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THE
CATHOLIC WORLD.
MONTHLY MAGAZINE
OF
General Literature and Science.
VOL. XLV.
APRIL, 18S7, TO SEPTEMBER, 1887.
NEW YORK:
THE OFFICE OF THE CATHOLIC WORLD,
6 Park Pi^ack.
.1887.
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THE NEW YORK
PUBLICLIBRARY
ASTOR, LENOX AND
TILDE N FOUNDATIONS.
1898
Copyright, 1887, by
I. T. HECKER.
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CONTENTS.
Anwinriarion, Tht.^Mary A . P, Stant^ry^ 7
Ananndatioo in Art, Th^-^EiiMa AlUn
St^rr^ 8
An Old-Cuhiooed Vott.-^Agnet RepplUr^ . 767
Aninale and CkantiUy.~^(/Wi/ M. Catte,
PkJ>., 3S8
BeginnuigB of Mount St. Mary's, The.— Jfor^f
M.Mtlint * . . 690
Biahop Dudley's Reasons.— /f. P, S,^ . ai8
BlasB c d Edmund Campion, Th».-^S, M, Ray
m m ut-Barkert 577
Captain Paitybrick*s QooitaAap,^KaikU*n
O^Memra^ 605
Cardina] Gibbons and American Institutions.
— K R,v, I. T, H0cktr^ .... 330
Catholic Total Abstinence.— ^#r. Tktpuu y,
Consty, 683
Catholics and Civic Virtue.— P. 71 Barry ^ . 833
Chat aboat New Books, A,—Mauric* P.
Egun, . . ia4, a7», 414, 55«t 698, 835
Common and Particukr Ownership of Proper-
ty, The. -7. ^. Ca/«, .... 433
Cruel Nature.— //rwr/ f/aymam, D.D.^ . . 743
Dr. Broimson and Bish<9 Fitxpatridc— ^4rf7
R4V. J. T, Htcker^ i
Dr. Brownson and the Woikingman's Party
Fifty Yean k^.^Very Rev. /. T. Hfcker^ soo
Dr. Brownson in Boston.— fVr^ Rgv, I, T,
Hteker, 466
DnbKn Charities.- Iftfr^ 5«iv/m, . . .731
Bfypc and Holy ^nX.—Jote^h IV. WiMaeh, 73
Fair Bmigiant, A.— ^M» Jf«Z4tfAki«4/. . 86
«73. 359t 485* 67»
Fadier FeKx Martin. S. J .— i4 nna T. SadlUr^ 107
Flores Estrada and his Land Theory .—C. M.
(fKetffe^ 63
Garden of Mexican Song, A, with Transb-
^OBO.-'Mary Elinaheih Biake, . 009
Crtathadf, A.-^Lmcy C. LiUit, ... 454
Hoel the Fiddler.—/*. F. de Gcumay^ • . 334
Homes of the Poor, The— Jt^. J^n TaiM
Smithy ...-.-. . . .509
In s em p cran ce an Enemy to Labor.— JKrv.
Tkamas 7. Conaiy^ 9s6
Ireland again nnder Coeicioft.— 5*. B^ Gar'
Johann Wol%ang ron Goethe.— ^«tr. John
Gmtinrr^ 14$
"Judge Lynch.''— <ffx-.$Ww/«»r John W.
Johnston^ 593
Lacordaire on Property .-^i?#v. Edward Mc^
Swttny^ D.D,^ 338
Land, Labor, and Taxes in the Last Century.
—DyerD.Lum^ 801
Law of Christian Art, th^.—Adrian W.
Smith 398
Literary Mexico.— if ary E, Blak*^ . . 75s
Marguerite.— Z^arrffr^Ti*, .... 816
Material Mexico. — Mar gar ti F, SullivaUy . 319
Metropolitan Museum of Art, The, . . 647
Mexico: Educatlonaland Industrial.— ^0r<n-
ret P. Suiitvan^ 749
Bfr. Thomas Chitreis' Boarder, Part 11.—^.
M. yoknttoHy ao
Morement toward Unity.— iP/tr.^./r.ff>«Mii, 658
Mythical Feudal Right, K.-^Louis B. Binsse^ 473
Our Cititeni KbrMA,^ExSenat<tr John JV.
Johneion^ 153
Palace of Tara, The.— C. M. aKeeffe, . . 518
Patriot Saint of Switxerland, The.— i?#v. Otte
ZardeiH.D.D.,'. x6x
Picturesque VLexioo.-'Mary Eliuabetk Blake, yaj
Queen Elixabeth and ** The Merry Wives."—
Appieton Morgan^ 348
Question of Unity, The.— J?#r. H, H. Wyman^ 41
Shall the People Sing?— ^/v. Alfred Young, 444
Sign of the ShaAirock, The.— CAar/^r de Kay, 403
Silly Catherine.— ifrr. C. R. Careca. . 784
Taine*s Estimate of Napoleon Bonaparte.—
Hugh P. McElrone, 384
Tornadoes.— i?rv. Martin S. Brennan, . . 779
Tmt Storyj, A.^Ell£s Schrei6er, . . .544
What is the Congregation of the Index?—
Leuit B. Binue, 55
What is the Need of Future Probation ?— if /r.
Augustine P. Hewit, 889
Where Henry Geoige Stumbled.— J?^. y. Tal*
M Smith, xs6
Why not Gold ?-C.ilf.£>'^«r^#, . . .635
"Waiow-Weed."— ^/i««r/V«vr, ... 538
With Readers and Correspondents, . 563, 708, 844
Womim in Eariy Christianity and during the
Middle Ag«.-irf». IVm. P, Caniwett^ . 8x6
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IV
Contents.
POETRY.
Birthday, K.—Mary Elisabeik Biake^ ,
Domine, NonSumDignos.— M^m. y. Duggtit^
"Eusttr—A. M. BoArTf
Festal hjnc^Riekard Starrs Wiiiis^ .
Forming of the Mother, The.— That, IV. Allitt,
In Ether Spaces. —ilf^A^/M Nichois^m^
In the Starlight.— ff7//miM />. A>/i^, .
Legend of St. Geneviere, Th.t,—Aubr4y tU
Kfr#,
5x7 May-Song to the 'hUzAnxoxOi ^Richard Siorrs
778 WiUh^ 333
151 Pharaoh.— /^Z^Mvrr E. IVeldy . . .657
339 Revelations of Dirine Love.— i7«v. Al/rtd
135 YauHg^ 72«
y>6 Salvias.— ^. ^. J»f., 671
453 Sonnet.—!.. D. Pyekototka^ . , . -599
Sunshine.— £</fM W. Caaky .... 370
4^ Sunshine and Rain, ...... 171
NEW PUBLICATIONS.
Abandonment : or, Absolute Sorrender to Di-
vine Providence, 984
Abraham, Joseph, and Moses in Egypt, . 571
Addresses by the Most Rev. Dr. Walsh, . X37
A Gate of Floweis, and other Poems, . . 858
American Commonwealths, .... 570
American Electoral System, The, . . •717
At the Holy Well, with a Handful of New
Verses, 858
Baaquet of the Angels, The, • . • • 860
Cssremoniale Episooporum, . . .138
Canonical Procedure in OisapUaary and Crimi-
nal Cases of Clerics, 790
Catholic Church in Colonial Days, The, . 57a
Catholic Hospiul, The. 987
Chtistliche Rrankenstube, Die, ... 140
Christmas Eve and Easter Day, . . . 860
Church and the Various Nauooolities in the
United States, 573
Compendium Antiphonariiet Breviarii Romani, sfO
Compendium Cssremoniarum Sacerdote et Min-
utris Sacris Observandarum in Sacn>
Ministerio, 431
Compendium TheoIogi» Moralis, . •857
Constitutional Law of the U. S. of America,
The, . X40
Dante^s Divina Commedia, .... 498
Dishonest Criticism 858
Distribution of Animals, 141
Slements of Ecclesiastical Law, • . . syt
Elements of Hebrew, 499
Enslish Composition, for the Use of Schools, . 144
Exutence of God, The 7x6
FamiliarShortSayingsof Great Men, . • X43
Frederick Francis Xavier de Mftrode, . . 860
Gcthsemani, 987
Handbook for Altar Societies and Guide for
Sacristans. a88
Heart of St. Francis of Sales, The, . . 985
Hebrew Word-Lists 499
History of St. Maxi^aret*s Convent, . . 499
Hoffman's Catholic Directory, AUnanac, and
Clergy-List Quarteriy, . . .143
Holy Eucharist, the Sacred Heart of Jeaus
Christ, the Love of Jesus Christ, and
Novena to the Holy Ghost, . . . 575
Home Rule ; or. The Irish Land Question, . 1187
Instructions sum! Devotions for Confession and
Communion, 576
Introductory Hebrew Method and Manual, . 439
Iridx Songs and Poems, X43
Is there a God who Cares for oi? • • . 43>
Jewels of the Mass, The, 860
Life Around Us, The. 143
Life and Spuit of J. B. M. Champagnat, . 985
Life of Henry Clay, 574
Life of Thomas Hart Benton. . . .574
Life of Rev. Mother St John Fontbonne, . 575
lives of the Saints and Blessed of the Three
Orders of St. Francis, . . . .138
Lifeof Leo XIII., 8531859
Meditations on the Sufferings of Jesus Christ, 139
Midshipman Bob, 144
Names of the Eucharist, The, .... 860
Mew Procedure in Criminal and Dtsdpliiiary
Causes of Ecclesiastics in the United
States, 7S0
Nuttall's Standard Dictionary of the English
Language, 43»
Passion and Death of Jesus Christ, The, . 430
Petroleumand Natural Gas, . . .988
Poems. X4X
Poetry of Sir Samuel Ferffuson, The, . X43
PraacalNotas on Moral Training, . 387
Records relating to the Dioceses of Ardagh
and Clonmacnoise, 385
Religious Houses of the United Kingdom,
The » • »39
Ring and the Bo(A, The .866
Rise and Eariy Constitution of Univenities,
The, 138
Ritual of the New Testament, . . . 43<
Sermons at Mass. 57s
Seven Last Worcto, The, X40
SooiaHsm and the Church ; or, Henry George
vs. Archbishop Corriguu .... 385
Spiritual Conferences: Kindness, ... 420
Story of Metlakahtia, The, .... 7x8
St. Teresa's Pater Noster, . . .373
Story of the Moon in Spain, The, . • 14'
Teaching of St. Benedict, The, . . . ST^
Ten Dollars Enough, 431
Theodore Wibaux 719
Throne of the Fisherman Built by the Carpen-
ter's Sen, 987, 437
Transbtiona from Horace and a few Original
Poems, . • 430
What Catholios have done for Science, . . |75
Whatever is, was, 855
Why am I a Catholic? 384
Why have I a Religion? ..... S7S
Woncfof Qrett^ AsBrownsoo, • 8ss
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THE
CATHOLIC WORLD.
Vol. XLV. APRIL, 1887. No. 265.
DR. BROWNSON AND BISHOP FITZPATRICK.
Bishop John B. Fitzpatrick, of Boston, was a man of high
mental endowments. He brought to the study of the sacred sci-
ences a native ability far above the ordinary, and, studying with
industry and under the best masters in France, he became a theo-
logian of great acquirements. But his knowledge did not em-
brace the intellectual trend of the present age nor take in the
signs of impending changes among men outside the Catholic
Church. He carried into the domain of speculative philosophy
and theology certain traditional methods peculiar to the theolo-
gians and philosophers of his day, and he was impatient with one
who would not prefer these methods to all others. He had
little sympathy with any one who could not find a solution of all
difficulties in the historical argument of the church, or in the
external marks of the church's Oneness, Holiness, Catholicity,
and Apostolicity. He probably never experienced even the
most shadowy doubt concerning the truths of religion, and his
feelings might be expressed by the words of the Psalmist: " Thy
testimonies have I taken for an heritage for ever, for they are the
joy of my heart" The articles of the Catholic faith were to him
like an heirloom of an ancient family, or like the old homestead,
not simply valued for intrinsic qualities, but also sacred by ties of
blood and family, and by race tradition. Immemorial posses-
sion, supreme domination for so many ages of the mind of Chris-
tendom, unbroken corporate existence back to the original soci-
ety founded by Christ, were more to Bishop Fitzpatrick than
powerful motives of credibility appealing to reason ; they were .
Cofyright. Rbv. I* T. H»ckeb. iBSy.
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2 Dr. Brown son and Bishop Fitzpatrick. [April,
like the venerable title-deeds and other monuments of ownership
to a lord of the manor. Of this traditional kind of faith he was
a pronounced type, and his noble personal characteristics, his in-
telligence, his humor, his great learning, his magnificent pre-
sence, made him an especially powerful exponent of it He was,
too, a positive man, pushing his views upon others with direct
force, and exerting when he willed his strong personality in a
way not easy to resist.
► I may say, by the way, that perhaps it was this strength of
character in " Bishop John," as they loved to call him, which im-
posed upon the Catholics of Boston his own peculiar type of reli-
gion and gave them an ultra-conservative tone ; for, from their
geographical position in the American world of thought, they
ought to have been, perhaps otherwise would have been, a gene-
ration ahead of some other Catholic communities among us.
The Catholics who were citizens of Boston forty years ago had
the opportunities of becoming the representative Catholics of
America.
Bishop Fitzpatrick's strong sense of humor and keen wit had
much to do with his influence, for by mingling good-natured
sarcasm and irony with the most serious discussions it made him
a doubly formidable antagonist. It was always difficult to de-
tect how much of conviction and how much of banter there was
in his treatment of men engaged in the actual intellectual move-
ments of our times. I found such to be the case in my own in-
tercourse with him. He always attacked me in a bantering way,
but, I thought, half in earnest too. Hence I never found it ad-
visable to enter into argument with him. How can you argue
with a man, a brilliant wit and an accomplished theologian, who
continually flashes back and forth between first principles and
witticisms? When I would undertake to grapple with him on
first principles he would throw me off* with a joke, and while I
was parrying the joke he was back again upon first principles.
An illustration of his way of treating men and questions was
his reception of me when I presented myself to him, some months
before Dr. Brownson did, for reception into the church. ** What
truths were the stepping-stones that led you here?" he would
have asked if he had had the temperament of the apostle. But
instead of searching for truth in me he began to search for er-
rors. I had lived with the Brook Farm Community and with
the Fruitlands Community, and before that had been a member
of a Workingman's party in New York City, in all which organ-
izations the right of private ownership of property had been a
prime question. Bronson Alcott, the founder of Fruitlands, be-
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1887.] Dr. Brownson^ and Bishop Fitzpatrick. 3
fore starting in that place, had, at least partially, put his theories to
practical test: he had squatted on what he thought was a piece
of public land in the town of Concord, and discovered that it had
a private owner, who demanded rent. How he permitted himself
to lose this opportunity of testing to the bitter end the injustice
of private ownership by suffering from or resisting against legal
process I never was able to discover. But, as for my part, at the
lime Bishop Fitzpatrick wanted me to purge myself of commun-
ism I had settled the question in my own mind, and on principles
which I afterwards found to be Catholic. The study and settle-
ment of the question of ownership was one of the things that led
me into the church, and 1 am not a little surprised that what was
a door to lead me into the church seems at this day to be a door
to lead some others out. But when the bishop attacked me
about it, it was no longer with me an actual question. I had
settled the question of private ownership in harmony with Ca-
tholic principles, or I should not have dared to present myself as
a convert. But I mention this because it illustrates Bishop Fitz-
patrick's character.
His was, indeed, a first-class mind both in natural gifts and
acquired cultivation, but his habitual bearing was that of sus-
picion of error ; as man and prelate he had a joyful readiness to
search it out and correct it from his own point of view. He was
a type of mind common then and not uncommon now — the em-
bodiment of a purpose to refute error, and to refute it by con-
demnation direct, authoritative even if argumentative: the other
type of mind would seek for truth amidst the error, establish its
existence, applaud it, and endeavor to make it a basis for further
truth and a fulcrum for the overthrow of the error connected
with it.
It will be seen, then, what kind of man Dr. Brownson first
met as the official exponent of Catholicity, one hardly capable
of properly understanding and dealing with a mind like his \ for
he was one who had come into the possession of the full truth
not so much from hatred of error as love of truth. Brownson's
soul was intensely faithful to its personal convictions, faithful
unto heroism — for that is the temper of men who seek the whole
truth free from cowardice or narrowness or bias. He has ad-
mitted that the effect of his intercourse with the bishop was not
fortunate. He confesses that the bishop forced him to adojH a
line of public controversy foreign to his genius, and one which
had not brought him into the church, and perhaps could not
have done so. A man of his peculiar philosophical temperament
could hardly have become a Catholic if the impulse had to come
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4 Dr. Brownson and Bishop Fitzpatrick. [April,
entirely from the force of the historical argument, suflBcient
though that argument in itself undoubtedly is. In The Convert^
p, 374, he says :
" Bishop Fitzpatrick received me with civility, but with a certain degree
of distrust. He had been a little prejudiced against me, and doubted the
motives which led so proud and so conceited a man, as he regarded me, to
seek admission into the communion of the church. It was two or three
months before we could come to a mutual understanding. There was a
difficulty in the way which I did not dare explain to him, and he instinctively
detected in me a want of entire frankness and unreserve. I had been led
to the church by the application I had made of my doctrine of life by com-
munion, and I will own that I thought I found in it a method of leading
others to the church which Catholics had overlooked or neglected to use.
I really thought that I had made some philosophical discoveries which
would be of value even to Catholic theologians in convincing and convert-
ing unbelievers, and I dreaded to have them rejected by the Catholic bishop.
But I perceived almost instantly that he either was ignorant of my doctrine
of life or placed no confidence in it : and I felt that he was far more likely,
bred, as he had been, in a different philosophical school from myself, to op-
pose than to accept. I had, indeed, however highly I esteemed the doctrine,
no special attachment to it for its own sake, and could, so far as it was con-
cerned, give it up at a word without a single regret; but, if I rejected or
waived it, what reason had I for regarding the church as authoritative for
natural reason, or for recognizing any authority in the bishop himself to
teach me ? Here was the difficulty. , . .
" My trouble was great, and the bishop could not relieve me, for I dared
not disclose to him its source. But Providence did not desert me, and I
soon discovered that there was another method by which, even waiving the
one I had thus far followed, I could arrive at the authority of the church,
and prove even in a clearer and more direct manner her divine commis-
sion to teach all men and nations in all things pertaining to eternal salva-
tion. This new process or method I found was as satisfactory to reason as
my own. I adopted it and henceforth used it as the rational basis of my
argument for the church. So, in point of fact, I was not received into the
church on the strength of the philosophical doctrine I had embraced, but
on the strength of another and perhaps a more convincing process.
** It is not necessary to develop this new process here, for it is the ordi-
nary' process adopted by Catholic theologians, and may be found drawn out
at length in almost every modern Course of Theology. It may also be
found developed under some of its aspects in almost any article I have
since written in my Review, . . . Though I accepted this method and was
satisfied by it before I entered the church, yet it was not that by which I
was brought from unbelief to the church, and it only served to justify and
confirm by another process the convictions to which I had been brought, by
my applications to history and the traditions of the race, of the doctrines
of life obtained from the simple analysis of thought as a fact of conscious-
ness. What would have been its practical effect on my mind had I encoun-
tered it before I had in fact become a believer, and in fact had no need of it
for my personal conviction, I am unable to say, though I suspect it would
never have brought me to the church — not because it is not logical, not
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188/.] Dr. Brownson and Bishop Fitzpatrick. 5
because it is not objectively complete and conclusive, but because I wanted
the internal or subjective disposition to understand and receive it It would
not have found, if I may so say, the needed subjective response, and would
have failed to remove to my understanding the ii priori objections I enter-
tained to a supernatural authoritative revelation itself. It would, I think,
have struck me as crushing instead of enlightening, silencing instead of
convincing my reason. Certainly I have never found the method effectual
in the case of any non-Catholic not already disposed to become a Catholic,
or actually, in his belief, on the way to the church. ...
'* But this suppression of my own philosophic theory — a suppression
under every point of view commendable and even necessary at the time —
became the occasion of my being placed in a false position towards my
non-Catholic friends. Many had read me, had seen well enough whither I
was tending, and were not surprised to find me professing myself a Catho-
lic. The doctrine I had brought out and which they had followed appeared
to them, as it did to me, to authorize me to do so, and perhaps not a few of
them were making up their minds to follow me ; but they were thrown all
aback, the first time they heard me speaking as a Catholic, by finding me
defending my conversion on grounds of which I had given no public inti-
mation, and which seemed to them wholly unconnected with those I had
published. Unable to perceive any logical or intellectual connection be-
tween my last utterances before entering the church and my first utter-
ances afterwards, they looked upon my conversion, after all, as a sudden
caprice, or rash act taken from a momentary impulse, or in a fit of intellec-
tual despair, for which I had in reality no good reason to offer. So they
turned away in disgust," etc.
These extracts reveal plainly how Dr. Brownson, by shifting
his arguments, shifted his auditory and lost, never to regain, the
leadership Providence had designed for him. I always maintained
that Dr. Brownson was wrong in thus yielding to the bishop's
influence, and that he should have held on to the course Provi-
dence had started him in. His convictions were an outgrowth of
the best American thought, and, as he plainly proves in The Con*
vert, were perfectly coincident with sound Catholic philosophy.
Had he held on to the way inside the church which he had pur-
sued outside the church in finding her, he would have carried with
him some, and might perhaps have carried with him many, non-
Catholic minds of a leading character. His philosophical view of
Christianity could have been shown to be historically Catholic
also, as it was undoubtedly Catholic in its elements. And if the
reader asks me, " Do you refer to Dr. Brownson's peculiar views
of the intuitive knowledge of God ? " I answer. Yes and no. Yes,
if you mean by intuitive perception of God that God's existence
is a primary apprehension of the human mind. No, if you mean
the peculiar ontological views of Dr. Brownson. What these
exactly were I have never been able to fully satisfy myself. If bis
life had been providentially prolonged he would, perhaps, have
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6 Dr. Brown son and Bishop Fitzpatrick. [April,
cleared it all up and made himself fully intelligible. It was not,
however, upon the obscure and perennially debatable questions of
ideology that Dr. Brownson was best fitted to lead men's minds.
No; he had a theoretical and an experimental knowledge of
the necessity of revealed truth and of infused divine grace, and
an unsurpassed power of demonstrating this necessity. He
fully comprehended the need of the supernatural, and was ad-
mirably fitted to prove its necessity for the solution of the deep-
est questions of the soul. He was a great thinker, he was mas-
ter of a pure, lofty style of composition, which make his works
to-day a school of English hardly surpassed. I have heard
the best judge of English I ever knew declare that in Dr.
Brownson 's writings are to be found some of the finest specimens
of English ever printed. With such a medium, and drawing
forth the subject-matter from the innermost fountains of his life's
experience, he was providentially fitted to open a movement
towards the true religion among the leading minds of America,
But he was unhappily persuaded to draw his material, not from
his own life's experience, nor from his knowledge, intimate and
perfect, of his fellow-countrymen, but from books, and from
schools, and from human and passing controversial traditions.
His majestic English remains to us and many fine arguments on
all points in dispute. But he was switched off the main line of
his career by the influence of Bishop Fitzpatrick, who induced
him to enter upon the traditional line of controversy against Pro^
testantism at a time when the best minds of New England had
long given up belief in the distinctive errors of that heresy.
They were ripe for the study of the essential truths of Catho-
licity from 2i point of view of pure reason and its natural aspirations^
and Dr. Brownson should have been the pioneer of a large move-
ment among them^.' To quote again from The Convert^ p. 384:
" I do not mean that as a doctrine of philosophy it [that is, his doctrine
of life] bridges over the gulf between the natural and supernatural, for that
no philosophy can do, since philosophy is only the expression of natural
reason; but I honestly believe, as I believed in 1844 \The Convert was pub-
lished in 1857], that it does» better than any other philosophical doctrine,
show the harmony between the natural and the supernatural, and remove
those obstacles to the reception of the church, and her doctrines on her
authority, which all intelligent and thinking men brought up outside the
church in our day do really encounter. . . . The ordinary motives of credi-
bility do not move non-Catholics to believe, because these motives start
from principles which they do not accept, or accept with much vagueness
and uncertainty. . . . Though they seem overwhelming to Catholics, they
leave all their objections remaining in full force and their inability to be-
lieve undiminished."
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And this inability results from false views of the supernatural
and its relation to the natural.
This diversion of our greatest champion from his true field of
conflict I always regretted, and often expressed to him that re-
gret, I told him at the time that in confining himself to the
historical proof, and in pointing out that road alone to the truth,
he had forgotten the bridge by which he himself had reached it,
if, indeed, he had not actually turned about and broken it down.
And when, shortly after my conversion, I went to Europe, all the
letters I wrote to him were filled with complaints that he had
given up his first principles, or at any rate ignored them. He
undervalued the then utility of his philosophical views. It was
only years afterwards, and when he wrote The Convert ^ one of his
greatest works, that he brought them out prominently, and then
it was too late for much effect: he had become too closely iden-
tified with very different lines of controversy. His usual public
writing was on the lines of a controversy whose value had, es-
pecially in New England, been greatly lessened by the weakened
vitality of its object, Calvinistic Protestantism — a method, too,
better calculated, as Dr. Brownson himself acknowledged, to
strengthen the convictions of those in the church than to attract
others into her fold. And he had chosen this policy, as he more
than once publicly admitted, under the influence of Bishop Fita-
patrick, who was the hierarchical exponent of all that was tra-
ditional and commonplace in Catholic public life.
THE ANNUNCIATION.
A DARK-EYED Jewish girl of David's line,
Shy as a fawn that on the emerald brink
Of some clear forest streamlet fain would drink.
Yet starts to see itself reflected shine.
Went Mary o'er the hills of Palestine.
Full of such guileless thoughts as maidens think,
Her days slipped past, each but a golden link
Of one bright chain, half-earthly, half-divine.
Until that morning, when the angel's " Hail !
Blessed art thou of women! " smote upon
Her ear, nor did her sweet lips answer fail :
" Lord, as thou wilt ! " And lo ! her youth was gone,
As some fair star that, in a moment pale.
Fades in the glorious presence of the dawn !
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THE ANNUNCIATION IN ART.
" Hail, full of grace ! the Lord is with thee ; blessed art thou
among women." A voice, a faint perfume of lilies, and the Maid
of Nazareth is conscious of a presence too bright for mortal
vision, but which cannot dazzle the eyes veiled so modestly by
their fringed lids. There is no gesture, only the bending for-
ward, as if by an instinct of courtesy, towards the radiant pre-
sence. The lips do not part to give answer, but when the voice
ceases the first perplexity which has ever disturbed that in-
nocent heart has sent a look of trouble into the almost girlish
face; for what could this salutation mean? When again that
voice, so clear, so sweet, so reverential, is again heard : *' Fear
not, Mary, for thou hast found grace with God. Behold, thou
wilt conceive in thy womb, and wilt bring forth a Son ; and wilt
call his name Jesus. He will be great, and will be called the Son
of the Most High, and the Lord God will give to him the
throne of David his father: and he will reign over the house of
Jacob for ever, and of his kingdom there will be no end."
Grand prophecies, blissful promises, learned from the lips of
Anna ; conned again and again as one of the lessons in the
Temple to be addressed to some favored maiden chosen to bear
the Messias. But addressed to her, full of anxiety, and the first
word recorded of her is a question — a question so full of hu-
mility that it has also the charm of the most ingenuous sim-
plicity : " How shall this be, since I know not man ? "
Then all the majesty of the angel, all the grandeur and sig-
nificance of the message, come to us like the swell of organ-
pipes under the inspiration of some mighty theme: " The Holy
Ghost will come upon thee, and the power of the Most High
will overshadow thee." ..." For nothing shall be impossible
with God."
An unutterable peace takes .the place of solicitude; the
modest head bends lower, not to the angel, but to Him who
sent the messenger, and the hands are crossed on the virginal
bosom with an ineffable submission ; while sweeter, more power-
ful than the voice of angel or of archangel, piercing the dome of
the midnight sky with its garniture of moon and stars, cleaving
rank on rank of cherubim and seraphim, hushing the song of
praise going up before the throne of the Eternal Father, Eternal
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1887.] The Annunciation in Art. 9
Son, Eternal Holy Ghost, is heard the voice of Mary : " Behold
the handmaid of the Lord ; be it done to me according to thy
word." And, swifter than light, swift as the will of God him-
self, comes the Holy Ghost, comes the co-eternal Son, and the
Word is made flesh, dwelling among us, veritable Son of man
while Mary is the Mother of God. " And the angel departed
from her."
Such is the narrative, told in sentences thus few and short,
yet including time, eternity, heaven, earth, which has inspired
countless tomes of exposition from the pens of doctors, pon-
tiffs, theologians, and has inspired, too, more representations
than any other event, unless the Crucifixion, from the hand of
Christian masters. There has been no material so costly, no
limit so narrow, no space so majestic as not to become the me-
dium through which faith and piety have sought to honor this
event of the Annunciation. The gem holds it as the loveliest of
decorations, the mosaic as the most gracious of traditions, altar
and apse, chasuble and chalice ; while through the tinted win-
dows of countless Lady Chapels the sun lights up the beauty of
Virgin and angel, snow-white Dove and blossoming lily — cathe«
dral and cloister alike claiming the Annunciation for its radiant
theme. We pause for a moment before these treasures, count-
less as they are and precious not only to the eye of faith but to
that of the critic ; sometimes as charming as the first flower of
spring or the first note of the blue-bird, then rising to a grandeur
which compels the intellect of man as well as his heart to bow in
ecstatic adoration. It is the opening scene of that drama with-
out which there had been no Crucifixion and no Redemption,
no Resurrection and no Ascension.
Our subject leads us, first of all, to the catacomb of the same
Priscilla where we find that early Madonna of the apostolic age,
and which, according to the testimony of Bosio, Garrucci, and
De Rossi, bears away the palm from all the others for the num-
ber, variety, and antiquity of its paintings representing the
Blessed Virgin Mary.* In this instance it is not merely a wall-
picture along with many others, but occupies the whole ceiling of
a chamber; the ceiling itself most carefully adorned with classic
garlands and jewelled circles with pendants, very simple as to
general outline, but the designs finished with exquisite taste.
Within the inmost jewelled circle sits the Virgin Mary in a chair
upon a low dais, but raised sufficiently to give it dignity. The
veiled head is bent forward slightly, as if listening ; the eyes
* See Rom4 Souttrrainey p. 383.
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veiled, too/under their virginal lids. The robe is girded siraply
at the waist, and the mantle, of which the veil seems a part, falls
ovef the left arm and over the knees with classic elegance. The
right arm and hand rest gracefully on the arm of her chair, but
the left hand is raised to express astonishment. The whole figure
is instinct with humility and dignity. Before her stands a figure
full of earnestness, clad in the loose garment, with flowing sleeves
and the dark lines falling from the shoulders to the hem of the
garment, seen so often in the catacombs, worn even by our Lord
himself, and always suggesting the scapular of the religious
habit ; his left hand holds a fold of his drapery around him in-
stead of a girdle, and the index-finger is raised, as he tells Mary
the message, with an impressive gesture, while he looks stead-
fastly on her face. This personage has no wings, but every line
of the head and the pose of the body, above all the right hand and
the upraised finger, declare his angelic nature and the character
of his mission. There is not on the panels of the Baptistery Gate
in Florence, by Andrea Pisano, a group more incisively outlined,
not one so majestic in its simplicity. By reason of custom we
of to-day demand wings for our angels, but we must remember
that, according to many Scriptural instances, when angels came
upon their beneficent errands to man they were not winged.
The Archangel Raphael came to Tobias under the form of a
beautiful young man, standing girded, as it were ready to
walk;* and the three angels appearing to Abraham, as we sec
them in Raphael's Loggia of the Vatican, are not winged.
But whose are these doves that float on tranquil wings at
every corner of the beautiful ceiling ? Not thine, O Venus !
beautiful as thou wert in the early myths of Greece ; no god-
dess of profane love, but of a joyous maternity, so that doves
might well bear thy chariot to the Elysian Fields! Not thine,
for a more beautiful, a more joyous, a transcendently more bliss-
ful Maternity has superseded thine, and henceforth they are to
symbolize that Holy Ghost which overshadowed Mary at the
moment of the Incarnation, and was seen» in the form of a dove,
to rest upon our Lord at his baptism,t as represented on the
walls of the cemetery of Santa Lucina ; to belong, indeed, for
ever to the kingdom of that Little One ransomed by ** a pair of
turtle-doves." This precious picture, from the chambers of the
cemetery of St. Priscilla, is to be found engraved in the St.
Cicile et la Sociit^ Roniainiy by Dom Gu6ranger. X
The next picture of note representing the Annunciation is
* Tobias v. 5. 1 1 St. Mark i. 10 ; Rome Sout^rraine^ p. 397. % Page 261.
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1887.] The Annunciation in Art. ii
that on the Arch of Triumph in St. Mary Major, Rome, the tes-
timony of both Celestine I. and Sixtus III. to Mary as the Mo-
ther of God. This representation is at the extreme left of the
upper line of mosaics on the arch. And here we again see Mary
seated, her feet on an ornamented dais, and habited as a princess ;
everything, even to the embroidered cover of her throne, indi-
cating the most profound sense of her dignity. Above her,
where float small crimson clouds, is. seen not only the angel
winging his swift way to her, but the Dove of the Holy Spirit,
while the second scene is represented by an angel standing be-
fore her with the index finger raised as in the catacomb picture, in
the same drapery and posed in the same manner. On the right of
the Blessed Virgin stand two other angels, who seem to be con-
versing on the mystery, and all three are winged. To this An-
nunciation of the year 440 every traveller in Rome can turn as to
a faithful reflex of the mind of the fifth century and of all the pre-
ceding ones.
To take it for granted that there were no representations ol
the Annunciation between the fifth century and the twelfth, be-
cause we do not see their reproductions in every hand-book or
history of art, is to overlook the sad fact that few things in this
world are more at the mercy of time, of periods of social mis-
fortune, fire, and the ravages of war, than paintings. The re-
markable pictures from the first age of Christianity now made
known to us in the catacombs have been preserved by the very
circumstance which threatened their existence — viz., the closing
of these cemeteries for fully a thousand years ; while the imper-
ishability of mosaics in themselves alone accounts for the exist-
ence of their testimony from the fifth century. There can be no
doubt that the Evangelariums of Italy, as well as of Ireland and
Germany, dating to the eighth, ninth, and tenth centuries, must
contain many examples of the Annunciation as treated in those
ages. When we remember that Bennet Biscop of Northumbria,
in the last half of the seventh century, brought over to England
artists to give painted glass windows to his cathedral, and when
we remember how every Lady Chapel had its Annunciation win-
dow through all the beautiful ages of England as the Dowry of
Our Lady, we can understand how terrible has been the havoc
among these frail witnesses to the love of the northern as well as
southern nations for the Annunciation ; and while the monuments
of Italy take us back to the very dawn of Christian art, northern
Europe may still supply beautiful links in the history of the re-
presentation of the great Christian mysteries, especially as the
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very inclemency of the climate made it necessary to give shelter
to their works of art, while Italy has made her art as free as the
sunshine. The libraries of the churches of Italy have not yet
made known their treasures, and among them, as time goes on,
will be found many a picture of the Annunciation which has
been overlooked in the admiration for the frescoes now, alas I
peeling from the walls.
The Byzantine artists could not have neglected this subject,
but their pictures have been painted over in very many instances,
and we are obliged to infer much from finding their pupils at
Florence, Siena, Pisa taking up the subject as one which every
artist was expected to represent in those " Histories," as they
were called, " of the Life of our Lord and of the Blessed Virgin,"
which covered the apse of every cathedral church. Among
these we find always the Annunciation. Cimabue painted this
subject as a young artist in the hospital of the Porcellana in Flo-
rence, although the picture has disappeared utterly. Duccio,
who was an artist of established fame in 1280, painted the An-
nunciation on a gold ground for the church of Santa Trinitk in
Florence ; and again it made one of the graceful upper com-
partments of his great altar-piece for the cathedral of Siena, as
seen from the front, and now makes one of the treasures of the
Belle Arti in that " City of the Virgin." Another Sienese, Pietro
Lorenzetti, painted this subject in a way too remarkable to be
passed over. A double arch, trefoiled and of great beauty, gives,
under one, the Blessed Virgin seated, her richly-bordered mantle
veiling her head and wrapping her whole figure, an open book
resting upon her lap ; her hands are crossed in a transport of love
on her bosom, and her eyes are raised towards heaven, whence the
Dove, from the spandrel of the arches, sends forth a radius of glory,
one beam touching the head of the Virgin. In the other arch
kneels the grand archangel, veiled also and crowned with olive,
bearing in his left hand a palm, and his eyes turn also towards
the Dove of the Holy Spirit, Between the Blessed Virgin and
the archangel stands a vase of lilies, while the scrolls that are
seen in the background contain the texts from St. Luke describ-
ing this event. The exaltation expressed in these figures is be-
yond description; we simply yield to the attraction which con-
trols them, and send our thoughts heavenward to contemplate
the mystery accomplished in the Holy House of Nazareth.
Simone Memmi also painted the angel of the Annunciation
crowned with olive, bearing an olive-branch as he kneels. A lily
stands between him and the Virgin, who is seated, veiled and
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mantled, a book in one band, in which she has been reading the
prophecies, but now turns as if terrified by the message as it is
first given to her ; while in the heavens above is seen the Dove
of the Holy Ghost flying towards her, surrounded by seraphs.
From this time the Annunciation comes in as an accessory to
almost every com[>osition. The exuberance of imagination in
those ages reminds one of nothing, so much as the bursting forth
of flowers in spring from some unbroken stretch of prairie. If
an altar-piece was painted it must have its predella of exquisite
miniatures at the base, and here we find again and again the An-
nunciation ; or — as in so many pictures by Ansano di Pietro, or
Sano of Siena — in some picture giving the most tender, the most
pathetic of Madonnas, with the Divine Child laying his little cheek
to hers as if to console her, we see the square panel elegantly
crowned by a compartment giving the Crucifixion, and in the
low corners the kneeling angel saluting the Virgin of Nazareth.
The same arrangement is seen in the altar-piece of Fonti Giusta,
in Siena, by Fungai ; and in the exquisite picture of the Adora-
tion of the Magi, by Gentile Fabriano, in the Belle Arti, Florence,
the Annunciation fills two of the round spaces in the frame.
The church of Or San Michele, Florence, delights the eye of
the poorest wayfarer or laborer by its niches, in themselves things
of beauty which can never die, since they become well-springs of
beauty to those who behold them ; yet these niches only serve as
shelter and enclosure to those grand prophets, apostles, saints,
and martyrs who stand forth on this outer wall as exponents of
Christian heroism ; while *'* within" who can say how ''glorious
is the King's daughter " ? The canopy over the high altar, above
which is that miraculous Madonna associated with the charm-
ing story of Or San Michele changed from a corn-market to a
church, is not only of silver set with precious stones, but is still
further enriched by reliefs from the hand of Andrea Orcagna
narrating the stories from the Sacred Scriptures so significant to
the people of those ages. Here, if anywhere, we should find
the Annunciation ; and here we do find it. The youthful Vir-
gin is seated, with the sculptured dais under her feet. The
mantle covers her head and falls in rich folds on the dais. An
open book lies on her knees, and the hands are folded over each
other as she leans slightly forward, her eyes fixed upon the angel
kneeling before her and bearing the lily, while the right hand is
raised in the solemn act of giving his message, and above the
Dove of the Holy Spirit wings its way to the bosom of Mary.
The solemn grandeur of the archangel, the sweetness of acqui-
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escence in the whole air of the Blessed Virgin, is worthy of Or-
cagna — of the Orcagna who painted this same Virgin in the
mandorla at the side of her Son in the " Last Judgment " of the
Campo Santo at Pisa.
The pulpit by Niccola Pisano in the Baptistery at Pisa inaugu-
rated a series of pulpits which may be said to preach to the eye
as eloquently as the great preachers of those days addressed the
ear. The beautiful marble pillars with their Greek capitals sup-
port arches of unrivalled perfection, and these in their turn sus-
tain panels which form the breastwork of the pulpit itself, and
also give the subject-matter of thousands of sermons, instructions,
and exhortations. On this first pulpit at Pisa we see the An-
nunciation, and Brunelleschi, in Santa Maria Novella, makes the
Annunciation the subject of the first panel of his pulpit reached
by its winding stairs, and associating itself not only with the
generosity of the Rucellai, by whom it was presented, but with
the art of the loveliest of Florentine churches.
Nor was this predilection for our subject confined to interiors.
Not only does the Annunciation appear on the pilasters of the
fagade of the Duomo at Orvieto, but among those mosaics which
stand forth on their gold ground with a brilliancy which dazzles
the eye we see the Annunciation. Above the left portal as we
etiter the cathedral, high up on one side of the sharp Gothic
porch, is this Virgin of Nazareth, with her hands folded on her
bosom, the head bowed in assent ; on the other side the kneeling
angel, lily in hand, the index-finger raised, delivering his august
message, as if this fagade to a temple raised to commemorate
one of the miracles substantiating, to the senses of men as well
as to their faith, the reality of the consecration of the Host in
the hands of the anointed priest of God, could not tell its story
without a representation of the Incarnation of the Eternal Word
in the bosom of Mary.*
The vast, illuminated, and luminous lateral spaces on the ex-
terior walls of Santa del Fiore, Florence, are varied by doors of
such marvellous richness of design and delicacy of execution as
to give a new renown to the already great artists who were in-
vited to contribute to these beautiful portals of " Saint Mary of
the Flower." Now it is a statue from Donatello, now a relief from
Giovanni Pisano, now a grand frontispiece from Jacopo della
Quercia for one door, to be framed in by sculptured garlands of
fig or oak or acanthus, enclosing in their turn birds, graceful ani-
mals, and groups of human figures, angels, prophets, and even
* See article on Orvieto in Pilgrims and Shrines,
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188/0 ^^^ Annunciation in Art. 15
personages from those poetic fables, significant of universal truths,
so familiar to the heirs of classic literature. It is in the arch over
the sculptured lintel of the most elaborate of these doors, ** Porta
della Mandorla," or the Door of the Mandorla, directly below
the almond shaped glory in which Jacopo della Quercia has
sculptured with such renowned grace the ascending Virgin
letting down her girdle to the incredulous apostle St. Thomas,
that we see the first act in the work of Redemption, or the An-
nunciation. Nothing could exceed the richness of design in the
sculptures framing in this door, while the Annunciation in mo-
saic, by Ghirlandajo, is thrown back, by the very fact of its
colors, as if in a niche, like the heart of a rose in the midst of its
own petals. A border of roses and lilies separates this from the
sculptures, and gives us a glimpse of an open loggia, like a con-
vent cloister with its enclosed court, in which sits this daughter
of the house of David. Evidently she has heard the message,
the whole message, of the angel kneeling before her with his
lily, for she leans gently forward with her hands crossed on her
breast in humble, sweet assent, while the celestial Dove hastens
towards her on outspread wings. No wonder the Florentines
love to pass in and out of their St. Mary of the Flower under
such archways! No wonder their children linger in admiration
before these illustrated catechisms of faith and of doctrine !
Beautiful cloisters of San Marco ! How we try to forget, as
we pass from cell to cell, that any other costume than that of the
white-robed Dominican has possession here! How we almost
despise ourselves for accepting any other guidance than that of
some Preaching Friar ! But the necessity is strong to see with
our own eyes where Fr5 Angelico made of each cell a heaven by
the conceptions of his pious imagination expressed by the brush.
There is no gold on any of these walls where holy poverty reigns ;
no ultramarine, so dear to those who paint the blue mantle of Our
Lady; but all are radiant with something better than gold, and
the mists of morning and of evening seem to have clothed his
figures with ethereal garments. We have seen the cell of the
Transfiguration, of the Resurrection, but we turn back, by an
attraction not to be resisted, to the Annunciation, which we saw
as we first entered this corridor, on the walls of which Fra An-
gelico set forth the great mysteries of Christianity. No one can
tell exactly where the charm lies, but it is there — is there for be-
liever and unbeliever, for poet and artist, for the fervent and the
lukewarm, and even for the critic ; for our Angelical Brother, in
the guilelessness of his celestial wisdom, goes back of all acciden*
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tal conditions of mind, working serenely within that hidden pham-
ber of the heart where we venerate innocence and are again chil-
dren in our simplicity. As soon would we tear petal from pet^
of the first violet of spring in order to analyze it as we would
try to find where is the charm of the Annunciation of the clois-
ter of San Marco. " A garden enclosed is my sister, my spouse,**
sings the Canticle of Canticles, and thus sits Mary under the
round arches with their slender pillars of her cloistered home iti
Nazareth. The greensward before her is set close with blooms
like some prairie in spring, and over the high fence bounding its
limits are seen tall cypresses and slender olive-trees. The outer
door to the ** Holy House," as it will thenceforth be called, is
open, and the grating through which every visitor is questioned
is seen within. Everything breathes peace, tranquillity ; and
Mary herself is the soul of that celestial quiet, as we see her
seated on an humble wooden bench or stool, such as one sees in
a convent of poverty-loving religious. There is no book on her
knee. She is not in the attitude of prayer. The soul of this Vir-
gin whose name is Mary is simply absorbed in that •* prayer of
union " which holds every sense of body as of soul. There is no
movement of the interior more than of the exterior. All is qui-
escent ; and this peace is utter, entire, transcending the peace of
men or of angels. But what presence is this already across the
threshold, already genuflecting before the Virgin of Nazareth,
the hands crossed, the bright wings still extended from his flight,
and all the joy of the Ave, gratia plena on his face, on his
gently parted lips ? And Mary ? There is no terror, not even
surprise, on that face, so pure that we feel as if an angel rather
than a mortal had limned it. No, not e^fen surprise. Her arms
and hands cross over each other at her girdle, so peaceful has
been her gesture; and she bends forward as if to receive the salu-
tation, her eyes meeting with the gentlest composure the look
of the angel. There is no dove, no lily, only the angelic holiness
of the messenger of joy, only the Immaculate Virginity of Mary.
And this is Fra Angelico's Annunciation, as unapproachable in
its simplicity as it is unrivalled in its sweetness — the spring flower
of the cloisters of San Marco.
We do not propose to mention all the Annunciations in the
world — in fact, only a very few of them ; but these are types of
the different ways in which the Annunciation has been regarded
by, or has impressed itself upon, different minds. Donatello, in
that first work which attracted the admiration of the beauty-lov-
ing Florentines, in Santa Croce, has represented her as turning
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iSS;.] The Ai^nunciation in Art. 17
trom rather than towards the angel. Michael Angelo has given
much the same idea in one of his drawings. Raphael made a
sketch of the Annunciation in which the angel is running across
the pillared court where the Virgin is seated, as if in haste to
salute her ; and a friend has sent us a photograph from an An-
nunciation by Guercino, at Bologna, which represents the Eter-
nal Father sending the angel, wholly intent upon receiving the
message, and lily in hand, to the kneeling Virgin absorbed in
the reading of the prophecies. All these evidence the aspects
under which the mystery presented itself to the pious imagina-
tions of these artists. But there is one by Antonio da Correggio
which is as diflferent from all others, while still absorbing their
various charms, as his Nativity is different from all others.
It was painted in fresco for the church of the Annunciation at
Parma, and was so prized that, when it became necessary to
demolish the wall on which it was painted, it was removed, by
the order of Pier Luigi Farnese, to the inner vestibule. It fills
merely a half-moon, and everything conforms to this narrow
boundary; Gabriel himself is borne, kneeling, on a rushing
cloud by angels, one of whom carries the lily, into the presence
of this tender Virgin, who is kneeling also, as if she were reading
the prophecies when he entered. But how describe this deli- ^
cious and wholly immaculate flower of womanhood just opening
under the sunburst of grace ? The index-finger of the angel tells
the story to her, his left hand pointing to the world with its
mountains and valleys in the background, while the Dove, in a
flood of glory, spreads his wings of light over the head bending
like a lily overcharged with its own sweetness, and the eyes
veiled in the silent ecstasy of that moment when the Word be-
comes Incarnate in her virginal womb. The hands spread invol-
untarily, as if her Magnificat were already in her heart ; for the
bliss is more than transcendent — it is ineffable.
Who has ever been in Florence without turning, under some
irresistible attraction, into the Piazza Annunziata, where the
light is the broadest, the shadows deepest in all the City of
the Lily ? We pass under the shadow of the arcades opposite
the " Innocenti " to catch one more glimpse in our life-time of
the martyred Innocents of Bethlehem in their swaddling-bands
as they stand so pathetically on the spandrels between the round
arches of Brunelleschi's arcade for the Foundlings' Home in Flor-
ence, and then pass into the vestibule of the Annunziata itself,
where the Servites of Mary stand as a guard of honor, from
century to century, over the miraculous picture, around which
VOL, XLV.— 2 ^
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gather the traditions which Florence cherishes as her palladium
of honor and of sanctity. We do not ask to have it unveiled ;
we only kneel close within the twilight of the canopied altar,
and ask the soft radiance of its latnps, filled with the purest oil
from olive groves, to fall upon us; and the story of the young
artist-monk who, despairing of delineating the face of the Vir-
gin, slept in sheer exhaustion, to wake and find an angel had
painted it for him, comes to mind as it never could come but in
the twilight of that canopy and the tender glow of the lamps ;
and we close our eyes in the rapture of silent contemplation as
the Ave^ Maria, gratia plena comes to our lips. It must have been
under an inspiration like this which gave to Luca della Robbia
the conception which he has embodied in the Annunciation of
the Innocentu A simple half-moon like Corrcggio's, how differ-
ently has the space been filled! The line of the arch is given
by seraphs* heads, each with its six wings. To the right, bend-
ing to the curve of the arch with a lowliness of humility which
is also the perfection of grace and of beauty, is Mary kneeling
at her prayer-stool, the open book of the prophecies before her.
Mantled and veiled, she seems to have been wholly absorbed
until the Ave of Gabriel breaks the silence and she lifts her eyes
while laying her hand over her bosom to her shoulder as if by
an instinct of modesty. And Gabriel? He whose name signi-
fies ** the strength of God " kneels before this Virgin as rich in
fortitude as she is in humility ; kneels, too, with a grandeur al-
most awful, so awe-inspiring is the gesture of the lifted index-
finger, so strong is his grasp on the lilies in his left hand, so
deep, so earnest is the look on that face of solemn beauty. His
Ave is not the salutation of joy alone. The maternity promised
to the sublimely humble Virgin before whom he kneels is not that
of sweetness alone. There will be the bliss of the new-born In-
fant, the visit of the shepherds and the Magi; there will be the
peaceful dwelling in Nazareth after the return from Egypt;
there will be the first miracle in Cana of Galilee ; there will be
the hosannas of the children through the streets of Jerusalem ;
but there will be also the agony in the garden, the betrayal ot
Judas, the denial of Peter ; there will be the scourging and the
crowning of thorns, the cup of gall and vinegar, the crucifixion,
the taking down from the cross, and the entombment. O
Virgin of Nazareth ! canst thou indeed receive the Hail of this
Gabriel? Canst thou accept thy august rank as the Mother not
only of Israel's Messias but of the world's Redeemer? All the
w^potsibilities of the Incarnation are given by the gesture of the
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f887.J Tbe Anni^nciation in Art. 19
angel, all are accepted by the sublime assent of Mary ; and as we
raise our eyes to the Eternal Father in all his benignity, sur-
rounded by other seraphs still, and holding forth his hands to
this immaculate daughter of Eve, as we see also the Dove of
the Holy Ghost serenely descending to claim her for his spouse,
we realize that we are standing, rather let us say kneeling, before
the most sublime representation of the Annunciation which the
world has ever seen.
" From Ave Maria Xo Ave Mariay* say the chronicles of many
an historian of that beautiful land where the hours of the day are
reckoned by tht Angelas ringing from every campanile. There
is no shame or ''confession of faith " in pausing, anywhere, until
the three strokes have given the answer of Mary to Gabriers
message and the fulfilment of the mystery. The very cantatrice
pauses in her trill, then resumes it as the strokes of the bell cease.
In our own North American Mexico every vehicle pauses on the
street, the salesman's hand pauses on his yard-stick, until the
Angelus bell has sounded its last note. Happy fields over which
floats the Angelus from the village belfry, and maiden and youth
pause, with heads bent low over the implements of toil, to recite
the message of the angel of the Lord and the assent of Mary !
Happy cities over whose thronging multitudes and crowded
streets is heard, not only in the still morning but at high iK>on
and the weary evening, the strokes of the Angelus high up in
their lofty towers, recalling men from the passing interests of
time to the everlasting realities of the Incarnation and what it
is to them ; lifting the hearts alniost submerged by the cares and
the prosperities of this rushing tide of human afiairs, and breath-
ing over the soul of the banker and of the beggar the fulness of
that peace which first came to the world with Gabriel's "Hail,
full of grace ! the Lord is with thee."
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20 Mr. Thomas Chivbr^ Boarder. [April,
MR. THOMAS CHIVERS* BOARDER.
PART II.
I.
Mrs. Chivers agreed with her husband that the figures
named by Dr. Park for the board of old Ryal, in the event of
his being cast upon thern, were high ; but she determined to
come as near earning them as possible. She was a noted feeder
to white and black, home folk and guests. Mr. Wilcher, the
sheriff, used to say that he couldn't help from loving to have a
dinner-hour catch him as he was riding by Tommy Chivers'
house on his official business.
On the night of the day when Dr. Park and Mr. Chivers had
their last conversation, the man Luke, having gone clandestinely
over there, reported that his master, acting on Mandy's account
of her father's motion to strike her, had given Ryal notice
that he should withdraw his rations. Thoughts upon the re-
sponsibilities likely to be devolved upon him as a boarding-house
keeper, so far outside of his habits and expectations, hindered Mr.
Chivers from finding sleep until an hour somewhat later than
usual, and he did not awaken on the morrow until nearly sunrise.
Bouncing from his bed and slipping into his clothes — a thing
that he could do in less time than most men would consume in
putting on mere trousers — he issued forth from his chamber and
learned with some surprise that Hannah, with his wagon and
Jim, his gig-horse, had set out by the dawn for her father's in
order to bring away the exile.
"What!" he exclaimed, "that girl is a grown woman, sure
enough. Somethin' got to be done with her, cert'n."
Without a moment's delay he set out, and the woods, as he
passed along, echoed the reproductions of their various songsters.
Hannah had intentionally provided against the possible meeting
of her father and uncle that she knew both would rather avoid,
and had sent by Luke instruciion to Ryal to repair early to the
opening of the grove in front of his master's place, where she
would meet him. She was half-way on her return when Ryal
exclaimed :
" Dar come Marse Tommy. A body don't need to lay eyes
on Marse Tommy to know he somewhar about"
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188/.] Mr. Thomas Chiver^ Boarder. 21
" Hello, Hannah ! *' cried her uncle when they had met.
" Caught a runaway nigger, er have Uncle Ryal found a lost
child?"
" Bofe un 'era, Marse Tommy, I reckin," said Ryal, smiling
sadly. " No ; 'taint dat way," he added solemnly. " De Lord
in Heb'n sont her to fetch me to you, a-knowin* I couldn't git to
you by myself. Mistess told me befoe she died to put my 'pen-
nence on de Lord ; it look like I shall have to put some o' it on
you, too, Marse Tommy."
" All right, all right, Uncle Ryal. You welcome at my house
as you used to be. But, Hannah, dad fetch it all! it look like you
told the truth when you told 'Ria you feel like you got so you
'fraid o' nothin'. Howbeever, no danger in Jim. He's gentle
enough. Drive ahead. Git up, Jim. No, I don't want to ride,
exceptin' these two ponies I always k'yar under me. Move on.
Move up. Straighten that trace, Jim, and make 'em git a good
breakfast for you all. You want yourn, I know, whether the
balance of 'em want theirn or not, and I'm keen for mine. Geet
up, sir! "
As they trotted on, the invalid said :
" Monstous good man, Marse Tommy. Mistess allays said
he wouldn't let me suffer if he could hep it."
" Uncle Ryal," answered the child, " he's the best man in this
world, I believe, not excepting Dr. Park, and hardly excepting
old Mr. Sanford."
A room, not expensively garnished indeed, but cleanly swept
and comfortably appointed, awaited the boarder. It had been
occupied by two half-grown lads, who declared that they were
proud to gfive it up for that purpose and take narrower quarters
elsewhere ; for Ryal at all times had been a favorite among black
and white. The old man's outfit in furniture was far beyond
satisfactory ; and if the negroes on the place had not been used
to the greatest abundance, they might have envied the sumptu-
ous minage that Mrs. Chivers or Hannah set before him several
times a day. As it was, the younger children of both races,
though not exactly hanging around, were wont to be within con-
venient call for tidbits of chicken-pie, custard, and I could not
say what all, that were sure to be saved for them.
On the day after his arrival Mr. Chivers repaired to the
Bridge, and, although his usual orchestral performance was sus-
pended as he passed by the Blodget mansion, Mandy observed
him, and so informed her lord and master, who was then at his
breakfast Had Mr. Blodget been aware of the existence of the
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22 Mr. Thomas Chivbr^ Boarder. [April,
statute heretofore quoted, it is highly probable that he would
have acted with less temerity. Yet, ignorant and audacious as
he was, he knew well enough that he dare not defy public opinion
out and out. He believed that he might put upon bis brother-
in4aw whatever he pleased, yet he felt that the public must know,
or seem to know, his reasons. So, after breakfast, he rode to
the Bridge, hitched his horse to a rack, and, dismounting, went
into the piazza of the store. Mr. Chivers was emerging just
then, having under his arm the purchases he had made, wrap-
ped in a bundle. In the piazza were seated two of the neigh-
bors.
" Mawnin', Tommy," said Mr; Blodget. " Saw anything o
oldRyal?"
" Yes ; he's at my house. Didn't you know it ? "
" Well, yes, I did ruther hear he were than But I want it
understood that I never sent him thar, an' I ain't responshible fer
him in no ways."
" Yes, Tice, the old feller come thar yistidy a-lookin' ruther
gaunt in the jaws, an' I, er ruther 'Ria, she give him some vic-
tuals. He said you driv him off/'
** Did he tell you, the impident, deceitful old hound ! what it
wus fer, and that it wus fer his impidence in wantin' to dictate
to me about my dimestic business like he owned me 'stid o' my
ownin' o' him ? Did he tell you them ? "
" No. I never ast him, ner he never told me nary word about
that ner them."
" Well, right here, in the presence of Mr. Bivins and Mr.
Lazenberry, I want it understood that I never driv that nigger
off'complete ; but that as he have meddled with my business, an'
which by good rights I ought to of give him ,the cowhide, I told
him, an' I told him mild, that he would git no rashins from me
'ithout he went to work an' kep his mouth shet ; an' I want it
understood, far an' squar^ that I never sent him to your house,
that I got nothin' to do with him a-bein' thar, an' that I ain't to
be hilt responshible fer it ner him."
" All right, Tice."
Mr. Chivers puckered his lips, but he wa^ too polite a man to
whistle in company except upon request.
" Tommy," said Mr. Lazenberry, noticing the bundle, that had
not been wrapped very cunningly, " 'pear like you got more flan-
nin than needed fer female purpose. Young, healthy man like
you goin' to war flannin' ? "
" Never you mind, Jim, The almanic say we gotn' to have a
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i88;.] Mr. Thomas Chi V£r^ Boarder. 23
many a coW spell of weather this comin* winter. Mawnin' to
yoo all, gent'men."
•• What chune do he call that he's a-whistlin* now, Jimmy ?"
asked Mr. Bivins.
"I hain't," answered Mn Lazenberry — **I hain't never got
complete the run o* Tommy's chunes, they so many an' warous ;
but my believes is, Mr. Bivins, that the chune Tommy a-whistlin'
at the present is what he call The Thrasher. You know he al-
ways in genii make his chunes hisself an' name 'em arfterwards,
an' as a common thing he name 'em arfter defferent birds an* sech.
Yes, sir, I'm toler'ble shore in my mind that whut he's a^puttin'
up now he call The Thrasher.'*
•' Well, Tommy's a ruther musicky little feller," said the old
man kindly.
" That boy's whistlin'," said Mr. Blodget with rather compas*
sionate regret, "an* his indulgin* an* humorin' o' his niggers, has
kep' him from getherin' any whar nigh the prop'ty he ought to
of gethered before now by good rights. That flannin he's
a-movin' off with, I'll lay it ain't fer him, an* my doubts ef it's
fer 'Ria er the ohildern. 'Twouldn't surprise me ef 'twas fer
some o' his niggers that has laid claim to have the rheumatiz like
old Ryal.'*
When he had l6ft the store Mr. Lazenberry said :
" Mr. Bivins, you older man 'n me. Can a man, jes* so, palm
off" his broke-down niggers on t'other people that way ? Is they
any law fer sech as that?"
Mr. Bivins was a man of very moderate means and informa-
tion ; but he had a widowed daughter with a respectable pro-
perty, and her plantation joined Mi-. Blodget's on the north, so he
answered :
*• I dbn't know, Jimmy, as they is any lattrier jes sech a case
— that is, in them words. But you hear Mr. Blodget say with
his own mouth that he never sent the nigger too Tommy, ner
palm him on too him. They's a defFer'nce right thar, Jimmy, be-
twix' one thing an' another."
" Yes, sir ; but Tice Blodget know mighty well that Tommy
Chivers not goin' to let no old broke-down family nigger be suf-
ferin' any whar about him."
" That all may be so, Jimmy. I got nothin' to say, you know
I hain't, agin Tommy ; fer he is a nice, clever, acommodatin' lit-
tle feller, an' as good a whistler, ef not the best whistler, I ever
knowed. But, Jimmy, we has to 'member that white folks is
white folks, an' niggers is niggers ; an' not only that, but that
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24 Mr. Thomas Cmiver^ Boarder. [April,
corntracks is corntracks, an* it's for them reasons that I never
feels agzactly like it were my business to bother myself ner med-
dle myself with whut people that owns niggers does with *em er
does not with 'em/'
" Well, /call sech conduct a blasted shame, I do."
" I can't go to that lenkt, Jimmy, it not a-bein' none o' my
business."
" It ought to be somebody's. No man ought to be allowed
to fling off* his old niggers that's broke theirselves down a-workin'
(cr him, an' special on sech as Tommy Chivers."
After this retort the subject was dropped.
II.
Under the new r6gime Ryal seemed to improve so in health
that Hannah, shortly after his coming, returned to school. The
main trouble with the old man was the thought that he had
ceased to be of value. He was a type of that sort of slaves who
in simple, humble faithfulness have never been outdone in this
world. Any sort of white man, except such as Cato the Elder
or Ticey Blodget, would have felt shame to know that in the
breast of this dependant, once so prized, now discarded, was not
only no resentment but a continued solicitude for his master's
interests. He had been a noted maker of baskets for cotton-
picking, and when, in answer to repeated requests from Dr.
Park, he was allowed to do some of that work, and he had fin-
ished the supply needed on the place, he asked Mr. Chivers if
he might make some for his master.
" Bercause, Marse Tommy," he urged, " dey ain't no nigger
over dar ken make bastets sich as marster want Marster were
always monsous pitickler 'bout de cotton-pickin' bastets."
Just then Dr. Park came up, and, when the request was made
known to him, said :
" Look here, Unk Ryal, Mr. Blodget got nothing to do with
you now, and the less you have to do with him the better. You
belong to the Inferior Court of this county now."
•' De Lord hep my soul an' body, Marse Doctor ! I thought
I b'longed to marster yit, ef I ever gits so I ken be any use to
him."
" No, SIR."
" Den don't I b'long to Miss Harnah ? "
Tears came into his eyes, and there is no telling what Mr.
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18870 -Wi?- Thomas Chivbr^ Boarder. 25
Chivers might have doae if he had not rushed off to his corn-
field. As it was, no cat-bird that ever lived ever indulged in
more passionate utterance than that which now poured hotly
from his mouth.
" No, sir, you belong to the Inferior Court of the county and
State aforesaid, in such case made by the law and provided,**
said the doctor with much emphasis.
•' Does you — does you mean de shaiff, Mister Parks? Is I got
ter go on dc block ? De Lawd hep my soul atC body ! "
" I don't mean that, Uncle Ryal. The sheriff got nothing to
do with you. No telling what he may have to do with some
other people before long. But you belong, for the time being,
to the judges of the Inferior Court- You know Mr. Ivy — Mr.
Adam Ivy? He's one of 'em. They're five in all."
" Den I got five marsters. De Loitl in Heb'n know I never
'spected to come to dis. Den 1 s'pose Marse Adam an' dem will
have to 'wide de bastets twix' deyself. Well, well ! I did hope I
mout not go out de fambly tell I died."
" Look here, Ryal," said the physician rather impatiently,
"don't you bother yourself about that. Your Marse Tommy
an* I will see that you don't go out of the family for good. Fire
away on your baskets, if you must work. But you be particular.
Whenever you get tired, do you stop. Hear ? "
" Yes, sir, Marse Parks ; but dat little work I do ain't wuflF
nothin', not to one marster let alone — **
** Uncle Ryal," said the doctor softly, as he rose, ** I
don't think the time is very far off when you will have but
one master, and it will be one who will always be good to you.
By-by.'*
He turned away, and with his handkerchief tried to press
back the tears that rose to his eyes.
It was not long before there was a glut in the basket business,
and several of the neighbors, instead of stopping their hands to
have them made at home, supplied themselves at the dirt-cheap
prices set on his work by Ryal. His master heard of all this
and of his supposed rapid improvement. One day, as he was
riding past, the old man, with a hammer in his hand, was stand-
ing by the front gate, to which he had been doing some simple
repairs.
" You miser'ble, deceitful scounderl — " began Mr. Blodget.
" Uncle Ryal," called Mrs. Chivers, appearing that moment
on the piazza, ** it's time for you to quit and come for your medi-
cine and your tea and toast How do, Mr. Blodget ? "
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26 Mr. Thomas Chivbrs' Boarder. [April,
"Howdy, 'Ria? Ruther curous piece o' business, Tommy
harbVin* o' my nigger, an* havin' him workin' ier him in the
broad open daytime."
"Sooky," called the lady, "blow the shell for your Marse
Tommy."
•* Oh ! never mind, Sooky, never mind. I jes* only make the
remark that it look ruther curous."
" Mr. Blodget, you knew that Uncle Ryal was here as well as
you knew that you had drove him off from home. I'm thankful
to believe that you are the only man in this neighborhood that
would have used such words as * harboring negroes* to a woman
when talking about her husband, especially one who he knew
wouldn't and couldn't do such a thing."
•* Why, he! he! 'Ria, I thought, as the sayin* is, the gray mar'
were the better horse in tlfis case."
Without another word she went to the gate, took the negro's
trembling hand, and led him to his cabin. Mr. Blodget looked at
them in silence for a few moments, then rode ob.
This demonstration, as Mr. Chivers at length was convinced
by his wife and Dr. Park, had been made for the purpose of
diverting some part of the odium that Mr. Blodget must know
had attached to himself for Ryal's being there.
"Mrs. Chivers is perfectly right, Tommy," said Dr. Park.
" You ought not to notice his words, mean as they were, at
least for the present. It's right hard, I know; but when such a
fellow as Blodget is bent on hanging himself, it is well enough
to Jet him wind his own rope, which he's doing fast. Take it
out in whistling, my dear friend. Encourage him to whistle, Mrs.
Chivers, if you find him needing it. I need not tell you both
to continue your gentle care of poor old Ryal. He isn't long
for this world."
"What, Dock!" exclaimed Mr. Chivers. " Why, he look
better, and he's a heap activer."
" Yes, that's owing to the good nursing he's had here; but
the thing is leaving his limbs and is now after his heart. When
it gels there the jig's up."
" The good Lord have mercy on us all ! " said Mr. Chivers.
Then, sobbing as he went, he rushed away to the field where his
hands were at work. Tears were in the eyes of the others.
" They don't make any bcftter men these days, Mrs. Chivers,
than that little fellow rushing along yonder."
" Dr. Park," answered the wife, " he's perfect — he's just sim-
ply perfect. I didn't tell him all the words of Ticey Blodget;
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i8»70 ^^- Thomas Chivbr^ Boarder. 27
for, as it was, I could hardly keep him from going over there to
see him about it."
" I'm glad he didn't go. The thing is coming to a head fast,
and it needs no other forcing except vrhat he does himself."
" But have you no hope about Uncle Ryal?"
" Almost none. My opinion is that he will not live six weeks
longer."
*' Then I must try to get him to send for Mr. Sanford."
" A good idea! An excellenrt idea! Mr. Sanford can do him
more good now than I can."
IIL
Two weeks afterwards Mr. Chivers: set out one morning to
the Bridge for the purpose of getting another supply of tea and
loaf-sugar for his boarder. The Rev. Mr. Sanford had been to
see Ryal on the day before, and, after a very satisfactory conver-
sation with him, it was understood that at the next conference
of Long Creek meeting-house Ryal,. if pronounced by Dr. Park
able to get there, would apply for membership. Though not a
church-member himself, Mr. Chivers was gratified in his mind.
He was proud of the high standing, that his wife held in the
Long Creek fellowship, and he sincerely hoped that the day
would come when he might venture to knock at that door him-
self. Thus far he had remained convinced in his mind that a
man so fond of whistling. tunes that were entirely cai;-nal was not
fit for such solemn communion^ He moved along on this morn-
ing — a lovely one it was- in that season, the fall of the year — with
a less sprightly step than usual, and in comparative silence.
Among the multifarious muses of his oft invocations there was
not one a^fowedly, or mainly, or even slightly religious and he
was not a man to desecrate solemn themes with songs of the
joree, or sap-sucker, or others of a thoughtless and mere worldly
choir. He moved along thoughtfully, Bobby the while depend-
ing: low from the arm from which, in all moods of his master, he
seldom, unless that master was asleep, was separated.
** Hello, Tommy! Mawnin'. How come I^don't hear you
whist lin' this fine momin'? Fambly troubles, I suppose. I see
you suin' your brer-in-Iaw.*'
The salutation reached him not far this side of the grove in
front of Mr. Blodget's residence. It came from Mr. Wilcher,
the sheriff,
" Mawnin', Mr. Wilcher. What? I reckin not."
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28 Mr. Thomas Chiver^ Boarder. [April,
The officer drew from his coat-pocket a bundle of writs, se-
lected one, and, handing it down, said :
" If that ain't you, 1 don't know who it stand for."
The paper was endorsed thus :
Adam Ivy et ai..— Justices, etc., etc.
Use of Thomas Chi vers 1
vs. V Assumpsit, etc.
Ticey Blodget. )
" I didn't— that is, I didn't expect, Mr. Wilcher. Dr. Park
never told me — well, well ! Why, Dr. Park—"
** I got one agin him from Dr. Park, too, an' a bigger 'n
yourn," interrupted the officer.
By this time having reached the grove, the latter turned
in, and Mr. Chivers, in yet more serious rumination, went on.
Several men, Mr. Adam Ivy among them, had come to the store
on this the first after Return-day for suits at the fall term of the
Superior Court (knowing that the sheriff would be along), in
order to ascertain who among the neighbors had been sued.
Half an hour after Mr. Chivers had gotten there Mr. Blodget
rode up with the sheriff. His face, as he walked up the steps to
the piazza, was red with passion. He had never been sued
before.
•* Mawnin', Mr. Ivy. Glad to see you. Mawnin', gent'men."
Mr. Chivers, as was his wont whenever there were fewer
seats than persons to be seated, was squatted on his haunches
near one of the piazza-rails. As while bargaining with Dr. Park
in the matter of Ryal's board, his mouth was upon the head of
his cane, and his fingers were silently performing a tune of ex-
traordinarily quick movement. Mr. Blodget looked tlown upon
him with most angry contempt for some moments, and seemed
as if he were revolving how to begin an assault upon one who,
however contemptible as an adversary, had inflicted upon him a
wound more painful than any that he had ever endured. He
really believed that he had every advantage. The writ of As-
sumpsit, as all knbw who have even a slight experience in judi-
cial proceedings, implies and so alleges on the part of the defen-
dant a promise to pay the debt claimed on a certain day therein
named, and repeated refusals of demands therefor. * He sincerely
thought, therefore, that Mr. Chivers had sought to malign and
otherwise injure him.
'* Tommy Chivers," he said at length, with what mildness he
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1887.] Mr. Thomas Chiver^ Boarder. 29
could command, ** I want to ast you, in the presence o' Mr. Ivy
an' these other gent'men, if I ever put my nigger Ryal at your
house as a boder."
"No, sir; you did not," answered Mr. Chivers, not resting,
possibly hastening somewhat, in his music.
" So fur, so good. This paper that Mr. Wilcher, the sherifl,
have served on me say I did, and that I promussed to pay you
nine dollars a munt, an' that time an' time agin you has made the
'mand on me fer the money. Is them so, er is they not so ? "
" They is not, sir," answered Mr. Chivers, his large gray eyes
opening wide and twinkling as the unheard music of his clarionet
increased in rapidity. ** Ticey Blodget," he continued, *' I don't
know what that paper says, but I never told nobody that you had
promussed to pay me one cent fer takin* keer o* poor old Uncle
Ryal. He come to my house a-sayin' that you had driv him off*,
an' I sheltered him an' fed him. I think myself the bode's high,
but Dr. Park—"
*' Never you mind about Dr. Park. Less git through with
the balance o' your false chargin's." He turned a page of the
writ and laid his finger on another allegation. The while the
music ceased, the loop of Bobby was drawn slowly over Mr.
Chivers* wrist, and his right hand took hold of the handle. The
defendant resumed : ** Here's another itom, an* which, ef it ain't
as big in amount o' money, it's the meanest and the biggest lie
you've told in the whole con — "
He had gotten thus far in his last speech when Mr. Chivers,
even in the act of rising, inflicted with his cane a blow upon his
head that felled him to the floor. Immediately he puckered his
lips and opened upon Tfu Game Rooster. Pausing a moment, as
Mr. Blodget, after momentary stunning, was preparing to rise,
he cried .•
" Cler the way, gent'men ! Cler the way, ef you please! The
chune me and Bobby got on hand now have to have a plenty
o' room an* a plenty o' an*'
No mortal eye could have followed that baton as, after a mul-
titude of 5tyrations, all apparently coexistent, it came back-hand-
ed, producing another prostration, when louder yet rose the crow
of the exultant chanticleer.
" Hold on, Tommy, hold on ! " loudly cried Dr. Park, who
at that moment, having ridden there in full gallop, leaped from
his horse, rushed up the steps, and, drawing away Mr. Chivers,
turned, waited for Mr. Blodget to rise, then said :
** Mr. Blodget, I don*t know what special provocation you
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30 Mr. Thomas Chiver^ Boardem^ [April,
gave Tommy for striking you. But, knowing you both as I do,
I suspect it was suflScient. I hoped you might meet me first
after being sued about old man Ryal, and you would but that on
my way up the road .1 was detained with him some longer than
I expected."
" Dr. Park," said the man, in rage ungovernable, " I've got to
have satisfaction for all of this oudacious business."
" All right, all right, Mr. Blodget Any sort you want frcMn
me that's at all reasonable you can get, if you haven't had enough.
The. fact is, Mr. Blodget, whatever satisfaction you are entitled
to, if any, is due altogether from myself, as I had the suit insti-
tuted in Tommy's behalf and without his .knowledge, knowing
• t4uit, if he could be induced to sue you at all, be would insist upon
putting his claim at less than it ought to be. But before you go
any further on that line, let me give you a message Ryal sent
you by me less than an hour ago. He said to me: * Marse Doc-
tor, tell marster, when you sees him, I allays tried to do de bes' I
could. fer him?' What do you think the old fellow did then?
Mr. Blodget, Ryal is dead! Mr. Ivy," turning, he said to that
gentleman, " the poor, dear old man was very anxious to join
you all at Long Creek, and I tried my best to make him hold
out at least for that, but I couldn't. Don't you suppose that
in such a case they'll take the will for the deed?"
" I hain't a doubt of it, doctor — nary doubt," answered the
deacon.
When Mr. Blodget recovered from the stupefaction into
which be had been thrown, looking around as if he would fain
say something appealing but could not find what, and after a
fe\<r moments rode away, Mr. Chivers, going to the further end
of the piazza, wept for several minutes like a little child. Then
he rose and, accompanied by Dr. Park, left for his home.
IV.
This was on a Friday. That afternoon one of Mr^j Blodget *s
men came and said to Mr. Chivers that his master had sent him
in order to take the measure of the corpse for a coffin, and that
two others would soon follow for digging the grave.
" Go back, Joe, and tell your master that I and Dr. Park have
sent for Mr. Humphrey, and that we'll attend to all. Tell him
he won't be put to any more expense about Uncle Ryal."
This message cut Mr. Blodget deeply. For the first time in
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1 8870 "^^* Thomas Cmiver^ Bqardb&. 31
all his life he would willingly, gladly have taken a responsibility
that others had assumed. He felt that he could scarcely dare to
attend the funeral on the following Sunday afternoon, at which
he had heard that the Rev. Mr. Sanford wa| to officiate, and he
felt an indefinable dread of the words that this devout, coura-
geous man might employ.
On this occasion a large company of white and black were pre-
sent ; for the deceased had been well thought of by all, and indig-
nation, not loudly avawed but decided, was felt in view of the cir-
cumstances in which his master had allowed him to die. The
coffin was borne and rested on two chairs placed upon the
ground in front of the piazza. The visitors — a few in the house
and piazza, mostly in the yard and the space beyond — listened
respectfully to all the services. A hymn was sung at which few
eyes were without tears; for the negro's voice, especially in
multitudinous choir, has a pathos than which I have never
heard any that was more touching. After an introductory
prayer the preacher rose. Now an old man, with long white
locks, he had gotten little education from schools, but a life of
virtue, of reading, particularly of close, prayerful study pf the
Bible, and a natural eloquence cultivated throughout more than
twoscore of years, had made him an eminent leader in his pro-
fession. Persons of all the religious denominations s{>oke of him
with profound respect. To-day it was evident that he was deep-
ly moved, and that he was more studious of his words than
usual. Sometimes his feelings, profoundly stirred, transported
him, not into anything like denunciation, but into passionate
appeals that carried with them solemn and awful warnings. Af-
ter some observations on the certainty and solemnity of death,
and the importance of due preparation for the Judgment, he
spoke of the lowliness in which the life just closed had been
led ; of its contentment with a lot that excluded all chances of
rising above it in this world ; of its faithful, cheerful performance
of work from boyhood to an age that perhaps had been made
prematurely old by that work's excess from uncommon zeal for
the interests of its master ; of its touching regret for the failure ot
the strength of its prime for that master's sake, not its own ; of
its appeals during its very last days for permission to continue at
work, appeals that the physician who tended him regarded it
more humane to grant than to refuse ; and then of that dying
message, showing that thoughts of duty were its very last.
" And now, my friends," he said, " I feel constrained to say a
few words on a subject that, delicate as it may be, it is equally
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32 Mr. Thomas Chivers* Boarder. [April,
important that it be well understood. I am thankful that, as far
as my acquaintance extends, in the main the dependent beings
who, in the providence of God, have been cast among us are
reasonably fed, clotljpd, and housed, and that they are not over-
worked to a degree that may be called inhumane. Any single
exception to that rule is a great, a grievous wrong, both in a
business point of view and especially in the matter of moral obli-
gation. Of all creatures whom the good God has made, man can
most easily overwork himself and be overworked by others.
Yet, whenever this is done, it is followed by disaster — disaster
that is always painful, sometimes piteous, to contemplate. The
premature decay that is sure to follow costs in the end more than
the value of the extra work done in the period of unimpaired
strength and activity. Therefore it is bad economy in the case
of a horse or an ox ; but how much more in the case of a man,
who, when he fails, is, of all creatures, most helpless, most useless,
most troublesome ! The aged or overworked beast may be turn-
ed into the pasture and crop a scanty living with little expense
until he falls, when short is the delay of death. But in such con-
dition a man needs constant care, dainty food, tender ministra-
tions, and these often throughout periods of many years. To a
selfish man these needs seem burdensome, and you and I know
some — I am thankful they are not many — who provide for such
cases too poorly, and who, I fear, would do more so but for the
public opinion in the community and the public law of the State.
It always seemed to me strange that with any man, Christian or
heathen, aged and broken-down servants, human or lower animal,
after long-continued, faithful, too laborious service, could be neg-
lected by their owners, or even be parted from by them, when
able to provide for those peculiar needs that^only remembrance
and gratitude can make a man fully competent to supply. Now,
among us, my friends, who live in the light of the Christian faith,
there is not one who, even in childhood, has not learned that to
exact of any dependent creature more of service than it can rea-
sonably perform is a sin against God, and the refusal to take
care of one thus reduced to prostration is a greater ; and when
that creature is a human being, I tell you, what you already
know, that every dollar thus gotten and thus saved is the price
of BLOOD ! " Pausing an instant, he ended that theme in low but
more appalling tone : " And those who have thus gathered will
see the day when they will feel like going to some holy place,
and, like the wretched Judas, in shame and remorse cast it upon
the ground."
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1887-] Mr. Thomas Chivbr^ Boarder.^ 33
He looked upon the congregation in silence for some mo-
ments, then said : " On the subject of religious instruction for the
colored people in our midst I often feel much painful embarrass-
ment I have never known nor heard of a man who wilfully hirtder.
ed his servants from receiving such as could be rendered without
inconvenience to business and work; and as one whom, as I hum-
bly trust, God has called to be a minister of the Gospel, I feel
ashamed to confess that some of the most willing in this respect,
besides being among the best, honorablest, and usefulest citizens,
are themselves members of no religious denomination. I have
often seen such a man lean and weep over a coffin as if its occu-
pant were a dear friend or kinsman, when neither the dead slave
nor the living weeper had ever been baptized ; and I have wit-
nessed a like scene when only the master had received this sac-
rament, and he could then only vaguely hope that a most merciful
Creator would not drive from his presence the soul of him who
had gone without it. How such things can be I have many,
many times asked of myself. The causes, hidden somewhere in
our state of society, are known to God, and it is every Christian's,
it is every citizen's, duty to pray that he will discover them to us
and lead us to make haste for their removal. I have never had a
doubt that God means in his own good time to work out the des-
tiny of this dependent people, created like us in his image, so that
they may equally contribute to his glory. As it is now, I say, in
all proper respect and fear, that the master who sets before his
slaves evil examples, especially he who hinders him from know-
ing and pursuing good, is guilty before Heaven of a heinous
cnme, and I verily believe that in that great Day of Accouht
the condemnation of the sinning slave will be far less awful than
that of the sinning master."
After some other remarks under this head he referred again
to the deceased :
" There lie the decaying remains of what once was the best
example of strength, activity, and endurance that I and you have
ever known. I say nothing of the causes that laid him there
sooner than you and I might have expected. The issues of life
and of death are ever with God, and no man can say of another
that he died before his time. But oh ! my friends, how prostrate
now he lies ! If that lifeless body were all that was left of such
a man, how much more would we shudder when gazing upon it !
But the all of that life was not to live in this world, and toil, and
grow old, and end and be no more. That poor slave had an
immortal part, distinct as that of any among us who are most
VOL. XLV.— 3
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34 Mr. Thomas Chivbr^ Boardbr. [April
conscious of immortality. I firmly believe that it is now beyond
suflFering or perad venture; for, though hindered from becoming
a member of the church of Christ by circumstances not to be
corftroUed by himself nor the kind Samaritans into whose hands
he came by the wayside, I cannot doubt that the God of mercy
accepted the will in that behalf of one who, in his humble sphere,
had been found more than faithful to all the duties that he had
been led to understand. It was like him, and it was a most be-
coming end to the earthly life of such a man, to send with his
dying breath to the master whom he had served that farewell,
which, when I heard it, filled my heart with admiration and my
eyes with tears. Believe with me, oh ! believe with me, that
now, even now, among the throngs whom no man can number,
Ryal, once a poor slave, is clothed in garments whose dazzling
whiteness no mortal eye could endure to look upon."
He paused, and few present did not join in the weeping in
which for a brief time he indulged.
He concluded thus:
" I am sure that none of my hearers can justly fear that any-
thing that has been said by me on this occasion will do harm to
the colored people, at least in the way of inciting them to acts or
feelings of insubordination. They well know the necessity to
keep faithful to the duties of their condition. To my mind,
fiever was a ruling race more secure in the possession of control
over one in subjection than the white people of the South ;
secure not only in the means of defence against insurrection,
but, and chiefly, in the love and aflFection of their dependants.
They submit, uncomplaining, to punishments, even when plainly
greater than what is merited by their wrong-doings ; and I sol-
emnly believe that nowhere can be found another people so affec-
tionate, so grateful for kindness, so free from resentment. My
friends and fellow-citizens, the very security in which your fami-
lies live, lying down at night, both when you are at home and
when away, with doors unlocked and windows unbarred ; the
very impunity with which to a degree you may oppress the
humble beings who are your own chiefest safeguards, have made
the best and bravest among you most forbearing to them, least
exacting of unreasonable service, most considerate to their old
age and other infirmities. It is only the coward — but I have said
enough. I pray God that all of us, white and black, may learn
well whatever this lesson was intended to impart. Go in peace,
and may the blessing of God be among you and abide always!"
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1887.] Mr. Thomas Chiver^ Boarder. 35
The death of Ryal in such circumstances, and the sermon of
Mr. Sanford, made a profound impression upon the community.
Men, esi>ecially the most thoughtful, compared notes touching
their methods of domestic government, and soon there was a no-
ticeable abatement of the too great activity incident to pioneer
existence ; and this was followed, if not by as many accessions to
church-membership among the whites as was hoped, at least by
providing better church privileges for the blacks and encourag-
ing them to profit by them. There was one exception, and that
in the case of him who needed such a change the most. Mr.
Blodget would never have exposed himself to the lawsuits if he
had known of the existence of the statute under which they had
been instituted. Although he would have readily given, penu-
rious as he was, a far higher sum than that sued for to avoid the
exposure to which he had been subjected, yet, ignorant, resent-
ful, combative as he was, and believing himself to have been
outraged, he repaired to a lawyer with determination to contest
from beginning to the last. Nothing could have astonished him
more when he was informed, after hearing the law read, that de-
fence would be useless and would subject him only to greater
mortification.
" What ! Can't a man do what he pleases with his own
niggers ? "
•• Oh ! no, Mr. Blodget. Far from it. There are many things
he cannot do with them, and one of them is what you lately at-
tempted."
He left abruptly and went to the office of the court cleric
There his resentment, instead of being abated, rose higher when^
he was informed that both suits had been withdrawn by the
plaintiffs' counsel, who had paid in the costs that had accrued^
** The devil you say ! " he exclaimed as he put back his
pocket-book, which he had taken out for the purpose of pay-
ing the whole. "Ah! ha! they found they couldn't git it, did
they, Mr. Kitchens ? I thought so when I come here, a-not'ith-
standin' what that lawyer said. He told me 'twan't worth while
to 'fend it. I believe now they hired him to tell me so,, to keep'
me from prosecutin* *em for the merlicious prosecutin' o' me."
"You speakin' about lawyer Chanler, Mr. Blodget? I see
you comin* out o' his office."
" Yes, he's the feller."
" Well, I don't hardly think lawyer Chanler would of give
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36 Mr. Thomas Chiver^ Boarder. [April,
sech a opinions onless he belt to *em, an' my expeunce o* all law-
yers is that they ain't apt to ad wise a man to go an' pay up a
debt he's sued fer 'ithout they feel ruther certin in their mind
that it ain't worth his while to 'fend agin it ; and as for Mr. Chan-
ler, I'd about as soon trust to him for good, solid adwices as any
lawyer I know."
** What you s'posen' they stopped the suit for, then?"
** Well, I did hear Dr. Park say him an' Tommy had brung
the suits mostly to let you understand that you couldn't drive off
a' old broke-down nigger jes' so, an' fer other people to have to
take keer o' him *ithout payin' fer it. And he said. Dr. Park did,
that he never intended from the off-start to make you pay him
for his serverses, because he have promuss your wife on her
death-bed that he'd do all he could fer the old man Ryal ; but
he have jined along o' Tommy in fetchin' suit, because he say it
were a shame for Tommy to have to be put to the expense of
takin' keer o' your niggers an' not get paid fer it."
*• Umph, humph! he's mighty official about Tom Chivers, the
little whelp! You know Tommy got a uncommon hansome
wife, Mr. Kitchens, which she's the ekal o' two sech as that in-
significant — "
"What you drivin' at now, Mr. Blodget?" said the clerk,
laying his pen on the table, turning round, and looking his vis-
itor squarely in the face.
" Oh ! well, Mr. Kitchens, you know they is many an' warous
kind o' wheels in this world, an' special in this country."
" Yes, sir, they is, an' some of 'em has got nother hub, ner
spoke, ner feller, ner tire ; an' that's the case 'ith the one that's on
top o' your mind now."
" Oh ! now, Mr. Kitchens, a man oughtn't to kick before he's
spurred. I ain't a-insinooatin' but what 'Ria Chivers (she's my
sister-in-law, you know) — "
" And she's my wife's cousin, an' which I got no idee you did
know that, sir."
"That so?" he answered in some embarrassment. "I did
know it, but I may had forgot it when I said the little joke I said
jes' now. Fer it were a joke, an' ameanin' jes' only that Dr. Park,
like other men that has good conwersonal power, is natchel more
obleeg^n' to people whar the females is interestin' like 'Ria is."
" That's all you meant, is it, sir?"
" All, every bit, Mr. Kitchens. You didn't hear how come
Tommy to drap his case, ef you know? Tommy Chivers ought
to know that they's a off-set on my side o* his case."
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I887-] JH^' Thomas Chivers' Boarder. 37
" Mr. Blodget, I did hear Dr. Park say (for Tommy hain't ben
here sence the old man Ryal's buryin*) that even ef Tommy had
of wanted your money, an* which Tommy say he didn't, that
Tommy say them licks he give you more 'n offset his account
agin you/
" I — think — it — did, Mr. Kitchens. Good-day, Mr. Kitchens."
"Good-day, Mr. Blodget. You say you meant nothin' wrong
what you said about Cousin *Ria?"
" I got nothin' to do 'ith 'Ria Chivers, Mr. Kitchens. Tommy
Chivers owe me some sort o' settlement."
After he had left, the clerk, looking at him as he moved, said :
" You mean foul-mouth ! I don't know wher er not to tell
Tommy an' Dr. Park o' your cussed insinooashins. I ruther
think I won't, but let you go on makin' your own rope."
The sense of humiliation must be intense in the breast of a
man like Ticey Blodget when, grasping and miserly as he is, he
is made to retain in his pocket money that he would far have
preferred to pay. He felt himself yet lower degraded in public
esteem by having been thus made to submit to waivers on the
part of the two men, both of whom he now thoroughly hated.
As he rode on his return past the dwelling of Mr. Chivers, who,
with his wife, was sitting in his piazza, he did not salute them
but looked straight before him.
" Tice is riled, 'Ria, as I knowed he'd be. I'm sorry I had to
hit him,'* said the husband.
" I'm not," answered the wife. " Even Mr. Ivy said he
couldn't see how you could have done different. You got to
watch that man. Tommy."
"Oh! I not goin' to be bothered about Tice Blodget. I
got my eye on him. I jes' can't help from bein' troubled about
it on account o' Hannah."
"Yes, that ^ the pity of it; but Hannah has the sense of a
grown woman now, and it isn't going to hurt you with her.
Shfe'll know it oughtn't, and it won't. She'd a heap ruther, if it
had to be done, for it to have been done by you than Dr. Park."
"Think so, 'Ria?"
" I think nothing about it. I know it."
Hannah had not attended the funeral, as it was believed ad-
visable not to send for hen
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38 Mr. Thomas Chivers" Boarder. [April.
VI.
As Mr. Blodget rode on homeward, the events of the last
few days were partially dismissed from his mind, whose thoughts
were now being concentrated upon a new domestic trouble.
When he had reached home, alighted, and entered his house, not
finding Mandy, he came out, and, standing in the porch tending
towards the kitchen, called her several times. Receiving no an-
swer, he cried in a loud voice to the cook :
" You Hester ! Are you all deef ? Don't you hear me callin'
Mandy? Some of you'll have to have your yeares picked with
a fence-rail, er a cowhide, er a somethin' else that'll open *em.
Whar's that gal?"
" I clar I don't know, marster," answered Hester from the
kitchen-door. " I see her goin' out the gate 'bout a half-hour
ago, er sich a marter. She didn't tell me whar she gwine."
** What ! Why n't you keep her back, you fool you ? Which
way did she go ? "
" Law, marster ! I can't do nothin' wid dat gal. She went
todes whar de hands was a-ploughin*."
" Whar's Luke ? Is he gone, too ? "
" Oh ! no, marster ; I reckin not, showly. He dar wid dc
plough-hands, I no doubts."
Going back into the house and getting a cowhide, he set out
on foot for the field of which the woman had spoken.
Even before the death of her father Mandy had become dis-
satisfied with her position. The unswerving devotion of Luke,
and consciousness of the dislike and suspicion in which she was
held by the other negroes, had begun an overcoming that at her
father's death was consummated. At the funeral she sought a
private interview with Mrs. Chivers, who was much gratified by
her change of mind, but counselled the use of as much prudence
as was possible to a purpose to perform her duty. It was not
until Mr. Blodget had mounted his horse on that morning *to
begin his journey to the county-seat that she informed him of
her wish, if he would please give his consent, to be married to
Luke on the following Saturday night. He was greatly sur-
prised, and hesitated for a moment whether to dismount or pro-
ceed on his projected journey. Concluding upon the latter, he
said in bitter anger:
" It shows whut thanks a man gits from any of you when he's
try in' his best to be good to you. You tell Luke, a infernal
scoundrel — but never mind. I got to go to town to-day ; I can
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1S87.] Mr. Thomas Chiver^ Boarder. 39
settle with him when I git back. I did think you knowed whut
were best for your own intrusts. I knowed he didn't have the
sense fer that, but it can be larnt him, I reckin."
It was not a very prudent movement in Mandy to thus leave
the house; but, with all her faults, she had much of the simple
straightforwardness of her father, and she did what she thought
to be best, or at least the safest, for Luke. She had gone to the
field once before on that day, and urged him to join with her in
leaving the place ; but Luke, knowing the entire impracticability
of such action, refused, and continued at his work with much
dread for his master's return.
The hands were ploughing in a field near a body of woods
that belonged to Mrs. Harrcll, the widowed daughter of Mr.
Bivins, whom a few persons suspected that Mr. Blodget already
had thoughts of wedding some day. Mr. Blodget, instead of
going directly across the field (a thing, indeed, that he seldom
did), made first for the woods, which he skirted until he came
opposite the laborers. When they had reached the fence he
quickly scaled it, and, walking rapidly to Luke, who was turning
his plough and mule to begin on another furrow, he said:
** Drop on your all-fours, sir, and shuck yourself! "
The negro fell instantly to his knees, but at that mon^ent a
woman's voice, loud, piercing, frantic, coming out of the woods,
cried:
" Why, Godamighty, man ! that's my husband ! You goin'
to beat him to death for nothin' but thatf*
The prostrate man sprang to his feet Driven to madness,
Mr. Blodget, dropping the cowhide and drawing a dirk-knife,
struck. Luke seized his wrist, and, wrenching, pushed the wea-
pon, yet in the hand of his assailant, through and through his
body.
" Take me back home," before falling, he said to the other
negroes, " and send for your Marse Tommy and Mr. Sanford.
Not worth while to send for Dr. Park."
Bold, reckless as Mr. Blodget had been, he could not meet the
last enemy without endeavors to atone. The clergyman did not
reach there in time to hear his confession, but to the two men
whom only a few hours before he had regarded his worst ene-
mies he uttered, in what time was left, expressions of anguishing,
most abject remorse. He had sent for them mainly, he assured
them, that they might hear his dying admission of Luke's free-
dom from all guilt in his death. The fall term of the Superior
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40 Mr. Thomas Chi vers' Boarder. [April,
Court came on the next week. The Grand Jury were disposed
to take no notice of the homicide at first, but afterwards, upon
suggestion of some of the most thoughtful that Luke ought to
have the benefit of a trial of the facts before the county, brought
forth a presentment. The triers, after hearing the testimony,
without leaving the box, rendered a verdict of not guilty.
Not long afterwards Hannah was sent by her uncle and Dr.
Park, whom her father, by nuncupative testament, had appointed
executors, to a boarding-school in Augusta. After remaining
there four years she left off* and a few months afterwards was
married to Dr. Park. The Blodget place, according to appoint-
ment by the will, had been sold three years before.
Changes came over the being of Mr. Chivers, but with less
constant, decisive movement than he could have wished after the
solemn scenes in which, though far contrary to his previous ex-
pectations, he had acted prominent parts. It was almost touch-
ing to notice sometimes how he tried to be remorseful because,
with all his efforts in that behalf, he could not part as fast as he
believed he ought from the lightheartedness that had followed
him from childhood. To his cane his behavior was somewhat
peculiar. This dear companion of so many years he had loved,
and so had acknowledged many a time. But, proud as he had
been of its auxiliary service in the matter of Bill Anson's Rattler^
yet now he reflected that, in a moment of passion, it had been
wielded with equal violence and effectiveness against the head
of a human being, in fact his own brother-in-law, and him now
m his grave. It would never do, of course, for Hannah to ever
set eyes on Bobby again, even if it was not a lesson due to Bobby
that he should be retired from his public career. He rather
thought so, and so he laid him away at the bottom of the chest
in which his wife kept those things that she most seldom took
therefrom for domestic or other uses. From a remark made one
day by that lady to Mr. Sanford, that another lady thought she
overheard, it was believed by some that in that act of consign-
ment Mr. Chivers shed tears.
The successor to Bobby (for, gloomy as he tried to become,
he could not force himself, when on his travels, to utter destitu-
tion of companionship) was a young hickory, slender, cut long, as
if to warn possible assailants with apprehension of being pushed
away, or, in the last resort, punched, if not speared. His musi-
cal essays strove (whenever they could think of it) throughout a
long period with varying success to descend from the exalted
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188/.] The Question of Unity. 41
presto to which only they had been accustomed, and they ceased
altogether long before the adagio to which they had felt it a duty
to fall. It was many years before he could be gotten into Long
Creek, and then not without earnest disclaimer of fitness for the
solemn step.
** Well, well. Tommy," said Mr. Sanford in consoling tone,
" the brethren are all satisfied that you'll try to do as well as you
can. More than that even the good Lord demands of nobody."
THE QUESTION OF UNITY.
That which warrants us as Catholics in discussing this ques-
tion is our firm conviction that among all classes of Christians
there are those who look to unity as something which would
enlarge all our perceptions of Christian truth and elevate the
spiritual state of Christendom. It is, therefore, most desirable
and to be labored for unceasingly. The Catholic yearning for
unity has been forcibly expressed by Cardinal Gibbons in the
Independent^ whose words we will quote: " In all this broad land
there is no one who longs for truly Christian union more than I
do, no one who would labor more earnestly to bring about so
happy a result."
The Christian union which we desire and for which we la-
bor must be of such a character that none of the bodies com-
posing it will in the slightest degree be lowered by it, such that
the religious life of no Christian will be deteriorated by it, such
that no one's personal convictions will be weakened, no one's
liberty be restricted ; or it would be sacrilegious to wish for it.
We ask for no other unity, and every one may be assured of this.
The unity spoken of in Holy Scripture, and actually existent
in the days of the apostles, will, we believe, be found to be the
only one of this nature.
A writer in the Chicago Advance^ with whom we agree
heartily, says:
'* We have a constitution already made at Pentecost. We must get
back on to it, not forward into any more devices of men. God did not
start his church without a polity (i Cor. xii., xiii., xiv.) any more than he
did Israel into the wilderness (Acts ii.) I mean by this there is an already
existent polity ox constitution which we ignore altogether in our vain
thoughts. Men make religious societies and call them churches. They
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42 Thr Question of Unity. [April,
might as well attempt to make heaven and earth as the church of God *'
(St Matt. xvi. 1 8, xviii. 20).
This is precisely the idea which we brought out in a previous
article, "Christian Unity vs. Unity of Chrislians," in the Novem-
ber nunaber (1886) of this magazine.
The only question to be 9onsidered is, therefore, What was
the polity or constitution of Pentecost, and how shall we get
back on to it? All agree that the church as constituted on
Pentecost was an invisible union of Christians with their in-
visible Head, Jesus Christ, and a visible union of the disciples
with " Peter and the eleven," his chosen apostles (Acts ii. 14).
The invisible union of the disciples with Christ was visibly and
outwardly expressed by their "perseverance in the doctrine of
the apostles, and in the communication of the breaking of bread,
and in prayers " (Acts ii. 42). What characterized the vi5ible
union was the concurrent acceptance of the teaching of the
apostles, the collective reception of the same holy communion
["For we, being many, are one bread, one body, all who partake
of one bread" (i Cor. x. 17)], and the common worship. What
we have to establish before we can possibly arrive at this unity is
that this visible union divinely constituted on Pentecost can
never be lost, for if it could be destroyed man could not restore
it, and being visible it could not be obscured, and if being lost or
hidden the Holy Ghost should be sent a second time to reinstate
it, we should not always have with us the old polity of Pentecost,
which would be a supposition contrary to the faith of all Chris-
tians, as all hold that the apostles were the appointed teachers of
the Gospel for all limes. The doctrine of the perpetuity of the
work of Pentecost has therefore to be established. We will pro-
ceed to do this by showing (i) that " the doctrine of the apostles "
— Christ having said to them, "Going therefore teach ye all na-
tions, . . . teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I
have commanded you ; and behold I am with you all days, even
to the consummation of the world" (St. Matt, xxviii. 19,20) —
will be preached till the end of time; (2) that the holy commu-
nion by which we are "one bread, one body, all who partake of
one bread," and by which the church has the most effectual bond
of outward unity, was instituted to be perpetual ; (3) that doctri-
nal and sacramental unity thus established makes the common
worship perpetual. It will be plain that as the bonds of visible
unity in the church all remain perpetual, the external union must
also endure for ever.
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188;.] The Question of Unity. 43
Now, it is admitted by all that the polity or constitution of
the church given on Pentecost (th^ same day that the old law
was promulgated) differed from the old dispensation, which it
supplanted, in being an everlasting covenant. The perpetual
abiding of the Holy Ghost which our Lord, in his discourse with
his apostles after the Last Supper, promised, saying, ** I will ask
the Father, and he shall give you another Paraclete, that he may
abide with you [the apostles] for ever" (St. John xiv. 17), is also
universally admitted ; and that the Holy Ghost was sent ** to
teach them [the apostles] all things, and bring all things to their
minds that [Jesus] had said to them [St. John xiv. 26], to teach
them all truth " (St. John xvi. 13), is equally acknowledged.
The polity and constitution of Pentecost which we can get
back on to only because it is perpetual, and which the writer
above quoted says "we must get back on to," cannot be the
Roman Catholic, the several Greek and many Protestant bodies
taken as a whole, because they are not one in doctrine, have no
visible communion with each other, and do not unite in worship.
Much less can any single non-Catholic body be or profess to be
by itself the one visible church. Evidentl}' the Catholic Church
alone has the Pentecostal bonds and mark of unity ; it alone makes
j>erpetual both the internal and external mission of the Holy
Ghost. A thoughtful consideration will show that this is no
narrow or exclusive doctrine of Christianity, because we hold
that non-Catholic Christians in good faith may be invisibly
united to Christ, spiritually members of his church and in the
way of salvation, while those who are in the visible church may
be separated from Christ by sin. A conscientious Protestant
who rejects the authority of the church is no more in fault
than a heathen who, through ignorance of the faith, does not
observe the Lord's day. We are Catholics because Chris-
tian unity on the basis of the polity and constitution of Pen-
tecost is what we want. We are not Quakers; we believe
in one baptism, in the receiving of one bread, and in one faith
through a ministry of preaching, all established and perpetuated
by the Holy Ghost. Are we illiberal because we do not believe
that we can reject the covenanted mercies of God and expect the
uncovenanted ? We hold that " God did not start his church
without a polity any more than he did Israel into the wilder-
ness," and we hold, also, that he has not left his church without
one any more than he abandoned Israel to perish in the wilder-
ness. It cannot be denied that unity belongs essentially to the
Christian faith, as set forth in Holy Writ: *'One body and one
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44 The Question of Unity. [April,
Spirit, as you are called in one hope of your calling. One Lord,
one faith, one baptism " (Eph. iv. 4, 5). " For as the body is
one and hath many members, and all the members of the body,
whereas they are many, yet are one body, so also is Christ
For in one Spirit we were all baptized into one body " (i Cor.
xii. 12, 13). "And some, indeed, he gave to be apostles, and
some prophets, and others evangelists, and others pastors and
teachers. For the perfection of the saints, for the work of
the ministry, unto the edification of the body of Christ, till
we all meet in the unity of faith, and of the knowledge of
the Son of God, unto a perfect man, unto the measure of the
age of the fulness of Christ : that we may not now be children
tossed to and fro, and carried about with every wind of doctrine
in the wickedness of men, in craftiness by which they lie in wait
to deceive. But doing the truth in charity, we may in all things
grow up in him who is the head, even Christ : from whom the
whole body being compactly and fitly joined together, by what
every joint supplieth, according to the operation in the measure
of every part, maketh increase of the body unto the edifying of
itself in charity " (Eph. iv. 11-17). The word " church," as used
in Holy Scripture (St. Matt. xvi. 18, xviii. 17), indicates its one-
ness, whereas the word "churches" occurring in the Epistles
and Apocalypse denotes only a distinction of locality or persons,
the churches all having the doctrine of the apostles, intercom-
munion and fellowship in worship. The Catholic Church has
always used the words church and churches in the same way —
as, for example, " One, Holy, Catholic, and Apostolic Church "
(Nicene Creed), and Eastern and Western Churches, and these
words of the liturgy, "Today is the Nativity of Holy Mary,
whose life is illustrious in all the churches."
Unity through the acceptance of and preaching of the apos-
tolic doctrine is moreover commanded in Sacred Scripture.
" But though we or an angel from heaven preach a gospel
to you besides that which we have preached to you, let him
be anathema. If any one preach to you a gospel besides that
which you have received, let him be anathema " (Gal. i. 8, 9).
What but the divine command of unity makes St. Paul call
" sects " one of the " works of the flesh," like "idolatry," " enmi-
ties," and " fornication " (Gal. v. 19, 20), and makes St. Peter
warn the faithful against " lying teachers who bring in sects of
perdition" (i Pet ii. i)?
But, it may be objected, why may not the phrase "universal
church " be employed, not as meaning one organic ecclesiastical
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1887.] The Question of Unity. 45
body, but separate church organizations as a whole, just as we use
the phrase " the universal state " to designate all legitimate civil
authority in the world ? Manifestly it cannot be done, because
the different civil governments, though of diverse organization,
mutually recognize each other and are recognized by the di-
vine law as equally legitimate, whereas such mutual recogni-
tion among the churches is, from the nature of their constitu-
tions, impossible. There is such a thing as international law, but
there is not such a thing as interecclesiastical law.
When our brother in the Advance says, " We have a constitu-
tion already made at Pentecost, and must get back on to it," he
starts on the right track, and, unless he switches, he will surely
arrive at the Catholic Church. Dr. McCosh says: "If we have
truth in what we start with, and if we reason properly, we have
also truth and reality in what we reach." We say, only give us
the truth as a premise and we will push it to a conclusion, if we
have to stake our lives for it. Unity we must have, because it is
a mark of truth. Oh ! that among all those who know about
divine revelation we might have men vowed and consecrated to
the divine cause of unity. Oh ! may God avert such an evil as
that men should halt in front of divine unity and be captured by
such human fatuities as union by concession, liturgical union,
universal adoption of independency, and the like. We dread
to see men like the disciples of old who " went back and walked
no more " with Jesus. At this moment our mind recalls how
Melchior, Gaspar, and Balthasar, in the beautiful story of Ben-
Hut, one night as the moon was rising, " sped with soundless
tread through the opalescent light . . . like spectres flying from
hateful shadows. Suddenly in the air before them, not farther
up than a low hill-top, flared a lambent flame ; as they looked
at it the apparition contracted into a focus of dazzling lustre.
Their hearts beat fast ; their souls thrilled ; and they shouted as
with one voice, * The Star ! the Star ! God is with us ! * "
Men and brethren zealous for Christian union, The Star ol
Unity ! the Star of Unity ! God is with his Church I
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46 Thb Lbgrnd op St. Gbnevirvr. [April,
THE LEGEND OF ST. GENEVIEVE.
(She Died A.D. 51a.)
ARGUMENT.
Saint Germanus of Auxerre reaches Nanterre, a small villag^e near Paris. The Christian
people rushing forth to meet him, he notes among them a Child of seven years old, by name
Genevieve, and knows by divine inspiration that she is a Saint. He enjoins upon her great
faithfulness to her Lord, the Spouse of Stouls ; and, lifting from the road a small piece of
iron with the Cross graven upon it, which chanced to lie there, commands her to hang it
round her neck till death, and to wear no ornament beside. Lastly he announces that God
will work great marvels through the Child, drawing many, both Christians and Pagans, from
their sins ; and that she will one day be reverenced as the Patron Saint of Paris.
Germanus, Saint apd Bishop, who erewhile
So glorious made his sacred see, Auxerre,
Journeyed to Britain, then *' The Northern Isle "
Styled by the Gauls. Pelagian falsehood there
Ravined. The Church had sent him for that cause
To vindicate Christ's Faith, sustain her laws.
One eve he reached, as slowly sank the sun,
A tree-girt hamlet loud with children's sport.
His resting-place ; for wont was he to shun
Those cities huge where wealth and pride consort.
Lutetian Paris * was not far, but he
Loved men of lofty heart and low degree.
The village church shone with the sunset fire;
Thus spake he: ** I in yonder church must pray
To him, its guardian 'mid the angelic choir —
Great joy that Spirit thus should watch o'er clay ! —
First for that hamlet's children ; next that I,
Though weak, may prosper in my mission high."
That place was pagan half and Christian half;
Its Christian folk swarmed forth to meet their guest,
Matron and elder leaning on his staff,
Young men and maids in crimson kirtle drest ;
Foremost a priest with brows to earth inclined
Paced with slow footsteps: children ran behind.
* Paris was long called " Lutetia ParisiL**
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1887.] The Legend of St. Genevieve. 47
The mitred sire, with lifted hand and heart
Advancing, sent his blessing o'er that throng,
Then moved among them zealous to impart
The lore they loved. That time, Christ's poor among,
A Bishop still was greeted with such zest
As when the callow fledglings of a nest.
What time they hear the mother-bird returning.
Make gladsome stir and open beaks uplift
For needful food, her foray's harvest, yearning.
And grateful feed unquestioning of the gift.
Sudden that Bishop's piercing eye was stayed
Upon a child hard by, a seven-years maid.
A heaven-like beauty looked from out her face,
Though beauty such as vulgar souls pass by:
Visibly on her beamed celestial grace:
The whole sweet-moulded form, like lip and eye,
Had in it gracious meanings ; made appeal
To those who think aright because they 'feel.
The old man watched her long; then, downward sped
From heaven upon his spirit, there fell a beam ;
O'er his worn face that inner splendor spread ;
Ere long he spake : " O friends ! we walk in dream :
False glories, fancy-born, for these we sigh ;
For that cause count as naught the great things nigh.
•' See yc that child with eyes fast fixed on heaven ?
Elect was she ere sun or moon had birth !
I tell you that, besides that Angel given.
Seraph perchance, her Guardian here on earth,
Thousands this hour are following from above
That creature's steps this hour with gaze all love.
" I tell you that while wolf and wild-boar trample
God*s Church, His Eden o'er all lands diffused,
Withm that infant breast He holds a temple
That ne'er by man or fiend shall be abused ;
That sinners many she shall save, and bless
This land, its mother-city's Patroness.
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48 The Legend of St. Genevieve. [April,
" Look up ! Once more God writes His Name in stars !
Now two, now three, they glimmer through yon skies,
No longer hid by daylight's cloister bars ;
Each night they rise to set, and set to rise:
Ye know the righteous shine as stars ; and I
This night a star till now unseen descry/*
Germanus ceased : then to that child he drew.
And straight she turned, as one who wakes from trance.
Her dusk eyes from those heavens of deepening blue,
And fixed them full on his. No furtive glance
Was hers, but fearless gaze and frank, the while
All round her quick, red lips there ran a smile.
He spake : " My child, if God should spare your life.
In what sort would you live it when full-grown.
In convent or in house, a Christian wife
With babes, or spoused to Christ, and His alone?"
She mused ; then answered softly : ** I would bide
With Christ alone, His handmaid, child, and bride.
** For where yon convent rises from the grove
Spouses of Christ there dwell, and glad are they ;
From morn to eve their life is peace and love ;
And still they tend the poor, and still they pray ;
Me too, though stammerer yet, they teach to sing
His praises. Hark ! their vesper-bell they ring !
" Beseech thee, Man of God, to lead me there !
Beseech thee, bid those Sisters in their choir
To place me later." Sudden and unawai-e
She stretched to him both hands. That Child's desire
To that grey patriarch seemed as God's command :
On to that convent paced they hand-in-hand.
Behind them thronged that concourse wondering much :
Not few among them censured sore that child
Unweeting how she dared that hand to touch :
Not so the Nuns : far off they saw, and smiled ;
Then near the altar raised a rustic throne,
And waited in the porch with myrtles strewn.
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1887.] Thb Legend of St. Genevieve. 49
Germanus entered ; on that throne he sate :
Unawed beside him stood that little maid ;
And ever, as the legends old relate,
His wrinkled hand upon her head was stayed ;
His eyes were downward bent: upraised were hers
As though the roof she saw not, but the stars.
Some say that heavenward while that anthem soared
Which Mary sang, knowledge of things to be
Fell on him in the visions of the Lord,
Those visions spirit-eyes alone can see ;
Such as the Hebrew Prophets saw of old,
And Paul and Peter in the later fold.
He saw her chase ill Spirits that stain with sin
Precincts which Poverty, God's gift, was sent
To cleanse like rocks the sea- waves sweep and din ;
He saw her frustrate Attila's intent ;
Up from the City's ramparts rose her prayer —
Where then his Huns? His threatened vengeance where?
He saw her climb, her lantern in her hand,
Nightly Montmartre, piercing the midnight gloom ;
He saw the church which rose at her command
Thereon, and hallowed more Saint Denis' tomb :
Bright was that lantern ; dearer far that light
Which later from her grave made glad each night !
He saw her, one slight finger raised, discourse
With steel-clad Clovis of the Christian Faith,
And t'ward it draw him with magnetic force :
Lastly he saw her laid in happy death
Near him and his Clotilde. For centuries fame
Gave to that church wherein they slept her name.
Vespers were ended : with them died the day :
Staff propp'd, the Saint drew near the threshold low 2
He beckoned to the maiden's parents ; they
Obeyed, and thus he spake in accents slow :
" Severus and Gerontia, blest are ye !
For great among God's Saints your child shall be,
VOL. XLV.— 4
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50 The Legend of St. Genevieve. [April,
" Full oft, I deem, her slender hand and arm
Ye raised, and with them traced the Sacred Sign
To shield her infant brow and breast from harm
Ere she that ritual's meaning could divine :
It gave her timely help; this day she knows,
Few better, what that Cross on men bestows.
" Liegeful I know hath been your wedded life ;
I know ye reverenced God's high Sacrament
Marriage, which joins true husband and true wife
With mystic meaning and benign intent ;
Reverence His Saint that 'neath your roof doth tarry.
As he, that Patriarch-husband, reverenced Mary.
•* She seeks that better part fitted for few :
Nurse ye that hope : shield her from all things base :
Rule her, and keep her holy, humble, true.
For great the prize she claims, and hard the race.
Farewell! Return at morn when breaks the day ;
With her return. Far hence I take my way."
Next morn, an hour ere light, her parents led
Their child to where that reverend man had slept,
Who, kneeling now, his Matin office said.
Throngs gathered near ; round eastern clouds there crept
A fiery fringe: next kindled hill and wood ;
When, lo ! before their eyes Germanus stood.
The Blessing given, he turned him to that child :
** Child ! hast thou memory of thy wish last eve ? "
The maid once more that smile angelic smiled
And said : " I wished that I might never leave
That house where Christ's sweet spouses dwell in bliss,
But still, like them, be His, and only His."
Then fixed the Patriarch on that child an eye,
Tender yet piercing, with a boding quest:
He spake : '* The woman's snare is vanity ;
When older, wear no gauds on hand or breast ;
Shun them who laud thee: bid them keep their praise
For God. Wise men it scares ; the unwise betrays."
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1887.] Tbe Legend of St. Genevieve. 51
That moment through disparted mists a beam
Launched from the circlet of the ascending sun
Flashed on the pebbly path a spark-like gleam :
The old man stooped and from the shingles won
A pilgrim's roughest relic. Thereupon,
Burnished like brass» the Sign Redeeming shone.
Silent he lodged it in that infont hand ;
Then closed her fingers o'er it ; next, with breath
Low toned : ** In future years no gems demand
Save this. This wear till death, and after death.**
She knelt : he laid his hands upon her head
In blessing ; kissed it last ; then northward sped.
She kept his gift. That wish, fair as a flower,
To live for Christ, might as a flower have died,
A flower by March winds blighted. From that hour
Solid it grew like stream-growths petrified.
Or like that relic which, amid her dust.
Guards still perchance its memorable trust.
A people hath, like children, instincts sage :
Significance in trifles it discerns ;
Keeps faith with vanished things from age to age ;
Drains heaven's nepenthe from earth's frailest urns :
In faithful hearts, though rude the race, that day
God dropp'd a seed : the plant shall live for aye.
That people knew what lived in Genevieve,
Like Saint Germanus when he saw her first ;
Knew it more late ; they most the wise and brave.
They best who felt for heaven the heavenliest thirst,
Whose heart was deepest and whose hope most high :
Nearest they seemed to God when she was nigh.
They marked that things we dimly see were clear
To her as trees to us, or hills or skies ;
They knew that sensuous things to worldlings dear
For her existed not — her ears, her eyes.
Inmate of alien worlds she seemed : and yet
Who saw her least of acts could ne'er forget.
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52 The Legend of St. Genevieve. [April,
One half of Europe still the darkness covered :
Night held its own ; yet morning was at hand :
Dubious betwixt the twain her country hovered
Like bird that half belongs to sea, half land.
To France, sin's cripple, others preached the Word ;
Her Life the angel was: God's Healing Spring it stirred.
The way of words is the way round-about:
Good-will believes, and words lack power to give it:
Die for thy Faith ! then dies the good man*s doubt :
If Faith is tried no more by death, then live it!
A great true Faith, expressed in life as true.
Lifts hearts to heaven as sunbeams lift the dew.
She lived her Faith ; she walked the waves of life
Like Him who trod that Galilean sea:
The temporal storm, the worldly strain and strife
Quenched not her gladness ; from her, fair and free,
It hurled its beam o'er seas by tempest tost,
A ray surviving fresh from Pentecost.
Her valor 'twas that taught in later times
The Maid of Orleans first to love her well ;
For centuries household bards in honest rhymes
^ To breathless throngs were wont her deeds to tell
Ere yet the Troubadour had sold his song
To h)'mn loose loves, and crown triumphant wrong.
One sang how Childeric his Franks had led
From that huge forest of the northern sea
Where Varus lay with all his legions dead :
How Childeric's hosts, frenzied by victory,
' Girt Paris like a wall : — no food remained :
On the dead mother's breast the infant plained.
Louder he sang how dear Saint Genevieve
Had launched her bark and faced that downward flood,
She and her four ; beat back the insurgent wave ;
Baffled the bow-shafts from the rain-drenched wood :
She steered ; they rowed while night was in the sky : —
At dawn that bark returned with loaves heaped high !
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1887.] Thb Legend of St. Genevieve. 53
Still blew the gale: that bark rushed down the river ;
A rock — all feared it — split the midway tide :
She stood upon the prow ; serene as ever
She raised the standard of the Crucified :
Full many a corse had strewn that rock of yore:
Thenceforth no eye of man beheld it more.
As oft he sang to them in hut or hall
A sister legend of their favorite Saint :
The Frank was throned in Paris ; gone the Gaul,
Gone save that band by foul and fell constraint
Long weeks in dungeon-vaults alive entombed,
Their country's bravest sons; for that cause doomed.
Childeric had seen the Saint ; had heard that none
Had power her strength and sweetness to resist :
He took his course : he vowed that face to shun :
The power of female beauty well he wist:
The power of Virtue he had yet to learn :
That King had instincts high, though proud and stern.
Paris, that time Lutetia named, most part
Secure within its high-tower'd island lay :
A wooden bridge the river stretched athwart.
Fenced by the fortress of the Chat6ley :
To those that held the gates Childeric sent word :
" Obey or die ! Entrance to none accord ! "
Propt by those gates at noon the warders slept :
Sudden in trance they saw Saint Genevieve :
Nearer she moved : strange music o'er them swept.
As when through portals of a huge sea-cave
Makes way the organ anthem of the sea :
Touched by that strain, those gates opening gave entrance
free.
That hour, that moment by King Childeric's throne
Saint Genevieve stood up ! If words she spake
Those words to angels, not to men, are known :
The King sat mute. As one that, half-awake.
Lies blinded by the matin beam, he stared :
This only know we, that the doomed were spared.
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54 The Legend of St. Genevieve. [April,
Such acts survive : as age to age succeeds
Man's sequent generations, mountain-wise
Reverberate echoes of heroic deeds:
Each echo dies yet lives, and lives yet dies ;
And still, as on from clifif to clifiF they float,
The strain remotest breathes the tenderest note.
These be the lesser things of Christian story,
By some o'er-prized. To overprize them or impugn
Alike is littleness. Faith's ampler glory
Sits higher throned. There, waxing as the moon,
Strong as the sun, it lights the Christian sky :
More great than miracle is sanctity.
Yet worth of Saints attested stands by time
When great love, capturing thus a people's heart.
Sustains therein its royalties sublime.
And cheers alike low cot, palace, and mart.
Virtue's meek handmaid. Who shall scorn that love
Which wafts a nation's hope to worlds above ?
This was that love which 'mid those ages wild
France in her virgin breast, though rough yet true,
That vernal morn conceived for that fair child
On whom his long, last gaze Germanus threw,
Checking, as northward forth he rode, his rein.
And looking back. They never met again.
This was that reverence which in France increased
As Christian Faith deepened therein its sway ;
Which gladdened Lenten fast and Paschal feast ;
Inspired her Trouvfere's tale, her harper's lay ;
Brightened young eyes ; on wounded hearts dropt balm ;
And lit from Honor's heaven her Oriflamme :
Lit it when high from Clermont soared that shout
"Deus id vult," and Godfrey of Bulloign,
From Europe's loyalest princes singled out,
Led forth his France that kingly host to join
Which knelt when first on Salem's towers it gazed ;
Then fought, and on her walls that standard raised.
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1887.] W^AT IS THE Congregation of the Index? 55
In later wars when riot filled the tent
One name sufficed to lull it — ** Genevieve " ;
In peace, to maids on girlish sports intent
One thought of her a hallowing sweetness gave:
They looked like those she led at dawn of day
Before the Baptistery's shrine to pray.
Ofttimes a Saint dear to his natal place
Elsewhere is ill- remembered or unknown :
But she, wherever spread her country's race.
Was loved ; the Loire revered her as the Rhone :
Three names for aye blazed on her country's shield —
Saint Genevieve, Saint Denis, Saint Clotilde.
WHAT IS THE CONGREGATION OF THE INDEX?
There is a great misconception and a great lack of know-
ledge generally, prevailing in the public mind of the United
States on the subject of the Congregation of the Index in Rome.
Fh'ppant and ignorant utterances about it and the work that it
does appear frequently in print when an occasion offers. It is
quite time, and certainly expedient, that opportunity should be
given to the public in general to get correct notions about both.
The object of this article is, therefore, to show, from reliable
sources,* what the Sacred Congregation of the Index is, its
object, the range of its functions, and the manner in which they
are administered.
The dangers resulting from bad books have been recognized
from the earliest Christian times, and we find an early instance of
the destruction of some, on that account, recorded in the New
Testament (Acts xix. 19) as having taken place at Ephesus.
Passing over, for the sake of brevity, interesting details f in
* This article has been derived from a published letter ol the late Monsiji^nor Fr. Nardi,
Auditor of the Rota and Consukor of the Sacred Congregation of the Index, addressed to
Senator Rouland, of the French Senate. It is entitled Intorno alia S. C. delP Indice^ Lettera
ml Signer Rouland^ Senatore^ di Monsignor Fr, Nardi^ Uditore di S, Rota^ Consultore dtUa S,
C. delP Indict,
The article entitled '* Index of Prohibited Books '* in A Catholic Dictionary,
The latest edition of the Index Librorum Prokibitorum^ published in Rome last year by
Older of Leo XIII.
t But a few instances deserve to be cited to throw light on the subject. Arius' e^«ia was
condemned at the first general council which met at Nicaea ; Origen's erroneous wriUngs were
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56 WifA T IS THE CONGREGA TION OF THE INDEX? [ April,
the history of the church which show that its practice from the
earliest times, continued down through the middle ages, has
been uniform and constant in condemning heretical or dangerous
books, we come at once to that period when, in consequence of
the discovery of printing, followed by the movement of what is
called the Reformation, the number of books containing doctrine
more or less erroneous had so increased throughout Europe as
to deserve the attention of the Council of Trent at its eighteenth
session. A commission of its members was then appointed ** to
collect and examine the censures already issued, and consider
and report on the steps which it was advisable to take about
books generally." This commission compiled an Index of Prohi-
bited Books accordingly, but the council, in its last session (1563),
finding that, from the multiplicity of details, it was not desirable
to frame any conciliar decision, remitted the whole matter to
the pope. In conformity with this reference St. Pius V., a few
years later, erected the Sacred Congregation of the Index, with
a Dominican friar for its secretary. Sixtus V. confirmed and en-
larged their powers.
" The Congregation of the Index of Prohibited Books con-
sists of a competent number of cardinals, according to the good
pleasure of the pope, and has a secretary taken from the Order
of Preachers, and a great number of theological and other pro-
fessors who are called consultors, the chief of whom is the Mas-
ter of the Apostolic Palace, the primary and official consultor of
this congregation."
A constitution of Benedict XIV. {17^), Sollicita et provida^
gives minute instructions as to the principles and methods to be
observed by the congregation in its work of examining and
judging books.
There are two conditions essential to the rendering of a right
judgment : learning and integrity in the judge, freedom and
maturity in the investigation of the cause. Let us now examine
whether these fully exist in the practice of the Congregation of
the Index, which has to try books only, and' never their authors.
It has to pronounce on the mere/^r/, not on the offence growing
out of it, nor on the degree of culpability involved. For it is a
supposable case, of which instances have happened, that a book
containing matter likely to be very injurious to its readers may
have been written without any perverse intentions, and this cir-
condemned by the Roman Pontiff, Pontianus ; the books of the Priscillianists were prohibited
by Leo the Great, and the writings of Erigena and Berengarius on the Eucharist were con-
demned and ordered to be burnt by Leo IX. in a synod at Vercelli (1050).
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1887.] What IS the Congregation of the Index? 57
cumstance, if apparent, would warrant the excusing or mitiga-
tion, up to a certain point, of the oflFence in the author. The
hook which is to be investigated is usually brought before the
congregation by a bishop, who subjects the points and the rea-
sons why it is deserving of the reprobation asked for. It is
examined first by the cardinal prefect and his secretary — the
farmer selected from the nK)St learned members of the Sacred
College, the other belonging to a religious order which has pre-
served unimpaired its fame for learning. If they find the work
and a censure of it worthy of consideration, they hand it over to
one or more consultors, selecting such as they know to be the
most versed in the matter in question. It is the duty of these
last to go through the book thoroughly and to examine its con-
tents in accordance with the wise rules laid down by the Council
of Trent, Clement VIII., Alexander VIII., and the maxims of
Benedict XIV., to which the consultors are sworn to adhere,
and which may be summarized as follows :
1. The consultors are not to aim at bringing about, in any
event, the condemnation of the work, but to confine themselves
to laying before the congregation, with all possible study and
calmness, the result of their observations, and to give sound
reasons why they consider the book deserving of prohibition, or
emendation, or of no censure at all.
2. It is the consultor's sacred duty, if upon the aforesaid
examination he become conscious of lack of requisite knowledge,
to immediately apprise thereof the secretary or the congregation,
from whom, as the last-named great pontiff says, he will receive
praise for his humility and sincerity sooner than humiliation.
3. The instructions appertaining to this rule deserve to be
giveti in the very words of Benedict XIV. :
" Let them know that they must judge of the various opinioDS and sen-
timents in any book that comes before them with minds absolutely free
from prejudice. Let them, therefore, dismiss patriotic leanings, family
affections, the predilections of school, the esprit de corps of an institute ;
let them put away the zeal of party ; let them simply keep before their
eyes the decisions of holy church and the common doctrine of Catholics,
which is contained in the decrees of General Councils, the Constitutions of
the Roman Pontiffs, and the consent of orthodox Fathers and Doctors ;
bearing this in mind, moreover, that there are not a few opinions which
appear to one school, institute, or nation to be unquestionably certain, yet
nevertheless are rejected and impugned, and their contradictories main-
tained, by other Catholics, without harm to faith and religion—all this be-
ing with the knowledge and permission of the Apostolic See, which leaves
every particular opinion of this kind in its own degree of probability."
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58 fVHA T IS THE CONGREGA TION OF THE INDEX f [April,
4. Judgment is not to be given until after the book has been
thoroughly read and considered, and comparison made of what
appears in different parts thereof, and after examination into the
meaning of the author, without separating one or the other pro-
position from the context, because it may well happen that some-
thing said obscurely or dubiously in one passage may be ex-
plained clearly or rightly in another.
5. An author's ambiguous expressions, particularly if he
bear a good name, are always to be interpreted in a favorable,
sense.
The wise policy of indulgence and. consideration set forth in
certain rules of the Constitution SoUicita et provida was besides
insisted upon on a remarkable occasion, in a letter from its
illustrious author to the Supreme Inquisitor of Spain, in which,
blaming him for having placed on the Spanish Index certain
works of Cardinal Henry Noris, the great pontiff reminded him
that this policy belonged to ecclesiastical government and prac-
tice, and was particularly to be followed as regards illustrious
men distinguished for their labors in the sacred sciences. For
instance, in the writings of the cardinal above named and of the
celebrated Tillemont, in the great work of the Bollandists, in
Bossuet's declaration of the Galilean clergy, and in many writings
of Antonio Muratori there are indeed to be found things deserv-
ing of censure. But the popes who were respectively called upon
to pronounce upon the particular passages complained of wisely
refrained from condemning them, judging that the fame and merits
of the writers entitled them to some indulgence, inasmuch as it
could be accorded without any positive danger to the church.
When the consultors have completed their examination they
send in their judgment and consequent vote on the matter, w<hich
must consist, not of bare assertions nor a summary decision, but
of a clear, precise, and faithful exposition of the work; quoting
therefrom the very text, not merely a few sentences selected ac-
cording to fancy, but lengthy extracts, consisting frequently of
several pages, which are placed in comparison with other parts
in which the author may have taken up the same ideas. After
the votes have been handed in the consultors draw their conclu-
sion and set forth their judgment, which varies according to cir-
cumstances. Sometimes they propose that the work be permitted
without any condemnation ; this happens quite frequently. At
other times they suggest to the author changes to be adopted in
a later edition, or they advise that judgment be suspended and
new information be gone into, or that the author be warned and
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1887.] What is the Congrega tion of the Index ? 59
interrogated ; and lastly, if the case be one of manifest perversity,
they declare the book to be deserving of condemnation. If the
immense deluge of impious books which is poured out be com-
pared with the catalogue of fifteen or twenty (probably among
the worst, and likely to do most mischief) which are annually
prohibited by the Congregation of the Index, it will indeed be
difficult to estimate how great a number of the former escape
condemnation. But the fate of a book is far from being decided
by the action, just explained, of one or more consultors acting as
censors. After the secretary has received their votes he has them
printed, sends a copy to each of the other consultors, and appoints
a day for a meeting, which usually takes place in the convent of
Santa Maria sopra Minerva, and at which the Master of the Apos-
tolic Palace presides. Then and there the consultor who has
acted as censor submits his report and either repeats or modifies
the finding stated in the printed vote. Each one of the consul-
tors, beginning with those last appointed, expresses his opinion
and sustains it with entire liberty and independence, because in
these discussions the love of true doctrine is tempered by that
charity ** which assumes truth without pride, and contends for
truth without rancor.*'* The secretary of the congregation
takes up in due course the votes of the meeting, recording each
singly in the very words in which it was given. If doubts arise
and the congregation show a desire to get additional informa-
tion, one or two other censors have given them the charge to go
over the argument in question, and their report is also printed
and distributed. The researches cease only when the congrega-
tion has become entirely satisfied on the subject of the judg-
ment at which it has arrived. But even though the finding of
the congregation be unanimous, that does not settle the matter.
The work so far done has been only a consultation, and a vote re-
sulting therefrom ; the whole subject has to be reviewed by an-
other and superior congregation, composed of cardinals only,
who have before them the book, the votes of the censors, the
votes of the particular consultors, and the finding of the congre-
gation below. They have a second sitting, whereat the proceed-
ings are conducted just as at the first one, but with more solem-
nity, and amounting, however, only to an additional inquiry gone
into by a higher authority ; for final sentence is even then not ar-
rived at. The entire proceedings have to be laid before the Sov-
ereign Pontiff, on whose decision the final result depends, and
without which no condemnation is ever pronounced.
* •* Sine super bia de veritate prasumit ; sine savitiapro veritate ceriat^'* (St Augustine,
Contra IMt,^ PHOIani, czziz. 31).
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6o WffA T IS THE CONGRBGA TION OF THE INDEX f [April,
The latest edition of the Index Librorum Prohibitorutn, publish-
ed in 1884 by the press of Propaganda, is an octavo volume of
three hundred and sixty pages, with an appendix of live, and in-
cludes all decrees up to June i, 1884. The text, for obvious
reasons, is Latin throughout. There are prefixed to the list the
ten rules of the Council of Trent; observations on some of them
by Clement VIII. and Alexander VII. ; certain instructions from
Clement VIII.; the celebrated constitution of Benedict XIV.,
Sollicita et provida, containing very full and elaborate rules and
instructions taking up seventeen pages, and which, on account of
the great increase in the number of publications, include regula-
tions applicable to books not named in the Index; a mandate
from Leo XII. ; two short notifications from the Congregation of
the Index, and, finally, a document drawn up in accordance with
the constitution of the late pontiflF, Pius IX., ApostoliccB Sedis.
The volume is doubtless mostly in the hands of archbishops,
bishops, and the lower clergy ; but as, according to its preface, it
is dedicated ^' Cat holtco lectori'' {\,o the Catholic reader), it is in-
tended for general use, and therefore accessible to all who choose
to use it. It covers books written in Latin, Italian, French,
Spanish, English, German, Dutch, Portuguese, and what seems
to be either Bohemian or Polish ; and some with Greek, Hebrew,
and Syriac titles. They are arranged in alphabetical order, and
the year and exact date of the decree of prohibition is given in
each case, beginning after 1596; those prohibited in that year
and before are indicated as being named either in the Index of
Pius IV. or in the one of Clement VIII. — the former commonly
known as that of the Council of Trent, and the latter as the appen-
dix to same. Where the original work has been passed upon the
title is recited in that tongue, and a* Latin translation of same
given underneath. Besides the above and other needed particu-
lars of description there is naught else, except here and there
very short notices, either modifying the prohibition or very
briefly explaining the decree, which appear in their proper places,
and of which the following may serve to give an idea: Donee
corrt^atur {xxniil corrected); Donee expurg^etur {until expurgated) —
both of which changes, when carried out, are subject to the re-
vision and approval of the Congregation of the Index. In not a
few cases the prohibition is withdrawn from a later edition, be-
cause *' auctor laudabiliter se subjecit " (the author has made in a
praiseworthy manner submission), or the author is given credit
because *' auctor laudabiliter se subjecit et opus reprobavit " or *' re-
probanda reprobavit " (the author made laudable submission and
reproved the work, or those parts which deserved reproval).
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1887.] ^^^ T IS THE CONGRBGA TION OF THE INDEX ? 6 1
It would take up too much space, neither is it necessary, to
go into particulars about the contents of the volume. Its range
covers books on a great variety of subjects, religious and devo-
tional ones being, of course, the most prominent and the most
numerous ; and it must not be imagined that the writings of dig-
nitaries of the church and of other ecclesiastics have escaped cen-
sure when they deserved it. Nor has the congregation feared
to deal with the published decrees of the civil authority in Ca-
tholic countries, in certain cases when the occasion imperatively
called for it and the subject in question related to matters of faith.
Between December 18, 1680, and May 22, 1745, six arrits (de-
crees) of tRe French Parliament were condemned. Although the
penal laws against Catholics and their religion were enforced
with great rigor in England during the reign of James I.,
neither the dread of offending royalty nor the natural desire to
conciliate it prevented four works written by him on religious
subjects * from being placed on the Index.
It must be logically admitted that the establishment three
centuries ago of an authoritative, perfected, active agency, as
above described, for a special protection of faith and morals, was
manifestly obligatory on the Catholic Church. It could not do
less for the fold of the faithful, acknowledging and submissive to
its authority. It could not delegate the work to private lay
corporations, as, with us, the state frequently does in the matter
of functions properly belonging to itself alone. The Protestant
sects endeavor, according to their methods, their appliances, and
within their scope, to perform, in the defence of faith and morals,
similarly recognized obligations. Faith and morals form a
primary need of society, and are inseparably united, for the latter
cannot continue to exist after the disappearance of the former, on
which they depend. Hence both eminently deserve to be the
object of constant general solicitude and protection. Though
religious indifference, unfortunately, prevents many from caring
about what may happen to the first, but very few will be found
to avowedly take no interest in the preservation of the other.
The gradual weakening and disappearance, outside of the Ca-
tholic communion, of religious faith in the United States, is be-
ginning to attract the attention and excite the apprehensions of
thoughtful men. Everybody is agreed that the corruption of the
morals of youth, by books or otherwise, is a great evil, to be re-
pressed by the power of the law. With this, in New York, Mr.
* These include his Apologia pro juramento fidelitatis (Apology for the oath of aUegiance)^
which Iw published with the help of Bishop Andrewes,
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62 W//A T IS THR CONGREGA TION OF THE IHDEX f [April,
Anthony Comstock, delegated by the Society for the Suppres-
sion of Vice, arms himself in his labors, as far as they go, to that
end. If the society felt assured that its published authoritative
warnings against books believed by it to be dangerous to morals
would be listened to and carry needed weight and authority, can
there be any doubt that it would have recourse to such for the
promotion of its work ? Do we need any evidence of the great
mischief so extensively done in our day and our land to both
faith and morals through books? Have we not the frequent
published instances of the perversion of very young boys from
the reading of dime novels?* And as regards adults, how are
doctrines pernicious to the peace and welfare of society mainly
propagated ? The practice of polygamy, which the Mormons
claim to justify by the Old Testament, and which is now to be
put down by the power of the United States, did not secure its
adherents by preaching alone. The Anarchists find books very
useful to spread their destructive doctrines. An editor of a
Western paper, f in an able and well-written article, recently in-
stances the case of the publication of an Anarchist book recom-
mending the use of dynamite and other explosives for the de-
struction of property-holders ; and, while he evidently misunder-
stands the functions of what he designates under the misnomer
of Index Ex pur gator ius, he argues :
"Protestantism says in such a case : ' Respect the rights of individual
opinion ; error is harmless if truth be left free to combat it ; let him publish
and sell his book freely, and let us neutralize its possible harm by increas-
ed light, reason, and education.' Which is right in such a case ? Catholi-
city may err sometimes, and has, in its use of authority ; but Protestantism
may err sometimes, and has, in its use of license. Should a man be per-
mitted to print and sell a book to teach murder and destruction ? We
should hate to say yes. And if you say no, then you have made an Index
Expurgatorius— an Inquisition — and you have vindicated the supreme wis-
dom of Catholicity in having one."
Whether, from the brief summarized statement of facts which
I have set forth, the work of the Congregation of the Index
appears to have been conceived in wisdom, for an excellent pur-
pose, and to be carried on with learning, intelligence, delibera-
tion, and impartial justice, and therefore entitled to the respect
and good opinion of all fair-minded men outside of the Catholic
Church, is now left to the appreciation of the reader.
* It is safe to assert that very few French parents (certainly none having a conscientious re-
gard for the morals of their families) wf>uld permit the novels of Simile Zola and writers of his
type to enter their homes. Cheap editions of translations of the worst of the former are pub-
lished in New York and advertised at the low price of twenty cents each.
t The Gate City of Keokuk, as quoted in The Catholic Review of Augiist 14, 1886.
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188;.] Flore z Estrada and His Land Theory. 63
FLOREZ ESTRADA AND HIS LAND THEORY.
Certain political doctrines recently advocated with much
ability are not characterized by originality ; perhaps it is not
claimed for them. The doctrines in question were given to the
public in a Spanish treatise written more than half a century ago
by Florez Estrada, and entitled Curso de Economia Politica. The
learned Frenchman, Adolphe Blanqui, in his very interesting
Hisioire de VB,c<momi£ politique ^ has lauded the Curso in question as
superior to any other work on the same subject published in
Europe, and by this means made it known to French, Belgian,
and English readers. Adolphe Blanqui prefers the Curso to the
celebrated treatise written by his countryman, J. B. Say, which,
according to the same work, is the "glory of France," The
Curso was translated into French in 1833 by L6on Galibert, and
published with the title of Cours icUctique d' kconomie politique^
and, though little known in America, is one of the most remark-
able works ever produced in Europe. Fiorez exhibits, we may
venture to assert, the methodical arrangement of Say, the social
disquisitions of Sismondi, the rigid demonstrations of Ricardo,
and the experimental features of Adam Smith. In none of these
treatises, however, is the question which at this moment agitates
the American mind propounded so boldly and answered so lucid-
ly : viz., De la causa que priva la trabajo de la recompensa debida ?
— i.e,^ *• Why is labor deprived of the compensation which it
should receive, and how is that disparity to be removed?"
Following is a partial translation of Estrada*s answer to this ques-
tion:
" Placed on this earth which we inhabit, and possessing no wealth but
what his labor produced, man could not possibly maintain his existence if
He who gave him wants and necessities had not furnished him at the same
time with the means of satisfying them. But when land, the most precious
of all the gifts of nature — since all the riches which man has any knowledge
of come out of the earth, Cereris sunt omnia munus — was transformed into
private property by a limited number of men, where were the disinherited
portion of the race to find material on which to toil ? From that moment
the subsistence of the latter became precarious, because, without the per-
mission of the man who, with no better title than his own will, termed
\i\xti%eM proprietor , no one else could work it ; or if work were done it was
found impossible to find a recompense commensurate with exertion. One
part of this recompense— one portion of the fruit of labor — was adjudged to
him who had appropriated what, considered as to its nature, was wholly
unsusceptible of appropriation, as it was never produced by the labors
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64 Florez Estrada and His Land Theory. [April,
of men, but equally belongs to all. The following consequences result-
ed from this fatal error : Idleness was created and crowned with riches.
Laws were enacted which, under the pretext of protecting the rights of
property, destroyed its very roots and tore from the laborer's grasp a por-
tion of the fruits of his sweat to bestow it on the lazy proprietor : laws
which, endorsing a usurpation which was criminal, made a compliance with
the Creator's precept dependent on a creature's will, and swept away, in this
manner, the basis on which society stands, namely, the obligation to work
and the power of disposing of what is produced by toil— 'h2iSts whose removal
falsifies the social system and renders the struggles of mankind intermin-
able.
" Let us suppose, for illustration's sake, that certain classes of mankind
entered into a conspiracy to make private property of the springs, foun-
tains, rivers, and seas, and then turned on the rest of their species and
demanded rent for leave to drink or fish or navigate the waters ; would
such a scandalous usurpation of God's gifts be tolerated for a moment?
Land, the free gift of nature, is more necessary to human subsistence than
fountains, seas, or rivers. Why is a usurpation so unjust tolerated by the
majority of the human race ? Nothing but the irresistible force of custom,
the patient acquiescence in antiquated wrongs so characteristic of man-
kind, can account for so singular an anomaly. Those who disapprove of
these views should take measures to convert the rivers, seas, and fountains
into private property.
" Let it not be said that unappropriated land would not be tilled at all,
or, from want of capital, would be badly cultivated unless it were the pro-
perty of some rich individual. The real cultivator of the soil is rarely the
owner of the land, and as a consequence the demands of the laborers are
in all parts incomparably greater than the offers of the proprietors. More-
over, in no country is the laborer supplied with capital by the proprietor to
enable him to cultivate the soil. This being the case, such objections as
the above are frivolous and futile. Can any one suppose for a moment
that the seas would be navigated more assiduously or the rivers fished with
more diligence if they were the private property of capitalists? Let it not
be said that the cultivator would enjoy no security in the prosecution of
his labors, if the soil were not private property. Who could possibly
impede him ? I can see no reason to suppose that men working for the
state would not enjoy as much security as men laboring for private indi-
viduals.
" Were the arguments already alleged insufficient to prove that the
spontaneous gifts of nature should not be monopolized by private owners,
they should be received with attentive consideration, nevertheless, because
they are supported by highly respectable authority. If the doctrines be
new the idea is old. Glimpses of them may be discovered in all the ancient
codes of legislation. The ancient lawgivers invariably devised measures
to remedy the consequences of such pernicious usurpation or prevent its
taking place.
" Owing to a universal instinct the legislators of antiquity, without any
possible communication among themselves, recognized without apparent
hesitation that the distribution of land should not be abandoned, like the
productions of manufacturing industry, to the disposal and cupidity of indi-
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1887.] Florbz Estrada and His Land Theory. 65
viduals, but ought to be refpilated by law. This unanimity is sufficient of
itself to prove that it originates in a sentiment of justice and truth.
" Lycuigus made a proportional distribution of all the land of the nation
among (ist) the people, (ad) the ministers of religion, and (3d) the mem-
bers of the aristocracy. Could land be justly appropriated by individuals,
like the ordinary productions of human industry, the distribution in ques-
tion would be an unpardonable attack on the rights of private property.
No legislator, without violating the law of nature, can place a barrier to
the lawful exertions of an individual or hinder him from acquiring by his
labor all possible wealth. But the distribution made by Lycurgus has never
been stigmatized as unjust. On the contrary, it has been regarded as an
arrangement of the most beneficial character, intended to promote with
strict impartiality the interests of all classes of Spartan society, and con-
fer happiness on every individual in the community. Wherever no law of
this kind has been enacted society is embittered by dissatisfaction ; there
is universal discontent. The poor are miserable because they cannot ap-
pease the urgent cravings of nature. The wealthy are dissatisfied because
they cannot gratify those ambitious aspirations and artificial wants which,
indulgence only seems to multiply, and because they fear that desperate
poverty may break in, plunder, and kill them—circumstances which keep
society in perpetual alarm and anxiety, which never cease and never know
a pause, no matter how stringent the laws or active the vigilance ,of their
guardians.
**The Romans — apparently taking it for granted that some primitive law
existed which authorized the heads of the people to distribute the lands of
the nation — sanctioned the Licinian law which commemorates the consul
whose name it bears. This law ordained that no Roman citizen should
hold more than five hundred acres of land. To enforce this agrarian law
was the object of Gracchus in those famous reclamations which, in the
name of the Roman people, he directed against the Senate of Rome.
"The justice of these reclamations is confessed by the historian of the
republic, notwithstanding his aversion to innovations which lessened aris-
tocratic influence. It should never be forgotten, too, thdt in the beginning
of his career Gracchus proposed that those who monopolized more than
five hundred yokes should receive from the public treasury the price of
their redundant acres, and that the land thus subtracted from the rich
should be apportioned among the poorer citizens. But, seeing the obsti*
nacy of the Senate, which stubbornly refused to give to the illegal owners
of land any indemnity, how is it possible that Titus Livius could not per-
ceive that individual ownership of land is a violation of justice? Not bas-
ing his views on this principle, the decision of the eloquent historian must
be regarded as rash, unless it can be proved that previously to pronouncing
judgment he had carefully examined the titles on which the Roman land-
lords based their claims to those territorial possessions which the Senate
sought to deprive them of.
" Of all known laws, however, the most remarkable, the most decisive,
and the most consonant, in a fundamental point of view, to my principles,
are those (ist) of Moses, (2d) those of Feudalism, and (3d) those of the
Incas of Peru.
"According to the feudal system the chief of the state distributed
VOL, XLV.— 5
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66 Florez Estrada and His Land Theory. [April,
amongst his people all the land of the nation in conformity with certain
laws. The melancholy results which sprang out of this system did not
originate in the distribution which the monarch made of the land. They
sprang from the enormous inequality of possessions which vicious legisla-
tion created in favor of a limited number of persons who appropriated and
consumed in idleness and sloth the fruits which labor extorted from the
soil. From a distribution so unjust sprang the raiaerable penury of the
masses, the haughty arrogance of the wealthy, and the inability of the king
to restrain the barons or promote the progress of the people.
'^ To call into existence a wise and paternal government capable of ren-
dering the land useful to the community, and banishing that indolence
which is the inseparable companion of misery, no individual should be suf-
fered to hold more land than a single family can cultivate. Such a govern-
ment would put an end to fraudulent schemes which enable swindlers to
grow wealthy without labor — schemes incompatible with the true founda-
tions of the social fabric. Above all, it would originate a fiscal system
wholly dissimilar from the immoral systems which at present prevail in
Europe, by which the security of thrones and the tranquillity of the people
are equally menaced..
''The ancient and profound legislator of the Hebrews carefully and ac-
curately took the census of his people. Then he divided the land into a
number of farms equal to the number of families. These families then
cast lots, and each received the farm which the ' fortune of the die ' as-
signed to it. His paternal solicitude was not confined to this equitable and
impartial proceeding. Lest any family should greedily appropriate a num-
ber of farms, he ordained that in the year of the jubilee— that is to say, at
the end of every fifty years— each forfeited lot should return to its original
proprietor. Not content with this, he confirmed the foregoing with a still
more stringent law. The perpetual alienation of land was forbidden in ex-
press terms by this law, which declares that land cannot be the property of
man — a human being is a mere tenant; which is equivalent to saying that
no man should possess more land than he can cultivate.*
'' Our argument derives additional suppyort from the following verses in
the same chapter :
" ' 29. And if a man sell a dwelling-house in a walled city, then he may
redeem it within a whole year after it is sold ; within a full year may he re-
deem it.
" * 30. And if it be not redeemed within the space of a full year, then the
house that is within the walled city shall be established for ever to him
that bought it throughout his generations: it shall not go out in the jubilee.
'"31. But the houses of the villages which* have no wall round about
them shall be counted as the fields of the country ; they may be redeemed
and they shall go out in the jubilee.'
"The better we understand the doctrines of Adam Smith the more we
discern the wisdom of the Hebrew legislator and how thoroughly he under-
Stood the exact limits which justice assigns to the rights of property.
Houses standing in a city hold no relation to land considered as the gift
of nature. They must be considered as exclusively resulting from the
♦ " The land shall not be sold for ever ; for the land is mine ; for ye arc strangers and 90-
l^mers with me '' (LeTit. xxv. aj).
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labors of men. For this reason Moses assigns them a place among true
riches, and, as a consequence, declares the sale which the master makes
of them an irrevocable sale. In the year of the jubilee he cannot recover
them.
" Houses built in unwalled towns, on the contrary, cannot be justly
regarded as mere productions of human labor, but as rural offices subject
to the same laws as the farms to whose cultivation they are indispensable.
For this reason Moses declares that if they were not redeemed before the
jubilee they should be restored in that year to their first owner as objects
unsusceptible of sale, not subject to the rights of property, but as depen-
dencies on the gifts of nature.
"All these ordinances of the son of Amram are in perfect harmony with
the genuine principles of political science, which makes al! property origi-
nate in labor and pronounces it absurd to regard the pure gifts of nature
as individual wealth."
Such are the doctrines of Estrada, and the reader will readily
perceive their identity with those of Henry George, who has
apparently, perhaps unconsciously, followed the Spaniard :
*• Property in land springs merely from appropriation," says George,
" and I defy any one to assign for it any other genesis. Property in things
which are the result of labor springs from production and rests upon the
right of the man to the benefit of his own productions. The house that he
builds, the crops that he grows, the cattle that he raises are rightfully the
property of the man whose labor has gone to produce them — his to use, to-
sell, or bequeath. But where is the man that has produced the earth or
any part of it," etc.
Among the arguments which Florez Estrada employs to es-
tablish this predicate — i.e., that land should be the property of
the public at large, not of individuals in particular — the most
invincible, in the opinion of his admirers, is derived from "rivers,
$eas, and fountains." As to fountains we need not just here con-
cern ourselves: they may be natural or artificial; circumstances
may make them private or public. But once the pure and lucid
element which gushes from the earth — splendidior vitro — has been-
gathered within the channel-banks of a river, its resistless pro-
gress through men's barriers makes it public. As far as.it may
be improved by human exertion it may become private property.
But upon the simple element of pure water, as it journeys on its^
self-made road to the sea, there is no such " primal elder curse "
as there is upon the land. It is God's completed work. It is at
first hand, ready for man's highest uses. It nourishes its owit
finny products. No human being can make a river of pure
water, and therefore none dare claim it as his own. So long as
water takes the form of river or sea it is necessarily destitute o£
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68 Florbz Estrada and His Land Theory. [April,
cororoercial value given it by human labor, and can neither be
bought nor sold ; an artificial river — a canal — is another matter,
and an improvement in navigation is another matter. But no
human being will buy a pail of water standing beside a river. It
is necessarily destitute of value. But if the pail be carried the
distance of a few miles to a place where water is scarce, the car-
rier may find a purchaser who will give him a few cents, not for
the water, strictly speaking, but for the labor expended in carry*
ing it. Therefore it is contrary to the nature of things that seas
and rivers should become private property. Men cannot mono-
polize them, though they are entitled to the value of labor invest-
ed in them to improve them.
Coal is as much a spontaneous gift of nature ; it is the crea*
tion of the Deity quite as much as land ; but so much labor is ex-
pended in the exhumation of coal that it is a most valuable mine
ral, not simply because it is serviceable as a fuel, but because it
is extracted from the ** bowels of the earth " with an infinite deal
of labor.
We are indebted to the creative energy for iron, copper, sil-
ver, and gold. They are the gifts of God. No human industry
can manufacture these metals. But inasmuch as an infinite
amount of toil is expended in extracting them from the strata,
in purifying, refining, and fitting them for commercial and do-
mestic purposes, they are amongst the most precious of human
possessions.
Now, it would be a monstrous proposition, which Florez
Estrada and, Henry George are incapable of making, to say that
because these minerals are not the creation of human labor in
their elementary state, but are given to us by our Maker, that my
neighbor's bank-vault should be broken open and the glittering
contents bagged or pocketed by the general public.
In like manner the slates, timber, sand, granite blocks, and
marble chimney-pieces which make up a private mansion are
as much the gpfts of nature as the land from which they are ex-
tracted. Yet Florez Estrada, like Henry George, exempts
bouses from public confiscation, and deems it just and equita-
ble that they should be the property of individuals. No human
ingenuity, no art of man, could create the materials of architec-
tural structures. But this inability does not give the public a
right to rend them from the hands of the rightful owners and
convert them into public goods without compensation. In like
manner the wool of which cloth is manufactured cannot be made
by man. It grows on quadrupeds independently of human ac-
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1887.] Flore z Estrada and His Land Theory. 69
tion, and is converted into woven tissues very much as the sav-
age and inhospitable desert, the unprofitable bog and the pestife-
rous swamp, are converted by infinite toil into fructiferous earth.
It must be admitted that the labor of miners, buried in the
depths of the strata,
" Cimmerian people, strangers to the sun,"
is the most painful of all species of human drudgery. No man
works so hard as the miner. But next to mining the most labo-
rious of all human occupations is the cultivation of the soil. No
drudge is more exposed to the pitiless peltings of the relentless
elements. He shivers in the freezing rain, or cowers in the driv-
ing hail, or confronts the impetuous storm when
'* Foul and fierce
- All winter drives along the darkened air/'
turning the soil for a despicable sustenance. This results from
the awful decree of the Creator directed against Adam which
we read in Genesis iii. 17:
" Cursed, is the ground for thy sake ; in sorrow shalt thou eat of it all
the days of thy life. Thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth to thee.
In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread till thou return into the
dust," etc.
Now, every crop which is removed from the earth carries
away a portion of its substance. This substance is the food of
plants. They consume it and take it into their organization
much in the manner of animals. They derive their nutriment
from the earth. When they have consumed the soil the farmer
finds it necessary to replace it by other earths, which are termed
manures — by lime, which is derived from the rocky strata ; by
the secretions of animals derived from cities; by guano imported
from South America, etc. — so that in the course of years the ara-
ble soil is as much the production of human industry as the shoes
we wear or the houses we inhabit.
As to the rocky strata which underlie the superficial clays,
they cannot be separated from the arable tilth any more than
our osseous skeleton can be separated from our corporeal sys-
tem. They constitute the matrix which is indispensable to the
existence of the overlying clays. They must go along with it
and be either hired or owned.
Florez Estrada seems to forget that there are two kinds of
land — one in a state of nature, foul with bogs» horrible with
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70 Florrz Estrada and His Land Throry. [April,
forests, wholly incapable of supporting a popubtion, breathing
noxious effluvia and swarming with cold and venomous reptiles.
It is rather an inhosoitable menace than a utility to man, and is
given for nothing to occupants under the " Homestead Law."
The second description of land pullulates with plenty and
floats with rustling harvests. It is genial to the human race be-
cause it is the creation of human labor. Armed with the axe, the
rifle, and the spade, the pioneer of the republic made " war upon
the wilderness " at* the risk of his existence ; cleared away the
flora and the fauna which encumbered its surface, and thus en-
abled the golden sunshine to illuminate and fertilize the long-
darkened anddisfigured soil. Is all this toil and danger to go
for nothing ? Is it not a most reasonable provision of law that
the man who has created by his toil the productiveness of any
object shall be made in some true sense its owner? Assuredly,
if any species of property be sacred, it should be* this !
The price of land is labor. " Jn the sweat of thy brow shalt
thou eat thy bread." Accordingly the "Pilgrim Fathers" who
paid this terrible price had a better title to the land than any
the Indians could show. The Indians valued the bufialo; they
neglected the prairie. Hence they knew of no private title to
the soil, and parted with hundreds of acres which were useless to
them for trinkets, looking-glasses, or penknives. This land re-
sembled the atom of iron, not worth a penny, which labor con-
verts into watch-springs worth thousands of dollars.
The caves of England, again, furnish evidence that in pre-
historic times, when first invaded by man, the island swarmed
with wolves, bears, and hyenas, and above all a gigantic race of
oxen more formidable to man than the qarnivora. The extirpa-
tion of these monsters was a work of prodigious labor, without
which the land would be uninhabitable to man. That labor fur-
nished a title to the first settlers much more indefeasible and ex-
alted than mere appropriation.
According to American tradition, it was usual for a settler in
old times to give his son an axe, a rifle, and a rope, and dismiss
him from the family residence with the stem command, " Go and
seek your fortune." The son bade farewell to his brethren and
went, like Adam, into the wilderness ; cleared a lot of forest,
drained it, fenced it, and either brought his bride to it and made
it his home, or, after cropping it a year or two, sold it to a pur-
chaser. It was in this way that land fit for the plough was call-
ed into existence and made to flourish amid surrounding forests.
Such adventurers were stimulated to " make war on the wilder-
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1887.] Plorez Estrada and His Land Theory. 71
ncss " by the expectation of establishing permanent homes, or of
selling farms or renting them to European immigrants. America
is indebted to their labors for its wealth, fertility, and greatness.
Would they have so wrought had the only real title to the land
been in the general public?
" Labor/* says Adam Smith, *^ was the first price, the original
purchase-money, that was paid for all things." And for land, by
some kind of fair bargain, among the rest. Would Florez Estrada
have arrested this process, wrenched the axes'from the pioneers*
hands, and petrified them into inactivity ? We think not, for he
would not wish the earth to remain covered with horrid forests
and dismal swamps, pestiferous to man and propitious to reptiles,
choked with tangled jungle, the foul swamp festering below, the
sun broiling above.
Church history informs us that the friars of Abingdon in Eng-
land, the monks of Dysert in Ireland, spent hundreds of years in
fertilizing the rugged mountain and the quaking bog, as monks
in Melleray are doing at the present moment. During hundreds
of years they were creating this land, and during hundreds of
subsequent years they were enjoying the fruitfulness they had
created. At the "Reformation," however, the professors of a
" purer form of faith " expelled them from their monasteries, con-
fiscated their lands, and informed them that " property in land
springs from appropriation," and they were determined to appro-
priate it.
A lesson, we think, may be learned from the state of* things
in China. There the poverty of the humbler classes is more ap«
palling than in any other country on earth ; and yet the system
which Estrada advocates, as some of his critics would not unrea-
sonably interpret him, has flourished from time immemorial in
China. The emperor is the only landed proprietor, and the rent
which he exacts from the rural classes pays all the expenses oi
the government. Yet Adam Smith draws a frightful picture
of the wretchedness and misery of the laborers of China. He
says:
"The accounts of all travellers, inconsistent in other respects, agree as
to the low wages of labor and the difficulty which a laborer finds in bring-
ing up a family in China. If by digging the ground a whole day he can
get what will purchase a small quantity of rice, he is content. The condi-
tion of artificers is, if possible, still worse. Instead of waiting indolently in
their houses for the calls of their customers, as in Europe, they are continu-
ally running about the streets with the tools of their respective trades,
oflfering their services and, as it were, begging employment.
"The poverty of the lower classes of people in China far surpasses that
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72 Florez Estrada and His Land Theory. [April,
of the most beggarly nations in Europe, Any carrion or carcass is as
welcome to them as the most wholesome food to the people of other coun-
tries/*
We are far from discouraging the discussion of the social
problems — nay, we hail it, and we admire the honesty and manli-
ness of many of those advocates whose expedients we deem inade-
quate, or whose views are, as we think, fundamentally false. Let
us hear from all sides ; let us treat all honest men with respect.
Yet one thing must never be overlooked, and that is that the root
of all human misery is not in bad laws but in human sinfulness.
Therefore, the Utopias which men of benevolent but mistaken
views have from time to time presented to our race — the ideas of
Plato, Sir Thomas More, and Florez Estrada — can never be fully
realized while man preserves the vicious propensities of his fallen
nature. The worst misery of society is occasioned by the de-
pravity of its members. While the motto of too many of our
species is ^' homo homini lupus*' universal social happiness must be
a flower which can never grow on earth, but belongs exclusively
to the celestial world. While the humble and feeble are crushed
by the oppression of the powerful and made to feel " the oppres-
sor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, the insolence of office,
and the spurns which patient merit of the unworthy takes," while
revenge squats in its lair and meditates murder in its lurking-
place, how is it possible that society should be happy? What is
wanted, therefore, is not only the amelioration of our institutions
by a reform in laws, if that be found beneficial, but the reforma-
tion of ourselves, "The heart of man,'* as the Scriptures inform
us, *^is desperately wicked." Could we change our dispositions
we might much more readily adopt some such changes as our
well-meaning social reformers suggest, and that, too, without
adopting erroneous principles. But the renewal of our spirit,
the modification of our character, is a miracle which religion
alone can work.
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1887.] Egypt AND Holy Writ. 73
EGYPT AND HOLY WRIT,
(from JOSEPH TO MOSES.)
In a century the most distant from the times chronicled in
the books of Genesis and Exodus — ^a century characterized by an
alarming growth of scepticism, especially in matters pertaining
to remote Biblical history — it is certainly a fact, strongly marked
as providential, that there has come to the aid and confirmation
of these ancient books weighty and irrefragable proofs, and from
a quarter which, up to the dawn of the past half-century, seemed
barren, profitless, and dead as far as any new historic data to be
expected thence. And yet had an intelligent mind, assailed by
scepticism and still clinging to the sweet solacement of faith,
sought for additional evidences for the truth of these ancient
books of Scripture, his ingenuity could scarcely have conceived,
nor the unreasonableness of his troubled intelligence have de-
manded, that which the last fifty years of Egyptian archaeology
has done. There are scarcely to be found anywhere so many in-
stances as in the march of this science of that law by which the
highest intellects of the day work to an end whose full results
they could not have known, and to which they are hostile in
many instances, pushed on by a providential impulse.
The study of Egyptology in this century first presents itself
to us as a narrow stream, confined to the names of a few savants
of the first grade of excellence. To-day it presents the appear-
ance of a mighty flood of learning and research, to which a long
list of zealous scholars have been the tributaries. Heeren, one
of the last great representatives of the old school of history,
writing in 1828, could truthfiilly say :
" Little more has been accomplished [through the study of hieroglyphy]
than the decipherment of the names and titles of the kings, distinguished
by being always enclosed within a border."
But the dawn of a new era was at hand. Before this new
break of day the suspected records of Herodotus, the less cre-
dited pages of Diodorus Siculus, the fragments of Manetho's
^gyptiaca^ Josephus and the chronological works of Eusebius
and Georgius Syncellus, and the books of the Old Testament,
were the main authorities for the construction of Egyptian his-
tory and chronology. But
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74 Egypt AND Holy Writ. [April,
" The acute genius of a Frenchman at last succeeded in lifting the veil*
not fifty years since. By a prodigious effort of induction, and almost divi-
nation, Jean Francois Champollion, who was bom at Figeac (Lot) on the
23d of December, 1790, and died at Paris on the 4th of March, 1832, made
the greatest discovery of the nineteenth century in the domain of histori-
cal science, and succeeded in fixing on a solid basis the principle of reading
hieroglyphics. Numerous scholars have followed the path opened by him.
The chief of them are, in France, C. Lenormant, Ampere, De Roug6, Mari-
ette, and Chabas ; in Germany, Dr. Lepsius and Dr. Brugsch-Bey ; in Eng-
land, Dr. Birch. By their profound and persevering studies the discovery
of ChampoUion has been completed and perfected, and its results have been
extended." •
ORIGIN OF THE EGYPTIANS.
Naturally the first question which presents itself in the ex.
amination we have undertaken is, What was the origin of the
Egyptians ? The Biblical account, read in the light of recent
knowledge, is that they originated from Chus, the son of Ham,
the son of Noah. Lepsius, says Dr. Brugsch, has lately shown,
with remarkable clearness and great acuteness, and has proved
in the most convincing manner, the Asiatic home of the Egyp-
tians in accord with the Biblical account in the list of nations. f
Their Nigritian origin, therefore, can hardly longer be main-
tained, though subsequent Nigritian contamination in matters of
religion is highly probable. The knowledge recently acquired
of their language shows that it is akin to the Indo-Germanic and
Semitic. Comparative philology and natural history both assign
the Egyptians an Asiatic origin. Finally, we have the tradition
of the Egyptians themselves as to their Eastern origin :
" The frequent mention on the monuments of the land of God (i.e.. Ra^
the god of light) and of Pun, together with the regions belonging to it,
showed to the Egyptians ancient representations about the land of their
origin, the significance of which is the more to be valued since the texts
frequently strike the key of a yearning home-sickness, and glorify the East
— the cradle of light and of their own childhood— as a land of perfect hap-
piness."!
The fact that Egyptian civilization is found in its very in-
fancy fully developed! is a fact which strongly favors the
Noachic origin, though such scholars as Renan fail to see its
force, but wander off into the perplexing labyrinths of their
* Lenormant, Manuel,
4 Egypt under the Pkaraoks^ second English ediUon, p. 10, and vol. U. 401. L«Dorinant
says : ** This is a fact clearly established by science. **
X Brugsch, ib. ii. 404.
% Aperfu de PHutoire tP^gypte^ etc, by lUriette.
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1887.] Egypt and Holy Writ. 75
own theories, to be lost there. They forget that Noah possess-
ed many arts — how many, various, multiform, how fully matured,
we cannot say — which had been developed in the antediluvian
ages, and which met in him as a focus to be disseminated with
his descendants. **With the human race Noah preserved the
arts,*' says Bossuet*
THE PHARAOH OF JOSEPH.
Until the time of Rehoboam the Egyptian monarchs are not
mentioned by name in Holy Writ, but are always spoken of un-
der the title of Pharaoh.f Hence the difficulty of establishing
an Egyptian and Hebraic synchronism. The first contact (after
Abraham) of Egypt and the Jews is found in the touching story
of Joseph, sold by his brethren and afterwards rising to the
supreme lieutenancy of the land of the Pharaohs ! Even to-day,
three thousand years after Moses transferred it to his page,
this tale stands almost unrivalled for its clearness, its simplicity,
its simple beauty. It affects the reader no less powerfully than
it must have affected the contemporaries of the inspired writer.
What light will Egyptology throw upon this narrative?
Joseph came to Egypt during the reign of the Hyks6s (the
Shepherd usurpation), then very completely Egyptianized. The
particular king who raised Joseph to authority was Apophis
(Apepi in the monuments), according to a Christian tradition
banded down by Georgius Syncellus. Besides this a very re-
markable tablet:!: raised by Rameses H. "in the year 400 on the
4th day of the month Mesori of King Nub " (one of the prede-
cessors of Apepi) gives a basis for calculation in connection with
the four hundred years* sojourn of the Israelites in Egypt which
confirms the tradition of Syncellus, and also fixes the date of the
exodus under Mineptah.
''Independent of every kind of arrangement and combination of num-
bers, they prove the probability of a fixed determination of time for a very
important section of the general history of the world, on the basis of two
chronological data which correspond in a way almost marvellous, and
which, independently of each other, derive their origin from trustworthy
and venerable sources." $
♦ Discours sur IHistotre UniverselU^ p. 25, Didot ed.
t *' Pharaoh, i>. Pirao — g:reat house, high gate — \&y according to the monuments, the designa-
don of the king of the land of Egypt for the time being ^ (Bnigsch, Bgypt uncUr tlu Pharaohs^
it 133).
^ It is translated and may be found In Dr. Birch's collection, Records 0/ the Past^ vol*
xir. p. 33. See also Bnigsch's Egypt ^ p. 296.
f BmgKh*! Egypt mmder tkt PkmraoMg, p. 996.
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76 Egypt and Holy Writ. [April,
The seven years of famine which Joseph foretold, and which
has excited so much doubt, can no longer be denied. From an
inscription on a tomb of El Kalb (which is pronounced by the
best authority, judging from its language, style of decoration, and
the name of its possessor, Baba, to belong to the time just pre-
ceding the XVIIIth Dynasty, which began circa 1700 B.C.) w^
have " a remarkable and luminous confirmation " of the Bibli-
cal narrative. Baba was, no doubt, the governor of some divi-
sion of Egypt. The inscription we will give in full because
of its importance and the interest which must attach to an epitaph
thirty-five hundred years old :
*• The chief at the table of the sovereign, Baba, the risfen again, speaks
thus : ' I loved my father ; I honored my mother ; my brothers and my
sisters loved me. I went out of the door of my house with a benevolent
heart ; I stood there with refreshing hand ; splendid were my preparations
of what I collected for the festal day. Mild was my heart, free from vio-
lent anger. The gods bestowed upon me abundant prosperity on earth.
The city wished me health and a life full of enjoyment. I punished tho
evil-doers. The children who stood before me in the days which I fulfilled
were — ^great and small— 60 ; just as many beds were provided for them, just
as many chairs, just as many tables. They all consumed 120 ephahs of
durra, the milk of 3 cows, 52 goats, and 9 she-asses, a hin of balsam, and
two jars of oil.
" ' My words may seem jest to a gainsayer. But I call the god Month ♦
to witness that what I say is true. I had all this prepared in my house ; in
addition to this I put cream in the store-chamber and beer in the cellar in
a more than sufficient number of hin measures.
" ' / collected corn as a friend of the harvest god, I was watchful at ths
time of sowing. And when a famine arose lasting many years, I distributee^
com to the city each year of the famine* "
The famine mentioned by the Bible is the only one of which
we have any hint throughout the whole range of ancient Egyp-
tian history. Brugsch says history only mentions one example of
the Nile failing.
"The exception," says Philip Smith, " which may be taken to this state-
ment tends rather to confirm than invalidate Brugsch's statement, by the
record of one, and only one, parallel case in the six thousand years (more
or less) of Egyptian history."
This was the famine of the Fdtimee Khaleefeh, El-Mustanstir bil-
Idh, which lasted exactly seven years (a.D. 1064-1071). Brugsch's
comments on the Baba epitaph end thus :
" There remains for a satisfactory conclusion but one fair inference :
that the many years of famine in the days of Baba must correspond to the
seven years under Joseph's Pharaoh, who was one of the Shepherd Kings."
* Month, with the hawk's head, was the terriUe and hostile form of the sun (Lenormant).
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The Biblical account of Joseph's life at court is pronounced
by the most eminent authorities to be in complete accord " with
the presuppositions connected with the persons, the place, and the
time." The Pharaoh, says the Bible, ordered that there should
be proclaimed before Joseph an abrek — " that is, bow the knee,
a word which is still retained in the hieroglyphic dictionary,"*
and was the means of expressing respect to an important per-
sonage. He bestowed upon him, says the Bible, the dignity of
Za p— unt p — ' a 'anekh
Governor of the district of the place of life,
or "Governor of the Sethrolte nome," whose capital was Tanis,
or Zoan, f of which we will speak presently, and with which this
air so admirably corresponds. And Joseph says (Gen. xlv. 8):
" It is God who established me as privy councillor to Pharaoh
and as lord [Ado^t] over all Egypt."
" The first clause/' says Mr. Philip Smith, " is mistranslated in all ver-
sions from LXX. downwards* through taking ^^ for the Hebrew word father
instead of the Egyptian title Ab-en-pira'a**
The title Adon is Egyptian. The name of Joseph's wife is
pure Egyptian — Amat — as is likewise . that of his father-in-law,
Putiper'a (the gift of the sun), the priest of On-Heliopolis (Gen.
xli- 45). We have in the Orbigny papyrus a romance, the main
features of which correspond in a remarkable manner to the story
of Joseph's temptation by the wife of the officer of Pharaoh's
court, over whose aflfiairshe had charge. Even the language used
by the youth of the romance is a sufficiently faithful repetition of
that used by Joseph to his master's wicked wife.:}: The subse-
quent conduct of the chagrined temptresses are alike in both
cases. Each accused the objects of their lust. The younger
brother flees, and a series of marvellous adventures follow, until
at last the younger brother becomes King of Egypt ^ and the elder his
hereditary prince and successor ! The parallel is so faithful that we
are forced to the conclusion that this romance, under a disguise,
tells no other than the wonderful history of Joseph.§
♦ Sec Brugsch*s Hieroglyphic Diet, ^ tit. ** Bark.'»
t See Bnigsch's Map to second vol of his Egypt under the Pharaohs,
\ The youth of the romance replies : *' Thou, O woman, hast been to me like a mother, and
thy husband like a father, for he is older than I, so he might hare been my parent Why this so
great sim that thou hast sfohen to me f '» Joseph's words are : " How can I do this great evil,
and sin against God ?"
% The Orbigny papyrus is in the British Museum, and was first published in part by the
learned De Roug6 in the Revue Archiotogique^ tome ix. p. 385. It was a startling revelation to
Europe. Its author was a scribe, Ana, for King SeU 11., son of Mineptah II. of the XlXth
Pynastj— f.#., about laoo B,c.
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78 Egypt and Holy Writ. [April,
Against the argument of ** improbability " that Joseph (a
stranger) should be thus exalted we have the satisfaction of (lad-
ing an exactly similar incident happening to another stranger.
He received the same office as Joseph received — "lord of all
Egypt" (Gen. xlv.), called in the Egyptian record " lord of the
whole land." The same word Adon is used to express bcth dig--
nities. ** Pharaoh's dream of the kine " — to use the words of Mr,
Poole* — "describe the years of plenty and famine under the
usual type of the inundation, as Brugsch has shown." And two
circumstances of the Biblical narrative bring us very near Egyp-
tian official usage. " By the life of Pharaoh " is used by Joseph
as a strong asseveration to his father that he will not bury him in
Egyptian soil ; then " Israel bowed himself upon the head of his
staff." t Both actions are traced by M. Chabas in his essays upon
Egyptian legal procedure. He quotes the following passage
from a trial at Thebes where the witness is described : " He made
a life of the royal lord, striking his nose and placing his head
upon the staff.":}:
Some may think these are trifling details. But they have not
been so considered by the great scholars whose lives have been
devoted to the science of Egyptology. They are proofs, too, of
the correctness of Holy Scripture in matters even of the smallest
purport. If the progress of Egyptology, on the other hand,
could enable hostile criticism to show their incorrectness, the ad-
versaries of the Bible would have good ground for flaunting in
our. faces the legal maxim : Falsus in uno.falsus omnibus J
In time, however, the royal patron of Joseph passed away ;
and Egyptologists of the highest repute consider that, as Joseph
lived about seventy years after his installation as Adon^ he must
have survived Apepi, whose reign is estimated at sixty-one years.
In the meantime the Israelites settled in the land of Goshen,
where they fed their flocks and took charge of those of the Egyp-
tians. They probably lived in peace during the existence of the
XVlIIth Dynasty (a period when Egypt reached the pinnacle of
her glory under Thothmes III.), and this immunity continued
until that haughty monarch of the XlXth Dynasty, Seti, in the
exigencies brought about by his destructive wars and extrava-
gant schemes of vanity, was induced to treat this nation of for-
eigners a3 he treated his captives. For, as the Biblical account
has said it, living peacefully in their own region they had been
♦ Contemporary Review^ voL xxxiv.
t Staff is generally mistranslated *' bed 'Mn the Bible.
t Chabas' Milanges ^gypt,, iii
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1887.] Egypt ai^d Holy Writ. 79
" fruitful and increased abundantly, and multiplied, and waxed
exceedingly strong, until they filled the land." Then ** a new
king arose up over Egypt, who knew not Joseph." The great
benefactor was forgotten, and the memory of his good deeds in-
terred with his bones. Not a strange turn of events in a country
where the memory of predecessors was so little respected that
the nation had not cared to keep any chronology of her rulers ;
where monuments of predecessors were pirated, their names
erased and those of their defacers substituted therefor; where
the ruler, when he became Pharaoh, become also a deity incar-
nate, whom all, from lowest to high-priest, worshipped as a
god ! There is nothing so mean as egotism, whether it develops
itself in the breast of an Egyptian monarch or in that of a French
radical. In the eyes of both the past and its memorials have
been objects of legitimate hatred and self-aggrandizement
THE PHARAOHS OF THE OPPRESSION AND THE EXODUS.
Under what Pharaohs Moses was rescued from the bullrushes,
raised a favorite at court, till he became ** learned in all the learn-
ing of the Egyptians," has been determined by the progress of
Egyptology beyond a reasonable doubt.
If what has been said of Joseph and his synchronism with
Apepi be true, then the Pharaoh under whom Moses fled and
became an exile was Rameses II., the great Sesostris of the
Greeks, while the Pharaoh of the oppression was the son of Ra-
meses, Meneptah (B.C. circa 1300). So well do all the Biblical
facts correspond to what we shall see is the information, the
data, furnished by the advancement of Egyptology, that these
dates are now generally accepted by scholars as established.
As to the Israelites, Herodotus and Diodorus give us no light.
The hieroglyphs themselves are silent. And
" The hope can never be cherished that we shall ever find on the public
monuments — rather let us say in some hidden roll of papyrus — the events,
repeated in an Egyptian version, which relate to the exodus of the Jews
and the destruction of Pharaoh * in the Red Sea. For the record of these
events was inseparably connected with the humiliating confession of a
divine visitation, to which a patriotic writer at the court of Pharaoh would
hardly have brought his mind.'' t
Let US proceed to find what the condition of the science can
* Some scholan contend that the Biblical accowit does not require the belief that Pharaoh
WM lost. See Rawlinson's History 4^ Egypt^ note, p. 346, vol. ii.
t Bnigscb, Egypt undtr the Pharaohs^ ii. p. 135,
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8o Egypt and Holy Writ. [April,
do for us in the solution of this question. Let us add four hun-
dred years (the Biblical number), for the sojourn of the Israel-
ites in Egypt, to the date of Joseph's Pharaoh (1700 B.c.)i and if
we do this we find ourselves, on the authority of the inscription
cited above, in the reign of Meneptah, son and successor of
Rameses II., a vacillating king, as the Bible and confirmatory
monumental decipherings show. We will now see how the dif-
ferent links come together.
There is a tradition preserved in Josephus that the name of
the daughter of the Pharaoh who rescued Moses was Merris (or
Therm uthis). It has been found that one of the daughters of
Rameses II. was named Meri (dear). The names of the daugh-
ters of Seti I., father and predecessor of Rameses II., however,
we have not got. Chronological considerations, however, con-
found us in regard to this coincidence of names, and make what
would at first appear a soh'd something a mere vision. For, as
Mr. Rawlinson has acutely remarked — a consideration which has
escaped the observation of Brugsch, Lenormant, Mariette, and
others —
" As Moses was eighty years old at this time [the Exodus] (chap. vii. 7),
it is evident that the Pharaoh from whom he fled cannot be the same with
the one who, more than eighty years previously, gave the order for the de-
struction of the Hebrew male children. It must be that the narrative of
Exodus speaks of three Pharaohs."*
But we have still another tradition preserved by Josephus from
Manetho, which places the exodus of the Israelites in the region
of an Amenophis who was the son of a Rameses and the father
of a Sethos. These facts can be applied to but one Pharaoh,
Meneptah, son and successor of Rameses II. This position
gives us no chronological embarrassment, and is in accord with
all other data.
One of the cities where the six hundred thousand workers of
the Jews were oppressed and the process of "making bricks
without straw *' went on is generally admitted to be Zoan,
known also as Tanis and Rameses, from Rameses having re-
built it after its destruction and desolation following upon the
expulsion of the Hyksds. It perfectly agrees with the condi-
tions implied in the Biblical narrative of the Exodus, in which a
city of Rameses is the starting-point of the settlers in Goshen, f
• ^gyPt and Babylon^ Rawlinson, New York, 1885.
t Poole, Contemporary Review^ vol. xxxiy. As to the route of the Exodus Brugsch hu a
tfuory which is striking but by no means established. See the appendix to his second Tolume,
Egypt under the Pharaohs.
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1887.] Egypt and Holy Writ. 81
which land Dr. Brugsch places near this town. It was a place
of high antiquity and of great magnificence, especially under Ra-
meses II. It had been the chief town of the Apepi, who was-
Joseph's master. Its ruins have only been lately well explored
and its pristine splendor adequately conjectured.* The great
archaeologist Auguste Mariette was there in i860, and made a
series of remarkable discoveries which were described in letters
to De Roug6 ; but he had not the good fortune nor the means
placed at his disposal of completing what he had commenced.
Mariette died January 19, 1881, and the Egypt Exploration Fund
sent out Mr. Petrie. Mariette it was who pointed out — it was
on the occasion of his last public utterance before the French
Academy— the importance to historical science of the explora-
tion of this buried city, within whose gates and about whose
walls, *'in the field of Zoan,t Moses worked the miracles of
the staff turned to a serpent, of the waters turned to blood,
of the frogs, of the lice, of the affliction from wild beasts,
of the pestilence to all domestic animals, of the boils, of the
hail, of the blight, of the locusts, of the darkness of three
days, of the death of the first-born ! How familiar to Moses
must have been Zoan's great colossus, its magnificent temples,
its avenues of sphinxes ! He must have seen many a time the
great Raraeses returning thither in triumph, his haughty pride,
and the divine worship bestowed upon him while living. The
character of its ruins shows that it was the principal town of Ra-
meses and his successor. This -fact established, no doubt can
longer exist as to the starting-point of the Hebrews, of the land
of Goshen, of the situs of the miracles. It is a fact, too, which
favors the hypothesis of Seti, Rameses, and Meneptah being the
Pharaohs of the oppression and of the Exodus. The colossus :f
of Rameses found in the ruins of Zoan, or Tanis, must, aside
from the character of his excavated temple and other monu-
ments; stamp this city as the favorite abode of Rameses and his
feeble successor. It is the greatest of all the great colossi of
Rameses scattered by his liberal egotism through Egypt. It
was of the red granite of Syene, a monolith, as it stood erect,
the figure measuring 90 feet in height ; but, when crown, plinth,
and pedestal are included, it towered 120 feet ! The feet measured
♦ Tanis^ by Petrie, 1885, Trtbner & Co.
f The original Hebrew says Zoan. Our English texts, following the Greek, say Tank.
pjBalm Izzvii. 12.
X See Tanis^ by Petrie (cited supra).
VOL. XLV.-
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^2 Egypt and Holy Writ. [April,
4 feet 9 inchea; the great toe was i foot long, 2| inches across;
and the figure itself was some fifteen times higher than the king's
self. The crown is reckoned to have been 14J feet high.*
In the ruins of Tanis were found — and the same has been the
case with almost every site which the spade has upturned in the
hand of the archaeologist — images of the god Apis, always repre-
sented as a bull,t in whom Osiris .was believed to be incarnate.
Little wonder that when the Israelites, far from Tanis and its
allurements, surrounded by inhospitable solitudes, longed for
the flesh-pots of Egypt, and having hardened their hearts against
God, should have made an image of a golden calf — an image of
Apis ! — and worshipped it. Four hundred years* sojourn had not
been without its efiects. Verily, it was time they were departing !
The reasons for the oppression are stated in Exodus as " for
fear, when any war fell out, the people of Israel should join unto
Egypt's enemies and fight against the Egyptians, and so get
them up out of the land.'* Now, we know that in Seti's time the
Northeastern peoples brought down upon Egypt a great war.
Such an oppression as that of the Israelites was in keeping with
the savagery of Seti's nature and that of Rameses II. The
monuments % show slaves or captives — called on the monuments
Aperieu — engaged in just such labors as the Bible describes the
Israelites engaged in, and over them were task-masters with clubs
in their hands.
"All the works of Rameses,*' says Rawlinson, "were raised by means of
forced labor." And Lenormant says : " It is not without a deep feeling of
horror that we think of the many thousands of captives who died under
the strokes of the task-masters, or who fell as victims to their great fatigues
and privations. There was, therefore, in the monuments of the reign of
Rameses scarcely a stone, so to speak, which had not cost a human life "
{^Manuel, i. p. 423).
The Israelites, says Moses (Exodus i. ver. 11), were engaged
in building " store-cities," Pithom and Rameses — ue.y Tanis. Re-
cently such a city adjoining Tanis has been excavated, whose
♦ It is only some weeks ago that the mummy of Rameses II. was unwrapped at the museum
of Boulak, in Egypt, and the king's photograph taken, three thousand years after death.
t See Lenormant's and Rawlinson's works on Egypt for the degrading worship connected
with this deity.
J As to the question whether the " Aperieu " and the Hebrews are identical, see Bmgsch,
Egypt under the PharaohSy ii. p. 134, who contends against this view, and Rawlinson^s Bgy^
and Babylon^ citing Chabas' Recherchts pour tsrvir ^ Phistair$ de P^gypte^ in faror of this
▼iew.
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1 8870 Egypt and Holy Writ. 83
form answers exactly such a purpose, and, strangely enough,
it is built almost entirely of brick; and though these brick
contain straw in most instances, some, of an inferior quality, have
been found which do not contain it. The inscriptions show that
this store-city was built in parf by Rameses II. And we have a
monument of the Berlin Museum (Brugsch, Histoire (TEgypte^
p. 175) which mentions the fact of Meneptah having lost a son.
"The confirmation thus lent to the Scriptural narrative," says Rawlin-
son, " is slight ; but it has a value in a case where the entire force of the
evidence consists in its being cumulative/'
There are besides innumerable incidental facts detailed in
Scripture relative to Egyptian customs which have been the ma-
terial of much information, and which modern research verifies,
but into these details we need not go. But we can hardly be
said to have properly completed our task without a brief notice
of certain features of the literature of the ancient land whose
records we have been fumbling.
EGYPTIAN LITERATURE.
The incalculable mass of Egyptian literature which has been
lost in the devastation of ages has been only in a slight degree
retrieved. It is possible that Greek works (in Ptolemaic times)
explanatory of the hieroglyphic writing existed, though Lenor-
mant argues otherwise. Certainly we have no trace of them.
The nearest approach are the trilingual stones — the most fa-
mous called the Rosetta, and which was the basis of Champol-
lion's discoveries. We wish to notice some of these literary re-
mains with but one object in view — to show the religious ideas
contained pn them suggestive of the common heritage of the
Egyptians of primitive truths with the other descendants of
Noah.
The most important of these works — and of which we have a
papyrus (a partial copy) dating back to the Xlth Dynasty, 2000
B.C. — is the Ritual of the Dead. Through its mists of super-
stition and fantastic errors it teaches — as De Roug6,* " the most
philosophic and one of the acutest of Champollion's successors,"
* This^minent scholar has written a book, which we have never had the g;ood fortune to
see, whose title is : Explication (Pune inscription £gyptienne prouvant qu$ les £gyptiens ont
connu la giniration itemelle dufils de Dieu, 1851.
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84 Egypt and Holy Writ. [April,
contends — the idea of one God. It teaches, too, the resurrection
of the body, the life of the soul after death, judgment, and the
separation of the just from the unjust. Familiar as are the words
of the judged before Osiris, they cannot be too often repeated in
anything treating of Egypt and her faith, because of the rem-
nants of primitive truth which still sparkle in them. Standing
for judgment, the judged says :
" I have not blasphemed ; I have not deceived ; I have not stolen ; I
have not slain any one treacherously; I have not been cruel to any one ;
I have not caused disturbance ; I have not been idle ; I have not been
drunken ; I have not issued unjust orders; I have not multiplied words in
speaking ; I have struck no one ; I have caused fear to no one ; I have
slandered no one ; I have not eaten my heart through envy ; I have not re-
viled the face of the king, nor the face of my father; I have not made false
accusations; I have not kept milk from the mouths of sucklings; I have
not caused abortion. I have not ill-used my slaves ; I have not killed sa-
cred beasts ; I have not defiled the river ; I have not polluted myself ; I
have not taken the clothes of the dead."
And then, in fear or desperation, he cries out :
" Let me go ; ye know that I am without fault, without evil, without sin,
without crime. Do not torture me ; do not aught against me. * I have lived
on truth ; I have been fed on truth ; I have made it my delight to do what
men command and the gods approve. ... I have given bread to the hun-
gry and drink to him who was athirst ; I have clothed the naked with gar-
ments, etc." *
Passing by without mentioning other religious works, we
have one of the most important of all, the moral treatise of
Ptah-Hotep.
"The most interesting of extant memorials," says Rawlinson, "belong-
ing to the time of Assa [Vth Dynasty, whose chronology is unknown] is a
papyrus, ^ probably the most ancient manuscript in the world,* written by
the son of a former king, who calls himself Ptah-Hotep. The character
used is the hieratic, and the subject of the treatise is the proper conduct of
life and the advantages to be derived from a right behavior."
The author states that he was one hundred and ten years old.
An extract will show the pure tone and ancient simplicity with
* Bnigsch, in his Egyptian enthusiasm, goes into the exaggeration of sajing that *' the 4a
laws of the Egyptian religion contained in the 125th chapter of the Ritual fall short in nothing
of the teachings of Christianity,** and that the Jewish lawgiver ^^did but translate into He-
brew the religious precepts which he found in the sacred books." Strangely enough, even the
most orthodoxically disposed lose sight of the greater probability of the opposite view on mere
human grounds — that the Egyptians got their wisdom from a people whom God by miracles and
special care taught and held to the truth. What a literature must have existed in Hebrew be-
fore Moses found it what he has left it for us!
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i887.] Egypt and Holy Writ. 85
which it is stamped. It is the voice of a day that gliriimered
not fer from the full sunlight of ancient truth :
" The son who accepts the words of his father wiU grow old in conse-
quence. For obedience is of God ; disobedience is hateful to God. The
obedience of the son to his father, this is joy; . . . such a one is dear to his
father ; and his renown is in the mouth of all those who walk upon the earth.
The rebellious man, who obeys not, sees knowledge in ignorance, the vir-
tues in the vices ; he commits daily with boldness all manner of crimes,
and herein lives as if he were dead. What the wise men know to be death
is his daily fife ; he goes his way, laden with a heap of imprecations. • . .
I myself have [by following these precepts] become one of the ancients of
the earth."
We might cumulate the proof by further citations. We hope
that, without the need of further saying, we have shown the
truthfulness of the Biblical narrative, synchronized the stay and
departure of the Israelites with Egyptian history, and left the
reader with data pointing out the origin and relationship of the
ancient Egyptians.
Let us trust, as the earnest and sanguine Brugsch-Bey has so
confidently asserted, that as long as Egypt shall last and explora-
tions be made in her ruined bosom new discoveries will be made
throwing light upon important and obscure passages of the
sacred text
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86 A Fair Emigrant. [Aprils
A FAIR EMIGRANT.
CHAPTER XXV.
A PERPLEXING SITUATION,
Dinner, which had been waiting some time, was announced,
arid the company repaired to the dining-room — a long, high,
haughty-looking room, if the word may be allowed, very scantily
furnished, the walls hung with a few old family portraits, the
windows scantily and dingily dfaped, but the table appointments
nice, and even handsome in an old-fashioned way. Rory, the
master of the house, sat at one end of the table, with Manon,
whom he had taken in to dinner, on one hand, and his cousin-in-
law, Flora, on the other. Gran, at the opposite end of the board,
had Bawn beside her, and interested herself in questioning the
quiet yet audacious young woman as to her knowledge of farm-
ing, her experience of America, her impressions of Ireland, etc.
*' What affected me most as strange at first were the little
patches of fields, the green hedges, and the gradually falling
twilight," said Bawn. " I stay out of doors watching the night
fall, and, every time it seems to me more wonderful."
Gran had laid down her knife and fork, and was looking at
her visitor with a peculiar expression. She appeared absent and
disturbed.
** I hope you are not unwell," said Bawn, aware of a sudden
change.
** No, my dear ; I am well, thank you. It was only something
in your voice. We old people get strange fancies. Our minds
are full of echoes. Will you say again * the green hedges,' just
to please me ? "
** The green hedges," said Bawn, smiling.
" Thank you. I am very full of fancies. I do not know of
what your way of saying those words reminds me. The sugges-
tion has passed away, whatever it was."
" The words are new to me,*' said Bawn, still smiling, " but
they ought not to be new to you."
" No, they are not new, as you say, but at my age it is not
the new things that signify. And so you intend to cut a figure
in the butter-market. There is ample room for you, I own. We
are open to improvement."
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1887.] A Fair Emigrant. 87
" Yes, I am hoping to rival the Danes," said Bawn. ** I hold
it a shame that Irish people continue to eat Danish butter."
** Who eats Danish butter?*' asked Shana, looking shocked.
" A Dublin butter-merchant assured me by letter this morn-
ing that only for Danish butter he could not supply his custo-
mers," said Bawn.
"Whatvabout Canon Bagot?" asked Alister. "I thought
he had improved away all that interference."
" Canon Bagot has done a great deal," said Rory from the
other end of the table, " and the dairy-schools are doing more,
but we had all need to be alive. A thorough revolution in our
butter-making is necessary."
** Really, Rory, the idea of reform is turning your brain.
Don't persuade Manon that our butter is not delicious," said
Lady Flora.
" Our butter, yes," said Rory ; " there is none such in the
world. But the butter that our farmers, especially our small
farmers, make, pack, and send abroad, the butter that is to travel
and to keep — that is mere money thrown away by those who
badly need it, capital sunk in the sea, treasure which is our na-
tional inheritance dropped into our neighbors' pockets."
Flora shrugged her shoulders. So long as the family tables
were delicately supplied she cared little whether the butter of
the nation was wealth-producing or not.
"Flora knows*on which side her own bread is buttered, but
that is all." said her husband mischievously.
"If you mean that I don't believe in philanthropy and politi-
cal economy, and that sort of thing, you are right," said Lady
Flora, erecting her fan with an air of dignity. '* I hold with
people minding their own affairs. It is the only way to keep
things going right."
" Or going wrong," said Rory grimly.
"Come, Rory, talking of philanthropy, you have not told us
anything yet about your trip to America among the emigrants.
Miss De St. Claire, you would scarcely believe that this elegant
young man in his faultless evening-dress — "
" Seven years of age," said Rory, glancing at his sleeve with
the ghost of a smile.
" — Went out to New York last summer with a batch of emi-
grants, lived among them, ate with them, all to see how they
were treated on the way. You will now know why some of us
consider him the crazy member of our family."
" It must have been verv nasty," said Manon, who spoke Eng-
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88 A Fair Emigrant. [April,
lish well, with a pretty foreign accent, and she shuddered grace-
fully.
** It was not exactly comfortable," said Rory, " but if I had
expected it to be so I should have had no reason for going. It
was a useful experience, what I wanted. A man is in a better
position to speak of a thing when he knows exactly what he is
talking about."
" How very much pleasanter it must have been returning
home ! '* said Manon, raising her dark eyes softly to Rory's face.
Bawn, who had regained all her usual composure, was look-
ing at the two heads side by side, Rory's and Manon's, and
thinking within herself that this Rory was certainly not Somer-
led. In his evening-dress he looked less like her friend than in
his ulster in the cabin; and she decided that Somerled never
could have sat so long among his friends, even with the annoy-
ance of her presence on his mind, without one of his brilliant
smiles. When Manon said, " It must have been pleasanter com-
ing back," she felt herself almost safe in watching to see how he
would reply. He had never looked at her once, that she had ob-
served, since they sat down to table. Why should he look at
her now ? What had the return journey of this crazy member
of the family to do with her ? Somerled was in Paris, perhaps
still searching for her. ** The name of a street, the number of a
door" — how he had pleaded for the address of her imaginary
home in Paris! A traitor she had been — that was not to be
doubted; but dairy-keeping was now her r61e, and not sentimen-
talizing, and so, as a mere farmer-woman, she could have no
scruple in just looking expectantly to hear how this Rory, who
understood so well the necessity for improvement in Irish butter-
making, had enjoyed his return journey after his quixotic excur-
sion to America.
" Yes, it was happier coming home," he said, with a slight
frown, and suddenly turned his glance full on the wide, calm,
observant eyes gazing at him from the other end of the table.
And then Bawn felt that she had got a blow, and sat pale to the
lips, telling herself that this was indeed Somerled and that he
hated her.
Gran unconsciously came to her relief by rising from the
table, and the ladies returned to the drawing-room, where Bawn
was again placed by the old lady near herself as her own par-
ticular guest. As Flora and Manon kept by themselves at the
other side of the apartment, it was evident that they, at least, did
not intend to begin an acquaintance with the farming tenant of
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1887.] A Fair Emigrant. 89
Sbanganagh. Gran, a little tired» soon fell into a fit of abstrac-
tion, gazing into the fire from the depths of her great arm-chair,
while Shana and Rosheen drew their seats as near as possible to
Bawn's.
" Is it really true what Rory says, that wealth for this coun-
try can be made out of improved butter?" asked Shana eagerly.
"Rory is always right," said Rosheen.
** He is only a theorist. Miss Ingram has experience. Miss
Ingram makes butter. Can a fortune really be made out of but-
ter, Miss Ingram?" asked Shana impatiently. She was thinking
that perhaps butter-making might prove a better means than
story-writing of amassing that fortune which would enable her
to be such a useful wife to Willie Callender. If so she would go
into partnership with her tenant and hire herself as a dairymaid
on the spot.
" I don't expect that I shall make a fortune," said Bawn. " I
have not — "she stopped short, and then went on: "Capital
would be necessary for that."
" Capital ? " cried Shana, disgusted. " It is always the same
answer. Capital, you are told, is needed to make money. As if
capital did not mean that one had already got one's fortune.
What is the difference now between our butter and the Danes',
Miss Ingram?"
" The Danes do not send it out of turf-smoky cabins where
it is hoarded up from week to week. They make it better, too,
and salt it better, and, of all things, pack it clean," said Rory
Fingall from behind Shana. The gentlemen had come into the
room while the ladies were talking. " Even the Cork merchants,
who have a monopoly of the most delicious butter in the uni-
verse, pack it in such dirty old tubs as have disgraced us before
the world. I hope you intend to pack clean. Miss Ingram."
" The Danes are my model in that respect," said Bawn, just
raising for a moment a pair of cool, unrecognizing eyes to the
dark ones that had glanced at her so coldly. ** I have ordered
a small barrel of Cork butter and another of Danish to be sent
to me, and I shall judge by my own lights of the merits of
each."
" I see you are a practical woman and know what you are
about," said her host ; and then he turned away and left her ask-
ing herself again the question, Was this man Somerled, or was he
not?
" May 1 come to see the barrels of butter when they arrive ? "
Shana was pleading when the preoccupation caused by Bawn's
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perplexity allowed her to hear and see again what was going
on around her.
" I shall be pleased, honored, if you will come," said Miss In-
gram, and she prepared to plunge once more into the butter
question ; but the next moment Shana was taken away abruptly
by her brother to sing a duet with Rosheen, and Bawn was left
to observe two things — first, that Rory was engaged in conversa-
tion with Manon, at the other end of the room, oblivious of the
existence of the Minnesota farmeress; and, second, that Gran had
become wide awake again and was observing her with the same
peculiar look of interest which had rested on her face when she
had asked her at dinner to oblige her by saying those simple
words, " the green hedges," again.
Then came " a little music." Major Batt shouted in a stento-
rian voice his desire to " like a soldier fall," but as he followed no
particular air, and all the words except the refrain were inarticu-
late, there was a sigh of relief when he had finished ; and it oc-
curred to Bawn that they were all thankful he had not fallen, as
it would have been so difficult to pick him up again. Alister
chirped an old Jacobite ditty in a weak though true tenor, and
his sisters warbled sweetly enough about a bower of wild roses
on Bendemeer stream, the notes of which were read from a yel-
low-leaved music-book which had belonged to their mother.
There was no instrumental music worth listening to, for Flora
played like a cat walking over the keys, and, though Bawn's fin-
gers longed to touch the piano, no one thought of requesting the
backwoodswoman to perform for the company. Even if she
had been invited Miss Ingram would have thought it imprudent
to betray the fact that she had received a musical education.
*^ Rory has a delightful baritone voice," said Rosheen, flitting
back to Bawn, " but he is cross to-night, or something is the mat-
ter with him, and he won't sing."
" I am afraid the company of the emigrants has not improved
his manners," said Flora to Gran, having taken up her position
by the^ old lady, right behind Bawn. ** So disappointing for
Manon's sake ! She will think him downright forbidding."-
" Manon must take him as he is — ^as she must take us air,"
replied Gran a little stiffly, evidently thinking that Rory was
good enough for anybody, even at his worst.
" Oh ! of course it is only for his own sake." And Lady Flora
gave her own peculiar slighting glance round the noble but not
too richly furnished apartment. And by those few words,
though she did not see the glance, Bawn's woman's wit appre-
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bended at once, that Manon was rich, and destined by at least
some of his friends to improve Rory's decaying fortunes. With
a flash of thought she remembered her own half-million lying
unused in American stock, but as quickly transferred her atten-
tion from it to Rosheen.
Then the little party broke up, and Bawn lay awake in that
large, sparely-appointed chamber up-stairs listening to the roar
of the waves round the great Tor, the crying of the curlews and.
sea-gulls from the rocks below, and the swirling of the night-
wind in the cavernous chimney. Projected on the darkness
before her was the image of Rory Fingall, which she exam-
ined now at leisure with careful, critical eyes and wits sharp-
ened by the deliberate contemplation of Somerled's "personality
as memory presented it to her. The two were the same, and
yet not the same. Rory was like Somerled's colder, harder, less
amiable twin-brother. He had neither the fire, the tenderness,
nor the genial good-humor of his more troublesome and more
attractive double. He would not love Manon de St. Claire as
Somerled had loved, or had thought he had loved her, Bawn.
She was too tired to follow out the strange particulars of the
several coincidences that had struck her with regard to these
two men who had crossed her path, but she had sufficient en-
ergy left to deny steadily the still importunate suggestion that
the two individuals were one and the same. No, Somerled, her
friend, was in Paris. ** The name of a street, the number of a
door." She heard his voice, pleading, tender, impassioned.
This Rory never spoke with such a voice. The name, the
number — her thoughts melted away in dreams, and she was
following on his footsteps through strange streets as he knocked
at door after door that would not open to him, she herself invisi-
ble to his eyes and unable to make herself known to him ; till
at last these fantasies of approaching slumber were dissipated,
and Bawn slept the sleep of healthy fatigue.
In the morning, however, she wakened before daylight with a
sense of renewed embarrassment and trouble. Whatever or
whoever he might be, she did not want to meet again that man
who tantalized her with his likeness to Somerled. The thought
of the expedition to see the caves of Cushendun gave her no
pleasure, though under other circumstances she could have de-
lighted in it She felt that, in spite of herself, she should spend
the hours in observing Rory Fingall from a distance. He would
be attached to Manon . all the time, guarding her delicate feet
from sharp stones, and caring for her as Somerled had cared for
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92 A Fair Emigrant. [April
Bawn on board the ocean steamer (that Bawn who could scarce-
ly have been herself) ; while she, though still involuntarily and
painfully on the watch for evidence for or against her own con-
clusions regarding him, should find no fair opportunity for more
completely satisfying her mind on a distressingly perplexing
point. For though her doubt had been laid to rest before she
went to sleep, it would arise again, she was aware, as soon as she
found herself in his company once more. She felt she would be
glad if, while her mind was made up against the possibilities of
his being Somerled, she could escape from Tor Castle and get
back to her solitude, her liberty of thought, and her still imma-
ture plans at Shanganagh.
Rising early and throwing open the window, she watched the
sunrise kindling a huge fire behind the dark shoulder of the great
Tor, and caught the white flash of those waves which had re-
sounded in her ears all night like thunders of doom. The fresh
air of the morning blowing in her face had already revived her
courage and enabled her to smile at the idea of trying to escape
the expedition to the caves, when the sound of wheels under the
window attracted her attention, and she heard the voice of Rory
Fingall saying to the servant :
" You will explain to the ladies, as I told you, McCloskey. If
possible I shall be home for dinner." And then, standing near the
window, she saw the master of the castle disappearing down the
avenue in the vehicle in which he had carried her through his
gates on the evening before.
She was now freed from the trouble of his presence for the
remaining hours of her visit to Tor; also denied any further
means of ascertaining whether or not he was identical with So-
merled. She might go out and walk about the rocks till break-
fast-time without fear of meeting him, or of wounding her own
pride and dignity by trying to keep out of his way ; and she did
so, enjoying the splendors of the morning at Tor, with high
blue skies and a gale blowing the spray over the rocks to her
face.
As she walked she thought much about Rory Fingall and his
emigrants, and his philanthropy, and the people who surrounded
him. Gran and the two young girls were the only individuals
of the family group whom she greatly liked. Alister had allowed
the Shanganagh gates to hang off their hinges, and had suffered
the gaps in the hedges to remain unfilled till she had come from
America to stop them up. A country geotleman ought to mind
his^ duties as a landlord first, and be a bookworm afterwards, de-
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1887.] A Fair Emigrant. 9j
cided Bawn. And then he had married (to save himself trouble)
a woman with whom he had no sympathy, and who never let him
forget for a moment that she carried his purse. While review-
ing the whole circle Bawn was surprised to observe that though
Gran was the only one of these people who had really borne a
part in the cruel persecution of her father, she was precisely that
one whom she should find it most difficult to hate.
" If I can prove to her that she was in the wrong I shall not
want to make an enemy of her; but she looks like one of those
persons who have fixed ideas which they will never consent to
change. It may be that I shall have to go back to America hat-^
ing her."
This was a hurtful reflection, and when Bawn made her ap-
pearance in the breakfast-room she was feeling a little depressed,,
conscious of being here under false pretences, newly assailed by
a fear that she was acting a disloyal part in accepting the hos-
pitality of these people, who, if they knew her as her father's
daughter, would probably shrink from her.
*' But my father did them no wrong, and I am come to prove
it to them," she argued with herself as she took her seat by
Gran's side with her usual air of cool serenity. " And, at all
events, once this visit is over I shall come back here no more."
Only Gran and the girls breakfasted with her ; and it was re-
solved by these ladies that, as Rory had been summoned away to-
act in his capacity as magistrate, the expedition to the caves
must be for the present given up. Bawn steadfastly refused to
wait till to-morrow. Her affairs at Shanganagh urgently re-
quired her presence there. She hoped to have many opportuni-
ties of visiting the beauties and curiosities of the neighborhood.
By the way, she hoped her pony (Shana and Rosheen exchanged
glances) would not often make a point of going down on his
knees —
"If Major Batt had not believed you were marked with small-
pox he never would have sold you that pony," observed Shana.
" Shana!" exclaimed her great-grandmother severely, " I am
shocked at your rashness. There must have been a mistake. If
anything be really wrong with the pony, Rory will see that Miss
Ingram gets another. Miss Ingram, you must not mind this girl.
She does not mean to be uncharitable."
" O Gran, if you are going to take up Major Batt — "
" Good-morning, ladies," said that gentleman, appearing in
the doorway. " Miss Ingram, I am distressed to hear that your
blundering man let the pony down last evening. I am going
t
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94 A P^i^ Emigrant. [April
your way this morning, and I hope you will let me have the
pleasure of driving you to Shanganagh myself."
" Thank you," said Bawn promptly. " But I am going to stay
here for a week."
'* Oh ! ah ! " said the major, looking chagrined; "in that case —
I — a — am sorry to say I am obliged to be off in an hour. Lord
Aughrim," etc., etc.
** Have you really changed your mind, and will you stay with
us ? " asked Gran, when Major Batt had left the room ; and the
old lady looked at the girl critically, as if considering what she
might have meant by her rather audacious announcement.
" Oh ! no, thank you. I must indeed go this afternoon," said
Bawn earnestly. " Only not with Major Batt," she added, smiling
broadly. And she went.
CHAPTER XXVI.
SHANE'S HOLLOW.
" Are there any wolves among the trees, Betty ? Shall I be
eaten up?"
" No, misthress. But sure the place is unlucky ; an* if they
saw you walkin* about, spyin* at the wreck an* ruin like, they'd be
mortial offended maybe. There's the Fingalls themsePs daren't
let on they know there's anything wrong."
" And yet they were once friends ? "
"Och, dear! It was the forbears of these ones that was ac-
quent with them. The only one alive that knowed them is the
ould misthress herself at Tor; an' her an' them never was any
great things of friends. They would not let her come within
miles of them now, and, indeed, I think nobody vexes her by
talkin' of them. You see, they were mixed up with her own
trouble—"
** I know. Well, Betty, I shall die of curiosity if I do not get
a peep at this mysterious place. I will keep at a distance from
the house, and will take care not to frighten the old people."
Andy undertook to drive her up the mountain as far as the
road went, and to wait for her at a certain cabin till she should
return from exploring the Hollow. About high noon she was
going through the mountain-pass on foot alone.
The sunlight irradiated the hills, and the shadows of the high
white clouds floated mysteriously along their sides, casting deep,
momentary frowns under the brows of the gray and purple
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1887.] A Fair Emigrant. 95
crags. Coming to the top of the pass, she saw far beneath her
a dark belt of wood out of which a thin streak of smoke was
ascending. Down there lay the mystery of Shane's Hollow.
After a quarter of an hour's rapid descent she found herself
standing at the top of a steep, woody incline looking sheer down
on the broken roof of the dwelling-house ; and then, following
a path round this hill, she went gradually lower till it brought
her to a crazy gate, through which, under the wide-spreading
branches of the trees, she saw the base of the gable of the ruined
mansion.
It stood in an oblong hollow of the richest green. Short,
close grass, verdant and sumptuous, swept away in velvety un-
dulations under the far-reaching boughs of enormous beech and
sycamore trees, flung out like sheltering arms, as if trying to
protect and hide the wretched dwelling from the scorn and
abhorrence of the world. An air of almost supernatural beauty
and desolation pervaded the place, and the only sound breaking
the charmed stillness was the loud, imperious cawing of the
rooks, which seemed to menace the intruder, to warn him from
attempting to enter these forlorn and dilapidated gates.
Bawn, however, stepped down the grass-grown path which
had once been an avenue, and came slowly nearer to the home
of the Adares. Three magnificent copper beeches, with mossy
trunks seven or eight feet in circumference, stood right in front of
the house with gnarled, moss-clad roots like the velvet-sheathed
claws of some gigantic animal, and with towering crowns of
crimson-dashed foliage. Between two of these was an old well,
surrounded with a circular wall lichen-grown and broken down
at one side, and attached to this were a bucket and windlass.
Seating herself on the crumbling wall of this old well, the
stranger from Minnesota surveyed the once handsome mansion
of her father's enemies.
It was large, built of massive, dark gray stones, in some parts
black, and over one corner of the front were splashes of dark
red, as if blood had been flung on the wall. The wide hall-door
stood open with a stone placed to keep it so, and the shadows of
the door- way, projected by such sunbeams as could reach it, fell
and veiled the depths of a hall floored with rotten boards and
riddled with holes. The solid coping above the door and the
pillars at each side still stood,, but the roof of one side of the
house was completely fallen in, and the moulding of the drawing-
room walls and the fire-places of all the upper rooms were visi-
ble through the apertures where the windows once had been.
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96 A Fair Emigrant. [April,
Displaced beams hung by one end, pieces of zinc drooped ready
to fall, the ground-floor was piled with wreckage, as could be
perceived between the half- closed old shutters that still clung to
the lower casements; while high aloft an open arch on the
drawing-room landing, once, no doubt, shaded by silken curtains,
made a striking feature in the general hideousness of this extra-
ordinary interior.
The left wing of the house was still covered in, but the roof
had already given way. From the chimney next to that sunken
spot over the hall-door a little cloud of smoke was wavering
upward. Almost all along that side the shutters were closed, and
no light penetrated except what might enter by a few uncovered
panes in two uppe^ windows which had been gradually patched
and boarded up in a manner horrible to see. Two of these
windows evidently belonged to an inhabited chamber, and, if so,
the floor was threatening to give way beneath, and the roof to
descend upon, whatever living creature might there be unhap-
pily housed. It was clear that this side of the house must very
soon fall in as the other had done. Heavy rains or a high wind
might sweep the roof away at any moment.
Behind the house rose that abrupt hill, clothed in softest
green, from which Bawn had first looked down on the hollow.
In the background, under the hill, lay offices, granaries, out-
buildings, all in wreck, but, with their mosses and ruins,
wrought in picturesquely with the universal greenness. Away
at one end the oblong shaped itself, with crowding trees and
mouldering lines of gray and olive walls. The carriage sweep
was over-grown, all but a beaten cart-track past the door ; for
occasionally a carter would take the short cut through the Hol-
low, if it were not late at night, when he superstitiously shunned
the spot. From one end the almost obliterated avenue pierced
the distance, an irregular tunnel of cool green with a blot of
purple at the end of it, and with golden light filtering down
through its leafy roof and lying in bars across the moss spotted
path bordered and embroidered with a wandering vegetation.
On the other side the oblong lost itself among thickly crowd-
ing trees, and was so green, so lovely, so rich, with golden patches
and cool blue shades, and here and there a red sprinkling of
fallen leaves, that one must hold one's breath contemplating it,
as if some secret enchantment were at work to keep the spot so
mysteriously, uncannily beautiful. At this end the hollow was
finished with a low, melancholy line of wall and grim^ old,
tumble- down gate, of which one pillar stood erect bearing a
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headless animal of stone upon its shoulders. Once the traveller
was without that ^ate, he was free of the spell of Shane's Hol-
low. Immediately beyond lay pleasant, open fields, where red
and white cattle grazed, or drank at a sedge-bordered lakelet
which was also invaded by troops of joyous, fluttering, yellow*
winged flag-lilies.
All this Bawn took in as she sat on the old well observing the
details of this exquisite wilderness and feeling its weirdness to
the marrow of her bones. She noticed bow the trees all leaned
towards the house, spreading their vast branches that way and
weaving them together before the windows, as if trying to veil its
ruin or to hide some secret it contained. Even on this still sum-
mer's day the breeze kept up a continual soughing in the crowns
of the great trees, and the rooks clamored incessantly. Few and
faint were the notes of singing birds in the branches on the out-
skirts of the Hollow ; evidently none harbored in the giant
boughs near the house. Sometimes a small bird whirred across
the hollow as if in a fright and disappeared ; and as the afternoon
advanced strong sunshine fell across the great hall- door, the
dining-room^ windows, and half of the bending roof, and threw a
deeper, more sinister shadow around the building.
Turning her fascinated eyes from this sight, Bawn changed
her seat and sat on the opposite side of the well, with her back
to the house, and looked away to where a venerable gray wall,
hoary and lichened, marked the vast square garden which sloped
gradually from the hollow up a gentle incline. Tall beeches and
dark chestnuts stood round it like a sombre guard, but its crum-
bling, gold-tipped walls were a reservoir of purest sunshine, for be-
yond and above them shone a world of light just fringed with the
gray foliage of a distant woodland. An old wicket, once a plea-
sant entrance to the garden, hung in its stone frame- work, split
and riven, and letting dazzling shafts of brightness shoot through
just where the shadows at the corner of the wall were blackest.
And as her eyes roved aside from here all around, there were
trees, trees, trees, weaving their branches across the sod, but
leaving a delicious underworld of cool, gold-strewn grass, streak-
ed with long, level shadows, sprinkled here and there with lush,
rank weeds, and looking as if it might possibly be trodden at
times by fairies, but seldom or never by foot of mortal mould.
Again Bawn altered her position. The trees at one side were
now literally dripping with gold, the flickering shadows of the
branches moving like living things over the great holes of the
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98 A Fair Emigrant. [April
mighty beeches. One of these, split down within a few feet of
the ground, had made itself into two, each of which had flung
up three or four great arms sending forth a hundred branches.
Under the sycamores lay the loveliest blue-green shadows, and
the roots and holes of the trees were wrapped in the most sump-
tuous coloring — yellow and amber and tawny brown. What
majesty in the heavy draperies of those chestnuts, through which
the light tried in vain to filter ; what a delicate gleam of silver
on those elm-trees! Now she turns slowly round towards the
front of the house once more. Those lurid boughs of the copper
beech stretching and straining towards the guilty house, those
dark-red splashes on the corner-stones of the dwelling — what do
they mean ? Murder ? From where she now sits only the lower
half of the front is visible, from half the door downwards, by rea-
son of the woof of the tree-branches spread across its face; but
the upper part is here and there to be seen through the interlac-
ing higher boughs which form striking arabesques about the
chimneys. They take fantastic shapes: goblin faces appear in
their outlines, pointing fingers, wringing hands, gesticulating
arms, all stand forth, and multiply the longer one gazes.
Bawn rises and walks up and down the green, mysterious
sward. How beautiful, solemn, and weird it all is ! And this is
the living tomb of the woman who forsook Arthur Desmond in
his need, of the wretch whose whispered calumnies had been the
ruin of a good man's life. Truly it was easy to believe that a
curse reigned here. God had been before her with his ven-
geance. No, Heaven knew she wished for no vengeance ; confes-
sion, restitution were all that she was seeking for. Was it pos-
sible that a voice could ever be evoked from that mouldering
pile ? How was she to penetrate into whatever den Luke Adare
occupied in that crumbling ruin ; seek him in his fastness where
even old friends did not dare to intrude upon him ; wring from
him the truth that has rusted in his soul all through these long,
unhallowed years? Even that very night might not a storm
arise to hurl down the remainder of the falling roof upon his
head and send him to eternity with his secret in his heart? Great
Heaven ! to think of a woman being housed in that rotting hole,
a woman whom her father had loved, the creature whose defec-
tion left that gray, bleak look on his face which she has told her-
self a thousand times she can never forget if she lives to be a
hundred years old 1 No, it must only be a dream. It certainly
cannot be —
A girl appears, coming through the trees with a water-pail,
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1887.] A Fair Emigrant. 9^
and, using the windlass, soon fills her vessel and rests it on the
wall of the well.
** Are you not afraid to come to this strange place alone?"
asks Bawn, watching her.
The girl eyes her, as if she would say, " I might ask you the
same." But she only answers :
" The water is good and it's worth coming for ; but I would
not be here at night, not for all ever I saw."
And then she shoulders her pail and goes her way, glancmg
back occasionally to see if Bawn is still sitting on the well, and
gradually becoming smaller and smaller in the distance, till the
last flutter of her petticoat vanishes among the trees. The place
feels lonelier and sadder after her coming and departure, and
Bawn experiences a slight shivering sensation in spite of her
vigorous physique and the fact that it is still high noon.
CHAPTER XXVII.
FRIENDS OR ENEMIES?
Bawn sat for a long time quite still on the edge of the well,
overwhelmed by the enchantment of the place, and picturing to
herself her father, young, ardent, happy, coming and going by
those paths, now overgrown and almost lost, passing in at that
dilapidated door to be welcomed by the woman he loved. What
kind of place was this wilderness in those days? Lovely and
pleasant, no doubt, though with a hint of coming decadence and
gloom even then folded up in the boughs of these great beeches,
already sinister and mighty, and threatening to shut out the light
of day from the upper windows. Looking towards the avenue,
she started to see a tall man, like the figure she had been pictur-
ing to herself, coming quickly through the tunnel of green. As
yet he was far off", so that she could not distinguish his features.
It seemed to her Arthur Desmond coming at a lover's pace into
the Hollow to look for her who was the delight of his young life.
Yielding to this fancy, she watched the figure without asking her-
self who might in reality be coming to intrude upon her solitude.
Well, it was some countryman, who would pass and go out at the
other end of the Hollow, as foot-passengers would sometimes do.
He would disappear again like the water-carrying girl, and like
her also leave the place all the more lonesome for his having
passed.
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As he came a little nearer something in the height and car-
riage of the figure struck her as familiar. This was a gentleman,
though it was not Arthur Desmond, and on his head he carried a
little blue cap which Bawn had seen before. There was no mis-
taking the air of the man, the turn of his head, his gait, and, as
he drew nearer, his features. This was indeed Somerled of the
steamer, and, before she had time to think of whether she would
put herself out of sight or not, she perceived that she had been
recognized. He stopped, stood quite still, as if undecided what
to do, and finally left the path and came across the greensward
towards her. As she watched him coming with long steps across
the grass a tremulous feeling came over her as if at the approach
of a vague danger. She realized that now, indeed, she had come
to a difficult point in the road of her rash undertaking.
He stopped before her and removed the blue cap. " Miss
Ingram," he said, " I know you are fond of solitude, but still I
am surprised to find you here, so far from home, by your-
self."
She was relieved to hear him speak in so easy and Iriendly a
manner. He looked grave, but not severe and gloomy like Rory
of Tor. This was really Somerled, in the very character in which
he had first appeared to her.
•* I have heard a great deal about this old place, and my curi-
osity has been excited. I am not so far from home as you sup-
pose, for my little cart is waiting for me on the other side of the
pass."
** I am well aware that you are quite able to manage your own
aflfairs. May I sit down beside you ?• "
"The old well does not belong to me. I suppose anyone may
sit here. But as I have lingered long enough for one day, I will
leave you in possession of the resting-place."
" No, stay, only for a little. It is still high noon, and the
place, with all its uncanniness, is lovely. Besides, I have a ques-
tion to ask which may as well be asked now. Bawn, why did you
play me that cruel trick ? "
He was not looking at her as he spoke, but down the long
tunnel of green foliage through which he had come to her, as if
he expected the answer to reach him from thence.
Bawn hesitated and collected her thoughts. She had not been
prepared for so sudden and open a challenge.
"Was it cruel?" she said; "or rather was it not the best
thing to do?"
" Perhaps I ought not to complain. Doubtless you found me
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1 887*] A Fair Emigrant. ioi
very troubtesome. Still, we had been friends — ^for a week — ^and
friend expects a word of farewell at parting- from friend."
" I own it looked ungrateful, but I felt no pleasure in paining
you." #
" You wanted to get away from me and leave no trace ; that
is about it. And now, by a strange freak of fortune, you have put
yourself right in my path again ; set up your home and hiding-
place only a few miles away, as the bird flies, from mine. Fate
has had a strange retribution in store for you."
•* Very strange."
'• Bawn— "
*• Please to call me Miss Ingram."
" Well, then. Miss Ingram, why did you tell me you were
going to Paris to be an actress ? "
" I did not tell you so."
" You did not tell me so? "
•* No ; you inferred it, and I did not set you right. I humor-
ed the idea ; that was all."
** You humored the idea, to set me further astray. All in
order that you might surely never set eyes on me again."
" That is the very truth."
Somerled breathed a hard sigh.
•* Well, it is best to be honest," he said. " And now, have you
not been greatly annoyed to find that you have thrust your hand
into the hornet's nest? "
" If you mean was I surprised to see you, why, I was. But
then I was not quite sure it was you. Seeing that you looked
morose, and behaved to me like a perfect stranger — "
"Both were natural, I. think. I was nu>rose, and I had rea-
son to be. And of course I treated you like a stranger. When
1 ascertained that the person from Minnesota whom they were
all raving about was you, after I had verified my suspicions by
paying a twilight visit to your place and seeing you standing
near your own door — "
Bawn uttered a sudden exclamation, remembering the night
after the storm when she thought her imagination had played
her a trick.
" What is the matter ? "
** Nothing. Pray go on."
" When I found you were here, you for whom I had been
searching Paris like an idiot, with thoughts — well, thoughts that
would not interest so cool and imperturbable a person as Miss
Ingram ; when I was assured you were indeed come among us, I
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I02 A Fair Emigrant. [April,
resolved that I would not subject you to the annoyance of any
recognition from me. I would spare you whatever embarrass-
ment there might be for you in any allusion to our acquaintance
on board the steamer. That was one reason for my greeting you
as a total stranger. Another was — I will be frank and confess it
— that for; my own part I could not bear to address you upon any
other terms. I even thought of continuing to ignore our former
acquaintanceship. I was not sure that I would ever refer to it,
even should the most inviting opportunity offer, till I saw you a
few minutes ago sitting here as lonely and alone, as cool and self-
possessed, as completely yourself, in short, as when I first beheld
you in your corner on deck, with your face turned away from
the world, looking out to sea and the future — this future which
neither of us could guess."
** Who could have guessed it ? But I am glad you have
spoken to me, as my mind is now made up that it is you."
" You were not sure of my identity ? "
" I still think of Mr. Rory Fingall of Tor, and Mr. Somerled
of the steamer, as two distinct individuals bearing a curious like-
ness to each other."
" My name is Roderick Somerled Fingall. I own I was in a
savage humor that night when I found you sitting serenely in
Bartly's cabin, smiling as if you had just newly dropped from
heaven, and with apparently no recollection whatever of an ex-
perience which had cost so much to me. But do not be uneasy.
I am not going to renew a suit of which you gave so practical a
proof of your dislike. You are not to suppose that because I
went to Paris in search of you I had the intention of finding you
only to persecute you.* One so self-contained as you will hardly
believe me, and yet I must clear myself on this point. The
strange and successful deception you had practised on me,
whether by false words or, as you say, by allowing me to follow
out my own inferences, had filled me with a grave uneasiness as
to the future which you might be ignorantly pressing on to
meet. You will never know what I felt when I found you were
gone, what I suffered while trying to track you to Paris and
through Paris. You are not so constituted as to be able to un-
derstand it. You think, perhaps, that it was my passion for you
that carried my feet over the stones of every quarter of the city
I thought likely to harbor you, that strained my heart and gave
my face such an expression as caused some one to say as I
passed, * That man is a monomaniac' No, I will not humor your
vanity by leaving that impression on your mind. My love for
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1887.J A Fair Emigrant. 103
you, as true a love as ever man felt for woman, was killed stone
dead by a blow, crushed to death under your reckless foot as
you left that ship while I slept and dreamed of you. It is gone.
Let it go ! "
He had risen up and was standing before her. The flash of
his eye, the quiver of his nostril, the nervous gesture of his
hand all denounced her. He turned his face away and was
silent for a moment ; and then took his seat on the wall again, a
little further from her than before.
'* I went after you as one goes after a weaker fellow-creature
whom one seeks to save. That is all."
** I know you are a philanthropist," said Bawn, after a mo-
ment's pause to quell the storm in her heart, an agitation that
was urging her to cry out and defend herself. " You went after
me as you went after the emigrants. When a good man does
these things his conscience rewards him. Believe me, I am not
ungrateful, although you find this emigrant more safely settled
in her new country than you had expected. If you still feel a
little interest in me, is not that a thing to be pleased at ? '*
'* I am pleased at it," he said after another pause, during
which he had been adding all the meaning of her last speech to
the general account of her cold-heartedness. " 1 am pleased to
find you safe and well, and so placed that I may possibly be of
some use to you occasionally. For in spite of your independent
spirit and your business capacity, which fit you eminently to
stand alone, you may, even in the safety and solitude of these
glens, sometimes need a helping hand from a man. Major Batt
will overwhelm you with attentions, but, if I know you at all, you
will not let him trespass on an inch of your land. My cousin
Alister will promise everything, and with the best intentions, but
as soon as he gets a book between his finger and thumb he will
forget all about you. You may rely on me for service. You
need not be afraid that I will ever disturb you with a renewal
of my addresses. The past is past, and for the future we are
friends."
" I am glad of that."
" With your practical head and cool heart you are exactly
suited to be a man's friend. I still get lost in amazement when
I think of how cleverly you kept your own counsel all that week,
how you denied my pleading, baffled my curiosity, ignored my
strong interest in and anxiety for you, determinedly and relent-
lessly put me aside — and only for this, that you might make your
way undeterred to a quiet spot, bury yourself among hills, and
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104 A Fair Emigrant. [April,
lead the laborious and unexciting life of a woman-farmer. Your
mystery which tormented me so sorely was such a little mystery,
after all. Bawn, you might have trusted me with your secret"
•• Is it not better as it is ? "
" Barring my pain, perhaps it is, as you have so completely
convinced me that you could never love me. And yet you did
not tell me so outright. Therein lay your sin. Miss Ingram.
You did not say to me, * You are utterly distasteful to me ; I
could not endure such a companion through life.* Nay, you
gave me to understand — "
" You forget that you said just now that the past is past and
wiped out, and that we start afresh as new acquaintances. If
you contradict yourself like this I shall have to reject your ofier
of friendship."
•• True. And you are able to carry out your threats," he said,
with a look of bitter mortification which transformed him from
Somerled into Rory. " You would rise up some fine night and
vanish back to Minnesota rather than allow me to meet you again
in the character of a lover. Bawn, why cannot you love me ?
Am I hideous, coarse, brutal, or in any way accursed ? Why
did you so persistently reject me?"
The passionate pain in his voice hurt Bawn like the stroke of
a rod, but she answered quickly :
** Now indeed you forget yourself, Mr. Fingall. Only re-
flect. Suppose I had given way. Suppose I had liked you well
enough, think of what it would have been. How would you
have presented me to your family ? A farmer's daughter, with-
out birth or fortune ; an acquaintance formed on board ship ; a
young woman coming alone across the sea to earn her bread by
making Irish butter. Would it not all have been unfit and un-
fortunate ? "
** Most fit, most fortunate. If you are a farmer's daughter,
what am I but a farmer? If you are poor, why so am I. At
Tor you could have made butter to your heart's content."
" If Lady Flora could hear you ! " said Bawn with a faint
smile.
" Confound Lady Flora ! "
** The lady of Tor, your grandmother — what would she have
said to me?"
" You do not know her. She would have made you welcome
— that is, if you had loved me. But I am raving like a fool.
You do not and never can like me well enough, as you say.
And that is the end of it."
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1887.] A Fair Emigrant. , 105
•' I beg you will let it be the end."
*' And yet, hard though you are, you will not hate me ! "
"No."
•* But you will not marry me ? "
"No."
" You are a resolute woman. You admit, however, that we
may be friends. I would like to leave myself an opening through
which I may be allowed to watch that that farm of yours does
not ruin you. You will permit me to befriend you ?"
" Only on condition that you never speak like this again."
•• Nor will I."
•*If you do I shall feel myself bound to go and tell the entire
story to that noble-looking old lady at Tor."
" No, Bawn, don't do that. Spare me the humiliation, at
least, even if you do not care for me."
" Then I shall have to go away."
"What? Tear yourself from the httle, solitary home you
have taken such infinite pains to secure for yourself? Fly away
over our heads like the eagles from Aura — "
At the word " Aura " Bawn's face changed. What the change
was he could not tell, though he saw it, nor could he guess what
had caused it. A frown came on her fair brows ; her face was
for the moment not Bawn's, but looked like some picture he had
seen of the Angel of Judgment. She was seeing in that instant
the tragedy on Aura ; her father was the eagle flying from Aura,
branded like Cain — Arthur Desmond, good man and true.
"Aura!" She raised her eyes to the mouldering house so
near her, but in the last half-hour quite forgotten. They lit on
the fallen roof-tree, the dreary frontage with the red splashes as
of blood on its corner-stone. " Murder! " was the word which
was formed by the thought in her mind — the murder of a man's
good name, his heart, his hopes. That was the murder which
was done upon Aura. If this man beside her, whose face, whose
voice was become so dear to her that she scarcely dared to look
at the one or listen to the other, were to know whose daughter
stood before him, would he not turn from her in horror, would
he not, with justice, reproach her for putting herself in his way,
for stealing his heart in a false character ? Well, had she not
refused him persistently enough ? Did she not act upon the
knowledge that there never could be any union between Rode-
rick Somerled Fingall and the daughter of the man who was
believed to have murdered his uncle, whose name had been
blasted by the Fingalls and Adares with a foul and unforgivable
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io6 A Fair Emigrant. [April,
calumny ? No, there could be nothing between them, not even
friendship. Let him go back to Tor and marry Manon with her
gold, as Alister had married Flora. As for her, she had done
very ill in dallying with him here so long. She would go back
to Betty Macalister, the one faithful soul in all this sickening
world, and give all her thoughts to the Adares, and her plans
for reaching them in their den.
As her eyes came back from the dreary front of the house
with these thoughts in them, her companion stood gazing in
wonder at their extraordinary expression. He thought he read
in them a revulsion of feeling against himself.
" Pardon me," he said hoarsely ; " I have tired you. Nay, I
have broken my word, and I have been persecuting you. I have
kept you here too long. You are angry. It was thoughtless of
me. Try me again."
" I am only thinking that it is time for me to go," she said,
turning away and drawing her shawl around her.
" May I not accompany you to the place where your car is
waiting ? "
**No; I wish to go alone."
" But I may come to see you — when business brings me your
way ? "
** Please to take no further notice of me."
He fell back and allowed her to pass, but after she had gone
some distance he followed along the path she had taken, and just
kept his eye on her figure in advance of him till he saw her safe
across the pass and seated in her cart.
He watched the little trundling cart as far as his eye could
see it, and then struck off in the opposite direction.
TO BE CONTINUED.
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188;.] Father Felix Martin, SJ. 107
FATHER FELIX MARTIN, S.J.
Early in December the news was received in Montreal of
the death of Father Felix Martin, S.J., long and intimately con-
nected with that city and with Canada in general. He was born
in the historic town of Auray, famous for its shrine of the " good
St Ann," so dear to the people of Catholic France, and so wide-
ly known as a place of pilgrimage. His father, Jacques Augus-
tin Martin, some time mayor of Auray, was one of its most
distinguished citizens, likewise holding the honorable post of
attorney- general for Morbihan. To him Auray owes its delight-
ful terrace overlooking the river, and one of its principal quays
still bears his name.
Father Martin's mother, a woman of fine mind and of tender
piety, desired for her children no greater happiness than that of
embracing- the religious state. Two of her sons became Jesuits,
and one daughter a religious of the Order of Mercy of Jesus.
Felix, having made his classical studies in the Jesuit Seminary,
hard by the shrine of St. Ann, entered the novitiate of the Soci-
ety of Jesus at Montrouge, Paris. His elder brother, Arthur,
afterwards famous as an archaeologist, was already a scholastic.
Thenceforward, until an honorable old age had crowned them
ready for death, brother kept pace with brother in learning,
piety, and zeal. Having finished his novitiate. Father Felix Mar-
tin taught successively in Switzerland, Belgium, and various
parts of France. Everywhere he displayed those qualities for
which he was afterwards conspicuous, notably a governing
power and a faculty for preserving discipline. Yet so happily
was this firmness of will united with gentleness and a certain
most attractive bonhomie that his pupils and subordinates invaria-
bly regarded him with real affection.
Father Martin was ordained in Switzerland in 1831. Eleven
years afterwards he was sent to Canada. A very simple circum-
stance paved the way for his coming — that is to say, for the re-
turn of the Jesuits after years of what may be called expatriation
from their most glorious field of labor.
At the time of the conquest of New France they had gone.
The black-robed forms long familiar and beloved had passed
away from the forests and the streams to which in many cases
they had given a name and a history. Their voices, so eloquent
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io8 Father Felix Martin^ SJ. [April,
in preaching the Gospel of peace to the savages, had been long
silent. All at once it was announced in Montreal that a Jesuit
Father was coming to preach a retreat Father Chazelle, then
rector of the Kentucky house, had been invited by Bishop Lar-
tigue, and had accepted the invitation. The news was received
with the greatest enthusiasm. The people hailed it as a message
from the by-gone, a link with that ancient and glorious past to
which the French-Canadian even of to-day still turns with love
and reverence. The very name of Jesuit had a strange charm
for the descendants of those hardy pioneers amongst whom the
sons of Loyola had braved peril and death. Hundreds flocked
to hear the missionary, remembering Br6beuf and Lalemant,
remembering Jogues and Bressani. The old romance that clung
about the Jesuit revived in every breast. Fireside tales, not of
fiction but of sober fact, told from father to son, were recalled —
tales of intrepid figures, bearing the cross aloft in the darkness
of pine-forests, exploring trackless and hitherto untrodden ways,
leading on where death and danger lurked ; of heralds going
from tribe to tribe, the mighty medicine-men of the whites, bring-
ing news of salvation to wigwam and to watch-fire ; of lonely
deaths in far-oflf Indian villages, with only the tribes in savage
hate closing about them to hear the death-song of the mission-
aries, the immortal Ad majorem Dei gloriam. All these things had
lingered among the people, for, as I have said, the French-Cana-
dians are tenacious of their old traditions.
The advent of Father Chazelle was the signal for the return
of the Jesuits. Deputations went to ask of the bishop that they
might be brought back, to request it of the general of the order.
The people desired that the name of Jesuit should be linked once
more with the annals of their country. With the first Jesuits
came Father Martin. They were six in all, Father Chazelle be-
ing superior. They were received with the greatest kindness by
Mgr. Bourget, of happy memory, who had succeeded Bishop
Lartigue. He had long cherished the desire of seeing a house
of the order in Montreal. He continued to be, indeed, until his
death, its devoted friend.
The history of those first years, however, is little else than
struggle and heroic endeavor. But throughout these troublous
times the name of Father Martin shines with a peculiar lustre.
The burden was early thrown upon him, as Father Chazelle was
charged with another mission, and Father Martin in January,
1843, was appointed superior for Lower Canada. The amount
of his missionary work alone seems almost incredible; but it
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1887.] Father Felix Martin, SJ. 109
would be impossible in my present limits to attempt even a
glance at it.
Some of the fathers were appointed to the parish of Laprai-
rie, lately made vacant by the elevation of its pastor to the epis-
copacy. Here they took up again some old threads in their his-
tory ; for Laprairie had been amongst the grants of the French
king to the society, and one of their earliest missions in Canada.^
Meantime Father Martin was invited by Mgr. Bourget to take
up his abode at the bishopric and begin a novitiate there.
However, soon after, a prominent citizen of those days in Mont-
real, Mr. Charles Rodier, presented the fathers with a house,,
where their novitiate was regularly begun.
Mgr. Bourget was particularly desirous that the Jesuits,
should found a college in his queen city of the North. He called
a meeting, at which many of the principal citizens and numbers
of the clergy assisted. The project was most favorably re-
ceived and every support promised to the undertaking. A
wealthy gentleman, M. Donnegana, made an ofler of the site
upon which the college now stands, at a moderate price, at
the same time promising the fathers every accommodation as to
payment. The offer was accepted, and all seemed settled. But
Montreal was upon the eve of calamities which made the suc-
ceeding years eventful ones indeed. The first of these was a
great commercial panic, which so affected the citizens that out
of three hundred who had promised subscriptions towards the
new college, scarcely any were able to pay. M. Donnegana was
among the ruined. His creditors pressed the fathers for speedy
payment. This blow was soon followed by a second one in the
burning of the presbytery at Laprairie and a large portion of the
village. A number of destitute families became in a moment de-
pendent upon the good offices of the Jesuits, their pastors. The
people of Montreal were likewise called upon for aid. A terri-
ble and most destructive fire in Quebec, which swept away a
great portion of the city, made a new demand upon the charity
of its already afflicted neighbor.
Nevertheless, after a short delay, Mgr. Bourget made a stir-
ring appeal to his people in behalf of the Jesuits and their en^
terprise. The results were so far satisfactory that the building
of the college was actually commenced in 1847. But, alas! an-
other and more terrible visitation than those already described
was at hand. The year 1847 is for ever memorable in Canadian
annals as that of ** the ship-fever." A malignant form of typhus
having broken out on board the emigrant-ships, these floating
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no Father Felix Martin, SJ. [April,
pest-houses brought the contagion to Montreal. Temporary
hospitals were erected at Point of Charles, and for months follow-
ing scenes of heroism were enacted which are, for the most part,
peculiar to the Catholic Church. Later-day theorists propound
many a view of life, many a humanitarian scheme for the good
of the race. But when will they ever produce one such friend of
the poor as the humblest Catholic priest, one such heroine of self-
devotion as the most obscure Sister of Charity ? The year 1847
was a living illustration of this great truth. The bishop him-
self gave the example — daily tended the sick, took the disease, and
escaped death almost by a miracle. The priests of St. Sulpice,
who have borne the heat and burden of the day in Montreal since
its very foundation, were unwearied in their devotion to the
poor emigrants, who had sought these alien shores only to find
on them a grave.
But I am not forgetting Father Martin, who had his own he-
roic share in the labors of those days. I shall let him relate in
. his own words, far more graphically than I could do, some de-
tails of that melancholy period. On the 27th of July, 1847, he
wrote as follows to his brother, Father Arthur Martin, S.J. :
" Here there is nothing thought of but the plague which divine Provi
dence has sent upon us. Irish emigration, hitherto regarded as a means of
development and of prosperity for the colony, has turned out this year a
terrible calamity. The annual emigration, which did not usually exceed
24,000, this year approaches 100,000."
Having dwelt a little upon the nature of the disease and its out-
break on board the ships, he resumes :
" To return to our unfortunate city. It is being turned into a lazaretto.
Temporary structures have been put up just outside its limits. They con-
tain, at present, some 1,700 patients suffering from the worst form of ty-
phus-fever. Is not this a terrible misfortune ? And to add to the distress
comes this additional blow, which must, indeed, leave a painful wound. The
emigrants are chiefly Catholics. The priests of St. Sulpice, in whose parish
they are, flew to their assistance with a truly admirable and most intrepid
heroism. God awaited them upon that field of battle to bestow upon them
their reward. Five of them died, seven others are hors de combat ; it is
probable that they will not all recover. Two of the secular clergy have
likewise perished in the exercise of their ministry. . . . The city, thus de-
prived of twelve of its laborers, is in great desolation. Those who remain
are bowed beneath the weight of their grief and of labors which are far
beyond their strength. They have been obliged to ask Monseigneur for
assistance, being no longer able to supply the wants of their parish. Our
holy prelate has already taken upon himself the direct charge of minister-
ing to the emigrants, and advanced at the head of his priests to bring
them aid.
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1 88/. J Father Felix Martin^ SJ. hi
"I was giving a mission at Three Rivers when these trials came upon
the gentlemen of St. Sulpice. On my return I at once offered that Father
Sach^ and I should stdy with them and give them what help we could.
Fathers Mignard and H. Duranquet, who had come from New York to as-
sist me in giving missions, were now very useful, but they did not suffice to
fill the void made by death. At Monseigneur's request I wrote as soon as
possible to our fathers in New York, to ask them for further reinforcements.
Father Thebaud, superior of the college in New York, responded generously
to my appeal ; he immediately sent for new laborers — ^Fathers DriscoU, Du-
mcrie, Ferard, and Schianski. They were received by the priests of St. Sul-
pice with fraternal kindness, and were immediately set to work. The hospitals
are full and the plague is spreading, though slowly, in the city. I am now
staying at the bishopric with Father Sach6 to attend to the sick in that quarter
of the city ; we both know too little English to be of any use to the emigrants.
Never did I feel more regret at not having applied myself more diligently to
the study of English, or that I allowed myself to be drawn aside from it by
other duties."
However, the plague, in an indirect way, hurried on'^the erec-
tion of the college. The priests of St. Sulpice were obliged to
ask for four English-speaking fathers to attend St. Patrick's
Church — then, as now, the great Irish church of Montreal. It
had been left desolate by death and the ravages of the fell dis-
ease. The parish was large and the needs great. One of the
four Jesuits who came to supply its spiritual wants, Father Du-
merle, was stricken down while attending a fever-patient, and
died. The priests of St. Sulpice, to enable the Jesuits to lead a
regular community life while in attendance at St. Patrick's, gave
them a small house upon St. Alexander Street. It was close
to the Donnegana property whereon the college had been com-
menced. When the plague began to abate the opportunity was
deemed favorable to open some classes, the professors having
house-room secured for them with the fathers at St. Patrick's. A
temporary structure was put up, and opened as a college in Sep-
tember, 1848. This was the foundation of the present St. Mary's
College, now justly ranked among the first in Canada. As its
founder, Father Martin has always been considered by the people
of Montreal in the light of a benefactor; so closely was he asso-
ciated with it that it was for a long time popularly known as
'* Father Martin's College."
But his foundation of it did not end with the temporary struc-
ture. He was himself the architect who planned the actual col-
lege, the interior arrangements of which were so wonderfully
adapted for the varied uses it had to subserve — that of a noviti-
ate, a scholasticate, and a college. Father Martin had the con-
solation of seeing the dome of St. Mary's arise in mid-air. But
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112 Father Felix Martin, SJ. [April,
he was burdened with an immense debt, in a city whereof the
resources were small. He had to struggle against odds which
would have discouraged almost any other man. Bravely he
persevered with unalterable patience and indomitable will. The
result was that college which has become historic from the
numbers of students who have passed out from its walls into
the various professions, into every phase of Canadian public life ;
from the events with which it has been connected, and the
memories which have grown up about it. On the occasion of
Father Martin's death numbers of the alumni of St. Mary's
hastened to testify their sorrow, to show their gratitude, and to
offer their meed of praise to the deceased. Many of them as-
sisted at the Requiem Mass which was celebrated at the Church
of the Gesii, Montreal, by Mgr. Fabre, who succeeded Mgr.
Bourget, Father Martin's early friend. It was attended by priests
who had been his pupils, in some instances his co-laborers. The
laity, too, were well represented. Among them were the old^
who remembered him in the vigor of middle life ; the young,,
who had been accustomed to hear him spoken of with venera-
tion. Father Martin left Montreal in 1862, having been rector of
St. Mary's from its foundation almost to that time. After a short
stay in Quebec he left Canada forever in or about 1862. Re-
turning to France, he became rector of the beautiful college at
Vannes, in Brittany, which, by a strange coincidence, had been
the splendid donation of his father to the Society of Jesus.
Father Martin was a man of varied acquirements. Of his
skill as an architect St. Mary's College would be in itself a proof.
But he also gave the plan for St. Patrick's Church, a most im-
posing edifice, justly the pride of the Irish Catholics of Mon-
treal. He designed the Novitiate at Sault-au-R6collet, and oth-
er buildings of minor importance. He was an accomplished
draughtsman, and gave lessons in drawing to the pupils of
St. Mary's, some of whom have since attained proficiency in
the art.
But it is, perhaps, as an antiquarian and a man of letters that
Father Martin has become most generally known. His services
to historical literature, particularly the history of Canada, have
been many and great. He devoted himself, amidst all his onerous
duties, to the task of throwing light on the dark places of the
past. He was commissioned by government to explore the re-
gions where of old the Jesuits had toiled amongst the Hurons^
giving at last to the dusky tribes the priceless gifts of faith. He
wrote at this time a work embellished with various plans and
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1887.J Father Felix Martin ^ SJ. 113
drawings, all of which remained in possessron of the government.
He also collected many curious Indian relics.
In 1857 he was sent by the Canadian government to Europe
on a scientific mission, and was likewise entrusted with the task
of examining the archives of Rome and of Paris for points of in-
terest in relation to Canadian history. In this he was eminently
successful. He discovered a number of unpublished documents
relating to Canada which would be sufficient to fill a folio vol-
urae. Perhaps his most eminent service to historical literature
was his great share in bringing out the Re/ations des JisuiteSy a very
mine of information lor the scholar. They are in themselves a .
monument, prouder than marble or storied frieze, to the early
Canadian martyrs and confessors, to the early colonists, to Cana-
da itself — a truly glorious record of glorious deeds. " After a
silence of nearly two hundred years," to use Father Martinis own
words, " he makes these apostolic men speak ** — makes them refute
all calumnies, and tell their own story in simple and unvarnished
language, leaving it for ev6r to the admiration of the world.
He discovered and put into print, with preface and most
valuable annotations by himself, the Relations extending from
1672 to 1679. He added to them two geographical charts. The
one, he tells us, was a general map of Canada at that epoch ; the
other a fac-simile of a travelling-map used by Father Marquette
and drawn by his own hand.
Father Martin also translated from Italian to French the Rela-^
tion of P6re Bressani, which he published with notes and illustra-
tions, together with a biography of that glorious martyr. His-
historical works included Lives of Samuel de Champlain, the
founder of Quebec, of Fathers Br6beuf, Chaumonot, and Jogues.
The latter has become known to the American public through
the translation made by our foremost Catholic historian, John
Gilmary Shea. Father Martin was the friend, adviser, and*co-
laborer of the eminent Canadian historical writer, M. J. Viger.
He published some minor works of piety, and a beautiful bio-
graphy of his sister, M6re St. Stanislaus, a religious of Mercy
of Jesus, of the Order of St. Augustine, established at the Hdtel-
Dieu in Auray. This biography was published in 1886, and was
consequently the last which he gave to the public. But up to the
time of his death, though close upon eighty-two years of age, he
was engaged upon a history of Canada, for which he had collect-
ed materials so abundant. For twenty years he had been a suf-
ferer from asthma, which for some time betore his death* be-
came so severe as to prevent him from saying Mass.
VOL. XLV.— 8
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114 Father Felix Martin, SJ. [April.
But the old >yarrior of the cross toiled on, using his en-
forced leisure for literary work — toiled amongst his books and
papers, the peaceful end of a long, laborious life drawing near.
Behind him were the countless missions and retreats, the jour-
neyings in the most inclement of Canadian seasons, the long
struggles and weary disappointments in Montreal, the thousands
of pupils there, and at Poictiers, and at Rouen, and at Vaugirard,
and at innumerable other houses of his order. Before him was
the crown. He passed away peacefully on a spot full of holy
memories, for it was the identical one on which the sainted M.
Olier had founded the Seminary of St. Sulpice. So the links in
the spiritual as in the material world are sometimes drawn very
close. One cries out involuntarily, What a little earth is this of
ours ! Father Martin, who had been the friend and co-laborer of
the Sulpicians in other days in Montreal, died upon the spot
which they of all others hold most sacred.
Before concluding this brief account of that old man who
went down to the grave with so much of honor in the closing
days of November, 1886, I must translate for the reader a charm-
ing little episode told by the Abb6 Casgrain, one of our foremost
men of letters, with his usual grace and point. Of course it loses
in the translation.
On the 25th of July, 1867, he describes himself as arriving in
the railway station at Poictiers about half-past seven o'clock on a
most delightful morning. He gives a brief sketch of the ancient
town, ** the city of St. Fortunatus, the poet-bishop, and of the
great St. Hilary," and hurries on to the Hdtel de France,
" Where having installed myself," he says, •* 1 asked to be directed to
the Rue de I'lndustrie, the residence of the Reverend Jesuit Fathers, where
I desired the pleasure of shaking hands with Father Martin, founder of St
Mary's College in Montreal, and who left such happy memories behind him
in Canada.
" After a few moments* waiting the parlor-door opened and I saw the
kind and placid face of Father Martin, grown somewhat older, but always
luminous with its aureola of white hair. I had not time to mention my
name before he threw himself into my arms and embraced me affection-
ately.
" * What ! ' cried he, ' is it you, come from the wilds of Canada ? How
long have you been at Poictiers ? *
" * 1 arrived this morning.'
" * Where are you staying ? '
•** ' At the H6tel de France.'
** * Well, the rule of the Jesuits forbids them giving hospitality to strangers
without permission of the superior. But I am superior here, and I give
Father Martin permission to receive you. Porter, go to the Hdtel de
France for Monsieur I'Abb^'s trunks. And you, my friend, come with mc.
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1887.] Father Felix Martin^ SJ. 115
I am going to give you a room next to mine which is usually reserved for
the father provincial himself. What a chat we shall have about our good
Canada ! Fancy, since I left it I have scarcely had any news from there/
" Having put me in possession of a fine room, the windows of which
looked out upon the great trees of the courtyard, we went down to the
garden. Whilst we walked up and down the paths, bordered by vines upon
which bunches of grapes swung to and fro in the breeze, Father Martin
plied me with questions about Canada.
" * How is such a one ? '
" * Dead/ answered I.
" ' Such another ? *
"•Dead!'
" ' And still another ? '
" • Dead, too ! '
" • What ! ' cried he, ' are they all dead ? '
" * Well, yes ; nearly all the old men of your time are no more. You see
but a few years suffice for a new generation to grow up.'
" A shade of melancholy passed over my old friend's face.
" * 1 should be nothing more now than a stranger in Canada,' said he,
with a sad smile.
" ' Oh ! no,* answered I. * Men die, but memories do not die.*
" Our conversation was prolonged for several hours ; the men and things
of Old and New France came each in turn to our lips. I spent some days
in the society of this excellent friend. Father Martin possessed treasures
which he had obtained in Rome and in France relating to the history of
Canada. With the greatest kindness he permitted me to make use of them
all. I worked at night, and by day the good father acted as my cicerone in
the town of Poictiers."
Abb6 Casgrain goes on to describe some of the sights which
he saw in that pleasant company, and gives a most interesting
account of his visit with Father Martin to the illustrious Mgr.
Pie, Bishop of Poictiers, who invited them both to dine upon the
succeeding evening. But I have already given to the reader that
which bears directly upon my subject, and which contains besides
a charming bit of word-painting — the courtyard with its ancient
trees, the old gardens with the grapes dangling from the vines
in the autumn sunlight, and the meeting between the two men,
each of kindred tastes, brothers in the holy ministry, fellow la-
borers in the field of literature ; the one bringing tidings to the
other of a distant scene of labor ; the old man asking of the
younger news of many whom the grave had already swallowed
up in its darkness, and sighing to hear that his contemporaries
were passing away so swiftly from the scenes of earth. Almost
twenty years were to elapse before Father Martin, too, was to be
numbered among the departed, leaving his name, to Canada and
Canadians in particular, in that loving remembrance which is the
inheritance of the just.
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ii6 Where Henry George Stumbled. [April,
WHERE HENRY GEORGE STUMBLED.
Progress and Poverty is an enchanting book. As a work on
political economy it is the freshest and breeziest of its kind, and
no more like a scientific treatise in style than the grandiloquent
productions of "Ouida." It reads as if the author had written in
the white heat of enthusiasm and indignation, sure of his logic,
infallible in his deductions, careless of repetition, profuse in
explanation, and proud of the study and investigation so visible
in fact, argument, and illustration. Indeed, a scientist might read
it with a grave suspicion of the author's fitness for a scientific
task. The logical mind is impatient of wordiness and the charms
of rhetoric, is careful to check oratorical expression and to con-
ceal sentiment and feeling in a treatise. Here, hung upon state-
ments of the*most vital importance to the world, are the jewels
of language. Fervor, scorn, hatred, pity, disgust, and indigna-
tion shed a rather lurid light upon the bald and venerable axioms
of a modern science. Feeling marks every page. The partisan
is always apparent. The even-minded judge, seeking delay that
reason may escape the mist of feeling, is not evidenced in the
book. A writer has given his opinion of it in this sentence: " A
m^l^e of ideas and feelings, and a riot of words ! ** This was too
severe, but not altogether unjust. Impassioned feeling is out of
place in a scientific work, and verbiage intolerable. Both tend
to weaken the critical faculties.
Nevertheless the first six books of the volume show that Mr.
George is versed in logic, can think clearly and acutely, and,
with all his enthusiasm and fondness for mere words, can demon-
strate a proposition like a philosopher. In our humble opinion
nothing in the writings of Smith, Mill, or Spencer can surpass the
intellectual feat of the first one hundred and sixty pages, in which,
with rare skill and marvellous success, he overturns every theory
of political economy concerning the relation of wages to capital,
the source of capital and interest, the source of wages, and estab-
lishes the correlation of the laws of distribution. The simplest
principles of nature and law, at the same time most evident, are
often the most inaccessible to the common mind. Genius alone
discovers them amid the rubbish of customs and false reasonings,
and offers them to the world. Mr. George is unquestionably a
genius. His refutation of Malthus is very complete. By faith
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188/.] Where Henry George Stumbled, 117
alone Christian men already knew that God had made this world
capable of sustaining human life as long as earthly life was neces-
sary to the divine project, but on the ground of human observa-
tion and reasoning Mr. George has proved Malthus wrong. He
has deserved well of Christianity on this score. The Malthusian
theory has perhaps done more to increase the ranks of atheistic
thmkers than the philosophy of the eighteenth century. It will
be harmless for the future. Mr. George has signed its death-
warrant and written its epitaph. All honor and praise to him for
this good deed !
One peculiarity of genius is its candor, another its courage.
Candor and courage are two shining qualities in Henry George.
He hides nothing, glosses over nothing. All difficulties seem
alike to him, and he not only invites objection but divines it in
the first sentence, and can hardly restrain his eagerness to answer
it He seeks out every possible obstruction, as if with joy to
demonstrate the more powerfully his strength in its successful
removal. He is afraid of no earthly power. His chances of
political success may be ruined, yet he is not restrained thereby
from attacking the Catholic Church. The sentiment of the time
and the history of the world are against him, but he does not
shrink from proposing as a remedy for pauperism a scheme
which shocks mankind and makes history a sad blunder from
the beginning. In the first chapter of his seventh book he
f writes: "If private property in land be just, then is the remedy
I propose a false one ; if, on the contrary, private property in
land be unjust, then is this remedy the true one." His success
or failure he leaves to a single throw of the dice. This is the
courage of a real truth-seeker and the candor of an honest
genius. It is not the confidence of a conceited sage, who, in
his doubt of retaining his repute, leaves open avenues of escape
and faces no contingencies. Mr. George chooses his battle-
ground, and proposes to conquer or die. With the same feel-
ing we purpose to meet him on this spot, and modestly hope
that we shall see him carried off the field.
The very capacity of genius for large doings implies its lia-
bility to large blunders. The teachers of error have never been
intellectual fools. After reading the first half of Progress and
Poverty one is prepared for great things. The logic is so good,
the facts so unanswerable, the power of the writer so evidently
great, that one is not surprised at the brilliant opening of the
seventh book. The man has already accomplished so much that
here would be an anti-climax if he did not accomplish more. He
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ii8 Where Henry George Stumbled. [April,
is about to attack the key of his enemy's position. He must now
succeed or fail for ever. Whatever learning, logic, skill, obser-
vation he may have hitherto shown, here he must surpass him-
self in all. H^ is aware of this, and proudly notifies on-lookers
that the supreme test is before him :
*' That alone is wise which is just ; that alone is enduring which is right.
... If our inquiry . . . has led us to a correct conclusion, it will bear trans-
lation from terms of political economy into terms of ethics, and, as the
source of social evils, show a wrong. If it will not do this it is disproved.
If it will do this it is proved by the final decision."
He prepares himself cheerfully for the last task, unsuspicious
that it is his day of Waterloo. For here Mr. George stumbled.
Here his logic went astray. Here he displayed gaps in his learn-
ing which must shame a public teacher. It is a bitter disappoint-
ment to the admiring reader, this seventh book of Progress and
Poverty. The philosopher of the first six books appears as a
blunderer. It is unaccountable except by the supposition which
opens this paragraph.
Here is Mr. George's reasoning :
" What constitutes the rightful basis of property ? What is it that en-
ables a man to justly say of a thing. It is mine ? From what springs the
sentiment which acknowledges his exclusive right as against all the world?
Is it not, primarily, the right of a man to himself, to the use of his own
powers, to the enjoyment of the fruits of his own exertions ? Is it not this
individual right which springs from and is testified to by the natural facts
of individual organization — the fact that each particular pair of hands obey
a particular brain and are related to a particular stomach \ the fact that
each man is a definite, coherent, independent whole — which alone justifies
individual ownership ? As a man belongs to himself, so his labor, when put
into concrete form, belongs to him."
In this paragraph Mr. George makes the first of a series of
woful blunders. As it is the basis of all the others, and the basis
of all his reasoning against the justice of private ownership of
land, the blunder need only be shown to bring his theories tum-
bling about his ears.
He asks, What constitutes the rightful basis of property ? and
answers. The rightful basis of property is the right of a man to
himself, to the use of himself, and to the fruits of the use of him-
self. The answer is wrong, and if Mr. George had consulted the
commonest moral philosophy before penning that paragraph he
would have seen his error. The answer is wrong, because
1st. The supposed basis ^ since it rests upon another basis of wider
meanings is not the true basis of property ; and
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1887.] Where Henry George Stumbled, 119
2d. If the right to own anything rested upon and was limited by
a mans right to himself, there would be exclusive ownership of no-
thing in this world.
I. Let it be ever borne in mind that in the first chapter of
book seventh Mr. George sets out to find and establish the
general principle on which exclusive ownership of anything must
finally rest. In this paragraph we shall prove that he did not
find the said principle, and, proving this, we shall thereby de-
monstrate the weakness of his entire edifice of logic. Every
man born into this world has certainly the right to the use of
his faculties — a statement which one has only to make for all men
to acknowledge. This right Mr. George makes the basis of all
proprietorship. But here enters a question. Why has man a
right to these faculties, and to all things pertaining to their free
exercise ? When it is asserted that every man is sole and exclu-
sive proprietor of himself as concerns other men, the query that
naturally presents itself to reason is, Upon what basis does this
exclusive ownership rest ? Why should a man be so entitled to
the ownership of his mental and physical faculties that he can
say of them at all times. These are mine? Therefore outside of
the possessions and properties which nature offers to man we
find a possession and properties in which man rejoices, and
of which Mr. George makes no mention except to make it
the basis of other proprietorships. Back of the question, Why
can man own what he produces? we find another question, de-
manding* another principle to give it answer. Now, before any
other questions can be asked this one must be answered. Before
one may ask, Why can a man own anything? and be answered.
Because he owns himself, one must ask. Upon what title does a
man own himself? and must be answered. The principle upon
which he holds exclusive possession of himself must first be dis-
covered and proved just, before any other principles based upon
that possession can be established. This is precisely what Mr.
George has failed to do. His reasoning, stripped of verbiage,
stands thus : Since a man owns himself he can own what that
self produces. This is a sound principle, but it is not a bottom
principle. Under it lies the question. Upon what principle does
a man own himself? Whence springs the title to possession of
himself ? Ownership of one thing cannot always make the prin-
ciple of ownership in another thing. Before Mr. George satisfies
us of the truth of his axiom, because a man owns himself he can
own what that self produces, he must establish the basis of man's
proprietorship over himself; he must tell us by what right he
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I20 Where Henry George Stumbled. [April,
claims exclusive possession of his human faculties. He has not
done this. He has omitted ahy mention of the existence of such
a basis. He has mistaken the second tier of stones in the foun-
dation for the bottom tier, and missed a principle. He set out
to answer the question. Why can a man own anything? and an-
swered only Why can a man own some things? He intended to
establish the basis of all human ownership. But he took no ac*
count of the ownership of mental and physical faculties. He
excluded them. He found no basis for them. Therefore, in-
stead of establishing a general principle upon which all human
ownerships might rest, be established only the principle upon
which some ownerships rest.
This is as evident as day. It is a sad blunder for a logician to
make, but Mr. George has made it. It vitiates all his after rea-
soning, and leaves his famous theory like a gas-deserted balloon
or a dismasted ship. One cannot conceive how such a mistake
could have been made by a mind so keen and inquisitive. To
take a principle of limited scope and give it a. universal applica-
tion is a fault common to the ignorant and untrained. Geniuses
^rr in a contrary way. It must have been clear to Mr. George
that men own some things on other and better titles than the
fact that they produced them. The title of a child to the clothes
and food of a common existence is as strong and binding on
other men as if that child produced them. Yet for many years
of life the child produces nothing. It can never say of anything.
This is mine, on the ground that it has produced it. Still,, its title
to necessary shelter, clothing, and food is so good that once they
are in its possession, whether received or stolen from others, do
power on earth can rightfully, by taking them away, leave the
child shelterless, naked, and unfed. What is the ground of the
child's title ? How did Mr. George happen to miss these posses-
sions, properties, titles? It seems as if, in searching for the last
analysis of all present social complexities, he had not quite di-
vested himself of his desire to find principles which would suit
his land theories. Is it possible that Mr. George, so courageous
and candid, deliberately shut his door upon an important but un-
welcome principle?
The magnitude of his blunder becomes more striking when
the true basis of property is established. As in the last para-
graph but one we proved conclusively that he had not discov-
ered the true basis, now in this we shall lay down that basis, the
one principle upon which all rights of ownership rest It is very
simple, as a first principle must be — quite as simple and evident
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188;.] Where Henry George Stumbled. 121
as Mr. George's starting-point : Since a man owns himself he can
own what that self produces. Moreover, it explains and sup-
ports Mr. George's axiom, in so far forth as that axiom is true.
We put it in this shape :
The basis of ownership is the right of a man to life. The right
of a man to life is admitted and understood by all mankind, and
that this right to life is the basis of ownership can easily be seen
from this reasoning : Since a man has a right to live he has also
alight to all things necessary to support existence. He who
has a right to the end has a right to the means. Because of his
right to life man owns his mental and physical faculties — an
ownership whose title .Mr. George did not, perhaps could not,
account lor. Man does not own his own life. That is a trust
from the Creator. But it is his right and duty to support and
defend his life, and that he might do it fitly God gave man his
mental and bodily faculties ; gave him a clear title to exclusive
ownership of whatever was necessary to life; made it lawful for
him to own as well as possess every natural object essential to
life's continuance, whether produced or not by his own hands. The
^arth and all its capabilities are only a means to an end. The
mechanism of the human body, so wonderful and intricate, is
only a means to an end. The end is life. That must be sus-
tained. Stealing becomes virtue and murder justtce when the
starving innocent plunges his hands into another's surplus, or
takes a life in defending his own. Life must be sustained. Na-
ture is indiffei'ent to ownership. Man may seize land to own
or merely to use, and nature treats him alike in both condi-
tions; or land may not be used at all, and nature remains un-
troubled. If to-morrow it became a necessity of man's exist-
ence that the fruitfulness of the earth should be destroyed, his
right to life would justify that destruction. Whatever condi-
tions are necessary to support life, those conditions are law-
ful. Ownership of use alone and ownership of the thing alone
are indifferent circumstances. Whatever life requires, that it
must have and that it will own, all other secondary principles
to the contrary notwithstanding. Nature was made to serve
life, and serve it she must, whether as the bond-woman destitute
of rights or as the free-woman rejoicing in a sort of independence ;
and either condition is indiflferent to the object of proprietorship.
We may now throw into the form of syllogisms the reasoning
of the past few pages, and in brief space may better compre-
hend the efifects of Mr, George's stumble.
Mr. George essayed to find the principle of a// ownerships :
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122 Where Henry George Stumbled. [Aprils
But the principle discovered by him does not include the
ownership of the mental and physical faculties of man ;
Therefore Mr. George did not find the principle of all owner-
ships. And therefore his basis of property is a false basis, and
all the reasoning of the seventh book is thrown away — that is,
all his reasoning against the justice of private ownership of land
is simply no reasoning at all. The seventh book must be re-
written.
Besides, our reasoning may take this shape :
That is the true principle of ownership which accounts for
all ownerships ;
A man's right to life is a principle which accounts for them
all;
Therefore man's right to life is the true principle of owner-
ship.
Deduced from Mr. George's reasoning is the axiom, A man
can own exclusively only what he produces.
Deduced from our reasoning is the axiom, A man can own ex-
clusively all things necessary to life.
The lights which reason and history shed upon these princi-
ples and axioms show with admirable clearness the truth and
beauty of those we advocate, the miserable insufficiency or de-
formity ot those advocated by Mr. George. These have been
reprobated again and again by the brilliant and impartial minds
of Christianity. It is, we believe, Mr. George's contention that
Christianity does not condemn him. Evidently he read Chris-
tian moralists with the eyes of his mind shut.
Mr. George may have been an extensive reader, but if so his
reading was one-sided. We find no mention of any Christian
philosopher in his work with whose writings he may have been
familiar, and thus we are the better able to account for the as-
tonishing lapses of logic and learning which occur in the seventh
book. An instance of these is contained in our second objection to
accepting his basis of property as the true basis. Mr. George
had the hardihood to declare that " as a man belongs to himself,
so his labor, when put in concrete form, belongs to him " ; to
which we replied that, "if the right to own anything rested upon
and was limited by a man's right to himself, there would be ex-
clusive ownership of nothing in this world." Over himself and
his faculties man has no such power as he enjoys over the pro-
duct of his own labor. He may do as he will with his com, his
sword, and his book, use, sell, or destroy them, but himself and
his powers he can only use. He cannot take his own life, cannot
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1887.] Where Henry George Stumbled. 123
dispose of it to any other, cannot make any other accountable for
it, except by permission of its Creator — God- He cannot maim
or injure himself, or destroy any of his senses, or paralyze his
limbs, except by permission of their Creator — God. He can only
use these things as he uses borrowed articles. Mr. George's
comparison is therefore very unfortunate, and resembles his basis
of property in this respect, that it is not a comparison at all worth
penning.
He would not have fallen into this simple error had he read
the common text-books of moral philosophy. But Mr. George's
first stumble sent him stumbling through the whole chapter,
whose every page is disfigured by similar mistakes — the mistakes
of a man whose mind had been seized and overpowered by one
idea before his studies had been completed. " If a man be right-
fully entitled to the produce of his labors," says Mr. George,,
"then no one can be rightfully entitled to the ownership of any-
thing which is not the produce of his labor." And again : " The
equal right of all men to the use of land is as clear as their equal
right to breathe the air." These assertions may be very clear to
Mr. George, but to practised ears they have an indiflferent sound.
We have upset the first, and good common sense determines
how poor an illustration is the other. We have a clear right ta
the use of land and to the use of air, because both are necessary
for that life which God has given us ; but whereas the land makes
no resistance to private and exclusive ownership, the air of its
very nature refuses to be owned by any one.
These and other blunders of the seventh book Mr. George
had no right to make. When a man proposes to revolutionize
the main feature of human society he is bound to prepare him-
self for his work by the most extensive study and the most pro-
found research. To make such blunders as those we have ex-
posed is unworthy of a philosopher. The author oi Progress and
Poverty had but to consult any of the common Latin text-books
on moral philosophy to learn many things pertaining to his sub-
ject which he does not seem to know. It might have been ex-
cusable to blunder grandly, but to trip like a sophomore is ridicu-
lous in a great theorist. He has been understood the better by
the untrained and the ignorant, but he has exposed himself the
sooner to the scorn of thinking men.
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124 A Chat ABOUT New Books. [April,
A CHAT ABOUT NEW BOOKS.
Robert Browning is the sphinx of modern poetry ; as some
Egyptologists say the sphinxes were masculine, this metaphor
is not so inaccurate as it seems. His last book, Parleyings with
Certain People of Importance in their Day : to wit^ Bernard de
Mandeville^ Daniel Bartoliy Christopher Smarts George Bubb Dod-
ington^ Francis Furiniy Gerard de Lair esse, and Charles Avison,
is no less sphinx-like than Sordello. Mr. Browning probably
writes the language of the future. He certainly does not write
the English of any past or present time. It is possible that his
obscurity is the result of intense thought. It is probable that it
is the result of a deliberate intention to be unusual. A great
poet is none the less a great poet because his lines cannot at
once be understood by all that run and read ; a great poet's
utterances are worth study ; but when any poet, great or small,
chooses to wrap his meaning in contorted phrases, he runs the risk
of being considered 2i poseur. In Parleyings Mr. Browning seems
to seat himself in an aflfected attitude on "Parnassus," to arrange
the clouds between him and the multitude, so that a whale may
look like an elephant, and then to speak in the guise of Apollo :
" Admetus. I know thee !
Thou prizest the right these unwittingly give
Thy subjects to rush, pay obedience they owe thee !
Importunate one with another they strive
For the glory to die that their king may survive.
" Friends rush : and who first in all Pherae appears
But thy father to serve as thy substitute ?
Clotho.
"Bah!
Apollo.
" Ye wince ? Then his mother, well stricken in years,
Advances her claim — or his wife —
Lachesis.
*• Tra-la-la !
Apollo.
* But he spurns the exchange, rather dies !
Atropos.
"Ha, ha, ha!"
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This is from the prologue to ParUyings. The epilogue con-
sists of a dialogue between Fust and his friends, in which the
second friend, speaking of the spread of the art of printing,
says : ^ ,
*'* Does my sermon next Easter meet fitting acceptance,
Each captious, disputative boy has his quick
* An cuique credendum sit? ' Well, the church kept * ans '
In order till Fust set his engine at work !
What trash will come flying from Jew, Moor, and Turk
" When, goose-quill, thy reign o'er the world is abolished !
Goose — ominous na/ne ! With a goose we began :
Quoth Huss^which means * goose' in his idiom unpolished—
* Ye burn now a Goose : there succeeds me a Swan
Ye shall find quench your fire/
Fust.
" I foresee such a man."
And thus the book ends, with the clearest passage in it, which
is, after all, a very veiled prophecy. Between the prologue and
epilogue there is much to be wondered at, much to make one
wish that Mr. Browning had furnished a clue to his cipher^'and
much that is tinged with the glow of poetic genius. For in-
stance, what can be more exquisite in expression — thoughjwe do
not accept the simile as true — than :
" Morn is breaking there —
The granite ridge pricks through the mist, turns gold
As wrong turns right. O laughters manifold
Of ocean's ripple at dull earth's despair ! "
And the lines in ** G6rard de Lairesse " are worth pondering':
" Cheer up.
Be death with me, as with Achilles erst.
Of man's calamities the last and worst :
Take it so ! By proud potency that still
Makes perfept, be assured, come what come will.
What once lives never dies — ^what here attains
To a beginning, has no end, still gains
And never loses Slught : when, where, and how
Lies in Law's lap« What's death, then ? Even now
With so much knowledge is it hard to bear
Brief interposing ignorance ? Is care
For a creation found at fault just there —
There where the breaks bond and outruns time.
To reach, not follow, what shall be ? "j
But Mr. Browning's philosophy, while it acknowledges Law,
leaves out the acknowledgment of that previous and greater Fact,
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126 A Chat ABOUT New Books. [April,
Love— Love, All-Potent, that diffused and diffuses itself in the
creation of man and in his salvation.
Mr. Browning's lyrics are sad, hard-working things compared
with Tennyson's :
" Dance, yellows and whites and reds ;
Lead your gay orgy, leaves, stalks, buds.
Astir with the wind in the tulip-beds !
"There's sunshine : scarcely a wind at all
Disturbs starved grass and daisies small
On a certain mound by a churchyard wall.
" Daisies and grass be my heart's bedfellows
On the mound wind spares and sunshine mellows :
Dance you, reds and whites and yellows."
In " Christopher Smart " there is a glorious description ot a
cathedral, ending with these acute lines, so sorrowfully true of
modern art :
" Hands long still
Had worked there — could it be what lent them skill
Retained a power to supervise, protect.
Enforce new lessons, with the old connect •
Our life with theirs ? No rmrely modern touch
Told me that here the artist, doing much.
Elsewhere did more, perchance does better — lives:
So needs must learn."
In spite of Mr. Browning's obscurity, which too often seems
conscious, we must admit that there are meanings beneath it
which are sometimes worth searching for. But, with Words-
worth on our tables, why should we spend time on a newer poet
who adds nothing, in Parleyings, to what the older ones have said ?
A great deal has been said in The Catholic World about
Eugenie de Gu6rin, but little about that brother who, after God,
claimed her heart. The Abb6 Roux grew impatient over this
waste of love for a semi-pagan dilettante who had neither her
genius nor her strength. A new edition of the works of this
brother — who certainly had more than her genius, if less than her
strength — has reached us. It includes " Le Centaure," that mag-
nificent classic poem, undeservedly so little known, and which
makes Maurice de Gu^rin the only modern rival of Keats in
the interpretation of the Grecian time.
Maurice de Guferin, exquisite poet as he was, had not Euge-
nie's unfailing resource — faith. His education, classic and litera-
ry, was the kind that developed Madame Roland and Charlotte
Corday and Andr6 Ch^nier. Mgr. Gaume goes too far when he
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traces all the excesses of the French Revolution back to this
•excessively pagan training. But one is almost inclined to be-
come an utter Gaumist when one watches the result of it as
shown in literary France. Besides being weaker mentally than
Eug6nie, Maurice had suffered from the direction of the unfor-
tunate De Lamennais. He turned his back at last on the Mer-
cury of Praxiteles, that emblem of the pagan delfght in the flow
of spring sap and the freshness of the spring, and accepted the
joy of the Resurrection, which gives the spring new glow and
color, new happiness and hope. For in the spring of the Greeks
there was no hope : their poets saw no joy in the spring except
for the young, and that joy is as transient as earth. Bound with
all Maurice de Gu6rin*s works is a very sympathetic biography.
We are glad to have the chance, apropos of this book, to show
what the character of the author of *' Le Centaure," the beloved
brother of our beloved Eug6nie, was.
The name of Maurice de Gu6rin was unknown in French
literature until a year after his death. George Sand introduced
him to the reading public through an appreciative and sympa-
thetic article written in the Revue des Deux Mondes in May, 1840.
His great poem, "Le Centaure," soon made its own way; and
later the critic Sainte-Beuve joined the three names — De Mon-
talembert, De Musset, and De Gu6rin.
Maurice-Georges de Gu6rin came of an ancient but reduced
family of the south of France — a family that traced its descent
from the Italian Guarini, through the Counts of Auvergne and
Salisbury, to the De Guferin who settled at Cay la, in Languedoc,
where Maurice was born.
" My birth is honorable, and that is all," he says in a letter, " for pov-
•erty and misfortune are hereditary in my family. I tell you this because it
may have influenced my character. And why may not the sentiment of
misfortune be communicated from father to son in the blood, as natural
-deformities are transmitted ? My first years were extremely sad. At the
-age of six I lost my mother. Witnessing the sorrow of my father and
surrounded by scenes of mourning, I perhaps contracted a habit of melan-
choly. In the country my life was solitary. I never knew those plays or
boisterous pleasures that fill the early years of children. I was the only
-child in the house."
He passed long hours under an almond-tree over the much-
thumbed volumes of RoUin's History. He watched the clouds
and heard voices in the air, which he called the ** sounds of na-
ture." At the age of eleven his father sent him to the little semi-
nary of Toulouse. It was intended that he should become a
priest From the little seminary he went to the College Stan-
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128 A Chat ABOUT New Books. [Aprils
islas in Paris. He made great progress in his studies, but his
vocation for the ecclesiastical state was uncertain. He hesitated^
He returned to his family, and it is suspected that he fell in love
with one of his sister's friends. Even this did not decide him.
He took refuge at La Chgnaie, in order to find repose, forgetful-
ness, and the strength to choose. On Christmas, 1832 — he was
then twenty-two — Maurice entered La ChSnaie. La Ch^naie was
a kind of oasis in the middle of the Breton steppes, where the
unhappy Lamennais lived with four or five young men, who, se-
eluded from the world, prayed, studied, and thought. This year
was an epoch in the life of Maurice and in that of his master, La-
mennais. The false apostle whom the young men at La Ch6-
naie so loved and admired had just been forced to suspend the
publication of his journal, LAvenir^ and had apparently submit-
ted to the decision of the pope against his principles. He was
meditating his infamous Paroles dun Croyant — a book which was
to strip him of all the beliefs and practices of his former life and
leave him a disfoliaged oak that might " break but would never
bend." Wrapt in his political and religious dreams, he did not
know that among his young disciples there was one into whose
soul nature was pouring floods of freshness and beauty which
were exhaling and forming such exquisite pictures as the frost
makes in winter. Tn^ Journal oi Maurice de Gu6rin is sweetest
poetry in the form of prose. It is full of the loveliest " bits ** of
landscape-painting, drawn with a true and more delicate touch
than we find in any poet that the world knows. The invisible
and the unseen in nature, like a network of threadlike roots sup.
porting a bed of fern, are brought to us in his work. His land-
scapes do not smell of the paint. You cannot see the brush-
marks. And of what poets, with the exception of Keats, Burns,
and David Gray, can this be said ?
In Scott the exigencies of his rhyme seem often to form and
color his landscapes ; in Tennyson's pictures one sees the art and
admires it ; but De Gu6rin's are clear, wonderfully true, and as
apparently artless and unconscious as the song of the nightin-
gale. It is true that De Gu6rin's descriptions are not shackled
by rhythm and rhyme, as those of other landscape poets have
been, but he chose his form as they did, and he deserves praise
for having selected the form best suited to his genius.
" Thou, Nature, art my goddess," he wrote, quoting Shak-
spere, at the head of one of his poems, expressing that Pantheism
which during his short life was his joy and his torment. He
adored Nature in all forms, he studied her with love and reve-
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rence, and yet he was constantly bruising his heart against the
bars that guard her mysteries, without accepting the key of our
Lord's love with which to penetrate beyond them. He was not
content to describe and interpret the things that were vouch-
safed to him ; he longed to know all the secrets of creation ; and
when his poetic soul found a deep meaning he quailed before the
impK>ssibility of finding worthy expression. This is the secret of
that carelessness in his verse which some critics have deplored.
It was the carelessness of despair. He was forced to speak of
Nature, but he could find no words, no form worthy of her.
" Cherchez-vous les dicux, 6 Macar^e ! et d'oii sont issus les
hommes, les animaux, et les principes du feu universel ? ** he
says in ** Le Centaure." ** Les dieux jaloux ont enfoui quelque
part les t6moinage de la descendance des choses, mais au bord
de quel oc6an ontils roul6 la pierre qui les couvre, 8 Macar6e? "
Questions like these haunted him morbidly. He was over-
whelmed with a sense of his own impotence as a poet — not in
comparison with other poets, but in comparison with that un-
seen world of which he dreamed and which he longed, with all
tfis strength, to interpret. In one of the letters quoted by George
Sand in the Revue he sajjs : " If I listened to my better judg-
ment I would never write another line. The more I advance,
the more the phantom (the ideal) flees beyond my reach." It
was this divine despair which, mixing with all his efforts, filled
them with the sadness that broods over a desolate place at night.
It is hard for one outside the charmed circle to estimate a poetic
temperament, particularly a poetic temperament so intensely sub-
jective as De Gu6rin's.
Maurice de Gu6rin did not care for fame. The literary life
and its rewards appeared to him inconsistent, and even absurd.
He did not write for the world. He believed that there was
more strength and beauty in well-guarded thoughts than in the
display of a whole heaven that might be in him. *' Le Centaure "
was given to the world after his death. This poem is one of the
most remarkable in literature. It is short ; it is burdened with
no superfluous words ; it is sublime in conception, and truer to
the spirit of Greek mythology than " Endymion." If De Gu6rin
had been born a Greek of old, this fragment would have been as
precious to us as the Venus Anadyomene of Apelles. But he,
baptized a Christian,iiving in a Christian world, has left a sor-
rowful and inappropriate fragment.
The last of the Centaurs, grown old, stands desolate and
melancholy near his cave in the mountains. He looks with pity
VOL. XLV.— 9
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I30 A Chat ABOUT New Books. [April,
and contempt on a man who asks him questions of his life, for in
his eyes a man is only a degraded Centaur. He tells the story
of his youth, when the forces of a nature, half-human, half-brute,
filled him with mad, wild joy. He spurned the earth, and the
winds parted before him as he dashed wildly through the world
in those youthful days. You feel the wind, you see the Centaur
in his freedom, and you sympathize with the boundless regret
with which this last of the Centaurs looks upon the past when
the world was new. ** Le Centaure " is a poem of only twelve
pages, but the reader awakens from it as from a dream, and its
impression is not easily shaken off. The gallery of the Louvre
furnished its author with other antique subjects, among them a
" Bacchante," prelude to a never-finished poem on Bacchus in
India. He projected himself into pagan Pantheism, and read
the mysteries of classical Greece aright, and produced the won-
derful *' Bacchante." Writing in French, he was, fortunately,
careless about his form in poetry. Though he uses the Alexan-
drine verse, it is not the intolerable stilted form we generally
find in French. His vehicle for expression was ready-made for
him ; but he, fearing no judgment and doubting his own, followeti
his inspiration and made a form whijh, although Sainte-Beuve
calls it ** unfinished," seems to be the best he could have chosen.
His verse never gallops; he had a horror of that, and he warned
his sister Eugenie against it. "Thy verse sings too much," he
wrote ; " it does not talk enough."
His life was short and uneventful in its outward circumstan-
ces. He lived in a reverie, or rather in constant conversation
with his interior life. He was in this world but not of it. His
world was that which the wise among the ancients knew — a
world of silent sounds and unseen sights.
Leaving the half-monastic seclusion of La Chgnaie, where re-
ligion, as he saw it, seemed to possess something antagonistic to
his full enjo3^ment of nature, he went to Paris, and there sup-
ported himself by giving lessons. The turbulent life of Paris
weakened, though it did not efface, his early religious impres-
sions. While not less of a poet, he became more of a man of the
world. He soon learned to lay aside his timidity, and he w' ho
had feared to utter his thoughts became a brilliant talker in a so-
ciety of brilliant talkers. His arduous work in Paris oppressed
him ; but as he had learned to love Brittany after he left bis
sunny south, he learned to love Paris, and his worship wavered
between the god of cities and the god of deserts.
He longed ardently for leisure and rest, and they came. By
his marriage with a lovely and wealthy young Creole, Caroline
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de Gervain, he gained that leisure which he had so long desired ;
and rest came, too — the rest of death. In July, 1839, not a year
after his marriage, consumption, which had been insidiously
preying upon him, gave him its last stroke. He died at home in
the south, consoled by his wife and that rare, tender soul, his sis-
ter Eug6nie. Of his poems *' Le Centaure " is the greatest. One
written on the St Theresa of G6rard and one to his sister Eu-
genie rank after *• La Bacchante/* They are in verse. That he
wrote little is explained by the fact that he died at the age of
twenty-eight. He died in the communion of the church.
It is sad to have to say that this exquisite genius, born in Ca-
tholic France, but educated to admire, above all, the master-
pieces of paganism, should have exhausted himself in expressing
the mood of Wordsworth's when he cried, that he might see the
fabled Tritons of the Greeks :
" O God ! rd rather be
A pagan nurtured in a creed forlorn."
But this mood of Wordsworth's had become with Maurice de
Gudrin a state of mind. '* Le Centaure " is a literary legacy as
the poem of a pagan. His Journals carry an awful warning —
a warning to us all that there is no going backward. The poet
must not go back, since Christ has died and risen again. He can
neither give nor receive strength from the ideals of the ante-
Christian world.
We have given a great deal of space this month to the poets,
at the risk, we fear, of lessening the interest which many readers
have been pleased to show in this " Chat " ; but is it not time ?
Have the poets not been too much neglected of late ? Mr. Rich-
ard Watson Gilder, himself a poet of undoubted genius, has
said:
"We are no friend of indiscriminate adulation and misplaced encourage-
ment. But think for a moment of the deadening indifference which in
these days the poet has to overcome. The modern rush for gold is re-
morseless ; drawn with it are many minds who think themselves outside
the pressure. The poetical mood and accomplishment are apt to be looked
upon in modern society as an impertinence or a weakness. Plastic art,
though often ill-rewarded, is fashionable in at least some of its forms ; but
poetry — we mean the essential thing, not the pretty, printed books that
contain it — will not decorate a wall ; therefore the aesthetic discussions of
our day turn largely on the relative merits of etchings, rugs, or vases, on
the latest prize picture or newest statue, but much more rarely on the
merits of the latest poem. The only form of art which society cares to dis-
cuss is the novel. We do not begrudge the novel the attention it attracts ;
we merely note the fact that while poetry is praised as perhaps the highest
form of art, its serious votary is apt to be regarded by the world at large^
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132 A C/fAT AidVt NBtt^ SoOJtS: [AptiU
just so far as he is able to be Entirely faiihfui to iiis 6^iiiiig dtid Ideal-'-giV'^
ing up everything else for that thing— as a being ot ihtei-ioi* character and
intelligence."
It is time, then, we repeat, that people who pretend to cul-
ture should be what they would appear to be, and read fewer
newspapers and novels. Dante is only a name to most of us.
And the Catholics who know anything about Fr6d6ric Oza-
nam's book on the poet whom a great painter put among the
doctors of the church are not a score in every five thousand.
Mtss Churchill, by Christian Reid (New York: D. Appleton.
& Co.), is a pure and pleasant novel of mild interest, inferior to*
Morton House and A Child of Mary, but, nevertheless, of suflB-
cient merit. Lucy Crofton, by Mrs. Oliphant (New York:: Har-
per & Brothers), is a slight story, not in the author's best vein,,
yet also not without some delicate character-drawing. A Zealot
in Tulle, by Mrs. Wildrick (New York: D. Appletoa & Co.),.
is an incoherent rhapsody about a treasure buried by Spaniards
and a nasty crowd of military people, at whose dinner-table
double-ententes — the writer makes it double entendres — are usual.
" A zealot in tulle " is a Ritualistic girl, but the book might quite
as appropriately have been named anything else; and under any
other name it would have been quite as worthless.
Bret Harte, like Homer, sometimes nods in telling his tales
of the Argonauts. But in A Millionaire of Rough and Ready (Bos-
ton and New York: Houghton, Mifflin & Company) he is very
wide awake. His crisp, firm, direct style is the best possible
medium for the stories he has to tell. In The Millionaire of Rough
and Ready Bret Harte effectively teaches the lesson that circum-
stances do not bring happiness, and, above all, that riches may
bring worse evils than poverty. The story is a work of art,
without the exaggeration that mars some of his other §torieS'
and without their false sentiment. A miner named Slinn finds
gold at last. But, having tasted by anticipation the joys of
wealth, he is stricken by paralysis. Alvin Mulrady comes to Los
Gatos, where Slinn was blasted, with the secret of his discovery
untold. Mulrady, instead of following the Georgeite theory of
the surrounding population and squatting on the land, went to-
the owner, Don Ramon Alvarado,,and offered to manage a farm
" on shares." Don Ramon and his son, Don Caesar, are drawn
truthfully and delicately. Their high-breeding gives them even
in poverty an incalculable superiority over their rich but vulgar
neighbors.
."'They are savages/ said Don RamoD of the miaersr* who expect to*
reap where they have not sown ; to lake out. of » the eaxth . without, return^
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ing anything to it but their precious carcasses ; heathens who worship the
mere stones they dig up/ 'And was there no Spaniard who ever dug
gold? 'asked Mulrady simply. 'Ah! there are Spaniards and Moors/ re-
sponded Don Ramon sententiously. 'Gold has been dug, and bycaballe-
ros ; but no good ever came of it. There were Alvarados in Sonora, look
you, who had mines of silver, and worked them with peons and mules, and
lost their money — a gold-mine ta work a silver one — like gentlemen ! But
this grubbing in the dirt with one's fingers, that a little gold may stick to
them, is not for caballeros. And then one says nothing of the curse.' ' The
curse ! ' echoed Mary Mulrady, with youthful feminine superstition. ' What
is that ? '
"'You know not, friend Mulrady,. that when these lands were given to
my ancestors by Charles V., the Bishop of Monterey laid a curse upon any
who should desecrate them. Good ! Let us see I Of the three Americans
who founded yonder town one was shot, another died of fever — poisoned,
yoo understand, by the soil — and the last got himself crazy of aguardiente.
Even the scientifico who came here years ago and spied into the trees and
the herbs — he was afterwards punished for his profanation, and died of an
accident in other lands. But,' added Don Ramon, with grave courtesy,
"this touches not yourself. Through xti^you are of the soil.'"
Don Caesar falls in love with ** Mamie " Mulrady. And the
pushing Mrs. Mulrady scarce hopes that the aristocrat will
marry her daughter. But Alvin finds the mine that — appa-
rently to the reader — belonged to the paralyzed Slinn. Mrs.
Mulrady hurries her daughter away and gradually fits herself to
4ead in Califomian society, and Don Caesar grows small before
the hope of a foreign prince.
Mrs. Mulrady *s gradual evolution into that horrible being ex-
pressed by that horrible phrase, ** society lady,*' is delightfully
sketched :
" It occurred to her to utilize the softer accents of Don Caesar in the
pronunciation of their family name, and privately had ' Mulrade ' take the
place of Mulrady on her visiting-card. * It might be Spanish,' she argued
with her husband. ' Lawyer Cole says most American names are corrupt-
ed, and how do you know yours an*t?* Mulrady, who could not swear
that his ancestors came from Ireland to the Carolinas in '98, was helpless
to refute the assertion. But the terrible Nemesis of an un-Spanish, Ameri-
can provincial speech avenged the orthographical outrage at once. When
Mrs. Mulrady began to be addressed orally, as well as by letter, as 'Mrs.
Mulraid,' and when simple amatory effusions to her daughter rhymed with
•lovely maid,* she promptly restored the original vowel. But she fondly
clung to the Spanish courtesy which transformed her husband's baptismal
name, and usually spoke of him — in his absence — as ' Don Alvino.' But in
the presence of his short, square figure, his orange tawny hair, his twinkling
gray eyes and reiroussi nose, even that dominant woman withheld his title.
\ t was currently reported at Red Dog that a distinguished foreigner had one
day approached Mulrady with the formula, * I believe 1 have the honor of .
addressing Don Alvino Mulrady?' * You kin bet your boots, stranger,
that's me/ had returned that simple hidalgo."
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134 A Chat about New Books. [April,
The bishop's curse seems really to rest on the gold, the dis-
covery of which brings misery to Slinn, and almost equal misery
to Mulrady. They are rich at the end of the story — Slinn
only for a moment before he dies. Bret Harte has given us
one of his most charming and most true sketches of life, with a
deep lesson. " Devil's Ford," the other story in the volume, is
exaggerated but commonplace.
Jes^y by the author of Kiyig Solomon's Mines and She^ has only
one good quality — a graphic picturing of life among the Boers,
who, according to Mr. Haggard's account, have all the faults of
the Pennsylvania Dutch without any redeeming virtues. We
have to regret, too, an over-sensuousness which was characteris-
tic of She^ and which is a blot on so many English novels. It is
remarkable that in most English novels the God of Christians is
not mentioned. We have Fate and the ** Unknowable." A series
of novels by a great author, written on a sound basis of Chris-
tianity, is much needed. As for the so-called " Catholic novel "
that is constantly demanded, it would not be read by the people
who cry out for it.
A complete and perfect history of the new Irish movement
headed by Parnell and strengthened by a band of the noblest
young patriots that ever sprang from any mother-land, is found
in Mr. T. P. O'Connor's book. The Parnell Movement (New York:
Benziger Bros.) .Readers of the Irish papers are already familiar
with the greater part of the matter contained in The Parnell
Movement. But the author has revised what was hastily written,
and elided such statements as were supererogatory in the light
of recent events. Mr. O'Connor's style is interesting. It flows
clear and bright. Mr. O'Connor is not only well informed — for
he has lived through the history he writes — but he seems to have
no enemies to scalp and no hobbies of his own to ride. And this,
in a chronicler of Irish history, is remarkable. His chapters on
O'Connell are just and at the same time sympathetic. His pas-
sage on O'Connell's state of mind when the whole Irish nation
hung on his breath is a good example of his vivid and plastic
manner :
" For it is certain," writes Mr. O'Connor, " that at this period O'Connell
knew moments of perhaps deeper anxiety than ever he had experienced
during the many checkered years of his previous life. When the last shout
had died away; when he had been pronounced, amid such tumults of cheers,
the uncrowned king of Ireland, and he found himself once more with a
single companion to whom he could show the nudity of his soul, he fre-
quently uttered in a cry of anguish and despair : * My God ! my God ! what
am I to do with these people ? ' "
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1887.] The Forming of the Mother, 135
It has become the fashion to decry O'Connell. This is, per-
haps, the result of reaction from unreasoning worship. Mr.
O'Connor makes, with that simplicity which is the best way of
expressing pathos, these statements :
" His habits at this period throw a considerable light on his motives and
on the history of his country. In spite of occasional laxity of moral con-
duct, he was all bis life a devoted member of the Catholic Church ; and to-
wards the end of his days his daily life was tha^ rather of an anchorite in a
state of ecstasy th&n of a fierce politician in the midst of a raging and re-
lentless struggle. He used not only to attend Mass but also to receive
Holy Communion every morning of his life ; and it was remarked as indica-
tive of his whole theory of political duty that he always wore on these oc-
casions a black glove on his right hand — the hand that, having shed the
blood of D'Estarre in a duel, was unworthy to touch even the drapery asso-
ciated with the mysteries of his religion."
Mr. O'Connor's book is exactly what it pretends to be — The
Parnell Movement^ with a Sketch of Irish Parties from 1843. To
this book Mr. Robert McWade adds, with the help of Mr. T. P.
O'Connor, another, Gladstone-Parnell and the Great Irish Struggle
(Philadelphia : Hubbard Bros.) It is a careful and sympathetic
study of the Irish situation up to the beginning of 1887.
THE FORMING OF THE MOTHER.
Not only the Peerless
Conceived without stain ;
New Eve for new Adam,
Pure in heart and brain ;
Fifteen years of Maidenhood
Spotless of sin ;
Lily without.
And Lily within;
Not only the greeting,
" Hail ! full of grace ";
Not only the waiting
For the Blessed Child's Face ;
Not only the Nine Months
With her God alone,
When the Virgin bosom
Was His only throne;
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136 The Forming of the Mother. [April,
Not only Communion
Of heart and thought with Him,
Whereof words are silent,
Imagination dim;
Not the Face only
Of God in human form,
The Pace of her Redeemer,
The Face of her Firstborn;
But wandering in the desert
For David's chosen race ;
And Egypt's idol city
For David's royal place;
Home labors of Nazareth •
In the cottage-cave ;
H^rd looks of neighbors, '
Fierce tongues to brave;
Three days' loss, the figure
Of the future, woe ;
Eighteen years' subjection
For one sudden blow;
r
The sword of Compassion
Piercing all her life ;
The peace of the Mother
Plunged in demon strife;
And the Way of Sorrows
Ended by the Cross;
The flow of Blood and Water;
The buried Body's loss.
All these together
Formed the Chosen One,
The solace of the sorrowing,
The Mother of the Son.
So the Queen of Angels
• Was nurtured in grief;
So the Queen of Martyrs
Is her children's relief,
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1887.] Ne w Publica tions. 1 37
NEW PUBLICATIONS.
Addresses by the Most Rev. Dr. Walsh, Archbishop of Dublin. With
a collection of his letters on various subjects. Dublin : M. H. Gill &
Son. (For sale by the Catholic Publication Society Co.)
This large volume — over four hundred pages — contains very reliable in-
formation regarding the peculiar relations between church and state in
Ireland. Since the days of the penal laws, when priests were hunted as
criminals, things have changed for the better. But even to the present
day, as is shown in the preface to this volume, most persistent efforts have
been made by crafty British officials to control the utterances of prominent
ecclesiastics on national questions. The agencies by which public opinion
is formed have been unscrupulously employed to induce the clergy to co-
operate by silence, if not by consent, in the subjugation of an exasperated
people. Instead of brute force the policy of deceit was substituted ; and
after centuries of persecution it is not strange that some have exhibited a
desire to purchase peace at the cost of anything less than the denial of the
faith.
Any one who has carefully studied Irish affairs during recent years need
not be informed that the minions of Dublin Castle have contrived by
anonymous cablegrams, newspaper rumors, etc., to send messages dictating
what the clergy should do in public affairs. It was expected that as loyal
subjects they should take no part in the movement to force heartless land-
lords into allowing their suffering tenants the necessaries of life. Accord-
ing to the standard of the English press, clergymen in Ireland were accused
of being derelict in the performance of a solemn duty if they failed to de-
nounce openly the organizations formed among the people for the consti-
tutional assertion of their rights.
This volume should be read by all who wish to get the exact facts in
reference to the opinions held by the late Cardinal McCabe, which have
not been endorsed by his successor In the see of Dublin. For those who
"were disturbed by the conflicting statements circulated a few years ago, it
may be now declared as a positive certainty that " a vile plot had been con-
cocted by some contemptible agencies of the English government for cor-
rupting the sources of Irish ecclesiastical intelligence in Rome, and for
diverting them into courses adverse to national interests and aspirations at
home. The election of Dr. Walsh by the Cathedral Chapter by such an
overwhelming majority of their number had amazed and irritated the,
executive in Dublin, and even some members of the Cabinet in London,
and, in their malignity, their insolence, and their folly, they vowed that, let
who will be Archbishop of Dublin, Dr. Walsh should not." These words
are taken from the preface; and, did space permit, we might quote other
passages to show how the plans of the conspirators — some of whom Mfere
Catholics — came to naught by the wise policy of Pope Leo XIII. Scarcely
two years have passed since the installation of Archbishop Walsh, and he
has already surpassed the high expectations of his friends in the work ac-
complished through his ability. Within that short space of %\\tk^ h$ h$l9
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138 New Publica tions. [April,
spoken on nearly all the prominent questions of the day. His addresses
show a marvellous knowledge of the practical affairs of life, combined with
extensive erudition. Some of his utterances give evidence of a fixed deter-
mination to allow no false interpretation of his views to pass unnoticed.
Among all classes of his people he is justly regarded as a champion of the
church, and an eloquent exponent of that sympathy which the clergy must
ever feel for the spiritual and temporal welfare of those who are heavily
burdened with the cares of life.
Lives of the Saints and Blessed of the Three Orders of St.
Francis. Translated from the French of the Very Rev. Father Leon,
O.S.F. Two vols. Taunton : Published by the Franciscan Convent.
The Life of St. Francis of Assist, and a Sketch of the Franciscan
Order. By a Religious of the Order of Poor Clares. With emenda-
tions and additions by Very Rev. Pamfilo da Magliano, O.S.F. New
edition. New York : P. O'Shea.
These republications of standard works treating of the lives of Francis-
can saints are timely contributions to devotional literature, especially in
view of the zealous endeavors now being made for the propagation of the
Third Order of St. Francis. And for another reason also: the bloody
chasm between rich and poor may be narrowed by the state in reforming
bad laws, but it is closed only by the poverty of Christ ; and never was this
form of evangelical communism better displayed than by Francis of Assisi
and his disciples, and since his day by the inheritors of his spirit. In the
holy war waged by the peaceful servants of Christ upon avarice and pride
and sensuality the Franciscans, men and women, cloistered and unclois-
tered, have ever been and yet are among the most courageous soldiers ;
the standard of Christ's poverty and simplicity of life has never fallen from
their grasp. Read the exploits of these poor ones of Christ, and compare
them with the maxims of the Gospel, and you will soon acquire a love of
the poor and a hearty, practical sympathy, based on the noblest religious
motives, for human suffering of every kind.
CiEREMONiALE Episcoporum Clementis VIIL. Innocentii X., et Benedict
XIIL Jussu editum Benedicti XTV., et Leonis XIIL auctoritate re-
cognitum. Editio Typica. New York : Fr. Pustet & Co.
This Ceremonial of Bishops is excellently printed and bound, and is the
authorized and latest edition of the Caremoniale Episcoporum. Too much
praise can hardly be bestowed upon the publishers for the care given to
the preparation of this and kindred books, and for the expense incurred in
putting them before the public. Some time ago we had occasion to notice
the Roman Ritual issued by this same house. The book before us will bear
comparison with that beautiful production, and will be found to possess all
its merits. We congratulate the publishers on their good taste and spirit
of enterprise*
The Rise and Early Constitution of Universities. With a Survey of
Mediaeval Education. By S. S. Lawrie. LL.D. (International Educa-^
jtion Series.) New York : D. Appleton & Co.
Professor Lawrie in his preface says that his book is not addressed to
historical experts, and that he has not undertaken to instruct them. His
reading, however, has been wide, but limited in the main to second-hand
authorities. No pretence is made to original research ; and even of recent
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1 887.] Ne w Pvbuca TIONS. 1 39
publications the author admits that he has failed to study " the most learn-
ed work which has yet appeared on the subject of universities"— that, name-
ly, of the Dominican Father Denifle. This being the case, we think it a
pity that he has ventured to say that certain statements of Cardinal New-
man, and also of Montalembert, will not bear a moment's investigation. We
are quite prepared to reject, if need be, any conclusions of these two great
writers, but such rejection must be shown to be necessary as a conse-
quence of original study and research. We are inclined to think, too, that
the remarks which are made here and there about the ignorance of the
clergy spring from the same lack of acquaintance with the primary sources
and are nothing more than an acquiescence in the ordmary Protestant tra-
dition. When we have mentioned that our author manifests, as every
Protestant must necessarily manifest, an inadequate conception of Chris-
tianity, we have said all that is necessary to say in the way of fault-find-
ing.
What we have said in depreciation we have felt all the more bound to
say because in other respects the book deserves warm and hearty praise.
In view of the new Catholic University the higher education is a subject
of much Interest at present, and this work cannot but be very useful for
all who share this interest or desire to excite it where at present it is
non-existent. Many remarks made by Professor Lawrie deserve to be
taken into serious consideration, and show, it seems to us, great acute-
ness and sound practical knowledge of the subject. The style, too. is such
as to make it pleasant reading. And so, upon the whole, we have great
pleasure in noting the appearance of this new volume and wishing it suc-
cess.
The Religious Houses op the United Kingdom. Containing a short
history of each order and house. Compiled from official sources.
London : Burns & Gates ; New York : The Catholic Publication Society
Co.
The progress which the faith is making in Great Britain is well shown
by this volume. Every year either new orders are being founded or those
which had ceased to exist in the country are re-entering. From this work
we learn that the Canons Regular of St. John Lateran, the Carthusians, and
the Premonstratensians have returned, while the new congregations of the
Basilian Fathers, the Society of African Missions, and the Institute of St.
Andrew (not to mention others) have founded houses. The work serves
very well its primary purpose of furnishing a complete list of all the houses,
missions, colleges, and convents, both of men and women, in the kingdom.
It also gives a brief sketch of the history of each order, of its introduction
into Great Britain, of its present condition throughout the world, of its
rule and constitution. The connection of each house with pre-Reforma-
tion times is noted, and is a point of special interest. We are sure that for
all Catholics of the United Kingdom this book will be very interesting and
useful, and think it probable that interest in it will not be confined exclu-
sively to them.
Meditations on the Sufferings of Jesus Christ. Translated from
the Italian of Rev. F. Francis da Perinaldo, O.S.F., by a member of the
same order. New York, Cincinnati, and St. Louis : Benziger Bros.
An excellent manual of meditations for Lent and Passion-time. The
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l40 New Publications. [April,
mind is assisted to withdraw from distractions and fix its thoughts and af-
fections upon our Saviour as he treads the thorny way of the cross. The
matter is assorted with much judgment, not too scantily furnished nor too
lavishly, and the devotion rather invited than stimulated. The translation
reads smoothly, and no doubt is correctly made.
The Seven Last Words. Seven Sermons for Lent and the Passion-tide.
Elizabeth, N. J. : Published by Rev. Augustine Wirth, O.S.B.
Here is a little pamphlet-bound collection of sermons very useful for
pastors of souls and for private reading during this season of Lent and the
coming one of the Passion. We presume they are translations ; that part
of the work is well done. But we wish most especially to commend the
Judgment of the reverend publisher in his present selection, as in some of
his previous ones we thought the sermons rather dry. These are excel*
lent. They have come to hand too late for a more extended notice.
Die Christliche Krankbnstube. Lehr- und Beispielbuch ftir Kranke.
Enthaltend an die zwei hundert Beispiele. Druck ^tx Nord Amerika,
Philadelphia.
A very important book for all who have to care for the sick, but espe-
"cially for priests, whose visitation of the sick is a matter of grave obliga-
tion, but may tend to become routine and barren of great results. Though
not a large volume, it is in fact an immense repertory of edifying anecdotes,
very many of them being really charming, and all of them calculated in
greater or less degree to assist those who watch at the sick-bed of a Chris-
tian. Here are found numerous consoling texts of Scripture, many beauti-
ful little poems and poetical selections, preparation for and thanksgiving
after receiving the sacraments ; all in that language which, though it be
foreign to us, yet seems to us the best medium for conveying tender affec-
tion and loving sympathy from one soul to another.
The Constitutional Law of the United States of America. By Dr.
H. Von Hoist, Privy Councillor and Professor in the University of
Freiburg. Authorized edition. Translated by Alfred Bishop. Chicago,
111. : Mason, Callac^han & Co.
What strikes us about this book is that it is so ably written by a foreign-
er, so well translated by an American, and so well made up by a publish-
ing house in the new world out West.
Dr. Von Hoist seems to have made himself master of the constitution!!
law of our Union, and that is high praise for one of his nationality and
antecedents. Every page is evidence of familiar and synthetic knowledge
of our rather complex political system. His reading has doubtless been
more than cursory ; he is a real student of the American Constitution as
it created the co-ordinate factors of our federal public life, legislative, exe-
cutive, and judicial, and as it daily inspires their action. We are surprised
at the author's accurate learning, especially in the Supreme Court cases.
His opinions on matters formerly or currently in dispute are those of a
mind well trained yet not altogether judicial in its character; for he weighs
the arguments on both sides from points of view political as well as
forensic.
He has added a treatise on the constitutional and general law of the
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ihiy^l Ne w Public a 7 ions.. f 4 \
several Si^% which is of much use for refereivce, &ut pfainly not the result
of %o Yntich study or, we venture to affirm, such impartial study as that
which is the main purpose of the book and gives it its name. As to ques^
tions educational and religious Dr. Von Hoist is mainly right in his esti-.
mate of the powers of the general government, and mainly wrong as to,
those of the several States. That principle of American politics whichj
he so plainly lays down, and which is of all others, in a legal point oi'
view, the "most necessary to a clear notion of the various action of our
federal and State authority, he seems to ignore in his reference to Stat-^
powers in matters of education and religion : that is to say, the principle
that all powers not delegated to the federal government by its Constitu-
tion are reserved to the States and to the people, and. on the contrary^
all powers not reserved from the State government by its Constitution are
granted. So that if the whole Union is to be affected by legislation of an
educational or religious nature, it must be because of some express power
granted by the federal Constitution, or, if not expressly granted, at least
plainly necessary for carrying into effect one that is. But if any single Siate^
is to be affected by a State law of a religious or educational or any other na-,
ture, the only requisite, so far as technical legality is concerned, is that there
is no express or necessarily implied prohibition in that State's constitution.
Poems. By Marcella Agnes Fitzgerald. New York : The Catholic Publican
tion Society Co. .
It is doubtful whether the author has acted prudently in publishing her
poems all at once in one large volume, at least for readers not already ac-i
quainted with her writings. A volume of verse containing over five hun-.
dred pages presents a somewhat formidable appearance to the average
reader of poetry. It would have been better, it seems to us, for the success
of the work from a commercial point of view, to have made a selection of
the best pieces for the sake of making a trial of the public taste.
Although the poems in this volume do not attain the first rank, they
are for the most part very pleasing. Readers will find the verses techni-
cally correct ; they will find that they are always characterized by good^
taste, conjoined with piety and devotion. Here and there they will meet
with stanzas of remarkable beauty. The author evidently has a great love,
for the beauties of nature, but we think that the poems which treat o^
human feelings are the best — as, for instance, the one called " A Flower in
Winter.'* This we can say with truth (and it is giving this work higher
praise than can be given to many of the writers who receive the praise of
the world) • that no one can read these poems without being moved to love
more warmly virtue and faith and goodness.
Distribution of Animals. By Angelo Heilprin. New York : D. Apple*
ton & Co.
This book is one of the " International Scientific Series.'* It gives us a
summary, and, we believe, a complete one, of the results thus far attained
on the interesting subject of the distribution of animal life throughout the
globe. The author is an exception to the general run of scientific writers:
he contents himself with stating facts, and does not intrude unnecessarily
his theories upon us. His treatment of the subject might, we think, be.
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142 New Publications. [April,
more popular. Like many specialists, he is sometimes a little too technical.
He talks of ** the well-known Globigerina, Orbulina, Spheroidina, Holo-
thuridae," etc., which are certainly quite sufficiently unknown to the great
mass of really intelligent readers to need further explanation ; yet this is
not such a defect as to lessen the usefulness of the book in the class-room.
The work bears evidence of thorough research in its department. Even
the copious and minute reports of the Challenger Expedition, compiled
by Mr. Brady, seem to have been faithfully investigated.
The Poetry of Sir Samuel Ferguson. By Mr. Justice O'Hagan. Dub-
lin : M. H. Gill & Son. (For sale by the Catholic Publication ^ciety Co.)
Years ago Christopher North prophesied that the world would yet hear
of the author of the " Forging of the Anchor." The world has heard of this
author; knows now that he has died but recently, but does not as yet know
him as he deserves to be known. The little book before us is an apprecia-
tive study of Ferguson's poetry, and whets a desire to know more of the
poet and his work. Copious extracts, especially from Ferguson's longer
poems, are given, while their story is told by the commentator, who gives
his attention rather to pointing out the beauties of Ferguson's poetry than
to criticism upon it. In the preface the author says that he has endeavored
to express his sense not only of Ferguson's genius as a poet but of his
singular success in giving to Irish legends and traditions, to the manners,
feelings, and distinctive features of the Irish race, due expression in the
English language.
Mangan and Ferguson have been the most successful of modern Irish
poets in interweaving Gaelic modes of thought with their verse. Ferguson
has gone over a wide field, "traversing all the ages," to use Mr. O'Hagan's
words, •* from the shadowy, gigantic forms and mystic lays of the earliest
epoch down to our own times, from Cuchullin and Fergus MacRoy to
Thomas Davis." He has weaved into his song the manners, religion, laws
of the Celt of various epochs. He has performed a great work in assisting
to lay the foundations of a distinctive national Irish literature in the English
tongue.
The Story of the Moors in Spain. By Stanley Lane-Poole, B.A.,
M.R.A.S., with the collaboration of Arthur Gilman, M.A. (The Story
of the Nations Series.) New York and London : G. P. Putnam's Sons.
The story of the Moors in Spain is certainly told in a very engaging
fashion. We have spread before us a magnificent panorama of Moorish
civilization ; beautiful palaces, fountains, luxuriant gardens, exquisite bits
of workmanship, rise before our eyes ; but the narrators have been too
much taken up with telling the story to make the work of much historical
value. They have simply been carried away by their subject, and do great
injustice to the enemies and final conquerors of the Moors, the Christians
in Spain. Whenever these two peoples are contrasted it is always to the
great advantage of the Moors. To them are attributed what are known as
the Christian virtues, while the Christians are represented as a very mean
and inferior race — inferior in civilization, in a sense of honor, and in valor.
Indeed, one lays down the book and wonders that the Moors were finally
completely crushed by so inferior a race. Of course the explanation is
that signal injustice has been done to the Christians, while the good quali-
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1887.] ^^^ Publications, 143
ties of the Moors have been greatly exaggerated. It is to be hoped that
the series will include the story of the Christians in Spain, to offset this
very one-sided though undoubtedly entertaining narrative.
The Life Around Us : A Collection of Stories. By Maurice Francis
Egan. Second edition. New York and Cincinnati : Fr. Pustet & Co.
When the first edition of this charming collection of stories appeared
it received our warm approval in an extended notice. The fact that the
book is already in its second edition proves that our commendation was
well merited, and we are glad to find that our judgment has been approved
by the Catholic public at large. The name of the talented author of these
tales is becoming more and more a household word among the Catholics of
the land.
Irish Songs and Poems. By Francis A. Fahy. Dublin : M. H. Gill &
Son. (For sale by the Catholic Publication Society Co.)
Mr. Fahy sings the themes dear to the heart of every Irish bard — love
and his najtive land. Hatred of oppression, sorrow for the woes of Ireland,
hope for its future, are poured out again and again in both songs and poems.
** Our race, through clouds of gloom and woe,
And years of wreck and outraged trust,
Still lifts its face with soul-felt glow,
Still hopes, still knows that God is just.
Its deeds are of the open day;
Its spirit, scorning prison-bars,
Springs from the grovellings of clay.
And reads its future in the stars."
The poet is at his best when thus moved by patriotic fervor, though
there are some pretty lines among his love-songs. The book ends rather
strangely with a poem entitled " I wish I were a Poet." By the poems that
go before it Mr. Fahy had already proved that his wish had been gratified.
Hoffman's Catholic Directory, Almanac, and Clergy-List Quar-
terly. Milwaukee and Chicago : Hoffman Bros. 1887.
This excellent work fully maintains the high reputation for accuracy
and ready reference which it has deservedly acquired. In this last issue
the alphabetical list of the clergy has been entirely rewritten, and in cities
with two or more churches the address of every resident clergyman is added.
This greatly facilitates matters in findingaddresses. Another improvement
is that the necrology is arranged alphabetically, instead of under dates as
formerly. The general make-up of this publicati6n is excellent, especially
when its very low price is taken into consideration.
Familiar Short Sayings of Great Men. With Historical and Ex-
planatory Notes. By Samuel Arthur Bent, A.M. Fifth edition, revised
and enlarged. Boston : Tick nor & Co. »
When a work of this kind reaches its fifth edition it is the best guaran-
tee for its reliability and usefulness, and it has become so well known that
there is little need of saying anything about it. It is always interesting to
know who said some oft-repeated good thing that we hear, and the occa-
sion of it. The "sayings" are confined to oral utterances, though excep-
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144 New Publications. [April, 1887.
tloi^is ^re tnade ite th^ "case of letters, journals, proclamations, and addresses.
The "great men "are arranged alphabetically, and a short biography is
given. Their noteworthy sayings follow, together with a review of the
occasions which gave them birth. At the end is a complete index of the
** sayings," which is very convenient for ready reference.
English Composition, for the Use of Schools. By P. W.Joyce, LL.D.,
M.R I.A. Dublin : M. H. Gill & Son. (For sale by the Catholic Publica-
tion Society Co.)
A very clear little treatise, built upon a simple plan. There are first a
number of rules under separate headings, intended to warn the learner
against what is wrong and to lead him to what is right. The rules are
simply expressed in language easy to comprehend and to remember. Many
of the errors pointed out in speaking and writing are preculiar to Irish boys
and girls ; peculiar idioms that are not heard in this country except among
children of Irish parentage. In the second part of the treatise are given a
number of abstracts of letters, some examples of letters in full, and a list
of subjects for letters or essays. The author collected a number of letters
written by students and pupils of schools in various parts of Ireland. The
prevailing errors of these were noted, and the rules given are chiefly found-
ed on these errors, committed by the class of persons for whom the book
is intended. The mistakes made are so common in general that this very
clear and practical treatise maybe perused to great advantage upon this
side of the water. The examples of letters given are somewhat more for-
mal than boys and girls are wont to write in this country.
Midshipman Bob. By E. L. Dorsey. Notre Dame, Ind.: Joseph A.
Lyons.
Midshipman Bob was published as a serial in the Ave Maria, and has
been reprinted in a neat and tasteful form. Its hero is a Catholic boy
who enters and graduates from the Naval Academy at Annapolis. A story
with a glimpse of the sea in it is always interesting to boys when well told.
We are sure that no young Catholic boy can fail to be interested in Bob's
struggles and triumphs at the nation's training-school for sailors.
OTHER BOOKS AND PAMPHLETS RECEIVED.
Shoppell's Modern Houses. Co-operative Building: Plan Association Architects, Publish-
ers, New York.
Rand & McN ally's Official Railway Guide, February, 1887. Chicago : American -Rail-
way Guide Co.
Handbook of Greek Composition. With Exercises for Junior and Middle Classes. By Henry
Browne, SJ. Dublin : Browne & Nolan.
Twenty-first Annual Report of St. Francis' H<^spital, New York.
Fifteenth Annual Report of Le Coutbulx St. Mary's Institution for the Improved
Instruction of Deaf Mutes. Buffalo, N. Y. : Institution Print. 1887.
American Statesmen : Life of Thomas Hart Benton. By Theodore Roosevelt. Boston and
New York : Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
Passages from the Unpubushed Manuscripts op William Ellery Channino. Bos-
ton and New York ; Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
The Parables of Our Saviour Expounded and Illustrated. By Wm. M. Taylor, D.D.,.
LL.D., Pastor of Broadway Tabernacle, New York City. New York: A. C. Armstrong &
Son.
The Parental Blessing in a Christian Home. By a Monk of the Order of St. BenedicU
Li^ : H. Dessain.
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THE
CATHOLIC WORLD.
Vol. XLV. MAY, 1887. No. 266.
JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE.
Both as a poet and a prose-writer Goethe is considered to
be the most brilliant phenomenon in German literature of mod*
cm times. Though not in every respect the most accomplished,
he is the most versatile of German classical authors. His writ-
ings contain the most perfect models of style, both in poetry and
prose. To bring literary style as near to perfection as human
language permits was his aim to the end of his life.*
What greatly adds to the attractiveness of his writings is the
fidelity with which he endeavored to copy the real nature of per-
sons and things. He was no recluse or theoretic bookworm, but
an enjoyer of life and the real world in which he moved. He
drew his inspirations from nature, " with which," as Emerson f
remarks, " he lived in full communion." He knew how to select
interesting matter for poetry«and prose from his own personal
experiences, from his manifold and varied intercourse with peo-
ple, and from the wide universe about him4 And, last but not
least, he understood how to clothe his sentiments and ideas in
the most attractive and fascinating literary forms. Bulwer just-
ly called him a g^eat refractor, receiving light from all direc-
tions and dispensing the same ag^in with increased force. The
philosopher Schelling even compared him to a pharos illuminat-
ing all Germany. § Yet, considered from a Christian stand-point,
Goethe's brilliant literary productions must be considered a
* Alexander Baumgartner, S.J., Der Alte von Weimar^ Goeth^s Liben und Werke^ Frei-
burg, x886. p. 370.
t Ralph Waldo Emerson, Re^estntative Men^ Bostpn, 1885, p. 95^
t A. F. C. Vilmar, Gtsckickte der dtutscJun Natumai'Literatur^ 1870^ p. 488.
I Alez. Baumgartner, L c., p. 379.
Copyrigkt. Rar. I* T. HBCioai. t88f«
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146 JoHANN Wolfgang von Goethe. [May,
curse to the German nation. Frederick von Schlegel no doubt
had good reasons for comparing Goethe's tendency to that of Vol-
taire ; and Sophia von Stolberg was hardly guilty of exaggeration
when she observed that Goethe had done more harm to Ger-
many than Napoleon L* Unfortunately Goethe was both irre-
ligious and a man of very questionable morality. Writings com-
ing from such a polluted source cannot but contribute to spread
the deplorable contagion of irreligion and immorality.
I.
As to religion, Goethe had about as little of it as his friend
Schiller, who boasted :
" Welche Religion ich bekenne ? Keine von alien.
Die du mir nennst. Und warum keine?
Au8 Religion." t
Some have, indeed, taken the trouble to try to show by quota-
tions from Goethe's writings that he was favorably inclined not
only to the Christian religion in general but also to the Catholic
Church in particular. But such occasional expressions in favor
of Christianity or of some Catholic doctrines or practices will de-
ceive no one well acquainted with the general irreligious ten-
dency of Goethe'^ writings. The Protestant historian of German
literature, Vilmar,j: is no doubt correct in asserting that there
exists a " dissonance " between the two great German poets —
Goethe and Schiller — and Christianity. Schiller is more inclined
to rationalism, deifying man ; Goethe more to naturalism, deify-
ing nature. Moreover, both show themselves openly hostile to
Christianity : Goethe, indeed, coi^paratively seldom ; Schiller
oftener and more decidedly. If they occasionally make some
remarks favorable to Christianity or the Catholic religion, they
thereby only show their inconsistency.
Alex. Baumgartner, S.J.,§ who has studied the life and the
writings of Goethe as but few have done, says of him that al-
ready in his early youth he bad lost the belief in Christ as the
real Son of God, and in his Gospel as a revelation, which all na-
tions and ages are obliged to accept. Without having made the
Christian religion the object of any profound study, and conse-
quently without any decided convictions concerning it, Goethe
* A. Baum£:artner, L c, pp. oSo-z.
t ** What religion do I profess ? None of aU 70U mention to me. And why none ? Be-
cause of religion."
} A. Bau mg a rtn e r , 1. c., pp. 5o8-x4« I U c., pp. 978^
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1887.] J OH ANN Wolfgang von Goethe. 147
commenced his checkered career as an author. From the va-
rious kinds of books which he read and from his own experiences
and observations he collected such matter for his writings as hap-
pened to strike his fancy, without regard to anything like logi-
cal consistency. His views {Weltanschauung) changed not only
during the principal epochs of his life, but often also every month
and every day. If he happened to read Rousseau he was an en-
thusiastic admirer of nature ; if he read Voltaire he fell in love
with civilization ; if he read Spinoza he dreamed of an intuitive
idea of God, by which the All could be seen in individual exis-
tences ; if he read Leibnitz he imagined that he saw monads
everywhere. But nowhere he clearly defines what he meant by
nature, or civilization, or God, or the intuitive knowledge of
God. He followed no philosophical system consistently ; he, in
fact, detested anything like a system or logical consistency. His
mind may be compared to an archive always ready to receive the
most contradictory views and theories. Plato and Aristotle,
Zeno and Epicurus, Christ and Voltaire, were all equally wel-
come to him as far as they struck his fancy, but he never took
the trouble to come to a consistent conviction concerning any
particular religion or philosophical system.
II.
Goethe was a fair representative of the religious and philo-
sophical confusion existing among the majority of the so-called
educated non-Catholic Germans of his time. Protestantism had
then developed its last logical consequences. The first open re-
volt against all Protestant forms of mutilated Christianity broke
out in England. The English government had protested against
the Catholic religion, and established a church of its own by law.
Logical Britons, under the leadership of Lord Herbert of Cher-
bury (t 1648), believed also in their right of protesting against
this humanly-established church, and proclaimed so-called na-
tural religion.*
The followers of Lord Herbert, called Deists, admitted the
existence of God, the immortality of the human spirit, and a just
retribution in the life to come, as truths arrived at by reason ;
but they rejected all belief in a supernatural revelation, in mira-
cles, in the Incarnation of the Son of God, in grace, and in a
supernatural destiny of man.
Lord Shaftesbury (f 171 3) went a step further: he declared
* Dr. Hafiner, Dig dnUseki AM/kioinmg^ 1864, p. 37.
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148 JoHANN Wolfgang von Goethe. [May,
religion to consist in morally good actions and in developing the
naturally good human instincts, especially benevolence.
Collins (t 1729) and Chubb (f 1747) went still further: they
openly denied the existence of a personal God. The former de-
clared God to be an unconscious being ; the latter considered
the activity, or life, of nature to be God.
English philosophy of this kind soon deluged France,* where
various causes had prepared the way. One of these, no doubt,
was the great moral corruption which then had been spreading
in all directions from Paris. Influential writers, as Helvetius, De
Hoi bach, Bayle, Voltaire (f 1778), and Rousseau (f 1778), did
their best to popularize the new philosophy among the French
people.
Unfortunately for the German nation, her rulers and so-called
educated classes, at this time, looked upon morally rotten France
with admiration and reverence. Since the days of Louis XIV. the
court of Paris had been the ideal of all German courts ; and during
the eighteenth century the moral corruption of the higher society
of France gradually spread over all German courts.f Infidel
and immoral literature, such as was then fashionable in France,
was scattered, especially from Leipzig, broadcast throughout Ger-
many among the admirers of all that was or looked like French.
Soon the consequences became visible ; infidelity and loose
anorality became fashionable in the higher circles of German so-
ciety, and gradually descended to the lower strata of the people.
Even Protestant ministers, as Semlerij: at Halle (1725-91), and
Edelmann in 1735, made no mystery of their disbelief in various
Christian doctrines. The influential writer Lessing (1774-78)
publicly attacked the reliability of the Sacred Scriptures and
supernatural revelation in general. ' He claimed that by doing so
he was but acting in the spirit of Luther.
Philosophers like Kant, Hegel, and Fichte (1763-1814) zeal-
ously assisted in demolishing what had still been left of the sys-
tem of the Christian religion.
In the midst of such an atmosphere of religious confusion and
moral corruption Goethe had the misfortune to appear.
He was born in 1749 at Frankfort, and brought up a Protes-
tant. The religious instruction he received when young did not
satisfy the cravings of his heart. Yet a boy, he had already
adopted a peculiar worship of his own — the worship of the light
of day. §
* Dr. Haffher, L c., pp. 33-43. t L. c., pp. 4C-5a.1 X L. c, p. 71.
fW. Lindeiiiano,U^/>i#, 1868, pp. 4S-9. j
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1887.] JoHANN Wolfgang von Goethe. 149
In later years Goethe's respect for the Christiaa religion did
not increase. He, indeed, came in contact with some prominent
Catholics, and travelled for a while in Catholic Italy. If he oc-
casionally took some interest in the Catholic religion it was only
so far as he found therein welcome matter for his aesthetic taste.
But as a religion the Catholic made no lasting impression on
his mind ; * he did not take the trouble to study it seriously.
As to German Protestantism, in which he had been brought
up, how could this have been expected to exercise a real reli-
gious influence upon hira ? Even candid Protestants like Vilmar f
admit that, at the time when Goethe was coming into prominence
as a poet and a prose-writer, " ecclesiastical Christianity within the
Evangelical Church showed itself only in effete, nearly dead ap-
pearances ; often and nearly always in tasteless forms ; and the
Christian faith which still survived was of an extremely sub-
jective kind — as, for instance, that of Klopstock and Lavater.**
No wonder, then, that in the midst of such a religious atmo-
sphere the keen-sighted and poetic Goethe grew up and' re-
mained, theoretically and practically, an infidel and Epicurean.
III.
What kind of morality may be expected of a man who ig-
nores the existence of God, the immortality of the soul, and a
just retribution after this life ? The answer we find amply illus-
trated in Goethe's life.
The dominant principles which inspired this brilliantly-en-
dowed poet and prose- writer were no inspirations coming from
heaven and leading to heaven, no Christian ideals, but the volup-
tuous Eros, or the sensual love, of pagan antiquity, and a prac-
tical Epicurism which did not care for the eternal and divine. %
Sensual love, with its pleasures and pangs, pervades a great part
of his poetry and prose, as it pervaded a great part of his life.
J, Rickaby § observes :
" On the sole testimony of his autobiography and of his writings we
gather that he was irreligious; that he systematically, for sixty years,
trifled with the affection of women, and then left them cruelly in the lurch ;
that from his early youth he mingled in certain companies and in certain
transactions which are utterly incompatible with purity and uprightness of
character ; and, in short, that he can have no claim to be a model man in a
Christian country."
Such, then, is the religious and moral character of the man
♦ Alex. Bauingartner, L c, pp. 379-81. t L. c, pp. siy-i^ $ L. a, pp. 274-5.
I The Months London, 1876, soviii. 381 (quoted bj Alex. Baumgartner, I c., 276). .
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ISO /Off ANN Wolfgang von Goetbb. [May,
and writer who has been called "the greatest genius of our
modern times "; * "a pharos illuminating ail Germany with his
own light" t
IV.
What are we to say of the perusal of his works ? Shall they
be ignored by Catholics and Christians generally? Shall the
reading of them be condemned without reserve ? Or may they,
under certain conditions, be read with good conscience and edu-
cational profit ?
To ignore the works of Goethe is impossible ; they are read
and highly appreciated not only wherever the German language
is spoken, but, by means of translations, they have become to a
great extent the public property also of other nations. No man
pretending to a liberal education can, to his credit, ignore the
works of Goethe.
We are not obliged to condemn the reading of them abso-
lutely by any law of God or of his church. The ancient Fathers
of the church did not scruple to read the writings of pagan
authors. Their guiding principle in doing so was that laid down
by St. Paul (i Thess. v. 21): " Prove all things ; hold that which
is good." The same principle ought to guide us also in perusing
the works of Goethe and of similar classical authors.
On the one hand we must openly and willingly acknowledge
the many beautiful and true sentiments and ideas expressed by
them ; but, on the other hand, we must not omit to condemn
from the standpoint of Christian doctrine, which is the standard
of truth, what is false, irreligious, or immoral in their writings. %
As a rule, the indiscriminate reading of such authors as
Goethe should not be permitted to young persons whose reli-
gious convictions and moral character are still wanting the neces*
sary firmness to resist the subtle, baneful influences necessarily
emanating from such sources.
Father Alex. Baumgartner, SJ., who has lately published
several most learned and important works on Goethe, and who
is especially qualified to pass a fair judgment on the value of this
author, observes : §
«• Far be it from us to desirq to have Goethe entirely banished from
school. His works contain, as far as form and matter are concerned, mani-
» A. F. C. Vilmar,"L c. p. 459. • f Alex. Baamgartner, 1. c, p. 27a,
tProl. H. Wedemer, DU IMerahtr und dU ckristUcke Jugendldldung^ 1868, p. 3a.
SL.C, pp. 284-5.
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1887.] Easter. 151
fold materials useful for education, which may be of value in the hand and
under the guidance of an able, conscientious teacher of youth. But a poet
for young persons Goethe is simply not. No matter how much of the
beautiful he may offer in some works, . • • we must decidedly reject the
main substance of his views of the world and of life, if Christian sentiment
and Christian morality are not to perish entirely. ... To consider the
perusal of Goethe, without any reserve, harmless, is a very wrong concep-
tion ; and to admire him enthusiastically is possible only for such as either
share his errors or, through mental shortsightedness and lack of solid
study, do not notice them."
EASTER.
Through all thy Passion time, through grief and sorrow,
With thee, O Lord, I've wept :
When in the garden^ shrinking from the morrow,
Thy lonely watch was kept ;
When on thy quivering flesh, thy pain unheeding,
They dealt the cruel blow ;
When mocked, and crowned with thorns, all faint and bleeding,
Thy kingly head drooped low,
IVe followed thee, O Lord, up Calvary's mountain,
An awful sight to see :
Thy thirst, thy agony, thy heart — ^love's fountain —
Pierced through, sweet Christ, for me.
But now the days, with gloom and sadness teeming.
Like nightly shadows go :
The dawn upon an empty tomb is gleaming:
And Easter lilies blow !
O skies of Easter, ope your golden portals ;
Rare flowers, your fragrance shed :
For He, the mighty One, who died for mortals.
Hath risen from the dead !
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IS2 Our Citizens Abroad. [May,
OUR CITIZENS ABROAD.
An American gentleman of considerable prominence as a
man of learning, who proposed to make a scientific tour in South
America, told the writer that he intended to go first to the
British West India Islands and get an English passport I
asked his reason for this course, which seemed to me to be un-
usual, if not in fact wrong, for a citizen of the United States to
pursue; and was answered that he might require protection, as he
was going to regions not entirely safe from bandits and revolu-
tions, and that no nation was as much respected and feared as
Great Britain, no people who travelled with such impunity and
assurance of safety as British subjects.
This conversation induced me to examine somewhat the
relations, methods, and laws of the United States, especially in
non- Christian countries, touching our citizens who might be
sojourning or travelling in them, with a view of ascertaining how
they were dealt with and how protected. This investigation
revealed a series of Congressional enactments, now in force and
acted upon, which seemed most extraordinary and as objection-
able and outrageous as extraordinary. And, indeed, it is scarce-
ly too much to say that, under these laws, our citizens abroad
need protection as much from their own government as from
any foreign power. This is especially the case in China, Turkey,
and Madagascar, and other non-Christian CQuntries, in all of
which we have peculiar ways of making and executing laws for
ascertaining and punishing crime.
Two notable instances of the operation of these laws, which do
not seem to have received the attention from the press and the
public they were entitled to, have occurred recently.
On the 17th of July, 1879, Alexander Dahan, who was a sub-
ject of Turkey, a lawyer of prominence and a man of standing
and influence, met in the streets of Alexandria, in Egypt, one
Stephen P. Mirzan, a citizen of the United States. They
stopped and engaged in conversation, which soon became excit-
ed, and resulted in blows. Dahan, getting the worst of the con-
flict, end^vored to save himself by flight ; but he was pursued
by Mirzan, overtaken, shot through the body, and instantly
killed. Mirzan was arrested, and, as he was an American citizen,
some correspondence took place between our State Department
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188;.] Our Citizens Abroad. 153
and our representative in Turkey. It resulted, however, in an
order from the Secretary of State to Horace Maynard, then
American Minister at Turkey, to proceed to Alexandria and try
Mirzan. Mr. Maynard went all the way from Constantinople to
Alexandria, and did try Mirzan — tried him without a jury, con-
stituting in his own person both judge and jury, sole judge of
both the law and the facts ; without the aid of books, or of
counsel learned in the law — and convicted him of murder in the
first degree, and sentenced him to be executed on the ist of
October, 1880. From this decision there was no appeal except
to the clemency of the President of the United States. He com-
muted the sentence to imprisonment for life in the American jail
at Smyrna, and the prisoner was afterward removed to the
penitentiary at Albany, where he npw is.
The other case occurred at Yokohama in 1880. J. M. Ross
was charged with killing Robert Kelly on the American ship
Bullion. When arrested he claimed to be a British subject;
but the British consul at Yokohama disallowed his claim, and
he was tried by the American consular court, convicted, and
sentenced to death. But his sentence was also commuted to
imprisonment for life, and he also is now in the penitentiary at
Albany. In both cases the killing appeared to be the outcome
of a sudden quarrel, and lacked the elements to make it murder
in the first degree, and neither of the men would have been con-
victed of that ofifence, on a fair trial, in any State in the Union.
Our Constitution has these provisions on the subject of crime,
trial, and punishment — viz. :
Art iii.»sec. 2 : "The trial of all crimes, except in cases of impeachment,
shall be by jury ; and such trial shall be held in the State where the said
crimes shall have been committed ; but when not committed within any
State, the trial shall be at such place or places as the Congress may by law
have directed."
Art V. : "No person shall be held to answer for a capital or otherwise
infamous crime unless on a presentment or indictment of a grand jury,
except in cases arising in the land or naval forces, or in the militia when in
actual service in time of war or public danger ; nor shall any person be
subject for the same offence to be twice put in jeopardy of life or limb ; nor
shall be compelled in any criminal case to be a witness against himself, nor
be deprived of life* liberty, or property, without due process of law."
Art vi. : *' In all criminal prosecutions the accused shall enjoy the
right to a speedy and public trial by an impartial jury of the State and dis*
trict wherein the crime shall have been committed, and be informed of the
nature and cause of the accusation ; to be confronted with the witnesses
against him ; to have compulsory process for obtaining witnesses in his
favor, and have the assistance of counsel for his defence."
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154 Our Citizens Abroad. [May,
It would seem* that these provisions should apply to all citi-
zens of the United States, as well in our own territory as outside
of it. There is no reason why it should be otherwise. Wher-
ever consular courts are established or ministers reside, there
are to be found American citizens ; for the creation of the courts
of itself implies the existence of a population subject to their
operation. If we have the right to form a court to sit and act
and execute its judgments in anbther country, undoubtedly we
have the right to make it conform to our Constitution and throw
the safeguards of the instrument around a person charged with
crime in the same manner that we do at home. There is no
practical difficulty about it. At Alexandria, where Mirzan was
tried and condemned to death by one man, and at Yokohama,
where Ross encountered the same fate, there are always a large
number of American people, nearly all of them men of sense, infor-
mation, and standing, who could be entrusted with the duties of
grand-jurymen, and would certainly make as good jurymen as
the average of those who are selected to act in criminal trials
here in any State of the Union. And there is no real difficulty in
constituting our courts there exactly as they are constructed at
home.
It would seem that any form of trial of a citizen of the
United States, for a capital offence, in which the requirements of
the Constitution were omitted, especially where the means to
employ them could be found, would be unconstitutional. The
courts have upheld the jurisdiction of the tribunals as now con-
stituted in China and Turkey in civil matters, and this upon the
ground that our Constitution is only intended for home use, and
that in the outside world we are a nation and have the rights of
a nation, irrespective of our form of government or the limita-
tions of our Constitution, and on the further grounds that such
jurisdiction is given by treaties and the laws of Congress.
In the case of Davies vs. Hale, 91 U. S. p. 13, the question
came directly before the Supreme Court, which held that the
powers of consuls, as formerly exercised, had been very much cir-
cumscribed and diminished " by the changed circumstances of
Europe and the prevalence of civil order in the several Christian
states ; and that it may now be considered generally true that for
any judicial powers which may be vested in the consuls accredit-
ed to any nation we must look to the express provisions of the
treaties entered into with that nation, and to the laws of the
states which the consuls represent"
But this decision was confined to the question of jurisdiction
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I887-] Our Citizens Abroad. 155
in civil cases alone, and did not in any manner touch upon crimi-
nal affairs. The constitutionality of our laws giving our minis-
ters and consuls in China, Japan, Turkey, Persia, Siam, and
other non-Christian countries the right to try, convict, and
sentence to death our citizens in those countries for murder or
rebellion, in the manner now conferred, remains yet undecided.
Neither of the cases of Mirzan or Ross were brought to the
courts, the only action taken in either being the commutation
of the sentence of death to imprisonment for life. But the sub-
ject is important enough to engage the attention of the public
and of Congress. Our present laws are a blot upon our country
which should be removed at once, and are besides in violation
of the Constitution, as the following statement of the substance
of them will demonstrate.
Our treaty with the Ottoman Porte, concluded in 1830, pro-
vides that
•• Citizens of the United States who may have committed some offence
shall not be arrested and put in prison by local authorities, but they shall
be tried by their minister or consul, and punished according to their offence,
following in this respect the usage observed towards other Franks."
Our treaty with China in 1844 conceded to the United States
full civil and criminal jurisdiction between citizens of the United
States in that country ; and treaties with the non-Christian states
of Japan, Borneo, Madagascar, Persia, Siam, and the countries in
the north of Africa, all had the same provision, and constituted
the basis of the subsequent legislation of Congress.
But surely they could not be held to give that body a carU
blanche to go outside of the limitations of our Constitution and
enact statutes irrespective of its restrictions. They could only
mean, and be so construed, that the United States had the con*
sent and concurrence of those various governments to provide
in their territories for the trial and conviction, according to the
principles of our form of government, of American citizens.
The laws on the subject are found in the Revised Statutes,
sections 4080 to 4130 inclusive.
Section 4083 recites that in order to carry into full effect the
provisions of the treaties of the United States with China, Japan,
Siam, Egypt, and Madagascar, the minister and the consuls of
the United States in each of these countries shall, in addition to
other powers and duties imposed upon them, be invested with the
judicial authority herein described, which shall appertain to the
office of minister and consul, and be a part of the duties belong-
ing thereto, wherein and so far as the same is allowed by treaty.
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iS6 Our Citizens Abroad. [May,
•
These officers were empowered to arraign and try, in the
manner provided by the act, citizens of the United States, to
pass sentence upon them, and to issue all process necessary to
carry their authority into execution.
The crowning and wonderful feature of this curious and not
creditable series of enactments is to be found in section 4086,
which is worth quoting in full :
'* Sec. 4086. Jurisdiction in both criminal and civil matters shall, in all
cases, be exercised and enforced in conformity with tbe laws of the United
States, which are hereby, so far as is necessary to execute such treaties
respectively, and so far as they are suitable to carry the same into effect,
extended over all citizens of the United States in those countries, and over
all others to the extent that the terms of the treaties respectively justify
or require. But in all cases where such laws are not adapted to the
object, or are deficient in the provisions necessary to furnish suitable
remedies, the common law and the law of equity and admiralty shall be
extended in like manner over such citizens and others in those countries;
and if neither the common law, nor the law of equity or admiralty, nor the
statutes of the United States furnish appropriate and sufficient remedies,
the ministers in those countries shall, by decrees and regulations, which
shall have the force of law, supply such defects and deficiencies.'*
Match us this in any code or in the works of any legislative
body in the world ! It is scarcely too much to say that in the
whole length and breadth of the United States, which is so fruit-
ful of men of talent, resource, and knowledge, and where such
men abound, there is hardly one competent to perform under-
standingly the duties imposed by this section. The most learned
of them cannot and does not know all that the man ought to
know who has such a task thrown on his shoulders, and who
may be called upon to try, single-handed, a man for his life,
under these laws, and laws which he himself has perhaps made.
For Congress has gone so far as to delegate the law-making
power in regard to the gravest matters that belong to human
business and affairs, and delegate it to one man, who, while he is
making and executing these laws, is snugly ensconced, perhaps, in
Siam, Madagascar, or Borneo ! There he sits, not a law-book
of any kind near him, making a code of laws as the representative
of the United States, and able to invoke the aid of a war-steamer,
if there should be one at hand, to enforce it !
But let us see what this minister must be presumed to know
when he makes and executes his civil and criminal code.
1. He must know the laws of the United States, both those re-
lating to crime and business ; and this is not of itself a small task.
2. But if these are not adapted to the object, or are deficient
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1887.] Our Citizens Abroad. ^ 157
in the necessary provisions, then the common law must be called
into requisition, and he must know that also.
3. Congress thought, when it passed these laws, that there
might be cases, arising in Persia we will say, in which our citi-
zens were concerned, not covered by either the laws of the
United States or the common law, and our minister, in his
sanctum at the capital of that nation, must bring in the *' laws of
equity," which of course he knows all about.
4. But still Congress, in its wisdom and anxiety to provide
for every possible contingency and to have a perfect and com-
prehensive system, considered it possible that the laws of the
United States, the common law, the "law of equity," might all
fall short of reaching the case, and thereupon added the law of
admiralty !
But it is not only the minister who is competent to know all
these things and to act understandingly in them, but our consuls
are also esteemed fit for such great and onerous duties, as well
as our commercial agents. For section 4088 declares that
"They [consuls and commercial agents] are also invested with the
powers conferred by the provisions of sections 4086 and 4087 for trial of
offences or misdemeanors/'
While our consuls and commercial agents abroad are, as a
rule, worthy and respectable men, yet they are not often law-
yers, and, when lawyers, have not been a success. Yet they are
invested with the great and extraordinary powers and authori-
ties of a minister — may do, in this regard, what he can do. To
them also is delegated by Congress the power to enact laws, to
hang an American citizen, to be both judge and jury, and where
the accused has small, if any, opportunity to be represented by
counsel.
Section 4090 gives the minister jurisdiction to try not only
cases of murder and of offences against the public peace, which,
if committed in the United States, would be felony, but of insur-
rection against the government of the country to which he is
accredited. This is putting our minister on very delicate and
dangerous ground.
There is no appeal allowed from the judgments of the minis-
ters to Turkey, Siam, Persia, and the northern States of Africa,
but there is in criminal cases from the ministers to China and
Japan. From them an appeal may be taken to the Circuit Court
of the District of California; but the laws do not allow that
appeal to operate as a stay of proceedings, unless the minister
certifies that there is probable cause to grant the same. Take
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158 Our Citizens Abroad. [May,
the case of a man convicted of murder or rebellion : if the minis-
ter is so entirely satisfied of his guilt as to take the terrible step
of sentencing him to death, he could not honestly and in the due
discharge of his duties certify that there was probable cause to
grant the appeal. If there is a reasonable doubt of the man's
guilt, he should not be convicted ; if there was no reasonable
doubt on the mind of the minister, how could he give the certi-
ficate which alone would give the accused the right to a hearing
before the court ? The accused has the absolute right of appeal,
but not the right to have it heard, and may be hung while it is
yet pending. In the United States the right to appeal embraces
the right to have the appeal heard, but not so in the case of a
citizen of the United States whose business has taken him to
Japan or China.
In cases of felony in the United States, less than capital, the
law making it punishable prescribes also the punishment and
limits the period of imprisonment. But here again our citi2en
abroad, in the countries to which these flagitious laws apply, does
not stand on an equal footing with him at home, because the law
provides for his punishment by fine or imprisonment, or both, €U
the discretion of the officer who decides the cc^e. The imprison-
ment may be for life, the fine may exhaust the entire estate of
the unhappy victim, and there is no redress, except in the pardon
of the President.
The section 4106 cannot be read without astonishment It
was extraordinary when the power to make a code of criminal law
was given to a minister, consul, or commercial agent, but more
extraordinary still when we find that this section does not con-
fine the punishment to that prescribed by this code, but abso-
lutely gives the consul the right to affix a difierent and greater
punishment. This is the language used :
" Sec. 4106. Whenever, in any case, the consul is of opinion that by
reason of the legal questions which may arise therein assistance will be
useful to him, or whenever he is of opinion that severer punishments than
those specified in the preceding sections will be required, he shall summon to
sit with him on the trial one or more citizens of the United States, etc."
He is to summon these parties, of course, before he commences
the trial, and after he has already made up his mind, though he
has not heard a word of evidence, that severer punishment than
that allowed by law should be inflicted on the prisoner. The law
already allowed unlimited fines and imprisonment for life ; and
the question may well be asked what sort of punishment severer
than these can the consul make up his mind the prisoner must
undergo? Unless the unfortunate was maimed or tortured, what
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1887.] Our Citizens Abroad. 159
punishment severer than imprisonment for life can there be,
short of death ?
Let it be remembered that all these extravagant powers are
given to ministers, consuls, and commercial agents in semi-civil-
ized countries where few understand the English language, and
where there are no newspapers. The minister is required first to
prepare his regulations, decrees, and orders, and submit them to
such consuls as can be conveniently reached, who shall signify
their assent or dissent in writing. But the minister, even if all
the consuls should dissent, may nevertheless disregard their ad-
vice and adhere to his own opinions and action. He is then to
cause the decree, regulation, or order to be published, with his
signature thereto, and the opinions of his advisers inscribed
thereon, and such publication makes them at once binding and
obligatory until annulled or modified by Congress ; but they re-
main in force and are operative immediately upon publication.
How he is to publish them in Siam, Persia, or Borneo the law
does not say ; it can't be done in any of those countries in such a
manner as to make people know and understand them. Persons
who are tried under them are literally tried under laws of which
they are in fact ignorant and have no means of learning.
Section 4128 declares that
" If at any time there be no minister in either of the countries herein-
before mentioned, the judicial duties which are imposed by this title upon
the minister shall devolve upon the Secretary of State, who is authorized to
discharge the same."
The Secretary of State is for this purpose converted into a sort
of deputy or substitute for the minister ; but how is he to exer-
cise this duty ? A man, we will say, is charged with murder in
Siam or Persia, and there is no minister there ; must the Secre-
tary of State go there to try him, or must he and all the wit*
nesses be brought to this country? Manifestly the secretary
would have to forego his public duties here and go there : he
would have no right to try the accused anywhere except in the
country where the crime was charged to have been committed.
The President refers to the subject of extra-territorial juris-
diction in his late message. He says :
"When citizens of the United States voluntarily go into a foreign
country they must abide by the laws there in force, and will not be pro-
tected by their own government from the consequences of an offence
against those laws committed in such foreign country. But watchful care
and interest of this government over its citizens are not relinquished be-
cause they have gone abroad ; and if charged with crime committed in the
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foreign land, a fair and open trial, conducted with decent regard for justice
and humanity, will be demanded for them. With less than this govern-
ment will not be content when the life or liberty of its citizens is at stake.
" Whatever the degree to which extra-territorial criminal jurisdiction
may have been formerly allowed by consent and reciprocal agreement
among certain of the European states, no such doctrine or practice was
ever known to the laws of this country or of that from which our institu-
tions have mainly been derived."
The President is credited with something of a satirical vein,
and he possibly was indulging in this when he wrote that men
of the United States charged with crime in a foreign land should
have a fair and open trial, conducted with a decent regard for
justice and humanity. He meant that this government would
see to it that this was done when the man was tried by the
courts of the foreign land ; and it would not be amiss, while do-
ing that, to see to it also that the accused should be properly,
legally, and constitutionally tried by our own authorities and un-
der our own laws.
This whole subject was considered with a great deal of care
and interest by the Senate Committee on Foreign Relations during
the session of 1882. The bill, however, which was fifty pages in
length, was not completed and introduced till the latter part of
June, too late and at too busy a period of the session to have it
considered. It repealed the entire series of enactments touching
this matter, except those which were merely formal, and en-
deavored to assimilate trials of our citizens abroad to our meth-
ods at home — gave them the same safeguards; established re^
gular courts, to which competent judges were to be assigned,
with adequate salaries ; provided for impanelling both grand and
petty juries. It declared, in the language of the Constitution,
that no one should be held to answer for a capital crime or other
felony except on indictment of a grand jury, and that in all cri-
minal prosecutions the accused should have the right of trial by
jury. It aflBxed terms of punishment for all the felonies, and did
not leave this to the discretion of the consul, nor allow a severer
punishment than the law directed to be inflicted. The Secre-
tary of State and the attorney-general were required to prepare
a code suitable for the purpose and submit it to Congress.
In view of the continually growing importance of our trade
and business abroad, and the great number of our citizens who
travel for business, pleasure, or instruction, it is the imperative
duty of Congress to abrogate the present plan of trying for crime
and settling civil controversies, and substitute for it a complete
and full code of laws and system of courts.
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I887-] The Patriot Saint op Switzerland. i6i
THE PATRIOT SAINT OF SWITZERLAND.
Amongst the many thousands of toiirists who year after year
visit Switzerland — "the play-ground" of Europe— ascend its
snow-capped mountains, and explore the recesses of its pic-
turesque Alpine valleys, few are aware that Switzerland has be-
sides its natural attractions something far more beautiful and
more grand to show than even its glaciers and majestic moun-
tains. American patriots cannot but feel veneration for that
mountain-land, which, though small in circumference, has, in the
midst of great empires, kingdoms, and monarchies, floated aloft
the sacred banner of liberty for centuries, and where the Ameri-
can motto, E pluribus unum^ had taken shape long before it did so
on this side of the Atlantic. And yet there is a motive still
more sacred and more sublime which impels the Catholic Ameri-
can to make a pilgrimage to '' Helvetia sacra " ; it is to visit the
shrines of so many of God's glorious saints, to pray to God be-
lore the relics of the many heroes of Christianity that have hal-
lowed those valleys, mountains, and woods.
The glaring red of Switzerland's national banner, given to
the Swiss by Pope Julius II., the founder of the Papal Swiss
Guard, is the symbolic expression of heroism and enthusiasm
that swells the bosom of this Alpine nation. The snow-white
cross that forms the centre of the scarlet flag is expressive of
the conspicuous fact of history that the cross of Christ has
always conquered tyranny, and that " there is liberty where is
the Spirit of God " (2 Cor. iii. 17). Martyrs and confessors,
saintly bishops and holy, austere monks, giants of supernatural
strength and maidens whose cloistered life was pure as the
eternal snow on the summit of surrounding mountains, saints of
every class and age and profession, have hallowed the land of the
Swiss. Enclosed in, nay, almost buried by, the towering rocks
and steep sides of the great St. Bernard in the canton of Valais
stands the famous monastery of St. Maurice. It is the oldest
church edifice in Europe on this side of the Alps. A time-worn
monument, it tells the surviving generations of the baptism of
blood by which St. Mauritius and his Theban legion in this val-
ley consecrated Switzerland to the cross of Christ. The psalmo*
dies of pious monks have never since died away ; the kings of
Burgundy received in this abbatial basilica the royal crown
and unction. The purple which yet adorns the shoulders of the
VOL. XLV.— II
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i62 The Patriot Saint of Switzerland. [May,
canons of St. Mauritius speaks of the bloody triumph obtained
more than one thousand years ago. In the eastern part of
Switzerland, at the foot of the majestic Sentis, in Appenzell, little
distant from but high above the level of the so-called " German
Ocean," the lovely lake of Constance, another monument of by-
gone times, bespeaks the glories of the ^monies who, coming from
Ireland, had with tireless toil and struggle made the desert
flourish and the mountain soil fertile. St Gall's monastery,
which for more than one thousand years, as a light-house upon
the shores of Lake Constance, has shed its rays of culture, educa-
tion, and saintliness all over the European continent, has fallen a
victim to the French Revolution. The convent is suppressed,
but the tomb of the great Irish missionary yet stands glorious,
and like two giant guardians the massive cathedral steeples bear
the golden cross upon their tops into the cloudy sky. The
monks now sleep the sleep of the just in their almost forgotten
graves, but the thousands of artistic, illuminated, exquisitely-fin-
ished manuscripts yet speak their praises to every visitor that
steps over the threshold of that sanctuary of learning — the world-
renowned library of St. Gall. Between these two monuments of
sacred history, the one in the eastern and the other in the
western corner of this unique panorama, what a great num-
ber of sanctuaries — convents, monasteries, abbeys, hermitages,
cathedrals, pilgrim placed — though most of them now desolate
ruins or profaned, preach to tourists the glories and the beauties
of *• Helvetia sacra " !
But it is to neither cathedral nor monastery that I now invite
the reader to follow me. The national saint of Switzerland, with
whom I now desire to make the kind reader at least partially ac-
quainted, has left behind him neither church nor convent, but as
the genuine national saint the whole land is his shrine ; he shed
the light of his own life, teeming with deeds of holiness and won-
ders of God, upon the entire region of which he for ever will re-
main the inspiring genius and heavenly protector.
No other of the many saints of Switzerland can claim so many
and weighty reasons to be called ** Switzerland's national saint "
as the Blessed Nicholas de Fliie. On the 21st of March last it
was exactly four hundred years since this saintly hermit breathed
his last, and lying upon a rough board, used by him as his bed,
returned his soul to his Creator. Switzerland has celebrated this
•anniversary with universal and public rejoicings. The whole gov-
ernment of the Confederation was officially invited to take part
in the veneration tendered to the saintly patriot of by-gone days.
The bishops of several Swiss dioceses, and a vast number of the
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18870 ^^^ Patriot Saint of Switzerland. 163
clergy and the present generation of the Alpine republic, all
united in doing honor to, and inoploring the intercession of, this«
most singular creation of divine grace.
The very name of our saint is indicative of his origin and
home, for " de Flue'* --or in Latin " de rupe " — ^signifies ^^from the
rock or mountain.'* Not.only the Alpine republic at large, but its
rocky centre, the four so-called *^ forest cantons," the very cradle
of Switzerland's national liberty and independence, is our saint's
home. Nicholas, the first-born child of the pious farmer-parents
Henry and Herma de Fliie, opened his eyes to the light of this
world on the 2ist of March, 1417. The times were bad, and cor-
ruption had already begun to reach even the lower classes of the
people, and thus prepared the great apostasy that tore the great-
er portion of Switzerland from the union of the church. No
sooner did the sun shed its light on this child of election than
supernatural favors began to diffuse glory around its head.
But time and space do not permit us to put down the many
testimonies to his saintliness as a boy, as they were given
under oath at the first institution of the canonical process. The
mystical power which should finally prevail in him, and com-
pletely separate him from the world, began already to work and
to show itself. One of his former schoolmates tells us that
" when they went home from their work in the fields, Nicholas
liked to go alone, to let them run while he retired to some lonely
spot to pray " ; and his own son John describes his father as " in
everything fleeing this world and seeking to be alone with God."
And yet, to make the spectacle more striking to the eyes of this
world, the future hermit was first plunged into the lull tide of
worldly affairs, nay, into the very tumult of war. The strange
boy had grown a handsome lad, and his secret mortifications,
fastings, and restraint from all that makes life easy and sweet to
the children of this world, had only served to add to his stately
appearance something of manlike earnestness. Scarcely had he
reached his twentieth year when, in the turmoil of his time, the
war-trumpet was sounded and echoed from mount to mount.
Obedience to the authorities first compelled him to take up
arras in the unfortunate and intestine war which the original can-
tons of Switzerland then waged against Zurich and its ally, the
Duke Sigismund of Austria. In the war of 1436-46 we meet
our saint in the array of confederate soldiers ; in a subsequent
war it is he who carries the white-crossed flag of Switzerland
as standard-bearer before the lines of his fellow-patriots. A
soldier, and a gallant, courageous, well-disciplined soldier, he
must have been. But in the soldier the saint of God and
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i64 Tbb Patriot Saint of Switzerland. [May,
future hermit could not entirely conceal himself. In one hand
• he carried the sword and in the other the rosary. Two of his
fellow-soldiers testify that he never did any damage to the foe ;
that whenever he could he hid himself to pray,,and did his ut-
most to dissuade his companions from harming the people. Not
only that, but even extraordinary manifestations of his inward
holiness became more and more frequent and showed the elect
of God even in the soldier's coat. Once when the Swiss were
about to set fire to a Dominican convent of St. Catharine in which
a number of Austrians were concealed, not only did our saint
strive to save the place, but, in prophetic spirit, he predicted that
on this spot in future times great examples of Christian virtues
would shine forth. The torches were already brought to reduce
this sacred edifice to ashes, when he, with uplifted hands, com-
manded them to stop the work of destruction. They obeyed, as
none could ever resist the Spirit that spoke in him. The cross
before which he then prayed is yet shown in this convent. A
special medal was afterwards cast in memory of this deed of
Nicholas. Glad was he when peace permitted him to quit an
occupation so altogether contrary to his inclinations.
But his hour had not yet come, and an unsearchable dis-
position of Providence now seems to bind him to this world with
new and indissoluble ties. % Who is, at first, not surprised to see
the saintly youth now kneel before the altar and lay his hand
into the one of his freely chosen, chaste, and pious bride, Doro-
thea Wissling ? This was his father's wish, and he believed in
obeying him that he was fulfilling God's holy will. He became
settled in the world. The untiring solicitude of a husband
and of a father of ten children, holy offsprings of a holy stock,
chained him to this world. In the world he was blessed with
prosperity, and as he gained a high reputation for probity, piety,
and wisdom among his fellow-citizens, he could not escape the
burden of many and toilsome public offices. He shunned them
as much as he could, but honor follows him who flees it All the
world's troubles and difficulties, however, could not make him
go astray by a hair's-breadth from the path of rectitude ; so that
he could afterwards confess to one of his most intimate friends,
Henry Jurgrund: "I have frequently been consulted in public
affairs, passed many judgments, but by the grace of God I
never acted the least against my conscience out of regard for
persons, or trespassed against the demands of justice." God
was continually before him, and he was in constant communion
with that divine Majesty which began already to attract him in
an altogether special manner. How touching is the testimony
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sworn to by his own son John when he> speaking of the time
when our saint was yet as father in his family circle, says :
" Every night upon awaking I have heard that my father had *
again risen and was in the parlor {stube] near the stove praying.
Such was his custom until he left us for the Ranft"
• The time for leaving his own, his house, his relations, the en-
tire world, himself, had now drawn near. The desire, slumber-
ing even in the boy, to be alone with God now began to be
fulfilled, and Providence gradually commenced to loosen the
bonds that tied him. The heavenly visions that had never left
him now became more frequent and more decisively pointing
to the step he had to take in separating himself from all worldly
environments. For fifty years he had now served the Lord faith-
fully in the most various stations of life. " Go forth out of thy
country, and from thy kindred, and out of thy father's house "
(Gen. xii. i) was now the clear and decisive command of God,
made known to him by a mystical voice coming forth from a
luminous cloud surrounding him one morning in the hour of
meditation. His son Walther testifies that so he heard his father
tell; and the external disposition of Providence which influenced
his tenderly loving wife to yield in so great and cruel a sacrifice
soon confirmed the divine character of his inward direction. It
was on the i6th of October, 1467, when the ever-memorable
scene of our saint's separation, afterwards recorded by a painting
above the main door of his house, took place. He was now fifty
years of age. His bodily frame was emaciated almost to skin
and bones. A long habit of a rough kind of brown cloth (yet
preserved in the parish church of Saxeln, and similar to a Ca-
puchin's habit) was all he borrowed from this world, leaving be-
hind even his shoes, and taking in one hand a traveller's staff, and
the rosary in the other. His entire family had gathered together
for the solemn occasion. Nicholas left everything that concerned
the temporal welfare of his family well ordered. Thanking
them for their love and attachment, referring to the mysterious
call of God— of which they were all convinced — caressing them
for the last time in this world, he lifted his right hand in
benediction and bade them adieu for ever. They melted into
tears as they saw their dearly-beloved father turn his steps down
the Alpine slope and finally disappear. Never from that moment
did he again set foot upon the threshold of his house, though, as
we shall soon see, he had afterwards to pass it every Sunday
when going from his hermitage to Mass in the parish church
of Saxeln. He knew too well the admonition of the Lord, so
intelligible to a man who had himself handled the plough : *' No
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i66 The Patriot Saint of Switzerland. [May,
man putting his hand to the plough, and looking back, is fit for
the kingdom of God " (Luke ix. 62).
Giving himself up to the lead of an interior guide, he first
went far westwards, and was about to pass the frontier of his
country near Liestahl, in the canton of Basel, when he was stay-
ed in his course and forbidden to go farther by a vision of celes-
tial light bidding him to return into the solitude of that moun-
tain valley a few miles distant from his home, and called the
Ranft. The writer of these lines has himself visited this re-
mote and woodland valley, formed by a wild torrent named the
Melcha. Sheltered from the sun by the thick woods that cover
the slopes, it is only accessible by some unfrequented paths. The
eye sees nothing but the azure sky above and the dark tints of
the wood mingled with the more brilliant verdures of the fields
below ; the ear hears naught but the continual rush of the foam-
ing waters leaping over scattered stones. Nicholas had already
passed some time hidden in these woods when his own brother,
Peter, discovered him.
// was shortly perceived that he was practising a total and per^
petualfastf abstaining from even the stnallest particle of earthly food
and drink. At once the people began to flock into the solitude
and see with their own eyes this living wonder of an angelic life.
So great was the awe he inspired, so miraculous the impression
he made, so above every suspicion his subsistence without earth-
ly nutrition, that the people in a public meeting {Landgemeinde)
passed a resolution to build him in this wilderness a wooden
chapel with cell adjoining. The chapel had three altars and was
twenty-eight feet long by eighteen wide, whilst the adjoining
cell — a real prison, as Bishop John Francis of Constance ex-
presses himself in a letter dated the 14th of July, 1647 — was but
nine and one-half feet in length and was only six feet high, thus
not even permitting the very tall man to stand erect. Two small
windows opened, one into the chapel and the other into the open
air, whilst a rough board, which was both his resting-place and
table, was the only furniture of the locality, all which, in their ori-
ginal shape, may at this day be seen. It involves something mira-
culous that such a strange mode of life met with unfeigned credit,
approbation, and reverence. There the people went on an unin-
terrupted pilgrimage ; there the coadjutor-bishop of Constance,
on the 28th of April, 1469, consecrated by public request the chapel
to the Blessed Virgin ; there Sigismund, Duke of Austria, sent a
precious chalice; there so many presents came together that
Nicholas was enabled to make an endowment for a priest who
should regularly say Mass in his chapel ; nay, Pope Paul II., hear-
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I887-] Thb Patriot Saint of Switzerland. 167
ing of the reputation of the saintly hermit, enriched this pilgrim-
age with various indulgences and privileges; there our saint
spent the rest of his life, until, after twenty years of fasting, medi-
tation, and angelic conversation, he was borne upwards to the
fields of peace and bliss eternal. There Nicholas lived the ideal
life of the anchorets of bygone times, taking rest only a few
hours before midnight, absorbed in prayer from midnight till
mom, attending Mass and religious services the whole fore-
noon, whilst the afternoon was given to the exhortation, con-
solation, and instruction of those who by hundreds came to
see him, to listen to him, and to consult him. On Sundays he
went regularly to the divine service in Saxeln, passing thus,
as mentioned above, his home. There he visited his confessor,
and approached with ecstatic devotion the holy table at least
monthly. Periodically he made his pilgrimage to Our Lady of
the Dark Wood, Mary of Einsiedeln, and to Luzerne.
Blessed Nicholas soon enjoyed the universal reputation of a
saint. The Ranft attracted tourists from the most distant parts
of Europe, as several bishops of Constance, legates of the Roman
Emperor Frederick III. and Sigismund of Austria, the learned
Albert of Bonstetten, Geiler of Kaisersberg, and many others,
who have left us their accounts of the visit made and the extra-
ordinary impressions received. But notwithstanding his univer-
sal reputation, he was and he remained, even as a man of wonders,
above all his country's saint and patron, the national saint of
Switzerland. We can but touch upon some facts referring
thereto. It was on the 13th of August, 1468, when Sarnen, a
principal place of the country, was on fire, and a hurricane arose
to complete the work of destruction. In utmost despair the
frightened inhabitants sent messengers to the holy man, who then
ascended the elevation near his cell, where he could have a sight
of the raging fire, houses already reduced to ashes, and of the
scared people running to and fro. Lifting his eyes and arms to
heaven in silent prayer, Nicholas now made the sign of the cross,
commanded the element to stop the work of destruction, and the
flames obeyed. The miracle was public, witnessed by the whole
population, and is yet solemnized by the annual procession to
Saxeln on the ist of August, and is recorded in a fine poem by
the famous German, Guido GOrres {** Der Brand von Sarnen ").
It was on the 21st of December, 148 1, that our Blessed Nicho*
las proved the angel of peace and reconciliation upon the occasion
of a most threatening dissension in his native country, brought
about by. the strained relations of the city and of the country
communities of the republic, and already alluded to above. The
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very existence of the new republic was at stake. The delegates
sent to Stanz to negotiate had given up hope, and were about
to draw swords, when, secretly requested by the priest of the
place, the man of God made his appearance, and, standing before
the quarrelling assembly, bade them to come to sense; and
'* there was a great calm " (Luke viii. 24). Through the re-
conciling influence of Nicholas the fatherland was saved, peace
was restored, the two cities of Solothum and Fribourg were ad-
mitted to the Confederation ; and the event of this 22d of De-
cember was solemnized by the ringing of the bells and the sing-
ing of a " Te Deum " in the churches. This event made Nicholas
a personage of national renown in the history of Switzerland and
the world. Would that the authorities of the small republic had
been, more mindful that a Roman Catholic saint it was who
proved to be their fatherland's angel of peace ! Blessed Nicholas
is indeed a celebrated character, and his patriotic deed is praised
in all Swiss school-books. But let us not forget that the inward
power that inspired the man and gave him the means of conquer-
ing the human passions was his holy faith, the faith of Ronu !
L»ater again in public discordances between Sigismund, the free
town of Constance, and Switzerland, he alone proved the angel of
peace, the man in whom all parties placed unlimited confidence,
the mediator between them.
Not for all these extraordinary qualities, however, no matter
how great and resplendent they were, has our Blessed Nicholas
attracted the attention of the whole world. If his name and fame
have become of universal renown, this fact is principally due to
his miraculous life of fully twenty years without food and drink.
Those familiar with his life know it; unbelievers and sceptics
might at first smile in scorn at such a fable or superstitious le-
gend, as they may perhaps suppose it to be, but we deal in facts
and with the offer of an indisputable fact we may safely chal-
lenge the world to overthrow the arguments based on it. It is
not a made-up story that our patriot saint, from the moment of
his perfect separation from the world on the i6th of October,
1467, had no longer lived upon earthly sustenance. What we
here relate is a fact, an already in his time much-examined,
spoken of, universally believed and admired fact. Blessed Ni-
cholas had intimated to his confessor, to the parish priest Isncr,
of Kerns, that so God willed him to spend the rest of his life.
The principal motive of the general concourse of the people to
this man was the irresistible desire to see this new St. John in the
desert, this living wonder whose total abstinence from any nutri-
ment was beyond doubt and suspicion. Upon first hearing of
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bis life the authorities had the whole valley and all its accesses
watched by a military force, and the roost severe scrutiny couU
not detect the least thing that pointed against the veracity of
the &ct The public records of the canton mention this fact
repeatedly and solemnly. In the process of beatification one of
the witnesses declares this abstinence of Nicholas as true as an
article of faith. A Protestant, Mr. Oberster, of Bern, is related
by Marcus Anderhalden to have confessed in 1648 " that the fact
of De Fliie's abstinence was to bim more certain than the day-
light" Such Protestants as the famous historians Johann Miil-
ler and Bullinger acknowledge the fact without entering upon its
explanation. A contemporary, the famous John Trithemius,
Abbot of Spannheim, writes in his records or chronicles: "At
this time lived in Switzerland Nicholas, a hermit who, as stated
oa best authority, has for years eaten nothing but a small piece
of bread which he was once commanded to swallow by obedi-
ence to ecclesiastical authority, that wanted to try him." In
1487 he writes that he could prove the great fact by hundreds
af thousands of witnesses who had come to see the man and assure
themselves on the spot. Such authorities as Pope Sixtus IV.,
Innocent VI II., Emperor Frederick HI., Duke Sigismund, and
the latter's own private physician. Doctor Burcard, of Hor-
neck, had admitted the proof of the fact Nor is any explana-
tion of this fact by natural causes possible. This miracle is
above comparison with the suspicious and ostentatious absti-
nence of some of our modem fasting cranks. The fact of a
total abstinence from every particle of food for fully twenty
years^ examined and admired during twenty years^ stands alone.
Nor was it undertaken by successive or gradual preparation.
As an instantaneous effect this abstinence dates from the vision
our Blessed Nicholas had when, immediately after his separa-
tion, he had come near the frontier of his country. Directed
by a celestial vision to return, he perceived such a sharp
pun in his bowels that he felt, according to his own confes-
sion, as if ''pierced with a knife.'' It was after eleven days* absti-
nence that he made his mode of life known to the above-named
priest, and then, with his approbation, continued it to the end of
life. If he himself was asked how he could live such an excep-
tion to the general law of nature, he smilingly said, '* God
knows," or " I do not say that I eat nothing," pointing thus to
the only nutritive power that sustained him — the communion of
the most holy Flesh and Blood of our Saviour, who in this man
literally proved the veracity of his words : " My flesh is meat
indeed, and my blood is drink indeed " (John vi. 56). To the
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above-named priest he intimated on some other occasion that
whenever he attended holy Mass and the priest was consuming
the most holy Sacrament, he received such inward strength as to
be able to live without eating and drinking. Else he could not
endure it. Unbelievers may smile, but the veracity of the fact
stares them in the face. Scientists may strive in vain to explain
by natural causes what defies all attempts at explanation, save
the one that God's almighty power wished to set an example of
his independence of the ordinary laws of nature, established by
the one and only supreme law — his holy will. With regard to
the special relation in which this miracle stands to Nicholas' en-
tire character, the celebrated Gernian philosopher Joseph von
G5rres has made some remarks that breathe the originality of his
genius. ** The plant," he says, " takes food from the earth in
which it is rooted, and inhales the air by means of the leaves*
The animal takes its food according to its specific instinct ; and
thus nature's law makes all beings dependent on some condition*
This is the rule. There are exceptions in the case of animals
which in the so called winter's sleep have given up this regular
mode of livings without having given up life itself. How, then,
should it be so unintelligible that in some exceptionable case, as
this is with our saint, where the animal life was, as it were by an-
ticipation, absorbed and swallowed up by the spirituality of an
unseen world, nature was sustained by the strength of an invisible
food and drink?" Hence it is that a one-sided consideration of
this extraordinary man will never satisfy the observer. His absti*
nence, more or less the negative side of this phenomenon of a
higher order, cannot be properly understood without reflection
upon the power and vitality of his spiritual life, i\i^ positive side
of this living miracle. If he had ceased to take food from the
earth, of which his body was a participant, he inhaled only the
more that purer and serene atmosphere which breathed around
him from the regions in which his blessed spirit dwelt.
His life in God was not less perfect than his separation from
the world. Crucified to this world, he lived in God. The abun-
dance of heavenly gifts was showered upon him. Famous is the
vision of the most holy Trinity he once enjoyed, and which he
himself recorded by drawing a symbolic picture for his own
constant meditation. His devotion to the Blessed Sacrament
might well be called phenomenal. The Blessed Virgin Mary he
loved with most tender attachment, especially venerating, so long
before the dogmatical definition took place, her Immaculate Con-
ception, to which he had his chapel dedicated, and of which he
said with theological correctness : '' She was foreseen by divine
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wisdom, and not sooner predestined than sanctified by God. Be-
fore she was conceived in her mother's womb she was concdved
in God's mind/' It was not a suspicious or unsound rule of
ascetic life he followed, but this life of mortification, which is the
practice of the cross of Christ and the signal characteristic of all
the saints of God. It is given expression in the short prayer
composed by him and constantly upon his lips : " O Lord, my
God, take away from me what keeps me from thee ! O Lord,
my God, give me whatever brings me nearer to thee! O Lord,
my God, take me from myself and make me belong to thee,
make me thy own ! " In instructions and exhortations he spoke
not like a man, but as one having authority. The spirit of proph-
ecy was in him, and with sad expression and unmistakable pre-
cision he foretold the coming of a new faith, the falling away of
the people from the mother-church ; and earnestly he conjured
his fellow^ountrymen never to separate themselves from the
mother of all churches, the Holy See of Rome. Thus he had lived
up to his seventieth year, when on the very day of his birth, the
2 1st of March, a painful malady began to loosen the last bonds
that tied him to this world.
Comforted by the sacraments of the church ; surrounded in
this moment of departure by his own family, who hurried to his
side at the news of his impending death ; lying in his habit
upon his wonted resting-place, the rough board, he expired, leav-
ing behind him the reputation of a great saint of God. The en-
tire country mourned for him ; public oflBces were closed ; busi-
ness suspended ; a great procession, which was set for the 24th
of March in Luzerne, had to be postponed because from far and
nigh the Swiss population flocked to the Ranft to pay the last
tribute of veneration to his remains. The terrestrial life of the
man of God was ended, but his glorification, even in the eyes of
this world, now entered upon its culminating point. Wonderful
cures confirmed the confidence placed in the deceased hermit.
Three days after his death he first appeared to his beloved wife,
who had so heroically yielded to God's holy will, and now she
saw him floating in such dazzling light that she could hardly
look at him, his right hand carrying an unfolded, shining, snow-
white banner, the symbol of triumph consummated. It is in
these two attitudes, first in receiving the vision of the Holy
Trinity, and then in his own glorified appearance after death,
that the pencil of the celebrated and pious Swiss artist, Paul de
Deschwanden, has represented Blessed Nicholas. From that
time his veneration has ever increased; bishops, cardinals —
amongst them St Charles Borromeo, 1570— visited his tomb and
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1/2 SuNSffWM AND Rain. [May,
proclaimed him "Blessed." The authoritative voice of holy
church finally, after an often-interrupted canonical process, con-
firmed his veneration by the decree of Biotification issued by
Pope Clement IX. on the 8th of March, 1669.
He is the true Alpine rose of the Swiss mountains, and its
perfume is sanctity. He was the child of this mountain-land*
These mountain slopes and ranges and valleys he hallowed, di-
vinely directed back to his home when he was about to leave it.
He has impressed upon his character and whole appearance the
glorified features of this Alpine population, with its simple faith,
loving heart, and austerity of life. He was in life, and proved
after he had gone hence, the patron of his native land, canonized
hot yet by the church, but long ago canonized as the vaodiA patriot
by the Swiss republic and its historians.
SUNSHINE AND RAIN.
** Happy the Bride the sun shines on,
Happy the Dead the rain falls on."
—Old English Provkrb.
" Happy the Bride ! " Upon her wedding morning,
'Midst holy chant and pray'r.
The sun shall shine and prophesy the dawning
Of a new life and fain
And bid her hope that if around her gather
Dark clouds in future days.
That He, the Light, the everlasting Father,
Will guide in all her ways.
" Happy the Dead." For, as the grass upspringeth
Beneath the gentle rain.
Weeping soft tears to the sad mourner bringeth
The Peace of God again.
And as they sleep, the sleep that hath no waking
(Our loved ones that have been),
The tears that save our weary hearts from breaking
Shall keep their mem'ry green.
So, on the Bride who goeth forth in splendor
The sun its rays shall shed;
But oh ! soft rain, so pitiful, so tender,
Fall thou upon the Dead!
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1887.] A Fair Emigrant. 173
A FAIR EMIGRANT.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
SO SHB IS, AN EMIGRANT.
" I WILL descend into my churn," said Bawn, " and there seek
comfort."
She had already built herself a new dairy, upon improved
principles never heard of in the glens.
"That young woman at Shanganagh is going to ruin herself,"
said Alister to Rory as they met in the village street. " She
has taken to building. I hope the girb may get their rent, after
aU."
*• She need not ruin herself if she is industrious and persever-
ing," returned Rory. *• She does what most of us here do not :
she begins at the right end."
** I thought you would take her up, as she is evidently a re-
former."
*' Some people seize at once the truth that two and two make
four," said Rory, " while others will stick to five till their dying
day. The flavor of turf freshly burning is pleasant and aromatic
enough to those who like it, but nobody likes it stale, especially on
butter. Miss Ingram, in providing herself with a dairy out of
the reach of her household smoke, is going the right way about
securing the money for her rent."
" The last tenant of the farm could not make it pay," said
Alister, " although he lost by no unnecessary outlay."
" Rather because he gained by no necessary outlay," said
Rory. " He was too poor, or too faint-hearted, or too stupid, I
don't know which, to invest a little capital and trust to his own
energies for the increase."
" Has Miss Ingram got capital?"
" She has plenty of it in pluck, at all events. When I last saw
Shanganagh it was a deplorable sight. Eheu ! the dislocated
gates, the corners of land choked with weeds, the holes in the
fences ! Now there is a change."
" You have been there, then ? "
"Yes, I have just been there. I wanted to bring Miss In*
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gram a watch-dog. Not that I imagine any one would molesjt
her ; she has already won a sort of enthusiasm from her neigh-
bors and servants. If it be true that the Irish would either kill
you or die for you, it is evident that the people of Glenmalurcan
would prefer to be victims for Miss Ingram's sake.'*
" There is a charm about her, I own. Still, I am glad you
thought of bringing her the dog."
" So am I," said Rory quietly.
"How did she receive it? I have a notion that she is not
fond of being interfered with."
" She received it characteristically, I think. First she de-
clared she had no need of him and would not have him. Then
she said she would like him for a companion, if he would promise
not to hurt anything harmless. Finally she smiled curiously and
said, ' I hope he will take a dislike to Major Batt.' "
" The old humbug! — I mean the major. Has he been selling
her any more broken-kneed cattle ? "
"She is not one to be taken in twice. But I think you and I
ought to look after her a little."
" You appear to have been doing it."
" I am like you : I practise as I preach," said Rory, thinking
of the lop-sided gates which Bawn had had to hitch up into their
places.
" She is young and fair to see, and has put herself into rather
a peculiar position," said Alister. " But of course I will stand
by her whenever I can."
" She comes from a country where women are brought up to
act like reasonable beings, and where, when they have not been
born with silver spoons in their mouths, they proceed to do the
best they can with their time and their hands."
" Perhaps she ought to have stayed there. I am not sure.
Flora and Manon do not like her, somehow."
** Shana and Rosheen do. Two against two, even among the
ladies," said Rory, smiling.
" And Gran ? "
" Oh ! Gran says little ; is for giving her a fair trial — like me,"
said Rory ; and then, a brother landlord and magistrate having
come up, the conversation turned on boycotting and other trou-
bles of the times in the disturbed part of the country.
" Rory seems inclined to make an emigrant of Miss Ingram,"
said Alister smilingly that evening as he sipped his coffee with
his feet on his wife's antique brass fender, having, at the moment,
one mental eye on improved Sbanganagh and the other on his
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new Edition de luxe of Horace, in the pages of which he had left
his paper-knife, intending to find it in them again as soon as he
could manage to slip away from the drawing-room.
** So she is, an emigrant,*' said Shana.
" I wish all our emigrants had her energy," said Alister, who
loved every slick and stone in the Rath, and had some misgiving
that he would starve and die there, like the Adares in their ruin,
rather than be driven out into a new country to put his shoulder
to vulgar wheels that any man could turn as well as himself.
He had a sneaking sympathy for emigrants, but it took no active
form as Rory's did. He would have the people all at home and
give them alms, when he could spare any, to keep them alive;
but he could not do without his Mition de luxe^ and preferred it
to either philanthropy or political economy.
*• I wish we all had her energy, for the matter of that. It
seems she is making butter already in her new dairy," he added,
with a virtuous desire to say a good word for Miss Ingram here,
though he had been a little hard on her to Rory.
" I have seen it and tasted it," said Shana, ** and if the Danes
can do better than that they deserved to conquer Ireland."
" I wish you would speak to Shana, Alister, now we are on
the subject, about running so much after that American woman.
I have said distinctly that I do not like her, but my feelings and
opinions go for nothing. Shana is only too- ready to pick up
American audacity and impudence."
" Tie a string to her leg, Flora^ It is the only thing to be done
with young wild animals," said Alister, who was fond of his
spirited little sister, and had sometimes asked himself how it
would have been if he had been born with her characteristics in-
stead of his own,
" Of course you will take her part ; but, mark my words, that
Ingram girl will make mischief here yet. There she has Rory
and Major Batt running after her already — "
"And Shana, which is much more improper."
"And she orders about her everywhere, and drives over the
country, superintends her own buildings, for which she will
probably pay no rent — "
" But then we shall have the new dairy, Flora, if she runs
away or if we evict her."
** All very fine, while she is setting her cap at Rory or Major
Batt—"
• " Flora, how can you be so vulgar ? " burst forth Shana.
" All because Rory was thoughtful enough to bring her a watch-
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dog ! I was there at the time, and nothing could be more un-
like that than her manner."
'' As for Batt, I believe she intends to set the dog at him/'
said Alister.
" If I am to be called vulgar in my own house and in ray hus-
band's presence — " began Flora, swelling with anger and injured
pride.
" It is a sign you had better let the subject drop," said her
husband, rising hastily and thinking of his Horace with a sen-
sation of relief. " Evidently Shana has already been contami-
nated. We had better begin to kill the goose with the golden
eggs, and give this Jezabel notice to quit."
It was the same day on which this conversation had taken
place that Bawn had said to herself that she was resolved to look
for comfort in her churn.
She acknowledged to herself that she greatly needed comfort
from some quarter. The fiction that Rory was not Spmerled,
with which she had deceived herself, having been fully exposed,
she was feeling all the reality of her uncomfortable position.
She had come across the world with one settled purpose in her
mind, which no counsel had been able to shake, and she found
herself opposed by a difficulty of the strangest and most unex-
pected kind — the persevering devotion of the last person in the
world who ought to have taken any notice of her.
Here was a man who fascinated her imagination and con-
strained her heart in a way that made her indignant with herself,
and he was the namesake and nephew of that other of his family
whose unfortunate and untimely death had ruined her father's
life and cast a stain upon her own name. Somehow the contem-
plation of this fact seemed to make it suddenly become quite
unlikely that she should succeed in the mission she had so boldly
undertaken. The inhabitants of that rotting ruin were probably
either mad or doting ; and even if they had anything to tell, how
were they to be forced to tell it, and who would believe them
when it was told ? Then if she should at some moment find her-
self obliged in honor to inform Rory Fingail of her identity,
what would there be left for her to do but to go back whence
she had come, disgraced, and perhaps — who could say ? — heart-
broken, leaving her task abandoned and unfinished ?
Why had she not obeyed her father's wishes, followed Dr.
Ackroyd's counsels, and let the past rest, set the current of her
life far from the glens of Antrim and the tragedy they knew of*?
She might have travelled about Europe, leading a pleasant
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1887.1 A Fair Emigrant. 177
life, in company with some respectable duenna, or she might
have stayed in her own country, using her fortune to help those
poor Irish emigrants of whom she had lately heard so much.
She might have turned her life to account somehow without in-
viting that heavy tribulation which she began to feel sorely afraid
the future had in store for her. It was possible, however, that
by sheer force of will she could yet come to her own assistance.
Standing alone in her dairy, so cool, spotless, and scented
with the odor of fresh cream, she clasped her hands across her
heart and sighed an impatient sigh. There were two ways by
which she could help herself : one was by keeping Mr. Fingall at
an unfriendly distance ; and had she not already got her feet well
upon the track of this way ? The other was by sucqeeding in^
her enterprise and clearing her father's character from its stain.
Alas 1 what a moonshine dream the latter seemed at this moment,
looked at with eyes enlightened by the strong sunlight of her
new experience of life. And then her maidens came back from
their dinner, and the business of the dairy went on, till she was
told that Mr. Rory Fingall was at the door, praying her to speak
with him for a few moments.
"Tell him I am busy making butter, Betty, and cannot see
visitors," she said, startled at his boldness.
" He says he will call back in an hour, ma'am, when the butter
is made."
Bawn went on with her work, instructing her half-dozen
maidens of the glen, who were half her servants and half her
pupils, and all the time striving to keep her heart as hard and as
firm as she was assuring her assistants their butter ought to be.
What was she to do with him on his return? Great was her
relief when another message was brought to her. It was Miss
Fingall who was asking for her this time, and, while Shana re-
mained with her, Rory reappeared with his dog.' There was
now no possibility of turning him away from the door. The
question of the dog was discussed ; and Sorley Boy, a great,
tawny collie, shaggy and silky, with an intelligent muzzle and
tender eyes, was finally accepted by Miss Ingram as the cham-
pion of her homestead.
Bawn, in her crisp calico gown and snow-white apron, was
waiting on Shana, giving the young lady a taste of the delicious
.butter she had just got a lesson in making; and, in spite of
Bawn's stern resolve of an hour ago, the giver of the dog re-
ceived a cup of well-creamed tea from the milk-white hand which*
had so recently been busy with the churn.
VOU XLV.— 12
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178 A Fair Emigrant. [May,
•* Rory, I wish you had not come,** said Shana. " You have
interrupted my lesson. I know you will not tell, but I am hoping
to go into partnership with Miss Ingram by and by."
" Indeed ! " said Rory. "That is your secret, is it? " And he
was careful not to look at Bawn, lest she should see dancing in
his eyes the assertion that, in spite^of all that had come and gone,
his own hope was somewhat identical with his cousin's.
Finally Rory went away alone, satisfied inasmuch as he had
left the dog behind him, and not very jealous of Shana, though
she had remained where he did not venture to remain.
The car was waiting for her, Shana had said, and the day was
long. It was known at home that she meant to pay a long and
profitable visit to Miss Ingram.
The truth was, Shana had brought a manuscript in her pdcket
and intended consulting with Bawn as to whether it was worth
anything or not — the young authoress being still a little unde-
cided between butter and literature as the means of endowing
herself with a fortune before becoming a wife. Rory's provok-
ing visit had foiled her intentions. It would soon be time to de-
part, and Bawn's interrupted dairy- work had yet to be finished.
•• What a pity you could not be here in the evening ! *' said
Bawn, looking at the outside of the manuscript. ** Of course it
is impossible, but I should then be so free."
" I can wait a little longer,*' said Shana ; and when Bawn re-
appeared from her dairy in the course of half an hour she found
Shana looking quite at home in the little sitting-room, with her
hat put away, and glancing eagerly over the pages of her formid-
able-looking manuscript.
" I have sent away the car, with a message that I am going to
remain here all night,'* said Miss Fingall quickly. '* I can sleep
on the floor or anywhere.*'
** But Lady Flora — your family — what will they say?"
** Oh ! Flora will say a great deal ; but my brother will only
laugh, and can hide in his library. Rosheen is at Tor, entertain-
ing the visitor, and so she will not be annoyed io the matter. I
shall be freely condemned when I go home to-morrow ; but then
I am always being freely condemned. People who are constantly
grumbling do not produce as much effect, you know, as people
who only scold when you do very wrong."
" I am afraid this is really wrong," said Bawn, smiling with
pleasure at the prospect of having a companion for so many
hours ; " but when my lady landlord chooses to sleep under her
own roof — well, I cannot evict her."
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1887.] ^ P^^R Emigrant. 179
The evening passed in the reading and discussion of Shana's
novel. With all her boldness, Miss Fingall found it diflBcult to
read her own paragraphs aloud.
" I never felt so with Rosheen," she said plaintively, dropping
the pages in discouragement. '* But then she is as ignorant as
myself, and I am not afraid of her."
" I dare say you have both read more novels than I have,**
said Bawn, "and you ought to know quite as much of life. I
shall only be able to tell you whether I think your story is like
life as I have met with it."
" Oh ! it can*t be at all like that," said Shana briskly, " because
it is altogether about things that happened two ol" three hundred
y^ars ago. It is something in the style of Ossian, only in plain
prose. The people are chieftains and lofty ladies — "
"Historical?**
" Not exactly,** said Shana, changing color rapidly, " except
that Sorley Boy — that is, Somerled Bhuee — the hero, was a real
man."
"Was he?"
" An ancestor of ours. Yellow- haired Somerled. Rory has
named your dog for him. He is named after him himself — Rode-
rick Sojnerled. Sorley Boy is a contraction for Somerled Bhuee.
It suits the color of the dog better than Rory, who is dark.'*
"But about the story?'*
" Somerled Bhuee marries a lady who plays the harp, and
of course he is very fond of her; but I am dreadfully afraid
there is not enough about that. I want the readers to take a
great deal of it for granted, and perhaps they won't. I have
some good descriptions, though, and they all say such honor-
able things. Do you think that will make up ? Do you believe
it will be a popular novel?"
" 1 can't tell till I have heard it,** said Bawn.
Shana went courageously through her work, which was not
very long, after all, though it made a great show of foolscap.
When she had finished her face was damp, and red and white in
patches, and she dropped back into her chair as if extinguished.
" Well, what do you say ? Have you found it exciting ? *'
" No," said Bawn promptly.
" Not even deeply interesting? **
** No. I would rather have been talking to you all the time.'*
Shana drew a long sigh of relief.
" On the whole I am very glad ! *' And before Bawn could stay
her she had buried her manuscript in the heart of the fire.
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" I am no longer afraid that I shall be hiding a great talent
by sticking to the churn. My heart has inclined to butter, and
butter it shall be."
" But, dear Miss Fingall, why should a young lady like you
take to butter?"
** I will tell yqu," said Shana» and her lips softened and her
eyes shone. " One supreme eflfort is enough for this evening.
But I will tell you some day when I can get myself to
speak."
When Shana was tucked up in bed, and Bawn had spread a
pallet for herself in a corner, she went back to her little kitchen
and stood looking at Sorley Boy, the collie dog, who sat in a
dignified attitude on the hearth in the red light of the sinking
turf fire. A gentle snoring told that Betty and Nancy were
sound asleep not far oflF, and Bawn and the dog were alone. She
knelt down beside him and stroked his tawny, silky coat. " Sor-
ley Boy," she said to him — " Somerled Bhuee." She admired his
acutely intelligent muzzle, and looked in his grave eyes, full of
dog-like tenderness. Then she lifted his fore-paws, one after the
other, gently, as if asking a favor, and placed them on her shoul-
ders, and lajd her hair against his ear.
" You are a fine fellow," she said, " a gift worthy of your
namesake, and you and I are going to be friends. There is no
reason in the world, this contrary world, why I ought not to
love this Somerled, at all events."
CHAPTER XXIX.
HOLLOW PEGGY.
When Bawn had got that churning of butter oflF her mind
and had sent it away, beautifully packed, to London, she set her-
self to consider how she might penetrate into the recesses of the
ruin of Shane's Hollow, and come face to face with its inhabi-
tants. The first step was to make friends with "Hollow
Peggy," as Betty called the poor woman who at periodical
times went in and saw that the creatures were not starved in
their dens. It was easy enough to persuade Betty to bring her
to Shanganagh, but not so easy, said Betty, to make her talk
of her poor charges to a stranger.
However, Peggy was lured to Shanganagh one evening by
Betty, and came stealing in at dusk to the little kitchen, a
Curious figure, plain and rugged of feature, with a startled look in
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her eyes, but a patient brow and mouth. Her face was weather-
stained to the color of oak, her head and shoulders swathed in a
woollen shawl. She supped with Betty and Nancy, and Bawn,
through the open door of her sitting-room, heard the conversa-
tion that passed among them. Peggy, not being very bright-
witted, had no idea she was being cross-examined for a purpose.
" You were sarvint wit' them long ago, wasn't you, Peggy ? "
"I wuz," said Peggy, who was what Betty called "few-
worded."
" Not when they were rich, but ? "
" Na. When they were rale grand I wuz too wee. But I
mind Miss Mave buyin' me a bonnet with a blue ribbon. She
tied it on herself, and I niver forgot it to her."
•* It was when they were gettin' poor you lived wit' them ? "
" Ay."
" Till they couldn't keep ye no longer ? "
" My man tuk me out of it"
" Was the roof oflF then, Peggy ? "
" Troth then it was beginnin' to go."
"An' they always lived by themselves, in separate rooms,
then?"
" 'Deed an' they did. The men wuz always queer an' had
ways of their own. Miss Julia got queer the soonest of the
ladies, an' died the soonest. Miss Catherine wasn't long behind
her. Miss Mave was the best o' the lot, an' she's not right daft
yet ; only whiles when the pains does be bad wit* her."
" Are you not afraid the roof will fall on her and kill her?"
•* Faix an' I am. Mostly when I go in I do be expectin' to
find her killed. But the Lord is good to her."
" You still go every evening to look after them ? "
" I do that same, an' does what I can with Miss Mave's bed,
an' makes them a sup o' tea, an' brings them an ^%% when I can,
an' a bit o* bread. They don't eat more nor the mice would
pick up in a house like this," said Peggy, looking round.
'• An' you make up their fires, an' brings them coal and sticks,
and leaves Miss Mave a drink of water where her hand can
reach it And then you see no more of them till the next even-
ing again."
'• Sure, you know all that."
'' An' what do they ever say to you, Peggy ? "
" Mr. Edmond sometimes says * thank ye * humble enough,
and Mr. Luke he lets a curse at me. But he would miss me all
the same if I didn't go. Miss Julia used to tell me — that's be-
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fore she died — of the grand matches the ladies could V had io
the counthry round, only they were too grand for anybody that
axed them. Miss Mave sometimes knows me and sometimes
she dozzint. She. tells me about her sister Catherine that's
dead, and thinks she's with her still ; an' sure that's great com-
pany to her. That's when she's in her daft fits. ' Peggy,' she
says to me, * dear Catherine wakened me early this morning,* or
* she didn't call me till it was quite late. She wanted me to
have a good sleep — dear Catherine ! ' She won't eat no food till
I make the same for Miss Catherine, and take it to her. Then
she thinks she's going out, and says to her sister, * Now, Cath-
erine, Margaret will take care of you while I'm away, will give
you a cup of tea and a;i t%g, and I won't be long.'
Bawn listened, and thought of the beautiful face of the minia-
ture, and of Arthur Desmond's love, and her heart quaked.
" It turned her brain like when Miss Catherine died ?"
** Sure it did. The two was always in the wan room. Miss
Catherine's bed is there yet An' Miss Mave doted on Miss
Catherine. When she was dead she had her there for days
tryin' to bring her to life again with turpentine. She was feared
they would bury her alive. She cried and begged I would not
tell outside that she was dead. But I had to tell at last, and the
parish took her away and buried her. It had to be done at
night. They pretended that she was goin' to the grand old
burial place at Toome, where the Adares was always buried by
torch-light. They have been fiercer about spakin' to any quality
since then, an' Miss Mave got rale light-headed after it."
Here Bawn felt that she could keep hidden no longer, and
came into the kitchen and slipped into a chair beside Peggy at
the fireside.
•* It's only my misthress, Peggy. Ye needn't be afraid of her.
She's none o' yer grand quality ; only a dacent young woman
from America," said Betty.
" You're welcome to my little farm-house, Peggy. Have you
had a comfortable supper? Now don't stop talking on account
of me. I wish I could do something for that poor Miss Mave of
yours."
Peggy eyed Bawn all over and did not seem so scared of her
as Betty had been afraid she would be.
" I wish she would let me come to see her, Peggy. She must
be terribly lonely in that ruin."
" They won't let no quality near them, ma'am, nor not a sowl
at all at all but me."
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" But I am not quality, only a stranger in the country, don't
you see. They needn't be too proud to speak to me. I would
go as a human creature to another human creature. And I
might be able to do something for Miss Mave Adare."
" If she would only look at you there would be no more
trouble," said Peggy simply, "an* Til ax her an* see what can be
done. Only I don't think she'll let you cross the thrashel,
ma'am."
"An' it would be the risk o' your life to do that same," said
Betty.
•* But Peggy does it every day ? "
" She knows where to pick her steps an' put her feet. Be-
sides, Peggy's an ould sarvint an' friend, an' you're a stranger
that has no call to throw away your life on them. I'll say
nothing again* Miss Mave, poor sowl, but the rest o' them don't
desarve it."
" It's only Miss Mave I want to help," said Bawn, and for
the moment every other feeling was swallowed up in pity for this
wretched woman.
" But you could not come noways, unless Mr. Luke allowed
it," said Peggy.
Bawn was silent, and sat confronting in imagination Luke
Adare, whom she considered her arch-enemy, and opposing her
will to his.
" Try what you can do, at all events, Peggy," she said gently
after a few minutes, " for my heart aches for your poor mis-
tress."
The next evening Peggy appeared, coming towards the farm-
house with a quick step.
" She says she will see the lady from America. It was just
as great a wonder to me as if a star out of the sky had dropped
into my apron. When I said the lady from America had tears
in her eyes talking about her. Miss Mave said, * Tell her she may
come, Peggy.' I went this morning to hear what Mr. Luke
would say, and he turned his back to me, and I thought it was
all over. But when I was goin* out of the hall Mr. Edmond
follyed me an' said :
*• * Tell the lady from America that it was always the custom
for ladies to visit ladies. Miss Adare cannot call on Miss Ingram.
Let Miss Ingram call on Miss Adare.' "
" Mr. Luke said nothing ? "
" Nothin' at all, ma'am : but I'm thinkin' he will not put him-
self in the way."^
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1 84 A Fair Emigrant. [May,
Betty threw up her hands. " It's like the end o' the world ! "
she cried vehemently. " Nobody would ha* believed it/*
"Maybe it's death that's corain' near them,*' said Peggy,
" but Miss Mave's wantin' you to go to see her, anyway. An*,
ma*aro, if I might make bould to ask, if you could send her a bit
of an ould night-gown, and a sheet or somethin' to dress her up,
she wouldn*t feel so 'shamed, I think, of your visitin* her."
Bawn turned abruptly away and before long reappeared with
various articles of linen and clothing.
" Make her as comfortable as you can," she said ; " and where
may I meet you to-morrow ? *'
" At the hall-door in the Hollow, ma*am,'* said Peggy.
CHAPTER XXX.
THE ADARES AT HOME.
Next morning Bawn appeared in the lights and shades of
the mysterious Hollow, carrying a basket on her arm and with
Sorley Boy at her heels. In picturesque contrast to the sombre
shadows of the place was her gracious, womanly figure in fresh
print dress and coarse straw hat, under which the twists of her
golden hair caught fire from the stray sunbeams. In her basket
she had various articles of light food, new-laid eggs, fresh butter,
cream, custard, etc.
Peggy did not keep her waiting, and, having bidden Sorley
Boy lie on the door-step till her return, she found herself cross-
ing the unhallowed threshold and following on the faithful ser-
vant's steps into the interior of the ruin. The sunshine pursued
them a little way into the wide, low-ceilinged hall, showing the
jagged rents in the boards, gaps bridged over by loose planks or
pieces of slate, and the open holes, pitfalls for unwary feet,
through which one might fall into the cellars below. A great
number of tall stakes, young trees lopped and barked, were fixed
between floor and ceiling atone side to support the latter, crowd-
ing round the rusted fireplace like welcome guests after a win-
ter's journey. Between these the splintered wood and softer stuf-
fing of the upper floor bulged downward through the mouldered
plaster. The pillars which separated the front from the back hall
shook and tottered if touched, as Bawn found, having laid her
hand on one while crossing a dangerous gap in the boards.
Once in the back hall she felt on more solid ground for the
moment, and could observe the doors opening off on each side —
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1887.] A Fair Emigrant. 185
massive frames deep-set in the thick wall — and the passages, drip-
ping with damp and choked with rubbish, wandering away un-
cannily into the darkness and dilapidation of the lower part of
the ruin.
" Down there the gintlemen has their rooms," said Peggy,
looking round with awe and whispering as if in a church.
" Rooms? " returned Bawn in a like whisper. " What can be
down there but dens and holes ? "
«« " Call them what you like, ma'am," said Peggy ; " they're still
covered in, at any rate."
" They'll be covered in more completely some day soon," re-
flected Bawn, and thought with a thrill of dismay of Luke Adare
buried alive, and his secret with him.
From the back hall ascended gradually and slantingly a low,
wide stair, with a great window gazing down the first flight, and
the ascent for so far seemed easy enough. But after that came a
shorter flight, slanting forward again to the centre of the house,
and, having climbed this and placed her feet on the upper land-
ing, the intruder seemed literally to carry her life in her hand.
The floor was breaking underfoot, and on the totally unroofed
side of the house the open arch, seen from without, yawned to
heaven. Just below an unroofed passage, barred by half-fallen
beams and choked with rubbish, ran between the still covered
back part of the house and the open wreck of the left front wing,
and at the end of this wild corridor a crazy door hung off its
hinges.
•' That is Miss Julia's room," said Peggy. " They had hard
work gettin' her out when she was dead."
To the right was a corresponding passage, roofed, and with a
window at the end, an open lattice prettily contrived but drop-
ping out of the broken wall. Through this a lovely vista of sun-
shine and greenery was to be seen, making the ghastly interior
more deplorable by contrast. Once what a sweet green nook on
a hot summer's day, full of reflections from the wavering boughs,
and showing a long, delicious vista of moving gleams and sha-
dows through the tunnel of the avenue.
Right in front as they ascended was the door of a hideous,
rotting chamber, into which Bawn would have stepped to her
death had not Peggy pulled her back. Floor and ceiling were
both dropping down from the walls, and the crazy mass of both
had hung over the intruders' heads as they entered the building.
Miss Mave's room was now close at hand, to be approached
by yet another venture up one more flight of shattered stair.
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i86 A Fair Emigrant. [May,
Through the rents between the wall and the steps, on which they
feared to place their feet, the hall below was plainly visible, and
a heavy tread might have carried intruder and footholding into
the ruin below. Peggy, accustomed to the danger, walked like
a bird, and Bawn poised herself on tip-toe with vigilant care,
crossing the worst bits of footing with a spring.
Even before this stair was scaled they could hear faint human
wails coming through the yet closed door. Peggy pushed it
cautiously and entered first, and Bawn stood on the threshold,
rapidly taking in this new interior.
Though the room was large the light was obscure, because
the fine windows were all blocked up with contrivances to keep
out the wind and rain. The ceiling was upheld by young larch-
trees stripped and used as stakes as in the hall below, only here
there was a greater forest of them crowding all to one side of the
apartment, while, in spite of their eflForts to delay the descent of
the ceiling, it bulged down between them, and the straggling
fragments of decay, dropping lower and lower, gave warning of
a coming crash.
Under the worst part of the ceiling, planted right among the
inefficient props, an old bed, covered with a canopy, was placed,
hardly discernible at first in the obscurity, and behind and around
it ghostly wrecks of furniture of all kinds, encrusted with dust,
rubbish, and cobwebs, mustered in weird array, forming a gro-
tesque, melancholy background for the bed and its occupant.
Advancing a step, Bawn feared to put her feet anywhere, for
the floor was not only broken but sunken, sinking away towards
the side where the bed stood, settled into a hollow, ready to slide
away at any moment into the abyss of rottenness below it.
Keeping on the threshold till invited by Peggy to advance, she
glanced round the apartment with eyes getting accustomed to
the lack of light. In the safest-looking spot opposite the door a
fire burned in a rusty old grate ; a kitchen table in a window near
was littered with a few utensils, a cup and saucer, a plate, some
rough needle-work, probably Peggy's. A hole in the floor was
evidently used as a sink, and by it were a crock and saucepan,
etc.
After one swift glance at the bed Bawn closed her eyes a
moment before looking again, and heard a plaintive, shrieking
voice wailing to Peggy, and Peggy speaking in homely, comfort-
ing tones.
What Bawn had seen in the bed was a creature who looked
like a white witch — a skeleton covered with white, fair skin, a
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i8«7-] A Fair Emigrant. 187
small, spectral face gleaming under the mouldy old canopy, a
pair of fleshless hands like claws, only so white, fingering the
wretched bed-clothes.
Oh, what a dire sight! That anything human should so lie
here, deserted, frona morning till night, and from night till morn-
ing again, in the storm, in the rain, with this falling roof over-
head and this sliding floor beneath, threatened momentarily with
death from above and from below, suffering in the grip of pain,
hunger, and cold, and, worst of all, face to face with the memory
of joys once present in those very walls ! Bawn lowered her
head and covered her face ; and then she heard Peggy inviting
her to come near the bed.
" And this is the American lady, Peggy," said the spectral
creature, leaning on her fleshless elbow and looking at Bawn's
fresh beauty as if she would shade her hollow eyes from so daz-
zling a sight. " You are welcome, my dear; welcome to Shane's
Hollow. It is but a sorry place now to receive visitors in ; but
our good days are over here, are they not, Peggy? We had our
good days, but they are gone. Peggy, give the young lady a
chair and let her talk to me a little. How many years is it,
Peggy, since I have spoken to any one outside of this house be-
sides yourself?"
** I am sorry you are so great a sufferer. Miss Adare," said
Bawn, striving to speak in the most matter-of-fact manner, to
appear as if quite accustomed to sit at bedsides like this, quite
unconscious of anything out of order around her, and unaware
that they were, all three occupants of the room, in danger of
death at any moment from a sudden collapse of the few rotten
timbers that supported them.
" I am a great sufferer, my dear. Only for this post," she
said, touching one of the larch-trees, that was planted as a support
between ceiling and floor at her side — " only for this I should
fling myself out of the bed at night ; and then there would be no
one to pick me up. I hold on by it when the pain is terrible,
when the pain is too dreadful to be borne."
Bawn looked at the stake and thought, with a new thrill of
dismay, that surely one strong shake of this shaft, which was
fastened strongly to ceiling and floor, might be enough to bring
about the end, to cause this wreck of a room with its occupant to
come down like a house of cards.
** Sometimes I scream out quite loud," the poor ghost went
on, " and then my brother Edmond comes up to me. He is a
very kind creature is my brother Edmond."
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1 88 A Fair Emigrant. [May,
Bawn looked at the midnight scene as presented to her imagi-
nation by these few words, and felt her warm blood beginning to
freeze at the horror of it. She wondered did Luke also make an
ascent of that crazy stair in the night sometimes on such an
errand of percy ? But it was her intention to ask no questions,
** Now, Miss Adare, you must forgive me for bringing you a
custard of my own making. We Americans are handy people
and think we know how to make sweets. If you don't think it
good my pride will get a fall."
" Oh, you are a kind creature ; you are a nice creature ! "
shrilled the bed-ridden woman. " Peggy told rae you were, or I
should not have allowed you to come here. You come from
America, where every one is free, and there are no old families;
and you are better without them. Pride is a sin, though some
people will never believe it. And some of us must suffer for our
sins— oh ! oh ! oh ! " she shrieked, finishing her sentence with a
prolonged wail that seemed to express something more awful
than the sufFering of a body in pain.
" It's the pain that does be had wit' her," explained Peggy, as
the poor creature began to wave her skeleton arms, clutching the
air and mourning with such cries as made Bawn think of the
despair of a lost spirit.
" But God is very good when he has left me Peggy," she
added, unconsciously correcting the false impression her agony
had produced. ** Peggy is a good creature. And you are a
good creature. You are very nice — oh ! oh ! oh ! " And again
the wailing began, and her eyes rolled in her head, and she for-
got everything but her anguish.
" This is dreadful ! " whispered Bawn. " What does she suf-
fer from ? "
" Och, 'deed, everything," said Peggy, looking up and down.
"The damp does be atin* her always, I think." And then a
slight noise at the door made Bawn look round, and she saw
that a man was standing in the doorway, but so that he could
not be seen from the bed.
"It's Misther Rory Fingall from Tor," said Peggy. "O
Lord ! I hope none o' the gintlemen will see him I "
" Tell him to go away, then," said Bawn, and turned her face
to the bed.
" O Arthur Desmond, Arthur Desmond ! " suddenly scream-
ed the poor, troubled creature in the bed. " Go away, Luke,
and let me speak to him. I^t him touch me with bis finger
and the pain will go away ! O Arthur! Oh 1 oh ! oh ! "
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1887] A P^^J^ Emigrant. 189
Again the wail was prolonged, and Peggy came back from
th6 door.
" It's no use your stayin' any longer now, raa'am,*' she said.
** She's begun to rave, and she won't talk to ye no more."
" But I mean to come again, Peggy. I must take her out of
this den."
"Ye'll be clever if ye do that same, ma'am. There's no-
where for her to go but the poor-house, an' the gintlemen would
burn the counthry if ye dared to take her there. Sure herself
would go anywhere, poor lady ; but Misther Luke — "
Saying this Peggy signed to her to go, and, picking her steps
to the door, Bawn came face to face with Somerled. She al-
lowed him to help her down the stair and walked out into the
open air with him. How sweet it tasted ! How lovely was na-
ture's wilderness after that hideous interior !
" Come out of this place ! " were the first words that Fingall
spoke to her, and, obeying him, she walked silently by his side
till they emerged from the dilapidated gate at one end of the
Hollow into the open fields where grew the yellow lilies round
the sky-blue pools, and where the cattle grazed.
"Are you quite mad?" he asked, suddenly stopping and
looking at her with a blaze of mingled tenderness and anger
lighting up his eyes.
" Why ? " asked Bawn quietly. ** Do I look very wild ? "
" I will not tell you how you look," he said, feeling, indeed,
that he dared not say to her that he had never seen anything
look so sane, wholesome, and beautiful, unless he wanted to start
another quarrel and was prepared to go seeking for another dog
as an excuse for a reconciliation. " It has nothing to do with
the matter. You have been wantonly risking your life in that
ruined house."
*' Not wantonly. I have been visiting a fellow-creature in
distress."
** It was not your business. You had no right to go in
ther6," he continued, with concentrated excitement in his voice.
His eye was still burning, his heart still shuddering at thought
of the danger she had been in.
" I have assumed the right and made it my business," she an-
swered. " At all events, it appears that in doing so I have inter-
fered with no one else, stepped oflSciously into nobody's shoes.
Oh I I am sick of you," kindling into sudden anger and drawing
back from him a step, '* disgusted with the whole country-side
of you ! If I had been a man among, you I would have walked
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igo A Fair Emigrant. [May,
in there and taken that poor creature on my back, and carried
her out, and put her somewhere into a habitation fit for human
presence. I would not have left her there screaming with pain
and rotting alive in a den only fit for rats and owls."
She paused and caught her breath. He had turned quite
pale, startled and shocked at her sudden passion. All the indig-
nation had gone out of his own eyes as he watched the opening
fire in hers.
" Perhaps we deserve blame,** he said, " but not so much as
you, a stranger, may think. Will you sit down here," pointing to
a fallen tree, " and let me tell you about these strange people ? "
** I am not tired. I will not sit down. I am going home."
** You will be tired before you have accomplished your long
walk."
" You ought not to have followed me here."
" I did not follow you. I have some work going on over
yonder, and this place gives me a short cut homeward. That is
how I met you here first, and how I have happened on you to-
day. I saw the dog waiting for you at the door, and I went in
to look for you, hardly believing that you could be there. Now
will you sit down and let us talk a little ? "
Bawn yielded and sat on the fallen tree.
** I know probably as much about these people as you can
tell me," she said. ** I have been hearing of them ever since I
came. They have not been good. They are fiercely proud, but
still, as they have become old and helpless, I think their sins
ought to be forgotten and charity ought to consider their case."
" So it ought, and so it has done from time to time. But you
do not understand them. They will starve, rot, die, but they
will die the Adares of Shane's Hollow. Once rich, arrogant,
unscrupulous, they exercised a power in the country, and for no
good. Spendthrifts, they scattered their money ; more dropped
into their hands, and they spent that too. They acted so that
the curses of the people followed them and the sympathies of
their own class dropped away from them. In their decadence
they were too proud to accept any kind of work that was offer-
ed them to do. Little by little they have fallen. One by one
their old neighbors and acquaintances — they never had any real
friends, I believe — shrank away from them in disgust and suf-
fered them to wrap themselves up in their solitary pride. The
people say a curse hangs over them ; and, faith, it looks like it,
for no effort that has been made has ever been of service to them.
And efforts have been made. Some time ago Lord Aughrim
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1887.] A Fair Emigrant. 191
offered them a comfortable cottage rent free as an inducement to
them to come out of the decaying house and live like human
•beings, but they declined. They preferred their own house
even as it was. In the course of years all the lands were sold
away, parted with bit by bit, and it is through the charity of
Lord Aughrim that they are not driven out of the Hollow. He
leaves them the ruin and this piece of land immediately sur-
rounding it — "
" Would it not have been greater charity to have driven them
out?"
" Perhaps so. But I suppose he is not strong-minded enough
to apply his charity in such manner. The fact is, no one has
cared to take the bull by the horns and struggle with their
maniacal, pride. Men have put money together secretly and
had it conveyed to them by subterfuge, pretending it had come
to them as a mysterious unpaid debt. But that sort of thing can-
not always go on. Doctors and clergymen have paid visits to
the house and come out declaring that they could not risk their
lives by returning there again, and that something ought to be
done to relieve them of such a necessity. And yet nobody could
propose the thing to do. Unless one were to set fire to the build-
ing and smoke them out they would not come ; and nobody likes
to take the torch in his hands — "
For a few minutes the silence was unbroken, while Bawn re-
cognized the ring of sincerity in his voice.
** Have they always refused help, openly given, rejected food,
clothing, fire ?" she asked presently, in her gentlest tones.
" Always, and with such scorn that one fears to insult them
in such a way. I have heard that a relative m a distant part of
the country (for the credit of the North I am glad to say these
Adares do not belong to us, only settled here fifty years ago on
an inherited property) — I believe that a relative helps them from
time to time by irregular doles, just sufficient to keep them alive
and no more. Two or three of them have died. One man who
broke his leg was stolen out of the ruin and taken to the poor-
house hospital, where he received a little humane treatment be-
fore he expired. Another died a horrible death, in a damp hole
in the underground story. They said he was eaten by rats.
No efforts would induce him to leave his lair. And the end
came on him suddenly. But I am making you sick — *'
" No ;. I have heard it all before. I am thinking of that poor
Miss Mave. She, I think, can have had no harm in her. What
did she mean by shrieking in her pain for Arthur Desmond ? "
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She had felt herself coming to this. She wanted to hear
Somerled's account of the disaster on Aura.
" There you touch upon a special tragedy, and I think you*
have had enough of that for to-day. Cannot we talk about some-
thing pleasanter, even if it be more prosaic ? Are you getting
good prices for your butter ? Will you promise to let me know
if you suspect that any one is cheating you? — I mean the trades-
people outside, for we are honest folks in the glens, as a rule.
Is there anything wanting, in or out of your farmhouse, that I
can get for you ? "
" I dare say there are many things, but at present I only want
to know about that special tragedy. I am interested in the wo-
man I have been visiting.'*
'' I do not wonder. Doubtless she had, as you say, no harm
in her, except the harm that springs from weakness of character,
and weakness sometimes amounts to a crime when the weak per-
son lives among the wicked and makes no effort to do anything
but drift with them. It sometimes becomes the crime of women
in this way — "
Bawn looked at him inquiringly. Was he going to condemn
her for deciding against Arthur Desmond ? She held her breath.
" Inasmuch," continued Rory, "as she never appeared to wish
to separate herself from the rest, and come forth into the daylight
and face her reverses meekly, I hold her blameworthy."
Bawn turned away her eyes again. She knew deeper depths
of weakness in Mave Adare than he was thinking of.
•• But the tragedy ? " she said.
" It is a story in which our family is entangled, and we never
speak of it. Not th*at I have any particular feeling in the matter.
I was born about the time of my uncle and namesake's death,
but my grandmother still keeps a tei:ribly vivid memory of the
occurrence which was the greatest sorrow of her life. For her
sake chiefly, and also because ghastly things are best forgotten,
we do not refer to the murder of Roderick Fingall by Arthur
Desmond, who at the time was engaged to this unfortunate Mave
Adare."
" And part of her weakness, the weakness you have spoken of
as characteristic of her, her crime of weakness, as you say, was
in her allowing herself to be persuaded that her lover had com-
mitted this deed."
" Is that your conclusion?" he said, with a smile. . ''It is a
woman's one, and generous, but there was no doubt, I believe,
that Desmond was guilty."
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I887-] A Fair Emigrant. 193
** I have taken up a dififerent impression/'
"How? Why?"
** From the moment when I first heard the tale 1 felt that
Desmond had been the victim of a plot,"
"You heard it before?"
*• From different quarters. I wanted to hear it from you —
from a Fingall."
" Then I have had nothing new to tell you. Every peasant
in the glens knows the whole history : the crime, its motive, and
its consequences. The motive was part jealousy, part greed for
money. My uncle stood between Desmond and a fortune — "
" Which actually fell to Luke Adare."
" I see you are really in possession of all the details," said
Somerled, looking at her in surprise.
" 1 have been putting them together and piecing them out.
It occupies me when I am lonely in the evenings — when my but-
ter is made. We have no such tales of old families in America,
you see, Mr. Fingall, and so you must take my curiosity and
earnestness over the matter as a product of the New World.
Betty Macalister, who lives with me, is a firm believer in Arthur
Desmond's innocence, and perhaps she has bitten me with her
faith. Arthur Desmond has become a living hero to me, and I
feel some ardor in clearing his good name."
Rory began to feel jealous of this shade of Arthur Desmond.
If she would only occupy her evenings in thinking of him, a liv-
ing man, with no interesting guilt upon his head ! But he must
be careful to keep such wishes to himself.
" I am sorry for the sake of your romance," he said, " that
Mave Adare's lover will not come out of any court, even that of
your charitable consideration, with clean hands. Do not look so
serious over it. I did not know you felt so strongly — " as an in-
comprehensible expression of pain contracted her brow.
" Am I feeling strongly? It is my way."
" Is it ? I wish it would come my way, then," thought jSomer-
led.
" Well," smiling, " I am going to talk as lightly of the story
as you please. One thing you can tell me. Did any one see
Desmond commit the crime?"
" Certainly. There was no doubt about that"
"Who saw it?"
" I believe it was some of those wretched Adares. Of course
they were respectable then,"
VOL. XLV.— 13
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194 A Pair Emigrant. [May,
"And good?"
" I cannot swear to that."
'* Not after the account you have given of them to me just
now ? I think — I will make a bet of a yellow lily out of yonder
pool — that it was Luke Adare who whispered away Desmond's
good name."
'* But Roderick Fingall was killed by him."
*' Might it not be that he had fallen from the cliffs? "
•* Hardly. I am afraid you will have to give up your hero.
Desmond, from all I have heard, was a passionate and grasp-
ing fellow. He was too well treated, inasmuch as the thing was
allowed to slide and he got off to America. I hope, for the sake
of the interest you take in his case, that he fared there better
than he deserved — "
Bawn had risen up; her eyes flashed, her lips op>encd to
speak ; then she abruptly turned away and struggled to recollect
herself.
" What a woman to love a man and stand by him ! " thought
Rory. " Well, if I have no other rival than this poor red-hand-
ed ghost, I will e'en try to be patient and bide my time."
And then he watched her as she walked a little apart from
him, skirting the edge of the nearest pool, with a look on her
face which he could not fathom. As the linen of her dress stirred
in the breeze about her shoulders and feet, he thought her per-
fect enough in form to personate a goddess — Demeter's daugh-
ter, fresh and fair ; or, even more fitly, Demeter herself, making
the corn to grow, and the grass to thicken, and the fruit to ripen
wherever she set foot. That look on her face which troubled
him and seemed to push him away from her gradually failed
from her brows and mouth, and as she stooped to pluck the
amber lilies (whose color was in her hair) she looked towards
him with that involuntary softening of aspect which was the
true source of any hope he cherished. With so much natural
kindness in her towards all things, how could she continue to be
hard to him? He admitted that she puzzled him more than
ever. So little impressionable, so prosaically steadfast to her
own simple, homely desires ; so strong to conquer the weakness
of her heart towards him (for there had been, he insisted, a weak-
ness in her heart towards him that time on board the steamer) ;
so clever in carrying out the intention with which she would riot
allow him to interfere — a determination merely to live solitary
among these hills and to improve the manufacture ot butter.
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1887.] ^ P^JR Emigrant, 195
And yet, in the midst of her serenity and her strength, here she
was taking side passionately with an accused man, dead or blot-
ted out from the world, of whom only a dark memory was left to
the living whom he had wronged.
This last trait seemed to show her in a new light, as one who
would take up fantastic ideas, a creature of imagination, impas-
sioned, capricious ; and the surprise of the discovery did not dis-
gust him with her. He liked to think she was capable of change,,
for might not the next change sway her heart towards his? As-
he watched her he felt satisfied to think that Fate had drawn her
wandering feet unawares and led them into his neighborhood,,
that out there was her home, while his was over yonder, and
that there was time in the years before them to win her love.
Now here she was coming back with her gold-headed sheaf, and,
nothing could be less flighty, less fantastic, more equable, more
serene than she looked. She had forgotten the dreary shade of
the unfortunate Desmond.
" Is it not curious to think," she said, " that these lilies have
been going on budding and blooming every year all through
that tragedy, and so near it, and even now are noway tarnished'
by it? For the tragedy is not over yet — not while that poor
woman lives,** she added, to cover her real thought, which was,
"not while you and I live, who must remain parted by the cruel,
ineradicable belief which exists as to Desmond's guilt.**
" They are as fresh and as brilliant "—examining them — *'as
though no wicked lie had ever poisoned the air that nourished ^
them.'*
So she was still thinking about it. How persistent she was,
whether in making her way to Ireland or in championing a
ghost! Only for that look, which, unconsciously to herself,,
seemed to promise so much yielding where she entirely loved, a
man might be afraid of her. Somerled was not afraid of her,
though he wondered at her.
" Nature does not afflict herself with our tragedies," he said,,
replying to her as she stood sunning her eyes in the glory of
the lilies. " If she did she could not keep herself so fresh, so
tranquil, so ever young and strong for our benefit. We could
not lay a tired head in her lap ; her hand on the brow would
have none of the healing touch it possesses. It is because our
passions cannot wither her up, because our atmosphere is not'
charged with our storms, that her airs and dews have their power
to soothe, that her rivers and fountains regenerate us,"
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196 A Fair Emigrant. [May,
As Bawn listened she sat down again near him. " And yet
there is surely a sympathy," she said. " Would you not believe
that the trees in yonder knew all about the tragedy of the house
and its inhabitants? "
** Yes ; but that will not hinder their blooming 09 through years
to come, and sheltering gladly — who knows? — perhaps a troop
of sturdy children, a complete contrast to the wretched samples
of humanity whom now they screen and pity, long after this
hideous ruin has been levelled with the ground. This uncanny
Hollow may one day be a singing grove, and people will wonder
that human tribulation could ever have harbored in it. I grant
you the sympathy all the same, though, for I have often thought
it is that sympathy with us, that experience which has enriched
without blighting, which gives Nature her mysterious influence
over the soul of man."
There was again a long silence of some minutes, during which
Bawn was thinking of her father's good name, swept away for
ever with those ruins, while the birds sang, and children shouted,
and the Hollow bloomed. Presently she said :
" Is it not believed that Mave Adare was convinced of Des-
mond's guilt, like the rest?/'
"Certainly she proved it by her action. She never raised
her voice in his defence, so far as I have heard."
" Well, then, in- the course of years she has changed her
mind."
.''How so?"
" To-day she said a few words that carried this conviction to
me. She cried out : • Go away, Luke, and let me speak to him !
Let him touch me with his finger and the pain will be cured ! '
Was it not a remarkable appeal, impossible if she believed him
to be a murderer? It was rather like a Catholic's desire for the
touch of a martyr — "
" You think she looks on him as a martyr."
"What do you think?';
" That she is a crazy woman now, and that the past supplies
her delirium with fancies."
" You are terribly bigoted."
" If it would please you I would almost try to say what I do
not think. But you would find me out, and it would not satisfy
you."
" Nothing matters but truth."
" Nothing."
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1887.] A Fair Emigrant. 197
CHAPTER XXXI.
AN INVITATION.
At this moment the sound of voices came towards them — not
the tones of a peasant chiding his stray beast, nor of adventurous
children who had wandered out of the straight way home from
school, but the murmur of ladies* conversation, the last sound
to be expected in these solitudes. Before they had time to
wonder Lady Flora appeared in company with her young friend
Manon, Major Batt following stertorously in their wake. A
clump of thorn-trees had hid the approaching party till they sud-
denly came face to face with Rory Fingall and Miss Ingram.
Lady Flora put up her eye-glass and surveyed them both,
especially Bawn. ejaculating, ** Dear me ! " in a tone of great sur-
prise, while Manon turned away her head with a frown which
spoiled the charming e£fect of her exquisite French costume.
Major Batt hastened to pay his respects to Miss Ingram, over-
heated and almost breathless as he was by having travelled
through rude byways to which his feet were unaccustomed.
Bawn and Rory had risen from their seat on the trunk of the tree,
but slowly, as noway startled or disturbed.
Lady Flora had never yet addressed a word to Bawn, even
at Castle Tor, and she was not going to recognize her now, when
she had caught her in a most unbecoming and audacious pro-
ceeding — taking a solitary ramble with the master of Tor, a gen-
tleman far above her in station of life. She had never liked
Bawn, had never meant to like her ; intended always to maintain
her opinion, and prove it in the end, that the American girl was a
bold creature with whom it was unfit that the family of her land-
lords should associate. She had come to this place at consider-
able pains to herself, to see whether she could not strengthen her
cause against Miss Ingram by finding her in precisely the posi-
tion in which she had now been discovered. There is no know-
ing what little bird of the air had hinted to her that Rory and
Bawn had already met and conversed in Shane's Hollow, and
that to-day they might possibly do so again. Thus it was that
Lady Flora Fingall had penetrated to these unfrequented wilds,
and now felt herself rewarded for her trouble. That Rory, who,
by all the laws that regulate the fitness of things, ought now to be
busily engaged in persuading Manon and her fortune to remain
in and renovate and adorn his faded ancestral halls, should be
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198 A Fair Emigrant. [May,
frittering away his time walking and talking with a low farming
girl who happened to haye a striking face and that peculiar color
of hair which Lady Flora would have given three new gowns a
year to possess — that Rory should so behave went to illustrate
the fact that men are unaccountable and reckless in their ways,
and often need to be managed for by the Lady Floras of the
world. She would talk to him by and by, and meantime she
thought it no harm that Manon should be a little jealous, just to
keep her from tiring of the monotony of life at Tor. At present
her object was to humble Miss Ingram and to gain a pretext for
barring her out from all future association with the family.
*' There must be something in the air to-day that draws the
feet of friends one way,*' said Rory. " First I encounter Miss
Ingram in this out-of*the-way place, and now we have another
meeting quite as unexpected — "
** I suppose those are your cows," said Manon to Bawn sweet-
ly, having shaken off her frown, and once more making the most
of her beauty and her attire, '* and you have come here to look
after them. That must be a troublesome part of your busi-
ness."
" I am sorry to say they are not my cows," said Bawn, laugh-
ing ; ** I wish they were — especially that red one. But I cannot
indulge in the extravagance of a herd." She would not give any
explanation of her presence there. Rory, she thought, had said
enough. But Manon was no longer attending to her. She had
caught sight of Sorley Boy.
** Oh ! what a beautiful dog ! " she exclaimed. •* Mr. Fingall,
it is yours, I know, for I have seen it with you. I am going to
ask you to give it to me for my own."
" He is no longer mine," said Fingall, smiling ; " I have given
him to Miss Ingram. He looks after cows and sheep even better
than his mistress."
•* Oh ! but I am sure another dog will do as well for that, and
I have taken a fancy to this one. Miss Ingram will give him to
me, of course, if you wish it."
It was her little way of snubbing Bawn. She thought her
host could not, even for politeness* sake, refuse anything to a
guest in his house. Here would be a triumph, however little it
might really mean.
*• Can't be done," said Rory quietly. " The fellow would bite
any one who attempted the transfer. I will get you a dog, if you
wish. Miss de St. Claire."
" I don't care for dogs in general, only this one," said Manon,
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1887J A FAiJi Emigrant. 199
with a splendid fire in her dark eyes as they turned on Rory. " I
positively must have him.**
Someried caressed the dog's head. " What does Miss Ingram
say?*"
** I don't think I could part with Sorley Boy," said Bawn, smil-
ing. " Besides, it is not good manners to give away a gift. You
ought to have spoken sooner, Miss de St. Claire.'*
"You see you must be content without coveting your neigh-
bor's goods, Miss Manon," said Rory. " I will find you a
dog."
But Manon had turned away and taken a step towards Flora,
who, while pretending to admire' the scenery through her eye-
glass, had not lost a word of the conversation.
" That young woman must be put down with a high hand,*'
she thought; and then Major Batt, who to-day was a nuisance
even to Lady Flora, and had joined her on the road whether she
would or not, began to talk.
" Ladies," he said, " I could not have secured a better oppor-
tunity — aw — for putting a little proposal before you. The wea-
ther is so charming — aw — and Lisna willy is looking well — a small
fStc, a ganien-party — that sort of thing — might not be amiss.
If you willall favor me with your company on Thursday. Lord
Aughrim has promised, and one or two others — "
" How delightful ! " cried Lady Flora, glad of a diversion ;
and Major Batt was restored to favor. She rapidly considered
what Shana had got to wear. What a nice opportunity for Rory
to attend on Manon ! *^ Really, it is sweet of you. Major Batt, to
arrange such a treat for us."
" So good of you to approve of my little effort. Miss In-
gram, I hope, will also give me her approval and her company?"
Lady Flora's eye-glass fell from her eye, and she remained
transfixed with surprise and displeasure. Now or never she
must put down this presuming young woman into her place.
" I don't think Miss Ingram's engagements would allow of
that," she said slightingly.
Bawn glanced at her. Though her first impulse would have
been to decline the invitation, she could not restrain a certain
mischievous impulse which urged her to horrify Lady Flora by
accepting.
" I shall not be particularly busy on Thursday," she said
quietly. " I do not churn till Friday.*'
Lady Flora made an indescribable movement expressive of
disgusL
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20O Dr. Brown son and the [May,
" Then I shall confidently expect you,'' said the major re-
joicingly.
" It may rain," said Bawn, " or I may be too busy. Other-
wise I shall be happy. Ah \ here is Peggy, coming to fetch
me home ! *' as, to her relief and surprise,, the woman was seen
coming through the dilapidated gate. " My little cart is waiting
for me beyond the pass. Good- morning — '* .
With a bow to all Bawn walked away side by side with the
gaunt figure of Peggy. She was aware that by and by she might
regret her mischievous impulse, but meantime she was feeling
exceedingly glad. Was not Sorley Boy still following on her
footsteps ? -And here was his namesake and former master com-
ing after them.
" You must allow me to put you in your cart.'^
" What will they say ? "
" Anything they like. And mind you keep the promise you
were brave enough to make for Thursday, I will see you safely
there and safely back."
TO BE. CONTINUEOi
DR. BROWNSON AND THE WORKINGMAN'S PARTY
FIFTY YEARS AGO*
Dr. Brownson tells us in The Convert^ p. 90^ that the theo-
ries of Robert Owen (not Robert Dale Owen, but that Reformer's
father), who came to America during the Presidency of John
Quincy Adams, never gained his adhesion. Yet they drew his
** attention to the social evils which exist in every land, to the in-
equalities which obtain even in our own country, where political
equality is secured by law, and to the question of reorganizing
society and creating a paradise on earth. My sympathies were
enlisted. I became what is now called a Socialist, and found for
many years a vent for my activity in devising, supporting, refut-
ing, and rejecting theories and plans of world-reform." These
* I am informed tbat a movement is on foot to erect a monmnent to Dr. Brownson in
Central Park. I am heartily in favor of this, and will give it every assistance in my power.
The best monument to Dr. Brownson's greatness is his works (Nourse & Co., Detroit, Mich.^
and the Catholic Publication Society Co., New York), compiled and published by his son, Major
Henry Brownson. They ought to be in every American library of any character.
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l887.] WORKINGMAN' S PARTY FiFTY YEARS AGO. 201
theories and plans took shape in the Workingman's party^ hav-
ing an organization in most of the larger centres of population.
We called ourselves the genuine Democracy^ and in New York
City were for some years a separate political body, independent
of the " regular" Democracy, and voting our own ticket. I have
before me the files of our newspaper organ, the Democrat, the
first number of which appeared March 9, i8j6, published by
Windt & Conrad, 11 Frankfort Street. In its prospectus the
Democrat promises to contend for "Equality of Rights, often
trampled in the dust by Monopoly Democrats,'^ to battle " with
an aristocratic opposition powerful in talent and official en-
trenchment, and mighty in money and facilities for corruption."
" In the course of this duty it will not fail fearlessly and fully to
assert the inalienable rights of the people against * vested rights '
and 'vested wrongs.'" It claims to be the "instructive com-
panion " of the mechanic's and workingman's leisure, " the pro-
motion of whose interests will ever form a leading feature of the
Democrat y And in the editorial salutatory it speaks thus:
•* We are in favor of government by the people. Our objects are
the restoration of equal rights and the prostration of those aristocratical
usurpations existing in the state of monopolies and exclusive privileges
of every kind, the products of corrupt and corrupting legislation. . . .
At this moment we are the only large nation on the face of the earth
where the mass of the people govern in theory — ^where they may govern
in reality, if they will — ^where the real taxes of government, although too
heavy, are but trifling, and where a majority of the population depend on
their own labor for support ; yet such is the condition of that large class
that the fruits of their toil are inadequate to sustain themselves in comfort
and rear their families as the young citizens of a republic ought to be
reared."
"... He is very short-sighted, however, who thinks that a majority of
the people, where universal suffrage exists^ will submit long to a state of
toil and mendicity. The majority would soon learn to exercise its politi-
cal rights, and command its representatives to carry the laws abolishing
primogeniture and entails one step further, and stop all devises of land
and prohibit it from being an article of sale. (In a foot->note of the edi-
torial :) We actually heard these and several such propositions discussed
by a number of apparently very intelligent mechanics, after the adjourn-
ment of a meeting called to consider the subject of wages, rents, etc."
At that time the main question was the condition of the public
finances, and our agitation was directed chiefly against grant-
ing charters to private banks of circulation. We condemned
these as monopolies, for we were hostile to all monopolies — that
is to say, to the use of the public funds or the enjoyment of public
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202 Dr. Brown son and the [May,
exclusive privileges by any man or association or class of men
for their private profit.
My first acquaintance with Dr. Brownson was when he came
to New York and delivered a course of lectures in favor of the
principles and aims of this party. This was somewhere about
1834. I cannot say just who got him to deliver these first lec-
tures, but the subsequent engagements — for Dr. Brownson gave
three or more courses of lectures in New York within four or
five years after his first — were left by the managers of the Work-
ingman's party to my brother, John Hecker, and myself.
If it be asked why a man like Dr. Brownson, a bom philo-
sopher, should have thus busied himself with the solution of the
most practical of problems by undertaking to abolish inequality
among men, the answer is plain. The true philosopher will not
confine himself to abstract theories. But, furthermore, Brown-
son at this epoch of his life had lost his grip on the philosophy
that leads men to trust in a supernatural happiness to be enjoyed
in a future state ; and the man who does not look to the hope of
a future state of beatitude for the chief solace of human misery
must look to this life as his end. If a man does not seek beati-
tude in God he seeks it in himself and his fellow-men — in the
highest earthly development of our better nature if he becomes
a socialist of one school, and in the lusts of the animal man if he
becomes a socialist of the brutal school. The man who has any
sympathy in his heart and is not guided by Catholic ethics, if he
reasons at all on public affairs, will become a socialist of some
school or other. Says Dr. Brownson in The Convert^ p. loi :
"The end of man, as disclosed by 'my creed ' of 1829, is obviously an
earthly end to be attained in this life. Man was not made for God and des-
tined to find his beatitude in the possession of God his Supreme Good, the
Supreme Good itself. His end was happiness — not happiness in God, but
in the possession of the good things of this world. Our Lord had said, Be
not anxious as to what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink, or wherewithal
ye shall be clothed ; for after all these things do the heathen seek. I gave
him a flat denial, and said. Be anxious ; labor especially for these things,
first for yourselves, then for others. Enlarging, however, my views a lit-
tle, I said, Man's end for which he is to labor is the well-being and happi-
ness of mankind in this world — is to develop man's whole nature, and so to
organize society and government as to secure all men a paradise on the
earth. This view of the end to labor for I held steadily and without waver-
ing from 1828 till 1842, when I began to find myself tending unconsciously
towards the Catholic Church,"
The reader will have seen by the extracts given that we
were a party fiill of enthusiasm. I was but fifteen when our
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1887.] WORKINGMAN'S PARTY FiFTY YEARS AGO. 2O3
party called Dr. Brownson to deliver the lectures above men-
tioned. But my brothers and I had long been playing men's
parts in politics. I remember when eleven years of age, or a year
or two older, being tall for my years, proposing and carrying
through a series of resolutions on the currency question at our
ward meeting. As our name indicates — " Workingman's De-
mocracy"— we were a kind of Democrats. As to the Whig
party, it received no^great attention from us. At that time its
chances of getting control of this State or of the United States
were remote. Our biggest fight was against the " usages of the
party " as in vogue in the so-called regular Democracy embodied
in the Tammany Hall party. This organization undertook to
absorb us when we had grown too powerful to be ignored. They
nominated a legislative ticket made up half of their men and
half of ours. This move was to a great extent successful ; but
many of us who were purists refused to compromise, and ran a
stump ticket, or, as it was then called, a rump ticket. I was too
young to vote, but I remember my brother George and I post-
ing political handbills at three o'clock in the morning ; this hour
was not so inconvenient for us, for we were bakers. We also
worked hard on election-day, keeping up and supplying the
ticket-boothsj especially in our own ward, the old Seventh. I
remember that one of our leaders was a shoemaker named John
Ryker, and that we used to meet in Science Hall, Broome Street.
If this was the high state of my enthusiasm, so was it that of
us all. Our political faith was ardent and active. But if we had
been tested on our religious faith we should not have come off
creditably ; many of us had not any religion at all. I remember
saying once to my brother John that the only difference between
a believer and an infidel is a few ounces of brains. What a won-
derful triumph of the truth ! The man who said those words
not only became a most firm believer in the mysteries of the
Christian religion, but a priest and a religious, and hopes thus
to die.
But we were a queer set of cranks when Dr. Brownson
brought to us his powerful and eloquent advocacy, his contribu-
tion of mingled truth and error. He delivered his first course
of lectures in the old Stuyvesant Institute in Broadway, facing
Bond Street — the same hall used a little afterwards by the Unita-
rian Society while they were building a church for Dr. Dewey
in Broadway opposite Eighth Street, the very same society now
established in Lexington Avenue with Mr. Collyer as minister.
The subsequent courses were delivered by Dr. Brownson in
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204 Dr. Brown son and the [May,
Clinton Hall, corner of Nassau and Beekman, the site now occu-
pied by one of our modem mammoth building^s. I forget how-
much we were charged admission, except that a ticket for the
whole course cost three dollars. There was no great rush, but
the lectures drew well and abundantly paid all expenses, includ-
ing the lecturer's fee. The press did not take much notice of
the lectures, for the Workingman's party had no newspapers
expressly in its favor, except the one I jiave already quoted
from. But he was one of the few men whose power is great
enough to advertise itself. Wherever he was he was felt. His
tread was heavy and he could make way for himself.
Dr. Brownson was then in the very prime of manhood. He
was a handsome man, tall^ stately, and of grave manners. His
face was clean-shaved. The first likeness of him that I remem-
ber appeared in the Democratic Review, published by O'SulIivan
& Langtry. It made him look like Proudhon, the French so-
cialist. This was all the more singular because at that time he
was really the American Proudhon, though he never went so far
as " La propriiidy c'est le vol'' As he appeared on the platform
and received our greeting he was indeed a majestic man, dis-
playing in his demeanor the power of a mind altogether above
the ordinary. But he was essentially a philosopher, and that
means that he never could be what is called popular. He was
an interesting speaker, but he never sought popularity. He
never seemed to care much about the reception his words re-
ceived, but he exhibited anxiety to get his thoughts rightly ex-
pressed and to leave no doubt about what his convictions were.
Yet among a limited class of minds he always awakened real
enthusiasm — among minds, that is, of a philosophical tendency.
He never used manuscript or notes ; he was familiar with his
topic, and his thoughts flowed out spontaneously in good, pure,
strong, forcible English. He could control any reasonable mind,
for he was a man of great thoughts and never without some
grand truth to impart. But to stir the emotions was not in his
power, though he sometimes attempted it; he never succeeded
in being really pathetic.
It must be remembered that although Dr. Brownson was
technically classed among the reverends, he was not commonly
so called. It may be said that he was still reckoned among the
Unitarian ministry, owing mostly to his connection with Dr.
Channing, of Boston, who took a great interest in the Working-
man's party. But I do not think he was advertised by us as
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1887.] WORKINGMAlfS PARTY FiFTY YEARS AGO. . 205
reverend or publicly spoken of as a clergyman. He may have
been yet hanging on the skirts of the Unitarian movement. But
his career had become political, and his errand to New York was
political. He had given up preaching for some years, and em-
barked on the stormy waves of social politics, and had by his
writings become an expositor of various theories of social reform,
chiefly those of French origin. So that the dominant note of his
lectures was not by any means religious, but political. He was
at that time considered as identified with the Workingman's par-
ty, and came to New York to speak as one of our leaders. The
general trend of his lectures was the philosophy of history as it
bears on questions of social reform. At bottom his theories were
Saint-Simonism, the object being the amelioration of the condition
of the most numerous classes of society in the speediest manner.
This was the essence of our kind of Democracy. And Dr. Brown-
son undertook in these lectures to bring to bear in favor of our
purpose the life-lessons of the providential men of human history.
Of course the life and teachings of our Saviour Jesus Christ were
brought into use, and the upshot of the lecturer's thesis was that
Christ was the big Democrat and the Gospel was the true Demo-
cratic platform !
We interpreted Christianity as altogether a social institution,
its social side entirely overlapping and hiding the religious. Dr.
Brownson set out to make, and did make, a powerful presenta-
tion of our Lord as the representative of the Democratic side of
civilization. For his person and office he and all of us had a pro-
found appreciation and sympathy, t>y| it was not reverential or
religious; the religious side of Chmt's mission was ignored.
Christ was a social Democrat, Dr. Brownson maintained, and he
and many of us had no other religion but the social theories we
drew from Christ's life and teaching ; that was the meaning of
Christianity to us, and of Protestantism especially.
So that if you ask how much religion did he put into his lec-
tures, I answer, all he had, and that was not much, at least in a
supernatural sense. It was the kingdom of God on earth. As
to the kingdom of God in heaven (which he is now enjoying), he
did not pay much attention to it. The extract made from The
Convert is a true exposition of the general unsupernatural view of
the vital question of human beatitude held by the intelligent men
of our party, and expounded by Brownson both in his writings
and in his lectures in New York fifty years ago.
During each of his courses of lectures in this city my bro*
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2o6 Dr. Brown son and the [May,
thers and I had ample opportunity to form close acquaintance
with Dr. Brownson, for he stayed with us at our house in Rut-
gers Street. After his first lecture my brother John and I met
him and invited him to make his home with us during his stay in
the city, and he did so, both on that occasion and, I believe, on
every subsequent visit. In private life he was sociable. Al-
though cheerfulness was not a marked feature in his character —
for his temperament was grave — yet he was chatty and talkative,
and often very much so. His conversation with us was always
on those political and social questions in which we were so deep-
ly interested. As to religious questions, he only touched oa
them now and then as being inferentially connected with social
problems. He knew that all first principles are rooted in reli-
gion, but he did not view them from a religious point of view
in their development. Religion had sunk down, not out of
sight, but out of practical prominence, and I do not think that
our guest ever asked a blessing at our table. But his was a con-
spicuously philosophical mind, and he was always ready to go off.
into a metaphysical or other philosophical argument to prove his
theories. He never knew any time or place inopportune for
such a diversion, often during or after breakfast, dinner, or sup-
per launching us off into the region of high philosophical dis-
quisition.
At this time Dr. Brownson had no fitted principles of philoso-
phy which would lead him into the Catholic Church. He got
them afterwards, and they were of such power as to hold him
fast and fix his career till ciiftath. But when I say he had at this
time no fixed philosophic^ principles I do not wish to be mis-
taken. Pray do not suppose Brownson was a visionary ; no man
was clearer-headed or sought more intelligently for those truths
which solve the practical difficulties of rational men. But he
had not the remotest idea of the Catholic Church at that time ;
the faintest suspicion of its being a divinely-founded society
never crossed his mind nor that of any of us — I am sure not
mine. If we had any thought about it, it was the notion that
the Anglican Church served the good purpose of keeping sen-
timental and stupid people out of Catholicity. It was at that
very time that the notorious anti-Catholic lecturer, Dr. Brown-
lee, the Presbyterian minister, was holding forth on the downfall
of Babylon in the Old Dutch Church in Nassau Street, the same
building used for so many years afterwards as the post-office.
The truth is that we did not consider the Catholic Church as
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1887.] Workingman' s Party Fifty Years Ago. 207
a factor in solving the social problems. There were, I believe,
at that time but four Catholic churches in the city, and the
movement that Dr. Brownson advocated was purely un-Catholic
in religion and American in nationality.
During the many years that Dr. Brownson was before the pub-
lic as a political writer and lecturer he never showed any aspira-
tions for office. No man can accuse him of political ambition.
His personal convictions were too strong ever to allow him to
win that kind of average popularity which would enable him to
get office. He was always a powerful man and always made his
mark ; but his tongue and pen were the servants of a disinterested
and impulsive honesty. He never cared for his own material in-
terests when his convictions were concerned, ancj nobody can
charge him with any such vice as human respect. What he said
{Convert, p. 94) of his openly giving up the profession of Protestant
Christian belief holds true of his entire life :
" I had, too, been rendered impatient by the lectures I received from vari-
ous quarters on my imprudence in not concealing my doubts. I disliked
seeming to be what I was not, or professing to believe what I did not believe.
. . . Yet I was met with remonstrance. I was not blamed for my thought,
but for telling it ; and blamed for telling it, not on the ground that it was
false, but on the ground that it was bad policy to tell it. I hated what was
called policy then, and I have no great fondness for it even yet. A man's life-
blood is frozen in its current, his intellect deadened, and his very soul anni-
hilated by the everlasting dinging into his ears by the wise and prudent,
more properly the timid and selfish, of the admonition to be politic, to take
care not to compromise one's cause or one's friends. My soul revolted, and
revolts even to-day, at this admonition. Almost the only blunders I ever
committed in my life were committed when I studied, to be politic and
prided myself on my diplomacy,"
Poor material here for an office-seeking politician ; but it was
a glory and a triumph for the Catholic Church to obtain the con-
version of such a man and to hold that free soul in most con-
tented allegiance till the hour of death. And what he said of his
own honesty I can say of every one of us who shared his social
theories : all of us, like Brownson, would have died for our convic-
tions. We were guileless men absorbed in seeking a solution for
the problems of life. Nor, as social reformers at least, were we
given over to theories altogether wrong. The constant recur-
rence of similar epochs of social agitation since then, and the
present enormous development of the monopolies which we re-
sisted in their very infancy, show that our forecast of the future
was not wholly visionary. The ominous outlook of popular poli-
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2o8 Dr. Brownson AND THE Workingman' s PARTY. [May,
tics at the present moment plainly shows that legislation such as
we then proposed, and such as was then within the easy reach of
State and national authority, would have forestalled difficulties
whose settlement at this day threatens a dangerous disturbance of
public order.
If the reader asks me whether Dr. Brownson, thus well known
by private acquaintance, impressed me as a great man, I answer,
Always. Yet he was afterwards, and to some extent is yet, de-
rided and scorned by Protestants. But let any great man among
them become a Catholic, he will suffer the same fate. Even
Newman was spoken of after his conversion as a sentimentalist
and demented, and is deemed great to-day only because he won a
second greatness by overthrowing champions in new encounters;
and this he was able to do because, more fortunate than Brown-
son, he adhered in his Catholic public life to the lines of thought
Providence had placed him on during his process of conversion.
So it would have been with Brownson had lie stuck to his native
vocation. His influence might not have been great as to numbers,
but it would have been great as to the calibre of the individuals.
Who now is the representative of the ideas which led him into
the truth ? In following those ideas he was but faithful to truths
which are latent in all Catholic theology and tradition. That as
a controversialist of the old school he so greatly distinguished
himself only showed his versatility, and his versatility was in this
his misfortune.
The conversion of Brownson shows how conformable to the
dictates of natural reason must have been' that disciplinary force
which held a roan like him in perfect liberty and complete peace
in the best and most enlightened era of human life. This was
very evident to us who knew him well both previous to and after
his entering the Catholic Church, and could compare his Catholic
life with what his life had been before.
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1887.] A Garden op Mexican Song. 209
A GARDEN OF MEXICAN SONG, WITH TRANSLA-
TIONS.
In the great interest which has of late been aroused upon the
subject of Mexico we have been led to look with attention upon
its different phases as presented by the speculator, the capitalist,
and the politician. Our knowledge of its resources has been in-
creased by a host of facts and figures. Through the medium of
the press we have learned, with more or less exactness, something
of the advantage which might accrue from unrestricted inter-
course between its population and ours, of the market which
might thus be thrown open to manufacturers, and of the pro-
lific soil which could be made available as a nursery of mineral
and vegetable wealth. Or, if the editor has been led to different
conclusions either through study or observation, we have been
taught the futility of- any attempt at closer relationship, and the
absolute foolishness of looking for an element of added strength
or prosperity to ourselves amid such a poverty-stricken and de-
grraded people. The question of protection or free trade has
been discussed by political opponents or zealous partisans in its
bearing upon future relations between the two countries, and left
where it was, after the proper amount of wrangling. In an over-
whelming majority of the books written and statements made the
facts have been colored, purposely or unconsciously, either by
previous impressions or partial judgments. Neither the eyes of
the spirit nor of the body have been able to look squarely at the
new land spread before them^ or have cared to pierce the seem-
ing inconsistencies which gather, cloudlike, between them and
the clear vision beyond. Still, in a certain vague way, the posi-
tion of Mexico as a basis of investment, and its probable worth
on our national table of statistics, has been brought before public
attention. As becomes a practical people, it is its market value
in dollars and cents, its prospect as a business element in stocks,
and its estimate as a trading outpost which have chiefly con-
cerned us. But even with the closest attention to this main and
admirable idea it has been impossible to suppress entirely some
better understanding of habits and customs among a people and
a land so strange in belongings, so rich in novelty. Willing or
unwilling, we have been obliged to imbibe some glittering gene-
VOL. XLV.— 14
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210 A Garden oh^ Mexican Song. [May,
ralities of knowledge, and the United States has, upon the whole,
a much more definite idea of her beautiful southern neighbor
than would have seemed possible even a decade of years ago.
Prejudice, however, dies slowly ; aad the old exaggerations
oonceming the weakness and vice of Mexico are but little shaken
in the popular mind; a nation stained by ignorance, supersti-
tion, and dirt would still express the average sentiment of our
people in its regard. Even where this verdict has been set aside
among the more intelligent classes there remains an unexpressed
feeling of toleration, half pity and half contempt, as of a superior
race in judgment upon the afiFairs of one inferior and subordinate.
The Mexican may not be altogether the barbarian or the thief
he has been represented, but, at least, he must be taken, like
all doubtful morsels, with a grain of salt. And if admiration be
awarded at all to his virtues and capabilities, it shall be tempered
by remembrance of his many shortcomings. There shall be no
rudeness of haste in overthro'wing the barriers between us. We
reflect that where there has been so much smoke of suspicion
there must exist at least some little fire of abomination to cause
it ; and we persuade ourselves that the stories of physical and
moral uncleanliness which have been dinned into ears polite
since the first upright American met the first unveracious Aztec
must have had some slight foundation in fact before it was per-
mitted to become an English classic
But to the sentimental traveller whom fortune has allowed
to know the beautiful land — that is to say, to the man retaining
his human sympathies and observing through their truthful me-
dium the manifestations set before him — there remains always a
difierent mental picture of it and its inhabitants. His rapturous
memory of its loveliness is not tainted by indifference or dis-
trust ; his fond remembrance recalls poverty, it is true, but pov-
erty so leavened with content that it had lost its sharpest sting,
and so permeated by an inbred, fine courtesy that it seemed the
masquerading garb of the gentlenian. He holds in mind an
upper class, cultivated and refined, versed in the minutise of eti-
quette, trained to familiarity with wealth, and bringing to the
duties of high station a hospitality of equal delicacy and greater
warmth than that to which he had been accustomed at honae.
He recalls salons in which the wit and wisdom of the Old World
had been grafted upon the ardent temperament of the New, and
where the progressive thought of the age found lofty interpreta-
tion and worthy following. Nor can he forget the novelty, the
charm, and the grace which the ancient Spanish regime had left
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1837.] A Garden of Mexican Song. 211
behind it, and which affects the stranger from the cold North
with a sense of surprise as well as delight, like the perfume of
an unknown flower or the song of an unseen bird.
The average voyager — ^leaving his sentimental brother for
the present out of the question — is struck first by a distribution
of educational advantages which he had not been led to expect
The ragged boy who comes to sell him a dirty handful of opals
at Queretaro, or a suspicious collection of dulces at Marfit, will not
only read for him, but write, with a swift, clear chirography as
attractive as it is unlooked for. He will find in admirable order,
and sustained by governmental grants of money and land, insti-
tutions of charity and education similar in scope to West Point
or the industrial schools of France and Germany.
The Orphans' School at Guadalupe, near Zacatecas, will
slightly shock his hitherto impregnable faith in the overwhelm-
ing superiority of his own country's methods. Here sixteen
different trades, reaching from shoemaking to telegraphy, are
taught in a masterly and thorough manner, and at the same time
the pupils acquire a common-school education and a practical
knowledge of both vocal and instrumental music. In the city
of Mexico a Conservatory, also supported by the government,
gives special musical training to three hundred children of both
sexes, with added endowments for further education in Europe
in the case of pupils who show unusual talent and who give pro-
raise for the future. Education in general among the higher
classes is supplemented by a period of after-study in the different
universities of France, Spain, or Italy, so that the Mexican cabaU
lero is usually of cosmopolitan growth.
Since the motive of this paper, however, rests rather upon
the analysis of a single aspect of interest than upon a r6sum6
of Mexican characteristics in general, it will be more fitting to
come at once to the point. Upon reflection it should not appear
strange that a country which had grafted the native gentleness
of the Aztec upon the fiery imagination of the Castilian should
blossom into poetry as naturally as a plant turns toward the
light. The love of flowers and birds, which is indigenous here,
is always closely allied to that of song in the heart of a nation.
So that one should not be unprepared to find evidence of very
general poetic feeling in a race whom both history and tradition
dower with exceptional qualities of sweetness and tenderness,
and which, since the Conquest, has had its native predilections
trained somewhat into a higher appreciation of literary art by
education and association. Yet it is a pleasant surprise to one un-
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212 A Garden of Mexican Song. [May,
familiar with the modem manifestations of authorship in Mexico
to find the Muse so entirely at home in its midst as the little
volume which gives its title to this article would indicate. Un-
der any circumstances a book containing upon its title-page the
names of fifty poets "of reputation and popularity" might be
considered worthy attention, even without a preface apologizing
for the ungraciousness of being obliged to choose so few among
the ranks of representative writers. A country which can speak
of its poets in such wholesale quantities would certainly seem to
have more than its average share.
The plan of the work is unique. Eighty or ninety pen-pic-
tures of Mexican women of position, distinguished among their
associates for beauty, or talent, or the higher gjace of fascination,
form the contents. The verses are in no sense love-songs. There
is scarce a tinge of passion or a hint of the glowing sensuous-
ness of tropical imagination in the entire book. Indeed, it errs
somewhat in the other extreme. Its expression is based upon
the colder and more formal models of the early English and
French writers, with a certain stateliness of diction and fond-
ness for mythological simile which belonged to the conception
of poetry two centuries ago. The verse remains, in this case,
almost wholly uninformed by that enthusiastic flame of devotion
which often, in old times, rendered the transparent disguise of
stilted phraseology incapable of hiding the natural glow within.
The idea of prefixing to each little poem the full name of its
subject has a piquancy altogether Southern. We would choose,
under similar circumstances, to shoot our arrows of song in the
dark, or at best against a shadowy target of initials, leaving our
reader to discover their aim — half-ahnoyed if he should guess
rightly, wholly angry if he went astray. These more sincere, or
perhaps more artful, people go straight to the mark. The friend
or admirer chants his hymn of praise under his lady's lattice-
and in the open light of day. If this be too unreserved for love
it is likewise too personal for friendship. One can judge of the
absolute result better by listening to the strain.
The chief value of the book lies in the insight it gives in re-
lation to a phase of Mexican character little credited by the out-
side world — the appreciation of woman. The preface . might be
quoted entire for the elevation of its sentiment and the purity of
its ideal of the sex. Space allows us to choose only one of its
lighter and more graceful thoughts, interpolated in the prose
text to give the editor's conception of the theme which inspired
the volume :
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1887.] A Gardbn op Mexican Song. 213
" And what is Poesy ? " she said.
As laughingly she questioned me.
" The smile upon thy lips ; the red.
Ripe bloom upon thy cheek so fair ;
The glinting of thy golden hair ;
Those flashing eyes that scorn control ;
Thy budding form ; thy waking soul —
Thou I thou thyself art Poesy ! "
The first nunnber is dedicated to Carmen Romero Rubio de
Diaz, wife of the President It is in a more hackneyed vein, and
neither so graceful nor so expressive as many of the others. We
may charitably suppose that the exalted rank of the First Lady
in the land somewhat overshadowed the genius of the writer,
or that its insertion was an after-thought suggested by policy,
and that desire to curry favor in high places from which, alas !
even poets are not wholly exempt. This is the more to be re-
gretted since the dark, bright beauty of Seftora Diaz ought to
be a prolific source of inspiration to the fortunate mortal who
chose it as a text The best lines are in this simile:
" Generous as the stream that spreads
Its rich gifts 'mid garden-beds.
Yet alike through weed and sand
Flows in blessing through the land/'
The translations following are taken entirely at random, and
given as literally as diverse rhythms, impossible in English, will
permit. I notice in particular one oddity of construction which
seems to mark a favorite form. The lines, regular in rhyme and
length, begin with a small letter ; but occasionally, at spasmodic
intervals, and without any connection with the grammatical divi-
sion of sentences, a capital is prefixed :
" TO JOSEPHINA ESPERON.
" From her red lips' chalice fair
Flower- like perfume fills the air.
And her voice, like song of bird.
Thrills the heart at every word.
In her eyes' dark light divine
Glories bom of sunset shine.
And in radiant splendor preach
Eloquence that passeth speech.
" If her beauty could but stand
Mirrored by an artist's hand.
Or inspire a poet's theme.
Men would think it but a dream."
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314 'A Gardbn of Mexican Song. [May,
The subject of the next bit of verse has inspired an odd mix-
ture of sentiment and materialism in her interpretfer. The com-
bination of the earthly teacher with the numerous heavenly bene-
factors of the beautiful singer is a triumph of realism. In the
original the abrupt transition is even more marked, since the line
rendered
"The Muse who presides," etc.,
is written
" £1 gran Melesio
En el conservatorio "
— a much more mythical personage to the world at large than
the character by whom I have replaced him :
"TO VIRGWrA CARRASQUEDO.
" Not hers are her graces ;
To gods they belong !
From Venus her charms ;
Love lent her his arms ;
The Muse who presides
Over harmony's tides
Hath shared with her gladly the sceptre of song !
" Morales, the master.
Doth list and rejoice.
Says : * More than Ulysses'
My fear and my hliss is ;
He heard but the ringing
Of sirens' sweet singing ;
He knew not the charm of Virginia's voice ! ' "
A particularly graceful expression runs through the lines—
"TO VALENTINA GOMEZ FARIAS.
" If he should chant thy wondrous grace.
Dumb would the singer's music be ;
If he should strive to picture thee.
Never a line could artist trace !
For of a soul as pure as thine
How could the semblance e'er be true.
If the glad brush that painted you
Had not been dipped in tints divine.
Or if the poet's lyre had known
No tones save those of earth alone ! "
Many of the lines are brightened by jeux (V esprit ^ depending
for their point upon Spanish words in which similarity of sound
or spelling covers a totally different meaning. The archness of
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1887.] A Gardsn of Mexican Song. 215
the little verse which follows is more comprehensible and de-
cidedly epigrammatic :
"TO GUADALUPE DE LA FUENTE,
" Once Cupid's eyes were clear,
Open, and kind ;
Bat, alas 1 You, my dear.
He chanced to find ;
Only one glance he gave —
Since then who paints the knave
Must paint him blind ! "
Concha is at once the n^me of a sea-shell and the preUy
Spanish diminutive of the name Concepcion. In sober prose it
would be questionable whether a pearl was ever found in any*^
thing more romantic than an oyster-shell. But who would be
such an iconoclast as to overthrow a poetic image for the forlorn
comfort of setting up in its place a paltry fact in natural history ?
•• TO CONCHA MARTINSZ.
" Above the white foam and the azure sea
A gleaming shell doth float,
And the bright sun that glows resplendently
Kisseth the fairy boat.
" The world it glads with beauty doth not know
The treasure in its breast —
The precious pearl that, radiant as the snow, \
Within its heart doth rest.
" Sweet Concha I on life's sea thy beauty rides.
And man^s applause doth win ;
But only we who love thee know it hides
The (air white soul within.**
"TO MARIA AMELIA ROMO.
** Earth was a bower of roses rare and pale.
And heaven a starry sea ;
Through the soft shadow sang the nightingale
His wondrous melody.
Twas springtime^ and the dewy dawn was wet,
When, from its dreaming stirred.
The flower's soul, in sweetness rising, met
The bright soul of the bird ;
And from that kiss thy loveliness was born —
FsMr.shrioQ that doth enplose^ .
The song-bird's voice, the brightness of the morn.
The perfume of the rose I"^
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2i6 A Garden of Mexican Song. [May,
In some cases the tribute is paid in prose, in a form which
suggests the metrical swing and irregular cadence of Walt Whit-
man. I transcribe literally a portion of one :
''TO MARIA ALFARO.
" Nature, splendid In all her manifestations, has offered the poet an in-
finite number of exquisite objects with which to compare woman. But the
glowing imaginations of those votaries of Apollo, not content with the en-
chanting reality of flowers, of stars, of sunbeams, of birds, of palm-trees,
of pearls, and of diamonds, have flown from the visible world to seek the
forms of seraphs and angels, of celestial powers, and of the marvellous
visions with which fancy has peopled infinite space, to discover among
these also new graces with which to adorn their idol. . . .
" Amid this wealth of magnificent and brilliant images, and from this
universe of real and imaginary beauties, I, who have now reached in my
wandering the frigid and narrow zone of old age, desire to choose from my
remembrances a flower, a diamond, a star, which may serve as the emblem
of a young girl who has flashed across these latter days of my life. ... Is
she a jasmine, blossom-sister to the violet, and, like it, hiding from the pro-
fane gaze of the vulgar ? Is she Modesty, insensible to the allurements of
flattery, and obedient only to the inspiration of virtue ? Is she the gentle
spirit of cheerfulness ? Is she the angel of the fireside ? Is she sunshine ?
Is she perfume t
" I do not know. I question my soul in vain. Neither in one nor in all
can I find the exact counterpart of Maria Alfaro ! "
In a paper of this kind it is as difficult to know where to
stop as where to begin. Before I close I will cull for the reader
a few stanzas from the longer poems:
"TO MARIA AUBIRT Y DUPONT.
/' If 'mid the shades on high \
They should meet, nor know her name,
' Beatrice ! ' would Dante exclaim ;
• Leonora ! ' would Tasso sigh."
**T0 ROSARIO* BARRED A.
^ Many a beautiful brown girl splendid.
With eyes of the night and morning blended.
Springs from the soil of Vera Cruz ;
But, amid all the loveliest faces,
Show me but one of your height and graces —
If but the gods would let me choose !
J
*Ro6ario is tht namt of a girl and a rotary.
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1887.] A Garden of Mexican Song. 217
" Exquisite rose of perfection ! soon
You can no longer hide, and then,
When your bright face from the balcony shines,
Under your window will hang, as at shrines,
Rosaries — made from the hearts of men."
"TO ELENA FUSNTBS.
" If for beautiful Helen of old.
Chosen by Paris, a city fell,
And heroes of Greece spent life and gold.
How many Troys, under Fate's grim spell.
Would perish by fire and sword for thee,
If each one who sees thee might Paris be I "
It will be seen that although in these songs there is no very
marked degree of originality in thought or sentiment, there is
yet a most dexterous handling of the similes which have been
used to illustrate woman's loveliness through so many centuries,
and an aptness of phrasing which often puts them in a new light.
There is besides a great cleverness in the use of poetical forms,
and evidence of much practical experience in their use — a good
stock of tools, and skilful hands in their management. One may
regret the want of that freshness of conception which the mind
naturally expects in the productions of a people with whose tra-
ditions it is unfamiliar, and whose comparative isolation inspires
the hope of individuality. But there is still much to be grateful
for. It is doubtful whether a subject so exciting to th^ imagi-
nation, and so opportune for the introduction of warmth and
sensuousness of expression, has ever before been treated by a
guild of poets with an equal delicacy and purity. And, with-
out claiming any higher credit, I think it must be allowed that
the blossoms of this Mexican garden show a higher cultivation
and a more refined taste than our ignorance has been led to
exj)ect from the every-day products of the Aztec soil ; and that
for this reason, if for no other, they deserve more than a passing
sense of pleasure in their beauty and fragrance.
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2i8 Bishop Dudley's Reasons. [May,
BISHOP DUDLEY'S REASONS,
This right reverend gentleman, the Episcopal Bishop of Ken-
tucky, has, in recent numbers of the North American Review^
given reasons for the faith that is in him. His purpose was to
answer the question, ** Why am I a* Churchman ? '* For our own
part we do not like the question. It is, to our mind, a question
that should not be put Ask the average non-Catholic why he
professes the particular religion which he calls his own, and, if
he be candid, he will answer that he has been born in it and that
it suits him ; or, if not born in it, that he has been led into it by
some accident or association, and now likes it ; or, if he do not
like it, that he feels the need of some religion and has neither the
time nor the inclination to seek one that might please him better ;
or, if he did inquire, deep- rooted prejudice would prevent him
from examining the claims of the only religion that could satisfy
him. One or other of these answers might accord with truth,
but would not look well in the pages of a widely-read periodical.
Hence the answer to the question, ** Why am I a Churchman? '*
must be made to look honorable first, accurate afterwards. We ,
should prefer to see the question formulated thus : ** Why should 1
and alt ^en be Churchmen?*' Such a question might be argued
upon grpundjs nqn-sentimental and according to the rules gov-
erning serious disquisition. But so long as the question is for-
mulated as above, so long as men are asked to give tastes, not
reasons, for the faith that is in them, so long will the old rule de
gustibus silence discussion.
Why, therefore, do we, in violation of the law above referred
to {de gustibus), comment upon his article? Well, for this rea-
son : On reading his arguments, as we did carefully, we fre-
quently found ourselves so perfectly in harmony with the wri-
ter that we were forced to ask, " Is he a Catholic, or are we
Episcopalians?" Of course, from time to time, we noticed what
appeared to us to be errors and contradictions, but we were
willing to attribute them to a lack of thoroughness and finish
often noticeable even in good writers. We would now most re-
spectfully submit what we believe to be some of the bishop's
mistakes.
Before doing so, however, we wish to assure the bishop that
when he appropriates the term " Churchman,'* we do not cry
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1887.] Bishop Dudley's Reasons. 219
out " arrogant exclusiveness," as some others seem to have done.
Since a majority vote of his national Convention has denied his
title to a better name, it would be illiberal indeed in us to quar-
rel with his assumption of this.
Now, we are not entirely pleased with his saying that he is
"a Churchman icom principles of expediency.^* This wicked world
may pervert the meaning of that italicized phrase. Men have
grown so selfish that, whatever be the etymological meaning of
the word, expediency is not considered as necessarily connected
with truth and honor. Of course the bishop gives his meaning
further on, and that meaning sets his motives right.
He reasons h priori. He assumes the Christian revelation,
and an abiding witness to the facts therein contained. Then,
waiving " the question whether any particular form of organiza-
tion has been authoritatively prescribed," he asks : " What ma-
chinery of organization wOuld our wisdom devise " for the work
before us in our age and country ? One of the works before us,
he says, is " the upbuilding of the temple which shall be the very
Body of Christ because composed of * living stones,' living with
his life." Now, it seems to us that he cannot consistently waive
the question of "a particular form of organization authorita-
tively prescribed," and at the same time suppose " the Body of
Christ" among us. The "Body of Christ" is a very "particu-
lar form of organization/' and cannot exist unless " authorita-
tively prescribed." Nor is it for our wisdom to devise machin-
ery of organization for it. It has, and must necessarily have
from the beginning, its own organization and principles of action
and development The mistake the bishop makes is in suppos-
ing that the Body of Christ is something entrusted to his cares to
be organized and moulded according to his wisdom. Whereas a
Kttle reflection would have taught him that he is neither to plan
nor to construct, nor even to keep sentinel at the gate, but is to
enter the sacred edifice as a living stone, and work in harmony
with, and by virtue of, its life.
Though we cannot agree with him regarding the work, we
heartily endorse his views regarding the necessity of a worker.
A church with the exalted mission of witness to truth is de-
manded, he thinks through human perversity, we think through
man's craving for certainty and fear of deception. However, we
are glad that the bishop does not insist upon our being satisfied
with " arguments by which the authenticity and genuineness of
our books are secured," though he hints that were we not wicked
we would be. Nor does he think that, taking things as they are,
even " spiritual experience " — which he calls, in an unguarded
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220 Bishop Dudley* s Reasons. [May,
moment we hope, " stronger than proof of Holy Writ " — enough.
For men " mock at the unreality and pitiful delusion." So they
do, and not without cause. " Is there not, must there not be, a
living witness, older than the book?" Certainly, but we do not
like your way of coming at it We do not mean to be profane
when we say that it reminds us too forcibly of what in mercan-
tile affairs is called " Jewing." It runs thus : " Take the Gospel
on its merits." "No." "Take it, for the criticism of the
learned has established its authenticity." " I cannot." " Well,
you are unreasonable, but still I can accommodate you. Read
it carefully, and from your own spiritual experience you will be
convinced of its claims." " I distrust my spiritual experience."
" You are assuredly sceptical and on the road to perdition, but,
from the abundance of my commiseration for your immortal soul,
I will do what may be considered outside my province. My
stately sister of Rome has a way of convincing the most exact-
ing mind. If you are not satisfied with the methods I have prof-
fered, accept the Gospel according to hers. There is a living
witness, older than the book, who assures us it is the word of
God." " Prove that witness unerring and I submit." Now, we
venture to affirm that this is not the candid way of dealing with
an unbeliever. If you are an authorized minister and " dispenser
of the word," you should not withhold the best until the inferior
is declined. Though, in all confidence, we do not blame an
Episcopal divine for being chary of church authority.
Having both waived and supposed revelation, the bishop
tells us that he has not yet brought us to the Episcopal Church.
For he can imagine a half-dozen ways in which the proposed
work might be accomplished. He is sure, however, that there
must be a "regular transmission of authority." And as in
human affairs order is preserved by official gradation, so in the
ministry there must be different "rank and privilege." Thus
unity is secured. But still, he says, we may " look for a limita^
tion of the process of unifying the servants of Christ." Where
to strike the " limitation " he does not tell us. If it be portion
of Episcopal faith, we should expect at least an attempt to prove
it " by most certain warrant of Holy Scripture." But no ; this
doctrine, upon which Episcopalianism and its Anglican parent
stand, is sustained only by the facts that " every hive will have
its own queen, each flock of birds its own leader." Because the
bird-leader cannot despatch his orders to the uttermost parts of
the earth, the Head of Christ's church should not try !
He gives a discreet and timely lesson to the florid and emo-
ional preacher, whose sole aim is to excite the feelings to the
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1887.] Bishop DudlrVs Reasons. 221
utter neglect of solid instruction and calm resolve. He does
not believe in "passionate pleading," or in the "portrayal of
bliss or of the flames that shall burn." He believes in instruc-
tion and training, in the "exposition • . . of the noble duty of
sworn allegiance." We hope, however, that he does not wish to
throw discredit upon the eternal truths as a motive power in ihe
spiritual life. No doubt he holds them in reserve for the recal-
citrant When "the noble duty of sworn allegiance" fails to
awaken responsive action, surely he would not decline to invoke
the Mighty Four. It may not be good breeding in this theophi-
lanthropicage to refer too picturesquely to that vulgar word hell,
and sheol does not terrify; it may sound as a stretch of the
imagination — and a dignified Churchman cannot afford to stretch
his imagination — to portray in true colors the bliss of heaven to a
people whose ideal paradise, as represented by the honors they
heap upon their dead, is a veritable " Castle of Indolence," whose
chief features are flowers and " rest " ; but surely if men are, by
their vicious lives, forfeiting some great good and incurring
some dire penalty, in charity they should be told of it. We do
not believe in the oratory that would fire to warlike action un-
trained hands, nor do we believe in the cold formality that con-
siders it a breach of etiquette to arouse the sluggish.
By a continued process of differentiation .the bishop brings
us, as he supposes, to the door of the Episcopal Church. Want-
ed, a church of organic unity, of apostolic succession, of reve-
rence for antiquity ; a church around which Christianity, now in
fragments, may conscientiously rally. In the "sober thought"
of the right reverend gentleman, the Protestant Episcopal
Church of the United States of America and " her sisters of the
Anglican communion" are that Christianity. Enter, and see for
yourself :
Here is an authorized ministry rejoicing in apostolic succes-
sion, missing links to the contrary notwithstanding. Here are
orders of ministers. Here the "herald*' receives from "duly
empowered officers," though there have been some uncharitable
remarks about power being sometimes transmitted by the unem-
powered. Here, too, is " the subordination of every part " to —
you will find out when grace touches you. Remember, also,
that there is no Catholicism here. " Here is no vast aggregation
of innumerable subordinates under one chief, such that he cannot
even understand the various languages wherein they were born
and which they speak." This will explain Episcopalianism's
poor success with the heathen. It cannot, according to its or-
ganic principles, preach the Gospel to him until his language be*
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222 Bishop Dudley's Reasons. ' [May,
comes known to its chief. This " commanding oflBcer " must
take in, with ** eye and brain and heart," all the work and all the
workers. He cannot trust to the wisdom and prudence, nor
even to the testimony, of others. These regulations may appear
injurious to the poor heathen, indeed impossible in practice, but
our argument must not lead to Rome.
The bishop has a word to say to those who deny him the
unity which he claims ifor his church. In their eflForts to sneer
he says they mistake the non-essential for the essential. He re-
minds them that " liberty of thought is part of the liberty where-
with Christ has made us free." He does not definitely state,
and perhaps he would deny our right to infer, .that in the glo-
rious liberty of the sons of God we are even free to reject
Christ's own word. A little further on we meet a passage for
which, to put it mildly, we were not prepared. He says:
*' Some very Broad-Churchmen will still * sneer at Scripture, read
Greek poetry, and be liberal in their views.' But notwithstand-
ing all these wide differences of opinion, which are lawful," etc.
How a churchman, an Episcopal bishop, can call sneering at
Scripture a lawful difference of opinion is beyond comprehen-
sion. However, in spite of these differences, he assures us they
are all one ; for no matter what the preacher or priest may hold
or proclaim, all must repeat the church's words. Now, what is
this church for whose sake men become hypocrites ? Is it a dead
voice, the voice of the Prayer-Book ? Is it the memory of a few
who fought so stubbornly against Rome in the sixteenth cen-
tury ? Has it now no authorized living voice? Do those who
speak in its name misrepresent it? Must we, then, in order to
know what it is, consult its Prayer-Book or its Ordinal, and pay
no attention even to its bishops ?
Another reason why the claims of the Anglican Church
should be admitted is because she gives "true honor to the
Holy Scripture," though she permits Broad-Churchmen to sneer
at it. She, the bishop tells us, reads more of it at her regular
service than any other body of Christians. Perhaps she does,
but it seems to us that if lengthy Scriptural readings be a proof
of church excellence, any body of men trained to vocal endu-
rance, say pedlars, might establish the best church yet. Above
all, we are informed, the Anglican Church proclaims her devo-
tion by inserting among her "Articles of Religion" the follow-
ing: "The Holy Scripture containeth all things necessary to
salvation ; so that whatsoever is not read therein, nor may be
proved thereby, is not to be required of any man that it shou\d
be believed as an article of faith, or to be thought requisite, or
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necessary to salvation/' This church, however, has not yet suc-
ceeded in showing where this article itself is contained in Holy
Scripture, nor how it may be proven thereby. Hence, accord-
ing to your own principle, we are permitted to say that " it is
not to be required of any man that it should be believed as an
article of faith." Nor is it contained in the Apostles* Creed, be-
lief in which seems to be a sufficient disposition for Anglican or
Episcopal baptism.
The bishop's claim to Catholicity cannot betaken seriously.
His own misgivings are clearly indicated in the small "c"with
which he writes the word "Catholic." But, to make the joke
still more amusing, he is ** Protestant " also. He tells us that his
church " is the only witness to declare unto men what are the
books of the Bible, and she bears equal witness to facts of
church life to which often but partial and passing reference
is made in the sacred records." " She teaches us, and she only,
that only the first day of the week shall be kept holy. She
teaches us, and she only, that women may partake of the Lord's
Supper." That is information surely! Has he forgotten that
*'Holy Scripture containeth all things necessary for salvation"?
We are afraid that he has forgotten his theme. Dazzled by the
splendor of ecclesiastical achievement, he has lost sight of the
Protestant Episcopal Church of America and of " its sisters of
the Anglican communion."
Another proof of the excellence of the Episcopal Church is
that it demands no confession of sins either in secrecy or in ex-
citement. This proof, we think, deserves to rank with the one
deduced from the fact that the church is not catholic, but national
or insular. However, though no confession is demanded, " if a
man cannot quiet his own conscience, as an earnest Christian man
surely ought to be able to do, then he may come to some minis-
ter of God's word and open his grief, * that he may receive such
godly counsel and advice as may tend to the quieting of his con-
science.' " Whether a man could quiet his conscience or not,
would it not be well for him to come occasionally to ** some min-
ister of God's word " for "godly counsel" ? The practice should
not be made odious by saying that an earn^t Christian should
be able to guide himself. Remember there are many men whose
consciences are, unfortunately, only too easily quieted. Why
not ui^e these to seek *' godly counsel and advice " ?
The bishop's remarks upon the Holy Eucharist may perhaps
be considered definite when we remember that he assures us
his church itself has "nor theory nor exposition" upon that
exalted subject. In the administration of the Holy Sacrameot
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224 Bishop Dudley* s Reasons. [May,
the church uses a formula which it does not pretend to under-
stand. She witnesses and commemorates a fact the nature of
which she does not know. She, however, is certain that it is not
a mere sign on the one hand, nor Transubstantiation on the
other, but is something between these extremes. Avoiding the
extremes, therefore, each person, each child, the bishop tells us,
may have his own theory. And so this "only witness" is igno-
rant of the true nature of the Sacrament of Christ's body and
blood, and must consequently fold its arms and gape like an im-
becile while children theorize. We are not surprised that the
pious bishop should sometimes forget that he belongs to such a
church.
There is another consideration upon which the bishop dwells
at some length. It is, however, but fair to say that he is not the
only one who does. It seems to be the ambition, indeed the
hobby, of certain divines of the various denominations to show
that their special religions are peculiarly adapted to the age and
country. Each one seems bent upon proving that his own faith
can best accord with popular prejudices, and at the same time
subserve the interests for which our government was established.
We are ashamed to see religion parasitic. It should not try to
twine round a stronger, for it should acknowledge no stronger.
There is too much latent Erastianism among the sects. It is un-
principled, and, what perhaps is a more cogent consideration, it
does not pay in America. This government does not seek secta-
rian alliance, nor should it be sought by it. Religion is intended
to worship God, and not any other power. It should not bend a
knee before any government. Its duty is to sustain and teach al-
legiance to lawful authority, to recognize the supremacy of such
authority within its own sphere. But in case of state usurpation
of rights of conscience religion must maintain its own superiori-
ty. It is, therefore, a shame to see religion begging for recogni-
tion because it is like or can harmonize with something else.
Show that religion is true, that it comes from God, that it is
now the same as he gave it, that it alone can save man, and so
much the worse for anything with which it does, not harmonize.
It does not depend upon natural selection, nor upon political se-
lection either. Episcopalianism, Presbyterianism, and the other
isms nowhere show greater weakness than in reaching out for
a comer of the Constitution's cloak. We admit, however, that
it is hard to blame the perishing for forgetting principle in order
to grasp at protection.
We much prefer the ring of this sentence, which we are glad
to quote from Bishop Dudley : ^' It must be so, for so katk the
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1S87.3 Bishop DudlbV^s Reasons. 225
Lord ardainedr Yes, bishop, take up and fortify that position,
and you may defy the world. What the Lord hath ordained is,
that the form of church government should be episcyjpal. The
bishop proves this to the satisfaction of every unprejudiced mind
capable of understanding an argument He quotes from, and
refers to, a worjc by a Mr. Timlow. Were we permitted to make
an amendment we would substitute some one of the many dog-
matic theologians recogniz^ as authorities in the Catholic
Church. In these you would find the question more method-
ically treated, with perhaps one or two irrelevant arguments
omitted. However, we. are willing to admit that the bishop
maintains his position, and as against the Presbyterian he has
certainly the best of the argument If the Episcopal Church be
the only church rejoicmg in bishops, then it is the true church, if
the true church still continues. But we must not forget that
•there is another church which disowns, rejects, and anathema-
tizes the church of Bishop Dudley, and which at the same time
lays claim to the " historic episcopacy." It will therefore appear
that in this argument in favor of his church, derived from the
ordained form of ecclesiastical government, the bishop proves
too much, and hence, by a well-recognized rule of logic, proves
nothing.
We do not question the bishop's right to say why he is a
Churchman. Nor do we doubt the sincerity of his professions.
He no doubt follows the dictates of his conscience, and believes be-
cause it is impossible. We would, however, remind him that the
impossibility which sometimes commands intellectual submission
on the part of generous souls is not the impossibility of reason,
the incompatibility of two terms. No religion can be inconsis-
tent and true. The God of law and order cannot be the author
of contradiction.
The strained logic and inconsequence of argument, so appa-
rent in the Churchman plea, come from the necessity of the case,,
not from inefficiency in the pleader. If we are mistaken, we
hope some other champion of Episcopalianism will come to the
defence. It is hard to find justification in reason or revelatioa
for what is born of passion. Hence the trying situation of a
Protestant apologist.
Principles of prudence and tact dictate to us the wisdom of
learning to like what we have, when we have not what we like.
In matters of religion these principles do not hold. For in these
matters we can always have the best; we can have what God es-
tablished, and assuredly it is the best. There is, however, no
VOL, XLV.— IS
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226 Intemperance an Enemy to Labor. [May,
denying that habits, old associations, and treasured memories
endear to us institutions which have no other claim upon us.
From very ^generosity we love them for their weaknesses, per-
haps for their faults. We rush to their defence, and exhaust our
strength in blows that would be well-aimed were it not for the
shaky ground upon which we stand. We are not, therefore, sur-
prised that the Bishop of Kentucky, in the ardor of his devotion,
should suppose that he has established the claims of his church.
He says it comes neither from Rome nor from Geneva, and yet
it is both Protestant and Catholic. But thinking men will
hardly be satisfied with this demonstration. Affirmation and
negation may flatter certain prejudices, but they do not meet
the demands of reason nor do they point out the church of
God.
INTEMPERANCE AN ENEMY TO LABOR.
The great battle in our country is between labor and capital.
Arrayed in hostile camps, these two great elements of commer-
cial life are working out one of the problems of modern society.
Labor, for the first time thoroughly organized, meets its well-
armed adversary in open field and demands its full rights. Capi-
tal, the outgrowth of labor, handicapped by monopoly, has
developed a tendency to tyranny, and now realizes that not
only its privileges but even its rights are endangered. The
contest is a desperate one, and the consequences are far-reach-
ing. While the principles of justice must ever guard sacredly
the rights of workman and capitalist alike, human sympathy
almost instinctively declares, itself for the weaker element, and
thus the workingman finds his cause protected and aided by the
church, who is always the friend of the oppressed and the lover
of the poor. Her divine Founder came in poverty to teach man
that wealth is not virtue nor want a crime ; he came to labor,
and thus teach the world that work is not the badge of the slave
but of the freeman, that independence earned by the sweat ot
the brow is the noblest reward of manhood. The homes of
honest labor have formed the character of many an ecclesiastic
in Christ's church whom duty calls to carry on this mission
among the toilers. It is not surprising, therefore, that in this
country especially labor finds its best champions and truest
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friends in the church. And this is fortunate ; for, in the battle
for its rights, labor should be wisely guided, and certainly
ought not to overlook anything that injures, degrades, or tends
to destroy its life or its fruits. Theorists or adventurers in so-
cial or economic science find the workingman a convenient tool
for all their schemes. His grievances are popular chords to
strike, though the benefits promised are seldom obtained. La-
bor is led to believe that capital is the one great enemy. Crush
that and all is gained. But such truths as that one cannot exist
without the other; that one is the correlative of the other; that
if labor is the soul, capital is the body, of commercial life — these
are truths often forgotten in the wrangle for supremacy.
It may not be pleasant to discuss the faults or mistakes of
labor, especially in the presence of its powerful antagonist. The
athlete, however, training for the contest, wants every weak
muscle strengthened ; the general in charge of the army must
allow no point to remain unprotected, if he would succeed. The
lance and probe of physicians are not calculated to create plea-
sant sensations, but they often save valuable lives. Canker de-
mands the caustic to prevent the spread of disease by the
destruction of the part diseased. Social canker often fastens
itself upon popular movements, and will cause ruin if not re-
moved. In looking at the interests of labor it has often appear-
ed to me that sight is lost of the ruin wrought by intemperance,
and I feel impelled to warn labor to look this enemy straight in
the face and give battle to it at once. And it may be well to
say that I do so on this occasion viewing the subject mainly from
an economic point of view, and will touch but indirectly on the
religious aspect of the question.
What does labor demand ? Its full rights. What are they ?
The independence and comfort of the workingman ; a reasonable
share in the prosperity he has made ; a man's earning for a man's
work ; a full day's wages for a full day's toil. Labor is intelli-
gent now and is organized to win these rights, and society for *
its own welfare must desire that the day of settlement soon dawn.
In the meantime why should not labor make the most of what it
already has, both for enjoyment and defence against enemies?
Can it aflFord to waste anything? Let us, therefore, attempt to
estimate the havoc intemperance works among the wage-earners.
To do this judiciously let us consider the workingman as a capi-
talist and as an earner. What ! the workingman a capital-
ist? Yes; a limited one, it is true, yet having a capital to in-
rest What is it? Not money, but, better still, the power to
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228 INTEMPSRANCE AN ENEMY TO LABOR. [May,
produce money. His capital is bodily health, energy, industry,
skill. With these he seeks investment in the centres of trade.
Moneyed capital hires him and he receives a stipulated dividend.
Power of endurance, strength of frame, taste, ingenuity, execu-
tion, all tend to make him valuable, and as he becomes useful or
necessary to trade he obtains a higher rate of interest on his in-
vestment. Now, what in many cases renders his capital unfit for
investment and frequently destroys it absolutely ? Is it not intem-
perance? It weakens health, paralyzes energy, warps the brain,
and diminishes the skill. How many wrecks of men strew the
highways of labor, how many new graves are opened to the youth
and manhood of the wage-earners, by intemperate lives? Accord-
ing to many of the best authorities, alcohol impairs the human
system, curtails its power of endurance, and shortens life. In-
surance companies, who study so thoroughly the tabled of mor-
tality, unite in refusing policies to habitual drinkers. Physicians
agree that the human system without alcohol is best able to with-
stand the shock of disease. Army records during the Russian
wars tell us that the first ones found dead from exposure were
Cossacks who had been addicted to drinking. Dr. Parr, a famous
English authority on such matters, speaking of cholera, said that
in time of epidemic he would have " Cholera for sale " placed as
a sign over all places where liquors were sold.
Who needs to guard his health from danger and protect it
more than the workingman? It is his capital ; if he loses his health
he is bankrupt. It is his source of strength and of happiness, and,
humanly speaking, almost his only one. The interests of home,
family, and society press upon him so closely that he must pro-
tect his labor by protecting his soundness of body. The happi-
ness and prosperity of others are so bound up with him that
when he falls others whom he best loves fall with him, and many
years are often needed to make up the loss of one year of the
workman's illness. Now, as universal experience demonstrates
the enfeebling eflFects of intemperate use of alcoholics, as statistics
abundantly prove the injury done to health by excessive drink,
the conclusion is inevitable : the workingman whose habits are
not temperate is wasting his capital, is squandering every ele-
ment of value that he can contribute to any enterprise so as to
secure a remunerative share of profits, whether it be in the shape
of profits or of wages. Who will take the intemperate man's
labor as an investment? It is worthless, or nearly so. It is often
criminal to allow him to endanger the property and lives of men
by managing machinery. He wastes where he should increase ;
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1887.] Intemperance an Enemy to Labor. 229
he scatters where he should gather; his hand deistroys where it
should build ; his life is a curse and not a blessing ; he is a stum-
bling-block to honest and industrious men, a disgrace to society,
and an enemy to labor.
Intemperance is easily seen to be a great enemy of labor, not
only by the very fact that it takes away its producing power,
deprives man of an opportunity to earn, but because it finally
forces him to become an object of the world's scornful charity.
What should be the worldly ambition of the workingman? Is
it not to elevate himself, to acquire happiness, to be master of
his own home so that he may pass his declining years in peace ?
And, taking a broader view, what is it, after all, that makes the
strength ot our country ? It is not the accumulation of wealth
nor the titles of nobility that wealth, if it ^red, would strive to
enjoy. It is the homes of our working-people which dot the
hillsides and fill the plains of our land. It is the cottages built
by money earned by labor, wherein are reared .the strong arms
and honest hearts and clear heads that develop our resources ;
and here are bred the brave men that would defend our liber-
tie& Will we be blind to the fact that enormous numbers of
workingmen and their children are deprived of the blessings
of a pure and virtuous family life by the curse of intemperance,
which is the leech drawing the very life-blood from labor ? For
bear in mind that it is not alone in the paralysis of labor as a
personal capital that the canker of intemperance appears. This
vice is the thief that, robbing the poor man of his hard-earned
wages, makes his house a pauper's home. Small at best is the
daily pittance grudgingly handed to many thousands ; small
indeed are the wages of the masses in comparison with the
high dividends of the stockholders. Intemperance mercilessly
squanders them. No pity for home, no thought of injustice to
wife and child, no memory of nature's most sacred duties or of
the mdst urgent wants of life unsatisfied at home. All must be
offered in incense to this Moloch. All must be sacrificed that
this appetite may be appeased.
I have often wondered why a workingman so seldom asks
himself, " Can I afford to drink ? " Let any one who is a mode-
rate drinker estimate what it costs in a year, and I think the
amount will astonish him. It will not be far from one month's
pay out of twelve. Suppose — as I have often stated it to men —
suppose it costs an average of fifteen cents a day ; and I do not
consider that estimate a very high one. Figure it out for a
month, or six months, or a year. It would pay the interest on a
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230 Intemperance an Enemy to Labor. [May,
mortgage of $i,ooo; it would purchase many an article of
household furniture ; it would bring into the home many a com-
fort now unknown ; it would at least pay many a bill which can-
not now be met. Add to this what is spent in a protracted
spree, the time lost to work and the wages unearned, the sick-
ness often resulting, the money lost at the gaming-table, and it
is safe to say that intemperance robs labor of more than enough
to give a decent home to any workingman. I have often asked
what would be the language used if a notice were posted in the
shops declaring a reduction of fifteen cents a day, and I can
readily imagine their answer : " We are working now for star-
vation wages, we find it difficult now to keep body and soul to-
gether, and here is another reduction. Let us resist it." Secret
meetings would be hi*W, district assemblies would take action, a
strike might be ordered and a boycott issued. Then why not
protest against the blood-tax which intemperance collects?
Why calmly submit to this reduction of your small wages?
Why not strike against this great enemy of labor and boycott
Rum ? It is like a grinding capitalist ; it crushes man's life, picks
his pockets, and uses his hard earnings as a bludgeon to destroy
him. Cry out against the corporations that poorly pay your
labor, unite against monopolists who seek to get the most possi-
ble work for the least possible pay ; but cry also for protection
against this master Intemperance, who, whip in hand, lashes
worse than ever overseer tortured slave.
When will workingmen open their eyes to all the dangers
that surround them? When will they be led not only to seek
for higher and better wages, but also to protect the wages they
now receive ; not only to clamor for emancipation from slave-
labor, but for freedom from the rule of drink? It is mortifying
to see labor not only supporting the liquor-traffic but actually
defending and protecting it in political life. The saloon is the
enemy of labor, as it is the enemy of home. Capital is called
selfish because it seeks to enrich itself. Yet in enriching itself
it helps to enrich others, for it is engaged in commerce. But for
pure, unadulterated selfishness commend me to the saloon,
where men grow rich by impoverishing their friends, and suc-
ceed by trampling others under foot. In our large centres li-
quor-dealers become political magnates, who dictate public
policy, make and unmake public men and public laws; and name
the candidates freemen must vote for. What is their interest in
legislation? Only one thing : the liquor- traffic. What do they
care for labor or labor legislation? Their representatives m the
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I887-] Intemperance an Enemy to Labor. 231
legislature, elected by the votes of workingmen, may be absent
every day, except when it is question of liquor-law amend-
ments, and then they must vote against any and every restric-
tion or be exposed to political decapitation ; and it is the same
whether it be question of high license in New York or an anti-
tenement liquor-bill in Massachusetts. Do you find such pure
selfishness anywhere else ? Labor called not only to support in
idleness and to lift into wealth all who are in the trade, but
actually to vote and legislate in their interest and for their pro-
tection !
Who support the saloons ? Certainly not the wealthy classes ;
they seldom enter any establishment that may be called by that
name. It is the poor, foolish workingman who allows himself
to be bled that the liquor-traffic may live. In one of our factory
cities in Massachusetts, with 15,000 operatives, there are 375
public saloons, or one in every forty. That is to say, 40 work-
ing-people are supposed to support a saloon. When you con-
sider that out of those 15,000 operatives there must be several
thousands who never use liquor, you can readily see how heavy
this blood-tax is upon the classes that drink. And we can also
see why so many are in misery and degradation, perfect strangers
to happiness, contentment, or independence, always paying rent,
and always in debt.
Workingmen, open your eyes ! Protect your labor, save your
earnings. You are in a great contest for your rights ; you need
clear heads ; you need manhood, which teaches to make the most
of every day, which enables you to earn and to enjoy. Labor is
the badge of manhood. Labor is the noblest title in America.
It is the key to American success. Intemperance has already
swept out of life more than war and famine have destroyed. Its
scythe is still deep in the harvest. Men are still falling beneath
it. Be men. Break off every chain of slavery. Protect your
labor from the tyranny of drink. If you are going to be Knights
of Labor and struggle for your rights, be also knights of tempe-
ranee. Preserve the powers given by God to enable you to labor
and to earn, and, when you have earned, to purchase happiness,
comfort, and independence, and not misery, misfortune, and
slavery, for these are the fruits of intemperance. Labor has too
noble a mission to be allowed to become a handmaid of intempe-
rance.
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232 Festal Lyrics. [May,
FESTAL LYRIC,
ON THE FIFTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF THE EVENTFUL PRIESTHOOD
OF POPE LEO XIII.
\}Vriti4n /» th4 mtmiuf tmd arraugtd U tks music tfa Sw*iU$k air,"]
I.
Twine laurels for him, the Pontiff and classic,
The statesman and poet, far over the seal
We waft gratulation
And wreath of ovation.
Pope Leo, to thee!
II.
Years fifty thy palms ! In youth the robed valiant
By Gregory sent Benevento to save.
And swept was marauding
And titled defrauding
From castle and cave.
III.
And lo ! in thine age, when Europe was arming,
The fisherman's ring was a circlet of calm.
It hushed in the Rhine-land,
And France the fair vine-land.
War's muttering storm.
IV.
Hail, Pontiff of peace, of light and advancement !
With bays and with music thy name we entwine.
God's music supernal
And laurels eternal,
Pope Leo, be thine !
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1887.] MaY'Song TO THE Madonna. 233
MAY-SONG TO THE MADONNA.
Of all the queens in month of May
Proclaimed and crowned with flow'rs,
Oh! none could ever once compare
With her we name as ours.
Ave ! Madonna, graced o'er all,
The first with us alway.
With pious minds and heedful hands
We crown thee Queen of the May.
Ave! Ave!
Maria, Queen of the May t
II.
O Star of Ocean ! bend a ray
To orbs the light that crave.
Our bark is toss'd ; oh ! intercede
With Him who still'd the wave.
Ah ! well-assured celestial aid
By lips like thine implored ;
For how were lightly aught denied
The Mother of our Lord ?
III.
Sweet month of Mary, festal May,
What joy thy coming stirs !
Yet with our gladness blends a sigh
For lives as pure as hers.
O Virgin Patron of our land,
O Voice for aid to pray !
Ave ! Madonna, *tis thy month :
We crown thee Queen of the May !
Ave! Ave!
Maria, Queen of the May !
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234 HoEL THE Fiddler. [May,
HOEL THE FIDDLER.
Luc PoRNic came from that race of hardy Breton sailors
who gave Newfoundland and Canada to France, and, in subse-
quent years, carried her victorious flag on the numerous priva-
teers that did so much harm to British commerce on the high
seas — a race which is not yet extinct, although the merchants of
St. Malo no longer arm privateers or send vessels on voyages of
discovery.
Pornic was engaged in the cod-fishery. A widower, he had
but two loves — the sea and his little son Hoel, whom he intend-
ed to take with him on his long voyages as soon as the child
should be old enough. Meanwhile the widow of his friend and
shipmate, Jean Legallec, took care of the boy and brought him
up with her little daughter Guyonne.
The worthy sailor, some time after his shipmate was drowned,
had conceived a simple plan which he deemed it his duty to car-
ry out. This was to marry his friend's widow, thereby acquir-
ing the right to support her — she was poor — and securing a mo-
ther's care for little Hoel. He was pacing the deck of his vessel
on her return trip when this happy thought occurred to him, and
it was so well fixed in his mind by the time he arrived in port
that he went straight to Widow Legallec's and startled her by
the matter-of-fact way in which he introduced the subject.
** Look here, Annaic," said he, " we must go to the rector and
get married; you will be a true mother to Hoel, and I a father to
your little Guyonne. Poor Legallec's soul will be pleased to see
this arrangement, I am sure."
** No, Pornic; Jean Legallec was my first and only love; I
will be faithful to his memory."
" But I was his shipmate; he and I were as one."
The widow could hardly restrain a smile at this argument.
** My friend," said she, and her eyes grew sad again, " even if
it were possible that I marry again — which cannot be — I would
never take a seaman for my husband. That cruel, treacherous
sea has robbed me of my happiness ; it has ruined my life ! I
fear it, I abhor it ! "
If Luc Pornic did not turn pale it was only because his cheeks
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1887.] HoBL THE Fiddler. 235
were too deeply bronzed to betray emotion by a change of color.
He drew a long breath, pulled out his twist of tobacco and bit
off a huge quid— his usual resource when he had to deal with a
knotty case — and, thus fortified, he resumed his argument:
** What! you, Annaic Legallec, the daughter of a fisherman
and the widow of as gallant a sailor as ever reefed a sail ; you,
whose first cradle was a rocking boat — you abhor the sea ! '*
" You speak of my father : he, as well as my husband, was
drowned."
" Well, he would have died on land all the same when his
time came," replied Pornic philosophically. "So with Legallec;
it was an unfortunate accident. Why, 1 have followed the sea
ever since I was a little chap, and I have not been drowned that
I know."
" Those that die in their beds die surrounded by their loved
ones," said the widow feelingly; '* they receive Christian burial.
They rest in peace ; their souls don't come moaning on stormy
nights, begging for our prayers."
The superstitious Breton made the sign of the cross; but if
the recollection of this popular belief staggered him, his native
obstinacy soon conquered.
" Bah ! " he argued. ** If they do they get what they want ;
people pray for them, and they stop moaning. I take my chances
of it, and don't object to a watery grave."
** Don't say that, Pornic ; it is tempting God. Think of your
boy."
" I do think of him, and that's why I want you to marry me.
He has no mother, poor little chap ! "
" I need not be your wife, old friend, in order to feel as a mo-
ther to him. I love the boy as much as I do my own lassie."
•* That you do, you kind woman ! But my boy is a source of
expense to you. You must let me make you more comfortable.
I have laid aside a snug little pile that I don't know what to do
with."
" You good Pornic ! That's the secret of it. You were try-
ing to find a way to make me take your money."
" Faith, I offered myself to you ; but if you won't have me
you can have no objection to taking my money. It does not go
to sea, though it comes from it. Ah ! ah ! ah ! " retorted Pornic,
delighted with bis own conceit.
*• Lay out your money safely for the boy," replied Annaic,
shaking her head ; " he is no expense to me."
" Ah ! I have it," cried the sailor, bent on carrying his point.
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236 HoEL THE Fiddler. [May,
" I shall buy a little cottage ; you will live in it with the children
and take care of my property. When I come ashore maybe you
will have a warm corner in the fireplace for your old friend to sit
in and smoke his pipe."
After much discussion this new proposition was finally ac-
cepted by the widow, and Pornic went his way rejoicing.
Annaic Legallec had good cause to hate the sea. The cir-
cumstances of her father's death had made a deep impression on
her mind, and she had brooded over this sad event until her hor-
ror of the sea had become a mania. When, two years later, she
lost her husband by drowning, the blow was not unexpected.
The circumstances alluded to were these: Her husband and
Ivon Karouet, her father, had gone on one of their long voyages,
and their vessel was overdue. Day after day Annaic, carrying
her baby-g^rl in her arms, accompanied her mother to the mole,
where, with other women, the wives and daughters of the absent
fishermen, they spent weary hours in watching the blue sea. At
last tidings came which filled the hearts of these poor creatures
with mingled hope and fear. The Jeanne- Marie had been shi[>.
wrecked ; twelve out of her crew of fifteen men had been picked
up at sea by a home-bound ship, which had just entered the harbor.
But the rescued sailors had made a vow in the hour of danger:
if Our Lady of the Sea would help them in this great peril, and
they lived to tread once more their native shore, they would not
speak or show their faces to friend or relative, not even to a mo-
ther or a wife, until they had ma4e their devotions at her shrine.
The ceremony was to take place the next day. This night of
terrible suspense was spent in prayer by these poor souls. When
morning came the whole distance from the basin to the church
was crowded with anxious faces ; for the shipwrecked seamen
were all natives of the town or of the adjacent country, and sym-
pathy as much as curiosity had brought the people thither.
The church-bells tolled, and the men made their appearance
on the quay.
They were bare-footed, their heads were shrouded in black
crape, and they wore loose blouses that hindered identification
by the figure. Each carried a lighted taper in his right hand.
They formed into line in single file and marched slowly to the
church, where the clergy met them at the door and conducted
them to the railing of the altar consecrated to Mary, Star of the
Sea. Here they knelt and remained with bowed heads while a
Mass of thanksgiving was being sung. At the conclusion of the
service they marched back to the church porch, and, turning
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1887.] HoEL THE Fiddler. 237
round, made a last genuflection and received the parting bene-
diction.
Their vow was now fulfilled, and, tearing off the ghastly veils,
they opened their arms to the dear ones assembled to greet
them.
Three despairing shrieks rang high above the concert of joy-
ful voices; three widowed wives were led away sobbing and
bewailingf their loss.
I von Karouct was one of the missing men.
When his wife reached home, supported by her son-in-law
and Annaic — the latter swayed alternately by joy at her hus-
band's rescue and grief for her father's death — the poor woman
took to her bed. Brain-fever set in, and in a few days she was
gone to meet her husband in the great unknown world beyond
the grave.
No wonder that Annaic Legallec hated the sea. And yet she
never thought of seeking a home in the interior country. The
inhabitants of those rugged coasts of Brittany are perpetually at
war with the ocean. True, it affords them their principal means
of livelihood, but, not content with robbing them of their sons, it
is continually encroaching upon their territory. Here the huge
waves lash furiously the rock-bound coast and tear up the fisher-
man's hut and the good-wife's vegetable garden ; there the tide
carries thousands of tons of sand upon the flat beach for the sun
to dry and the wind to drive far inland, covering up everything
and changing the whole aspect of the country.
It has ever been thus. There are places, now covered with
water, where stood ancient cities, and beaches where the treach-
erous sand has smothered the cries of many a victim. The tide-
water has not all gone back to the sea ; part of it has passed
through the sand as through a filter, and settled at the bottom
in some hollow whence it cannot escape. Woe to the unwary
traveller who, deceived by the uniformity of the sandy surface,
steps out of the beaten track into one of these man-traps ! He
feels his feet sinking, and every effort he makes to free them only
tends to increase the force of suction which is pulling him down-
wards. If there be not help within reach the unfortunate victim
is lost. He sinks out of sight and the sandy surface resumes its
wonted placid uniformity. A horse and cart sank thus once
under the eyes of the affrighted driver, who, by a timely spring
from his seat to the harder ground beyond, barely escaped being
buried alive.
Withal the sea has a strange fascination for the inhabitant of
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238 HoEL THE Fiddler. [May,
the coast. Its mysterious noises have been his lullaby in child-
hood ; he misses them when he is away. The voice of the tem-
pest brings to him the plaint of the graveless dead ; in the shrill
whistle of the midnight wind he recognizes the mocking laugh
of the demon of the rocks in quest of wandering souls. He
shudders, crosses himself, and says a prayer ; but these terrors
have for him a morbid charm, and even his priest is powerless to
show him the fallacy of them. After many centuries Christianity
has not succeeded in eradicating entirely the deep-rooted super-
stitions of the Druidical period. Some of these superstitions, in
the course of time, have become blended with the old Chrisfian
legends in the popular mind, and the Breton peasant indulges,
with sincere f:iith, in practices of whose pagan origin he has not
the slightest idea. When, on the eve of the Feast of St. John,
the young people build bonfires, and, after dancing around them,
display their agility by jumping over the burning pile, it would
be useless to tell them they are imitating the ancient sun-wor-
shippers' celebration of the summer solstice, when
"The sun is in his apogson placed."
You may tell them that on that occasion the priests of the sun,
having put out the sacred fire, kindled it anew, that they danced
round the fire to represent the circular course of the stars, and
that jumping over the flames was a religious rite by which the
jumpers were purified of their former uncleanness. They will
smile at your ignorance; they know what they are about! St.
John was sentenced to be burned alive, he was tied to the stake ;
but it was in vain his tormentors applied the torch to the pyre.
They could not kindle it ; God would not permit that his servant
should perish, and St. John was saved. This is the miraculous
event they are commemorating.
The mistletoe is no longer the sacred plant of the Druids,
yet it is held in great veneration under the name of Lougou ar
groas (the plant of the cross), for it preserves people from ma-
larial fevers, strengthens the muscles of the wrestler, and is a
sovereign cure for various cattle diseases. The Breton peasant
crosses himself when he sees the first star twinkle in the sky ; he
says a short prayer when a shooting-star flashes out of sight,
for it is a soul leaving its lifeless body. In such a locality the
menhirs zxt wicked giants who were changed into stone for insult-
ing the local saint; in such another they are pillars to which
Beelzebub was chained once upon a time, or rocks hurled by the
devil in a fit of powerless rage. As for the dolmens^ they are the
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1887.] HoEL THE Fiddler. 239
habitations of hideous but good-natured little black dwarfs,
known, according to the locality, as Cornicouets or Poulpiquets,
They were the owners of the land before the advent of Chris-
tianity ; they refused to be converted and hid themselves under
the dolmens^ where they had buried their treasures. They are
kindly disposed towards the tillers of the soil, and there are
stories of hidden treasures being found by peasants to whom
these elves were particularly friendly ; but they play sad jokes
sometimes, and more than once the belated drunkard who has
staggered upon a party of humorous cornicouets has been compel-
led to dance with them until he has fallen in a dead faint from
sheer fatigue.
Belief in those old superstitions, however, is rarely met with
nowadays. The efiforts of the clergy and the spread of education
have at last conquered. But the Breton is fond of the superna-
tural; many of the religious practices to which he clung so long
were harmless, though condemned by reason ; they were dear
to the poor and the simple, to whom they brought hope and
patience. What benefits will modern teaching bring to replace
these precious gifts?
Pornic was not slow to carry out his new plan. He found a
roomy cottage, with a goodly patch of ground, midway between
Le Vivier and Cherruex, and not far from the great sandy beach
of St. Michel. There were certain drawbacks : the cottage was
on the very edge of the marshy waste which extends as far as
Dol — an unhealthy locality; the situation was lonely and the
prospect dreary enough. But there never was such a bargain of-
fered, the notary said ; the owner, a recently-widowed fisher-
man's wife, was going to her relatives, some distance away, and
did not wish to remove anything. Why, there was the furniture,
the kitchen utensils, a nice little Breton cow which gave famous
milk, two old apple-trees, the garden in a good state of culiiva-
tion, and a patch of buckwheat ! Quite a little farm ! And high
ground, above tide-mark, yet close enough to the sea !
When Pornic left the notary's office fie was a landed proprie-
tor.
The worthy man gave himself no rest until he had seen the
Widow Legallec and her young charges duly installed in their
new home and made as comfortable as possible. Then, free
from care, and with the proud satisfaction of a kind-hearted,
hard-headed man who has done his duty and carried his point,
he returned to his beloved ship, which was soon to recommence
ploughing the waves in search of cod.
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240 HOEL THE FIDDLER. [May,
II.
Widow Legallec was a fair specimen of the thrifty, inde-
fatigable Bretonne^ who, be she the wife of a small farmer or the
wife of a fisherman, is the true helpmeet and mainstay of her
husband. According to the old Breton custom, he is the master^
who must be obeyed and waited upon ; but the wife is the true
head of the family, who plans, manages, and saves, who brings
up her children in the fear of God and the love of mankind, and
teaches them how to be honest men and virtuous women. Hum-
ble and loving, she does not assume to dictate; she wins consent
If her husband maintains his dignity by a certain sternness of
manner, he worships her in secret, and in the hour of trouble
and sorrow the strong man comes to her for comfort and conso-
lation. The Breton peasant-woman may be ignorant, hard work
may have robbed her of every feminine grace and elegance, but
she is the guardian-spirit of home, filling it with peace and love.
There are many poor families in Brittany, but unhappy homes
are few.
Under the widow's care Pornic's purchase very soon showed
a wonderful transformation. He hardly recognized it on his re-
turn home. The house was a miracle of cleanliness; the old
oaken furniture was mcide bright by constant polishing; the
household linen was as white as the driven snow. The trim
little garden yielded vegetables in abundance, and was made gay
with bright flowers; the gentle Breton cow's shiny coat showed
the care bestowed on her — care paid back tenfold in rich milk,
from which butter was made that would have commanded a pre-
mium in the Paris market. The soft-eyed animal was the pet of
the children.
These two grew apace. Guyonne was a blue-eyed, fair-haired
little creature, with pretty features always wreathed in smiles,
and a graceful figure. She was full of little womanly ways, very
gentle and very loving.
Hoel was tall for his age, but not strong ; neither did he have
his father's jovial disposition. His dark, handsome face wore
usually a dreamy expression akin to sadness. He seldom mingled
in the noisy games of the little fisher lads on the beach. He pre-
ferred Guyonne's company or a book. For he could read, and
was very fond of his books. Annaic had taught him his letters,
and the good old rector of Le Vivier had encouraged the boy's
studious disposition and had taken pains to teach him. This
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quiet, silent country boy was as well informed as most city boys
of his age.
Study, however, was not Hoel's only passion ; a still greater
one made him forego even his books. He had found an old fid-
dle in the garret, and was continually scraping it. The old
priest, himself a good musician, discovered his young pupil's
aptitude for music, and, to Hoel's delight, offered to teach him.
The boy's progress was very rapid. He astonished every one
that heard him. Pretty soon his fame spread to the neighboring
villages, and when there was a wedding or a christening Hoel
was always asked to come and bring his fiddle. But this was
not the kind of music he cared about; gay tunes seemed to af-
ford him little pleasure.
Of an evening the lad would take his violin and sit on the-
doorsteps or walk slowly in the little garden, discoursing sweet'
music, ** such as the angels hear,** Guy onne said as she listened'
rapt with melody. Hoel's instrument seemed alive; it sang in^
an unknown tongue, it sighed, it prayed, it moaned so sadly as
to bring tears to the eyes of the listener. Where the boy had^
found the secret of these melodies no one could telL Hte had'
seen but little written music, and that of a religious character ;
he had never attempted to write the simplest tune,. Hoel com-
posed by inspiration; he could not have noted down those won-
derful strains. The overflowing poetry in his nature found an
outlet in his instrument; he played as he might have spoken his
thoughts: he was a born artist.
When Pornic for the first time saw his son with a fiddle in
his hand he patted him on the head approvingly.
" That's right, my boy," said he ; *' a sailor who can scrape
a hornpipe is always welcome in the forecastlei Give us a^
tune."
Hoel turned pale, but he complied silently with his father's
request.
Annaic looked up quickly, but said nothing.
A little later, the young people having gone to see to the
cow, Pornic remarked to Annaic :
" The lad is pale and doesn't look strong. All this book-
study is no good. I must take him along with me next trip."
" Take him to sea 1 Do you want to kill him ? "
" How kill him ? I want to make a man of him. He is fifteen
years old, and it is high time he should come a-fishing. He
should have gone two years ago but for you saying he was
delicate."
VOL. XLV.— 16
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242 HOEL THE FiDDLER. [May,
"You don't intend still to make a sailor of him, do you?"
** Of course I do ! Why, what else can he do but come with
me ? Then I feel lonely sometimes and I want the little chap
aboard." ♦
" Have you no eyes ? " cried Annaic hotly. " Don't you see
that Hoel dreads the sea ? "
**What! my son afraid of the sea! It is you who have put
those notions into his head, Annaic."
" I swear to you," replied she, " that I have never tried to in-
fluence him. It is born in him, this fear. Remember, Pornic,
that time your ship was so long getting back and we gave her up
for lost. Your wife was almost distracted ; she mourned for you
day and night. Her child, Hoel, was born with the stamp of this
great sorrow upon him. This is the secret of his sadness, of his
horror for a seaman's life. I have watched him ; I know, and I
tell you, Luc Pornic, that you will kill him, your only son, if you
force him to follow your callmg."
"As far back as I can think we have all been seamen," groan-
ed Pornic; " he will be the first to give up the sea. And what
will he be — a land-grubber? "
** He has shown no preference," replied Annaic gently. ** He
helps me willingly in the garden- work, and does it well, but he
seems to think only of his fiddle. The rector says he may turn
out a great musician some day."
" A fiddler, when he could be a fisherman ! He, my son ! "
** Let us not borrow trouble, Pornic ; Hoel is yet but a child.
Leave it all in the hands of God. He knows what is good for
the boy."
** Yes, wait till he is too old to learn," objected the seaman ;
" your true sailors are those who begin early. Well, Annaic, I
won't be too hard on him," he added, after he had sought counsel
with his tobacco-pouch. " I'll leave him ashore this time, but he
must come on the next voyage and try how he likes it I wager
he w*on't care so much for all this fiddling and book-learning
after he has once tasted salt water. 'Tis in the blood, you see —
all seamen, the Pornics ! "
** Man plans and God leads him," said Annaic sententiously,
and the subject was dropped for the nonce.
Hoel never made his trial-trip. When the ship came home
Pornic was brought ashore with a broken leg.
He was tenderly nursed by Annaic and Guyonne. Hoel was
untiring in his loving care for his suffering father, and the latter
felt his boy grow nearer than ever to his heart. Pornic recov-
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1887.] HoEL THE Fiddler. 243
ered, but he remained irremediably lame. His sea-going days
were over.
" If only my son could step in my shoes!" the poor fellow
sighed when his fate was made known to him.
" I suppose I shall have to leave you now," said he to Annaic
one day after he had begun to limp about. " I shall go and live
at Cancale with the oyster-fishers."
" Why should you ? This is your house. Tending the gar-
den will be an occupation for you."
" You know very well I can't live here, with you as house-
keeper. People might talk about us."
*' I shall go to Cherruex," said the widow ; '* I have an aunt
living there."
" Yes, and separate the children, poor things ! We should
manage finely, Hoel and I, without a woman in the house."
^* You can hire one."
" To spoil all you have done in these long years. Nonsense !
ril tell you what, Annaic, this is your home ; you love it, and
you know it would make your heart sore to leave it. You sha'n't
do it, I say. If you don't want to see me go like an old cast-
away, there is only one thing to be done — marry me,"
Annaic rolled the corner of her apron and blushed as though
she were still a young maiden. She raised many objections, all
of which were promptly met and overcome by her impetuous
suitor. Time had softened her grief, and she was not blind to
the real goodness and many noble qualities of this tender-heart-
ed, rough fisherman. For all these reasons, and for the sake of
the children, she told herself, she consented and they were mar-
ried.
** We might as well have done that seven years ago," the in-
corrigible Pornic said as they were returning from the church.
" You would have married an able-bodied seaman then ; now you
must put up with a dilapidated landsman ! "
" Yes, but I shall not have that hated rival, the sea, to fear,"
replied Annaic ; " she can't follow you here."
Pornic's constancy— or obstinacy shall we call it? — was re-
warded. Annaic made his home so pleasant to him that he
ceased to regret his seafaring life. He would hobble down to
the beach, " to get a sniff of wholesome sea-air," he said, or drive
to St. Malo — he had bought a cart and a Breton pony — to have a
chat with his old mates. But pretty soon he began to take quite
an interest in the garden ; he stayed more at home and made
himself generally useful.
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244 HoEL THE Fiddler. [May,
Hoel, no longer oppressed with the fear of being sent to sea,
devoted himself more and more to his music. He was known all
along the coast as " Hoel the Fiddler," and he and his fiddle were
much in demand. Even the rich city folks at Cherruex sent for
him. A generous old gentleman who heard him there one day
offered to send him to Paris to study under some good master ;
but the young man had no such ambition. When he mentioned
the oflFer to his parents Pornic shook his head and Annaic cross-
ed herself ; they knew by hearsay of the existence of such a place
as Paris — a place of perdition, where no Breton could live with-
out danger to his soul. Guyonne, who had listened in silence,
seemed much relieved when the family council decided that
Hoel should not go.
The taciturn boy had grown to be a handsome, sad-eyed,
gentle-mannered young man. All at once he began to show
signs of a restlessness quite foreign to his nature; he was moody,
silent, and petulant by turns. At night he would take up his
violin and walk out by himself on the lonely road, and melodi-
ous strains would come floating in the air, soft and pleading, with
occasionally a passionate outburst so wild and thrilling that Por-
nic remarked one night to his wife :
" That boy is unhappy ; he has something on his mind that
troubles him. I must question him."
** Better not," replied Annaic ; *' this will pass away." And,
as usual, her wiser counsel prevailed.
About this time, too, there was a change in Guyonne. Her
blithe voice no longer resounded in gay carols as she sat spin-
ning, or she walked about the garden, picking vegetables for the
table or watering her flowers. She, too, was moody, now laugh-
ing hysterically, now plunged in thought, her eyes suflFused with
causeless tears.
Her mother never questioned her.
Pornic was alarmed. Had some witch cast a spell over the
two young people ? What could be the matter with them ?
One evening Hoel was out on the road playing the violin.
Guyonne, leaning with her elbows on the garden gate, was list-
ening. She bowed her head on her hands, and the stifled sound
of a sob reached the old couple sitting on the door-step.
Pornic slapped his forehead : he had just made a discovery.
" These two are in love," he whispered mysteriously to his
wife ; " we must get them married."
" Let things take their own course," replied the discreet
mother.
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1 887-] HoEL THE Fiddler. 245
And the course things were to take shaped itself soon after
this without interference from the parents. A well-to-do trades-
man of Cherruex presented himself as a suitor for Guyonne*s
hand. As in duty bound, he applied to the parents for permis-
sion to come a-courting. They asked for time to consider the
question, their daughter was so young !
When Annaic broke the news to her Guyonne burst into
tears, and, leaving her mother abruptly, sought the seclusion of
a small vine-clad arbor at the end of the garden — her favorite re-
sort since she had become fond of solitude.
Hoel was at work close by ; the girl did not see him, but he
heard her sobs, and, after some hesitation, came to her.
" What is the matter, Guyonne?" he asked tenderly.
She shook her head impatiently and neither looked up nor
spoke. She was leaning against the arm of the rustic seat, her
face hidden in her apron, weeping silently.
" What is it that grieves you? Will you not tell me?" he
insisted.
" It is nothing that you would care about," she said at last.
** I care about everything that concerns you," said the young
man passionately. " Have I, then, become such a stranger that
you conceal things from me — you, my little playmate, who used
to run to me with all your joys and troubles?"
" Marcou, the grocer, has been here," sobbed Guyonne, un-
able to resist this appeal.
" Has he been rude to you ? I'll break every bone in his
body, the miserly shopkeeper!" exclaimed Hoel fiercely. "Tell
me, what has he done ? "
" He — wants — to marry me," stammered the girl, and her
tears flowed afresh.
"He wants to marry you?" Hoel repeated slowly, after a
moment's silence, and his voice sounded strangely husky. " And
you, Guyonne — what did you say to him ? "
" I didn't speak to him at all — I didn't see him — He called
on mother, and she told me — "
" Does Annaic wish you to marry him? \io you wish it, Guy-
onne?" He spoke almost in a whisper and his voice trembled.
" No. I hate him. I don't want to marry. I wish he had not
come. Now you know all about it — let me alone — go ! "
" Guyonne ! " He took her cold little hand in his and held it
captive. " My little Guyonne ! can you learn to care for an-
other? Will you love me, my own, my darling?"
His arm had stolen around her waist; he drew her to him
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246 HoEL THE Fiddler. [May,
unresisting. Her head rested on his shoulder. She remained
passive, trembling like a frightened dove.
" Guyonne, I love you ! The thought that you might marry
another drives me mad ! Darling, may I speak to your mother ?
Will you try to love me ? "
" I have loved you all the time, I think,*' said the artless girl.
" Why did you avoid me and treat me so coldly ? "
" I did not know what was the matter with me — and I
thought you hated me.'*
" Hate you ! Good heavens ! Did not you see how misera-
ble I was ? "
" Why did you act so strangely — never smiling, never saying
a pleasant word to me ? *'
" I thought you looked upon me as a brother ; that you did
not care for me as I wished. I was afraid I should betray myself.
But now, Guyonne, I may speak. I love you \ I love you ! "
Thus did these two innocent children learn each other's
secret.
When they returned to the house, hand-in-hand, Hoel with
head erect, radiant with joy, Guyonne with downcast eyes and
burning cheeks, old Pornic startled them by crying out : " That's
all right, children ! I said it would be so. We'll have a famous
wedding pretty soon."
Guyonne threw herself into her mother's arms.
** What ! father," asked Hoel, disconcerted, " you know — "
** That you love each other? Why, you simpleton, we knew
it even before you did. I thought you would never come to the
point, you chicken-hearted landsman ! You don't take after your
father, Hoel ; I didn't go mooning about, but showed my colors
at once, like a bold seaman. Didn't I, now, Annaic ? "
But Annaic and the happy Guyonne had left the room.
"But I did, though," affirmed again the jolly tar. "And
what's more, I didn't gain the victory in the first attack, as you
have done, you lucky dog, but had to wait seven years for my
wife — Ihat's Annaic, not your mother, poor thing — as Jacob did
in the Bible story our rector tells about. When your mother and
I fell in love with each other we were young, and it was short
work." And Pornic gave a sigh to his first love, buried these
many years.
III.
They had a "famous wedding," as Pornic had predicted.
Notwithstanding that Hoel lived under the same roof as his
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1887.] HoEL THE Fiddler. 247
fiancee, the old Breton ceremonial of " taking home the bride "
had to be observed in all its features. In obedience to the French
law, the young couple had contracted the civil marriage before
the mayor. Then the religious rites had taken place, with the
solemnity becoming the occasion, at the church of Le Vivien
The bride had been escorted to her mother's house, but Hoel
was not permitted to follow her. His friends took charge of him.
Evening came at last. The doors and windows of the cottage
were closed and barricaded, as though the inmates were prepar-
ing to stand a siege. Pretty soon the squeaking of a biniou — the
Breton bagpipe — and the discharge of firearms announced the
approach of the eneniy. It was the bridegroom, escorted by a
troop of young men. They had donned their best clothes for
the occasion ; streamers of gay-colored ribbons were tied to their
hatbands, and huge nosegays were fastened to the left lapel of
their long vests. Some of them carried pistols and guns, which
they fired from time to time amid loud huzzas. An old piper,
blind of an eye and a notorious wag, led the way. They called
a halt before the cottage, and, after a preliminary discharge of
firearms, sounded a parley.
The besieged were prepared for the emergency. They had
secured a spokesman fully able to cope with the smai:t piper.
This was a whimsical old shipmate of Pornic's, whom the latter
had fetched with much secrecy from Cancale and smuggled into
the house the night before.
This old tar showed himself suddenly at the garret-window
armed with an immense speaking-trumpet, through which he bel-
lowed : " Ship ahoy ! Where bound ? "
The piper, taken aback at first by this unexpected summons,
was rejoiced on recognizing the seaman, whom he knew well.
He would have to deal with an adversary worthy of his steel.
He had come, he said, to see justice done to his young friend,
whose bride was unlawfully detained here and held captive by a
set of pirates and robbers.
There was no such craft here, the jolly tar replied, but honest
seamen and their families. His blind friend had better look else-
where.
No, the piper insisted, he had good reasons to believe the girl
was here. If they were such honest folk they would not object
to a search.
This was a base insinuation which the ancient mariner re-
pelled with scorn. But what sort of girl was that they sought?
Was she not a little hunchback, crooked as a drunkard's elbow?
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248 HoEL THE Fiddler. [May,
No; why, she was tall and graceful as a young sapling,
straight as a spar.
Perhaps it was the sallow-faced daughter of the piper, she
whose eyes looked askew?
The laugh was against the piper, but he continued, nothing
daunted : The girl he sought was as fair as the lily, her eyes were
as blue as the sky, her hair had the color of ripe wheat; she
could look straighter than a sailor can walk out of a tavern.
Thus the two men went on bandying jokes, the one describ-
ing the most whimsical caricatures he could think of, the other
tracing a portrait which, however exaggerated, was unmistakably
that of pretty Guyonne.
At last the defender of the stronghold consented to admit the
bridegroom within its walls and let him see for himself. Hoel
entered, escorted by the piper. Four girls were sitting close to-
gether on a low bench ; a large sheet was spread over the four
concealing effectually their features 'and their forms. This was
the last ordeal; the lover must guess which of these four veiled
figures is his sweetheart. He paused, hesitated, then, stepping
forward, laid his hand upon one of the covered heads. A general
clapping of hands proclaimed his success, and Hoel clasped his
blushing bride to his breast.
The doors were thrown open now, and the whole party out-
side were free to enter. This they did with due solemnity, four
stout lads bearing the armoire^ or clothes-press, the presentation
of which is the occasion for another ceremony. For this heavy
oaken press is the principal piece of furniture in the Breton pea-
. sant*s cottage. It is symbolic of the union of the " two made
one" by the holy sacrament of marriage. Its capacious shelves
will receive the clothes of the newly-married pair, the piles of
household linen spun and woven by the bride's mother during
the long winter evenings in prevision of this occasion. Here the
pair will store their hard-won savings, their little fineries, the
garments of the children with whom God may bless their wed-
ded life. In this armoire they will keep all the mementoes, sweet
or sad, of the family, from the faded wreath of orange-blossoms
which the young bride wore on her wedding-day to the piece of
black crape which reminds them of death and mourning.
The armoire had been hauled on a gaily-decorated cart, even
the harness and the horse's mane and tail being decked with
bright-colored ribbons. It was lifted up by the four young men
and laid down in the entrance. Annaic, as mistress of the house,
spread over it a white table-cloth, upon which she placed two
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1887.] HoEL THE Fiddler. 249
huge dishes of cripes — a Breton dainty dish much like our pan-
cakes — a jug of wine, and a silver drinking-cup. A weather-beaten
fisherman, the oldest relative of the bridegroom, filled the cup
and handed it to the most venerable member of the bride's
family, Annaic's aunt from Cherruex, inviting her at the same
time to partake of the cripes. She tasted of both, and then re-
turned the compliment with much dignity of manner. The
treaty of peace and amity between the two families having
been thus sealed, the relatives of the young people invited the
other guests to enter, and the armoire was placed in a prominent
position in the sitting-room amidst the plaudits of the company,
who were now ready for the merry-making. This involved co-
pious libations of cider ; grog was also prepared, in more mode-
rate quantity, for the old salts. The festivities were prolonged
till a late hour in the night. Pornic got himself " half-seas over "
at the outset, and remained in that pleasant condition to the end.
He was not intoxicated — those hard-headed Bretons can stand a
good deal of drink — but he managed to keep himself in a state of
supreme jollity, which had a most exhilarating eflfect on the com-
pany. One or two old fellows went further and got royally
drunk in honor of the bride. They sang the Celtic wedding-
song, and won applause rather than blame, for every Breton
knows that it is of bad omen for the newly-married pair if no-
body has got ciaud de boire at their wedding-feast.
The noise and revelry ceased, however, when an old matron
rose to sing the "song of the bride,*' the closing scene of the
bridal festivities. This is not properly a song, but a plaintive
chant addressed to the bride. The matron tells her to bid adieu ,
to the joys and gayeties of girlhood ; she must now assume all the
responsibilities of a wife, in whom all levity is unbecoming ; she
must so behave that the breath of scandal shall not tarnish for
one moment her fair name ; she must be the loving companion,
the faithful servant, and true comfort of her husband ; but, above
all, she must look up to God in her trials and her joys, and teach
her children to love and obey him. Full of wise advice and prac-
tical good sense is the old Breton Chant de Vipousie^ which for
being told in homely words is not the less solemn from the reli-
gious feeling which pervades it and the sobering effect it always
produces on the company.
The young people continued to live with their parents in the
dearly-loved cottage, and a happier household could not have
been found on the coasts of Brittany.
Guyonne's song was now heard all over the house, as in her
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250 HOEL THE FIDDLER. [May,
girlhood days. Hoel's violin no longer gave forth those melan-
choly strains so full of sadness. The soul of the player had
passed into his instrument, and it sang a perpetual hymn of joy
and gratitude. The young musician was seldom idle. He was
often called away to distant places, and, though loath to leave
his fireside, he felt that he had assumed new responsibilities and
he must not throw away a chance of earning money.
In another year the young couple's happiness was made com-
plete by the birth of a baby. Old Pornic was wild with joy.
** A boy ! " he cried — " a fine boy. Hoel, we will make a
seaman of him. I let you have your own way, but one Pornic
a landsman is enough ; this one will redeem the name ! "
Hoel smiled and Guyonne shook her head, but they con-
cluded, wisely, to let the old man have his say. The future sea-
man, sleeping unconscious of his importance, would not be ready
to embark for some years to come.
Pornic went about, hailing every acquaintance he met with
the question : '* Have you seen my grandson — my fine sailor-
boy ? ** He brought all his old shipmates to the house, and the
wonderful baby's health was drunk in many ^picket of cider.
Then, having exhausted himself and the list of his acquain-
tances, and being warned by a slight twinge of rheumatism, the
old fellow settled down and betook himself to carving little boats
and building miniature ships for his grandson.
Annaic told him that, at the rate he went, he would have more
vessels afloat than the King of France by the time little Ivon was
old enough to play with them. But, on the other hand, the in-
dustrious grandmother cut and sewed such a quantity of bab}'-
clothes that her husband asked her whether she thought the
child would never grow bigger.
They were a happy family, those Pornics.
..•••••a
One day Hoel had gone to a christening several miles down
the coast. A strong wind blew during the forenoon, and the
tide rose to an unusual height. Just before dusk Guyonne took
her baby in her arms and set out to meet Hoel, as was her wont
when she knew the hour for his return.
" Keep close to the beach, where the soil is firm, daughter/*
said Pornic; " the sand has drifted with this wind and high tide.
And look out for that bad place at the turn of the road. It is
well named the Devil's Pit. But you will not go so far — "
** It is not likely that I shall, father ; I shall meet Hoel nearer
home, I think. But even if I did not, there is no danger; I know
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188/.] HoEL THE Fiddler. 251
the coast well." And she went singing gaily and dandling her
baby, who crowed and clapped its chubby hands.
" I wish Hoel was home," remarked Annaic to her husband ;
" I dreamed last night that I was sewing a shroud. That's a bad
sign.-
" Tut ! tut ! " replied Pornic. " You were working at those
sheets the whole evening, and it made you dream of a shroud.
Now, if you had dreamed of muddy water, or of a ship sailing
under bare poles and no wind blowing, there would be some
reason for your fears."
And the old couple got into an argument about dreams.
Meanwhile Guyonne went tripping down the bleak coast.
She saw nothing of Hoel ; he must have been detained. It was
getting late, but the moon had come out and its pale rays flood-
ed the sandy beach with mystic light. Little Ivon had fallen
asleep and the young mother had ceased singing. She walked
on, absorbed in thought and unconscious of the lateness of the
hour and the distance travelled. She was thinking of her girlish
days, of that sweet courtship which had been but the harbinger
of a greater bliss. He was so kind, so devoted, her Hoel ! And
her baby, what a treasure! Yes, she was perfectly happy. Her
soul was lifted up in thanksgiving to her Maker.
Suddenly she heard on her left the faint, distant sounds of a
violin. Looking up, she discerned far away in the moonlit, wind-
ing road the dark outline of a man. It was he — it was her Hoel !
She quickened her pace, keeping her eyes fixed on that dear
form, as the mariner of old steered his course by the North Star.
But what is it that impedes her progress? What makes her
feet so heavy ? As she lifts one the other sinks. The horrible
truth flashed upon her. She had left the road and got among
the quicksand holes ; she had stepf>ed over the edge of the Dev-
il's Pit ! She struggled desperately to free herself, and every
effort she made, displacing the sand, caused her to sink deeper.
It is up to her knees now; a demon force is pulling her down,
down into the bottomless pit. Clutching her baby to her breast,
she gathers her strength for a supreme appeal :
" Hoel ! Hoel ! "
The wind brings to her the soft sounds of the violin. Hoel is
playing a hymn, a song of joy composed on their wedding-day.
** Hoel ! " she cries again desperately. The sand is up to her
waist now.
He has heard. He recognizes the dear voice, and knows
that Guyonne is in danger. He pauses and with anxious eyes
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252 HOEL THE FiDDLER. [May,
scans the dimlyJit landscape. He sees her, and he bounds over
the damp, sandy soil.
** I come ! I come ! Keep up, Guyonne ; I come ! *'
Too late !
She had ceased calling for help. She knew that death was
inevitable, and she accepted her hard fate. The old legend
comes to her mind. A pious Breton family returning from a
pilgrimage to the shrine of Our Lady of Good Help got lost in
the quicksands. The husband took his wife on his shoulders
and bade her hold the child aloft. He sank, and the cruel sand
hid him from the eyes of the weeping wife, to whose feet he still
clung. She thought not of herself but of the child, whom she
prayed to the Holy Virgin to save. Even as she disappeared in
her turn her faith did not waver. A few moments later and no-
thing would be seen but two little dimpled hands protruding
from the sand and raised heavenwards. But Mary has heard
the appeal ; she has witnessed the sacrifice of maternal love and
measured the faith which wavers not even in the presence of
death. She descends from heaven, she grasps the two little
hands, and lo ! the child emerges from its living tomb ; next
comes its mother still clinging to it, then the heroic father, who
had devoted himself to prolo^ig those dear lives, if only for a few
minutes. Sustained by the hands of the Virgin Mother, they
ascended to the heavenly abode, where her Son will give them
eternal life.
Guyonne thought of this legend as she held up her baby.
She prayed that it might be spared ; she prayed for her own
soul, but her eyes were riveted on the man she loved, on Hoel,
who came rushing towards her as if he were borne by the wind,
only to see her die. She sighed ; life was sweet and pleasant,
and she was young.
She kissed her baby, her darling boy, and, with cautious
movements, lifted him up high above her head. He at least
shall be saved ! Her husband is but a few yards off now, but
the sand is up to her neck.
•* Good-by, my Hoel ! Love, good-by ! Save our child ! "
With a last effort, which hastens her doom, Guyonne throws
the child at Hoel's feet just as he arrives panting at the brink of
the fatal pit, and she sinks for ever from his sight.
The sand settles quickly and all is silent.
The horror-struck young man stood transfixed, appalled, gaz-
ing with dilated eyes at the treacherous sand, so smooth and
even, where but a moment ago a living being, his wife, had
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1887.] HoEL THE Fiddler. 253
stood. Where should he search ? In what precise spot was the
grave of his heart's treasure ? Like the sea, the sand guards its
secret ; unlike the sea, it never gives up its dead.
The cries of the poor bruised baby lying at his feet . attracted
his attention. He took the child in his arras, held it close to his
breast, but made no attempt to console it. The hours flew and
he was still there, rigid as a statue, gazing stupidly before him.
The child had ceased crying and moaning. The moon was fast
sinking below the horizon, and the waning light gave a ghostly
aspect to surrounding objects.
Waking suddenly from his stupor, Hoel looked round, uttered
a wild shriek, and, clutching the child to his bosom, fled from the
spot.
Darkness had succeeded the evening twilight, and the chil-
dren came not. Annaic, standing at the cottage door, was peer-
ing with anxious eyes down the night-shrouded road. Gloomy
forebodings filled her heart, and Pornic tried in vain to cheer
her.
"The silly things are young," he said,.** and the evening is
bright and pleasant. They have tarried on the way to speak
their soft nonsense and play with the baby, and probably forgot
the time till the moon went down."
But as the night wore on and no tidings came of the absent
ones, the good man began to share his wife's anxiety.
** ril go and meet them," said he, taking his hat and stick.
As he reached the garden-gate the wailing cry of an infant
caused him to stop and Annaic to rush out to his side. Through
the gloom they discerned dimly a moving form. On it came,
with hurried yet uncertain steps, and the parents recognized
Hoel.
"Alone!"
** Where is Guyonne ? "
These exclamations burst simultaneously from the lips of the
alarmed couple.
" Guyonne ! Guyonne ! " repeated Hoel faintly, as he fell ex-
hausted at their feet.
Annaic caught the poor baby as it rolled, crying piteously,
out of its father's arms, while Pornic, with superhuman strength,
lifted the unconscious body of his son and carried him into the
cottage.
Restoratives were applied, and after an hour of suspense,
which seemed an age to the distracted parents, Hoel opened his
eyes ; but the light of reason had fled from them. He was de-
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254 HoEL THE Fiddler. L^ay,
lirious, and amid his vagaries came continually the words, ** Guy-
onne ! dear Guyonne ! " and " The Pit !— O the cruel Pit ! "
** She has fallen into the Devil's Pit ! " cried Annaic, horror-
stricken. And she fell on her knees, moaning and praying al-
ternately.
" Stay with him. Til go and find out," said Pornic.
Bracing himself up, the sturdy old seaman brushed away the
tears that dimmed his eyes, cast a lingering look upon his son,
and, taking a lantern with him, sallied out in the night. He
stopped at the first cottage on his way and asked his neighbor
to come with him, whilst the latter's young son would run to the
village and fetch a doctor. Although Pornic's soul yearned for
that son, who might die ere he returned, he did not hesitate ; he
knew how much Annaic was wrapped in her daughter. Guyonne
must be found, or she too would die.
The two men, and others whom they called up as they went,
scanned carefully every foot of the road. The young woman
might have fainted on the way, but they found not the slightest
indication until they rpached the Devil's Pit. Here, after much
cautious groping round the treacherous place, a clue was found
at last. The rays of Pornic's lantern fell upon a small red ob-
ject lying on the white sand — one of the little woollen stockings
worn by the baby.
" This is the place ! " he called out hoarsely, and he stuck his
stick upright in the sand to mark the spot.
His companions grouped round him, and, advancing as far as
they could do with safety, they plunged their arms into the mov-
ing sand, they probed it with their long sticks, the old Breton
penbas with its crooked end. It was of no avail ; the sand kept
its secret. But near the little stocking they had also recognized
the deep imprint of Hoel's feet, where he had stood rooted to
the spot by the awful vision of his sinking wife. Exploring a
little farther they came upon Hoel's violin and bow, which he
had dropped on discovering Guyonne's danger. The whole
drama became clear to them now ; no need of Hoel telling the
story.
After marking the fatal spot by means of several sticks tied
together at one end, while the other was planted into the ground
so as to form a triangle, the little party retraced their steps, Por-
nic abstracted and silent, his companions respecting his grief.
These rough fishermen and peasants possessed that innate deli-
cacy of feeling which warns us not to oflFer empty words of sym-
pathy to one who is crushed under a remediless sorrow. They
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1887.] HoEL THE Fiddler. 255
accompanied their friend as far as his gate, where they shook
hands with him, and, with a ** Dieu tegarde^ man gas ! '* left him to
fulfil alone his sad mission — to tell a mother of a daughter's cruel
death.
Annaic was beside herself with grief. " O the sea — the re-
lentless sea! '* she cried. " Has it followed me even on the land
to rob me of my last treasure? "
" Your God is the God of the sea and the land," spoke the
grave voice of the rector, who had come with the village physi-
cian on hearing of the terrible misfortune which had befallen his
favorite pupil. ** Nothing happens but through his will. Ques-
tion not his wisdom, daughter, but remember that for every woe,
however great, he has a balm. Lay your grief at his feet, and
be comforted."
•• Comforted ! Ah ! father, you forget that I am a mother ;
that it is my only child who has suffered this cruel death."
" And you forget that a Mother stood once weeping at the
foot of the cross to which her Son, crowned with thorns, was
nailed ; that that Son died in great agony to redeem mankind.
Your grief is natural, daughter; but think of Mary, of Our
Lady of Seven Dolors, and your heart shall cease to rebel against
the divine will."
The poor woman fell on her knees and prayed aloud to Mary,
Consolatrix afflictorum, who is never deaf to the appeal of the sor-
rowful. A flood of tears relieved her heart, and, hearing her
little grandson moan in his sleep, she clasped the child to her
bosom. " It is all that I have left of Guyonne," she said ; and,
fervently, **0 Virgin Mother! intercede for me that I may keep
him. I place him under your protection. Guard him, O Mary ! **
Meantime Pornic, with bent head and knitted brows, was
watching the doctor ministering to Hoel. The poor man awaited
the verdict as though his own life depended on it. Big drops of
sweat pearled upon his forehead, and anon a tear rolled down his
bronzed cheeks.
The doctor held a hurried whispered consultation with the
rector, and the latter, coming up to the old seaman, took him by
the arm and led him aside.
** Be strong, my friend, and prepare for the worst — "
" My son—"
" Unless God wills it otherwise, Hoel will leave us before
many days."
•* Hoel ! — going — after Guyonne — " muttered brokenly the
old man ; and, as one dazed, be returned to his son'$ bedside,
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256 HoEL THE Fiddler. [May,
knelt, and, taking one of Hoel's hands in his own, remained there,
silent, motionless, gazing with burning eyes, that shed no tears
now, upon the pallid face he loved so well.
During three days Hoel was delirious; on the fourth the fever
left him and he recognized his parents, but life's fire had burnt
out during that fierce struggle. The doctor shook his head sadly.
** The end will soon come,'* he said.
The worthy rector, who had not failed to visit the cottage
every day, bringing the comforts of religion and of loving sym-
pathy to Pornic and his wife, heard the confession of the dying
man and administered the last sacraments to him. Hoel was
quiet and free from pain. Death had no terrors for him. He
begged his parents' forgiveness for any sorrow he had ever
caused them, and urged them to go and take some rest. Seeing
him peaceful and disposed to sleep, the old couple went down-
stairs to take some slight refreshment and to talk over their fears
and hopes. Pornic insisted that the doctor's fears were un-
founded.
** He is better," he said ; " the fever has left him ; all he wants
now is strength."
Annaic shook her head, but made no reply. She did not
want to rob the good man of that last hope. But she pressed
little I von more closely to her breast, and a tear dropped upon
the face of the sleeping child.
Suddenly the sounds of a violin were heard. Can it be Hoel
playing? Impossible ! And yet who else could make the instru-
ment speak so ? It wept, it prayed, it told of suflFerings unbear-
able.
Annaic fell on her knees. Her lips moved in prayer, but her
vacant gaze told of the awful terror that filled her soul.
" I can't stand this any longer," cried Pornic, as if awaking
from a trance. And he sprang up to go to his son's room.
But the music had changed now. It was a song of joy, a ho-
sanna fit for the angelic choir. It sang the praise of a God of
mercy, gratitude for prayers answered. All at once it burst into
a glorious song of triumph. The harmony swelled and rose, so
awfully grand that the two listeners stood breathless, motion-
less, spell- bound. Then came a last cry of triumph, a crash, and
silence reigned.
Coming at last to their senses, Pornic and his wife rushed up-
stairs and entered the sick man's room. Hoel lay on his bed as
if he had fallen back from a sitting posture ; his eyes were up-
turned as though they were gazing at some beautiful vision, his
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lips parted in a sweet smile, and his wan features wore an air of
beatitude. He was dead.
The violin, with all its strings broken, had fallen on the floor
by the bedside.
• ••••.• •
The last time that I visited the Breton coast I called at the
cottage by the marshes. Pornic was sitting on a bench in the
sunshine outside the gate. His long hair, now quite white, and
his flowing beard gave a patriarchal expression to his kindly fea-
tures. He was still quite robust, and, if his legs were not as
strong as of old, his hands had lost none of their vigor, as I found-
out when he grasped mine.
" Et le petit gar f '' I asked.
" There he is with his grandma,** replied the old man. " Did>
you ever see a finer sailor-boy ?" And love, pride, and delight
beamed out of his eyes.
Annaic, a little bent and very gray, was coming up from the
garden leaning on a handsome young lad who wore the blue-
shirt and smart glazed cap of the French merchant navy. It was^
Ivon, Guyonne's baby.
** So he will be a seaman like his ancestors?" I asked the good
woman as we sat, later, by the chimney-corner. Pornic and his.
grandson had left us two alone for a few minutes. .
" The boy wished it ever since he began to toddle about, and*
it makes his grandfather happy. It was God's will./*
** You must be worn with constant anxiety ? **
** No ; I have learned to trust in a higher power. I have com-
mitted ray boy to the keeping of the Blessed Virgin, and some-
how I do not feel my old dread of the sea. I cannot say that I.
am not sad when he is away — my darling! he is such a comfort,
so good and kind, and he loves me and Pornic so much ! Did .
you notice ? — he has his mother's eyes.**
The two men returned.
*' Now, monsieur, we will go to the grave,. if you are ready,**'
said Pornic.
The Devirs Pit has lost its name. A pile, of stones surmount-
ed by a cross marks the dangerous spot and warns the traveller.
At the foot of this tumulus is a tomb of masonry-work covered,
with a granite slab. There rests Hoel the Fiddler, guarding the
approach to Guyonne's grave.
Pornic bought the fatal strip of land, the rector consecrated
it and obtained special permission to bury the faithful young
husband near his wife — the victim of maternal love.
VOL. XLV.— 17
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25S AUMALE AND ChANTILLY. [May,
The peasants still cross themselves when they pass the place,
but they no longer turn away in terror : they kneel and say a
short prayer.
AUMALE AND CHANTILLY.
The magnificent domain of Chantilly, once the celebrated seat
of the great house of Cond6, is now a French national property,
thanks to the generosity of its lawful owner, the Duke of Au male.
Chantilly is a neat little town of the Department of Oise, on
the river Nonnette, and distant from Paris only twenty-four miles.
To art-loving Americans, who are wont to make light of dis-
tances, and mind less jumping from New York to San Francisco
than the average Parisian would from New York to Yonkers,
it must be pleasant to know that next summer they will, find, at
what they will surely call the very doors of Paris, a new public
property to enjoy and a new museum to visit, compared to
which most of the French wonders will sink into relative insig-
nificance, not to say insipidity.
In view of this fact the following unpretentious pages, writ-
ten by one who knows Chantilly as an old hen its family roost,
may be, to prospective tourists, of an artistic as well as an his-
torical and practical interest.
A few words about the illustrious donor will not, I trust, be
out of place. Everybody knows — in France, at least— that Henri-
Eugfene-Philippe-Louis d*Orl6ans is the fourth son of the late
King Louis- Philippe ; that he was bofn in 1822, distinguished
himself in Africa under Marshal Bugeaud, was appointed in
1847 governor-general of Algeria, received the submission of
brave Abd-el-Kader, and, after the Parisian political earthquake
of 1848, exchanged all his previous honors for twenty-two years
of the sad life of an exile in England, where he is now again,
by the grace of President Gr6vy, in spite of his haying lived in
France since 1872 the unobtrusive life of an Academician and of
a law-abiding citizen and soldier.
But what is not so generally known is the way he came to
be Duke of Aumale, and, later, the arch-millionaire landlord of
Chantilly.
Aumale is a French town of some three thousand inhabitants,
situated in the Department of Seine-Inf6rieure, on the river
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1887] AUMALE AND ChANTILLY. 259
Bresle. English historians still call it Albemarle, its ancient
name when it was the chief town of an earldom which was
created by William the Conqueror in 1070, then returned to
France in 1203, and finally given by Philippe- Auguste to the
French counts of Dammartin. From that time the title of Earl
of Albemarle, and that of Duke of the same name conferred by
Charles IL on the distinguished military commander, George
Monk, have been merely nominal in England.
Owing to the custom which prevailed in France and else-
where, before 1789, to give away large tracts of land, together
with the people on them, as dowries to marriageable daughters of
royal or noble blood, the title and property of Albemarle — which
we will now call by its true name, Aumale — were transferred with
Jeanne, daughter of Simon de Dammartin, to the house of Cas-
tile, then in 1340 to the Harcourt family, and in 141 7 to the
house of Lorraine, for which it was made a dukedom. Anne of
Lorraine, however, having become the wife of the Duke of
Nemours, brought it with her into the house of Savoy, and there
it remained until 1675, when Louis XIV. bought it for his
legitimized son, the Duke of Maine. It was through the mar-
riage of the granddaughter of that prince with Louis-Philippe-
Joseph d*Orl6ans in 1769 that Aumale was finally settled upon
that house, and, although there were no longer any real dukedoms
after the French Revolution, the fourth son of Louis-Philippe
d'Orl6ans — himself the son of Louis-Philippe-Joseph — found in his
cradle, in 1822, the empty title of Due d'Aumale, under which
he has since been known to the world.
Fortunately for him, in 1829, when he was but seven years
old, he was chosen as prospective heir to an immense fortune
by Louis-Henri-Joseph, Prince of Cond6, whose only son, the
young, gallant, and unfortunate Duke of Enghien, had been put
to death by Bonaparte on the 21st of March, 1804. So-called
historians, like Louis Blanc in his otherwise interesting Histoire
de dix A?ts, say that in July, 1830, the Revolution which gave
the throne to Louis-Philippe so disgusted the Prince of Cond6
that he repented of his intended bequest to young D'Aumale,
and thought of revoking it altogether. But death, boldly
though unwarrantedly ascribed to foul play countenanced by
King Louis-Philippe, overcame this design, and on the 30th of
August, 1830, D'Aumale became all of a sudden vastly richer than
any of his four brothers, Orleans, Nemours, Joinville, and Mont-
pensier; for among the princely estates which accrued to him
from the unexpected demise of the last of the Cond6s were the
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26o AuMALE AND Chantjlly. [May,
thousands of acres of fertile land and gold-yielding forests
which, together with the " Petit Chateau," then constituted the
unique domain of Chantilly.
As far back as the sixteenth century we find the castle and
domain of Chantilly spoken of by historians as among the most
magnificent in France. Lords were th^n no longer looking for
inaccessible heights on which to build gloomy but substantial
fortresses. Haughty dungeons, with their king-and-sky-defying
gables, were making room for elegant towers gracefully reflect-
ed by the quiet waters of a lake or a river. Constant military
excursions to Italy were instilling into the minds of noblemen a
desire for bric-k-brac, statues, paintings, fine walks and gardens.
Bastions and draw-bridges ceased soon to make a lord of their
owner, who, to maintain his right to his title, was compelled to
call to his help the best sculptors and architects of this glorious
epoch of the " renaissance ** of art.
The fifteenth century had been fairly launched when Chan-
tilly — then a mere dungeon lost in endless forests — fell to the
ownership of the powerful family of Montmorency, first heard
of in the middle of the tenth century, and which has since borne
the proud title of " first Christian barons and first barons of
France." Long indeed would be the list of constables, mar-
shals, and other illustrious servants given to its country by the
Montmorency family. To narrate their exploits would be to
write half the history of France.
Constable Anne de Montmorency, who was the companion-
in-artps of Francis L (i 525-1 526), was also the first enchanter
who created Chantilly and began to make it an earthly para-
dise. Under his own supervision, when the battle-field did
not summon him to more important duties, fine walks were
cut open through the unexplored forests, and in 1530 the
"Great Castle** was inaugurated with pomp and princely
grandeur, throwing open to all its vast galleries and gorgeous
halls, which, according to Ducerceau in his book, Les plus
excellents Bdtiments de France^ contained admirable examples of
both antique and modern art, "filled with arms of all descrip-
tions, Flemish tapestries, medals, statues, bronzes, and rare
books.**
It is much to be regretted that Ducerceau, as a contemporary
of Anne'de Montmorency, did not deem it necessary to give to
posterity the names of the architects who were the skilful co-
laborers of the great constable. We know, however, that one of
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1887] AUMALE AND ChANTILLY. 261
them was the celebrated Jean Bullant, who also built a part of
the Paris Tuileries, begun in 1564, by order of Queen Catherine
de M6dicis, on a ground previously occupied by a tile-kiln —
hence its rather strange name for a kingly mansion. Bullant
suf>erint€nded more especially the drawing and construction
of the " Little Chantilly Castle," afterwards added to the great
one, and the only corps-de-logis now existing of all the work of
Constable Anne, who fell gloriously, covered with wounds, in
1567 while fighting and defeating the Calvinists on the plains of
St. Denis.
Sixty- five years later Henry de Montmorency, Anne's grand-
son — so brave that he was made an admiral when but seventeen
years old — was unfortunate enough to incur the displeasure of
Richelieu by harboring in Languedoc, of which he was the
governor, Gaston, Duke of Orl6ans, then in arms against his own
brother, King Louis XIII. Captured by royal troops at Castel-
naudary, Henry was brought to Toulouse and sentenced to death
by the Parliament of that city. In vain did the whole country,
which admired and loved him, plead and entreat for his pardon.
Richelieu's policy was to crush the nobility and to establish the
absolute power of the king; and in 1632 the most powerful
house of France saw the last of the first ducal branch of the
Montmorencys decapitated as a vulgar felon — he whose godfa-
ther had been Henry IV., who never called him otherwise than
" my son"!
By this sad event the vast estate of Chantilly fell, in the
French parlance, en quenouilU — that is to say, became the property
of Charlotte-Marguerite of Montmorency, Henry's sister^ who
brought it into the house of Bourbon when becoming the wife
of Henry II., Prince of Cond6, and the mother of the "Great
Cond4" by whom the domain was so transformed as to rouse
the wrathful jealousy of the over-pompous and over-sensitive
" Roi-Soleil." It was in 1675 that, after numberless victories,
Louis II. de Bourbon chose Chantilly for his haven of rest. He
respected the work of Bullant, but in 1679 replaced the " Great
Castle" by a more modern one of far larger dimensions. The
famous architect and landscape-designer Andr^ le Ndtre super-
intended the laying-out of the lawns and gardens with so much
taste and success that Louis XIV., struck with admiration at
their sight, conceived at once the project of the Versailles
Park.
From that time to the death of the Great Cond6, which oc-
curred on the 6th of November, 1686, Chantilly was a fit succes-
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262 AUMALE AND CHANTILLY. [May^
sor to the celebrated hotel of Rambouillet — situated in the street
of St. Thomas du Louvre, in Paris — which from 1610 to 1648 con-
tributed so much to the refinement of French manners, taste, and
language. To the regal abode of the hero of Rocroi came
Racine, Moli^re, Boileau, and a host of great men and women,
all anxious to recite in his presence the masterpieces of their
overflowing genius amid the plaudits of all the beauty and chiv-
alry of France in the seventeenth century.
But as for the " Great Castle" built by Constable Anne, one
must go to the National Library of France and hunt up old en-
gravings in order to understand how splendid was the one built
and embellished by the Cond6s. The awful year of 1793 passed
and left nothing of it but the "Little Castle,** which became a
horse-barrack and thus escaped being also razed to the ground
by the French vandals of that tempestuous epoch.
It is the privilege of historical seats to speak to the soul, to
evoke reminiscences of the past, to call back to life the solemn
array of bygone centuries, together with their heroes whose no-
ble deeds have engraved their names on the brass tablets of
fame.
None more than Chantilly has a right to the thoughtful ad-
miration of the lover of history. Through the scented roads of
this immense oasis, during the lovely month of May, strolled once
arm-in-arm Charles Quint, the mighty, and the gallant Francis,
who lost all but his honor at Pavia. Through its deep woods,
where deer and boar still roam in countless herds, sported
Charles IX., the weak-minded abettor of the St. Barth61emy
massacre, the most illustrious victim of which, Admiral Coligny,
now peacefully sleeps on Chantilly grounds.
There it v^as that Henry IV., the witty king of lapoule aupot^
took his amusing revenge upon the Duke of Mayenne, whom he
had signally defeated at Arques and Ivry. The duke, who was
very stout and tipped the scale at more than three hundred
pounds, used to spend, so says the chronique, more time at table
than Henry of Navarre in bed. So in 1596, when he at last
made his peace with the Navarrais^ then King of France, the lat-
ter received him at Chantilly, had him provided with a bounti-
ful dinner, and after several hours of high feasting invited " his
dear cousin " to a walk and began climbing up a very steep hill.
Henry was forty, but comfortably lean and light-footed. The
duke also was forty, but uncomfortably fat and considerably the
heavier for his Gargantua-like junketing. Etiquette compelled
him, nevertheless, to keep pace with his new master and to an-
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1887.] AUMALE AND CHANTILLY. 263
swer him back as best he could. It is useless to say that when
they reached the top of the hill poor Mayenne was considerably
blown. ** Well, cousin," exclaimed Henry, turning to him with
a hearty laugh, '* this is the only harm I'll ever do you. Good-
by ! " And he nimbly rushed down the hill, leaving the ex-chief of
" the League " to pant and digest in peace before attempting the
same feat.
All this and a great deal more young D'Aumale learned from
his tutors. No wonder that his imagination was struck by the
many interesting reminiscences coupled with the heroic deeds of
the Montmorencys and the Condes. He was but fifteen years
old when he conceived the project, which he has since so re-
raarkably accomplished, not only to write the history of the
"Great Cond6," but to restore to Chantilly its pristine splendor
and to make it a lasting monument, commemorative of a period
of French glory the annals of which would be written on the
walls, in the galleries, in the collections and archives, and even
in the gardens laid out again from Le N8tre*s designs and once
more peopled with the statues of hundreds of heroes who had
been made to bite the dust by the wily beheaders of Louis XVI.
Haunted night and day by the generous thought, he sum-
moned to his presence in 1840— he was then entering his eight-
eenth year — a celebrated architect, M. Duban, and ordered him
to prepare, from the treasures of his own and of the National
Library, a complete plan of restoration, to the execution of which
he has devoted more than eight millions of francs. One by one,
on the very foundations of the tenth century, reappeared the con-
structions to which the counts of Senlis and the Lavals had for-
merly contributed. Then rose towards heaven the towers of the
mediaeval dungeon destroyed in the fourteenth century. The
Bullant castle, erected in 1522, was repaired and transformed
into a private mansion for the prince and his young wife, a Nea-
politan princess, whom he married in 1844. In this corps-de4ogis
is " La Galerie des Batailles," in which the Belgian master,
Francois van der Meulen, son in-law of another master, Charles
Lebrun, the rival of Poussin and Lesueur, immortalized all the
Great Condfe's victories.
The Revolution of 1848 stopped suddenly the reconstruction
of Chantilly. The duke was then contemplating the rebuilding
of the " Great Castle," which he wished to devote to a museum
and to the holding of grand and princely receptions. In order
to prevent any scheme of sequestration or spoliation during his
exile, he caused a fictitious sale of the whole domain to be made
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26+ AuMALE AND Chantilly. [May,
to a syndicate of English bankers. But in 1875, when he became
once more a French citizen in the full possession of his rights, he
called to Chantilly a distinguished architect, M. Daumet, who,
note-book and pencil in hand, listened for three hours to the
plans of the prince, and then declared himself ready to carry
them through to the letter.
The work was at once begun. The old foundations of the
" Cond6*s Great Castle '* were scrupulously preserved and built
upon, and the result of M. Daumet's exertions was and remains
a perfect revival of long- lost and almost forgotten marvels of
architecture.
No lover of true art can help being struck with admiration
and wonder, as if suddenly brought face to face with the realiza-
tion of one of Gustave Dor6's dreams, when, coming from the
racing-grounds — established at Chantilly by the Duke of Or-
leans in 1832, with a hippodrome twenty- five hundred yards in
circumference — he stands in the presence of the now skilfully
united ** Little and Great '* Castles, with their entrancing per-
spectives of cupolas, lofty roofs, rotundas, graceful towers,
countless steeples and spires, out of which rises the nave of the
central chapel, surmounted by a statue of St. Louis, while on the
vast esplanade facing the stately entrance court, called Cour
d'Honneur, towers the imposing figure of Constable Anne of
Montmorency.
But, grand and costly as the exterior may appear, and really
is, it is nothing compared with the unique treasures accumu-
lated, with Oriental lavishness and thoroughly French patience
and taste, in the galleries, loggias, and apartments of Chantilly.
Wherever you may go you find yourself confronted with
truly rare and beautiful works of art. You ascend the broad
flight of steps that leads to the second story, and your eyes are
fascinated by a forged iron baluster of exquisite finish, in which
fleurs de-lis are curiously blended in brass with the delicately-
moulded monogram of D'Aumale. Now you are in the ** Galerie
des Cerfs," and find yourself dazzled, as well as puzzled, by the
still gorgeous Gobelin tapestries made more than two hundred
years ago for the Prince of Cond6. But here is the chapel, and,
even if it were not the house of God, you would feel ashamed to
stand otherwise than bareheaded in the presence of so many
marvels of human genius. The main altar was sculptured by Jean
Goujon, whom posterity has called the French Phidias. These
renaissance panels were carved by the best artists of an epoch so
profuse in arabesque foliage and grotesque animals, extended
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188;.] AUMALE AND CH AN TILLY. 265
into scroll-work and interlaced to suit the most capricious fancies
of the Philibert Delormes of the sixteenth and seventeenth cen-
turies. Through the sacred edifice a mysterious and soul-stirring
light is delicately shed by two genuine stained-glass windows of
that time, representing respectively Constable Anne and his four
sons, and his wife and four daughters, all on their knees and
praying. Step a little further and you are in another chapel in
which are kept the hearts of those who were the Cond6s. Every-
where masterpieces are in profusion, whether they be statues,
bronzes, or paintings. There are also many historical trophies-:
here may be seen a flag won at the battle of Denain by the
" Great Cond6," together with his own fanion, the sword he re-
ceived from Louis XIV., his pistols, and several other memen-
toes of his military life.
One of the handsomest buen retiros in the " Little Castle " is
the library. The most fastidious bookworm could find nothing
to criticise either in the arrangement for the enjoyment of the
reader or in the method which has been exercised in gathering
up so many rare manuscripts and richly bound books of all de-
scriptions, embracing every branch of ancient and modern litera-
ture, scientific or otherwise. These have cost the distinguished
collector an immense amount of personal research, as well as a
large amount of money.
Much could be said of the galleries of paintings, tapestries,
bronzes, arms, statues, and artistic furniture which occupy the
whole part of the " Great Castle '* overlooking the stables and
forming the top angle of that triangular construction.
There, as everywhere else, one feels the all-pervading deter-
mination of the prince to possess nothing but masterpieces char-
acteristic of various civilizations, and to group around them the
best works connected with the national history of his own
country. Side by side with the " Three Graces " of Raphael
and the "Joan of Arc *' of Annibal Carrache, many a time have
I admired, under a magnificent ceiling painted by the lamented
Paul Baudry, who died in January, 1886, the portrait of the
most eminent historical painter of our time, Jean-Dominique-
Auguste Ingres, painted by himself; the famous and only por-
trait of Molifere, attributed to Pierre Mignard, who for twenty-
two years was the favorite of the popes before being the prin-
cipal painter of Louis-le-Grand ; the no less remarkable portrait
of Bonaparte, as First Consul, by Francois G6rard, a pupil of the
celebrated David, whom many think he ultimately surpassed ;
the " Assassination of the Duke de Guise,*' by that " Girondin "
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266 AuMALE AND Chantilly. [May,
of art, Paul Delaroche, the painter of the vast Hemicycle of the
" Palais des Beatuc-Arts " ; the " R6veil de Psych6/* by Prud'hon ;
not to speak of hundreds of other famous portraits and of the
invaluable series of three crayon drawings from Clouet, Quesnel,
and Jean Cousin, each of which, as relics of the sixteenth cen-
tury, is worth bags of modern gold. It would take several
volumes to describe at length, and several months to admire at
leisure, the collections of Chantilly, the loss of which — ^although
their actual cost may not have exceeded fifteen millions of francs
— would be irreparable, should blind elements or still blinder re-
volutionary cranks happen to destroy them.
When it was publicly announced last autumn that the owner
of Chantilly had willed his beautiful estate to France, it caused a
genuine sensation in the French capital. People were not want-
ing who thought it a good joke, indeed, to h^ve termed **a long-
planned one *' the decision arrived at by the duke. Smart politi-
cians saw nothing in it but a shrewd move on the part of the
then exiled prince, who, being childless and one of the largest
landholders in France, could well aflFord, they thought, to sacri-
fice even so fine a piece of property as Chantilly as an induce-
ment for his being called back to the free enjoyment of his other
numerous farms and castles. But it was soon proved that as far
back as June 3, 1884, D'Aumale had entrusted to M. Fontana,
his private counsellor and attorney, a holographic testament
which contained the following self-explaining clause :
"As it is my wish to make France at large the ultimate owner of the
entire domain of Chantilly, with its forests, lawns, water-works, edifices and
all their contents, such as trophies, pictures, books, archives, and art works
— which, in their ensemble, form a complete and diversiform monument of
French art in all its branches and a history of my country through periods
of glory — I have resolvqd to entrust it to the keeping of an illustrious body
which has done me the honor of calling me into its ranks in a double
capacity, and which, while being subject — as are all societies — to certain
unavoidable transformations, is nevertheless free from partisan passions,
and, as such, less liable to suffer from the sudden and violent changes
brought out by political outbreaks."
The illustrious body herein referred to was the National In-
stitute of France, born on the 25th of October, 1795, of the union
into one harmonious whole of the remnants of the academies and
art institutions destroyed by the revolutionary storm of the last
century. It now consists of five academies — namely, the French
Academy, the Academy of Inscriptions and Belles Lett res, that
of the Sciences, of the Fine Arts, and of the Moral and Political
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l8«7.] AUMALR AND CHANTILLY. 267
Sciences. The owner of Chantilly could not have chosen a more
distinguished and responsible heir than this world-renowned
body, whose only aim is to promote — with the help of the niost
celebrated scholars of all nations, who consider it an honor to
become its correspondents — such scientific and literary under-
takings as would tend to the welfare of mankind.
On the day following the announcement of the deeding of
Chantilly the French people heard of another incident which had
taken place on July 14, 1886. In the morning of that French na-
tional holiday the Due d'Aumale was at his mansion of Nou-
vion-en-Thi6rache, in the Department of Aisne, in consultation
with M. Limbourg, a well-known lawyer of the Paris Court of
Appeals, whom he had requested to draw in a legal form a codi-
cil fully and definitely confirming the dispositions contained in
the above-quoted will of 1884. Suddenly, as they were thus en-
gaged in the private study of the prince, a valet entered bearing
the card of a visitor. By request of the duke, M. Limbourg
went to the parlor and there found M. Isale Levaillant, the un-
der-chief of the national police.
" I am here," said the representative of the French gendarmes,
" to formally notify the Due d'Aumale of the issuing by Presi-
dent Gr6vy of a decree ordering citizen Henri-Eugfene-Philippe-
Louis d'Orl6ans to leave French soil within twenty-four hours,
on account of his blunt protest against his dismissal from the
army."
** No more significant day could have better suited the com-
munication of such an order,** courteously answered M. Lim-
bourg, " and I shall at once acquaint the duke with the motive of
your early call."
A few hours later D*Aumale had rewritten and signed the
codicil prepared by M. Limbourg, and crossed the frontier to
join in his exile the Count of Paris and his eldest son, Robert,
Duke of Orleans, born in 1869 from the marriage of the count
with his cousin. Princess Marie of Montpensier.
The Academy of Moral and Political Sciences was the first to
listen officially, on October 2, 1886, to the reading made by its
perpetual secretary, M. Jules Simon, of the documents relating
to the donation of Chantilly. On the 27th of the same month the
Central Administration Commission of the five academies sub-
mitted the following resolution, which was unanimously adopted :
"The National Institute of France, assembled in full congress at the
Mazarine Palace, having taken cognizance of the various documents per-
taining to the donation made to them oi the domain of Chantilly by the
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268 AUMALE AND CHANTILLY. [May,
/
Duke of Aumale, beg to convey to him the expression of their deep grati-
tude for so generous and patriotic a liberality, and invest their Central
Administrative Commission with full power to take the necessary steps
towards the legal acceptance of said donation."
To understand the term " legal acceptance," it must be
known that in France no municipal councils, hospitals, or other
corporations are permitted to accept any donations without
having previously obtained the assent of the National Council
of State.
A special commission was accordingly delegated to call on
Senators Bocher and Denormandie, and M. Edmond Rousse, a
member of the French Academy, to whom on August 29. 1886 —
according to a ponderous document — *' Mgr. le Due d'Aumale,
g^n^ral de division, membre de Tlnstitut, grand croix de la L6gion
d'Honneur, domicili6 de droit k Paris, rue de Varenne, No. 59,
et r6sidant actuellement k Woodnorton (Angleterre)," had given
collectively, in the presence of M. Perrette, chancellor of the
French Consulate-General in London, a full power of attorney
for the formal transfer of Chantilly to the Institute of France.
The transfer was duly executed in Paris on the 30th of Octo-
ber, and laid by the Minister of Public Instruction and Fine Arts
before the Council of State, which approved it in the beginning
of December.
Finally, on December 20, 1886, the following decree appeared
in the columns of the Journal Officiel :
** The President of the French Republic, the Council of State having been heard,
decrees :
"Art. I. The Institute of France is authorized to accept, with the
clauses, charges, and conditions imposed, the donation between living
parties irrevocably made to it by Henri-Eugdne-Philippe-Louis d'Orl6ans,
Duke of Aumale, according to acts of October 26 and December 3. 1886,
quoted above, of the usufructuary property of the domain of Chantilly, to-
gether with the books, collections, artworks, and furniture gathered up in
the castles thereof.
" At the expiration of the usufruct (that is to say, after the duke's death),
due reserves having been made for the payment of the yearly bequests in-
stituted by the donor, the revenues accruing from the domain will be de-
voted to the keeping in good order of the buildings, parks, gardens, and
collections ; to the development of the library and galleries ; to the estab-
lishment of life pensions or allocations on behalf of learned men, literary
men, or artists in need ; to the foundation of prizes aiming at the encou-
ragement of those who devote themselves to arts or letters ; lastly, to the
various expenses which might result from the opening to the public of the
parks, gardens, and artistic galleries and collections, which will take the
name of ' Mus6e Cond^.'
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183;.] AUMALE AND ClIANTILLY. 269
"Art. 2. The Minister of Public Instruction and Fine Arts will see that
this decree be put in full force.
"(Signed) Jules Gr]£vy/'
Among the yearly bequests mentioned in the above decree
are found sums varying from one to ten thousand francs given
in perpetuum to hospitals, churches, colleges, schools, and boards
of charities of the departments of Oise and Aisne, and to the
Paris *• Lyc^es " Fontanes and Henry IV. It is also provide.d
that three members of the Institute of France shall form a super-
visory board, the president of which shall be a member of the
French Academy. They will have a right to private lodgings at
Chantilly, as well as a subordinate officer entrusted with the
keeping and maintenance of the museum and collections.
To give a positive estimate of the intrinsic value of this
splendid donation would be impossible, the historical and art
collections being in themselves invaluable.
Suffice it to say that the 22,370 square acres of forests, arable
lands, and pastures represent 20,000,000 of francs, while the build-
ings are worth at least 15,000,000, making a grand total of
45,000,000, which may be made to yield to the Institute of France
an annual income of more than 600,000 francs over and above all
charges stated in the contract.
But although the donayon is, in the mind of the donor, an ir-
revocable one, it must not be lost sight of that the final stipula-
tion of the ponderous document which has been mentioned above
positively states that should, at any time or for whatever cause,
the Institute fail or be prevented to fulfil one or the other of the
charges imposed by the testator, said donation would be in-
stantly and ipso facto revoked and returned, in its integrity, to
the donor or his lawful heirs.
Haters of the church who, among the French Radicals, would
be tempted to close the Chantilly chapels or to deprive the
churches and schools of Oise and Aisne of their just bequests,
will do well to impress this stipulation upon their minds.
Commenting upon the splendid donation, Edouard Herv6.
the distinguished Academician, has said : " The Tuileries are no
more. Chantilly will be something more than the Tuileries ; not
because of its destination, but because of the unity of thought
and the excellence of supervision that presided over its creation,
its disposition, its ornamentation. A mob of madmen burned the
Palace of the Kings; to the Due d'Aumale we owe now the
Palace of the Nation."
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270 Sunshine. [May,
SUNSHINE.
TWO PICTURES FROM A SANCTUARY OF OUR LADY OF GRACE.
I.
In the gray morning, ere uprose the sun
And silent shadows fled before the day,
Twin candles burned a blessfed life away
Where offered up Himself, the Holy One,
Amid the throng of hidden seraphim
And prayers of faithful souls that humbly sought
His blessing on the day's each deed and thought —
This moment's memory to light, the dim
And lingering work-day's hours that should bring
Each soul more near its perfect blossoming.
Slowly the sun mounted the eastern sky
With promise of his coming golden grown.
Softly through crevice of choir-window shone,
Dimmed not the candles wasting nolily,
Nor touched the altar whereon shone unseen
The Eternal Sun ; but clothed with sudden light
Foligno*s Holy Child, blessing from height
Of Mary's knees— His royal Heart's dear queen.
Whose mantle blue e'en bore sad Calvary's shade
While on her arms the Sun of Justice played.
II.
Shone through the open window sky of June
Flecked by the fresh green maple-boughs, wind-swayed,
Where sunshine played at hide-and-seek with shade.
While sparrows twittered to the wind's low tune.
Token of earthly bliss the vision seemed —
Calm-hearted rivers that the blue looked on.
White daisy-fields light rippling in the sun.
Swift-opening roses that by salt waves gleamed;
O'er all, to earth scarce seeming to belong,
Rising the shy brown thrush's golden song.
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18S7.] A Chat about New Books. 271
Sudden, earth's visions paled in light divine
Shining from hidden depths of downcast eyes
Where, dusky shadow 'gainst the glimmering skies,
Knelt black-veiled sister; on her breast the sign
Of Infinite Love in flame's red blazon wrought.
Blue skies grew dim, more dim June's blossoms seemed,
Deep-hearted streams in shallow rapids. gleamed,
Earth's glamour broken by the hply thought
Filling with peace the brown-robed sister's face,
Tuning her heart to silent song of grace.
A CHAT ABOUT NEW BOOKS.
The novel-reading public ought by this time to be weary of
Russians— the Russians depicted in the fashionable translations.
Turgufeneff, a master of style, was weakened in the estimation of
some of the "cultured" by the fact that he wrote so much in
French. Nevertheless he was the best of them. Then Tolstoi
was introduced to us in an English dress, and people who found
Sir Walter Scott tiresome pretended to be enthusiastic over his
interminable War and Peace, Now the leading man is Fedor Dos-
toieffsky, and not to know him well and his fellow-Russian, Ler-
montoff", a little is as fatal to the pretensions of the literary /4/
as not to know Schopenhauer was a few months ago, or not to
have an opinion on the Nirvdna is now.
DostoieflFsky is a realist — that is, he looks carefully for the
gloomy, criminal, mean impulses and acts in life. He drags up
the dregs of human nature and muddies his stream with them.
The stream may be placid, limpid, or sparkling, and graceful shad-
ows of green trees may pass over it ; but Dostoieffsky never sees
these things. Above all, he never sees anything that brings hu-
manity nearer to God. God, if he exists, according to Dostoi-
eflFsky is a being who laughs at the inexpressible vileness of the man
he has created vile : therefore he is a *' realist " ; he draws things
as they are ; he is Great, and Mr. HowpUs is his prophet ! Dos-
toieflfsky's Crime and Punishment and Injury and Insult are the
two novels most talked about just now. In Crime and Punishment
the interest eddies around a mad and lurid creature, Rodia Ras-
kohiikoff, and in Insult and Injury Natash, a woman of brutal
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2^2 A Chat ABOUT New Books, [May,
passion, is the central figure. Both novels are powerful and
unhealthily interesting. If Russian life is what Turgu6neflF, Tols-
toi, and DostoiefFsky represent it to be, Russia must be a sad
place, whose people are divided between idiotic glee and unre-
strainable delirium.
Mr. Edmund Downy is another weird and mysterious writer.
The romantic and^ ghoulish fashion in novels, which Mr. Rider
Haggard, following Mr. Robert L. Stevenson, made popular, finds
a clever disciple in the author of In Our Town (New York : D.
Appleton & Co.) Mr. Downy combines both the gifts of Mr. W.
Clark Russell, whose Golden Hope (Harper & Bros.) we have just
received, and of Mr. Haggard, whose gruesome and super-sen-
suous She is as popular as his better work. King Solomon* s Mines,
Mr. Downy 's House of Tears is a novel born of dyspepsia. The
author probably imitated Mrs, Ratcliffe's method of helping her
imagination, and ate a raw beefsteak before he conceived his
plot. In Our Town is pleasanter. There is one of those queer
Yankees in it that never existed on earth ; there is evidence of an
acute observation of sailor life.
The success of She has fortunately revived Thomas Moore's
novel. The Epicurean, which, like Gerald Griffin's Invasion, has
been underrated by modern critics who have deigned to notice
it at all. She is said to resemble The Epicurean. It does — at a
respectable distance ; but where Moore gave us the impressive
and picturesque results of deep reading, Mr. Haggard gives only
the appearance of erudition by the introduction of inventions
and facts drawn from ordinary travellers* books. Moore's de-
scription of the Egyptian priestly mysteries, once read, can never
be forgotten. Mr. Haggard's pictures, in rough colors shown by
red light, are coarse compared with those drawn by Moore in
The Epicurean,
Of the same class of writers as Mr. Haggard, but higher, finer,
more poetic, more literary, is Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson, who
is a type of the spirit of this earnest, playful, cynical, mocking,
yet sympathetic nineteenth century. He is a faun who has
taken to literature. His Merry Men and Other Tales and Fables
is in line with the first short stories that began to make his
reputation. It will disappoint those who look for another alle-
gory, like the terrible one of Dr./ekyl and Mr. Hyde, **01alla"
is the most powerful of these short stories. Olalla is a Span-
ish girl, whose proud race has dwindled mentally because of
intermarriage. Her mother is a maniac, her brother an idiot.
She has escaped the curse, but she refuses to marry a young Eng-
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1887.] A Chat ABOUT New Books. 273
lishman who proposes to her, and whom she loves, for fear of
perpetuating the evil. Mr. Stevenson has had ihe good taste
and the good sense to show that this Spanish girl's self-sacrifice
was the result of religious belief and practice. The padre, the
confessor of the young girl, nobly clings to the isolated family —
avoided as if they were lepers by the ignorant villagers—and Mr.
Stevenson admirably depicts his grave gentleness. In the last
scene, after Olalla has renounced the young Englishman, the two
meet accidentally near a roadside crucifix.
" * I have laid my hand upon the cross/ she said : * The padre says you
are no Christian ; but look up a moment with my eyes, and behold the
face of the Man of Sorrows. We are all such as he was — the inheritors
of sin ; we must all bear and expiate a past which was not ours. We a^e
all such as he was— the inheritors of sin.' "
Mr. Stevenson makes a lapse here. No Spanish woman well
versed in her religion could have said that our Lord inherited
sin, since the Immaculate Conception is a dogma of the church.
Mr. Stevenson concludes his story effectively with the final'
parting of the lovers. He gives us a glimpse of the feelings ex-
cited in an irreligious man by the sight of a crucifix in a great
crisis of his life :
** I looked at the face of the crucifix, and, though I was no friend to
images, and despised that imitative and grimacing art of which it was a
rude example, some sense of what the thing implied was carried home to
ray intelligence. The face looked down upon me with a painful and deadly
contraction, but the rays of a glory encircled it and reminded me chat the
sacrifice was voluntary. It stood there crowning the rock, as it still stands
on so many highway sides, vainly preaching to passers-by, an emblem of
sad and noble truths: that pleasure is not an end, but an accident; that
pain is the'choice of the magnanimous ; that it is best to suffer all things
and do well. I turned and went down the mountain in silence; and- when
I looked back for the last time before the wood closed about my path, I saw
Olalla still leaning on the crucifix."
" The Treasure of Franchard " is a delightful bit of froth. An
eccentric doctor, whose wife has induced him to bury himself in
a remote hamlet to save him from bankruptcy, preaches con-
tinually of his contentment and the saving quality of his philo-
sophy. But the moment he discovers a large amount of money
be sinks to the level of other men. How he and his wife were
saved from ruin by the theft of this treasure and the loss of all
they had in the world is the purport of this quaint and paradoxi-
cal story.
It is remarkable — if we may take a conclusion from many
novels — how well women love fools. From Waverley — may its
VOL. XLV.— 18
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shadow never grow less ! — to Lothaity and from Lothair to the
newest batch of novels that will be celebrated, the same light-
ness of character, the same inconsistency, are the most salient
characteristics of heroes of romance :
" One foot on sea and one on shore.
To one thing constant never."
And yet the ladies, in spite of Shakspere's warning, go on sigh-
ing to the end of the novels, and perhaps afterwards. Orion,
the hero of Georg Ebers' new romance. The Bride of the Nile
(New York : William S. Gottsberger), is what the English call a
** cad.** In the beginning he commits a theft, connives in the
most cowardly way at what might have been a murder, tries to
secure the punishment of an innocent man for a crime he had
himself committed, and to throw a lie he had himself told on the
shoulders of a woman he pretends to love. He swears eternal
fidelity to one woman, promises to perform an heroic action, and
then meets another woman, becomes her slave, and sneaks from
the promise he had made. He induces still another woman to
tell a lie for his sake in a court of justice, and then coolly casts
her off, though he has been betrothed to her. He is punished
frightfully, but at the end he marries the heroine and is left with
a prospect of happiness.
Paula, the heroine of The Bride of the Nile^ is one of the most
forceful characters depicted in recent fiction. She has all the
spirit of Sir Walter Scott*s Catherine Seton without her pertness
— a stanch and honest heroine, who never disappoints the reader
by falling below her level. She cannot brook injustice ; she can-
not remain silent when wrong is made to appear right. And, as
deeply as she loves Orion, her love does not blind her to those
qualities in him which she hates with the same hatred as she
hates the devil.
We praise Georg Ebers' romances with a reservation ; but
The Bride of the Nile is the best, the purest, and the most power-
ful of them. According to expectation, he admires the Moslems ;
his sympathy seems to tend more towards the crescent than the
cross, and man himself is represented as the one source from
which goodness comes, for Ebers is a humanitarian. Neverthe-
less these blemishes are not prominent ; and Paula never could
have been as she was, pure and noble, had the spirit of Christi-
anity not directed her.
The Bride of the Nile opens in the seventh century. Egypt,
Jialf-Christianized and partially corrupted by Greek schisms and
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1887.] A Chat ABOUT Nbw Books. 275
darker sects, had fallen into the hands of the Arabs. Khalif
Omar ruled this late appendage to the Byzantine Empire, and the
Mukaukas, the representative of the emperor, was governed by
the agent of the Khalif on the other side of the Nile. Orion
was the son of the Mukaukas George, and Paula is his niece, who
has been thrown on the protection of her powerful relative by
the supposed death of her father in one of the struggles that con-
vulsed Egypt. Orion, handsome, accomplished, gallant, versed
in all the social arts of the court of Constantinople, has returned
to Egypt. He is, like his father and mother, a member of one of
the sects of the Monophysites, who held that there was one na-
ture in our Lord. Paula is a Melchite, holding fast to the Ca-
tholic doctrine in opposition to that condemned by the Council
of Chalcedon. Melchite means a •* royalist," so called because
the Church of Constantinople and the Byzantine emperors had
remained orthodox. Later, when the emperors lapsed into the
Greek schism, the Melchites went too. But to-day in Palestine
they are among the largest and wealthiest of the former schis-
matics now merged in the body of the church. As the time of
Ebers' novel is laid in 643 — two hundred years before the fatal
usage of imperial power on the part of the Empress Theodora's
son, which originated the deplorable Greek schism — one can sym-
pathize with Paula as a good Catholic, and rejoice in Orion's con-
version to the Melchites as a guarantee that the influence of the
true church may strengthen his inconstant nature.
Ebers makes one of his Egyptian Monophysites say that he
would turn Moslem before he would acknowledge that our Lord
is true man as well as true God. This is a reflex of the proud
spirit that led Christian Egypt deeper and deeper into heresies
and deeper into degradation. We are introduced to a repre-
sentative of the ancient Communists in the person of Rustem,
the Muskadite, who held views that approach closely to Mr.
George's doctrines, and to whom the old Moslem merchant says :
*^ Let us abide by the old order, my Rustem ; and may the Most
High preserve you your good heart, for you have but a foolish
and crotchety head."
This old merchant sells part of a bejewelled hanging to the
Mukaukas. Among the jewels stitched on the tapestry, which
the Mukaukas, nearing death, buys for his church, is a magnifi.
cent emerald. Orion has made love to a rich young widow of
Constantinople, Heliodora ; but the moment he sees the stately
Paula, on his way from a little coquetry with Katharina, he falls
in love with her. Paula admires him ; but his mother, Nefortis,
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who detests the Melchites, warns him that he is expected to
marry the little Katharina, and he very amiably and weakly agrees.
Paula's pride is alarmed, and she snubs Orion, much to the de-
light of every well-constituted reader, and does not hesitate to
speak her mind. The old Moslem merchant ventures to express
an opinion in favor of the benevolence of his people, in the pre-
sence of the Mukaukas. Paula gives him an opportunity to hear
her views:
" * You — ^you, the followers of the false prophet ! ' she cries, heedless
alike of the astonished and indignant bystanders — ' you, the followers of
the false prophet ; you, the companions of the bloodhound Khalif — you
and Charity I I know you ! I know what you did in Syria I With these
eyes have I seen you and your bloodthirsty women, and the foam on your
raging lips. Here I stand to bear witness against you, and I cast it in your
teeth. You broke faith in Damascus, and the victims of your treachery —
defenceless women and tender infants as well as men — ^you killed with the
sword or strangled with your hands. You — ^you the apostles of compas-
sion — have you ever heard of Abyla ? You, the friend of your prophet, I
ask you : What did you, who so tenderly spare the tree by the wayside, do
to the innocent folk of Abyla, whom you fell' upon like wolves in a sheep-
fold ? You— you and Compassionate ! '
" No wonder Orion, the weak and unstable, said to himself in horror
and enchantment, • What a woman I '"
The Mukaukas buys the tapestry ; but while the bargain is
carried on, Paula, her heart bursting with her wrongs, the sense
of injury done to her by the aunt who despises her, and insulted
by Orion's change of tone, goes out, to find that some news of
her father has arrived. She sees her nurse, Perpetua, and, know-
ing that her uncle, kind as he is, will advance her no more money
to search for her father, she persuades her freedman, Hiram, to
take an emerald she possesses and to start for the place where
her father is supposed to be concealed. In the meantime Orion
resolves to steal the big emerald from the tapestry. He wants
to send it as a gift to Heliodora in Constantinople. But as he
is gliding from the room with his treasure, Mandane, a slave-
girl, who has been crazed by his desertion of her, attacks him.
His ferocious hound mangles her. He makes off — seen, how-
ever, by Paula, who finds the slavegirl bathed in blood. Then
follows a fine scene, in which Orion's mother, Nefortis, Orion,
and Paula are the speakers. Paula is convinced of Orion's utter
baseness, and she stings him with her words. It is certainly very
pleasant, in these days of half-hearted novels, to meet a heroine
with whom one can always sympathize, and who is sure to be as
quick in defence of herself and her principles as Katharine the
shrew, or Beatrice, the tormentor of Benedick.
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188/.] A Chat ABOUT New Books. 277
The loss of the emerald makes a great stir. Orion sends it
off to Heliodora. But Paula's, sold by her freedman, is found in
a Jew's shop. The freedman is dragged before the judges, and
Paula is confident that by showing the locket from which she
has taken the emerald the man's innocence will be proven.
Orion, who is the principal of the judges in his father's ab-
sence, manages to substitute a valuable gem for the gold frame-
work from which Paula has taken the emerald. Paula has two
witnesses who have seen this framework, Katharina and her
clever and stanch little relative, Mary. Orion, who began his
downward career gaily, now finds himself obliged to go from
one crime to another. He feels sure that Paula's story will be
disproved by her not being able to produce the setting of her
emerald. Hiram may die through his falsehood, but he will
cover up all traces of his crime. The trial is admirably managed.
Paula fights like a lioness. She appeals to Katharina, whom
Orion induces to lie ; she appeals to the little Mary, but Nefortis
will not permit her to be a witness. She is foiled at every turn
by the villany of Orion.
" She unhooked the onyx *^ — the almost priceless gem Orion had left in
place of the emerald — "and flung it towards Gamaliel, who caught it, while
she exclaimed : * I make you a present of it, Jew ! Perhaps tne villain
who hung it to my chain might buy it back ag^in. The chain was given to
my father by the saintly Theodosius, and rather than defile it by contact
with that gift from a villain I will throw it into the Nile ! You — you, poor
deluded judges — I cannot be wroth with you, but I pity you ! My Hiram,
and she looked at the freedman, ' is an honest soul, whom I shall remem-
ber with gratitude to my dying day ; but as to that unrighteous son of a
most righteous father, that man-.-' and she raised her voice, while she
pointed straight at Orion's face."
Orion's crime finds him out. At the death-bed of his father
the child Mary reveals the truth about the emerald, and the
Mukaukas dies almost cursing him. His character begins to
develop towards the light. Paula and he are reconciled; he
meets Heliodora in Memphis, and this leads to a catastrophe that
almost destroys both Paula and himself. The Nile refuses to
rise. Famine and plague visit Memphis. The bishop diies.
The Egyptians are persuaded by the son of a priest of Isis to
offer a human sacrifice to the Nile. He does this in the hope of
killing Paula, whom he hates for having attracted his friend, the
physician Philippus. He almost succeeds, when she is saved
from being the bride of the Nile by a very brilliant tour de force.
The interest is stringent until the very last page. It is full of
strong and unexaggerated dramatic feeling. At the same time
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278 A Cff AT ABOUT New Books. [May,
it has a strong moral force, accentuated by the natural play of
well-drawn and gradually-developed characters. To have created
so noble yet so human a character as that of Paula will cause
many to forgive Ebers the existence of some of his other novels.
A passage in The Bride of the Nile throws light on the " fruit-
bearing sycamore " we marked with an interrogation-point in
our criticism of The Martyr of Golgotha. Of Pulcheria, an ad-
mirable housewife, Ebers writes :
" She did not notice him as he went in, for she was busy arranging
grapes, figs, pomegranates, and sycamore figs— a fruit resembling mulberries
in flavor, which grow in clusters from the trunk of the tree — between leaves,
which the drought and heat of the past weeks had turned almost yellow.'*
Mr. Hugh Ewing, of Lancaster, O., has been so kind as to send
this note on the subject :
" Ch&teaubriand, in the Martyrs, says at the mouth of the Nile the syca-
mores were laden with figs. * Sycamore * is properly applied to no tree but
the ' fig.' In some parts of this country we miscall the ' plane ' tree the
• sycamore.* "
When a man writes a good book he ought to be pensioned
on condition that he will never print another, with liberty, how-
ever, to write as many as he choose. Before us are two exam-
ples of the failure of authors to equal themselves. Mr. Thomas
Hardy's novel. Far from the Madding Crowds put him on a
pedestal from which his head almost touched the base of
Thackeray's. He invented English peasants as quaint and im-
possible — in England — as Shakspere's clown, and the mechanism
of his fable seemed oiled with genius. Tfie Woodlafiders is his
latest novel. It has the quaintness, the delicate landscape draw-
ing, and the clear English of the first novel. The yeomen and
peasants are just as abnormally capable of smart aphorisms, but
the story is coarse, unhealthy, and forced. The supper which
the rustic Giles Winterborne gave to Grace Melbury, the accom-
plished young woman just from school, and her parents, is de-
scribed in Mr. Hardy's best Flemish manner. Creedle, the
bachelor retainer of the bachelor Winterborne, soliloquizes:
*" Oh ! yes. Ancient days, when there was battles, and famines, and
bang-fairs, and other pomps, seem to me as yesterday. Ah ! many's the
patriarch I've seed come and go in this parish ! There he's calling for
more plates. Lord, why can't 'em turn their plates bottom upward for pud-
ding, as they used to do in former days ? * "
After the feast Creedle nods in the direction of the departed
guests, and thus consoles the host :
" < I'm afraid, too, that it was a failure there.'
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" ' If so» 'twere doomed to be so. Not but what that snail might as well
have come upon anybody else's plate as hers.*
" ' What snail ? *
"'Well, maister. there was a little one upon the edge of her plate when
I brought it out ; and so it must have been in her few leaves of winter-
green/
** ' How the deuce did a snail get there ? *
"'That I don't know no more than the dead ; but there my gentleman
was.'
" * But, Robert, of all places, that was where he shouldn't have been ! '
"'Well, 'twas his native home, come to that; and where else could we
expect him to be ? I don't care who the man is, snails and caterpillars al-
ways will lurk in close to the stump of cabbages in that tantalizing way.'
"'He wasn't alive, I suppose?' said Giles, with a shudder on Grace's
account.
" ' Oh ! no. He was well boiled. I warrant him well boiled. God forbid
that a live snail should be seed on any plate of victuals that's served by
Robert Creedle ! . . . But Lord ! there, I don't mind 'em myself — them small
ones — for they were bom on cabbage, and they've lived on cabbage, so they
must be made of cabbage. But she, the close-mouthed little lady, she didn't
say a word about it ; though 'twould have made good small conversation as
to the nater of such creatures, especially as wit ran short among us some-
times.'
" ' Oh ! yes, 'tis all over ! ' murmured Giles to himself, shaking his head
over the glooming plain of embers, and lining his forehead more than ever.
' Do you know, Robert,* he said, ' that she's been accustomed to servants
and everything superfine these many years? How, then, could she stand
our wa3rs ? ' "
Fitzspiers, the hero, with whom three women, including the
heroine, fall desperately in love, is one of the meanest creatures
ever depicted by a novelist. The plot is nasty, and borders on
the license for which the virtuous British public is continually
blaming the French. Mr. Hardy's people have certain tradi-
tions of right and wrong, but no religious principles. Grace
Melbury, having married the scoundrel Fitzspiers, runs away
from him and seeks refuge with Winterborne, who gives her his
hut and dwells outside. He catches a fever and dies. Then
Marty, a woman who loved him, and Grace indulge in the only
bit of religious conversation in the book. Under the circum-
stances it is natural and even pathetic:
" To check her tears she turned, and, seeing a book in the window-bench,
took it up. ' Look, Marty, this is a Psalter. He was not an outwardly re-
ligious man, but he was pure and perfect in his heart Shall we read a
psalm over him f '
" ' Oh ! yes, we will, with all my heart I '
" Grace opened the thin brown book, which poor Giles had kept at
hand mainly for the convenience of whetting his penknife upon its leather
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covers. She began to read in that rich, devotional voice peculiar to women
only on such occasions. When it was over, Marty said : * I should like to
pray for his soul.'
" * So should I,' said her companion. 'But we must not.*
" ' Why ? Nobody would know. '
•• Grace could not resist the argument, influenced as she was by the
sense of making amends for having neglected him in the body ; and their
tender voices united and filled the narrow room with supplicatory murmurs
that a Calvinist might have envied."
Grace goes back to Fitzspiers — evidently because the latter,
whose female friends have departed, has to " settle down."
If Mr. Hardy's first novel caused him almost to touch the base
of Thackeray's pedestal, what shall we say of Mr. R. D. Black-
more's LornaDoone ? That story " caught us all by the throat." It
was a revelation of a new genius. It was a masterpiece. It put
the author head and shoulders above anj' living novelist. It had
the simplicity of Miss Austen, ail the romantic interest of Scott,
the art of Hawthorne. To-day the author of Lorna Doom gives
the public Springhaven (Harper & Bros.) The pernicious English
practice of forcing novels into three volumes is doubtless re-
sponsible for the length ol Springhaven, which is very long. Mr.
Blackmore introduces us to a fine old Admiral, his two daugh-
ters. Faith and Dolly, several male characters, including Lord
Nelson, Napoleon, and a French spy named Carne. The seafaring
people in the book are all rough, true, and natural. The scene is
laid in the early ^art of this century, and the pages of description
have a faint scent of an old-fashioned pot-pourri; but, in spite of
Faith's goodness, of which the author talks continually, Dolly's
coquetry, Carne's heartless intriguing, the talk of the seafaring-
men, and even ErleTwemlow's African adventures — during which
a beard is made to grow on his face by means of a gold-colored
powder, the roots of which beard are so thick as to deflect the
course of a bullet — Springhaven is hard to read. It ends hap-
pily for everybody except the Admiral and the villain. Cheese-
man, the smuggling and treacherous grocer, is very well done.
Under fear of impending misfortune he tries to hang himself.
" * Why don't you cut him down, you old fools ? ' cried the Admiral to
three gaffers, who stood moralizing, while Mrs. Cheeseman sat upon a
barrel, sobbing heavily, with both hands spread to conceal the sad sight.
" ' We was afraid of hurting of him,' said the quickest-witted of the
gaffers ; * Us wanted to know why *a doed it,* said the deepest ; and, • The
will of the Lord must be done/ said the wisest.
"After fumbling in vain for his knife, and looking round, the Admiral
ran back into the shop, and caught up the sharp steel blade with which the
victim of a troubled mind had often unsold a sold ounce in the days of happy
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commerce. In a moment the Admiral had the poor church-warden in his
sturdy arms, and with a sailor's skill had unknotted the choking noose, and
was shouting for brandy, as he kept the blue head from falling back.
" When a little of the finest eau de vie that ever was smuggled had been
administered, the patient rallied, and, becoming comparatively cheerful, was
enabled to explain that 'it was all a mistake altogether/ This removed all
misunderstanding; but Rector Twemlow, arriving too late for anything
but exhortation, asked a little too sternly — as everybody felt — under what
influence of the Evil One Cheeseman had committed that mistake. The
reply was worthy of an enterprising tradesman, and brought him such
orders from a score of miles around that the resources of the establish-
ment could only book them.
" ' Sir,' he said, looking at the parson sadly, with his right hand laid
upon his heart, which was feeble, and his left hand intimating that his neck
was sore, ' if anything has happened that had better not have been, it must
have been by reason of the weight I give, and the value such a deal above
the prices.' ''
Mr. Blackmore's style of telling his story is rich and mellow.
But when he told Lorna Doom he left himself no other story to
tell.
Mrs. Morgan John 0*Connell is not ashamed of being an Irish
landlord. And the fact of her existence makes us almost feel
that Gladstone and Parnell ought to deal leniently with Irish
landlordism — at least until this charming woman of the world
dies. Mrs. Morgan John O'Connell has gathered the journals and
letters of an Irish writer, "Attie " O'Brien, into a book which she
calls Glimpses of a Hidden Life (The Catholic Publication Society
Co.) Miss O'Brien had, at the time of her early death, " de-
veloped a noble and beautiful character, done a great deal of
good among those who came within the scope of her influence,
and cultivated a charming talent which was just beginning to
make itself felt in Catholic literature." She was a poet, a sensi-
tive and exquisite mind, loving Ireland and the Irish, shrinking
almost morbidly from the faintest suggestion of coarseness in her
reading, a devout client of Our Lady and yet enjoying to the
utmost the movement of modern times, broad-minded and sym-
pathetic, living a retired life in a small town, dying by inches,
yet never ceasing to work and to hope. Mrs. O'Connell's appre-
ciation of Miss O'Brien's character gives these Glimpses double
interest. Miss O'Brien's journals could not have had a better
editor. Every now and then Mrs. O'Connell supplements the nar.
rative with sympathetic or racy comments, which, in spite of her
intention to keep out of sight as much as possible, are delight*
fully graphic, individual, and witty. These Glimpses^ outside of
their value and suggestiveness as the record of a noble life, are
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valuable for their graphic pictures of domestic life in Ireland
among the classes of which we learn so little in Irish literature.
The handsome Irish-English officer, the wicked agent, the virtu-
ous peasant girl, the buffoon with a brogue, the ruined abbey,
and the meeting of In vincibles, have become wearisome; there-
fore glimpses of Irish domestic life among the middle classes —
which we have reason to believe is among the pleasantest pos-
sible phases of life — are very welcome. And Mrs. O'Connell
gives us many of them in these journals, for which we are
grateful.
" Attie" O'Brien thought much of that problem which puz-
zles nearly every Catholic writer who wants- to influence those
nearest him ; consequently the most interesting passages in the
book are the letters between her and her best friend, editor of
the Irish Monthly^ Rev. Matthew Russell, S.J. — we write his
name with reverence. Mrs. 0*Connell says:
" She was always thinking of young people out in the world and wanting
something they would read, and the reverend editor was thinking of his
own safe and sure little public, of schools, and quiet families, and clergy, and
how the reverend mothers would not have their dovecots fluttered by pre-
cocious notions of billing and cooing. Each was right in his own way ;
but I own my sympathies are with the woman who would rather her hand
would wither than pen a doubtful line, but who would have a Catholic
magazine deal with the wider problems of life — the old story of love and
marriage, treated in the pure and chivalrous fashion such noble themes de-
mands. Perhaps there should be two Irish Monthlies, one for Father Rus-
sell's boys and girls, and one for young men and maidens of elder growth."
" * I often wish,* writes * Attie O'Brien ' on the same subject, * that you
had a stirring serial tale in the Irish Monthly^ like "Castle Daly " or " The
Princess of Thule." ''Ellenor" is very pretty, but I would like deeper
feeling, more power, what would strike the masses. The thoughtful, pious
people will read holy, good things, but touching them would not content
me. I would like to cast a lasso on the "wilder animals." I would lead
them with a story of human emotion and action, and then they may read
on and swallow it all ; for it is a certainty that even moderately good
persons, particularly Catholics, will not take up a magazine that is out-
and-out religious. They want to be amused as well as elevated and in-
structed.' "
And later, still harping on this need of the times, she says :
" 'Will you think me very wicked if I say that I think the Irish Monthly
has a tendency to be too religious ? I suppose there is nothing human na-
ture objects to more than a religious story which has an ostensible moral
(I mean by human nature the great reading public, whose palate is not
over-delicate). Even very good people will conclude such stories are
stupid. It is good to give children their powders ip a spoonful of jam.
Rosa Mulholland gilt the Catholic pill to a Protestant family here.' "
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She quotes from the Dublin Review :
" * We Catholic writers are much too fond of bringing religion into our
stories, and so defeat our own ends, throwing readers back on Protestant
magazines/ '*
Miss O'Brien's characterization of George Eliot's poetry as
"magnificent cut stone" is a flash of genius.
Mrs. O'Connell interludes the latter part of the journal with
this glimpse of the diflftculties of life among the small proprie-
tors :
" There was one good thing for poor Attie. Though an orphan, away
from all of her name, she was loving, and therefore beloved. As her aunt
said, • Whatever else she wanted for, she never wanted for love.'
" It was really beautiful to see that fragile creature, who was literally
fading away week by week, full of delightful plans of literature and music.
She seemed happy and busied with all sorts of pleasant, graceful fancies,
and possible stories and books of sacred verse ; and still happier and still
busier planning out in the wisest and most practical way how MarccUa's
beautiful voice was to be trained. And all this in a remote country village,
far from every kind of culture and encouragement, and under the most de-
pressing surroundings. No persons felt the first of the bad years so much
as the smaller landowners, who also farmed more or less extensively. They
were, of course, unable to help their tenants to tide over periods of dis-
tress as large proprietors could do ; the relations of landlord and tenant
thus became earlier strained between them, and all the thousand dealings,
of rural neighbors, the perpetual buyings and sellings which go on among
us all, ceased to be carried on in the old friendly way. Labor became dearer
with emigration, just as people had less cash to pay for it, and the succes-
sive bad, wet years made the saving of hay, corn, and turf much more ex-
pensive. A profound dejection seemed to seize on every one except the
prime movers and officials of the Land League. I really think the state of
chronic depression Mr. Gavin fell into hastened his death, which occurred
about two years after poor Attie's. And it was in this atmosphere of gloom
and depression, when numbers of excellent people thought Mr. Gladstone
was going to take away the rest of our interest in our lands, and when
every single product connected with rural economy, except horses, was at
its lowest ebb. that this brave woman worked at her double scheme— inter-
rupted by death in her own case, never carried out in her cousin's [she be-
came a nunj, but changed for so widely different a career."
This is a fascinating book. It will not do to quote any more
from it. We have tried to excite interest in a remarkably pure,
elevated, and elevating character.
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284 New Publications. [May,
NEW PUBLICATIONS.
Abandonment ; or, Absolute Surrender to Divine Providence. Pos-
thumous work of Rev. J. P. de Caussade, S.J. Revised and corrected
by Rev. H. Rami^re. Translated from the eighth French edition by Miss
Ella McMahon. New York: Benziger Bros.
Father Ramiere in his preface summarizes the doctrine of this little
book as follows : " First Principle : Nothing is done, nothing happens,
either in the material or in the moral world, which God has not foreseen
from all eternity, and which he has not willed, or at least permitted.
Second Principle : God can will nothing, he can permit nothing, but in
view of the end he proposed to himself in creating the world— />., in view
of his glory and the glory of the Man-God, Jesus Christ, his only Son.'*
Father Ramiere then proceeds in his preface — which is in that distinguished
author's best style, and which one ought carefully to read before using this
book — to explain how Quietism, or any kind of fatalism, can have no place
or part in the principles or practices advocated by Father Caussade.
The work is that of a man who had attained to a high degree of liberty
of spirit. How he attained to so great a fulness of the Uberty of God's
children we do not know — most likely by a process more or less similar to
what he has outlined in these pages ; but very few men have ever given
better expression to the fundamental doctrines of the spiritual life. It is
indeed worthy to be the inseparable companion of the very many souls
called to serve God according to its special way ; for if it is not a book for
■everybody, yet we feel entirely certain that there are great numbers, both
in religious communities and living in the world, for whom it will be simply
indispensable. We know of no other book like it, or so well able to open
the door of the cage and bid the imprisoned spirit be free. We would not
recommend its indiscriminate use, and some who can use it with safety will
find a weak dilution of its strong doctrine all that they can at first profit
by. Yet nearly all can somewhat profit by its perusal, for it shows that the
interior divine guidance of each particular moment is the highest to be at-
tained ; that God fills every moment with the special direction of his Holy
Spirit, if we but have our eyes open to perceive it.
The publishers are worthy of every praise for getting out such works
as this and a recent one by Dr. Scheeben entitled The Ghries of Divine
Grace, We can think of no motives for their so doing except high super-
natural ones. The same may be said of the translator, whose work has
been well and intelligently done.
Why am I a Catholic .^ By Rev. S. M. Brandi, S. J., Professor of Theo-
logy in Woodstock College. From the North American Review. With
an appendix containing a short summary of what Christians ou^ht to
know and believe. Woodstock College Print. (For sale by the Catho-
lic Publication Society Co.)
The line of argument adopted in this little pamphlet, as is explained in
its first sentences, was not the choice of the writer, but of the editors of
the periodical in whose pages it first appeared. It might in reality be
called Why I am not a Protestant. We think that, in the busier and
more intelligent sections of America, Why I am not an Agnostic would
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have better suited the actual difficulties of those of our non-Catholic fel-
low-citizens who care enough for religious controversy to read about it.
Yet all the heresies at present in organized shape are met by Father
Brandi, and their fundamental errors refuted ; if most of their adherents are
but Christians in name, there are yet many earnest souls among them for
whom these pages ought to be of much help towards finding the true church.
The Heart of St. Francis of Sales. Thirty-one considerations upon
the interior virtues of this great saint. Edited by the Very Rev. George
Porter. S.J., Archbishop-Elect of Bombay. London : Burns & Oates ;
New York: The Catholic Publication Society Co.
This pretty little book is the very best companion to choose for your
purse or your memorandum-book in your pocket ; for it is the wisdom of
that saint of modern times who seemed to know best how to live in this
world and in the next world at one and the same time. A glance at these
pages is a glimpse of heavenly wisdom. Take it with you in the horse-
cars, for five seconds' reading in it refreshes the heart as much as meeting
a dear friend, and it will save your neighbors the dreary stare of your va-
cant face. Take it with you to your business, for it will be to the soul
what your luncheon is to your body — nourishing food. If we ought to
carry the consciousness of the divine presence in our daily round of duties,
we may well choose just such a little book as a reminder.
Life and Spirit of J. B. M. Champagnat, Priest and Founder of the
Society of the Little Brothers of Mary. By one of his first disciples.
Translated from the French. London : Burns & Oates ; New York :
The Catholic Publication Society Co.
This is in many respects a book of very great value. The story of the
heroic soul's life and labors is told with great simplicity, yet with much
skill, and reads like pages of a diary. It is from first to last filled with per-
sonal reminiscences, actual conversations, extracts from letters, together
with a full and intelligent explanation of the principles of the spiritual life
by which Father Champagnat was guided. We notice copious explanations
of the rules and methods for training children, which, making proper allow-
ance for differences of nationality, are worthy the study of all who are called
to the high vocation of Christian instruction.
We have seldom seen a better printed and bound volume than this. A
special feature is that it contains some creditable illustrations.
Socialism and the Church ; or, Henry George vs. Archbishop Corrlgan.
By Rev. Willibald Hackner, priest of the diocese of La Crosse, Wis.
New York : The Catholic Publication Society Co. ; London : Burns &
Oates, Limited.
This pamphlet came too late for us to read it all. We read enough to
be able to pronounce it one of the most solid, in our opinion, that this con-
troversy on the land question has produced. It is, of course, on the side
of the archbishop and the church. Read it.
Records relating to the Dioceses of Ardagh and Clonmacnoise.
By Very Rev. John Canon Monahan, D.D.. V.F. Dublin : M. H. Gill &
Son. (For sale by the Catholic Publication Society Co.)
The ancient sees of St. Mel and St. Kyran are among the most inte-
resting of the ecclesiastical divisions of Ireland. Their history carries us
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back to the early dawn of the nation's faith, and every page of their re-
ligious records is replete with interest.
The diocese of Ardagh finds glory in the fact that its first bishop, St.
Mel, was the nephew of St. Patrick and the spiritual guide of St. Bridget.
And a succession of saints sat on its episcopal throne, which, when the
days of persecution came, also furnished many martyrs for the cause of
Christ. The territorial extent of the diocese of Ardagh is large, com-
prising as it does the greater part of the counties of Longford and Leitrim,
together with portions of the adjoining counties.
In the early part of the sixteenth century it was one of the most con-
siderable of the Irish dioceses, and long before his apostasy we find Henry
Vlll. meddling in the appyointment of its bishops. The Protestant Re-
formation never gained much of a foothold within the limits of the see of
St. Mel. The people, with few exceptions, remained steadfast in the
faith, and when the revival of religious enterprise that followed the Act
of Catholic Emancipation set in, the ancient diocese of Ardagh was not
slow to manifest in external works the spiritual life and energy that sus-
tained it. New and graceful structures soon replaced the old churches,
convents were multiplied, and a stately college and a massive cathedral
were erected to perpetuate the name and the patronage of St. Mel. Bish-
ops worthy of their sainted predecessors have watched over and guided its
recent progress, and they have found comfort and support in an efficient
body of diocesan clergy. The old missionary spirit of the diocese has also
revived, and has sent forth in the present generation upwards of one hun-
dred priests to propagate the faith in foreign lands, some of whom are
among the most successful and respected members of our American clergy.
The glory of Clonmacnoise is monastic rather than diocesan, and its
history centres in the cloister more than in the cathedral. It seems to
have been the custom in the early Irish Church for the abbots of large
monasteries to receive episcopal consecration and exercise ecclesiastical
jurisdiction over the territory adjoining. This is how Clonmacnoise came
to be the seat of the bishopric. This famous sanctuary by the Shannon
was founded by St Kyran in the middle of the sixth century, and in an in-
credibly short time became one of the greatest seats of science and sancti-
ty in Christendom. Charlemagne sent gifts to its shrines and courted its
scholars ; students from almost every country in Europe flocked to it, at-
tracted by the fame of its schools ; the Vikings heard of its riches away
Over the northern seas, and came and plundered and burned its churches ;
and at last the so-called Reformation of the sixteenth century cast its
withering blight upon it, so that in the beginning of the last century it
lost even its ecclesiastical autonomy and fell under the jurisdiction of the
Bishop of Ardagh. Its monuments and its memories alone remain. They
are immortal. The round towers and ruined churches of Clonmacnoise re-
flect a nation's glory, and the most hallowed traditions of a nation's faith
are associated with its storied past.
The history of Ireland is yet to be written, and it is from such records
as these that the material for writing it must be gathered. We therefore
recognize in the researches of Canon Monahan not only a service loyally
performed to his own particular diocese, but a service also to the general
cause of Irish history.
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The Throne of the Fisherman, built by the Carpenter's Son, the Root,
the Bond, the Crown of Christendom. By Thomas W. Allies, K.C.S.G.
London : Burns & Oates ; New York : The Catholic Publication So-
ciety Co.
This work came too late to secure the attention it deserves. A glance
through its pages impresses us with the fact that it is in all probability the
crowning work of the author's career as a controversialist. We must have
more time to get acquainted with its merits, and will return to it in a future
number.
The Catholic Hospital; or, A Collection of Prayers and Readings for
the Sick and the Afflicted. Preston E. BuUer & Son.
This reprint of an old work will be of great service to both priests and
people. The time of sickness and approaching death, we need not say, is
one when the soul should be led to think of God "in goodness/' but there
is a lack of suitable works in English fitted to cherish such thoughts. The
prayers and acts in this little book, while fervent and devout, are sensible
and reasonable, and not unreal or extravagant. The title Catholic Hospi-
tal is, however, misleading.
Practical Notes on Moral Training, especially addressed to Parents
and Teachers. With Preface by Father Gallwey, S.J. Second edition.
London : Burns & Gates, Limitec ; New York : The Catholic Publication
Society Co.
This little work was not written for the sake of making a large volume ;
and, in fact, it is only a small one. It is, however, the work, not of a specu-
lative theorist, but of one whose life has been spent in actual and success-
ful teaching, and whatever it proposes has consequently been put to the
test of experience. The fact that it has met with the approval of so expe-
rienced a guide of souls as Father Gallwey, and perhaps we may add the
fact that it has passed through one edition — a thing which, when it is a
question of a Catholic book, is worth noting — ought to be sufficient to re-
commend it to all who are placed in charge of the young.
Gethsemani. Meditations on the Last Day on Earth of our Blessed Re-
deemer. By Rt. Rev. MonsignorT. S. Preston, V.G., LL.D.. Domestic
Prelate of His Holiness Leo XHL New York : Robert Coddington.
Gethsemani is a companion to The Watch on Calvary. And when we say
that it is written in a manner similar to that in which The Watch was writ-
ten, we have said enough to recommend it to all familiar with that little
book. Gethsemani, like its fellow, is full of beauty, suggesting to the devout
thoughts that uplift the soul from the grossness of earth and bring it close
to the loving Heart of Jesus.
Home Rule; or, The Irish Land Question. Facts and arguments. By C.
Higgins, M.A., F.R.S.L. Chicago and New York : Rand, McNally & Co.
This is a very clear and excellent treatise upon Home Rule, written by
an Englishman who is entirely in sympathy with the movement, and who
at times becomes really eloquent over the wrongs and sufferings of Ireland,
and is always clear and logical. In fact, the book is a most convincing ar-
gument throughout for Home Rule, which has all the more weight coming
from one who has been led to make it, not from interested motives, but
from a sense of justice. The fearful injuries and sufferings wrought by
English laws from early times to the present day are reviewed, and some
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terrible instances of suflFering: are given in the chapter on evictions. Sta-
tistics of agrarian outrages are presented which show how wofully exagge-
rated are the cries that come from the English press. Indeed, as regards few-
ness of crimes, Ireland will compare most favorably with any country in
the globe, notwithstanding the poverty and oppression which grind down
the people. At this time, when English Tories are crying for coercion, it
is well that a clear, dispassionate treatise built upon facts, such as the one
before us, should be in the hands of every one interested in the struggles
of an oppressed race for better things.
Petroleum and Natural Gas. What the boys and girls learned about
these things during a holiday excursion among the oil and gas wells.
By "A Man," of the Great Rock Island Route. Chicago : The J. M. W.
Jones Stationery and Printing Co.
This little book, the third of the series of holiday gift-books presented
to the boys and girls of the United States by the Great Rock Island Route,
tells us in an interesting way a great deal about petroleum and natural gas.
Few things have been such great sources of wealth, and have done so much
to revolutionize trade and manufacture, as these two wonderful products of
Nature's great laboratory. Petroleum has been known for some time, but
it is only within the last few years that natural gas has come into extensive
use, and the changes it is now working in and about Pittsburgh, where it
has been introduced into the foundries, are marvellous. To read about
these things in the way this little book presents them to us is certainly
very entertaining.
Hand-book for Altar Societies and Guide for Sacristans and
others having charge of the altar and sanctuary. by a mem-
ber of an Altar Society. New York : Benziger Bros.
Without saying that this neat little volume is accurate in all respects,
we can recommend it as an excellent practical guide for ladies having
charge of altars and sacristies, and for the general purposes for which it
is designed.
OTHER BOOKS AND PAMPHLETS RECEIVED.
Pictorial Lives of the Saints, with reflections for every day in the year. Edited by John
Gilmary Shea, LL.D. New York : Ben2i|er Bros.
Fifth Biennial Report of the Kansas State Board of Agriculture to the Legis-
lature of the State for the years 1885-86. Wm. Sims, Secretary State Board of Agriculture.
Topeka, Kan. : State Publishing House.
Meditations on St. Mary Magdalene which may be used as a Novena for her Feast. Lon-
don : R. Washboume.
St. Joseph, Advocate of Hopeless Cases. New accounts of spiritual and temporal favors,
etc. Translated from the French of Rev. Father Huguet, Marist. New York : Bensiger
Bros.
Memoir of Father Vincent de Paul, Religious of La Trappb. Translated from the
original French by A. M. Pope, with a Preface by the Rt. Rev. Dr. Cameron, Bishop of
Arichat. Charlottetown, P. E. Island : John Coombs, printer.
Evangelization. A paper read before the National Council of Congregational Churches,
October 17, 1886. By George F. Pentecost
A Thought from St. Ignatius for Each Day of the Year. Translated from the French
bv Miss Margaret A. Colton. New York : Bensiger Bros.
Dr. Channino's Note-Book. Passages from the unpublished manuscripts of William Ellery
Channing, selected by his granddaughter, Grace EUery Channing. New York : Houghtoo,
Mifflin & Co.
American Commonwealths : Nfw York. The Planting and the Growth of the Empite
SUte. By EIUs H. Roberts. Boston and New Yoric : Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
Heinrich and Leonore. Ab Alpine Story and other Poems. M. J. Barry. Dublin:
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THE
CATHOLIC WORLD.
Vol. XLV. JUNE, 1887. No. 267.
WHAT IS THE NEED OF FUTURE PROBATION?*
Progressive orthodoxy, in the sense of the Andover pro-
fessors, contains a constant and a variable element ; the constant
taken from dogmatic and historical Christianity, as they under-
stand it, the variable being a development in the apprehension
and use of Christian doctrines. As Protestants, they take the
doctrines of the Reformation as being substantially the genuine
doctrines of apostolic and catholic Christianity; and their
specific form of Protestantism is the Puritan type, which gave
character and form to the primitive New England theology.
The Unitarian rationalism which arose and spread in Massa-
chusetts was regarded as a movement of progress ; but it had no
appearance of being a progressive orthodoxy — *>., a development
of the New England form of Calvinism. It was a renunciation
of the entire system, and a falling back upon philosophical
Theism, with an infusion of a diluted Christianity.
The Andover Seminary was founded for the purpose of
resisting the Unitarianism of Cambridge and maintaining the
old Puritan orthodoxy. A very strict and minute creed was
formulated, as an obligatory standard of doctrine for the instruc-
tors in the Seminary, and the tenure of the large property be-
queathed by the founders was made to depend on the faithful
preservation of this doctrinal standard. The present contro-
versy between Dr. Park and his adherents of the old school on
♦ Progressive Orthodoxy : A Christian Interpretation of Christian Doctrines. By the
Editors of the Andover Review^ Professors in Andover Theological Seminary. Boston and
New Yorit : Houghtoo, Mi£ain & Co. 1887.
Copyright. Rbv. I. T. Hiciaa. sMy.
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290 Wj/at is the Need of Future Probation? [June,
one side, and the five professors, with their adherents of the new
school of progressive orthodoxy, on the other, turns on the ques-
tion whether this new theology is really orthodox or heterodox.
By orthodox is meant conformed to the doctrinal standard of
Andover ; and by heterodox, divergent from this formula. The
plea in defence of the new theology does not pretend that it is
literally and in all respects in conformity with the formula, but
merely that it is in conformity with its substantial doctrines. It
is claimed that the substance of orthodoxy, as held by the Re-
formers, received in Puritan New England, and embodied in the
Andover creed, is the constant element in the new theology of
progressive orthodoxy. On this plea the profession of holding
and teaching the Andover creed, and the retaining of the prop-
erty of the Seminary, are justified, although the theology of the
professors is, in a sense, new ; because the new is a development
of the old theology, and orthodoxy itself is the subject of the
progressive movement. I will not go into this question of litiga-
tion. A deeper and more generally interesting question is that
of the conformity of the new theology with genuine, apostolic
Christianity. Its advocates profess to seek for this conformity,
and they think that by their progressive movement they are
gaining better interpretations of the ancient and original faith
delivered by the apostles to the church than those of their fore-
runners in Protestant theology, or even of those of the early
Fathers and Doctors whom they hold in reverence.
I have no fault to find with the notion of progressive ortho-
doxy in the abstract. In the concrete it is necessary to deter-
mine, first, what genuine orthodoxy is, and then what kind and
method of progress is meant, before any clear and definite judg-
ment can be pronounced upon any particular system of theology
which is called progressive orthodoxy. I firmly believe that the
creed which the church has received and handed down is the
•basis and foundation of an orthodox theology which is, by its
very nature, progressive. In other words, I believe in a devel-
opment of Christian doctrine in the church, in the Catholic sense.
Philosophy is progressive, every other science is progressive,
from first principles, from ascertained truths and facts, along
scientific lines of development and improvement. So, also,
theology, as a science, is progressive.
It is quite possible, therefore, that intelligent and studious
Protestants, in their investigation of doctrines which have been
retained in their theology from the ancient tradition, may attain
to some better interpretations of these doctrines than those
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which were heretofore current in the religious bodies to which
they belong. They may also ameliorate the errors which have
been mixed with these doctrines, so as to make them less obnox-
ious ; or even eliminate some of them entirely. The Calvinistic
system, above all others, is incapable of remaining long in a
quiescent state. The mind of New England was always restless
under its disturbing influence, and has been making a continual
eflfort to adjust its doctrines into harmony with the dictates of
reason and the grand Theistic and Christological conceptions
which have been disclosed by revelation. The present Andover
professors are only working out an inherited tendency. It is
simply impossible that a creed, formulated by a few worthy and
benevolent old gentlemen and ladies in the early part of the
century, should have power to secure perpetual immobility of
doctrine in a place like Andover, where there is so much learn-
ing and intellectual activity. Whether or no the property can
be legally held, or the subscription to the creed be justly made,
by a wide interpretation of the intentions of the founders, thus
much is evident. It is evident that the old theology of Dr.
Porter, Dr. Woods, and Dr. Park cannot be held and taught by
theological professors from any other motive than personal con-
viction. Whichever way the dispute may be settled about the
right of domicile of the new theology at Andover, progressive
orthodoxy cannot be put down by authority, and it is bound to
hold its ground against the unprogressive orthodoxy, or even to
gain ground upon it.
There are two reasons for this. One is that the old theology
is unsatisfactory, so that there is a mental necessity for seeking a
new one. This is the reason why the Unitarian rationalism met
with so much success. Unitarianism is, to use a common expres-
sion, played out. Even Carlyle could see that the faith of the
Nicene Creed is the only genuine Christianity, and that the only
alternative to this kind of Christianity is no Christianity at all. A
new theology cannot attract or make a strong impression upon
religious- minded Protestants, unless it presents itself under the
guise of orthodoxy as well as in the attitude of progression.
This is the second reason why the new theology has a great
present advantage over every other scheme or form of religious
teaching in New England, whether professing to be distinctively
orthodox or distinctively progressive. The very name which
it assumes is taking, attractive, and full of promise. If it fulfils
its promise by vindicating its claim to orthodoxy, while at the
same time opening the way to a really progressive advance to-
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292 WffAT IS THE NEED OF FUTURE PROBATION? [June,
ward a more rational and satisfactory apprehension and pre-
sentation of Christianity, it is likely to achieve a decided and
wide success in winning the adhesion of thoughtful and religious-
minded Protestants, and to become generally popular.
As to its orthodoxy, it certainly does retain and lay at its foun-
dation some essential doctrines which are contained in the Cath-
olic theology and are acknowledged also by the so-called ortho-
dox Protestants as fundamental parts of their own theology.
As to its claim of being progressive, I am free to acknowledge
that it is an improvement, in some respects, u^pon every form of
Calvinism.
It is a matter of no moment how far it conforms to or diverges
from any of the Protestant Confessions of Faith or the Andover
creed. They pretend to very little authority, and possess none
at all. How far it conforms to the genuine orthodoxy of Catholic
theology I do not intend to discuss with a view to a thorough
and minute comparison. It approximates in several points closely
enough to the Catholic doctrine, and in other respects harmonizes
suflBciently with very probable doctrines of Catholic theologians,
to warrant the admission that it is orthodox by comparison with
either Calvinism on the one side or Unitarianism on the other.
It is a system, or a germ of a system, of doctrine, which cannot
develop into pantheism, pure rationalism, or agnosticism any more
than it can revert back to the original type of Calvinism. It
presents the Theism on which Christianity is based in such a way
as to bring into prominent view admirable conceptions of the
divine perfections and the relations of the creation to its Creator.
It confesses the Trinity of Persons in God, and it places the In-
carnation of the Son— confessing that in this mystery he unites in
his person the divine and human natures — as the* corner-stone of
the whole structure of doctrine which it attempts to build.
With the doctrine of the Incarnation are united those of the
universal atonement for sin and the redemption of mankind.
There are also certain views respecting the universal mediation
of Christ which I will presently notice, and in general a very
elevated and broad Christology, which justly entitles this new
theology to call itself, as it does by preference over every other
designation, ** Christocentric." It is plain that there is no ten-
dency toward Unitarianism in such views. Yet some obnoxious
doctrines of Calvinism have been eliminated or ameliorated
which were the great stumbling-blocks over which the original ,
Unitarians tripped and fell. It would not be surprising, therefore,
if many of those who are wearied of that jejune substitute for
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Christianity — viz., Unitarianism — should be won back to a belief
in the true divinity of Jesus Christ by the new theology.
Its coruer-stone, as I have said, is the doctrine of the In-
carnation. This is no new doctrine, but the very dogma which
the new theology inherits from the old orthodoxy as the basis
of that orthodoxy which it claims to hold in common with it
and with the doctrine of the ancient Christianity. Nevertheless,
it presents this doctrine and inferences from it in such a way
that it furnishes the elements of a system of theology and re-
ligious philosophy so different from even the latest modification
of Calvinism as to give ri^e to the appellation of new or progres-
sive.
The idea which the Andover professors present of the reason
and motive of the Incarnation makes it to be, so to speak, of the
original and primary intention of God in the creative act. The
atonement for sin was a sequel of the first intention of the Son of
God to become man, as a mediator in a wider and more universal
sense than that which is involved in the office of a redeemer.
Christ did not come solely in order to die for men, but he died
for men because he was to come, and sin made it necessary that
he should come to die and rise again for their redemption and
salvation.
Moreover, the Incarnation is not exclusively for the exaltation
and glorification of humanity, but for all angels, for all rational
creatures, and for the entire universe- The Incarnate Word is
universal mediator, bringing God into union with all creatures,
and all creatures into union with God, so far as each kina is
capable of union. He is for all, and all are for him. As the
greatest of God's works, the crown of creation, the Incarnation is
that which God chiefly intended, all else being in a relation of
subordination to this final term of creative wisdom, power, and
goodness.
Even Janet, a mere Theist and no Christian, saw, as through
a glass darkly, something grand in this idea :
" To solve this problem Malebranche had uttered this singular and pro-
found thought, that the end of creation was the Incarnation of JesusChrist.
It was in prevision of the Incarnation that the world had been made. The
Incarnation, in place of being a miracle, on this hypothesis, was reason
itself, the ultimate law of the universe. 'God/ he says {Entretiens Meta-
fhys,<t ix. I), 'finds in the Incarnation of the Word a motive, not invincible
but sufficient, to take the part of creator, a part little worthy of him with-
out this dinouement which he finds in his wisdom to satisfy his goodness.' "^
* Janet's Final Causes, last chapter, Edinb. Translation.
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294 What is the Need of Future Probation f [June,
The view of the Incarnation above briefly stated is not an
invention or discovery of the Andover professors, neither was
it of Malebranche. It was the doctrine of the entire Scotist
school and has been embraced by other eminent theologians. I
have no time to dwell longer on this fascinating part of my sub-
ject, but must proceed to show how the Andover professors have
deduced from premises derived from the universal relations of
the Incarnation their peculiar views of probation.
Since Christ came on the earth because he was the predestin-
ed head of the human race, and not merely because he willed
to redeem and save a small number of elected men, he is the Re-
deemer and Saviour of mankind as mankind^ and his atonement is
universal. The universality of the atonement is a Catholic doc-
trine. As every human being, as such, is a descendant of Adam,
so every one, as a descendant of Adam, is a relative by blood of
Christ, the Incarnate Son of God, through his human nature by
which he is the Son of Man. And, as such, he is capable of re-
ceiving the application of his atonement.
The Andover professors say, very truly, that no individual
man is actually made a son of God by adoption, or made secure of
salvation, by the mere fact of the universal redemption of man-
kind. Each one, singly for himself, must come into a personal re-
lation to the Redeemer, and must be personally sanctified, in
order to be saved. The immediate, universal effect of the atone-
ment is to make all mankind capable of salvation from sin and its
consequences, and capable of inheriting everlasting life. Here
comes in their doctrine of probation. What is peculiar in it is
just this: that no individual of the human race can be saved un-
less he is placed in a state of probation in which he can, by intel-
ligent and voluntary acts, appropriate to himself the grace of the
Redeemer, with freedom and power to the contrary. When his
final choice is determined, then his probation is over and his
destiny is fixed for eternity, either to be with Christ in his king-
dom for ever, or to be shut out for ever into the outer darkness.
Those to whom the Gospel is preached have their probation in this
life. But a great multitude of human beings die before they are
capable of receiving the Gospel, or without having had an oppor-
tunity of hearing it, and of either receiving or rejecting the grace
and salvation proffered to all men by Christ. It is inferred from
the universality of the atonement that it ought to be made known,
with the offer of pardon, grace, and salvation through the atoning
Lamb of God, Jesus Christ, to every single human being, with-
out exception, before his eternal destiny is irrevocably fixed.
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Consequently, those who have not a fair and sufficient probe tion
in this life must have one after death, before the Last Judgment,
which is the final term of the present order.
This is a very plausible plea, but there are a few preliminary
difficulties to be settled before it can be admitted.
In the first place, it is taken for granted that all human beings,
even infants and idiots, would necessarily be doomed to everlast-
ing misery but for the provision of mercy which is made for
them through the atonement. Why is this ? Because they are
supposed to be all sinners, to whom this doom is justly due.
Moreover, they are incapable of repentance of themselves, and
unable to do anything but to keep on sinning. But how is it that
all mankind are sinners from the beginning of their existence in
this helpless way ?
The answer of the Old Calvinists is clear and prompt, and is
too well known to need repetition. The Neo-Calvinists, having
rejected the old explanation, can only answer this difficult ques-
tion irf a vague manner. They say that the sin and fall of Adam
caused some detrimental change in the condition of the human
race, by reason of which all men infallibly and unavoidably begin
to sin as soon as they can, and keep on sinning until the grace of
God takes effect upon them, when they are morally changed, and
begin to act from holy motives, so that they are in the way of
becoming eventually perfectly sanctified and attaining their final
salvation.
Now, the New Theologians hold to the distinct individuality
of each soul in its ethical state and relations, and they deny all
possibility of transfer of merit and demerit, righteousness and
guilt. They affirm the freedom^ of the will as necessary to a
veritable probation, and, in short, disown altogether the old
notions of the guilt of Adam being imputed to his posterity,
and his sin being transmitted as a depraved nature by generation
from parents to children. They have, therefore, no ground to
stand upon from which they can logically advance to the posi
tion that mankind as a unit is in a lost and helpless moral state,
from which it needs redemption by the atonement of a divine
Saviour. The notion of a set of rational creatures being cre-
ated in an environment so ill-adapted to their nature that they
must unavoidably do nothing but sin from the beginning to the
end of their life, is absurd ; and it is totally subversive of the
doctrine of free will, of a moral order, and of a just and benevo-
lent Providence.
There is no way out of this labyrinth without abjuring root
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295 What is the Need of Future Probation? [June,
and branch the whole Lutheran and Calvinistic system, and
reverting back to Catholic theology.
The starting-point of all these errors is in the ignoring or de-
nying the essential distinction between the natural and the super-
natural orders ; between those relations of rational creatures to
their Creator which are established by the creative act, and
other relations of the same creatures to God as the author of
grace which are established by a gratuitous elevation of the sub-
jects of this grace into the plane of a supernatural destiny.
Adam received preternatural endowments giving an integrity
and perfection to his nature far above its essential dignity. He
received sanctifying grace and supernatural gifts which elevat*
ed and adorned his intellect and will in a manner worthy of a son
of God and an heir of the kingdom of heaven. These gifts he re-
ceived not merely as a personal possession, but also in trust for
mankind, as the origin, founder, father, and head of the human
race. Their continuance and transmission were made dependent
on his obedience and fidelity under the test of a probaflon in
which he failed, sinned, and fell, thus forfeiting the higher and
supernatural life for all mankind. In consequence of this sin we
are all born mortal men and in a state of privation of the grace
of God, which is the supernatural life of the soul. It is in this
sense that we are all said to have sinned and fallen in Adam, and
in this sense it is true that " if One died for all, then were all
dead." Hence the need of atonement and redemption, if men
were to be restored to their lost inheritance,
I come now upon the question of probation. No doubt it lies
in the plan and purpose of God that for all rational beings of
whose existence and vocation to a supernatural destiny we know
anything positively, the goal of final attainment should be reached
by the way of probation. The angels passed through a proba-
tion by which a multitude of these exalted spirits have attained
to celestial glory and beatitude, while another multitude have
forfeited, by disobedience and rebellion, the crowns which were
proposed to them. Adam and Eve were placed in a state of pro-
bation when they were created and constituted in the state of
original righteousness. If their posterity had inherited their ori-
ginal birthright, doubtless each one would have had his own
individual probation to undergo. In the present state of lapsed
and repaired nature, all men who attain the due development
and use of their rational faculties come under the conditions of a
moral probation.
The Andover professor^ seem to think that this general law is
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a necessary law which springs from the very nature of a finite
rational being. There is no foundation for such an assumption.
It is just as easy for God to create a perfect world, a perfect ani-
mal, a perfect spirit, instantaneously, as it is to produce the final
result he intends by a gradual process. He could easily have
placed any number of pure spirits, and any number of embodied
spirits, in a state of perfect holiness and beatitude, with the
Incarnate Word reigning over them, in the kingdom of heaven,
without any probation, in the first instant of creation, if he
had willed to do so. It is impossible to point out in such a way
of proceeding anything incongruous to the divine perfections.
Doubtless the way he has chosen is one in which the divine wis-
dom has found a suflBcient reason for preference. Doubtless
God has a sufficient reason for subjecting rational creatures to a
probation with all its incidental risks to individuals, and all the fore-
seen consequences of sin and suffering which actually follow.
But we cannot infer that his choice was limited to the alternative
of not creating at all or of creating according to his actual plan.
In like manner, we cannot infer from the general law of proba-
tion which actually prevails that this law has no exceptions. In
respect to human beings, there is no reason for supposing that
there is no way open for infants, for those adults who are mo-
rally on a par with infants, for idiots, to receive the grace of
Christ and to attain to everlasting life, except by giving them
some extraordinary chance by the way of probation.
In point of fact all such who receive baptism are regenerated,
and, if they die without attaining the use of reason, are translated
to heaven, without having concurred in any way, by any acts of
their own, with the grace of God. So, also, whatever provision
was made for infants before the Sacrament of Baptism was insti-
tuted sufficed for them to rescue them from original sin and its
consequences.
As for all those who are left in the condition in which they are
bom, without any means of attaining salvation, until they die, there
is no reason for supposing that their final destiny is one of everlast-
ing misery. Where there is no actual sin there is no demerit, no-
thing which exacts from justice the privation of that natural
perfection and felicity which are due to rational nature as such, and
for which it has essentially an exigency and an aptitude. This
class of human beings may be left out of the discussion altogether.
We have, then, to consider only those who actually attain to the
full use of their rational faculties, and who are therefore necessarily
in a state of probation. These are divided into two classes —
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293 What is the Need of Future Probation? [June,
those to whom the Gospel is distinctly proposed and to whom the
ordinary means of grace are offered, and those who are destitute of
these privileges. It is admitted that all who belong to the first
class have their probation only in this life. The rest of mankind,
it is maintained by the advocates of progressive orthodoxy, have
no sufficient opportunity of receiving the benefits of the atonement
in this life. But as Christ has died for all men, there ought to be a
way of salvation open to all. Therefore they to whom the way
is not opened in this life must have a probation and an opportu-
nity of salvation after death.
Let us suppose now, for the moment, that the acquisition and
exercise of that faith which is necessary for salvation to an adult
who has the use of reason are impossible to the great multitude
of the heathen. Why is it that our friends of the new theology
revolt so strongly from the supposition that they may be left to
the light and the moral force which belong to their nature, and to
the destiny hereafter which corresponds to their moral conduct
under the natural law ? It is chiefly because they look on them
as being unavoidably sinners, incapable of attaining to a state of
intellectual and moral rectitude, and doomed to a state of perpetual
and helpless misery, unless a way of forgiveness and reconciliaiion
to God through Christ is opened to them in the next world. It
is chiefly this notion of rational creatures being pressed down into
a state of perpetual sin and misery by an irresistible force from
without, which makes any doctrine which seems to contain it so
abhorrent to them.
1 agree and sympathize with them in this sentiment. But I
deny altogether that men as they are now born, in the state of
nature denuded of grace, are under any such pressure upon their
free will that they are unable to keep the precepts of the natural
law, and are always sinning in their moral acts. It is a fact that
a large proportion of men do commit mortal sins, that many are
great and habitual sinners, and that the world is full of sin. But
I deny that all men have grievously sinned. Many of those who
have received the grace of Christ in their infancy have even lived
to old age in perfect baptismal innocence. Human nature before
regeneration is not depraved and bad. It is weak, liable to sin,
and, if totally abandoned to itself, would be unequal to the effort
of keeping the whole natural law for any long time, in face of the
difficulties and temptations which are incident to human life as its
current actually runs in this present state of things. Nevertheless,
man can, by his unaided power, keep any precept of the natural
law which is binding on him. He can do acts morally good. He
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is not, in any single instance, under any necessity of sinning; and
if he does sin, he sins by a free, self-determining act of his will.
Even habitual sinners do many good moral acts, and, unless they
are very wicked, they do more good acts than bad ones. Besides
all this, no man is abandoned to himself and left without help from
God, unless he wilfully resists and rejects grace. Because man is
naturally liable in his mind and his will to error, because he is weak
and frail and surrounded by difficulties and dangers, therefore God
has compassion on him and gives him that help which makes him
equal to the task he has set him and to the combat to which he has
left him exposed. So then, if thejieathen have not sufficient grace
for faith and salvation, they must have it at least in their power to
attain to a future state of natural perfection and felicity. Un-
doubtedly many of theni have never sinned grievously. And if
they have sinned and wish to repent, why should they not re-
pent by the aid of grace, so far as to regain natural rectitude before
God?
The moral condition of heathendom assuredly presents a dark
aspect. But so does that of the whole world from the beginning
until now, Christendom included. Nevertheless, good predomi-
nates over evil in this world. There has been and there is a great
amount of moral virtue in the heathen world. And if there have
been a great many virtuous heathen who have at least deserved
natural felicity in the next world, and if they have all been able to
become virtuous and to gain this happy destiny hereafter, even
though they have failed in the majority of cases by their own wil-
ful fault, why should we not go further?
Why should we not say that they have all received sufficient
grace to merit the kingdom of heaven, and that those who have
corresponded with this grace, those who have done what they
could by keeping the natural law, have obtained not merely natu-
ral felicity but supernatural beatitude ? I do not, assuredly, main-
tain that men can merit grace and salvation by merely natural
virtue. But it is a fair inference from the universality of the
atonement that the grace of God reaches all men, unless there is a
natural obstacle which hinders their receiving it. It is said that
we see no evidence of any work of grace in the hearts of the
heathen. We know nothing personally of the majority of those
who have lived since the great mass of mankind, by a more or less
gradual lapse from the patriarchal religion, fell into heathenism.
What knowledge we have does not enable us to penetrate into the
interior of their minds and hearts. Still less are we able to trace
the hidden workings of the Spirit of God. Can we say that the
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300 What is the Nerd of Future Proration? [June,
aspirations of nature towards its Author, in all men who have at-
tained the full use of reason, have not been so aided and elevated
by a secret grace of the Holy Spirit that they were enabled, if
they made an effort to follow the light they had and to obey the
dictates of conscience, to make those acts of faith, hope, love, and
contrition which are necessary to salvation ? Can we know what
has passed between their souls and God at the hour of death ?
Granted that we cannot find any reasonable evidence that the
majority have escaped the doom of final impenitence ; is that suf-
ficient to prevent our cherishing a pious and reasonable hope that
a large minority have been gathered into the family of the children
of God out of all nations and during all ages? Is it sufficient to
warrant the conclusion that all have not had a fair probation, suffi-
cient grace, and an opportunity of salvation which they have
missed only by a wilful perseverance in sin? As for tribes or in-
dividuals so ignorant and degraded that they have never awakened
out of the slumber of their rational faculties, they are on a par with
infants, are incapable of probation, and therefore not liable to the
Judgment.
Future probation in another life has no countenance from
Catholic theology. The notion of probation implies that the in-
tellect is not irrevocably determined to the contemplation of the
sovereign good, and the will to complacency in and choice of the
same. This determination is freely made under the influence of
grace in the state of probation, and is made irrevocable when the
trial is over and the soul in the state of grace has gone to the
world of spirits. But this does not exclude a state of preparation
after death for souls not yet fitted to receive the light of glory
and to enjoy the beatific vision. In this state souls which have
been imperfectly enlightened, purified, and united to God during
their earthly probation can be detained under a passive discipline
until the divine spark which they have brought with them has
completely pervaded their being with celestial light and fire, until
their gold has become refined and purified from all dross, and
they are made perfectly fit for the inheritance of the saints in light.
The intermediate state is therefore the complement of earthly pro-
bation ; it finishes and perfects the active exercises of the purga-
tive, illuminative, and unitive way which the soul began in this
life, but left unfinished ; expiates its sins, and gives it that lustre of
spotless sanctity with which it can appear before the angels and
before God without shame. The souls of all the just before the
resurrection of Christ went into the state of existence called in
Hebrew Sheol and in Greek Hades. If they had need of pun-
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1887.] W^AT IS THE Need of Future Probation? 301
fication by suffering, they underwent the temporal punishment
due to them, as in like manner all souls of the faithful departed
who leave the world in the state of grace but in debt to the justice
of Go(^ undergo the pains of purgatory. This explains what our
Lord meant by alluding to forgiveness of sins in the world to
come — viz., that the pardon of sin which has not obtained its full
effect in a complete liberation of the soul from all the penalties
which it deserves, in this world, is completed by the purgation
of the intermediate state. If the souls of those who departed this
life in the state of justification, before Christ had opened the gates
of heaven to men, were so purified from sin that they needed no
further expiation, yet they were capable of receiving an increase
of light and grace. They could learn more of God and Christ
than they knew in this world. And when the Soul of Christ de-
scended into Hades, his blessed presence and the revelation which
he made to them may fitly be called a preaching of the Gospel to
the dead. The sinners drowned in the deluge of Noah who had
turned to God with repentance when they were overwhelmed by
its waters, a multitude of others who have lived and died appar-
ently in darkness and alienation from God, many who have turned
to God only at the hour of death, though judged in the flesh ac-
cording to men, have been made by the mercy of God to live, and
after death have received the clear disclosure of the Saviour, the
assurance of forgiveness, the enlightening and purifying grace
which has prepared them to live to God, and with God, through
the merits of Christ, in his everlasting kingdom.
The Andover professors seem to have a difficulty in appre-
hending that the effects of the Incarnation could be produced
before its actual accomplishment, or before it was made manifest
in its reality to the intellect as a present object of contemplation.
They aim at constructing a Christocentric theology. It is a
part of such a Christocentric view of the relation of the universe
to God that moral probation should be made to turn around
this central point of the Incarnation. But there is a confusion
of the natural with the supernatural order, and of the ideas of
eflBcient and final cause in regard to the Incarnation, which
blurs and distorts the whole view.
A purely natural order attains its end through intellectual
beings who know, love, praise, and glorify God as he is mani-
fested in the visible and invisible works of creation. The eleva-
tion of intelligent beings to the immediate, intuitive knowledge
of the essence of God, with a corresponding love and thereby a
participation in the very beatitude of the divine nature, is a new,
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302 WffAT IS THE NEED OF FUTURE PROBATION? [June,
distinct, and gratuitous act of pure goodness, and is wholly
supernatural. It effects a kind of apotheosis of created, intel-
lectual nature, both angelic and human. It does not depend on
the Incarnation as efficient cause for its realization, o^ neces-
sarily exact and require as its final cause that any hypostatic
union of divine and created nature should be effected. The
Incarnation is another and a more sublime communication from
God to created nature of the good which he has in plenitude, or
rather which he is, by his essence ; an apotheosis of created
nature in the highest possible mode.
We may believe that God did freely determine, as his prin-
cipal object and end in creating, to bring to pass this master-
piece of wisdom and love ; that, in view of it, he planned the
universe in all its parts, and its entire order. We may believe
that, in view of the merit of the acts of the Eternal Word in his
human nature, and for his sake, he gave all the gifts of nature
and grace to all his creatures. And, moreover, since from eter-
nity sin was foreseen and the atonement for sin determined ;
since the coming of the Mediator was never decreed except in
the character of a humiliated, suffering, crucified Redeemer of
the world, we can believe that it was on account of his foreseen
obedience to the death of the cross that all the riches of the
divine power and goodness have been poured out from the
beginning upon all creatures in the universe. The glorious
cross of Christ is, therefore, the centre of the whole creation.
And the probation of angels and men alike may well be regarded
as appointed for the specific and express purpose of determining
the relation which they should freely assume toward Christ as
the predestined king of the universe. A final cause determines
the whole preceding series of causes and effects, not as being
prior to them in act, or producing them by efficient causality,
but as existing ideally in the foresight and intention of the Being
who is First Cause. The allegiance and obedience of the angels
to the Incarnate Word could be tried and determined by a reve-
lation of the future Incarnation. So, also, the probation of men
before the advent of the Redeemer could be accomplished by
means of a more or less explicit revelation and promise of his
coming. An implicit revelation, to those who have not received
an explicit one, suffices, if only there is given to them scope and
opportunity for the exercise of faith, hope, and charity, which
have necessarily and always for their final object, not the cre-
ated and human nature of Christ, but the veracity of God, the
mercy of God, and the infinite perfections of God. St. Paul de-
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1 887.] WiTAr IS THE Need of Future Probation? 303
fines the faith which is absolutely necessary to salvation : " With-
out faith it is impossible to please God. For he that cometh to
God must believe that he ts, and is a rewardcr of them that siek
him ** (Heb. xi. 6). We have no right to require more of any to
whom more has not been revealed. One who believes from a
secret illumination and inspiration of the Holy Spirit in God,
hopes to find in him the sovereign good, and loves him su-
premely, does really and in principle, though only implicitly,
believe in all that he has revealed through Christ, trust in that
mercy which is actually manifested in Christ, and give the alle-
giance of his will to that Sovereign Lord who has actually
become man by the Incarnation. The spirit and likeness of
Christ are in him ; he belongs to Christ, and is prepared to join
the universal society of the faithful in adoring him, as soon as
he becomes conscious of the relation in which he stands to the
Lord and Saviour of men, and looks upon the face of the one
who in his own human nature is truly the God whom he has
worshipped, and from whom he has implored pardon and mercy.
It does not appear that there is any need of future probation
in order to vindicate the doctrine that Christ is the universal
Mediator between God and the world. Nor does it relieve the
new theologians from the real difficulty they are struggling with.
That difficulty lies in the idea of the final and hopeless failure of
a great number of rational beings to attain their proper destiny,
to reach their end. But it lies in the nature of probation that
the proposed end should be of difficult attainment. The angels
had their probation under the most advantageous conditions
compatible with its nature, as involving risk and difficulty, and
giving an opportunity for the gaining of transcendent merit and
glorious victory. Yet a great multitude of them failed and fell
finally and for ever. The same is true of Adam and Eve, except
that their fall was not irretrievable. Many of the greatest crimi-
nals who have ever lived in sin, and died apparently impenitent,
have been persons who have had the best opportunities for form-
ing a virtuous and holy character. How can the advocates of
progressive orthodoxy, in consistency with their own theology,
make it appear probable that a majority of those to whom the
Gospel has been preached have made such a use of the time of
their earthly probation as to warrant the hope of their salvation ?
If there is a probation for the rest of mankind, to whom the
Gospel has not been preached, hereafter, it must be a genuine
probation, essentially like that which decides the destiny of those
who have their trial here. And what reason is there to expect
from it any more favorable issue ? I believe that the outcome
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304 What is the Need of Future Probation f [June,
of this doctrine of future probation will be universal restoration,
a term towards which there is a general tendency among Protes-
tants. It is only the Catholic doctrine of the essential difference
of the supernatural order from the natural which effectually
closes the door against it. There is no natural power to gain
or to regain supernatural grace and life. Before it is given it
can no more be acquired by an effort than one can give himself
a soul ; and when lost it can no more be regained by an effort
than a dead man can raise himself to life. Therefore, when the
day of grace is over, there is no possibility of restoration.
The probation of angels and men is substantially a way by
which beings who have received an inchoate supernatural life are
to develop it by their acts ; it is a road in which they are to walk
toward their final term of perpetual and inamissible beatitude.
The chief end of probation is the gaining of this term by merit.
The essential and substantial penalty of that sin and demerit
which are final and decisive is the failure to gain the end, loss of
beatitude, final exclusion from the kingdom of heaven. Consider-
ing the infinite height of such a destiny above all exigency and ca^
pacity of any created nature, it is not strange that the probation
by which it can be gained should be arduous and dangerous.
Christ himself went through a Red Sea of blood and fire to his
coronation with glory. No wonder that it should cost much
suffering to mankind to follow the Captain of their salvation
to victory and glory. It is not strange that out of a count-
less multitude who have been called to share with him in his
birthright as the Son of God, only a certain portion should be
numbered at last among the elect whose names are written in
the book of life.
When the last word of human wit has been spoken, humanity
still remains a Sphinx's riddle which no CBdipus can solve. To
penetrate into the mysteries of divine Providence, and explain the
details of its action in respect to mankind so as to show how
the ways of God are all directed by justice and goodness tem-
pered with mercy, is impossible. It is necessary to fall back on
the truth that God could as soon cease to exist as do an in-
jury to any rational creature. This suffices. But the infinite
distance between us and God makes it easier for us to look at the
ideas and volitions of God as they are translated into finite and
human terms in the created and human intellect and will of our
Lord Jesus Christ. It is easier to trust in God when we regard
him as having become man and died for men on the cross. It is
impossible for him to make the eternal destiny of any man de*
pendent on any probation except a fair one. He is the final judge,
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1887.] What is the Need of Future Probation? 305
and he cannot condemn any one except for sins which he has
wilfully and freely committed, or sentence a sinner to any pun-
ishment which is not in proportion to his demerit and demanded
by the moral order of the universe which has been violated. No
one can be consigned to everlasting misery by a doom which has
come upon him without any act or fault of his own, without any
possibility of escape.
Privation of the vision of God is not such a doom for those
who have not committed any personal, actual sin, and need not ex-
clude them from special benefits given through the atonement of
Christ. The universality of the atonement does not determine
an equal and universal application of the graces merited by it.
The application is by a gratuitous act, and remains always a grace,
altogether beyond any debt due to nature in any individual. Adam
forfeited life by his sm, in so far as the threatened penalty of death
involved the extinction of that mode of life to which the death he
incurred is the opposite. God might have taken his life, as a
man, from him immediately, and with it the virtual life of his
posterity which lay in him as its source. * On account of the
predestined Redeemer and his atonement he gave him a respite
from death and a promise of resurrection. This brief and im-
paired human life, with its remnant of the blessings of Para-
dise and with the certainty of future resurrection, all his pos-
terity receive, even those who perish before birth or in infancy.
If these undeveloped human beings do not receive regeneration
and a restoration of the lost right to the kingdom of heaven, they
at least receive immortality, in a state which is exempt from all
liability to sin, sorrow, or any physical evil, and replete with all
that can constitute a perfect natural felicity. Nay, more, al-
though they cannot see God in his essence, it is allowable to think
that they may see Christ in his human nature, the angels and the
saints, and thus behold the most perfect images of the Godhead,
splendid reflections of the glory of the Adorable Trinity. The
sole and chief end of the Incarnation is not the completion of
the natural universe in its own order. But this is a sequel and
an accompaniment of the grand consummation of the plan of God
in the kingdom of heaven. All creation shares in the glory of
the hypostatic union of the humanity of Christ with the divine
nature in his Person, each part of the universe according to its
own measure. If the universe is to be filled with other orders
and species of rational beings, they may behold the glory of God
in the Face of Christ. And, as has been above explained, all this
may have been intended and decreed from the beginning in view
VOU XLV.— 20
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3o6 In Ether Spaces. [June,
of the blood which was shed upon the cross, and by which, ac-
cording to this view, which is perfectly consonant with all that
the Faith teaches, the whole universe is sprinkled and blessed,
Unda manat» et cruor ;
Terra, pontus, astra^ mundus
Quo lavantur flumine ! — (Hymn, Lustra Sex)
Augustine F. Hewit.
IN ETHER SPACES.
Somewhere in space there is a realm where lingers
Each word that ever fell from lips of man.
All music stirred to life by touch of fingers,
All sounds since time began.
Rumble of quaking earth and plains upturning
Creation morn ; the sullen beat of rain.
The coo of dove with olive leaf returning.
The stir of life again.
A Child's soft treble in the temple, heeded
By doctors who about him listening drew ;
" Father, forgive them," on dark Calvary pleaded,
"They know not what they do."
The songs are there which echoed through dim ages.
And chants of kneeling priests at pagan shrines,
The speech of prophets writ on history's pages
In God-directed lines.
There dormant dwells the roar of battle royal.
The clash of arms amid war's furnace flame,
Victorious cries of warriors brave and loyal,
A people's loud acclaim;
And words that gladdened hearts of earliest lovers.
With curses since night's robes trailed Eden's sky,
While vague as half-remembered dreams there hovers
Each mother's lullaby.
O sounds afar in ether spaces dwelling.
In mighty minstrelsy awake! Unite
In chords the story of the aeons telling
Since stars first gemmed the night.
Meredith Nicholson.
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1 887.] Picturesque Mexico. 307
PICTURESQUE MEXICO.
In these days, when a passion for travelling has become one
of the manias of American civilization, and people seek the excite-
ment of novelty in despite of difficulty and danger, it is not
strange to find that fashion so tempers fancy as to set the tides
of desire flowing in special directions, while equal or greater
attractions are left high and dry outside the current of sentimen-
tal regard. Thus it comes to pass that where thousands cross
the seas to gain a more or less superficial acquaintance with the
main points of European scenery,- one could reckon within the
limits of as many hundreds those who become in any degree
familiar with the wonderful beauty which Nature has lavished
upon our own land. It is evident that many instincts of love, of
remembrance, and of affection naturally go to increase pilgrim-
ages to the shrines of the Old World. But when every allow-
ance has been made, there still remains an unaccountable lack of
curiosity and knowledge concerning that portion of the world
which is essentially ours.
This being so, it is small cause for surprise to find near us,
united to portions of our southern country by ties of common
origin, customs, and language, a land almost unknown, much
misunderstood, and wholly misrepresented. A country pictu-
resque beyond description and beautiful beyond belief; with tra-
ditions of the past to interest the antiquarian, and problems of
the future to occupy the progressionist ; with the fascinations of
a strange tongue and a strange people, and with that indefinable
charm which those indolent, lotus-eating lands exercise always
over the sterner and colder nature of the northman — Mexico lies
among her mountains, almost as far removed from human ken as
the Enchanted Beauty before the Prince kissed her sleeping
eyes.
Separated from Texas at El Paso only by the Rio Grande —
which may be forded during a large part of the year — the travel-
ler enters Mexico at El Paso del Norte with no more conscious-
ness of change than if he were passing from one portion of the
town to another. But in five minutes' time it is as if a magician's
wand had been lifted. On the other side of the river he left the
busy, bustling American town, thriving but commonplace, sub-
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3o8 Picturesque Mexico. [June,
stantial but ugly ; on this he has entered upon a new world.
Through the brown, dusty plains stretch winding, narrow lanes,
outlined by high walls of dried mud ; behind these, in February,
are pale pink masses of peach-blooms or scarlet tipped hedges of
cactus-spikes. The low, flat-roofed adobe houses fit into the
blank wall with only the relief of an occasional heavily- hinged
door, or stand in the midst of the bare, dry fields as cheerless
and desolate as they. On either side shallow streams, brought
for purposes of irrigation from the hills or from hidden springs,
run in narrow ditches which cross the roadway at intervals
in covered sluices. Here and there a carpet of delicate green,
the drooping grace of a plantation of young cottonwoods, or the
checkered squares of some thriving market garden show where
the precious water has been freely used — for here, as all through
the country, the most barren tract blossoms like the rose at touch
of moisture. The field-laborers are dressed in white cotton,
fashioned usually into short trousers and sleeveless shirt. The
women move shyly, covered to the eyes in the long blue scarf,
or robozo, which is part of the national costume. Half-naked
children, with dark skins and glorious eyes, play about grated
doorways which open into the small patios beyond, bright with
flowers and shrubs. The men, in wide-rimmed hat and gay
serape, lounge, or work, or walk about with a grave, dark-eyed
imperturbability that contrasts strangely with the curious, in-
quiring vivacity of their class at home. The blank, white' walls
of the old cathedral, with its broken belfry of adobe, rise across
the fields; down one narrow lane comes a caravan of enormous
covered wagons, each drawn by sixteen mules with jingling bells
and bright trappings, and driven by swarth muleteers in cos-
tumes that seem borrowed from " Carmen"; around another cor-
ner dashes a mounted caballero, sitting his small but fiery horse as
if the two made but a single creature full of superb motion. The
man wears a broad sombrero brilliant with silver braid ; his short,
loose velvet jacket is bright with rows of silver buttons, as are
also the wide velvet trousers which lose themselves in the stir-
rups of fringed leather. The animal is resplendent in silver-
mounted harness, with embroidered saddle heavy with inlaid
work ; across his neck is thrown a folded blanket of scarlet wool ;
over his flanks falls a long fleece of silky black fur; and the Cen-
taur-like grace of steed and rider flashes before one's delighted
eyes like a touch of enchantment, to disappear as mysteriously
again behind the jealous hedges.
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1887.] . Picturesque Mexico. 309
Under a mesquite-bush by the wayside one noay see an Indian
woman scouring a tall earthen jar, preparatory to swinging it,
fresh filled from the well, upon her shoulder in the old Biblical
fashion ; under another a couple of wrinkled crones are washing
clothes in a shallow ditch, and spreading the wet pieces upon the
cactus-plants to dry. Now and again a drowsy little tienda
shows one or two unhurried customers at its narrow counter ;
or a corner cantine has its inevitable handful of quiet pulque-
drinkers; or a silent brown group, their glowing eyes alone
showing trace of excitement, gathers around a pair of fighting
cocks. The sky above is blue as Colorado ; the air is pure and
sweet with the softness of a late May day ; and between you
and the matter-of-fact, work-a-day world you left a few hours
ago are a thousand miles of distance and a lifetime of dif-
ference.
Every step into the new territory to the southward deepens
the Oriental impression which this first glimpse at people and
country makes upon one. The table-lands, separated by long,
parallel mountain chains, now approaching and now receding,
are full of infinite variety. Aside from the loveliness of the
heights themselves, which, rich in mineral dyes and exquisite in
outline, make a fresh beauty for eager eyes at each opening of
the landscape, an hundred forms of interest and novelty offer
a constant series of surprises. It is now a hacienda— one of those
enormous properties covering square miles of country, divided
into villages and hamlets, rich in corrals and sheepfolds, watered
by streams, luxuriant in gardens and fields of springing wheat.
Across the plains mounted shepherds drive flocks of white, silken-
fleecrd goats and immense droves of cattle ; long lines of trees
follow the curves of the water-courses ; the dome of a church
rises amid the foliage ; groups of burros and horses follow their
Indian keepers through the fields; and the manifold industries
belonging to a great and rich estate gather about the central court-
yard, with its hollow square surrounded by massive stone build-
ings. Or it is a break in the hills, through which one looks
down into some exquisite valley, deep with purple shadow,
faintly luminous with dreamy light, and a glint of water shooting
like a silver arrow through the pale green foliage. Or it is a
silent city far away on the horizon, its domes and towers tinted in
soft shades of pink and blue and warm amber, its tiled roofs flash-
ing, its low gray walls, with masses of drooping trees behind,
barely rising from the white level of the plain, like an oasis in the
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3io Picturesque Mexico. {June,
desert. Or it is a forest of cactus, stretching for miles in every
form of contortion known to that reptile of the vegetable world ;
or a waste of Yucca palms, each stem tipped by a Hercules' club
of waxen lilies ; or a plain of unfamiliar flowers, gorgeous but
scentless, stretching like a Persian rug to the base of the wonder-
ful, glowing, mystical heights beyond. Always a sudden change
when one least expects it, and each change as splendid as the one
before, which seemed perfection.
The towns, like the country, are full of surprises ; each, while
strongly marked in general characteristics, is rich in an individu-
ality which sets it apart in memory. Chihuahua, Leon, Silao,
Marfil — what quaint but delightful impressions they leave be-
hind them ! The narrow, cobble-paved, exceeding clean streets,
swept every morning with hand-broom and dust-pan ; the open
market-places, with picturesque groups of buyers and sellers
under gigantic umbrellas of palm-leaves, or cotton awnings
stretched over notched poles ; the plazas filled with strange flow-
ers and trees, and splashing fountains falling into carven basins,
from which the water-carriers fill their great red jars; the long
Alamedas, with sheltered walks shaded by avenues of cotton-
woods, and high-backed stone seats like those in Alma-Tadema*s
pictures ; the Oriental houses with all their brightness gathered
inside about the court-yard, and only the nearly blank wall,
stained with rich color, turned towards the street, until the nar-
row ways shone like opals in the opulent sunshine! Outside
their small shops the trades-people work on platforms raised a
few inches above the sidewalk — the jeweller with his brazier, the
cobbler at his last, the tailor cross-legged on his low table. And
inside what queer assortments of oddities and queer entanglements
in money matters! What novelty in finding business men who
would rather sell one bit of merchandise than a dozen, and who,
if compelled to barter at wholesale, retaliated by charging a
tlaco or two more for each article ! Up and down the lane-like,
winding thoroughfares glide, with noiseless, sandalled feet, the
kindly, grave people, dressed in a bewildering variety of novel
costumes; or shaggy burros, laden with immense hampers,
climb over the uneven ways, driven by Indian boys as unkempt,
as overworked, and as patient as themselves. Recalling the re-
spectable but monotonous pavements of New York and Boston,
where mistress looks like maid, and man is but a tawdry repro-
duction of master, this kaleidoscope of changes throws one into
a daze of pleasurable anticipation. Anything delightful and un-
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188/.] Picturesque Mexico. 311
foreseen is possible. We are walking through the days that fol-*
low the Arabian Nights.
Each class wears the garb which is the uniform of its occupa-
tion. The water-carrier, in armor of leather, bears his heavy jar
suspended from a band around the forehead ; the ochre- man,
stained like a terra-cotta image from head to foot, carries his
package of brick-colored clay above his matted, gory locks ; the
fruit-vender, crying his luscious wares in sudden, shrill mono-
tone, balances his enormous pannier on his head and steps as airily
as if he were beginning a fandango. Under the open arches of
the Portales the crockery merchant sits before his pile of Guada-
lajara jars and brightly-glazed pottery ; Indian women carry
their double load of baskets and babies, with the superb indif-
ference to fatigue which marks their race ; dealers in " frozen
waters" call their sherbets in prolonged, piercing notes like those
of a midsummer locust ; sidewalk cooks squat on their haunches
beside small fires of mesquite, over which bubble earthen dishes
of stewed vegetables, frijoles, or crisp tortillas; and flower girls
surrounded by piles of glowing poppies, pyramids of heliotrope
and pansies, baskets of scarlet cactus blossoms, and tangled heaps
of superb roses magnificent in color and perfume, fill the very
atmosphere with brilliant beauty. No wonder the winter world
at home looks pale and cold by contrast !
The large cities repeat in a higher key the tones and tints of
the lesser ; all the difference lies in an added proportion of size
and grandeur. The fountains are finer and more numerous.
The exteriors of the great, palace like houses show fagades
splendidly ornamented with bas-reliefs and tiling, with finely,
carved gargoyles supporting the rain-spouts beneath the flat roofs,
and windows barred by light, trellised balconies shaded by light
awnings. The churches, beautiful in all cases, become superb
both in dimension and detail ; new types in architecture, the mas-
sive stone walls enriched with bold carving. Usually two towers
on the front, one slender and lofty, the other more like the square
campanile of the old English cathedrals, offset a central dome
which rise$, mosque-like, from above the transepts. Spires,
walls, and arches are elaborated by masses of infinitely compli-
cated arabesques, medallions, and floral designs, chiselled with
much delicacy over every inch of surface until the effect is as
fine as lace-work. Against the intense, radiant sky these massive
elevations are often startlingly lovely. I remember, from the
upper gallery of the governor's palace at Zacatecas, a glimpse
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312 Picturesque Mexico. [June,
caught in this way of the three towers of the cathedral, one a
Moorish dome tiled in pale blue and yellow, one a low, square
belfry, and one a soaring, exquisite shaft of deep red stone, so
fretted and carved that the solid mass looked delicate as a jewel
set against the enamelled sapphire sky.
The interiors of these beautiful edifices hardly carry out the
promise of the exteriors. A crudity of color in the somewhat
barbaric decorations makes itself felt, which is dissipated in the
dazzle and largeness of the outside atmosphere. The high altar
rises always beneath the great central dome. Connected with it
is the choir-room, placed in the nave between two great organs,
rich in carved woods or metals and wrought screens. Silver
railings and candelabra about the sanctuary, rare tapestries, and
paintings by all the old Spanish masters, enrich many ; but their
ejffect is spoiled by the neighborhood of poor and tawdry orna-
mentation which disguises the real treasures. In many cases
some low canon of art had caused the beautiful original stone
carving of the walls to be covered by wretched prettinesses of
stucco ; but the revival of better taste is already beginning to de-
mand a return to the earlier purity of design. Still, with all its
incongruities, the ensemble is always forcible and picturesque.
A dim light falls from the small windows placed high in the lofty
walls; from dawn to dark the slow, monotonous chanting of
some office of the church floats in alternate antiphon and re-
sponse between the priests within the sanctuary and scarlet-
gowned, shrill-voiced choristers half-hidden behind their tall
music-stands; the people, reverent and silent, glide in for a mo-
ment's prayer in the pauses of the day's duties ; and a certain
mystical atmosphere of religious solemnity, which seems to be-
long by right to the place, forces itself upon the most material
sense.
So, in a constantly increasing climax of enthusiasm and de-
light, one reaches the crowning scene of all in the Valley of
Mexico. In the natural order nothing more wonderful than this
for loveliness in the wide world ; nothing more calculated to in-
toxicate the soul with the simple glory of living, since earth still
holds such beauty for eyes of man ! How can one ever hope to
bring before the sense that has not known it that fair green plain
stretching from the marble terraces of Chapultepec forty miles
away to the dim horizon ? How paint that foreground of majestic
cypress-trees, draped in shadowy moss which adds an intangible
softness to the dim forest aisles beneath ; the long, bright fields of
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grass or grain, divided by hedges of shrubbery or walls of cactus,
until the surface resembles an inwrought tapestry of emerald in-
terwoven in myriad gradations of tint ; the magnificent aveques
of stately trees, converging from every point toward the walls of
the great city ? The city itself, a mass of towers and spires and
glowing, richly-tinted domes; the scores of villages embowered
in leafage and nestling within shadow of the foothills; the
sparkle of water on the distant lake ; the grand stone arches of
gray aqueducts crossing the country from the heights beyond ;
the wonderful encircling line of mountains, deep with amethyst-
ine shadow, that stand like guardians of the Happy Valley's peace;
and farthest away, but most omnipresent of all, the eternal ma-
jesty of Popocatapetl and Iztaccihuatl, cleaving the blue and
silent air, lifting their radiant white summits like luminous clouds
up to the very gates of heaven, awful in sublimity, as if belong-
ing to the supernatural world, yet tempered with the tenderness
of earthly beauty — who can paint the surpassing |^lory of this
entrancing scene for eyes which have not been touched by itself
with the anointing chrism of vision ?
Puebla and Mexico, the two principal centres of the country,
share more than other places the cosmopolitan character of Euro-
pean cities, as well as the extremes of riches and poverty. While
nothing is more superb than their palaces, few things are more
squalid than the hut of the peon at their gates. The homes of
the rich are on a magnificent scale of luxury. An arched drive-
way leads from the street to the central courtyard tiled with
marbles, bright with flowers, statues, and fountains, surrounded
by all the appliances which wealth can suggest to indolence.
Around this inner pleasaunce the house rises in a series of light-
arched galleries resting on carved pillars, communicating by
broad outer stairways of stone, and opening into every room by
windows and doors of plain or stained glass. Vines and hanging
plants cover the low stone balustrades; gilded cages of mocking-
birds and parrots snare the sunshine under the cool arches ; and
inside the broad, dimly-lighted salons and chambers whatever
luxurious taste can bring to aid comfort is lavishly supplied.
A host of servants divide among them those more personal ser.
vices which our rigid aristocrats prefer to render themselves, and
a clap of the hands brings instantly a swift and silent attendant.
Below under the arches, on the ground-floor, horses stand in their
open stalls ; there are carriage- rooms, store-houses, and servants'
quarters; so that when the great gates leading to the street are
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314 Picturesque Mexico. [June,
closed, all the elements of luxurious living are complete within.
I say all the elements; and yet these lavish establishments lack
many things which we have been accustomed to consider neces-
saries for even moderate comfort. Neither chimneys for smoke
nor grates for fire in the tingling mornings and nights; neither
hot-water pipes, nor set bowls, nor spring-beds, nor kitchen-
ranges, nor scores of other common things belong to the manage
of a Mexican nabob. As a partial recompense their women do
not break down before thirty-five with nervous prostration.
There is no cloud but has its silver lining.
The very poor live within four walls of dried mud, on a floor
of the same material. Anywhere upon this a fire of mesquite-
wood may be kindled to bake the universal tortilla — almost the
sole food of a large class. A few crockery utensils for cooking
and eating, a hand-brush for sweeping, some water-jars and bas-
kets, perhaps a bundle of maguey-fibres for a bed, and the furni-
ture is complete. The serape is cloak by day and covering by
night; the floor is at once chair and table; the smoke flies out of
open door or four-paned window as it listeth — and that is all. Or
rather it is not all. For with it stays patience, kindliness, and
content— three graces hard to account for with such meagre
plenishing.
Broken by a succession of mountain-chains into almost parallel
divisions, the seemingly barren table-lands of which the surface
of the country is mainly composed burst into a wilderness of
bloom whenever and wherever water touches the soil. This
sharp contrast between luxuriant fertility and bare gray plains is
universal. The great isolated volcanic peaks, perpetually snow-
crowned, are so situated that some one among them always domi-
nates the landscape in the eastern or southern portions. Turning
toward Puebla, fields of maguey — a species of the century plant
of our greenhouses — cover the soil for hundreds of miles, a strik-
ing and most novel sight. Going still farther in the same direc-
tion, on the way to Vera Cruz one passes through an experience
that can have few equals on the face bf the earth. After breakfast
at La Esperanza, with the mighty shadow of Orizaba rising but
seven miles distant, and the beautiful but stern form of Malinche
still nearer, one begins the descent toward the Terras Calientes,
In the early morning there is frost upon the roads, and frost in
the clear air tingling with cold from the snowy summits. At
noon the coSee plantations within the tropics are reached. The
atmosphere is redolent with fragrance of orange-blossoms ; golden
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balls are glowing through the glossy foliage; the banner-like leaf
of the banana waves above great clusters of ripening fruit ; per-
fumed pineapples hide in the midst of their spear-like sheaves,
and the thermometer is ninety-seven in the shade. The high,
conical roofs of the thatched huts reach to within a few feet
of the ground, half-hidden in tangles of rich vegetation ; great
scarlet flowers splash the boughs with patches of brilliant color
like a flight of gorgeous tropical birds, and spicy shrubs make
the languid air as full of odors as zephyrs blowing across the
Vale of Cashmere. A world is about one as distinct from that of
the morning as that differed from the March skies and frozen
fields of New England.
On the passage between these two points a succession of won-
drous views holds one entranced. At El Boca del Monte the
train emerges upon what we would call a trestle-bridge, but
which has been christened by these imaginative people in a
phrase which explains itself — El Balcon del Diabolo. The
steeply sloping mountain-side leaps at one swift bound into the
valley of La Joya — the Gem — three thousand feet below. A
miracle of loveliness, full of deep, verdant beauty, its rich fields
stretching far up the precipitous sides of the opposite heights,
with the tiny village of Maltrata, a mass of softly-tinted walls
and tiled roofs gathered around the spire of the parish church, it
glows like a jewel in the sunshine. Down the spurs of the hills
cataracts of stunted pines and grizzly cactus-bushes sweep like
dark avalanches, broken in their course by splintered rocks; and
Orizaba, a fillet of white cloud bound beneath its shining brow,
fills the eastern sky with glory.
Twelve miles below, having left this peaceful scene, the road
passes through a succession of wild gorges, with the noisy Rio
Blanco leaping from rock to rock, and the dark majesty of cloven
precipices making its name of El Infernillo^the Little Hell — only
too appropriate.
In an opposite direction, going toward the fertile valleys of
Toluca, scenes of almost equal beauty discover themselves. The
Nevada de Toluca, instead of Orizaba, becomes monarch of the
scene ; the Arroya de las Cruces takes the place of the Blanco ;
the houses have wide, projecting roofs, held down in Swiss
fashion by great stones. But the same smiling fields creep nearly
to the top of the mighty mountains; the same small villages
nestle lovingly in their midst; gray aqueducts stretch their long
lines of arches through the plains, and the soft-voiced, melan-
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3i6 Picturesque Mexico. [June,
choly-eyed natives gather by the wayside to ofier you wealth of
beautiful, unfamiliar fruit and flowers.
It is difficult to understand why artists, who have usually
such a quick eye for opportunity, have made the mistake of over-
looking the treasures awaiting them here. The glow of local
coloring, the strange Oriental architecture, the barbaric splendor
of the churches, and the wonderfully effective costumes would
be mines of wealth to those capable of working them. So would
be the passing trains of shaggy burros, the plazas, the fountains,
the merchants crying their wares under the low arches of the
Portales, the great stone seats which belong to every part of the
country. The long windows, with carved stone balconies and
bright awnings, brighter still at evening with their groups of
dark-eyed sefioritas ; the beauty of inner courts flashing through
the dark setting of the archways; the trumpeters blowing their
long silver bugle-calls outside the palace gates as the refrain of
each passing hour ; the Teocali of the Aztecs, with their summits
still strewn with broken relics from the altars of the gods; the
wayside shrines ; the mingled reminiscence of Morocco and the
Holy Land ; the superb abundance of flowers— each goes to add
its soup^on of novelty to the delightful whole we call Mexico,
and all await their interpreter.
The courtesy of the people is charming beyond expression.
To the slightest gesture of greeting lowe^ as well as highest
respond with a swift, flashing smile which illumines the dark
visage like a gleam of heart-sunshine. The fine teeth and lus-
trous, shining eyes transform faces that would otherwise seem
too deeply tinged with sadness. And the soft, lingering sweet-
ness of the Spanish tongue, with its courtly phrase and delicate
flattery, lulls with its musical cadence, until one believes in the
story of the disguised princess whose lips dropped pearls and
diamonds with each word.
It would be impossible to close the most trivial sketch of
picturesque Mexico without some word of reference to the most
picturesque figure it has known in modern times. At every new
step into the country one is struck by the idiosyncrasies which
the grafting of so-called republicanism upon the old monarchical
system has produced. The struggle of democratic measures
with caste prejudice and predilection produces results fairly
puzzling to the observer. Indeed, it is hardly right to speak of
republicanism. Under this fair title they have succeeded in
grafting the worst form of military despotism upon the old root
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188;.] Picturesque Mexico. 317
of power ; and the reins of government, so far, have been mainly
held by hands strongest to grasp and most unscrupulous in re-
taining. In compassing the death of Maximilian the country
took, to my mind, a false step which it will require fifty years to
retrace. He brought to his mission as leader an admirable self-
repression, an earnest purpose, and a pure enthusiasm which
were full of promise. By nature, education, and ambition he
was prepared to foster and to protect, confident that the result
would prove his wisdom. The state of Mexico to-day, torn by
twenty years of internal dissension, overrun by contending fac-
tions, preyed upon by mercenary or despotic rulers who alter-
nately scourge and rob, is commentary sufficient on the methods
which have been pursued. Broken in credit, nearly bankrupt in
hope, she has all but lost that integrity off self-respect which is
the vital spark of a nation's courage and dignity. Maximilian
would have taught her people self-government; he would have
led them to understand their own resources and position ; and
upon this corner-stone might ultimately have been erected that
structure of liberty for which Hidalgo and Morelos, and a thou-
sand other patriots, had given safety and fortune, and sweet life
itself. The art of self-government is as far from being under-
stood by the mass of this people taday as it was when the first
birth-throes of revolution shook the land in 1810. On the lonely
hillside of Quer6taro, where the three sad crosses mark the place
of execution, one cannot help feeling how many hopes besides
those of the unfortunate monarch came to an untimely end by
that fatal bullet.
It would be equally impossible before closing to avoid speak-
ing a word of protest against the prejudices we, as a nation, have
imbibed concerning this country and people. We have been
warned about their vices and weaknesses until we have ceased
to believe that much virtue could dwell in them. What I,
by observation, found was: Plenty of idleness from want of
employment, but no trace of laziness ; a great deal of personal
dirt, with quite as striking an amount of cleanliness, in much of
their work and surroundings ; a touching kindness and interest
on the part of subordinates, which yet never degenerated into
familiarity or boldness, and an honesty which was altogether
exceptional in our fairly wide experience in travelling among
countries which put forth many louder claims to civilization and
Christianity.* Not yet advanced beyond the first stages of
• I am tempted to g:iTe in this special connecdon an incident which would be of note in
determining the moral standing of any country, but which is of especial weight in view of the
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31 8 Picturesque Mexico. [Jon€,
infancy in many vital matters, it has yet so many advantages in
climate and position, in beauty and resources, and, above all, in
the delightful traits of its most courteous and interesting people,
that the supplying of its present needs can be but a brief question
of time, now that the entering wedge of progression has been
clinched by the railroad. But pray Heaven that the change may
never become so radical that, in gaining comfort and material
prosperity, she may lose the rarer qualities which have taught
those who love her that, of all the delights which soul can offer
sense, few are more precious than a glimpse of Mexico !
Mary Elizabeth Blake.
prevalent opinion regarding Mexican ideas on the rights of property. At Guanajuato two
members of our party were commissioned by the rest to buy postage-stamps. When we reached
the City of Mexico, seven or eight days later, we were met by an official document which had
been sent after us, and which was finally delivered through the good offices of the editor of
the Financier, The envelope was directed in Spanish, as follows : *' Para aquel caballero gordo
de los dos que compraron sellos de correo, que viniron i Guanajuato en compdnia de varios
viageros Americanos, el dia 14 Marzo de 1885 '' — ** For the stout gentleman of the two who bought
postagi^stamps, who came to Guanajuato in company with several American travellers, March
14, 1885."
The letter itself was as delicious for its English as for its probity, and on both accounts
deserves to be preserved, as it carefully is, by its recipient :
** Post-Office, Guanajuato, 14 March, 1885.
'* Dear Sir : I sell you—
6 post-stamps of 6 ct. are $0 36
10 " «* "2** " 020
$056
I receive one dollar i 00
The change is 044
1 give to you per mistake o 14
I must to pay to you o 30
'* I send to you of this letter five post-stamps of 6 ct. Please to maJce not attention at this
mistake and the improper of this letter.
" Respectfully,
** The Clerk of the Post-Office,
** G. M. L."
With this letter came another, in flowing and eloquent Spanish, directed to the editor m
person, and begging his kind assistance in forwarding the note to its destination, as well as in
translating the outside address so that it would be sure to reach the hand of the '' consigna-
taria."
This was but one of several instances of exceptional conscientiousness. It might be in-
creased by many others — the return of a pearl ring dropped in one of the courts of the Iturbide,
and not missed for hours ; the finding upon the table of loose coins which had been picked up
by the camarista in sweeping ; most wonderful of all, the safe keeping of a cane and an um-
brella which had been carelessly left in a street archway. It would be marvellous if such occur-
rences took place in an American city, but in this age of materialism miracles seldom happen.
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1887.] Material Mexico. 319
MATERIAL MEXICO.
" The art and beauty of historical composition," said Captain
Bernal Diaz del Castillo, a lieutenant of Cortez, ** is to write the
truth" ; and from the year of our Lord one thousand five hun-
dred and seventy-two, when, " in the residence of the royal court
of audience," the Spanish historian finished his narrative, down
to our own days, there has been only one story of the pictorial
aspects of Mexico. The vivid and accurate description which a
charming writer gives in these pages of ** Picturesque Mexico"*
is not surpassed for precision, for taste, for sympathy, by that of
any earlier writer of all who may say with Mrs. Blake, as Bernal
Diaz said of himself, ** This is no history of distant nations nor vain
reveries; I relate that of which I was an eye-witness, and not
idle reports or hearsay : for truth is sacred/*
But whoever undertakes to write of material Mexico, even
though he can say with equal truth that he was an eye-witness
and holds truth sacred, will find himself falling into vain reverie.
" Reports " he may procure, but, in more senses than one, they are
" vain "; hearsay he will find copious and contradictory ; and
although hundreds of authors have travelled the country and left
their impressions on record, out of the mass of their labor little
that is of absolute value can be extracted.
Diaz himself complains of the elegance and untrustworthiness
of the earlier work of Francisco Lopez de Gomara. The Abb6
Clavigero, who wrote of Mexico one hundred and fifty years
later, enumerates forty Spanish, Italian, and Mexican historians
from whose pages he derived his own narrative ; and he alludes
somewhat doubtfully to a long catalogue of French, English,
Dutch, Flemish, and German writers of whom he is not willing
to admit that they held truth sacred. His patience was justly
exhausted by one among them who described native princes
going on elephants to the court of the Montezumas. One is im-
pressed, however, in reading the literature of the past about this
strange and still only dimly understood country, with the per-
manency of nearly everything in it. Bernal Diaz himself was
not less affected than Mrs. Blake by the wondrous beauty of the
landscape ; while others, of a later date, have written about the
manufactures and customs of the country in phraseology which
* The present writer had the pleasure of reading Mrs. Blake's article in MS.
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320 Material Mexico. [June,
we, who were there only yesterday, as it seems, would scarcely
alter. Don Antonio de Solis, for instance, ** secretary and his-
toriographer to His Catholic Majesty," tells us that he saw
cotton cloths "well wove, and so fine that they could not be-
known from silk but by feeling." "A quantity of plumes," he
continues, " and other curiosities made of feathers, and whose
beauty and natural variety of colors (found on rare birds that
country produces) so placed and mixed with wonderful art, dis-
tributing the several colors and shadowing the light with the
dark so exactly, that, without making use of artificial colors or
of the pencil, they could draw pictures and would undertake to
imitate nature." The same work contains an excellent woodcut
of Mexican women making bread. The process, the utensils, the
implements are precisely the same as those which Mrs. Blake
describes as now in use.
Writers in the present century only repeat the narratives of
those of the preceding ones. Notes on Mexico in 1822, by "A
Citizen of the United States," and printed in Philadelphia, might
have been written two hundred years ago or last week. Mexico
is in many things the unchanging country of this continent The
American acknowledges his debt to the works of Lorenzana,
Alzate, Clavigero, Boturini, Mier, Robinson, and Humboldt ; but
by far the most interesting portion of his volume is his unadorned
tale of what he saw and heard.
The arcades in the neighborhood of the cathedral, in which
we spent a good deal of time, existed in his day. "They re-
semble the bazaars of the East, and are furnished with every
variety of goods." Costumes have changed no more than the
making of intoxicants.
In 1836 Charles Joseph Latrobe wrote The Rambler in Mexico.
If we should take his account of scenes during Lent it would be
unnecessary to alter a word. Mexican piety is somewhat thea-
trical and realistic during that holy season. On Maundy Thurs-
day, for instance, they fill the air with the cricket-like sound of
rattles, made in all manner of designs, of wood or silver, the sub-
stitute for bells ; and on Good Friday they disport Judases of all
shapes and sizes, filled with gunpowder, which at the proper
moment explodes. On Palm Sunday they fill the churches in
their indescribable variety of gay and striking costumes, bearing
in their hands tall yellow palms, making a much more impressive
sight, and closer to the narrative of the Gospels, than our colder
climate enables us to have. Captain G. F. Lyon, who went from
England to Mexico in 1828, examined closely the labor, espe*
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1887.] Material Mexico. 321
daily the mining, of the country. Herdsmen received five dollars
per month and agricultural laborers seven pence per day. Wages
have slightly risen since then, but, unfortunately, so have the
priceS of food and clothing. Mexico as It Was and Is^ by Brantz
Mayer, was written in 1841-2 by the secretary of the American
Legation. He sought especially to collect data from authentic
sources upon commerce, agriculture, manufactures, coinage,
mines, church and general government He is obliged to
add: **ln many instances I have only been enabled to present
estimates." Two recent writers, Thomas A. Janvier* and David
A. Wells,t have been similarly engaged. They have produced
useful but differing compilations. In many instances they have
been able only to present estimates. During our stay in the City
of Mexico we examined all the book-stores and endeavored to
enlist the interest of kind friends there for the procurement oi
statistical publications upon material Mexico. The result was two
books— one. Atlas Metodico^ by Antonio Garcia Cubas, from the
title-page of which it is apparent that there is a Geographical and
Statistical Society ; but this atlas contains only local geographi-
cal information and maps, with two pages of questions for teach-
ers and students. The other book was Annuario Universal, edi-
tor Philomena Mata, and the issue f6r 1886 was the eighth annual
publication. It is a well-printed duodecimo, two columns to the
page, a thousand pages solid nonpareil ; and the total of the sta-
tistics in it occupies less than four pages. The custom-house
claims the rest
Partly from observation and partly out of authorities selected
from various groups — in an eflfort to keep clear of partisans against
Mexico — and with the understanding that in statistics estimates
must be employed often in lieu of ascertained facts, I venture to
offer some brief considerations.
" For the commission was to be extended no farther than barter and ob*
taining gold,"
In that sentence, written by Bemal Diaz, is compressed the
whole story of the Spanish invasion of Mexico, its scope, its
motive, its object. The part that religion played in it is acknow-
ledged by the same unquestionable witness with like candor.
When Cortez was ready to set out upon the expedition he caused
to be made a standard of gold and velvet, with the royal arms
and a cross embroidered thereon, and a Latin motto the meaning
♦ The Mexican Guide. By Thomas A. Janvier. Scribners.
t A Study 0/ Mexico, By David A. Wells, LL.D.,. D*C.R* Applcton.
TOL. XLV.— 21
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322 Material Mexico. [June,
of which was, " Brothers, follow this holy cross with true faith,
for with it we shall conquer." The occasional words of the
Spanish captains to the natives concerning religion appear to
have been called forth more by the shock of seeing human sacri-
fices and hearing that children's flesh was served upon the table
of Montezuma, rather than by any earnest desire to induce the
Mexicans to embrace Christianity. If they had any such desire their
own conduct was more than sufficient to account for the refusal of
Montezuma to act upon their suggestion; and the letters of Cortez
himself, as well as the writings of many of his companions and
contemporaries, show that what defects the visitor in Mexico may
see to-day in the social organization are precisely of the kind of
Christianity which the Spaniards taught by their example. The
vices their chroniclers denounce in the emperor and native
princes on one page they themselves adopt on the next ; and the
most revolting practices, abhorrent to faith and ruinous of the
most firmly organized society, find avowals in language inter-
mixed with prayers and ejaculations of devotion. They charge
the natives with superstition — they were themselves super-
stitious. They charge the natives with low morals — they added
lower ones, if lower were possible. They charge the natives
with cruelty— they set up the Inquisition among them to enable
the state to be cruel, while the name of the church was borrowed
to wear the responsibility and carry down to our own time
the reproach.* They charge the natives with treachery — they
taught them masterly tactics in that vice when they procured en-
trance into the palace and confidence of Montezuma.f
No matter who, after Cortez, ruled Mexico for Spain, he
carried out the original design of the governor of Cuba who
planned the invasion. Barter and the obtaining of gold, with the
employment of religion as a means to that end, is written over
every chapter of Spanish rule ; and the traditions of despotism,
the bigotry against commerce, the hostility towards foreigners,
the avarice and sloth which politicians infused into the religious
orders for their own ends, resulting at last in a great crisis, are all
directly traceable to the rapacity, the hypocrisy, and the feudalism
of the invaders.
It would have made no difference if the invader had been Eng-
land and the new religion Protestantism. The Spanish domina-
• Janvier, p. 27.
t Mr. Wells seems a little unfair to the military character of the Mexicans when he directs
attention to the fact that Cortex conquered the empire with so insignificant a force. Treachery
on the part of the invaders and hospitality on that of the natives had as much as arms to
do with his success;
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I887-] Material Mexico. 323
tion in Mexico lasted for just three hundred years, from 1521 to
182 1. "The government or viceroyalty established by Spain in
Mexico seems to have always regarded the attainment of three
things or results as the object for which it was mainly constituted,
and to have allowed nothing of sentiment or of humanitarian
consideration to stand for one moment in the way of their rigor-
ous prosecution and realization. These were, first, to collect and
pay into the royal treasury the largest possible amount of annual
revenue ; second, to extend and magnify the authority and work
of the established church ; third, to protect home [i>., Spanish]
industries."* Is not that the description of the English domina-
tion in Ireland ? The consequences are curiously correspondent.
The land in Mexico, like the land in Ireland, is owned by a ridi-
culously small number of proprietors. The tillers in Mexico
have no more interest in the results of their toil than had the ten-
ants in Ireland prior to the beginning of the land-reform era
forced upon the English government by the people of Ireland.
The Mexican landlords reside abroad in large numbers, like the
absentee landlords of Ireland; and the money produced by the
soil flows out of Mexico in exports of bullion for these absentees
and their creditors, precisely as the crops and money of Ireland
are carried from her to replenish the purses of her landlords.
The native manufactures of Mexico, slight as they were, were
discouraged by the Spanish administration for the same rea-
son that England destroyed the more vigorous industries of Ire-
land as rapidly as they appeared. Mexico was to buy only from
the manufacturers and merchants of Spain; gold and silver,
woods, and a few products of soil and labor combined she was
required to give in exchange for what Spain had to sell. Ireland
and India have been required to give products of labor and soil
combined in exchange for English manufactures. Religion in
each case was degraded into the uses of the conqueror. Human
greed was the passion in both cases ; the sleep of Mexico, dis-
turbed at intervals by hideous convulsions, was the result on this
continent. A more muscular race made a more persistent resis-
tance to England, and Ireland has begun the recovery of her
complete rights. India's day is not yet at hand.
It is a droll satire upon political economy that Spain accom-
plished her purpose by protection in Mexico, and England by
free trade in Ireland and India. There is no abstract theory yet
devised by man superior to natural avarice enforced by arms.
A patriot priest, the divine instinct of nationality carrying
•David A. Weill.
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3^4 Material Mexico. [June,
him above the dreaming masses of his fellow-countrymen, at
length arose against the Spanish domination. He paid with his
life for his devotion to his country ; but the death of Hidalgo
blew the breath of liberty into Mexico. His country relapsed
for a time under the old oppression. In another decade she
made another desperate and more successful but far from suffi-
cient effort ; and when the flag of the Republic was unfurled in
1821, the symbol upon it was that of the old native race — the
eagle and cactus — the emblems of the Aztecs. A people without
means of inter-communication, of different languages, and in
whom the poetry of paganism was often mingled with a dull un-
derstanding of Christian principles, whose more subdued classes
scarcely cared to be awakened to exertion, and whose intellectual-
ized caste was filled with selfishness ; a people who had no interest
in their land, no manufactures, no education, whose wants were
simple and easily supplied, who knew little of arms and possessed
none — it was impossible that such a people should be eager
in seizing upon chances for the erection of representative govern-
ment on the ruins of hereditary despotism ; hereditary, that is,
not in the line of the viceroys, but in the ideas by which Mexico
was held under foreign rule. It is not wonderful that revolution
followed revolution. It is not surprising that province attacked
province and faction collided with faction.
With the expulsion of the Spaniards new foes came in from
without. England, the usurer of the world, advanced money
upon what she intended to be, as in the case of Egypt, the secu-
rity of the entire country. The United States was beguiled into
an invasion by which Mexican valor was made to stand a superb
test against soldiers who, unlike Cortez and his companions, de-
feated the Mexicans by arms but not by treachery. Not the
worst misfortune which befell Mexico in consequence of the
Northern invasion was the increase of her obligations to Eng-
land. A direct consequence of her bankruptcy was the intrigue
of France, Spain, and England for the invasion of Mexico after
the breaking out of our civil war. The progress of that struggle
convinced two of the copartners that the contemplated enterprise
would be perilous, with the Monroe doctrine still vital, and a
considerable array of experienced troops. North and South, to
answer with equal alacrity the call of their common country to
expel European despotism from this continent. Louis Napoleon,
desperate for new delusions to postpone his fall, resolved to take
the chances, and the last invasion of Mexico was the child of his
ambition.
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i887.] Material Mexico. 325
It is true that Maximilian was not the designer of his own
ruin. It is unquestioned that he was anxious to win the good-
will of the Mexican people, and that it. would have been the
highest happiness to him* and his amiable wife to have ruled
Mexico for her own good. The earth is not yet ready to dis-
pense with the luxuries of royalty, and large aggregations of the
human race are persuaded that it is wise to pay for the glitter
and mockery of thrones- And it may be true that a monarchy
in Mexico, constitutional and conservative, maintained with just
firmness, w^ould have afforded that tranquillity essential to na-
tional development. But experience, human nature, and the
reconsolidation of the United States were all opposed to Maxi-
milian — experience, because there is no instance of genuine or
enduring national development under a ruler representing politi-
cal and industrial interests opposed to those of the people he
tried to rule ; human nature, because his own blind and deceitful
course rendered it certa'in that he should fail ; and the reconsoli-
dation of the United States, because the spirit of the American
people, calm after the conflict and purged by the effacement of
slavery from their own soil, would not suffer Old- World despot-
ism to repeat in our own day the story of earlier ages.
Maximilian and the still more deeply and deservedly pitied
Carlotta have been the cause of much denunciation of the Mexi-
can people. To refuse sympathy to Louis Napoleon's hapless
and beautiful victim, whose reason toppled after her heart was
broken, is surely beyond human power. The sternest heart
cannot tread unmoved the lonely cypress paths of Chapultepec
where her sad feet sought to escape the troop of sorrows that
encompassed her husband. Toussaint I'Ouverture, the emanci-
pator, dragged from his farm in Hayti by the treachery of the
great Napoleon and starved to death in the dungeon of Joux on
the bleak and snowy Jura, is the companion-picture for the de-
mented daughter of the king of the Belgians, widowed and
crazed by the last of the Napoleons. Maximilian had the mis-
fortune to follow too closely the example of his patron. His
assumption of the crown of Mexico was made contingent upon
a popular vote of approval ; but the assembly of reactionaries
who went through that ceremony for him no more represented
the people of Mexico than the people of any other land. The
pretext served its purpose ; but he speedily freed himself from
those who had been the aiders of his fortunes. The spoliation
of the church by the republic, ruthless and undiscriminating,
had created a conservative party, not blameless altogether, but
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326 Matej^ial Mexico. [June,
yet honest, and to that party Maximilian was pledged. To that
party he owed his crown. He cast them oflF in the expectation
that he could succeed better by making friends of their enemies.
At the same time, acting, it is chargeiJ, upon the advice of Ba-
zaine, and defying the best sentiment of all classes of the people,
defying humanity itself, he issued a decree which would have
revolted Cortez himself. He ordered that all persons found in
rebellion against his pretensions should be shot as outlaws.
This appalling order sealed his own doom. The mercy he
showed to Mexico, Mexico showed to him. It was a noble im-
pulse which induced our government to plead for his life on
condition that he should leave the country whose soil, as a pre-
tender to a crown, he had no right to touch. It would have
been better heeded had Mexico been able to recall to life those
who, loving their native land and justified in resisting foreign
invasion, he had relentlessly sent to unhonored graves.
Could Mexico have hoped for much under a ruler who
sought to force a monarchy upon a people who had heroically
established a republic; from a prince whose exemplars were
Napoleons, whose first step after his enthronement was the be-
trayal of those who had enthroned him, whose second was an
order for the massacre of political opponents? What is there
in the traditions of crowns won by invasion, maintained by
treachery, and spattered with the blood of massacres to justify
the expectation that Maximilian would have taught the Mexicans
self-government ?
The only way for a nation to learn self-government is to prac-
tise it.
The present government reflects in form the progress of all
nations, and in spirit the troubled past of Mexico. Its constitu-
tion is modelled upon that of the United States, and in its pre-
sent form was adopted in 1857. AH persons born within the
republic are free, and, if slaves, become freemen by entering it
Personal liberty, with its full significance, is guaranteed, including
liberty of the press, •* with this reservation, that private rights
and the public peace shall not be violated." * The press-law,
many of whose provisions are admirable, has been administered
in a manner to discourage enterprise. There are, we are told,
fifteen daily papers in the capital. Only two of them printed
news as we understand the word ; but an association was being
formed to effect a connection with our press associations for the
procurement of at least a summary of European and the princi-
♦ Janvier.
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1887.] Material Mexico. 327
pal American intelligence. Fiaaacial reasons, traditions, and
custom make news important in Mexico in this order: first,
English ; aeoosdy Spanish and Continental European ; lastly,
North American. The papers are very partisan, in that respect
imitating the press generally of all countries. The Times of
London, in its "opinions," is no broader than the narrowest
faction print of Mexico ; and the news upon which its editorial
utterances are based, in aflfairs political and religious, is quite as
trustworthy as its opinions are unbiassed. Last summer it print-
ed from Rome a story that the Jesuits had poisoned the Pope,
and that they alone possessed the antidote by which his life
could be saved. They consented to save it on condition that he
should issue an encyclical restoring to the order its full privi-
leges, etc. This romance was printed with perfect soberness in
the telegraphic columns, and an editorial, ponderous and a col-
umn long, declared that the Jesuits ought not to be blamed, but
that the vanity of the pontiff in consenting to save his life at
such a price was deplorable. We never saw that matched in any
publication in Mexico.
The constitution of Mexico recognizes every right recognized
by our own organic law. In some respects it is superior to ours.
For instance, it prohibits the making of treaties for the extradi-
tion of persons accused of political offences. Capital punishment
for political crimes is prohibited — a monument to Maximilian.
The federal power is vested in three departments, as with us.
The legislature consists of two houses. The members of the
Chamber of Deputies are elected every two years, one for each
40,000 of the inhabitants. There are two senators for each State,
half of them elected every two years. Congress sits from April i
to May 31, and from September 16 to December 16. The president,
whose term is for four years, without the right to be his own suc-
cessor, is aided by a cabinet composed of ministers of foreign
affairs, of internal affairs, of justice and instruction, of public
works, of finance, of war and marine. The judicial power re-
sides in the supreme court and in the district and circuit courts.
Formerly the chief-justice succeeded to the executive office in case
of the death or disability of the president. Now the succession
passes to the president and vice-president of the Senate and the
chairman of the standing committee of Congress — ^a small repre-
sentative body peculiar to the political organization of Mexico. It
sits during the recess of the legislature. The justices of the higher
courts are elected for a term of six years, and associated with them
are an attorney-general and a public prosecutor, similarly selected.
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328 Material Mexico. [June,
The State governments copy the constitution of the federal gov-
ernment so far as their relative position permits. The presi-
dent is commander-in-chief of the army and navy. The former is
composed of three sections — the active army, nominally 68,000
men, actually at present less than half that number ; the reserve,
24,000 men, and the general reserve, 70,000. The cavalry arm is
well equipped and there is a small artillery branch. The nation-
al military school at Chapultepec is one of the best institutions of
the kind existing, and receives its students after the example of
West Point. The navy is limited to three or four small vessels
incapable of other than coast patrol service. The national senti-
ment which the government seeks to promote is indicated by the
national festivals — February 5, adoption of the federal constitu-
tion in 1857; May 5, victory over the French in 1862 ; May 8,
birthday of the patriot priest, Hidalgo; May 15, capture of
Maximilian in 1867; September 15 and 16, declaration of inde-
pendence by Hidalgo, 18 10.
The area of the country is 778,590 square miles — estimated, for
there has never been a complete survey ; with a population of
10,000,000 — estimated, for there has never been an authentic cen-
sus. The political divisions are four States on the northern fron-
tier, five on the gulf, seven on the ** grande oceano," and eleven in
the interior ; with one Territory, and the federal district corre-
sponding to our District of Columbia, except that the federal dis-
trict is represented in Congress as a State.
While the form of the government is thus approvable, the
spirit of it is represented as more or less despotic. Nor is it
clear how it can be otherwise. I found it every where asserted
that the masses of the people take no interest in politics, and the
official vote for president sustains this. Why, then, should not
the administration be despotic ? The fountain will not rise higher
than the source. The people are not homogeneous ; their lan-
guages serve to keep them from understanding each other ; the
mutual hostility of church and state widens the chasm. Free
public assemblies for the discussion of political matters are as
yet unknown and must be impracticable for some time longer.
" Public opinion " is the expression of class interest, and class
means now, in Mexico, the landlords, the professional men, the
practical politicians — who are generally old soldiers and young
lawyers — the students, and the generals of the armies. We were
told by patriotic persons that the federal government is so un-
scrupulously centralizing that it practically controls all the State
governments. On the contrary, Mr. Wells came to the conclu-
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1887.] Material Mexico. 329
sion that the State governments are less under federal control
than in the United States. This contradictoriness embarrasses
the visitor at every turn and in every thing. Many of the most
intelligent Mexicans we met expressed poignant regret over the
fate of Maximilian and the erection of the Republic. We put to
two gentlemen of equal intelligence and undoubted candor, but of
different pursuits, this question : Which would the people prefer,
the empire or a republic? They answered simultaneously, but
one said the empire and the other said the republic. Each was
confident that the other was mistaken. He who preferred the
empire was a German and a manufacturer. The advocate of the
republic was a professor of mathematics.
The fact remains that the Republic was born of Mexican ideas,
has been maintained exclusively by Mexican arms, is based upon
sound principles, and must gradually awaken the entire people
into a healthful and independent interest in its perpetuation.
Charges of dishonesty are freely made against men in high ad-
ministrative place, as well as against government officials gene-
rally. We had no means of ascertaining how much truth might
be in these assertions. If they be true, Mexico cannot be accused
of isolation in that, at least. No judgment upon the government
would be reasonable which does not take into account the con-
figuration of the country; its immense foreign debt, for which
the present government should be held not responsible beyond
certain moderate limits ; the enormous expenditure required and
the inconsiderable revenue obtainable ; the sources whence the
revenue must for the present be derived; and the social state, due
almost entirely to the effects of foreign misrule. " Barter and
the obtaining of gold *' for Spain has l-eft a stamp upon Mexico
which one generation of comparatively tranquil independence
cannot be expected to efface. A traveller who passed through
the country many years ago saw a face peering out of a window
upon a vista of wonderful beauty. Whether prisoner or re-
cluse he knew not, but said through the grating, ** How beauti-
ful I " •* Transeuntibus," was the laconic answer — " To those
who pass by." So has it been with Mexico. Beautiful to those
who robbed her, beautiful to the tourist, her real condition is one
which depresses her own people, whose poverty, ignorance, and
loneliness make them the most pitiable, as they arc certainly the
most kindly and polite, people on this continent.
Margaret F. Sullivan.
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S50 Cardinal Gibbons and [June,
CARDINAL GIBBONS AND AMERICAN INSTITU-
TIONS.
The following is the address of Cardinal Gibbons as pub-
lished in the daily papers, on his taking possession of his titular
church in Rome, March 25 :
"The assignment to me by the Holy Father of this beautiful basilica
as my titular church fills me with feelings of joy and gratitude which any
words of mine are wholly inadequate to express. For as here in Rome I
stand within the first temple raised in honor of the ever-blessed Virgin
Mary, so in my far-off home my own cathedral church, the oldest in the
United States, is also dedicated to the Mother of God.
*' That never-ceasing solicitude which the Sovereign Pontiffs have exhi-
bited in erecting those material temples which are the glory of this city,
they have also manifested on a larger scale in rearing spiritual walls to
Sion throughout Christendom in every age. Scarcely were the United
States of America formed into an independent government when Pope
Pius VII. established therein a Catholic hierarchy and appointed the il-
lustrious John Carroll the first bishop of Baltimore. Our Catholic com-
munity in those days numbered only a few thousand souls, and they were
scattered chiefly through the States of New York, Pennsylvania, and Mary-
land. They were served by the merest handful of priests. But now,
thanks to the fructifying grace of God, the grain of mustard-seed then
planted has grown a large tree, spreading its branches through the length
and breadth of our fair land. Where only one bishop was found in the be-
ginning of this century there are now seventy-five exercising spiritual
jurisdiction. For this great progress we are indebted, under God and the
fostering care of the Holy See, to the civil liberty we enjoy in our enlight-
ened republic.
''Our Holy Father, Leo XIII., in his luminous encyclical on the Con-
stitution of Christian States, declares that the church is not committed to
any particular form of civil government. She adapts herself to all. She
leavens all with the sacred leaven of the Gospel. She has lived under ab-
solute empires, under constitutional monarchies, and in free republics, and
everywhere she grows and expands. She has often, indeed, been hamper-
• ed in her divine mission. She has often been forced to struggle for ex-
istence wherever despotism has cast its dark shadow, like a plant shut out
from the blessed sunlight of heaven. But in the genial atmosphere of
liberty she blossoms like the rose.
" For myself, as a citizen of the United States, and without closing my
eyes to our shortcomings as a nation, I say with a deep sense of pride and
gratitude that I belong to a country where the civil government holds
over us the segis of its protection without interfering with us in the legiti-
mate exercise of our sublime mission as ministers of the Gospel of Christ.
Our country has liberty without license, and authority without despotism.
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1887.] American Institutions. 331
She rears no wall to exclude the stranger from coming among us. She
has few frowning fortifications to repel the invader, for she is at peace
with all the world. She rests secure in the consciousness of her strength
and her good-will toward all. Her harbors are open to welcome the
honest immigrant who comes to advance his temporal interests and find a
peaceful home. But while we are acknowledged to have a free govern-
ment, perhaps we do not receive the credit that belongs to us for having
also a strong government. Yes, our nation is strong, and her strength lies,
under the overruling guidance of Providence, in the majesty and supre-
macy of the law, in the loyalty of her citizens, and in the affection of her
people for her free institutions.
" There are, indeed, grave social problems now engaging the earnest
attention of the citizens of "the United States ; but I have no doubt that,
with God's blessing, these problems will be solved by the calm judgment
and sound sense of the American people without violence or revolution or
any injury to individual right.
"As an evidence of his good-will for the great republic in the West,
and as a mark of his appreciation of the venerable hierarchy of the United
States, and as an expression of his kind consideration for the ancient see
of Baltimore, our Holy Father has been graciously pleased to elevate its
present incumbent, in my humble person, to the dignity of the purple. For
this mark of his exalted favor I beg to tender the Holy Father my pro-
found thanks in my own name and in the name of the clergy and the faith-
ful. I venture to thank him, also, in the name of my venerable colleagues
the bishops, as well as the clergy and the Catholic laity of the United
States. I presume to also thank him in the name of our separated breth-
ren in America, who, though not sharing our faith, have shown that they
are not insensible — indeed, that they are deeply sensible— of the honor con-
ferred upon our common country, and have again and again expressed
their warm admiration for the enlightened statesmanship and apostolic
virtues and benevolent character of the illustrious Pontiff who now sits in
the chair of St. Peter."
Cardinal Gibbons* office is one that outranks all others in the
church in America, and his interpretation of our American insti-
tutions is worthy of his position. The convictions he has ex-
pressed have doubtless animated his whole life as a Catholic and
a citizen, and all his countrymen will rejoice that he has uttered
them with so much emphasis and bravery, and that he has done
it in the centre of Christendom. Americans will thank him foj:
it, and accept him as their representative there, for he is fitted
by his thorough-going American spirit to interpret us to the
peoples and powers of the Old World. Americans do not want
the pope, at the head of the most august assembly in the world,
representing the whole Christian Church, to speak in favor of
empires, monarchies, or republics : that we do not want. What
we want is the American cardinal to do what he has done; to
have the courage of his convictions there and everywhere else,
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332 Cardinal Gibbons and \}\xn^,
as becomes our cardinal, so far as he represents the American
Republic.
It reminds one of Benjamin Franklin championing our cause
in Europe before and during the Revolutionary era. What
Franklin maintained was that we were not in rebellion ; the
American colonies were not guilty of that kind of revolution
1 1 which is a crime. They were fighting for principles which had
ilalways been an Englishman's birthright, and, I may add, part of
the inheritance of all Catholic peoples. Franklin held that the
I i rebels and revolutionists were the members of the British gov-
iernment. And the fact that that was an intense personal convic-
tion with him added immensely to his force as our ambassador.*
The Americans never intended to be rebels ; they were not
rebels. Nowhere in their fundamental law will you find re-
bellion erected into a principle. So, like Benjamin Franklin,
the American cardinal holds, if not officially yet morally, a
like place as representing America to those monarchists of Eu-
rope who are suspicious of us and who do not apprecFate our
institutions. The cardinal will be accepted as an American rep-
resentative, locate him where you please — Rome, Paris, Madrid,
Berlin, or London. His oflSce constitutes him our high commis-
sioner, and his utterances are in the serene atmosphere of the
Roman Curia, itself not unknowing of liberty and equality in
their true sense. St. Augustine's words have ever described
the church's view of human authority, civil or ecclesiastical :
Christians in office " rule not from a love of power, but from a sense of
the duty they owe to others; not because they are proud of authority, but
because they love mercy. This is prescribed by the order of nature ; it is
thus God created man. For * let them,' he says, * have dominion over the
fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every creeping thing
which creepeth upon the earth/ He did not intend that his rational crea-
ture, who was made in his image, should have dominion over an)rthing but
the irrational creation — not man over man, but man over the beasts. And
hence the righteous men in primitive times were made shepherds of cattle
rather than kings of men, God intending thus to teach us what the relative
• The following is an extract from Frank1in*s examination before the House of Commons :
<* Question, How, then, could the Assembly of Pennsylvania assert that laying: a tax on them
by the Stamp Act was an infrinfi;ement of their rights ? Answer, They understood it thus : by
the same charter, and otherwise, they are entiUed to all the privileges and liberties of English-
men. They find in the Great Charter and the Petition and Declaration of Rights that one of
the privileges of English subjects is that they are not to be taxed but by their common consent ;
they have therefore relied upon, from the first settlement of the province, that the Parliament
never would nor could, by color of that clause in the charter, assume a right of taxing them till
it had qualified itself to exercise such right by admitting representatives from the people to be
taxed, who ought to make a part of that common consent " (Bigelow^s Ufe of Franklin ^ vol. i«
chap 4).
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1887.1 American Institutions. 333
position of the creatures is, and what the desert of sin ; for it isjwrjthjus-
tice, we beli eve, that the condition of slavery is the result o f sin " (City of
God, book iix. chap. 14-15).
And how often soever the Holy See may have counselled men
to respect legitimate authority, her great battles have ever been
with those who have abused authority.
The Catholic Church has flourished under all forms of govern-
ment. Herdivine Founder. has given her an__Qrganism capable
of ad justm ent to^yery legitimate human institution. She tends
to make the people loyal to the reasonable authority of the state,
and her influence will strengthen them in the virtues necessary
for the public welfare; she has always done so. But the form
of government of the United States is preferable to Catholics
above other forms. It is more favorable than others to the)
[practice of those virtuc.s which are the necessary conditions of/
[the development of the religious life of man. This government
leaves men a larger margin for liberty of action, and hence for
co-operation with the guidance of the Holy Spirit, than any
other government under the sun. Speaking of the aflSrmation
of human rights set forth in the Declaration of Independence,
the present writer has said that —
" They are divine inasmuch as they declare the rights of the Creator in
bis creature ; they are fundamental, for without the enjoyment of the na-
tural 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 divine right.
The Creator invested man with these rights in order that he might fulfil
the duties inseparably attached to them. For these rights put man in pos-
session of himself, and leave him free to reach the end for which his Cre-
ator called him into existence. He, therefore, who denies or violates these
rights offends God, acts the tyrant, and is an enemy of mankind. And if
there be any superior 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 popular in- 1
stitutions enjoys greater liberty in working out his true destiny " (" The
Catholic Church in the United States," The Catholic World, July, 1879).
The Catholic Church will, therefore, flourish all thfe more in
this_republican country in proportion as Catholics in their civil
life keep to the lines of their republicanism. This proposition
wFlI still be true even should the New England mind become the
prevailing type among us.
In the light of these principles it is an error, radical and gross,
to say that the basis of the American character is the spirit of
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334 CAjtz>iNAL Gibbons and [June,
political and religious rebellion. The character that is formed
by the institutions of our country and the Catholic character are
not antagonistic. American institutions tend to develop indepen-
dence, personal independence and love of liberty. Christianity
rightly understood is seen to foster these qualities. For what
other object did the martyrs die than to establish their personal
convictions against the decrees of emperors? "You keep the
laws of your sovereign/' said the martyr St. Lucy to the Roman
official ; '* I keep the laws of my God. You fear Caesar ; I fear
the one true God, whom I serve. You are desirous of pleasing
men ; I desire to please Jesus Christ alone. D(k you pretend to de-
prive me of the right of acting according to the dictates of my reason
and conscience ? " Said Sts. Perpetua and Felicitas, as they entered
the amphitheatre to be martyred : ** We have willingly come
hither, that our freedom might suffer no interference. We gladly lay
down our lives to avoid doing anything contrary to our holy re-
ligion." And in like manner the peaceful triumphs of Catholic
virtue have had no other motive than an heroic purpose to serve
God alone in true liberty of spirit, whether as hermits in the wil-
derness, or Benedictines in the abbeys that were the centres of
religious and civil life in the destruction of the Roman Empire
and the rushing down of the barbarians, or in the various orders
and societies, founded since then, in which the church has ever
offered a method for souls to combine together for freedom and
peace, for their own and their neighbor's sanctification.
What we need to-day is men whose spirit is that of the early
martyrs. We shall get them in proportion as Catholics culti-
vate a spirit of independence and personal conviction. The
highest development of religion in the soul is when it is assisted
by free contemplation of the ultimate causes of things. InteTTH
gence and liberty are the human environments most favorable
to the deepening of personal conviction of religious truth and
^ediencc to the interior movements of an enlightened conscience^
Mr. Lilly, in one of his brilliant essays, affirms that the question
of the hour is the existence of the supernatural. This is well
said for .agnostics ; but for a well-ordered mind I should say
that the question of the hour is how the so ul which aspires to
Uie superna tural life shajl utilize the advantages of human lib-
erty and intelligence.
We do not need the imperial or kingly ideas of the Old
World as aids to our spiritual life as Catholics, any more than
we want its anarchical ideas as helps to civil freedom as citizens.
Neither do we wish to plant our American ideas in the soil of
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other nations. The mission of the American Catholic is not to
propagate his form of government in any other country. But
there is one wish he cherishes in respect to his fellow-Catholics
abroad : he wants to be rightly understood, and that is a wish
not easily granted. You, reader, if you had been brought up in
a monarchy and sympathized with its institutions, as you natural-
ly would have done, would not easily understand other forms of
government. In such things most me n are what their surro und-
ings make them — ^you might say all men are, if by the word sur-
roundings you'take in the sum of influences, external and inter-
nal, to which they are subject. W here will you fi nd_ a man
whose jnost poten t teachers have not been his race and country ?
Honest men in Europe feel about democracy as we feel about
monarchy. And how do you feel about monarchy? Your
truest answer must be, "I don't understand it." And, unless!
you made your home there, you might live in a monarchy for
years and not understand it, and you would not wish to un-\
derstand it. It does not belong to you. The place is not your
home ; your home is far away and far,.di£ffirent, and you expect
soonerj3r_Jater^to^_back_there* Therefore you are not to be
blamed for not understanding them, nor are they to be blamed
for not understanding us. When we are abroad, unless called
upon to speak, as the cardinal was, it is better for us to keep our
mouths shut. So should foreigners act when in this country.
1 do not blame Europeans for not understanding us. I only
wish to call attention to the many difficulties in the way of get-
ting into the minds of Europeans true views of American affairs.
These difficulties Cardinal Gibbons has known how to cope with.
He has been able to express the American idea in such terms as
not to be misunderstood. And this was not the triumph of diplo-
matic cunning, but rather that of sincerity and frankness — the
true cunning of honest souls. He has carried his point by the
simplicity of his thought and the earnestness of its utterance.
There is often more in the courage of saying the thing than
there is in the thing itself: there is both in Cardinal Gibbons'
address. For what is a commonplace in this country is striking
and singular elsewhere, especially in a state of society so differ-
ently organized. It took courage to say what he did. It was
needed to be said long ago, but others did not say it. Was it
lack of courage on their part, or indifference to the providential
lessons of the times?
In such cases courage is genius, and we now rejoice in its tri-
umph. It was fitting that the best expression of the good of
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336 Cardinal Gibbons and [June,
civil freedom as a favorable human environment for the develop-
ment of the religious character should be left to be made by an
American cardinal in the centre of Christendom. And if I were
asked in what the American system of government contributed
most to this development, I should say that it is by declaring it-
self incompetent in spirituals. That is what Europeans, especial-
ly men in high station, cannot or will not understand.
" Philip II. of Spain," says Baron Hiibner in his Memoir of Stxius V.,
vol. ii. chap, ii., " looked upon himself as a civil vicar of Christ. Whenever,
in the fulfilment of this imaginary mission, he met with a doubt, he some-
times laid it before his ministers, but he preferred to submit it to his con-
fessor, or to theologians, or to committees specially appointed to examine
it, or to congregations composed of doctors of theology. He believed he
had two missions to fulfil. He was king and also a little of a pontiff ; just as
the pope is first a pontiff, then king. In this groove ran all his ideas.
Sixtus V. indignantly rejected such pretensions. . . . The deeply-rooted
conviction that he was the civil vicar of Christ on earth can be frequently
traced in Philip's letters, and is reproduced in the language of his agents."
Potentates wished, and still wish, to be pontiffs. When
dynasties give place to oligarchies, aristocrats wish to be on a
par with cardinals. When the tide of atheistic revolution has
swept them all away, and blasphemers of the prime verities of
reason and revelation are floated into power, they in turn feel
under obligation as civil rulers to care for the supreme interests
of religion. King Philip and Gambetta, Louis Quatorze, the two
Napoleons, and Bismarck and Paul Bert, must nominate bishops;
each must play censor deputatus for catechisms and theologies ;
monarchy, aristocracy, bureaucracy, anarchical and atheistic de-
mocracy, each inherits from its predecessor the craving for ec-
clesiastical authority. The Throne of the Fisherman has not had
authority enough to publish in Catholic countries its own apos-
tolic decrees without an incessant diplomatic war over the state's
placet. In Joseph II.'s case this meddling of the state with
spirituals was carried into the very sacristy. Without wish-
ing to go too far the other way, I affirm that this interference
by government can never be imposed on the American people.
We are glad to see the American cardinal of the same mind*
When church and state were brought into contact in Philip's
reign he posed as the Constantine of Christendom, and Louis
Quatorze did worse. Here in America, when church and state
come together, the state says, I am not competent in ecclesiasti-
cal affairs ; I leave religion in its full liberty. That is what is
meant here by separation of church and state, and that is pre-
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1887J American Institutions. 337
cisely what Europeans cannot or will not understand. They
want to make out that the American state claims to be indif-
ferent to religion. They accuse us of having a theory of gov-
ernment which ignores the moral precepts of the natural law
and of the Gospel. Such is not the case, and never has been
from the beginning. That is a false interpretation of the Ameri-
can state. By ecclesiastical affairs we mean that organic em-
bodiment of Christianity which the church is in her creeds,
her hierarchy, and her polity. The American state says in
reference to all this, I have no manner of right to meddle with
you ; I have no jurisdiction. By morals, on the other hand, we
mean those influences of natural and revealed religion whose
sway is general among the vast popular electorate of our coun-
try, uniform and definite enough to be a quickening influence
upon our public life. To disregard this has ever been deemed
a crime against good government among us, and punished ac-
cordingly.
The cardinal's address, taken in connection with other events
in Pope Leo's pontificate, marks an epoch in the world's history.
If, as many think, democracy will soon assume control of public
affairs, the question is. What kind of a democracy will it be ;
what influence will be powerful enough to guide it morally aright ?
No sectarian form of Christianity can be the guide of mighty hu-
man forces. So far as men are sectarians, so far do they deviate
from the universal truth ; and only the universal principles of
reason and revelation grasped and wielded by such an organic
world-power as the Catholic Church can guide aright the tu-
multuous masses of mankind when the transition from one phase
of civilization to another has begun. The power that could
tame the barbarian ancestors of the civilized world exhibits in
such men and such utterances as have been herein considered a
force competent to guide to its proper destiny the baptized de-
mocracy of our day. And we may say in passing that it is diffi-
cult to exaggerate the majesty and power a body of men repre-
senting the whole Catholic Church, as the Council of Trent
intended the cardinals to do, would possess and exert the world
over ; the decision of such a body, with the Pope at its head,
could not fail to be final.
I. T. Hecker.
VOL. XLv.— 33
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338 Lacordairb on Property. [June,
LACORDAIRE ON PROPERTY.
In his thirty-third conference on the church Father Lacor-
daire treats of the influence of Catholic upon natural society with
regard to property. The famous preacher was first a distin-
guished member of the French bar, then a priest and a monk,
but a man always of democratic principles, and even a member,
while a Dominican monk and priest, of the Assembly of the Sec-
ond French Republic, in 1848. Let us hear his views:
The opponents of Christianity, he begins by saying, assert
that, after so many centuries of its sway, property is not equitably
distributed ; some have too much, many not enough to support
life. But the church has consecrated this inequality, sanctioned
it, placed it under the protection of God's commandment.
First the orator admits the merit of those who thus concern
themselves about their poor brethren, and, seeking to find a
remedy for their sufferings, are carried away by their lack of
knowledge so far as to assail even the church, as if it were partly
her fault, and then proceeds to answer and enlighten them to the
following effect :
God gave the earth to man, and with it an activity to fertilize
and render it obedient and productive. The primitive gift,
therefore, is double : there is proprietorship of the soil and pro-
prietorship of labor. Proprietorship of labor is first in order,
because evidently a man owns himself before he gains possession
of anything else. According to the tradition sanctioned by the
Gospel, God says to man : " Thou art master of thy labor ; for
thy labor is thj' activity put in practice, and thy activity is thy-
self. To take from thee the domain of thy labor would be to
take from thee the domain of thy activity — that is to say, the pos-
session of thyself, of that which makes thee a living and a free
being. Thou art then master of thy labor. Thou art also mas-
ter of the soil, of that portion of it which thy labor may have
fertilized ; for thy labor is nothing without the soil, and the earth
is nothing without thy labor; the one and the other are sustained
and quickened reciprocally. When, then, thou shalt have mingled
the sweat of thy brow with the earth, and when thou shalt thus
have fertilized it, it will belong to thee, for it will have become
a part of thyself, the extension of thine own personality ; it will
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1887.] Lacordairb on Property. 339
have been enriched by thy flesh and blood, and it is just that thy
domain over it should continue, so that it may belong to thee.
I have, it is true, the primary title to it as Creator, but I give it
up to thee ; and by thus uniting that which comes from me and
that which comes from thee, the whole is thine. Thy proprie-
torship will not even end with thy life ; thou mayest transmit it
to thy descendants, because thy descendants are thyself, because
there is unity between the father and his children ; and to disin-
herit these from thy patrimonial lands would be to disinherit the
toils and the tears of their father. To whom else should that
land of thy pain and thy blood revert ? To another who has not
labored upon it ? It is better for thee to survive, and to keep it
in thy posterity."
Such, says Lacordaire, is the primitive right consecrated by
the evangelical law. The answer of the reformers, he con-
tinues, is this : ** But do you not perceive the frightful inequality
which will result from that position which is apparently so sim-
ple ? In a certain time, whether from incapacity of some, or from
infirmity for which man is not accountable, or from other cir-
cumstances, favorable for these, unfavorable for those, the land,
become too small and limited for its inhabitants, will be found in
the possession of a few men, who will consume it in luxury and
surfeit to the prejudice of numberless unfortunate beings re*
duced to earn their bread day by day, if even so much as the
bread necessary for each day be assured to them. Is not this a
result which condemns the principle of individual proprietor-
ship ? If the consequence be selfish, the principle is inevitably
the same. We must, then, if we love mankind, have recourse to
another distribution of property, and boldly proclaim, because it
is a duty, that labor and the land belong to society. Labor and
the land form the funds of society, the common property, the very
substance of the country ; we should all devote ourselves to the
common weal, and, as the only recompense of our efforts, take a
part of the fruits proportioned to the merit of our labors. In
this way the arbitrary distinction between the poor and the rich
would cease ; if any irregularity should still exist it would be
due to capacity and virtue, and nbt to the chances of birth, which
have pounded up together in the same vase sloth, abundance,
pride, selfishness, all vices and all rights.
" Have you not yourselves, O men of the Gospel, in your
days of holy inspirations, have you not realized that divine re-
public ? When your missionaries founded the famous ' Reduc-
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340 Lacordaire on Property. [June,
tions* of Paraguay, did you not, in the name of the Gospel,
decree community of labor and of possessions ? Was Paraguay
anything else than a united family, in which each member labored
for all, all for each, and in which the social power, itself also
laboring, distributed the fruits of its peaceful activity to its chil-
dren in the most equitable measure? The whole world will ad-
mire that creation of the Gospel which brings back again its
primitive times. But, although capable of conceiving and of
accomplishing this between two great rivers of America, you
have not been capable of establishing it as a general law of hu-
manity; you have been without courage; you have retreated
before human egotism. And we, sons of the nineteenth century,
trained, it is true, in your schools and nurtured by the milk of
the Gospel — we are obliged to remind you of your mission and
to perfect the law of justice and of charity."
Having thus stated the case for both sides. Father Lacordaire
goes on to say that the scheme of the " sons of the nineteenth
century " would be the establishment of universal servitude, the
consecration of an inequality without bounds and without reme-
dy — of such servitude and inequality as no despotism has ever
approached, even in imagination. For what is this " society *'
that is going to be the sole proprietor of the soil and of labor?
Let it be called monarchy, aristocracy, or democracy — what you
will — it is always represented by a few, two or three individuals,
who are raised to power by the course of human affairs, and are
made the depositaries of authority. It is necessary, he argues,
to defend the private citizen against those autocrats by certain
invincible positions, and chiefly by giving him an inviolable stand-
ing-place of his own in a portion of the earth, or at least the
control of his own labor, for he that has neither of these is a slave.
If the government owns all the land, then whoever does not take
care to be in accord with the government — that is, with those few
men, or with their successors in case there be rotation in office —
has no independence nor assurance of being left in his home ; if
it owns all the labor, why then he is no better than a human
chatteL He then illustrates by quoting the then condition of
things in Russia — that is to say, previous to the emancipation of
the serfs, which took place only in 1863.
But, he asks himself, will not the equality in such a system
compensate for many inconveniences ? Far from it, he replies.
Even a communistic society must have high and low positions,
occupations more or less desirable, which must, nevertheless, all
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.18S7.] Lacordaire on Property. 341
be filled : there will be hewers of wood and drawers of water,
as well as physicians, editors, priests, postmasters, judges, and
policemen ; think you that the rulers will give to each one the
place that nature fitted him for, or rather that the whole state
will not be filled with favoritism, corruption, bribery, and oppres-
sion ? As we have it now, I may be poor to-day, but I have the
consolation of knowing that to-morrow I may be better off;
that no oflScial brand has been placed on my brow, appointing
my rations according to my phrenologically ascertained grade
of intelligence and usefulness. Inequality now is accidental and
temporary ; then it would be logical and fixed, and every one
would be rooted in his place by insolent officials, without liberty
to try to raise himself by exercising some other faculties, as is
the case now.
No doubt, he continues, communism is an evangelical idea, but,
as history tells us, it must be voluntary in the first place, and this
does away with servitude ; then in the inequality of the offices
there is self-sacrifice, and thus there is no outrage. It is true the
inconveniences of proprietorship are great ; they were so great
in heathendom that a revolution was called for, the larger part
of men being despised slaves of the shrewd, capable, and wicked.
Jesus Christ was the author of the revolution. How so? The
soil is limited, and every man cannot have a part of it. But the
land will not yield the obedience of fertility without labor ; hence
labor holds half the sceptre of the world, and riches depend on
poverty as much as poverty on riches. The passage from the one
to the other will be frequent, owing to luxury on one side and
thrift on the other ; the condition of both will be to help each
other mutually and to engender reciprocal relations. With the
proprietorship of his labor a man is always a man — can never be a
slave. Christ preached 'this. He declared God's will to be that all
men should become brothers, and thus made the poor an object
of necessary interest to the rich, since the latter, unable to get on
without them, were yet not to own their labor ; and no land has
ever flourished more than under the hand of the poor and the
rich united by this understanding, stipulating by their alliance
for the fruitfulness of nature. Fortunate it is for those who de-
claim against property that the principle of fraternity laid down
by Christ is still respected. If his cross should vanish like a fall-
ing star, morality would soon go, and with its disappearance
would arise effeminacy, license, plunder, anarchy, despotism, and
slavery in logical succession. It is the constant inculcation of
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342 Lacordaire on Property. [June,
his doctrine that saves men, (or on account of the original fault,
or the natural inequality of human nature, men seem even to
prefer serfdom of some kind or other, as we see by their attach-
ment to political parties, and especially to kings, lords, and lead-
ers ; these would become once more dictators, imperators, or
triumvirs, only that the Gospel still reminds men of their equal
manhood.
But, the orator goes on to explain, the proprietorship of labor
is not of itself sufficient for the poor. There is sickness, weak-
ness, old age, as well as the impossibility sometimes of carrying
the labor to the land that needs it. " Jesus Christ then created
another property besides labor. Where was he to find this?
Evidently it could only be found in the land. But the land be-
longed to the rich, and that right cannot be touched without
reducing the human race to communistic servitude. Christ has
solved the difficulty. He has taught us that property is not ego*
tistical in its essence^ but that it may be so by the use which is
made of it, and that it is only necessary to regulate and to limit
that use in order to assure to the poor their share in the common
patrimony. The Gospel has established this new principle,
which was yet more unknown than the inalienability of labor :
No one has a right to the fruits of his own domain^ other than accord-
ing to the measure of his legitimate wants. God, in eflFect, has
given the earth to man only because of his wants, and in order
to provide for them. Every other use is a selfish and parricidal
use — a use of sensuality, avarice, and pride : vices reprobated by
God, and which, beyond doubt, he has not desired to strengthen
and consecrate in instituting the right of property.
** Man's wants vary according to his position in society — a
thing infinitely variable — henc^ the impossibility of saying at what
point the proper use ends and the abuse begins ; but the Gos-
pel law is not the less clear and constant : Wherever the legitimate
want expires^ there expires also the legitimate use of property. That
which remains is the patrimony of the poor ^ in justice as in charity ;
the rich are but the depositaries and administrators of it. If luxury
or avarice prevent them from paying their debt to the poor,
* Woe to you that are rich ! ' (St. Luke vi. 24).''
Hence, he continues, the blossoms of Christian charity, of
which the ancient world had no idea, which opulence gives to
misery : hospitals, asylums, almshouses, and refuges ; those per-
sonal visits to garrets and hovels, with their message of flowers
and love; that communion of riches and poverty which from
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1887.] Lacordairb on Property. 343
morn to eve, from the age which ends to the age which com-
mences, mingles all ranks, all rights, all duties, all ideas — the
theatre with the church, the cabin with the mansion, both with
death, engendering charity even in crime, and drawing forth
even from prostitution its tears and its alms. Have you seen
popes, cardinals, and princes wash the dirty feet of the poor
peasant-pilgrims on Holy Thursday ? Have you seen the rich,
educated, gentle-mannered members of the Society of St. Vin-
cent de Paul caring for all kinds of distress? Wherever the
church gains footing she brings this charity, which blesses the
poor and reflects blessing on the rich.
Where this influence of Christ, he says in conclusion, does not
prevail and rule men, envy furrows every brow and lights up
all eyes. There the property of the poor is diminished by the
avarice or egotistical indifference of the unchristian rich ; the
dignity of the poor is lessened by the carelessness or contempt in
which the poor man Christ is held; the blessedness of the poor
is shortened or taken away by persuading them that money is
everything and happiness the daughter of the purse. All this is
false and injurious. The most grievous evil of our time is per-
haps that rage for material prosperity which causes all men to
rush down like famished wolves upon that lean and sickly prey
which we call earth. Return to the Infinite ; the Infinite alone
is vast enough for man ! Neither railways, nor machines, nor
steamships will add an inch to the extent of the earth ; and even
though it were as vast as the sun, it were still a theatre unworthy
of man. The Infinite alone has food for all and joy for an eter-
nity. Give back Jesus Christ to the poor, if you desire to render
to them their real patrimony; all that you may do for them,
without Jesus Christ, without practising his charity, will but in-
crease their inordinate desires, their pride, and their misery.
Let us sum up the teaching of the great French preacher, and
add a few kindred ideas.
1. There are two distinct ownerships in the world, that of
land and that of labor ; one is as real and inviolable as the other.
2. The ownership of land is attended with some inconveni-
ences and drawbacks, one of which is that the clever and strong
are likely to obtain more of it than suffices for them, and to crowd
the others to the wall. But society has a perfect right to limit
the extent of private ownership in this regard : one man's right
ceases where it infringes on another's, or, much more, on the com-
mon good. If it be asked. Why not do as the Jesuits did in Para-
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344 Lacordairb on Property. [Juhe,
guay ? the answer is, Because the population there were simple
savages just emerging from barbarism, for whom modified ser-
vitude or tutelage was the only proper system ; they were chil-
dren as yet unfit for liberty and independence. Besides, their
caretakers were men vowed to poverty, chastity, and obedience,
totally different from the political bosses and their heelers that
too often reach the control of affairs, even in the republics of the
nineteenth century. Under such men there would be universal
servitude, wire-pulling, shirking of duty, lying, licking-of- spittle,
crushing of the weak, the modest, the conscientious— oppression
such as never existed in the world-sunless the individual could
say : ^* This is my land ; you *re a trespasser ! This is my house ;
get out of it!" Look at England before the Habeas Corpus!
Look at Russia before the emancipation of the serfs ! Look' at
Germany in Caesar's time! Look at China to-day! Not that
these were examples of out-and-out communism, but they were
enough so to show the working of tenantry instead of owner-
ship in fee simple. Now, the mere tenant will always make
the most out of his holding, will impoverish its soil, cut down
its lumber, fish-out its waters ; whereas the man whose own
it is will do all in his power to preserve and to increase its
fruitfulness and beauty for himself and his children. Private
ownership of the soil is the first condition of thoroughness, per-
severance, and individual and national progress,
3. But wouldn't it be better at least to make a general and
equal division of the land ? No. In the first place, there isn't
enough to go round, just where people would be willing to take
it. Men are gregarious and want to live in towns, as close as
possible, even when they are free to scatter. They prefer a
quarter-section of a floor in a Mott Street or Fifth Avenue
tenement at a high rent to a quarter-section of rich land gratis in
magnificent Nebraska. Then all are not qualified for farmers ;
and, moreover, we need professional men, clerks, storekeepers,
factory -hands, mechanics, and helpers of all kinds. There is only
one good farmer in one hundred average men, and he would pos-
sess all the land of the rest in one year by the just, natural course
of trade. If he can, it is clear that God did not intend all those
others for independent cultivators ; they must work under his
guidance and control, or else in some other sphere. Hence
some heathen philosophers went so far as to say that slavery was
natural, inasmuch as many men are born incapable of self-main-
tenance, and, if they need to be supported by others, it were but
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fair that they should obey these. Taking men, women, and chil-
dren, weak, sick, insane, prisoners, etc., three-fourths of mankind
depend on the other fourth. So much for this theory of equal
division.
4. The communism of the early Christians lasted a very short
time, and was purely voluntary even then (Acts v. 4). That of
religious orders is a vocation of individuals who shear them-
selves of all right of property, of marriage, and do not enjoy
complete autonomy, but are controlled by the ordinary power
of the regularly-organized church. There is no place in such
a system for the family, the political power, nor for any but a
peculiarly-constituted kind of men and women, who would be at
least much less useful to society and to themselves in the normal
state,
5. While private property in land, therefore, must be main-
tained, at least as a lesser evil, private property in labor offsets
it. The poor man, under the Gospel, has a right to dispose of
his labor, without which the land is useless to the rich. Labor
is also useless without land. Hence mutual dependence and
hence mutual interest.
6. But, after all, labor is less independent than land ; there is
not absolute equality. Capital can stand out longer, even if it
has nothing but what the earth spontaneously brings forth.
Hence something further is necessary where interest fails to
make the rich consider the poor. This is the law of charity:
Whatever is not required for the temperate, legitimate needs of
the rich must be gfiven to the poor, because we are all brothers,
children of the same man and the same God, with the same
right to live on this earth. But wouldn't it be better to divide
by law? to limit the amount of the individual's riches? This
were a problem in applied mathematics and political economy
impossible of solution on account of the endless variety of the
relations, legitimate tastes, offices, and duties of men. Let
things find their own level. That is the best government which
governs least. The first requisite is to receive Christ's Gospel,
recognize the laborer as our brother, love him as such, and let
love do the rest. Love will make and carry out just and proper
laws. Rich and powerful men can evade any law if they de-
spise the law of Christ. Yet, as far as we can, if the rich neglect
to provide for the poor and needy, we have a right to force
them, because " injustice as well as in charity, whatever remains
after t/ie legitimate wants of the rich are supplied belongs to the
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346 Lacordaire on Property. [June,
poor'' Hence our taxes for almshouses, etc., are just, though of
course it would be far better for the rich as well as for the poor
if the former cared for the latter as their brethren, and did not
look on their maintenance as a legal burden. The voluntary
work of well-to-do persons, and the personal interest they take in
their poor or weak or erring brethren — as in the organizations
known as Sisters of Charity, St. Vincent de Paul societies, etc.
— this is what the church brings about. If, however, labor
generally should not be able to find employment, of course socie-
ty can force a subdivision of the land or impose forced contribu-
tions on its owners, because God intended man to live by this
proprietorship of labor, which is useless without land to work
on. Hence the justice of public works begun in times of scar-
city, to give employment and support to the laborer. Nay, if
need be, the government can fix the just amount of rent, as well
as put a price on the necessaries of life at which they must be
sold. Such laws, called sumptuary, though just, are not deem-
ed expedient in our country ; we believe in domestic free-trade
and desire no " paternal government."
7. But the inequality still remains? It must. It is natural.
No two men are equal in endowments, and an attempt to en-
force equality of this kind is resistance to the evident design of
nature and of God, who gave men their respective talents to be
used for him and for society in all its manifold requirements.
It would be the most absurd tyranny as well as waste. It is
better to leave men free to find their place ; this leaves them
hope, spirit, and enterprise. The alternative were intolerable
slavery, and would ignore the chief glory of our republic, that
it gives a " fair field and no favor " to ability and industry, and
enables the rail-splitter, the mule-driver, the tailor, and the tan-
ner, as well as the owner of ancestral acres or the legal pleader,
to rise to the highest place in the government.
8. But then the poor are set down as inferior and in dis-
grace? No. Jesus Christ has dignified poverty by becoming
a poor man. Besides, poverty has its uses. It disengages the
soul from objects which, after all, are but transitory and less
worthy of her powers and aspirations. She is made for an infi-
nite possession and for everlasting life. Even here she expands
better when freed from embarrassing riches. Hence so many of
the philosophers as well as of the saints voluntarily abandoned
riches and their concomitant enjoyments. Hence the ideal even
of earthly happiness is found by the best judges always among
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1887.] La CORD A IRE ON PROPERTY. 347
the poor and simple ; and a saint is inconceivable whose heart is
bound up in mere material things.
*' O wealth unknown ! O veritable good I
Giles bares his feet, and bares his feet Sylvester
Behind the bridegroom, so doth please the bride ! "
{Paradiso, nu 82, Longfellow's translation.)
9. Therefore poverty (labor), as opposed to wealth (capital),
is natural, is allowed by the providence of God, as well as riches.
And the best way is to persuade all people, the rich as well as
the poor, to seek happiness in a contented mind and a good con-
science, and, having sufficient food and decent clothing, to be
satisfied during the little time we have to spend in this world —
the poor, because they would much better not chafe and fret at
the unattainable, which, even when reached, will not make them
happy ; the rich, because whatever they have made by their
God-given abilities over and above a becoming provision for
their families must, in justice and charity, be given to the poor.
Let the rich feel satisfied and honored in being the stewards of
God's gifts, and the poor more so because their vocation brings
them nearer to Jesus Christ, the Son of God made man.
10. But this doctrine of contentment will put a stop to all
progress? No. Progress is secured by the natural pressure
of need, the cares of family, the looking out for the future, the
dependence on self, the desire of improving one's own property,
etc., as well as by the teaching of the Gospel that the Lord will
demand a strict account of the use we have made of our various
talents, and will punish the idle just as he will the positive delin-
quent. Besides, look around ! Is it not Christian nations that
have made most progress? Are not exemplary Christians con-
spicuous among the most advanced in every art, trade, science,
and profession? Solvitur ambulando. In fact, as Leo XIII. de-
clares in the very first sentence of his encyclical " Immortale
Dei" (Nov. I, 1885), "The church, although directly and of its
nature looking to the salvation of souls and the happiness to be
attained in heaven, is nevertheless the source of so varied and so
great utility, even in things purely of this earth, that more or
greater could not be, if first and principally it had been instituted
to safeguard the prosperity of the life which passes away.'*
Edward McSweeny, D.D.
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348 Queen Elizabeth and " The Merry Wives'' [June,
QUEEN ELIZABETH AND *• THE MERRY WIVES."
In its issue of July, 1877, The Catholic World reviewed
a volume which in many ways was a notable and unique work.
Attention had often been called to the fact that in the plays and
poems of Shakspere all the lofty sentiments, honorable deeds,
and noble aspirations are credited to the nobility ; that he is the
poet of the lofty and not of the lowly ; that it is only royal and
titled personages he selects for his heroes — for embodiment of
the passions, impulses, tendencies, virtues of human nature ; that
in them alone does he extol honor, courage, faith, charity, obedi-
ence to marriage vows, while the child of the people never ap-
pears in any exemplary rSles save those of submission and of
service, and then only as a bounden duty to be performed with-
out reward. But Shakspere from an American Point of View, by
George Wilkes,* first elaborated the charge that Shakspere
cared nothing for the masses— for the people, their rights and
interests ; devoted his pages entirely to the aflFairs of kings,
courts and noblemen, field-marshals and generals, passing the
people over always with slur, sneer, and lampoon, if, indeed,
they received any notice whatever. Mr. Wilkes backed up his
indictment with an array of quotations from the plays and poems
that left apparently nothing to be said on the other side. I will
endeavor to indicate (so far as I can discover, for the first time)
the real plea in abatement, if not answer to the charge. That
plea was that in Shakspere's day the right of the subject could
only come from the permanence of institutions. Shakspere was
no agitator screaming from a corner, or reformer circulating in
cipher philippics against whatever he found established. He was
the proprietor of two theatres, mounting what he wrote publicly
upon his boards, under the vigilant eye of a sovereign whose
definition of treason was notoriously elastic, and with the Tower
and the block unpleasantly close at hand to suggest prudence in
meddling with the recognized order of things. The dramatists
* It is, I think, to be regretted that Mr. Wilkes tampered with his book by committing it—
in the third edition (1883)— to J. Payne Collier^s claim to the discovery of a new play of Shak-
spere's, A Warning to Fair Women (1599). The very fact that the characters are not patri-
cian (their names are Master Drewry, Anne, Brown, Sanders, etc.), as contrasted with the per-
sonages of the Shaksperean drama— which involves, by the way, the exact point Mr. Wilkes
wrote his book to prove— ought to have put him on his guard. Mr. Collier was ninety jrears
old when he made the asseruon, and it attracted no attention from Shaksperean critics.
Digitized by
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1887.] Queen Elizabeth and " The Merry Wives:' 349
of Elizabeth's day were only too happy to be on the safe side
when they mentioned the throne and the ruling classes. The
strolling player of interludes had become a nuisance and an of-
fence, and statutes were framed to suppress him. The only com-
panies allowed to give theatrical representations were those for-
tunate enough to secure the patronage of some nobleman — such
as the bands known respectively as ** Lord Strangers Servants/'
the " Earl of Leicester's Servants," of the first of which Shak-
spere himself was a member. (Later on a troupe known as
** The Queen's Majesty's Servants " appeared.) But without the
warrant of a lordly name the pillory and the stocks were the
least of penalties for the vagrom player of Elizabeth's later days.
Under these circumstances it was hardly likely that sentiments
expressive of popular liberty and subversive of the title of birth
and rank should be very liberally put into the mouths of the
members of these companies. It was only natural that, as the
fact was, the playwrights competed with each other in malign-
ing and belittling, in lampooning and slandering, the lower
classes ; and it was not singular that Shakspere surpassed them
in that, as he did in everything else, in degree. Indeed, so far did
Shakspere go upon the safe side that he deliberately falsified the
story of the Cade uprising, as Mr. Wilkes points out. That up-
rising was not rebellion; the insurgents called themselves his
majesty's subjects, insisted only that the throne was badly ad-
vised by the court, demanded only reforms conceded to be
so just that the insurgents themselves received terms from the
king. Yet Shakspere could find no language too contemptuous,
no epithets too scornful, for men who questioned whether men
nobly born could possibly have given bad advice to a king. But
then Shakspere had a larger stake than his fellows. He was not
only an actor but a proprietor, and he found his privileges of
operating two theatres near her majesty's court quite too lucra^
tive to neglect to preach (as indeed did Goethe two centuries
later) the doctrine of the established order of things, and to merit
Lord Tennyson's verses:
" Not he that breaks the dams, but he
That through the channels of the state
Convoys the people's will, is great"
And then, again, it is to be admitted that Shakspere, although
with a personal motive, really had much of true policy on his
side. The masses in Tudor days were certainly not ripe for en-
joyment of an enlightened liberty ; and an overthrow of existing
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350 Queen Elizabeth and " The Merry Wives*' [June,
social institutions could only have meant license, anarchy, and
ruin. And so it happens that Shakspere is the poet of humanity
rather than of nature, Milton to the contrary notwithstanding.
There are no " native wood-notes wild " in the Shaksperean
opera. The music is that of camp and court, of tourney and
assemblage, and of crowded city streets. Only kings, queens,
dukes, lords, and titled ladies move in the action of his dramas.
The people, the masses, are only his accessories and supernu-
meraries. It is only when a patrician is to be represented in
exile or retirement that we have the pastoral or the rural — Per-
dita among the oafs and shepherdesses, the forest of Arden, Pros-
perous magic island, or eulogy of any life that is " exempt from
public haunt.*' I desire in this paper to point out what seems
to me a most singularly suggestive exception to the rule, as an
instance (and, so far as I can find, the only one) in which Shak-
spere used a titled personage for a butt, and brought a nobleman
to grief in his pages. And if my explanation of Shakspere's pos-
sible motive and reasons for so doing is esteemed too finical or
far-fetched, at least I am only sharing with my fellow-students
the ordinary penalty of Shaksperean study — viz., an over-ten-
dency to surmise and conjecture — and no great harm is done
where all are warne.d. In Th/ Merry Wives of Windsor Shak-
spere's rule of adulation for and adjuration of rank is, for the
first and only time, suspended. For the first time his personages
are common people — tradesmen and villagers, a schoolmaster, a
publican, and a French doctor ; and, most marvellous of all, a
knight for their butt !— ordinary human beings poking fun at a
knight ! Certainly so abrupt and radical a change seems to war-
rant tradition in asserting that William Shakspere wrote that
comedy, not of his own motion, but under direction of a higher
will and edict than his own.
Two statements, referred back to this tradition, appear to
have been generally conceded without much examination : first,
that Queen Elizabeth ordered William Shakspere to write a play
in fourteen days for the purpose of showing Falstaff (with whom
her majesty had already become acquainted in Henry IV,) " in
love," and that The Merry Wives of Windsor, as printed in 1623,
was the result of that order ; and, second, that the 1602 quarto
version of The Merry Wives is a shorthand transcript of the 1623
version surreptitiously captured from the actors' mouths. But
why should Queen Elizabeth — who was the most scrupulous of
monarchs to keep her people from thinking, least of all from
prating, about a change in the chartered order of things — why
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1887.] QuBEN Elizabeth ANb *' The Merry Wives:' 351
should she, of all persons, order Shakspere to make fun of a per-
son of quality ? These questions sound as if the answer might
involve a paradox. But let us see if we cannot demonstrate the
existence of a state of affairs (which, however curious, would not
have been unnatural or improbable) which will render Shak-
spere's and the queen's action perfectly in accordance with the
known policies of both. Unwilling as most of us are to take for
granted in a field where so much is claimed and so little verified
as the field of Shaksperean biography, I have come to the con-
elusion that this first proposition is not only founded upon facts,
but that Shakspere's departure from his habitude, and selection
of only middle-class characters for his personnel, was the result
of his effort to obey the letter of the queen's order. Another
curious result of the reasoning by which such a conclusion may
be arrived at is that, if the play written to meet the order was
hurriedly prepared in fourteen days (plenty of time for so dis-
jointed and careless a production as the first — 1602 — quarto, es-
pecially to a dramatist who composed with the facility which
Jonson ascribed to Shakpere), then the comedy, as we possess it
in the 1623 folio, is not a monograph at all, but a growth, com-
posite in character, the result of twenty-one years' performance
of the play by actors who were allowed every freedom of inter-
polation and local allusion. This evidence — if it be evidence — is
so remarkable that, whether it be peculiar to this play or of pos-
sible value in studying the origin of other (or of all the other)
Shakspere plays, I am tempted to schedule, for what they are
worth, and " for the benefit of whom it may concern," certain
reasons (as they appear to me to be) why the story of Queen
Elizabeth's or her lord-chamberlain's order for " Falstaff in love "
is to be examined with very great care before we discard it com-
pletely.
If the sounding Shakspere plays, so over-fuU of religion, poli-
tics, philosophy, and statecraft, had been up to this date presented
publicly in London, their reputation must have reached Eliza-
beth's ears. Now, the " Lion " queen did not care to have her
subjects instructed too far. She proposed keeping them well in
hand. Even her clergymen she was in the habit of interrupting
if they happened to touch on matters concerning which she had
not been previously consulted. (" To your text, Mr. Dean — to
your subject ! " she shouted when poor Dean Knowell, preaching
before her, ventured to touch upon the employment of images in
public worship.) And itt this policy, in whatever else she wa-
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352 Queen Elizabeth and " The Merry Wives?' [June,
vered, Elizabeth persisted always. Indeed, it is difficult to see
how (as they stand in the First Folio) these particular plays could
have been performed at all, in Elizabeth's day, without some very
rigorous pruning at their first rehearsals. One of Elizabeth's
first decrees concerning the public economy forbade the per-
forming of any play wherein " either matters of religion or of
the government of the Commonwealth shall be handled or
treated." A royal proclamation was not to be lightly disre-
garded. But the queen, it seems, was familiar with Henry IV.
and Henry V. Surely in those two plays alone matters of govern-
ment, if not of religion, enough to have closed the Blackfriars on
short notice, had been " handled or treated." Perhaps the forged
Bridgewater manuscript of 1835, purporting to be a "certificate
of the Blackfriars Players" (Burbage, Shakspere, and others),
in which it was set forth that they had " never given cause of
displeasure in that they have brought into their plays matters
of state or religion," may have closely followed some lost me-
morial of this date which Elizabeth graciously considered as
purging that particular play-house of contempt of her decree.
The queen and her ministers were only too ready to " snuff trea-
son in certain things that went by other names." Let the peo-
ple have their fill of amusement, but let them not meddle with
philosophy and politics. So there are things more unlikely to
have happened than that Elizabeth, through her lord-chamber-
lain, should have intimated to Manager Shakspere to give them
something more in the run and appetite of the day. Shakspere
took the letter of his instructions perfectly, and The Merry Wives
of Windsor was in due time prepared. But somehow or other
their spirit was bettered in the performance. The salaciousness
Elizabeth wanted was all there, as well as the transformation
scene ; but after a while there was inserted at the end a rebuke
to lechery and lecherous minds nbt equivocal in its character
— " This is enough to be the decay of lust and late walking
throughout this realm," says Falstaff*— and a reproof to the queen
herself (who certainly deserved it) in the line, "our radiant
queen hates sluts and sluttery," that is scathing in its satire.
But why should Shakspere have treated a •* virgin " queen to
a homily upon purity and continence in a play not ordered by her
for any such purpose? It does not seem to have occurred to her
majesty that, to be comic as of old, Falstaff must be unsuccess-
ful in his love-making, and that, for a courtier to be unsuccessful,
the untitled must resist the titled. But Shakspere saw it, and the
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188/.] Queen Euzabeth and " The Merry Wives:' 353
departure he must make to contrive it. Finding himself pressed
for time, it would not have been unnatural had he (as is alleged)
adapted the 1592 play known as the Jealous Comedy (belonging
to Lord Strange's Company, but not now believed to be extant),
or found new incident for his old piece-men. If the latter, it was
only natural that, lacking the leisure to overhaul his books or the
unused manuscripts handed in at the play-house door, he turned
for the first and only time to the scenes of his own boyhood and
early youth. It seems to me as if Shakspere revenged himself
for thus being obliged to preach an uncongenial moral by gibing
at the queen herself and the tastes she thus confessed to. Even
without the unmistakable drift of her order or the previous
record of Falstaff, there was certainly precedent and temptation
enough for making the catastrophe run the other way. Of
course the fat knight is no more " in love " at Windsor than he
had previously been shown in Eastcheap. The pen that created
Ophelia and Desdemona, Imogen and Juliet, if seriously ordered
to delineate a libertine controlled, reformed, and ennobled by the
passion that drives out self, would have been swift to recognize
a field for its genius. But that was not the royal mandate.
Shakspere knew his queen. If Falstaff was still to titillate the
fine humors of Elizabeth, he must be concupiscent as always,
but this time thwarted, baflBed, and put to rout Since the poor
old man, once banished from courtly favor, was no longer to
make others the foils of his wit, he must be a foil himself ; and
so perforce, for the nonce in a play for Elizabeth's eyes, and
within the exigency of the letter, even as against the spirit, of
her royal order, must wifely honor live outside of noble birth, and
virtue walk in homespun. But why should the name of " Sir John
Fastolffe " have been selected for the title of a nobleman who was
to be mocked by tradesmen ? In writing the series /. and //.
King Henry IV.^ Shakspere was perfectly justified in making
Sir John Oldcastle one of the reckless and profligate companions
of Henry, Prince of Wales. For that such was the fact we have
history to testify. But this Oldcastle in later life reversed the
lightnesses of his youth, and, marrying into the Cobham family,
became, in his wife's right, a Lord Cobham. And there can be no
doubt but that the Cobham family raised a clamor of protest
when the Henry IV. was being acted at Shakspere's theatres,
and were powerful enough at court to secure an order from the
lord-chamberlain that the name of their ancestor — if not the
character — should be removed from the stage;, and Shakspere
was very glad to save himself by compliance.
VOL. XLV.— 33
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354 Queen Elizabeth and " The Merry Wives:' [June,
Fuller, in his Church History^ says:
" Stage poets have themselves been very bold with, and others very
merry at, the memory of Sir John Oldcastle, whom they have fancied a
boon companion, a jovial roister, and a coward to boot. The best is. Sir
John Falsiaff hath relieved the memory of Sir John Oldcastle, and of late
is substituted buffoon in his place."
— which is corroborative of what, indeed, from circumstantial evi-
dence alone, could not be doubted. Shakspere seems to have
found out that, according to Monstrelet's Chronicle, one Sir
John Fastolffe, a Knight of the Garter, had at the battle of
Patay been struck with terror at sight of Joan of Arc at the
head of the French troops, and taken to his heels— or to his
horse's — and ran away, his whole command stampeding and
leaving the French in possession of that field. Now, the cam-
paign in which the Maid of Orleans led the French was a disas-
trous one always for the English ; and there is absolutely nothing
in history to hint or suggest that Sir John Fastolffe was de-
graded from the order of the Garter for the particular reverse
suffered under his command. On the contrary, the records of
his order show that he was in attendance at its chapters for
years thereafter, and kept his station at the English court. The
year after Patay he was made lieutenant at Caen. In 1432 he
was English ambassador at Basle, and was afterwards sent by
his government to conclude a peace with France. He retired
honorably from service, built himself a castle at Caistor (about
three miles north of Yarmouth, in Norfolk, where there is still
an inconsiderable village of the name). In his retirement he
seems to have given some attention to literature, for he ordered
a translation of the De Senectute made at his own expense, and
printed by Caxton in 1481. He founded a college for seven
priests, but the foundation seems to have perished in the lapse
and waste of years. Dying in 1459, he was buried in the priory
of Broomholm. But Shakspere, hearing of the retreat at Patay,
seems to have revised history (as again in the case of Cade), and
made Fastolffe to be not only defeated, but degraded as a coward
on account thereof. (In the folio editions his name is spelled
Falstaff and Falstoffe indifferently.) At I. i. 131, /. Henry VI.,
occurs the following :
** Messenger, — ... If Sir John Fastolfe had not played the coward :
He, being in the vaward, plac'd behind
With purpose to relieve and follow them.
Cowardly fled, not having struck one stroke.
Hence grew the general wrack and massacre.'*
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1887.] Queen Euzabeth and " The Merry Wives:' 355
Again in III. ii. 103, the scene being France, before Rouen —
" An Alarum^Excursions. Enter Sir John Fastolfe and a Captain.
** Captain, — Whither away. Sir John Fastolfe, in such haste?
"Fastolfe, — ^Whither away ! to save myself by flight ; we are like to have
the overthrow again.
" Captain.— Wh2it ! will you fly, and leave Lord Talbot ?
'* Fastolfe.—hy, all the Talbots in the world, to save my life-"
Again at IV. i. 9 we have :
Parts, A Hall of State. Enter the King, Gloster, Bishop of Win-
chester, York, Suffolk, Somerset, Warwick, Talbot, Exeter,
the Governor of Paris, and others.
Enter SiR JOHN Fastolfe.
" Fastolfe. My gracious sovereign, as I rode from Calais,
To haste unto your coronation,
A letter was delivered to my hands,
Writ to your grace from the Duke of Burgundy.
" Talbot. Shame to the Duke of Burgundy and thee !
I vow'd, base knight, when I did meet thee next.
To tear the garter from thy craven's leg.
{Plucking it off.)
. . . Pardon me, princely Henry and the rest :
This dastard, at the battle of Patay,
When but in all I was six thousand strong.
And that the French were almost ten to one,
Before we met or that a stroke was given.
Like to a trusty squire did run away."
Which is the last appearance of Sir John upon the Shaksperean
stage until, in Henry V, and The Merry Wives, he takes the place
of Sir John Oldcastle and his name is changed to FalstaflF. But
there is such a conspicuous irregularity in the spelling of the old
folios, both of common and proper names, that on that alone we
cannot assume a difierence of character.
Fuller does not appear to have heard of the representation of
Fastolffe as a coward in /. Henry IV., but he is quite as indignant
at this latter employment as at the former use of Sir John Old-
castle as a butt :
" To avouch him [Fastolffe] by many arguments valiant is to maintain
that the sun is bright ; though since the stage has been over-bold with his
memory, making him a Thrasonical puff, and emblem of mock valor. True
it is Sir John Oldcastle did first bear the brunt, being made the makesport
in plays for a coward. Now, as I am glad that Sir John Oldcastle is put
out, so I am sorry that Sir John Fastolfe is put in, to relieve his memory in
this base service, to be the anvil for every dull wit to strike upon. Now, is
our comedian excusable by some alteration of his name, writing him Sir
John Folstafe (and making himthe property and pleasure of King Henry
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3S6 Queen Euzabeth and " Thj& Merry Wives.'' [June,
V. to abuse), seeing the vicinity of sounds entrench on the memory of that
worthy knight and few do heed the inconsiderable difference in spelling ?
He was made Knight of the Garter by King Henry VI., and died about the
second year of his reign." •
It seems to me that here is a historical problem, nor can I sug-
gest but the one explanation. I know that the English love mill-
tary and naval valor above everything. Their great names are
not Shakspere, Milton, Hampden, or Cromwell, but Marlborough,
Nelson, and Wellington ; and their (the Englishmen's) test of
greatness is, not prowess or patriotism, but success. They care
little even for their kings besides victory in war, and Nelson's tall
monument in Trafalgar Square looks a long ways down on several
bric-k brae Georges and Henrys and Charleses. General Gordon
was great but unsuccessful, and so was abandoned, and has been
already forgotten. And so perhaps, since here was a nobleman
who had no record of success behind him, Shakspere felt at
perfect liberty to do as he liked with the name (which, since the
character to be named had been in a prince's company, and so
not plebeian, must be that of a nobleman). I am aware that it has
been doubted whether Shakspere himself wrote the ** Epilogue
spoken by a dancer," at the end of //. Kin^ Henry IV., which
stipulated to " continue the story with Sir John in it, and make
you merry with fair Katharine of France ; where, for anything
I know, FalstaflF[01dcastle no longer] shall die of a sweat." But
he was probably not wont to be far oflF when such promises were
made. If, however, the high theme to which the era of Henry V.
led him precluded the by-play of the fat knight, so that only so
much of the agreement as promised to kill FalstafiF off in a sweat
was redeemed, then it appears to me not unreasonable to believe
that the comedy of The Merry Wives was the performance of the
remainder. And that it was the royal order rather than the
Shakspere taste which decreed that wives, instead of purses,
were to be filched, and rural rather than city precincts selected
for the cruise of Falstaff when running to his social, as he had
previously to his military, downfall, I think there is some war-
rant beyond the tradition for believing ; and that it was by rea-
son of the Patay stampede that Shakspere felt at perfect liberty
to take the name of Sir John Fastolfe, and do as he pleased with it
— even so much so as to inflict upon that nobleman, on the stage,
a punishment which he certainly did not receive at the hands of
bis superiors.
♦ The History of the Worthies of England. Endeavored by Thomas Fuller. Tegj** E^^-
tlOii,ii.455.
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1887.] Queen Euzabeth and '* The Merry WiVEsy 357
The strongest internal evidence that the play was thus writ-
ten to order is, I think, the fact that in no other Shaksperean
play is there such an entire absence of action, speech, or allu-
sion, introductive of the characters presented, as distinguishes
this comedy of The Merry Wives. The audience is supposed
at the outset to be perfectly familiar with them. Dame Quickly
is imported from Eastcheap and made the mother of a rather
backward schoolboy — in the French doctor's service, to be sure,
but still for the purpose of ministering to Falstafl's uses. Shal-
low, a justice from the interior, who had witnessed Falstaff's
disgrace in the parade at Westminster, turns up again ; the
precious Bardolph, Nym, and Pistol still follow the fat knight's
impecunious fortunes, but now to assist in his final and perma-
nent humiliation at the hands of individuals of a class he has so
often maligned and lampooned, and to abandon him cavalierly,
like everybody else, at the end. It mattered very little to Shak-
spere whether the scenes in Falstaft's career depicted in the
comedy came before or after the Henry IV. or the Henry V.
However aesthetic commentators may discuss this tremendous
question, we may be sure it troubled him not the least.
And, the queen's mandate once satisfied, I think we have evi-
dences enough that the play, under Shakspere's control, soon grew
beyond the limited purview of Elizabeth's characteristic. It soon
began to have something more in it than the horse-play between
Falstaff and the Merry Wives. How much more we may never ex-
actly know. Since its present text is from the First Folio, it shared
the fate of everything touched by the monumental carelessness
of the editors of that volume. But even as we have it, the play
is a local chronicle, best preservative, among the whole gallery,
of English local life, manners, and domestic conditions. Unlike
any other of the comedies, its robust action and high color are
English, not French, Spanish, Italian, or classical. And to its
enrichment Shakspere steadily turned the resources he found so
copiously about him. In the course of twenty-one years this
rapid sketch made at the queen's command became the complete
comedy of 1623, packed full of allusion to petty tradesmen, to
the popular song-books and riddle-books of the day, to the dis-
covery of Guinea ; the introduction of hackney coaches ; the
trivial legislation of the Parliament of 1605-1606 ; to the perform-
ances at Paris Gardens ; the wholesale knighting of retainers by
James I. ; to dozens of other purely local incidents occurring at
intervals of from one to three years. To suppose all these allu-
sions inserted in a lump at the end of twenty-one years is quite as
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358 Queen Elizabeth and ** The Merry Wives:' [June,
rational as to suppose them anticipated at the outset. Is not their
constiant recurrence a proof of that very growth in the mouths of
successive actors to which Hamlet alludes as a well-known phe-
nomenon ? And yet we are assured that this play is a comedy of
William Shakspere's " second period " ; that he wrote it in exactly
3,018 lines, 2,703 of which were prose, 227 blank verse; 69 of
which were five-measure rhymes, 3 two-measure, 3 three-meas-
ure, and 3 six-measure (that being the particular arithmetical
order in which the great dramatist happened to be composing
dramas at the time !) Mr. Furnivall has told us that the rather
phonetic work — in which he first (so far as I know) announced
this discovery of the processes of Shakspere's brain — is one of
the three works extant which come ** near to the true treatment
and dignity of the subject, or can be put into the hands of stu-
dents who want to know the mind of Shakspere," * which cer-
tainly settles the matter. Mr. Halliwell-Phillipps, however, a
veteran in Shaksperean matters long before the world so much
as knew if there were any Furnivall, has been heard to query
"if William Shakspere, when selecting a plot, could have given
no heed either to the wishes of the managers or the inclinations
of the public taste, but was guided in his choice by the necessity
of discovering a subject that was adapted for the expression of
his own transient feelings " ; or wonder " what Hemminges and
Condell would have thought if they had applied to Shakspere
for a new comedy, and the great dramatist had told them that he
could not possibly comply with their wishes, he being then in his
Tragic Period ! " When we recall that William Shakspere not
only never saw the 1623 text, but that even the crude quartos
from which Hemminges and Condell collated it (if they did any-
thing besides reprint them, without even caring to ask for a
proof-sheet) were stolen, unauthorized, and surreptitious, we can
afford to be more amused than amazed at the Furnivalls and other
inductive critics. But, at the same time, an answer to Mr. Halli-
well-Phillipps' question would be interesting reading.
Appleton Morgan.
* Introduction to Get^nu^ Commentaries (London : Smith, Elder & Co.), 1877, p. xxt
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A FAIR EMIGRANT.
CHAPTER XXXII.
THE MAJOR ROUTED.
Once at home again, Bawn felt that she had wandered out of
the straight and narrow path of her intentions in giving even a
half.promise to appear at the garden-party at Lisnawilly. She
was consenting to play the lady by mixing with these people
above the station she had chosen, and also to behave like an
American woman in going independently into a large company.
And yet Somerled had urged her to go. Her little triumph sank
into insignificance before that one fact that Somerled wanted her
to be there. Prudence, she admitted, must assure her that his
desire was a strong reason why she ought to absent herself ; but
she had come to a point when prudence seems unnecessarily
severe.
Listening to Somerled's arguments against faith in Desmond's
innocence, she had almost despaired of her enterprise ; and now,
looking back upon her experience of the day, she told herself
that in all probability the wind and rain would sweep away that
ruin before she could even attempt to accomplish her object.
Everything was against her — delirium, dotage, the fierce and sul-
len temper of Luke Adare, and the savage isolation from his kind
in which he had chosen to bury himself.
The death of those old people, which might happen any
stormy night, would deprive her in a moment of any faint chance
that might yet exist of that happy confession of the truth for
which she had so resolutely hoped. It might be that in a few
months or weeks she should find herself quite defeated and oblig-
ed to disappear from this part of the world as unexpectedly as
she had come into it. She would go off some early morning and
never return. At Liverpool she would arrange with a solicitor
to pay a year's rent to her landlords and a year's wages to her
servants, as some amends for her capricious conduct, and then
she would be heard of here no more. He was not likely to fol-
low her to America ; but if such a thing were to happen, she
would there tell him her true story, and he would perceive at once
that marriage was impossible between them. She thought she
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36o A Fair Emigrant. (June,
already saw the look with which he would turn away and take
final leave of Desmond's daughter. After that she would devote
herself, her heart and soul, her bodily strength and her worldly
possessions, to the care of those poor Irish immigrants in Ame-
rica of whose hard case he had taught her to think.
This was the future which she now looked in the face, and, re-
cognizing its coldness and barrenness, she asked herself should
she not meanwhile enjoy this one day's pleasure which was so
pressed upon her? Under the influence of such a feeling she
wrote to Paris for a dress of plain white woollen material and a
bonnet to match ; but when the parcel arrived she was busy in
her dairy among her maidens, and had returned to her senses
and resolved that she would not go to the party. The box was
pushed out of sight, and when, on the morning of Major Batt's
fSte, Shana and Rory Fingall drove up the little by-road to Shan-
ganagh, they found Bawn feeding her chickens, bare-armed, in
the sun.
" What! not ready?" cried Shana, springing from the car.
" There will be time enough," said Rory, looking at his watch.
" Miss Ingram, let us feed the chickens while you dress."
" I am not going," said Bawn, standing before them, hatless,
with eyes and hair full of the sunlight.
" Oh, nonsense! " said Shana, "after our long drive to fetch
you ! And I had to get up so early to be ready for so much
travelling."
•• It would be better not," said Bawn, relenting. " Why
should I be so foolish as to step out of my own sphere ? "
" It won't do your sphere the least harm, and will greatly
improve ours," said Miss Fingall.
" Miss Ingram, I will give you just half an hour to dress,"
said Somerled. " Meanwhile, can I milk the cows, or anything of
that kind ?^'
** Thank you. The only thing you could do for me would be
to prop up my failing common sense, and that — "
" I have no intention of doing — at least in the way you are
thinking of."
Bawn looked from one to the other of her friends and said
slowly, " It is quite unwise, but I will go," and disappeared into
the house to get ready.
Shana reflected, as she walked about and admired Bawn's
efforts to make a garden flourish round the bleak little farm-
house, that probably most of Bawn's reluctance sprang from a
difficulty about dress. But what did it matter? thought the
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girl. Any clean calico would be dress enough for beauty like
Miss Ingram's, and nobody would expect her to be fine. Great
was her surprise when Bawn stood in the doorway looking
towards her shyly, dressed in the faultless array of white which
she had found in her box.
" Where did it come from ? You look like a princess. Are
you a princess in disguise ? I have thought of that before," said
Shana delightedly.
" All woven of milk," said Rory, surveying her with wonder
and approval. •* Miss Ingram can do any sort of magic in her
dairy."
" Shall I do? " asked Bawn. " I asked for something plain. I
am afraid it is a little too nice."
" Nobody will think so, except perhaps Flora," said Shana,
laughing, as they seated themselves on the car, and Bawn found
herself springing along the roads, too happy almost to speak, and
not daring to look back at the cast-oflF rags of her prudence and
common sense which she had left in her little room with her
work-a-day apron and gown,
Lisnawilly is a fine old place in a lovely nook of Glendun, and
Major Batt had some right to be proud of his gardens and lawns,
as well as of the valuables he had collected to adorn the interior of
his house ; and, taking into consideration all these pretty posses-
sions, a good income, and his own great personal attractions, the
major looked on himself as an enviable man and greatly to be
coveted as a son-in-law by any mother of marriageable daughters.
But he was a fastidious and cautious man, and always on his guard
against the too presuming ambition of the women of his acquain-
tance. Successions of girls had bloomed into matronhood around
him, and in each case of the marriage of one of his favorites Major
Batt had assured himself that he had had a lucky escape. Some
charm had been, to him, wanting in the graceful creatures whp
had been found fair enough by other men. He spent most of his
time driving about the country, paying visits at houses where
there were ladies, and occasionally he opened his gates and in-
vited the fair creatures to come in and see what good things were
in store for that happy feminine being who might eventually per-
suade him that she was worthy of his hand. Meanwhile he en-
joyed the -thought that he was a fastidious man and an object of
much hopeless adoration. When the little party from Shanganagh
arrived he was surrounded by the 61ite of the county — Lord
Aughrim and his mother. Lady Crommelin and her six daughters,
the Hon. Mrs. McQuillan and five young women, daughters and
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362 A Fair Emigrant. [June,
nieces, Colonel Macaulay and three Miss McDonnells, etc., etc.
Lady Flora Fingall and her husband, Manon, and Rosheen were
among the crowd when Bawn appeared, looking, as Shana had
said, like a strange princess in her simple white attire, her
only ornaments being her golden hair and the bouquet of roses
which had found its way to her hands since she had left Shanga-
nagh.
As these people all knew each other ad nauseam^ the appear-
ance of a new face, and such a face, took them by storm. There
was general curiosity to know who she might be, and for various
reasons the host and the Glenmalurcan people were careful to
keep their own counsel. " A fair American — Miss Ingram ; come
to spend some time in the neighborhood," was the extent of the
information vouchsafed by Major Batt.
Seeing the strange behavior of Rory and Shana, Lady Flora
was careful to keep her own counsel. For the credit of the fam-
ily it must not be known that they were associating with a farm-
ing-girl who rented Shanganagh and made her own butter for
the market. The pleasure of the day was over for Flora as she
saw Lord Aughrim and Major Batt rivalling each other in atten-
tion to Bawn, while Rory kept hovering in her neighborhood,
giving only a passing politeness to Manon and herself. " There
is something wrong about that girl," she said to Manon, " and I
will find her out, or I am mistaken in my own capacity."
** I like American women ; they are always so rich," said
Colonel Macaulay, who believed himself a wag, and speaking to
the eldest Miss McDonnell, who had not a penny ; but then she
was thirty and plain, and he did not imagine she could give a
thought to herself.
" In this case the riches are absent, I think," said Lady Flora
sweetly.
"All the gold on her head, eh?" said the colonel. " Pity."
And then he asked to be introduced to Miss de St. Claire, with
whom he walked away to join the lawn-tennis players.
Bawn acknowledged she could not play, and stood talking to
her two evident admirers. Lord Aughrim and Major Batt, while
Rory attached himself to the unimportant Miss McDonnell, and
in the pauses of her unexciting conversation about botany he
observed the effect Miss Ingram was producing on the county
generally.
Would her holiday end like Cinderella's ball, and would she,
after this, hide herself in her farm-house and be seen no more by
these people who were making such a fuss about her ? It was
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the season of garden-parties, and, despite a little jealousy, some
dowagers were thinking of inviting her to their bowers and tea-
tables. How would it all answer with her butter-making, were
she to get her head turned by their civilities and take to queen-
ing it about the country in that ravishing gown ? She would
have lovers in plenty, thought Rory, and some of them might
touch the heart which he had found so hard. He began to re-
gret the urgency with which he had insisted on her coming, and
his replies to Miss McDonnell g^ew a little vague. Was it only
the other day that he and she were sitting in Shane's Hollow, as
much apart from the world as if nobody lived on the globe but
themselves ? He beg^n to wish Lord Aughrim and Major Batt
in Dante's Inferno, with Miss McDonnell and botany to contri-
bute to their amusement. How composed and unruffled she
looked — now sweet and serious, now blithely gay ! She was able
to entertain both her admirers, and at the same time to keep
them in awe of her dignity. Strange girl ! Where had she
come from? In the backwoods of Minnesota how had she
learned to conduct herself like this? After all, how little he
knew of her! A troubled thought of how successfully she had
always denied him her confidence clouded his face, so much so
that his gentle companion perceived she had failed to hold his
attention and desisted from her meek endeavors to be polite-
ly agreeable. Being accustomed to this failure, she did not re-
sent it, though it gave her a little familiar pang. She withdrew
and attached herself to an elderly lady friend, and Rory found
Lady Flora at his elbow.
" Rory, I am surprised at your indiscretion with regard to
that American young woman. Mark my words, you will re-
gret it."
" May be so. I admit she is a woman eminently calculated to
cause regret to a good many men," he answered, smiling. " But
by the way. Flora, why do you allow Alister to flirt so much
with Miss de St. Claire ? "
" Oh 1 come, are you jealous, after all ?" she said, brightening.
*' I must say Alister knows his duty to a stranger better than
you do."
" He has not done half the duty that I have done. If you
only knew all my fetching and carrying for Miss Manon, morn-
ings and evenings ! And doesn't she know how to take it out of
man ! But all work and no play — ^you know the rest."
•* So the other is your play. Cruel play to Miss Ingram, per-
haps. Pity she does not hear you."
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364 A Fair Emigrant. [June,
" Put it out of your head, Flora, that Miss Ingram cares in
the smallest degree for your humble servant."
" She is very deep, I think. She knows when to encourage
you and when to throw you over."
•* She has never encouraged me. She has done no one any
wrong. But I warn you, Flora, that a woman's tongue might
work her mischief."
" So it might," thought Flora ; but she did not acknowledge
to herself that hers would be the tongue to do such harm.
" I want to tell you," she said, " that I am planning to have a
picnic before this glorious weather breaks."
Rory reflected that Bawn would certainly not be asked to that
party, and so he was indifferent on the subject, and merely said :
*' Indeed ! "
" Yes, and I want you to be nice with Manon. She admires
you so much. And you know she is a charming girl, and such a
fortune ! There is Colonel Macaulay. How he would like to be
in your place ! And he is much richer than you."
" That is not saying much," laughed Rory. " Well, Flora,
out at elbows I may be, but 1 am no fortune-hunter."
"Think of your ambition to go into Parliament How are
you to gratify it?"
" Not by bribery. Lady Flora. Come, let me get you a cup
of tea or an ice, to refresh you after all the fatigue of this plan-
ning for a beggarly, thankless cousin. That's the way to describe
me, isn't it ? But if you don't talk any more about Miss de St.
Claire's money and admiration for me, 1 will promise to help her
over the wet places in the bogs at your picnic. Only don't, for
heaven's sake, talk to her of the poverty of the Fingalls and my
admiration for her — "
Having seated her at a tea-table in Major Batt's drawing-
room, and left her among some matronly acquaintances, Rory
effected his escape, and, not seeing Bawn anywhere, walked
away to the lawn-tennis ground. Shana and Willie Callender
were among the players just then, but soon grew tired of the
game and moved together to a distant part of the grounds.
Among the various sauntering couples no one observed them or
could have guessed from their manner that there was a secret
engagement between them. #
** Shana," said Callender, " I can't endure this state of things
any longer. It is not only that I do not see you, but that I feel
like a sneak in not speaking boldly to your brother."
Shana turned pale. " If you could speak to my brother with-
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188;.] A Fair Emigrant. 365
out giving our fate into the hands of my sister-in-law, I would
gladly allow you to speak," she said ; " but Flora could ruin us."
" I have applied for that appointment in New Zealand," said
Callender, " and if the answer be favorable — but, Shana, how can
I take you away from all you love, perhaps to hardship ? When
1 think of that I almost give up hope."
** You may give up what you like, so that it is not me," laughed
Shana. " I should grieve to leave Rosheen, and Alister, and Gran,
and the children ; but wherever you go 1 will go. Some day we
should come back — "
In the meantime, Lady Crommelin and her six daughters hav-
ing waylaid Lord Aughrim and carried him off from Bawn, Miss
Ingram had been beguiled indoors by Major Batt and afterwards
led by him through many apartments, where he displayed his
various treasures, beautiful, curious, and antique, to her unaccus-
tomed eyes.
It is impossible to say how much Miss Ingram had risen in
her host's estimation since Lord Aughrim had so evidently and
highly approved of her. Major Batt was beginning to feel that
his hour was almost come, and alternated between glows of eSger-
ness and shivers of caution, like a patient in fever and ague.
If he did not secure her at once he feared that Lord Aughrim
would become a formidable rival. Lord Aughrim was just the
sort of man to fall in love suddenly and want to marry at once.
He had been twice engaged to actresses, and twice bought off by
his mother, who might now, possibly, be thankful to have any
one so every way nice for a daughter-in-law as Miss Ing^m.
The word " American " would answer all questions, as to birth ;
and was it not the fashion to marry Americans ? As for money,
his lordship was, like Major Batt himself, rich enough to dispense
with fortune in a bride, if he thought her worth the sacrifice.
And the major was rapidly coming to the conclusion that this
woman was worth her weight in gold.
Nevertheless he did not forget her poverty and her lowly
station, and still felt returning qualms of fear that he was going
to throw himself away. After successfully defying the feminine
world for so long, it did seem hard to yield so soon before this
maiden without birth or money. And yet —
" Miss Ingram, do look at this cabinet of curiosities. Here
is a cup belonging to the Borgias— er— out of which all their vic-
tims were poisoned ; gold crusted with jewels. The poison was
secreted in the bottom of the cup, and by pressing a spring under-
neath it was ejected from its hidden recess into the beverage con*
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366 A Fair Emigrant. rJ""^»
tained in the cup, in sufficient quantity to destroy the drinker.
Clever and neat, wasn't it? Here is a vestment worn by the
Venerable Bede ; not beads on the embroidery, however — ha ! ha !
—but real gems, I can assure you. Perhaps you admire Indian
carving. Now, this took an Indian fellow a hundred years to
finish — 'pon my honor! Saw him at it myself—"
"When he was quite young?" asked Bawn, with demure
wonder.
"No, come, Miss Ingram. Ha! ha! ha! Capital! He was
old then, but I was told he had been young. If you come up-
stairs I will show you my pictures. There is a Titian that has a
striking resemblance to you."
Bawn went up and saw the pictures.
" You see my house is rather complete. Miss Ingram. I may
say — er — all it wants is a " — " mistress," he was going to say, but
a spasm of dread choked back the fatal word, and after a long
breath he added faintly, " a Claude Lorraine."
" I thought we saw one just now," said Bawn.
" Oh ! ah ! true. I meant a second Claude Lorraine, of course.
Many collections have one, but few have two. This, now — ah —
is the Titian I told you of. Isn't she a golden-haired beauty ? I
have long wished that I could make her Mrs. Batt. But one can-
not marry a woman upon canvas, now can one?"
"Hardly."
A glance at her face and her answer reassured him, for he
had gone off into another fit of trepidation. And yet surely he
was not going to let her depart without making his proposal.
He would be brave and make another attempt. He could see
Lord Aughrim from the window, looking about for some one,
probably Bawn.
" All these beautiful things I have been storing up for years.
Miss Ingram, for the gratification of the lady whom I might
chance one day to make mistress of this house. You will easily
understand how hard it has been to meet with a woman worthy
enough — "
" I am sure of it. Major Batt. Could any one be worthy ? "
(" of so dreadful a fate," she added to herself.)
" I don't know that. I will not say there may not be one.
Many have thought themselves admirably fitted — "
" Doubtless all these beautiful things have broken many
hearts. Major Batt — "
The major glanced at himself in a strip of looking-glass, and
wondered if she meant, with a sly flattery, to include him among
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the beautiful things. Yes, he was certainly an imposing-looking
person.
" A man can only marry once, Miss Ingram. In case of death
he sometimes gets a second chance ; but that is a thing that can-
not be depended /upon. I would rather, on the whole, be satis-
fied with my wife '* (here he surveyed Bawn with entire appro-
val, and thought of how she would look in velvet and diamonds
— the Titian would be nothing to her), " and keep her—'*
" That will be a very pleasant reflection for Mrs. Batt," said
Bawn gravely ; " but don't you think we had better go down-
stairs again ? I think I should like another cup of tea — "
•* Stay, Miss Ingram, stay. I can conceal it no longer. I fear
I have unwarrantably tantalized you, kept you in suspense ; but
the truth will out at last. It is you whom I intend to make mis-
tress of Lisnawilly — "
Bawn's lips parted, and her eyes opened wide with astonish-
ment, but she quickly regained her presence of mind.
" Oh ! " she said, smiling, " that is your intention, is it ? I am
very sorry, for it is not mine." And, sweeping him a curtsey, she
tripped down-stairs before him, and happily met Rosheen and
Rory coming to look for her.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
NO DESERTER*
The next day Bawn was herself again — the fine lady was
gone, and the dairymaid was at her work. Into its box the
pretty white dress was packed, with a regretful thought that
she could never venture to wear it again. How excellently it
had played its part, making her look, for one day at least, Som-
erled's equal in other people's eyes ! How proud she had felt
walking into that company with him, and feeling that she was
accepted as one of themselves ! It had happened once, and could
never happen again. She had been quite mad in yielding to a
craving for one day of delight, for taking into her heart a happi-
ness which could never be driven out from it again, but must
remain there to rust itself into sorrow.
She had finished her work and taken a book in her hand — a
little old volume which had belonged to her father, and was the
only book of his she had ventured to bring with her. It was so
small it lay in her pocket when not at the bottom of a trunk.
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368 A Fair Emigrant. [June,
Now she sat with it high up in the orchard under the gnarled
old apple-trees, the whole wonderful panorama of the glen before
her, and the mountains behind and in front of her.
It was a splendid day in early autumn ; soft, rich colors
seemed to move along the valley at her feet as the sunshine
shifted from one lovely spot to another. Bawn's heart was full
of a tumult that was half-trouble and half-joy. She had opened
the little book to try and still her storm by the magic of such
meek lessons as are to be found between the covers of the Follow^
ing of Christ. As she read she was back in the old home in Min-
nesota, with the pathetic fact of her father's life-struggle looking
her in the face. She read on, hearing his voice between the lines,
and stopping occasionally to close her eyes and recall his eyes,
his look, his gesture. What a miserable, weak creature was she
who had audaciously thought herself so strong —
Here she was interrupted by the voice of Betty Macalister,
who came to tell her that Lord Aughrim had called to see
her.
" Tell him I am not at home — not at home, Betty, do you
hear?"
^' But I tould him ye were at home, misthress, out in the or-
chard, an' he knows I came to tell ye."
Bawn stood up and looked at Betty, dropping her book in the
grass in her confusion.
" I don't want to see him. How shall I get rid of him ? Let
me see ! " And she knit her brows in thought " Betty, go and
bring me your Sunday cloak and bonnet, and that freshly-ironed
cap I saw in your hand this morning, also that bit of looking-
glass that you dress at ; and be quick ! "
Mrs. Macalister, greatly astonished, obeyed, knowing that her
mistress never gave unnecessary orders. On her return, bearing
the desired articles, she stood by open-mouthed while Bawn
pushed back her bright hair and tied the muslin cap down upon
her forehead, letting the heavy frills hang over her eyes. Next
was put on the deep coal-scuttle bonnet, which swallowed up all
that remained of Miss Ingram's face, and the voluminous two-
caped cloak, which, with Betty's shawl underneath, made her
figure a good imitation of her serving-woman's. Lastly, she
seized a piece of beet-root growing near, and, breaking it, rub-
bed her face all over with the juice, especially the end of her
nose, till all that could be seen of her countenance had assumed
a thoroughly rubicund appearance.
" Misthress 1 " remonstrated Betty, " have ye lost yer sinses ? "
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*' If you find them, Betty, keep them for me here till I come
back. Don't come into the house, or you will ruin me."
And away went Bawn to interview Lord Aughrim.
His lordship was standing at the window of Bawm's little par-
lor, wondering at the prettiness of the plain cottage-room, but
wondering more at the kind of place in which he found Miss
Ingram. Surely there must be some mistake. Truly it was a
sweet little room: window-sills turned into banks of flowers,
brown floor spread with mats of goat-skin, short, deep-colored
cottage-curtains, and a great bowl of old-fashioned flowers on the
table. What fancy had the fair American to lodge herself so
humbly ? He must ask Alister Fingall where he had found so
improving a tenant Perhaps Alister himself was turning model
landlord ; there was no knowing what might happen in these
topsy-turvy days. Out in the orchard was she ? How charm^
ing ! He was sorry he had not gone to look for her there —
And then the door opened and a high-pitched voice, shrill
and cracked, made him turn round, to confront a stout-looking
country-woman in a bonnet and cloak suggesting Noah's Ark,
and with a remarkable redness of nose and chin.
'* Och ! och 1 yer lordship ! Are ye not sittin' down ? To
think of a gintleman like you standin' on yer feet in me parlor."
*' I wanted to see Miss Ingram," said his lordship.
" Troth an' I'm Miss Gingham meself^ atf a dacent body, too,
though yer honor is so short with me."
" Gingham ! I said Ingram,"
'' If I was bom Gingham I can't make meself Ingram to please
yer lordship, an' if ye have any business wi' me yer welcome.
It's not every day a body can hold transaxions wi' a lord. If
ye'U please to sit down — "
'' Thank you. I have no business with you at all. I came to
see a lady whose name is Ingram,"
Miss Gingham struck her stick on the floor and went oflFinto
an explosion of noisy laughter. '' Ha ! ha ! ha ! It's the Ameri-
can leddy yer maybe lookin' afther. Sure an' ye made a great
mistake so, in comin' here. Lord Aughrim — "
'• I was told Shanganagh."
*' Shanganagh, ay ! But it be to be the Shanganagh up at
the top o' Glenan — just where the windy bush always has a rag
of a cloud on it. There's two Shanganaghs, wan with wan ' n '
an* wan with two. We only keep wan * n ' here."
"The top of Glenan]! Worse and worse! What can have
taken her up there?" muttered his lordship, quite bewildered.
VOL, XLV,— 24
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370 A Fair Emigrant. [June,
" I hear she's goin' to build a castle there," Bawn went on.
** Would ycr honor's lordship take a drink o* buttermilk afore
you start ? "
** Thank you, thank you, no," said Lord Aughrim. " Sorry
for disturbing you. Wish you a very good afternoon." And
hurrying out of the house, he mounted bis horse and galloped off.
" Here, Betty, take your clothes. I can't think how you walk
under the weight of them. Get me some warm water to wash
my face."
" Pm that weak with laughin' behind the door I can hardly
hold the cloak," said Betty. " Och, mistbress, but yer hard, an
him such a fine young lord come to see you ! "
" I received him well, Betty, but he wouldn't sit down."
" 'Deed, an' yer as fit to be a lady as he is to be a lord
though ye are a farmer's daughter. You would make a right
good countess^ — "
" So would you, Betty. But neither of us want to be coun
tesses. How that beet-root stains! Nothing but buttermilk
will wash it out."
Later that evening she had trimmed her lamp and was writ-
ing a letter to Dr. Ackroyd when she heard an unusual stir out-
side, and in walked Shana Fingall with flushed cheeks and shin-
ing eyes.
" Miss Fingall ! I am surprised." '
Shana closed the door and flung herself on Bawn's neck with
a sob.
"I have come to you for refuge. I have run away."
" Oh ! nonsense," said Bawn, but holding her fast.
" I have run away," persisted Shana. " Not from Alister,
but from Flora. She sha'n't say such things to me again. You
will let me stay here with you, won't you ?"
" Of course I will. Only too glad to have you, so long as it
is right. But sit down and don't cry any more. I shall get you
some tea, and you will tell me all about it."
Shana did not cry for long. She was so angry at the fresh
memory of whatever wrongs had driven her away from home
that her tears were dried by the heat of her passion as fast as
they fell. When she had rested awhile and swallowed Bawn's
tea her courage revived, and it was with a characteristic flash of
the eyes that she said, looking straight at her friend :
" In the first place, I must tell you I have been engaged to be
married for some months, unknown to my family — ^just as long
as you have been here. The same day brought me the word I
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had hoped for from my love and relief from that dreadful feeling
of beggary — "
She stopped, and after a few moments' silence Bawn said :
*• I saw you with some one the other day."
" That was he," said Shana rapidly, a lovely smile breaking
througn the clouds of her anger. " Isn't he — "
She stopped short, looking at Bawn with a mixture of pride
and wistfulness.
" He looked good," said Bawn quietly. " I should have said
that neither of you need have been ashamed to confess the en-
gagement."
" Ashamed ! " said Shana, coloring all over her face. ** No ; I
must make you understand. He is my equal in every way, in
truth, in age, in want of means, and in determination to work for
money. If I had had a mother I should not have kept my secret
from her for one day, or even a father; but I have only a brother,
and that, being freely translated, means a sister-in-law. The
equality in want of means is the only equality Flora recognized
between us. I did not need her assistance to see the diflftculty it
makes. I knew that my brother must be divided in the matter
between his kind heart, that would sympathize with us, and his
prudence and desire for a peaceful life which would make him
give way before his wife. I was not going to have his life turn-
ed into a purgatory on my account, and so I held my tongue and
merely regulated my own conduct as I thought my brother
would wish to see it regulated. I refrained from seeing at all
the man I had promised to marry, and we did not meet except
at rare intervals during our walks, when my sister or the chil-
dren were always sure to be present. We believed that if we
were both patient a way would be sure to open up for us. I
would not let him speak. Do you think I was wrong ? " asked
Shana abruptly, with a look half-pleading, half-defiant.
" I would rather you could have told. I hate secrets," said
Bawn, heavily aware of her own secret as she spoke. " But I
can't say how wrong you have been till I hear everything you
have done."
" The enormity I have committed is this : I have known for
some time that he had been promised an appointment in New
Zealand, and that the opening was a fair one. When I saw him
the other day nothing had been settled about it, but this evening
I got a note asking me to meet him at the end of the avenue, as
he had something particular to say. What he had to say was
that he had secured the appointment and wanted permission to
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372 A Fair Emigrant. [June,
speak to my brother to-morrow. I walked up and down the
road with him for about a quarter of an hour, and then I got a
message to say that Flora wanted me."
Shana's eyes flashed once more as she stopped and was evi-
dently living over again the scene that had followed her sister-
in-law's summons. ^
She sprang up, and, clinching both her little hands, walked
about Bawn's parlor with a step as light as a bird's, and the
whole of her slight figure wrapped in a flame of indignation.
" I won't tell you what she said to me. My brother was
away from home or she would not have dared. Clandestine
meeting — secret understanding — beggary — scorn — contempt —
shamelessness, were the heads of her discourse. Gracious hea-
vens, how did I endure her ! " cried Shana, quivering all over
in another fiery whirlwind.
" Not very patiently, I am sure," said Bawn, sitting at the
table with folded hands, watching her. " Come, Miss Fingall,
confess that you did not spare her, neither."
Shana calmed down instantly and stood still.
" True," she said, " I answered her fiercely. I said things to
her that she will never forget. I am sorry, as she is Alister's
wife."
" And then you rushed away here. Why did you not go to
Tor, to your grandmother ? "
" Several whys," said Shana in her most matter-of-fact man-
ner. " In the first place, I couldn't have got so far to-night. In
the next place, it was you I wanted. Gran is a good old soul,
as good as gold, and kind-hearted, but she has some notions of
her own which will not alter. She is a person of — "
" Fixed ideas ? " suggested Bawn.
*' Yes ; and one of her beliefs is that girls ought never to take
their affairs into their own hands, and ought always to be guided
by their superiors."
" Indeed ! " said Bawn reflectively.
" Flora tries her often enough, and yet she does not know
my sister-in-law as I know her, and I could not grieve her by
hurling my story at her as I have hurled it at you. By the time
I see her I shall have calmed down and made the best of it. I
will not vex her. I have never done so. Gran has had a great
trial of her own. Her favorite son was murdered by his friend — "
Bawn's face, which was turned on her full, the eyes listening,
full of thoughtful interest, suddenly changed so that Shana, even
r in her passion, could not but notice it.
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1887.] A Fair Emigrant. 373
** What is the matter ? Have I tired you, frightened you ? "
Bawn passed her hand over her face, trying to sweep the
look off it that had startled Shana.
" I am not easily tired nor frightened. You will learn that
when you know me better. I have been thinking probably your
good grandmother is right in holding that young women ought
not too rashly to rush into planning their own fate."
" That is the last remark I should have expected to hear
from an independent woman like you," said Shana. " However,
whether she is right or wrong, I shall never desert — " and her
voice trembled, as if tears were coming.
"No, you are no deserter. Neither atn I," said Bawn.
"That is a different thing. And we can't mend matters by
looking back."
CHAPTER XXXIV.
GRAN TO THE RESCUE.
Early the next day, when Bawn was about her business in a
field near the gate of her farm, a young gentleman met her, and,
removing his hat, asked if he had the pleasure of speaking to
Miss Ingram.
" You are Mr. Callender, I think."
" Yes. May I see Miss Fingall ? "
" No."
" She is not ill ? "
"No."
"She is here?"
" Yes."
" Then why cannot I see her ? "
" Because I have her in charge for her family, and I cannot
allow her to receive visitors."
" O Miss Ingram, are you against us, too? "
" Anything but that. But I think you are both a little reck-
less. It will be time enough for you to meet when Mr. Alister
Fingall returns home."
" That will not be for several days. And she has been made
to suffer for my selfishness. You must let me speak to her for a
few minutes. Miss Ingram."
" I will not, Mr. Callender. I shall not let her know you are
here. But I will tell you something now which I dare say is not
new to you, and ought to keep you happy even if you are obliged
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374 A Fair Emigrant. [June,
to be patient for a day or two. You have won as true and
brave a heart as exists on earth. Be careful how you give her
more to suffer than must needs be. Any folly you lead her into
now will be counted against you."
Callender reflected a few minutes with a clouded counte-
nance, then brightened up and exclaimed :
** You are right. I will not see her. Thank you for your
friendly advice. Good-morning."
Then Bawn went in and told Shana who had been there and
what had been done.
" It was cruel of you — cruel and inhospitable. He will think
they have frightened me. He will be sure I have given him up.
I wanted to tell him—"
" I told him all you wanted to say. It was much better from
me than from you just at present." And then Bawn left Shana
again and returned to her fields, reflecting on how wonderful a
thing is human love. To her Willie Callender looked but a fair,
smooth-faced boy, not much of a raft to cling to on the broad
ocean of life ; and yet here was Shana ready to give up home and
kindred and follow him to exile in New Zealand. Unbidden the
tall figure and steadfast eyes of another appeared before her in
contrast, but the vision was quickly waved aside. What right
had she to draw contrasts between men, to decide which was
most worthy to be loved — she who would never have a mate ?
Another summons soon brought her from her work. A car-
riage was at her gate, from which descended Gran, assisted by
Rosheen and Manon de St Claire. A lengthy epistle, sent post-
haste last night by a man on horseback, had brought the old
lady all the way from Tor to remonstrate with her truant grand-
daughter.
As Bawn came to the gate to receive her Mrs. Fingall ob-
served her keenly. So fair, with such a look of innocence and
good sense, was it possible this young woman could be com-
pounded of cunning, audacity, and all those other bad qualities
which Flora had represented her as possessing ?
" Miss Ingram," she said, looking Bawn full in the eyes, " I
have come to see my granddaughter, who has been very
naughty. I am obliged to you for giving her a night's lodging —
that is, if you did not know of her intention, had not encouraged
her to leave home,"
" I would not turn away a dog who came to me for shelter,"
said Bawn gravely. "As for the rest. Miss Fingall will tell you
everything better than I can."
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Shana was standing in the middle of Bawn's parlor, her little
hands wrung together and a hundred changing expressions flying
over her face, when Gran appeared in the doorway.
''Shana, what is the meaning of all this?"
Shana had been on the point of flinging herself into the old
lady's arms, but Gran's stern tone restrained her.
" Why have you run away from home ? "
" Because Flora drove me out," said the girl stoutly. •* I
should have gone if it had been to sleep in a ditch. As it was, I
was thankful to come here."
" And you received Mr. Callender here this morning. We
met him — "
'' He was here, but I did not see him. I wish I had ; but
Miss Ingram would not allow it."
"Humph!" said Gran, and was silent for a few moments.
Then she began again :
" Shana, you are the last girl in the world from whom I
should have expected sly conduct."
" Right, Gran ; but don't speak in the past tense."
" I am sorry I must. To engage yourself secretly to any
man, however worthy — "
" He is worthy ! he is worthy ! ". broke out Shana. " O my
God ! how Flora spoke of him ! I wonder I did not kill her ! "
" Shana, I am shocked beyond measure. I cannot listen to
you. Come, you had better come home with me at once. You
must return to your senses before we talk this matter out."
" I will go with you, Gran ; you are not Flora. After you
have scolded me you will listen to me. You may say anything
you please of me, so that you do not attack Willie."
" My dear, I do not want to attack him. He always seemed
to me a nice, gentlemanly, gentle young fellow. Why could
you not have trusted the old woman with your secret, Shana? "
Shana stared and burst into tears, dropping her face into the
old lady's lap.
** O Gran ! Gran ! I wish I had. But I did not want to
bother you, and I was in dread of Flora. And I did not see him
or hear from him. It was very Ijard, but I thought it was right ;
and then to be called clan — ugh ! the horrid word, I can't say
it. Only because we waited and said nothing. And last night
he just came to say he had got his appointment and might he
speak to Alister. And Flora — "
Gran sighed. She could imagine all the rest So this was
all. She stroked the girl's hair and reflected.
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3/6 A Fair Emigrant. [June,
" But, Shana, ray love, are you so ready to leave us all for
New Zealand?"
'' I love him. Gran, and I can be of use to him, and he wants
me. Anybody could wear Major Batt's jewels and things," said
Shana, looking up contemptuously and flinging back her hair,
" but nobody but me could make Willie happy or help him on
through the world."
" Major Batt ? " said Gran inquiringly,
" Yes, that is what Flora is so wild about. She had a fancy
to marry me to Lisnawiliy. And I assure you. Gran, even if I
did not hate him, he would not think of me. It is Miss Ingram."
" Humph ! " said Gran again.
'* I will go home with you. Gran, as soon as you please and
I have written a letter to Alister."
CHAPTER XXXV.
KIDNAPPING.
All that was over. Shana had been carried away to Tor,
and Bawn's thoughts had again set towards the mysterious
Hollow. As the autumn, with its brilliant colors streaming
down the glen and its glorious clouds banked behind the moun-
tains, advanced in beauty, the nights became more stormy ; fierce
squalls would swoop down from the high crags about midnight,
burying the moon in darkness and playing mad pranks over
bill and dale till the morning dawned. On such mornings Bawn
wakened unrefreshed after uneasy sleep, in which she had im-
agined the entire collapse of the old house in the Hollow under
the assaults of the gale.
" Betty," she said, '' I have made up my mind to do some-
thing, and I rely on your help."
" Anything I can, misthress."
" I am going to bring Miss Mave Adare here, to this house."
•* Misthress!"
" I will give her my room and I shall sleep on the sofa here
till we see further. The truth is, I can't rest for fear of that roof
falling on her."
" God bless you, misthress, for taking that thought ! But she
will not come."
'* I am not so sure of that, Betty. Coming here to me, know-
ing how I feel for her, is different from going to the poorhouse
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J 88;.] A Fair Emigrant. 377
hospital. I may as well do it as soon as I can, for I shall have no
peace till it is done."
Betty looked at her young mistress, shook her head many
times, clapped her hands, groaned, frowned, finally snatched
Bawn's hands and kissed them, and, throwing her apron over her
face, fled from the room.
In this pantomime she expressed her still lingering disgust at
the Adares, her dislike to having the dreadful invalid in the pretty
little, cheerful house, her pity for and sympathy with the sufierer,
and finally her rapturous appreciation of her mistress' superior
charity and courage in proposing to harbor so undesirable a
guest. Bawn, looking after her, felt a sudden sting of pain as the
old woman's last action reminded her of the words in her father's
notes descriptive of Betty's conduct towards himself when every
other creature had turned against him ; of how, having offered
her sympathy, she had flung her apron over her face, turned into
her house, and shut the door. Desmond's daughter now longed
to follow the old woman and hug her, but prudence restrained
her from behavior so remarkable.
That afternoon she proceeded, in a peculiar, very old-fash-
ioned, almost obsolete vehicle known in Ireland as a " covered
car," to the Hollow, consenting to a longer journey than usual in
order that she might bring the conveyance near to the house.
Alighting in the avenue, she bade Andy wait there till she sig-
nalled him to approach the door ; then, meeting Peggy by ap-
pointment, she dived with her into the ruin as before.
The interior looked, if possible, even more appalling than
when Bawn had visited it last. There had been much rain in
tHe nights, and a slimy wetness was over everything, making it
doubly dangerous to take a step in any direction. Each of the
larch-tree props had carried its own stream of ooze from above,
to lie in a pool around it on the spot where it had been fixed.
As they climbed the shaky stair Peggy kept assuring Bawn
in low tones that Miss Mave would never consent to come with
her, and that if she attempted to carry her off the brothers would
rise out of their dens and interfere.
" I am going to try, however, Peggy. Just you go presently
and ask Mr. Luke if he has any objection to his sister's taking a
drive with the lady from America. Put it in the most respectful
way you can."
As soon as Bawn was seated at Miss Adare's ghastly bedside
Peggy went on her errand. It seemed to the girl, sitting there
face to face with this awful example of death in life, that the
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woman in the bed was more weird, more skeleton like, more piti-
able even than she had appeared to her at first. And yet when
the poor creature greeted her with weak cries of welcome, and at
the same time made a sort of effort at lady- like courtesy which
had an indescribably strange effect in the midst of such surround-
ings, Bawn soon found her more human, more real than she had
once thought possible.
*' Now, Miss Adare, you are coming with me for a drive. I
have got a conveyance for you, and the air will do you good."
** Out? " shrieked the poor creature. *' I to go out ! Oh ! you
must be dreaming or raving. I rave and I dream myself, and I
can understand it. You think you see me riding and driving as
I used to do, ray dear — indeed I used, though it is so long, long
ago, and seems only yesterday."
" But I mean not yesterday but to-day. Miss Adare. Peggy
and I will wrap you up in cloaks and rugs — we have brought
plenty — and you can't think how sweet the air is."
"Oh! don't I know? Why do you tell me? Why do you
talk about it ? What have I to do with fresh air now ? Leave
me alone with the rats and the owls. I see them, my dear, at
night — indeed I do, and there is a rat I am afraid of — and
ghosts ; though I don't mind them so much — "
She was wandering now, but Bawn recalled her to herself by
saying : " You will come with me, I know, Miss Adare. You
won't disappoint me ? "
"You don't know what you are saying," shrieked the sufferer.
** Luke never would permit such a thing."
" Peggy has gone to ask your brothers," said Bawn gently.
" And I am sure they will not be so unkind as to refuse. Here
is Peggy."
" I saw Mr. Edmund, ma'am, and he spoke to Mr. Luke, and
then he comes an' he says, * We see no objection,' says he, * to a
lady goin' out for a carriage drive wid another lady. We only
hope our sister will not be kept out too late in the night air,' says
Mr. Edmund, says he."
There was in all this assumption of pride and stateliness some-
thing so ludicrous and grotesque, when contrasted with the utter
desolation of everything she saw around her, that for a moment
Bawn was overwhelmed by the sense of that complete unreality,
of impossibility, which she had experienced before in that place.
She sat silent, struggling with an inclination to laugh and weep
together, when Miss Adare's voice recalled her attention to the
facts of the situation.
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"That is a different thing, Peggy. That puts it in quite
another light. And oh ! how glad I should be to go. But how
will you get me out of this, Peggy ? O my God ! Shall I really
go out into the sunshine again ? "
" No doubt of it," said Bawn triumphantly, and she stood up
and looked at Peggy for a hint as to how to proceed, while the
weird invalid stretched out her lean arms towards them from
under cover of her hideous canopy.
"Go down now, miss," whispered Peggy; "away and hide
among the trees, and I'll get Mr. Edmund coaxed to come and
help me down wid her. You an' me couldn't be sure of not let-
tin* her fall. If he doesn't see you he'll do it. When we have
her in the car I'll call ye."
Bawn obeyed, having first helped to wrap Miss Adare up in
the comfortable clothing she had brought, and slipped away and
left Peggy to manage the rest.
She went across the sward, away under the great spreading
trees, and hid herself behind the trunk of one of the giant
beeches. "I shall be within earshot here," she thought, "and
shall neither see nor be seen." Scarcely had she taken up her
position, however, when she saw and was seen by one person
whom she had not expected — Rory Fingall, who was approaching
from the direction of the old garden.
" Miss Ingram ! " he said, coming quickly near and standing
before her.
" Hush 1 " she said. " Stand well behind the tree, or you will
spoil everything."
"What do you mean? What are you doing here, if I may
venture to ask?"
" Kidnapping."
" Kidnapping what? Crows, owls, rats? Have you set snares
anywhere ? " looking round.
" I am kidnapping Mave Adare. Hush ! it is a deep-laid plot.
She thinks I am taking her for a drive only, but I mean to carry
her off to Shanganagh and keep her."
" You are a strange girl."
" Am I ? So strange that I do not like waiting calmly to see
a broken roof drop down upon a fellow-creature. I ought to
have been born in a place like Ireland, in order to be able to take
such things philosophically. In America we have no such roofs
and no suffering humanity mouldering away under them un-
heeded. My ' American audacity ' — I think that is what I heard
a lady call it — has prompted me to make a raid upon this ruin
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while it is still accessible; to snatch a poor woman from a horri-
ble death."
^* It ought to have been done some other way. I have been
thinking about it ; but meanwhile you have acted, though not,
I fear, much for your own comfort. God bless you, Bawn ! you
are good — "
'* Don't praise me," she said, throwing back her head quickly
and thinking of all the motives that had been at work within her,
leading her to do what she was doing. ** I am not so good as you
think.'*
She had drawn back a step, as all her mixed feelings toward
the creature she was now trying to benefit, her abhorrence of
Luke Adare, her disgust and dislike to even his, Rory^s, family,
rose distinctly in her mind.
" You are not to credit me with goodness — you who know so
little of me. I am doing what I choose to do, and that is about
all."
" It is true that I do know little about you, but I am willing
to believe all that is noblest and best."
** Ah ! " she said, with sudden sadness, " don't believe too
much. Judge me not at all till I am dead or gone from here.
But hush-sh-sh ! I hear them coming. Oh, pray, pray do not
let yourself be seen ! "
He moved a step and they stood close together, hiding be-
hind the great beech-tree, wrapped in its blue shade, looking out
on the golden moss and grass, and through rifts in the drooping
foliage ahead of them, away to the blackened and broken and
sun-pierced garden-walls — a wide well of sunshine against gray
and distant woods.
"Who are coming? By what witchcraft are you conveying
Miss Adare down those crazy stairs in the teeth of her brothers*
opposition?"
** Her brothers have consented to allow their lady sister to go
for a carriage drive with another lady. It is with their permis-
sion; indeed, Mr. Edmund himself is carrying her down, and that
is why we must not be in sight They will not endure to be^
seen. Have you ever beheld these men? "
" Edmund I have seen ; Luke, never. Edmund occupied him-
self for years breaking stones in a hole at the back of those
ruined out-buildings, which he sold for the mending of the roads.
He used to keep up a little play in the matter by pretending he
had bought the stones, and would oblige us by supplying them
when wanted. I found him out by accident, poor old fellow !
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coming on him one day as he stood on the top of his heap of
broken stones, with an old riddle in his hands which he had just
emptied on the heap. He was a very queer figure — tight clothes
and stockings, an old dress-coat, and a little black skull-cap on
his head. He is a small man with a large white beard. When he
saw me he vanished, and never came near me again for an order
for stones to mend my roads. He is not the worst of the Adares."
** I can see him now. He is carrying his sister into the car.
He is not so well dressed as you describe him. He looks like a lit-
tle wizard. Now she is in and he has fled back to his den. Good-
by, Mr. Fingall. You are on your way home, I suppose. So
am I. You had better not come near the car. Good-by."
She gave him her hand hurriedly ; he raised his hat, and she
was gone like a lapwing across the sward.
Miss Adare was lying in the car, wrapped about with the rugs
and cushions Bawn had brought for her. At first Bawn thought
she was dead or in a swoon, till Peggy whispered that the
creature was only tired with the moving and was resting herself.
Bawn had read somewhere of a waxen image, made to the like-
ness of a human creature, to be wasted before a fire for purposes
of witchcraft, and she thought now that such an image, already
half-wasted, might this poor Miss Adare have been taken for.
The car proceeded slowly, the sweet mountain-air penetrated
through the open door of the vehicle, and the ghastly invalid
breathed deeply and revived. A wild glance from Bawn to
Peggy, a murmured " Don't keep me long or they will be angry.
my God, the delicious breeze ! " and she lapsed into seeming
death. Later in the evening she recovered from her trance and
saw Peggy sitting by her bedside in Bawn's little lavender-
scented bed-chamber.
" Peggy," she whispered, " where are we now ? Are we in
heaven ? "
" No, ma'am, not just yet," said Peggy cheerfully ; " but, faix,
1 think we're the next door by. It's at home wid the American
lady ye are. You're goin' to stay on a visit wid her."
" O Peggy, I must go back at once. Luke will never allow
it. 'O my God, what will Luke do to me? "
" Now whisht, ma'am, and lie back and rest yerself. Sure the
gintlemen gave her leave to have ye for a while wid her. Never
fear but she made it all right wid Mr. Luke. It's herself knows
how to bring wan thing straight along wid another, so she does.
An' she has the beautifullest little taste of a supper ready for ye,
an' if ye don't try to eat it ye'U just break her heart."
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Then Pegg^y had to go home, and Bawn and Betty stood at
the kitchen fire holding council over their charge.
" We must nurse her between us, Betty. And you'll be good
to her?"
" Och, ay ! I'll do what I can, poor body ! But she needn't
ha' come to this if she had 'a' stood up for Mr. Arthur. It's the
good home he would have give her somewhere, forbye rottin*
herself off the face o* creation wid damp and hunger."
" Well, Betty, I may tell you that I think she believes now
that your Mr. Arthur was innocent."
" Thank her for nothing," said Betty scornfully. " It's time
she found it out But never fear, ma'am ; I amn't such a hay then
monstier as not to be as good to her as I can."
The little household settled to rest ; the strange guest had re-
lapsed into her swoon of peace ; only Bawn was awake and up,
feeling still too much excitement after the events of the day to
be ready for sleep. Her fire was expiring, her lamp burning
low ; she had opened the blind to see the horn of the late-risen
moon appear above the curve of the black-purple mountain
opposite, and was walking up and down the floor, her hands
locked behind her back, her head upraised, thinking over her
success with regard to Mave, her conversation with Somerled,
his persistence in meeting her. Did he wait and watch for her,
or was it always chance that brought him through the Hollow
just as she appeared in it? Say what she might to her own
heart, it would feel glad at the sight of his face and the sound of
his voice. By the pain that passing gladness left behind it let
her expiate the sin of her weakness in loving one of the family of
her father's enemies. As for him, he had been warned, and why
could he not keep out of her way ? Why could he not stay at
Tor and learn to love Manon de St Claire? And then Bawn
paused in her walk and her heart winced. Of course that would
naturally be the end of it all. After she had gone back over the
sea she had so confidently crossed ; after the ruin in the Hollow
had been levelled with the ground, burying under it the ashes of
the Adares ; after the Hollow had bloomed again, as Rory him-
self had predicted it would bloom, in that time Rory would dwell
among these hills a contented man, husband of a suitable wife.
Bawn, choking a little over the sadness of her own fate, ac-
knowledged that she had one cause for self-congratulation, in
that she could not be called on to witness that admirable state of
things; that there was still a merciful ocean within reach, ever
ready to carry her back to the unknown.
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The moon had risen above the mountain-ridge, a clear cres-
cent, and clouds were drifting towards it. Bawn stood in the
middle of the floor looking at it, her meditations broken by the
fancies it suggested. It was the diadem of the queen of night,
more like a half of the golden ring that romantic lovers break be-
tween them ; but here a long, streaming cloud, dark and filmy,
with a weird outline, reminding one of a banshee with out-
stretched arm and threatening finger, came hufrying towards it,
pounced on the jewel, and hid it in her mysterious draperies. At
the same moment a loud sob escaped the wind, which had been
whispering complainingly around the corners of the house and
among the old thorn and alder trees, and a sense of uncanny
solitariness just touched Bawn, who was accustomed to sleep
early and soundly, and had no timorous associations with the
dead of night.
She had just shaken off the feeling, and was approaching the
window to draw down the blind before taking refuge in her pil-
lows, when something she saw struck her intelligence like a blow
and froze up the blood in her veins. A figure was distinctly visible
at the window, strange and uncouth ; a ghastly and malignant
face was pressed against the pane, the hollow eyes straining out
of their sockets, trying to see into the room. A pair of long,
claw-like hands grasped the upper sash, and the figure seemed to
hang by them, as if weak and wanting support. Dusty-looking
hair, in shaggy masses ; long gray jaws and a hungry mouth —
these details of the countenance imprinted themselves on her
imagination as the creature, whatever it was, crushed itself
against the window-frame, like a beast struggling behind the
bars of a cage.
" Good God ! " muttered Bawn, and waited to see if the thing
would try the fastenings of the window or make an attempt to
get in. If so she would quickly shut the shutters and put up
the bar. But if this should be only some poor tramp, hungering
for a sight of fire on the hearth, or out of mere curiosity peering
with all the fascination of the homeless for a look into a home,
why need she be afraid of him ?
He might be a lunatic escaped from control ; and if he were
to prove too quick for her ? She thought of the horror^ a mid-
night alarm, the possible eflFect on the suflFerer within/the ex-
citement of her women, and decided to fasten the shutter with-
out further delay. As she stepped to the window the pale ray
of the moon, now free of the gathering clouds, fell on her and
revealed her dimly to the creature outside the pane, and its gaze.
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fastening on her at once, seemed straining to distinguish her
features, as if the sight of the hollow eyes was imperfect as well
as the light. Bawn's vision being strong, she was able to see more
clearly than before as loathsome a human face as imagination
ever pictured. A ravening desire for something unattainable, a
malignant cunning, a wicked despair, were the passions sug-
gested by the expression of the visage. Shuddering she put
forth her hand aifd drew the blind, and then stood waiting for
the look or word that might possibly follow her action. Some
minutes passed before she ventured to lift a corner of the blind
and look out, and when she did so the strange visitor had dis-
appeared.
She closed the shutters quickly, saw to all the fastenings of
the house, and hurried to bed, where she lay long awake, unable
to blot the image of that ghastly countenance from her mind.
Something inexpressibly evil in the eyes that had strained in at
her had stifled the ready pity in her breast. Whosoever her
strange visitor might have been, she felt certain that he was
nothing good.
TO BE coirmruBD.
TAINE'S ESTIMATE OF NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.
Very few books of to-day have attracted or have deserved as
wide attention as the remarkable study of Napoleon Bonaparte
which Hippolyte Adolphe Taine has just put forth. In the first
part of the volume M. Taine scatters around in his usual manner,
and indulges himself in a number of essays, brilliant enough in
themselves, but having only a remote connection with the sub-
ject of the work. But after he settles to his matter, and begins
his thorough exposure of the character of the great French
emperor, he shows a supreme mastery of his material. Every
shred is stripped from the figure of the military chief; he is
turned to our view on every side, and his different qualities are
submitted to the calcium lights of a minute and powerful analy-
sis. Thinkers outside of France had long since come to the con-
clusion which M. Taine has formulated for his countrymen. They
had seen the last shimmer of glory depart from one who had
been to many of them the hero of their boyhood, and had ob-
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1887.] Taine's Estimate of Napoleon Bonaparte. 385
served that the towering Colossus who stamped so long on the
neck of prostrate Europe was merely a huge mass, a mighty
compound of small meannesses. Often had the thought occur-
red to their minds that the strain of Napoleon's Italian blood
showed itself in deeds worthy of a Malatesta or Borgia. The
savage propensities of the man had been commented upon, not
merely by political enemies in lampoon, caricature, or satire, but
by calm historians intent only upon elucidating the truth and not
consciously swayed by national prejudices. But M. Taine goes
further than a hint or a theory. He gives the proof. He estab-
lishes the fact of Bonaparte's actual relationship to the houses
whose infamy ranks them high even in Italian history. Then he
traces the Corsican boyhood amid scenes of rapine, robbery, and
vendetta; the finishing of the youth's education among the scenes
of the French Revolution ; the full-blown product who, as consul
and emperor, put into practice the lessons learned in his youth,
and, with the reins of despotic power grasped in his hands, gave
full swing to the unbridled passions of the savage which lay
beneath his usually calm exterior.
. M. Taine dwells considerably upon Napoleon's period of boy-
hood, holding truly that the boy is the father of the man. He
quotes largely from official reports to show the lawlessness of
Corsica at that time. The factions fought at the polls, and the
victorious party used its power chiefly to wreak vengeance on
their enemies. Banditti infested the country places, so that it
was insecure to dwell there. The principal conversation among
the common people was about the last bold foray, the last clever
stroke of the stiletto. After listening to these on his idle after-
noons, young Bonaparte would probably hear the same character
of talk at table, only applied to political parties " On one occa*
sion his uncle told him that he would govern the world, because
he was accustomed to lie incessantly. . . . From a remark like
this of his uncle's, from a facial expression, from a gesture of
admiration or a shrugging of the shoulders, he divined that the
normal course of the world is not peace but war ; by what tricks
men keep what they have got, by what acts of violence they get
on, by what dexterity they go up the ladder." All this the youth
sucked in as so much milk native to his palate. The education
suited the' character of his instincts. On his return to Corsica^
after the outbreak of the Revolution, he forthwith takes life for
what he deems it — a fight in which all weapons are legitimate
and no means too foul. If he is compelled to pay outward re-
spect to law, it is only lip-service ; a law, to him, is but the phrase
VOL, XL v.— 25
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of a code, and might is right. In his experience of the eariy
stages of the Revolution the same lesson was impressed upon his
mind. There he saw men devouring one another, and the only
concern was to get upon the strongest side. When he entered
upon the Italian campaign he put this principle into operation on
an extended scale and for his own benefit, judging other men
from his own nature. Selfishness was the only motive power he
recognized in any one. It might have different objects, but the
principle was the same. His object was ambition, was to rule.
It had been noticed of ^im while a boy that he would sit apart
on the playground from the other scholars. If he could not rule
them he would have nothing to do with them. The ruling pas-
sions of his army, he soon saw, were pleasure, rank, and military
glory, not devotion to republican ideas; and he determined to
gratify all as far as he could, and to thus bind them to his own
person. " On this common ground an understanding is reached
between the general and his army, and after a year's experi-
ence it is perfect. From their joint deeds a species of morality
is evolved, vague in the masses of the army, definite in the gene-
ral. What they have but a glimpse of he sees. If he shoves his
comrades forward, it is on their natural incline. He does but
forestall them when, arriving at his conclusion from the start, he
conies to look upon the world as a great banquet open to every
comer, but where, to be well served, you must have long arms,
be served the first, and leave the others but the scraps."
This ambition to rule took such complete possession of the
man that he came to look upon it as natural, and he spoke his
thoughts before men not his intimates — before Miot, a diploma-
tist; before Melzi, a foreigner — who have recorded what he said.
He mocked openly at the Directory and the Republic, declaring
that they could not last, that they were impossible chimeras;
that what France wanted was glory, and that he intended to rule
or ruin. He went with the Jacobins when there was danger of
the Bourbons returning, and he explained his conduct by saying
that the Bourbons must be kept out, especially if Moreau or
Pichegru attempted to restore them, and that the time had not
come for his own seizure of absolute power — "the pear is not
ripe." Later he said : ** My resolve is taken : if I cannot be mas-
ter I will leave France." When he returned to Paris he medi-
tates " the overthrow of the Directory, the dissolution of the
Councils, the making of himself dictator." Finding neither of
these plans workable, he turns to Egypt. He deliberately strips
France of a fine army and exposes her fleet to destruction, in
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1887.] Taine's Estimate of Napoleon Bonaparte. 387
order that he might build himself an Eastern empire, or, failing
that, send back to Europe trumpet-blasts of victories spectacu-
larly won on Egypt's parched sands, by the banks of the venera-
ble Nile, and under the shadow of the Pyramids, to herald his
approach with garnered sheaves of new laurels.
WJ^en he became consul and then emperor his theory that
men were made to obey him obtained fresh verification. At his
first gesture all Frenchmen flung themselves at his feet — the com-
mon people and soldiers with brute fidelity, the state dignitaries
and army oflScers with Oriental servility. Among the Republi-
cans he found his chief worshippers, and he readily fashioned
them into his instruments. From the start he saw beneath their
gilded oratory and detected the desire to rule among their plati-
tudes about equality. Every man, he thought, desired to rule as
first fiddle in even minor pieces, and he was inclined to gratify
them, provided they acknowledged his domination over all. Dis-
interested sentiment, devotion to a cause or an idea, he could not
even understand. If rigid Republicans like Cambon, Baudot,
Lecourbe, and Delmas growl, he disposes of them by calling
them hide-bound ignoramuses stuck in a rut. Those intelligent
and self-sacrificing Liberals of 1789 he dubs " ideologists, draw-
ing-room statesmen, theorists." "Lafayette is a political tomfool,
the dupe of men and things." He disputes to their faces men
who declare they were disinterested advocates of liberty in pro-
moting the Revolution, and argues down General Dumas' throat
that he was either inspired with Massena's ignoble greed for
money or Murat's thirst for a princely title. The most compe-
tent eye-witnesses agree in saying that Bonaparte's conviction
of universal venality among men was so firm that nothing could
shake it " His opinions about men," says Metternich, " had
been distilled into a conception which, unluckily for him, had
acquired to his mind the force of an axiom ; he was persuaded
that no man called upon to play a part on the public stage, or
merely busied in the active pursuits of life, ever wac controlled,
or could be controlled, by anything but self-interest," " Accord-
ing to* him," adds M. Taine, "you get hold on a man through his
selfish passions — fear, greed, sensuality, self love, emulation ;
those are his springs of action when he is in his right senses and
can reason. It is easy enough, moreover, to make of him a mad-
man, for man is imaginative, credulous, prone to be carried away ;
puff up his pride and vanity, instill in him an overwhelming and
false notion of himself and other people, and you can launch him
headforemost where you like."
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Such is the man who has come to rule France, who hopes to
rule the world, and such is his estimate of the men he is going
to sway. Contemptible creatures like these are surely easy to
mould. They will be clay in the potter's hands, and if a tough
bit is reached now and then an extra twist of the wrist will send
the machine going again. Napoleon was absolutely shut uj^in the
hideous prison-walls of his own conceit, and the most palpable
facts could not shake them down and free him, could not unveil
his self-covered eyes, could not make him see that there were
other forces in the world besides those he imagined, or that he
would come into contact with wills as strong and self-centred as
his own. The characteristically unyielding gentleness of the
pope, the determined energy of England, the fierce insurrection
in Spain, the sporadic outbursts in Germany, the resistance of
Catholic consciences, the gradual falling away of the French
people, the certain though slow destruction of his immense
armies, the growing angry feeling of the powers around him
whom he insulted so often, appeared to his distorted vision but
as temporary difficulties which his iron will would soon over-
come.
It is this absorbing ambition which, as Taine justly remarks,
is destined to swallow him up. It is so much a part of the man's
nature, such a prime motor of his soul, that he is often uncon-
scious of its presence. "So far as I am concerned," he said to
Roederer, " I have no ambition *' ; then he corrected himself,
and explained, with his usual lucidity, '* or, if I have any, it comes
to me so naturally, is so innate, is so wrought into my existence,
that it is like the blood flowing in my veins and the air I breathe."
At other times he likened it to the involuntary passion of love —
always putting France where he should put power, except on the
memorable occasion when he used plain terms in rebuking his
brother Joseph. His passion was as omnivorous as it was jealous.
Limits affront him no less than a rival. On the day after his
coronation l^e sighed this blasphemous complaint to Decr^s : " I
came into the world too late ; there is no longer any grandL thing
to do. My career has been a fine one, I admit ; I have got over
a fine stretch of road. But how different things were in an-
tiquity ! Look at Alexander 1 After conquering Asia and pro-
claiming himself to the people as the sou of Jupiter, the whole
East believed him, with the exception of Olympias, who knew
all there was to know on that point, and with the additional ex-
ception of Aristotle and a few pedants in Athens. Well, now,
look at my case ; if I were to declare myself the son of the Eter.
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188;.] Taine's Estimate of Napoleon Bonaparte. 389
nal Father, and announce my intention of offering homage to him
in that capacity, there is not a fishwoman that would not hiss at
me as I went by. People are too enlightened in our day." So
far as he dare he carries out this blasphemous desire by trespass-
ing on Christian consciences, and at last he placed his hands
upon tl^ pope and dragged him from his throne. We should
not like to be accused of superstition in dwelling upon this
event. It was one act, perhaps the most aggravated, in a long
series of deeds of presumption and overweening arrogance by
Napoleon Bonaparte, and the whole tendency of his career was
to ultimate ruin. But there is something ominous, to say the
least, if not prophetic, in the words which the venerable pontiff
addressed to the conqueror about his guns dropping from the
hands of his soldiers, as actually occurred in the mad Russian
campaign which shortly followed. M, Taine, a professed unbe-
liever, ranks Bonaparte's encroachment upon the church's rights
and his wanton treatment of the pope as among the foremost
causes of his fall. At present we must observe upon the general
extravagance of the man in his own conceit. " My peoples of
Italy," he explains to them, " ought to know me well enough not
to forget that I know more in my little finger than they know in
all their heads put together." He calls them "minors"; the
French and the rest of the world are the same compared to him.
A shrewd diplomatist, who knew him intimately for years, says:
" He looks upon himself as a being isolated in the world, created
to govern it and to drive all minds in his own harness."
Everybody that approached him had to renounce his indivi-
dual will and become a mere tool of the presiding genius. He
would not tolerate intellectual or moral superiority, since they
might be compared with the power of Napoleon. His ministers
were reduced from counsellors and heads of departments to
mere dumb clerks obeying orders. His generals were treated
pretty much the same. A brilliant victory was often given to
the credit of a notorious dullard, while a skilful soldier as often
found himself robbed of his laurels. If the latter protested he
was bidden to hold his tongue, and allowed to recompense him-
self by plundering the conquered provinces. After making his
generals dukes or princes they found themselves as much slaves
as ever. He gave them enormous incomes, but he apportioned
them estates outside of France, and compelled them to spend all
they got in costly entertainments. By this means he kept them
under his thumb as securely as though they were the veriest
beggars. If was common to see a string of them besieging him
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lor financial aid like mendicants whose very lives depended on
the grant which Bonaparte made or withheld, according as he
desired to bind the applicants to himself. In addition to the
ascendency assured by his power and genius, he was resolved to
have every one attached to himself by personal ties of the most
binding nature and absolutely dependent upon his will. For
this reason he fostered in those about him their baser vices and
weaknesses — "in Savary the thirst for money, in Fouchet his
Jacobin blemish, in Cambac6r6s vanity and sensuality, in Talley-
rand reckless cynicism and flaccid putrescence, in Duroc aridity
of character, in Maret courtier-like flunkyism, in Berthier silli-
ness. He points out the weak spot of each, makes a butt of it,
and profits by it.'* He is pleased when any of them compro-
mises himself or even blights himself in popular esteem ; it re-
moves a possible rival, however small, and places another pas-
sive tool in his hands. When a man has come to this state he
puts upon him the dirty part of the work he considers necessary
to uphold his empire and to promote his schemes. It is thus he
works upon every one brought into contact with him. What he
means by devotion to him is the utter surrender " of a whole
personality, all its feelings, all its opinions.*' Above all, he is
suspicious of two minds acting in concert, even by the merest
chance. It becomes at once a conspiracy over which he wrath-
fully explodes. Even the inner sanctuary of the conscience must
not stand guarded before him. To the Bishop of Ghent, who,
with the most respectful submission, offers an excuse for not sub-
scribing to a second oath that would violate his conscience, he
replies rudely, as he turns his back on him : *' Well, sir, your con-
science is a dunderhead ! " He frequently called his highest of-
ficials before him, and, for no serious fault at all, abused them
in the presence of company, as though they were thieving
lackeys caught in the act.
Napoleon does not act thus merely from wantonness, though
the part suits the character of the man. The necessity of the
situation he has created for himself requires such a policy to be
pursued. He can spare nobody, he can spare nothing. Affec-
tion, all ties of the heart, are sacrificed on the shrine of his stony
ambition. " Has a statesman," he was accustomed to say, " any
room for sensibility? Is he not a thoroughly eccentric person,
always solitary upon one side of a question, with the rest of the
world upon the other? In this duel that knows no truce, no
mercy, people interest him only by the use that he can make of
them. All their value for him consists in the profit he gets out
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188;.] Tainb's Estimate of Napoleon Bonaparte. 391
of them. His sole business with them is to squeeze out of them
the last drop of usefulness they may contain." An anecdote of
this indifference to the feelings of others is related. One day
Portalis, Minister of Justice, came to him with eyes full of tears.
"What is the matter, Portalis?" asked Napoleon. "Are you
sick ? " " No, sire ; but I am most unhappy. The Archbishop of
Tours, poor Boisjelin, my old comrade, my boyhood's friend — '*
" Well, what has happened to him ? " " Alas ! sire, he has just
died." " Well, it is all the same to me ; he was of no use to
me.
With this disposition and policy he rigidly rules over all.
He insults the faithful Prince Eugene by ordering him not even
to have a fire lighted in his room without the imperial permis-
sion. He writes to M. de S6gur, of the Academy committee
that had just approved Chateaubriand's works, that they deserve
to be clapped into Vincennes, and that if the Institute persists
in discussing politics he will smash it as though it were a dis-
reputable club. Before the whole court he takes Beugnot by the
ear, and tells him that when he grows old he will send him to the
Senate " to play the dotard at his ease." While always swift to
burst into fury over a piece of ill-done work, and while full of
sarcasm for the weaknesses of his devoted servants, he never
praises that which is good ; silence is the most- that any can ob-
tain. Only once was he surprised into a word of laudation ; it
was when M. de Champagny completed in a single night and
with unhoped-for success the treaty of Vienna, and then ** he
thought aloud." He carries this system of terrorism into the
privacy of his household, having all, from the affectionate Jo-
sephine to the lowest scullion in the kitchen, in perpetual fear of
his searching criticism and rebuke. He was conscious of the
repression he exercised by his sovereign will, whose masterful
and iron command he never for a moment relaxed, except upon
two or three occasions, even for those bound to him by the ties
of nature. He was heard to say, " Lucky is that man who is hid-
den away from me in the depth of some province." On another
occasion he asked M. de S6gur what people would say after his
death. The latter beg^an to expatiate on the universal regrets,
when Napoleon replied : " Not a bit of it " ; then, with a signifi-
cant shrug cleverly expressing the feeling of relief, he added :
"They will say. Whew!''
In another chapter M. Taine draws a very doleful and vulgar
picture of Napoleon's court. He restored the pompous parade
of the old regime, but not the ease and cultured manners, which
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were perhaps beyond his reach. It was a mere formal routine ;
all were conscious that they were assembled, not for social in-
tercourse, but to do honor to the monarch who never laid aside
his robes of state. What was worse. Napoleon thought he was
privileged to say anything he pleased. He would make the
grossest remarks to the ladies, criticising their dress, inquiring
into the number of their children, and throwing out hints of the
most revolting kind. He did this of set purpose. This omniv-
orously ambitious man was actually jealous of the social influ-
ence exercised by females, and he considered it necessary to do
all he could to degrade them. This is the reason why " there is
not one who is not charmed to see him move away from the spot
where she is." One day, speaking to Talleyrand, he said: "Good
taste ? Faugh ! There's another of the classical phrases that I
don't accept." ** Right enough ; it is your enemy," replied the
cynical ex-bishop. " If you could have got rid of it with cannon-
balls it would have perished long ago." But good taste did not
perish ; though seemingly a thing of almost airy nothing, it was
stronger than this headlong, passionate beast of genius, for it is
the vesture of the civilized human soul and is more supple than
the best armor of steel chains.
Now we have the full portrait of the man in his dealings with
his own people. *He easily dominated them by his personality.
His fierce passions, his imperious will, his stubborn determina-
tion overbore any individual opposition. There never existed
any power within the bounds of the nation that could have pre-
vented him from becoming its master. But when he came, as
the head of a nation, to deal with the heads of other nations, he
encountered a power of resistance, founded on the consciousness
of strength, which he could not understand and which awakened
within him a sort of mad rage. This is revealed in his very cor-
respondence. It is the tradition of statecraft, embodied in what
is known as diplomacy, to conduct correspondence in a dry, for-
mal, long-winded style. Not a word is used that can by any
possibility be twisted into an insult. There are enough frictions
between these great agglomerations of men without adding to
them. It is the business of diplomatists to smooth over the dif-
ficulties that arise, to allow them to fade away, and to interpose
their long documents as buffers between the eager war-elements
of the two powers in controversy. Napoleon understood no-
thing of this. He insisted on conducting his correspondence
and negotiations direct with the other sovereigns. He wrote to
them and spoke to them and their ministers in his direct and
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cutting style. When he wished, or when the mood seized him,
he bristled with studied insults. He dragged up their personal
and household affairs as familiarly as he would those of a cour-
tier about his throne. In dictating these letters he poured out
volumes of talk to diflFerent secretaries, who found it difficult to
follow his rapid thought. While dictating he paced the room
like a caged lion, often shouting his words, mixing them with the
foulest oaths, and doubling his fists in anger. The trembling
secretaries were often glad of the complicated expletives, which,
of course, were always eliminated, and which allowed them to
catch up in composing the letters. As one instance, he said to
the envoy of the Emperor Alexander at Wilna :
" Russia does not want this war ; no power in Europe approves of it.
England herself does not want it ; she foresees calamities for Russia, and
perhaps even the cap-sheaf of calamity. I know as well as you do, and
perhaps better than you do, how many troops you have. Your infantry
amounts in all to one hundred and twenty thousand men, and your cavalry
comprises from sixty thousand to seventy thousand. I have three times as
many. The Emperor Alexander is extremely ill-advised. Why isn't he
ashamed to keep such base fellows about him — such a one as Armfelt, a
depraved, intriguing rascal, ruined by his debauchery, who is known only
by his crimes, and who is Russia's enemy; such a one as Stein, kicked out
of his native country as a good-for-n aught, a pestilent fellow that has a
price set upon his head ; such a one as Bennigsen, reputed to have some
military talents that I do not give him credit for, and who dipped his hands
in a benefactor's blood ? Let him keep Russians about him, and I'll not
say a word. Do you mean to say that there are not a plenty of Russian
gentlemen that assuredly would be more devoted to him than these hire-
lings ? Does he fancy the latter are in love with his august self ? Let him
give Armfelt a command in Finland, I'll say nothing; but to keep such a
fellow close to his person — faugh ! What superb prospects the Emperor
Alexander had at Tilsit, and especially at Erfurt ! He has spoiled the finest
reign that Russia has ever known. How could he admit to his intimacy
such men as Stein, Armfelt, and Wintzingerode ? Tell the Emperor Alex-
ander that since he is gathering around him my personal enemies, that
means that he intends to insult me personally, and that consequently I
ought to give him tit for tat. I will hunt out of Germany all his kinfolk of
Baden, Wiirtemberg, and Weimar. Let him get ready an asylum for them
in Russia ! "
Observe how the fiery passions of the master-tyrant, not con-
tent with ruling in his own home, burst into that of a fellow-sove-
reign and presume to control his selection of ministers and ser-
vants. His personal grievances are all affected, or else he has so
swollen in his own vision that he can brook no opposition even
in matters which do not concern him at all. Universal domina-
tion is his one idea. He will own no bounds, acknowledge no
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limits. From the time he assumed the consulate this omnivorous
ambition, which hitherto had acted only upon the nation and
armies of France, found a wider scope, and he cast his eyes over
the whole world, saying, " Behold, all this shall be mine ! " This
is what broke the peace of Amiens. He wanted England to
drive the Bourbons from her shores and shut the mouths of her
journalists. The presence of the first affronted him, and the
gibes of the latter wounded his vanity. Alter your fundamental
laws to suit my pleasure, he said, and at that price I shall give
you peace. If you do not accede to my wishes I shall blockade
all the ports of the Continent against English ships. "I have
a very poor opinion of a government," he wrote, '* that has no
power to prohibit things calculated to displease foreign govern-
ments." England refused to accede. At that time he had Hol-
land, Italy, and Switzerland under his thumb ; Spain and Por-
tugal were his vassals. Thus, from Amsterdam to Bordeaux,
from Lisbon to Cadiz, from Marseilles to Naples, he was able to
shut English goods out of the Continent, with what disaster to
the manufacturing industries of that country is well known. In
the meanwhile he had his eyes fixed upon Egypt. Six thousand
troops were sufficient to reconquer that ancient land. England
must evacuate Malta and allow Bonaparte to make the Mediter-
ranean a French lake. He says of England, the power that was
to cause his final downfall : ** To my France England will natu-
rally in the end become nothing but an annex. Nature made her
one of our islands, like the isle of Oleron or Corsica." England
would rather fight than sink thus. He sees the situation at once.
His lucid mind and his eagle eye take in the extent of the task
that is before him. The English " will force me," he says, ** to
conquer Europe. . . . The First Consul is but thirty-three years
old, and up to this time has destroyed only states of the second
rank. Who knows how much time he will need to utterly trans-
form the face of the Continent and resuscitate the Empire of the
West?"
The point being determined that he must band Europe
against England, he sets about this project in his usual violent
fashion. When, later on, he was in captivity at St. Helena, and
the illusions of a premature old age crept over his mind, he
imagined that he was trying to enact the part of an Old-World
Washington, and that circumstances thwarted him. It was not
so. It was he that thwarted circumstances. Common sense
pointed out to him that the means he was adopting were defeat-
ing the object he had in view. Calm and sagacious observers
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1 8870 Taine's Estimate of Napoleon Bonaparte. 395
urged upon him the absolute necessity of securing a firm and
powerful ally upon the Continent. He should have conciliated
Austria instead of driving her to despair, should have indulged
her aspirations to the Eastward, and should have placed her as a
steadfast and equal opponent of Russia while he buckled on his
armor against England. He entered into such a compact with
Russia at Tilsit, but the bargain was not carried out because
Napoleon, according to his habit, at once began encroaching and
threatening, and trying to degrade Alexander into a victim or a
dupe. He will tolerate no ally ; he wants only subjects. The
powers began to discern this ; they began to see that Napoleon
Bonaparte was the enemy of every state he could not trample
under foot, and inevitably they began to band together for his
overthrow. The meaning of the death-struggle which then en-
sued was their death or the death of Napoleon.
Once launched upon this road he cannot stop. Every fresh
aggression necessitates a further. Besides this, his natural pro-
pensities led him in the same direction, had in' fact created the
causes which propelled him forward. When the peace of
Amiens was ruptured his neighbors formed a league with Eng-
land, and this led him to shatter the remaining old monarchies,
to subjugate Naples, carry out the first dismemberment of Aus-
tria, to mutilate and crumble Prussia, to make provinces of Hol-
land and Westphalia. Then he declared his quarantine against
England, and closed the ports of Europe from Denmark to Italy.
Over this vast extent of territory he had to scatter half the male
population of France as post officers and garrisons. It is a net
which he draws tighter each day, and which finally ends in
strangling the producer as well as the consumer by the enor-
mity of the taxes he is obliged to levy. All this he accomplish-
ed through an organized system of heartless plunder carried out
by unbridled rascals, and the whole amount of the evils flowing
therefrom it would require volumes to describe. From 1808
down the nations as well as the sovereigns of Europe became
his bitter enemies. He had killed so many men in his wars, and
had dragged away so many conscripts from all portions of the
Continent, that the whole populations came to regard him as an
insatiable Moloch. Positively there was no dwelling in peace
with this malevolent genius. He could not be pent into France,
he could not be controlled. He knew nothing of peace except
as a truce during which to recruit his broken forces. War was
his element, and war he meant to have so long as he lived..
Peace being the normal condition of society, the nations of
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396 Taine's Estimate of Napoleon Bonaparte. [June,
Europe soon saw that they would have to combine, to destroy
this monstrous abortion of genius, or else to be themselves de-
stroyed. How unanimous this sentiment was is revealed in the
account which Metternich gives of Bonaparte's return from Elba.
On March 7, 181 5, the news reached Vienna. Metternich saw
the Emperor of Austria at eight o'clock, the Emperor of Russia
at a quarter past, and the King of Prussia at half-past, returning
to the Austrian emperor at nine, with the arrangements all made
for the three powers to countermand the orders to their armies
and turn them back upon France once more. ** War," he says,
** was declared in less than sixty minutes."
Other monarchs have destroyed lives by the thousand and
wasted millions of money, but they did it with the idea of serv-
ing flie state. Personal glory may have entered largely into
their deeds, but the mainspring of their action was the idea of
strengthening their states and perpetuating their dynasties.
With Napoleon this way of viewing the world was reversed.
His own person was first in his eyes, and France only of inciden-
tal importance as contributing to his glory. He drifted on until
at length his own advancement was the sole object of his en-
deavors. He did not trouble himself to think what was going to
come after him ; nay, he even liked to think that people were
anxious about the issue after he had passed from the stage. The
years went by and he took no steps to put France in a condition
to stand without him. On the contrary, he continued his mad
career of ambition and conquest, flinging the disjointed frag-
ments he wrested from other nations together into one huge
heap, without giving them, or being able to give them, the
veriest semblance of the strength which should buttress the
immense empire he was carving out with his sword. Moreover,
he was rushing to his own ruin, at times conscious of the fact,
but so infatuated with his passion for power that he never paus-
ed. His own friends and intimates see the coming fall. ** The
emperor is mad," said Decrfes to Marmont, " utterly mad ; he
will upset the whole of us, and all this will end in some frightful
catastrophe." The end came for Napoleon at St. Helena. For
France the consequences have been more serious. M. Taine
sums up what he did for France and Europe in a few pregnant
sentences :
"From 1804 to 181 5 he has caused the death of more than 1700,000
Frenchmen, born within the limits of old France, to which we ought to
add 2,000,000 men born beyond those limits and killed on his side under
the name of allies, or killed on the other side under the name of enemies.
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1887.] Taine's Estimate of Napoleon Bonaparte. 397
What the poor, credulous, and enthusiastic Gauls gained by twice confid-
ing to him the helm of state was a twice-endured invasion. What he be-
queaths to them as the price of their devotion, after such a prodigious
shedding of their own blood and the blood of other people, is a France
truncated of fifteen departments acquired by the Republic ; bereft of Savoy,
the left bank of the Rhine, and Belgium ; despoiled of the great northeast
angle by which it is rounded off and which fortified its most vulnerable
point, and, to use Vauban's phrase, eked out its * square plot ' ; deprived of
the four millions of new Frenchmen that it had well-nigh assimilated by
twenty years of life in common ; what is far worse, pushed back from the
frontiers of 1789, alone dwarfed in the midst of its neighbors all aggran-
dized, an object of suspicion to all Europe, permanently pent in by a
threatening ring of rancor and distrust.
"Such was the political achievement of Napoleon — an achievement of
egotism too well served by genius. In the construction of his European
edifice, as well as his French edifice, the sovereign egotism introduced a
vital flaw. From the start this fundamental flaw is patent in the European
edifice, and at the end of fifteen years it produces an abrupt collapse. In
the French edifice it is serious, although less visible ; it will not be thor-
oughly disclosed until at the end of half a century, or even a whole hun-
dred years, but its slow and gradual effects will prove no less pernicious
and no less inevitable."*
We have now before us the study of the greatest hero of the
century by the most critical mind of the day. M. Taine is fond
of massing details, and he has searched all corners of France
apparently in producing this wonderful work, which will rank
among the choice biographical sketches of the world. Too often
he places these minute details, which the ordinary historian
overlooks, under the microscope, and, in his effort to trace the
features of a Malatesta's character in that of Napoleon, he gross-
ly exaggerates words, gestures, and trivial acts. Still, none who
has given any close attention to Bonaparte's career, as the pre-
sent writer has been led to do on various occasions, can dispute
the general accuracy of Taine's portraiture. Napoleon was in-
deed what Joseph de Maistre called him, the " modern Attila."
He was hurled into the world at the moment prepared to receive
him, with the passions and the aspirations of an ambitious des-
pot, with the instincts of a savage beast and the genius of a
demon. He accomplished his task of blood-letting well, and
was then caged at St. Helena, a monument of the folly, sin,
wretchedness, and terrible unrest of man.
Hugh P. McElrone.
* In composing this article I have found the translation made by Mr. M. W. Hazeltine for
the New York Sun of great use, and some of the quoted passages are done into English \>y him,
and have only been verbally altered by the present writer. In other parts 1 have followed the
original, in order to secure an accuracy which may not, indeed, be actually necessary, but which
it is always well to obeenre.
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398 The Law OF Christian Art. [June,
THE LAW OF CHRISTIAN ART.
Speaking in accordance with the faith which satisfies the
first need of humanity, the faith by whose title alone can man
claim the sovereignty of creation, let us consider what is art and
its true intention.
We know God is the only Source of truth, goodness, and
beauty — co-ordinate elements, whose expression by man can,
therefore, be only by grace of divine inspiration. Man is inde-
pendent, by his free will, in the use of his organs of expression,
and by the fall his nature is made debatable ground in the war
between eternal good and that eternal evil whose superlative is
denial of the existence of God. By our faith in God we know
we must choose good rather than evil, and that art should ever
be witness of that choice;
We are wont to say, when a man prostitutes his powers to the
expression of evil, that his art is false, debased — in short, human ;
and sadly true is the imprecation involved in that saying, for
•*we are born children of wrath." Yes, denying the better
elements within us, made triumphant by the grace of baptism,
working in proud self-reliance, and with subjective intention
alone, we make art too grievously human. For it is the highest
and holiest truth of our faith that we owe every good to God,
and therefore all the eflForts of our life must be made to witness
our belief in him, our hope in him, and our love of him ; not only
by unmeasured heartthrobs, but also by constant and intelligent
obedience to law. Therefore, by our choice of good, we make
the broad definition that art — that is, man's inherent power of
producing "creations of a second order" — is true art in exact
proportion as its productions confess God ; in exact proportion
as they show, immediately or remotely, their author's acknow-
ledgment of the Spirit's dominion over matter.
Natural law is expression of the will of God ; therefore any
form or combination of forms, or sounds, or colors which, actu-
ally or by imphcation, contradict natural law, in so far as they
do so are false. But it is a law of the highest order that man
shall work not for his own but for God's glory. Erected only
with a human intention, a work in whose technique every subor-
dinate law is obeyed is yet false in such a sense that it were bet-
ter if it had never been produced. Dare we not say that the art
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188;.] The Law of Christian Art. 399
of our epoch is reaching to this pass? In the mechanic arts
knowledge and obedience of natural law have produced results
which perhaps show more purely acknowledgment of God's do-
minion than the productions of the arts we call fine. It is easy
to understand why this is so. The laws of increase in the har-
vest, the expansion of steam, and the generation of electricity are
past our control, in the sense that we can only labor humbly to
learn their action, so our own work will not oppose them. The
locomotive and the telegraph are rather instances of successful
obedience than triumphs of human pride. In fact, the mechanic
arts are not arts of expression, as are the fine arts, but we cite
their development as evidence of the tendency of modern
thought to the study of material gratification. Though tri-
umphs of material gratification, we cannot condemn the' locomo-
tive and the telegraph, because, like a generous harvest, they are
good for those who use them rightly- The pride of science in-
jures only the scientist; his work blesses mankind because of its
goodness in itself.
Reflect for an instant upon the mysterious power given to
man — the power of so speaking, singing, writing, painting, carv-
ing, or building that his utterance of whatever sort, though it
must ever be comparatively unworthy in itself to represent the
thought which conceived it, is yet indelibly marked with the
character of that thought, and makes it live again in the mind of
every beholder — in the minds of some only as a faint perfume, in
the minds of others like the strong incense befpre high altars.
When a pure and fearless man turns to the contemplation of
his own destiny, and God in his mercy lends him grace, he burns
with a high desire of making visibly manifest the wondrous and
unchanging truths which, in renewed vigor, come to live in his
thought, and so he may speak or build, and, if he has earned
knowledge of law, his work indeed is excellent. And this man's
work has such a power over the minds of his fellows that, while
it endures, it will awaken every beholder to a devotion like to
that which brought such rich grace to his own soul ; and we live
by grace, wherefore this man has, as it were, given the means of
life to his fellow-men. This is art in its highest development.
The arts are indeed two-edged, cutting two ways : the un-
faithful artist imperils his own salvation by his worship of his
own power, and his works publish his unfaithfulness to the
spiritual danger of all who may behold them. It is said of
such a roan that his knowledge of the technique of color is un-
surpassed, and his labor upon canvas for half a lifetime has given
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400 The La w of Christian Art. [June,
him almost perfect command of one of the most powerful me-
diums of thought. He is the honored of the wise and the rich.
He paints a great picture for an exhibition. All the world
crowd to see it. What do they find? Nothing shocking. The
conventionalities of life are quite sacred to the artist. Moreover,
he must paint for his patrons, who are good people. So he has
chosen a splendid scene of Oriental pageantry, where the gloss
of silk, the glitter of arms, the purple of royal robes, and the no-
ble forms of high-bred men and horses give fine opportunity for
displaying his masterly power. A sunny plain, and afar the dash
of a sapphire sea where white ship-wings flash against a golden
sky, show that he makes nature's splendors serve his purpose
well. The spectators come and go. Go in wonder and admira-
tion, but — not one in love. Even the color-sensualist wearies of
tones which are nothing else but tones. Yet this is art too —
** art for art's sake," or rather art for the artist's sake ; and in fact,
though not in manner, in this phase art has reached its lowest
degradation. As art holds of humanity, its mission is to teach
and to exhort, to lead humanity to the intelligent and devoted
worship of the Eternal Love. Let us not be told that art's duty is
sufficiently fulfilled when it is the truthful chronicle or portrayal
of the manners and customs of an age. It fulfils that part of its
duty passively by a natural law whose action it can scarce avoid ;
but to fulfil its duty as a power of instruction and inspiration is
required the conscious act of the artist's will. He may live and
work in the error that the power of art is self-sustained and im^
poses no divine obligation upon him ; and the fruit of bis error is
work whose excellence can be only technical, and whose in-
fluence can only be to fortify the passions in their unending war
with the spirit. He need not be grossly voluptuous, but his
work will be no less powerfully degrading ; for the generality of
people shrink from a palling sensuality, while they yield to the
seductive sway of a delicately and richly illustrated human sen-
timent. We have spoken as though the unfaithful artist were
always endowed with wealth of technical knowledge and skill.
The unfaithful artist is .the artist of today, who is unfaithful be-
cause he is proud. The artists of primitive civilizations were
more faithful because their crude eflForts at delineation and build-
ing made them humble. The thought, the inspiration in obe-
dience to which they worked was not obscured by brilliance
and perfect harmony of color, nor by delicacy of form and fin-
ished execution. They were conscious of the nobility of their
inspiration and that that inspiration was the gift of a superior
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1887.] The Law OF Christian Art. 401
Power, and in their devotion they "builded better than they
knew." The artist of a higher civilization, who is born heir to
the knowledge of ages, finds in the atelier of his master tech-
nical methods which, being well learnt, give him a wonderful
facility in the expression of ideas, but more facility in imitative
representation. Charmed with the various combinations of
form or color or sound which come crowding to his fancy, ex-
ultant in his power of producing so easily " creations of a second
order," which fill his life with a revel of harmony as enchanting
as the voices of the sirens, the architect or the sculptor, the
painter, the poet, or the musician, forgets the purpose for which
bis power is given him, and the fable of Prometheus is repeated
in all but its insane blasphemy.
The imperious instinct which prompts the artist to illustrate
bis humanity — ^its form, divinely fair; its passions, heroically
strong ; its purer sense of the material beauty surrounding it,
which in the eyes of the heathen is its noblest virtue ; and its
high intelligence, seeking to know all physical law — the desire to
illustrate this wondrous thing is not to be condemned as long as
(with his other instincts) it is kept subject to reason and re-
vealed law.
This is the keynote of true art — to study humanity as it is
the temple of divinity. In the ruinous pride of self- adoration
the greatest architect is but a builder of sheds for cattle, the
sculptor an idol-cutter, the musician an empty trumpeter, the
poet a rhymester, and the painter a dauber of signs.
Religion is the mother of art. Let the Christian artist re-
member this and be true to the high duty his power's parentage
imposes on him.
A thought of the correlative action of spiritual and physical
influences develops a vastly extended field of fascinating inquiry,
upon which we cannot enter in the narrow scope of this article.
But our indication of primary artistic law were incomplete with-
out a glimpse at the gorgeous realm where fancy, like a happy
child, disports in innocence and grace. In our physical nature
we are subject to purely physical influences, so that climate and
the structure of the land we inhabit exert an irresistible control
over the technique of art.
The history of art gives convincing illustration of this truth.
To the scintillating clearness of the atmosphere, the gorgeous
verdure of the valleys, and the rugged grandeur of the moun-
tain-ranges that sentinel a golden sea, must we ascribe the per-
fect delicacy of form, the voluptuous color united to simple con-
VOL. XLV.^36
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402 The Law of Christian Art. [June,
ceptions, and the wonderful statical vigor of Grecian art. To
the humid air, the monotonous plains, intersected with sluggish
canals, and veiled in a perpetual haze through which glows a
mellow and lymphatic sun,, are we indebted for the sober color-
ing and obscure forms of Dutch art. In short, physical influ-
ences, within certain limits, are imperative, but they are always
subordinate to the spirit, to that intellectual bias that makes the
most glorious of the Grecian monuments indicate nothing higher
than its builders knew — the worship of their own humanity.
And while we admire the good workmanship of the Dutch
masters, and amuse ourselves by tracing the influences that pro-
duced the physical characteristics of their pictures, we seek in
vain a nobler inspiration than they yon from the scenes of
domestic life their limning made immortal. Even when they
reach to heroic subjects their inspiration is no less "of the
earth, earthy,'* and it needs no exhaustive analysis to reveal the
fact that this materialistic spirit was legitimate fruit of their
religious heresy.
But we stand before a Fra Angelico or a Raphael, and tech-
nical criticism is silenced. The spirit of the work speaks as with
a living voice, and the mind is made majestically reflective by
the thought of God's presence, to which that spirit makes ap-
peal.
Whether in the rude sculptures and inscriptions of the cata-
combs; the form and decorations of the basilicas and cathedrals
of the church's early freedom and of her glory in the Middle
Ages; in the new life of the Renaissance; whether in Italy, the
home of art, or in Asia Minor, or in those regions of the Upper
Nile where once in tens of thousands the saints of God took
refuge ; in Spain, in France, in Germany, in Holland, in Ireland,
and in England, wherever the Christian worked in Christian
faith, let the physical conditions be however divergent and the
civil life however tumultuous, you find in Christian art one un-
varying and dominant characteristic — viz., recognition and obe-
dience of the divine element in human life. So that we say the
ideal artist is he who, most clearly discerning the true value of
physical influences, instead of being controlled by them, makes
them subservient to the better expression of that sentiment of
jsupernal beauty which is his birthright as a Christian. Art is a
universal language, for it has this in common with religion, that
while religion is the fountain through which flows God's grace,
art is the flowery verdure nourished at the fountain's brink.
Adrian W. Smith.
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1887.] The Sign of the Shamrock. 403
THE SIGN OF THE SHAMROCK.
Into the streets of Kilkenny, all paved with marble, as the
adage runs, rolled at a tremendous gallop an outside car, and
close behind it rode a youth, booted and spurred, whooping and
cursing, who seemed to have a spite against the driver and wish-
ed to worry him into an upset. When they reached the lovely
bridge that spans the Nore ju^t below the castle of the Or-
mondes, the car had to slacken speed owing to the high grade of
the bridge ; the horseman, who seemed to have had too much to
drink, crowded his horse to the left of the car and was about to
slash with his riding- whip at the driver, when his horse, a mag-
nificent creature, maddened by such pranks, reared and got his
forefeet on the parapet. Through instinct or judgment, through
horsemanship or the pure luck of a drunkard, the ruddy-locked
youth drove his spurs deep into his steed, and, lifting his head,
carried him bodily over the side of the bridge into the river.
Had he done anything else he would have been thrown and the
horse ruined if not killed ; as it was, nobody was hurt. Setting
his head to the other side, the dare-devil steered in triumph
across the little river, glancing delighted at the driver, who had
scrambled oflF his seat in horror and was now quaking against
the stone parapet.
As the horse scrambled up the other bank a tall gentleman
in angler's clothes stood with a young girl watching the scene,
the man composedly puffing a cigarette, the girl intensely ex-
cited.
As he caught sight of the meanly-clad but neat figure, the
rolls of dark hair, the cheek colored like the wild raspberry blos-
som, the horseman checked his insolent bravado and looked sud-
denly serious.
" Lasarina, by Jove ! Just my luck ! " And he uncovered his
curly locks without looking again.
He walked his good horse to the inn — called from the emblem
on its signboard The Sign of the Shamrock — dismounted, refused
to drink with the landlord, who, by the rarest chance, happened
for a moment to be visiting his own property, and, seizing the
guest-book, read, " George Quincy Townsend, New York,''
written in a small, firm hand. Then he walked with none too
steady step into the street and betook himself to a boon compan-
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404 The Sign of the Shamrock. [June,
ion who occupied the extremel)' unenviable position of generally
known secret agent in the employ of Dublin Castle. One more
drink placed him in possession of the fact, vouched for by the
Castle detectives, that George Quincy Townsend was a genuine
tourist, who sketched, fished, had nothing whatever to do with
Irish politics, and enjoyed plenty of means. Then Gerald — for
that was our squireen's name — returned to the inn and went to
bed for an hour; nor were his dreams pleasant, nor did he wake
otherwise than cursing poverty, cursing his own habits, and re-
gretting the day he was born.
On ordinary days Kilkenny is a quaint and musty old town,
but on days of fair it is glorious. The Castle and cathedral hold
themselves aloof in the pride of religious and secular aristocracy
from the town that lies between the hills on which they stand.
The broad main street that connects them is jammed with home-
made carts drawn by impossible donkeys, shoals of sheep, flocks
and bevies of pigs, mournful indignation meetings of heifers,
and always the accruing and dissolving knots of men in rough,
long-tailed frieze coats, soft tall hats, and knee-breeches, and with
rosy-cheeked women in caps, shawls, and thick blue petticoats.
The strange sing-song of Gaelic rises from many a group, oddly
intermixed with English more or less be-brogued, and the old
houses of rich merchants and aristocrats long ago defunct, as well
as the thatched dwellings of humble citizens, echo to their last
chamber with the tumult. One might think anything were go-
ing on except the innocent sale of the products of pasture and
ploughland.
The sun fell, but the fair was not over, though men turned
more readily to the shops where whiskey was sold, and the
sturdy women were not much behind the men. As the setting
light crept up the round shaft of the tower that nestles by and
overtops the old St. Canice's, Gerald was walking slowly up and
down the circular street, narrow and high-in walled, that runs
about the cathedral close. It was twilight before his eager eyes
caught Lasarina's as she reached the head of St. Canice's Stairs.
It was a face of dark brown almost black eyes, beautifully-cut
nose, hair that passed for black but was not, small, firm mouth
whose one corner was the slightest bit lower than the other, and
a complexion like cream with Spitzenberg apples in it. There
was much goodness in the face, a possibility of meekness, but a
much larger chance of a quick temper. Gerald noticed that
she did not spring forward holding out her hand, according to
wont.
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1887.] The Sign of the Shamrock. 405
" I got a good ducking for my foolishness/* he said, with a
shade of apology in his voice.
** You might have killed your horse."
" I suppose you mean if I'd killed myself I should have been
no great loss — eh, Lasarina ?
" I'm thinking you might be doing something better than
putting dumb beasts to such straits, let alone making a spectacle
of yourself in the streets and frightening me almost to death."
*' That I'm no good is sure; it is a thousand times I've said
so, Lasarina, and no girl but you would stick to me — Heaven
bless you ! But what a shame it is, when in all Cork and Water-
ford there's not a man but would be happy for the wee-est thresh-
keen of a drop of a smile from your eye ! "
" Soothering don't mend ways."
" I mean no flattery. It is true as gospel. But though I do
drink — I know that is what you mean, though you are too kind
and considerate to speak out — I am not all bad. But I'm going
from bad to worse. I promised not to touch a drop the last time
I was in town ; and you saw me at the bridge — and the strange
gentleman — "
Lrasarina covered her face with her shawl with a very natural,
very pathetic gesture, as if, not able to deny what he said, she
spared him the shame of looking in his face.
He took her head in both hands and pressed his hot lips to
her brow.
"You must not love me much. Do you hear?" he cried.
" No good will come of it. For me, Pm not fit for you to wed ;
but if, loving me so, you marry another, my face will be coming
between you and him."
The girl started back and warded away the hands which
groped for her blindly.
" If that be so, what are you doing here ? Why have you
asked , me to come? What means all that has gone before?"
Her voice was low but decided, and a man less agitated
would have heard decision there and been warned.
" You do not care much for me yet, darling," said he, drop-
ping his arms helplessly to his sides. ** You enjoy your walks
with the stranger by the river, and appreciate the admiration he
shows very well, although perhaps he does not speak it freely."
" I did not know you were jealous," said Lasarina.
** If I am jealous I can still see somebody's interests besides
mine — your interests, my own love, which do not lie in a union
with me."
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4o6 The SrcN of the Shamrock. [June,
** Put your mind at rest on that score. You are free to go
where you wish, love whom you wish, marry when you wish — "
Gerald bent his head to the storm, but, as it failed to burst
any further, he replied :
"Strike again, strike harder, Lasarina! I deserve it all and
more. But you are to be considered, not I. The man is rich ;
he is in love with you, as any one must be who has seen anything
of you ; he will oflFer himself to-day, to-morrow — perhaps he
has done so already?"
" Go on," said Lasarina, curling a little lip, which bore a dark-
ish down upon it.
" You will not say ? Then he has. But you have not given
him a final answer, that is plain. In case you do not know much
about him I think it my duty to tell you all I have learned of
him."
'*Oh I " cried Lasarina, with a start, "do tell me about him.
How kind you are ! "
Gerald turned away to conceal the dismay that overspread
his face at this interest, but came back doggedly to his task.
" Well, then, so far as worldly things go, the man is said to
be well-to-do. Though an American, he is well-born, rich, and
seems to be well-bred. The chance for such a husband may not
occur again in poor, tumble-down Kilkenny during the next hun-
dred years. If you love him at all, take him and forget me.
Life is short ; you know what my prospects are. Even if I went
to America, one can no longer pick up a fortune there in the
streets. Did I not promise your father to be your friend in all
ways ? I must not swerve because I love you. To be sure, I
would not advise you thus if you loved me as I do you, ut-
terly—"
"Oh ! but I don't," said Lasarina calmly.
"That I knew," said the man, swallowing his words and
speaking thickly, " but always hoped against hope."
" It's just this way, Gerald : if I had means I should never
think of any other man but you ; we should wed, and I would
keep you straight. We might be happy. But, poor as I am,
what can I do for you but keep you dispirited and morose, and,
if we did finally marry, be a drag on you ? So you see we have
both reached the same conclusion, and — and — now we must part
for ever ! "
The girl threw both her arms about his neck and gave him a
kiss, the like of which had never happened to poor Gerald,
leaving him benumbed with joy ; but the next instant Lasarina
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1887.] The Sign of the Shamrock. 407
was at the top of St. Canice's Stairs — then was gone. With her
went all Gerald's gladness ; misery rose about him like a flood,
clutched him by the throat, drove him stumbling and blasphem-
ing up and down the cobble-stones of the little curved street
with its pitiless blank walls, then cast him contemptuously into a
comer among some sleeping dogs, that yelped, growled, and fled
into the town.
The canon took him for a dog as he passed that way on his
usual evening stroll. The circular, close street by the cathedral
was his favorite, for nobody was to be met there save an old wo-
man or two, who remained speechless from reverence or from
fear — reverence for his priestly garb, fear lest he should dis-
cover that they had been begging at the Protestant rectory.
He came nigh to stumbling over Gerald as he lay there with
his face hidden in his arm. Something about his spurs recalled
the scene of the afternoon, for he, too, had witnessed the esca-
pade. He leaned down, touched the man's shoulder :
" Gerald ! It is not possible ! "
'* Leave me, go away ; nothing can make me want to live now,"
muttered poor Gerald.
The canon's voice was very stern :
" Shame on you, to wallow like a dog ! If you have no pity
on your parents and relatives, think of Lasarina ! "
Gerald was on his feet in a moment, looking very sheepish.
" I — I am sober, father. It was Lasarina — I mean it is all
over between us. I told her she had better accept him ; wasn't
I right, father?"
"Accept whom, my son?" asked the canon, surprised at his
mistake, and a little mortified.
" The rich American who wants to marry her — the tall man
staying at the inn ; you've seen him fishing in the river, haven't
you?"
" Yes ; but I've not seen him at Mass," said the priest.
" He has been making up to her, and as I promised her father
to be her friend, no matter how it hurt me, and as I hear he is
rich and all right, we — we agreed that we should part — for ever."
"You mean you suggested, and she agreed, like a girl of
spirit?"
" Perhaps—"
" Well, Gerald, I'll tell you what I think. Drink has taken
the nerve out of you. You are no better than a sick man, and
your disease is.drink. Now, I like a drop of whiskey myself, but
I despise a man who makes a beast of himself through whiskey
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4o8 The Sign of the Shamrock. [June,
or any other means. Some people despise drunkards and then
over-eat themselves daily ; they're just as bad, but not such a dis-
grace to their kin. Nobody but Lasarina could keep you straight,
and now you have simply cast her off — all through your tremen-
dous modesty ! "
" O father, is that fair ? May I die if it was not for her good
I spoke ! "
" Who told you it was best she should marry this man and not
you ? Are you going to interfere in God's work, the love of two
young simpletons such as you are, just because you've lost faith
in Him and in your ability to provide for Lasarina? Here's a
fine piece of superfluous generosity ! Here's a man who can ar-
range things better than Fate ! I'm disgusted with ye ! "
They had left the cathedral hill and were on the main street,
where the fair was still in progress by lamp and torchlight. The
golden and pink masses of pigs and piglets had shrunk very great-
ly, but enough remained to fill the street with color and cries.
The sellers of clothes had shouted and tippled themselves hoarse.
Just as the canon and his crestfallen friend reached the old town-
hall, which straddles half across the street, the latter stopped short,
petrified with horror. Under the arch near a lamp sat the tall
American with a painter's box on his lap, sketching a group of
women who were eagerly discussing the merits of a brace of pigs.
But who was that by his side, calmly holding his pencils as if —
as if, poor Gerald thought, she was already his wife ? Lasarina.
The canon himself was not a little disturbed at the sight, for
such a thing was unheard of in Kilkenny. A girl might as well
proclaim that she valued her modesty not a straw as parade her-
self after such a fashion, particularly with a stranger far from old
or ugly. Indeed, she colored when her eye caught them, slanted
her face away, and toyed nervously, with one foot behind the
other like a child caught in the preserve- closet. The stranger
was too absorbed to know who was looking on ; perhaps he did
not care. When he looked up at Lasarina it was not without a
certain kindling of his face that showed how much her singular
beauty pleased him.
The canon approached, beckoning Lasarina, but Gerald re-
mained where he was. The girl obeyed, but took care to keep
the canon between her and her former love, studiously ignoring
the man from whom she had separated herself for ever. Perhaps
she felt that henceforth public opinion would denounce Gerald
should he seek to renew his suit to a g^rl who had so openly g^ven
cause for ungenerous remarks. It was the culmination of those
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1887.] The Sign of the Shamrock. 409
walks in the gardens by the river under the walls of Ormonde
Castle, which had so delighted the gossips of the town that Ger-
ald had quickly heard all about them.
"Is it not late for you to be about the streets, my dear?"
asked the canon gently, hardly knowing how to approach a mat-
ter so delicate.
** I am with Mr. Townsend/' she answered, keeping her eyes
on the ground. " He is an American," she added hastily, *' here
for a few days only." She became almost painfully embarrassed.
** He — he has just told me, not an hour ago, something that will
change my life completely. I am going away with him. He — he
will call on you, father, to-night — and — I am coming too — for
your blessing."
Her dark cheek crimsoned under the ejaculation of surprise
the good priest could not suppress, and she gave him one swift,
half-smiling, embarrassed glance.
"Lasarina!" said the stranger, without looking round, and
Lasarina turned and fled to his side with a deprecating look
at Father Coyne. The latter rejoined Gerald, and the two,
both moody and preoccupied now, went on toward the inn.
There the canon stopped, and, taking Gerald's hand, said to
him:
" My boy, good and evil come to us in mysterious ways.
You may have been right to release Lasarina from her pledges,
but, now that you have overthrown self and made a sacrifice to
what you think best for her, I want one more step, and now.
There are men who can make a verbal promise and keep it ; you
are not one. But a written promise you dare not, you will not
break. Put your name there."
He drew from his pocket a temperance pledge of the ordi-
nary kind, forced a pencil into Gerald's hand, and stood over
him till he signed.
" Now," said he, twisting a wisp of blue ribbon into Gerald's
button-hole, " you have no excuse, even if your best friend urges
you to drink. Go, my son ; perhaps better days await you."
Gerald went slinking into the inn as if he were no great hero,
as indeed he was not ; but when the tapster in the little den off
the hall winked at him, he showed him the blue ribbon and pass-
ed on.
" Whew ! " was all the tapster could say.
At the oflice his eye caught a letter addressed to himself. It
bore United States stamps, the postmark of a mining town in
Idaho, and he thought he knew the hand :
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410 The Sign of the Shamrock. [June,
" My dear Boy : Take the very next steamer from the Cove
and travel straight to this town ; I have a place for you with a
good salary and certainty of a rise. You may stop long enough
m New York to engage a wife, for there's no choice out here,
and I wouldn't hamper myself with an Irish girl who doesn't
know the customs of the country and will be homesick. This
is no joke — at least the place and salary part of it. Drop every-
thing in Kilkenny — Kilkenny will keep — and come at once. I
enclose you a through ticket and twice as much in a money-
order as you will need if you are economical. Come, I tell you,
come at once ! Cable day you leave.
" Michael Cleary.**
If Gerald had been struck by a hammer he could not have
been more dazed, for along with the emotion of the news and
the prospect it held out came the flash that it was too late to
affect Lasarina. Now he thought of it, the letter must have been
there all the time. Only his unhappy condition from drink and his
preoccupation concerning Lasarina had caused him to overlook
it, and in that tavern nobody looked after anything. Out of the
blue sky — for who could expect to hear from Michael Cleary,
his cousin and old schoolmate, just that day, when years had
passed without a word of news either from or of him ?— out of the
blue sky fell this beneficent bolt, only to find Gerald's life a
wreck. So he thought, poor boy, being little versed in love-af-
fairs and the healing virtues of travel and a new life in a new land
of clear heavens and majestic scenery. How ill, how stunned
he felt ! how he yearned for death !
The rain began to fall presently with that soft suddenness and
pertinacity it uses in Ireland, and Gerald crept into the dark wait-
ing-room and lay down on the sofa. Was it too late ? Could not
Lasarina be mollified, taken from the stranger, married — ay,
married out of hand— and taken with him to America? Cleary
was joking about the wife, but not entirely. An American wife,
indeed — not if he knew himself ! Where could Lasarina find her
peer? Who in history, in courts, in beauty- books compared
with Lasarina ?
As he lay Mr. Townsend came in, followed by the girl her-
self.
" We must go to see the canon now, my dear," said he,
" rain or no rain ; but I won't have you wet your feet. I've
ordered a ear. If we strike for the steamer to-morrow our
work with the canon must be done to-night."
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1887.] The Sign of the Shamrocks 411
" Very good," said Lasarina a little tremulously.
" Poor child ! " said Townsend, with the greatest kindness in
his voice, " I know it is a great step for you ; I wish I could give
you more time. And to leave your native place, your friends —
oh ! I sympathize. But what would you have ? Next week,
next month the wrench would be just as hard."
Lasarina was crying softly.
" Believe me, I have special reasons for wanting to go at
once — to-night, if we could, I never want to see Kilkenny
again."
** Is it so ? Why, go we shall, then. It is not such a terrible
drive over that beautiful road to Thurles, where we can get
earlier trains to Queenstown. I have umbrellas and wraps;
with a good nag we'll be there by midnight, have eight hours
to sleep and one to breakfast, then off to the New World ! "
Every word was a deadly stab to the foolish boy who lay
clutching the horsehair sofa till his nails broke. Lasarina left
the room hastily, and presently Townsend went to his chamber
to pack ; then <Jerald could escape. He was cold and steady
now ; his brain seemed to expand and take in the whole globe.
He saw the New World, the ocean, Queenstown and the waiting
steamer, the railway, Kilkenny station and the wet streets. He
walked to the stable, said something to the boy, argued with,
bullied, and feed him ; then, muffled in the driver's rain-coat and
with the driver's hat and neckcloth over forehead and chin, he
drove the car to the door.
He sat silent while the boy put Mr. Townsend's trunk and
Lasarina's little box in the well, tied the extra wraps and valises
on one seat, and helped the girl and the stranger to their seat,
tucking well round their feet the India-rubber blanket of the
American.
" To Canon Coyne's, driver ! I have all the documents here,
Lasarina," he continued, " the letters and photographs. Perhaps
you had better stay on the car till I have satisfied the canon as
to who I am and so forth."
Nothing more was said, but hardly had the canon's door shut
on him when the car moved off, the driver driving furiously.
*' Where are you going ? " cried Lasarina through the rain.
" Shure to cover, miss," answered the driver, pointing to the
old St. Peter's gate near by, which did indeed afford a good shel-
ter from the rain. Arriving below the arch, the driver sprang
down, ran round to Lasarina, threw off" his cap, and clasped her
knees.
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412 The Sign of the Shamrock. [June,
" For God*s sake, Lasarina, what are you doing ? Have you
promised to marry this man? Is that your errand with him at
night in Canon Coyne's house ? But what am I asking ?"
** Who was it," asked Lasarina severely, *' who advised me to
marry Mr. Townsend? What were the words? Oh :* It is a
chance that may not occur again in poor tumble-down Kilkenny
during the next hundred years.' And then : * If you love him
at all, take him and forget me.' I shall not forget those words
soon."
" O Lasarina ! I did not know what I was saying. Darling, I
was suffering then from remorse, self-disdain ; for I knew you
had seen me in the afternoon the worse for liquor. A drunkard's
wife— no, I would rather die than see you that."
" Don't talk so," cried Lasarina.
** But see, I am reformed — this time for ever." And the poor
boy showed his blue ribbon. " I have not promised only, I have
signed ; and any man who gets a drop down my throat now will
have to kill me first ! "
Poor Gerald said " me trote," for when agitated he lapsed
into the softest, sweetest brogue imaginable ; and so, in truth,
did Lasarina.
" More news ! " he cried, fancying from the girl's silence that
he had made some impression on her. " Michael Cleary has
written to me. Do you mind Mike Cleary, who used to wallop
the big boys when they slatted me with stones ? Well, Mike has
written that I must come to Idaho in America at once, at once—
sends me a ticket and enough money, enough money, money —
for the two of us, darling ! "
Here Gerald clasped the india-rubber blanket so hard that
Lasarina moved uneasily. At last she had a chance to get a
word in edgewise.
"And what is it all to me, Gerald Fitzgerald, when at your
own bidding we have parted for ever ? "
" O my own true love ! you know that had I had that letter
before we met to-night all would have been well ; no cruel
words would have been spoken ; all our future would have been
clear. Are you so relentless? It was foolish in me; Canon
Coyne says so, too. But the folly was on the heart-side, darling.
Punish me as you will, but, O Lasarina ! don't put the bar of
matrimony between us. Stave this marriage ofi ; let me prove
myself a man fit to wear you on my breast. Give me a chance,
then choose between us."
Lasarina sat silent and the rain swished, swished steadily
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iSS/.j The Sign of the Shamrock. 413
•
down on Kilkenny. Gerald could hear his heart thump — per-
haps Lasarina could, too ; for the poor boy did not know with
what desperate grip he held the fair one's knees.
" Quick! drive to the canon's," she said at last Speechless-
ly obeying, Gerald helped her off and stood by the canon's door,
which seemed about to close upon him and leave him on the
rainy side of luck for ever. But Lasarina, from some whim —
was it to avenge still more the slight he had put on her former
love for him ? — beckoned him in, and he followed.
Mr. Townsend looked up wonderingly at the unexpected
guest, but Lasarina said nothing to explain matters. She stood
there, suddenly very deep damask crimson, very much embar-
rassed, and most startlingly beautiful with her wet locks about
her brow and her cloak half-fallen from her shoulders.
"Why, Gerald," said the canon, "have you come to say
good- by to Lasarina ? "
Gerald was speechless, and the girl was not willing or able
to help him out.
Mr. Townsend turned to the canon and said low : " A brother,
cousin, or lover?"
Gerald's tongue felt like a raw potato, but he managed to say :
" Received letter — Mike Cleary — good place for me — Ameri-
ca — going myself — next steamer — "
"So, so," quoth Mr. Townsend; "you are off, too. Our
steamer leaves day after to-morrow ; and yours ? "
Poor Gerald rolled his eyes, whether in embarrassment or
jealous wrath could not be distinguished. Finally he said :
" If — if Lasarina does not object."
The canon could contain himself no longer, but burst into a
peal of laughter, in which, strange to say, the American joined.
But the two younger people did not laugh.
" If Gerald and Lasarina belonged to another class," said he
at length, " I should know what their appearance in my study
meant. But although I know that Gerald has always loved
Lasarina faithfully, to-day, it appears, he gave her up for ever,
bestowing her, entirely without her knowledge or consent, in
marriage upon you, Mr. Townsend."
" Well," said Townsend drily, " I had a cable from one wife
yesterday. I must have sadder news than that before I wed
again, even with her little cousin Lasarina."
Gerald stared from one to the other with white cheeks, and,
seeing a smile on Lasarina's face, dropped on his knees as if he
had been shot. Placing his hands tightly over his eyes, he
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414 A Chat ABOUT New Books. [June,
showed by the heaving of his shoulders that the tears which
forced themselves through his fingers were wrung from him by
the agony of a great relief.
Lasarina slipped forward and knelt by his side, so that her
dark locks touched his ruddy ones. Mechanically the canon
stretched out his hands, and from his lips escaped a benediction.
As he did so George Quincy Townsend, American, heretic, ma-
terialist, found himself breathing a prayer, and paused surprised.
Charles de Kay.
A CHAT ABOUT NEW BOOKS.
Mr. William Black's name recalls pleasant memories.
Who can forget the delightful heroines of A Daughter of Heth,
and A Princess of Thule^ or the chivalric, weird, young, and
unhappy hero of McLeod of Dare f And therefore a new novel
by a master of the art of fiction, to whom we owe so much plea-
sure, raises expectations of respite from ** the cares that infest the
day." Sabina Zembra is the new novel. Sabina is the daugh-
ter of Sir Anthony Zembra, a very great London magnate. Sir
Anthony is rich and a personage in society. He objects to his
eldest daughter's going into a hospital and becoming a trained
nurse. But Sabina prefers this mode of life ; she objects to din-
ner-parties, flower-shows, dances, and the other laborious means
by which people in society contrive to make life intolerable. Sir
Anthony, therefore, asks her to leave his house, and he gives her
a fair allowance. After this he, his second wife, and Sabina's
step-sisters amuse themselves according to their way, and Sabina
lives with some very nice, very poor, and very artistic people.
Sir Anthony's governess continues to write accounts of his and
his family's goings-in and comings-out for the ''society " papers,
and he inspires and enjoys them ; but in public he is understood
never to read these journals : he never sees them until " his at-
tention is called to them ! "
Sabina's state of mind is interesting. We almost hope in the
beginning that she may become a real Sister of Charity instead
of an experimental nurse. But this hope is soon dispelled by
the appearance of a wounded bicycle-rider, whom Sabina forces
Sir Anthony to keep in his house, and whom she nurses. Mr.
Black tells us that Sabina, working for the suffering, had " mo-
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1887.] A Chat about New Books. 415
ments of exaltation." " She would sometimes repeat to herself,
as with a kind of ineffable longing/* the mystic stanza from Ten-
nyson's " St. Agnes " :
" Break up the heavens, O Lord I and far,
Through all yon starlight keen,
Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star.
In raiment white and clean."
He thus describes her state of mind :
" But there was little time for self-communing during the continuous
labor of the long day. Nor was she much given to pitying herself in any
circumstances ; it was the suffering of others that moved her, and here
there was plenty of that, only too obvious, all around her. Moreover, she
was a particularly healthy young woman, and she could bear fatigue better
than any of her sister non-professionals, although when they got away to
supper, about half-past eight or nine, and all of them pretty well fagged
out with the day's work, they used to joke her about her sleepy disposi-
tion. It was rumored, moreover, that one or two of the medical students
who came about had cast an eye on this pretty, tall, benignant-eyed nurse,
who looked so neat and smart in her belted gown and apron and cap, and
that they paid a good deal more attention to her than to the patient whose
condition she had to report to the doctor. But Sabie was impervious to
all that kind of thing. It was only when she was with the other nurses at
night that the dimple in her cheek appeared, and that she showed herself
— as long as her eyes would keep open — blithe and friendly and merry-
hearted. Perhaps she was only a woman's woman, after all."
The appearance of the young bicycle-rider changes all this.
Walter Lindsay, a chivalrous and generally admirable young
artist, becomes a desperate admirer of Miss Zembra, after the
manner of William Black's heroes. But William Black's heroes
have now a certain old-fashioned flavor — a flavor of the aesthetic
period that produced Oscar Wilde — and all old-fashioned things
seem unreal when introduced into modern life. In this way
the period of Oscar Wilde is really more archaic than that
of Queen Anne, because the latter is more in fashion than the
former. Walter Lindsay, like most literary men and artists, is
nothing of a Bohemian; Henri Murger would have found no
pleasure in him. He is an intense young man, as eager to sac-
rifice everything he possesses to the lady of his thoughts as Ser
Federigo was to kill his falcon. Nevertheless Sabina marries
the bicycle-rider, and, instead of becoming the wife of a famous
London artist with a studio in peacock-blue and gold, she sinks
into an appendage to the thoroughly selfish bicycle-rider, Mr.
Fred Foster. Sabina lacks the interest with which Mr. Black
usually surrounds his heroines. In fact, like Mr. Hardy and Mr.
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4i6 A Chat about New Books. [June,
Blackmore, he has lost that peculiarity, delicacy, and indescriba-
ble quality which made him famous. Fred Foster's gradual
descent from mere idle selfishness to active criminality is well
described. Sabina is forced to endure the amusements of her
husband, whose diversions are those of the ordinary worthless
young man about town. Her husband cannot understand her
not being able to join in his delight in London music-halls,
where even hereditary legislators have been known to disport
themselves. Mr. Black gives several examples of the kind of
gayety in which the patrons of these places delight. One can
easily sympathize with Sabina's disgust as she sits in a box with
two of her husband's male friends. Mr. Black pictures an
amusement of a great city — an amusement which seems to indi*
cate a time of decadence:
" Miss Tremayne was so popular a favorite that even Captain Raby
condescended to bestow a little attention on her. She was attired in all
kinds of cheap finery. Her name was Bank Holiday Ann; she was sup-
posed to be a maid-servant set free for a jollification on Hampstead Heath,
and she proceeded, in a voice about as musical as the sharpening of a saw,
to describe the adventures of herself and her companions, there and else-
where. As these included the getting drunk of the whole party, their
being locked up for the night, and their appearance before a magistrate
the next morning, there was no lack of incident ; while the long-spoken
passages, delivered in a rapid jargon of Cockney accent and Cockney slang,
seemed to find much favor with the audience, who also heartily joined in
the chorus :
" * Bank HoKday Annie,
Bank Holiday Ann ;
Up the Heath,
And down the Heath,
And round the Heath she ran.
When the p'leeceman copt her,
She got him one on the eye ;
O Annie I I*U tell your mother :
Oh, fie! Annie, fie!*"
" ' Captain Raby, I wish to go. Do you think you ^could find my hus-
band ? • "
Sabina, high-spirited, high-minded, suffers as her husband
falls lower and lower. We are moved by the fear that her hus-
band may break her heart by claiming her child. But as a rule,
though the novel is well conceived, Sabina does not excite that
intense sympathy which she ought to excite. We must say of
William Black, as we said of the author of Springhaven and The
Woodlandersy that he ought not to write another story until he
can equal his best work.
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I887-] A Chat ABOUT New Books. 417
Dr. S. Weir MitchelPs Roland Blake (Houghton, Mifflin &
Co.) opens with a spirited picture of army life during the late
war. Dr. Mitchell has not so far received the appreciation he
deserves as a novelist. Unlike most modern story-tellers, he has
a story to tell, and he tells it with directness. For instance, in the
first chapter the reader is put at once into the action of the story ;
and at once he gets the clue both to Roland Blake's manly and
frank character and to that of the mercenary and treacherous
evil genius of the book. Dr. Mitchell's scene is laid during the
war, and the color of that time is vividly impressed on the read-
er's mind. This ability to show the spirit of an epoch and to
w^ke us live in it is an evidence of high artistic talent, if not of
getfius. The wt^l study of Octopia Darnell's love for hri^,
brother is a ftner piece of analysis than one finds in Mr. James' or
Mr. Howells* Dver-alaboration of the minor emotions that end a
long way off 10 action. Octopia Darnell is a Southern woman
living in New York on the bounty of an old lady. Her brothisr
Richard is in the Confederate army. She believes him to be a
patriot, while he is really a spy, selling Confederate secrets to the
Northern army. She, loving nothing on earth except him and
herself— but herself less — is willing to commit mean and veen
criminal actions for his sake ; but when he proposes the very
treachery she thought it possible for ber to do, she starts back.
She would have committed sin after sin for him, because she be-
lieved that he was incapable of a dishonorable act. When she
discovers her brother's baseness, Dr. Mitchell tells, with keen in-
sight, the condition of this wilful, contradictory, and yet not ig-
noble woman :
"If she only could have thrown herself on some good woman's breast
and sobbed out her confession of regrets, remorses, and sorrowful disap*
pointments, it would have been what she needed. There was no one she
could seek, and her religion had been but a form, and was commonly put
away, like a marker, between the leaves of her prayer-book. Why con-
fession to another should be comforting is as yet one of the unanswered
questions of the human heart."
It is one of Dr. Mitchell's best characteristics that he gives us
the result of his study of human nature. He does not go through
the contortions of analysis in public. He is not one of those
literary gymnasts who lift light weights with many simulated
muscular strainings. Evidences of thought and observation of
mankind flash every now and then like brilliants from his pages.
After the climax, when Olive, the very pleasant and unaffected
heroine, and her betrothed show profound charity for the
VOL. XLV.— 27
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wretched Darnell, Dr. Mitchell says of Roland Blake : " A less
ready and less finely made man would have caused cruel mis-
chief. Men of practical capacity who are also imaginative are
advantaged thereby : large ranges of the possible lie open to their
reason, and the improbable is not set aside as foolish."
Roland Blake is an American novel, although the eagle is not
made to scream, and neither apology nor defiance is assumed
towards our English neighbors. The production of such works
is what our literature needs, to save it from becoming hopelessly
Anglicized or being deluged with snobbery.
Amaryllis at the Fair (Harper & Brothers) is a story by Rich-
ard Jeffries. The influence of the reading of American humorous
writers is marked here — an unusual thing in an English novel.
Mr. Jeffries tells of an untrained girl living among coarse, selfish,
and semi-pag^ rustics. If there are many such people and coun-
try-places as Mr. Jeffries tells of in his blunt way, that country
will, in no long time, need to be re-converted to the rudiments of
Christianity:*
Mr. Robert Buchanan's A Look Round Literature (Scribner &
Welford) is, as might have been expected from the author's pre-
vious reputation, impudent, superficial, and impertinent Inflated
rhetoric is necessary, in Mr. Buchanan's opinion, to divert the
reader's attention from the fact that he has nothing to say.
Prometheus is as quickly coated with Mr. Buchanan's wash of
words as Victor Hugo, Ouida, -^schylus, and Greorge Eliot ! A
talk with the latter is included in the volume. To report the
conversation of a dead person, one ought to have a thoroughly
reliable memory and a thoroughly unimpeachable reputation.
The dead are always wrong in a dialogue with the man who lives
to report it. How few of us could resist the temptation to make
ourselves more clever than we were in the presence of a celeb-
rity ! How easy it is to polish a repartee that might have been
uttered, had we thought of it ! It will be seen how in this dia-
logue — which is a good sample of the turgidity of the book —
'* myself " shines. Miss Evans, Mr. Lewes, and Mr. Buchanan
were the persons present :
" George Ehot, We are absolutely the creatures of our secretions. So
true is this that the slightest disturbance of the cerebral circulation, say a
temporary congestion, will pervert the entire stream of moral sentiment.
"Myself, All this is doubtless very correct. I hold, nevertheless, that
the soul, the ego, is invulnerable, despite all temporary aberrations — clouds
obscuring the moon's disc, so to speak.
** George Eliot. Say rather disintegrations with the very substance of the
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moon herself. Where the very substance of the luminary is decaying, what
hope is there for the permanence of your moonlight t
"Myself. The analogy is imperfect ; but, to pursue it, the lunar elements
remain indestructible, and after transformation may cohere again into some
splendid identity.
** Geerge Eliot, Moonlight is sunlight reflected on a material mirror :
thought, consciousness, life itself, are conditions dependent upon the
physical medium, and on the brightness of the external development.
Cogt'to, ergo sum should be transposed and altered : Sum materies, ergo
cogito.
" Lewes, And yet, after all, there are psychic phenomena which seem to
evade the material definition.
" George Eliot, Not one. And science has established clearly that while
functional disturbance may be evanescent, structural destruction is abso-
lute and irremediable. An organism once destroyed is incapable of resur-
rection.
" Myself, Then life is merely mechanism, after all ?
'* George Eliot, Undoubtedly. It is very pitiful, but absolutely true."
It is very pitiful, if George Eliot said it. But, notwithstand-
ing what the spicy Mrs. Carlyle calls her masquerading as an "im-
proper woman" and her hopeless theories, the expression "abso-
lutely true" seems to be a positive touch of Mr. Buchanan's.
George Eliot, so far as we can judge from her books, did not
refuse at least to acknowledge the inexplicable "psychic phe-
nomena" of which Lewes is made to speak. A Look Round Lite-
rature is a book to be avoided. Evil communications corrupt
good manners. We have lately heard of a scholar who has per-
mission to read his breviary in Greek, to prevent any injury to
his Ciceronian style. Similarly A Look Round Literature should
be avoided, for fear that a good literary taste should be even
slightly injured by the influence of Mr. Robert Buchanan.
Mr. Josiah Royce's novel, The Feud of Oakfield Creek, is a story
of California life, perfectly well printed by Houghton, MifHin
& Co., and has a certain force and picturesqueness. It lacks
literary skill. It is prosy. Cut down to half its present length it
might be worth attention. Boscowitz, the newspaper proprie-
tor, is a strongly-drawn type of those Californian chroniclers who
are land pirates of the worst description. Happily, public opin-
ion is making them rarer.
There can be no doubt as to the moral intention of Edna
Lyall's books. It is good. In Knight-Errant (Harper & Bros.)
we have a mixture of Don Quixote and The Heir of Redely ffe. The
hero of Knight-Errant is the kind of man that good women
would like all men to be, but whom even good men would find
rather uncomfortable. Still, the world is better for such ideals
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420 A Chat ABOUT New Books. fjunc;
as Edna Lyall holds up to it. They may be somewhat sentimen-
tal — in masculine eyes they may even appear somewhat unreal
and a little absurd, as women's heroes in books generally do.
But they prove the truth that women admire nobility of charac-
ter in men, as they admire and honor purity among themselves.
They are a rebuke to that cynicism which the femmes-auteurs en-
courage — the belief of the prince of cynics, that " every woman
is at heart a rake." Carlo Donati, the " knight-errant," is the son
of an Italian patriot — one of those Italian patriots one hears of,
on whose dying face there had been that " look of faith in renun-
ciation which was stamped upon the face of his teacher, Mazzini."
That "look" is an old "property** with lady-novelist$. It has
been ascribed to Garibaldi, to Cavour, to the charming and beau-
tiful Victor Emmanuel himself. It is a little worn ; it ought to
be put away with the "strawberry mark" of our ancestors.
Miss Lyall wants the gentle Italian temperament for her hero,
but she must make him a Protestant. This is the improbable
manner in which she manages it :
"They lived all the year round at the Villa Bruno, and a kindly old
priest at Pozzuoli taught the boy until he was old enough to go in every
day to the Ginnasio at Naples. Here he entered into his life-long friend-
ship with Enrico Ritter, and learned much through his intercourse with
the German family, whose house became his headquarters when he was in
Naples. The Ritters, deeming the country life dull for the boy, were con-
stantly inviting him to stay with them, and giving him brief snatches of
gayety. Nominally Lutherans, the worthy Germans were practically mate-
rialists, and it was largely owing to his visits at the Ritters' that Carlo first
became dissatisfied with the religion in which his mother had educated him.
Equally was he dissatisfied with the conventional acceptance of Chris-
tianity and the real scepticism which prevailed in the Ritter household.
For a year or two he puzzled his brain over the vexed question ; finally he
took the decisive step and resolved to go no more to church. This caused
much pain to his mother and to his old friend. Father Cristoforo ; and
though plunging deeply into that sort of worship at the shrine of beauti-
ful Nature which is the reaction from formalism, he felt a want in his life."
He meets an attractive English girl, and —
"After a time he formally joined the English Church. Of course he
had some opposition to encounter, but though his old friend the priest
shook his head sorrowfully, and though his mother shed tears, and though
the Ritters chaffed him good-humored ly, his happiness was too great to be
marred by such things ; besides, they all loved him so well that they soon
pardoned the obnoxious step which he had taken, and did their best to for-
get that he was not as they were."
And now Mis^ Lyall has cleared the deck. She could never
have trusted a Catholig hero to be as good — and, in parenthesis,
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let us say as "goody" — as Donati becomes. Most Italians who
know their Italy would look with contempt on one of their fel-
lowcitizens joining the English Church without some solid ma-
terial consideration ; but Miss Lyall prefers to forget this.
Anita, Carlo's sister, has married the manager of an opera
troupe. Anita remains a Catholic, and is, therefore, liable to
temptation. Her husband is a cross-grained person, and he is
not always polite to her, although she is his prima donna. Co-
merio, the first baritone, who is also a Catholic, and who has not
had the advantage of a Mazzinian training, makes love oflF the
stage to Anita. Carlo, therefore, gives up the legal profession,
which he has studied, and adopts the dramatic profession, which
he has not studied, and becomes first baritone, in order to pre-
vent Comerio from making love to his sister on or ofiF the stage.
He makes a great success as Valentine in Faust. His rendering
of Valentine's death-scene might well be adopted by some of the
present Valentines. Of course it is impossible that Miss LyalFs
hero could have bounded into success without hard work and
long experience, and the young person moved to imitate Carlo's
example will soon regret the experiment. Nevertheless, Miss
Lyall's idea of how Valentine's death-scene should be done is
good, and, carried out, would redeem a situation from the depths
to which it is ordinarily dragged :
" Both the singing and the acting in the death-scene were exceptionally
fine ; the mingling of wrath and grief, denunciation and reproachful love,
which he managed to convey in his last words with Margh6rita, appealed
to all, while at the end he produced a novel effect. With panting breath,
and with more of sorrow than of anger, he sang, *Tu morrai tra cenciviW
Then, suddenly diverted from the present, he pressed to his lips the cross
on his sword-hilt which one of his fellow-soldiers held towards him. and
afterwards, turning again towards Margh6rita with a look so beautiful that
once seen it could never be forgotten, sang with a depth of tenderness the
brief ' I die for thee,*' kissed her bowed head, with a sort of triumphant
resignation gasped the last 'Like a soldier I die,' and fell back lifeless."
Carlo, singing and acting, follows Anita and her husband
around the world, cutting out the wicked Comerio when he can.
Anita grows weary of him, and it is no wonder. Why he could
not have let her husband protect or brought her to a sense of
her duty by talking a little common sense to her does not appear.
He suffers and makes sacrifices until Anita dies, singing a snatch
from Faust :
**0h, del ciel angeli immortali !
Deh, mi guidate con voi lassu."
This over. Carlo marries the attractive English girl who had
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422 A Chat ABOUT New Books. [June,
'* converted '* him. Comerio, the wicked and vengeful, is dis-
posed of. But one cannot help thinking that Carlo's exasperat-
ing Church-of-England goodness must have helped to disgust
the wretched Comerio with that aspect of virtue. And, as he
saw no other — being acquainted only with papistical Italians, who
are notoriously wicked — he continued to go to the bad.
Anthony TroUope's manly autobiography was so satisfactory
that it was hoped that Charles Reade, " novelist, journalist, dra-
matist," might have left one. Thackeray was wise in putting it
out of any man's power to write an authoritative biography of
him. Dickens' reputation has not yet recovered from Forster's
Life^ and it will be hard for some time to come to enjoy any
of Charles Reade's books with the remembrance of his Me-
moiTy written by Charles L, Reade and the Rev. Compton
Reade, in one's mind. The picturesque Froude has made a
wreck of Carlyle, and these two friends of Charles Reade have
made a ver}' piteous spectacle of him. Fancy the capability of
men for sympathetic biography who could deliberately write
this:
" His contemporaries— those, that is to say, of his undergraduate days
— have mostly passed away, and it is difficult to form an accurate impres-
sion of that period of his life. It has been hinted that he was never very
popular with the Demies' common room. He could not, as has been said,
appreciate their port. His manner was individual and unsympathetic ; he
cared less than little for college gossip or college jokes. Newman amused
him, but only as a polished buffoon. One or two of the others he did not
consider gentlemen — an unpardonable sin in his eyes at that time of his
life. It was Bernard Smith for whom he cherished a sincere affection, and
afterwards he was positively chagrined when his friend elected to merge
himself in the Church of Rome, and not only so, but to embrace Roman
orders. He always spoke of that gentleman as of a brother whom he had
lost* by the sort of misadventure which he could neither comprehend nor
quite tolerate. He had been imbued with Protestant ideas. His pet divine,
Chillingworth, was the author of a trite but ill-worded aphorism concern-
ing the Bible and the Bible only, and he could quite understand any belief
under the sun — or absolute negation — except popery. Perhaps not a little
of his acerbity towards all things papistical, a sentiment which he tried to
veil in The Cloister and the Hearth^ may be referred to spleen at losing the
society, if not the friendship, of Bernard Smith."
If Charles Reade said in some moment of mental aberration —
which moments this biography would lead us to believe were not
infrequent — that he was " amused by Newman," judicious biogra-
phers would have suppressed it. It is plain that the biographers,
especially the reverend one, enjoyed writing this paragraph.
Charles Reade was, as we all. know, a virile and interesting
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18870 A Chat ABOUT Nbw Books. 423
writer. He made money by his novels, and also a great reputa-
tion. He lost much of the former by his infatuation for the
stage, and much of the latter by A Terrible Temptation, which
was considered immoral by some of the critics. It is not a book
to put into the hands of the young or to be read by anybody
with profit. Charles Reade probably had strong prejudices
against the church, but he does not appear in The Cloister and
the Hearth the foolish bigot whicli his biographers represent him
to have been.
Towards the end of hi^ life Charles Reade became very reli-
gious. This was after the death of Mrs. Seymour, who had been
an actress and who was the ^novelist's housekeeper. The rela-
tions between her and Charles Reade, who always preached mo-
rality violently, excited much comment. His biographers admit
his disregard for appearances, but say :
" Mr. Winwood Reade was an avowed atheist, the bitterest enemy of
Christianity of his age, a man who, on philosophic grounds, despised mo-
rality. He would have treated a liaison between his uncle and Mrs. Sey-
mour, not merely as a matter of course, but as derogatory to neither. Yet
it is a fact that he went out of his way to assure some of those who were
most deeply interested in his uncle of his positive conviction that their
relations were those of friends only. And although Mr. Winwood Reade's
views were otherwise devoid of principle or belief, he was truthful invaria-
bly, and on matters of fact worthy of credit. It is all the more needful in
limine to insist on this, because if Charles Reade's partnership with a prac-
tical woman of the world was of the nature of a morganatic marriage, their
lives were a brazen fraud. For there was no concealment, no dove-cote
in St John's Wood, or other expedient to avoid the gaze of the world ; on
the contrary, the author introduced the actress to his family as the lady
who kept house for him. He took her to Oxford, and invited his college
to meet her on the same footing. He would have punished the man who
dared insinuate that Mrs. Seymour was his mistress. Nay, more, she was
perfectly free to wed whom she would after the death of her husband, and
he equally free after that he had amassed fortune sufficient to have enabled
him to dispense with his Fellowship. Neither did marry. The link re-
mained unbroken to the end. * Honi soil qui maly pense* "
It Is Never Too Late to Mend was the corner-stone of Charles
Reade's fortune. Up to the publication of that book he had been
struggling. A gentleman by birth — his biographers value his
pedigree fully as much as his work — a Fellow of Magdalen Col-
lege, and a man utterly without tact, he was not well equipped
for a rough fight with the world. But he conquered at last — for
a time. Of the two novels, George Eliot's Romola and Charles
Reade's The Cloister and the Hearth^ the latter is decidedly the
more solid and more accurate piece of workmanship. There
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424 A Cha t ABO UT Ne w Boojcs. [] unc,
is some truth in this rather bitter extract from the biography.
Apart from its evident prejudice, it is fairly just, particularly so
in the phrases we have italicized :
i" I can see no trace of George Eliot in the story called Ramola, yet I
don't know how to escape the conclusion that it is hers ; for a story by
George Eliot is advertised in the July number of the Cornhill and in the
current number of the Atkenceum, and Thackeray is displaced to make
room for the garrulous lady or gentleman, whichever it may be.
" However, after all I am not well read in Georgy Porgy's works. But
certainly this does not come up to my idea of her. Is it egotism, or am I
right in thinking that this story of the fifteenth century has been called
into existence by my success with the same epoch ? If it is Georgy Porgy,
why then Lewes has been helping her ! ^11 the worse for her. The gray
mare is the better horse. Anyway, I hope this is not the story that Smith
has been ass enough to give ;C5,ooo for."
" There is an acerbity in this, accentuated perhaps by the convicttoil
that his good friend Mr. Smith, whom elsewhere he styles 'The Prince of
Publishers ' and * That most princely gentleman/ should lose by Romola,
Apart from that, the mind which had devoted years of incessant toil to
this same fifteenth century could but be sensitive of anachronisms and
conscious of faulty drawing. Of course it was galling to perceive a subser-
vient press belauding a distorted picture, and far exceeding the praise it
had grudgingly awarded his own masterpiece. Moreover, if ever there
lived a man inspired with a passion for justice, it was Charles Reade. . . .
George Eliot, who needed no factitious support, bounced on the stage to
play to a house crammed in every inch with the claque. The anti-Christian
ring, which to an almost indefinite extent influences the daily and weekly press
and the leading magazines, rallied to a man round the strong woman — strong
in her will, in her animalism, in her command of thought and diction — and
by a combined effort placed her on a pinnacle ; while so subtle was her
method that the warmest advocates of the very Christianity she held up to
ridicule were hoodwinked into joining in the general chorus of admiration.
Charles Reade held her cheap, simply because he realized more acutely
than the rest the inherent defect of her art ; but it may safely be aflirmed
that he would have passed her unnoticed but for the venal paeans that
deafened his ears and aroused his righteous indignation."
Charles Reade's honest opinion of the theatre was not favor-
able. This is what he had to say : ** Mrs. Pateman — ^a respectable
actress. The tender and true affection between her and her
worthy husband are beautiful to see in a theatre — that den of lu-
bricity.''
It is singular, however, that he should, with his keen sense of
other people's shortcomings, have associated himself with Mrs.
Seymour in a manner that had the outward appearance of a
scandalous arrangement. A man who preached as he did must
have recognized the force that good example gives to preaching.
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1887.] A Chat ABOUT New Books. 425
Charles Reade's life, well interpreted, would have made an
interesting: and profitable study. As it is, the Memoir leaves us
in doubt as to the character of a man of strong convictions who
once wrote these words, so full of Christian hope :
" * For ever! * he cried aloud with sudden ardor ; * Christians live " for
ever " and love " for ever," but they do not part " for ever." They part as
part the earth and sun, to meet more brightly in a little while. You and I
part here for life ; and what is our life ? One line in the great story of the
church, whose son and daughter we are ; one handful in the sand of time ;
one drop in the ocean of " for ever." Adieu for the little moment called
" a life." We part in trouble ; we shall meet in peace. We part creatures
of clay ; we shall meet immortal spirits. We part in a world of sin and
sorrow; we shall meet where all is purity and love divine; where no ill-
passions are, but Christ is, and his saints around him clad in white. There,
in the turning of an hour-glass, in the breaking of a bubble, in the passing
o^ a cloud, she and thou and I shall meet again, and sit at the feet of
angels and archangels, and apostles and saints, and beam like them with
joy unspeakable in the light of the shadow of God upon his throne, for
ever, and ever, and ever.' "
Mr. Isaacs, that curious Occidental-Oriental romance, gave
Mr. F. Marion Crawford a celebrity which might easily have
been evanescent had his first book, according to the rule, been
his best. But his latest book is his best. Saracinesca — before
alluded to in these articles, but now published for the first time
in America — ought to have a phenomenal success. It has all the
qualities of a good novel — dramatic action without exaggera-
tion, natural play of character, truth to nature and expedience, a
full knowledge of life, and that artistic quality, or perhaps we
might almost say that moral quality, that makes the reader feel
safe in Mr. Crawford's hands. For instance, Corona, the stately
Duchess of Astradente, is never for a moment untrue to the old
duke with whom she has made a marriage of interest; although
she knows that the young Prince Saracinesca loves her, she saves
him and herself from what might have been ruin in every sense.
Corona conquers temptation by prayer. The various shades of
Roman politics are drawn by a sure hand. Mr, Crawford is
the first writer in the English language to present tableaux of
modern Roman politics with decent impartiality and conserva-
tive decency. We have had enough of Italian carbonari aureoled
in Liberal red fire. We have to thank Mr. Crawford for a new
view of Roman society, but, above all, for a very great hovel.
The book has no nastiness in it. We have already given extracts
showing its wonderfully vivid power of description and the au-
thor's just views of Roman society before the spoliation.
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426 A Chat ABOUT New Books. Qune,
The Duke d'Astradente, the old and the young Princes Sara-
cinesca, Valderno and Del Ferici, represent different political
opinions. Del Ferici i§ an ultra-liberal, a treacherous conspira-
tor, whom Cardinal Antonelli allows to remain in Rome because
he fancies wrongly that such conspirators are harmless. Del
Ferici and the younger Prince Saracinesca, who is a large landed
proprietor, talk of the reforms we used to hear so much about.
The prince meets Del Ferici's proposals on the subject of im-
proving the Campagna with the assertion that things have
changed since the Campagna was a series of villas. Del Ferici
says : " Why are the conditions so different ? I do not see.
Here is the same undulating country, the same climate — "
"'Andjtwice as much water/ interrupted Giovanni 'You forget that
the Campagna is very low, and that the rivers in it have risen very much.
There are parts of ancient Rome now laid bare which lie below the present
water-mark of the Tiber. If the city were built upon its old level much of
it would be constantly flooded. The rivers have risen and have swamped
the country. Do you think any amount of law or energy would drain this
fever-stricken plain into the sea ? I do not. Do you think that if I could
be persuaded that the land could be improved into fertility, I would hesi-
tate at any expenditure in my power to reclaim the miles of desert my fa-
ther and I own here? The plain is a series of swamps and stone- quarries.
In one place you find the rock below the surface, and it burns up in sum-
mer; a hundred yards further you find a bog hundreds of feet deep which
even in summer is never dry.'
"* But,' suggested Del Ferici, who listened patiently enough, 'suppos-
ing the government passed a law forcing all of you proprietors to plant
trees and dig ditches, it would have some effect."
" ' The law cannot force us to sacrifice men's lives. The Trappist monks
at Tre Fontane are trying, and dying by the score. Do you think I or any
other Roman would send peasants to such a place, or could induce them
to go ? ' "
Later, Del Ferici, answering Saracinesca's statement that he
does not see why an intelligent few should be ruled by an igno-
rant majority, says that the majority in Italy would be educated.
Saracinesca asks whether schoolmasters make good governors.
" * The schoolmasters,' he says, * would certainly have the advantage in
education ; do you mean to say they would make better or wiser electors
than the same number of gentlemen who cannot name all the cities and
rivers in Italy or translate a page of Latin without a mistake, but who un-
derstand the conditions of property by actual experience, as no schoolmas-
ter can understand them ? Education of the kind which is of any practical
value in the government of a nation means the teaching of human motives,
of humanizing ideas, of some system whereby the majority of electors can
distinguish the qualities of honesty and common sense in the candidate
they wish to elect.' "
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1 887.] Ne w Public a tions. 427
It is refreshing to find sane views of human conduct put into
such a powerful form as this novel. Saracinesca^ printed in Black-
wooiTs Magazine y has been received enthusiastically in Great Bri-
tain. Mr. Crawford has well employed his great talent and his
unimpeachable style in helping to strengthen the growing reac-
tion against the mad policy of Continental theorists.
The figures in Mr. Crawford's comedy move with ease and
naturalness. Corona is drawn with the breadth and nobleness
of womanhood worthy of the author who painted Diane in that
other not so unobjectionable book, To Leeward. Mr. Crawford
knows how magnificent are the eflfects of religion on characters
naturally noble, and we see this in Corona. All the late books
by celebrated writers of fiction have been disappointments. Mr.
Crawford's Saracinesca alone is an exception. He has doubtless
reached his acme in it. It would be impossible to go higher with-
out getting abreast of Thackeray, Manzoni, and — with a differ-
ence in quality — Nathaniel Hawthorne at their best.
Maurice Francis Eg an.
NEW PUBLICATIONS.
The Throne of the Fisherman Built by the Carpenter's Son. By
Thomas W. Allies. London : Burns & Gates ; New York: The Catho-
lic Publication Society Co. 1887.
Mr. Allies has devoted himself for many years to a thorough study of
the Roman Primacy and the formation of Christendom in the early ages of
Christianity. He has produced several admirable volumes on these sub-
jects, and now he has placed a crown on his work by setting forth the roy-
alty of the See of Peter as it shone forth after the heathen persecutions,
from the Council of Nicsea to that of Chalcedon, from Sylvester to Leo the
Great, from the beginning of the fourth to the middle of the fifth century.
Mr. Allies takes his stand upon the testimony which the Council of
Nicaea. by its very organization and by the explicit witness of its decrees,
gives of the original, primitive, universal foundation and structure of the
Catholic hierarchy. He shows how this unity of faith and government
maintained and consolidated itself against the inward struggles of hej^esy
and rebellion carried on by usurping civil and ecclesiastical princes. He
describes the characters and the great works of the heroic intellectual
champions of faith and legitimate authority in eloquent language. The ar-
gumentative power and value of the work is of a very high order, and it
has the interest of the most attractive and instructive kind of historical
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42S New Publications, [June,
writing^. We cannot too earnestly commend it to all intelligent readers,
and especially to Catholics.
Dante's Divina Commedia : Its Scope and Value. From the German of
F. Hettinger, D.D. Edited by H. S. Bowden, of the Oratory. London :
Burns & Gates; New York : The Catholic Publication Society Co. 1887.
This work of Dr. Hettinger, extremely well edited and translated, is in-
tended as an introduction and companion to the study of Dante. The
Divina Commedia is admitted on all hands to be the greatest of all merely
human poems as a work of art; and, more than this, it is a deep and widely-
reaching treatise, embracing an encyclopaedia of theology and philosophy
in their most important bearings on human life and the end of man. Very
few readers can go below the surface of imagery so as to understand the
hidden meaning of the poet, without the aid of an expositor. Hence the
need and value of a work like Dr. Hettinger's.
Father Bowden's preface is a composition of great beauty of style and
fine critical discrimination. In one respect particularly it is of special inte-
rest and utility. It is well known that Dante was a strong partisan of the
Ghibellines and a warm advocate of German imperialism, which placed him
in opposition to the political views and action of the popes and the party of
the Guelphs, who were their closest and most thorough-going adherents.
He took poetic vengeance on these political adversaries by putting them
into his poetical Hell, and consigning them to everlasting torments in the
dismal abode which he has made to flare and burn with all the lurid light
and heat of his vivid and sombre imagination.
In this respect Dante was greatly at fault and deserves severe censure.
Father Bowden makes a calm and just appreciation of this weak and faulty
side of Dante's great and monumental work as the poet of mediaeval Catho-
licism. Of course anti-Catholic writers, with their irreconcilable animosity
against the Papacy, have made the most of it, as they always do of every
opportunity of turning our own guns upon our citadel. Yet, notwithstand-
ing all Dante's misconceptions of the exterior and temporal relations of the
Roman polity, and his passionate resentments against individuals, the
architectonic idea of his grand poem is essentially and substantially Catho-
lic, and his genius has erected in the Divina Commedia the most sublime
monument of mediaeval Catholicism. In admiration and gratitude to the
great Catholic poet his errors and mistakes have been magnanimously
overlooked. Popes, bishops, and all classes of the most devoted adherents
of the church have vied with each other in doing him honor. His fame
and glory have increased as the centuries have passed on, and in his own
sphere of greatness, though he may have two or three compeers, there is
no one who can vindicate his claim to a higher place.
There have been thirty translations into English of the Divina Commedia
published during this present century. Father Bowden gives his prefer-
ence to Gary's translation. Among several others which enjoy a high
rep^ite, that of our countryman, Mr. Longfellow, is one.
We repeat the remark that those who wish to study the Divina Com-
media, whether in the Italian or in an English translation, need the assist-
ance of a commentary. They will find this need amply satisfied in the work,
which Father Bowden has so well edited, by the eminent German author.
Dr. Hettinger.
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1 887.] Ne w Pubuca tions. 429
Spiritual Conferences : Kindness. By the Rev. Frederick W. Faber,
D.D. New York : James Pott & Co.
It is late in the day to say anything new by way of either praise or criti-
cism of Father Faber, but we may call attention to the cheap but charming
dress into which his Conferences on Kindness have just been put by a Pro-
testant publishing house. Considering how uncompromising and out-
spoken he is in matters of dogma, the writings of Father Faber seem to
have a peculiar attraction for our separated brethren. His charm for them
is probably that of sweetness of tone and temper, for he shares it with
Fenelon, whose Spiritual Letters have also been issued, at a like inexpen-
sive rate, for the same public. They make one sigh, these little books, so
carefully printed, so neatly bound, so clear and elegant in type, for a little
— or a good deal— more care and good taste on the part of some of our
Csftholic publishers.
Thr^Passion and Drath of Jftsus Christ. By St. Alphonsus de Ligoori.
Edited by the Rev. .Eugene Grimm. New York: Benziger. \%%rj.
This volume is the fifth of the Centenary Edition, and is entirely devoted
to the Passion and Death of our Lord. As the preceding volumes have al-
ready been noticed as they appeared, all that we need say is that the pre-
sent is quite equal to its predecessors in get-up, etc.
Introductorv Hebrew Method and Manual;
Eleihents of Hebrew ;
Hebrew Word-Lists. By William R. Harper, Ph.D.. Professor of Semitic
Languages in Yale College, Principal of the Schools of the Institute of
Hebrew. Chicago : American Publication Society of Hebrew ; New
York : Charles Scribner's Sons. 1886.
These Hebrew text-books of Dr. Harper are different from those which
have been heretofore in use. The old method was to take a large gram-
mar — eg,, that of Nordheimer — and learn and recite the greater part first,
just as school-boys have been used to do with the Latin and Greek gram-
mars. Next a Hebrew reader, containing extracts from the Bible, was
taken up, with the aid of a large lexicon, to be construed in class, and per-
haps, after this, somf books or parts of books from the Bible were studied
in the same way that Caesar, Virgil, Homer, etc., are usually studied in
school and college. Some experienced teachers object to this method of
studying grammar as the principal thing, and classic authors as an illustra-
tion of the grammar. They think the method should be reversed, and the
language itself be studied and taught, with the use of grammar to illus-
trate the language. Dr. Harper follows an inductive method of this kind.
His manuals are suited for beginners, yet they are intended to give not
merely an elementary but a thorough knowledge of Hebrew. They in-
clude lessons, in a progressive series, grammar, the text of the first eight
chapters of Genesis, a vocabulary and word-lists — in fact, all that a student
needs until he is ready, if so disposed, to take up the Hebrew Bible by him-
self and prosecute the study of it to such an extent as he may choose. Of
course it is necessary that a teacher of Hebrew should examine these manu-
als for himself, in order to understand fully Dr.. Harper's method and to
form a judgment of its merits. We merely wish, in this notice, to call at-
tention to it as worthy of examination by those who are engaged in teach -
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430 Ne w Publica tions. Uune,
ing the Hebrew language — a task which, so far as our observation extends,
has hitherto produced very scanty results, of very little utility to the pupils.
We hope, however, for better results in the future.
Other Semitic text-books for the study of the Aramaic, Assyrian, and
Arabic languages are advertised by the Messrs. Scribner. One of these
was sent to us for notice, and we take this occasion to make a brief men-
tion of it It is an Arabic manual by Prof. Lansing, containing an elemen-
tary grammar and a chrestomathy. One of his reviewers gives what ap-
j)ears to be the testimony of a competent critic to the value of the work ;
" Prof. Lansing has a thorough practical knowledge of the language. He
was born in Damascus and lived many years in Cairo, so that, equally with
English, Arabic is his vernacular. Indeed, I well remember him, as a boy,
speaking Arabic rather more fluently than English. But he is now an ac-
complished writer of English, and this gives his manual an advantage in
clearness and conciseness over any work that I have seen translated or
adapted from French or German."
Those of the Semitic text-books which we have seen deserve the highest
praise for their excellence as respects typography, and all else that belongs
to their mechanical execution and convenient arrangement for purposes of
study and instruction. The beauty of the Hebrew text in Dr. Harper's
series is especially noteworthy.
Translations from Horace, and a few Original Poems. By Sir
Stephen E. de Vere, Bart. With Latin text. Second edition, enlarged.
London : George Bell & Sons.
The first edition of these very admirable translations included but ten
of the odes of Horace, the present edition comprises thirty-one ; we hope
Sir Stephen will continue putting out new and enlarged editions until he
has translated into his chaste and beautiful English all that is best worth
preserving of him whom Thackeray affectionately calls "the dear old
pagan.** As far as they go, these are, in our opinion, the finest translations
from Horace in our language. Bulwer has left us very admirable transla-
tions, but by attempting to be too literal he has failed to preserve much
of the fine flavor of the odes ; there is too much evidence of labor, so
that often the spirit, the ease, the swing, and grace of* the original is lost.
About the translations of Francis there is too much jingle and sameness ;
they give no idea of the wonderful variety of Horace's thought and modes of
expression. But, as every one who has ever attempted to translate Horace
into verse knows (and there are many who have sweated in vain in the
lists), his wonderful condensation of thought is extremely hard to catch in
an English net. Sir Stephen de Vere, as we have said, has succeeded re-
markably well. He has given us the pith, the kernel of the odes that he
has translated, and at the same time preserved something of the shell. He
has kept a golden mean between servile literalness and slovenly para-
phrase.
The " Few Original Poems " are placed between the translations and
Horace's original text. They are graceful and replete with a quiet beauty,
but we think they should have been published in a separate volume ; sand-
wiched where they are they seem out of place. " Sed nunc non erit his
locis.' The lines on " Charity " are very beautiful and true, and there is a
lovely song, "The Old Thorn."
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1 887.] Ne w Publica tions. 43 1
Compendium Ceremoniarum Sacerdoti et Ministris Sacris Obser-
VANDARUM IN Sacro Ministerio. Auctorc M. Hausherr, SJ. Editio
altera, emendata et multis aucta. St. Louis : B. Herder.
This new edition of the Compendium of the Ceremonies of the Sacred Min-
istry is excellent. It is well arranged, clear, and succinct, and will prove a
valuable help to those desiring and needing a knowledge of the subject-
matter of this little volume.
The Ritual of the New Testament. An Essay on the Principles and
Origin of Catholic Ritual in reference to the New Testament. By the
Rev. T. E. Bridgett, C.SS.R. Third edition. Permissu superiorum.
London; Burns & Oates, Limited; New York; The Catholic Publica-
tion Society Co.
This third edition of the book which was originally called In Spirit and
in Truth has been rewritten and recast. It is solid and most useful, and .
deserving of high commendation as a mine of sacred learning.
Is there a God who Cares for Us? Translated from the French of
Mgr. S6gur. New York ; The Catholic Publication Society Co.
This dainty little book is a compendium of the best arguments for the
existence of God. It is written in^a style which, for popular instruction or
for familiar conversation, could hardly be better; and meantime it contains
the result of the deepest. thought and fullest research. It contains but
seventy-two small-sized pages, yet such has been the author's genius for
condensation and his judgment in selection of matter that little more can
be desired by the average intelligence for even this greatest of themes.
Nuttall's Standard Dictionary of the English Language. New
edition, revised, extended, and improved throughout, by the Rev. James
Wood. London and New York ; Frederick Warne & Co.
The new edition gives new value to this already valuable and well-
known work. Of a convenient size and clearly printed, it is adequate to
all ordinary needs. The very excellent phonetic system invented by Dr.
Nuttall is universally applied in this edition. The arrangement has been
improved, the vocabulary extended to include words that have lately
come into current use in science, literature, and common parlance ; while
to the leading word of each group its etymological significance has been
appended. Some illustrations have been added, and other improvements
and additions made which enhance the value of the work.
Ten Dollars Enough. Keeping House well on Ten Dollars a week ; How
it has been done ; how it may be done again. By Catherine Owen. Bos-
ton and New York ; Houghton, Mifllin & Co.
Ten Dollars Enough appeared originally as a serial in the pages of
Good Housekeeping, Its good sense, and the practical directions and the
economical recipes in it, made it very popular among housewives lacking
abundance of means, so that it has been reprinted in book form. The
young couple whose story it relates are not supposed to live entirely upon
ten dollars a week ; they are supposed to have an income of one hundred
dollars per month, but ten dollars per week pay all table expenses. The
manner in which this is done is very clearly told. A great many recipes
are given, and it is surprising to find how good a bill of fare can be main-
tained on the small amount laid out for it. The directions given have been
carried out by many, who express great satisfaction in letters to the editor
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43 2 Neiv Pubuca tions. [June, 1 887.
of Good Housekeeping, If this book can check much of the extravagance
and waste so common among people of moderate incomes, it will do a very
good work indeed.
BOOKS AND PAMPHLETS RECEIVED.
HOLV Cross : A History of the Invention, Preservation, and Disappearance of the Wood known
as the True Cross. By W. C. Prime, LL. D. New York : Anson D. F. Randolph & Co.
The Secret of Sanctity Revealed in Mary. Abridg^ed from True Devotion to the Bless-
ed Virgin of Blessed Grignon de Montfort. By a Dominican Father. Boston : Thos. B.
Noonan & Co.
The Church and the Sects, Ten Letters in Defence and Continuation of the Pamphlet
entitled Which is the True Church f By C. F. B. Allnatt. First series, five letters. New
York : The Catholic Publication Society Co. ; London : Bums & Oates.
Faith and Reason ; or, Belief in Revelation the Highest of Human Acts. An Address by
Bernard Vaughan, S.J. New York : The Catholic Publication Society Co. ; London :
Burns «& Oates.
The Irish Race in America. By Captain Ed. O'Meagher Condon. New York : Ford*s Na-
tional LibraxT, 17 Barclsgr St.
MEMORIALS OF THOSE WHO WERE AITD ARE NoT. Aft EastfeT OffeHng. Edited by Robert
Madcfen, M.R.I A. Dublin : Jas. Duffy; New York : The Cbthplic Publication Society Co.
Ttf E Latest Studies on Indian Reservations. By J. B. Harrison. Philadelphia : Indiam
Rights Association.
Captain Glazier and his Lake. An Incjnby into the Histpry and Pr0g:ress of Exploration
at the Head-waters of the Mississippi smce the DUcovery of Lake Imsca. New York and
Chicago : Ivison, Blakeman & Co.
The Morning Devotional Exercises during Holy Week as Obsbrveu in all Paro-
chial Churches. San Francisco : A. WalAeilfel.
The Gray Tigers OF Smith VI lle; or, He Would and He Wouldn't* A School Extrava-
ganza in Three Acts. Edited by Edward Roth, A.AL Philadelphia: 1135 Pine St.
BOOKS NOT NOTICED IN THIS NUMBER FOR WANT OF SPACE.
Notices of the following publications are omitted from the present number for want of
space:
Elements OF Ecclesiastical Law. Adapted especially to the Discipline of the Church in
the United States. By Rev. S. B. Smith, D.D. Two vols. Sixth Edttion. Complete-
ly Revised according to the Decrees of the Third Plenary Council of Baltimore. New
York : Benziger Bros.
The Church and the Various Nationalities in the United States. Are Gf^man
Catholics Unfairly Treated ? By Rev. John Gmeiner. Milwaukee : Zahn & Co.
The Lepers of Molokai. By Charles Warren Stoddard. Notre Dame, Ind. : Ave Maria
Press.
The Doctrine of St. Thom.\s on the Right of Property and of its Use. By Mgr. De
Concilio. New York: Pustet & Co.
The Masque of Mary, and other Poems. By Edward Caswell, of the Oratory, Birming-
ham. London : Bums & Oates ; New York : The Cathob'c Publication Society Co.
American Statesmen Series. Life of Thomas Hart Benton.. By Theodore RoosevelL
Boston and New York: Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
Abraham, Joseph, and Moses in Egypt. Being a Course of Lectures delivered before the
Theological Seminary. Princeton, N. J. By Rev. Alfred H. Kellogg, D.D. New York:
Anson D. F. Randolph & Co.
Heinrich AND Leonore : An Alpine Story, and other Poems. By M. J. Barry. Dublin:
Hodges, Figgis & Co. ; New York: The Catholic Publication Society Co.
American Commonwealths. EMited by Horace E. Scudder. New York : The Planting and
the Growth of the Empire State. By Ellis H. Roberts. Two vols. Boston and New
York : Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
The Teaching of St. Benedict. By the Very Rev. Francis Cuthbert Doyle, O S B. Lon-
don : Bums & Oates ; New York : The Catholic Publication Society Co.
Instructions and Devotions foh Confession and Communion. For the use of convent
schools. Compiled from approved sources and approved by a priest. London : Bums &
Oates ; New York : The Catholic Publication Society Co.
The Lesser Imitation; being a sequel to the Following of Christ, By Thomas A
Kempis, Done into English by the author of Growth in the Knowledge 0/ Our Lord.
London : Bums & Oates ; New York : The Cathob'c Publication Society Co
Thirty-one Pious Exercises for the Month of May. Flowers for Mary's Altar.
A Memorial of First Communion. New York: Schaeffer & Co.
The Child's Month of Mary. New York : M. Sullivan.
Compendium Antiphonarii et Breviarii Romani, concinnatum ex editionibus typicis cura
et auctoritate S. R. Cong, publicatis. New York : Fr. Pustet.
Sermons at Mass. By the Rev. Patrick O'Keeffe, C.C., author of Moral Discourses. Dub-
Un : M. H. Gill & Son. 1887.
History of St. Margaret's Convent, Edinburgh, the first religious house founded in
Scotland since the so-called Reformation ; and the Autobiography of Sister Agnes Xavier
Trail. With a Preface by the Most Rev. Wm. Smith, D.D., Archbishop of St. Andrews
and Edinburgh. Exlinburgh and London : John Chisholm.
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THE
CATHOLIC WORLD.
Vol. XLV. JULY, 1887. No. 268.
THE COMMON AND PARTICULAR OWNERSHIP OF
PROPERTY.
Aristotle long since decided that for populous and enlight-
ened nations common ownership and possession of property was
a visionary scheme. His decision, made for posterity, is re-
corded in his refutation of communism. It is sufficiently ob-
vious that the subject inquired into and determined by Aris-
totle is similar in nature to the topics that are somewhat warm-
ly discussed in our own day. Some elementary propositions un-
derlying these topics it is here intended to examine and to dis-
engage from uncertainty and obscurity.
A few precise definitions will serve to present clearly the
real principles at issue in the controversy which has arisen and
waxed well-nigh universal respecting Mr. George's theory of
communism — a theory which is false, eccentric, and utterly im-
practicable.
The true import of private and exclusive ownership of prop-
erty is, in this paper, following the best authorities, understood
t\he ** the right to have and to dispose completely and at will
of a>corporeal thing, unless prohibited by law." *
Td^ow the total impracticability of communism, and even
its real irfjustice in view of the constituted order of things, it is
necessary tiv draw, with Cajetan and others, the true and essen-
^ " Dominium est jus perfecte disponendi de re corporali nisi lege prohibeatur " (Becanus
[De Jure et Justit,^ cap. a, qu.i], who follows Bartolus and others). "Sic enim dominium
apud jurisconsultos definitur, jus rel facultas re propria utendi ad quemlibet usum lege per-
missum idque in commodum proprium " (note by the editors Billuart, Silvius, and others
to the Summa Theol, of St. Thomas, p. a, a, q. 66, a. a).
Copyright. Rsv. I. T. Hbooiu 1887.
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434 ^The Common- and Particular [July,
tial distinction between ownership positively in common and
ownership negatively in common. Ownership of property posi-
tively in common gives the right to each individual to appro-
priate any part of it to his own exclusive use, just as he may
judge himself to need it ; thus each one can take water from the
public well, can use the public highway, they being rendered
positively common. Light and air are in the nature of things
positively common.
Ownership negatively in common excludes the right in each
one of appropriating to himself at will the share which he may
select. In this case each one*s share or allowance is portioned
out to him by authority representing all, whose duty it is to de-
fine and defend the right of all in general and each in particular.
Thus the rule or else the superior in the religious communities
of the Catholic Church measures out to each member of these
Christian bodies, according to his necessities, the goods which
are for common use. For such community of persons can own
property only negatively in common.
The fishing party divides the fish, which all caught, by some
conventional method. So also did Abraham and Lot divide the
land conventionally: "Behold, the whole land is before thee;
depart from me, I pray thee. If thou wilt go to the left hand, I
will take the right ; if thou choose the right hand, I will pass to
the left " (Gen. xiii. 9). Abraham here recognizes that both he
and Lot had a common and rightful claim to the unoccupied
land before them. Their right to it was not of the kind that
made the land the positively common domain of either, and thus
indiscriminately appropriable — as, e.g.^ air or light. Hence
neither could apportion to himself what he willed, irrespectively
of the other's right and of the rights of men in general. If un-
divided land be owned positively in common, each one may
appropriate to himself any quantity he deems good and useful
to himself. If it be owned only negatively in common, each
one's share must be measured by some equitable rule that will
secure the equal rights of each and all the owners in common.
The natural law is the unchangeable rule or measure of what
is absolutely right in reason, or of what is unalterably true and
just in the nature of things. It is by an evident and luminous
dictate of natural law that mankind judge the earth to be their
common habitation and possession, so as to have a right to live
on it and to derive from it the means to sustain life, and what-
ever else it may yield contributing to human comfort and well-
being. Hence it may be said that the general right of mankind
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188/.] Ownership of Property. 435
to the soil of the earth and its fruits is founded directly and dis-
tinctly upon the immutable law of right reason. Yet such
ownership of the goods of the earth as the natural law thus im-
mediately confers and guarantees is merely of a negatively com-
mon and undetermined nature, not the positively common kind
of ownership which allows the individual to appropriate to
himself at his pleasure the portion which he deems best suited to
his needs.*
But nature alone, which so bestows on all men collectively a
negatively equal ownership and possession of the earth, does not
immediately give any distinct and specific share to individuals.
No unit of the human family can refer to those first principles of
natural and immutable justice as the direct and immediate cause
of his title to the glebe or other corporeal goods which he right-
fully possesses. The immediate dictate of upright reason does
not distinguish and discriminate this as the property of one per-
son, and that as the property of another. Nature does not
straightway institute the distinction between mine and thine^ nor
reveal what and how much is tnetim or what and how much is
tuuni.
Then by what species of title or by what genuine right may
it be said that the land of the earth and other material posses-
sions are held and owned by their present and actual proprie-
tors, since it may not be admitted that the natural law is the
immediate authority for separate and individual ownership?
To say that " exertion '* or " occupancy " per j^— that is, not
defined nor limited by any conventional rule or law — founds ex-
clusive individual ownership of land, is to maintain that the land
is owned positively in common, as light and air, and not nega-
tively in common. Such a theory proposed as either the proxi*
mate or the ultimate basis of the right to individual proprietor-
ship in land is opposed to the general teaching of the theologians
in the Catholic Church.f By such method of acquiring owner-
ship the land would be for the swift and strong; and the " land-
grabber " would acquire a valid title to all he might profess to-
** occupy."
* Aside, of course, from the case of extreme necessity to which the axiom applies, *' in
extremis omnia sunt communia ''—>>., etiam positive.
t Vide the doctors of the mediaeval schools in their commentaries on the Politics of
Aristotle, and also the great commentators on the Summa of St. Thomas, 2, 3, qu. 66, a. a.
** De jure gentium est ut quae adhuc nullius sunt, fiant de primo occupante *' (Becanus, De
Jure et Justit,^ c. 5, q. 3)—*' It is by the common law 0/ nations that those goods which as
yet belong to no one in particular become the property of the first to acquire them." Such
goods are gained by virtue of human law^ and conformably to the restrictions put by it.
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436 The Common and Particular [July,
Exclusive ownership over a specified quantity of land is con-
ceded, therefore, by public autltority to the first occupant of such
land in all nations which accept the Roman civil law.
Similarly, by international law, first discovery of vacant land
gives a government the right of occupying and colonizing. With
certain modifications, this rule of Roman jurisprudence is adopted
in the English-speaking nations. But it will be observed that
such occupancy is made to confer a right to the property dis-
covered and appropriated only through the medium of human
agreement and just positive law. Occupancy is per se powerless
to confer any right to possession and ownership, and it really
does so only by virtue of its being a condition prescribed by
human law. Its title-conveying quality, therefore, is determined
and measured absolutely by the laws which prescribe and ap-
point it tQ its special character and function.
It is true that all genuine vested civil rights are derived from
the law of nature ; but they come from it through the medium of
the civil law, every civil law that is just being itself derived
from the law of nature. The dictates of invariable and incorrupt
reason are the last and adequate source of every civil and politi-
cal right, but they are not the proximate cause and origin of these
rights. Human positive law is the direct and immediate source
of civil immunities and prerogatives, and is at the same time a
derivation from the law of nature.
Mr. George does not fall into error because he maintains that
Nature (God) gave the land in common to mankind, but because
he denies that the division, and distribution of it to individuals, can
(be legitimately made at all. He furthermore denies, erroneously,
.that when the division is conventionally, legally, and equitably
.made each person thereby acquires any exclusive ownership of
his share, and that such ownership is a vested right which can-
not be arbitrarily abrogated by the public authority.
Division of land once conventionally or legitimately made was
always defended both by the civil and ecclesiastical law, because
the ownership thus founded is right, expedient, and even neces-
sary, and is based on the natural law as well as on the Scriptures.
"Activity exercised," or "industry," or "occupancy" can give
exclusive ownership of land or other corporeal goods only when
they are accompanied with the requisite conditions prescribed
by just general law, ^^ jure gentium.'' In the "/i^ Civile^'' or Ro-
■man law, there were certain prescribed limits within which the
saying, '^jus est primi ocpupantis^' was recognized as a rule. It is
only a civil law, howev^er, and not a precept of natural law, any
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188;.] Ownership of Property. 437
more than is the U. S. Pre-emption Law, which gives to the first
actual settler of " unappropriated public domain " the right before
all others to purchase the one hundred and sixty acres com-
posing that quarter-section in which the settler's dwelling is
situated.
In answer to Mr. George it may be said "each person owns
what he makes/* provided he makes it out of what he owns, or
else out of what is positively common. But, on the other hand,
he also owns what he did not produce, provided he acquires
ownership in accordance with just law.
It is the teaching of theologians with St. Thomas, 2, 2, qu.
66, a. 2, and the same is maintained by the most eminent jurists
who have written in the English language, that the goods of the
earth, including land, were divided among nations and individu-
als y«r^ humano — by civil law, or conventionally. In other words,
determinate and exclusive ownership of property was introduced
by human agreement.*
" The actual distinguishing of goods as the separate property
of individual persons," observes the Subtle Franciscan Doctor,
"was not the work of the natural law nor of the divine positive
law, but was justly accomplished by human positive law."t
"The division of things," says the eminent Jesuit Molina,
" was not made by the law of nature nor by the divine positive
law; yet it was lawfully introduced by the human law of
nations. **t
"Whence does each one own what he possesses ?" inquires
St. Augustine. " Is it not by the will of man ?" §
All things were given to mankind negatively in common, and
it is only when there is extreme necessity that individuals can
use undivided things as positively common, or that mere pos-
session confers any right to ownership of them. In accordance
with this manner of explaining the origin of property, it was not
admitted by these illustrious teachers that an individual could
acquire exclusive ownership of land except by some general rule
* " DomiDiam et praelatio introducta sunt ex jure humano'* (St. Thomas, 3, 3, q. 10, a.
10). ** Quod haec villa sit mea et ilia tua est ex jure imperatorum*' (St. Aug., Tract. 5 in Joan.,
quoted by Billuart, Silvius, and others in their editorial notes to the Summa Theol, of St.
Thomas, 3, 3, q. 66, a. 3).
f ** Non fiebat actualis distinctio (dorainionim) per legem naturae, nee per divinam ** ;
"Aliqua lege positlva fiebat prima distinctio dominiorum"; ** Prima distinctio dominiomm
potuit esse justa a lege positiva justa,** etc. (Duns Scotus, sup. Sent. 4, 15, 3).
f Rerum divisio nee est de jure naturali nee de jure divino positivo ; lidte tamen de jure
bumano gentium fuit introducta " {Dejure etjustit,^ tract. 3, disp. 30).
f *' Unde quisque possidet quod potsidet ? Nonne humana voluntate ?** (St. Aug., dted bjr
Duns Scotus ibid.)
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438 The Common and Particular Duly,
or law that regulated and defined the equal rights of all to goods
given negatively in common. Hence they all concurred in main-
taining (i) that God gave the goods of the earth to mankind
negatively in common; (2) that the division of those goods was
made ex jure gentium^ i.e., by human laws; (3) that the division
thus made conferred on individuals exclusive ownership of their
equitable shares.
It may be truly said that Mr. George, in denying that land
can be divided so as to give exclusive ownership to individuals,
contradicts the teachings of all the wisest jurists, all the great
schools of Christian philosophy, and the universal practice of
all enlightened nations.
Yet in refuting the communistic arguments of Mr. George
and others who impugn the right of individual men to own prop-
erty, even when acquired under the conditions appointed by just
human law, we should not fall into the opposite error of main-
taining either that Nature immediately gave to individuals the
exclusive right to their particular property any more than that
she gave to mankind all the goods of the earth positively in com-
mon. Individual persons can acquire exclusive ownership of prop-
erty in accordance with a just and equitable positive rule or law,
and only in accordance with such principle can a valid title to
what is owned negatively in common be acquired, except, as be-
fore said, when the necessity of self-preservation renders goods
positively common. In refuting Mr. George's visionary and im-
practicable theories it is necessary to argue from first principles
that are true.
The objection might occur to the mind of the reader that the
moral claim of particular persons to their rightful property is
not sufficiently sanctioned and safeguarded according to the fore-
going principles, seeing that their right is not allowed to rest
directly on the immutable precepts of Nature, but is referred to
the authority of the fallible and mutable laws of men. Where-
fore it might be argued : What is brought about by human law
and agreement may be changed or abrogated by the same
method.
In answer it should be observed that not all things done
conventionally can be arbitrarily annulled by human authority ;
only those things can be thus changed which are of such charac-
ter or quality as admits of change. From the very nature of
things those changes may not be made which would be simple
acts of injustice. Changes may not be made either when it is
purely inexpedient or disadvantageous to the welfare of a nation
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188/.] Ownership of Property. 439
to make them. If in any particular case it would be productive
of evils, social disorders, and confusion in the state to rescind
what has been brought about justly though conventionally, then
it would be evil and simply unlawful to put in practice any re-
scissory measure of such a character and leading to such results.
It is the evident duty of men to consult what is right, expedient,
and indispensable to the end of securing the universal good of a
people. Rightful government, for instance, is necessary for man-
kind, and in its particular forms it originates proximately from the
consent of the governed, or conventionally. Yet arbitrarily to
abolish the legitimate government of a nation, and thus to cast the
people into anarchy and chaotic disorder, would be unlawful,
and even monstrous. Finally, though property comes to indivi-
duals by the source herein described, still when thus acquired it
is owned by a clear and equitable right which the natural law
itself declares is not to be profaned. It is the Most High who
has uttered the commandment, " Thou shalt not steal !"
It is thought that the discriminating reader will here be
pleased to peruse some wise and practical words penned nearly
ten years ago by the Rev. Walter H. Hill, S.J. His purpose is
to answer the reasoning of the communist, whom he cites as
saying : ** A portion of the abundance possessed by the rich, who
have more than they need, should in natural justice be taken
from them and given to the poor, who have less than they need ;
for Nature intends that all shall have a living from the goods
which Nature provides for all."
"This reasoning," continues Father Hill, "is a mixture of
truth and error. ... It is true that Nature intends all to have
a living from the goods which Nature intends for all, but she
intends this as so regulated and measured that the rights of
all may be duly defended. Nature does not intend to confer a
private communistic authority or right on individuals of appro-
priating to themselves exclusively goods in which others also
have a right. Hence a particular part of the community can
have only that right which is consistent with the rights of others,
and which, therefore, must be regulated by general laws of the
community.
" In considering the matter proposed by the argument of the
communist, it will help towards clearness of thought to dis-
tinguish different classes of poor people. Under the first may
be included all industrious laboring or working people who, we
shall suppose, wish to live only by upright and legitimate means,
but who here and now cannot obtain wages that suffice for their
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440 The Common and Particular [July.
support. It is, without any doubt, the solemn duty of public
authority to protect them in their natural right to the necessary
means of living. Secondly, there is a class of the helpless and
afflicted poor, comprising such, for example, as are reduced to
want by sickness or by any of the various misfortunes and
disasters that may befall even the most virtuous and worthy
persons. There surely never was an enlightened nation in
which all the good and generous among the people did not look
on it as a duty, even of private benevolence, to befriend the
suffering poor and relieve their wants. . . . For this class of
the poor public authority provides hospitals, homes, asylums,
etc. A third class may comprise all those more or less indigent
people who are idle and vicious, as thieves and slothful vagrants,
the improvident and sensual drones of society that collect in the
large cities, where they haunt the dens of low pleasure and
amusement, who would live above their social condition and
seek the means of maintaining themselves in their excessive
habits by various dishonest arts and tricks of fraud. It is not
work, even for high wages, that such people desire ; their wish
is to lead a reckless and self-indulgent life in idleness and de-
bauchery. They shun the duties of life, leaving toil and the
employments of industry to other hands, though they would
have a full share in the fruits of that industry. All they require
for turbulent action or outbreaks is that they be headed by the
bold, dangerous spirits which rise up in troubled and evil times
from the dark, low depths to the surface, to plan and execute
desperate deeds of violence. They are practical communists ;
the system of communism favors them. They have nothing to
lose, no home, no goods providently laid up ; and any change is
for them an improvement. It can scarcely be doubted that it is
chiefly on this unruly and mischievous element of society that
the communists, whose leaders are either wild theorists or else
men of desperate fortune, must depend for enlisting numbers
into their ranks." *
There is another phase of the argument devised by the com-
munist. Admitted that the primordial distribution of earthly
goods was made conventionally, or by the deliberate, rational,
and consentient choice of men, still this primitive determination
of things is not binding upon succeeding generations, who are
herein as justly permitted to choose for themselves and to re-
establish community of goods and of ownership as their ancestors
were the contrary.
* Ethics or Moral Philosophy^ pp. 237-39.
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188/.] Ownership of Property. 441
Thi^ argument would doubtless be true if the essential cha-
racter of man had meanwhile changed, or if human nature had
been released from its fallen state introduced through the pri-
meval transgression of Adam, or, again, if the blessing " increase
and multiply " had been revoked. But as none of these sup-
positions have been verified, and are not likely to be, the argu-
ment is faulty and inconclusive. But, to answer the difficulty
more directly,, as the population of the earth by degrees in-
creased, and the resources of livelihood grew correspondingly
less copious, it became more and more indispensable to agree
upon a distribution of things, or, in other words, to institute
separate mastership and possession of them.
The assertion does not need proof that many men are habit-
ually sluggish and indolent. These would, under a system of
communism, be supported by goods to whose preparation, im-
provement, or production they contributed nothing, and which
were perfected by the labor of others. Yet it has been affirmed
in Holy Writ : ** In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread till
thou return to the earth out of which thou wast taken " (Gen. iii.
19) ; and also: "If any man will not work, neither let him eat."
Now, communism once ordained and established amongst men,
the perennial laziness of the drones in the human beehive would
be an unbearable injustice to the provident and industrious.
Whence the unavoidable consequence of this inequitable scheme
would be fatal to the peace and security of individuals and
nations.
Furthermore, that work which is only of common obligation
is usually not performed at all or else is poorly done — ** what is
everybody's business is nobody's." Each, desirous to avoid
labor, leaves to others what is of general duty. Communism,
which would introduce into human life the method of equal and
universal duty in respect to all obligations, is, accordingly, an
unreal and bootless project.
On the other hand, as St. Thomas observes,* each person is
more solicitous to procure that which shall belong to him alone
than that which shall be the common property of all or of many.
As the result of each one's toil, if communism were the rule,
would not be to add to his own possessions, but merely to the
common stock, no sufficient reason appears to determine any
individual to any one and specific employment ; for a character-
istic of the overruling motive which now impels men to action
in their several pursuits is the strong desire they have to make
* Vide St. Thomas, Summa Thtolog,^ a, a, q. 65, a. a.
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442 The Common and Particular FJ^'y*
something their own. This removed, the incentive to action is
weakened or destroyed. Men also choose the best and easiest
means for making something their own. Whence each seeks
that occupation to which he is best suited, and which will most
easily produce the happiest and most substantial results for him-
self. But why should one thus choose any species of labor, if the
product of his exertions is merely to augment the general store,
and if he be not permitted to reap and own the fruit of his toil ?
The occupations and pursuits of men would, as a direct and sure
consequence of this system, decline and become extinct.
It is, for these and other reasons, evident upon reflection that
mankind accepts the primordial division of goods made by the
original inhabitants of the earth. If the necessity for division of
land and other species of property existed even in primitive
days, for still stronger reasons does it exist at present.
To recapitulate: There is a real distinction between pro-
prietorship negatively in common and proprietorship positively
in common. The former implies a general and undetermined
right in many persons to what is equally owned by all, yet so
that the right of each is checked and limited by the equal rights
of others. The latter mode of holding and owning possessions
denotes an unrestricted libert}' in each individual of a multitude
to appropriate and use whatsoever he lists, arbitrarily and unre-
strained by the rights of others. Negatively common dominion
over goods is proper to free rational beings.
Goods are shared positively in common by physical and
necessary agents, or such as are by Nature determined to operate
by physical law. Even men in their capacity of merely natural
agents have certain things given them positively in common by
Nature, such as light and air.
On the other hand, acting by deliberate choice and reason,
they render certain other things, artificially made, positively
common for the sake of utility. Brute animals, who operate
only through vital and mechanical laws, have their goods made
positively common to them, over the possession of which they
scramble and fight, the strongest getting the largest share or all.
" More ferarum,
Viribus editior caedebat, ut in grege taurus." •
Did God make the order of things thus also for rational ani-
* ** When, as the stoutest bull commands the rest,
The weaker by the stronger was opprest.'*
—Horace, bk. i. Sat. L (Frands),
** Propter cibum et coitum pugnant animalia.**— St. Thomas.
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1887.] Ownership of Property. 443
mals? No ; things were made equal to them all negatively, and
were to be divided among themselves fairly, peaceably, rationally.
If each person had the right primitively to whatever he appro-
priated to himself arbitrarily and independently of others, then
violence and brute force had to determine the division of goods
whenever and wherever division became necessary. Each per-
son has, h priori or from the Creator, the right to an equitable
share in the goods primitively given to all. But the division of
those goods, or the determination of individual shares, was left
to be agreed on and arranged conventionally by men's reason
under the guidance of truth and justice — ''per adinventionem
rationis humanay Convention, which is civil law where the
people are organized into a body politic, determines the division
of goods, and the mooted question with Mr. George and others
relates to the equitable character and lawfulness of this division.
The. scholastic principle that it was made conventionally, or, as
St. Thomas words it, " secundum humanum condictum,'* includes
the entire matter, considered both h priori and h posteriori^ or the
division of things made antecedently to civil society and Con-
sequently on civil society's coming into existence. This principle
applied to Abraham and Lot as pertinently as it now applies to
the people of the United States.
It is of the very essence and definition of ownership that it
includes the right to dispose of what is owned. Men have a real
ownership in the land of the earth, and therefore they have a
right to divide it and distribute it equitably amongst individuals.
This has been their practice from primitive times: **The Lord
had respect to Abel and to his offerings ; but to Cain and his
offerings he had no respect."
Natural law does not dictate that division of the land \s per se
and simply necessary, but only that it may be made, and in
expediency should be made. Some communities, especially
smaller ones, have held their land in common, the people agree-
ing on the mode of occupying and cultivating it, and dividing
among themselves the fruits of the soil. In a large nation, how-
ever, common ownership of land would not be practically pos-
sible. That division of goods amongst nations and individuals
was brought about by the just and rational consent of men is
taught as an established truth by all the most eminent theo-
logians from St. Augustine down to the last of the great scho-
lastic authors. James A. Cain.
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444 Shall the People Sing? [Julyt
SHALL THE PEOPLE SING?
If ever there was a false tradition which gradually insinuated
itself into the external forms of worship and led the people into
ignorance and error as to its highest and purest expression,
until it almost secured for itself the prescriptive right of " cus-
tom,** the prevailing fashion of the performance of church
music is one. I say unhesitatingly that it deserves to be thus
reproached, and calls for an honest, plain-spoken eflFort to do
what one may towards diminishing its power and retarding its
further enervating progress.
It has done positive harm by direct appeals to the sensual
passions, and deprived souls of the true spiritual nutriment
of prayer, the communion of the spirit with God, by divert-
ing the minds of the congregation from the chief object of
their assembly before the altar, and substituting entertainment
and amusement instead.
The present erroneous tradition has taken the song out of
the people's mouths and made them dumb and in great part
listless lookers-on, spiritless and distracted, quickly wearied, and
heartily glad when the religious performance is over. They
have had little part in it and the least possible intelligent appre-
ciation of it.
The canon of this false tradition has no sanction in the rubrics
of the ceremonial. What is that canon? It is plainly this:
AH singing in the divine offices of the Catholic Church, save the
chanting by the priest, is to be done by a select number of sing-
ers commonly but incorrectly styled ** the choir,*' and by them
alone. One frequently hears even the Pope's ** Choir " spoken
of. It may seem but a little thing to misapply a word, and only
one word ; but dangerous and disastrous heresies have before now
based their point of departure from the unity of faith upon the
false interpretation of but a word. So the wide-spread and per-
nicious tradition in church-singing is due, in great measure, to the
misuse of this little word " choir." It is a word of distinct and
definite signification, constantly found in directive and precep-
tive rubrical laws, but employed more and more commonly,
even to the ends of the earth, to convey quite another meaning,
to imply a wholly opposite and forbidden order of things to that
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1 887.] Shall the People Sing? 445
contemplated by the rubrics. To me it is one of the most mar-
vellous proofs of the divine safeguard of the church, in the midst
of the follies, the passions, and the interests of men, that no
official recognition, no unguarded expression which might ap-
pear to give a color of sanction to such abuses, has ever crept
into her preceptive rubrics.
Take, for instance, any untravelled American Catholic, other-
wise well instructed in his religion, well educated in science
and literature, and converse with him about church *' choirs."
Tell him in general terms of the magnificent ** choirs" you
have seen in the great cathedrals and churches in Europe,
also of the " choirs " you have heard sing in them. He will
at once perceive that you are speaking of two distinct things —
the place in these cathedrals called the choir^ and the select
body of singers who perform the church music. If he has not
made a special study of architectural details he will fancy
you are describing, by the first, a sort of elevated gallery
over the front doorways, containing an organ and seats for
singers; and by the second the assemblage of singers in that
enclosure, who may probably be a number of professional artists,
men and women, such as he has seen and heard in great and
small churches and cathedrals in the United States.
No such place and no such singers as our American Catho
lie would style the "choir" have any rubrical sanction. The
Catholic Church does not nor ever did recognize any such
an arrangement as he has always believed to be "quite the
thing." He is not much to be blamed for his ignorance, for on
every hand, in city and in town, he sees new and even stately
Catholic churches constantly being built without a seat for a
singer in the sanctuary, nor even space enough provided to put
one in it, but always with the usual organ-gallery over the door
for that instrument and the " choir " of his untutored mind. He
travels abroad, and if he misses the accustomed choir-singing
performed behind his back he consoles himself that, at least,
he generally finds the ** Masses " and the " Vespers " performed
by a select " choir " in the chancel — which he now learns is the
choir — or thereabouts.
He is fond of fine music, vocal and instrumental, and he gets
it. During Holy Week he inquires where they " do" the best of
both kinds, and he does not fail to take advantage of the infor-
mation obtained. He elbows his way through the crowd that
throngs some great cathedral ; is disgusted, as a good Catholic
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446 Shall the People Sing? [July
would be, at the behavior of no small number of the audience,
sight-seers and concert-goers, who, however, like himself, are
patiently enduring the lengthened services of the Tenebrse,
otherwise monotonous and tiresome, in order to hear the per-
formance of some " classical " or " renowned " Miserere sung by
the cathedral " choir."
Returned to America, he gives glowing descriptions of all the
grand church music he has heard, and is quite an authority on
the relative merits of Catholic church — singing ? No, of a truth,
but of Catholic chMTch choirs. He knows no more of what
Catholic church-singing ought to be than he ever knew, and the
stories of his experience only go to confirm the canon of the
erroneous tradition in his own mind and in the minds of his hear-
ers that all singing in the divine offices of the church is to be done by
a select body of singers^ and by them alone. A choir is a body of
singers, singing, it may be, over the doorways, behind the backs
of the people, or in the chancel — which arrangement probably he
thinks to be a mere matter of taste. And what are they for, if
not to do all the singing ? He may probably have discovered
that the term " choir," as a place used to designate an organ-gal-
lery, is a misnomer. But has he learned that the singing of a
choir from that place is not only ignored by the rubrical laws of
the Catholic Church, but has been distinctly prohibited ? Does
he know that by special legislative enactments, repeated from
time to time, emanating from the Congregation of Rites — ^a judi-
cial body of cardinals, appointed, on account of their learning
and ability, to decide rubrical questions, and whose decisions are
binding in conscience — " choirs " and ** choir galleries," as he
knows them, have been condemned ?
I repeat, therefore, that the misuse of the word ** choir " has
had no little to do with building up and confirming the erroneous
tradition concerning true church-singing, constantly affirming,
as it does, the false canon above stated.
But do not the rubrics contemplate a select body of singers at
the church services ? They do. Such a body is styled chorus in
choro — a chorus in the choir. This chorus is sometimes also
called the schola. Who are these persons ? A select chorus of
clerks, or male singers, vested in cassock and surplice, who,
ranged in the clioiry or sanctuary, sing in chorus the Asperges,
the Introit, Kyrie, Gloria, Gradual, Credo, Offertory, Sanctus,
Agnus Dei, Communion, the responses at High Mass, and the
antiphons, psalms, hymns, versicles, commemorations, etc., at
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1887.] Shall thb People Sing? 447
Vespers. A choir of men and women gathered in a gallery at
the extreme end of the church, either hidden behind curtains or
exposed to view, has neither been ever supposed or sanctioned
by the ritual, much less the omission of nearly one-half of what is
ordered to be sung, as is the custom with us in America.
But have I not acknowledged that, at any rate, this rubrical
chorus in choro should sing all that there is to be sung ? Yes, but
not that they alone should sing all. What I assert is that it is
equally the part of the people assembled at Mass and Vespers to
sing; that, barring a few portions of the Mass — chiefly those
known as the Gradual, OflFertory, and Communion, and most of
the Introits, as being different every Sunday and festival, and
more difficult of execution — the special office of the schola in the
choir is to lead the whole congregation in singing all that is ap-
pointed to be sung. And I affirm that the people ought, by in-
struction, to be fitted to do their part, and that for many cen-
turies, up to the time of the disastrous Protestant heresy of the
Reformation, they actually did so. The era of the Reformation,
coeval with the degradation of morals and manners in and out
of the church, gave birth to the Romantic school in music and in-
troduced the Mass and Vesper " concerts," now become almost
the rule in all Christian communities. Luther was wise in his
day and generation, and when " the mouths of those who should
sing unto the Lord were shut " in the Catholic churches by the
sensual fashion of the times, he opened the mouths of his follow-
ers, and by their singing taught them his doctrine and fired
their hearts with devotion to the new religion. He made a prac-
tical and most successful application of the exhortation which
the bishop is directed in the Pontifical to address to those whom
he admits into the choir as members of the schola : ** Vide ut quod
ore cant as corde credas, et quod corde credis operibus comprobes " — See
that what thou singest with thy mouth thou believest in thy
heart, and that what thou believest in thy heart thou provest by
thy works.
The assertion defies contradiction that many of our Catholic
people in every class of society, from the highest to the lowest,
about whose faith there is no question, are yet lacking in the
knowledge of much that would make their worship more intelli-
gent. They show, by their listless contentment with any state of
things connected with the celebration of the religious services in
the church, no matter how shabbily and imperfectly they may be
conducted, that their participation in divine^ worship is routine.
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448 Shall the People Sing? Qulyt
They are wanting in fervor and hearty devotion, because they
are denied all personal association with the service. The
priest does his part and the choir do their part, but the people
are almost like the ones whom the Lord describes as those that
have eyes and see not, who have ears and hear not, neither do
they understand with their heart. They accept with an apa-
thetic indiflFerence whatever is thrown at them in the shape of
spiritual food, or even as wholesome correction, telling you, with
an air of languid relief from the sense of responsibility, that it is
"all plenty good enough."
Very pertinent to this are the words of a learned French
ecclesiastic in a little work of his entitled Le saint Office con-
sider/ au point de vue de la pi/td :
" It is high time to ask ourselves if the worshippers have not become
less devout through becoming less attentive to the services of the church,
and if the silence of our temples of religion has not brought on the sleep of
souls."
In the discipline of the early church it was supposed that all
the congregation of the faithful present at the Holy Sacrifice
responded to the salutations and solemn invitations of the priest
given to them to unite with him in prayer and acts of adora-
tion, and such was the common practice up to the dawn of the
Reformation. I have before me a very old reproduction of
an ancient manuscript entitled ^H ffeia Xetrovpyla rov dytov
dnoffroKov Ilirpov, which purports, on good authority, to be
the Mass of St. Peter. At the close of the OflFertory we read as
follows, quoting the Latin version given side by side with the
Greek, and translating the rubrics into English :
Then the priest in a distinct voice says: ** Dominus vobiscum."
The people: " Et cum spiritu tuo."
The priest: " Oremus."
The people : "Domine, miserere," three times.
Then the priest in a loud voice sings the prayer, " Praebe, Domine,*' etc.
The people: "Amen, Sanctus Deus, sanctus fortis." And while the
people sing the hymn, " Thrice Holy,** the priest prays.
After the Lavabo the priest in a distinct voice : *' Dominus vobiscum."
The people: " Et cum spiritu tuo."
The priest: ** Ostia, ostia " (alluding to the closing of the doors and De-
parture of the catechumens).
The people: '* Credo m unum Deum " (chanting all the Creed).
The priest : "Stemus honeste ; stemus cum reverentia," etc.
The people: " Misericordiam ; pacem."
The priest (after a prayer) : " Sursum corda."
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1887O Shall the People Sing? 449
The people: '^Habemus ad Dominum."
The priest : " Gratiarum actiones submittamus Domino Deo nostro."
The people: ** Dignum et justum est."
The priest continues to chant the Preface. At the close of it
the people sing the Sanctus. They answer "Amen" when the
priest has pronounced the words of consecration. The entire
Pater Noster is given to the people, and they respond to the
usual salutations and prayers that follow. A rubric, referring to
the parts assigned to the people, says : " Populi vox est et can^
torunt'' confirming what has been above stated, that the people
and the chanters (the sckola, or chorus) sing together all that is to
be sung.
Neither can it be said that this is a custom wholly obsolete,
and therefore its abolition universally recognized and practi-
cally sanctioned by the church ; for in many country towns and
villages in Europe, and in some city churches, in the year of our
Lord eighteen hundred and eight^'-seven, happily preserved by
their seclusion from the enervating poison of Renaissance in art
and religion, one may still hear the Holy Sacrifice celebrated
in this intelligent and devout manner.
A writer in an old number of the Dublin Review^ commenting
upon this, says : " Shall we ever see the day when, on entering a
Catholic church during service-time, we shall be struck, not with
the dampening spectacle of a congregation partly composed of
unbelievers in the act of enjoying the pleasure of a Sunday con-
cert, while the remainder, with closed books in their lap or by
their side, wait patiently or impatiently till the prolonged and a
hundred times repeated "Amen" of the Gloria or the Creed
deigns to come to an end ; but with the refreshing sight of an un-
mixed body of true worshippers, learned and ignorant, high and
low, rich and poor, unostentatiously led by a select choir ^ engaged in
heartily singing the praises of Him in whose house they are
assembled ? To so consoling and truly Catholic a, state of things
should all our reforms tend ; for it will only be when it is es-
tablished that we shall be able to taste the sweetness as well
as delight in the beauty and feel the grandeur of that congrega-
tional singing which so many desire, but which is incompatible
with an encouragement in churches of the music of Don Giovanni,
Fidelio, II Barbi^re, and Faust''
There is no better way of getting at the " mind " of the church
than to peruse the decisions and exhortations emanating from
a council, because it is the voice of the Holy Ghost speaking,
VOL. XLV.— 29
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4SO Shall the People Sing? [July.
rather than the members who compose those august assemblies.
Who but the Spirit of God suggested the dictum about this
matter of the Second Plenary Council of Baltimore in 1866? Was
there the least evidence that congregational singing was a ques-
tion worthy of consideration in America, or that the state of
things in this country would in any respect warrant a decree of
encouragement from the bishops assembled in that council? I
doubt if one of the prelates thought at the outset that it was
worth while testifying while there to the true doctrine and prac-
tice of the church on this subject, however deeply many of them
must have felt about it. Not a single voice, loud enough to reach
the ears of those, like myself, who were eager to hear, had been
ever raised to draw attention to it. The old erroneous tradition
held universal sway throughout all their dioceses. But what did
they say when the Holy Ghost spoke by their mouths?
** Moreover, we judge it to be most desirable that the rudi-
ments of the Gregorian chant be taught and practised in paro-
chial schools, and thus, the number of those who can chant well
increasing more and more, gradually the greater part of the
people, according to the usage of the primitive church yet preserved
in many places, may be able to join with the sacred ministers and
choir in singing Vespers and other similar offices, which will be
the source of edification to all.**
In the decrees of the Council of Rodez in 1850 we read : " We
admonish all that in the celebration of the divine praises every
one, of whatsoever age, condition, or sex, should unite their voices
with the choir of the angels and of the priests with piety and
simplicity."
Also in the decrees of the Council of Bordeaux in 1850: " We
wish the parish priests to see that boys and choir-singers are
taught, who will be able to execute the ceremonies and chant in
a religious and praiseworthy manner, and that the people be
solicited and urged to sing with them." Another council of the
same diocese in 1859 adds: "Finally, we exhort all the faithful
that they should always unite their voices with the singing of
the chanters."
A council of the diocese of Westminster in 1852, after urging
the instruction of boys in the chant, adds : " And so gradually it
will come to pass, what we most earnestly desire, that we shall
hear the whole congregation of the people singing together with
one voice and heart."
Many other councils in their decrees suppose the people to
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1887.] Shall thb People Sing? 451
sing by their regulations preventing them singing any %ongs
during the divine offices which are not conformable to the lan-
guage and words of the liturgy.
Cardinal Bona in his explanation of the Mass goes into minute
details to prove that the people should respond to the priest,
and even shows that there is good reason to believe that the
collects were prayers to be sung conjointly or collectively by
priest and people, to which he invites them by the word
Oremus — Let us pray.
Describing the spirit of worldliness which prevailed so
widely in Catholic society at the time of the Reformation, and
which brought that scourge upon the sensual, enervated civiliza-
tion of that unhappy epoch, Dom Guferanger, the learned Abbot
of Solesmes, says : " Faith was weakened, rationalism became
fearfully developed ; and now our age seems threatened with
what is the result of these evils — the subversion of all social
order. Countries which still continued lo be Catholic were in-
fected with that spirit of pride which is the enemy of prayer.
The modern spirit would have it that prayer is not action.
There were found men who said. Let us abolish all the festival
days of God from the earthy and then came upon us that calamity
which brings all others with it, and which the good Mardochai
besought God to avert from his nation when he said, Shut not^
O Lord, the mouths of them that sing to thee /"
Well does this wise old monk call it a calamity when the
people sing no more. During the hours of home life, at the
social gathering, on the days which commemorate the nation's
honor and her deeds of valor, or in the times of honest struggle
in the arena of politics, the coming together of the company,
their mingled intercourse, and the hour of separation are naturally
marked by a common, enthusiastic, hearty song expressive of
what fills their hearts full. Let such occasions pass in dull, sul-
len silence, and does not every one know that either, the bond of
sympathy is not there or trouble is afoot? A truth that is
equally applicable in its most elevated sense to those assemblies
of the people beneath the vaulted arches of their temples of
religion, the very sanctuaries of praise, the home of divine friend-
ship and brotherhood, the consecrated halls of heavenly song
where the soldiers of the cross gather around the standard of
their King to celebrate his everlasting and saving victory !
Well was it said by a keen observer of human nature that
he would rather write the nation's songs than make its laws*
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S#ng is the voice of Nature, and doubly so the heartfelt utter-
ance of grace. All speech is a melody of greater or* less variety
of tone, but when the mind is overwhelmed in the contemplation
of some noble, inspiring truth, or the heart-strings throb with
tumultuous emotions of joy, of love, or of sorrow, then the
mouth, made eloquent, can no longer content itself with the tones
of a common utterance or with the listless accents of every-day
life and business, but with quick instinct intones the melodious
rhythm of the song, the hymn, the psalm, the dirge. " Beatus
populus," exclaims the Psalmist, " qui scit jubilationem" — Blessed
is the people who know jubilation. When joy is jubilant, the
happy one sings.
The aim of this paper has been to show not only that the
people in our religious services may sing, but that they ought to
sing, that it is the best thing to be done, and that it is a spiritual
damage to them not to sing. When the people are deprived of
participation in the services of religion by being debarred the
only way they can actively share in them, they in great part fall
back into a dull, perfunctory, ignorant attendance, content with a
reperusal of the same invariable round of piously- worded prayers
which they find in their Paths to Paradise, Keys of Heaven,
Golden Manuab, or some other prayer-books, glad to be relieved
occasionally by quietly sitting still, thinking of nothing in
particular and enjoying the unreligious singing by the " choir."
Many and many a time I have wondered whether the intel-
ligent men and women at High Mass were not more or less
ashamed of being silent spectators of the public offices of their
church — a position which they were forced to assume by the
false tradition I have been combating. I have fancied that,
despit-e their respect for authority and readiness to believe it
must be all right, their natural sense of humiliation at being
thus made nothing of — the High Mass being performed by the
performers duly appointed just the same whether they were
there or not — did not sometimes make them suspect that it was
■not, after all, just what it should be.
There is no question as to what High Mass and Vespers
would be if celebrated according to the highest and most per-
feet standard of excellence desired by the church, and what
would be hailed as the purest exemplification of Christian
worship. It would be the divine services sung together by
priest, choir, and all the people present.
I am arguing now only for the principle. Let us settle that
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1887.] I^ THE SlARUGHT. 453
first. Is what I have said true, or is it not? As to its feasibil-
ity, that is quite another question. As to that it is epough to
say here that what is, is feasible. Ab esse ad posse valet illatio.
I know that more than one will say that there is ** a lion in the
road without," but the reply should be: " If thy servant be not
hindered, though there be twenty lions lying in wait, yet in the
name of the Lord will I go out and slay them.*'
Alfred Young.
IN THE STARLIGHT.
Above that Orient land of story.
When Christ came down to dwell on earth.
There shone a star of wondrous glory .
In token of His blessed birth :
The Magi saw; nor space nor danger
Availed their royal fe6t to stay ;
They laid their gifts before the manger.
Adored their God, and went their way.
In the bright winter sky which arches]
Its jewelled vault from earth afar,
The planets keep their wonted marches.
Nor need is there of signal star ;
For the remotest ones that glisten
In yonder firmament to-night.
If to their voice we only listen.
And hear their messages aright,
Will speak of Him as unto them
Once spoke the star of Bethlehem.
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454 A Great Lady. [J«ly»
A GREAT LADY.
I HAD heard of her vaguely for some time before I went to
Italy. It so chanced that during my girlhood I was made the
bearer of a letter and a package from Mrs. S. C. Hall to our poet
Longfellow — a souvenir of Tom Moore and Leigh Hunt, and at
the same time some trifle connected with the history of Dante.
The first mention of the great poet's lineal descendants was then
made to me. Mrs. Hall spoke of the Alighieri family in Italy
and alluded to their living in Bologna. All this came back in a
sudden vivid flash years later, when, finding myself in Italy, pre-
paring for what I supposed was an ordinary afternoon visit to
an Italian lady of rank living in a certain dignified splendor, I
learned that I should see the last lineal descendant of the creator
of the Paradiso.
It was decidedly startling. Everything connected with
Dante seemed so remote. Even such meagre opportunities as I
had had near Bologna for beholding ruins had impressed me
with a sense of the indefinable antiquity of the land I was in, and
there certainly was something bewildering in the fact that I,
habited in a nineteenth-century costume, giving a certain amount
of care and thought to details of my dress — to long Swedish
gloves, for instance, and a carefully -arranged veil and Langtry
bonnet — was about to call upon the one human being in the world
who represented the family of the man who wrote of Paradiso,
of Purgatory, and of the Inferno, who loved Beatrice, and whose
mournful eyes and solemn profile the pencil of Giotto has ren-
dered famous. Looking back, however, the very incongruities
of that first visit complete the charm of the reminiscence. Our
starting point was a villa which my mother had rented from the
Marescalchi family through their agent. At this moment its
predominant aspect was of bloom, white marble, and points
which caught the sunshine effectually, therefore it was not easy
to feel in keeping with the influence of the moment. Stepping
out on to a terrace, whose slope was a bed of heliotrope, tak-
ing our waj" down an avenue bordered by roses whose time of
blossom was begun but yesterday, and lifting our faces to the
serenest and most joyous Italian sky, it was difficult to feel in
sympathy with anything but the actual present; yet there was
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the undercurrent of strong feeling about the place to which we
were going — the people whom we were to see.
The hills about Bologna, dotted as they are with villas or
more secluded country residences, are almost inaccessible unless
a donkey carriage is used. No heavy vehicle, no ordinary
horses are worth anything up and down those verdant slopes,
and, rude as the mode of transit seems, one becomes easily accus-
tomed to the ambling jog trot of the donkeys and the low, com-
fortable little wagons which they draw. We started in ours,
taking a downward road, which led through a sort of alley- way
of cypress trees, past a monastery which ha? its history and
peculiar charm. Many saints have spent days of their lives
there, consecrating nearly every room in the long, quaint build-
ing. The shrine of St. Peter of Alcantara is close by ; a peace-
ful little grotto where on his feast-day, a little later, we were
thankful to be among the number kneeling outside the railing
which divides it from the roadway. In the monastery chapel
St. Peter, as well as St. Francis of Assisi, frequently celebrated
Mass, and here also St. Anthony of Padua preached the first
memorable sermon of his life. We were shown in the bare little
convent parlor fragments of St. Anthony's dress, the sandals
worn by his patient feet, the staff he carried, and part of his
rough serge tunic. These are preserved reverently, not to be
shown as curiosities, but faithfully guarded by the few monks
who now dwell in the convent, men so well known as agents for
all that is charitable, self-sacrificing, and good that the most
lawless depredations of the Italian government have not dared
to touch them. Just beyond the irregular pile of buildings
which constitute the monastery there is a gateway dividing one
road from the other, and through this we passed, curving around
the hillsides, our donkeys guided by a handsome Italian lad,
whose charge it was to keep them in order, while he urged them
on by means of sundry half- whispered remarks and flecks from a
slim, ornamental-looking whip. The country on either side of
us presented a mingling of the rugged and the purely and peace-
fully pastoral. The irregularities were many, and such diversities
as occurred gave an impression of very careless tillage. Below
us to the right the city of Bologna showed its red and yellow
tones. Still further the plain of Lombardy lay smiling to the
sky, while a distant thin, blue line, which we knew to be the
Adriatic, its bosom fretted with sapphires, caught and held the
sunshine of the day. Where out of Italy can such a scene be
produced ? Where else could a rugged, brownish slope such as
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456 A Great Lady. [July*
rose to the left of the road we were travelling seem so divinely
picturesque? The sunshine and the sky above us seemed to
draw together into harmony the dark hillside, the red and yel-
low stonework of the town, and the distant limpid waters. The
breaks were only accents in the picture ; the variations only
points of emphasis in the vividly colored scene. By a slow but
sure ascent we journeyed along, reaching at last a ponderous
iron gateway, which six hundred years ago had opened to re-
ceive the Joyous Knights who made their home in this dwelling,
occupied, at the time of which I write, by the last descendant of
Dante. These Joyous Knights of the thirteenth century origi-
nated in a band of Italian gentlemen whose object it was to pre-
serve the spirit of the church in the midst of a life which was of
necessity worldly ; the actual limit of their discipline or rule I
cannot give, but it is well known that they were not only the
preservers of much that was ennobling and beautiful in the
mediaeval spirit of the church, but also of much that was educa.
tional and elevating in the towns of Italy to which they be-
longed.
I believe that this dwelling of the knights had been long un-
tenanted when Madame Gozzadini purchased it, and restored at
least one wing of the fine, monastic-looking place. She and her
husband had for twenty years been forming a collection with
which they purposed founding a museum in Bologna ; and at the
time of my visit they were living quietly in what they called
•' The Hermitage," although they received their intimate friends;
Minghetti, Cesare Cantii, the Cardinal Archbishop of Bologna,
and many others going to them constantly, and creating a very
brilliant salon. A man-servant in gorgeous livery conBucted us on
our arrival down a dim, wide corridor into one of those rooms, pe-
culiarly Italian, whose vast proportions seem to lose their coldness
when the windows are many and the outlook is of a blooming
garden and luxurious verdure. The great room had its point of in-
terest near to the western window. In a shining space, carpeted
irregularly with rugs, were tables strewn with books and odds
and ends, deep-seated chairs, a divan, and wide, low foot-stools.
A group of people were standing or sitting there, and from them
Madame Gozzadini detached herself quickly, and came forward
to greet us. The phrase I had heard used in connection with
her — *'a great lady" — flashed across my mind as this daughter
of the Alighieris approached. Small, slenderly formed, no longer
young, something about her yet gave the title a special fitness.
Every movement was dignified and gracious. Her smile was
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ineffably sweet, and her expression one of deep intellectuality,
while the flash of her rich jewels seemed no less in harmony with
her whole bearing than the entire simplicity of her manner. She
welcomed us cordially, and presently we were part of the ani-
mated company. The countess and her husband, a superb-look-
ing, elderly man, entered with enthusiasm into the conversation,
guiding it now and then, or following the dritt of their guests'
remarks with the peculiar charm of manner in which well- bred
Italians excel. Madame Gozzadini was equally fluent whether
speaking French or Italian, and passed rapidly from one to the
other, occasionally making use of an English phrase with an
excellent accent, although I believe that language was one of the
few she did not speak well. As easily, thought I, could this last
of the Alighieris have entertained one of those brilliant com-
panies whom Folco Portinari, the father of Dante's Beatrice, was
wont to gather in his Florentine garden ; as readily could she
have fused the various elements which must have existed in that
colony under the shadow of San Martino's Church, to which the
poet belonged during his years of dreamland and romance.
Presently a portifere at the lower end of the room moved, and
the very beautiful and only daughter of the house. Princess Z ,
joined us. This lady's fair inheritance includes so much of old
Bologna as to make her recognized as a power in the city, while
her beauty and accomplishments have made her famous in nearly
all the capitals of Europe. I could not help thinking how strange
it was to see this dazzling nineteenth-century figure — this charm-
ing woman dressed in one of Worth's latest creations, her blonde
hair arranged after the most approved fashion of the moment, her
very bangles suggesting the caprice of the hour — in this mediaeval
monastery, herself the last link with the family who gave to the
Florence of the thirteenth century much of its social charm !
Still more incongruous did it seem to me, a little later, to be led
by the young princess through the old house, up and down cor-
ridors whose very shadows seemed to be of centuries gone by,
and whose various objects of interest, including family relics
hundreds of years old, were displayed by her with careless
touches, and not the least apparent " feeling " for their antiquity !
Finally we reached the roof, or loggia, of the house, whence
we gazed upon a landscape fruitful and suggestive, the princess
pointing out to me various objects of interest. And from our
point of vantage we swept the country for miles. Away off,
lifting its fair proportions to the evening sky, we could see
Michele in Bosco, whose gardens, terraces, and luxuriant groves
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458 A Great Lady. [Jub't
concentrated much of the soft radiance which the evening in Italy
gathers to itself, diflFusing it as some dreamy painter might let
drift the colors of his palette, the whole being full of that in-
eflfable lingering charm which belongs only, it seems to me, to
the Italian atmosphere, the Italian sky, the Italian waters, let the
moment be of sunrise, of sunset, twilight, or the pale guardian-
ship of the moon. Before us lay the town of Bologna, the gray
or brown tones of the houses, with the spots of orange color here
and there, gaining picturesqueness from this distant view, while
beyond the furthest outline of buildings the old city was com-
passed by a country rich in color and diversified by many un-
dulations, white roadways winding like ribbons up and down, the
plains dotted here and there by churches whose spires were up-
lifted to the last rays of the sunlight, and the sound of whose
bells came to our ears as soft and soothing as the music of falling
water or the wind among pine-trees at evening. Away off the
thin line of water was touched into serenest blue, and the sky
held the fairest sapphire tints until, an hour later, the day faded
slowly on the western horizon in trails of primrose and palest
amber.
It seemed natural, sitting by Dante's descendant, and with so
much that was suggestive of Guelf and Ghibelline in the country
about us, to think of the poet and the people from whom these
Gozzadinis were descended, that family of Alighieris who early
in the thirteenth century established themselves in the neighbor-
hood of San Martino's Church in Florence. The story of the
poet's life need not be given here. It is only of the period when
he made one of that large Alighieri circle, when he knew and
loved Beatrice, that I need speak, and, passing over the years of
his prime, come to the date of his death, and the facts connected
with his burial and sepulchre. Few people who read the Divine
Comedy seem to remember that the splendid Florence of to-day
was not the Florence of the poet. When the child destined to
make the name of Alighieri famous was baptized in the old bap*
tistery, it was a building of flint, gray and dull to outward view.
The cathedral now dominating the square was not built. The
tall houses in the neighborhood where Dante's boyhood was
spent approached each other closely across a threadway of
street, and as yet showed no touch of Tuscany in their archi-
tecture. Bargello and the Palazzo Vecchio were only in process
of erection. Santa Croce, Maria Novella, and the Campanile of
Giotto were beauties imprisoned in the inspiration of the future,
and Dante lifted his people to the skies from a Florence whose
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predominant aspect was of the tumult of Guelf and GhibelHne,
Neri and Bianchi, Albizzi and Medici. The Alighieris lived in
the houses thronging together near the cathedral square. At
present only one old doorway of the houses remains— a remnant
of the building in which Dante was born — but we know from the
records of his life that within this limited circle of streets the
early years of the poet's life were spent. If he had few oppor-
tunities of extending his knowledge of the world, he had rare
chances of studying human nature, for the Alighieris and their
friends were very hospitable, and the circle in which the lad was
a constant, if voiceless, member, included the Portinaris to whom
Dante's Beatrice belonged, the Donati, Forese, and Piccardas ;
and that he was keen to observe all the characteristics of his
people he gave proofs later when he set forth his studies of
human nature in immortal verse. The festivals of the city drew
together these family cliques, not entirely separating them from
the outer world, .and yet concentrating whatever they had to
contribute for mutual entertainment or intellectual elevation.
Dante, we can well imagine, moved among the crowd, always a
majestic boy, with the stamp of the future on his brow, and the
solemnity of his soul evident from the first encounter with that
child of the Portinaris, Folco's daughter Beatrice.
Boccaccio tells the story of their meeting. A May-day feast
in 1275 was the occasion for a large family party in Folco Porti-
nari s gardens. Dante Alighieri, a boy of ten years, was among
the guests, and, according to the custom of the time, served the
tables of the elders with other children of his age and family,
dining with them later, and being permitted to enjoy the childish
games which belonged to the festive day. Suddenly Beatrice
Portinari appeared. A child of eight years, clad, to use his own
words, in a dress of a " most noble color and subdued ; a goodly
crimson girdle adorned in such sort as best suited her tender
age." Her dazzling beauty, her candid loveliness of manner,
her exquisite grace and sprightly wit took the boy's young heart
and fancy passionately captive. •' The spirit of life," he wrote
later, recording these first impressions, " which hath its dwelling
in the sacred chambers of my heart, began to tremble violently."
But Dante's predominant feeling seems to have been a reve-
rence which forbade him, even years later, to lay the constant
heart at Beatrice's feet. Whether ihey even met during the
nine years which Dante mentions as elapsing between this first
vision of angelic loveliness and a second memorably-recorded
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occasion we do not know, but it is to be presumed that families
so intimate as the Alighieris and Portinaris gave the young peo-
ple some chance of developing an acquaintance no one seems to
have objected to ; still, Dante's record of seeing Beatrice nine
years later reads as though he had known little of her in the in-
terval. Down the narrow street she comes, ** this wonderful
creature," as he calls her, •* between two ladies who were older
than she/' She turns her eyes " towards the place where I stood
in great timidity, and in her ineffable courtesy saluted me so
graciously that I seemed then to see to the heights of all bless-
edness."
Was ever love story purer, sweeter, or sadder than this of the
great poet ? Beatrice, rapturously as he describes her, seems to
have scorned the idea of his love. Evil reports coming to her
ears of the young Alighieri, she withdrew even that ** ineffable
courtesy " of manner and gave him not even casual recognition.
Perhaps it was as well for the young man that other things
forced themselves on his attention at the time. The Alighieri
family had their own contentions, and the two parties whose
heads were later so cruelly to affect the poet's life were begin-
ning to form in the Florence of that tumultuous day. The
battle between the Ghibelline forces and Arezzo absorbed Bea-
trice's lover. Strange tragedies were going on at this moment
in Italy which later concentrated for Dante all that he could
feel of patriotism, poetry, romance, or art, but he seems then to
have heeded but slightly tales which later he made imperishable
in his verse. In the tower of Pisa Count Ugolino was perish-
ing ; a little later the fiercely pathetic story of Francesca da Ri-
mini came to its tragic close ; but such passionate transactions
of that emotional period— that love-fraught generation wherein
men and women, it would seem, sacrificed everything for the tri-
umph of love or hate — moved Dante Alighieri to no outbursts
of the devotion which was like a "never-ceasing prayer" in his
heart. So far as he was concerned Beatrice Portinari, " crowned
and clad with humility," was a vision too angelic or remote for
the daily joys of life, and at last — very soon — Dante, knowing
that she was failing in health, was compelled to go off to battle,
to Campaldino, where he fought more conscious of the presence
of his mistress in his heart than of the foe before him. He
was writing a canzone in her honor a little later when a messen-
ger arrived — the Lady Beatrice was no more ! In his sonnet he
tells us that the angels asked God for this fair being, but the AI-
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mighty stayed his hand a little while, since on earth was " one
who expects to lose her'' The prayer of the angels, however,
was granted. Dante found himself *• alone for ever" in 1290.
Strange, simple story of a poet's dream in the midst of the wild
warfare of love and despair going on about him ! The echoes of
bliss or misery in other lives seem to have floated past him while
he sat dreaming in the shadow of San Martino. filled by a sense
of the utter unapproachableness of the object of his love, uncon-
scious of aught but the purity of his own story, the tale given later
to all posterity, but never breathed to Beatrice herself. No pres-
sure of the hand, no tender meeting of the eyes, no faintest touch
of his lips on hers had the poet to remember, and yet all that was
to be recorded of the emotional part of his life belongs to Bea-
trice alone. Gemma, the woman whom the poet married later
and who was the mother of his children, is a voiceless creature
in this vibrating past. He tells us nothing of her. The loyalty
which was in the Alighieri blood made him constant, but the
fires of his youth had burned out all possibility of romance. His
devotion to the mystic Beatrice presents him to us, aureole-
crowned and illumined, as a man who gave all and asked nothing
in return ! A strange, fantastic, shadow-like lover, whose very
eyes droop before his mistress, whose speech falters, and whose
step is reluctant until that prayer of the angels is heard, and he
pours out his passion on pages ** writ in fire," imperishable — im-
mortal as he would have us feel his lady was herself.
Thence we pass on to his death. The world knows all the
story of his eventful, mournful life. In 1321, at Ravenna, the
poet fell ill of a consuming fever and died, a strange fate pur-
suing the place of his sepulture and his bones themselves, until
in 1865 a royal commission was appointed by the king of Italy,
with Count Gozzadini for its president, the object being to
discover Dante Alighieri's remains and entomb them suitably
before the celebration of the sixth centenary of the great poet's
birth.
Intensely interesting were the memorials of that investiga-
tion, which Count Gozzadini showed me, and, as I believe no
complete account of the search for Dante's remains made by this
official commission has been published in English, I will tell the
story as I know it, drawing actual facts, dates, etc., from the re-
port of the commissioners under Gozzadini, which I believe ex-
ists for the public only in the Italian copy officially retained at
Turin.
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Count Gozzadini's appointment was made as a compliment to
his wife, Maria Alighieri, and also because of his well-known sci-
entific and historical erudition.
The instructions to the commissioners were literally as fol-
lows :
" To collect, as far as possible, all information, whether written or tra-
ditional, relating to the sepulchre of Dante, and to the incidents connected
with the burial or removal of his remains, between the years 1321 and 1677,
inclusive.
" To ascertain whether the bones of Dante were removed in 1677 from
the sepulchre in which they were placed by the Frati Minori, and, if so, to
discover the locality to which they were conveyed.
" To examine the wooden chest in the Braccioforte sepulchral chapel,
said to contain the bones of Dante, particularly for the purpose of ascer-
taining whether the chest bears any marks by which it may be referred to
the year 1677. or any other year.
" To ascertain, as far as possible, whether the human bones in the above
chest are such as might have belonged to a man who ceased to live at the
age when Dante died, and to examine with great minuteness the craniuno,
and compare it with the cast taken from the mask of Dante bequeathed by
the Marquis Torrigiani to Florence and preserved in the Royal Uffizi Gal-
lery.
"The commissioners are, moreover, invited and authorized to make any
further investigations within or without the above sepulchral chapel which
may be at all likely to throw further light on the particular subject of this
inquiry, due care being at the same time taken that no investigations be
made without the full concurrence of the municipality of Ravenna."
The deputation, headed by Count Gozzadini, arrived in Ra-
venna on the 6th of June, 1865, to begin the investigation. The
authorities of the town met them, and oflFered every facility and
courtesy. The first part of the work was tracing the interment
of the poet.
^11 historians or commentators agree that Dante Alighieri
died September 14, 1321, and was interred near the church of
the Frati Minori. How longf, however, the poet's bones re-
mained undisturbed is doubtful. As the Cardinal of Bologna in
1491 was known to have the intention of removing them, two
brave Florentines undertook a temporary defence of the tomb, but
new apprehensions in 15 19 impelled the friars of San Francisco to
remove the remains, while the Florentine people petitioned to
have them transferred to their city. Fierce quarrels prevailed
later between the Frati Minori and the commune of Ravenna
concerning the jurisdiction of the tomb. While certain repairs
were in progress a large body-guard was employed to watch
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1887] A Great Lady. 463
and protect the workmen, and the sepulchre was enclosed in a
heavy iron railing, the key of the entrance being given to the
heads of the commune for safe keeping. The war, however, still
raged between the friars and the commune until a curious in-
cident brought about a decision as to whether the sepulchre was
in the charge of a civil or ecclesiastical body. In 1592 three
prisoners escaped, and flying to Dante's tomb claimed the right
of the protection of sanctuary. The archbishop promptly
decided that the place of the poet's sepulture was not sacred.
The friars then declared that Dante's remains had been secretly
conveyed away, and this question remaining undecided, Cardinal
Gonzaga in 1780 ordered the tomb opened. No clear record of
the result was given, but the general impression that it was
found empty prevailed. What had become of the bones of the
poet remained a mystery until, in view of the celebration of
Dante's sixth centenary, the royal commission was appointed
to investigate certain discoveries made by the authorities in
Ravenna.
In order to increase an interest in the tomb of Dante, it was
decided to remove the wall adjoining the chapel of the Braccio-
forte in Ravenna, thus disclosing the tomb fully to view. The
work was begun on the 27th of May, and the same day a recess
within a closed part of the wall came to light, from which tum-
bled a rude wooden chest, which was broken open in the fall. A
human skull and bones appeared, and inscriptions inside and out
were observable. As there was every reason to conjecture that
these were the remains of the poet, the authorities conveyed the
chest to safe keeping, placing it under the charge of the National
Guard until the arrival, on June 6, of President Count Gozza-
dini and the learned gentlemen of his party.
A careful deliberation decided Count Gozzadini to investi-
gate the sepulchre before examming the mysterious chest and its
contents. Accordingly, on the morning of June 7, the com-
missioners, the syndic of Ravenna, municipal authorities and
deputies from Florence witnessed the opening of the tomb
under Count Gozzadini*s direction, and the result was the dis-
covery of portions of. a human skeleton, some dust and laurel
leaves. All of these were carefully collected, and on June 11
the chest and its contents were formally examined in the pres-
ence of the same august and scientific body.
The chest,. Count Gozzadini told me, could not have been
made by a carpenter. It was hastily constructed, and later in-
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464 A Great Lady. [July.
vestigations went to prove that it was made by the Frate
Antonio Santi, who was chancellor of the convent in 1677, and
who evidently hastily collected and concealed the remains. Aa
inscription on the chest read as follows:
" Dantis Ossa
A me Fre. Antonio Santi
Hie Posita
Ano 1677 Die 19 Octobris."
Historical research was made and the fact of Fra Santi's
chancellorship established, also that no meetings of the chapter
were held during some years, so that Fra Santi, who doubtless
had his own reasons for having concealed Dante's bones, was
the better able to keep his secret.
The commissioners, two or more of whom were skilled phy-
sicians, now proceeded to compare the fragments found in the
tomb with those in the chest. All agreed perfectly, and the
skull exactly corresponded in conformation to the famous mask
of the Uffizi Gallery in Florence. No doubt, therefore, existing
that these were actually the poet's bones, the commissioners
gave their testimony unanimously. A careful record was made
of the conformation of the skull, Count Gozzadini, although
no believer in the science of Gall, permitting a phrenological
report, which sets forth that the head shows unusually de-
velofSed prominences indicating benevolence, veneration, in-
dependence, self-esteem, pride, conscientiousness, mechanical
design, sculpture and architecture, while a high order of brain
power was evident. A curious prominence between the middle
and upper part of the frontal bone was observed.
On the 25th of June the remains, placed under a glass case in
the Braccioforte chapel, were exposed to public view Jind then
solemnly reinterred.
Countess Gozzadini, in relating these interesting events,
added that a number of people became alarmed lest, as the
poet's descendant and an Alighieri, she would lay a claim of some
sort to the much-disputed-over tomb! Nothing could have been
further from her thoughts or those of her husband, but spies
were set to watch them, and quite unwittingly the count gave
some color to their alarm. In virtue of his wife's name the
authorities decided to present Count Gozzadini with a small urn
and a minute portion of Dante's ashes. Fearing to arouse the
suspicions of the people, they went at night to the chapel to
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188/.] A Great Lady. 465
procure and enshrine the dust of Madame Gozzadini's illustrious
ancestor ; but an alarm spread that they were stealing the re-
mains, and a frantic mob pursued them to their hotel and were
only appeased by the appearance of the officials on a balcony,
who told the story and declared the poet's bones unharmed. ,
The dust, obtained with so much peril, rested in its shrine
among other memorials of the past, a very small bit, I believe,
having been sent to Longfellow. A splendidly illuminated and
bound "Dante Memorial Volume" was shown us, which had
been prepared by the cit/ of Bologna as a wedding gift to the
fair daughter of the house, the last of the Alighieris.
I fain would linger «ver personal recollections of Madame
Gozzadini, whose remarkable life closed suddenly after that
bright October. Her whole time was devoted to the museum
for the next year, and it was to be opened with all the pomp and
bravery of an official occasion, and formally presented to the
city which the descendant of Dante loved as passionately as he
had loved Florence. Deputations from Florence, Ravenna, Pisa,
Turin, etc, flocked into the old town, the day was declared a
legal holiday, and Madame Gozzadini, having spent a fatiguing
five or six hours in the new museum on the eve of the presenta-
tion, retired to her " Hermitage " to rest, as she said, and be
bright on the long-looked-for morning. Her husband had some
final papers to prepare and she bade him good-night early, going
to her room, cheerful and exhilarated by the feeling that the toil
of years was to have its crown of success on the morrow. She
dismissed her maid with an injunction to be sure and call her in
full time for a careful toilette and quiet breakfast with her
husband. No hint of weakness was in voice or manner, and the
dread messenger must have come on swift and noiseless feet, for
they found her in an attitude of peaceful repose when the event-
ful day awoke, lying with her cheek resting on her hand, but the
stillness not to be broken ever upon earth ! Afar off", the city of
Bologna was awakening to do its beloved patroness and friend
the very highest civic honor. The processions were forming ;
speeches were being rehearsed, and crowds in gay "festa" dress
thronging the public squares and streets, but the great lady for
whom this earthly crown was waiting had received a visitor
whose treasures were those no human hand could bestow.
Lucy C. Lillie.
VOL. XLV.— 30
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466 Dr. Brownson in Boston. [J«ly»
DR. BROWNSON IN BOSTON.
Many, doubtless, will wonder that such a philosophical mind
as Brownson's should have dwelt so long amidst the entangle-
ments of socialistic politics. But that is the very kind of a mind
to do it, if socialism will offer a solution of the problem of human
misery. And see the result : When Brownson had finally studied
and thought out the scientific basis of the political order, he pro-
duced what may be considered his greatest work — ^the greatest
work yet written in America on general politics — The Atn^u
can Republic. The gravity of the topics is not equal to that of
his philosophical treatises. But fundamental political questions
are grave enough for any philosopher, and they are not obscure
to minds of Brownson's order, and through the medium of his
style they become comprehensible to the average intellect.
An incident which bears on this side of his character escaped
my memory in preparing the last article of this series. Some-
where about 183s or 1836 our Workingman's party invited him
to deliver a Fourth of July oration in New York. My brothers
and I secured his consent, and we hired the large dining- hall of
the old Washington Hotel, situated on the site of the present
Stewart building, Broadway and Chambers Street. Brownson
never was more earnest in his life than in that address. I have
forgotten the exact matter of the oration, but none who heard
him could forget his manner. The immense energy, the intense
conviction^ the great voice, the empliatic gestures, not only
aroused our emotions but shook the old hotel to its foundations
and made the glass in the windows rattle again.
Before passing from Brownson as a political agitator to
Brownson as a searcher after religious truth, I wish to put on
record my admiration of him as a patriot. No man ever loved
his country more devotedly. That is easily said. But what is
far more is that his motives were universal. He loved America
for the sake of her institutions. There was little of the routine
patriotism of the average man in him. He was routine in no-
thing, and there was not much of the instinctive, blood-is-thicker-
than-water^ sentimental patriotism in him. He was incapable of
being swayed by the dominant tendencies of the caste or race
which might claim him, unless they had first mastered his reason.
His country was good for him because it was good for all men.
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18870 -^^- Brown SON in Boston. 467
Listen to him in explanation of his citizenship when speaking of
the anti-slavery movement in 1838 :
** We speak on this subject strongly, but we have no fears of being mis-
understood. There is not a man or woman living who can accuse us of
defending slavery. This whole number of our Review is devoted to the
defence of the rights of man — not the rights of one man, of a few men, but
of every man. We can legitimate our own right to freedom only by argu-
ments which prove also the negro's right to be free. We have all our life
long sympathized with the poor and the oppressed, and we yield to no
abolitionist in the amount of the sacrifices we have made, wisely or un-
wisely, needlessly or not, in the cause of human freedom. It is not to-day
nor this year that we have pledged ourselves, for life or for death, to the
holy cause of universal liberty. But everything, we say, in its time. First
we must settle the basis of individual freedom, settle the principle that
man measures man the world over, and establish our government upon it*
and secure the action of the government in accordance with it, and then
we may proceed to make all details harmonize with it.*'
In the same year, in an article entitled '' American Radical-
ism,** he says :
*• For onrselves, we have accepted with our whole heart the political
system adopted by our fathers. We regard that system as the most bril-
liant achievement of humanity — a system in which centres all past progress,
and which combines the last results of all past civilization. It is the latest
birth of time. Humanity has been laboring with it since that morning
when the sons of God shouted with joy over the birth of a new world, and
we will not willingly see it strangled in its cradle. We take the American
political system as our starting-point, as our primitive datum, and we re-
pulse whatever is repugnant to it and accept and demand whatever is essen-
tial to its preservation. We take our stand on the idea of our institutions,
and labor with all our soul to realize and develop it. As a lover of our
race, as the devoted friend of liberty, of the progress of mankind, we feel
that we must in this country be conservative, not radical. If we demand
the elevation of labor and the laboring classes, we do it only in accordance
with our institutions, and for the purpose of preserving them by removing
all discrepancy between their spirit and the social habits and disposition of
the people on whom they are to act and to whose keeping they are en-
trusted. We demand reform only for the purpose of preserving American
institutions in their real character ; and we can tolerate no changes, no
innovations, no alleged improvements not introduced in strict accordance
with the relations which do subsist between the States and the Union and
between the States themselves. . • •
"The Constitution, then, is our touchstone for trying all measures.
Not, indeed, because we have any superstitious reverence for written con-
stitutions, or any overweening attachment to things as they are, but be-
cause we have satisfied ourselves by long, patient, and somewhat extensive
inquiry that the preservation of the Constitution is strictly identified with
the highest interests of our race. Its destruction were, so far as human
foresight can go, an irreparable loss. We would preserve it, then, not be-
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468 Dr. Brownson IN Boston. [July,
cause it is a constitution, not because we are averse to changes, nor because
we have a dread of revolutions, but because the safety and progress of
liberty demand its preservation."
My first visit to Boston was in tke latter part of 1839 or early
in 1840, and on my arrival I went straight to Dr. Brownson's
hous?. I was his guest for several weeks. Is the reader curious
to know what we were doing meantime ? I answer, Nothing but
biting away at the hard knots of philosophy.
Wherever we were we talked philosophy, but especially in
the doctor's home-circle. He did not live in Boston itself, but
at Chelsea, his house being in what was then, and I believe is
yet, called Mt. Bellamy. I remember very well our discussions
walking the streets of Boston, down towards the ferry, on the
boat as we crossed the harbor, and from the ferry wharf up the
hill to Mi. Bellamy, now disputing about Le Roux's doctrine of
eternity — which we considered Buddhist — now Victor Cousin,
again the subjectivism of Kant and the German philosophers.
Besides myself there was but one other immediate personal
disciple of the doctor, and that a Mr. Greene, whose first name,
I regret to say, has quite escaped my memory. He was a young
man of fine character. His father had been appointed post-
master of Boston by Andrew Jackson. Young Mr. Greene was
then studying for the Baptist ministry in the seminary of that
denomination at Newton, and he came over to visit Brownson as
often as he could. He had been an officer in the United States
army, being a West Point graduate, but he had resigned to
enter the ministry. He had a good mind, was fond of philoso-
phical studies, subsequently drifted off into Unitarianism and
wrote some books. I am curious to know if Gen. George S.
Greene, who served with distinction in the late war, in both the
Eastern and Western armies, is my old fellow-disciple of Dr.
Brownson ? I have made some inquiries, but have failed to fix
the identity.
We were a small following, but the doctor could not have a
large personal discipleship at that time, for he was in a state of
transition. Yet he often used to say that it was for us young
men to develop and carry out the principles of philosophy which
he had promulgated ; but at that time I could not see that he
had any first principles clear and well enough defined to be un-
derstood.
Those who knew Brownson only superficially might ask, Was
he not peremptory in private intercourse? I answer, Yes, in one
way. What occupied his mind at the moment he would crowd
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upon jours. He would push his thoufht before your attention,
and never be content until he had you. full of his idea. He would
do this without bullying, and yet would encroach on your
independence if you were not careful to maintain it. Has the
reader ever met a man who was in earnest who acted other-
wise ? If you did stand up against him and maintained your
independence, it generally ended in a disturbance of the elements ;
the breeze nearly always freshened into a gale, and the exchange
of views was a stormy aflFair. Woe to the man who measured
strength with Dr. Brownson and had not the pluck and nerve to
withstand him I
In another way he was not peremptory. He did not want
you to take his ipse dixit. He wanted you to appreciate his
argument for its merits, never to take his mere word.
So far as Boston had religion at that time, it was divided into
two camps, the Orthodox and the Unitarian, the latter stretching
off into Transcendentalism. Theodore Parker was the foremost
man of the left; the right had no man of great distinction. Out
of Transcendentalism sprang Brook Farm and Fruitlands. They
were the social and political outcome of the religious movement
The philosophical aspect was a gradual loosening of the Chris-
tian principles in men's minds and a falling away into general
scepticism, Parker and Emerson leading down. Brownson and
Parker were acquainted long before my coming to Boston, but
they had widely diverged by that time and were neither co-
workers nor co-thinkers. 1 was introduced to Parker by George
Ripley at Brook Farm, meeting him first in the parlor of the
community's house. His church was in Roxbury and Brook Farm
in West Roxbury — both now included in the city limits — and
Parker was accustomed to come out to visit Ripley nearly every
Monday. Parker was a great reader and had collected a good
library, including many German books. I remember that he
gave me Moehler's Symbolism in the original. But Brownson had
by this time a strong aversion for Parker and his rationalistic
principles.
Did the reader ever hear of the Newnessites? The name is
now totally forgotten by the public, and was given in derision by
Brownson. They were another socialistic outcome of the re-
ligious movement. J. P. Greaves, Charles Lane, and Bronson
Olcott were the leaders, and for all of them and their purposes
Dr. Brownson had a special dislike. Greaves was an English-
roan, and never set foot in America, but exerted a considerable
influence among the Transcendentalists by his writings. He had
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470 Dr. Brownson in Boston. [July,
devoted his whole time and fortune to educational reform, and
had -been an associate of Pcstalozzi. I have before me his pic
ture— a really noble face, strikingly like that of Sir Walter Scott.
He left a valuable library and his manuscripts for universal pur-
poses. The last I heard of it Mr. Emerson had it in charge and
it was stored in the garret of his house. The other two were
New-Englanders, Olcott a genuine Yankee schoolmaster, though
he had originally been a pedlar. Lane and Olcott were not at
Brook Farm, but were the founders of the Fruitlands community
— principally Olcott Of course I knew them well, and so did
Brownson before I did. He kept me away from their public
discourses, being, I suppose, afraid that they would break the
progress of my mind. He advised me to go to Brook Farm, but
he did not say a word about Fruitlands : I went there on my
own initiative.
Dr. Brownson, during part of the time I lived in the vicinity
of Boston, had given up his old Review and not yet started the
new one ; he had turned his subscribers over to the Democratic
Review. This was then conducted by O'Sullivan alone, Langftry
being dead ; but Brownson was a frequent and regular con-
tributor. It was published in New York, and was an organ of
the Democratic party. Mr. O'Sullivan is still living. He was
for many years the proprietor and editor of the best and ablest
organ the Democratic party ever had. He is a man who deserves
well of his party and his country. Both good policy and strict
justice demand that such men be not neglected.
But Dr. Brownson had by no means retired from public life,
for he conducted religious services every Sunday in a public hall
in the heart of the city — in Washington Street, I think. I forget
the name of the hall and its exact location : Boston's crooked
streets were never so familiar to me as New York ; I have often
lost myself in Boston. The hall was not large, seating not more
than five hundred, and the congregation not averaging more
than three hundred. The service was held at the regular time ;
as the common crowd of Bostonians went on to church and meet-
ing-house, we went to this hall. The music consisted of a har-
monium played by a young man accompanying three or four
male and female singers. The hymns, if I remember rightly,
were those of the Unitarians. A collection was taken up every
Sunday, and this paid for the hall, and what was over was given
to the doctor, which I suppose was not much.
Did Brownson offer prayer? it may be asked. He did, with
the posture and style of any Protestant clergyman. He had the
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appearance of a Unitarian minister, wearing no gown and follow-
ing no ritual. Of course the sermon was the main feature, and
he attracted to hear him a class of men and women who were
thinkers rather than worshippers — ^persons with whom religion
had run off into pure intellectuality. But it was original think-
ing. There was more original thinking in that congregation
than in all the rest of Boston put together ; and that is saying
not a little. The profound thinkers were there. Most of the
radical minds of Boston sat under Dr. Brownson in those times.
What was the proportion of the sexes ? it may be asked. Three
men to one woman, but those women were genuine come-outers ;
and, men and women, the assemblage was composed of beings
who did their own thinking.
If the reader should ask me what Brownson called himself I
should be at a loss to answer. He did not call himself anything.
He was on his way to Catholicity, and this was his transition
period. He preached rational religion — that is to say, incipient
Catholicity, or you might call it transition Catholicity. To a
very acute observer it was evident that, consciously or uncon-
sciously, he was aiming at Catholicity. It was also evident that
his own diflBculties were not settled ; he was gradually settling
them by this very preaching.
The Catholic Church was often mentioned in these discourses,
and sometimes by name. He dwelt especially on the note of
unity — not that oneness which forbids disunion of discipline, doc-
trine, and worship, and which forms the external organic mark
of the church ; but, as he says in The Convert {^. 333), " that divine-
human life, one and identical in all who receive it. • • . All life is
organic, and consequently all who live this life are moulded and
formed into one body, living one and the same life, the life of
Christ, and therefore rightly termed his body, the church." He
was fast getting the idea of concrete Christianity. He had passed
out of the view that the chief utility of religion was as a social
force ; he was getting into the true view of it as a personal force,
its primary, real force. He was showing from pure reason what
has been shown from historical research by a host of authors —
the latest and one of the very best being Mr. T. W. Allies*— that
the church is the organism which effectuates the unitive principle
between God and man.
These views were familiar to me, and were, I think, earlier in
my mind than in his. We had read the same books, but with me
* See his latest and in some sense ablest work, The Tkrons of the Fisherman^ Catholic
Publication Society Co., New York.
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472 Dr, Brownson in Boston. [July.
it was from the start more a personal affair than it was with him,
to whom for a long time it was largely a philosophical problora.
He was occupied in working out that problem philosophically
and for the universe. I was looking out for number one. I and
others used to say: " Why doesn't Brownson look out more for
himself ? Why doesn't he take care of his own soul? " But he
was moving on at his own gait, and soon began to apply his prin-
ciples to practical life ; was only a few months behind me when
the end was reached. But he once told me that he was like the
general of an army born in rebellion, and his duty was to carry
as many back with him to the true standard as he could. This
delusion he soon got rid of, and went alone at last.
When his conscience did take hold he moved with his native
force. I remember his preaching a sermon to J. Freeman
Clarke's congregation — in their old meeting-house, afterwards
the Episcopal church of the Advent — >yhich was very peculiar.
The text was, *' To the Jews a scandal, to the Greeks a stumbling-
block." To me, it was evidently addressed to himself, and was a
picture of himself. It was powerful, but I did not like it ; there
was too much feeling in it. He tried to be pathetic, and to others
perhaps he was so — not to me. He was a man to them ; to me
he was a philosopher. I did not go to him for emotion, but for
thoughts. I don't know what Mr. Clarke thought of that ser-
mon; perhaps he was not surprised, as Dr. Brownson at that
time had not the run of the Boston pulpits, being rarely asked
to preach in the churches. In Parker's church at Roxbury he
would no longer preach ; for if Brownson was two-thirds Catho-
lie, Parker was two-thirds infidel. The road on which they had
started had bifurcated, and one was running into infidelity and
the other into Catholicity.
In his Convert Dr. Brownson says that he had a high ap-
preciation of the Tractarian movement, and I have a letter from
him somewhere, written at this time, of which he was afterwards
always heartily ashamed. In it he advised me to join the
Episcopal Church, if I could do so with a good conscience. I
have ever considered it a good joke on the doctor. It was the
only time I knew him to be illogical. He* had a supreme and
lofty contempt for Episcopalianism afterwards. I remember
hearing Mr. Seabury, editor of the Churchman, say about this
period that Brownson never would be an Anglican, but would
finally become a Catholic. I. T. Hecker.
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1887.] A Mythical Feudal Right. 473
A MYTHICAL FEUDAL RIGHT.
The customs prevalent during feudal times are often con-
demned by writers who know very little about them, and by
whom, in some instances, they have been altogether misrepre-
sented. Popular writers do not usually try to be accurate in
their statements about what was said or done many centuries
ago ; moreover, it is very difficult to trace up and refute histori-
cal falsehoods relating to the middle ages, because the needed
evidence has to be sought in old books and manuscripts, known
only to the learned, to be found only in large libraries, and not
intelligible without a thorough knowledge of Latin and other
branches of learning to be acquired only by special studies.
There is one particularly atrocious calumny which, being widely
circulated and believed at the present day, eminently deserves
refutation, since it concerns not merely the manners of feudal
times, but also, and intimately, the good name and fame of the
Catholic Church. Moreover, •* when writers of reputation err
there is a literary decency which requires that they should
be quoted and confuted, although their arguments may be too
weak to require a confutation and so illogical as scarcely to be
capable of it."* A fair statement of it is contained in the fol-
lowing passage taken from an article entitled "The Reform of
Local Taxation," by David A. Wells, published in the North
American Review for April, 1876 (p. 380) — the italics are ours :
" In order, however, in some degree to satisfy curiosity as to the nature
of these abominations, it may be mentioned that one of the local taxes of
Brittany which remained in force down to 1789, and was known as the
silence des grenouilles, was a money payment in lieu of an ancient feudal
obligation incumbent on the residents of marshy districts to keep the
frogs still by beating the waters, that the lady of the seignor ' when she
lies in * might not be disturbed; while another exaction, even more out-
rageous, was the tax known as *cuissage,* which was paid to the seignor
on the occasion of every marriage on his estates, as a substitute for his
ancient and formerly acknowledged right to the single possession before mar-
riage of the person of every female, the daughter of any of his serfs or more
dependent vassals."
Motley, in his History of the Rise of the Dutch Republic
(p. 331), describes the wretched condition, during the period of
* Sir David Dalrymple in the Appendix to the Annals of Scotland (p. 316).
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474 A Mythical Feudal Right. [Julyt
five centuries following after the tenth, of the Lyfeigene, or serfs,
of whom the number belonging to the bishopric of Utrecht
was enormous, and asserts " they had no marriage except under
condition of the mi?Lmo\xs jus prima noctis^ What he refers to
is plain enough without further particulars.
Beaumarchais, in his comedy of Le Mariage de Figaro^ brings
in the custom as then existing in Spain (!) ; and a comic opera,
entitled Le Droit du Seigneur, was composed some fifty years ag^
for the Op6ra Comique of Paris, but, fortunately for the cause
of decency, is now seldom if ever played. At the Paris salon of
1872 there was exhibited a painting by Jules Gamier, pupil of
G6r6me, catalogued as Le Droit du Seigneur. It is said to have
belonged to an American amateur. It is amazing that a jury
could be found so wanting in self-respect as to permit it to be
hung. Photo-engravings of it are to be seen in many places.
The subject is the exercise of the seigniorial right in question.
The marriage ceremony has just taken place in a church
seen in the background, and the sad bride is being led away by
the lord. Two monks seem to be endeavoring to reconcile the
unwilling groom to submission to his fate ; one of them holds up
three fingers of one hand, for what purpose is not clear, unless
to signify to him the number of days which must elapse before
his bride will be restored to him.
It is strange that Aubrey de Vere, an eminent poet of our
day and a fervent Catholic, should have believed, when he
wrote his play of 5/. Thomas of Canterbury,''^ that the custom
ever prevailed in England or anywhere else, for he makes that
martyred prelate say in reply to the Earl of Cornwall about
•• Royal Customs " :
"• • . Customs ! Customs !
Custom was that which to the lord of the soil
Yielded the virgin one day wedded !"
In April, 1854, M. Dupin,a very distinguished lawyer and pub-
lic man, read, at a sitting of the Acadimie des Sciences morcdes
et politiques (which forms part of the Institute of France),
a report commendatory of a work entitled Coutumes locales du
baillage d' Amiens (Local customs of the bailiwick of Amiens), by
a M. Bouthors, chief clerk of the then Imperial Court of that city.
M. Dupin cited from the work alleged historical evidence that
♦ As quoted in " St. Thomas of Canterbury and Becket »» in The Cathouc World for
December, 1885.
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the customary right in question had really existed, and, in two
cases mentioned, been even claimed by ecclesiastical lords, who
had commuted the right of exercising it for a payment of money.
The first case rested on the authority of Bofe'rius (Nicholas de
Bohier), a jurist, bom at Montpellier in 1469, who became pro-
fessor of law at Bourges and afterwards judgfe of a court at
Bordeaux, where he died in 1539. In his Dicision^Sy being re-
ports of cases argued and decided in the Senate of Bordeaux,
he states that he had assisted at a trial on appeal in the court of
Bourges, the metropolitan being present, and that the curate,
who was party to the suit, claimed that the odious right referred
to belonged to his benefice, had been enjoyed by him for a long
time back, but had been annulled and commuted into a fine.
The other case had been found by M. Bouthors in Lauri6re*s
Glossaire (p. 308), where it is related that the officials of the
Bishop of Amiens, acting in his behalf, ''pour la riprisentati(m
du mime droit " (as claiming the same right), required from new-
married husbands an indemnity for the permission to spend
with their brides the first, second, and third nights after marriage,
^ut that by a decree of Parliament of March 19, 1409, he was for-
bidden to exercise the said right. The Glossaire is also authority
for the allegation that the abuse aforesaid existed in other
countries besides France. In the Journal des D^bats of the 2d
May following appeared a notice in terras of great praise of M.
Dupin's report, and of great indignation that such a custom as
the Droit du Seigneur^ or that other requiring vassals to keep
the frogs quiet during the night, should ever have existed.
The audacious charges of M. Dupin, and the comments
thereon of the Journal des Dibats^ were promptly replied to by
Louis Veuillot, the late chief editor of the Univers, who published
in that paper on the 17th, 20th, 24th, and 28th, same month, four
very able articles in refutation. Later on he revised and en-
larged his work, and made it into a book, which was published in
1854 under the title of Le Droit du Seigneur au may en age (The
right of the lord in the middle ages). A list is given of the
works consulted by him in his researches, in which he had the
guidance and direction of four distinguished professors of the
S,€ole des Chartes — Messrs. L6on Lacabane, de Mas Latrie, Gues-
sard, and Ad. Tardif— and the active assistance of Arthur
Mercier, a then distinguished pupil of that learned institution.
The list embraces thirty-six historical collections, dictionaries,
compilations, and glossaries, fifteen works on theology, fifty on
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4/6 A Mythical Feudal Right. [July*
history, and sixty-two on early jurisprudence. Through all of
these Veuillot searched sincerely (or the truth, " interrogating
some to know what they did say, and others to make sure that
they said nothing on the subject, for the silence of the latter is
proof." The result of his learned and conscientious labors, of
which we shall endeavor to give a summarized account, is that
no such horrid custom as is usually designated by the various
terms of Jus prima noctiSy ntaritagium^ nurcheta, marquette^ priUba^
tion^ afforage^ cuissage, callage, cassagio^ ever existed anywhere.
There was a DroU du Seigneur ^ or jus prima noctis, which origi.
nated with the church, for the purpose of sanctifying, elevating,
and ennobling marriage, not of polluting it, and had its highest
approval. There was a feudal right which was known under the
names of maritagium or mercheta mulierum, and which related to
the marriage of serfs; but there was nothing adulterous, impure,
nor sinful about it, as will be shown after the proper meaning of
the jus prima noctis has first been made clear.
We know, from the writings of the second and third cen-
turies that have come down to us, that the early Christians had
profound convictions in regard to the sanctity of marriage, and
that they accepted and obediently fulfilled the precepts of the
church, which enjoined upon them not to enter that state other-
wise than with a spirit of purity and restraint, so that they might
continue in it in like manner and lead holy lives. The Council
of Carthage in 398 ordained that newly-married persons, out of
respect for the nuptial benediction they had received, should re-
main pure during the first night of their wedlock.* It is to this
religious precept that the jus prima noctis relates. In later cen-
turies, in the same spirit, and in conformity with the advice given
by the Archangel Raphael to the son of Tobias (Tobias vi. 16-22),
the precept was extended to three days immediately following
after the wedding ceremony. That it prevailed in France is
shown from the episcopal statutes of H6rard, Archbishop of
Tours in 853, and from the capitularies of Charlemagne, which
were promulgated by the bishops of the empire. St. Louis, who
was married in 1234 when only twenty years old, obeyed the
precept in question as faithfully as he did all others of the
church. According to several rituals of the fifteenth century, in
particular those of Li6ge, Limoges, and Bordeaux, it seems to
♦ *• SpoHSUs et spoHsa, cum bentdictionem a sacerdote acceperint^ eadem noctepro rever^ntia
ipsius benedictionis in virginitate permaneant *' (Coll. S. Isid, Patrol, ^ Migne, toI. IjaziT.
G0I.901).
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18870 A Mythical Feudal Right. 477
have been in force up to that time, but in the sixteenth century it
had come to be a mere religious counsel. Nevertheless we find
that St. Charles Borroraeo recommended his clergy to strongly
inculcate its observance upon the faithful under their charge.
That the alleged customary adulterous acts should have been
tolerated on the part of the laity, and especiallj' in any cases what-
ever of the clergy, is absurdly inconsistent with the well-known
severity with which, in early times, priests were punished for
violating the vow of chastity. During the three first centuries
bishops, priests, or deacons sinning in this respect were subject
to a publicly-administered penalty, just as lay persons guilty of
an offence of similar character. They were degraded from their
ecclesiastical dignity, shut out from the society of their fellows,
and made to undergo a penance which was often life-long. Sub-
sequently, for sufficient reasons, publicity was dispensed with,
but otherwise the severity of the punishment was not mitigated.
The record of the prevalence of this stern discipline is to be
found in the seventh chapter of the Penitentials of the Venerable
Bede, who died about the year 725. In the eleventh century St.
Peter Damian thought that the above-named Penitentials and
others, such as the Roman and those of Canterbury, the severity
of which had been canonically somewhat lessened, were too lax ;
and he complained about the matter to Pope Leo IX., pointing
out the insufficiency of two years* penance in certain cases, and
insisting that it should never be less than ten. The pope after-
wards issued a constitution showing his approval of the stand
taken by the saint. The penance is known to have been of a very
severe kind, arid to have involved solitary confinement.
Bouthors, as quoted by Dupin, alleges that the two cases of
Bourges and Amiens rested on one and the same right. This is
fully described in the parliamentary decree of March 19, 1409, by
which, in the last-named case, its discontinuance was ordered.
The text of the decree takes up nearly nine pages i2mo of small
print, and the passages with which we are concerned, and which
are g^ven below in full, show that they relate to the observance
by newly-married persons of the religious precept just explained,
and from which they could not be dispensed except by the epis-
copal authority, which granted it upon the payment of a trifling
fee in accordance with the circumstances of the applicant.
The citizens of Abbeville, represented by their mayors and
aldermen, petitioned for release from the aforesaid obligation,
along with several others of a pecuniary character which it
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478 A Mythical Feudal Right. [Ju^yt
would take up too much space to explain. The hearing was
had in the presence of the Bishop of Amiens and nine curates
of the city of Abbeville or their representatives. The plaintiffs'
complaint against the bishop was in part that :
'^Et quamvis, de jure communis maritis cum uzoribus suis primi nocte
nuptciarum cubare libere concedatur, dictus tamen episcopus, perse aut snos
officiarios, dictos conjuges quosdem ad decern, alios ad duodecim, nonnullos
ad viginti vel triginta francos, priusquam ipsis de cubando dicta primft
nocte cum suis de novo uxoribus Ucentiam impertiri vellet, ezigebat, ant
alios ipsos a suis uzoribus per tres noctes abstinere compellebat."
The bishop's reply, ^^ ex adverso separatim proponente^' was,
inter alia^
'* Quod in villa, decanatu et banleuca de prasdicta Abbatisvilla, ez con-
suetudine, sacro canoni, rationi et Sanctis patribus consona, ab antiquis
observatum fuerat, ne cui usque ad tertiam nuptiarum noctem cum uzore
8U& cubare sine sui aut officialis sui dispensatione, absque emenda, liceret ;
quodque tam pro salario clerici litteram dispensationis scribendi quam pro
sigillo et officialis signeto, interdum decem, nonnunquam duodecim, et ali«
quando sezdecim, et quandoque viginti solidos parisiensium, secundum
personarum facultates, petere et recipere poterat."
The judgment given in the particular matter above explained,
at the close of the decree, recites :
*' Et per idem judicium dictum fuit quod quilibet habitantium dictam
villam de Abbatisvilla, primi die suarum nuptiarum poterit cum su& uzore,
absque congedio seu dispensatione prasdicti episcopi, cubare.^
Nevertheless the religious precept continued to be observed,
not alone in Abbeville but also in Paris, for ninety-two years
afterwards. In 1501 nearly the entire contention was again
brought up before Parliament by the citizens of Abbeville, and
in March of that year, along with other matters, the particular
one in question was decided in their favor in the words fol-
lowing :
*' Quant i non coucher de trois nuits avec sa femme an commencement
du manage, les demandeurs auront la r6cr6ance, le proems pendant; et
pourront les epousez coucher franchement les trois premieres nuits avec
leurs femmes."
£tienne Poucher, Bishop of Paris (1503-15 19), judging that
the time had come to cease laying on the faithful a salutary
burden for their sanctification which they were no longer will-
ing to bear, promulgated the parliamentary decree in synodal
statutes and its approval, as follows :
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1887.] A Mythical Feudal Right. 479
*' Omnia in praedicto arresto contenta approbamus, absque praejudicio
laudabilis consuetudinis ecclesiarum nostras dioecesis; ubi in contrarium
obstaret," etc.
That the case at Bourges must have been of precisely the
same nature as that of the case at Amiens, Nicholas Bohier's
seeming assertions to the contrary notwithstanding,^ is evident
from the well-known fact that curates never have been feudal
lords, that no curacy was ever erected into a fief or barony,
and was, as in our day, merely a benefice conferred by superior
ecclesiastical authority and subject to its supervision. Mont-
esquieu, who in 1716 filled in the Senate of Bordeaux a similar
judicial position to that of Bohier, refers in his Esprit des Lois
(book xxviii. chap. 41) only to th« religious precept. Was he
likely to know less about the matter than his predecessor above
named, with whose best esteemed work, published in 1567, he
must have been well acquainted ?
The result of Louis Veuillot's painstaking researches for his-
torical evidence relating to the existence of other than the two
particular cases quoted by Dupin may be summarized as follows :
None of the writers that have asserted the existence of the cus-
tom names the time when it originated, nor a period during
which it obtained, nor when it was abolished, gradually or other-
wise. All their expressions on these points are as vague as
possible. The nearest attempt to precision in the first of these
respects has been to attribute its establishment to a king of Scot-
land, Evenus IIL, who lived so long ago, if at all, that the events
of his reign are enveloped in the greatest obscurity. From Scot-
land the custom is said to have passed into England and France.
A writer named Lebas, a member of the Institute, wildly as-
serts that it was in force in France in the thirteenth century
during the reign of St. Louis, who was so particular on the
score of morals that he would not have about him nor in his
court a nobleman of licentious life. It is utterly unreasonable
to suppose that had such a custom ever existed it could have
escaped all mention whatever in the historical records of the
* Feller, in his Biographi§ Unwerseih^ says that Bohier was a learned jurist and an np-
rig^ht magistrate, and that he left all his estate to the hospital of Bordeaux, where he lies
buried. Veuillot thinks that as his writings, and in particular his Didsionds^ were published
long after his death, the words ^*primam habere camalem sponsce cognitionem '* may have
been interpolated and the text falsified — such underhand work was frequently done in the
Reformation period — or, if the text be genuine, he may have noted carelessly and memorandum*
wise a harmless incident, and his inaccurate expressioos have been tortured into something very
different from what he really meant. Either one or the other supposition is needed to save the
magistrate's honor 1
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48o A Mythical Feudal Right. rJuJy»
period. How else account for the fact that nowhere in all the
legislative, judicial, and legal records of the remote past, nor in
all those of royal decrees, through which M. Veuillot, with
learned assistance, searched, could he find anything relating to
it ; and yet we know that there was a great deal of varied litiga-
tion and pleading going on constantly during the middle ages !
How has the custom come to be entirely overlooked in such
learned and highly esteemed works as Recherches sur la France of
fetienne Pasquier ; Traiti des droits seigneuriaux of Sal vaing ; Nou-
vel examen de Vusage des fiefs en France pendant les XI\ XII*^
XII?, et XIV* Sihles of Brussel ; Traits des droits seigneuriaux et
des coutumes fiodales of Boutaric ; Trait/ de la police of Dela-
marre ; Receuil des documents inidtts de rhistoire du Tiers-Etat of
M. Augustin Thierry ? Is it likely that it would have escaped
the notice of Guizot in his Histoire de la civilisation en Europe^ his
Essaisur r histoire de France, and in his history of France ? Nor is
there any allusion to it in the works of fiction, nor in the loose
literature of the period of its supposed existence. Would the
licentious pen of Rabelais and other writers of his stamp have
been likely to miss such a bonne bouchef Montaigne in his Essais,
liv. i. ch. xxii., under the title of ^* De la coustume, et de ne changer
ayseement une loi receue,'' * barely refers to the existence of such a
custom, and does so incidentally to the narrative of a great lot
of barbarous ones, some of them very lewd, evidently derived
by him from travellers* stories, very hard to believe, so that it is
plain that he had not his native country in his mind when he
wrote.
And, wlfat is above all conclusive, the church bears no testi-
mony whatever to the existence of this horrid feudal right.
With her power of excommunication, so efficacious in those
days, she could have crushed it had it ever existed. As Veu-
illot eloquently expresses it, ** Devant un pareil crime, quand le
monde entier se serait tu^ V^glise aurait parU'^ f How comes it
that no council, no synod, no bishop has ever risen up against
such an adulterous practice ? Is it likely that St. Dunstan, for
instance. Archbishop of Canterbury in the tenth century, who
was so fearless in rebuking and subjecting to penance the licen-
tious acts of King Edgar and of men in high position, would have
ever allowed it to exist ?
* " On custom, and that an accepted law is not easily changed.^
t ** Had such a crime ever been custoqiary, though all Uie world else had remaUied silent,
the church would have spoken out.**
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1887.] A Mythical Feudal Right. 481
The feudal right of maritagium^ which is synonymous with
marchety nurchetum^ mercheta mulierum, is thus defined in Tom-
lyn's Law Dictionary :
" Maritagium, as a fruit of tenure, strictly taken, is that right which
the lord of the fee had to dispose of the daughters of his vassals in mar-
riage. See Tenure, Marchetr
** Marchet, marcketum. Consuetudo pecuniaria, in mancipiorum filiabus
maritandis!*
This custom, with some variation, is said to have been ob-
served in some parts ot England and Wales, and also in Scot-
land and in the isle of Guernsey. In the manor of Dinevor, in
the county of Carmarthen, every tenant at the marriage of his
daughter paid ten shillings to the lord, which in the British lan-
guage is called Gwabr Merched—ue.^ a maid's fee. Then follows
a reference to Sir David Dalrymple's testimony adverse to the
pseudo-meaning given to the term. This will be given more
fully farther on, •
" Merchet, mercheta ntulierum. A fine or composition paid by infe-
rior tenants to the lord for liberty to dispose of their daughters in mar-
riage. No baron or military tenant could marry his sole daughter and heir
without such leave purchased from the king,/r^ maritandd filtd, . . ."
Space will not allow the use of the interesting and learned
facts and arguments by which Veuillot shows that in feudal
times the above custom rested, in view of the social status,
on good and reasonable grounds. The feudal lord might be
benefited or injured, according as the daughter of his vassal mar-
ried. Veuillot narrates the instance of Eginhard, who lived in
the time of Charlemagne, and who wrote to his friend Count
Halton asking him to forgive a serf who had married without
the required permission. There are instances in our day of per-
sons having attained their majority and over who cannot marry
when and as they like. Members of royal families are so situ-
ated. Privates, and even officers, in the French army cannot
marry without the permission of the Minister of War, who re-
quires that the intended bride have a sufficient income of her
own.
Sir David Dairy mple, Lord Hales, has annexed to his Annals
of Scotland, published in 1 776-1 779, a short treatise under the
title of *' Appendix No. i of the Law of Evenus and the Mercheta
Mulierum^' from both of which the following extracts have been
selected :
VOL. XLV.— 31
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482 A Mythical Feudal Right. [J«ly»
" Malcolm is reported to have abolished a brutal law of an imaginary^
King Evenus. This is one of the worst fables in the fabulous history of
Hector Boece " (History of Malcolm HI., a.d, 1093. p. 33).
(From the Appendix :) ♦• Boece thus speaks of an Evenus, King of
Scotland. . . •
" It seems that this wicked King Evenus had for his successor a virtu*
ous person, one Metellanus, who reigned in Scotland at the commencement
of the Christian era. ... It would appear that the successors of Metella-
nus were obliged to connive at this brutal law of Evenus during a period
of no less than a thousand years. At length Malcolm III. abolished it. . . •
One would be apt to imagine that the learned had conspired to write ab-
surdly on this subject.
" What Skene has said of marchsta multerum is too ridiculous to be
transcribed/'
'* Craig implicitly follows the sentiments of Skene, but adds that the
practice was not peculiar to Scotland, that it prevailed in France, and that
we got it from France together with the feudal law. ... All materials go
to the erecting of a system. Craig, who derived our feudal institutions
from France, saw that Skene quoted Cujacius (I. i de Feudis, c 25) as men-
ti(viing a practice in France analogous to the law of Evenus, and he ad-
mitted iht practice for the sake of the inferenci. It happens unfortunately
that Cujacius speaks not of any such practice."
Sir David then states that Spelman, who quotes St. Jerome
{Epist. ad Oceanum) and Laonicus Chalcocondylas, did not recol-
lect that the latter wrote about the beginning of the sixteenth
century, nor did he perceive, " what was sufficiently obvious," that
neither speak of customs which have even the most remote affinity
to the supposed law of Evenus ; * that a French author, Lauri6re,
'' hints at the same practice having prevailed in France, and, on
the authority of Skene, derives it from the law of Evenus," totally
misunderstanding ''the nature of that custom to which he al-
ludes." The testimony of Dr. Plot, who deduces "the origin
of borough English from this supposed privilege of the lord,"
and concludes that a law similar to that of King Evenus pre-
vailed in England as late as 34 Henry IIL, but introduced " no
one knows how or when," is taken up by Sir David and re-
futed. After examining what has been written by Kepler, " a Ger-
man of much reading, who has treated of the mercketa, and
has contributed large additions to the absurdities of the writers
who went before him " ; and by Wachter, " the first author who
*The text in Sir Henry Spelman*! Olossarium ArcJuBologicum p. 398, Is : " mtreketum^ hoc
est qu9d sokemanni et noHvi deitnt soivere^ pro fiUabus suis corruptis sou d^oratis^ 5;. ^
^Ragist, abb. de Bur go S, Petri m. Bib. Cotton.'*
Du Cang^e has paraphrased the above in these words : " /</ «i/, ni/alhr^ ne cormmpantur
aut dMjtorentur a suis daminis in frima nuptiarum suarum node,''*
Spelman died ia 164Z and was interred in Westminster Abbey. Du Gauge died In x688ti \
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1887.] A Mythical Fsudal Right. 483
adventured to speak with judgment" on that same subject.
Sir David tells us :
•• Merchei, merchetum, or mercheta had two several significations :
" (I.) It implied ' a fine paid to the lord by a sokeman or villein when his
unmarried daughter chanced to be debauched.''*'
" (II.) But merchetum or mercheta was not limited to this sense. It was
also used for expressing another villein custom. When a sokeman or vil-
lein obtained his lord's permission to give away his daughter in marriage,
he paid a composition or acknowledgment ; and when he gave her away
without obtaining such permission he paid a fine."
Then follow passages from two records in Spelman where
merchetum is used for the custom described, also from the Chartu-
lary of Kelso, from Bracton, to show that im England it was a
villein custom, and from a grant in the tenth century by a Count
Eilbert in the Ardennes, published by the Jesuit Papebroch,
which throws additional light on the subject.
Sir David supposes that the same custom might be traced
throughout all the countries of Europe, and " in them all be ex-
plained with equal facility " ; and he gives as a probable reason for
the custom that persons of low rank were %^ti<tx2X\y ascripti glebcB
— bound to reside on the lord*s estate and perform certain services
for him. If, then, a woman of that rank married a stranger and
followed the residence of her husband, " the lord was deprived
of part of his live stock," and required an indemnification for his
loss. But in process of time it was discovered that no great
prejudice could arise from extra-territorial marriages, and the in-
demnification was converted into a smaller pecuniary composi-
tion which gradually became obsolete.
He then goes into a very lucid explanation of the jus prinue
noctis^ " which some writeris appear to have confounded with the
mercheta of Britain." He adds in a note that he is informed " that
the superstitious abstinence sanctified by the Council of Carthage
is still observed by the vulgar in some parts of Scotland." He
quotes from the capitularies of the Franks, mentions that "this
custom prevailed long in France," tells about the cause of the
Bishop of Amiens which was tried in the Parliament of Paris^
and winds up with a long extract from A Description of thr
Ancient Dutch Gavemment^ a work written in Dutch by Ge-
• spelman himself mettdoni^ Uiough in a transient manner, tliat such a fine was pud by the
ancient usages of England,
Du Cange, in order to CQi>finn the testimony of Boece and Ibe commj^ntf of Skene, ba»
gronly miiimerpreted this record of Spelmaa.
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484 A Mythical Feudal Right. [Jwlj,
rard van Loon,* a Dutch historian, the author of many learaed
works in that language, who died in 1759. Van Loon says of
XXit JUS prima noctisy or het recht des eersten nachts (which, unlike
Motley, he does not characterize as " infamous '*), that it was
known in four lordships of Holland, which he names ; that it is a
mistake to confound it with the law of Evenus, and gives as his
deliberate judgment that it was a religious precept, ordained by
the Fourth Council of Carthage, enforced by the general constitu-
tions of the kings of the Franks, and subsequently prolonged in
accordance with the example of Tobias. In process of time a re-
demption from the custom became permitted, '' just as in Bra-
bant, in this day, persons newly betrothed are permitted to pur-
chase an exemption from having their banns thrice proclaimed.*'
No such custom as that of Evenus ever existed among the pagan
Prisons ; it is contrary to everything that Tacitus has written
concerning the manners of the ancient Germans, among whom
adulteries were rare and were severely punished ; moreover, in
the sermons preached in Holland by St. Boniface for the con-
version of the Frisons, while the worship in sacred groves and
various other heathenish superstitions and lasciviousness in gen-
eral are censured, any such abuse as the custom of Evenus, al-
though deserving of special reprobation, is not mentioned.
The extracts given by Veuillot of the frightfully severe penal-
ties for adultery in force among the several nations of Europe
during the early centuries demonstrate how very absurd is the
supposition that they ever could have been brought to accept
any such adulterous custom as the one which is the subject of
jefutation in this article.
Louis B. Binsse.
* Besckryving dtr aloude Regaring^wyMi van Holland^ iii. 164.
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I887-] A Fair Emigrant. 485
A FAIR EMIGRANT.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
t SLANDER.
Autumn was beautiful at Tor, even though the melancholy
sea of Moyle muttered its never-ending dirge with white lips,
wailing for the children of Lir, and round the knees of the great
Tor breakers climbed and were repulsed with a noise like recur-
rent peals of thunder. Bright-eyed, bare-kneed children hanging
into the ravines almost, as it seemed, by the hair of their heads,
snatched the last of the luscious blackberries growing in those
long, slanting hollows yawning greenly from cliflF to wave ; and
if sunset overtook earlier than heretofore the footsteps of a
chilled noon, its own magnificent pageantry gave sufficient
splendor to the day. As Shana sat up in the little turret-room
that had always been hers at Tor, looking through the long,
narrow slits of her windows, the twilight fell so fast that Scot-
land's clifis had taken their forbidding, war-like aspect, and the
beacon-light on Mull of Cantire had sprung up red as Mars
before she had finished the letter she was writing to Ba\;t)^
The letter was to tell her friend that her happiness was secured,
that Gran had proved herself a darling, that Alister and Willie
had come to a satisfactory understanding, and that, consequently.
New Zealand was soon to be the writer's home.
Having befriended her so far, Shana's twilight failed utterly,
and as she would not go down-stairs till the moment of dinner,
because* Flora was in the drawing-room punishing Gran (so
Shana put it to herself), the girl lit her candles to finish the
epistle.
" I cannot go to see you now," she wrote, ** because they will
not let me, and I must be obedient after all I have gained ; but
I shall never forget your goodness in taking me in and stand-
ing up for me, will never believe anything against you, no
matter what they say."
For much was being said by Lady Flora to Gran in the
drawing-room, where Flora had seized the leisure hour of the
day to pour out her tale of long-cherished distrust and dislike of
the tenant of Shanganagh. Gran was listening to her with bent
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brows and compressed lips that showed her vexation of spirit.
Seeing that Flora was intent on saying much that she was nol
willing to hear, the old lady tried to speak her own mind before-
hand.
" I saw nothing about her conduct that was not nice. You
have been too much displeased with Shana to allow the child to
tell you the part Miss Ingram played in the matter. She knew
nothing about the affair till Shana ran to her, and then she re-
ceived her as a matter of course. When all this annoyance has
subsided you will be in a better position to do justice to that
girl—'
" Justice ! " echoed Flora contemptuously. ** My dear Gran,
you are running away with the question. I am not going to
make vague accusations against Miss Ingram. If you will kindly
listen to me with patience, I will tell you my various reasons for
wishing that this young woman should be kept at a distance by
the family, if not warned to return to where she came from.
You are not, perhaps, aware that she is passing under an as-
sumed name — "
" No ; I am not aware of it."
"But I can tell you it is true. Manon is my authority, and
I hope you will admit that she, at least, is an unprejudiced
observer."
" Humph ! " said Gran.
" If you doubt that your mind is indeed becoming warped.
I never saw any one behave so nicely, seeing that her lover is
being actually enticed away from under her very eyes."
"Who is her lover?"
" Why, Rory, of course."
" That fact, if fact it be, is as new to me as the falseness of
Miss Ingram's name."
" You do not see everything, and Manon has given me her
confidence. You do not appreciate the compliment she pays
him. That a girl with such a fortune as hers, so well-bom, so
handsome, should be willing to content herself with Rory at
Tor—"
Gran bristled. " In my young days a girl did not make any
such contentment known until she was invited from the right
quarter to do so, I do not think the more of her for displaying
it. I repeat that I have never seen Rory take the attitude of
her lover."
Flora made an impatient gesture, as if to say that Gran,
choosing to be blind, could not be expected to see.
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188/.] A Fair Emigrant. 487*
*'You were always prejudiced against her."
"Perhaps I was, a little, till I saw her; but I can truly say
that since then I have been ready to believe her everything de-
lightful. Of late the idea has grown upon me that she can
be sly."
** Nonsense ! " said Flora.
"I do not like her hints about Miss Ingram. This fancy
about the name — '*
"The story is simple enough. On the day you went for
Shana to Shanganagh, Manon and Rosheen were left to walk
about the farm with Miss Ingram while you talked to — to the
future Mrs. Callender," said Flora, with an ill-natured little
laugh.
" I believe they were. What then?"
" At the foot of a tree Manon picked up a small book, ap-
parently dropped and overlooked there, and saw on the title-page
Miss Ingram's Christian name — if so outlandish a name can be so
described. With it was joined a surname which was not Ingram.
Manon would have kept the book, but the young woman espied
it in her hand and demanded to have it on the spot.**
" What was the name in the book ? "
• " Oh ! it began with a D, and was of a diflFerent shape from
Ingram. Manon, being a foreigner, could not seize it at a glance.
But she knows it was not Ingram."
"The book may have belonged to her mother, or to her
mother's sister for whom she was named. Names go in families,
especially out-of-the-way names like Bawn."
" I guessed you would see a way out of the difficulty," sneered
Lady Flora ; " but from her anxiety to regain possession of the
book Manon felt assured there was something wrong. And so
do I. My idea is that she is married."
" You think she has escaped from an unhappy marriage to
bury herself here. Poor young creature ! I sincerely hope you
may be wrong."
" I do not say what I think, but I know that a married woman
ought to make it known that she is married, and that if she does
not there is something amiss. For a long time I have felt that there
was something wrong about this so-called Miss Ingram, and her
behavior from beginning to end has gone to prove it. She arrives
here in the most unprotected manner, pretending to be a common
farmer's daughter, when it is evident she belongs to quite another
class. She passes under an assumed name, and before many weeks
has all the gentlemen in the neighborhood flying after her."
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488 A Fair Emigrant. [July,
" What ! "
" Certainly. In the first place, she scraped up some kind of
an acquaintance with Major Batt on her way here, and ever since
she arrived he has not been the same person. Before that he
was desperately in love with Shana, and I had it from her own
lips that she was willing to accept him. In the course of a few
months he forgets her very existence, and Shana, in despair, is
going off to New Zealand, assisted in such madness by the so-
called Miss Ingram's co-operation and advice. Lord Aughrim, I
know on good authority, has been to visit her ; and as for Rory —
I must say. Gran, on that subject your obtuseness is very re-
markable. He meets her frequently. Did I not tell you before
that Manon and I met them in the fields near Shane's Hollow, in
the most out-of-the-way spot, perfectly suitable for a romantic
walk—"
*' Stop, Flora, stop I You bewilder me."
" I want to enlighten, not to bewilder you. I have put the
matter bluntly before you."
" Very bluntly."
" Only that you may speak to Rory and warn him before he is
hopelessly entangled. A person whose conduct is so open to
criticism is not a suitable wife for him." •
** But I thought you said she was married," said Gran.
" Oh ! I dare say she is divorced. In America that is very
easy."
" But — Lord Aughrim ! Major Batt I Which does she intend
to marry ? "
" The lord, no doubt, if she can. If not, the wealthy Major
Batt ; failing all else, the not v^ry wealthy but otherwise desirable
master of Tor. Now, I have put it all before you, Gran, and I
leave it to you to work the question out. My own suggestion
would be that Miss Ingram should get notice to quit before
Manon returns to Paris, believing herself rejected for the sake of
a creature — "
Here Flora rose, and, dropping her energetic manner, saun-
tered to the window, finally quitting the room without another
word, leaving Gran leaning back in her chair, her brow on her
hand, thinking deeply of all she had just been forced to listen to.
Unwillingly she was obliged to admit that there might be
something in all that Flora had been saying, and that to save
Rory from great unhappiness later she ought to speak to him
about the matter. Of all her grandchildren Rory was the dear-
est. More like a son than a grandson, he had lived with her always
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since the death of his parents, except during his years at college.
He was named for that favorite son who had met his death so
cruelly on Aura long ago, and there was, besides, something in
his nature that was akin to her own. An unfortunate marriage
for him would be an unspeakable misfortune to her. A penniless,
friendless girl, working for her own independence, however
praiseworthily, was not exactly a mate for the representative of
the elder branch of the Fingalls. She could not bear the idea of
his marrying for money ; the mere sound of Flora's voice was
enough to remind her that even an income drawn from the three
per cents might be secured at too great a sacrifice of domestic
joys. And yet his noble ambitions were dear to her heart. She
had hoped to see him in Parliament, feeling sure that wherever
there was a good cause to be worked for all over the world, and
especially at home, his vote and his energies would be at its
service. Yet how on this barren rock of Tor was money to be
found to enable him to gratify all his honorable desires ?
He was too kind and conscientious a landlord to exact from
his serfs that heavy toll on the land they tilled which they must
hunger that he might spend. She had often feared that he would
never marry — that, following his philanthropic instincts, with
such small means as Providence had placed in his hands, he
would be satisfied to fill his good years with unselfish activity,
and find himself, when too late to remedy t]>Q 4nUMel^^» with a
lonely hearth and heart
Now Bawn's noble, candid face rose before her, and the old
woman was ready to avow that the girl was as good as she was
fair. But are faces always to be trusted ? The world is deceit-
ful, and American women are known, thought Gran in her old-
fashioned way, to be strange. And there was Manon. Of the
two countenances before her mind's eye she infinitely preferred
Bawn's ; and then the old woman sighed with a sense of baffled
intelligence. Was she indeed prejudiced against Flora's prot6g6e,
and was any fair-faced stranger preferable in her esteem to the
granddaughter of the friend of her youth ? Manon would be suit-
able in birth and position, and her large fortune would put power
into Rory's hands. Was not Flora right, after all, and might
not Rory have been satisfied with Manon if the tenant of Shan*
ganagh had never appeared on the scene ? However that might
be, the question now was of wrong and misfortune that might
come upon the old house of Tor through Miss Ingram's possible
dishonesty. It was clearly her duty to speak to Rory, and speak
to him she would, even at the cost of exceeding pain to herself.
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The evening passed slowly for her. Rory was behaving ad-
mirably, said Flora, who flitted to and from the billiard- room^
where the young people were amusing themselves. He was
taking great pains to improve Manon's style of playing, and
Manon was looking so pretty. Of Shana and Callender Flora
had less gracious words to say ; and as her husband was also in
disgrace with her for permitting their engagement, her remarks
on his want of skill in the game were of a cutting character.
That night, when Rory had gone to his own particular den to
smoke and read in solitude after the household had gone to rest,
Gran gathered up her long skirts and her courage and climbed
slowly and with an anxious heart to her grandson's retreat
" Gran ! why, this is an unexpected pleasure ! " cried Rory,
springing from his arm-chair and placing it at her disposal.
" Why did you not send for me? It is too late for you to mount
up here.''
" No, no. I wanted to ask you quietly about this affair of
Miss Ingram and the Adares. Is it true she has taken Miss
Adare to Shanganagh ? "
"Perfectly true. She has done at once what some of us
ought to have done long ago."
" What was impossible to us may have been made easy to her,
being a stranger. But it is a good deed, though it may bring
trouble on her."
*' She is very good."
Gran felt puzzled how to proceed further. She was ashamed
of what she had got to say, and peered wistfully through her
spectacles at the manly face turned towards her with an expectant
look in the eyes.
•' Come, Gran, out with it ! You have something more to say
to me."
" I have something more to say, and I would rather not say
it, only it appears to me now to be my duty. This Miss Ingram,
Rory, of whom you think so highly — is it wise to see her so often,
to concern yourself so much with her affairs? "
" I am hoping to make Miss Ingram my wife," said Rory
gently, after a moment's pause.
" That is what I have thought,** said Gran, quelling her agita*
tion and trying to speak as calmly as he did ; " and therefore I
feel bound to warn you."
"Warn me of what?"
"Are you aware that she is living here under an assumed
name?"
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1887.] A Fair Emigrant. 491
"No."
'* I have heard that it is so. You will, of course, be able to
ascertain whether or not the report is true. The evidence is
hardly conclusive. I am bound to admit merely that a different
name coupled with her Christian name has been found in a
book—"
** A clever sug^gestion !— coming, I should say, from Flora or
Miss Manon de St. Claire. And even granted that Miss Ingram
should for some good reason of her own have changed her name,
had she not a right to do so if she pleased ? "
" It has been suggested that she is married."
Rory started, and grew a little pale under his bronzed com-
plexion. Then he laughed and said good- humor edly:
" What an ingenious romance ! "
" It has been observed that she is absolutely silent, even with
the girls, as to her antecedents. Sbana herself admits that she
pretends to be of a different class from that to which she evidently
belongs ; that she has money for every purpose, though supposed
to be working for her bread ; finally, that she is seen to be some-
what light in her conduct — "
Rory walked up and down the room with a flushed and
troubled countenance.
" I am not blushing for you, Gran," he said, suddenly stopping
before her, " only for some of your sex. I Jo not feel that I need
defend Miss Ingram to you. All this is said by you against the
grain, is it not? I need only say, fot your comfort, that I have
had better opportunity of observing Miss Ingram's character
than either Flora or her friend, and that I believe in her. As to
the lightness of conduct, it is a lie. If it be light-behaved to work
hard, to improve every one and everything she comes in contact
with, to make the wilderness bloom and two blades of grass to
grow where only one grew before, to feel for the poor and sick,
to risk her life out of charity to a wretched dying fellow-creature,
giving up her own comforts to nurse so unpleasant an invalid —
well, don't you see, dear Gran, how atrociously ridiculous the
entire charge must be ? And as for your anxiety about me," he
added, more quietly, " it ought to take the form of concern that
the woman I love should completely deny and ignore my suit — "
There was that in his voice, as he broke off abruptly, which
kept Gran silent for some minutes. In spite of her prudence her
heart was cheered by his faith. Might it not be true that he had
had better means of judging than those others ; and, besides, being
of a nobler nature, might he not possess a truer instinct? But
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492 A Fair Emigrant. [Jaly»
yet ought she to venture to encourage him ? Poverty is a stem
fact. She must think of his honorable ambition.
"My lad," she said, "my heart goes with you. But think a
little of your future. You had plans of your own. You hoped
to be of use in your generation. Will marriage compensate you
for all you will give up ? "
Rory passed his hand across his brow, and thought a moment
before he replied :
" When I formed those plans I did not expect to meet in this
way the one woman I could mate with ; and, though you affec-
tionately call me your lad, I have met her at a ripe age. I love
her more, after all, than Parliament and the emigrants, though I
do not mean to say that I lose sight of a career of usefulness
among the possibilities of the future. According to my theory
a noble wife will help a man more greatly than gold. And now,
dear Gran, you must go to your rest. Trouble your head no
more about Flora's inventions."
After she had left him Rory sat gazing at the wall with the
eyes of a man considering a hateful contingency. He had
spoken bravely, for he would share his uneasiness with no one ;
nevertheless was it not true that he knew absolutely nothing of
this woman who had gained such a hold upon his life ? His
memory went back to her conversation on board the steamer,
and revived the strong impression he had then received that
some painful circumstance which she would not allow to be db**
covered influenced her movements and obliged her to reject his
friendship. She had certainly stated that she was not married.
He remembered with what evident surprise she had answered
his question on the subject. Could she, after all, have deceived
him ? Could some strong and terrible dread have driven her to
a falsehood under which she might have thought herself justified
in taking shelter? Never for one moment, he admitted, had she
given him to suppose that she might alter from the mood of
mind in which she had rejected him as a husband. Latterly
he had comfortably made up his mind to forget those strong
first impressions which had seized him on board ship and had
seemed to surround her with mystery and place her in imminent
danger. And now he asked himself, What if they had been true,
if behind her frank, smiling aspect there lay the consciousness of
some erring or tragic past which practically deprived him of a
future? After all, what had brought her here, with her beauty
and her breeding, to bury herself, if not some necessity for es-
cape, to hide herself from something ?
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He sat half the night lost in troubled thought, and towards
morning left the house and walked the cliffs, unable to shake off
the fears that had laid hold of his imagination. If Bawn was not
good and true, then good- by to goodness and truth. His love
for her was no boy's fancy to be replaced later by a more gen-
uine feeling. He had passed the age for caprices, and, as he
had said, in his ripe years he had met with the ideal of his man-
hood. His heart, his mind, his soul all approved of her, and
everything in nature seemed to declare her worth. Her flowers
bloomed, her beasts throve, her industries were productive, all
that she touched prospered. The first time he had met her eyes
they had revealed to him a spirit more noble than that of or-
dinary women. And here he paused, asking himself, Was this
not the very madness of love which poets rave of and wise men
distrust? Had infatuation blinded him, and in looking on her
did he see something which had no actual existence ? In this
state of mind he felt he could not breathe till he had seen her
again, spoken with her» questioned her closely, and sat in judg*
ment on her replies.
He forgot that as a man who had been rejected, who had
never been encouraged, he had no kind of right to question her.
He only felt now as if his very life depended on her answers.
To-morrow he would go to her; yet where? Over and above
the fact that she had forbidden him to come to see her, he could
not, after all that Gran had said, insist on paying a visit at the
farm. And now that she had Mave Adare under her roof, she
had no longer a reason for haunting among the trees and linger-
ing among the fields that skirted the mysterious regions of
Shane's Hollow.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
SSCAPKD.
If Bawn had cherished a faint hope that Mave Adare might
yet regain strength of mind and body, and that from her she
might learn something profitable to her enterprise, she was
doomed to disappointment The poor creature, all whose entrgy
seemed to have been spent in her desperate struggle with lonely
suffering in the ruin, had, now that she was in comfort and at
peace, collapsed into a state of chronic lethargy from which she
only wakened up occasionally to declare her belief that she was
in heaven. All Bawn's gentle ministrations failed to win any
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demonstration from her except the whispered assurance to
Peggy that in her absence she was tended by an angel.
'' That is why I know I am in heaven, Peggy ; and I am
always going to ask about some one I wanted to meet here, but
at the right moment I forget. The angel has a voice like his,
and that is why I forget, because when the angel speaks I think
it is Arthur himself, and I am content. But it is not himself.
And I wonder he does not come to me, for I know he must be
here."
Bawn, watching for these gleams of the spirit from the poor
worn-out clay, and listening to the wild words, concluded that
the invalid had recognized Desmond's tones in his daughter's
voice, and she resolved to endeavor to gain some advantage from
this fact One night, sitting alone by Mave*s bedside in semi-
darkness, she reflected on the means that might best be taken to
coax some admission from her patient's lips ; and as she watched
the last vestige of the landscape without disappear from beyond
the window, an idea came to her and she repeated aloud, softlj
but distinctly:
" Arthur Desmond ! Arthur Desmond ! Arthur Desmond ! '*
There was a movement in the bed, the waxen face turned
towards her, and the eyes unclosed.
" Where is Arthur Desmond ? " asked Mave Adare in a voice
that sounded quite sane and conscious. " I have been looking
for him everywhere and I cannot find him. Yet I know he
must be here."
Bawn replied, almost without thought, so naturally did the
words come :
" How can you expect to see him here, you who believed
him guilty?"
And then she held her breath, fearing a burst of excitement
or some wandering, meaningless reply ; but, to her great surprise,
the answer came distinctly and reasoningly :
" Because I have expiated my sin, through the mercy of my
Redeemer, by long years of suflFering, and both God and my
beloved have forgiven me. I know you are an angel and I
deserve your reproach, but there are thoughts between God and
the soul which even angels do not see."
Bawn's heart melted within her at the strange, solemn, com-
forting words.
*' You are right," she said. " You shall see Arthur Desmond
presently. You are not in heaven yet, but in a place of peac^
that is close to it In the meantime will you tell me why you
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ever believed him guilty? Who told you he committed that
crime?"
The dying woman shuddered. '' Luke said he saw it/' she said.
'' Luke thought he saw it. But Arthur's spirit came to me in
the night, one of those terrible nights when the roof was falling
in, and he told me he was innocent and in heaven. That is why
I have been willing to suffer ; that is how I am so content — "
She dropped back into her slumber, and Bawn was left in
possession of the truth she had spoken. Luke had said he saw
him do it. Then her instinct had not been at fault, and it was
with Luke only she should have to deal. She sat for half an
hour thinking intensely of the likelihood or unlikelihood of her
being able to make any use of the knowledge she had just
acquired. When and where could she expect to penetrate to
the conscience of Luke Adare ? Was there any hope that the
tongue that had now uttered so important a revelation might
yet direct her further ? Suddenly feeling a desire to continue
her thinking in the cool night-air, she rose softly, and, placing a
small lighted lamp behind the bed so that the light might not
disturb the sleeper, she went out of the room and out of the
house, and felt the breeze quiet her pulses and brace her excited
nerves. Having lingered a short time on the verge of the
orchard slope, she had returned and was about to re-enter the
house when her step was arrested by the sight of a moving
shadow, visible through the window, flitting across the walls
within the invalid's room^
She had believed that Betty was in bed. Could that good
woman have heard Mave Adare cry out in pain, and have got
up to attend to her? Bawn went close to the window and
looked in.
The gaunt, uncouth figure of a man, weirdly out of place in
the neat chamber, was bending over the bed, and then followed a
scene like the horror that happens in a nightmare. The in-
truder seized the sick woman's hand and shook her by the
shoulder and called her by her name, till she awoke and lay
staring at him helplessly.
He put his long arms round her and attempted to lift her out
of the bed. And then her cry broke forth :
« O Luke ! Oh;l no. Oh ! not back there ! "
Then followed curses, stamping on the floor, and an unetiual
struggle ; but suddenly the intruder, man or fiend, dropped tiis
prey and stood listening. In doing so he turned his face now
towards the door, now towards the window, and revealed to
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Bawn the same awful countenance that had looked at her
through the pane a few nights ago. It was Luke Adare come to
recapture his sister. Before Bawn had tinie to move Betty
was in the room in answer to the patient's cry, and Luke, seeing
his attempt was baffled, skurried away past her like a startled
wild animal, and fled from the house.
The next minute Bawn was following him swiftly down the
path to the orchard, calling him in a voice clear as a silver
trumpet.
" Luke Adare ! Stop ! I have something to say to you ! "
She expected he would fly the faster for her call, but he
stopped, he stood still and waited for her.
**What do you want with me?" he asked roughly.
" I want you to come back and have some supper. You
have allowed your sister to be my guest. Will you not accept
my hospitality for yourself? It is late at night and you have far
to go. It is not friendly of you to take leave of us like this."
"Curses on your falsehood!" he said savagely. "You did
not get my permission to take her away and expend your inso-
lent charity upon her. You were suffered to have the pleasure
of her company for a carriage-drive, and no more. Why did
you not bring her back to her ancestral residence?"
Bawn could see but dimly the expression of the hideous face,
which matched with the contemptuous fierceness and ludicrous
pomposity of the creature's tone.
" It was late," she urged, " and your sister was tired, and
there are reasons why I was proud and glad to receive her
under my roof— reasons which I will tell you some day, if you
will allow me to see you again."
" What are your reasons ? Cannot you tell them now? "
" It is too late, for, since you will not come into my house, I
must bid you good-night But, believe me, you would be in-
terested in hearing something I could tell you.'*
"It is false!" he shouted furiously. "I knew you were a
coward and an impostor from the first moment I heard your
voice. How dare you go about mimicking the voice, the very
tones of — "
" Of whom ? " asked Bawn, with a sudden leap of the heart.
" Of a reprobate long in his grave, no doubt, but who will not
lie there always. Tush ! do you think I am afraid of spirits ?
A man who lives with rats is not much in fear of ghosts. All I
have got to say to you is this : Don't dare to meddle further
with the Adares than you have done. To-morrow I will make
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arrangements for bringing my sister home. And, after that,
come no more to the Hollow at your peril ! "
With this he turned from her, and the gray face, just gleam-
ing with awful indistinctness through the darkness, vanished, and
she was alone, realizing with difficulty that she had held her
first interview with Luke Adare — her first but not her last, as
she assured herself in spite of his threats. She remembered
with exultation how his conscience had already betrayed him.
That vibration of her father's tones which was in her voice,
which had perplexed without enlightening Gran, which had
acted like a charm on the diseased imagination of Mave Adare,
had evidently caught the ear of this wretch and aroused his
hatred — a hatred for which there was no reason but that it
sprang from injury done by the hater to its object. Horror of
the memory of the man he had ruined accounted for his hatred
of herself. Oh ! if Mave Adare would but live and prove a link
between her and this monster!
Reminded by this thought of the position in which she had
last seen the suflfering woman, she went quickly back to the house
and entered the sick-room on tiptoe. As she did so she was in-
stantly aware of a new state of things. Betty was on her knees
by the bed praying aloud, and the rigidity of the figure in the
bed struck her fearfully as expressive of a ghastly change. The
little spark of vitality that had lingered in the wasted frame of
Mave Adare had been rudely quenched. The long-suffering soul
was released and at rest.
'* Och, misthress, sure she's gone ! " sobbed Betty, rising from
her knees. " The villain just frightened the life out o* her ! *'
Next morning a scrap of ragged p^per was found under the
door, and on it was scrawled :
" The Adares were always buried by torchlight in their ancestral burial-
place in the old graveyard at Toome."
Bawn rightly concluded that the words had been written by
Luke Adare and were intended as an instruction for her.
" It was always one of their mad whimsies," said Betty.
" You or me might be put in the ground while the sun was
shinin', but not an Adare. They were always taken away in the
night with torches, and the flames of their funerals could be seen
over the country-side."
Bawn saw no reason why she should not act upon the hint,
and arranged that her father's early love should be laid among
VOL. XLV.— 32
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her kindred in the ancient graveyard, and by night And there
was one at least who did not think her action extravagant — the
gaunt, ragged creature who followed the little procession un-
perceived in the darkness, and to whom it was probably a satis-
faction that the ancient glory of the Adares was thus properly
maintained in his sister's case to the last.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
RUIN.
RoRY, having resolved that he would speak plainly to Bawn,
make one more endeavor to learn something positive concerning
her past, was yet undecided as to the means he would take thus
to try to obtain her confidence.
Thinking it all over, he came through the Hollow one wet,
windy autumn morning, and was startled to see her standing
under the beech-trees in front of the ruin, her shawl folded
tightly round her, her eyes raised to the shattered windows, and
an expression on her face and in her whole figure and attitude of
the deepest and sternest despondency.
Her presence here on such a morning struck him as strange
and inexplicable. Mave Adare was dead. In her she had ex-
pressed a deep interest, and on her she had expended her
charity. What further did she seek in haunting this uncanny
hole? How did she expect to reach or influence the half-savage
old men who hid among these mouldering walls ? What could
she hope to gain by coming in contact with them? Why need
she concern herself about them and their sins and misfortunes ?
With his mind full of such questions he approached, and saw
her start of surprise and her involuntary shrinking from him
when she suddenly became aware of his presence.
She had just been realizing the extreme unlikelihood of any
ultimate success for her romantic enterprise. Autumn gales, the
forerunner of winter storms, had already set in, and she had
hastened here this morning fearing to find the ruin reduced to a
heap of rubbish and at last become Luke Adare's unholy grave.
That the end had not yet come seemed a miracle. To-morrow,
next week, would this miraculous delay be still prolonged ? In
the meantime his hatred of her presence and his suspicion of her
identity would certainly keep him carefully concealed from her.
Was there any hope left of refuting that calumny which had
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blasted her father's life, and was now darkening her own by
raising an insuperable barrier between her and the man she
loved? — for, without further effort to ignore or deny the truth,
she owned to herself now, freely, that she loved him.
For that very reason she was bound to keep out of his way,
to do him as little injury as possible, to force him to feel more
and more assured that there never could l?e a marriage, that
it was not natural there should be even friendship between
them.
And so, suddenly seeing him beside her, she shrank from him.
He saw the movement, and it hurt and angered him.
" Miss Ingram, forgive me for interrupting your meditations.
I did not expect to find you here this wild morning."
"I can believe that,** said Bawn, recovering her self- posses-
sion ; •* but the fascination of the place is too much for me. I
cannot keep myself from coming.**
** Are you not satisfied with the work you have done ? What
further do you imagine you can do?**
" There are other lives in danger in yonder.*'
** What are they to you? How can you expect to influence
two obstinate old men ? You cannot kidnap them as you kid-
napped their sister.**
" I fear not. That is what I fear.**
" Why should it be so much to you ? *'
"Ah!— why?'*
**They cannot live long, in any case, and life to them is
misery. A sudden death might not be the worst that could
befall them."
Bawn shivered and drew her shawl around her, and as she
did so it struck Rory painfully that she had grown thinner, and
that there was a shadow of trouble deepening in her face — that
bright face which, even one month ago, no one could have asso-
ciated with a sorrowful thought.
" Bawn," he burst forth, ** for God*s sake let them alone !
Put them out of your thoughts, and think of yourself and think
of me. I believe you come here merely for an excitement ; that
you give your mind to these wretched people only to keep other
matters out of it. You have some sorrow, some secret, and you
will share it with no one, not even with me, who love you better
than my life — me, whom you trust, whom you love — **
She made a gesture to silence him, but she did not speak.
** You dare not deny it. You know that you love me. And
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500 A Fair Emigrant. [July,
either you have some terrible secret which I have a right to
learn, or you are breaking your own heart wantonly, wickedly — *'
He broke off abruptly, and after the storm of passion in his
voice Bawn's words came slowly, a mere whisper of pain :
" It is true I have a terrible secret."
The rustling of the dead leaves and the drip of the boughs
on the path seemed to catch up the murmur and spread it all
through the Hollow.
" I have a hideous, intolerable secret," continued Bawn — ** a
sorrow that brought me across the sea and brought me here. I
know what people are saying of me, and what you would ask me.
Ingram is not my name, and I am not what I pretend to be. I
thought to wash a stain oflf my real name, but I have lost hope,
and stained it must remain, I have reason to fear. This is what I
want you to understand. I thought I had made you understand
it on board ship, but you have seemed to forget it."
" I have forgotten it. I will forget it again, if you will let
me.
" I must not let you. You must keep away from me and
think of me no more. If you knew who I am you would turn
away and never ask to see me again — "
" That I will not believe till you tell me what you mean, till
you give up talking in mystery, till you explain the exact mean-
ing of your hints — ^your probably misleading hints. Girls have
often exaggerated ideas of things. I myself must judge of your
case. As for what others think or say of you, that is nothing to
me so that you are personally what I believe you to be. If you
tell me you are not good I shall conclude you are mad — "
Bawn gave him a startled look and colored faintly.
** I do not think I am very good — not good enough for you,"
she said ; ** but yet I believe there is no wickedness in me so great
that you could not forgive it. Yet the barrier remains, as you
will one day admit."
*' Why not give me an opportunity this day, this hour?"
" I cannot. On the day I tell you I shall go. I will not wait
here to see you turn from me — "
** Turn from you ! Bawn — "
" No ! no ! You must not come near me. There is some-
thing that stands between. You must not look at me so — "
** I will not even ask to touch your hand, if you will not fly
from me. But, however all this may end, Bawn, will you say to
me just three words : ' I love you ' ? "
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" To my sore sorrow I do love you."
** After that I will not lose you. You cannot dare to leave
me.
" After that I must leave you all the more surely, but not
until—"
She stopped and involuntarily cast an eager glance at the
dripping ruin before them.
"Till what?"
** I cannot tell you ; not now. I have already said too much.
If you love me at all, let me go. Think of me as dead."
She turned away with a quick step, and he remained standing
where she had left him. He felt it useless to pursue her. In
this mood she was impracticable, and he feared to press her too
far, to scare her to a longer flight, out of his neighborhood, out
of his reach for evermore. He had lost her once ; he would not
lose her again, if he could help it.
He remained pacing up and down the Hollow, reflecting on
all her enigmatical words and looks. Flora, even Gran, would
consider that he ought to be quite satisfied with her admissions,
quite sure that she was one whom he could never think of as his
wife. She had spoken of a stain upon her name which could
never be wiped out, yet she had hoped to see it wiped out. How
could that hope have any connection with her coming here?
Had she come merely to hide, and from what? Was she wait-
ing for tidings of some kind, in suspense as to the ending of a
lawsuit, of an investigation, in expectation of somebody's death ?
The longer he pondered the more puzzled he became. Of one
thing he felt sure : he must let things drift as they were drifting,
unless he meant to drive her out of the little harbor in which she
had anchored. She had said, and she was capable of keeping
her word, that on the day on which she told him the story of
her antecedents and circumstances she must quit this spot and
be seen by him no more. He would not push her to that alter-
native. At all costs he would be patient and wait for her to
speak.
After he had walked about, he knew not how long, lost in his
thoughts, the rain began to fall heavily, and mechanically he
moved into shelter of a gable of the ruined house and continued
his walk under cover of the dense trees and the dismal stone
wall, the monotonous surface of which was broken here and
there by a few dilapidated windows. The gable was a remote
one at the back of the ruin, and the lower windows were evi-
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502 A Fair Emigrant. [July,
dently those of domestic offices, lumber rooms, pantries, and
servants* apartments. As Somerled passed one of these he
thought he heard a voice speaking loudly in a peremptory manner,
and he stood still in great surprise, wondering from whence it
could come. The wind was high, a'tid the trees kept up a sough-
ing sound, crossed every minute by the swish of the rain as it
swept through the heaving branches.
He thought he had been mistaken, and proceeded with his
walk, asking himself how long it would be worth while to linger
here in expectation of an improvement in the weather, when a
second time the gruff tones, unmistakably human and having a
strange suggestion of uncanny meaning, startled the silence and
solitariness of the place. This time he satisfied himself that the
sounds proceeded from a particular window, small and low, and
barred with rusty iron, out of which all the glass had been shat^
tered long ago.
Convinced that this was the utterance of one of the self-
imprisoned souls hidden in the ruin, he remained standing where
he was, with some expectation of seeing a face come to the win-
dow and finding himself subject to the wrath of an Adare for
trespassing on the ancient family demesne.
No face appeared, but after another pause the snarling voice
went on, pouring forth speech so vehemently that Somerled's
next conclusion was that a quarrel must have arisen between the
two wretched old men in the ruin, and that he had accidentally
come within hearing of the sound while out of reach of the
meaning of what was said. As he could distinguish no word he
did not feel that he was eavesdropping, and listened with a keen
appreciation of the mingled grotesqueness and fearfulness of
the situation. Presently he began to perceive that there was
only one voice, and that its owner, if quarrelling, was quarrel-
ling with himself. Now a loud harangue was poured forth in
sonorous, arrogant-sounding tones, and then after a silence came
snarling remarks, and groans, and sharp, short cries. The listener
was aware that miserable solitaries will sometimes talk aloud for
their own hearing alone. No doubt Luke Adare— yes, he thought
it must be Luke rather than Edmond — was uttering the bitterness
of his soul in the hideous solitude to which he had condemned
himself.
He had just turned, disgusted and pitying, to go on his way
when the voice was raised again, this time with a shriller clear-
ness which carried a few words to his ear, an utterance with
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shape and meaning. Only two of the words remained in his
mind the next moment when the voice had ceased, and so strange
were they that, though they rang through his brain, he could
scarcely believe he had really heard them. Yet how could his
imagination have suggested them ?
"Desmond's daughter!" were the words, angrily and con-
temptuously spoken, which startled his ear like the blast of a
trumpet
Where did they come from ? What did they mean ? Why,
even if they had been uttered by Luke Adare in his savage rav-
ings, should they bear any particular meaning for him, Somerled?
Why should he consider them as of the slightest importance?
While he reflected thus they came towards him again, loudly
and gruffly spoken, as if the speaker had drawn nearer to the
aperture in the wall and was striving to drive some one or some-
thing forth.
" Desmond's daughter ! Begone, begone ! Desmond's daugh-
ter, come to spy and persecute — " And then a wild laugh end-
ing in wrathful growling and muttering.
Fingall came close to the window and listened with all his
ears and with all his brain ; but that last burst had ended Luke's
outpourings (could the speaker be any one but Luke ?), and
complete silence had settled once more upon the ruin, while the
wind, which was rising, howled round the tottering chimneys
and lashed the trees against the streaming gable.
Relaxed from the strained tension of listening, Somerled's
mind began to work on the ideas suggested to him by those
few wild words. Ravings — yes, they might be ravings, but
what was the fancy that had run through the raving? Des-
mond's daughter! Who was Desmond's daughter?
" Desmond's daughter, come to spy and persecute." Why,
Bawn!
With a flash of understanding, of recognition, Fingall saw
Bawn, her circumstances, her enterprise, her dream, in the lurid
light of the truth. She was Desmond's daughter. Her inten-
tion in coming here had been to learn, on the very scene of her
father's crime, that there had been no crime at all. In this she
had failed. She was the daughter of the man who had mur-
dered his uncle.
She had hoped for some light on the subject from these mise-
rable Adares. With her firm will and her high spirit she had
thought to be able to make black white. And yet could it not
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504 A Fair Emigrant. [July,
be done ? There was some mystery to which she had the clue,
else why this fury of Luke Adare at her appearance? After all,
he had jumped to a conclusion. He would not sleep, at all
events, till he had ascertained from Bawn herself whether or not
she was Desmond's daughter.
He walked to the place where he had left his horse in shel-
ter, and rode straight through wind and rain to Shanganagh.
Bawn's little cart had reached home only a short time before
his arrival, and Bawn was feeling an anguish and utter forlom-
ness so new to her in its intensity that she did not know how to
deal with it. The admission she had made today seemed to
have altered her very nature. She had confessed what hitherto
it had been her strength to deny. It was right and fit that the
crushing of her own happiness should be involved in the total
ruin that had destroyed her father's life, but what was she to do
with this new want that had sprung up in her life, where was
she to carry it, how was she to rid herself of it? Her romantic
devotion to her dead father had carried her across the sea and
urged her through an army of difficulties; but when her final
defeat was consummated — and it was near now, very near — what
was she to do with the burden of living love which a broken
heart must carry with it over land and sea through an incalcula-
ble number of years, perhaps to the end of a long life-time ?
Her women were out milking, and she was alone in the
house and was kneeling on the tiles of her little kitchen before
the hearth, the blaze from which illumined the place fitfully as
the dusk began to fall. The door, which had not been quite
fastened, was pushed open, and Somerled stood before her.
Her heart leaped up for a moment with dangerous gladness,
then failed within her. The next moment she had perceived his
dripping condition, and, woman-like, was only concerned for his
present comfort.
** Mr. Fingall, you are shockingly wet. Take off that
drenched ulster."
** There ! *' he said, and, flinging the garment on the back of
a wooden chair, advanced to her with outstretched hands.
^* Bawn, you will think I have done a wild thing. I have
come here out of all season and in the storm, but it is to ask you
a question which you will not refuse to answer me. Is this
woman who has denied me so long, who has spoken to me of
a secret sorrow and a stained name— is she Arthur Desmond's
daughter?'
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Bawn's eyes, which had widened with startled amazement,
remained fixed on his, answering him sorrowfully out of their
gray depths. She drew a long breath, said **yes" simply, and
then moved away a step and put her hands behind her back — in-
voluntary movements expressive of separation and departure,
" I would have kept the secret a little longer," she said quiet-
ly, with pale lips. ** Who has told you ? It must have come
from Luke Adare. He is the only person who guessed me. I
have been very rash and daring, and I am punished. I thought
to overcome Luke Adare, but he has overcome me."
" What did you expect from him ? "
*' Confession. Reparation of the wrong he did to my father.*'
" Do you mean that he, Luke Adare, did that thing for which
your father suffered the blame ? "
" No, I do not mean that I know how the thing happened.
If he would speak he could clear my father's name. He will not
speak. He will die without speaking. How the wind roars ! *'
•* Did your father accuse him ? "
" He accused no one. He only suffered and made no com-
plaint."
" How, then, do you imagine that you know ? "
" Know what ? My father's innocence ? You would have
known it, too, if you had known him, his spotless life, his ten-
der heart, his honorable nature. You would have felt him to be
incapable of the motives you ascribed to him the other day when
you spoke of him."
" Few are incapable of sudden passion."
" He was incapable of that. 1 do not expect you to believe
it. You gave credit to the whispered calumnies that destroyed
his good name ; you drove him out from among you — "
** Stay, Bawn, stay ! I did not do it. I am guiltless of what
my people did in that day, as you are of your father's actions."
** I take them all on my head."
"That you must not do. Now listen to me, my dearest,
dearest love. You have dreamed a wild dream in imagining
that Luke Adare would assist you in this touching, this noble
enterprise. I am the only other person in possession of your se-
cret, and it shall be as if I did not know it. I am willing to be-
lieve that Arthur Desmond is all you describe him to be, and
that a passionate quarrel (my uncle, I know, was a hot-headed
man) had fatal and unpremeditated consequences. More it is
not necessary for me to ascertain. It is a tragedy long past and
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So6 A Fair Emigrant. [July,
almost forgotten. Marry me, Bawn, and trust me. No one
save myself shall ever know that Arthur Desmond was your
father."
Bawn's lips and eye-lids trembled, but she kept her attitude
of aloofness and shook her head.
" You do not trust me."
*• I cannot trust either you or myself so far. I dare not put
either of us in such an unnatural position. 1 fear there would
come a day when I should see something in your eyes — should
see you ask yourself, ' Why is the daughter of a murderer sitting
at my fireside?' and I do not so trust myself as to feel sure that I
should not get up and fly from you in a despair which even now
I can realize. When I go away from you, as I shall go soon, I
shall at least take with me a sweet memory to live with all my
life, and the knowledge that I have not destroyed your happiness.
I shall not leave you bound to a horror from which you cannot
escape."
" You have no knowledge of what you may leave me bound
to. If you can imagine a despair you could not brave, why so
can I, As for the change in me you fear might come with the
future, that is nothing but a foolish scare. You would never see
anything in my eyes but what you see now — love, tenderness,
worship of yourself, admiration of your brave efforts, pity for
what you have suffered. Bawn — "
She breathed a long sigh, and let her hand remain in his grasp
for a few moments while she looked in his eyes with a wistful,
far-seeing gaze, and then drew it slowly away and again retreat-
ed a step or two.
" Could I, for my own selfish happiness, consent to live de-
nying, ignoring my father's memory, sinking my own knowledge
of his goodness and innocence and the testimony I could bear
to them ? Could I hear his story alluded to, hear him spoken of
as a guilty man, and never cry out? It could not be. You
must let me go."
" I will not let you go." His eyes flashed, and he advanced
towards her ; but she suddenly threw out both her hands and
pushed him away, then turned and disappeared into her little
parlor, closing the door behind her.
Rory, not venturing to follow her, walked up and down the
kitchen trying to calm his agitation, and with a faint hope that
she might return. But she made no sign. Then he thfew on
his wet ulster again and went out of the house into the storm.
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He rode against the storm towards the Rath, where he had in-
tended to spend the night, but soon had to dismount and lead
his horse, which was terrified at the uproar of the elements.
Peals of thunder now resounded from mountain to mountain,
and in the glare of the lightning he saw the troubled valley be-
low him and the dark rack of clouds trailing over the pass lead-
ing to Shane's Hollow. He thought of Luke Adare and Bawn's
abandoned hope perishing together in the ruin, and for a time
urged on his horse towards the pass with the intention of making
a desperate eflfort to reach the Hollow, to drag the wretched
solitary out of the jaws of death ; for must not a night like this
be his certain doom ? BaflRed in this attempt, he was forced at
last to rouse the inmates of a cabin on the roadside, and to ask
for shelter for the remaining hours of the night. The good
people of the cabin, amazed to see Mr. Rory from Tor in such a
plight, did their best to make him comfortable on some straw
by the fireside, and here he remained till daylight brought a lull
in the tempest and he was able to proceed towards the Hollow.
Approaching the uncanny spot, he soon began to see signs of
the night's ravages. Fallen trees lay across the beaten track
leading to the house, and a wreck of broken branches strewed
the wilderness. Making his way through these in the gray mist
of the morning, Somerled arrived at the ruin, and saw at a glance
that the long-threatened end had at last arrived, that the portion
of the building which yesterday was standing had fallen in, and
that the home of the Adares was now a pile of shapeless rubbish.
The catastrophe which Bawn had foreseen and sought to
avert had come to pass, and with it had probably perished her
hope and his, Somerled's, prospect of happiness. Confronted by
this fact, yet unwilling to acknowledge it, he walked round the
melancholy pile, seeking for the window through which only yes-
terday the voice of Luke Adare had reached him with its extra-
ordinary revelation. Was that voice now silenced for evermore ?
It was at least possible that the creature might be still alive,
though buried in his den, still capable of uttering a truth, of an-
swering a question.
If he, Rory, could find him now alive, and take his dying de-
position, receive his confession — if, indeed, he had such to make
— all naight yet be well. For the moment Fingall had adopted
Bawn's belief, and all the happiness of the future seemed to hang
on a chance — the chance that this miserable soul might not yet
have been summoned before judgment
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5o8 A Fair Emigrant. [Julji
He found the window now almost blocked up from within by
fallen rubbish, and, wrenching away the rusted bars, climbed in
through the aperture that remained. Having carefully observed
the interior as far as was possible, he ventured to enter further,
and made his way into a small space which, from the smoke-
blackened wreck of a fireplace visible, he judged to be the
remnant of a room lately inhabited. Sure that he had pene-
trated to the unfortunate Luke's retreat, he forgot the danger to
which he was exposing his own life, and groped in the semi-
darkness, calling loudly, in the hope that a living voice might re-
spond to his cry ; but in vain. Exploring on every side as far as
was possible, he was about to give up his search and return to
the light of day when he stumbled over something less resistant
than the stones and wreckage through which he had been mov-
ing.
The spot was so dark that he could not see what he had
touched till he struck a match, which only made a faint, evanes-
cent gleam of light, but sufficient to show him a human hand
outstretched and clothed in rags, a clenched hand rigid in death,
protruding from a mound of stones and rubbish under which,
evidently, a corpse lay buried.
Sickening with the sight, and satisfied that he had seen all
that remained of Luke Adare, he groped his way to the window
again and stood once more under the heavens in the wind-swept
wilderness.
Men were soon at work digging away the rubbish, and the
crushed and disfigured body was laid on a bier on the grass,
while the excavators proceeded to make search for Edmond
Adare, the only other person who had lately inhabited the ruin.
Their search was in vain, and after some days it was given up,
the conclusion having been arrived at that Edmond, too, had
perished in the catastrophe which had closed the last chapter in
the history of the Adares. An inquest was held upon the body
of Luke, and he was buried with his fathers at Toome.
Rosa Mulholland.
TO BE CX)NTINUED.
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1887.] The Homes of the Poor. 509
THE HOMES OF THE POOR.
The tenement-houses of New York have lately received some
attention from the public, which attention has resulted in an at-
tempt at legislative action and in many sleepless nights for va-
rious landlords of the metropolis.
Investigation of the people's dwellings showed a state of things
hardly to be looked for in a Christian land. It showed that in
the matter of rents many landlords were quite as consaenceless
as the sellers of diseased meat ; that they were willing, provided
rents were promptly paid, to let their brethren die of diseases
contracted in their infected buildings ; that the brothel and the
dive were welcomed to their premises to do for the soul what
the tenement was doing for the body. It was found that the
rent paid in these places was out of all proportion to their worth,
and that while the buildings were robbing the tenants of health
and life the landlords were actually rifling their pockets. This
state of things was not found to be universal in the city, but very
generally the case. These landlords were of all forms of belief,
Jew, Christian, and atheist, and for the most part justified their
own evil doings by showing up the bad character of their tenants.
But the investigators were simple enough to maintain that a sin-
ner could not be rightfully cheated or poisoned any more than
a saint could — a doctrine which occasioned the landlords much
surprise and grief.
To those who may have followed the published reports of
Mr. Wingate on the New York tenements it may be of interest
to know that the question is not one of merely local extent. Out-
side of the great cities there is a growing evil in the simple mat-
ter of house-building which cannot be checked too soon, and
which, though it may never assume the proportions attained in
New York, is still productive of misery and crime. It is not to
be doubted that the condition of the working people in smaller
cities and towns is much worse to-day than it was ten years ago.
They work harder for less pay in almost every branch of busi-
ness. As they approach the limit beyond which lies starvation
— and great numbers of them are not far from that limit — signs
of their decadence become painfully frequent. Their simple
pleasures are restricted, their dress more faded, their style of
living poorer. They drift towards districts where once they
would have been ashamed to live^ and take up their abode in
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5IO The Homes of the Poor. [July*
houses whose fitness for human habitation may safely be denied.
It is our intention to describe a few of these dwellings, and to
compare them with the city tenements whose indecency aroused
the spirit of charitable New-Yorkers. The homes of the poor
offer a side-light to the wage-question, and will, no doubt, one
day enter into the settlement of that important matter.
Homes of the poor were personally examined by the writer
of this article * in the city of Boston, and in certain manufactur-
ing towns of New York State and of New England. Mr. Win-
gate's explorations among New York tenements have made their
nastiness^s familiar to many, but we shall risk repetition by de-
scribing similar places in Boston. It will be long before the
scenes we saw fade from memory. No pen could really expose
the mysteries of filth which appeal to the eye and to the nose in
large quarters of the city of culture. The eye is shocked at every
turn by spectacles of human misery and degradation, and the
heart is touched at the fate which condemns thousands of men
and women, and especially innocent children, to the coarseness
and viciousness of such neighborhoods, in buildings for which
respectable men are receiving incomes which are not the per-
centage of real values, but rather, to put it picturesquely, a per-
centage from filth, disease, and vice.
Here is a court, for instance, fifty feet long and eight feet
wide. It opens oflF a main street, ends iii a brick wall, and is
flanked by the rear of one set of buildings and the front of an-
other. Five doors in this front indicate the entrances to five
separate tenements, four stories high, and containing between
forty and fifty families. The court is full of foul water and re-
fuse pitched from the windows. The sun never touches the mud
of the court, never enters the doors and windows of the first
story, and only touches for a few minutes each day the second,
third, and fourth. The dampness of the air is penetrating. You
enter the narrow halls, and grope about in semi-darkness over
stout but narrow stairways, mostly unguarded — but a fall need
not be feared, for there is no great space in which to fall ; space
is here economized. A powerful smell has possession of the en-
tire building, almost as sharp to the nostrils as a whiff of pure
ammonia. It is in all the rooms, prominent over its sister-smells,
and easily recognized by the experienced visitor. It is the tene-
ment-house smell, sui generis, and peculiar to this class of build*
ings. The first set of rooms is occupied by a decent mother,
* If exact locality is desired the writer may be addressed through The Catholic World
office.
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whose husband works every day and hopes to move his family
into the country some time ; the next room is occupied by a
creature of bad reputation. A thin board partition separates
decency from vice. The living-room is eight feet wide and four-
teen long ; the single bed-room is the same in width and six feet
long, and has neither light nor air. The rent is three dollars a
week, a sum which in the country would secure a handsome lit-
tle residence. The. tenants are of all creeds, characters, and con-
ditions; widows, drunkards, jail-birds, prostitutes, the honest
and dishonest, the dirty and the clean, all mingled together as
best, or worst, they can be. The landlord has nothing to do
with the building but get the rent. There is no care-taker, and
only such repairs as are necessary. The court is cleaned only
when a stray health-inspector looks in and has his nose ofiFended,
and the house is never cleaned by old tenants or new.
This is one example ; here is a second. You dart down a blind
alley four feet wide, avoiding as well as possible dirt-heaps un.
derfoot and refuse from the windows. You crawl like a spider
up a black, narrow, slimy stairway, squeezing past ill-smelling
persons and dodging suddenly-opened doors, until the third
floor is reached and the light is stronger. Here the rooms are
surprisingly good, and the rent is $2 75 « week. Two windows
look out on a dead-wall, and occasionally admit the sun. The
living room is ten feet long and thirteen feet wide, and the two
bed-rooms are of good size. The partitions are of plaster. There
are no windows to the hallways and no ventilators. The rent is
cheap because the character of the tenants is cheap. They are
pretty much all drunkards from the first floor to the top ; they
live in filth, moral and physical, breathe it, are saturated with it,
and for their convenience the landlord maintains a saloon on the
ground-floor. One sober woman with a drunken son has a clean
kitchen on the third floor. She dresses decently, is pious and
humble, and lives among: the horde of drunkards in fear and
trembling. The wonderful smell of the tenement-house is every-
where. A ventilator placed in the roof over the stairways might
rid the house of its strength, but there is no ventilator in the roof
or anywhere else. And for this pen, below a penitentiary in vile-
ness, the landlord receives a rental of thirty-five per cent. !
The third specimen of the tenement-house has some unique
features. The street upon which it stands is fairly clean and
half-respectable. The tenements present a neat front to the
eye. The windows are shuttered, the doors are solid and clean.
It looks like a street where a poor man might live without shame
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512 The Homes op the Poor. [July*
or great discomfort. Open one of the solid doors and the
illusion vanishes. Your nose is at once assailed by the fa-
miliar stench. The halls and stairways are more roomy than
usual, and are quite clean. But the walls are damp. They have
not seen whitewash since the war. Neatly-dressed tenants meet
you here and there, and show you into well-lighted rooms, not
too small, and very clean. You are not surprised when your
guide brushes the familiar roach from your coat-collar and
shakes a few of them from your hat. Here is a corner of the
hall which the good landlord has profitably utilized. A few
boards form a kitchen and bed-room ; they are papered inside and
out to represent a wall, but the paper peeled ofi when Lee sur-
rendered, and has so remained to date. For this space the land-
lord receives $3 50 a week — as much as would be paid for a de-
cent and pretty little dwelling in some of our smaller cities. In
this house there is no ventilation, no water, no repairs, no im-
provements. The landlord provides nothing but the ground, and
the roof, and the opportunities to contract disease. The tenant
ornaments, repairs, pays the doctor, and dies at his own expense.
So much for the city, now for the country tenement. The
enterprising landlord has here done much to imitate his metro-
politan brother, but circumstances have been against him. Land
is plentiful and the country air is vigorous — two facts which
lower the mortality rate among his poor tenants. Here is a
sample of a poor village house whose rent is sixty dollars a year.
It stands in the centre of a lot fifty feet square, is one and a half
stories high, and takes up three hundred square feet of surface —
that is, it is fifteen feet by twenty, in carpenter's language. The
two rooms on the ground-floor are seven feet high, the two in
the garret are of no appreciable height ; the floors are rickety,
the partitions shams. In winter the tenants are half-frozen ; on
calm days only are they free from draughts. There is no privacy
in this sort of a house. The women occupy one room, the men
of the family the other, and privacy is a stranger to both. The
sills of the house — that is, the heavy beams on which the frame-
work of the building rests — lie on the bare ground, rot quickly,
and communicate a dampness to the walls. There is no cellar
and no foundation. The landlord makes no repairs that he can
avoid. His profit on such a building is twenty-five per cent, of
the value of house and lot. This building is a fair specimen of
some thousands of dwellings always on exhibition in all the New
England and Middle States. No village or town is without a
certain number of them. Occasionally they fall to a lower level
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of unfitness for human habitation, and even landlords are ashamed
to own them. Of these hovels the tenant is usually the proprie-
tor. The country tenement is but half-built, and depends on
fancy paints and green grass to give it even the appearance of a
human dwelling. Its worst consequences for the healthy coun-
try people are rheumatism and immorality, which increase as
these buildings increase, and may be called, with slight exagge-
ration, the meters of landlords' prosperity.
In contrast to these two classes of buildings is the tenement-
house system of certain manufacturing companies. Good speci-
mens of this system are seen in the tenements of the Harmony
Cotton Company at Cohoes, N. Y. These buildings were erect-
ed particularly to shelter large families, as the peculiar conditions
of work in large cotton centres require a steady population of
children. The tenements are of brick, two stories in height,
occasionally adding a respectable garret to the second story.
The sleeping-rooms number from four to six, all, as a rule, well
lighted and ventilated, and of good size. The halls, pantries, and
cupboards are ample and airy ; the kitchens and sitting-rooms are
close to fifteen feet square and nine feet high. The yards are of
respectable size, and there is, besides, a bit of common ground for
the general use of a fixed quarter. Over each district is a care-
taker, whose business it is to keep the streets, alleys, and back-
ways clean, and to report nuisances and prevent disorder. A
special watchman patrols the district nightly. At certain times
in the year a corps of painters, plasterers, and carpenters visit
the houses and renew their comfort and usefulness. At any
moment required a man will be sent to make repairs. Above all,
the character of the tenant is well considered. If he be not
cleanly, respectable, and orderly, he is not allowed to enter, or,
being discovered, to remain. Overcrowding is forbidden. As
a result, the appearance of these streets and their tenements,
while it would not please Ruskin and might pall upon an artist, is
so really neat and pleasant that one cannot but feel a satisfaction
in the comfort of those who occupy the tenements. The rent is
very low — five to six dollars and a fraction every four weeks for
one tenement capable of sheltering in neatness and comfort ten
persons or more. The landlords, in this instance, are certain of
two things which the ordinary landlord sometimes lacks : steady
tenants and sure pay. The return upon the investment may be
from five to seven per cent., but not above the latter — a remark-
able contrast surely to the percentage derived from the nests of
rottenness and vice of the great cities. But what has here been
VOL. XL v.— 33
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514 The Homes of the Poor. [July,
said is not meant to express approval of the custom of the mill
corporation owning the dwellings of the operatives.
From the descriptions here given readers can realize that in
city and country human beings are living in places only good
enough for wild animals, and are paying dearly for the privi-
lege. For this there are reasons and causes which we shall here
name and analyze. The tenement- house evil exists primarily
and principally because it is to-day an admitted business axiom
all over the world that Whatever thing will be bought may be
sold; and, secondly, because of another business axiom that
Labor is a commodity like any merchandise ; and, thirdly, because
the moral sense of the community has been so blunted on these
points that it often accepts criminal custom for established right.
Here are the three roots of the tenement-house evil.
That you can iind a market for any salable article does not of
itself permit you to sell or justify you in selling it. It is said
that in China one may find buyers of diseased meat, and no doubt
in New York the same class of people would frequent a market
where it was sold. Yet in conscience no man can sell diseased
meat for purposes of food. Every one readily sees and admits
this, and is ready to execrate the wretch who commits the crime;
but every one does not see the principle which makes it a crime.
Selling diseased meat for food is simply disposing at a profit of a
thing unfit for human uses and dangerous to health and life.
This is precisely what the landlord of the rotten tenement does.
He rents at a profit a thing unfit for human uses and dangerous
to health and life. This is also the crime of the liquor-seller,
who in selling a drug-compound sells at a profit a slow poison ;
of the adulterater of foods ; of the horse-dealer who sells a run-
away or kicking horse. But these people do not rank them-
selves with the vender of diseased meat. His wares may kill at
once ; theirs do not necessarily cause death within a year or two,
and if a man does not want them he may pay a better price for a
better article, which is another way of saying that a seller has a
right to sell whatever a buyer may wish to buy.
This is false. Your horse must have a certain usefulness, and
be sold according to the market value of that usefulness ; your
house must be fit for a man to live in, and its rent in proportion ;
your wine and liquor and soda must be free from poison. A
drunkard may be willing to buy drugged liquor, a tricky trader
to dispose of your vicious animals slyly, a wretch to live in your
diseased tenements: you have no right to sell. You are an im-
postor in one case and a criminal in the others. The tenement
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landlord finds the poor and the degraded and the vicious eager to
buy the use of his filthy and neglected rooms, and their willing-
ness justifies him ! The poor devils have no other places to enter.
It sounds like charity, does it not? But a very ordinary ear can
hear the sounding brass !
The tenement question throws a side-light on the labor ques-
tion. If capitalists become so conscienceless as to maintain the
tenement evil, the workingmen at the same time become so poor
as to assist indirectly in its maintenance. They are between two
millstones, the unjust landlord and the unjust employer, and it
must be said of the mills of these gods that they grind not slow-
ly and they grind exceeding fine. The unjust landlord acts upon
the principle mentioned above : having a buyer, he can sell, with-
out any reference to the fact that buyers are human beings. The
unjust employer acts upon another principle, cousin-german to
the former : that wages are regulated by the law of supply and
demand, without any reference to the fact that they are paid to
human beings. These two principles work together for the de-
struction of the workingman. One reduces his wages and
brings him to a state of half-beggary ; the other meets him with
its vile shelters to rob him of comfort and health.
Two years ago, in the smoking-room of a Hudson River
steamer, we had the luck to meet with six manufacturers from
the neighborhood of a certain city. They discussed the strained
relations of labor and capital with sadness, but calmly and with-
out bitterness. The Nestor of the group, a white-haired paper
manufacturer, closed the discussion with these remarks :
" My belief is that this whole question depends upon the law
of supply and demand. When labor is plentiful it will be cheap,
when scarce it will be dear ; and so wages will be high or low
according to the demand for laborers."
This view was cheerfully accepted by his friends, but we pro.
posed the following question :
" Suppose your paper-mill required one hundred new men to-
morrow, and, advertising for them, two hundred offered them-
selves for the places. The profits of the paper business allowed
you to give each laborer $1.50 a day ; the cost of living at that
precise time required that he should have that sum to support
himself in decent comfort. One hundred of these men demanded
the full wages. The others offered their services for seventy-five
cents a day. Here is a case where the supply is greater than the
demand. Would you be justified in hiring the second hundred
at the starvation wages?"
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5i6 The Homes of the Poor. [July,
There was a general silence, of which we took advantage to
add : " You cannot separate the laborer from his labor. The
question of justice enters into every dealing between man and
man in every kind of business ; but where the laborer's hire is
concerned the question of humanity and Christian charity also
comes up, and you must pay him, not at the market rate alone,
but by his worthiness as a worker and according to your busi-
ness profits. You can quote the press reports of market prices
for cotton and pork in buying these articles, but in buying a
man's labor you must refer to the Ten Commandments."
The employer justifies low wages by attributing them to the
laws of supply and demand, and affirms that labor is an article of
commerce. On the other hand, the laborer finds everything made
ready to suit his lowered condition. The landlord offers him the
filthy tenement, the manufacturer clothes him with shoddy and
sizing, the adulterater of food and drink poisons him cheaply,
and the dime museum pushes him hellward at small cost. The
purveyors of these necessities and luxuries justify themselves
on the ground that whatever thing will be bought may be sold. If
they did not sell others would, etc.
The tenement landlords are not all atheists or Shylocks. The
Christian element is strong among them. We have now in our
mind's eye four landlords who well represent their kind. Two
are conventional Catholics, respectable and respected in the com-
munity, the third is a devout Episcopalian vestryman, and the
fourth an atheistic libertine. Their houses are all alike, wretch-
ed pens scarcely good enough for firewood. They are not con-
vinced of the injustice practised upon their tenants ; the com-
munity in which they live would never dream of reproaching
them with it. This is the prevalent feeling throughout the
country, and it constitutes the evil of our condition. We are
holding false principles for truth. Custom has steeled our con-
sciences. The majority cannot see any criminality in the tene-
ment system. If men do not wish to occupy such homes they
are at liberty to move away, and in any case the tenements are
good enough for the money. Such reasoning as this is the ex-
cuse of the landlord to himself and before the people. If a
healthy public sentiment on this point prevailed in the nation
there would be small need of legislation. Landlords would not
sit in the sunshine of grace, and lead in the vestry and the coun-
cil, unless, like other honest traders, they sold honest wares and
gave honest weight for their money.
The method of rooting out these evils is plain. We must
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1887.] A Birthday. 517
have a law which will forbid the erection and maintenance of any
dwelling-house unfit for human occupation. Those that now
exist must be destroyed or turned to other purposes.
The workman may be trusted henceforward to look after his
wages. If he is to be starved and overworked he has made it
clear in the disorders of the last decade that these sufferings shall
work no benefit to others. Strikes for the most part are illogical
and useless, but this much can be said for them : If a man is to
starve in any case^ why not starve leisurely in the open air rather
than in the factory or the coal-mine ? But we need laws, new
laws, prudently framed and firmly enforced, to meet the tene-
ment-house evik
Oh ! for a strong public sentiment to make the unjust landlord
and the unjust employer as detested creatures as the professional
gambler. They are the oppressors of the helpless poor, whose
wrongs cry to Heaven for vengeance ; but while Heaven is per-
haps preparing the bolts of their destruction the world has noth-
ing for them but honors and renewed honors.
John Talbot Smith.
A BIRTHDAY.
A SCORE of years, O child beloved and fair !
Since thy glad pinions in swift upward flight
Darkened for us the rosy morning light,
And earth grew empty, since thou wert not there.
A score of years ! At manhood's threshold stands
The little one who touched with bated breath
Thy lips all pallid with the kiss of death,
The frozen beauty of thy dimpled hands.
But thee nor time nor change can rude assail ;
Upon thy lips the baby smile doth rest,
The fadeless lilies shine upon thy breast,
And on thy brow a glory rare and pale.
O wondrous Death ! Thou dealest sharpest pain !
More swift than life thou snatchest youth away ;
But while life farther bears it day by day.
Thy hand, more kind, dost give it back again !
Mary Elizabeth Blake.
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5i8 The Palace of Tara. [J"ly.
THE PALACE OF TARA.
The beautiful lyric in which Moore has embalmed the memo-
ry of Tara has made the name familiar to all students of poetic
literature. Tara was the capital-city and seat of the royal gov-
ernment of independent Ireland
" Ere the invading stranger broke her island bosom's rest.
And changed into a vassal mart the Eden of the West."
The magnificence of Tara is attested not only by Irish au-
thorities, but by the inveterate enemies of Ireland who, during
at least a hundred years, waged a murderous war against the in-
habitants. Speaking of Ireland, a Danish writer translated by
Johnstone says:
" In this kingdom there is a palace termed Tara, formerly the chief city
and royal residence, etc.
" In the more elevated part of this city the king had a splendid and
almost Daedalean castle, within the precincts of which he had a splendid
palace, superb in its structure, where he was accustomed to preside in set-
tling the disputes of its inhabitants."*
" This celebrated hill," says Eugene O'Curry, " is situated in
the present county of Meath. The remains of an ancient palace
of the kings of Erin are still visible upon it." In a manuscript
entitled Dinnseannacus this palace is described as follows :
" Tara, choicest of hills.
The noble city of Cormac, son of Art.
Cormac, the prudent and the good.
Was a sage, a poet, and a prince ;
Was the righteous judge of the Fene-men [agriculturists].
Was a good friend and companion.
Cormac gained fifty battles."
This Cormac, founder of the palace of Tara, ascended the
throne in the third century. His character and acts are allowed
to hold a place of the highest order among those of kings.
Three academies which he founded in Tara were severally as-
signed to the cultivation of law, literature, and military science.
Cormac has been termed the Solomon of Ireland ; and the mag-
nificent residence of Miodhchuarta which he constructed for his
* <* In hoc regno etiam locus est Themor dictus, oUm primaria urbs regiaque sedes, etc, etc
" In editiori quopiam civitatis loco,splendidum et tantum non Daedaleum castellum Rex^ et
intra castelli septa, palatium stnictura et nitore superbum habuit, ubi solebat litibus inc<daram
componendis praesse ^ {Ante Celt ScandOy last page).
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1887.] Thb Palace of Tara. 519
abode, and the works of moral and political wisdom which he
left, appear to give aptness to the parallel. One of the most ex-
traordinary of the structures connected with this royal abode
was \\i^/Dumka na-n-bean amhus^ " the dwelling of the Amazons."
For in every period of the pagan history of Ireland women
trained to military exercises, like the beautiful heroines of Tasso's
immortal poem, figured in the ranks of Irish war. Another
structure was entitled " The retreat of the Vestal Virgins." Their
residence seems to have been on the western slope of Tara.
They are described in the Annals of Ireland as "thirty girls and
a hundred maids with each of them." A writer of the period
describes, with the authority of an eye-witness, a structure of
four hundred and fifty feet in length, seventy-five in breadth, and
forty-five in height. On state occasions the monarch's table in
this hall was loaded with a rich and gorgeous service of cups and
goblets of massive gold and silver. But the most remarkable
object in the royal palace of Tara, according to popular belief,
was the Lia Fail. Those ancient colonists who in the early ages
of the world occupied the beautiful island of Erin — the Tuatha-
de-Dananns — termed it Ints Failj " the island of destiny," owing
to the fact that these adventurers brought with them a rude
block of stone termed Lia Fail, or saxum fatale^ *^ the stone of
destiny " — a name transferred to the island.
Before men worshipped statues they in all probability wor-
shipped rude, shapeless masses of unchiselled stone, and this was
possibly one of them. The descent, so unaccountable in primi-
tive times, of meteoric stones may have originated this idolatry.
We know that when Heliogabalus imported into the crowded
streets of Rome a massive block of black stone which had been
adored in Asia, and which the Romans were likewise expected to
adore, the superstitious citizens hailed the amorphous block with
enthusiastic shouts. The Lia /^<af;7 was likewise possibly an object
of worship in pagan times, but in all times it was regarded as
something weird, mysterious, and supernatural. The destinj^
of Ireland was believed to be inseparably connected with it.
Wherever it existed the Irish shotlld rule and govern. When
the supreme monarch, or imperator Scotorum^ was chosen and
" kinged " in the great conventions which assembled at Tara for
the purpose, this magic stone was said to utter a murmur of
satisfaction the moment the newly-elected sovereign sat upon it.
" But," adds Keating, *' when Christ was born, and all the idols
of the earth were struck dumb, this mystic stone became mute."
In after-times, when Scotland was conquered by Feargus Mac
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520 The Palace of Tara. [July.
Erca, he procured this " stone of destiny " from his brother, the
supreme king of Ireland, hoping to find in its magic murmur the
sanction of his usurpation. The Scotch, during ages, preserved
this guarantee of supreme power with the utmost care and vene-
ration, at first in the monastery of lona, and afterwards in Dun-
staffnage in Argyleshire, the earliest residence of the Scottish
kings of Irish race. It finally fell into the hands of the English,
where it remains to the present time, under the chair on which
the sovereign of England is crowned. The awe with which it
was regarded by the English^ and the value they set upon it, is
evinced by the stubborn reluctance of the Londoners to part
with it. Eldward III., in the treaty of Northampton, agreed to
restore to the Scots this enchanted relic of antiquity. He even
issued a writ under the privy seal, ordering the prior of West-
minster to convey the stone to the sheriflF, that it might be re-
stored to the Scotch. " But the people of London," we are told,
" would by no means whatever allow it to depart from them-
selves." * It is believed that the prophecy connected with it is
realized at the present moment in the persons of Mr. Parnell and
his associates.
A geological account of this coronation-stone has been written
by Professor A. C. Ramsay, LL.D., F.R.S. He says :
" At the request of the Dean of Westminster [Stanley] I joined a party
for the purpose of examining the coronation-stone in June, 1865. The fol-
lowing are the results of my observations :
" The coronation-stone consists of a dull reddish or purplish sandstone
with a few small embedded pebbles. One of these is of quartz, and two
others of dark material the nature of which I was unable to ascertain :
they may be Lydian stone. The rock is calcareous and of the kind that
masons would term freestone. Chisel-marks on one or more of its sides.
A little mortar was in the sockets in which iron rings lie, apparently not of
very ancient date. To my eye the stone appears as if originally it had been
prepared for building purposes but had never been used.
" It is very difficult to determine the geological formation to which any
far-transported mass of stone may belong, especially when the history of
the mass is somewhat vague in its earlier stages. The country round
Scone is formed of old red sandstone, and the tints of different portions of
that formation are so vario^is that it is quite possible the coronation-stone
may have been derived from one of its strata.
" The country round Dunstaffnage also consists of red sandstone — red-
dish or purplish in its hue — and much of it is conglomerate near Oban,
Dunolly, and in other places. In McCulloch's Western Isles of Scotland
there is a note in which, writing of the coronation-stone, he says :
" ' The stone in question is a calcareous sandstone, exacUy resembling that which forms
^ Chronicle of Lanerost, p. 261. Maltland, p. 146.
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the doorway at Daiistaffiiafi:e Castle. There can be little doubt that the castle was built of the
rocks of the neighborhood, the sandstone strata of which are described in a letter, now before
me, bj my colleag^ue, Mr. Geilde, as dull reddish or purplish.'
"This precisely agrees with the character of the coronation-stone itself.
Mr.McCuUoch does not mention how he ascertained how the stone in ques-
tion (the coronation-stone) is calcareous. This description, however, is cor-
rect. When the stone was placed on a table in the Abbey the lower part of
it was swept with a soft brush, and as many grains of sand were thus de-
tached from the stone as would cover a sixpence.
'• Among these was a minute fragment of the stone itself. These were
tested for me in Dr. Percy's laboratory by Mr. Ward, and found to be
slightly calcareous. The red coloring matter is a peroxide of iron. There
can be no doubt that the stone-dust brushed off the lower surface of the
stone truly represents the matter of which the mass is composed. It was
simply loosened by old age, and when examined by a magnifying-glass
showed grains of quartz and a few small scales of mica precisely similar to
those observed in the stone itself.
"On the whole I incline to think with Dr. McCulloch that the doorway
of Dun staff nage Castle may have been derived from the same parent rock,
though, as there are plenty of red sandstones from where it is said to have
been brought (Ireland), it may be impossible to prove precisely its origin.
It is extremely improbable that the stone has been derived from any of the
rocks of the hill of Tara, from whence it is said to have been transported
to Scotland ; for they, on the authority of Mr. Jukes, director of the Geolo-
gical Survey of Ireland, are of the carboniferous age, and, as explained in
one of the memoirs of the Irish survey, do not present the red color so
characteristic of the coronation -stone.
"That it belonged to the rocks originally round Bethel ((genesis xxviii.
19) is equally unlikely, since, according to all credible reports, they are
formed of strata of limestone. The rocks of Egypt, so far as I know, con-
sist of mummilitic limestone, of which the Great Pyramid is built ; and
though we know of crystalline rocks such as syenite in Egypt, I never
heard of any strata occurring there similar to the red sandstone of the
coronation-stone."
In his work on Westminster Abbey Dean Stanley describes
the Lia Fail, or " stone of destiny/' in the following words :
"It is the one primeval monument which binds together the whole
empire. The iron rings, the battered surface, the crack which has all but
rent its solid mass asunder, bear witness to its long migrations. It is thus
embedded in the heart of the English monarchy — an element of poetic,
archaic, patriarchal, heathen times, which, like Areuna's threshing-floor
in the midst of the Temple of Solomon, carries back our thoughts to races
and customs now almost extinct : a link which unites the throne of Eng-
land to the traditions of Tara and lona, and connects the chain of our
complex civilization with the forces of our mother-earth and the stocks and
stones of savage nature." ♦
On a throne containing this stone the monarch of Tara,
♦ Stanley's Memorials of Westminster Abbey ^ pp. 66, 68,
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522 The Palace of Tara. [July,
" humble but majestic, and free from personal blemish," received
his princely guests with dignified courtesy. In a fragment of
his own writings, translated by O' Donovan, the king tells us how
a sovereign should comport himself to the guests who share his
hospitality.
In answer to his own question, " What are the duties of a
king in a banqueting-hall ? " he tells us :
"A prince on Samain's day [ist of November] should light his lamps
and welcome his guests with clapping of hands; procure comfortable seats;
the cup-bearers should be res(>ectful and active in the distribution of meat
and drink, there should be moderation in music, short stories, greetings
for the learned, pleasant conversation, and a countenance beaming with
welcome."
We are informed by O'Curry that King Cormac " put the
court rules or state regulations of the great banqueting-hall of
Tara on a new and improved footing," in consequence of which
the entertainments were magnificent. The table was loaded
with a rich service of gold plate, and was at night lighted up
not only with lamps but with a large lantern or chandelier
formed of valuable material and constructed with curious art.
According to established custom, the superior oflScers of the
court were a Brehon, a Druid, a physician, a poet, an antiquary,
a musician, and three stewards. The duties of the Druid were
not merely to propitiate the supernatural powers, but to penetrate
the shadow which conceals the future and to foretell events. He
was an astrologer as well as a sacrificer, and inspected the visi-
ble heavens to discover in the mystic lights of the midnight sky
what fate had in store for mankind. For instance, King Dathi,
before his expedition to the Continent of Europe which termi-
nated in his death, consulted his Druids, and received from those
necromancers assurances of success which were afterwards fully
realized. It is almost certain, too, that King Cormac, before he
sent his fleet to cruise in the Tyrrhenian Sea for three years (as
Tigernach assures us he did), adopted the same mode of interro-
gating futurity.
The poet's task was diflFerent. It was to clothe in the garb of
rhyme the events of national history, to enwreath chronology
with song, and thus facilitate the retention of facts and their
transmittal to posterity. The very laws were arranged "in
sheaves "and "bound in a wreath of verse." No other nation
ever made so much use of rhythmical composition as the Irish.
Still more importance attached to the duties of the shanachy,
or antiquarian, whose office it was to preserve with scrupulous
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care and recite with fluent readiness the pedigree of his masters
from the existing occupant of the throne up to the founder of
the monarchy.
Sheridan remarked that in modern England '^ no one has a
genealogy except a horse." Not so in ancient Ireland. Every
man, however humble, had a pedigree. Genealogy was a science
highly prized and universally studied; for a man was not a mem-
ber of a clan because he held land (as Sir Henry Maine remarks),
but he held land because he was a member of a clan — that is, be-
cause he was descended from an individual who was to the Irish
race what Abraham was to the Hebrews. His genealogy was his
title-deed, and therefore he was thoroughly acquainted with it.
Of the personal appearance of the chiefs who thronged the
halls of Tara some idea may be formed from a drawing in pen
and ink, by an Irish warrior, which is contained in an Irish manu-
script of the eighth century, outlined, doubtless, by the hand of
the scribe who made the transcript. From this interesting
sketch it would appear that an Irish chief of the eighth century
was apparelled like a Scottish Highlander of the last. He wore
" the garb of old Gaul," was " kirtled to the knee," •' plaided
and plumed in a tartan array." The numbers of the colors in
the plaid corresponded with the dignity of the wearer. The
royal plaid of Ireland, for instance, like the Stuart plaid of Scot-
land, contained six colors. This mode of distinguishing social
position originated in an old law, enacted by an Irish king in an
early period of the monarchy, which discriminated the classes of
society by the colors of their attire — the lowest rank having the
smallest number. The same thing was done in ancient Egypt.
In the picture alluded to the figure of the warrior is crowned
with two eagle's wings, which seem to rise over each ear and
meet at the summit in the form of a cone. He is armed with a
broadsword, scian^ and buckler, while his breast is covered with
some light harness. That this was the ordinary costume of the
military class in ancient Erin seems evinced by the fact that in
the Annals of Ireland such epithets as glun-dubhy " black knee " ;
glun-buidh^ " yellow knee " ; glunJfan^ " white knee," are applied
to Irish princes. It is obvious that the color of the knee could
not be well known unless a kilt formed a part of the costume,
leaving the knee visible. As to females, their attire was appa-
rently identical with that in which the Roman historian drapes
the majestic figure of Boadicea. It was the costume worn by
Granu Waile when, ages afterwards, she stood in the presence
of Elizabeth and claimed equality with the English queen. A
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524 The Palace of Tara. [July,
torque or pliant chain of twisted gold glittered on her neck ;
a plaided tunic of variegated colors sheathed her body ; an ana-
pie mantle draped her lofty person. This costume remained un-
altered during ages, because, like the Persians and other Asiatic
peoples, change was abhorrent to the nature of the Cejts. We
are persuaded that such women as Boadicea and such men as
Caractacus trod the floors, participated in the councils, mingled
in the festivals, and listened to the harps of Tara. It may not be
unworthy of observation that in the last edition of the Encyclopa-
dia Britannica it is openly avowed that a large segment of Britain,
if not the whole, was subjected in remote ages to Irish rule (see
article, " Ireland **). As confirmation of this statement we may
remark that the name Boadicea is susceptible of interpreta-
tion by an Irish scholar, though we doubt if during eighteen
hundred years it has been once publicly interpreted. The name
is found in classic authors written in three several ways : Boudu
cea, Boadicea, and Boadicea. Strictly speaking, it is not a name,
for, according to Aristotle, a name ** is a sound or the sign of a
sound, significant im itself, none of whose parts possess significa-
tion." Boadicea is a compound epithet, not a name ; buadh sig-
nifies " victory," ice a " curative application ** or medical remc-
dy. She was the " Victoria of the healing art," who, like Rowena
in Scott's romance, possibly alleviated the sufferings of wounded
valor by the application of medical skill.
The name of Caractacus is equally significant and equally
Irish. It consists of two words eminently descriptive of the
man — Cath (pronounced ca\ "a pitched battle," and Reacts
" law authority." He was an authority on military science — a
ruler of battle, who controlled and directed the storm of conflict*
Men of this lofty and heroic character doubtless constituted
the court, the throng of knights and princes, who glittered round
the throne of King Cormac and participated in his conventions.
There is a lofty description of this court in the Book of Bally-
mote {1^2 b.b.), when the nobles of Erin assembled ''to drink
the banquet of Tara":
"Magnificently did Cormac come to that assembly, for no man his
equal in beauty had preceded him, excepting Conaire Mor^ son of Edersgel.
or Conor, son of Cathbadh [pronounced caa-fah], or Angus, son of the
Daghda. Splendid indeed was Cormac's appearance in that assembly.
His hair was slightly curled and of golden color ; a scarlet shield, with en-
graved devices and golden hooks and clasps of silver; a wide, folding
purple cloak enveloped his person, and a gem-set bodkin with pendent
brooch was over his breast; a gold torque round his neck; a white-col-
lared tunic, embroidered with gold, was visible when his mantle opened ; a
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girdle studded with precious stones, and secured by a golden buckle, was
likewise visible ; while he stood in the full glow of manly beauty without
defect or blemish.
" This, then, was the shape and form in which Cormac went to this
great assembly of the men of Erin. And authors say that this was the
noblest convocation ever held in Erin before the Christian faith ; for the
laws and enactments instituted at this meeting were those that shall pre
vail in Erin for ever."
An incident translated from the same manuscript, the Book
of Ballyinote (143 b.b.), affords us a curious insight into the inner
economy of Tara which is replete with instruction. An " aveng-
ing chieftain/* or Aire Echta, who, at the head of his swordsmen,
had been ravaging the territory of Leyney and inflicting with
military violence condign punishment on the assailants of his
clan, halted his armed followers, flittering with steel and wav«
ing with tartans, before an ample farm-house where a large num-
ber of cows were being milked by a corresponding number of
female servitors. Heated by their march and burning with
thirst, they seized the snowy liquid and gulped it in long and
copious draughts; and then, to the disgrace of the Aire Echta, he
refused or failed to remunerate the female owner. The moment
he resumed bis march she pursued and assailed him with bitter
sarcasms.
" It would be fitter for you," she screamed, " to avenge your
brother's daughter on Cellach, the son of Cormac, than to rob
me of my milk by force and violence." From this it would ap-
pear that the chieftain's niece had suffered some grievous injury
at the hands of the king's son. Be that as it may, the " aveng-
ing chieftain," brooding over this galling sarcasm and agonizing
at every step, marched on in silence to the royal palace, which
he entered after sunset. At the entrance he unbelted his sword,
unsheathed his dagger, and confided his arms to an oflScer — for
it was strictly prohibited to introduce after nightfall military
weapons into Tara. As he passed in, however, he espied the
king's lance resting on a rack in the hall. Taking it down, he
advanced to the prince, and, lifting the spear, dashed the blade
deep into the person of the youth, who fell dead on the floor ; but
in drawing the weapon out, in his violence and fury, the " aveng.
ing chief " struck the king in the eye.
The latter, as a consequence, completely lost the use of the
injured organ, and, in conformity with an ancient Irish law, re-
signed the sceptre and relinquished the crown, which no Irish
king disfigured with a personal blemish was ever suffered to
wear. " In the law thus enforced," says Moore, " may be ob-
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526 The Palace of Tara. [Julyt
served another instance of coincidence with the rules and cus-
toms of the East. We read in Persian history that the son of
the monarch Kobad, having by a similar accident lost the use of
an eye, was in consequence precluded by an old law of the coun-
try from all right of succession to the throne." *
In .the retirement which followed this calamity the mind of
the monarch was not unoccupied. He devoted his leisure to
literary composition, and wrote several treatises, of which frag-
ments have come down to us, meriting more attention than they
have yet received. In his " Advice to his Son," which takes the
form of a dialogue, he is asked : " What is good for a king? " to
which he replies :
" Vigorous swordsmen for protecting his territories ; war outside his
own dominions ; to discipline his soldiers ; to attend to his sick men ; to
hold none but lawful possessions ; to restrain falsehood ; to repress bad
men ; to perfect peace; to enforce fear; to have abundance of metheglin
and wine ; to pronounce just judgments ; to speak all truth (for it is
through the truth of a king that God gives favorable seasons) ; to possess
boundless charity ; to have fruit upon trees, fish in the rivers, fertility in
the land, and to invite shipping."
Here we have another curious instance of the coincidence
which exists between the opinions and practices of ancient Ire-
land and Asia. The belief is deeply rooted in the Chinese mind,
for instance, that the calamities of the empire— droughts,
famines, and earthquakes — are occasioned by the vices of the
emperor. The anger of Heaven, excited by imperial depravity,
showers disasters upon his people — an idea which is not only
admitted but absolutely proclaimed in those remarkable ad-
dresses with which the emperor occasionally admonishes, and
enlightens his people.
On the whole we are inclined to believe that the Danish
writer whom Johnstone translates was perfectly truthful : there
was not only a palace but a populous city, swarming and spread-
ing far and wide, round the " pleasant eminence " t of Tara. In-
deed, a city is the inseparable concomitant, if not of the resi-
dence of royalty, at least of the seat of government. It is in-
volved in the very idea. The functions of royal administration
require such a host of officials, and they in their turn require
such a swarm of dependants, lackeys, attendants, and servitors —
or gasruy as the Irish writers term them (the Gessatce of classical
authors) — and these again require so many necessaries, their
wants are so imperative and numerous, such piles of food and
* History of Ireland. f ** Pleasant, agreeablA ** is Uie literal meaning of Tara.
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mountains of wearing apparel, that a civic population, busy and
multitudinous — traders, manufacturers, and merchants — spring
into existence round the residence of a crowned head. The
capital of Spain was ealled into being by the presence of the
Spanish court, and many other chief cities were indebted for
their existence to a like cause. It is alleged, for instance, that
the palace-guard of Tara consisted of 1,050 select soldiers, the
flower of the Irish clans. This implies extensive accommoda-
tion, not only for the housing of these men but for the residence
of the sutlers and traflSckers and attendants who supplied them
with the necessaries of life — their ^7//^^, in a word.
In addition to all these Tara possessed the most effective ele-
ment in the growth of cities — Tara possessed roads. It is a
principle in political economy that extensive highways are the
life of cities and the principal element in the evolution of market-
places. We are expressly told that Tara was approached by
several highways extending through the length of the five pro-
vinces. The construction of these roads was attributed to su-
pernatural agency. They were made by the invisible Sighs or
genii of Erin, who were such apt road-makers, such accomplished
masters of the art, that they succeeded in constructing these five
roads in one night !
The meaning of this, very probably, is that they were con-
structed at so remote a period that the time of their formation
lay beyond the records of chronology and the memory of man.
They were not only prehistoric, they were pretraditional. Be
their origin what it may, the agricultural products of the rural
districts, the raw materials of manufactures, were carried into
Tara by these roads, where the hides were tanned into leather,
the hemp twisted into cordage, the flax woven into linen, and
the wool manufactured into cloth. These again were transport-
ed in this altered and attractive form to the very districts that
produced the materials, and sold at remunerative prices to the
rural population. By this species of inter-communication the
greatest cities have been gradually evolved, and have finally at-
tained colossal magnitude and enormous extent.
In addition to its artificial roads Tara was built in proximity to
a river ; and a river is the best of all channels for the conveyance
of produce in the early developments of society. The great cities
of ancient Chaldea rose beside rivers. The stupendous structures
and towering edifices of Babylon and Ninive were reflected in
the glassy waters of that venerable land— the mid-river territory
-^which gave birth to ancient science and civilization. Thou-
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528 " Willow^Weed:' [July,
sands of years ago those ample streams were burdened with the
gliding barks of primeval commerce, laden with the natural pro-
duce which the tawny agriculturists exchanged in the civic mar-
kets for the manufactures of the townsman. In short, without
rivers or artificial roads cities cannot expand into magnitude, be-
cause they cannot exist. A city resembles a human being: the
first element of its existence is food. Now, Tara possessed these
elements — it had five roads and one river — and therefore we are
disposed to believe that the Danish writer translated by John-
stone was right when he said, In hoc regno locus est Thentor dictusy
olim primaria urbs regiaque sedeSy etc.
OTlaherty, after all, may not be altogether wrong when he
assures us that *' there never was on the face of the earth a more
ancient or better regulated monarchy than that of ancient Ire-
land." C. M. O'Keeffe.
" WILLOW- WEED."
A SUSSEX STORY.
The landscape lay very still beneath the July sky. In the
fields the great red cattle stood, their heads bent down, their
tasselled tails whisking the flies from their flanks. Beyond the
fields were the cool woods, whose beech-trees clothed the hill-
side with intense shadow, and through it all the sluggish, silvery
river stole onward to the sea.
The reeds grew thickly on the flat banks, their tall stems
crested with dull purple plumes. The willow-weed and mea-
dowsweet were there in masses, and the yellow glory of the
golden-rod, while close down to the brink the henbane hung its
evil-looking bells. It was a land of flowers, and nature, flinging
her treasures with a generous hand, had let them fall even on
the water ; there stood up the great flowering rush with its pink
blossoms and the graceful, brown-tufted sedge, and all the sur-
face of the stream was covered thick with lilies.
It was so hot, and so absolute a quiet reigned, it seemed as
though earth, air, and water, with all the living things therein,
were joined in silent worship of the sun.
A faint splash broke on the stillness, the reeds and rushes
parted rustling, and the thick red stems of the lilies slipped
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188;.] " WilloiV'Wsed:' 529
under water, dragging the sweet flowers out of harm's way, out
of the way of the punt that was coming slowly down stream.
In the punt stood a man who might have posed for the burlesque
representation of an old river-god. His ragged trousers were
held round his waist by a red scarf, his blue shirt opened from a
neck tanned to the color of mahogany, and his long gray beard
and hair fell in tangled masses round a face gnarled and brown
as though carved from the root of a tree. He held an iron tri-
dent in his hand, plunging it from time to time into the bed of
soft mud ; he was spearing for eels, and seemed to have met with
fair success. Gathering his slimy spoil into a basket, he scram-
bled ashore, fastened up the boat to the stump of a pollard willow,
and walked off homewards. The flat land was all cut up and in-
tersected by dikes. One wider than the rest was called the
** Sailing Ditch," and by the side of this he trudged for half a
mile or so, coming at last to a cottage of the style called " half-
timbered." From its walls the plaster had fallen in flakes, leav-
ing the ribs of blackened oak bare ; the thatch had sunk in places
through the rafters, and the bit of ground in front was full of
weeds whose giant growth choked the life in the gooseberry and
currant bushes. An untrained grapevine rioted over the broken-
down porch, and added to the ruinous look of the place, which
still possessed a savage luxuriance in its decay.
Such was the home of John Fillary, sole owner of the barge
Independent — a craft which, like her master, had seen better days,
and whose black hulk now lay half in the dike, half on the bank,
hopelessly stranded in the mud. During the floods of the previ-
ous winter she had drifted there, and was too old and shaky to
be forcibly tugged ofi". Fillary had trusted to another flood to
float her, but one after another had subsided, leaving the Indepen-
dent high and dry. She would never again carry loads of coal
up from the seaport town of Mailing, or lime from the kilns of
white and dusty Claverly. In the bygone days it was easy to
find occupation ; there was a water-way to London then, a canal
joining the river Heron with the Wey at Guildford, and, as there
was constant traffic up and down, men were always wanted to
mend the banks or attend to the locks. But now all was so diffe-
rent : transport was effected by rail, and the locks were left to
themselves ; the few boats passing through them carried keys or
winches to open the heavy, moss-grown gates.
Now and then, when some bridge fell into disrepair or some
narrow reach got choked, a few laborers, commissioned by a
mysterious power spoken of vaguely as " The River Company,"
VOL, XLV.— 34
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would appear and do a little mending, but the canal was utterly
abandoned, and beyond the last lock at TuUingham Quay no one
ever went.
So, since his barge had failed him, times had been hard with
John Fillary. He had an occasional day dredging or clearing
the weeds, but the work was irregular and the pay poor. His
granddaughter Jessie earned a few shillings in the fields, which
she always intended to lay by for the winter, but which never-
theless went in their daily struggle to live. They were used to
poverty, but had not felt its pinch till now. Fillary, fetching
loads of lime or coal on his barge in spring and winter, and
working in the hay and harvest fields in summer and autumn,
had made enough and more than enough to keep them ; but he
spent the surplus, getting drunk night after night while the
money lasted ; then would come a week or so of silence, an at-
tack, perhaps, of the " horrors," and then to work again.
For nearly fifty years he had lived in the cottage. A lad of
little more than twenty, he had taken his young wife there. It
was neat and trim in those days, the paths well weeded, and
cabbages and onions grew in straight, prim rows between the
pinks and stocks. His children were born there, and filled the
place with their shouts and happy laughter — seven of them, whom
their mother tried to keep ndat and bring up decently ; but there
was a strain of something in her husband's blood which made
him different from his fellows. " Radicalism *' Sir Walter Der-
ing, member for the county, called it. Whatever it was, it made
him refuse to send his children to church or Sunday-school, and
so they grew up wild, sun-burned little heathens.
The rector's wife, who held Calvinistic doctrines, would shake
her head over the Fillary family and talk about " children of
darkness." Poor little children of darkness ! They certainly did
not come forth into the light, for one by one as they grew up thej
brought trouble and disgrace upon their parents. The eldest
son was shot one night in an affray with the gamekeepers ; the
second enlisted, deserted, and was captured by a picket of sol-
diers skulking behind his father's wood-stack. He was drafted
off to the Crimea with hundreds of other raw recruits, and never
heard of again. Damp and bad drainage now brought the dread
scourge, typhus fever, and four of the children died ; and when
Fillary himself rose, gaunt and haggard, from his bed, it was to
find an empty hearth and a broken-hearted woman. Their eldest
daughter, and only living child now, was away in Scotland in
service. She appeared one morning unexpectedly, a tiny baby
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188/.] " WiLLOlV-WEEDr 531
in her arms. A month after it was born she had set her face
southwards and had made the long journey from Aberdeen on
foot, tramping along the dusty roads, begging a lift now and
then, and reaching her home worn out in body and mind.
She never spoke of the child's father ; threats and entreaties
alike failed to wring his name from her.
The case was too common a one for it to be a lasting trouble
to Fillary, and he and his wife soon grew to love the little girl.
Before Jessie was seven she lost both mother and grandmother,
and now for twelve years she and her grandfather had lived
alone in the cottage, which day by day became more tumble-
down.
She had an uncle in the village, owner of two barges, which
he and his sons managed. Doubtless they could have found a
place for John among them, but he was shy of these prosperous
relatives. Perhaps it was the dismal consciousness of his life
full of failures that made the old man so ill-tempered and so hard
to deal with. Anyway, his nephews declared they would " rather
have the devil on board than Uncle John."
. Now in this fine, hot weather they could live on little, yet
this little took every penny that they earned ; so that the thought
of the long, cold months would come to Jessie and frighten her —
not so much on her own account as on her grandfather's; for she
loved the ragged, dirty old man in spite of his drunken, violent
ways. He was never violent to her, had never struck and sel-
dom spoken roughly to her. The dread that he would be driven
into " the house " lay on her like a nightmare, for all his life he
had lived out-of-doors — in the fields, or on the river and the
floods, or by the sea — ^and she knew that in the narrow routine
of a workhouse ward he would go mad or die.
She heard his step on the path this evening and ran to meet
him. The Fillarys were a good-looking race, and this girl was
handsome, with fine features and a quantity of curly dark hair,
which she gathered into an untidy knot on her neck.
In the kitchen a few sticks were smouldering ; she blew them
up into a smoky flame and fried the eels, which they ate for sup-
per with some sour gray bread made from ** leesings.'^ It had
been a wet harvest the year before, and the leesings, or gleanings^
had lain long on the ground, so that the grain had sprouted.
The old man flung himself, all dressed as he was, on a settle
to sleep, and Jessie went up-stairs to her little room, where the
stars, shining through the cracks and crannies in the roof^
lighted her to bed.
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532 " WILL0W'IVJS£D.** [July,
Fillary was up and oflF soon after five next morning, leaving
Jessie free to spend her time as she pleased. So long as she was
at home when he came back he did not trouble how she passed
her days ; all that he required was that she should be there on
his return at night.
Her housework was a simple matter, as she never attempted
to dean the cottage. With the stump of an old broom she swept
away the bits of in-trodden dirt and pebbles, and knocked down
the obtrusively large cobwebs; she washed the pots and tidied up
the hearth ; then her day's labors were ended. All the bread
had been eaten at breakfast, and unless Fillary earned some
money that day they would have to go hungry to bed.
When one is strong and nineteen years old appetite is not to be
lightly trifled with, and as the hours went by Jessie became more
and more convinced of this fact Her grandfather before depart-
ing had advised her to go to her Uncle Richard's, where she
would be sure of a good dinner ; but she hated the appearance
of what she called "cadging," and was loath to display her
poverty to her two fine cousins, who worked as dressmakers,
and who used to laugh at her for her shabby clothes and for
having no " young man."
* Between twelve and one she^sauntered down to the river.
To the left of where she stood was a sharp curve where the
stream bent round the hill, and to the right, about half a mile
oflF, was a lock. There had been a keeper there before it fell into
disuse, but'now the cottage was empty.
Suddenly a boat shot round the corner — a slim, brown wherry,
with a monogram on the blue blades of the oars. Jessie thought
she knew every boat from TuUingham to Mailing, but this one
she had never seen before. Three young men were in it, dressed
in flannels. One, who held the tiller-ropes, called out to ask if
they could pass the lock. She answered. Yes ; but when they
had advanced some yards she bethought her that, being strangers,
they probably had no means of opening the g^tes.
" FJave you a winch ? " she cried, running after them.
"No."
"Then you carn't p'lss them gStes."
" Is there no keeper? "
She shook her head.
" There is a key at home," she continued after a moment's
pause, indicating the cottage with a backward nod. " I'll get it,
i you like to wait"
After a brief consultation they agreed to land and have their
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1887.] " WiLLOfV'WBED:' ^ 533
lunch ; that was as good a place for the purpose as any, right
there under the shadow of the big oak, and while they were
eating it Jessie could go back and get the key. By and by she
returned and helped them to open the cumbrous barriers ; and
when they told her they were going on, if possible, beyond Tul-
lingham, she said they might take the winch with them.
One of them gave her half a crown, and the tall, fair fellow
who had steered put what remained of the luncheon in a basket
for her. She liked the way he did it — so carefully and daintily,
it might have been for a lady to unpack and eat. When she got
home she found that beneath the white napkin he had slipped a
florin.
In the hot afternoon he came again, and leaned against the
gate and talked to her. She was not shy, and she looked up at
bim freely and unconsciously. -
He told her he was staying at Pickering, a village a few miles
oflF, and he expected to be often up and down the river in his boat,
and should come to her again to borrow the lock-key.
The Rev. Geoffrey Frampton, vicar of Pickering, and rural
dean for that part of the county, took " crammers." He was
supposed to be possessed of an extraordinary method for push-
ing on backward youths and those to whom time was an object.
Young men who had been "spun " twice for the army went to
him as a last resource before going up for the third fatal exami-
nation. Precocious boys from public schools, anxious to pass
straight into some branch of the service, came to him for a few
months, as did others who wanted to avoid the routine of Sand-
hurst or Cooper's Hill, or who required coaching before they
began their university career. Despairing parents whose sons
either would not or could not work sent them to the Rev.
Geoffrey, saying : ** If any one can pull him through, Frampton
can."
And, as a rule, Frampton did.
His masters were picked men, with an aptitude for making
their pupils learn. He did not trouble much about the prin-
ciples of teachers or taught, so long as they preserved an
amount of outward decorum. Lads went to him to be improved
mentally^ not morally. As these crammers were numerous, and
varied in age from sixteen to twenty-six, one may imagine that
they kept the small rural parish of Pickering alive with their
festivities.
Amongst the young hopefuls who were in training there at the
time I write of was the Honorable Richard — or, as he was more
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534 " Willow-^Wbed:' [July,
generally called, Dick — Chetwynde. He was twenty-three, and,
if he succeeded in passing, was destined for her majesty's Guards.
He was a fine, handsome fellow, with good abilities but an indo-
lence of character that was almost a disease. He might have
distinguished himself at Eton, but would not work. He let
others carry oflF the prizes he really wanted, because he would
not exert himself to take them, and now he was dawdling about
at Pickering when he ought to have held his commission two
years at least.
It had taken him a long time to decide on his career ; one day
he thought he would study art in Paris, and the next that he
would run a ranch in Colorado. Just now he was suffering from
a severe attack of political righteousness, and had been heard to
declare more than once that, after all, he had half a mind to throw
up soldiering and go in <Dr " social reform " ; what his exact idea of
social reform as a profession was it would be hard to say, but he
used to scare his mother, the Countess of Petersfield, out of her
wits with his radical notions and his very strange opinions on the
division of property.
It was rather amusing to hear him hold forth on the equality
of man and the right of every one to a share in the soil, standing
the while in his comfortable chambers, surrounded by every lux-
ury and drawing a large income from certain coal-mines, the
toilers in which earned from fifteen shillings to three pounds a
week, and never saw the sun shine save on Sundays.
When he and his friends got back to Pickering after their
pull up the river, he descanted to a select circle of admirers on
the evils of a system of government under which it was possible
for a girl like Jessie Fillary to lead a life such as hers was— little
better than that of an animal in its spiritual ignorance, not so
well cared for as an animal in its temporal wants.
" I tell you," he cried excitedly—" I tell you I talked to her for
more than an hour this afternoon, and it is a burning shame
that such a girl should have to live as she does, while we great
hulking fellows waste our money in champagne and cigars. Do
you know, she told me that she hadn't tasted anything to-day till
the stuff" we gave her, and had positively not a penny in the house
to buy food."
" It shows great mismanagement somewhere," said Vane, a
man who always made a point of contradicting Chetwynde, and
whose ceaseless topic was the English people's want of thrift;
"but I am inclined to think that the blame rests with them-
selves. The poverty of large families one can understand, but
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188;.] '* WiLLOW'WEEDr 535
when two people, both able-bodied, are in such want it is gen-
erally because — "
** Generally because of the landlord," broke in Dick. " Would
you believe it, they pay four-and-sixpencc a week for that
wretched hovel, and have had the rent raised on them twice in
eighteen tnonths."
" Then I bet it doesn't belong to a big man, but to some screw
of a * peasant proprietor,' " put in Bering, whose father, old Sir
Walter, owned most of the land round Pickering and Hatting-
dean, which latter was Fillary's parish.
" You are right there, Bering : it belongs to the clerk Bemp-
ster, that little wizened-up scrap of a fellow with the shrew of a
wife. The girl told me if it wasn't for the rent they could manage ;
but that just drains them dry."
** Why don't they move ? There are •ottages to be had at two
shillings a week big enough for them."
" Because they have lived there all their lives and — "
** Oh ! if it is a question of sentiment — " and Vane shrugged
his shoulders.
" Sentiment or not, I mean to take the matter into my own
hands now. I am convinced the only way is to attend to the
cases that come directly under one's notice," said Bick grand-
Iv ** and I shall see that the rent is paid and the girl put in some
way of earning a living. If she shows any intelligence — "
A burst of derisive laughter from Vane cut him short.
" O Chetwynde ! if the old man had not had a granddaughter,
or if she had not been good-looking, how much would you have
cared about him ? And — excuse my smile — but this idea of dis-
covering the latent intellect is always deliciously fresh in spite
of its respectable age ! "
Some one here adroitly interposed and turned the conversa-
tion, and the subject was not resumed. As Vane was leaving,
however, he put his hand kindly on Chetwynde's shoulder.
" I am older than you, Bick," he said, " and I have knocked
about the world more. I know these experiments are dangerous.
Pay the old man's rent, if you will, but leave the girl's intelli-
gence alone."
Good advice is rarely acted on, and Vane's was no exception
to the general rule ; and about three o'clock the next afternoon,
the hottest, sleepiest hour of the twenty-four, when even Mr.
Frampton's pupils were tolerably quiet, Bick got into his boat
and rowed to Fillary's cottage.
Jessie was going to the village and had put on her one tidy
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536 '• WiLLOW-WEEDr [July,
gown, a lavender cotton ; she was trying to sec the effect of it
in a scrap of looking-glass when a step on the gravel startled
her.
** You made me jump, sirr," she said, in her indescribable
Sussex burr.
" Did I ? What a shame ! I want you to lend me the winch ;
will you ? Thanks. But won't you ask me to sit down ? I've
rowed all the way from Pickering in this sun, and you have no
idea how tired I am."
Jessie brought forward a chair and dusted it for him, then
stood looking down. She had never spoken to any one of his
kind before, and he seemed to her more like a god than a man.
** Where is your grandfather? " he asked for lack of something
to say.
" Down to Claverly. ♦Marster Sayers have give him a three
days' job cuttin' the graSss in the brooks."
" You are all alone, then ? "
** That's nothin' new. I'm 'most always 'lone."
" You were going out, were you not, when I stopped you ? "
She nodded, adding: " I'd as lief be stopped as not. I'd ha'
been prutty nigh swelled, it's that warm."
" Do you think I can open the lock?"
"Be 're alone?"
" Yes."
^ " Then I be very sure 'e carn't. That there old gate is hard
work for two. I'll have to help 'e."
" You are very good. Wouldn't you like to come for a little
row with me afterwards ? "
" Me ? In your boat? " And she looked down at her shabby
frock.
" Yes; why not? You would like to come, I know, and you
have nothing else to do. Come, Mary — Annie — what's your
name?"
•* Jessie."
" Well then, Jessie, come along like a good girl."
" Wait while I get my hat, then."
She ran up-stairs, smiling to herself, and returned with a big
grass hat such as haymakers wear.
They were soon away up the quiet, deserted stream, where
never a soul came to break the stillness, and where by and by the
rushes grew so high and thick that they laced and tangled over
their heads. As they pushed the boat by force through them
they came out into an open reach covered thick with lilies, bun-
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188;.] ** Willow-Weed:' 537
dreds and hundreds of the lovely flowers, and the boat lay out
among them as motionless as one of their own flat leaves.
She talked to him quite unrestrainedly about her mode of life,
telling him in a very simple way of Fillary*s troubles and of the
effect they had had on him.
" He were always queer,'' she said, "and independent-like —
same as he called his barge; and when his childrens died, I've
heard grandmother tell, parson's wife went on at him about his
not havin' had *em babtized, and that made him so mad he swore
he'd not let one of the gentry cross his door again, else may be
some of 'em would help me now. And one thing and another has
made him worse ; but we have arlways been happy, him and me,
in the old place."
" And are you ««happy now ? '*
" I am afraid," she said. " You see, if, it belonged to Sir Wal-
ter, m'appen he'd let us stay on ; but Marster Dempster he's a
poor man, so to speak, and he thinks he could make more by it.
It is a big cottage, you know, and a tidy bit of ground, and if he
did it up it would let for more. 'Tain't likely he will do it up for
us, we owes 'un too much ; though the rain come in awful. But
grandad he's lived in it for nigh on fifty year, and it will break
his heart to go."
" He shall not go, Jessie. I'll take care of that. Look here :
I'll give you a year's rent to-morrow, and you can pay it to
Dempster in advance."
" They'll want to know where I got all that money," she said.
" Say I gave it you ; or stay, I will pay it myself."
" That wouldn't do ; folks would say — "
He turned his head aside and tried not to notice the crimson
blush with which her sentence ended.
** Never mind ; we'll manage it somehow," he said, and began
to talk of other things.
She was ignorant as a savage, but, like a savage, had a vast
amount of natural knowledge. She knew the name of every
bird and where to look for its nest; she was familiar with all
plants and flowers, and their various qualities ; and when they
landed and roamed along the banks she gathered her hands full
of herbs to carry home and dry — valerian, vervain, hoarhound,
tansy, johns-wort. She showed them all to Dick. Once she cut
a forked stick from a hazel-tree.
" What is that for ? " he asked. *
" There was a snake in the garden this morning — "
"Well?"
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538 " Willow^WbbdP [July,
" Well, I be goin' to charm 'un away."
" Will you let me see you do it?"
"Yes."
" Do you believe in charms, Jessie."
" Do you know," said she, without noticing his question, " I
sometimes think I shall be like Fan Herbert when I am old.
She's a wise woman, you know. They say she had a gipsy lover
when she was young, and went away with him and lived among
the people* for years ; and that is how she knows so much."
** Oh ! she's a wise woman, is she ? What can she do? "
" She cured Rachel Wackford's child of a wastin' sickness
with yarb-tea, but she never told no one what the yarb was (/be-
lieve it was devil's-bit) ; and she charmed the warts oflF of Mary
Ann Whittington's hand ; and," the girl continued, sinking her
voice, " she can do marn»that : she can make love-drinks. Eliza
Slater, her young man he went for a soldier, and they say he met
another girl at Brighton ; anyhow, when he came back for 's
holiday he wouldn't look at 'Liza, and she was as mad as mad,
for he was so fine in's scarlet coat. I told Fan about her — for
me and old Fan has always been friends — and she took me home
'long of her while she made a drink; she boiled some yarbs in a
pot, and this is what she said :
" * With hempseed and toad-flax and rest-harrow brewn.
My false lover comes again with the new moon.'
And 'Liza got his sister to put it into his beer, and, you believe
me, their banns was put up last Sunday."
Dick persuaded her to stand to him for a few minutes while
he made a sketch of her (he drew easily and superficially, as he
did everything), her hands full of flowers, and her eyes looking
up, large and sparkling, under the shadow of her hat.
The evening had lost its sunset glory and faded into gjay-
ness, and the white mist was stealing up from the flat fields, when
they reached the cottage, and overhead was the strange, whirring
noise of the night-jar — " Dame Durden's wheel " Jessie called it.
" How about the snake?" Dick asked.
" Come with me, then," she said, and took him to the back of
the house to what had been an arbor once. The ground was soft
and mossy, and there was an old seat overgrown with ivy and
traveller's joy.
" Hush ! " she whispered ; " this is where I saw it. Don't
speak, and get behind me."
*/.«., the gipsies.
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188;.] " WiLLOW-^WEEor 539
Striking the forked end of the hazel-rod into the earth, she
began to half-chant, half-sing the old incantation :
"Underneath this hazlin' mote
There's a braggerty worm with a speckled throat.
Now nine double hath he :
From nine double to eight double.
From eight double to seven double,
From seven double to six double,
From six double to five double.
From five double to four double.
From four double to three double.
From three double to two double.
From two double to one double.
Now — no double hath he ! "
She straightened herself and turned with a smile to Dick.
*' He's gone for sure," she said,
" Was it you put the two shillin's in the basket?" she asked,
as they walked towards the house. " I thought it must have
been."
" What shall you do with it — buy with it, I mean ? "
" I think — I think I am not goin' to spend it. See, I have
made a hole in it." And she showed it him hanging round her
neck.
" So you mean to keep it, Jessie, for luck ! *'
" Yes," she answered in a low voice, " for luck."
** All right. Let's hope it will bring you lots. It has brought
you one friend whom you must always trust and come to when
you want help. Promise me you will. That's right. And now,
little one, good-by." And he stooped and kissed her cheek. She
stood and listened to his whistle rising above the splash of the
oars, as his boat slipped away into the darkness.
The misery of the peasant can never equal that of the poor of
great cities ; it lacks the hideous surroundings, the foul air and
noisome smells ; but there is a vast amount of suffering in vil-
lages and country-places. Men and women will starve rather
than go into the dreaded " house," and out-door relief is hard to
get, grudging and scant when got.
As time went on the Fillarys' plight grew worse and worse.
John's temper, always violent, became unbearably so. On the
slightest provocation he would fly into ungovernable rage, and
storm even at Jessie herself. Various eccentricities began to
betray themselves in his conduct, and a rumor got about that he
was mad. No farmer would employ him, for other men refused
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540 " Willoh^-Weed.'' [)^^7»
to work with him. "Then," said he half-bitterly, "as I've got
to be a gentleman, I'll dress like one/* And he rummaged out
of an old cupboard some garments which he considered particu-
larly fitting to a life of graceful ease. A blue coat of the fashion
of half a century ago, buttoning tightly round the waist and
falling in ample skirts ; a stove-pipe hat with the nap worn off in
places, in others standing up in little fluffy tufts ; and the crutch-
handled stick of an old umbrella — this, the upper part of his
costume, contrasted oddly with his ragged trousers and clay-
stained boots.
God knows how he and Jessie lived that winter. Sometimes
she got a day's work at the " Rose and Crown," a large inn ad-
joining the Corn Exchange, where the farmers had their ordi-
nary, and where on market-days there was always fuss and
bustle enough. Fillary spent most of his time hanging round
the station, where he picked up an occasional copper for holding
a horse or carrying a bag; but his strange, wild appearance
frightened people. It was a piteous thing to see him in his
ragged attempt at foppery,
*' A poor old man as full of grief as age, wretched in both,"
and with the fire of insanity in his sunken eyes.
He certainly had some extraordinary crank in his poor
trouble- worn brain, for he assumed the airs and graces of an
elderly beau, and seemed to think his mission in life was to be
fascinating. Where he had hitherto shunned people he now
thrust himself upon them, and even got so far as to single out
certain ladies for his special attention.
Trouble has unhinged more evenly-balanced brains than Fil-
lary's ; but no one put his peculiarities down to this source.
Folks seemed to consider them as in some way connected with
his unsociable life and his dislike to sermons and church-going.
He was rapidly becoming at once the terror and the laughing-
stock of the village, when an event occurred which put the
finishing- touch to his iniquities.
An elderly maiden, Baxter by name, whom John had for
some time favored with his admiration, was crossing the glebe
fields one winter's afternoon on her way to take tea with a friend,
when she met Fillary. He took off his hat with a bow and a
flourish, and begged to be allowed to escort her ! She dropped
her best cap with a scream and took to her heels ; and when,
twenty minutes later, he presented himself at the house with a
small parcel which he said he had " picked up," the door was
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188;.] " WiLLOW-WEEDr 541
slammed in his face and he was threatened with all the terrors
of the law through the key-hole.
Miss Baxter's adventure lost nothing in the telling. For days
she was the heroine of Hattingdean ; select parties hung breath-
less on her lips while she recounted her terror, and how she con-
cealed it with a cloak of intrepid courage, but for which, she
would hint, dropping her voice, " I really believe he would have
kissed me ! "
Jacob Dempster now became convinced that not only was
Fillary an unremunerative tenant, he was a disgraceful one as
well, and must be got rid of at once. He had paid no rent since
September ; it was now February, and pressure must be brought
to bear. He was told that unless he paid up or cleared out in
ten days he would be evicted and his furniture (save the mark ! )
seized.
Four days of the allotted ten had passed. Jessie was seated
on a stool before a fire of damp sticks, her elbows on her knees,
her eyes staring disconsolately at the smouldering wood, when
her grandfather came in. He flung himself upon the settle and
drew the stump of an old pipe from his pocket, turned it over in
his hand, and put it back. " Wench," he said, *' hast nary cop-
per to buy a bit of 'baccy with?"
" 'Baccy ! How should I buy 'baccy when there isn't a crust
of bread in the house ? "
He did not speak for some seconds ; then crushed the pipe to
atoms beneath his heel, and burst into a torrent of wild anger,
cursing with horrid oaths his life, his luck, and all people whose
names occurred to him — ^Jessie herself, for having, as he declared,
eaten his bread in idleness all those years.
" Where's your fine gentleman," he screamed, " that was to
set us up for ever? Why don't he come ? Was it a lie you told
me when you said he'd come? Why don't you go to him?
You'll sit there in your sloth and let me starve to death, when a
word from you would save me."
" Grandfather," she cried, ," you'll be sorry for this to-mor.
row. Wait a minute, and you shall have your 'baccy and what
else you want."
She ran past him up-stairs, and, returning, showed him a
florin.
" There," she said, " that is to buy 'baccy."
'*And food, too, Jessie girl," he said, his eyes sparkling at
the sight of the money. " What '11 you buy ? What do you
most, fancy ? "^
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542 " WilloW'Webd!' [July,
"Nothin'. I sha'n't touch it anyway." And, flinging the
door open, she ran out into the deepening twilight.
" I wonder where the wench got it ? " he mused. " And to
think of her hidin' it like that an* all I She'll And her stomach,
Fse warrant, when she sees the vittles 1 "
He sat there waiting for her to return till everything in the
cottage grew so dark and still he could hear the soft sound of
the river, and now and again the shrill cry of a coot or wid-
geon flying over the water-covered land ; for the floods were out
and all the fields for miles around submerged.
And still as she did not come he fell a-dozing. The clock
ticked on monotonously, the wood-ash dropped with a tinkling
sound on the hearth. A little, bright-eyed mouse peered out
from his hole and scurried quickly across the floor ; emboldened
by the success of his first journey, he ran back, this time over the
foot of the sleeping man, who stirred, shivered, and awoke.
Half-past ten ! Jessie had been gone four hours !
And where was Richard Chetwynde, the generous friend
who had promised to himself and to the girl that he would play
the part of Providence to them ? She had never seen him since
that July night, sure though she had been that he would come
again, believing in him, hoping against hope, and only giving up
her faith in him when many weary weeks had passed, and she
had been to Pickering and found out he had left the place, leav-
ing no word or sign for her.
Two days after they had charmed the snake together he was
summoned to the bedside of his brother, whose death created
Richard Earl of Petersfield and Mote.
In the fuss and turmoil that followed, in the genuine grief that
he felt, in the acceptance of the new honors thrust thick upon
him, his schemes for social and political reform were cast aside.
He began to think that the idea of community of goods, grand
as it was for younger sons, was a little unsuited to a peer of the
realm ; a landed proprietor must hold different views ; and, how-
ever much he might have the welfare of the masses at heart,
something was due to the traditions of his race. As for practis-
ing this doctrine of division, as a matter of fact his estate, being
entailed, was not his to divide, and he only held it on trust ; be-
sides, " the times were not yet ripe ! '*
Pending the ripening of the times he took a house in Leices-
tershire, and found hunting four days a week with the Quorn
and Pytchley hounds pleasanter than democratic meetings.
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1 887.] " Wjllo w^ Wbed^ 543
One night at a bachelor's dinner he was placed next to his old
enemy, Vane.
The enmity was of course forgotten. The two had as much to
say to each other as public-school boys meeting unexpectedly.
When the news of this fellow and of that had been interchanged,
Vane said : " We were all sorry you left us so suddenly. I like
to tie up the ends of everything before I go away from a place ;
flying off like that, one forgets so many things and people. By
the bye, what became of the young woman whose intellect was
to be developed ? "
" I forgot her," said Dick, turning as white as his shirt-front.
" By my soul I forgot her till this moment ! *'
Vane had too much tact to notice the evident pain and con-
fusion of his companion, but when they parted and Dick said,
" I'm off there to-morrow, Vane," he knew that " there " meant
Hattingdean.
The hedges rose high on either side the lane leading to Fil-
lary's cottage, and there everything seemed dripping with moist-
ure. The ground was soft and rotten, ploughed up with fur-
rows and ruts by the great cart-wheels. As Dick drew near the
house it struck him with a deserted air; no smoke was rising
from the chimney, and the cold, wintry-looking floods stretched
away in their gray bleakness to the foot of the South Downs.
All the land lay under water ; here and there a group of stunted
pollards stuck up, and here and there the top of a gate or fence
was to be seen.
He pushed open the door and called : " Jessie Fillary ! Jes-
sie ! " but no one answered.
There was a moving object now in sight. Over the dull water
a punt was going silently ; in it stood John Fillary, his figure
looking black in profile against the wintry sky.
It drew nearer and nearer towards the little wharf behind
the " Rose and Crown,*' and Dick, leaving the cottage, walked
quickly to the inn to join the group of people clustered there.
Haif-a-dozen men rushed into the water as the boat came up,
for there was something lying in the bows, something covered
with a bit of sacking. Dick was the first to reach it and to re-
cognize Jessie — poor, pretty Jessie! drowned on her way to
spend the florin she had treasured as a girl treasures the first
rose her lover gives her. Agnes Power.
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544 ^ True Story. [July,
A TRUE STORY.
TRANSLATED FROM TOLSTOl.
In the city of Vladimir there lived a tradesman named Aks6-
nov. He was young and well-to-do, being the owner of two
shops and a house besides ; his exterior was, moreover, most
pleasing, for he was fair and curly-haired, full of fun and mer-
riment. In his earlier days he had been a hard drinker and
noisy in his cups, but since his marriage he had rarely indulged
in these excesses.
On a certain summer day he took it into his head to visit the
fair of Nijni-Novogorod ; when he went to bid his wife good-by
she said :
" Ivan, don't go to-day \ I had a bad dream about you."
Aks6nov began to laugh. " You are afraid I shall do some-
thing foolish at the fair," he exclaimed.
" I don't exactly know what it is I am afraid of," his wife re-
plied, ** but I certainly had a bad dream, in which I saw you
coming back from the town. All at once you took oflF your hat,
and I perceived that your hair had turned perfectly white."
Her husband laughed louder than ever. " I think it is a good
omen," he said ; '' I shall do a capital stroke of business, and I
will bring you home a nice present." So he kissed her and de-
parted.
Just as he had accomplished half his journey he fell in with
a shopkeeper of his acquaintance, and paused in order to spend
the evening in his company. They drank tea together, and
afterwards engaged two adjoining bed-rooms. Aks^nov did not
sleep long ; he woke in the middle of the night, and, preferring
to pursue his way before the heat of the day came on, aroused
the postilion and told him to put the horses to. Then he went
into the inn, paid the landlord, and set off while it was yet dark.
After travelling about forty versts he made a halt in order
to bait the horses ; and, after resting awhile indoors, came out
again towards dinner-time, ordered the samovar to be prepared,
and, seeing a guitar lying on a bench, took it up, seated himself
before the inn-door, and began to play. As he was thus en-
gaged a troika with bells suddenly dashed up, from which
alighted a police-sergeant and two soldiers. The former ap-
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188/.] A True Story. 545
preached Aks6nov and began to ask him who he was and
whence he came. Aks6nov gave the desired information, and
invited his interrogator to take tea with him. But the latter
continued to ply him with questions.
" Where did you sleep last night ? Was the trader your
only companion ? Why did you take your departure from the
inn in so sudden a manner?"
Astonished to find himself thus cross examined, Aks6nov re-
lated all that had happened to him, and then inquired : ** What
is your reason for catechising me in this fashion ? I am neither
a thief nor a highwayman, but am merely travelling on account
of business matters ; what right have you to question me so
closely?"
Then the police-sergeant called the soldiers and said : " I am
an agent of the government, and I have examined you because
the merchant with whom you passed the night has been mur-
dered. Show me your luggage ; and you, my men," he con-
eluded, addressing the soldiers, " search this fellow."
They went into the house, took possession of Aks6nov*s port-
manteau and travelling-bag, opened them, and turned out the
contents. Suddenly the sergeant pulled a knife out of the bag,
exclaiming : " Whose is this knife ? "
To his inexpressible horror Aks6nov beheld a knife, stained
with blood, which had been taken out of his travelling-bag.
" What do these spots of blood mean ? " roughly inquired the
policeman.
Aks6nov endeavored to reply, but could not articulate a sin-
gle word. " I — I really do not know — a knife ? — I — it is not
mine," he stammered.
The sergeant continued : " This morning the merchant was
found murdered in his bed, and no one but yourself could have
committed the crime. The house had been locked up for the
night, and there was no one but you in that part of it. Further-
more, a blood-stained knife has been found in your bag. And,
besides, your guilt is written on your face, so you had better
confess at once how you killed your victim and how much
money you appropriated."
Aks6nov called God to witness that he was not the criminal ;
that he had not seen the trader since he took tea with him ; that
he had only his own eight thousand roubles ; and that the knife
did not belong to him. But his voice died away in his throat,
his face was deadly pale, and he shook with fear like an aspen-leaf.
The sei^eant made a sign to his men and ordered them to
VOL. XLV.— 35
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546 A Trub Story. [July,
bind Aks6nov and place him in the chaise. When he was seated
in it, with his feet tied together, he crossed himself and burst
into tears. All he had, including his money, was taken from
him, and he was sent to the prison of the nearest town. Inqui-
ries were made at Vladimir, and all its inhabitants, whether
trades-people or private citizens, gave Aks^nov an excellent
character, though they owned that in his youth he had been ad-
dicted to drink and fond of pleasure. He was brought before
the tribunal and accused of having killed the merchant from
Raizan and robbed him of twenty thousand roubles.
Aks6nov*s wife was utterly bewildered and overwhelmed
with grief. Her children were quite young— one of them, in
fact, being still at the breast ; she took them all with her and
proceeded to the place of her husband's captivity. When she
saw him fettered, wearing the prison garb, in the company of
thieves, she sank down in a dead faint. As soon as she recovered
consciousness she seated herself beside Aks6nov, with the chil-
dren around her, told him how things were going on at home,
and then asked him to relate everything that had happened to
him. He hid nothing from her, and when he had finished speak-
ing she asked : " What is to be done now ?"
•' We must petition the czar," he answered. " It is out of
the question that a man should be punished for a crime of which
he is innocent."
Then his wife told him she had sent a petition to the czar,
** but,'* she added, " it probably never reached him."
Aks6nov said nothing, and hung his head. His wife pro-
ceeded :
** You can't say now that the dream I had was nonsense.
Don't you remember my telling you I dreamt I saw you with
white hair ? This trouble has made you quite gray already.
You ought not to have gone that day."
She passed her hand caressingly two or three times through
his hair, and resumed : " Vania, my dearest husband, tell your
loving wife the real truth : was it not you who killed him ? "
*• Is it possible that you, too, believe me to be guilty?" replied
Aks6nov ; and as he uttered these words he buried his face in
his hands and burst into tears. At that moment a soldier made
his appearance in order to announce that the time had come for
visitors to withdraw ; and Aks6nov, consequently, took leave of
his family for the last time.
After his wife had left he went over in his mind the conver-
sation they had had together, and when he remembered that she,
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i887.] A True Story. 547
too, believed in his guilt, and had actually asked him if it was
not he who had murdered the merchant, he said to himself:
" God alone knows the truth ; it is to him I must commend my
cause, and it is from him I must expect mercy." Thenceforth
Aks6nov sent no more petitions to the czar, but relinquished all
hope, and was unceasing in his prayers to God,
He was condemned to the punishment of the knout and to
hard labor for life ; and his sentence was carried out accordingly.
First he was beaten with the knout, and afterwards, when his
wounds were healed, he was sent to Siberia in company with a
gang of other convicts. There he spent twenty-six years ; his
hair became as white as snow, and his long, gray beard fell down
upon his breast. His natural gayety disappeared, he grew round-
shouldered, shuffled in his gait, seldom spoke, never smiled, and
frequently engaged in prayer.
During his imprisonment he learned to make boots, and with
the money thus earned he bought a martyrology, which he used
to read whenever there was sufficient light in his cell. On festi-
vals he attended service in the prison-chapel^ read the Epistle,
and sang in the choir — for he still retained his melodious voice.
He was a favorite with the authorities on account of bis docility ;
his companions had the greatest respect for him, and called him
** Grandfather" and*'' the Man of God." Whenever they had a
favor to ask they invariably made him their spokesman^ and
whenever they quarrelled amongst themselves they always chose
him to settle their disputes. He received no letters from home,
so that he did not know whether his wife and children were alive
or dead.
One day a fresh gang of convicts arrived. In the evening
tfie old ones questioned the new-comers as to what towns or vil-
lages they came from, and what was the reason of their being
transported. Aks^nov had pined the group, and, with his head
bent down, was listening to what was said. One of the new
convicts, an old man of about sixty years of age, of tall stature,
with a well-trimmed gray beard, was telling the others how it
came about that he was condemned.
*• It was this way, brothers," he said. ** They have sent me
here for nothing at all. I unharnessed a horse from a sledge ; I
was charged with stealing it, and arrested. I told them : * I only
wanted to go more quickly ; you saw how fast I was riding. Be-
sides, the driver is a friend of mine, so there can be no question
of theft/ They would not listen to me, but persisted I had
stolen the horse, though they could not say when or where..
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548 A True Story. [July,
Certainly I have been guilty of crimes in past times, for which I
ought to have been sent here long ago, but I never was caught
in the act And now I am transported without a vestige of jus-
tice. But wait awhile. I have been in Siberia before now, but
I did not stay very long.**
One of the convicts asked him where he came from.
" Vladimir is the place I come from. I had a shop in the
town. My name is Makar, and my surname is S6mionovitch."
Then Aks^nov r^iised his head and inquired of S6mionovitch
whether he had heard of some trades-people in Vladimir named
Aks6nov, and whether they were still alive.
" I should think I had ! " he replied. " Why, they are wealthy
merchants, though their father is in Siberia. No doubt he was
not immaculate, any more than the rest of us."
Aks6nov was not fond of talking of his misfortunes. He only
said with a sigh : " I have been in exile for twenty-six years on
account of my sins."
"What was it you did?" inquired Makar S6mionovitch.
" I [deserved it," was Aksfenov's only reply, and nothing fur-
ther could be elicited from him.
But the other convicts told the new-comers why Aks6nov
had been transported — how when he was on a journey some one
murdered a merchant and slipped a blood«stained knife among
Aks6nov's things, and how because of this he had been unjustly
condemned.
On hearing this Makar S6mionovitch looked curiously at
Aks6nov, then, striking his knee with his hand, he exclaimed :
" Oh, how strange ! Now that is surprising ! Ah ! little grand-
father, you have aged very*' quickly."
They asked what it was that caused him such astonishment,
and where he had seen Aks^nov before ; but Makar would not
answer their questions, he only said : " It is a very singular
thing, brothers, that fate has brought him and me together
here."
From what Makar said Aks6nov thought that man must be
the murderer, so he said to him : " Had you already heard that
affair spoken of, S6mionovitch, or have you perhaps seen me
elsewhere ? "
" Of course I have heard it mentioned — the earth is full of
ears.^ But the whole thing happened a long time ago ; I really
forget what was told me about it."
* A Ruifiaa proretb.
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1887.] A Trub Story. 549
" Perhaps you may have heard who it was who murdered the
merchant ? " Aks6nov inquired.
Makar burst out laughing. " Who should it be but the man
in whose bag the knife was found?" he answered. "And if
some one else put it there, why we all know that he who is not
caught is no thief. Besides, how could he have put the knife into
your bag when you had it under your head ? He would have
been certain to wake you."
These words sufficed to convince Aks6nov that this was none
other than the man who killed the merchant. He got up and
.walked away, and all that night he never closed his eyes.
Thenceforward Aks6nov became the prey of a profound mel-
ancholy. His sleep was disturbed by strange dreams. Some-
times he saw his wife as she was the last time she went to the
fair with him ; he saw her face, her eyes, as if she were there
alive before him ; he heard her speak and laugh. Sometimes his
children appeared to him as they were when he last saw them —
one tiny figure clad in its fur-lined pelisse, the other clasped to
its mother's breast. And he saw himself, too, as he was then,
young and careless, sitting playing the guitar on the steps of the
inn where he had been arrested ; he recalled the disgraceful
scene when he had been knouted, the man who had laid on the
lash, the crowd of on-lookers, the hand-cuffs, the convicts, his
twenty-six years of prison-life. " Now," he thought, '* I am an
old man." And the sense of his misery almost drove him to
despair.
" It is all because of this scoundrel ! " he said to himself ; and
Aks6nov felt himself possessed with such fury against Makar that
he would willingly have given his own life there and then for the
sake of being avenged on him. All night long he prayed, but it
was of no avail to calm his agitation ; in the daytime he avoided
Makar as much as possible, and never even allowed his eyes to
travel in his direction.
About a fortnight passed in this way. Aks6nov's sleep for-
sook him, and his misery was so great that he did not know what
to do with himself. One night when he was pacing up and down
the prisoners' dormitory he noticed some earth falling behind
one of the beds, which were made of planks. He stopped to
ascertain what it was, when all at once Makar S6mionovitch
slipped out quickly from under the bed, and looked at Aks6nov
with an expression of terror on his countenance. Aks6nov
turned away and was going on, but Makar seized him by the
hand and obliged him to listen while he told him that he was
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550 A True Story. [July,
making a hole in the wall, and every day he put the earth he had
scraped away into his boots, and shook it out fn the street while
the convicts were being marched to their work.
" Only mind you hold your tongue about it, old man," he
added. " If I get away you shall come too ; if you denounce
me I shall be flogged without mercy, but I will make you pay
for it ; you shall see, I will be the death of you."
When Aks6nov perceived that it was his enemy who spoke
he was convulsed with rage, and, wrenching his hand out of the
man's grasp, he said : ** I have no wish to escape from here ; and
certainly there is no need for you to kill me — ^you did that a long
time ago. As to whether I tell of you or no we will leave God
to decide."
The next day, when the convicts were on their way to their
work, the soldiers noticed that Makar was emptying earth out of
his boots. This led to an examination being made in the prison,
and the hole was discovered. The governor came in person to
investigate the matter. When he questioned the prisoners as to
who was the guilty one all protested their innocence. Even
those who knew Makar to be the culprit would not betray him,
as they were well aware that he would be beaten almost to
death. Then the governor appealed to Aks6nov.
" You are a just man," he said to him. ** I ask you, in the
name of God, who did this thing?"
Makar S^mionovitch did not betray the slightest emotion ; he
looked steadily at the governor without so much as glancing to-
wards Aks6nov. As for Aks6nov himself, he trembled from head
to foot, his lips quivered, he could not articulate a single syllable.
"Shall 1 keep silence?" he said within himself. "Why
should I pardon this wretch who has ruined my life ? Let him
be rewarded for the torture he has made me endure. But if I
speak out I know he will be flogged without mercy ; and sup-
pose I should be mistaken, and he should not really be the mur-
derer I take him for — Besides, after all, what relief would it be
tome?"
The governor repeated his question.
Aks6nov looked at Makar S6mionovitch, and said : " Your
Excellency, I cannot tell you ; it is not God's will that I should
tell you, and 1 do not mean to do so. Do as you please with me ;
you are the master here."
All further attempts on the part of the governor to induce
Aks6nov to say more were fruitless. Thus the authorities were
unable to discover who had made the hole in the wall.
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188;.] A True Story, 551
The following night, when Aks6nov, stretched on the board
which formed his bed, was just dropping asleep, he was roused
by hearing some one approach and place himself at his feet.
Peering through the darkness, he recognized Makar.
" What do you want more with me ? " he asked him. " What
are you doing there ? "
Makar S6mionovitch did not utter a word. Then Aks6nov
sat up, and said: " What is it you want? Go away directly or
I will call the warder."
Makar bent down towards Aks6nov, and, putting his head
close to him, whispered : " Forgive me, Ivan ! "
" Forgive you ! " he answered. *' What have I to forgive
you?"
" It was I who murdered the merchant, and it was I who
placed the knife in your bag. I intended to kill you, too ; but
just at that moment there was a noise in the yard, so I got away
out of the window."
Aks6nov was silent, not knowing what rejoinder to make.
Makar S6mionovitch slipped down from the bed, and, grovel-
ling on the floor, repeated : " Ivan, forgive me ! for God's sake
forgive me ! I will confess that it was I who killed the mer-
chant; then you will be set at liberty and can return home."
Aks6nov replied : ** It is very well for you to say that. You
forget all the long years of suffering I have passed here. Where
should 1 go to now ? My wife is dead, my children have forgot-
ten me. I have now no home anywhere to go to."
Makar still retained his prostrate position. He struck his
head on the ground, and said : " Ivan, forgive me! When I was
beaten with the knout it did not give me as much pain as it gives
me to see you like this. And you had mercy on me, too, and
did not denounce me. Forgive me ! in the name of Christ for-
give an accursed criminal ! " And he began to sob like a child.
When Aks^nov heard Makar S6mionovitch weeping, the tears
began to roll down his cheeks. " May God forgive you ! " he
ejaculated. ** Who knows but that I may be a far worse man
than you?"
All at once a feeling of inexpressible joy came over him. He
no longer regretted his home, he no longer»desired to be released
from prison ; he only thought of his last hour.
Makar S6mionovitch did not allow himself to be dissuaded,
but gave himself up to justice. When the order came to liberate
Aks6nov death had already set him free.
Ellis Schreiber. ,
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552 A Chat ABOUT Nbw Books. rJuly»
A CHAT ABOUT NEW BOOKS.
The way of the American novelist is not easy. It is true
that the incomes of writers seem to be better than they used to
be, and that the Bohemian, out at elbows and out of pocket, is
now rare. Nevertheless authors do not earn much from the
sale of their novels printed in book-form. The English competi-
tion is too great. When a man can buy the latest noted English
novel for twenty cents, why should he spend a dollar or a dollar
and a half for an American work of fiction ? Publishers on this
side of the Atlantic have only to reprint the works of English
writers and to fill the newsstands with them. They are obliged
to pay no royalty to the author, as we all know. Haggard's She^
for instance, which is just now the most popular current novel,
may bring the author a few pounds sterling from the Messrs.
Harper & Bros. Outside of what they may pay him he will
receive nothing for his book.
Similarly, General Lew Wallace's Ben-Hur is printed, muti-
lated, by a London publishing firm. It is probable that he will
get no royalty on the large sales of his book. In the United
States the success of this novel has been phenomenal. Here his
profits have been large. General Wallace is one of the few —
very few — American writers who could exist decently without
the magazines or literary syndicates.
As novels — after the newspapers — are more read in this year
of our Lord than any other form of thought or thoughtlessness
put into printed words, the effect of the deluge of English stories
cannot be favorable to the growth of robust American ideas.
There is a greater danger than that ** spread-eagleism " which
made the American a theme for amusement. And this danger is
that our young people will become impregnated with ideas of
life unsuited to their condition, and filled with the desire of imi-
tating not only English manners and customs, but English ways
of looking at social problems.
English manners and customs are generally very good — when
they are not low-bred and cockney. And if our American host-
esses who give dinners choose to send their guests to table ar-
ranged according to the rules of English precedence, who shall
find fault ? Where the American citizen is, there is the head of
the table — even if it be the foot. If young ladies begin to look
with scorn on the corn-fields and pumpkin crops of their native
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i887«] A Chat ABOUT Nbw Books. 553
land, and long for the green lanes and picturesque coppices
painted by English writers, it does not make them worthy of
severe criticism. But it shows that the sentiment of patriotism
is weakened at the root. The American who has not the feeling
of love for the little things of his native land may be willing to
sacrifice much for her, but his sacrifice will always lack the fer-
vor and spontaneity of the men who love Scottish moors, Irish
bogs, or English lanes with a tenderness that, in comparison,
makes the luxuriance of the tropics seem bleak and colorless.
Until Americans feel this their patriotism will always seem to be
boastful in spite of its sincerity, and half-hearted in spite of its
strength. The novels invest the English squire, the vicar, the
curates, and the lady of the manor with a glamour ot the light
that never was on sea or land. The young American woman
fixes her eyes on that delightful country where men can play
lawn-tennis all the afternoon, where five-o'clock tea is a leisurely
prelude to dinner, and where titles are possible. The young
American of the male sex, who gets his views from newspaper
correspondence and such novels as he reads, creases the legs of
his trousers and regrets that ** they cawn't make good claret-cup
in this country."
These are only surface indications. They probably show no-
thing servile or imitative at heart. But, as the novels of a coun-
try are as effective as the ballads used to be, it would be well if
the American author were saved from extinction by the protec-
tion of a law which would at the same time protect his English
brother from constant robbery.
The latest American novels are the work of two young men —
Sydney Luska (Henry Harland) and H. C. Bunner. Sydney
Luska made a success in his novel of Hebrew New York life.
As It Was Written. He followed with an inferior book, Mrs.
Peixada. His third volume is called The Yoke of the Tharah.
It is the best of his novels. It is intensely local. Mr. Luska
has saturated himself with the life of New York. He loves its
movement, he has found its picturesqueness, its romance, its
charm. The river at Blackwell's Island does not remind him of
any foreign place. He is satisfied to look from the street on its
wonderful beauty at sunset without longing to be anywhere else.
He has made us interested in the brown-stone fronts of the streets
in the Sixties, and he does not disdain to use the University Place
cars as conveyances for the fortunes of his characters. And all
sane-minded people, who ought by this time to be weary of the
flood of frothy English stories^ must be thankful for it.
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554 A Chat ABOUT New Books. [July,
The " thorah *' is the unwritten Jewish law supplementing
the Ten Commandments, and Talmudic rather than Scriptural.
The man who suflFers under the yoke of this law is a young He-
brew artist, Elias Bacharach. He has fallen in love with a
young girl, the daughter of a customer, whose portrait he has
undertaken to paint. He lives with his uncle, a New York
rabbi, who is anything but a liberal Jew, and his nephew has a
wholesome fear of him. Elias feels that his belief — or rather his
superstition, for Mr. Luska does not dignify Elias' scruples
with the name of faith — puts an impassable barrier between him
and the lady of his thoughts. It does not strike anybody in the
book that either Mr. Redwood or his daughter, who are Protes-
tants, will object to a Jew. Christine Redwood, whose educa-
tion has been received in the New York Normal School, is with-
out prejudices. Her father amiably says :
•* Well, Mr. Bacharach, though you /?r/ a Hebrew, you're white ; and any-
how religion don't worry us mucii in this household, and never did. I'm a
Universalist myself, and Chris — well, I guess no one knows what she is.
One thing 's certain : she might have gone further and fared worse — she
might, for a fact. You're a perfect gentleman, and you can't help it if you
were born a Jew."
Elias' uncle, the rabbi, takes a different view of it. He reads
from a German manuscript a portion of a sermon delivered on
mixed marriages by Elias Bacharach's great-grandfather, ex-
pressing the sense of the " thorah *' :
** The anger of the Most High shall single him out. His cup shall be
filled to the brim with gall and wormwood. The light of the sun shall be
extinguished for him. A curse shall rest upon him and upon all that con-
cerns him. His wife shall become a sore in his flesh. With a scolding
tongue she shall beshrew him. As a wanton she shall shame him. His
worldly affairs shall not prosper. Misfortune and calamity shall follow
him wherever he goes. Whatsoever he puts his hand to shall fail. An
old man, homeless and friendless, he shall beg his bread from door to door.
His intelligence shall decay. He shall be pointed out and jeered at as a
fool that drivels and chatters. His health shall break. His bones shall
rot in his body. His eyes shall become running ulcers in theijr sockets.
His blood shall dry up, a fiery poison in his veins."
This denunciation gives Elias the " cold shivers," as he ex-
presses it. Still, he continues to resolve that he will marry
Christine. On the night before the intended marriage he tells
the rabbi that he will marry a Goy. Goy, by the way, is the
term applied by the German Jews to all not of their own race.
In the rabbi Mr. Luska means to paint an exceptionably ortho-
dox Jew. In a note explaining this he says :
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1887.] -^ Chat about New Books. 555
" It is a curious circumstance, however, that, in the majority of cases
those very Jews who have cast quite loose from their Judaism, and pro-
claim themselves * free-thinkers,' • agnostics,' or what not, retain their pre-
judice against intermarriage, and even their superstitions anent its conse-
quences/*
The rabbi calmly tells Elias that the marriage cannot come
off". He dogs his nephew's footsteps all the day before the even-
ing of the ceremony, and he insists on accompanying the ex-
pectant bridegroom to Mr. Redwood's house. The rabbi is a
terribly grim personage, a mixture of Poe's raven and a silent
Ancient Mariner. He predicts a grievous calamity, and he is
determined to see it take place. The state of the bridegroom's
mind may be imagined from this pleasant snatch of dialogue as
he drives off accompanied by the persistent rabbi :
" * At a church ? ' questioned the rabbi.
" ' No ; at their house,' replied Elias.
" * A large affair ? Many guests ? '
" * Very few. Perhaps twenty-five or thirty.'
" * That's good. It would be a pity to have a crowd/ ''
No wonder Elias feels uncomfortable. The house is reached.
The minister is ready. The bridal pair, surrounded by ** young
girls in bright colors and young men in white waistcoats and
swallowtails," are waiting. Then the triumph of the rabbi
comes. Elias is struck by an epileptic fit. The rabbi takes him
home, and when he recovers he bears the " yoke of the thorah "
meekly and jilts Christine Redwood. Altogether, Elias Ba-
charach is one of the weakest and most despicable personages
among all the weak and despicable heroes presented to us by the
novelists. He does^not seem to have any convictions, except on
the subject of music. He drops the heroine without much re-
morse, because he is afraid — so afraid that his fear results in a fit
•—of the tribulations prophesied by the rabbi. If Mr. Luska had
represented him as torn by an agonizing struggle between prin-
ciple, or even prejudice founded on principle, and aflFection for a
" Goy," there would have been some element of nobility in Elias
Bacharach's character. As he stands he is a weak-minded per-
sonage, capable of being superstitious, but incapable of strong
faith. Having broken off the match, the rabbi — for we cannot
help holding that determined Jew responsible for the epileptic fit
—proceeds to marry Elias to a more suitable pariie. He is in-
troduced to the Kochs, the Blums, and the Morgenthaus — Jew-
ish families who live uptown in New York. In describing these
families — humorously, but without caricature or ridicule— Mr.
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556 A Chat ABOUT Nbw Books. [J»l7»
Luska shines. The Kochs' house, on Lexington Avenue just
above Sixty-first Street, with its gorgeous drawing-room, is an
absolutely true picture. He meets Tillie Morgenthau, who is
thus described by her mother :
*• She works like a horse. You never saw such a worker. It's simply
fearful. And such a good girl, Mr. Bacharach. Only nineteen years old,
and earns more than a hundred dollars a month, and supports me and her-
self. Her uncle, my brother, over there — he's as generous with his money
as if it was water ; and he gives Tillie a magnificent education. But she's
bound to be self-supporting, and hasn't cost him a cent for nearly a year.
Of course he gives her elegant presents every once in a while ; but she
pays our expenses by her own work. She's grand ! She's an angel ! "
" * You're right there,' put in Mr. Koch. ' Tillie's all wool from head to
foot'
"* And a yard vide.' added Mr. Blum."
This charming young lady has been set apart by the rabbi for
Elias. She, too, has been educated at the Normal College —
" class of '82, salutatory." " I wanted to be valedictory," she
says ; " I worked hard for it for four years, and when I didn't
get it you can't imagine how horribly bad I felt."
The Kochs give a dinner. The younger Koch, Washington
I., bursts out in a defence of the Americans. From this Mr.
Blum dissents:
" ' If you want to argue, you just answer me this : If you think Ameri-
ca's such a poor sort of a place, what did you come here for, anyway ? '
"*Oh ! I came here because I didn't have no money; and I got an idea
the streets here was paved with gold.'
" ' Well, now that you've got money, and now that you know the streets
here an't paved with gold, why don't you go back ? '
"'Oh ! dot— dot is another question.'
"•Well, I'll tell you why: Because you like it here. Because, down
deep, you think it's the finest country in the world. You talk against it
for the love of talking. If you went to Europe you'd be as homesick as
anybody.'
*' ' An't my uncle a splendid conversationalist ? '
" ' Washington,' said his father-in-law solemnly, ' you got a head-on you
like Daniel Webster's.'
" * O papa ! ' cried Mrs. Koch, 'you make me die with laifing 1 ' "
The conversation then takes a new turn. Mr. Blum addresses
his daughter :
" ' Sarah, them pickles is simply grand ! '
"' O papa ! ' protested Mrs. Koch, blushing, • how can you say dot, when
Antoinette Morgenthau is seated right next to you ? Her pickles beat
mine all hollow'
" • No,' cried Mrs. Morgenthau magnanimously, ' he's right ; you're the
boss.'
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" * Vail/ pursued Mr. Blum judicially, • there is a defference. Antoinette's
pickles is splendid— dot's a faict. May be their flavor is just as good as
yours. But yours is crisper. When I put one of your pickles in my mouth,
dot makes me feel said. I never taste no pickles so crisp as them since I
was a little boy in Chairmany and ate my mamma's. Her pickles — oh !
they was loafly, they was maiknificent ! '
" ' Ach ! papa, you got so much zendiment ! ' his daughter exclaimed
with deep sympathy.
" * You ought to taste my mamma's pickles,' Tillie whispered to. Elias.
• Of course Mr. Blum is prejudiced in favor of his daughter's.' "
Christine Redwood's talk had been of Rossetti, symphonies ;
and at almost their first meeting Elias had told her the story of
Faust and Marguerite — a subject of conversation which might
have seemed rather shocking to old-fashioned people. Neverthe-
less he marries Miss Tillie Morgenthau, who delights in pickles.
He repents. He leaves her, for no cause whatever. He
writes a long rhapsody to the woman he [first deserted, and, on
hearing of her marriage, dies in an epileptic fit. " Then some
children ventured out to play in the Park. Up to the top of this
rock they clambered. The next moment, in gleeful excitement,
they were calling to their nurse, whom they had left behind in
the pathway, * Come and look at the man asleep ! ' "
Mr. Bunner's Story of a New York House (New York : Charles
Scribner & Sons) is the story of a number of old New York
houses. In Mr. Bunner's hands it becomes as beautiful and pa-
thetic as fine art can make it. It, too, reflects the glow of the
romance of human life that has been lived on the ways of every-
day life. If Mr. Luska and Mr. Bunner continue to write, our
young readers of English novels may in time find in New York
some of the interest of the London of Dickens and Thackeray,
Mr. Bunner's earlier story. The Midge i^^^ York: Charles Scrib-
ner & Sons), is a careful and refined study of a locality once
pleasantly sketched by a writer, now dead, in the pages of The
Catholic World. It is the French quarter, whose playground
is Washington Square, whose great restaurant was Charlemagne's,
whose inhabitants comprise all grades of exiled Frenchmen, from
the impoverished vicomte, exiled for cause, to the honest Nor
man working to buy a small spot in his native land. Mr. Bun-
ner knows this delightful quartier well, and he gives us his know-
ledge of it in the form of a little novel, the heroine of which is
an orphan left suddenly in the hands of a lonely, kind-hearted,
delicate-minded, and manly old bachelor. Dr. Peters is of the
Colonel Newcome type. Nothing could be truer to his generous
nature than his attempt to find a religion for the orphan girl cast
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on his protection. The mother was a Pole — " a Catholic who
never went to confession." Dr. Peters is obliged to fulfil the
duty of looking after the funeral of this dead woman, who had
refused a priest. He goes to the Rev. Theodore Beatty Pratt,
in charge of the mission-chapel of the church of St. Gregorius:
" He did not feel quite easy in his mind about getting Pratt to perform
the funeral service, although it seemed to be, on the whole, the best thing
to do. He had a tender conscience, and it hurt him to think that perhaps,
in spite of her petulant cynicism, the dead woman had been a Catholic at
heart, and that she might have resented the idea of being laid to rest with
alien rites. But then he did not wish to go to Father Dub^. Dub^ was
worth a dozen of Pratt ; but Dub6 had his peculiarities. He was a hard-
headed, conscientious priest, much wearied in spirit and in his two hun-
dred pounds of flesh by the endless needs of his ever-straggling flock, and
he drew the line of indulgence at impenitent death. It was enough, be
thought, for people to neglect religion and morality and soap and water all
their lives ; when they came to die the least they could do was to die in the
church, and give their poor old pastor a chance to do something for their
immortal souls at the one time when they couldn't possibly undo it them-
selves. This was Father Dub6's idea, although he never formulated it ex-
actly in that way. And so Dr. Peters felt a little delicacy about calling
upon him to say Mass for the stranger who had gone out of the world in a
distinctly irreligious frame of mind. And (the doctor thought) Pratt would
do just as well. It would never occur to Pratt to inquire whether or no
the departed sister over whom he- was to read the burial service had really
been a good Church of England woman. He lived in a state of mild sur-
prise at the fact that there actually were people in this world who did not
belong to the Church of England."
The state of mind of the average tolerant American is well
expressed in the succeeding paragraph. It is a state of mind
which is most difficult to change ; it is more stable than the con-
dition of bigotry :
" Dr. Peters' religious views had the haziness of extreme catholicity.
In his childhood, when his parents were pillars of the Episcopal Church in
their little village in Oneida County, he had been brought up to look upon
a Romanist as something nearly as bad as a Jew, in a different way, and
not very far removed in guilt from the heathen. Later life and much ex-
perience of sore-tried humanity had taught him a lesson of wider charity.
He had grown to think better of all creeds and less of any particular ooe.
Now he was Father Dub^'s friend, and the friend of the Rev. Theodore
Beatty Pratt, and the friend of Brother Strong, of the Bethel ; and he liked
the Roman Catholic priest best of the three/'
Midge, his ward, finds his religious experiments unsatisfac-
tory. She thinks that it is just as easy to read Scriptural texts
at home. The doctor appeals to Father Dub6 to " make her a
Catholic." The priest answers that "it is God who makes Ca-
tholics ; it is not Dr. Peters or Father Dubfe."
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"'You cannot make her a good Catholic/ he says to the doctor, 'while
she is under your influence, while she believes in you. You cannot make
her a member of the Church of England. You know it. It is impossible.
You can make her go to the altar and say her prayers, but you know that
it is not religion if her heart is not there. For an intelligent person that
is worse than no religion at all. The worst enemy of the church is he who
kisses the cross with doubt in his heart.' "
The story ends with a marriage. Midge is only slightly
sketched, but the doctor and the priest are strongly drawn and
the local color is true and fresh. Mr. Bunner*s good taste per-
vades the story. The sentiment is not exaggerated, and the
pathos of Midge's position is not overdrawn.
Mr. H. Rider Haggard is at present enjoying great popu-
larity. King Solomon' s Mines and She were lurid phantasmagoria,
strong in the elements of surprise and wonder. They had new
flavor, which the novel-reading public is always demanding.
Shij in spite of the critics, had no resemblance to Moore's fine
Epicurean, which, with Gerald Gx\SixCi Invasion, is too much neg-
lected. Jess was an unpleasant story of what is called "con-
temporaneous human interest," redeemed by some interesting
sketches of life among the Boers. The Witch's Head, lately is-
sued, is an earlier work of rudimentary merit. Dawn is also an
early book, but the latest published by Harper & Bros.
Dawn has all the worst qualities of a novel — bad in every
sense. It is written in vulgar English. It is too long. It is im-
moral in its suggestions ; and Mr. Haggard lacks even the art of
making immorality enticing. This last is the only virtue — one
of necessity — that saves Dawn from being dangerous.
The two translations of the month are Tolstoi's Katia (New
York : Wm. S. Gottsberger) and Jon ThordssOn's Sigfrid, an Ice-
landic love-story.
It seems strange to most of us, who have an impression that
Russia is bleak and chill, to notice that Katia revels in lilac-
blooms and all the concomitants of spring and summer, and that
she is struck by the coldness of the landscapes at Baden-Baden
as compared with the more luxuriant scenery of her own country
in summer. Katia is a young orphan married to her guardian.
There are misunderstandings that come from her inexperience
and his peculiar scheme of letting her have her own way and
then suffering for it. There are fine analyses of character and
motive in Katia, and the story is almost idyllic in its purity and
simplicity. There is only one passage to be regretted, and that
is the description of the declaration of passion made by the mar-
quis. Tolstoi's painting of Russian manners and customs is al-
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ways perfectly done. Katia thus describes a religious retreat
during the octave of the Feast of the Assumption :
" When the horses were ready I entered the droschky, accompanied by
Macha or a maid, and drove about three versts to church. In entering the
church I never failed to remember that we pray there for all those • who
enter this place in the fear of God/ and I strove to rise to the level of this
thought, above all when my feet first touched the two grass-grown steps of
the porch. At this hour there were not usually in the church more than
ten or a dozen persons, peasants and drorovi6s, preparing to make their
devotions ; I returned their salutations with marked humility, and went
myself (which I regarded as an act of superior merit) to the drawer where
the wax tapers were kept, received a few from the hand of the old soldier
who performed the office of starost, and placed them before the images.
Through the door of the sanctuary I could see the altar-cloth mamma had
embroidered, and above the iconstase two angels spangled with stars,
which I had considered magnificent when I was a little girl, and a dove
surrounded by a gilded aureole which, at that same period, often used to
absorb my attention.'*
When the service was over the priest humbly asked the young
heiress whether he should go to her house to celebrate Vespers,
To which, in order to mortify her pride, she condescended to
say no. In all these pictures of Russian life the abject servility
of the Russian priests to rank and wealth is a remarkable feature.
Jon ThordssOn Thoroddsson is an Icelandic poet, and, the
translator of Sigfrid (New York : T. Y. Crowell & Co.) informs
us, next to Bjarne Thorarensson and Jonas Hallgrimsson, the most
favored and extensively read. 5(g/ri/ is a prose idy L It bears
the stamp of truth. It realizes for us life in eastern Iceland.
The ways of the farmers, of the townspeople, whose barons and
high nobility are men in small wholesale businesses, the manners
of students, are presented to us. We are struck with the low
level of civilization and the unconcern with which feminine lapses
from purity are regarded. The results of Lutheranism in Swe-
den, Norway, and Iceland seem to have stifled whatever aspi-
rations the people had.
The Lovely Wang^ by the Hon. Lewis Wingfield (Bristol : Ar-
rowsmith), is a pleasant Chinese novel, full of instruction, but not
comparable in value to Mr. Greey's unique Japanese transla-
tions. The Loyal Ronins and The Captive of Love.
Mrs. Moles worth is one of the few English " lady novelists *
who would be greatly missed. She is safe; she writes good
English ; she has lived among decent people with so much com-
fort that she does not find it necessary to run after indecent
ones. Her Marriage and Giving in Marriage (New York : Har-
per & Bros.) is a pleasant story of the life of an English girl in
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France. It is an apology for the French manner of protecting
a young girl from the natural sentimentalism of youth.
Aveline, the English girl, is permitted to see Mr. Hereward
so often that he and she become interested in each other. At
this point her mother, who abhors French restrictions and ideas
about marriage, interferes and insists on her marrying a rich and
dissipated young Englishman. Aveline, who wants to be obe-
dient, finds her affections already engaged, when marriage seems
impossible. As a rule, English writers insist that the French sys-
tem of marriages of reason is a cruel one. But, as Mrs. Moles-
worth shows, how can it be as cruel as the English and American
systems, which leave young people together without warning or
chaperon until sentiment and inexperience form a compound
called love, often followed by a " marriage of unreason '? Ave-
line talks to Mademoiselle de Villers, who explains the French
system :
" * I want to tell you myself — grandmamma said I might/ Mademoiselle
de Villers began. ' I dare say you can guess what it is, dear Aveline.'
" ' You are going to be married,' Aveline exclaimed.
« ' Yes — at least that will come in due time. In the first place there
will be, of course, lesfianqailles, but I wanted you to know before it is for-
mally announced. I count you quite like one of my best friends, though I
have not known you long. And Monsieur de Bois-Hubert — he likes and
admires you so much. I hope we shall always be friends, dear Aveline.'
" ' And you,' said Aveline, returning her little caress, for they were in a
corner where they could not be seen, * you are very happy — quite happy,
dear Modeste, I hope ? '
" ' Quii€ happy. Maurice is all I wanted. He is so good and kind, and
clever too. And I know he truly cares for me. I can feel it somehow — he
is so different from som^ others I have known. No, I have no misgiving;
I feel sure I have done right.'
" ' But,' said Aveline in surprise, < I did not know it was like that here-
in France. I thought your parents simply told you whom you were to
marry, and that you had to obey them.'
" * My parents gave their consent ^^/, of course,' said Modeste. * They
have said on several occasions that this or that gentleman would not be
disapproved of by them if I liked him. But then they left me free to de-
cide. I should never have wished to marry any one they disapproved of, I
hope« Indeed, I scarcely could have done so. I know that no gentlemen they
do not think well of are allowed to become intimate with us. That is only a
matter of course.*
** * I understand,' said Aveline quietly. ' I think in some ways French
girls are to be envied, Modeste — and in your case especially.' "
Mrs. Molesworth does not admit that young people should
be allowed to marry without consideration of their temporal
prospects. In the end Aveline marries Mr. Hereward, but not
VOL.XLV.— 36
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until he has done away with the chief obstacle to matrimony in
his case, and fallen heir to a fortune. Mrs. Molesworth's philoso-
phy is one not generally taught in novels. She teaches that the
material conditions of marriage cannot safely be overlooked, and
that the thoughtlessness and carelessness of parents are the causes
of the great number of unhappy marriages. French parents pre-
sent no young man to their daughters who is not suitable in every
way. The French home is most exclusive, most impenetrable.
No stranger not responsibly introduced is admitted. The chape-
ron is an institution ; and the results show that a community of
interests is as binding as a community of sentiment. Duty, after
all, becomes a habit more likely to last than the first glow of
inclination, when " in the spring a young man's fancy lightly
turns to thoughts of love.**
Marriage and Giving in Marriage might profitably be consid-
ered and discussed by American fathers and mothers.
Maurice Francis Egan,
WITH READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS.
Under this head we purpose far the future to give a variety of articles too
brief too informal, or too persaneU for the body of the magazine. For obvious
reasons these commumcations will be, for the most part, ufisigned.
THE STORY OF A CONVERSION.
I belong to a Connecticut family of Puritan descemt, and was baptized, as an
infant, in the Congregational Church. Later on my fatha* began to attend the
Episcopal Church, and in that church I was confirmed. In my last year at col-
lege I read Mcllvaine's Evidences of Christianity, a book considered at the time
a standard Protestant authority. This book made me an infidel. My reasoning
was this : Here is the best that can be said on the evidences of Christianity ; if
ihese are the best evidences, then I am an infidel I was much interested at the
time in Darwin, in the worlc of John Stuart Mill and Herbert Spencer, in Lewes'
History of Philosophy and in his account of the Positive philosophy, and in the
articles published by the Westminster Review*
After graduating at an American coU^^e I went to Germany as a devotee of
the Positive philosophy. Having heard of the materialistic tendencies of Gennan
thought, I was much surprised to find that the Positive philosophy had no stand-
ing in Germany. I found, also, that the names of Mill and Spencer, and the free*
thinking English school, had no great weight in that country. I became inocu-
lated with German tendencies, and they led me to respect all religions. 1 found,
for example, that a German historian of Buddhism placed himself in the:mood of
the Buddhist, and conceived his mission of historian as one mainly of sympathy,
not of criticism; and so with regard to other religions. Thus I came to believe
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in all religions, without believing in any. German fairness, imagination, mysti-
cism, sympathy, and, above all, the manifestly wider knowledge of particular his-
torical facts I found among Germans, overthrew the influence of the English
thinkers. I saw that the English Positive school was deplorably ignorant of uni-
versal history, and wanting even in literary catholicity. I became a German ideals
ist as to moods and sympathies. Not believing in the miraculous, I yet conceived,
with many Germans, that the mission of philosophy and history is to explore and
analyze the workings of the human mind, yielding to all its manifestations recog-
nition and respect
I returned to America in this frame of mind, which made me somewhat an-
tagonistic to Anglo-Saxon thought and to the American thought which is
influenced by it Whether Agnostic or Protestant, this thought is mainly
bounded by the limits of the Protestant period. If the thought is Protestant,
the new era began in the sixteenth century. If the thought is Agnostic, the new
era is just beginning. My German studies of Italian Renaissance and Italian
mediaeval history had made me aware of a civilization the equal, and in many
respects the superior, of our own. This was the civilization of a Catholic period,
from which, indeed, the later civilization of Europe is derived. As for history and
its periods, therefore, my sympathies were turned to the older periods and to the
history of Catholic dvUizaUon. And I knew Catholicity must sUU possess and, as
far as political conditions would permit continue to propagate civilization in' its
truest sense.
Thus I became what may be termed a political Catholic. This tendency was
continually strengthened by studies in modem history, especially that of religious
persecution. I saw that the persecutions and cruelties charged to Catholicity were
really matters of political history, and that the way in which they were treated was
a matter of political bias. The Protestants were the innovators and the disintegra-
tors, politically speaking ; the Catholics were the conservatives and the partisans of
the established order, politically speaking. Persecutions were equally chargeable to
both sides. It was only a question whether people had studied the subject in the
history of Ireland or that of the Dutch Republic. I also became aware that Catho-
lic sovereigns like Louis XIV., when committing cruelties like the Dragonnades,
which were charged to the account of the Roman Pontiffs, were antagonists of
the Holy See. I knew that one of the popes was a political ally of the Protestant
William III. ; that the first news of the sailing of the Spanish Armada was sent
to Elizabeth from the court of Rome, and a number of similar facts which showed
the absurdity of what may be called the " St. Bartholomew Massacre " attitude in
history.
Meantime circumstances made me acquainted with Spiritism. I had no rela-
tions with professional mediums and their machinery, and I fully realized the char-
latanism connected therewith ; but I came into possession, through my wife and
friends of hers in whom I could not but trust, of such manifold and perfectly
proven facts that I was forced to own the existence of a spiritual world. This was
a means of ray believing in the doctrine of Purgatory. The matter was most pain-
fully thrust upon me by my wife's death. I realized that some of even the purest
human soub must enter their future state in such a condition as to make immediate
introduction into heaven highly improbable. I also became aware in mysdf of the
weakness and depravity of human nature in its best endeavors. I had tried to be
a good husband to my wife, and I saw how far below her purity and goodness I
had fallen in this effort.
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564 With Readers and Correspondents. [July,
Thus far I had never had a Catholic friend and had never attended a Catholic
church, except to hear its music or inspect its works of art. I am not aware that
I had ever heard a Catholic sermon or read a Catholic book. On the instant that
the doctrine of Purgatory entered ray mind as a rational and necessary doctrine, it
appeared to me also that the Catholic Church must be a purified and organized Spir-
itualism — that is to say, an organic union of all friends of God in this life and in the
one beyond. I already sympathized with the Catholic Church in matters of his-
tory and politics, and it now seemed to me that its miracles, including the mirac-
ulous events attending the birth of Jesus Christ, were consonant with possible
facts as the phenomena of spiritualism made them appear to be possible. Beyond
that, reverence for the power and oi^anism of this greatest force in history made
it seem absurd for a person believing and feeling as I did to be anything but a
Catholic*
Yet it was two years after these convictions possessed me that I was able
to make my way into the communion of the church. During this time I was still
uninfluenced by Catholic friends or by Catholic books. In fact, I always preferred
to find my arguments for the church in the writings of her opponents. Patient and
honest study, extending over my best years, has produced an unassailable con\ic-
tion that all who attack the Catholic religion in its essential doctrines are wrong ;
and this is a wonderful help to my believing that the Catholic religion is true.
It is matter of course that in this personal evolution from atheism my early
Christian training was of service ; but I was mauily assisted by my inability to
comprehend Christianity as an abstract scheme or an abstract philosophy. My
turn of mind and my studies made me unable to understand any Christianity out-
side of a concrete, living organism, and that is Catholicity. Thus the problem be-
ing one between the Christian religion and none at all, a decision in favor of Chris-
tianity made the Catholic faith an inevitable result
NOTES ON THE PARIS SALON.
The Salon of 1887 more than holds its own with those of preceding years ; the
general standard of work is higher, and one thankfully misses those startlingly
horrible canvases the young French artist of a certain school delights in. Even
Rochegrosse is subdued, and his lai^e picture, " The Death of Caesar," is com-
paratively mild.
Benjamin Constant has chosen to go on illustrating Sardou's plays ; he gives
us this time " Theodora," sternly beautiful, in a throne-like chair, the light so
managed as to bring out the full values of her jewels and draperies. His other
picture, " Orpheus," is unpleasantly black, and ** Orpheus " himself so thick and
clumsy he might as well have been called " Hercules," or " Vulcan," or " The Vil-
lage Blacksmith."
The room in which these two pictures hang is altogether an interesting one,
Joseph Bail, who comes of a family of artists, has " A Scullion " — a small, fair-
haired boy surrounded by brass and copper pots and pans, which he is scouring
lustily ; the metals are splendidly painted, and the sculhon is a jolly little fellow
no cook could be cross with — for long.
Howard Russel Butler, a young American who has already a reputation,
has a very clever " Moonrise." The color is subtle and delicate ; everything is
very high in tone— even the old boat in the foreground is white, and the boys
playing in the sand are in light garments. Another picture by the same artist is
" The Sea," but so badly hung one cannot judge it fairly.
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" Heirs at-Law/' by Eugdne Buland» is an amusing picture. Some one has
evidently died, and the next of kin have gathered round the safe where the papers
are kept. The faces are strongly painted and are good types of the small bour-
geoisie, their several expressions* of anxiety, of grief, greed, and indifference,
well portrayed.
Mr, Bridgeman's " On the Terraces, Algiers," is a very white scheme, in which
an Arab Juliet leans over the parapet of a flat* roofed house to converse with an
Eastern Romeo, whose swarthy head alone is visible. Mr. Dannat has an ex-
tremely uninteresting portrait, and Mr. Ralph Clarkson a canvas too big for his
story ; his work is good and solid, however. There is also a very lovely landscape
by Mr. James Bamsby, and an interior by Mr. McEwen called " Courtship in
Holland." Do these unfortunate young Dutch people never evade their chape-
rons, we wonder ? or are they condemned to perpetual conversation " i irois ** f
Malice says that Duez is fond of novelty and wishes to show how many styles
he can master I Certainly his " Evening " is a striking contrast to his very red lady
last year. He gives us life-sized cows in an almost life-sized field, with a propor-
tionate amount of sky and sea ; the two latter are beautifully painted, full of a
wonderfully hushed repose, but the landscape and the animals are neither pleas-
ing nor true. Opposite this is the picture which " they say " is to have the medal
of honor; it is by Cormon, and represents the triumphant entry of the victors of
Salamine. To my mind Mr. George Hitchcock's " Cultivation of Tulips " is far
more interesting ; the Dutch lady walking in her garden full of prim squares of
flowers is quahit and has much human interest.
Painting, under any circumstances, is difficult, and with a refractory model it
must be ten times more so. I met Mr. William Henry Howe not far from his pic-
ture, and when I complimented him on it (it is one of the finest cattle-pieces in
the Exhibition) he told me he had had a terrible time with " the old white lady
in the foreground " ; she would not pose, but persistently lay down and rolled
every time she was brought out I may remark that " the old white lady " is a
very fine life- sized cow. However great his difficulties, Mr. Howe has triumph-
antly oveTcome them and produced a lastingly fine picture, interesting not only for
the animals but for the landscape ; the moon, just rising behind a low hill, floods
the whole scene with a soft light
Several of the great French masters were at the vernissage, and I listened
eagerly for any crumbs of wisdom that might fall from their lips ; but, as a rule,
they were extremely cautious. I did hear one very big man indeed remark that
Charles Stanley Reinhart's " Drowned Sailor " was " rudiment bien fait;' which
may be translated ** stunningly well done " — a sentiment universally endorsed.
I have called the picture " A Drowned Sailor " simply because its official title,
" Un £pave" is rather impossible inj English. ** A Castaway," the nearest one
can get to it, suggests rafts and a desert island, whereas the sea has flung this
poor fellow upon the beach of a Normandy fishing-village. The strongest bit of
painting in the picture is the head of the man who kneels beside the unfortunate
stranger, his hand to his breast as he has raised it to make the sign of the cross,
while his lips move in prayer for the unknown dead. Mr. Reinhart witnessed an
almost precisely similar episode on the coast near Tr6port one morning after a
terrible storm, in which eight boats went to pieces between there and Dieppe.
One is almost inclined to connect this artist's two pictures. His second, the soli-
tary figure of an old woman looking out to sea, might be the mother of the
drowned man, and her face have acquired that strained, weary expression scanning
the horizon for " those who will never come back to the town."
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Mr. Eugene Vail tells another tragedy of the sea. His ** Widow," a young
peasant woman holding a little boy by the hand, faces us on the canvas. Her
figure is wonderfully well executed, and one can almost feel the salt, moist at-
mosphere and the wind that is blowing her hair and skirts.
There are fewer horrible pictures than usual this year, but there has certainly
been a rage for hospital subjects. Gervex gives us Dr. P6an about to perform an
operation on a young woman; he is surrounded by attentive students. Then
we have " A Clinical Lesson at Salp^ri^re," with an hysterical patient in the arms
of a Sister of Mercy. "Pasteur Inoculating for Hydrophobia," having gathered
his people from the ends of the earth — ^Arabs, Russians, Swedes — " The Ward
of a Cholera Hospital," and a few more equally cheerful, indeed scientific, experi-
ments, illustrations of Zola's L*(Euvre, and General Boulang^, are the three
most popular themes. The latter gallant soldier we find repeated »xteen
times, in paint, plaster, and marble. As some one wickedly said, the most flat-
tering picture of him is that in which his face is not shown ; it is by Roll, and
is called " War." The general, on his well-known gray horse and muffled up in a
military cloak, has just ordered his soldiers to march up a hill and dislodge some
batteries of artillery. There is a scent of powder about the picture, and one can
only hope fervently that it is not prophetic.
The landscapes are in profusion and of great excellence. There is a beau-
tiful Pelouse, "The Source of the Bergerette," a cool, mossy-looking picture; "In
Sologne," by Damoye; "A Summer Day," by Heilbuth; "The Pond at Vaux
de Cemay," by Peter Alfred Gross ; " Twilight," by Alexander Harrison, which is,
for him, feeble ; and " The Thames near Greenwich," by F. M. Boggs.
Pictures with any religious sentiment or feeling are conspicuous by their ab-
sence. Our old friend " Salome," of course, is to be met at every turn. She is
as much an institution as Leda and her eternal swan. There is a " Death of St,
Francis Regis," by Joseph Aubert, and a " Death of St. Cecilia." by Bertrand,
neither suggestive of much spirituality ; while Deschamps' " Sleep of Christ " is
simply an insult to the Divine Infant and his Mother. He has chosen to repre-
sent the latter by the well-known model who has posed for all the " Madnesses "
and " Miseries " he has painted in his own dead-and-dug-up-again manner. In
fact, I think the only picture which impresses one as having been inspired by re-
ligious feeling is " The Last Supper," by Uhde, the Saxon painter. Our Lord
and his apostles are seated at a table on rush-bottomed stools ; through the
diamond-paned window of the long, low room we see a cultivated landscape ; on
the table are pewter plates and drinking-horns. All these accessories are a little
startling to one's preconceived notions, but, if done in the simplicity with which
one would fain accredit them, they are as little shocking as the eccentricities of the
pre-Raphaelites. and there is a certain dignity and refinement about the ^gures
which is very charming.
AN ARMY WITHOUT LEADERS.
Is the cause of religious education in the public schools a forlorn hope ? To
many it seems so. Yet its bold advocacy by the Rev. Mr. Geers in the recent
Episcopal Synod of Long Island, with the sympathy of many other members of
that body ; the powerful argument for it by the late Dr. Hodge, of Princeton
Seminary ; and many utterances, written and spoken, of representative men in the
Protestant denominations generally, give solid grounds of hope. The Catholic
Church is no longer alone on the right side of the school question. There is not
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a particle of doubt that Catholics and Protestants can come to a fair under^
standing.
But there are two difficulties : one as to the attitude of atheists, and the other
as to the attitude of the politicians. As to the former we have nothing to say just
now ; but as to the latter we affirm that the end of all legislation is that citizens
should lead virtuous lives, each according to his conscience. Now, the whole body
of the American people are persuaded that religion and morality are conditions of
good citizenship ; it remains that they shall be convinced that unreligious schools
are destructive of religion and morality, and hence of good citizenship. Such is
already the mind of great numbers of honest Protestants and of the whole body
of the Catholics. Why, then, is there scarce a ripple of agitation in the political
world on the question ? It is because our political leaders, of all forms of belief,
hare set themselves up as breakwaters to keep out of the halls of legislation the
rising tide of the popular conscience. Nor is this unnatural. Nearly all men in
public political life are seeking for office ; but that is only half the truth— they are
seeking for office by the easiest road and at the earliest moment. Both are best
got by routine methods— the caucus. When politicians cultivate the knowledge of
first principles, and devote their lives to the art of persuasion rather than of office-
getting, education will be set right before the law. As yet the true view is but a
wide-spread conviction, and no form of party whatever. But this state of things
cannot long endure. There are true politicians in public life, and what a true poli-
tician wants is a good cause and an audience to address from press or platform.
What a bog^s politician wants is an office. Access to minds and hearts is the aim
of the one ; access to place and the treasury, of the other. Any man who knows
his right hand from his left knows that a real leader in politics is one who has
much to say of the right and wrong of public questions—/.^., of their bearing on
questions of religion and morality.
But an army like that of the friends of religious education, whose ranks are
filling up with brave men, will not long want leaders to set it in array. Most prob-
ably they will be new-bred from the rank and file, and trained by the zeal of their
very cause. We shall yet have leaders who will want to be right first and successful
afterwards ; who will perceive that a measure will succeed here if it ought to. At
present Catholic politicians, big and little, evade this supreme question of the mak-
ing of the citizen— the school question. They shrink from it. They wriggle out
of it. They ravage the dictionary for meaningless words when forced to speak
about it. They plunge into a sea of generalities when you strive to pin them to a
square issue. All of which means that our people's first crop of politicians is rank
and overgrown with weeds. But these will be ploughed under : a better class will
soon appear.
Let us hope that the new men will be numerous enough and able and earnest
enough to sweep aside the traders and hucksters of the noble vocation of politics.
An organized movement in favor of religious schools for the children of religious
parents is now to be prayed for and to be looked for.
There is not a city in America where the friends of education, truly so called.
Catholics and Protestants, would not hold the balance of power at the next election
for legislative officers, if they were only well organized upon the lines of this issue.
A PROTESTANT CATHEDRAL.
By what right does Henry C. Potter, of the Episcopal Church, ask his fellow-
citizens of New York to build him a church ? Is it because he is their bishop and
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568 With Readers and Correspondents. [July,
wants a cathedral ? He does not say so ; he styles himself an " ecclesiastic by
profession " and a " minister/' a " servant " of the Episcopal Church ; indeed, he
nowhere calls the building a cathedral, using the word but once, and then in refe-
rence to St. Paul's, London. But the •^strocturc," "building," " sUtely fabric,"
" sanctuary," '* church," ** shrine " of his letter everybody else calls the Protestant
cathedral, and the men who are to collect the money and to build the church are
called by the press the cathedral trustees. Webster's Dictionary says that a ca-
thedral is the principal church in a diocese, so-called because in it the bishop has
his official chair or throne. Why, then, does he not appeal to his fellow-dtizeos
as their bishop ? Because he seeks to win the general non-Catholic public to his
enterprise. For the same reason he promises that it shall be a centre for " our
common Christianity " and "various schools of thought.'' Yet he avows that it is
to be built by his denomination and the administration of it confided to its contioL
We are entirely willing to call Henry C. Potter by the name of bishop by cour-
tesy, as we would a Methodist bishop. But he is very shrewd to forego that name
in his appeal for his big church, and to omit the name of cathedraL He is really
what he terms himself, a " profes^onal ecclesiastic," a " minister " and a " ser-
vant " of his denomination, and one of excellent abilities ; but bishop he is not
and his chief church can never have a chair or throne of apostolic authority, and
might just as well be called a mosque or a pagoda as a cathedraL The milUoos
may be raised and their total increased by Presbyterian and Methodist and Baptist
contributions, and a great hall for religious uses for men of every shade of belief or
unbelief be built ; but millions cannot get them a real bishop to put into it. Com-
mon-sense millionaires will build no cathedral till they are sure of a bishop ; of
that fact Bishop Potter seems practically conscious.
An ecclesiastic by profession needs no cathedral. But he says he needs, and
he declares solemnly tJiat all of us New-Yorkers need, a great religious edifice.
Granted ; granted that we need a round dozen of them, and that, for the sake of
art alone, men should rear stately temples and fill them with devotional painting and
sculpture, and that New York should have many such. Why only one, and that one
built and owned and administered by the Protestant Episcopal Church ? Is that
denomination the religious representative of New York's population ? We think
quite the reverse. History tells us that that chiuxh as an organization hated the
liberty of the people of New York during the Revolutionary War. Not only so,
but, says Bancroft, the Episcopal clergy of New York fomented distrust of the
neighboring colonies. They were active and malignant Tories. Bishop Potter
sfyeaks in his appeal of " that trust in God which kept alive in our fathers cx)urage,
heroism, and rectitude " ; does he mean by " fathers " Governor Tryon and his
Tory militia, and were the courage, heroism, and rectitude which he mentions
qualities of the enemies of the Patriot cause ? The New York patriots imbibed
no such sentiments from the Anglicanism of that day.
And at this day the Protestant Episcopal Church, although numbering many
honest, well-meaning persons, is but a form of Anglicanism. It furnishes a large
share of that contemptible class among us called Anglomaniacs. They answered
as an organization to the call of the Archbishop of Canterbury to the Pan- Angli-
can Synod, and sent delegates to it. Therefore Bishop Potter's promise that the
new shrine shall be " the symbol of no foreign sovereignty, whether in the domain
of faith or morals," though meant as an insult to Catholics— fully one-half of the
" men and brethren " he addresses— will be hard of fulfilment if built and man-
aged by his church. The English nation and the Anglican Church, in their hatred
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of everything foreign* have, in the British Islands, rivalled the Chinese, and that,
too, at the same time they were emulating Moslemism in propagating a foreign
creed in Ireland by force of arms. In truth, it is a bad sign for any religion when
its spokesman sneers at foreigners, especially if he claims the Christian name. Tell
us. Bishop Potter, why did Christ relHike the narrowness of the Jews by selecting
the Samaritan, a foreigner, as the type of the Christian virtue of charity, and again
of gratitude for the cure of leprosy ? And why did Christ say that he will cite
foreign Tyre and Sidon against those blue-blood Jews who hated the Son of
David as much as they were jealous of foreigners ? Tell us, sir, would you have
us be American in religion ? Shall we not be one with all men and know neither
Jew nor Greek, nor bond nor free, nor native nor foreign in our religious life ? It
is no objection to a religion that either in its membership or its authority it is
" foreign " ; a true American wants to know only one thing of a religion — is it
divine? If American institutions have any religious cast it is towards univer-
sality in religion, least of all in the direction of the narrowest of the sects.
" It would be a people's church," says the appeal, and its services conducted
in a "^ language understood by the common people." The common people just
yet have no general access to Protestant Epbcopal churches. These structures are
owned by the rich, the pews filled with the rich, and the rich of other denomina*
tions constantly attracted to this one as to congenial company. How, then, will
you make this a people^s church ? Shall it be deeded over to the Corporation of
New York or to the Knights of Labor ? A people's church ? Tell us, bishop,
will the people own the property, the trustees and professional ecclesiastics be
dected by the people ? Will the people fill the " cathedral " any more than they
do Trinity now, or Grace Church ?
There is a bishop in New York, and he is a real one. He holds a place in that
apostolic line from which Henry C. Potter's " succession " was severed by a prick
fhMn Elizabeth's bodkin. He is not an ''ecclesiastic by profession," but a bishop
by divine right. And he has a cathedral, an edifice of which New-Yorkers are
proud. It is, too, in every sense a people's church, thronged with men and women
of every class, and where the true faith once revealed is plainly taught and with
authority. If the writer of the appeal, or any other of our Protestant brethren,
thinks that this building is inadequate as an architectural expression of religious
life, he cannot deny that it is New York's cathedral. If it were a shanty on the
rocks or a tent by the shore, it is a cathedral, the chief church of a real diocese,
in which is the chair of a genuine successor of the Apostles, wielding a real au-
tbcnty.
If our Protestant friends desire to have a great building, of magnificent pro-
portions, of costly adornment, thrown open for any and all religious purposes, we
say, Go ahead. We shall not be jealous of you ; only be careful lest any particular
denomination get control of it. But for any Protestant church or meeting-house
the word cathedral is a misnomer.
Bishop Potter appeals to the people, but he means a few wealthy individuals.
We can tell the men of wealth that no Anglican church edifice can ever be the
cathedral of New York. Whatever shortcomings of doctrine or lukewarmness of
practice we perceive in the religious state of New York Protestants, we affirm that
it is worthy of a better exponent than the American form of Anglicanism. An-
glicanism never has been, is not now, and never will be the expression of the reli-
gious sentiments of the people of the metropolis, whether Protestant or not.
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570 New PUBUCATIONS. [July,
NEW PUBLICATIONS.
American Commonwealths : New York. By Ellis H. Roberts. 2 vols.
Boston and New York : Houghton, Mifflin 4 Co. 1887.
It must be confessed that there is not very much that appeals to the
imagination in the origin and growth of the great American common-
wealths. The mellow tints and mystic shadows of a remote historic age
are altogether wanting, and the picturesque and the poetic are not particu-
larly prominent.
The events in our early history, though often stirring and always pr^-
nant with great results, belong for the most part to the matter-of-fact and
commonplace order of a people's material progress and prosperity. The
early history of New York, however, is relieved from the monotony of
colonial settlement and growth by the enterprise and heroism of the Jesuit
missionaries on its borders, and the thrilling scenes of the French and In-
dian wars, so that the Empire State can claim the first place in historic
interest as well as in the development of wealth and population. From
that autumn day in 1609 when the Half-Moon furrowed the silent waters of
New York Bay and sailed up the course of the majestic river that bears the
name of her commander, New York has been the theatre of events in every
way worthy the dignity of history. These events are well grouped and
graphically described in the work before us,
Mr. Roberts discusses at some length the first discoveries made on our
coast, and he furnishes evidence which leaves no room for doubt that the
Florentine navigator, Giovanni Verrazzano, entered New York Bay in his
ship, La Dauphine, and pushed on up the Hudson as early as the spring of
1524. This Catholic explorer even gave the name of Cape St. Mary to
Sandy Hook. But it was the discovery of Henry Hudson nearly a hundred
years later that led to practical results and laid the foundation of our history.
The country immediately south of the St. Lawrence had been explored,
and to some extent settled also, by French outposts and Jesuit missionaries
long before the Dutch moved up the valley of the Mohawk. And this
early page in the history of the State receives its full share of attention
from Mr. Roberts.
The period of the Dutch colonization, with its struggles and successes,
its hopes and fears, and something of its manners and customs also, is agree-
ably portrayed by his fluent pen. The English occupation — or perhaps it
would be more correct to call it usurpation— with all the important events
that transpired under the rule of colonial governors, is fully, and we
think fairly, discussed. The growth of the spirit of liberty among the de-
scendants of the old colonists is traced to its final fruition in the war of
Independence, and the part New York played in the great struggle is set
forth. Then each step in the progress of the great commonwealth is de-
scribed down to the present year, making the history complete, if not
exhaustive.
There is not a dull chapter in the whole work, and it is written in a
spirit of justice to all the actors on the scene which will make the publica-
tion acceptable to all fair-minded men. If the other volumes of the series
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1 887.] NE W PUBLICA TIONS. 5 71
be written in the same broad and generou^ spirit, American Commamvealths
will usher in a new era in our historical literature.
Abraham, Joseph, and Moses in Egypt. By Rev. A. H. Kellogg, D.D.
New York : A. D. F. Randolph & Co. ; London : TrUbner & Co. 1887.
We have here, published in the best style of typography, and adorned
with several spirited sketches representing Egyptian Pharaohs, a volume
containing several lectures delivered by the author at the Princeton Theo-
logical Seminary. The author's main object is to compare the chronologi-
cal data of Genesis and Exodus with those of Egyptian monuments, so as
to ascertain the position of Abraham, Joseph, and Moses in the history of
Egypt with respect to the dynasties and reigns during which they severally
made their appearance at the court of the Pharaohs.
The opinion of the author is that four hundred and thirty years elapsed
between the seventy-fifth year of Abraham and the Exodus. He argues —
as it seems to us, very conclusively — ^that Abraham visited Egypt during the
reign of one of the Shepherd Kings ; that the career of Joseph is to be
placed in the period of the eighteenth dynasty, after the expulsion of the
Shepherds, and that the Exodus took place at the end of the nineteenth
dynasty. Dr. Kellogg conjectures that Apepi may have been the Pharaoh
visited by Abraham. The Pharaoh who elevated Joseph he supposes to
have been either Thothmes III. or Amenophis IIL It is certain that the
stone city of Pithom was built by the children of Israel during the reign of
Rameses II. This king reigned sixty-seven years and lived to the age of
ninety-six. The princess who adopted Moses may have been his daughter.
Rameses made his thirteenth son, Mineptah, his colleague twelve years be-
fore his death, and was succeeded by him. After Mineptah came three
short reigns of kings whose order of succession is uncertain, then a period
of confusion, followed by the inauguration of the twentieth dynasty. Which-
ever of the last three kings was the last one of the three was the Pharaoh
of the Exodus.
The author makes no attempt to fix the absolute chronology of the pe-
riod under examination. His effort is professedly in a great measure only
tentative; his examination of historical and monumental data is conducted
in a strictly critical manner, without dogmatism, in the cautious and mode-
rate spirit of genuine and solid scholarship. We consider his work to be
one of real value and utility, a specimen of a class of writings on topics of
ancient and obscure history, having an important religious bearing apart
from their purely scientific scope, which it is very desirable to have mul-
tiplied.
Sermons at Mass. By the Rev. Patrick O'Keeffe. C.C., author of Moral
Discourses. Dublin : M. H. Gill & Son. 1887. (For sale by the Catho-
lic Publication Society Co.)
These sermons are written in a clear and forcible style. In this new
volume Father O'Keeffe has followed the plan adopted in his Moral Dis*
courses published seven years ago, which have been highly praised by com-
petent judges. While the masterpieces of pulpit oratory produced by
Bossuet and others must ever be admired by scholars, very few priests can
successfully imitate them ; and even if they could, many persons in their
congregations would derive very little benefit. Where, for example, the
vice of intemperance is prevalent, it is of more importance that the people
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57^ -ATiffr Publications. [July,
should be instructed how to avoid drunkenness, and all the occasions that
lead to it proximately and remotely, than that they should have their atten-
tion directed to the glorious epochs of church history, the rise and fall of
empires, etc. For the present welfare of Christians in many parishes, it is
quite as necessary to censure the saloon-keepers who are doing the devil's
work as it is to denounce the heretics who are teaching false doctrines.
All the subjects chosen by Father O'Keeffe are eminently practical,
especially that of intemperance. "Those engaged in selling drink," he
says, ** will not be pleased if any one says a word to prevent the tippler
from banking his money safely in their tills. Quite so ; but are not the
heart-broken wife and children of this same tippler to have any voice in the
matter ? Are they to have no voice in the disbursement of the hard-earned
money, which by right belongs to them ? "
Any one who can write such sermons has no need to apologize for his
youth. Though only a curate in the archdiocese of Cashel, Father
0*Keeffe has had the gratification of receiving a letter of approval from
Archbishop Croke, who is himself most accomplished in the art of plain
speaking.
We would recommend to all the younger clergy of Ireland the careful
perusal of the declarations concerning intemperance recently promulgated
by the archbishops and bishops of the United States assembled in the
Council of Baltimore. In our opinion it is the most complete statement to
be found of the church's teaching in regard to the business of liquor-selling.
Elements op Ecclesiastical Law. Compiled with reference to the
latest decisions of the Roman Congregations, and adapted especially to
the discipline of the Church in the United States. By Rev. S. B.
Smith, D.D. Vol. I. Ecclesiastical Persons. Sixth edition. Com-
pletely revised according to the decrees of the Third Plenary Council
of Baltimore. New York, Cincinnati, and St. Louis : Benziger Bros.
This new edition of Dr. Smith's work has special value on account of
containing a full treatment of the ecclesiastical law as shaped by the legis-
lation of the last Plenary Council. Diocesan consultors, their official rela-
tions to the ordinary and to the diocese, are fully treated of. The nomina-
tion of bishops as provided for by the council, the relative functions there-
in of the bishops of the province and the diocesan consultors and irre-
movable rectors, the canonical status of the clergy of different grades, the
oonditiojns for obtaining rectorships, for dividing parishes and missions,
the canonical status of religious communities under the constitution Rth
manos Pontifices, and indeed the whole canon law of the church in Ame-
rica, is embraced in Dr. Smith's learned work.
If any man among us is entitled to a fortune for patient, intelligent
literary and scientific labor for the common good of the church, it is the
author of this work.
The Catholic Church in Colonial Days. The thirteen colonies, the
Ottawa and Illinois country, Louisiana, Florida, Texas, New Mexico,
and Arizona, 1 521-1763. With portraits, views, maps, and fac-similcs.
By John Gilmary Shea. New York : John G. Shea. (For sale by the
Catholic Publication Society Co.)
Mr. Shea has here conferred a signal and perpetual benefit on American
and Catholic literature. We have read this first volume of the history of the
church in America with great interest, admiring the diligence, enterprise.
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1887.] New Publications. 573
perseverance, and judgment of its distinguished, author ; we hope to find
the second volume, already promised, the life of Archbishop Carroll, to be
of even greater interest. Concerning it we venture to suggest a full treat-
ment of the establishment of the hierarchy in the United States. The
communication of the nuncio at Paris to Benjamin Franklin and its an-
swer, the letters between Franklin and the Washington government, should,
we think, all be studied with special care and presented to the public fully.
The communication of the government of the United States in which it is
affirmed that the question of establishing the Catholic bishopric is a matter
not within its jurisdiction should be given verbatim.
All public-spirited Catholics should assist Mr. Shea and the Catholic
Historical Society, of which he is the most conspicuous member, in getting
out this series, and should support the United States Catholic Historical
MagaMtfu, a quarterly whose title denotes its mission. In this connection
we notice with pleasure the publication of the first volume of Records of
the American Catholic Historical Society of Philadelphia,
The Church and the Various Nationalities in the United States.
Are German Catholics unfairly treated ? By Rev. John Gmeiner. Mil-
waukee, Wis. : H. H. Zahn & Co.
The American Republic has gathered to its bosom portions of all the
races of the civilized world, and infused into them a principle of civil and
political unity. The American state is a means of blending different and
even antagonistic races Into one. Everywhere, except in the large cities
where the trial is not fairly made, the unifying process is a real success.
There are American States whose area is as great as some of the empires
of the Old World, whose people, counted by millions, are of from six to
ten different nationalities and languages ; yet they live in peace together,
carry on the legislative, judicial, and executive functions of government
successfully, and are good American citizens.
This is mainly the result of intelligent self-interest. Good citizenship
in America is a condition of personal welfare. Rational civil freedom and
civil equality produce civil fraternity or unity. Father Gmeiner discusses a
phase of the church's solution of the same problem in the spiritual order,
where self-interest is of a spiritual kind only, and where the chief concern
is man's hereafter. His pamphlet, written with great intelligence and un-
doubted impartiality, shows the difilculty of the church's task— a difficulty
explained by the supernatural motives necessary to assimilate the princi-
ple of unity inherent in the Catholic organism. But this pamphlet, writ-
ten by a German, but from the point of view of universality, is a sure sign
of the success of the work the church has in hand among our different
nationalities. Whatever unifying force American civil institutions possess,
the church has those which are of immediate divine institution, and the
discerning observer can everywhere perceive the gradual merging of the
race distinctions among her children.
St. Teresa's Pater Noster : A Treatise on Prayer. By Joseph Frassi-
netti. Translated from the Italian by Wm. Hutch, D.D. New York :
The Catholic Publication Society Co.
This is a compendium of what St. Teresa has taught on the subject of
prayer. It is condensed chiefly from her Way of Perfection and her com-
mentaries, made for the instruction of her nuns, on the Lord's Prayer.
She is quoted verbatim, though not at great length, and the remarks which
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574 New PvBUCATioNS^ [July,
Father Frassinetti subjoins to his extracts are not unseldom merely a restate-
ment of her words. Now and again, however, he enlarges upon the t^eme
which she supplies ; as, for example, when he pleads for greater liberty of
spirit on the part of directors guiding penitents along the road of contem-
plation. It is thorny and hard enough already, he contends ; do not make
it harder by showing an exaggerated fear of supernatural foes lurking be-
hind every bpsh that looks green and pleasant. What you are inclined to
mistrust as an ambush is quite as likely to be a real oasis in the desert — its
springs sweet and living, and its fruits a necessary refreshment. In many
respects this brief summary of whatever is practical in SL Teresa's teach-
ing is better adapted to general use than the larger works from which it
has been prepared.
History of St. Margaret's Convent, Edinburgh, the first religious
house founded in Scotland since the so-called Reformation ; and the
Autobiography of Sister Agnes Xavier Trail. With a Preface by the
Most Rev. Wm. Smith, D.D., Archbishop of St. Andrews and Edin-
burgh. Edinburgh and London : John Cnisholm.
Doubtless there are many things of interest in the history of the resto-
ration of conventual life in Scotland as told in this beautiful volume, but
the autobiography of its pioneer. Sister Agnes Xavier Trail, is a perfect
gem. She was the daughter of a Scotch Calvinistic minister, and from her
earliest years of an intensely religious character of mind. She reached the
true faith by treading the hard intellectual way. Although an artist of
more than ordinary gifts, her works being praised by the best judges and
greatly sought after, the esthetic side of Catholicity seems never to have
had much influence in attracting her to the church. The efficacious means
of her conversion were solid reasons drawn from God's word, of which she
was a most devoted student, and from her interior difficulties. There were
circumstances that seem somewhat miraculous, but the main process was
the work of an honest conscience following enlightened reason. It would
be hard to find a better-told story ; it is simple, clear, breathing intelligent
devotion to truth in every word. How dense was her original ignorance
of Catholicity, how strange the mixture of good and evil in her life as a
Protestant, how her first doubt arose and the long agony that then fol-
lowed, her conferences with Catholic priests, with Calvinistic ministers,
with beseeching friends — all is told in a most interesting way. The last
struggles are particularly interesting— that is, the resistance of natural
affection, the infliction of those who came but to aggravate her difficulties,
to appeal to family pride, worldly ambition, and her treatment at the hands
of those ** who," as she says, " came but to throw salt on the wounds " of
her bleeding heart.
There is an interestmg account of the settlement of Scotch Catholics in
Canada.
Life of Henry Clay. (American Statesmen Series.) By Carl Schurz. %
vols. Boston and New York : Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
Life of Thomas Hart Benton. (American Statesmen Series.) Boston
and New York : Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
We will not say that Mr. Carl Schurz has written this very entertaining
book as a partisan of Whig principles and methods ; yet he does write as
their hearty advocate. Henry Clay and the statesmen who took part with
him in the passage of the Missouri Compromise, in the settlement of the
nullfication dispute, and in the passage Of the compromise measures of
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i«87.] Ne w Pubuca tions. 575
i85o» prevented disunion. They thereby enabled the country to solidify
into a nationality, and averted war until it was powerless to divide us.
The publishers deserve credit not merely for their enterprise in getting
out this American Statesmen Series, but for their judgment in the selec-
tion of contributors to it. Mr. Theodore Roosevelt's life of Thomas Hart
Benton is vigorously and simply written, and is well on a level with its
subject.
Life of Rev. Mother St. John Fontbonne. From the French of the
Abb^ Rivaux. New York, Cincinnati, and St. Louis : Benziger Bros.
This devout and saintly loul served God in France during the troubled
times of the Revolution. She was the foundress of the Sisters of St.
Joseph of Lyons, a congregation which has sixty houses in this country
and Canada engaged in works of education and charity, directing two hun-
dred and forty-nine parochial schools.
The Holy Eucharist, the Sacred Heart of Jesus Christ, Love of
Jesus Christ, and Novena to the Holy Ghost. By St. Alphonsus
de Liguori. Edited by Rev. Eugene Grimm, C.SS.R. New York, Cin-
cinnati, and St. Louis : Benziger Bros.
The Visits to the Blessed Sacrament and the Novena to the Holy Spirit,
published in this volume, are not the most conspicuous of the works of
St Alphonsus, but they are, especially the former, wonderful helps to a
devout life. Words cannot exaggerate the fervor of these accents of tender
love. The holy soul of the saint seems to have melted with love of our
Lord in composing them, and the Spirit of God gave him the rare gift of
communicating his fervor to others by his writings.
Why have I a Religion? Why am I a Christian ? Why am I a Catho-
lic ? By James Aug. Healy, Bishop of Portland. Boston : Thos. B.
Noonan & Co.
For a compact argument, plain, pointed, and conclusive, this little pam-
phlet has, we think, seldom been excelled. It was prepared by its writer
for distribution in his diocese, and bears the marks of long experience with
men's difficulties and great skill in answering them. We should be glad to
see it distributed everywhere. It is sold for $2 a hundred — ^a price making
it accessible to the clergy of the poorest missions. It has added to it a
summary of the essential truths of religion, and also the prayers in com-
mon use for daily devotions, a feature making it of value for the instruc-
tion of converts.
What Catholics have done for Science. With Sketches of the ereat
Catholic Scientists. By Rev. Martin S. Brennan, A.M., Rector of the
Church of St. Thomas of Aquin, St. Louis, Mo. New York, Cincin-
nati, and St. Louis : Benziger Bros.
This book supplies a lost chapter in history ; for where else will you
find a historian who tells as he ought what religious men have done for the
natural sciences ? Besides doing this, and doing it well, the author gives
an excellent summary of scientific history in general, simply told, ai'ranged
conveniently in short chapters, embracing all the natural sciences, pro-
vided with an index and a list of questions for the use of teachers, should
the book be used as a class-book in schools, for which it is well adapted.
No man nowadays has so much need to let his neighbors know that he is a
Christian as a man of science. We are glad to see Father Brennan alive to
this duty.
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576 New Pubucations. [July. 1887.
The book is a good-looking little volume of 318 pages, well printed and
passably well bound.
The Teaching op St. Benedict. By the Very Rev. Francis Cuthbert
Doyle, O.S.B. London : Burns & Gates ; New York : The Catholic Pub-
lication Society Co.
This is a very important book. It gives an account of an order that
has lasted many hundred years and contributed much to the success of
the Catholic Church and to the civilization of the world. It is a compila-
tion of the substance of the commentaries made by the wisest and best of
the Benedictine order on their rules. We think no man can be a thorough
student of history without reading such books. They show how St. Bene-
dict and his companions and successors understood and practised Chris-
tianity and shaped the civilization of the human race. This great order
had for a long period almost the exclusive custody of the purposes of
Providence in both church and state. Can as much be said of any other
organization ? History, especially in its latest contributions, has shown
with what supernatural prudence the Order of St. Benedict was guided.
This book is beautifully printed and well got up*
Instructions and Devotions for Confession and Communion. For
the use of convent schools. Compiled from approved sources and
approved by a priest. London : Burns & Gates ; New York : The Cath-
olic Publication Society Co.
This little manual is arranged with much judgment. We particularly
commend the discretion with which the table of sins for examination of
conscience has been prepared, avoiding at once scrupulosity and careless-
ness.
Compendium Antiphonarii bt Breviarii Romani, concinnatum ex
editionibus typicis cura et auctoritate S. R. Cong, publicatis. New
York : Fr. Pustet.
** This book is meant for use by the clergy and choirs of churches and com-
munities in which the Divine Office is chanted ; it contains the Little Hours,
Vespers, and Compline for all Sunds^s and double festivals of the year.
It also has Matins and Lauds, and the Divine Office complete for Christ-
mas, Holy Thursday, Good Friday, Holy Saturday, and Easter Sunday ;
also the complete office for the dead« It has the antiphons for Magnificat
and Benedictust and the prayers for all semi-doubles, simples, and ferials. It
is of very convenient size, well bound, and both words and notes plainly
printed.
BOOKS RECEIVED.
The History of St. Cuthbbrt. By Charles, Archbishop of Glasgow. Third ediUoa.
London : Burns & Oates ; New York : The Catholic Publication Society Ca
VOUNO Ireland. Four Years of Irish History. Part 2. By Sir Charles Gavan Duffy. Dub-
lin : M. H. Gill & Son ; New York : The Catholic Publication Society Co.
FiORJDALiSA : A Quaint Italian Tale. By Anton Giulio BarrilL Baltimore : The Balthnore
Publishing Co.
Tub Conversion op St. Augustine, and other Sacred Poems. By Eleanor C DonneUy.
With a preface by Rt. Rer. M. J. O'Farrell, D.D., Bishop of Trenton, N. J. Published
and sold for the benefit of the Church of St. Monica, Atlantic City, N. J.
Contemplations and Meditations for the Feasts of the B. v. M. and the Saints.
Translated from the French by a Sister of Mercy. Revised by Rev. W. H. Eyra, S.J. 1887.
New York : The Catholic Publication Society Co.; London : Burns & Oates.
Lights and Shadows of a Life. A Novel. By Madeleine Vinton Dahlgren. Boston : Tick-
nor & Co.
The Salve Regina, in Meditations. By Father Antony Denis, S.J. Dublin: M. H.GUl
& Son.
Anoblus Library. No. i. TMe Way o/tJU Transgressor. Detroit, Mi^h.: The A..P. Ca
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THE
CATHOLIC WORLD.
Vol. XL v. AUGUST, 1887. No. 269.
THE BLESSED EDMUND CAMPION.
Edmund Campion, the protomartyr of the Jesuits in England,
was born on the 2Sth of January, 1540. His father, a bookseller
and a citizen of London, had intended, when his son was nine or
ten years old, to apprentice him to a merchant, but some of the
members of one of the trades companies, who had remarked
the boy's " sharp and pregnant wit," and his love of learning,
induced his father to decide otherwise by an oflFer on the part
of their guild to undertake the charges of his education.
From the grammar-school to which he went at first he was
removed to Christ's Hospital, in Newgate Street. Here he came
oflF victor in all the disputations then so much in vogue. It was
a proud day for the " Blue Coats '* when, on the royal entry of
Mary Tudor into London on the 3d of August, 1553, none of
" Powle's Pigeons," as the scholars of Dean Colet's famous
school were called, was found so worthy to welcome her, in the
name of the youthful scholarship of London, as their own rara
avis, young Campion, who was sent for, all the way from New-
gate Street, to make a speech in Latin to her majesty when she
halted at St. Paul's Cross. The queen was much pleased with
him, and the people cheered him heartily, whether they heard
him or not; for his clear young voice had not then the power of
that ** full, rich, modulated, and sonorous bass '' with which he
afterwards moved hearts to so high resolves. When Sir Thomas
White founded St. John's College, Oxford, Campion became a
student there, and in 1557 Junior Fellow.
In November, 1558, Queen Mary died. Elizabeth succeeded,
chiefly by the aid of the Catholics, who trusted in her continu-
ance in the ancient faith, of which she had made much demon-
copyright. Rbv. I. T. Hbcksr. Z887.
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578 The Blessed Edmund Campion. [Aug.,
stration whilst her sister lived. But within a few weeks the new
queen had in many ways excited such suspicion that a bishop could
hardly be procured to crown her. After her coronation she quite
threw off the mask, and by a packed party in the ** Beardless Par-
liament," and a majority of one voice in the House of Lords — from
which, by threats and cajolery, she had caused the chief Catholic
nobles to absent themselves — against the unanimous decision of
the bishops and the expressed wishes of Convocation, she sub-
stituted the Anglican Establishment for the Catholic Church.
Where tyranny could not force the new religion upon the
people, subtlety was employed to beguile them into adhesion to
it, real or apparent. Oxford was not made to feel the change at
first. The oath of supremacy was not tendered to Campion until
1564, by which time the intellectual seductions of the university,
a host of friends and admirers, and even his own gift of elo-
quence and his personal attractiveness, had combined to ensnare
him ; and thus, excusing himself, as being a mere layman, from
immediate study of so inconvenient a point, he took the oath.
He took it, however, against his conscience, and whenever he
could save others from taking it, he did so.
When Elizabeth visited the university in 1566, Campion
greatly distinguished himself by his learning and eloquence, par-
ticularly when suddenly called upon to extemporize before the
queen and court.
" All these successes," wrote Father Parsons, " put him into
great danger, for at heart he utterly condemned the new re-
ligion ; yet the queen's sugared words, and his own youth and
ambition, sorely pulled him one way, while his pricking con-
science . . . urged him another."
While in this state he became acquainted with Dr. Cheney,
the Protestant Bishop of Gloucester, a mild, persuasive old man,
who was fond of quoting the example of Naaman bowing in the
temple of Remmon as an excuse for " conforming " Catholics.
He was in bad repute with his brethren of the bench — partly as
being the only Lutheran among them, while all the rest were
Calvinists — but still more because he was the only Elizabethan
bishop who refused to persecute the Catholics of his diocese. It
was his praise of the church Councils and Fathers that first at-
tracted Campion, who, after a time, even allowed Dr. Cheney
to ordain him deacon in the Establishment, " not thinking," as
he afterwards said, " that the matter had been so odious and
abominable as it was." But immediately after this pseudo-ordi-
nation he was filled with remorse, and resigned his Fellowship
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i887.] Thb Blessed Edmund Campion. 579
at St. John's, as well as his proctorship of the university, on the
1st of August, 1569. He is one of the few whose fall has been
the direct occasion of their rise. '
He retired to Dublin and was cordially received by James
Stanihurst, the father of one of his pupils, in whose house he led
a kind of monastic life. He employed his time, when not teach'-
ing:, in controversies with heretics, and in writing his classical
discourse, De Juvene Academico, and his History of Ireland. He
lived openly as a Catholic, for which reason the lord-chancel-
lor, Dr. Weston, gave orders for his arrest; but the lord-
deputy, Sir Henry Sidney, who was his friend, sent him timely
warning on the previous night. He escaped in the darkness to
the hospitable house of Sir Christopher Bamewell at Turvey,
but only for a short time, having to dodge the pursuivants in
several places. At last, from fear of endangering his friends, he
resolved to return to England, and under the name of Mr. Pat-
rick, and disguised as a lackey, he took ship at Tredagh. He
was scarcely on board when some oflScers came to search the
ship, asking for him by name. In the surprise of the moment he
took no precautions, but stood quietly on deck while the oflBcers
tumbled the cargo and searched every hole to find "the sedi-
tious villain.** Devoutly invoking St. Patrick, as he did on
similar occasions ever after, he saw everybody examined but
himself, and so escaped, though his manuscripts were seized. *
On reaching England he missed the warm hospitality of his
dear Irish friends, and found ** nothing but fears, suspicions, ar-
restings, condemnations, tortures, and executions." The pro-
ceedings against Catholics being so rigorous, and all men in fear
and jealousy of one another, and no secure living for a Catholic
with a conscience, he resolved to fly for good over sea. He
went to Douai, to the splendid foundation of Dr. Allen for
seminary priests, where he arrived in 1570, and shortly after
wrote his famous letter to Dr. Cheney. Cheney had by that
time got into disgrace for his non-appearance at the Anglican^
Convocation in 1571. The visitation articles of Archbishop*
Grindal, whereby the prelates in this Convocation tried to sweep
away all the lingering remnants of the old religion, sufficiently
indicate why Cheney absented himself. The communion was
no longer to be put into the communicant's mouth but into his
hands ; all ceremonies and gestures not prescribed in the prayer-
book were to cease ; people were to communicate three times a
year, not, like the papists, at Easter or Christmas, but on Ash-
Wednesday and one of the two Sundays before Easter^ Whit-
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58o The Blessed Edmund Campion. [Aug.,
Sunday, and Christmas. All altars were to be pulled down and
the altar-stones defaced and put to some common use. All
prayers for the dead, at funerals or commemorations, were to
cease; no person was to be allowed to wear rosaries or pray
upon them in Latin or English, or to burn candles on the feast
of the Purification, or to make the sign of the cross, even on en-
tering the church. Cheney was allowed to live in retirement at
Gloucester, where, after eight years, he died. He had treasured
Campion's letter as his most precious possession, and kept it in
the archives of his see. Though Campion did not know the
fact, yet a successor in the see, Godfrey Goodman, said : " It was
certain that he died a papist." *
At Douai Campion completed his course of theology, took
the degree of Bachelor of Divinity, and received minor orders.
But the thought of that miserable Anglican diaconate, which he
called *' the mark of the English Beast," so preyed upon his
mind that, after remaining a year at Douai, he determined to
break entirely with the world, make a pilgrimage to the Tomb
of the Apostles at Rome, and by their good help become a
Jesuit. He went thither on foot as a poor pilgrim, and reached
it in the autumn of 1572.
In April, 1573, he presented himself as a postulant to the
general of the society, Everardus Mercurianus — who had suc-
ceeded St. Francis Borgia — and was accepted at once. He was
sent to make his novitiate at Brunn. According to the rule, the
novice was to spend one month in complete retirement, a second
in attendance on the sick in the hospitals ; during a third he had
to beg alms from door to door, and for the fourth perform all
the most menial employments in the house. Into all these du-
ties Campion threw himself with heartiness and fervor, so that
they were, " though poor in seeming, rich in fruit." He was
also sent to teach catechism in the neighboring villages, all
more or less infected with the Hussite heresy, and was largely
successful in reconciling converts to the church.
Before he left Brunn he was warned of the death he would
die ; indeed, his letters show that he went to England fully im-
pressed with his fate. His presentiment, says Schmidt, was
founded on a vision of Our Lady, who appeared to him in the
garden and exhibited to him a crimson cloth, which he under-
stood to be a sign that he was to shed his blood for religion.
In September he was made professor of rhetoric in the Col-
*This testimony seems borae out by the fact that, although he was buried in hiscathe
dral« no monument was put up to his memory.
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188;.] The Blessed Edmund Campion. 581
lege of the Jesuits at Prague, and "opened the schools with a
glorious panegyric." His extensive knowledge, exquisite taste,
and rare oratorical power, as also the brightness and enthusiasm
he threw into his work, excellently fitted him for this post.
While at Prague he received from the archbishop of that city
the true diaconate and priesthood, by which the memory of the
false orders was blotted out. He said his first Mass on the
feast of Our Lady's Nativity, September 8, 1578.
It was about this time that Dr. Allen went to Rome to organ-
ize the English College there, and also to obtain the assistance of
the Jesuits on the English mission. After mature deliberation it
was determined that Fathers Parsons and Campion should be
sent. The night before the order reached Prague, James Gall,
one of the fathers (a Silesian), had written over the door of Fa*
ther Campion's cell : "P. Edmundus Catnpianus^ Martyr.'' The
writer, when discovered, was punished for his infringement of
discipline, but declared that he had felt himself impelled to do
what he had done. Campion arrived in Rome on Holy Satur-
day, the 5th of April, 1580.
The Jesuit fathers made only a part of the number of mission-
ary priests sent by the Holy Father into England at this time.
He had also approved and blessed the Association of Catholics
in England organized by George Gilbert, a young man of large
property and unwearied munificence. The members of this As-
sociation contented themselves with the bare necessaries of life,
in order to give all the rest of their goods for the needs of the
Catholics and their hunted priests. All this time the spies of
Walsingham were sending him information of all that was being
done, and lists of the English students in the colleges abroad.
The company of missionaries left Rome on the i8th of April,
all arrangements being made under the management of Father
Parsons, who was also appointed Father Campion's superior.
After various adventures they arrived at Rheims (where they
were joined by three more priests), and, on leaving, divided into
small parties, so as to reach England by different roads.
Father Campion left Calais on the evening of the 24th of June,
and reached Dover before daylight. On landing he retired be-
hind a rock, and, kneeling down, commended his coming and his
cause to God. The searchers, having suspicions of his true char-
acter, took him before the mayor of Dover, who resolved to send
him up, under guard, to London. While the horses were got
ready the father stood quietly praying to God and begging the
intercession of St. John Baptist, when an old man came out of
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582 The Blessed Edmund Campion. [Aug.,
the room to which the mayor had retired. " You are dismissed,"
he said ; ** good-by !*'
Meantime in London much prayer was being made for bis
safety. On landing at Hythe he was met by one of the Catholic
Association, who led him to the house in Chancery Lane, where
he was clothed and armed like a gentleman, and furnished with
a horse.
Father Parsons, who was at work in the country, had left
word that Father Campion should stay in London until his re-
turn, using his time as best he could for the comfort of Catho-
lics there. And thus at one house he said Mass, at another he
preached, at another heard confessions or held conferences,
while Catholic gentlemen guarded the doors. But the spies and
searchers were now so eager and numerous that scarcely an hour
passed without some Catholic being arrested. Father Parsons
returned to London, but the friends of the fathers advised them,
for a time at least, to retire again to the shires. This they did,
but before separating each wrote a brief declaration of the true
cause of their coming to England, showing that it was purely apos-
tolical and to treat in truth and simplicity on matters of religion.
Father Campion, after entreating to be allowed opportunity for
'' fair and open argument and public disputation,'' adds :
" Many innocent hands are lifted up for you, daily and hourly, by those
English students who beyond the seas, gathering ^virtue and sufficient
knowledge for the purpose, arc determined never to give you over, but
either win you to heaven or die upon your pikes. And touching our so-
ciety, be it known unto you that we have made a league — all the Jesuits in
the world . . . cheerfully to carry the cross that you shall lay upon us, and
never to despair of your recovery while we have a man left to enjoy your
Tyburn, or to be racked with your torments or consumed with your pri-
sons."
On learning of the departure of the fathers from London thb
council sent pursuivants in various directions with powers to
apprehend them. But they were diligently warned, and during
about four months passed through most of the shires, preaching
and administering the sacraments in almost every gentleman's
and nobleman's house they passed by.
On the 3d of July a proclamation was issued against harbor-
ing Jesuits, and measures were taken for putting all the Catholic
gentry under surveillance. Certain castles were fixed upon for
the custody of the recusants, and in each of these the prisoners
were to be forced to hold common prayer daily with, and be
preached to and " conferred with " by, a Protestant minister, for
whose charge and maintenance they were to pay ; if they re-
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1887O ^^^ Blessed Edmund Campion. 583
fused, the bishop could fine them at his pleasure. They were
allowed no books, papers, or notes of their own, but only a Pro-
testant Bible or books approved by a minister. The latter could
bring other ministers to worry and insult them whenever he
chose. They were not allowed to speak to one another except
at meals, and then under surveillance. To this treatment
Feckenham, the last Abbot of Westminster, and Watson, Bishop
of Lincoln, besides many other dignitaries, were subjected.
When the chief gentry had thus been captured in their homes,
the council began a general raid against all the Catholics of Eng-
land, the Protestant bishops, obedient to their supreme gover-
nors, showing themselves active in summoning and committing
the ** recusants" of their several dioceses. "Thus," as Dr. Allen
wrote, " was the whole Catholic population afflicted in soul and
body by this disgraceful tyranny of one woman."
The Jesuit fathers were satisfied with the results of this first
expedition. They found among the country people more love
to the old faith than among the merchants and artisans in the
towns, amongst whom "the infection of ministers bore most
rule." Not a few, indeed, had been, led into such a maze by Pro-
testant sermons that they had come to doubt even the existence
of a God.
In October the fathers returned to London to meet and con-
fer together. Thence they each wrote to their superiors, giving
an account of their labors. Father Campion, after describing the
greatness of the harvest and the need of more laborers to gather
it in, continues :
** I cannot long escape the hands of the heretics : the enemies have so
many eyes, so many tongues, so many scouts and crafts. I am in apparel
to myself very ridiculous. I often change that, and my name also. . . .
Let such as you send, for supply, premeditate and make account of this
always. Marry, the solaces that are ever intermingled with these miseries
are so great that they do not only countervail the fear of what punishment
temporal soever, but by infinite sweetness make all worldly pains, be they
never so great, seem nothing."
He then mentions his entreaty to be allowed open disputation
with the new ministers, and also an audience (under safe con-
duct) of the queen and council, proffering discussion in their
presence with the adversaries.
** Whereat the latter, being mad, instead of making answer, tear and
sting us with their venomous tongues, calling us seditious, hypocrites,
yea, heretics too, which is much laughed at. The people hereupon is ours.
... Of their martyrs the heretics brag no more ; for it is now come to pass
that for a few apostates and cobblers of theirs burnt we have bishops, the
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584 The Blessed Edmund Campion. [Aug..
old nobility — patterns of learning, piety, and prudence — ^the flower of the
youth, noble matrons, and of the inferior sort innumerable, either martyred
at once, or, by consuming imprisonment, dying daily."
Father Parsons, on reaching London, found the persecution
become so hot, and the search for Father Campion so incessant,
that he sent him word to halt at Uxbridge, There they met,
together with other missionary priests, compared notes, and ar-
ranged their plans for the next expedition. Here it was pro-
posed that, no answer having appeared to his challenge, Father
Campion should now write something in Latin to the uni-
versities. He consented, and produced his famous Decern Ratio-
ties. Then, after prayer and mutual confession, and the renewal
of their vows, the fathers parted — Campion for Lancashire, Par-
sons returning to London.
Father Campion, being much beset on his way, was for some
time hidden in various houses in Nottinghamshire, Derbyshire,
and Yorkshire, daily preaching, confessing, and conferring upon
religion with numbers who at every place secretly came to
him, drawn not so much by his admirable eloquence as by a
hidden power which they t)elicved could only flow from the
Holy Spirit.
Meanwhile the government, balked of the prey it hunted so
eagerly, turned upon its captured victims. On the loth of De-
cember, 1580, Luke Kirby and Thomas Cottam were put into
the Scavenger's Daughter in the Tower, a list of questions hav-
ing been prepared to be put to them while under torture.
Sherwin and Johnson, the latter an elderly priest and a very
holy man, were racked December 15 — Sherwin again next day.
Hart and Orton, laymen, were racked December 31, and also a
servant of Brinkley who had lent his house for the printing-
press ; Christopher Thompson, an aged priest, was racked Janu-
^ry 3, 1 581, and Nicholas Roscarock, a gentleman at whose
house Sherwin had been taken saying Mass, was racked Janu-
ary 14.
But these severities were not enough to satisfy the Protestant
bishops. He of Chester, on this same day, wrote to urge the
council to bring in a bill making " all vagrant priests traitors
and felons, without benefit of clergy." Other bishops begged to
have the commission in their dioceses, " the recusants being so
numerous and obstinate."
These recommendations were carried out to the full. The
proclamation of January 10 had commanded the return of all
English students and seminarists from abroad, and at the same
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1887.] The Blessed Edmund Campion. 585
time sentenced all priests to banishment. This was now fol-
lowed up by the " Act to restrain the queen's majesty's subjects
in due obedience," which made it treason to absolve any Eng-
lishman, treason to convert him to the Catholic religion, and
treason to be so absolved or converted. Among many other
iniquitous enactments, a system of fines was imposed which for
fifty years became one of the chief items in the budget of the
Chancellor of the Exchequer.
In May, 1581, Father Campion was sent for to London to see
to the printing of his book, the Decern Rationes. While there he
often had to pass Tyburn Gate, a few yards beyond the present
Marble Arch. Just outside of this gate stood the famous gal-
lows. He would always walk between its posts with his hat
off, saluting it in honor of the cross which it figured, of the
martyrs who had already suffered on it for the faith, and be-
cause, as he told Father Parsons, it was one day to be the place
of his own conflict.
After numberless difficulties the Decern Rationes was finally
printed, and on the 27th of June the benches of the University
Church of St. Mary's at Oxford were found strewn with copies
of the book.
The young Oxford men had long chafed under the Eliza-
bethan drill. They were as tinder, and this book was the spark
to set them in a blaze. The Anglican authorities were furious.
They could not answer the Ten ReasonSy but they tried to make
up for their impotence by unmeasured abuse and by every en-
deavor to suppress them.
Before the fathers parted, as each felt for the last time.
Father Campion obtained leave to visit the house of Mr. Yate,
of Lyford, now a prisoner in London for his faith, who had en-
treated him to visit his family.
** I know your easy temper," said Father Parsons. " If you
once get in there you will never get away." He then made
Ralph Emerson Father Campion's superior on the journey, and
told the father to obey him. Campion was happy : he might go
to the Grange, and he had received a delightful humiliation in
being put under obedience to a lay brother. He went, and was
received with the utmost joy.
The traitor Eliot, furnished with full powers, and with a pur-
suivant to attend him, was at that very time lying in wait for him
in the neighborhood, on the watch for any movement which
might favor his designs.
On Sunday, the i6th of July, just as the father, after a night
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586 The Blessed Edmund Campion. [Aug.,
spent in hearing confessions and in conferences, was about to say
Mass, Eliot, with his companion, came towards the house and
called the cook on to the draw-bridge. The cook knew him to
be a Catholic, and therefore, when with pious sighs he confided
his " longing to be present once more at the Holy Sacrifice,
which doubtless," he said, " in such a house, must be offered on
Sundays," the cook owned that so it was, and, moreover, " with
much ado " got leave for him to be admitted. As he let him
in he whispered to Eliot that he was a lucky man, for he would
hear Fathet Campion preach ! On this, Eliot asked for " one
moment to send away the heretic who was with him," and de-
spatched the man to a neighboring magistrate, with an order in
the queen's name to bring a hundred men to Lyford to appre-
hend Campion, against whom he had a warrant. Then, with all
apparent devotion, he entered the chapel, heard the Mass, and the
sermon upon the Gospel of the day : " When Jesus drew near
to the city he wept over it. . . . Jerusalem, thou that killest the
prophets ..." Every part of the passage conspired with the
circumstances of the day and his own presentiments to raise
Campion's eloquence to the highest pitch ; and his audience
declared that they had never heard such preaching.
After the sermon came dinner, after which the father was to
ride off towards Norfolk. But dinner was not over when a
watchman on one of the turrets announced that the place was
surrounded with armed men. Ford and Collingwood, two other
priests, hurried Campion away to a chamber hollowed out of the
wall above the gateway, where was a narrow bed, on which they
stowed themselves. There they lay in silence and prayer, hour
after hour, while "Judas Eliot," or "Eliot Iscariot," as he was
henceforth called, led the searchers into every chamber, turning
everything topsy-turvy from cellar to garret. Twice the search-
ers, all Berkshire men and disgusted With the work, declared
they would go on with it no longer. Eliot, enraged, threatened
to report them to the council if they refused to break through the
walls where there might be hiding-holes. Sulkily they obeyed,
and the work of destruction was continued, but in vain ; and the
wearied men were again departing when Eliot, in descending the
stairs, clapped his hand on the wall, and saying, " We have not
broken through here," asked for a smith's hammer and smashed
in the wall. There in their narrow cell lay the three priests side
by side, calmly, in prayer. Father Campion, we are told, spoke
and looked so cheerfully as to disarm the malice of his captors.
When the sheriff of Berkshire arrived he sent to London to
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know the will of the council. On the fourth day came the com-
mand that Campion and nine others taken with him should be
sent to London under a strong guard. The party halted at
Abingdon, Henley, and Colebrook. So far the prisoners had
been treated like gentlemen ; but here orders arrived from the
council to tie their elbows behind them, and their feet under the
saddle-girth of their horses. Father Campion, who had to ride
first, was further marked out by a paper stuck to his hat, on which
was written, "Campion, the seditious Jesuit."
Thus on Saturday, the 22d of July, they were paraded through
the whole length of the city until they reached the Tower. There
the father courteously thanked his guards, forgiving any wrong
they had done him, and, praying God to enlighten their souls,
the gloomy gates closed behind him.
Sir Owen Hopton, the lieutenant of the Tower, thinking to
do his masters a pleasure, at once thrust Father Campion into
the low and narrow dungeon of ** Little Ease," in which he could
neither stand nor lie at length, and where he remained four days.
Then, with great secrecy, he was put into a boat and rowed to
the house of the Earl of Leicester, and by him and the Earl of
Bedford closely examined as to the cause of his coming to Eng-
land. He answered them sincerely and readily, so that they told
him they *' found no fault with him, except that he was a papist."
"Which," he replied, "is my greatest glory." It did not come
out until Campion's trial that at this interview the queen herself
was present, and on hearing his answers " offered him his life,
liberty, riches, and honors, if only he would conform."
He was then sent back to the Tower. Hopton, finding him a
man of so much account, now professed for him extraordinary
affection. The earls had commanded his removal to a more
commodious cell. Hopton paid him frequent visits, holding out
all the promises he judged likely to impress his prisoner, and
publicly said he " doubted not he should soon prevail." This
was just what the council wanted. They spread a report, in
Paris as well as London, that " Campion had retracted, to the
great contentment of the queen," and talked of his having the
see of Canterbury. When, after a few days, Hopton ventured
openly to propose to the father to "conform," his proposal was
received with such disdain that, by order of the council, he re-
turned to his former treatment, but with increased rigor.
Two Protestant ministers, with Norton, the rack-master, were
then sent to " examine " the prisoner, and, in case of obstinacy, to
"deal with him by the rack." Father Campion's first racking
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588 The Blessed Edmund Campion. [Aug.,
seems to have been on Sunday, the 30th of July. One who was
present * says that " to all the questions now put to him Campion
answered little or nothing, nor would he betray his Catholic
brethren." But others, and among them serving-men of houses
which had received the fathers, were also put to the torture, and
under it one poor fellow confessed, scarcely knowing in his ago-
ny what he said. Fresh discoveries had been made, moreover,
by "Judas" Eliot, and it was given out that all these things had
been confessed by Campion. It was noticed, however, that he
was never allowed to see face to face any of those whose names
he was said to have given up, nor would the council allow him
to be publicly interrogated about his so-called confessions.
When the Decern Rationes flew abroad Burghley wrote to
Aylmer, Bishop of London, to answer it. But Aylmer pleaded
** ague in the leg," and gave a list of twenty deans, doctors of
divinity, and other " divines " who "had better undertake the
task " of replying to this one little book, written in haste, up>on
a journey, and of which he pretended to speak slightingly. It
had, however, excited so much enthusiasm, even as a model of
style, that the nobles and courtiers eagerly desired to hear the
renowned author speak. Some higher will ruled Burghley at
last to allow a public disputation in the chapel of the Tower.
To this Aylmer opposed himself in vain. He resolved, how-
ever, to leave nothing undone to secure victory to the Pro-
testant side. The deans of St. Paul's and of Windsor were to
prepare for it carefully, aad the prisoner was not even to know
of it until an hour or so before he was led to the chapel, no
books or notes being allowed him.
The programme was duly carried out. A Catholic present,
who managed to take notes of the proceedings, remarks on the
sickly face and mental weariness of Father Campion, worn as he
was with the rack. He thanks God that he was present, " for
there," he says, " I heard Father Edmund reply to the subtleties
of his adversaries so easily and readily, and bear so patiently
all their contumely, abuse, derision, and jokes, that the greatest
part of the audience, even the heretics who bad persecuted him.
admired him exceedingly." One of the converts made on this
occasion was Philip, Earl of Arundel, for " by what he then saw
and heard he easily perceived on which side the truth and true
religion was."
Three more conferences followed from which the people
were shut out. At the fgurth Father Campion was more
* The author of the French account of his death, translated by Dr. Laing.
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188;.] The Blessed Edmund Campion. 589
brutally treated than at any of the preceding. But now the
popular voice began to make itself heard. All the reports of
his betrayal of friends and of his own recantation were dis-
proved, and the people vented their feelings in ballads which
brought more than one hapless singer to the dungeons of the
Fleet and the Marshalsea.
Burghley and Walsingham, foiled in their endeavors to bring
Father Campion into disrepute, now suborned false witnesses to
prove that he and his fellow-prisoners for the faith were trai-
tors. He and others were, on the 29th of October, barbarously
racked in order to force from them some admission that they
knew persons charged with rebellion against the government.
On the 31st Campion was again so tortured that he told a
friend he thought they meant to make away with him in that
manner. But no word that could be twisted into treason was
extorted from him or any one of those brave sufferers. The
indictment that was made out rested, therefore, for "proof*
solely on the evidences of false witnesses. No matter ; the law
oflBcers of the crown were directed to " obtain a conviction by
any means ifiat might be necessary*'
On Tuesday, November 14, the prisoners were arraigned at
Westminster Hall. When commanded to hold up their hands,
" both Campion's arms being pitifully benumbed by his often
cruel racking, . . . one of his companions, kissing his hand, so
abused for the confession of Christ, lifted it for him." They all
pleaded "not guilty," and were remanded to prison until the day
of their trial. This took place on the 20th of November, and
even the Protestant Hallam says of it : " The prosecution was
as unfairly conducted and supported by as slender evidence as
any, perhaps, that can be found on our books."
The endeavor was to get the prisoners condemned for trea-
son, so as to make of them traitors, not martyrs ; but to all the
accusations of the queen's counsel Father Campion most tem-
perately replied, nor could his words be gainsaid.
" * There was/ he said, * an oflfer made unto us that if we would come to
the church to hear sermons we should be set at liberty. So Pascall and
Nichols, otherwise as culpable as we, yet, upon acceptance of that offer,
were received to grace and pardon ; whereas if they had been so happy as
to have persevered unto the end they had been partakers of our calamities ;
... so that our religion was the cause of our imprisonment, and, ex conse*
quenttf of our condemnation.' "
The pleadings took about three hours, and not a single proof
of guilt had been found when the jury retired under pretence
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590 The Blessed Edmund Campion. [Aug.,
of considering their verdict. Almost all the lawyers present
thought an acquittal certain, seeing no crime had been proven ;
but judges and jury had all been bought. When the jury re-
turned they pronounced all " Guilty'' The queen's counsel then
prayed their lordships in her majesty's behalf to give judgment
against them as traitors.
" Lord Chief 'Justici, Campion and the rest, what can you say why you
should not die ?
" Campion, * It was not our deaths that ever we feared. But we knew
that we were not lords of our own lives, and therefore would not, for want
of answer, be guilty of our own deaths. The only thing that we have now
to say is, that if our religion do make us traitors, then are we worthy to be
condemned ; but otherwise are as true and faithful subjects as ever the
queen had. In condemning us you condemn all your own ancestors — all
the ancient priests, bishops, and kings ; all that was once the glory of Eng-
land, the Island of Saints and the most devoted child of the see of Peter.
For what have we taught, that you qualify with the odious name of treason,
that they did not uniformly teach ? To be condemned with these old lights
— not of England only, but of the world — by their degenerate descendants,
is both gladness and glory to us. God lives ; posterity will live. Their
judgment is not so liable to corruption as that of those who are now going
to sentence us to death."
After the sentence was pronounced Campion cried aloud:
*' TV Deum laudamus ; te Dominum confitemur ! " Sherwin took up
the song : ** Hac est dies quam fecit Dominus ; exultemus et Icetemur
in ilia ! " And the rest expressed their joy, some in one phrase
of Scripture, some in another. Father Campion was rowed back
to the Tower, and the rest, fourteen in number, remanded to their
prisons. All were to be put in irons for the rest of their time,
until " their souls should escape as a bird out of the snare of the
fowler, and they by a bitter death be for ever delivered."
After twice changing the day of execution the council finally
fixed it for December i. In the meantime the Catholics im-
plored the Duke of Anjou, then high in favor at court, to use
his influence with the queen to hinder this foul tragedy. He
promised, but did nothing.
In the splash and mud of a rainy December morning Father
Campion was brought from his cell to the Coleharbor Tower,
where Sherwin and Briant, who were to be his companions in
sufiering, joined him. Outside the Tower a vast crowd was
already collected. Campion looked cheerfully around and sa-
luted them: "God save you all, gentlemen! God bless you
and make you all good Catholics " ! Then he knelt down and
prayed, concluding with the words, "/« manus tuas, DomirUy
commendo spiritum meum''
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1887.] The Blessed Edmund Campion. 591
Two hurdles were waiting, each tied to the tails of two
horses. On one Sherwin and Briant were laid and bound,
Campion on the other. As they were dragged along through
the mire a rabble of ministers and fanatics followed, yelling at
the victims to recant. But these were presently pressed away
by Catholics eager to get if but a word from the holy confes-
sors, and thus many received comfort.
The procession took the usual route by Cheapside and Hoi-
born; and when the hurdles were dragged under the arch of
Newgate, Father Campion, perceiving in the niche over the gate
the image of the Blessed Virgin, then still untouched by the
hammer, with a great effort raised himself, and, as well as his
bonds would allow, saluted the Queen of Heaven, whom he
hoped so so6n to see. There was a throng through all the
streets, but at Tyburn the crowd exceeded all that any one
could remember. The people noticed with wonder the glad
faces of the prisoners as they were jolted to their death. When
the hurdles were driven up to the place of execution the sun
shone out brightly. After working slowly through the press of
people, Father Campion was first put into the cart under the
gallows, and ordered to put his head into the halter, which he
did with all obedience. Then, after waiting a little for the
mighty murmur of so many people to be somewhat stilled, he,
with grave countenance and sweet voice, fearlessly spoke out :
^^ Spectaculum facti sumus^ Deo^ angelis et hominibuSy' and was
proceeding to speak thereon when he was interrupted by the
sheriffs, who, unless he would own himself guilty of treason,
would not permit him to speak to the people. A declaration
was then read that the prisoners were executed for treason, not
religion. Father Campion was all the while devoutly praying.
The lords of the council began afresh to question him in regard
to the pope and the queen, but he answered them not. Then
they asked him if he renounced the pope, to which he answered,
'' I am a Catholic ! " Upon this one exclaimed, " In your Ca-
tholicism is contained all treason ! "
At length, when he was preparing himself to drink the last
draught of Christ's cup, he was again interrupted by a minister
requiring that he would pray with him. " Unto whom " (writes
an eye-witness) " looking back with mild countenance, he humbly
said : * You and I are not one in religion, wherefore, I pray you,
content yourself. I bar none of prayer, but I only desire them
of the household of faith to pray with me, and in mine agony to
say one creed!'" Then he turned again to his prayers, and
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592 Sonnet. [Aug.,
some called out to him to " pray in English ** ; but he pleasantly
answered that ** he would pray to God in a language that they
both well understood."
While he was praying for his murderers the cart was drawn
away, and the blessed martyr, amid the tears and groans of the
vast multitude, meekly yielded his soul unto his Saviour, pro-
testing that he died wholly a Catholic.
He was allowed to hang until he was dead, and then the
butchery was proceeded with. The saintly Sherwin was next in
turn, the multitude crying out to him, " Good Mr. Sherwin, the
Lord God receive your soul ! " Lastly came young Briant (he
was not more than twenty-eight, and his innocent and angelic
face greatly moved all who saw him), "rejoicing exceedingly"
that " God had made him worthy to suffer death for the Catho-
lic faith, in company with Father Campion, whom he revered
with all his heart."
Thus these three martyrs gloriously won their crowns, and in
the blood of a noble army of athletes such as they were the walls
of the new Jericho set up.
E. M. Raymond-Barker.
SONNET.
What lacks our age? With all its glorious gifts
Of human thought, inventions manifold ;
Its scroll of hidden earth-lore clear unrolled ;
Its science compassing each star that drifts
Athwart our lengthened vision; love that lifts
From slave, and child, and beast the burden old
Of selfish tyranny; its wealth untold
Of learning, art, to smooth life's ragged rifts;
Its " harnessed lightning " speaking as it flies ;
For nature, country, home, its love intense ;
We yet feel something lacking. List the cries
That voice our century's intelligence !
How faint and few the words that, nobly wise.
Bespeak Heaven's g^ft, the spiritual sense!
L. D. Pychowska.
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1887.] ''Judge Lynch:' $93
"JUDGE LYNCH."
The origin of the term " lynch-law '* is not known. It is
sometimes traced to one Lynch, said to be the founder ot Lynch-
burg, Va., but nothing connected with him justifies or gives
color to this claim. James Lynch, a justice of the peace in one
of the Piedmont counties in Virginia, whose modes of adminis-
tering justice were reputed to have been severe and summary, is
also accredited with having given his name to the offhand and
expeditious dealing with criminals now generally called lynch-
law.
But it seems probable that the name arose long before the
existence of either of these persons, and in another country. In
the latter part of the fifteenth century one James Fitzstephens
Lynch was the mayor of the town of Galway, in Ireland, which
was then a more important place than now and had considerable
foreign trade. Lynch was a merchant and shipper, and in the
year 1495 sent his son on a trading expedition in a vessel with a
good cargo, and furnished him with a large sum of money. In
due time the ship came back well laden with valuable commodi-
ties which the young man reported to his father as having been
purchased with the money given him and the proceeds of the
outgoing cargo. But after some time a man arrived at Galway
from Spain, who came to see Mr. Lynch and demanded payment
for the goods brought back by his vessel. Lynch refused to
pay, declaring that his son had paid in cash at the time of the
purchase. The stranger, however, persisted, and exhibited
papers, signed by young Lynch himself, showing that the cargo
had been in fact bought on credit. About this time it became
known that one of the sailors, then in Galway, who had made
the voyage, had on several occasions hinted that he could re-
veal dark and dreadful secrets in connection with it. He was
hunted up, brought before the mayor, and there disclosed that
young Lynch, after having spent in debauchery the money
given him by his father, as well as what he received for the
cargo, had bought goods from a large firm on credit ; that one of
the partners of the firm had accompanied the cargo to receive
the money when it was sold, and that young Lynch had mur-
dered and thrown him overboard to conceal from his father
what had occurred.
VOL. XLV.— 38
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594 ''Judge LvNcny [Aug,,
The young man was at once arrested and brought before his
father, whose duty it was to try men charged with such oflFences,
and condemned to death. The mother and sisters of the young
man begged the father for mercy ; but, fearing his own weakness
and apprehending that he might yield to the entreaties of his
wife, the mayor determined not to await the slow process of the
law, but to inflict with his own hand the punishment which bis
son deserved. He took him up-stairs in his warehouse, adjusted
a rope around his neck, which he secured inside, and then pushed
the young man out of the window, where his death-strnggks
were witnessed by hundreds of people, startled and shocked at
such a spectacle. This is an historical fact, and at this day in
the council- books of Galway this entry is plainly legible :
" James Lynch, mayor of Galway, hanged his own son out of the win-
dow for defrauding and killing strangers, without martial or common law,
to show a good example to posterity.*'
Thus it will be seen that lynch-law, in fact, took its name
about the time of the discovery of America instead of originat-
ing here. It is not a peculiar American institution, as is com-
monly supposed, nor the product of the unbridled and even
savage democracy of the United States, but has been and is
practised in many countries and by many people. In fact, the
same state of things which gave rise to its application here pro-
duced it also elsewhere.
In England it was long known as Lydford law, from a walled
town of that name in Devonshire, and it is just possible that
lynch-law may be a corruption of Lydford law. In Scotland
it was called ** Cowper law," " Jedburg or Jedwood justice";
and all readers of Scott's novels will recollect the reference
made to it by the Douglas in the Fair Maid of Perth :
"'We will not hesitate an instant,' said the Douglas to his near kins-
man, the Lord Balveny, as soon as they returned from the dungeon.
• Away with the murderers ! Hang them over the battlements.'
"* But, my lord, some trial may be fitting,' answered Balveny.
" ' To what purpose ? ' answered Douglas. ' I have taken them red-
hand ; my authority will stretch to instant execution. Yet stay ; have we
not some Jedwood men in our troop ? '
" ' Plenty of Turnbulls, Rutherfords, Ainslies, and so forth,' said Bal-
veny.
" * Call me an inquest of these together; they are all good men and true,
saving a little shifting for their living. Do you see to the execution of
these felons while I hold a court in the great hall, and we will try whether
the jury or the provost-marshal do their work first; we will have Jedwood
justice— hang in baste and try at leisure.' . . .
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1887.] ''Judge Lynch:' 595
•* In a quarter of an hour afterwards Balveny descended to tell the
Douglas that the criminals were executed.
" * Then there is no further use in the trial/ said the earl. ' How say
you, good men of inquest, were these men guilty of high treason — ^ay or
no?'
" * Guilty ; we need no farther evidence.* "
Scott also tells the world the graphic story of the lynching
of Captain Porteous in Edinburgh in the year 1736. Porteous
was an officer in the service of the government and was sta-
tioned at Edinburgh. On the occasion of the execution of a
man named Wilson, who was a popular hero, and was con-
demned to death for breaking into the house where the col-
lector of customs lodged and taking about ;^200 of public
money, there were apprehensions that an attempt at rescue
would be made, and Porteous with his troop was detailed as
a guard. Under the alleged pretext that a riot was in pro-
gress, he ordered his men to fire, and, taking a musket from
the hands of one of his soldiers, he fired and killed one of
the bystanders instantly. For this he was arrested, convicted,
and condemned to death. When the day fixed for his execution
arrived the streets were crowded with people, all inflamed to
the greatest degree against Porteous and eager to witness his
death by the rope. But the government reprieved him, and this
action produced, if possible, a deadlier feeling of rage and ha-
tred against the captaih than already existed. The determina-
tion to take the punishment of Porteous into their own hands
seems to have sprung simultaneously into the minds and hearts
of thousands of people. They acted with wonderful secrecy,,
despatch, and discretion ; for that very night they were organ-
ized like a well-disciplined army, and took possession of all the
gates of the city, which they secured and guarded. They then,
went, to the tolbooth, into which they obtained entrance with
great difficulty. But, once in, they soon seized Porteous, carriecb
him to the place where Wilson was executed, and there hanged
him; afterwards dispersing as quietly and noiselessly as theyr
had assembled. In a very few minutes after the last death-strug-
gle of Porteous the streets were as deserted and the city as quiet
as if the whole population had been stricken dead.
The form in which lynch-law prevailed in England up to a
very recent period, and perhaps prevails even now, is a very
mild one, and generally a sort of frolic. A culprit, caught in thJe
act of picking pockets in a crowd, is taken to the nearest stream
. or pond and ducked ; or, if none is near, a liberal supply of water
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596 ''Judge Lynch:' [Aug.,
is pumped or thrown over him till the crowd is satisfied, and
then he is dismissed. The police, though they often witnessed
such scenes, never interfered, but stood by and enjoyed the fun.
The execution of the gamblers in Vicksburg about the year
1835 may be said to have inaugurated the practice of lynch-
law on an extensive scale in the United States. The event
startled the country and drew the attention of the whole world.
It was not an ordinary lynching of a single criminal for some
great crime, but it was the act of the people themselves — nearly
all the people, headed by the best citizens — to rid the commu-
nity of an intolerable evil, and one they saw no other way of
curing. For it must be conceded that at times there arises a
condition of things with which the law is incompetent to deal.
The courts can only try single ofiFenders, for well-defined of-
fences, and that only when brought before them by due process
of law, and when the rules of evidence must be applied. But
there is a class of crimes and vices combined which sometimes
does more real harm than the great criminal with his single
act of arson, burglary, or murder. The air becomes tainted,
the people, especially the young, demoralized. The guilty are
numerous, their evil influence far-reaching and permeating ; they
do not commit the offences to which high penalties are attached,
but they ruin young men and women and the fathers of families-
The law cannot reach them ; even if it could they are too nu-
merous to be tried in detail, and have been guilty only of deeds
punished by fines, perhaps, or some light penalty wholly dis-
proportionate to the deep damnation of their iniquities.
This was the situation in Vicksburg. A number of gamblers
and saloon-keepers, receivers of stolen goods, thieves and bur-
glars, had made that place their headquarters. They seemed to
be under no restraints ; they insulted women on the streets,
bullied and beat peaceful men going about their business, en-
ticed the boys to their drinking-saloons and gambling-houses,
and ruined many families. They were always armed and ready
to use the bowie-knife — then the fearful and prevalent weapon —
on the slightest provocation, and terrorized the whole city till
life became almost intolerable.
Sometimes one of these men was arrested and tried, but
never convicted ; for they had in their employment a set of sub-
orned witnesses, who were always ready to prove an alibi or
some other good defence. They became so wanton that they
delighted to outrage the community in useless ways: they
would stand in crowds and jeer persons passing by ; they at-
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tended public meetings only to create disturbances and break
them up.
The people were becoming desperate when at last a circum-
stance occurred which brought matters to a crisis and caused the
outraged citizens to organize for their own protection. An of-
ficer of the militia had put one of the gamblers, whose name was
Cabler, out of a house into which he had intruded himself, and
where he was making a disturbance while an assembly was in pro-
gress. The next day Cabler made his appearance with the openly-
avowed purpose of killing the officer as soon as he met him.
But he was arrested before getting the opportunity he desired,
and was found heavily armed with several weapons, all formida-
ble. He was seized, taken out of the city into the woods, cow-
hided, tarred and feathered, and ordered to depart at once.
This brought on open war between the citizens and the gam-
blers. A public notice was printed, circulated, and affixed to all
prominent places in the city, warning the gamblers to leave
without delay. The militia turned out, and, accompanied by a
large body of armed citizens, visited the saloons and resorts of
the gamblers for the purpose of closing the former and destroy-
ing the gambling implements and driving the gamblers them-
selves away. Here is a contemporaneous account of what oc-
curred :
"At length they approached a house which was occupied by one of the
most profligate of the gang, whose name was North, and in which, it was
understood, a garrison of armed men had been stationed. All hoped that
these wretches would be intimidated by the superior numbers of their assail-
ants, and surrender themselves at discretion rather than attempt a despe-
rate defence. The house being surrounded, the back-door was burst open,
when four or five shots were fired from the interior, one of which instantly
killed Dr. Hugh S. Bodley, a citizen universally loved and respected. The
interior was so dark the villains could not be seen, but several citizens,
guided by the flash of their guns, returned the fire. A yell from one of the
party announced that one shot had been effectual, and by this time a
crowd of citizens, their indignation overcoming all other feelings, burst
open every door in the building and dragged into the light those who had
not been wounded.
"North, the ringleader, who had contrived this desperate plot, could
not be found in the building, but was apprehended by a citizen while at-
tempting, with another, to make his escape to a place not far distant. He,
with the rest of the prisoners, was then conducted, in silence^ to the scaffold.
One of them, not having been in the building before it was attacked, nor
appearing to be concerned with the rest, except that he was the brother
of one of them, was set at liberty. The remaining number of five, among
whom was the individual who was shot, but who still lived, were imme-
diately executed in the presence of the assembled multitude."
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In this case there does not seem to have been any purpose to
do more in the beginning than drive the leading men of the bad
classes out of the city. The armed resistance of the desperadoes
and the killing of Dr. Bodley inflamed everybody and sealed the
fate of the prisoners. No words seem to have been spoken by
either the people or the criminals, and in less than thirty minutes
after their capture the five men were hanging dead, side by side,
in the streets of Vicksburg and in view of the whole population.
Fifteen years after this event similar scenes were witnessed
on the far-oflF Pacific coast. Gold had been discovered in Cali-
fornia, and the city of San Francisco had sprung up at the
Golden Gate. The population was composed almost entirely of
males, gathered from all classes and all nations. There were few
women and children to bring softening influences. Many who
went there good men were probably corrupted by the greed of
gold and their evil surroundings. Criminals flocked there for
security and plunder ; gamblers to gather the gold which the
enterprising men dug out of the earth; saloon-keepers to supply
the means for indulging in strong drinks, for which such scenes
produce an appetite. The voyage from Australia and New
South Wales to California was not very long, and ticket- of-leave
men and escaped convicts from the British possessions found
their way across the Pacific, and were known as ** Sidney
Coves.'* Crime and vice were almost unrestrained. The po-
lice were few in numbers, and generally inefiicient, and did not
escape the general demoralization ; some of them were known to
be in league with the criminal classes. The houses were usually
built of wood, and incendiary fires were of almost daily occur-
rence. It may be said with truth that scarcely a single night
passed which did not witness burglaries and robberies, and often
murders; gambling- houses and drinking-saloons were open all
day and all night, Sunday making no exception. Hundreds of
atrocious and bloody murders had been committed, and not one
of the murderers had been convicted and executed by the law.
The law being so ineflectual and the condition of things so
bad, it naturally followed that the good citizens were forced to
resort to some organization for their own protection, and they
formed the first Vigilance Committee that existed on the Pacific
coast. They adopted a regular constitution, and their organiza-
tion was of both a civil and a military character.
The first occasion on which they exercised their powers was
at once singular and exciting. John Jenkins, well known as a
criminal character, stole a small safe in broad daylight, and by
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1887.3 ''Judge Lynch:' 599
some means got it to the bay and into a boat, and then sculled
out into the harbor. But he was seen, pursued, and captured.
The committee had secured a hall for their meetings, where
there was a large bell, and some of the members were bound to
be in attendance all the time. Signals to be given by the bell
were arranged, which members of the committee could hear any-
where in the city, and which would give them notice of what
was going on and what they were to do. Jenkins was taken to
this hall, the proper signal given, and in a few minutes a jury
and court of the committee were in attendance, the evidence
heard, and the prisoner condemned to death. A minister was
sent for, and Jenkins allowed an interview with him. He was
then bound, marched through the streets, guarded by members
of the committee well armed. The civil authorities met the
solemn procession and made some show of interfering, but were
told to stand back, which they did, and Jenkins was hanged.
The committee kept a record of their proceedings and of the
evidence in each case.
One of the city papers having commented unfavorably on this
affair, the members of the Vigilance Committee, to the number
of several hundreds, published and circulated a card, signed with
their own names, in which they acknowledged and justified their
participation in the trial and execution of Jenkins, presenting a
most remarkable spectacle. For, in strict law, those who hanged
Jenkins were guilty of technical murder; yet so universally ap-
proved was their course, and so profound the feeling of the ab-
solute necessity of some such heroic measures to preserve society
itself, that no one, not even the public authorities, thought of a
prosecution.
After the execution of a few more notorious criminals the
Vigilance Committee of 1850-51 dissolved.
In the years 1855-56 there grew up in San Francisco a condi-
tion of things very similar to what existed in 1850-51. The city
was once more overrun by the criminal and vicious classes, and
the courts either corrupt or powerless. The civil authorities
seemed unable or unwilling to deal with the situation, and, as
a natural consequence, a Vigilance Committee was organized,
which embraced a large portion of the male inhabitants of the
city, and was composed almost exclusively of good citizens.
Their discipline and drill were like those of a regular army. They
were divided into companies of a hundred each, with proper offi-
cers and a fixed place of meeting. As in the former case, they
rented a large hall for their meetings and for the trial of prison
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6oo ''Judge Lynch:' [Aug.,
ers, and mounted on it a large bell which could be heard in the
remotest quarters. They had quietly obtained possession of
most of the guns and ammunition in the city, which they stored
at their hall. This they fortified with sand-bags, and procured
a battery of artillery, which they stationed in a commanding
place.
All these things were done openly, and the attention of the
governor was called to them ; and as he and others regarded
them as in rebellion, he appointed General W. T. Sherman — then
a banker in San Francisco— a general of the militia, and directed
him to organize his forces and have them in readiness to suppress
all riotous or illegal proceedings. Shermaii accepted the com-
mission and made an effort to get the militia into some effective
form. But he speedily found out that his force was neither a
large nor a very willing one, and that it was almost entirely
without arms. In this emergency he and the governor appealed
to General Wool, who was then in command there, for aid and
for the use of arms and ammunition. But Wool said he had no
authority to do anything of the sort, and apparently was not in-
clined to meddle with the domestic squabbles of the people.
Admiral Farragut, too, was there with a United States war-ves-
sel, and was asked merely to station his ship at some place where
it would look as though its guns might be used ; but he declined
also.
Just at this time an event happened which inflamed the whole
city. Electoral frauds were among the worst of the prevailing
practices. A bad set of men managed to get such control as
enabled them to declare anybody elected they chose. A dis-
reputable fellow named Casey was declared elected one of the
supervisors, though it was a fact that not a single printed ticket
for him was found in the ballot-box. James King then edited an
evening paper called the Bulletin^ which had been active in the
cause of reform. He wrote an editorial in which he denounced
Casey as a New York convict, and exposed the manner of his
so-called election. The next day Casey met King in the street
and shot him.
Casey, probably fearing what might happen to him if he fell
into the hands of the committee, very willingly submitted to
arrest at the hands of the civil authorities and was taken to jail.
Public opinion was clamorous for his immediate execution ; but
King lived six days, and the committee waited to ascertain his
fate before acting. When King did die, then the fearful bell was
heard for the first time within five years. At the signal twenty-
four companies of a hundred men each started for their rendez-
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1887.] ''Judge Lynch:* 601
vous— the jail ; and their movements were so well timed, and all
the arrangements so complete, that, though some of the compa-
nies were near and others quite distant, they all arrived at nearly
the same moment.
General Sherman and Governor Johnson had heard the bell
and knew what it meant. They went to the roof of the Interna-
tional Hotel, from which they had an extensive view over the
city, and from that point witnessed the crowds in the streets and
saw the companies, with their guns at port, marching by with
steady and resolute step. As in other instances, there was no
noisy demonstration — almost the only sound to be heard was the
orderly tread of the men in the companies.
The wardens of the jail could oflFer no resistance to such a
force, and, after a short parley, surrendered Casey and also one
Cora, who was imprisoned for killing a United States marshal.
The sidewalks and houses were full of people as the procession
went by, the prisoners bound and walking in the middle of the
street, guarded all around by the companies, silent and resolute.
No jury was impanelled in this case, but the executive com-
mittee sat as a court. Casey and Cora were allowed counsel,
and two able lawyers were detailed to defend them. But they
were condemned, and in order to make the execution as impress-
ive and dramatic as possible they were sentenced to be hanged at
the same moment that King was buried. And while the proces-
sion of thousands was following the body of King to the grave,
and all the church-bells in the city were tolling, Casey and Cora
were swung from the great beams projecting from the front of
the hall, and their death-knell was sounded by the big bell of the
committee.
Among those arrested by the committee was ** Yankee " Sulli-
van, a renowned pugilist who had made himself very active in
the affairs of the city, especially in elections. He was a bold and
skilful manipulator of the ballot-boxes, and generally a man of
whom it was desirable to relieve the city. Although so fearless
and hardy in the ring, no sooner was he placed in confinement
than his courage abandoned him and he succumbed in the most
abject fashion. He died in the custody of the committee. The
general belief was that he had committed suicide from terror,
but many thought that he perished from fright and physical col-
lapse, though the circumstances of his death were somewhat
mysterious. The committee could not have executed him, for
their plan was to do that in the most public manner possible.
This was the occasion of a temporary reaction. A public meet-
ing was held, and an effort made by the ** law-and-order" party
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6o2 ''Judge Lynch'' [Aug.,
to wrench control from the committee. It failed, however, not-
withstanding the bad eflFect of the episode of Sullivan, a large
majority of the citizens still siding with the committee.
The governor now issued a proclamation that San Francisco
was in a state of rebellion, and ordered the committee to disband
and disperse. The militia were directed to report to General
Sherman and obey his orders, and it appeared as if a fight be-
tween the committee and the law-and-order party was about to
take place. But the militia did not come at the call of the gov-
ernor ; the hearts of the people were with the committee. Many
very prominent men are still alive who took sides in the affair.
The present writer only recently had a conversation with a gen-
tleman, a resident of San Francisco at the time, who adhered to
the law-and-order party and was placed in command of a force
of three hundred and fifty enrolled men, and who afterwards be-
came a United States senator. When he received Sherman's
order he immediately notified his men, and called upon them to
rendezvous at the jail. Of the three hundred and fifty only
thirty-five came. One striking and fearful characteristic of all
the proceedings of the committee was the silence with which
they were conducted. That created a profounder impression of
the committee's power and determination than any language
could have done. There was also a sort of mystery, which had
both its charm and its terror in the sight of so large a body of
men embarking in such a work in so noiseless a way. Of the
thirty-five who assembled with my informant on that day, Flood
and O'Brien, two of the Bonanza kings, were present William
T. Coleman, spoken of recently as a candidate for the Presidency,
was a conspicuous member of the Vigilance Committee.
Only once more did the Vigilance Committee exercise its
power in the execution of criminals. Two men, Brace and
Hetherington, were hanged — Brace for a murder committed
two years before, and Hetherington for killing a Dr. Randall
in a quarrel. A good many notoriously evil men, especially
ballot-box stuffers, were sent out of the city and warned never
to return — a warning which they seem to have heeded.
The events which occurred in Vicksburg and San Francisco
can hardly be designated as lynch-law as the term is now un-
derstood. They were popular risings of the good citizens of
each place, who were in some sort forced to combine for self-
protection, but only after they had themselves witnessed repeat-
ed failures of the law, seen the general disorder and demoraliza-
tion of the community, been cognizant of the ruin of many per-
sonSy and were in despair of any other relief. In the Vicksburg
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matter it must not be forgotten that it was not intended in the
beginning to hang the gamblers, but merely to drive them from
the city. But the death of Dr. Bodlcy inflamed the people
beyond control, and, as it were, drove them to the extreme mea-
sure of taking the lives of his slayers.
It must be remembered, too, that while hundreds of men
were tried and acquitted in San Francisco for hideous crimes
of which they were undoubtedly guilty, the two men. Bur-
due and his companion, who were the first men convicted by
the courts, were proved conclusively to be innocent. The ac-
quittal of guilty men and the conviction of the innocent were
things very well calculated to make the people resort to other
methods than the legal tribunals for the punishment of crime
and enforcement of order ; and it is sure that after the opera-
tions of the Vigilance Committee the city of San Francisco, for
some years at least, had fair elections and an honest municipal
government, and the law was administered justly.
What does the reader think of such cases of lynch-law as
those of Vicksburg and San Francisco? Does he think that
the Vigilance Committees, made up of and managed by the mer-
chants, property-holders, and professional men, were justified ?
The plea is that the ordinary tribunals had ceased to protect
the people from the disorderly classes and from murder and
rapine, and had even become a protection to the criminals them-
selves; their authority lapsed, and resort was therefore neces-
sarily had to the original divine depository of public power.
The community, in its primary elements, embracing the larger
and better part of all classes, assumed in self-defence a new or-
ganization for the temporary but absolutely necessary exercise
of civil jurisdiction over life and death. Does the reader think
that this was rightfully done, and the death-penalty and other
penalties inflicted by legitimate authority? Does he think that
it can ever be justly done ? Or does he condemn the Vigilantes
as rioters and murderers? The question is one of much interest.
The practice of lynching in particular cases for crimes of pe-
culiar atrocity stands on a different footing. The writer by no
means approves of it, yet he believes it to be due in large mea-
sure to defects in the judiciary system of nearly all the States
of the Union, to delays in the trial of prisoners, the inefficiency
of courts and their officers, to the technical defences upon which
guilty men are often allowed to go free, and to a general and
deep-seated want of confidence in the judicial tribunals existing
throughout nearly the whole country.
And in this respect the English and American people present
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6o4 ''Judge Lynch:" [Aug.,
a singular contrast. The English people are proverbially slow
and cautious ; it takes a quarter of a century to get through Par-
liament a reform which the whole country admits to be neces-
sary, and the machinery of public authority moves with great
deliberation, except in one respect — there is no delay in trying
prisoners. The judges are a good class of men, the prosecuting
attorneys able lawyers, and a fair trial, at least in cases not po-
litical, speedily follows an arrest ; and it is probably to this fact
that England owes her immunity from lynching. But in the
United States the case is exactly the reverse. The American is
prompt and decided in action, and everything proceeds with
railroad speed except the trial of criminals ; that often lan-
guishes for months and even years. An atrocious crime is com-
mitted and the whole country deeply interested ; the offender is
arrested, arraigned, but not tried ; he is remanded to jail, and
his case continued and again continued, till the people forget all
about it. In the meantime witnesses go away, or are dealt with,
or forget; and after the lapse of a long time the prisoner is
brought in, goes through the form of a trial, and is acquitted
or the jury disagrees.
The grand jury, which is considered a protection to the
people, is a cumbersome affair. Exactly how it protects per-
sonal liberty and contributes to the efficiency of the courts is
not easy to see. It is composed of honest, good citizens usu-
ally, but they are not skilful in sifting facts nor learned in the
law. They sit in secret, only examine such witnesses as are
sent before them, do not allow the accused to cross-examine,
to be heard by counsel, or to send in witnesses. Its construc-
tion has little element either of fairness or efficiency ; but as the
Constitution of the United States declares that trials cannot be
had in certain cases without an indictment by a grand jury, the
system must be retained, at least for United States courts.
If lynching is to be stopped it must be done by a complete
and thorough reform of our judiciary system. Appoint grand
juries, not for a single session, as is done now in most States, but
for a term — say twelve months — and let the criminal courts be
always open. When a man is arrested for crime let the grand
jury be at once impanelled, the court opened, and the trial pro-
ceed as soon as the witnesses can be brought in. Give the courts
power to issue compulsory processes, if necessary, to compel
their attendance. Have good men on the bench to represent
the State. When the people see this done confidence in the
courts will be restored and lynching will disappear, but not till
then. John W. Johnston,
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1887.] Captain Parlybrick's Courtship. 605
CAPTAIN PARLYBRICK'S COURTSHIP.
It was about five in the afternoon of a lovely July day. Two
omnibuses stood with wideopen doors waiting for the travellers
who were about to alight from the train that came puffing into
the station of Petitgare. There was nothing to guide you to a
choice between the two. Both vehicles were equally shabby,
and both conductors equally importunate. A broad-shouldered,
bronzed-featured man, who had alighted from a first-class carriage,
stood with his portmanteau in one hand and his bag in the other,
considering which he should take — the one for the H6tel Bricotte
or the one for the H6tel Petitgare. While he hesitated one of
the conductors came running forward to meet two ladies, and
seized their bags with an air of proprietorship.
" H6tel Bricotte ? " said the younger one in a clear, challeng-
ing tone, and without letting go her bag.
"But yes! Does mademoiselle think I do not remember
her?"
Thus reassured, the two ladies followed the conductor. The
elder one was getting in first, but just as she stood on the high
step she lost her footing, slipped, and must have fallen with her
whole weight backwards if the broad-shouldered traveller had
not been quick enough to catch her in his arms and hold her up
till she regained her footing. The poor lady was too frightened
to express her gratitude except by a nervously-iterated ** Merci,
merci beaucoup, monsieur ! " But her daughter ran forward and
poured out her thanks with an earnest and graceful volubility
that made the rescuer long to rescue somebody else. He replied
in a few words of sonorously English French, and, after assisting
up the young lady, got in himself; other travellers came crowd-
ing in after them, and the omnibus went rumbling on to the H6-
tel Bricotte.
On the way thither Captain Parlybrick had an opportunity
of considering the two ladies at his ease. The younger one was
a bright little blonde of about twenty, with neat features, blue
eyes, and masses of rich brown hair that fell in soft waves over a
broad, frank brow. The elder was a woman under fifty, with a
face like a faded flower, wan and sweet; the mouth was vacillat-
ing, the chin weak, the whole expression feeble and suggesting a
capacity for letting herself be managed by any one who took the
trouble. It was evident that her daughter did take the trouble.
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6o6 Captain Parlybrick's Courtship. [Aug.,
The omnibus pulled up before the H6tel Bricotte. A white-
capped soubrette led Captain Parlybrick to a room on the first
floor fronting the sea ; ** Soor le divang^' he had stipulated, em-
phasizing the last syllable to make the situation clearer.
" Who are those ladies in half-mourning ? " he inquired — " a
mother and daughter, one in black, the other in light gray ? "
'* Mme. et Mile. Duhallon, monsieur. Charming ladies!
This is their third visit to Petitgare. Madame's husband was
here with them the first time. It is very sad for them now. Ah!
behold the dinner-bell. Monsieur has all he wants? Then I
go."
Captain Parlybrick pulled open his portmanteau, made a hasty
change of dress, and went down to the dining-room. He saw at
a glance that the two ladies were not there ; but a great many
other people were, and he noticed with satisfaction that none of
them looked English. His seat at table was next an elderly
man with spectacles and a sandy beard, unmistakably a German ;
and opposite to him was a young man whose jet-black, sleek hair
and olive skin bespoke him a Spaniard or a Portuguese.
The company had settled to the business of soup, and for
some minutes there was no conversation. Captain Parlybrick
was wondering why the ladies Duhallon did not appear, when
suddenly the olive-skinned young man broke the silence.
" I will trouble you for the Cayenne pepper," he said, speak-
ing across the table, and in English, genuine-born English.
" What a sell! " muttered the captain under his breath.
His sandy-bearded neighbor overheard the exclamation.
** Yes,'* he said, also in genuine-born English, " the soup is gen-
erally a sell, but the rest of the cooking is not bad ; it is not a
bad place altogether. There are lots of English here; in fact, you
hear more English on the plaza than French."
"The deuce you do!" said the captain, pushing away his
plate.
The German who was no German looked at him in evident
surprise.
"The fact is," said the captain, feeling called onto explain
himself, " I came down here on purpose to get on in my French
and to be entirely amongst French people ; but if there are more
English than French in the place, I don't see how I am to do
either. I might as well have stayed in Paris."
" It is disappointing, certainly," assented the other. " Have
you made any way with the language already ? "
*' Oh, dear, yes ! I have been hard at work on it for over a
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year. I begin to feel my way through the participles and the
genders and that sort of thing, but what bothers me is the pre-
positions; I can't get on with the prepositions. They are such
plaguey things to manage, and there are such a lot of them !
Take the preposition in, for instance. They have a score of
words in French for our one. There is en [he pronounced it
(mg\, then dong, then cUdong^ then encUdong, and ever so many
more. How the deuce is a man to know which is which, unless
he has been born to the use of them ? "
" You ought to write them down and get them by heart," ob-
served his neighbor, with an effort to preserve his gravity.
" I do ! I know them all by heart ! I have a capital book
about prepositions, and I have a professor, a first-rate one, who
makes me write out exercises about them ; and for all that the
confounded things are always coming wrong."
The sandy. bearded man made no remark for a moment ; but
presently, as if he had been digesting the matter, " I only see one
thing for you to do, then," he said, looking at the captain and
pausing : " you must get a French wife."
» ** That would be a — strong measure, eh ? " observed the cap-
tain.
The two strangers exchanged a knowing glance, and then in-
dulged in that freemasonic laugh at the expense of the fair sex
which makes men brothers in the twinkling of an eye. After this
they went on to discuss broader subjects — the prospect of affairs
at home, the chances of war abroad. The captain seemed to
know a good deal about the state of affairs in India and to be
much interested in the Cape.
Meantime the sandy-bearded traveller was wondering what
motive he could have in pursuing so energetically the conquest
of the French prepositions. He did not talk like a man of science,
or even of letters, and he was long past the age for going up for
any kind of examinations.
When dinner was over the gentlemen exchanged cards.
That of the sandy-bearded man bore the words, Mr. Silverbar^
Solicitor, Wimpole Street.
" Good gracious I " exclaimed Captain Parlybrick, " can you
be the friend and solicitor of my nephew. Bob Jefferton?"
"You are Bob's uncle? Why, you look as young as Bob
himself."
" I am only ten years his senior. He was the son of my eldest
sister, who was twenty years older than I. Well, this is a most
extraordinary coincidence ! "
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6o8 Captain Parlybrick's Courtship. [Aug.,
Mr. Silvcrbar was amused at this nalvet6 in a man of Parly-
brick's years. He was tiimseif too old and world-taught to be
surprised at anything.
They went for a walk, and had a long chat about Bob and
other friends whom they found out they had in common ; but
Mr. Silverbar got no clue to the captain's vehement pursuit of
the French language.
Next morning Captain Parly brick devoted an hour to his
French, and then went down to the beach to enjoy the salt
breeze that was blowing in the tide. The first persons he saw,
sitting under white umbrellas on camp-stools, were Mme. and
Mile. Duhallon. A gracious bow encouraged him to approach
and inquire, in his best French, for the health of the elder lady.
The ice once broken, he was quickly afloat and in full swing
of conversation with them. He informed them that his object
in coming to Petitgare was to get on with his French, his great
ambition being to speak the language like a native.
" My professor assures me all I want is practice," he said.
" You must talk with us, and allow me to correct you occa-
sionally," observed Mme. Duhallon in her drawling tones, and
smiling blandly.
" O mamma ! " said Lfeonie, " monsieur might not like that ; it
is only philosophers who like to be told of their faults."
** And pray, mademoiselle, why do you assume that I am not
a philosopher? " demanded the captain.
" Monsieur, if you tell me that you are I am quite ready to
believe it," protested L6onie ; " but " — she put her head on one
side with a comical little grimace — "I have never known a
gentleman, even a philosopher, who liked being laughed at."
" Ah ! you are apparently in the habit of trying the experi-
ment, and you think I would provide you with an opportunity
for repeating it. Well, try me ; I promise to bear it without
wincing. I would bear a great deal in order to get on with my
French, and it is everything to me to have a chance of practis-
ing it with people who don*t speak English. That makes all the
difference. I always speak better when I feel I must make it out
somehow and cannot turn to English for the word."
*• Oh ! — " Mme. Duhallon was going to say something, but
L6onie made a face at her and she stopped short.
When the captain went away L6onie said, speaking in per-
fectly pure English: "We must not let him suspect that wc
speak English ; it would only disappoint him, and it would spoil
all our fun. I think he is going to be amusing."
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" But is it not a little bit treacherous ? '* said Mme. Duhallon.
** Not a bit, since he would rather be deceived."
Mme. Duhallon saw no flaw, apparently, in this logic, for she
gave in at once to L^onie's view of the matter.
The captain was with them constantly after this, and at the
end of a week he began to think that he might do worse than
follow Mr. Silverbar's suggestion. The question was, which of
the two ladies would be the wiser choice. The younger o^e
was unquestionably the more attractive of the two, but there
was a spice of the devil in her which, though it added to her
charm in one way, indicated a capacity for getting fun out of
you that it was pleasanter to see exercised on others than on one's
self. She had a will of her own, too, and evidently ruled her
mother completely. Mme. Duhallon was the very opposite of
all this. She had no will at all, or, if she had, it was so limp and
pliable that it could not stand by itself, but always wanted some
one else's to cling to— an adorable weakness in a wife for a man
who liked to have his own way, as some men do. Captain Parly-
brick kept balancing the ladies in his mind, but he divided his
attentions at first so nicely between the two that no one could
have said to which side the balance dipped.
Leonie, however, put herself hors de concours before the week
was out by getting tired of the prepositions, and leaving the
captain to be helped on in his struggles with them by her mo-
ther. Mme. Duhallon's easy good-nature and want of anything
to do made her more patient with his mania. Correcting this
good-looking Englishman in his French made a pleasant diver-
sion in the monotony of crochet and taking care of her health.
But they were all puzzled as to what his motive could be in pur-
suing so obstinately "the conquest of the language," as his
phrase was.
'* Can you not find out ? " L6onie kept asking Mr. Silverbar,
whom she had drawn into the cheat of not letting the captain
know they spoke English.
Mr. Silverbar declared that he could not, but that never be-
fore had he known a man so possessed by a hobby.
One afternoon they were all sitting in the Casino (which was
in front of the hotel), the ladies fanning themselves, Mr. Silver-
bar reading the newspaper, and Captain Parlybrick listening
with all his ears to two Frenchmen who were discussing their
respective politics close by. In the course of the voluble and
excited conversation the word enfin recurred frequently, as it is
apt to do in Frenfch talk.
VOL. XLV.— 39
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6io Captain PARLVBRicit s Courtship. [Aug.,
" Good gracious ! " exclaimed the captain in an exasperated
tone ; and, turning suddenly to Mr. Silverbar, " What a lot of
words there are in French, to be sure ! If I could only get to
speak like those fellows ! But will you tell me why they keep
on saying * at last ' all the time they are talking ? "
" Do they? I never noticed it."
•*Oh ! but they do. I have often noticed it; these two men
heve been saying it a dozen times a minute. Just you listen.
There! — onfang, onfang ! "
'' Enfin doesn't mean ' at last,' "said Mr. Silverbar, looking
steadily into his newspaper. '' Enfin means — "
** Oh ! I beg your pardon, it does," protested the captain. " I
can show it to you in my book of prepositions. I'll just run in
and fetch it."
Mr. Silverbar was thankful he did run in, for the moment he
disappeared the lawyer threw back his head and roared. L^nie,
who had overheard it all, joined heartily in the laugh ; but her
mother protested that they were both very ill-natured.
•* And it really is very deceitful of us," she said, " not to let
him know that we speak English like our mother-tongue. I
think I must tell him, poor, dear man ! "
" That would be very treacherous to Mr. Silverbar and me,"
said L6onie, " and it would spoil all our fun, besides disappoint-
ing the captain awfully — which would be ungrateful, mamma,
for I believe he saved you from breaking your leg."
" He is a dear, kind, excellent man," said the widow com
placently.
The captain certainly took pains to make himself agreeable
to her ; he was continually at her side, ready to fetch and carry
for her, to pick up her worsted balls, to wrap and unwrap her,
to, make himself useful in many ways. Mme. Duhallon always
wanted somebody to wait upon her and make a fuss over her,
to tell her what she ought and ought not to do. All day long
it was, **Lfeonie, shall I be too warm in my black shawl?"
"L6onie, will it tire me to walk to the sands?" **L6ome, do I
want to have a bowl of soup before I go out ? " No wonder
L6onie came to rule and manage this helpless, will-less mother
as if she had been a baby. By the end of a fortnight Captain
Parlybrick had quite made up his mind which would be the
more eligible wife of the two, and he was pursuing the conquest
of the widow and her eight hundred a year as energetically as
the conquest of the prepositions. They had grown very inti-
mate over the study and pronunciation of the French language.
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and in the course of conversation he had learned all about her
circumstances that he wanted to know. He had discovered at
a very early date that the chief, indeed the one, obstacle in his
way was L6onie's influence, and he had set himself steadily and
quietly to undermine it. He affected to resent her way of
managing and domineering her mother.
" You are too gentle, my dear lady," he would say when
L6onie, before starting on her walk, had left some emphatic in-
junction about what shawl Mme. Duhallon was to take, and how
long she was to stay out. " You are a perfect angel of meek-
ness ; but, if you will excuse my saying so, I think it is hardly
right to encourage Mile. L6onie in being so self-willed. You
spoil her so that no husband will be able to manage her. She
orders everything for you without even consulting you."
Mme. Duhallon would sigh, and remark, with one of her lan-
guid smiles, that it was perhaps better to be kept in order than
to be too much petted.
** But you ought to be petted," the manoeuvring lover would
urge; "you are just the kind of creature everybody wants to
pet — at least we men always do ; you are so dependent, so wo-
manly. I hate your strong-minded, independent womfen."
Mme. Duhallon found it very pleasant to be lectured in this
way, even in ungrammatical French. Little by little the spell
was working against L6onie ; the new influence was subtly sup-
planting and counteracting the old one. L6onie all this time
suspected nothing. Thankful that her mother had found some
one to talk to her and keep her amused, she went off with the
young folk of the place shrimping and boating, and thoroughly
enjoying the sea-side pleasures of Petitgare.
But Mr. Silverbar saw the game that Parlybrick was playing,
and he was sorry for L6onie ; he saw she was tenderly devoted
to her mother, and he felt instinctively that when the position of
affairs broke upon her it would be a terrible blow. But it was
no business of his to interfere.
They had been about a month at Petitgare when L6onie's
eyes were opened brusquely one morning. She came unex-
pectedly on her mother and the captain sitting close together in
a sheltered spot, he holding her hand while he read to her out
of some French book ; she was overlooking the page, and stop-
ping him now and then playfully with a correction. They did
not see L6onie, though she was close to them, near enough to-
hear what they were saying. ** Le goovernemong fronsay," read
the captain. " Gou-ver-ne-ment franqais^' corrected Mme. DuhaK
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6i2 Captain Parlybrick's Courtship. [Aug.,
Ion, making him repeat each syllable distinctly. L^onie took it
all in at a glance. She could not utter even an exclamation, but
stood rooted to the spot, struck dumb with dismay and disgust
Her first impulse was to rush forward and snatch her mother's
hand from that odious grasp ; but she conquered it, and, stifling
the emotion that swelled her heart almost to bursting, she step-
ped quietly away without betraying her presence. As she
walked home by the beach the sea and the sky seemed to be
spinning round her. What was she to do? Was there, indeed,
anything to be done ? The only thing that suggested itself to
her was that they should leave Petitgare at once ; but her mo-
ther, most likely, would not be inclined to do this ; and, limp and
inert as Mme. Duhallon was, she could, as L6unie knew, put
forth on occasions that passive strength of resistance which is
the toughest and strongest of all forces to pull against. And
even if she consented to come away that man would come after
them. It was all his doing. The notion that her mother had
fallen in love with him was so revolting to the girl's filial reve-
rence and to her common sense that she kept protesting to her-
self it was impossible ; there was something positively unnatural
in the idea of a woman of Mme. Duhallon's age having a lover,
while her daughter, in the springtide of youth, was still waiting
for the romance of life to begin. The whole odium of the folly
was on Captain Parlybrick's side ; he was making love to Mme.
Duhallon, who, in her foolish good-nature and love of being
made much of, had tolerated his designing overtures. Of
course it could only be her money he was after. But how was
L6onie to break off this absurd and humiliating comedy, and
make her mother realize the danger she was in ? A word of
passionate appeal, of warning, might only wound her self love
and move her languid inertia to dogged, inexorable resistance.
In her perplexity L^onie avoided her mother for the rest of the
morning, and when she met Captain Parlybrick in the afternoon
the cold, contemptuous hostility of her manner at once warned
him that he had been found out.
" There is no time to be lost now," he said to himself, and
before the sun went down into the sea he had proposed to Mme.
Duhallon and been accepted.
The blow was not much softened to L6onie by the few hours'
preparation that had gone before. She knew that it was per-
fectly useless to try to move her mother from the folly she was
bent on : it would have been as easy to argue back the sea and
dissuade the waves from breaking on the beach ; but it was not
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in human nature to give up the love and the supremacy that had
hitherto been all her own, without making one desperate effort
to retain them. She prayed, she wept, she upbraided, she fell at
her mother's feet and implored her to reflect, to wait a little
while before she took this irrevocable step. It was worse than
useless. Mme. Duhallon grew excited and hysterical, and de-
clared that she was " ready to faint."
*• You ought to have some feeling for me, knowing how ner-
vous and easil}' upset I am," she protested ; " but you have al-
ways had your own way and never considered me. But I mean
to be happy now and to have some one to love me ! "
L6onie had been prepared for much, but not for this. She
was cut to the heart. There was no more to be said. There
was nothing to be done. She rose from her knees and dried
her eyes, and nerved herself to meet the inevitable.
Mr. Silverbar was very kind and sympathetic. He felt a
twinge of remorse in presence of the girl's misery. Who
knows? — might it not all have come from that suggestion of his,
made in jest to the captain, and carried out so promptly and suc-
cessfully ?
"My dear young lady," he said, "you must not take it to
heart as such a terrible calamity. In the first place, you won't,
in all probability, have long to put up with it ; you will be car-
ried off one of these days to a home of your own. And, mean-
time, Parlybrick is not half a bad fellow ; your mother might
have fallen into worse hands. He will take care of her. I know
his nephew well, and 1 have always heard him speak of Parly-
brick in terms of respect and affection. Don't treat him like an
enemy, my dear. He may prove a useful friend to you. And I
have no doubt but that he will be kind to your mother ; he seems
really very spooney on her."
This last argument was a mistake ; it was the captain's crown-
ing offence in L6onie's eyes. What right had this strange man
to be "spooney" on her mother? It was disgusting, it was
odious to think of. Still, it had to be borne, and L6onie called
her pride and her good sense to the rescue, and, after the first
burst of indignation and grief had subsided, she resolved to fol-
low Mr. Silverbar's advice and not to make an enemy of the
captain by treating him as such.
" At any rate," she said, her sense of fun asserting itself,
** we shall now find out why he is so bent on mastering the pre-
positions ! "
Mr. Silverbar placed his legal services at the disposal of the
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6i4 Captain Parlybricx's Courtship. [Aug.,
widow for the drawing up of the settlements, etc. ; but they
were declined with thanks. When the subject was broached by
the captain to Mme. Duhallon, he declared that she burst into
tears and became so hysterical that she quite alarmed him.
** She insists on leaving everything in my hands," he said to Mr.
Silverbar ; " and she is so awfully fond of me I do not like to go
against her wishes."
"Fudge and nonsense I" said Mr. Silverbar, with a lawyer's
contempt for this sentimental disregard of the protection of the
law, and irritated by the danger to which the silly woman was
deliberately exposing her daughter. " However, if she chooses
to behave like a fool, that is no reason why you should be sus-
pected of behaving — unhandsomely in the matter. What do you
mean to do ? If you don't like to insist on settlements, which
would be the proper, legal course to pursue, you can make your
will the day of your marriage, and secure Mrs. Parlybrick's pro-
perty to herself and her daughter. There would be an air of
magnanimity about that, perhaps, that would please her."
" That is a good idea," replied the captain ; ** I will do that.
You will draw up the will for me at once, and I will let you have
it as soon as the knot is tied."
" All right," said Mr. Silverbar, thankful to have rescued
L6onie from a position that, to him, seemed a very perilous one.
The will was duly executed and delivered to Mr. Silverbar's
keeping the day that Mme. Duhallon became Mrs. Parlybrick.
The marriage took place at Boulogne, from the pretty house
that M. Duhallon had built for his wife. L6onie was not present.
It was settled, agreeably to all parties, that she should go to stay
with friends in England till all was over and the newly-married
couple had returned from their honeymoon, which they were to
pass in Switzerland.
They had been home nearly a month when L6onie joined
them here. She felt like a deposed princess coming back
to the kingdom where her throne was occupied by another.
The new potentate seemed, however, very anxious to propi-
tiate her. He went to meet her at the boat, and gave her a kiss
when she held out her hand to him. L6onie was inclined to
return the impertinence by a box on the ears. It was a liberty
he had no right to take, and his bumptious, master-of-the-house
air as he imprinted the sonorous smack on her cheek was insuf-
ferable. She submitted to it in silence, but he saw that his atten-
tion was not appreciated. They talked good-humoredly, how-
ever, on their way to the house, where Mrs. Parlybrick, looking
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very youthful in a beautiful dress, stood waiting to welcome her
child home.
When the two were u{>stairs in L6onie's room she laid a
hand on her mother's shoulders, and, holding her out at arms'
length, took a wistful, searching look at her.
** Now, tell me the truth, little mother," she said : " has the
captain been taking as much care of you as I did ? "
Mrs. Parlybrick answered her first with a kiss. "Almost,"
she said.
" And now tell me something else : have you found out why
he wants so badly to master the prepositions?"
** No, dear, I have not. I really believe it is pure love of the
prepositions."
" Has he mastered them ? "
** Not quite — " with some hesitation ; " the fact is, he has been
too busy trying to master me."
" Then he has given up talking French ? What a mercy ! "
" Oh ! no, darling," said Mrs. Parlybrick quickly. " We never
talk anything else ; and you and I must always speak French
when he is present. For my sake, L6onie ! " she added, with a
beseeching look that went to the girl's heart. It was evident
her mother had been more easily mastered than the prepositions.
Things passed off pleasantly enough that evening. L6onie
had a great deal to tell about her visit to England, and the cap-
tain listened complacently, enjoying the good lesson in French.
Next morning he had his letters and newspapers to occupy
him during breakfast ; then he had his French lesson ; but the
moment this was over L6onie's plumes began to ruffle. It was
intolerable to see this strange man taking the upper hand in the
house, ordering everything ** as if he were master of the whole
place," thought L^onie, forgetting that he was master ; it was
disgusting to hear her mother call him *' Fred," and still worse
to hear him calling her " Sherry " — he meant ck/rie, but he pro-
nounced it sherry. This term of endearment was near bringing
about a violent explosion that very day at dinner. Mrs. Parly-
brick asked L6onie if she would have some cucumber ; she said,
•* No, thank you"; upon which the captain said, " I will have
some. Sherry."
" It is beside you," said L6onie.
** What?" said the captain.
" The sherry ; I thought you asked for it."
"He means me, dear," interposed Mrs. Parlybrick, alarmed
by this opening shot.
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6i6 Captain Parlybrick's Courtship. [Aug.,
" Why does he call you after the wine?'* inquired Lfeonie,
pretending not to understand.
** He calls me cMrie,'' explained her mother nervously.
" Then you ought to teach him to pronounce it properly, or
else people will be always passing the decanter when he calls to
you."
The captain looked exceedingly angry. He did not address
L6onie during dinner, and spent the evening reading his abomi-
nable French to Mrs. Parly brick and making her correct him.
The next morning he wrote to Mr. Silverbar and complained
of L6onie. ** I am afraid," he said, ** that, as far as she is con-
cerned, I have made a mistake. She seems determined not to
help me on a bit in my French. I must only work the harder
with my master, who assures me I am getting on splendidly."
This master was a great blessing to the family. The captain
spent two hours every morning with him, and after lunch he
went out on horseback, and the rest of the afternoon he got
through going about talking to any French people he knew, and
picking up new words and idioms, so that it was only in the
evening he inflicted his society on L6onie. He really gave her
no reason to complain of him, except that he had married her
mother and talked vile French. Otherwise he was always civil,
and would have been affectionate if she had let him. He was
naturally good-tempered, like most self-indulgent people ; he en-
joyed a soft life, and his wife's income, added to his own three
hundred a year, gave him all the luxuries he delighted in.
Lfeonie had been about a month at home when the captain re-
ceived a letter from Bob Jefferton, saying he had just arrived in
London on three months* furlough.
" We must have him over at once," said the delighted uncle.
" Bob is the best of good fellows. You'll like him awfully.
Sherry."
Sherry said she had no doubt she would, and cordially second-
ed the captain's desire to have him over. There was something
touching in the elderly man's fresh delight at the prospect of
seeing his nephew. Even Leonie was melted by it.
" I dare say he is a horrid bore," was her private reflection ;
** but, at any rate, he will take bore No. i off our hands.*'
Nevertheless it was with a little flutter of excitement that, a
few evenings later, she sat waiting for the appearance of bore No.
2 in the pretty salon, which was enlivened for the occasion with
a festal display of lights. When his step sounded on the stairs
L6onie turned instinctively to the glass, touched her braids and
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shook out her skirts, and advagced to receive her mother's
guest.
** This is my nephew, Bob Jefferton ; my step-daughter, Mile.
Doohallon," said the captain, as, buttonholing his guest, he
fussed in like a policeman who had captured a thief. The
young lady and the young gentleman bowed to each other.
L6onie saw at a glance that " Bob ** was the very opposite of
what she had expected ; he was a complete contrast to his uncle,
both in appearance and manner. The young Indian officer was
tall, slim, and fair ; he was a little shy at first, but this soon wore
off, and before he had been an hour in the room Bob was quite
at his ease and had made a most agreeable impression on both
the ladies. Dinner was announced, and he took Mrs. Parlybrick
down-stairs. The captain seized the opportunity of whispering
to L6onie, " Isn't he a nice fellow, now ?'* And L6onie, cordiall)|i
enough, admitted that he was very pleasant. Bob was extremely
entertaining during dinner. The captain, who was bursting with
pride, drew him out about his life in India, his tiger-hunting and
other stirring adventures, which the young man related with
great spirit and a quiet humor that was very sympathetic.
When they returned to the drawing-room the captain, bent on
showing off all Bob's accomplishments, asked him to sing one of
those comic songs he had been famous for in earlier days. Mrs.
Parlybrick insisted, and Bob, after some show of resistance,
allowed himself to be persuaded, and sang a couple of buccaneer-
ing songs with great success ; after that he and L6onie sang a
duet together, and so the evening with bore No. 2 passed off
quite brilliantly.
** He is too charming ! *' cried Mrs. Parlybrick as she wished
L6onie good-night ; " but 1 knew he must be, Fred is so fond of
him."
But Fred, fond as he was of his nephew, could not, of course,
sacrifice the prepositions to him ; he worked away at them for
his usual two hours next morning, and meanwhile Bob was sent
out, with L6onie as an escort, to see the town and take a walk
by the sea. The two were very glad of the opportunity. They
had a wonderful sense of youth and fun in common. As they
stood on the ramparts, looking out at the white horses that were
racing in the tide, L6onie said :
" Mr. Jefferton, there is something I should very much like
to ask you."
" What is that, Mile. Duhallon?" said Bob, looking as if there
were something he should very much like to tell her.
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6i8 Captain Parlybrick' s Courtship. [Aug.,
'* I want badly to know whji your uncle is so bent on the con-
quest of the French language?" There was a twinkle in her e3'e
as she looked at Bob, and Bob's eye, obeying a law of nature, be-
gan to twinkle too.
" I have not the remotest idea ! " he said very solemnly ; *' but
I believe it is in the nature of man to be always bent on the con-
quest of something." They both burst out laughing. After
this they began to feel very confidential.
In the afternoon Bob went for a ride with his uncle, and con-
gratulated him, with entire sincerity, on having found such a
pleasant home and such a nice wife.
"Yes," assented the captain, " she is a nice creature, and she
is awfully fond of me ; but she does not get me on in my French
as I expected. The fact is, I was rather taken in on that point
Jt was only after I had proposed that I found out they both
spoke English as well as French. It was a great sell, for it was
that — the French, I mean — that first put it into my head to think
of marrying her. But, of course, Mrs. Parlybrick did not know
that,'* he added, not wishing to blacken his wife too much in Bob's
eyes.
Bob was sorry for Mrs. Parlybrick, and rather ashamed for
his uncle.
Music makes a delightful and dangerous opportunity. No-
thing makes hearts beat in unison like voices singing in unison.
There were more duets that evening, and more walks and talks
next morning, and so on every day, and by the end of the week
L6onie and Bob were like old friends. The captain was de-
lighted to see the young folks so intimate, and when Bob spoke
of going he protested vehemently, and Mrs. Parlybrick joined
so cordially in the protest that Bob, after a decent feint at resist-
ance, consented to prolong his visit from a week to a month.
" And then we shall see," said the captain.^ But the very next
morning came a telegram from the War Office calling Bob back
to London " immediately." He was greatly annoyed and he was
greatly perplexed ; he had not the least idea what the summons
meant ; he was not conscious of any breach of rules that he could
be called to order for. However, the mystery would soon be ex-
plained ; there was nothing to do for the moment but obey the
order and take the boat for Folkstone.
** Telegraph at once what it is all about," said the captain, as
he shook hands with his nephew on board the steamer, " and say
by what boat we are to expect you back."
Mr. Jefferton promised ; but he was only able to fulfil one
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part of the promise. " Fighting at the Cape. Regiment ordered
on. Starting to join it/* was the message he wired to Boulogne
next day. It was a great disappointment to them all, but most
of all to L6onie. The shock of discovering what a place Robert
Jeflferton had taken in her life was almost as great as the pain
of the disappointment. But the latter soon predominated, and
brought with it a whole procession of other pains, doubts, and
Slings and humiliations. Did Bob care for her as she did for
him ? Had she unconsciously betrayed to him how much she
cared ? If so, did he despise her for it ? If he cared at all for
her, why had he not said anything or made a sign of some sort
before putting half the world between them ? He could not
have cared a straw ! And yet that day on the beach, and that
other day when she drove him to the Abbaye, and he talked to
her about his little sister who died when he was a boy — he must
surely have felt great sympathy with her to have opened his
heart to her in that intimate and spontaneous way ? But then,
again, sympathy was not love ; you may feel great sympathy with
people, and yet be a long way off from loving them. She herself
had great sympathy with Mr. Silverbar, for instance, but she
did not love him. The more she puzzled over the problem the
farther she seemed to get from solving it. Her great terror,
from the moment she found out the secret of her heart, was that
any one else should find it out. In her anxiety to hide the wound
she was ashamed of, L6onie played the hypocrite, and talked of
Robert's departure with an indifference that sounded ill-natured
to the captain, who was so distressed at losing him that for sev-
eral days he kept forgetting himself and lapsing into English in
his lamentations. He set down L^onie's behavior to her natural
perverseness and want of sympathy with him. Had he known
how keenly she was suffering it would have touched his heart,
which was kindly at the core, and created a bond between them
that might have bridged over the gulf made by the prepositions.
But she would have died of her pain rather than let the captain
suspect it. She shrank into herself, and appeared unsympathetic
and even hostile, when she was only nervous and miserable and
making superhuman efforts to keep up. The strain told on her
looks and manner so visibly that any two people less self-ab-
sorbed than the captain and Mrs. Parlybrick must have noticed
it ; but neither of them saw anything. The captain worked
away at his French out loud of an evening, floundering through
a swamp of genders, verbs, and prepositions, all at loggerheads
and running riot on his exercise-book ; and L6onie would never
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620 Captain Parlybrick' s Courtship. [Aug.,
come to the rescue, but go on drawing her needle through her
canvas with the regularity of an automaton. It was most exas-
perating to the captain. Sometimes he would exclaim queru-
lously, like a child that could not make its sum add up: " You
really might help me, L6onie ! *' Thus adjured, L6onie would
look up from her tapestry, inquire into the difficulty, and after
a short, technical explanation, given so clearly that it made the
captain long for more, she would resume her work. Mrs. Par-
lybrick, who was by the way of preparing him for the morrow's
lesson, was generally either fast asleep on the sofa or, half-asleep,
nodding in her chair. ^
" My dear," she would say to L^onie when they were alone,
" I wish you would be a little kinder to Fred ; he feels very
much that you don't take an interest in his French.**
In due course there came a letter from Robert announcing
his safe arrival. He wrote in high spirits ; there was not the
faintest undertone of sentiment in the short letter; he was full of
Kaffirs and of sanguinary satisfaction at the prospect of slaugh-
tering them, and of the possible promotion to come after the
slaughter.
** He has forgotten me as if he had never seen me," thought
L6onie; and she hated herself for not being able to forget, too.
But she could not. The long silence that followed this letter only
made her hunger the more for tidings. She thought of Robert
JeflFerton all day ; she dreamed of him all night. She suspected
that the captain had news, and that out of sheer ill-nature he
would not say so. She longed to ask him if he had heard from
India, but she dared not trust herself to put the question. She
was afraid to pronounce Robert's name. She tried it when she
was alone. Sometimes, in her own room, she would say out
loud: "Have you heard from Mr. Jefferton?" or " How odd
that Mr. JeflFerton has not written again !" but her voice sounded
conscious and unsteady ; she felt sure it would betray her. Even
" I wonder you don't hear from the Cape " seemed too personal
to trust herself to utter. It was, of course, possible that the
captain had no more news than she had; still, it was unlikely.
Unable to bear the silence and suspense any longer, L6onte de-
termined at last to ask her mother if there had been no letters.
The captain was sure to tell her if there had been ; they were a
very aflfectionate couple, and had grown more so of late. L6onie
had felt as if this closer union was isolating her from her mother;
still, her mother was her mother, and she made up her mind to
speak to her about Robert and trust her secret to her. The
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1887.] Captain Parlybrick's Courtship. 621
misery of suspense and separation would be easier to bear if she
could open her heart to some one about it ; and surely her mother
would sympathize with her and respect her confidence. She,
who was so extremely romantic in her own case, would be re-
sponsive to the romance of her child. L6onie waited one morn-
ing till the captain had gone out for his ride — after shouting out
his usual •* Au revoir, Sherry ! " from the street up to the win-
dow where " Sherry '* stood to see him mount and ride off— and
then she came down from her own room to the drawing-room,
where Mrs. Parlybrick had already gone back to her sofa, and was
comfortably reclining against a couple of cushions, fingering
her crochet.
*• Mamma, I want to have a little talk with you," said L6onie,
drawing a low chair beside the sofa, *• but I want you first to
promise me to keep what I am going to say a secret."
"My dear! a secret?" repeated Mrs. Parlybrick, preparing
to be nervous.
" Yes. You must promise not to speak of it, even to the
captain."
" My dear L6onie ! This is very serious. I don't see how I
can promise you that. It is the duty of a wife to have no secrets
from her husband."
** But I am your child, mamma. Have you no duty to me? "
"Certainly ; and I thought, I really did think, I had always
done my duty to you as a mother. How oddly you are talking,
L6onie ! What can this secret be about? It is making me quite
nervous."
" It need not do that, mamma. There is nothing in it that
need agitate you ; it only concerns myself, and — and it will be a
great comfort if I may open my heart to you about it ; but you
must promise me not to say anything to Captain Parlybrick."
*' I don't see how I can do that. Fred is very sensitive ; he
would be quite hurt if he thought I had a secret from him ; and,
besides, it is my duty to tell him everything. You cannot un-
derstand the feelings of a wife towards a loving husband."
"No; but I thought I did understand the feelings of a
mother towards a loving child," said L6onie, her voice trembling
a little.
" What can you mean ? " said Mrs. Parlybrick, growing very
nervous and excited. " It is most ungrateful of you to talk in
this way. I have always been a perfect mother to you, and let
you have your own way in everything ; and you have been very
selfish and neglectful of me latterly, and I have never reproached
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622 Captain Parlybric^s Courtship. [Aug.,
you. If it were not for dear Fred's tender care I don't know
what I should do ; but he loves me dearly, and it would be most
ungrateful of me to have secrets from him ! "
** In that case I will not burden you with mine," said L6onie,
rising and putting away her chair ; ** but I have a right to ask, to
exact, mamma, that you will not repeat to your husband the
little that I have said "
" This is the way you speak to your mother? What have I
done to be treated with such disrespect ? "
*^ I have shown you no disrespect, mamma; but as it seems I
count for nothing in your life now, I will never again trouble
you with anything that concerns me." The girl's heart was full
to bursting as she walked deliberately out of the room, deaf to
her mother's feeble wailing after her to come back and say what
she meant.
After this scene the mother and daughter drifted impercepti-
bly asunder. L^onie suffered, but made no complaint, and was
careful to avoid giving any cause for complaint. But she felt
that her heart was closing against her mother and hardening
against the captain ; it was losing its sweetness, because it was
letting go its love. She was losing her patience with the captain,
which had been sustained by her love for her mother; the sound
of his voice mouthing his villanous French was growing every day
more intolerable. Sometimes, of an evening, when he sat ham-
mering away with his book of prepositions, it was all she could
do not to snatch the book out of his hands and fling it into the
fire. She grew to hate that book with the sort of personal spite
one feels towards a vicious live thing that can hurt and is always
getting in the way.
One morning she ran down to the drawing-room to fetch
a letter she had left there the night before. After searching
everywhere she found it at last in the book of prepositions ; the
captain had evidently put it there to mark his place. L6onie
shut up the book and flung it down on the table. ** You beast !
How I do hate you ! " she said, thumping the poor book with
the angry petulance of a child.
" I am sorry my book is so disagreeable to you," said a voice
behind her.
L6onie started, and, turning round, beheld the captain in the
doorway. He strode across the room, took up his book, and
walked off with it in dudgeon. L6onie said nothing till he was
gone, then she fell into a chair and exploded in a fit of smothered
laughter.
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1887.] Captain Parlybrick^s Courtship. 623
The captain carried his book and his wounded feelings
straight to Mrs. Parly brick.
** I can't think why the girl hates rac so/' he said, much
aggrieved.
" She did not say she hated you, dearest,'* pleaded his wife.
" Nonsense, Sherry ! * Love me, love my book.' She said she
hated my book ; she called it a beast ! If you could have seen
the way she thumped it! I could see she was wishing it
was I."
Mrs. Parlybrick pitied herself very much for having to hear
these complaints, and blamed L6onie for not behaving better to
Fred. The two did not speak after this for the rest of the day.
The next morning, when the captain had gone out for his
ride, Mrs. Parlybrick remarked that he was not looking well,
that she was a little anxious about him.
"1 did not notice that he looked ill," said L6onie; "what
does he complain of ? "
" Oh ! nothing. He won't admit that he is not perfectly
well ; he laughs at me, and says he means to bury us all ; that his
ancestors have all been extraordinarily long-lived people, and
that he is safe to outdo them all and live to be a hundred ; that
every organ in his body is as sound as a bell."
" Well, in that case, what are you uneasy about ? "
•* I don't know exactly. Perhaps I am over-anxious ; but he
looks pale, and he has been very languid lately, and — 1 can't say
what it is, but he is changed. 1 think a trip to London might do
him good."
L6onie looked at the captain after this conversation, and she
recognized that her mother was right : he was decidedly altered.
So true it is that we may live with people, and look at them all
day long, and never see them. It is only the eyes of love that
always see those they look at. L6onie felt a relenting towards
the captain, and held out the olive-branch to him that afternoon
in the shape of a correction in some sentence he was stumbling
through to the servant ; but he took no notice of the overture :
he was evidently too deeply oflFended to be readily appeased.
" I think you are right, mamma," L6onie said to her mother.
** The captain looks pale, and he is black under the eyes. Try
and make him run over for a few days to Mr. Silverbar. He
always enjoys that."
This was true. The captain was fond of Mr. Silverbar, and
he could talk about Bob to him, for Bob wrote to him oftener
than to any one else. When Mrs. Parlybrick proposed that he
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624 Captain Parl ybrici^s Courtship. [Aug. ,
should take the boat and go over and spend a week with him, as
he had a standing invitation to do, the captain replied :
"That is just what I was thinking of doing. 1 want badly to
see Silverbar."
He took the boat that evening. He stayed two days in Lon-
don, and came home in good spirits, but still looking pale and
tired. A few days after his return the maid ran up to L6onie*s
room in great agitation.
** Come, please, mademoiselle ! " she said in a breathless
voice. " Monsieur is ill in the dining-room. I have not called
madame."
L6onie flew down the stairs with a sudden presentiment of
evil. The captain was in a chair before his writing-table, his
head fallen forward on his breast, his right arm hanging. He
had been in the act of writing when he fainted ; the pen had
dropped from his hand and lay on the carpet. L6onie tore open
his cravat and opened the window, and then she and the maid
applied restoratives and waited anxiously for a sign of returning
consciousness.
" Shall I go for madame?" asked the girl at last in a whis-
per.
" No ; wait a little.'*
As L^onie said this the captain opened his eyes and turned
them on her, first blankly, but then with a look of strange inten-
sity. They seemed almost to speak.
" Lfeonie ! " he said, gasping painfully, ** I am sorry I — O my
God ! — is this — death ? Forgive me ! I — "
His head fell heavily on his breast. All was over!
It was the first time L^onie had ever seen death. The shock
was very great. It seemed as if the world stood still, as if the
wheel of life could never be set going again with the old careless
speed. To her mother the shock of so sudden a death would
have been terrible, even if she had had the remote warning of the
presence of organic danger in the captain's health ; but neither
she nor he had had the faintest suspicion of any such danger.
Only that very morning he had laughed at her remark that she
must take him to some watering-place in the summer; he had
assured her that he meant to bury L^onie's grandchildren, little
dreaming that, as he spoke, the death-watch was ticking treach-
erously in his heart, telling away the few hours he had yet to
live.
Everything that had to be done now devolved on L^onie.
She gave the orders for the funeral, wrote all the letters, took
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1887.] Captain Parlybrick' s Courtship. 625
all the trouble oflF her mother's hands. Mrs. Parlybrick's
strength was barely suflScient to carry her through the fatigue
of trying on her weeds ; then she admitted a few intimate friends
to condole with her, as she lay on the sofa in her sable draperies,
mourning for Fred and wetting cambric handkerchiefs.
L6onie wrote to Mr. Silverbar and informed him of the cap-
tain's death, and said that she and her mother counted on his
kind services in managing for them the legal business that had to
be done. Instead of answering her letter the lawyer arrived in
person. He found her alone.
•* My poor child, this is a bad business," he said, and he drew
her to him and kissed her as if she had been his child.
L6onie was touched, but greatly surprised. The death of
Captain Parlybrick seemed no sufficient reason for the sympa-
thy which Mr. Silverbar's manner betrayed, nor the strong com-
passion that evidently stirred him. He inquired for her mo-
ther's health and her own, and then, with the air of a man who
wished to come to the point and get over a painful business at
once, he said abruptly :
** You wish me to communicate with Jefferton. I will do so,
since some one must do it. I am sure he will be as much shocked
and surprised as any of us. The whole thing is shocking beyond
anything in my experience. You have the will? Give it to me,
and I will make out a copy and send it to JeflFerton."
"The will ! " said L6onie. " I thought you had it, Mr. Silver-
bar. He told mamma he gave it to you the day after his mar-
riage."
" So he did, but— Has he left no other instructions? Have
you found nothing of a later date? "
" No, nothing. I have turned out every drawer of his, poor
man, but I have not found the smallest memorandum."
" Ah ! " The interjection sounded like a breath of relief.
" In that case I have only to administer the will in my posses-
sion. You know, perhaps, that it only concerns your mother's
property. No mention is made of the captain's own pro-
perty."
" But what had he to do with mamma's? All that she had
was her own. The captain could have nothing to say to it."
** Oh ! yes, he had ; but that is neither here nor there now.
We have only to carry out the law concerning his property.
One-third of it comes to your mother, and the remainder goes to
JeflFerton as heir and nearest of kin."
" Mamma won't have any of it," said L^onie. " She says it
VOL. XLV.— 40
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625 Captain Parlybrick^ s Courtship. [Aug^,,
would not be fair to take what belongs by right to his family
when she has enough of her own."
" But it is hers according to law.'*
** She does not care about the law ; she prefers to do what is
right. She will let it all go to Mr. JeflFerton."
" Pshaw ! nonsense !" was the lawyer's angry rejoinder.
But Mrs. Parly brick maintained what L6onie had said, so
Mr. Silverbar, mentally voting them a pair of silly fools, but
glad enough that Bob Jefferton should profit by their folly,
wrote to inform him that he had come into three hundred a year.
After this things fell back into the old quiet tenor, as if no-
thing had ever interrupted it. The mother and daughter re-
sumed their old relations ; L6onie took the management of the
house, all the trouble and responsibility of their common life, on
her hands once more, and Mrs. Parly brick took back the staflF
that she had thrown away so ungratefully six months ago, and
leaned on it as formerly with all her weight of weakness. It
seemed quite natural to her to depend again on L6onie for
everything, and she found L^unie just as ready as before to
think and act for her. There was no change outwardly, and Mrs.
Parlybrick never looked below the surface of things in any di-
rection. But L6onie was changed. She could not forget in a
moment that a stranger had stepped in between them, and that
her mother had set her aside for him. There was no need to
fear a betrayal of her secret now, and she longed more than ever
to open her heart, to -get that touch which one woman can only
get from another. But she could not speak to Mrs. Parlybrick ;
it was too soon yet. Perhaps later the wound might heal ; but
now ** Fred's" widow stood too distinctly between her and her
mother. She was very gentle and attentive, so much so that
Mrs. Parlybrick thought she was trying to atone for her selfish
behavior in dear Fred's lifetime.
** Dear child," she said one morning, when L6onie had been
fagging up and down stairs for an hour, fetching her smelling-
bottle and her spectacles and her book, and a variety of odds
and ends that might just as well have been fetched in one jour-
ney, if Mrs. Parlybrick had thought of them or of L6onie's legs
— ** dear child, I want to tell you that 1 quite forgive all I had to
complain of during the winter ; I have forgotten everything ex-
cept that you are my child and that 1 am your mother, and that
I love you dearly."
L6onie took the kiss and the forgiveness without a word of
resentment or of thanks.
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1887.] Captain Parlybrick' s Courtship. 627
Two months went by, and one morning, a sharp morning in
spring, when the sun was shining and the east wind blowing,
L^onie ran down to the dining-room to fetch a volume out of the
book-case. She drew it out so quickly that another came with
it and fell at her feet. She picked it up, and saw that it was the
book of prepositions.
" Poor old book, how I used to hate you ! " she said with a
remorseful smile, and she opened it to look at the ongs and dougs
that used to come twanging from the dumb pages. "What is
this?" she said, coming upon a sheet of folded note-paper; the
outer page was blank, but inside it was closely written on.
" Some old exercise of the poor captain's." She looked at it and
turned pale. At the head of the page was written in the cap-
tain's hand : " My last will and testament'' After a few words of
legal formula the testator said : •* I give and bequeath to my
nephew, Robert Jefferton, all my personal estate, including the
property held by my wife before her marriage [here followed the
list of Mme. Duhallon's investments, r^«/^^, railway shares, etc.],
my house in Boulogne with the plate, furniture, and linen there-
in. . . ." The will was duly signed and witnessed, and dated
ten days before the testator's death. L6onie read it again,
breathless and trembling. *' He must have been mad," she said ;
** how could he give and bequeath mamma's house and money,
and mine ? "
• Still, a horrible fear fastened on her that it was the act, not of
a madman, but of a vindictive man who knew the law and had
used it to a cruel purpose. But even if this sheet of note-paper
were a valid legal instrument, it was none the less a wicked and
dishonest one, and ought, as such, to be destroyed.
" I had better burn it and say nothing about it to mamma,"
thought L6onie, looking with scared, fixed eyes at the document.
A step approaching the door made her start ; she slipped the will
back into the prepositions, shut up the book and replaced it in
the book-case. It was like a bit of childish spite in the captain
to have made that detestable book the medium of this blow to
her.
" Of course it is only a bit of waste paper," she kept repeat-
ing to herself; "it is too absurd to admit for a moment that
such a dishonest, spiteful trick could have force of law." But in
her heart she was lull of doubt and fear. She could not face her
mother in this agitation. She went out, and remained out all the
afternoon.
What had happened about the will was this. The captain^
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628 Captain Parlybhick's Courtship. [Aug.,
in his angry mood, had gone to London and told Mr. Silverbar
that he meant to change his will, and in what sense.
" I have come over on purpose for you to make it," he said.
** 1 will not make it," replied the lawyer. ** 1 consider that it
would be a cruel and unwarrantable act of injustice in you to
make such a will, and I will not be a party to it. I decline to
execute it."
The captain was at first greatly oflFended ; but after some con-
versation he seemed to be appeased, and to recognize the justice
of Mr. Silverbar*s refusal, from his point of view. They parted
friendly ; but the lawyer was under the impression that he
meant to go somewhere else and have the will drawn up by a
less scrupulous agent. Under the belief that the captain had
done this, Mr. Silverbar was full of tacit sympathy and indigna-
tion when he met L^onie after the funeral. It was a surprise
and a relief to discover that no second will was forthcoming.
L6onie did not come in till dinner-time, and then she was
suffering from a severe headache and could touch nothing.
"You should not have stayed out in that east wind," said
Mrs. Parlybrick ; and L6onie agreed it was the east wind that
had done it. When they went up to the drawing-room she sat
looking into the fire, her headache sufficiently accounting for her
silence. Presently that mysterious current which runs between
human beings whose lives and S3'mpathies lie close together
turned Mrs. Parlybrick's thoughts towards the centre round
which L6onie*s were whirling in confused and bewildering
misery.
** I wonder we have not heard from Robert," she said. " I
suppose he wrote to Mr. Silverbar; but he ought to have written
to me : he owed me that mark of respect and sympathy. Perhaps
he is disappointed that his poor uncle did not leave him more."
L^onie's heart gave a sudden leap and then sank. " He got
more than his uncle could have left him," she said, speaking with
an effort.
•* Oh ! no. Fred might have left hin) some of my money."
" Your money, mamma ? My father's money ? "
•* It was Fred's from the day I married him. There was no
marriage settlement. He reminded me of that one day that he
was angry with you — you were very trying to my poor Fred
sometimes, dear. How frightened I was! I reproached myself
for being so confiding ; but I did him a wrong : he was too gene-
rous to revoke his will and to take advantage of his right to pun-
ish you."
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1887.] Captain Parlybrick' s Courtship. 629
** His right ! " repeated L6onie, with a vehemence that star-
tled her mother. "You call that a right? It would have been
a monstrous piece of dishonesty if he had given away your
money, my father's money, to a stranger! It would have been
disgraceful of him. But, of course, if he had done such a thing,
you would have burnt the will. That is all the harm it would
have done."
"Burnt the will! Why, child, that would be felony. They
send you to prison with hard labor for the rest of your life for
burning a will. A will is the law."
" The law ! Whose law ? Not God's law — not a will like
that ! The devil's law, perhaps." Her voice shook with excite-
ment. She had lost control over herself.
" How you do excite yourself, L6onie, and all about nothing ! "
said her mother. " It is most inconsiderate of you ; you know
how nervous I am. And it hurts me to hear you fly out against
my poor Fred for a thing he never did, though he might have
done it, only he was too kind-hearted and generous — dear, noble
fellow ! "
The servant came in with the tea, and L6onie, declaring her
head was much worse, said she must go to bed. She kissed her
mother with white lips and went up to her room, locked the
door, and, without lighting her candle, sat down on the edge of
her bed. There was light enough from the stars, for the curtains
were not drawn. Was it possible that this was true, that they
were both of them made beggars by that sheet of note-paper
down-stairs, and that it would be a deadly sin, a crime, to destroy
it ? She and her mother were to be turned houseless and pen-
niless on the world ; and it was by her mother's fault, and both
must suffer for it ! It did not occur to L^onie at this moment to
resent the folly that had brought this calamity on them both ;
pity for her mother was even now uppermost in her heart ; but
she felt crushed under the burden of the dreadful future that
rose before her in its cruel realities, under the burden of the
double life that she must henceforth provide for. How was she
to do it? She was well educated, but she had no talent that
could be turned into money suflBcient to support two people.
She saw herseU running about the town trying to get work — les-
sons, sewing, anything that would buy bread and pay for a
room with two beds ; she saw her mother's helpless misery ; she
heard her lamentations, her ceaseless repining and remorse.
All the sordid care and discomforts and hard privations of their
lot passed before her like a bad dream. Was it possible there
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630 Captain Parlybricx^s Courtship. [Aug.,
was no escape, no way of eluding this cruel and unjust fate? If
she could only speak to some one and take counsel ; it seemed
impossible but that there was something to be done. She
thought of Mr. Silverbar ; but he was a lawyer, and would, of
course, stand by the law, and she wanted some one who would
support her in breaking the law, in over-ruling it with the law
of God and human morality and society. The law of God com-
manded a father to provide for his child, so did the moral law ; it
was clearly a violation of both these laws for a stranger to come
in and rob the child of the provision made for her by the father
in obedience to divine ordinance and sacred and natural in-
stinct. " God cannot sanction such an act, not if all the lawyers
in England pronounced it legal," cried L6onie in her heart; "it
is a blind, irrational superstition to bow to such injustice and
call it the law. Why should I be sacrificed to a superstition? If
mamma were in India somewhere, the law would command her
to burn herself on the funeral pyre of her husband, and it would
be a crime if she refused to do it.*' She grew chilled and numb
from sitting in the cold, and got up and walked up and down
the room to warm herself. The house was perfectly silent. So
was the street. It was past midnight. She had been sitting
there since nine o'clock. The stars were ticking away dili-
gently in the dark blue sky. She stood at the window and
looked up at them, vaguely longing for some sign from their
luminous depths. If the spirit of the man who had driven her
to the terrible alternatives between which her will was oscillat-
ing — felony and beggary — were wandering anywhere near those
starry spheres, he might see her and pity her, and be permitted
to help her and atone for his evil deed. Surely he must repent
it now ? Surely he would undo it if he could ? Lfeonie start-
ed, and her heart gave a great leap; a light seemed to flash
straight down to her from the stars. " Repent ? He did re-
pent I" she cried. " He asked me to forgive him ; he felt he was
dying, and he gasped out with his dying breath, ^Forgive me / *
It must have been that I He would have told me to destroy the
will, if there had been time! I can see it all now. Thank God !
I can burn the will with a clear conscience, and mamma need
never hear anything about it. Oh, thank God ! "
She fell on her knees, sobbing violently. The reaction from
despair and the shuddering apprehension of guilt was so sudden
that it quite overpowered her ; but the copious flow of tears
brought relief, and soon she grew calmer, and undressed and
went to bed.
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1887J Captain Parlybrick's Courtship. 631
She slept soundly and late. It was Mrs. Parlybrick's self-
indulgent habit to take her chocolate in bed, so L6onie always
ate her breakfast alone. She was very glad to be alone this
morning. But somehow the deed she had to do there wore a
different aspect now from that which it had worn last night.
As she sat opposite the glazed book-case where the will was shut
up, the resolution, that had seemed so clear and straight after
that miserable watch by the starlight, had a dubious look.
No transcendental arguments about internal evidence and the
divine and moral and natural law could alter the fact that she
was going to perform an act criminal according to the establish-
ed law, and which would brand her as a felon if it were known.
There was a flaw in her moral theology somewhere; L6onie
felt it, though she could not put her finger on it. Suppose she
should find it out when it was too late ? She felt like a man
about to commit suicide to escape from a great sorrow, and who
stands hesitating on the water's edge, wondering how it will be
when he has taken the plunge into the dark abyss, and whether
what awaits him down below may not be worse than what he is
flying from. How would she feel when the deed was done?
If only she might try it first as an experiment before doing it ir-
revocably! But no; such a deed was like death: it could only
be done once, and, once done, it could never be undone. And
how if, when the deed was done, conscience should turn round
and accuse her and destroy her peace for evermore? She sat
looking at her untasted breakfast, excited, bewildered. The room
was bright and warm — a snug English dining-room, pleasant to
sit in. not merely a place to take meals in. It had never seemed
so pleasant before ; its rich red curtains, and soft carpet, and glow-
ing fire, its delicate fare and elegantly-appointed table, seemed
to represent all that she was going to lose, and to force upon her
the contrast of the lot she was going to accept— if she did not
drop the will into that coal-fire blazing in the steel grate.
Poverty, utter destitution, suffering and humiliation — this was
what she might save her mother from by burning that bit of
paper. ** If it had been only for myself I would not have done
it ; but for my mother's sake I must do it. The captain most cer-
tainly never meant her to suffer," she said. " Even if I am doing
wrong, the motive will justify me before God ; and if I sacrifice
ray own peace of mind for mamma's sake, I will bear it as an
atonement"
She drank off her tea, rose from the table, and went and
stood before the book-case, one hand on the key, the other laid
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632 Captain Parlybrick's Courtship. [Aug.,
open on her breast, as if pressing down the conflict that was
going on within it. She was very white, but there was a fixed,
resolute look in her face; for one minute she seemed to waver,
then she opened the book-case and took out the volume that
contained the will.
** I will write to Robert and tell him the truth," she said sud-
denly ; and she sat down at the writing-table in the window,
and wrote to Robert, copying out part of the will, that was
open before her.
When the letter was written she read it over, and after mus-
ing a little, ** That won't do ; it is like an appeal to him to spare
us," she said ; and she got up and walked to the fire, as if con-
sulting the red-hot coals; then, with a gleam of satisfaction,
she came back to the table, twisted up the letter and flung it
into the grate, and wrote another. This seemed to satisfy her,
and she closed the envelope. As she was addressing it a ring
sounded at the hall-door.
" Who can this bore be?" thought L^onie; and she slipped
the letter into her pocket, and the blotter with the will into the
drawer of the table, and drew out the key. She meant to take
the letter to the post herself, and stood waiting for the visitor
either to leave a message or to be shown up-stairs ; but, instead
of this, the dining-room door opened and Robert Jefferton walk-
ed in.
"You are surprised to see me?" he said, coming up to L6onie,
who stood like a statue, unable to articulate a wocd of greeting.
She gave him her hand mechanically, apparently unconscious
that he retained it in his; but Robert felt that it trembled. At
any rate, she was not quite indifferent to his presence.
** I have been so longing to see you," he said. " I was al-
most afraid to come ; I was afraid you had forgotten me."
Her hand was still in his, and still trembling, but she met his
ardent glance with a look so strangely direct and eager, so free
from the shyness of happy, responsive love, that Robert's hopes
ran down to zero.
** I had just written a letter to you," L6onie said, her eyes
still uplifted to his with that strange directness.
** To me ? Leonie ! "
" Perhaps you had better read it at once." She drew it from
her pocket and handed it to him.
In great surprise Robert opened it and proceeded to read it
where he stood. L6onie sat down, partly from inability to stand,
and partly that she might not seem to be watching him.
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1887.J Captain Parlybrick's Courtship. 633
** Good heavens ! Why, he must have been mad ! " exclaimed
Robert before he had got half through her letter. When he had
finished it he stood looking at L6onie in silence, crushing it in
his hand.
** L6onie," he said, in a low tone and without moving from
where he stood, " do you suppose I mean to take advantage of
this will ? "
She made no answer, but turned her eyes slowly towards
him. He read there that she had thought so.
"Where is the will? Have you got it?**
She unlocked the drawer, opened the blotter, and handed
him the sheet of folded note-paper.
" * Dear Mr. Jefferton— ' Why, this is another letter to me ! **
" What ! *' Lfeonie snatched it from him. It was the letter she
thought she had burned. Could it be— ? She ran to the grate,
picked up a charred fragment of twisted paper, and uttered a cry
of dismay. " My God ! / have burned the will! *' She stood there
holding her bit of blackened paper, the picture of guilt and ter-
ror.
There was something positively brutal in the glance of tri-
umphant satisfaction with which Mr. Jefferton surveyed poor
L6onie*s air of shame and supplication. •
•*0 Mr. Jefferton ! what am I to do?" she said, appealing to
him.
'* You have committed a grave offence. Mile. Duhallon,'* said
Robert, still with that diabolical gleam in his eye. " You have
taken from me what the law gave me, and that by an act which
the law calls felony."
" O Mr. Jefferton ! " The cry broke from her like a sob. She
crushed her hands together and turned away.
After a moment's pause her tormentor went on : ** You have
done me another personal wrong : you suspected me of being
devoid alike of principle and of heart, and you have robbed me
of the chance of proving that I was not."
L6onie tried to articulate something, but the words would
not come ; she was trembling like a culprit before a judge.
" You might have thought a little better of me than that ; you
might have trusted something to my honor,** Bob went on, his
voice betraying emotion. "If the case had been reversed I
should have trusted you ; I should not have suspected you of
being ready to jump at my rightful property, and taking ad-
vantage of the passing ill-temper of a man, who had all his life
borne the character of an honest man, to beggar me. Good
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634 Captain Parlybricj^s Courtship. [Aug.,
God ! here have I been all this time living on the dream that
you liked and respected me, and that I might some day persuade
you into loving me, and I come back to find that you despise
and hate me ! '*
'* O Bob ! *' L^onie clasped her hands and looked quickly
round; then, crimsoning to the roots of her hair, she looked
away.
"No? Then what am I to think? You write me down a
villain in every line of this letter." And Bob held it towards
her, crushed in his strong hand.
" I did not know — I did not mean — I was so unhappy and
bewildered — oh ! let me go," cried L6onie, and, bursting into a
paroxysm of tears, she turned to fly from the room.
But Bob intercepted her and caught her in his arms.
" L6onie ! Darling, forgive me ! I have been a brute, but I
must have been more or less than man not to take some ven-
geance on you after the way you have treated me ! Here have
I been loving you to distraction all this time, and enduring
agonies of suspense and impatience, and not only you prove that
you don't care twopence for me, but you coolly treat me as if 1
were a heartless rascal ! Look at me now, and say that you are
ashamed of yourself and that you love me-"
" No, I won't ! " said L6onie, struggling away from hira.
But Bob tightened his" grasp and folded her to his heart
"Say: *Bob, I beg your pardon, and I love you/ Say it this
minute, and I will commute your punishment, from the maxi-
mum that it deserves, to the minimum at my discretion : I will
let you off with marrying me. Bob Jtfferton."
L6onie ceased to struggle, and let her head drop on his
shoulder. Whether she made the desired confession or not, Bob
took for granted that she did, and kissed her again and again
with many endearing words and rapturous thanks. When at
last he gave her a chance of speaking, she looked up at him with
one of the old twinkles in her eye.
'* Bob," she said, " the poor captain has carried his secret
with him ; we shall never know why he was so set on the con-
quest of the prepositions."
" No," said Bob ; " but he has left behind him a secret that
we two must carry to our graves. Your mother must never
know that her husband robbed her and that her daughter com-
mitted felony.^ Kathleen O'Meara,
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1887] ^^^ Not Gold? 635
WHY NOT GOLD?
It is not merely land which, as Henry George expresses it,
is " the spontaneous gift of nature." The shoes on our feet, the
coat on our back, the roof above our head are as much the gift
of God as the ample river, the gorgeous landscape, the rich par-
terre, the lofty mountain, the sea " blasted with stormy winds."
If we were truly sensible of all our obligations to God, of all we
inherit from his bounty, we should never cease to worship him.
Our chief business should be praise.
To borrow an illustration Irom Henry George,* if the pen
with which I write these lines be a serviceable instrument in the
conveyance of my expressions ; if it be
" Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will,"
elegantly labored by an accomplished hand, polished and elastic;
if it be indebted to an operative for its elegance of form, what
would it be if the iron of which it was originally composed could
be magically subtracted from it ? Would it not resemble — to
use an Irish joke — ''a footless stocking without a leg " ? Would
it not be a nonentity ? I greatly admire the skill of the artisan
who fashioned the iron into this ** mighty instrument of little
men " ; but the substance of which it is made, torn from the
black caverns of the underlying rocks, could never be evolved
or called into existence by all the art of man. No human skill
could create iron. All the intelligence of all the nations of the
universe, all the powers of the human mind, could never give
existence to this morsel of cold metal. Here we see the insig-
nificance of man and the stupendous greatness of the Author
of the universe. The materials of the proudest habitations re-
semble the atom of metal of which this pen is composed. " The
cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces " are indebted to man
for their shape but to God for their material. This is equally
true of our food. We are as truly fed by the gratuitous bounty
of Heaven as were the Hebrews in the wilderness. The raw
material of everything we enjoy is the gift of the Creator; and,
compared to this, the petty improvements and peddling meta-
morphoses we make in the external appearances of things are in-
^ Progress and Poverty^ chapter i. book vii.
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6j6 Why Not Gold? [Aug.,
significant. The substance is God's, to whom we can never be
sufficiently grateful.
When Ovid describes the Phoenicians, in the early morning of
time, hewing down with many a stroke the nodding pine upon
the Syrian hills and plunging it into the tossing sea, fabricating,
hammer and axe in hand, a galley out of this progeny of the
forest — when Ovid describes all this it never occurs to the mag-
nificent poet that the toiling drudges who labored on the tim-
bers really created a galley ! They merely shaped the materials
which the sublime and adorable Author of the universe sup-
plied. Creation is the prerogative of the Deity. The ship
which the Phoenicians thus fabricated was as much the gift of
Heaven as the splashing waves swirling in angry foam and toss-
ing around its keel. When the Phoenician passengers on board
this ship landed on a desolate coast strewn with micaceous sand ;
when they lighted a fire to prepare their humble repast, and
converted unconsciously the sand into glass, they merited and
have received the gratitude of mankind. But how infinitely
greater should be our gratitude to Him whose thaumaturgfic
hand called into existence the materials of this beautiful crys-
tal!
So it is with all our possessions. The Lord and Master of
the universe is the giver of them all. In this respect the house
which we inhabit resembles the ship with which we navigate
the ocean. The substances of which it is composed cannot pos-
sibly be created by man. The granite foundations, the slated
roofs, the marble mantels, the graceful columns, have been ex-
humed from quarries in which they were hoarded ages ago for
the use of the ungrateful children of men who slight His inesti-
rhable bounties. Such is
" The low ingratitude of mean mankind.'*
Henry George informs us that land is the "spontaneous gift
of nature," called into objectivity by the Creator of the uni-
verse, the same who tessellated the cerulean with golden fires.
But not more so than wool or leather, stone, timber, or metal, or
the other materials on which men expend their energies. " Who
can add a cubit to his stature ? " asks Christ. And yet man owns
himself. "Who can make a blade of grass?" And yet even
George does not grudge the farmer his haystack. Who can
even tell what a blade of grass is?
*' Well hast thou said, Athena's wisest son,
All that we know is, nothing can be known."
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188;.] Why Not Gold? 637
The world is full of mysteries, but of all its multiplied prodi-
gies the most amazing is that the Creator made all these things
out of nothing.
As to man, what is more extraordinary in the history of man
than the efforts that were made during successive generations to
produce gold? During fifteen hundred years smutted alchem-
ists in smoky closets, gowned, bearded, and oracular, surround-
ed by a rabble rout of chemical paraphernalia — crucibles, retorts,
and alembics — wasted the treasures of confiding kings in fruit-
less efforts to make gold. There is an immense amount of ro-
mance connected with this interesting subject which must be fa-
miliar to all the readers of "good-for-nothing lore." For in-
stance, in his well-known play. Tin Alchemist, Jonson introduces
a character named Sir Epicure Mammon, who proudly boasts —
" This night Til change
AH that is metal in my house to gold,
And early in the morning will I send
To all the plumbers and the pewterers
To buy their tin and lead up, and to Lothbury
For all the copper.
Face. What ? And turn that, too ?
Mammon, Yes ; and I'll purchase
Devonshire and Cornwall,
And make them perfect Indies.
You admire ?
Surly, No, faith.
Mammon. Do you think I fable with you ?
I assure you he that has once the flower of the sun,
The perfect ruby which we call elixir.
Not only can do this, but by its virtue
Can confer honor, love, respect, long life."
Here we see how gold can be made out of lead. Another ex-
tract will teach us how gold can be made out of nothing — which
is, of course, much more important. If we do not profit by the
lucid instructions which a character named Subtile gives us in
the following extract, it is not his fault but ours :
" Subtile, There is on the one part
A humid exhalation materia liquida.
The unctuous water !
On th' other part a certain crass and viscous
Portion of earth ; both which concorporate
Do make the elementary matter of gold.
Which is not yet t\i^ propria materia^
But common to all metals aid all stones. 1
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638 Why Not Gold? [Aug.,
Of that airy
And oily water, mercury, is engendered
Sulphur of fat and earthy parts. These two
Make the rest ductile, malleable, extensive ;
And even in gold they are. For we do find
Seeds of them by our fire and gold in them."
This is very instructive. There can be no doubt but that if
every man had his pocket full of gold the horrible pauperism
which Mr. George depicts would be sensibly miiigated or disapn
pear. But gold could not be manufactured. Now, if this be
true — if gold be insusceptible of evolution by human industry,
if it cannot be made — why should it not be subject to the same
conditions as land ? Why should it not be common property ?
" Nature," says Henry George, " acknowledges no ownership in
man except as the result of exertion." Now, the unremitting
labors of the alchemists, carried on during fifte'en hundred years,
prove beyond all question that gold, like land, is ** the spontane-
ous gift of nature," and that as a consequence individuals have
no right to appropriate it.
We are persuaded that if Mr. George will adopt this princi-
ple, will substitute gold for land in the next edition of his elo-
quent treatise, his chances of the mayoralty of New York will
increase a hundred-fold. He will be the idol of the people — at
least the pauper portion. He will be received with shouts of
welcome, transports of enthusiasm, vastly surpassing anything
he has hitherto enjoyed, because there are thousands of men in
New York who covet the precious metals and have an insatiable
appetite for gold, while they look on land with coldness, indiffe-
rence, or disdain. A day is coming, we venture to assert, when
the vulgar fastidiousness, the ** degrading superstition," which
originated in the ignorance, barbarism, and darkness of the past
respecting meum and tuum will vanish from the face of society,
and men will stand liberated, regenerated, and disenthralled from
the degrading shackles with which they have been so long en-
cumbered. The arguments which have been so eloquently ap-
plied to private ownership in land will be slightly extended so as
to embrace the precious metals and everything else. ** The in-
justice of private property in land " has been shown by Mr.
George in one of his most eloquent chapters. It remains for
that accomplished journalist to show the equal injustice of private
property in gold. We venture to prophesy that some gifted dis-
ciple of Mr. George, if not himself, will write, with unanswer-
able logic, " The Political Economy of Theft," showing in the
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188;.] Why Not Gold? 639
clearest light what an egregious error it is to put the slightest
restraint on the furtive propensities of man — propensities implant-
ed in the human mind by the unknowable creative energy for the
most beneficial purposes. Let us ask for a moment what is
theft? It is a mute but energetic protest against the horrible
" injustice of private property " in goods or money. It is a phi-
losophic effort to ameliorate the condition of society by estab-
lishing a community of goods ! It is essentially philosophic in
its nature, and may trace up its genealogy through a long line of
martyrs and confessors to the brilliant mind of the eloquent
Plato. How many martyrs in every age have laid down their
precious lives to protest against the horrible injustice which
makes the essential necessaries of life the private property of
worthless individuals! It is heartrending to think of the mul-
titude of victims that have suffered cold, hunger, chains, and im-
prisonment as a reward for their laudable efforts to overturn a
principle which is subversive of human happiness — a principle so
unworthy of this aget)f electric lights !
So true is the observation of Carlyle : " The world, we fear,
has shown but small favor to its teachers ; hunger and nakedness,
perils and reviling, the prison and the poisoned chalice, have in
most times and countries been the market-price it has offered for
wisdom, the welcome with which it has treated those who have
come to enlighten and improve it.** Is it not unquestionable that
the jails of this country are filled with victims who are deprived
of liberty and branded with ignominy because with reference to
gold they entertain the very opinions which Mr. George has so
unanswerably enforced on the subject of land ? Is not this cer-
tain ? Are they not men incompris, men misunderstood and un-
appreciated ?
At one time in England, as every one is aware, the free-
trader — or, as he was slanderously misnamed, the ** smuggler**
— was regarded as a culprit, shot down by " revenue officers,**
seized by rude hands, captured with brutal violence, tried for
the violation of laws that were essentially unjust, imprisoned
for years or hanged on a gallows t How different it is now !
Owing to the revolution wrought in public opinion by the enlight-
ened labors of such benefactors of mankind as Bright and Cob-
den, free-trade is regarded at present as the glory of the British
nation and a blessing to the world I So it will be in future times
with many who in the present day are stigmatized with the dam-
ning epithet of " thief." Here we see the importance of Henry
George's book. It contains the germs ot a great moral revolu-
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640 W^y Nor Gold? [Aug.,
tion — the opening, as it were, of a new heaven and a new earth.
We regret that Mr. George has not hitherto directed the powers
of his strong and cultivated intellect to this particular branch
of his subject. Because to such a mind as his it must be as
facile as it would be effective. We are free to confess that wc
never understood, until we read Progress and Poverty, how much
philosophy is locked up in jails and in penitentiaries, and this
owing to the stupidity and ignorance and superstition of law-
makers and judges ! All that is wanted, however, is a slight
extension of the principles of Henry Greorge to justify in the
most satisfactory manner the ingenious and persecuted industry
of pocket-picking, to reform our legislation, to enlighten our
law-makers, and wipe this disgraceful blot for ever from the face
of civilization !
No truism has been more frequently repeated than that
denunciative of the folly of the alchemists during their fifteen
hundred years of fruitless experiment. It has been said a thou-
sand times that had they succeeded in making gold, that metal
would have immediately ceased to be valuable, because, owing
to the nature of the human mind, owing to our unalterable and
ingrained idiosyncrasy, it is impossible for our species to set
value on anything which is not the fruit of human exertion,
which is not an embodiment of labor, which often represents the
drudgery and degradation of our fellow-men. It is man that is
always valuable in the eyes of human beings — either the slave
himself, or, as Mr. George has shown, certain results of human
drudgery which we term wealth, and the evolution or genesis of
which is often more grinding and insupportable in its process thao
slavery in its most undisguised and hideous enormity. The
valiant, fierce, and irascible Achilles, as painted in the pages of
Homer, parades his slaves or myrmidons. These are his pride
and glory. He values himself on his mastery of men and his p)ower
of wielding and disposing of them as he will. This is what en-
courages him to hurl his defiance in the face of the avaS ardpwr
and overwhelm him with foul and scurrilous invective. He has
slaves whom the brilliant son of Peleus can marshal in armed
and rebellious war. He accordingly defies Agamemnon, " King
of men.'* In this age of hypocrisy we have no slaves, no myr-
midons, but we have the wealth which is the result, squeezed
out of human exertion — exertion of which Henry George, to do
him justice, has painted a most frightful picture: a picture that
ought to make men crimson with shame. We have no longer
any slave-owners. But to them has Succeeded a generation of
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labor-owners. They have managed to combine in the most
skilful, scientific, and cold-blooded manner the profits and advan-
tages of slavery without the expense and odium of that liiode
of utilizing human strength. The planter clothed and housed
his slaves. Need we say that the capitalist or manufacturer
does not house, clothe, or subsist his drudges ? This is the merit
of Adam Smith's Wealth of Nations. He is the founder and
father of this state of things, which the working-classes feel to be
the most cruel and intolerable of all forms of slavery, the calm, in-
tellectual wickedness of which is visible in every page of Adam
Smith as well as in every bombshell in Chicago. The popular-
ity of Henry George originates in the energy with which his
accomplished hand has torn the mask from our hypocrisy and
shown up our godless " civilization *' in all its hideous and re-
pulsive deformity.
It is a pity that he did not stop here : for if labor alone can
create value — Mr. Greorge's great principle — it follows as an in-
evitable consequence that as in every age of the world, from the
days of Abraham to our own,' men have bought land, land must
be a manufactured article quite as much as drygoods, hardware,
ships, or house property. Because men will and can buy nothing
but labor, crystallized in the substance of some useful or amusing
object. This was the doctrine of a greater philosopher than
Henry George— namely, John Locke, the author of the famous
Essay on the Human Understanding. Here is what he says, and
it is worthy of the deepest attention :
" Let any one consider what the diflference is between an acre of land
sowed with wheat or barley, or planted with tobacco or sugar, and an acre
of the same land lying in common without any husbandry upon it. I
think it will be but a very modest computation to say that of the products
of the earth, useful to the life of man, nine-tenths are the effects of labor.
Nay, if we will rightly consider things as they come to our use, and cast
up the several expenses about them, what in them is purely owing to
nature and what to labor, we shall find that in most of them ninety-
nine hundredths are wholly to be put down on account of labor. . . .
'Tis labor, then, which puts the greatest part of the value upon land, with-
out which it would be scarcely worth anything. Tis to labor we owe the
greatest part of its useful products ; for all that the straw, bran, bread of
that acre of wheat is more worth than the product of an acre of good land
which lies waste, is all the effect of labor* For it is not merely the plough-
man's pains, the reaper's and thresher's toil, and the baker's sweat that
is to be counted into the bread we eat. The labor of those who broke
the oxen, who digged and wrought the iron and stones, who felled and
framed the timber employed about the plough ; the mill, the oven, and
other utensils— must all be charged to the account of labor, and received^
VOL. XLV.— 41
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642 W^y Not Gold? [Aug.,
as the effect of it, nature and land furnishing only almost worthless
materials. Twould be a strange catalogue of things that industry pro-
vided and made use of. if about every loaf of bread before it came into
our use we reckoned the iron, the wood, the leather, the bark, the timber,
the stone, the brick, coals, lime, cloth, dyeing-drugs, pitch, tar, masts, ropes,
and all the materials made use of in the ship that brought away the com-
modities made use of by any of the workmen at any part of the work,
all of which it would be almost impossible to reckon up " {Pf Civil Govern"
ment, book xi. sect. 40).
It should have suflBced any reformer to develop before the
public cases such as that reported in the New York papers of
April 28, 1887:
" Guilford Miller made his farm by seven years' incessant labor. In 1878
he settled on one hundred and sixty acres of land. He has lived there
ever since, and, by industry and rigid economy, made a home for himself
and his family under the Homestead laws. In 1885, when he had lived on
and improved this homestead for seven years, one of the great railway
corporations fastened its greedy eyes on Guilford Miller's farm and tried to
drive him off. The corporation, with the force and impudence of two hun-
dred millions of dollars, appealed to the Land Office to oust Miller and turn
his little farm over to it. The case has hung because the corporation's claim
was felt to be monstrous. But two hundred millions can afford to hire the
ablest lawyers, and it was understood that if poor Guilford Miller could be
driven off a multitude of other settlers like himself would share his fate
and lose the fruits of their toil by a cold-blooded eviction worse than any
in Ireland.
" Fortunately for the cause of justice, President Cleveland took the
case into his own hands, and the result will cause every Western farmer's
and every workin^man's .heart to rejoice, for Guilford Miller keeps his
farm."
If man is capable of making anything, if it be in the power of
human energy, guided by human intelligence, to manufacture
anything, Guilford Miller '^ made'' \i\% farm. He called it into
existence by his laudable and untiring labors, and every honest
man in the United States will proclaim in the most emphatic
language the utility and justice of " private property in land.'*
Let us understand as clearly as possible what it is to make war
on the wilderness; the difficulty, danger, and terror that distin-
guish that warfare ; what the pioneer, the forlorn hope of civili-
zation, has to do. Observe the prodigious height of that gigan-
tic hemlock towering a hundred and fifty feet above his head
and sending down its roots into the rocky soil to a depth equiva-
lent to its immense breadth and elevation in the atmosphere.
Consider what^ toil must be expended in hewing down that
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sylvan giant, and digging up its deep roots, which ramify in
every direction and occupy in the soil a space as vast as the
wide-spread branches that rock idly in the breeze. Consider
what a task it must be to extirpate this gigantic aboriginal of
the forest that has proudly waved its colossal head and held the
earth in its grasp for a hundred years. Contemplate its im-
mense girth, the magnitude of its gnarled circumference, which
corresponds with the stupendous height of its lofty branches,
which furnish aerial abodes to the winged and wandering deni-
zens of the air. Hoc opus^ hie labor est. Is not the toil expended
in hewing down this enormous tree, burning up its useless ruins,
grubbing out its stubborn roots, the most prodigious price that
man can pay for the land which supports and nourishes it?
What sophist will dare to dispute his legitimate title to the soil
consecrated by this exhausting labor, over which the Cyclops
might faint? But this monarch of the wild by no means stands
alone. He is not an isolated sovereign. He is only one amid a
crowd as stately, as towering, as wide-spread and kingly as him-
self. Omnibus est labor imponendus. Painful and exhausting
labor must be expended on every one of them. The whole plain
is overshadowed by a matted mass of similar trees, bidding, in
their stately majesty, a proud defiance to the labors of the back-
woodsman. How graceful they are ! - How haughtily they
fling their gigantic boughs abroad in all the wildness of liberty !
Then there is the ash, the ingens fraxinus of Virgil. They may
be considered as gigantic weeds which must be uprooted from
the land before it can be utilized. Nor these alone ; there is an
army of them — the birch, the hickory, the chestnut, the oak,
which derive their sustenance from the ground and engross its
possession. All must be hewn down and grubbed up before
the land can be submitted to the grave robur arairi and float with
the yellow harvests of Ceres. From these prodigious labors it
is evident that to afl5rm a claim of property in land is to affirm
at the same time a claim which is " founded in the organization
of man and the laws of the material universe."
Here we see the difficulties which oppose the reclamation of
the land. Twenty, thirty, fifty years after the forest rings for
the first time to the sound of the axe and the crashing fall of
these wild chiefs, the labors of reclamation will endure. How
grateful we should be to the pioneers, those missioners of toil,
the forlorn hope of the grand army of civilization ! What forti-
tude, what patience, what perseverance, what intrepidity is ex-
hibited in the prosecution of these labors ! It is not enough to
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644 Why Not Gold? [Aug.,
say that the trees must be felled and their stumps pulled out ; it
happens only too often that the spaces between the trees are en-
cumbered with rocks, which must be removed year after year
until the elimination is completely eflFected. The exhumation
and removal of these rocks is often attended with so much
drudgery as almost to break the heart of the husbandman.
Owing to herculean labors of this nature the private ownership
of land in every age of the world has been acknowledged as
eminently just. Goldsmith has not exaggerated the calamities
of the ^arly colonists when he describes —
" Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray
And fiercely shed intolerable day ;
Those matted woods where birds forget to sing.
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling ;
Those poisonous fields in rank luxuriance crowned.
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ;
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ;
Where crouching panthers wait their helpless prey.
And savage men more murderous still than they.
Where oft in whirls the mad tornado flies.
Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies/' etc.
To the backwoodsman's house Mr. George gives a title ; but
it is no exaggeration to say that the labor of building a house
on such land is inferior to the labor of reclaiming it in the
first instance. The two operations are very like. Both are ** a
part of nature," produced as to their essential elements by the
Almighty, and both belong to the class in political ecohomy
styled wealth. There is on earth no power which can rightfully
deprive the reclaimer or the builder of the ownership of either
without adequate compensation.
Land, when conquered and subdued by labor, is productive of
life ; when the gratuitous offering of nature it is often pregnant
with disease, pestilence, and death. It is the haunt of carnivora
and herbivora which are deadly enemies of man, which regard
him as their natural enemy, prowl round his habitation, and re-
joice in his destruction. Clumsy bears and nimble panthers,
wolves, snakes, and wildcats, fill the thicket with terror, lurk
in the dusky underwood, and threaten destruction to his belov-
ed children. Cooper, in his Pioneers^ paints a picture which
brings before our eyes in the most vivid colors the horrors and
dangers which are entailed upon the young and beautiful by the
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ferocity of the panther, ferocious from hunger, thirsting for
blood and bounding on his prey. Until he and his species are
dispossessed, at the risk of the settler's life, that " individual
property in land" which is the object of all his toils cannot
be established by the farmer. All men have an equal right
to the soil, as they have to the air they breathe, provided
they purchase it by labor or receive it from the original
reclaimer. The sanction which natural justice gives to prop-
erty in land is based on the sweat, toil, and danger which
the immigrant encounters in rendering it serviceable to him-
self and his descendants; in freeing it not only from nox-
ious reptiles, pestiferous effluvia, carnivorous quadrupeds, but
that worst description of wild beasts — wild men. Every mili-
tary officer in the United States will admit that the American
Indian is the most terrible enemy that ever encountered a
soldier. What must he be to the agriculturist when in the
dead of night, invested with terror, his war-whoop shakes the
heart and pales the listener's face with unutterable fear ?
The title thus purchased, at a terrible price, far surpassing
that of gold or houses, imparts the undeniable right of selling
or loaning the land for the highest price. May he get it, were
it a million !
The warrior who confronts death on the crimson field of
patriotic war is not more worthy of recompense than the hardy
and laborious pioneer who, axe in hand, invades the dismal
shades of the matted forest, sweeps away its umbrageous encum-
brances, its gnarled oaks and towering hemlocks, and admits the
blaze of day into the antique shadow and exposes
" The grim lair
Where, growling low, some fierce old bear
Lies amid bones and blood."
Labors akin to these excited the passionate gratitude of early
Greece to elevate Hercules and Orpheus to the aerial heights of
Olympian felicity ji^roL daipLovai aXXovi.
When the giants of the forest are felled; when, falling with a
thunderous crash that shakes the earth and rebellows through
the forest, they lie prostrate and degenerate into '* lumber,** their
stumps remain massive, stubborn, and immovable, profoundly
embedded in the earth, in utter defiance of the perspiring la-
borer. They will encumber the earth for perhaps thirty years,
sustained by a swarm of sturdy roots ramifying in every direc-
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$46 WifY Nor GoLDf [Aug.,
tion far and wide, and defying extraction and destruction even
when
" Pingue solum primis mensibus anni
Fortes invertanl tauri."
Here is the difficulty which arrests the genial labors of the
plough, breaks its share, and shuts it out from a wide expanse.
Twenty years may elapse before the plough will render this cir-
cular tract of land amenable to Ceres. The agriculturist must
coast cautiously round this lost domain of the fallen monarch of
the forest, ever and anon arrested by the subterranean branches
of the wide-spread root, strong and sturdy as the lofty boughs
which once rocked and waved in the upper air. Every stump
has a circle of inutility around it, such as this, on which the
plough, with all its strength, cannot intrude.
It is questionable if the early martyrs suffered more in win-
ning heaven than the first immigrants in reclaiming the land,
rendering it subservient to the plough and suitable to civilized
purposes — gnawed, as they often were, by hunger, pelted by tem-
pests, menaced by savages, drenched with rain, scared by wild
beasts, and often wasted by disease.
"Their hearts were sad, their homes were far away :
Their sufferings never were surpassed.
** Quo tempore primum
Deucalion vacuum lapides jactavit in orbem."
That land was bought with the courage and the toil which
converted it from a howling wilderness into a smiling landscape.
All this toil and labor no man would attempt if he were not cer-
tain of receiving as a reward what he so well deserved — the fee-
simple of the land which he reclaimed.
C. M. O'Keeffe.
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188;.] The Metropolitan Museum of Art. • 647
THE METROPOLITAN MUSEUM OF ART.
Lavish donations and bequests to this Museum have brought
it lately into general notice. Some account of its organization,
possessions, and prospects may therefore serve to direct the
visitor or enlighten the inquirer whose interest has been awak-
ened by recent newspaper announcements. It is the mission of
the newspaper carefully to avoid any repetition of matter it has
previously published. Novelty is its standard of value as re-
gards information. Thus it may easily befall the New York
Museum as it sometimes befalls an author who has at first risen
gradually and afterwards suddenly to fame. His latest work,
not necessarily his best or most characteristic production, is uni-
versally quoted and admired. The stepping-stones to notoriety
and distinction, the foundations of his greatness, are overlooked,
and the man himself is obscured in the fame which he has gained.
But all public institutions of importance depend upon and reflect
the public sentiment which has produced them. What is this
sentiment in the present instance, and what has it altogether
done so far ?
Before we attempt to answer this question let it be observed
that, although the Museum owes its existence to a certain public
tendency and march of taste, and although it is undoubtedly to-
day largely what the public makes it, it is, in the legal and strictly
theoretic sense, an absolutely private institution. It occupies a
public building, on public ground, and receives from the public
an annual allowance which partially provides for the support of
its machinery ; but all this is by arrangement with a strictly pri-
vate corporation, having entire control of its own management
and oflBcial appointments, which pays the State an equivalent
for its assistance. The Museum corporation may, whenever it
chooses, vacate the building it occupies and sever its connection
with the State. Meantime, as rent for the building occupied and
as return for the yearly allowance, which only partially provides
for running expenses, it allows free admission to the public on
four days of each week. Before the removal, in 1879, from the
building in Fourteenth Street to the building in the Central
Park, an admission-fee was charged on every day of the week.
Criticisms have been occasionally made on the conduct of the
institution which have not entirely taken into account its private
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648 The Metropolitan Museum of Art. [Aug.,
character in a legal and theoretic sense. Until quite recently at
least, nearly all the more valuable possessions of the Museum,
its various collections and works of art, had been donated by the
trustees of the corporation ; and certainly the gratitude ol the
public to the donors should respect their wishes as to the condi-
tions under which the donations should be enjoyed.
The private character of the Museum corporation has an im»
portant bearing on certain criticisms which are passed on the
management. Such criticisms have occasionally been levelled at
the quality of some of the works of art exhibited, or have re-
ferred to certain acquisitions as being less desirable than oth-
ers which the critic in question would have preferred to see
made. But in these matters the proverb about " looking a gift-
horse in the mouth " certainly applies. It is within the power of
any one who questions the artistic value of a certain gift to give
something which is considered better; within the power of any
one who questions the advantage of acquisitions in one direction
to make good the deficiency supposed to exist by donation in the
direction considered more advantageous. Complaints on this
head are, in fact, lamentations because some one else is either
richer or more generous than the complainant. It is an easy
thing to be both wise and generous as to the disposition of
money which belongs to another person.
On the other hand, making all allowances for the legally
private character of the Museum corporation, it is quite clear
that the Museum has always been a public institution, not only
in its aims and mission, but also in the character of its general
management, in the quality of its acquisitions, in the features
which have been good and in the features which have been not
so good — " public " in the sense that public sentiment distils itself
through the private corporation. The most powerful and subtle
influence in existence is the influence of public sentiment and
public taste. This influence determines the character of institu-
tions of learning, although the public may not be learned ; and
of institutions which support the interests of art, although the
public may not be cultivated in the principles of its criticism.
In the enormous development of specialties and branches of
knowledge, and in the subdivision of scientific and artistic
research, the most important quality has grown to be, in our
time, the perception not of things but of men. We can only
estimate the knowledge or the taste which we possess ourselves,
but we may estimate none the less the character of a man who
claims a knowledge or taste which we do not pretend to possess.
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1887.] The Metropolitan Museum of Art. 649
The public is quick in its perception of charlatans and preten-
ders, and its verdict in such matters is generally a safe one. But
the American public is also a somewhat chaotic body as to the
meaning of the word "art" and as to the mission of a museum
of art, and if there is anything chaotic in the Metropolitan
Museum of Art the public is certainly to blame for it.
It is our purpose presently to describe the more important
possessions and collections of the Museum, but their value
depends on their ultimate relation to a general scheme. This
relation may exist, although the scheme may not yet have been
thought out in its details ; and some suggestions as to its scope
will assist to a comprehension of what the Museum already is.
A museum is not, strictly speaking, an art-gallery. There is
no museum in Europe, corresponding to the general character
of the one in New York, which contains a gallery of modern
paintings. The institution of a system of loan exhibitions of
modern paintings, and the formation of a collection of modern
paintings owned by the Museum, is not a part of any correspond-
ing institution in Europe. But this feature in the Metropolitan
Museum of Art has been its greatest attraction, and the recent
donations of certain famous modern pictures have attracted
more attention than any previous acquisition. This departure
from the ideal of corresponding institutions in other countries
belongs to the nature of this country and is a strong point in
favor of the New York Museum. Popularity may not be a good
standard of success, but it is the condition of it.
Another distinction may also be drawn between this and
corresponding institutions abroad. Only one of the more famous
museums of other countries has been founded with a distinctly
industrial and practical mission — viz., the South Kensington, in
London. The great museums of Paris, Berlin, Dresden, Munich,
St. Petersburg, Florence, Rome, Naples, and Madrid have been
founded and organized without reference to the utilitarian ad-
vantages undoubtedly derived by modern trade and modern
manufactures from the contact with historic art. In several of
the cities named, and elsewhere, industrial museums have been
subsequently and separately organized, but they are quite dis-
tinct from the others mentioned. On the other hand, the South
Kensington Museum has very little of a strictly archaeologic
character in its possessions or tendencies. The New York
Museum differs in this respect from its European companions.
It has followed the lead of the South Kensington, and has pro-
cured through it duplicates of at least one large collection of a
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6so The Metropoutan Museum of Art. [Aug.,
distinctly industrial bearing (electrotypes of metal work), and
it has also organized a Technical School of Design which has
achieved in a very few years a phenomenal success. This school
has risen from four pupils in 1880 to nearly three hundred pupils
in 1886, and its work is evidently only in its beginnings. On
the other hand, the archaeological tendencies of the older Euro-
pean museums have also been pursued. The New York Mu-
seum has recently purchased a valuable collection of Egyptian
antiquities. It began its career by the acquisition of a collec-
tion of old masters, and its Cypriote collections are notoriously
archaeological.
In two directions just noted the aims and mission of the
New York Museum of Art are sufficiently intelligible. All
people understand what a picture-gallery is, and few will fail
to understand that a public picture-gallery is a desirable and
valuable civic institution. Education in design for the technical
ends of various trades is also a manifestly desirable thing for
those intending to pursue these trades or already engaged in
them, and it is clear that a museum of industrial art must be an
interesting stimulus in such studies, and very often of great
practical value to them.
It is undoubtedly in the department where the character of
the Museum most nearly corresponds to that of similar institu-
tions abroad — viz., that of archaeology — that it has been least
understood and least popular. Yet in this department it makes
the most serious claims to attention, and it is in this department
that it has received the most valuable gifts, both as to money
value and as to ultimate worth. If the Museum has not re-
ceived due consideration for its archaeological possessions, it is,
perhaps, partly to blame for it. It has not cultivated American
archaeology to any considerable extent, and this would be the true
way to awaken an American interest in archaeology in general.
Men of science are much like other people : they do not like to
give something for nothing. If they give interest or apprecia-
tion, then they expect interest and appreciation in return. There
are not lacking men of high attainments in American archae-
ology ; they are scattered through the country in considerable
numbers, but they have not been attracted to the Metropolitan
Museum of Art. Their interest turns rather- to the National
Museum at Washington or to the Peabody Museum at Cam-
bridge. The moral support of these men of science would give
vitality to the archaeological department of the Museum in gene-
ral, and this vitality it very much needs.
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1887.] The Metropolitan Museum of Art. 651
It is easily clear to an American that relics of the mound-
builders and of the ancient Mexicans and Peruvians have a sub-
stantial value. No person of an active mind can fail to take in-
terest in the antiquities of his own country, and from these it is
but a step to an interest in the antiquities of Europe. It is clear
to an American that the absolute beauty of a piece of Peruvian
pottery is not in question. As an actual relic of an extinct peo-
ple it gives an impulse to the imagination which pages of written
history might not convey. The object can be grasped by the
eye in a minute, and hours might be devoted to a book without
an equally stimulating result. To attract the class which is al-
ready interested in American antiquities, to increase the class
which can understand and appreciate their value, would be a
sure step in the direction of bringing archaeology in general into
the field of American vision as a sensible and necessary branch
of study. It is not necessary or desirable that all people should
be interested in all branches of science, but it is highly desirable
that all branches of science should be recognized as such and as
worthy of public support and recognition.
The contradictions and discrepancies between the field of
archaeology and that of ordinary artistic interests are consider-
able if modern art only be in question. There is no doubt that
modern art may flourish successfully without any reference to
archaeology ; no doubt that modern art has often been injured
by archaeologic studies and influences. This makes it necessary
to inquire what a museum of art ought to be and what it is for.
The natural presumption is that it is a means to artistic enjoy-
ment and artistic training, using the word art as moderns use it
generally. As a matter of fact, a museum of art has a much
broader mission, one which can only be comprehended by con-
sidering the double revolution effected by modern machinery
and the invention of printing. Before the introduction of ma-
chinery every artisan was an artist, and the humblest objects of
ordinary utility were endowed with an artistic character befitting
their use and place. Before the invention of printing, pictures
and statues were the Bibles of the poor, the literature of the
middle age, the poems and the moral law of the older pagan
world, the historic memoranda and the monumental records of
the ancient Oriental nations. It follows that the museum of
historic art is a possible epitome of the history of the civilized
world down to the time when printing usurped the mission of
art, down to the time when machinery and division of labor de-
stroyed the cultivating influences which so far had been enjoyed
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652 The Mbtropoutan Museum of Art. [Aug.,
by the world's working-classes. These cultivating influences
were versatility of occupation, the encouragement of creative
effort, and the idealization of manual labor.
Narrow minds intent on the last three hundred years of
history, and the nineteenth century in particular, or some one to
come after it, as the be-all and the end-all of human nature and
human capacities, will scarcely conceive of the possibilities of a
museum of art. The museum of art is the history of the time
when printing did not exist, when machinery was unknown, and
it will be valued as a means to popular instruction according to
the contraction or expansion of that prejudice which idealizes the
present at the expense of the past — a prejudice having its root
in two elements : ignorance of history, and coarse perceptions.
It is apparent that the equipment of an art museum from
the standpoint just indicated is a task not within the grasp of
any single man or of any single generation. It is one object of
this paper to indicate what has been done so far in this direction
for the New York Museum. It has been lately provided with
the means for the purchase of a series of casts reproducing all
the leading works of antique sculpture in Europe, including the
results of the recent, excavations at Olympia, the recent dis-
coveries at Pergamum, and the most important pieces of the
museums of Athens, Naples, Rome, Florence, Munich, Paris,
and London. These casts will probably be supplemented by
others for the sculpture of the Italian Renaissance, with its
preparatory and subsequent development. It has also been
provided with the means for the purchase of a series of casts
illustrating the history of architecture. The sum bequeathed,
amounting to over one hundred thousand dollars, should pro-
vide a more complete equipment in this direction than has so far
been attempted by any museum in Europe.
A most valuable cast collection, already for some years on
exhibition, has thus far attracted but little attention. It is from
the series of mediaeval ivory carvings selected for reproduction,
by experts of the South Kensington Museum, from all the best
pieces in Europe. Ivory carvings have peculiar importance for
a most interesting period of history — the transition from an-
tiquity to the middle age. From this period dates a series of
carved book-covers and tablets of rare interest. It was a time
when works of larger sculpture were seldom attempted, proba-
bly because it was also a time subject to revolutions and catastro-
phes by which objects in metal were doomed to the destruction
which befalls those works whose matter is more highly valued
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188;.] The Metropoutan Museum of Art. 653
by barbarisra than their design. These ivory carvings, preserv-
ed to later times because they did not tempt cupidity, because
their material was not exposed to decay, and because their size
and use did not expose them to breakage, are the most valuable
and almost the only direct connecting link between the arts of
antiquity and those of the middle age. There are many who
think that the arrangement of these pieces should follow that of
the South Kensington, as their numbering does already, since
the Museum republishes the South Kensington catalogue. The
interest of the series lies in the gradual differentiation of the
Byzantine style from the antique, in the development of mediae-
val design out of the Byzantine. Under the present arrange-
ment the collection hardly meets the purpose it was intended to
accomplish.
In the department of reproductions the electrotypes of artis-
tic metal work must also be mentioned. Some years ago the
South Kensington Museum undertook the reproduction of the
vessels and utensils, especially those of gold and silver, which
are exhibited in the various Imperial collections of Russia.
Some of them were of Russian fabrication, others were presents
from European sovereigns or importations from other countries.
The set, made by the English firm of Elkington, was duplicated
for the New York Museum, which thus possesses a comprehen-
sive illustration for the history of the arts in metal. The elec-
trotype reproductions are deceptive fac-similes.
In the line of individual original works of art owned by the
Museum, the chief place belongs to the enamelled altar-piece by
Luca della Robbia, an Assumption of the Blessed Virgin with
attendant figures. The scale of the figures is about half the size
of life. The work belongs to the Italian Renaissance of the fif-
teenth century. It is the largest specimen of Della Robbia's
work outside of Italy, and a fine example in other respects.
Such pieces are somewhat ill at ease in northern museums.
They need the atmosphere of Tuscany and the original connec-
tion with related architectural surroundings. Some sentiment
for the original location and locality of such a work assists to a
comprehension of its value. The Museum also owns a large col-
lection of Oriental porcelains and lacquers, three distinct collec-
tions of mediaeval, Venetian, and ancient glass (aside from the
glass of the Cypriote collections), all highly valuable, a very
good collection of ancient gems, a rare collection of Assyrian
and Chaldean signet "cylinders" and inscribed terra cot ta tab-
lets, the Egyptian collection already mentioned, etc.
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654 Thb Metropolitan Museum of Art. [Aug.,
Mention has been thus far reserved of the Cypriote collec-
tions, the most valuable, least attractive, and least understood
of all the Museum possessions. There are two points of espe-
cial importance to a comprehension of the Cypriote collec-
tions. It is absolutely necessary that a person endeavoring^ to
understand them should have some knowledge of the point
reached by Oriental and by Greek historic studies at the time
these discoveries were made; and necessary, in the second place,
to understand that objects from Cyprus belong sometimes to
the art of the Roman Empire, sometimes to the Greek art
which subsequently grew into it, sometimes to that of the Orien-
tals, Phoenicians, Egyptians, and Assyrians which grew into the
Greek. In the statues are found representatives of all these
styles and of all the gradations between them. The jewelry and
gems have specimens for all these styles and periods. The glass
belongs, with some exceptions, to the Roman period. The pot-
tery is mainly Phoenician, or Phoenician art grafted on the
Greek. A student of the Cypriote collections should not be a
beginner. He needs some acquaintance with the antiquities of
Egypt, Assyria, Greece, and Rome, to understand those of Cy-
prus. And to understand their peculiar import he must have
also some imaginative and combining faculty, for little has so far
been written about them. In the years between 1865 and 1875,
when the collections were mainly gotten together, the historians
of Greek art had not reached the conviction that Greek civiliza-
tion and Greek art were a direct though strangely novel develop-
ment from the Oriental. The Cypriote collections were trans-
ported to America before European students had had oppor-
tunity or time to study and understand them. The scholars of
our own country were too dependent on European studies to
publish independent conclusions. Specialists of sufficient autho-
rity and standing have not yet been developed in America for
such a task.
The bulk of the Cypriote sculpture in New York was dis-
covered just before the outbreak of the Franco-Prussian war.
Neither France nor Germany could undertake the purchase at
such a time. Russia was also fearful of being drawn into the
war, and was prevented in this way from attempting to negotiate
a purchase. The antiquities were shipped to London and offered
to the British Museum, and only the events which secured an
offer of purchase from citizens of New York prevented the Brit-
ish Museum from acquiring them. Previous to the shipment
from London the British Museum obtained permission to photo-
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1887.] ^^^ Metropolitan Museum of Art. 655
graph the statues. The preface to the British Museum photo-
graph publication, written by Professor Sidney Colvin, is the
only satisfactory account of these statues ever written by a
European scholar from actual observation. It is a comprehen-
sive and decisive statement of their relation to otherwise un-
solved and otherwise unsuggested problems of ancient history ;
but this publication has had, from its nature, but a limited circula-
tion and influence.
The collection of Cypriote gems and jewelry subsequently
brought together was also exhibited in London. The British
Museum was again a negotiator for purchase, and was again
anticipated by a larger American offer. In this case European
students made a fuller examination, with more specific results,
but once more the related publications have been insufficient
or are still delayed. Discoveries culminating in results which
can only be determined and valued by the highest European au-
thorities have been placed beyond their reach, thrown into the
whirlpool of American newspaper criticism, and for the time be-
ing have been allowed to sink or swim in public estimation as
best they might. On the other hand, it is something for America
to have begun where Europe has left off. With every accession
to the ranks of American archaeologic scholars the reputation of
the Cypriote collections will grow in this country ; and every
addition to the antiquarian collections of the Museum will place
its Cypriote antiquities in a more comprehensible position for the
general public.
The tribute which belongs to the objects themselves cannot
be paid to their classification and arrangement. The Proto-
Greek pieces belong to several diflFerent Oriental types, and in
their case only would classification be possible. Arrangement as
regards the classes would be a matter of hj'pothesis. But three-
fourths of the whole number of statues represent a series of gra-
dations and styles which are perfectly well known to the art-his-
torian. Although they are productions of a provincial art and
the work of artisans rather than artists, they are the more interest-
ing on this account, as taking a place otherwise unrepresented.
There is no series of works in existence which so thoroughly
represents the provincial art-decadence of the late Roman pe-
riod ; no collection in existence which has so many illustrations
of the latest period of the Roman decadence ; no other collection
which so well illustrates, or which illustrates at all, the transition
from provincial Greek to provincial Greco-Roman style ; and
absolutely no other collection which so illustrates the transition
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656 The Metropolitan Museum of Art. [Aug.,
from Proto- Greek to Greek art. In fact, this transition was un-
dreamed of before the collection was found. There is no reason
why these styles and transitions of style should not speak for
themselves by the arrangement of the pieces.
Although the Cypriote sculpture in New York propounds one
distinct discovery and several unsolved problems, it also illus-
trates a course of history otherwise perfectly well known, and
a history of art which can be demonstrated by thousands of
examples. The examples elsewhere are better, but they are
scattered, and connecting links are broken. The examples else-
where generally represent the centre (Athens or Rome). These
represent the periphery. But the science of history itself has
lately taken a new turn, and the Cypriote antiquities coincide
with its tendencies. The greatest historian of Rome, Theodor
Mommsen, has devoted his volume for the Empire to the Ro-
man provinces. Droysen's history of the Alexandrine states
points the same way for the history of the Greeks. We are be-
ginning to study peoples rather than their rulers, civilizations
rather than events.
A word for the " Old Masters " of the Museum gallery re-
mains to be said. These were its first purchase. The gallery,
mainly of the Flemish and Dutch schools, exhibits, to quote the
words of its catalogue, " a certain number of superior pictures
and a great many fair specimens." It might be added that the
inferior pictures do not boast names superior to their qualities,
and that they have the value of authenticity. This holds at
least of the original purchase of about one hundred and fifty
examples. The writer only remembers one later donation which
has an attribution of distinctly dubious authenticity — a " Portrait
of Rubens' Wife," which is a modem copy of a well-known orig-
inal. These remarks, it should be well noted, have no reference
to a certain number of old paintings loaned by private individu-
als. Among these there are several of fine quality, but in these
cases the attributions to specific artists are those made by the
owners themselves.
The Old-Master Gallery will probably be the least satisfac-
tory feature of the Museum for some time to come. Compari-
sons are odious, but it is difficult not to make them. The most
encouraging example is that offered by the gallery of the Berlin
Museum. With only a few great masterpieces, this gallery is
the best in Europe as regards a well-balanced choice and clas-
sification of good representative works of the various historic
schools. From a standpoint which looks rather to instruction
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1887.] Pharaoh. 657
and to classification than to a rivalry with Rome or Paris in
masterpieces, much might be done. The exhibition of classified
photog^raphs has already become a feature abroad, even in the
British Museum. For the moment this field oflFers the surest
and most satisfactory step to something better.
We have purposely omitted mention in this paper of the re-
cent munificent donations of George I. Seney, Cornelius Van-
derbilt, Henry Hilton, Horace Russell, and William Schaus.
These will draw crowds to the modern picture-gallery, but mod-
ern pictures explain themselves. In leaving this gallery the
visitor will generally saunter through the vast apartments and
long-drawn aisles devoted to other objects, not always conscious
of their meaning, their mute eloquence, and their silent prophe-
cies.
PHARAOH.
I WONDER if from hidden sphere
Of spirits* dwelling, far or near.
The soul that once made Israel bow
May look upon its changed world now.
For vanished all the pomp of power,
The armfed hosts, that made its hour
Of mighty sway ! For us there stand
The hoary stones of statues grand.
And, yielded to our searching day,
A blackened thing, the house of clay,
Which, once responsive to his will.
Is — silent,' empty—" Pharaoh " still.
So frail a thing ! yet, made by art
To vanquish time, it rules the heart
Of questioning man with regal power :
Great Pharaoh has again his hour.
And dost thou know, and care to reign
In this small age ? I ask in y^n ; *
That shrunken form with life will wake
Ere Egypt's king will answer make !
Florence E, Weldj.
VOL. XLV.—42
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658 The Movement toward Unity. [Aug.,
THE MOVEMENT TOWARD UNITY.
The unity movement, in which our faith compels us to be
more deeply interested than non-Catholics can imagine, has for
its object, not the formation of a new sect, but the counteraction
of sectarianism by the revival everywhere of those everlasting,
unchangeable truths which the Divine Founder of Christianity
has given to men. This idea is not an idle dream of the imagi-
nation, for Christianity is a system of objective truths which are
unchangeable, and therefore it necessarily furnishes the basis for
immutable unity. The Christianity of Christ cannot be resus-
citated and unity be wanting. Unity and truth are convertible
terms in religion. Unity can be reached if the truth is attain-
able. Now, none of those with whom we join issue will allow
that Christ's teaching has been lost. True, Archdeacon Farrar
and the Rev. James Freertian Clarke venture to assert that the
truth of revelation was or has become unknowable, and the
former says that sects must always be for that reason ; but it
is far otherwise with more spiritually-enlightened Protestants.
Bishop Doane, Dr. Dix, President Seelye, Professor Fisher, and
Dr. Dexter hold no such principles. Bishop Doane believes not
only that the truth is attainable, but that it is taught by a visible
church which is the " body of Christ," having " a unity that is
alive." So far is he from opposing the Catholic doctrine of
unity that he says:
"There seems very little hope of any great movement toward any real
unity until t;hese (church) principles, which are utterly opposed to secta-
rianism, can be somehow put into the minds and consciences of men. They
carry with them the necessity of one polity/one liturgy (so far as the sac-
ramental offices are concerned), and, of course, one confession of faith." •
We lament that the bishop thinks that the " body which has a
oneness that is alive 'i is at the same time in schism. Dr. Dix
thinks that belief in the inspiration of the Scriptures, the Ni-
cene Creed, Baptism, Eucharist, and Apostolic Succession can
be made the ground of unity. The Nicene Creed, it must be
femembeilsd, was framed by a church which professed to have
indivisible unity^ arid, if authoritative, is so because the one
church has declared it so to be. Dr. Newman, while an Angli-
♦ " Christiaii Unity," ItuUptudeiU of Fcbruafy 3. ^
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can, wrote : " There is more of evidence in antiquity for the ne-
cessity of unity than for the apostolical succession." The fol-
lowing comparison of the church of today with that of the
fourth century was penned by him early in 1845 •
" On the whole, then, we have reason to say that if there be a form of
Christianity at this day distinguished for its careful organization and its
consequent power; if it is spread over the.world ; if it is conspicuous for
zealous maintenance of its own creed ; if it is intolerant towards what it
considers error ; if it is engaged in ceaseless war with all other bodies called
Christian ; if it, and it alone, is called ' Catholic ' by the world, nay, by
those very bodies, and if it makes much of the title; if it names them
heretics, and warns them of coming woe, and calls on them one by one to
come over to itself, overlooking every other tie ; and if they, on the other
hand, call it seducer, harlot, apostate. Antichrist, devil ; if, however they
differ one with another, they consider it their common enemy; if they
strive to unite together against it, and cannot ; if they are but local ; if they
continVially subdivide and it remains one ; if they fall one after another and
make way for new sects, and it remains the same — such a form of religion
is not unlike the Christianity of the Nicene era."
It appears that Protestantism is not historical any more than
it is Scriptural Christianity.
The best exposition of the purely evangelical basis of unity
has, I think, been given in the Independent of December 23, 1886.
It is well worth quoting:
" Leaving out the Unitarians, a small fellowship which hesitates to call
itself Christian, and with whom nobody proposes to unite, the remaining
Protestant denominations agree on the following points :
" I. The existence and authority of God.
" 2. The divinity and authority of his Son Jesus Christ, our Lord.
" 3. The converting and indwelling presence of his Holy Spirit.
" 4. The inspiration and authority of the Holy Scriptures.
" 5. The guilt and ill-desert of sin.
" 6. Hederaption and pardon through Jesus Christ
" 7. The necessity of conversion from a life of sin and selfishness to a
life of holiness and consecration to the service of God and man.
"8. The supernatural history of Jesus Christ, his crucifixion and burial,
his resurrection from the dead, and his ascension to heaven, where he sitteth
at the right hand of God.
" 9. The immortality of the soul, and the just awards of the future world
— ^tQ the righteous eternal life, and to the finally impenitent eternal death.
" 10. The establishment by our Lord of his church, with the sacraments
of baptism and the Lord's Supper.
" Tell us, is there ' nothing left ' in this common faith of Protestant-
ism?"
Yes, there is much left in this common faitli of Protestant-
ism. Believers in these principles surely do not hold that
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66o The Movement toward Unity. [Aug.,
Christ's teaching has been lost, that the truths of revelation
have become unknowable. The Catholic Church includes in
her teaching every one of these doctrines. What, then, keeps
us from being one ?
Only this : that you Protestants have of yourselves chosen
out these principles and have there stopped, and, relying upon
your own judgment and authorit}^ have established independent
churches based upon a private and partial understanding of the
Scripture teaching. This is the only possible way to account
for the divisions of Christendom. You may claim that you
had the right to separate. If you had, why did Jesus Christ
himself build a church, and say of it, " If one will not hear the
church, let him be to thee as the heathen and publican"? Did
our Lord say these words and many others of like meaning?
And did he mean these words to apply for all time or, not?
And Ao you dare to relegate among the heathen persons who
wiH not hear the churches which you have established?
Now, if man can be a church- builder, unity can never be
reached. The unchangeable truth, as far as it can be made ob-
jective, must be perfectly embodied in a church which is essen-
tially one. What does this mean? Does it mean that such a
church would not be a human society because divinely organ-
ized and having a divinely-revealed doctrine ? By no means.
Cannot divine truth dwell in a human society as well as in an
individual ? Did it not dwell in the apostolic college as a body ?
Were the apostles essentially diflFerent from other men? Can
we not abstract the divine word from the individual who utters
it, the sacrament from its minister, the assistance of the Holy
Spirit from the receiver of it? Is it not more difficult to con-
ceive of the divine word, sacraments, and the gifts of the Holy
Ghost as dwelling in a dismembered body than in one that is
whole and indivisible? I do not mean to say that certain of the
sacraments — as, for example, baptism, holy orders, and the Eu-
charist — may not have been carried away and be still retained
among those in schism and heresy ; but I know that the adminis-
tration of the sacraments by such is not lawful.
Christianity did not come into the world as a " naked idea,"
although many Protestant controversialists, and even such a his-
torian as Guizot, have decided that it did. Its Founder was a
church-builder. His words in the sixteenth chapter of St. Mat-
thew plainly show this ; they indicate that the church, con-
sidered as a concrete, visible, human society, was founded upon
Peter, since the confession of St. Peter, " Thou art Christ, the
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Son of the living God/' taken as an abstract idea simply, could
not be the foundation of a concrete church whose office is to
preach, baptize, and break the bread of life to men.
Yet, if we consider the church in the abstract, it may be said
in a true sense that it is founded upon this confession, inasmuch as
the doctrine of the divinity of Christ lies at the foundation of the
Christian teaching. St. Augustine, who is frequently quoted as
explaining " rock " to mean St. Peter's confession, interpreted this
text far differently from most Protestants, for he says to the schis-
matical Donatists: '* Number the bishops even from the very
chair of Peter . . . that is, the Rock which the proud gates of hell
prevail not against." Elsewhere he declares that Peter, " by rea-
son of the primacy of his apostolate, represented the person of the
church"; that "Christ made (Peter) one with himself, committing
his sheep to him as to another self," and that he was himself
" held in the Catholic Church by the succession of its bishops from
Peter." St. Chrysostom also speaks of the church as built upon
the confession of Peter, but he does not separate the faith of
Peter from Peter himself. These are his words: " For He who
built the church on the confession of Peter, . . . He who gave
to him the keys of the kingdom of heaven, . . . spoke with au-
thority : I will build my church onthee^ and give to thee the keys
of the kingdom of heaven." The difference in gender between
nirpos and Ilitpa, so commonly urged against the Catholic in-
terpretation of the text, does not denote a difference in meaning
between " Peter " and ** Rock," * as a comparison with the more
ancient Syriac, "Thou art Kipha, and on this Kipha," will show.
It should be observed that it was against the church as built upon
Peter that the gates of hell should never prevail. When the
above passage of St. Matthew is compared with the following
from St. John: "And Jesus, looking upon him, said, Thou art
Simon, the son of Jona: thou shalt be called Cephas, which is
interpreted Peter " (St. John i. 42), the nature of St. Peter's name
and office appears most clearly. Taken in the same connection,
how significant is St. Luke's account of our Lord's words : ** Si-
mon, Simon, behold Satan hath desired to have you" — vjxd'i, i,e.,
all — " that he may sift you as wheat ; but I have prayed for thee "
— (fovy in particular— " that thy faith fail not^ and thou being once
converted confirm thy brethren'' (St. Luke xxii. 31, 32). St. John's
record of the triple charge: "Feed my lambs," . . . *'feed my
• In the Sjro-Chaldaic languagt, in which our Lord spoke and in which St. Matthew wrote
his Gospel, according to Papias, Origen, St. Irenxus, Eusebius, St. Jerome, St. Epiphaiiius,
and dther Fathers, the same word is used both for " Peter *^ and *' l.ock."
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662 The Movement toward Unity. [Aug..
lambs," ..." feed my sheep " given to St. Peter by our Lord
(St. John xxi. i6, 17), and the words, "Lovestthou me more than
these?'* spoken before the burden of so great a pastorate was im-
posed, when associated with the passages already quoted, argue
mightily for the Catholic doctrine of unity. Add to these that
St. Matthew calls St. Peter " The First," though he was not the
first to be called to the apostolate ; that St. Luke distinguishes his
name by the article ; that he is repeatedly singled out from the
other apostles by the sacred writers in such expressions as " Peter
and they that were with him," " Go tell the disciples and Peter,"
etc. ; the general prominence of St Peter in the Acts, and the
evidence for the Catholic teaching becomes decisive.
I came years ago to this conclusion from my orthodox de-
votion to the Word of God as a Protestant, and for that reason
was finally constrained to become a Catholic. For, I said, if the
first Christians were bound to believe that Peter's faith could not
fail, I have at least as much need of this guarantee of faith as
they had, and while remaining out of communion with the suc-
cessor of St. Peter I have it not. If there be now no living in-
fallible teacher of faith and morals, then there are for us no such
motives of credibility in religion as were possessed by the earliest
Christians, the converts of the Apostle Peter, and the church
of his day has passed away. The Bible was almost the first
book that I ever read, and I reasoned out its competency as a
witness of religious truth, using such helps as Scott's Commentary
and Barnes' Notes^ going from Genesis to Revelation, comparing
the New and the Old Testaments, and weighing the arguments
for authenticity and inspiration, and the objections of unbelievers.
I became and have ever remained a Bible Christian in the truest
sense of the term. I united with the Orthodox Congregational
Church in 1868, believing orthodoxy, as I then understood it,
to be as clearly revealed in the Sacred Scriptures as the physi-
cal laws which govern matter are in nature. It was the Bible
that gave me religious principles which are essentially construc-
tive and harmonious.
But when I came to the study of the Protestant Reformation
in its origin, in spite of all that its best apologists could say for it,
I found, alas I that I, as an orthodox Protestant, according to the
Bible, had no better, nay, not so good a cause against the Catho-
lic as the Unitarian and Universalist had against me, an orthodox
Congregationalist. It then became plain that orthodoxy, if car-
ried to its consequences, must lead to harmony and unity, other-
wise it could not be true. So the Bible piloted me through Pro-
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testant orthodoxy to Rome, and in the communion of the Catholic
Church, which I enteried in 1871, I have found the written testi-
monies of the Lord abundantly fulfilled. Nor was my faith in
the Bible or in apostolic infallibility shaken on account of St.
Paul's withstanding St. Peter face to face when he was to be
blamed, because the difference was not in essentials, nor were
the utterances those of the apostles in the exercise of their oflS-
cial functions as world-teachers. Nor, again, did I find diflBcultv
in the doctrine of the infallibility of Peter's successors, even
though popes might be proved to have been mistaken in their
private opinions. As a matter of fact, no one is able to point
out any two ex cathedra definitions which are. contradictory.
Genuine orthodoxy, the true faith, alone offers such a consistency
as this. A church which teaches false doctrine cannot have such
a harmonious creed-system as we find in the Roman Catholic
Church. On the other hand, the true doctrine cannot be ex-
pressed by the discordant confessions of faith which Protestant-
ism has developed. Cardinal Newman has well said : " Truth is
unitive and has the power of preserving its identity *' [for all
time]. "Christianity being one,'* he argues,, "all its doctrines
are of necessity one, consistent with each other, and form a
whole. ... Its doctrines make up an integral religion." Pro-
testantism is not such a system as this. I am therefore forced to
conclude that it is not Scriptural Christianity.
Unity, invisible and visible, is what the Christian faith gives
us. Earnestly we pray to God, " Thy kingdom come on earth
as it is in heaven." When we see the great unity movement
in which so many zealous non-Catholic Christians are engaged,
the way seems to us to be opening up for the truth to win
a great victory. The Good Shepherd of our souls has said:
" Other sheep I have that are not of this fold; them also I must brings
and they shall hear my voice ^ and there shall be one fold and one Shep-
herdr H. H. Wyman.
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664 Ireland again undbr Coercion. [Aug.,
IRELAND AGAIN UNDER COERCION.
Ov^kv 6d /le/iftrdv ivOd^ cor ipeU kfioi *
—Sophocles : (Edipus Cohneus.
I.
THE MACHINE IN OPERATION.
De Maupas, the confidant of Napoleon III. and author of
The Story of the Coup d*£taty says : " Amongst the Romans the
dictatorship was not, as in modern times, a fortuitous act, a re-
cuperative incident, rendered necessary in consequence of vio-
lent revolutionary shocks, in order to afford the country the op-
portunity of recovering her composure and reason previous to
entering upon a new and regular period ; among the Romans
the dictatorship attained the dignity of an institution." Coer-
cion in Ireland has attained the dignity of an institution. Eng-
land, boastful of her fosterage of cdnstitutional forms, almost
proud of regicide for violating them, contemptuous of all govern-
ment avowedly despotic, ready to bare the sword on the Danube
and in the Balkans for even a sham of constitutionalism, confesses
for the hundredth time in less than one hundred years that she
cannot govern a little island a few hours' sail from her shores,
except by a dictatorship. •* The Roman dictatorship," continues
De Maupas, "assumed various forms. It was most often the
concentration into one hand of all the powers of the state."
That is the coercion law of 1887. Into whose hand are all the
powers of the state concentrated ?
Before this question may be answered let us look at the
machine of the dictatorship. Of another and earlier coercion
law devised by England for Ireland, Burke said it was " a ma-
chine of wise and elaborate contrivance, and as well fitted for
the oppression, impoverishment, and degradation of a people,
and the debasement in them of human nature itself, as ever pro-
ceeded from the perverted ingenuity of man." . Like the coer-
cion law of 1887, that coercion law was branded " permanent."
The new machine differs from its ninety-and-nine predecessors in
this extraordinary distinction. Therein it brings Ireland back
to the Penal Code. In another respect also it resembles that
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1887.] Ireland again under Coercion. 665
immortal infamy. It aims at human nature in the people ; not
merely at their personal liberty or their preferences among po-
litical parties, but at human nature itself. In this respect it
is more disgraceful to its authors than any coercion law since
that of the last year of the last century. The poison is decocted
in the inquisitorial clauses. Under the Penal Code the treachery
of the wife to the husband, of the son to the father, was reward-
ed by the law in the confiscation of estates and the transfer or
control of property. Under the coercion law of 1887 the same
perfidious principle is set at work.
To appreciate this we may assume the law in operation.
That assumption involves the annulment, without notice, of all
those organic rights supposed to adhere to the citizen dwelling
under* the shadow of the thing known as the British constitution.
Among these imaginary rights are immunity from arrest and
security against imprisonment except upon warrant and after
judicial inquiry. Among those imaginary rights is that of refus-
ing to testify under oath except in relation to a cause under
investigation, and then with the privilege of silence should a
truthful answer inculpate the witness. Among those imaginary
rights is that of being confronted, if under accusation, with one's
accusers. Among those imaginary rights is the right to bail ex-
cept for certain felonies specifically excluded by law from bail-
able offences. The coercion law of 1887 is a sister of the Penal
Code not only in sweeping away all these rights, but in the sub-
stitution for them of a secret inquisition aimed at the degradation
of human nature itself, designed to engender falsehood, treach-
ery, and unnatural malice.
Without warrant the police, as numerous as locusts, may
enter any house in Ireland ; exclude from their presence all per-
sons except the one selected for inquisition ; require him or her
to answer any question, touching any matter or person, without
the aid of counsel, without relevancy to any cause under judicial
examination, without reserve for possible incrimination of the
witness ; and if the answer be not to the satisfaction of the in-
quisitor, the citizen may be imprisoned, without any appeal ; and
this imprisonment may be indefinitely continued. In fact, like
the act itself, it may be permanent.
A more brutal law was never known in the despotic days of
the Greek autocracies. Under the Roman dictatorship such in-
quisitions were not unknown. In France this mode of govern-
ment filled the Bastile, and the Bastile insured the Revolution.
It is true that there are no longer estates to be confiscated.
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666 Ireland again under Coercion. [Aug^
They are all in possession of those whose titles represent apos-
tasy under the code or confiscation or seizure by violence anteri-
or to it. It is true that religious distinctions do not find specific
mention in the law. But it is notorious that this coercion law
represents the vindictive and ferocious spirit of Orangeism against
the religfion of five-sixths of the people of Ireland as distinctly as
the Penal Code did. There is no element in the population op-
posed to Home Rule except the inconsiderable minority whose
traditions were nursed in that cradle of shame, and in whose
behalf the liberty of their country is annihilated, not only with-
out protest on their part, but with their gleeful concurrence.
These clauses will fill the prisons of Ireland not only with
men but with women, should the enforcement of them be gene-
ral. Many will go to prison freely rather than submit their
honor to such suspicion. Others — for the weak, the cringing,
and the cowardly must still enfeeble the earth — will accuse in se-
cret the innocent or betray the incautious ; and thus the cells and
plank beds which contumacious witnesses will not require will
be occupied by suspects.
Under the coercion act last enacted by Mr. Gladstone the
suspect possessed at least a shred of the constitution to furnish
him amusement in his dreary idleness. He might be condemned
to the plank bed, he might be refused bail or trial, but at least a
petty magistrate could not rob him of all his privileges; a judi-
cial inquiry was necessary, however farcical, and he was ushered
into his cell with some pretence of ceremony. Under the cur-
rent perpetual-motion coercion act even this fol-de-rol of British
constitutionalism is to be dispensed with. The half-sir, the sham
squire, the squireen, the knight of the crow-bar, the lord of the
rent-office, becomes the successor of Augustus, who, according
to De Maupas, had conferred upon himself power " to substitute
the imperial r6gime for the republican constitution rendered in-
efiFectual by anarchy."
The petty magistrate becomes the dictator of Ireland. In
his hand are concentrated all the powers of the state. He repre-
sents directly or indirectly the landlord. It is for him that this
perpetual- motion coercion law was devised, and for him it will
be enforced. It is intended to ofiset efiectually all the land legis-
lation of the last seventeen years. There is not a clause of the
Bright acts, of the Gladstone acts or of the revisions of them
by Parnell, which this coercion law does not enable the landlord
to antagonize. It practically suspends the Land Courts, so far
as any new business is concerned, and may place an embargo on
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their operation in relation to actions already entered. For the
law empowers the petty magistrate to imprison citizens for
so many things, for things which are but the abstract images
of deeds, that it will be impossible for a friend to advise the
tenant to seek the Land Court without incurring the penalties
provided by the clauses designating .as crime any incitement
against rack-rent paying.
This permanent coercion law is even psychological. It un-
dertakes to search the very imaginations and minds of men. An
intention to advise against rack-rents, which the inquisitor may
detect lurking in the secret recesses of a citizen's intelligence,
will be sufficient to justify his indefinite imprisonment. Overt
acts were never necessary for the loss of liberty in Ireland, but
it remained for the Tory government in 1887 to contrive a psy-
chologic statute to make felonious not . merely opinions out-spo-
ken — that is too common in Ireland— but the very conception
of an opinion objectionable to a petty magistrate.*
It is needless to say that all the public liberties of the nation
have perished. The right to prohibit public meetings is one
^ which the government has never abrogated and has always exer-
cised with varying caprice, according to the temper of different
periods. It is scarcely probable that any meetings will be tole-
rated now which it will be possible for the magistracy to antici-
pate or pounce upon.
The freedom of the press will be jealously protected as far as
the organs of faction which pander to the passions of the Orange
minority are concerned. The editors of the National journals
have been taught wariness by costly experience. They have
been compelled to reduce constructive treason to the delicacy of
a fine art, and may be expected to watch their columns with one
eye on the coercion law and the other on the proof. The worst
use a good newspaper editor can be put to is to imprison him, he
being, in his relation to political society, excluded from the class
of patriots in general, many of whom do their country more good
in jail than out of it, under certain conditions. Of course there
is nothing to prevent the " government " from pieing the forms
of all the National organs at any moment. It cannot be mulcted
in damages for injury to property, nor sent to jail for any viola-
tion of its own code. But the fact that the Liberal press of Eng-
land will resent any special oppression of the press of Ireland, so
long as that press does not afford technical justification for inter-
ference, will probably keep the newspaper offices under surveil-
lance, but will also keep their editors out of jail.
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668 Ireland again under Coercion. [Aug..
The original clause which proposed to fetch over to England
accused persons whom juries in Ireland might not be ready to
imprison without cause, was dropped for one which may work
well or ill according to the character of the English judge sent
over to Ireland to sit with the Irish judges to try accused citi-
zens without juries. The principle of trial by jury was withheld
from Ireland, in violation of express royal promises, long after it
had gone into general use in England. On the slightest excuse
it has been suspended in Ireland from time to time ever since its
introduction. The sending over to Ireland of an English judge
is a novelty in jury suspension which may prove entertaining.
A jury was easily packed to convict O'Connell in Dublin. But
even a Lord Denman could not abide the violation of constitu-
tional law by which the verdict was brought about. There are
men on the bench of England so calm in spirit, so fond of constitu
tional principles, so independent in their station that if they were
sent to Ireland the people might have reason to rejoice. It re-
mains to be seen whether the " government " will choose their
bencher wisely for their own purposes or for the people.
Augustus assumed the dictator's powers, according to De
Maupas, because the republican constitution had been rendered
ineffectual by anarchy. Is that the justification for abolishing
all liberty in Ireland ? Who is the great anarch ? Who are the
inciters of lawlessness? When, where has any leader of the
Home Rule movement uttered one word against the strictest
social order, or, when speaking, failed to impress upon the people
that in order, peace, and virtue lies the hope of their future ?
For the present Ireland must accept coercion with dignified
submission. But when the Tories sent the bill over the Channel,
with the brand of " permanent " on the forehead of their messen-
ger, they should have looked upon the scornful countenance of
History. She has seen that Medusan brow before, and it bore
the same untruth under its snaky ^tresses.
II.
SICAMBER.
But the law cannot be permanent The Liberal party is
pledged to its repeal, and repealed it will be as soon as Mr. Glad-
stone has educated the democracy of England and Scotland into a
realization of their power and their rights. The politics of Eng-
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188;.] Ireland again under Coercion. 669
land have presented strange contradictions ; none in the past is
more curious than that Ireland should look with reliance and .
expectation to the statesman who has furnished the very
arguments by which Home Rule, after he espoused it, was de-
feated, and coercion, after he abandoned it, has been once more
enacted.
When, twenty years ago, Mr. Gladstone became the leader of
the reform legislation, one of his opponents recalled that memo-
rable scene where Clovis, having long refused baptism, bowed
his head at last before St. Remi, who said to him : " Humble
thyself, fierce Sicamber ; adore what thou didst burn, and burn
that which thou hast adored."
The public opinion of England and Scotland has not turned
backward since the Reform Bill was passed. There has been
more than one Sicamber in th« House of Commons. Peel hum-
bled himself to pass the Corn Laws ; Disraeli humbled himself to
pass the Reform Bill rather than abandon office to let Mr. Glad-
stone pass it. If the former, confessed that he had postponed its
adoption as a party measure until he could educate his partisans
up to it, Mr. Gladstone may confess that he forced Home Rule
upon his party before they had been educated to it. That his
own mind had been slowly but firmly advancing in the direction
of Home Rule for twenty years he now admits. Unfortunately
for Ireland, the exigencies of party rivalry had induced him
habitually to employ concerning the Irish party, before they
became his allies, language so picturesque, so extravagant, and
so impressive, despite its impropriety, that the portion of his
following now opposed to Home Rule have not yet been able to
dismiss its effects from their convictions.
Mr. Gladstone, on the other hand, can maintain with truth
that if he has altered his political attitude from time to time, his
new position has generally represented the natural and healthful
growth of democratic principles carrying him on, not always
with his entire concurrence. This is seen in his speeches on the
land bills which he has introduced successively to remedy the
defects of preceding ones which he had described as adequate
and final. It is seen in his arguments on the reduction of the suf-
frage and the redistribution bills, which only carry out the pur-
poses he declared fulfilled by the Reform Bill of 1868.
If a minority of his party still adheres to the ideas by which
he held the organization a unit against Home Rule until 1886,
the majority have advanced with him resolutely and will not re-
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670 Ireland again under Coercion. [Aug.,
treat. Why should we fear permanent coercion and an indefi-
nite postponement of Home Rule ? At the first election in which
that was the issue, resisted for eighty- five years by all English
statesmen, it received a majority of all the votes cast in the three
countries.
" Time is on our side. The great social forces which move
onwards in their might and majesty, and which the tumult of
our debates does not for a moment impede or disturb — these
great social forces are against you ; they are marshalled on our
side ; and the banner which we now carry in this fight, though
perhaps at some moment it may droop over our sinking heads,
soon again will float in the eye of Heaven, and it will be borne by
the firm hands of the united people of the three kingdoms, per-
haps not to an easy but to a certain and to a not far distant vic-
tory." Those were his words on the eve of the defeat of the
Reform Bill in 1866. His prophecy has been verified. Two
years later the bill became law. Twenty years later he carried
another suffrage bill by which the ballot was placed in the hands
of the manhood of the three countries. The democracy thus
enfranchised will follow him until Home Rule shall have been
won not only for Ireland but for England, Scotland, and
Wales.
Constitutional democracy takes no step backward.
III.
UNDER THE STRAIN.
»
'* You will say nothing whilst here to be found fault with bj
me," Ireland may well quote from the Greek poet and address to
her representation at Westminster, " but at home we shall know
what it is fitting to do." Mr. Parnell has already conjured the
people to afford no excuse for the assaults of the army with which
the country is always fully invested. There is not the least dan-
ger that her sons will throw their country upon bayonet-points
to be tossed up again, as were her children of old, for the amuse^
ment of the troops.
It is scarcely possible that her representatives will be permit-
ted to remain at large unless they become absolutely silent Any
word they utter may be turned into a pretext for jailing them.
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188;.] Salvias. 671
Twelve hundred citizens were imprisoned under the preceding
coercion act, administered by the Liberals. It will be extra-
ordinary if the Tories do not exceed that total in their determi-
nation to make dumb the voice of a people.
But there will be no dishonor for Ireland unless the impious
purpose of the coercion law is vitalized by secret treachery ot
public folly. S. B. Gorman.
SALVIAS.
At morn and eve my daily pilgrimage
Leads by a garden gay with summer flowers,
And bright among them blooms the scarlet sage
To cheer the early, soothe the later hours.
To me, heart-worn with mine and others* grief,
In August heats when August days are long,
From brilliant blossom and from gray-green leaf
The hopeful message comes : *' Hail and be strong !
" Be strong ; despair not ; doubt not ; do not fear :
To every life there comes some final gain :
We waited faithful half the changing year.
And lo ! the guerdon of our patient pain.
** Be strong, and to be hopeful be not loath ;
Not outward things but thine own soul shall change ;
The sun and dew that fed our flowerless growth.
They, and none other, feed these blossoms strange.
" O sister ! learn our lesson ere we die.
Who bravely lived and fearless face the tomb :
Tread thy low path with faith and purpose high.
And bliss for thee, as flowers for us, shall bloom."
M. B. M.
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6/2 A Fair Emigrant. [Aii^.,
A FAIR EMIGRANT.
CONCLUSION.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
A GHOST.
When Bawn learned the news she was not taken by surprise,
and yet the blow fell as heavily as if it had been unexpected.
In a week the color had left her lips and her dress hung loosely
upon her. It was a week of rain and tempest, and Betty Mac-
alister thought her young mistress had been suddenly seized
with a fit of loneliness and fright of the storm.
" I was feared, always feared, that the wintered be heavy on
^you," said Betty. "In summer-time a body doesn't feel the
loneliness; but winter up here is a trial, I can tell you."
" Perhaps Tm homesick,*' said Bawn, trying to smile. " I
believe I am going back to America, Betty. This climate does
not seem to agree with me. What do you think of coming with
me — you and Nancy ? "
" Och, misthress, I'm too ould for changes; and it's too short
a time you've given to the ould country — you that was so brave
at the first and had- such plans. Why would you give up for a
bit of a storm that'll blow over ? "
Bawn lowered her head and made no reply. The storm she
must fly from would never blow over, she feared — ^not, at all
events, as long as she lingered here ; for the storm was in her
own heart. Back in America, with the ocean between her and
this temptation, it might be that in years hence her old courage
would return. The question now was how to depart quickly
enough.
She must not give cause for wonder by a too precipitate
flight; must give timely notice to her landlord, alleging that
the Irish winter did not agree with her health. She must think
of her handmaidens and their disappointment, and make them
some amends. In the meantime she must not see Rory.
He had come many times to her door, but had always been
told in answer to his inquiries that she was ill and in her room;
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as, indeed, she was — ill with sorrow because she dare not run to
him ; shut up in her room as in a prison from which she could
not escape to freedom.
He had written her an urgent and impassioned letter, in
which he bade her forget everything but his love, and end this
tragedy with a word ; but to all his pleading she had answered
only that she was quite unmoved in her resolve.
One day, when all her preparations for departure were al-
most made, Gran's ancient carriage arrived at the Shanganagh
door, and Gran herself entered with trembling steps, uttering a
little cry of dismay as her eyes fell on Bawn's altered face and
figure.
" My dear," she said, " how ill you are looking ! What is it
all about? Can an old woman help to make things straight?
Have we been unkind to you ? Has any one hurt you, that you
so persist in running away from us ? "
*' No," said Bawn sadly — " no, indeed- It is only that I am
a capricious American and want to go home."
The old lady spread her thin hands before the fire and looked
thoughtfully at the girl.
" My dear, I want you to understand me. I have not come
here without a purpose. My grandson is very dear to me. You
are making him unhappy."
" I am still more unhappy," said Bawn, standing before the
old woman with her head lowered and her hands hanging by
her side.
*• There is a mystery somewhere," continued Gran, having
studied Bawn's face eagerly for a few moments. **I cannot
think of anything, except that some of our family have offend-
ed you, and that pride is in the way."
•* It is not that. If I ever had any pride it is gone. And
every one here has been only too good to me."
" What is it, then? Will you not confide in me ? Is there a.
difficulty which cannot be overcome?"
Gran's face twitched and her voice quivered. Bawn dropped
on her knees and covered the wrinkled hands with kisses,
•* It cannot be overcome," she said. " If I were to tell you,
you would be the first to bid me go."
Then Bawn burst into uncontrollable weeping, and the old
woman drew her to her heart and wept with her.
• "I feared there was something," she said. " But you will
trust me, will you not, if you can? How can you be sure of
what I shall tell you to do till you try me ? I know you are
VOL. XLV.— 43
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noble and good, and that this trouble which is on your mind,
this hindrance to ray grandson's happiness and your own, is no-
thing personal to yourself. He knows what it is, and he is not
daunted. Why will you not be satisfied, too ? "
"I will save him from himself," said Bawn, regaining her
courage, but holding fast by the tender old hands that clasped
her own. '* I will not condemn him to a future of bitterness."
'• We are talking in riddles," said Gran, " and nothing comes
of that but deeper bewilderment. I was hoping you would
have given me an explanation which Rory in honor cannot
make."
** When I have got to the other side of the ocean I will write
it to you. Yes, I have made up my mind to that. I will write
you the whole story, of what brought me here and of what has
driven me away again. And you will never ask me to come
back."
" But if I should ask you ? "
'* You are putting an impossible case ; and I cannot sec fur-
ther than just this, that I must go."
Gran went away at last with a sorrowful yearning in her
heart towards the girl, but with a fear that there must be some-
thing very terrible to be revealed, as no woman, except under
pressure of dreadful circumstances, could so withstand Rory.
She went on to the Rath, where she had promised to stay a
few days. Rory, who was there to meet her, was the only per-
son who knew of her visit to Shanganagh. He was eager to
hear the result of her interview with Bawn.
" I have gained nothing by going," said the old lady, " except
that I understand what you feel in losing her. There must be
some insurmountable bar, for she loves you dearly. But you
must let her go."
•* I do not consider it insurmountable," said Rory. And yet,
as he went out of the old woman's presence and walked alone
down the glen in the twilight, he admitted to himself that Bawn
had reason on her side in fearing to become his wife, now that
the stain of murder could never be wiped from her father's name.
He felt that Gran would believe she was right ; and that if ever
she received that letter which Bawn had promised to send ber
from America, his grandmother would applaud the resolution of
the writer, and would never, as Bawn had predicted, ask her to
come back.
Even for himself in the far future could he so assuredly an-
swer? How could he tell that a terrible repugnance might not
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one day spring up within him — repugnance to the idea that the
grandfather of his children had been the murderer of his uncle?
What reason had he for accepting the theory of Desmond's in-
nocence beyond the impression made on his imagination by the
passionate loyalty and faith of the daughter whom Desmond had
reared, but who might have inherited her noble nature from a
mother of whom she had no recollection?
Angry now with himself and now with her, and all the time
sick at heart under the pressure of uncompromising circum-
stances, he walked on half- blindly, while the twilight gradually
deepened. He tried to put himself back into the place he had
occupied among all things just before he had first seen Bawn — a
place which had held him well enough, and with which he had
been tolerably satisfied. But he owned bitterly to himself that
he could no longer fit into that place, having outgrown it.
The general altruism which had once wholly occupied and in-
terested him had all centred in the desire to have one loving
creature always by his side. He thought he perceived that he
could never again be a contented man. Had she been unable to
love him, or had she proved worthless, he might have hoped to
put her out of his life and forget her ; but the knowledge that her
life, too, was broken by the love that had driven her away from
him must forbid him ever to forget what might have been,
would take the sap out of his energies and sour the flavor of
his daily bread.
It had grown quite dark except for a faint gleam from the
moon — the same moon, now on the wane, that had lighted him to
Shane's Hollow after the storm ; a watery, red-eyed moon, trail-
ing forlornly through clouds, like a weeping woman moving
through the world alone with sable veils around her. As
Somerled walked on observing her he struck against some-
body right in his path.
** I beg your pardon. I believe it is I who am to blame."
And then he saw, by the pale ray from behind the roadside
trees, what a fanciful person might have taken for the ghost
of Edmond Adare.
"My God, man!" he exclaimed, "where have you come
from?"
" Where should I come from but from Shane's Hollow, my
ancient home?" answered the strange fifgure, which a brighter
gleam of moonlight now revealed more distinctly. " Perhaps
you do not know that you are speaking to an Adare.'*
" Excuse me," said Somerled ; " the night is dark." And then
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he stood still a moment, feeling curiously embarrassed in pre-
sence of this wretched wreck of humanity.
*• I excuse you," said Edmond Adare loftily, and passed on,
and Somerled turned his steps and walked with him in the di-
rection of the Rath.
" I must congratulate you, Mr. Adare, on your singular es-
cape. We feared you had perished in the accident of a week
ago."
" Thank you/* said Edmond, mollified. " It was a terrible
accident, but not perhaps unexpected. My poor brother per-
sisted in living in a dangerous part of the house. These old an-
cestral houses always become dangerous with time. My preser-
vation is due to my wariness in selecting my own apyartments.
I have still ample accommodation — " Here he was interrupted
by a frightful fit of coughing, followed by a faintness which
obliged him to lean against a tree.
Somerled surveyed him with infinite pity. His small,
shrunken frame, his streaming white beard, his hollow^ glassy
eyes contrasted strangely with the self-satisfied pomposity of
his manner of speaking, which would have been ludicrous only
for an occasional pathetic break in the voice and sob in the
articulation which hinted that a long-suffering patience had
almost given way ; that a monstrously bolstered-up pride had
nearly broken down. Fingall remembered that this man was he
who had always been considered the gentlest and least forbidding
of the brothers. Struggle as the poor creature might, death
was very near him. Was there nothing that charity could do
for his relief to soften the parting pangs of humanity yet to be
endured by him?
" Mr. Adare, I fear you are ill," he said kindly. "Will you
not accept a neighbor's hospitality for a little time — ^just for
change of air?" he added, feeling that he was humoring the
poor creature's pride, but unable to help it.
** You are good," said the poor ghost, pulling himself to-
gether and trying to move on, " but the Adares have always
been stay-at-home people. Just now I am going to the Rath on
business, to pay a strictly business visit to Mr. Alister Fingall—
your cousin, sir, I believe.**
** Yes,*' said Rory ; " and as I am going there now myself, ^^
may walk together, if you have no objection. Perhaps you will
take my arm, as you seem a little weak.'*
*' Old age, sir — old age ! ** said Edmond as Rory drew the
death-cold, trembling hand within his arm, and suited his steps
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to the tottering steps that shuffled on beside him ; and the last
of the Adares, taken by surprise, allowed himself to be led along
through the chill darkness like a father by a son.
Impressed with the feeling that something strange was about
to happen, Rory hastened to tell his cousin Alister of the curi-
ous resurrection that had taken place, informing him that the
one survivor of all the Adares was waiting in the library, seeking
an interview with him.
" Poor old creature! has he come to beg at last?" exclaimed
Alister. ** Well, we must see what can be done for him."
** I do not think that is what has brought him," said Somer-
led ; " but if you can force a glass of wine down his throat, do it
without delay.**
Having seen Alister to the library-door, he went to the draw-
ing-room, where he found Flora talking excitedly to Gran, who
looked bewildered — and no wonder ; for the subject of Flora's
eloquence was the engagement of Manon to Major Batt, an
event which had been announced to her only that morning.
Somerled, on hearing the news, expected to be overwhelmed
with Flora's scorn of his want of taste and enterprise in allowing
so disappointing a state of things to arise ; but, to his great sur-
prise, her greetings took the form of congratulation.
Only yesterday she had learned that Manon, so far from
being an heiress, was utterly penniless, having so greatly dis-
pleased her grandfather just before his death that he had left her
nothing.
'* So her sly mother sent her here, hoping that something
would turn up for her ; and undoubtedly something has turned
up. The question is, Will Major Batt marr}^ her when he hears
the truth?"
** Undoubtedly he will, Flora. He is not so bad as you paint
him."
" There is no knowing what he may do under the influence
of his disappointment, after the way Shana has treated him," said
Flora, determined to keep hold of one grievance, at least. ** I
must say you take it very coolly, Rory. Just imagine what it
would have been if you now stood in Major Batt's place."
" My imagination is not so elastic as yours ; it won't take in
such a possibility. As for Miss Manon, I can only say that in
future I shall back Gran as a judge of character, rather than
you. But, on the whole, it is a good thing to have Batt mar-
ried, and he has money enough to afford a penniless wife, even
looking at the matter from your point of view, Flora."
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*' Money enough ? I should think so. But why should it foil
to the lot of that designing little foreigner?*' said Flora, think-
ing bitterly of Shana preparing for exile in New Zealand, and
Rosheen unprovided for. " However, I have done with all at-
tempts to improve the condition of my husband's family. It
seems to me that the Fingalls have a constitutional objection to
possessing the good things of this world."
Rory reflected that when his cousin Alister took to himself
Lady Flora's handsome dowry and pretty face he had not se-
cured all the good things of the world by that act. And Gran,
being too generous to exult over Flora, too tired to speak at all,
merely looked at her favorite grandson with a wistful, sympa-
thetic gaze which at once approved of his conduct and deplored
that it had not met with the reward it deserved.
Interrupting the conversation came a message from the mas-
ter of the Rath requesting Rory's presence in the library.
CHAPTER XL.
THE KING'S MESSENGER.
When Somerled entered the library Alister was standing on
the fireplace holding a piece of paper in his hands, and with a
disturbed look on his usually placid countenance, while Edmond
Adare sat at the table, drooping towards it, with his arms folded
upon it and his chest supported on his arms. A glass of wine
stood untasted before him, and a tray with other refreshments
was near.
" I have asked you to come here to support me in my magis-
terial capacity," said Alister. "This gentleman, Mr. Adare, has
brought me some curious information; has placed this docu-
ment in my hands, which, though very interesting, would be
rather enigmatical if not explained by his testimony. I wish
you to hear his explanations. But, Mr. Adare, will you not
oblige me by drinking that glass of wine before we go further?"
** Thank you ; I never eat or drink except at home," said the
famished-looking visitor, shaking himself out of a sort of col-
lapse which seemed to have fallen on him from the warmth and
comfort of the room. " I am an abstemious man, Mr. Fingall,
and if I were to partake of your refreshments I could not after-
wards dine."
Alister and Rory exchanged glances as the wretched man
uttered the above words with a gasping effort, and at the same
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time an attempt at flourish which was pitiful in the extreme, see-
ing the very low ebb to which his physical strength had sunk;
and Alister hastened to get the business of the moment over.
" This is a statement made by the late Mr. Luke Adare/*
he said — "a very singular statement Mr. Edmond Adare tells
me that he himself wrote it at his brother's dictation — some
years ago, was it not, Mr. Adare ? Perhaps you will kindly tell
my cousin how the statement came to be made."
Edmond Adare shook himself up again with another great
effort, and lifted his pallid face, looking from one to the other of
the two men standing before him.
" It was about four years ago," he said. " My brother Luke
was suffering in body and haunted by an idea that he must make
a confession, and he called on me to write it down for him."
" You consider that he was of sound mind at the time? "
" I am sure of that, or I should not have come to you. Since
then his mind has sometimes been a little astray, but not then —
certainly it was not so then."
" Will you tell us what occurred between you ? " said Alister,
while Rorj' glanced over the soiled and crumpled paper which
he had taken from Alister's hand, and turned pale.
" He came one day to my apartments. At that time we oc-
cupied rooms in different wings of the house, and had not met
for a year. My brother Luke was always a peculiar person, but
very clever, Mr. Fingall, and very clear-headed. Had it not
been for misfortune — such misfortune as often overtakes the best
ancient families — my brother Luke would have made a figure in
the world. He came to me that day and said : * I have some-
thing on my mind which will not let me rest night or day. It is
like a rat gnawing me. I cannot tell why it is,* he said, * for I do
not believe in conscience, but I have a feeling that if you were
to write down what I have to say I shall get better.'
*' I said, 'What is it about?' He said, * It is about Arthur
Desmond.' 1 said, 'The man who murdered Roderick Fingall
long ago?'
" ' He did not murder him,' said Luke. ' Roderick Fingall
fell down the cliff. That is what I want you to write.' "
" Yes," said Rory. " Go on."
Edmond Adare passed his heavy, colorless hand over his
sunken eyes, and, with another great demand upon the rem-
nant of vitality within him, spoke again :
" ' I said, ' Who is able to tell about that now ? '
" He said, * I am> because I saw how the thing happened. I
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was on the mountain that evening by chance, and I saw the two
men meet, and I heard their conversation. I saw Arthur Des-
mond stretch out his hands to Fingall, and Fingall draw back
and fall headlong over the precipice. It was an accident, and
Desmond had no fault in it.'"
" I said to Luke, ' Why did you not speak at the time ? *
" • I did speak,' he said. * I spoke to some purpose. I whis-
pered in everybody's ear that Roderick had been murdered and
that Desmond was the murderer. I had excellent reasons for it
I never did anything without an excellent reason. I wanted the
money that old Barbadoes was on the point of bestowing on
Arthur Desmond, and I got it. It is all gone now, like every-
thing else, and nothing matters except to stop this buzzing io
my brain whenever I think of it. And I can't get rid of think-
ing of it. Write it all down that I may get rid of it.'
** I wrote it down as you see, gentlemen, and Luke was satis-
fied. I put away the paper, and never should have troubled any
more about it, for I thought no good could come of showing it
to any one now, only for certain matters which occurred during
the last year."
" What are those matters?" asked Rory, with eyes fixed in-
tently on Edmond's face.
" A young lady came visiting at Shane's Hollow," continued
Edmond, with another faint attempt at his grandiose manner
which failed pathetically as he went on, " and she was an angel
of goodness to my poor sister, who was a great sufferer owing
to our reverses, and had not all those comforts which an invalid
requires. This girl, gentlemen, nursed her like a daughter, gave
her hospitality, and buried her in our ancestral burial place as
befitted an Adare. I never saw the young lady's face, but I have
heard her voice as she passed down our staircase, and there was
a tone in it that reminded me of the ill-treated Arthur Desmond.
This I might not have dwelt upon, only that of late my brother
Luke fell to raving about Desmond's daughter who had come to
persecute him. After coming to the conclusion that the girl
must be Desmond's daughter, I had some struggle with myself
as to whether I should or should not come forward and lay this
statement before a magistrate ; for the step I am taking now,
gentlemen, is a difficult one to a person of my recluse-like habits,
but ever since my poor brother's death I have felt a great anxiety
to make known his confession. I have felt it, to use his own
words, ' like a rat gnawing me * ; and so I have come — "
He stopped abruptly and cast a wild, wandering look round
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the room, as if, now that all was said and urgent n^ed for eflfort
was over, he knew not how to pull body and mind together any
more ; and before Alister or Rory could reach him he had fallen
forward on the table in a state of unconsciousness.
They did all in their power to revive him and sent in haste
for a doctor, and before the doctor could arrive to tell them that
he had only a few hours to live the last denizen of the ruined
home of the Adares was lying in Lady Flora's best bed- room,
scarcely aware of the long-unwonted comfort with which he was
surrounded.
An hour before death he had a return of consciousness, and
renewed in presence of the doctor, clergyman, and others the
statement he had already made to Alister and Somerled, but by
midnight the last of the Adares was no more.
Leaving Alister to tell Edmond Adare's story to Gran and
Flora, Somerled rode oflF early in the morning to Shanganagh.
Walking up to the farm-house he saw signs of preparation for
departure aqd Bawn's little cart waiting at the open door, and
at the same moment Bawn herself appeared on the threshold
dressed for travel.
" Unkind," he said, " trying to steal away from us without a
word of farewell ! "
He was smiling jubilantly as he took her half-reluctant hand,
and Bawn, who had plotted to escape this last trial, felt herself
turn sick and faint at seeing his unconcern. After all his urgency
and insistance it was she who would have to suffer now and m
the future. He would easily reconcile himself to the inevitable
and forget.
She looked pale, weary, beaten. Knowing to what a pass
things had come with her, feeling that she was unable to strug-
gle longer without crying out, she had been trying to escape
quietly in her weakness and sorrow without going through the
ordeal of spoken farewells. Caught on the very threshold, she
would have to make one last, almost impossible call on her cour-
age.
" I have been obliged to make my arrangements hastily,'*
she said, *' and to write my farewells and thanks for all kind-
nesses. Betty is coming with me. Nancy will stay till all is
wound up finally here, and will follow us. I have written to Mr.
Fingall of the Rath—"
" Come in, Bawn ; come in, and give me one last half-hour of
your company. The pony can wait. Your steamer does not
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sail for two days to come. Don't be afraid — I am not going to
ask leave to cross the ocean with you a second time."
She returned into the little parlor which she had just quitted,
as she had thought, for the last time, feeling the joy of seeing him
again embittered, the acute pain of parting infinitely aggravated
by the strange delight in his eyes and in his voice. Had he cru-
elly come here to punish her by showing how little he cared,
how, having come to listen to reason at last, he was rejoiced to
make an end of folly ?
She stood in the middle of the dismantled room with a wretch-
ed consciousness that she was unable to hide the grief in her eyes,
that her face, her attitude, her very hands were treacherously
making confession that she was escaping away from the scene of
her wild enterprise vanquished and with a broken heart. Not
that she cared now if he knew it, only he might have spared her.
He was so much the stronger, after all. Her strength, which he
had so talked about, was such a sham, his fancied love for her
had been so short and so easily dismissed. How could he stand
smiling at her misery thus if he had ever for one hour really
cared for her?
** Bawn, take off your gloves and your hat, for I have a great
deal to say to you."
** Would it not be kinder to let me go ? " she said, and she
felt that her pride was gone and that she had said it piteously.
** I have been very foolish, very danng, and I and my cause are
shipwrecked. I have done no one harm but myself, for which I
ought to be thankful ; but say good-by quickly and let me go."
He had taken her hands and held them tightly, and tried to
look in her eyes, which were turned steadily away from the glad-
ness in his.
** Bawn, I swear to you solemnly that you must not, need
not go."
She looked at him startled, suddenly struck with the fact that
his manner seemed to imply a certainty which could only come
from a change in circumstances ; but, remembering that such
change was impossible, she said sadly :
" Nothing could persuade me of that unless the clouds were
to open and drop down the truth, or a message were to come
back from the dead — "
" My dearest, the clouds have opened ; a message has come
from the dead. I have been all night entertaining the king's
messenger who brought us miraculous tidings. Luke Adare has
spoken."
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Bawn's lips parted, and in her eyes, which were fixed on
Somerled's, amazement, hope, and incredulity succeeded each
other swiftly.
" Impossible ! " she said faintly. " The heavens were opened
to convert Saul, but that does not happen now. The dead do not
come back. Why need you torture me ? "
" Luke Adare has spoken."
** I saw him dead."
" So have I seen Edraond Adare, but only a few hours ago.
He is the kind's messenger I told you of, and here is the message
he brought for you and me."
He drew the paper containing Luke's confession from his
breast and put it in her trembling hands, but, seeing she could
neither hold nor decipher it, he took it back and read it aloud to
her. Hearing him, she looked straight before her with bewil-
dered eyes, tried to take the document to read it for herself, but
suddenly turned blind, and the next moment Bawn the strong-
hearted had fainted in her lover's arms.
CATHOLIC TOTAL ABSTINENCE.
The lack of true spiritual life is apparent in the condition of
modern society. Wealth, honor, and pleasure are the objects
that engross men's attention. The great injunction of our Sa-
viour to deny one's self and take up the cross finds little place
in our busy, material world. Passion governs, and true develop-
ment suffers in consequence. Selfishness is the law of the hour.
On all sides social reforms are demanded. The body of the peo-
ple, the subjects and objects of all reform, are appealed to and
are played upon by men whose impulse is passion or hypocriti-
cal selfishness. The aim of the Catholic Total Abstinence Union
is a religious one ; it offers itself as a helper to church and state
in the work of individual and social reform. It tells men that
reform can come only through the grace of God in a spiritual life.
It appeals to humanity as redeemed and ennobled by Christ, who
is the source of all true reform, and without whom society must
wither and die as the tree deprived of life-giving sap. What so-
ciety wants is a better manhood — a Christian manhood ; living,
not for self, but for God ; ready to make sacrifices, not for ma-
terial advantages, but for the elevation of mankind into a vir-
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684 Catholic Total Abstinence. [Aug^
tuous life and union with God. Social reform that builds on
humanity separated from God can lead only to the satisfaction
of vanity, and soon becomes but a loud-sounding word, while
men languish and die for want of the proper moral food.
Among the moral evils which help to arouse passion and
make selfishness brutal, and so to render social reform difficult,
intemperance stands prominent. No community is free from its
encroachments, no home safe from its contagion. Possessing- the
body of man, it robs him of mind and heart, and deprives so-
ciety of his intelligence and affection. Home is the fountain-
head of citizenship and manliness. Intemperance changes it into
a nursery of vice, transforms it into an agent to destroy society,
which it was intended to build up and to defend.
* Men dread the destructiveness of the elements. The great
reservoirs of the heavens pour down their floods and rush head-
long to the sea, gathering madness in their course and scattering
destruction in their path ; the mighty tempest spreads havoc in
its train ; gaunt famine and grim war depopulate nations. Men
shudder when attempting to estimate the loss of life and pro-
perty from all these causes ; yet not all combined can equal in-
temperance, which like a mad torrent rushes over the land, scat-
tering along the highways of life the wrecks of broken homes
and the hulks of ruined manhood. The state is forced by in-
temperance to increase its charities a hundredfold and more, to
enlarge its prisons and reformatories for self-protection. Labor,
in battling for its rights, finds itself handicapped by intempe-
rance, and robbed of more of its earnings than by the most
grinding of monopolies. The church, placed on earth to save
man's soul by leading him into the spiritual life, finds in intempe-
rance an antagonism which neutralizes her efforts, paralyzes her
energy, and disgraces her good name. This will explain why
men are called upon to combine against this monster slayer of
humankind. Indeed, it is not strange that, in considering the
evils caused by drink, men have been led to regard drink as an
evil in itself, not to be used, but banished from the land as a
fiend whose very touch defiles. The Catholic total abstinence
movement sprang into being from an essentially Christian hatred
of drunkenness and pity for its victims. Because Catholics real-
ize the hatefulness of that vice and the extent of its ravages,
they have combined against it, and exhibit as a test of earnest-
ness the pubjic and private practice of the opposite virtue.
Men in all ages have combined for protection, whether the
object was country, home, health, labor, or intelligence. The
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bundle of sticks teaching the strength of union has impressed
itself upon men in all time. Our age is characteristically an age
of combination, as seen in the many unions, for trade, labor,
benefit, or monopoly, which appeal to all classes and to all con-
ditions in society. Now, men are agreed that intemperance is
making vast havoc among the people. They must be blind
indeed who doubt it. Men combine against it in order to break
its hold on humanity, to succor the suffering, to lift up the fallen,
and to strengthen the weak. Can a higher or better motive
for union be proposed than this act of sacrifice by which some
wretched brethren may be redeemed from the thraldom of drink
and made freemen ? Men say this makes hypocrites and phari-
sees. We shall find these everywhere and under all banners.
They are not confined to the ranks of total abstainers. Were
more of the best men in society to lead in this as in other move-
ments, many of the disturbing elements might be eliminated.
The movement suffers from the vapid utterances of some who
imagine that total abstinence is a religion in itself, and that they
have by the pledge, as if by magic, been elevated into a position
of moral superiority over their fellow-mortals. But Catholic
total abstinence makes no such claim. It affirms that the pledge
is one means to the great end, and a very efficient one. It claims
that it leads to thrift and providence ; that it helps to preserve a
sound mind in a sound body ; that it guards man's intelligence
for God's truth and man's heart for God's love. It should make
better men and better Christians, holding with St. Ambrose that
sobriety is the mother of faith, as intemperance is the mother of
infidelity.
In other matters men overlook much; in total abstinence
nothing. It is condemned in advance as fanaticism and bigotry
bordering on false and heretical principles. Men sometimes
forget that Catholic total abstinence and party prohibition are
totally different. The former hates drunkenness, the latter hates
drink. The one asserts that the use of liquor is not in itself an
evil, while the other calls it an evil under any and all circum-
stances. Catholic total abstinence may accept prohibition in
certain cases as a method of curtailing a traffic grown into mon-
strous proportions — an extreme remedy, a sort of war measure.
It asserts that drink-selling is not always sinful, nor sinful in
itself. But it afl&rms that as a matter of fact, and here and now,
it is fraught with the destruction of multitudes of souls.
The Catholic total abstinence movement is nof infected with
fanaticism. It does not assert the principle of the evil of drink,
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686 Catholic Total Abstinence. [Aug^
but it builds itself on the evil of drunkenness. It recognizes the
truth that all things in nature are made for man's use, and are
consequently good in themselves. It condemns no man for using
these goods, but, noting the ruin which results from abuse, it
warns men of the danger even in the use.
Catholic theology teaches us through St. Thomas of Aquin
that temperance, being a cardinal virtue, restrains the appetites
and inclines man to that which is agreeable to right reason, mode-
rating the love and use of pleasures. Now, total abstinence is
one aspect of the Christian virtue of temperance, and aims at its
perfection. It is nothing more or less than a high degree of
the restraint of reason upon appetite. It is the Christian mor-
tification of an appetite which if not curbed leads often to degra-
dation and ruin. While temperance is a precept, total abstinence
is in the nature of a Gospel counsel, for those at least who have
never abused the use of drink. Certainly this is not fanaticism
but Catholic doctrine.
There are not wanting men who regard the total abstinence
movement as productive of good for drunkards, while they do
not hesitate to call it fanaticism when an appeal is made to them
to become total abstainers, even though it be for the purpose of
saving others from the dangers of drink. Now, the Board of
Health that would occupy itself in time of an epidemic with
simply relieving the plague-stricken while neglecting to take
measures to dry up the sources of the plague would not be con-
sidered as possessing good judgment nor capable of providing
for the welfare of society. While avoiding fanaticism, let us
face the facts. The meanest, most abandoned drunkard at one
time used drink moderately. The great army of intemperate
men to-day has been recruited entirely from men who once felt
no necessity for a curb upon their appetites. Hence the total ab-
stinence movement appeals not only, perhaps not so much, to
the intemperate as to the men who have not yet abused drink, in
order that by their example those moderate drinkers who are in
danger of becoming intemperate may be saved.
The Catholic Total Abstinence Union, which will meet this
month of August in Philadelphia, numbers many thousands of racn
who have not tasted intoxicating drink «ince early youth, and
probably never will. They have seen the evils about them, many
of them in their own homes, and they have determined to show
their hatred, of it and their pity for its victims. The Catholic
Total Abstinence Union teaches them not to rely on themselves
but on God ; to have recourse to the sacraments, to prayer, and
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to Holy Mass. It tells them that the pledge is a help and not a
substitute for religion, that it is a promise solemnly made in the
presence of God and of their brethren — a promise which their
manhood will hold sacred and inviolable, protecting them as
with a shield and aiding them in obtaining self-control.
The Catholic Church by its highest authority has blessed our
Union. Pope Pius IX., of sainted memory, in 1873 froni his
heart blessed the Union. Leo XIII. in 1879 bestowed upon it
his apostolic benediction, and later granted to its members indul-
gences that, with God's blessing, ** day by day the Union be far-
ther extended and more widely propagated, in order to lessen the
evils lamented and dreaded." Cardinal Manning in a letter says :
" As the pastor of souls 1 have before me the wreck of men, wo-
men, and children, home, and all the sanctities of domestic life.
I see prosperity turned into temptation ; the wages of industry
not only wasted, but, as they increase, making the plague more
deadly. If by denying myself in this, which I am free to re-
nounce, I shall help or encourage even one soul who has fallen
through intoxication to rise up and break his bonds, then I will
gladly abstain as long as I live." Cardinal McCabe, in July,
1882, said : " The terrible crime of drunkenness is like a wild
beast ravaging our country ; itiis the great source of misery and
crime. I have, therefore, felt it to be my duty to take my stand
under the banner of total abstinence. I do not want it for my-
self, but I have taken this position in order that I may be able to
speak with more eflfect in advising others to renounce drink once
and for ever." The prelates of the Second Plenary Council of
Baltimore declared " that the most shocking scandals which we
have to deplore spring from intemperance."
Following in the footsteps of the fathers of the previous coun-
cils of Baltimore, and supported by and quoting the teaching of
the Angelic Doctor, the Third Plenary Council approved and
heartily recommended the Catholic total abstinence movement
and " the laudable practice of many of the faithful who totally ab-
stain from the use of intoxicating drinks. By this means they
combat the vice of drunkenness more effectually than otherwise,
whether in themselves by removing its occasion, or in others by
exhibiting a splendid example of the virtue of temperance," and it
gladly proclaimed their zeal to be according to knowledge. " It
has," they declare, " already brought forth abundant fruit of vir-
tue, and gives promise of yet greater results in the future."
The recent strong words of commendation from Pope Leo
XIII. have given joy and encouragement to every member of the
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688 Catholic Total Abstinence. [Aug^
Union, effectually destroying the suspicion that our movement is
not in harmony with the purest Catholic doctrine. He says:
•* We have rejoiced to learn with what energy and zeal by means
of various excellent associations, and especially through the
Catholic Total Abstinence Union, you combat the vice of intem-
perance. We esteem worthy of all commendation the noble re-
solve of your pious associations by which they pledge themselves
to abstain totally from every kind of intoxicating drink. Nor
can it at all be doubted that this determination is the proper and
truly efficacious remedy for this very great evil." Under the in-
fluence of this fatherly approval our Union must gain strength
and usefulness. No one can estimate the social good that has
resulted from the work of total abstinence, whether during the
public life of Father Mathew, or in the organized movement of
his followers in the total abstinence societies, or in the silence of
the priest's influence in the confessional.
Intemperance has been in the world from the beginning, and
will be found in it to the end, and we do not dream of totally
abolishing it. This is no reason why we should not labor to save
men from its ravages. A foreign enemy threatens our shores,
and we madly cry for coast defences. Nationality is in danger,
and men rush to arms, ready to, sacrifice their lives rather than
allow their country to be injured. Intemperance threatens our
homes, destroys many of them, robs our labor and weakens our
energies, and we are called fanatics if we unite for protection and
move forward against the enemy. If we speak against the
causes of intemperance and point the finger at the marshes that
breed the pestilence, we are accused of interfering with personal
liberty and injuring legitimate business. But the liberty of the
drunkard, his business, his duty to his family, do not enter into
some men's thoughts. The black slave of the South with chains
about his limbs stirred humanity until intelligence advanced the
day when no man could call him a chattel. The slavery of drink
is fastened upon poor men who are as unable to help themselves
as the negro of the plantations. And it is humanity to break his
slavery, and it is higher humanity to bid freemen never to be-
come slaves.
Catholic total abstinence is not responsible for the actions of
all its members. The reproach of a " holier than thou " style of
manhood is often heard against it. It should be judged by its
principles and its works. It aims at saving men from ruin and
preserving their manhood for society and God, and it succeeds
in doing so ; it aims at ennobling men's labor and making the
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workingman independent and respectable, and it succeeds. It
thanks God that through its means many a soul has been lifted
from sin to virtue, many a horror removed from Christian homes.
It is conscious of the gratitude of thousands who have known
happiness since its banner was placed over them. In a word, it
may be said that our Union has for its object to assist the grace
of God in building up a better humanity, ennobling labor, the
salvation of home, and the fulfilment of man's destiny.
Our Union appeals to the best men in every community, par-
ticularly to those who have never experienced the slavery of
drink. If none but drunkards become total abstainers how can
we expect that they will successfully cope with the evil that sur-
rounds them? As it is the strong, able-bodied men that are
needed for a country's defence, and not men just recovering from
disease, so it is the men who have controlled and can control
their appetites who must fight the battle for the weak and save
humanity. It is the leaders in society who should stand forth
and command. Men capable of sacrifice are needed to stand as
Spartans in the passes and defend the people; men ready to
deny themselves some of the pleasures of sense in order to help
in the salvation of others. '
The battle is really between the saloon and the home. The
saloon has fastened itself upon society as an ulcer living upon the
life-blood of the people. The saloon, building itself upon the
ruins of broken lives and shattered homes, spreads desolation
everywhere, respecting no class or sex. The Union recalls the
countless boys ruined, the fathers changed into destroyers of
their little ones, the industry paralyzed, the prisons filled, and it
asks each saloon how much of this is its work. It calls on the-
law to place about the saloon such reasonable restrictions as will
remove as far as possible the evils that spring up from it. It de-
mands the enforcement of those laws for the protection of home.
The arrogance of the saloon and the power it wields in political
affairs, all for its own interests and against those of society, have
awakened a stronger interest in the cause of total abstinence or-
ganized on Catholic principles. Thomas J. Conaty..
VOL. XLV.— 44
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690 The Beginnings of Mount St. Mary's. [Aug.,
THE BEGINNINGS OF MOUNT ST. MARYS.
Early in 1734 there came to the fpot now occupied by the
town of Emmittsburg, Frederick County, Maryland, a family of
Catholics, originally settlers in St. Mary's County. William El-
der was the first white man to establish himself in this district at
the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains, and he it was who gave the
lower portion of grim old Carrick's Knob the name of " St. Mary's
Mount." He called his farm " Pleasant Level," a name it still
retains. Attached to the house he built a large room to be used
as a chapel. Here for many years the scattered Catholic fami-
lies gathered whenever it was known that a priest had come
from St Mary's County, from Conewago, or Frederick, or Path
Valley in Pennsylvania.
Meantime the first French Revolution had swept like a si-
moom from rock-bound Brittany to fair Provence, carrying in its
wake a horror at which the world still shudders. Of course the
church bore her own share of sufferings in the persecution and
destruction of all that was beautiful and good in the doomed
country. Among those of her consecrated sons who were oblig-
ed to fly, after exhausting every effort to brave the Terror or to
rtem its force, was a young abW, John Dubois, he who was after-
irards the third to wear the mitre of New York. His first mis-
jSioil in America was that of lower Virginia, where he devoted
ihimself to the study of the English language and the duties of
ihis .priestly office. In 175^ three years after his landing in Nor-
folk, Bishop Carroll transferred the young abb6 to Frederick, a
small towo or station in Northwestern Maryland, and gave him
jurisdiction over what now are Frederick, Montgomery, Wash-
ington, Allegheny, and Garrett counties, besides the north-
eastern portion of Virginia. Once a month he visited the Em-
mittsburg distriat and said Mass at the Elder chapel. Finding
many children amoog the congregation which met him there,
he recognized the necessity for supplementing whatever good
instruction their parents were able to give them by the more
authoritative teachings of the priest. He formed quite a large
.catechism clas§, and finally established a school on the farm of
Mr. Joseph Elder, payfing for the services of a teacher and visit-
ing it as frequently as his other duties allowed.
Gradually, as the qhurch grew, the boundaries of Abb6 Du-
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bois' mission narrowed. Other priests were assigned to his re-
lief, and he was able to concentrate toost of his attention upon
the Mountain congregation. He continued to visit both £m-
mittsburgand Elder Station quite frequently, and finally, in 1805,
the two congregations united in clearing a space upon a shoul-
der-like projection of the mountain and building a log-house of
two rooms for their pastor; here he spent the winter. This
cabin stood for many years, and was known as Mr. DuhameFs
house in later times, that gentleman coming subsequently to the
assistance of the Abb6 Dubois. One balmy day in the early
spring of the next year Abb6 Dubois, having as a guest the
Rev. Benedict Joseph Flaget, afterwards first bishop of Bards-
town, Kentucky, took a walk up the mountain-side with Mrs. .
Ignatius Elder and his reverend visitor. Pausing at the spot
now occupied by the Mountain church, Mrs. Elder pointed over
the wide stretch of valley spread out before them and ex-
claimed :
"What a glorious place for a church, Father Dubois, on
which the blessed cross can be seen for so many miles ! "
Perhaps Abb6 Dubois had entertained the same idea during
the long winter, when doubtless his active mind was revolving
the plans for church and college which he carried out with so
much energy and self-devotion. Be that as it may, this walk
decided him, and a few weeks later he assembled his friends on
this spot and informed them that he had chosen it ac the site for
his church. Meeting all outspoken or whispered opposition
with the dignity of determination or the sweetness of persuasion,
as he felt would best avail, the abb6 went about among these
simple farmers and workmen, winning all to his opinion. Final-
ly, borrowing an axe from one of them, he cut down the first
tree with his own hand. Later he presided at the barbecue
which closed the day in merry-maldng. This is the church
which greets the eye of the modern visitor ; it stands only a few
yards higher up the mountain than the plateau upon which
Abb6 Dubois' log residence had been built. It was enlarged in
1829. Here each generation of " Mountaineers " has worship-
ped ; and though they were of alien races, various in character-
istics and temperaments, differing sometimes even in religious
belief, in love for Mountain college and Mountain church they
knew no dissent
The school at Joseph Elder's boasted in 1808 seven pupils,
but, our abb6 argued, larger accommodations will attract larger
numbers. On the 6th day of October in that year the walls of a
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692 The Beginnings of Mount St. Mary's. [Aug.
log-house were erected on the rise of Carrick's Knob, beside a
copious spring, the delicious waters of which yet find their
devious way about the college precincts. This new building
was similar to that in which Abb^ Dubqis still abode, with the
addition of a basement below and two rooms above the two
apartments on the ground-floor. Willing hands, including those
of the seven pioneers of Mount St. Mary's College, whose names,
unfortunately, seem to be forgotten by an ungrateful posterity,
did the work speedily, and soon classes were held on the ground-
floor rooms ; those below were used as kitchen and refectory,
and those above as dormitories. The green briers were rooted
out from about the spring, and a play-ground formed by clear-
ing off the surrounding trees. This log-building is now the
*' white house " ; it stands in the angle formed by the college
proper and the Junior department, but only the original walls
remain, the interior having been entirely remodelled. Across
the ravine now bridged by ** Plunket's Folly," and the lower
part grassed over and included in the college bounds, where to-
day the music-hall stands, was another log-house, occupied at
this time by Mrs. Peggy McEntee, whose doughnuts and other
dainties were long famous among the youngsters, whose men-
tal and physical labors insured them good appetites.
As Abb6 Dubois had anticipated, his school increased so
rapidly that it was necessary to erect other accommodations,
and a row of log-houses was begun opposite and a little to the
north of the original building, occupying the spot upon which
now stands the Junior department. It required several years to
complete these. The ground upon which these improvements
were made belonged to Mr. Arnold Elder, who parted with the
mountain lots for a good round sum. Later on the whole farm,
which was the inheritance of Mrs. Brooks, Mr. Elder's daughter,
was purchased for the Mountain school by the Sulpicians in
Baltimore.
In 1806 these Sulpicians, exiles also, had established a petit
s^minaire at Pigeon Hill, in Pennsylvania, but for some reason it
did not succeed. The Abb6 Dubois having, in 1809, united with
their congregation, the students at this place were transferred to
his young institution, which he had dedicated to the " Mother of
fair love, of knowledge, and of holy hope."
The names of the eight students transferred from Pigeon Hill
to Mount St. Mary's were : Colomkill O'Conway, John O'Connor,
Taliaferro O'Connor, James Shorb, James Clements, John Fitz-
gerald, John Lilly, Jonathan Walker. With this augmented
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188;.] The Beginnings of Mount St. Mary's. 693
force the improvements around the school went gaily on. The
swamp below the houses was drained, and to the south a garden
was prepared and an orchard planted. A great deal of money
and labor was expended in levelling the grounds near the build-
ings into terraces, and clearing the rocks and stones out of them.
In fact, at times the place resembled a manual-labor school, when
the older pupils transformed themselves into farm-hands and
gathered the harvests, or, with their beloved principal at their
head, worked at beautifying the grounds nearer home.
The terms of purchase of the farm were an annuity to Mrs.
Chloe Brooks of some three or four hundred dollars, and a resi-
dence in the college, the original farm-house, which stood half-
way down the long lane afterwards opened, leading from the
school to the Frederick road. In later years it was this house
which Major Andr6, the professor of music at the college, occu-
pied, having named it ** The Solitude." Afterwards the old
lady removed to " The Hermitage," a small cottage on the upper
terrace, back of the stone building, and still standing. She lived
to a good old age, and used often to tell Mr. Dubois that it was
his own fault that she was so long a burden to him, for he
treated her so well she had no excuse for dying !
It was after Easter, April 26 and 28, that the transfer of the
pupils from Pigeon Hill was made. Meantime a recent convert,
Mrs. Eliza Ann Seton, having decided to devote her remaining
years to the service of God in acts of charity to his poor, and
having been led through devious ways to settle her young com-
munity in the vicinity of Emmittsburg, left Baltimore with her
three or four companions for that place on St. Aloysius' day,
June 21. The house upon their own farm not being habitable,
Mr. Dubois oflFered them the hospitality of the log-house half-
way up to the church, which he had vacated a short time before
for the buildings that constituted his seminary. Here the ladies
were made as comfortable as possible, and they remained as the
guests of the reverend gentleman until the 30th of July, when
they removed to their own quarters, beginning the now well-
known St. Joseph's Academy in a house but little better than
that which they had left.
But Mr. Dubois' fatherly care followed them there ; he was
their spiritual director and their very prudent adviser in their
many perplexities, for Archbishop Carroll entrusted him with all
their spiritual concerns and interests. He formed their rules to
a great extent, and he instructed them in the spirit and institute
of St. Vincent de Paul — a task he was eminently fitted for, having
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694 The Beginnings of Mount St. Maey's. [Aug.,
been for some time after his ordination one of the chs^plains of
«the Sisters of Charity at the institution for insane patients and
destitute orphans in Paris, the Hospice des Petites Maisans. He
celebrated Mass for them every day in their humble chapel, and
in addition to all these duties he attended to the details of his
buildings, superintended his farm and the general out-of-door
interests of his own institution. He was also parish priest of
Emmittsburg and of the Mountain, unfailing in his duties to
these two scattered congregations, while on occasion he occupied
the teacher's chair and assisted the class through some task of
Greek, Latin, or French.
Abb6 Dubois was peculiarly happy in his instructions to chil-
dren and servants ; he seemed to understand how to convey reli-
gious ideas to their minds, to enable them to comprehend the
significance of the mysteries of religion, to appreciate its super-
natural character. He prepared them himself for their first com-
munion, and his tender and winning addresses to them drew tears
from the eyes of many, young and old. As superior of the insti-
tutions of the sisterhood and the Mountain he won the confidence
and regard of all under his care. Trying and disheartening as
were many of the circumstances with which he had to contend,
he found many compensations in the happy results of his min-
istrations. He was greatly relieved also in his arduous duties
by the young men who were aspirants to the sanctuary. But the
long-continued friendship and co-operation of him who is so
justly styled the "Angel Guardian of the Mount," whose coming
I will presently relate, were his chiefest consolation and support.
In 1 8 10 the Rev. Charles Duhamel assumed the charge of the
Emmittsburg parish, thus lightening somewhat the labors of
Abb6 Dubois, who, before securing this co-operation, had been
obliged to attend in person the Emmittsburg congregation and
that of Mt. St. Mary's on alternate Sundays. On those which
he gave to the former place his little troop of boys were guided
by their prefects and teachers to the village church, a distance of
two miles, and took their places on the benches immediately in
front of its narrow sanctuary. The Sisters of Charity attended
Mass and constituted the choir on Sundays and festivals at one
or the other of the two churches. At the Mountain church one
of their number presided at the piano which for many years was
the substitute for an organ.
From the beginning Abb6 Dubois was obliged to employ one
or more salaried teachers, and the first of these were Messrs.
Smith and Monohan. But his own pupils were soon qualified to
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1887.] The Beginnings of Mount St. Mary's. 695
assist him, and among these I may mention Nicholas Kerney,
Roger Smith, Alexius Elder, John Hickey, George Elder, and
William Byrne, all of whom, after receiving holy orders, were
scattered to other fields of labor. Later, in the year 18 10, the
Rev. Simon Gabriel Brut6 arrived, and henceforth the names of
Dubois and Brut6 were united in the love and veneration of the
" Mountaineers " and of the people of the surrounding country.
The Rev. Mr. Brut6 was fifteen years the junior of the Abb6
Dubois. He had received his degree of doctor of medicine be-
fore entering the Sulpician Seminary at Paris to study for the
priesthood. After his ordination he decided upon devoting him-
self to the American missions, and accompanied Bishop Flaget
to this country, reaching it in August, 18 10. Notwithstanding
earnest efforts to learn the English language, he never could mas-
ter it, and to the end his attempts resulted in a curious mixture
of literally translated French idioms or phrases in the original,
when, it would seem, he gave up in despair the effort to clothe
his thoughts in new habiliments and fell back upon the old ones.
The following extract is from a letter to Bishop Flaget, and was,
probably, his first essay at writing the new tongue :
** Day of St. Francis of Chantal, Baltimore, being there these two days — Je
suis eadl6 sur TEastem Shore of Maryland* where I serve with Mr. Monally at St.
Joseph's, Talbot Co. I went there the first days of vacation. I am trying to
learn practically my English. I have said Mass and preached, bad preaching as
it may be, in six different places. This must force this dreadful English into my
backward head, or I must renounce for ever to know it. I have seen Mr. Mar6-
chal only a moment ; he is gone with the archbishop to Carroll Manor. He will
come back on Monday, but on Monday I wHl be making English and blunders on
my Eastern Shore."
While on this Eastern Shore it was that he received the let-
ter directing him to ^o to the assistance of the Abb6 Dubois at
" The Mountain." He became in 1834 the first bishop of Vin-
cennes, Indiana. *
"If Mt St. MaryV writes Bishop Bayley in his life of Bishop Brut6, "in
addition to all the other benefits it has bestowed upon Catholicity in this country,
has been in a remarkable degree the nursery of an intelligent, active, zealous
priesthood, exactly such as were needed to supply the peculiar wants of the
church here, every one at all acquainted with the history of that institution will
allow that the true ecclesiastical spirit was stamped upon it by Bishop Brut6.
His humility, piety, and learning made him a model of the Christian priest* and
the impression of his virtues made upon both ecclesiastical and lay students sur-
passed all oral instruction. . . . The name of Bishop Brut6 has been, and ever
will be, associated with that of Bishop Dubois as common benefactors to the in-
fant church of this country."
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696 Thb Beginnings of Mount St. Mary's. [Aug^
Theology was not taught at first in Abb6 Dubois' school ; il
was simply 2i petit siminaire^ where candidates for the priesthood
were carried through their humanities and then transferred to
the Sulpician establishment in Baltimore, St. Mary's. After the
Abb6 Brut6*s coming this arrangement was altered, and those of
the pupils who felt a drawing to the priesthood were instructed
by him.
Dr. Chatard, of Baltimore, the father of the present Bishop of
Vincennes, is one of the oldest surviving students of the institu-
tion, and it is thus he speaks of days but little removed from
those to which I refer :
"When I became a student [in August* 181 2] the college and grounds were in
a very primitive condition. The buildings consisted of two parallel log-houses a
short distance apart. The one, a part of which still remains, contained the rooms
of the president, vice-president, teachers, and seminarists, abo the study and class-
rooms and the dormitory. The refectory, store-rooms, and cellar were in the
basement. The other building, in the rear of the former, contained the kitchen,
clothes-room, infirmary, etc.; the whole being under the superintendence of the
Sisters of Charity of St. Joseph's, then recently established by Mother Seton. An
old building which stood at the end of the terrace and entrance to the garden
[ ' The Hermitage,' mentioned above] was also occupied by some of the teachen.
The stumps of the original forest trees were still standing in the yard, and some
quite close to the college building^. The wood-pile was within a few feet of the
door of the refectory, and the boys took part in chopping the wood and carrying it
into the study-room. ' We were permitted to own chickens, and had our coops
in the lower part of the yard, where also was our depository of apples, which con-
sisted of a barrel sunk in the ground and secured by a cover and padlock. We
also were allowed small patches of ground near the old bam, which was then near
the college, which we cultivated for our own benefit. The present splendid gar-
den was laid out and cultivated by a French gentleman, Mr. Marcilly — a refugee, I
think, from St. Domingo. He and his family resided in a building which was
located near the line of the old Mountain road, and not far from the Grotto. The
Rev. Mr. Duhamel, pastor of the church in Emmittsburg, resided in a long, lew
building to the left of the road from the college to. the Mountain church, about
midway between the coUege and church. The only stone building on the premises
was that which is now used as die chapel. It was in those days the laundry, and
the basement was occupied by the dairy, which was in charge of Sister Ann.
" On Sundays the sisters and pupils of St. Joseph's came to the Mountain church
and occupied seats in the gallery. They formed the choir, and the voices of the
singers were accompanied by a piano. The performer was a Madame Seguin, the
teacher of music at the sisterhood. Between Mass and Vespers the sisters and
girls occupied the stone house and dined there. . . . The Rev. Mr. Dubois was
president, Rev. Mr. Brut^ vice-president, and among the professors and teachers
were Father Hickey and Father Didier. The latter was a great trapper, and cele-
brated for his success in catching pheasants, partridges, rabbits, and the different
animals that abounded on the mountain, among others a wildcat. Mr. Alexius
Elder and his brother George —who was afterwards president of a college at Bards-
town, Kentucky — Messrs. Bums, Mullen, Wiseman, McGeary, Hayden, and Francis
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i887.] The Beginnings of Mount St. Maj^y^s. 697
Jamison, were ordained priests at a later period. I do not recollect the number of
boys at the college at this time, but, from the limited accommodations of the
buildings, they must have been very few.*
" A few years after I entered the college a two-story log building was added
to the western end of the main building, the lower floor being used as the study-
room and the upper as a dormitory. Among the boys were William and Richard
Seton, sons of Mother Seton ; Charles White, son of Mother Rose, the successor
of Mother Seton ; Charles and William Allan ; Guerin, Malval, the two Van
Schalk wicks, Hati6 — these boys were from the islands of Martinique and Guada-
lupe : James D. Mitchell, Jerome Bonaparte ; Charles Carroll, the father of the
recent governor ; Charles Harper, Luke and William Tieman, Thomas and John
Hillen, Henry Chatard, my oldest brother— all these from Baltimore ; Brent, Ram-
say, Carroll, the two Beattys, and King, from Washington and Qeorgetown ; Cole
and Schaffer and Henry Jamison, from Frederick City ; the two Kauffmans, from
Philadelphia, the younger of whom died from a wound in the chest. He was
running with an open knife in his hand, and was tripped by a friend in play ;
he fell and was fatally wounded. The knife was retained as a memento of the
event and a caution to heedless boys. Mr. A. Provost, of Baltimore, who still
survives, was an assistant teacher of French. The late Right Rev. George A.
Carrell, Bishop of Covington, Kentucky, was also a student ; also Grandchamp,
Grimes, Floyd, Sims, and Lilly.
" We did not enjoy many luxuries or comforts ; only bread and coffee for
breakfast, without butter— I think we had some at supper. Winter and summer
we washed in the open air, exposed to sun and rain. The water from the spring
was conveyed in wooden pipes to a long trough, into which were inserted a num-
ber of spigots, from which we drew the water required for our ablutions — no plea-
sant task on a cold winter morning."
It is but fair, as a companion picture, to tell of the mental
exercises which also occupied the pupils. At first none but Ca-
tholics were received ; a few Protestants, however, were soon
added to their number at the earnest request of their parents,
and with the full understanding that they were to be trained as
Catholic children and to comply with all the obligations of that
religion. Other Protestants were subsequently admitted, with
no other condition than that of conformity to the rules and daily
exercises of the school. The course of studies comprised read-
ing, English grammar, mental and written arithmetic, French,
Latin, Greek, arithmetic, algebra, geometry, rhetoric, logic,
ethics, and metaphysics.
It was not, however, until the log-houses had given place to
the stately stone building, and during the presidency of Rev.
John B. Purcell, afterwards second bishop and first archbishop
of Cincinnati, that the right to a grander name than high-school
was legally accorded to the noble institution and her children
could call themselves "collegians." j^^^^ j^ Meuhe.
* They were nearly two hundred.
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698 A Chat about New Books. [Aug^
A CHAT ABOUT NEW BOOKS,
Two kind correspondeats have favored the author of the
'' Chat about New Books " with a warning and a suggestioa
One warns him that it is dangerous to mention bad books. The
other, a reverend gentleman, asks him to be careful to write
about books that have an "immoral tendency under a specious
appearance. Your notices of Dr. Cupid and a translation from
Flaubert have helped me to advise some of my penitents who
asked me whether those fashionable novels should be read."
The present writer is not addressing very young people.
He believes that the time has arrived when Catholic American
literature should begin to look beyond a narrow space walled
by premium-books filled with goody-goody stories which ao
clever young person dreams of reading^ and he desires to do
something toward supplying a standard of judgment, moral and
literary, which may be of use to those who run and read, and
consequently suffer from that mental dyspepsia following the
attempted assimilation of unwholesome and undigested food.
Two books against which nothing can be said from a moral,
but nearly everything from a literary point of vi.ew, have been
sent to us — Lights and Shadows of a Life, by Mrs. M. V. Dabl-
gren (Boston : Ticknor & Co.), and The Guardian's Mystery, by
Christine Faber (New York: P. J. Kenedy).
Mrs. Dahlgren has written much, and always with a good
intention. In this instance she attacks a big subject with a
'' wealth " of adjectives and in an exceedingly girlish and senti-
mental manner. She shows how strong the race prejudice in
America is, and expresses, in her preface, her own dislike to
miscegenation. All her characters are either very refined or
very lurid. The conversation is proper to the last degree, and
the talk of the heroine, Cyrilla, is in the most stilted style.
" One may read of such children,'* as Mrs. Dahlgren's author-
ess remarks, " but they are rarely met with." The heroine's ex-
periences at a French boarding-school in Philadelphia arc the
most amusing things in the book. Cyrilla finds out that Maurice
de Villerfe, a young Frenchman, has negro blood in his veins. He
is noble, handsome, and she loves him devotedly ; but a certain Mr.
DoUson reveals the story that causes Cyrilla to write this note:
*' Maurice : In this world there exists an impassable gulf between as.
I am a proud Southern girl ; you are the son of a slave» with the pariah
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1887.] A Chat ABOUT Nmw Books. 6^
blood in your veins. Even one drop of that blood must separate us for
all time ; but, Maurice, when death has washed out the stain, ask for me
in eternity, and there I shall be yours — ^there, where is neither marriage
nor giving in marriage, neither kindred nor race, but one universal bro-
therhood of man. Until then, farewell ! **
Cyrilla, with some complacency, soliloquizes in this crisis :
" But was I the only victim ? No ; there was Maurice. Yet I had pro-
mised myself never to think of him — never until after death. Yet was he
in fact less noble, less worthy, than when I gave him my whole heart ?
Not at all. He probably would be stronger, purer, better, for the ordeal
through which he must pass ; for I knew that he had a world of resources
within himself, that he would never succumb, but would battle against
fate to the end. Then again I remembered that the prejudice that made
o^ my life a dreary waste did not exist in Europe. In Paris, in that won-
derful city where civilization finds its climax, that admixture of blood
which for ever separated us here would not count against him. And
France was his home ; there he had every prospect of making a splendid
career. He could grasp enough to satisfy ambition, if only he could be
content to live without me ; and would he be «o foolish as to feel himself a
pariah, an outcast, because we rejected him ? Why should he ? Why not
rather discard us, assume a higher standard than the level to which we
had bound ourselves, and look down upon us ? What was this conflict of
races ? We succumbed to its inexorable decrees in this country. Where-
fore ? My inner soul answered back that it was the inheritance of slavery.
And supposing — if one could suppose such an incredible fact — that by
some great convulsion, rending our civil contract, slavery should be
swept away, would this prejudice be wiped out w|th its destruction, or
should we alone, in this blessed country, set apart this variety of the hu-
man species as an anthropoid race ?
'* There was the Catholic Church. I had heard Maurice say it made no
distinction of race. A literal, universal brotherhood was its creed, and the
blackest negro might claim its veneration for sanctity, be classed high
amid its revered bishops and priests, or take his place among its commu-
nicants, without one line of distinction being drawn. Yet this church re-
garded the soul alone, and its attitude did not meet the question of the
social discfimination against the blood. Was it not a solemn fact that the
white races were the conquering races in the world's progress, and that
America was the favored spot of all the earth for the highest development of
the best theories ? And if so, was it not a fortuhate circumstance that this
invincible sentiment existed among us, in order to preserve in this chosen
country, intact, the dominant race ? Did Providence indeed watch over our
autonomy by infixing in our breast this repugnance ? So hostile were we on
this point, so firmly implanted was the sentiment of contrariety, that rather
than admit miscegenation we would embark in a war of extermination.
" What a splendid destiny for my country, with only one race, without
admixture or amalgamation, where none but the best types should carry
out the most advanced ideas ! And if, as in every great cause, a victim
were needed to make manifest the sacredness of the cause itself, why
should I count myself as aught?"
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700 A Chat about New Books. [Aug.,
The victim, thus decked out in blue ribbons and curl-papers
for the sacrifice, discovers that she is not wanted. Mr. DoUson's
story turns out to be false. He is comfortably mangled by his
own bloodhounds, and the story ends very cheerfully.
The GuardiatCs Mystery has a pious motive. It tells how a
lovely young giri rejected a devoted lover "for conscience's
sake." After a blood-curdling series of events the lover be-
comes a Catholic, everybody turns out to be everybody else,
and the author writes on the four hundred and thirty-fourth
page, " Deo gratias ! " This pious ejaculation will be uttered by
more than one reader. The volume is embellished with an en-
graving of a religious procession passing under an arch. It has
nothing to do with the book, and seems to have been thrown in
as a matter of courtesy to the reader. It is a genuine antique.
G. Montauban's The Cruise of the Woman-Hater (Boston :
Ticknor & Co.) tells of a tiresome voyage during which a poor
and amiable widow converted a cynical hater of the female sex
to that pity which is akin to love, and finally married him.
Wilkie Collins' Little Novels (London : Chatto & Windus) is a
collection of ingenious stories, told with some of the marvellous
skill that made the author of The Woman in White famous. Vil-
lany is frustrated by devious ways, and a mind must be much
preoccupied indeed that cannot for a time lose itself in Mr. Col-
lins' ingenious combinations. Mr. Collins does not favor us with
any wicked monk, and there is little of that coarseness which in-
trudes into several of his earlier stories.
Miss Bayle's Romance (New York : Henry Holt & Co.) is one
of those light bits of fiction thrown abroad for summer reading.
We have the pert, ill-bred, " international " American girl, of
worse than the Daisy Miller type, a number of celebrities more
or less caricatured, and a great deal of talk. Is it possible that it
popularizes a book on this side of the Atlantic to make the hero-
ine typically American by being irredeemably unlady-like ?
The latest of John Strange Winter's stories is Regimental
Legends (New York : Harper & Brothers). John Strange Win-
ter (who is said to be a woman and the wife of an officer) is the
author of Bootless Baby and Mignon's Secret. This tale is written
on the same lines as its predecessors. They are put forth as pic-
tures of English military life. They give the impression that
British officers are either snobs or fools, with what the author
considers as a redeeming trait — a dash of maudlin sentimentality.
Translated into other languages, these stories will suggest to
belligerent foreigners that an army commanded by silly Lord
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Popinjays and waltzing and tennis-playing majors can easily be
wiped out. John Strange Winter has all the inanity without any
of the wit of another popular writer who calls herself **The
Duchess.".
We must protest against the further introduction of Russian
novels. Crime and its Punishment^ by Theodor Dostoyevsky
(New York : Thomas Y. Crowell), is one of the gloomiest of the
gloomy works of a writer persistently puffed by certain critics.
It is easy to understand that the Russians, oppressed and over-
ridden by administrative power, liable at an hour's notice to be
forced to Siberia, and in the grip of a government which, among
a semi-barbarous people, has itself a difficult part to play, can be
tempted to despair. This is the more easy to understand be-
cause the degradation of the Russian Church has left little that
is elevating in the remnants of truth they have. One would
think that some of these "great" Russian novelists — Tolstoi,
Turgueneff, Dostoyevsky — would endeavor to raise the hearts of
their people to better things, or, at least, to brighten their lives
with those flashes of wit and humor which, in the darkest days
of Ireland and Irish literature, have never been wanting to a
people as horribly oppressed as the Russians have ever been.
But they do not. They paint life in its darkest and most revolt-
ing colors. This "masterpiece" of Dostoyevsky 's is a book no
careful mother could give ta her daughters, no prudent father
advise his son to read. There is no attractive description ot
vice in it ; on the contrary, vice and virtue alike are presented
with horrible grimness. The " saint " of the book is a girl
called Sonia, whose father is a drunkard of the most besotted
variety. Sonia adopts a vicious life to help her neglected bro-
thers and sisters, who are pathetically represented by Dosto-
yevsky as living on the wages of her sin. Nevertheless, we are
assured over and over again of Sonia's great purity of soul, and
her piety under the circumstances is something to wonder at.
The English edition of this book has been alluded to before. It
is regrettable that there should be an American edition. What
is the use of a literature, however realistic it pretends to be,
which strikes no chord of hope, which paints humanity with its
eyes to earth and without one ray of that divine light that makes
the highest works of art joys for ever ?
The hero of Crime and its Punishment is a student, Raskolni-
koff, who has murdered an old woman for her money. He is
pursued by remorse, and gradually this remorse undermines
what sanity of body and mind he possesses. After a period of
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702 A Chat about New Books. [Aug.,
inward turmoil and outward fever he is sent to Siberia. Sonia
follows him. Sonia, who in other days has talked to him of the
raising of Lazarus, sees him returning to an afifection for the
New Testament. The book ends with the promise of another,
in which the married life of this wretched creature and Sonia
will be described.
"'Why/ "asks the murderer, Raskolnikoff, in on« of his soliloquies,
"*did that silly fellow Razoumikhin attack Socialists just now? They are
hard-working business^men. They work for '* the common weal." I wish to
live myself, otherwise it would be better not to ejcist at alL I have no desire
to neglect a starving mother and clutch the money I have by me, on the
pretext that on some day or other everybody will be happy. As tome ol
them say, I contribute my stone towards the buildixig up of universal hap-
piness, and that must be enough to set my mind at ease. Hah ! hah !
Why, then, have you forgotten me? As I have but a certain time to live,
I intend to have my share of happiness forthwith. After all, I am only so
much atheistical vermin — nothing more« Yes, I am, di facto, so much ver-
min—first, from the fact that I am now considering whether I am so ;
secondly, because during a whole month I have been pestering Divine
Providence, taking it to witness that I was contemplating this attempt,
not with a view to material gains, but with ulterior purposes — hah ! hah !
Thirdly, because, in the act of doing, I was anxious to proceed with as
much justice as possible. Amongst various kinds of vermin I selected the
most noisome, and in destro3ring it I determined only to take just enough
to give me a suitable start in life, neither more nor less.' "
After a few chapters of similar cogitations, and the constant
iteration of the misery of everybody mentioned in the book, one
feels as glad to get away from it as if one were creeping out of
a noisome tunnel. Dostoyevsky*s Russians are only gay when
they are drunk, and then their drunkenness verges on madness
and brutality. •* Time-serving courtiers and apostate teachers,"
to repeat a phrase of Cardinal Manning's, have indeed left a
heritage of woe on the lands they tore from the church. There
seems to be no consolation for the Russian in his schism. If be
casts aside the forms and ceremonies of his enslaved religion he
becomes materialistic and superstitiously atheistical ; if he ac-
cepts the New Testament he adapts the apparent and humanly-
interpreted teaching of our Lord to his communistic theories.
Count Tolstoi, for instance, pretends to imitate the earthly life
of our Lord, literally accepting his precepts, but at the same
time stopping with earth. The Resurrection has no meaning
for him, and he does not believe in the immortality of the soul.
Mr. George Meredith is not a realist. He does not take
crude material simply because it is at hand, and make use of it
on the theory that one thing is^ as good as another to write
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about. He may be said to belong to the psychological school of
fiction. He has the keenness of Mr. James or Mr. Howells, but
he does not waste his powers of analysis on petty emotions.
His English is Saxon and solid, with waving lights of Celtic wit
playing over it. Mr. Meredith's novels are caviare to the gene-
ral, because his strength lies in his style rather than in his
fable. He has the directness of Charles Reade — to whom he is
not without some superficial resemblance — with a delicacy of
perception which Charles Reade did not possess. The people
he describes are of the class in which Mr. Anthony TroUope de-
lighted, but they have thoughts and aspirations beyond any Mr.
TroUope ever credited them with. Beauchamp's Career (Boston :
Roberts Bros.) is the story of a young Radical of aristocratic
family, who goes through the ordinary routine of a young Eng-
lish aristocrat. It must be admitted that, as clever and keen as
Mr. Meredith is, his people interest us less than his manner of
telling about them. He is a scholar, and possessed of a style
which flashes with as many jewel-like points as an essay of Mon-
taigne's. Nevertheless, Beauchamp seems to be a great deal of
a fool, as is usual with the heroes of novels. He falls in love
with a Erench girl, Ren6e, whose elegant and refined Legitimist
friends are described with true understanding. He almost mar-
ries her ; then he meets an English maiden ; he almost marries
her. Finally he marries the third English girl, protesting
against having any religious ceremony. After this he is
drowned in saving a boy's life. There is a fine touch when
his uncle, Lord Romney, searches for the body:
"A torch lit up Lord Romney's face as he stepped ashore. 'The flood
has played us a trick/ he said. ' We want more drags, or with the next ebb
the body may be lost for days in this infernal w^ter.' The mother of the
reacued boy sobbed : ' O ray lord I my lord I ' and dropped on her knees.
" ' What's this ? ' the earl said, drawing his hand away from the woman's
clutch at it. * She's the mother, my lord/ several explained,
"'Mother of what?'
" * My boy I ' the woman cried, and dragged the urchin to Lord Romney's
feet, cleaning her boy's face with her apron.
"All the lights in the ring were turned on the head of the l}oy. Dr.
Shrapnel's eyes and Lord Romney's fell on the abashed little creature.
The boy struck out both arms to get his fists against his eyelids.
"'This is what we have in exchange for Beauchamp !'
" It was not uttered, but it was visible in the blank stare at one another
of the two men who loved Beauchamp, after they had examined the insig-
nificant bit of mud-bank life remaining in this world in place of him."
Meredith's novels have increased in popularity of late, and to
admire or not to admire Meredith is as great a test of cultivation
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704 A Chat ABOUT New Books. [Aug^
in some circles as admiration of Browning is in others. There
are situations in his books to be praised rather from the point ol
view of dramatic art than from the important one of strict mo-
rality. Rente's flight from her husband, and her taking refuge
with Beauchamp because her husband, the old marquis, had in-
sulted her by " loving her," is neither moral nor reasonable,
though Mr. Meredith seems to think that she deserves the sym-
pathy of the reader. The proprieties are saved by the earl's
housekeeper's assuming to be his wife, and taking the afflicted
marquise under her wing until her husband claims her.
Tlie Strange Adventures of Dr. Quies, translated from the
French by John Lillie and Mrs. Cashel Hoey (New York : Har-
per & Bros.), is one of those impossible but entirely delightful
stories which one often finds in French, with very quaint pictures.
Dr. Quies is a ** scientist," one of the laziest and fattest of men,
hating travel, yet obliged by the malice of another *' scientist " to
" move on " like the unhappy Jo in Bleai House. It is pleasant
and amusing, conceived and carried out in the spirit of the arch-
est humor.
Mr. Arlo Bates is a Bostonian, best known by his novel, A
Wheel of Fire, which was a sombre story, but a strong one, of a
girl who expected to suffer the fate of her family and to go mad.
In spite of her better judgment she consents to marry ; but on the
very day of her wedding, while waiting for the groom, she no-
tices the singular twitching of the fingers which in her family is
a premonition of insanity. She goes mad. The theory of the
novel was not new, but Mr. Bates* treatment of it made it all
his own. Sonnets in Shadow^ his book of poems, is, like A Wheel
of Fire, a pessimistic book — not pessimistic in the crude and vul-
gar sense of Schopenhauer's philosophy, but rather in that ot
Tolstoi's. Mr. Arlo Bates is a poet capable of sustained effort
and of variety and interest while treating in a minor key a theme
which Tennyson seemed to have made impossible for other poets.
Mr. Bates' sonnets are written on the death of one he loved.
The sonnet is an alien in the English language. Exiled from its
native Italian, it seldom adapts itself to the new soil. Words-
worth, Keats, Milton each wrote one or two good sonnets — only
one or two. And Shakspere himself did not attempt to trammel
his English with the strictest Italian rules. It is a very great
thing to be able to say of Mr. Bates that his sonnets are not only
logical but musical, and that in no one of them docs he seem to
feel the weight of the rigid discipline which the sonnet entails.
It is a delight to feel so safe in his hands ; the delicate break in
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the music of the octave as it flows into the logical conclusion of
the sextette is never missing. The theme of his book is death
and loss. He has hope of the future, but it is rather a question
than an answer. Those who have suffered that wound, worse
than death, the death of one they loved, will recognize the ap-
palling truth of these lines:
" But who of all the dead is dead to us
Until fate smites our own ? Or maid or bride,
Dotard or mariner, though dolorous
His dying be, 'tis as a dream beside
The fiery reality when thus
Death's very self enters where we abide."
Mr. Bates offers no consolation for grief, except that of re-
membrance. Life and fate are oracles who have afflicted him,
but given no positive answers to his questions:
" Life chooses pain, the sole inheritance
To all her children doled. What mother so
A birthright that was evil could bestow ?
Dull savage women bear the worst mischance
To shield their babes ; and brutes will fight the hand
That threats their cubs, be they however low.
Against the mother-love all creatures show,
To count man borne of hate were dissonance.
Ah ! mother mystical, may it then be
That pain, which seems so terrible a gift,
Is the best blessing we could take from thee ?
A little might the thought the darkness lift ;
It were a light by which the way to see.
As when the moon breaks through the storm-clouds' rift.*'
It is hard for a Catholic, for whom his mystical mother, the
church, has solved the main problems that torment human souls,,
to sympathize with the spirit of this fine sonnet. But the over-
flowing of a poet's heart in vain demands for light may teach us
the charity of Christianity, if not that charity that might come
from understanding his feeling.
Miss Katharine Tynan is a fortunate woman. Though young,
she has attained to a high place in the choir of modern poets.
She is fortunate, too, in not being content with the honors that
came to her after the publication of Louise de la Valliire and
Other Poems. She has profited by the opinions of the critics.
And in her latest volume. Shamrocks^ she has made stepping-
stones of her faults to the attainment of higher things. We
were not slow to condemn a tendency to sensuous — not sensual
— descriptions in the other book. ** King Cophetua," for in-
stance, seemed to us a little over-roseate. In Shamrocks Miss Ty-
VOL. XLV.— 45
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nan's reticence, hard for a true artist or poet to maintain, with
all the urgency of sensuous tones and color surging upon his
heart, is remarkable. The Mercury of Praxiteles does not ob-
trude his influence; the expression is as pure as that of the
angels of Fra Angeiico ; and, though spring is verdant and the
sunsets glow, the memory of the Resurrection is over all.
Miss Tynan has done what we have all been talking about
since Dr. Joyce led the way. She has interpreted legends of
the Celts for us beautifully and satisfactorily. And we can now
add to Joyce's Deirdri and Blanid Miss Tynan's Pursuit of
Diarmud and Grainne^ The Story of Aibhric, and The Fate of King
Feargus.
These legends are presented with a comprehension of their
poetic possibilities and significance which forces enthusiasm.
The Story of Aibhric is part of The Children of Lir, which Aubrey
de Vere has already done, with more correctness, perhaps, but
without Miss Tynan's warmth and apparent ecstasy in the work.
One thinks of the Irish thrush pouring out his melody, happy
in doing it, unconscious of listeners, in reading Shamrocks—^zx-
ticularly the Celtic legends. There is a little touch of the over-
sentimental in " Marah." The pathos of a baby's father having
been drowned before it was born does not make the story of its
constant tears picturesque or heart-moving. The lachrymal
glands of Marah's child must have been out of order — a sugges-
tion that does not lend itself to poetical treatment. " Maid Daf-
fodil's Song " is artificial, because it is the only evidence of un-
conscious imitation of the early English style in the book. " Cor
Dulce " cannot be sufficiently praised. Dante Gabriel Rossetti
— to whose brother and sister the book is dedicated — might have
learned much of the spirit of the religion of older Italy from this
exquisite poem. He had caught the rhythm of the wonderful
epoch in which St. Francis moved, not the soul. "Cor Dulce"
touches the heart of that strange period of seeming contra-
dictions, the age of Dante. It explains how the magnificent
Lorenzo lived among the symbols of the pagans, yet died with
the humility of a Christian.
" Ah me, ah tne ! I dare not lift mine eyes,
Who may again betray Him ere night goes ;
Who may deny Him ere the shrill cock crows.
O happy thief who has his paradise,
Why do I turn to thoughts of you to-day,
And meek St. Peter, who sinned heavily.
Yet washed with life- long tears his guilt away,
Rather than all the sinless saints that be? ''
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Miss Tynan understands the simplicity of that childish faith
and hope in Christ's sympathy with humanity that makes colder
Christians impatient with the Italians, who, during all the cor-
ruptions of the Renaissance, were not pagans at heart, but simply
playing at paganism as children play with edged tools — ready on
the impulse to throw themselves at the foot of the altar and to
cry out with Miss Tynan's St. Francis :
" O Love unloved, my Love that goes unloved !
For all your Passion's sake, your lonely grave.
For that unstinted wealth of love you gave,
O Love unloved, sweet Love that loves unloved !
Break me, a reed, or bind me who am strong.
And make me strong to suffer and resist.
And give me tears to weep, a whole life long,
The traitor's kiss wherewith your face was kissed."
" The Angel of the Annunciation " might, in its treatment,
have been suggested by a picture of Rossetti's. The Angel passes
through the village street on his divine and momentous mission.
The description is in the Rossetti fashion, but the noble thought
is Miss Tynan's. No one but a Catholic could have conceived
it and written it without aflfectation. This is the Rossetti
touch :
" His wings were purple of bloom,
And eyed as the peacock's plume ;
They trailed and flamed in the air :
Clear brows with an aureole rimmed.
The gold ring, brightened and dimmed.
Now rose, now fell on his hair."
The Angel goes on, nearing the hpuse where the Immaculate
sits with the lily of purity blooming near her:
" None saw as he passed their way ;
But the children paused in their play,
And smiled as his feet went by ;
A bird sang clear from the nest.
And a babe on its mother's breast
Stretched hands with an eager cry.'*
The little brothers and sisters of St. Francis d'Assisi saw
what less simple folk could not see. Again we say, the author
of Shamrocks is fortunate — fortunate in knowing the real cor dulce
of the church ; fortunate in having her eyes anointed with that
ointment which God sent to the poet, St. Francis, and made him
see in nature things unseen of graver though not less holy souls ;
and fortunate in her gilt of expression, her lack of literary vanity,
her faultless taste, and her facility of adopting the appliances of
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modern art to adorn the shrine in which the Mystical Rose
dwells and blooms as she dwelt and bloomed while the Angel
of the Annunciation came towards her We have only space to
quote the tender ending of " St. Francis to the Birds " :
" Sometimes when ye sing.
Name my name, that He may take
Pity for the dear song's sake
On my shortcoming."
Maurice Francis Egan.
WITH READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS.
Under this head we purpose for the future to give a variety of articles U»
brief y too informal, or too personal for the body of the magazine. For abznom
reasons these communications will be, for the most part, unsigned,
HISTORY OF A CONVERSION.
Almost the first question asked a convert is : " What led you to become a
Catholic ? " It is a question often very hard to answer — that is, so as to be un-
derstood by a non-Catholic mind, unbelieving in the kingdom of grace and the
action of the Holy Ghost upon a human soul. Every convert, the moment he en-
ters the one fold of Christ and begins to live a life of faith, feels and recognizes
how little he had to do with the blessing that has come to him ; therefore it is
much easier for him to give the reasons why he is a Catholic than why he became
one. Every virtuous man, if he be but a reasoning one, that turns his face Rome-
ward in a spirit of inquiry, will sooner or later reach the goal. The first step
having been made by the future convert toward God (which movement may have
had its source in his own reason or from a heavenly inspiration), his will and un-
derstanding come under the influence of the Holy Spirit, and he is led little by
little from one truth to another until the light of Christian faith breaks in upon his
soul and he becomes a child of grace. Consequently, if he attempts to give the
reasons that led him into the Church of Christ, it always ends in giving a history
of the growth of grace within his soul — a very difficult form of narrative. I foresee
that this account of my conversion will resolve itself into something of the same
kind.
My parents, people of New England descent, were good as the world goes,
kind and loving in all their relations with their children, ever teaching us to be
truthful and just in our dealings with men. Of God they told me nothing. And
they never gave me a higher principle to guide me through life than one based
upon selfishness — namely, ** Honesty is the best policy'* On the other hand, they
planted in my very nature not only a great dislike for all forms of religion, but also
an aggressive contempt for Christianity. The result of this training was that I
grew up a pagan of the pagans, with a vague belief in the existence of God, none
in the immortality of the soul, and very little in the \nrtue of women or the up-
rightness of men. Pleasure became the end of my existence. I was eaten up
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with self-love, and found nothing of value except those things and persons that
contributed toward that end and that love. As the fire of youth burnt itself out,
I, like all children of the world, became the victim of satiety and ennui — com-
pletely tired of pleasure and weary of myself. At times death would have been
welcome, had it not been for a spirit of hope, a voice within my heart that now and
then whispered of a higher and a better life. This forced me to seek for a love
more stable than I had found among men, for a motive on which to build a nobler
life. I was appalled at the mystery of pain, the inequalities of human existence,
and the seeming unjust division of the good things of life. For the first time I
was brought face to face with those momentous questions that come sooner or
later into the mind of every thinking being : Where did I come from ? What
am I here for ? Where am I going ?
But, alas I wheresoever I turned to find a solution I only met with disappoint-
ment and disgust. Finally the higher aspiration of my soul, the voice of God. was
hushed and buried under a most complete indifference. Bound in the ignoble
chains of an agnostic pessimism, I no longer had any interest, with a single ex-
ception, in anything outside of the study of material forces, of nature, of those
things which can be seen, handled, weighed, and measured. In physiological re-
searches and kindred pursuits I forgot the higher needs of my nature and the
miseries of my fellow-men. The single exception mentioned above was the study
of history — a study that ultimately led me, under God's grace, to the fountain of ^
truth and the waters of reconciliation.
It came about in this way : A brother of mine fell into an argument with a
friend upon the life of Christ and the truth of Christianity, and this friend gave
him a book on the subject to read — Nelson's Cure of Infidelity — which work
ultimately came into my hands ; and, although in itself the book was stupid, the
author's reasoning weak and often incorrect, nevertheless it forced me to the
thought that I knew very little about the life of Christ or the planting of the
Christian faith. To remove this ignorance, and with the intention of getting a
general idea of the subject, I read the New Testament through, always regarding
it. however, as a collection of historical documents of doubtful authenticity, yet
of sufficient authority as to the ordinary facts therein narrated. When I had
finished the Four Gospels Jesus of Nazareth had become a living reality to me —
as much so as Plato — and henceforth I regarded him as a historical character.
This was a great step forward, as I had hitherto inclined to believe him a mythi-
cal being. Yet the more I studied his life the clearer I saw that if it was stripped
of its supernatural element it would be meaningless. This, in union with a grow-
ing admiration of his character, was the goad that spurred me on to further
study. I took up all the Christian writers of the first three hundred years and
read them carefully through, that I might understand what they, the foUowers. of
the apostles, the propagators of the faith, thought and taught concerning their
Master. I then made an analysis of all the existing testimony concerning the life
and Passion of Jesus, and, comparing it with that in witness of the life and deeds
of Alexander the Great, I found, as all will who make the study, that for every
documentary witness to the life of the Grecian hero there were many for that of
Jesus of Nazareth, and, in addition, that thousands of the noblest of our race at
the time of the planting of the faith laid down their lives to show forth their belief
in the truth of the Gospel narrative. I also found in the case of our Lord a new
class of witnesses: the prophets of the Old Law. So overwhelming was the tes-
timony in favor of the truth of the life and words of Jesus Christ as recorded in
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Holy Writ that I was compelled to either doubt all history, all human testimony,
or believe in him and his divine mission. In the meanwhile, from purely meta-
physical reasons, the idea of God, his personality, and the necessity of something
to unite our nature with the nature of God, became vividly true to me, so that the
moment my reason led me to believe in Jesus Christ I entered into a fulness of
faith. What was this faith that had mastered my understanding ? That there
was one God, Creator of all things ; that he made himself manifest in the person
of Christ Jesus, the one Mediator of redemption. Moreover, from my Scripture
studies I had obtained a solid conviction that He to whom all power was given
had delegated a certain body of men to teach all nations to observe all things that
he had commanded and taught, and had further promised that this body of men,
this living, speaking voice, was for all time ; that the gates of hell should not pre-
vail against it, that the Holy Spirit would guide it into all truth, and that he him-
self would abide with it " all days, even to the consummation of the world** With
this faith entered my heart, and not till then, the spirit of prayer; and for the first
time my soul spoke to its Lord and Master, its Brother and its God. The battle
was won ; right reason and honesty of purpose, under the guidance of grace, had
triumphed over ignorance, prejudice, and love of the world. But where was this
living, speaking voice, this body of men to whom Christ said, " He that heareik
you heareth me " f Where was this ** church of the living God, the pillar and
the ground of the truth "/ Where was the "one fold and one Shepherd"?
Where was the church, built upon the rock (Peter), that has the power of binding
and looking ? When I cast my eyes upon Christendom I found that there was
but one body that claimed these prerogatives, to the exclusion of all other bodies,
and at the same time bore the marks of apostolicity, indefectibility, unity, and
catholicity, and that this body was the Holy Roman Catholic Church. More-
over, I found that all other so-called Christian organizations were the offspring
of some disobedient Catholic, and generally bore his name.
God's will was plain ; there was but one thing left for me to do, so I sought
an introduction to a priest in order to be baptized. The Very Rev. Isaac T.
Hecker examined me, and almost immediately I was admitted to the sacraments
by the Rev. George Deshon. Much to my surprise, I discovered, through the ex-
amination I underwent, that I was in possession of the entire system of Christian
dogma, and that it was unnecessary to give me any instruction before admitting
me to the church. Where had I learned all this ? From the Holy Bible and the
Christian writers of the first three centuries ; for up to this time I never had a book
of Catholic theology, instruction, or controversy in my hands, nor had I any con-
versation with any Catholic, either lay or cleric, upon the subject.
Years have passed ; I have seen the church in many climes and among many
nations ; I have read hundreds of lives of her saintly children ; I have partaken
of her sacraments, tried to live her life, and now I have but one testimony to
give : How beautiful art thou, my love ! — how beautiful art thou ! Thou art all
fair, O my love ! and there is not a spot in thee — fair as the moon, bright as
the sun, terrible as an army set in array.
THE GUIDANCE OF THE HOLY SPIRIT.
" If any one shall say that without the previous inspiration of the Holy Spirit
and his aid, a man can believe, hope, love, or repent as he should, so that the
grace of justification may be conferred upon him, let him be anathema."
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These are the words of the holy Council of Trent, in which the Catholic
Church infallibly teaches that without an interior movement of the indwelling
Holy Spirit no act of the soul can be meritorious of heaven. This doctrine, em-
bodying the plain sense of Holy Scripture and the unbroken teaching of the
church in all ages, bases human justification on an interior impulse of the Third
Person of the divine Trinity. This impulse precedes the soul's acts of faith,
hope and love, and of sorrow for sin : the first stage in the supernatural career,
then, is the entering of the Holy Spirit into the inner life of the soul. The process
of justification begins by the divine life of the indwelling Spirit taking up into
itself the human life of the soul.
Nor is this to the detriment of man's liberty, but rather to its increase. The
infinite independence of God and his divine Uberty are shared by man exactly in
proportion as he partakes of God's life in the communication of the Holy Spirit.
If it be asked how the Holy Spirit is received, the answer is, Sacramentally.
** Unless a man be bom again of water and the Holy Ghost, he cannot enter into
the kingdom of God." As man by nature is a being of both outer and inner life,
so, when made a new man by the Spirit of God and elevated into a supernatural
state, God deals with him by both outer and inner methods. The Holy Spirit is
received by the sacramental grace of baptism and renewed by the other sacraments ;
also in prayer, vocal or mental, hearing sermons, reading the Scriptures or devout
books, and on occasions, extraordinary or ordinary, in the course of daily life ; and
when once received every act of the soul that merits heaven is done by the inspira-
tion of that divine Guide dwelling within us. Even though unperceived, though
indistinguishable from impulses of natural virtue, though imperceptibly multiplied
as often as the instants are, yet each movement of heaven-winning virtue, and
especially love, hope, faith, and repentance, is made because the Holy Spirit has
acted upon the soul in an efficacious manner.
It is not to induce a strained outlook for the particular cases of the action of
the Spirit of God on us, or the signs of it, that these words are written. The
sacraments, prayer and holy reading, and hearing sermons anc^instructions, are the
plain, external instruments and accompaniments of the visitations of God, and are
sufficient landmarks for the journey of the soul, unless it be led in a way alto-
gether extraordinary. And apart from these external marks, no matter how you
watch for God, his visitations are best known by their effects ; it is after the cause
has been placed, perhaps some considerable time after, that the faith, hope, love,
or sorrow becomes perceptibly increased — always excepting extraordinary cases.
Not to " resist the Spirit " is the first duty. Fidelity to the divine guidance, yield-
ing one's self up lovingly to the impulses of virtue as they gently claim control of
our thoughts — this is the simple duty.
Havmg laid down in broad terms the fundamental doctrine of the supernatu-
ral life, it is proper to say a word of the natural virtues and of their relation to
the supernatural. It has been already intimated that the goodness of nature is
often indistinguishable from the holiness of the supernatural life ; and, indeed, as a
rule, impulses of the Holy Spirit first pour their floods into the channels of natural
virtue, thus rendering them supernatural. These are mainly the cardinal virtues :
Prudence, Justice, Fortitude, and Temperance. Practised in a state of nature, these
place us in our true relations with our nature and with God's providehcc in all
created nature around us ; these are the virtues which choice souls among the
heathen practised. They are not enough. When they have done their utmost
they leave a void in the heart that still yearns for more. It is the purpose of the
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Spirit of God to raise our virtue to a grade far above nature. The practice of the
virtues of faith, hope, and love, which bring the soul into direct communication
with God, and which, when practised under the guidance of the Holy Spirit^ ait
supernatural, following upon the practice of the cardinal virtues under the same
guidance, place the soul in its true and perfect relation with God — a state which
is more than natural.
Let us, if we would see things cleariy, keep in sight the difference between
the natural and supernatural. In the natural order a certain union with God was
possessed by man in all ages in common with every creature. The union of the
creature with the divine creative power is something which man can neither
escape from nor be robbed of. But in the case of rational creatures this union is,
even in a state of nature, made far closer and its enjoyment increased by a vir-
tuous life— one in which reason is superior to appetite ; a life only to be led by
one assisted, if not by the indwelling Holy Spirit peculiar to the grace of Christ,
yet by the helps necessary to natural virtue and called medicinal graces. The
practice of the four cardinal virtues— Prudence, Justice, Fortitude, and Tempe-
rance — in the ordinary natural state gave to guileless men and women in every age
a natural union with their Creator. Although we maintain that such natural
union with God is not enough for man, yet we insist that the part the natural
virtues play in man's sanctification be recognized. In considering a holy life
natural virtues are too often passed over, either because the men who practised
them in heathen times were perhaps few in number, or because of the Calvinistic
error that nature and man are totally corrupt.
And we further insist on the natural virtues because they tend to place man
in true relations with himself and with nature, thus bringing him into more perfect
relation or union with God than he was by means of the creative act — a proper
preliminary to his supernatural relation. Who will deny that there were men not
a few among the heathen in whom Prudence, Justice, Fortitude, and Temperance
were highly exemplj^ed ? They knew well enough what right reason demanded.
Such men as Socrates, Plato, Epictetus, and Marcus Aurelius had by the natural
light of reason a knowledge of what their nature required of them. They had
faults, great ones if you please ; at the same time they knew them to be faults, and
they had the natural virtues in greater or less degrees. Thus the union between
God and the soul, due to the creative act, though not sufficient, never was inter-
rupted. The Creator and the Mediator are one.
These remarks doubtless give rise to various questions, which we hope to
answer on future occasions. I. T. H.
RELIGION AND THRIFT.
One of the common cries of shallow commentators upon progress is that the
Catholic religion is antagonistic to thrift. Ireland and Mexico are mentioned as
proofs of this. The traveller who has seen Catholic and Protestant countries
under the same physical conditions, and who has curiosity enough to look below
the surface of statistics for the truths they sometimes conceal, knows that land-
lordism in both Ireland and Mexico is the foundation of their poverty ; while in
Mexico, moreover, the great mountain walls which render commerce by land or
sea difficult, and the mild climate, which relieves the natives of anxiety about
clothing, while it insures life with little food, should also be taken into account.
But look at Belgium. Its very name is synonymous with thrift. Its popu-
lation to the square mile is the densest in Europe. Its superficial area is about
one-third, while its population exceeds, that of Ireland. Its immigration exceeds
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its emigration — a remarkable phenomenon and the most striking testimony to its
activity and advancement. Its laigest city does not contain half a million of peo-
ple. Although it boasts a strip of sea-front, its foreign maritime commerce is car*
ried on almost exclusively by foreigners — another phenomenon in industry which
political economists on this side of the water should study. Although it possesses
only 1.3 acres per inhabitant— admitting that land is the foundation of wealth— it
ranks in ratio of wealth ahead of Germany, Austria, Spain, Italy, and Russia.
Nearly its entire public debt was contracted for public works of general utility,
and the interest on it is more than covered by the revenue from the railroads alone.
It expends on primary schools six times as much as on superior education, al-
though it boasts four famous universities with nearly five thousand students, as
well as a national school of fine arts with more than a thousand students, many
schools of design with twelve thousand students, and music-schools of high grade
with thirteen thousand students. It spends more money on elementary educa-
tion for its five million people than England for her twenty-eight millions.
The pauperism of Belgium is about one thirty-second that of Ireland and one
forty-eighth that of England.
The industry of the people is marvellous. Nine-tenths of the cultivable land
is under cultivation. In Ireland less than an eighth of the cultivable land is under
cultivation. The theory that great farming is the most productive is exploded by
the success of the little farming of Belgium ; but it must be added that the stimu-
lus of ownership by the tillers has had much to do with the results. The mines, al-
though comparatively unimportant, are worked with extraordinary zeal, and the
quarries are a source of considerable income. The exchange of commodities extends
from the Netherlands to Brazil, and the export manufactures include woollen yam,
cotton, silks, flax, pig and wrought iron and steel, as well as hundreds of small things.
The railway mileage of Belgium per i,ooo square miles of territory is the highest
of all countries in Europe, and the highest in the world except — oddly enough —
little Martinique ; while her tel^^raph mileage is by far the largest proportionally
in the world. In fact, she may justly be considered the busiest and the thriftiest
country on the globe.
Religion ? Full religious liberty is given by the constitution, and part of the
income of the clergy of all denominations is paid out of the national treasury.
But the entire population is Catholic, except 15,000 Protestants and 3,000 Jews.
I saw more people and deeper devotion in her churches than in those of any
country it has been my fortune to visit. The ancient, quaint church of Saint Gu-
dule, Brussels, with its noble proportions, its dusky light, its vast spaces, its huge
pillars, its countless monuments conmiemorating not merely the accidental great
but the piety of the poor and the heroism of the lowly, attracts many hundreds dur-
ing every hour of the day. Nor are these hundreds admiring tourists only, but the
serious and alert of the citizens, who find time to step into the magnificent temple
long enough even at mid-day to pray. I was more touched still by the earnestness
and simplicity of the people in churches of less note located in various parts of the
capital. They were thronged every morning in the week by artisans on their way
to work, attending Mass first ; and later by the housewives on their way to or from
market, with their well- filled baskets of meats, vegetables, and fruits. The foot
of many an effigy of Our Lord was partly kissed away by reverent lips. There was
not a statue of Our Lady without its flashing rows of votive tapers. There was
not a shrine without lights and flowers. Yet these are the most practical, the
most industrious, the most frugal, the most thrifty people in the world !
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SUPERLATIVISM.
Still another ism thrown upon the vast surface of every-day life by a rapidly
evolving social speed (I will not say progress) towards the ultimate limit oi
things. The question, " Where shall we stop ? " is becoming more and more in-
tricate and bewildering, and now that this new g^roove reveals to our curious and
astonished gaze a swarm of minds running headlong into a foolish superlativism,
we are forced to draw in the reins and come to a momentary standstill ; investi-
gation and the application of a radical remedy are urgently required, if we would
save ourselves in time from the ravages of this wide-spreading exaggeration.
The testimony of our social history shows, as many think, that at the same
time that a wholesome and reg^ulating influence comes down the social gamut,
from erudite philosophers, artful politicians, and careful legislators, upon the vari-
ous heterogeneous classes about them, a reciprocal influence finds its way back
into the learned minds and would-be invulnerable hearts of these important fac-
tors of science and the state. Not that this reacting tendency on the part of the
silly and the frivolous hopes to threaten the almost iimnutable principles and
opinions of these Nestors of ours (perish the presumption I), but, in spite of them-
selves, our venerable " know-betters " shall be brought, from having allowed them-
selves ^rst to become accustomed to it, to tolerate this hurtful impetus towards
superlativism that seems to be moving the people at will towards — Heaven knows
what!
We all know, to our cost, how many times indiscreet use has generated an un-
wholesome abuse, and that by a process so slow and gradual that, did not the con-
sequent evil prove a self-asserting one in the end, we could hardly realize having
passed through such a momentous transition at all. Moreover, habit takes it
upon itself to excuse, if not actually to sanction, many of the mistakes and follies of
mankind, and habit itself is not unfrequently the outgrowth of a deliberate and
sordid desire to flatter the popular hobby or to subscribe to the popular weakness
of the day. I shall except what is understood by moral faux-paSy limiting myself
more particularly to the intellectual and emotional ones which are susceptible of
strangely adjustable meanings, and which may be lawfully imitated (so the worid
thinks) if society looks upon them for the time being as novel or interesting.
Fashionable " squints " and " limping gaits " have not only become obsolete,
but are gibed at and ridiculed by those who would never have resisted the
temptation to adopt them had they lived among the circles where these once pre-
vailed ; but since there must be little peccadilloes, or distinguishing high-toned
idiosyncrasies, something to keep fashionable fancies alive, we want to know who
shall go the farthest beyond all limit of sense or reason to the very piimade of
nonsensical superlativism ? Though this spirit underlies nearly every fibre of our
fashionable constitution, where it has succeeded most and has become alarming-
ly pronounced is in " verbal ultraism."
Things are no longer simply beautiful or agreeable or comfortable ; they have
all become "most exquisitely gorgeous," "too perfectly intoxicating " and "su-
premely irresistible for anything." A face that would formerly have been very
pretty or even handsome is now " ravishingly lovely *' or " divinely grand." Dain-
ty five-o'clock tea-cups are frequently described as the "most perfect little loves
you ever saw." Men and women are never now, by any chance, plain or homely
or deficient in mental or social acquirements ; they are " execrably hideous " or
" most distressingly stupid," and even in some instances, though the metaphor
may be somewhat obscure, they are ** perfect owls ! "
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A simple song, if tastefully rendered, is "utterly heavenly." A new novel is
either •' supremely magnificent " or " atrociously dreadful." There are no more
such tame emotions as a simple desire or eagerness or impatience. People now-
adays are always " dying," or " languishing," or " crazy " to see, hear, or act.
Neither is any one ever merely displeased or disappointed ; such sentiments have
been perverted into " perfectly furious," " raging mad," " supremely disgusted."
I have even heard a pretty young ultraist declare that her new dress-maker
was *' the sweetest thing you could ever imagine," and that her ill-fitting gloves
were the " most wretchedly vile things upon earth." Who ever hears any one
say in our day that he or she is troubled with a slight cold ? Is it not always
" such a frightful cold," though it have no more serious consequences than a few
harmless sneezes ? Then how many pretty victims there are who " suffer the
most excruciating agony " from a little after-dinner indigestion, who " never slept
a wink all night " if they have lain awake more than half an hour, not to speak of
those people who are invariably either " petrified or numb with cold," or " fairly
crisped " and " simmering with heat " !
Not an adverb expressive of the least degree of intensity has been left in its
former respectable seclusion ; men and women now are either " outrageously
tall,'' "perfect giants," or "painfully small midgets"; ill-finished efforts are
always " irretrievably spoiled " ; humble little insects straying timidly across some
fair shoulder become " dreadf id " and " horrible beasts " ! Unusually long noses
are " about a mile long." Bashful people " fairly melt away " or " simply expire."
Nervous girls are " utterly terror-stricken " at the sight of an escaping little
mouse, or, in still more distressing circumstances, are " simply paralyzed with
fear." One is usually now " dead " with fatigue, and any sort of a trying interval
of waiting or separation is commonly called " ages."
Amusing incidents inevitably produce " shrieks " of laughter, and in one in-
stance a young lady declared diat something was so " desperately funny " that
she " fairly howled "I How many times arc we assured that some trifling article of
toilet or virtu is " the loveliest thing we ever saw," though we may have feasted
our eyes upon the Falls of Niagara or the master-touches of the world's great
artistsi How often is a simple melody in like manner the " most exquisite thing
we have ever heard " ! I have been told of a man who was so much in love
with a young lady that he was " actually wild " about her, though in his outward
demeanor one could detect nothing of his madness. Another " simply wor-
shipped " his lady fair, though in reality his sentiment was nothing more than
what is usually expected.
Somewhat after this fashion, again, ultraists give expression to their emotions
of dislike. They are ever ready to " loathe," " abominate," or " despise " persons
or things that are at variance with their selfish purposes. If they were held
rigidly responsible for these abstract murders they commit each time they " could
kill" such a one, what a catelogue of charges would be registered against them !
To hear pretty, pouting girls declare that they would " like to trample " this one
or that one is nothing short of a mystery to those who arc so provokingly prac-
tical as to imagine for a moment that they really mean what they say.
The above examples of the superlativism of our day, which occur to me from
memory as I write, are mere initial proofs that what I say of this ultraistic ten-
dency is only too true. Shall we allow its further progress ? Shall we continue
to acknowledge those who adopt it as representative of our social or intellectual
status ? If education be the indispensable passe-partout (and more particularly
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into the higher walks of life), let us deny the rights of these ultraists to usurp
the places they hold. No educated person could or would do such wholesale vio-
lence to his mother-tongue. Those who persevere in the use of ill-timed and
worse-placed adverbs are just as guilty of transgressing the rules of grammar or
rhetoric as those who more innocently couple incongruous subjects and verbs, or
prepositions and nouns.
The children growing up around us will learn to adopt these ultra-intense
qualifications, and soon it will be too late to repair the harm done. Wlien an
exalted circumstance really calls for exalted language, we are obliged, out of
respect for our subject, to eschew all those strongly significant adverbs which
have become the commonplace terms of the most trite conversations, but which
before their abuse fitted such occasions becomingly : the words " very beautiful •*
are, as we all know, more expressive and dignified now than either " ravishingly
lovely " or " supremely exquisite."
Let words have whatever immutable wealth of abstract meaning they may,
the force of common usage and popular interpretation is stronger than any other
and will ultimately survive, in a practical sense at least, the rules of rhetoric and
grammar. This tendency to foolish exaggeration is certainly gaining headway
and should be arrested in time ; the conversation of the drawing-room is not
such a neutral or indifferent influence that we can afford to see it spoiled because
of .an unbridled license which an absolute fashionable caprice presumes to extend
without limit. Let those whose desire it is to share the advantages and prestige
of educated people show that their conceptions and applications of the meanings
of certain good English words are ancillary only to that power whose right to
regulate the language and its uses is exclusive. So many people, even in our
best circles, have such little pith or substance in their remarks that they should
make it a special care to say properly what they are able to say at all.
Ottawa. K. M. B,
NEW PUBLICATIONS,
The Existence of God. A dialogue in three chapters. By Richard F. Clarke,
SJ. New York, Cincinnati: and St. Louis : Benziger Bros.
Many would think, as we were for a moment inclined to do ourselves, that this
pamphlet concedes too much. It seems to be written for Agnostics, and deals
with the knowledge of God as if the natural man had not been able to attain to
that apprehension of the divine existence which history and experience show
that he really has ; such, at least, was the impression produced on our mind by
reading the dialogue once. If such had really been the case, it must be said that
some latitude can be claimed for minimizing in order to get a common starting-
point with one's adversary. Further consideration induces us to say that Father
Clarke has not admitted too much. We gladly bear witness that he is doing a
good work in publishing in this form the sound reasons for the fundamental
principles of natural religion. " The Dialogue," he says in his preface, " is an at-
tempt to put forward in a popular form the chief arguments from reason by which
the existence of God is proved, and to show the weakness and inconsistency of the
objections most commonly urged against it."
And, indeed, we cannot be too popular in our methods of proclaiming that re-
ligion IS not contrar)' to reason, but is in full accord with reason's dictates, the very
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perfection of reason*s scope and efifort. But here we may object to the writer's
use of the word " yoke " and " hindrance " as applied to a state of mind convinced
of religious truth. Religion, either in its principles or precepts, is not a yoke upon
reason but upon appetite, not a hindrance to nature but to passion. If the know-
ledge of religious truth puts any restraint upon a man it is only one that reason in
its best moments calls for ; it is a curb upon the beast that the man may live. A
Kempis says (book iii. ch. 53) : " He that keeps himself in subjection so that his
sensuality is ever subject to reason, and reason in all things obedient to Me, he is
indeed a conqueror of himself and lord of all the world " ; in this he proclaims a
truth of sound philosophy as well as of ascetical theology.
We have also to find fault with the saying that the argument from God's ex«
istence drawn from consciousness is " all rubbish," and that the philosophical
opinion that God can be known by intuition is " pure assumption " and its advo-
cates " enemies of theism." ' Now, some of the noblest minds of Christendom have
held one or other form of intuitive philosophy, and we submit that a school of
philosophy never without distinguished adherents, and whose views, in every shape
and form, are not condemned by the church, should not thus be characterized. But
taken as a whole, this publication is worthy of general circulation and calculated
to do great good.
The American Electoral System. By Charles H. O'Neil, LL.B. New
York and London : G. P. Putnam's Sons. 1887.
If the author who can find a new title for his book nowadays is con-
sidered fortunate, how incomparably more fortunate is he who can find a
new and most important subject on which to write a book ! It is a singular
oversight that in our political literature so little attention should have
been given to the very keystone of the arch that spans our whole system.
The method of electing the President of the United States is a matter
of such conspicuous importance that we might well suppose the subject
had been long since exhausted, and that everything relating to it was as
trite and familiar as the Declaration of Independence itself. But such is
far from being the case. Not only are the vast majority of intelligent citi-
zens wholly unfamiliar with it and the history of its workings, but our
professional politicians, and to some extent our statesmen also, are by no
means well informed on the subject.
The meagre and desultory character of the publications on the theme
accounts in great measure for this want of knowledge in the past ; but now,
at least, this difficulty is removed. Mr. O'Neil in his book has made a
thorough and complete condensation of the documents, decisions, authori-
tative statements, and weighty opinions bearing on the question, together
with a full history of its workings in each presidential election, from that
of the first great head of our government to the present occupant of the
White House ; so that one has only to read this work of less than three
hundred pages to become well acquainted with the manner in which Presi-
dents are made. The work, though brief in its treatment of the subject, is
nevertheless a prodigy of patience and research which only a painstaking
and learned lawyer in fullest sympathy with his theme could have pro-
duced. We are glad to see that the book is free from political bias. It is a
straightforward statement of facts and arguments bearing directly on the
subject, without any attempt to obtrude private opinions or partisan views.
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The arrangement of the matter is topical throughout ; the style is lucid
and vigorous, the temper calm and judicial.
Mr. O'Neil has produced a work of which so young an author may well
feel proud. He has filled a gap in our political literature and gathered a
fund of valuable information which every man interested in our republi-
can institutions should appreciate. We venture to predict that his book
will be well received abroad, and will command the best attention of the
students of political science all over Europe.
The dedication of the volume to President Barnard, of Columbia College,
is a graceful act of filial homage on the part of the author to his Alma
Mater. •
The publishers have turned out the edition in excellent form — ^good
paper, good print, good binding, and no blunders.
The Story of Metlakahtla. By Henry S. Wellcome. London and
New York : Saxon & Co.
As badly written and eccentrically punctuated a book as we have late-
ly seen ; but the matter is good. Mr. William Duncan, a layman of the
Church of England, undertook some thirty years ago to be a Christian mis-
sionary to the Indians of British Columbia. He began his work near Fort
Simpson, a fortified trading-post of the Hudson Bay Company. It was
then the centre of an Indian settlement of nine T^mshean tribes, all given
up to cannibalism and kindred abominations. All alone, on his own initia-
tive, though working under the auspices of the Church (of England) Mis-
sionary Society, Mr. Duncan devoted himself to the conversion of these
abandoned people. We find no mention of his having wife, children, or
home.
For five years he labored, mastering the difficult language, living total-
ly absorbed among the Indians, endeavoring to teach them what he knew
of Christian truth and civilization. At the end of that time — and a weary
time it must have been— Mr. Duncan had made fifty converts. These be
managed after the pattern, consciously or unconsciously followed, of the
Catholic missionaries of California — he established a Christian commune.
He set his converts apart from their heathen friends and relatives, and
formed a separate seaside village, to whose inhabitants he gave the follow-
ing rules:
" I. To give up their * Ahlied,' or Indian deviltry; 2. To cease calling in
' Shamens,* or medicine-men, when sick ; 3. To cease gambling; 4. To cease
giving away their property for display; 5. To cease painting their faces;
6. To cease indulging in intoxicating drinks; 7. To rest on the Sabbath;
8. To attend religious instruction ; 9. To send their children to school ;
10 To be cleanly ; II. To be industrious; 12. To be peaceful; 13. To be
liberal and honest in trade; 14. To build neat houses; 15. To pay the vil-
lage tax."
Duncan baptized none of them, and, as far as we can judge, he made
them what may be called partially instructed catechumens. If a true bish-
op had come, and if the missionary had been a true Christian catechist,
his efforts would have been properly appreciated. So they were, in fact,
even by the first pseudo-bishop (by courtesy, of Columbia), who visited
the settlement in 1863, rather more than four years after its commencc-
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ment. He baptized many, praised Duncan's work, and conducted himself
like any decent superintending Protestant minister. By the time the
next " bishop " (of New Caledonia) came along, some twenty years later,
the village had increased to a thousand souls, all of them partially civil-
ized and of various grades of rudimentary Christianity. This bishop was
a persecutor. He undertook to force Mr. Duncan to take orders, and to
impose upon his Christians the forms and ritual of the Church of England,
especially in the rite of Holy Communion. But Duncan steadily declined
both propositions, declaring that his object in devoting his life to this
work had been " to save sinners, not to glorify the church."
In all this we perceive the hard sense of a practical man and the con-
science of a consistent Protestant. But the bishop pounded him hard for
his uprightness and consistency. Duncan offered the London Board of
Missions to resign, and No was the answer. This deepened the bishop's
wrath. He began to slander the unfortunate Duncan. He succeeded in
bribing a few of his converts to leave him. He crippled his school. He
took possession of his school-house, and when the Indians took it peace-
ably back — being their own house, paid for out of their own money, built
on their own land — the bishop invoked the government at Victoria, and a
man-of-war was sent down, with three commissioners on board, to investi-
gate. On this occasion the investigators preached advanced Henry-
Georgeism to the red men in the following terms :
" We are told the Metlakahtlans say all the land belongs to the Indians.
This is not true. White men who teach this are false to both Indians
and whites. We will tell you the truth about the lands. First, all the
LANDS BELONG TO THE QUEEN." The George principle, however, is one
that admits of elastic applications. In this instance it was put into annoy-
ing practice by the subsequent arrival of a party of government surveyors.
These selected two acres of the communal property to be alienated from
the Indians, who, as they said in their manly letter of protest, had " received
the land by direct succession from their forefathers, some of whonr once
lived on these very two acres." Surveyed the ground was, however, and
handed over to the " Church Missionary Society " and the intruding bishop.
Finding that the government had sided against them and for " the
church/' the aggrieved Indians and their friend and teacher, Duncan, like
millions of other victims of British rule in church and state, are seeking an
asylum under the Stars and Stripes in Alaska. But that is a consummation
so far from satisfactory to either the church or the state in question, which
will have reaped a barren victory when Metlakahtla stands desolate, that
the former has again invoked "the secular arm." This has now been raised
to forbid the Indians even to take with them into their new homes the ma-
terials of the old ones which they had erected on "the queen's land," and
which " Uncle Sam " had given them leave to carry over duty free. Here
is a case in which sympathy, indignation, and welcome are all plainly in
order.
Theodore Wibaux, Pontifical Zouave and Jesuit. By the Rev. C.
Du Cogtlosquet, S.J., with an introduction by the Rev. Richard F.
Clarke, S.J. New York: The Catholic Publication Society Co.; Lon-
don : Burns & Oates.
This is a delightful book, not merely as a record of great graces, greatly
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720 Ne w Pubuca tions. [ Aug^ 1887.
appreciated and faithfully used by him whom it chiefly commemorates, but
also for the insight it affords into a charming domestic life. It is hardly to
be wondered at that parents such as those depicted here should have reared
a holy family. Theodore Wibaux entered the Jesuit novitiate in his twen-
ty-second year, and died at thirty-three before having attained the dignity
of the priesthood. The history of his life as a religious occupies hardly a
sixth of the book, which lingers at first with loving detail over his child-
hood, and then paints at full length the years between eighteen and twen-
ty-one, which he began as a Papal Zouave and ended as one of the Voim-
teers of the West who fought under General de Charette in the FraDCo-
Prussian war. But the whole life might well be called a long novitiate, an
incessant preparation for the happy death by which he crowned it, a volun-
tary victim of expiation for his country and the church. Yet it was a life
led on very ordinary lines. Filled as it is with the record of graces hero-
ically responded to, they were graces such as nearly all of us receive, unless
one excepts the atmosphere of domestic piety which sheltered it from the
outset, and which, to our thinking, was almost the greatest of them all.
But its lack of singularity in everything save perfect fidelity is precisely
what has made it so very well worth the telling.
Canonical Procedure in Disciplinary and Criminal Cases of Cler-
ics. By the Rev. Francis Droste. Edited by the Rev. Sebastian G.
Messmer, D.D. New York, Cincinnati, and St. Louis : Benziger Bros.
The New Procedure in Criminal and Disciplinary Causes of Eccle-
siastics in the United States. By Rev. S. B. Smith, D.D. New
York and Cincinnati : Pustet & Co.
We once heard an intelligent layman say that it would be a convenience
if the official documents pertaining to the canonical procedure of the
church were published in English— a very reasonable wish and fully met by
these two volumes. The authors are learned canonists, and have herein
given to the clergy manuals for the transaction of all business before the
ecclesiastical courts having jurisdiction in criminal aM disciplinary cases.
Intended chiefly and primarily for the clergy, these volumes are of interest
to the general public. A more extended notice would be given but that
our July issue contains one in reference to a larger work of Dr. Smith
which is quite applicable to both of these works.
BOOKS RECEIVED.
The Appeal to Life. By Theodore T. Hunger. Boston and New York : Houcfaton, Mif-
flin & Co.
The Prelate. A Novel. By Isaac Henderson. Fourth edition. Boston : Ticknor & Ca
Parthenon. Part I. Spring (poem). By J. W. Rogers. Baltimore : James Young.
First Lines of English Grammar. By Goold Brown. New York : Wm. Wood & Ca
Select Recitations for Catholic Schools and Academies. Contpiled by Eleanor
O'Grady, teacher of Elocution at Mt. St. Vincent. New York, Cincinnati, and St. Louis :
Benziger Bros.
IvAn Ilvitch and other Stories. By Count Lyof N. Tolstoi. Translated from the Rm-
sian by Nathan Haskell Dole. New York : Thomas Y. Crowell & Co.
The House of the Musician. By Virginia W. Johnson. Boston : Ticknor & Co.
.Speech of SE5foR Don Matias Romero, Mexican Minister at Washington. Read on
the sixty-fifth anniversary of the birth of General U. S. Grant, celebrated at the Metro-
politan M. E. Church of Washington, D. C. New York : Wm. Lowey, Printer.
Our Losses A letter to the Very Rev. J. G. Canon Wenham by the Rev. G. Bampfi^
London : Burns & Oates.
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THE
CATHOLIC WORLD.
Vol. XLV. SEPTEMBER, 1887. No. 27a
REVELATIONS OF DIVINE LOVE
MADE TO A DEVOUT SERVANT OF OUR LORD, CALLED MOTHER
JULIANA,*
Am anchorite of Norwich, who livid in the days of King Edward IIL
In this* same time I saw the bleeding head.
Our courteous Lord me shewed a sight ghostlie:
His homelie loving, that in all things He
Is ever good and comforting to our need.
Our cloathing is He, wrapping us around.
And halsing,t all beclosing^ us with care;
About us hanging with affection rare.
As to us He wished ever to be bound.
Within my palme a litle thing was shewed,
Round as a ball, a hazel-nutt in size.
Looking thereon, I asked, with thoughtfull eies,
"What may this be?" Twas answered in this mode:
"All that is made it is." I marvailed much
How it might last a moment; for methought
It might have fallen soudeinlie to naught
Within my hand, its litlenes was such.
My understanding answered to this thought,
"It lasts, and ever will, for God it loves:
All thing created in His being moves.
All thing to being by His love is brought."
* Vide The Cathouc World, March, z88i.
\Jiahe^ or Hamlse^ to embrace around Uie neck. XBecieu^ to endoee, shut in..
Copyrigbt. Rav. I. T Hscxnu 1887
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722 Revelations of Divine Love. [Sept,
Within this thing three properties I saw :
The first, God made it by His mightie power ;
The second, that God loves it evermore ;
The third, in being God keeps it by His law.
But wouldst thou know what I beheld in this ?
The Maker wise, the Keeper sure, the Lover best;
For trulie I male never have full rest
Until united to Him, ne verie bliss.
Until so fastened unto Him I be ;
In sooth, all to * united in my soule.
And be so trulie under His controule
That naught may stand betwixt my God and me.
This litle thing within my hand, I said.
For litlenes might quick to nothing fall.
Of which it needeth us to know that all
Us liketh naught t to have save God unmade.
And this the cause why we be not in ease,
Why naught to heart and soule true rest can bring.
Here seeke we rest in this poor litle thing,
Where no rest is nor aught our wants t* appease.
Our God, that is all mightie and all wise,
All good, in whom is rest, we do not know !
God will be known, for all that is below
Can never give us peace, nor us suffice.
And this the cause no soule in rest can live
Until of all thing made it naughted % be.
When she for love is naughted wilfuUie §
For Him that is all, then can she rest receave.
Our good Lord shewed that if a seelie \ soule
Come unto Him plain, naked, full homelie,
He doth regard her full delightsomelie ;
Of her the Holie Ghost hath sweet controule.
** God, of thy goodness, g^ve thyself to me ;
Enough art thou, and I ask nothing lesse.
For all besides thee is but emptines,
And nothing lesse full worshippe is to thee.
« AH to^ for altoe;ether, entirely. t Likttk naugki^ gives no contentment
X Naughted, emptied of, freed from all attachment ta
I WUfuUU, wUUnglr, bjdne'fl own will or Choice. |5^»A'tf, simply |
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1887.] Cruel Nature. 723
" Ever me wanteth if I aught male seeke
But thee ; for thou art all, and thou alone.
In thee I all have ; wanting thee have none.
When I have thee am strong ; without thee, weak/*
Full lovesome to the soule be words like these,
And verie full nere touching to His will.
Whose goodness doth His creatures ^11 fulfill,*
And ever keepeth all His works in peace.
He is the endles source and fountain-head ;
He for Himself hath made us by His word ;
He by His precious Passion us restored ;
He in His love us keepeth, as is said.
Alfred Young.
CRUEL NATURE.
The late Mr. J. S. Mill denounced nature as " a monster of
criminality, without justice and without mercy." His dictum
has passed almost into a proverb among atheists, as denying any
moral character in the Author of nature, and implying that He
must be either a mere fiend or wholly indifferent to moral con-
sequences. Now, if it can be shown that, so far from that con-
elusion following, the alleged indifference in the operation of
physical laws is an important condition for the preservation of
the moral order, a greater weight, although in the opposite scale
to that which he intended, will accrue to the dictum of the dis-
tinguished philosopher. In order, then, to test the consequences
of the physical system as we find it, I will adopt a method as old
as Euclid and assume a system the very opposite, and see what
consequences must then follow. What, then, are the conceivable
aspects of a system opposite to that which we find ? I think
there arc two, and that they exhaust the possibilities of the case.
We may conceive, first, a system in which no destructive or nox*
ious agencies should exist at all ; and, second, one in which those
agencies should be so adjusted and contrived as to single out
for their victims the morally delinquent only, and should ex-
clusively
** Parum castis inlmica mittant
Fulmina,"
sparing universally the castis. When our censer morum of the
♦-Fir^/AtofiUfttD.
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724 Cruel Nature. [Sept.
workings of nature taxes those workings with "criminality,"
the stricture is only in fact a bit of philosophic bombast He
denounces " nature " for being, in her destructive agencies, ab-
solutely impartial in respect to the moral character of those
who suffer. Fire, earthquake, flood, avalanche, storm, and
famine come alike, it is alleged, " on the evil and on the good,"
and descend, even as the bounties of nature, " on the just and on
the unjust." I will assume it to be so, and proceed to discuss
the above-suggested alternatives.
Those who claim a course of nature from which all destruc-
tive agencies should be excluded in favor of perfect security for
man, are in effect contending that a creature confessedly not odIj
imperfect but depraved should have perfect surrounding^. For
the depravity of man, account for it as we will, is an undoubted
fact of scientific observation. I need not quote universal history
in support of this now, as 1 shall have perhaps something to urge
in detail on this behalf hereafter. But some may perhaps think
they can find an answer to this in the fact that while man's de-
pravity is morale the antagonisms of his environment are purely
physical. But in arguing this question we must take the whole
of man's nature, not either half as suits the censor's purpose.
The very terms of the above indictment show the shallowness of
the attempted answer. Criminality, justice, and mercy are all oi
them moral terms, and apart from a moral theory have no mean-
ing. Purely physical, therefore, as those antagonisms are, they
must be regarded as capable of subserving a moral purpose, or
cadit quastio. The whole point of the censor's objection lies in
urging upon nature a moral standard and condemning her for
not recognizing it.
I submit, on the contrary, that if man were morally upright
and finitely perfect, then a course of nature which exactly reflected
his moral perfections and embodied a corresponding standard in
its workings would be a suitable enviromennt for him. On the
contrary, being as he is, it is unscientific, or, more shortly, absurd,
to claim such an environment for such a being. But are storms,
volcanoes, earthquakes, mere mistakes in the physical economy?
I believe they are recognized as having their uses and serving
valuable, probably indispensable, ends in that economy. The
properties of bodies and the laws of matter and force being as
they are, will any one sketch a design of a working model for
our globe in which they could have been excluded ? We may, of
course, conceive abstractly of their exclusion, bat that may pn>
bably be because we do not realize what in fact the conditioiM
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or consequences of such exclusion would be, nor see really to
the bottom of the physical problem. Agreed, then, that, as an
abstract conception, the world might have been conceivably bet-
ter suited for man's physical security — i.e., might have contained
no force which would have overmatched human power to sub-
due it ; yet as no one, I imagine, is prepared to show how the
machine, so to speak, could under those conditions have been
worked, so no one can prove any right in man to demand a
world in which water should not drown, nor sunstrokes and
other severities of weather injure health and destroy life. In
short, it is evident that the objection may, and to be consistent
must, be pushed to a point at which the entire course of nature
would need to be subverted. Nor do I think that any more
complete proof of the practical absurdity of such objections than
this can be given.
On the other hand, it is proper to notice that men, as a rule,
build on a security of exemption, each in his own case, which
experience does not warrant. They neglect obvious warn-
ings, court wholesale destruction, back their individual pow-
ers of endurance against the tremendous forces with which
nature is charged, in spite of the gathered lessons of centuries.
The further science advances the more recklessly presumptuous
are the risks encountered. I do not mean that the individuals
who suffer are always wholly or chiefly responsible. But the
organization of human society, which requires these risks and en-
joys the results when they are escaped, is responsible for them.
As an example, ocean passenger-ships now are expected to per-
form their transit, as a rule, against time to the day and hour.
This not only emboldens navigators to shrink from no stress of
weather, but, since such despatch can only be attained by the
straightest lines between port and port, drives all the competing
members of a crowded sea-service to choose virtually the same
track, ajid in eflfect converts the spacious ocean into a narrow
and densely-thronged water-way full of snares for mutual de-
struction. As a more blameworthy instance, it was stated pub-
licly, and I believe never contradicted, that premonitory signs
of the terrible earthquake which convulsed Ischia some few
summers ago were given in the sudden rise of temperature in
the wells, and other like tokens, but that the warnings were sup-
pressed for fear the visitors to that favorite health-resort should
suddenly migrate. These and similar facts, with which one
might fill a volume, show how vastly the destructive agencies of
nature are multiplied by human presumption or wilful blindness.
Men must discover for themselves the laws of nature in order to
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726 Cruel Nature. [Sept,
appreciate their force, and, when discovered, must be willing to
submit to their teachings. The construction of theatres, the
warming, lighting, and ventilation of churches and other public
interiors, belong to a realm of man's own creation, and we know
from repeated lessons of terror how signal has been the violation
of acknowledged principles. With such results in that self-
created realm it is well that man's control over the forces of na-
ture is so far limited as we see it is. With every extension of
that control he seems to give a more audacious challenge to all
that lies on the brink of the line of safety.
In saying that man must be held responsibU for these results I
do not mean that blame necessarily or always attaches. Even
where it demonstrably does attach, very different degrees of
censure are admissible in different cases. On the other hand, if
there was no natural theatre of peril there could be no natural
school of hardihood and courage. To whatever extent these vir-
tues are prized we must exempt from censure any natural ma-
chinery which tends to produce them. The school of arctic
navigation, for example, furnishes a standard of heroism to eveiy
nation which has recruited it, and tends to raise the moral ideal
of millions by the gallant and skilful daring of a few in the inte-
rests of science. Until such moral qualities have lost the homage
of mankind we must cease to rail at the elemental surroundings
which form their special training. For it is surely better that
calm and skilful courage, energetic patience, hardy endurance,
and self-restraint should be learned from the baffling hardships
of the polar seas than amid scenes of mutual bloodshed and the
teachings of scientific carnage. And, save in these two opposite
ways — viz., by the terrors of nature and the terrors of war — there
seem no means of cultivating them. If nature " knows neither
justice nor mercy," she at any rate knows something of the hard-
ier virtues, so far as sympathizing with those whom she trains.
She yields up to them alone her secrets, and makes them her mes-
sengers of discovery to their fellow-men.
" Would'st thou," so the helmsman answer'd,
" Learn the secret of the sea ?
Only those who brave its dangers
Understand its mystery."
And what is true of the mariner is true of the mountaineer, the
desert-traveller, and the aeronaut.
Dismissing, then, the project of nature in which there should
be no noxious agencies, let us consider that of nature in which
all these should be on the side of moral goodness — i.e., sparing, io
every case of loss, damage, disaster, and violent death, the up-
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right, pure, and merciful. I contend that this, so far from being
conducive to human virtue, would be detrimental, and in many
cases fatal, to it. If a well-meaning clergyman bribes his parish-
ioners to attend church, and succeeds in finding a bribe to suit
each taste, that man's action goes far to make sincere religion
impossible. He would be doing what in him lay to uproot it.
The freak of that individual would be condemned by the common
sense of mankind, to say nothing of the force of sarcasm and ridi-
cule. But the freak or craze of the individual at its worst would
be mischievous only during his life. But if the bribe to be up-
right, pure, and merciful lay in nature's hand, it would be ubiqui-
tous, and would therefore be in operation universal and in per-
manency unalterable. In seeming to secure the results of virtue
this would tend to the destruction of the qualities which produce
it. For, human actions being moralized by their motives, the
ascendant motive, especially amidst a race so far already tainted
by selfishness as mankind, would tend to become a selfish crav-
ing for personal exemption from loss, damage, disaster, and vio-
lent death ; this, working everywhere, in generation after genera-
tion of men, must inevitably result in stamping out all virtuous
principle among them. A few noble souls would perhaps escape
the servility of character born of ever-present and immediate re-
ward for virtuous deeds. The fear of punishment certain to be
instant might in exceptionally generous souls fail to be the rul-
ing motive. But the common run of men would, unless the re-
ward were future and unseen, never rise to a state of virtue
worthy the name of habit or character. Man is noble enough to
be virtuous for virtue's sake, but this high motive cannot, as a
rule, hold its own against the bribe of immediate reward. The
motive most constantly present would be the one most constantly
acted on, and, by being so acted on, must needs mould the char-
acter dominantly on itself. And just as men by doing virtuous
acts beget in themselves a habit of virtue which consolidates
into character, so, by tending to make every act a selfish act,
nearly all men must inevitably grow selfish at the core and from
the core to the husk — must minimize and at last extinguish all
other motives. We should all be externally presentable person-
ages after one model. Everywhere the same decency without
and the same rottenness within ; the same drop down to the dead-
level of self-seeking, at which no self-sacrifice nor grand emotions
would be possible. We should be incapable even of the homage
which in hypocrisy vice pays to virtue ; for there would and
could be no hypocrisy possible in the matter. Every one would
know his own motives and his neighbor's, and each would ap-
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728 Cruel Nature. [Sepu
praise the others as all working for wages punctually paid in a
premium of insurance against loss, damage, disaster, and violent
death.
Let me refer to the grand apologue of the Book of Job. I am
not now quoting it as of inspired authority (this being an argu-
ment rather ad infideUs\ but merely as true to the great princi-
ples of human nature. Remember the taunt of the enemy (Job
i. 9, lo) : " Doth Job serve God for naught ? Hast not thou
made an hedge about him ? " Under the conditions I am sup-
posing, that taunt would everywhere tend to realize itselt
Not only human goodness, even up to the level at which we now
see it, but even a belief in the possibility of it, would have become
impossible, would have been dead and buried and its bare tradi-
tion extinct, long ere this. Even mere benevolence would probably
have disappeared. Acting on nature's training, men would have
learned to exact a quid pro quo all round. Every man would have
his price, and expect it openly, and take it without shame. The
bribed dependants of nature to begin with, we should all long
ago have established the custom of universal "backsheesh."
Consider how long it takes to establish in any nation a compara-
tive purity of political election and banish corruption from oflS-
cial life. Imagine what the result would have been if, in every
stage of universal society from the cradle to the grave, nature
had stood over us like a hundred-handed Briareus, with a bribe
in every hand, ostensibly to promote justice, purity, and mercy,
but in reality to poison them. The very words would have lost
all meaning for us long ago. Moral sense itself would have died
out in the universal stagnation of the cataclysm of selfishness.
Some may think my words savor of exaggeration. I humbly
believe that no exaggeration on such a subject is possible, nor
comes within the farthest grasp of the wildest enthusiast of
morality.
Remember, on the other hand, the noble words of Gray in his
" Ode to Adversity " :
" When first thy sire to send on earth
Virtue, his darling child, designed.
To thee he gave the heavenly birth
And bade to form her infant mind.
Stern, rugged nurse, thy rigid lore
With patience many a year she bore."
The poet is true to the common sense of mankind. But take
an instance. A life-boat is putting off to the rescue of a perishing
crew. What is it which fires us with admiration of the action
and stamps it as heroic ? The fact that life is risked to save life.
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If any case is imaginable in which nature, supposed converted, on
the model of the late Mr. J. S. Mill, to virtuous ways, might be ex-
pected to show " tx)wels of mercies," it is surely in such a case as
this. But the "monster of criminality," instead of " doing," like
Ariel, " her spiriting gently," overwhelms them, let us suppose, in
the waves with no more concern than if they were a gang of pirates
or the crew of a slave-ship, and Mr. Mill's case against her is es-
tablished ! Be it so. But if it were not for the catastrophe being
possible and perhaps probable, where would be the heroism of
the act ? It all lies in the self-oblivion of uncalculating pity for
human misery. Insure your life-boat's crew a safe passage with
a return ticket, like so many " Cook's tourists," and the whole
idea is not so much extinguished as turned upside down. On
Mr. Mill's implied theory they ought not even to encounter wet
jackets. There must be nowhere extant that which by the coW
mon consent of man forms the supreme test and sole possible
proof of virtue. And with the possibility of proof would disap-
pear the possibility of the thing proven.
Juvenal long ago complained of his degenerate Romans:
" Quis enim virtutcm amplectitur ipsam,
Praemia si tollas ? " *
But the distinction which his words imply must have been ef-
faced for ages before he appeared upon the moral scene. In " em-
bracing virtue" men would have embraced the "rewards."
The two would have become identical ; not merely inseparable,
but indistinguishable, even to the moral microscope of such a
purist as the late Mr. Mill. Morality would have become a tree
rotten from root to twig, and with Dead-Sea apples for its fruit
It remains, then, that, as man is actually constituted, you can-
not have nature "moral " in Mr. Mill's sense of the word, and
man moral too. You may choose in theory between the two,
and Mr. Mill seems to me disposed to choose the former. I
would not willingly do injustice to the dead, but, if his words
have any meaning, that is what they seem to postulate. In prac-
tice let us be thankful that all such choice is out of our reach.
The Author of nature has chosen in favor of man — man whom we
believe, holding as we do to an old-fashioned authority, to be
" made in his image, after his likeness." Man was made for
morality, and brute nature, so far as they have relations in com-
mon, for man ; and therefore nature continues brute, that man
may be exalted and established over it in his mgral supremacy.
Once impregnate "nature" with sympathies for justice, purity,
♦ " For who embraces virtue by herself, if you take away the rewards ? "
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730 Crubl Nature. [Sept,
and mercy, and that moment in man they become abortive io-
stincts. Just as tme religion flourishes in greatest sincerity
under the bracing influence of adversity, so true morality seems
to require this persecution, if I may so phrase it, of nature in the
physical sphere to insure its genuineness. And thus we, by ad-
mitting, nay, establishing, the monstrously " criminal " character
of nature, succeed in finding the only basis of harmony at once
for nature, man, and God— on the part of nature, in her service
to man, since to keep him in unalloyed sincerity to the moral
principle is surely the greatest service she could render him ;
on the part of man, in his homage to abstract principle, as the
governing one of his entire being ; on the part of God, as the
Author of both, who has set man over nature, but his own law
of immutable morality over man.
But some one not of Mr. Mill's school may advance a plea for
divine interposition: Why should not God, having set these
limits, confessedly necessary for all ordinary purposes, interpose
in extreme cases to shield the relatively guiltless from the awful
horrors of such sufferings as we see they share ? To this I have
two brief answers, i. If you and I, my brother, were to attempt
to regulate interpositions and decree their occasions, I fear we
should make wild work of it and mar more than we might mend.
If we believe in a God, let us be content to leave that among his
" secret things," and not lose faith in him because he does not
come at our beckoning. 2. Furthermore, how do you know that
he does not interpose ? — I do not mean on all such occasions as
we might deem to require it, but on such as seem good to him-
self. Human history, as it is marked with scenes of dreadful
havoc wrought by nature's hand, so it is studded here and there
with wonderful deliverances. We cannot tell when he inter-
poses. And if we knew that, we should next want to know how
and why. In short, we should be seeking an admission behind
the scenes of his providence, whereas our proper position at
present is in front of them. I indeed incline to believe that ^e^
while in these perishable bodies, have no faculties sufficient to
understand either the when, the how, or the why — I mean by
any broad gate of general intelligence. But whether the hitch
is there or on the moral side — that is to say, that practically such
knowledge would harm us — is unsearchable at present. If you
think you are either immortal or capable of immortality, can yon
not afford to wait a little, and, seeing how in general man and
nature work together in harmony, take the rest on trust till you
can know more and be safe in knowing it?
Henry Hayman, D.D.
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i887.] DuBUN Charities. 731
DUBLIN CHARITIES.
" It was heart-breaking," said the Sister of Charity, " to be
obliged to send the poor creatures away to die in misery and
want in their wretched homes. Yet what could we do ? The
hospitals are not for the dying, but for those whose diseases
admit a hope of cure. We longed to find some place of refuge
for those for whom all hope was over in this world, whose only
wish was to die in peace; and we asked ourselves, Could we do
nothing to meet this want ? " And this is how there has come to
be in Dublin a Hospice for the Dying.
About two miles outside Dublin, scarcely a hundred yards
from the pretty old suburban village of Harold's Cross, are large
iron entrance-gates before which I have often stopped to look
admiringly at a beautiful avenue shaded by old elms, at hedge-
rows of sunny green hawthorn, flowers and fields, and spreading
trees whose branches were alive with birds ; a place full of the
life and beauty that birds and trees and sunshine give, and sug-
gestive, in the freshness of all about it, of spring, of youth and
hope. And yet on the gates between me and all this beauty
were the words, to which my mind never ceased to recur, ** Our
Lady's Hospice for the Dying."
The dying ! Yes, these are the inmates of this peacefulJook-
ing home — the dying, who, their race run, come here to lay down
in quiet their burden of sorrow, sickness, and suffering ; whose
last days are here soothed by the untiring care of the gentle Sister
of Charity, and whose last moments are strengthened by all the
consolations of religion.
Once, when passing, I saw a cab waiting while the gates were
being opened. A glance into the cab showed me the occupants,
an old man and a young one ; a second glance showed plainly
that it was the young man who had come to die, and a certain
expression in his face told that perhaps the very hardest struggle
of all was the passing through these gates ; for did not the in-
scription thereon remind him that for him life, with its joys, its
hopes, its fears, was over? My thoughts leaped — and must not
his have leaped with double celerity? — to the next time he should
cross this threshold. I felt instinctively that, no matter what the
faith, the resignation, or the hope might be, it was impossible
that to one dying in the very spring of life there should not be
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732 Dublin Charities. [Sept,
moments of supreme anguish, of which this passing away from
all he held dear in the outer world must be one of the keenest.
Yet, the instant that the gate was passed, there was something
to console and cheer the weary traveller at this stage of his last
journey : he had but to lift his eyes, and above him, her arms
outstretched in pitying welcome, an image of Our Lady of Re-
fuge seemed to give him courage and hope.
To many persons such an institution as this suggests only
ideas of gloom and sadness. There are some who could not be
induced to pay even a passing visit to the Hospice, shrinking
from going into the presence of death — into a place where, no
matter on which side they turn their eyes, they can see nothing
to inspire hope. There are thousands of Christians who would
be horrified if told that they werej, wanting in faith, and yet
whose thoughts are what I have just expressed.
I will try to put before such persons the reality of the Hos-
pice for the Dying as I saw it on last Easter day, one of the
brightest and loveliest days of the beautiful spring-time — a day
full of sunshine, that made the grass and the young green of
the trees bright and soft with a vivid, golden light, the delicate
spring flowers look their gayest and sweetest, and the birds sing
as if their very hearts were in their song. Everywhere life, and
everywhere the irresistible happiness that seems inseparable from
such a spring day.
All this I saw and felt as I passed between the budding haw-
thorn hedges and looked around the fields and gardens surround-
ing Our Lady's Mount A few steps inside the gates is a school-
house where the young are daily taught so to live that later on
they may, with God's help, know how to die. A turn in the
avenue showed the convent, a plain, comfortable-looking house,
surrounded by fine old elms, sycamores, and hawthorns.
I do not know whether cordiality and hospitality are pre-
scribed by the rules of the Irish Sisters of Charity, but they cer-
tainly practise those virtues, and my welcome at the convent
was as genial as the day. I will confess now that I had had some
•light feelings of trepidation as to the sad, or at least subdued,
atmosphere that must, it seemed to me, necessarily pervade the
house. In the parlor — a cheerful-looking room, plainly but well
furnished, with windows wide open to the air, the sunshine, and
the music of the birds — I made acquaintance with several of the
sisterhood, whose appearance was suggestive neither of gloom
nor sadness.
My request to[see the institute was at once cheerfully granted;
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1^7] Dublin Charities. tsi
and as it was a great feast-day and they had more leisure than
usual, several of the sisters accompanied me through the different
parts of the convent : a home-like, charming old house, large and
rambling, everywhere exquisitely kept and everywhere full of
sunshine — not alone the sunshine that was allowed to pour in
plentifully from without, but that of kind words, looks, and acts.
The first visit in a convent is almost invariably to the church-
That of the Hospice is one of the most perfect little buildings I
have seen ; and on that lovely Easter Sunday the profusion of
snowy flowers and feathery plants, the exquisite simplicity yet
perfect grace of the decorations, the lights, the perfume of flow-
ers and incense on the air, all justified the exclamation of one of
the patients who had been well enough to attend Mass that morn-
ing : " Glory be to the Lord I I thought I had gone to God in
the night and wakened up in heaven."
On our way up-stairs to the rooms of the patients I had an-
other glimpse of the little church as we passed the organ-gallery,
which is but a few steps from the principal wards, and is fur-
nished for the convenience of such of the patients as are able to
come only so far. Here are arm-chairs, cushions, and a warm
fire, and in this spot were sitting, quietly " making their souls,"
as our poor people say, two of the patients. Both had a peace-
ful, happy look in their faces, and I began to see how fully and
really the Christian idea of the end of this life is realized by all
who come under the influence of the sisters, who by love and
faith teach them to wait in hope and trust for a glorious resur-
rection.
The first ward we visited was that occupied by the men, and
on its very threshold the thought suggested to all is of the Resur-
rection, for over the entrance is an image of the Archangel Mi-
chael. St Michael's ward is a long, airy room, the beds ranged
on either side. One bed alone was empty — that of a young man
who had died that morning. Of the beautiful cleanliness and
comfort of all around I need not speak ; order, cleanliness, and
comfort are matters of course wherever the Sisters of Charity
hold sway. Here was many a sad and touching scene. Several
very young men were dying of decline ; wan and worn, and
scarcely able to speak, they were apparently bidding farewell
to weeping relatives, and we turned quickly away, not to in-
trude upon such grief.
Glancing from bed to bed, there seemed to be general peace
and quietude — an air of rest, even with those who were suffer-
ing. As we passed* one or other of the men would call to a sister
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734 Dublin Charities. [Sept,
to come and speak to him, asking her prayers or blessing her for
all she had done for him ; and the good nun, bending down to
the poor sufferer, would speak kind, sympathizing, always cheer-
ful words that brought cheerful words in return, even from those
who were scarcely able to speak, and many a grateful look fol-
lowed the sisters as we went along.
Seated round a fire at the end of the room was a quiet group of
men, most of them young, nearly all evidently suffering from the
disease that carries off such numbers of our poor — consumption ;
a quiet but a cheerful group, chatting together and discussing
the newspapers, of which they seemed to have a plentiful sup-
ply, and taking, as we found on stopping to chat with them, a
deep interest in all the questions of the day.
From St. Michael's we passed to St. Raphael's ward. In
this, a moderate-sized room, there were about half a dozen wo-
men, some of whom were well enough to be up and dressed, and
were sitting by an open window enjoying the prospects They
were talking together pleasantly, and I sat down and joined in
the con vers.-* ion, learning from them much of the daily life of
the place and how they tried to brighten the hours that one
would think must sometimes lag heavily. Bringing out their
work-baskets, one showed me a gay-colored shawl she was knit^
ting for a poor bed-ridden woman ; another exhibited with evi-
dent delight a variety of wonderful artificial flowers it gave her
endless pleasure to fabricate as presents to be laid on the little
tables of those who could not leave their beds and enjoy — as she
could — the sight of the fresh flowers blooming in the garden ; the
cheerful delight of the workers showing how their unselfish
thought for others lightens their personal suffering.
I may remark here some things that I noticed in going
through the house from bedside to bedside. One was the care
for the personal appearance of the sick, the neat and even be-
coming arrangement of their hair, their dress, and their every
surrounding ; all that thoughtfulness and taste could do was evi*
dently done to keep the poor patients as bright and happy as
possible. The freshness of the air^ the beauty of the sunshine,
of the flowers, of all the rural scene around, were not allowed to
be objects of vain regrets, but were simply reminders of all the
never-fading beauty of the world to come. If the pains, the
nights of sleeplessness, the weariness of extreme weakness were
all but intolerable, there was a gentle word recalling how in a
short time all that would cease for an eternity free from pain.
The thoughts of the next world were not rudely thrust upon the
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sufferers, but came at moments when they were most helpful in
enabling them to bear their sad burden ; and in the patients them-
selves it was wonderful to see how truly patient they were, how
intense their faith, how great the comfort that faith brought
them, and what real relief in all their sufferings they derived
from their resignation and strong hope.
From room to room we went, stopping here and there to
speak with a patient, with cver-increasing wonder at the gentle
resignation with which in many cases what was evidently great
suffering was borne : a few old people were, as they said them-
selves, just quietly passing away, dying of old age, and seemed
free of physical pain ; the greater number were evidently worn
out by the too hard struggle for life.
In the upper story of the convent are a number of little rooms
which were once the cells of the sisterhood, but are now neatly
fitted up and reserved for the use of the poor who have seen bet-
ter days, or for those who once filled highly respectable positions
and to whom the privacy of a room to themselves is a great boon.
Here, as in the other parts of the house, there were some too ill
to be disturbed by a visit — some, indeed, too near death to notice
anything of what was going on around them ; others again seemed
cheered and gladdened by a little friendly talk. I was greatly
interested in one sweetly pretty, childish-looking young girl,
who, though in reality not far from death — for her disease was a
rapid decline — looked as rosy and bright, in the beautiful pink
and white of her complexion and the innocent, child-like look of
her large blue eyes, as a fresh young flower. Yet the sister who
was standing beside me speaking to her, who had rescued her
and brought her from the most abject poverty to die in this
peaceful home, told me that she was a widow whose husband and
little child were both dead. " And so," the good nun said, look-
ing affectionately at the young creature, " Mrs. could not
bear to stay on earth after her husband and child — she is going
to join them." I shall not easily forget the smile and the look of
love that the pretty creature fixed on her benefactress ; it brought
to my mind an incident told in the life of the foundress of the
Irish Sisters of Charity. A poor man dying in one of their hos-
pitals lay one day long and earnestly gazing at the sister who
was attending him. " I am looking well at you, sister," he said
at length, ** that I may know you in heaven."
In one of those rooms was a strange contrast : there lay, wait-
ing for his time, an old, old man, and in a crib at the foot of the
old man*s bed lay a tiny boy, with a gentle, soft little face, already
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736 Dublin Charities. [Sept,
transparent as wax, with lovely large, violet eyes, long, curling
lashes, pencilled eyebrows, and a mass of soft golden hair as
carefully smoothed and curled as if the tenderest mother's hand
had done it. Willie was the pet and darling of the house ; every
nun we met said : ** You must be sure and see Willie." He was
the special treasure of one of the sisters, who had found him alone,
helpless, miserable, lying neglected in a wretched cellar, his bed
a candle-box. The child's back was broken, his little body a mass
of sores, and altogether his misery was such that, although chil-
dren are not received in the Hospice, the nun who found Willie
and who learned his story could not bear to leave him behind,
but adopted him on the spot and brought him home to be the
little Benjamin of the Hospice.
No human skill could repair Willie's shattered frame, but all
that care and tender charity could do was done to brighten the
little sufferer's lot , and a beautiful picture he made in the sunnj
room as he lifted up his sweet eyes from the flowers, the toys,
and the cakes that surrounded him, put his worn thread of a band
in mine, and told me in a quaint, old-fashioned way how his mo-
ther lived in a cellar and sold ** herrin's an' soap," and how she
came on. a Sunday evening, when she was decent, to see him, and
how he gave her all his pence to buy tea and to make a comfort-
able cup for father, but to be sure and get no whiskey ; how be
was soon going to heaven, where he'd be able to play about, and
how he'd be sure not to forget me when he went there.
The child's companion, the old, old *' Grandfather," as all in
the house called him, looked hale and bright, and chatted with
every one quite pleasantly and condescendingly. He was evi-
dently in no hurry to go to heaven ; for when i asked him if he,
too, would remember me there, he looked at me very critically
and said : " Why, then, how do you know but you'd be calling
forme yourself?" and laughed gleefully at the notion, smiling
and gaily nodding his tasselled night-cap at me.
As there is a grandfather in the Hospice, so, too, there is a
grandmother — the gayest, liveliest, most cheerful, and prettiest
of old women, charmed beyond all things to have a visit, and
most communicative and confidential. She told me she had
come there three years ago to die ; but, upon her word, the nuns
took such good care of her that there she was still, " and — whis-
per here, dear — she was the pet of the house, and they were so
fond of her that they didn't know what to do without her. She
had every comfort round her, and — what she was bom for— per-
fect cleanliness*"
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1887.] Dublin Charities.
And, indeed, looking at her, I could well believe 1
— as she put it — born for cleanliness, for she was a p
and of the beauty that a cheerful, contented expre
care for personal neatness so often give to age. 1
was highly flattered at being complimented on the b(
of a scarlet shawl round her shoulders. She looked
she is, death was a long way off; yet I found, but onl
to inquiries, that the poor woman is a great suffer
been for three years unable to leave her bed. SI
brought to the Hospice, as it was thought, to die ;
wonted care and good nourishment had done won
poor old creature, and she had lingered on and on, al
ing but cheerful, and, as we saw her, a lesson in he
thankfulness for the blessings God had sent her in h<
The naivete with which she gave the nuns ** the bes
ters " was to me highly amusing, and I found it dif
away from her cheery flow of talk. I left her betv
and earth, as it were — on one hand her prayer-book
of devotion, as aids and reminders to " the making o
on the other a petticoat she was remodelling at i
hopes of being able to get down, in the fine weath
the chapel.
The garrulous old lady had so claimed my atte
had only observed that there was one other inmate c
beside whom, tenderly holding her hand and speal
tones, was one of the sisters. But ah ! what a sigh
A fair young girl of the most perfect southern Iri
skin of the white and pink of the apple-blossom, d
hair, small, straight features, large, dark gray ey<
doubly large and lustrous oy the fatal disease — c
Her sufferings were nearly over, and as she spol
peace and rest stole over her face; she said she \
sorrow in leaving the world — her widowed mother,
have now no human being to work for her or to shj
liness. " But God is good, and the sisters have pro
to lose sight of her."
There was one other visit to be paid before leavi
pice. In a little mortuary chapel in the garden 1
quiet figure, at rest. Here, on a tomb-like slab of w
around which were grouped lights and Easter flow
in the sleep of death the young man who had died tl:
Clothed in the brown habit of Our Lady he lay, his
towards the altar, on which were the glorious wo
VOL. XLV.— 47
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738 Dublin Charities. [Scpu
blessed significance on that day, " I am the Resurrection and the
Life/' For this su^erer death had had no sting; all was the vic-
tory of the Resurrection and the Life.
Beside the bier, her face hidden and her sobs stifled in her
scanty shawl, knelt the poor young widow, mourning her dead;
her grief was too deep and too new to be intruded upon, and
after a brief prayer we left the mortuary chapel.
From this beautiful refuge for the dying our thoughts natu-
rally turn to the refuges for the living. Let us glance at one of
these.
Every Monday morning there is to be found in the columns
of our principal journal the following notice, the numbers only
varying :
" St. Joseph's Night Refuge, — The following is the weekly return of ad-
missions to the Night Refuge (founded in 1861 by the late Very Rev. Dr.
Spratt) for homeless women, children, and girls of good character, who
there receive nightly shelter and partial support, during the week ended
4th inst. : thorough servants, 26; housemaids, 9; parlormaids, 21; char-
women, 22 ; children's maids, 49; laundresses, 30; cooks, 21 ; shirt-makers,
9; cloak-makers, 5; dress-makers, 49; stay-makers, 7; bonnet- makers, 19.
bootbinders, 7 ; plain workers, 29; machinists, 29; petty dealers, 28; fac-
tory girls, 17 ; field-workers, 7 ; travellers, 116; governesses, 22 ; tailoresses,
6 ; children, 98. Total, 624."
How many of those who see this weekly notice ever pause to
think over the catalogue of human woes and miseries contained
in this brief record, and how very few must be the number to
whom it has ever occurred to go and see for themselves what
its meaning is ?
To realize the need there is of St. Joseph's Night Refuge, to
see the reality of what the respectable poor too often have to
suffer, one must not select for a visit to the Refuge a bright,
cheerful spring morning, but a cold, damp, chilly autumn even-
ing — one of those evenings when it is delightful to come home
to a comfortable house, a bright fire, a cosy chair, and a happy
family group, the comfort within made doubly grateful to us by
the contrast with the dreariness without.
On such an evening let us turn out of the bustle and light of
Stephen's Green, up through Stephen's Street, through the poor
and shabby streets behind St. Patrick's, and into that neighbor-
hood rarely visited by rich or fashionable Dublin — the Coombe
— that oldest, poorest, and most sqtialid district now to be found
in the city. It is in such a poverty-stricken locality that one can
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188;.] Dublin Charities. 739
best understand what an awful thing it is for scantily-clad, hun-
gry, delicate women, once, perhaps, accustomed to every com-
fort, to be forced to wander about the live-long day and the dark
and lonely night, no comfort, no shelter, no friend to hold out a
helping hand.
Just as the cold and damp of the evening, and the utter
wretchedness of the strange old places we have had to make
our way through, have made us realize something of the misery
of the homeless, we arrive at a large building in the immediate
neighborhood of what was once a busy, thriving place, ** Weavers*
Square." The building is a Convent of Mercy, and attached to
it is St. Joseph's Night Refuge for homeless women and young
girls. It is not difficult to gain admittance, and we soon find
ourselves in a large room with a strange medley of women, old
and young, some very poorly clad, some very neat and decent,
but almost all with a look of want in their faces, although most
seem striving to be, and many really are, cheerful in the midst of
their utter poverty.
Here in this plain but warm and cheerful room are as-
sembled every night numbers of respectable poor women, so
poor that they have not even the price of a night's lodging, and
who, but for the charity of those who provide this refuge, would
spend the long, cold nights wandering about the streets or per-
haps lying in doorways.
Amongst the assembled women are many who shrink from
the sight of visitors with the instinctive feeling that something
about them will show that they belonged once to a far different
sphere. " Once/* said a servant to me, '* I was at St. Joseph's,
and beside me, looking for shelter for the night, was a real, grand
lady. You could see by her ways, poor as she looked, that she
was a lady and not one of us." Here, too, happy and merry
over the supper of bread and cocoa given by the nuns to all, is a
group of little girls, waifs from the bleak streets, some of them
fair, delicate things, others crabbed and world ly-wjse, long used
to the battle of life, poor little creatures! Thrown on the world
already, with no one to provide or care for them ; obliged to
work in any way they c^n, yet clinging to the early remem-
brances of honesty and respectability, as their coming here
shows. I fancy I will sit amongst the children and tempt one
or two to tell me their little stories when I am arrested by,
** Ah! then, God bless you, miss! an* is it here you are, pay.
ing us a visit?'* Before me, seated at the table and enjoying
the fire and her mug of cocoa, is a poor woman whose acquaint
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740 Dublin Charities. [Sept,
tance I made in my summer mornings* walks round Stephen's
Green. She was always there — a sickly, poorly-dressed, yet
cheery creature, always under the same tree and always knit-
ting stockings. Once only I saw her otherwise occupied, in
trimming up an old bonnet, and the bonnet was our introduction
to each other. A child had been talking to the milliner, who.
as I came up, held out a little daisy to me with " See the inno-
cence of the child ! She brought me this to ornament my bon-
net." From that out we had a chat each morning — I wondering
how it was that she seemed to live in the Green ; for even if I
passed through in the afternoon, there she was knitting awa\%
Now the murder was out. and as I sat down beside her in the
room at the Night Refuge she said : " You see it's here I stop
while I'm out of situation, and sure it's a grand place for us poor
servants to have, God bless them that opened it to us ! " As I
now knew the worst, the poor thing told me all ; and no doubt
her story is the story of very many of those around.
** You see, miss," she says, " I got sickly and I lost my situation. The
little I had saved soon went, and then I could no longer pay the rent of my
room (in a clean, decent house it was), and then, only for the nuns here
that gives us shelter and a bed, what would become of me ! I must have
died on the cold streets or gone into the House; and sure, once I went into
the House, there was an end of me. The nuns give me the stockings you
seen me knitting to earn a little to support me — a shilling a pair I earn on
them. I get the cocoa an' a good piece of bread in the night for supper:
I keep over a bit of the bread for the morning, an' when Mass here is over
I have to leave at half past seven with the others. Then there's houses in
the neighborhood where they sell us a ha'porth of boiling water (I have
my own grain of tea, you know) and the loan of a cup and saucer, an' let
me sit while I make my breakfast. After that, if it's a fine day, I sit, as
you see me, in the park an' knit, or go for an hour to the registry-office to
see if any place might turn up. A penn'orth of bread does for dinner, an'
then in the evening the nuns lets me in early in time for prayers in the
chapel. The wet days ? Well, the wet days are the worst. Sometimes I
stand an hour in a hall here or there, but I don't like intruding or being
too much under a compliment. I pass a good many hours in the church,
an' do the best I can; but, to tell the truth, the wet days are hard on me.
I got my eyes bad, as you see, from the wettings — the boots were bad. Tm
in great hopes of a place before winter, and I have my clothes safe in
pawn. The way I manage is, I put them in with just a few pence on, so
that there will be only a little to pay when I want to get them out.
They're saffe from me if I was hungry, and they're kept neat an' tidy, an*
ready the minute I get a situation."
This sounds a very commonplace story of a very common-
place poor servant ; yet oh ! what a history of want and priva-
Digitized by
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1887.] Dublin Charities. 741
tion, hope and fear and disappointment, are behind the simple
words ; and, again, what a world of faith, trust, and patience have
been at work to keep the poor thing so ready to feel thankful
and hopeful over the least little ray of sunshine in her weary
wait for ** a place ** !
Soon there is a general move to the dormitories — fine, large
rooms where nightly a hundred or so of weary beings are pro-
vided with clean, warm beds, far better than are found in many
an expensive lodging-house. All is neatness and order here,
under the care of the Sisters of Mercy, who have now charge of
St. Joseph's— one of the noblest and rpost necessary of all the
great charities of our city, saving thousands of helpless women
and children from misery and degradation by holding out to
them a warm hand of help, encouraging them to struggle on yet
a little longer, giving them a safe resting-place by means of
which they may be saved for better things both here and here-
after.
The kind heart that first thought out all this was that of an
old priest, the late Very Rev. Dr. Spratt, whose name as an ar-
dent worker in the cause of God's poor is well known in Dublin.
It is just twenty-five years since Dr. Spratt opened the Night
Refuge in the poorest quarter in the town. From its opening it
has gone on increasing in its useful work, adding to its size and
extending its helpful care of the most helpless class m the whole
community. In the beginning it was simply what its name im-
plies, but now it embraces a convent where poor women can get
kind help and advice, poor-schools for the children of the neigh-
borhood, and a laundry where homeless young girls are taught
and lodged until situations can be found for them.
Mary Banim.
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742 Mexico: Educational and Industrial. [Sept,
MEXICO: EDUCATIONAL AND INDUSTRIAL.
In The Catholic World for June I tried to sketch " Ma-
terial Mexico/' though only in high outline. I drew passing at-
tention to the permanency of nearly everything in it, viewed
through the literature of its past. But if we look more closely
at its present, at the Mexico of this century, of this quarter of
the century, and of the present decade, it becomes apparent that a
change, organic and constitutional, has been silently coming upon
this ancient and secluded country. It is not a change brought
about by war nor substantially advanced by diplomacy. It is a
silent revolution, moving gently in the footsteps of Peace. We
must seek the evidences of it in education, agriculture, and
manufactures, and in the sources and uses of revenue.
The story of education in Mexico is one of hopelessly tangled
threads. As the mystic symbols on the monuments of Egypt
have only begun to yield their secrets to the archaeologist, we
need not despair of yet knowing something of the antiquity of a
country whose age is beyond present estimate, and whose earliest
civilization, as indicated by her superstitions, architecture, cos-
tumes, and myths, was Oriental. Of her middle age, that long
period following the Spanish invasion and preceding authentic
accessible accounts by travellers or natives, the vain spirit of
exaggeration has been the chief exploring activity. On the one
hand, hostile prejudice has charged against the ostensible religion
of the Spaniards the results due in large measure to natural
causes which neither political forms nor moral forces could
easily overcome. On the other, shallow religious partisanship
has credited the Spaniards with achievements in Mexico, educa-
tional and moral, of which there is little substantial proof.
Itemizers of history, for instance, who rush into discussion
with an isolated date, and who assume the dignity of the archi-
tect with the function of the brick-carrier, have made ado over
the fact that the first university on this continent was established
in Mexico in 155 1. It is not true even as an isolated fact. If it
were true, its historical value would consist in the impression it
made on the national life, not in its categorical precedence. The
ceremonious authority for the creation of a university in Mexico
was given by Charles V. in that year. But the actual beginning
was not made until two years later, and then in temporary build-
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1887.] Mexico: Educational and Industrial. 743
ings. The institution could not have known a prosperous infancy,
for it had no home of its own for nearly another half-century.
The building which now bears its name was not put up for nearly
two centuries later. Very little trustworthy information can be
procured concerning its founders. It was a child of Salamanca ;
and Salamanca in the middle of the sixteenth century was in its
glory as the exponent and defender of St. Thomas. His latest
biographer, speaking of the Christian Fathers, says *' they did not
veil themselves away from the sight of men when they took up
their pens to write ; but, on the contrary, with beautiful frank-
ness and simplicity, they wove their own portraits in amongst
their teachings, and that with a grace and an unconsciousness of
self which are amongst the most charming characteristics of
single-minded genius." * The pioneers of Christian learning in
Mexico did not follow their example, but nevertheless they were
brave and devoted as well as erudite and pious, as is manifest
from their abandonment of their native land and the intellectual
luxuries of its university society for the hardships, mental and
physical, of a land to be reached by perils of a still strange sea.
Doubtless the university of Mexico did something for science
and art. But its usefulness was necessarily restricted to those
who learned or inherited the Spanish tongue and were able to
acquire the preparatory education requisite for admission. That
the area of its usefulness was very narrow needs no demonstra-
tion. It must have had some independence and aggressive
energy, for it was several times suppressed by the Spanish
government. In 1822 a visitor found the building very spacious
and the institution well endowed ; " but at present there are very
few students." Two hundred is the highest number mentioned
as having been in attendance at any time. The library consisted
then •* of a small collection of books." In the city there were " a
few book-shops," and the few books in them " were extravagantly
dear."t "Under the colonial system liberal studies were dis-
couraged." In 1844, when Brantz Mayer was in the capital, the
appropriation for the salaries of the professors in the university
was $7,613. There was no appropriation for elementary schools.
Of the colleges he says : " The students who live within the
♦ SaiMt Thomas o/Aquin, Bj the Very Rev. Roger Bcde Vaaghan.
t The book-stores are not numerous now; bat books, and uncommon ones, are cheap. I
found in a second-hand shop Tom Moore^s Odes of Anacreon (1802) ; Aventuras de Gil Blas^ 4
vols., Barcelona, 1817; Thesaurus NispanO'LattnuSyVLBAtid^ 1794; La Gerusalemme UberatOy
Turin, 1830 ; El Ntievo Testamento^ London, 1874 ; the imprimatur is that of the Cardinal
Archbishop of Westminster. The volume contains an excellent map and many good illustra-
tions. The translation is approved by the Archbishop of Santiago.
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744 Mexico: Educational and Industrial. [Sept,
walls are expected to contribute for their education, while others
who only attend the lectures of the professors are exempt from
all costs and charges, so that about two-thirds of the pupils of
every college receive their literary education gratuitously."
Colleges appear to have been then as useless as the university ;
for out of a population of 7,000,000, less than 700,000 could read.
In a well-known church history published in 1878 it is said:
*' There is but one university in the country, that of the city of
Mexico, founded in 1551, having 22 professors and a library of
50,000 volumes." * The statement, whether it refers to the year
of the foundation or the year of the publication, is certainly mis-
leading. The reference is probably to the year of publication ;
but it must have been based on much earlier records. For there
is no university in the country to-day, and there was none in 1878.
It was abolished in 1865. The building was first transferred to
the Ministry of Public Works. Now it is the National Conserva-
tory of Music. Among the subjects of the paintings in the in-
terior are St. Thomas, St. Paul, St. Catherine, and Duns Scotus.
The charge that the Spaniards endeavored to prevent the
spread of letters, and that the church has antagonized education,
requires careful examination. The printing-press was set up
twenty years after the conquest. The natives could be reached
by the press only through the extension of the Spanish language.
The Spaniards, unlike the English in Ireland, did not make the
native tongue penal and enact special statutes for hanging, dis-
embowelling, exiling, or imprisoning those who employed it for
teaching purposes. They kept the printing-press busy turning
out dictionaries by which rulers and ruled were enabled to get a
little nearer each other. They printed books of devotion— a
fact which irritates some of our separated brethren ; but would
they have had the Greek classics printed for the natives, and
works on metaphysics, science, and natural philosophy ? Who
could have read them ? It is true that the printing-press docs
not seem to have accomplished much. But the obstacles in its
way were like their enormous mountain ranges which kept for
ever apart, unless they met in war, tribes if not races whose dia-
lects were inexchangeable. The printing press had to make, not
one Spanish-Indian or Aztec dictionary, but as many dictionaries
as there were tongues. The natives refused the Spanish spell-
ing-book and continued to hate and tease the invaders. To-day
this diversity of speech remains to prove that the failure of the
printing-press does not constitute good ground for indictment
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1887.] MEXICO: Educational and Industrial. 745
There are at least five distinct languages in Mexico ; and millions
of the people remain totally or partially ignorant of the official
language of the republic.
There was, moreover, a political force always at work against
the diffusion of education through the agencies of the church. It
was the same cause which operated in Ireland : the church, main-
tained by the state, was not maintained for the sake of religion or
education, but to provide for favored sons of the invaders. The
bishoprics were filled with appointees of the Spanish courK The
support of their establishments was made a legal burden, and the
story of the Established Church in Mexico runs in a parallel with
that of the Established Church in Ireland. " It was the policy of
the Spanish cabinet to cherish the temporalities of the Mexican
Church. The rights of primogeniture forced the younger sons
either into the profession of arms or of religion, and it was re-
quisite that ample provision should be made for them in secure
and splendid establishments. Thus all the lucrative and easy
benefices came into the hands of Spaniards or their descendants,
and by far the greater portion of the more elevated ecclesiastics
were persons of high birth or influential connections." * It was
inevitable that the causes and customs which gave princely in-
comes to clergymen without congregations in Ireland ; which
enabled bishops of the Establishment, entering as paupers their
sparse dioceses, to leave legacies of thousands of pounds to their
personal heirs, while thousands from whom their tithes were
wrung died unlettered and in want, should create in Mexico an
ecclesiastical class and condition of a corresponding kind. " As
long as Mexico was a dependency of Spain . . . the bishops had
very handsome revenues, the largest being about $130,000 and
the smallest about $25,ooo.t . . ." The real estate and person-
al property of the religious establishments accumulated from an
estimate of $90,000,000 in 1844 until, when the revolution arrived,
the material wealth of the church furnished temptations too great
to be resisted. As late as 1829 the Spanish court disputed with
the Pope the right to nominate bishops for Mexico. In that year
there was only one see filled in the entire country. The rival
parties of the country made the most of the political factiousness
which surrounded religious office, and in 1833 it was proposed to
confiscate the church property and apply the proceeds to the
payment of the national debt. This was slowly and spasmodi-
cally done, and was fully accomplished when Maximilian arrived
in the capital as emperor. Alzog relates the rest of the chap-
* Brantx Mayer. I Ibid.
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746 Mexico: Educational and Industrial. [Sq)t,
ter : " Directly on his arrival . . . the clerical party demanded
the immediate and unconditional restoration of the ecclesiastical
property confiscated and sold during the ascendency of Juarez
and the French agency. As this amounted to about one-third of
the real estate of the empire and one-half of the immovable pro-
perty of the municipalities, and had already passed from the
first to the second, and in some instances to the third, purchaser,
it was plainly impossible for the emperor to satisfy this demand."
The papal nuncio avowed his inability to find any satisfactory
solution of the question, and resigned. Maximilian instructed his
ministers to bring in a bill, which was promptly passed, vesting
the management and sale of ecclesiastical property in the coun-
cil of state.
What Brantz Mayer wrote of the common clergv in 1844
doubtless continued to be true: "Throughout the republic no
persons have been more universally the agents of charity and the
ministers of mercy than the rural clergy. The village euros are
the advisers, the friends and protectors, of their flocks. Their
houses have been the hospitable retreats of every traveller.
Upon all occasions they constituted themselves the defenders
of the Indians and contributed toward the maintenance of insti-
tutions of benevolence. They have interposed in all attempts at
persecution, and, wherever the people were menaced with injus-
tice, stood forth the champions of their outraged rights. To this
class, however, the wealth of the church was of small import."
That is the testimony of an enemy of the church. It is corrobo-
rated by that most imposing fact in Mexican history since the
invasion — that it was a priest who led the people in their first
genuine effort to throw off a foreign yoke and found a national
republican government.
The separation of church and state, although the mode involved
injustice, has had the effect of stimulating both in behalf of popu-
lar education. There is no national university, but the people are
learning to read. The few princely sees have disappeared, but
the people sustain their clergy generously. A foreign political
power no longer fills the bishoprics, but Rome has increased
their number so as to bring religion more closely to the people.
The first and most general result is that the all but universal
illiteracy of fifty years ago is rapidly diminishing. The schools
are supported partly by the national government, partly by
states and municipalities, partly by benevolent societies. Forty
years ago the total sum expended on education by the govern-
ment could not have exceeded $100,000. Now it is more nearly
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1887.] Mexico: Educational and Industrial. 747
$5,000,000, if we include with the national appropriation the con-
tributions from other sources, public and private. " With very
few exceptions," says Janvier, "free schools, sustained by the
State or municipal governments, the church or benevolent socie-
ties, are found in all towns and villages; and in all the cities and
larger towns private schools are numerous. In the more impor-
tant cities colleges and professional schools are found. ... In-
cluded in the general scheme are free night-schools for men and
women, as well as schools in which trades are taught." It must
be owned, however, that the history used in the schools gives a
version of the American war with Mexico which would some-
what surprise General Scott and the gallant lieutenants who
fought with him.
A distinguished American economist,* who saw the country
two years ago, says of the recent development of the educational
spirit :
" It is safe to say that more good, practical work has been done in this
direction within the last ten years than in all of the preceding three
hundred and fifty. At all of the important centres of population free
schools, under the auspices of the national government, and free from all
church supervision, are reported as established ; while the Catholic Church
itself, stimulated, as it were, by its misfortunes, and apparently unwilling to
longer rest under the imputation of having neglected education, is also
giving much attention to the subject, and is said to be acting upon the
principle of immediately establishing two schools wherever, in a given lo-
cality, the government or any of the Protestant denominations establish
one."
The government also maintains national schools of agricul-
ture, medicine, law, engineering, military science, music and fine
arts, as well as a national museum and a national library. The
charitable and benevolent institutions, public and private, equal
in number and scope, if they do not exceed, our own.
There is no danger that for many years to come, if ever, the
prediction of Baron von Humboldt will be fulfilled— that, with
the advantage of good roads and free commerce, the Mexicans
will one day undersell us in bread corn in the West Indies
and other markets. Mexico has not yet good roads nor free
commerce, nor, unless the tariff policy of the country is radically
changed, can she have either. It is true that road-making in
• Mr. David A. Wells, like Mrs. Blake and the writer, was a member of the first Raymond
excursion party which went from Boston over the Mexican Central. It would be imprudent,
at least for the present, for women, or for men not fond of " roughing it,'* to make this de-
lightful journey overland except under experienced management such as we enjoyed, which
charges itself with all responsibility for the traveller.
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74* Mexico: Educational and Industrial^ [Scpu
Switzerland is naturally no more difficult than in Mexico, if ve
omit the water-supply — a very important fiactor in all indnstnr.
But the Romans and migratory Kelts began making; roads is
Switzerland before, we may assume, Mexico had sent a sail oat
on the ocean ; and the services which war rendered to peace ia
the Alps have been continually supplemented by the eolightaied
selfishness of a people who are animated in the cultivation o!
their soil by that highest incentive to industry — ownership. N:
one who has travelled through Holland, over the bleak and all
but sterile passes of the Juras, and across the Alps can fail to
realize that this incentive has made the agriculture of these
countries what it is ; while Ireland and Mexico, through millioos
of unused acres and other millions under only slight cultivatioD,
testify to the effect which landlordism, idle and oppressive, exer-
cises over the most beneficent and indispensable among human
industries.
Yet, without free commerce, and with roads, except the rail-
road lines, perhaps the worst in the world, and without ma-
chinery until within very recent times, the agriculture of Mexico
under the republic has made extraordinary progress. In the
portions of the valley which the Central Mexican traverses there
are regions with sufficient water. But as a rule irrigation is
everywhere necessary. This fact should be remernbered always
in judging the Mexican people. The tenant who works land
rents, not so many acres, but the right to so much water. In
spite of this difficulty the valley literally blossoms, and along
the river-beds, few and not uniformly reliable, two and som^
times three crops a year are produced. The condition of the
tenant, compared with what it was in the beginning of the cen-
tury, has considerably improved. His lot then was like that of
tenants elsewhere. The Mexican landlord got the tiller into
debt, and then, giving him a little land for his own use, bare)/
enough to raise the corn essential to life, made him and bis
family work out the debt in labor on the farm or hacienda.
It is a relief to find the Spaniards attempting to improve the
status of these victims of imported feudalism. Las Casas and
others drew the attention of the Spanish court to their suffer-
ings:
"The first attempt at amelioration was the repartimientos de IndioiM
which they were divided among the Spaniards, who had the profits of their
labor without a right to their persons. Next the encomiendas^ by whJcft
they were placed under the superintendence and protection of the Spaniards.
The encomendero was bound to live in the district which contained the Ifl-
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dians of his encotnienda, to watch over their conduct, instruct and civih'ze
them, to protect them from all unjust persecutions, and to prevent their
being imposed on in trafficking with the Spaniards. In return for these
services they received a tribute in labor or produce." *
These protectors, like the zemindars over the ryots in India,
did precisely what might have been expected. No men can
safely be entrusted with absolute power over the liberty or
labor of other men. "The abuse of these protecting regula-
tions followed closely their institution.*' The peonage which
existed legally in New Mexico until abolished by our Congress
was a relic of the " protecting " encomiendas. It actually exists
in some parts of Mexico now; it must practically continue to
exist, with varying degrees of enormity and oppression, until the
idle-landlord system is abolished.
Over the greater part of the country under cultivation the
mode of farming is primitive. Near the larger cities, and espe-
cially on the lines of the railways, English and American ma-
chinery is coming into use, chiefly the reaper. But this can be
true only of the rich haciendas. The tiller who has no capital,
and receives for his share only a small fraction of the harvest,
will neither buy machinery, nor, except along the railroads, can
he rent it, since its transportation otherwise is next to impossi-
ble. Nor are the natives quick in using the railroads for local
exchange of commodities. They continue to gaze upon the loco-
motive with awe, and they cling to old customs with a tenacity
not free from disdain of the new ones. The men carry extraor-
dinary burdens on their backs; and the small donkey is the fa-
vorite draught animal. The idea of raising foods for export has
not yet crossed the brain of the vast bulk of the people. They
undertake to raise enough for each year's local use; and so
rigorous is the calculation tha't if a bad season conie upon them
famine will be the consequence, unless the deficiency is supplied
from the public granaries. It is to the credit of the government
that no appeals for aid are sent over the world. That distinc-
tion remains the undisputed dishonor of Great Britain. Poor as
Mexico is, she has some sense of national decency.
If Nature has treated the country ill in failing to furnish
roads and in heaping up obstacles against their construction,
thus impeding internal commerce, she has been no less parsimo-
nious in indenting the coasts of Mexico with harbors for foreign
trade. An official communication to our government describes
her coasts as broad belts of intolerable heat, disease, and aridity.
* Notes on Mexico, 1824. London and Philadelphia.
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7SO Mexico: Educational and Industrial. [Sept.,
On the whole coast-line there are but two natural harbors avail
able for first-class modern merchant-vessels. But harbors can be
made; whether natural or artificial, they do not create com-
merce. If the farmers of Mexico owned the tillable land; if the
burden of taxation were shifted off industry upon land propor-
tionately to other property ; if the tariff were so modified that
commerce might freely seek Mexico, harbors would not be
wanting. It is her mines that have kept up the foreign trade of
Mexico in spite of her lack of harbors. The total value of her
exports of precious metals annually from 1879 to 1884 averaged
about $25,000,000. But her total exports in 1885 have been esti-
mated as high as $45,000,000, the increase being due in large
measure to the closer relations brought about between our
country and the sister republic by the new railroad lines. It
is estimated that we received about 55 per cent, of the total.
The remainder was divided about as follows: England, 32.9;
France, 4.8; Germany, 3; Spain, 2.6. The import trade of
Mexico is the confession of her organic weakness. Its total
value is about $35,000,000, and consists of manufactured articles
which for the most part might be produced at home. The
Spaniards discouraged manufactures in Mexico for the benefit
of their home industry ; they did not prohibit them ; but the
want of steam or water power necessarily kept domestic manu-
facturing within small limits. Mayer records fifty-three cottoc
factories in 1844, running something more than 130,000 spindles.
Mr. Wells found eighty-four factories returned by the tax-collec-
tors in 1883, running something more than 240,000 spindles. Mr*
Titus Sheard, another of our pioneer party, himself a manufac-
turer, informed us that, owing to the crude chemistry and rude
methods, cotton costs nearly twice as much a yard in the Mexican
mill as in the United States factories. The laborers employed
are compelled to work from daylight to dark for little pay
Improved machinery and more modern processes would lower
the cost of production materially. Meanwhile a considerable
quantity of manufactured cotton is imported in spite of the
excessive tariff; it was imported from Great Britain more large-
ly in the past than from the United States. The railroads wiH
probably alter that in time ; but at present raw cotton may be
carried by water from the Gulf to Liverpool, manufactured m
Manchester, sent back to Vera Cruz, and thence by expensive
rail to the capital, cheaper than from the United States to the
same point. Another curious circumstance is that although the
cotton factories in Mexico have quadrupled in twenty years, and
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although the land around Querfetaro and Orizaba, the chief cot-
ton-making centres, is well suited to the growth of the plant, and
it is actually grown there, New Orleans cotton is used exclu-
sively at Orizaba, and one-half of that manufactured at Quer6-
taro is also American. There is no reason why Mexico should
not grow and manufacture all the cotton it requires. The other
manufactures of the country are trifling. The pottery, which
has a reputation in excess of its merits, is at least adequate for
the common uses of the people, whose culinary and other house
habits are extremely primitive. Each family can be its own
potter. The sewing-machine has given some impetus to the
leather trade; but although the Mexican saddle is famous the
world over, Mexico pays the United States nearly thirty thou-
sand dollars a year for saddles, notwithstanding a duty of fifty-
five per cent. This fact is accounted for in the superior me-
chanical appliances used by the American manufacturers.
It would appear at first sight that the devisers of the Mexican
tariflF had sought to rival nature in producing artificial obstacles
to match the physical ones. From the moment labor touches
any article in Mexico until it passes to the actual use of the con-
sumer it has hitherto been taxed. There was a time when it cost
Spain forty-four per cent, to collect the crown revenues, and it
was her pernicious example which has left this tradition of exces-
sive taxation and the support of an army of tax-collectors upon
the commerce of the country. Take a yard of calico. The land
that produced it pays nothing. The landlord has been the law-
maker for Mexico, as he has been for Great Britain, Ireland, and
India; as he was for Germany until Stein and Hardenberg re-
leased the soil ; as he was in France until the Revolution. The
land that produces the raw material pays nothing ; but the in-
stant labor touches it cotton begins to pay taxes. Everything
used in transforming the boll into material is taxed ; the dyes
used in coloring it are taxed ; the sale of each of them is indi-
vidually taxed ; the wagon that carts it from the field to the
factory is taxed ; the wheel that softens it is taxed ; the animal
that turns the wheel is taxed ; the chemicals that enter into its
composition are taxed ; its transfer from the factor to the jobber
is taxed ; its transfer from the jobber to the retailer is taxed; its
sale to the purchaser is taxed. Is it wonderful that cotton costs
more at Orizaba and Querfetaro than in Lowell or Manchester?
It is not strange that more is not grown in Mexico. The mer-
chant finds it more convenient to pay all his burdens at the
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752 Mexico: Educational and Industrial. [Sept,
custom-house than each of the lot to the internal-revenue collec-
tors. This example may be slightly exaggerated if taken literal-
ly. But the principle of Mexican taxation is fairly represented
in it. The marvel is that so many blows in succession upon the
arm of industry have not paralyzed it. A study of the Mexican
tariff, with the phenomenon of trade increasing in spite of it,
justifies the high expectations which sanguine Mexicans hold of
the industrial future of their country. They say that this mode
of raising national revenue must in time be remedied. They
point out that remedial changes have already taken place. It
was formerly the practice of the States to collect toll on every-
thing passing their borders, no matter what national taxes had
already been paid. This interstate impost was abolished a few
years ago by Congress, but some of the States continue to en-
force it on the ground of necessity. It is certain to disappear.
Many of the municipalities practise this form of repression also,
but none of them have a legal right to do so. The diminution of
the national debt to a total of about $150,000,000, and the reduc-
tion of the number of civil servants, with a reduction also of the
salaries of those retained, have put the national finances upon a
safer and more hope-inspiring basis. The reduction of the tariff,
both domestic and foreign, has followed quickly upon these
happy achievements of the Diaz administration. The follow-
ing articles are now on the free list at the custom-houses, where
hitherto nearly everything paid high duty:
" Barbed wire for fencing, hoes, bars for mines, fire-engines, hydraulic
lime, printed books, all sorts of machinery, powder for mines, printing
type, rags for paper, wire rope and cable, church clocks, and many useful
chemicals."
Even the cockpit has paid a portion of the national revenue ;
and to the smiling cynic who may think too little of the politi-
cians who condescend to this lowly and vicious source of money-
making for national necessities, the reminder may be opportune
that to make the brutal who indulge in such sport pay for their
pastime "* is more tolerable to civilization than some methods of
* I smile to recall that we were invited to occupy front seats, as a mark of honor, upon a
certain Sunday evening to witness this cruel and shocking spectacle. We were too tinoid or too
super-refined to go. But when I read the other day the story of the evictions of Bodyke, where
bed-ridden old women and half -naked children were thrown out into ditches; the roofs that
sheltered them— in many cases built by their kindred— torn down, lest they should reclaim their
own ; and all this to extort by terror from others rents land and labor combined could not pay if
the labor lived, the lottery, the bull-fight, and the cock-pit, as means of making money, became
civilized by comparison.
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188/.] Mexico: Educational and Industrial. 753
the governments of the Old World. Mexico raises revenue also
by lotteries. The most pious of governments raised money iu
the same way to help carry on the American war ; it was only
in 1823 that Great Britain went out of the gambling business.
Every nation in Europe has indulged in it, with the exception (I
think) of Russia. Paris resorts to a lottery to raise money for
the illuminations on the national f6te. States of the American
Union derive revenue from gambling ; and at least one Ameri-
can city swells its coffers from this source, which is one open to
severe criticism.
In the uses of the national revenue under the republic lies the
clearest proof of the silent revolution. In 1808 Spain collected
a total revenue of about twenty million dollars. Among the
sources, by the way, were the monopoly of the sale of playing-
cards, the tobacco monopoly, one-ninth of the tithes, the mo-
nopoly of gunpowder, sporting, gambling, the transfer of all
kinds of commodities, a tax on the mines, a tax on papal dispen-
sations, a tax on incomes of the inferior clergy, on stamps, and on
ice. The portion nominally spent in Mexico, and not conveyed
into the hands of the officials of the crown, was probably one-
fourth of the whole. It was expended chiefly on the army*
Not a dollar appears to have been devoted to elementary educa*
tion or useful public works. There were marine docks built
one year, but they were reserved as arsenals. There were sub-
sidies sent out to other Spanish colonies, and there were pen-
sions for crown favorites. This amount of revenue from a
wretched population of about four millions and a half is some-^
thing amazing.
The revenue of the republic, with a population of at least tea
millions, was in 1870, in round numbers, $i6,ooo,ooo. In 1886-7
it reached $32,000,000. The expenditures have kept pace with it,,
and in fact must have exceeded it, and must continue to exceed
it for some years until great public works are constructed, such
as the drainage scheme already under contract, canals, bridges,
roads, and harbors. The expenditure by departments presents
a gratifying picture of national order and growth. The execu-
tive is the smallest item in the budget, only $49,252. Railway
subventions have been liberally made; not as prodigally as in
the case of our Pacific railways, but with a certainty of corre-
sponding national benefit. Ten years ago Mexico had only 400
miles of railway. There are now almost ten times as many.
New York is distant from the ancient Aztec capital only six and
a half days' journey. With the exception of the portion of the
VOU XLV,— 48
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754 Mexico: Educational and Industrial. [Sept,
national debt which may have been unjustly assumed by the re-
public, every dollar of the revenue of Mexico is now applied to
the development of the country. Progress is visible every-
where, and in everything that enters into it, moral, political, and
industrial, the influence of neighborhood is manifest.
It is true that the British bondholder is more successful in
collecting interest on Mexican obligations than on Southern
Confederacy paper, which he did so much to float for the sake of
the interest ; and it is true also that the capital invested in bank-
ing and in a considerable share of the mining enterprises of
Mexico is English. But every day brings the sister republics
closer. Every year effaces more of the old antagonism. Eng-
lish is supplanting French in the schools. In time it will make
its way through the mountains with Spanish. It is certain that
the war with Mexico was fought on a misunderstanding which
the calmer sense of a later and more humane period would not
repeat. The instincts of national self-interest prompt a policy
of kindness and sincerity — a policy which shall respect the
worthy traditions of an ancient and severely tried people, while
it will promote a commercial communion certain to be mutually
advantageous. Such a policy will hasten a commercial treaty
just to both countries. The noble sentiment which should ani-
mate the nation of Washington, Lincoln, and Grant ought more-
over to emphasize the approval of such a treaty by an act of
grace — the restoration of the flags and cannon captured by us
in 1847. Nations not familiar with the precepts of Christianity
were wont to make their war trophies, not of marble or metal,
but of wood, that they inight the more speedily perish. Why
should we perpetuate the story of the defeat and humiliation of
Our sister republic?
Margaret F. Sullivan.
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1887.] Literary Mexico. 755
LITERARY MEXICO,
Before leaving that domain of the picturesque to which its
natural scenery and poetic expression belong, it may not be out
of place to take a passing glance at the lighter literature of
Mexico, as represented in the works of its better known novel-
ists. Choosing, then, as specimens, three or four books from the
somewhat limited list at the service of the reader, one is first
struck by a certain number of general traits which form a foun-
dation for the superstructures qf differing styles and authors.
There is, to begin with, an almost universal absence of the finer
analytic and subjective writing. Character is painted broadly
rather than by delicate touches of detail, and the motives of ac-
tion are only suggested by the accomplishment of the act. There
is a tendency towards epigrammatic terseness in sentence and
paragraph, and, except in very rare cases, any close study of
psychological phenomena in connection with the conduct of per-
sonages is left to the reader himself. He may form his own con-
clusions, or he may read his tale without drawing therefrom any
moral. One finds invariably a deep admiration for nature, ex-
pressed in delicate word-painting of scenery and loving reminis-
cences of favorite spats. The material environment is always
luminous and forceful ; there can never be any doubt, in this* fine
glow of local color, as to where the action of the drama is laid.
And there is an immense impulse of patriotic spirit which seems,
in spite of time and distance, to propel the author toward the
days of revolution and struggle for his mise en schte. In the
twelve novels we have chosen as a basis for observation, eleven
are placed, as to time, amid the complications arising from the
events of the years between i860 and 1867. They might all be
historic as weJl as the two which bear this distinctive title. The
single exception is a chronicle of life and customs more than a
hundred years ago.
For many reasons this exceptional story is of interest. Pur-
porting to be the garrulous narrative of a man drawing near the
limit of extreme age, and relating to children and grandchildren
the history of his earlier career, it is as remarkable for minute-
ness of detail as are its companion volumes for large generaliza-
tions. After the fashion of Gil Blas^ it is interspersed with ac-
counts of the adventures of this or that comrade whom chance
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756 Literary Mexico. [Sept,
has brought into contact with the hero. With much less elegance
of style than the celebrated story of Le Sage, it more than re-
pairs its shortcomings in this respect by the purity of its inci-
dents and the superior moral tone which pervades its many chap-
ters. With utmost exactness it relates the most trivial events
relating to infancy, childhood, youth, and manhood ; and each
passing phase is made the subject of a new disquisition. The
mistakes of the time in regard to the rearing of children—the
sending out of the infant to nurse, the relegating of early training
to servants and irresponsible persons, the absurd ignorance of
the village schoolmaster — all come in for their share of castiga-
tion. The laxness of discipline in college and seminary, the
strange mingling of superstition and ignorance which finally as-
sumed the place of education, the woful usages of society which
condemned the offspring of well-to-do parents to the temptations
of idleness, each has its own long chapter in the nine hundred
pages of the interesting but endless volume. Life at the haci-
enda with its private bull-ring and slow-recurring village fes-
tas, its stagnation of thought and narrowness of action ; life in
the city with its sole idea of amusement confined to the gam-
ing-table and the disgraceful orgy of the public ball ; life, finally,
in the home, languid, dull, unoccupied either by sense of duty
beyond the sluggish routine of domestic affairs, or elevation of
purpose save the anxious endeavor to uphold the traditions of
caste at the expense of comfort and probity — these are delineated
with a simple realism which is as affecting as the prosy commen-
tary which inevitably follows is ludicrous. Compared with the
restricted action and paltry aims, the degrading pleasures and
vulgar satisfactions, of that early date, the Mexico of to-day is
a land of brilliant achievement and impetuous progress. The
change from the after-dinner drunkenness and fashionable fop-
pery of the England of a hundred years ago is not more marked
than that of this country, which one imagined had remained in
the same groove for centuries. El Periquillo Saniiento is an ad-
mirable yardstick by which to measure reform.
One is somewhat amazed to find amid the old-fashioned mor-
alizing of this venerable penitent, constantly on his knees before
the reader for the peccadilloes and weaknesses of his youth, some
of the most approved modern ideas concerning social problems.
He declaims against round-dancing, which is " a circle of which
the devil is the centre.** He scourges the idea of wearing roouro-
ing graded to express the steps in the passage from deep-black
grief to pale-mauve consolation : '' For this can be only nonsense.
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1887.] Literary Mexico. 757
If one loves the dead truly, and mourning is any proof of feeling,
it can be left ofiF at no time, since at no time does the motive cease
which impelled to wearing it ; and if one does not love the de-
parted it is quite indifferent how many or how few months it is
worn, since no sentiment whatever is involved. In either case it
is a mockery." He points out the fallacy of imprisonment for
debt, and even goes a step farther and denounces prisons alto-
gether as rational cures for misdemeanor. His description of
the infamous cartel, in which comparatively innocent youths are
immured with thieves, cut-throats, and vagabonds of every de-
scription, recalls Dickens* Marshalsea ; the regulations misgov-
erning the one might be taken as the rules of the other. The
crowd of miserable, hopeless creatures, the alternation between
starvation and plenty, the mockery of revelry amid drunkenness
and gambling, the profanity, the stupor, the despair, make a ter-
rible commentary on the blindness which could lead men to call
such an experience by the name of justice. He pictures the hos-
pitals, malodorous, dirty, reeking with contagion, and given over
to misrule, in which " there were seventy patients, and yet the
daily visit of the doctor did not last fifteen minutes," and where
** the medicines were ordered by the number of the bed, even
after the patient in it had been changed." And so through a
series of homilies upon affairs of church and state ; of groanings
over his own wickedness, tempered by a mild, senile enjoyment
of these youthful escapades ; of love and marriage and happy
paternity ; of vivid interjectional description, and of quotations
from Pliny, from Livy, from Plato, from Cicero, from Tacitus
and Marcus Aurelius — the old philosopher gossips over the in-
firmities of life and the hope of immortality. He carries minutia
of detail even beyond the grave, and leaves behind the Latin in-
scription which is to adorn his tomb.
Among the modern stories, Guadalupe, by Irenio Paz, editor of
the daily paper La Patria, may be taken as a fair example of the
popular novel. Seflor Paz is a voluminous author, and the series
of bulky volumes bearing his name on the title-page must tan-
talize his northern editorial brother with glimpses of the possi-
bilities for leisure with which the latter is perforce unacquainted.
Think of the managing editor of the New York Herald indulg-
ing in distractions which should result in a score of books ! The
style of this writer is simple and direct. His characters are in-
troduced at once in their true colors, with an amiable directness
which precludes all possibility of mistake. There can be no
doubt as to the identity of polished villain or poor but virtuous
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758 Literary Mexico. [Sept,
hero. There is no complication of mixed personality in which
good and evil struggle for the mastery, and sympathy swings
like a pendulum between disgust and admiration. The narrative
moves through quiet regions of commonplace until some lofty
trait or some deep wickedness needs illustration, when it sudden-
ly bounds into the mazes of melodrama, and the reader finds him-
self tossed upon stormy billows of heroism, passion, or remorse, as
the case may be. In justice it must be acknowledged that these
transitions are infrequent ; otherwise the sensation would be too
much that of mental sea-sickness. The quiet, homely life which
Guadalupe depicts speaks well for the people who furnish such a
record ; and the popular taste which accepts such placid chroni-
cles of gentle love and religiously-tempered hate is at least evi-
dence of a purer and more wholesome temperament than that
which subsists upon the vicious sensationalism of the American
dime-novel or the outrageous vulgarity of Peck's Bad Boy. The
interpolated heroics are too obviously constructed for effect to
be capable of producing any. They are like the crashing and
flashing of a stage thunderstorm. One acknowledges their
worth as settings, but they would never perturb the spirit nor
turn milk sour.
The picture of home-life among the middle classes, as gather-
ed from this and other works of the same author, is sound and
healthy. There is deference to parental authority ; there are
simple amusements, and close guardianship which watches over
intercourse between the sexes ; there is naive expression of opin-
ion in matters of faith and philosophy ; and, permeating all, the
serenity of easy, unhurried existence, which gently bears rich and
poor upon its placid surface. Extremely pleasing are these after
the turbid and motley variations which are required to spice par-
allel histories in our own progressive centres. It is food for pride
as well as patriotism to observe that a commission of impor-
tance to los Esiados Unidos, and a subsequent tour through that
region of high civilization, is the reward reserved for the brave
young man who has raised himself by his own efforts from pov-
erty to the position of colonel in " the Army of the Republic " —
that Mexican Legion of Honor.
The plot of Guadalupe is simple in the extreme, and the
dramatis persona old friends in spite of Spanish mantilla and
roboza. The adopted daughter of a pious widow, who loves in
silence and secret the artist son of her benefactress ; the youth
who in turn worships the heartless sister of his false friend ; the
futile machinations of the latter to move the orphan girl from
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the path of duty ; the triumph of her fervent and lovely spirit,
and the evident denouement in the sudden revelation which
changes the affection of the brother into the adoration of the
lover. But the incidental glimpses are full of local traits : the
pompous pride of the newly-rich family as opposed to the grace-
ful virtue of the poor household ; the daily attendance at Mass,
which is as much a matter of course as that at the breakfast-
table ; the quaint worldliness and naive reflections of the foolish
little fashionable maid, Amelia, and the equally quaint, sweet
primness of the wild rose, Guadalupe, are all charming. A cer-
tain sketchiness leaves an after-effect of having looked at silhou-
ettes instead of solid figures ; still, the sense of vagueness is only
sufficiently defined to help the sense of pleasure. The atmos-
phere is pure if not bracing ; the heroine reminds one some-
what of Octave Feuillet's Sybille, but she lacks the breath of life
which stirs in the veins and animates the action of the beloved
French girl. Nor has the Mexican author at any time more
than a hint of the exquisiteness and verve of the Frenchman. He
has, however, sufficient cleverness to win popularity, and to
cause each of his twenty volumes to reach from three to five
editions.
Vicente Riva Palacio, who holds his place in the first rank by
the elegance and purity of his style, has been also a prolific
writer. His prose is imbued with the hidden spirit of poe.try ;
many of his paragraphs are full of delicate imagery and rhythmic
force, with the essence but without the material form of the
poem. In a far more marked degree than those of Paz his books
present the same startling combination of diverse traits. To a
loving and fender sympathy with nature, which overflows in
descriptive passages of great beauty, and to a spirit of gentle
reverie developed with genuine delicacy by a thousand light
touches, he adds at times an almost rabid exuberance of melo-
dramatic intensity. These baleful and lurid periods form a
strange antithesis to his limpid and earnest utterances, like an
alarm fire kindled upon a quiet hill-side on a peaceful summer
evening. In his Calvario y Tabor the reminiscence and the de-
scriptions of the sufferings of the people through the years of
struggle which culminated in the overthrow of foreign interven-
tion and the fall of Maximilian, are given with a clear directness
that claims the attention, and force themselves upon the conscious-
ness of the reader as realities. But to this heroic record of suf-
1 fering and misfortune he attaches so many impossible episodes,
^eiio and such a climax of romantic and unreal horrors, that the genu-
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76o Literary Mexico. [Sept,
ine emotion aroused by the simplicity of truth and the touching
events of history is in danger of being lost in repulsion. There
is something so incongruous in this combination which can trace
the most refined and wholesome impressions, and an imagination
which can conceive and revel in a delirium of horrors, that the
result is a series of shocks. To a foreigner, at least, it is like
touching the two poles of a battery at irregular intervals. The
current of admiration and sympathy is being constantly broken
up and as constantly renewed. In the seven hundred pages of
this particular book there is a climax of death-scenes which arc
veritable nightmares. Foreseeing that a certain number of dan-
gerous and unnecessary personages must be gotten rid of, one
stands appalled at the ingenuity displayed in making the first
taking off so circumstantially terrible. But the author's power
is equal to the strain. With magnificent audacity he proceeds
and runs through a rising scale of accident, suicide, and murder,
which swells on triumphantly to the perfect artistic end. Yet
this is but one view of the picture. Side by side with this dark
and tragic story moves the peaceful and tender tale of village
life and quiet homes and humble affection. It is as if the same
hand could write at the same time Monte Crista and the Vicar of
Wakefield, and the frenzied outbursts of the one revenge them-
selves for the gentle serenity of the other.
Calvario y Tabor ^ as the name implies, is a story of suffering and
triumph — the death-agony of the old empire and the transfigu-
ration of the new republic. With the vivid and thrilling record
of sacrifice and heroism which forces the reader into profound
sympathy with the purpose of the people are interwoven two
love-stories — one dark with passion and intrigue, the other as
touching and gentle as the soft beauty of the sylvan landscape
in which it is set. Here is the opening note of the pastoral sym-
phony. The scene is laid in the tierra caliente on the shore of
the Pacific:
" It was an evening in January, and the sun, slowly sinking behind the
immense mass of waters, shone like a globe of burning gold through the
luminous haze which filled the atmosphere with glory. It appeared to
float upon the surface of the waves, which, lifted in long, swelling billows
on the high seas, broke in undulations on the sand, bearing into shore
curving ripples of shining foam, white as the petals of a lily and brilliant
as the stars in the sky of the tropics. Along the banks of a small inlet mo*
ning deep into the land the night-air gently bent the graceful crowns of
palm-trees, and the feather-like leaves swayed gently over their reflections
in the tranquil water beneath, broken by the slow ripples into a thousand
mirrored splinters of flower and foliage. From time to time the sinister
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form of a crocodile glided slowly by without disturbing the silence. At the
entrance to the wood, where the little strand lost itself in a soft carpet of
moss, a few huts built of branches and thatched with leaves showed through
the deeper shadow. Further back slender columns of smoke, outlined
against the paling sky, showed the vicinity of an Indian village, and a mur-
mur of voices mingled with snatches of song and tinkle of music blended
confusedly like the notes of a wind- harp.
" By the sea-side all the world sings. The deep undertone of the waves
fills in the background of harmony. It is impossible to listen to its cease-
less pulsation without feeling the desire to mingle one's voice with the
concert which immensity eternally offers to God. The breaking of the bil-
lows against the rocks, the lisping of the ripples against the beach, weave
the strands of melody ; and the soul, by them moved to remembrance, falls
into reveries of the past which are either prayers or aspirations, which are
like the memory of the lullabies of our mother over the child at her breast,
or the lingering notes of the favorite air of the woman one first loved.
"As if in unison with this universal impulse towards harmony, a young
girl of fifteen years emerged, singing, from one of the wood-paths, and
turned in the direction of a spring of pure water which bubbled up from a
tangle of shrubbery beyond. She was a slight and graceful brunette, wear-
ing the common dress of the women of the coast ; her great eyes, dark and
brilliant, shone under long, curving lashes; her white teeth and small red
lips made enchanting contrast with the pale olive of her cheek ; and in the
perfect oval of her face was that blended' expression of purity and sensi-
tiveness which marks the temperament of a painter or a poet. A loose
white cam/sa, covered with the delicate embroidery in which the gentler sex
delight to satisfy their love of adornment, and a simple blue petticoat,
formed her attire. But around her throat hung necklaces of gold and
coral, on her arms were bracelets of shells and pearls, and her slender
fingers bore a profusion of glittering rings. She was doubtless the daugh-
ter of a rich house ; but among this simple people every woman works, and
she bore upon her head one of the huge water- jars of the country, balanced
without aid from her hands, and without impairing the dignity and elegance
of her carriage. An artist looking upon her might have imagined a new
Rebecca; for nothing is more faithful to the Biblical idea than the young
girls of the coast who come to the wells for water, poising their great red
jars upon the head without disturbing in the least their lightness or free-
dom of motion."
Thus Alejandra, the beautiful, brown girl of Acapulco, enters
upon the scene of her future trials and triumphs. The idyllic
story of homely country life, wherein rich differs from poor
only in that the bounty of one supplies the need of the other;
the benignant village padre and his almost Puritanic sister ;
the loves of Alejandra and Jorge; and the family of strolling
players, poor and despised, but happy in virtue, make a story full
of refined sentiment in the midst of the most sensational and
forbidding realism. One is introduced to the intimate habits of
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762 Literary Mexico.^ [Sept,
the people ; to the hospitality which makes every house an inn
for the stranger; to the catholic charity which adopts the or-
phan, comforts the unfortunate, and looks upon the idiot as " be-
loved of God." But there is at the same time an awful picture
of distorted justice, corrupted law, and almost absolute want of
fixed principle in the government of society. Without faith and
virtue, firmly entrenched in the hearts of the people, life under
such conditions would soon become a chaos of riot and misery.
The historical portion of the narrative is superb. We who
profess to admire the qualities of valor and perseverance, who
consider ourselves allied in bonds of brotherhood with the up-
rising against oppression in every land, should be ashamed of
our ignorance of the circumstances which make memorable the
Mexican struggle for independence. The vicissitudes of our
own Revolution are tame, the suflFerings of even the winter at
Valley Forge sink into insignificance, compared with the events
of '64 and '65 in this tragedy of dolor and endurance. Whole
towns were wiped out of existence. The population, flying
through the storm and night, sought asylum in woods filled with
wild beasts and noxious reptiles, or amid the rocks and caves of
desert places. " Ashes marked the location of houses ; corpses
outlined the direction of roads." Menaced by hunger and thirst,
swept away by pestilence, the small and lessening band of Re-
publicans melted like smoke before the advance of the Impe-
rialists, whose conquering forces at first carried all before them.
Buffeted by every rudeness of fortune, they still persevered in
the unequal struggle and snatched victory at last from the very
jaws of death. Like eagles, who build their nests upon inacces-
sible peaks, " the representatives of liberty fled to the mountain-
tops to fight and to wait. And upon the summits too often
these martyrs found their Calvary." Sometimes, impelled by a
sudden fury of passion, a band of devoted men crept down from
their fastnesses, cut their way through the midst of the enemy,
and perished to a man, joyful in the destruction they had dealt.
Without money, without clothes, without other arms than the
guns in their hands, tortured by fatigue and famine, "they fell
by the roadside in forced marches, and were left unburied for
beasts of the field and birds of the air." *' If a laurel or a pahn
had been planted to commemorate the memory of each of these
martyrs, the land would be one impenetrable jungle from end to
end." Still they continued on, **a new man stepping into the
place of the comrade who had dropped before him, hurrying to
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new strife, to new sacrifice, in order to convince Napoleon and
Maximilian, France and the world, that a people who could so
struggle for independence was a people invincible and worthy of
being free."
The book, as one might expect from the reputation of its
author, is full of fine, sonorous Spanish, glowing with descrip-
tive eloquence and declamatory force.
*' Liberty is like the sun. Its first rays are for the raoantaiDS ; its dying
splendor falls likewise upon them. No cry for freedom has first arisen
from the plains, as in no landscape is the valley illumined before the
heights which surround it. The remnant of the defenders of a free peo-
ple flies ever to the crags and hills for final security, as the last light of the
sun lingers upon the summits when the lowlands are veiled in obscurity."
" Never were there heard after these annihilating combats the groans and
cries of the wounded which find a place in descriptions of deserted battle-
fields. Our soldiers suffered and died without appeals for aid or lamenta-
tion over life; as heroes expire, valiant and resigned." "Toward the east
only a labyrinth of mountains, which, arid and desolate, lost themselves
in the distance ; infinite in form, suggesting inexpressible and awful con-
tortions ; full of deep, sad shadows, lonely, terrifying, like a sombre and
tempestuous ocean suddenly petrified with awe at the whisper of God."
" Nations, like Christ, have their Tabor and Calvary. Only, while the Son
of God passed first to transfiguration and thence to the cross, it is the con-
trary with them. For nations are composed of mortals ; the Spirit of God
can alone support the sorrow of Calvary after the glory of Tabor." " Our
wars have been like the bloody but beneficent operations of the surgeon
who amputates the gangrenous member through kindness to the sufferer —
not like the wounds given by the assassin who seeks to destroy a victim.
Europe condemns without understanding us ; America understands with-
out condemning, but she remains silent. God, history, and the future will
acknowledge our purpose and our triumph.' '*
Ignacio Manuel Altamiram is more widely known as an ora-
tor than as an author. His Paisajes y Leyendes^ records of
the customs and traditions of Mexico, is as marked for its tem-
perate and even style as Palacio's work for vehemence and con-
trast. Confining himself principally to the religious festivals of
the country, with their earlier as well as later observances, he
gives us charming pictures of the fervor of a primitive race,
carrying into their observance of Christian rites many sugges-
tions of the more innocent forms of their old worship. He is
evidently as widely read in the modem classics as El Periquillo
Sarniento was in the ancient. French, English, German — all
literatures have laid their flowers at his feet, and his versatile
fancy culls from each in turn to adorn his page. But it is when
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764 Literary Mexico. [Sepu
he relies on his own resources that he is most attractive. The
legend of ** Our Lord of the Holy Mountain" is enriched with
a sketch of the holy friar, Father Martin de Valencia, of whom
it is related that ** every morning as he went out of his cave, after
having passed the night in prayer and meditation upon the Pas-
sion of Christ, the little birds did gather in the branches of the
tree above his head, making gracious harmony and helping him
praise the Creator. And as he moved from the spot the birds
did follow ; nor since his death have any been ever seen there,"
The reminiscences of the author's boyhood in the little city
of Tixtia, with the entire population following the procession of
Corpus Christi through streets arched with green boughs and
garlanded with the fairest blossoms of the year, reminds one, in
some respects, of the Passion Play of Oberammergau. Such
ardor of devotion, such reverent silence, such echo of sweetness
from the low-chanting Indian choristers flower-crowned and
bearing branches of the newly-budded orchard trees, in order
that their fruits may find favor in the eyes of God, form an
almost ideal picture of religious enthusiasm. It reads like a
sketch from the middle ages. So does the description of the
houses, decorated with every treasured atom of color and drape-
ry ; and the generalissimo, arrayed in all his glory, marching" at
the head with his band of native troops. So, too, does the storv
of Holy Week, beginning before dawn on Palm Sunday morning
with troops of young men and maidens scouring fields and woods
for the first wild-flowers with which to decorate their palm-
branches. The account of the lifting up of these palms, knotted
and braided with flowers, during the Canon of the Mass, corre-
sponds precisely with what we saw upon the same festival in the
great cathedral of Mexico two years ago, in spite of the half-
century which had passed between, and the immense change in
religious observance which followed the banishment of the priests
and closing of the churches in i860. The procession of "The
Christs " on Holy Thursday is another picturesque episode,
when hundreds of figures of our Lord, all with closed eyes and
ghastly faces, varying from the statue over the high altar to
the home-made, grotesque image of the poorest Indian hut,
are borne in the train of the Blessed Sacrament aloft through the
streets, followed each by its own little group of family and
friends. On the same scale of popular participation comes the
Way of the Cross on Good Friday, followed from station to sta-
tion through the city to the Calvary on some hilltop of the sub-
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urbs, whereon the figure of the dead Christ is publicly buried.
Every portion of each day has its own ceremony, always out of
doors and followed by the people in masses, until on Easter morn,
amid booming of cannon, salvos of artillery, ringing of bells,
and chanting of the multitude, the procession, led by the effigy
of the Blessed Virgin, meets in the centre of the Plaza that
headed by the risen Saviour — wide-eyed, radiant, and decked
in all the barbaric splendor of Indian magnificence. To all these
descriptions the same even beauty of style lends a charm even
beyond the quaint ceremonies they chronicle ; and the book, as
a whole, is an admirable contribution toward understanding the
inner as well as outer life of the people.
Juan Mateos is famous not only at home but abroad. He has
reached the point at which a man becomes a prophet in his own
country. His brother-authors quote him as they would Goethe
or Lord Byron. His novels are mainly historical. The style
irresistibly recalls the elder Dumas ; even the look of the page
has that abrupt brevity of sentence which is so characteristic of
the French novelist. In El Cerro de las Cainpanas he gives in-
tense and dramatic expression again to the story of the ** Usur-
pation." With only a thread of narrative to sustain interest, he
places before us a careful risumi of the " episode of Maximi-
lian.** It is pleasant to note that, in spite of evident and deep
sympathy with the republic and the leaders of the people, he
speaks of the hapless emperor more with sorrow than anger, and
gives a touching pathos to the death-scene on the lonely " Hill of
the Bells,'* which has so often moved the sympathy of strangers.
His hatred and scorn are reserved for the Caesar of the Tuileries,
** who sacrificed on the altar of ambition an unfortunate and
lovely princess, as well as the young Archduke of Austria, whose
ensanguined corpse cries yet for vengeance from the imperial
tomb at Vienna, wherein it waits the vivifying breath of the
resurrection." Dramatist as well as artist, his actors naturally
group themselves upon the stage of history or fiction, and each
succession of scenes culminates in a tableau. The rush and
power of his expression sweep one irresistibly toward the au-
thor's conclusions.
In outward appearance the Mexican novel is exceedingly un-
attractive. Like the French and German brochure, it is usually
unbound ; like many of our own, it is printed in poor type on
miserable paper. It has ragged edges, and it stretches beyond
any normal limit, reaching from seven hundred to a thousand
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766 Literary Mexico. [Sept,
pages in almost every case. When illustrated the cuts are be-
neath contempt — indeed, they are so ludicrously horrible that
they would turn the deepest sentiment into ridicule. The books
are evidently not intended for summer reading, nor for a people
that lives upon the high-pressure principle which obtains in
American society, and which makes the incessant and furious
activity of the steam-engine the highest example for human imi-
tation. And, above all, they are enormously dear. Such a scale
of prices would not be possible in a country which counted a
large number of readers of fiction among its population. With
the avidity for such intellectual refection comes a garnishing of
the dish in which it is served, as well as a cheapening of the cost
of refreshment. I am not altogether sure but that the demand
for these books, although so small in proportion to the number of
individuals, does not show a higher appreciation than our om-
nivorous and careless devouring of odds and ends. When, in
despite of coarse texture, rude letter-press, very low art, and
very high prices, a book bears the seal of public approval by
being called through six or eight editions, it is reasonable to
presume that some higher motive than the criminal one of killing
time moves to its perusal. And in the face of melodramatic ten-
dency and archaic mixture of sentiment and commonplace, in the
face of incoherence of action and manifest want of subtle ana-
lytic power, yet, with its deference to the ideal in womanhood,
its large love of nature, its tribute to the home virtues, its loyalty
to national traits, its admiration for simplicity and purity of cha-
racter, and its enthusiastic patriotism, the Mexican novel would
seem to have found this more elevated plane, and based upon it
a recognized right to existence.
Mary Elizabeth Blake.
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1887.] An Old-Fashioned Fort. 767
AN OLD FASHIONED POET.
It is said that Whittier once protested against the universal
caprice which singled out " Maud MuUer ** as his representative
poem. •* Had I known it was going to be so popular,*' he
sighed, " I would have written it better." Probably had Cow-
per foreseen the day when he would be best remembered as the
author of "John Gilpin," that humorous ballad would never have
been written at all. During the long, sad years that closed his
melancholy life this was the only one of his poems that he
would not suffer to be read to him. Its homely merits were re-
cognized quickly enough by all who laughed over its absurdi-
ties, but none supposed that these would suffice to win a last-
ing and familiar place in English literature, while the readers
of "Table-Talk" and "The Task "grow fewer year by year.
Half a century ago Cowper was a household name ; people were
not then afraid of the length of a poem — they rather liked it to
be didactic, and they were benighted enough to consider perspi-
cuity a merit. Now we want our poetry as brief as possible,
highly spiced, and hard to understand. The time that our
grandfathers gave to reading twenty pages we prefer devoting
to the puzzled consideration of one, comforting our tired brains
with the magic word analytic, and happy when we think we
have guessed a portion of what the author might perhaps have
meant. So with a great many beautifully bound volumes deco-
rating our shelves — we are obliged to hunt around the corners
for a little, shabby, mottled book, with split edges and a prepos-
terous steel engraving, if we would read about our early friends,
the hares, or know how the winter evening closes over the
quiet village of Olney,
" A star or two just twinkling on her brow,^
while the brown loaf of the cottager is lifted down from the
shelf for supper, and the brushwood-fire leaps clear on the hum-
ble hearth.
Yet surely there is a fund of spirit and truth and delicate
humor between those dingy, mottled boards, if we would only
think it worth our while to look for them. There we may find
the fair English fields painted with loving accuracy, and the
wholesome, uneventful English country life described with a
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768 A^ Old-Fashioned Poet. [Sept,
minuteness that is too full of light and happy"*touches to be dull.
If we lay aside the hymns, written often under the influence of
strong spiritual excitement, we are forced to wonder more and
more how a man, apparently so well fitted by nature for rational,
healthy enjoyment, should have been warped into hopeless de-
spondency and madness. Poets there are in plenty whose finest
songs have in them an echo of that piercing frenzy that tortured
Cassandra's soul, but Cowper is not one of these. Nothing
could well be more sane or more agreeably commonplace than
the greater part of his verses ; his subjects are chosen with the
tact of one who prefers treading on solid ground to stepping off
into the unknown, and his treatment reveals the graceful art of
the scholar poet, to whom composition is At once a study and a
pleasure. He was fond of cheerful society, yet never prone to
excess ; happy in the companionship ot women, yet untormented
by any strong or absorbing passion ; devoted to his books, yet
too idle or too temperate for overwork. Above all, he was a
genuine lover of nature in her serener aspects, and a contented
observer of his own little world ; pleased with the rich, sympa-
thizing with the poor — possessing, in short, that precious mode-
ration of character which is almost an equivalent for sanity.
Yet this is the man who tried to hang himself in his London
lodgings, and whose last cry, as the bitter waters closed over his
head, still thrills us with its unutterable despair.
In his later years, when the clouds of despondency hung
darkly over him, Cowper was wont to place much stress on the
sorrows of his childhood and the wickedness of his youth ; but
it is best to accept his testimony, as we do Bunyan's, with many
grains of allowance. That he lost bis mother at a very early
age, that he cherished her memory with touching devotion, and
that he was an unhappy l\ttle boy at boarding-school, we know
and believe; but his life at Westminster seems to have been
much like that of other lads, a fair proportion of pleasures and
vexations, and the first years of his manhood were spent agree-
ably enough in London amid a very gay and cultivated society,
which he certainly never shocked by any grave moral delin-
quency. He was simply an idle young barrister with a taste
for writing graceful verses and no especial aptitude for the law.
He fell in love with his cousin, Theodora Cowper, whose fa-
ther, being of a practical turn of mind, declined to consent to
the match ; and he bore his share of disappointment on this oc-
casion with a degree of equanimity that would suggest a fairly
heart-whole condition. It was only when his patrimony began
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to grow ominously small that the necessity for some real work
suggested itself to his mind ; and, through the influence of his
relatives, he was offered the clerkship of the journals of the
House of Lords— a quiet and lucrative position, insuring a com-
fortable competence for life without demanding any great ability
or labor. But unhappily some preparation was required, some
opposition was encountered, some examination was unavoidable \
and these trifling difficulties, barely sufficient to spur on a more
eager candidate, were gall and wormwood to Cowper's sensitive^
shrinking, unbusiness-like mind. A public exhibition of himself
on any occasion was inexpressibly painful ; and this exaggerated
timidity, combined with a dread of failure, sufficed to throw him
into a low nervous fever, and paved the way for the insanity
which was to follow. For weeks he brooded over a trouble that
only existed in his overwrought fancy, and then, unable any
longer to endure the burden of his days, he hung himself to
his bed-room door with his garter, "a broad piece of scarlet
binding with a sliding buckle," which fortunately snapped in
two after he had lost consciousness, and in scant time to save
him from the open gates of death.
All thoughts of the clerkship were now abandoned — his kins-
man, Major Cowper, to whom he owed the appointment, assured
him he was not fit to hold it — and apparently there was nothing
to prevent the poet from regaining once more his customary
composure of mind. But no sooner had relief been granted in
this direction than keener misery followed in another, and the
restless soul, out of harmony with itself and with the world,^
fixed unerringly upon the one haunting fear from which there
was no releasing it — a blind horror of the judgment, and a de-
spairing certainty of its own eternal condemnation. Nor was
there anything surprising in all this. " Great and terrible sys-
tems of divinity and philosophy lie around us," says Mr. Walter
Bagehot, " which, if true, might drive a wise man mad ; which
read like professed exculpations of a contemplated insanity."
Amid these formidable agencies he ranks Calvinism as the most
destructive, and Cowper's life furnishes him with a painful illus-
tration of his text. Yearning for some light in his darkness,
the unhappy young barrister sent for an Evangelical clergyman,,
the Rev. Martin Madan, afterwards author of a rather ques-
tionable book on matrimony ; and this divine, apparently with-
out recognizing the mental condition of his new disciple, began
at once to expound the Gospel to* him as to a sane and able-
bodied sinner. The doctrine of original sin comforted the poor
VOL. xLv.— 49
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^^o An Old-Fashioned Port. [Sept.,
invalid, as putting his case on a level with all others ; the doc-
trine of the atonement brought to his eyes tears of mingled sor-
row and joy. " My heart," he writes, " began to burn within
me ; my soul was pierced with a sense of my bitter ingratitude
to so merciful a Saviour." But, alas! when it was explained
to him that he must, as the saying is, experience religion ; that
he must not only believe in Christ, but be assured of his own
personal salvation as wrought through the divine Mediator,
Cowper's disturbed perceptions failed him in the eflFort. He
could not be brought to realize this crowning mercy, could not
feel confident of his own election to grace. The spiritual life,
towards which he had stretched out hopeful arms, fled from him
like a mocking shadow, and, with terror and despair eating out
his heart, he drifted straight to madness and was soon within
the walls of an asylum.
Here careful and rational treatment effected an apparent cure;
and on his recovery he went to live at Huntingdon with Mrs.
Unwin, a lady whose evangelical piety was happily tempered by
strong sense and a lively disposition, and who added to her zeal
for souls some very well-defined and practical views on the ad-
vantages of bodily comfort. Her friendship, at once watchful,
affectionate, and discreet, and the soothing details of a quiet but
not unintellectual country life, effected a healthy change in Cow-
per's mind. His letters at this time breathe a spirit of tranquil
enjoyment, which was unbroken until the death of Mrs. Unwin
obliged the family to seek another residence ; and, with all Eng-
land spread out before them, they selected for their future home
the village of Olney, a dreary little hamlet on the river Ouse,
equally destitute, of pleasant society or of picturesque surround-
ings. One all-important circumstance apparently influenced
their choice. In Olney lived, as curate to the absent rector, the
famous John Newton, formerly captain of a Liverpool slave-ship,
now the most active, zealous, and strenuous Low-Church clergy-
man in England.
Much has been said and much written concerning this man
and the part he was destined to play in Cowper's subsequent life.
Biographers like the Reverend Mr. Grimshawe naturally look
upon such a friendship as the crowning blessing of the poet's
earthly pilgrimage. ^*It was," he says, "the commerce of two
kindred minds, united by a participation in the same blessed
hope, and seeking to improve their union by seizing every op-
portunity of usefulness. ... A friendship founded on such a
basis,, strengthened by time and opportunity, and nourished by
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1887.] An Old-Fashioned Poet. 771,
the frequent interchange of good offices, is perhaps the nearest
approximation to happiness attainable in this life." On the other
hand, less enthusiastic moralists are apt to hint that: the con-
nection between this ill-assorted pair was sadly detrimental to
the weaker vessel, and that Cowper was practically incapable of
keeping abreast with his companion in the deep seas of religious
speculation. One critic at least has ventured to speak simply
and strongly on the folly of confronting the shrinking recluse
with theories and duties for which he was especially unqualified.
Mn Newton*s honest zeal for his church and true affection for
his friend were, in Mr. Bagehot*s opinion, painfully neutralized
by the almost savage energy of his character. ** He was one of
those men who seem intended to make excellence disagreeable.
He was a converting-engine. The whole of his enormous vigor
of body, the whole steady intensity of a pushing, impelling,
compelling, unoriginal mind, all the mental or corporeal exer-
tion he could exact from the weak or elicit from the strong, were
devoted to one sole purpose — the effectual impact of the Calvin-
istic tenets on the parishioners of OIney." *
That he was eminently successful cannot be denied. The
heavy, unexcitable English rustic, who is not prone to take his
religion any harder than need be, was driven by the curate's ser-
mons from his accustomed nook in the ale-house ; the vain and
shallow village girl was stopped on the road to ruin ; the thief
was fairly frightened back into honesty. But the result on more
sensitive organizations is perhaps sufficiently illustrated by a
passage from one of Mr. Newton's own letters. " I believe," he
writes, " mj^ name is up about the country for preaching people
mad ; for whether it is from the sedentary lives people lead here,
poring over their lace pillows for ten or twelve hours every day,
and breathing confined air in their crowded little rooms, or
whatever may be the immediate cause, I suppose we have near
a dozen in different degrees disordered in their heads, and most
of them, I believe, truly gracious people." But the lace-work-
ers of Ireland and Belgium do not grow ** disordered in their
heads." They drift into consumption, poor things, or slowly
starve to death, according to the strength of their constitutions
and the time it takes to kill them ; but they are spared at least
the crowning misery of spiritual terrors and delusions.
It may be easily surmised that a clergyman with any aptitude
for " preaching people mad " was a dangerous friend for Cow-
per, whose sole chance for health and reason lay in the distrac-
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772 An Old-fashioned Poet. [Sept,
tion of his mind from all morbid speculations, and in keeping it
reasonably occupied with those little, pleasant, every-day cares
and amusements concerning* which the poet in his brighter mo-
ments felt a serene and rational interest. He was safe in the com-
panionship of his hares, his spaniel, and his few daily associates; ia
his long walks with Mrs. Unwin and his mild flirtations with
Lady Austen ; in his innocent diversions and his tranquil benevo-
lence; but he was the last man in the world who should have been
put to attending prayer-meetings, or composing hymns, or wrest-
ling with those religious problems which had only served to sadden
and confuse him. Mr. Newton thought otherwise. He was sin-
cerely anxious that his friend should experience grace and be an
active instrument in the conversion of others, and for a time his
efforts seemed crowned with a singular success. In the glow of
returning health Cowper's whole soul expanded into a brief,
glorified, celestial happiness; fear was forgotten, the world
brightened, and heaven lay stretched before him. Then came
the reaction, and from an assurance of salvation based on his
personal emotions the poet fell back into an unreasonable de-
spondency born of his disordered intelligence and nourished by
the same unhealthy spirit of self-scrutiny. **Dost thou think
always to have spiritual consolations when thou pleasest? " asks
A Kempis warningly. *' The saints had not so; but they met
with many troubles, and various temptations, and great desola-
tions.*'
Here, then, was a safer adviser than Mr. Newton, one who
1 recognized man's limitations, and who knew all about that heavi-
► ness of soul which stifles every new-born hope. " Some, wanting
caution, have ruined themselves by reason of the grace of devo-
• tion ; because they were for doing more than they could, not weigh-
.ing well the measure of their own littleness, but following rather
the affection of the heart than the judgment of reason." The sane
and tranquil monastery life rises before us as we read. Is Bro-
rther Boniface unduly troubled in his mind? Then let him pray
?more humbly and work harder — good wholesome work amid the
vineyards or under the olive-trees. An hour's steady digging,
with the sun on his back and the brown earth smelling sweetly
at his feet, will serve wonderfully to clear his brain from over-
scrupulous anxieties. Or, if his fingers be of the more dexterous
•order, there is the Gospel of St. John waiting to be illuminated
with all the rare and delicate tracery his fancy can command.
This is the task he loves and can do well, and for him this is the
.right and healthy occupartion, in which, by God's grace, he shall
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188;.] An Old-Fashioned Poet. 773
regain his lost tranquillity. So, when Mrs. Unwin and Lady
Austen spurred Cowper on to writing poetry, they were bene-
fiting their friend as well as the world of readers ; for as long
as he was busy at some congenial work he fought off success-
fully the demon of despair. The wholesome out-door li/e
brought renewed strength and vigor to him also ; and in his
numerous* letters we see displayed that happy minuteness of
mind which enabled him to take a lively pleasure in the most
trifling concerns of an uneventful household, as well as that rare
descriptive talent by which such concerns were made amusing
to all who heard of them. Many years have passed since these
long, leisurely letters went their way to the poet's various cor-
respondents, and still w^ read with delight about the unfortu-
nate table which had been scrubbed into paralysis, the retinue of
kittens in the barn, the foolish old cat who must needs investi-
gate a viper crawling in the sun, and the favorite tabby who
ungratefully ran away into a ditch and cost the family fftur
shillings before she was recovered. Again we see the bustling
candidate kissing all the maids ; the hungry beggar handing
back the bowl of vermicelli soup because he could not eat mag-
gots; and the youthful thief, who had stolen some iron-work from
Griggs the butcher, whipped through the town as a salutary les-
son in honesty. This last incident is comic rather than tragic
in its bearings ; for the beadle, having a heart of compassion
within him, flogged the culprit so lightly that the constable, in-
dignant at such a mockery of justice, undertook then and there
to cane the beadle, and was in turn soundly slapped by a stout
country wench who had come to see the sight and who speedily
found herself mistress of the field. The whole scene is more like
the shifting of a pantomime than a judicial procedure, and Sou-
they may well have called Cowper the best of letter-writers. But,
as we read, we are still haunted by that one perplexing question,
Why should this man have gone mad, when the Fates had kindly
granted him an especial capacity for enjoying the very things
that help to keep the wisest of us sane ?
If we turn from the correspondence to the poems, we see on
every side the same delicious portrayal of every-day humors and
adventures. As a hymn-writer Cowper shows grace and fervor,
but no marked excellence ; as a preacher he is still further from
success ; as a satirist he fails most miserably ; but as a fireside
poet surely he is unsurpassed. Critics have likened him to
Wordsworth for his Ic -e of nature, and to Pope for his quick
insight into character, and to Crabbe for his powers of realistic
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774 An Old-Fashioned Poet. [Sept,
description. But Wordsworth studied nature to the exclusion
of mail, and Pope studied man to the exclusion of nature, and
Crabbe's realism is almost always of a painful order. The writer
whom Cowper truly resembles is Miss Mitford, and some of his
happiest efforts read like pages from Our Village told in verse.
He has the same cheerful enjoyment of petty details, the same
close observation of all that is going on around, the same unaf-
fected love of nature as a background for man, the same accurate
perceptions and total lack of imagination. To him, as to Miss
Mitford, even winter wears a joyous front, filling
•' His withered hand
With blushing fruits, and plenty not his own " ;
while summer is a season of unalloyed enjoyment. His religion,
too, has its untroubled side, expanding happily amid familiar
scenes, and recognizing in the beauty and fitness of the universe
the loving hand of God. Even when depressed there is no trace
of bitterness in his sorrow. He tries to rail at the folly and
wickedness of the world, but the subject is an unwelcome one;
and — Mr. Newton to the contrary — he is plainly not quite sure
that the world is so desperately foolish and wicked, after all.
With him old prejudices gave way rapidly before new convic-
tions. He erased from "The Task " some invidious lines about
the Catholic Church when he had learned to know and love two
Catholics, Mr. and Mrs. Throckmorton, and had discovered satis-
factorily that they were neither hoofed nor horned. This pene-
trability of mind, combined with a gentleness of disposition, un-
fitted him sadly for the duties of censor, which must be exercised
con amore or not at all. He who starts out to lecture mankind—
and there is no lack of aspirants in the field — should never per-
mit himself to swerve from one undeviating line of acrid and un-
qualified disapprobation.
But if we would really enjoy Cowper it is best to turn aside
from " man's obligations infinite," which in truth he handles
rather heavily, and from his views on Chesterfield, and his some-
what misplaced sympathy for kings, who, taking them as a whole,
lead exceedingly comfortable lives. Let us read instead about
his winter walks and cozy winter evenings, about his spaniel
Beau, and Mrs. Throckmorton's bullfinch, and the hares, Tiney
and Puss, who were his companions for years, and whose memo-
ry he has enshrined in verses which used to be, and ought still
to be, familiar to every child. The poet's love for birds and ani-
mals manifested itself in the truly delightful manner in which he
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1887.] An Old-fashioned Poet. 775
wrote about them. We feel that we know Beau just as we know
Miss Mitford's Mayflower, that most affectionate, merry, and self-
willed of little dogs ; and even Walpole's " handsome cat," whose
tragic fate has been immortalized by Gray, is not more sadly
dear to us than Cowper's meditative tabby, who, seeking a luxu-
rious nap within the recesses of his linen-drawer, was shut up
therein and very nearly starved to death by a too orderly ser-
vant-maid. We can see this dignified animal before us now :
" A poet's cat, sedate and grave
As poet well could wish to have.
And much addicted to inquire
For nooks to which she might retire.
And where, secure as mouse in chink.
She might repose, or sit and think.
I know not where she caught the trick —
Nature herself perhaps had cast her
In such a mould philosophique.
Or else she learned it of her master."
There is something quite delicious in the complacency with
which Puss surveys the open drawer, and the serene self-satisfac-
tion with which she finds herself, on awakening from her first
doze, a prisoner in the dark. This, she considers, is merely a
polite attention on the part of the maid to insure her tranquil
slumber, and as soon as supper is ready
" No doubt
Susan will come and let me out."
But supper-time and bed-time bring no deliverance. A long
night is followed by a still longer day, and none know where to
seek the missing favorite. Happily the poet, keeping vigil on
the second midnight, hears, to his great alarm, a faint, dispirited
scratching, and hastens to the rescue. After looking in all the
wrong places first, the drawer at length is opened :
" Forth skipped the cat, not now replete.
As erst, with airy self-conceit.
Nor in her own fond apprehension
A theme for all the world's attention ;
But modest, sober, cured of all
Her notions hyperbolical,
And wishing for a place of rest
Anything rather than a chest."
It is possible that Cowper was not without a lingering suspi-
cion that these trifling verses were beneath the dignity of a seri-
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n(> An Old-Fashioned Port, [Sept.,
ous poet, for we find him putting a dexterous reproof to this effect
into the mouth of his own spaniel, whom he has had occasion to
admonish for the cruel killing of a little bird :
" My dog ! what remedy remains ?
Since, teach you all I can,
I see you, after all ray pains.
So much resemble man,"
asks the poet sadly; and Beau, making the best of a very bad
case, and pleading what excuses he can find in his own doggish
nature, winds up with an unexpected counter-thrust :
" If killing birds be such a crime
(Which I can hardly see).
What think you, sir, of killing time
With verse addressed to me ? "
The number of familiar quotations gleaned from Cowper's
poems is surprising even to those readers who know how many
of his thoughts have been filtered down into our daily speech.
Seen amid their proper surroundings, they have a certain well-
worn charm, and greet us like the homely faces of old friends.
Even the
" Cups
That cheer but not inebriate "
assume a less hackneyed guise when circling comfortably around
the ** hissing urn " on the poet's modest tea-table; and the lines
that follow express to perfection that sense of lazy security
which is the true pleasure of a winter night at home. We can
only thoroughly enjoy it by contrasting it with the laborious
amusements of more energetic people:
" Not such his evening who with shining face
Sweats in the crowded theatre, and, squeezed
And bored with elbow-points through both his sides,
Outscolds the ranting actor on the stage.
Nor his who patient stands till his feet throb.
And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath
Of patrioHi bursting with heroic rage.
Or placemen all tranquillity and smiles."
And then, a little further on, comes that really beautiful invoca-
tion to the twilight which proves that Cowper could occasion-
ally rise to heights of ideal description apparently beyond the
grasp of his modest and earth-abiding muse. There are no more
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1887.] An Old-Fashioned Poet. 777
graceful lines to be found among all his verses than those begin-
ning—
** Return, sweet Evening, and continue long!
Methinks I see thee in the streaky west.
With matron step slow moving, while the Night
Treads on thy sweeping train ; one hand employed
In letting fall the curtain of repose
On bird and beast, the other charged for man
With sweet oblivion of the cares of day :
Not sumptuously adorn'd, nor needing aid.
Like homely-featured Night, of clustering gems."
When we have turned from this scene of drowsy and tranquil
loveliness to the trenchant denunciations of the slave4rade with
which " The Timepiece " opens, we have known Cowper in his
best and strongest moods. Slavery unfortunately is not a sub-
ject which lends itself with much grace to poetical treatment,
perhaps because poets are more prone to deal with its exag-
gerated horrors and abuses than with the real, underlying, ir-
reconcilable wrong, which is precisely the same when there are
no abuses at all. Cowper, indeed, is not always more fortunate
than his brothers. Such verses as ** The Morning Dream " and
"The Negro's Complaint" read like the most spasmodic utter-
ances of our own New England lyrists, who, in the heat of an
unhappy strife, neglected their natural inspirations to write well-
meant but indifferent stanzas about rice-swamps, and African
chiefs, and other subjects with which they and their readers
were equally unfamiliar. But in the one strong and sane appeal
with which Cowper really stirs our hearts he has no need of
metaphors or dismal illustrations. It is a plea for the eternal
principles of justice, uttered with that firm moderation which
commands respect, and untainted by the politician's rancor or
the professional agitator's hysterical and noisy wrath.
The closing years of the poet*s life are inexpressibly painful to
contemplate. He had rallied successfully from repeated attacks
of despondency, and had devoted his happier hours to congenial
literary pursuits. His fame was firmly established, and, in the
poetical dearth of that period, had reached a portentous magni-
tude; for those were days when the ever-increasing army of
bards had not yet begun to jostle each other for elbow-room.
Cowper's numerous translations and the great bulk of his cor-
respondence bear witness, with his original poems, to the tem-
perate industry which filled each quiet day. But towards the
end his modest path was destined to be shadowed once more by
heavy clouds of misfortune. Mrs. Unwin's failing health and
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77i DoMiNBy NoN Sum Dignus. [Sept,
reason unfitted her to cheer his gloom, a constitutional melan-
choly deepened rapidly into despair, and he, whose life had been
so innocent and beneficial, suffered untold agony from the cruel
conviction of eternal ruin. No word of comfort, no ray of hope
brightened his last sad days; but, when he had passed quietly
away, his friends rejoiced that at length the veil was lifted, and
remembered what he himself had written in the depths of an un-
rebellious sorrow: "There is a mystery in my destruction, and
in time it shall be explained."
Agnes Repplier.
DOMINE, NON SUM DIGNUS.
I WOULD that I might stand, by guiltiness unstained.
Within the sacred temple of the Liord,
And, lifting up my voice in happiness unfeigned.
Could chant his glories in one mighty chord ;
But this is not to be.
Such grace is not for me.
For I am most unworthy, O my God !
I would that I could show the beauty of his word
To some whose souls are in the outer cold,
Who, if by grace their hearts might once perchance be stirred,
Would turn for shelter to the Master's fold ; J
But this it may not be.
Such grace is not for me,
For I am most unworthy, O my God !
I would that I could walk erect before thy face,
Without reproach, and scandalizing not ;
And that my daily life might show thy holy grace —
I would, O Lord, that this might be my lot ;
For this I pray to thee,
A clean heart give thou me,
For I am most unworthy, O my God !
^William J. Duggett*
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188/.] Tornadoes. 779
TORNADOES.
The tornado is entirely local in character, of restricted area
and ephemeral life. It is preceded by a sultry, oppressive state
of the atmosphere which lasts an hour or two, during which
breathing becomes difficult and the lightest garments seem a bur-
den. An ominous stillness pervades the air, and when the breeze
stirs it is in gusts like puffs from a heated furnace. Clouds, of
shapes and colors so fantastic and unusual that their unlikeness
to the ordinary cloud-formations is immediately observed, begin
to gather in the northwest and southwest. Sometimes they re-
semble smoke from a burning building or straw-stack; at others
they glow with a pale whitish light which seems to emanate from
their broken surfaces ; again they are strangely livid, their iri-
descence ranging through purple and blue to dark green or an
inky blackness.
Then comes that invariable herald of the tornado, a weird
and ominous noise resembling the distant roar of a freight-train
crossing a bridge. The threatening clouds suddenly dash to-
gether from different directions, the dreadful funnel being the re-
sultant of the fierce encounter. This funnel has many varieties,
as the "balloon," "basket," " egg/' " elephant's trunk," " hour-
glass," and so on. The tornado always has its birth in the upper
air, but when the small end of this funnel, which is its first visible
manifestation, touches the earth, the havoc begins. If the meteor
is of the first order no work of man coming within its whirl or
vortex can withstand its fury. The force of destruction increases
rapidly from the circumference to the centre of the revolving
cone. A tornado passes a given point at an average of forty-five
seconds. Its visits may be looked for at any hour in the after-
noon between two and six, but it comes most often from four
o'clock until half-past five.
The tornado records of many years show that the region of
greatest average frequency per annum embraces Georgia, Kan-
sas, Iowa, Missouri, Ohio, and Illinois. Thus, in 1884, which
may be regarded as a fairly typical tornado year, there were 182
of all kinds, great and small, in the United States. Of these 38
occurred in Georgia, 12 in Kansas, 10 in Iowa, 3 in Missouri, 3
in Ohio. The others were distributed throughout the whole
country. The native heath oi this destroyer may perhaps be
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78o Tornadoes. • [Sept,
said to be Iowa, Missouri (excepting its southeastern portion),
Northwestern Arkansas, the eastern parts of Kansas and Ne-
braska, and the southern portions of Minnesota and Wisconsin,
and Western Illinois. In this region its season lasts from the
first of April to the first of September; July, however, being dis-
tinguished by its most frequent visits. Its ravages in Georgia,
South Carolina, Central Alabama, and parts of North Carolina
and Mississippi take place in January, February, and March ;
while Pennsylvania, Ohio, New York, Massachusetts, and Con-
necticut are seldom afflicted by this scourge except in August
and September.
The tornado is occasioned by a sudden and terrific change of
temperature between neighboring portions of the atmosphere.
Warm air is light and cool air is heavy. When cool air is in the
vicinity of warm air, the cool air, being the heavier, rushes into
the warm spaces to preserve atmospheric equilibrium. The most
favorable region to tornado-growth, therefore, is one where cold
currents of air are likely to encounter warm currents; and if
there is on the planet an ideal arena for such conflicts it is the
Mississippi Valley. During the warm months cold-air waves
move down from the north and northwest, those which float
above the great lakes absorbing in their passage moisture and
heat by which their dryness and cold are neutralized, and those
passing over the arid wastes of Manitoba and Dakota retaining
them until they encounter the hot, saturated breezes blowing up
from the Gulf. Where these antagonistic currents meet there is
a furious elemental strife. The tornado is strictly local within
the path of the general storm or wave.
In 1884 the Signal Service Corps began to study the conduct
of these waves, particularly within the tornado area, and with
marked success. Through their investigations it is found that
the progressive movement of the tornadc^ is ordinarily from
southwest to northeast, that the direction of the whirl is almost
invariably from right to left, and that its average progress is
forty-two miles an hour. The tornado is governed by four dis-
tinct motions. The first is the destructive whirl or revolving
motion, which sucks objects from below into the vortex, and car-
ries them spirally upward with such appalling force as to grind
everything to pieces. The action of this force on the materials
within its compass is similar to that of an enormous suction-
pump borne along a short distance above the ground. The
second is the proper or progressive motion of the tornado.
The third is a rising and falling motion. Sometimes the cloud
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188;.] Tornadoes. 781
is high up in the air, and again it skims over the tops of trees
and the roofs of houses, lopping off limbs and chimneys as clean-
ly as if done by a keen-edged scythe. The fourth is a zigzag
motion along the earth's surface. This is caused by the irregu-
larity of the rushing air-currents. Owing to these motions the
tornado performs some fantastic freaks. The most solid struc
tures are sometimes torn to shreds, while a few feet above, be-
low, or apart from them the frailest objects stand unscathed.
The only perceptible change in the later visits of the tor-
nado, as contrasted with its earlier ones, is the great reduction in
the sacrifice of human life. To illustrate this I will cite some
records of its ravages at different times and places.
The Mississippi tornado of April, 1883, was one of the most
appalling that ever visited the South. It swept the village of
Hohenlinden, Miss., completely out of existence, and, passing
through the town of Beauregard, killed and wounded 200 out of
a population of 400, and entirely demolished its iii houses. A
town of Choctaw County, Miss. — French Camp — was annihilated.
House-timbers were carried miles by the force of the wind. A
family named Simmons, consisting of three persons, were blown
away. Two of their bodies were afterwards found several miles
from where the house stood. Numbers of persons were swept
away of whom no vestige was ever traced.
The St. Cloud, Minn., tornado of April, 1886, filled the whole
State with consternation. Four hundred houses were levelled to
the ground. Remnants of the wrecked buildings were found
twenty miles away, while portions of pianos and organs were
picked up fifteen miles from the city. The sides of many of the
buildings were pierced with heavy splinters, which protruded
like huge pegs. In the walls of other buildings holes were
noticeable that seemed to have been made by cannon-balls. A
box-car was picked up from a track and blown three blocks, and
dropped into a ravine. The loss of life was truly appalling.
At Prescott, Kansas, in the evening of the 21st of April last,
a tornado which displayed immense force began its work of de-
struction about six o'clock. For a distance of twenty-two miles
from Prescott not a single house in a thickly-settled neighbor-
hood withstood the storm. A solidly-built stone residence
belonging to Samuel Coles was razed to the ground. The
breadth of the whirl was about three hundred yards. A feature
of this tornado was the unusual size of the hail-stones that fell in
parts«of its path. Many of them weighed five ounces, and some
measured nine inches in circumference. They crashed through
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782 Tornadoes. [Sept,
the roofs of dwellings and barns, leaving holes through which a
man*s arm would pass with ease. Macon Bouse's bam, in Metz
Township, Missouri, near the path of the tornado, was pierced
with twenty-five hailstones the size of goose-eggs, which, going
through the barn, embedded themselves in the ground to a depth
of three inches. This tornado divided into two parts near Rich
Hill, Missouri. For some time it did not touch the earth, being
high in the air. The funnel-shaped cloud could be seen approach-
ing Prescott for fully fifteen minutes before it struck the town.
Hundreds of people were saved in dug-outs ; otherwise the loss of
life would have been fearful. One whole county of Missouri was
strewn with the wrecks of buildings, dead cows, hogs, horses,
and poultry, bedding and wearing apparel. At Miami, in Kan-
sas, a large new house was taken up by the wind and carried
into Missouri, a distance of five miles, where it was found only
slightly damaged. A shot-gun was carried three hundred yards.
The muzzle struck the ground and buried the barrel, leaving the
stock standing upright. The hedges were left bare and white, the
thorns -and bark being stripped entirely off by whipping together.
This was the third tornado which passed over the same course
within a few years. Its force surpassed that of its predecessors,
and yet the loss of life was comparatively very small, owing to the
greater number of dug-outs or tornado-caves. The feathers were
blown off of chickens, and their dead bodies, with the skin flayed
off, were no unusual sight. Charles Mays was lying in bed help-
less and suffering from inflammatory rheumatism. The wind lifted
off the upper part of his house on a level with the bed in which
he was lying, and blew it away, leaving him unhurt. Among the
great feats performed by the force of the wind was the moving
of a foundation-stone from Jake Boyer's house; it weighed fully
three hundred pounds and was carried a distance of forty feet
The agency of destruction in the tornado is mechanical. It
is not necessary to call in electricity to account for it The
force of the motion of the wind, which has been determined by
experiment, is sufficient to accomplish every authenticated re*
suit.
A velocity of 20 miles an hour exerts a pressure of 2 lbs.
on the square foot, and there is a fixed relationship between the
velocity and the pressure. The pressure is proportional to the
square of the velocity, so that a velocity of 80 miles an hour
= 2 lbs. X (4)' = 32 lbs. on the square foot.
The Signal Service, the highest authority on this subject says
tJiat the motion of the wind in the whirl reaches a velocity of
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1887.] Tornadoes, 783
2,000 miles an houn Wind moving 2,000 miles an hour presses
2 lbs. X (100)* = 20,000 lbs. on the square foot, or more than nine
atmospheres, and is clearly adequate to produce all the effects
witnessed in tornadoes. Electricity is present in the tornado, as
it is in every atmospheric disturbance, produced by friction and
the unequal distribution of heat in the different strata of the air.
But it is no factor in the great destruction. It is said that elec-
tric convection is plainly discernible in the drawing-up of light
bodies into the clouds, similarly to the action of an electric
machine in attracting pith-balls. It is pointed out, for example,
that light bodies are carried up a chimney during a tornado.
But the wind can do this. When a building comes within the
vortex of a tornado, the whirl produces a partial vacuum on the
outside of the building, and the air within, expanding, hurls
loose objects through the windows and chimneys. The advo-
cates of the electric agency in tornadoes assert that all the dam-
age is produced by the action of convection. But the action of
convection is usually at small distances, as in the electrodes of
an electric lamp, where the particles of carbon are carried over
from the positive to the negative point. But the action between
a cloud and the earth is not convection ; it is induction. The
earth neutralizes the cloud, or the cloud the earth, by a flash.
The usual conduct of atmospheric electricity is not to carry
stones and houses around for blocks in towns, and miles in the
country, but to dart by the nearest possible path to the great
electric reservoir within the earth.
The Signal Service, after years of study, has reached the con-
clusion that tornadoes are not increasing in either force or fre-
quency. In the near future it will be able to predict their ar-
rival about sixteen hours in advance. The percentage of veri-
fication has already reached fifty-five. It proposes to give
cautionary signals of their approach along their customary
paths. Meanwhile it should be remembered that while the ave-
rage track of a tornado is thirty-six miles in length, it is never
more than a few hundred yards in width, and that its scope is
thus comparatively circumscribed. They very rarely occur
twice in precisely the same locality. Now and again intending
purchasers of farms have applied to the Signal Service for infor-
mation concerning the likelihood of tornadoes in the regions
where they contemplate settlement. But, strange as it may
seem, the dread of them seems to have no perceptible effect on
immigration.
Martin S. Brennan,
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784 Silly Catherine. [Sept,
SILLY CATHERINE.
A NEAT, trim little figure she was ; Irish, but with a faint
hint at Spanish origin in her face and person — and pour cause,
as the French would say ; for she was a native of Galway, the
"ould, ancient Galway," where the merchants were Spanish
princes once, and where, in its dilapidated gates and stairways,
there are still to be seen vestiges of that grand Moorish architec-
ture which in its palmy days filled the world with wonder. But
Catherine did not pride herself on her origin, Irish or Spanish;
indeed, she did not pride herself on anything, she was such an
humble, meek little body — a little more than a chambermaid in
the ranks of menial service, and a little less than a lady's com-
panion, although it was rather in this latter capacity that she
was employed in the Landmore household, for she was the espe-
cial attendant of its young heiress. Miss Susie.
The Landmores were people of wealth and known to give
a certain ton in society. Mr. Landmore was a banker 'and sue-
cessful turf-hunter, and his wife z grande dame ^lhA belle fentnu,
which is said to comprise every attribute of female attractive-
ness — beauty, grace, dignity, refinement.
Catherine came upon the scene when it was thought neces-
sary to provide an escort for the young lady, her mother being
too much engaged by her social duties to accompany her in her
walks.
" We want a person young enough not to be too set in her
ways, old enough to act as chaperon, reasonable enough to fall
back into her place when such service is not needed," said
Mrs. Landmore when the subject was discussed ; and as just
then such a one was to be had by applying in time to her sister-
in-law, Mrs. Swinsor, in whose family the girl had been em-
ployed and had given warning, the bella madre went forthwith in
quest of information.
" I don't know what you will think of the duenna I have se-
cured for you. Sue," she said to her daughter when she return-
ed; " but I actually engaged her on the testimonial * silly.' *She
is silly,* says Aunt Laura."
•'But they have always so praised her hair- dressing! She
was such a good seamstress, waitress — " remarked Miss Land-
more.
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" Yes, she is all that, says Aunt Laura, yet she is * silly.' "
Miss Landmore was, as already stated, an only daughter,
which would naturally imply that she was much indulged. For-
tunately her caprices ran in a direction where indulgence was
not likely to do any harm. She was bom musical. The world,
to her, was a vast orchestra where she hoped one day to fill a
place, and all she asked of it was sweet sounds — harmony, melo-
dy. She had already attained considerable proficiency as a pian-
ist. ** No telling what Miss Sue may not achieve in the art after
a couple of years' Conservatoire in Paris," her musicteacher had
said to her father; and Mr. Landmore was consequently very
proud of his daughter.
The new duenna-maid in the meantime seemed to quite fit
the place, and there passed a number of days before she gave
any evidence of silliness. One day, however, Miss Landmore
was struck by the fact that Catherine always called her Miss
Susan.
" Why don't you call me Susie ? " she said, correcting her.
** My name is not Susan."
Catherine colored. "I don't think 'tis nice — to — distort
names," she replied, hesitating. ** I never could call Miss Mar-
garet, your cousin, Madge or Maggie, as every one else does..
Seems a pity to spoil so beautiful a name ! "
Susie looked amused. •' How queer ! You think that Susan
sounds better?" she said.
"Well, not only sounds, miss, but I think that — that —
Surely there never was a saint called Sue or Susie."
The young mistress said nothing more, but, relating the case
to her mother afterward, " Do you think it is this sort of thing
Aunt Laura calls silly?" she asked.
"I'm sure I don't know," replied Mrs. Landmore, half-pu^-
zled, half-annoyed; "but for my part I should call it imperti-
nent. What business has a domestic to question her masters'
preferences for names ? "
"Oh ! I don't think she means impertinence, mamma," rejoin-
ed Susie. " It's just a piece of — oddity. And really, when you
look at it, there's something — what would you call it? — trivial,,
perhaps, in Sue or Susie."
" Nonsense ! "
" Oh ! well, provided she doesn't call me Susannah ! "
Miss Landmore was naturally of a sedate disposition, but^
like her father, she was quick in seeing the comic side of things,
and took pleasure in pointing it out.
VOL. XLV.— 50
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786 Silly CATffnkiNB. [Sept,
The new girl's oddity, however, was not confined to prefe^
ences for names. It betrayed itself soon again in another direc-
tion.
One morning, as she was dusting the knrck-knacks on
the ^tagh^e in the drawing-room, Susie, who was sorting
Tnnsic, observed a rather curious expression in her coun-
tenance, and, being in the mood to try conclusions with her,
said :
" Pretty, aren't they, Catherine ? "
" Well, miss, perhaps they are ; but they look to me more
like doll-baby things. I suppose you played with them when a
child, and keep them now for — "
"Goodness, no! What an idea! I guess my mother didn't
indulge me that way ! Why, Catherine, these tiny cups and
saucers are rare and costly things — S6vres porcelain. Toys, in-
deed ! But I suppose the drawing-rooms in Ireland have not
much ornamentation."
"No, miss, not much — of this kind. Lady Clifden 0'Mar,in
whose family I was trained, had but very few ornaments in her
drawing-room, and those were very big; except, however, the
pretty statuettes on the mantel, which, she explained to me, were
'exact representations of the grand antiques that were discovered
at Tanagra. It would seem that the ancients were clever people.
'Of course I know nothing about these thingfs — they call it sculp-
ture, I believe — but I gather that much : that, small as they were,
ithey represented things worth knowing about and — ^loving, per-
ihaps."
Whether this was a specimen of silliness or not Susie just
ithen could not quite make out. It struck her, however, that
ornaments might, like people, have a character; and the precious
ilittle cups and saucers on the itaghre^ fit only to grace a doll-
rbaby house, had none.
She placed them quietly in a less conspicuous place.
^Catherine occupied all by herself a small garret-chamber
»away from the two other servants of the household. Susie,
•curious to know wherein that critical maid's particular taste
manifested itself, paid her a visit one evening.
She found her amidst a lot of bits of silk, engaged in patch-
work.
"Laws, Miss Susan!" And the best chair was at once
brought forward, and the young mistress invited to take a seat
*' What ! a quilt?" asked Susie, looking at the various squares
ready to.be sewed together.
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1887.1 Silly Catheriub. 787
" Yes, miss. Your aunt gave me a whole heap of dress-rem-
nants, and old ribbons and cravats; and 'tis such nice work!"
Susie examined the sewing. " Very neat," she said approv-
ingly; "and you have quite an ey€ for color, Catherine. _ You
have kept your purples and blues far apart."
*'Yes, miss, and the raw reds and greens; they look harsh
together."
Truly, here was taste.
" And whose bed is this intended for ? " asked Miss Landmore.
The girl's eyes shot across the room towards a picture hang-
ing on the wall. " My brother's, miss. He is studying for the
priesthood, and when he be ready and has a church I hope to
join him — go back to Ireland, and, God willing, we shall be to-
gether again."
Surely this was no inordinate ambition.
Catherine then gave her young mistress a bit of her past his-
tory. Her grandparents had owned some property, which, for
some unaccountable reason, they lost. Her parents had died
young. A maiden aunt, having something of her own, interest-
ed herself in the orphans and placed the boy in school, and the
girl, scarcely teny^ars old, in the service of Lady Clifden O'Mar,.
who, being something of an invalid, needed a deft little body to
wait upon her and run on errands. Catherine was happy in the
lordly home, and won the affection of her masters, who partly
educated her, admitting her to some of their children's private
schooling. When grown up and able to earn wages her aunt
persuaded her to go to America, the better to help her brother
to complete his clerical studies.
Truly commendable, thought Susie, and she wondered what
her aunt coold have possibly meant by calling the girl silly.
She beg^n to understand it before long.
The Swinsors belonged to the same caste in society as the
Landmores. They were people of the world, with this differ-
ence, however, that whilst the first gave themselves wholly up
to pleasure for pleasure's sake, the second contrived to turn it
into a source of self-improvement. Mrs. Swinsor and her three
daughters lived to dress ; Mrs. Landmore rather dressed to live.
There was about the same difference between their husbands.
Mr, Swinsor, a daring speculator, consulted nobody's wishes but
his own. The affluence in which his family lived flattered his
pride and stood him in lieu of principle. Mr. Landmore, with
all his passion for horses and devotion to the turf, w«s a faotily
man, fond of wife and daughter.* The relations between the
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788 Silly Catherine. [Sept,
two households were therefore of a purely outward character.
Susie especially kept aloof from her cousins ; they had very little
in common with each other.
" \ think we have discovered your objections to Catherine,"
said Mrs. Landmore to her sister-in-law one morning as the
latter had dropped in for a chat and the two ladies began re-
hearsing family affairs. " She is an odd creature, to be sure, but
then Sue and I don't mind that."
" Nor do I/' replied Mrs. Swinsor ; " but she would go, and
I had to let her. I miss her dreadfully, for the French girl I got
in her stead doesn't do half as well, although in other respects
she is more tractable."
"Tractable?"
" Why, yes ! You ought to understand me, knowing your
brother and his comical ways with women. It's all in jest, to be
sure ; but with people that are tout cTum piice^ as the French say,
who have no moral flexibility, the least little liberty — "
** I should not call a girl * silly,' though, for objecting to such-
liberties, as you call them," broke in Mrs. Landmore reprovingly.
" Pooh ! Fred means no harm, you know. Men differ. One
wastes his ammunition on one sort of beauty, another on an-
other. I shouldn't wonder if, in the long run, your Henry's
prodigality in this respect beat Fred's. The worst is that I am
generally the victim of %\ic\i fredaines.''
Mrs. Landmore certainly did not sympathize with her sister-
in-law in such matters. She was herself scrupulously careful in
her social relations to avoid anything bordering on improper
conduct, and her brother's looseness of morals had more than
once called forth her indignation. The discovery that Catherine
had forfeited her place on his account naturally raised the girl
in her estimation ; she was thereby all the more a proper cha-
peron for her daughter.
The world, however, is always somewhat jealous of the
movements of its devotees when not in unison with its own.
^* To give Susie an ignorant Irish girl for companion!" said
some. " What can the Landmores be thinking about ? "
• " To meet them together on the street you might almost take
them for friends, so familiarly do they chat together," remarked
others.
No doubt there was cause for surprise, for the young lady
made no secret of her preferring the company of her maid to
diat of some of her equals in society. Catherine, it is true, knew
nothing about music, and could not converse on the subject with
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1887. J Silly Catherine. 789
her young mistress ; but the young musician had discovered that
ignorance was sometimes blessed with a wisdom which know-
ledge often lacked and which more than took the place of science.
Catherine could tell her, for instance, how some pieces of music
affected her more than others, and why. Molifere had good rea-
son for turning to his cook to try the effect of some of his plays;
and the Greek painter who exposed his pictures in the public
square, and hid behind to profit by the observations of the pass-
ers-by, must have likewise known how to appreciate the judg-
ment of the simple in mind. Gathering, besides, only spoke of
what she knew from experience ; and if sometimes she remarked
on certain buildings they chanced to pass, it was always with a
modest reserve — the heart's verdict, not the mind's. Susie came
gradually to the conclusion that instincts springing from certain
sources, pure and undefiled, might in some instances be relied
on as correct.
One day, as they were taking their customary walk, the young
mistress detected a look of uneasiness on the usually serene coun-
tenance of her attendant.
" What is it troubles you, Catherine ? " she asked.
The girl made no direct reply, but said instead :
" Would you mind stepping into St. Stephen's a moment,
Miss Susan ?— just long enough for me to say a prayer."
Susie did not object. When they came to the church they
entered. It was deserted, one solitary light only burning on
the altar. The mistress took a seat in one of the pews, and the
maid knelt down beside her and was soon absorbed in her devo-
tions. How still ! Peace palpable ! Susie did not ask herself
why, nor cared to know. It was pfbasant, and she abandoned
herself to the soothing influence. When at last Catherine rose
from her knees, and they left the church and re-entered the sun-
lit street, she noticed that the troubled look in the girl's face was
gone.
" Have you had any news from Ireland ? " she asked, as they
resumed their walk.
" Yes, miss, and they made me uneasy about my brother. His
mind seems unsettled ; he talks about studying law now. He
can't ; we haven't the means. But I prayed. It will ^11 come
out right yet, I know."
Susie was not particularly interested in religious questions.
She was, like her mother, a member of the Episcopal Church — a
fair-day member ; for Mrs. Landmore, whilst she scrupled to de-
prive her coachman of his Sunday, did not exactly consider it
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7S,o Silly Catherine. [Sept.,
necessary to brave the elements to satisfy the soul's wants, at
best lukewarm desires in her case. " For," said she, " it stands
to reason that people should go to the Lord's house in their best
and show proper respect ; but when the weather is bad, that best
becomes worst and is no longer en r^gle. And then the atmos-
phere in church on a rainy day ! Distressing ! It tells on the
spirits of the congregation, on those of the pastor, on the very
sexton ! " The theology of Rev. Arthur Verstle, the rector and
friend of the family, did not, moreover, stir Susie one way or an-
other; it was most equable and broad, its yoke one of the easiest.
The gentleman was a thoroughly well-informed ecclesiastic, who
with infinite tact had succeeded in gathering around him a rich
and sympathetic congregation. Catherine's earnestness, and the
tone of conviction in which she alluded to the prayer she had
offered up in behalf of her brother, made an impression on the
young mistress. It was the first time she was made aware of
reality in religion.
" I shall go with you to the cathedral some Sunday," she
said, ** to hear the music."
" Do, Miss Susan, do ! We must go to second Mass, then,
and start early, for the cathedral is always crowded."
" Crowded ! " That was more than she could say for her
church, thought Susie ; but she kept it to herself.
When they came home they heard loud talking in the draw-
ing-room — gentlemen's voices, amidst which Mrs. Landmore's
lighter treble was scarcely audible. But. the notes were joyous,
the subject-matter apparently cheering. The young girls passed
through the hall up-stairs and just caught an inkling of what the
theme of the conversation iJiight be by such isolated ejaculations
as : ** Viola ! A name as harmonious as her limbs ! The pride
of the Derby ! Guess Til soon now show our turfmen here what
a real racer is made of ! "
" Papa is in his element," said Susie. " He has got at last, I
suppose, what he so long coveted — the English Viola."
And so it was. For weeks the sole topic of talk, in and out
of the house, was the horse — Buffon's horse, the noblest of all
quadrupeds ! And Susie took a good deal of pleasure in teasing
her father: "You think you possess a treasure? Nenni / the trea-
sure possesses you." And again : ** Do you love me, papa? How
much ? If the house was on fire, where would you run first—
to mamma's room and mine, or to the stables?"
" Hush, hush ! Don't tempt me into false swearing."
** What will you do with all the superfluous money Viola will
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bring you next June ? Send me to Paris, to the Conservatoire ?
Make a musical breadwinner of me ?''
" That I will, Puss, and you may take my word for it."
In the meantime everybody was happy.
As purposed, Susie went with Catherine to the cathedral to
hear the music, and, having heard it once, went to hear it a
second time. From what we have already said the reader
virill easily gather that the Landmore Sundays were scarcely
church-days. The head of the house had his own notions con-
cerning rest It meant recreation, change of thought and
occupation.
" There is nothing does me more good, after a week's hard
work at the bank," he would say, " than to turn the key on
finance and take a plunge into the open 2X1— prendre la clef des
champs^ as they do in France."
Mr. Landmore's devotions consisted, therefore, in a jolly
drive in the Park, and an extra-fine dinner shared with conge-
nial friends in the evening. The l^andmore dinners, moreover,
were noted for their delicacy, and the friends consequently never
failed.
It was the first Sunday of May. The month had opened su-
perbly, and, if the churches were not all crowded with glad wor-
shippers, the parks and general thoroughfares certainly showe4
what estimation spring was held in by the people at large.
Everybody was out revelling in the sunshine and budding trees.
A goodly company had gathered around the banker's table —
men convinced that enjoyment was the end of life, and procur-
ing the means for it the only wisdom.
" You should have been along with me, though, this morn-
ing," said Mrs. Landmore, addressing both husband and guests.
" Such a discourse Mr. Verstle gave us ! How he showed up
Pharisaism and what it is ! "
The company smiled. To the habitu/s of the Landmore table
succulent dinners provided by the hostess were one thing, and
her opinions, especially theological, another. Yet would it have
been impossible to refuse attention to ideas set forth by so lovely
a maitresse de maison.
Mrs. Landmore was in one of her radiant moments when ^yt%
and complexion show their best.
** Sermon, Mrs. Landmore? On what?" asked one.
" I am ready to stake a ten-dollar note on your having for-
gotten the text," said the host jocosely, looking across at his
wife.
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792 Silly Cathbrinb. [Sept,
" Oh ! the text. The text doesn't signify. It serves at best
as figure-head. It is to form and substance we look in a sermon.
Now, the substance of Mr. Verstle's sermon this morning was
conscience. I declare I never heard such advanced views ex-
pressed on this subject before."
** For instance?" observed her husband.
" For instance/' continued Mrs. Landmore, " he showed how
conscience might in some respects run counter to the true spirit
of Christianity. There are people, he said, who are constantly
on the qui vive lest they should commit sin ; the least irregularity
assumes the aspect of crime. Many of the Catholic saints " (with
a look towards Susie) " were of that order. Now, the Quietists
(although Mr. Verstle did not exactly say that they were right)
hold some very sound views on the subject. The soul, accord-
ing to them, once it has a firm grasp of the truth, cannot go
wrong. Its greatest sin is to be conscious of sin ; its — "
** Truly broad, I must confess," broke in Mr. Landmore in a
tone slightly sarcastic. " The doctrine falls wonderfully in with
the times. Nothing more easy for certain people than to prac-
tise unconsciousness of sin. The text which you cannot remem-
ber, my dear, must have been, * Rejoice always.' "
" And be thankful," added one of the guests, casting an ap-
preciative glance in the direction of a dish of dainty reed-birds
which was being handed round, and which the cook had served
in true artistic fashion. " Be thankful that we live in an age
where pleasure has reached its ultimatum by way of refinement
— may, indeed, be classed among the fine arts."
"Like crime, suicide, and the rest," jocosely put in the host
" Yes, we have so far advanced that further progress is possible
only by retrograding."
The company laughed.
" What says Miss Sue?'* asked one of the gentlemen, looking
across at the daughter of the house.
**Come, Sue, answer: what are your notions about going
ahead?" said her father.
"O papa! I would rather be excused."
** Your mode of progression certainly doesn't mean retro-
gression," still persisted the former speaker. " If what we hear
of your achievements is true — "
" Oh ! pray don't. All I can say is that I hope that the music
of the future may be as good as that of the past."
•* There ! A sorry set we are," said Mr. Landmore, " for un-
belief in the times."
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" Don't count me," quickly spoke up his wife, " I'm none of
you. I believe."
" She believes, good friends — believes in the jeweller's pro-
gress ! She—"
" Ah ! yes ; and now that we are on this topic," gaily broke
in Mrs. Landmore, " I take this company to witness a promise
you shall make me. I consented to Viola's purchase on the con-
dition that the equine diva would win for me a certain necklace
I have been coveting for some months."
"A bauble, gentlemen — a mere bauble! A pretty little toy
composed of emeralds and diamonds, costing the trifling sum of
seven hundred dollars. It seems just now the rage among the
wives of millionaires, and my beautiful Helen " (with a gallant
bow towards the lady at the head of the table) ** does not wish
to remain behind in what I suppose constitutes the aesthetics of
female attire. So that I solemnly vow here that, Viola doing
her duty next June, I shall lay it at her feet."
** Round her neck, you mean," said one.
- A merry laugh closed the contest, and Mrs. Landmore de-
clared herself satisfied.
Susie, when alone in her room that night rehearsing the day's
events, felt happy. The home horizon looked clear and bright ;
aflFairs seemed prosperous, friends plenty. Her beautiful mother
was both admired and beloved, her father ready to grant any-
thing. Now was the time, if ever, to ask for a boon. She, too,
had a new want ; it was that morning's music in the cathedral
had started it. What a superb instrument the organ is! How
it lifts one out of one's self ! What is to prevent her learning to
play the organ also?
Days and days, however, passed, and all her efforts to ap-
groach her father on the subject proved vain. " Wait till the
races arc over, deary," said her mother ; ** he is altogether too
preoccupied just now." That he was preoccupied his looks
showed plainly enough. He did not seem able to think or
speak of anything but horses and training details. The worst
' »emed that it began to affect his health.
" I don't think I ever saw papa look so worn and haggard,"
said Susie to her mother as one morning the banker left the
breakfast-table without touching any food. " He just lives on
coffee."
" He is anxious. There are tight places in all pursuits in life,
darling, and your father is a nervous man. But I see no cause
for especial uneasiness. I have known the most tangled situa-
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794 Silly Catheminb. [Sept,
tions to resolve themselves into order. They only want to be
trusted a little and let alone."
In the meantime Susie followed inclination and attended on
Sundays the services at the cathedral. The circumstance was
naturally noted and excited curiosity. It behooved the rector to
inquire into the matter. Miss Landmore was the pet lamb of his
flock, he told her mother, and her going astray would pain him
above any other. Mrs. Landmore frankly told him how the mat-
ter stood : her daughter was passionately fond of music. " That
is," said he, " quite right — quite, my dear Mrs. Landmore. But
religion and music are two entirely different things, you know;
it won't do to confound them." And his reverence forthwith
proceeded to make the mother's duty in the case plain to her
mind.
" You see how it is, darling, don't you ? " said Mrs. Land-
more one morning to her daughter, as, the latter lingering in her
boudoir, she seized upon this opportunity to discharge her prom-
ise to the rector. " It is not so much our good pastor's anxiety
about your religious welfare — which he thinks in jeopardy, con-
sidering the questionable tendencies of Papacy — which induces
me to speak to you, for you know I am very broad in such
matters ; but the fact is that we owe our church a good exam-
ple. We are among the leading members of Mr. Verstle's con-
gregation, and, even setting religious matters aside, attendance
becomes a matter of convenances.''
Susie quite understood, though she was not convinced. She
had reached an age where she fancied herself competent to judge
for herself in certain matters, and she succeeded in persuading
her mother to let her have her way for the present. " If Mr.
Verstle should continue to feel troubled about it," she said by
way of pacification, "send him to me, and we'll argue the case
together."
But Mr. Verstle said nothing more; indeed, there were quite
other interests in the wind besides religious ones. As time wore
on the banker's looks assumed a settled expression of pain. "Is
it physical, is it moral?" speculated the world. The dinner-
parties, card-parties, dancing-parties succeeded each other the
same as ever ; but that was no test. The world, on the other
hand, was too much accustomed to Dame Fortune's unaccount-
able freaks to give the matter too serious consideration. A turn
of the wheel may make everything right. The Landmores, more-
over, were not people to take trouble on interest. Nothing was
as yet hopelessly lost, and much, fortune helping and courage
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188;.] Silly Catherine. 795
not failing, was to be gained. It all depended on Viola's steady
muscle. Win the race, and the budget's apparent want of bal-
ance would again equilibrate. The banker, it is true, had invest-
ed in the costly racer an unwarrantable sum ; he had kept her
under training at great exi>ense, had staked on her winning what
would prove his ruin should he lose it. Carried away by his
enthusiasm, his sanguine disposition ever taking the measure of
future successes by the past, he had gone far beyond the mark
prudent men observe when they indulge in doubtful ventures.
There were moments when he fully realized his situation, and
the thoughts they brought with them were crushing in the
extreme. " If Viola failed me at the last!" seemed to be legible
in every furrow of his brow.
Susie had confided to her maid her purpose of taking lessons
on the organ. She already saw herself in the organist's place
at the cathedral, the pipes pouring forth those solemn anthems
which, reverberating through aisle and gallery, unite choir and
congregation, and carry their joint praise before the throne of
God. " O Catherine, you'll see ! you'll see ! "
But Catherine looked very sober. " It seems so right for
you to take lessons on the organ, Miss Susan ; but then - "
"Then what?"
** I wouldn't set my heart on it — not too much ! "
"You silly girl!"
But there was that in the maid's eyes which caused the young
mistress to pause and think. She had learned to apprehend the
difference between ignorance and stupidity. Catherine had not
much of what people commonly call information ; but she had
intuitions, direct apprehensions, which stood her in lieu of
knowledge, and Susie, who had had a number of proofs of
these faculties, was beginning to appreciate them.
There are natures who obtain information about things
through other channels than the ear only; sensitives who in-
stinctively feel the pulse of their surroundings, and judge by it
of coming events. Catherine was of these. She had scented
domestic troubles when she advised her young mistress to sub-
due her strong wish to take lessons in organ-pitying ; and Susie
was on the eve of testing the truth of such foreknowledge.
Her father, returning from his office, generally went first to
his wife's sitting-room. Susie determined one day to get a hear-
ing, and watched his coming. She followed him up-stairs soon
after his arrival, but at the door was stopped by the discordant
sounds of two voices at variance. She did not listen, but boldly
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796 Silly Catherine. [Sept.,
entered the room, and there became witness to a family scene of
which she could not just then estimate the full import, but which
pained her deeply and convinced her of the uselessness of bring-
ing her suit forward at that moment.
The dispute was about money-matters.
" You can afford to gratify all your own whims/* Mrs. Land-
more was saying. "You buy race-horses at figures that leave my
own moderate wishes miles and miles behind — "
. " Moderate wishes! A necklace costing seven hundred dollars,
to say nothing of the other baubles that are to set the jewel off!
It is unreasonable to expect me to indulge you in such ruinous
whims as these. If you had waited till after the races — "
" O dear ! waited ! Don't I know that as soon as you suo
ceed in one speculation you plunge at once into another ? "
" Well, if Viola fails me the coming month, you may perhaps
recognize your folly."
** No more folly than yours! "
Mr. Landmore gave a shrug, knit his brow, and left the
room without another word, passing before his daughter with.
out apparently seeing her. When he was gone his wife burst
into a hysteric cry, which Susie tried to soothe the best she
could. As soon as the emotion was spent Mrs. Landmore
turned to her daughter :
" How could I know that his money-affairs were * shaky,' as
he calls them ? He never tells me about them ! "
" Never mind, mamma dear. The thing is done now. We
must avoid all superfluous expenses in future.'*
The incident naturally cast a gloom over the spirits of the
whole family. It pointed to a condition of things which in the
end might prove calamitous, and served as a warning. Susie
especially took the matter to heart, and many were the talks she
subsequently had with her mother concerning household re-
trenchments.
** I think I could give up almost everything but my music
and Catherine, mamma," she said one morning as they were dis-
cussing projects of economy. " She is such a comfort ! *'
"And yet," rejoined Mrs. Landmore with unaccustomed
gravity, "she is among the superfluities of the household."
The maid's fidelity and unobtrusive affection, together with
that inexplicable sympathy which knows no barrier of rank be-
tween kindred souls, had established between her and her young
mistress a bond which each would have been loath to see sev-
ered ; yet present circumstances certainly pointed to separation.
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188;.] Silly Catherine. 797
Susie grieved over it, and Catherine, suspecting the cause of
her grievance, fell in with her feelings and silently shared her
trouble.
It was not many days before another unsuspected event
broke into the general current of affairs and for a while engaged
their attention. Catherine had on various occasions made her
young mistress the confidant of her own home affairs. Her bro-
ther had abandoned his purpose of studying for the priesthood,
and turned his attention to law. Through friends he had been
put on the track of certain circumstances connected with the
loss of the property of his grandparents, and had succeeded in
bringing to light facts which, ably managed, would ultimately
reinstate them in their own. Now there came a letter confirm-
ing all these things, and informing Catherine that she was to
consider herself a menial no longer, but prepare to return to
her native country. " In the course of a month or so I will
furnish you the funds," said this clever brother by way of con-
clusion.
"Think of it. Miss Susan! Return to Ireland!" said Cathe-
rine, with glistening eyes, when, after having read the letter,
Susie returned it to her. Surely this alone would deprive her
of Catherine, if nothing else did, thought Susie, half-sorry over a
happiness which threatened to leave her comparatively alone.
But the fastapproaching day of the races again turned the
current of her thoughts. Her father was scarcely recognizable.
Secret misgivings so altered his countenance that it became ob-
vious to all that he was undergoing one of those financial crises
that determine the career of a man. The various large sums he
had spent on the venture had been figured up by the public, and
the feeling that if his racer failed him he could not choose but
break was pretty general.
It had been arranged by the ladies, the Swinsors and Land-
mores, that they would attend the races together in two car-
riages.
" Don't count me, mamma," said Susie when the details of the
expedition were being conjointly discussed. " I shall not, I
could not, go and look on, even if I were sure of the prize."
" You foolish girl! " said her aunt^ " What good will your
staying at home do ? "
But Susie persisted in her refusal, and the sisters-in-law set-
tled the matter between them.
The strain on Mr. Landmore's nerves naturally increased as
the ominous day drew near ;. yet never did June day rise more
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798 SiLLT Catherine. [Sept,
serene — a spotless skj, a balmy warmth in the air broken by
gentle breezes. The carriage that took her mother and one of
her cousins to the field of action had driven awaj, and Susie had
gone to her room sad and lonely, scarcely knowing whereon to
fix her thoughts. Her life had been so uniformly happy that she
had never experienced that strong need, so keenly felt in times
of trouble, of seeking help at the Source of help. She was m
the habit of saying her prayers, and said them with the same
regularity and conscientiousness with which she practised her
music or performed any other daily duty ; but they lacked the
fervor which springs from the love and trustfulness of a living
faith. She sat listless. Presently a gentle step approached her
door. It was Catherine. " Come in," said Susie, answering her
knock.
"Don't grieve. Miss Susan," she said gently; "you can do
better than grieve."
" I wish 1 knew what ! I wish I could do something ! " she re-
joined, overcome by her feelings and breaking into sobs.
" You can pray, you know."
The remark fell coldly on the young girl's mind. The con-
dition of things did not seem to her to be one that called for
prayer. Pray that her father's recklessness should be crowned
with unmerited success! Pray that his tendency toward hazard-
ous speculation should be encouraged through the victory he
craved ! Such praying seemed to her bordering on blasphemy.
"No, Miss Susan," again observed Catherine, who seemed
instinctively to have followed her thought, " not that, but that
whether he win or lose — whatever befall, joy or grief — may, by
the Providence of God, be converted to his real welfare. Pray
for strength and patience to bear whatever betide. It is not
because God doesn't know what we want that we should pray,
but because our drawing near to him, as a child draws near its
father, already lifts the burden from the heart. You surely re-
member times, when you were a little girl, when at the least
hurt you would run to your mother or father, and what a com-
fort it was to nestle in their arms. Besides, drawing near God,
our Blessed Lady, and the saints brings us within holy and
helpful influences. I assure you. Miss Susan," she continued
with renewed earnestness, "I have often gone down on my
knees, all bewildered, not knowing which way to turn, and when
I rose everything lay clear before me. Prayer makes us wise."
It seemed to Susie, looking at the calm and trustful face b^
fore her, as if it really might be so.
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1887.] Silly Catherine. 799
" Come, Miss Susan, let us go out ; a walk will do you good.
The street is better than the house just now," urged the girl.
Susie tacitly assented and rose to make herself ready. Catherine
was some time absent, and when at last she came back she seem-
ed agitated. "Beg pardon, Miss Susan, for keeping you waiting
— so long — ^but — there — were — some — things to attend to."
** No matter," replied Susie ; " I didn't even know I was
waiting."
They went out. It is scarcely necessary to say that they
took instinctively the way to the church.
On the turf in the meantime there was the usual throng that
attends races : an eager crowd looking down from lightly-erect-
ed balconies, innumerable carriages, a noisy multitude closely
pressed against the barriers, intense excitement and expecta-
tion.
" Where is your husband, Mrs. Landmore ? " " Has any
one seen Mr. Landmore?" "Where's Henry?" buzzed in Mrs.
Landmore's ears, now on one side, now on another. But she
had not seen him since they had left the house. " He is certain-
ly around somewhere," was all the information she could give.
In the meantime the signals were given and the racers start-
ed.
The banker the while, though seen by no one, saw all. At
some distance from the field, standing in his buggy, he watched
the event by means of a field-glass. He saw his courser at one
moment gain on her rivals, at another lose. He listened with
beating heart to. the distant shouts of the multitude. Presently
all seemed in a whirl ; he could no longer distinguish one horse
from another, and, handing the glass to his driver, " Find Viola,"
he said. " Where is she ? "
The servant looked a moment ; then, " She is falling behind,
sir."
Mr. Landmore sank back into his seat, and, with scarce voice
enough left to give a last order, '* Home," he said, " as fast as
you can go."
When Susie and her maid returned they found the house
invaded ; the hall, drawing-room, stairs full of people. Some-
thing had happened. Forcing their way through the crowd
upstairs, they soon discovered the cause. Mr. Landmore was
stretched senseless on the floor of his dressing-room. Susie flew
to him: "Opapa!" But to her heart-rending cries there was
no answer. Her mother, panic-stricken, was dumb with grief ;
the Swinsors stood around perplexed and helpless ; and the fam-
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8oo Silly Catherine. [Sept^
ily physician, who had known her from a child, and who cer-
tainly would have spoken words of comfort had he had any for
her, was painfully silent.
Was it death, or was it not? No firearms, no trace of blood
had been found ; nothing but a small bottle indicating by its
label that the unfortunate man in his despair had resorted to a
violent anaesthetic. The question remained, How much had he
taken ?
What stern resolutions do not such moments of agonizing
suspense call forth ! Who has not once in his life, 'midst shadowy
hopes of possible escape from danger firmly resolved to avoid in
future all those slippery paths that lead to it? Fraught with
blessing often are such remorseful minutes.
Mr. Landmore lived. Science and love happily triumphed.
Nor was he a ruined man. Had he waited a minute longer he
would have seen Viola recover her ground, and with one su-
preme effort clear the distance which separated her from the
rest. Though but the difference of some seconds, it was in the
banker's favor.
" Daughter," said he, when, after that night's sleep, his shat-
tered frame and distracted mind had recovered some sort of
composure, "you must find out now who saved your father's
life. It was not our good friend the physician. When I came
from the turf it was my firm determination to put an end to ray
life. I had placed a pair of loaded pistols on the upper shelf
that runs along my dressing-room. Some one must have re-
moved them. Not finding them, I turned to the next remedy—
the bottle of chloroform in my medicine-chest. Whoever took
those pistols saved my life."
Susie was not long discovering the culprit. The deadly wea-
pons were hid away in her maid's chamber.
" Catherine, you blessed girl ! ' Beg pardon, Miss Susan, for
keeping you waiting so long; but there were some things, to
attend to.' Was that it?"
" God 'oe praised. Miss Susan ! He put it in my heart to
watch master. I gave a last look to his dressing-room before
.we went out, and — "
Two arms were forthwith affectionately cast about Cathe-
rine's neck, and a kiss sealed a friendship which was to last
through life.
A month later Susie and her friend sailed together for Eu-
rope.
C. R. Corson.
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188;.] Land, Labor, and Taxes in the La st Centur y. 8oi
LAND, LABOR. AND TAXES IN THE LAST CENTURY.
France, in the last century, saw open a new field for the
conflict of thought : the economic constitution of the state.
"About the year 1750 the nation," wrote Voltaire, "tired of verses,
tragedies, comedies, operas, romances, jromantic histories, moral reflec-
tions still more romantic, and theological disputes about grace and convul-
sions, finally went to work reasoning about grain. They forgot all about
vines to talk of wheat and rye. They wrote useful things about agricul-
ture, which every one read except the farmers. One might have supposed^
on leaving the Comic Opera, that France had a prodigious quantity of grain
for sale." ♦
The movement here so characteristically described was not
one of sudden growth, but had been slowly preparing from the
opening of the century, when Bois-Guillebert and Vauban turned
their attention to the impoverished condition of the country.
The feeling of relief brought by the death of Louis XIV. gave
to these authors a wider interest. Vauban wrote :
" From all researches that I have been able to make during the several
years I have applied myself to the task, I cannot but remark that during
these last times nearly the tenth part of the people are reduced to mendi-
city and real misery ; that of the nine other parts, at least five are not in a
condition to bestow alms upon them, because they are nearly reduced to
the same unhappy state ; that of the other four-tenths three are ill at ease
and embarrassed with debts and litigation ; and that in the remaining tenth,
where I place all the privileged by sword and robe, clergy and nobility,
men in office, military and civil, welHo-do merchants, bourgeois, those
with fixed incomes and the better-off, there cannot be counted one hundred
thousand families. I even believe it would not be an understatement to
say there are not ten thousand families who are really free from all care." t
Bois-Guillebert had combated the idea that wealth consisted
merely in gold and silver, claiming that the products of the soil
Mrere alone the real sources of wealth, and that these are devel-
oped in proportion to the removal of governmental restrictions.
He pointed out the prevalent evils in the system of administra-
tion, and the loss it inflicted on the state as well as on the pro-
ducer. In a dialogue between a farmer and the king, with whom
the former was bargaining for some Normandy land, he states
this with admirable clearness. The king is explaining to the
* Did. Pkil.y art. " Bl^" t iconomistes Financiers^ Vauban, p. 34.
VOL. XLV.— 51
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8o2 Land, Labor, and Taxes in the La st Centur r. [Sept.,
farmer the conditions to which he will be held, with a directness
not excelled by \\i^ physiocrates and philosophes of the latter half
of the century. Listen :
" When you desire to purchase a cask of wine you will have to pay sev-
enteen duties at seven or eight different offices, which are only open at
certain hours of certain days. If you fail in any one of these, whatever
delay it may cost you, the wine and the carriage which conveys it will all
be confiscated for the benefit of the official ; and I may say in addition that
their word in the matter will always be taken against yours. Again, when
you want to sell your goods at a reasonable price I shall place such a heavy
duty upon them that the purchaser will prefer seeking them elsewhere. I
shall derive but little benefit from all this, and you will lose the entire value
of your labor ; but such is our system. Often you will find it impossible
to sell your liquors, though within a day's journey they may be selling^ at
an extravagant price. But if you should be tempted by this price to take
your goods there you would find it of but little use; for the various tolls
you would find on the way, and which I have farmed out, the formalities
of which are extremely complicated besides, would make a loss to you ten
times as great as the object to me : but I am assured that it is for my advan*
tage that affairs are thus managed.
" Besides this, you will have to pay me annually a sum bearing no fixed
relation to your property, varying, for that matter, from one parish to an-
other, so that it will be most desirable for you to obtain the good-will of
the officials who assess the tax. I should advise you not to be regular
about the payment of your taxes, either, for the assessor finds it more to his
interest to engage in a good deal of litigation ; in fact, if I found that they
gathered in their taxes too easily, I certainly should not farm their collec-
tion to them on such favorable terms. It will be desirable for you to live
as meanly and economically as possible, or you will assuredly be assessed
at a higher rate ; hoard up your savings in some odd corner — be careful not
to invest them ; and for the same reason avoid laying anything out upon
your land to enrich it. ... I may mention, also, that the duties of collec-
tion, which are extremely onerous, will fall upon you every three or four
years. The farmer of the tax will hold you responsible for the amount,
and will distrain and imprison you if it is not forthcoming."
The bewildered farmer in astonishment replies :
" Sire, I presume that all you desire is to receive a certain amount of
; revenue ; now, the plan you have been describing seems to have been ex-
4)re6sly invented for the purpose of ruining yourself and me at the same
itime. Your wealth and mine can only come from the sale of the produce
of the land, and this plan makes it impossible or difficult to grow any pro-
duce. Now, I offer to pay to your majesty exactly double the sum you
ask, only p|;ovided that you will allow me to consume what I please, also
to sell where and how I please. The bargain then will be an excellent one
for me, for I shall make ten times my present profits." *
Vauban, in his work on the RoycU Tithe, is equally explicit ia
♦ DUaU ii la France {jkcon^ Financ.)^ pp. aad-ajSL
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1 887.] Land, Labor, and Taxes in the La st Centur y. 803
his denunciations of the administrative methods. Vauban sug-
gested a system somewhat similar to that of the church tithe in
England, which would remove a swarm of thieving officials who
only profited as the state suffered greater loss. His book merely
brought about the disgrace of the old marshal, and he soon died
(1707). The following extract, showing more sympathy than
moved his successors in this field of science, deserves quoting :
" It seems to me that sufficient account has not been taken in France of
the lower class of the people, and that, in consequence, it is the most mise-
rable of any in the kingdom ; and yet it is the most important of all classes,
whether you look to its numbers or the actual services it renders. It is
' the working-class that bears the whole burden of taxation, that has always
endured it, and is now enduring more than any other its weight. It is the
lower orders of the people who, by their labor and trade and by their con-
tributions to taxations, enrich the king and his kingdom. It is they who
fill the ranks of our armies and navies; to whom we owe all our home
trade, all our manufactures ; who supply us with laborers for our vineyards
and grain-fields ; in fact, it is this class who do all the productive work,
whether in town or country." *
Brave and sincere words, uttered before " philosophy " had
gained the ascendency and reduced social economy to a system
of calculations and general averages.
Under the regency several attempts were made to reform the
more glaring administrative abuses, but the exhausted state of
the treasury and the prodigality of the period compelled the
state to both increase the old and to add new taxes,t though
the general jail-delivery on the accession of a new monarch gave
a number of unfortunate tax-collectors their liberty.:}: Counting
on ** the regent's well-known weakness, some of the intendants
became only the more rapacious/' § In the cities the rapid
growth of the fever of speculation delivered society over to
'* the equality of improvidence and avarice," | until by the mid-
dle of the century the economical condition of the people was
even worse than during the middle ages.
" EA / quel temps fut jamais en vices plus fertile ;
Quel siicU d* ignorance, en vertu plus sterile.
Que cet dge nommS si^le de la raison f "
Other writers followed these forerunners of the Economists :
St. Pierre, 1713 ; Jonchere, 1720; Provost, 1733; Melon, 1734;
♦ /5iV/., Vauban, Dixme R^ys/e, p. 44. f Bonnemdre, Hist. des Paysans^ t. ii. p. 155^
X Burat, yournal de la Rigence, t. i. p. 94.
% Bonoemdre, Hist, des Paysans, t. ii. pp. i^ 177.
I Fayard, Apergu Hist, sur le Pari, de Paris, t. iil, p, 40/
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8o4 Land, Labor^ and Taxes in the La st Centur y. [Sept,
Dutol, 1738; Du Hautchamp, 1739, ^"^^ others. But not till
about the middle of the century was there what could be called
a school of economists having certain definite aims. With the
grasp of poverty in no way relaxed, and growing luxury at the
capital, there was a constant increase of the mendicant class. In
1724, **by the most moderate calculation, there were twenty-eight
to thirty thousand in the capital alone." * In 1750 it became nec-
essary to replace the old watch with a uniformed police placed
on a mihtary footing, f Self-interest alone would suffice to
arouse thought among all who had anything to lose or a pen-
sion to struggle for. The brain that was to formulate the new
doctrines was that of Quesnay, Mme. Pompadour's physician.
While giving credit to this new school of economists for di-
recting attention to serious evils, think not that we shall find in
their works any of the sympathy we have seen in Vauban ; on the
contrary. They were philosophes. I do not propose to critically
examine their works further than, as briefly as possible, to show
that, to use the words of Mignet, " all the systems of this epoch
were open highways leadmg to a revolution.":!: An earlier
writer of far different temperament, the Abb6 St. Pierre, in a
very cloudy work on Perpetual Peace ^ filled with fanciful reason-
ing, had, indeed, very clearly depicted the evils of society, and,
.as he thought, attacked the evil at its root by demonstrating that
war was the great scourge, and insisting that as in all well-organ-
ized states it was interdicted between individuals, between fami-
lies and even communities, so also was it necessary to extend the
interdiction to states themselves. Like the first work of Montes-
.quieu, it was a new departure from the beaten paths of thought,
but it left an idea behind it — a protest against force, a plea for
orderly development. In 1718 he still further shocked prejudice
by issuing another work of such grave import that it was thought
sufficient to warrant his expulsion from the Academy. He not
only sought to discuss reform in state administration and modify
ministerial power, but he attributed existing evils directly to Le
Grand Monarque himself. Like his successors, Montesquieu and
Voltaire, he never dreamed of departing from monarchical meth-
ods, but the suggestion of even putting new wine into old hot-
tle^ indicated that these methods were already in the crucible of
criticism.
We see, therefore, that the mind was never in a more propi-
tious mood for economic reforms, or more disposed to push criti-
* Duclos, MfmoireSy t. li. p. 31. + Droz, Regfu de Louis XVI.^ p. 6c
\X Notices HistoriquBS^ t. i. p. loi.
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188/.] Land, Labor, and Taxes in the Last Centur y. 805
cism to its farthest limit, than when Quesnay took up the subject.
But Quesnay and his fellow p/ij^siocrates prided themselves on
being eminently practical. Previous writers had mingled feel-
ing with reason ; henceforth they were to be divorced, and intel-
lect alone was to be the guide toward social renovation. A pro-
test had been slowly formed against the protective measures
which had received such an extension under Colbert's ministry
in the preceding century. Many authors had shown where the
rewards had gone of that magnificent development of "industrial
prosperity" which Colbert had fostered. Individual fortunes
and court splendors had been the pecuniary result on the one
hand, and a greater social misery on the other. The growing
spirit of antagonism to old methods, the revolt of the head
against the heart, so characteristic ot that age, we naturally ex-
pect to find manifested in opposition to the principles by which
Colbert had been governed. Not only would this logically foU
low from the nature of the case, but still more from the fact that
such a course would be in accordance with the spirit of the age
— false individualism.
•* The French manufacturers,** says Blanqui, " soon grew to
consider as a right the protection which had been accorded them
as a favor; and what, in the thought of Colbert, ought to be only
temporary, became in their eyes permanent." *
Privilei^e is never surrendered without a struggle ; and when
this conflict, heretofore mainly theoretical, became applied to the
economic constitution of the state, and doctrinaires sought to
extend theory to practice, we find the worm-eaten structure
given over to new dangers. The Economists, under the lead of
Quesnay, made war upon the old methods created by the na-
tional passion for centralization, by raising the opposing standard
of " liberty.*' The increasing pauperism of the kingdom, keeping
pace vvith industry, filling France with indigence, opened a new
grievance. The poor were set at work under the whip to help
defrav their maintenance, while the guilds deemed this an in-
frin^ 'mcnt of their privileges and protested vigorously.
**Liws, it is said, cannot equalize men," writes Sir James
Mackintosh. ** No ; but ought they for that reason to aggra-
vate the inequality which they cannot cure ? Laws cannot in-
spire unmixed patriotism ; but ought they for that reason to
foment that corporation spirit which is its most formidable
enemy ?" f
This was the thought that moved Quesnay to found a new
♦ Histoire de P^con, Pal,^ tip. 375. t VindictB Gallicct^Works^ vol. iii. p. 35*
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8o6 Land, Labor, and Taxes in the La st Centur y. [Sept.,
economic school, and which manifested itself in the ministry of
his disciple, Turgot. He regarded the productions of the soil
as the exclusive source of wealth ; the actual products of the
earth constituting the subsistence of a people, on which all else
depended. To render a state prosperous, therefore — and mate-
rial prosperity was assumed to include happiness and social mo-
rality — we should relieve agriculture from all restraints. When
the net product, or revenue of the proprietor, ceased to be suflB-
ciently remunerative to bear taxation, agriculture stops and states
decline. The end of enlightened government, therefore, is sim-
ply to increase the net product, for all articles of subsistence
when dearest in the market tend to increase Xki^ average wealth of
the state. The proprietor will not become attached to the soil
unless it can be made a source for individual profit. The higher
the price he can obtain for grain — that is, the dearer bread be-
comes — the better his fields will be cultivated and the more pros-
perous that abstraction so constantly set against the individual—
the state. It was, however, assumed that indirectly this would
develop industry and secure social welfare.
To secure this there should be but one tax, and that on land.
I might almost say it was ** the unified tax on land values " now
undergoing discussion. Interest on capital, and profit through
combination, might remain unmolested. Ignoring these, Ques-
nay and his school struck at rent alone, holding that where land
is brought to its highest degree of development general wealth
and prosperity must needs ensue, and its gifts and abundance
through free exchange, under wise governmental restrictions (J\
disperse its benefits over the whole nation, the manufacturer no
longer needing special protection, and the artisan earning higher
wages to pay for his dearer bread. We find Quesnay, and logi-
cally, restricting the productive class to cultivators, terming all
others a sterile class. Society was to be built anew with the
landed proprietor or lessee at the top, and liberty was to re-
place all restrictions which tariffs or taxes imposed ; those inci-
dental to industrial or financial ** combines ** not being deemed
worthy of attention.* All taxes being placed on land, the pro-
prietor or holder would seek by every means in his power to
increase his net product. How prevent his efforts from becoming
oppressive ? Simply by according the same liberty to all other
landholders — free-trade in direct productions of the soil. So-
ciety was to be based on ** enlightened self-interest '* regulated
by competition. This school made imports to be proportioned
* PhysiocrateSy Quesnaj, edit. Daire.
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1 887.] Land^ Labor, and Taxes in the Last Centur y. 807
to the average revenue, thus violating their own theory of com-
mercial liberty : instead of being proportioned to value, the tax
was, in effect, placed on the labor expended. But the results
would not have justified their sanguine hopes. Inferior lands
would require an outlay much more expensive in money and
time, and, however much value might be disowned as a basis, this
outlay would necessarily reappear in the basis of taxation. Be-
sides, money, not being subject to competition, might vary in
quantity from reasons which unified taxation would be power-
less to affect, and thus directly influence the value of time or
labor. The dream was a grand one, but the application was nar-
row and limited. " It was privilege they aimed to strike, but it
was labor which received their blows." *
Gournay, starting from another point — manufactures — arrived
at similar conclusions in regard to commercial liberty, and the
same hatred to arbitrary exactions and prohibitions ; and about
the same time, 1755, demanded free exchange in all commercial,
manufacturing, and industrial pursuits, and formulated the maxim
on which modern economics are based : Laissez /aire, laissez
passer — to use a free translation, Hands off ! let well enough
aloae !
The free-trade school was born. Individualism had reached
the fullest development consistent with respect for monarchical
institutions. To the proprietor and the entrepreneur it said, what
has since become the golden rule of political economy : Every
man for himself. Unfortunately, it said the same to the artisan
and laborer, whose only share in " liberty ** now lay in freedom
to compete with hungry fellow-toilers for sufficient to insure
subsistence. Turgot united these two wings of the same school,
and added, in 1776, the fundamental doctrine of capital, which
alone can render labor productive, and which, as has been said,
is to the generation of wealth what steam is to the production of
motion.
In their writings the Economists favored absolute power to
promote their idea of liberty ; " they confided society without
reserve to a tutelary authority, without other guarantee than
the evidence of natural law, which the sovereign power, they
said, could not violate without destroying itself." f It was re-
liance on the infallibility of intellect checking the sentimental
dictates of feeling. Tear down all barriers, leave trade free, and
production will regulate itself. Conrpetition will regulate sup-
♦ Tonim, La Question Sociale^ p. 174.
t Janet, Hist, de la Science Politique^ t. ii p. 685.
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8o8 Land, Labor, and Taxes in the La st Centur y. [Sept ,
ply and demand on the one hand, and the price of labor through
human necessities on the other. But, that this might be accom-
plished, they took strong ground for the maintenance of an ab-
solute paternal government to suppress any popular reluctance
to accept enforced "liberty." They denied the old and preva-
lent theory that the right of property, as to individual or particu-
lar ownership, was derived from government ; it existed, they
said, before government, which could only confirm it, having no
sovereign right over it, being its creature. It was individual,
they affirmed, in origin, in use, and in application ; hence the
function of the state was to guarantee and maintain these primi-
tive rights.*
Under Colbert the middle class had gained strength ; many
had acquired immense wealth and fortified themselves in privi-
leges which, while protecting them, necessarily entailed restric-
tion on the many. They had been burning their candle at both
ends. In protecting self at the expense of others they struck a
blow at the organism whose functions they were presumed to
serve. • P^rin says :
" In the times when industry was little advanced, justice imperfect and
insiifficient producers, being allied in industrial communities and mutually
self-supporting, afforded to each other a mutual guarantee against the
abuses of liberty. Liberty would have benefited only the strong, and
would inevitably have become for the great number only oppression;
more, they found in their united and co-ordinated effort the means of per-
fecting their work, which otherwise, isolated and left to themselves, they
had been incapable of attaining. Individualism is one of the great dan-
gers of growing liberty, as well as when liberty has reached its last con-
quest." t
In the eighteenth century protection — enforced, not associa-
tive — had lost its saving features ; the middle class were no
longer confined to the guilds, and felt able to stand alone, inde-
pendent of the working-classes. Destroy the barriers to free
exchange of products, became their rallying-cry, and let all who
have capital enter the race ; the strongest will win, and if the
weak fall others will take their place. Economists then, as now,
could demonstrate how national wealth would increase, and cal-
culate from census returns how much that economic, mythical
being, the " average man,*' would receive for his labor.
In Turgot the Economists found a man of the highest ability
to carry their ideas into the ministry of a weak king. In his
draft of the royal edict suppressing the guilds we have a full-
• Janet, Hist, de la Science Politique, t. il p. 699. \Dela Richesse, t. i. p. 306.
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1887.] Land, Labor, and Taxes in the Last Centur y. 809
length portrait of the restrictioas on industry imposed by cor-
porations, and displaying their sinister features to the gaze of all
France.* His arguments are now commonplaces ; at that day
they were hotly disputed. The preamble alone was in itself a
pamphlet ; it was a lesson in economics and a defence of liberty
addressed by a monarch in a state paper to public opinion.
More, it was liberty defended by the champion of absolutism, in
which conclusions could be read between the lines of far greater
moment to " national prosperity *' than a discussion of trade mo-
nopoly. This the parliament saw, and it opposed the edict, ar-
raying itself on the side of established interests, f though assum-
ing to defend the people.
What grand day-dreams were these to give to a people
awakening from the lethargy of ages! No more restrictions,
no more barriers between communities, between nations ! All
men are brothers, all have an equal right in the struggle for ex-
istence! But,ialas! it but remained a dream. The roseate pic-
ture the land-reformers and trade-reformers outlined for France
had great weight in fostering those dreams of equality after-
ward so prevalent ; but dear experience brought the laborer to
the conclusion that his freedom did not consist in freedom to
toil so much as in freedom to compete for the opportunity to
enjoy that boon, and that capital, free from legal restraint and
" enlightened " by self-interest, proved anything but a true sa-
viour.
In the past the state had fostered monopoly in industrial re-
lations ; while production under this policy had increased both
in quantity and quality, it had filled the coffers of a privileged
and selfish few. Distribution, the other arm of industry, was
left in an atrophied condition, rendering all healthful exercise of
social functions impossible. Partial competition and a selfish in-
dividualism were powerless to bring about what earlier writers
had foreshadowed in their bright vision of commercial freedom.
There were not wanting writers who, in frankly admitting
all the benefits of unlimited production, yet feared its excesses
when enlightened by self-interest alone, and shuddered at
thoughts of sudden revolutions in conditions of life, causing
temporary deprivation of whole communities of the means of
labor, and their extinction or misery while awaiting readjust-
. ment on a new basis. Turgot hart made two fnistlkes, fatal alike
to the monarchy and to the people, but they were the mistakes
of his school : " he believed that economic reforms could pre-
♦ Turgot, CBhvtss, t. ii. pp. 303-3x1. f Fayard, Le ParUment de Paris^ t iil p. 267.
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8io LAND^LABORyAND Taxes mTHB Last CEtfTURY. [Sept,
cede political ones, and that both could proceed tog-ether."*
The opponents of his school were not less devoted to the cause
of reform, but they demanded radical changes in the adminis-
trative system as a prerequisite condition. " Men will insure a
vessel against tempests," replied Abb6 Galiani to Turgot, " but
they have not yet imagined the insurance of a train of carts
against a subdelegate or intendant";t and he pointed out the
much greater difficulties in the way of interior than in foreign
exchange. Galiani's great object was to make interprovincial
commerce no less profitable than foreign trade : " I hope to sec
the equality of imposts, uniformity of tariffs, a general code
established, and divisionlines between provinces abolished." t
He held that the state not only had the right but that it was its
duty to inquire into the well-being of its citizens : " Why leave a
city, in matters of provisions, to individual interests more than in
matters of defence? "§ Commerce in prime necessities of life,
he argued, needed some restriction to prevent self-interest endan-
gering social interests, rejecting the assumption that commercial
liberty would provide its own checks. It is necessary, he urges,
to know in advance all expenses, all risks, then both good com-
missions for the trader and the general welfare can be preserved ;
but with uncertitude and risk, when commerce becomes indivi-
dual speculation, decided by the amount of capital in reserve, it
can become a plague. \
But it is unnecessary to continue extracts from an argument
between free-traders and protectionists ; every decade since has
seen the battle waged with undiminished vigor. Galiani and his
friends foresaw the possibility of a civilization wherein human
beings might become reduced to the level of tools, adjuncts of
a machine fully as intelligent and less unreliable than human
muscle; they saw cities crowded with a permanent pauper
class under the regime of land taxation, condemned to excessive
toil, working for bare subsistence, with health broken by ex-
haustion, leading to premature old age ; they foresaw this idea
of selfish liberty extended to morals by a system which brutal-
ized the mind of the unsuccessful by the hard conditions of
their lives, and the successful by building their success on their
shrewdness in taking advantage of the necessities and the dis-
tress of others. Nor would the evil stop there ; for in handing
over society to the purely egcftistic dictates of self-interest, in*
* Lavergne, Les Assemblies Provinciales^ Preface.
t Milanges <P&con, Pol.^ Dialogue viii. p. 196. | Ibid. p. 165
$ Ibid. Dialogue ii. p. 25. . | Ibid. p. 1813.
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1 887.] Land, Labor, and Taxes in the Last Centur y. 811
seeking social evolution through the agency of capital direct-
ed by the intellect alone, feeling, that other side of human na-
ture, becomes dormant, is stigmatized as *' sentimentalism *' ; and
the much-vaunted industrial prosperity, as seen by comfortable
self, proud in intellectual strength and acumen, appears a social
chaos to those animated with the genial glow of human feeling.
What these Economists could not foresee, because the Catholic
Church could not have produced it, was the appearance of
Malthus, a Protestant clergyman, incorporating into political
economy most of the evils of pagan civilization, and affirming
as a natural law what is now known as the Malthusian doctrine
of population. They dreaded a state wherein the mass of work-
men, though released from one form of oppression, and even
under the flood-tide of a high national prosperity, would still
be condemned to labor at subsistence rates, while the least na-
tural or artificial check would inscribe their names on the parish
register as paupers and consign multitudes of them to paupers'
graves,
" Unwept, unhonored, unsung."
They dreaded to see the artisans and peasants year after year
augmenting the ranks of day-laborers, from which escape lay
not in moral worth but in natural shrewdness, enabling one to
climb over the prostrate bodies of his fellows, and in so doing
but press them deeper down in bodily and spiritual degradation.
Yet protection was also warfare ; each protected industry
was an entrenched camp in society, its soldiers hirelings fight-
ing for the glory and advancement of their officers. Could af-
fairs be bettered and durable peace obtained by a general arma-
ment of certain industries and a condition of economic civil war
in which each man's hand was turned against his neighbor?
If universal, protection ceases to protect, and when discrimi-
native* it necessarily implies corresponding restriction. Were
there not important factors which both sides ignored ? In
brief, capital, that necessary and potent instrument of civiliza-
tion, was to be handed over to selfishness, while feeling, ex-
cluded from its province of social direction in moralizing it,
was but to exert that indirect influence which could not be al-
together repressed. Political economy was to say to man:
** Seek first the kingdom of self, and all else shall be added unto
you." Your interest you will find at your rival's expense ; you
will find it in making the most lucrative conditions you can with
those who wish to serve you, whether it is a matter of buying
from them or of getting them to work for you. It may be that
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8i2 Land, Labor, and Taxes in the Last Century. [Sept,
you will reduce them to misery, perhaps ruin them, perhaps de-
stroy their health or their lives. That is not your affair: you
represent the interests of consumers ; for as each is consumer
in turn, you represent the national interest — the interest of all.
Listen, then, to no consideration, let no pity arrest you ; for you
may have to say to your rivals : Your death is our life ! *
But the opponents of unlimited exchange in the eighteenth
century were not themselves free from dealing in abstractions,
and displayed but little knowledge of the true foundations of
society. Society was to be divided into three classes, they said,
outside of the privileged orders: landed proprietors, capitalists,
and wage- laborers. The first would furnish land, the second
employment, the third labor. The first receive rent, which
under taxation would be reduced to its minimum by forcing
"commons "and unoccupied land into use; the second receive
interest and profit, against the increase of which no guarantee
was offered ; the third remain subject to the law of wages, with
which class philosophes had but little sympathy. In fact, Vol-
taire, in criticism of Rousseau, expressed the general feeling
when he wrote :
" By the people I mean the populace, which has but its hands to live
by. I doubt whether this order will ever have the time or the capacity to
instruct itself. When the rabble begins to reason all is lost. I have never
pretended to enlighten shoemakers and servant-maids."
However, here and there one seems to have discerned that
this new power. Capital, must for self-protection in the end
break away from the laissezfaire route and combine into syndi-
cates, thereby creating monopolies as crushing in their grasp
and as relentless in their pursuit of surplus value as any which
they had supplanted. Wherein, then, would lie social relief?
Should we extend liberty or restrict it? In the middlfe ages
individualism had thrown power into the hands of the strong,
modified only by the moral influence of the church ; in the
eighteenth century it had converted the guilds into monopolies,
and was transferring power to the worshippers of Plutus, where
such a modifying influence as religion was, from its nature,
powerless.
A century has intervened under the guidance of the princi-
ples of commercial freedom, and we are again facing the ques-
tion of monopolies ! It becomes a vital question whether eco-
nomic competition and legislative restrictions, under a system in
« Sismondi, J^conomie Politique, t. i« p. 30.
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i88;.] Land, Labor, and Taxes in the Last Centur v. 813
which moral restraint is wanting, do not tend to the opposite
of the roseate picture drawn by theoretical limners. " Indus-
trial wealth," says a conservative French writer, '* continually
tends to concentrate in a small number of hands, and to create
with the high manufacturing barons, if I may use the expression,
a multitude of proletaires. The law does not accord a monopoly
to the large manufacturers as against the smaller ones, but in fact
the larger capital of the first gives it to them." *
As this article is devoted to the past century rather than to
criticisms of present theories, we need not concern ourselves
with ever-new panaceas, which may, however, be traced directly
to the schools we have been considering for their genesis. Still,
certain reflections naturally arise in the mind. Is the mere in-
crease of wealth the end, even material, of social effort, or a means
toward the well-being of all men ? No. Economics should have
for its object not alone the abstract production of wealth, but its
more equitable distribution. The progress of society is not best
subserved by an economic system in which the man is lost in the
operative, where women and children become his competitors
in the struggle for existence, and whose professors are content
with statistical proof of the condition of the " average " toiler.
Poverty may be unavoidable ; not so widespread misery. The
deprivation of the necessaries of life by sordid speculation, in-
volving the weakening of the moral and physical forces of man,
social degradation and criminality, and the shortening of lives
co-extensive with the growth of princely fortunes, betoken a state
of civilization in which are active forces dangerous to future
peace. Yet economists stijl discuss free-trade and protection, or
hold up quack nostrums as free-trade in land and its products
only, cheap money, or that worst of all despotism, state social-
ism!
France to-day has made enormous strides in production ; the
products of the soil in the first half of this century had increased
over one hundred per cent.,t while land had more than trebled
in value since 17894 Since 1850 the change is even in a greater
ratio, and all economists admit the increase in the cost of living.§
Yet what of the cities? To what point can pauperization go be-
fore becoming dangerous to society ? Social economy is content
with statistical averages, and cries, Laissez passer !
Before concluding let us briefly glance at the law of wages
which our doctrinaires have done so much to establish. The
♦ Villcrm^, Etat des Ouvrstrs, t. il. p. 301. f Modeste, Du Pauperisme^ p. 48.
X Ibid, p. 35. \ P6rin, De la Rickesst^ U u. p. 79.
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8 14 LANDy Labor, and Taxes m the Last Century. [Sept.,
selling value of the laborer's work determines the maximum of
wages ; but this is seldom the sole consideration of the employer.
** * How much can I give him ? ' is his first consideration, but * How
much less can I make him take?* is generally his second."* The
eighteenth century, in its mad haste to free itself from all re-
straint, including moral, formulated a system in which this be-
came inevitable. Turgot did for France what Adam Smith «3ld
for Great Britain. Each independently followed nearly the same
path, and elaborated the aspirations of the middle class into an
economic code — a code which their successors have been pleased
to regard as an elaboration of natural law. Smith clearly stated
that the tendency of wages under the laissez-faire theory would
be to settle to that point which would procure subsistence for
the lower orders, and that degree alone of comfort which soci-
ety recognized as indecent for them to be without That is, the
level of wages would be the cost of maintaining the dead level of
animal existence; the directing force in society — self-interest-
would hold laborers down to a standard which could only be
raised by the undirected force ! Turgot is equally explicit. He
said :
"The mere workman, who has but his arms and his industry, has no-
thing but his labor to sell to others. He sells it for more or less ; but this
higher or lower price does not depend upon himself alone, it results from
the agreement he makes with him who pays for his labor. The latter pays
as little as he can, and, as he has a choice among a great number of laborers,
he prefers him who works for the lowest price. The workmen are then
obliged to lower their price from opposition to each other. In all kinds of
labor it must happen, and it does happen, that the wages of laborers are
limited to what is necessary for them."t
Certainly not wanting in frankness ; but the economists who
founded the modern schools, like the high-priest of " Reason,"
Voltaire, did not ** pretend to enlighten shoemakers^ and servant-
maids." Modern authors show that the wage law laid down by
Turgot prevails : " Let him eat potatoes instead of bread, let him
wear rags instead of clothes, and his wages will immediately
regulate themselves to what will suffice for his existence." %
** Wages are in strict accordance with the most urgent necessi-
ties of life." §
Thus, starting from hypothetical liberty, its advocates led to
results that deny liberty, in effect, to workmen. The edict abol-
♦ Leslie, Land Systems, p. 372.
t Iji Formation et la Distrihutton des Rtckesses, 8ect.6..
X Si«nondi, ikamomie Politique, t.iK fw ai^ I P^A> D§^la'Rictmse^M U. p* 691
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1 887.] Land, Labor, and Taxes in the La st Centur y. 815
ishing the tradtjurandeSf or guilds, to which reference has been
made, said:
" These abuses have been introduced by degrees : they were
originally the work of individual self-interest that established
them against public interest. . . . The source of the evil is in
the facility itself, granted to artisans of the same trade, of assem-
bling together and uniting in one body." Consequently when
these pseudo-friends of liberty possessed the power, in 1791, to
suppress them effectuallj% we notice without surprise that the
second section of the act read as follows :
" Citizens of the same state or profession, contractors, those
who have a public shop, workmen and journeymen of any art
whatever, cannot, when they are assembled together, either name
a president, secretary, or syndic, keep a register, make decrees
or deliberations, or form rules concerning their pretended com-
mon interests.** *
Such has been the result of the dream of liberty : liberty to
struggle, to wrangle, to fight, alone remains. As a logical con-
sequence escape lies only in combination, and on the one side we
have trade-unions, torn in great part by intestine discord, strug-
gling against fate for mere material advantages, and on the other
associated capital governing the operation of demand and sup-
ply, and both insensibly drifting, in their struggle for vantage-
ground, to the despotism of state socialism and the quagmires of
communism. To avoid this otherwise inevitable result but two
methods remain — either |p return to the moralization of capital
by just laws, associating duties with rights, or proceed Niagara-
ward by an indefinite extension of liberty, proclaim the gospel of
selfish individualism and social anarchy.
Dyer D. Lum.
* Tonim, La Quistiott Sociaie^ p. 37.
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_y^
8i6| iJT ^OMAN IN Early Christianity and [Sept,
^t WOMAN IN EARLY CHRISTIANITY AND DURING
^^ THE MIDDLE AGES.
An article in a recent issue of the Forum, entitled "For
Better, for Worse/' contained the following passage :
"Early Christianity, while raising the woman to the level of being 'one
flesh ' with the man, held her to be absorbed in him as ' bone of his bone
and flesh of his flesh/ giving her few or no rights of her own. Only oi late
years has she been recognized as a separate entity, with feelings, duties,
rights — man's partner and helpmeet, but in no sense his slave, as she really
was throughout all the middle ages of Europe, though ostensibly treated
as a goddess. Now public opinion has changed."
Now, a statement like this, which brands sixteen centuries of
Christianity, would seem to demand some display of authorities.
But no authority is given. The writer has simply followed the
old custom of maligning certain characters, certain institutions,
certain epochs in history. Generally the early ages of Chris-
tianity, the ages of " pure " religion, have been spared, and the
weight of calumny reserved for the mediaeval times and for that
church which, single-handed, fought the battle of civilization
amidst the jar and tumult of nations. But the writer from whom
we quote has an aspersion even for priniitive Christianity.
Akin to this custom of perverting listory is another which
reigns among the disciples of the so-called philosophy of history.
It is that of tracing all the good iivlnodern society to the Protes-
tant Reformation. A mighty ch^sip is there supposed, dividing
the modern world from former times, in order that the " philo-
sophic historian " may please himself with the illusion that a
fresh intellectual life then began — a fresh civilization with no
trace or influence of what went before it, save the hated memo-
ries of lessons learned and never to be repeated. But more
easily create man himself anew than create a civilization inde-
pendent of the past. Civilization is not, like clothing, to be put
oflF and on at pleasure. It is the growth of centuries, often
retarded by what seems to help. I have mentioned these two
customs more especially because the)%ire really the crutches
on which the statement quoted in the beginning comes limping
before the public.
Now, of all the changes which Christianity wrought in pagan
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1887.] DURING THE MIDDLE AGES. 817
society, there is none more potent than the elevation of woman.
Paganism looked upon woman as vastly inferipr to man. Even
Plato said : '' The souls of men shall be punished in the second
generation by passing into the body of a woman, and in the third
by passing into that of a brute." A woman was merely " goods
and chattels, first of father, then of husband." Contempt is the
word which expresses the feeling of paganism for woman. Then
Christ appeared, proclaiming all equal before God without dis-
tinction of sex or condition, and this doctrine laid the axe to the
root of woman's degradation. The doctrines of the Christian
Church with regard to virginity and marriage were at first
mighty levers to raise up woman, and afterwards pillars of
strength to support her in her new elevation. Above her so
long prostrate form rose Mary, the ever-blessed Mother of God
— a woman made superior in dignity to men and angels. Virgia
and mother at once, in her was found the perfect model for vir-
gins and for matrons. There is no virtue so becoming to a
woman as modesty, whose root is purity. Now, virginity is the
perfection of modesty. The church promoted virginity by
every means in her power. She taught that it was the more
perfect state, in accordance with the words of St. Paul : " He
that giveth his virgin in marriage doeth well, but he that giveth
her not doeth better.** She urged her children to embrace the
state of virginity. She consecrated their entrance into it by
sacred ceremonies. She surrounded that life with honors and.
privileges, and guarded %ose who chose it with a jealous care.
The subtle influence of virgfinity pervaded society and aflFected
either sex. It reclaimed woman from a life of degradation, and
inspired man with a higher feeling for her. By teaching woman
modesty it gave her power. By secluding woman modesty made
her more sought after; by veiling her it made her more admired..
Moreover, by opening up a new avenue of existence to woman,
virginity rendered her still more independent of man, still more
the object of his solicitude.
In her doctrine on marriage Christianity maintained the sanc-
tity, the unity, the indissolubility of the marriage-tie. She insist-
ed on these three conditions at all times and for all persons, and
by her firmness in upholding them added another element ta
woman*s dignity. Marriage became a sacrament, a holy thing,^
instituted for providential ends, producing grace, and figuring'
the union of Christ and his church. This teaching tore awajr
sensuality and selfishness, and placed woman in a purer atmos-
phere and on a higher level. ^The doctrine of the unity of mar-
VOL, XLV.— S3
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8i8 Woman in Early Christianity and [Sept,
riage fixed woman's position in the home and invested her with
a dignity which nothing else could give, while that of its indisso-
lubility checked the vagaries of man's heart and put the seal of
permanency on the rights of woman.
Thus we see that the absorption of woman was characteristic
of paganism. It had no place under Christianity. Woman was
man's equal. But equals commingle. Only the greater absorbs
the less. Among the pagans woman existed only for man. She
was the instrument of his pleasure, the complement of his lower
nature. But under Christianity the doctrine that Christ died
for all made man look upon woman as his equal. The practice
of virgpinity clothed woman with a mysterious p)Ower that d^
manded respect. The doctrine of marriage fixed the place of
woman in the family and became the very corner-stone of Chris-
tian society. Christianity pointed to a world beyond the tomb,
a state in which there would be "neither marrying nor giving in
marriage,*' to attain which woman must needs have n^ts inde-
pendent of man. Woman was to be weighed no longer in the
scales of passion, but in the balance of the sanctuary.
Following this social elevation accomplished by Christianitj
came the legal emancipation, which paganism had always refused.
Constantine recognized the civil rights of women as equal to
those of men, and the legislation of Justinian effaced the last
traces of their former servitude. ** The amelioration in the lot
of woman," says M. Laboulaye, " is evidently due to Christian
influences. It was not by an insensible modification that the
Roman laws came to that. Their principles involved no such
consequences. It was by an inversion of legislation that Chris-
tian i^eas were inaugurated and secured to the mother a just
preponderance. This legal revolution, which dates from Con-
stantine, was the consecration of the g^reat social revolution which
had commenced three centuries before."
Time wore on. Wave after wave of barbarians rolled over
Europe and bore with them the remains of Roman greatness.
The world was sinking again into barbarism when the powerful
arm of the church was outstretched to its assistance. The Ca-
tholic Church grappled with those rude children of the forests,
subdued their passions, tamed their wild spirit, softened their
ferocity, refined their manners, moulded their savage life into the
elements of a grand Christian civilization. She fought again her
battle for the elevation of woman, with the same weapons but
not with the same adversary — not against the refined sensuality
of Rome, but against the wild 'passions of roving barbariaos*
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1887.] DURING THE MIDDLE AGES. 819
The result was the same. With all the terrors of her spiritual
power, with all the influence which circumstances gave her, the
church forced kings and feudal lords to respect the sanctuaries
of virginity and to content themselves with one wife only.
Were it not for the church every castle might have been a
harem, and woman again the slave of passion instead of the
mistress of man*s affections.
M. Quizot bears testimony to the position of woman in the
middle ages, though he attributes her elevation to the wrong
cause. He says :
** The chief, however violent and brutal his out-door exercises, must
habitually return into the bosom of his family. He there finds his wife and
children, and scarcely any but them ; they alone are his constant com-
pan ions ; they alone divide his sorrows and soften his joy^ ; they alone are
*" interested in all that concerns him. It could not but happen in such cir-
cumstances that domestic life must have acquired a vast influence ; nor
is there any lack of proofs that it did so. Was it not in the bosom of the
feudal family that the importance of women, that the value of wife and
mother, at last mad^ itself known ? In none of the ancient communities,
not merely speaking of those in which the spirit of family never existed,
but in those in which it existed most powerfully — say, for example, in the
patriarchal system — in none of these did women ever attain to anything
like the place which they acquired in Europe under the feudal system."
And who that has read history can doubt the spirit manifest-
ed by chivalry to woman? Chivalry did not elevate woman — it
found her already elevated ; it was but the expression of the
lofty if sometimes exaggerated feeling of society toward woman.
The sole thought of the knight was duty and gallantry, as the
sole inscription on his shield was ''God and my lady.*' William
Robertson, in his history of the reign of the Emperor Charles V.,
speaks thus of chivalry : "To protect or to avenge women, or-
phans, ecclesiastics, who could not bear arms in their own de-
fence; to redress wrongs and remove grievances, were deemed
acts of the highest prowess and merit" Much of the honor
women receive in modern society may be traced back to the
middle ages and to the spirit of chivalry called forth by the
church's attitude toward woman. Says the same author :
" Perhaps the humanity which accompanies all the operations of war,
the refinements of gallantry, and the point of honor— the three chief cir-
cumstances which distinguish modern from ancient manners — may be
ascribed in a great measure to this institution, which has appeared whimsi*
cal to superficial observers, but by its effects has proved of great benefit^to>
mankind/'
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820 Woman IN Early Christianity and [Sept,
The poetry of the period resounded with the praises of wo-
man, while in the daily walks of life she was treated with a
respect which our day might well emulate. A charming sim
plicity, a modest familiarity, an ascendency willingly conceded,
marked the relations of woman to man. Washington Irving
often recalls and praises these characteristics, still found in
Spanish society ; for, of all European countries, Spain retained the
ancient customs most intact and was least aflfected by novelties.
Defenceless women on the roadside were treated with the ut-
most courtesy, and, if need be, protected for the rest of their
way. In Scott's poem. The Lord of the Isles^ we read of such an
action on the part of Bruce :
" Robert I I have seen
Thou hast a woman's guardian been !
Even in extremity's dread hour.
When pressed on thee the Southern power.
And safety, to all human sight.
Was only found in rapid flight.
Thou heard 'st a wretched female plain
In agony of travail-pain.
And thou didst bid thy little band
Upon the instant turn and stand,
And dare the worst the foe might do.
Rather than, like a knight untrue,
Leave to pursuers merciless
A woman in her last distress."
The alarming frequency of the murders of unattended feoiales
in our day does not show well in comparison to the protection
of such afforded by the middle ages. Deeds of blood done in
Orange, Long Island, Hackettstown, Mount Holly, Rahway are
still fresh in our minds. Do they prove that woman is gaining
in the respect of man ?
In the middle ages marriages were not formed from mere
mercenary or ambitious motives. The woman's worth, not the
worth of her property, was looked for and won her suitors.
" Down to the fourteenth century in France," says Kenelm Dig-
by in his Mores Catholiciy " the dowry of women was a chaplet
of roses ; the fortune of men was their worth, their heroism,
Iheir spotless honor, or even their learning and wisdom." How
different in our times ! Such was woman in the middle ages,
^* but now public opinion has changed." Alas ! public opinion
has changed. The change dates from the Reformation. Mod-
esty received a blow when Luther tore Catharine von Bora from
the seclusion of her convent-cell. Marriage received a blow
Digitized by
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1887.] DURING THE MIDDLE AGES. 821
when Luther winked at a plurality of wives and opened the
door to divorce. We soon perceive the effects. We see the
Landgrave of Hesse Cassel, less the hypocrite than Luther,
coming to church with a wife on each arm. Luther allowed
them to him only in private. We see Henry VI IL with his
many wives, his hands dripping with the blood of several of
them. We see John of Leyden taking fourteen wives, and as-
serting that " polygamy is Christian liberty and the privilege of
the saints." We see Milton writing a book in advocacy of
divorce. Says the Rev. Morgan Dix in his lectures on the
'* Calling of Christian Woman " :
" There can be no doubt as to the genesis of this abomination. I quote
the language of the Bishop of Maine : ' Laxity of opinion and teachings on
the sacredness of the marriage bond and on the question of divorce orig-
inated among the. Protestants of Continental Europe in the sixteenth cen-
tury. It soon began to appear in the legislation of Protestant states on
that Continent, and nearly at the same time to affect the laws of New Eng-
land. And from that time to the present it has proceeded from one de-
gree to another in this country, until especially in New England, and in
States most directly affected by New England opinions and usages, the
Christian conception of the nature and obligations of the marriage bond
finds scarcely any recognition in legislation, or, as must thence be infer-
red, in the prevailing sentiment of the community."
Early Protestantism sowed the wind ; modern society is yet
reaping the whirlwind. Thus far public morality has in general
been better than the principles on which it is founded, society
better than its religion. But we are fast rushing into the de-
gradations of paganism. Woman is losing her modesty and be-
coming the prey of man's passions, instead of being the honored
object of his pure love. Woman is forcing herself out of her
sphere, and precipitating a conflict which must hurl her back
into the slough from which Christianity raised her. Divorce is
lowering her dignity and sapping the very foundation of society.
The wife is no longer sure of the husband's love. She seeks to
avoid the pains and obligations of motherhood. She will not
brook the restraints of a family. A home which may be broken
ufj to-morrow has no charms for her. What hope is there for
woman and for society, save in that church which, having
fought their battle with polished paganism and with untamed
barbarism, has alone in our days the courage of her convictions
and the will to apply them to a decaying civilization ?
William P. Cantwell.
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822 Marguerite. [Sept,
MARGUERITE.
"Yes, my dears, I am an old woman now, with white hair and
a bent frame, fit for nothing, my grandchildren think, except to
g^ve presents and to tell tales ; but, though it may surprise you,
there was a time when my hair was as brown as little Jenny's
and my form as straight as pretty Marguerite's. Indeed, I was
only her age, with a heart as light and a laugh as guileless,
when my first great trouble came upon me, and if you will
draw your seats cosily round the fire I will tell you about
Granny's first grief.
** You have often heard me say that my mother was a great
invalid, and it was for her sake that we lived in a quiet little
village in Hertfordshire — she and I, and my brother Guy, a
handsome lad of twenty-four, whom we both worshipped as
women-folk are apt to worship those spoilt idols of clay.
" Not that Guy, up to the time I am speaking of, had ever
gfiven us a moment's trouble ; he was straightforward and
honest, scrupulously just, hard-working and devoted to his pro-
fession ; and if he was a trifle selfish and exacting — well, it was
our fault, for we literally immolated ourselves for his comfort.
Guy was short and dark, with a massive forehead and square-
set jaw, bright brown eyes, and shapely hands and feet. He
was never a great talker, and, brother-like, disdained to take
much notice of me, so many years his junior ; judge, then, my
surprise and delight when one sunny morning in May he pro-
posed, rather sheepishly, to take me out for a drive.
" Did I tell you that Guy was a doctor, and was at that time
medical assistant to Dr. ? It was to visit one of his pa-
tients, ten miles off, that Guy was going to Henford ; and, as
it was a lovely day, he said he would take charge of me and
bring me back safe at night. Of course I hailed the proposition
with rapturous delight, and chatted gaily to my dear mother
as she carefully wrapped me up ; for the wind was still in the
east. I shall never forget the glory of that day, or the beauti-
ful look of pride on mother's face as she stood in the rustic
porch and waved adieu to her boy and girl. The birds sang
up in the deep, dark blue of the sky as if enraptured at their
own melody ; the luscious breath of spring animated the air,
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188/.] Marguerite. 823
lilacs blossomed, hawthorns bloomed, pale, delicate laburnums
drooped at their own beauty.
" How full of life all things seemed ! The lambs frisked un-
checked ; the foals gambolled, still weak on their thin legs ; and
the cottage urchins, innocent of school-board and lawS of com-
pulsion, ran hither and thither, tossing their sun-glinted heads,
ignorant that life held anything more important for them than
the capturing of a butterfly or the taming of a squirrel.
** Guy made several spasmodic attempts at conversation
with a forced gayety very unusual to him, and at last he re-
lapsed into silence. I paid little heed, for I supposed he was
deep in thoughts of his profession, and nothing could damp the
elasticity of my spirits. Too soon for me the spire of the white-
washed church of Henford came in sight ; a little later and we
rattled over the antiquated cobblestones that formed the pave-
ment of this old-world village.
" I basked contentedly in the sun while Guy visited the pa-
tient, watching the pony flick her ears and listening to the
drowsy hum of the bees. I believe I was more than half-asleep
when Guy reappeared and apologized for having been so long.
For my part, I thought he had only been away ten minutes.
** He said he was sure I must be hungry, and that the best
thing we could do was to drive to The Albion, have our din-
ner, and then stroll about the village and see what there was
to be seen.
'* I cheerfully acquiesced, and he turned the pony's head. As
we jolted slowly towards the modest one-storied hostelry I was
struck by the unusual appearance of life and bustle in the gene-
rally drowsy villagers. They moved about more briskly, the
women nodded meaningly to each other, the men hurried their
movements, the little ones munched their pasties in the gardens
with eyes bright with expectation. I was curious to discover
the cause, and, looking round, saw great yellow placards disfigur-
ing sheds and barns :
" ' Afternoon Performance.
MARGARITA, THE CELEBRATED LION-TAMER, *
Will enter the Lion*s den
AT
Three O'clock Precisely.
' Etc., etc., etc'
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824 Marguerite. [Sept.,
'* The glaring boards seemed to blot out the sunshine and
were a blur on the beauteous face of nature. I turned away
disgusted, feeling as if something had occurred to disturb the
previous harmony. I found Guy staring at the boards with a
strange fascination. He whipped up the horse impatiently when
he saw that I was watching him, and muttered 'Outrageous!*
below his breath. We dined pleasantly in the low, black-pan-
elled parlor ; when our repast was over Guy asked me what I
would like to do.
" I had nothing to suggest, for I had seen the church and
knew the neighborhood too well to care to take a ramble.
" ' Well,* he said, rather nervously, * there is nothing for it;
we must go and see the show.'
" Secretly wondering at my brother's strange taste — for in
those days, my dears, a show was considered a low place — I fol-
lowed him out into the scent-laden air, down a narrow street
where the cottages terminated at a village green. On this green
were pitched the tents of this travelling menagerie ; the heavy
red and green vans were in one corner, and a large canvas had
been erected in the middle of the green, within which were
benches and a strong iron railing protecting the centre ring,
where the ground was plentifully strewn with sawdust. Al-
ready the people were crowding round, pushing their way
through the narrow entrance.
•* Guy seemed feverishly eager to obtain a good position.
Holding me by the arm, he hustled his way through the throng
and succeeded in getting two prominent seats. As for me, I
was sorry to leave God's air and sunshine for this over-packed,
stuffy tent, and I watched the first part of the performance me-
chanically, as a man entered the arena successively with a danc-
ing bear, two monkeys, and a meagre camel.
"The people apparently enjoyed their tricks, but I was just
on the point of begging Guy to take me from this stifling atmos-
phere when a bell was rung, silence fell upon the crowd, and a
thick curtain dropped from a strong cage on wheels that had
stood unnoticed close to the exit door.
" The cage contained a monstrous lion, lying curled like a
cat asleep. It was a splendid animal, but I shuddered at its
strength, and involuntarily crept closer to Guy, who, to my
surprise, was trembling too.
" A moment more and another curtain drew back, soft music
began to play from behind the scenes, and Marguerite, sweet
Marguerite, entered.
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1887.3 Marguerite. 825
" O children ! can I describe to you what she looked like the
first day I saw her ? I will try ; but remember, I loved her after
as a dear sister, and I treasure now her love for me as a pearl
beyond all price.
** She was tall and slight, with a pale, oval face, pearly teeth,
and long eyelashes. Her eyes — how can I describe her eyes ?
They were large, and liquid, and brown, and oh ! so sad, so
wondrously sad ! She was got up in rather a theatrical manner,
dressed in a robe of purest white confined at the waist by a
golden belt ; her long brown hair floated to her knees, and in her
hand she held a golden wand. Her movements were peculiarly
slow and graceful. She walked rather as if she were asleep or
under the influence of some spell.
" Spellbound and breathless we watched her as she bowed to
the audience, then mounted the steps which led to the cage.
She entered, and, kneeling down, put her arms round the mon-
ster's neck in the prettiest attitude imaginable. Still to the
sound of the same weird music, she rose, and, speaking low- to
the lion, seemed to compel him to do her bidding. At her com-
mand he crouched at her feet, raised himself on his hind paws,
and laid his head on her shoulder.
" Then, still keeping her eyes fixed steadfastly upon him,
and walking backwards, she descended the steps slowly, walked
round the arena, and entered the cage again, the lion following
her like a dog.
" I was trembling from head to foot ; the dim light, the in-
visible music, and above all the extraordinary sight made me
feel as if I too were under a spell. Surely they were both en-
chanted, this Una and the beast. She moved as in a dream,
never once looking at the audience or taking her eyes from the
monster, whilst he went through the performance languidly,
unwillingly, as if forced by an unseen power.
" I was glad when the show was over. We waited till the
crowd had dispersed, then followed them outside. In the broad
daylight I saw that Guy's eyes were bloodshot and his cheeks
haggard, and he looked about him as one stunned.
" * The light dazzles me,* he said confusedly, and he put his
hand to his head as if in pain.
" ' Will you come with me or wait outside? ' he asked presently,
" * Don't leave me,' I answered pleadingly ; ' that lion has
made me afraid.'
" ' Poor, foolish May ! ' he replied kindly. * Can you under-
stand, then, a little of what I have to suflFer?'
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826 Marguerite. [Sept,
" Wondering at his enigmatical words, I went with him to
the extreme corner of the green, where a spacious tent had been
erected. He pulled back the flapping curtain, as if secure of his
welcome, and we entered.
*' Marguerite was sitting on a low stool by the fire. She had
changed her white garment for a gray woollen gown, and coiled
her beautiful hair round and round her shapely head ; but the
change only enhanced her exquisite refinement of feature and
perfect symmetry of form. Nodding to a middle-aged man, the
only other occupant of the tent, Guy walked straight over to
Marguerite, and, bending, whispered something in her ear.
" If I had been blind before, I saw it all now. Those great
eyes raised so lovingly to his told a tale, and the sudden rush of
color to the pale cheeks betrayed that this was by no means the
first time they had met.
** My first sensation was one of indignant anger. I had been
tricked here to see these play-actors exult over their victim.
But I could not behold the maidenly deportment of the girl or
note the quiet independence of the man without feeling that I
was letting prejudice usurp my judgment. 1 resolved to control
my feelings, and, under the mask of polite indifference, discover
what I could of this strangely lovely girl who had cast a thrall
upon my brother. I entered into conversation with the man,
and found him nothing loath to talk of his beloved daughter.
She never had been like other girls, he said ; she liked when she
was little to hide in the woods and talk to the birds and make
pets of wild animals. She learned to understand their ways, and
seemed to make them feel that she was one of them. His wan-
dering life prevented him giving her a proper education, for he
would not let her go to school, so she grew up among the birds
and flowers, guileless and free as they ; and, seeing her marvel-
lous power over animals, he had turned it to account, and trained
the beasts to obey her and let her be their queen.
" * And are you not afraid of them ? ' I askftd.
" ' No,' he said. *She has them perfectl^r under control. But
her nerves are so delicately sensitive that I keep her carefully
from anything likely to cause her acute pleasure or poignant
pain ; for if she gave way to any violent emotion her whole
system would be disturbed and her singular power would van-
ish/
" I gazed with even more interest on the frail tenement which
held so strange an influence. She looked as if a breath would
blow her away.
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1887.] Marguerite. 827
" I longed to ask how she and Guy became acquainted, but
loyalty to ray brother sealed ray lips, and, catching his eye at
that moment, we rose simultaneously,
" He took Marguerite by the hand and brought her to me.
" ' My little sister,' he' said, * I want you two to be great
friends/
** She bowed with quiet dignity, and it was I who grew con-
fused.
" ' Marguerite will walk with us to the edge of the green,'
Guy said to her father, looking so radiant that I hardly knew
him. for the same man.
" * To the edge and no further,* her father replied. * Your
visits, sir, disturb her and render her unfit for her work.'
'* Guy gave her an anxious look, but her serene smile re-
assured him, and we walked on, she between us.
" * Did I not manage it cleverly? ' he asked her exultantly.
" ' Yes ; but do not come again,' she said in her sweet, low
voice. * Miss Leslie, you must persuade your brother to keep
away when I appear in public'
** * Why ? ' I asked, a little defiantly, for their happiness jarred
on my isolation.
** She blushed. ' Because I cannot concentrate my attention
fully if I know that he is there.'
"* But you did not know,* he interrupted blissfully.
" * I might another time.'
" * You won't have to appear many more times,' he said. ' I
was in such agony all the time.'
"Then they dropped their voices and I lost what passed.
** We parted, she with a wistful look at me as I bowed stiffly —
for I could not quite forgive her yet — and he kissing her openly
and calling her by every endearing name. She sped swiftly
away when he released her, while I thought my brother had
taken leave of his senses.
" I walked up and down till the trap was ready, indulging
many a bitter thought at Guy's duplicity. Besides, my pride
was hurt at his intending to ally himself with a * lion-tamer's
daughter.' What would our mother say?
" Guy helped me into the trap, and we started off at a brisk
pace. Not a word was spoken till we had left the village
far behind and a level bit of road lay in front. Then Guy
broke the silence and began. What did he say ? Ah ! children,
what do all young men say when they are madly in love for the
first time? He raved of her virtues, her beauty, her awful life.
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828 Marguerite. [Sept,
He told me of their first meeting as he was fishing one day in
the wood, and he heard her singing to the birds while she
gathered wild flowers by the brook. He told of how long it
took to woo her ; and she might have been of royal blood, so
proud was his tone as he told me that at last she had consented
to be his wife.
" His wife ! I started. Had he foreseen all the obstacles?
" Yes, and he recounted them to me that soft spring twilight
as we passed hedge and tree and sleepy hamlet in the fast-falling
darkness.
"She was utterly uneducated, he knew that; she could
neither read nor write, for all attempt to study had disturbed
the even poise of her nerves which was so essential to her lot
in life. She knew nothing of religion; she had never been bap-
tized ; but — and Guy's voice grew tremulous with emotion-
would I not help him here?
"She was willing to learn, she was anxious to be taught
Would I not help to bring a soul to God ? And when once
we had made her a Catholic he would arrange that she should
be placed somewhere for a year where she could learn what
was absolutely necessary. And for the rest, could he wish her
any different from what she was?
" Guy's reasoning was specious, and I shuddered as I thought
of her soul. I was only sixteen, remember, and proud of his
confidence ; so I agreed to keep the matter secret for the pre-
sent, and to do what I could to convert her.
** For the first time in my life I felt ashamed to kiss my mo-
ther, for I had never had a secret from her before. Children,
always tell all to your mother ; she will comfort as none other
can in the day of sorrow.
" The menagerie came shortly to our village, and I had no
difficulty in seeing Marguerite often. The more I saw of her
the more I loved her, she was so sweet and pliable, so grateful
for any little attention. I never saw any one more fervent in
embracing religion. She was quite greedy for knowledge, and
often put my tepid faith to shame. Our friendship ripened into
the warmest attachment. This lovely, frail, delicate thing seemed
possessed of a soul endowed with the keenest sensibility. Far
from believing now that Guy was ruining himself by a marriage
so much beneath him, I often found myself wondering if he was
able to appreciate the rare delicacy of mind, the subtle springs,
too intangible to be defined, which were the motives of her ac-
tions.
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1887.] Marguerite. 829
" He loved her now ardently, I knew ; but would his love
stand the test of her beauty criticised mercilessly, her accent
maligned, her gestures ridiculed ? For she was different from
others of her sex, superior far, but yet not like them. And men
are so afraid of appearing singular; they must admire what
others admire ; they can only esteem where others esteem.
" How fervently I prayed that nothing might break her
sweet trust in him ! Sometimes I feared that she felt also what
I have endeavored to put into words ; for sometimes the eyes
were full of a wondrous sadness pitiful to see.
" ' What is it, Marguerite? * I inquired one day when we had
been silent for a long, long time.
"' I was thinking,* she replied, 'perhaps it would have been
better for Guy if we had never met/
" * Are you tired of him ? '
" The nearest approach to a smile that ever crossed her fea-
tures illumined her face for a moment. She said softly, clasping
her hands :
" * No, May ; but suppose he got tired of me ? '
" ' How can you think anything so base?' I exclaimed.
" * Would it be base ? He might not be able to help it.
When I have to mix in society he will find me so different
from others.*
" * Only at first. Marguerite.*
" She gently shook her head.
" * No, always. May. I have known it since I first knew you.'
"•How?*
'' ' I cannot tell ; you all dress alike, talk alike, think alike.
If I wore your things I should not be like you.*
" * No ; a great deal better and prettier,* I answered evasive-
ly, for in my heart I understood her only too well.
** * But,* and her face brightened, ' I will tell my trouble to
Grod. He knows what is best.* And, pulling out some white
beads I had given her, she began her rosary.
" Sometimes the thought struck me with terror that she was
what people call * an innocent * ; and then I rejected the idea, and
blamed myself for being worldly and wishing her to know as
much wickedness as myself. Time passed, and her father com-
plained that she was losing her interest in her art ; that, instead
of singing to the birds, she was praying by herself ; that the
beast grew restive under her control, and that he feared she
would lose her influence altogether. This determined me to
hurry the day of her reception ; after that we were to acquaint
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830 Marguerite. [Sept,
our mother with Guy's engagement, and Marguerite was to be
a lion-tamer no more.
" All was arranged. We three drove into early on Eas-
ter morn, and I stood sponsor to Marguerite, who begged to add
the name of Mary in baptism. What a happy trio we were that
day ! Never had she looked so ethereally lovely, angelic in her
white robe of innocence. Guy could not keep his eyes from her
face, and before we left in the evening we paid a visit to Our
Lady's altar, and they plighted their troth anew kneeling at
Mary's feet.
*• Easter Monday was fair-day with us, and Marguerite's fa-
ther had begged her so hard to appear just that one night that
she could not bear to refuse him, knowing what a pecuniary loss
she would be to him. It was decided, therefore, to postpone
the disclosure to my mother till next morning, so that we could
say honestly she had given up her old life.
"* Mind you keep Guy out of the way,' she said to me the
night before. * I lose my self-control entirely if I know his eye
is upon me.
" * Do you feel nervous ? ' I asked.
" * Not generally, but if I think he is there something stronger
than myself compels me to raise my eyes, and then — I am lost'
" * What do you feel like during the performance? '
" * Simply as if I were walking in my sleep. I do it all me-
chanically. I can't feel or think ; when I do either, my power
goes.'
*' * May / come ? '
" ' Yes, dear little May ; only keep your brother away.'
" ' That's more than I can manage,' I said laughingly, as 1
left them to have a very tender good-night.
*• The next evening, at the appointed time, I was at the place
with my maid. It was crowded, and it was with difl5culty we
obtained seats.
" There was the lion's cage with the curtain before it, but
how much had happened since I had seen it before ! The show
commenced, but, as on a former occasion, I paid no heed to the
bears or monkeys.
" Again a bell rang and the curtain fell.
"The beast was pacing bis cage and looked anything but in
a good humor. Marguerite approached, radiant with loveliness,
her eyes shining with a happy lustre, her cheeks tinged with a
rare pink.
" She entered the cage*and made the lion go through his ctt^
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188;.] Marguerite. 831
ternary evolutions. Then she paused, hesitated an instant, then
opened the cage-door and walked slowly down the steps.
"This feat she had omitted of late since her power had
weakened. But to-night she seemed confident in her own
strength. The animal growled low, and I saw her father look
anxiously from his post. Still she persevered ; keeping her eyes
steadily fixed on the animal, she slowly beg^n her circuit.
** Instinctively I felt some one behind me, looked up, and be-
held Guy. A cold shudder ran through me ; harm would come, 1
felt sure. Slowly, slowly she approached me, so near I could
have touched her skirt, so near that I saw an electric thrill pass
through her slender frame. She raised her eyes, saw Guy,
smiled. The animal with one bound sprang on her, and she fell.
" An unearthly cry arose, but it was from Guy as he rushed
to the spot, but not before four keepers had dragged the furious
beast from the prostrate body of the girl.
" For she was dead ; our sweet, pale Marguerite had gone to
heaven in her baptismal robe. The shock had killed her instan-
taneously, for there was only a slight flesh«wound on her shoul-
der where the animal's claw had gripped her.
" What happened after I can hardly tell. I know it was Guy
who took the lifeless form in his arms and carried it to the tent ;
I saw him bending over it, .kissing the dead hands, stroking the
dead face, till the doctors removed him by force. I know ray
mother never left him the whole night through as he raved
in his fruitless remorse. It was my dear, unselfish mother who
charged herself with the funeral and had her buried as Guy
would have wished under the willows in our own God's Acre.
It was she who was present at the requiem Mass and stood by
her son's side when he, as chief mourner, knelt at the grave,
" And then we all went abroad, aind Time, who heals all things,
assuaged his grief and taught him to bow beneath God's will.
But to the day of his death he was faithful to his first love ; no
one ever took the place of his May Marguerite."
Darcy Byrn.
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832 Catholics and Civic Virtue. [Sept.,
CATHOLICS AND CIVIC VIRTUE.
In speaking of the labor troubles which agitate the country,
Cardinal Gibbons not long ago referred to the demands of our
laboring-men for a more equitable share of the product of their
labor, and warmly recommended their protection by legislation
from the unjust exactions and aggressions of certain capitalists
and monopolists. For this wholesome advice Cardinal Gibbons
merits the thanks of every true patriot, of every friend of justice
and fair play. His noble words should inspire every Catholic
layman of influence throughout the land to lend his aid in the
passage of such laws as will be fair to all and burdensome to
none. It is no less our duty as Catholics than it is our right as
citizens to join in any movement having for its object the welfare
of our fellow-citizens, the peace and good order of society, and
the advancement of the nation which gives us security, happi-
ness, and liberty. The troubles among our laboring-men are
taken advantage of by socialistic agitators, and there is danger
that many who think themselves unfairly treated under the exist-
ing order of things may become infatuated with the teachings of
Carl Marx, Frederick Engels, Ferdinand Lasi^lle, and other agi-
tators.
We are now about to enter upon that stage of our national
development which will require the combined wisdom of the
ablest, wisest, and most unselfish men of our country to guide
successfully the destiny of the republic. One immediate dan-
ger closely associated with that of the labor troubles is the
universal system of corrupting public officials which prevails in
our great cities. Capitalists combine for private gain, and in a
wholly unscrupulous manner obtain, by means of bribery, from
the chosen servants of the people franchises and rights that be-
long only to the public, and which should be used for the benefit
of the people or held in reserve for posterity. So general and
systematic has this system of corruption become that even the
necessities of the poor are taken advantage of, and needy men,
who would cast honest ballots if let alone, are tempted into sell-
ing their votes, thereby electing bribe-takers to office, disgrac-
ing their manhood, and injuring their country. Inoffensive and
simple-minded workmen are at first induced by ward politicians
to perpetrate election frauds which, if made public, would con-
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1887.] Catholics AND Civic Virtue. 833
sign them to the penitentiary. Many of the young men of our
ciiies as they grow up are lured away from useful and honorable
occupations and mustered into the service of professional poli-
ticians for the accomplishment of grave political crimes. In this
way entire wards and whole divisions of our great cities have be-
come the prey of ballot-box stuffers and a paradise for repeaters.
It is a notorious fact, also, that the growing disregard for law
and order which we notice on every hand in our large cities
arises from the fact that many of the officers of the law are thus
elected by wholesale bribery and fraud. Recent exposures of
political crimes, and the conviction of some of the perpetrators in
New York and elsewhere, show that what is here affirmed is not
only not exaggerated, but falls far short of the whole truth. It
cannot be said, either, that the perpetrators of these crimes belong
to any particular class of society. The rich, in possession of an
ample share of this world's goods, seem to be as much desirous
to purchase the people's rights as are the politicians to sell them.
In fact, a large share of the money with which politicians carry on
caucuses and elections, and control voters, is furnished by the rich^
who want special franchises, in return for their money, from our
boards of aldermen, commissioners, and State legislatures. If
this condition of things goes on much longer, public office, in-
stead of attracting the best men of our country, instead of com-
manding the services of men whose patriotism and virtues and
mental endowments would be an honor to us, will be invaded by
a horde of tricksters and impostors ; at the present rate things
are going, legislation of every kind will soon be a matter of bar-
gain and sale. Finally the government, whose existence in a
republic depends upon the virtue and good order of its citizens,
will not long survive these methods of legislation. To permit
our political system to be even slightly tainted with these vices
is to invite political decay and national death. It is a wholesome
sign that justice has overtaken some, at least, of those who have
betrayed their trusts and robbed the people. It speaks well,,
too, that wealth cannot shield the guilty and that the full penalty
of the law is being meted out to the rich and poor alike wha
have brought such odium upon our public service.
He is a real benefactor to our country who assists in any
effort tending to teach the rich and poor alike that their com-
mon interest and the national safety depend upon the swift pun-
ishment of crimes against our laws. But upon the inculcation
and practice of public virtue among the people everything de-
pends ; and the exaction of an upright and faithful public service
VOL. XLV.— 53
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834 Catholics AND Civic Virtue. [Sept.,
from those who are elected to public office is necessary for the
peace and good order of society and the permanence of our
government.
The duty of the Catholic citizen in this emergency is plain.
In this country, at least, where religious freedom goes hand-in-
hand with political liberty, he has a free scope and fair oppor-
tunity to show the faith that is in him. As an appreciator of
those fundamental laws of our land which for ever guarantee re-
ligious liberty and political equality, the Catholic citizen should
be foremost in defending them from the evil influences which
seek to destroy their usefulness, contaminate our political sys-
tem, and threaten its very existence. If the Catholic citizen acts
consistently with his religious principles he will be the model of
political virtue to his fellow-citizens. He will show that he con-
siders the proper performance of his duty as a citizen a sacred
obligation. If he is a poor man, no matter how tempting the
offer of money or other consideration for his vote may be, he
must know that its acceptance is not only a grave offence against
the state, but a crime against his religion as well. If he is a rich
man, and takes advantage of the necessities of the poor, and by
an oflfer of money or by intimidation induces or coerces votes,
he must be fully aware that he himself is far more guilty than
the deluded and unfortunate victim of his corruption. If he is
a public official, into whose hands the people have committed
the custody of the public welfare and the enforcement of our
laws, the bribe-taking Catholic ought to know that, deep as
may be the disgrace thus brought upon himself, and great as
may be the injury to the community, they are trifling when
compared to the enormity of such crimes in the eyes of his
church and of his God.
To speak plainly, no man, whatever may be his name or pre-
tensions, can be guilty of such acts as these and be a practical
Catholic. As a matter of fact, those nominal Catholics who
perf)etrate them scarcely ever enter the doors of a church or
pretend to practise their religion. Their only use for it is to
masquerade behind it for their own base political purposes.
Catholic citizens whose consciences are guided by their re-
ligion and who lore the institutions of our country should lose no
time in calling to their aid men of integrity and intelligence, and,
uniting with every honorable movement, seek to purify the public
morals of our great cities and restore to them that good name
which has been so long tarnished by political rascality.
P. T. Barry.
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i887.] A Chat about New Books. 835
A CHAT ABOUT NEW BOOKS.
Mr. H. Rider Haggard still retains his place in the estima-
tion of novel-readers. His latest book, Allan Quartermain, is di-
viding the honors with Bret Harte's Cruise of the Excelsior. A
curious thing about Allan Quartermain (Harper & Bros.) is that
it is dedicated to Mr. Haggard's sons, " in the hope *' that it may
help them " to reach to what, with Sir Henry Curtis, I hold to
be the highest rank whereto we can attain — the state and dignity
of English gentlemen." W^hen we consider that the book is the
record of the impossible adventures of a murderous savage, and
that the end accomplished by Sir Henry Curtis is marriage with a
barbaric princess of doubtful religion and morality, we wonder why
the Arabian Nights might not just as well be recommended to
boys as a means of advancement towards English gentlemanhood.
Mr. Haggard's great hold on the public may be attributed to
the boldness with which he takes old travellers' tales and changes
them in the alembic of his imagination to things strange if not
new, and, it must be confessed, to his use of the sensuous ele-
ment. Mr. Haggard's characters are animal and v^nidealized —
particularly the females who appear in his pages. In Allan
Quartermain this element, particularly dangerous to young peo-
ple, is more restricted than in She^ but nevertheless is entirely
too predominant. It is singular, too, that Mr. Haggard's know-
ledge of literature is so limited. He seemed to be ignorant of
the existence of Moore's Epicurean when critics suggested that
She resembled it; and in Allan Quartermain he anticipates cap-
tious remarks by saying that " there is an underground river in
Peter Wilkins, but at the time of writing the foregoing pages "
he had "not read that quaint but entertaining book." This
eflTectually closes the critical mouths open to devour this au-
thor who takes "his own" wherever he finds it. His next book
will probably be an account of life in a kingdom of African
apes, when he will inform us in advance that he has never seen
Les Aventures de Poly dor e Marasquin^ by L6on Gozlan. Allan
Quartermain justifies its motto, " Ex Africa semper aliquid noviS'
It is full of wonders and of horrors. It has no literary merit-
Neither She nor King Solomon* s Mines nor Allan Quartermain will
be remembered two years from this year of grace in which
many thousand copies of them have been sold. Mr. Haggard's
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836 A Chat ABOUT New Books. [Sept,
books are as full of impossible adventures as the novels of Alex-
andre Dumas, and in their sensuous flavor are — with the excep-
tion of King Solomon's Mines — even more pernicious.
Two novels, The House of the Musician, by Virginia W. John-
son (Boston : Ticknor & Co.), and Friend Sorrow, by Mrs. Aus-
tin (New York : Catholic Publication Society Co.), have the
same motive. In both, the usual detestable male creature who
does not know his own mind falls in love with one sister, and
then retumbles into love with the other. It is time that the
writers of fiction discovered a new species of hero. One grows
tired of the bold, bad, Rochester-like person, and also of the
limp hero who would, in affairs of the heart, " be happy with
either, were t'other dear charmer away." Gerard Grootz, in
The House of the Musician, is what the Dutch call a " stork child.'*
His adopted parents find him at their door one day, and they
support him, somewhat grudgingly when their own brood ap-
pears, until a traveller discovers his talents as an artist and takes
him into the great world. In Venice he sees the daughter of
the original of a wonderful picture that had entranced him.
She has lost her faith and hope because an Italian officer, find-
ing that her father had committed suicide without leaving her
a dowry, has deserted her. Gerard paints her picture, and is at-
tracted by her sister, Bianca. But Marina fancies he loves her.
She discovers her mistake and commits suicide, like her father.
Gerard finds out that he was mistaken, too, but amiably marries
the other sister, while a still earlier flame of his bursts into view
for a while. The story is well told, with poetical feeling and a
quick appreciation of the picturesque. A modern scene in Ven-
ice is thus suggestively sketched :
" The pageant was a serenade in honor of a prince travelling incognito,
and when the music ceased a discreet patter of applause from a balcony
testified the approbation of the royal party. Then the orchestra breathed
forth fresh strains of Wagner, Verdi, and Donizetti, the lights shifted from
pink and blue to emerald fires, with starry reflections, and the crowd of
spectators on quay, bridge, and in the thronging boats burst into a rapture
of responsive admiration. Surely here was an expiring gleam of former
magnificent hospitality, in keeping with the faded loveliness of the city ; or
were the tinsel draperies and cheap lamps to be accepted as emblematic of
modern and inevitable change ? The prince on the balcony yonder, a stout
and commonplace gentleman in a black coat, had arrived in the coup6 of a
daily train, instead of on board a galley manned by four hundred oarsmen,
and followed by other craft resplendent with tapestries, armor, and the
cloth-of-gold, as Henry III. of France once came, sweeping past the Arch
of Triumph at San Niccol6 del Lido, designed by Palladio and painted by
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Tintoretto and Paul Veronese. The queen, a cheerful and dumpy little
woman in an ulster and brown straw hat, has been sketching on the la-
goons all day instead of appearing in state jewels on the Bucintore in
company with the doge and dogaressa, like Bianca, bride of Francesco
Sforza. The Tunisian ambassadors, in cream-colored burnous and fez,
have come to witness the launching of an iron-plated corvette and fetch
the king some Arab steeds, with ultimate project of establishing a line of
steamers between Tunis and Italian ports, instead of being feted by the
Venetian Republic for three months, as were the Tartar emissaries of by-
gone centuries, and laden with gifts of swords, pearls, brocade, and velvet
for the Great Mogul."
Both in The House of the Musician and in Friend Sorrow the
musical element is prominent, and both authors speak of the vio-
lin in rapt admiration. Ever since the author of Charles An-
Chester called the violin " tfte violet of instruments " it has per-
meated novels. Luigi Pastorini, in Mrs. Austin's novel, is a
musician, a Catholic, who plays in the Anglican village church.
He despises conventionalities and the ways of the world, and
he has a mother, whom Mrs. Austin calls** Madam," who goes
regularly to Mass. Why Pastorini, who is an Italian, should
drop into French now and then, and why his mother, who
is also Italian, should insist on talking about the ^«r/ and vie d' ar-
tiste, the author does not explain. Chaperon, too, which means a
hood, and ought not to appear in the feminine gender, floats
airily and frequently through these pages as chaperone. Sir
George Hanmer falls in love with Ethel Merton, a poor but aris-
tocratic young English girl ; but her sister Kate induces the
young man to transfer his attentions to her. Then Ethel be-
comes devoted to "Friend Sorrow," but is gradually consoled by
Luigi Pastorini, whom she marries in the end, becoming a con-
vert to the church just before this event. Kate secures the va-
cillating baronet, who marries her in a state of doubt and with
** a strange look in his eyes." Luigi and Ethel are happy. "And
when, in witnessing the struggles and the sufferings of others,
their hearts failed them and their faith grew weak. Friend Sor-
row was still at hand to whisper to them of another life, when,
in the glorious light of a new dawn, the mysteries of this world
shall be made plain, and Sorrow herself shall fade away among
the shadows and be merged into the perfect day."
Friend Sorrow is reproachlessly printed and bound. It is a
moral and mildly interesting story. It is intended for Catholics,
and therefore the very good heroine is converted at the proper
time. Nevertheless it is only one of those many colorless
stories with which English writers and American publishers are
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838 A Chat ABOUT New Books. [Sept,
deluging this country. With the same material Mrs. Oliphant
would have created living and breathing people where Mrs.
Austin gives us only puppets. It is a pity that the literature
supplied to Catholics by Catholics is so rarely, in these days, of
the highest order. Friend Sorrow^ though commonplace, is not
ridiculous. This is a great gain.
Jacobis Wife^ by Adeline Sergeant (New York: Harper &
Bros.), shows promise. The personages in it are similar io
character to those in Friend Sorrow. They are mostly fools.
There is a villain — Constantine Valor — who is consummate ; and
in the prologue to the novel, where he refuses to save his child's
life, the author shows herself capable of forcible dramatic writ-
ing. His wife is well drawn; but the good young Englishman
who gives up everything to save hit irredeemably wicked bro-
ther, the good young Englishman's better friend, and thereat,
are tiresome. One feels that they ought to be killed ; but when
they are married, the effect is the same — for the novel ends. In
Jacobins Wifey as in The House of the Musician, there is a Catholic
woman whose faith has been dimmed by her sorrows. A little
closer study of Catholic life would convince these writers that
women cling closer to the cross when the crosses of their life are
heaviest and their reiterated prayers j/^w unanswered.
Edmondo De Amicis, the well-known Italian writer, has written
a book called Cuore, a sentimental record of school-life for boys.
It aims to substitute for God a dreary kind of a goddess called
Italian Unity. Fortunately, there are Italian writers for youth
who are at once Catholic and interesting. De Amicis is neither.
The little Italians, according to him, find their only amusement
in reading ** monthly stories " about Garibaldian patriots. Occa-
sionally there is a grand patriotic function in some civic hall,
when the syndic and the mayor, in a tri-color scarf, bless the
school-children, who weep. The book is one that ought to make
any well-regulated child shudder and thank Heaven that mock-
patriotism is not his daily food. Compared with English books
of school-life — such as Tom Browns ScJwol Days at Rugby and
Canon Farrar's jEr/V — Cuore is a poor thing indeed.
These famous English books for boys are not to be unreserv-
edly praised. Tom Brown's Rugby is probably a Rugby that
never really existed, and the muscular doctrine it teaches by no
means the summum bonunt of human life. But there is a manli-
ness in it which we do not find in Edmondo De Amicis's Italian
schoolboy's journal. It is as full of sentimental spasms as if a
young Rousseau had written it. If De Amicis's book reflect the
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iSb;.] A Chat ABOUT New Books. 839
school process of Italy, it shows that the teachings of Christian,
ity are rapidly giving way to the doctrine that while there may
be a God, there is certainly Italy. This is part of the Italian
school- boy's act of faith :
" I love thee, my sacred country I And I swear that I will love all thy
sons like brothers ; that I will always honor in my heart thy great men, liv-
ing and dead ; that I will be an industrious and honest citizen, constantly
intent on ennobling myself, in order to render myself worthy of thee, to
assist with my small powers in causing misery, ignorance, injustice, crime
to disappear one day from thy face, so that thou mayest live and expand
tranquilly in the majesty of that right and of thy strength. I swear that
I will serve thee, as it may be granted to me, with my mind, with my arm,
with my heart, humbly, ardently ; and if the day should come in which I
should be called on to give my blood for thee and my life, I will give my
blood, and I will die, crying thy^oly name to Heaven and wafting my last
kiss to thy blessed banner."
There are pages after pages of this kind of bombast. Chris-
tian teaching and morality are left out. It seems to be under-
stood that Italians who worship Italy will need no other incen-
tive to clean living. God is a vague being, in these patriotic
eyes, occasionally invoked. A mother recommends her son to
pray ; she does not say precisely to whom. ** When I behold
you praying,** writes this modern Italian woman, " it seems im-
possible to me that there should not be some one there gazing
at you and listening to you. Then I believe more firmly that
there is a supreme goodness and an infinite pity.*'
This sort of neo-classic counsel may help to produce Mirabeaus
and Charlotte Cordays, but never honest Christian men and wo-
men who believe that Christ has saved the world. Our Italian
boy would disdain to murmur an "Ave" before a wayside shrine
— in honor of that Queen to whose Son we owe that Truth
which makes us free — or to take off his hat to a priest of the
Saviour of the world, but his father recommends him to find a
substitute for such reverential practices:
" Now reflect a little. Enrico, what sort of a thing is our labor, which
nevertheless weighs us down ; what are our griefs, our death itself, in the
face of the toils, the terrible anxieties, the tremendous agonies of these men
[Mazzini et a/.] upon whose hearts rests a world ! Think of this, my son,
when you pass that marble image [of CavourJ, and say to it * Glory ' in your
heart."
The life of this Italian school-boy is without color or bright-
ness or picturesqueness. The pleasant traditions of his ancestors
seem to be nothing to him. He salutes Italy grandiloquently.
In place of a legend of a saint he has a stupid but patriotic
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840 A Chat ABOUT Nbw Books. [Sept.,
little story to copy. His teachers are all masters and mistresses
employed by the government, who spout noble sentiments, go
through a great deal of drudgery, and are always shown in a
pathetic light. In fact, there seems too much Chadbandism in
modern Italy. Like Jo in Dickens' Bleak House, it is adjured to
** move on " — a process which it tries reluctantly. But the Chad-
bands give praise to the manes of Mazzini, Garibaldi, and Ca-
vour, and, while the unfortunate people are fleeing to exile to
avoid usurious taxation, they unctuously make bombastic pagan
orations. Signor De Amicis is, in this book, a Mr. Chad band in
his most obnoxious mood ; and the hero of it, Enrico, is the
worst specimen of a " soaring human boy." Unless Italian chil-
dren are young prigs they will avoid Ctwre with horror.
Things Seen (New York : Harper & Bros.) is an arrangement
of short sketches by Victor Hugo. They are rapid, almost in-
stantaneous, photographs. M. Hugo has not had time to scrawl
his signature all over them and to blot out their interest. They
date from 1838 to 1875, ^"d they will repay reading. The de-
cline of the Hugo cult in France is marked. The author of the
L^gende des Sihles is no longer a god ; he is a demi-god, and,
since Dumas* recent sarcastic criticism of him, he promises to
become gradually a demi-semi-god. In Things Seen his contor-
tions are not so evident as in his important works. In the end
he sums up with a flourish some of the great names that flashed
across his path. His flourish, like most oratorical perorations,
has more sound than sense. Victor Hugo believed less in equal-
ity than anything else. It is true he continually adored his
own genius; as for goodness — in which we include moral living
— he had no genuine respect for it, as his life shows. But his
list is interesting :
" I have had for friends and allies, I have seen successively pass before
me, and, according to the changes and chances of destiny, I have received
in my house, sometimes in intimacy, chancellors, peers, dukes, Pasquier,
Pont6coulant, Montalembert, Belluno ; and celebrated men, Lamennais,
Lamartine, Chateaubriand ; President of the Republic, Manin ; leaders of
revolution, Louis Blanc, Montanelli, Arago, Heliade; leaders of the people.
Garibaldi, Mazzini, Kossuth, Mieroslawski ; artists, Rossini, David d*An-
gers, Pradier, Meyerbeer, Eugene Delacroix ; marshals, Soult, Mackau ;
sergeants, Boni, Heurtebise ; bishops, the Cardinal of Besangon, M. de
Rohan, the Cardinal of Bordeaux, M. Donnet ; and comedians, Fred6ric
Lemaitre, Mile. Rachel, Mile. Mars, Mme. Dorval, Macready ; ministers and
ambassadors, Mole, Guizot. Thiers, Lord Palmerston, Lord Normanby, M.
de Ligne ; and of peasants, Charles Durand ; princes, imperial and royal
highnesses and plain highnesses, such as the Duke of Orleans, Ernest of
Saxe-Coburg, the Princess of Canino, Louis Charles Pierre, and Napoleon
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1887.] -4 Chat ABOUT New Books. 841
Bonaparte ; and of shoemakers, Guay ; of kings and emperors, Jerome of
Westphalia, Max of Bavaria, the Emperor of Brazil ; and of thorough revo-
lutionists, Bourillon. I have had sometimes in my hands the gloved and
white palm of the upper class and the heavy black hand of the lower class,
and have recognized that both are but men. After all these have passed
before me, I say that humanity has a synonym — equality ; and that under
heaven there is but one thing we ought to bow to— genius ; and only one
thing before which we ought to kneel — ^goodness."
In Hugo's attitude towards the people, and his reiterated
assurance to them that they are equal, it is evident that he
means equal to one another, not to him. In Things Seen there
is less prejudice and rhodomontade than in the other brochures
in which Hugo poses as a republican of the most ferocious
kind. In several of these sketches we see him hand-in-glove with
Louis Philippe, who, as Hugo draws him, was a vulgar, not
very brave, and parsimonious personage. He told Hugo that
Madame de Genlis, his governess, had forced on him all the
virtues he had. And this is reasonable enough when we con-
sider who his father was. Madame Adelaide, the king's sister,
who accompanied Madame de Genlis when she became an
/migr^e during the Revolution, is greatly praised by Hugo.
Pamela, who became the wife of Lord Edward Fitzgerald, was
neither, according to Hugo, the daughter of Philippe 6galii6
nor of Madame de Genlis.
"'Pamela,'" Victor Hugo says, quoting Louis Philippe, "'was an or-
phan whom she took up on account of her beauty ; Casimir was the son of
her doorkeeper. She thought the child charming ; the father used to beat
the son. " Give him to me," she said one day. The man consented, and
that is how she got Casimir. In a little while Casimir became the master
of the house. She was old then. Pamela she had in her youth, in our own
time. Madame de Genlis adored Pamela. When it became necessary to go
abroad Madame de Genlis set out for London with my sister and a hundred
louis in money. She took Pamela to London. The ladies were wretched,
and lived meanly in furnished apartments. It was winter-time. Really,
Monsieur Hugo, they did not dine every day. The tidbits were for Pamela.
My poor sister sighed, and was the victim, the Cinderella. That is just how
it was. My sister and Pamela, in order to economize the wretched hundred
louis, slept in the same room. There were two beds, but only one blanket.
My sister had it at first, but one evening Madame de Genlis said to her,
" You are well and strong ; Pamela is very cold ; I have put the blanket on
her bed." My sister was annoyed, but dared not rebel ; she contented her-
self with shivering every night. However, my sister and myself loved
Madame de Genlis.'"
Madame dc Genlis said of Louis Philippe: ** I made him brave,
though he was a coward ; I could make him liberal, but never
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842 A Chat ABOUT New Books. [Sept,
generous." M. Hugo even chronicles some amiable things of
that unchangeable royalist, Charles X. His description >f a
visit to the Conciergerie has a paragraph describing Narie
Antoinette's cell :
" As we crossed the passage my guide stopped me and called my atten-
tion to a low door, about four and a half feet in height, armed with an
enormous square lock and a great bolt, very similar to the door of Louvel's
cell. It was the door of the cell of Marie Antoinette, the only thing which
had been preserved just as it was. Louis XVIII. having converted her cell
into a chapel. It was through this door that the queen went forth to the
revolutionary court; it was through it also that she went to the scaffold.
The door no longer turned on its hinges. Since 1814 it had been fixed in
the wall.
" I have said that it had been preserved just as it was, but I was mis-
taken. It was daubed over with a fearful nankeen-colored picture ; but this
is of no consequence. What sanguinary souvenir is there which has not
been painted either a yellow or a rose color ?
"A moment afterwards I was in the chapel, which had formerly been a
cell. If one could have seen there the bare stone floor, the bare walls, the
iron bars at the opening, the folding-bedstead of the queen, and the camp-
bedstead of the gendarme, together with the historic screen which separated
them, it would have created a profound feeling of emotion and an unutter-
able impression. There were to be seen a little wooden altar which would
have been a disgrace to a village church, a colored wall (yellow, of course),
small stained-glass windows as in a Turkish cafi, a raised wooden platform,
and upon the wall two or three abominable paintings, in which the bad
style of the Empire jiad a tussle with the bad taste of the Restoration.
The entrance to the cell had been replaced by an archivaultcut in the wall.
The vaulted passage by which the queen proceeded to the court had been
walled up. There is a respectful vandalism that is even more revolting
than a vindictive vandalism, because of its stupidity.
" Nothing was to be seen there of what came under the eyes of the
queen, unless it was a small portion of the paved flooring, which the boards,
fortunately, did not entirely cover. This floor was an old-fashioned,
chevroned pavement of bricks, laid on horizontally, with the narrow
side uppermost.
"A straw chair, placed upon the platform, marked the spot where the
bed of the queen had rested."
These sketches have a personal interest ; they help to show
the chameleon-like character of the French sheet-iron Jupiter.
Another Russian novel, even gloomier and more hopeless
than any we have hitherto noticed, is Count Tolstoi's Death of
Ivan Ilyitch, Death, as depicted by Tolstoi, has not lost its
sting, and the victory of the grave is triumphant. Tolstoi's
dissection of the frivolity and cynicism of the persons who
surround the deathbed of the miserable Ivan is cold and re-
morseless. It is Tolstoi's latest story and his most detestable
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188;.] A Chat about New Books. 843
one. He is the fashion just now; and there are many who will
rave over the fine psychological insight as shown in Ivan Ilyiich.
Such readers will find congenial studies in the morgue. It is
possible that a terrible subject realistically treated may shock
the gay and frivolous into a consciousness of the gravity of a
condition of existence in which they stand on the awful verge of
eternity. The worms of corruption may be shown in the flesh
by the artist who does not forget the soul. But Tolstoi leaves
out the soul. Death and decay permeate his story ; there is no
hint of the Resurrection. Again we protest against the fashion-
able admiration for novels which degrade the heart and make
life hopeless. If an American had written Anna Karenina he
would be tabu, as the Hawaiians say. If an American had put
Crime and Its Punishment into print, he would be put on the shelf
of those nasty writers who are not attractive because they are
dreary. But the word Russian on the title-pages of these two
compounds of guilt and hopelessness gives them a vogue which
our children will find it hard to understand.
Bret Harte's Cruise of the Excelsior is in his usual vein. The
style is clear and direct; he depicts Catholic Spaniards, of a
simple-minded and isolated kind, with a certain sympathy.
There are no voluntary jeers at things he does not understand ;
and although, in his eyes, the generous villain is deprived of half
his villany, and humor and geniality make the most obdurate
breaker of several of the Commandments a hero to be admired,
Bret Harte's stc»ries have admirable points.
How to Make a Saint, by the Prig (New York: Henry Holt
& Co.), is, of course, clever. " The Prig" knows the sore points
of the Anglicans, and jabs them with a very keen instrument. It
is full of brilliant sarcasm.
The Bucholtz Family, a sort of a diary, kept by a German
mother, of the trifles that make the sum of life, has had a great
success. It is a pity that somebody has not done for French life
what the pleasant author of this book has done. The BucJioltz
Family gives us a key to life among the German middle classes.
The sarcasm is not as bitter as in Lever's Dodd Family Abroad.
In fact, there is little sarcasm, no caricature, but an air of sym-
pathetic humor. We are impressed by this one fact, that it is not
the materialism of the German character, but the German love
of home and family, the German unity in families, that gives the
race a solidity which the Celts, in spite of their superior bril-
liance, can scarcely attain.
Maurice Francis Egan.
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WITH READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS.
Under this head we purpose for the future to give a variety of articles too
briefs too informal, or too personal for the body of the magazine. For obvious
reasons these communications will be, for the most part, unsigned,
HISTORY OF A CONVERSION.
Perhaps no conversion ever occurred in this country which was so unexpected
and surprising, and attended with such great consequences, as that of Miss La&titia
P. Floyd. She was the eldest daughter of the elder John Floyd, then Governor of
Virginia and living with his family in the executive mansion in Richmond, and she
inherited the great mental gifts of both her parents. Her mother was a member
of the Preston family, which produced so many brilliant men and women, and was
remarkable for her powers of conversation, in which she equalled any of the dis-
tinguished men of the day. She took the same interest in public affairs that her
husband did, and kept well informed about them during her whole life.
Governor Floyd lived in Montgomery County, in the southwestern part of Vir-
ginia, which was then a remote and rather inaccessible region. There was no
Catholic church in Virginia west of Richmond, and only a small chapel there,
attended twice a month from Portsmouth. No Catholic priest had ever been in any
part of Southwest Virginia, no Catholic resided there, and no Catholic books were
to be found in the whole region. Governor Floyd, his wife and children, all had
literary tastes, and there was quite a large library in the house, but it was Protes-
tant altogether. The children, therefore, had no opportunity there of learning
anything about the church or its tenets or practices.
But Mr. Floyd, before he was made governor, had been for a number of years
a member of Congress, and, in order to have his sons near him, had caused two
of them to be educated at Georgetown ; and though both of them afterwards be-
came Catholics, it was not until some time after the conversion of their sister, and
resulted from it and not from their stay at Georgetown.
Mrs. Floyd was fond of the society of able men, and, not being at the time a
member of any church, was in the habit of going where she could hear the best
sermpn regardless of denomination. Two priests came alternately to Richmond,
one of whom was Father Shriber, who was a very able man, and whose sermons
Mrs. Floyd delighted to hear, merely, however, as an intellectual treat. So, when-
ever it was his Sunday to preach in the little chapel to the mere handful of Catho-
lics then constituting the congregation, she usually attended and often took her
daughter with her. Of course the presence of the wife of the governor and her
daughter could not be unknown to Father Shriber, and an acquaintance thus
sprang up between the priest and his visitors.
Father Shriber's health having failed, it was decided to send a resident priest
to Richmond, and Father Timothy O'Brien was selected. The sermons of Father
Shriber, together with what she learned from her two brothers, then recently re-
turned from Georgetown, had roused a strong interest in the mind and heart of
Miss Floyd, and she applied to Father O'Brien for books and instruction, which he
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g^ve cheerfully. Under these influences she made up her mind to become a Catho-
lic ; and though such an event, in the then state of feeling in Virginia, as the daugh-
ter of a governor entering that church could not fail to excite surprise and create
unfavorable comment, yet she met with no opposition from either of her parents.
She was baptized by Father O'Brien, who stood her godfather ; Mrs. Branda,
who afterwards became the Countess of Poictiers, being godmother.
This occurred just at the expiration of Governor Floyd's term of office, and,
his health not being very good, he took a tour Jhrough the South accompanied by
his wife, his three daughters, and one of his sons. At New Orleans, where they
had relatives, the party remained some time, and there Miss Floyd was married
to Colonel William L. Lewis, of South Carolina.
The fruits of her conversion soon began to show themselves. Very soon after
her baptism her sister Lavalette was also baptized. She is still living, and is the
wife of Professor Holmes, of the University of Virginia. Later on her younger
sister came into the church. She is also still living, the wife of Hon. John W.
Johnston, who represented Virginia for thirteen years in the United States Senate.
Mr. Johnston also joined the church, and was the second Catholic ever elected to
the Senate — Charles Carroll of Carrollton being the first.
Within a year after his marriage Colonel Lewis likewise entered the Catholic
Church ; and some years afterwards Mrs. Floyd and three of her sons took the
same step.
Mrs. Lewis's influence led to the conversion of John P. Matthews, clerk of the
County Court of Wythe County — a man widely known and highly esteemed and
respected — and that of his wife and twelve out of thirteen children. One of his
daughters became a Sister of St. Joseph, and before she was twenty- one was made
superioress of the convent in Wheeling. The daughters of Col. Harold Smyth
entered the church by the same influence, and one of them is now a Sister of St.
Joseph at Charleston, West Virginia.
In the year 1842 Bishop Whelan and Father Ryder, S.J., paid Mrs. Floyd a
visit in Tazewell County, where she then lived, and where Mrs. Lewis was also a
guest. They were of course much interested, and the bishop determined to erect
a church at Wytheville. This was done, the Protestants contributing very liberal-
ly towards its erection. Another church was soon afterwards built at Tazewell
Court-House, where Mr. Johnston then resided, and others at Bristol and Cupple
Creek. In 1867 Bishop Whelan founded a Convent of the Visitation at Abing-
don, and, though there were not twenty Catholics in the county, it has had great
success. The sisters own the building and grounds and are free of debt
Col. Lewis removed from South Carolina and settled at the Sweet Springs,
then in Virginia, now m West Virginia. That part of the State was very much in
the condition already described, but Mrs. Lewis set to work and succeeded in
erecting a church there, which now has a fair congregation.
Thus we may say with truth that the conversion of Miss Floyd was the direct
cause of that of many other persons, and of the founding of five churches and one
convent. She died on the i6th day of February, 1887, having given much of her
life to charity and good works. Both rich and poor found her always ready to
attend to their wants, and more than once, not being able to reach them other-
MTise, she walked in the midst of winter several miles to see the sick.
In what estimation she was held can be judged by the fact that many Pro-
testants believed that she had been canonized, not knowing, of course, that this
could not be done in her lifetime. J. W. J.
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THE GUIDANCE OF THE HOLY SPIRIT.
The question of the hour with many honest souls is just this : What is the
relation between the inner and outer action of God upon my soul ? That is why
we gave the decree of the Council of Trent on the need of the interior inspiration
of the Holy Spirit if forgiveness of sins, faith, hope, or love of God were to be
secured. Those who have not read and studied the Council of Trent on Justi-
fication should do so at once ; it is* wonderful how interesting it is, especially as
furnishing answers to such questions as the above. These great dogmatic deci-
sions— how few who appreciate this ! — have an ascetical bearing fully as significant
as their doctrinal one. It takes a man many years to find that the dryest parts of
the little catechism are in reality the most fruitful of spiritual life. The know-
ledge of dogm itic theology is much more widely diffused than that of ascetic
Yet both are one, as well in their substance as in their necessity.
St. Thomas Aquinas attributes the absence of spiritual joy mainly to neglect
of consciousness of the inner life. " During this life," he says (jOpuscula di
Beatitudine^ cap. iii.), " we should continually rejoice in God, as something per-
fectly fitting, in all our actions and for all our actions, in all our gifts and for all
our gifts. It is, as Isaias declares, that we may particularly enjoy him that the
* Son of God has been given to us.* What blindness and what gross stupid-
ity for many who are always seeking God, always sighing for him, frequently
desiring him, daily knocking and clamoring at the door for God by prayer, while
they themselves are all the time, as the apostle says, temples of the living God,
and God truly dwelling within them ; while all the time their souls are the abiding-
place of God, wherein he continually reposes ! Who but a fool would look for
something out of doors which he knows he has within } What is the good of
anything which is always to be sought and never found, and who can be strength-
ened with food ever craved but never tasted ? Thus passes away the life of many
a good man, always searching and never finding God, and it is for this reason that
his actions are imperfect."
A man with such a doctrine must cultivate mainly the interior life. His an-
swer to the question. What is the relation between the inner and the outer action
of God upon my soul ? is that God uses the outer for the ssikat of the inner life.
There seems to be little danger nowadays of our losing sight of the divine
authority and the divine action in the government of the church, and v% the aidsirf
religion conveyed through the external order of the sacraments. Yet it is only
after fully appreciating the life of God within us that we learn to priie fittingly the
action of God in his external Providence. Such is the plain teaching of St Tho-
mas in the extract above given.
By fully assimilating this doctrine one comes to aim steadily at securing a
more and more direct communion with God. Thus he does not seek merely for
an external life in an external societ)', or become totally absorbed in external ob-
servances ; but he seeks the invisible God through the visible church, for sSe is
the body of Christ, the Son of God.
Once a man's hand is safe on the altar his eye and voice are lifted to God.
It is not to keep up a strained outlook for " times and moments " of the in-
terior visitations, but to wait calmly for the actual movements of the Difinc
Spirit ; to rely mainly upon it and not solely upon what leads to it or comma-
nicates it or guarantees its genuine presence by necessary external tests and
symbols.
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Not an anxious search, least of all a craving for extraordinary lights ; but a
constant readiness to perceive the divine guidance iu the secret ways of the soul,
and then to act with decision and a noble and generous courage — this is true
wisdom.
The Ho#y Spirit is thus the inspiration of the inner life of the regenerate man,
and in that life is his Superior and Director. That his guidance may become
more and more immediate in an interior life, and the soul's obedience more and
more instinctive, is the. object of the whole external order of the church, including
the sacramental system.
Says Father Lallemant {Spiritual Doctrine, 3d Principle, chap. i. art. i):
" All creatures that are in the world, the whole order of natuie as well as that of
grace, and all the leading^ of Providence, have been so disposed as to remove
from our souls whatever is contrary to God." I. T. H.
A MISSION AMONG THE COLORED PEOPLE.
You ask me for an account of my mission in Richmond, and I will begm by
telling you of our property. It is, first, a piece of land 365 X 1 18, facing two streets,
and then a smaller piece, 85 x 40, facing a different street. On the larger piece is
situated our church — St. Joseph's— the rectory, and a convent. The church is a new
brick building, 100 X 40, with a steeple 125 feet high, all in the Gothic style, com-
pletely finished, brick-work, wood-work, painting, altar and sanctuary, sacristy and
complete set of vestments, stations of the cross, three statues, etc. The rectory is a
new two- story brick dwelling of seven rooms, all completely finished. The convent
is a solid old Virginia mansion of brick, built early in this century, and as good as
new — better, indeed, than buildings put up nowadays. The sisters have a good
stable and out buildings, where they keep a cow and a flock of chickens. The
land, church, and rectory cost $20,000, all paid up ; not a penny of debt anywhere.
How was it raised ? The great bulk of it by Bishop Keane begging in Northern
churches. The writer collected the balance by begging through the Catholic
press, especially the Young Catholic and other Sunday-school papers. God bless
the faithful souls engaged on the Catholic press ! The school-building is brick,
two stories high, 47 X 40, completely finished, and fitted up in the finest style-^the
best in Richmond. How was it paid for? Every penny of it by a devout lady
of the North ; she gave that school to God, and put the cross of holy secrecy on
my lips lest I should publish her zeal to the world.
How many missionaries ? One priest, a member of the congregation of the
Josephites, and six sisters of the Third Order of St. Francis. Besides the usual
vows of religion these sisters take a fourth one, to serve the negroes exclusively.
Their mother- house is in England. They teach the day-school of ninety children,
boys and girls— nearly two-thirds of whom are non-Catholics — also the newly-
started industrial scho(^ of nine children, instruct female converts, visit the sick,
attend to the altar and sacristy, and for their maintenance *' live off the country,"
drawing no salary. They are an admirable community of women, competent in
every way.
The real pioneer of the mission is the bishop. The moment he came to the
diocese he began to preach to the blacks, throwing open his cathedral to them.
On St. Csecilia's day, November 22, 1884, he opened my church and installed me
ag pastor.
Who worship in this church ? You may say that it is a Protestant church, in
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848 W/rif Readers and Correspondents. [Sept,
the sense that it is a church for Protestants. We have about one hundred black
Catholics, men, women, and children, every one of them being converts or the
children of converts, excepting six. I baptized seventy- three of these, which num-
ber includes fifteen babies. These Catholic blacks and about two hundred Cath-
olic whites,* with enough of black Protestants in addition to make a churchful. at-
tend the Sunday Mass. But the atternoon and night services are attended entirely
by blacks, mainly non-Catholics. The afternoon service is a big catechism class, an
assemblage of an average of one hundred and four children, of whom but thkty-
six are Catholics. But all these children say the Catholic prayers, and learn the
little catechism by heart, which js further explained by the missionary for their
instruction and for the edification of enough of adult blacks to comfortably fill
the church.
The night-service is a Bible-class given by the missionary for the benefit of
about thirty of the larger children of both sexes and all creeds, in the presence
of about an average of one hundred and fifty Protestant blacks. From Bible
history and Bible text the doctrines of the true religion are thus expounded. We
go through the Bible, Old and New Testament, chapter by chapter from beginning
to end.
If you ask me how I support the church and school, I answer that the school
partly supports itself, each child paying fifty cents a month, making a revenue
sufficient to furnish the convent table. Why not have the school free ? Because
the privileges of a Catholic schooling are worth paying for, even by non-Catho-
lics ; because the primary object is to make converts, and the children of the
better-off parents are for the present more easily held ; and because with the
blacks, as with any reasonable people, respectability is an argument. The balance
of the expenses of the school and convent are met by contributions from Haiti*
more, Washington, and the North ; the Catholics of Baltimore and Washington
have a big heart for the colored people.
The church is supported partly by the Sunday collections, averaging about
six dollars, and by a monthly tax on the colored Catholics of twenty-five cents
for each adult who is working ; the deficit is made up by contributions from
the North, and now we are receiving a share of the general collection for the In-
dian and negro missions.
The kind reader sees that our mission is a solid success ; that a steady little
stream of converts has set in ; that our church is not any too big for the converts
and non-Catholics who attend our instructions ; that we have a school of neady a
hundred children, only thirty-six of whom are of Catholic parentage, and all alike
being taught Catholic doctrine. As to the converts among the school children, it
may be well to say that they are not baptized before they are ten years old or up-
wards, never without the consent of their parents, and never until after one year
complete at school. In another year or two all the children now in school will be
Catholics. ^
As to the grown-up converts, they are well-instructed, intelligent men and
women. After applying for reception into the church they are kept for three
months, and sometimes longer, steadily under instruction before baptism, and six
weeks longer before first communion. None of our converts has fallen off, and
only one is not a practical Catholic, he being dilatory in completing his prepara-
tion for first communion.
* No whites are allowed to make their confessions in this church, nor does the missionary
attend anj whites in sickness, etc.; but they may hear Mass.
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Our situation is favorable, bdng within ten minutes' walk of the homes of
twenty thousand blacks. The church of John Jasper, the famous modem Ptole-
my, in whose firmament " the sun do move," is about a stone's throw from us.
He has repeatedly preached against us, having Informed his people that " St. Jo-
seph's Church is the turnspit to hell I " J. R. S.
Richmond, Va.
the state and religious education.
The state, being the providential community of men instituted for their mu-
tual temporal convenience, should be guided by an enlightened conscience in all
its affairs, and that conscience can only be truly enlightened by the prindpies of
religion. But what if there be a diversity of religious belief among the people of
a state — I mean a diversity not produced by disagreement presently arising, but
one of many years^ standing, handed down from previous generations ? I answer
that the state should act on such prindpies of religion as its dtizens may agree
upon as fundamentally necessary. This is the normal, perhaps ideal, obligation of
the American commonwealth. In a word, the state^ like the man, should profess
its religion just so far as its members and rulers honestly agree together ; the time
when to do so and the method of doing so depending on drcumstances and being
matters of prudence.
The state, though instituted by Providence for a temporal end, is composed
of beings with an immortal destiny, created by God and subject to the divine law.
The American state, although very plainly incompetent, by the diversity of reli-
gions among our people, from being united to any one denomination, should favor
all of them in so far as equal justice to all may permit. Incompetent to teach any
religious doctrine (for its own immediate end and purpose is temporal welfare), it
should yet foster the general religious sentiment among the people, and in every
just way encourage the religious training of the young by all whose vocation is
education. So much seems but the self-evident relation ojf the state to religion
and education.
The present movement in favor of religious education, now spreading widely
among all classes of Christians, is meant to check the progress of infidelity and
the increase of crime. Unbdief and vice have increased faster than the popu-
lation. What are the causes ? Have not the mass of the men and women of
America always been believers in some form of Christianity, and led, as a body,
decent lives ? Why are their children drift hig away from Christianity ? Why are
they so much less virtuous than thdr parents ? There are, no doubt, several rea-
sons, but the chief reason is because they have not received a Christian training.
The people are becoming unrdigious, and the vicious classes are multiplying on
account of unreligious schooling. To be religious requires teaching, and much
and efficient teaching. The school is the place where, as a rule, teaching must
nowadays be imparted ; and our schools do not teach rdigion. The school has
so absorbed the whole work of training that it must now be said that the school
forms iho man, Unrdigious schools have formed unbelieving men. It is not
difficult to prove that the American tmreligious school is responsible both for un-
bdief and bad citizenship among large classes of our citizens.
Religion is a habit of life as well as a doctrinal system. The convictions of
the mind must become habits of thought and establish a way of life. Every habit,
whether of mind or body, is best acquired in youth. Constant application of the
mind during youth to religious subjects, and constant use of sphitual helps, make
VOL. XLV.— 54
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religion habituaL A way of life is best leaned as life begins. " So that," as Car-
dinal Newman says, religion, " strengthening into principle, at the same time de-
velops into habit. As fresh and fresh duties arise, and fresh and fresh faculties
are brought into action, they are at once absorbed into the existing inward system
and take their appropriate place in it." The time of strengthening and develop-
ing and absorbing is that of youth ; if religion is going to become a principle of
action in years of maturity, it must have much to do with that which mainly makes
the youth — the school.
Surrounding circumstances in youth are the moulds of human character, and
these are most numerous and most compelling during school -life. As character
has much to do with both faith and practice in religion of every form, so does the
school mould the man, the citizen, and may and ought to mould the Christian.
Now, the religious man is not only one under certain convictions of mind, but
is influenced by certain habits of heart ; and one depends upon the other. What,
by actual test, b the best safeguard against doubts ? Not arguments but facts ;
not persuasion but experience. It must be so. Arguments may be overthrown
by arguments. But a state of mind and a habit of life can scarcely be overthrown
at all, never by mere argqment ; and a religious experience in school-life is produc-
tive of the most satisfactory state of mind and habit of life possible afterwards.
Faith is not simply the conviction of the truth ; it is a theological virtue, a trait of
character. Religion is not a mere set of convictions lying upon the surface of the
mind ; it is a quality of the whole personality, developed or weakened by constant
application to human wants.
The knowledge of truths is only a part of training, religious or secular ; so it
is only part of what school can give. One is formed at school as well as instruct-
ed. Not only is a certain amount of information given, but there is a certain
spirit about a school which has much to do with the formation of the character
of the children. There are things at school that train a child by association —
the imagination, recollections, standards of right and wrong, prejudices, and the
like ; all going to form a conscience at least as much as positive instruction. The
absence of religion in these influences forms an unreligious mind. Why, if one
spent Ave or six hours nearly every day during eight years of childhood and youth
in a mere desert, or in the company of deaf-mutes, or in the stunning roar of a fac-
tory, even these surroundings would have much to do with forming his character.
Youthful solitude forms the man ; society forms him ; study forms him, and idle-
nessiorms him ; work forms him, and rest forms him. Now, that all these and many
more such things may rightly form a man, they are grouped together in youth into
one system called education, one place called school, under one master called
schoolmaster. It is plain that if these influences exclude religion the man will be
formed without religion ; or if he does get it elsewhere, even at home, it wUl be
as something added, and not of a piece with his actually developed character.
The tone, tendency, spirit, drift, and surroundings of school-life make up its moral
atmosphere. Men may die from breathing poison as wdl as from drinking it«
And the air we breathe may be poisonous as well from lack of something health-
ful as from containing something hurtful.
Now, our views on the common-school question should conform to the ideal.
The divine right of educating a child is in the parent, and the ideal school is the
family circle^ Grod places the child in the parent's care for the purpose of edu-
cation in its highest sense ; and that is the highest duty of the parent. The
most e](treme (^ms of even the church have nevo: gone beyond acting as a help
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to the parent in training the child. The custody and teaching of his children is
one of the highest rights man possesses. *
How, then, does the state stand related to this parental right ? In one way
as a means to assist it. If schooling is necessary to the child's training— and
surely it is nowadays — children are generally better schooled and always infinitely
more cheaply schooled when collected conveniently together. The state helps its
citizens to secure this convenience ; it is that organism by which Divine Providence
enables men to secure those temporal and human ends common to the multitude,
and one of these is forming societies and corporations. In training children it
can as well facilitate a system of schooling by a society in a certain neighborhood
as it can a system of drainage. But in facilitating a public undertaking it does not
necessarily exercise complete control. It incorporates a society, it lends public
authority for the collection of means when such have been promised, stands
among members and officers of societies to see that trusts and duties are fulfilled,
and the like. Can the state go on any further ? Yes, if it be necessary to do so
for the public welfare. Now, the public welfare requires that our men and wo-
men should have schooling in the primary branches. Parents derelict of duty
may therefore be stimulated to do their duty, and that even by penalties ; truant
children may be constrained to attend school, and the children of the poor must
have free schools provided for them, A public-school system securing these ends
is not unjust.
But there is one thing which should be paranoount in any American public-
school system— it should foster all that is good in the relation of parent to child.
It should encourage parents to test the efficiency ef the teaching ; interest them in
the workings of the system ; make the schools distinctively parental as far as pos-
sible ; encourage the opening of strictly private schools for all classes, and contri-
bute to their support according to their deserving ; make school affairs family
affairs ; make each school rather a neighborhood affair than a mere subdivision of
one dreary state monopoly ; and, in fine, do everything to make the system a
channel of parental influence bearing on the character of the children, as far as
that influence is wholesome. Something like this is almost necessarily the case
in the country districts. The result is more individuality of character there, at-
tachment to home and parents, respect for legitimate authority, simplicity of man-
ners. But against every one of the above tendencies our present system wars. It
is a bureaucracy of the most hateful form. A large proportion of the teachers in
the city schools of America are trained from very childhood, not simply to teach,,
but to teach in a certain cut-and-dried method. There is not in the Old World of
Europe this day a caste of nobles or officials more clean-cut and more wholly
segregated to a particular public career than the school-teaching profession of this
new and free country. Instead of seeking to cultivate individuality and personal
independence, the whole raging zeal of the system is to pour all personal force
and freedom into uniformity, the most desperate efforts being constantly made
to even nationalize the deadly dreariness of this human machinery..
A SMALL BOOK WITH A BIG TITLE.*
* The Rev. Ethdred L. Taunton offers to instruct us on the subject of church*
music in the pages of an amusing little book entitled The History and Growth of
Church Music, The amusement we ourselves have derived from looking over it
• The History and Growth y Church Music, By the Rev. Ethdred L. Taunton. New
YoriK : The Catholic PubUcation Society Co.; London: Barns & Oatei.
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852 With Readers and Correspondents. [Sept,
is, however, not precisely due to its supposed humor, which we failed to find» bat
(ox which the writer gives himself credit, apologizing for permitting bis " pen to
wanton in a merry mood while treating the subject in a superficial manner, that
he might thereby interest the general reader" !
He is honest enough to subjofai a list of authors from whose pages he has
taken a lot of ready-wntten matter to make up his book. Further than the his*
torical facts he has copied from them, his contribution to the literature of church
music is ridiculously small.
What is funny to us is his pretended knowledge of and aulmiration for the
church chant — which he cordially detests and betimes reviles, and of which he
evidently knows next to nothing— -coupled with the naive acknowledgment in his
summing up that, despite all the " g^wth " of what he calls church music, the
productions of his " men of renown " are, after all, of very little practical use, ^ of
the perpetual repetition" of whose works "one gets tired"; that his "choir" —
men-singers and women-singers — " have a natural antipathy against rehearsals
of them "; and that the same old tiresome stock of " Masses are performed In
such a slipshod and discreditable fashion — the same old music with the same
old mistakes " — ^he regrets to be obliged to say that •• it gives the enemy [evidently
the defenders of the only legitimate church melody — the chant] cause to blas-
pheme " ! And, having gone through his lauds of church musicians from Pales-
trina down to Gounod, we are unexpectedly presented with a note of recommen-
dation in favor of Messrs. Cary and Tozer, who, it seems, can write " easy music
for small choirs."
If Palestrina be the king of church musicians, we may be allowed to wonder
why our choir-directors do not give us a few more concerts at High Mass from
that supreme master. Let us hear what Father Taunton has to say about it :
" The people do not understand Palestrina's works. A case in point : Some
years ago, when I was directing the music at a West- End church, I arranged for
the patronal festival a performance [sic] of Palestrina's Missa Papa MarcetU,
Unusual pains and care were taken so as to insure a good performance, and with
what result ? The musicians who were present— and they were numerous, for the
service [concert ?] had been announced in the daily press — were delighted both
with the work and, they were kind enough to say, with the manner in which it
was rendered. And the people? They cared nothing at all about it They
neither understood nor appreciated it In fact, I had many requests not to give
ihem any mere of it I " This is intensely funny from the mouth of our laudator
musicorum. He should have sent back to those people who wanted no more of
the king's music a copy of the inscription on his own title-page, *'Ne imfiedias
musicam " (regis Palestrinae) — Ecclus. xxxii. 5.
We suggest that what he calls " the blighting effects of a constant use of no-
thing but Plain Chant " on the part of the church in all her liturgical service-
books, and in which not a note of modem music can be found, may have had
something to do with the lack of appreciation of the king's music on the part of
the people, as he says is the case in France.
This funny writer can also be sarcastic with his "wanton pen" — at his own
expense. " * My worthy, good friend,' we say to the Plain-Chantist, ' it gives os a
peculiar thrill of pleasure to know that your devotion and religious sentiments are
stirred up by Plain Chant We respect you, nay, we look upon you with a cer-
tain amount of awe, as being a peculiar being, different from the rest of mankind.
But permit us to say,, with all due deference to your many cicellent qualities, that
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we are not constituted upon the same noble model as you are. Plain Chant, far
from filling us with devotion* depresses us. The truth t's, we do not understand
it ; it is a language which dots not convey to our souls anything intelligible J "
The italics are ours.
For him Haydn» Mozart, and Beethoven are the founders of modem music,
and, "indeed, typical church writers." Yet just before penning this he had
written : " One point in both Mozart and Haydn's Masses demands a word— it
is the frequent omission of words of the sacred text. This is unpardonable,
and we cannot assign any reason for such carelessness." If he cannot, then he
is himself no musician. But he knows perfectly well why they omitted them.
They w^e like Handel, who, when told that some of his music did not suit the
English words, exclaimed : " My music is all right ; it is your language that is
good for nothing." However, " the omissions," Father Taunton assures us, " can
be supplied by any choirmaster of average ability." Only think of it I Any
choirmaster of average ability making good the omissions of Mozart and Haydn,
these founders of modem music !
Elsewhere he gravely informs us that "modem music, up to Beethoven's
Mass in C, is a legitimate growth and logical development back through Pa-
lestrina to Chant " ; that " Father Haberl is the most eminent authority on the
subject of Plain Chant the age can boast " ; that " Palestrina purified and restored
the Chant, and Guidetti used the papers left by Palestrina to complete the work
as far as the Graduale and the Rituale " I
Further on he " admires greatly and takes delight in joining to the best of
his poor abilities" (hear! hear!) "in the Plain Chant" (evidently he loves suf-
fering and is like some other Englishmen, who are only happy when they are
miserable), " yet he is convinced it does not do for our people." The igno-
rance, presumption, and self-sufficiency displayed in this production do indeed
make it to us a very funny book on the lofty subject of the " History and
Growth of Church Music." A. Y.
NEW PUBLICATIONS.
Life of Leo XIII. Edited by John Oldcastle. With chapters contribut-
ed by the Cardinal Archbishop of Westminster, T. W. Allies, K.C.S.G.,
the Rev. W. H. Anderdon. S.J.. and Alice Meynell. New York : The
Catholic Publication Society Co.
This elegant publication is meant to meet the demand of intelligent
Catholics to know more about Pope Leo XIIL — z. laudable curiosity stimu-
lated by the occurrence of the Pope's fiftieth anniversary as priest next De-
cember. It is compiled by Mr.Oldcastle, a practised and pleasing writer,
and is a small volume and of moderate price ; it is beautifully printed and
bound, and the illustrations are excellent. The first part, written by Mr.
Oldcastle, is a very readable summary of the Holy Father's career. Then
follows a compilation of short but able articles by Cardinal Manning, Mr.
T. W. Allies, and others of note in the literary world and in the church.
As a statesman Pope Leo has played a part in Christendom little in-
ferior to that of the mediaeval pontiffs who were the arbiters of nations.
He was in a condition to do so, for, as Cardinal Manning says in this book,
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854 New Publications. [Sept,
"Leo XIII. inherited a world-wide unity of pastors and of people cast off
by the world and thrown, with all their love and fidelity, on the Holy Sec.
In the days of St. Gregory VII^ and of Clement VII. the world was in its
pride and the church was sick. Now the church is whole and the world is
wrecking itself." His voice» therefore, has gone out to men with a spiri-
tual dignity unalloyed by any temporal entanglement. He has found in
the needs of men and nations his providential opportunities, while his gen-
tie methods have won the good-will of his veriest enemies. He is, to be
sure, a good statesman, of wide experience in public affairs, penetrating
insight, and firm grasp of his own purposes ; all this has helped his man-
agement of the church's diplomacy. But it is the grace of his office that
can alone account for his marvellous success. The spectacle of Leo and
Bismarck at Canossa and no- bones broken, is abundant compensation for
the weak sensibilities wounded when we saw Leo putting the insignia of
the Order of the Holy Ghost upon the man of blood and iron.
Then, too, he has shown himself capable of departing from traditional
lines in dealing with grave questions of religion and of its human environ-
ments. There is no disguising the fact that his spirit is different from that
of some of his predecessors, as are also what may be termed his tactics ;
yet it is not easy to say in what particular matters his line of policy has
changed, so perfectly identical are the aims and motives of the present
pontiff and of those who have gone before him, and so prudently has he
known how to act. Pope Leo is plainly a man above all traditions that are
purely human, and it is evident that in this lofty freedom he will deal with
the question of the church's temporalities and the relation of the Papacy to
Italy. He has proved his capability of initiation before and will doubtless
do so again.
He once declared that he desired to secure the suffrages of enlightened
public opinion — an utterance at once distinguishing him from the living
and dead exponents of the past. Born and reared in a feudal castle, an
aristocrat by birth and training, grown old in courts and in high ecclesias-
tical stations, he has settled disputes between capital and labor like a tri-
bune of the people, has arbitrated between landlord and peasant in a spirit
utterly the reverse of the feudal, and at the same time held in check the
frantic democracy of the French Republic by a firmness and aggressiveness
which would neither boast nor scold, but held its own with a dignity worthy
the head of the church.
But Leo's greatest work is, of course, not with states but with Chris-
tians — with the faithful themselves. And he has been an immense power
for piety and for intelligence among us. He has set us all, priests and
people, to praying in such wise as has never, we think, been known before.
And his influence in favor of study has been immense. One might say
that he has caused every priest and prelate in the wide church to make a
periodical particular examen on the use of his intellectual faculties. There
is not a seminary in the world but has benefited greatly by Pope Leo. He
has elevated the standard of education. He has in his repeated allocutions
and encyclicals drawn us all within nearer influence of the Holy Spirit,
which has breathed out amongst us during his pontificate that spirit of
wisdom and understanding and knowledge and counsel worthy the ad-
herents of a religion so characteristically intellectual as the Catholic.
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1887.1 Ne w Pubuca TiONS. 855
So we all say heartily. Ad multos annosl And we all say, further, in the
language of Scripture : *' He that touches you touches the apple of my eye"
(Zach. ii. 8). The man who insults Leo affronts the greatest peacemaker
the world has known for many a day, and wounds the sensibilities of the
best and most intelligent and most liberty-loving Catholics in the world.
The Works of Orestes A. Browkson, collected and arranged by Henry
F. Brownson. Vol. XX. Containing Explanatory and Miscellaneous
Writings and Index. Detroit: H. F. Brownson. (For sale by the
Catholic Publication Society Co., 9 Barclay Street, New York.)
" It is many years ago," said an intelligent Catholic to the writer recently,
"that Dr. Brownson's Convert was placed in my hands by a priest to whom
I came for advice. I had read the ordinary books of controversy, but they
were fitted for Protestant difficulties, and I had long since ceased to be a
Protestant, or even a Christian, and had lost belief in the possibility of
getting to God at all. It was as I apprehended Brownson's doctrine of
Communion in the Convert that I renewed my grasp of that idea. The
book was a great help to me. It set me on the right road. When I
returned the books of historical and Biblical controversy, and said that they
had failed, the priest questioned me a bit, and then told me that I was on
Brownson's mental track. The Convert dropped a seed into my soul. It
took time, but it germinated and finally sprang up and bore fruit in my
conversion." Probably no one whose difiiculties are the initial ones of
perplexed reason can fail to obtain great help from his writings. Nor is
that all. In the volumes of the series herein brought to a close there is
much calculated to solve every kind of difficulty. We challenge the whole
domain of controversy to produce an argument superior to Brownson's
''Church or np Church." It is a masterpiece.
One thing particularly pleases us in him, and may be expressed in a
graphic colloquialism of the day : Dr. Brownson is a Catholic from 'way
back. He resented the domination of any mere school of philosophy or
theology ; he respected them all, and read them fairly. But he would have
the Divine authority of the Ecclesia docens or else be free. His native quali-
ties of head and heart made him fond of going far back into the heroic and
giant days of Catholicity and among the saints for whatever extra-authori-
tative traditions and human influences might affect his views.
This volume contains a number of articles, mostly short, all of much
interest, and some throwing considerable light on the author's character.
A valuable index, covering 194 pages and embracing both the titles of
articles and the particular and various topics touched on, is added.
Mr. Brownson has finished a great undertaking in this volume. We
congratulate him upon his successful labor, and sincerely trust that Catho-
lics, and the public generally, will show their appreciation in a practical
manner. Certainly, whatever institution of learning pretends to have a
library will find a complete set of Brownson's works indispensable; and
every Catholic of intelligence who wishes a high order of religious and
philosophical literature at hand will purchase these volumes.
Whatever is. was. In Nature there are no such things as Cause. Effect,
Generation, Growth, nor Death ; no time, no past, no future. Logical con-
clusions deduced from the theory of the Seu-Existence of the Universe.
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856 Ne w Pubuca tions. [Sept,
Also, a critical examination into the foundation on which rest the
philosophy of Herbert Spencer and the theories of Charles. Darwin. To-
gether with a new theory for the origin of the world, for all forms, or-
ganic and inor^nic. Also, the natural cause of the continuing exist-
ence of all living things and species of things, and the finding of the
supposed Missing Link. By George A. Young. San Francisco: A. J.
Leary. 1887.
In many respects this is the most ingenious and thorough refutation of
the theories of Spencer and Oarwin that has as yet appeared, and, while
abounding in sallies of wit, humor, and satire not always to our taste, it is
profoundly philosophical and displays great research and erudition. Alto-
gether it is a unique and original work, which cannot fail of attracting the
notice of scholars and of interesting the general reader by its lucid and
popular exposition of the much-talked-of but not well-understood doc-
trines of evolution and natural selection.
The author is a master of logic and irony, and wields his powerful wei-
pons with a force and rapidity of thought that betokens a most uncommon
intellectual strength and keenness of insight. The lengthy, singular, and
ironical title of the book is not a happy one. It should be, we suggest,
" A Critical Analysis of certain modern Scientific Theories, showing their
absurdities and contradictions from their own postulates." That is what
the book is, and that is what it does, and does most thoroughly. Spencer
and the other lights of modern so-called philosophy shrink and shrivel
under the heat of the writer's cogent logic and incisive analysis, as a piece
of parchment shrivels when brought into contact with fire.
He has proved to a demonstration that the immutability of the laws of
nature and the Spencerian theory of evolution are contradictory. This is
very important, and of great value against modern infidels and sceptici
They assert the immutability of the laws of nature to prove the impossi-
bility of miracles, and they forget or do not see that at the same time they
destroy their favorite theory of evolution. To maintain evolution they
must claim the mutability of the laws of nature, and in admitting this they
must admit the possibility of miracles and thus sacrifice their main argu-
ment against miracles. The irony of the argument is sometimes so finely
drawn out as to be liable to be misunderstood as expressing the real sense
of the author. This is the case, we think, in the lecture of Prof. "Yag"
(one of several characters who do duty as exponents for or against the
doctrines under discussion), which is an ingenious caricature of Spencer's
philosophy under the guise of a defence of it, showing in bold relief its in-
consistencies.
While not trespassing upon the domain of theology, and avoiding the
discussion of particular religious dogmas, Mr. Young has clearly and
forcibly brought out the Christian philosophy of creation, and presented,
we think, a series of irrefutable arguments in its favor which cannot fail to
rank his work among the very best of its kind.
The critical and serious-minded reader will, no doubt, agree with us that
much of the matter is, if not wholly irrelevant, yet decidedly out of place
in a work which professes to deal with subjects of such deep and vital im-
port, during the consideration of which comical allusions to the municipal
affairs and local politics of San Francisco are felt to be an unwarrantable
and disagreeable intrusion. Typographically it does small credit to oar
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Occidental brethren of the press. Evidently the proof-reader during its
issue was " abroad."
The finding of the supposed "Missing Link," with which the book con-
cludes, is highly instructive and entertaining.
We commend the work to our readers as one well worth their careful
perusal, and our professors of philosophy will find it most desirable read-
ing to place in the hands of their pupils.
Compendium THEOLOOiiE Moralis, a Joanne P. Gury, SJ., primo exara-
tum, et deinde ab Antonio Ballerini, ejusdem societatis, ad notation! bus
auctum, nunc vero ad breviorem formam redactam atque ad usum se-
minariorum hujus regionis accommodatum ab Aloysio Sabetti, S.J.. in
Collegio Woodstockiensi, S.J., Theologiae Moralis Professore. Editio
Altera, ad normam Cong. Plen. Bait. III. atque recentiorum Cong. Rom.
decretorum. New York and Cincinnati : Pustet & Co.
Gury's Compendium of St. Alphonsus. greatly improved by Ballerini's
notes, was most extensively used, owing chiefly, we think, to the judicious
arrangement of the various subjects treated. But we hardly see why so
learned a man as Father Sabetti should make Gury's Compendium yet
more compendious.
We think Lehmkuhl has done more wisely in writing a new work alto-
gether, giving us his own able opinions, with other writers to support
him. rather than another writer benefiting by his labor and erudition.
Still F. Sabetti's book is useful, as the sale of the first edition shows.
Its arrangement seems convenient, and he has dropped to a great extent the
see-saw style of catechetical questioning so lavishly resorted to by Gury.
He has consulted recent writers very generally. There is a useful Appen-
dix to the tract De Peccatis on Drunkenness ; we wish the author had fol-
lowed Lehmkuhl's example and given us one to the tract De statu laico-
rum on the duties of voters. His tract De Censuris is quite a specimen of
how much a careful arrangement of the different parts of a subject contri-
butes to lucidity. In an appendix to this tract he discusses, with what we
think good judgment, the question of the burial of Catholics in non-Ca-
tholic cemeteries and of non-Catholics in Catholic cemeteries in view of
the legislation of the last two plenary councils.
This new edition has a peculiar value, because it incorporates the de-
crees of the Third Plenary Council in so far as they bear practically on
questions of conscience. Sometimes he lets the council speak for itself,
for which he is to be thanked ; sometimes he weaves the new legislation
into the already established law, and as a rule does so with prudence. We
should like to call his attention, however, to the omission of the council's
direction to pastors of souls to persuade our people to get out of the busi-
ness of saloon-keeping. Why omit so important a direction? It might
also be objected that the author, in paragraphs 190 and 191, takes rather too
lenient a view of the duty of pastors in reference to balls and dances of ^
dangerous kind, especially in face of the admonitions of the Second Plenary
Council. We think that if he had himself been in charge of an average
city parish for a few years in this country, or made a missionary tour or two,
he would have somewhat modified his practical judgment in this parti-
cular.
The book is well printed and well bound.
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858 New PuBUCATiONS. [Sept,
At the Holy Well, with a Handful of New Verses. Bjr John
James Piatt. Dublin : M. H. Gill & Son ; Cork : D. Mulcahy & Co, ;
London : Simpkin, Marshall & Co. ; Cincinnati : Robert Clarke & Co.
A Gate of Flowers, and Other Poems. By Thomas O'Hagan, M.A.
Toronto ; William Briggs.
An American editor, himself a poet, not long since published an appeal
to his brethren of the lyre not to suffer their gift of song to lie idle. Per-
haps it was only the prosaic amongst us who found something a trifle
superfluous in such an invocation. We already hear instruments twang-
ing on all sides in doubtful tones and inharmonious measures, and i pro*
pos most often of nothing that appears worthy of either tuneful or un-
tuneful mention. There are some fair to middling stanzas in Mr. John J.
Piatt's new volume, and occasionally a whole poem is above the general
average — notably that which gives its name to the collection, and another
entitled «* The Chrysalis," which, by the way. would be better still if too
" apt alliteration's artful aid " had not spoiled the sense of the last line in
favor of the sound. The quatrain " Success " is not bad either, and the
ode " Ireland : a Seaside Portrait," is distinctly good. But for one verse
that rings true and "goes on all-fours" how many trip, or grate upon the
ear! For one idea worthy of an attempted embalmment in the most formal
mode of human speech, how many testify to anything better than a knack
— and not too knacky a knack at that—of rhyming ! The fact is that the
best poetry is so convincing in its charm that to know it well makes the
less patient of us restive under what is less compelling.
As to Mr. O'Hagan, his ear is true and he has learned the art of making
verse; nevertheless when he ingenuously confesses that he has "no reason
to offer for issuing these poems in book-form, " the ungenial critic is tempt-
ed to furnish him with one why he should have refrained. But the tide of
genial criticism has set in again ; let us hope that it may carry these book-
lets high and dry, and leave them basking in the approbation of whoever
desires the growth and increase of minor songsters. When one has not
been nightingale-hunting until dawn, possibly he may not object to being
awaked untimely by chipping-birds and sparrows.
Dishonest Criticism: Being a Chapter of Theology on Equivocation and
Doing Evil for a Good Cause. An Answer to Dr. R. F. Littledale. By
James Jones. S.J.. Professor of Moral Theology at St. Beuno's College.
London : John Hodges ; New York : The Catholic Publication Society
Co. 1887.
In dealing with Dr. Littledale it is difficult to practise that urbanity in
controversy which is so highly valued nowadays when we are expected to
show more respect for other men's feelings than for the truth itself. So
exasperating is the calm assurance of fairness and familiarity with his sub-
ject which characterizes Dr. Littledale's theological writings, while all the
time he is in complete ignorance of the very elements of the science of
which he poses as a master, that it is impossible without hypocrisy to seem
to have for him that regard which the fashion requires. The only mitigat-
ing circumstance is that he belongs to a party in his own church which for
many years has had for its object the outwitting of its ecclesiastical su-
periors and the distortion and perversion of church formularies. As a
consequence he has, perchance by long association and practice, lost the
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faculty of seeing things as they are. This gives us some reason to hope
that in what he writes he may he under the impression that he is saying
the truth.
What we have said may seem severe, but we challenge any one who has
any knowledge of Catholic moral theology to read over the first paragraph
of Dr. Littledale's letter to the Pali Mall Gazette, prefixed to Father Jones'
volume, and to say that we are not justified. In this paragraph Dr. Little-
dale has the temerity to call in question Dr. Faa di Bruno's statement that
** Catholics do not believe that it is lawful to break a lawful oath, or to tell
a lie, or to do any wicked thing whatever for the sake of promoting the
supposed interest of the church, or for any good, however great, likely to
arise from it " ; and that " the false and hateful principle that the end justi*
fies the means, or that we may do evil that good may come, is utterly con-
demned by the Catholic Church." Now, every moral theologian knows
that these are principles which are unquestioned and unquestionable, and
that from one end of moral theology to the other these principles are made
the criteria by which every proposed course of action is tried, and any
act which should go against these principles is eo if so pronounced unlaw-
ful and sinful.
Everybody knows that in daily life it is sometimes difficult to secure
justice or practise charity and at the same time tell the square truth ; so
that moralists, both Catholic and non-Catholic, have various opinions on
such particular cases, the former leaning more to scrupulous truthfulness
than the latter. And if the teaching of the Catholic Church is wanted, that
will be found in the converse of propositions numbered 26, 27, and 28 of
those condemned by Innocent XL ; and it is in accord with the plainest
dictates of natural morality. Father Jones, an ex-provincial of the Jesuits
and professor of moral theology for several years, has done well to refute
Littledale, a person of all others least competent to treat of the rights of
the truth.
Life of Pope Leo XIII. From an authentic memoir furnished by his
order. By Bernard O'Reilly, D.D., L.D. (Laval). New York : Chas. L.
Webster 4 Co.
Dr. O'Reilly's bopk is a large volume, but not larger than its purpose
calls for. It undertakes to give a full account of the Holy Father's entire
career, is written by one who has enjoyed special opportunities for study-
ing his subject, and long and prosperous experience as a book-maker. It is
well printed, has several illustrations, and will make, as it is intended to do,
a conspicuous ornament for a family library or a parlor table, besides being
interesting reading.
Of course, a true biography is the study of a life which has finally dis-
engaged itself from the vanities of its earthly career and left us the in-
heritance of its deeds to bear silent witness. Yet in this memoir of a living
man we read much that is of interest and is plainly a fair field for the his-
torian. You may read here of Italy, its populations, its politics, its re-
ligious condition, its aspirations for freedom and glory, all in their rela-
tion to Italy's most conspicuous institution, the Papacy. Here you may
study the methods of the highest legislative and judicial authority in Chris-
tendom, at work with an activity no less marvellous because so perfectly
calm, and under the management of undoubtedly one of the greatest of the
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86o New Pubucations. [Sept, 1887.
popes. Here, too, you can read a detailed narrative of the youth, manhood,
public and. to some extent, private career of one who, as a man and a Chris-
tian, has gained the unfeigned homage of even his bitterest enemies.
Frederick Francis Xavier de M^rode. By Mgr. Besson, Bishop of
Ntmes. Uz^s, and Alais. Translated by Lady Herbert. London : W. H.
Allen & Co.
Monsignor de M6rode was a very conspicuous figure in the court of
Pius IX., having been his war minister during the last and most troubled
years of his government of the Pontifical States. This Life, a work of love,
brings out many of his admirable traits of character, his active and enter-
prising temperament, his heroic disposition, his devotion to duty, and his
private virtues as a prieM. The book is interesting, and is well translated.
The Jewels op the Mass. A short account of the rites and prayers
used in the Holy Sacrifice. By Percy Fitzgerald. London : Burns &
Oates; New York : The Catholic Publication Society Co.
The Names of the Eucharist. By Luigi Lanzoni. with an introduction
by Right Rev. J. C. Hedley, O.S.B., Bishop of Newport and Menevia.
Dublin : M. H. Gill & Son ; New York : The Catholic Publication So-
ciety Co.
The Banquet of the Angels : The Weddine Garment. Preparation and
Thanksgiving for Holy Communion. Translated by the Most Rev.
George Porter, S.J., Archbishop of Borabav. New York : The Catholic
Publication Society Co.; London : Burns a, Oates.
These three little books contribute to that devotion which, of all
others, is the most necessary to progress in the spiritual life. The Jiwdt
of the Mass is a short account of the rites and prayers used in the Holy
Sacrifice. The Nanus of thi Eucharist is a series of short explanations of
the titles given to the Blessed Sacrament, with a very interesting preface
by Bishop Hedley. The Banquet of the Angels is a little book of medita-
tions arranged for every day of the month.
The Ring and the Book. By Robert Browning. Vol. IIL of the River-
side edition. Cambridge : Riverside Press.
Christmas Eve and Easter Day; Men and .Women; In a Balcony.
etc By Robert Browning. Vol. IV. of the Riverside edition. New
York and Boston : Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 1887.
Clear type, excellent paper, good binding, all go to make this edition of
Browning perhaps the very best in the market. It has been prepared with
strict reference to the latest emendations of the poet. His old readers, who
long ago learned their way to the sweetness of the kernel embedded in the
rough and hard husk of a good deal of his verse, will hardly be less grate-
ful than the new ones, attracted by the steady persistence of the Browning
cult to give in their adhesion to it, for such aids to their devotion as the
bookmaker's art can offer.
BOOKS RECEIVED.
Irish Scholars of the Penal Days. By Rct. Wm. P. Treacy. New Yofk and CisciD-
nati : Fr. Pustet & Co.
The Republic of the Future; or, Socialism a Reality. Bj Anna Bowman Dodd,
author of Old Cathedral DaySy etc. New York : Cassell & Co.
*'IN the Way." By J. H. New Yoik: The Catholic PubUcaUoo Society Co.; Loftdoa:
Bums & Oates.
An Abridged History of the United States for the Use of Schools. By John R.
G. Hassard, LL.D. New York : The Catholic PubUcation Society Co.
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