limbs 
were seized with trembling, and 
his heart so failed him for fear 
that he was unable to proceed. 
But as soon as he turned back all 
his strength returned. 

The way soon becomes very pic- 
turesque, winding as it does around 
the edge of the mountain ridges, 
and it is a pleasure to go slowly 
along, looking down the steep pre- 
cipices at the left, now into the 
dry bed of a winter torrent, and 
again into tangled thickets parch- 
ed and dreary. It is no longer the 
fair Provence of the pleasure-lov- 
ing trouvere, but a wild, rugged 
mountain suited to stern, austere 
natures. Between one and two 
o'clock we came out of the narrow 
passes on to a high tableland, bare 
and desolate at first, but with a 
dense forest beyond, out of which 
rises a lofty ridge of solid rock, 
gray and utterly devoid of vegeta- 
tion. In its side, not towards the 
sea but to the north, is Magdalene's 
cave. Half way up we could see, 
like a nest on a perilous crag, the 
white hermitage of the Domini- 
cans that stands on the terrace 
beside the Sainte Baume, and on 
the very top of the ridge, against 
the clear heavens, the tiny chapel of 
the Saint Pilon. Just this side of 
the forest we drew up before a hos- 



pice for pilgrims. A Dominican 
lay brother ushered us in with a 
wintry smile, telling us the last pil- 
grim had left that very morning. 
We were not sorry. Utter solitude 
seemed more in harmony with the 
place. We wished to wander alone 
through the dark forest, to find 
ourselves alone in the holy cave, 
and climb the bleak heights of the 
Saint Pilon with no human voice to 
disturb our recollections. 

The hospice is divided by a cha- 
pel. Men are lodged on one side 
and women on the other. The 
latter are served by tertiary sisters 
of St. Dominic, who only remain 
here during the season, and then 
go down to their convent in the 
valley for the winter. The cham- 
bers are like cells and named for 
the saints. They are paved with 
tiles, and have two chairs, a deal 
table and an iron bedstead, a cru- 
cifix instead of a mirror, and three 
nails on the wall. In former times 
no meat was ever served on the 
holy mount, but, though the rule is 
mitigated to 'suit the degenerate 
times, the bill of fare requires no 
profound consideration. As soon 
as we had dined we set out for the 
cave. The way lies through the 
wood, which is only a portion of 
the ancient forest of the Sainte 
Baume, once held so sacred that 
the kings of France forbade its 
being profaned under the most se- 
vere penalties. It consists of great 
oaks, yews, hollies, etc., the boles 
of which are covered with moss 
and ivy, and it is delightful to fol- 
low the winding paths full of fresh- 
ness and religious gloom, like the 
contemplative aisles of a vast tem- 
ple. There are very few birds, 
owing to the coolness and dense 
shade. The only thing to be heard 
was the autumn wind, that on the 
bare plain swept so wildly along, 



The Sainte Baume. 



619 



but here sighed slowly, plaintive- 
ly through the forest. Here and 
there are great boulders by the 
way, covered with moss and lich- 
ens. There is nothing ferocious or 
venomous no serpents, or scorpi- 
ons, or noxious insects. Like the 
isles of Lerins from the time of St. 
Honorat, every pernicious reptile 
disappeared from the mountain at 
the coming of Magdalene. Here 
and there we came to one of the 
half-ruined oratories built by John 
Ferrier, one of the old archbishops 
of Aries, a Spaniard by birth, who 
had a great love for the solitary life. 
There were once seven of these 
small vaulted czdiculce with bas-re- 
liefs telling the wondrous history 
of Magdalene. In the fourth the 
donatore had himself represented 
in a suppliant attitude beside Mag- 
dalene at the foot of the cross. In 
the seventh she was landing mi- 
raculously in Provence. 

In three-quarters of an hour we 
came to the foot of the cliff. It is 
an enormous ridge of calcareous 
rock that rises perpendicularly hun- 
dreds of feet up. The wildness of 
this solitary spot must once have 
been appalling. It still produces 
a profound impression. Before 
steps were cut in the rock to enable 
pilgrims to reach the cave it must 
have been so nearly inaccessible that 
we may readily believe the legend 
that angels had to transport the holy 
penitent thither. Now there are 
two paths. That to the left winds 
up to the Saint Pilon. The right- 
hand path leads to a small shelf or 
terrace in front of the Holy Cave, 
overlooking an awful precipice. 
On one side are some waiting- 
rooms for pilgrims, and on the 
other a small house embedded in 
the side of the cliff for the fathers 
who serve the cave. 

The original entrance to the 



Sainte Baume has been filled up by 
a wall, through which windows and 
a door have been cut. We were 
surprised to find the interior so 
spacious. It rounds up like a 
dome, and produces something of 
the impression of the Pantheon at 
Rome. It is one of nature's own 
temples, and has a stern grandeur 
about it that is truly imposing. 
There was not a person in it when 
we entered, and coming up out of 
the gloom of the sacred wood into 
this legendary cave, so silent and 
peaceful, the heart is at once dis- 
posed to prayer and contemplation. 
Ferns and mosses grow on the gray 
walls, and a coolness, as of running 
waters, pervades the air. The sun 
only enters once a year on the 
24th of June, towards night. 
It never strikes the terrace from 
the middle of October till the last 
of February, andj the remainder of 
the year only for an hour in the 
afternoon. The perpetual dimness 
of the cave is only relieved by the 
lamps that burn here and there 
with a pale, steady light as in a 
sepulchre. The only sound is the 
melancholy dropping of water from 
the walls, falling slowly, drop by 
drop, like the tears of the penitent 
Magdalene. The main altar, which 
is nearly in the middle of the cave, 
is protected from the dampness by 
a baldacchino. The tabernacle is 
veiled in white silk, as in Italy, and 
over it is a statue of Magdalene 
with her vase. Behind the altar is 
a high rock in the shape of a tomb, 
where not a drop of water falls. 
Here Magdalene gave herself up 
to tears and contemplation before 
a cross on which an angel had 
graven the mysteries of Christ's 
life and passion, sometimes on her 
knees, sometimes reclining as she is 
represented in a statue on the rock. 
This rock is called the Sainte Peni- 



620 



The Saint e Baume. 



tence, and has always been special- 
ly honored by pilgrims. Robert, 
King of Sicily, had it in 1337 sur- 
rounded by an iron grille, and ap- 
pointed four priests to serve the 
grotto and sing the praises of God, 
in memory of the four angels who 
sang hymns in their visits to the 
blessed Magdalene. Over the 
door of the Sainte Penitence were 
the words : Adorabimus in loco ubi 
steterunt pedes ejus> alluding to our 
Saviour's appearing personally to 
Magdalene, the legend says, ten 
times. Within burned twenty-one 
silver lamps, given by princes, 
around her pale marble statue of 
exquisite workmanship, and near 
by stood the statues of Louis XI. 
and Charlotte of Savoy, set up by 
the order of that king. A great 
quantity of jewels were suspended 
around, stripped off by those de- 
termined to renounce the vanities 
of the world. The walls of the 
whole cave were lined with inscrip- 
tions and ex-votos, and from the 
top hung one of those stuffed 
crocodiles so often to be seen in 
old churches of the south perhaps 
the offering of some traveller or 
seaman. The riches of the grotto 
became an object of temptation to 
robbers, and there were outworks 
and a crenellated wall in the mid- 
dle ages to defend the place. 

The years Magdalene spent in 
the Sainte Baume are said to have 
equalled in number those Christ 
spent on earth. Here she lived 
the life of a disembodied spirit, 
requiring no earthly sustenance. 
Seven times a day the angels bore 
her to the summit of the mountain 
to participate in the divine praises. 
When her clothes fell to pieces her 
hair grew still more luxuriant and 
covered her like a mantle of gold. 
She found the cave at her com- 
ing inhabited by a great dragon 



of horrid aspect and fetid breath, 
that was ready to devour her. 
She cried to heaven, and the 
archangel Michael descended to 
deliver her and drove the mon- 
ster to the shores of the Rhone, 
where it was slain by St. Martha. 
Then Magdalene prayed that water 
might spring from the arid rock, 
and the sides of the cavern opened 
and gave forth a pure fountain, 
still to be seen behind the Sainte 
Penitence. Going one day to the 
spring to bathe her tear-stained 
face, Christ appeared to her, re- 
splendent as on Mount Thabor. 
Her eyes could not bear the sight. 
Angels were around him bearing 
crowns of flowers, palms, and 
branches of olives. He said to 
her : u Mary, it was for thee I 
prepared this place." But let us 
give the account of her life here 
as related by an Italian merchant 
who visited the Sainte Baume in 
1370, and at his return described 
all he had seen in Tuscan verse 
an account everywhere redolent of 
the poetry and mysticism of the 
middle ages. Among other things 
he speaks of a curious revelation 
made in his hearing by a Dominican 
friar called Frere Elie, who had 
spent eighty-six years at the Sainte 
Baume. Borne in the arms of his 
brethren into the midst of the pil- 
grims on the eve of their departure, 
this helpless old man, whose tongue 
alone retained the power of motion, 
saluted them cordially, and then 
said to those who bore him : "Place 
me on my seat, for to-day I will 
reveal the secrets of God I have 
hitherto kept to myself." What he 
called his seat was the holy rock 
of Penitence on which St. Mary 
Magdalene was accustomed to pass 
the night. When placed on his 
seat Frere Elie spoke as follows 
to the pilgrims who gathered around 



The Sainte Bauwe* 



621 



him, profoundly moved at his 
venerable aspect : 

" My children, the time has come. 
The hour of death is at hand. 
Listen, therefore, to what I have to 
relate to the glory of the blessed 
Magdalene, and for the amend- 
ment of your lives. 

" When, eighty-six years ago, I re- 
tired into this wilderness among 
the rocks to serve Mary Magdalene, 
I was at first seized with utter dis- 
couragement. I had not been here 
a month before I was filled with re- 
gret and began to think of mak- 
ing my escape. One night, while 
plunged in agony of soul, I saw the 
cliff open in the form of a cross, and 
the four quarters of the globe were 
revealed to my eyes. Above were 
the open heavens, and at my feet was 
an abyss. Terrified, I fell to the 
ground, and remained for a time 
deprived of my senses. Having by 
degrees recovered, I cried with all 
my heart for Magdalene to come to 
my siiccor. She immediately ap- 
peared with a face so radiant as to 
blind me to everything else. Her 
unbound hair fell loosely around her 
and covered her entire form. But 
her arms were bare and her feet hid- 
den among garlands of flowers. 
* Inconstant and unprofitable ser- 
vant,' said she, * it was on thy ac- 
count this rock opened and I have 
appeared. I can, if such be thy 
will, bring peace to thy soul. Thou 
hast thought of leaving my service. 
Listen to my words, and afterwards 
thou shalt do thine own pleasure. 
" * We came, several of us, you 
know, from Jerusalem to Marseilles, 
thrown into a vessel and abandoned 
to the mercy of God. Marseilles re- 
ceived us and embraced the faith of 
Christ, as well as most of the coun- 
try around. Such was the consid- 
eration with which we were soon 
egarded that I became troubled, 



re 



and began to think of flying from 
all commerce with mankind. An 
inspiration from heaven led me to 
this cavern. I was hardly here 
before I perceived in the obscurity 
an enormous serpent of which noth- 
ing can express the hideous aspect. 
It was a dragon. At the sight of 
me it rose up, and its hissing 
aroused an innumerable number of 
serpents of all kinds, that darted to 
and fro, their eyes fixed on me with 
fury. But the dragon surpassed 
them all. He caused me such ter- 
ror that I, who did not fear death, 
did not venture to look at him. 
" Jesus, my God ! " I cried, " if thou 
come not to my aid I shall be de- 
voured or die of terror." At that 
moment the dragon, lowering its 
head, sprang forward, beating its 
wings and opening its enormous 
mouth. It seized me. I was be- 
tween its jaws. But my trust in 
God did not abandon me. I could 
not utter a word, but I cried with 
confidence in the depths of my 
heart: "Jesus, after overwhelming 
me with benefits, wilt thou leave 
me in this wilderness to be devour- 
ed by a serpent ?" Flying from 
heaven came an angel, who snatch- 
ed me from the jaws of the dragon, 
saying : " Happy art thou, O Mary 1 
for having believed." Then strik- 
ing the dragon with his foot, " Go 
forth," said he, " thou and all thy 
brood." And the dragon and the 
serpents, the former flying and the 
latter crawling, precipitated them- 
selves from the rock and disappear- 
ed in the wilderness. The angel, 
with his breath of flame, purified 
the cave of its foul odors, and left 
me filled with holy awe. Then I 
examined the cave, and, finding it 
inaccessible to mankind, I fell on 
my knees and exclaimed with tears : 
"Blessed be thou,O Jesus ! for hav- 
ing fulfilled my desire. Vouchsafe^ 



622 



The Sainte Baume. 



moreover, to cause water to flow 
from this rock for thy handmaid." 
And instantly the enormous rock 
divided before my eyes, and from 
its hard sides flowed the spring you 
behold. As I bent my knees anew 
to thank the Lord I beheld on the 
right side of the cave more than a 
thousand spirits ; who sang in He- 
brew : " Mary, it is not well for thee 
to give thyself up thus to constant 
prayer." I knew from such lan- 
guage they were demons, and as 
soon as I began to cry unto God 
I saw the archangel Michael, 
who said unto me : " Here am I ; 
fear not," and he immediately 
put to flight the spirits of darkness. 
" Tremble no more in time to come," 
he added ; " the Most High watches 
over thee." And as he spoke thus 
he planted a cross at the entrance 
of the cave. I fell down in prayer 
at the foot of this sacred sign, and 
for a long time did not rise. Then, 
feeling my bowels dried up by the 
emotion I had experienced, I tore 
up some roots at the mouth of the 
cave and ate them. This was my 
first repast in the wilderness, and I 
have never had another since. 

" ' The rest of the day and the 
whole night I remained at the foot 
of the cross. The morning sun 
surprised me there, gleaming like 
crystal. I was inundated with di- 
vine love. I thought I heard a 
choir of celestial spirits singing 
around me. But another vision 
soon succeeded to this. I was 
transported to the infernal regions, 
where sinners groan in direful tor- 
ments of every kind. Then I was 
taken to the place of purification, 
where a throng of souls came flock- 
ing to meet me, earnestly crying : 
" Pray for us, Magdalene." " May 
God vouchsafe to hear me !" I re- 
plied. The angel who transported 
me to the abode of spirits set me 



down again at the foot of the cross. 
" Thou shalt remain in this place," 
said he, " as long as the Saviour 
lived on the earth." I lay at the 
foot of the cross all day, but when 
night came the. angels took me 
and bore me to such a height in 
the air that I could hear the choirs 
of heaven. From that time I was 
seven times a day thus admitted to 
the participation of supreme joys. 
Inflamed with divine love, I be- 
came insensible to heat and cold. 
My garments fell to pieces, but my 
hair grew to such a length as to 
completely cover me. My life was 
spent in meditating on the mys- 
teries of Christ. Before the eyes 
of my soul appeared successively 
Anna and Joachim, Mary and the 
Child in the manger, Calvary and 
the cross, the sepulchre and the 
livid Body, the resurrection and 
victorious descent into hell. My 
mind was filled with these scenes. 
I spent my days and nights in 
weeping. Several times in the last 
days of my life Jesus Christ him- 
self vouchsafed to visit my retreat. 
Angels were flying around him, and 
he was glorious as on the Mount of 
Transfiguration. 

'"Render thanks, therefore, 
Elie ! render thanks unto God on 
this rock, for it is a bridge of sal- 
vation over the sea of life. I was 
alone when I entered this place. 
Thy condition is better. Banish, 
therefore, the discouragement that 
overwhelms thee.' And so saying, 
Magdalene vanished." 

Frere Elie himself expired as he 
finished this account ; and imme- 
diately the bells rang out a joyful 
peal without any visible hand to 
put them in motion. 

The gravest writers of the mid- 
dle ages speak with respect of Mag- 
dalene's life in the cave. Petrarch, 



The Saint e Baume. 



623 



when he came here, offered her his 
homage in Latin verse, and left it 
on the wall himself as a monument 
of his devotion. It begins thus : 

" Dulcis arnica Dei, lacrymis inflectere nostris : 
Atque meas intende preces, nostraeque saluti 
Consule, namque potes," 

and ends with these lines : 

" Hie hominum non visa oculis, stipata catervis 
Angelicis, septemque die subvecta per horas 
Coelestes audire chores, alterna canentes 
Carmina eorporeo de carcere digna fuisti." 

Petrarch's example has been fol- 
lowed by several other writers. 
George de Scuderi, brother of the 
author of the Grand Cyrus, offered 
Magdalene also his tribute of verse, 
graven on a copper lamp, which he 
hung up in the cave- 

Horace Capponi, Bishop of Car- 
pentras, a Florentine, was so af- 
fected by his visit to the cave in 
the year 1600 that he left the fol- 
lowing lines on the walls : 

" Quas tua tarn rite hie lacrymis errata lavisti, 
Fac talis culpas abluat unda meas. 
Angelici cantus vivens in digno honore, 
Spes mihi sit saltern perfruar ut moriens." 

It was Pope Boniface VIII. who 
gave the Sainte Baume to the Do- 
minicans. It once belonged to the 
Cassianites of Marseilles, establish- 
ed here by Cassian himself, who 
had been to the East to steep his 
soul in the knowledge and prac- 
tices of the solitary life. He used 
to pass the season of Lent in a 
lonely hermitage on one end of the 
mountain of the Sainte Baume, the 
remains of which are still pointed 
out by the herdsmen. Near by is 
a spring called the Fountain of St. 
Cassian. All that part of the 
mountain, in fact, is called by his 
name. Many other hermits used 
to live in the caves and hollows of 
the rocks, and at one time there 
was a beguinage on the flanks of 
the mountain. St. John de Matha, 
founder of the order of the Trinity, 



a Provengal by birth and education, 
had a great love for the solitary 
life, and, out of devotion to St. 
Mary Magdalene, lived for some 
time at the Sainte Baume in great 
fervor of spirit. 

Eight popes are known to have 
visited the Sainte Baume. The 
first on record is Pope Stephen IV., 
who came here in 816 on his way 
to consecrate Louis le Debonnaire. 

All the old counts of Provence, 
and after them the kings of France, 
not only visited the Holy Cave but 
became its protectors. In 1332 
five kings came here at once, ac- 
companied by a throng of lords and 
ladies : Philippe de Valois, King of 
France ; Alfonso IV. of Aragon ; 
Hugo IV. of Cyprus ; John of Lux- 
emburg, King of Bohemia ; and Ro- 
bert, King of Sicily. It was the 
latter who went to meet his bro- 
ther monarchs at the frontier of 
Provence and conducted them to 
St. Maximin and the Sainte Baume. 
St. Louis came here on his return 
from the first Crusade "in honor of 
the benoite Magdelaine" says the 
Sire de Joinville, who accompanied 
him. 

Marshal Boucicaut, one of the 
great captains of the fourteenth 
century, founded a chaplainship at 
the Sainte Baume, as he says in 
the act, to promote his own salva- 
tion and that of his wife, Constance 
de Saluce. A Dominican was to 
be the incumbent, and a daily 
Mass was to be celebrated for the 
repose of their souls. This great 
lord wore mourning every Friday 
in memory of the Passion of Christ, 
and fasted every Saturday in honor 
of Our Lady. He made several 
pilgrimages to the Sainte Baume, 
and on one occasion gave a large 
sum to render the hospice more 
comfortable for pilgrims. 

King Rene of Anjou made a visit 



624 



The Sainte Baume. 



here in the Lent of 1438, and 
founded a daily High Mass to be 
sung for ever in the cave for him- 
self and his predecessors, " out of 
the respect he bore the sainted 
Magdalene, and his singular and 
fervent piety towards the Sainte 
Baume, where, with the aid of God, 
he had just spent nine days in de- 
votion." His sister Mary, wife of 
Charles VII. of France, also came 
here and gave fifty florins to found 
a chaplainship. Louis XI., her son, 
came here when Dauphin. He en- 
dowed the Holy Cave, and had a 
baldacchino of white marble erect- 
ed over the high altar to protect it 
from the water that constantly fil- 
ters through the rocks, and on it 
were emblazoned thearmsof France 
and Dauphine. He did this, as he 
declares, " out of \\isgrant singulier 
parfaite etentiere devotion a la trh 
glorieuse Marie Magdeleine." 

Louis XII. came here when Duke 
of Orleans, and after his accession 
confirmed all the privileges ac- 
corded the Sainte Baume by the 
old counts of Provence, assigning 
as his motive " the honor and rev- 
erence he bore the glorious Magda- 
lene, who, among many other pla- 
ces, is specially honored at the 
Baume one of the most devout 
spots in the Christian world." 

Francis I. came here twice, and 
renewed all the ancient privileges, 
as he says, " out of the singular 
devotion we have to the glorious 
Mary Magdalene, who in this 
place did penance for the space of 
thirty years and more." The second 
time he came here was after the bat- 
tle of Marignano. With him came 
his mother, Louise of Savoy, Queen 
Claude his wife, his sister Mar- 
garet, afterwards Queen of Navarre, 
and many lords and ladies. He 
ordered at the sound of the trumpet 
that no one should cut wood or 



hunt in the forest, or even enter it, 
without leave of the monks, under 
severe penalties. He gave a large 
sum to adorn the grotto and repair 
the roads. He had chambers made 
for the royal family. The queen's 
chamber and the Dauphin's were in 
the hospice. The king's was at the 
hermitage, and contained the por- 
traits of all the popes and sover- 
eigns who had visited the Sainte 
Baume. He also built a porch of 
rich workmanship before the cave. 
Over it was carved the Assumption 
of Magdalene, and at the sides 
were statues of the king and his 
mother kneeling before their patron 
saints St. Francis of Assisi and 
St. Louis of France. In imitation 
of Petrarch he also wrote some La- 
tin verses in praise of Magdalene. 

Louis XIII. and Louis XIV. like- 
wise visited the Sainte Baume. 
The latter ascended on horseback 
to the Saint Pilon, and then came 
down to the grotto, where he ex- 
amined everything in detail. Nei- 
ther he nor his mother would eat 
meat in so holy a place, though it 
was Jeudi Gras. After his mother's 
death he founded six annual Masses 
of Requiem in the cave for the re- 
pose of her soul, and had the act 
inscribed on copper and hung on 
the walls. 

A steep, rough path around the 
ridge leads up to the Saint Pilon. 
It is no small task to make the 
ascent at any time, but the day we 
went up the violence of the mis- 
tral rendered it a formidable un- 
dertaking. There were places 
where we had actually to crawl, for 
fear of being swept over the preci- 
pice. We were benumbed, too, 
with the cold. Some days it is im- 
possible to ascend, for the top of 
the ridge is bare, and there is 
nothing to break the violence of 



The Sainte Baume. 



625 



the wind. It is bleak and wild, 
and covered with boulders and 
fragments of rock. Sunburnt, 
wind-swept, nothing grows here but 
a few odorous plants in the crevi- 
ces. But the view is superb on 
every side, it being three thousand 
feet above the level of the sea. To 
the south you can see the far-off 
Mediterranean lost in the blue of 
the heavens, to the north are two 
parallel ranges of mountains, one of 
them ending almost opposite with 
Mt. A urelian, and beyond are the pre- 
cipitous heights of Mt. St. Victoire, 
or Venture, at the foot of which 
Marius defeated the Cimbri and 
Teutons (B.C. 125) near the pres- 
ent village of Pourrieres, that derives 
its name from the Campi Putridi, 
where a hundred thousand barba- 
rians were slain. At the foot of these 
ranges is the town of St. Maximin, 
where Magdalene found a tomb. 

The Saint Pilon is so called from 
a pillar that once marked the spot 
to which Magdalene was carried 
seven times a day by the angels. 
Here she left the imprint of her 
feet on the rocks. This pillar was 
afterwards enclosed in a chapel. 
In 1647 the Princesse de la Tour 
d'Auvergne visited the Sainte 
Baume, and was so impressed by 
the place that she resolved to re- 
store the chapel of the Saint Pilon 
and line it with rich marbles. This 
work was completed by her son, 
Cardinal de Bouillon. Over the 
altar was a relief in white marble 
of Magdalene borne up by the 
angels, on a black ground. This 
subject, so often chosen by the 
painter and sculptor, is known as 
the Assumption of Magdalene.* 
In the prose of St. Martha, in the 

* This is the subject of the colossal group over 
the main altar of the Madeleine at Paris the most 
imposing monument ever raised to the memory of 
the great penitent, and that, too, in the chief city 
of earthly pleasures. What an antithesis ! 

VOL. XXIX. 40 



ancient liturgy of Auch, she is 
thus felicitated as to these myste- 
rious elevations of her sister : 

" Animam tuae sororis 
Audisti supernis choris 
Ferri cum laetitia " ; 

and Magdalene is thus addressed 
in the Gaudez sung at the Sainte 
Baume : 

" Gaude, quae septenis horis, 
Es ab antro vecta foris 
Ad coeli fastigia." 

The chapel is now half ruined. 
It stands on the edge of the awful 
precipice, hundreds of feet above 
the Holy Cave. Before it is a tall 
cross bent by the wind. You look 
through the grated door and see a 
rude altar where angels once stood 
around the ecstatic Magdalene. 

At the Revolution all the rich 
offerings of kings and nobles were 
carried off. Marechal Brune, call- 
ed by Napoleon the intrepide deprt- 
dateur, being ordered to keep in 
check the royalists of the south, 
his soldiers, during the Cent Jours, 
went up to the Sainte Baume in a 
kind of fury. There was nothing 
left to excite their cupidity, but 
they dashed the remaining statues 
over the precipice and burned the 
buildings, leaving nothing but the 
bare rock and part of the ancient 
forest so long held sacred. Divine 
justice seemed to avenge these 
sacrileges by the miserable end of 
the marechal, August 2, 1815. He 
became the victim of popular fury 
at Avignon, and his body was 
thrown from the bridge into the 
Rhone. It floated about for eight 
days, and finally stopped a little 
above Aries, on the estate of the 
Baron de Chartrouse, not far from 
the Aliscamps where the dead used 
to descend miraculously that they 
might be buried in the divinely- 
consecrated cemetery of St. Tro- 
phime. He was recognized by his 



626 



The Burial of Pere Marquette. 



lofty stature, and the body was 
sent to his widow. 

In 1816 the Count de Villeneuve, 
prefect of Marseilles, visited the 
Sainte Baume, and at the sight of 
the ruins was inspired with a desire 
to restore the ancient altars. With 
this object in view he published 
an account of its condition which 
contains some curious details. He 
says a crowd of people were still 
in the habit of coming here on 
Whitmonday, particularly those 
who had been married during the 
year, according to the prevalent 
custom in Provence, where it is 
often stipulated in the marriage 
contract, the omission of a pilgrim- 
age here being regarded as entail- 
ing sterility. They set up a little 
pile of stones in token of having 
fulfilled their vow. These are call- 
ed castelets, or little forts, and are 
to be seen in great numbers in the 
forest and on the mountain ridge. 

The result of this and other ef- 
forts was so successful that even 
Louis XVIII. and Pope Pius VII. 



encouraged the restoration of the 
cave and the rebuilding of the con- 
vent. The former was reopened 
for public worship in May, 1822, 
on which occasion eight bishops 
and a crowd of religious of all 
orders, as well as secular priests, 
ascended the mountain, followed 
by processions of penitents in their 
sacks, and village after village 
singing hymns of joy. The whole 
number amounted to over forty 
thousand people. The archbishop 
of Aix, after the service in the 
cave, took the Host and came forth 
on the terrace overlooking the 
forest and the plain beyond, and 
gave the solemn Benediction, which 
was succeeded by a universal ac- 
clamation from the throng, explo- 
'sions of fireworks, and other testi- 
monies of rejoicing. 

Christ had risen anew in France, 
and once more seemed to reveal 
himself by saying, as of old to her 
who sought him at the sepulchre: 

"MARIA!" 



THE BURIAL OF PERE MARQUETTE, 

JUNE, 1675. 

SWEET sang the birds in the forest, 

Softly the waves replied, 
Breaking where Jesuit Mission 

Nestled the lake beside. 

Music of June in the forest, 
Waves' low song on the shore, 

Greeting a swarthy procession 
Gliding the waters o'er. 

Gently the light ripples parted, 

Cloven by birch canoe, 
Murmuring song to the shadow 

Breaking their sunshine through. 



The Burial of PZre Marquette. 627 

Solemnly Indian hunter 

Bent to his paddle's stroke, 
While through the silence of sorrow 

June's rippling music broke. 

Strong were the arms that labored, 

Weary the hearts that wept, 
Mourning the true love that, living, 

Never grew weary or slept. 

" Not by the Michigan River," 

Proudly the chiefs had said, 
" Shall his rest be who so loved us : 
Home we will bear our dead. 

" Lonely the forests stretch round him, 

Fiercely the north winds cry ; 
Bear we the bones of our father 
Under his cross to lie. 

" Under the smile of his Mother, 

Whom e'er his heart held dear, 

Well shall he sleep near her image 

Blessing the house of prayer." 

Sweet sang the birds in the forest, 

Softly the waves replied, 
Greeting the swarthy procession 

Seeking the green lakeside ; 

Bearing afar to the Mission, 

Over the waters broad, 
Marquette, the patient apostle, 

Marquette, lover of God. 

Not alone faithful Algonquin 

Sorrowed for pure soul fled ; 
Iroquois, old feuds forgetting, 

Honored the holy dead. 

Down by the Michigan River 

Lonely were wood and wave, 
Missing the sweet consecration 

Spirit so saintly gave. 

Over the makers of kingdoms 

Lieth rich funeral pall 
Unto the dead that it covers 

Love may bring tribute small. 



628 The Burial of Fere Marquette. 

Banners of conquest- won countries 
Over the kings' graves bend 

Unto Lake Michigan's waters 
Earth could no glory lend. 

Silence of sorrowing Indians, 
" .-;.; 4 Grief that of love had birth, 

Honored the dead that had conquered 
Kingdoms for God, not earth. 

{ 

Reverent-hearted they bore him, 

Ottawa, Iroquois. 
Had he not won for their brothers 
Heaven's unending joys ? 

Sadly the priests of the Mission, 
Chanting a psalm of death, 

Bore him they loved to the chapel, 
Blessing the Indians' faith ; 

Under the cross gently placed him, 
Under St. Mary's smile 

Hers who had shown him her Jesus 
After earth's long exile. 

Sweet sang the birds in the forest, 
Softly the waves replied, 

Slowly the bells of the Mission 
Rang from the low lakeside. 

Well sleep the olden crusaders, 
Fervent in thought and deed, 

Holding their life but as tribute 
Waiting their Saviour's need. 

Never a soldier more fearless 
Fought in a nobler strife 

Than he, who, loving his Master, 
Gave for his flock his life. 

Softly Lake Michigan's ripples 
Sing to the sunny shore, 

Cross of the Catholic Mission 
Rising to bless once more, 

Shedding the light of old glory 
Over the waves hallowed, 

While still the sweet consecration 
Rests of the saintly dead 






" Bore en." 



629 



Shield of the Ottawa Missions, 

Indians' angel guide, 
Whose living love, on earth kindled, 

Burneth God's throne beside. 



"BOREEN.' 

CHAPTER III. 




"WHAT is the use of my calling 
on these swells ?" the barrister ask- 
ed of himself as he sat over a fried 
sole at breakfast next morning. " It 
demoralizes one, and yet in my 
profession everything turns in. I 
may as well take a peep at the in- 
ner life of the Marquis of Pom- 
fret." He did not recognize Hes- 
ter Bransco*nbe in the transaction 
at all. Thus do we hoodwink our 
uppermost thoughts, but how thin 
is the hood ! 

Walter went down to the House 
of Commons, and, having sent his 
card to Mr. Le Fanu, was admitted 
by the burly but resolute policeman 
within the sacred precincts of the 
lobby. Mr. Le Fanu, after a chat 
over the proposed bill, passed the 
young barrister into the House 
underneath the ambassadors' gal- 
lery, and just as he entered Mr. 
Gladstone had risen to a point of 
order, and was engaged in blasting 
with the lightning of his eloquence 
an insolent juvenile member. Nu- 
gent's heart leaped hotly when 
came the thought that one day, per- 
haps, he might sit in that House, 
and win a seat not through the influ- 
ence of broad acres they had been 
swept from him but by dint of hard 
work at his profession. As he 
passed along Westminster Hall he 
thought of Eldon, who when asked 



by an angry father what property 
he, a penniless barrister, was pos- 
sessed of that he should aspire to 
the hand of his daughter, made re- 
ply : " The ground I stand on in 
Westminster Hall." 

Hailing a hansom, he drove to 
the Horse Guards, and soon found 
himself in a palatial apartment look- 
ing out on the park. 

" That must be the very elm-tree 
she sat under yesterday, and to- 
day it seems so strange, like a 
dream." 

Miss Branscombe received him 
graciously. She was attired in 
lustrous white all dotted with am- 
ber and black bows. 

" Ethel will be here in a mo- 
ment," she said. " She takes a 
siesta every afternoon. I told her 
that she might expect a visit from 
you, and it greatly disturbed her 
slumbers." 

" She is a charming child." 

" Thoroughly natural, at all 
events.' 

" It's rather a treat to meet a 
child with a doll nowadays. The 
age of children would seem to have 
passed away." 

"Children are becoming horribly 
material, Mr. Nugent. They have 
ceased to believe in giants and 
giant-killers. They won't accept 
fairies, they discredit Little Red 



630 



Bore en? 



Riding Hood, and discard the 
Arabian Nights. What are we to 
do with them ? They insist upon 
going behind the scenes, the little 
monkeys ! Have you any little 
brothers and sisters ?" 

" I have one sister. She is sev- 
enteen." 

"Is she in London with you ?" 

" No." 

" You should have brought her 
over." 

"We are very poor," said Walter, 
"and couldn't stand the expense" ; 
and seeing that the girl was pained 
at the contretemps, he added : "I 
am here on Parliamentary business. 
I am a barrister, and to-morrow I 
plead from my first brief." 

"Your first brief ? The first of 
an illustrious line of descend- 
ants?" 

"I don't think I have much tal- 
ent, much reasoning power, Miss 
Branscombe. I am a dreamer, a 
visionary, and I am indolent by 
nature, though at times I feel as if 
I could undertake the task of Sisy- 
phus." 

The heiress was silent for a mo- 
ment. 

" Will you excuse my asking you 
if you have good prospects I mean 
if you are likely to make the bar 
pay?" 

"I fear not." He had become 
quite confidential with this young 
girl, and with his elbows on his 
knees, his hands clasped in front of 
him, leant over towards her. " You 
see a fellow, to get on at the bar, 
must know a lot of attorneys, and, 
if possible, ask them to dinner. I 
only know one, and he was my 
poor father's solicitor the family 
solicitor. We were awfully well off, 
Miss Branscombe, but the estate 
has gone from us acre by acre, till 
we have only the house left. My 
mother has let it to an English 



family ; perhaps you might know 
them the Drake Howards." 

"Of Yorkshire? Mr. Drake 
Howard is very fond of hunting ; 
Mrs. Howard is an invalid ; they 
have one daughter, Julietta, who 
paints like Millais," hurriedly ex- 
claimed Miss Branscombe. 

;< The very people ! Do you 
know them ?" 

" Intimately. Here," approach- 
ing an ebony bureau with lich 
bolts, and producing a letter 
" here is an epistle from Julietta 
received this very morning, and 
dated Kil Kil " 

" KUternan," sighed Walter. 

" She wants me to come and 
stay with her in the autumn. She 
describes the place as being exqui- 
sitely situated." 

" And so it is," he enthusiastical- 
ly exclaimed. "It is the most 
beautiful place in the wx>rld." And 
his bright, earnest face became 
clouded a sad gray cloud born of 
sorrowful thoughts that turned to- 
ward the past. 

Little Ethel came rushing in. 

"O Walter! I'm so delighted 
to see you," she cried, putting up 
her rosebud of a mouth to be kiss- 
ed. " Estelle will be delighted to 
see you ; you must come up to my 
room. I have a tiny little play- 
room all to myself. Come !" tugging 
at Nugent's wrists almost as violent- 
ly as Boreen had tugged at her un- 
fortunate doll. 

There was nothing for it but to 
obey, and the barrister was con- 
ducted by the little maid to an 
apartment, a very poem of pink 
ribbons and white lace, wherein 
upon a crimson satin dais was 
seated the bride, gazing sternly into 
space. 

" O you darling !" cried the child, 
caressing Estelle. " Here's Walter 
come to see you. Speak to him." 



" Screen." 



631 



And pressing the springs, the doll 
squeaked " papa," " mamma " quite 
melodiously. 

" She says she is enchanted to see 
you, Walter." 

" I am equally pleased to see 
her," laughed the barrister. " Have 
you found a husband for her yet, 
Ethel ?" 

'* I have. It's Sir Jasper Jyve- 
cote, auntie's beau. You needn't 
make a face at me, Aunt Hester; 
I " 

** What a little prate-box she 
is !" interposed Miss Branscombe, 
blushing vividly. 

Walter began to wonder what 
Sir Jasper was like, and if he had 
seen his portrait in the photograph 
album. 

Ethel produced all her toys and 
their name was legion for the 
barrister's inspection, commencing 
with Estelle's bridesmaids, a gift 
from her aunt, and ending with a 
kitchen range. 

" Auntie, has mamma invited 
Walter to come with us to Pull- 
eyne on Thursday ? " Ethel sud- 
denly asked. 

Nugent, recognizingthe a-wkward- 
ness of the question, at once ex- 
claimed : 

" On Thursday I shall be in 
Dublin, Ethel." 

" Where is Dublin ?" asked the 
child. 

"In Ireland, you little stupid!" 
laughed her aunt. 

" Oh ! Ireland is where the sava- 
ges grow." 

" Isn't this too bad, Miss Brans- 
combe ?" said Nugent gravely. 

"You must not take measure of 
a nursemaid's prejudices and a 
nursemaid's ignorance, Mr. Nugent. 
I used to be frightened to sleep by 
my nurse crying, ' Here's an Irish- 
man,' " was Miss Branscombe's re- 
ply. 



" You must not go to Ireland till 
after my birthday. I'll be seven on 
Thursday, and we're to go in the 
steam-launch from Maidenhead to 
Marlow and Medmenham, and I'm 
to cut the cake myself; and we won't 
dine at Pulleyne, but out in the 
woods ; and I'm to hang up the ket- 
tle to boil, and to gather the sticks 
to make the fire, and to light it ; and 
papa is to let me cut the cord of 
a champagne cork ; and I'm to steer 
the launch, and to give Dawkins 
and Simpson and the other sailors 
beer ; and O Walter! we're going 
to have an awfully splendid day, 
and you must come, and so will Es- 
telle." And Ethel clapped her 
little hands and frisked round the 
room on one foot in the ecstasy of 
anticipation. 

" You can scarcely say her nay, 
Mr. Nugent," said the heiress. 

" I would not, indeed, but I would 
be utterly de trop" 

" I know what you mean," cried 
Ethel ; " de trop means in the way. 
That's what auntie said to me when 
Sir Jas " 

" Ethel, I shall buy a blue rib- 
bon and tie up your stupid little 
tongue," burst in Miss Branscombe. 

" No, you won't, auntie, and when 
you said " 

" If you go on prattling I'll ask 
Mr. Nugent to stop away. I. won't 
let him come on Thursday." 

This threat effectually silenced 
the child. 

" Pulleyne is my brother-in-law's 
place, Mr. Nugent. It's very charm- 
ingly situated on the Thames, and 
is rather worth visiting. It adjoins 
Medmenham Abbey, the scene of 
the unhallowed revelry of the god- 
less worthies who called themselves 
the Monks of the Screw. The day 
will repay you." 

" I'm very much obliged, but, if 
not amongst the savages, I shall 



6 3 2 



"Borecn" 



have work to do that will chain me 
to the oar." 

" Where are you stopping ?" 

" At the Tavistock, Covent Gar- 
den." 

" That is a sort of monastery, is 
it not?" 

" Yes, it resembles the Isle of St. 
Senanus. No woman is allowed to 
set foot therein." 

"What a shame!" 

" Oh ! it's a very quiet, respec- 
table establishment," laughed the 
barrister. 

" You'll come here early, to 
breakfast, on Thursday, Walter, 
won't you ?" cried Ethel, as he rose 
to take his leave. 

" M'amie, I cannot." 

" He says he wo-o-o-o-n't co-co- 
co-come,"boohooed the little maid; 
and it was only through diplomatic 
phraseology that Walter Nugent 
was permitted to depart. 

" I'll move into a cheap hotel to- 
night," he said to himself as he 
walked up Whitehall ; " that five- 
pound note was too much to spend, 
and I must send this exquisite 
child a bouquet that will cost me 
half a sovereign. What I would give 
to be of that party to Pulleyne! What 
a day for a poor fellow like me ! 
Heigh-ho! I couldn't accept little 
Ethel's invitation, and Miss Brans- 
combe could do nothing less than 
back it up ; and yet I do think she 
intended it. She seems a sort of 
girl who wouldn't allow herself to 
be cornered by any contretemps. 
I wonder if this Sir Jasper Jyvecote 
is to be of the party ? Of course he 
will be it's a family affair. Ima- 
gine passing them on the river in a 
Steam-launch of my own ! I wish I 
was back among the Dublin Moun- 
tains. There is no place a man 
feels the want of a lot of money so 
much as here" glancing at the mag- 
nificently-appointed equipages that 



flashed past him to and from the 
park, their occupants reclining with 
aristocratic ease and indifference 
on the silken cushions. " Yes, 
here a fellow is something less than 
nobody ; his latitude is simply no- 
where. Fancy if I could keep up 
with the Pomfrets, ride in Rotten 
Row, meet this girl in society from 
a garden party at Marlborough 
House to a dinner at the Orleans. 
Pah ! what a gulf yawns between a 
briefless barrister and the Right 
Honorable the Most Noble the 
Marquis of Pomfret, Her Majesty's 
Secretary of State for War ; and yet, 
aye, such gulfs have been bridg- 
ed over, not by a single effort it is 
true, but by a succession of efforts. 
Have I the stuff in me to win name 
and fame ? That is the question. 
I do not think I have. A man re- 
quires to be moulded after an ex- 
ceptional pattern to win in the 
great race of to-day." 

He passed into Hyde Park by 
Apsley House, and, crossing the 
roadway, seated himself upon the 
railing, his feet twisted round a 
post. Now at a snail's pace, now 
at a spanking trot, flowed the car- 
riage tide in the Kow, bearing the 
high and the mighty of Merrie 
England. Family chariots such as 
ourgreat-grandmothers used to elope 
to Gretna Green in, with coronet- 
ed panels, landaus swinging sen- 
suously upon C-springs, broughams 
resembling opera-boxes on wheels, 
phaetons low, open, inviting, wag- 
onettes of quaint form, basket car- 
riages about the size of wine-ham- 
pers what an endless procession, 
what a type of the wealth of mo- 
dern Babylon ! 

A clarence, attached to a pair of 
chestnuts that would have fetchec 
a thousand guineas at Tattersall's 
and driven by a coachman in 
powdered wig and plum-colon 



Boreen! 



633 



livery slashed with gold, two foot- 
men in similar livery seated be- 
hind, drew slowly towards where 
Walter Nugent sat perched upon 
a rail. 

" What a swell turn-out!" he mut- 
tered. " How those horses would 
have delighted poor Andy Gavin !" 

He was gazing with such intense 
admiration on the cattle as totally 
to disregard the occupants of the 
vehicle, and it was only when he 
heard his name called in a childish 
voice that he looked upwards to 
find little Ethel kissing a dainty- 
gloved, fat hand to him, while at 
the same moment a mounted police- 
man dashed onwards, waving his 
hand in the air, a notification to 
all coachmen to pull up, as the 
Princess of Wales was coming along 
the Row. 

Miss Branscombe lay back in the 
carriage beside a haughty, aristo- 
cratic-looking lady who wore //#<: 
nez. Nugent at once recognized 



the Marchioness of Pomfret, the 
likeness between the two sisters 
being remarkable. 

Ethel, delighted to meet her 
friend, joyously clapped her hands 
as she cried : 

" Mamma, mamma, look there 
on the top of the rail. That's Wal- 
ter Estelle's papa." 

As the marchioness turned in 
the direction indicated the barris- 
ter suddenly recollected the un- 
gracefulness of his pose, that he 
wore low, heavy shoes, and that his 
gray stockings, knitted by his sis- 
ter, were darned at the heels. 
Sliding from his coigne of vantage, 
Nugent glided into the crowd of 
gaping foot-passengers, his face 
very red, and with a feeling of in- 
tense irritation. 

" She wouldn't look at me pah !" 
And giving a vigorous shake to his 
blackthorn, he strode towards Pic- 
cadilly at the rate of six miles an 
hour. 



CHAPTER IV. 



THE following day brought a letter 
from Kate Nugent to her brother. 
It contained a lot of that small gos- 
sip which is worth grains of gold 
when we are away from home. 

" Mr. O'Meara was here," she went on 
to say, " and he says that your being 
specially retained before a committee of 
the House of Commons is certain to get 
you briefs. He ought to know. He 
told mamma that a Mr. Walsh, a solicitor, 
told him that he intended to retain you 
in a Westmeath fishing case. God be 
praised for all this ! What a splendid 
career you have before you ! Mr. 
O'Meara sent us a salmon that Mr. 
Heron caught at Connemara. Of course 
we invited him to come and dine to- 
morrow. At first he hemmed and hawed 
and said he preferred coming in the even- 
ing ; but mamma insisted, so he will be 
with us. What a charming person Mr. 
O'Meara's sister is " 



11 Why," exclaimed Walter, " this 
letter is all O'Meara. Oho ! Miss 
Kate, sets the heart-breeze in that 
quarter? You might do worse, my 
sister. O'Meara ' takes silk ' next 
term, and is making a cool thou- 
sand a year." 

The letter gushed a good deal 
over a Mrs. Byseg, the sister alluded 
to, and wound up by a devout pray- 
er for the young " barrister's " suc- 
cess on his forthcoming maiden ef- 
fort. The postscript was as fol- 
lows : 

"I open this to give you a piece of 
startling but not unpleasant news. 
Who do you think has turned up ? You 
will never guess Andy Gavin ! Dear 
old Andy is just as poor as when he 
left. He says he will never go back to 
America again ; that he will die as near 



634 



Bore en." 



Kilternan as ever he can. The poor fel- 
low cried and laughed and seemed 
strangely affected on seeing us again. 
His manner was curious. Mamma was 
afraid that he had been drinking; but no, 
he was as sober as a judge. I fear that 
disappointment has unsettled him. I 
asked him if he had made money at 
horses or farming, and he said, ' Not a 
cent ' ; then he laughed boisterously. His 
clothes, which are very good, were given 
him by a friend. We wanted him to take 
the little room at the back of the kitch- 
en, but he refused point-blank. Poor fel- 
low ! it was as much as we could do to get 
him to eat some cold mutton. He amused 
Mr. O'Meara very much by his adven- 
tures out West. Mr. O'Meara and 
Andy started together to catch the tram- 
car from Roundtown. I hope O'Meara 
can do something for Andy. I spoke to 
him about it. and he said he would. 
When I told Andy of what I had done 
he began to laugh. I'm terribly afraid 
that the climate of America has affected 
his understanding. K. N." 

"Poor Andy!" exclaimed Nu- 
gent, an intense sadness in his tone. 
"" Something must be done for the 
dear, faithful old fellow. I've got 
to work for my mother, my sister, 
and Andy Gavin ; and now for it." 
And snatching up the papers that 
lay on the breakfast-table beside 
him, he hurried on foot in the di- 
rection of the House of Commons. 

The committee rooms at St. 
Stephen's are situated on the river 
side of the house. The apart- 
ments are large, lofty, and fitted up 
after the mediaeval. The members 
of the committee sit horse-shoe 
fashion, facing the bar and the pub- 
lic, the former being provided with 
seats inside a railing. Walter Nu- 
gent, who looked very handsome in 
his horse-hair wig and stuff gown, 
proudly bustled to his place, and his 
senior, Mr. Calvert Sommerset, Q.C., 
being engaged on another case be- 
fore " m' luds," the duty not only 
of staling but of making the case 
devolved upon the young barrister. 



" I have my mother, and Kate, 
and Andy Gavin to work for," was 
the thought that flashed through 
Walter Nugent's mind, as, flinging 
his gown a little back and jerking 
his wig a little forward, he rose to 
lay the foundation-stone of the edi- 
fice of his future career. There 
were two Irish members on the com- 
mittee, one of them Isaac Butt, who, 
Triton that he was, smiled encour- 
agement and nodded approval to- 
ward the minnow who was commen- 
cing to swim in the troubled and 
eddying currents of the law ; the 
other Mr. Mitchell Henry, the 
" man for Galway." 

Nugent stuttered and stammered 
a little at first, the room seemed in- 
clined to move round him, while the 
faces of the committee appeared as 
one white line ; but by degrees the 
apartment came to an anchor, and 
individual countenances, especially 
those of Mr. Butt and Mr. Henry, as- 
sumed the outlines of graven images. 
The young barrister, never warm- 
ing, always cold, clear, concise, ar- 
gumentative, held himself well in 
hand, and when, after a prolonged 
intellectual effort of nearly two 
hours, during which he had shiver- 
ed lances with three of the most ex- 
perienced counsel at the Parliamen- 
tary bar without receiving a dint 
in his armor, he sat down, there 
was a very distinct murmur of ap- 
probation not only from the pub- 
lic but from the committee ; and 
when the room was cleared in order 
to permit the committee to delib- 
erate in private upon a point raised 
by the youthful advocate, Walter 
Nugent received congratulations 
from those who but a moment ago 
he had caused to reel at the point 
of his skilfully-directed lance. 

" I hear you've made our case, 
Mr. Nugent," observed Mr. Calvert 
Sommerset. 



Boreenl 



635 



" I did my best, sir," was the 
other's modest rejoinder. 

When the committee reassembled 
the chairman announced that the 
preamble had been proved, adding : 
"I speak the sentiments of the 
committee when I say that our de- 
cision has been arrived at mainly 
through the able, exhaustive, and 
complete argument of the junior 
counsel for the prosecution, Mr. W. 
Nugent." 

Walter, wild with delight, tele- 
graphed to his mother : " Had to 
do all the work. Have won. Com- 
plimented all round. This is grand 
luck." 

" I hope the dear woman will 
have half a crown, as Gavin would 
say, 'handy' to pay for this tele- 
gram," he laughed as he crossed the 
lobby, divesting himself of wig and 
gown. 

When he reached the Tavistock 
late that night for he wandered out 
amongst the green lawns beyond 
Finchley he found a note awaiting 
him in the mahogany rack under 
the letter N. The envelope was 
square, the superscription in a 
strange hand. On the back was a 
raised coronet in gold ; beneath 
the coronet a monogram which he 
failed to decipher. 

"It must be for me," he mutter- 
ed, as he carefully cut along the 
upper edge. " * Walter Nugent, Es- 
quire.' Could it be ? By George ! 
it must be from the Pomfret peo- 
pie." 

The gilt-edged paper was so 
thick that it refused to unfold. 
Again the coronet and monogram 
met his eye while he read as fol- 
lows : 

" The Marchioness of Pomfret 
requests the pleasure of Mr. Walter 
Nugent's company at a fete cham- 



petre on Thursday next, to be given 
to celebrate the birthday of her 
daughter Ethel. Rendezvous, the 
Guards Club, Taplow Bridge, n 
A.M. "; and enclosed a tiny note 
written in round hand : "You must 
come, Walter. Please bring Bo- 
reen. ETHEL." 

" Am I justified in refusing this 
invitation ?" argued Nugent, gaz- 
ing at the coronet and monogram. 
" If I am to go for Parliamentary 
business, the more I extend my 
connection in London the better. 
It is not every fellow who gets an 
invitation from the wife of a cabi- 
net minister, and a marchioness to 
boot. They must wish me to go, 
or why this note? And yet, perhaps, 
it has been sent to gratify little 
Ethel, not out of a true spirit of 
courtesy to myself. Noblesse oblige. 
Her little ladyship started the ques- 
tion, and it was well backed up by 
Miss Branscombe. Why should I 
not go? Is it not doubting myself 
to permit hesitation to creep in on 
a collateral issue? The Nugents of 
Kilternan are as red in blood as 
the Pomfret-Branscombes. I say, 
why should I not -go?" shaking the 
note wickedly, as though to elicit 
a reply from the missive through 
the medium of this action. u Am I 
not entitled to one day, one day of all 
sunshine? I have earned it. For- 
tune is fickle, and she is mine now. 
Why should I not suit myself to 
her mood ? I'll go, aye, and bring 
Boreen. I'll quaff one goblet of 
the champagne of life ere I settle 
down to my usual small-beer." And 
uttering this sentiment half-aloud, 
Mr. Nugent lighted his candle at 
the gas-jet in the corridor, slipped 
off his shoes, and retired to his bed- 
room. 



6 3 6 



" Boreenr 



CHAPTER V. 



I SHALL leave Mr. Walter Nugent 
in London, and, crossing the Chan- 
nel, ask my readers to step into the 
coffee-room of Spadacini's Hotel, 
in College Green, Dublin. It was 
the morning subsequent to the 
young barrister's Parliamentary 
triumph, and no less a personage 
sat at breakfast in this well-known 
hostelry than Andy Gavin. The 
ex-whipper-in, newspaper in hand 
and breakfast not yet dispos- 
ed of, looked the very picture of 
solid respectability and comfort. 
His shirt was snowy white, the col- 
lar ascending to his red ears; his 
black frock-coat was sleek and 
satiny, as were his waistcoat and 
trousers. His boots, very new, 
were polished like the handle of 
the big front door so feelingly al- 
luded to by Admiral Porter, K.C.B., 
in "H. M. S. Pinafore," and if his 
leather gave indications of conven- 
tional care, so did also his chin, 
which shone again, the direct and 
happy result of a perfect shave. 
Mr. Gavin had ordered himself 
an alderman's breakfast. On a 
dish right in front of him reposed 
three cork-nosed Dublin Bay her- 
rings, taken that morning under 
the Hill of Howth ; beside the her- 
rings ham and eggs appeared in 
red, white, and gold ; a couple of 
mutton-chops were "convaynient," 
and a pile of toast, built up in the 
form of a battery, completed a very 
delectable array of creature com- 
forts. 

Andy was engaged in perusing a 
paragraph in the Freeman's Jour- 
nal that seemed to afford him the 
most exquisite delight, as he mut- 
tered while he read: 

"More power," "Whisht!" 
" That's me darlin'," " I knew it 
was in the boy," " An' forninst all 



the Parliament," " Be the mortial, 
it's Harry Grattan we've a hoult 
of." 

The paragraph appeared in the 
Parliamentary intelligence, and had 
been wired from the House of 
Commons : 

" A young Irish barrister, Mr. Walter 
Nugent, has proved that the glories of 
the bar of Ireland have in no wise de- 
parted. At the hearing of Linadel and 
Drumkeeran Drainage Bill before a select 
committee of the House of Commons 
to-day, this gentleman, in the absence of 
Mr. Calvert Sommerset, Q.C., his leader, 
took the whole weight of the case upon 
his shoulders, and proved a veritable 
Atlas. His arguments were brief, con- 
cise, and cogent, his satire immensely 
telling, and his eloquence of the very 
highest order. No ddbut at the Parlia- 
mentary bar has come off in a manner at 
once so startlingly successful and so 
thoroughly armor-riveted. Mr. Nugent 
completely took the committee by storm, 
and won what without his powerful aid 
would have proved a very shaky case. 
This young gentleman has a career be- 
hind his wig and gown." 

" See that now," exclaimed Andy 
Gavin aloud as he plunged at the 
herrings. " Masther Walther will 
bate every man av thim yit, ay, 
Gladstone an' Drizzlyeye an' all. 
He'll sit in Parlimint for the 
county like his grandfather afore 
him, God bless him ! Musha, musha! 
but this is a great day for the ould 
family, that was almost bet up in- 
tirely be the loose-heartedness av 
the poor masther, the Lord be 
marciful to him, amin !" 

Andy, carefully folding the paper 
and placing it in his breast-pock- 
et, finished his breakfast, a joyous 
chuckle coming to the surface al- 
most after every mouthful, and, 
clapping a soft felt, unmistakably 
American hat upon one side of his 
head, strutted into St. Andrew 



Bore en." 



637 



Street, and paused opposite an 
archway to read upon a large 
brass plate the words : 

D. & T. FITZGERALD, 
Solicitors. 

" Thim's my men," he muttered 
as he entered an office wherein 
half a dozen clerks were engaged 
in writing upon very wide-margined 
paper. " Is the boss in ?" demanded 
Andy of a spruce-looking young 
gentleman with closely- cropped 
red hair. 

" The what ?" 

" The boss, the head man." 

" Mr. Fitzgerald ?" 

"Yis." 

" I think so." 

" Tell him, av ye plaze, that I want 
for to see him most particular." 

" Your card, please." 

" Is it the likes o' me wid a card ? 
Go on o' that ! Me name's Andy 
Gavin ; that's hapes." 

The young gentleman with the 
gory locks skipped off a high stool, 
skipped up stairs, skipped down 
again, and, jerking his head in the 
direction of the stairway, motioned 
to Andy to ascend. 

" You're Misther Fitzgerald ?" 
said Andy as he entered a Turkey- 
rugged private office. 

" At your service, sir," was the 
reply of the solicitor. " Take a 
seat. What can I do Tor you ?" 

** I want ye for to read that, sir," 
exclaimed Andy, flattening out the 
Freeman's Journal and bringing his 
hand down upon the Parliamen- 
tary intelligence with an immense 
whack. 

Mr. Fitzgerald adjusted a pair of 
gold-rimmed spectacles, and, cast- 
ing a glance at the paragraph, 
quietly observed : 
" I have read it." 
" Isn't that illigant ? Isn't that 
shupayrior ? Isn't that the best 
piece av work ye ever got done, as 



ould as ye are?" cried Andy, gesti- 
culating vigorously. 

" It was very well done," said 
the solicitor with a smile, " but " 

" Hould on for wan minnit. I 
know what yer goin' for to say : 
' What's this man wastin' me time 
for?' /'m not goin' to waste yer 
time, or no gentleman's time," 
fumbling in his breast-pocket and 
producing a plethoric-looking book. 
" I heerd last night from the mis- 
thriss of the boy that done that" 
again whacking the paper, "that 
you was his employer. Now, I'm 
thinkin' that mebbe ye hadn't the 
manes, or that ye'd be thratin' the 
boy like a nagur because he is a 
boy; an' here's what I want ye to 
tell me: What's the highest fee 
yez ever paid to a barrister in all 
yer professional career ?" 

" At this moment I could hardly 
say." 

" What wud ye pay Counsellor 
Butt ?" 

" To plead before a committee 
of the House of Commons ?" 

" Yis, sir, yis," exclaimed Andy 
eagerly "just as Masther Walther 
done, an' won in a canther, good 
luck to him !" 

" Well," said Mr. Fitzgerald, some- 
what interested in Andy's earnest- 
ness, " we would pay Mr. Butt 
one hundred guineas on his brief as 
a retaining fee, and fifty guineas a 
day refresher." 

" Is that all ?" cried Gavin in a 
deeply-disappointed tone. 

" That is what I have paid him." 

u An' did ye give him nothin' 
extra whin he won?" 

Mr. Fitzgerald shook his head. 

" Nor for boord and lodgin' ?" 

"No." 

" Well, but there's nothin' in the 
law for to prevint yer givin' him as 
much as ye'd like?" 

" Nothing whatever." 



638 



" Boreenr 



" Well, that's fair enough, any- 
how," exclaimed Andy, as with a 
sigh of relief he proceeded to ex- 
tract a sheaf of Bank of Ireland 
notes from his pocket-book. 

" Misther Fitzgerald, I want ye 
for to pay Masther Walther .five 
hundhred pound. Here's the 
money ; let it come from yerself 
as a reward for winnin' that case." 
And Andy banged the sheaf of 
notes on the table. 

The solicitor looked from the 
notes to the man, and from the man 
to the notes. 

" I do not understand you," he 
somewhat coldly observed. 

" Musha ! but that's quare," re- 
torted Andy. " Didn't Masther 
Walther win yer case for ye ?" 

" Mr. Nugent did his work en- 
tirely to our satisfaction." 

" Isn't he a counsellor ?" 

*' I should say so, and likely to 
prove an able one, with time." 

" An' there's no law for to pre- 
vint you're paying him as much as 
the ouldest counsellor in the Four 
Coorts ?" 

" Nothing." 

'' Then here's his fee an' re- 
ward," taking up the sheaf of 
notes and again banging it on 
the table. 

"This is strangely generous, 
and" 

" Arrah ! don't be talkin' that 
way, sir. Generous! Shure wasn't 
I born an' reared at Kilternan ? 
Didn't I larn Masther Walther for 
to take a double fence, an' got 
him his first broken collar-bone ? 
Wasn't I 'stopper,' and didn't I 
hunt the hounds for the ould mas- 
ther till he hadn't a horse nor a 
dog left, nor an acre for to run 
thim on if he had ? Wasn't I his 
handy man, an' didn't he share his 
last lavins wud me ? Generous ! 
Didn't I go away wud me heart 



burstin' fur to seek me fortune, for 
to thry an' help thim ? An' it was 
a lucky day I wint acrass the say. 
Didn't I go to New York, and didn't 
I dhrive a Third Avenue car for 
tin months, an' didn't I save eight 
dollars a week an' sind.thim home 
to Father Tom Breen for the mis- 
thress, unbeknown to her ? she 
thought it was from some wan that 
owed the poor masther the money 
till I met a man that was startin' 
for the Black Hills, poor Tim Mur- 
phy, the Lord be good to him ! 
Didn't I go along wud Tim, an' 
didn't Tim, who was always as 'cute 
as a pet fox, buy, out an' out, a 
claim that belonged to a Pole no 
less? a hard-dhrinkin' crayture, 
that died in a gulch wud the 
whiskey-bottle in the heel av his fist. 
Didn't Tim an' me work the mine till 
we got some goold, and thin more 
goold, and thin sich a sight av 
goold as niver was seen afore in 
Deadwood ? Poor Tim cotch his 
death be raison av workin' day an' 
night, an' whin he seen he was 
dyin' sez he, 'Andy,' sez he, 'I 
haven't a sowl belongin' to me. 
There's not wan,' sez he, ' av me 
breed, seed, orgineration alive,' sez 
he, 'so I make over this mine,' sez 
he, ' to you,' sez he ; an' me poor 
darlint had it wrote out, sir, on 
paper, an' med over to me reglar; 
an' it's meself that hated that same 
goold whin I seen Tim Murphy 
cold foreninst me. Didn't a com- 
pany that was riz in San Francisco 
sind a man out fur to buy the mine, 
and didn't I sell it to him for 
faix, it takes me own breath away 
whin I think av it for a half a 
million av dollars ? that's aiquil to 
wan hundred thousand pounds. 
Didn't I run home the minit I got 
the money, and didn't I purtend 
for to be jest as poor as whin I 
wint away? for I don't want the 



Bore en" 



639 



family for to think they're goin' for 
to git back th' ould estates through 
the likes o' me. I'm as alone in 
the world as poor Tim Murphy 
ever was, an' Father Tom Breen, 
that knows it all, sez I'm right in 
what I'm doin'; so now, Misther 
Fitzgerald, wud ye plaze hand this 
money to Masther Walther ?" once 
more banging the sheaf of notes 
upon the table with one hand, while 
he removed the beads of perspira- 
tion from his forehead with the 
her. 

" Shake hands, Mr. Gavin," said 
the attorney, starting to his feet 
and clasping Andy's bony palm ; 
" one reads of these things in ro- 
mances, but facts are stranger than 
fiction." 

" A more curiouser thing ye never 
heerd tell of, sir, nor this," said 
Andy humbly. " Only for to think," 
he added, while his fine blue eyes 
lighted up with honest pride, 
" that Masther Walther will be 
huntin' over th' ould property, an' 
every acre av it his own. Father 
Tom is seein' about buyin* it in 
promiscous, sir, an' it was he that 
tould me ye was wan av the rale 
ould respectable sort av attorneys, 
that wasn't up to the dirty thricks 
that tuk the sod from undher the 
poor masther's feet, bad luck to 
thim that done the like !" 

Andy's bitter disappointment 
when Mr. Fitzgerald informed him 
it was utterly impossible to convey 
the ^"500, or any part thereof, to 



Walter Nugent is simply indescrib- 
able. This was a pet, a cherished 
scheme, it seemed so easy of exe- 
cution. 

"He wudn't touch a pinny av it 
if it kem from me" moaned the 
faithful retainer; "an' how am I 
to git it to him at all, at all? Could 
we do it this way, Misther Fitzger- 
ald? Suppose I sint it be way av 
restitution. That's it, sir," added 
Andy, slapping his leg delightedly; 
" it's many a pound I could have 
saved the ould masther av I had 
the same sinse that's in me now." 

" Don't trouble your head about 
that, Mr. Gavin, just now. Let us 
see how we are to buy the estate 
without having to pay for it through 
the nose." 

"That's the talk!" exclaimed 
Andy. " Father Tom's at work, 
and betune ye yez'll make a good 
job av it, I'll go bail." 

It was after two good hours" 
tete-a-tete with the solicitor that 
Andy Gavin emerged into St. 
Andrew Street. 

"That's the knowledgeablest 
man in all Ireland," muttered the 
ex-whipper-in, as he strolled in the 
direction of the tram-car that was to 
take him to Rathfarnham. "The 
way he got at the map, an' put this 
an' that together, was shupayrior. 
Faix, he'll have th' ould property in- 
Masther Waither's possession afore 
we know where we are. Murdher I 
murdher ! av th' ould masther was 
alive to see this day." 






CHAPTER VI. 



I AM bound to say that Walter 
Nugent made a careful, nay, a very 
careful, toilet upon the June morn- 
ing that was to take him to Tap- 
low Bridge. The parting of his 
hair gave him " no end " of trouble, 



one curl absolutely refusing to be 
discounted, while the choice be- 
tween a blue and a rose-colored 
sailor's knot led to what theatrical 
people term "a stage wait." At 
ten o'clock, however, he reached 



640 



Bore en." 



the Paddington depot, blackthorn in 
hand, the joyful Boreen at his heels, 
and in a few subsequent minutes 
was speeding away from the mist 
of London. Glimpses of a keener, 
fuller blue began to appear, the 
gardens were green with the early 
foliage of summer, the songs of 
birds rose high above the rattle of 
the train, and the barrister felt like 
a very child in his enjoyment of 
this glorious rush into fragrant 
country. The rapid motion, the 
silvery light, the sweet air, the 
glimpses of mill-streams, and or- 
chards, and farmsteads, and lordly 
domains all were a delight to him, 
while the anticipation of the hours 
to be spent in the refined society 
of the people he was about to meet 
added additional zest to the charm 
of that moment. 

Arrived at Taplow Bridge, he 
leaned over the parapets, gazing at 
the silvery Thames, crowded with 
skiffs radiant in many-colored 
cushions, and its banks lined with 
emerald velvet lawns striped with 
ribbon borders like strips of Per- 
sian carpets, at villas of every sort, 
shape, size, and description, from 
the prim, red-bricked mansion of 
the days of good Queen Anne to 
the imitation Swiss chalet erected 
by some rich citizen after an au- 
tumn rush through the valley of the 
Engadine. 

Nugent strolled round to the 
Guards Club, and asked of a haugh- 
ty and supercilious being attired in 
a gorgeous livery if the Marchion- 
ess of Pomfret's party had yet arriv- 
ed. At this query the human fla- 
mingo deigned to be respectful, 
and was good enough to intimate 
that he would make inquiries. 
While this superior being absented 
himself, and while Nugent was en- 
gaged in gazing at a picture repre- 
senting the Russian attack at In- 



kermann repelled by the Guards, a 
voice exclaiming " That's Boreen " 
attracted his attention, and he 
turned round to behold little Ethel 
putting up her rosebud mouth to 
be kissed. She was all white frills, 
and ruches, and laces, and inser- 
tions, and looked a very charming 
little fairy, as, indeed, she was. 
Hester Bransr.ombe, also attired in 
diaphanous white, stepped forward, 
saying as she shook hands with 
him : 

" How good of you to come ! 
Let me present you to Ethel's 
mamma. Julia, Mr. Nugent." 

The marchioness expressed her- 
self very pleased to meet the bar- 
rister. 

"You have quite stolen the affec- 
tions of the sole daughter of my 
house and heart." 

"A proud victory' for me," he 
laughed, " and strangely achieved. 
This is the first great cause, your 
ladyship," touching Boreen lightly 
with his boot as he spoke. 

" He is beautiful in his ugliness, 
Mr. Nugent." 

" His heart is in the right place, 
at all events," exclaimed Hester. 
" His gaze of affection at his mas- 
ter is as strong as anything Land- 
seer ever painted-" 

" Come, Walter," cried Ethel, 
" I want to show you the launch ; 
but you haven't spoken to Estelle 
yet. Go away, Boreen. You sha'n't 
touch darling Estelle. Please to 
carry her, Walter. Oh ! my, how 
awkward you are ; you shouldn't 
crush her petticoats. See how she 
opens her eyes at you, and the dar- 
ling smile on her beautiful lips. 
Don't put your thumb into her 
back hair. That's better. Now 
give me your other hand, and we'll 
go on board the Ethel. I want to 
introduce you to the engineer, and 
the stoker, and the steward, and 



" Boreen" 



641 



the boy. I won't introduce you to 
Sam Dicker. I don't like him; he 
made a face at me. He did, mam- 
ma, and put out his nasty tongue, 
and" 

" Your little tongue will have to 
be tied, Ethel, if you rattle on at 
such a rate ; besides, when / was a 
little girl I invariably carried my 
own doll." 

" But Walter is Estelle's papa, 
mamma, and hasn't seen the dar- 
ling for oh ! ever so long." 

Down the velvet and sun-kissed 
slope to the shimmering river Ethel 
led the way, holding Nugent tight- 
ly by the hand, and skipping as 
though every pied daisy beneath 
her dainty feet had been red hot. 
Boreen, barking joyously, bounced 
before her, and in very wantonness 
indulged in playful and idiotic snap- 
pings at her rustling laces, while 
ever and anon he would spring high 
in air in an abortive attempt to 
become possessed of one of Estelle 
Lafarge's blue satin, pink-rosetted 
shoes, that dangled temptingly over 
Walter Nugent's left arm. 

The steam-launch lay moored to 
the rustic jetty, her coroneted pen- 
nant flying in the caressing sum- 
mer breeze ; and as the party ap- 
proached, the engineer, clad in 
snowy white, blew a long and en- 
ergetic blast upon the shrill steam- 
whistle, to which Ethel responded 
by waving her tiny parasol covered 
with point lace, a birthday gift from 
the Duchess of Leinster, her god- 
mother. The joyous child dragged 
the barrister on board, and com- 
pelled him, bon gr mal gre\ to assist 
at the demi-toilette of Estelle, whom 
she put to bed in one of the luxurious 
berths, with all possible state and for- 
mality, holding her daintily up that 
Walter should kiss her ere she clos- 
ed her china blue eyes for the 
siesta. Then Ethel pulled Nugent 
VOL. XXIX. 41 



from one end of the launch to the 
other, presenting him to all hands, 
and revealing the entire resources 
of the boat, from the latest novel 
of William Black to the ice-house, 
wherein reposed a shape of ice re- 
presenting the " Minuet de la Cour," 
after John Everett Millais. Pre- 
sently she bounded to the deck 
with a cry of " There's papa !" and 
sped across the grass to meet a 
spectacled gentleman clad in blue 
flannel, a glazed, horn-pipish-look- 
ing hat, and buff cricket shoes. 
From the pockets of the rakish lit- 
tle jacket bulged forth official pa- 
pers bound with the stereotyped 
red tape, and in his right hand the 
most noble the Marquis of Pomfret, 
K.G., bore a scarlet morocco de- 
spatch-box bearing the all-potential 
initials V. R., being those of his 
sovereign lady the Queen. 

Ambling beside Miss Branscombe 
was a gentleman attired in white 
flannel, very open at the neck, the 
broad, rolling flannel collar being 
confined by a sailor's knotof delicate 
pink, while between the ends of the 
"All in the Downs" trousers and the 
varnished patent-leather shoes peep- 
ed forth stockings of the same hue 
as the tie this being the "cor- 
rect form" on the .river Thames. 
The man was handsome, languid, 
and of the crutch-stick and tooth- 
pick class. He was one of the 
charmingly-dressed lay figures one 
sees in the bay-windows of the pa- 
latial clubs in St. James Street or 
Pall Mall. 

A sting of what ? Was it jea- 
lousy ? Bah ! A throb of pain beat 
in Walter Nugent's heart as he re- 
cognized in Miss Branscombe's 
companion Sir Jasper Jyvecote. 

" This is Walter, papa," cried 
Ethel, as she led her father on 
board by the handle of the de- 
spatch-box. 



642 



Boreen" 



" Ah !" casting a Treasury-Bench 
glance at the barrister. " How do, 
Mr. Blantyre?" extending three 
whole fingers. 

" Nugent," exclaimed my hero, 
flushing scarlet. 

" Ah ! look like Blantyre. Have 
a habit of calling a certain set of 
young men Blantyre. Like a type. 
Fine day." And the marquis, 
who in his language combined the 
Socratic method with the Jingle el- 
lipsis, passed into the saloon, where 
he soon became immersed in pa- 
pers which he extracted from the 
scailet despatch-box. 

" Beauclerc," exclaimed his wife, 
" can't you let those horrid things 
go for one day ?" 

" Cawnt, my dear. House sit- 
ting. Fifty questions to awnser. 
Secretary to meet me at Cookham 
Lock, another at Marlow, a third 
at Pulleyne." 

" Who would be a cabinet minis- 
ter, Mr. Nugent ?" laughed the mar- 
chioness. u I have a nominal hus- 
band, Ethel a nominal father. I 
believe that he is alive, that he re- 
sides beneath the same roof with 
me. I know that he sleeps. I 
cannot say that he eats or drinks. 
As for reading, like the brook he 
goes on for ever. How I wish that 
Mr. Disraeli would throw over the 
reins of government to Mr. Glad- 
stone !" 

"By Jove! if he did you'd have 
your husband in Opposition," drawl- 
ed Sir Jasper Jyvecote. 

" Any change would be for the 
better, Sir Jasper." 

" Haw ! haw ! Really, that's aw- 
fully good. I must tell that at the 
club- By the way, you heard what 
the Duchess of Sutherland said the 
other night at Lady Dudley's 
dawnce." And the baronet pro- 
ceeded to relate, with many chuck- 
les and any number of " aw you 



knows," a very pointless, long-wind- 
ed story, beginning with nothing 
and ending in less. 

" I am not the guest of these 
people. I do not swim in their 
sun-lighted waters," mused Nu- 
gent bitterly. " I have been invit- 
ed to amuse their child ; to put on 
cap and bells, spread out my rag- 
ged carpet, and tumble for her." 
And making a sign to the watchful 
Boreen, he hastily rose and strode' 
forward, where he seated himself 
upon a brass cannon that shone in 
the June sunlight like burnished 
gold. 

It was a beauteous scene, the 
silvery river smooth and full of se- 
rene lustre as a mirror, the lilies 
and reeds, and wild flowers and 
trees, reflected " full fathom five " 
the sky of a full keen blue painted 
with tree-tops, the outer edges of 
the leaves white in the glorious 
dayshine. Trout and perch and 
barbel leaped high in air, leaving 
soft, billowy rings on the glassy 
surface, through which the sharp 
bows of the saucy launch cut mer- 
cilessly. Now they passed a green 
field, the grass languidly nodding 
to the scythe-man, now by a deep, 
shadowed wood emitting the odor 
of pine and cedar, now in front of 
a lawn of emerald velvet glowing 
with blood-red geraniums and lo- 
belias, and golden calceolarias and 
scarlet snapdragons, backed by a 
lordly villa, the children saluting 
the steamer with hats and croquet- 
mallets and joyous shouts. Now 
they darted beneath a bridge of 
antique shape, its gray stones ap- 
parently held together by the cling- 
ing clutches of lichens and mosses 
and ferns, yokels in blouses and 
straw hats gazing downwards on 
them as they scooted in, and ready 
with open eyes and open mouths 
when they emerged at the other 



Boreen" 



643 



side. Ever and anon they would 
come upon white-flannel-clad youths 
towing their skiffs, their compan- 
ions lying at full length on gaily- 
colored cushions in the boat, or 
poling long, unwieldy punts after 
the fashion of the Venetian gondo- 
liers. They skimmed close to el- 
derly gentlemen seated upon wood- 
en chairs in flat-bottomed boats, 
fishing for barbel, each man with a 
red cotton handkerchief across the 
back of his neck and an open um- 
brella in the disengaged hand. 
The laughter of picnic parties from 
the woods rang upon the drowsy 
hum of summer, mingled with the 
lowing of cattle and the barking of 
jealous dogs, who, espying Boreen, 
gave him to understand that, were 
he bold enough to set foot on shore, 
he'd be driven to take the water 
again and make that his natural 
element. Oh ! it was a glorious 
day in June, and what so fair in 
the whole jewel-case of Dame Na- 
ture ? 

Walter Nugent, seated astride 
the brass cannon, gave way to bit- 
ter thoughts. 

" I knew I would be in the way, 
and yet I was weak enough to re- 
main in London for the purpose of 
what ? To spend a day on board 
the steam-launch of a marquis. I 
suppose if I was a friend of the 
engineer, or the steward, or the 
pantry boy I could have done "the 
same. Ay, how they laugh ! The 
idiotic jokes of this gilded baronet 
go off like feu de joie. I do not 
admire your taste, Miss Brans- 
combe. I suppose it's all right ; eh, 
Boreen, old man ?" To this Bo- 
reen responded by a violent bark- 
ing, directed at a sleepy-looking cow 
that was standing knee-deep in the 
cool water beneath the shade of 
a horse-chestnut in full bloom. 

" You have deserted us, Mr. Nu- 



gent," said Hester's sweet, low 
vofce. 

" Please not to mind me" ex- 
claimed Walter. " I .am enjoying 
this thing immensely." 

" ' Least lonely when most alone.' 
Who is it that has said that ?" 

u Miss Branscombe," he retorted, 
" I am not alone. Am I, Boreen ?" 
Whereat Boreen dashed madly from 
side to side of the launch, challeng- 
ing every living thing on either 
bank of the river to mortal combat. 

" Have you been up the river 
before, Mr. Nugent?" seating her- 
self on a camp-stool. 

" Never. My Thames has been 
done on the penny boats between 
London Bridge and Westminster." 

" It is charming along here, is it 
not ?" 

"Absolutely." And gazing out- 
wards, he was silent. 

" We are approaching Marlow. 
You can see the church-spire above 
the trees. That red brick house 
with the wooden cross-beams is the 
celebrated Angler's, an inn that old 
Izaak Walton used to visit for pos- 
sets. Sir Jasper Jyvecote propo- 
ses that we shall land for a few mo- 
ments to taste the Moselle cup for 
which the hostelry is so famous." 

" I'll see him hanged before I 
taste his cup," resolved the bar- 
rister. 

Miss Branscombe, who knew 
every reed on the river, chatted 
gaily and charmingly, relating an- 
ecdotes historical and gossipy ; 
and, seeing with woman's instinct 
that the barrister was "not i' the 
vein," kept the shuttlecock to her 
own battledore, never so much as 
affording him the chance of exert- 
ing himself by sending it back to 
her. 

" Here's Marlow lock, and now for 
our cup," she cried, as the launch 
glided into the fern-clad chamber. 



644 



Bore en." 



"No cup for me, thanks," said 
Nugent. 

" But it will be lese-majeste to re- 
fuse it." 

" I owe no allegiance to Sir Jas- 
per Jyvecote, Miss Branscombe/' 

At this moment the baronet 
sauntered forward. 

"By Jove! I thought you had 
gone overboard, Miss Branscombe," 
he observed, adding, " Whose is the 
cur?" casting a disgusted glance at 
Boreen, who was gazing sidewise at 
the varnished shoes. 

" That is my dog, sir," said Nu- 
gent sternly. 

"Aw! He's Irish." 

" He is." 

" I thought so." 

" I should imagine you thought 
very little about anything." And 
Walter turned contemptuously upon 
his heel. 

I do not seek to excuse my hero. 
I have already said that he was but 
four-and-twenty and full of hot 
Irish blood blood that leaped into 
flame as the match struck, I am 
telling a plain, unvarnished tale, 
and my reader will take my hero 
with his imperfections, such as they 
are. 

"I beg pardon, Miss Brans- 
combe," he said, turning on his 
heel and bowing ; then, calling Bo- 
reen, he lightly sprang ashore. 

" I'll stop that ninny-hammer's 
sneering," he lightly laughed to 
himself, as he wandered, his hands 
deep in his coat pockets, into the 
trim, glowing garden attached to 
ye ancient hostlerie, nor did he 
rejoin the party until the whistle 
from the launch announced her 
instant departure. 

"Nearly left behind, Blantyre," 
chuckled the marquis as Walter 
leaped on to the deck. " Take a 
cigar? Irish Bar, eh? Rum lot; 
wild ; clever. Young fellows Home- 



Rulers, old fellows Whigs rascally 
Whigs, by Jupiter ! Hate Whigs, 
Blantyre. Lord O'Hagan orator 
flowery. Dowse doosid funny 
clown." 

Ethel, who had spent her morn- 
ing in the engine-room, now ap- 
peared with Estelle, whom she had 
attired in a suit of waterproof. 

" We are going to have a white 
squall, Walter, and see how splen- 
didly Estelle is prepared for it." 

" Take your friend astern, Baby. 
Have to meet another secretary at 
Pulleyne, Blantyre." And his lord- 
ship returned to his all-absorbing 
scarlet despatch-box. 

Nugent mentally resolved to 
avoid both Miss Branscombe and 
her gilded admirer for the remain- 
der of the day. 

" I'll just see this thing out as I 
would a comedy of high life ; and 
so here goes for treating the mar- 
chioness much as Dick Swiveller 
treated his titled dame over a game 
of cribbage." And the barrister 
joined his hostess, with whom was 
Ethel. 

The Marchioness of Pomfret was 
a superb horsewoman. She had 
ridden with the Pytchley and Queen, 
and contemplated in the near fu- 
ture a run with the Galway Blazers. 
Upon the subject of horses Nu- 
gent, thanks to Andy Gavin, was 
an expert, and the moment the 
topic was started her ladyship and 
her guest were completely cTatcordj 
nor did they cease a very animated 
and mutually interesting conversa- 
tion till the launch glided into a 
tiny harbor which bore all the ap- 
pearance of a gigantic bath. 

" You should see Miss Eileen 
O'Meara ride with the Blazers," 
cried Nugent, his eyes on fire, his 
cheeks all aglow. " I'll tell you 
what happened last season but one. 
We were a field of fifty, going at a 



Boreen' 



645 



slapping pace till we came to Sir 
Val Blake's demesne wall. The fox 
took a break in the wall, and the 
dogs followed him. Every man in 
the hunt rode up to it and balked, 
preferring to trust to the gate. 
Miss O'Meara was coming along, 
her white teeth set, her hands well 
down. ' Give me room, gentle- 
men, please? she cried, and she 
cleared it like a bird. We saw no- 
thing but the, bright steel shoes of 
her plucky mare. When we re- 
joined her she was standing by the 
side of the mare, whose girths had 
been loosed ; and no one but her- 
self and the dogs had seen that fox 
killed. Captain Candy, of the Ninth 
Lancers they called him Sugar 
Candy and I measured the height 
of that jump, and it was five feet 
eleven and a half. Miss O'Meara 
is a brick." 

"I don't admire masculine girls," 
observed Miss Branscombe coldly, 
as, taking Sir Jasper Jyvecote's 
arm, she went ashore. 

" Mamma, you must go with pa- 
pa. I want Walter. I have oh ! so 
many things to show him," cried 
Ethel. " Estelle is asleep, and 
'Toinette will mind her. Come, 
Boreen, Boreen ! Hi ! cats ! cats !" 

Pulleyne, the princely seat of the 
Marquis of Pomfret, is situated on 
the right bank of the Thames as 
you ascend from Taplow. The 
house is Elizabethan, of red brick. 
It encloses a square court with an 
arched cloister, pale blue forget- 
me-nots clinging tenderly to the 
walls, and a fountain plashes into 
a circular basin in the central grass- 
plot. It stands on a sort of pla- 
teau some ten feet above the level 
of the surrounding park, the descent 
from the higher to the lower level 
being accomplished by flights of 
broad stone steps. This plateau 
is laid out in elaborate gardens, 



the hues of the flowers being gra- 
duated and patterned out accord- 
ing to the latest refinements of 
chromatic art. Along the front of 
the house extends a broad, gravel- 
led walk bordered by a regiment 
of huge red earthenware jars such 
as would se'rve admirably in the 
Morgiana scene in " AH Baba," 
solely devoted to creeping plants 
of a dead gray. Under the south- 
ern wing of the house a smaller 
walled-in garden is kept in the 
Queen Anne style Nature in ruff 
and farthingale and high-heeled 
shoes. The great park outside, 
with its five thousand rolling acres 
of turf and brake, is studded with 
clumps of burly oaks and ancient, 
rugged thorns, and a stately ave- 
nue of over two miles in length, 
bordered with towering horse- 
chestnuts and lime-trees three 
deep on either hand, leads up to 
the house. 

Oh ! it was fair to behold stately 
deer, with tender limbs and poised 
antlers, passing along the golden 
bars that glinted through the deep 
boughs. Oh ! it was delightful to 
walk beneath the shadowy haunts 
on a carpet of moss softer than 
Aubusson, or Tashmeghar, or Per- 
sian. 

Ethel, having selected a site for 
the fete champttre, the grass was 
soon in an azalean bloom of lob- 
ster salad and pate" de foie gras, 
while solemn servants silently bus- 
ied themselves with elaborate and 
seductive prandial preparations. 
Boreen had to be tied to a tree, 
but not until he had polished off a 
chicken-pie and had become the 
happy possessor of an entire lob- 
ster, which he worried as he would 
a combative and recalcitrant cat. 
Sir Jasper did Ganymede to Miss 
Branscombe ; the marquis, having 
bundled off a third secretary with 



646 



" Boreen" 



the despatch-box, applied his spec- 
tacles to the contemplation of the 
tempting viands; and Walter, whose 
appetite always stood him in good 
stead, laid on like Macduff. Eth- 
el's health was drunk in cham- 
pagne, and the party then proceed- 
ed in a wagonette to the house ; 
Ethel having carefully collected 
sticks with the aid of Walter, where- 
with to build a fire to make the 
tea on the return to the launch. 

In the cloister Nugent was 
thrown beside Miss Branscombe, 
Sir Jasper having entered the house 
with the marchioness. 

" I hope that stupid remark of 
Sir Jasper Jyvecote has been erased 
from your memory," she said. 

He turned and met her eyes, and 
then he felt how beautiful she was. 



" I'm very sorry that is, for your 
sake. I'm awfully sorry I let my- 
self go that time, Miss Branscombe 
and and, you will please let me 
say good-by." 

" Good-by !" And the girl looked 
at him with wondering eyes as she 
echoed the word. 

"Yes." 

"Now! Why?" 

He grew very pale. 

" I want to get back to Ireland. 
I am not fit for this sort of thing. 
I'm sorry I came. Don't be of- 
fended with me !" And suddenly 
taking her hand and lifting the tips 
of her fingers to his lips, he flung 
one long, hungering look .into her 
eyes, and the next instant he was 
gone. 



CHAPTER VII. 



IF the statue of Admiral Nelson 
that adorns the pillar in Sackville 
Street, Dublin, had descended, 
walked out to Rathfarnham, and, 
stepping into the modest little par- 
lor in Mrs. Nugent's modest little 
cottage, had invited Walter then 
and there to go through the jubi- 
lant evolutions of an Irish jig, the 
young man's astonishment could 
not have been exceeded when Mr. 
Fitzgerald's letter arrived announc- 
ing in cold, legal phraseology that 
the town-park of Clonfinnan, to- 
gether with the townlands of Bal- 
lybottery and Turbury, was re- 
stored to the possession of the Nu- 
gents of Kilternan. At first he re- 
garded the letter as a practical joke 
played off upon him by some wit- 
less scapegrace of the " Hall," and 
was about to tear it into a thousand 
pieces when the genuine appear- 
ance of the document stopped him. 
Could there be anv mistake ? There 



in the corner stood his own name, 
correct in every particular. There 
in the body of the missive were the 
townlands succinctly set forth. 
Clonfinnan had gone first to pay 
the losses upon Fly-by-Night's de- 
feat at Punchestown ; then followed 
Ballybottery, where the hounds 
were once again entrusted to his 
father's mastership; and lastly 
Turbury, that filtered away in 
the reckless extravagance conse- 
quent upon entertaining the vice- 
roy, the Earl of Carlisle, when half 
the county was invited to meet 
him. 

Could it be possible that this let- 
ter was intended for somebody 
else, and that in the hurry of busi- 
ness his, Walter Nugent's, name had 
been erroneously inserted ? Yes, it 
must be so; and as Mr. Fitzgerald 
had been so attentive and courte- 
ous, it behoved him to call upon 
that gentleman without delay, and 



" Bore en" 



647 



set to right this palpable and pain- 
ful error. 

" No mistake, my dear sir," was 
the solicitor's remark as Walter 
handed him the letter. 

"No mis take!" he echoed in 
a dry, choking way. 

" None whatever. Do not be 
excited, Nugent. There is such a 
thing as good luck." And Fitzgerald 
busied himself with papers, in order 
to let the first high heart-beats 
throb off. 

" I I don't understand this. 
Am I dreaming? Is this real ? What 
does it mean ?" gasped Nugent, 
grasping the table till his knuckles 
shone up glassy and white, and 
staring with dilated eyes and 
mouth wide open at the solicitor, 
who, cool as the parchment he was 
engaged in handling, appeared not 
to notice him. 

" I congratulate you, and " 

" But what does it mean ?" burst 
in the young man, beads of perspi- 
ration now trickling down a face 
that flamed and paled alternately. 

" It means that the estate former- 
ly in the possession of your lament- 
ed father has been purchased in 
fee and restored to the family." 

" Who purchased it?" 

" A client of mine." 

A flush of joy illumined the bar- 
rister's heart, only to leave utter 
darkness. " Your client's name, 
please " this haughtily. 

" Stet nominis umbra," laughed 
the other. " Let me call him Ju- 
nius." 

" You shall call him by his pro- 
per appellation, Mr. Fitzgerald. 
Although a beggar, I wish to thank 
this unknown Dives while I refuse 
his alms." 

" You'll do nothing of the kind, 
Mr. Nugent. Sit down now sit 
down, I say and listen to me for 
just two minutes. I must be in 



court at 11.20," glancing at a 
Louis Quatorze clock that peeped 
from behind a bundle of mouldy- 
looking law papers. " The case 
stands this wise : An old man enor- 
mously rich, a bachelor without 
kith or kin Father Breen knows 
all about him, and this has been 
done with the reverend gentleman's 
entire concurrence has been un- 
der mountain loads of obligations 
to your family at the time when 
the Nugents held their heads as 
high as their own race-horses. He, 
I might say, lived at Kilternan, and 
his earliest associations have been 
connected with the place and the 
race. He loves Kilternan, he 
loves the family, and a dream of 
his life is to see the Nugents en- 
joying their own again. Accident 
has enabled him to gratify this all- 
absorbing desire. The lands were 
in the market ; he has purchased 
them in fee. Here are the deeds, 
my dear sir, and allow me to offer 
you ten thousand congratulations 
and three thousand a year. I shall 
be late, and the Master of the Rolls 
will strike me off the rolls." And 
snatching up his hat and a bundle 
of papers, Mr. Fitzgerald hastily 
withdrew. 

Walter gazed at the deeds that 
lay within his reach, gazed out at 
St. Andrew's Church, gazed at the 
tin boxes, and maps, and acts of 
Parliament, and the dread para- 
phernalia of the law by which he 
was surrounded; then he bent over 
the table, lower still, until the backs 
of his hands rested upon the parch- 
ment that gave him rank, and 
wealth, and station, till his fore- 
head rested upon his hands. And 
thus he remained until one of the 
clerks came into the apartment to 
ask him if he felt unwell. 

" I cannot go home," he said to 
himself. " I must try and pull my 



648 



" Boreenr 



thoughts together." And hailing an 
outside car, he drove to the Phoenix 
Park, and there, under the fragrant 
horse-chestnuts, meditated upon 
this marvellous turn of the wheel 
of his fortune, and upon the su- 



perb generosity of his unknown 
benefactor. 

" I can meet Hester Branscombe 
on equal terms now" was the 
triumphant thought that fluttered 
high in his jubilant heart. 



CHAPTER VIII. 



" KlLTERNAN, July 28. 

" DEAR MR. NUGENT : As we have but 
a few days ere we retreat from this 
fortress with, let us hope, all the honors 
of war, I would be very pleased if you 
would favor us with a visit, in order 
that I may render an account of my 
stewardship. With best regards to your 
mother and sister, I remain very truly 
yours, JULIA HOPE HOWARD. 

" P. S. I shall send to Clonfinnan to 
meet you." 

A burning desire to visit the old 
home seized possession of Walter 
Nugent as he perused this epistle, 
and without a moment's hesitation 
he telegraphed he had removed 
with his mother and sister from 
Rathfarnham to the Shelburne 
Hotel, Stephen's Green his accep- 
tance, adding that he would leave 
for Kilternan upon the following 
day at two o'clock. 

The Howards had received a 
polite notice to quit Kilternan in 
other words, were informed that 
at the expiration of the year ter- 
minating the 3ist of July the pro- 
prietor would take possession ; 
hence this note. 

It was a lovely summer evening 
as Walter Nugent, with Boreen at 
his heels, entered the old-fashioned 
gateway leading to the home of his 
race. In his telegram he request- 
ed of Mrs. Howard not to send 
any vehicle to the station, and he 
now trudged, on a brave pair of 
low-heeled shoes, up the elm-lined 
avenue to the house. Mrs. Clancy, 
the lodge-keeper, fairly wept for 



joy as he stepped into the lodge 
and took a cup of tea with her, and 
Patsy Farrel, the gardener, with 
trembling hands fastened a magni- 
ficent Marechal Niel rosebud in 
" the young masther's " button- 
hole, who now, " glory be to God ! 
come back for to live amongst 
his own agin." 

As Walter neared the house 
the tide of past recollection and 
that of present happiness met in 
one great wave that washed over 
his heart, and a tear stood in his 
eye as for a moment he ever and 
anon paused to gaze at some well- 
remembered spot, some landmark 
recalling a past no longer soured 
with a deadly bitterness. It was 
during one of these pauses that he 
heard the rustle of a woman's dress, 
and, imagining it might be some of 
the domestics or people employed 
about the place, he stepped aside. 
Boreen, who was considerably in 
advance, having travelled miles 
after impossible rabbits, suddenly 
set up a joyous barking, followed 
by whines indicative of pleasure 
laid on at high pressure. 

"Somebody that Boreen is ac- 
quainted with," thought Nugent. 
" I wonder who can it be ? He 
never was here before. I'll an- 
swer for the dog. How jolly he is, 
to be sure !" And he stepped from 
behind the trees into the avenue. 

A young, girlish figure stooped 
over the terrier, caressing Boreen 
with dainty hand. The barrister's 



Bore en." 



649 



heart leaped as in the figure he re- 
cognized Hester Branscombe. 

"Why did you leave Pulleyne 
that day ?" she asked, without look- 
ing up and still fondling Boreen. 

Walter was silent. 

"Why did you leave Pulleyne?" 
she repeated, still stooping over 
the dog. Her tones were low, and 
her voice, despite an ill-concealed 
effort at firmness, quivered from 
agitation. 

" May I, dare I tell you ?" he 
blurted, and in surprising the se- 
cret of his own heart he learned 
that which lay enshrined with his 
own image in hers. 

Oh ! that stroll beneath the elms 
at Kilternan, Boreen, the inimita- 
ble Boreen, chasing rabbits with 
hoarse and roystering bark, till the 
dew descended like a tulle illusion 
veil upon the grass, and the moon 
hung like a gem on the brow of the 
sky. Are there not moments in all 
our lives when life seems not to 
belong to earth, the very remem- 
brance of which awakes echoes of 
sweet melody in the heart ? 

" I liked you from the very mo- 
ment you stood opposite to me 
with dear old Boreen, his pink 
tongue covered with sawdust," she 
murmured. 

" And yet you treated me " 



" Like a what a big goose you 
were !" 

Miss Branscombe had come over 
to visit her friend, Miss Howard, 
even before the sun of the London 
season had set. She was anxious 
to see Walter Nugent's birthplace 
and his home. 

" How strange it all seems!" he 
said, as they emerged into the open 
space before the house ; " you have 
got my old room." 

The Nugents live at Kilternan, 
and by the Nugents I mean Mr. 
Walter Nugent, his wife, his heir, 
his mother, and his sister. By the 
way, Mr. O'Meara, Q.C., intends re- 
moving the latter young lady to Mer- 
rion Square in the course of the com- 
ing autumn. Andy Gavin, whose se- 
cret is still faithfully preserved, occu- 
pies his old quarters at the stables, 
where he is as happy as his own 
honest conscience can make him, 
and that is completely happy. Lit- 
tle Lady Ethel is on a visit with 
her aunt just now, and takes the 
heir she is out of dolls for an air- 
ing in a very pretty little wicker 
carriage. Is it drawn by a pony ? 
No. A goat ? It is harnessed to 
our exalting and jubilant 

BOREEN. 



650 



Has History become a Novel? 



HAS HISTORY BECOME A NOVEL ?* 



EVER since Carlyle called histo- 
rians Dryasdusts we have ceased 
reading statistical reports, tabulat- 
ed lists of manufactures, appendi- 
ces to maps, and other dull matter 
once deemed of necessity to com- 
plete the annals of a nation. Poor 
Dryasdust cannot write history, 
even if he can give facts. Your 
modern historiographer is noth- 
ing if not romantic. Demos- 
thenes read and reread Thucydides 
in order to form his style and fa- 
miliarize himself with Grecian his- 
tory ; but has not Grote proved 
that Thucydides did not know how 
to write history at all ? It is true 
that the Greek historian was a per- 
sonal actor in the wars which he 
describes, and a modern reader 
might be excused for supposing 
that he knew what he was writing 
about; but the modern reader must 
understand that the Athenian his- 
torian had no philosophy of history, 
and, in fact he was a Dryasdust. 
He simply told what he knew. He 
had no subtle insight into the mo- 
tives of generals who were so ab- 
surd as to fight without any motive 
at all. Now, in the Zulu war Lord 
Chelmsford always fights with a 
motive ; whereas your ridiculous 
old Plutarchian heroes warred 
without any apparent reflection. 
It is painfully evident that they 
thought only of winning a battle, 
instead of watching its sociologi- 
cal effects upon an autocratic as 
distinguished from an oligarchic 
government. 

The mention of Plutarch recalls 
a whole world of pleasant historical 

* A History of Our Own Times. By Justin 
McCarthy. 1879. 



reading, even if such reading failed 
of the modern conditions of histo- 
rical writing. How often we have 
laughed at the superstitious solem- 
nity of old Herodotus, who takes 
us aside to tell us some " awful 
whopper " about what he saw in 
Egypt ; or at such a story as that 
in Diogenes Laertes about a cro- 
codile that completely floored the 
philosopher Antisthenes upon a 
question of metaphysics. One 
might suspect that the crocodile 
was a prototype of Mr. Barnum's 
wild men from the impenetrable 
forests of Tasmania, whose scaly 
fins defy comparative anatomy to 
explain, and whose knowledge of 
the English language puzzles phi- 
lology. The ancient historians 
chronicled everything they saw, 
heard, or read ; and the great value 
of their writings is owing to the 
circumstance that they never 
dreamt of philosophizing upon 
what they wrote. Perhaps the 
greatest charm of Homer is that 
he is profoundly convinced of the 
truth of what he sings. Nor does 
such a conviction altogether destroy 
the historical value of the writings 
of the ancient annalists. Criticism 
can very readily sift the chaff from 
the wheat. In even the unpoetic 
and practical records of ancient 
Rome it is questionable whether 
trustworthy history antedates Sue- 
tonius. Who shall decide whether 
the Agricola or the Germania of 
Tacitus is history or romance ? 

We fear very much that modern 
English historians have been given 
to romancing. The necessity be- 
gan with concealing the shameful 
spoliation of the monasteries in 



Has History become a Novel? 



England, as also the hiding of the 
real causes of the Protestant Re- 
formation. We do not say with 
De Maistre that for the last three 
hundred years history has been a 
grand conspiracy against the truth, 
for we are profoundly convinced 
that truth is stronger than any con- 
spiracy ; but it is certainly true 
that history, in the hands of Eng- 
lishmen, has been little better than 
a novel, and it is with regret we 
note the deepening of this vicious- 
ness in contemporary English his- 
torical essays. What are we to 
think of even the possibility of such 
a book as J. A. Froude's Life of 
Thomas a Becket, the very shame- 
lessness of which nearly deterred Mr. 
Freeman from exposing its count- 
less misrepresentations, and even 
documentary falsifications ? If, 
as Mr. Froude says, since his with- 
drawal from the ministry of the 
Church of England he has no oth- 
er resource for making a living than 
that furnished by literature, can he 
not turn his imaginative powers to 
romance, and not outrage history ? 
Half of the elaborate description 
spent upon his theory of the crimi- 
nality of the Queen of Scots, put 
into a certain style of fashionable 
novel, would have made him a 
quicker, and atleast as adequate, pe- 
cuniary return. If he had describ- 
ed some imaginary proud, haughty, 
impure, and vulgar prelate in a sort 
of mediaeval romance, instead of 
calling such an imaginary person 
Thomas a Becket in a pretended 
history, he would have made as 
much money, besides saving any 
historical reputation he may af- 
fect. It is honorable in litera- 
ture to call a novel a novel, as 
Lockhart says, speaking of Sir 
Walter Scott's romantic Life of 
Napoleon, which might have been 
made admirable as a story, but 



which, as a biography, is of no 
worth. 

Swift said of Bishop Burnet's 
History that it was a lame and 
spavined old horse tottering under 
the weight of all the ecclesiastical 
filth that had accumulated in the 
Church of England from the days 
of Cranmer. The expression is vul- 
gar, but the dean was not mealy- 
mouthed. This same old steed 
has been alternately coaxed and 
driven to carry also a most weighty 
pack of political lies ; and if the gall- 
ed jade winces, that is no matter 
for surprise. If we except the 
simple and touching biography of 
Cardinal Wolsey, written by his 
man-servant, there are few trust- 
worthy histories of England or of 
Englishmen, from Henry VII I. 's 
day, until we reach Lingard. 

Hume began the graphic and ro- 
mantic style of English historical 
writing, of which we have the imita- 
tion in Macaulay, Carlyle, Froude, 
Green, and, in a quieter way, Justin 
McCarthy. Hume did not care 
whether he was right or wrong a 
very proper mood indeed for writ- 
ing history. It is not probable 
that he believed in his own philoso- 
phical theories, but the man who 
wrote that right and wrong are only 
conventional terms, invented by 
a degraded priesthood to make 
money, is hardly a sale guide. 
His characters in his history are 
well drawn, and his analysis of mo- 
tive displays that critical faculty 
which, his admirers boasted, was 
triumphantly exercised in his refu- 
tation of the possibility of miracles; 
but after all one feels that they are 
only the etchings of a skilful draw- 
er who positively believed that all 
his royal characters were a great 
deal worse than he painted them. 
It is curious to notice that whereas 
Froude's pencil is dipped in celes- 



6 5 2 



Has History become a Novel? 



tial hues, Hume works in dark pig- 
ments. But neither of them is a 
historian ; and as Henry VIII. on 
the canvas of Froude appears rayed 
with a halo a veritable if rather 
burly saint and about as like him 
in personal appearance as the Bluff 
Hal on the English tavern, so 
Hume's graceful and melancholy 
picture of Charles I. resembles 
him as much as the famous por- 
trait by Vandyke. 

The apotheosis of historical ro- 
mance was reached in Thomas 
Carlyle, who set to work to over- 
turn every preconceived notion we 
ever had on the subject of history. 
He had one idea, which he has 
hammered out into the thinnest 
plates in all sorts of writing. That 
idea is the supremacy of physical 
force over all other kinds of power. 
Endowed with a marvellous com- 
mand of the epithets expressive of 
force, he proceeded to hurl them 
with what his devotees call Titanic 
fury, but which others would desig- 
nate by a far rougher term. Taking 
as a text, " To be weak is to be 
miserable," he began ringing the 
changes. The world has grown 
tired of his savage growl at its 
weakness. It refuses to believe in 
the omnipotence of muscle. No 
doubt it is a very desirable thing to 
be able to walk a thousand miles 
in a thousand quarters of hours, or 
to snap an iron bar like a pipe- 
stem ; but how is it if we all cannot 
be Milos ? 

Carlyle calls the pope a " bundle 
of old rags," and of the whole line 
of Roman pontiffs admires only Ju- 
lius II., who went to war with 
Venice, bullied Michael Angelo, 
renovated St. Peter's, and, we are 
afraid, dealt rather summarily with 
certain religious malcontents. Not 
every pope can be a Julius, and the 
church does not often choose a 



pontiff who loves the sword of St. 
Paul more than the keys of St. 
Peter. Nor does society as a rule 
prefer war to peace, brute force to 
moral power, the hangman's rope to 
the priest's exhortation, or, in civ- 
il rule, Saul to Solomon. The 
French Revolution was a misfor- 
tune, Mirabeau a demagogue, and 
Frederick the Great a despot. All 
the dreadful energies of the Carly- 
lean heroes did not effect a parti- 
cle more than the quiet and potent 
working of good ideas which, in- 
stead of being " clad in hell-fire," 
might have been spoken in a whis- 
per by the church, sung by the poet, 
or penned by the scholar. 

The brilliant historical roman- 
ces of Lord Macaulay put the fin- 
ishing touch upon the Dryasdusts. 
Goldsmith's Natural History is not 
so interesting as a Persian tale, but 
Macaulay 's England is. The bal- 
anced sentence, the deft touch of 
character, the cunning close of 
chapters, after which we expect to 
read, " To be continued in our 
next," the minute attention to sce- 
nery, the mingling of grave and 
gay, and the panoramic effects, all 
mark the great romance of English 
history. Gibbon is learned, dif- 
fuse, and generally exact. Macau- 
lay is sparkling, rapid, and ima- 
ginative. Let us put away the lat- 
est novel, and fancy we are im- 
proving our mind by reading se- 
rious history. 

It is too much to expect that 
Justin McCarthy should have es- 
caped the influence of the roman- 
tic school of English history. Where 
more pretentious and ambitious, 
though not always abler, men have 
led the way, it was unavoidable 
for him not to have followed. Be- 
sides, he is a novelist, and a good 
one. This History of Our Own 



Has History become a Novel? 



653 



Times reads like so many episodes 
out of the great romancers Field- 
ing, Smollett, or Thackeray. The 
judgments upon the men and the 
women of the Victorian era are 
simply admirable from a novelis- 
tic stand-point but false historical- 
ly, as time and the matured judg- 
ments of posterity will indicate. 
Mr. McCarthy cannot afford, po- 
litically, to put down in full the 
estimates of characters at which he 
hints. It is quite easy for him to 
weave out a series of motives for 
his political characters which is 
sufficient for the day. Beacons- 
field is drawn as a successful ad- 
venturer. He is this, but more. 
O'Connell is described as a dema- 
gogue, not scrupling to abuse cer- 
tain feelings and tendencies of the 
Irish people. But he was a great 
orator, and deserved and wore 
with honor the name of tribune 
of his people. Cardinal Newman 
had a mystic as well as a logical 
mind, and this sufficed to make 
him leave the Establishment. But 
he also had the grace of God. 
Prince Albert was a most affec- 
tionate father, and therefore did 
much to preserve the tranquillity 
of the English court, etc. 

Out of a few such actual or as- 
sumed traits in his heroes Mr. 
McCarthy evolves a very read- 
able analysis of their characters. 
His " villains," too, are melodra- 
matically ruffianly, and his hero- 
ines are all that can be desired. 
His survey of literature suggests 
a very narrow range of reading on 
the writer's part. 

The chief excellence which Mr. 
McCarthy brought to the writing of 
his history is the minuteness of de- 
tail afforded him by his experience 
as a journalist. The man who has 
not only read telegraphic despatch- 
es and newspaper correspondence 



for years, but has also written upon 
them, may err in judgment, but not 
in intimate acquaintance with those 
little facts, incidents, phrases, and 
popular opinions which go far to 
make up history. Macaulay's later 
volumes of his History of Eng- 
land are condensed newspaper; 
and if Carlyle had not the Moniteur 
at hand the most vivid chapters 
of the French Revolution could not 
have been written. McCarthy's 
History impresses us much as a 
scrap-book in which leading edi- 
torial articles have been pasted, 
among which at proper intervals is 
sandwiched a " letter from our 
own correspondent at the seat of 
war." We have in the opening 
chapter a very interesting account 
of the death of William IV., with 
the very latest intelligence from the 
sick-room and touching incidents 
of the trying scene. Next we have 
political "leaders" on the Peel, 
the Melbourne, and other ministries, 
in the style of a confidential secre- 
tary of the government, who is cau- 
tious about letting the people into 
important state secrets. As Sir 
Patrick O'Plempo, in the Irish 
Ambassador, would say, " Situated 
as I am," Mr. McCarthy declines 
telling us all he knows ; and we 
are left in great uncertainty as to 
the real designs of France in the 
Crimean War. 

The excellence of the portraits 
of eminent Englishmen in this 
History may be inferred from the 
fact that years ago Mr. McCarthy 
had the reputation of being the 
best "interviewer" upon the Lon- 
don press. The word has an un- 
pleasant hint of vulgarity to Ameri- 
can ears; but in England the in- 
terviewer would not, and, in point 
of fact, does not, set at defiance the 
canons of etiquette and courtesy. 
In most cases a public man gives 



654 



A Peep into Two Buried Cities. 



his views at a large banquet; but 
where such a medium of commu- 
nication is absent he has no ob- 
jfection to meeting an authorized 
member of the press. The series 
of articles on distinguished men 
which Mr. McCarthy wrote some 
years back for the Galaxy gave a 
good idea of an English "inter- 
view." There was a certain amount 
of " puffery," but no violation of 
domestic or of social privacy, and 
a fair statement of the " views." 
Our own idea of what history 
should be is magnificently illus- 



trated by Bossuet in his discourse 
on universal history. Still, if any 
one likes to read novels under the 
disguise of history, he will find 
such a book as Mr. McCarthy's 
very agreeable. Most of us will 
give such a reader the same credit 
for his historical knowledge as we 
should to the philosophical gentle- 
man on whose chess-table we find 
two huge tomes, bound in morocco, 
and entitled The Works of Bishop 
Berkeley on Idealism. The title 
may be a little deceptive, but the 
contents furnish much amusement. 



A PEEP INTO TWO BURIED CITIES. 



IN this month of August the 
people of Naples are celebrating 
the destruction of Pompeii and 
Herculaneum by an eruption of 
Mount Vesuvius which took place 
in the year A.D. 79, eighteen hun- 
dred years ago. It is a rather pe- 
culiar in memoriam, but it has a 
singular interest, and the Italians 
enjoy the memory and benefits of 
the old catastrophe. Indeed, they 
are justified in this ; for it has done 
more, in the way of preserving a 
true knowledge of men and things 
as they existed at the beginning of 
our era, than all the classic writers. 
Volcanoes certainly have their own 
uses in the providential order of 
human progress. 

The first mention of Pompeii 
occurs under date of B.C. 300, at 
which time the Romans took the 
coast country of Campania from the 
Oscans, Samnites, and others who 
had possessed it. The little city 
occupied a small eminence at the 
base of Vesuvius, about a mile 
from the strand of the Bay of 



Naples ; the site having been raised 
by some former overflow of lava, 
which had become covered with 
soil in the course of ages. The 
first settlers must have fancied that 
the volcano had ceased to be dan- 
gerous, and they covered the place 
with vineyards and cornfields. The 
soil was wonderfully fertile, and 
the circle of Campania round the 
bay was a circle of natural enchant- 
ment, earth, sea, and a beautiful 
climate combining to make it the 
paradise of Italy. When Rome 
had become mistress of all the 
peninsula, her rich citizens recog- 
nized the attractions of the locality 
and built villas at Pompeii, Baiae, 
Naples, Herculaneum, and other 
places, all in sight of the volcano. 
Cicero had a villa at Pompeii, as 
he tells us in his Epistles, and he 
must have often speculated on the 
next eruption of the great hill, 
which never allowed the inhabi- 
tants to forget its character for any 
length of time. Smoke was almost 
always visible at its summit, owing 



A Peep into Two Buried Cities. 



655 



to the interior lava-combustion, 
which was always kept up by the 
sea-percolations from the Adriatic. 
It is now a recognized fact first 
suggested by an Irish Protestant 
bishop, Dr. George Berkeley, of 
Cloyne that the great volcanoes of 
the world are on the edges of the 
ocean, or very near them, as the 
reader may observe by looking on 
the maps. The thousand volcanoes 
of the globe are nearly all in sight 
of salt water. 

In the process of time the hydro- 
gen of the Adriatic troubled the 
lonely repose of Vesuvius ; and a 
great earthquake, in A.D. 63, shook 
Pompeii, Herculaneum, and other 
towns, as we are told by Seneca. 
The people of Campania propped 
and repaired their walls and went 
on gathering their harvests for six- 
teen years longer, till the great ca- 
tastrophe came in A.D. 79. Pliny 
the Younger has left us (in his 
letter to Tacitus, Epist. vi. 16) a 
description of it, apropos of the 
death of his uncle, the natural phi- 
losopher. The eruption began with 
showers of dust, pumice-stones, and 
hot cinders, which were succeeded, 
for a week, by torrents of liquid 
matter and lava. At the end of 
that time the beautiful country was 
covered over by a gray coating of 
ashes and scoria, and the inhabi- 
tants had vanished, leaving silence 
behind them. It was considered 
that the residents of Pompeii had 
amounted to twenty-five thousand 
persons; and these had time to es- 
cape for the most part. The skele- 
tons subsequently found seemed 
to indicate that much less than a 
thousand lives were lost, and that 
those who perished had calculated 
on the quick subsidence of the 
storm and remained in their houses. 
The same catastrophe reached Her- 
culaneum, about three miles off on 



the coast ; but lava found its way 
to the latter along with the hot 
cinders, filling the houses and sub- 
sequently rising to a height of 
seventy and a hundred feet of hard- 
ened lava above them. 

No lava reached the high site of 
Pompeii, and the preservation of 
its ruins is owing to the lighter and 
dryer covering of sand and cinders,, 
which was only about twelve feet 
deep on the average. Under this 
covering it had a long sleep. 
Scarcely any mention of it was 
made by subsequent historians, 
and in all probability it received 
some further accumulations of dust 
from a n,umber of later eruptions. 
The Emperor Alexander Severus 
made some excavations at the place, 
and succeeded in obtaining a num- 
ber of columns and other architec- 
tural fragments for the adornment 
of Rome ; but no one thought of 
Pompeii any more, as a place of 
residence, for nearly seventeen 
hundred years. 

The resurrection of Pompeii be- 
gan in 1750 under the auspices of 
the Bourbon kings of Naples, whose 
curiosity had been excited by some 
chance discoveries on the deserted 
site. Malefactors, felons, and Turk- 
ish captives were first employed in 
the excavations, which soon began 
to reward the explorers. The re- 
lics were carried to Naples, and 
there arranged in the Museo Bor- 
bonico, which has become the great 
"curiosity-shop," so to speak, of 
the kingdom of Italy. It was found 
that Pompeii was a very valuable 
appendage of Naples ; and Bour- 
bons, Bonapartes, Murats, Garibal- 
dis, and Sardinians have in turn- 
cherished it accordingly. It has 
quite thrown into the shade its sis- 
ter-sleeper of Herculaneum, which 
received a number of lava-streams, 
and was more deeply and durably 



656 



A Peep into Two Buried Cities. 



buried by more than one overflow. 
The digging of a well on the site 
of the latter town in 1709 led to 
the discovery of its exact position ; 
and then a mining process began 
different from the lighter work of 
Pompeii. The hard lava-rock of- 
fered great resistance, and only a 
space of i, 800 feet by 1,000 has 
thus far been explored by shafts 
for nothing has as yet been opened 
to the light of day. In this slow 
way a large theatre has been dis- 
covered capable of seating 8,000 
spectators ; a basilica with curious 
paintings, mosaics, and a number 
of other things duly recorded in 
the Antichita di Ercolano, published 
at Naples in 1792. The houses, 
built of brick, were of one story, 
and the streets very narrow. Among 
the discoveries were 2,000 rolls of 
ancient MSS. ; but they were so 
blackened and decayed by the ac- 
tion of heat and damp that only 
two or three of them could be de- 
ciphered by the most careful mo- 
dern experts. One of them, a trea- 
tise on music by one Philodemus, 
was published in Naples, but had 
no merit. The " Herculaneum 
Chamber" in the Museo Borbonico 
has a great variety of old relics 
and curiosities bronze statues, 
fresco paintings, busts, candelabra, 
lamps, vases, surgical instruments, 
mirrors, cooking utensils, and loaves 
of bread left too long in the oven. 

Pompeii, on its lava-ridge, is about 
three-quarters of a mile long and 
about half a mile across, covering 
nearly one hundred and sixty-one 
acres of ground and surrounded 
for the most part by walls with 
parapets and towers of the Oscan 
period. Only about one-third of 
its area has been uncovered. It 
has eight gates : one leading north- 
ward to Rome, another to the 
south; another is the gate of ]Her- 



culaneum. Its streets are very 
narrow, as they cross one another 
at right angles and divide the city 
into " islands " or blocks. They are 
usually about twelve feet wide, in- 
cluding the little sidewalks, and are 
paved with large, rough blocks of 
lava-stone, set in their places by the 
paviors of nineteen] hundred years 
ago. That narrowness of streets 
in ancient cities was owing to a 
love of shade rather than sunshine 
in warm climates as in the East 
at present. It was the Roman 
fashion; and Tacitus complains 
that Nero spoiled the city with his 
wide streets after the great fire. 
On the whole, those classic thor- 
oughfares must have presented a 
very poor and shabby appearance; 
and in Pompeii they look worse 
than ever. But the little city has 
its compensations in some large 
spaces and buildings, such as the 
Forum, 300 feet long by 100 feet 
broad ; an amphitheatre (430 by 
330 feet) ; two theatres and half a 
dozen temples, a court of justice, 
granary and other structures, visi- 
ble in their lower walls and pillars, 
etc. From those temples have 
been extracted hundreds of marble 
statues, bronzes, paintings, and mo- 
saics. 

While the public buildings ex- 
hibited the Greek and Roman 
styles, the domestic architecture 
was more after the manner of the 
Oscans, Etruscans, and other Ital- 
ian peoples. The outsides along 
the narrow streets were blank, like 
those of Asia Minor, and furnished 
on the ground-floor with a succes- 
sion of little shops or booths, in 
which hucksters and artificers car- 
ried on their business. The finest 
houses had such appendages, and 
Cicero in one of his letters speaks 
of those clinging to his own villa, 
and yielding him a handsome year- 



A Peep into Two Buried Cities. 



ly revenue. In an advertisement 
discovered on one of the city walls 
a lady named Julia Felix announces 
that she has about ninety of such 
little booths to rent on her property 
for a term of five years. Pompeii 
had within its walls a number of 
very aristocratic houses, such as that 
of Sallust, of Pansa, Meleager, the 
Tragic Poet, the Faun, Castor and 
Pollux, Lucretius, etc. designa- 
tions adopted from some prominent 
name or feature belonging to those 
buildings. In them were found 
beautiful mosaics, pictures, vases, 
bronze figures, coins, and a great 
variety of other brilliant relics. 
Beyond the gate of Herculaneum 
the visitor finds himself in a nar- 
row way, with some villas on either 
side notably those of Cicero and 
Diomedes and especially lined by 
a succession of tombs and monu- 
ments of the dead, thus brought 
very close to the daily footsteps 
and memories of the living, ac- 
cording to the rather sociable and 
pathetic fashion of the old Greeks, 
Italians, and other races. In this 
place were the Mount Auburn and 
Greenwood of Pompeii ; and those 
mortuary records could preach a 
short sermon to the most careless 
of the passers-by. 

In glancing at the remains of 
Pompeii, or reading a description 
of them, one is apt to think it could 
not be a place of " population " 
that is, of those poor and working 
classes that belonged to Rome and 
other large cities. We find noth- 
ing but what has some connection 
with artistic elegance and the 
means and appliances of the 
wealthy classes, and no traces of 
the dens and hovels that shelter 
the industrial workers of our own 
times. But this may be partly ex- 
plained. Pompeii was a colony of the 
higher orders a sort of Brighton 
VOL. xxix. 42 



or Newport for those weary of the 

Fumum et opes strepitumque Romae, 

and longing for the sea-breezes of 
the Adriatic. The mass of the 
people in such places belonged to 
them as slaves and servants people 
never liable to suffer the physical 
misery of workmen who were free. 
The lower classes of Pompeii lived 
chiefly with and on their masters 
and were not paupers ; and one 
reason why they have left so few 
traces of their mode of life may 
be that they had their lodging in 
the top stories of the villas tim- 
ber accommodations which would 
quickly perish under the action of 
hot cinders and the lapse of time. 

And yet there may be found 
among the relics of Pompeii many 
things to show that the city had 
its workers and busy people who 
lived by their daily industry ; and 
the habits, manners, and social 
shifts and contrivances of such 
folk discoverable in many words, 
traces, and relics of that age are 
better calculated to come home to 
the feelings of people in general 
than any of those artistic refine- 
ments and decorations imitated from 
the Greek and Roman fashions of 
high life. A little room with its 
cooking-stove, a pot and a kettle 
with a sort of poker, and the skele- 
ton of a cat would be more likely 
to interest the reader at this dis- 
tance than a temple of Neptune 
with its bronzes, pillars, cornices, 
mosaics, and painted stuccos. Some 
of the inscriptions and graffiti found 
on those exhumed walls give curi- 
ous insights of the ways and 
thoughts of those who composed 
them. One of them refers to that 
cherished passion of antiquity, the 
love of sport and amusement. We 
have the placard of one Sittius, a 
comfortable maitre-cThotd and city 



658 



A Peep into Two Buried Cities. 



showman who does business at the 
sign of the " Elephant," and who 
announces that he will have in his 
place, on such a day, a good fight 
of gladiators and an " awning." 
This last intimation was an agree- 
able piece of news for the pleasure- 
seekers of Pompeii, who attended 
such spectacles in open places, and 
probably thought an awning the 
best part of the entertainment. 
Another "caterer " announces that 
" the public baths will be dedicat- 
ed on a certain day at the expense 
of Cneus A. Nigidius Mains ; and 
that on the occasion there will be 
a grand baiting of wild beasts, 
wrestling of athletes, a handsome 
sprinkling of perfumed water, and 
an awning." The notice ends 
with " Success to Maius, chief of 
our colony !" Maius certainly de- 
served success ; for those elegantly- 
arranged and commodious therma 
must have been a blessing to the 
little city, furnishing accommoda- 
tions for men in one department, 
for women in another, and for 
slaves in a third, the admittance 
being probably free, or fixed at a 
very low figure, according to the 
excellent fashion of the Greek and 
Roman cities. Martial speaks of a 
man who, when he has paid his 
" farthing " and had his bath, will 
walk off like a king rex ibit. In 
this respect the ancients had much 
happier notions and practices than 
the people of our modern cities, 
enjoying much larger water facili- 
ties. 

It has been observed a great 
many little shops were found lining 
the street-fronts of the dwelling- 
houses. Among them was a res- 
taurant or cook's booth with mar- 
ble slabs, several kitchen utensils, 
earthen pipkins, ladles, bronze 
trays, an iron tripod, and a cooking- 
stove. Little advertisements were 



read on the walls, such as Cor. opt. 
i.e., " Best Corcyra Wine "and 
" Old Luna," reminding us of the 
Londoners' " Old Tom " and the 
" Old Rye " of places nearer home. 
In one of the ovens was found a 
batch of bread, forgot by the baker 
when the shower began and greatly 
over-baked, in 1843. Among the 
graffiti, or scribblings, on the walls 
or posts are many words showing 
that a municipal election was to 
take place about the end of that 
month of August. One of them 
says : " Vote for [such a one], for 
he is the worthiest." There was 
certainly some public spirit in the 
city ; for it had its decuriones of the 
senate, and its comitia, or " com- 
mon council," its augustales, or 
priests, its aediles, etc. These were, 
no' doubt, the wealthier citizens, 
distinguished from the artisans who 
were their " clients " and the great 
body of the workers living in the 
condition of serfs. The latter had 
little or no voice in public affairs, 
except at the amphitheatre and the 
theatres, in which they found their 
chief enjoyment. 

Though the great body of the 
citizens escaped from Pompeii, 
there are many evidences of loss of 
life and suffering. In the House 
of the Faun as it is called two 
skeletons were found in an oven r 
those of an old man and a little 
girl, who had tried, no doubt, to es 
cape from the hot air of the apart- 
ments. In the house of Diomedes 
were discovered the skeletons 
twenty adults, with those of a bo) 
and an infant, gathered together 
the foot of a staircase. The ma 
ter himself was found at the front- 
door, accompanied by a slave wit! 
a silver vase and about two hun- 
dred gold and silver coins. Th< 
entire family had remained in theii 
beautiful villa after the flight 



A Peep into Two Buried Cities. 



659 



their neighbors, hoping, no doubt, 
that the storm would subside. 
Diomedes tried to go out in search 
of help, but the hot air suffocated 
him and soon reached all the rest. 
From the ruins were gathered, 
along with the skeletons, a number 
of ornaments, such as necklaces, 
armlets, rings, and coins bearing 
the effigies of Vespasian and Galba. 
The family might have escaped if 
they had fled on the first alarm, 
without waiting to secure their 
valuables. In other places several 
skeletons of women were discover- 
ed, indicating that they had clung 
to their homes and the hope of 
ultimate rescue or escape, and so 
perished in the vaults and crypts 
to which they had retired. In 
some cases their actual forms as 
they first lay dead on the ground 
may be gazed upon. The streams 
of heated mud that accompanied 
the discharges of ashes flowed in 
upon them, enveloped them, and 
then hardened by degrees, at the 
same time taking the shapes of their 
bodies. When this tufa-casing was 
broken by the excavators it was 
found that the figures had shrunk 
to a few bones within the mould ; 
and under the care of the Cava- 
liere Fiorelli (who became superin- 
tendent in 1861) the relics were 
cleared out and the hollows pre- 
served or restored in such a way as 
to retain their dimensions. Liquid 
plaster was then poured into those 
hollows and allowed to get hard ; 
after which the rude moulds were 
broken and the shapes of the dead, 
first made in A.D. 79, presented to 
the gazers of the nineteenth cen- 
tury. 

Among the thousand traces and 
tokens of ancient life in Pompeii 
there are others of a more cheerful 
character, especially found in con- 
nection with the little business 



booths built in the fronts of houses. 
Over a drinking-saloon two men 
are shown running along, tandem, 
with a liquor-cask slung on the pole 
they carry on their shoulders. In 
another place, over a small school- 
house, may be seen the figure of 
one boy horsed on the back of an- 
other, while a third urchin is ad- 
ministering an admonition. This, 
no doubt, was the wicked work of 
some outsider; for no schoolmas- 
ter would put such a " sign " over 
the door of his academy. Other 
striking facts, as they may be term- 
ed, are the bottles and drinking- 
vessels found in wine-shops. They 
are of glass, which some have re- 
garded as among the modern in- 
ventions. But the ancients cer- 
tainly knew the uses of glass 
and could manufacture it. Panes 
of glass have been found in some 
of the broken windows of Pompeii. 
Readers may remember the old 
story of Archimedes and the burn- 
ing-glass with which he used to set 
fire to the sails of the Roman ships 
at the siege of Syracuse. Aristo- 
phanes, in one of his farces, repre- 
sents Strepsiades as boasting that 
with his secret burning-glass he de- 
stroyed the writ of a bailiff who 
came to arrest him. No doubt the 
moderns have been slowly re-dis- 
covering a great many things fami- 
liar to the old Phoenicians and 
Pelasgians. But the most amusing 
of all those Pompeian facts is a 
pill-box. No traveller contem- 
plates it with a grave countenance. 
It was found with veritable pills in 
it, and beside it was the little rope 
of blackened matter from which 
those pills were chopped off. 

The excavations of Pompeii 
and of Herculaneum as well have 
been of late years carried on more 
actively than heretofore, though 
many are of opinion that the work 



66o 



A Peep into Two Buried Cities. 



should be done more quickly es- 
pecially the Americans. But the 
Italians are more deliberate in their 
ways. When an Englishman once 
asked Cardinal Consalvi why the 
Roman scavi were not carried on 
more rapidly, his eminence laughed 
and said they should leave some- 
thing for the next generation to 
dig up. At the present rate of 
operation the excavations of Pom- 
peii, which is about one-third ex- 
tricated, will last for the next hun- 
dred years, preserving to the city 
of Naples one of its most curious 
attractions. And yet in this case 
it might be a perilous thing to pro- 
phesy. The volcano may interfere 
to put a stop to the work and fling 
another pall of silence over the 
corse of the old Campanian city. 
Of late years Vesuvius has become 
more violent than ever. From 1794 
to the present time it has had more 
" paroxysms " than it exhibited in 
the preceding seventeen hundred 
years. In the above year (1794) 
a terrible flood of lava, contain- 
ing, says Prof. Breislak, about 
46,000,000 of cubic feet, destroy- 
ed the town of Torre del Gre- 
co, and entered the sea in a tor- 
rent 1,200 feet wide and 15 feet 
deep. In 1822 another eruption 
broke the head of the cone into a 
chasm three miles in circumference 
and 2,000 feet deep. In 1866 
about eleven smoking cones broke 
out within a mile of Torre del 
Greco, and an earthquake shook 
the circuit of the bay. In 1867 
and 1868 other formidable erup- 
tions took place; and in 1872 a 
flood of lava, running for months, 
destroyed the villages of Sebas- 
tiana and Massa, while the streets 
of Naples were covered with hot 



dust to the depth of three inches. 
The causes which have made Ve- 
suvius the chronic terror of Cam- 
pania are still at work, deriving 
force from the sea-water, accord- 
ing to the philosophic idea of Bi- 
shop Berkeley, and exhibiting them- 
selves just now in the powerful 
throes of Mount Etna. The latter 
is far larger than Vesuvius and 
twice as lofty ; and for that reason 
Signor Spallanzani terms the latter 
a " boudoir-volcano." But the ter- 
rible record of the Italian moun- 
tain tells another story; and that 
story may have some chapters as 
terrible to follow. 

The Italians, as has been ob- 
served, are rather proud of their 
formidable, volcanoes, so grandly 
spectacular in their nature and per- 
formances, and so profitable to the 
people among whom they stand. 
Latterly the citizens of Naples have 
made a railroad from the city to 
the very edge of the crater of Ve- 
suvius, and have added other con- 
veniences of travel along its sides. 
Among the attractions of the moun- 
tain is a handsome observatory, 
constructed about half way on the 
road to the summit, and presided 
over by Prof. Palmieri. None of 
these improvements have as yet 
reached Etna, which still retains 
the formidable roughness of its Ti- 
tanic days. But it will be softened 
and civilized in time, though its 
terrors may continue to be as live- 
ly as ever. Those of Vesuvius are 
very menacing; and another show- 
er and torrent like those of 79 
would soon obliterate the railway 
and the observatory, and perhaps 
put a stop to the interesting exca- 
vations of the Cavaliere Fiorelli 
among the rubbish of Pompeii. 



Novel-Mongers. 



66 1 



NOVEL-MONGERS. 



How do books get written ? How 
do spiders weave their webs ? 
Does the one imply more labor 
than the other ? Every one knows 
how birds put their nests together, 
and some books are not unlike 
nests. A mosaic of past experi- 
ence, a piecing together of pleasant, 
graphic remembrances, a shred of 
romance, a tuft of some deeper 
feeling lining the inner side, and 
within all some favorite axiom or 
personal hobby, and sometimes an 
original theory, the reception and 
due hatching of which form the 
reason which caused the whole nest 
to be. A book that is like a spi- 
der's web is something different 
from this. The whole thing is the 
product of the writer's own individ- 
uality; every separate circle and 
every connecting hair tends to one 
personal centre, his own busy brain ; 
only the extremities touch any out- 
side objects, even as the web hangs 
from three or four ropes hooked to 
a distant bough, or to the slender 
stalks of tall grass, or again to the 
beams of an old roof. But of these 
books a man hardly ever writes 
more than one in a lifetime, be- 
cause his whole spirit is embodied 
in it ; it becomes the essence of 
himself, and if circumstances so 
order it that writing is either a 
profession or a necessity to him, 
the rest of his productions will be 
nothing more than " pot-boilers " 
are to the artist who has poured out 
his soul in portraying the despair 
of Hero for Leander, or in lovingly 
reproducing any heroic, spiritual 
phase of man's nature. It is not 
always the book which makes an 
author's reputation which is really 



his best, the essence of his higher 
nature. The popular taste often 
seizes on a book and gives it a lit- 
erary apotheosis which makes the 
writer's fortune, it is true, but can 
never bestow the subtle stamp of 
spiritual beauty and perfection on 
his work. Some obscure sketch, 
hidden away in an old number of 
a magazine published long before 
popularity had lifted the writer out 
of poverty, may be richer in soul- 
beauty and truth than anything he 
has written since the tide turned in 
his favor. A Spanish king once 
said : " I can make a knight or a 
count at any time, but only God 
can make a gentleman." It is no 
less true in the world of books ; 
popularity confers a sort of rank as 
easily as the Queen of England 
turns a silk- weaver into a knight, 
but the true distinction is not con- 
ferable by any mortal tribunal. 
We say mortal advisedly, and not 
human, because the unseen tribu- 
nal where real worth is recognized, 
the shrine in which it is reverenc- 
ed, is human, but formed by the 
deathless part of humanity, by the 
aggregate of spiritually cultivated 
minds which pronounce a secret 
verdict on the productions of a wri- 
ter. For instance, the name of 
Harriet Beecher Stowe is known 
all over the reading world, but not 
for the delicately-shaded Minister's 
Wooing, a tender domestic picture 
of a holy home, and a vehicle for 
the writer's best and highest spirit- 
ual aspirations. The sensational 
and often untrue Uncle Tom's Cabin 
is the pedestal on which she stands 
in the world's eye. Lamartine's 
Harmonies Poetiques et Religieuses 



662 



Novel-Mongers. 



is a far finer and more perfect work 
than his Meditations, which became 
"the rage" and made his reputa- 
tion. It is more Christian, more 
chastened, fuller of soul insight 
because fuller of personal experi- 
ence. 

Works of pure imagination never 
stir the heart in the manner of 
those that reflect the writer's indi- 
viduality. A certain egotism is the 
secret of good book-making. It is 
a mistake to suppose that the more 
of yourself you put into your work 
the less successful it will be. A 
human being is the microcosm of 
humanity, and there are thousands 
to whom the written word will 
bring home thoughts like unto 
yours, yet to themselves original. 
Books should be as spokesmen to 
the multitude of dumb poets that 
live in the world. It will be ob- 
jected that many who have rare 
faculties of expression have noth- 
ing but diseased aspirations to ex- 
press. True; but that only in- 
creases the necessity of healthy 
minds who have the same, or even 
lesser, faculties pouring themselves 
forth simply, naturally, spontane- 
ously for the benefit of their neigh- 
bors. Those whose minds and 
works are morbid are not living 
true lives ; they are unfaithful to 
the nobler part of their nature, and 
intent upon crushing the more 
healthful promptings of their soul. 
A good test of this is that ther.e 
are very few perhaps none of 
these who would willingly allow 
young and innocent persons, their 
own sisters and daughters, or even 
young strangers, to read the out- 
growth of their perverted genius. 
Something undying rebels within 
them, and they shelter themselves 
behind specious excuses to the in- 
tent that such things are written 
only to suit certain people, to paint 



certain stages of life, to relieve 
certain impulses within themselves. 
It is not only evil men and women 
who lead untrue lives and write un- 
true books. With some it is frivol- 
ity, the force of circumstances and 
the weakness of character, the loss 
of time and waste of brain-power. 
They go down with the current and 
comfort themselves with the thought 
that they do no great harm. It is 
a question, however, whether that 
kind of neutral morality is enough ; 
was that the purpose for which free- 
will was given to all and genius to 
some ? But from no matter what 
cause this unreality of life, and con- 
sequently of writing, comes, one 
thing is certain, and that is the 
consciousness of the fact of artifi- 
ciality on the part of the livers and 
writers. Just as there is no abso- 
lute atheist on earth, so there is no 
man who has not the consciousness 
of what is and what is not the true 
life. We might repeat this in a 
thousand forms or illustrate it by 
a thousand examples ; it is enough 
for our'purpose, however, to suggest 
it to every one's mind, and let each 
one say whether it squares with his 
most intimate' experience. As far 
as it bears on the subject of book- 
making, we mean to make it an in- 
troduction to a kind of dissection 
of the books which the public buys 
and reads. Any one who has read 
many novels will follow us with an 
amused reminiscence of pages and 
pages skipped, and of the same 
wearisome old mould repeated over 
and over again. Of course we do 
not ask for originality in the usual 
run of works of fiction, but surely we 
may ask for common sense. Now, 
the flourishes and sentimental po- 
sitions and stereotyped scenes of 
most novels lack just this one ele- 
ment, without which real life would 
be a nuisance, and indeed in many 



Novel- Mongers. 



663 



cases an impossibility. No doubt 
we read novels with an exasperat- 
ingly matter-of-fact mind, for we 
so often come to scenes that have 
overstepped the delicate boundary 
between the sublime and the ridi- 
culous. First of all the language 
is perpetually on stilts ; every word 
that recalls the common duties of 
every-day life is carefully avoided, 
and a set of phrases used for this 
intellectual " feast of reason and 
flow of soul " which bear to ordi- 
nary speaking the same relation 
that the "best china" for "com- 
pany tea " bears to the common 
ware of the family meals in house- 
holds of the rural pattern. We do 
not hear of houses, rooms, meals, 
etc., but of residences, mansions, 
chambers, apartments, banquets, 
all the synonyms with long-drawn, 
high-sounding syllables, words that 
roll from the lips with a sugges- 
tion of importance. In the same 
way conversations go in masque- 
rade and trip along with unac- 
customed stiffness, laden with " I 
presume" and "alas!" and such 
like unnatural expressions. People 
in novels generally talk as if they had 
the public before their eyes, as some 
bad actors do on the stage. Death- 
bed scenes are often a stumbling- 
block in book-making, and the real 
sacredness is lost in the affectation 
of suitable talk. Scenes of love- 
making are wonderfully artificial ; 
the lovers beat round the bush in 
a sort of aimless, high-strung man- 
ner, more like the speech of a man 
just in the first stage of intoxica- 
tion than like that of one who is 
choosing a partner for life. Reli- 
gion is mostly brought in as a sauce- 
piquante, a topic on which some 
harmless jokes may be legitimate- 
ly spent, and are even expected. 
Every subject is treated more or 
less lightly, as if it was ill-bred to 



be very much in earnest about any- 
thing, and as if the writer were 
ashamed to be betrayed into any 
outburst of enthusiasm for fear of 
being ostracized from the pale of 
calm, correct " society." 

One of the most fruitful sources 
of nonsense is the conventional 
use made of music. This has 
struck us as conspicuous in almost 
every novel, English and American. 
The heroine sits down to the piano- 
forte, and her " white fingers wan- 
der over the keys " exactly as if 
they were guided by mediums or 
were themselves " materialized " 
portions of spirits. Some marvel- 
lous chords follow, and her soul 
seems to pour itself out in strains 
of the most touching melody ; in 
fact, this is the perfection of im- 
provisation. Probably the heroine 
is a musical genius, a woman given 
up to her art, or at least one who 
practises five or six hours a day 
and cares for little else. In that 
case she might possibly achieve the 
performance attributed to her. But 
it is no such thing. She is merely 
a sentimental girl, generally very 
young, and, as you can find out by 
the context, one whose life is spent 
in social pleasures or perhaps do- 
mestic duties, with neither time nor 
inclination for hard practising, and 
whose real knowledge of music is 
derived from a year or two of 
musical drudgery at a fashionable 
school. Is it likely that she can 
do what the writer makes her do 
in order to put a touch of poetry 
into his tale ? The touch is even 
too stereotyped by this time to pro- 
voke anything but a smile ; it is 
a stage-trick which every average 
reader knows by heart. Yet, like 
many an acknowledged stage-trick, 
it is retained by mutual consent, 
and every successive author does 
not scruple to make use of the 



66 4 



Novel-Mongers. 



clumsy machinery. What an ac- 
complished artist would find it 
hard to do is unhesitatingly attri- 
buted to an untaught girl ! Be- 
sides, as a fact, do those who have 
the power thus to translate their 
thoughts ever do so under such 
theatrical circumstances ? An artist 
is far from being a sentimentalist ; 
his strains are the outcome of 
healthy life, a calm mind, and regu- 
lar hours, not the wild, chance 
ravings of a soul hurried out of its 
normal state of peace by grief or 
passion. 

Another very common and heed- 
less bit of stage-effect is produced 
by making the hero wander into a 
deserted church, and, finding his 
way to the organ, sit there for 
hours playing divine improvisa- 
tions or the most elaborate works 
of dead and gone musicians. Now, 
a common-sense question will soon 
bring down this poetical edifice 
about the writer's ears viz., Where 
was the blower? This trick we 
have repeatedly seen used by nov- 
elists. 

Personal appearance is of course 
a mighty engine in the hands of 
the writer of fiction. If the sub- 
ject had not already been han- 
dled at length in a clever article 
in an English magazine two or 
three years ago, we might say a 
good deal with reference to the 
prominent part played by hair in 
modern novels. Black hair, with 
bluish shading, used to be the 
correct thing for a heroine ; now, 
upon the whole, auburn has taken 
its place. Yellow hair and mous- 
taches are rather in vogue for a 
hero, and an abundance of fine 
hair has come to be very nearly a 
synonym for freedom of behavior, 
not to say worse. Watch the nov- 
els of the day, and you will find 
virtue mostly coupled with scanty 



hair of a dusty, lustreless kind, 
and a figure to match. Fair-haired 
personages used to be the lay- 
figures of romance : the girl who 
screamed at sight of a mouse, or 
fainted on hearing a peal of thun- 
der, invariably had light hair ; the 
blondes were the clinging ivy, the 
china-shepherdesses, the wax-dolls 
of the novel, while black or brown 
hair went with courage and resolu- 
tion, and strength of character. 
Now, on the contrary, we often 
find flaxen-haired heroines " with 
a wrist of steel " and a heart of 
adamant ; witness Miss Braddon's 
fascinating " Lady Audley," the 
petite, lovely, infantine beauty who 
has murdered her first husband, 
and attempted to take the life of 
the only person who has the secret 
of her crime. Novelists never seem 
to take into consideration that col- 
oring and complexion are chiefly 
physical results of known causes, 
and are determined rather by race 
than by temperament. Until quite 
lately it was the fashion to play 
Hamlet in a black wig, because his 
character is melancholy and satur- 
nine, the fact of his Scandina- 
vian origin being wholly overlook- 
ed. The dark beauty of a Syrian 
and the yellow, floss-silk hair of a 
Northern damsel may both conceal 
a weak character or evince a hardy 
one ; the outer covering will have 
little to do with it. It is said, in- 
deed, that the stronger the vitality 
of the subject the more marked is 
the coloring of the hair ; but we 
believe this applies to the various 
shades of each color rather than to 
the relation of one color to an- 
other. 

The color and expression of the 
eye is also a favorite " deus ex ma- 
chind" How weary one gets of 
" lustrous violet eyes," which the 
writer describes as possessing as 



Novel-Mongers. 



665 



many shades of color as the soul 
does shades of feeling. It is quite 
a relief to come across a book 
whose personages are the plain 
ware of every-day life, and not all 
the choicest specimens of egg-shell, 
china people whom there is no 
need to describe beyond the de- 
scription which their words and 
proceedings give of themselves; 
people whose temper gets ruffled, 
and their clothes tumbled, and their 
hair out of curl, and their gloves 
shabby. 

Real stories of home-life, such 
as Mrs. Whitney's, Miss Muloch's, 
George Eliot's, and, in German, 
Wilhelmine vonHillern's, and many 
more not unknown, either, but 
widely read and appreciated such 
are the models on which sensible 
novels should be written. George 
Macdonald and Oliver Wendell 
Holmes among men are not bad 
specimens of writers of home-sto- 
ries stories that find an echo in 
your own experience, that show 
you people who are the very por- 
traits of many whom you know, 
and that deal with life in its sim- 
plest forms, such as no human 
heart can be ignorant of. Dickens, 
of course, is pre-eminently a novel- 
ist of real life, but his word-paint- 
ing is often pre-Raphaelite, and its 
minuteness is sometimes as painful 
as the realism of Millais and Hoi- 
man Hunt. But, popular as many 
of these writers are, it is impossible 
to say that home-stories and likely 
stories are the best liked and the 
most read. The thing that best 
meets the public taste is a showy 
unreality, the picture of the fever- 
ish, exceptional phases of life, the 
morbid and unhealthy frames of 
mind. Books are written for the 
majority, based on exaggerated in- 
cidents of the life of the minority. 
Life in all essential points is the 



same in all'classes, but many wri- 
ters make the mistake of dwelling 
chiefly on the accidents that make 
the difference between classes. It 
is equally unhealthy reading for 
rich and poor : for the former be- 
cause it narrows their sympathies 
and turns their thoughts selfishly 
inwards; for the latter because it 
creates envy and discontent, and, 
moreover, gives a most mistaken 
view of what is vulgarly called 
" high life." Disraeli's novels deal 
almost exclusively with the highest 
circles of English society; each 
individual character is truthfully 
drawn, talks naturally, and acts 
just as his bringing-up would lead 
one to suppose ; but if you look 
into it you will find in him a sim- 
plicity which will astonish the pen- 
ny-a-liner who laboriously draws 
great people for the weekly papers. 
Still, with all this truthfulness, which 
is the exceptional luck of a writer 
who is moreover a social and po- 
litical magnate, Disraeli's novels 
become tedious, being too plenti- 
fully buttered with titles and high 
mightinesses. If any one would 
read a probable and natural de- 
scription of some phases of Eng- 
lish social life among cultivated 
people, let him try Trollope's Bar- 
chester Towers, and especially The 
Last Chronicles of Barsetshire, and 
Charles Lever's Lord Kilgobbin. 
Reading these, he will be spared 
the questionable glories of rooms 
fitted up and lighted as the palaces 
of the Arabian Nights, for many 
novels are in that respect much 
like advertisements of superfine 
upholstery. We do not say that 
there are not, here and there, a 
few people who do indulge in such 
enervating and on the whole de- 
grading luxuries, but luckily they 
are few and far between and no- 
one scruples to laugh at them. 



666 



Novel-Mongers. 



Their life is unreal, useless, and 
barren ; they will leave no trace 
when they die, and no one will be 
sorry when they are gone. Rather 
a high price to pay for a bad imi- 
tation of " Aladdin and his Won- 
derful Lamp." 

No doubt it has struck the least 
observant novel-reader that wo- 
men are made to cry for hours and 
yet look all the better for it ; indeed, 
it enhances their beauty in the eyes 
of their lovers. Any one who has 
lived in a household of women 
could disprove that touch of would- 
be pathos. Perhaps an old bache- 
lor would believe the pretty fib, 
but his faith would not survive the 
first experiment of its truth. Wo- 
men know how unbecoming tears 
are, and how the concession that 
often follows this last resource is 
rather the result of impatience than 
of pity. Men. .hate an unpleasant 
sight ; they resent being tacitly 
shown up as tyrants, and above all 
things they dislike " scenes " ; and 
to all this women owe the forbear- 
ance which is often nothing but an 
error of judgment on the part of 
the husband or lover. Even sham 
tears, those that can be controlled 
at will and made to serve a pur- 
pose, scarcely add to the beauty 
of the weeper, and they certainly 
show an ugly spot in her moral na- 
ture. No sensible man would long 
consider them an improvement on 
the charms of his lady-love. In one 
respect novels are true to life, and 
most unfortunately so i.e., in the 
staginess of certain relations be- 
tween men and women. The in- 
cipient acquaintance and vaguely 
defensive attitude which lead to 
love-making generally make a 
breach in the reality of people's 
demeanor. Notice the people 
about you, and you will find a cer- 
tain flutter of manner and inane- 



ness of speech, during the phase 
of acquaintance which is tending 
towards courtship, that is alto- 
gether foreign to every-day life. In 
this the novel is faithful enough to 
real life. It is a sad literalness, 
for it shows how conventionalism 
has eaten into even the most sol- 
emn things. There is more of 
fashion than of sacredness in the 
first stages of love-making, and 
yet what can be more immortally 
fresh, in theory, than the linking 
together of two souls, to walk 
through life, helping one another? 
In some places and some lives 
customs and education are so earn- 
est, so natural, that this ever-new 
poem is seldom vulgarized. We 
remember to have read a scene 
which to our mind was the perfect 
type of what is called a proposal. 
The lovers had been to church to- 
gether, and the text of the sermon 
had been, " This is my command- 
ment, that you love one another." 
On the way home the man said 
to his companion, after a long si- 
lence, " Sarah, will you help me 
keep this commandment?" And 
she silently put her hand into his. 
Any true woman would prefer such 
wooing as that to the gallantries of 
a ball-room, and a proposal made 
in full-dress in a conservatory arti- 
ficially lighted. True, the simpli- 
city of heart, " the spirit and the 
truth," might be in the latter as 
well as in the former; the lover 
might turn out a tender, domestic 
husband, and the girl a careful and 
loving helpmate ; still, the first 
bloom of the fruit would be missing, 
and the hallowing remembrance of 
the first asking would fade in the 
glare of the uncongenial surround- 
ings. 

The novel is full of these got-up 
scenes, interludes in the real busi- 
ness of life, where the hero and 



Novel- Mongers . 



667 



heroine meet in their best clothes, 
with their " company manners " 
on, and play at make-believe gen- 
tility. Many a woman whose daily 
life lies in hard work, and even 
drudgery, indulges herself in this 
dangerous game for the brief pe- 
riod between girlhood and mar- 
riage. The majority of mankind is 
still under the curse pronounced 
on Adam, and is forced to work in 
the sweat of its brow. Recreation, 
healthy and natural, ought to exist 
for these workers by necessity, but 
it should always be suited to their 
condition and within their means. 
Unfortunately that chosen by most 
of our girls and young women is 
not of this kind, and this danger- 
ous tendency is fostered by the 
novel, which, unreal in most other 
respects, is but too faithful a copy 
in this. Is there not a sense of 
unfitness, of bad taste, in this 
straining after effect, this assump- 
tion of leisure, among people whose 
real condition is that of toil, and 
whose means are scarcely enough to 
cover their real wants ? Whose mind 
would not revolt from the over- 
dressed figure of a young girl, sit- 
ting among her admirers, dealing 
out unmeaning giggles, and labored 
phrases, and all the paraphernalia 
of flirtation, when he knows that 
her real life lies behind this un- 
usual show, in homely details of do- 
mestic toil, in the kitchen, the laun- 
dry, the shop ? Is it dignified ? 
Is it womanly ? And do the men, 
whose addresses are often as un- 
real as her encouragements, think 
the better of her for it, even while 
they laugh and joke with her ? If 
women could know what men real- 
ly think of them there would be 
less untruth in their behavior in 
their presence. When a man wants 
a wife he seldom takes the showy 
girl with whom he has flirted in 



the parlor, but the girl whom he 
has seen to be a careful, modest, 
unassuming person, a good house- 
keeper, a likely helpmate, a nurse 
in sickness, a mental companion, 
and a religious guide. If he has 
seen her at work, so much the bet- 
ter ; he will have more confidence 
in her, though no girl of this sort 
would ostentatiously lay herself 
out for this kind of inspection. If 
he has seen her during her short 
hours of rest, she will have been 
quietly and neatly dressed, not 
decked out in cheap and showy 
finery, aping a dress she could 
not afford. Her " accomplish- 
ments" will be of a solid, useful 
character, and instead of chat- 
tering unintelligible French or 
moulding wax flowers, she will 
know how to bake cakes and bis- 
cuits and bread of exquisite light- 
ness, and to make preserves, to 
sew and cut out and fit, and above 
all to see at a glance how things 
may be saved and altered, so as 
to make them do twice as much 
as any other woman could. This 
tact and deftness come of ex- 
perience, and though much of it 
is an innate gift in some, yet a good 
deal of it can be acquired. Nor 
need it be supposed that, because 
these are our model girl's accom- 
plishments, she is never to have 
any leisure time, never to see her 
friends and enjoy innocent amuse- 
ments. But the manner in which 
she does these things marks the 
difference between her and the 
showy, unreal woman of whom we 
have been speaking. She will 
never feel the worse for her 
amusement the next day. It will 
not make her languid, idle, or dis- 
satisfied ; she will not hate her 
work and pass her time in looking 
forward to another such interrup- 
tion of her ordinary duties. She 



668 



Novel- Mongers. 



will not think of men as beings 
made to flatter and admire her, to 
bring her presents and pay for her 
amusements, and then in the dim 
future of one singled out from the 
rest, who will doubtless revenge on 
her the blandishments she unskil- 
fully exercised on his sex in gene- 
ral by making her, instead of a 
helpmate, a drudge and a victim. 
On the contrary, her thoughts on 
men and marriage will be earnest 
and full of dignity. Before mar- 
riage they will be to her as persons 
with whom to associate in sober 
and useful intercourse, perhaps to 
influence for good by her behavior 
and even her words ; after marriage 
the chosen one who will be her 
own will be, in her eyes, a soul for 
which she has pledged herself to 
God, a man for whose every action 
she will be responsible, a man to 
influence, to cherish, to obey and 
yet to guide. On every subject 
her thoughts will be simple and 
earnest ; life for her will be a holy 
task, a noble burden, not " sicklied 
o'er " by a false sense of romance 
and an expectation of wonderful 
advancement or change. Now, 
very few novels help forward the 
real, the soul-life ; it reproduces all 
this restlessness, this feverishness 
of untrue life, and glorifies it, while 
sober reality is made to appear 
dull, stupid, old-maidish. 

Novel-mongers have stereotyp- 
ed phrases as well as stereotyped 
scenes. One move follows the other 
as inevitably as in a game of chess, 
and certain situations are pretty sure 
to bring out a certain correspond- 
ing form of language. Just as there 
is newspaper clap-trap, so there 
is novel clap-trap. There are the 
hackneyed comparisons of a " rose- 
bud of a girl " and " a complexion 
blending the rose with the lily," 
and other such well-known expres- 



sions, which save the writer the 
trouble of giving a description of a 
beautiful woman which shall sug- 
gest to the mind of the reader 
something more than the perfection 
of a wax doll. How often do wri- 
ters describe what they have seen ? 
Every one has at some time of his 
life known some woman whose very 
imperfection of features was an 
attraction, and whose behavior 
was more winning than the man- 
nerisms which pass current among 
novelists for refinement and know- 
ledge of the world. But a flesh- 
and-blood heroine would never do. 
We must have a succession of 
handsome, gallant men and world- 
ly, fascinating, improbably lovely 
women, such as no one ever meets 
in real life. Then the writer la- 
boriously hunts up as many witti- 
cisms as his memory or reference 
to a good collection of bons-mots 
will supply, and manufactures an 
improbably brilliant " assault at 
arms " such as, at least in Anglo- 
Saxon society, would be as ridicu- 
lous as it is practically unlikely. 
The subject of marriage generally 
provokes a lot of commonplace 
reflections and jokes which mark 
the ordinary novelist as more used 
to the secondary than the best 
circles of social life. There is so 
much " padding " that you wonder 
how the author had the patience to 
build it up. We have somewhere 
seen a sketch called " Skeleton 
Novels." It contained the full 
substance of an English three-vol- 
ume story in a dozen chapters 
consisting of short headings. And 
the events were rather crowded, 
too, somewhat more so than in 
many a long-drawn novel, with 
descriptions and moral reflections 
which use up a good third of the 
paper and type. 

One great fault of novels in 



Novel-Mongers. 



669 



general is that no person of ordi- 
nary faculties can help foreseeing 
the end and guessing at many of the 
intermediate details. A foreign tour 
and a brain-fever are common inci- 
dents; few books end without one 
or the other. If towards the middle 
of the story the love-making takes 
a particularly favorable turn, you 
know that of course some trifling 
accident will interfere and part the 
lovers till the orthodox time ap- 
pointed for the end of the novel 
and the consequent marriage cere- 
mony. In fact, there are no sur- 
prises now, just as there are no 
more undiscovered continents to 
tempt a new Columbus. By the 
bye, that is rather a commonplace 
phrase, but it just expresses the 
weariness of novel-reading nowa- 
days. Even the sensational has 
ceased to be startling, and we 
read placidly of ghosts, murders, 
Bluebeard closets, fires and 
wrecks, and even of hospital and 
morgue scenes, because they 
have become as common a season- 
ing to our literary breakfast as 
Chili and Cayenne are to that of 
the bon-vivant. The newspaper has 
accustomed us to "sup on horrors," 
and the newspaper has become the 
groundwork of the novel. Our au- 
thors divide their forces between 
the prison calendar and the fash- 
ionable vapidness of the drawing- 
room. In both extremes there is 
a morbid, exceptional element ; if 
there is reality there is no normal- 
ness. Both are phases of life, but 
only passing ones, occupying a 
shorter portion, for the most part, 
even of the time of bad or frivolous 
people, and certainly belonging 
only to the life of a minority of 
human beings. True, these un- 
pleasant phases are the most pro- 
minent, but we have been so sur- 
feited lately with minute exposi- 



tions of them that it is no wonder 
if they no longer contain even the 
element of novelty and excitement. 
We may expect a reaction soon. 
But it must be confessed that if 
this reaction sets in it will be a 
strain on the powers of our wri- 
ters. It is far easier to concoct a 
story of crime and deviltry than one 
of domestic life. We shall need 
more skill, more delicacy, more 
tact in our novelists. Few writers 
ever attempt a story of quiet house- 
hold .life without falling into the 
"milk and water" style. Even 
Miss Muloch, after giving us John 
Halifax, has also given us trash. 
Perhaps Mrs. Oliphant is the most 
even and pleasant writer of house- 
hold stories ; her Scotch ones are 
certainly unrivalled, and her Chro- 
nicles of Car ling ford are as life-like 
as George Eliot's Middle march. Of 
the latter book we have heard some 
of the uninitiated say that it is dull. 
Then, again, we have read tales of 
domestic life which are acknow- 
ledged to be delightful, and which 
we found simply silly ; whose they 
are we will not say, for fear of be- 
ing taxed with bad taste. We 
came across a book quite lately, 
entitled True to Life, which is a 
most pleasant example of a story 
of home-life in England, with not 
one extravagant or out-of-the-way 
occurrence, and the only novel- 
like device being the loss and sub- 
sequent finding of a will. But even 
this reads as if it were copied from 
some personal reminiscence, for the 
treatment is very unlike that of 
the common run of such subjects. 
The writer (anonymous) has lived 
among the best people in England, 
and describes their life simply and 
unaffectedly. True, she has put 
only the best specimens into her 
book, and, though saying that she 
doubts if she can write what will 



Novel-Mongers. 



suit the popular taste, she ends the 
preface with these words : " There 
are so many unpleasant pictures of 
home-life published in these days 
too true, I fear that I am not sor- 
ry to add to the minority of stories 
which try to bring out the better 
side of every-day life." 

Perhaps in embodying the views 
of the thinking and reading public 
on some of the books presented to 
them under the auspices of popu- 
lar booksellers, and with the help 
of " puffs " from the newspapers 
and magazines, we have overlook- 
ed one important item. The life 
hidden behind the work that comes 
to us in the shape of a dull book 
or a sensational drama may some- 
times be a very sad one. Some 
writers write what they know to be 
below them because it will sell and 
they have their bread to earn ; ma- 
ny write for the same reason that 
orphan girls of good family but no 
means become teachers and gov- 
ernesses. Necessity drives many a 
respectable man or woman to con- 
trivances which they shrink from 
with disgust. In this case the wri- 
ters are more to be pitied than the 



readers and buyers of their trashy 
books. This is not the lowest 
depth, this is not a wilful degrad- 
ing of the mind; but what can be 
more deplorable than the sight of 
an author who is in love with his 
bad material, and thinks his sham 
pictures of " life " the acme of lite- 
rary ability ? When the sense of 
doing something derogatory is gone, 
when self-respect has sunk before 
self-interest, then has a writer of 
fiction reached the lowest point of 
intellectual degradation. His posi- 
tion then is no better than that of a 
ballet-dancer or tight-rope perform- 
er, or any of those given to make 
the lowest and most contemptible 
tricks and forms of what people 
still complacently call " art," at- 
tractive to the multitude who know 
no better. Such work is lowering 
and perverting, and for such will 
the writer be held accountable. If 
the novel with us has not yet reach- 
ed the pitch of moral perversity 
which it has in France, it is fast 
tending that way, and we want an 
army of better writers to stand in 
the breach. Where shall we find 
them? 



A New Glance at an Old Acquaintance. 



671 



A NEW GLANCE AT AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 



OF all poets, except Homer, 
Shakspere was the least of an ego- 
tist. He nowhere appears to paint 
his own character or to apologize 
for his own defects. Even his son- 
nets afford no clue to his personal 
history. Of Shakspere only that 
abides which was essentially im- 
mortal, that which time cannot 
change or fashion cast into the 
shade. 

As long as there are human 
hearts and human understandings 
Shakspere must remain the one 
transcendent seer and interpreter 
of human nature in all its phases. 
Homer was the Shakspere of his 
age, the poet of action, of passion 
as it is the proximate cause of 
action, of human nature as it is 
i embodied in sensible effects ; but 
i the world of thought, the mysteri- 
| ous springs of our affections, sym- 
pathies, and presentiments, were 
' to him a world unknown. But 
Shakspere's intellect was more pro- 
found. It was not only that of the 
deep-thinking philosopher versed 
in the logical demonstrations of 
reason ; of the poet passionately 
loving the grand, the beautiful, and 
the good ; of the dramatist mi- 
nutely observant of the differences 
of character, of the partial eclipses 
which are produced on the under- 
standing by passion, folly, or igno- 
rance, and able to set forth in 
glorious words and vivid imperso- 
nations all its conceptions, whether 
philosophic, poetic, or dramatic ; 
but it was also metaphysical, and 
in some sort theological. He did 
not, indeed, turn the theatre into a 
conventicle; he wrote neither ser- 
mons nor sacred dramas ; nor did 



he abound in allusions to the reli- 
gious disputes of the time. 

Shakspere, as a lay poet, wisely 
and reverently abstained from fre- 
quent allusions to religion either in 
comic or serious vein. How, then, 
was his genius theological ? Be- 
cause in fathoming the abysses of 
human nature he transcended 
nature and explored the hidden 
regions of the soul, discovered in- 
stincts, prophetic yearnings, and 
unutterable depths of thought 
which nothing in the world of 
sense or intellect can satisfy or ful- 
fil. 

" Those obstinate questionings 

Of sense and outward things, 

Fallings from us, vanishings ; 

Blank misgivings of a creature 
Moving about in worlds not realized, 
High instincts before which our mortal nature 
Doth tremble like a guilty thing surprised." 

Because Shakspere penetrated the 
sanctuary of belief, the holy place 
where faith alone should dwell, 
but which, alas ! too often since 
the first temptation has been in- 
vaded by vain, mistrusting curio- 
sity, the tool of sensual selfishness, 
striving to make the things above 
sense subject to sense, and enslave 
spiritual powers to earthly purpo- 
ses. 

In reproof of this desecration of 
man's possible sanctity the genius 
of Shakspere created the tragedies 
of Macbeth and Hamlet. Whether 
foreseen and designed or not, these 
dramas show the evil and confu- 
sion which would result in the 
moral world from sensible com- 
munication between natural and 
supernatural agents. 

Shakspere wrote in an age when 
men deemed that no impassable 



672 



A New Glance at an Old Acquaintance. 



gulf divided the things seen from 
the unseen powers ; they had no 
molecular theories to guard them 
against the shapings of a passion- 
ate imagination, from forbidden 
hopes, blind fears, and thoughts 
that go astray in the wilderness of 
possibility. That in his youth he 
listened, with a faith sincere, to all 
fireside traditions may be regard- 
ed as certain. That he ever total- 
ly and confidently disbelieved them 
is doubtful. But his fine sense 
and knowledge of the soul, which 
his imagination extended to all con- 
ceivable cases, informed him of the 
moral unfitness of such intercom- 
munion, and, if it did not prove what 
has never yet been demonstrated, 
the physical impossibility or logi- 
cal absurdity of the popular belief 
in spirits, intimated its inconsisten- 
cy with the moral welfare of man, 
and consequently with the revealed 
will of Heaven. The proper state 
of man can be maintained only in 
sympathy and communion with his 
fellow-men. All motives, rules, and 
purposes of action must be uni- 
versally intelligible. All salutary 
knowledge must be communicable 
to every understanding. But it is 
manifest that one who acted on in- 
formation derived through, or re- 
ceived orders from, a disembodied 
spirit would be separated from hu- 
man sympathy and communion. 
His knowledge would no longer be 
" discourse of reason," and out of 
that knowledge duties, or apparent 
duties, would arise, widely diverg- 
ing from, and frequently crossing, 
the prescribed track of human con- 
duct, abrogating the common law 
of conscience. Hence an inward 
contradiction, a schism in the 
soul; jarring impulses, and the har- 
mony of thoughts and feelings, 

11 Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh." 



Hence in impetuous natures crime 
impelling crime, and in meditative 
spirits a paralyzed will, a helpless, 
melancholy madness rendered the 
more insupportable by an unim- 
paired understanding. 

May not the character of Ham- 
let be partly elucidated upon this 
principle ? Few historical and no 
fictitious characters have given 
rise to more controversy. Some 
commentators hold him up as the 
pattern of all that is noble and 
wise; others condemn him as a 
mass of inconsistency. Goethe, in 
his Wilhelm Meister, says that 
Shakspere's intention was to ex- 
hibit the effects of a great action 
imposed as a duty upon a mind 
too feeble for its accomplishment. 
Here is an oak-tree planted in a 
china vase, proper only to receive 
the most delicate flowers. The 
roots strike out, and the vessel 
flies to pieces. A pure, noble, 
highly moral disposition, but with- 
out that energy of soul which con- 
stitutes the hero, sinks under the 
load which it can neither support 
nor resolve to abandon. Observe 
how he turns, shifts, advances, and 
recedes ; how he is perpetually re- 
minding himself of his great com- 
mission, which he nevertheless, in 
the end, seems almost entirely to 
lose sight of, and that without re- 
covering his former tranquillity. 

Now, surely, feebleness of mind, 
the fragility of a china vase, lack 
of power and energy, are not the 
characteristics of Hamlet. On the 
contrary, he is represented as fear- 
less almost beyond the strength of 
humanity; he does not "set his life 
at a pin's fee." He converses un- 
shaken with what the stoutest war- 
riors have trembled to think upon, 
jests with a visitant from darkness, 
and gathers unwonted vigor from 
the pangs of death. Nor in all 



A New Glance at an Old Acquaintance. 



673 



his musings, all the many colored 
mazes of his thoughts, is there any- 
thing of feminine softness. His 
anguish is stern and masculine, 
stubbornly self-possessed, above 
the kind relief of sighs and tears 
and soothing pity. The very style 
of his serious discourse is more 
austere and philosophic than that 
of any other character in Shak- 
spere. It is not the weight and 
magnitude, the danger and difficulty, 
of the deed imposed as a duty, that 
weighs upon his soul and enervates 
the sinews of his moral being, but 
the preternatural contradiction in- 
volved in the duty itself, the irreg- 
ular means through which that 
duty is promulgated and known. 

Presumptuous as it may appear 
to offer a new theory on a subject 
which has exercised so many minds 
before, or to pretend to know what 
Shakspere intended where his inten- 
tions have been so variously con- 
jectured, we will yet venture to take 
a cursory view of this most Shak- 
sperean of all Shakspere's dramas, 
and attempt to explain not justify 
the most questionable points in 
the character of the hero. 

Let us for a moment put Shak- 
spere out of the question, and con- 
sider Hamlet as a real person, a re- 
cently-deceased acquaintance. In 
real life it is no unusual thing 
to meet with characters every whit 
as obscure as that of the Prince of 
Denmark men seemingly fitted 
for the greatest actions, clear in 
thought, still meditating mighty 
works, and urged by all motives 
and occasions to the performance, 
whose existence is, nevertheless, 
an unperforming dream ; men of 
noblest, warmest affections, who 
are perpetually wringing the hearts 
of those whom they love best ; 
whose sense of rectitude is strong 
and wise enough to inform and 
VOL. xxix. 43 



govern a world, while their acts 
are the hapless results of chance or 
passion, and to themselves hard- 
ly appear their own. We cannot 
conclude that all such men have 
seen ghosts (though the existence 
of professed spirit-seers is certain) ; 
but they have generally, either by a 
course of study too remote from 
the practice of life, or by designs 
too pure and perfect to be execut- 
ed in earthly materials, or from 
imperfect glimpses of an intuition 
beyond the limits of common know- 
ledge, severed themselves from the 
common society of human feelings 
and opinions. 

Such a man is Hamlet an habi- 
tual dweller with his own thoughts, 
preferring the possible to the real ; 
refining on the ideal forms of 
things till the things themselves 
become dim in his sight, and all 
the common doings, duties, and 
engagements of the world a weary 
task, stale and unprofitable. His 
father's death, his mother's mar- 
riage, and his own exclusion from 
the succession ; grief for one pa- 
rent, shame for another, and resent- 
ment for himself, tend still further 
to confirm and darken a disposi- 
tion which the buoyancy of happy 
youth had hitherto counteracted. 
Sorrow contracts around his soul 
and shuts it out from cheerful light 
and wholesome air. It may be ob- 
served in general that the men of 
thought succumb more helplessly 
beneath affliction than the men of 
action. How many of his dearest 
friends may a soldier lose in the 
course of a single campaign, and 
yet find his heart whole in his win- 
ter-quarters, the natural decease of 
one of whom in peace and sereni- 
ty would have robbed his days to 
come of half their, joy! 

In this state, then, is Hamlet 
first introduced to us, not distinct- 



6/4 



A New Glance at an Old Acquaintance. 



ly conscious of more than his fa- 
ther's death and mother's dishonor, 
yet haunted with gloomy suspi- 
cions and undefined presentiments, 
weary of all things, most weary of 
himself. His best affections borne 
away upon the ebbing tide of me- 
mory into the glimmering past, 
he longs to be dissolved, to pass 
away like the dew of morning. 
This longing after dissolution, this 
fond familiarity with worms and 
graves and epitaphs, is, as it were, 
the background, the bass accom- 
paniment, of Hamlet's character. 
It sounds at recurring intervals like 
the slow knell of some pompous 
funeral. No sooner is he left 
alone, in the first scene after his 
entrance, than he wishes that the 

1 ' Everlasting had not fixed 
His canon 'gainst self-slaughter." 

In the last in articulo mortis he 
requests of his only friend 

u If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart, 
Absent thee from felicity awhile. 
And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain, 
To tell my story." 

So little does the dying man love 
life that he holds it the utmost sa- 
crifice of friendship to endure it. 
Yet this desire is prompted not by 
any anticipation of future bliss. 
He dreams neither of a Mohamme- 
dan Paradise nor of a Christian 
Heaven. His yearning is to die, 
to sleep, not to be. He delights in 
contemplating human nature in 
the dust, and seems to identify 
man with his decaying relics. Not 
that he does not believe in a no- 
bler, a surviving human being ; but 
the spring of hope is so utterly 
dried up within him that it flows 
not at the prospect of immortality. 

It might be imagined that the 
appearance of a. departed spirit 
admitting it to be authenticated 
would, so far from a curse, ^be a 



most invaluable blessing to man- 
kind, inasmuch as it would remove 
every doubt of a hereafter, and de- 
monstrate the existence of a spiri- 
tual principle. He who knew what 
was in the heart of man, and all its 
possible issues, has declared other- 
wise : " If they hear not Moses 
and the prophets, neither will they 
be persuaded though one rose from 
the dead." 

In fact, the knowledge which 
finds no companion in the mind, 
which remains an isolated wonder, 
may cast a doubt on all that was be- 
lieved before, but can never of it- 
self produce a fruitful or a living 
faith. Seeing is not necessarily 
believing; at least, it is not rational 
conviction, which can only take 
place on one of two conditions : 
first, if the new truth be itself 
conformable with former convic- 
tions; or, secondly, if it be able 
to conform and reconcile all other 
truths to itself and become the law 
and centre of the total being. The 
latter is the blessed power of Chris- 
tian truth when, being received by 
faith to faith, it renews and quick- 
ens the regenerate soul. The for- 
mer is the condition of all growth in 
mere human knowledge. 

All the movements of Hamlet's 
mind, and consequently all his 
words and actions, would be expli- 
cable on the supposition that the 
ghost were, like the air-drawn dag- 
ger in Macbeth, a mere illusion. 
But the belief of Shakspere's age, 
the necessities of dramatic repre- 
sentation, and the very nature of 
poesy and art, which deal not with 
the invisible processes of mind, but 
with their sensible symbols select- 
ed, integrated, and realized by the 
imagination, require that the ghost 
should be considered as an objective 
existence. Accordingly the appear- 
ance is authenticated with the most 



A New Glance at an Old Acquaintance. 



6 75 



matter-of-fact, judicial exactness. 
It is produced before several wit- 
nesses, and in the first instance to 
impartial ones to Horatio and the 
rivals of his watch before Hamlet 
is even apprised of the visitation. 
There is a circumstantiality, a mi- 
nuteness in the details of the exhi- 
bition worthy of particular remark. 
First we have the chill night, the 
dreary platform, the homely rou- 
tine of changing guard, the plain 
courtesy of honest soldiers, the im- 
perfect narrative, interrupted by the 
entrance of the royal shade, the 
passing and repassing of the per- 
turbed spirit, the wide guesses and 
auld-warld talk of the sentinels, 
calling up all records of their me- 
mory to bring their individual 
case under the general law and 
dignify it by illustrious example : 

" In the most high and palmy state of Rome, 
A little ere the mightiest Julius fell, 
The graves stood tenantless and the sheeted 

dead 
Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets." 

The images of superstition are 
not always terrible. The halo, no 
doubt, is an unsubstantial, it may 
be an ill-omened, vision ; still, it is 
the halo of the pure and lovely 
moon. 

" Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes 
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, 
The bird of dawning singeth all night long ; 
And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad ; 
The nights are wholesome; then no planets 

strike, 

No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm, 
So hallowed and so gracious is the time." 

With what consummate skill this 
introductory scene prepares the 
way for the subsequent disclosure ! 
The wonder, the terror of the ghost, 
is shaded and humanized ; the spec- 
tator is familiarized to his aspect 
before he becomes a speaker and 
an agent in the drama, and is thus 
enabled to sympathize with Ham- 
let, who almost forgets the speaker 
in the father : 

" I'll call thee Hamlet, king, father, royal Dane." 



It is not easy to reduce this 
ghost to any established creed or 
mythology, though some commen- 
tators have taken pains to prove 
by chronological arguments that 
he must have been a pagan. A 
pagan, however, would scarcely 
complain that he was 

" Cut off even in the blossoms of his sin, 
Unhousel'd, disappointed, unanel'd." 

And yet would not a true Catho- 
lic spirit have requested prayers 
and Masses rather than vengeance? 
The poet here happily seizes a 
transitional condition of Christian 
belief still mingled with pagan re- 
liques. 

To Hamlet, a son, what motive 
of revenge so mighty as the purga- 
torial pangs, the indefinitely pro- 
tracted sufferings of a parent whose 
virtues might have entitled him to 
immediate bliss, had they not been 
taken in company with casual in- 
firmity ? Is not the desire of re- 
venge, even on an adulterous mur- 
derer, one of the imperfections 
that must be burned or purged 
away ? One who believes a pur- 
gatory proportioned to the de- 
gree of sinfulness adhering to a 
soul endued with the principles 
of salvation may indeed be tempt- 
ed to take vengeance for the dead. 

While the spirit is present Ham- 
let displays the affectionate rever- 
ence of a son for his departed sire, 
of an earthly to a spiritual being. 
But no sooner does the presence of 
human mortals break in upon him 
than he treats the fearful vision 
with ludicrous irreverence ; calls 
him in his own hearing, be it re- 
membered " Truepenny," " fel- 
low in the cellarage," u old mole." 

While the spirit is present Ham- 
let's mind is absorbed and con- 
centrated. His composing powers 
are suspended. He feels the reality 



6;6 



A New Glance at an Old Acquaintance. 



of his moral relation to the incor- 
poreal visitant, and is upheld by 
the consequent sense of moral obli- 
gation. Even after the "Adieu! 
remember me," his soul is still 
collected and retained in unity 
with the one great object. He is 
still out of the body ; earth glim- 
mers away into non-existence. 
But the bare recollection that there 
are other creatures creatures with 
whom he is newly placed in the re- 
lations of utter estrangement and 
irreconcilable enmity occasions a 
partial revulsion. His human na- 
ture is resuscitated in an agony of 
wrathful scorn. 

The sound of living voices, the 
sight of living bodies, further re- 
mind him that he is still in the 
flesh, but charged with a secret 
that must not be communicated, 
which alienates him from the very 
man who, not an hour since, might 
have read his heart in the light of 
day, which turns his former confi- 
dants into intrusive spies. Hence 
the wild and whirling words, the 
half-ludicrous evasions, the struggle 
of his soul to resume its accus- 
tomed course and effect a dominion 
over the awful shapes and sounds 
that have usurped its sovereignty. 
From this period the whole state of 
Hamlet may aptly be likened to a 
vast, black, deep river, the surface 
whereof is curled and rippled by 
the passing breezes and seemingly 
diverted into a hundred eddies, 
while the strong under-current, 
dark and changeless, maintains an 
unvaried course towards the ocean. 

The points in his character which 
have been most controverted are 
his seemingly causeless aversion to 
Polonius; his cruel treatment of 
Ophelia ; his sceptical views of a 
hereafter, spite of ocular demon- 
stration that to die is not to sleep ; 
his treachery to his early friends 



Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, and 
his tardy, irresolute, and at last 
casual performance of the dread 
vow which he has invoked heaven, 
earth, and hell to witness. Of Polo- 
nius in his prime it might have 
been said that wisdom and cunning 
had their share in him. His honor 
and honesty were of the courtier's 
measure, with more of the serpent 
than the dove. Even his advice to 
Laertes is altogether worldly and 
expedient, such as a worldly-wise 
man might derive from the stores 
of experience. He has the true 
court genius for intrigue, and the 
circuitous and furtive acquisition 
of information. He is a master of 
ceremonies and compliments, and 
abounds in prosy criticisms. 

Between such a personage and 
the moody, metaphysical, impatient, 
open-hearted Hamlet there must 
needs have existed an utter anti- 
pathy ; and though antipathy is not 
synonymous with hatred, it is on 
the high-road to it. When natures 
are entirely discordant small pro- 
vocation suffices to produce per- 
sonal hostility. Now, Polonius is 
the confidential adviser of the king, 
and may be supposed to have had 
a hand in directing the succession. 
He is Ophelia's father, and as such 
has enjoined her to deny her com- 
pany to Hamlet prudently enough, 
no doubt, but paternal prudence 
rarely escapes the resentment of the 
disappointed lover. The plainest 
dictates of parental duty are as- 
cribed to sordid and unworthy 
motives. That Hamlet imputes 
such motives to Polonius is evident 
from the ambiguous epithet, "fish- 
monger" and from his ironical 
admonition, " Let her not walk 
in the sun," etc. But more than 
all Polonius betrays his intention 
of pumping Hamlet ; and the irrita- 
tion naturally consequent on the 



A New Glance at an Old Acquaintance. 



6 77 



discovery of that purpose is height- 
ened by contempt for the manoeu- 
vring imbecility with which it is 
pursued. It is, therefore, not un- 
natural, though quite unjustifiable, 
that Hamlet, in his behavior to the 
inquisitive old chamberlain, should 
lose sight of the reverence which is 
ever due from youth to age, and, 
even when he has stabbed him be- 
hind the arras, should continue to 
the dead body the same strain of 
scornful irony wherewith he used 
to throw dust into the prying eyes 
of the living counsellor. But for 
wringing the kind, fond heart of 
Ophelia with words such as man 
should never speak to woman what 
can be said ? There have been 
men who would tear open the soft- 
est breast for the satisfaction of 
finding their own names indelibly 
written on the heart. But surely 
the brave, noble-minded Hamlet 
would never be guilty of such cruel 
meanness, nor would Shakspere, 
who reverenced womanhood, have 
needlessly exposed Ophelia to in- 
sult, if some heart-truth were not 
developed in the exhibition. One 
truth at least it proves the fatal 
danger of acting madness. Stam- 
mering and squinting are often 
caught by mimicry ; and he who 
wilfully distorts his mind, for what- 
ever purpose, may stamp its linea- 
ments with irrecoverable deformity. 
But the best apology for Hamlet is 
to be found in the words of a poet 
who, perhaps, beyond all other 
critics had the clearest insight into 
the spirit and designs of Shakspere : 

*' For to be wroth with one we love 
Doth work like madness in the brain." 

Hamlet loved Ophelia in his 
happy youth, when all his thoughts 
were fair and sweet as she. But 
his father's death, his mother's'' 
frailty, had wrought sad alteration 



in his soul, and made the very 
form of woman fearful and sus- 
pected. His best affections are 
blighted, and Ophelia's love, that 
young and tender flower, escapes 
not the general infection. Did not 
his mother seem kind, faithful, in- 
nocent? And was she not mar- 
ried to his uncle ? But after the 
dread interview, the fearful injunc- 
tion, he is a man among whose 
thoughts and purposes love can- 
not abide. He is a being severed 
from human hopes and joys, vowed 
to other work than courtship and 
marriage. The spirit that called 
him to be an avenger forbade him 
to be a lover. Yet, with an incon- 
sistency as natural as it is unrea- 
sonable, he clings to what he has 
renounced, and sorely feels the 
reluctant repulse which Ophelia's 
obedience presents to his lingering 
addresses. 

Hamlet's, moreover, though a 
tardy, is an impatient nature, that 
would feel uneasy under the com- 
mon process of maidenly delay. 
Thus perplexed and stung, he 
rushes into Ophelia's presence, and, 
in amazed silence, makes her the 
confidant of his grief, the cause of 
which she might not know. No 
wonder she concludes that he is 
really mad for her love, and enters 
readily into what to her appears to 
be an innocent scheme to induce 
him to lighten his overcharged bo- 
som, and ask of her the peace 
which, unasked, she may not offer. 
She steals upon his solitude while, 
weary of his unexecuted task, he 
argues with himself the expediency 
of suicide. Surprised as with a 
sudden light, his first words are 
courteous and tender, till he be- 
gins to suspect that she, too, is set 
on to pluck out the heart of his 
mystery; and then, actually mad- 
dened by his self-imposed neces- 



6/8 



A New Glance at an Old Acquaintance. 



sity of acting madness, he dischar- 
ges upon her the bitterness of blast- 
ed love, the agony of a lover's 
anger, as if determined to extin- 
guish in himself the last feeling 
that harmonized not with his fell 
purpose of revengeful justice. 

This is, perhaps, the most ter- 
rifically affecting scene in Shak- 
spere. Neither Lear nor Othello 
is plunged so deep in the gulf of 
misery. 

The famous soliloquy which is 
thus painfully interrupted has been 
injured by its own celebrity. It 
has been so often quoted, torn 
from its vital connection with its 
parent stock, that we are hardly 
conscious that it derives its whole 
sense and propriety from the per- 
son by whom, and the circumstan- 
ces in which, it is spoken. 

Shakspere has been accused of 
inadvertence in putting such doubts 
into the mouth of one who had ac- 
tually seen and conversed with a 
denizen of that 

" Undiscovered country from whose bourn 
No traveller returns." 

But though an apparition might 
confirm the faith of a hereafter 
where it pre-existed, where that 
faith was not, or was neutralized 
by an inward misery implicated 
with the very sense of being, its 
effect could be but momentary or 
occasional ; a source of perplexity, 
not of conviction, throwing doubt 
at once on the conclusions of the 
understanding and the testimony 
of the senses, and, fading itself into 
the twilight of uncertainty, making 
existence the mere shadow of a 
shade. 

Hamlet in his first soliloquy talks 
like a Christian an unhappy and 
mistrusting Christian, indeed, but 



still a Christian who reveres the 
almighty canon. But now, when 
his doubts have received that con- 
firmation which should seem cer- 
tain, he talks like a speculative 
heathen, whose thoughts, floating, 
without chart or compass, on the 
ocean of eternity, present the fear- 
ful possibility of something after 
death, but under no distinct con- 
ception either of hope or fear. The 
spirit has unsettled his original 
grounds of belief and established 
no new ones. That the active 
powers of Hamlet are paralyzed 
he is himself abundantly con- 
scious. Every appearance of ener- 
gy in others the histrionic passion 
of the player, the empty ambition 
of Fortinbras, the bravery of grief 
in Laertes excites his emulation 
and his self-reproaches. Yet day 
after day, hour after hour, the exe- 
cution of his vow is in his hand. 
No fear, no scruple seems to de- 
tain him ; and yet, after the play 
has caught the conscience of the 
king and every doubt of the ghost's 
veracity is removed, that very 
ghost upbraids his almost blunted 
purpose. The power of action re- 
visits him only at intervals, and 
then his deeds are like starlings out 
of slumber, thrustings on of his des- 
tiny. In one of these fits he stabs 
Polonius ; in another he breaks open 
the commission of Rosencrantz and 
Guildenstern, and, without consid- 
ering how far they might or might 
not be privy to his uncle's treach- 
ery, sends them by a forged instru- 
ment to the block. 

At last, when the envenomed ra- 
pier has wound up his own tragedy, 
he finds new strength in his dying 
moment, and in an instant per- 
forms the work, and dies ! 



The Crisis in Italy. 



679 



THE CRISIS IN ITALY. 



THREE noticeable communica- 
tions under the title of " The Fail- 
ure of the Catholic Party in Italy " 
were published in the London Tab- 
let in its issues of March 15 and 
May 3 and 10, and introduced by 
the editor with the following re- 
mark : 

" We have received a very thought- 
ful communication respecting the 
past and future of the Catholics in 
Italy, to which, as it is well deserv- 
ing of serious attention, we have 
thought it well to give publicity." 

The first of these communica- 
tions raises the questions : " Where 
were the Catholics of the Pontifi- 
cal States ? Where were the Ro- 
mans when Garibaldi and the 
Piedmontese moved against the 
Eternal City?" Then follow the 
answers given by Catholic politi- 
cians, which the writer analyzes and 
finds unsatisfactory. The third is 
principally occupied with the de- 
velopment of the writer's own an- 
swer contained in the second arti- 
cle, and with answers to supposed 
objections. It is to the second com- 
munication, which we publish en- 
tire, that we would call the atten- 
tion of our readers : 

" As we have seen, the indifferentism 
of the Catholics in Italy cannot be ex- 
plained sufficiently by the terrorism of 
the revolutionary government and the 
limited electoral law ; not by the politi- 
cal inexperience of the people ; not by 
the want of a fixed programme ; not by 
the attitude of the Holy See, and not 
even by the love of the united kingdom 
which is attributed to the mass. But 
what can be the true explanation ? We 
have studied the conditions of Italy for 
a long time, and we come to the conclu- 
sion : It can be found only in the low 
social state of the country-people, who 



form 60 per cent, of the whole popula- 
tion of Italy. Misery and desperation is 
their daily life ; they begin the day with 
hunger and finish it with hunger. They 
could not have any interest in defend- 
ing an order of things which leaves them 
in misery ; they could not feel enthusi- 
asm for a government, and patriotism 
for a state, which does not make social 
and economical reforms calculated to 
elevate the people to a condition worthy 
of mankind. For the same reason they 
cannot now have any interest or enthu- 
siasm for the new government, which 
has made the situation worse. For the 
same reason they cannot have any inte- 
rest in the rising Catholic party, which 
promises, indeed, fine things, but which 
has nothing for their hunger. Therefore 
they do not care at all for politics and 
for political parties. Only a social re- 
formation would help them ; and there- 
fore the Internationalists have some in- 
fluence and excite some hope, and Gari- 
baldi, who utters from time to time a cry 
of pain about the misery of the people, 
excites such great sympathy. But the 
mass of the people has yet too much re- 
ligion and is not inclined to make a revo- 
lution. This is the condition of the Ital- 
ian country-people. This is our expla- 
nation of a political indifferentism the 
like of which was never seen in the world 
before. 

"The landed property in Italy is gen- 
erally in the hands of landlords of the 
old nobility or rich citizens, who live for 
the most part of their time in the cities, 
and do not know the people who live on 
their estates. Very many of them take 
no trouble about their properties, and 
leave them completely in the hands of 
industrial capitalists, who live also chief- 
ly in the cities, and cultivate the lands 
either through farmers or directly by 
a multitude of laborers with overseers. 
Every one of these gentlemen, landlords, 
capitalists, and farmers, look to get as 
much money as they can. That is, of 
course, natural. On the other hand, there 
is some necessity for it, because they have 
to pay very heavy taxes, and agricultural 
products are cheap in Italy, so that they 
find it often more profitable not to culti- 



68o 



The Crisis in Italy. 



vate the land at all. Therefore they try 
to get it cultivated as cheaply as possi- 
ble. 

" Now, there are a multitude of unoc- 
cupied people who offer their services 
for the cultivation of the land. Other 
work they cannot do, because there is no 
trade and no commerce. They must get 
employment from the landlord, or who- 
ever manages the cultivation, so as not 
to die of hunger. And thus the landlord 
is absolute master of the wages, and acts 
accordingly. When he gives one lira, 
which is scarcely tenpence, a day, the 
laborer is very, very happy ; if he could 
only earn tenpence every day he would 
be content all his life, and live with his 
wife and his children on that small sum. 
But the landlord often gives only six- 
pence, and even less. Very often there 
is no employment ; for example, a long 
time in the winter. Improvements of 
the land or the roads, regulations of the 
rivers, etc., are made only in case of the 
greatest necessity, because that would 
cost money ; then the capitalist or the 
farmer, who is only a temporary mana- 
ger, has no interest in improving the 
land for those who may succeed him ; 
moreover, once : asking a farmer why he 
left the land in such a miserable state, 
we got the answer, ' My condition is all 
the better for it, because otherwise the 
landlord would raise my rent at once, and 
all my work would go for nothing.' In 
these days of idleness the laborer and 
his family must live, as every one will 
see, hungry and discontented ; from his 
small savings, if any, he can spare no- 
thing. And. moreover, the laborers 
cannot all get work when there is 
work to be done, because there are too 
many. What can they now do? Live 
idle and hungry or become brigands. 
Imagine, for a better view of this condi- 
tion, a town of from one to ten thousand 
inhabitants in the country of Italy, nice- 
ly situated either on a hill and that is 
the rule or in the valley. There are a 
few poor priests, who cannot afford to 
buy a newspaper, some policemen, and 
some trades-people ; the other fashion- 
able people consist of from one to five 
' signori,' landlords, or capitalists, or 
farmers. All the other inhabitants are 
people who possess nothing, who have 
no work of any kind besides the work 
on the property of the landlord on the 
land, in the vineyard, the olive-garden, 
the wood, the stalls, where they are 



sometimes occupied. That is Italian 
country-life. 

"We repeat here that we speak about 
the general condition of Italy ; that there 
are exceptions we know very well, but 
they are exceptions. In some parts the 
peasants have their own property, in 
others you find manufactories, especial- 
ly in the north of Italy. Some of the 
people also -find a way to improve their 
condition ; they go into cities and be- 
come servants, and send some money to 
their families in the country. Some go 
for many years abroad to Austria, Ger- 
many, and France are employed there 
in the heaviest labor in tunnels and on 
roads, and return with what they have 
gained, more or less demoralized. Many 
emigrate for ever, and the latest official 
statistics, which are of about the year 1876, 
show that in that year not less than sixty 
thousand countrymen emigrated. Some 
go with hand- organs through the world, 
and so live better than their families at 
home. In Southern Italy many sell their 
children to rascals who take them to other 
countries either for immoral purposes or 
to gain money for the ' padroni ' by beg- 
ging and playing. I think Englishmen 
know a little about these poor children. 
This is for many the way to improve 
their condition ; these are results of the 
miserable state of the country. 

"Could you expect now that these 
people would assemble to oppose Gari- 
baldi's attacks and to defend their 
princes? Could you expect that these 
people would rush to Florence, to Rome, 
to Naples, to offer their blood in defence 
of the old order? Can you expect that 
these populations will defend the new 
government against a new revolution? 
Can you hope that they will hear with 
any interest about the programme of a 
new Catholic party which will bring 
back the old order of things ? Although, 
I think, you can understand that these 
people are enthusiasts, at least for some 
days, when Garibaldi comes and says ' I 
will help you,' and when he orders out 
bread and wine from the houses of the 
landlords and the convents. This policy 
is understood by every one and interests 
every one. You can understand now, 
also, why so many of these people swear 
vengeance on a society which is so cruel 
to them, the laws of which do not give 
them the power to live as human beings. 
You can understand too, I think, why 
all the people like brigands, as a living 



The Crisis in Italy. 



68 1 



protest against society, and why all help 
them, and why they show not the slight- 
est interest in helping the policeman 
and the government to put down brigan- 
dage. 

" But is there nobody who takes the 
part of the people in this state ? Yes, 
some helps they have : the first is the cli- 
mate of Italy, which makes hunger and bad 
clothes and miserable dwellings more 
easily borne than in northern countries. 
Secondly, there are some landlords who 
have feeling hearts, and provide at least 
the most necessary help against misery, 
although they do not think about any 
radical and durable change. And for- 
merly there were the convents, which 
gave the greatest relief to the poor, peo- 
ple may say about them whatever they 
like. Every one who suffered hunger 
could go to the convent and he got some 
help and refreshment, and, therefore, 
hunger was not so general in Italy, and 
nobody died from starvation. But now 
the convents are destroyed, their pro- 
perty is in the hands of city-people, Jews 
and other ' patriots '; and these legaliz- 
ed brigands, who have made the unity of 
Italy for themselves and not for the peo- 
ple, have no interest in the despised 
peasants. When you, therefore, make a 
journey in Italy and many come to you 
in the country and beg an alms, do not 
be angry with them, do not say, Why do 
you not work ? Look them in the face, 
and you will see that it is great suffering 
which compels those to be beggars who 
are naturally as proud as any other 
nation. 

" We have spoken freely and clearly 
about the social misery which we have 
seen in Italy, and which we believe is 
the first cause of the political misery. 
Now we conclude : Only a party which 
promises the people a better social con- 
dition and makes arrangements for their 
improvement can gain the support of 
the population and guide the future of 
Italy. The Catholic party must, there- 
fore, here begin and accept a social pro- 
gramme. Otherwise it will never suc- 
ceed ; otherwise it will find the same in- 
differentism in the future which the 
legitimate governments found in the 
past." 



It is plain to any one who has 
paid attention to what is passing in 
Italy that its social and political 



affairs cannot remain as they are. 
The question which is now coming 
rapidly forward is : Who shall take 
the lead and direct the Italian peo- 
ple to those needed reforms which 
alone promise an enduring peace 
and future prosperity ? Shall it be 
the revolutionary party now led by 
Garibaldi, who seems actuated by a 
diabolical hatred to religion, and 
whose followers are made up of the 
worst elements of Italy ? Or shall 
it be an enlightened Catholic 
party which, while securing the 
rights and independence of the 
Holy See, shall at the same time 
maintain as an integral part of its 
programme those necessary social 
and political reforms which will se- 
cure tranquillity and a better and 
brighter future for their country ? 

There is always a tendency 
among the influential and ruling 
classes to forget that society and 
the state are organized not for the 
special benefit of the few, whoever 
these may be, or whatever may be 
their titles or their possessions, 
but for the common good that is, 
for the equal good of all. The 
ruler, the statesman, or the legislator 
who does not keep this great end 
steadily in view ignores his func- 
tions, and if he deviates from it he 
is derelict in his essential duties. 

Whence do Internationalism and 
Communism, two of the most dan- 
gerous tendencies of our times, 
find the main reason for their ex- 
istence unless in the evils arising 
from the petty political divisions 
of peoples closely related, if not of 
the same race and land ; and in 
the evils which come from the im- 
perfect laws which hitherto have 
controlled and directed the owner- 
ship of .the soil? Now, it is for 
Catholic statesmen to see and ap- 
preciate these evils if they would 
be equal to the duties which their 



682 



The Crisis in Italy. 



position demands, gain the affec- 
tion of the people who suffer most 
from these evils, and become their 
leaders. " Catholicity fears no pro- 
gress that is not downward. It 
loves the people ; it sojourned 
with them in the Catacombs ; it de- 
livered them from pagan imperial- 
ism, protected them from the Mo- 
hammedan yoke, and struck from 
them the chains of feudal serfdom. 
It rejoices in the expansion of their 
justly-regulated rights and powers, 
in which, as in a dilated breast, 
its free spirit respires with ease."* 

He is a superficial thinker who 
fails to detect the fact that the 
truths which these false movements 
contain, and which give their pro- 
moters a certain hold on the peo- 
ple, are fragments separated from 
the great truths of Christianity, 
which alone reveal the intimate re- 
lations of brotherhood between man 
and man, and those rights and duties 
existing between man and all the 
natural gifts that go to make up 
this habitable globe. The aspira- 
tions which give force to these 
misdirected efforts have a legiti- 
mate basis. Satan always clothes 
himself in the garb of light when 
he woujd deceive men, and makes 
false promises of a real good when 
he would lead them astray. What 
makes these movements dangerous 
is not the truths which they con- 
tain, but their exaggeration. Re- 
form by evolution should be ,the 
watchword, and not by revolution. 
No one would recommend a man 
as a skilful surgeon who to set a 
broken finger would break one's 
back. 

What else is the unity of peoples 
and of nations than the transfer to 
the .political order of that divine 
bond of unity which has ever existed 

* Aubrey de Vere. Preface to Irish Odes and 
Other Potms, The Catholic Publication Society. 



in the church a natural aspiration 
of the human heart which Chris- 
tianity has quickened into greater 
life, and realized more or less per- 
fectly in the ages of faith. What 
else is that political equality of 
which so many speak than an ap- 
proximation of the laws of the 
state to that equality which has al- 
ways prevailed among the house- 
hold of the faith in the bosom of 
the Catholic Church ? Not many 
centuries ago, Europe was covered 
with primeval forests, peopled by 
barbarians whose instincts and 
habits were not far removed from 
our primitive Indians. What su- 
perior force tamed those wild in- 
habitants of the woods of the north 
and transformed them into civilized 
men ? Who taught them the arts 
of civilization, and changed that 
vast wilderness into teeming gar- 
dens, populous cities, and organiz- 
ed those turbulent tribes into great 
nations ? Question the authentic 
pages of history, and its unmistak- 
able voice proclaims, that force was 
the Catholic Church, those men were 
her apostolic missionaries. Catho- 
licity is the well-spring of life of 
modern civilization, and its inevita- 
ble and constantly recurring pro- 
blem from generation to generation 
is, how to bring the national, social, 
and political relations of men more 
completely in harmony with the-uni- 
versal principles, the ideas of jus- 
tice, and the common brotherhood 
of men which the Catholic Church 
ever maintains and always teaches? 
These problems cannot be set aside 
until the ideal of Christianity is 
realized, and it is for Catholic the- 
ologians, philosophers, and states- 
men to come forward with the 
courage which their faith inspires 
and take a leading part in the so- 
lution of these difficult problems, 
and, instinct with a supernatural 



The Crisis in Italy. 



683 



energy, contribute by their studies, 
earnestness, and activity to the ad- 
vancement of this providential 
movement of true progress. 

There are times in the affairs of 
nations when they are called upon 
to choose and to determine their 
line of/ action for future generations, 
and on this choice depends either 
a course of error, crime, ending in 
ruin, or, by a noble act of fidelity 
to truth, a career of increased jus- 
tice, a profounder peace and great- 
er prosperity. This period comes 
to every nation in its turn, and 
Italy now appears to be passing 
through its crisis. To prevent the 
people from being led astray and 
becoming the instruments of dema- 
gogues and revolutionists, Catho- 
lics have no other escape than by 
a fresh presentation of the great 
truths of Christianity in popular 
language and attractive forms be- 
fore the eyes of the people, and by 
making it plain to their comprehen- 
sion that the more practical appli- 
cation of its principles would reme- 
dy all existing removable evils and 
satisfy every legitimate aspiration. 
God has not abandoned noble 
Catholic Italy, and as in times past, 
so now its providential men will 
not be wanting. 

Catholics fall far short of their 
high mission when they are content 
to range themselves among the advo- 
cates of any one form of political 
government, or as the promoters of 
particular dynasties, or as partisans 
of the political divisions of a coun- 
try. This is not to say that Ca- 
tholics are not animated by the 
noble sentiments of love for their 
country, whether by birth or adop- 
tion, or that they do not prefer its 
institutions to all others, or that 
they are not free to co-operate with 
any honest political party and its 
just measures ; to say this would 



be to join in with the calumny 
against Catholics invented by the 
Prussian liberals so-called. Ca- 
tholicity has no sympathy either 
with a one-sided exaggerated na- 
turalism or supernaturalism, and 
no such party would deserve or re- 
ceive from them their support. Ca- 
tholicity means universality, and 
takes up in its scope* all the true in- 
terests of man. 

The true aim of a Catholic is to 
promote the reign of God in souls, 
and a glorified humanity in the 
ampler world to come ; but he 
never forgets that the fruit of God's 
reign in the individual is the estab- 
lishment of his kingdom upon earth, 
and the gate to the kingdom of 
heaven above is opened only by 
the key of his earnest and sincere 
and heroic labor in establishing 
this kingdom of heaven here below. 
For the aim of Christ was not par- 
tial or sectional in its scope, but 
universal. The end of his mission 
was the restoration of all things. 
He embraced in his design both 
heaven and earth. His was "the 
dispensation of the fulness of times, 
to re-establish all things, that are 
in heaven and on earth." They 
have studied Christianity but slight- 
ly who entertain the idea that it 
has exhausted its power for good 
in the social order and political 
condition of things which now 
reign everywhere in the civilized 
world. O Utopian schemer ! there 
is a vista before the vision of 
Christ's church of future things, 
and to which she is ever reaching 
forward and approaching, infinitely 
more perfect than that you so vain- 
ly dream. 

When Christ, nailed upon the 
cross, uttered with his expiring 
breath the cry, " It is consummat- 
ed !" he proclaimed that the en- 
franchisement and glorification of 



684 



The Crisis in Italy. 



the universe was essentially achiev- 
ed. Since that supreme moment 
God's providence has conducted 
the order of grace, the whole course 
of nature, all creatures, the move- 
ments of history including its 
crimes and revolutions, to converge 
to this : either the world must 
throw itself into the arms of its 
Redeemer and- Mediator, or re- 
turn to barbarism and perish mis- 
erably. 

Universal enfranchisement, in 
view of universal glorification, be- 
ginning here and now in the soul 
and embracing the whole universe 
in its consummation, this is Ca- 
tholicity, because it is Christianity. 
Christianity holds individual men 
and society to this higher than 
a mere natural destiny with a 
more than deathless grasp. This 
aim alone is worthy of man's high- 
est devotion, as it is alone ade- 
quate to his uttermost action. 

Unity among nations and peo- 
ples, more perfect justice between 
man and man, and the reign of 
universal brotherhood upon earth; 
the realization of these noble as- 
pirations is to be found nowhere 
except in the divine force which 
gave them birth. Not in a further 
departure from, but in a closer ap- 
proach to Christianity is the direc- 
tion in which lies the road to safe- 
ty, progress, and the glory of the 
world. Christ reigns ! 

The timely pointing out and 
condemnation before the civilized 
world of the leading, active, mo- 
dern errors by the Syllabus, the 
value and importance of which is 
being better appreciated as these 
errors display their real character, 
was a noble act of Christian hero- 
ism on the part of the chief pas- 
tor of Christ's flock. A Christian 
church whose authority dares not 
expose and condemn the threaten- 



ing errors and vices of an age, no 
matter how popular these may be 
or who their teachers, is a sham 
and worthy of no respect. And he 
who knows how to interpret rightly 
the Syllabus will read in it the 
same answer essentially which 
Christ gave to the arch-enemy on 
the mount when, after his. lying 
promises, he commanded him, in 
the might of his divine authority, 
"Get thee behind me, Satan!" 
The church is Christ's body, and it 
is Christ who speaks by the mouth 
of St. Peter's successor authorita- 
tively to every age. 

But the church in condemning 
the errors of an age aims neither at 
stopping the progress of society nor 
at resuscitating a dead past, as 
some ignorantly or maliciously 
would have men believe. Her 
work is not one of mere negation, 
important as that at times may be, 
but one of building up and estab- 
lishing God's kingdom of justice 
and peace upon earth. Hence the 
separation of the truths contained 
in these errors, and which give 
them currency and make them so 
formidable in the mouths of dema- 
gogues; and the pointing out the 
way of turning their destructive 
threats into precious blessings, this 
is a still greater and nobler and more 
heroic labor. This is the task now 
incumbent upon Catholics, and un- 
der the never-failing inspirations 
of God they will not fail in its ac- 
complishment. O providential ne- 
cessity ! that compels the demon- 
stration of the great truth before a 
sceptical world that Christianity is 
no less the preserver of the family, 
society, and the state from impend- 
ing ruin, than the saviour from its 
sins of the individual soul. The 
church will never fail by the virtue 
of the indwelling presence of Christ 
to save the world until its consuin- 



The Victims of Quiberon. 



685 



mation. Christ is the Saviour of 
the world Salvator mundi ! 

The times are out of joint, and 
it depends on Catholics to lead the 
way and set them right. Let en- 
lightened Catholics but speak out 
from their deep convictions, spring- 
ing from the common and divine 
source of their natural instincts 
and the teachings of their holy 
faith ! For it inspires the soul 
with heroic courage, the loftiest 
hope, and an enthusiasm for im- 
provement which is illimitable. 



The noble attitude of Leo XIII., 
now happily reigning, is well 
calculated to inspire the Catholics 
of Italy and throughout the world 
with that lofty faith and courage 
which the present crisis demands ; 
and the light which his course 
sheds on the problems of our day 
is the unerring finger of God's 
Providence pointing out the way to 
a fresh triumph of Christianity, 
the renewal of society, and for man- 
kind a better future ! 



THE VICTIMS OF QUIBERON. 



IT is becoming the fashion with 
certain writers on both sides of 
the Channel to undertake the re- 
habilitation of the men and of the 
deeds of '93. Those who are dis- 
posed to waste their admiration on 
objects so unworthy would do 
well to ascertain beforehand to 
what they pledge themselves. 

" On the pth Thermidor," said 
Count Joseph le Maistre, "some 
scoundrels sent other scoundrels to 
execution " that was all ; but the 
present sketch is intended to por- 
tray one of the sanguinary acts in 
that long tragedy, the French 
Revolution, which prove that the 
prescriptive genius of the Conven- 
tion survived its domestic quarrels, 
and that the so-called Sacre de 
l'/mmam'tewa.s one continuous mas- 
sacre, which nowhere offered more 
lamentable scenes than at Auray, 
Vannes, and Carnac, where nearly 
two thousand prisoners of Quibe- 
ron, most of them mere youths, 
were murdered in cold blood, and 
this by order of the Convention. 
About two miles from Auray, 



where the roads meet from Pluvi- 
gner, Auray, and Sainte-Anne, is a 
grassy opening of a circular form 
almost surrounded by woods. In 
its centre rises a Doric column of 
blue granite, supporting a globe 
surmounted by a cross. From one 
side of this open space, which bears 
the name of the Champ des Martyr s y 
a sombre avenue of firs leads to an 
oblong quadrangle, surrounded by 
a green terrace planted with rows 
of trees. At the farther end of this 
space stands a " Chapel of Expia- 
tion," on the frieze of which are 
the inscriptions, "Hie Ceciderunt" 
and "/ Memoria sEterna erunt 
Justi" 

When this chapel was built the 
renaissance of Christian art in 
France, inaugurated later by Rio, 
Montalembert, and Gueranger, had 
not yet dawned. Instead, there- 
fore, of the early Gothic forms so 
common in Brittany and so suita- 
ble to all its associations, rose this 
gloomy Doric temple, full of a 
melancholy befitting the massacre 
it commemorates, but lacking the 



686 



The Victims of Quiberon. 



heavenward aspirations of faith and 
hope stamped by our forefactors 
on the Christian architecture of 
northern Europe. Each column 
supporting the fafade is a mono- 
lith of granite from St. Malo, and, 
like the rest of the edifice, dark 
with damp. The one window, at 
the farther end, serves but to 
show the forlorn and unfinished 
state of the interior, where for fifty 
years the walls have been awaiting 
their frescos and the altar its or- 
naments. Owing to the constant 
succession of governmental changes 
in France the monument has never 
been completed. 

From the Chapelle Expiatoire, 
erected on the very spot of one of 
the massacres of which we propose 
to give an account, the visitor re- 
turns, by the fir-tree avenue, to 
the Chapelle Sfyulcrale, also of 
Grecian architecture, and built 
against the church of the Carthu- 
sian convent. The fact of its hav- 
ing been raised by public subscrip- 
tion is indicated by the words in- 
scribed beneath the portico : " Gal- 
lia M&rens Posuit" 

Occupying the centre of the in- 
terior rises a mausoleum of white 
marble. In the end which faces 
the entrance is the bronze door of 
the sepulchral crypt, while the far- 
ther end faces the altar. The 
tympanum of the upper sarcopha- 
gus, surmounted by a cross, repre- 
sents France, covered with a wid- 
ow's veil and leaning against a 
tomb, with the inscription : " Qui- 

BERON, XXI. JULII, MDCCXCV." Be- 

low this, in hemispherical niches, 
are the busts of De Soulanges and 
De Sombreuil, and beneath them 
the words, "Pro Deo, Pro Rege, 
nefarie Trucidati" On the far- 
ther end are the busts of Mgr. de 
Herce, Bishop of Dol, D'Hervilly, 
and De Talhouet. On the sides of 



the monument are engraved the 
names (all that could be ascertain- 
ed) of 952 of the more than 1,500 
victims whose remains are piled in 
the crypt beneath. 

After the return of the Bourbons 
the cure of Auray carefully col- 
lected the remains of the victims of 
Quiberon and transported them 
hither. A rare engraving of the 
time represents the visit of the 
Duke d'Angouleme to this vault 
in 1814. In it the prince and his 
aides-de-camp are kneeling before 
a pile of skulls and bones, four 
metres in height, covering a space 
of not less than twelve metres 
square, while a priest, standing by, 
recites the prayers for the dead. 
On the 2oth of September, 1823, 
the Duchess d'Angouleme, daugh- 
ter of Louis XVI., laid the first 
stone of the two chapels, which 
were inaugurated October 15, 1829, 
by the bishops of Vannes, St. 
Brieuc, and Quimper, in presence 
of a concourse of 20,000 men, come 
in procession, with their clergy, 
from two hundred parishes of 
Brittany. 

Thus, thirty-four years after their 
unrighteous deaths, the brave sol- 
diers of Quiberon received funeral 
honors, and the Restoration hasten- 
ed to put in possession of their last 
abode these victims of the First 
Revolution, as if under a presenti- 
ment that its time was short, and 
that ere long it also would be over- 
whelmed by the freshly-gathering 
clouds already darkening the hori- 
zon. 

We will briefly retrace the man- 
ner in which these unfortunate 
men fell into the power of the Con- 
vention. 

On the evening of the 2ist of 
July, 1795, Fort Penthievre, the key 
of the peninsula of Quiberon, and 
one of the last strongholds of the 



The Victims of Quiberon. 



687 



royalists, was taken, rather by ruse 
than by superior numbers.* The 
secret approach of the republican 
troops in the increasing darkness was 
further favored by a terrific storm. 
Peals of thunder, heavy rain, the 
roaring of wind and waves around 
the rocky promontory, effectually 
concealed the sound of columns 
advancing simultaneously from 
three different directions, while 
within the fort three republican 
subalterns and a number of pri- 
vates, who had enrolled themselves 
among its royalist defenders, had 
conspired with the besiegers with- 
out to deliver it into their hands. 

Still further to secure the success 
of his stratagem, General Hoche 
had placed in the van more than 
a hundred republican soldiers in 
royalist uniforms. These men, hav- 
ing obtained the password, gained 
easy admittance from their accom- 
plices within. The soldiers of 
Rohan and Perigord, who defend- 
ed the gates, were instantly over- 
powered and "slain. Hoche had 
commanded that no quarter was 
to be given. " General Humbert," 
he had written in his order of the 
day, " will take the fort, and kill 
all whom he finds in it, unless the 
fusiliers join his troop. The offi- 
cers, infantry, sergeants, and artil- 
lery-men are to receive no quarter." 

The coup-de-main succeeded but 
too well. It was not until late in 
the evening that the multitude as- 
sembled in the lower part of the 
peninsula learnt that the only bar- 
rier that protected the royalists 
had fallen. The terror was intense 
among this unarmed population of 
old men, women, and children, who 
had come from all the surrounding 
neighborhood to seek refuge near 



* A full account of this disastrous night is given 
by M. Alf. Nettement in Quiberon (pp. 179 et 
seq.) Paris: Lecoffre. 



the royalist camp. The republi- 
can columns drove all before them, 
and the cries of the panic-stricken 
people, as they rushed towards the 
port of Orange, greatly dishearten- 
ed the royalist troops, which, ow- 
ing to the tempestuous sea, had 
only then been able to disembark 
from the Loyal Emigrant, protect- 
ed by the guns of the English 
squadron. " These unfortunate 
beings," wrote an eye-witrress of 
the scene, " leaping into already 
overcrowded boats, perished among 
the equally crowded rocks. From 
sea and land shrieks of despair 
rose above the intermingling roar 
of the waves, the storm, and the 
republican guns pointed upon the 
fugitives." Amid this dire confu- 
sion M. de Puisaye, commander- 
in-chief of the army of disembarka- 
tion, after giving orders to the 
young General de Sombreuil, and 
promising to support his move- 
ments, turned his horse's head to- 
wards the coast, and from thence 
furtively escaped in a boat to the 
English vessels. 

De Sombreuil, around whom, 
after the cowardly disappearance 
of Puisaye, all that remained of 
the royal troops had rallied, found 
them wholly unable to withstand 
the attack of the enemy, who was 
far superior in numbers. For more 
than five hours, therefore, he with 
remarkable firmness and skill con- 
ducted the retreat until he had 
reached Fort Neuf, an insignificant 
place near the village of Fort Hali- 
guen, and the extreme point of the 
peninsula. Here again, from the 
republican ranks, was repeated the 
shout which from time to time had 
been heard ever since the com- 
mencement of the struggle : * " Lay 
down your arms, brave emigres ! 

* See the account of M. dc la Touche, p. 112. 



688 



The Victims of Quiberon. 



No harm shall be done to you. 
We are all Frenchmen !" 

This invitation was now accom- 
panied by more emphatic protesta- 
tions than before. 

De Sombreuil thought not only 
of his men, but also of the helpless 
multitude besieging the few boats 
which the English fleet was able 
to send to their rescue through the 
tempestuous sea, and which, were 
he to strike one last and hopeless 
blow, must inevitably fall into the 
hands of an irritated conqueror. 
He therefore consented to a parley. 

On a little elevation between 
Fort Neuf and the fountain that 
supplies Fort Haliguen the con- 
ference took place between De 
Sombreuil and Hoche. 

"After it had continued a long 
time," wrote Count Harscouet de 
St. Georges, " our brave young 
chief rode towards us, and said in 
a loud voice : * Gentlemen, I have 
obtained a promise that the lives 
of all shall be safe, my own life 
only excepted. Let those who do 
not trust to the capitulation join 
the English squadron by swim- 
ming or otherwise, if they are able. 
As for rne, I remain.' ' 

We quote the testimony of an- 
other eye-witness, M. de Chaume- 
reix, wjio wrote immediately after 
the event. 

"Arrived at Fort Neuf," he says, 
" M. de Sombreuil collected the 
debris of the different corps. The 
English corvette, the Lark, anchor- 
ed near the coast, was firing on the 
central (republican) column, while 
the two other vessels manoeuvred 
so as to protect us. M. de Som- 
breuil advanced alone towards the 
enemy, and made a sign with his 
hand. The column halted. Gene- 
ral Hoche, who commanded it, 
advanced a few steps, accompanied 
by two officers of his staff. M. de 



Sombreuil said in a loud voice : 
; ' The men whom I command are 
resolved to die under the ruins of 
the fort. If, however, you allow 
them to embark, you will spare the 
shedding of French blood.' To 
this Hoche replied: 'I cannot al- 
low them to re-embark, but all who 
lay down their arms shall be treat- 
ed as prisoners of war.' 

"'Will the emigres also be in- 
cluded in this capitulation ?' asked 
General de Sombreuil. 

" ' They will,' was the answer. 
* Every one is included in it who 
lays down arms.' 

" M. de Sombreuil, returning to 
the fort, said : ' Gentlemen, I have 
obtained the most favorable con- 
ditions of which circumstances ad- 
mit, and I have engaged to lay 
down arms. Lay them down, 
therefore, and tell the English cor- 
vette to cease firing.' Some per-; 
sons who understood English then 
went down to the beach, and call- 
ed out for the sloops to retire far- 
ther from the shore? as a capitula- 
tion had taken place."* 

Some, who had not any confi- 
dence in the promise given, pre- 
ferred to trust themselves to the 
stormy sea, but of these only a 
small number reached the English 
fleet in safety. And now there 
were no more combatants, no more 
enemies ; there were only the 
French republican soldiers and 
their French prisoners of war. 

The general feeling manifested 
by the bulk of the republican army 
when the struggle was over, far 
from being hostile, was favorable 
to the royalist prisoners. Even 
Tallien, who, immediately on re- 

* We are the more careful to give from authentic 
witnesses the details of the capitulation of Qui- 
beron, on account of the attempts made by certain 
modern French writers either to throw a doubt on 
its having ever taken place or else to deny it alto- 
gether. 



The Victims of Quiberon. 



689 



turning into the revolutionary at- 
mosphere of Paris, showed himself 
so violent against them, appeared 
for the moment touched by their 
situation. It is also worthy of no- 
tice that by far the greater part 
of the army which had fought at 
Quiberon, not being influenced by 
that fear of the Convention which 
actuated Hoche and Tallien, per- 
sisted to the last in regarding the 
royalists as prisoners of war, and 
in treating them as honorable cap- 
tives, not as guilty criminals. 

On that same evening of the 2ist 
of July Hoche ordered that the 
prisoners should be marched to 
Auray, six and a half leagues dis- 
tant. 

They departed in three columns. 
The first was composed of some 
thousands of the weak, aged, and 
helpless of every description, who, 
driven from their homes, had 
sought for safety with the royalist 
army. This column, after slowly 
advancing a league, was command- 
ed to disperse. The two other 
columns, formed of the debris of 
the royal army and of Chouans, 
and amounting to about five thou- 
sand men, were taken by different 
roads to Auray. General Humbert, 
who commanded the escort, fore- 
seeing that many of the prisoners 
might profit by the darkness to es- 
cape, demanded, after again assur- 
ing them that they should receive 
no harm, their word of honor that 
they would not attempt escape. 
They pledged their word, and the 
signal for departure was given. 

The length and difficulties of the 
way, the blackness of the rainy 
night, the proximity of the woods, 
the fatigue of the escort, and the 
sympathy of the country people, all 
favored the escape of the prison- 
ers. But when all had had time 
to arrive at Auray not one was 
VOL. xxix. 44 



missing. Some who had lost them- 
selves among woods or marshes 
followed the rest on the return of 
daylight, and of their own accord 
rejoined their fellow-captives. 

The first column reached Auray 
about eleven at night. The streets 
of the quaint old town were silent 
and deserted, but there were lights 
in the houses. " All the women," 
wrote M. de Chaumereix,* " were 
at the windows with lights. Tears 
were streaming from their eyes, 
and I saw on their faces an expres- 
sion of the tenderest compassion." 

The prisoners of the first column 
were crowded into the church of 
St. Gildas, and those of the second, 
who arrived some time after mid- 
night, into that of the Cordeliers. 
In each of these improvised pri- 
sons, which were too small for the 
numbers thrust into them, a single 
lamp threw its dim light over the 
captives, many of whom were 
wounded, and who lay, without 
even a little straw, on the bare 
stone floor. 

" I passed this first night," wrote 
the Chevalier de Grandry, f " on 
the steps of the high altar, nearly 
suffocated by the weight of my 
weary comrades, who lay stretched 
upon me. Many arrived in small 
bands, without escort, and, not 
knowing where to go, lay down in 
the street. None had tasted food 
since an early hour on the pre- 
vious day." 

On the morning of the 22d the 
officers were separated from the 
soldiers and removed to the great 
prison called the Prison des An- 
glais. The misgivings to which 
this proceeding gave rise were in- 
creased when, later in the day, the 

* Relation de M. de Chaumereix* p. 12. 

t The Chevalier de Grandry, one of the few survi- 
vors of the army of Quiberon, knelt, eight years af- 
terwards, on the steps of this same altar, by his 
bride, a near relation of De Sombreuil. 



690 



The Victims of Quiberon. 



prisoners, strongly guarded, were 
marched to a place about a mile 
from Auray, where were assembled 
three thousand troops. This time, 
however, the republic contented 
itself with counting its victims. 
When they re-entered Auray the 
inhabitants openly expressed their 
joyful surprise, and requested per- 
mission to assist them. The re- 
publican authorities, willing to be 
saved expense, granted the request, 
and from that time it was to Ca- 
tholic Auray that the prisoners 
were indebted for food, medicine, 
and clothing, as well as consola- 
tion and services of every kind, 
the people treating as honored 
guests those whom the government 
regarded as its prey. 

On returning M. de Sombreuil 
was separated from the rest, and 
kept under guard in the principal 
inn of the town. Some days pass- 
ed, and in the course of that time 
Hoche, who had given his word 
for the lives of the prisoners, took 
his departure. Tallien, who had 
witnessed the capitulation, had al- 
ready quitted Auray, while his 
more violent colleague, Blad, re- 
mained at Vannes. Nearly all the 
troops that had fought at Quibe- 
ron, and were therefore aware of 
what had passed there, received 
orders to march to distant quar- 
ters. This careful removal of the 
authors and witnesses of the capi- 
tulation increased the existing ap- 
prehension as to what might be 
about to take place in Brittany. 

On the evening of the 26th De 
Sombreuil was brought back to the 
prison in an unconscious state from 
a pistol-shot in the forehead. The 
soldiers who carried him alleged 
that he had shot himself a story 
which appeared highly improbable 
to the prisoners, knowing, as they 
did, the knightly and Christian cha- 



racter of their young chief. They 
believed it to be an invention of 
his guards to conceal the fact of 
their having assassinated him in 
order to despoil him of the rich 
booty of guineas they expected to 
find in the possession of a com- 
mander-in-chief lately returned 
from England. It was, in any 
case, evident that he had been 
rifled of every object of value. It 
is, however, possible that, when the 
frightful prospect of the non-obser- 
vance of the terms of capitulation 
broke upon him, together with the 
thought that, in bidding his brave 
men lay down their arms, he had 
delivered them over to the execu- 
tioner, the blow for the moment 
unhinged his reason, and in a par- 
oxysm of agony he may have at- 
tempted suicide. 

When, on the folio wing day, 
General de Sombreuil and some 
of his companions were taken be- 
fore a council of war, he answered 
his judges with a dignity and firm- 
ness which won all their sympathy. 
He desired nothing for himself, 
but demanded the fulfilment of the 
promise that the lives of his men 
should be safe. Then, turning to 
the soldiers who filled the hall, he 
said : 

" Ready to appear before God, I 
swear that there was a capitulation, 
in which I received a promise that 
the emigres should be treated as 
prisoners of war. I call you to 
witness, grenadiers !" 

As one man they answered : 

" It is true !" 

And the commissioners separat- 
ed, declaring by the voice of their 
president, Laprade, that they had 
no right to judge prisoners who had 
capitulated. 

General Lemoine, the republican 
chief of the department, furious at 
their resistance, immediately nom- 



The Victims of Quiberon. 



691 



inated a new set of commission- 
ers,* to whom he declared that he 
would not suffer any refusal to act 
nor any allusion to the capitula- 
tion. Before this commission De 
Sombreuil, the Bishop of Dol, Count 
Joseph de Broglie, the Count de 
Landelle, and fifteen of their com- 
panions were brought on the after- 
noon of the pth Thermidor (28th 

of July), 1795- 

After the Count de Broglie had 
energetically reproached the coun- 
cil of war with its breach of faith, 
and De Sombreuil had reiterated 
his protest, they and their com- 
rades were condemned to death 
for having borne arms against the 
republic. They were chained to- 
gether in a wagon and taken to 
Vannes, sixteen kilometres from 
Auray, arriving there at midnight, 
before the sounds of the celebra- 
tion of this republican festival had 
died away. The dancing was still 
going on when the wagon passed 
heavily along the street, laden with 
the victims for the morrow's butch- 
ery. 

They were shut up in the two 
towers surmounting the city-gate 
by the Garenne ; this, the favor- 
ite promenade of the inhabitants, 
being selected as the place where 
they were to suffer. The chasseurs 
forming part of the nineteenth demi- 
brigade, and who had fought at 
Quiberon, had been told off for the 
execution, but officers and soldiers 
alike refusecl to do the work of as- 
sassins. It was undertaken by a 
battalion of the Paris volunteers. 
While General Lemoine was in 
search of executioners, his victims, 



* It was only after the most imperative and 
threatening orders from General Lemoine that a 
new commission was formed. In Le Recit Sommaire 
de M. Chaumereix, pp. 17 and 30, we find the 
following : " Tous les officiers ay ant refuse, le ge- 
neral Lemoine ordonna que 1'armee prit les armes, 
et il menaa de faire fusilier sur le champ celui qui 
n'accepterait pas sa place dans une commission. 1 ' 



aided by the holy prelate who form- 
ed one of their number, calmly pre- 
pared themselves for death. 

On the morning of the 29th of 
July the prisoners, whose number 
was augmented by the addition of 
fourteen priests, were taken to the 
Garenne, the clergy reciting the 
prayers for the dying and their 
companions making the responses. 
When they reached the appointed 
spot an executioner approached to 
bandage the eyes of De Sombreuil. 
He signed the man back with his 
hand, saying, " I am accustomed to 
look my enemies in the face." 
Then, with his last breath protest- 
ing against the slaughter of his 
comrades, he knelt down on one 
knee, bade the soldiers aim a little 
to the right, so as to be sure to 
strike him, and gave the order to 
fire. 

Thus, at the age of twenty-five, 
died Count Charles de Sombreuil,* 
one of the noblest victims of the 
Revolution. Besides heroic cour- 
age he possessed high qualities as 
a commander. Full of truth and 
loyalty, he knew not how to believe 
in meanness and falsehood in oth- 
ers, and even his enemies were 
struck by his remarkable personal 
beauty. 

Next to him fell the Bishop of 
Dol, still praying for his murder- 
ers. His was the death of a saint 
side by side with that of a Chris- 
tian knight. ., ^ 

The signal having thus been giv- 
en by the death of General de 
Sombreuil and his companions, the 



* General de Sombreuil was brother to the heroic 
lady who drank a cup of blood to save the life of 
her aged father. Before leaving home, having a 
presentiment that he should never return, he laid 
a piece of black crape on the bed of Mile, de la 
Blache, to whom he was engaged. On the morning 
of his execution he cut off a lock of his hair, and, 
together with her miniature, which he always wore, 
placed it in the hands of a republican officer, who 
promised to convey it to this lady. She afterward 
became the Comtesse d'Haussonville. 



692 



The Victims of Quiberon. 



massacres were for more than a 
month to be continued on three 
points of the Morbihan namely, 
Auray, Vannes, and Quiberon. Of 
the four military commissions now 
set up at these places, two were at 
Vannes, whither, on the 3ist of 
July, a part of the prisoners were 
sent from Auray. 

"This time," wrote M. de St. 
Georges, " we walked in broad day- 
light, escorted by a double file of 
soldiers, and found strong detach- 
ments posted at intervals along the 
four leagues of road which sepa- 
rate the two towns, in case the roy- 
alists of the country should attempt 
our rescue. On the way our con- 
ductors despoiled us of the best of 
our clothing, which they replaced 
by their own tattered uniforms, so 
that by the time we entered Vannes 
we looked like a band of brigands. 

"We were taken first into the 
court of an ancient convent, and 
left for two hours a spectacle to 
the revolutionary soldiers of the 
garrison, a troop selected for the 
sanguinary task it was shortly to 
fulfil. At this exhibition prepara- 
tory to our execution (to which it 
made an additional pain) none of 
the true people of Vannes appear- 
ed. We saw only those hang-dog 
visages which seemed everywhere 
to spring from the ground to assist 
at the hideous festivals of those 
miserable times. From thence we 
were taken to the church of the 
Grand Se'minaire, called Du Mene, 
and chosen as our prison on ac- 
count of its isolated position. The 
church was then surrounded with 
troops, and fifty soldiers of the line 
placed on duty in the interior. 
The day had been intensely hot. 
We had left Auray before ten in 
the morning ; it was now past six. 
No food had been given us, and 
we were fainting from exhaustion 



and fatigue. As at Auray, so also 
at Vannes, the authorities offered 
us nothing. It was their business 
to kill us, not to keep us alive. 
However, they announced that * if 
any persons chose to assist the pri- 
soners in the Church du Mene, the 
republic, in its munificence, would 
not hinder them from taking food 
to its captives.' " 

This was enough, for the people 
of Vannes, like those of Auray, 
were eager to follow the promptings 
of their generosity and courage; 
for, in those times of tyranny, the 
interest taken in the victims point- 
ed out their consolers to proscrip- 
tion. Rich and poor rivalled each 
other in testifying their sympathy. 
In a few minutes the pavement of 
the vast church was strewn with 
fresh straw, upon which were laid 
long rows of mattresses, while pro- 
visions flowed in abundantly and 
assistance of every kind was eager- 
ly rendered. The women espe- 
cially, as at all times when an im- 
mense woe calls forth a measure- 
less pity, seemed to the prisoners 
like the compassionate angels sent 
to sustain and comfort man in his 
distress. And during the three 
weeks that followed the same acts 
of generosity were daily renewed 
before the eyes of those who daily 
went thither to take new victims. 

" On the ist of August," wrote 
M. de St. Georges, " a captain of 
infantry, with a hideous counte- 
nance and a red cap, appeared at 
the prison, accompanied by a de- 
tachment of sans-culottes, and an- 
nounced that he must have ten of 
us instantly. As no one showed any 
inclination to answer this rough 
summons, he became furious, and, 
seizing a prisoner near him, swore 
that unless he were immediately 
obeyed he would run every one of 
us through. His threat would 



The Victims of Quiberon. 



69$ 



doubtless have been carried out 
had not twelve of those who hap- 
pened to be nearest followed at 
random, and disappeared, never to 
return. Some hours passed. Sud- 
denly we heard a loud detonation ; 
then all was silent. . . . One of 
the officers on guard, observing the 
anxious expression on our faces, 
said with a malignant smile : * Do 
not be afraid, gentlemen ; it is only 
the springing of a mine by our 
major de place. I may as well warn 
you that he will spring several 
more of the same kind in the course 
of the day.' 

" One of the prisoners answered 
indignantly : * We are soldiers and 
know how to die. Do you happen 
to be a coward yourself, since you 
impute cowardice to us ? What 
heart can you have, who rejoice at 
our misfortune and mock us when 
we are face to face with death ?' 

' . . . We who remained then 
profited by the respite (at the sug- 
gestion of one of the elder noble- 
men) to divide our number into 
sections of ten or twelve persons, 
ready to march to execution at 
the first summons. Scarcely were 
these sections formed before an- 
other band of victims was summon- 
ed. The machinery of death was 
doing its work quickly." On this 
first day about one-third of the 
prisoners were shot. 

At Auray it was on the 4th of 
August that the executions began. 
The few who effected their escape 
have left touching narratives of the 
scenes which passed within the 
prisons. In that in which were 
confined the remains of the heroic 
company of the old Chevaliers 
de St. Louis, the aged knights, after 
exhorting their younger compan- 
ions to die like Christian soldiers, 
worthy of their lineage and of their 
cause, knelt and recited with them 



the prayers for the dead, while their 
guards, wondering to find them- 
selves moved, joined them in re- 
peating the psalms of the church. 

" In a side chapel," * wrote the 
Count de Montbrun, " the emigres, 
nearly all naval officers, were pros- 
trate in prayer. . . . When straw was 
offered for them to lie upon they 
preferred to remain on the damp 
ground, and to be allowed a light 
by which to read the prayers. Some 
one having suggested taking a little 
food, ' Let us rather,' said M. de 
Kergariou, * busy ourselves with our 
souls '; and he began the office for 
the dead, the rest answering and 
smiting their breasts, while the 
sound of their voices re-echoed sol- 
emnly in the gloomy church. 

" Several ladies, having obtained 
permission to visit once more those 
to whom they had been as sisters 
and mothers, found the prisoners 
kneeling along the balustrade of 
the choir, while the aged Count de 
Soulanges, wounded and ill, was 
fulfilling for the last time the func- 
tions which were on the morrow 
to devolve upon M. de Kergariou. 
Leaning for support against the 
altar, he was saying the prayers for 
the agonizing. The soldiers at 
this sight remained silent and re- 
spectful. The women wept. 

" ' Your charity, my ladies,' said 
M. de Soulanges, ' follows us, then, 
even until death !'" 

The young Chevalier de Volude 
having been urged to state his age 
as a few months less than it was, 
asked M. de Kergariou-Locmaria, 
his uncle, whether life was worth 
the sacrifice of truth. (" La vie, est 
elle (Tun prix egal au prix de la ve- 
rite"!"} "It is better to die than 
purchase life by a falsehood," was 
the answer; and shortly afterwards 
uncle and nephew were walking 

* Sirtce called the Chapelle de TAgonie. 



694 



The Victims of Quiberon. 



side by side to execution, the for- 
mer barefoot in imitation of our 
Lord and his sacred Passion. 

One of the commissioners, touch- 
ed by the youthful appearance of 
the younger De Lassenie, suggested 
to him the same means of escape 
by saying : '* You are very young ; 
you could not have been sixteen 
when you joined the emigres?" 

"Yes, monsieur," he replied, u I 
was sixteen. I cannot save my life 
by telling a lie." 

He was sixteen years and four 
months. 

At Quiberon the condemned 
were crowded into a garret until 
the hour of execution. This took 
place by the sea-side, and the 
corpses were carried away by the 
waves. Twenty were shot at a 
time, and as there was only one 
soldier for each, very few died at 
the first shot. The local traditions 
affirm that each chose his own ex- 
ecutioner, whom he paid for shoot- 
ing him to the heart. For those 
who still had the money to pay, 
the tariff for each of these murders 
was a guinea * and the habiliments 
of the victim. 

An officer, M. de Kerauten, dur- 
ing an execution which happened 
to take place at nightfall, broke 
from his guards, and, plunging into 
the sea, gained an English vessel 
anchored near the coast. Another, 
M. d'Houaron, also burst his bonds 
and fled, throwing behind him from 
time to time a gold-piece, and thus 
delaying his pursuers until he had 
reached a farm, where a young girl 
concealed him in a haystack until 
in three weeks' time he escaped in 
safety to his family. But these es- 
capes were very rare ; few attempt- 
ed them, and still fewer succeeded. 

At Auray and at Vannes a ditch 

* Muret, Histoire des Guerres de P Quest, torn, 
iv. p. 204. 



was dug every morning in propor- 
tion to the day's slaughter. The 
prisoners, bound two and two, were 
ranged along its edge, with their 
faces towards the trench and their 
backs towards their executioners, 
so as to fall when shot, whether 
alive or dead, into the pit. Then 
the sans- culottes threw themselves 
upon the bodies, stripping them 
completely and carrying off their 
clothes. If in these they found 
money or valuables, they were com- 
pelled to share them with their 
superiors. The trench, dug each 
day, was not covered over until the 
morrow ; then, if any of the victims 
it contained still breathed, they 
were either despatched or buried 
alive.* 

At the spot we have already 
mentioned, where the roads cross 
from Auray, Pluvigner, and Sainte- 
Anne, is a solitary meadow on the 
border of a salt marsh through 
which, over its shallow and rocky 
bed, flows the Loc. At the time 
of which we write a winding path 
led to thjs meadow, which, sur- 
rounded by lopped and decapitat- 
ed oaks, had a singularly dreary 
aspect. Here it was that, in the 
fourteenth century, Charles de 
Blois lost his crown and life at the 
battle of Auray, after crossing, con- 
trary to the advice of Du Guesclin, 
the narrow valley of the Loc to 
attack the English battalions, mo- 
tionless upon the farther bank, un- 
der the command of the gallant Sir 
John Chandos. This field, already 
the scene of bloodshed in fair fight, 
was now to be the theatre of san- 
guinary tyranny and crime. 

Hither it was that, during three 
weeks, the prisoners were brought 
from Auray and shot, twenty at a 
time. The women of Auray, pro- 
vided with disguises, concealed 

* Account of M. Harscouet de St. Georges. 



The Victims of Quibcron. 



695 



icmselves in the woods of Kerzo, 
in readiness to facilitate the escape 
of any of the victims ; but so close 
was the surveillance around the 
field of carnage that four or five 
only were able to avail themselves 
of this assistance. One of these, 
De Boisairault d'Oiron, threw him- 
self on the ground at the moment 
of the discharge ; then sprang up 
and darted into the woods. The 
young Marquis de Rieux, the last 
of an illustrious race, had nearly 
succeeded in saving himself by the 
same expedient, but while making 
his way through the marshes he 
was pointed out to the soldiers by 
a cobbler of Auray. They fired, 
and he fell, mortally wounded. 
The wretch who had thrown him 
back into the hands of his murder- 
ers, on returning home that even- 
ing, took up a hatchet to chop 
wood. With the first blow he 
struck off his left hand the hand 
he had stretched out to betray the 
fugitive. 

The commissioners were no less 
implacable at Quiberon than at 
Auray and Vannes. The sick and 
wounded prisoners, unable to ap- 
pear at the bar, were condemned 
unheard, and shot in their beds 
or upon the straw that had been 
thrown to them.* Not to one was 
mercy, or rather justice, shown. 
For all there was but one sentence 
death. 

Thus perished in cold blood, 
within the narrow triangle of which 
Vannes and Carnac form the base 
and Auray the apex, nearly two 
thousand men, among whom were 
the flower of the chivalrous ancien- 
ne noblesse of France, besides a 

*This account, taken from the MS. narrative of 
M. le Comte Harscouet de St. Georges, helps to ex- 
plain the fact that the official list of the executions 
published by General Lemoine contains no more 
than seven hundred and ten names. The sick and 
wounded who were shot in their beds figure con- 
veniently among those who " died in prison." 



large number of the brave and 
loyal peasantry of Brittany. From 
the 29th of July until the 26th of 
August the malignant vengeance 
of the Convention here pursued its 
murderous path, prolonging crime 
as others prolong pleasure, and in- 
tensifying its cruelty by pretended 
respites. Hope was held out (i) to 
those who were not more than six- 
teen years old at the time of emigra^ 
tion ; (2) to the sick, and (3) to those 
of plebeian origin ; nor was it until 
the 24th of August that all these 
hopes were crushed, and the pri- 
soners given to understand that 
those only who came under the 
category of extreme youth had any 
chance of respite. 

This announcement was merely 
a snare laid by craft and cupidity ; 
the messenger sent to take these 
youths before the commission in- 
formed them that the interrogatory 
they were about to undergo was a 
mere form, and bade them carry 
with them all they possessed instead 
of leaving it in the prison, " whither 
they were certain not to return" 

Youth is credulous, and these 
young men joyfully believed in the 
treacherous hopes held out to them. 
" The young prisoners," says the 
Count de St. Georges, "took away 
with them not only the money and 
various articles given them for their 
own use by the people of Vannes, 
but everything also which we, who 
had before us nothing but the im- 
mediate prospect of death, insisted 
on giving them. We also charged 
them with letters for our families." 

No sooner did these youths, who 
at Vannes were thirty in number, 
appear before the council than 
they were asked their names, bound 
together in couples, and marched 
off to execution. One of these in- 
nocent victims was Louis de Tal- 
houet, whose father had been killed 



The Victims of Quiberon. 



at the head of his regiment on 
the i6th of July. Being seriously 
ill, his widowed mother and his 
sister, by persevering entreaties, 
and after surmounting immense 
difficulties, had obtained leave to 
remove him from prison to be 
nursed at the house of a relative at 
Auray. There also he was under the 
close surveillance of a soldier, who 
nevertheless showed himself con- 
siderate and humane, and the fam- 
ily ventured to hope. One morn- 
ing, however, when the poor youth, 
scarcely convalescent, was walking, 
supported by his mother and sister, 
two gendarmes appeared with an 
order to take him back to prison. 
This was the 25th of August, the 
day of his fete. The next morn- 
ing he was shot at Vannes. 

To atrocity of act was frequent- 
ly added atrocity of detail in the 
execution. - M. d'Antrechaux, an 
officer who escaped, relates a dis- 
play of cold-blooded cruelty on the 
part of General Lemoine which 
shows to what manner of man 
Hoche had left the command of 
the Morbihan. 

" There was amongst us," he 
writes, "one of the handsomest 
men I ever saw in my life. His 
name has escaped my memory. 
He could not have been more than 
twenty years old at most. He drew 
admirably. General Lemoine, hav- 
ing seen some of his drawings, took 
him to make his plans and take his 
portrait. He made him share his 
table, showing him every attention, 
and soon lie was the favorite of all 
the officers of the staff. We re- 
garded him as saved. When the 
revocation of the respite arrived 
no one for a moment supposed 
that it would apply to him. The 
general had him, as usual, to din- 
ner, and treated him with even 
greater friendliness than ordinary. 



At the end of the repast he called 
a corporal and four soldiers, and 
had him shot under his windows ! 
The officers were indignant, and, 
at the risk of being disgraced, did 
all in their power to save the un- 
fortunate youth." 

We will conclude this (still in- 
complete) narrative of these atro- 
cities with an extract from the ac- 
count given by M. de St. Georges 
of his own escape. 

" We were," he says, " transferred 
(August 25) to the Tour au Fou, 
a dependence of the old fortifica- 
tions of Vannes, and found there a 
large number of our companions. 
After the final interrogatory we 
were led back to prison. On the 
morrow we were to die. On the 
26th, therefore, fresh victims were 
sent for every two hours. The 
prison was emptied story by story, 
beginning from below, without 
choice or order ; all whom it con- 
tained being destined to perish. I 
had contrived during the whole 
day to elude the attention of the 
purveyors of death, and, with five 
of my companions, was so fortu- 
nate as to escape notice. We con- 
cealed ourselves among the rafters 
of the roof, and, when night came, 
succeeded in purchasing our lives 
of the sergeant and corporal of the 
guard for three hundred and fifteen 
louis d'or with which I had been 
furnished by some kind relations." 

Such were the events which fol 
lowed the disaster of Quiberon, am 
which, in spite of the vain and ini 
quitous apologies attempted at tl 
present time for the crimes of tl 
Convention, furnish of themselves 
abundant proof that, after as well 
as before the fall of Robespierre, 
this exterminating assembly retain- 
ed to the full its murderous in- 
stincts and its implacable passions. 



The Church of the Cup of Cold Water. 



697 



The memories of that time, re- 
lated from generation to generation 
during the long veillees or fileries du 
soir, have remained engraved in the 
hearts of all true Bretons. Often 
may the peasants dwelling near the 
scenes of massacre be seen, on 



their way to and from their daily 
work in the fields, kneeling at the 
foot of one of the wayside crosses 
so common in the ferny lanes of 
Brittany, to say a De Profundis for 
the souls of the noble victims of 
Quiberon. 



THE CHURCH OF THE CUP OF COLD WATER. 



ONE evening in the year of grace 
1815, after a day of excessive heat 
the heat of a Spanish summer 
the aged cura of San Pedro, a vil- 
lage a few leagues distant from 
Seville, returned from a round of 
parochial visits, weary and ex- 
hausted, to his poor presbytery, 
where awaited him his worthy sexa- 
genarian housekeeper, Senora Mar- 
garita. 

No one, however accustomed to 
the sight of poverty could have 
failed to observe the extreme bare- 
ness of the old priest's dwelling 
a bareness all the more noticeable 
from a certain air of pretension in 
the arrangement of the few poor 
articles of furniture, which made 
the nakedness of the walls and the 
more than doubtful condition of 
the floor and ceiling still more 
evident. 

Margarita had just completed 
the preparation of a small dish of 
olla podrida for her master's supper, 
which, except the sauce and the 
pompous name, consisted of the 
remains of his dinner, seasoned and 
disguised with the utmost talent. 

" God be praised ! Margarita," 
exclaimed the cura, as he inhaled 
the appetizing odors which wel- 
comed his return. " The fragrance 
of your olla podrida would give a 
dying man an appetite ! By St. 



Peter, comrade, you ought to recite 
the whole rosary as an act of 
thanksgiving at finding so good a 
supper." 

Margarita, looking round at these 
words, saw that her master was 
followed by a stranger. Her face, 
suddenly disconcerted, expressed 
a curious mixture of disappoint- 
ment and annoyance. Darting a 
glance first at the unknown per- 
sonage and then at her master, the 
latter said, with the apologetic tone 
of a child before a wrathful parent, 
" Bah ! enough for two is enough 
for three, and you would not have 
had me leave a poor Christian, who 
for two days has not tasted food, 
to die of hunger?" 

" Holy Virgin ! a queer sort of 
Christian, I should say, when he 
looks more like a brigand.". And 
she left the room muttering to 
herself. 

The guest during this doubtful 
reception remained standing mo- 
tionless near the threshold. He 
was a man of lofty stature, clad in 
garments that were torn in all di- 
rections. His flowing black hair, 
flashing eyes, and long carabine 
made, in fact, an ensemble little 
calculated to inspire interest or 
confidence. 

u Well ?" he asked, " am I to go 
awav ?" 



698 



The Church of the Cup of Cold Water. 



With an emphatic gesture the 
cura answered : *' Never shall he 
who seeks shelter beneath my roof 
be driven from it ! Never shall he 
seek in vain a welcome ! Put down 
your carabine ; let us say JBenedi- 
cite and sit down to table." 

" I and my carabine never part 
company. The Castilian proverb 
says, 'Two friends are one.' This 
is my best friend. I can sup with 
it between my knees ; for, though 
you may suffer me in your house 
instead of turning me out of it 
before I have a mind to go, there 
are others who would not show 
me the same consideration. Now, 
then, to your good health, and let 
us begin." 

The temperate cura of San Pe- 
dro was struck with amazement at 
the voracious appetite of his visi- 
tor, who, not content with devour- 
ing nearly the whole of the olla 
podridct) emptied the wine-flask 
and left nothing of an enormous 
loaf. While occupied in thus 
clearing the table he looked from 
time to time uneasily around him, 
started at the slightest sound, and, 
when one of the doors suddenly 
slammed in the wind, sprang to his 
feet, grasping his weapon like a 
man who was determined to sell his 
life dearly. Then, recovering from 
the alarm, he sat down and contin- 
ued his meal. 

When this was finished he said 
to his host : " You must now put 
the finishing stroke to your kind 
reception. I am wounded in the 
thigh. Give me some linen rags, 
and then you shall be rid of me." 

" I do not want to be rid of you, 
my poor fellow," said the cura 
kindly. " I am something of a 
surgeon, and can at any rate dress 
your wound better than a clumsy 
village barber. You will see." 

So saying, he took from a cup- 



board a bundle in which were 
rolled up old linen and other need- 
ful appliances, and, turning up his 
sleeves, prepared to exercise the 
functions of a surgeon. The wound 
was deep. A ball had traversed 
the thigh, and it must have requir- 
ed no small amount of courage and 
endurance for the man to have 
continued walking. 

" You cannot go farther to-day," 
said the cura as he probed the 
wound with the satisfaction of an 
amateur. " You must be content 
to pass the night here. A few 
hours' rest will give you fresh 
strength, lessen the inflammation, 
bring down the swelling, and . . ." 

" I must go to-day, and at once," 
interrupted the stranger. " There 
are those who expect me," he add- 
ed, sighing, and then, with a fierce 
smile, " and others who seek me. 
Now, then, have you finished the 
dressing ? Good ! I feel quite 
fresh again. Give me a loaf. Take 
this gold piece for your hospitality, 
and adios ! " 

The priest pushed back the 
money indignantly. " I am no 
innkeeper, and I do not sell my 
hospitality." 

" As you please ; and pardon 
me! Farewell." 

Then, taking the loaf which Mar- 
garita, at her master's bidding, had 
unwillingly brought, the strange 
visitor plunged into the woods 
which surrounded the cura's lowly 
dwelling. 

An hour later, in the same woods, 
the sound of repeated firing was 
heard, and the stranger again hur- 
ried feebly into the presbytery, 
bleeding from a wound in the 
breast and pale as death. 

Hastily putting down some gold 
pieces, he said to the priest : " My 
children in the ravine near the 
little river." 



The Church of the Cup of Cold Water. 



699 



He fell exhausted on the ground, 
'he Spanish gendarmes rushed 
in, gun in hand, and found no re- 
sistance on the part of their pri- 
soner, whom they bound tightly, 
and then permitted the cura to 
dress his wound ; but, heedless of 
the priest's observations on the 
danger of removing him in his pre- 
sent state, they placed him on a 
cart and prepared to take their 
departure, saying, "Whether he dies 
now or with a halter round his 
neck, his business is settled all the 
same. He is the famous brigand, 
Jose." 

Jose" looked his thanks at the 
cura and whispered, "Water!" 
As the priest leant over him, hold- 
ing the cup to his lips, he said 
faintly, "You understand ?" 

The cura nodded assent. 

No sooner had the men departed 
with their prisoner than, regard- 
less of the voluble representations 
of Margarita of the danger of go- 
ing through the woods at night, he , 
hastened, as quickly as the deepen- 
ing twilight would permit, in the 
direction of the ravine. There, by 
the corpse of a woman, killed pro- 
bably by a chance shot, he found 
an infant and a little boy about 
four years old. The latter was 
pulling his mother's arm and call- 
ing on her to awake. 

The feelings of Margarita may 
be imagined when she beheld her 
master re-enter the house with two 
children. 

" Saints of Paradise !" she ex- 
claimed, " and what are you going 
to do with them, senor ? We have 
barely enough as it is to live upon, 
and here are you bringing in two 
children ! Well, I suppose, then, that 
I am to go begging for you and them 
from door to door. And after all, 
what are they ? The sons of a 
vagabond, a gypsy, a brigand, and 



perhaps worse ! For certain they 
are not even baptized !" 

At this moment the babe in 
swaddling-clothes began to cry. 

"And how is this child to be 
fed?" she resumed. "You can't 
pay a nurse ; and as for the sleep- 
less nights / am to have with it, 
what will they matter to you, sleep- 
ing at your ease all the same ? 
Holy Virgin ! it cannot be six 
months old. Luckily there is some 
milk in the house, which only wants 
warming." 

Then, forgetting her displeasure 
after having thus relieved her feel- 
ings, she took the infant in her 
arms, kissed it repeatedly, and, 
raking the fire together, set an 
earthen pot of milk upon the em- 
bers. When the little one had 
been fed and laid carefully to sleep, 
the elder boy had his turn. Whilst 
Margarita undressed him and im- 
provised a bed with an old cloak 
of her master's, the good man relat- 
ed where and how he had found 
the children, and how they had 
been bequeathed to him by their 
father. 

" This is all very good and very 
fine," said Margarita; "but the 
chief thing is to know how we 
are to feed them and ourselves 
too." 

Laying his hand on the Gospels r 
the cura answered : " ' Verily I say 
unto you that whosoever shall give 
a cup of cold water to one of these ' 
little ones as being my disciple, he 
shall not lose his reward.' " 

"Amen !" answered Margarita. 

Next day the priest buried the 
woman found near the ravine, and 
recited over her the prayers for 
the dead. 

Twelve years afterwards the 
cura of San Pedro, who was at that 
time seventy years old, was warm- 



7oo 



The Church of the Cup of Cold Water. 



ing himself in the sun at the pres- 
bytery door. It was winter, and 
for two days not a ray of sunshine 
had until then pierced the clouds. 
By his side a lad of eleven or twelve 
years of age was reading aloud the 
breviary, and from time to time 
glancing somewhat enviously at a 
youth of sixteen or so actively 
working in the little garden. Mar- 
garita, nearly blind, was listen- 
ing. 

The sound of approaching wheels 
was heard, and presently a splen- 
did carriage on the road from Se- 
ville, instead of passing, drew up 
at the door. A servant in rich 
livery got down, and, going up to 
the old priest, asked him for a glass 
of water for his master. 

"Carlos," said the cura to the 
younger boy, " fetch a glass of water 
for his lordship, and some wine also, 
if he will accept it quick !" 

The nobleman then alighted from 
the carriage. He was a man of 
about fifty years of age. 

" Are these boys your nephews, 
padre ?" he asked. 

" Far better than that they are 
my children; that is, of course, my 
children by adoption." 

"How so?" 

" I will tell you, senor mio ; for, 
besides that I could not refuse to 
answer the inquiries of a great no- 
bleman like yourself, I, who am 
poor and old, with no experience 
of the world, have need of good 
counsel to direct me how I am to 
provide for the future of these 
young boys." 

He then related their history, 
asking, as he concluded his re- 
cital, " And now what would your 
lordship advise me to do with 
them ?" 

" Make them ensigns in the 
Royal Guards, and, in order that 
they may keep a suitable establish- 



ment, allow them a pension of four 
thousand ducats." 

" Sir, I did not ask you to jest, 
but to advise." 

" And then your church must be 
rebuilt, and close by we will have 
a new and commodious presbytery 
with a garden. The whole shall 
be enclosed in a fence. See, I have 
the plan in my pocket. Does it 
suit you? When it is finished we 
will call it The Church of the Cup of 
Cold Water" 

"What is the meaning of all 
this?" asked the bewildered cura. 
" What are you saying ? Stay ! I 
seem to have some vague recollec- 
tion of these features, of this 
voice ?" 

" It means that I am Don Jose 
della Ribiera," was the answer, 
" and that twelve years ago I was 
Jose the brigand. I made my es- 
cape from prison ; times are chang- 
ed, and they have made the robber- 
chief the chief of a political party. 
You have been a hospitable host to 
me, and a father to my sons* Em- 
brace me, my children !" 

And he folded the boys in his 
arms. 

Then, holding out his hand to 
the cura, he said, " Well, father, 
will you not accept the Church 
of the Cup of Cold Water ?" 

The cura, greatly moved, turned 
to old Margarita, who stood behind 
him weeping for joy, and said : 
" Did I not remind you that * who- 
soever shall give even a cup of 
cold water to one of these little 
ones should in no wise lose his re- 
ward ' ? " 

A year afterwards Don Jose delia 
Ribiera and his two sons were pre- 
sent at the consecration of the 
Church of San Pedro of the Cup of 
Cold Water one of the prettiest 
churches in the neighborhood of 
Seville. 



Fighting Fitzgerald. 



701 



FIGHTING FITZGERALD. 



THE name of " Fighting Fitzge- 
rald " still exists, and comes to the 
surface when any mention is made 
of duelling as naturally as that of 
William Kidd as the typical exem- 
plar of piracy. The figure of Kidd 
has been taken out of the cloud of 
vague tradition and set distinctly 
and prosaically in the last volume 
of Macaulay's History of England j 
but Fitzgerald, who flourished much 
later, and in a time which has fur- 
nished some of the most graphic 
sketches in English anecdotical 
literature, has thus far failed to 
be shown to the public in any hu- 
man or possible form. He is vague- 
ly known as the chief of duellists 
in the place and time Ireland at 
the end of the last century when 
duelling was carried to its highest 
extravagance ; but Sir Jonah Bar- 
rington, who gives such a full ac- 
count of the society of fire-eaters 
and the notable duels of his time, 
makes only incidental mention of 
" Fighting Fitzgerald." He had 
ended his career before Sheil's 
time, and was not a member of the 
bar, so that he missed furnishing a 
parallel portrait to that of Lord 
Norbury, who was one of his al- 
most innumerable antagonists in 
the " fifteen acres." Yet "Fight- 
ing Fitzgerald " was one of the 
most notable as well as notorious 
persons of his day, a type of the 
Protestant gentry of Ireland at the 
time of our Revolution, and re- 
markable in his character and ca- 
reer to a degree that seems a pro- 
digy to us, like a Nero, or the 
strangest compound of ferocity and 
foppery that ever lived. 

George Robert Fitzgerald was 



born in the latter half of the last 
century in his father's mansion in 
the beautiful vale of Turlough, 
north of the town of Castlebar, in 
the county of Mayo. He was of 
the noble Geraldine family on his 
father's side, coming, as he boast- 
ed, of the elder or Desmond branch, 
which was banished from its pos- 
sessions in Waterford to the wilds 
of Connaught by Cromwell. His 
mother was Lady Mary Hervey, 
daughter of the Earl of Bristol, 
and sister of the acquiescent hus- 
band of the bigamous Duchess of 
Kingston, Foote's enemy, and of 
the Earl Bishop of Derry, who for 
a time assumed to lead the Volun- 
teer movement in Ireland with the 
pomp and ambition of a king, and, 
after the disappointment of his pre- 
tensions, lived in Italy in a haugh- 
ty and epicurean idleness, and a 
contemptuous disregard for the du- 
ties of a bishop of the Established 
Church and of public opinion about 
his course of life, perhaps more as- 
tonishing than anything in eccle- 
siastical history. 

There was a saying that " God 
made men, women, and Herveys," 
and the vagaries of the race were 
never more singularly marked than 
in this Irish collateral descendant. 
Nothing but what is favorable is 
known of his mother, from whom 
he probably derived the sweetness 
of manner and affability which usu- 
ally distinguished him when not 
enraged. She had been a maid of 
honor to the Princess Amelia, and 
her transfer to the mansion of a 
Connaught squire such as it was 
at that time, with its riot, coarse- 
ness, and barbarism, must have 



702 



Fighting Fitzgerald. 



been a somewhat similar shock to 
that which Mrs. Fanny Kemble 
Butler has recorded of her expe- 
rience at the South Carolina plan- 
tation of her husband. The father 
of George Robert Fitzgerald was 
one of the worst specimens of his 
class. The Protestant country gen- 
tlemen of those days lived in a 
state of riot, ignorance, and bru- 
tality quite unparalleled in any 
modern civilization. Hunting by 
day and orgies at night were their 
habitual occupation, diversified by 
duels. George Robert's mother 
was soon compelled to leave her 
husband and return to England, 
while he paraded his debauchery 
by seating his mistress beside him 
on the bench of the assize court 
on its periodical visits to Castlebar. 
We can form an idea of the state 
of society in which such a thing 
was tolerated without any special 
opprobrium. It must be remem- 
bered that he was not an obscure 
man, but a representative of one of 
the noblest families in Ireland and 
the owner of an estate of five thou- 
sand pounds a year, equal to at 
least fifty thousand dollars in our 
experience. 

George Robert was educated at 
Eton by the instigation of his mo- 
ther's family. At sixteen years of 
age he received a commission in 
the army, and was stationed at 
Galway, the very focus of the wild- 
est riot of that day. He soon earn- 
ed the sobriquet which distin- 
guishes him in history. He fought 
with a Mr. French, who had the 
presumption to bring him a chal- 
lenge from a tradesman whom he 
had cudgelled. They locked them- 
selves into the parlor of an inn 
and commenced to shoot. Fitz- 
gerald missed his man and French's 
pistol flashed in the pan. Young 
Fitzgerald stepped forward with 



courteous generosity and proffered 
his powder-horn to supply the 
priming. Alarmed by the shot, the 
people of the house broke down 
the door, and there was an end to 
that duel. A second duel in Gal- 
way was caused by his petulance 
toward an elder officer, whose man- 
ners he did not like, and in this he 
received a crack in the skull from 
the pistol-bullet which he carried 
to his death, and which may cha- 
ritably be supposed to have added 
to the wildness of his temper. It 
was found necessary to trepan his 
skull, and on the operating-table 
he begged the surgeon to spare his 
toupee. He was soon the most fa- 
mous of all the ready fighters of 
Connaught in his eagerness for per- 
sonal encounters and daring and 
insatiable recklessness. From Mayo 
he went up to Dublin, preceded by 
his fame, which was soon estab- 
lished on a metropolitan basis by 
half a hundred encounters. In 
Dublin George Robert fell in love 
with the prettiest and richest young 
lady of her time, Miss Connelly, a 
sister of the great commoner, Mr. 
Connelly of Castletown, and a cou- 
sin of the Duke of Leinster. Fitz- 
gerald was extraordinarily hand- 
some and of very fascinating man- 
ners with ladies, nor is it likely 
that his reputation for recklessness 
and bravery injured him in the es- 
timation of a spirited Irish girl. 
Mr. Connelly did not approve of 
such a brother-in-law, and conse- 
quently there was an elopement, 
with a reconciliation afterward and 
a grand wedding journey to Paris 
on the wife's fortune. 

Here Fitzgerald was the wonder 
of the hour from his magnificence, 
his profuseness, and his reckless 
daring. Louis XVI., who was lazy 
and peaceable, said sneeringly, 
"Here comes Jack, the giant-killer," 



Fighting Fitzgerald. 



703 



and Fitzgerald has been credited 
with the sublime impudence of the 
remark concerning the identity of 
the thief, on seeing his majesty's 
portrait hung beside that of the 
Saviour. It has been attributed to 
many others on as many different 
occasions, and it is really doubtful 
if it was ever uttered by anybody ; 
but it suits Fitzgerald's " style " 
better than most of its supposititious 
authors. He was a companion of 
the Count d'Artois in the wildest 
dissipation, and had the prover- 
bial ill-fortune which accompanied 
games of hazard with that accom- 
plished prince. He astonished all 
the royal hunt by leaping on horse- 
back a wall with a descent of four- 
teen feet into the Seine, and swim- 
ming across to bring the deer to 
bay, and had the distinguished 
honor of handing the knife to the 
king to cut the poor animal's throat. 
But the fate overtook him which 
usually befalls the brilliant spend- 
thrift. And here crops out that 
part of his character seemingly so 
inconsistent with his courage, his 
haughtiness, and his recklessness, 
but which the record shows to be 
characteristic of many of his class. 
Thackeray depicts it very power- 
fully in the Luck of Barry Lyndon, 
but his hero was not of the blood 
of the Fitzgeralds nor a gentleman 
by breeding. Impatient at being 
without money, Fitzgerald bet at the 
gambling-table when he could not 
pay his losses, engaged in ques- 
tionable jockeying transactions, and, 
strangest of all, had fits of abject 
cowardice, as though his spirit was 
contaminated by embarrassment 
and meanness. As if to complete 
a parallel to Pope's portrait of his 
famous ancestor in 

" Pride that licks the dust," 

he was ignominiously kicked from 



the door of a gambling-room by 
the Count d'Artois, without resent- 
ing it, for dishonoring a bet. 

He soon returned to Dublin and 
resumed his spirit and his honor 
with a supply of money. The tra- 
dition of his appearance long sur- 
vived in society. He is described 
as rather low in stature but elegant- 
ly made, and he dressed in the 
most elegant French fashion, the 
button and loop of his hat, his 
sword-knot and buckles all brilliant 
with diamonds, his garments of 
brocade and velvet, a muff on his 
arm, two enamelled chains with a 
multitude of seals dangling from 
each fob, and an appearance so 
light, foppish, and yet distinguish- 
ed that it was impossible to be- 
lieve him the author of the des- 
perate and ferocious deeds credit- 
ed to his name. His career was 
wilder and more reckless than ever. 
Among other exploits he fired a 
pistol in the streets at Denis 
Browne, high-sheriff of Mayo, and 
struck "Black Jack" Fitzgibbon, 
afterward Earl of Clare, a blow in 
the face ; and out of his violences 
these two deeds at least were fully 
avenged in the future. About this 
time he retired to his estate in 
Mayo, and there, according to ac- 
count, actually took an interest in 
the welfare of his tenants. He en- 
deavored to encourage the growth 
of wheat and to establish a linen 
manufacture. Wild as he was, he 
showed that there was something 
more to his character than the 
mere bully and spendthrift- A de- 
bauchee, it may be said, he never 
was. His tastes were moderate in 
all indulgence of the appetites. 
His wife died, leaving an infant 
daughter, and Fitzgerald, who had 
always been a most tender and de- 
voted husband, was nearly frantic 
with grief. He started with the 



704 



Fighting Fitzgerald. 



body for the burial-place of her 
family in the county of Kildare, 
where she had requested that she 
might be buried, and traversed the 
whole distance in the dead of win- 
ter with a long procession compos- 
ed of his servants and followers. 
At the inns he had the coffin 
brought into his room to lament 
over it. At one place the innkeeper 
objected to having the foreign 
corpse brought into the house, as 
it might bring ill luck, and was 
nearly made a corpse himself by 
the furious mourner, who drove 
him out of doors with his sword. 
On his return Fitzgerald took up 
the wild habit of hunting by night, 
and rode over the hills of Mayo in 
the chase, accompanied by servants 
with naming torches to show the 
way, like a veritable demon hunts- 
man. The memory of the mid- 
night hunts, the wild chorus of 
dogs and the shouts of "mad Fitz- 
gerald " as he tore headlong by, is 
yet a tradition in the region about 
Turlough. Among his exploits was 
his leaping his horse over a preci- 
pice for a bravado to the gentle- 
men of the hunt. The poor ani- 
mal was killed, but he escaped 
without injury. Equally charac- 
teristic was his driving a person 
from table because he was too fat 
and the sight of him eating would 
shock his delicate sensibilities. 
This compound of the exquisite 
and the dare-devil must have been 
a strange being to the squires of 
Mayo. 

During the latter part of his life 
on his estate Fitzgerald acted as 
though he were "fey" to use the 
Scotch expression for one doomed 
to a violent death by his own con- 
duct. He quarrelled with the 
Brownes, the all-powerful family in 
the west, the head of which was 
Lord Altamont, and a member, 



Denis Browne, the sheriff, whom he 
had shot at in Dublin. For some 
fancied pique he rode up to the 
hall-door of Lord Altamont and 
shot the watch-dog on the porch, 
leaving word that while he would 
not allow the men to keep dogs, he 
would graciously permit the ladies 
of the family to keep a lapdog 
each. Next he rode up to the 
door of Denis Browne, called him 
a coward, and dared him to come 
out and fight. Browne could not 
refuse so open an affront, and offer- 
ed a meeting, stipulating that the 
weapons should be broadswords, in- 
asmuch as he was heavy and clumsy 
and no match with small-sword or 
pistol for so accomplished a duel- 
list. To this Fitzgerald agreed, 
but when he came to the place of 
meeting he was seized with a sud- 
den spasm of ferocity and fired a 
pistol at Browne, who fled into a 
house. He quarrelled with Dick 
Martin, who 

" Ruled the houseless wilds of Connemara," 

and was afterwards known as the 
Henry Bergh of his day in the Brit- 
ish Parliament. They met in the 
streets of Castlebar and fought, 
Martin being wounded in the breast. 
On this occasion, as on some others, 
Fitzgerald was accused of wearing 
a bullet-proof undergarment, but he 
was generally acquitted of this sus- 
picion in popular estimation. At 
a duel in Belgium in which that 
gallant Irish gentleman, Hamilton 
Rowan, was his second, the test 
was proposed, and it was conclu- 
sively proved that he was not 
guilty of such treacherous coward- 
ice. Not satisfied with having 
quarrels on his hands with the 
Brownes and the Martins, he one 
after another insulted the Blakes, 
the Bodkins, the Frenches, and all 
the proprietors of his neighbor- 



Fighting Fitzgerald. 



705 



hood, so that he was without a sin- 
gle powerful friend within it. Not 
only did he alienate all his equals 
and associates, but he could not 
restrain himself from acquiring the 
enmity of the peasantry by shoot- 
ing their dogs and in other ways 
wantonly injuring them. He had 
no support or faction in the coun- 
ty except a set of desperate fol- 
lowers. Their places were no sine- 
cures, and he was fond of trying 
their courage by some desperate 
freak. On one occasion he fan- 
cied that he wanted an attorney, 
and engaged one in Dublin to go 
down to Mayo for permanent ser- 
vice. On getting into the carriage 
at night for the journey the attor- 
ney found a speechless person in a 
fur coat on the seat beside him, and 
woke up in the morning to find he 
had been riding beside a huge 
black bear, one of Fitzgerald's pets. 
Fitzgerald ordered the bear to kiss 
the attorney, and in the struggle of 
the bear to put his muzzle in his 
face he broke out of the carriage 
and ran away amid the wild laugh- 
ter of his employer. 

Fitzgerald became involved in a 
lawsuit with his disreputable fa- 
ther for the arrears of a rent- 
charge on his estate settled at the 
time of his son's marriage and never 
paid. In accordance with Fitzger- 
ald's views of justice he took his 
father a prisoner and carried him 
off to his own house. An attempt 
was made to rescue the old man, 
and his son removed him to a for- 
tification which he had construct- 
ed on a hill in his demesne and 
armed with the cannon of a Danish 
ship which had been wrecked on 
the coast. An appeal was made 
to the central authority in Dublin 
Castle, and a detachment was sent 
to reduce the fort. They found 
the guns dismounted and spiked, 
VOL. xxix. 45 



and that Fitzgerald had taken his 
father with him in a boat to one of 
the islands in Sligo Bay. Finally 
the old man agreed to sign the 
necessary papers for a settlement 
and was taken by his son to Dub- 
lin. As soon as he got there he 
had his son arrested for abduction. 
Fitzgerald was tried, fined a thou- 
sand pounds, and imprisoned in 
Newgate, from whence he publish- 
ed An Appeal to the Public in 
the shape of a pamphlet written in 
the elaborate language of those 
days, but with very considerable 
eloquence and force, and but few 
signs of that extravagance which 
might have been expected from its 
author. He was pardoned by the 
government ; so strong and jeal- 
ous was family influence that no 
crime could alienate it in any con- 
tact between one of its members 
and authority. 

Fitzgerald returned home after 
his release wilder and more fero- 
cious than ever. One Patrick 
Randal McDonald, a coarse and 
bold attorney, had been engaged in 
actions against him, and his punc- 
tilious pride prevented his meeting 
him in the usual way because of 
his low birth. McDonald was fired 
at and hit in the leg from behind a 
hedge as he was riding home at 
night. He accused Fitzgerald of 
being the instigator of the attempt 
at assassination, and caused a ten- 
ant of his named Murphy to be 
arrested. Murphy was discharged 
for want of evidence. Fitzgerald 
had a warrant sworn out against 
McDonald for the arrest and false 
imprisonment of Murphy, and pro- 
ceeded to execute it in his own 
summary fashion. McDonald and 
two of his followers were captured 
by Fitzgerald and taken to his 
mansion, and there confined for the 
night. In the morning they were 



Fighting Fitzgerald. 



started on their way to Castlebar 
under an escort. Not far from the 
house shots were fired from behind 
a hedge, and the escort, turning 
upon the prisoners as though they 
feared a rescue, shot and killed 
them. The news soon spread over 
the country. McDonald was cap- 
tain of a militia company in Castle- 
bar, and, besides, a man of strong 
faction. The volunteers and the 
faction gathered and poured along 
the road toward the mansion at Tur- 
lough, armed with guns and scythes 
and sticks. Fitzgerald was warn- 
ed, but, by that fate which some- 
times confounds the bravest, and 
is particularly liable to fall with 
sudden panic on such impulsive 
spirits, he was seized with a fit of 
dastardly trembling and could not 
even mount the horse which was 
brought to the door for him to fly 
with. He hid himself, and was 
found by the fierce crowd under 
a pile of clothes in his bedroom. 

" What do you want, you ruf- 
fian ?" he cried out when found. 

" To dhrag ye like a dog's head 
to a bonfire," said a huge peasant 
named Morran, who seized him by 
the breast of his coat and drew him 
out. 

A pistol was snapped at his head, 
but it did not go off, and he was 
finally dragged and hustled along 
the road until he was delivered to 
the jailer at Castlebar. That night 
the sentry was overpowered and 
an attack made on him in his cell. 
Several shots were fired at him, 
one of which hit his thigh and an- 
other broke a ring on his little 
finger; a bayonet was broken off 
between his teeth, and he was 
thrust through the arm. He fought 
with the ferocity of a wildcat until 
he was left for dead under the 
table and the lights were extin- 
guished. 



The trial speedily followed, in 
which the jury was summoned by 
Denis Browne, and John Fitz- 
gibbon was prosecuting attorney. 
The conviction was speedy, and 
the sun was not allowed to set on 
the execution. The sheriff and the 
prosecuting attorney appeared to 
fear lest a pardon or a reprieve 
should be obtained by the family 
of Fitzgerald if there was a day's 
delay. At six o'clock in the even- 
ing he walked from the jail to the 
gallows, the executioner, with a 
mask on his face, preceding him. 
He was dressed in sordid garments, 
a faded scarlet coat and a hemp- 
en cord substituting the usual dia- 
mond loop of his hat. On reaching 
the gallows he sprang up the ladder 
with a light step, and, as soon as 
the rope was around his neck, flung 
himself off. The rope broke. 
That touch of death chilled all his 
bravado. He was the coward 
again, and besought and wept and 
prayed for mercy, for life, for min- 
utes of time to pray, until the 
crowd lost their savage exultation 
in contempt and pity. A new rope 
was brought and the miserable 
wretch hanged in writhing violence 
under the eye of the exulting sheriff. 
According to custom, the mob 
stoned the executioner to the im- 
minent danger of his life. 

The body was taken to the house 
at Turlough, and so complete was 
the plunder of all its magnificent 
furnishing that it was waked by 
candles set in the necks of bottles, 
not a single candlestick being left. 
A few of his trembling followers at- 
tended the last rites and saw the 
body buried in the family tomb on 
the estate. 

He was thirty-eight years of age. 

Such a fiery spirit, unbalanced 
in brain and afflicted with blood- 
drunkenness, yet not without kind- 



A Summer Idyl. 



707 



ly qualities, generosity, and court- 
esy, alternating between desperate 
bravery and fits of wretched cow- 
ardice, capable of chivalrous sacri- 
fice and of taking mean advantage 
according to the moment, might 
seem impossible without insanity ; 
but our Wild Bills and despera- 
does of the Western frontier are 



very often after a similar pattern, 
making allowance for difference in 
culture and surroundings. It grew 
to an evil end in an Irish gentle- 
man amid the worst society in the 
world. In more favorable circum- 
stances it brought honor and glory 
to Charles XII. and Lord Peter- 
borough. 



A SUMMER IDYL. 

MINE is no lay of long-past days, 

There breaketh through its singing 
No echo of a Godfrey's lance 

With knightly prowess ringing ; 
It holdeth no cathedral state 

Save that the forests bring it : 
The birds that pair 'mid budding leaves 

I think might fitly sing it. 

One summer, when the lengthened heats 

The city streets were burning, 
And languid footsteps sought the hills 

To coax the spring's returning, 
There gathered, 'neath a farm-house roof 

That sheltered kindly faces, 
A motley handful from the town, 

Haunting earth's quiet places. 

No waterfall that eyes had seen 

Half-hid among the mountains, 
But eager feet must scale the cliffs 

To track the silver fountains ; 
No solemn mountain lifted brow 

To catch the sunlight tender 
But ardent voices called to it 

Heart's secrets to surrender. 



No wonder that a small foot's tread, 

A brown eye's liquid gleaming, 
Should mingle with the fountain's voice 

That sang through some hearts' dreaming ; 



/08 A Summer Idyl. 

No wonder that the forest seemed 

To lie in sunshine ever 
When twinkling foot and shining eyes 

Made leaf and heart-strings quiver. 

So one, amid the careless group, 

With earnest soul life living, 
Soon learned to treasure for one's sake 

All that he had worth giving. 
His sunshine grew the soft brown eyes, 

His clouds the drooped lids veiling, 
His guide on every mountain side 

The firm foot far heights scaling. 

Soon grew one maiden's heart to be 

Calm sea for his ship's sailing, 
Her breath, the wind that filled its sails, 

Her absence, its light's failing; 
Soon grew the valley 'twixt the hills 

A little glimpse of heaven, 
And earthly joy wore heavenly state, 

Grown sweeter with love's leaven. 

A puzzled joy it was to watch 

Her swift and busy finger 
As hearkened she his earnest speech 

O'er glancing needle linger; 
A half-real dream to hear her voice, 

As clear as thrush's singing, 
Out speak her thoughts whate'er their path, 

An upward way still winging. 

Would she outsoar him, nor look back 

To learn his earnest loving ? 
So lifted unto light that soul 

Earth-love seemed, unbehoving. 
All through the summer grew his hope, 

His love each day increasing, 
The faithful service of true heart 

At her feet laid unceasing, 

Half fearing her heart's mystery 

To loose with thoughtless speaking, 
Lest closed for ever be the gate 

To honor's dearest seeking. 
We noticed in an idle way, 

Who watched the glamour growing, 
The tender little courtesies 

From constant thought o'erflowing; 



A Summer Idyl. 

The careful breaking, as she passed, 

Of forest boughs unruly, 
The fear to help, on broken cliff, 

A foot so firm, unduly; 
The harebells gathered near the sky 

To win her gracious keeping, 
The blueberries' great, luscious globes 

Her tin cup's measure heaping. 

So ran the idyl's golden thread 

Our dulness interweaving, 
The homely pattern of our life 

From its thin lines relieving; 
So rang the poem's silver words, 

With life prosaic blending ; 
So sweet the strophe of each day 

We almost feared the ending. 

But, as May's bloom is perfected 

In happy June's completeness, 
Her woman's heart at last gave out 

Its mystery of sweetness : 
One day the silent hills betrayed 

Her quick pulses' fluttering, 
And love's entreaty words awoke 

Too dear for common uttering. 

Unto the summer's subtle siege 

The citadel surrendered ; 
Captive and conqueror only knew 

What faith the treaty tendered. 
King Alexander, in his quest, 

Heard but the song of heaven : 
To this love's quest on northern hills 

Was Eden's vision given : 

Not glimpse alone of cool green palms 

Above the closed gates waving, 
But living draught from sparkling stream 

The meadow grasses laving; 
With vision of celestial hills 

Not any nightfall darkened, 
That fairer grew in lovers' eyes 

As each the other hearkened. 

At last came from the city's walls 

Relentless call of duty, 
And faded from our daily paths 

Our idyl of life's beauty ; 



7IO Current Events. 

True, was the maiden's happy face 
A little space left shining 

Along the forests' shady ways 
Our hearts her thoughts divining ; 

True was it, heavy letters came 

To kindle her lips' smiling, 
But not for us the sacred hoard 

Heaped but for her beguiling. 
And with the early snow that capped 

Our hills, with autumn burning, 
Faded our mountain ways of life, 

Each footstep homeward turning. 

Still, ever, as at winter hearth 

We tell that summer over, 
We see in shade and sunshine rise 

The forms of maid and lover, 
While, with the grayness of life's days, 

Still is the gold thread braided, 
Tying that dream of perfect love 

In those two hearts unfaded. 



CURRENT EVENTS. 

THE PRESBYTERIAN ASSEMBLY'S ment of Christ, or an entirely new 

ATTITUDE TOWARDS THE CATH- invention of the Catholic hierarchy, 

OLIC CHURCH. substituted for the genuine sacra- 
ment. 

At the General Assembly of the This second question is a very 

Presbyterian Church, held this year trivial one. On the so-called evan- 

in Saratoga, a discussion respecting gelical theory, sacraments are mere 

the view which sound Presbyterian signs without any efficacy. The 

orthodox believers ought to take of question of validity or invalidity 

the Catholic Church arose, which cannot be raised, for it has no 

still continues in the newspapers meaning except in view of a sup- 

of that denomination, and at the posed effect which is produced or 

time attracted some general at- not, according as the sacramental 

tention. The great question with cause is or is not really placed, 

the clerical and lay elders was : The first question is the real one 

Whether the Catholic Church is for Presbyterians and Protestants 

a Christian church or an abso- generally. The history of the dis- 

lutely anti-Christian religion. A cussions and decisions in the Pres- 

second question, subsidiary to the byterian Assembles is briefly this : 

first, was : Whether Catholic bap- When the Old and New School 

tism is valid baptism, a true sacra- Presbyterians were divided into 



Current Events. 



separate bodies, the Old-School 
Assembly passed resolutions, or 
emitted what they call " deliver- 
ances," in which it was declared 
that the Catholic Church is not the 
Christian Church or any part of it. 
The late learned Dr. Hodge, a man 
highly respected by all men who 
knew his character, and one of the 
chief ornaments of Princeton Col- 
lege, together with some others, 
strongly opposed these acts. The 
New-School Assembly abstained 
from passing any of a similar na- 
ture. These two bodies having 
now been fused into one, one con- 
sequence of the fusion is that there 
is not the same general agreement 
in respect to the substance of or- 
thodox Presbyterian doctrine in the 
united Presbyterian denomination 
as there was in the separated Old- 
School fraction. Accordingly, when 
the Catholic question came up this 
year there was a difference of opi- 
nion dividing the elders into two 
parties. The one party wished to 
reaffirm the former " deliveran- 
ces." The other party wished to 
fall back upon the position of pro- 
test against certain doctrines and 
practices of the Catholic Church, 
without going to the length of de- 
claring that these have altogether 
destroyed the very essence and 
substance of genuine Christianity 
in the Roman communion. 

The two contrived to make a 
compromise, of which the upshot is 
that the Catholic Church in general 
is a branch of the Christian Church, 
whereas the hierarchy is a kind 
of anti-Christian corporate body 
which has usurped dominion over 
the laity who compose the commu- 
nion recognized as a portion of the 
Christian Church. 

The dispute has become warmer 
and more perplexed than ever since 
the Assembly adjourned, some on 



both sides claiming a victory for 
their own view, and others again 
denouncing the decision in no mea- 
sured terms. Their petty disputes 
and mutual recriminations have no 
interest for any except those who 
are concerned in them. We dis- 
miss them altogether, to pay atten- 
tion to the only aspect of the dis- 
cussion worthy of notice. 

The extreme and violent faction 
among the Presbyterians can hold 
their own orthodox doctrines in 
conjunction with their anti-Catho- 
lic prejudices sincerely and hon- 
estly, only as ignorant and deceiv- 
ed by misrepresentations. The 
progress of knowledge and the aug- 
mentation of study and observa- 
tion, in the period of the last half 
century, have led to a very great 
diminution of the force and exten- 
sion of these prejudices among or- 
thodox Protestants. A large num- 
ber of them, including their best 
scholars and thinkers, have discov- 
ered that they cannot undermine 
our foundations without shaking 
dangerously their own fabric. They 
have also learned to understand 
and appreciate more correctly the 
Catholic Christianity of modern, 
mediaeval, and ancient times, and 
the great writers of the Catholic 
Church, its ancient doctors and 
early fathers. They are unwilling 
and unable to isolate themselves 
from the universal and historical 
Christendom. They have been, 
therefore, carried to a position 
from which the view which they 
take of the Christian Church and 
Christianity presents a different as- 
pect from that which is taken by 
those who are still in the valley of 
ignorance, surrounded by dense 
mists of prejudice. They regard 
the Christian Church as in some 
general sense one, with substantial- 
ly the same faith and religion, and 



712 



Current Events. 



their criterion of essential ortho- 
doxy adapts itself to the exigency 
which requires that a common mea- 
sure shall be found applicable alike 
to Catholics, Greeks, and orthodox 
Protestants ; to modern, ancient, 
and primitive Christianity, as they 
apprehend the actual state and 
character of the things designated 
by these terms. 

The extremely Protestant and 
violently anti-Catholic party in the 
several Protestant denominations 
is naturally irritated by this dis- 
turbance of old-fashioned, heredi- 
tary prejudices. It is impossible, 
however, to resist successfully 
knowledge, enlightened thought, 
sound reasoning, by obstinate ad- 
herence to prejudice and to an au- 
thority which cannot establish any 
valid claim to the submission of 
the mind or the will. Protestants 
cannot help in the long run, and 
in a general sense, using the right 
they have always claimed to inves- 
tigate and decide for themselves, 
on their individual responsibility, 
all questions pertaining to doctrine 
and religion. The Catholic Church 
is before them, and their own con- 
troversies only present her doc- 
trinal and ethical and historical 
character in a clearer light and a 
more commanding position. They 
must examine, and inquire, and re- 
flect concerning this great phenome- 
non which cannot be ignored. They 
must account in a rational and satis- 
factory manner, and in a way con- 
sistent with their own professed 
Christian principles, for the origin, 
growth, and universality of the Ca- 
tholic Church. They must also, 
each separate form for itself, ren- 
der an account to Christendom 
and the world of their own reason 
of being, of their origin, and the 
validity of their pretensions. The 
more the Catholic Church is dis- 



cussed in their assemblies the bet- 
ter pleased are we ; and as for the 
harsh epithets, the damnatory re- 
solutions, the loud assertions which 
are exploded on these occasions, 
we smile at them, and so does the 
world. Whatever real scholars and 
honest thinkers among them may 
say on their side shall receive our 
respectful attention. 

IMPENDING CHANGES IN GERMANY. 

There seems to be no room for 
further doubt as to the actual re- 
signation of Dr. Falk, the framer 
of the May Laws. This, coupled 
with other signs, leads one to be- 
lieve that the May Laws themselves 
will soon be a thing of the past, or 
will be so altered as to admit of 
the modus vivendi between the Ca- 
tholics of Germany and the state 
which Prince Bismarck has for 
several years past professed ear- 
nestly to desire. It has been ad- 
mitted long since, even by those 
who, through prejudice against Ca- 
tholicity or actual short-sighted- 
ness, at first welcomed them, that 
the May Laws proved a disastrous 
failure. They were framed to 
strangle Catholic life in Germany. 
They undoubtedly wrought great 
material havoc in the church, the 
record of which has appeared time 
and again in the pages of this ma- 
gazine. Yet, as a matter of fact, 
they succeeded in giving not a 
new but a stronger and more he- 
roic life to the German church. 
With sees despoiled and bishops 
banished ; with altars unserved and 
schools and seminaries closed ; with 
the religious of both sexes wander- 
ing over the world, we have seen 
these resolute Germans welded to- 
gether by the very blows of the 
persecution that fell so fiercely 
upon them in the shape of the May 



Current Events. 



713 



Laws. They did not rebel, neith- 
er did they whine and stretch out 
useless hands to heaven. They 
seized fast hold of what they had. 
They had votes and they knew 
how to use them. They had the 
press, and they learned how to use 
that. They had that happiest of 
combinations, an intelligent and 
faithful priesthood and an intelli- 
gent and faithful laity. They knew 
exactly what they wanted, and they 
made for it courageously. Noth- 
ing could daunt them. When their 
bishops, priests, or editors were 
fined, they paid the fines. When 
they could not pay them they went 
to prison. If they were banished 
they carried the story of their 
wrongs abroad. Meanwhile they 
kept their eye on their votes, and 
returned able men to represent 
them in Parliament. They were 
denounced by the government, by 
Prince Bismarck himself, as traitors. 
They responded by returning mem- 
bers who could make even Prince 
Bismarck wince, and whose intelli- 
gence and power and nobility of 
life and character were an honor 
to all Germany. 

Time went on, and time is always 
on the side of the right. In the 
first flush of his victory over France 
the sympathy of the world had 
been altogether on the side of 
Prince Bismarck. As the smoke 
of battle cleared away truths that 
were hidden began to appear. 
Prince Bismarck's own character 
began to show not quite so god- 
like as had been thought. He 
quarrelled with his friends; he 
quarrelled with every one in turn. 
He was bent on having his own 
way, us most of us are ; but in this 
game it is one against a world, and 
in the long run, in these days es- 
pecially, the world wins, and has 
sometimes a rude way of winning. 



Outer sympathy began to fail the 
prince ; and when the enthusiastic 
German people came to foot the 
bills entailed by the chancellor's 
heroic policy, the great victories, 
the fortresses, the Krupp cannon, 
the mighty armies, the horses, the 
bayonets and rifles and uniforms, 
began to wear quite a new aspect. 
They all had to be paid for, and 
somebody had to pay for them. 
Where were the French milliards ? 
Gone ! And with them was gone 
German industry and German 
thrift. War had wrought its de- 
bauch, and the people were left 
poorer than ever. 

Hence arose the conflict of par- 
ties, and fuel was added to the fire 
of socialism. Meanwhile the Ca- 
tholics were working bravely as 
ever, though the persecution was 
trying them fiercely as ever. They 
returned more members to Parlia- 
ment at each new election, until at 
the elections forced on by the 
chancellor, in view of the attempts 
on the life of the Emperor last 
year, the Catholics found them- 
selves with the balance of power 
in the Reichstag. Prince Bismarck 
was in despair for allies. He prides 
himself on his gastronomic ability. 
After much hesitation, and much 
looking this way and that to see 
if there was no escape, and many 
a wry face, he sat down to perform 
the most difficult feat of his life : 
he swallowed himself! or, in other 
words, everything he had ever said, 
or done, or written, or instigated 
against the Catholics. Let us hope 
that his dish will agree with him. 
He has gone over to the " traitors " 
to save his government. 

THE CHURCH AND THE EMPIRE. 

To say that there is a complete 
reconciliation between the German 



Current Events. 



Government and the Catholic 
Church would, of course, be pre- 
mature. But matters are plainly 
tending that way. Dr. Falk gave 
as the excuse for his resignation 
that he now saw a possibility of 
such reconciliation, and he was too 
patriotic to stand in the way of it. 
It is needless to discuss Dr. Falk's 
patriotism or to waste hard words 
on him now. There is room, too, 
for higher motives in the renewal 
of good offices between the courts 
of Berlin and the Vatican than 
Prince Bismarck's need of a Parlia- 
mentary majority. The attempts 
on his life seem to have opened the 
eyes of the German Emperor to 
dangers which he scarcely suspect- 
ed to exist in the empire. When 
great dangers threaten men natu- 
rally look around for help, and the 
conviction came to him at last 
that the Catholics were after all 
among the most loyal of his sub- 
jects. They had been tried as no 
other class of his subjects had been 
tried in every way short of abso- 
lute torture of the person yet 
never had they gone beyond the 
fragments of law left to them in 
seeking redress. Were the Catho- 
lic Church, as had been freely al- 
leged, an agent of disorder, it had 
every incentive to exercise its great 
power, which had never been de- 
nied. But the honest convictions 
of any thinking and observant man 
must force the truth upon him 
that the Catholic Church now, 
as always, is the prime agent of 
order in this world for order's 
sake, irrespective of this or that 
form of government. The social- 
ists themselves in Germany, as 
all the world over, regard the 
church as a deadlier foe to their 
nefarious schemes and attempts 
than all the monarchs and rulers 
put together, while it goes far be- 



yond them in its appeal for, and 
defence of, what is really owing to 
humanity. The Emperor was pre- 
pared, therefore, to listen to the 
calm, clear voice of the Holy 
Father, Leo XIII., appealing for 
peace, not in the name of this or 
that man, but in the name of God 
and of humanity. The German 
Emperor is certainly not without a 
strong religious belief. He has 
given frequent expression to this 
belief, and his expressions deepen 
and widen with advancing years. 
Perhaps the most significant of 
these was uttered as recently as 
June 17, at the commemoration 
festival of a religious society in 
Berlin. The substance of the 
speech, as reported in the London 
Times, was this : 

" If there is anything capable of acting 
as a stay to us in the life and turmoil of 
the present time, it is the support alone 
to be found in Jesus Christ. Let not 
yourselves, therefore, be misled, gentle- 
men, by the tendencies prevailing in the 
world, especially in our days, and do not 
join the great multitude who either en- 
tirely leave the Bible out of account as 
the only source of truth, or falsely inter- 
pret it in their own sense. You all 
know, gentlemen, that I, of full and free 
conviction, belong to the positive (not 
positivist) union founded by my deceas- 
ed father. The ground and rock to 
which I and all of us must cling is the 
unadulterated faith as taught us by the 
Bible. There are many who do not pur- 
sue the same path ; every one does as 
best he can, according to his knowledge 
and his conscience, shaping in conform- 
ity therewith all his acts and all his ways. 
I esteem, honor, and tolerate them ; but 
whoever also wishes to enter the society 
will always be received with open arms. 
. . . Each one can act as his conscience 
dictates, but all must, nevertheless, 
build on the ground alone of the Bible 
and the Gospel." 

If that be not a proclamation of 
freedom of conscience to all his 
subjects, then plain words have no 



The Civil Marriage Bill in Italy. 



715 



meaning. Certainly Catholics ask 
no more liberty than the measure 
there laid down to shape their 



acts and ways in conformity with 
their knowledge and their con- 
science. 



THE CIVIL MARRIAGE BILL IN ITALY. 



ROME, June 17, 1879. 

IN my last contribution I alluded to a 
law, then under discussion in the Italian 
Parliament, establishing the precedence 
of the civil celebration of marriage be- 
fore the ecclesiastical ceremony. On the 
igth of May it was sanctioned, to wit : 

ART. i. The omission of the celebra- 
tion of the civil marriage before any re- 
ligious ceremony whatsoever constitutes 
an offence which is punished according 
to the following articles. The civil mar- 
riage may be celebrated at any time, and 
such a celebration annuls the penal ac- 
tion, provided it takes place before sen- 
tence is pronounced. The penal action 
is suppressed also by the death of one of 
the parties united by the religious rite. 

ART. 2. The minister of any form of 
worship who gives his voluntary assist- 
ance to the religious rites contemplated 
in the preceding article, without having 
evidence that the marriage was first cele- 
brated in the form established by the 
Civil Code, shall be punished with im- 
prisonment for not less than one month 
and not more than six. 

ART. 3. The spouses who commit the 
offence enunciated in Article I shall be 
punished with imprisonment, which may 
be extended to three months. The wit- 
nesses who assist voluntarily at the cele- 
bration of the religious rite before the 
celebration of the civil marriage shall be 
subject to the same penalty. 

For a thorough understanding of the 
spirit and the object of this law enough 
has been quoted. The most competent 
critic in the world has already examined 
and made it the subject of another of 
those documents which have contributed 
largely to rendering his name famous 
and respected even in the ranks of his 
bitterest opponents. I speak of Pope 
Leo XIII. On Pentecost day, the ist of 
this month, he addressed a letter on this 
bill to the archbishops and bishops of 
the provinces of Turin, Vercelli, and 



Genoa. The style of the letter is, as 
usual, dignified, the tone temperate, and 
the reasoning irrefragable. After com- 
mending the zeal with which these pre- 
lates opposed the projected law from 
the outset, the Pope reasons, first, on 
the nature and institution of marriage. 
Not a creation of the state, but an insti- 
tution of God for the propagation of the 
human race, and raised, in the law of 
grace, to the dignity of a sacrament, 
marriage is essentially a sacred and reli- 
gious act, the regulating which naturally 
belongs to the religious power, not by 
the delegation of the state, but by the 
commission of Jesus Christ. 

In the second place, he disposes sum- 
marily of the sophistical disassociation 
of the contract from the sacrament, as 
upheld by the state. Such a disassocia- 
tion is dogmatically impossible, and 
contrary to the conception of Christian 
marriage ; because the bond of marriage, 
sanctified by religion, is identified with 
the sacrament, and constitutes therewith 
one sole object and one reality. As to 
the examples adduced of Catholic states 
(France and Belgium) in which a simi- 
lar law is in force, they prove nothing. 
For, in the first place, those nations, be- 
ing the prey of social disorders, were 
obliged to submit to such a reform, 
while the reform itself was either im- 
posed by heterodox influences or by the 
tyranny of the rulers. In the second 
place, the results of the reform are any- 
thing but satisfactory, while the strictly 
Catholic conscience of the people has 
always been opposed to it. 

The Holy Father then repudiates the 
false accusation that the church wishes 
to invade the province of the state in the 
affair of matrimony. No one ever de- 
nied to the state the right of regulating 
matrimony in its civil effects according 
to justice. But the state can exercise 
no influence whatever over the august 
bond in its intrinsic nature, even as it 



716 



The Civil Marriage Bill in Italy. 



cannot bind, nor loose, nor change. For 
the profound morality inherent in the 
sacrament of matrimony the state wish- 
es not only to create, but to impose un- 
der penal sanction, a connubial morality 
of its own, entirely human, and under 
merely forensic forms. Such a morality 
cannot render the marital union either 
lawful, honorable, or lasting. The law 
is injurious to religion, to the priest- 
hood, and to the liberty of conscience of 
the people. It is injurious to religion, 
because it presumes to dispose of a mat- 
ter not in its sphere ; it is injurious to 
the priesthood, because it subjects to 
penalties the minister, who merely per- 
forms a sacred duty in blessing the mari- 
tal union ; it violates the liberty of con- 
science of the people, because, besides 
imposing the civil form before the reli- 
gious, it declares this last not only null 
in effect, but an illegal concubinage ! 
Yet with glaring inconsistency the law 
takes no notice of the enormous num- 
ber of real concubinages already exist- 
ing. 

Judging from all this, and from the 
fact that the minister who assists at the 
religious ceremony is subject to a great- 
er penalty than the principal offenders 
who, after all, can escape punishment by 
the subsequent civil celebration the 
Holy Father is not without the suspicion 
that the law is dictated more by the de- 
sire of afflicting the church and her min- 
isters than by a sense of order and so- 
cial rectitude. 

In fine, he recommends the archbi- 
shops and bishops to teach the people 
that the origin and sanctification of mar- 
riage are of God. As for the civil pre- 
scriptions regulating marriage before 
the law, he recalls the wise instructions 
of different pontiffs instructions which 
give the people full liberty to follow the 
law after the essence of the dogma and 
the dignity of the sacrament have been 
provided for. 

What is the declared object of this 
law? To diminish the number of "ille- 
gal concubinages." Would you know 
what these concubinages are ? Nothing 
more nor less sacred than the marriages 
celebrated before the church alone. The 
sacramental union of itself, without the 
celebration of the civil ceremony, is de- 
clared a concubinage, and the law re- 
fuses to recognize the issue of such a 
union. This is actually the law. The 
new law proposes to punish such a union 



as criminal, and yet it leaves unpunish- 
ed real concubinages ! 

Statistics prove that the number of 
purely ecclesiastical marriages is far 
superior to that of the civil marriages. 
Therefore, according to law, there are so 
many illegitimate families in the land. 
This is the evil the government would 
remedy by the new law. It is certainly 
a great evil, and is to the uninquiring 
and superficial mind a powerful argu- 
ment in favor of the new law. But waiv- 
ing the palpable malice of the new law, 
the odious distinction between the cele- 
brating minister and the principal sub- 
jects under consideration, and the fact 
that it makes no provision whatever for 
really criminal unions considerations 
which would brand it with infamy in any 
land professing the shadow of Christian- 
ity let us go back a step or two in Italian 
legislation and discover the real cause 
of the evil which they would now reme- 
dy. We find it in a law of the year 1865, 
which declares null and of no civil effect 
whatever the marriages celebrated before 
the church alone without the civil cele- 
bration, either previous or subsequent, 
it was then immaterial. The baneful 
consequences of such a law began to 
appear immediately. Unprincipled men, 
whose only desire was to satisfy the bas- 
est passion of man, married unsuspect- 
ing maidens coram Ecclesia, and then 
heartlessly deserted their victims, know- 
ing that the law was against them. Thus 
it was the state that created the illegiti- 
macy in the first place by refusing to 
recognize the sacramental bond which 
had from time immemorial been the sole 
legitimate form of marriage. It was the 
state that gave full license to the profli- 
gates, constituted the so-called illegiti- 
mate unions ; and the remedy which it 
now proposes, be it even in good faith, 
is worse than the original evil. Novissi- 
mus trror pejor priori ! 

The law has not passed the Senate,* 
and well-founded hopes are entertained 
by the Catholics that it will not receive 
the sanction of that body, or that it will, 
at least, be remanded with substan- 
tial modifications. Meanwhile, protests 
against the law are pouring in from all 
sides. There is not a Catholic society 
in the land which has not already formu- 
lated a remonstrance against the project. 
The most recent is that of the Society of 
St. Francis Regis. The object of this 

* It has since passed. ED. C. W. 



The Civil Marriage Bill in Italy. 



717 



society, which is blessed and fostered by 
the church, gives the lie to the govern- 
ment when it accuses the church of be- 
ing opposed to the state's regulating 
marriage in its civil effects. Its princi- 
pal purpose is to induce parties who co- 
habit unlawfully to legitimize their union 
by the blessing of the church, and then 
by conforming themselves to the pre- 
scriptions of the law. In the past year 
of 1878 it procured the legitimization of 
four hundred and ninety-four unions. Of 
these only one hundred and eight had 
not observed the law a consummation 
brought about by the society. 

We have only to go back to the dis- 
cussion of the law in Parliament to dis- 
cover its true purpose. One of its pro- 
moters defined it to a nicety when he 
called it an act of reprisal against the 
church. Such, indeed, it is. It is one 
of that long series of outrages and in- 
juries to the Catholic Church and to 
nearly twenty-seven millions of baptized 
Catholics. It exasperates still more that 
moral dualism now existing in the land, 
and which is the real enemy, and will in 
the end be the total destruction, of its 
political unity. I speak not of moral 
unity. That is gone, or going fast, and 
will disappear entirely unless Provi- 
dence interposes. 

The false proclamation by Cavour of 
the maxim, " Free church in a free 
state," will be the ruin of this last, be- 
cause it tends to destroy the moral unity 
of the country. There never was a wise 
legislator yet who did not aim at pro- 
moting the moral unity of his people as 
the foundation-stone of political unity, 
independence, and prosperity. Why is 
it that Italy to-day, despite its unity and 
independence, gives but equivocal signs 
of life ? Why is it that the blood does 
not circulate freely and healthily in the 
now reunited body ? Because its. soul is 
languishing under the frequent and dis- 
loyal attacks of the government. Be- 
cause its moral unity, the effect of the 
one, only, apostolic faith which bound 
the people together, is tottering. 

In a country like the United States of 
America the admission of the maxim 
" Free church in a free state " is not 
only wise and feasible but necessary. 
Hence the separation of the various 
churches in general and state was a 
necessity towards the preservation of 
political, and the ultimate obtaining of 
moral, unity. And as every religion is 



free to act and develop and diffuse its 
influence, so that religion which has the 
most vitality, the greatest cohesive power 
and influence, or rather that religion 
which has the life sustained by eternal 
truth will in the end prevail, absorb the 
rest, and establish the moral unity of the 
people. 

In Italy it is different. Here the peo- 
ple were morally united before political 
unity was accomplished. And the first 
efficient impulse towards obtaining Ita- 
lian unity and independence was not 
only supported and aided, but even 
sanctified, by that idea of moral unity. 
Why was it that Italy was almost deli- 
rious with joy when Gioberti published 
that wonderful book called // Primato 
cT Italia ? Because as the foundation of 
the new and independent edifice which 
he would construct he placed the glori- 
ous Catholic faith with its pontiff, its 
clergy, its religious ; and because as 
the natural and moral head of Italy he 
placed the Roman pontiff. Although 
Gioberti's idea was not realized, owing 
to the treachery and malice of the sects, 
still that idea of making the Catholic 
religion the inseparable companion of 
political unity and independence was 
retained, at least in semblance. Every 
annexation, from that of the little duchies 
to that of the Eternal City and its terri- 
tory, was preceded or accompanied by 
solemn promises to preserve and re- 
spect the religion of the people. It was 
declared as the religion of the state ! 
The latest interpretation, however, of 
that article shows whither the govern- 
ment tends, and brings us back to the 
question, the decay of moral unity. In 
a recent decision the Roman Court of 
Appeals declared that, according to the 
interpretation imposed by circumstances 
and by modern progress, the first article 
of the Italian Constitution means merely 
that the state entertains a quasi predi- 
lection for the Catholic religion ! 

Now, to the detriment of this religion 
which is universal in the land, the gov- 
ernment has opened the door to every 
form of error and religious extravagance 
under the sun. It has itself become a 
preacher of immorality in its Parliament, 
where its members, representatives 
only of the immoral minority, expose 
doctrines in which it is difficult to de- 
cide whether gross immorality and un- 
belief prevail, or absurdities. It has 
banished the religious, sequestrated their 



7 i8 



New Publications. 



goods, subjected priests to military ser- 
vice, placed a detective surveillance on 
the preaching of the Gospel, and now 
it would constitute Christian marriage 
in the category of illegal concubinages. 
They call all this only a war against the 
priests, who are the sworn enemies of 
the country. But no ; it is the war of the 
state against its twenty- seven millions 
of subjects, for these in the mass, and 
not the priests alone, constitute the 



church. The dualism then in reality is 
between Catholic subjects and state. 
The state may be a political unity, but 
it not only has not the cordial, unre- 
served sympathy of the people which is 
necessary to the maintenance of a tho- 
rough unity, but it is for ever warring 
against their dearest instincts. Hence 
anarchy, hence disorder, hence discon- 
tent among the people, hence a paralyz- 
ing of the nation's energies. 



NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



MOONDYNE : A Story from the Under- 
World. By John Boyle O'Reilly. 
Boston: The Pilot Publishing Com- 
pany. 1879. 

This is, we believe, the author's first 
venture as a story-writer in prose, and 
he is to be congratulated on having 
achieved something far higher than a 
succes (festime. The " under-world " de- 
picted is Australia, and Moondyne, the 
hero, is a convict, who afterwards turns 
into a sort of Jean Valjean or Monte- 
Christo. His purpose, however, is high- 
er than that of either Alexandre Dumas 
pere's hero or Victor Hugo's. Moon- 
dyne has no crime to wash out, and his 
noble nature enables him to rise above 
the spirit of revenge. How he is sud- 
denly changed from a rough and, for all 
the reader knows, untutored convict 
into a cultivated gentleman at whose 
wisdom and insight British cabinet min- 
isters and high officials and journalists 
stand appalled, is not explained. All 
we know is that he has the secret of the 
gold-mine of the Vasse, that he is ac- 
cepted as a brother and ruler by the na- 
tives, and is thus provided with that 
commodity which most modern heroes 
lamentably lack a quite unlimited sup- 
ply of cash. As a rule, it is only the 
bad men who are rich in stories. Virtue 
and poverty are generally inseparable 
companions, thus bearing out the con- 
soling dictum that "virtue is its own 
reward" or "virtue alone is happiness 
below." 

The purpose of our ex-convict hero is 
to ameliorate the condition of convicts 



and prisoners by appealing to the better 
feelings which, he holds, only lie dor- 
mant, never wholly dead, even in the 
worst natures. On this subject several 
discussions are held between himself, a 
cabinet minister, and other important 
persons, wherein he very easily gets the 
better of everybody, and where we must 
often forgive his vague and sometimes 
absurd talk for the sake of his high and 
honest purpose. Apart from all this, 
however, the story has a genuine and 
sustained interest of its own. Some of 
the chapters, indeed the whole of the 
first book, are written with remarkable 
power, in a clean, nervous style, and 
here and there with a vivid play of ima- 
gination. The author constantly dis- 
plays a true dramatic instinct, the real 
pathos of a tender heart, and, indeed, a 
variety of gifts from which everything 
good is to be hoped. Moondyne is a 
much better story than two-thirds of 
those that come to our table from far 
more pretentious authors. There are a 
few features we do not care about in it 
and would like to see absent. For in- 
stance, there is something of the cant of 
transcendentalism in hunting after capi- 
tals for very plain words, such as man- 
hood, truth, word, idea, thought, princi- 
ple, crime, sin, death, and so on. Words 
of this kind our transcendental friends 
would deify by beginning them with a 
capital and throwing a sort of mist 
around them, as though they were too 
awful and too sacred to approach. 

Mr. O'Reilly has fallen into this affec- 
tation, and occasionally slips into their 
windy phraseology. But in the main the 



New Publications. 



719 



story will be found to be one of ex- 
ceptional interest and power, the Aus- 
tralian scenes being especially rich in 
color and novel in scenery and incident 
to the average reader. To our own lik- 
ing a minor character Officer Lodge 
is one of the best drawn in the book. His 
first introduction furnishes a capital bit 
of character-painting, given in the quiet- 
est but truest colors and a subdued 
humor that is very charming. We hope 
to hear from Mr. O'Reilly again in this 
very useful and, we trust, not unprofitable 
field. 



LOUISA KIRKBRIDE : A Tale of New 
York. By Rev. A. J. Thebaud, SJ. 
New York : Peter F. Collier. 1879. 

To see the learned author of The 
Church and the Gentile World and The Irish 
Race in the gay guise of a story -writer 
is, to reverse a well-known simile, like 
seeing Saul armed with David's sling. 
In Louisa Kirkbride will be found many 
thrilling scenes of New York life woven 
around a story whose great object, as the 
author tells us, is to describe American 
life in New York, and to warn the peo- 
ple of this country against some social 
dangers which all must admit are only 
too real and might be the cause of un- 
told calamities. 



THE Two BRIDES : A Tale. By Rev. 
Bernard O'Reilly, L.D. New York : 
Carleton & Co. 1879. 

In this charming and pure love-story 
the learned author of the Life of Pius 
IX. , the Mirror of True Womanhood, 
and, in fact, of a small library of de- 
lightful and useful books, has concen- 
trated his gifts. Dr. O'Reilly is a writer 
of extensive knowledge and observa- 
tion, lightened by a bright imagination. 
In the works with which his name has 
been hitherto connected his imaginative 
powers have necessarily been subordi- 
nate to facts. In the present instance 
they have had the fullest and happiest 
play. The time he has chosen for his 
story is previous to and during the civil 
war in this country. The troubles that 
led up to that disastrous struggle he 
touches with the hand of a Catholic 
priest and of a man of the world. The 
characters and scenes are in the main 
American ; but scenes in other lands are 



introduced, as the author would say, 
with " a deft hand " and with admirable 
effect. Dr. O'Reilly has been successful 
in the effort of making his learning and 
knowledge popular. Those who read 
between the lines in the present story 
will find something more than a very 
pleasing tale to amuse them. They will 
find rare information regarding men and 
places and things which can only be ac- 
cumulated in many years and by a per- 
son of much native insight and cultured 
observation. For the lazy summer days, 
or indeed for any days, we can recom- 
mend no more pleasing and profitable 
companion than The Two Brides. 

SADLIER'S EXCELSIOR COMPLETE SPEL- 
LER, ORAL AND WRITTEN. By a Catho- 
lic Teacher. New York : William H. 
Sadlier. 1879. 

This seems an intelligently-prepared 
and useful speller, giving all the grada- 
tions of words from their simplest to the 
most compound form, with accompany- 
ing lessons in dictation and rules for 
pronunciation. We question very 
much the perplexing use of so great a 
variety of points and marks intended as 
guides to pronunciation ; still, as they 
are in vogue, we suppose each new spel- 
ler must exceed its predecessors in the 
ingenuity and intricacy of its points and 
devices for giving every shade of pro- 
nunciation, and in this Mrs. Sadlier's 
speller excels. The result is not pleas- 
ing to the eye, and we doubt if it is an 
efficient guide to the ear, but this criti- 
cism may be applied to Spellers in 
general. Mrs. Sadlier's has many ex- 
cellences of its own. 

THE INNER LIFE OF THE VERY REVER- 
END PERE LACORDAIRE, O.P. Trans- 
lated from the French of Rev. Pere 
Chocarne, O.P., by the author of 
Knights of St. John, St. Dominic and 
the Dominicans, etc. (with the author's 
permission). New York : P. O'Shea, 
Agent. 1879. 

Father Chocarne's Life of the great lu- 
minary of his order in these latter times is 
one of the books of the day, and is too 
well known to need any recommenda- 
tion at our hands. There is nothing 
more interesting than the study of this 
life, so grand and heroic in these days 
that are thought to be so common. Its 



720 



New Publications. 



reading is happily not at all restricted to 
those of the Catholic faith. Father La- 
cordaire has been the admiration of all 
men who ever looked at him or at his 
works. In these days of restless search- 
ing and keen inquiry nothing better 
could be recommended to those who are 
really seeking after truth than a vision 
of the workings of the spirit of one who, 
by yielding to God's grace and inspira- 
tion, passed from great darkness and 
despair into great light and faith. Our 
young people especially should study 
this volume, which they will find far more 
interesting than most of the books that 
attract them. Such biographies as this, 
and the Life of Ozanam by Miss O'Meara, 
furnish the very brightest and best read- 
ing for people of all classes. 

LA NOUVELLE ATALA, ou LA FILLE DE 
L'ESPRIT : Legende Indienne. Par 
Chahta-Ima (de la Louisiane). Nou- 
velle-Orleans, 1879. Imprimerie du 
Propagateur Catholique, Rue de 
Chartres, 204. 

This is a prose poem in French, em- 
bodying the ripe fruits of a gifted poeti- 
cal soul. The author is an unfeigned 
lover of solitude, views all things in 
their divine aspect, and rarely descends 
from the heights -of contemplation. Al- 
most every page of this volume, small in 
size but weighty if judged by the value 
of the contents, is enriched with original 
thoughts, profound views, and rare sug- 
gestions on religion, the arts, man, na- 
ture, society, and the state, clothed in 
charming language by a skilful master 
of style. 

This volume is a gem in its way, and 
belongs to a class of books like Joseph 
of Arimathea, by St. John Damascene, 
Johnson's Rasselas, and Chateaubriand's 
Atala. The author's appreciation of the 
mystical side of man's nature in relation 
to the visible creation reminds us of 
Novalis and passages in the writings of 
that sublime master of and writer on 
spiritual life, St. John of the Cross, 
and of certain chapters in that inimi- 
table work, The Following of Christ. 

The book is unique, and could only 
have been written by a descendant of the 
Celts, a bom poet, and a Catholic 
priest who has the courage of the deep- 
est convictions and faith in the holiest 
aspirations of his soul. It is a literary 
thef-cTauvre, and rich treasures are to be 
found in its pages.] 



CANTICA SIGN ; or, English Anthems set 
to Latin words, for the service of the 
Catholic Church by a priest of the 
Society of Jesus. London : Novello 
Ewer & Co. 

The first number of this proposed work 
gives a full anthem by Dr. Boyce, to 
which has been adapted the Latin of the 
psalm " Super flumina Babylonis," minus 
the last verse. The high merit of the 
music is incontestable, but we fail to see 
the fitness of this production "for the 
service of the Catholic Church." It is 
true the psalm is one of the five appoint- 
ed for the ferial office of Thursday's Ves- 
pers, which are nowhere sung except in 
a few monasteries, but it is quite evident 
that the monks would never think of 
abandoning their sweet, simple, holy 
chant for such complicated harmonies as 
these, to say nothing of leaving out the 
last verse, or of their being obliged to 
call in some boys or women to do the 
soprano and alto parts. These anthems 
have, in fact, no legitimate place whatso- 
ever in the "service of the Catholic 
Church." At a time like the present, when 
such earnest efforts are being made in all 
parts of Christendom to purify the cele- 
bration of the divine offices of the church 
from the musical exhibitions which have 
so notoriously hindered the intelligent 
devotion of the people, and so shamefully 
mutilated and garbled the liturgy in its 
every part, we cannot but regard this at- 
tempt to thrust Protestant anthems into 
what is styled our 4f service " by putting 
them into a Latin dress as something 
quite unworthy of the source from which 
it emanates. It is high time that we got 
rid of the church concert and turned our 
attention to giving the faithful a chance 
to hear the Catholic liturgy celebrated in 
its completeness as the church com- 
mands it to be done. 



LESSONS IN PRACTICAL SCIENCE ; OR, 
GENERAL KNOWLEDGE REGARDING 
THINGS IN DAILY USE. Prepared ex- 
pressly for schools and academies. 
By the author of The Neptune Out- 
ward Bound, etc. New York : P. 
O'Shea, Agent. 1879. 

A very useful and entertaining volume, 
containing a variety of practical informa- 
tion, set in catechetical form, regarding 
common things around us. 



THE 



CATHOLIC WORLD. 



VOL. XXIX,, No. 174. SEPTEMBER, 1879. 



IS LIFE WORTH LIVING?* 



DOUBTLESS every one who will 
read this article knows already 
something of the writings of Mr. 
Mallock, which have lately startled 
the educated world of England 
and the United States, and excited 
no little attention. His New Re- 
public contains an acute and closely- 
reasoned analysis of the chief vari- 
eties of positivism lately gaining 
adherents in England, often so 
tersely expressed, and with such 
condensation of matter, that it be- 
comes abstruse and is almost 
equally hard reading with Dr. 
Brownson's Convert. Like the 
Convert, it has a narrative and 
dramatic frame-work surrounding 
the purely philosophical argument. 
The great doctor, however, takes 
his story from real history and 
biography. Mr. Mallock's is in 
form fictitious, although some of 
the principal characters are drawn 
from real life, most of them are 
commonly reported to be studies 
from life, and, for all we know, the 
incidents which make the plot of 
the story may be founded in fact. 
The New Paul and Virginia is a 

* It Life Worth Living? By William Hurrell 
Mallock. New York : Putnams. 1879. 

Copyright : Rev. I. 



caustic satire, a laughable come- 
dy, in which keen-edged argument 
takes the shape of merciless, not al- 
ways very delicate and refined ridi- 
cule, after the manner of Aristo- 
phanes, albeit in the form of plain, 
narrative prose. It is not nearly so 
fine a composition of its class as 
. the Comedy of Convocation. It is 
too broad and farcical to please a 
fastidious taste, and the intended 
effect would have been better pro- 
duced by the grave and serious 
satire which is really the author's 
forte. Besides some other minor 
pieces which we cannot speak of, as 
we have not yet had the pleasure 
of reading them, the next most re- 
markable production of Mr. Mai- 
lock's pen was an essay contained 
in two articles which appeared in 
the Nineteenth Century, published 
in the numbers for September, 1877, 
and January, 1878, bearing the 
same title with the present volume 
and furnishing its basis. This essay 
we have considered since reading 
it a few months ago, to speak now 
merely of its literary merit, as a 
specimen of the most perfect ex- 
cellence attainable in the line of 
serious and argumentative writing 

T. HECKER. 1879. 



722 



Is Life Worth Living f 



of the species adapted for a peri- 
odical review. Although so very 
different in every respect except in 
fitness for the pages of a review, 
it is comparable for its successful 
felicity of execution to Macau- 
lay's brilliant and famous articles in 
the Edinburgh Review. We were, 
therefore, agreeably affected, as by 
an incident making life, for the 
time at least, a little better worth 
living than it sometimes appears on 
the arrival of a parcel from the edi- 
torial office, when the neat and at- 
tractive volume from the publish- 
ing house of the Putnams greeted 
our eyes, mutely asking, like a 
young cadet just graduated who 
presents himself with his diploma 
under his arm before his mother 
and sisters and other admiring 
friends, " Am I worth looking at, 
am I worth having?" 

Mr. Mallock evidently thought 
life worth living while he was a 
student, and lived it in an intel- 
lectually and morally worthy man- 
ner. He has thought " the game 
worth the candle " which he has 
burnt with serious and earnest pur- 
pose, while producing the elabo- 
rate works of his fine mind which 
have made him, although yet a very 
young man, a warrior of marked 
prowess in the intellectual arena. 
The style in which he writes is re- 
markable for one unusual quality 
betokening both a rare metaphysi- 
cal faculty in the author's mind, 
and a very assiduous labor in the 
cultivation of rhetoric. It is a 
truly English and idiomatic style, 
and at the same time it is adequate 
to the exact presentation of logical 
and metaphysical ideas and argu- 
ments derived from Greek and 
Latin authors and modern writers 
whose works are technical and 
scientific. Together with this ex- 
actness and terseness of expression, 



there is combined a felicity of dic- 
tion, a grace and charm of manner, 
a happy way of illustration, a sparkle 
of wit, an eloquence, a vivid play 
of imagination, which make the 
close argumentation with which 
the thesis is unremittingly pursued 
readable and intelligible for a much 
greater number of persons than are 
ordinarily secured as willing listen- 
ers by men who reason well, but 
cannot or will not allure an audi- 
ence by rhetorical art. Mr. Mal- 
lock is a very young man, produc- 
ing his first works, and a certain 
juvenility might be expected and 
may be pardoned. That there is 
sometimes an excess of imagination, 
a coloring which comes from feel- 
ing not quite controlled by reason, 
an exaggeration on one side, a di- 
minution or partial ignoring or 
overlooking on another side, a 
want of balancing and harmonious 
exposition, a forensic rather than a 
judicial presentation of his case, 
has been said by other critics, and 
we cannot say that we wholly dis- 
agree with them. The set of men 
attacked by Mr. Mallock find it 
difficult to meet and controvert him 
on the main issue. His logic is a 
little too trenchant and powerful 
for men whose drill and discipline 
have not made them especially 
strong or adroit in wielding logical 
weapons. To criticise, point out 
faults of detail, expend themselves 
in rhetorical displays which bum 
as much powder as Mr. Mallock's, 
but propel no balls like his such 
are the shifts to which his adver- 
saries are reduced. Mr. Mallock, 
as he grows older, may improve. 
They never will. They are bound by 
a logical necessity to become con- 
tinually worse and more false than 
they are, whether they are Protes- 
tants or non-Christian rational- 
ists and positivists of any descrip- 



Is Life Worth Living? 



723 



tion. We do not mean by this 
that any individual Protestant or 
unbeliever, or any certain, definite 
number of such, must necessarily 
become worse by a continual pro- 
gression in error. Individuals and 
collections of individuals may be, 
and often are, illogical in their be- 
lief and conduct. But the drift of 
logical sequence acts irresistibly on 
the whole and in the long run. The 
logical necessity must carry down, 
and is carrying down, all systems of 
Protestantism and unbelief toward 
the lowest deep, the abyss of nihil- 
ism. But we must be careful not 
to exaggerate the evil in respect 
to concrete and individual persons, 
as if they were doomed by a physi- 
cal vis inertice to go down with 
their systems. 

Besides thus discriminating be- 
tween systems and persons, we 
must also distinguish, even in sys- 
tems of opinion and belief, between 
the logic of their false and that of 
their true premises. It is true 
that the Protestant premises in 
Protestant systems, and the premi- 
ses of negation and doubt in the 
systems of unbelievers, have their 
necessary sequences in worse and 
worse heresies, and in negations of 
rational truths which descend con- 
tinually toward absolute negation. 
But Protestant systems have also 
Catholic premises and systems of 
unbelief have rational premises. 
When Protestants reason from Ca- 
tholic premises they can confute 
those who are more heretical than 
they are, or who are unbelievers. 
So, also, those who reason from 
sound rational premises can con- 
fute the deniers of rational truths. 
The more advanced and logical in 
following the sequences of error can 
only demonstrate the inconsistency 
of their opponents, and point out 
contradictions in their conclusions 



to some common principles which 
all hold alike in opposition to the 
universal truth, rational and reveal- 
ed, contained in Catholic teaching. 
But they cannot confute or subvert 
the truths themselves, or the sound 
arguments which uphold them, by a 
course of reasoning which really 
proves only one thing viz., that 
those who hold any portion of 
truth ought to hold truth in its in- 
tegrity, and by denying a part of 
it are logically bound to deny other 
parts and the whole, in order to be 
consistent with themselves. Here 
lies the gist of the argumentum ad 
hominem with all those who occupy 
the intermediate ground between 
Catholicity and absolute scepticism. 
The occupants of a position nearer 
the abyss say to those who are 
higher up : You ought to come 
down to us because of that which 
you deny. We say to them : You 
ought to come up to us because of 
what you affirm. To a believer in 
revelation, whether Jew or Chris- 
tian, we say : You ought to be a 
Catholic, because you believe in 
revelation. To a theist we say : 
You ought to be a Catholic, because 
you believe in God. To any man 
who has not totally abjured reason 
we say: You ought to be a Catho- 
lic, because you are a reasonable 
being. But it is not in accordance 
with sound philosophy or theology 
to make out that the divine autho- 
rity of the Catholic Church is the 
sole and indispensable preliminary 
truth and first premise from which 
the proof of revealed or natural re- 
ligion depends,, or that the exis- 
tence of God stands in> a similar re- 
lation to all metaphysical and ethi- 
cal truths ; although, the depen- 
dence of rational: truths on the 
principle of causality which virtual- 
ly contains the truth of the exis- 
tence of G.od, is nearer and closer 



724 



Is Life Worth Living? 



than the dependence of revealed 
theology on the doctrine of the au- 
thority of the church. 

We say this, lest Mr. Mallock's 
readers should suppose that all his 
broad and sweepingassertions are ac- 
ceptable to Catholics. They are not 
so ; and are frequently such as a Ca- 
tholic cannot possibly assent to. For 
instance, on p. 27 Mr. Mallock as- 
serts that "the doctrine of a future 
life was first learned by the Jews 
/rom their masters during the Cap- 
tivity." In his twelfth chapter, he 
asserts that " criticism has robbed 
the Bible of nearly all the supposed 
internal evidences of its supernatu- 
ral character, it has traced the chief 
Christian dogmas to non-Christian 
sources," and more in the same 
strain, and develops these statements, 
which are mere assumptions, and in 
fact unprovable and false, with con- 
siderable rhetorical amplitude, but 
without producing anything to con- 
vince any mind not already pre- 
pared to accept his statements 
without argument. So, also, in his 
(postulates and the reasoning which 
lie deduces from them against the 
^defenders of a merely natural and 
irataonal theology, there is the same 
fallacious assumption of a complete 
.inability on their part to sustain 
'their ground against positivists and 
scientific sceptics. The utterly 
ibaseless pretence of the whole sub- 
versive and destructive school of 
critics and scientists, that they" 
-have demolished the evidences of 
the credibility of natural and reveal- 
. eid religion, lies at the basis of the 
.whole course of argument by which, 
in all- his writings, Mr. Mallock en- 
deavors to convince the world that it 
r is >bouBd to go headlong and speed- 
ily to- the devil, unless it can be res- 
cudd-by-some absolutely supernatu- 
ral intervention. This supernatural 
*-.rescufi,iibe.,argues, if at all possible, 



must come through the infallible 
authority of the Catholic Church. 
But here, also, he appears to have 
a notion of infallibility and authori- 
ty which is a creation of his own 
imagination, and quite different 
from that of Catholic theology and 
4 of the church herself. He seems 
to confuse infallibility with inspi- 
ration, authority with the power to 
reveal doctrines by virtue of imme- 
diate communication with the very 
primal source of truth in God. 
Historical, metaphysical, tradition- 
al, documentary evidences are put 
aside, as insufficient for an intel- 
lectual conviction. A divine au- 
thority, submitted to by a purely 
moral and voluntary act, a spon- 
taneous, mystical, logically unveri- 
fiable act, which no exact and in- 
tellectual criterion of truth can 
measure and justify, must super- 
sede rational light and knowledge, 
and a faith which is self-supporting 
become the basis of all certainty in 
respect to supra-mundane realities. 
There is a striking similarity in 
this view to that of another philo- 
sophical sceptic, De Lamennais. 
The backward swing from extreme 
rationalism to extreme fideism, 
from doubt to a blind faith, is fre- 
quent and natural. But the one is 
no more a place of rest than the 
other. The sound Catholic doc- 
trine discriminates between the 
natural, the rational, the purely 
human, and the gifts of grace, the 
illumination of faith, the superhu- 
man elevation of nature through 
the Incarnation. It does not sub- 
vert the lower, or substitute for it 
the higher, but completes and cor- 
roborates it in its own order. In 
respect to all things within the do- 
main of reason and the natural will 
of man, revelation and grace are 
morally necessary to supply a defi- 
ciency and strengthen an infirmity 



Is Life Worth Living f 



725 



and alleviate a difficulty, so that 
nature may be efficaciously aided 
and supported in the work of which 
it is inherently capable ; but are not 
absolutely necessary as first princi- 
ples of all knowledge and virtue. 

For the disclosure of truth abso- 
lutely superrational, and the com- 
munication of a faith, a hope, a 
love, absolutely supernatural, reve- 
lation and grace are absolutely ne- 
cessary. But even here a pream- 
ble of rational conviction, and a 
correspondence of free-will with 
grace, are requisite, for reasonable 
and free acts of faith and obe- 
dience. 

The veracity of God revealing is 
the direct object of faith, and not 
the authority of the church. The 
voluntary submission of the will to 
God's authority presupposes a rea- 
sonable motive for believing that 
he exists, that he is veracious, and 
that he has revealed the doctrines 
proposed. The authority of the 
church is the ordinary external 
criterion for determining what God 
lias revealed. Philosophy, and the 
inspired documents of revelation, 
are to a great extent weak and 
inefficacious instruments for pro- 
ducing the intellectual and moral 
improvement of the mass of man- 
kind, without the authority and the 
powerful agency of the church. 
And especially, when heresy and 
unbelief and scepticism have done 
a long and desolating work in the 
world, we may affirm it as morally 
certain, that regeneration and re- 
novation cannot be effected by 
any power except that which Christ 
has lodged in the Catholic Church. 
So much as this Mr. Mallock has 
very conclusively and powerfully 
proved, and his argument is not 
substantially damaged by his exag- 
gerations and omissions. 

He is as one who has been de- 



prived of the positive traditional 
belief of English Christianity, and 
is searching anxiously through the 
intellectual world for a substitute 
which shall be better and more 
satisfactory. The result of his 
search has left him with the con- 
viction that all things are being 
swept toward shipwreck, and can 
only be saved by a divine, super- 
natural religion. The only reli- 
gion which presents the appear- 
ance and awakens the hope of be- 
ing true and adequate, is the Ca- 
tholic religion. The alternative is 
between Catholicity and Nihilism. 
In the present volume this alterna- 
tive is expressed under the more 
general and abstract form of the 
question whether life is worth liv- 
ing or is not worth living. Its 
worth, if it have any worth, is mo- 
ral. It cannot have moral worth 
unless the soul is immortal and the 
offspring of God its first and final 
cause. Moreover, if God has given 
to human life this supreme worth 
derived from its end and object, 
the Catholic Church must be the 
medium of its attainment. Such is 
the partial solution of the question 
proposed by the author : Is Life 
Worth Living? which is given in 
the present volume, and is a sum- 
ming-up of all he has written in his 
previous works. 

No one has ever asked the ques- 
tion seriously of himself whether 
life is worth living, until he has 
begun to doubt that it is, and to. 
feel discontented with life. Yet,, 
a great many have asked and are 
asking the question, and some 
have determined it for themselves 
in the negative. One of our most 
famous generals related to the wri- 
ter the following incident of the late 
civil war. Visiting his outposts 
one night, he found a sentinel fast 
asleep. The man was awakened, 



726 



Is Life Worth Living? 



and the general asked him if he 
knew lie was liable to be shot then 
and there for his delinquency. He 
replied in a very nonchalant man- 
ner that he was perfectly aware of 
the fact. " Suppose, now, I should 
have you shot!" said General 

R . " I would not care one 

single God damn !" answered this 
model soldier, a fair specimen of 
the large class who were the dregs 
of our volunteer army. Plainly, 
that sort of men did not consider 
their life worth living. There are 
millions of such human beings, 
whose life, taken as it is in the 
concrete, present, and actual value 
which it has, and prescinding from 
any higher virtual worth latent in 
its possibility, is as worthless to 
them as the life of this miserable 
wreck of manhood was to him. 
Moral and physical wretchedness, 
idiocy, lunacy, hopeless disease 
and irrexnediable pain, make the 
mere animal life which is all that 
remains to those who live in abject 
misery, not only worthless but a 
nuisance to themselves and to all 
others who are burdened with the 
care of them, if we look merely to 
the present and sensible good of 
living. If we exclude the moral 
motives for respecting the persons 
and the lives of these unhappy be- 
ings, we must reasonably conclude 
that the best thing for all parties 
would be to put them out of exis- 
tence, as one does justly and mer- 
cifully a suffering animal. There 
are many cases in which this would 
be the greatest act of kindness we 
could perform, even for the inno- 
cent, the good, the tenderly loved, 
as for instance in a case like that 
of Virginius and his daughter, or 
in the case of one who had the 
hydrophobia. 

For a still greater number, in 
fact for a great multitude, life, ta- 



ken in its totality, is certainly, for 
the present good which it contains, 
not worth living, although not so 
completely miserable. 

That there is a great deal of 
good and enjoyment naturally con- 
tained in sound and healthy hu- 
man life, is unquestionable. Let 
all the good which is suitable to 
human nature be possessed in suf- 
ficient abundance and in perma- 
nence, and, assuredly, life is worth 
living for its own sake ; and its 
indefinite, even endless prolonga- 
tion is desirable. Take it in its 
most favorable ideal aspect, and it 
is a great good, if only its perpe- 
tuity can be secured. Take it in 
its practical aspect, and we doubt 
if the constant and habitual enjoy- 
ment of life which even the most 
happy persons can possess through 
any long period after their youth 
has terminated, suffices to make 
life really worth living for its own 
sake alone. Let any one who is 
pretty well on in life, who is not 
looking forward to any great change 
for the better after the manner of 
young people, and who is not at 
present in the enjoyment of some 
special temporary pleasure, but in 
an every-day and commonplace 
mood of mind, ask himself if he 
would care to go back to infancy, 
or wish to live for ever exactly as 
he is now living, without any change 
for better or worse. For ourselves, 
we freely confess that we would 
not willingly live over again the 
past, or any part of it, for the pJea- 
sure of it, or care to have a per- 
petual existence no better than the 
present one. If in this life only 
we are to find the be-all and end- 
all of existence, then for each indi- 
vidual and all mankind life is a tri- 
vial, unimportant thing at the best. 
At the worst, it is a nuisance, 
only not a frightful tragedy, a 



Is Life Worth Living? 



portentous evil, an insupporta- 
ble misery, because its brevity 
makes its miseries as insignificant 
as the disturbance created in a 
hornet's nest by placing a bunch 
of lighted matches in the aperture 
of its floor. Probably, every one 
of our readers can recall some days 
of tediousness or pain, or at least 
some hours of that sort, which 
seemed at the time of interminable 
length and scarcely endurable. It 
is to be hoped that we have all 
sometimes felt happy enough to be 
able to sympathize with the excla- 
mation which a little girl of the 
writer's kin once uttered : " O 
mamma ! I am so glad it's to-day ! " 
What, now, are those past pains 
and pleasures, unless they have 
left something lasting in our life 
by their effects? They are as if 
they had never been. If all things 
are evanescent, like a boat's track 
in the water, and all human beings 
suffer an extinction of life when 
they expire, then nothingness is 
the only absolute reality, and all 
the good and evil of life is a 
triviality. Trivial and evanescent 
tilings may be worth something, 
and commonplace life may be 
worth living, in relation to that 
which is permanent, and suffi- 
ciently good to correspond to a 
high, ideal conception of being. 
Apart from this, they are assuredly 
not worthy of being esteemed as 
something desirable in themselves. 
Let life be all made up of that part 
of it which is enjoyable, if it comes 
to an end at death, it is really not 
worth living. An Eastern legend 
relates that an angel appeared to 
Mathusalawhenhewas five hundred 
years old and advised him to build 
for himself a house, instead of biv- 
ouacking under a tree, as he had 
done hitherto. The patriarch, hav- 
ing inquired how long he had yet 



to live, and learned that it would 
be less than five hundred years, re- 
plied that he did not think it worth 
his while to make the change. 
" We have here no continuing 
city," and unless we " seek one to 
come," the old patriarch's indiffer- 
ence to the comfort of this life is 
the most reasonable sentiment one 
can have about life in general. 
Considering the other side, the evil 
of life, especially for the majority 
of persons, it would be better not 
to have existed. 

" After this opened Job his 
mouth, and cursed his day. And 
Job spake, and said, Let the day 
perish wherein I was born, and the 
night wherein it was said, There 
is a man-child conceived. Where- 
fore is light given to him that is in 
misery, and life to the bitter in 
soul; which long for death but it 
cometh not ; and dig for it more 
than for hid treasures ; which re- 
joice exceedingly and are glad, 
when they can find the grave ? " 
Such is the language of an afflicted 
saint of the olden time, who was 
not in despair, and did not murmur 
against God, but gave plaintive ut- 
terance to the sentiment of the na- 
tural heart when oppressed with 
pain, that this present life consid- 
ered by itself alone is a nuisance 
to the miserable. 

St. Paul, too, declares that " if in 
this life only we have hope in 
Christ," such as he was, and such 
as were his persecuted fellow-Chris- 
tians of that time, " are of all men 
the most miserable." So far as 
present enjoyment is concerned, 
the same may be said of a great 
number of the best people in the 
world. 

One of our popular novelists 
shall furnish us with another illus- 
tration of the same sentiment which 
we have just now lighted upon by 



'28 



Is Life Worth Living? 



chance at the beginning of a story 
which as yet remains unread : . 

" ' Now I am going to ask you another 
question,' said Mrs. Beresford. ' Suppose 
you had a patient very ill I mean hope- 
lessly ill, beyond all cure do you think 
it is right to keep them alive as you do 
now, struggling to the last, staving off 
every new attack that might carry them 
off in quiet, fighting on and on to the 
last moment, and even prolonging that, 
when it comes so far, with cordials and 
stimulants? Keeping their breath in 
their poor suffering bodies till you get 
to the end of your resources your 
dreadful cruel resources, that is what I 
call them. Do you think this is right ? 
I'll tell you what I should like you to 
do if it were me,' she said eagerly. 
' When it was all over, when you were 
sure I could not get better, when there 
was nothing more in life but to suffer 
suffer, then I should like you to make a 
strong, sweet dose for me to put me out 
of my trouble. I should like James to 
give it me. Do you remember what was 
said that time in India, in the mutiny? 
I don't know if it was true, but people 
said it. That the husbands of some of 
the poor ladies kissed them and shot 
them, to save them ; don't you remem- 
ber? That is what I should like you to 
do a sweet, strong dose ; and James 
would bring it to me and kiss me, and 
put it to my lips. That would be true 
love! ' she said, growing excited, the pale 
roses in her cheeks becoming hectic 
red ; ' that would be true friendship, Mr. 
Maxwell ! Then I should not be afraid. 
I should feel that you two stood be- 
tween me and anguish, between me and 
agony.' " * 

We do not know anything fur- 
ther about the history of the Beres- 
fords. But, when it comes to such 
a point of wretchedness with a wo- 
man that she begs of her husband 
to kill her, and with a man that his 
wife whom he loves makes such a 
request of him in earnest, we give 
our opinion that if such is the final 
conclusion of all the good of life 
for them, they would have been bet- 
ter off if they had never been born. 

* Carita, : a Novel. By Mrs. Oliphant. Chap. i. 



This morning, the newspapers 
contained the sad news of the un- 
timely and tragical death of the 
ci-devant Prince Imperial of France, 
who fell under the murderous asse- 
gais of the Zulus. What a termi- 
nation to an innocent and noble 
young life, to aspirations looking 
toward an imperial crown, to a 
dynasty so renowned in history ! 
Was it worth living to the young 
Louis Napoleon, to have enjoyed 
his brief glory, or the illusions of 
his vain hopes of a future recovery 
of the extinct empire of his house, 
if death at the hand of ferocious 
Africans was the absolute end of 
his existence? What shall we say 
of the one for whose indescribable 
sorrow there is no alleviation ex- 
cept in the resort of a Christian 
soul to the compassion of a merci- 
ful God, and the hope derived from 
Catholic faith of reunion in the fu- 
ture life? Could life be worth liv- 
ing which ends in such inconsol- 
able grief, if these divine consola- 
tions were a baseless vision of the 
iaiagination ? 

There can be no doubt what- 
ever of the practical effect which 
the universal abandonment of be- 
lief in God and immortality would 
have upon all or nearly all men. 
They would look for the strong, 
sweet dose to put them out of their 
trouble, and rid them of the cancer 
whose first symptom is discontent 
and whose last torment is the an- 
guish and loathsomeness of a cor- 
ruption devouring both soul and 
body. The strong, sweet dose is 
the momentary pleasure which re- 
lieves the gnawing of the disease of 
life while it lasts, and ends in 
death. As for moral worthiness in 
life, the very notion of it must 
vanish from a world completely 
dereligionized. 

Why, then, is life actually es- 



Is Life Worth Living? 



729 



teemed and prized as worth living, 
by those who live chiefly for this 
world, and think little of any other 
life? It is because they forget 
that this life is not perpetual, and 
do not think of death, so long as 
they are occupied and concerned 
with the present. Besides, they 
have a latent and virtual religion in 
their sentiments, and some unde- 
fined expectation that they will 
live for ever and be fortunate 
enough to secure their happiness in 
that future life, unless they have 
become altogether reckless, or 
wholly unbelieving. The convic- 
tion of the moral worth of life is 
universal, and survives the illusion 
which makes it seem worth liv- 
ing for its momentary enjoyments. 
And even those modern unbelievers 
who are called by Mr. Mallock the 
positivists, who profess a great con- 
tempt for the Epicurean view of 
life as only worth living for its en- 
joyments, and an equal contempt 
for the religious view, avow a high 
esteem for the moral worth of life. 
This is, argues conclusively and 
truly Mr. Mallock, because they 
are not completely dereligionized. 
They have latent and virtual reli- 
gion in their moral sentiments, al- 
though they have banished the pure 
and simple form of it, just as we 
have salt in our food, though we 
abstain on purpose from using any 
from the salt-cellar. 

This is a singular phase in the 
evolution of English Protestantism, 
for it is in the English mind and 
out of Protestant elements, mixed 
with other elements the product of 
scientific and critical investiga- 
tions, that this new, curious form 
of grave, serious, moralizing un- 
belief has been produced. It is 
not the unbelief which springs 
from a desire to be wicked which 
has evolved itself in this strange 



shape. The cause lies in the un- 
reasonable, incredible absurdities 
of Protestantism, its contradictions, 
its impotence, its utter failure to 
give out a sound philosophy, a co- 
herent and tenable theology. The 
belief in God and immortality has 
been swept away by the force 
which has undermined the belief in 
Christianity. Yet, there remains 
the longing for an ideal world, the 
anxiety to find the deepest causes, 
the aspiration after the first truth, 
the supreme good, the beautiful in 
essence. On this account, the 
doubters and unbelievers who ha^ve 
got lost in the mazes of the physi- 
cal and moral labyrinth into which 
they have wandered, without clue 
or light to enable them to emerge 
at the other end or retrace their 
steps, are worthy of compassion, of 
kindness, of a kind of respectful 
consideration, which wilful, impious 
apostates from the Catholic faith 
do not deserve. 

Mr. Mallock, although he pours 
out a torrent of unsparing ridicule 
upon their absurdities, does, never- 
theless, in the volume before us, 
argue with them, patiently, serious- 
ly, respectfully, and in a manner 
which we may call, without mean- 
ing any exaggeration, worthy of 
Aristotle. We do not place him 
on an equality with the greatest of 
pagan philosophers, but we con- 
sider him as one whom Aristotle 
might have been proud to acknow- 
ledge as one of his worthiest disci- 
ples. His analysis of the moral 
basis of positivism, and his demon- 
stration of its worthlessness, can- 
not be surpassed in the line of 
metaphysical and logical argumen- 
tation. It is more tersely express- 
ed in the review articles than in 
the volume. For general reading, 
the more diffuse style and copious 
illustration of the expanded form 



730 



Is Life Worth Living? 



in which it appears in the book be- 
fore us, is an advantage. It is a 
very superficial criticism, however, 
which ascribes an excess of the 
imaginative over the reasoning fac- 
ulty to Mr. Mallock. No man can 
be a successful exponent of philoso- 
phy to a large number of auditors, 
who cannot bring a vivid imagina- 
tion into play, as a subservient in- 
strument to reason. Reason pre- 
dominates in Mr. Mallock's mind 
and in his writings. Let his critics 
try to refute him seriously, and 
they will find it out. This, how- 
ever, is precisely what they cannot 
do and will not attempt. For, as 
he strongly and wittily says, " The 
things we wrestle with are princi- 
palities and powers, and spiritual 
stupidity in high places " (p. viii.) 
It is not a universal ignorance, or 
any gross and revolting form of 
vice, with which the contention is 
waged. By an unheard-of moral 
paradox and lusus natures, " the 
insolence, the ignorance, and the 
stupidity of the age has embodied 
itself, and found its mouthpiece, in 
men who are personally the nega- 
tions of all that they represent theo- 
retically. We have men who in 
private are full of the most gracious 
modesty, representing in their phi- 
losophies the most ludicrous arro- 
gance ; we have men who practise 
every virtue* themselves, proclaim- 
ing the principles of every vice to 
others; we have men who have 
mastered many kinds of knowledge, 
acting in the world only as em- 
bodiments of the completest and 
most pernicious ignorance." We 
have already given our explanation 
of this phenomenon. The deform- 
ed Christianity of Protestantism 
has suddenly come into collision 
with a superior force which has 

* Say rather practise partially some of the 
virtues. 



shattered it. Bewildered by a 
great accession of scientific and 
historical knowledge, and a much 
vaster mass of plausible theory 
which surrounds the nucleus of 
solid fact like a nebula, the Eng- 
lish mind has been thrown from its 
course by the shock of the solid 
body, and dazzled by the haze of 
its cometic tail, so that it has gone 
flying toward the chaos of Atheism, 
in a state of utter confusion. The 
offspring of the English Church and 
her universities, being without any 
adequate theology or philosophy to 
keep them steady and direct their 
rational investigations, have gone 
crazy over the mystery of human 
life and human destiny. In the 
higher philosophy, and the region 
of the more spiritual ideas of ra- 
tional truth, they have become 
lunatics. They still continue to 
use high-sounding moral phrase- 
ology. They pretend to assert that 
life is worthy to be prized and 
venerated for moral reasons, and 
to advocate moral motives of aspi- 
ration and exertion. But they can 
give no rational justification of 
their declamatory rhetoric, when 
they are pressed by close interro- 
gation. They can only assert, and 
declare, in a preaching and horta- 
tory tone, spread themselves for 
poetic and sentimental flights, re- 
peat over and over their set of 
choice phrases, but by no means 
argue or furnish proof. They are 
unwilling to give up all the ethical 
part of religion, but they retain it 
only as an effect of their Christian 
education, and as a residuum of the 
Christian tradition. They have 
thrown away the pure salt and 
broken the salt-cellar, but they 
continue to set out their table with 
dishes seasoned with the discarded 
mineral, and invite their guests to 
taste, and be satiated, and admire 



Is Life Worth Living? 



731 









the wholesome flavor of their en- 
tertainment. 

Assuredly, the positivists are 
bound to render a reason for the 
faith and hope which they profess 
respecting the moral value of life. 
The question is not, whether 
pains or pleasures actually over- 
balance in human life taken in re- 
spect to some portion or the whole 
of the human race. It is not 
whether life can be accidentally 
made a desirable thing, or whether 
many find it, in their personal ex- 
perience, wortli living. It is, 
whether, from moral motives, it 
ought to be esteemed and found 
worth living by all, for its intrinsic, 
essential worth. "At present, as 
we all know, it is called sacred, 
solemn, earnest, significant, and so 
forth. To withhold such epithets 
is considered a kind of blasphemy. 
And the meaning of all such lan- 
guage is this : it means that life has 
some deep inherent worth of its 
own, beyond what it can acquire 
or lose by the caprice of circum- 
stance, a worth which, though it 
may be most fully revealed to a 
man, through certain forms of suc- 
cess, is yet not destroyed or made 
a minus quantity by failure " (p. 4). 
Can this significance which men 
actually attach to life stand a ra- 
tional analysis? Is it wine of the 
finest brand and highest cost, as 
many suppose, or like gooseberry 
champagne which a boy sniffs over 
and slowly tastes with the delight- 
ed and conceited air of a connois- 
seur, because he is told that it 
came from the choicest stores of 
Epernay and cost two hundred 
francs a bottle ? They who affirm 
the high and sacred worth of life, 
but deny that it springs from the 
deathless essence of the spirit which 
informs the human body, and the 
eternal relation of man to the in- 



finite and most perfect Spirit, are 

bound to answer the question 

What is this worth ? 
Mr. Mallock puts them to the 

question, but his analytic rack and 
thumbscrew fail to elicit an answer 
from the tortured victims of his 
merciless logic. It is worth, it is 
worth a great deal ! It. is the com- 
mon, universal good of the human 
race, which subsists perpetually as 
a species, although its individuals 
all singly become extinct. For 
this common good all individuals 
must live and work, and be con- 
tented to sacrifice their private 
good, abandoning all hope and de- 
sire of any perfect and imperish- 
able good for themselves person- 
ally. This is all the answer which 
can be extorted from the positivists, 
and it is no answer at all, but ar- 
rant nonsense and babyish prattle. 
What we want to know is, what is 
the good in its essence and quali- 
ties, which being secured for all 
mankind, will make their life in it- 
self worthy and supremely desira- 
ble. Whatever it may be, it is 
evident that its final result and 
consummation is some kind of 
happiness which all enjoy in com- 
mon. This common happiness in 
the aggregate, can be nothing but 
the sum of the happiness of all the 
individuals who compose the whole 
multitude of human" beings. All 
are agreed in this, that every be- 
ing having consciousness seeks for 
happiness by a necessary propen- 
sity and law of nature. By the 
very same impulse which is the 
motive power propelling him in the 
direction of the object which is ap- 
prehended as his desirable good, 
he is impelled to seek for the 
happiness of other individuals 
whose happiness is a part of his 
own, or subservient to his individual 
enjoyment. A rational being, if he 



732 



Is Life Worth Living? 



acts according to reason, must- seek 
that happiness which is consonant 
to his nature, and in a way which 
reason approves. He will not 
blindly follow a mere impulse, but 
lie will consider what is the true 
and proper object and end which 
he ought to pursue; he will judge 
reasonably and conscientiously that 
he has a right to acquire and pos- 
sess a certain good, before he will 
strive to obtain it ; and he will 
determine that certain ways and 
means of securing it are just and 
good, before he will adopt them. 
Moreover, over and beyond his na- 
tural sentiment of common life and 
sympathy with other individuals of 
his own kind, reason will present to 
him the same intrinsic worth as 
existing in the life of all rational 
beings in proportion to their grade 
and excellence, and cause him to 
estimate the happiness of every 
being possessing consciousness at 
its just value. 

We cannot, however, at one and 
the same time, maintain the supre- 
macy of ethical principles and mo- 
tives, and also set forth happiness 
simply ; merely regarded as consist- 
ing in the gratification of a natural 
appetite, as being only pleasurable 
sensation or emotion ; in the atti- 
tude and relation of a final term 
and object, or, in other words, as 
the highest good in itself, and with- 
out reference to something deeper 
and more ultimate. The considera-^ 
tion of the object of complacency 
precedes the consideration of the 
subjective, complacent rest in the 
object, which is what we mean by 
happiness. The consideration of 
the worthiness of the object deter- 
mines every moral judgment re- 
specting the worthiness of the act 
which tends toward or rests in the 
object with complacent desire or 
delight. Take away objective dif- 



ference and distinction between 
real and apparent good, superior 
and inferior good, the good which 
is consonant to reason and nature 
and that which is dissonant from 
both, founded on the idea of an 
ultimate end for which all beings 
exist, and the whole moral order 
vanishes. The moral order is only 
a spiritual, elevated railway, for 
conducting rational beings safely, 
speedily, and in a direct line, by a 
road raised above the dirty high- 
ways of sin, to their destination. 
If men have no first and final cause 
in God, no immortal destination, 
no attainable good except the hap- 
piness of a short life which be- 
comes extinct in death, all words 
which express moral notions or im- 
ply a moral worthiness in life, are 
empty sounds. Good means simply 
enjoyment, without respect to any- 
thing but your mere pleasure. 
Evil is only a privation of some 
pleasure. Reason dictates but one 
common law. Whatever promotes 
the common enjoyment of the 
pleasures of life is good for the 
community, whatever hinders the 
same is bad for the community. 
There is also but one law for each 
individual. Secure the greatest 
amount of enjoyment for yourself 
which you can obtain without de- 
priving your fellow-men of their 
share, and do your part toward 
promoting their enjoyment. Let 
us suppose that all men really act- 
ed out these rules, and that man- 
kind in general, and all individ- 
ual men singly, should attain the 
maximum of that mere earthly and 
natural happiness of which human 
nature is capable, would life then 
have the worth, the sacredness, the 
solemnity, the highest good of 
which the positivists preach and 
write in such vibrating tones of 
poetry and eloquence ? Mr. Mill 



h Life Worth Living? 



733 



thought nor, and we think not ; and 
if the reader still hesitates, let him 
read attentively Mr. Mallock's 
abundant and conclusive argu- 
ments for the negative. We have 
not space to pursue the subject 
any further in this review. 

The ethical school of positivism 
will prove to be ephemeral. Its 
leaders are men of exact thought 
in so far as they are adepts in ex- 
act sciences, and they have helped 
the cultured world to appreciate 
and require exact thought. But 
in their moralizing essays they have 
utterly abjured exact thought, and 
therefore their ethics will soon pass 
into oblivion. There must be some 
movement on one or other of two 
logical lines leading in opposite di- 
rections. It is necessary to dere- 
ligionize completely, or to return 
to religion and faith. This is Mr. 
Mallock's thesis. And the presen- 
tation which he has made of the 
extent to which the dereligionizing 
process has gone on, and of the 
results which must follow its fur- 
ther progression, strongly corrobo- 
rates what our Catholic theology 
teaches, of the inefficiency of mere 
philosophy, or of religion without 
organic power and authority, to 
sustain and promote the cause of 
natural or revealed truth concern- 
ing things divine among the gene- 
rality of men. We have already 
said that if Mr. Mallock's sweeping 
assertion? of the destructive effect 
of positivism are to be taken lite- 
rally, in the sense that all sufficient 
motives of credibility for rational 
theism or the supernatural revela- 
tion whose beginning is coeval 
with the human race, except the 
one motive of the infallibility of 
the Catholic Church, have been 
proved inconclusive ; we cannot 
accept them. In a modified sense, 
that they have been rendered prac- 



tically inefficacious to convince 
the generality of men, we as- 
sent to them. Philosophers and 
divines speak and write many rea- 
sonable tilings, and they must ex- 
ert some influence in retarding the 
progress of error. But philosophy 
and theology, even when they are 
sound and do not contradict faith, 
are weak for convincing the great- 
er number of men, weak for resist- 
ing popular errors, and impotent 
for regaining lost territory, unless 
they are integrated in the complete, 
synthetical unity of Catholic doc- 
trine, by subjection to infallible 
Catholic authority. It is impossi- 
ble to deny the fact of a deep and 
general lapse from belief in reveal- 
ed and even natural theology, and 
it is proved that a lapse from all 
ethical first principles must follow 
the religious aberration. Mr. Mal- 
lock's own mental attitude, as he 
explains it candidly in his writings, 
is an instance and a strong proof 
of the way in which the great issue 
is shaping and defining itself gra- 
dually but quite rapidly as a choice 
between all truth and no truth, 
Catholic faith and total unbelief. 
His very mistakes and misappre- 
hensions make him all the better 
representative of the multitude who 
have been shipwrecked and left 
struggling in a sea of doubt in con- 
sequence of the disasters caused by 
the Protestant mutiny. He can 
see nothing firm and stable except 
the divine and infallible authority 
of the Catholic Church, no ade- 
quate reason for anything except 
the word of God bearing in itself, 
and making audible in its very in- 
tonation, its own supernatural evi- 
dence that it is God's word, utter- 
ed through his organ, the Catholic 
Church. 

This is God's way of converting 
the world. The world never did 



734 



Is Life Worth Living? 



and never will learn to know God 
in a saving manner by wisdom. 
It is necessary to know enough to 
believe in a reasonable manner, 
but perfect wisdom comes after 
faith. We believe that we may 
understand, and the true sages, 
like St. Paul, their master, "speak 
wisdom to those who are perfect." 
This is the way which is suited to 
the actual condition of mankind. 
God might have made all men on 
an intellectual level with the elite 
of the human race, and made these 
more intellectually perfect than 
they are. The Son of God might 
have kept himself hidden, and 
taught men only through prophets 
and apostles. The revealed truths 
might have been so manifested, and 
the intelligence of mankind so ad- 
justed to the revelation, that the 
divine light would strike all minds 
immediately and compel their as- 
sent. There would then be a cer- 
tain and universal philosophy, am- 
ply sufficient in respect to all ra- 
tional truths for all men, and a 
similar revelation equally immedi- 
ate, clear, and certain to every man, 
in respect to the supernatural mys- 
teries. But it has pleased God to 
appear personally among men, and 
teach them through their miseries 
that their only resource is in a Di- 
vine Saviour. He has made the 
mass of mankind dependent on in- 
struction for wisdom, needing to 
learn through revelation and reli- 
gious teachers even the truth which 
is knowable by natural reason, as 
well as that which is supernatural. 
He has so revealed the divine truths 
that they are not immediately evi- 
dent, but are made known through 
a medium, in such a way that the 
will is free to determine the assent 
or dissent of the intellect. He has 
made the church the medium, with 
infallible and sovereign authority 



to teach and command in the 
doctrinal and moral order. The 
light of reason does not practically 
suffice for men without the light of 
faith, or philosophy without reve- 
lation, even in the natural do- 
main of knowledge and virtue, al- 
though it does accomplish some- 
thing. Revelation itself, when dis- 
sociated from the organic unity of 
the church and the regular current 
of tradition, and thus more or less 
altered and corrupted, though nut 
without power and efficiency for 
partial good, does not suffice for 
the complete result intended by 
Providence, either in the natural 
or supernatural domain of truth 
and holiness. The perpetual ob- 
jection by which this plea for the 
necessity of Catholic authority is 
traversed is, that even the Catho- 
lic Church does not suffice. Suf- 
fice for what ? Compelling the as- 
sent of all mankind, and effectually 
subduing the will of all men to obe- 
dience to the divine law ? But 
this is not the intention of God. 
The freedom of the will and the 
moral discipline of life are not su- 
perseded, but elevated and aided, 
by the law of faith and grace. Re- 
ligion is spiritual and not wholly 
physical; it is a dynamical, not a 
mechanical, force. Liberty to re- 
sist and struggle against it, scope 
for the action of opposing forces, 
intellectual, voluntary, and physi- 
cal, are left intact, that they may 
be, not reduced to nullity, but con- 
tinually overcome in a conflict 
which, through many vicissitudes, 
is gradually progressing toward a 
final triumph. The precise charge 
of failure against theism and Pro- 
testantism is, not that they fail to 
suppress resistance, but that they 
fail to show a force superior to the 
resisting force, that they fail to 
overcome in the conflict with this 



Is Life Worth Living? 



735 



force, and are not tending toward 
a final triumph ; but, on the con- 
trary, are perpetually growing weak- 
er, receding, and approaching to- 
ward a surrender of their quadri- 
lateral, and toward decisive defeat. 
Are there very many highly intelli- 
gent and educated men who confi- 
dently expect that the mass of Ca- 
tholic and Oriental Christians, of 
Jews, Mahometans, Buddhists, and 
other pagans, are ever going to be- 
come Protestants, and that Protes- 
tant Christianity will prevail through- 
out the world as the universal reli- 
gion ? Is it probable, even in the 
opinion of any considerable num- 
ber of enlightened Protestants, that 
Anglicanism, Presbyterianism, Cal- 
vinism, Unitarianism, or any other 
specific form of soi disant genuine 
Christianity, is ever going to pre- 
vail generally and be acknowledged 
by mankind as the one, true religion 
which came from heaven ? We 
think not. And for ourselves, we 
are convinced that there is a moral 
impossibility, equivalent to a phy- 
sical impossibility, that any such re- 
sult should ever be accomplished. 

On the other hand, it cannot 
be shown impossible or unlikely 
that the Catholic Church should at- 
tain any given approximation to 
this grand totality of success, in the 
future. The argument from her 
past and present, from her consti- 
tutive elements, from the trending 
of all events since the world was 
created, from all that converges 
from every side and is focalized in 
her Catholic character, is entirely 
in her favor. Supernatural inter- 
vention is necessary, but this is se- 
cured by the promise of Christ. 

The alternative is chaos, the 
Malebolge of scepticism and nihil- 
ism. Mr. Mallock presents the 
two alternatives in such a manner 
that a person must shut his eyes in 



order not to recognize them. We 
have only dipped into, but not ex- 
hausted, the great topics proposed 
in the extraordinary book we have 
been reviewing. We regret not to 
have space for more extensive quo- 
tation from its pages, and we hope 
that many of our readers will be 
induced to peruse it carefully for 
themselves. In concluding a dis- 
cussion which we leave with re- 
gret, we borrow one of Mr. Mai- 
lock's closing paragraphs, in which 
his and our own argument is 
brought to a fine point, gold tipped 
with iridosmin, reasoning terminat- 
ed by an aspiration of humility and 
prayer, which we devoutly hope 
may open the heart of the author, 
and of readers like-minded with 
himself, to the grace of God. 



" It may be that faith will succeed and 
conquer sight that the precious treasure 
we cling to will nerve us with enough 
strength to retain it. It may be that 
man, having seen the way that, unaided, 
he is forced to go, will change his atti- 
tude; that finding only weakness in pride, 
he will seek for strength in humility, 
and will again learn to say : '/ believe, 
although I never can comprehend' Once let 
him say this, his path will again grow 
clearer for him. Through confusion, 
and doubt, and darkness, the brightness 
of God's countenance will again be visi- 
ble ; and by and by again he may hear 
the Word calling him. From his first as- 
sent to his own moral nature he must 
rise to a theism, and he may rise to' the 
recognition of a church to a visible 
embodiment of that moral nature of his, 
as directed and joined to its one aim 
and end to its delight, and its desire, 
and its completion. Then he will see 
all that is high and holy taking a dis- 
tinct and helping form for him. Grace 
and mercy will come to him through set 
and certain channels. His nature will 
be redeemed visibly from its weakness 
and from its littleness redeemed, not in 
dreams or fancy, but in fact. God him- 
self will be his brother and his father; 
he will be near akin to the Power that is 
always, and is everywhere. His love of 



73 ;/ 3 In the Valley of the Pcmigt ivassct. 

virtue will be no longer a mere taste of everywhere and for ever, and is exalte J 

his own ; it will be the discernment and high over all things in one of like nature 

taking to himself of the eternal strength with theirs, the Mother of grace, the Pa- 

a*d of the eternal treasure ; and what- rent of sweet clemency, who will protect 

ever he most reveres in mother, or him from the enemy, and save him in 

wife, or sister this he will know is holy, the hour of death." 



IN THE VALLEY OF THE PEMIGEWASSET.* 

THE river flows from lofty fount, 

The arid sands caressing ; 
The mists that float above the mount 

Have sent them down a blessing ; 
The light of heaven, the sun's warm beam, 
Deck fair this vale's pine-cradled stream. 

The gracious rain that drops to-day, 

On naked deserts falling, 
From barest peaks of granite gray 

A hidden life is calling 
To bud and shoot in tenderest green, 
Bear flower and fruit of men unseen. 

Unseen by us the germs that start 

To life beneath our sowing ; 
But if within our souls one dart 

Of love to God be glowing, 
Although no blooms our cares confess, 
Like heavenly dews our love must bless. 

Pour forth thy best, O human soul ! 

No stint nor scantness knowing; 
Who gives himself must give, not dole, 

With measure overflowing, 
Nor heed, if well the vase be filled, 
How much be by the wayside spilled. 

If minds seem dull, and hearts be cold, 
Inflame them with thy loving ; 

If arid wastes of self are rolled 

Around thee, patience proving, 

O'erflood them with the generous tide 

Of good-will, pouring free and wide. 

Good will, kind words, and blessed deeds ! 

Is not life worth the living 
When such as we to human needs 

May minister such giving? 
When lowliest soul 'mid mortals placed 
With such a regal crown is graced ? 

* An Indian name, said to mean " The crooked mountain pine place." 



Fear I. 



737 



PEARL. 

KA.r.IL-23-V o'MiYRV, AUTHOR OF " IZ\'s STOXY," " A SALON IV T.i? L VST DAYS OF THE EMPIRE," 

'ARE YOU MY WIFE?" EIC. 



CHAPTER XVIII. 



LADY WYNMERE'S LITTLE SCHEME. 



IT was certainly very tyrannical 
of the War Office to refuse Captain 
Leopold conge to come to Paris for 
the marriage of his sister ; and 
everybody was surprised that his 
mother's zeal and his father's in- 
fluence had failed to obtain so rea- 
sonable a concession assuming, of 
course, that they had applied for it. 
Indeed, Mme. Leopold's lamenta- 
tions over the disappointment plac- 
ed the matter beyond mere assump- 
tion. But, be it as it may, Leon 
was not present at Blanche's wed- 
ding. Pearl was, and looked 
charming in pale-blue silk. Mme. 
Leopold was very affectionate to 
her, and smiled knowingly at 
Blanche when that young lady 
threw her arms round her brides- 
maid and prophesied that she 
would wear the bridal veil next 
of any of the hundred wedding 
guests. 

AVhen the fuss of the preparation 
and the excitement of the wedding 
were over, and Blanche was gone, 
the days were very dull to Mme. 
Leopold. 

" The house seems so lonely 
without her!" sighed the mother to 
Mrs. Monteagle. 

"It is lonely without her," was 
the emphatic rejoinder ; " every 
place is lonely when the young life 
that used to fill it is gone." 

" You are carrying off Pearl next 
week, are you not?" said Mme. 
Leopold. 

VOL. xxix. 47 



" Yes. She conies to me on 
Saturday. You all go off on Mon- 
day, don't you ?" 

" The baron must run down to- 
morrow, but we sha'n't go till 
Monday. There was a telegram 
this morning asking for instructions 
about the felling of a tree which 
they say is in the way of the new 
window, and it is impossible to de- 
cide without being on the spot ; 
the steward is always for cutting 
down old trees, but I never let 
them be touched if I can help it. 
I think it is such a pity." 

"It is a murder," said Mrs. Mont- 
eagle ; ** the man who strikes down 
a full-grown tree without necessity 
is capable of any villany under the 
sun. I hope the baron will stand 
out against his tree being killed." 

Mme. Leopold was amused at 
the vehemence with which she 
spoke, and glad too; it was more 
like Mrs. Monteagle's old self. She 
had lost some of her old spirit of 
late, people noticed. 

" You look better to-day than 
you did on Sunday, chere ma- 
dame," said Mme. Leopold. 

" I am better to-day; not that I 
was particularly ailing on Sunday." 

" You looked tired." 

" I was tired. I generally am 
now. But I am getting used to it ; 
one grows used to everything." 

" Pearl will desennuyer you a 
little ; you are too much alone. It 
is bad to be alone. I know it now 



733 



Pearl. 



by bitter experience." And she 
heaved a deep sigh. 

u Three days can't have taught 
you much of the bitterness of it," 
said Mrs. Monteagle with a chuckle ; 
whereupon Mme. Leopold discov- 
ered that it was time for her to say 
good-by. 

The minister set off to Gardan- 
valle next morning by an early 
train. The distance was only four 
hours by rail ; he would arrive at the 
chateau in time for dejeuner ; if 
the day was fine he was to sleep 
there and return the next morning. 
Mme. Leopold expended a vast 
amount of pity on herself for this 
bereavement of four-and-twenty 
hours, but she managed to pass the 
day without absolutely dying of 
ennui. She had multitudes of vis- 
itors coming to congratulate her on 
her brilliant new maternity, to all 
of whom she responded by a re- 
proachful appeal for condolence. 

" Ma chere fille was everything 
to me ! Now that she is gone, I 
feel as if there were nothing for me 
to do in life. But I draw courage 
in my isolation from the thought 
of her happiness. The dear child 
always declared she would never 
make any other marriage than one 
of affection. This gave me much 
anxiety; those ardent young na- 
tures are sometimes carried away 
by their imaginations, and I could 
not but tremble at the danger 
which my Blanche's sensitive heart 
held for her peace. But she has 
chosen well, and I have reason to 
be thankful that I left her free to 
follow her own instincts. The 
dear child is so happy !" 

Many believed this. Perhaps 
Mme. Leopold believed it. It is 
so easy to persuade ourselves that 
what flatters our self-love is true. 

Mme. Mere and Pearl were to 
have dined with her that day; but 



Pearl begged off. She was suffering 
from headache, and preferred to re- 
main at home. Headaches are a 
most useful institution. It is hard 
to see how society could get on 
without them ; they are messengers 
ready at a moment's notice ; they 
start up like danger-signals to avert 
fatal collisions, to create happy co- 
incidences ; they furnish opportu- 
nities, excuses, combinations; and 
they are so quiet and unassuming 
that they escape notice where 
more important agents would be 
sure to provoke it. 

Pearl's headache was not one of 
these social auxiliaries ; it was a bo- 
na-fide pain in her head. But she 
was thankful to it, though it was 
very disagreeable and compelled 
her to go to bed the moment Mme. 
Mere had left the house. The 
misery and excitement of the last 
fortnight had put a great strain on 
her, and she began to feel her 
strength giving way a little ; she 
had suffered from intense headache 
for several days, but this evening 
she was utterly worn out and gave 
up struggling. 

The next morning the pain, in- 
stead of being better, was worse, 
and she was so feverish that Mme. 
Mere grew uneasy. 

" You are not well, ma petite; I 
will send for the doctor. I don't 
like this headache lasting so long." 

Pearl made a faint protest, but 
she was not sorry to be ordered to 
her room to lie down till the doc- 
tor came. 

An hour passed, and she had 
just fallen into a restless doze, 
when the shrill tones of Mme. Leo- 
pold's voice roused her, and Mme. 
Mere entered the room hurriedly. 

" Mon enfant, we are starting 
for Gardanvalle, my daughter and 
I. My son has met with an acci- 
dent." 



Pearl. 



739 



Pearl sat up and pushed the hair 
from her flushed face. 

" What has happened to him ?" 

" He was thrown from his horse 
on his way to the train this morn- 
ing. The- steward says there is 
nothing to be frightened about, but 
we are going off with a surgeon. 
Ma petite, I am so sorry to leave 
you alone ; but you won't mind it 
for a day or so? Marianne will 
take every care of you, and old Pierre 
says he will watch over you like his 
own child till I come back. The 
doctor will be here before I go, I 
hope ; but if not, you know what a 
kind old man he is. You will not 
be afraid of him." 

" Of course not. But don't think 
of me. I am so sorry about M. 
Leopold ! You will write a line to 
say how he is when you get to Gar- 
danvalle?" 

Pearl was on her feet in a mo- 
ment, losing all thought of herself 
in anxiety for Mme. Mere. She 
did not wait to arrange her disor- 
dered dress, but hurried out, with 
her hair tumbling about her, to 
Mme. Leopold, who was waiting in 
the drawing-room, counting the 
minutes impatiently. 

"Has a telegram been sent to 
Leon ?" said Mme. Leopold when 
they were ready to start. 

"Yes. Pierre ' took it. Now 
;ood-by, ma petite !" And she em- 
>raced Pearl. 

"An revoir, mon enfant, au re- 
roir," said Mrne. Leopold to Pearl, 
ind kissing her with a kindness 
twakened by the pain that craved 
for sympathy. " Priez pour moi, 
pour nous tous !" she added, her 
voice trembling. 

And Pearl returned her caress, 
forgetting everything except that 
the woman who had been unkind 
to her was in trouble. 

The brougham drove away with 



the anxious wife and mother. 
Pearl stood and watched it out of 
sight from the window, and then 
her own pain, which sympathy with 
a greater one had momentarily sus- 
pended, came back with increased 
violence. She grew faint, and it 
was all she could do to get back to 
her own room and fling herself on 
the bed. 

The doctor came in the course, 
of the afternoon, and the cook, in?, 
her new capacity of sick-nurse, as-- 
sisted at the consultation. 

" Nothing serious ; with care and 
rest she will be all right in a few 
days," was the medical man's ver- 
dict. Marianne rose at cxace to 
the emergency ; she entered on her 
functions quite naturally. She put 
Pearl to bed, administered the pre- 
scribed tisane, and was at once as 
much at home in the sickroom 
as amongst her saucepans in the. 
kitchen. 

Pearl felt as if she were- in a 
troubled dream for two- or three 
days. She was too weary to care 
much what they did with her; but 
she was docile, and let Marianne 
have her way in everything. It 
was a relief to be alone and qliiet, 
and if it had not been for the pain 
in her head and the feverish nights 
the enforced rest would'! have been 
enjoyable. Mme. Mere had writ- 
ten to say that the fracture, though 
not dangerous, was serious, and it 
was impossible for her to leave 
Sophie alone with the sufferer until 
he was past all cause for anxiety. 

" So you had better go to Mrs., 
Monteagle without waiting for my 
return, ma chere petite," she added. 
"I shall be spared, at any rate, the 
pain of seeing you go out of my 
house that lonely house which 
you so brightened by your youth 
and sweetness during the too short 
time I had possession of. you. But 



740 



Pearl. 



it is not adieu, only au revoir, n'est 
ce pas ?" 

Pearl's first impulse was to send 
off this note to Mrs. Monteagle ; 
but there was no one near her at 
the moment, so she put the letter 
under her pillow, intending to give 
it to Marianne by and by. Before 
the cook returned, however, Pearl 
had changed her mind. If Mrs. 
Monteagle came she might write to 
them at home, and there was 
trouble enough for her mother with- 
out that. With the boys just get- 
ting through their typhoid fever, 
and Polly and the colonel away, 
what could Mrs. Redacre do ? She 
would want to come over imme- 
diately to nurse her, and this was 
impossible. Confused as her head 
was with that hammer at her tem- 
ples, Pearl was able to follow this 
chain of reasoning, and it led her to 
the determination to send no mes- 
sage to Mrs. Monteagle. Several 
days went by, and she was feeling 
better, and then she began to 
wonder that Mrs. Monteagle did 
not come to see her. Saturday 
was the day they had fixed for her 
to leave the Rue du Bac for the 
Faubourg St. Honore, and it was 
odd that not a sign had come from 
Mrs. Monteagle either to herself 
or to Mme. Mere. She would not 
,'be fit to make the change on Satur- 
day ; the doctor said it would be a 
risk for her to venture out for some 
'days later. .But Mrs. Monteagle 
.knew nothing of this, and it was 
strange, moreover, that she should 
not come to repeat her welcome 
. at least. On Saturday morning 
Pearl wrote a line, telling her old 
1 friend that she wanted to see her. 
''She waited all day for the answer, 
tout it did not come. In the even- 
ing she said to Marianne : 

" I begin to think Mrs. Mont- 
-eagle -must be ill ; Pierre must go 



to-morrow morning and see if there 
is anything the matter." 

Pierre did go, and came back 
with the news that madame had 
slipped on the stairs and sprained 
her ankle, and that she was con- 
demned to her chaise-longue for at 
least a month. She was not able to 
write, being obliged to lie on her 
back, but she hoped mademoiselle 
would come to her as soon as pos- 
sible that is, as soon as she had 
the doctor's permission. 

Pearl was wild to be off that very 
day to nurse her old friend ; but 
Marianne waylaid the doctor on the 
stairs, and he came in with a vio- 
lent protest against such an act of 
rebellion. She was much too weak 
and nervous to undertake the fa- 
tigues of the office of sick-nurse ; 
he would not hear of it ; there was 
no foreseeing what might come of 
it if, in her present state of nervous 
exhaustion, she had another fever- 
ish attack ; it might end in typhoid 
fever; he would answer for nothing. 
Pearl justified the assertion as to 
her nervousness by bursting into 
an hysterical fit of crying; but the 
threat of typhoid, and the thought 
of what this visitation would be to 
her mother, cowed her, and she 
made no attempt to rebel against 
the doctor's commands. 

She sent loving little notes every 
day to Mrs. Monteagle, and receiv 
ed verbal answers through Pierr 
who acted as postman. Lette 
came from home, also, that cheered 
her in her weariness and made the 
days less long. Her mother wrote 
in her usual tone of cheerful cour- 
age and thankfulness : the boys 
were getting on beautifully ; this 
warm weather would help on their 
convalescence better than anything. 
The colonel was very happy with 
Cousin Bob, and had hopes of get- 
ting " something to do." Polly was 



ry 

: 



Pearl 



well and in great request ; the 
county was doing its best to cheer 
her under these trying domestic 
separations. 

But Polly had her own troubles 
that Mrs. Redacre knew nothing 
about. Even Polly herself was far 
from knowing the full extent of them 
yet. She saw that a change had 
taken place in Mr. Danvers, but 
she did not know to what to attri- 
bute it or how deep it really went. 
He had not returned to Lamford 
since that day when he had opened 
his mind to Lady Wynmere ; he 
had gone back to London the next 
afternoon, and not written her a 
line since. She had no idea what 
he meant to do, or if he had made 
up his mind to do anything ; he 
had seemed to her too evenly sway- 
ed by conflicting motives to be 
able to come to a decision, unless 
some new influence were thrown 
into the scales to make them dip to 
one side or the other. His con- 
duct was open to severe blame ; 
but there was something to be 
said in excuse of it. Polly should 
have told him the truth ; its un- 
pleasantness did not justify her 
withholding it, though it excused 
her to a certain point in Lady 
Wynmere's eyes, and she could not 
help wondering that it did not do 
so in Percy's. When a man is 
really in love with a girl he is 
ready to invent excuses for her 
where they don't exist. But that 
was just it. Was he really in love 
with Polly? And Polly did she 
love him ? Lady Wynmere, after 
watching her closely during the 
period of quarantine, when Polly 
and she were thrown into such 
close companionship, came to the 
conclusion that she did. This 
conclusion was the result of no di- 
rect or indirect admission on Polly's 
part. Nothing could exceed the 



dignified indifference which she 
displayed concerning Mr. Danvers. 
She never alluded to him, but if 
his name was mentioned she was 
in no haste to dismiss the subject 
as if it were an awkward or a dis- 
agreeable one ; if Lady Wynmere 
praised his good looks, or his fine 
horsemanship, or his pleasant man- 
ners, she acquiesced, moderately : 
" He was very agreeable and good- 
natured ; but was he not a little 
bit conceited ? Most good-looking 
young men were, and that was the 
reason, perhaps, why they were some- 
times less popular than ugly men. 
Besides, the ugly men were gene- 
rally cleverer ; and it was the busi- 
ness of a man to be clever : beauty 
belonged to women . It did not mat- 
ter what sort of looks a man had, 
so long as he looked like a gentle- 
man. Did not Lady Wynmere 
think so ?" 

Lady Wynmere would qualify 
her assent to these remarks, and 
Polly did not feel interest enough 
in the matter to discuss it further.. 
But her little hostess saw through 
this. Qui s'excuse s'accuse. It 
was all too studied to be genuine. 
Young ladies don't take that serene 
tone of criticism in speaking of an 
avowed admirer, unless they wish 
to convey the idea that he and his 
character and other people's esti- 
mate of him are matters of com- 
plete indifference to them ; and no 
young lady cares to convey this, 
idea unless she feels in her heart 
that it is a false one. Moreover,, 
with all her proud pretence of not 
caring, Polly's face was betraying 
her. Her brow grew clouded ; her 
lips had a hard expression that 
told tales ; she was pale and trou- 
bled, and she took unnecessary 
pains to make Lady Wynmere un- 
derstand that anxiety about the 
boys kept her awake of a night. 



742 



Pearl. 



" I am not clever," thought Lady 
Wynmere, as she noted these signs. 
"If I were clever I might find a 
way out of this trouble for them 
both; but I don't see what I can 
do. If I meddle I may do mis- 
chief." 

But she was too fond of Polly to 
be satisfied with this negative poli- 
cy. Something must be done to 
bring Percy to reason. After ma- 
ture deliberation she decided that 
Polly's personal influence would do 
more than anything else, so she 
wrote, begging him to come down 
to Lamford, as she wanted particu- 
larly to see him. 

Mr. Danvers wrote back to say 
that he was so pressed with busi- 
ness it was out of the question his 
leaving town for the next fortnight ; 
could he not, meantime, know by 
letter what Lady Wynmere had to 
say to him ? 

"He is too clever for me," 
thought the unsuccessful diploma- 
tist ; "he saw through my little 
scheme." 

But Polly was looking so de- 
pressed because she was so de- 
pressed, as Mrs. Monteagle would 
have said that Lady Wynmere set 
to work again for a remedy. 

"You are worrying too much, 
my dear ; you will fall ill yourself 
if you fret about the boys like this. 
I have a great mind to carry you 
offto London for a change. Would 
your mother entrust you to me for 
ten days or so ?" 

Polly brightened up at this pro- 
position. 

u Of course mamma would entrust 
me to you, dear Lady Wynmere ! 
But it would be selfish to go away 
while she is shut up alone here." 

"What use are you to her?" 
said Lady Wynmere. " If there was 
any anxiety of course I would not 
dream of proposing it ; but the 



boys are quite over their illness, 
and it will be just the thing for 
them and your mother to come 
over here for a change while we 
are absent and the Hollow is being 
aired and fumigated. We will stay 
away till everything has been done 
that is necessary, and then we can 
all come back together the colonel 
and Lord Ranperth and ourselves. 
It is a capital plan !" She clapped 
her tiny hands and danced on her 
chair, and Polly kissed her and 
said it was certainly the kindest 
plan that could possibly have been 
devised. 

" And there is to be a charming 

ball at Lady R 's on the 26th, 

and we shall be just in time for it ; 
and the last ball at the palace is to 
be on the 28th, so we sha'n't have 
our journey for nothing," said Lady 
Wynmere, who began to feel quite 
elated at her own cleverness. 

" Oh ! I sha'n't think of going to 
balls," said Polly ; " besides, I have 
not a dress fit to go in." 

" There will be time for that ; 
leave all that to me, my dear." And 
her ladyship flitted across to the 
writing-table and despatched a let- 
ter to Mrs. Redacre, while Polly 
looked out of the window and 
dreamed. Perhaps the mental 
operation in which she was engag- 
ed was too active and wide-awake 
to be called dreaming. She rapid- 
ly ran over the probabilities this 
visit had in store. It was probable 
she should meet Percy; it was proba- 
ble she would brin g him to his senses ; 
it was probable she would have op- 
portunities of making him madly 
jealous, and it was absolutely certain 
that she would turn them to the best 
account. These reflections had 
such an exhilarating effect on her 
that when Lady Wynmere, having 
finished her note, turned round 
and saw the young face alight with 



Pearl. 



743 



the glow of anticipated victory, she 
again congratulated herself on the 
success of her scheme. 

Her next note was to Percy Dan- 
vers. It was better to let him 
know they were coming ; it might 
vex him if he met them suddenly 
somewhere without knowing before- 
hand that they were in town. 

" I am taking her up for a little 
change," she said. " The poor little 
thing has been looking very pale and 
unhappy lately, and I think a little go- 
ing out will do her good. If she is 
thinking of a certain person, who does 
not think so much of her, it will help to 
put him out of her head. I shall take 
her to a few dances, and she is sure to 
make a sensation, especially coming 
towards the end of the season, when a 
novelty produces such effect. She is in 
great beauty, and more sweet and charm- 
ing than ever. I have no doubt but that 
she will take the feather out of every 
belle's cap, and have you all fighting 
duels about her before we return. 

" I have not dared say a word about 
the subject of that conversation. I am 
not clever, you see, and I am so afraid 
of making mischief !" 

Not clever, indeed ! Percy Dan- 
vers took the next train to Lam- 
ford, and arrived there just as 
Lady Wynmere and Polly were re- 
turning from their afternoon drive. 

" Mr. Danvers ! What a nice 
surprise !" exclaimed Lady Wyn- 
mere, as the carriage drove up and 
Percy came forward to assist them 
to alight. 

" You gave me a general invi- 
tation to come whenever I could 
break loose," said the young man. 
" Of course I'm not going to offer 
an apology for having accepted it. 
I know you better than to suppose 
you expect one. Am I not right?" 
he added to Polly, as he assisted 
her from the carriage. 

" People who know Lady Wyn- 
mere always take her at her word," 
said Polly gaily, with head erect, 



and obdurately blind to the ador- 
ing look in Percy's eyes. Let him 
adore ! She would show him 
whether she was a tame bird to 
come hopping to his finger when 
he whistled for it. 

" Come in and give us some cups 
of tea before you go up-stairs, 
dear," said Lady Wynmere, who, 
being off her guard, was letting Mr. 
Danvers see too plainly that his 
arrival filled her with delight. 
But Polly was never off her guard, 
and was in no hurry for tea " she 
hated taking it with her bonnet 
on " so she walked up the great 
wide stairs with a leisurely step, 
while Mr. Danvers dawdled in the 
hall, hanging up his hat, and watch- 
ing to see if she would not turn and 
look down at him from the landing ; 
but Polly swept on and out of sight 
without casting a glance at the 
guilty, disconsolate one. 

Lady Wynmere took advantage 
of the opportunity to read Percy a 
lecture while they were alone. He 
bore it meekly, but made no pro- 
testations of penitence or remorse. 
He had been badly treated, and it 
had taken him some time to get 
over it and make up his mind 
whether he would make it up with 
Polly or not ; but he had decided 
on granting her a free pardon, and 
he had come down to tell her so. 

" But Polly thinks she has some- 
thing to forgive, too," said Lady 
Wynmere, who, for a person so 
wanting in cleverness, was conduct- 
ing Polly's affairs very discreetly. 
" She is evidently very much hurt 
by the way you have behaved. I 
know this, though she never even 
hinted at the subject ; she has such 
a proud spirit I should not be sur- 
prised if she refused to take your 
pardon now. You saw how she 
received you ? Nothing could be 
more cold and indifferent than her 



744 



Pearl. 



manner. You don't know what a 
haughty little spirit she has !" 

This was a check that Mr. Dan- 
vers had not foreseen. He was 
quite taken aback by it, and look- 
ed so surprised and mortified that 
Lady Wynmere began to purr in- 
wardly and to think that perhaps, 
after all, she was not so wanting in 
wits as she had imagined. 

" You think she won't give in 
when I explain how I took her 
want of confidence to heart ?" he 
said. " What has she to complain 
of? If I hadn't been so fond of 
her I should not have minded it 
half as much. Any man would 
have resented being treated in that 
way." 

" Well, you must plead your own 
cause. I can't help you. You 
went away in a huff, and she does 
not know why, and so has every 
right to be angry." 

"A friend can always help a 
friend like you," said Percy. '* I 
expected you would have taken my 
part all this time while I was away. 
I did indeed." 

" You never said so ; and I was 
afraid of meddling. You see I am 
not clever, and so I prefer not to 
run the risk of saying or doing the 
wrong thing. Besides, I saw Polly 
was very angry and unhappy ; but 
this prospect of going to London 
and seeing new sights and faces 
has revived her wonderfully." 

" But you don't mean to take her 
to London now ? " said Percy, un- 
able to repress a start. 

" Why not ?" inquired Lady 
Wynmere innocently. " I am sure 
the change will do her good. She 
has fretted about her brothers, too, 
poor child ! I shall be as vain as a 
peacock chaperoning her about the 
town. I ought to have thought of 
it sooner." 

The butler came in with a note, 



so the conversation was cut short, 
and Lady Wynmere went up-stairs 
to take off her bonnet, leaving Mr. 
Danvers alone in the drawing-room. 
He was in a very bad humor ; he 
felt himself an injured man, and 
Lady Wynmere, instead of smooth- 
ing down his feathers, had taken a 
most unkind, a malicious pleasure 
in ruffling them. She had, in the 
first instance, agreed with him that 
Polly had behaved badly, and that 
he deserved sympathy and she 
blame ; and here she was now all 
on the other side, and bent on tak- 
ing the girl off to London. 

u She will have a dozen men 
ready to blow each other's brains 
out for her before the end of a 
week," was his angry reflection. 
" She sha'n't go to London, if I can 
help it until she comes there as 
my wife." 

Lady Wynmere was a long time 
having her bonnet taken off so 
long that Polly had time to write 
a letter to Pearl, leaving it open 
for a possible postscript to-morrow 
morning, and then to dress for 
dinner and to come down-stairs, 
when to her surprise she found no- 
body in the drawing-room. She 
went into the conservatory to get 
a camellia. Lady Wynmere liked 
her to wear one in her hair of an 
evening. She was fastening it in 
the silky coils, with the help of a 
narrow strip of looking-glass in one 
of the pillars that supported the 
roof, when some one said, " May I 
help you to do that ?" 

And there stood Percy, look- 
ing wonderfully handsome and tall 
and strong, but with a deprecat- 
ing, subdued air about him that 
melted Polly. She let him fasten 
the camellia in her hair, and he 
did it so awkwardly that it fell 
out the moment she moved her 
head. They both laughed, and 



Pearl. 



745 



then he tried it again ; and when 
Lady Wynmere came down dress- 
ed for dinner he was appar- 
ently trying it still, for they still 
were in the conservatory, and in 
the distance, through the screen of 
flowers and tropical leaves, she 
could see the two figures very close 
together ; and when they entered 
the drawing-room that unfortunate 
camellia looked as if it had been 
sat upon. 

*' We have made it up," said 
Percy, leading Polly to Lady Wyn- 
mere, who had discreetly retired to 
the window. " I have gone on my 
knees and eaten the dust at her 
feet, and she has forgiven me." 

" He is telling stories," said Pol- 



ly, tossing her lovely head, with 
a blush soft as a rose. " There 
wasn't a grain of dust on the mar- 
ble to eat, and he didn't even go 
on his knees." 

" Shall I do so now?" And Percy 
made a movement as if he were 
going to drop down before her ; 
but she fled away to Lady Wyn- 
mere, and hid her face on that lady's 
shoulder. 

" Go off and dress ; you will keep 
us waiting for dinner," said her 
ladyship. And Mr. Danvers hur- 
ried out of the room, and reap- 
peared in full evening attire in a 
shorter space of time than it had 
ever taken him to perform the 
change before. 



CHAPTER XIX. 



REST AND PEACE. 



POLLY had kept her own coun- 
sel, and said nothing to Pearl about 
her quarrel if quarrel it could be 
called with Percy Danvers ; but 
now that all was right between 
them, and their engagement for- 
mally announced to Colonel and 
Mrs. Redacre, she indulged in the 
luxury of a long lamentation to 
Pearl, dwelling pathetically on her 
own sufferings, and extending a 
magnanimous pardon to Pearl, who 
had been the immediate cause of 
them. 

" Of course you will now come home," 
wrote Polly. " Percy, who is the very 
essence of good nature, volunteered at 
once to go to Paris and fetch you. You 
will all meet in London, and come down 
here together papa and Cousin Bob, 
and you and Percy and we will stay at 
Lady Wynmere's until the Hollow is 
ready for us. The whole house will 
have to be washed and smoked, and I 
know not what, to get rid of the infec- 
tion, they say ; and the boys' room must 
be repapered, etc. ; and all this will take 



some time. Lady Wynmere is very nice 
and kind, and she and I get on very well 
together. You would call her silly ; she 
thinks a great deal too much of birth and 
race, and that sort of thing, to suit your 
radical taste for heroes and self-made 
men ; her ideas are so thoroughly aristo- 
cratic that she is intolerant of everything 
vulgar or that savors of ' the people.' 
But I expect Percy will convert you 
from all these crotchets, you dear old 
Pearl ; he would never stand his sister 
being a radical, and I musthaveyou and 
he great friends. I mean my marriage 
to make you all very happy at home. 
Percy will be very rich by and by, you 
know. His uncle's death will put him 
in possession of the estate ; and, though 
we are in no hurry to send the old gen- 
tleman to heaven, he is in wretched 
health, poor man ! and past seventy ; so, 
in the course of nature, we can't have 
very long to wait. 

" I hope mamma will now give up wor- 
rying papa about getting something to 
do, as she calls it. I am sure he has 
had lots to do, poor papa ! ever since we 
have been poor. Somebody wrote a 
story called A Schoolmaster Abroad. If 
I were clever I might write one and call 



Pearl. 



it A Schoolmaster at Home. You, who 
are so fond of heroes you ought to 
raise a statue to papa. The way he has 
slaved away with those boys is quite 
wonderful. And yet, to hear mamma 
lamenting over his having nothing to do, 
one would think he sat in an arm-chair 
all day smoking ; she is always saying 
that he would be so much happier if he 
only ' did something.' I dare say you 
think so, too, for you never rested until 
you went off and did something your- 
self. There is one comfort, you didn't 
do much good, so I hope you are cured 
of heroics for the rest of your life. Give 
my love to Blanche and Mrs. Monteagle. 
I am glad Blanche has made such a glo- 
rious match. I like my friends to be 
prosperous and happy, and I am glad 
those designing old frumps who were 
laying traps for M. de Cholcourt have 
all been disappointed. Blanche will 
make as good a Marquise de C. as any 
of the Faubourg girls, and it will be nice 
to go and see her in her chateau. She 
said I must go and stay with her when I 
am married ; so I shall tell her now that 
I mean to accept the invitation sooner 
than she expected. I wonde\ whether 
Mrs. Monteagle would ask me over with 
mamma for a fortnight to get my trous- 
seau? I can't bear the idea of getting it 
in London, and it would be fun to go 
and order it in Paris, Mme. de Kerbec, 
I am sure, would take us in if I asked 
her; but she is such a goose and so 
vulgar that I should not care to be par- 
aded by her as the bride-elect. Still, if 
Mrs. Monteagle can't, or won't, Mme. de 
K. would be a pis-aller ; so I shall write 
a palavering letter to her, announcing 
my engagement. Don't you say a word 
about it till she hears it from me. As I 
am not making a very bad match, she is 
sure to be full of congratulation and 
sympathy. She is a worldly old thing, 
Captain Jack ; but she is good-natured 
after a fashion, and she may turn out 
useful just now. 

" I have no news. Fritz is kept chained 
to his kennel, and he does not like it, 
and ' struggles and howls by fits,' poor 
little man ! Sometimes to quiet him they 
let him up to see the boys for a moment, 
and then they wash him, and he is allow- 
ed to dash over and pay me a visit. I 
tried to keep him here in quarantine ; 
but the struggling and howling that he 
kept up were simply unbearable. 

" Good-by. Let me have a letter saying 



when you will be ready for Percy to go 
and fetch you. 

" Your affectionate sister, 

" POLLY." 

Pearl got this letter in the morn- 
ing, after her breakfast, as she was 
sitting in the garden, where the 
sun was shining warmly a hot 
noon July sun. It was the first 
time she had been out since her ill- 
ness it scarcely deserved so big a 
name, for it had been merely a col- 
lapse of strength from the strain 
put upon the nervous system ; yet 
it had pulled her down a good deal, 
and she felt absurdly weak as she 
sauntered along under the shade 
of two venerable chestnut and two 
elm trees. The neglected old gar- 
den was cool and pleasant, with its 
stone fountain where the water 
used to play in the time of the 
great Revolution. She sat down on 
a rusty iron chair, and read Polly's 
letter for the third time. Of course 
she was glad of this news of the 
engagement, formal and open now ; 
everything in the letter was cause 
for gladness, and yet it brought her 
a strange mixture of pain with the 
pleasure. The worldliness and 
selfishness that Polly avowed with 
a sort of cynical frankness were not 
pleasant ; but the off-hand censure 
of her mother, mocking her anx- 
iety about their father's discontent- 
ed idleness, and the covert sneer 
at Captain Darvallon all this gave 
Pearl positive pain. Poor Pearl had 
too fine an ear for the undertones 
of life; they reached her and pene- 
trated, echoing long after many a 
louder, joyous strain that should 
have drowned them had died away. 
She had got into a state of chronic 
alarm about Polly, as we are apt 
to do about a person whom we 
know to be afflicted with some 
organic weakness which, under 
certain conditions, may at any 



Pearl. 



747 



moment develop to a fatal issue. 
Would not this intense worldliness 
grow to a passion that would choke 
all nobleness out of Polly's nature ? 
Misfortune had not improved 
her; she had been hardened, not 
purified, by passing through the 
fire. It is true that different na- 
tures require different experiences ; 
some flourish best in the sunshine, 
some in the cold ; the tropics give 
us flowers and birds with the plu- 
mage of the rainbow ; the ice-clad 
mountains give us gems and mar- 
bles. Polly was one of the rain- 
bow-feathered creatures that per- 
ish when they are exiled from their 
own burning skies. Born in luxu- 
ry, she had been loving and good 
and free from all defects while she 
breathed her native atmosphere ; 
she would regain her natural char- 
acter when she was restored to it. 
Her marriage would replace her in 
her true element; the rebellious 
spirit would disappear when there 
was nothing to provoke it; her 
heart would expand when it was 
satisfied, and she would cease to 
be absorbed in self when the strug- 
gle was over and self had attained 
its end. This was very poor phi- 
losophy, but in her despair Pearl 
took refuge in it, and it comforted 
her. The song of the lazy sum- 
mer birds sounded cheerier, the 
lights grew brighter on the flow- 
ers, the shadows softer beneath the 
trees, as she read the letter for the 
third time, and reflected that the 
period of dark probation was now 
over for Polly, and that she would 
soon be her own sweet self again. 

" I wish I could see Mrs. Mont- 
eagle at once and tell her about 
the marriage," she thought. It was 
evident that Polly left the asking 
for that invitation in her hands, 
and she had no doubt but that it 
would be volunteered without the 



asking. Why should she not take 
a cab, and drive over at once and 
see Mrs. Monteagle ? It was a 
heavenly morning, and the drive 
could do her no harm. The doc- 
tor had said he preferred she did 
not attempt more than a stroll in 
the garden until the day after to- 
morrow, wh.en Mme. Mere was 
coming back ; but Pearl felt so ex- 
hilarated by the balmy air and the 
bright horizon which this letter 
opened out that she was inclined 
to defy the doctor and steal a 
march on Marianne and old Pierre. 
It would be such a pleasant sur- 
prise to Mrs. Monteagle to see her 
walk in ! With her mind full of 
treason she was crossing the un- 
tidy old garden, sniffing at its beds 
of sweet-smelling flowers here and 
there, when she looked up and 
caught sight of Marianne scraping 
a carrot at the kitchen window. 

" Mademoiselle does not feel too 
tired, does she?" said the kind 
cook, bending forward and looking 
down at her patient. 

" Not a bit, Marianne ! I should 
like to walk to the Bastille, only I 
am afraid you would scold me." 

" I should not scold mademoiselle 
if she walked to the Bastille. I 
should weep over her, because she 
would be dead. And then Mme. 
la Baronne would scold me !" . 

" Then I will not have you 
scolded, my good nurse. I will 
give up the Bastille for this morn- 
ing; but it is a pity, the day is so 
lovely!" 

She sauntered on round to the 
courtyard, to enter by the front 
stairs, which was less steep than 
the back. The wide gates were 
open, and a little victoria was 
crawling down the street. Pearl 
cast a longing look at it ; the 
coachman stopped and held up his 
hand. 



748 



Pearl. 



(i Bonne voiture, madame ! Un 
beau temps pour se promener !" 

Pearl crossed the yard, and got 
in and drove off to the Faubourg 
St. Honore. She would get well 
scolded by Marianne, but the fun 
of the escapade and the delight of 
surprising Mrs. Monteagle were well 
worth it. Dear Mrs. Monteagle ! 
What a loving, faithful friend she 
had proved herself! It would be 
like going home, returning to her. 
And how delightful it would be to 
have her mother and Polly there get- 
ting the trousseau. It was nonsense 
to talk of her going back to the Hol- 
low at once ; she must come and stay 
with Mrs. Monteagle and bully her 
into good spirits, as she had prom- 
ised, and then they would all re- 
turn together, and carry her with 
them and keep her for the wedding. 
How strange that Polly had not 
suggested this ! But Polly was too 
full of her own mighty concerns to 
have room for anybody else's. All 
this would come right, however; 
everything was coming right. The 
dark days were over, and the beau- 
tiful earth was covered with flowers 
and full of sunshine and summer 
shade. How happy they would all 
be when they were together again ! 
She had suffered a little since she 
had taken to playing at heroics, as 
Polly called it ; but it was over now, 
and nothing but the sweets remain- 
ed. Mrs. Monteagle had provided 
nearly all the sweets, and precious- 
ly Pearl meant to preserve them 
loving, tender memories of helpful- 
ness, and sympathy delicate and 
strong, and counsel always wise and 
true. 

" Numero quarante sept, madame 
a dit ?" called out the coachman. 

"Quarante cinq," corrected Pearl, 
and the victoria drew up, and she 
alighted at the house where the 
bright years of her young life had 



run their happy course ; where, at 
the door above, so many affection- 
ate welcomes had awaited her. 

" You will wait ; I won't be long," 
she said as the coachman assisted 
her out. 

Marianne was right about the 
Bastille ; she certainly was not in 
force for a walk there yet. 

The concierge saw her through 
her small window, and stood up 
with a surprised face. 

" How are you. Mme. Labarre ?" 
said Pearl at the open door of the 
dark lodge. " I have been poorly 
these last ten days ; that is why you 
have not seen me. I need not ask 
if madame is at home. I know she 
is not allowed out yet." 

" Out ! Mademoiselle does not 
know?" said the woman, coming 
forward. 

"Oh! yes. I know she had a 
bad accident, and that she is not 
to be moved for some time yet." 

She was turning away when the 
concierge called her back. 

" Mademoiselle, I see, knows no- 
thing. Mme. Monteagle has had 
no accident; she is dead." 



Pearl put her hand to her fore- 
head and reeled against the door. 
The woman caught her by the arm, 
and steadied her, and called to her 
husband, who was working at his 
shoe-mending trade in the next 
room. 

" Make her sit down, and get her 
a drink of eau sucree and fleur 
d'oranges," said the man kindly, 
and he almost carried Pearl to the 
one arm-chair in the place. 

She had not fainted ; she had 
her senses fully about her ; but her 
limbs had nearly given way, and 
there was a sensation in her throat 
as if she were strangling. 

"Go and call Mile. Parkere," 
said Mme. Labarre. The man 



Pearl. 



749 



called to Mrs. Monteagle's maid 
from the court, and she came in an 
instant. 

"O Miss Pearl, Miss Pearl!" 
cried the woman, bursting into 
tears. 

" Is it true?" said Pearl, looking 
at her with horrified eyes out of a 
face as white as a corpse. 

" Indeed it is, miss ! She died 
this very morning ! At ten o'clock. 
Just two hours ago !" 

" My God ! what does it all 
mean ? Why did you not send 
for me?" 

"I didn't dare, miss. They 
wouldn't let me. The doctor that 
was attending her was the same 
that was with you, and he said you 
were so poorly it might kill you if 
you heard she was dying. I begged 
him hard to let me go and tell you. 
I promised him I'd break it very 
gentle. I said it would be harder 
an you to hear the worst without 
having seen her; I did indeed, 
miss ! But he wouldn't hear of it ; 
he said you were all alone here, 
with no one to help you to bear 
the bad news. He was very kind, 
and seemed so sorry; but he 
wouldn't go out of the house till we 
all of us promised we wouldn't take 
you or send you the bad news. 
O my dear mistress !" 

Parker broke down into passion- 
ate sobs. But not a tear came to 
Pearl ; she was too stunned. 

" How long was she ill ?" 

" Just a week, miss. There was 
no hope from the first. It was the 
heart, they said ; she hardly ever 
spoke, but slie had her senses 
about her almost to the last." 

" And was no one with her ? 
Was no member of her family sent 
for ?" 

" No, miss. You see we didn't 
know where to send. None of us 
had Mr. Percy Danvers' address, 



and he was the only gentleman of 
her family that ever came over. 
Mme. Leopold was away with the 
baron, who's got his leg broken, 
and M. and Mme. de Kerbec went 
to the country somewhere just af- 
ter missus was taken ill. There 
was only you could have given us 
the addresses, and we couldn't ask 
you." 

Pearl listened quite calmly, still 
in that dreamy state, stunned, not 
realizing yet the horrible truth. 

" Take me to see her. I must 
see her," she said, rising with a 
sudden energy ; and she caught 
hold of Parker's arm, as if to lead 
her away. 

" O Miss Pearl ! my dear young 
lady! I'm afraid it might be too 
great a shock to you. And, now 
I look at you, you look very ill !" 
said Parker. 

But Pearl, with an impatient 
movement, drew her on and out 
across the porte-cochere and up 
the stairs. The door was ajar, as 
Parker had left it ; the drawing- 
room was darkened ; all the shut- 
ters were closed in the front rooms. 
Nothing was changed anywhere; 
there was the embroidery-frame, 
with its silks and wools on the little 
table beside it, as the worker had 
left them when she drew her last 
needle through the canvas. The 
flowers were faded in their glasses ; 
this was the only semblance of 
death that was to be seen, and yet 
the room was as desolate as if it 
had been the death-chamber. 

" Are you sure you are not 
afraid, miss ?" said Parker, speak- 
ing under her breath, with her 
hand on the door of the inner 
room. 

" No, I am not the least afraid. 
Let me go in. But tell me first," 
Pearl said, as with a vague idea that 
the power of speech might be taken 



750 



Pearl. 



from her by what she was going to 
see, " did she never mention me 
from the time she fell ill ? She 
never asked to see me ?" 

" She never spoke almost from 
the first, miss," replied Parker eva- 
sively, and gently turning the han- 
dle, as if to avoid further ques- 
tioning. 

"'But I want to know. I must 
know if she never spoke of me 
at all. Did she not try to send 
me a message ? Parker, as you 
loved your mistress, tell me the 
truth !" 

"Well, miss, she did; but it 
wasn't my fault, indeed it wasn't !" 
protested the maid, sobbing. 

" I know that. I'm not going to 
blame you ; but I want to know 
what she said." 

" Well, miss, the truth is, we 
were all in such a confusion that 
everything got upset ; but I'm cer- 
tain it'll turn up. When the funeral 
is over and the place is properly 
cleared out, I'm sure as I live the 
letter '11 be found ; I can't con- 
ceive " 

"The letter! It was a letter? 
She was able, then, to write to me ? 
Oh ! why, then, could I not have 
seen her? Parker, for heaven's 
sake, tell me the truth !" 

Pearl was trembling all over. 

" You're going to faint, Miss 
Pearl!" cried Parker, frightened 
out of her wits. 

" No, no," said Pearl. " When 
did she write that letter?" 

" She didn't write it, miss. It 
was a letter that came the morning 
she fell ill. She put it on her little 
writing-table, and before she had 
time to do anything with it she 
fainted, and we had to send for the 
doctor. It was the next day she 
told me to take it and put it into 
an envelope, and then she said I 
was to go off with it to you, and to 



give it into your own hands. * And 
give her my love, Parker,' she said, 
* and tell her she has been a great 
comfort to me ; I send her my bless- 
ing ' But she broke down and 
couldn't finish; the tears came and 
choked her." 

Parker herself broke down here, 
and Pearl, as if some string had 
been snapped by the tender mes- 
sage from her lost friend, gave a 
great cry, and the tears rained 
down her face in a bitter flood. 

" But the letter what did you do 
with it?" she said, when the par- 
oxysm was over and she was able 
to speak. 

"Well, miss, I can't for the life 
of me think where it went," said 
Parker. " The doctor came in just 
at the moment, and I had to fuss 
about, and somehow or other I 
dropped the letter, and, though I 
looked everywhere for it, I couldn't 
find a,trace of it!" 

" O Parker, Parker !" cried Pearl, 
wringing her hands and sobbing 
passionately. 

"Indeed, Miss Pearl, I could 
have cried myself for vexation ; but 
it's sure to be found, for I missed 
it the moment the doctor went, and 
I hadn't stirred from the room." 

" What sort of a letter was it ? 
Was it an English one ? Had it 
English stamps on the envelope ?" 

" No, miss ; they weren't queen's 
heads. There were a lot of stamps, 
but I don't know what was on 
them ; it was a large letter, and 
fine, bold handwriting ; that was all 
I saw when I was putting it into 
the other envelope." 

This was dreadful. There was 
no use upbraiding Parker ; but if 
the letter was not found it would 
add a life-long regret to Pearl's 
sorrow. She turned the handle of 
the door softly, and went in. The 
room was darkened, but one spot 



Pearl. 



751 



was appallingly luminous ; it was 
as if every ray of light had been 
gathered up from the surrounding 
gloom to make more distinctly visi- 
ble the figure lying with upturned 
face upon the bed. How still it 
was ! What a royal peace sat on the 
wan features, what a placid smile on 
the closed lips, what a beam of im- 
mortality on the smooth brow ! 
This was the first time Pearl had 
looked on death. She had entered 
the presence filled with a kind of 
shrinking horror that was only 
overcome by a longing stronger 
than fear ; but as she gazed on the 
white, cold face, white as nothing 
else is white, cold as nothing else 
is cold, her terrors vanished, and 
something of the solemn peace of 
death fell upon her heart. Gone ! 
Dumb ! Those lips that had spo- 
ken so many kind words to her 
would never speak again. Those 
ears would never again be opened 
to her voice. Those hands would 
never feel the pressure of hers. 
Gone ! The gates were past. The 
veil was drawn back ; but only for 
the spirit that had fled. Nothing 
could follow it beyond that thin, 
impenetrable screen, nothing could 
pierce the darkness. What a soli- 
tude that going forth made for 
those who were left behind ! How 
overpowering the presence of the 
departed one was ! It seemed to 
Pearl that her heart ceased to 
beat, that everything was hushed 
to an unearthly silence, listening to 
the silence of that figure on the 
bed. She looked, and looked, un- 
til she fancied the lips moved. 
Were they asking for a kiss ? She 
stole gently round to the bedside, 
and bent down, and kissed the 
cold, white forehead. The touch 
went through her like a sting of 
ice. She dropped on her knees, 



and buried her face in the bed, 
and wept bitterly. 

" Come away, miss," said Parker 
in a whisper, and attempting to 
raise her. 

Pearl let herself be lifted, and 
then bent forward and imprinted 
one more kiss on the white brow, 
hertears flowing abundantly all the 
time. She was moving away when 
at the door she missed her hand- 
kerchief. 

" Go in, miss ; I will fetch it," 
said Parker, turning back. In a 
minute she reappeared. 

"Here it is! Here is the letter, 
miss. It had slipped in between the 
mattress and the wood, and in get- 
ting at the handkerchief I pulled it 
up." 

Pearl took the letter almost joy- 
fully. It came like a message from 
the silent lips. She sat down and 
opened the blank envelope. The 
letter within was addressed in an 
unknown handwriting, but the post- 
mark was Vienna. Her heart, that 
had seemed stricken with paraly- 
sis a moment before, gave a sud- 
den leap, and then went on beat- 
ing so violently that she had to 
hold her hand to her side to still it 
before she could bring herself to 
read the letter : 

" MADAME : 

" The mission on which I was so hastily 
despatched is now nearly at an end, and 
I expect to be in Paris in less than a 
week. Meantime, I come to you for ad- 
vice and help in a matter of deep impor- 
tance to me, and to one dear to you one 
of whom I have heard you speak as of an 
adopted child. Am I mistaken in sus- 
pecting that my love for her is no secret 
to you ? If so, I confide it to you now. 
I love her, and it is the ambition of my 
life to win her love and to make her my 
wife. I dare not flatter myself that 
she cares for me, but she must know that 
I love her, and she has not resented my 
boldness in venturing to do so. This is 



752 



A Mission Mass. 



all I have to build upon. But when a 
man loves as I do, this same is much. 
And I am patient. My love is strong 
enough to live a long time on hope. 
There is no trial she can put me to, no 
sacrifice she can ask of me, that I am not 
willing to accept ; if only she gives me 
leave to work for the greatest happiness, 
the highest privilege this world could 
bestow on me, that of one day calling 
her my wife. I am a poor man ; she also 
is without fortune ; and this is the only 
point of equality between us. I am a 
son of the people ; my blazon is my sword 
and a name that can boast of no illus- 
tration beyond that which honor lends 
to the most plebeian. I believe that her 
soul is great enough to overlook these 
shortcomings, and to bestow her hand 
where her heart found a love worthy of 
it ; but I cannot ask her to do this. I can- 
not ask her to decide her own fate with- 
out having first the consent of her father 
to address her. Is it perfectly hopeless 
forme to ask for this consent? You 
know him, and you can advise me. I 
have the possibility of getting an ap- 



pointment which would considerably 
increase my pay, and which I should 
apply for immediately if I could hope 
that she, whose name I do not even dare 
to write, would consent to share my 
poverty, and give me with her love a pos- 
session that I would fling away wealth 
and fame, and risk even life itself, to buy. 
If you could read my heart, you who 
love her, you would not be afraid to en- 
trust her to me. 

" Madame, I place my cause in your 
hands. If you believe that you can 
further her wishes and her happiness 
by pleading it, you will do so. If not, 
throw this letter into the fire, and for- 
give the boldness that prompted it a 
boldness that draws its only strength, its 
only justification, from a love stronger 
than death. I will not pursue her ; I 
will not resent her rejection ; I will never 
intrude myself upon her presence ; I will 
go away to Africa, if she so wishes it ; but 
one thing she must not ask me to do 
that is, to cease to love her. 

" I have the honor to remain, madame, 
" RAOUL DARVALLON." 



TO BE CONTINUED. 



A MISSION MASS. 



THE fog slow lifted o'er the hills, 

Their wooded crowns unveiling, 
Slow lifted from the inland stream 

Through widening meadows trailing; 
The busy little white-walled town, 

To ragged hillside clinging, 
Woke not with restless start to hear 

The work-day summons ringing ; 

The mill-race poured no eager flood 

For clattering wheel's full-feeding, 
And youth and maiden wandered by 

The factory door, unheeding ; 
From belfries, crowned with cock and vane, 

The service bells were pealing, 
The Sunday rest the day had brought 

In jangling notes revealing. 



A Mission. Mass. 753 

Beyond the village' dusty edge, 

On bluff the river crowning, 
Where path-worn greensward and gray fence 

Marked still some human owning, 
Here humble wanderers gathered near 

A cabin rude and lowly 
The August sunshine in the town 

Shone on no spot so holy 

Within whose rudely sheltering walls, 

Beneath whose darkened ceiling, 
Rough-seeming hearts with reverent thought 

Awaited Heaven's healing ; 
Awaited Him who came of old, 

No grander refuge claiming, 
His worshippers, the shepherds meek ; 

His guard, the angels flaming. 

This day again he came with train 

Of angels, all adoring ; 
The modern town, like Bethlehem, 

His presence sweet ignoring. 
Within the Irish workman's hut 

Knelt Erin's faithful people ; 
In vain for them the swinging bell 

Called from the village steeple. 

Too scant the cabin's log-bound walls 

To hold the flock adoring, 
Whose sturdy members stood without, 

Recked not the sunshine pouring 
With summer's passion on the sod, 

From skies clean-swept and glaring ; 
Who knew the presence of the Lord, 

Their heads before him baring. 

No common Sunday this for them, 

This joy they knew but rarely, 
Who on the iron pathway's track 

Hard labored late and early ; 
For whom no sacred house of God 

Its broad-armed cross uplifted- 
So far from faith's pure Sacrifice 

St. Patrick's children drifted. 

Yet ever when their Lord drew near, 
Their hearts' warm shelter seeking, 
They held his priest their dearest guest, 

Their homes his altar making 
VOL. xxix. 48 



754 A Mission Mass. 

An altar bare of earthly pomp, 
Yet rich in loving tender, 

And perfect in the Sacrifice 

That God to God should render. 

No less was theirs who knelt about 

That spot so poor and lowly 
Than stirred the consecration bell 

Of Old-World shrines most holy. 
Though through no painted window fell 

The tale of saint's devotion, 
Nor organ's low and lengthened swell 

Stirred reverent air to motion, 

Yet even to this pauper state 

Would come the Lord of Heaven, 
His perfect presence, love-disguised, 

In grace divine be given ; 
Yet blessing not alone with love 

Brave Ireland's sons and daughters 
Soft gleamed silk robes of matrons fair 

Who dwelt by distant waters, 

Who sought the green New England hills 
For loved one's health retrieving, 

Who late had learned the beauty strange 
Of these poor hearts' believing. 

Here maiden knelt to whom the faith 
^ Taught noble w^s of duty, 

Showed wondrous paths, illumined fair 
Beyond all earthly beauty ; 

Knelt little child, with childish awe 

And simple wonder gazing, 
Whose memory e'er hath kept the lines 

Of that day's sunny tracing 
The glitter of the summer sky, 

The soft mists slow unfolding, 
The humble cabin's narrow walls 

The perfect worship holding; 

The quaint Franciscan's robe of brown 

Beneath his vestments gleaming, 
The stranger-matrons' broideries soft 

Like Gentile monarchs seeming 
The pure, true-hearted courtesy 

The simple people proffered, 
The inborn grace of chivalry 

With Celtic fervor offered ; 



The Tomb of Magdalene. 



755 



The bending down in her own land 

Amid the'foreign nation; 
The half- felt wonder of the heart 

At truth's sad isolation : 
And still she keeps, the wonder lost, 

The far-off childish vision, 
The fair New England hills made glad 

With poor Franciscan's mission. 

Strong sound to-day within that town 

Bells pealed from cross-crowned steeple, 
And where once knelt a handful scant 

Now throngs a growing people 
Winning the fulness of the soil 

While richer harvest sharing, 
Still on the railway's smoke-wreathed path 

The cross's standard bearing. 



THE TOMB OF MAGDALENE. 



WE descended from the Sainte 
Baume on foot, following our guide 
through the low bushes and sharp 
rocks that cover the steep sides, by 
intricate paths it required no little 
sagacity to trace. We hope the 
way was better when the Grand 
Monarque and his court came 
down to dine at Nans because he 
would not eat meat on the holy 
mountain. Nans is a little hamlet 
at the foot. It was there, at a fork 
in the road, we took the diligence 
to the town of St. Maximin. We 
arrived after an hour's drive ; but 
it was already too dark to see any- 
thing of the place, and, having no 
hungry courtiers in attendance to 
urge on us the necessity of dining, 
we went at once, footsore as we 
were, to the chapel of the Domini- 
cans. They were saying Complines 
behind a veiled screen in their 
measured recitative way, with a 
numerous congregation in the out- 
er part silently praying in the ob- 



scurity. There was only a -feeble 
lamp before the pale statue of Our 
Lady, with a taper or two by which 
some old people were reading their 
prayers. At the Salve the screen 
was withdrawn, according to the 
custom of the Dominicans. The 
altar was lit up, and we could see 
the fathers in their white woollen 
robes and shaven crowns, as they 
sang the evening hymn to a grave, 
sweet air peculiar to themselves. 
Then, as they knelt, the prior gave 
them his benediction with the as- 
persorium, and afterwards to the 
congregation : Noctem quietam et 
finem perfectum concedat nobis 
Dominus Omnipotens May the 
Almighty God grant us a quiet 
night and a perfect end. Amen. 
The screen was closed, the lights 
were extinguished, all but that be- 
fore the tabernacle, and the people 
stole quietly away in the darkness, 
as if peace had descended upon 
them with the prior's blessing. It 



75 6 



The Tomb oj Magdalene. 



was like a mediaeval picture un- 
veiled for a moment, and then con- 
cealed from our view. Going out 
in our turn, we passed beneath the 
dark shadow of the church of St. 
Maximin, so interesting to the arch- 
aeologist and pilgrim, which we had 
come to visit, and were soon in a 
narrow cell under the guard of St. 
Dominic. The next morning at 
an early hour we went to the church, 
where we spent the greater part of 
the day, for there is little else of in- 
terest in the place. 

St. Maximin owes its origin and 
celebrity solely to a tomb. It is a 
small Provencal town that stands 
in a solitary plain enclosed among 
hills that descend from the three 
ranges of Mt. Aurelian, Mt. St. 
Victoire, and the mountain of the 
Sainte Baume. The plain of St. 
Maximin is dry and monotonous, 
the roads that traverse it are daz- 
zling white from the chalky rocks, 
but it has a picturesque outline, 
and a history of its own exclusively 
religious and legendary. For here 
was buried St. Mary Magdalene in 
a tomb of alabaster, suited to her 
who broke -the precious vase over 
the feet of the Son of God. This, 
says Lacordaire, is one of the three 
great tombs in the Christian world. 
Not to speak of the Holy Sepul- 
chre, it comes immediately after 
the tomb of St. Peter at Rome ; for 
she who, out of the mists of death 
that barely veiled her brightness, 
was raised to the triumph of her 
Assumption, left no tomb on earth, 
and the disciple so dear to the 
Sacred Heart was allowed to remain 
buried, as it were, in his Gospel. 

No woman, except her " above 
all women glorified," has been 
more venerated in the Christian 
world than Magdalene. All the 
doctors, all the Fathers of the 
Church, every nation that has re- 



ceived the light of the Gospel, have 
sounded her praises. In England 
alone there are one hundred and 
fifty churches that bear her name. 
Poets and artists have celebrated 
her beauty, her golden hair, and 
her penitent life. Christian chival- 
ry took her for a patroness. Her 
name was a watchword for the Cru- 
saders. It was natural for those 
who went to the rescue of the Holy 
Sepulchre to choose as their guide 
one who, by her repentance and 
love, merited to lead the disciples 
to the tomb of the risen Saviour. 
A whole race of princes, as Lacor- 
daire says, consecrated themselves 
to her service. The first of them 
discovered her remains, so long 
concealed through fear of the bar- 
barians, digging the ground with 
his own royal hands. Bishops re- 
moved her body with respect. A 
king sent his own crown to adorn 
the brow a divine hand once touch- 
ed. Gold, silver, and precious 
stones were lavished on her shrine. 
An immense crowd hailed the dis- 
covery. Rome, source of truth, 
consecrated the solemn triumph by 
her approbation. The greatest of 
the French monarchs, after the ex- 
ample of his race, came to render 
homage at her tomb. In one day 
it was visited by five kings ; in 
one century, by eight popes.* 

According to the old Provencal 
legend, Magdalene, after spending 
thirty years in the sublime solitude 
of the Sainte Baume without hold- 
ing any intercourse with mankind, 
was transported by the angels, ac- 
customed to bear her to the Saint 
Pilon, to an oratory several leagues 
distant built by St. Maximin on 
the Aurelian Way. This place is 
now marked by a tall stone pillar 
on the roadside, curiously sculp- 
tured, likewise called the holy Pie- 

* Lacordaire's Sainte Marie Madeleint, 



The Tomb of Magdalene. 



757 



loun, or Pilon. The processions 
from St. Maximin at Rogation time, 
etc., stop here to sing" the Gaudez 
in her honor. This pillar was set 
up centuries ago with a statue of 
Magdalene on the top completely 
covered by her long hair, sustained 
by four angels. When brought 
here her face reflected so much 
of the dawning glory of heaven 
that St. Maximin was filled with 
awe and dared not approach her. 
But she told him she was only 
Magdalene, the sinner whom he had 
baptized in the Jordan, who had 
come with him to Marseilles. God 
had preserved her all these years 
that she might have space to do 
penance. Then with streaming 
eyes she begged for the Viaticum 
of souls, as she was about to pass 
to the heavenly life. He gave her 
the divine food, and then, says St. 
Antonin,she expired in the oratory 
where she received her Lord, in 
the presence of St. Maximin and 
all the clergy, on the eleventh day 
before the kalends of August, leav- 
ing behind her, says the Golden 
Legend, so sweet an odor that the 
oratory remained perfumed for 
seven days. St. Martha at Taras- 
con saw her soul borne to heaven 
by the angels, and cried : " Goest 
thou to enjoy without me the sweet 
presence of the Lord Jesus, whom 
we both loved so much, and who 
so loved us ?" 

The clergy bore her body to a 
chapel near the ancient Villa Lata, 
or Tegulata, and St. Maximin, af- 
ter embalming it, buried it in a 
tomb of alabaster, and over it 
erected a basilica. A holy guard, 
with a few short intervals, has al- 
ways kept prayerful watch around 
it. Cassian, we know, or his fol- 
lowers, established a convent here 
in the fifth century under the invo- 
cation of St. Maximin, the first 



apostle of this region. It after- 
wards belonged to the Benedic- 
tines. It was not till the thirteenth 
century it was given to the Domi- 
nicans, and became one of their 
most important establishments in 
France. 

It was in the time of the Cas- 
sianites that the Saracens invaded 
Provence. It was then that Mag- 
dalene's remains were taken from 
her tomb for safety and buried in 
the ground, where they remained 
till 1279. The precise spot was, 
in the course of ages, forgotten, 
but that they lay somewhere in the 
precincts was a constant tradition. 
In spite of this it began to be ru- 
mored that Gerard de Roussillon 
had removed them to Vezelai. Per- 
haps some other holy body had 
been mistaken for hers some 
sainted nun who had borne the 
name of Magdalene. The church 
at Vezelai where the great penitent 
was honored began to be famous. 
In the time of the Holy Wars many 
of the Crusaders, as did Richard 
the Lion-hearted, went there to 
receive the cross. St. Bernard 
preached the second Crusade there 
to a multitude of lords and knights. 
The bishop of Autun formally pro- 
tested against pilgrimages to Veze- 
lai in view of the constant tradition 
at St. Maximin. And though St. 
Louis went there before going to 
the Holy Wars, the Sire de Joinville 
unhesitatingly says her body re- 
posed a short day's journey from 
Aix. The popularity of Vezelai, 
which, after all, only confirmed the 
tradition of Magdalene's coming to 
Provence, died out after the dis- 
covery of her real tomb, and the 
relics honored there were burned 
by the Calvinists in the sixteenth 
century at the instigation of Theo- 
dore de Beza, a native of Vezelai. 
A portion of Magdalene's re- 



753 



The Tomb of Magdalene. 



mains had always been kept for 
veneration at St. Maximin in a 
wooden coffer called the Arche des 
Vertus the Ark of Power, or mi- 
racles which used to be carried 
in procession on Ascension day, 
the people passing beneath, kissing 
the rich drapery that veiled it. 

It was a nephew of St. Louis, 
Charles of Anjou, Prince of Saler- 
no, afterwards King of Naples, Si- 
cily, and Jerusalem, as well as 
Count of Provence, who, out of 
hereditary devotion to Magdalene, 
resolved to bring her tomb once 
more to light. A legend says she 
appeared to him and told him he 
would find it beneath a bush of 
fennel still green in spite of the 
frosts of winter. He took the 
spade and dug himself with the 
workmen till the tomb was found. 
When the clergy opened it a won- 
derful odor was diffused around, 
as of sweetest aromatic spices, 
which is thus alluded to in the an- 
cient liturgy of Aix : 



" Sacrum corpus balsamum 
Transcendit odore." 



The skin still adhered to the 
forehead on the spot touched by 
the risen Saviour, as if from a 
remnant of life. This became 
known to pilgrims as the Noli me 
tangere. The tongue also that an- 
nounced the resurrection of Christ 
was well preserved. In it had 
taken root, says the legend, the 
fennel plant that grew green above 
the grave the giant fennel in the 
stalk of which Prometheus brought 
to earth the fire stolen from hea- 
ven. The lower maxillary bone 
was wanting. This was at the 
church of St. John Lateran at 
Rome, and was found to corre- 
spond exactly when Magdalene's 
head was taken there for the Sove- 
reign Pontiff to venerate 



In the tomb was a box of cork 
containing an inscription on parch- 
ment, put in by the Cassianites, 
stating that December 6, 710, dur- 
ing the reign of Eudes, King of the 
Franks, the body of Magdalene, 
out of fear of the Saracens who had 
invaded the country, was secretly 
transferred in the night from her 
sepulchre of alabaster to the mar- 
ble tomb of St. Sidonius, in which 
it was buried. Critics long object- 
ed to this inscription on the plea 
that there was no king of the name 
of Eudes, or Odo, in the eighth 
century ; but it is now known this 
was Eudes, Duke of Aquitaine, the 
great-grandson of Clotaire II., who 
declared himself independent when 
Pepin le Bref took possession of 
the kingdom of Austrasia, and 
reigned as sovereign over all that 
part of France between the Loire 
and the ocean, and even beyond 
the Rhone. Many old documents 
call him king, and his charters bear 
the date of his reign. It is not 
surprising that the very clergy of 
later times should be staggered by 
this objection, when even experts 
in history a century ago were un- 
aware that Eudes ruled over this 
part of Provence and styled him- 
self king. This very fact only 
serves now to prove the authenti- 
city of the inscription. The Do- 
minicans had nothing to do with 
the discovery of the tomb. They 
were not established here till six- 
teen years after. 

A second inscription was found, 
written on a wooden tablet faced 
with wax. Such tablets were in 
common use in the early ages. We 
know that St. Honorat wrote St. 
Eucher on waxen tablets. St. Hi- 
lary of Aries tells how the latter 
replied on one occasion : " You 
have restored the honey to its wax 
or comb," alluding to the sweetness 



The Tomb of Magdalene. 



759 



of St. Honorat's style. This in- 
scription simply said : " Here lies 
the body of Mary Magdalene," but 
Charles could scarcely read it on 
account of its antiquity, whereas 
he had no difficulty as to the one 
on parchment. 

Magdalene's remains were divid- 
ed into three portions. For the 
body Charles had a silver shrine 
made, ornamented with gold, and 
six bishops of Provence placed it 
reverently therein the Sunday after 
the Ascension, 1280. A silver arm 
was also made for two bones of the 
right arm. And for the head there 
was a bust of silver and gold, set 
with diamonds, sapphires, emeralds, 
topazes, rumes, and pearls. On 
a plate of gold was inscribed : 
" Stained first by sin, but after- 
wards purified by holy love, Mary, 
the admirable hostess, the devoted 
follower of Christ, after traversing 
the seas, filled this land with the 
splendor of her sanctity. The 
prince of Salerno in 1283, out of 
love to the Supreme Goodness, 
placed this holy relic in its chasse 
of gold, and adorned it with 'a royal 
crown. O Mary ! protect Charles 
during his life, and open Paradise 
to him at its close." It was his 
father, Charles of Sicily, who sent 
his own crown to be placed on the 
bust. 

Charles II. founded the church 
of St. Maxirain, on the site of the 
ancient one, but it was not com- 
pleted till the time of King Rene, 
two hundred years after. He had 
the Dominicans placed here in 
1295, exempting them from all but 
a nominal tax, out of honor, as he 
says, to the remains of St. Magda- 
lene, which he had discovered, and 
which now reposed in the church. 
He gave them his library, in which 
were many valuable manuscripts, 
including a Bible in seven langua- 






ges, now at the Vatican. He trans- 
mitted his devotion to Magdalene 
to his fifteen children, especially to 
St. Louis of Toulouse. He him- 
self was regarded as a saint, and 
his tomb in a monastery he found- 
ed at Aix was resorted to by many 
people for cures. 

The church of St. Maximin was 
contmued by the pious liberality 
of the counts of Provence, who in- 
variably assigned as their motive: 
Ob reverentiam beatae Marias Mag- 
dalense, cujus beatissimum corpus 
'requiescit ibidem. They even sac- 
rificed a portion of the public reve- 
nues for the purpose. King Robert 
set apart the gabelle at Nice for ten 
years. And two thousand florins 
that had been dishonestly appro- 
priated by the fiscal agents during 
his reign, and restored through the 
confessional, were also given to the 
work. The pious Marshal Bouci- 
caut, whose valor was of so much 
service to his country, repaired the 
ancient crypt and built one of the 
chapels. But its completion was 
chiefly due to King Rene, who is 
regarded as its second founder. 
He had a great veneration for the 
early apostles of Provence, espe- 
cially Magdalene, and showed his 
passion for the arts by building 
and adorning numerous churches. 
He imposed great sacrifices on him- 
self to complete that of St. Maxi- 
min, and founded, moreover, four 
lamps to burn in the church two 
before the high altar, and two in 
the crypt before the shrine of Mag- 
dalene assigning two measures of 
oil for this purpose from the royal 
domains, afterwards acquitted by 
the lords of Carqueirane. This 
beautiful custom among the princes 
and nobles of the middle ages of 
making a foundation for a lamp 
before the Blessed Sacrament, the 
altar of Our Lady, or the shrines of 



760 



The Tomb of Magdalene. 



the saints, has not wholly died out 
in Catholic lands. Scarcely a cele- 
brated sanctuary but has its perpe- 
tual lamp or taper due to pious 
liberality. Who that has visited 
Lourdes has not been struck by 
the enormous candles, the offering 
of the rich, slowly consuming in 
the grotto as well as the meagre 
tapers, the more affecting offerings 
of the poor ? 

King Rene also founded a col- 
lege in connection with the con- 
vent. He usually spent the Great 
Week of the Holy Passion at St. 
Maxirnin's in solemn recollection 
and attending the religious exer- 
cises in the church. He left six- 
ty-six hundred florins * in his will 
to continue the works, enjoining 
on the friars to give hospitality 
to the counts of Provence, as 
patrons "of their house, whenever 
they came to St. Maximin's, and 
desiring that the prior and breth- 
ren, in their turn, should be freely 
entertained whenever they went to 
court, and as long as they chose to 
remain. The Dominicans at the 
end of every office used to say 
the Absolve ', quczsumus, Domine, for 
Charles II., Robert I., Louis II., 
and Rene, as the four chief bene- 
factors of the house. 

The kings of France were no 
less generous, and down to the 
time of Louis XV. confirmed all 
the ancient privileges of the 
church. Louis XL allowed it an 
annual revenue out of devotion to 
Mme. Saincte Marie Magdaleine, 
la glorieuse dame et amye de Dieu. 
Charles VIII. gave five silver reli- 
quaries to contain the heads of 
five saints entombed in the church, 
among whom were SS. Marcella 
and Susanne, who came from the 
East with the family of Bethany, 
and SS. Blaise and Siffrid, disci- 

* A florin is equivalent to 8.25 francs. 



pies of St. Maximin. When Anne 
of Brittany came here she gave four 
angels of silver gilt to support the 
bust of Magdalene. She had her- 
self represented kneeling on the sil- 
ver pedestal a statuette of enam- 
elled gold, a work of remarkable ex- 
ecution. 

Francis I. visited the church 
with a great train to give thanks 
for the late victory of Marignano. 
He was accompanied by his mo- 
ther, Queen Claude, his wife, and 
his sister Margaret, Duchess of 
Alenpon, afterwards Queen of Na- 
varre ; they were not permitted 
to enter the crypt, which was for- 
bidden to women, but the king and 
lords went down to pay their de- 
votions. 

Louis XIV. visited St. Maximin ' 
in February, 1680, with his mother, 
Anne of Austria, and a numerous 
retinue. They arrived at six 
o'clock in the afternoon, and, ac- 
cording to Pope Boniface's orders 
in 1295 as to the reception of the 
king, the monks, sixty in number, 
each with a lighted candle and 
wearing his richest cope, went out 
in procession to meet him. The 
church was lit up with more than 
five hundred flambeaux. They 
conducted the king to the high al- 
tar, and the Te Deum was sung. 
His devotions completed, he was 
taken to the hospice of the con- 
vent, where he was served at table 
by the prior and the chief of the 
brethren. The next morning he 
heard Mass at the high altar, but 
the queen went down to the crypt 
and there received holy commu- 
nion, showing that the custom of 
excluding women had been abol- 
ished. But men were still obliged 
to lay aside their arms before en- 
tering it, and the king and all his 
lords conformed to the rule. They 
afterwards ascended to the Sainte 



The Tomb of Magdalene. 



7 6i 



Baume in spite of the snow and 
ice on the mountain, and at their 
return Magdalene's shrine was 
opened, her remains were taken 
out by the clergy and examined by 
the king's physician, and the king, 
torch in hand, followed them from 
the crypt to the high altar amid the 
acclamations of the multitude, and 
there they were placed in a porphy- 
ry urn, the gift of the archbishop of 
Avignon. This urn rested on two 
dogs with flaming brands, the cog- 
nizance of the Dominican Order, 
and was surmounted by a bronze 
statue of Magdalene reclining, the 
work of Algardi. The king set his 
seal to the urn. Fifteen days after 
he returned here from Toulon. 
The queen gave three thousand 
livres to the church, and the king 
drew up a proces-verbal concern- 
ing the translation of the relics : 

" It having been thought proper 
that the bones of St. Mary Magda- 
lene, the incomparable penitent, 
who once received from the lips of 
Truth itself the assurance of her 
perfect contrition and the remis- 
sion of her sins, which, according 
to tradition and many ancient 
documents, repose in the church 
of St. Maximin, should be trans- 
ferred to an urn of porphyry, we 
hold it to be our duty, having been 
present at the translation, to give 
this testimony to the public, re- 
garding it as a great glory to ren- 
der, as we do with reverence, hon- 
or to the sepulchre of this great 
saint, trusting that she who poured 
out her precious balm with so much 
love and effusion of soul against 
the day of the Saviour's burial that 
he desired that which she had done 
to be told wheresoever the Gospel 
should be preached in the wrfole 
world, will also render our offer- 
ings and tribute agreeable in his 
sight." 



The relics of Magdalene had, 
from the time of their discovery 
by the prince of Salerno, been al- 
ways guarded with the most jeal- 
ous care, and in seasons of danger 
were frequently concealed, as in the 
time of the Saracens. In 1357 they 
were secretly conveyed to the 
Sainte Baume, where they lay hid- 
den three jars. A century later 
some people from Marseilles made 
an attempt to carry them off as they 
were borne in procession ; but the 
citizens of St. Maximin, aided by 
the stout arms of a band from 
Aries, succeeded in defending them. 
The people of St. Maximin were 
so grateful for this assistance that 
they every year invited the captain 
of the city of Aries with several of 
the prominent citizens to attend 
the celebration of St. Magdalene's 
day. The keys of the town were 
presented them and their expenses 
paid. This was kept up nearly 
two hundred years. King Charles 
VIII. forbade the monks giving 
away the least portion of the relics, 
unless they were authorized by the 
king. When some Italian monks, 
who perhaps thought the pious 
theft no robbery, took off the gold 
masque and attempted to carry 
away a portion of them, they were 
seized and actually hung by the 
parliament of Aix. The Emperor 
Charles V. tried to get possession 
of them when he came to Provence 
in 1536, but the Dominicans hid 
them in a pit. One of the verte- 
brae, however, was offered Queen 
Anne at the translation under Louis 
XIV. She received it with grati- 
tude, and left it to the nuns of Val 
de Grace at Paris. When these 
holy remains were verified by the 
religious and civil authorities in 
1780, the people assembled with 
loud cries around the church, de- 
manding with threats to see the 



762 



The Tomb of Magdalene. 



great saint. They were only kept 
out by an armed force, and at 
length they grew so violent that, 
fearful of a riot, the cpnsuls in- 
duced one of the Dominicans to 
put on his stole and go forth to ap- 
pease them by promising to expose 
the bust in one of the side chapels. 
Whereupon the fathers began to 
intone the Lauda, Mater, and, after 
carrying the shrine around the 
cloister twice, bore it into the 
church, where the crowd was ad- 
mitted to venerate it. At nine 
o'clock in the evening the magis- 
trates, desirous of repose, attempt- 
ed to carry the chasse away, but 
the crowd renewed their outcries. 
Accordingly it was borne across 
the square to a public hall, where 
the people, who had by this time 
collected from the country around, 
had an opportunity of approaching 
it. Then, for the" first time, the 
Noli me f anger e fell from the fore- 
head. It was placed in a crystal 
case. The porphyry urn, however, 
was not opened till 1781, when, by 
order of Louis XVI., a bone was 
detached in presence of the monks 
and consuls for Don Ferdinand, 
Duke of Parma, to whom it was 
carried by the prior. This was 
providentially sent to Paris many 
years after by Napoleon among the 
spoils of war, and in the time of 
Mgr. de Quelen was placed in the 
beautiful church of the Madeleine. 
At the Revolution the church of 
St. Maxim in was despoiled, the 
urn broken open, and the contents 
scattered. The head of Magda- 
lene, however, was borne secretly 
away by the sacristan, as well as 
the arm, some of the hair, the 
Sainte Ampoule, the head of St. 
Sidonius, and fragments of other 
holy bodies. But the ancient doc- 
uments were all burned, and the 
gold and silver shrines carried off. 



The tombs, too, were opened and 
the pavement torn up to extract 
saltpetre ; but, thanks to the pru- 
dence of Lucien Bonaparte, the 
church itself was saved by his put- 
ting Fournitures militaires over the 
door and filling the interior with 
hay and provisions. It was finally 
sold by the commissary of the re- 
public for one hundred livres to a 
person honorable enough to restore 
it to its proper use at the reopen- 
ing of the churches. 

The church and convent of St. 
Maximin were restored to the Do- 
minicans in 1859. The head of 
Magdalene, on which Charles of 
Anjou, the brother of St. Louis, 
had placed his royal crown, and 
before which stood the golden 
statue of Anne of Brittany, was 
then in a poor wooden reliquary, 
given by peasants. It was decided 
to transfer it to a more suitable 
one of bronze. This was done in 
1860 in the presence of eight bish- 
ops and a great number of priests 
and laymen. The whole town on 
this occasion was adorned with 
flowers, evergreens, and banners. 
The streets were crowded with 
people. The relics were borne 
through the town by the Domini- 
cans, surrounded, as in the olden 
time, by a guard of honor carrying 
their pertuisanes a kind o'f halberd 
once forged at Pertftis, a village 
not far from St. Maximin. The 
Pere Lacordaire was to have made 
an address, but was prevented by 
his . health, then, failing. The 
streets were illuminated in the 
evening, and the church lit up with 
a thousand lamps. 

The church of St. Maximin is of 
the Gothic style, and remarkable 
for its majestic nave and harmonious 
proportions. There are two aisles, 
but no ambulatory. The right 
aisle terminates in the Chapel of 



The Tomb of Magdalene. 



763 



the Rosary, the mysteries of which 
are painted in the compartments of 
a frame around the Madonna. At 
the end of the other aisle is the 
altar of the Corpus Domini, which 
has a very remarkable retablo of 
the Crucifixion surrounded b^ six- 
teen scenes of the Passion, painted 
by Breughel d'Enfer, and curious 
for the costumes of the painter's 
time. The apsis of the church is 
occupied by the choir. Over the 
high altar is the urn of porphyry 
that once contained the remains of 
Magdalene, and at the sides are 
bas-reliefs framed in rich mosaic 
one of the Assumption of Magda- 
lene, by Puget ; the other of the 
dying penitent receiving the last 
communion from the hands of St. 
Maxim in. This is of terra-cotta. 

There are ninety-four stalls in 
the choir, admirably carved by an 
artist of the Dominican Order, and 
furnishing quite a page of Chris- 
tian symbolism. On the panels are 
the saints of the order. There are 
St. Antonin weighing the word of 
God against bread ; St. Vincent 
Ferrer preaching on the last judg- 
ment, lightning flashing in the 
heavens ; St. Raymond de Pefia- 
forte crossing the sea on his mantle; 
the Blessed Henry Suso with his 
discipline ; St. Marcolin with the 
name of Jesus in his heart ; St.. 
Ambrogio Sansedoni of Sienna 
preaching to convicts in the gal- 
leys ; St. Hyacinth with a trumpet 
of victory, bearing the ciborium 
and Madonna across the Dniester ; 
St. Peter Martyr with the knife in 
his head and the palm in his hand; 
St. Thomas of Aquino with the sun 
on his breast ; St. Pius V. miracu- 
lously witnessing the victory of 
Lepanto ; St. Agnes of Montepul- 
ciano stealing the cross from the 
Infant Jesus ; St. Catharine of Sien- 
na with pierced hands and a crown 



of thorns ; St. Margaret de Castello 
with the eye on her heart ; St. Mar- 
garet of Savoy, to whom our Lord 
offered the choice of three things, 
with her three darts; St. Rose of 
Lima holding the Infant Jesus ; St. 
Dominic with his lily, etc. 

Out of the north aisle you go 
down into a little crypt barely large 
enough for you to pass between the 
four sarcophagi that once contained 
bodies of the saints. Popes and 
kings have descended here. There 
was a lamp suspended from the 
vault, and the sacristan lighted a 
torch that we might see the head 
of Magdalene, which is on the altar 
beneath a Gothic baldacchino. The 
Bras de Ste. Madeleine was also 
shown us. The old sarcophagi are 
very curious, particularly that of 
Magdalene, which is of calcareous 
alabaster, and worthy of study on 
account of the ancient sculpturing. 
It resembles in style the beautiful 
tomb of Junius Bassus, taken from 
the catacombs, which every one 
will remember who has visited the 
crypt of St. Peter's at Rome. 
Corinthian colonnettes divide the 
front into five compartments, in 
each of which is a scene from the 
Passion in high relief. The tombs 
of St. Maximin and the Holy Inno- 
cents are also interesting, but the 
largest and most beautiful is that 
of St. Sidonius, which has a relief 
of Tabitha restored to life, and 
others with their lesson of hope 
beyond the grave. 

It was fortunate we visited the 
crypt in the morning, for a regi- 
ment of soldiers that had halted in 
passing through St. Maximin kept 
it full all the afternoon, as only two 
or three could go down at a time. 
Meanwhile, when not watching 
them with some curiosity, we ex- 
amined one chapel after the other, 
and visited the sacristy. In the 



764 



The Tomb of Magdalene. 



latter we were shown the cope of 
St. Louis of Toulouse, a remark- 
able piece of needlework, said to 
have been done by Queen Blanche, 
and left by the holy bishop to the 
church founded by his father. Un- 
fortunately it has been injured by 
an attempt to modernize the shape. 
The groundwork is of gold tissue, 
and on it are embroidered, with 
silk of different colors, thirty scenes 
relating to the life of Christ and 
the Blessed Virgin subjects the 
middle ages loved to paint on its 
windows and sculpture at the por- 
tals of its churches. M. Rostan 
calls this piece of " needlework 
sublime " a poem in three cantos. 
The first relates to the happy por- 
tion of Mary's life the ineffable 
joys that pertained to her mater- 
nity. The second paints the infini- 
tude of her grief at the time of the 
Passion. The third has reference 
to her supernatural joys in hea- 
ven. Around these medallions is 
a cloud of angels with censers, en- 
veloping the sacred mysteries, as it 
were, with an atmosphere of celes- 
tial delights. 

There is also one of St. Louis' 
sandals (he was a Franciscan), but 
so worn by the pious curiosity of 
pilgrims that the outer texture is 
no longer to be distinguished. 
The first chapel finished in the 
church was dedicated to this saint 
at the request of King Robert, his 
brother, who was carrying on the 
work of its completion. 

But the most precious relic at St. 
Maximin's is the Sainte Ampoule. 
This is a crystal tube of the thir- 
teenth century, containing the frag- 
ments of a far more ancient ampul- 
la, with some earth and little 
stones, tinged with the holy Re- 
deemer's Blood, that were gather- 
ed up by Magdalene at the foot of 
the cross. They were found with 



her remains when discovered by 
Prince Charles, but are known to 
have existed before, being spoken 
of in a cartulary of the eleventh 
century. Nicephorus. Callixtus 
speaks of an Oriental tradition 
whicji says Magdalene preserved 
and bore about with her a fragment 
of the stone on which our Saviour 
was placed when taken down from 
the cross. Nothing is more reason- 
able than to suppose such relics 
were preserved by the disciples 
and holy women. The Sainte 
Ampoule, as M. Faillon says, has 
always been the object of a constant 
public and solemn cultus. This 
was known to the popes who re- 
sided at Avignon, and virtually 
authorized by those who made a 
pilgrimage to St. Maximin, without 
speaking of the great number of 
cardinals, bishops, and priests from 
different Christian lands, who never 
failed, when honoring the relics 
here, to show supreme veneration 
to this. Louis of Tarento gave it 
the highest rank, always designat- 
ing it as the most precious Blood of 
the Lord. The cylinder that con- 
tains it is of octagon shape and 
mounted in silver gilt. It used to 
be kept in a rich vase with the 
arms of King Rene graven on the 
gold foot. This was lost at the 
Revolution. It is now in a curious 
coffer of silver gilt of the thirteenth 
century, with the attributes of the 
apostles on the sides. 

So frequent were the miracles 
formerly attributed to this sacred 
relic that it acquired great cele- 
brity. It was shown on Good Fri- 
day after the reading of the Pas- 
sion, and the Blood, like that of 
St. Januarius at Naples, used to 
liquefy and boil up till the vial was 
filled. This was called the saint 
miracle, and drew a great crowd, 
sometimes amounting to five or six 



The Tomb of Magdalene. 



765 



thousand people. They were al- 
lowed to go close to the vial to 
see the miracle, as they passed out 
through the cloister to prevent con- 
fusion. Belleforet, in his Cosmo- 
graphic Uiriverselle, says : " This 
vial is shown every year on Good 
Friday, the day of the Lord's Pas- 
sion, and this not without great 
marvel and astonishment on the 
part of all who witness it. For, the 
office being over, the prior of the 
Jacobins exposes the said vial, 
the blood of which is seen, little by 
little, to rise till it fills the vase, as 
has been witnessed by many, even 
the Huguenots, who, thinking there 
was some monkish subtlety in it, 
wished to see for themselves, and 
in fact beheld what they had con- 
sidered incredible, and were con- 
fused, after keeping guard over the . 
sacred vase all night, to see before 
their face and eyes the hard sub- 
stance in the bottom soften and 
liquefy, then grow clear, manifest- 
ing visibly the blood and water 
that flowed from the side of our 
God when the soldier pierced it 
with his lance. For this miracle 
we have the testimony of the Sire 
de la Burle, who, for our greater 
satisfaction, has placed in our 
hands a letter of attestation he ob- 
tained from the Seigneur de Ger- 
migny of Burgundy, who visited all 
these holy places, not out of curi- 
osity, but with a religious spirit, 
and had the privilege of witnessing 
the said miracle April 13, 1571, 
there being, as M. de la Burle de- 
clares, scarcely a good Catholic in 
Provence who has not witnessed 
what is so uncommon and miracu- 
lous." 

When the Sainte Ampoule was 
exhibited or carried in procession, 
it had, as a guard of honor, the 
captain of the town and twelve 
citizens " of the best quality," arm- 



ed with pertuisanes. These pro- 
cessions took place several times a 
year. The priest in a cope bore 
the Sainte Ampoule under a cano- 
py, and it was constantly incensed, 
like the- Host on Corpus Christi 
day, which was never done to the 
relics of St. Mary Magdalene. The 
captain was paid thirty livres each 
time, but he had to furnish a band 
of players on the viol. After the 
procession this guard took dinner 
with the consuls of the town, and 
were given, moreover, twelve pots 
of wine and twenty-four loaves of 
bread. The Dominicans at length 
tried to be exempted from furnish- 
ing this supply, but the magistrates 
insisted that it had been the im- 
memorial custom, and they consid- 
ered its fulfilment of inviolable ob- 
ligation. Accordingly the Domini- 
cans yielded. 

When the relics of Magdalene 
were carried in procession they 
were met at the door of the church 
by the mayor of the town at the 
head of the municipal corps. The 
former offered Magdalene a bou- 
quet of flowers which was attached 
to the bust. The magistrates al- 
ways took an oath, when they 
entered upon their duties, to re- 
spect the privileges of the church 
and convent, formally declaring it 
" propter singularem devotionis af- 
fectum quern ad ipsam Mariam 
Magdalenam apostolam incessanter 
gerimus." 

La Madeleine used to be a day 
to date from, like Michaelmas, 
Martinmas, etc., and was chosen 
for the performance of special 
things. On that day all work 
ceased and the holy relics were 
brought forth. The church of St. 
Maximin, now stripped of its an- 
cient splendor, must have present- 
ed a most imposing spectacle at 
such times. The triple range of 



;66 



The Tomb of Magdalene. 



windows, now partly walled up, 
were rilled with stained glass that 
only imparted a greater charm to 
the obscurity of the long aisles ; the 
splendid shrines were gleaming 
with countless lights; the cunning- 
ly wrought stalls were filled with 
white-robed friars; the numerous 
chapels were occupied by the dif- 
ferent confraternities in their va- 
rious picturesque costumes; and 
the offices of holy church were 
celebrated in all their ancient 
splendor that nothing can rival this 
side of heaven, if, indeed, such rites 
be not heaven itself begun. One 
of the old confraternities used to 
be called the Compans de Notre 
Dame de Grands Cierges. It 
owned property, and furnished the 
large candles that burned around 
the ancient Virgin of Misericorde. 
It also distributed garments among 
the poor, and attended funerals 
with the great candles peculiar to 
this devot illuminaire. The Illumi- 
naire de Corpus Domini also owned 
land, and used to furnish candles 
for the procession of the Blessed 
Sacrament. 

Among the ancient coin of this 
region was a gold piece weighing 
six grains, called Magdalins, struck 
by Charles III. of Sicily to per- 
petuate the remembrance of the 
coming to this country of the great 
penitent always considered, in the 
ages of faith, the chief glory of 
Provence. On some of these the 
saint is represented half-length, 
only covered with her hair, holding 
in both hands the vase of alabaster. 
On others she wears garments and 
holds the vase in her left hand. 
Her head is bent down and the 
right hand extended. On the back 
are the cross of Lorraine and the 
fleur-de-lis of Provence, with the 
legend : In hoc signo vinces. 

It is said no one was ever killed 



by lightning at St. Maximin and 
at the Sainte Baume, and the peo- 
ple attribute this preservation to 
the power of Magdalene. It has 
been the custom from remote times 
in Provence to say the following 
prayer in a thunder-storm : 

Sainte Barbe, Sainte Helena, 
Sainte Marie Madeleine, 
Preservez-nous du tonnerre, s'il vous plait. 

Joanna I., Queen of Sicily, being 
overtaken by a furious tempest on 
her way to Provence, invoked St. 
Mary Magdalene and made a vow 
to give nine hundred florins to her 
church, if delivered from danger. 
She escaped and scrupulously ful- 
filled her vow. Cardinal de Cabas- 
sole, her minister, finding his life 
endangered on the Mediterranean, 
vowed to make a pilgrimage to St. 
Maximin and the Sainte Baume as 
soon as he should be permitted to 
land. He relates this in a work 
composed in honor of the protect- 
ing saint. 

It is also said that no one was 
ever killed by lightning at Aix, and 
the people believe the town pro- 
tected by St. Maximin, to whom 
they have great devotion. He was 
the first bishop of Aix, and one 
of the seventy-two disciples. St. 
Nymphe, his niece, came to Pro- 
vence with him. It was she who 
evangelized the colony that gather- 
ed around the old Roman Castra 
Pinorum, now called Pignans. She 
built an oratory in honor of Our 
Lady on a height the people call 
the Montagne Sainte, from which 
you can see the Mediterranean, the 
islands of Hyeres, the mountains of 
Corsica, the Sainte Baume, and the 
glaciers of the Alps. Thierri, the 
son of Clovis, built a new chapel 
here in 508. In his act of founda- 
tion he alludes to the ancient ora- 
tory built in the time of the Beata 
Nympha, niece of St. Maximin. 



Souvenirs of Madame Le Brim. 



767 



Cardinal de Bouillon, in a petition 
to Louis XIV. , speaks of this chapel 
as having existed about twelve hun- 
dred years. In. it is an ancient 
statue of the Blessed Virgin, of 
Oriental type and costume accord- 
ing to popular tradition, the work 
of the first Christians. Thierri 
expressly says : u Here is honored 
an image of Mary, carved out of 



wood in the time of Christ's disci- 
ples." The chapel of Notre Dame 
de Pignans has been specially pat- 
ronized by the popes. Clement III. 
called it the privileged daughter 
of the Roman Church. The old 
counts of Provence endowed it 
with lands, and the king of Aragon 
gave it a village and an entire 
mountain. 



SOUVENIRS OF MADAME LE BRUN.* 



THE ante-Revolution days in 
France are fast becoming social 
and historical curiosities. Their 
conditions have the interest of an- 
tiques, and their politics no longer 
rouse any save the spirit of investi- 
gation. Very few living men and 
women remember them ; still fewer 
have taken any part in them. Tra- 
ditions which seemed ineradicable 
have wholly lost their influence, 
and the historical metamorphosis 
of the country which first disturbed 
" the balance of power " in Europe 
is as complete as any of the natural 
metamorphoses which we witness 
year by year. The life of Mme. 
Vigee Le Brun, a portrait-painter 
patronized by the court of Louis 
XVI., and afterwards by that of 
Catherine II. of Russia and of the 
great Napoleon, became, like that 
of many others among the younger 
emtgr/s, an epitome of tha quick 
changes leading from one phase of 
society to the other. Born in 1755, 
when fashionable atheism was still 
securely playing with fire as a draw- 
ing-room experiment, she died in 
1842, during the reign of the citi- 
zen-king, Louis Philippe, when 

* Souvenirs of Mme. Vigee Le Brun : an Auto- 
biography. New York : R. Worthington. 1879. 



France was a republic in all but in 
name. Her travels through Europe 
are interesting as illustrating the 
different degrees of rapidity with 
which other European states fol- 
lowed the democratic lead of 
France, and also the measure of 
real change which distinguishes the 
march of each, irrespective of appa- 
rent and violent alterations. She 
saw Rome in 1789 as it remain- 
ed until 1848, but Venice she knew 
as a republic long before it fell 
tinder the Austrian yoke, which is 
now the oldest tradition there. 
Nelson and Lady Hamilton were 
powers at Naples, where the queen, 
Marie Antoinette's sister, ruled 
with a strong hand and a skilful 
tongue, doing her supine husband's 
duty better than she did her own. 
The Russia of Catherine II., essen- 
tially " Holy Russia " in those days, 
and apparently a successful result 
of strong paternal government, of- 
*fered a field for endless study.; and 
though only the outward details of 
its life and the startling personali- 
ties of its court appear in Mme. 
Le Brun's narrative, the extraordi- 
nary contrast between its various 
classes, and the chaotic possibilities 
shaphig themselves into a nation- 



;68 



Souvenirs of Madame Le Brim. 



al sentiment and foreshadowing an 
independent movement towards 
Western modes of thought and 
politics, cannot fail to strike the 
reader. Prussia gains a foretaste 
of its present supremacy by being 
the first on the Continent to stand 
up against Napoleon ; and England, 
still a country of conservative ten- 
dencies and stiff, antique social 
ways, appears very different from 
the pushing, levelling, hurrying 
England of to-day. This picture 
of European society, here rigidly 
withdrawing into a shell of preju- 
dice, there startled into the wildest 
bravado of innovation, is the most 
interesting outcome of the book 
in which Mme. Le Brun has re- 
corded her souvenirs ; otherwise 
the narrative is disjointed, the de- 
scriptions conventional, and the in- 
terest uneven. She herself lacks 
individuality ; her standard of con- 
duct is not very high, though per- 
sonally she was blameless ; her ex- 
periences do not strike one as 
thrilling, because she was as much 
disturbed by the noise of a pump 
or the practice of a violin early in 
the morning near her bedroom as 
by her husband's habit of appropri- 
ating her earnings, or her sorrow at 
her daughter's marriage to a hand- 
some, penniless Russian diplomat. 
She spoiled her little girl terribly, 
and then lamented that at seven- 
teen the child did not make a 
friend of her, but persisted in cry- 
ing for the moon in the shape of 
this romantic lover, who after all 
treated his little wife very well. 
Mme. Le Brun had 
of the kindly, merry 
inherited from her father ; but un- 
less you call her wanderings trials, 
she had no adversity to tone down 
her character. Early and persis- 
tent popularity followed her, and 
her travels, though she called them 



exile, gave her both freedom from 
her worthless husband and wealth 
for herself and her daughter. Her 
frequent moves in the cities she 
visited must have drawn on her 
resources, as she was persecuted 
in each house she lived by a suc- 
cession of the most unpleasant 
sounds and smells (to which most 
Frenchwomen are too sensitive), 
from the frying of tripe in bad oil 
to recent corpses, and from street- 
cries to birds in the chimneys. 
Everywhere royalty gave her com- 
missions to paint portraits, and the 
society of each place followed suit. 
Louis XVIII. (then Comte d'Ar- 
tois) sang vulgar comic songs dur- 
ing the sittings which Marie Antoi- 
nette gave her, and the Emperor 
Paul I. of Russia played monkey- 
tricks and made faces over the top 
of a screen during his wife's sit- 
tings to the artist. Madame Mu- 
rat tormented her with caprices 
and unpunctuality such as the ar- 
tist complained no " real princess " 
ever stooped to, and the Queen of 
Naples confided to her her plea- 
sure at having arranged two good 
matches for her daughters. Not- 
withstanding so many familiar in- 
sights into court life, Mme. Le 
Brun remained an enthusiastic roy- 
alist, and tells many anecdotes of 
royal personages with the gusto of 
a thoroughly undemocratic yet not 
cringing observer. Statesmen, ar- 
tists, and actors all met her on 
equal terms, and her salon in Paris, 
Rome, and St. Petersburg was the 
rendezvous of brilliant and witty 
a good deal * people. Even in London she man- 
artist nature aged to overcome some of the stiff- 
ness of her acquaintances and to 
gather Englishmen and foreigners 
together in lively parties. 

A few anecdotes of famous places 
or people will give the reader the 
best idea of th e book, and of the 



Souvenirs of Madame Le Brun. 



769 



society it describes. Some of the 
Paris amusements before the Revo- 
lution sound strangely modern. 
The Palais Royal garden was a 
fashionable resort, day and night, 
Sunday afternoons included, when 
custom did not forbid the men 
paying evident court with their 
eyes to every pretty woman, wheth- 
er protected or not by a father, 
brother, or husband. After the 
opera, which in summer was over 
at half-past eight, the " world " ad- 
journed to the garden and stayed 
there often till two in the morn- 
ing, the heavily-scented hair-pow- 
der and enormous bouquets of hot- 
house flowers overpowering the cool 
morning breeze, while music and 
refreshments made these gatherings 
a fashionable prototype of the beer- 
gardens of to-day. The Boule- 
vard du Temple was, on Thurs- 
days, a regular "Rotten Row." 
Hundreds of carriages rolled slow- 
ly up and down or drew up in 
shaded alleys, and flirtation was the 
chief pastime; but democracy had 
invaded the charmed circle, and 
established a file of highly-rouged 
fishwomen, who gambled at loto all 
day, and affected to think the navi- 
gator La Perouse, who was starting 
for his tour round the world, a 
very idle man, at a loss what to do. 
The Coliseum, a rotunda in the 
Champs Elysees, with broad, sand- 
ed pathways and armies of seats 
round a miniature lake used for 
aquatic sports, had an additional 
attraction in its music-room, where 
the Paris dandies lounged on the 
steps, criticising the women as they 
came in. This hardly sounds like 
" the good old times," but people 
forget, when they extol the past at 
the expense of the present, that, if 
we are not yet perfect, we have at 
least got rid of the idea that gross- 
ness is fashionable. On the other 






hand, a queer simplicity prevailed 
which is foreign to our present 
straining after the perfection of 
material adjuncts, to the neglect of 
the intellectual elements of society. 
For instance, Mine. Le Brun had a 
very small room for her receptions, 
and her guests often had to sit on 
the floor or the bed, which in 
France it is sometimes the custom 
to place in the sitting-room, a 
dressing-room being reserved for 
the uses to which we put bed- 
rooms. Her suppers, too, were very 
frugal, and even rich and titled 
people commonly asked their 
friends to informal meals where 
two or three vegetables, a soup, 
and a bit of fish or fowl, with a 
bottle of light wine and a salad, 
were the utmost delicacies. The 
famous Greek supper which mali- 
cious report said cost Mme. Le 
Brun eighty thousand francs, in 
reality cost fifteen francs, and was 
distinguished only by two sauces 
made after ancient Greek recipes. 
The guests draped tunics and 
shawls round their figures, and a 
few Etruscan vases skilfully ar- 
ranged completed the background ; 
some " Greek " odes (in French) 
were sung and recited, and a bot- 
tle of Cyprus wine, an opportune 
and recent present, was opened. 
The whole thing was an impromptu, 
moving tableau ; but exaggeration,, 
as usual, turned it into a dangerous 
and " fast " proceeding, the fame of 
which preceded the hostess at St. 
Petersburg. Mme. Le Brun had the- 
natural artistic dislike to fashion- 
able costume, and preferred to paint 
her sitters in flowing robes and 
graceful scarfs. Good taste, how- 
ever, was not yet developed in this 
direction, and full dress seemed so 
much the correct thing that one 
of the relations of a young married 
woman whom the artist painted 



VOL. xxix. 49 



770 



Souvenirs of Madame Le Brun. 



as Iris flying through the clouds 
complained of the beautiful bare 
feet, when her husband laughingly 
put an elaborate pair of slippers 
below the portrait, saying, " She 
has just let them drop-" The inno- 
vation of Talma's appropriate his- 
torical costume on the stage met 
with the approval of all the artists 
in Paris, and as a "classic " mania 
came in soon after with the Em- 
pire, the anomaly of actors going 
through the parts of Greek heroes 
in the dress of eighteenth-century 
exquisites was done away with. 

Everything that Mme. Le Brun 
describes from Rome is familiar to 
the tourist and the newspaper-rea- 
der ; the city was full of the motley 
crowd it drew for nearly a century 
later ; savants and idlers of all na- 
tions flocked to it for widely differ- 
ent purposes ; the carnival and 
the ceremonies of Holy Week, etc., 
were the same we know, the people 
the same picturesque, strong-pas- 
sioned, good-humored yet shrewd 
population we read of, the society 
a little more mixed and vivacious 
than the writer remembers it, but 
in its main features the same. The 
ruins and the pictures are enthusi- 
astically but somewhat convention- 
ally described ; so is Naples and 
everything strangers visit there. 
The Russian ambassadress figures 
rather as a sultana than a modern 
diplomat's wife. " Her happiness 
was to lie stretched on a sofa, 
wrapped in a large black pelisse. 
. . . Her mother-in-law ordered for 
her . . . boxes full of the most 
exquisite dresses, . . . and when 
[she] entreated her to wear them, 
the Comtesse Scawrouska answered 
carelessly, ' What is the use ? for 
whom ? for what ?' " Her uncle, 
the famous Potemkin, had given 
her jewels of enormous price, but 
she never wore them. Although 



Mme. Le Brun mentions the festi- 
val of the Madonna dell' Area as 
original and better than most vil- 
lage festivals, she gives no detail 
which is not reproduced in all 
popular Italian festivals ; of course 
the richness of local costume was 
greater then than now in all parts 
of Italy, and added to the pictur- 
esque effect of the pilgrimage. At 
Perugia she saw a bull and dog 
fight, which by custom was re- 
peated every six years in honor of 
a local patron saint; at Florence 
she saw one of the best collections 
of wax models of various parts of 
the human frame, prepared by the 
great anatomist, the Abbe" Felix 
Fontana, a Tyrolese, who was di- 
rector of the Museum of Anatomy 
and Natural History of Florence, 
to which he added fifteen hundred 
pieces of wax representing anato- 
mical sections of the human body. 
At Venice an improvisatore made 
upon her the impression of an en- 
raged lunatic, though many other 
specimens of improvisatori are too 
mild and affected to suggest any- 
thing but school-boys at a " com- 
memoration " ; and at the Char- 
treuse, near Turin, she was regaled 
with frogs dressed in various ways, 
and exhibited a disgust to this 
food which would have astonished 
a credulous John Bull. 

Vienna, the headquarters of the 
greatest social exclusiveness, has 
changed less (except Rome) since 
the days of Mme. Le Brun than any 
other place she visited. Here, 
among other celebrated men, she 
met Prince Kaunitz (then eighty- 
three years of age), nicknamed 
"Europe's Coachman" from his 
having been so long a prime minis- 
ter and a mover in all diplomatic 
missions and delicate transactions. 
When Maria Theresa said to him 
of a man whom he recommended 



Souvenirs of Madame Le Brun. 



77* 



to be president of the Aulic Coun- 
cil, " But he is your declared 
enemy," he replied : " Madame, this 
man is the friend of the state, and 
that is the only thing I ought to 
consider." It would have been well 
if those Frenchmen who confused 
loyalty to their king with patriot- 
ism, and not only took diplomatic 
but even military service against 
their country under foreign royal 
governments, had had something 
of this spirit. It was the custom 
at Vienna for the women to take 
knitting and sewing to the opera 
with them a fact which surprised 
Mine. Le Brun till she found that 
the work was for the poor. The 
homeliness of many details of life 
among the Viennese, where her art 
and occupations gave her the 
entree to the real privacy of the 
court circles, made the customary 
magnificence of St. Petersburg all 
the more dazzling. At the latter 
place, she says, " Numbers of the 
nobility possessing colossal fortunes 
prided themselves on keeping an 
open table, so that any well-recom- 
mended stranger never had occa- 
sion to dine at a restaurant. . . . 
Prince Narischkin, grand equerry, 
kept an open table of twenty-five 
to thirty places every day for visi- 
tors who had brought letters of in- 
troduction." Everything was on 
the same scale ; pleasure seemed 
the only business, court favor the 
only treasure. Catherine II., like 
Elizabeth, was more of a sovereign 
than a woman, thoroughly national, 
popular, and practical. Her im- 
provements were solid, and her 
paramount passion the good of 
the people, though she allowed her- 
self all the reprehensible or puerile 
caprices of commonplace women. 
A capital woman of business, she 
was domestic enough to light her 
stove and make her own coffee 



at five in the morning, and weak 
enough to succumb to the little 
tyrannies of servants who acted to- 
wards her as spoiled children or pet 
dogs. One of her earliest favorites, 
Potemkin, followed her example in 
public lavishness, though the ob- 
jects of his generosity were less 
worthy. It is said that at a birth- 
day feast, supposed to be given in 
honor of the empress, but really to 
his right-hand guest, Princess Dol- 
gorouki, he had crystal cups filled 
with diamonds set on the table at 
dessert, and the jewels served to 
the ladies in spoonfuls. At another 
time he sent a courier express 
to Paris, travelling night and day, 
to get a pair of shoes for the prin- 
cess, as she would wear no other 
kind. The balls and suppers at 
the palace were like those of the 
Arabian Nights Russian costumes 
encrusted with jewels were com- 
monly worn, the empress especial- 
ly adhering to the national dress 
and ostentatiously discarding for- 
eign manners. At dinner, she fas- 
tened her napkin to the front of 
her dress with pins, like a child's 
bib, and laughed at the ladies who 
placed theirs on their knees, saying : 
" Mesdames, you will not follow 
my example; you only make a pre- 
tence of eating. For myself, I al- 
ways take the precaution of fasten- 
ing my napkin under my chin, for 
otherwise I should not be able to 
eat an egg without throwing it all 
over my collar." A quarter of an 
hour before dinner a servant, in Rus- 
sian houses of distinction, brings 
in a tray of liqueurs with slices of 
thin bread and butter; and after 
dinner, when the French take li- 
queur, the Russians (of that day) 
take Malaga. The customs of pre- 
cedence also differed a little from 
the French ; the hostess went in 
to dinner before the guests, and, if 



Souvenirs of Madame Le Brim. 



a female guest was to be specially 
honored, the hostess herself took 
her arm and they went in together. 
The chief luxury, then as now, was 
a tropical temperature and appro- 
priate vegetation within doors, so 
that it was commonly said that in 
St. Petersburg one only saw the 
cold; but the artificial life thus fos- 
tered could hardly make up for the 
lost delight of watching the spring. 
Snow lay thick in June, and the 
warm season burst upon one like a 
miracle, to disappear with equal 
swiftness. Mme. Le Brun had only 
surface opportunities of learning to 
know the people of Russia; ser- 
vants and peasants were childlike 
in their behavior, gentleness and 
patience seemed part of their 
natural disposition, and a deep in- 
stinct of religion characterized their 
daily life. Their aptitude for im- 
provement in every direction belied 
their supposed contentment with 
their lot ; but so far as this aptitude 
proved useful to the higher classes, 
and allowed itself to be guided by 
them, the lowest serf found his 
master a generous patron. Perhaps 
this is true of every country where 
class differences exist ; a surrender 
of the claim to equality generally 
enlists in a man's favor the interest 
and patronage of his social supe- 
riors, but it is too high a price to 
pay, for a man of spirit. The 
power of the purse, however, is one 
which existed in Russia under the 
old regime as practically as it does 
at present, and it was not unusual 
for the steward of a large estate to 
become his master's creditor. 

The good-fellowship which Cath- 
erine wisely encouraged at her 
court was followed by a social 
reign of terror such as reminds one 
of the perversities of Nero or Cali- 
gula. When Paul I. ascended the 
throne he issued ridiculous and 



vexatious ordinances: forbade the 
wearing of round hats; ordered 
even women to get out of their car- 
riages or sleighs to do him hom- 
age in the streets (which was the 
more perplexing as he was to be 
met with at all hours and in all 
costumes, lounging or careering 
through the city) ; exiled and im- 
prisoned any one he disliked for 
trivial reasons, and as capriciously 
freed or recalled them, loading them 
with favors; and compelled men to 
wear powder and to bow to his pal- 
ace, even when he was absent. On 
the whole, Paul was fond of foreign- 
ers, especially of French artists and 
actors, and employed many at his 
court, delighting in their sayings 
and allowing them liberties no 
Russian would have dared to take, 
even at his express desire. Doyen, 
Mme. Le Brun's old friend and 
master, was living in St. Peters- 
burg, and got as many commis- 
sions from Paul as from Catherine ; 
he was famous for his readiness of 
speech, as is illustrated by the an- 
swer he made to a critic who, in 
the emperor's presence, said, as he 
was painting a ceiling : 

11 You are painting the Hours 
dancing round the chariot of the 
Sun. I see one over there much 
farther off, smaller than the rest ; 
and yet the Hours are all alike." 

" Sir," said Doyen gravely, " you 
are quite right, but the one you 
speak of is only half an hour." 

Of Moscow Mme. Le Brun says 
very little, except that the national 
costume was almost the only one 
worn at all times and on all occa- 
sions by the higher classes, the 
women going to balls in cashmere 
tunics edged with gold fringe, and 
Greek head-dresses with narrow 
bands covered with diamonds. 
She met Prince Bezborodko in 
Moscow, and tells the following in- 



Souvenirs of Madame Le Brun. 



773 



stance of his readiness : Catherine 
having once ordered him to draw out 
a new ukase, or order, he forgot it, 
and when she saw him again she 
inquired for it. He coolly took a 
paper from his pocket and read off 
a draft of the proposed law ; but the 
empress, on demanding the paper, 
found it a blank page. The next 
day she made him a privy coun- 
cillor. 

Mine. Le Brim's notes from 
Germany on her way home from 
Russia are scanty ; at Berlin the 
same welcome she always received 
from crowned heads awaited her, 
and at Dresden she met again the 
'Russian millionaire, Demidoff, whose 
chief concern was that he could not 
manage to spend a thousand crowns 
a day. The Paris of the Consulate 
(and later on of the Empire) greet- 
ed her with mingled dismalness 
and magnificence ; the former illus- 
trated by wall-inscriptions such as 
'Liberty and fraternity, or death,''' 
the latter by the assemblies and 
outward show of the foreign em- 
bassies. The beauty and wit of the 
leading women in society were still 
conspicuous, and the elasticity and 
recuperative power of the French 
character were evident even in such 
small matters as the revival of poli- 
tical and literary salons. 

Since Louis XIV. no embodi- 
ment of sovereignty had so secure- 
ly controlled and fascinated the 
country as the court which a clever 
Russian called " not a court, but a 
power"; and, much more than Louis 
XIV., Bonaparte owed this power 
to' his unique individuality. The 
great emperor was the ideal of a 
self-made man ; he reigned by the 
right of manhood in an age of 
pitiable disintegration. Mme. Le 
Brun, like most legitimists, felt 
more or less uneasy under his rule, 
and once again migrated to Lon- 



don, where the court was as much 
a contrast to Napoleon's as the 
society was to that of Paris. She 
gives some very odd sketches of 
the customs of the time, which it 
is needless to say have since so 
changed as to be more of a curi- 
osity to Englishmen at present than 
they were to Frenchmen at the 
time. The separation of the men 
from the women at evening parties, 
and the silence of couples when 
they did walk arm-in-arm, seem 
apocryphal ; but having no means 
of testing the truth of the state- 
ment, we take it as it stands. She 
also says that conversation was 
rare after dinners ; men took books 
and women embroidery and sat in 
silence ; but she adds :".... This 
is not caused by the impossibility 
of talking agreeably ; I know many 
English who are very witty, and I 
may add I never met one who was 
a fool" (in which experience she 
was perhaps exceptionally lucky). 

Holland House was in its glo- 
ry during Mme. Le Brim's three 
years' stay in London ; Fox came 
repeatedly to her studio, Reynolds 
and West were her friends, and 
Mrs. Siddons occasionally relaxed 
her tragedy-queen airs while ad- 
miring her portraits. The Prince 
of Wales (George IV.) made her 
paint his likeness for Mrs. Fitz- 
herbert, and some of the royal 
princes sought her out to help them 
in their generous care of the poor 
French exiles. The English coun- 
try-houses were a source of curi- 
osity and delight, and the customs 
of the watering-places, a social in- 
stitution now greatly lessened in 
influence, amused the lively and 
critical giver of impromptu suppers ; 
but the most interesting thing she 
mentions is her visit to Herschel 
and his sister Caroline, to whose 
"learning and noble simplicity" 



774 



The Bridal Ring of Our Lady at Perugia, 



she adds one more among the 
thousand well-earned tributes of- 
fered to the astronomers. The de- 
tails of the visit are not striking, 
but are such as any one can ima- 
gine for himself. Sir James South, 
an English astronomer who died a 
dozen years ago, lived a somewhat 
similar life at a retired, old-fash- 
ioned house in Kensington, Lon- 
don, and his microscopes, which we 
remember his exhibiting at a pri- 
vate visit one evening, were almost 
more marvellous than his telescopes 
and other instruments in the ob- 
servatory built in the large, tan- 
gled garden. 

Mme. Le Brun returned to Paris 
when the Bourbons were finally re- 
established there, and speaks in 
warm terms which her political 
sympathies sometimes color too 
strongly not only of the popular 



enthusiasm that greeted them, but 
of their individual qualities. 

She lived to see the elder branch 
suicidally cut the ground from un- 
der its feet, and to witness the ac- 
cession of the son of Philippe Ega- 
lite, whose radical gatherings at the 
Palais Royal had not saved his 
head during the " Terror," any 
more than the son's affectation of 
bourgeoisie saved him from deposi- 
tion in 1848. 

The warm-hearted, unworldly, 
generous portrait-painter died in 
1842, having lost her husband and 
her daughter some years before, and 
leaving most of her art treasures 
and some of her own works to her 
niece (on her husband's side), Eu- 
genie Le Brun, married to M. Tri- 
pier Le Franc, herself a good art- 
ist and wealthy collector. 



THE BRIDAL RING OF OUR LADY AT PERUGIA, AND THE 
PARDON OF ST. FRANCIS AT ASSISI. 



I INDITE the following in fair Um- 
bria, in the very heart of the vale 
of the Tiber ; with Assisi, blessed by 
holy Francis, on yon mountain- 
side easterly, and, beetling over me 
in the west, the strong walls of 
Perugia the "august "; in the north 
remote the gorgeous mountains of 
Tezio, and to the south the river 
ever journeying to Rome, yet nev- 
er tarrying there ; when the sun 
shines brightest on the ripening 
corn ; when the vine is heaviest 
with the luscious grapes ; when the 
fig-tree is in its glory, yielding fruit 
a thousand-fold, striving, as it would 
seem, to undo the curse laid by the 
Lord ages ago upon its barren fel- 



low ; when the olive-tree is proud- 
est ; when there is a mellow glow 
abroad upon plain and hillside 
which tells you, as conclusively al- 
most as your consciousness of place, 
that you are in " sunny Italy." 

The genius of the place has in- 
vested me the spirit of the Catho- 
lic Church. At Rome the genius 
loci is too majestic, too awful for 
my comprehension. I cannot cope 
with it. The church there is a 
sort of Transfiguration ; eternal 
dogma and historic grandeur are 
there hand-in-hand. So I stand 
afar off believing and admiring. 

Here the genius loci is more 
tempered to one's incapacity. It 



and the Pardon of St. Francis at Assisi. 



775 



comes through a medium, so to say 
gently takes possession of one 
through the unobtrusire shrines of 
Our Lady by the wayside, through 
the homely traditions of saints like 
Francis of Assisi over there, like 
Bernardine of Sienna, and through 
pious legends such, for instance, as 
that which tells us that the bridal 
ring of the Madonna still exists in 
the Cathedral of Perugia. And 
here the word legend is not used in 
the uncomplimentary sense attribut- 
ed to it by the present age, but in 
its old meaning, such as it bore at 
the time of the renaissance of Ital- 
ian letters, when it was applied to 
narratives written in candid faith 
and simple style ; when ingenuous- 
ness was the beauty of the Chris- 
tian and the writer. Though my 
purpose is not to establish the au- 
thenticity of so important* a relic, 
but to portray a few scenes and in- 
cidents illustrative of great faith 
which accompanied its exposition 
in the old cathedral, yet I would 
intimate to the reader that the 
ring of onyx now pendent from a 
miniature crown of gold set with 
diamonds has its history. How 
the bridal ring of Our Lady found 
its way to Rome is a matter of con- 
jecture. But how a holy Christian 
matron, Mustiola by name, and 
cousin of the Emperor Marcus Au- 
relius Claudius, carried it to Clusi- 
um, now Chiusi, where it was vene- 
rated for a thousand years, is the 
subject of positive tradition. How, 
in the year 1473, a German Fran- 
ciscan friar called Brother Winter 
stole and bore it thence to Perugia, 
where ke gave it up to the decem- 
viri of the city ; how religiously 
they preserved it and fought for 
it with the magnificent signiors of 
Sienna, which held Chiusi tributary, 
suffering, for a period of thirteen 
years, reprisals and acts of ven- 



geance characteristic of the middle 
ages in Italy ; how popes, kings, 
and princes were appealed to by 
the contending parties for a settle- 
ment of the feud; how the Perugians 
finally carried the point, kept the 
ring with jealous magnificence, and 
gratefully gave honorable sepulture 
beneath the chapel of the relic to 
the unfortunate Brother Winter ; 
how the pencil of the immortal 
Pietro Perugino depicted the altar- 
piece, the Espousal of Mary and 
Joseph (afterwards stolen by Na- 
poleon I.), and the Rossetti bro- 
thers, worthy rivals of Benvenuto 
Cellini, wrought the reliquary ; how, 
in fine, the power of God was made 
manifest time and again through 
that ring by astounding and incon- 
testable miracles these are histori- 
cal facts a notion of which, while 
lending any interest of their own 
to the scenes herein described, may 
also serve to keep the sceptical 
spirit aroused by the first part of 
the title in abeyance until you 
choose to read somewhat on the 
matter say the work of Adamo 
Rossi.* 

The principal exposition of the 
ring is made on the 3oth of July, 
the anniversary of its coming to 
the city. Of old, Perugia used to 
receive within its walls on that oc- 
casion thousands of pilgrims of 
every social grade from all parts of 
Italy, and even from beyond the 
Alps. The day was a civic as 
well as religious festival. Prisoners 
were released, pardons granted, 
and all customs abolished at the. 
city gates until the pilgrims had 
departed. The usual itinerary 
was, first, to visit the Holy House 
at Loretto ; then go to Perugia, stop- 
ping on the way at Assisi for the 
great fair ; and, lastly, to return to 

* VAnello Sponsalizio di Maria Vergine, 
Dall' Ab. Adamo_Rossi. Perugia, 1857. 



The Bridal Ring of Our Lady at Perugia, 



Assisi for the Indulgence of the 
Portiuncula. In our own day, 
when the magnates of the land 
have become of little or no faith, 
the pilgrimage to Perugia is limited 
to the poorest of the poor, the 
ciocciari (so-called from the doccie, 
a sort of moccasin they wear strap- 
ped across the foot and around the 
leg) from the province of Naples, 
from Terra di Lavoro Land of 
Labor and from Calabria in the 
extreme south. But these come in 
shoals, observing the ancient itin- 
erary, and performing nearly the 
whole journey on foot. 

For the foregoing information, 
as also for much edification and 
genuine pleasure, I am debtor to 
my kind host, the worthy Capuchin 
friar who has the care of this little 
wayside church. When, therefore, 
at midnight of the 2pth of July, I 
was gently awakened by hearing 
the name of Mary sung from afar 
in a sweet yet never so melancholy 
cadence, I knew it was the pil- 
grims, and I arose and went out 
into the night. They came along 
in little bands, some telling the 
beads, others singing the refrain of 
St. Leonard's hymn to the Ma- 
donna : 

Evuiva Maria, 
Evviva Maria, 
Evviva Maria, e Chi la creb ! 

There is a vigor and enthusiastic 
ring to these words as I have 
heard them sung elsewhere, but as 
produced by these pilgrims it was 
a threne tender and sweet, if you 
will, but so expressive of their 
hard lot on earth, children from 
the Land of Labor, who anticipate 
the early summer sun, and still 
toil on when he has gone to rest ! 
Seen in the starlight, they were but 
a dusky mass, moving slowly up 
the hill towards the city. But in 
the waxing dawn, and outside the 



Roman Gate of the city itself a 
picturesque monument of the mid- 
dle ages they presented a motley 
appearance not devoid of interest 
to the artist. They were all short, 
thickset, sturdy, and apparently of 
one age ; for hard toil and expo- 
sure had hardened and furrowed 
the cheek of the maiden and the 
youth till they looked as old as 
their parents. But the many-hued 
tartans of the women, their quaint 
head-dresses and snowy jackets, 
formed a splendid contrast of color 
to the dull gray walls of the city, 
to the unromantic costumes of the 
men, and to the numerous carts 
and wagons waiting for admission 
into the city. But they all looked 
dusty and weary, and many of the 
women walked in threes and fours, 
arm-in-arm, for mutual support ; 
otherwrte they would have sunk 
on the way. One poor girl had 
fallen and swooned away from 
sheer exhaustion, and so weak were 
the poor creatures who supported 
her thus far that they were unable 
to carry her to the roadside. Was 
it a wicked thought in him who 
lifted her up and bore her aside to 
think it a blessing for her if God 
would bid her weary heart, there 
and then, to be silent for ever ? 
An old, old woman in the first, or 
at most the second, of her teens ! 
Her hands were horny and large- 
jointed, like those of the men ; and 
when they took off the heavy woollen 
head-dress, they displayed a head 
already nearly bald from the enor- 
mous weights it carried. Oh ! this 
is the " proletariat " which is a liv- 
ing, crying sin in the land, and not 
that composed of hardy men like 
yonder wheelwright who is just im- 
mersing his mug in a measure of 
wine. 

A worthless lot they seemed as 
they entered the city gate ; and yet 



and the Pardon of St. Francis at Assisi. 



777 



the minions of the custom-house 
pried into their dusty bundles with 
officious zeal, and even felt about 
the vesture of the women, lest the 
mighty state, forsooth, should be 
defrauded of one centime. It was 
not thus in other days, contemptu- 
ously styled dark by those of the 
present generation who know least 
about them. The steps of the 
cathedral presented in the dawn 
another picture hundreds of pil- 
grims, who had arrived in the early 
night, sleeping in a singular variety 
of postures, supine, procumbent, 
kneeling, couchant. Meanwhile, 
when the arriving pilgrims filed in- 
to the square in sight of the pile 
which housed the relic, they went 
on their knees and so walked up 
to the yet unopened door of the 
temple. Daylight came on apace, 
and the sleepers felt the spirit of 
the day and awoke. The women 
washed their faces and combed out 
their hair at the great fountain in 
the square. The men contented 
themselves with a shrug, a prolong- 
ed yawn, and a stretching of the 
limbs. Their general appearance 
betokened that they had performed 
no other manner of matutinal ablu- 
tions for an indefinite period as 
unlaved an assembly as eye ever 
rested upon. The doors of the 
church were opened at half-past 
four o'clock, and then ensued a rush 
towards the Chapel of the Ring, 
situated on the left of the general 
entrance. A mercy that it was well 
fended with a stout, lofty iron rail- 
ing. As it was, they charged against 
this as if they would bear it down, 
shouting " Evviva Maria /" Again 
was the ear affected tenderly by 
that melancholy chant, which was 
borne to and fro undulatingly on 
the night wind in the valley below. 
And when the last strophe of holy 
Leonard's poetic emanation was 



sung, one of the young men nearest 
the railing went on, as if under the 
influence of an inspiration, impro- 
vising and singing. Here is the sen- 
timent of one of his verses : 



" Bright and beautiful are thy eyes, dearest Mother ! 
But ne'er so lightsome and lovely, 
As suffused with tears of compassion 
For thy down-trodden children of labor." 



Anon came other pilgrims to the 
door of the church. But before en- 
teringtheystopped, men and women, 
loosened their sandals, and walked 
into the church barefooted. The 
women of this band were an impos- 
ing contrast against the rest. Erect, 
tall, impressive, they seemed an- 
other race, not of Italy but of Egypt 
as we know it from her monu- 
ments. Their costume, too, was 
unique : A skirt of black cloth cu- 
riously frilled behind, and tucked 
up by strings pendent from the 
shoulders ; a white bodice elabor- 
ately embroidered with gold thread, 
and a long white veil hanging down 
behind over the shoulders and 
fastened around the brow by a red 
fillet. Their eyes were singularly 
piercing yet kindly ; the nose Ro- 
man. But labor had left its mark 
on the lower part of the face, con- 
tracting the under jaw, sharpening 
the chin, and hardening the lines 
of the mouth. They excited no 
little curiosity among the strangers 
there, and one of these approached 
the tallest and asked her whence 
she came. She looked down upon 
him calmly, giving no answer. But 
the shaggy, villain-visaged man who 
stood beside her stepped around 
to the questioner, and said in a 
curt, decisive way, "Ask me, sir." 
"Where do you come from .'"re- 
peated the stranger. " Campobas- 
so," replied the pilgrim, and he re- 
sumed his former position. The 
stranger understood the hint and 



77 8 



The Bridal Ring of Our Lady at Perugia, 



moved to another part of the 
church. 

At five o'clock one of the canons 
of the cathedral, habited in sur- 
plice and stole, and attended by 
two acolytes, came out of the sa- 
cristy and entered the chapel by a 
side door. Candles were lit about 
the shrine high up over the altar. 
Then a rattling of heavy keys was 
heard ; a pair of gilded iron doors 
slid aside, revealing a red veil. 
This too was removed, and, in a 
crystal case, the people beheld 
the ring, hanging by a chain of 
gold from a miniature crown of 
gold set in diamonds, and support- 
ed by four columns of gold chi- 
selled in the cinquecento style. At 
that moment repeated cheers of 
Evviva Maria ! rang through the 
edifice. The women clapped their 
hands, waved handkerchiefs, and 
addressed Our Lady in the most 
endearing terms, as if she were 
present in the flesh. But the tall 
pilgrim-women from Campobasso 
sang an anthem of their own, clear 
and weird. It had not the regular, 
easy cadence of Italian song, but 
suggested Araby, Egypt, the Nile 
what you will that is Oriental. 
And it was prayerful, too. It was 
in the following strange rhythm : 



and placed upon a table. But 
when the iron gates of the chapel 
swung back to admit the surging 
throng, a strange commingling of 
the terrible, the edifying, and the 
ludicrous ensued. Terrible was 
the spectacle of that multitude of 
stalwart men and women crowd- 
ing, jostling, pushing, even buffet- 
ing each other in their eagerness to 
get into the chapel. The men 
nearest the railing laid hold of the 
iron bars with desperate grip, and 
pulled themselves up until they 
were man's height above the crowd, 
and then literally walked into the 
chapel on human heads. The wo- 
men shrieked with pain and fright, 
the men puffed and tore, and the 
police, stationed inside the railing 
to moderate the inrushing tide, 
shouted. But, despite the turmoil, 
it was edifying to behold the faith 
and piety of those peasants. High 
above the brawl of the strugglers, 
and more tenderly than ever, rang 
the melancholy chants of the Nea- 
politans and of the Oriental-look- 
ing women. They produced a 
strange harmony. How they held 
aloft their hands in supplication; 
how many who were too faint to 
hold them in a prayerful position 
had them supported by those near 




Yer - gi - ne pie - to - 



The excitement reached an in- 
describable pitch when the entire 
apparatus within which the reli- 
quary is enclosed was slowly low- 
ered down upon the altar by an 
arrangement of ropes and pulleys, 
and the reliquary itself taken out 



per noi pre - ga, pre - ga ! 



them ; how they wept with holy 
emotion, and poured forth litanies 
of the sweetest epithets in honor 
of their Queen, was enough to 
move any heart; and I know of 
one, a cold, callous-souled, calcu- 
lating American, who turned his 



and the Pardon of St. Francis at Assist. 



779 



head to the wall to hide the honest 
tears of emotion which welled into 
his eyes, while he prayed God, did 
the doubter, to give him but the 
faith of those creatures, who be- 
lieve much and question little. 
Ay, and he had the courage there- 
after to plunge into the throng and 
elbow his way into the chapel, un- 
mindful of the consequences and 
these were not inconsiderable to 
one averse to having his ribs knead- 
ed, shy of personal contact with 
the unlaved, and the veriest thrall 
to a repugnance for the odors in- 
digenous to an Italian crowd. The 
sight within the chapel amply re- 
paid him. Those rude, ungoverna- 
ble men, on approaching the relic, 
knelt down and kissed it reverent- 
ly, then walked out by a side door. 
The women were more demonstra- 
tive. Not content with imprinting 
repeated kisses on the relic, they 
applied their beads, their scapu- 
lars and handkerchiefs to it; and 
so reluctant were they to leave the 
chapel that the police had to push 
them out. The ring, as has al- 
ready been intimated, is of white 
onyx. It is very thick almost too 
much so, one would fancy, to be 
worn save as a thumb-ring. And 
yet its inner circumference seems 
too small for any but the little, or 
an exceedingly delicate annular, fin- 
ger. It is without any embellish- 
ment, if exception b made to a 
slight depression in one spot, once 
probably an intaglio, but now ut- 
terly indistinguishable. 

There was a touch of the ludi- 
crous to be witnessed at the side- 
door of the chapel, out of which the 
pilgrims passed after having seen 
and venerated the relic. Here 
comes a burly, thick-headed little 
fellow whom we have observed 
swinging himself aloft by the iron 
bars of the railing. He has al- 



ready been in the chapel twice, and 
now he undoes the button of his 
shirt, displaying a throat like that 
of a young bull ; he hitches up his 
short netherlings with a- jerk, and, 
tightening his belt another hole, 
charges again for the chapel, shout- 
ing out the usual cry, Evviva 
Maria ! evidently impressed with 
the notion that the oftener he be- 
holds and venerates the ring the 
greater the merit. He may be 
right. An old woman is escorted 
out of the chapel by her son. She 
is almost on the point of fainting 
from exhaustion. But the boy will 
not hear of it. He locks his arm 
in hers, brushes back his shaggy 
locks, and says : " Now, madre, 
once more. Courage ! Your son 
is at your back. Evviva Maria !" 
She responds to the cheer feebly, 
and again they are lost in the 
crowd. 

I had been observing with some 
interest a quiet young creature 
who stood in a remote corner of 
the church, keeping guard over a 
huge pile of shapeless bundles, 
wallets, sandals, and an old woman 
or two who were tired out and in- 
sensible. Apparently she did not 
relish her task. She walked to 
and fro with a short, impatient step. 
Then she would stop and scan the 
struggling multitude, as if in search 
of some one who would relieve her. 
To and fro more impatiently than 
before. Then another cheer re- 
echoed from portal to apse of the 
temple. She stopped quickly, look- 
ed at the crowd excitedly, stooped 
down, unstrapped her cioccie and 
kicked them upon the pile, and 
then whipped off her jacket, threw 
it from her recklessly, and ran like 
the wind towards the crowd ; and 
the voice of a girl rose buoyant 
and clear over the great roar, Ev- 
viva Maria! These are realities. 



;8o 



The Bridal Ring of OILT Lady at Perugia, 



They may provoke a smile border- 
ing on the contemptuous. Repress 
it in consideration of the moun- 
tain-moving faith which underlies 
this strange demonstration. Call 
to mind some of the scenes enacted 
when Jesus walked in Judea, when 
the crowds pushed and jostled 
against him and he rebuked them 
not. The taking of the roof off a 
house, and the letting down with 
ropes a sick man, bed and bedding, 
into the presence of Christ, did not 
smack of the contemptible or the 
fanatical to any one bating the 
Pharisees. 

The streets of Perugia are al- 
ready thronged with pilgrims hur- 
rying back towards the Roman 
Gate en route for Assisi. Their 
staves, their rosaries, their wallets, 
their dusty appearance excite im- 
moderate laughter in the Perugians. 
They seem to feel so good and 
happy in the sun of liberty, pro- 
gress, and civilization which dawn- 
ed upon, them with the revolution. 
But we all know how dearly they 
pay for these luxuries which have 
no reality, and we do not envy 
them the 33 per cent.* Besides, 
we know an item or two touching 
their social, civil, and political 
status. The gate of the city pre- 
sented a bustling scene. Waiting 
there was a large number of oxen- 
wains about to set out for Assisi. 
With the owners of these the pil- 
grims at once entered into spirit- 
ed negotiations for a ride. They 
talked fast, but gesticulated faster. 
A Neapolitan only expresses one- 
third of his ideas in speech; the 
other two-thirds find utterance in 
gestures. On this occasion the 
manipulation of the fingers of a 
hundred men and as many women 

*The average tax of the government upon the 
earnings of every Italian subject amounts to 33 
per cent. 



overpowered the Umbrian drivers, 
and they consented to take the pil- 
grims on their own terms. Such a 
charge as they made on the wa- 
gons ! A happy crowd they were 
when all found places. The meek 
white oxen bellowed inquiringly, as 
if they wanted to know what was 
amiss. But the pilgrims began a 
litany, and to its cadences the 
wains moved off. All that after- 
noon, and far into the night, carts 
and wagons laden with happy pil- 
grims bowled along the high-road 
through the valley of the Tiber, 
and far and wide might be heard 
that lonely threne which was borne 
to me on the gentle wind the night 
before. 

Two days after that is, on the 
ist of August bright and early in 
the morning, I was on the road to 
Assisi. I went over the same road 
trodden by St. Francis and his 
companion, Masseus, six hundred 
years ago when they sought Pope 
Honorius III. in Perugia, and beg- 
ged of him the indulgence of the 
Portiuncula. It is called by the 
people here " // Perdono di San 
Francesco " the Pardon of St. 
Francis. The why and wherefore 
of this indulgence cannot be bet- 
ter told than in the words of the 
Franciscan Breviary, in the office 
of the 2d of August, feast of the 
dedication of the Portiuncula : 

" At the second Nocturn, Lesson IV. 
Albeit the blessed Francis as long as he 
lived always loved all churches exceed- 
ingly, and held them in the greatest 
honor, yet with especial zeal and singu- 
lar piety did he venerate that little cha- 
pel near Assisi which is called the 
Church of St. Mary of the Angels and 
of the Portiuncula. And that for many 
reasons. First, on account of his in- 
credible devotion to the most blessed 
Mother of God and his great veneration 
for the holy angels. Then, in that he 
had not only known from others that 
in this chapel most sweet songs of the 



and the Pardon of St. Fran&is at Assisi. 



angels were often heard, from which it 
was thought it received its name, but 
also he himself had experienced it, and 
enjoyed their presence, their commu- 
nion and comfort. Lastly, because it was 
the church, long before prepared by the 
Lord, in which he would begin his or- 
der ; which church, therefore, he wished 
called the Portiuncula, because it would 
be the future mother and head of the 
lowly flock of the Friars Minor. Where- 
fore he greatly desired that it should be 
held in the highest veneration by all. 

" Lesson V. When, therefore, on a 
certain night he was praying in his habi- 
tation near the above-named church, it 
was divinely made known to him that 
the Lord Jesus and his most holy Mo- 
ther, with a great multitude of angels, 
was in the church. At which announce- 
ment, affected with incredible gladness, 
he arose quickly ; and entering the 
church with the greatest reverence, when 
first he beheld that ineffable majesty and 
glory of the Son of God, he fell down be- 
fore his sight and adored him with the 
greatest possible humility of soul and 
piety. Whom the Lord most graciously 
called, and admonished that he should 
ask some benefit from him for the salva- 
tion of men. But he, aided by the patron- 
age of the Mother whose assistance he 
had implored, suppliantly asked him to 
grant to all who would enter that church 
pardon and remission of all their sins 
whereof they had made confession to a 
priest. The Lord made answer that 
such was pleasing to him ; and he com- 
manded him to go to his vicar and ask 
the indulgence from him in his name. 

" Lesson VI. In the morning, there- 
fore, the blessed Francis, accompanied 
by Brother Masseus, set out for Perugia, 
where the Sovereign Pontiff, Honorius 
the Third, then was. Entering into whose 
presence, he exposed the order, asking 
that what was pleasing to Christ, whose 
stead and person he held upon earth, 
might not be displeasing to him. At 
first the thing asked seemed hardly just 
to the pontiff, because it was sought as 
free that is, without any offerings and 
besides the greatest favor, and the same 
absolute and perpetual. For he said 
that he who wished to obtain pardon for 
his crimes should in part merit it, and 
denied that the Roman Curia was wont 
to grant such an indulgence. The car- 
dinals also who were present were op- 
posed to its concession. For they said 



it would come to pass that the indul- 
gences of the Holy Land and of the holy 
apostles Peter and Paul would be neg- 
lected. At length the pontiff, know- 
ing the divine will, granted it to the 
blessed Francis, plenary, too, and free 
and perpetual, but only for one natural 
day of every year to wit, from the Ves- 
pers of the kalends of August until the 
Vespers of the following day, which is 
the anniversary day of the consecration 
of the above-mentioned church. And 
when he wished to give him a diploma, 
he (Francis) said that his word was 
enough, for that the Lord would publish 
and magnify his own work through him- 
self. Which, indeed, we see has wonder- 
fully come to pass." 

A no inconsiderable part of the 
Lord's work in regard to holy 
Francis is that stupendous convent 
with its three-storied church, part- 
ly hewn out of the living rock of 
the mountain-side, and the other 
part built so massively that it 
seems to vie with nature's mason- 
ry. In the lower church, deep in 
the mountain, reposes the body of 
St. Francis ; above this another 
church where the great Giotto will 
live in his matchless frescos for 
ever, if it please the Lord to hold 
in thrall the sacrilegious, vandalic 
spirit ; and above this a third 
church, lofty, airy, and elegant in 
Gothic forms. The revolution has 
already invaded part of the glo- 
rious convent in the name of edu- 
cation. Over the great portal glare 
the arms of Savoy, recently intrud- 
ed there, bearing on an appended 
scroll the announcement, that with- 
in is a college named after the 
Prince of Naples (son of King 
Humbert). And when death 
shall have reduced the present 
community of monks to the num- 
ber of three for they dare not re- 
cruit, says the law of suppression 
then will the great convent and 
triple church of St. Francis be 
taken by the government entirely, 



782 



The Bridal Ring of Our Lady at Perugia, 



and rented out, mayhap, to an en- 
terprising manufacturer of matches, 
as befell the monumental convent 
Delia Giustizia in Perugia. Yet 
the middle church spoke gloriously 
and eloquently of God and St. 
Francis on that morning of the ist 
of August at the numerous con- 
fessionals, around which flocked in 
hundreds the pilgrims anxious to 
confess ; at the altars where as many 
more were receiving Communion ; 
outside in the cloisters, where many 
more waited for their companions ; 
and away down in the plain, where 
the crowds of pilgrims moving to- 
wards the Portiuncula were con- 
founded with the great shadows of 
the fleeting clouds above. 

A lowly chapel by the wayside, 
with a pointed roof and narrow 
pointed windows, low and unadorn- 
ed, save by the little cross which 
arose from the roof over the en- 
trance ; a solitary altar within, poor- 
ly furnished such was the Portiun- 
cula six centuries ago. I forgot to 
mention an ancient picture of the 
Madonna which served as an altar- 
piece. Such, too, is the Portiun- 
cula to-day, with the exception of 
two angels and a Madonna painted 
in gold on the front gable, and a 
few ornaments within. But instead 
of being shaded by friendly trees 
as of yore, it is completely housed 
in by a magnificent church in the 
Romanesque style, under whose 
great dome it looks more lowly 
and humble than ever. From the 
central portal of the basilica up to 
the door of the Portiuncula extends 
a strong double fence, and the 
space within the two railings is 
packed with living beings standing 
in platoons and waiting for the 
Vesper hour, when the doors of 
the little chapel will open and the 
Pardon commence. On the right- 
hand side of the little chapel is a 



door of the same size as that in 
front, through which the pilgrims 
pass out. To gain the indulgence 
it is sufficient to enter the chapel 
and pass out at this door. The 
right aisle of the large church is 
kept clear by carbineers, for the 
pilgrims will rush down there, out 
at the corresponding door, and in 
again at the principal entrance. 
Hark! a cheer. The doors have 
opened ; the Pardon has begun. In 
rush the excited pilgrims to the 
sacred shrine, only to be seen the 
next instant tearing pell-mell out 
of the side door, and down the 
right aisle of the large church, as 
if the fiends were at their heels. 
At this juncture I noticed that a 
kind of order was maintained by 
the pilgrims, despite the apparent 
confusion. Acquaintances and 
friends kept close together. Com- 
panies of eight and ten women 
moved inside of a square of men, 
who held each other by the hands 
and kept back the impetus of the 
crowd behind. A faction spirit 
seemed at work, too. Occasionally 
a powerful young peasant would 
break from his own ranks, rush for- 
ward, and throw himself with all 
his strength against the chain of 
strongly-knit hands in front of him. 
He was thrown back with redou- 
bled force. Then the two parties 
would glower at each other. But, 
even if they had the will, they had 
not the time, to adjust any differ- 
ences there and then. That tide 
of human beings was like the cur- 
rent of the ocean, all action, all 
motion, ever rushing forward. Ma- 
ny a poor exhausted woman pray- 
ed to be let out of the line ; but 
before she had expressed her re- 
quest to the men behind the power 
still farther back pushed them all 
forward more violently than ever. 
I wondered when it would all end, 



and the Pardon of St. Francis at Assist. 



733 



and even asked one of the friars. 
He said they considered it essen- 
tial to enter the chapel three times 
(the old story; volumes might be 
written about that mystic number). 
I entered the ranks with a desire 
of having " the handwriting eras- 
ed." I was borne along as if by 
a whirlwind, and found myself in 
the chapel. There I backed into 
a corner to breathe and pray. I 
had barely time to observe that the 
altar was behind an iron railing, 
that the pilgrims threw coppers 
over this and said the sweetest 
things to our Lord and his Mother 
so utterly unlike what they said to 
each other outside, that the cost- 
liest lamps burned before the al- 
tar, when a carbineer, a kindly 
fellow indeed, told me to " move 
on." So I was floated into the 
square outside, where the fair was 
going on. 

I shall not enlarge upon the 
scenes and incidents I encountered 
there, especially that of the enter- 



prising " patriot " who inserted his 
hand so clumsily into my breast- 
pocket while I was drinking a 
glass of the vilest beverage that 
ever was distilled, sworn to by the 
vender as "sincere wine of Um- 
bria." Uncommented, too, I leave 
the fact that never, in so short a 
period, did I witness so much dis- 
honesty as in the booth-keepers at 
the Fair of St, Francis. These are 
matters of the world which might, 
without any great effort of one's 
logical powers, be proved as kith 
and kin to the nether kingdom. 
No; let me think of those faithful 
pilgrims with all their incongruities. 
I love their wild, emotional devo- 
tion. If it be faulty, it is on the 
side nearest heaven. 

As the twilight falls upon the 
vale of the Tiber a gentle zephyr 
springs up in the south, and it wafts 
upon its wings that sweet, melan- 
choly anthem of the pilgrims, the 
weary children of the Land of Labor, 
journeying homewards : 




Ev - vi - va Ma - ri - a, Ev - vi - va Ma 

1 I-7-! fc-1 ! 1 1- 



- ri - a, Ev - vi - va Ma - ri - a e Chi la ere - 6. 



784 



The Major's Manoeuvre. 



THE MAJOR'S MANOEUVRE. 



BRAY is the Newport of Ireland. 
Its cimiter-shaped bay, fringed with 
snowy foam, is bounded by the 
villa-crowned heights of Killiney 
at its northern extremity, Dalkey 
Island peeping timidly round the 
corner, while at the south it is 
guarded by a frowning headland, 
stern and wild in winter, in spring 
vine-mantled with the tender green 
of the maidenhair fern, and in 
autumn purple as the cassock of a 
monsignor with glowing, perfumed 
heather. In the near background 
stand the Sugar Loaves, twin senti- 
nels protecting the passes into the 
lovely county of Wicklow, whose 
hills are visible from Djouce to 
Auchavana, while the far-famed 
Dargle and lordly Powerscourt are 
within " goodly bowshot " of the 
trim little town that sits in the lap 
of a mountain and gaily disports 
itself by the surf. Bray is coquet- 
tish in summer residences, from the 
white-washed fisherman's hut, rent- 
ed to Dubliners at ;io a month 
while the landlord and his family 
retire to the recesses of an inverted 
boat, to the pretentious mansion 
of bastard architecture let at over 
ten times that amount. The strand 
for three miles is studded by terra- 
ces, whither during the dog days the 
" upper ten " of the city by the Lif- 
fey most do congregate, for Kings- 
town is considered but second rate, 
and Dalkey a degree lower still. 
Bray boasts of two hotels, a club, 
a bank, a pretty Catholic church, 
half a dozen conventicles, a Turkish 
bath, and other luxuries too numer- 
ous to mention. It is struck by 
two railroads, and being but ten 



miles from the capital, and the gate 
to the County Wicklow, presents at 
all seasons of the year a bustle and 
animation of a character peculiar 
to itself. The best outside cars 
and horses in all Ireland are to be 
hired at Bray, and the drivers to 
a man are merry, witty, rollicking 
sons of the shamrock, who wheedle 
the occupants of their respective 
vehicles to their hearts' content, 
and until the delighted Saxon is 
willing to pay half a sovereign 
extra for a song, and to stand as 
much " rale Irish " whiskey as the 
car-driver cares to call for. 

The neighborho9d around Bray 
is exquisitely picturesque, the roads 
running between fern-caressed hills, 
along the courses of brawling trout- 
streams, or by domains skirted by 
rare old elms, or ash-trees that 
might have yielded lance- staves 
when the O'Byrnes held the pass 
of Auchavana against the bellige- 
rent O'Tooles. 

On the Dargle road, and situat- 
ed about two miles from Bray 
Bridge and close to the turn to 
Enniskerry, stands Assam House, 
the residence of Mr. Peter Bridge- 
banke. You cannot fail to notice 
Assam House. The gates and 
massive iron railings are gilded. 
The gate-lodge is plate-glassed, 
with gilt wire blinds, and lace cur- 
tains such as are not to be seen 
outside of Merrion Square. Rows 
of scarlet tubs with golden hoops, 
containing blood-red geraniums, 
fringe the avenue, white with Killi- 
ney gravel, that leads to the house, 
backed by ribbon-borders of the 
newest and quaintest arrangements 
in leaf floriculture. The house is 



The Major's Manoeuvre. 



735 



square, with a mansard roof sur- 
mounted by a gilded railing. Sun- 
blinds of blue and yellow stripes, 
such as one beholds at Naples, or 
perhaps Florence, flare all over the 
facade. The portico is a bower of 
mediaeval brass-work and creeping 
plants. In the middle of the close- 
ly-shaven lawn is a pond, and in 
the pond an out-of-proportion 
fountain consisting of Cupids, with 
corporations fit for aldermen, blow- 
ing water from cheeks distended 
like india-rubber balls. The pond 
is a mass of shell-work, and closer 
inspection reveals the existence of 
numerous gold fish and a pair of 
disconsolate-looking swans. Pea- 
cocks and guinea fowl move across 
the emerald velvet carpet, perch- 
ing upon croquet-hoops or the 
poles supporting the netting of 
lawn tennis. A garden blazing 
with color stretches away to the 
right, relieved at intervals by mar- 
ble statues and gilded seats. On 
the left are the stables, mansard- 
roofed, with a clock-tower fit for a 
Belgian market-place, and a clock 
large enough for a city hall. As- 
sam House is built upon the top of 
a hill, and can be seen for ten 
miles in almost any direction. Not 
a tree, not a shrub, breaks the sky- 
line, and in the clear, cold eve or 
the lovely summer twilight, when 
the sun has gone down to rest be- 
hind Boher-na-breema, the house 
and clock-tower seem actually as 
if they were painted against the 
sky. 

The owner of this striking and 
showy residence is a Mr. Peter 
Bridgebanke, a retired tea-merchant, 
formerly of King William Street, in 
the city of London. It so happen- 
ed that about ten years prior to 
the opening of this story Mr. 
Bridgebanke, accompanied by Mrs. 
Bridgebanke and his infant daugh- 
VOL. xxix. 50 



ter, paid a flying visit to Ireland, 
principally for the purpose of tak- 
ing a peep at an estate that he had 
purchased in the county of Kil- 
dare. Having one day to spare, 
they were advised by the clerk at 
the Gresham Hotel, where they were 
stopping, to spend it in a short ex- 
cursion in the County Wicklow. 
" You can leave Dublin by the niiTe 
o'clock train, get to Bray at 9.45, 
hire a car, and do Sir George 
Hodson's place well worth seeing 
and by the Rocky Valley, up to 
the Deer Park gate at Lord Powers- 
court's. Then you can drive to the 
Waterfall, lunch there I'll put up a 
basket for you and, after saunter- 
ing about for a couple of hours, 
come to Powerscourt House, and 
from that to Tinnehinch, the estate 
that the country bought for the 
great Henry Grattan. You'll cross 
the road on foot, and get into the 
Dargle by the upper gate ; walk 
through it along the road they 
made for George IV. when he was 
here in the year '21, and get back 
to the Bray gate and into Bray in 
time for dinner at the International 
Hotel, kept by an American, or to 
do the 6.20, which will put you to a 
better dinner here," said the clerk, 
who was a man of parts and had a 
careful eye to business. 

Mr. Bridgebanke, who had writ- 
ten down the clerk's instructions, 
followed them to the letter, his 
pretty little daughter doing her 
seven Irish miles of walking " like 
a Throjan," as the car-driver re- 
marked; but Mrs. Bridgebanke, who 
rarely allowed herself the luxury of 
a walk, remained on the car, and 
it was while her husband was pow- 
dering along the dusty road that 
leads from the Dargle to Ennisker- 
ry that his eyes encountered the 
words, printed on a white board, 
" This land to be sold. Lease 999 



;86 



The Major s Manoeuvre. 



years. For full particulars apply 
to Thomas Walsh, Solicitor, 79 
Harcourt Street, Dublin." 

" Wot a spot for a 'ouse !" ob- 
served Mr. Bridgebanke, thinking 
aloud. " The 'igh 'ill ; the woods 
in the valley ; and yes, a trout- 
stream running right in the 'ollow, 
and a pond for perch. If that 'ill 
was at 'Ampstead or Tghgate, or 
within fifty miles of London, I'd 
'aveit before four-and-twenty hours. 
I wonder what they're asking for 
it?" 

The car containing Mrs. Bridge- 
banke drove slowly up, the wor- 
thy lady clinging to the rails at 
both ends of the seat in a very 
unclassical and spread-eagle atti- 
tude. 

"Wot a spot for a 'ouse, Mary 
Anne !" cried the tea-merchant, 
pointing with his stick, a black- 
thorn, purchased at the railway 
station for half a sovereign. 

Mrs. Bridgebanke, who was of a 
languid and aristocratic turn, and 
who, like Mrs. Malaprop, aspired 
to be a queen of the dictionary, ex- 
pecting all the difficult words to 
come and go at her bidding, and 
who usually found them exceeding- 
ly rebellious subjects, exclaimed, 
after a lazy glance through a pair 
of pi-nee nez not that she requir- 
ed them, but they were considered 
distingut 

" Yes, Peter, the diorama from 
that hill ought to be very rekerkay, 
and the perceptive worthy of a 
painter." 

" 'Ovv stylish a 'ouse like Alder- 
man Buggins' would look right on 
the brow of the 'ill!" 

" If I owned that promontory I'd 
erect a Swiss shalot or an Italian 
pagoda." 

" No; Buggins' 'ouse is the 'ouse 
for my money." And Mr. Bridge- 
banke, requesting of his wife to 



allow him a few minutes' grace, as- 
cended the hill, puffing and blow- 
ing like a stranded whale. 

"Come up 'ere, Mary Anne !" he 
yelled, after he had been on the 
summit a few moments. "There 
an't such a view this side of the 
Crystal Palace or Bolong. I say, 
cabman, just 'elp the lady up for 
'arf a crown, will you ?" 

" I'd rowl her up to ye for no- 
thin', av I cud get some wan for 
to mind the mare's hed. There's 
a new county inspecthor, mam, an' 
the poliss is leppin' mad for some- 
thin' to do. But here goes," he 
added; "I'll not see himself bet 
for all the poliss in Ireland." And 
tying the reins to the branch of a 
tree, the carman gallantly assist- 
ed Mrs. Bridgebanke to where her 
perspiring lord awaited her com- 
ing. 

" The age of chivalry is not 
dead," observed the gratified Mrs. 
Bridgebanke to the car-driver. 
" You are a Savoyard, sir, without 
fear and without reproach." 

The view from where they stood 
was perfectly enchanting. The 
blue, crescent-shaped bay with its 
white-laced edge ; the Hill of 
Howth in the hazy distance; the 
foliage-covered heights of Killiney, 
dotted here and there with curi- 
ously-peeping villas ; the vale of 
Shangannah bathing in the amber 
rays of the setting sun, and below 
them the white houses of the little 
town of Bray, and over against 
them the purple, keen, rich, lumi- 
nous, and glowing, of Bray Head. 
They turned, to be encountered by 
the pine-crowned mountains over- 
hanging the Waterfall, and the luxu- 
rious foliage, its deeper tints mark- 
ing the beauteous valley of the 
Dargle; the great Sugar-Loaf, its 
needle-like summit piercing the 
azure sky, the road winding to 



The Major s Manoeuvre. 



737 



Togher up its steep shoulder like 
a piece of white tape ; the lesser 
Loaf modestly hiding from the last 
glances of the amorous sun behind 
its larger brother, and away in a 
plume of purple clouds, seeming of 
the clouds themselves, the hills of 
Luggelaw and Glendalough. 

" We needn't start till the seven 
o'clock boat to-morrow night, Mary 
Anne," said Mr. Peter Bridge- 
banke, when he had seated himself 
on the car beside his wife ; u for I'll 
have a talk with this Mr. Thomas 
Walsh, Solicitor, about the price of 
this 'ere 'ill." And the tea-merchant 
was as good as his word. The in- 
terview proved satisfactory to both 
parties. Mr. Walsh was instructed 
to forthwith prepare the deed of 
surrender and the new lease, ^10,- 
ooo being the sum agreed to be 
paid for the property; and Mr. 
Bridgebanke was not twenty-four 
hours in the city of London until 
he had had a chat with his friend 
Alderman Buggins over a dry bis- 
cuit and a bottle of tawny port. 

" I tell you wot it is, Bridge- 
banke," exclaimed the turtle-fed 
civic father, "I wouldn't let any 
man build a 'ouse sich as mine in- 
side the wooden walls of hold 
England; but as you are a-goin' to 
build in h'Ireland, amongst them 
savages as will pot you from be'ind 
your 'ouse 'edge some fine mornin', 
I don't mind lettin' you 'ave my 
plan, and I'll give you a note to my 
architect, Mr. Valentine Pitcher, 
F.R.A.A., of 'Igh 'Olborn, that'll 

do the trick for you. But h'Ire- 
land h'an't fit for a true-blooded 
Englishman, and you'll be a-comin' 
to me afore this day twelve-month, 
a-sayin', * Buggins, you was right ; 
h'Ireland h'an't the country for a 
true-born Englishman. I've drop- 
ped my money, but I've saved my 
skin. 'Ere we are again.' ' 



The grim prophesyings of Mr. 
Alderman Buggins failed to shake 
the tea-merchant's resolve. Mr. 
Valentine Pitcher, F.R.A.A., re- 
ceived a commission to construct 
at Knock-na-Kill, in the county of 
Wicklow, Ireland, a house similar 
in every respect to that erected for 
Mr. Alderman Buggins on Herne 
Hill ; and when the purple heather 
again came to bloom on Bray 
Head, Assam House was inhabited 
by Mr. Peter Bridgebanke and his 
family, who became so attached to 
it and its surroundings that the 
tea-merchant three years subse- 
quently retired from business, and 
instead of merely passing the sum- 
mer and autumn months in Ireland, 
went to reside there permanently. 



ii. 



It was a broiling day in the sum- 
mer of 1876, and even the showy 
sun-blinds failed to keep the stove- 
like heat out of the ordinarily well 
and scientifically ventilated apart- 
ments of Assam House. Every 
Irish summer is gilded by a few 
such days, as a bouquet is here 
and there studded with a flower a 
little too warm in tone per se. It 
is such suns that fill the corn-ears, 
and render ragged boys hoarse as 
ravens from shouting at brigand 
birds. 

In an elegantly but too copiously 
furnished drawing-room sat two 
young ladies. One of them is the 
girl who did her seven Irish miles 
on the day that her father first laid 
eyes on Knock-na-Kill. She is 
now a young lady of eighteen, with 
blue eyes, yellow hair which she 
wears, like a skye-terrier, down over 
her forehead, a nose inclined to be 
tip-tilted what a champion in the 
cause of cocked noses Mr. Tenny- 
son has proved by this redoubtable 



;88 



The Major s Manczuvre. 



thrust of his lance! a peevish 
mouth, and a figure, if built upon 
the lines of the Venus de' Medicis as 
regards the waist, utterly outside 
the model of the goddess with re- 
spect to the remaining portions of 
her frame. She is attired in a 
white robe that extends its pro- 
tecting shelter to half a dozen 
pieces of furniture, so ample are 
its dimensions, and is engaged in 
writing a letter on very showily 
monogrammed note-paper at an in- 
laid and costly secretaire. 

In a corner upon &fauteuil, and 
in an attitude of indolent grace 
such as Sarah Bernhardt would set 
herself to study, and perhaps mo- 
del in clay, if she could, reclines 
another young lady, also attired in 
ample but less Alpine peaks of 
white ; in fact, her dress was a 
plain white muslin in dainty folds, 
and adorned with those leg-of-mut- 
ton sleeves which Josephine Beau- 
harnais wore when she first met 
to her cost "Le Petit Caporal." 
This young lady has a classical- 
ly-shaped head, classically-sitting 
chestnut hair, and a classical "one 
inch of forehead." Her eyes are 
dark gray, widely divided, heavily 
lidded, and black-lashed. When 
she raises her eyes they are in- 
tensely luminous, and she looks at 
you from beneath the upper lids 
a long, earnest, and, to susceptible 
mankind, destructive glance. This 
is in nowise done for effect. It is 
perfectly natural, and, as a certain 
gentleman says, who shall be pre- 
sently introduced to the reader, 
'"awfully fetching, you know." 

This young lady is Marguerite 
.Bridgebanke, niece of the retired 
tea-merchant, an orphan, and with- 
out " a shilling to her fortune," her 
father having died of the vomito at 
Vera Cruz, in which city he had 
settled in order to .carry on a trade 



in the much-vaunted Cordoba cof- 
fee. 

Marguerite gazes compassionate- 
ly at her cousin as she murmurs : 

" If / were engaged to a gentle- 
man who did not think it worth 
his while to visit me for three 
weeks, I would give him his conge 
in a few short words, sharp as 
steel and cold as ice. Louisa is 
too proud to admit that she is 
slighted, and too tender and true 
to the man she loves to impeach 
his conduct even to me." Then, 
as a gong sounded, she said aloud, 
" That's the luncheon-bell, Louey." 

" I hear it," was the snappy re- 
sponse. 

" Finish your letter, dear. You 
should be hungry. You ate no 
breakfast." 

"I hate eating; you can go." 

Marguerite knew that sympathy 
is the heart's safety-valve, and she 
resolved upon forcing her cousin's 
confidence. Rising from the fau- 
teuil, she crossed over to where 
Louisa Bridgebanke sat, her face 
buried in her hands. 

" Louisa dear," she began. 

" Do not interrupt me, please," 
moving her shoulders like a naugh- 
ty child. 

"I must I shall," persisted 
Marguerite. " What have I done, 
that you should shut me from out 
your heart, closing the gates of 
confidence upon me ?" 

" I have no confidences worth 
confiding to anybody." 

"You imagine that you have a 
secret hidden from me. You de- 
ceive yourself, dear. I am too fond 
of you to permit any sadness to 
press upon you without craving to 
bear at least a portion of the bur- 
den." 

" If you are so very clever, why 
trouble yourself by questioning 
me ?" retorted Louisa. 



The Major s Manoeuvre. 



789 



" Because when a pretty little 
bird ceases to sing, and refuses its 
food, and pecks wickedly at you if 
you approach it, is it not natural 
that those who care about it should 
begin to feel anxious ?" 

" I hate birds. I always hated 
birds." 

" I will come to the point, Louisa: 
your fiance, Mr. Byecroft, is " 

Louisa sprang to Her feet, while 
an angry flush passed rapidly over 
her face as she hotly exclaimed : 

"If you are going to say any- 
thing against Mr. Byecroft, Mar- 
guerite, I shall leave the room." 

" I will save you, that trouble," 
said her cousin, as with suffused 
eyes she softly glided from the 
apartment. 

Mr. Byecroft is a lieutenant in a 
rnarching regiment, living upon his 
pay and an allowance from his 
maternal uncle, Majd Bagshawe. 
He met Miss Bridgebanke at a pic- 
nic in the Dargle, heard she had 
"no end of tin," got permission to 
call at Assam House, called pretty 
often, and finally offered his flabby 
heart and still flabbier hand to 
Louisa, both of which that young 
lady accepted con amore. Jimmy 
Byecroft is weak, vain, and foolish. 
He is a mere puppet in the hands 
of his uncle the major, a wiry, un- 
scrupulous veteran, who " looted " to 
his heart's content while in India, 
and retired from the service, selling 
his commission at the highest price, 
resolving to live on the best of 
everything for the remainder of his 
natural life, a fig for' the cost. 

The major possessed another 
nephew, Fred Stonleigh, a high- 
bred, handsome young fellow, hav- 
ing five hundred pounds a year 
and nothing to do. Fred was 
rather weary of existence, al- 
though he lived that butterfly life 
of which so many examples may be 



found in the city of Dublin. In 
winter he attended the Castle balls 
and the receptions of the best fami- 
lies in Merrion and Fitzwilliam 
Squares. He hunted with the 
Ward Unions and the Wicklow 
Harriers, and belonged to the Ste- 
phen's Green Club, within whose 
palatial walls he spent the major 
portion of his time. In summer he 
ran up to London for a slice of the 
season, coming back to Dublin for 
the Kingstown regatta, and the 2oth 
of August found him in the County 
Wicklow pursuing the grouse on 
the heather-clad hills of Auchavana 
or in the hooded hollows of Derry- 
lossany. He is for I use the pre- 
sent tense in introducing him an 
idle man about town, highly edu- 
cated, cursed with a competence 
for if he had to make his own way 
he would do the state some ser- 
vice and, as this story opens, in- 
clined to yawn double yawns over 
everything. 

One lovely summer day Major 
Bagshawe. his light gray trousers 
strapped tightly beneath his var- 
nished patent-leather boots, his hat 
brushed till it shone again, his 
black frock buttoned military fash- 
ion up to his chin, called at the 
Stephen's Green Club and " drew " 
his nephew. 

"What's up, major?" asked 
Stonleigh. 

" I want you to come out to Bray 
and pay a visit to the Bridgebankes. 
I'll present you." 

"Jimmy's people ?" 

"Hum! yes." 

"I don't mind." 

Fred Stonleigh had met Margue- 
rite Bridgebanke, and her earnest 
eyes had fascinated him, despite his 
habitual and blase indifference. It 
was at the annual dance given by 
the St. George Yacht Club, where 
he danced with her twice, and 



The Major s Manoeuvre. 



had a long half hour's delightful 
chat on the balcony that hangs 
over the flashing waters of Kings- 
town Harbor. 

" Saw you dawncing with the tea- 
man's daughter," exclaimed a friend 
of his. " Doing duty for Jimmy ?" 
" What do you mean ?" 
" Mean ! Don't you know that 
Miss Bridgebanke is about to be 
handed over to your cousin with 
forty thousand pounds and a tea 
plantation on the Peiho River ?" 

" Ah ! I don't see much of my 
cousin." And Fred turned on his 
heel, an angry wave of envy break- 
ing over his heart. 

The major's offer to take him to 
Assam House was bitterly sweet. 
Yes, he would like to see Miss 
Bridgebanke again, to gaze into her 
wondrous gray eyes, to hear her 
speak, even of his idiotic, selfish 
kinsman. She was just the one 
girl worth Pshaw! And he dug his 
heel into the soft grass they were 
taking a short cut through Stephen's 
Green to Harcourt Street station 
as though he would crush any sen- 
timental feeling as he had crushed 
a timid daisy beneath his boot. 

They were soon speeding past 
Dundrum, with the Throne Rocked 
Mountain frowning down upon 
them ; past Stelligan ; past Step- 
aside, the rugged Scalp clear cut 
against the soft blue sky, flecked 
here and there with fleecy clouds 
white as the driven .snow ; past Cas- 
tlemines and its Druidical altars; 
past the beautiful vale of Shangan- 
nah, slumbering in sunshine, its feet 
laved by the caressing waters of 
Killiney Bay ; and onwards till 
Bray was reached. 

" We'll walk over, Fred ; and as I 
never can speak in a railway car- 
riage, I'll take this opportunity of 
parading the Bridgebankes for your 
especial information." 



The major is a small, wiry little 
man, with a winky eye, a port-wine 
nose, and a hard-shaved chin. He 
wears a black satin stock of the 
time when George IV. dressed a la 
Brummel, and holds his head in the 
air as if there were traps set be- 
neath his jaws, the avoidance of 
which was his especial mission in 
life. 

" Old Bridgebanke is a retired 
vender of Souchong and Bohea. 
He's a well-meaning old chap, al- 
ways fishing for one particular 
trout, which he never catches; and 
he's as vulgar as boiled mutton in 
July. Mrs. Bridgebanke is about 
the same thing. She takes steady 
aim at all the big words in the 
English language, and, like Mrs. 
Malaprop, piques herself on ' a 
nice derangement of her epitaphs.' 
This worthy couple are blessed 
with one daughter, and it is this 
young lady who has brought me 
here to-day. I have a little busi- 
ness on hand to transact with her, 
but it is of so exceedingly delicate a 
nature that it requires to be manipu- 
lated in primrose-colored gloves." 

" What can this mean ?" thought 
Stonleigh. 

" You are aware* Fred," con- 
tinued the major, " that your cou- 
sin Jimmy stands to me in the dou- 
ble-barrelled relationship of nephew 
and godson. Well, I do as much 
as I can for Jimmy consistent 
with my own comforts, for I'D* at 
that time of life that demands the 
best, the very best, of everything. 
To deny myself anything in reason 
would be equivalent to perpetrat- 
ing a heartless practical joke upon 
a very refined and gentlemanly set 
of feelings. I am at the claret age, 
and nothing short of a comet vin- 
tage, a bottled velvet, will soothe 
me." 

"You haven't much to accuse 



The Major s Manoeuvre. 



791 



yourself on the score of self-de- 
nial, major !" laughed his nephew. 

" No, Fred, no," observed the 
other placidly ; resuming: "Jimmy 
must be kept in the front rank, 
must dress well, horse well, club 
well, and marry superlatively well. 
Such a marriage is on the cards, 
and as soon as I get him out of 
this scrape I'll " 

" Has Jimmy got into a scrape ?" 
interrupted Stonleigh. 

" Of course he has," replied the 
major. "I got him into it, and 
I'm bound to get him out of it. 
This is how it happened : I intro- 
duced Jimmy to the Bridgebankes 
a good commercial stroke of busi- 
ness. No family, not so much as 
a beggarly city knight, but lots of 
tirr. Jimmy swallowed the pill, 
and went in to fascinate; succeed- 
ed, as a matter of course, and, be- 
ing something of an ass, became 
spooney. Parents consent, every- 
thing goes like a dozen of oysters, 
when in a lucky moment I meet 
Jack Flint, who served with me in 
the 42d, just returned from India. 
Jack has no liver, but, what is bet- 
ter, he has a charming little daugh- 
ter with a lac of rupees. Jack's 
daughter was evidently born for 
Jimmy, and Jimmy was evidently 
born for Jack's daughter." And the 
major chuckled behind his black 
satin stockade. 

" And what of the young lady to 
whom he is already engaged? Is 
she not to be considered ?" asked 
Fred indignantly. 

" Certainly not. There is no 
one to be considered in this case 
but Jimmy and myself." 
" But the poor girl's heart ?" 
"Putty, Fred, putty !" 
" Girls do pine sometimes and 
fade like flowers." 

" Tight-lacing, Fred ! tight-lac- 
ing !" 



"Ay, and die." 
" Thin shoes, Fred, and ball cos- 
tumes, my boy." 

" And do you mean to tell me, 
major, that my cousin, James Bye- 
croft, consents to this ?" demanded 
Stonleigh almost fiercely. 

" Of course he does. He knows 
on which side his bread is but- 
tered." 

" Is it not worse than shabby, 
your lending yourself to this pitiful 
business, major?" observed Fred 
after a pause. 

The major stopped; they were 
just at the gilded gates of Assam 
House. 

" My dear Fred," he said, " I've 
seen a*few things in my time-* 
startling things, too but I'll tell 
you two things I never met with, and 
I never knew any man in the service 
who did : a ghost is one, and a lady 
die for love another. That sort of 
thing is played out, my boy." 

The two men walked up the 
flower-bordered avenue in silence, 
the major engaged in flicking the 
dust off his varnished boots, giving 
a rub to his hat, and generally set- 
ting himself to rights, while his ne- 
phew indulged in reflections in no 
wise flattering to his kinsman. 

" Miss Bridgebanke has given my 
cousin her heart," he muttered be- 
tween his clenched teeth, "and 
he dares to trifle with it as though 
it were a sixpenny bauble. He 
shall not. Cost me what it will, 
I'll checkmate this disgraceful ma- 
noeuvre." 

A pert English housemaid re- 
sponded to the major's ring. 

" Ah ! my blooming Hebe, is your 
master in ?" demanded the warrior 
in a jocose tone. 

" He 'ave gone a-fishing to the 
pond, sir." 

" Still after that famous trout, 
eh?" 



792 



The Major s Manoeuvre. 



"Yes, sir, mawster 'as 'igh 'opes 
of 'ooking 'im to-day." 

" It's most astonishing, Fred," 
chuckled the major. " To my own 
knowledge Bridgebanke has been 
after that fish these four months. 
The trout knows him as well as I 
do, and they stare at each other 
like country cousins for hours to- 
gether. Wait till you see Bridge- 
banke's Irish fisherman. Hes a 
character fit for the stage. Ladies 
in, Chloe ?" 

" My name an't Chloe, Major 
Bagshawe," retorted the nymph of 
the spider-brush. "It's Miss Kate 
Flip." 

" Ah ! here's Bridgebanke crossing 
the lawn. Now you'll see, Fred, 
how adroitly I'll prove to him that 
it will be to his daughter's advan- 
tage that this engagement should 
be broken off." 

"And is this young lady to be 
humiliated, huckstered, and tortur- 
ed in this shameful way, major ?" 

" Ah ! here he is," cried the other, 
giving his nephew what is popu- 
larly termed "the bothered ear." 

Mr. Bridgebanke's face was a pic- 
ture of sorrow, dismay, and dejec- 
tion. " You see me in great trou- 
ble, major," he almost moaned. 

** I'm awfully sorry to find you 
out of sorts, Bridgebanke, old boy. 
What's the matter ?" 

"He's gone, major; he's gone !" 
" Who's gone?" 

" My trout, sir," groaned the 
other. " I missed him, sir, after 
'aving fished for him since ever the 
season opened. It was only last 
Saturday week as 'ow I got a rise 
out of 'im. Since that he was more 
familiar, and this very day I put up 
an elegant worm, wriggling like the 
tail of a kite on a windy day, which 
he kept eyeing for about two hours, 
when all of a sudden he gives a 
great bounce and swallows it, 'ook 



and all. Away he run, and I gave 
'im as much line as ever he wanted ; 
but O major ! wot was my 'orror 
to find my line all go, and that it 
wasn't fastened to the reel." And 
the discomfited disciple of Izaak 
Walton rubbed his perspiring fore- 
head a slow and melancholy rub. 

" Never mind, old boy ; there's as 
good fish in the sea as ever was 
caught. This is my nephew, Bridge- 
banke." 

" I'm proud to see you, sir, in my 
'ouse, sir. Are you a fisher ?" 
" I'm very fond of fishing." 
" Then 'ang up yer 'at 'ere, sir, 
in this 'all. There's a freemasonry 
about us brothers of the rod and 
reel." 

Mr. Bridgebanke led the way 
into a very showy dining-rom, 
with a quantity of plate on exhi- 
bition in a glass case. The table 
was already laid for dinner. Three 
massive epergnes, silver giraffes 
craning their elongated necks up 
into cocoanut-trees in search of 
fruit as large as plums, occupied 
two-thirds of the snow-covered ma- 
hogany, while a superb Louis 
Quatorze clock stood with its back 
to a mirror that stretched from the 
mantel to the ceiling. 

" You'll 'ave a little drop of 
something after your walk ?" sug- 
gested Bridgebanke, giving the bell 
a vigorous tug as he spoke. 

" Wot's the use of pulling the 
bells up by the roots ?" exclaimed 
a sharp, shrill woman's voice, while 
at the same moment a little, elder- 
ly lady of waspish aspect bounced 
into the apartment. " La, brother 
Peter !" she exclaimed, " I didn't 
know as how you had strangers 
here." 

The host duly presented his 
guests, adding sotto voce to the ma- 
jor : 

"My sister Patty is a very blunt 



The Major s Manoeuvre. 



793 



sort of person. Speaks her mind 
and calls a spade a spade." 

In good sooth, Miss Patty Bridge- 
banke was about as brusque a little 
old maid as dwelt between Lug- 
gelaw and Wicklow Head. Very 
rich, very self-opinionated, very full 
of common sense, she dealt the 
foibles of her fellows severe raps 
on the head whenever she got a 
chance, which was pretty often ; 
and were it not for her money, 
Miss Patty would have been put in 
Coventry or mercilessly sat upon 
by the victims whose pet corns she 
so relentlessly trampled over. The 
major, finding himself alone with 
this dangerous female Mr. Bridge- 
banke had taken Stonleigh to show 
him the exact spot where he had 
lost the trout essayed to make 
himself as agreeable as possible ; but, 
after uttering some commonplaces 
about the weather, the beauty of 
the surroundings, and the passion 
Mr. Bridgebanke had for fishing, 
discovered that he could not get 
an inch further, and that Miss 
Patty merely listened with an occa- 
sional " Humph !" while she prepar- 
ed a hank of colored worsted which 
had become entangled in her work- 
basket. He was about to beat a 
retreat in the direction taken by 
his host when Miss Bridgebanke 
interposed with : 

" Here, major ! make yourself 
useful for once in your life. You're 
not ornamental. Hold up your 
hands until I roll off this worsted !" 

This was an occupation wholly 
at variance to the major's inclina- 
tions, so he courteously replied : 
" I should be delighted beyond 
measure to be of the slightest 
utility to Miss Bridgebanke, but 
might I suggest that the back of 
the chair would be more suited to 
your purpose." 

"Not a bit of it," retorted Miss 



Patty. " The worsted would slip 
off the back of the chair, but it will 
be held on by the knobs of your 
knuckles." 

" Knobs of my knuckles !" thought 
the major. " I shall lose patience 
with this uninteresting person." 

" Hold up your fingers, major." 

The gallant warrior deemed it 
more prudent to comply. u Sold!" 
he muttered " sold most infernally, 
tied neck and heels, like a wretch- 
ed human fly in the worsted web of 
a most villanous female spider." 

Miss Patty drew her chair direct- 
ly opposite the wretched major, 
and, as she commenced to unwind, 
observed : 

"So you're in the army ?" 

" I was, madam." 

" And why on earth aren't you 
in it now ? There are some men as 
old as you in it." 

" I am on half-pay, Miss Bridge- 
banke." 

"Whole pay would be better 
than half-pay. Were you at the 
battle of Waterloo?" 

"Waterloo, madam?" 

"Yes, Waterloo." 

" Why, madam, Waterloo was 
fought in 1815, and this is '72." 

"You might have been there for 
all that." 

The major stared at her. Were 
her ideas as to dates so hazy, or 
did she put him down at seventy- 
five ? 

" Were you ever in a battle, 
major ?" continued Miss Bridge- 
banke. 

" I never had the good fortune 
to be in action, madam," replied 
the major tartly. 

" Then you're what is called a 
fireside general. Are you married 
or single ? Hold up your hands !" 

His elbows ached as he respond- 
ed to her mandate and her ques- 
tion : 



794 



The Major s Manoeuvre. 



** I am still unlucky enough to be 
a bachelor, madam." 

"That's a wonder. Girls are 
such fools nowadays and so 
plenty that they'll marry anybody 
who asks them. I am an old maid, 
major." 

" Say rather an unappropriated 
blessing," gallantly retorted the 
warrior, whose joints were now 
creaking. 

"Anybody marrying me would 
be after my money," said Miss 
Patty. 

The major wondered to himself 
how much coin the elderly damsel 
had at her disposal. 

"Yes," observed Miss Bridge- 
banke, " any single woman with 
money is nothing but a target for 
every Jeremy Diddler to try his 
chance at." 

" I trust that your capital is well 
and safely secured," said the major. 

"It's in the funds." 

"You prefer the simple elegance 
of the three per cents to a risky 
five or six." 

"I prefer safety, if that's what 
you are driving at." 

" There are a lot of men who 
would marry this old girl for her 
money, and might do worse," 
thought the major, as he anxious- 
ly watched the dissolving worsted. 
" She'd pass for forty, if she only 
tried it on with a bunch of curls, 
or a chignon, or something in that 
way." 

" You're wondering how much 
money I have ; now an't you ?" 
suddenly demanded the lady. 

" Really, I" 

" I'll tell you. I have thirty 
thousand pounds not a pound 
more, not a penny less. There, 
now, I'm done with you," she add- 
ed, as the last thread of worsted 
unwound itself from the major's 
paralyzed fingers. 



" Thirty thousand !" thought the 
major when he was left alone. " A 
snug thing in a cake ; and at her 
own disposal, too absolutely at 
her own disposal. Even at three 
per cent it's a cool thousand a year, 
and a thousand a year is a thou- 
sand a year." \ 

While the major was busy with 
his calculations Mrs. Bridgebanke 
glided into the room, attired in a 
rich moire antique it was a broiling 
July day her fat wrists covered 
with heavy gold bracelets, her neck 
surrounded by a corpulent locket 
and chain. 

" Ah ! Major Bagshawe," she ex- 
claimed. " So you 'ave found your 
way to Assam House. You are a 
little strange. I thought you had 
turned hermit or anchobite." 

" Neither, my dear madam, I 
assure you. And how do you find 
yourself?" 

" Poorly, major, poorly. An as- 
siduity on the chest. Dr. Darby, of 
Bray, proscribed me a bottle, as I 
was threatened with a guitar. But 
I feel quite reverberated. I feel as 
if I could dance a minaret. In my 
younger days I was quite a voter 
of Terpsichory, and my mother 
danced almost to the last; and she 
was very old, almost a centurion. 
But what has become of your ne- 
phew, Mr. James ?" demanded the 
good lady in an anxious tone. 

" He has been much occupied," 
replied the major: "balls, parties, 
routs, drives, picnics, 'at homes/ 
croquet matches, lawn-tennis match- 
es, cricket matches, and billiard 
matches. He is asked out tremen- 
dously. To-day he's at the Vice- 
regal Lodge, and to-morrow he 
goes to Malahide Castle to spend a 
week with Lord Talbot de Mala- 
hide." And the old fox watched the 
effect his communication had upon 
his listener. His object was to 



The Major s Manoeuvre* 



795 



pique the family, put them on 
their pride, cause them to give his 
nephew his conge, and enable him 
to retreat with the honors of war. 

" It's all very well for Mr. James 
to mix in that spear, but his de- 
vour is here," said Mrs. Bridge- 
banke. 

"He's young, my dear Mrs. 
Bridgebanke, and fast and giddy ; 
and when youth and folly get to- 
gether, they generally manage to 
make a mess of it." 

" His folly ought to bring him 
here. See what a diploma Louisa 
would be in if he didn't turn out 
all that her fancy painted him." 

The wily old warrior, resolving to 
carry his project into execution, 
asked Mrs. Bridgebanke to take a 
turn with him in the garden, in 
order to be free from interruption, 
and then and there proceeded to 
paint an imaginary picture of the 
misery that must ensue from the 
mating of a very foolish young man 
who didn't know his own mind 
with a young, innocent, and charm- 
ing girl who in all probability did 
not know hers. 

Fred Stonleigh, leaving Mr. 
Bridgebanke at the pond, strolled 
back to the house. As he passed 
the lawn-tennis ground he perceiv- 
ed his uncle in close confab with 
Mrs. Bridgebanke. 

"So, so! The major is pouring 
the leprous distilment into this 
foolish old lady's ear, wily diplo 
matist that he is. He's just the 
man to wind father and mother 
round his finger like pack-thread 
induce them to believe themselves 
a pair of wiseacres, and to consider 
him as the fool in the middle. Can 
Miss Bridgebanke really care for 
an empty-headed coxcomb whose 
heart must be in the wrong place, 
or he'd never stoop to the double 



treachery of humiliating the girl 
who loves him, and to deceive an- 
other to whom he is to sell himself 
for his daily bread ! I cannot real- 
ize it. It's an enigma." 

Mr. Stonleigh passed into a 
drawing-room through a window 
that opened to the ground. His 
heart leaped as his eyes met those 
of Marguerite Bridgebanke. 

"The last time I saw you, Miss 
Bridgebanke, I uttered prophetic 
words," he laughed. " I said that 
we should meet again." 

" Does it not strike you, Mr. 
Stonleigh, that your prophecy was 
one singularly easy of fulfilment? 
she retorted, a bright blush man- 
tling her cheeks. 

" Not quite so easy as you im- 
agine. An astronomer watches for 
the appearance of some especial 
star upon the horizon, and just as 
he is about to pursue his investiga- 
tions an inky cloud comes between 
him and his hopes." 

" Perhaps if the star were aware 
of the astronomer's good intentions 
she would prove more gracious by 
shining through the cloud." 

"What if the cloud were too 
dense?" 

" Every cloud has a silver lin- 
ing, Mr. Stonleigh." 

They laughed and chattered, 
and chattered and laughed ; and 
yet Fred Stonleigh, still under the 
impression that he was speaking to 
'the daughter of Ue house and the 
fiancee of his worthless kinsman, 
had uttered no warning note, al- 
though while crossing the lawn he 
had made up his*mind to give Mrs. 
Bridgebanke to understand that 
Major Bagshawe was not to be 
trusted implicitly, and that his 
cousin, being more or less under 
his uncle's control, was sound at 
the core. 

This he resolved to do; and yet 



The Major s Manoeuvre. 



was he justified or warranted to 
interfere ? What was this marriage 
or break-off to him ? He was not 
consulted. It was no affair of his. 
Let things take their course. The 
major was pretty near the truth 
when he declared that broken vows 
never produced broken hearts. 

Fred Stonleigh looked at Mar- 
guerite's earnest eyes, and then he 
suddenly exclaimed : 

" May I tell you a story, Miss 
Bridgebanke ?" 

" A fa/ry story ?" she asked with 
a light laugh, perceiving the heavy 
shadow that suddenly and like a 
veil fell upon his face. 

" Yes, a fairy story." 

" By all means." 

He sat facing her, his elbows on 
his knees, his hands clasped, his 
body bent, his eyes under hers. 

" Once upon a time that is a 
good beginning, is it not?" 

" Most orthodox ; pray proceed." 

" Once upon a time there lived a 
king" 

" The originality of the opening 
promises well," she laughed. 

" And queen, Miss Bridgebanke." 



" That's better. Every king 
should have a queen." 

" And they possessed an only 
daughter, and she was beautiful." 

" Naturally ! All princesses are 
beautiful. 1 ' 

"And a young prince fell in love 
with her." 

" Violently, I hope, as becomes a 
prince." 

" Right royally. But the prince 
had a wicked uncle." 

" Oh ! there's a villain in the 
piece ?" 

" A cruel genius," continued 
Fred, " who considered that 
wealth alone constituted happiness, 
and who resolved that the prince 
should wed an uglier but wealthier 
princess, although he had plighted 
his troth " 

" To Princess number one," 
laughed Marguerite, adding : " And 
the prince, in the most commercial 
manner possible, assented to his 
uncle's proposition." 

tl Wrong, Miss Bridgebanke." 

" What ! did love triumph over 
lucre ?" 

" Esptrons" 



TO BE CONTINUED. 



An Archbishop of Canterbury in the Tenth Century. 797 



AN ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY IN THE TENTH CEN- 
TURY.* 



IN the legends of the saints and 
in 'Holy Scripture a great stress is 
laid upon names. They are shown 
to be full of significance for the 
future career which they are to 
adorn. It will be seen in the 
course of these pages whether our 
English St. Dunstan did not justify 
his name in his life. Dunstan 
signifies a mountain and a rock,f 
and in Holy Scripture a very par- 
ticular meaning is attached to both, 
the one signifying the desire after 
eternal things, the other the im- 
mutability of the soul which seeks 
after God in the storm and whirl- 
wind of this world. 

Herstan and Kynedritha, Dun- 
stan 's parents, were both noble. 
They lived in the neighborhood of 
Glastonbury, a monastery where- 
of popular tradition ascribed the 
foundation to angelic hands, but 
which at that time bore few signs of 
the angel's workmanship about it, 
being an insignificant building in 
the midst of a swamp. On the 
feast of the Purification which pre- 
ceded Dunstan's birth his mother 
was assisting at the Candle Mass 
which gives its name to the solem- 
nity, when suddenly the tapers of 
the whole congregation went out. 
Before conjecture had shaped itself 
as to the cause of the occurrence, 
Kynedritha's candle enkindled as 
of itself, and communicated fresh 
light to all in the church. The 
sign fitly expressed the particular 
work of the child who was so soon 
to be born to enlighten not Glas- 



* Memorials of St. Dunstan. Edited from 
various MSS. by Professor Stubbs. 
t Quod et montem et petram sonat. 



tonbury only, nor even the mon- 
astic order in England, but the 
whole Saxon nation. The child 
was brought into the world under 
the reign of Athelstan in the year 
925. When he had grown up to 
be a boy his parents brought him 
to Glastonbury, in accomplishment 
of a promise concerning him, pro- 
bably, which they had made to 
God. Here whilst they prayed in 
the church Dunstan had a dream. 
An old man in white, of shining ap- 
pearance, conducted him round the 
monastery, drawing a plan of build- 
ings which, he said, the boy should 
one day erect on that spot. Long 
years afterwards Abbot Dunstan 
remembered the heavenly lesson. 
But on this occasion he was left by 
his parents to be educated at Glas- 
tonbury. He seems to have been 
no idle scholar, but to have taken 
only too kindly to his studies. 
Irish monks, in the ardor of their 
philosophical pursuits, much fre- 
quented Glastonbury at that time. 
Under their guidance Dunstan ate 
and drank his fill of Holy Scrip- 
ture.* The ardent boy had a soul 
full of poetry and the thirst for 
knowledge, yet his body was 
weaker than his desires. His over- 
taxed brain gave way, and he be- 
came so ill that both parents and 
doctors despaired of returning 
health. Yet God used extraordi- 
nary means to raise his young ser- 
vant to life and strength. One 
night the sick youth got up out of 
his bed and left the house, meeting, 
says William of Malmesbury, a 
pack of barking dogs, who ran 

* William of Malmesbury, p. 257. 



798 



Archbishop of Canterbury in the Tenth Century. 



straight at him.* Dunstan recog- 
nized something more than a dog 
in one of the most savage of the 
troop, and he administered a sound 
beating with his stick, which he 
seems to have used the convenient 
precaution of taking with him. He 
climbed a mason's ladder, and 
reached the end of his nocturnal 
journey, the church, by means too 
unaccountable to be explained. 
The next morning he was found 
asleep in a portico between two 
watchmen, perfectly sound and 
well. If ' the heaven-enkindled 
flame on the Purification denoted 
the coming of one who should re- 
store light and purity to the sanc- 
tuary, the mysterious dogs and his 
illness so preternaturally cured may 
be taken as a further illustration of 
his energetic and powerful work- 
ing. 

Once more Dunstan set himself 
to his former studies with an ar- 
dor so undiminished that its fame 
reached the ears of King Athelstan. 
He acquired a special proficiency 
in two sciences which apparently 
have no very strong analogy, music 
and mathematics. The harp be- 
came Dunstan's constant compan- 
ion, his relaxation, and the instru- 
ment which he was never weary of 
using to sing the divine praises. 

Dunstan's vocation seems to us 
to be one of the strange things in 
his strange life. It might have 
been supposed that the extraordi- 
nary graces he had received would 
have naturally engendered a call to 
the service of the altar; but it was 
not so. In this case it was Dun- 
stan's parents who moved him to 
receive minor orders, lest he should 
slight the evident tokens of divine 
pleasure; and Dunstan agreed to 
take up the yoke for fear of seem- 
ing ungracious to those who so 

* William of Malmesbury, p. 256. 



pressed him.* But about this time, 
being fifteen or sixteen, he was in- 
troduced to Athelstan, who held his 
court in the western shires, and so 
managed to combine attendance on 
the king with service at the altar. 
The talented boy soon rejoiced in 
the highest favor shown to any 
courtier. His melodious harp 
charmed and soothed the royal 
spirit. In the house of a certain 
noble matron the same harp, un- 
touched by human fingers, executed 
an antiphon to the words, " The 
souls o/ the blessed rejoice. "f In 
the height of Athelstan's favor 
Dunstan's purity of heart did not 
forsake him. As he listened to the 
heavenly strain he prepared his 
soul for tribulation. His enemies 
had, indeed, taken umbrage at his 
excellence, and they determined to 
get rid of him ; for as long as he 
stayed at court he absorbed their 
master's attention. They mooted 
an accusation of sorcery which forc- 
ed Dunstan to retire; but they 
moreover tried to put a violent end 
to him and his fascinating manners. 
They waylaid his horse, trampled 
him under foot in the mud, and left 
him there to help himself as best 
he could. Dunstan managed to get 
up in order to gain a friend's house 
which was near at hand, but he was 
so unsightly an object that the said 
friend's dogs would have sprung 
upon him had not his caressing 
voice made them think better of it. 
They brought him to the house 
with their canine signs of approba- 
tion, wagging tails, which caused 
Dunstan to say in the sadness of 
his heart : "I see that the order of 
nature is reversed ; for whilst my 
friends are as cruel as beasts, dogs 
are as kind as men."J After this 



* Ne prsecipientibus durus videretur. 
t " Gaudent in coelis animae sanctorum.' 
$ P. 260. 



An Archbishop of Canterbury in the Tenth Century. 799 



first painful experience of court 
Dunstan retired to Winchester, 
where a near relation of his, Elfege, 
was bishop. Although in minor 
orders, Dunstan had renounced 
neither the world nor the flesh,* so 
that when Elfege urged him to be- 
come a monk he put the bishop 
off with playful answers, sometimes 
even pretending to see no merit in 
the religious life. Good Bishop 
Elfege, however, took the matter se- 
riously to heart, and he prayed ear- 
nestly that Dunstan might be brought 
to graver thoughts by bodily sick- 
ness. His petition was heard. 
Dropsy, or king's evil, had the merit 
of working a thorough change in 
Dunstan, who rose from his bed 
with the resolution to embrace the 
counsels. In the silence and soli- 
tude of Glastonbury he was to pre- 
pare for his future career that is, 
in order to become the counsellor 
of kings he was to begin by learn- 
ing obedience. William of Malmes- 
bury paints in one single line a 
graphic picture of his working at 
the already ancient monastery : 
" There he applies his hand to 
work, his lips to prayer, his soul 
to heaven."! 

Another biographer describes the 
cell which Dunstan built for him- 
self at Glastonbury, though, he says, 
"I cannot find a word which will 
at all express it, as it was much more 
like a tomb than a human abode. "J 
It was not more than fifteen feet long 
by two and a half wide, its height 
about that of a man. An aperture in 
the wall served as a door and a win- 
dow ; but, concludes the monk bio- 
grapher, " the wide and spacious 
walls of cities may not be compared 
to this narrow cell, by the grace of 

* Irrepserat enim jam adolescent! voluptatum 
fomes. Ibid. 

t''Ibi manus applicabat open, labia psalmis, 
animos coelis," p. 262. 

$ Vita, auctore Osberno, p. 83. 



which many forms of disease are 
now cured and the fury of demons 
is assuaged." 

In the meantime Athelstan died 
at Gloucester, in 941, and was suc- 
ceeded by his brother, Edmund I. 
How long a time elapsed before 
Dunstan was again called to court 
does not transpire, but we should 
place it not earlier than 944, when he 
would still have been full young to 
act as a royal counsellor. But now 
he had the additional strength and 
maturity which are gained from a 
religious training, and there is some 
difference noticeable between the 
harp-playing youth whose music 
had found the way to Athelstan's 
heart, and the professed monk 
whose motto at Edmund's court 
seems to have been, " Render to 
Caesar those things which are Cse- 
sar's, and to God those things which 
are God's." The king's special 
choice of Dunstan was, it must be 
remembered, the sole ground for 
the influence which he exercised 
over the affairs of the nation. His 
whole soul was bent upon a strict 
administration of justice, which 
cardinal virtue he found in a singu- 
larly languid condition. In this 
matter he was altogether as good 
as his word, causing transgressors 
to be punished with severity ; but, 
not unnaturally perhaps, the cour- 
tiers revolted. The ardent monk 
with his sweeping reforms could 
not be tolerated, and Edmund, for- 
getting his own gracious invitation, 
hastily ordered Dunstan to quit the 
court. Shortly afterwards there 
was a royal hunt at Cheddar. In 
the heat of the sport the king pur- 
sued the deer over hill and dale 
till at length he was led to the 
brink of a steep declivity, and 
could no longer rein in his horse. 
On the point of certain death, he 
bethought himself, as is the wont 



Soo An Archbishop of Canterbury in the Tenth Century. 



of men at these critical moments, 
that he had wronged no man but 
Dunstan, his friend, whom he had 
condemned without hearing. He 
resolved that, if God would save 
him by Dunstan 's merits, he would 
make good his bad treatment. He 
had hardly come to this determina- 
tion when the horse, whose hoofs 
were already on the edge of the 
descent, became as tractable as a 
lamb ; the king regained his mastery 
over the animal, and was delivered 
from all danger. His gratitude 
was royal. Without any delay he 
called for Dunstan and proposed 
that they should proceed together 
to Glastonbury. Arrived there, he 
offered up fervent prayers of 
thanksgiving, and, pressing Dun- 
Stan's hand with great affection, he 
led him to the vacant abbatial 
chair, and proclaimed him abbot, 
promising at the same time to sup- 
ply all possible needs from his 
treasury. This event is referred 
by Professor Stubbs to the year 
946. 

The date of Dunstan's ordina- 
tion is very uncertain, though the 
event was rendered noteworthy by 
Elfege's prophecy. Dunstan re- 
ceived Holy Orders from the same 
Bishop of Winchester who had 
taken so paternal an interest in his 
vocation, and who now bestowed a 
similar dignity on two others. He 
distinctly foretold the future career 
of the three youths anointed as 
priests of -God by his episcopal 
hands. "To-day," he said, "by 
the grace of God I have imposed 
hands on three men, the first of 
whom will be the archbishop of 
Canterbury; the second will one 
day succeed me in this see; the 
third will throw off the veil of reli- 
gion and end his life in a mire 
of licentiousness." * Even the 

* Auctore Osberno, p. 262. 



number three will not always ex- 
clude a Judas. 

To pass over in silence Dunstan's 
holy charms to gain the hearts of 
great ladies to God would be to 
omit a very characteristic feature 
of his life. A certain Ethelfleda, 
who was, it seems, related to King 
Athelstan, having once listened to 
Dunstan's burning words, was so 
enraptured with the sweetness of 
eternal life that she could not 
make up her mind to return home 
or to leave the spot, but chose to live 
and die near to blessed Dunstan.* 
In our own days many would be 
the criticisms on such a step. It 
might be called running after a 
priest, or a silly attachment which 
should be nipped in the bud by its 
object; but friendships vary in their 
nature somewhat after the fashion 
of souls, and if our Lord drew all 
men after the odor of his oint- 
ments, why should not his servants 
have the power of discerning the 
true love of God from the idle seek- 
ers after a vain-glorious excite- 
ment ? Ethelfleda then establish- 
ed herself in the vicinity of Glas- 
tonbury, giving herself up to pray- 
er and good works. When the 
hour of her departure drew near 
she sent for Tier holy confessor, and, 
having made her confession with 
many tears, Dunstan exhorted her 
to detach herself from all earthly 
things, that the prince of this world 
might find no part in her heart. 
He returned to Glastonbury for the 
night, and there in the church had 
a vision of the Mystic Dove, who 
entered with great brightness into 
the house of the dying Ethelfleda. 
The vision caused him to go back 
to his royal penitent, whom he 
heard conversing behind her cur- 
tain with an invisible guest. Who, 
Dunstan asked, was her visitor? 



* P. 86. 






An Archbishop of Canterbury in the Tenth Century. Soi 



It was God, answered Ethelfleda 
in quiet ecstasy, who came to take 
away all her fears of death. The 
noble lady's last recorded words 
to Dunstan explain what kind of 
friendship theirs had been : " I 
thank you heartily, my dearest and 
best friend, because, owing to your 
advice and to your prayers, I am 
now going to God. There is one 
thing which I still ask, and beg for 
if I may, as a last favor : that at 
early dawn you would bring me 
the precious Body and Blood of 
our Lord, that, fortified by these 
life-giving mysteries, I may not be 
confounded in the gate when I 
shall speak to my enemies." * When 
on the morrow Dunstan had car- 
ried her last Communion to Ethel- 
fleda, she happily departed to eter- 
nal rest. 

It was during the peaceful days 
at Glastonbury that William of 
Malmesbury places Dunstan's fa- 
mous encounter with the devil 
which has given rise to the story 
that the saint "pinched his nose." 
The young monk then for the in- 
cident properly occurred before his 
nomination as abbot being very 
clever with his fingers, was often 
solicited by the neighboring peo- 
ple to do a little smith's work for 
them. One evening, as he was thus 
engaged, the devil, under the ap- 
pearance of a petitioner, appeared 
at his window. Dunstan did not 
discover the fraud, and set himself 
to do as he was asked, when the 
devil began to insinuate very bad 
thoughts, though always under the 
gloss of a certain decorum. The 
saint accordingly heated his tongs 
and caught the arch-deceiver by 
the jaw. ." Nor would the pestilent 
creature have escaped," quaintly 
remarks William of Malmesbury, 
" unless he had resorted to his 

* P. 88. 
VOL, XXIX. 51 



usual artifices and melted away in 
the night air."* It is a curious 
fact that at a retired village in Pro- 
testant England the tongs where- 
with " St. Dunstan pinched the de- 
vil's nose " are still produced as a 
sort of victorious trophy, f 

Dunstan's dream as a child will 
be remembered. Thrice he re- 
ceived supernatural warnings of his 
future career. As a boy he was 
shown his work as abbot of Glas- 
tonbury ; as a monk he again look- 
ed on a sort of panorama of his 
life in the silence of the night ; 
and once more, at King Edred's 
court, he had the most significant 
vision of all concerning his future 
primacy. These particular signs 
have the merit of showing Dun- 
stan's vivid faith in the communion 
of saints; for in general dreams 
form the subject of our daily 
thoughts. A monk called Wulfred, 
whom a close friendship had unit- 
ed to Dunstan, died. After a short 
time he appeared in his earthly 
form to his friend, and foretold to 
him all the events of his life in de- 
tail. But Dunstan was of a prac- 
tical mind, and heard the prophecy 
with caution, saying in his charac- 
teristic way : "These are fine things 
which you promise, but by what 
sign am I to trust them,?" J Then 
Wulfred seemed to take him by the 
hand to the place before the church 
which was almost entirely covered 
with the tombs of the dead. " Here," 
he replied, " a priest shall be bur- 
ied in three days who is now per- 
fectly sound. His body shall be 
brought from the western side to 
be buried." Having uttered these 
words, he vanished, and Dunstan 
awoke. On the morrow he had 
scarcely recounted the dream to 

* p. 263. 

t At Mayfield, in Sussex. 

*P.26 S . 



So2 An Archbishop of Canterbury in the Tenth Century. 



the other monks when a priest 
came to the monastery seemingly 
for no other purpose than to fix 
upon his tomb. Having seen the 
small space still left unoccupied in 
the church-yard, he asked the 
monks as a great favor that his 
t>ody might there be laid to rest. 
He had hardly departed before he 
was taken ill, and in three days 
Wulfred's prophecy was accom- 
plished to the letter. 

The young abbot now remember- 
ed the specific vision he had had as 
to the enlargement of Glastonbury, 
and, with his eminently practical 
mind, he set himself to add a tower 
and aisles to the church, whilst at 
the same time' he bethought him- 
self of the monks who should pass 
from their earthly to their hea- 
venly paradise. He enclosed the 
cemetery, which became under his 
rule " like a beautiful garden se- 
cluded from all noise or thorough- 
fare," * where the bodies of the 
monks might truly be said to rest 
in peace. But Dunstan's ardent 
spirit rejoiced rather in the spiritu- 
al weal of the living than i* the 
temporary repose of the dead. 
From all parts vocations flocked to 
Glastonbury. It was the centre 
which formed holy monks, abbots, 
and bishops who perpetuated Dun- 
Stan's example throughout England. 
He had a strong comprehension of 
-the axiom that vice is fostered by 
ignorance, and to this conviction 
must be traced the impulse given 
.to learning under his rule. Some 
notion maybe gained of the scheme 
carried out at Glastonbury by cit- 
ing the example of Ethelwold, one 
of the monks thus formed by Dun- 
stan. About this Ethelwold Dun- 
stan had one of his significant 
dreams. He thought that within 
the monastic enclosure he saw a 
* P. 27*. 



tree whereof the branches embrac- 
ed the whole of England. They 
were laden with monastic habits, 
but one at the extreme top appear- 
ed to be larger and more prominent 
than all the rest. The abbot gazed 
and was perplexed, when a vene- 
rable old priest in his dream thus 
enlightened him : " The tree/' he 
said, " is this island ; the habit at 
the top signifies the religious merit 
of thy monk Ethelwold. The oth- 
ers are the souls of those monks 
whom he shields from the devil by 
his piety, and whom he protects 
under the shadow of his righteous- 
ness."* These words are full of 
meaning when it is considered how 
many Ethelwolds were formed by 
Glastonbury. 

Under these circumstances it can 
hardly be wondered at if Dunstan's 
relations with the devil were of 
a somewhat unpleasant character. 
The persecution he endured from 
"that pestilent creature" bears a 
strong resemblance to that inflicted 
in our own times on Jean Baptiste 
Vianney, the holy cure of Ars. 
Thrice in one night he was assailed 
by the devil, who appeared to him 
under three different forms ; but 
Dunstan, whose courage is proved 
by the legend itself, quietly laugh- 
ed him to scorn for changing his 
form. The abbot had a brother, 
Wulfric by name. He died, and 
on the day of the funeral, for some 
cause which is not specified, Dun- 
stan stayed behind with one boy, 
who survived to recount the extra- 
ordinary fact which took place. 
They were walking in the court, 
awaiting the return of the monks 
from the cemetery, when an im- 
mense stone was flung at Dunstan. 
It carried off his cap or cowl, roll- 
ing heavily beyond him ; but the 
unseen agency which had hurled it 
* P. 273. 



An Archbishop of Canterbury in the Tenth Century. 803 



was fully revealed when the monks 
came to examine it. The stone 
could hardly be lifted from the 
ground, and was of a kind entirely 
unknown in Somersetshire. 

Soon after the accession of Ed- 
red to the throne in 947, Dunstan 
seems to have taken up his partial 
abode at the king's palace, divid- 
ing his time between Glastonbury 
and the court. During the nine 
years of his reign Edred suffered 
from the most persistent ill-health, 
which caused him to look to Dun- 
stan as to his right hand for the ad- 
ministration of his kingdom, and he 
made him his treasurer. Accord- 
ing to William of Malmesbury, 
those were palmy days for Eng- 
land. This time Dunstan met 
with no opposition from the spirit 
of envy and unrighteousness. He 
possessed the king's ear and gov- 
erned his counsels, and practically 
worked out the Biblical precept, 
" Fear God and honor the king." 
Edred wished very much to see 
his favorite Dunstan a bishop, but 
the prime minister was inflexible 
even to the prayers of Queen Elf- 
giva, the king's mother, who had 
been charged by him to use her 
powers of persuasion. " Be assur- 
ed, lady," said Dunstan, "that I 
will never become a bishop during 
your son's lifetime."* However, 
Dunstan's high-minded resolution 
was not apparently ratified in hea- 
ven. The following night he had 
a curious dream. He seemed to 
be returning from a pilgrimage to 
Rome at a spot from which its 
walls are visible, and which used 
in consequence to be called by 
pilgrims the Mountain of Joy, as 
the place whence they could de- 
scry the bourne of their desires. 
Here he was met by the apostles 
St. Peter, St. Paul, and St. Andrew, 

*p. 279. 



each holding a sword. On those 
of St. Paul and St. Andrew their 
names were written, but St. Peter's 
sword contained the words in gold- 
en letters, " In the beginning was 
the Word, and the Word was with 
God." Whilst the apostles offered 
their swords to Dunstan, St, An- 
drew greeted him as a special 
friend, and, partly in allusion to his 
name, partly to give a point to his 
words, he said, " Take up my yoke, 
for I am meek and humble of 
heart." Then Dunstan received a 
sharp blow on his hand from St. 
Peter, with the intimation that this 
was the punishment for the bishop- 
ric refused, and that in future he 
was not to be so stubborn. After 
this chastisement Dunstan awoke, 
and inquired of a monk sleeping 
near who it was that had struck 
him. Upon a negative answer he 
said confidently: "Now, then, I 
know, my son, who it was." He 
did not sleep again that night, but 
passed it in prayer till the early 
dawn, when he imparted his dream 
to Edred. The king, possessed by 
a spark of prophecy, explained the 
words written on St. Peter's sword 
as signifying Dunstan's future pro- 
motion to the archbishopric of 
Canterbury, where the principal 
church is dedicated to our Lord.* 
But in spite of the familiarity ap- 
parent between the king and his 
chief counsellor, Dunstan was ab- 
sent at the time of Edred's death. 
The sickly king was carried off 
suddenly at last, and Dunstan had 
his wish not to be burdened with 
fresh cares whilst his ailing master 
required all his energy. On his 
way to the royal death-bed Dun- 
stan received a supernatural inti- 
mation that the king " slept in 
God,"f and enjoined his com- 
*p. 281. 

t "Modo," inquit, " Edredus rex obdormivit in 
Domino." 



804 An Archbishop of Canterbury in the Tenth Century. 



panions to pray for Edred's soul. 
When he reached the palace he 
found a sad instance of the pro- 
verbial self-seeking of courtiers. 
They, who had formerly flattered 
their master during his life, fled 
from his corpse, which could give 
them nothing. Dunstan mourned 
over the sight. He and his monks 
watched by the royal remains till 
they were buried with becoming 
honors at Winchester. The abbot 
retired to Glastonbury for a short 
breathing-time. " Yet, although," 
says his biographer, " he had chos- 
en Mary's part, he did not disdain 
Martha's solicitude."* A beam 
from a tower in course of erection 
was stopped in its descent by the 
holy sign of the cross which Dun- 
stan made upon the air; but where- 
as the good rejoiced at his miracu- 
lous power, the wicked were there- 
by moved to greater envy of his 
gifts. 

With Edred's decease in 955 a 
new phase begins in the life of Dun- 
stan. Hitherto he had served de- 
serving sovereigns, and had been 
generally treated by them with 
grateful appreciation ; but now an 
unworthy successor ascended the 
throne of Alfred. Edwy or Edwin 
the Fair, whose short reign began 
by profligacy (956) and ended in 
grief (959), brought discord into 
his kingdom by bad and ambitious 
women. The scene of his corona- 
tion has been often described. 
The spiritual lords of England, its 
bishops and abbots, were gathered 
together for the ceremony, but, as 
they sat afterwards at the banquet, 
the king suddenly retired. A cer- 
tain woman, Elgiva, who was near- 
ly related to him, and her daughter 
had inspired the lust of the king, 
and for their company he forsook 
the great ones of his land. Who 
* p. 282. 



would go and call him back to his 
duty ? To do so implied the ha- 
tred and revenge of a bad woman 
in power, which revenge would 
last as long as the king's passion 
for her. Dunstan and his kinsman, 
Bishop Kinsige, offered themselves 
for the perilous task, but it was 
Dunstan who used a gentle vio- 
lence with the king. The crown 
of England was on the floor, strange 
emblem of its wretched possessor. 
Replacing it on the king's head, 
Dunstan drew him by the arm back 
to the banqueting-hall ; but Elgiva, 
turning to him with a dreadful 
look, exclaimed : " Because you 
are impertinent enough to draw 
the king away from the couch 
whether he will or no, / will take 
care that you never forget this day 
nor me as long as I can help it." * 

The queen's words for she at- 
tained the object of her ambition 
were not vain. Her vengeance pur- 
sued Dunstan and made England 
an unsafe place for the courageous 
abbot of Glastonbury. Dunstan 
set sail for Flanders, narrowly es- 
caping the loss of his eyes a pun- 
ishment ordered by Elgiva to be 
inflicted on her enemy. At that 
time the monastic life in Flanders 
flourished under Count Arnulf, 
whose father had married a daugh- 
ter of Alfred ; and thus it came to 
pass that on different sides of the 
German Ocean two of his grand- 
sons, Edred and Arnulf, were simul- 
taneously carrying on monastic re- 
vival. Dunstan's cause, therefore, 
was warmly adopted by Arnulf, who 
received him at Ghent and allotted 
him a monastery, where, far from 
being looked upon as a stranger or* 
an exile, he was treated as a friend 
and a superior, f A less kind treat- 
ment, as he learned by revelation, 
would have been his at Glaston- 



*p. 284. 



t P. 285. 



An Archbishop of Canterbury in the Tenth Century. 805 



bury. He seemed one night to be 
in the choir there, and to hear his 
monks singing an antiphon from 
the words of Job : " Why have you 
detracted the words of truth, where- 
as there is none of you that can 
reprove me?" but they could not 
complete the chapter, in spite of 
various attempts which they made. 
Then Dunstan urged them to go 
on : " However, finish what you 
have begun." But he heard a 
voice saying : " These words are 
hidden from them because they 
shall never carry out what is in 
their thoughts that is, to depose 
thee from thy post in this monas- 
tery." His flight took place in 
the year 956. 

In the meantime affairs did not 
prosper with Edwy. The Mer- 
cians revolted against him, and 
peace was only arrived at by the 
division of the kingdom (958), 
Edwy retaining the country south 
of the Thames only, and his broth- 
er Edgar taking the rest of Eng- 
land. Edgar was but sixteen when 
he became king, and already he 
showed some decided character by 
recalling Dunstan, the devoted 
friend of his family. 

After Dunstan's return to Eng- 
land his life shapes itself into two 
principal aspects his work as an 
ecclesiastical reformer, and his la- 
bors as a politician who had before 
his mind's eye a great principle to 
which he was always and singularly 
faithful. It is only from this double 
point of view that we can form an 
adequate notion of the man, and 
defend his memory from the impu- 
tations of those who have pretend- 
ed to trace a fanatical hand in his 
reforms, or an inordinate desire to 
meddle with state affairs in his 
undoubted capacity for guiding the 
counsels of a young king. More 
weight was in the first instance 



given to his position by the episco- 
pal consecration which he received 
on his return from Flanders. Ac- 
cording to a custom in force at the 
time, he was probably consecrated 
a shire-bishop, pending the vacancy 
of a see. Three years elapsed be- 
tween this and his final dignity as 
primate ; for in 959, after the death 
of Edwy, his mysterious dream was 
fully accomplished and he became 
Archbishop of Canterbury. He 
had previously governed the dio- 
ceses of Worcester and London. 

There is perhaps no better test 
of an apostolic spirit than the fear- 
less correction of those who occupy 
high places. King Edgar himself 
seems unfortunately to have been 
no model in his private life, and 
once he fell into the sin of seducing 
a noble maiden at Wilton, who, if 
not a nun, subsequently took the 
veil to free herself from his impor- 
tunity. Dunstan, moved to holy 
anger, went to remonstrate, when 
Edgar, putting out his hand, would 
have led him to the throne. But 
the archbishop, evading his touch, 
said with spirit : " Do you dare to 
touch the pastor's hand when you 
did not fear to seize a virgin given 
to God ? You have seduced the 
spouse of your Creator, and do you 
think to please the spouse's friend 
by a bit of flattery ? I will not be 
the friend of one whom Christ 
opposes."* When Edgar had be- 
wailed his sin Dunstan imposed a 
penance with no sparing hand. 
The king was not to wear his 
crown for seven years ; he was to 
fast twice a week and to give large 
alms. In short, he who had robbed 
God of one virgin was to found a 
convent which would give him back 
many spouses. 

If, as we are proud to boast, the 
English character becomes early 

* Osbern, p. in. 



806 An Archbishop of Canterbury in the Tenth Century. 



apparent in the nature of its free 
and healthy laws for the good of 
the lowest British subject, then we 
must acknowledge that Dunstan 
was a representative Englishman. 
Edgar's constitutions bear the im- 
press of a strong and thoroughly 
English individuality, except, in- 
deed, the institution of the Hundred, 
which seems to have been an ad- 
ministrative idea inherited from the 
old German system. Peace, order, 
and the rights of the subject are 
the undercurrent of Edgar's secu- 
lar ordinances concerning the re- 
medial jurisdiction of the king, the 
regular holding of the popular 
courts, the general system of se- 
curity for appearance in the gemots, 
and the uniformity of coins and 
measures. The claims of the indi- 
vidual English citizen are fairly and 
clearly recognized in these early 
ordinances : " I will that every 
man be worthy of folk-right, as 
well poor as rich, and that right- 
eous dooms be judged to him." 
And again in the Supplementum 
three points are insisted upon 
which are of fundamental impor- 
tance to the prosperity of the state : 
First and foremost come duties 
towards God and religion ; sec- 
ondly, the proper balancing of 
power between the sovereign and 
his thanes ; and, thirdly, the legal 
freedom of the Danes. The de- 
velopment of these early principles 
points to the religious mind of the 
English even amidst the errings of 
heresy, the independent English 
monarchy, the free and generous 
nature of English hospitality toward 
strangers. Edgar's words in one 
instance at least mark the guidance 
of Dunstan. He says : " I and 
the archbishop command that ye 
anger not God." The ecclesiasti- 
cal laws enacted may be divided 
into two classes ; the first are call- 



ed the sixty-seven canons of Ed- 
gar, and concern religious obser- 
vances and the guidance of the 
clergy. Professor Stubbs recog- 
nizes Dunstan's hand in some of 
the number. For instance, " That 
no priest receive a scholar without 
the leave of the other by whom 
he was formerly retained " ; ** that 
every priest do teach manual arts 
with diligence " ; " that no learned 
priest reproach him that is less 
learned, but mend him if he know 
how"; " that no noble-born priest 
despise one of less noble birth ; if 
it be rightly considered, all men 
are of one origin." * The peniten- 
tial canons form the second class 
of which we spoke, but they are 
much less individual. Dunstan's 
claim to be viewed as a spiritual 
ancestor of the great St. Gregory 
VII. lies in the apostolic strife 
which he waged against the ex- 
cesses of the clergy. It is not easy 
to explain the falling away of the 
Anglo-Saxon priests without a 
deep knowledge of the period, but 
certain causes of degeneracy ap- 
pear on the surface. Civilization, 
in its first stage, does not always 
act favorably upon the moral life 
of a country, and it may safely be 
said that the refining process be- 
gun by St. Augustine had been in- 
terrupted by two and a half centu- 
ries of internal growth impeded by 
foreign invasion. The ceaseless in- 
cursions of the Danes had had a 
depressing, not an elevating, effect 
upon the Saxons ; and now, at the 
latter end of the tenth century, 
they were little more than half-civ- 
ilized barbarians, knowing, indeed, 
those things which they ought to do, 
but possessing not energy where- 
with to do them. Fear had cast 
out love, instead of the reverse.f 



* Preface. 

t Perfecta autem charitas foras mittit timorem. 



An Archbishop of Canterbury in the Tenth Century. 807 



Thus William of Malmesbury de- 
scribes the clergy as " given up to 
worldly things, addicted to games 
of chance, equal to or surpassing 
seculars in their love of dress and 
in their licentiousness, intent upon 
food even to shameful excess, ig- 
norant of letters as if it were a 
disgrace to priests to be learned, 
scarcely knowing the meaning of 
the words their sacred calling or- 
dered them to say so often." In 
this state of things any man cour- 
ageous enough to set up a high 
ideal of perfection would deserve 
more gratitude than the founder of 
a world-wide empire. Yet this is 
what Dunstan did by the illustra- 
tion he gave to monastic life, in 
itself a faithful carrying out of the 
counsels. He enacted that every 
see should be rilled by a monk or 
an abbot, who should be able to 
serve as an example to his dioce- 
sans, pending the time when the 
secular clergy awoke to the nature 
of their sacred vocation. Dunstan 
would tolerate no compromises, no 
half-hearted attempts to serve God 
and the flesh; it was to be a ques- 
tion of living according to the 
canons or of expulsion from the 
service of the altar.* He was also 
the stanch enemy of any violation 
of the sacrament of matrimony, 
justly regarding the purity of 
Christian marriage as the tie-beam 
in the frame-work of society. 
Dunstan himself founded five mon- 
asteries, and the monks formed at 
Glastonbury, or put forward by 
his exertions, carried the vigor of 
their primate into their new dioce- 
ses. Ethelwold, a monk of Glas- 
tonbury, and Abbot of Abingdon, 
and afterwards Bishop of Winches- 
ter, built innumerable monasteries, 
raising Ely and Thorney from their 
foundations. His clergy at Win- 

* " Aut canonice vivite aut ecclesiis exite." 



Chester, placed before Dunstan's 
alternative, had chosen to leave 
the spot rather than to be reform- 
ed. The same course was pursued 
by Oswald at Worcester, and by 
Wulfsige at Sherborne.* Dunstan 
put great zeal into the work of visi- 
tation, but no monastery attracted 
him more than Glastonbury. Pri- 
mate though he was, he became a 
simple monk within those peaceful 
walls. On one of these occasions 
a story is told which is touching, 
as revealing the nature of Dun- 
Stan's relations with his former 
brethren, and the simplicity of 
heart to which God loves to con- 
fide the secrets of his providence. 
He had gone out one day into the 
court-yard before the church, where 
a single monk was walking. Ar- 
rived at a certain spot, Dunstan 
heard a voice from heaven saying, 
" Come, come, Elfsige, come.'* 
The archbishop, understanding the 
intimation, turned to the monk 
with the words, " Prepare yourself, 
brother, and make ready the viati- 
cum which will enable you to un- 
dertake so important a journey. 
For your hour is at hand."f In a 
very few days Elfsige went indeed 
to his reward. 

But the good times of Edgar and 
Dunstan were drawing to a close. 
The king died in 975, and was 
succeeded by his son, Edward 
II., the Martyr. A great reac- 
tion heralded in the new reign. 
By the help of the nobles the ex- 
pelled clergy sought to recover 
their footing, and the archbishop 
was publicly confronted with his 
numerous enemies at a council held 
at Winchester. According to Wil- 
liam of Malmesbury, a crucifix. 
spoke thrice to relieve the arch- 
bishop's mind from the anxiety 
caused by the unruly priests. J And 



*P. 3 o 2 . 



tP. 306. 



808 An Archbishop of Canterbury in the Tenth Century. 



as if that were not enough, a second 
palpable sign confirmed the justice 
of his claims. At a second coun- 
cil the floor gave way beneath the 
assistants who were upbraiding that 
" strong pillar of the church, Dun- 
stan," * he alone remaining safe and 
erect. This miracle silenced at 
last the angry tongues of his ene- 
mies, and caused the archbishop's 
decision to be universally accept- 
ed. 

The history of England during 
the last twenty years of the tenth 
century is disastrous in the ex- 
treme. No sovereign appeared 
with the capabilities of Edgar, and 
the country's energies were sapped 
by Danish invasions and by an in- 
competent and worthless ruler at 
home. Ethelred the Unready de- 
served his nickname. The shadow 
of the cruel murder by which he 
came to the throne hung over his 
reign, as Dunstan had prophesied 
that it would. On the day of his 
coronation the archbishop is said 
to have predicted the disasters 
which subsequently came to pass : 
" Because you aspired to the throne 
through your brother's death, whom 
your ignominious mother stabbed, 
the sword eager for your blood 
shall not be taken away from your 
house all the days of your life. It 
shall slay some of your kindred un- 
til the kingdom shall be transferred 
to a strange nation whose language 
and customs are foreign to the 
people you govern." t The peace 
and glory of Dunstan 's legislation 
were soon forgotten in the weariness 
of present strife, but his holy life 
remained as a shining light after the 
fame of lower things had passed 
away. 

To those alone it is given to 

*. . . Validissimum ilium Ecclesise murum, Duns- 
tanum dico. 
t Osbern, p. 115. 



shine to others who have first con- 
sumed all seeking of self in the 
love of God. In his archiepisco- 
pal palace Dunstan divided his 
time between prayer and study, de- 
voting the early hours of the morn- 
ing to the correction of faulty 
manuscripts. The equal distribu- 
tion of justice, the preservation of 
the sacred character of matrimony, 
the protection of widows and or- 
phans, the pacification of those who 
were estranged one from another, 
were the objects which lay nearest 
to the archbishop's heart. Charity 
towards the poor and zeal for the 
monastic order constituted, as. it 
were, the flames upon which his 
ardor spent itself. His preaching 
was forcible and earnest, tender to 
the good, but unsparing towards 
sin. Dunstan never performed any 
great ceremony without shedding 
abundant tears. " In the day," 
holy David says, " the Lord hath 
commanded his mercy, and in the 
night his song." * Nocturnal pray- 
er has a special value in God's eyes, 
and in it the archbishop was pro- 
ficient, never, as his biographer 
records, taking his full allowance 
of sleep. Thus, after the turmoils 
of his life, he tasted before death 
of the peace of God, which surpass- 
eth all understanding. The end 
was at hand, though there was no 
appearance of a decline. It was 
Ascension day, 988. Dunstan 
preached three times to his people 
with an unwonted vigor and unc- 
tion, and at the third sermon he 
left them his legacy. Let them, 
he besought them, have charity and 
love one for another ; it was the 
only means of becoming united to 
God. This brotherly tenderness 
was the pledge our Lord had be- 
queathed to his disciples, and now 
he left it to them as his parting 

* Ps. xli. 



The End of Man. 



809 



gift. Then he told them that he 
should be no longer with them, for 
that he was to depart to his true 
resting-place in heaven. After 
Mass, nevertheless, the archbishop 
went to dinner, where he was full 
of a holy mirth, making himself all 
things to his brethren. A sudden 
illness fell upon him, and he grew 
constantly worse till the Saturday. 
When Matins were over the arch- 
bishop knew that the hour was near 
at hand when he should see God 
face to face. He summoned his 
household for the parting, bitter 
indeed to them, but sweet to 
one whose heart had been for so 
long fixed on heaven. Extreme 
Unction was administered, then 
the holy Viaticum, and, whilst the 
hidden God still dwelt within his 
breast, Dunstan cried out : " Me- 
moriam fecit mirabilinm suorum 
misericors et miserator Dominus, 
escam dedit timentibus se." They 
were his last words, a farewell to 
earth, full of gratitude to God for 
the greatest of his gifts. Dunstan 
was in his sixty-fourth year. 

This short record would fulfil its 



aim could it fix the attention of 
some future biographer of St. Dun- 
stan. The broad outlines only of 
his career have been given here, 
both because the details would re- 
quire a larger space, and because 
in a sketch we feared by dwell- 
ing too much upon them to take 
away from the vigor of the sali- 
ent points. The indifference and 
rudeness of the age, the vices of 
those who should have supported 
him, make Dunstan's own sanctity 
all the more forcible. It is as if in 
a poor collection of pictures we 
were to come upon the work of a 
great master. Another attribute of 
his holiness must be borne in mind. 
At a time when men left the world 
because it was so bad that their 
hearts sickened at the prospect of 
bettering it by their presence, Dun- 
stan sanctified himself in the at- 
mosphere of courts, thus showing 
forth in his own example the 
strength engendered by obedience, 
and the weight carried with it by a 
steady purpose which looks to God 
for its accomplishment. 



THE END OF MAN. 



O SEERS and sages ! ye have read 

Unnumbered volumes through, 

And Knowledge hides his head 

With you. 

Deep-pondering and far-seeing, 

Ye know the mystery of this being, 

Its origin and end. 

Tell me, then, what I am ; 

Tell me from whence I came; 

Tell me whereto I tend ; 

Yea, why I am at all. 



8 io The End of Man. 

In vain I call. 

From sage or seer 

No answer cometh to my ear. 

Why ask of them that cannot give ? 

Why call for light 

To them that grope in the night? 

In God I live, 

Draw breath, have sense and motion. 

I came from God ; to God must I return, 

As the rain, ocean-born, 

Returneth to the bosom of the ocean. 

I am all his, and his alone. 

No other maker names me ; 

No other master claims me. 

Nay, I am not my own. 

Lord of my life and destiny, 

I do confess, my God, in thee 

Full sov'reignty and absolute domain. 



n. 



Why was I made ? God had no need of me. 

I was not necessary, had no claim to be. 

Without consulting me or mine, 

But of his royal pleasure, 

And as the by-plan of a vast design 

Including me and my scant measure, 

From a deep mould 

As infinitely old 

As his eternal mind he brought me, 

And into being wrought me. 

A delicate complexity 

Of spirit and machinery, 

Of matter, force, and faculty, 

A frail and feeble creature, 

But with a destiny above my nature, 

He designed me, 

And assigned me 

To a station, service, and vocation 

In the great feodary of his creation. 

There, to my post and duty tied, 

Let me abide, 

Calm and content ; 

Indifferent 

Whatever may befall me ; 

Ready to stay and labor on 

Until my work be done ; 



A Martyr of Martyrs. 



811 



Ready to go when God shall call me. 

He that made me and my destiny 

Is wise and true ; 

He knows what is his due 

And what is best for me. 

Oh ! what should be the end of man 

But to fulfil 

That holy will 

In which man's being first began ? 

My end, the reason of my being, yea, 

My soul's true bliss, 

All lie in this : 

To live for thee, my God, for thee. 



A MARTYR OF MARTYRS.* 



BELLS were ringing jubilantly, 
cannon were pealing, the shout of a 
mighty multitude echoed to the 
heavens, where in an" oriental sky 
the stars were blazing. Below 
them torches of scented wood 
flared red, lines of many-color- 
ed lanterns ran like webs of fire 
from tree to tree and from bough 
to bough, turning the groves to 
fairyland. The road, on either side 
of which the myriad people tore 
the air with clamor of eager ex- 
pectation and of welcome, was 
carpeted with fabrics of regal splen- 
dor. Whatever an Eastern realm 
could lavish of gorgeousness and 
grandeur seemed spread forth that 
night, for the monarch of an an- 
cient kingdom was bringing home 
his bride. 

On came the royal procession. 
Banner and pennon, lance and 
spear, went proudly by ; high-step- 
ping war-horse, plumed warriors, 
courtiers in gay attire, nobles in 

* There is an historic basis for this story. 



robes of state, princes of royal 
blood, were there. Then appear- 
ed the unsurpassed white elephant, 
bearing on his broad back a throne 
of state, where sat the king of the 
vast multitude with his veiled bride 
motionless beside him. 

Behind them was a throng of 
retainers, bearing gifts from pro- 
vinces far off and near. With 
these there came long lines of 
slaves, sent too as gifts. Upon them 
searching looks were bent by men 
jealous of their sovereign's honor, 
and desirous to judge if they were 
worthy to be given to him upon 
such great occasion. One among 
them attracted every eye, and 
caused in all hearts unwonted feel- 
ings of reverent amazement. 

In that long-drawn procession of 
unveiled women slaves, walking 
each after each singly and slowly, 
so that the beauty of each might 
be seen by all present and re- 
dound to the monarch's greatness 
among those women, some 
haughtily defiant, some indifferent, 
some despairing, some most vile to 



812 



A Martyr of Martyrs. 



see in their Eastern tarnished beau- 
ty, wholly of the clod one walked 
quietly, looking neither to right 
nor left, and men and women held 
their breath at sight of her. 

Tall and slight, and fair with 
lily fairness, she was clad in a 
robe of soft white wools, and over 
it her hair fell to her feet in a 
golden veil. Her features were 
perfectly formed, her face clear- 
cut and oval. She never raised 
her eyes, but kept them bent upon 
a little child who lay sleeping in 
her arms. That sweet face bore a 
look mysterious to the people, fill- 
ing them with strange emotion. 
They loved her as they saw her, 
but they loved her with the love 
we give to angels. It was the face 
of one who has suffered acutely, 
who has loved and still loves with 
intense devotion ; but the sign of a 
higher love was on it, and men, not 
knowing what it meant, did rever- 
ence to it. 

A louder clamor of drum and 
horn, and cymbal and trumpet, a 
mightier shout upon the echoing 
sky. The king has brought his 
bride to their palace home. The 
carven doors are open to her ; the 
bridal feast is spread ; music rings 
around her amid fragrance of flow- 
ers and fruits and costly wines. 
Never has bride of that kingdom 
known such rapturous greeting, or 
been treated so nearly as the equal 
of her lord. 

They brought her gifts before 
her dais, displaying each one to 
her. They brought the slaves be- 
fore her, men and women, whose 
lives hung on her slightest whim. 
It was her fancy to choose one 
that very night to wait upon her, 
and the king watched her pretty 
perplexity with gratified pride. 

Yet in a moment her doubts van- 
ished when the pale stranger stood 



before her. Even the king felt the 
amazing spell. A hush fell over 
the heathen court, but now alive 
with wine and passion. What un- 
earthly vision was there ? 

lt I weary of the noise, and light, 
and heat," the -queen said, looking 
at the stranger wistfully. " Beau- 
tiful mother, let us be alone for an 
hour, that my head and my heart 
may rest." 

And queen and slave passed 
forth together from the banquet, 
ending unwittingly the first act of 
a drama wherein no less than hea- 
ven was to be risked and won. 



n. 



" The woman is a Christian, your 
majesty a Christian surely." 

The king knit his brows and 
looked wrathfully at the speaker. 

" You do not know whereof you 
speak," he said. 

" Pardon me, sire. I am your 
oldest counsellor. I was your 
royal father's counsellor before you. 
I know whereof I speak. You 
have never seen a Christian. We 
banished them from the kingdom 
before your majesty's most happy 
birth. Believe me, they are more 
dangerous than the plague. One 
single follower of the Nazarene 
sets a whole realm on fire. 'Tis 
even said, sire " 

The old man hesitated. 

" Speak on !" was the imperious 
cry. 

" I fear, sire, that my life is 
worth nothing if I say the rest." 

" It is worth nothing if you do 
not." 

" 'Tis even said, then, your ma- 
jesty, that she has already tainted 
with her errors the mind of our 
most gracious queen." 

The king strode to the casement 
and leaned forth as if stifled. In 



A Martyr of Martyrs. 



the sheltered, glorious gardens be- 
low he beheld the two persons 
who filled his thoughts. Where a 
fountain sprang upward in glitter- 
ing, lace-like spray ; where birds 
sang blithely, flitting like gorgeous 
tongues of flame from bower to 
bower; where the trees cast quiet 
shadows, and flowers of magnifi- 
cent color and wondrous fragrance 
lit up the greensward, his young 
queen sat in her dark and brilliant 
loveliness so worshipped by him, 
and close beside her shone like a 
star the Christian's exquisite fair 
face. Surely it was of no common 
matter they talked together; no 
court gossip was sullying their lips. 
Sometimes their eyes were fixed 
earnestly upon each other, some- 
times they lifted them as earnestly 
towards the sky. And on either 
face was a look not earthly. So 
might St. Monica have talked with 
Augustine and gazed towards 
heaven. 

Vehement in anger, yet strong 
to control it till he knew most 
surely how and when to strike, the 
king watched and thought. This 
work must stop; yet how to stop 
it ? His young wife loved this wo- 
man as her own soul, and upon his 
wife's life now the hopes of the 
nation centred. The slave, being 
necessary to the realm, must live. 

Yet she was tainting the queen's 
mind with her errors, and the king 
remembered to have heard strange 
stories of these Christians. Tor- 
ture meant little to them, death 
meant nothing, riches counted for 
dross, compared with something or 
some one invisible, to whom they 
gave themselves. If the queen 
were a Christian she would rather 
see her husband and her children 
slaves and dead, so only they were 
Christians also, than to see them 
crowned kings of the universe. 



The nation would be in commotion. 
What could be done ? 

He turned sharply to the coun- 
sellor. " Prepare the torture- 
chambers with all speed," he com- 
v manded, then looked again to the 
gardens. 

Through flash of fountain and 
song of bird no words could reach 
him. He could only note that the 
conversation was as intent and as 
free from levity as before. God 
heard the words they spake. 

" It is a land more fair than this, 
then, Aime ?" 

" This land is an idle dream 
compared to it, your highness." 

" How can that be, Aime ? Tell 
me ; for I dream of naught more 
beautiful than this." 

" There is no scorching heat 
there, lady, and the flowers never 
wither, and no storms come nigh. 
And God is there always, lady, and 
his Blessed Mother, and the saints 
and angels. It is the court and. 
the country of the King of kings." 

" And he is mightier than my 
king, and wiser and more loving ? 
How can that be, Aime ? I dream 
of none more strong and tender 
than my king." 

"He is fairer than any child of 
man, this King of kings, your high- 
ness. He loves us as no man can 
love us. He loved us so that he 
died for us, and now for evermore 
he lives and reigns, and he asks 
our love. We shall never have to 
part with him." 

"Poor Aime!" 

The queen understood that pa- 
tient sigh of the widowed heart. 
She could not understand the smile 
of joy which triumphed over it. 

" God is good," cried Aime glad- 
ly. "His will is best. He has 
given me you to love, he has given 
me my child, he has given me him- 
self, and heaven waits for us." 



8 14 



A Martyr of Martyrs. 



Heaven ! At the word it was 
as if she saw the celestial country 
opening before her rapturous gaze. 
She, a captive in a strange land, 
saw the fatherland of God before 
her, and the gates of pearl flung 
open to her, and the King who 
waited on his throne. 

The earthly monarch, watching, 
started as her face, lifted more 
clearly into sight, flashed its 
seraphic beauty on him. Then, 
through the sounds which had 
made their voices inaudible to him, 
the shrill cry of Aime's infant 
reached his ear. 

All the mother-love flew back 
into her face. She caught the 
baby from its grassy cradle at her 
feet, fondled it, hushed it, then 
nursed it at her bosom, drawing 
her veil closely round it, while the 
queen said caressing words and 
played with the small pink feet. 
It touched a chord of pity in the 
strong man's nature. 

" I will save her, if I can," he 
mused. " She will forget her folly. 
Now must I summon the queen 
away, and find an opportunity to 
work my will." 

"His majesty awaits your high- 
ness." 

The queen turned to the kneeling 
slave who had brought the message. 

" Tell him I come at once," she 
said. 

But she bent again over the 
baby, and whispered to the mother : 
" If I obey your King, and am a 
Christian, Aime, then I may surely 
pray to him, and he will surely 
hear ?" 

" He surely will." 

" And that everlasting kingdom 
will be mine for ever, with no end 
or sorrow surely ?" 

" Most certainly, dear lady, if 
only you hold firm unto the end." 

Was it of reward she thought 



this queen whose cup of earthly 
ambition was filling to the brim ? 

" It has seemed to me," she said 
slowly, " that if I were a Chris- 
tian my dearest lord would be a 
Christian also I would pray so 
hard for that! and then that 
heavenly country could be his for 
ever also. I would be glad to win 
all that for him." 

They went together, through the 
shadows and the sunlight, out of 
the joy and abounding life of na- 
ture, into the palace glittering with 
barbaric pomp, and the heart of 
each was yearning for a higher life 
and an eternal splendor. And as 
the great doors closed behind them 
an awful highway opened to them, 
even the King of king's own royal 
highway, leading for ever from 
earth's gardens to the garden of 
the Lord. 



in. 



They had led her two spectral 
figures clad in hideous masks and 
garments of linked mail through 
long galleries and vaulted cham- 
bers, amid instruments of torture, 
nameless, horrible as the work of 
fiends. She had been summoned 
from her child to attend the queen, 
but no queen was waiting for her. 
There was no one to be seen ex- 
cept these men, who walked one on 
either side of her, holding her by 
the arms. Neither spoke then, but, 
as they walked, one told the other 
what the nature and the uses of the 
engines of horror were. 

They brought her by and by 
was it after many hours they 
brought her? through these ante- 
rooms of cruelty, to the presence 
of the king. 

"You are no Christian ?" he said 
to her abruptly. 

She made no reply. 



A Martyr of Martyrs. 



815 



" I told you so," he cried to the 
aged counsellor. " She is no 
Christian, say what you may, and 
I will save her." 

Smiling sardonically, the wily 
statesman took from his robes 
something which, in the late king's 
reign, he had known how to play 
his part with well in discerning 
gold from dross, something which 
had been unseen in the kingdom 
for many years, and he laid it down 
at Aime's feet. 

It was only the figure of a Man, 
thorn-crowned, nailed to a cross. 

" If you are no Christian trample 
on that," he said. 

She lifted up her hands in hor- 
ror. She, who had passed through 
all the torture-chambers with no 
sign of fear except her whitening 
face, uttered now a sharp, agonized 
cry like one who has been struck 
on a raw wound. And she flung 
herself on her knees before them, 
and she kissed the crucifix on feet 
and hands and face. 

" Is that your God ?" cried the 
king contemptuously. 

" It is the likeness of my God," 
she answered hirru "My God 
died on a cross for me, and I am a 
Christian." 

Rack and fire, and scourge and 
shame, they tried them on her, cau- 
tiously yet sharply. They could 
force no other answer from her, 
could not bring that frail, fair wo- 
man to do that simple thing : to 
place her beautiful, her small, her 
harmless foot upon that piece of 
wood and silver. 

" It was a priest's crucifix," the 
counsellor said meditatively. " He 
was an old man, I remember, and 
he died hard for it. He died hard- 
er even than common. These are 
a strange people." 

The king, who had been used to 
conquer men by thousands on the 



field of battle, and who had sub- 
dued provinces to work his will, 
stood baffled here. And then he 
deigned to plead with her : 

" The queen loves you. Deny 
your faith, give up your folly, and 
you shall be her best and dearest, 
nearest to her throne." 

But it was as if she did not hear 
him. 

Suddenly he bade the torturers 
cease. A new plan had occurred to 
him. He gave whispered orders to 
the counsellor, who departed; then 
shortly after the king bade the 
torturers lift their victim and fol- 
low him. And so they brought her 
one more stage upon her journey 
to the court of the King of kings. 



IV. 



A small room, but, where all 
was magnificent, most marvellous to 
see in its luxury and display. Ta- 
bles were there, piled with most 
tempting viands, wines to warm the 
fainting heart, perfumed waters to 
refresh the racked and quivering 
frame, couches of down to give it 
tenderest repose. 

In a princely cradle lay the 
Christian's child. 

Weak as she was, she would have 
sprung to clasp it to her bosom ; 
but they held her back, gently 
but firmly, and they laid the 
crucifix before her feet. 

" Now," said the king in mild 
and courtly accents, " you may go 
to your little child." 

She did not stir. 

Gently they laid her down on 
one of the soft divans; they gave 
her wine to strengthen her, they put 
a healing salve upon her wounds. 
And they left her hungry eyes free 
to feed upon her baby's innocent, 
rosy, happy face ; they left her 
tongue free to speak, to call to him ; 



8i6 



A Martyr of Martyrs. 



they left her cars open to hear his 
slightest cry. And they only 
bound her . feet with a painless 
golden chain whose links they 
would quickly loosen for her on 
one small condition : they only 
laid the crucifix in the path be- 
tween her child and her. 

The child cooed and laughed, 
and talked his baby talk to himself 
contentedly for a time yes, for 
time long enough to revive in the 
racked heart of the mother (if she 
needed it) the memory of his beau- 
ty, and his love, and his amiable, 
exquisite baby-ways; long enough 
for her to note again his perfect 
health, his unusual strength and 
activity, his unusual beauty. 

By and by one of the torturers 
rang a sweet-sounding silver beil 
above her head, and drew the eyes 
of the child to the mother's face. 

He sprang up in his cradle, laugh- 
ed out delightedly, stretched his 
hands to her, allured her to come 
to him, and lift him and play with 
him. 

She, like a mother, crushed down 
her faintness and her longing, and 
answered back to him with smiles 
and tender gestures and most ten- 
der words. 

But such devices could not long 
satisfy a baby. He wanted his 
mother to touch him and hold him, 
and he wanted to be fed. Why 
did she not come to him this 
mother always so ready to attend 
to his slightest wish? He cried 
loudly. 

Aime looked with imploring gaze 
to the monarch. 

"You are free to go," he an- 
swered. 

Free, with the warders' eyes 
upon her free, with the crucifix 
lying in her pathway free, by one 
touch of her foot, one effort of her 
will. 



She did not move, except to fold 
her hands, and pray, and pray. 

The child cried much. It cried 
itself to sleep at last, and lay flush- 
ed and restless even in sleep, with 
tears on the plump cheek. 

In the stillness memories of past 
earthly joys, dreams of future earth- 
ly joys and greatness, haunted her. 
Once she had had a loving husband, 
who protected her from so much 
as a rough breeze, or a curious look, 
or an unkind word. Once she was 
a queen's friend and favorite was 
it ages ago, or only that very day? 
Once there was a prospect opening 
to her of a fair future for her child, 
a long and happy life for her with 
him. What did these cruel people 
mean to do with her? How long 
would they, born themselves of 
women, let a mother and her baby 
suffer thus ? 

Voices. Men are talking near 
her men or devils. Their words 
seem partial echoes of her thoughts. 
" The queen loves her." 
"Truly ; beyond all counting." 
" Even now she asks for her." 
" Yes ; but the king cozens her. 
He tells her she has gone for a brief 
time to bring some splendid pre- 
sent to her. Yet the queen weeps, 
and says no gifts can satisfy her for 
the loss of her company even for 
three days." * 

" Can it last three days, then ?" 
" They say so. 'Tis strong and 
well, you see." 

What is strong and well? A 
vague horror chills her. But she 
fights it off. Human beings could 
not be so lost to all compassion. 
The voices speak again : 

" Fools, these Christians ! Look, 
now. Here is a woman whom the 
king honors and the queen loves. 
She shall ask naught that they will 
not give her. Her child shall be 
the companion and the friend of 



A Martyr of Martyrs. 



princes, brought up and honored 
with the queen's own children. 
And she lets all go for sake of an 
idle dream." 

11 Will not put her foot upon a 
stick!" 

If she hears, she gives no sign 
she hears them. They must touch 
another chord than that of friend- 
ship or of strong ambition. And 
they are quick to try : 

" The king is firm." 

" Like rock itself." 

"One way or other, he ever gains 
his will." 

" By any sort of torture." 

Still no sign of fear. 

But now, abruptly, plainly, words 
unmistakable are spoken: 

" It takes a strong man-child, 
then, three days to starve to death 
before the eyes of an unnatural 
mother who refuses to 2;ive him 
food ?" 

" They say so three days or 
more. But the king will not grant 
her three days' grace." 

" Hast ever heard or seen the 
like? Naught to prevent her, and 
she will not save him ! Let's try 
once more." 

^ And then try speedier ways." 

She knows all now. She springs 
up from among the silken pillows, 
and her face glares on them, and 
spring and face remind them sud- 
denly of a tigress whom they wound- 
ed but yesterday among the moun- 
tains, and tore from her young cubs 
in their den. 

They loose the chain. She starts 

: to her feet. What ! She is down 

on her knees again, trembling and 

shivering, beside that senseless 

thing. Waken the child ! 

Yes, waken him. He cries with 
sharp, real hunger when he wak- 
ens. He sees her, and he holds his 
hands to her. By and by they add 
coarser cruelty to this double-dyed 

VOL. XXIX. 52 



refinement of cruelty. They begin 
to torture with sharp instruments 
the famished, thirsty little creature 
before her eyes. 

And the mother? 

She does not rise again from her 
knees where she has fallen. It is 
strength to kneel there. Over and 
over again she is saying in her for- 
eign tongue words whose meaning 
her torturers do not know. Even 
the king, familiar with the language, 
cannot understand their import. 
Is the woman going mad? His an- 
ger is blazing now, his obstinate 
will is set; she shall be conquered. 
But the very words which she is 
babbling over and over, like a fool 
as he thinks, have in them the 
strength which shall set his strength 
at naught. 

" There stood by the cross of Jesus 
his Mother" she says. u There 
stood by the cross of Jesus his 
Mother, his Mother, his very own 
Mother, the Mother that bore him. 
Do you hear that, my Jesus, my 
Lord, my King of kings ?" 

Whether it be night or day she 
knows not. Sleep she will never 
know again till the endless day 
has broken, and the Queen of Mar- 
tyrs gathers her sister-martyr unto 
perfect, peaceful rest upon her bo- 
som. She counts the leaden-foot- 
ed minutes by baby-sobs that grow 
more shrill, more faint, more pitiful 
to hear. She sees the baby-hands, 
once stretched in anguish to her, 
fall clenched upon the cradle ; she 
sees the baby-face grow old, and 
haggard, and livid the once rosy,, 
joyous face of her only child. 

" Jesus!" she pleads, but there 
is neither bitterness nor complaint 
in the patient pleading, " thou 
hadst a woman for thy mother. 
Have mercy on a woman who 
pleads with thee for her only son." 

The Eastern monarch bows down 



8i8 



A Martyr of Martyrs. 



before her marvellous fortitude, 
compelled to do it homage ; he 
deigns to expostulate with her ; he 
begins to fear the end. She will 
conquer at last, not he. 

" Deny your faith," he entreats 
her. " Say only one word. I ask 
no more." 

She does not look at him nor 
-answer him. It is no longer this 
Eastern monarch whom she hears 
and sees. For a brief awful mo- 
ment, into which the agony of ages 
seems concentrated, she sees, and 
hears, and feels through all her be- 
ing the suffering of her baby, 
her own flesh and blood, the child 
to whom in travail pangs she had 
given life, and to whom now, in 
pangs compared with which those 
counted as the merest trifles, she 
is free to give life again at the 
price of one little word. 

The room grows dark around 
her, except the tiny, livid face. 
She rocks to and fro upon her 
Tcnees in that horror of great dark- 
ness, only lighted by that awful 
sight. She clutches at her heart 
with her two hands, then stretches 
her arms out wide from side to 
side. And once again they hear 
'lier speak those foreign and myste- 
rious words, but now distinct and 
slow, as calling upon one unseen 
by them, but seen by her, and sure 
to heed and answer : 

" There stood by the cross of 
Jesus his Mother. Mother, I cry 
to thee." 

And as she spoke the soul of the 
child departed, but she did not 
know or heed. 



v. 



" Aime ! My Aime" !" 

Like one returned from heaven's 
courts she answered to the piteous 
call, folded her hands, that had 



been spread for hours as on a 
cross, looked once again upon 
things of time and sense, and lo ! 
the queen was weeping over her as 
one weeps above the dead. 

" Aime, my Aime, where hast 
thou been ?" she cried. 

And grave and calm the slave 
made answer to her : 

" I have been in the presence of 
the King of kings." 

The queen started. " Oh ! no, 
my darling, my darling. They 
have driven you mad with torture. 
You are here, with me, my sweet 
one. You are safe." 

But grave and calm the slave re- 
peated : 

" I have been in the presence of 
the King of kings. 

" It was not the land we dream- 
ed of, lady. It was the rock of 
Calvary, most bleak and desolate. 
A cross was on it. There hung 
my Lord, my Love. And his own 
Mother stood beside it ; close to 
her aching heart she held me ; and 
behold ! another cross was there, 
and my son hung upon it; and she 
and I watched, and wept, and 
waited, and the will of God was 
done. 

" I saw the whole wide world 
spread out before us, a great plain 
filled with men who sinned, and 
suffered, and sorrowed ; and be- 
hold ! her Son was dying in torture, 
and my son was dying in torture, 
yet the will of God was done. 

"And she prayed no prayer that 
her woes should be ended, she 
prayed no prayer that the woes of 
her Son might cease. With her 
whole yet broken heart she offered 
him to the wise will of God. So, 
clinging to her, I likewise offered 
my son to him. 

"Then, at once, I saw it, the 
city we dreamed of, lady, only more 
grand, resplendent, than any dream 



A Martyr of Martyrs. 



819 



of ours. The throne of my King 
was in it ; and my King I saw, I 
heard him, though he spoke no 
words. For my heart was one with 
his Sacred Heart, and communed 
with him without need of speech. 

" I saw the length and breadth 
of mysteries the mystery of suffer- 
ing, of the innocent 'suffering for 
the guilty, the mystery of the bro- 
ken heart of a mother, the mystery 
of the broken and Sacred Heart of 
God. 

"When I saw it all I loved it. 
I bless your king for my torments. 
Had I life to live all over again, I 
would choose to endure such pain. 

" I have seen my King in his 
agony, and have seen him in his 
glory. He has pierced my heart, 
and wounded it through with his 
sharp, sweet dart of love. 

" I have offered myself and my 
all with him for a soul's and a 
realm's salvation. It is a free-will 
offering, given through love to 
Love. 

" He works his will as he choos- 
es. My son does reign with princes 
in an eternal kingdom, for ever 
safe from sin. And the Queen of 
the kingdom calls me to perfect 
rest beside her, dear to her for 
ever, and near to her radiant throne. 



Our Lord has made use of us for 
thee, and we who have stood be- 
side the cross are going home to 
God." 

" Aime !" 

The queen's piteous cry broke in 
upon the words the Christian spoke 
like one inspired. 

"Aime! look at me, love me. 
Who will lead me home to God ?" 

Silence in the palace, save for 
the weeping of a queen left lonely 
among heathen by the inscrutable 
will of God. 

Silence, save that the very still- 
ness answered her. God had 
plainly shown her a path that led 
to him. 

Silence, yet are soundless voices 
chanting : 

" O poor little one, tossed with 
tempest, without all comfort : 

" All thy children shall be taught 
of the Lord : and great shall be 
the peace of thy children. 

" For my thoughts are not your 
thoughts : nor your ways my ways, 
saith the Lord. 

" For as the heavens are exalted 
above the earth, so are my ways 
exalted above your ways, and my 
thoughts above your thoughts. 

" Alleluia : for the Lord our God 
the almighty hath reigned." 



820 



Christian Art. 



CHRISTIAN ART. 



MURILLO. 



THE position of Art, as the band- 
maid of Religion, is as old as the 
Mosaic ceremonial which enjoined 
that the ornaments and accessories 
of divine worship should be made 
*' according to the pattern shown 
on the mount " that is, by God him- 
self. Minute indeed were the di- 
rections given as to the gold and 
silver and precious gems, the can- 
dlesticks and the lamps, the in- 
cense and the oil, to be provided 
for the service of the tabernacle. 
Impressive, also, were the gorgeous 
colors prescribed for its hangings 
and curtains ; the rich robes and 
ornaments to be worn by the priests 
in their great acts of sacrifice and 
intercession. The " propitiatory," 
or mercy-seat, was to be made of 
pure gold ; and over it were to brood 
the outstretched wings of cherubim 
covering the seat, or throne, of 
mercy. Thus, even under the old 
law, was qualified the broad pro- 
hibition never " to make a graven 
similitude or image, male or female, 
of anything that is in heaven above 
or on earth beneath " a prohibi- 
tion which, in its literal interpreta- 
tion, has affected Oriental art even 
to the present day, but which, in 
the opinion of the late broad- 
church Dr. Arnold, was literally 
abrogated by the Incarnation of 
Jesus Christ, " the brightness of the 
divine glory, and the figure or re- 
presentation of the divine sub- 
stance " (Life, by Stanley, i. 315). 
More glorious still were the visions 
revealed to the Beloved Apostle 
in the Apocalypse as much more 
so as the reality surpasses the 
type, as the substance its fore- 



shadowing. Among the golden 
candlesticks moved u one like the 
Son of Man, "attended not by gold- 
en cherubim, but by living angels 
of the Presence. The worship of 
the enthroned Lamb was offered by 
the " ancients " in white clothing, 
wearing crowns of gold, accom- 
panied by the symbolic evangelists, 
the odors of golden vials, and the 
harmonies of celestial harps. 

In perfect accordance with this 
representation of external art has 
been the feeling of the church of 
Christ since its foundation. Be- 
fore it had emerged from the 
Roman Catacombs their altars and 
subterranean chapels were adorned, 
as far as rude artistic skill permitted, 
by sketches of the Good Shepherd, 
by emblems of the Resurrection, 
and other symbols familiar to archae- 
ologists. Between figures of SS. 
Peter and Paul is seen standing, in 
the attitude of intercession, a ma- 
jestic woman, known as the Donna 
Orante, and, in the judgment of 
Mrs. Jameson, an impartial Protes- 
tant art authority of no mean rank, 
designed to represent the great 
Mother of Jesus herself. By and 
by the church emerged from the 
Catacombs and took possession of 
the pagan temples and basilicas, 
turning them into churches. Then 
arose the early art of mosaic de- 
coration rude, indeed, at first, but 
often strikingly in harmony with 
the solemn vaults and subdued 
light of those old Romanesque 
buildings. 

We must then follow early Chris- 
tian art to its new home in Byzan- 
tium, or New Rome stiff in the 



Christian Art. 



821 






beginning, and more quaint than 
pleasing to a modern eye, but for 
all that an important link in the 
long chain that connects the great 
masterpieces of sacred painting 
with the rudimentary beginnings of 
untutored draughtsmen. From this 
point the history of Christian art, 
if pursued, as it ought to be, 
through the media of colored glass 
in windows and illuminated minia- 
tures in missals and prayer-books, 
diverges into several paths, leading 
in the direction of Italy for one, 
of Germany and Flanders for an- 
other, and of Spain. These three 
great schools, as they are called, 
have each of them their own 
characteristics. It were hard to say 
which of them best fulfilled the 
high purposes of such delineation, 
if, as a Spanish writer on art once 
defined, these be to persuade men 
to piety and lead them to God. 

We turn first to Spain, for reasons 
that will appear as we proceed. 
The Spanish school differed from 
every other in this among several 
important particulars : that, owing 
to the force of circumstances, its 
chief artists confined themselves 
nearly exclusively to sacred sub- 
jects or to portraiture. Velasquez, 
the great secular painter of Spain, 
was never surpassed as a delinea- 
tor of kings and courtiers, and 
great ladies and their favorite 
dwarfs and spaniels. They grew 
out of his canvas with the spon- 
taneity of a wish. Murillo, the 
other eminent Spanish painter, 
stands above the Van Eycks, above 
Titian, nay, in some respects above 
Raphael himself, as the delineator 
of that which faith alone has yet 
apprehended, of the supernatural 
associations recorded in the lives 
of saints. These, to his imagina- 
tion, were as real, as completely 
within the grasp of his genius, to a 



certain point, as the incidents of 
daily human life. His quiet and 
uneventful career was eminently 
favorable to the creations of his 
brush. Few incidents marked the 
progress of time for him, beyond 
the completion of one great picture 
or series of pictures after another, 
during a period of nearly forty 
years. 

Seville, the chief city of Anda- 
lusia, and once the capital of Spain, 
was the place of Murillo's birth ; 
its date, one of the closing days of 
the year 1617. His parents, who 
were persons in humble life, had the 
lease of a small house in the Calle 
de las ^Tiendas from the monks of 
San Pablo. Their family name was 
Esteban, or Stephen ; but their 
eminent son afterwards adopted 
the surname of Murillo, or Morillo, 
from a paternal ancestor. Barto- 
lome (that was his Christian name) 
was left an orphan at the age of 
ten, and fell to the charge of a 
married aunt and her husband. 
Showing at an early age a passion 
for sketching, he was sent to learn 
the rudiments of art in the studio 
of Juan Castillo, a. painter of some 
note in his day. When his master 
left Seville for Cadiz, young Mu- 
rillo, then about twenty-two years 
of age, earned a precarious living 
by painting little pictures for the 
feria, or Thursday market, in which 
dealers bought up all kinds of cheap 
wares for sale in the Spanish colo- 
nies of America. A " feria pic- 
ture " came to signify a sketch of a 
popular saint, of flowers, or of a 
landscape, dashed off in such haste 
as to be good for little but to " sell 
to niggers." Many such rude me- 
morials of art must even now ex- 
ist in the remote churches of those 
countries, and, if traced to hands 
like Murillo's, might fetch their 
weight in gold. 



822 



Christian Art. 



Fortunately for the young paint- 
er's fame, his mode of living by 
dashing ottferia pictures was inter- 
rupted by the return of De Moya, 
a former fellow-pupil in Castillo's 
studio, who had been to Flanders 
and England to study art under 
Vandyck. When Murillo saw his 
sketches and copies he was fired 
with emulation to become a pupil 
of the great Flemish portraitist. 
But to defray the necessary ex- 
penses a good many feria pictures 
had to be worked off; and before 
money enough had been made in 
this way the news of Vandyck's 
death in London (1641) put an 
end to the project. Murill^, there- 
fore, contented himself with a short- 
er journey to Madrid, where his 
fellow-townsman, Velasquez, was 
then residing, as the court painter, 
at the summit of his fame. The 
great artist, who was nearly twenty 
years senior to Murillo, received 
him with generous kindness, lodged 
him in his house, and, while rec- 
ommending him ultimately to look 
forward to Italy as the best of all 
schools for a young painter, assist- 
ed him in the meantime, and at 
less cost, to study the works of the 
masters in the royal galleries at 
Madrid : Titian, Rubens, Vandyck, 
and Velasquez himself. Three 
years were sedulously devoted to 
the task ; and when the journey to 
Italy was again proposed, Murillo, 
now conscious of his powers, re- 
solved to dispense with further 
study, and to return to Seville and 
establish himself there for life as a 
painter. 

He had not long to wait for a 
commission. He was engaged by the 
Franciscan friars to paint a series 
of eleven pictures in the smaller 
cloister of their convent. The last 
of them was finished in 1646. One 
or two of the most remarkable call 



for a word of description. The 
" Death of St. Clare " represents 
the saint on her couch, surrounded 
by her sisters and brethren in reli- 
gion ; the rest of the picture, to the 
spectator's right, is filled with a 
retinue of crowned saints of the 
devoted sex, gathered about the 
Queen of Angels and the Lord of 
glory himself. All of them. are ad- 
vancing to clothe the dying nun in 
the robe of her immortality, and 
bid her beatified spirit welcome to .' 
paradise. Equally conceived from 
a point of view "within the veil," 
as St. Paul expresses it, is another 
of those cloister pictures. A holy 
Franciscan lay brother, who has 
charge of the convent kitchen, is 
discovered by three visitors in an 
ecstasy, rapt in prayer, raised from 
the ground, and shedding a super- 
natural light, while the duties he 
had suspended are performed by 
angelic hands. Some are carrying 
water ; others tending the fires ; oth- 
ers, again, preparing food for cook- 
ing. Their orderly bustle, con- \ 
trasted with the mute astonishment 
of the visitors, one of whom is 
a friar, and with the far-off preoc- 
cupation of the lay brother, forms 
a motif of rare interest and power, 
from which the picture derives its 
name of " The Angels' Kitchen." 

Till the friars gave him this com- ; 
mission Murillo was unknown. By 
the time it was finished his reputa- 
tion, in Seville at least, was estab- 
lished. Other commissions soon 
followed ; the painter's future was 
assured, and in 1648 he married 
Dona Beatrix de Cabrera y Soto- 
mayor, of Piias, a lady of fortune 
and position, but of whom not a 
feature or a trace remains, unless, 
indeed, tradition is not in error in 
asserting that the St. Anne in the 
" Education of the Blessed Virgin " 
is a portrait of Dona Beatrix, as 



Christian Art. 



823 



the Virgin herself is of Murillo's 
only daughter, Francisca. Domes- 
tic happiness attended him through 
life. Thirteen years after the wed- 
ding his eldest son, Caspar Este- 
ban, was born ; and, after an inter- 
val of several years more, Francisca; 
and then, last of all, Gabriel, the 
younger son, who eventually be- 
came a canon of Seville Cathedral, 
in holy orders. Francisca entered 
the Dominican Order in the con- 
vent of the Mother of God, at Se- 
ville. Caspar emigrated to one of 
the American colonies of Spain. 
Dona Beatrix, their mother, died 
several years before her husband. 

To the first decade of Murillo's 
art-career belong most of the secu- 

Plar subjects he treated : the beggar- 
boys, the gipsy flower-girls, that de- 
light the artist and the uninitiated 
alike. In humor, as in imitation 
of natural objects, he stands on a 
level with the genre painters of the 
highest class in the Flemish school. 
But even in the first decade of his 
work he painted higher subjects, 
such as the " Immaculate Concep- 
tion " for the Franciscans' larger 
cloister ; the " Virgin and the Rosa- 
ry," now in the Louvre ; and several 
other well-known reproductions of 
sacred history. Murillo's style, up 
to 1656, consisted of an unconscious 
adaptation of the styles of other 
great masters, and notably of Van- 
dyck's. But slowly yet surely he 
was working his way clear of obli- 
gations to any one under the gui- 
dance of his own native talent. 

His attainment of an original 
style all his own was marked by 
the production of his great picture 
of " St. Anthony of Padua " receiving 
the Infant Jesus in his arms, ac- 
cording to the legend. The date 
of that picture is 1656. The saint 
is kneeling in his cell, a half-open 
door showing a long, whitewashed 



cloister beyond. Up above hea- 
ven is revealed, its glowing spaces 
filled with groups of angels radiant 
in their beauty. Down the centre 
of the cloud-paved way the Divine 
Child steps with infantine majesty 
and grace, as he hastens to meet 
the ardent desire of the saint to 
fold him in his arms. Ecstatic 
love, adoration, joy, longing for 
union, throb beneath the Capu- 
chin habit and flow from the up- 
turned countenance of St. Antho- 
ny, as he awaits with outstretched 
arms the coming of his long-sought 
Guest. " Never," says an eminent 
French critic, " was the magic of 
painting carried further." This 
wonderful picture was placed in 
the baptistery chapel of the cathe- 
dral. A few years ago it was sur- 
reptitiously cut out of its frame, 
carried to New York, and sold. 
The buyer who, by the way, could 
have known little of Spanish art 
to purchase a work so widely known 
in Europe was amply compensat- 
ed for his loss, when the picture 
was traced and claime<3, by the lib- 
eral reward of the cathedral autho- 
rities for its recovery. Its restora- 
tion to Seville was celebrated by 
the whole city as an occasion of 
general rejoicing. 

The church of Santa Maria-la- 
Blanca, in Seville, was dedicated to 
Our Lady of the Snow a title 
given to the Madonna in remem- 
brance of the legend relating to the 
ancient foundation of Sta. Maria 
Maggiore on the Esquiline Hill, in 
Rome. Murillo's patron, Don 
Justino Neve, a worthy canon of 
the cathedral, wishing to present a 
picture to the church of La Blan- 
ca, and perhaps thinking of his own 
family name, commissioned the 
painter to represent the legend of 
the Esquiline. This was in 1665. 
The painter rose to the height of 



824 



Christian Art. 



his opportunity and executed two 
chefs-d'oeuvre, medios puntos (twin 
perfections), as they are called in 
Spain. They were carried off to 
Paris by Soult among the booty of 
the French army, and are now in 
the Academy of San Fernando, 
Madrid. The pictures are respec- 
tively entitled "The Patrician's 
Dream " and "The Declaration of 
the Dream." In the first picture 
the patrician and his wife are shown 
asleep, perhaps after a long reli- 
gious vigil. The husband's elbow 
rests on a table ; his fine, serious 
head is lighted by the reflection 
of the celestial vision. A little be- 
hind him his wife lies easily asleep 
on the edge of a couch, her head 
leaning on her hand. A little white 
dog rolls itself up at her feet among 
the folds of her robe. The scene 
of slumber is separated from a dis- 
tant landscape over which the 
morning dawn is just breaking. 
High up is a luminous group in 
striking contrast to the scene be- 
low. The Blessed Mary, with the 
Infant Jesus in her arms, and seat- 
ed on bright clouds, is pointing to 
the hill on which her new shrine 
is to be erected. 

In the companion picture we 
are shown the Roman nobleman 
and his wife relating their vision 
to Pope Liberius, as in the legend. 
The pope sits on a dais of state, 
under a canopy, listening with at- 
tention to the story. The patrician 
kneels on one knee before him, and 
gesticulates with his right hand. On 
his left his wife is kneeling, in full 
light, and, by the play of her hands, 
confirming her husband's narrative. 
On the other side stands an old 
prelate (probably a portrait) lean- 
ing on his crutch and adjusting his 
spectacles as he takes in the marvel- 
lous account. A friar also forms 
one of the audience. Through the 



portico of the palace is seen a 
wide landscape ; in the full light of 
a summer sun a long procession of 
priests and prelates, ending with 
the pope, is advancing to the snow- 
covered hill in the distance, above 
which the Madonna is directing the 
clergy to the spot selected for her 
temple. The whole scene is pass- 
ing in the heated glow of a Roman 
August, thus heightening the effect 
of the unmelted snow on the hill. 

A double action of this kind in 
the same picture might perhaps be 
pardoned in a mediaeval illumi- 
nation or a pre-Raphaelite altar- 
piece, but with greater difficulty 
consistently with the canons of mo- 
dern art ; as also the anachronisms 
in dresses and accessories. Yet so 
vividly is the story told, so becom- 
ing are the attitudes of the figures, 
so finely discriminated the varying 
expressions of their countenances, 
so superb the drawing and color- 
ing, so correct and true to life the 
impression produced, that the spec- 
tator forgets to criticise, and in- 
stinctively feels that in the medios 
puntos, realistic as they are, Mu- 
rillo has struck out for himself a 
grand and, of its kind, unapproach- 
able style. He never, we think, 
excelled the art in those pictures ; 
their masses of light and shade are 
blended and united by insensible 
gradations, by transitions effected 
with such extreme delicacy as to 
leave them barely perceptible. The 
master's infinite resources are re- 
vealed by the way in which he 
marshals his tones, playing them 
off one against the other in har- 
monious combinations, or again 
setting them off by happy con- 
trasts, and even by fine dissonances. 
Air and light circulate in all direc- 
tions ; the painter's touch is rich 
and bold, his emphasis delicate 
and well chosen. His tones are 



Christian Art. 



825 



full of vigor and depth in the sha- 
dows ; his half-tones warm ; his 
high lights refreshing and delight- 
ful. 

Another picture of high interest, 
belonging probably to the same 
year as the two last, is the u Nativity 
of the Blessed Virgin," the finest 
Murillo in the Louvre, and former- 
ly in Seville Cathedral. The cen- 
tral group in the foreground in- 
cludes the. newly-arrived daughter 
of St. Anne, attended by represen- 
tatives of both worlds, the human 
and the angelic. In the back- 
ground are St. Anne and St. Joa- 
chim, and overhead a group of 
cherubs is exulting in the auspi- 
cious event. The composition, as 
a whole, is a study of color. Deep 
reds prevail in the foreground; 
orange tints in the near lights; the 
high lights are a little subdued, 
and are repeated or connected by 
violets, pale roses or carmines, 
passing into lilacs and lilac-grays, 
and thence into tenderest greens 
with an indescribable charm. 

It was one of the distinctive pri- 
vileges of Murillo's art to earn for 
him the title of El Pintor de las 
Concepciones (the painter of the 
Immaculate Conception). At that 
period the reception of the mys- 
tery was an article of living faith 
among the great majority of Span- 
iards, with the Franciscans at 
their head ; so much so that it grew 
to be a customary form of saluta- 
tion among acquaintances, when 
they met, to say : Ave Maria puri- 
sima. To which the reply follow- 
ed : Sin pecado concelrida. Murillo 
painted the subject upwards of 
twenty times, generally represent- 
ing the Mother of Grace alone, in 
her radiant and girlish loveliness, 
robed in a white tunic underneath 
a mantle of celestial blue, rapt in 
contemplation of her sublime des- 



tiny, while angelic spirits wait upon 
her with rapturous love and admi- 
ration. The celebrated picture in 
the Louvre, although a beautiful 
work of art undoubtedly, was not 
Murillo's first representation of the 
subject. Seville possesses another, 
still finer, called " La Perla." The 
Madrid Museum has two of su- 
preme beauty. In the same col- 
lection there is also an " Annuncia- 
tion," which has been described as a 
" pure marvel." The Holy Virgin 
and the archangel are relieved 
against a background formed of 
angels luminous as the sun. The 
symbol of the brooding Spirit is 
projected upon it with a yet keen- 
er radiance "a finer light in 
light." 

We referred to the " Education of 
the Holy Virgin " in the Museum at 
Madrid, a work belonging to the 
year 1675 or 1676. Apart from the 
interest conferred upon it by the 
tradition of its containing the por- 
traits of the artist's wife and daugh- 
ter, the group is in itself instinct 
with the rare union of dignity and 
homeliness which no one ever sur- 
passed Murillo in depicting. The 
young daughter of St. Anne stands 
at her mother's knee, holding a 
book in her hand, and points in- 
quiringly to a passage. Her mo- 
ther answers her and explains it 
with a significant gesture of the 
hand. The child much resembles 
one of Velasquez' royal Infantas ; 
and the mother's countenance is 
engaging enough to make us wish 
that Murillo's wife was like her. 

An easel picture in the same 
gallery represents the " Martyrdom 
of St. Andrew." Murillo never 
painted anything more brilliant. 
The apostle is bound to his X- 
cross, in the midst of soldiers and 
the populace, outside the walls of 
the Greek Patras ; his face radiant 



826 



Christian Art. 



, with holy joy, as he sees angels 
coming to him and carrying his 
palm of victory. The scene is en- 
veloped in an indistinct, golden 
light as in a misty veil, which effa- 
ces outlines and blends the tones 
into general harmony, suggestive 
of the fulness of the martyr's assur- 
ed triumph. 

Single works like those just nam- 
ed were a species of hors-d'oeuvres, 
filling up the intervals between 
more important series of compo- 
sitions. To another of these we 
are next introduced in chrono- 
logical order : his eight pictures, 
in illustration of Charity, painted 
for the hospital of La Caridad, at 
Seville. A word, to begin with, 
about the nature and origin of that 
institution. A small chapel of San 
Jorge (George), at Seville, served in 
1662 as a place of meeting for a 
lay confraternity entitled La Her- 
mandad de la Caridad. Its mem- 
bers devoted themselves to certain 
works of charity, such as burying 
the bodies of executed criminals, 
and of persons from time to time 
found drowned on the banks of the 
Guadalquivir. Murillo, in the year 
just named, applied for admission, 
and three years later was enrolled 
in the confraternity. At that date 
the president was Don Miguel de 
Manara Vicentello de Leca, a man 
whose youth had been devoted to 
pleasure and dissipation to such an 
extent as to furnish the poets of 
the time with a second Don Juan 
of Seville Don Juan de Marafia, 
as they called him. Divine grace 
pursued and overtook him in his 
erratic course ; he fancied himself, 
on one occasion in a dream, pres- 
ent at his own funeral, and eventu- 
ally underwent a complete reform- 
ation so complete that at his death 
he directed that on his tomb shoulfl 
be inscribed : Here lies the worst 



man that ever lived. This reformed 
sinner built the hospital of La Car- 
idad, enlarged the chapel of St. 
George, adjoining it, into a church, 
and gave his friend and fellow- 
member, Murillo, a commission to 
paint eight important illustrations 
of Charity, and a few more small 
pictures, for the new institution. 
Only two of the larger now remain 
in their original position, " Moses 
Strikingthe Rock "and tlte" Miracle 
of the Loaves and Fishes." Soult 
carried five away with him to Paris ; 
and of these only one, " St. Eliza- 
beth of Hungary Tending the 
Diseased," ever found its way back 
again to Spain. It now hangs in 
the Royal Academy of San Fernan- 
do at Madrid. Out of the remain- 
ing four Mr. Tomline purchased 
the " Christ Healing the Paralytic " ; 
"The Angel Releasing St. Peter 
from Prison " went to the Rus- 
sian collection of pictures at the 
Hermitage ; u Abraham Adoring 
Three Angels " and " The Prod- 
igal Son's Return " are in the 
gallery at Stafford House, Lon- 
don ; " The Charity of St. John of 
God " in carrying a poor man on his 
back, assisted by an angel, was 
originally the companion picture of 
the " St. Elizabeth," but seems now 
to have dropped out of sight 
(Wornum, Epochs of Painting). 

The " Moses Striking the Rock " 
and '* The Miracle of the Loaves 
are of colossal size, some twenty- 
six feet wide, and, being at con- 
siderable height, are painted 
in a sketchy manner, calculat- 
ed for their distance from the 
eye. But " there they still hang," 
says Ford, " like rich oranges on 
the bough where they originally 
budded." The Hebrew lawgiver 
is surrounded by his people, who 
are reduced to the last extremity 
by thirst. Hence the work is known 



Christian Art. 



827 



as " La Sed " (the Thirst). His mi- 
raculous rod has touched the rock 
and opened the fountain of water. 
Moses gives thanks, and the thirsty 
Hebrews press forward to fill their 
vessels with the precious beverage. 
A mother is seen quenching the 
thirst of her exhausted child. A 
boy on horseback, between two 
large jars, in the foreground, points 
to the opening in the rock, and is 
said to resemble the painter him- 
self when he was a boy. Although 
the Moses is pronounced to be 
disappointing, the rest of the pic- 
ture is effective and masterly, its 
tone fresh and bright. 

In the companion picture, repre- 
senting the " Miracle of the Loaves," 
Christ, attended by his disciples, 
has the bread in his lap, while he 
blesses the fishes presented to him 
by a boy. A group of women look 
on and wait. The background is 
an extensive landscape, filled with 
crowds who have come together to 
hear the Divine Word. The com- 
position is chiefly remarkable for 
the skill with which Murillo has 
managed to make a few figures, in 
a space no larger than a common 
room, assume the appearance of 
thousands of people. 

The great picture of " St. Eliza- 
beth," now in Madrid, is one of Mu- 
rillo's most celebrated works. The 
saint is standing on the threshold of 
her palace, among her attendants, to 
receive the sick and the poor who 
come. A child in rags is kneeling 
before her, his head bending over 
a silver basin, showing the repul- 
sive nature of his disease, under 
the beautiful hands of the land- 
gravine.* In her expressive coun- 
tenance may be detected the strife 
going on between a cultured wo- 

* The saint is often erroneously called a queen. 
Her father was King of Hungary, but her husband 
was the Landgrave of Thuringia. 



man's natural delicacy and the di- 
vine spirit of charity. Other ob- 
jects of her compassion are gather- 
ed about her ; while in the back- 
ground, by a mediaeval art-license, 
the saint may be seen with her at- 
tendants waiting on her poor pen- 
sioners at table. A subject inhe- 
rently repulsive like this must un- 
questionably be pronounced inar- 
tistic, if we are to measure it by a 
modern art standard or its p'agan 
counterpart. The canons of beauty 
and fitness bid us revolt against it. 
Yet if moral beauty and sublimity 
are to be taken into account, the 
verdict of the critic must in this 
instance be reversed, and the pic- 
ture pronounced a marvellous suc- 
cess. If moral qualities rank higher 
than those which are merely phy- 
sical, St. Elizabeth conquering her 
repugnance and ministering to the 
relief of suffering humanity, for 
Christ's sake, is a nobler subject of 
art than the loveliest forms ever 
selected from Greek or any other 
mythology. And, regarded from a 
less exalted stand-point, Murillo's 
picture is a great example of the 
character of the Spanish school 
generally at the period of its high- 
est development a character in 
great measure depending on much 
that seems inherent in that of the 
nation at large. Ease, naturalness, 
the absence of all forcing, in the 
composition ; a taste for the pic- 
turesque in the selection of types, 
with a decided predilection for 
those of terror ; an eye for contrasts, 
which are apt to associate the noble 
with the trivial, the sublime ideal 
with the boldest naturalism 
"Qualities like these, not unfre- 
quently running into serious faults," 
remarks a French critic, " are of 
the very essence of the Spaniard's 
. originality and his genius ; they 
belong to him, like his rugged 



828 



Christian Art. 



Sierras, his swarthy face, his eye 
filled with sunlight, his mournful, 
guttural songs, his proud and so- 
norous tongue." 

An artistic success like the La 
Caridad series (finished in 1674) 
naturally led to many more com- 
missions from convents, churches, 
nobles, and rieh citizens, who com- 
peted with one another for the 
possession of a work by Murillo. 
About this time he painted for the 
high altar of St. Augustine's Church 
a series illustrative of the Latin doc- 
tor's life and of the pious acts of 
St. Thomas of Villanova; also a 
" Conception " for the hospital of Los 
Venerables the same, in all proba- 
bility, which is now in the Louvre. 

In 1678 Murillo began another 
of his great series of illustrative 
compositions, the last and the 
greatest of them all. His patrons 
were the Capuchins, whose convent 
(now abolished) stood outside the 
walls of Seville near the gate of 
Cordova. Twenty canvases of 
the master adorned their walls, 
the greater part of them of first- 
rate importance. Seventeen are 
included in the Seville Museum. 
Ten of them were grouped around 
the high altar; others were placed 
in the choir, and in the aisles and 
lateral chapels. To describe them 
in detail would unduly lengthen 
our article ; yet a word or two 
about the most important may not 
be unacceptable. Several of Mu- 
rillo's best-known works originally 
formed part of the Capuchin trea- 
sure-house of art. Here, as the 
companion picture to his " St. Mi- 
chael," hung the " Guardian An- 
gel," now in Seville Cathedral, rep- 
resenting a simple, trustful boy led 
by the hand of one of the heavenly 
host across a gloomy desert, and 
guided by a light breaking through 
the clouds, to which the angel is 



pointing. Seville Museum now 
contains a Madonna and Child, 
called " La Servilleta " (the table- 
napkin), which formerly belonged 
to the series we are examining. 
Tradition asserts that it was paint- 
ed on a common napkin at the re- 
quest of the convent porter for 
some memorial of the painter ; 
hence its name. " The Child," 
says Ford, " almost struggles out of 
the frame. What a creative power, 
what a coiner, was our Murillo, 
thus to convert into a banknote a 
napkin, in which most Spaniards 
bury their little talent !" In the 
Capuchin choir there hung two 
companions, an "Annunciation" 
and a " Pieta," or " Mother of Sor- 
rows " ; the second decided and 
severe in outline and strong in 
contrasts far beyond the painter's 
habit at this period of his career. 
Upon the tabernacle was placed 
the beautiful "Madonna," carrying 
the Infant Jesus, now in the Seville 
Museum a picture which even a 
tyro in art could not pass without 
recognizing its supreme excellence 
as an inspiration of genius. Its 
full significance, however, can be 
best appreciated when it is taken 
in connection with two other pic- 
tures, also painted for the Capu- 
chins, and representing two other 
Christ-bearing saints, "Anthony of 
Padua " and " Felix of Cantalice," 
both carrying in their arms, ac- 
cording to the legend, the Child 
of Mary. With him to paint, no 
fresher, rosier, more exquisite type 
of infantine beauty was ever imag- 
ined by painter's mind or created 
by his brush. Neither could any- 
thing excel the tender and impas- 
sioned devotion, the delicate ca- 
resses, in which those later Christo- 
phori * strain and fold and gather 

* " Christ-bearer, Christopher, thy name shall be : 
Thy love of little ones was love of me. 1 ' 



Christian Art. 



829 



him to their hearts. " Instead of 
ascetics," says a critic, "you would 
take them for young mothers ex- 
ulting in the treasure of their first- 
born." 

In a Capuchin church we natu- 
rally look for some memorial of St. 
Francis; nor shall we look in vain. 
"St. Francis at the Foot of the 
Cross " is Murillo's version of the 
mystic scene of the Stigmata on 
Mont' Alvernia. He has depicted 
with marvellous power the profound 
humility, the adoration, the utter 
abandonment of the saint in the 
supreme moment described by the 
legend. The protecting and ca- 
ressing attitude of the Redeemer, 
as he removes his right hand from 
the cross and lays it on St. Francis' 
shoulder, reciprocates all the love 
of the other, and more. Every 
light and shadow in this astonish- 
ing and captivating picture attests 
the hand and mind of a master. 
The glooms of the background 
lend an air of mystery to the 
scene, and contrast with the high 
lights in which the affecting " fel- 
lowship of the Redeemer's suffer- 
ings " is rendered. The saint's foot 
tramples on a globe an action 
corresponding to a scroll borne 
aloft by a cherub, on which we 
read: Qui non renuntiat omnibus 
qua possidet, non potest meus esse dis- 
cipuhis (Luke xiv. 33).* 

We close this brief notice of the 
Capuchin series with a picture of 
" St. Thomas of Villanova " distribut- 
ing alms a work which we may 
suppose the painter to have valued 
above all the productions of his 
life when he called it su cuadro, 
his own picture. The holy bishop, 
vested in cope and . mitre, gives 
away money at the porch of a large 
church to a number of beggars and 
cripples assembled for the purpose. 

* This picture is now in the Museum at Seville. 



The Madonna in glory, with her 
Infant Son and St. John Baptist, 
appears seated among luminous 
clouds above the saint's head. It 
was a favorite subject with Muril- 
lo ; he painted it several times. 

Thus, between the years 1670 
and 1680 the closing decade of his 
busy life Murillo, in addition to 
numerous single works, had put 
the finishing stroke to two impor- 
tant series of his pictures in La 
Caridad and the Capuchin con- 
vent. " Both the series are admi- 
rable," remarks M. Latour. " The 
first has more grandeur, the second 
greater charm. In the hospital 
the Gospel maintains all its gravity, 
in the convent all its legendary 
gracefulness. Under this more fa- 
miliar form the delicious genius of 
the painter expands with more com- 
plete abandonment. These scenes 
of tender mysticism are so inex- 
pressibly luminous that the mind 
penetrates into them with hardly an 
effort, and the soul is gently carried 
away by them into the regions of 
Paradise." 

Such was Murillo, in all the power, 
and the characteristic tenderness 
of his art in its full maturity, in 
the perfection of his natural genius, 
cultivated by the assiduous labor 
of a lifetime. It was his privilege, 
even at an advanced age, to pass 
away without showing a trace of 
having outlived his powers, or the 
smallest sign of their decay or di- 
minution. He had long engaged 
himself to paint for the Capuchins 
at Cadiz a large altar-picture of 
the mystic " Marriage .of St. Cath- 
erine of Sienna." A wealthy mer- 
chant of Cadiz, Juan Violate, a 
Genoese by birth, had bequeathed 
a sum of money, amounting to 
,120, which was destined to de- 
fray the cost of the work. The ex- 
ecution of the commission was be- 



830 



Christian Art. 



gun at Cadiz early in 1680. The 
famous legendary subject, so fami- 
liar in Christian art, was well sketch- 
ed in when a serious illness ac- 
cording to some accounts, or, to 
others, a bad fall from a scaffold, 
put an end to the painter's work 
and obliged him to leave its com- 
pletion to Meneses Osorio, his fa- 
vorite pupil. Murillo, feeling, no 
doubt, that the end was not far off, 
returned home to Seville to die in 
peace. Only Gabriel, his younger 
son, remained to him ; but he had 
many friends about him, and the 
thousand memories and associa- 
tions which gather about a place 
during a residence of about sixty 
years. Murillo's house at that time 
was situated in the parish of Santa 
Cruz ; and he passed several hours 
of most evenings in his parish 
church, meditating before a re- 
markable picture, " the work of 
Campana, a Spanish artist, re- 
presenting the " Descent from 
the Cross." * This picture is men- 
tioned by Pacheco, in his Arte 
de la Pintura, as so vividly realistic 
that he felt uneasy when he looked 
at it alone in the evening gloom. 
Not so Murillo, who had lingered 
one evening longer than was his 
custom. The AngeJus had rung; 
the sacristan went up to remind 
him that the doors must be shut, 
and asked him what he was waiting 
for. " I am waiting," replied the 
painter, " till those holy men have 
finished taking down our Lord 
from the cross." 

He lingered, occasionally in great 
suffering, far a couple of years. 
On the 3d of April, 1682, in a state 
of extreme weakness, he sent for 
the notary, Guerrero, to make his 
will. After declaring his adher- 
ence to the Catholic faith, and 

* Painted 1648 ; now in the sacristy of Seville 
Cathedral. 



commending himself to the protec- 
tion of the Blessed Virgin, he pro- 
ceeded to give directions about his 
funeral. His body was to be bur- 
ied in the church of Santa Cruz, 
and opposite to Campana's " De- 
scent." So many Masses were to be 
offered for his soul's repose. A 
statement of bequests and personal 
debts followed, together with sums 
owing to him by several of his 
neighbors. He named as his execu- 
tors Don Justino de Neve, his old 
friend ; Don Pedro de Villavicen- 
cio, his pupil ; and his son. His 
two sons were to be his universal 
legatees. While the notary was 
inquiring the exact names of his ? 
elder son he perceived that Mu- 
rillo was sinking. To the usual 
question as to whether he had 
made an earlier will he returned 
no answer, and in a few moments 
he expired. 

The will was, of course, infor- 
mal, .but, after an official inquiry as 
to the circumstances of its dicta- 
tion, it was allowed to stand. Next 
day his remains were buried with 
much ceremony in his parish 
church in the vault of the noble 
family of Hernando de Jaen, and 
opposite the picture he had studied 
so well. A plain marble slab, bear- 
ing the inscription Vive moriturus 
(Live as having to die), marked 
the spot. During the French oc- 
cupation of Seville the church of 
Santa Cruz was demolished ; and 
when search was made for what 
remained of Murillo, the vault was 
found to contain a promiscuous 
collection of bones. 

Of the schools of sacred art the 
Spanish was the last to reach its 
highest point of excellence. Mu- 
rillo's Italian contemporaries, Carlo 
Dolci, Domenichino, Guido, and 
Guercino, cannot be placed in an 
equal rank with Titian, Raphael, 



Christian Art. 



831 



Michael Angelo, Da Vinci, and Fra 
Angelico as painters of sacred 
subjects ; and the latest of these 
was a 'whole century earlier than 
Murillo. A similar interval sepa- 
rated him from Albert Diirer, in 
Germany. Holland, indeed, pos- 
sessed a Rembrandt at the time 
that the Seville school was most 
famous ; but the Van Eycks and 
Memling had raised the Flemish 
school of Christian art to its pin- 
nacle of fame nearly two hundred 
years before Murillo was born. If 
we ask who succeeded him, and 
are referred to Goya and Fortuny, 
it is equivalent to saying that 
Christian art in Spain died with 
Murillo and his pupils. Neither 
of the painters named professed it. 
In its highest form it has died out 
of every European country as com- 
pletely as out of Spain. Neither 
the formal Academical studies of 
Flandrin, the affected poses of Schef- 
fer, nor the feeble imitations of 
Overbeck can for a moment arrest 
the critic's judgment that in Eu- 
rope Christian art, in its best and 
perfect development, is virtually 
dead. It would require more space 
than is at our disposal to attempt 
an answer to the question, Why is 
it so ? It would probably be idle 



to inquire, Will it always be so ? 
Is there no resurrection for the 
elevating and purifying conceptions 
of their art which were struck out 
by the great Christian painters 
from the fourteenth to the seven- 
teenth century ? The subjects that 
inspired their genius and animat- 
ed their pencils are as real, as 
true, as great to our generation as 
to theirs. Can those subjects still 
affect the intelligence of our age, 
but fail to kindle the imagination 
as of old ? Or has the pictorial 
art exhausted itself? Is it no long- 
er the teacher it once was, con- 
veying to the multitude impressions 
of the past, the distant, or the fu- 
ture ? We shall not attempt to 
discuss these questions now. We 
shall confine our remarks for the 
present to the expression of a 
hope that in the New World, if 
not again in the Old, a school 
of art may some day arise to 
emulate what its predecessors 
have done, perhaps to surpass it ; 
and aiming at something higher 
than portraiture, landscape, or se- 
cular history, to find a nobler field 
for invention, a worthier incentive 
to the most soaring art-ambitions 

" In all that faith creates and love desires, 
Terrible, strange, sublime, and beauteous things. ' 



832 



The Catholic Church and Modern Liberties. 



THE CATHOLIC CHURCH AND MODERN LIBERTIES.* 



THE campaign undertaken by 
the revolutionary sect against lib- 
erty of teaching has already had a 
result on which we cannot but con- 
gratulate ourselves : it has placed 
on its proper footing the contest 
which for a century has been wag- 
ed between the Catholic Church 
and the anti-Christian spirit. There 
is no longer room for disguise : the 
church is indeed the object of at- 
tack ; it is Jesus Christ whom they 
presume to outlaw. The Jesuits 
are here but the shadow of a name, 
and the great crime with which 
they are reproached, the only one 
to which their accusers grant some 
faith and attach some importance, 
is the firmness with which they 
sustain the sovereign rights of re- 
vealed Truth. That they have 
created this truth to experiment on 
it for their own benefit ; that they 
have inspired the Syllabus; that 
the Holy See allows itself to be 
dominated by their influence of 
all this those who allege it believe 
not one syllable ; and it is only by 
an old habit that they cover with 
such absurd charges the attacks 
directed against the church. More- 
over, those who advance these pre- 
texts are careful to lay bare their 
real thought ; and from the outset 
of this campaign not a speech has 
been delivered in which the ques- 
tion has not been more or less 
clearly laid down. 

We ought to thank our adversa- 
ries for their frankness, for it is in- 
deed time that this question should 
be solved ; and how could it have 
been solved so long as it was not 
even understood ? 

* Rev. P. H. Ramiere, S.J., in the Etudes Reli- 
gieuses. 



Systematically misstated by the 
enemies of the church, it became, in 
the eyes even of a great number of 
Catholics, obscured by regrettable 
prejudices. Hence arose divisions 
still more to be regretted, which are 
the chief cause of our weakness. We 
shall recover all our strength as soon 
as we are all of one mind as to the 
solution of the problem, which the 
revolution sets before us to-day 
more clearly than it ever did be- 
fore. 

The present paper will, we trust, 
prepare the way for this solution, 
and thus facilitate the agreement 
of Catholics, and break the chief 
arm of the revolution. 



The difficulty lies in the opposi- 
tion which exists between the prin- 
ciples of Christian law and those 
of modern societies. The first 
principle of Christian law is the 
social royalty of Jesus Christ ; the 
principle of modern law is the 
independence of the social from 
the religious order. Following the 
first principle, nations, as well as 
individuals, must submit to the 
evangelical law interpreted by the 
church ; following the second, reli- 
gion is a purely individual affair, 
and the state should remain neu- 
tral with regard to Christianity as 
to all other religions. If this latter 
principle is not already inscribed 
in all the constitutions, it is almost 
universally admitted in practice. 
The conspiracy whicti has for its 
object to remove from Jesus Christ 
first the empire of society and after- 
wards that of souls, has accomplish- 
ed the first of these two enterpri- 



The Cat ho lie Church and Modern Liberties. 



333 



ses : Christendom no longer exists ; 
it has given place to the universal 
reign of social anti-Christianism. 

From this there results to Chris- 
tians a situation full of obscurity 
and suffering. For them, it seems, 
the peril is equal, of withdrawing 
or of mixing in the fight. If they 
withdraw they leave to the enemies 
of the church full power to turn 
all the forces of society towards 
the complete destruction of the 
church ; while, on the other hand, 
they run the great risk, in accept- 
ing public functions, of compro- 
mising their faith and conscience, 
both of which reprobate the very 
principle of the laws which it is 
the mission of public functions to 
execute. There is thus apparent- 
ly no place for them among the 
divers parties who struggle for the 
direction of modern societies. 
Obliged to fight all round, they 
must resign themselves to the fate 
of having all for foes. They could 
not form an alliance with them 
without sacrificing something of 
their principles, and consequently 
without denying their faith and 
giving just grounds for suspecting 
their sincerity. 

Such is the thorny problem which 
for more than half a century has 
been the torment of Christian think- 
ers and divided the Catholic army. 
From it have arisen the deplorable 
strifes between the liberal and the 
pure Catholics, and the divergen- 
cies more deplorable still which 
have more than once set the least 
liberal Catholics wrangling. On 
the one hand, they regarded above 
all things the interest of the church ; 
and, to save at least a portion of its 
rights, they thought they might dis- 
pense with insisting on the integri- 
ty of those rights. On the other 
hand, the integral claim was re- 
garded as the supreme interest of 
VOL. xxix. 53 



truth ; and rather than compromise 
this interest by any alliance what- 
soever with the holders of error, 
they preferred to condemn them- 
selves to complete isolation. Thus 
was transformed into a general rule 
for the Catholics of all countries 
the abstention from taking part in 
political affairs which special cir- 
cumstances have to this day im- 
posed on the Catholics of Italy. 

The Holy See has never sanc- 
tioned so absolute an interdiction ; 
nor is it imposed on us a whit 
more by the demands of the most 
rigorous orthodoxy. On the con- 
trary, the defenders of the right 
can occupy a position in the social 
polemic which, without compromis- 
ing their principles in the slightest 
degree, may admit of their victo- 
riously defending the interests of 
the cause of God. Far from being 
necessarily in a state of hostility 
with all political parties, they may 
ally themselves with that party 
which has most chance of success. 
The state of isolation to which we 
are to-day reduced tends much less 
towards our true principles than to 
the false prejudices spread abroad 
against us. As soon as our posi- 
tion is well understood many of 
those who are now against iis will 
join with us in combating our real 
foes, who are also theirs. 

But to attain this it behoves us 
above all to arrive at a common 
understanding and to cease by our 
mistakes exposing our flank to the 
calumnies of our adversaries. 

These mistakes do not date from 
to-day, and in order to dissipate 
them we must go back to the an- 
tecedents of the present situa- 
tion. Modern society is born of 
the revolution, and the revolution 
has been produced by repulsion 
against the old regime. We may, 
then, form a true idea of the doc- 



334 



The Catholic Church and Modern Liberties. 



trinal position which we ought to 
assume in the face of modem so- 
ciety, in proportion as we know 
the place we ought to occupy in 
face of the old regime and of the 
revolution which overthrew it. 

But on all these points, the old 
regime, the revolution, and modern 
society, there exists, even among 
the best minds, a confusion which 
is the principal cause of the hos- 
tility of which we are made the 
butt, and of our internal divisions. 
If we could only dissipate this we 
should have gained for our cause 
a double chance of success in de- 
livering it from a double peril. 

ii. 

If there is one prejudice more 
generally prevalent than another 
in modern society, it is that the 
upholders of Christian right aspire 
after the re-establishment of the 
old regime. Yet there could not 
be a prejudice more ill founded. 
What is the old regime? By this 
word everybody understands, not 
the middle ages, but the state of 
affairs that immediately preceded 
the Revolution of 1789. In France 
it means absolute monarchy, such 
as had been organized, after the 
suppression of the States-General, 
by Richelieu, Mazarin, and Louis 
XIV. This monarchy was Chris- 
tian in so far as it recognized the 
social royalty of Jesus Christ and 
the doctrinal sovereignty of the 
church. It held in its bosom the 
useful institutions with which, dur- 
ing twelve centuries, Christianity 
had covered the soil of France. It 
derived its chief force from the 
faith and the Christian morals of 
its people. But side by side with 
these Christian elements the mon- 
archy had allowed elements alto- 
gether contrary to plant themselves 



in its bosom. If the Christian 
principle was accepted in theory, 
making of the monarch the seivant 
of Jesus Christ, of the church, and of 
the souls of his subjects, in practice 
the monarch was often guided by 
the pagan principle which mak 
the king the proprietary of h 
kingdom. That is a point of hi 
tory that does not admit of disput 
At the close of the inauspicio 
reign of Philip the Fair there w 
formed around the throne a sch 
of legists which to the end of th 
monarchy constantly labored t 
make the doctrine and the practi 
of Csesarism prevail over the tru 
idea of the Christian monarch 
Reserving to themselves the dire 
tion of the royal power, and n 
hesitating to assail it when it w 
not sufficiently docile to them, the 
showed themselves, in regard to a 
the other powers, jealous to exce 
of their prerogatives. 

To this hateful influence abov 
all are the abuses to be attribute 
which have rendered the old r 
justly odious, and which ended b 
bringing on the destruction of th 
monarchy. 

To appreciate justly those ab 
ses, which were greatly exaggerate 
by revolutionary writers, it suffic 
to read the plans of reform concert- 
ed between Fenelon and his virtu- 
ous pupil, the second Dauphin, 
There we see how the development 
of the Csesarean idea had destroy- 
ed at once the national liberties 
and the most solid supports of the 
monarchy, in order to construct 
out of their ruins an edifice without 
foundation, and even without the 
equilibrium of royal absolutism. 

As for provincial autonomy, save 
four or five- departments which 
had, at the price of constant strug- 
gles, preserved a portion of their 
liberties, all the other provinces 






The Catholic Church and Modern Liberties. 



835 



were at the mercy of the king's in- 
tendants; and these fixed the taxes 
at their own. pleasure, regulated at 
their own will the recruiting of the 
militia, sold exemptions for their 
own benefit, and increased in pro- 
portion the burden of the less fa- 
vored citizens. Municipal fran- 
chises, if granted formerly, had 
been almost universally withdrawn ; 
and even Languedoc, the freest of 
all the provinces in the French 
monarchy, had only been able to 
preserve to its communes the right 
of choosing their chief magistrates 
by repurchasing three times over, 
and at a costly price, this right, 
which the greed of the treasury 
had made an object of traffic. 

As for the aristocracy, properly 
so called, the nobility, despoiled of 
all the power which had made of it 
a counterpoise to the royal abso- 
lutism, no longer preserved more 
than honorary and fiscal privileges, 
which exposed them to becoming 
hateful from the moment that they 
were not justified by corresponding 
duties. In place of allowing them 
to reside on their estates, where 
their good offices would have 
shown their riches to be a blessing, 
the monarch used every effort to 
attract them to the court, where 
they squandered in barren luxury 
the revenue of their abandoned do- 
mains. 

One power alone had survived, 
or rather had substituted itself for 
the influences capable of temper- 
ing the . absolute royalty of the 
monarch. This power was that 
of the legists, the parliament. But 
far from being a guarantee for the 
true national liberties, the develop- 
ment of parliamentary prerogative 
threatened the ruin of the holiest 
of all liberties religious liberty. 
In proportion as it extended its 
jurisdiction in the political order 



the parliament arrogated to itself a 
more tyrannical jurisdiction in the 
affairs of the spiritual order. The 
bishops were no longer to be al- 
lowed to communicate with the 
pope or to assemble in council. 
The abuses which the church was 
no longer in a position to correct 
multiplied and furnished pretexts 
for new usurpations. The monas- 
teries, given by favor to abbes 
who had nothing of the eccle- 
siastic about them but the name, 
underwent a lamentable deca- 
dence. Even the free adminis- 
tration of the sacraments was no 
longer allowed to the clergy, while 
at the same time that the parlia- 
ments condemned the bulls of the 
popes and the mandates of the 
bishops they commanded them to 
absolve heretics, and compelled 
them under threat of imprisonment 
to administer the holy Eucharist to 
them. 

Such was the state to which the 
growing influence of Csesarism had 
brought the French monarchy and 
society. Is it possible for people 
in good faith to think the defend- 
ers of Christian right are anxious 
to return to such a regime? I 
make bold to affirm, on the con- 
trary, that their feeling of repulsion 
for the old regime cannot but in- 
crease the more they study with 
serious purpose the traditions of 
the Catholic school in the works of 
the great doctors. That Gallican 
monarchists of the school of Bos- 
suet may be led to confound the 
Christian monarchy with the abso- 
lutism of Louis XIV., we admit ; 
but the disciples of St. Thomas and 
Suarez will range themselves by 
preference on the side of Fenelon ;; 
and allowing for everything, in the 
re'gime that the Revolution over- 
threw, which it had that was really 
Christian and truly national, they 






836 



The Catholic Church and Modern Liberties. 



I 



will not hesitate to blame severely 
the abuses which had rendered it 
hostile to the national liberties, in 
the degree in which it had depart- 
ed from the traditions of the ages 
of faith. 

m. 



If \ve can only distinguish in the 
old regime the two contrary ele- 
ments, which are too often con- 
founded, we shall have no uncer- 
tainty respecting the position which 
we ought to assume towards the 
revolution. 

Here again we find ourselves 
faced by a confusion which can 
only be explained either by the 
-success of this satanic conspiracy 
<rn the midst of a people profound- 
ly Christian, or by the different 
;-manner in which, notwithstanding 
fits crimes, it is interpreted by hon- 
<est men. 

Jn .the revolution one is apt to 
confound the lawful aspirations 
which gave birth to it with the 
criminal tendencies which brought 
on its bloody denouement. In this 
juggling of the national liberties 
the promises of the leaders and the 
hopes of -the dupes are confounded 
with the real designs of the first 
and the terrible deception of the 
second. 

The univ-ersal aspiration of 
France at the end of the last cen- 
tury was a reform of the abuses of 
the old regime, and a return to the 
national traditions as modified by 
the necessities of new times. In 
his excellent work on the Vicissi- 
tudes of France M. de Larcy sets 
in parallel tables the scheme for- 
mulated by the Third Estate of 
Paris at the time of the reunion 
of the States-General, in 1789, and 
the plans of reform proposed by 
Fenelon to the 'Dauphin eighty 



years before. There is between 
the one and the other complete 
accord on all points of importance. 
On both sides nothing else was de- 
manded than the suppression of 
oppressive institutions and the re- 
establishment of the old franchises 
regular representation of the n; 
tion by States-General freely elect< 
every three years ; a large decei 
tralization and autonomy to tl 
provinces and communes, by coi 
ceding administrative functions 
the provincial assemblies ; equalil 
in legislation by a codification of 
the laws and the customs ; equality 
in the administration of justice by 
the suppression of exceptional ju- 
risdictions; a retrenching of the 
abused privileges of the nobles, and 
the opening of careers in which 
they should win by useful labors 
the honors attached to their rank ; 
finally, freedom of the clergy in 
regard to spirituals, accompanied 
by a renunciation of a portion of 
their temporal privileges. 

Such were the true aspirations 
of France in 1789, and assuredly 
there is nothing but what is most 
lawful in such aspirations. If they 
had only been satisfied, as they un- 
questionably ought to have been, 
even before having been formulat- 
ed, by the pupil of Fenelon, instead 
of the terrible eruption which over- 
turned everything we should have 
had a real restoration in France. 
Not only would the principle of 
the Christian order not have been 
altered, but it would have acquired 
an expansion much more complete 
than it had been able to attain 
during five centuries. France 
would have returned to the paths 
which St. Louis had opened up 
to it. 

But this restoration, for which 
the whole nation sighed, was the 
very antipode of the purpose which 



The Catholic Church and Modern Liberties. 



837 



the anti-Christian faction had pro- 
posed to itself. In the Masonic 
lodges, where the sect was organ- 
ized, it was resolved to turn to- 
wards the overthrow of the Chris- 
tian order the movement which in 
its principle only proposed to de- 
stroy the abuses begotten of the 
changing of the Christian order. 
To accomplish this the senses of 
words were changed ; they called 
liberty, not the exemption from 
trammels in the exercise of their 
rights, but the negation of the 
rights of God guaranteed by all 
the others; authority was called 
despotism ; in place of individual, 
domestic, communal, provincial 
liberties, which alone are fruitful 
and real, they offered to the nation 
as the supreme and only aim of all 
their ambitions a pretended sove- 
reignty, which proposed to invest a 
central assembly with the right of 
oppression. To this new sovereign, 
as much less responsible as it was 
multiform, was attributed a power 
over one's goods, over families, 
over communes, over provinces., 
over all associations, over the souls 
and bodies of citizens a power in- 
comparably more despotic than 
that with which the most absolute 
monarchs thought themselves in- 
vested. Csesarism, in changing its 
form, only became more oppressive ; 
in denying the divine source of au- 
thority it destroyed the sole effica- 
cious guarantee of liberty ; and 
soon the closed temples, the sup- 
pressed educational establishments, 
confiscated properties, the priests, 
the nobles, citizens of every condi- 
tion, the revolutionists themselves 
cast into prison and hurried to the 
guillotine, caused deceived France 
to understand the true sense of the 
word revolution. 

They have since attempted to 
make us forget this sense ; and 



to-day again nothing is forgotten 
which might increase the confusion 
that constitutes the whole stock- 
in-trade of the sect. By revolution 
they would again wish us to under- 
stand the abolition of abuses ; and 
when we speak of a counter-revo- 
lution they translate this term by 
the re-establishment of the old re- 
gime. To the impudent adherence 
to such falsehoods it is necessary 
to oppose the invincible resistance 
of truth. It is necessary to say, 
and again to say, that we detest the 
revolution, not because it has de- 
stroyed the old regime, but because 
it has continued it in its most 
odious abuses; because it has car- 
ried incomparably farther than that 
re'gime the contempt for all true 
liberties, and that by very virtue of 
the principle on which it is built. 
Yes, in the revolutionary theory of 
Rousseau and his modern disciples 
we recognize the most tyrannical 
doctrine which has ever dared to 
be advanced ; and this doctrine 
we repel with all the force of our 
souls, in the name of the dignity of 
man as well as in the name of di- 
vine truth. 



IV. 



What, then, is our doctrinal posi- 
tion in the face of modern society? 

This position is very clear ; and 
if it has-been so ill understood, it 
is because to this very day society 
itself has not been able to under- 
stand itself. From the day of its 
pretended deliverance its entire 
existence has been but one lamenta- 
ble misapprehension a mad pur- 
suit of liberty by a road which leads 
far away from the term so ardently 
desired. It is not I who say this. 
" Seventy-five years of combat and 
sufferings to conquer liberty be- 
hold our tradition !" says M. La- 



838 



The Catholic Church and Modern Liberties. 



boulaye. The truly liberal insti- 
tutions " which have made the 
glory and the grandeur of our 
neighbors France has been con- 
stantly yearning for these seventy- 
five years ; but, sad to say, ten 
times have her efforts proved de- 
ceitful and her hopes been lost." 

In what, then, consists this con- 
stant misapprehension ? In this : 
that, deceived by the revolutionary 
lie, modern society has confounded 
under the name of liberty three 
very different things : social liber- 
ties, political liberty, and what it 
calls religious liberty. 

Social liberties are, to wit, the 
liberty of the person, of action, of 
goods, of the family, the commune, 
of voluntary associations substan- 
tial liberties which every man ought 
above all to assure to himself, and 
which every truly civilized state 
ought to guarantee to its members. 

Political liberty, or the partici- 
pation of all citizens in the govern- 
ment of the country, is plainly very 
far from having for them the same 
value as independence in the con- 
duct of their daily affairs ; and it is 
above all things as a guarantee of 
social liberties that it behoves them 
to preserve it. 

As for religious liberty, which 
consists in the power given each 
one to make a religion for himself 
and attack the religion which is 
established, this is so far legitimate 
and precious when the established 
religion is purely human, and so far 
destructive when the established 
religion is certainly divine; for re- 
ligious faith being the only solid 
basis of morality, the attacks made 
against it tend to destroy all rights, 
and consequently to endanger all 
true liberties. 

But what has France been doing 
for an age? Confusing these three 
kinds of liberties, she is constantly 



putting off the acquisition of the 
first, the social liberties, whicl 
alone could render her really free, 
but the re-establishment of which 
the revolution has rendered almost 
impossible. As for the second, pc 
litical liberties, France rejects ai 
reconquers them successively, a( 
cording as she feels too vividly th< 
dangers of their exercise when she 
possesses them, or regret for their 
loss when she has been despoiled 
of them. She thereupon attaches 
everything to what she calls reli- 
gious liberty, by virtue of which 
she delivers up the religious basis 
of all rights and all liberties with- 
out defence to the attacks of error 
and of vice. 

Here, then, lies the great mis- 
take of modern society ; here 
is the explanation of its continual 
agitations and deceptions unceas- 
ingly renewed, in this constant 
travail whose tortures, for ever in- 
creasing, accumulate only in a per- 
petual abortion. 

Well, it is the defenders of Chris- 
tian right who are for ever striving 
to put an end to this fatal misap- 
prehension. They alone have the 
reading of the riddle whose ambi- 
guity delivers up modern society 
as a prey to the revolutionary 
sphinx. Far from unintelligently 
condemning, as they are charged, 
the aspirations after liberty, they 
present themselves for eighteen 
centuries before freed nations, the 
Gospel in one hand and history in 
the other ; and they say to them : 
We are not only not the enemies, 
but by virtue of our principles we 
are the defenders, of the true popu- 
lar liberties, those which alone are 
practical and substantial, personal 
and social liberties. The Chris- 
tian law alone has given them to 
the world. Established by the 
church, sustained and augmented 



The Catholic Church and Modern Liberties. 



839 



by the monarcbs most docile to its 
direction, they developed them- 
selves in France parallel with her 
influence; have declined with that 
influence under the pressure of 
monarchical Caesarism ; and have 
ended by being completely sup- 
pressed by the anarchical Caesarism 
of the revolution. We only aspire 
to make them live again, while the 
revolution continues to ravish us 
of them. 

As for political liberty, we by no 
means attach the same value to 
it. At the same time we are far 
from being hostile to it in princi- 
ple. The church, which during the 
course of its long existence has al- 
lied itself with all forms of govern- 
ment, has found in turn allies and 
persecutors in monarchical as in 
democratic governments. It is not, 
then, a question of interest which 
can lead it to prefer one to another. 
What it demands of all is that they 
respect the law divine and guard 
safely human rights. The form of 
government which shall maintain 
them more efficaciously in their 
duties, while giving them a strong- 
er force to defend their rights, is 
that which will obtain the prefer- 
ence. 

Everybody sees that on this dou- 
ble ground there can be no quarrel 
between the defenders of Christian 
law and modern society. The true 
tendencies of that society, its gen- 
erous, lawful, and liberal aspira- 
tions, in the best sense, we not 
only do not oppose, but justify and 
assist with all our power ; and in 
pointing out the error which has 
rendered them vain to this day we 
indicate the only means of obtain- 
ing their final and durable comple- 
tion. 

v. 

There remains religious liberty ; 



and this forms the real knot of the 
difficulty. 

WQ are told that religious liberty 
is the basis of modern society ; of 
all the conquests of 1789, it is that 
to which society has attached the 
greatest price ; and it shows plain- 
ly enough, by the strifes which it 
has sustained for four-and-twenty 
years, that it is disposed to sacri- 
fice everything rather than be strip- 
ped of this conquest. But this 
liberty is contrary to the principles 
of Christian doctrine; you cannot, 
therefore, be sincere and logical in 
the profession of those principles 
without declaring yourselves the 
enemies of this liberty, and without 
avowing that you desire its de- 
struction. 

Consequently you place your- 
selves under the ban of modern so- 
ciety, and declare yourselves un- 
worthy of participating in the bene- 
fits which religious liberty guaran- 
tees to all sorts of opinions. With 
what right, in fact, could you in- 
voke it in your favor, when your 
principles prevent you from grant- 
ing it to others ? With what face 
dare you proclaim it while the 
weaker party, when we know that 
you are resolved to suppress it if 
in the ascendant ? 

Here lies the great argument, I 
may say the only argument, of our 
adversaries. From the beginning 
of the present contest the speeches 
delivered in the tribune and the 
articles in the journals are hardly 
anything else than variations, more 
or less stupid, of this one theme. 
On this foundation alone they build 
the speeches destined to set in mo- 
tion the prescriptive laws. 

These laws only strike at one 
class of citizens ; but it is impor- 
tant above all things to state clearly 
the immense bearing that they 
borrow from this principle. From 



840 



The Catholic Church and Modern Liberties. 



the moment that a sufficient motive 
is found for outlawing us in the ex- 
ercise of the divine mission of the 
Catholic Church, and in the pro- 
fession that it makes of being the 
only true religion, it is no longer 
certain unauthorized religions that 
the state proscribes, but the entire 
clergy, since they cannot without pre- 
varication cease from teaching the 
doctrine of the church on this sub- 
ject. They saw this recently in our 
parliament ; they avowed that the 
liberty allowed to the secular cler- 
gy, while some of the religious con- 
gregations were attacked, is illogi- 
cal and a true evil ; and they ex- 
cused themselves by saying that 
the toleration of one evil might be 
necessary in order to prevent a 
greater. 

We see, therefore, that the prin- 
ciple is fertile, for it tends to de- 
prive all Catholic priests of their 
civil rights; but it has a bearing 
wider yet, for in the question 
which it raises the simple faithful 
can only have the same belief as 
their pastors. " These doctrines," 
said an uncompromising orator* 
the oth'er day to the opportunist 
legislators " these doctrines have 
become the doctrines of the 
church." They have long since 
acquired this character, as our ad- 
versaries themselves rightly trace 
them back to the words of our Sav- 
iour : Ite docete go and teach. But 
listen to the conclusion : From the 
moment that they become doctrines 
of the church " all citizens who 
become members of the Catholic 
Church are bound to profess them. 
Be logical, then, and extend your 
interdict to the secular clergy." 
"We say for our part : From the 
moment that they have always been 



* M. Madier de Monjau, quoted by M. Paul 
Bert in the latter's speech in the Chamber of De- 
puties during the session of June 21. 



the doctrines of the church all 
true Catholics are bound'to pro- 
fess them and really do profess 
them. Be, therefore, quite logical, 
and make a law which deprives all 
Catholics of their civil rights. 

But you cannot stop even here 
for Catholics are not the only ones 
who consider the profession of 
certain religious doctrine as nec< 
sary to society. The prerogative 
which we claim in favor of the su- 
pernatural revelation, interpreted 
by the church, others claim in fa- 
vor of natural religion. M. Jules 
Simon, for instance, maintains that 
an atheist has no right to teach 
in the name of the state. He 
therefore also deserves to be de- 
prived of the liberty which he re- 
fuses to others. And if we are 
wholly logical we must recognize 
that only those ought to have the 
liberty of teaching who, admitting 
no absolute truth, attribute equal 
rights to all doctrines ; in other 
words, that there is only liberty of 
teaching for those who have noth- 
ing to teach, since the sole object 
of teaching is the truth. 

Is this enough ? No. The arm 
which they borrow to strike us does 
not menace all believers only ; it 
has a higher and wider sweep yet : 
it reaches to God himself. Let us 
speak more clearly : it is against 
God that it is directed from first to 
last, since it only strikes us accord- 
ing as we make profession of faith 
in, and bear witness to, the word of 
God. 

If the argument has any worth 
it is no longer permissible for the 
Creator to reveal truth to his rea- 
sonable creature nor to impose his 
will on him ; for it is evident that, 
if God has spoken to him, man is 
compelled to obey his orders and 
to proclaim the necessity of ac- 
complishing them in a word, to 



The Catholic ClinrcJi and Modern Liberties. 



act as the Catholic Church has 
been acting for eighteen centuries 
in regard to the Word which it 
knows to be divine. If the fidelity 
with which it continues to fulfil 
its mission furnishes modern society 
with a just subject of proscription, 
we must hold that modern society 
has acquired the right to impose 
silence on God and to interdict to 
him all exercise of his authority. 

Behold the true bearing of the 
argument with which our adver- 
saries think to confound us. We 
lately heard the ablest of them de- 
velop this thesis with a frankness 
for which we had to thank him. 
He proclaimed in emphatic terms 
not only the right but the duty 
of teaching as an imprescriptible 
right and as a duty which is im- 
posed on all virtuous men ; for, ac- 
cording to him, " no one can, with- 
out being a culpable egoist, re- 
serve to himself a portion of the 
truth." But immediately after he 
refused to God in so many terms 
the right which he claimed for 
man ; and he condemned the infi- 
nitely good God to the culpable 
egoism which alone could hold the 
truth captive on the lips of him who 
possessed it. Lawful and obliga- 
tory teaching, so far as it only in- 
vokes human right, would become, 
according to this theory, a criminal 
usurpation if it proceeded from the 
divine truth ! The man who pos- 
sesses the smallest portion of truth 
has the right and the duty to com- 
municate it to his fellows, and God, 
who is the eternal and infinite 
truth, has neither this right nor 
this power with respect to the 
creature whom he made to know 
the truth ! 

Behold whither the revolution 
is borne when it searches for prin- 
ciples in its attacks on liberty. 

Indeed, a greater service could 



not be rendered to us than to set 
the question on these grounds. 
Those who would accuse us of ex- 
aggeration when we affirm that the 
revolutionary doctrine implies the 
negation of God will surely not re- 
fuse to believe the titled defenders 
of this doctrine. They no longer 
leave us any doubt as to the true 
motive of their hate ; and we ought 
to esteem ourselves highly honored 
thereby. It is no longer certain 
obscure religions, it is no longer 
the Catholic clergy only, it is no 
longer the Christian religion itself, 
that the revolution attacks. Be- 
hold it at last showing itself in its 
true colors and revealing to us the 
depths of its thought : it is God 
himself that it attack?, the absolute 
truth, the first principles of all re- 
ligion, of all morality, of all rights 
and liberties ; and consequently it 
gives us the right to count, in our 
defence against its attacks, on the 
support of all men for whom liberty, 
right, morality, religion, God are 
not vain words. 

When the question shall be thus 
understood by all, the hypocrisy of 
the anti-Christian sect will be un- 
masked, the illusion of modern 
society will be dissipated, and the 
era of true liberty will succeed to 
the reign, already too prolonged, of 
revolutionary tyranny. 



VI. 



We do not purpose contenting 
ourselves with this reductio ad ab- 
surdum of the sophism which con- 
stitutes the chief doctrine of the 
sect. Let us examine it in itself, 
and conclude by placing in all its 
light the attitude which the princi- 
ples of Christian right impose on 
us with regard to religious liberty. 

There are here two distinct qties- 



842 



The Catholic Church and Modern Liberties. 



tions : a question of theory and a 
question of practice. 

In theory our doctrine is known. 
Constantly professed in the church, 
and lately called to mind in the 
Syllabus i it is to-day thrown in our 
face by our adversaries, who seem 
to think that we cannot hear their 
exposition of it without blushing. 
They deceive themselves : we ac- 
cept it whole and entire, but not 
the travesties of it which they deck 
out. To remove every misappre- 
hension we again sum it up in a 
few words. 

We believe that there is a re- 
ligious truth as absolute and as im- 
mutable as mathematical truth, and 
that this truth is the basis of the 
material order. To the orator who 
recently maintained that there was 
a morality of the state, but that 
there is neither a religion nor 
metaphysics of the state, we oppose 
the truth of good sense perfectly 
demonstrated by M. Jules Simon. 
As there is no code without morality, 
there is no morality without belief. 
"From the time that the human 
law is founded on justice, and not 
justice on human law, there is a 
God." You cannot, then, cause 
faith in God and religion to be de- 
stroyed without destroying at the 
same time all morality, all legisla- 
tion, all social order. 

But we believe that no human 
authority is capable of establishing 
this religious truth which human 
society could not allow to die out. 
Every man being essentially fallible, 
no one can teach with an authority 
sufficient to impose on his equals 
faith in his word. Here we are at 
one with our adversaries : we de- 
clare that the teaching of religious 
truths is not within the jurisdiction 
of human powers, and that the con- 
science is independent of their ju- 
risdiction. If a state without re- 



ligion is an impossibility for us, a 
state religion, understood in the 
sense of a religion created, defined, 
and governed by the state, is a 
tyranny and an absurdity. 

In what, then, consists our dissent, 
and in what is our belief opposed 
to modern principles ? 

In this : that we do not admit 
that society should be condemned 
to perish, crushed out by this nec- 
essity which it is essentially incapa- 
ble of satisfying. This religious 
truth which it cannot allow to die, 
and which it cannot procure of it- 
self, we believe has been given it 
from heaven, and that a purely 
spiritual authority has been estab- 
lished on the earth to teach, define, 
and defend it. 

This authority being divine, like 
religion itself, we believe that so- 
cieties as well as individuals are 
bound to submit to its teachings. 
And since the sure possession of 
moral truth is the most essential 
condition of social peace, we be- 
lieve that a society which enjoys 
this advantage ought to consider 
the maintenance of it not only as the 
most sacred of its duties, but, more- 
over, as the most vital of all its in- 
terests. 

We place, then, in theory, liberty 
to attack the true religion in the 
same rank as liberty to attack mo- 
rality and the principles of social 
right. We are persuaded that the 
state cannot sacrifice the first of 
these rights without placing itself 
in the impossibility of defending 
the others. We can only admit, 
therefore, as an abnormal and nec- 
essarily disturbed state of affairs 
that wherein religious truth is de- 
livered without defence to the at- 
tacks of passion and of vice. The 
ideal state of society is for us that 
wherein the agreement of all intel- 
ligences in the profession of the 



The Catholic Church and Modern Liberties. 



843 



same beliefs guarantees their union 
of will in respect to the same rights 
and the accomplishment of the 
same duties. 

This ideal of intellectual and 
moral unity which the Catholic 
Church is alone capable of realizing, 
and which it had partially realized 
in the middle ages, we have hopes 
will come one day to crown the 
material progress which is the glory 
of modern society. 

If this hope is a crime, and if one 
is a traitor to modern society be- 
cause he desires for it what he 
considers to be the most essential 
condition of its true prosperity, in 
very truth, then, are we culpable, 
and we deserve to undergo the 
civil incapacities which are the 
chastisement of treason. 

Meanwhile we may be permitted 
to ask, In virtue of what law are 
they so ready to punish our con- 
victions and our inner aspirations ? 
Place, if you will, religious unity in 
the same rank with theft and assas- 
sination ; it yet remains for you to 
inform us since when have you the 
right to cast a man into prison or 
to conduct him to the scaffold sim- 
ply because you imagine that you 
have convicted him of a desire 
of committing a larceny or a mur- 
der. Human law can only touch 
outward acts. Is there an excep- 
tion alone in the case of religious 
convictions ; and will the desire of 
seeing our fellows accept the law to 
which we ourselves submit be the 
only internal act which ought to be 
chastised by a rigorous penalty? 

Strange crime indeed ! To lis- 
ten to our accusers, it would seem 
that we conspire to enslave all in- 
telligences under the yoke of our 
authority. But is it thus? Is this 
our doctrine which we seek to 
make prevail ? Have we invented 
a single one of the articles of that 



creed which we would wish to see 
all our fellows profess ? But if, 
on the other hand, our faith is im- 
posed on us by a divine authority, 
and if, freely submissive to this au- 
thority by sincere conviction, we 
have no other pretension than to 
bring our fellow-men to share free- 
ly in the light and the peace which 
it affords to us, how is it possible 
for any one to see therein an at- 
tempt against society? 

But they tell us that the pro- 
scription with which they purpose 
striking us is a measure of social 
defence. Sincere or not, our con- 
victions impose on us the duty of 
combating all these liberties of mo- 
dern society ; and consequently 
society owes it to itself to preserve 
itself from our attacks by depriv- 
ing us of our liberty. 

We have already said enough to 
cause this incredible charge to be 
appreciated at its just value. We 
now know which are the friends of 
true individual and social liberties, 
the disciples of Jesus Christ or 
those of Rousseau. But as far as 
concerns religious liberty itself, how 
can they prove that we seek to de- 
stroy it in countries where it is 
established or where the division 
of faiths makes, it indispensable? 
They have cited as propfs the com- 
plaints wrung from the Sovereign 
Pontiff by the efforts of heresy to 
corrupt the Roman people. But 
who does not see the essential dif- 
ference between a country in which 
unity in religious truth reigns and 
countries where it does not exist ? 

Where religious unity exists we 
believe it to be a crime to strive to 
destroy this unity ; and in Rome this 
crime is aggravated by the infamous 
means which heresy makes use of, 
and by the certainty that in corrupt- 
ing Catholics not honest Protestants 
are made, but apostate Christians. 



844 



The Catholic Church and Modern Liberties. 



A similar state of affairs has no- 
thing in common with that of 
France, where for a long period all 
errors have acquired a right of 
place. But it is with France we 
are concerned just now; and it is 
in France that we are accused of 
conspiring against religious liberty. 
In what, I ask, can this conspiracy 
consist ? With what weapons, with 
what hands, do they suppose we 
could choke up liberty? Is it the 
president of the republic or his 
ministry whom we dream of invest- 
ing with a power analogous to that 
of the doge of Venice? Or per- 
haps some may fear that one of 
these days we may elevate a mon- 
arch on a shield with the condition 
that he permits us to make a new 
St. Bartholomew's day. Criminal 
as they suppose us to be, they 
might at least do us the honor of 
not believing us completely bereft 
of our senses. But one must have 
lost his senses to suppose that the 
Christian order can be established 
in society otherwise than by the 
free and unanimous consent of so- 
ciety itself. 

And here is where our ac- 
cusers persist in mistaking us. 
When they hold up our beliefs 
they confound theory with prac- 
tice. The Christian order, which 
we recognize as the only true ideal 
of society, they pretend to believe 
we are eager to impose violently on 
our dechristianized societies, and 
they are unwilling to understand 
that the Christian order necessa- 
rily supposes a Christian society. 
The design which they attribute to 
us of destroying religious liberty in 
countries where it is established is 
doubly absurd : in the first place, 
because truth ought not and cannot 
be imposed by violence; in the 
second place, because among mo- 
dern peoples who construct govern- 



ments after their own image there 
is no longer a Christian govern- 
ment to impose the faith on the 
nations which are no longer Chris- 
tian. The Austrian Concordat, 
which left full liberty to the dis- 
senting sects, could not be carried 
into execution, because it was found 
too Catholic for a nation in which 
the ruling classes had ceased to be 
dissenters. How are we to sup- 
pose otherwise that the re-establish- 
ment of religious unity could have 
been the work of the political au- 
thority? No, no ; such is not our 
hope. If the religion of Jesus 
Christ ought to triumph over mo- 
dern paganism as it triumphed 
over paganism of old, it will owe 
its victory to the free discussion 
which shall demonstrate the truth, 
and to the still more effective dem- 
onstration of experience which will 
disgust the peoples with error. 

Such is, in theory and practice, 
the conspiracy against modern lib- 
erties in which they seek a mo- 
tive to deprive us of the benefit 
of our liberties. In theory it is a 
striving after a state of affairs in 
which the unity of beliefs will ren- 
der possible the re-establishment of 
all the substantial liberties which 
the revolution deprived us of; in 
practice it is an appeal, not to vio- 
lence, which is only used to-day 
against us ; not to the intervention 
of the political power, which could 
only be fatal to us, but to free dis- 
cussion and experience. 

It is to defend themselves against 
this peaceful conspiracy that our 
adversaries are not ashamed to 
place themselves, by their own 
admission, in contradiction with 
their principles, and only find safety 
in prescriptive measures. In truth, 
they do us great honor, and, after 
their fashion, render glorious testi- 
mony to our cause. They have at 



TJie CatJiolic C/iurc/i and Modern Liberties. 



845 



their disposal all the social forces ; 
the thousand organs of the press 
are at their beck ; any kind of wea- 
pon is serviceable to them as a 
means of attack : lying, calumny, 
sophistry, the appeal to the lowest 
lusts and to the most perverse ap- 
petites. If, indeed, they sincerely 
believed that they had truth on 
their side, should they not be the 
first to call for a free discussion ? 
In falling back on violence to dis- 
arm us they prove that they have 
faith in the justice of our cause. 
Let them, then, use this weapon, 
which is the proper arm of injus- 
tice, but let them not attempt to 
justify the suppression of our free- 
dom by our alleged conspiracy 
against the freedom of others; for 
we have just demonstrated that 
this accusation, which has no real 
foundation whatever, even in re- 
gard to the supposed religious liber- 
ty is the very opposite of truth in the 
matter of all other liberties, social 
and political. 

VII. 

I have no hesitation in believing 
that the reconciliation of modern 
society with the church will be 
very near as soon as people shall 
have grasped our doctrinal stand- 
point as here set forth. From 
that day forth we shall see a schism 
work in the ranks of those who to- 
day unite in attacking us under the 
deceitful ensign of liberalism. We 
shall continue to have for foes the 
tyrannical sect for which liberalism 
only serves as a mask, and which 
in reality is no less the enemy of 
the true liberty of men than of the 
authority of God. For it there are 
no other rights than those of the 
state ; all powers are drawn thence; 
all interests must be sacrificed to 
its interests ; and as above its sov- 



ereignty there is neither on the 
earth nor in heaven any authority 
that could limit its omnipotence, 
so there is under it no liberty which 
is not subject to its caprice. Has 
no't this theory of the sophist of 
Geneva, which we should have be- 
lieved to be for ever discredited 
by the bloody commentary on it 
given by the Convention, dared 
again to flaunt itself quite recently 
in our national tribune ? Yes, it is 
to France, to that nation which 
has never been subdued by any 
other tyranny than that of the de- 
mocratic republic of 1793 it is to 
France that, less than a century 
after the legalized massacres of the 
revolutionary tribunal, a man has 
dared address these words : " I say 
that there is reason to fear that 
this power of the state, if it be 
handed over to a monarch, would 
have such fatal consequences that 
it would degenerate into tyranny 
(we know some examples of this) ; 
but how could you entertain this 
mistrust, justified by the single au- 
thority of one man, in a democratic 
republic ? For who is here mas- 
ter, unless the nation ? Who issues 
laws, imposes restrictions, unless 
the universal body of citizens, con- 
sulted and in a way condensed into 
one or several chambers ?" For 
these grand words let us substitute 
the reality which they represent. 
In place of the universal body of 
citizens let us set a majority, like 
that of the National Convention, 
enslaved by a handful of wicked 
wretches. Let us bestow on this 
majority, which does not even own 
itself, absolute power to dispose of 
property, of life, of the very con- 
science of citizens, and we shall 
have the theory of revolutionary 
liberty in its naked truth. 

Clearly, between the defenders 
of Christian law and liberals of this 



846 



The Catholic CJiurch and Modern Liberties. 



stamp there is no possible means 
of conciliation. We differ from 
them as far by the idea we form of 
the human rights of the state as 
by our belief in the divine rights 
of the church. For us the state 
has created neither the rights of 
the individual nor those of the fami- 
ly ; it has, on the contrary, been cre- 
ated to protect those rights, and 
consequently it has of itself no 
other rights than those which can 
aid it in rendering this protection 
more efficacious. From our point 
of view, it is not civil society which 
is the end of the individual, but 
the individual who is the end of 
civil society. It therefore cannot 
attribute to itself an absolute pow- 
er over its members. We recog- 
nize no other absolute power than 
that of God ; God is the end of 
man, and all men being by nature 
equal, all having immortal desti- 
nies, eternal interests, there is in the 
world no power which has the right 
to refuse to the least among men the 
liberty to administer those interests 
and to accomplish that destiny. 

Such is our belief regarding the 
dignity and the liberty of man. 
This doctrine, it will be seen, is 
the antithesis of the revolutionary 
theory, according to which the 
state is everything and the indi- 
vidual nothing. We resign our- 
selves, therefore, to the misfortune 
of having the holders of this theory 
for adversaries ; but we cannot al- 
low that in the battle which they 
wage with us they should any long- 
er bear themselves as the defend- 



ers of liberty and make us its ene- 
mies. It is time that words resume 
their true sense and each one be- 
take himself to his role. If France 
would begin anew the experience 
winch it underwent at the end of 
the last century, let it deliver itself 
up again to the disciples of Rous- 
seau and confide its destinies to 
the rivals of Robespierre. Perhaps 
it lias not yet shed enough of blood 
or accumulated enough of ruins ! 
Perhaps this new triumph of the 
revolution is necessary to bring 
about its final defeat. But if to 
the role of victim it would not add 
that of dupe, let it cease to wait 
upon the liberty of a sect whose 
doctrine only tends to organize 
slavery. 

Thank God ! all who wear the 
livery of liberalism do not belong 
to this tyrannical faction. There 
are men outside of our ranks who 
sincerely wish for liberty, and who, 
in claiming it for error, are dispos- 
ed not to refuse it to truth. If be- 
tween those men and us there are 
differences in point of opinion, we 
have nevertheless many common 
principles which may serve as cords 
in a fruitful alliance on practical 
grounds. Separated from us and 
united to the liberals of the school 
that calls itself authoritative by a 
double misapprehension, they will 
eome to us as soon as they become 
better acquainted with our true 
doctrines, and their hypocritical al- 
lies shall have thrown off the mask 
under which they hide their odious 
despotism. 



A Legend of St. Paschal Bay Ion. 847 



A LEGEND OF ST. PASCHAL BAYLON. 

A SHEPHERD-BOY, upon the hills of Spain, 
Watching the wandering steps of silly sheep 
O'er grassy upland, far up stream-washed steep, 
Sang ever in his heart a sweet refrain : 
Happy the sheep whom God, the Lord, doth lead, 
And he my shepherd is ; I shall not need. 



Soft mists were on the hills, and, wavering, clung 
To far-off peaks that pierced the thin veil through, 
Bright domes of silver 'gainst the heavens' blue 
Where mild, ^Eolian winds an anthem sung: 
Lo ! as from earth the stainless skies seem far, 
So God's thoughts above man's uplifted are. 



Paschal, the shepherd, praised with lowly heart 
The lot that gave the flocks unto his care, 
Thinking of crook the Shepherd true doth bear, 
And wayward sheep that seeketh life apart 
From Him that leadeth unto pastures sweet, 
Softening the stony ways to bruised feet. 



From far green valley rose the sound of bell 
That told the daily sacrifice of Love, 
The swift descent of Him who reigns above, 

Yet loving deigns in earthly shrine to dwell. 

Skipped all the little hills with joy untold 

While sunlit domes seemed heaven's peace to hold. 



As broke the sweet sound through the blessed air 
Paschal knelt quickly on the rocks he trod, 
Lifted his soul in ecstasy to God, 
Serving God's altar through his longing prayer : 
Oh ! praise the Lord, all living things below, 1 
All fruitful fields, ye winds, and hail, and snow ! 



As low he knelt, unto the shepherd-boy 
Was vision given of his soul's desire, 
Kindling anew his seraph heart of fire, 

Lighting his face with thought of holiest joy. 



848 A Legend of St. Paschal Bay Ion. 

O happy sheep ! that knoweth His true voice, 
Hearing its sweetness bidding life rejoice. 



An angel held the shining Host on high, 

While humble Paschal's ravished soul adored 
The Sacramental Presence of the Lord, 

For whom out-rang the clear bell's harmony. 

So sweet the waters where His footsteps lead, 

The Shepherd true who knoweth all our need. 

The vision faded ; Paschal led once more 

His flocks o'er grassy heights, by waters clear; 
The little lambs their shepherd drawing near 
As, softly, he the weary-footed bore, 
While still his heart un faded thought did keep 
Of Him that His life giveth for His sheep. 

The low winds breathed the bell's far melody ; 
The white-starred blossoms, shining from the sod, 
Seemed unto Paschal shadows frail of God, 

And sweeter sang his heart in ecstasy: 

Happy the sheep whom Christ, our Lord, doth lead, 

And he my Shepherd is ; how shall I need ? 

O shepherd saint, that on the hills of Spain 

Didst watch the wandering steps of silly sheep, 
Didst pure, through life, the wondrous vision keep, 
Pray thou our colder hearts sing sweet refrain : 
Happy the sheep whom God, our Lord, doth feed, 
And he our Shepherd is ; how shall we need ? 



Current Events. 



849 



CURRENT EVENTS. 



CATHOLICS AND LIBERTY. 

WE call the special attention of 
our readers to Father Ramiere's 
article on "The Catholic Church 
and Modern Liberties," of which a 
translation is given elsewhere. It 
is a very courageous article, written 
with even more than the usual ve- 
hement eloquence and keenness of 
vision characteristic of the learned 
author. It is called forth by the 
present situation in France, but its 
scope is universal. 

Father Ramiere complains that 
the attitude, or, as he more forcibly 
puts it, the doctrinal position, of 
the Catholic Church towards mo- 
dern liberties is both misunder- 
stood and wilfully misrepresented. 
It is misunderstood even by Catho- 
lics themselves, and the misunder- 
standing has given rise to those 
deplorable dissensions from which 
the Catholic family in France has 
especially suffered, but which are 
unfortunately by no means restrict- 
ed to France. Father Ramiere's 
object is to clear up this misunder- 
standing and expose this misrepre- 
sentation once for all. If he suc- 
ceeds in this Catholics will be 
brought to one mind, which is the 
first necessary element for future 
success; the honest-minded among 
their adversaries will learn to ap- 
preciate their position and join 
hands with them against those who 
use the mantle of liberty to cover 
the most revolting tyranny. 

We sincerely hope that Father 
Ramiere may succeed in at least 
one portion of his work: that of 
bringing about unanimity among 
Catholics regarding their position 
towards modern liberties. For 
VOL. xxix. 54 



certainly Catholics in 'France have 
suffered greatly from a disintegrat- 
ing process, resulting, doubtless, in 
great part from their political di- 
visions. The chief weapon used 
against them by those whom Father 
Ramiere calls the revolutionary 
sect is the constant assertion that 
they hate modern liberties and are 
always striving to go back to the 
old regime. The old regime, to be 
sure, is a rather vague phrase, but 
phrases work wonders in France. 
Father Ramiere begins by very 
effectively squelching the stupid 
charge regarding the old regime so 
effectively, indeed, that one wonders 
how even "the revolutionary sect " 
had ever the courage to make it, 
while he regrets that Father Ra- 
miere's squelching process did not 
come into act a little earlier in the 
day. He then turns on " modern 
liberties," and mercilessly exposes 
the utter hollowness and falseness 
of the title as used in the cant of the 
day. And how thoroughly he does 
all this the reader can judge for 
himself. 

The question remains, If the Ca- 
tholics will not go back to the old 
regime, and if they will not accept 
modern liberties as expounded by 
the present regime in France, what 
in the name of peace and good 
citizenship do they want ? Father 
Ramiere shows very clearly what 
they want. They want real liber- 
ty ; political, social, and religious 
liberty ; liberty of the person and 
of goods, liberty of worship and 
of conscience, and a proper share 
in the government of themselves 
These cannot come from haphaz 
ard governments. They can come 
from no government that is not 



850 



Current Events. 



founded in its essence on the law 
of Christ. These modern liberties 
let not the phrase frighten 
American readers ; it is only used 
as interpreted by the revolutionary 
sect in France and the world over 
reject the law of Christ. They 
will not accept Christ as the cor- 
ner-stone of their constitutions. 
They will accept no divinity but 
the divinity of man, otherwise the 
state. Man is to be the be-all 
and the end-all here, and we may 
"jump the life to come," if we so 
wish. 

Here lies the fundamental point 
of difference between Catholics and 
the sect. One believes in God ; 
the other rejects God. If we be- 
lieve in God we must believe that 
he takes some interest in his crea- 
tures; that he takes the very deepest 
and most active interest in them and 
their affairs ; that, let men legislate 
as they may, he refuses to be legis- 
lated out of his own world and out 
of the hearts of his children. God 
is not blind, or deaf, or impotent. 
We cannot contemplate him as 
making the world as a mere toy to 
amuse a leisure moment and then 
let go by. Believing in God at all, 
we can only contemplate him as 
living and working and ruling in 
this world ; as the source of all 
right and the inspirer of all good ; 
as the fountain-head of truth and 
justice. Nor has he left man to 
discover all this. He has revealed 
himself very plainly and fully, and 
given laws that were meant to be 
obeyed. His laws are the only 
code of right morals, and no state 
or government can be moral and 
just which does not embrace them, 
in their essence at least, in its con- 
stitution. 

But it is precisely against this 
that the " revolutionary sect " 
which to-day is triumphant in 



France fights. Again let not 
American readers be frightened at 
mere expressions. What Father 
Ramiere understands by "revolu- 
tionary sect " they may easily disco- 
ver from his article. If any man, 
Catholic or non-Catholic, needs a 
truer and larger measure of liberty 
than Father Ramiere would grant 
him 4 then he must go seek for his 
liberty in other worlds than ours. 
But while a vital difference as to 
the very essence of government 
exists and grows there must be 
conflict. It is useless to cry peace 
here where peace is impossible. 
What Catholics want and demand 
is seen in Father Ramiere 's bril- 
liant exposition ; what the " revo- 
lutionary sect " wants all the world 
sees. 

THE COURSE OF EVENTS IN FRANCE. 

What the French government 
wants in the Jules Ferry bill is 
now clearly manifest. It is easily 
told, and without circumlocution 
may be described as no Christian 
teaching in France. Refine and 
define as they may, that is the sub- 
stantial upshot of the Ferry Edu- 
cational Bill which has been sup- 
ported so heartily by the govern- 
ment. The bill passed successful- 
ly through the Chamber of Deputies. 
The debates during its passage 
were at once instructive, amusing, 
and saddening. Some of the sup- 
porters of the bill the learned sup- 
porters took the rash course of ap- 
pealing to Catholic books of theo- 
logy in support of their thesis that 
Catholic teaching was necessarily 
immoral. It is strange to see how 
fond anti-Catholic controversialists 
are of treading on this, to them, 
terra ignota, which, to one who is 
not thoroughly acquainted with it, 
is the most treacherous 01 all 



Current Events. 



grounds. Yet invariably they fall 
into a pit at almost every turn. 
Jules Ferry indulged in a little 
of this ; but he was surpassed by 
M. Paul Bert, who made quite a 
learned and effective speech. The 
theologians and doctors of the 
church were all at the latter 's 
fingers' ends. He quoted authori- 
ties by the score, and matters look- 
ed really alarming. It is hard to 
rise up on the spur of the mo- 
ment and refute a man who quotes 
chapter and verse from your own side 
for the most damaging statements 
and propositions. M. Bert was the 
hero of an hour and duly celebrated 
by those extremely learned organs, 
the newspapers. But when com- 
petent men came to examine M. 
Bert's speech in cold blood, and 
test it, the usual result followed : he 
had muddled things ; garbled, mis- 
quoted, misunderstood all round, 
and, as invariably happens, had 
quoted as Catholic doctrines what 
in the customary form were simply 
propositions to be refuted, and 
which were refuted by the very 
authors quoted as laying them 
down as doctrine. So much for 
M. Bert's learning. 

The bill was rejected in the 
Senate, and M. Jules Simon, Free- 
mason and theist, as Gambetta is 
Freemason and atheist, according to 
the Paris correspondence of the 
London Times, was very instrumen- 
tal in having it rejected. He de- 
clared that the quotations from 
clerical works made in the Chamber 
were garbled, incomplete, or mis- 
understood, and that the morality 
taught by the Catholic Church is 
unquestionably pure. In this he 
was anticipated by so decidedly 
anti-Catholic a journal as the Pall 
Mall Gazette, and, indeed, by the% 
common sense of all fair-minded 
men. The bill was substantially 



thrown out, and we still await re- 
sults. 

On the rejection of the measure 
by the Senate the champions of 
"modern liberties " took a charac- 
teristic revenge. The annual vote 
for the ecclesiastical stipends came 
up. The average salaries of French 
cures and prelates have been given 
in this magazine. The entire sum 
provided by the Budget for the 
support of the Catholic prelates in; 
France is 1,350,000 francs, or about 
$270,000. The prelates number 
eighty-seven, so that their average 
salary is about $3,000. What the. 
bishop of a diocese in France can 
do with his $3,000 may be easily 
imagined. There is certainly not 
much left at the year's end. In- 
deed, it is absurdly inadequate ; 
and as for the cures, a beggar 
would starve on their salary. The 
generous deputies came to the res- 
cue. They resolved on increasing 
the cures' salary; and to do so ef- 
fectually they cut down the pre- 
lates' ! 

And this is legislation accord- 
ing to ideas of " modern liberty." 
These good people are playing, 
fast and loose with the power 
given them, and acting throughout 
like vicious children entrusted for 
the moment with interests that con- 
cern mankind. All sane people 
look on them now with distrust,, 
not to say contempt. Everything 
that men esteem as good they con- 
temn ; everything bad they wel- 
come. They refuse liberty of edu- 
cation and expel Catholic teachers 
from their schools ; they welcome 
Communists. - They cut down the 
meagre salaries of the bishops ; they; 
indemnify Communists. They leg- 
islate against God and Christian- 
ity while they set a premium on. 
wickedness. This is the French 
republic. How can a man with a. 



8 5 2 



Current Events. 



spark of freedom in his soul, not 
to say a reverence for God, live 
contentedly under the rule of such 
men? A change must come, eith- 
er from within or from without. 

THE FRENCH GOVERNMENT. 

One cannot view without deep re- 
gret the seeming hopelessness of at- 
taining to any thing like a stable popu- 
lar government in France. The po- 
litical factions there are as wide apart 
as the poles. The republicans now 
in power, instead of attempting to 
conciliate those of their country- 
men who are confessedly hostile to 

.the republic, seem determined on 

.'showing that a republic in France 

uneans neither liberty nor order. 
Kerry's Educational Bill strikes at 
the very root of liberty. It was 

condemned from the outset by all 
the organs of free opinion in other 

.lands, by writers who may be sup- 
posed to have as little sympathy 
with the Catholic Church as Ferry 

-or Gambetta. Yet the government 
never hesitated in its action. The 
unanimous opinion of free men in 
all lands had no effect whatever 
upon it. To justify its case it had 
recourse to gross caluninies and 

-charges that were both exploded 
and stale. What are we to think 
of a government whose leader can 
find no higher or stronger watch- 
word for his party than " Clerical- 
ism is the enemy "? Or what of a 
leading member of his cabinet, 
Waddingtqn, who only the other 
day resorted to the mean device of 
supporting the anti-Jesuit clause of 
the Ferry Bill on the ground that 
the Society of Jesus was a political 
and not a religious society? What 
trust can be placed in statesmen of 
this calibre, who presume on the 
recognized loyalty, patience, and 
long-suffering of -Catholics to ex- 



periment on them at will ? An< 
these gentlemen, who are so cour- 
ageous towards the most orderly 
body of the French people, tremble 
at the faintest flutter of the red 
rag. A measure involving a tenth 
part of the hostility manifested to- 
wards Catholics in the Ferry Bill, 
if turned against the Reds, would 
be the signal for barricades in Paris 
to-morrow. Indeed, the French 
government might not inaptly be 
described as seated on a barrel of 
dynamite, and from that lofty emi- 
nence ruling the France of history. 
The France of history is nothing 
to them ; all they are concerned 
with is the barrel under them. As 
long as the dynamite does not ex- 
plode they are secure ; but if it 
should explode, where are they ? 
They are trying to keep it down 
by pressure ! They dare not leave ; 
their seat for fear of the consequen- 
ces ; and they care to make no al- 
liances with respectable people. 

The moral weight of the French 
government was illustrated at the 
death and funeral of the ill-fated 
Prince Louis Napoleon. Not a 
word of sympathy was addressed 
by them to the boy's mother. Ha- 
tred need not go so far as that. A 
kind word at such an hour would 
have cost the government little and 
gained it much. The presence of 
the ambassador of France., at the 
grave of the last direct member of 
a dynasty which after all must ever 
continue illustrious in French an- 
nals, and which is illustrious as hu- 
man history is made up, would not 
have derogated from the dignity 
of the French Republic. But the 
government went beyond this. It 
refused permission to any of its 
soldiers, high or low, to attend the 
funeral and offer a last mark of re- 
spect to the son of the man under 
whom they had served and won 



Current Events. 



353 



such distinction as they possessed. 
The reason alleged was that they 
'feared a popular emeute if such per- 
mission were granted. If this be 
the only reason it confirms our pic- 
ture of the government sitting on a 
barrel of dynamite. But even if 
this were so it was hardly necessary 
for M. Gambetta to use the sad 
occasion for a counter-demonstra- 
tion in Paris in honor of the taking 
of the Bastile, and celebrating it 
with something, according to un- 
prejudiced accounts, not altogether 
. unlike a bacchanalian feast. In 
fact, approach from any side these 
men who to-day rule France, and 
we can find nothing that is great or 
admirable about them. A republic 
led by any such men cannot have 
the elements of stability; for they 
do not understand freedom, they 
do not love greatness, and they do 
not fear God. 

NEWS. 

The duties of a newspaper cor- 
respondent, if that correspondent 
happen to be a conscientious man, 
are not always the most enviable. 
His chief business is to supply 
news. He must have it first, full- 
est, and most accurate, otherwise 
he will be behind his compeers. 
If his news arrives late it is of no 
use ; if it is constantly inaccurate, 
however startling it may be for the 
moment, in the long run it does 
not pay, for it brings discredit on 
the journal. We speak, of course, 
of journals that have some regard 
for their character and their read- 
ers. In the matter of mere news 
we believe the leading English and 
American journals mean to be fair. 
It is hard, however, to reconcile 
this belief with the nonsense that 
constantly appears in the daily 
journals concerning Catholic mat- 



ters abroad. Nor is the nonsense 
always harmless. It is sometimes 
of the most malicious description, 
and evidently written by a prac- 
tised hand. 

One explanation of this peculiar 
inaccuracy of the public press re- 
garding Catholic matters of wide 
import is that the telegraphic news 
from abroad really comes to us 
from one or two sources, and these 
are of a character hostile to Catho- 
licity. They lie, and lie with a 
purpose. It gives them no con- 
cern to be contradicted. They lie 
again gaily the next day. They 
live in and live on falsehood. Wit- 
ness all the ridiculous reports cir- 
culated about the present Holy 
Father soon after his accession. 
He was one day represented as 
being in a state of deep melan- 
choly and sighing for death. An- 
other day he was afraid to eat lest 
he should be poisoned. Again he 
was to all intents and purposes a 
prisoner and kept in confinement 
by the Jesuits. He did nothing but 
weep and deplore his fate. Every- 
body had deserted him and he was 
the victim of a conspiracy against 
which he found it hopeless to con- 
tend, and so forth. 

It seems absurd to mention all 
this now, yet it will be found 
gravely set forth in the journals of 
the past year, and the news cost 
no small sum in the transmission. 
There was never the remotest sha- 
dow of a foundation for any reports 
of the kind, yet they and others 
like them were telegraphed from 
Rome to London week after week 
by correspondents of the London 
Times > or the Standard, Pall Mall 
Gazette, and Daily News, whence 
they were transmitted to our jour- 
nals in this country. And that is 
how the world writes and reads 
contemporary history nowadays. 



854 



Current Events. 



These are the clumsier kind of 
falsehoods, which have not even 
the negative merit of malicious in- 
genuity. Why they were circulat- 
ed at all and at such expense no- 
body save those who concocted or 
used them can know. If a cor- 
respondent who has been sent from 
the London Times to Rome, to 
keep his eye on the Pope and re- 
port whatever was worth telling, 
flies to the telegraph office and 
sends a costly despatch announc- 
ing that the Pope has had poison 
administered to him, or is about 
to have, that, of course, is to the 
editor important information, and 
so it appears in the paper. Next 
morning the world is talking about 
it, even the Pope himself; and that, 
to a certain kind of journal, is a 
great gain. It is rather provoking, 
however, for a journal, with some 
character to lose to be contradict- 
ed point-blank the following morn- 
ing ; and when this process has 
been renewed time and again the 
affair begins to grow disastrously 
monotonous, and the journal that 
does it too often loses caste. 

Mr. Reid, editor of the New 
York Tribune, recently gave a very 
instructive address on the office, 
the work, and the possible future 
of the newspaper. In the course 
of a long, interesting, and suggestive 
speech he made no reference to 
the particular point to which we 
have referred. It had probably 
never occurred to him. To the 
average editor eating falsehoods, or 
false news, is like eating dirt. It is 
unavoidable. A certain quantity 
must be consumed whether we like 
it or not. The human system can 
stand up against a fair amount with- 
out any great harm being done. 
Yet one would think that an intel- 
ligent man who is the responsible 
editor of a great newspaper could 



not fail to be struck from time to 
time by the systematic, and at cer- 
tain seasons chronic, falsehood of 
news from Rome or general news 
regarding Catholic matters of wide 
import. Indeed, now that we think 
over the matter, the Tribune did 
at the time of the Conclave write 
to correct the absurd reports re- 
garding the proceedings of that 
great assembly which found their 
way into the columns of the Euro- 
pean press. But why is not such 
intelligent supervision more often 
exercised ? 

The wild reports regarding the 
Holy Father have for a long period 
ceased of themselves. How they 
originated is a mystery save in the 
brains of fools, or demented per- 
sons like Mr. Marsh, who chooses 
to continue to represent this coun- 1 
try in Rome. He does it at his 
own expense, it is true ; but the 
services of some persons are dear 
at a gift, and Mr. Marsh is certain- 
ly demented on the Catholic ques- 
tion, for it would be uncharitable 
as well as cruel to suppose that a 
man guilty of the communications 
with which Mr. Marsh favors Mr. 
Evarts, our Secretary of State, could 
be wholly master of himself. The 
journals seem to follow the policy 
of the government : they never send 
a Catholic representative to a Cath- 
olic country, for fear, doubtless, that 
he should tell the truth. 

Nevertheless, in Catholic matters 
of national or home interest most 
secular journals are courteous and 
kind, and to speak more particu- 
larly of those that we best know, 
the New York daily papers es- 
pecially anxious to be as accurate 
as possible. It used not to be so; 
but it certainly is so now, and, as a 
rule, Catholics in this particular 
have nothing at all to complain of 
in the daily press. We do not 



Current Events. 



855 



speak, of course, of matters of doc- 
trine, with which they rarely deal. 

An instance of what we mean is 
afforded in the treatment by the 
foreign press of the negotiations 
going on between Prince Bismarck 
and the Vatican. Prince Bismarck, 
to be sure, is a treacherous man 
to deal with. He has before now 
used newspapers, even the London 
Times, for his purpose, and after- 
ward repudiated what he was repre- 
sented as saying. His frankness is 
treacherous. But it would be a 
hopeless task to retrace or recall 
the various rumors that throughout 
the year have come now from 
Rome, now from Berlin, regarding 
the progress of the negotiations. 
They are of the most contradicto- 
ry nature possible and stated with- 
out any authority whatsoever. 
The reports during the last week 
of July and the first week of Au- 
gust were especially thick and con- 
tradictory. On August 8, for in- 
stance, was published a triple con- 
tradictory despatch, as follows : 



"A Berlin despatch to the Pall Mall 
Gazette says : ' The latest proposals of 
Cardinal Nina, the Papal Secretary of 
State, do not satisfy Prince Bismarck, 
who is willing to ameliorate the opera- 
tion of the May laws, but is not willing 
to repeal them.' The North German Ga- 
zette's Posen correspondent denies that 
the German ambassador at Rome has 
caused afresh writ of the Prussian courts 
to be served on Cardinal Ledochowski. 
The Post's Berlin correspondent reports 
that the Prussian government has caus- 
ed summonses issued to Catholic priests 
by the secular courts to be withheld for 
a time. The government has also de- 



termined not to appoint priests to va- 
cant livings on its own authority." 

The week previous it was finally 
and solemnly announced that at 
last a modus vivendi had actually 
been established between the courts 
f Berlin and the Vatican. 

It is hard to discover the truth, 
impossible, indeed, among the re- 
ports of these " Macaulays of the 
press " whom Mr. Reid is anxious 
to welcome into the journalistic 
fraternity. All that can be said 
with certainty is that Dr. Falk's 
resignation has gone into effect ; 
that there are signs of a kindlier 
attitude on the part of the German 
government toward the Catholics ; 
and, above all, that the Catholic 
party has rendered important vo- 
luntary service to Prince Bismarck. 
The party is capable of doing him 
equal injury; so it is worth his 
while to conciliate them. On such 
reasons rather than on the sense of 
justice and right must Catholics 
build their hopes : on a faithful re- 
turn for faithful service. In the 
present condition of Europe all 
loyal hearts should be welcomed 
and won to the service of the 
government. The crowned heads 
of the most powerful nations have 
to go constantly surrounded by 
guards to protect them from their 
own subjects. Prince Bismarck 
himself dare not move about un- 
protected. He fears his old friends, 
the socialists. Catholics do not 
threaten his life. Their religion 
secures their loyalty. Wise states- 
manship would easily secure their 
love. 



856 



New Publications. 



NEW PUBLICATIONS. 



DE RE SACRAMENTARIA. Libri Duo 
Posteriores De Pcenitentia, De Or- 
dine, De Extrema Unctione, De Ma- 
trimonio. ^Emil. M. De Augustinis, 
SJ. New York : Benzigers. 1879. 

This is a new volume of the Woodstock 
Course. Father De Augustinis has his 
own style and manner, quite different 
from those of Father Mazzella. He is 
very concise and clear, and what he 
writes is specially well adapted for 
young students. The treatises on Pen- 
ance and Matrimony are comparatively 
full and complete. In the treatise on 
Penance, we should have been pleased 
to find the question whether the love of 
God as our own good suffices for perfect 
contrition, or is only a motive of imper- 
fect contrition, distinctly treated. The 
treatise on Order has some remarkably 
good points. The old scholastic doc- 
trine that the sacrament of order is prin- 
cipally constituted in the priesthood is 
brought out, as we think, to advantage. 
The episcopate is presented, in accord- 
ance with this doctrine, not as an order 
separate from and above the sacerdotal 
order, but as the completion and perfec- 
tion of priesthood, which is a bipartite 
order, subsisting in the two grades of bish- 
op and presbyter. The divine rights of the 
episcopate suffer nothing from this man- 
ner of stating the case, but on the con- 
trary are much better defended and vin- 
dicated from Presbyterian objections. 
These objections are ably refuted by 
Father De Augustinis, and the question 
of the ordination of bishops per saltum 
is likewise well handled. The author 
defends an opinion which Perrone pro- 
nounces to be obsolete, viz., that the 
pope can delegate to a priest the power 
of ordaining deacons. The point must 
be considered as proved conclusively, 
if the documents cited in proof can be 
certainly determined to be genuine as 
they now stand. This genuineness is, 
however, precisely what is attacked and 
denied by most respectable critics and 
theologians. It is requisite, therefore, 
to argue this point more fully and mi- 
nutely, before any solid probability can 
be claimed for an opinion which has a 



primd facie presumption against it, and 
is so generally condemned. This has a 
bearing on another opinion which the 
author has embraced, against St. Al- 
phonsus, Perrone, and the prevalent mod- 
ern teaching. He regards the five lower 
orders of the ministry as having each 
one a sacramental character. The minr 
orders, as is well known, can be confer- 
red by abbots on their own subjects, and 
permission has sometimes been given to 
abbots to ordain subdeacons. If we re- 
gard the subdiaconate and the inferior 
ministries as of purely ecclesiastical in- 
stitution, then the exclusive right of 
bishops to confer these orders is also 
derived from ecclesiastical law, and the 
same authority which made the law can 
derogate from it, by authorizing priests 
to confer in certain cases orders which 
usually can be conferred only by a bish- 
op. The diaconate is, however, certainly 
of divine institution, and has a sacramen- 
tal character. If it can be shown that 
the pope has ever delegated to priests 
the power of ordaining deacons, then 
the lower orders may be considered as 
sacramental, even though power is con- 
ceded to priests to administer them. 
Still, as the sacramental character of the 
diaconate is only a preparation for the 
sacerdotal character and not an essen- 
tial part of it, it may be regarded as 
similar to the character of confirmation, 
and not absolutely requiring the exercise 
of a power which can be given only 
through episcopal consecration, in order 
to its being validly and lawfully impart- 
ed. Yet, even so, the other arguments 
against the sacramental character of any 
order below that of deacon remain in their 
full force. These orders lack divine in- 
stitution. Three of them do not exist in 
the Eastern churches. There is no mat- 
ter and form consisting in the imposition 
of hands with words expressing the con- 
ferring of sacramental grace, in the rite 
of administration. Those who receive 
them are not irrevocably bound to the 
service of the altar, except in the case of 
Latin subdeacons, who are bound only 
by virtue of an ecclesiastical law and of 
an implicit vow which they take vol- 
untarily at their ordination. The only 



Nezv Publications. 



357 



probability which Father De Augustinis 
can claim for his opinion is derived from 
the authority of theologians, and from in- 
ferences drawn from official documents 
which have never been considered as de- 
nning any doctrine. It does not seem to 
us that Father De Augustinis has succeed- 
ed in proving that the general current 
of modern opinion, sanctioned by such 
high authorities as St. Alphonsus and 
Perrone, goes against the preponderat- 
ing weight of intrinsic and extrinsic pro- 
bability. It is to be hoped that the 
Council of the Vatican will be reassem- 
bled, and will make some definitions re- 
specting the Sacrament of Order among 
other things. Questions about the sub- 
deaconship and the minor orders are of 
small importance in themselves, and 
only acquire an accidental importance 
when they provoke controversy among 
Catholics and embarrass the discussion 
of essential matters with Protestants. 
The essential matters are the true na- 
ture of the priesthood and the reality of 
the Sacrament of Order, the divine in- 
stitution and rights of bishops, and the 
necessity of episcopal ordination to 
make true bishops and priests. These 
are all finally and irrevocably determin- 
ed, nor is there any uncertainty respect- 
ing the sacramental character of the dia- 
conate. A few more explicit and posi- 
tive definitions, especially in regard to 
the matter and form of the sacrament, 
would, nevertheless, we think, be very 
serviceable to Catholic theology and 
controversy. If we except the thorough- 
ly high-church section, the more ortho- 
dox among Protestants make their de- 
fence on the ground that the episcopal 
constitution of the church is either an 
early alteration of apostolical order, or 
at most not essential to the very being 
of the church, and the valid administra- 
tion of orders and the sacraments which 
depend for their validity upon ordina- 
tion. This error is connected with an- 
other which denies the truly sacerdotal 
character of the Christian hierarchy. 
The Catholic doctrine of the essentially 
hierarchical and sacerdotal constitution 
of the church, derived from the apostles 
and depending on the apostolical suc- 
cession transmitted through the episco- 
pal line from our Lord Jesus Christ, is 
the one which is fundamental in this con- 
troversy. Father De Augustinis has 
handled it in a masterly manner, and in 
some respects with an ability quite ori- 



ginal and peculiar to himself. We ven- 
ture to suggest, however, that his trea- 
tise may be improved by expansion and 
enlargement. We may say the same of 
the treatise on Extreme Unction, and in 
general of his whole work, especially in 
regard to the answering of objections, 
and the discussion of the arguments of 
various schools. The succinct and com- 
pendious form which he has given it 
makes it, indeed, more available as a 
text-book and a manual for young stu- 
dents. We should prefer, however, over 
this advantage, the greater one which 
would accrue to professors and the cler- 
gy from a more enlarged and thorough 
treatment of topics. 

RELIGION AND SCIENCE : their Union 
Historically Considered. By Maurice 
Ronayne, S.J. New York : Peter F. 
Collier. 1879. 

This modest little volume is as useful 
as it is interesting. It takes us down 
the stream of Christian history, points 
out the great landmarks of science, 
gives their history and the controversies 
connected with them, and shows how at 
every point the church regarded science 
as a favored child and noble assistant in 
the work of advancement and civiliza- 
tion. To-day the child has risen up 
against the mother who guided her so 
long and so patiently. Science, in the 
hands of unbelievers, has forgotten, or 
tried to forget, what it owes to the church, 
without which there would be no 
science, for there would be no civiliza- 
tion. And if there is one truth better 
established than any other in history, it 
is that the Christian Church is the great 
civilizer of peoples. 

It is to remind science of its deep 
debts that Father Ronayne has written 
his charming little volume, where learn- 
ing and research and extensive reading 
are so happily and deftly woven to- 
gether that in the enjoyment of the nar- 
rative one is apt to overlook the great 
labor involved in such a work and the 
ability with which it is wrought out. 
The work, he tells us, " purports mere- 
ly to sketch the relations which, during 
the Christian era, have existed between 
religion and science. Being of an ele- 
mentary character, it deals only with 
those facts with which scholars are gen- 
erally acquainted, and which, for the 
most part, can be found on the surface 



858 



New Publications. 



of history. The aim of the writer has 
been to present these facts in a connect- 
ed view, and to confront them with the 
exaggerated or unfair statements of 
some modern scientists. In carrying 
out this plan he has sought simply to ar- 
rive at the truth and to point out the 
scientific merits of some of the illus- 
trious dead." 

The plan is an admirable one and 
has been admirably executed. The 
story of the calendar, the rise and cha- 
racter of the early Christian schools, of 
Charlemagne and the Othos, of the dis- 
tinguished mediaeval scientists, of Ca- 
tholic scientists in modern times, science 
and the Fathers of the church, reputed 
"martyrs" of science, etc., etc., is full 
of interest and profit for readers of all 
classes and ages. 



THE LIFE AND EPOCH OF ALEXANDER 
HAMILTON : A Historical Study. By 
the Hon. George Shea, Chief-Justice 
of the Marine Court. Boston : Hough- 
ton, Osgood & Co. (The Riverside 
Press, Cambridge). 1879. 

We cannot sufficiently commend the 
literary style of this work or the typo- 
graphical beauty of the book ; but we 
scarcely agree with the spirit in which 
the work is written from beginning to 
end, being more than ordinarily praise- 
ful and Carlyle-like in the worship of 
its hero. And yet Alexander Hamilton 
was by nature and circumstances a great 
man, and deserves to be better known 
and Judge Shea's work will assuredly 
make him better known abroad than he 
would seem to be, to judge from the 
sneering allusion to him in an important 
publication made at Edinburgh in 1863 
(alas for the glory of the American Ham- 
iltons in the land of their ancestors !) 
as " a certain Secretary of the Treasury to 
Washington, whose fame is not very 
generally known on this side the Atlan- 
tic." 

The work treats not only of the life 
but, as its title proclaims, of the epoch 
also of Hamilton ; and for the general 
reader the epoch part will be better 
reading than the life proper, which is 
rather tame up to the point at which the 
author leaves it ; allusions to events and 
men of the times and the numerous foot- 
notes being very interesting. Apropos 
of which Hercules Mulligan mouth-fill- 



ing "name ! comes in (as a patriot, and 
one who kept up a treasonable corre- 
spondence with Hamilton then on 
Washington's staff while enjoying Bri- 
tish protection at New York) for a due 
share of laudation, and is described, 
presumably to settle his social standing 
in the city, as " a junior member of 
the firm of Kortwright & Company, to 
which firm produce was consigned from 
the West Indies to be sold," thus making 
him out a merchant ; but among a large 
number of receipted bills now before us, 
ranging from 1776 to 1783, and which 
formerly belonged to the Honorable An- 
drew Elliot, Superintendent of the Port 
of New York during the Revolutionary 
War, we find two for tailoring done by 
this same fellow. Hamilton made his 
home at Mulligan's house when he came 
first to reside in New York. 

THE MYSTERY OF THE WIZARD CLIP : 
A Monograph. Baltimore : Kelly, Piet 
&Co. 1879. 

This is a small but valuable contribu- 
tion to a point in the early history of the 
church in the United States with which 
we have long been familiar, and par- 
takes both of the Magnalia Chritti and 
of Satan's invisible world revealed. It 
is a curious and on the whole edifying 
little book. We have always thought it 
singular that the hero of the account, or 
rather the subject of these visitations, 
being " of Dutch [German ?] descent and 
a Lutheran by profession," born in 
Pennsylvania, bore the unmistakably 
Scotch and noble name of Livingston. 
Was it a corruption to suit Americans 
of the not uncommon German name of 
Lowenstein (the w being pronounced like 
v), or may the man have been a descend- 
ant of the Scotch exile, Rev. John Liv- 
ingston, who passed the last nine years 
of his life at Rotterdam, dying in 1672, 
whence some of his race may have wan- 
dered into Germany and thence to Ame- 
rica? 

A melancholy interest is attached to 
this little monograph from the fact that 
it is the last literary relic of the late Fa- 
ther Finotti, who died in Central City, 
Colorado, last January, while it was 
passing through the hands of the printer. 
It is dedicated to Dr. John G. Shea, 
under whose auspices it now appears. 
It is embellished with illustrations of 
the scene of the mystery. 



New Publications. 



859 



THE LIFE AND ACTS OF POPE LEO XIII. 
By Rev. J. Keller, S.J. New York : 
Benziger Bros. 1879. 

We have looked over this well-printed 
and handsomely-illustrated work with 
great satisfaction. The reverend and 
learned editor has performed his task 
remarkably well, giving us such a num- 
ber of pontifical documents and utterances 
and such a mass of information about 
the late Pope, Pius IX., about the Con- 
clave, and about our present Holy Fa- 
ther, Leo XIII., as cannot probably be 
found elsewhere collected in one body 
in the English language. The spirit of 
loyalty to the church and of devotion to 
the Holy See is just what we would expect 
and be sure of finding in a book by a 
member of the Society of Jesus ; and we 
hqpe that Father Keller's work will have 
considerable influence in directing at- 
tention to Rome, the Papacy, and the 
Pope, which ought to be the chief sub- 
jects of our historical studies, as well as 
the dearest objects of our thoughts and 
affection. The work is written in an en- 
tertaining and instructive manner, and 
we have remarked only a few inaccuracies, 
due doubtless to the difficulties of trans- 
lation or to a want of personal acquain- 
tance with the Vatican, and some errors 
which will certainly be corrected in the 
second edition, to which so interesting a 
work is sure to run. For instance, on 
the first page the birth-place of Pius IX. 
is called " a little village," whereas Sini- 
gaglia is an ancient city and very flour- 
ishing seaport. On page 185 Blessed 
Gregory X. is called (before his election) 
" Theobald, Viscount of ^Piacenza," in- 
stead of "Theobald Visconti, of Piacen- 
za," which is something quite different. 

EMERALD GEMS : a Chaplet of Irish Fire- 
side Tales, Historic, Domestic, and 
Legendary. Compiled from approved 
sources. Boston : Thomas B. Noo- 
nan & Co. 1879. 

There is no folk-lore more pure and 
beautiful, more tender and sad, more 
quaintly mirthful and shrewd in moral, 
than that of the Irish people. If Irish 
fairy-stories only had a Hans Andersen 
to tell them we should have a book 
more popular even than that of the wiz- 
ard Hans or the Arabian Nights. Not 
that Irish stories have lacked good tell- 
ers from time immemorial down to Fa- 
ther Tom Burke or Mr. Boucicault. The 



volume so carefully collected and pub- 
lished by Mr. Noonan attests this. 
Apart from the delightful legendary lore, 
there are excellent stories founded on 
historical events and characters in Eme- 
rald Gems, which is just the book to 
make a dull or lazy afternoon enjoy- 
able. 

THE CONSTITUTION " APOSTOLIC/E SEDIS 
MODERATIONI " explained by the Rev. 
Thomas J. Carr, Professor of Theology, 
St. Patrick's College, Maynooth. First 
Part. Dublin: M. H/Gill & Son; 
London : Burns & Gates. 1879. 

This first part of a treatise which, 
when completed, will be a very useful 
one for priests, though scarcely so for 
any other class of readers, in this coun- 
try at least, is in the form of a well-print- 
ed pamphlet of about one -hundred and 
thirty pages. It will probably have a 
much greater circulation after the entire 
work is issued and bound up in one 
volume, outside of Ireland, than it can 
be expected to attain in its present im- 
perfect state. The title sufficiently 
shows the scope of the learned profes- 
sor's essay, for the ecclesiastical reader. 
The fact that it emanates from Maynooth 
is a strong prima facie recommendation 
of its excellence. It is not easy to 
examine and criticise with accuracy and 
thoroughness a treatise of this sort in 
midsummer, and, besides, it is always 
more satisfactory to have a complete 
work on hand, if it is to be carefully ap- 
preciated. For the present we confine 
ourselves to this simple notification, re- 
serving a more ample notice for a future 
occasion. 

GOD THE TEACHER OF MANKIND : a 
Plain, Comprehensive Explanation of 
Christian Doctrine. ^By Michael Miil- 
ler, C.SS.R. Vols. ii. and iii. New 
York : Benziger Bros. 1879. 

These are two new volumes of Father 
MiAller's useful and popular explanation 
of Christian doctrine, the first volume of 
which has been noticed in THE CATHO- 
LIC WORLD. Each volume, though part 
of a series, is complete in itself and 
published separately. The second vol- 
ume is devoted to an explanation of the 
Apostles' Creed, and the third to Grace 
and the Sacraments. These are subjects 
on which all Catholics should be intel- 



86o 



Neiv Publications. 



ligently instructed, and popular man- 
uals, such as Father Miiller's work 
claims to be, intended to supply such 
instruction, ought to be in great demand. 
We have not yet had an opportunity of 
giving these two later volumes the care- 
ful examination so important a work 
deserves. 



LES DERNIERS JOURS DE MGR. DUPAN- 
LOUP. Avec une preface de Monsei- 
gneur L'Archeveque D'Albi. Paris: 
Ancienne Maison Charles Dounoil. 
Jules Gervais, Libraire-Editeur, Rue 
de Tournon, 29. 1879. 

We owe to the able pen of M. 1'Abbe 
Lagrange this most interesting record 
of the last days of the great Bishop of 
Orleans, who died while on a visit to his 
intimate friend, M. du Boys, in his cha- 
teau at Lacombe-Lancey, the nth of 
October, 1878. 

Mgr. Dupanloup was a bishop who 
was alive to the needs and the dangers of 
his time, full of sympathy for every good 
and holy work, and foremost among the 
bravest defenders of the faith in this cen- 
tury. The last time we had the singular 
pleasure of meeting this distinguished 
champion of the church was in the summer 
of 1873 at the ancient Benedictine monas- 
tery of Einsiedeln, which was so dear to 
him, and where he was accustomed to 
make his annual retreat. He was then in 
feeble health, and his figure reminded 
us of one of the noble knights of old, 
bearing the scars of many a hard and 
wel-lfought battle with the enemies of 
faith, justice, and right. The lustre of 
his eagle eyes was growing dim, his 
movements indicated a falling off of his 
accustomed strength, and the signs of old 
age were perceptibly creeping over his 
whole frame. But his bodily weakness- 
es served only to make clearer the val- 
iant spirit which filled his soul, and one 
felt a grandeur in his presence which 
could only have sprung from its secret 
stores of heroic virtues. It might be 
justly said of Mgr. Dupanloup that he 
was a knightly Bayard clothed with the 
dignity of a bishop. 

Those who have learned to admire the 
zeal and activity of Mgr. Dupanloup will 
be led by this sketch to venerate him no 
less as a Christian of assiduous prayer, 
a model of sacerdotal virtues, and a pat- 



tern of deep, genuine, fervent piety 
sources from which he derived his ener- 
gy. We look forward with great interest 
for a full biography from the same com- 
petent pen of this gi^at bishop of Catholic 
France, and one who was an honor to 
the whole Catholic Episcopate. 

LEGENDS OF THE SAXON SAINTS. By 
Aubrey de Vere. London : C. Kegan 
Paul & Co. 1879. 

We have been anxiously expecting the 
arrival of this volume of new poems by 
Aubrey de Vere. A few of them, thanks 
to the extreme and constant kindness of 
Mr. de Vere, saw the light for the first 
time in THE CATHOLIC WORLD, and we 
are sure our readers will value the rare 
privilege as highly as we do. As the 
volume has only just been received, all 
that can be done at present is to ac- 
knowledge its receipt, a review being re- 
served for a future number. We cannot, 
however, refrain from giving, as a faint 
index of what is to come, the dedication 
of the volume " to the Venerable Bede " : 

" 'Mid quiet vale or city lulled by night, 
Well pleased the wanderer, wakeful on his bed, 
Hears from far Alps on fitful breeze the sound 
Of torrents murmuring down their rocky glens, 
Strange voice from distant regions, alien climes : 
Should these far echoes from thy legend -roll 
Delight of loftier years, these echoes faint, 
Thus waken, thus make calm, one restless heart 
In our distempered day, to thee the praise, 
Voice of past times, O Venerable Bede !" 



THE FOUR GOSPELS UNITED INTO ONE. 
Newly translated from the original, 
and rendered into verse. By Elijah 
H. Kimball. New York : G. W. 
Carleton & Co. 1879. 

The object of this work, the translator 
tells us, " has been to render into verse 
a faithful translation of the Gospels, and 
to unite them in a connected and har- 
monious form." The work has plainly 
been a labor of love, and of the reverent 
and faithful spirit in which the author, 
who is not a Catholic, has approached 
his task there is no reason to doubt. We 
fear, however, that the work is destined 
to stand as a curiosity of literature rather 
than to move about and make its way in 
the world. Readers of the Gospels will 
always prefer them in the sublimely 
simple form in which they were written. 



A p The Catholic world 

2 

C3 

v.29 



PLEASE DO NOT REMOVE 
CARDS OR SLIPS FROM THIS POCKET 

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO LIBRARY